/ 8 /

A cold mist seeps through the hollow corridor, a silent but deadly presence lingering in the air. It seems to extend endlessly, a dark maw swallowing up the other side. There are no lights, no candles, no torches, and yet a somber glow illuminates the stone hallway around him. The light is dim and low, tapering off some distance ahead of him, following him as he moves, just enough to light the space around him. Despite how far he walks in either direction, there is only ever one door in the hall. One room. There are no exits or entrances as far as he can tell, no stairwells, no turns, no corners no windows—nothing to root this hallway in a place in time and space. It is simply a long, straight hallway, with a single door embedded in the wall. It could exist anywhere, or nowhere.

He reaches the door, the only anomaly to break the canvas of stone.

It opens with a long creak, revealing the interior of the room he has come to know quite intimately.

He finds himself belatedly surprised to see rain splattering against the windows. There are two, grand and opulent, stretching upwards into a vaulted ceiling. Looming in the top arches are splintered portraits in painted glass. He has never quite figured out what the mosaic scenes are meant to depict, even as well versed in the history of the arts as he is. Perhaps it is not a work of one of the masters, or perhaps it is simply just too obscure to know. He wants to say it's Flemish, or late-medieval. If he could figure it out, perhaps it could tell him just where he is—and just who he is meeting with.

He finds his eyes drawn to the rain. The first and only evidence he has seen thus far that this place actually exists somewhere. Normally even the windows themselves are draped in an everlasting, impenetrable darkness, making it impossible to discern just where this is—whatever 'this' may be. He thinks it is a castle, or a large manor. The style of the room's furnishings are enough to suggest an era of time, but not distinct enough to pinpoint anything. Again, it is impossible to guess.

The room itself seems cold and empty, despite the presence of furniture.

A long and elegant desk, the surface always clean and devoid of papers, parchment, or pens. An imposing leather wingback chair, currently uninhabited, sits behind it. Placed before it are two armchairs, also leather. The walls have been converted into bookshelves; from floor to ceiling they are packed with books. But they have no titles, and they are all blank.

And then, of course, there is perhaps the most salient presence in the room. Just as cold, just as empty.

A tall, dark figure, cloaked in gloom.

He stands before the windows, his back turned.

"Please, sit."

The figure commands loftily, but does not turn around.

He spares the unmoving man a cautious glance, before moving for one of the armchairs.

He does not speak, waiting for the other to speak first.

"What news do you bring, Gellert?"

Finally the figure turns around; with a swirl of his cloak he returns to his seat behind his desk. Even though he cannot see his face beneath the hood, the dark lord can feel his piercing gaze.

"Germany has reoccupied the Rhineland," he begins. "Unrest continues in Italy. Continental Europe is rife with tension—most of the older families have heeded the signs, and are fleeing for refuge."

"And Britain?"

"The muggles understand there are signs of unease, but of course the Ministry overlooks their fears as insignificant to the Wizarding World. As far as magical Britain is concerned, no one but Dumbledore suspects anything is amiss."

The man across from him makes a thoughtful noise. "Do not underestimate them." He warns. "Dumbledore, in particular."

Gellert sneers. "Dumbledore is a fool." He denies. "A weak-minded, ignorant idealist who could never kill a fly."

There is a long beat of unmarked silence, as the dark figure before him appears to turn the thought over.

"When has murder become an indication of strength?" The man murmurs at length, posing it is an open-ended, ponderous question. Gellert closes his mouth, conceding his point.

"I suppose… that alone is not always an expression of strength." He admits. How could he ever think otherwise, when there is a person in existence who refuses to kill, and yet has the greatest strength of them all?

"Did the Senate pass the bill?" He asks, letting the matter drop.

The dark lord's gaze flickers upwards, towards the other pair of eyes he cannot see. "You tell me, Headmaster." He returns, coolly.

The figure underneath the hood chuckles lowly. "I spoke with some of the congressmen, as you so helpfully suggested. A few needed some… persuasion, but they all agreed to vote in favor of it." He leans back. "However, I have been busy as of late, and have not had the opportunity to follow up."

He nods. "Well, it passed… but the House had some revisions." Gellert informs him. "They agreed to spend most of the budget on domestic infrastructure, but they are not blind. They see the agitation in Europe, and recognize the need to spend money on their military footing."

This draws forth a chuckle from the Headmaster. "But of course," he agrees, sounding amused. "Military spending is a given. This is America, after all."

Gellert nods again, waiting for the other man to broach the subject they both know is inevitable.

