Chapter 1: A New World
"– not sure," said a soft, female voice. The woman sounded nervous. "He is no student that I've ever treated before. I'd recognize him for that scar, if I had. It is awfully peculiar … a mark of a dark curse, if I'm not mistaken."
"I suppose he isn't one of our students then," said an elderly man, sounding disappointed.
"Then why …?" the woman asked, alarm now evident in her voice.
"Friend or foe, it is best that he remains here within our care," the man said. "For now, please treat him as you would any other patient."
"Shouldn't we restrain him at the very least?" the woman asked with unease. "Mightn't he be dangerous?"
"He might. Though, I believe restraints to be unnecessary. If I've assessed the situation correctly, which I do believe that I have, his waking will be disconcerting enough for him."
"If you're sure …" the woman said, sounding as if she thought better of leaving the patient unrestrained.
"Do inform me, when he wakes." The man's request was follow by the echo of footsteps on stone and the sound of a set of doors opening and then closing soon after.
Questions raced through Harry's groggy mind, as consciousness slowly returned to him and he attempted to process the conversation that he had just overheard. Not only was he fairly certain that the conversation had been about him, but he was certain that one of the two voices that he had heard belonged to someone who he knew to be dead, while the other belonged to someone who he knew to be alive. He attempted to rack his still sleep jumbled mind for a plausible explanation for how it was possible that Albus Dumbledore had been conversing with Madam Pomfrey not feet away from him, but could not come up with anything other than a hazy memory that involved Hermione, the DMLE holding cells, and a black void. The more he thought on the memory, the more confused he became.
Nothing made sense. If Hermione truly believed him to be the next Dark Lord, why was he lying in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing (or so he assumed that he was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing)? Why hadn't he been carted off to Azkaban already? If it had truly been Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, who he had heard speaking just now, why had Dumbledore said that he didn't believe him to be dangerous enough to require restraints, when the man had left memories behind after his death that clearly indicated that he believed otherwise? For that matter, why had both Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore spoke of him without recognition? Not to mention, how in the hell was Dumbledore even alive? Or had the void killed him, and the real question that he ought to be asking was: when had Madam Pomfrey died?
The sound of footsteps approaching his bed quickly pulled Harry out of his troubled thoughts. Knowing that his conscious state would be discovered by Madam Pomfrey the second that she got close enough to get a good look at him, he decided to face the perplexing situation head on. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that there was only one way to get answers.
As expected, upon opening his eyes, he found himself surrounded by the familiar walls of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey was but a few paces from him.
"Good afternoon, young man," Madam Pomfrey said, after visibly pulling herself together. It was plain to see that she had not expected him to be awake. "I am Madam Pomfrey, Medi-Witch of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I've been charged with overseeing your recovery. Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Er …" Harry said.
"You do remember your name, don't you?" the medi-witch asked, looking suddenly worried.
"I … I'm not sure," Harry lied. The entire situation was suspect whether he was alive or dead. Madam Pomfrey ought to know his name without needing to ask.
"Do you remember your parents' names, perhaps?" Madam Pomfrey asked, grabbing up his chart from his bedside table and making several markings on it with a self-inking quill.
"N-no," Harry said, doing his best to appear disturbed at being unable to remember his past, which wasn't a hard act to carry out seeing as the situation was disturbing in and of itself. One minute he had thought that he'd been betrayed and was set for Azkaban, the next he was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey hadn't a clue who he was. Something was very wrong.
"Hmm," Madam Pomfrey hummed ominously, while making more marks on his chart. "What is the last thing you remember?"
Harry screwed up his face and pretended to attempt to retrieve his forgotten memories, deciding to play up his false amnesia for the moment. "I don't – there's nothing there … W-why don't I remember?"
Madam Pomfrey scowled, looking up at from his chart. "I'll have to run some additional tests to find out. Your initial scan didn't show any head trauma, just exhaustion, a broken hand, and a few bumps and bruises. However, if the trauma was minuscule enough, a standard scan wouldn't have picked it up. For now, it is best that you rest," she said decisively, giving him a somewhat forced smile. "If you need anything, just call out. I'll be in my office right over there." She pointed to an open door at the far end of the hospital wing. "I'll return to check on you and conduct an in depth brain scan in a bit."
