The next morning, when Harry woke up, Riddle seemed to have just returned to consciousness as well; she was stretching languidly, and Harry's now-thirteen-year-old brain noted that for all he thought he could never consider her beautiful, she really was extraordinarily attractive, especially when only wearing a night-shift. He averted his eyes and focused on his Occlumentic meditations to clear his mind (apparently that was part of Occlumency, although not one particularly integral), seeking around for something to distract him from his traitorous thoughts.
"What subjects did you do at Hogwarts?" he asked - it was more than a distraction in this case, because he honestly wanted to find out the answer. He couldn't beat Voldemort if he didn't know what she knew, and finding out her school subjects (and perhaps even choosing them for his own) was the best place to start.
She was silent for a moment, probably pondering whether or not it was worth her time denying him the answer (he didn't think she would, he could easily owl Dumbledore for the information if he really wanted to), but then spoke.
"Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts," she answered, voice dancing with dark amusement as she said the final subject.
"Arithmancy? Ancient Runes?" he asked curiously. Those were two of the subjects on offer starting from third year.
"Arithmancy is magical mathematics, and Ancient Runes is exactly what the name suggests," she said, before he heard the sounds of her moving around the room; she was probably tossing on some of the clothes that Dumbledore seemed to have provided her over the top of her shift. The door clicked open and she left, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
When he left the room, he'd made his decision; he was going to take both Arithmancy and Ancient Runes when he got back to Hogwarts. Know thy enemy, indeed.
A week or so later, Harry was in the middle of an Occlumentic duel against Riddle when Albus Dumbledore arrived at the Dursley's front door. The duels were strangely enjoyable; Harry liked the feeling of success that flowed through him when he held her out just that little bit longer (even if it was only a fraction of a second in a fight that still only took less than ten), and she seemed to enjoy the thrill of shattering his barriers, lunging through them with mental probes like a thousand burning knives. Even with all the practice he was putting in, she was frighteningly powerful.
The sound of the door opening distracted Harry, and his shields collapsed as Riddle tore through them before she retreating; she sighed, probably because of how easily he'd had his mind taken off defending against her. One thing he'd noticed about Riddle was that she had an odd sense of fairness; she enjoyed winning in all its forms, but she was far more satisfied if her opponent was actively trying to defeat her.
He turned to face the dining room's entrance—they often duelled across its table—surprise flickering over his face when he saw the unexpected guest.
"Headmaster? What are you doing here, sir?" he said, while in the background Riddle mockingly inclined her head towards Dumbledore.
"I believe you may need to purchase some books for the upcoming year, Harry, and so does Miss Riddle. I think, in light of the current circumstances," Dumbledore said, and Harry noticed he paused slightly on the words 'current circumstances', "it would be best if I escorted your shopping trip."
Riddle sighed, but Harry was actually pleased - the reason he hadn't already asked Vernon to take him to Diagon Alley was because he had absolutely no idea what to do with Riddle. He'd been planning to owl the Headmaster about it that night, in fact.
"But first, Harry, what do you know of Sirius Black?" Dumbledore asked.
"Nothing, sir," Harry answered, but the name seemed oddly familiar. "Wait, wasn't he on the news a week or so ago?"
"Ah, I see I have some explaining to do. I would ask you to take a seat, but that would be redundant; I think I'll take one myself, instead," Dumbledore said, flicking his wand; one of the dining room chairs pulled itself out, and Dumbledore took it.
After explaining who Sirius Black was, and what he had been, Harry wasn't sure what made him angrier - the fact the person who betrayed his parents had escaped Azkaban, or that the man had been his godfather, and could have cared for him, could have taken him away from the Dursleys, if he hadn't been a traitor. Dumbledore must have seen the anger in his face, because the Headmaster warned him that vengeance was all-consuming, and that he should let those qualified to do so recapture Black - what good would it serve his parents if he got himself killed trying to kill their betrayer?
On some level, Harry understood the truth of Dumbledore's statement, but on another, he wondered something else: how he was supposed to defeat Voldemort when he next fought her if he couldn't even defeat one of her servants? He wasn't going to go out and actively seek Black, he knew he wasn't an extraordinarily competent dueler—and only an average wizard, although he was planning to change both this year—but he certainly wasn't going to run away if the fight ever came to him.
