July 3rd, 1995

Harry groaned in his bed as he was shaken from his sleep by a nightmare. Cedric's dead body and Voldemort's subsequent physical reincarnation had etched itself into the soon-to-be-fifteen-years-old boy's mind. The nightmare itself was recurring, and oftentimes added extra details – of the gruesome variety – to haunt him in his sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he blearily saw the glowing red numbers of his bedside alarm clock, which had a cracked glass screen courtesy of one Dudley Dursley. 04:37. The day was many hours younger than Harry would've preferred, but he nonetheless swung his legs onto the carpeted floor of his bedroom, yawned once while stretching, and forced himself up. Quickly dressing for a run, he quietly exited 4 Privet Drive, taking great care not to wake the still-slumbering Dursleys.

The morning breeze was a welcome feeling on Harry's face as he began to build up his speed around the neighborhood. With the sun barely beginning to rise above the horizon, the air was still chilly. As he ran, rays of light bathed Harry in warmth every time he passed through the gap between two houses, and he felt himself fully awaken as he continued his morning run. The cool air helped him organize his somewhat-frazzled mind, as it always did; the relative silence, broken only by the occasional bark of an early-riser dog or the chirping of birds, helped him find a certain sense of tranquility and peace. When the ambience of nature began to be broken by the sounds of opening garage doors and he could see lights flickering on in the nearby houses, Harry redirected himself back towards the Dursleys' residence.

No lights were on yet at 4 Privet Drive, the Dursleys being late risers compared to the rest of Privet Drive. Moving quietly, Harry entered the still-dark house and moved up the stairs to the second floor. A quick shower and teeth-brushing later, Harry found himself in front of the stove cooking some eggs and bacon. It was, after all, a part of his daily chores at the Dursleys and how the teenager earned his keep.

Then the doorbell rang.

Harry looked towards the direction of the front door of 4 Privet Drive with some confusion. How often did someone knock on the door at six-thirty in the morning? Before Harry could decide whether he should go and see whoever it was at the front door or stay with the bacon to make sure it didn't burn, he heard his uncle's voice boom from the top floor.

"RUDDY HELL! WHO'S AT THE DOOR AT THIS HOUR?" Vernon Dursley yelled, his voice carrying easily throughout the house. A silence fell over the house for about three seconds. Then: "BOY! GET THE DOOR!" Harry quickly turned off the heat on the stove and scurried to the front door, spatula still in hand. Unlocking and opening the front door, Harry stared at the sight of none other than Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, first class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump, etc.) himself, complete with long twirled beard and eccentric robes (in this case, a light-blue flowery design).

"Professor?" Harry queried, confused. The old man simply smiled and clapped his hands together.

"Harry! I hope you've had a wonderful summer so far, but alas I'm afraid it will have to be cut short. We must move quickly. May I enter?" Dumbledore looked through the frame of the door as Harry dumbly nodded and parted to allow entry, slightly shocked at seeing his eccentric headmaster standing in the middle of the Dursleys' doorframe. The old wizard peered around his Muggle surroundings, taking in the sight of a standard mid-90s non-magical British family home as Vernon Dursley tumbled down the stairs. Absentmindedly, Harry was still impressed that his whale-like uncle could still fit between the bannister of the staircase and the wall without breaking either one.

Vernon reached the bottom of the stairs, at which point he squinted at the sight of the rather unfashionable wizard. Then he got redder.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Vernon spat, toddling forwards with one finger pointed at Dumbledore. The wizened wizard simply smiled, though his smiles, like always everything else he did, was enigmatic.

"I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I have come here today to take your nephew, Harry, from your hands for the remainder of this summer. Rest assured, he will be absolutely safe under my care." The expression on Vernon's face made it clear that he would rest more assuredly if Harry were not safe with Dumbledore, but all he replied verbally was with a grunt.

"Well then, boy," he quickly turned to an absolutely bewildered Harry, "you better get packing!" Harry nodded and sprinted up the steps to his small room. Harry nodded and sprinted up the steps to his small room, leaving his alternating-between-sheer-joy-and-anger uncle and his mysterious headmaster.