"Okay," Harry said uncertainly, feeling disconcerted by Madam Pomfrey's lack of familiarity with him. It just wasn't right, not after all the times she'd mended him after the many scraps he'd gotten himself into during his Hogwarts days and after the war.
As the matron walked away, Harry pushed himself up on his elbows and looked about his surroundings, taking everything in with a critical eye. For all intents and purposes, it appeared that he was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Just as he remembered it, there were beds lining the stone walls, each adorned with white sheets and cotton pillows and beside tables placed on either side. Beside the entrance to Madam Pomfrey's office was a supply cupboard of potions and various other medical supplies. The windows at the far end of the wing looked out over the Black Lake and the edge of the Forbidden Forests with high mountains extending off in the distance. While nothing seemed out of place, something was definitely off. Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it wasn't only Madam Pomfrey's behavior that lacked familiarity.
With a huff, Harry laid back in bed. He had no clue what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, he sincerely doubted that it would bode well for him. While it was entirely possible that he was dead, he sincerely doubted it. Surely, if he were dead, he wouldn't wake up in an imitation of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Not to mention, Madam Pomfrey was most definitely alive the last that he had heard.
Before he could get any deeper in thought about his predicament, the doors of the Hospital Wing swung opened with a bang. Upon seeing that even beyond the hospital wing the outside corridor appeared genuine in nature, he completely failed to register who exactly had entered the ward. When he did get around to taking notice of the tall, silver haired wizard, he couldn't help but openly stare. Albus Dumbledore stood before him, appearing completely alive and well. He noted almost immediately that this impostor Dumbledore was a near prefect incarnation of the Dumbledore that he remembered, except for one particular detail. The imposter's hand was not blackened and dead looking, like Dumbledore's had been before his death.
Despite knowing that this Dumbledore had to be a Death Eater or Order member or perhaps a Ministry official in disguise, he felt his anger at his former headmaster rise up within him. Dumbledore had kept so many secrets – secrets that had nearly gotten him and everyone else killed on more than one occasion. Not that it really matter to the old man, if he, Harry, had died. He had always been meant to be the sacrificial lamb of Voldemort's defeat. The old man had played him, led him by subtle manipulations to his ending purpose. It wasn't until the aged wizard's death, that he finally realized how little he had meant to the old headmaster. It wasn't until he viewed Snape's memories, that he had understood why he had been left untrained and why it was him and his just-as-untrained friends, who were sent out on a suicide mission.
The way Dumbledore had played him once again, when they had met in the afterlife at King's Cross Station – the way the old man had distracted him and made him feel sorry for him, as he continued to express remorse over his actions surrounding the Deathly Hallows, yet never actually showed any remorse for setting him up to walk to his death – did little to endear him to the man. It had only proved to him how little Dumbledore had actually cared. It infuriated him that Dumbledore had made him love him like a grandfather and had made him see him as his mentor, when the old man had, in truth, never felt the same level of affection for him. He knew now with absolute certainty that Dumbledore had only ever seen him as being a child who was already dead. He'd never been 'Harry' to the man. He had only ever been the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, and the one who would need to die before the war could end. And if he were to believe Hermione's actions and words the day before, Dumbledore had also always seen him as a threat and as someone who needed to be contained early on.
"Good afternoon," the impostor Dumbledore greeted, as he waved his wand and conjured a chair beside Harry's bed.
Harry's eyes widen a fraction of an inch, at seeing the chair that Dumbledore had conjured for himself to sit in. The chair was Dumbledore's signature chair – a chair that was so complex in its design that only someone as well versed in conjuration as Dumbledore could ever possibly hope at conjuring it. He knew now that he was either looking at the master, who had created this fake scenario, or he was looking at the real Albus Dumbledore, who was very much alive. Neither option sat well with him, as the first meant there was a new, magically talented player on the scene and the second left him with no explanation for how such could be possible.
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts," Dumbledore introduced, once he was fully settled. "Who might you be?"
"Evan Riddle," Harry said decisively, while keeping his gaze locked on the space just over Dumbledore's right shoulder. He had learned a bit of Occlumency over the last few months of his training, but he hadn't really learned enough to keep out a proficient Legilimens. The man who sat before him was powerful. Even if he wasn't the real Dumbledore, he didn't want to chance that the man knew Legilimency.