With the discussion finished, Dumbledore picked up a plate from the sideboard and tapped it with his wand, muttering something under his breath. The plate glowed blue briefly, and then the Headmaster instructed both Harry and Riddle to take hold of it - Harry didn't know what was going on, but Riddle obviously did, because she got up and walked over before grasping the edge with two elegant fingers. Harry followed suit, and with a tugging on his navel, they vanished, re-appearing in an alleyway off to the side of the main Diagon Alley thoroughfare.
When they returned, Harry was carrying the books for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes (Numerology and Grammatic and Spellman's Syllabary, along with a dictionary of Runes) as well as his third-year Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks; his Potions and Herbology books carried over from the year before. Riddle was similarly laden down, although all her books were second-hand. After putting the books in his room, Dumbledore asked Harry if he could speak to him in another room, ostensibly about Sirius Black. Of course, that wasn't what the conversation was really about.
"Harry, I couldn't help but notice you seem to have some basic Occlumentic defences," the Headmaster said neutrally; normally, Harry would consider that a bad thing, but in this case he was relieved it wasn't overt disappointment.
"Yes, sir. Riddle decided to start teaching me a little under two months ago; I'm not entirely sure why she did it, but it seemed like something that would be useful against Voldemort. Should I stop practicing?" he asked nervously.
"She did, did she? Interesting..." Dumbledore trailed off for a moment before continuing. "No, Harry, by all means continue. I suspect it will serve you well in the future."
With that, Dumbledore bid Harry goodbye, and Apparated away. Harry returned to his room, just in time to catch Riddle leaving, one of her sixth-year textbooks in hand. They had the house to themselves; Petunia and Vernon were out, and Dudley was at school, although whether it counted as being at school when he only seemed to get dumber with each passing year, Harry didn't know. Ignoring her, Harry went over to where he'd dumped his own textbooks, deciding to get a head-start on the third-year curriculum, particularly in the areas of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, since he knew almost nothing about the two of them. Normally he would have neither the time nor inclination for that sort of Hermione-ish behaviour—they might not be able to be friends any more, but two years of memories are hard to lose—but without any chores and the brutal truth of his loss to Voldemort walking around in his house, there was no time to be a child any more.
The days slid past quickly, and in no time at all Vernon was driving the two of them to King's Cross Station, where they would board the Hogwart's express for the upcoming year. Riddle seemed to have re-cast whatever spell she'd used the last time they'd been here, because she and Harry slid through the crowd without a single eye turning to notice them. Wordlessly, they both made their way to an empty compartment towards the middle of the train - not out of any desire for the other's company, but simply because they had nowhere else to go, although for completely different reasons.
Riddle sat down on one side, Harry on the other, and just before he started his fourth re-read of his Arithmancy textbook (he was really going to have to work hard in order to pass, based on what he'd seen thus far) he noticed Riddle pulling out a textbook of her own. The rest of the journey passed in silence, until the train started slowing down; it was too early for them to have arrived at Hogwarts, and Harry wondered what was going on. It jerked to a halt, and then all the lamps suddenly died; for a moment, Harry's compartment was plunged into darkness, but then something flared and he saw Riddle moving her wand in a circle, balls of light shooting from the tip and hovering around the compartment.
"What's going on?" he asked, more talking to himself than anything else. Riddle didn't respond.
About ten minutes later, as best as Harry could estimate the passing of time, the lights came back on, Riddle vanished the lights she'd summoned and the train started moving again. A little while later, they arrived at Hogwarts, and Harry and Riddle disembarked. He froze, however, when he noticed that the horseless carriages weren't so horseless any more. Riddle must have noticed his shock, because she glanced from Harry to the carriages and back again.
"What are those?" he asked; since when were skeletal horses real?
Riddle didn't answer, but she could clearly see them as well, since she was looking exactly where he was. Deciding to ask someone about them later—maybe the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, whoever he or she was—Harry got into a carriage, Riddle reluctantly following suit. A little while later, some older students, probably sixth or seventh years, also got into the carriage, but they didn't pay Harry (or Riddle) any attention.
