Sphere of Influence

R. Winters

Disclaimer - I don't own Naruto or Harry Potter.

I have to apologize again... I haven't replied to your reviews yet, and I'm not likely to get to it today because I'm quite ill. In fact, I should probably be in bed right now, but I wanted to get this up, so there you go. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 11 – Tom Riddle

Harry glanced at the clock. "Lupin-sensei, can I go now?"

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was the only one who didn't seem to mind being addressed in the foreign manner; the other teachers had all requested, most politely but some not so much, that he use the title of 'Professor,' as was the English custom.

Lupin glanced at him in surprise, then at the clock. "We only have ten minutes together left, Harry," he frowned, "You're close to getting the counter-curse, so it would be better to keep going now. We'll have to deal with a back slide next week if we stop here."

Harry nodded—he'd run into the problem every other time he'd stopped in the middle of something. He had to waste time remembering how he'd gotten that far in the first place before he could pick up where he left off. "But Professor Snape wants me in his office at seven o'clock."

Lupin looked at the clock again—it was already ten minutes to seven, and it would probably take every minute to get across the school in time. With a reluctant sigh, he nodded. "I see… it would be best not to cause trouble for Professor Snape. Go ahead, Harry, and try to practice that counter a few more times on your own."

Harry nodded absently and gathered his things before leaving.

He tried not to make too much trouble for the Potions Master, but his very presence seemed to cause the man endless distress in the first place. Harry imagined that if the man ever ran into a dementor, he'd relive the moment he'd found out Harry would be in his class. It was enough to bring a smile to the young teen's lips.

Smirking, Harry let himself into the temporary location of the potion's room.

"Don't you know how to knock, Mr. Hatake?" Snape's sneering tone rang out immediately.

Harry's good mood vanished just as quickly. "Why would I knock when the door's not locked and you're expecting me?"

"It's called common etiquette," Snape said venomously, "Although there's nothing common about you; is there, Mr. Hatake? So why should I expect you to have the same level of manners as even your most boorish classmates?"

Harry scowled, "Forgive me for growing up in another culture, Professor. Did you want something or did you just call me here to insult me?"

"Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Mr. Hatake," the potions master snapped, "This is not a regular class, but the same rules of respect apply. I have called you here to serve a detention as punishment for your misbehavior." His eyes narrowed at the teen and he slowly turned his attention across the room, "You will be scrubbing each one of those cauldrons until they shine, Mr. Hatake."

Harry's gaze followed the man's. "You asked me here to… scrub cauldrons?" He asked incredulously, scowl deepening.

Snape said nothing, his black eyes meeting Harry's again, cold and demanding.

"I have five hours of homework and reading to finish if I want to have even a hope of catching up in my classes," Harry said, "And you want me to waste an entire evening cleaning up other people's messes?"

"So," Snape drawled dryly, "It is possible to teach you. The sooner you get to work the sooner you can leave, so I suggest you begin immediately."

"I'm not going to clean your cauldrons, Professor," Harry said blithely, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. "That's not my job."

The potions master descended on him like a hawk, black robes flapping behind him. Harry didn't so much as flinch when the man stopped, his face only inches above the teen's.

"It is your job because I gave it to you," the man hissed, "This is your punishment, if I let any student do as he pleases, the school would fall into chaos, and why should there be an exception for you? I assume they didn't allow children to run free in your old school; we don't allow such things at Hogwarts, either."

"… So that's what Granger meant," Harry muttered. He scowled back up at the professor, "Of course we have punishments. If a student doesn't behave in class, the professor sometimes gives him extra lessons after school, but they don't hold them back for pointless things like cleaning. If that's what you want, I'm leaving." He turned for the door.

"Mr. Hatake!" Snape snapped warningly. Harry paused, but didn't turn back around. "If you step out of that door, you'll regret it."

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked sarcastically. He reached for the handle and turned it, pushing the classroom door open, "Expel me?"

The Genin stepped pointedly through the doorway.