In the interim of silence, he takes a moment to study the man across from him, seated stiffly in his chair. Despite how long he has known him, he feels as if he knows nothing at all.

Many years ago, when he was nothing but an ambitious youth with fledging goals and an uninspired apathy towards the world after the Great War, he had encountered this man, then known as the Victor of the Battle of Tannenberg. Having never participated in the war himself, and believing it to be nothing more than Muggles being barbaric, he did not find the man's accolades all that impressive. Paul Ludwig Hans Anton von Beneckendorff und von Hindenburg did not seem to have anything impressive to his name - except of course for the mouthful of the name itself.

But his prior assumptions had been wrong. The then Lord Hindenburg, president of Germany, had piqued his interest. He knew decisively that he was not speaking to a muggle war hero, but a master manipulator. Someone whose power he had still yet to see fully unveiled.

Since Lord Hindenburg's timely 'death' a few years ago, Hitler has used the vacancy in the government the President left behind to declare himself Chancellor and Head of State.

This was of course part of Hindenburg's plan. He would not have faked his death otherwise. What that plan was though, exactly, Gellert still did not know.

Afterwards, Lord Hindenburg vanished into the ether. Gellert did not hear from him for some time, although he did not believe for a second that Hindenburg was actually dead. But he had no contact with the man, not until he received an invitation to luncheon at the estate of the esteemed Headmaster Pershing of Wolcroft.

Gellert was perhaps the only person on this earth who could truly understand the man's twisted sense of humor; he takes the identity of a German war hero, only to return with the face of an Allied war hero some months later. It was amusing, of course, but ultimately disconcerting. It only served to remind Gellert just how little he knew of this man.

At first, he didn't understand why this man of incredible, mystifying power and intelligence, this master manipulator weaving the world through a web of his own machinations - would bother becoming the Headmaster of a school. Oh, it was a prestigious school, and Gellert could see the appeal in crafting and influencing the next generation of powerful witches and wizards. However, it seemed wasted on a man of his stature.

But the reason had made itself clear enough.

"And the girl?" He continues, drawing Gellert out of his thoughts. He knew the other man would ask.

"Still among the living." He returns, with a small smirk.

There is a low bout of laughter. "But of course she is. Don't tell me you thought anything otherwise?"

He shrugs. "Forgive me, I still find it unreasonable that a killing curse can actually be rendered ineffectual against a person." And he was still a bit annoyed with the man for conveniently forgetting to mention that particular trait of hers.

"There is much you do not know yet." Hindenburg - Pershing - chastises lightly, to his annoyance.

He does not voice his irritation aloud, however. Instead he closes his eyes, swallowing his annoyance into an expression of impassivity. "What should I do with her?"

"Nothing." The Headmaster waves him off. "Continue to observe her."

His brow twitches. "She has proven herself to be… particularly hard to get a hold of."

"Is that so?" The other man returns, pensively. "No matter. There is always the boy."

Gellert looks up. "What of the boy?" He asks quickly, thinking of the promise he had made to her. "Do you have plans for him?"

"Plans?" Hindenburg repeats, thoughtful. "Perhaps. But wherever he may be, she will not be much farther. It is much easier to keep tabs on the boy."

Yes, Gellert thinks, vexed. The boy doesn't have a tendency to literally disappear into thin air.

"Is that all then?" He asks, calmly.

The Headmaster inclines his head. "That is all, my friend."

Gellert stands then, nodding once, before heading for the doors. He returns to the long and empty hallway, lit dimly by an ambiguous source of light. When he turns around, the door is gone.

.

.

.

Before Tom could really have a chance to say otherwise, Margaret was practically barging down his front door.

Worse still, Harry had been utterly thrilled when she heard the girl was coming over. She all but raced to the door, cheerfully greeting both Margaret, and the maid that had walked her up the steps. Tom was unsurprised to see a town car in front of their house, a man he assumed was Margaret's driver still waiting in the car. The girl herself perfectly completed the picture of a posed little society debutante, beaming up at Harry with her bouncy curls in twin pigtails, shiny shoes and pleated dress. What did she think they were doing, going to a picture show? They were just sitting around the house all day.

Margaret's maid and driver were instructed to return half past noon, leaving Tom with at least three hours of her presence to struggle through.

Harry had to leave for work soon thereafter, but she left specific instructions for food (only things that didn't require cooking, or otherwise they could eat out), play time (no dead things, no destroying the yard), and places that were off limits (the library, her room).

Tom had no problems abiding by her rules, none of them were much of an issue - aside from that last one.

