A/N Sorry this has been such a long time coming! I don't have an excuse, i'm just lazy. Thank you to all my reviewers, and to those of you who may be confused about certain aspects of this story so far, such as the fact no one from the wizarding community has contacted Harry before Voldemort, there are a number of differences in this timeline which i'm sure will soon come to light.

October 8th 1997

'Good Afternoon colleagues!' Mr. Robinson, the stout, good tempered headmaster, tottered in from the corridor, quieting the already subdued chatter in the room. Discarding a precarious looking pile of books and papers on the coffee table, he settled down into a chair at the head of the staff room.

'I am terribly sorry to have called you in on a Sunday—'

There were a number of resentful huffs across the room, and Riddle internally rolled his eyes. The laziness of his colleagues never failed to astound him; they only worked a five day week and had fourteen weeks of holiday a year, but yet they never failed to complain about the injustice of missing one day of their seemingly never-ending holiday every month or so. It only served to affirm his theory of muggle inferiority; not only did they lack magic but their attitudes were pathetic.

'—I'm afraid the staff meeting cannot be held on Thursday afternoon because, as many of you already know, me and Mrs Warren must attend a teaching conference in Birmingham.' He smiled apologetically, before turning to the schedule in his hands. 'So, I'll fill you in briefly on the school events that will be taking place over the next few weeks, go through some recent curriculum changes and then we can get down to business of discussing some of the students…'

Riddle tuned out the irritatingly chipper voice of the headmaster as he began to discuss the logistics of the school music concert. He could already see this meeting would be pointless, and he snarled internally at the uninspiring, useless people that surrounded him. He was feeling claustrophobic; being surrounded on all sides by muggles whom he was not currently in a position to maim was setting him on edge. He was a violent man by nature, and years of physically enforcing his authority upon his followers and the wider wizarding community meant he was accustomed to expressing his emotions without restraint.

To add to his problems, the pendant around his neck that was currently constraining his magic was itching against his skin with more ferocity than usual; the heat of it was becoming uncomfortable. His magical core, rife with the raw, wild magic that was borne from the practice of dark magic, could only be constrained for half a day at best; this container was beginning to wear after less than an hour's use. He could only hope this meeting would be over quickly, and he could retreat to a place where he could relieve his frustration. The thought of months more of this torture was maddening. Only the mental image of the fun he would have these people when his task was complete could appease him; he was going to rip their lives, and their bodies, to pieces. He'd force Robinson to kneel at his feet, restoring the natural order, before skinning him; perhaps with a knife. There was something incredibly gratifying in the physical action of ripping the thin, delicate skin from the vessels and sinewy flesh beneath; watching veins pop with the force of the movement-

'Dr Riddle?' He looked up, only to see the headmaster gazing at him expectantly along with the few teachers still paying attention to the meeting - a young and slightly overweight red-haired woman who had taken a fancy to him, the skinny man who headed the physics department and several older teachers he was unfamiliar with.

'Sorry headmaster, I didn't catch that.' He flashed Robinson a winning smile, and the man flushed a little, along with the redhead.

'I was just asking about Harry Potter, one of your year 12 students? He's been marked as troubled by the head of sixth form - nine detentions over the past two weeks, and all with you as I understand it?'

Riddle sighed, his eyes clouding with disappointment. 'Yes, I have been having more than a few difficulties with the boy recently. Refusing to answer questions, disrupting the class and being a distraction in general—'

'How odd!' A woman piped up from the left corner of the room. Riddle fought down the urge to throttle her. 'Potter's in my Geography class and his behaviour has always been perfectly acceptable. Exemplary even. His homework's always done on time, and he actively participates in class discussions. Not the top of the group, but certainly at the upper end.'

The physics professor hummed his agreement. 'Yes, Harry's never acted up in my classes. It's the Polkiss kid you've got to watch out for. He's got a nasty streak, that one…'

'Yes, Polkiss is certainly problematic,' Riddle smoothly inserted himself back into the discussion. 'But unfortunately he's something of a lost case; the boy's been given more than enough opportunity. On the other hand, I feel that Harry can be helped - such behaviour often stems from deep seated insecurities or trouble at home.'

Robinson nodded thoughtfully. 'Perhaps he needs to spend a little time with the school councillor—'

'I believe it would be more beneficial for him to spend time with me, Headmaster.' Riddle cut the headmaster short, his eyes hardening. Having to negotiate verbally with these people was more than irritating; but he couldn't risk exposing himself to Potter at this point; the boy was sentient and any act of magic upon his part, however small, could interfere irreversibly with the plan. 'The fact that Harry's behaviour has been perfectly acceptable in his other lessons suggests his problems are stemming from something related to my subject.' Seeing that Robinson looked compliant, he continued. 'In fact, I believe it would be best for me and Harry to have an extra lesson, one on one, actually scheduled into our timetables after school each day until things improve.'