"Riddle," Dumbledore said, as if he were tasting the name on his tongue. "A Muggle name, is it not?"
"My father and mother were both magical," Harry said truthfully, as he attempted to get a feel for this Dumbledore's reaction to Lord Voldemort's surname. He had hoped to get a better feel for just who exactly he was dealing with – the surviving Death Eaters, the Order, or the Ministry.
"I see," Dumbledore said, regarding Harry curiously. "How old are you, Mr. Riddle?"
"Seventeen – eighteen in a few days." It didn't really matter whether he answered truthfully or not, Harry knew. The entire Wizarding World already knew who he was, how old he was, and who he cared about. The media had not been very lenient with his desire to live a private life. Nearly everything about his life since his first year at Hogwarts had been plastered across the front page of the Daily Prophet over the last two months. Ron really hadn't been keen on keeping his mouth shut about any of it. His red headed friend was happily riding the high of being famous. Not to mention, nearly everyone else that he had ever held a conversation with had been more than willing to share whatever story that they had about him.
"Do you know how you came to be in one of the Ministry's holding cells?" Dumbledore queried politely.
"I was tricked and then trapped." Harry shrugged, as if he wasn't concerned about it, though he struggled to not show his annoyance and hurt. He was fairly certain that the whole business had been part of this man's setup, as he didn't believe in coincidences. He was being played. This time he could recognize as much.
"Tricked and trapped …? Care to elaborate?" Dumbledore asked with accessing eyes.
"I had just gotten done with a training session, when Hermione Granger told me that Minister Shacklebolt needed us to check the security on the holding cells," Harry began, reiterating the events for the both of them, as he saw no harm in tell this man what they both already knew. He frowned, however, when he was cut off by Dumbledore holding up his hand for silence.
"Minister Shacklebolt?" Dumbledore questioned, his supposed curiosity even more apparent. "I believe you have lost me, Mr. Riddle. What is this about Ms. Granger being at the Ministry during the Summer Holiday, and what exactly do you mean by Minister Shacklebolt?"
"Er … Hermione is apprenticing for a Runes Mastery with one of the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries," Harry said slowly, while wondering what the point was of having him retell well publicized facts.
"And Minister Shacklebolt?" Dumbledore prompted.
"Kingsley Shacklebolt was officially elected to the position of Minister of Magic last month. He was the highest ranking Ministry official still alive at the end of the war. He was sworn in with a landslide of votes." Harry glowered at his interrogator, as he attempted to figure out what the possible angle was to this particular line of questioning.
The more that Harry thought about his current situation, the more he was convinced that the whole interrogation and setup was just a bit too strange for him to comprehend. The man, this Dumbledore impostor, was clearly after some sort of information – information that he would only give to a person that he supposedly trusted completely, while in an environment that he was comfortable and familiar with. It would have to be some sort of information that was required to be given willingly, like perhaps the secret to a Fidelius, or they would have just used Veritaserum – or resorted to torturing it out of him, in the case of the Death Eaters. What the exact information that they were attempting to get him to reveal was, he couldn't say. If it was the location of the Elder Wand, the lot of them could just forget it. He wouldn't reveal that bit of information in a million years.
"I see," Dumbledore said neutrally, while now studying Harry with a hint apprehension. "And how did the war end?"
"Quite abruptly," Harry said factually with a demeanor that made if perfectly clear that he wasn't about to elaborate.
"Mr. Riddle, please finish explaining how it is you came to be in one of the Ministry's holding cells," Dumbledore requested after a long moment, seeming to decide to forgo pressing Harry for information about the war for the time being.
"As I was saying before, Hermione told me that Minister Shacklebolt wanted us to check the security. I thought it odd that Shack wanted an outsider and a trainee to do it, but dismissed the notion due to how busy the Aurors had been as of late. The second I stepped into the cell to do the inspection, Hermione shut the door behind me. When I asked her to let me out, she refused," Harry said simply, finishing his reiteration of the events.
"Did anything happen after that?" Dumbledore questioned patiently.
"She continued to refuse to let me out, and eventually, she stormed off, leaving me trapped," Harry said blandly.
"And after that?" Dumbledore pressed
"I punched a wall," Harry dead panned.