The moment Harry was gone Margaret wasted no time bounding up the stairs in search of Harry's prized closet.

"We're not allowed in there!" Tom calls after her, as he trots up the stairs behind her.

Margaret was already in the room though, the door open and the light in the closet on. Tom feels a little disconcerted, but he reasoned that if Harry really didn't want them in here she would have put wards around it.

"Margaret," he hisses, warningly.

"I know, I know." She waves him off, not even looking at him. "I'll leave in a minute - I just -

She manages to climb her way atop a bunch of shoe boxes to examine one of Harry's dresses, wrenching it open with a delighted gasp of surprise. Tom peers up on his tiptoes to see - to his total lack of surprise - a whole drawer full of shiny jewelry.

"This is the one," Margaret breathes, reaching in to pull a beautiful silver ring up to the light. It's twisted band creates fascinating patterns in the sunlight, the curiously pale green stone casting sparkles over the girl's face and the closet around them.

It was a very pretty ring, Tom could admit to himself, even though he knew nothing about jewelry and doubted he ever would want to. He'd seen her wear it a couple times - enough to know she had matching earrings and a necklace in the same design. Tom pays attention to everything Harry wears, mainly because he just pays attention to Harry, in general. He climbs on top of a shoebox of his own, finding himself mildly curious to see what other jewelry she owned.

One is very sparkly, catching his eye. He narrows his gaze at it; it's definitely a diamond ring. He plucks it from its resting place as Margaret moves on to 'ooh' and 'ahh' over Harry's collection of sunglasses.

It's very pretty, and not particularly small. He scowls at it. He knows it's not the sort of thing Harry would buy for herself - she preferred colored jewels and opals over diamonds - so it would stand to reason that someone else had bought it for her. And there was only one reason someone bought a diamond ring for a girl - he was old enough to know that, at least, even if he still didn't quite understand adult relationships.

He wonders who gave it to her. It reminds him that there's a lot about Harry he doesn't know. Oh, he knows a lot about Harry. He obviously knows her taste in jewelry, her favorite foods, the books she likes and the colors she prefers, the way she tries to hide her yawns when she's trying to look professional, the way she wishes her hair would always look, and the way it actually looks when she wakes up.

But there's still so much he doesn't know. She's from England - where in England. She's a Potter - so why does she say she has no family? Her parents are dead - but how did they die? She has a diamond ring in her jewelry box - did someone give it to her? Were they dating?

He wants to throw it out the window, although he's mature enough to recognize his jealousy when he feels it and calmly place the ring back down.

His eyes widen when he looks down to put it back where he found it, his gaze catching on something else. It's the ring at the very end, wedged between tufted rolls of fabric just like the rest of them - but this one is different. It is old, weathered, and tarnished. It looks like the old and haunted mansion at the end of a street with new, pearly white row houses, out of place amongst all the fine stones and silver and gold.

Margaret puts back the sunglasses she had been trying on, returning her attention to the jewelry. She makes awed noises about a set of dangling aquamarine earrings, but Tom doesn't hear her.

He reaches for the ring at the end, feeling like his heart has twisted itself into his throat. He swallows dryly, finally feeling the cool metal against his fingertips. It chills him to the bone.

His breath catches when he turns it to him; the jewel is not an attractive one; a squat, black stone significantly less sparkly than the others. In fact, it doesn't seem to reflect light at all. And there, behind its oddly clear surface he can see a familiar insignia.

The Deathly Hallows.

He abruptly slams the drawer shut, almost catching Margaret's fingers.

She spares him a dirty look at the near miss.

"Harry will get mad if we keep snooping around her jewelry like this," which was very true, even if he was just using it as an excuse to keep Margaret away from that ring.

"Fine," Margaret huffs, hopping gracefully off her tower of boxes to dart over towards the bags.

At Tom's deeply annoyed look she speeds up her perusal of the rest of the closet, even though she looks longingly at Harry's collection of shoes.

He shuts off the light and closes the door with great finality, ignoring the odd coldness that has seeped into his bones.

The rest of the morning passes without severe incident; they share a snack of molasses taffy and toast with apple crock butter. Margaret looks both amazed and disturbed to hear Harry cooks food for them both. She asks about her cookbooks, but Tom can't recall ever seeing Harry use one - if she was following a recipe, it was usually printed on a single sheet of paper. She was at first alarmed, then wary, and finally mildly curious over Spot; she wasn't particularly impressed to hear he could talk to snakes, considering it an interesting but ultimately useless talent. Parselmouth probably had less infamy around here without the domineering legacy of Salazar Slytherin to hold it up, since she didn't seem to recognize it as a talent passed on in bloodlines.