Robinson nodded. 'Well, I suppose if the boy is agreeable…'

'From what I know of Harry, Headmaster, he truly will appreciate this.'

'Then I'll have your timetables changed.' Robinson shuffled the papers, and Riddle smiled as a deep sense of satisfaction spread across his chest. Classifying their sessions as lessons rather than detentions would get the other teachers off his scent, and allow him to proceed without interference. He was getting closer. The boy was stubborn, but with each day his resistance was beginning to fade. Soon he would be able to instigate the next stage of his plan. It was time to contact Lucius.

'Oh, and Headmaster? I think it would be best if Harry was to be removed from the football team. I believe it is distracting him from his academic subjects; if we want to help him, he is going to need to devote all his time over the next few months to study. Anyhow, practice clashes with our remedial sessions.'

'I'm not sure that's really necessary, Tom,' Riddle grimaced at the use of his first name, by a muggle nonetheless. 'I'm not sure Mr. Harley would agree to that – where is Mr. Harley?' Robinson scanned the room quickly, but the football coach was nowhere to be seen.

'He's not here, Headmaster.' Riddle grinned internally, knowing that the coach's absence would turn the tables in his favour.

Robinson looked indignant, and began scribbling furiously on his clipboard. 'This is a compulsory meeting! Well! If he can't be bothered to turn up then he won't have a say! The boy is off the team!'

It was amusing really, watching these people dig their own graves. Little did they realize that every inch they gave him, every moment they allowed him to spend with Harry Potter, was a step towards the bloody end Riddle envisioned for this pathetic excuse for a school.

'Well then, onto Lucy Simmons, who has once again violated the no makeup rule…'

'HARRY!'

He catches the ball on the inner edge of his foot.

Feet, they're pounding against the soft grass of the pitch, quickly approaching his left side. There's someone else on his right, his only choice is to feint – drop back, dribble to the right. They fall for it; he has a few feet of breathing space, but not for long. He looks around, no one is free to pass to, Jack runs forward, perhaps – but no, his mark is right on his tail.

He's short of breath, his feet are sore, and his shirt is sticking to his back with sweat, but the rush - he has never felt so exhilarated.

The two players marking him are almost back to his side, but there is no one he can pass the ball to. He looks to the goalpost. And there is his chance - the goalkeeper is off guard, knowing no one in their right mind would shoot from a good 50 feet away from the net.

Unfortunately for him, he has never played against Harry Potter.

His marks are there, and they move to block him as he indicates to Antony, his teammate, who nods back knowingly.

He brings his foot back, making as if to shoot to the right, watching with calculative eyes as his marks both begin to move – fractional motions that indicate they have, once again, fallen for his feint. A second later he thrusts his foot around in an arc, and the ball leaves the ground.

It's a powerful shot, and the goalie is not prepared. He moves to block it, but underestimates its speed, thrusting himself forward a half-second too late. The ball bounces into the back of the net.

There is silence for a moment, and Harry wonders for a second if he has fouled. But no, he can hear a joyous shout; he recognizes the voice of his coach. Suddenly, the crowd is roaring, and someone is jumping on his back in elation, and someone else, and there is somebody embracing him from the front.

The opposing team is looking on in disbelief.

'HARRY!'

The shell-shocked referee, whose amazement at what has just occurred has rendered him wordless, is bringing a cup, gleaming and golden, towards him.

'HARRY!'

Through the throngs of euphoric fans he can see a body emerging - a manager from another premier league team wanting to recruit him? But no, this person is tall, and rake-thin, and appears to be wearing a dress. He is surrounded by people congratulating him, but for some reason he cannot concentrate.

'HARRY!'

The figure is closer now, and the crowds are suddenly blurred. Why isn't he wearing his glasses? He can barely see, the pitch and the players and the crowd are all blurring into a mass of green and white and red, but the figure is getting closer. It looks familiar, and for some reason, as everything else fades, it only becomes clearer.

'HARRY!'

He starts, and his eyes suddenly open only to be confronted with the terrifyingly close face of his Aunt.

'Bloody hell—'

'Language!'

Harry groaned, a pounding in his head making him pull the duvet up over his face and curl up towards the wall.

'Up! I've been calling you for over ten minutes now! It's already four in the afternoon and your uncles business associates are coming over tonight, as you well know.'

Harry muttered something non-committal, sinking back further into the warmth of his bed. His aunt's face began to turn pink at the lack of response, and her voice lowered to a hiss.

'You would do well to remember the conditions of the agreement!'