They arrived at Hogwarts, the Sorting and the rest of the Welcome Feast passing in a blur, save for the warning about Sirius Black and the Dementors, the announcement that an older man with shabby-looking clothes by the name of Remus Lupin was the new DADA professor (Harry didn't judge him by the way he dressed, he knew exactly what it was like to not have clothes that fit) and the message that Hagrid had taken over as the Care of Magicial Creatures professor. Harry applauded wildly along with the rest of the Gryffindors, but couldn't suppress a pang of loss - if he'd had any time to be the old him, if he could have been able to spend time with his friends (he suspected Ron had taken Divination and Care of Magical Creatures like they'd talked about last year), he would have been having classes with Hagrid. But he couldn't, and he had to harden his heart against that sort of loss; he could still visit Hagrid's cabin, of course, as there was no point staying away from the half-giant since everyone knew he was firmly Dumbledore's man anyway.
The first few days of school passed uneventfully, save for Malfoy having apparently mistreated a Hippogriff and been mauled for his troubles; Harry, although attempting to isolate himself as much as possible from his fellow Gryffindors (he and Ron had gotten a fair few strange looks when they greeted one another in much the same way Gryffindors greeted Hufflepuffs), couldn't help but overhear the story, and he laughed along with the rest.
Malfoy returned to classes on Thursday, in the middle of the Slytherin and Gryffindor's double potions lesson, a lesson that had been rather... interesting for Harry. When he'd arrived, he'd chosen a seat away from his usual bench, partnering with Neville. Why he'd done that, he didn't know, it was practically begging Snape to unleash hell on this particular corner of the classroom. Neville had looked surprised, but didn't comment. Snape had arrived, and Harry swore he'd seen a look of surprise on his face as well, although it faded so quickly Harry wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't imagined it.
Harry had chanced to look into Snape's eyes shortly after that, and felt a strange stirring on the outside of his Occlumentic defences (well, defence, he hadn't managed anything more impressive than a single, all-encompassing dome); it felt a little like Riddle when she was using Legilimency on him, but subtler and oddly... gentle. If Harry hadn't been practicing so intently, he doubted he would have recognized its existence even with the dome in place. Snape's face flickered into true surprise, this time, before fading to a scowl, and Harry looked away, wondering how for long Snape had been using Legilimency on his students. It certainly explained his eerie ability to tell when someone was lying or not.
When Malfoy arrived, his arm in a sling, Snape forced Ron to cut up his daisy roots, and Hermione to skin his shrivel-fig - Harry was shocked that he hadn't been called upon to do it. It wasn't until he realised that he'd been successfully ignoring all of Snape's baiting thus far in the lesson that he understood why; Snape knew he had Occlumentic defences, which precipitated some degree of Occlumentic control over his own mind. Forcing Harry to do something for Malfoy no longer served Snape's purpose to infuriate Harry, to bully him and generally make his life miserable, because Harry could control his temper. He wouldn't react to Malfoy, or being forced to do anything for him. He'd just do it, and make Malfoy look like a petty fool if he tried to start anything while Harry sat there, calmly ignoring him.
Harry had no doubt Snape would find some method to get back at him, and probably extremely quickly, but it seemed he was safe for this lesson. Unfortunately for Neville, that meant that all of Snape's attention was focused on him, and even if Harry was a more competent partner than he would have been the year before thanks to his holiday studying, by the time the lesson ended his fellow Gryffindor was almost in tears.
His first Defence against the Dark Arts lesson was also rather unusual. Almost the moment they'd arrived, Professor Lupin had told them they'd only need their wands, and proceeded to lead them out of the classroom and into the staff-room. After a brief encounter with Peeves along the way, and a slightly longer one with Professor Snape, the class had proceeded to do battle against a Boggart—Harry was fairly sure Boggart-Snape in Neville's grandmother's clothes would go down in history—although, strangely enough, Harry hadn't been allowed to combat it. It took him a little while to understand why, but then he realised Professor Lupin might not want to submit the rest of the class to a fully-resurrected, at-full-strength Voldemort; Harry wasn't certain that was his greatest fear, but he couldn't think of anything else more likely than that.
Over the weekend, Harry found himself wondering what was going on with Riddle, in between doing his weekly homework, practicing Occlumency and generally being a recluse. His questions were answered on the first Sunday of the term, when Professor McGonagall came to inform him that the Headmaster required his presence in his office; this time, it seemed he would need a password, because she also informed him that the Headmaster had expressed a passing fancy to Mars Bars. When he passed the gargoyles and made his way up to Dumbledore's office, he found a situation almost functionally identical to the last time he was there - Riddle was staring out the window, and Dumbledore was seated at his desk, although Riddle did not seem to be quite so angry and the Headmaster's eyes had their twinkle back.
