A/N: Sorry for the long delay between the last chapter and this one. I've been in the process of moving across the country, and that's certainly sapped a bunch of my time. But I would expect the update rate to be more like it has been in the past, or at least I'll try to maintain that standard. Thanks for reading!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Riddle's gaze swept the hallway in front of him.

Harry was there, no longer standing, but leaning heavily for support against the wall of the corridor. The boy's gaze was trained downwards, towards the man he had been so dueling.

Peter Pettigrew's eyes were wide, his hands rubbing up against one another as if to prove that indeed, he was still alive. A small scorch mark blemished the wall a mere two inches above where the shaking man lay.

When Riddle spoke his tones were soft, almost reverent.

"You know that spell, Harry."

Harry's response was muted. "Yes. I do."

"The only person to ever survive that curse, Harry. Even now, years later, we haven't found out why. It is very possible we will never be certain as to the cause."

Harry nodded, a slightly vacant look occupying his usually prying eyes.

Riddle turned as Pettigrew's whimpers were finally able to escape his throat. Tom scoffed at the pitiful man, defeated by a boy and gasping in the face of death.

"Yes, Pettigrew. You're still alive."

Peter's voice came out raspy, his breath seeming to have still not returned to him.

"I… I don't know what to say. Thank you, thank you, please –"

Riddle's face remained impassive. "Do not thank me Peter. For you truly deserve far worse than a quick and painless death. And regardless, the right to your life does not belong to me. I wouldn't kill you, Peter. Unless I had no other choice."

"I just beg you, give me a chance, I promise I can help you, I can help all of you, if you'll protect me. I know things!"

Riddle held up a hand to stop him. "No, Peter. You misunderstood. I would not take your life in my hands, because that privilege belongs to Harry, and Harry alone." The tall man's gaze swept towards Harry, and he continued, "Harry, what you do is your own choice. But I am proud of you for facing down this man."

Harry stood slowly. "I can't kill him."

Riddle raised his brow curiously. "No?"

Harry's grip tightened on his wand. "He betrayed my family. He was one of their best friends. He endangered Sirius as well. I… I know all this. I know who he is, and what he's done. I know he's a terrible person. When I Sirius first told me about him, I mean, I wanted to kill him. Of course I did! I want him to die. I seriously want him dead."

Riddle glanced at Pettigrew, who had begun to stand, and flicked his wand. Pettigrew collapsed on the floor, the air knocked out of him.

"That's completely understandable, Harry. You are right for feeling those things. No son who has undergone what you have could possibly feel any other way."

"But I can't kill him."

Tom Riddle assessed Harry for a moment, but did not speak. Harry noted that his professor was waiting for him to elaborate, and so he did.

"I mean, I don't think I could kill anyone. I'm just… I don't know. How can I be the one to end a life? I have a hard time even understanding what that truly means! I saying, it's too big for me."

Riddle seemed to take a moment processing this statement, before giving Harry a light nod. "Bind him, Harry. You know how."

Harry raised his wand and turned away from his mentor to face Peter Pettigrew. As he did, Riddle's wand hand seemed to spasm, tensing for a moment. A look of consternation flitted across Riddle's face before, disappearing as quickly as it had come. His hand relaxed, and he watched as the boy, only twelve years old, conjured ropes and bound the now lightly struggling body in front of him.

He felt in himself an unexpected surge of pride. His training with Harry, both in the Room of Requirement and the Chamber of Secrets had wrought a certain change around the boy. His whole manner, the way he carried himself – it had changed dramatically since he'd first laid eyes on the boy nearly two years prior. Whereas before he had been a shy, pleasant seeming boy who kept to the shadows, now before him stood a boy who was well on his way to becoming a man; a boy who had more power at age twelve than most upon their completion of Hogwarts. And he remembered exactly why his ideals came into conflict with a man like Dumbledore's. What it was he was striving towards, moving forward and reimagining what Hogwarts could be.

It was for Harry.

This boy, Harry Potter, was everything a young wizard ought to be. Intelligent, powerful, willing to work hard and sacrifice but unwilling to compromise himself or his principles. In many ways, this was how people had seen Tom.

A young Tom Riddle had been very similar to Harry. A model student – perhaps even more so than Potter, as Harry's focus had not always manifested itself in the traditional modes of schooling – Riddle had also been powerful, driven, had far exceeded his classmates in terms of magical prowess from the very beginning. But he knew what many did not, what very few had realized. What Albus Dumbledore alone had seen. A young Tom Riddle contained a capacity for darkness, for destruction, that had run through his very core. It had nearly overcome him. The name that he had created for himself, it had haunted him ever since. A constant reminder stuck in the back of his head. He still had that core; he still had that potential within himself.