Despite Tom's attempts to keep them at the dining room table, Margaret always managed to wander off - only just around the immediate area - and always managed to find something curious to ask upon, most of which were things Tom barely acknowledged himself.

She asked where Harry got her candles, her throw pillows, weird and insignificant decorations she had about the house, her light fixtures, the beautifully bound books on the coffee table with such glossy paper, the fully colored muggle photos, - none of which were questions Tom could answer. More to the point, he didn't care to find out the answer, either. He'd never really noticed any of it.

They did manage to get a fair amount of their summer homework over and done with by the time Margaret's driver was meant to pick her up. She was surprised to find Tom didn't have a house phone - most families had one, even the not so well off ones, and Harry was certainly more than well off - so she couldn't call her parents to tell them she was coming home. She was also surprised to find they didn't have a radio.

They are waiting by the front windows, Tom settled on the bench underneath the bay windows, Margaret flittering about the front sitting room. She appears fascinated by Harry's orchids, in the big glass basin that sits on the accent table. Tom doesn't understand why she's so interested in all the furniture - it's not as if she's never seen a chair before, or a table.

"It's the style, not the form." Margaret snips back, as she crouches down to spare the chair legs an examining eye. "It's a very interesting design, not at all like any of the current interior design trends - not that I expect you to understand." She adds, rolling her eyes.

Tom rolls his eyes right back. "Why would anyone care about that?" He returns with a snort, genuinely perplexed.

"My mother gets whole magazines about it, and she regularly redecorates when she thinks things are going out of style."

The lifestyles of the fabulously wasteful and rich, Tom thinks, disparaging.

"It's rather odd," she comments, looking around. "But it looks very nice when put together. It's very streamline moderne meets French luxe."

Tom blinks at her. "I have no idea what that means." He deadpans. "But feel free to tell your mother all about it."

"It's not my mother who really cares to know."

Margaret turns to him, and to Tom's surprise her expression is not its normal facade of pretentions arrogance. She looks a little worried, actually.

Tom sits up a little straighter. "What?"

She fidgets slightly. This is also alarming; Margaret never fidgets, she is always perfectly poised. "I'll be honest; I wanted to come and see Harry's closet. I know it seems boring and stupid to you Tom, but I happen to vastly enjoy fashionable people and Harry is definitely a very fashionable person." She tosses a blond pigtail over her shoulder.

Tom doesn't even bother to remark on that. "Yes, yes - the shoes. You've already told me this."

"But, well, when my father found out I was coming here…" She looks away, guiltily. "He asked me to look around for him, and find out more."

Now Tom is well and truly alarmed. "Find out more? About Harry?"

She nods slowly.

His face clouds in absolute fury.

"I'm not going to tell him anything!" She insists, quickly. "Anyway, what am I supposed to tell him? That Harry has very nice jewelry? That she prefers white furniture, prasiolite stones and silver?"

He stands up quickly. "Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?"

"I wanted to see her closet first," she admits unrepentantly.

It's only a moment before he has his wand pointed to her. Margaret stares at it with a look of incredulity and confusion, but not fear. It only serves to irritate him more.

"What else did he tell you to do?" He asks, dangerously low.

Margaret only spares him a quick glance, before folding her arms. "Nothing. That was it."

"I don't believe that's all there is to it."

"What would he expect from an eleven year old girl?" Margaret points out, unmoved. "If he wants information, he has people to do that."

"Like spies?" Tom's eyes widen. "Why would he have spies for Harry?"

Margaret blinks. "I don't really know." She concedes. "But he does seem to want to know more about her."

Tom grits his teeth, looking away. "I don't understand why, though."

"Well, neither do I!" Margaret retorts. "What's so special about Harry, anyway? I mean, she's a patsy gal and all and definitely very glam, but is she like, famous or something? I don't get the big fuss."

Tom scowls deeply, lowering his wand. "Neither do I." He says, coldly. And then; "You're not telling your father anything."

"I wouldn't have, anyway." She sniffs. "I was just warning you."

"Well, consider me warned." He returns, darkly.

She looks out the window over his shoulder, unfolding her arms. "My ride is here," she remarks, coolly, as she heads for the front door.

She turns around then, tucking her folder of schoolwork under her arm, "Oh, and Tom," she calls over her shoulder. "My father is a very influential man. He runs the economy and he has his hands in all sorts of politics."

Tom doesn't even bother to be annoyed. "Yes I know, you've only told me a million times." Margaret's bragging was practically par for the course.