"Ah, Harry, welcome. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered. Harry shook his head, and Dumbledore moved on.
"Now, I suspect you have been wondering what has been happening with Miss Riddle while you have been engaged in your first week," he said. Harry nodded in reply.
"As you have no doubt guessed, I have asked you here to explain the situation. I have cast a spell, an extraordinarily complex charm tying itself into the magic of Hogwarts itself, which renders Miss Riddle functionally invisible to the general population of Hogwarts. She is physically able to be seen, but suffice it to say she is unnoticeable; you are familiar with a Notice-Me-Not charm? It is much like that, except on a much grander scale."
Dumbledore finished his explanation, and looked at Harry, obviously making sure that he understood before continuing.
"I have obviously made sure the charm does not affect you or me, as well as another individual I trust implicitly."
Harry wondered who he could be referring to before he realised exactly who Dumbledore had described using precisely those words in years gone by; thanks to his Occlumency training, he'd found his memory much improved. He focused back on what Dumbledore was saying to catch his next words.
"That said, I must warn you that, if you feel the need to contact Miss Riddle—or she feels the need to contact you—I advise you to do it in a private location. While the charm can hide her and anything she personally interacts with, to a limited degree, it is not able to conceal her if someone it does not affect draws attention to her."
"So, if I, for whatever reason, decide to start talking to her in the middle of the Great Hall, people will start to notice she exists and so on?" Harry asked.
"Precisely, my dear boy, precisely. Especially in your case, in fact: as Harry Potter, as much as you detest your fame, you are noticeable. You are too much in the public eye, even here at Hogwarts, for the magic to successfully hide you as well as Miss Riddle."
"Yes, Headmaster," Harry said; he doubted he'd be seeking Riddle out any time soon, except maybe for Occlumency practice, although whether she'd be willing to help him anymore, he didn't know. With that, Dumbledore dismissed him, and Harry left; as he walked away, Dumbledore's voice drifted over his shoulder.
"Now, Miss Riddle, I believe I have some more questions for you…"
Time passed, and Quidditch practices began again; with the way they added to his workload, Harry didn't even notice the weeks blurring by. Without his friends to keep him company, he spent most of his free time in the library, studying and learning and forcing himself to be better, no matter how much he might hate what he was doing at the time.
Before he realised it, it was Halloween, and time for the first Hogsmede weekend. Harry—even though he had his formed signed, as his prediction had been right, Vernon was completely cowed by Riddle—wasn't going; he didn't have time to waste on that sort of thing. So, rather than joining the line to visit the village, Harry made his way to the library, deciding to get a head-start on next week's Transfiguration work.
When he arrived there, he found Riddle with much the same idea (not that she was probably permitted to go to Hogsmede, even if she wanted to go), although the book she was reading was clearly something to do with DADA based on the title: Fire and Fury – A Guide to Element-based Magic.
An hour or so later, Riddle tossed the book down with a huff and walked over to Harry. Her wand danced in her fingers, and Harry saw the air shimmer slightly before she sat down opposite him. He was just about to ask her what she was doing when she started speaking.
"Defend yourself," she said, staring him in the eyes, but she didn't attack, and it took a moment for Harry to realise she still needed his permission to use Legilimency on him. He nodded, not breaking her gaze, and wondered how his first true test of whether or not he'd improved over the two months he'd spent working on his defences would go.
About twenty seconds later, the last of his shields crumbled to dust and Riddle lunged into his mind before retreating. She sighed, clearly disappointed, but Harry was elated – he'd held her out for twice as long as he had before, and that was something to be proud of, whatever she thought. They continued to duel until it was time for the Halloween Feast, and Harry noticed in his peripheral vision that while the occasional person came in and out of the library, even those who walked straight past them didn't seem to know they were there. Maybe he should ask Riddle—although he doubted she'd tell him—what that spell was, because it seemed useful.