"You walked out of detention?" Dean asked incredulously.

"With P-p-professor S-snape!" Neville added, face pale and mouth gaping open.

"How?" Seamus demanded, "Didn't he try to hex you or something when you turned your back?"

Harry rolled his eyes—he'd just gotten away from Hermione's lecture about respecting teachers, including Professor Snape—now he wasn't so sure if this wasn't worse.

"I have homework, you know," he said dryly, flicking his quill at the open book across his lap.

"What, so you skipped out on detention just to do homework?" Ron asked with disbelief, "Man, you've got to get your priorities straight, Hatake, or you'll turn into another Hermione! You've been here, what, almost three weeks now, and you never do anything fun!"

"…" Harry frowned contemplatively at his book. "I can have fun when this is over," he muttered, more to himself than his roommates.

"The homework?" Ron asked, "You're never going to be done! They give you three times as much as us 'cause you missed first and second year. As soon as you turn that junk in, they'll give you a new bunch—you know that!"

"You'll burn yourself out if you spend all your free time working," Dean added, "You need a break once in a while, right?"

"That's right!" Ron agreed, grinning at their odd, new roommate, "And we're going to give it to you. We'll teach you Quidditch. From now on, you'll play with us Saturday afternoons."

"… If I agree, will you let me get back to work now?" Harry asked reluctantly.

The response was unanimous.

"Of course," Dean Thomas assured him.

"Sure," Ron agreed, although his tone suggested he still found the concept highly unnerving.

"Saturday, then, right?" Seamus prodded eagerly.

Harry sighed. "Then fine, I'll go."

Since the first day he'd met him, Harry had disliked Professor Snape. The first day he'd spent under the professor's tutelage, Harry had found a deep hatred that surprised even him mirrored right back. He'd tried staying out of the man's way as much as possible—although he couldn't sit quiet indefinitely when the man targeted him during class—it was impossible.

By Friday evening, Harry knew there was no man he hated more. Even Voldemort couldn't possibly match Professor Snape in venomous hatred focused entirely on the young Genin. And Harry couldn't help but feel the same.

Despite his own reluctance, Harry dragged himself to the dungeon-esque room temporarily located in the northeast tower. Snape had proved to be ever-hopeful in his ambition to get the third year to sit through a detention, but Harry had refused to make so much as a showing since the first day.

Unfortunately, Friday evenings were set aside for his weekly remedial potion lessons.

"So, you can be on time for some things," Snape's condescending voice was quick to confirm Harry's fears.

The Genin held back a sigh; he'd been dreading this all day.

He's just trying to get to me, Harry reminded himself, as he did every time the man threw nasty comments his way—it only ever worked for so long, but it was something, at least. Don't give him the satisfaction of falling to his level.

"Let's just get this over with," Harry said, dumping his materials on his usual table, "We're moving on to second year potions, right?"

The potions master sneered, "I don't think you're ready for that, Mr. Hatake."

Harry looked up sharply, "What do you mean? Last week you assigned me material in the second year book to study!"

"I expect a certain level of responsibility from my second years students," Snape said, "And you haven't finished one potion in my class all week. It's clear you aren't ready to move on—it's a wonder you still have all your pieces intact."

"I haven't finished a potion because you keep… making them disappear before I can get anywhere near the end!" Harry snapped back.

"Because it would be reckless for me to allow you to continue such sad excuses for potions work," Snape retorted, "The entire class would be put in danger from your careless projects."

"I've followed your directions every time," Harry countered, "If there was any problem then it was because you—"

"It is precisely that lack of maturity that is holding you back, Mr. Hatake," Snape interrupted sharply, "I suggest you spend more time focusing on your studies and less time blaming other people for your short comings."

"Yes, I suppose it also shows a—lack of maturity—that I'm working so hard to master the skills I need to defeat your enemy," Harry said, "Or maybe you don't really want him defeated. Maybe you're happy with leaving Voldemort in power—is that it, Professor Snape?"