Margaret shoots him an irritated glance. "What I mean to say is - he must have a reason to be so interested in Harry. So be careful."

And with that, she waltzes out the door.

.

.

.

Tom is in a right foul mood for the next few days, until his almost uncontrollable anger simmers into a pensive apprehension.

Ever since Ruth's birthday party, he'd known there was something about Harry that everyone seemed to want to know. It had something to do with this whole Deathly Hallows mess, he was sure of it, although he still didn't know how. He barely knew anything about the objects still, and he'd spent the last few months trying to figure it out! Most information on them was passed down mouth to mouth, meaning what little there was to be found in writing was almost always in stories, tucked away in strange allegories.

A ring, he thought.

It was the only thing he had to go on. A ring with the Deathly Hallows insignia - no. A stone with the Deathly Hallows insignia.

The stone from the river, an insignificant pebble that Death plucked out of the riverbed. A pebble that Tom was absolutely sure now rested as the centerpiece of a particularly garish ring. A ring in Harry's possession. If that wasn't damning proof, he didn't know what was.

It made Tom grow wary and uneasy.

Richie had mentioned that the Potter's were believed to be descendants of Ignotus Peverell - who in turn was believed to be one of the three brothers from The Tale of the Three Brothers. It was rumored that the Potter family had an invisibility cloak so strong it was said to be Death's Cloak. He'd mentioned that perhaps Harry might even have it, if she truly was a Potter.

And yet, she didn't have the Cloak; she had the stone.

What did that mean?

Was Richie wrong? Were the rumors true in that the Potter's had one of the three artifacts, but wrong about the artifact in question?

Or… or did Harry have both? And if that was true, then did she actually have all three?

But no, Tom had used Harry's wand countless times before, to the point he knew it like his own. That was not Death's wand - a holly wand from Ollivander's with a phoenix feather core couldn't possibly be the unbeatable wand. Also, it didn't have the insignia on it, and if the stone did, shouldn't the wand and cloak as well?

He felt awful rummaging through her possessions, but he had to know the truth. He hadn't seen any cloaks of any kind, but that might be meaningless. Who was to say Harry didn't just leave it in a vault?

This mystery would drive Tom mad if he wasn't careful, so he instead put his efforts into researching for his vacation and researching possible books that could have more information on the Deathly Hallows. The latter ended up being a whole collection of fairytales, since they were the closest written accounts Tom could find of stories passed down by spoken word.

Harry thought Tom was just being adorably childish, demanding to be read all sorts of magical fairytales - in reality, he was hoping one of them would have some sort of cryptic hidden information that might lead back to the mystery of the Deathly Hallows.

Tom scowls. That could be the title of an exceptionally bad newspaper stand headline. The Mystery of the Deathly Hallows, and the mystery girl behind it all! It would, of course, be completely unhelpful with an astounding lack of relevant information, but Tom would read it anyway because he had no leads to follow.

It's not as if it was a rare spell he could look up in an encyclopedia, or ask one of his teachers about. Worse still, he really couldn't ask anyone, in fear of attracting even more attention to Harry. And he certainly couldn't ask Harry.

Harry continued on, oblivious to all of this, cheerfully going about her daily life. Tom didn't want to worry her, even though he was worried enough that he wanted to tell her. Harry could be in serious danger, here. Braggart she may be, but Margaret was right. If her father was snooping about for information, that wasn't a good sign.

Harry knew nothing of this, planning their vacation as if nothing at all was wrong.

She'd already told Tom that she was taking off the month of July, and so they really needed to start planning what they were going to do. Meaning, Tom really needed to figure out where he wanted to go. The program Margaret mentioned was around that time, but now Tom was worried that Margaret may have suggested it at the behest of her father. But then wouldn't she have remarked on it when she'd revealed to Tom her father's involvement? Or maybe she wouldn't - Tom wasn't sure how much he could trust her.

He decided that they were better off going somewhere as far away as he possible.

He compiled a long list of every place he could think of, excited to find that these were all actually places he wanted to go to anyway.

By the time he was finished, he was actually looking forward to it. He was still concerned over all this fuss over Harry, but he was starting to feel real anticipation over their upcoming trip. He had so many places he wanted to go to, so many places he wanted to see. He didn't know why he hadn't been excited before; a tour of the world sounded excellent.

Even better - a tour of the world with Harry.

"Oh, Tom, I know you're excited, but this isn't going to work." Harry sighs, returning his paper to him when Tom giddily hands it over.