By the time they left—not together, but at the same time—Harry had managed to hold her out for an entire half-minute; practical experience at defending his mind was just as, if not more useful than the hour or so he spent every day mediating and shoring up his Occlumentic barriers. He was happy, flushed with success at how quickly he'd been able to improve, but Riddle was as readable as some of the latter chapters of his Ancient Runes textbook; he was fairly sure she'd only decided to duel him out of boredom and to get a few easy victories, but sometimes the look in her eye was entirely too calculating for him to believe the impression entirely. Still, Occlumency was a weapon against Voldemort, and if Riddle was willing to teach him, he didn't particularly care why she was willing.
The Feast passed almost exactly like the one in Harry's first year, with the exception of the Voldemort-possessed DADA teacher running in and telling everyone there was a troll in the dungeons. What happened afterward, however, was certainly not part of the routine.
Sirius Black had attacked the Fat Lady's portrait in an attempt to get into Gryffindor Tower; why he'd done that when the obvious target, Harry, had been in the Great Hall along with the rest of the school, Harry didn't know, although Black had escaped from Azkaban and he was probably at the very least half-mad. He might even have been trying to set a trap.
Whatever his purpose, he clearly failed, unless what he actually wanted was to inconvenience Harry by forcing him to sleep in the Great Hall that night along with the rest of the school, or if he wanted to try and stop him practicing Quidditch; Professor McGonagall had tried that, but when Harry reminded her their upcoming match was against the Slytherins, she acquiesced to simply having Madam Hooch oversee the Gryffindor's training sessions.
It was at one of these training sessions that Wood informed the team they were not, in fact, playing Slytherin like they'd expected, but were rather against Hufflepuff. Harry wasn't particularly surprised; the Slytherins would always try and cheat their way into a better position, and now that they had an excuse about their Seeker 'not being able to play', they could get out of playing the first match of the season in the utterly atrocious weather they'd been having recently.
After being woken up by Peeves at half-past-four in the morning, and spending his next few hours worrying about the match and not eating much, Harry made his way to the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor team, barely able to stand amidst the howling gusts of wind, the pelting rain and the occasional ominous roll of thunder.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had spent the vast majority of the past four months thinking. Ever since she'd been resurrected from the Diary, a triumph that quickly turned sour once she was in Dumbledore's hands, she'd been plotting; she cursed his meddling interference even as she acknowledged the fact he had her over a barrel (numerous barrels, in fact). And she was slowly coming to a most unfortunate realisation.
She was not so proud and arrogant to believe she could break an Unbreakable Vow – she knew she was brilliant, every bit as good as Dumbledore had been at her age if not better, but she wasn't Merlin, and Merlin was the one who'd first invented the Vow. Which is why, rather than trying to get herself out of the binding Vows Dumbledore had forced her to place around her neck like an ever-tightening noose, she'd been trying to see if there was any possible way around them.
There wasn't.
Dumbledore had done his work well. Very well. It was impossible for her to aid her future self in any way, shape or form, or to kill Potter or Dumbledore or anyone like that. She wasn't totally restricted (one of the ways Dumbledore had convinced her to take certain Vows was the threat of forcing her to swear that she would never kill anyone again, or that she wouldn't use any magic other than spells he personally approved), but she was trapped.
Which had led her to her aforementioned unfortunate realisation. The only way she could now ever hope to enjoy the same levels of control and power that she had previously enjoyed was if Potter or Dumbledore were the ones in power, rather than Lord Voldemort. Her qualms weren't quite about fighting against her future self; if it came to down to a choice between the two of them, she'd choose herself every time. She was a separate entity, and she valued her own life and success rather than the life and success of what she'd become since leaving Hogwarts (the temporal distinctions got extremely confusing sometimes, especially when she had to differentiate Lord Voldemort and Tom Marvolo Riddle in her head despite the fact one was simply an older version of the same person).
What irked her was the fact she'd have to fight alongside the vaunted forces of the Light; they were weak, childish, and sanctimonious, convinced that being stronger meant you were supposed to 'protect' those weaker than you. Frankly, she'd never heard of a more stupid idea in her life.
What was the point of having power if you didn't use it to do whatever you wanted to do? Why should she care about what some prissy almost-Squib thought, she, who had the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself running through her veins, along with the House of Gaunt's and, according to her research, the fabled House of Peverell itself? She was better than other people, and they should show her the respect and fear she deserved.