"Nothing strange occurred, while you were detained?" Dumbledore asked a bit more insistently.
"Well … there was some sort of magical flux that consumed the cell and ripped it into a black void, but I'm pretty sure that I hallucinated that bit." Harry still wasn't entirely certain about the void, but he hardly thought it matter what he may or may not have hallucinated.
"And how do you know Ms. Granger?" Dumbledore inquired, clearly seeking out whatever information Harry was willing to give him.
"We've been best friends since our first year here." Harry indicated to the hospital wing and Hogwarts as a whole. He really couldn't understand why they were going over this. His, Ron, and Hermione's friendship was famous. Even a two year old could tell anyone and everyone who Harry Potter's best friends were.
"You're a Hogwarts student?" Dumbledore asked. His surprise was almost genuine. If Harry hadn't known the man already knew as much, he might have believed the act.
"I was a Hogwarts student," Harry corrected, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the question.
"You're an alumnus?" if anything, Dumbledore seemed even more surprised.
"I attended through my sixth year, so I guess you could say that," Harry acknowledged. "I've my OWLs after all."
"Do you mind if I ask why you didn't finish your education?" Dumbledore's lips down-turned at Harry in the way that all educators frowned at hearing of one of their students choosing to end their education early.
"Well, I was kind of on the run at the time ..." Harry trailed off snidely.
"Why were you on the run?" Dumbledore's frown deepened.
"Oh, I don't know. It might have had something to do with the fact that Voldemort wanted to kill me." Harry wished that his interrogator would just get to the point, instead of wasting time with meaningless questions. They were wasting each other's time.
"Why did he want to kill you?"
Harry really, really wanted to curse the man. "For a very ridiculous reason, he got it into his head that I would one day try to kill him. He decided that he needed to kill me, before I would have the chance to kill him. At the time that he decided this, I was just a baby. He attacked my home and murdered my parents. I manage to survive the attack due to my mother sacrificing herself for me, and I've been at odds with him ever since. I can't even count the number of attempts that he has made on my life. Satisfied?"
"Are you familiar with me, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asked, after a long moment of thought. "Have we spoken before?"
"Of course, you're Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who isn't familiar with you?" Harry scoffed, before smirking. He was rather interested in the explanation that he would receive for being in the deceased headmaster's presence. "Though, how you are here I can't really say, since you died at the end of my sixth year. Perhaps you could explain that to me, as I am quite confused as to how I'm talking to a dead man."
"How about we go for a walk?" Dumbledore suggested in response. "I believe you may find understanding with a bit of fresh air."
"Okay," Harry agreed easily, while wondering where this was going. He still wasn't in any position to make an escape, and since they didn't seem keen on torturing or even restraining him as long as he played along, he decided it was best to continue on with the charade.
He climbed out of bed and accepted a conjured black robe from the man impersonating Dumbledore. After he slipped it on, he followed the wizard out the double doors of the Hospital Wing. Stepping into the corridor, he received a rather nasty shock. Not only did the hallway appear to be the genuine article, but Sirius Black and another man were positioned just outside the doors and both were decked out in full Auror uniforms. As if it weren't enough to have a living and breathing Sirius Black in front of him, the Auror standing beside Sirius had messy black hair and hazel eyes that were peering out at him from behind square, gold framed glasses. Though the man appeared older than he had in any pictures that Harry had ever seen of him, Harry knew very well who the man was. There was no mistaking that the Auror standing beside Sirius was James Potter.
"Alright there, young man?" Dumbledore questioned, while placing a hand on Harry's arm to steady him.
"I-I think I should just go lay down." Harry took a shaky step back, his stomach churning and his blood pounding in his ear. Try as he might, he couldn't remove his eyes from the wary, yet concerned faces of James Potter and Sirius Black. Mental torture, that had to be what this was. They didn't want information from him. They wanted him in a constant state of pure emotional agony, and with the Dementors gone, this was how they were going to achieve it.
"Do you know these men?" Dumbledore asked, while using a bit of strength to prevent Harry from retreating any farther into the Hospital Wing.