"You've been spending too much time with that paranoid half brother of yours," Snape snarled, "I spy for Dumbledore and I, of course, suffer no love for the dark lord. It would do you well to remember we're all on the same side here, Hatake. I want Voldemort gone as much as anyone."

"Then maybe you should keep that in mind," Harry said coolly, opening his book, "When you're treating me like the boy who stole your favorite toy, instead of the man who's going to save your asses."

"Hatake!" Harry looked up from his Herbology book with a frown. "Ready to go?" Two of the four boys already held broomsticks, and all were earning curious glances and stares.

"What do you want?" Harry asked tiredly.

"Quidditch, remember?" Ron asked, lifting a shabby broomstick as though in explanation. "You did promise."

"Harry doesn't have time to join in your stupid game, Ronald," Hermione said before Harry could reply, "Unlike some students, he's actually serious about his schoolwork." She gave the white-haired boy a sidelong glare, "Most of the time."

Harry ignored her—he wasn't sure the brunette had completely forgiven him for all of the detentions he'd skipped, but she'd finally let the subject drop and he wasn't about to bring it up again. He looked at his roommates dubiously, wondering what it would take to get out of his promise.

"What are the brooms for? You going to clean the field?"

Ron grinned, "They're not for cleaning, Hatake. We're going to fly on them."

Hermione scowled, "Then go fly already. We're busy."

"Hold on a minute, Granger," Harry dismissed, leaning forward and examining the broomsticks with more interest, "What do you mean fly, Weasley?"

"That's what makes Quidditch so great," Ron supplied with a grin, "There's no better sport, mate. You fly around the field on these babies, a hundred feet above the ground, hitting balls to try for a goal—and sometimes dodging other balls that dive at you from out of nowhere. All the while, the seeker tries to find a tiny, golden ball, but we'll tell you that part later."

"Harry," Hermione started, frowning at the other boy.

Harry hesitated, then glanced back at the girl, "… I did promise."

Ron grinned, "Come on, 'Mione, let the bloke have some fun! He's been studying nonstop since he came here!"

Hermione looked between Harry and the other third year boys. She sighed and began closing books.

"Fine. We'll go—be just a minute, we have to put our things away." With her books stacked in her arms, the girl hurried to the staircase, the four third years staring after her.

Harry gathered his own books and notes as soon as she'd left.

"… Who invited her?" Ron asked incredulously after gathering his wits.

"I think she did," Dean said in amazement.

"She's been helping me study," Harry added, moving towards the stairs, "She could probably use a break, too."

The school grounds were crowded, even in the cool weather that had persisted all through the summer and was only getting worse. It felt wrong to Harry—he remembered hot, rainy summers, but supposed his memory might have been affected a bit by the hot, humid summers spent in Konoha.

Students were scattered everywhere, sitting in groups chatting or romping together across the grounds. Only now, as Harry surveyed the grounds from just outside the broom shed rather than a window from the Gryffindor common room, he noticed that not only were the fields crowded, but the sky was rather crowded, too. Groups of students were scattered here and there, swooping and diving through the sky on broomsticks.

"Hatake, here."

Harry instinctively gripped the broom shaft that was thrust in his direction by Dean Thomas, who carried a borrowed broom of his own. They rejoined the others—Ron and Seamus already had their own brooms, but Neville and Hermione carried none.

"Aren't you flying?" Harry asked the two teens lagging behind the group as they started off to find a relatively empty patch of sky to claim as their own.

"O-oh! I don't really like flying," Neville muttered, eyeing Harry anxiously.

"I'd rather watch," Hermione agreed.

"What they mean is they're afraid," Ron called back. He snorted, "I don't understand people like them. Flying is one of the best things in the world—even better than sweet potato pie."

Dean patted the red-head's shoulder, "Ron's trying out for the team this year."

"The Quidditch team," Harry guessed.

"Every house has them," Ron explained, "My brothers are the beaters on our team, but there's an opening for chaser, and I'm going to get it."

"Chaser?" Harry repeated.