Returning to her original train of thought, she had realised something else, something that made her first, unfortunate realisation slightly better. While her Vows didn't permit her to act against either Dumbledore's or Potter's interests, they didn't stop her from trying to change those interests. Dumbledore was too set in his ways for her to influence, but Potter wasn't. All she had to do was open his eyes to the wonder of the Dark Arts, enlighten him as to the ways of power, and turn him from Dumbledore's side to her own (although he would have to think it was his own, of course), and her Vows would be meaningless restrictions.
Another way for her to be released would be if Dumbledore was to die, but bound as she was, she couldn't do it herself – either she'd have to wait until her future self (because while she might despise Dumbledore, she knew exactly how powerful a wizard he was) killed the Headmaster, or somehow get Potter to do it. That said, it cost her nothing to try and turn Potter regardless; having two contingencies was always better than having one.
She'd have to be subtle, of course, Potter was far too stubborn and Dumbledore far too smart for her to do anything rapidly. Her plan would take years, but she didn't particularly care. She could be patient, and this way she was setting up a win-win situation – no matter who won, she'd be on the right side and in power. It was perfect.
That train of thought was one of the reasons she'd decided to start teaching Potter Occlumency; it was a way to slowly get him used to the idea of spending time with her and learning things from her, plus she had to admit it was annoying when her habitual Legilimizing of anyone she came across plucked out his inability to understand a piece of second-year Transfiguration she could do in her sleep without a wand.
It was also what had led her out here with the rest of the school in horrible weather—not that it touched her, she was a witch, after all—to watch the first Quidditch match of the year. Dumbledore would no doubt want to keep an eye on her, and if she came voluntarily, well, the more trust she built now, the easier her plans could go ahead in the future. She knew Dumbledore probably suspected she was plotting something, but as long as she kept acting like he wanted her to, there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
Turning her attention to the match, she had to admit, Potter was an extraordinarily competent flier; she was barely able to pick him against the iron sky, what with the pouring rain and howling wind, but he was clearly miles ahead of anyone else. That wasn't to say any of the players were particularly incompetent, but she couldn't deny that Potter was simply more… graceful than the rest of them.
Time passed, and both teams called multiple time-outs to try and reinvigorate their tactics (and their players, it seemed); Riddle was fairly sure neither Seeker had even seen the Snitch yet, and she hoped one of them would catch the stupid thing so the match could be over and she could get back to more important things.
The match was drifting into its second hour when it happened; even from where she stood in the highest point of the stands, everything seemed to die slightly. Sound muted, colours faded, and Riddle swore she felt the faintest twinges of sadness and despair, emotions she was sure she had crushed ruthlessly long ago. She looked down, to the centre of the pitch – against the background of the darkening sky, she couldn't see them at first, but she finally identified that the multitude of clustered shadows on the ground were a little too solid, too stable and unaffected by the tempestuous wind. It seemed that the Dementors supposedly guarding the school had entered the grounds, clustering on to the Quidditch pitch.
It was then she saw someone plummeting through the air, their fall slowing just before they hit the ground as Dumbledore stood in his seat, hand outstretched and fingers curling as if he was trying to catch the person's wrist from afar. With a shouted word, light burned through the stadium, illuminating the unmoving body of Harry Potter, his broom nowhere to be seen, as Dumbledore stared down at the Dementors in fury.
For a few seconds, the world seemed to constrict down to the two of them, Dumbledore and the Dementors, and then the guardians of Azkaban turned and left, floating out of the stadium and back to their posts like a hundred living shadows. Dumbledore, still burning with power and fury, shouted something over the storm – thanks to the way the wind was blowing, Riddle didn't hear him, but clearly someone did because there was a flurry of movement on the pitch as someone she didn't recognize levitated Potter's body, presumably heading toward the Hospital Wing.
The storm still raging, Riddle slipped out of the wildly-talking crowd and made her way back into the castle. If Potter was as stubborn as she thought he was, this might prove the perfect opportunity for her to get slightly closer to him. But first, she had some work to do.
Waking up was hard for Harry. Not so much out of any physical difficulty, but because he knew that when he finally opened his eyes, he wouldn't see Ron or Hermione. And that hurt, even though he knew it was his own fault, even though he knew that was the way it had to be. At least it seemed the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was there, if the noise and names he heard were right.
