Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognizable characters, plots and settings are the exclusive property of J.K Rowling. I make no claim to ownership nor do I make any profit.

Acknowledgments: Thank you to my betas James Marx and Umar for their work on this story.

Self Promotion: I have a discord server where you can chat and read all of my chapters early. If you would like to join, simply copy the link on my profile and for . I had to write it in that format for the site to allow it on my profile.

Recommendations:

Harry Potter and The Prince of Slytherin by The Sinister Man.

Harry Potter and The Boy-Who-Lived by The Santi.

Growing Up Black by ElvindorkNigellus.

The Hero and The Veela by JackPotter.

Stepping Back, and Honour Thy Blood by TheBlack'sResurgence.

The Mind Arts by Wu Gang.

A Cadmean Victory by DarknessEnthroned.

Magicks of The Arcane by Eilyfe.

"Speech."

'Internal Dialogue.

Parseltongue.

Memories/In Story Text.

Harry Potter and The Dark Lord's Equal

By ACI100.

Year 2: The Looming of Shadows.

Chapter 6: Meetings, Murmurs and Mudbloods.

September 4th 1992.

The Headmaster's Office.

7:00 PM

As was now his standard course of action, Harry merely pushed the door open without invitation knowing that the call of "enter" would come long before his hand reached the handle. When he stepped into the room, he remarked at how extraordinary yet how familiar the room looked. Nothing seemed to have changed over the summer, though the many spectacular looking artifacts and devices still enchanted him.

Well, maybe he shouldn't say that nothing had changed. For the first time since the start of these meetings, Dumbledore did not immediately look up from his task upon Harry's entrance, something that struck Harry as decidedly odd. Currently, the headmaster had what appeared to be a large, ancient looking notebook open beside him as he poured over a massive, truly ancient looking tome that for some reason made Harry extremely uncomfortable. He couldn't quite explain it, but for some reason, the book from which Dumbledore was reading just seemed — ominous. After several long moments of uninterrupted silence, Dumbledore sighed, marking his page with a brightly coloured bookmark and gingerly shutting the tome, shoving it away along with the notebook beside it before he looked up at Harry.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Harry. I found myself most entranced in my latest project; I dare say I have not had such an intellectual challenge in many years, but I thank you for your patience and understanding."

"Uh... no problem sir, it was only a couple of minutes anyways."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Too true but alas, for all of its advantages often seen only through the wisdom of age, youth can not often count patience among them. What seems like but an infinitesimal moment in time to me often seems to appear as an eternity to one as young as yourself." Dumbledore smiled almost sheepishly. "But alas, I am rambling once more, so I must apologize for a second time in a matter of moments. How has your first week at Hogwarts been? I heard you caused quite the scene in your first lesson with Professor Lockhart?"

"Uh… it's been ok, sir." Answered Harry carefully.

Dumbledore chuckled once more. "I must find a better way of inquiring about your classes. You always seem most worried when I speak of occurrences such as these. You are in no trouble for your feat during your Defense Against The Dark Arts lesson, Harry. If you would have been, you would have found yourself notified long before now. As a matter of fact, I must applaud you on a rather ingenious, if admittedly overzelice solution to such an abstract problem."

Harry blushed. "I couldn't really think of any other good way to do it sir." He admitted. "I could have used stunners or something, but I would have had to hit one at a time."

"Quite right," admitted Dumbledore, "a softer option would have been to use water, as though it is less lethal, it still would have achieved the desired effect of causing the pixies to flee. No harm was done however, so I merely praise you for your quick and resourceful thinking."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers before he spoke again. "Now, how often have you managed to work on your Occlumency since your arrival at the castle?"

"Uh, a bit," Harry answered honestly, "I haven't noticed too much of a change, but I tried Supplementary Occlumency. I could cast faster, but my spells were all pretty weak."

"That is not surprising." Dumbledore admitted. "Until you can multi-task at a sufficient level, the visualization or proper and clear intent will likely elude you. Fear not however, as I suspect that day is drawing very near indeed, and the fact that you could cast anything at all is both impressive and encouraging."

He smiled at Harry. "As I said during our last meeting, I will be leaving the finer points of Occlumency to you. They are not difficult to hone in most cases, simply monotonous and time consuming. I will, of course, be more than happy to answer any questions on this self study, though for our lessons, I will be focusing on the more active elements of Occlumency, dealing specifically with it as a direct counter to Legilimency and other forms of psychic attacks."

"I've always kind of wondered about that, sir." Harry admitted. "What other kinds of psychic attacks can Occlumency help to stop?"

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Why Harry, such an insightful question yet such a complex answer. First of all, I think it prudent to point out the flaw in your question. Occlumency can not stop psychic attacks, simply negate them. The level of negation, as you know, is dependent on the will and prowess of both attacker and defender. This applies to other psychic fields as well, which makes this question particularly difficult to answer, as it can become quite abstract and it is a field I have admittedly not explored too thoroughly.

"To answer your question with solid facts and avoid potentially incorrect speculations, Occlumency can certainly be used to negate the effects of Veritaserum, though it takes an extremely skilled and strong willed Occlumens to truly resist the pull of the potion."