"We'll explain later," Seamus said.

"Here looks good," Dean called out, halting the group, "You've never flown before, right, Harry?"

"Not on a broom," Harry said.

"We better start from the beginning, then," Seamus said, stepping forward. "We'll give you a crash course," he added with a snicker—Ron and Dean laughed. Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

"First you've got to 'up' it," Ron said, taking over.

"…" Harry stared at the red-head blankly.

"You put it on the ground and tell it to 'up' to get it to come to you," Dean explained.

"… I'm already holding it," Harry said, hefting the object in his hand, "Why not skip that part?"

"Well… sure, but it gets you used to using it or something," Seamus said, "You can't really skip it."

Harry looked skeptically back at Hermione again.

The girl shrugged, "They're the experts."

Harry had the distinct feeling he was being made fun of, but he sighed and set the broom on the grass next to him. He shot the experts a dry look. "Now what?"

"Just hold out your hand and say 'up'," Ron directed.

Harry looked at the broom again. It still looked incredibly inanimate, but he'd done stranger things since he arrived at Hogwarts. Rolling his eyes, Harry held out his hand. If he was going to make a fool of himself, he'd do it right.

"Up," He commanded sharply. The broomstick wiggled beside his foot and then leapt into the air. It hit his palm with a slap and Harry closed his fingers around the shaft quickly. "Now can we fly?"

"Whoah," Dean and Seamus voiced in surprise.

"You got it your first time!" Neville exclaimed.

Ron scowled, "That's nothing. Let's see how you do in the air, Hatake." The red-head swung his leg over his broomstick and pushed off the ground, shooting into the air. Half a second later Dean and Seamus were soaring after him.

Harry frowned after them for a moment before gripping his broom in both hands and mounting the same way the other boys had. This stick wiggled again and Harry swayed unsteadily, trying to find his center on the hovering broomstick and not think about how wrong it was to trust his life to such a fragile wooden branch.

"Coming, Harry?" Seamus called out from the sky above, circling over Harry with the other boys.

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione said from beside him, backing a few steps away.

Harry grit his teeth and pushed hard against the ground. He rocketed skyward on the broom, air whipping through his hair and dragging at his clothing.

For an insane moment he was out of control. He had no idea what he was doing and the ground was dropping away underneath him so quickly that it wouldn't be long before the fall would kill him. And then, all of a sudden, Harry realized that he was in control.

The feeling of the air on his face was just like it always was when he raced across the rooftops with his teammates, and he really was no higher than the trees in Konoha. He was a shinobi—he was above panicking.

Gripping the handle beneath him, Harry threw his weight forward and abruptly dropped into a nose-dive. He heard shouts from below, but hardly registered them, all of his concentration on what he was doing.

He pulled his weight back again, with less force, and leveled out barely two meters from the ground.

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione's worried voice rang out—Harry spotted the girl running towards him across the field, Neville puffing behind her.

"Is that all you've got?" Ron suddenly appeared in front of him, Dean and Seamus dropping at his left.

"That?" Harry asked. He smirked, "The first thing to learn is how to fall, Weasley. I'm just getting started."

The red-head grinned viciously, "Let's go, then."

Harry grinned back, a gleam in his bright green eyes, "Let's go fast."

Before the other boys could so much as blink, the young Genin had rocketed towards the sky again. The other three Gryffindors exchanged surprised looks before racing after him.

Fifteen minutes into History of Magic, Harry spotted a familiar visage out of the corner of his eye. He blinked, turning to the window, but there was no one and the grounds were quiet in their usual class time lull.

Harry looked at the front of the room again, where Professor Binns was languidly floating through his lecture, emphasizing certain points with marks on the blackboard that Harry was pretty sure were supposed to suggest letters. He still wasn't comfortable around the ghost—it was creepy to think that dead people haunted the school—but there wasn't a way around it since he was the teacher. Today, though, the undead state of his professor was about to offer some advantages.