Harry Potter also had that potential. At this point in time, to Tom, it seemed less potent, farther from the surface, less likely to bubble up and consume the boy. Riddle knew that had the positions been reversed, even at the age of twelve, he would have mostly certainly ended Pettigrew's life without hesitation. But even so, he knew that it would not be so simple. Harry would have demons to conquer. He would have battles; he would have wars, directed both inside and out. Power like that simply could not come without a price. Magic didn't seem to allow it. He himself was evidence. Dumbledore, as well. The strongest element had always to overcome the inherent capacity for darkness, for danger, and for destruction. He himself had begun to train Harry to understand this darkness, to master it before it could consume him. He would continue working towards that aim. The allure of darkness is greatest towards those who remain ignorant to the true nature. Or those so cavalier as to embrace it. Harry was neither ignorant nor cavalier. He just seemed to understand, in a way that even Dumbledore never seemed to. Albus wouldn't condone his actions; Albus would frown upon the shepherding of students towards a path which could be construed as dangerous. But Dumbledore just didn't understand. It wasn't just about sheer strength, it wasn't about conquering.

When Dumbledore had faced his own demons, those within and without, they had convinced him that to be dark, to study that brand of magic meant to be a conqueror. That it was impossible to separate the desire for power from the desire for control. Tom Riddle disagreed.

He believed what he had said about Hogwarts, about the training of young witches and wizards. Hogwarts could not pander to the lowest element, could not be about merely producing adequate practitioners. No, while those who were of mediocre talent could certainly attend the school, it was not for them that he taught.

It was for Harry, and those like him; those with the capacity to change the world, to lift the country from its general malaise, its sink into stagnation and mediocrity.

He watched as Harry turned back to face him with green eyes blazing, Pettigrew bound and held in the background. He smiled lightly.

"You've done well tonight, Harry. You've done this school proud. We will absolutely talk about this at great length shortly. But it is late, and there are logistics regarding Pettigrew that must be undertaken with haste. So Harry, I ask you to leave him for me to deal with, and return to your dormitory for the evening. Tomorrow morning, Harry, we will talk."

Harry nodded, but did not yet turn to go. Riddle smirked.

"And Harry, if you do have trouble sleeping, you always have your upcoming exams to study for. I expect nothing but top marks, Mister Potter."

Harry managed to smile at this. He took a deep breath before speaking.

"Thank you, professor. Headmaster. For everything, I truly am in your debt. But I want to see what happens to him. I… feel somehow responsible."

Tom shook his head, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. "You need not worry, Harry. I will neither dispatch of Peter nor alert the authorities yet. As I mentioned, he is yours to do with as you see fit. I simply need information. In the meanwhile, I would like you to decide what to do with him. If you would like him turned over to the authorities and returned to Azkaban that can certainly happen. But if anything else comes to you, Harry, alert me at once, and I'll see to it that it is done."

A thoughtful look came upon the boy's face. "When we talk tomorrow morning, professor, I'll have an answer for you. I know what I'd like to do, but I'm not sure it will work. You don't think he was here on his own, do you professor?"

Riddle shook his head. "I don't, Harry. I expect he is in some fashion related to those who helped to kidnap you and your godfather prior to this school year. He is, without a doubt, a death eater."

Harry nodded. "That's what I thought. In that case, I'll definitely have an answer by morning."

And with that, Harry turned and walked down the corridor and disappeared around the corner, a curious piece of parchment folded and tucked in his back pocket. As the echo from his steps became softer, Riddle turned back to face Peter Pettigrew, bound and held on the ground before him, a terribly frightened look plastered upon his face.

Tom Riddle regarded him impassively for a moment before speaking in decidedly silky tones, "And now, Peter, I'd like to have a little talk. I feel we have some important matters that need to be discussed."

He waved his wand and Pettigrew became rigid, petrified. With another careless wave the man began to shrink, becoming roughly the size of a small figurine. Riddle bent down and pocketed the man before standing and straightening his robes.

With a small sigh, he began to step quickly towards his office, several options for how best to proceed bouncing around his head. But he knew who he needed to talk to, who he needed to see.

He needed to find Lucius Malfoy.

But as Riddle turned, he felt a momentary shiver course through him. He stopped and peered through the dimly lit hallway. There was no one there.

Tom shook his head slightly and began to step forward. But there is was again. A very slight shiver fled throughout his body. His ears perked and he strained to hear any footstep, any rustle of robes, any sound whatsoever that could alert him to that… presence.

For that is what he felt. Tom Riddle knew that he was not alone in the hallway.

He took another step forward, and then another, just listening and flexing out with his senses in an attempt to find out exactly who was responsible.

And each step he took, another jolt was felt. It wasn't painful. It was a mere awareness making its self clear. And, to Riddle's way of thinking, it was mocking him. Toying with him.