Climbing the stairs quickly, two-at-a-time, he reached his small bedroom, where he opened up the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed and glanced around, looking for the things that he needed to pack. From his small table, he grabbed his transfiguration textbook and its accompanying, incomplete summer homework. The pair of running shoes and clothes he had worn for the morning run were haphazardly stuffed into the trunk, as were the assorted owl treats that were scattered around the room. A quick rundown of the room revealed that he didn't miss anything, and soon after running up the stairs of 4 Privet Drive, Harry was dragging his trunk down the steps, where his uncle, red as ever, still waited with Dumbledore.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, an enigmatic smile dancing on his face. Harry shuddered a little - somehow, he didn't feel like Dumbledore was only talking about leaving 4 Privet Drive for the summer.


The first stop the man-and-boy duo made was to visit a sleepy Muggle town. They reached a non-descript house that Dumbledore led the way into, a simple lumos brightening the tip of his wand and piercing the darkness of the house. While the house was covered in blood and gore, Harry soon found that it was all fake, planted by Horace Slughorn, a former professor at Hogwarts and a friend of Dumbledore, to throw off suspicion. After some persuading from Harry, Slughorn had agreed to return to Hogwarts as a professor for the year after next (Harry would have to remember why the Dumbledore had not insisted Slughorn return for the upcoming year instead), and the headmaster left with Harry in tow, a smile on his face as he whisked them both away for the second time that day.

When Harry re-opened his eyes after a serious bout of nausea from side-along Apparition, he found himself at a rather small and quaint cottage house. As he looked around, all he saw were rolling fields of green grass and some hills in the background.

"I have to say, Harry, you handle side-along Apparition very well. Most usually vomit the first few times," the elderly headmaster said to his young charge.

"That was Apparition? Those two times? The second felt much worse than the first"

"Yes. Quite a useful skill, and one you shall be learning very shortly. I daresay that you weren't entirely settled from the first trip, which only added to the pain of the second." With that and a small chuckle, Dumbledore strode off towards the cottage, Harry keeping pace right behind him. The cottage itself was surrounded by a short wooden fence, and there were small rows of vegetables growing in neatly planted fields. It was an oddly domestic sight, seeing the eccentric wizard, clad in his equally-eccentric robes, slowly open the latch to a small wooden fence-gate. Walking up the stone path to the heavy wooden front door, Dumbledore rapped his knuckle on the door three times before announcing, "I am now entering".

Harry peered into the small cottage as Dumbledore opened the door. The floor, though made of stone, had a few rugs thrown on it at certain places, giving it a sense of warmth that was further accentuated by the small fireplace in the center of the living space – of course, being the middle of summer, it wasn't lighted, but it was the thought that counted. A wooden table, complete with four wooden chairs, sat beside the kitchen of the space, and a hallway off the right side extended to further rooms that he couldn't see yet. The two walked into the space, and just as Dumbledore closed the door behind them, a door at the end of the long hallway opened.

And out stepped Tom Riddle.

Harry gaped as she strode towards them, wearing nothing more than long-sleeve pajamas and a pair of cotton slippers. Her hair, messy and frazzled, completed her just-got-out-of-bed appearance, and Harry couldn't figure out whether he should be afraid of the would-be Dark Lord or amused at said would-be Dark Lord's appearance. Deciding that silence was golden, he kept his distance behind Dumbledore as the headmaster turned to meet the cottage's sole occupant, who was now yawning and rubbing an eye with one hand while the other arm was outstretched.

"Ms. Riddle, how have you been?" Dumbledore greeted. Riddle raised an eyebrow.

"You visited yesterday. You know exactly how I've been. Your damned vows are pretty thorough, you know?" She replied, an edge of irritation bleeding into her voice. She eyed Harry standing behind Dumbledore. "And what's the boy wonder doing here? I suppose you want to show off your captured Dark Lord?"

"This may be easier to explain if we are all sitting and comfortable. Please." Dumbledore gestured, and with little more than a huff, Riddle sat down in one of the chairs, leaning slightly backwards on its hind two legs as Harry and Dumbledore both took their seats across the table from her.

"Voldemort has risen again," Dumbledore said bluntly. Riddle stopped balancing on the hind two legs of her chair and leaned forward, all signs of morning laziness gone from her expression as her eyes widened and her lips drew tighter.

"What of it?" Riddle replied, staring at the headmaster. "Is this the part where you pressure me into revealing more of my secrets? As you well know, I have nothing left to hide regarding Voldemort. Not like I knew much anyway." Dumbledore regarded her for a moment, his face losing his customary mirth and cheer before quickly snapping back to his normal expression.

"That's hardly it. Voldemort will try to find her horcruxes, and I can only imagine that it is but a matter of time before she discovers that Lucius gave up the diary. Whether or not she connects that with you – that is, your corporeal self – is still arguable, but you are in grave danger if you let Voldemort rein freely," Dumbledore replied. Riddle chuckled mirthlessly.