The pain he felt at the loss of his friends only intensified when it turned out that not only had they lost the match—his first ever Quidditch loss—thanks to the fact he was too weak to handle Dementors (what he'd seen before he'd fallen unconscious sent a flush of cold fear and sadness through him even now), but his Nimbus 2000, his pride and joy, had been destroyed by the Whomping Willow. How was he supposed to play Quidditch again? He knew he could buy himself another broomstick, he had the money, but he was used to his Nimbus. He knew the broom like the back of his hand. What other broom could compare to that?
He briefly entertained the idea of buying a Firebolt—that would certainly be comparable—but decided against it, much for the same reasons he'd dismissed it the first time he'd walked past it on his Diagon Alley shopping trip with Riddle and the Headmaster. He guessed he'd just have to get another Nimbus; not a 2001 like Malfoy had, it was much more satisfying beating the pants off the arrogant Slytherin in a broom that wasn't even as good as his.
What he needed, what he really needed, he decided as the week progressed, was a way to defend himself against the Dementors. It was clearly possible, since Dumbledore had sent them all packing, and he couldn't imagine that only the Headmaster was capable of doing it (maybe of scaring away that many at a time, but not of defending himself against one or two). Maybe he should ask Professor Lupin; the man had proved himself an extremely competent DADA teacher, so he wouldn't be surprised if he knew how to fight them off.
His chance came when the Professor asked him to stay behind after their latest DADA lesson; after a brief conversation about his broom, Harry managed to direct the conversation toward Dementors and eventually Lupin agreed to teach him, although not until the next term – apparently he had 'things to take care of' first.
The next Hogsmede weekend came along, and Harry found himself once again in the library, this time studying all the information he could find on Dementors. It seemed the spell Lupin would be trying to teach him was the Patronus Charm, an extraordinarily complex spell designed to drive off Dementors using their antithesis – happiness and joy. Riddle was there, too, and eventually she came over and cast the same spell she'd cast before; presumably it was some sort of ward against listening (his Arithmancy text occasionally mentioned wards, so he had a rough idea what they were).
They didn't exchange words, although when he felt the questing fingers of her Legilimency, he nodded, signifying that she had his permission to actually attack. As they fought, Harry began to find the colour of her eyes very distracting; they looked brown, almost the colour of chocolate (a comparison he thought somehow… inappropriate), but he could occasionally see a glimpse of pure, vibrant red. It was annoyingly intriguing; he found himself wondering whether her eyes really did change colours every so often or whether it was some odd trick of the light.
Thankfully, it didn't quite manage to distract him from his task, and by the time it was dinner, Harry had successfully held her out for almost a minute at one point, although most of the time he was closer to forty-five seconds. As he stood up, intent on making his way to the feast, Riddle stretched almost sensually in her chair, raising her arms above her head and curving her back. The movement made Harry glance down, and he immediately wished he hadn't (although the baser parts of him disagreed). With the way she was stretching and the height he was at, he was looking directly down her shirt.
Harry was many things, but he was also a thirteen-year-old boy, and no matter what else you could say about her, Riddle was, to quote Seamus, a total babe; if she hadn't been who she was, Harry probably wouldn't have torn his gaze away so quickly. But tear it away he did, relying on his Occlumency training to clear his mind before his involuntary blush could colour his cheeks too obviously. He left the library as fast as he could, missing the self-satisfied grin on Riddle's face as she watched him go.
Christmas came around, and in the morning Harry wasn't woken up by Ron's excited shouting; he'd gone home for Christmas, as had Hermione, and it was with a heavy heart that Harry understood the only reason they stayed behind the years earlier was because he did. Harry sighed, shaking away sleep like a dog shaking away water, and felt around blearily for his glasses before putting them on. When he'd found them, he directed his gaze to the end of his beds, wondering if he'd actually get any presents at all this year.
He froze in shock.
There, at the end of his bed, was a package he was intimately familiar with – it was the way his Weasley jumper from last Christmas had been wrapped. He reached forward, slowly, carefully (there was something else under the parcel, but he was too intent on the first package to notice it), and drew the package towards him. Unwrapping it carefully, he found two things – a scarlet Weasley sweater with a Gryffindor lion stitched onto the front, and a card. With trembling hands, he picked up the card and began to read.