Tom frowns down at it, and then up at Harry.

"Why not?"

He hadn't expected this response. Harry had been equally as excited, prattling off all sorts of places - and Tom had made sure to include them all, so why wasn't she happy?

Harry looks amused as she props an arm on the dining room table. "We have twenty-one days, Tom." She points out.

"I know," Tom agrees, impatiently, "And there are only twenty places on the list. It should be fine! We're going to be portkeying everywhere, so it's not as if we have to account for traveling time."

Harry's mouth opens, before she closes it, stifling a laugh. "While I admit that's true, that doesn't change the fact that one day for each place is not nearly enough to truly enjoy it! Some of these countries are very, very big, Tomcat."

Tom blinks, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

He looks back down at his list. It had taken him ages to narrow it down to twenty; there were too many countries he wanted to go to, and too many places to see.

He looks up with an expression of sadness. "So we can't go to all of them?"

Harry has ever seen Tom look so… well, so like his age. The only times he is particularly childish are when he is indulging in his parental possessiveness, or canoodling for her affection. And even then, he is still as clever and witty and knowledgeable as someone twice his age. It's rare for him to be so hilariously wrong about something, even though this is exactly the sort of thing Harry would assume a ten year old would overlook.

She could see the dawning realization in his eyes when it finally hit him that each of these countries had at least a dozen interesting things to see, and even if they only spent an hour at each they still wouldn't have enough time to fit it into a single day. And then the almost sheepish expression that came after, when he realized how obvious that conclusion should have been.

It occurs to her then that, as of late, Tom had been looking quite morose and serious. She hadn't realized how much so until all of the worry lines on his face cleared away to reveal youthful surprise as he was caught unawares.

"Well no, not all of them - at least, not on this trip," Harry replies gently. She pats his list as she moves to get up, hoping his recent maudlin mood would dissipate now that they were going on vacation. "Why don't you narrow it down to three, that way, we have one country each week."

"Three?" Tom all but chokes.

"And none of them can be China," Harry adds, much to Tom's outrage.

"What? Why not?" He challenges, indignantly. He'd been looking forward to that.

Harry rolls her eyes. "Because China would need three weeks of its own, Tomcat." She points out. "Maybe even more."

This was the first time Harry had ever really been on vacation, or at least a magical one, and she intended to do it right. It was too bad the thirties didn't have tripadvisor, because despite her determination she had no real way of going about that. What places to eat, what sites to see - well, she supposed she would have to wait until Tom came up with his three choices, google them when she got to work, and hope that she could find things to do and places to see that had a good chance of existing more than half a decade in the past.

Well at any rate, point is, Tom's excitement manifests itself in an ever-expanding list of places he wants to go; Harry's manifests itself in a meticulous desire to plan out everything into a perfect trip. It was Tom's first vacation! And hers, really, if she didn't count the gallivanting she and Hermione had done after graduating. She wanted it to be absolutely amazing.

Tom is still pouting down at his list by the time she's cleaned up dinner.

She sighs, navigating out of the kitchen and over the sprawled Spot just outside it to run an affectionate hand through his hair. "I know it feels like forever from now, but I promise we'll do this again next summer, too - so what you can't fit in this time you can do next time, okay?"

"I know," Tom grumbles, with a defeated sigh of his own. He looks up at her with wide, beguiling eyes. "But there's just so much I want to see!"

Harry makes a thoughtful noise. "Well, why don't you write out all the stuff you want to do in each place, and see which ones have the most, and then narrow them down like that?"

Tom thinks this over. "I suppose that could work."

Hopefully it does, because Harry has no other suggestions other than writing them out on the wall and throwing darts at them.

As Tom and Spot snuggle in next to her for the night, Harry finds herself remembering - and fretting - over the promise she made to Grindelwald. Well, she'd given him fair warning that she'd be out of town, didn't she? She had agreed to meet him, but she had never specified when.

It's useless to worry about this, Harry thinks with exasperation. All the same, she continues to worry well into the next day, and the next day after that.

Finally Tom returns to her with a revised list, and she finds herself gratefully welcoming the distraction.

Hermione's brows raise when she tells the other girl his choices over an early lunch.

Harry had actually braved a return to the British Isles to meet with her busy friend. Hermione was half-buried in paperwork by the time she managed to drag herself out of her office, and was already looking thoroughly defeated by the time they were ushered to their seats. Ron wasn't joining them for this excursion; he was off galavanting in Romania chasing dragons with Charlie, trying to 'find himself', whatever that meant, and apparently the only way to do it was near death by fire-breathing dragon - or that was how Hermione explained it, anyhow.