And Tom Riddle was not someone to be toyed with.

And there it was. A soft whisper of a robe rustling directly behind him. With his next step he swiftly brandished his wand and swung around quickly on his heel, a variety of spells on the tip of his tongue.

There stood Evan Rosier, a calculating expression upon his face.

Riddle lowered his wand. "Evan. What are you doing?"

Rosier took a step forward and Riddle considered the man in front of him. His choice for the defense position had been relatively quiet for the majority of the year. After beginning the classes with a bang (with Riddle's blessing), he had seemed content to sit back, teach his class, and avoid the staffroom politics. Even Snape had nothing to say against the man, not that he trusted Snape's opinion in the slightest, but it was traditional for Severus to be… antagonistic towards whoever held that particular post.

It occurred to him that he had not in fact had much contact with the man throughout the school year. His mind had been cluttered with other, more important things. Harry being one of them, Lucius and his politics being another. But now, as he studied the piercing gaze of Evan Rosier, an acquaintance from his own school days, he realized that something about him had changed dramatically.

Riddle's hand grew tight upon his wand. "Evan, I ask you again. What are you doing here at this hour?"

Rosier paused for a moment before responding, in a thoughtful tone, "I thought I might observe the… festivities. Alas, I arrived too late to intercept Pettigrew, and by the time I appeared Harry had things well in hand. I chose to simply… observe your handling of the situation."

Riddle narrowed his eyes. The way in which the man spoke, his mannerisms and movement, told him one thing absolutely. He spoke harshly.

"You're not Evan. Who are you?"

Rosier smiled, and withdrew a small flask from his hip pocket. With one fluid motion he unscrewed the flask and turned it, draining the liquid from the flask.

Riddle recognized the substance at once, and immediately cursed himself for his lack of vigilance. "Polyjuice. Of course."

"Any moment now I should return to my original state. At that point, Tom, we can talk. For I think I would find having such a conversation in this body slightly… unpleasant."

Riddle gazed into the imposter's eyes; the dim light from the torches mounted down the corridor flickered, lending a slightly sinister feel to the air.

"No need to wait. I know who you are. I have only one question, Albus. Why?"

Dumbledore, in Rosier's body, sighed.

"Come, Tom. Let's retreat to my office. We've much to speak about."

Riddle held up a hand. "My office, Albus. Not yours."

Dumbledore nodded very slightly. "I stand corrected, Tom. Take me to your office then. Although I must admit it is unlikely you'll prevent me from offering a lemon drop."

Riddle, despite the seeming levity of the situation, could not help but chuckle slightly.

"You'll be disappointed. I don't keep them in stock."

"Well fortunately for the both of us, I happen to have a few on hand at all times. One never knows, after all, when the call for common courtesy might come – ah! It seems my time is up."

And Riddle watched as the body of Evan Rosier withered and shifted into that of Albus Dumbledore.

Riddle let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and took a step towards his office, his left hand brushing the outside of his pocket to ensure Pettigrew's continued presence there.

"All right then, Albus. We'll return to my office. And then we'll talk."

Albus looked over his half rim spectacles at his former protégé. "We have much to speak about, Tom. I look forward to it."

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David Fawcett awoke in a strange house in a bed that was not his own. It took him several moments to fully come to terms with his situation.

He wasn't home. He was with Lucius Malfoy, the man who had been minister. It seemed hard to believe that only yesterday morning he was on track to finish his training and take on the mantle of responsibility that was an auror's job. He had seen his share of action, to be sure. But he had lived all of his life in preparation for that one crystallizing moment, the chance to achieve one of the major goals he held in life.

And now that was over with. Gone. The opportunity thrown out the window. And for what? As he looked around the slowly brightening room, sunlight struggling to penetrate the blinds that had been drawn tight, he felt a weight just fall upon his shoulders. He had broken the law. Severely. It did not matter that Malfoy was innocent, that he did not deserve to have been imprisoned in the first place. Why hadn't he simply gone to his superiors with the information?

But he knew the answer to that. He knew his point of view wouldn't be taken in to consideration. Dumbledore had lost his position because of Malfoy. Now he had returned the favor.

He shivered when he recalled that Dumbledore had been in his office (that he had once shared with Tonks) waiting for him immediately after Lucius had been taken in to custody. He assumed that had he indeed met with the man, he would have left the room with a severely different outlook on the way events had unfolded. And not by choice.

So truly, how could he regret his decision? He had saved a man from an unjust fate (for the moment) and had stuck a thorn in Dumbledore's side. He once held only respect for the man, but his underhanded tactics stung something in Fawcett's moral code – and he realized that even a man as great as Dumbledore was not above revenge.