"Don't you think it more likely that she would kill you and then break me out? What do I have to fear?" Dumbledore sighed.

"You are approaching this incorrectly. You believe that you and the renewed Voldemort are of one being, that you two will coexist if I am dead. I believe otherwise. Logically, given the nature of the horcrux soul implements that we have seen thus far, I would say that it is fairly reasonable to assume that the original Voldemort would not bear to live with another potential Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, running around. You are not a complementary companion to Voldemort – you are a threat to her reign."

At this, Riddle's face lost its cheer as she contemplated the powerful wizard's words. No doubt, to her logical mind, that there was truth to his words – she herself would not accept another Tom Riddle, much less the original who had some forty years more experience and cruelty than her.

"What do you want then," Riddle suddenly spoke up, all cheer and mirth lost in her voice.

"I need you to train Harry." At this, the mentioned boy-who-lived looked up, startled, alternated his gaze from Riddle to the headmaster and then back again. Riddle had much the same reaction, flicking her eyes between the old headmaster and the much younger boy that sat beside him.

"This brat? You really think he can defeat the Dark Lord?" Riddle asked incredulously, staring at Harry like he would combust under the intensity of her glare. For his part, Harry slid into the seat a little, intimidated by the female who, in another time and body, would become the most feared dark wizard in history.

Dumbledore nodded. "I do. I wholeheartedly believe that one day, at one point, Harry will possess the power and skills necessary to cleanse this world of the darkness Voldemort brings." He carefully eyed the eighteen-year-old witch sitting across from him. "And you will help me carry Harry to that point."


Harry groaned as turned over and pushed himself off the cold stone floor. As it turned out, the small lovely cottage hid a relatively large underground dueling facility that Dumbledore had constructed, and it was here that Tom Riddle was showing him the difference between a fully-fledged witch and a teenaged school boy.

Said fully-fledged witch was glaring at Harry as he got off the floor and dusted off his shirt and pants. At this point, Harry had lost count of how many times he had been defeated by the older witch, but he could feel his body shaking under the magical and physical exertion of the practice session.

"That will be enough, Harry, Ms. Riddle," came Dumbledore's voice softly from the side. The two combatants turned to face the old wizard, who sat in a cushy transfigured armchair and had been watching their rather one-sided duels for the past hour. Riddle grabbed a towel from the side and wiped the sweat off her face, not bothering to face Harry or Dumbledore as she stared at the wall. Harry just fell to the floor into a sitting position, arms behind him trying to keep his upper body upright.

"Harry, you have done well today. I wouldn't have expected you to do any better versus Ms. Riddle – even in her school days, she was a formidable duelist, and you still have a few more years before full magical maturity." Turning to Riddle, Dumbledore continued. "As for you, Ms. Riddle, you display all of the magical talent and skill Voldemort had at your age, but you have little of the refinement and efficiency she has gained in the decades later. If you are to hold your own, you must focus solely on that now. The time that Voldemort spent delving into dark magic must be used to hone your magical efficacy." Riddle simply nodded and took a swig from her water bottle.

Dumbledore leaned back into the soft cushions of his armchair, looking at the scene before him. The transfigured stone walls of the dueling chamber were burnt with scorch marks, more being on Harry's side than Riddle's, but the younger boy had gotten more than a few good shots off too. His talent was prodigious – to be expected from the son of the powerful James Potter and talented Lily Evans. By the old man's estimate, if they could've given him another full decade, Harry Potter would've been able to duel, and perhaps even overpower, Voldemort herself to a standstill in a one-on-one fight, but alas, they did not have that time. At best, they – the Order of the Phoenix and other elements of those that wished good upon the world – would be able to delay for a year, maybe two, but they could not last indefinitely against prophecy.

Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.

Dumbledore internally flinched and sighed. It was prophesized. Harry Potter would have to face Voldemort, and he would have to be the one that finishes her off. Still, the prophecy didn't disallow the possibility of those that would help Harry do the deed. Dumbledore, again, looked at the two tired duelists in front of him. Harry was still on the floor, but he had shifted himself near his bench and was gulping down cold water from his bottle. Riddle had sat down on her bench with her towel around her neck, slowly breathing through her mouth to calm down after the intense dueling session.

Harry Potter. Tom Riddle.

Together, they could end Voldemort's terror upon the world. He would only have to help them get to that point.