They weren't even in Diagon Alley, and still Harry felt on edge just being there, wondering if some paparrazi disguised in a heinous attempt at a muggle outfit would jump out from behind a street lamp.

"Those certainly aren't the choices I would expect," Hermione enthuses, looking delighted. "Oh, please tell me how Afghanistan goes - and take lots of pictures! I would love to go, but you know, with the state of things…"

"I figure I should take my chance while I can," Harry agrees smoothly, as she digs into her parfait. After all, how many people get the chance to time travel decades into the past? She may as well make the most of it. "Before it becomes inadvisable to travel there." Even as wizards, there were too many opportunities to get caught up in current Muggle affairs to truly be safe enough for travel.

Hermione hums in agreement around her own whipped yogurt concoction. "I wonder how he came up with these three - did he tell you why?"

"I hadn't asked." Harry admits. She was honestly just too relieved he'd come to a decision to question it.

"They're all good choices," Hermione assures, "Just - unexpected. I thought you said he was thinking of South America?"

"One of his friends suggested it." Harry reveals. "But he didn't seem all that invested in South America particularly - although he was very interested in all the Necromancy."

Hermione perks up. "Speaking of - what ever happened with that?"

"With what?" Harry tilts her head in confusion.

"That! His friend! The one who came over!" Hermione elaborates, before shaking her head in mild bewilderment and wonder. "I still can't believe he has friends." She opines.

"He refuses to call them that, or even admit to being even the slightest bit fond of them, but yes, he does have friends." Harry sighs happily. "I couldn't be more delighted. She's such a clever little girl, very charming, too."

Hermione spares her an unimpressed glance. "Don't go planning their wedding, now." She says, drily.

Harry blinks down into her parfait bowl, suddenly realizing that there was now a very real chance that Tom would, indeed, get married.

He was an exceptionally smart, uncannily talented, good-looking boy, and a wizard that would one day become great - Voldemort had always been like this, yes. But Tom was more than that, too; he had friends, however unwilling he was to admit to that. He could be happy and delighted like any child, stubborn and moody, sad and disquieted; he could feel guilt, remorse, and regret. Even though he preferred not to, he was perfectly capable of forming genuine bonds with other people.

He was perfectly capable of one day falling in love.

Harry felt a very strange pang in her chest at the thought. She couldn't quite place what it was. It hurt, but despite the pain it made her feel content and happy.

She smiles slightly, as she reaches for her water. "I look forward to it." She says, almost too quiet to hear, before she shakes her head and continues, louder; "I would never be that person, honestly. And at any rate, he's too young for all of that, we're getting a little ahead of ourselves."

"Well, at any rate - now that you have your itinerary, have you planned what to do?"

"Not at all," Harry says, with feeling, sparing Hermione a helpless glance. "Japan, I think, will be easy enough - but Mongolia? What on Earth are we going to do there? It's literally the middle of nowhere. When I think of the middle of nowhere, I think of Mongolia."

"Really?" Hermione muses off-handedly, as she polishes off her parfait. "I always think of Timbuktu."

"I don't know the first thing about Mongolia." Harry continues on, despairing. "What's even there? Mongolian beef? Genghis Khan's legacy? Horses?"

"The Gobi desert; Uvs lake; the grassland steppe," Hermione prattles off, ever the bookworm. "There's lots to do there - but I imagine Tom chose it for the desert. It's a sacred sight for Necromancers; it's common for them to make at least one pilgrimage there in their lifetime."

"Well then it's no surprise Tom wants to go," Harry comments with exasperation. "Why there?"

"I really have no idea," and Harry can see just how much it pains her to say this, "Necromancers are so secretive; I could look it up for you, though." Hermione offers, looking as if she very desperately wants Harry to say yes.

Harry shrugs. "Sure, please do." Why not? Maybe Hermione could find something useful.

She wondered if Tom had chosen all three places because they all held some significance to Necromancy.

She hadn't actually looked at the things Tom wanted to do in each, so she couldn't really guess. They were all rich in history, culture, geographic diversity and demographics. But she could say that about a lot of places.

At any rate, she could certainly admit she was relieved none of them were in Europe. She wouldn't have known what to say; she definitely didn't want to go back there, but she also didn't want to have to explain to Tom why.

"At the very least, they're all far, far away from a certain Dark Lord." Harry voices her relief aloud.

"Silver lining," Hermione concedes readily. "How's that going? Have you… have you heard anything from him?"