He looked up to survey his surroundings once again and noticed that a newspaper had been slid underneath his door. The Daily Prophet, he mused as he stood from his bed and stooped to lift the heavy paper from the floor.

He sat down on the bed once more without reading any headlines. He wasn't sure he wanted to read this. And he certainly wasn't sure that he wanted to read his name listed as a criminal. But what choice did he have? A part of him was absolutely curious to see what the Prophet would have to say.

And so he delved in to the story on the front page with a headline that screamed out "Minister of Magic: Murderer!" with frustration lining the every crease on his face. It was exactly what he had feared. The prophet painted it as if Lucius had been lying in wait outside Moody's dwelling and had ambushed the old auror. Of course, it had been the other way around, but the Prophet either didn't know or didn't care. He chucked the paper to the floor in disgust.

David Fawcett slowly rose, dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing the night prior. He let his hand rest lightly on his wand, the pulsing latent magic in the wood lending him some small measure of comfort. With a sigh he took a step forward, pushed the door open, and walked with his head held high into the foyer of Lucius Malfoy's hide away. He was a fugitive, true. But knowing he was in the right, that he was on the side of good – that made all the difference.

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Harry had been up all night. It was near morning, and he had not been able to fall asleep since returning from his bout with Pettigrew and conversation with Riddle. And in truth,

Harry was brooding. He needed to find Ron, but he couldn't go out again that night. He owed the other boy a real apology. And he wanted to tell him about Pettigrew, tell him how their training had paid off.

It was difficult for him to truly comprehend how close he'd come to death once again. It was a concerning pattern at the very least. Since starting at Hogwarts he'd been near death on at least two occasions, and he started to wonder just what he could do to avoid it. The danger was inevitable. Pettigrew would have killed him, he knew, if he hadn't been able to defend himself. He smirked at the thought of what Draco or Nott would have done in a similar situation. He didn't expect that either of his house mates would have survived the encounter.

He didn't have any delusions, though. Harry was well aware that he had survived by both luck and the element of surprise. Pettigrew had not expected such resistance, and had not been adequately prepared. He had to keep improving, he had to get stronger. There was no other option. Someone was after him. These people had captured and hurt Sirius in order to get to him. They were willing to send an assassin into Hogwarts itself. It was clear that nowhere could be completely safe. He could no longer afford to be anything but wary.

And he needed to keep practicing with the headmaster. He also wanted to continue training with Ron, and hoped the other boy would put the incident in the past. Once he explained about Pettigrew, he expected that his friend would let that momentary lapse in judgment pass. There were more important things to worry about.

Harry looked at the watch he wore on his left wrist and stood. It was nearing the time that the other Slytherins would make their descent into the common room and then down to breakfast. He did not want to be there when they arrived. They would have no idea, the lot of them. And he assumed Malfoy and the others would have noticed his absence. He didn't want to answer the questions that would inevitably come. Not yet.

And so he made his way through the entrance to the dormitory and began the ascent into Hogwarts proper. As he walked, he decided that it was late enough to visit the headmaster's office. He'd been there at odd hours before, and Professor Riddle had never failed to be there waiting. He felt that parchment Pettigrew had used in his back pocket and decided that, while he should probably turn it in, it was far too valuable of a tool to let out of his possession.

He took the twists and turns through the castle, passing where he'd first seen Pettigrew with something akin to wonder. It felt to him as if it had been weeks ago that he'd encountered the man.

It had been a long night.

And there he was, at the entrance to the tower that was the office of the headmaster, Tom Riddle. He spoke what he knew to be the password (ambition) and stepped past the gargoyle's who stood guard and up the spiral staircase.

As he neared the office itself, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something about the situation just felt… wrong. He drew his wand and endeavored to move as silently as possible up the stairs. He smoothly pushed open the door and stepped quickly inside, positioning his back against the wall and raising his wand, a number of spells on the tip of his tongue.

And then he stopped. His wand fell to his side.

The office was absolutely trashed. Riddle's bookcases had been blown apart, shreds of paper clouded the marble floor in every direction; splinters of wood peppered the ground dangerously. The massive oak desk had been overturned, shelves opened and emptied on the ground. The windows in the room had been shattered outwards, and Harry could feel a slight chill in the air and a slight current of air passing from one window to the next.

The room was in shambles.

And then he heard a noise. Harry swung around, wand once again raised, his green eyes blazing. And he saw him. A shock of white hair fell about the man's aged face, his robes tattered and in disarray. He was sitting in the corner of the room, his wand resting on the ground beside him. His face had been torn and dried and caked blood could be seen above his eyes, resulting from a massive slice in the man's forehead. But he was alive, he was breathing, and his piercing blue eyes were aimed directly at him. And then, Albus Dumbledore spoke.

"Good morning, Harry."

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And there we are. Read and Review!