Professor Binns didfn't even pause in his monologue when Harry disappeared from his seat, slipping across the room and pausing at the window. The boy seated next to it was startled out of his half-asleep state, jolting into awareness at his classmate's sudden presence.

"H-Harry?" Neville stammered, staring at him.

"Sh," Harry said. The Genin soundlessly slid the window open and dropped through it without a backwards glance.

Neville stared at the window blankly for a moment, then shook his head and set it back on his desk.

Harry raced across the grounds to the edge of the forest. He slowed after leaping into the trees, exchanging haste for caution as he moved carefully and silently through them until his target was in sight. He paused half a second, subtly reaching into his hip pouch—shedding his robes in the process—and performed a few quick hand seals before he threw himself from the branches.

"I've been waiting for you," Kakashi said, ducking under the thireen-year-old's initial attack.

Harry spun on the ground, dropping to one knee and throwing his heel out in a spin kick. Kakashi blocked with enough force to spin the boy in the other direction and Harry followed the momentum to throw his kunai around at Kakashi's opposite side. They clattered against the Jounin's blade in a melee of noise until the final blade hit the ground with a hollow thunk.

"Are we going home?" Harry asked.

Kakashi's response was a series of vicious attacks. Harry pulled out of the way of a roundhouse high enough to knock off his head, arm out to block the residual kick once its power had diffused. He moved to manipulate the Jounin's leg, but Kakashi threw himself horizontal, his other leg spinning back towards him with a hook.

Harry ducked, releasing his brother and throwing himself out of the way.

"Not just yet," Kakashi said, suddenly behind him.

Harry's breath caught, adrenaline blinding his thoughts as his body reacted faster than his mind could keep up. There was the clang of metal on metal again as Harry's blade caught Kakashi's in the knick of time. The younger boy twisted his kunai, successfully batting the Jounin's blade away from his face.

Kakashi grunted indistinctly in acknowledgement.

"You've kept up your studies?" He asked, blocking an elbow strike from the younger boy.

Harry didn't answer, blood rushing in his ears as he focused everything on gaining the upper hand. He forced himself to keep moving, maintaining a grueling pace of kicks and hand techniques while keeping a sharp lookout to duck and block his brother's return attacks.

Finally, Harry managed a small concentration of chakra into a fast side-kick, doubling its usual force and speed. Kakashi blocked with both forearms and allowed himself to slide away to prevent serious damage.

Harry grinned and an explosion ripped apart half the tree behind the Jounin.

Kakashi realized an instant too late, his eyes wide. He pushed himself forward but the shock of the explosion battered both shinobi into trees. Kakashi hit with a grunt, his body dissolving in a puff of smoke.

Harry landed with a little more control, managing to find his feet soon after. He glanced in Kakashi's direction, then reached for his weapons again, muscles tense as he waited for the man to reveal himself once more.

Kakashi dropped from the branches overhead, landing barely a meter in front of him, not even winded. Harry was breathing heavily and could only stare incredulously. A moment ago it had seemed like he was wearing down the older boy.

"Good. You really got one of my shadow clones," Kakashi said, straightening.

Harry stared, "That was a clone?"

"You wouldn't have been able to do that a month ago," Kakashi said, dodging the question.

"… I've been studying."

"That's not it." Kakashi crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, observing his brother for several long seconds. "A month ago… you could easily have done any of those things… but you wouldn't have."

Harry shrugged, "I'm in a good mood. I learned how to fly, you know."

Kakashi raised his eyebrows.

"On a broomstick," Harry extrapolated, relaxing his stance a little—still, he couldn't be too careful around his brother. "Apparently it's a wizard game. I'll show you later." He considered congratulating his brother for his birthday, but it was already nearly a week past and Kakashi had never expressed any particular interest in the day. Years ago, he'd expressly told Harry that he didn't want useless gifts, and had rarely been in the village on his birthday since.

Kakashi distracted him from the subject with one sentence. "I have to talk to Dumbledore first."