"You know damn well that I know them," Harry snapped at the impersonator. He was through with their game. Let them torture him. Let them kill him for his supposed crimes. He didn't care. Outside of the remaining Weasleys and Hermione, all the people that he had ever cared about and all the people who had ever genuinely cared for him were dead. Though, after being locked in a cell and being accused of being a pending Dark Lord by Hermione, he wasn't even so certain about her or the Weasley's affections towards him.
"Do I?" Dumbledore asked calmly.
"I'm done with your little game!" Harry ripped his arm out of Dumbledore's grasp. "I know you're not Dumbledore. I know that they aren't Sirius Black and James Potter. I know that I'm not at Hogwarts. If you want to torture me, kill me, lock me up and throw away the key, then just do it!"
"I assure you, Mr. Riddle, that no one here intends to do any of that," Dumbledore said with a soothing tone.
"Ha!" Harry exclaimed in disbelief. "You're a fool, if you think I survived the war by luck alone! I'm not so easily deceived. Hermione should have warned you of as much."
"Child, this is no trick." Dumbledore said in a soft voice, as if he were approaching a startled animal that would bolt at even the slightest misstep. "I suspected before, but after all you have told me, I am now certain. If you would just come with me outside, you shall see and I shall explain."
"What part of I'm done with your game did you not understand?" Harry demanded with a menacing glare aimed at the man impersonating Dumbledore. He could feel his hatred rolling off him in waves now. A throat clearing to his right made him aware, once more, that there were two other impostors present. He glared just as darkly in the direction of the two men who dared to impersonate his father and godfather.
"I, Sirius Orion Black, do so solemnly swear on my life and magic that I am, indeed, the first born son of Orion and Walburga Black and that I have no intentions of bring harm to the young man before me."
A gold hue encompassed the man, who was for all appearance Sirius Black. It sunk into him, as his vow was accepted as truth. Harry barely had time to register the meaning of the vow, before the man impersonating James spoke up.
"I, James Charlus Potter, do so solemnly swear on my life and magic that I am the first born son of Charlus and Dorea Potter and that I have no intentions of bring harm to the young man before me."
The same gold hue encompassed the man who was supposedly James Potter, before sinking into him in acceptance of his vow being truth.
Harry just stared at the two men, momentarily stunned into a state of shock. It couldn't be true. There was no way that it could be true. His father had died seventeen years ago, while trying to give his mum enough time to get him and to get them both out of the house. He had watched Sirius fall behind the Veil in the Death Chamber at the end of his fifth year. Not only that, but both had come to him, when he used the resurrection stone just a few months ago. His father and godfather were dead!
"No, no, no, no …" Harry said in denial, while shaking his head and taking several steps backwards. Just like the words leaving his mouth, he was completely unaware of the tears forming in his eyes. All that he was conscious of at the moment were the two men, who were clearly very much alive and who he had loved and looked up to and had accepted to be dead. The sudden tightening of his chest and his sudden inability to breathe properly barely even register with the tidal wave of emotion running through him. "… no, no, no …"
"Shhhh. Here, come and sit." A female voice spoke to him in a gentle tone, as hands directed him to sit on something soft. "You need to breathe, Mr. Riddle. That's it. Big breath in, now let it out. Good. Again, a breath in, and let it out."
Harry focused on the words, doing as they instructed, but his blurred vision remained fixed on the three men who had come to stand in the doorway of the Hospital Wing. Though, his gaze lingered on James Potter longer than the other two. His mind spun at the very thought that his father was alive and standing in front of him. Everything seemed to spin with the possibility, even the Hospital Wing, and he found that just doing as the voice commanded him to was a task that was overly difficult. Through the haze that had become his awareness, he felt the distinct feeling that he would pass out at any second, darkness clawing at his oxygen deprived mind.
"Drink," the voice commanded and a cold glass vial was pressed to his lips.
Harry allowed the contents of the vial to slip into his mouth and down his throat. Almost immediately, his head began to clear. It took him only a moment to calm down enough to realize that it was Madam Pomfrey who had been speaking to him. He blinked at her with uncertainty and confusion.
"Better?" she asked kindly.
"Yeah, thanks," Harry said quietly, while trying to come to terms with what he had just witnessed.
"Good," she said, before turning to glare at Dumbledore. "Please refrain from upsetting him so. He's still recovering. I said you could take out him for a walk, not that you could send him into a near panic attack."