Harry,
Ron told us—the entire family—what happened at the end of your second year. We will respect your decision (how can we not?), but remember this: we do not blame you for what happened to Ginny.
Best wishes,
Molly, Arthur, and family
Harry couldn't help it; he started to cry, small, stifled sobs that slowly shuddered out, almost as if he was forcing them. He'd resigned himself to a Christmas without presents, something he was very much used to, and to be given something so personal by the Weasleys… he just couldn't handle it.
When he returned to himself, he was halfway through putting on the jumper with shaking hands when he realised that would defeat the purpose of pushing his friends away. As he made to take it off, he noticed the long, thin package he'd ignored in favour of the sweater. He quickly pulled the sweater off and placed it on the end of the bed, before picking up the other package and slowly tearing it open.
"No way," Harry gasped when his hands revealed what lay in the plain brown wrapping.
It was a broomstick. But not just any broomstick, no – emblazoned on the side in shining gold, alongside its serial number, was the word 'Firebolt'. Someone had sent him the world's best broom as a Christmas present. And, more importantly, he could fly again; he'd been using an ancient Comet Two-Sixty in practices lately, and he thought it might be slower than Dudley. Harry raced out of the empty common room, carrying the broom in one hand and covering himself with his Invisibility Cloak as he pelted toward the Quidditch pitch; he knew he wasn't supposed to, for fear of Sirius Black, but this was a Firebolt. Even if Black was waiting out there, Harry would be best friends with Malfoy before the man could ever catch him when he had a broom like this. Plus he had his Cloak.
Hours later, Harry realised he'd missed the Christmas luncheon only when Riddle walked out onto the pitch and shouted up at him, her voice magically amplified.
"The entire staff are looking for you, Potter. You'd best get inside and back to your common room as fast as you can," she said.
For a moment, he was curious as to why, of all people, she had been the one sent to find him—or why she'd even bothered to go—but then he realised she was, out of all the people remaining in the castle, probably the best-suited except for Dumbledore to take on Black. He laughed at the irony—Voldemort, aged sixteen, being sent out to possibly fight against a Death Eater—even as he landed on the pitch and started walking back inside.
Too late, he realised that with Riddle present, he couldn't possibly use his Invisibility Cloak to sneak back in, unless he wanted her to find about it. He had to get rid of her, somehow.
"I'm fine to walk back myself, y'know," he said as they walked along.
"I'm under strict instructions to stay with you when you're found," she said, her stride never slowing.
"Since when have you cared about what other people tell you to?" he asked.
She hissed angrily, and unconsciously (at least, he thought it was unconscious) slipped into Parsletongue. "Since other people have started holding executioner's axes over my neck."
"Just go, I'll be fine. I'm sure you have better things to do," Harry said. Riddle didn't respond, but she did start to walk faster than he was; they reached a junction, and she took the left, rather than the right that would lead her back to the Gryffindor Common Rooms with him.
Harry was so relieved that she'd decided to leave him alone that he didn't pay attention to her footsteps, which stopped as soon as the wall separated them. Had Harry been able to see through walls, he would have seen her sneaking back down her corridor and tapping her wand on her head; to his eyes, she would have shimmered and then vanished from sight.
He hurriedly pulled on his Cloak before he was found by a teacher—he doubted they would approve of his morning excursion—completely unaware that Riddle was watching him, concealed under a Disillusionment Charm. As he finished tucking the Cloak around him and started to walk away, he also missed her smile; it resembled the smile of a child who'd just found a fascinating new toy.
Author's Note:
It seems the Prisoner of Azkaban is stretching out longer than I thought it would. I had intended to go through the entire book in one chapter, but based on my current plan, it will take at least two (though if it takes three, there will be a bleed-in of the earlier parts of the Goblet of Fire in the third).
I normally never update this quickly; consider this a one-off. Most of my future updates will take anywhere between a week and a month, depending on how busy my life gets.
Anyway, next chapter will definitely contain Lupin's POV, as well as my explanation as to how our favourite werewolf discovers Wormtail without taking the Marauder's Map off Harry, since he (Harry) doesn't have it in this universe. That, and the fallout, will actually be the most major canon divergence in this story thus far, and certainly one of the largest in terms of overall plot impact.
And remember - if you have any questions about the events of this chapter, it's practically my job as an author to answer them for you, so ask away!
Until next time,
Magery