"He wouldn't be able to send me any post, unless I tell him my address," Harry points out. Her house was unplottable, not to mention sitting in two dimensions. Getting mail was a bit of a struggle already, let alone mail from a dark lord from who knows where. "And hell if I give him that."

"He's managed to contact you twice now," Hermione returns.

"Because he knew where I would be." Harry retorts. "But no one knows where I live."

"All the same, he's proved himself to be very resourceful, hasn't he?" Hermine remarks, propping her head up with her hand.

"It's worrying." Harry agrees, brow furrowing as she frowns. "I don't know how to deal with him - he's absolutely nothing like Voldemort."

"He does seem oddly civil." Hermione comments. "And rather gallant, honestly. If he wasn't, you know, the dark lord and all."

"Yeah, sort of dampens that white knight effect, doesn't it?" Harry concurs with a sardonic laugh. "I just don't understand what he wants from me."

Hermione's eyes soften, even as her expression turns sharp. "Harry, please don't be obtuse about this."

"It can't just be because he thinks I'm pretty, 'Mione." Harry rolls her eyes.

"No, but I'm sure that doesn't hurt." Hermione returns, hotly. "Dark Lords crave power. Grindelwald even more so, I would imagine. He went after the Hallows, didn't he? Or rather, the undefeatable wand, discarding the others as worthless. He has a fascination with them. And he likes power. And then you casually show up and defy death like the Master of Death you are -

"I didn't know he was going to try to kill me! He caught me by surprise!" Harry interrupted in her own defense.

"You're missing the point." Hermione huffed. "I'm simply trying to point out that it's not very surprising if he wants you."

"Why am I always the shiny toy at the end of the stick?" Harry whines, to no one in particular. Be it overly invested Professors, Dark Lords, or the public at large, why does everyone want to collect her somehow, as if she is an object to be possessed?

Hermione sighs, rubbing her temples. "I don't know, but you are, so please try to be careful, alright? I know you can't die and all, but a little self-preservation never hurt anyone."

.

.

.

Tom studies his list again, wondering if he should bring anything else. He certainly had the room - what with the fact his little duffle bag expanded to eight times its size, and shrank to the size of his hand.

For most of his admittedly short life, he'd never even been off the British Isles. Then they moved here, but the farthest he'd been from Boston was New York, and even that had been a very brief trip. The idea of going off to the other side of the world was both exhilarating and daunting. The fear of the unknown clashed and warred with his intense thirst for knowledge.

He wasn't entirely sure what to bring to any of these places, though.

Harry seemed to know quite a bit about them all, surprisingly enough, even down to weather patterns. Japan would be hot, but depending on where they went in Mongolia and Afghanistan it could either be obscenely hot or obscenely cold. She also knew what sort of dress they wore and what sort of food to try, and popular tourist spots. She insisted she'd never been to any of these places, and Tom was inclined to believe her, but it was still a lot more information than he could find.

He had many sites around the ancient silk road that he wanted to visit, and they were scattered all over, so he should expect all kinds of weather.

There were a lot of reasons why he wanted to go to these three but seeing ancient ruins of incredible civilizations, and more importantly, learning all their spells and rituals, had been at the top of the list. The alchemic runes and techniques of the Mauryan empire, the shamanic magic of the grassland steppe, the Shinto summoning techniques - and of course, all their customs and rituals for the dead. There was a lot he wanted to learn.

That, and it would keep Harry very far away from whatever was going on.

And maybe he could learn more about the Deathly Hallows, too. If they were renowned as everyone said they were, there should be more global references toward them, right?

At any rate, the day of their trip arrives and Tom can barely wait to go. He says goodbye to Spot - who they leave alone at home with a feast of mice in the backyard, with a warning not to eat them all at once if he doesn't want to starve for the rest of their vacation - and double checks to make sure he packed everything he needs. Harry is calmly eating breakfast as he practically tries to drag her to their portkey. She reminds him they have about two hours still before it activates, so he should really sit down and eat something. He's too excited to eat though, so he just pouts by the front door and reads his travel guides until she says it's time to leave.

Finally, finally, they arrive at the magical travel department downtown, and Harry is given their reserved portkey to Kabul. It's a brass teapot that's seen better days; Tom grabs it immediately, inspecting it with the overly curious air of a child waiting with great anticipation for an adventure.

When the clock strikes half past ten Harry places her hand over his, smiling down at him. "Ready?"

He nods fervently. "Yes."

The bells from the clock tower chime, just as the two of them disappear, and a tall blonde man in a dark traveling cloak enters the building.