"My apologies, Poppy," Dumbledore said sincerely, while looking to the matron with the guilt of a chastised child.
Madam Pomfrey let out a huff, before heading towards her office and muttering about upset patients.
"Th-This is real?" Harry asked unsurely, his eyes flitting over the three men, all of whom were still standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing and regarding him carefully. "You're real?"
"Yes, everything you see is real." Dumbledore promised sympathetically.
Harry nodded, while shutting his eyes against the refresh wave of tears threatening to fall. This couldn't be happening. The people around him couldn't be who they claimed to be. Dumbledore was dead. His godfather was dead. His father was dead. They were all dead! As in, not alive!
"Will you please come with us, so that you can see for yourself that you are indeed at Hogwarts and this world is just as real as the one you remember?" Dumbledore requested encouragingly.
Pulling himself together and resolving himself to figuring out what exactly was going on, Harry got up and crossed over to the three men. He silently followed them through the familiar halls of Hogwarts, dully noting that the signs of the Final Battle were nowhere to be found and that the castle seemed very much like he remembered it back in his sixth year. It was when he came to stand down by the Black Lake and turned back to see the castle standing proud behind him, that he decided that something very unexpected had happened to him.
He now knew without a doubt that he was at Hogwarts and that the three men, who were standing not too far from him, were exactly who they claimed to be. He had no explanation for it. He didn't understand it, but he did understand that the world that he had known all his life had been tipped up on edge. He was a stranger here, in this foreign place … foreign world. This alive James didn't recognize him as his son. This alive Sirius didn't know him as his godson. This alive Dumbledore didn't see him purely as his weapon against Voldemort, let alone know who he actually was. None of them had preconceived notions about him, as they did not know him as the great Harry Potter, neither did they know of the stories and legends that followed his name.
A smile graced his face, as he realized that, in this strange world, he could finally live his life without any the titles or overly embellished, heroic tales. He couldn't help but take a deep breath of air and close his eyes, soaking up the welcoming sun and breathing in the comforting smell of a mid-summer's day. For the first time in his life, he could be 'Just Harry' and could build a reputation from his own actions, instead of from what had happened to him as a baby. In this strange world, he could have a completely clean slate, and he could chose who he wanted to trust this time.
"This isn't my world," Harry stated simply. "You are strangers, who have familiar faces."
"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore confirmed apologetically.
"You don't recognize me at all?" Harry asked, wanting to be sure that they really did not know who he was.
"No, you are an unknown here, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore confirmed as well.
"But not complete unknown. You know of my name," Harry said knowingly, while turning to look at the three men silently watching him.
"You are Tom Riddle's grandson, I assume?" Dumbledore said questioningly.
Harry nodded, figuring that his two options were to either continue the charade of being Voldemort's wayward descendant or to own up to being his world's Harry Potter. The name Harry Potter was not a name that he trusted. In fact, it was one that he had come to greatly distrust. He had been Harry Potter for nearly eighteen years, and the name had yet to bring him anything good. One hell storm after another had descended upon him for being the Harry Potter. If he could escape such a fate in this world, he would.
"Is he as crazy and homicidal here as he was my world?" Harry asked with clear disdain.
"I believe that is something that we will have to discuss in depth later on, once we have a better understanding of each other," Dumbledore said plainly.
"Right." Harry knew that that was Dumbledore's way of saying that he did not have the old man's trust yet, though he had his sympathy.
"To that point, Mr. Riddle, would you mind giving us a brief description of your life and your world?" Dumbledore inquired, while gesturing to himself and the two Aurors.
"Only if you'll provide me with an explanation for what has happen to me, or at least what you believe has happened to me?" Harry bargained. "As it is, I have no clue as to what actually occurred in that cell, or as to how exactly I have managed to land myself in a world that is not my own."
"Shall we retire to my office then?" Dumbledore suggested with a nod towards the castle.
"I think that would be best," Harry agreed. He recognized that it was him, who was currently at the disadvantage, and it was Dumbledore, who currently held most of the cards. While he understood that there was going to have to be a necessary amount of give and take in the conversation to follow, he had no intentions of being led into anything. He was going to play this his way, by his rules. He had somehow been given a second chance, and he wasn't about to let it go to waste all because some old, meddlesome man found out his true name and his true significance.