Harry grunted.

'Fine! If you are not willing to acquiesce to the terms that we both agreed upon then I shall not be holding to my side of it either! You can forget your allowance—'

Harry sprung out of bed, banging his knee painfully upon the bedside table in the process. 'M'up!' He winced, before limping over to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room.

His Aunt continued to glare at him as he rifled sleepily through his clothes, although her face had returned to its normal colour. 'I'll leave some money on the kitchen table; dinner needs to be ready for seven thirty. Don't get dessert, I've bought a cake.' With that she was gone, the door closing with a carefully measured bang behind her; not enough to cause any damage, but enough to the make the point that she was not happy.

Harry, rolling his eyes at her, raised his hands to put pressure on his skull, trying to alleviate the throbbing hangover that had resulted from the previous evening. It had been a friend from the football squad's birthday, and the entire team, including their coach, had headed up to East London for the night. Harry had been grateful for the opportunity to get absolutely off his face; the last week and a half of interrogation by Riddle was beginning to take its toll and he had been in much need of relief. Maybe he had gone a bit overboard; he couldn't remember anything past his seventh shot, apart from a vague recollection of smooth lips and soft, dark hair. Unsurprising – Harry tended to get a little friendly whilst drunk – but potentially dangerous. He could only hope that it had been a girl; he wasn't sure how his teammates would respond to his bisexuality, and he had not been intending to reveal it on a drunken night out in Shoreditch. Checking his phone, he was relieved to see that a couple of boys from the team had texted him. Safe, then.

Pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, he slipped downstairs, and, grabbing the money his aunt had left for the shopping, he slunk off to the supermarket.

Daphne groaned when she saw Blaise emerge through the common room door and stride towards her, gripping a large, glistening grey toad. 'I don't see why you have to bring that awful creature into the common room Blaise! It really is quite hideous—'

'Oh don't be so pathetic Daphne.' Blaise hissed back, stroking the amphibian's back in a protective manner. 'And Calista is far from hideous—'

Daphne snorted incredulously. 'I can honestly say to you that that animal is the ugliest brute thing I have ever seen in my life, and I really don't see why you insist on bringing it everywhere with you—'

'Her name is Calista—'

'Well Calista is disgusting!'

'Watch out, Daphne, you sound almost jealous.' They both whipped around, only to see Draco Malfoy was standing behind them. Smirking at the withering look sent at him by his female friend, he turned towards the dorms, indicating for his friends to follow. 'I have something I need to share with you.'

Emptying the room of Crabbe and Goyle, the three teenagers proceeded to splay themselves across the luxurious beds that only the privileged members of Slytherin house were privy to. After locking the door and setting up a number of complicated privacy charms, Draco finally pulled a thick letter from the inner pocket of his pristine robes. Blaise and Daphne immediately recognized the elegant, slanting script of Lucius Malfoy, along with the family coat of arms printed on the rich paper of the envelope.

'Father sent me this,' he waved the letter dramatically 'yesterday evening. It contains some information I'm sure will be of interest.' He smirked as he saw their interest pique, before leaning back against the headboard.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, as the blonde boy held the others in suspense. 'Well?' Blaise intoned impatiently.

Draco's smirk widened. 'Oh Blaise. You should know by now; no information comes for free.'

Rolling his eyes, Blaise snorted. 'I'm not paying you anything. I don't even know there is anything of any interest in that letter.'

'What if I showed you this?' Draco slipped the letter out of the envelope, from which a smaller note fell out. Blaise and Daphne both breathed in sharply, as they recognized the insignia of the Dark Lord.

Blaise looked up at Draco, his face serious. 'You've been contacted by the Dark Lord?'

Draco began to examine his nails.

Blaise sighed. 'You're price?'

Draco smiled. 'Your supply of Acromentula venom.' Blaise hesitated for a moment, but unable to deny the draw of the letter, he gave in.

'And you Daphne?'

Daphne paused for a moment. 'A butter-beer on the next Hogsmede trip.'

Draco hummed. 'It doesn't quite compare to Acromentula venom—'

'I'll throw in my new quill—'

'I think I'd prefer your wand holster.'

Daphne sniffed at him. 'I don't think so Draco. This is first class Italian leather, charmed by Mykew Gregorovitch himself—'

'If you're not interested, you can leave.'

Daphne remained silent for a moment, before giving in.

'This better be good Draco.' She removed the holster from her upper arm, passing it to Draco who was already gleefully inspecting a small bottle filled with a vicious looking dark purple liquid.

Draco's grin turned wolfish, as he quickly stored away his spoils. 'Oh don't worry, it is.' He leant forward conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling.

'The Dark Lord has found Harry Potter.'