"… Do you think we'll be able to go home soon?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Kakashi said, "I made good time last week. At this rate, we'll be back within the month."

"You're looking for information regarding one Tom Riddle."

"Riddle?" Kakashi repeated, frowning under his mask, "I thought you wanted help fighting Voldemort-san."

The old wizard smiled serenely, "Ah, but everyone starts out humbly, Mr. Hatake. Before he became Voldemort, Tom was a student here and lived in an orphanage in London."

"You want me to go to that orphanage," Kakashi guessed, "Will they still have information on… Riddle?"

Dumbledore smiled, "I doubt you will find any information at the orphanage… no, as a matter of fact, the building was destroyed many years ago in an event that was completely unrelated to our current concerns. No, I would like you to speak with the matron, a Mrs. Cole, as I have managed to track down an address. She's an old woman by now, I imagine, but may be able to tell us something of use."

"I see," Kakashi said dryly. Undoubtedly, the woman who raised Voldemort would be able to provide some insight, but old women had a habit of forgetting things that happened a long time ago and made infamously unreliable sources of information.

"The orphanage was an important part of Riddle's life when he was young," Dumbledore said, "Even if she does not remember Tom Riddle in particular, and I am sure that she will, she will be able to tell us something about the way that he lived. I can think of no better place to begin in our quest to understand, and ultimately defeat, Voldemort."

"I have spoken to her once before," the old wizard added, "And I believe it would be best to show you now, rather than force you to hash over the same material again."

Kakashi frowned, watching as the wizard crossed to his large, wooden bureau. With a flick of his wrist the door swung quietly open. A stone basin floated from the top shelf, directed by the wizard's wand until it landed softly on the Headmaster's desk.

"This, Mr. Hatake, is a pensieve," Dumbledore said gravely, pulling a clear bottle from his pocket, "And through it, I will show you the memories I hold of Tom Riddle's orphanage."

The bottle held a white, cloudy mass that looked somewhere between liquid and gas. The old wizard pulled the stopper from the top and tipped the bottle over the pensieve. The shimmering contents flowed out of the neck like water, but there was no splash as they hit the basin. Instead, it swirled into the bowl and settled in a continuously shifting mass.

"… What is it?" Kakashi asked at last, unable to keep his curiosity to himself any longer.

"Memories," Dumbledore said, "Mine, to be exact, from nearly fifty years ago." He glanced at the shinobi, "I said I would show you, didn't I? Lean in slowly, and we shall go together."

Go where? Kakashi thought to ask, but he held his tongue and obeyed the wizard's direction. He would see what would happen soon enough, and there would be time for questions—should they still prove relevant—later.

He leaned forward, watching Dumbledore do the same out of the corner of his eye, until his face was nearly touching the silvery contents. He felt a compulsion to move closer, but wasn't entirely sure if the substance was safe. How could it possibly be memories? There had to be more to it than that.

"A little closer, I think," Dumbledore murmured.

Kakashi raised an eyebrow incredulously, but took a quick breath in, shut his eyes, and pushed his face forward until it touched the cool contents of the bowl.

Suddenly, he felt himself falling. Kakashi automatically reached his hands for the desk to support himself, his eye snapping open, but he no longer stood bent over the Headmaster's desk. Instead, he was falling through darkness, unable to see anything even when he blinked his eye several times.

As suddenly as it had started, the Jounin felt firm ground under his feet and the world snapped into light again. Kakashi looked around—he stood on a cobbled street, in front of a large iron gate surrounding a shabby looking estate.

"And here I come," Kakashi turned to find Dumbledore beside him, smiling at a figure across the street, "Right on schedule, of course."

A man with long, auburn hair was striding toward them, wearing a startlingly plum suit. He smiled and tilted his hat at the driver of a horse-drawn cart as it rolled past him, then continued on his way again, making for the iron gates.

"Is that…?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, "That was me, fifty years ago. Let's follow, shall we?"

Kakashi nodded numbly, and the two set after the younger Dumbledore as he approached Tom Riddle's orphanage.