"Sorry sir, but what is Veritaserum?"

"Ah yes, how foolish of me to assume you would know of it given your age. Veritaserum, Harry, is the most powerful truth potion in the world."

Harry blinked. 'Well, that's terrifying.'

"I could count on one hand the number of individuals I think would stand a chance of fighting the potions effects. It is such a rare ability as a matter of fact, that Veritaserum is still a common practice in a court of law."

"Wow, that's mildly terrifying."

"Indeed."

"Are there any other psychic attacks or intrusions Occlumency can negate?"

Dumbledore's lips twitched at the adjustment of Harry's wording. "A powerful Occlumens can, in rare cases, recover from a memory charm and unravel the truth in the days following the ordeal, but these cases are more rare than even the ability to resist Veretasirum, and I can think of only three individuals I have ever met with the potential of using Occlumency in this way." Harry shook his head as he thought of having his memory wiped. "Have I disturbed you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not you," Harry answered, "I just find the idea of the memory charm repulsive."

"Ah, on that front we are in agreement. There is terrible power in being able to take a person's memory."

"Surely it's worse than most of the dark arts? I mean, I get it not being on the same level as the unforgivables, but why is it not considered dark?"

"You are full of questions today, Harry, though luckily for you, I am usually full of answers, even if in this case, I admit to it being based mainly on opinions and being a bit of a hot take as I believe you youths would call it." He scratched his beard thoughtfully as Harry smiled in spite of himself at the old man's antics.

"Obliviate, or the memory charm, is a great yet terrible piece of magic. In many ways, it is far worse than the Unforgivable Curses," when he saw Harry's sceptical face he quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, you do not agree?"

"I don't know," said Harry honestly, "I mean, the Imperius curse is literally used to control somebody, to bend them to your will. You can take away their mind, have them do whatever you want."

"Ah yes, the Imperius Curse." Said Dumbledore. "I do wish you were not so intimately familiar with it at your age but I suppose as you are, we shall debate. What you say is true, but let me ask you this, Harry. Keeping in mind all of the effects and potential repercussions you just mentioned, could they not all potentially be results of the memory charm as well?" When Harry looked confused, Dumbledore pressed on. "What if, for instance, I were Voldemort and I were to wipe somebody of any positive memories associated with muggleborns and leave them only their negative memories? Would they not be greatly influenced to fall victim to my propaganda and obey me freely and of their own will? Potentially even being a more valuable asset to me by doing so?"

Harry didn't really have a counter argument for that.

"In addition," continued Dumbledore, "the Imperius Curse, though notoriously difficult to shake off, is actually far easier to resist than it would be to self unravel a memory wipe. And the memory charm, though very difficult and complex, is a spell that can be mastered far more easily than the Imperius curse."

"Ok," conceded Harry, deciding to play his Trump card early, "but what about-what about the killing curse? Surely there's nothing worse than that?"

Dumbledore's expression darkened. "Oh, there are things far, far worse than the killing curse, dear boy. Please do not take this the wrong way given your past experiences with that curse, but in many ways, Avada Kedavra is comparable to mercy."

Harry felt a motikum of rage bubble inside of him. How could Dumbledore downplay the curse that took away his parents? But Dumbledore had raised his hand to placate Harry, so with great restraint, Harry bit down on his tongue.

"I am not justifying the killing curse, nor am I discrediting its evil. However, there are far worse ways to die than quickly and without pain or suffering. And as a matter of fact, though it may be difficult if not impossible for you to understand such a thing in your youthful exuberance, there are far worse things than dying."

"Maybe for the people dead," said Harry tightly, feeling his throat constrict.

"Harry, I am discrediting the sorrow of those who have lossed loved ones at the hands of the killing curse. In saying that, ask yourself this. Would you rather be an orphan knowing that your parents lives were ended in the blink of an eye with two simple words? Or would you rather your parents died as their organs were expelled through their mouths? Or perhaps burned from the inside out?" Harry's face had taken on a green tinge and Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, now you understand just a pinch of what the blackest of magic is capable of. But back to the memory charm. You could die from the killing curse, or you could live as a shell. A being with no memory, and therefore no goals, no direction, and no will to live." Harry, if possible, paled even further and Dumbledore nodded.

'Dare I ask?'

"Sir, what about the Cruciatus Curse? I can't think of much worse than what happened to Neville's parents."

The ever present light that seemed to dance behind Dumbledore's eyes dimmed considerably as his voice came out harsher and with a fair bit of bitterness. "It is the worst of the three." He conceded. "As for a comparison, it would very much depend on the outlook of the person drawing the juxtaposition. The memory charm can be evil in so many more ways, but the evil that can be rott through the use of the Cruciatus Curse is near incomparable."

"So, I'm gonna go back to my original question about the memory charm since you've proven your point. Why isn't it considered dark? Or at least heavily frowned upon?"

"Practicality for the most part." Dumbledore answered. "Without such a spell, the ministry would be hard pressed to maintain The Statute of Secrecy. As a matter of fact, there was a time, briefly before the statute came into effect where the possibility of outright banning the spell on a similar level to the unforgivables was discussed. The other issue in terms of perception is that the memory charm can be shielded against, the unforgivables cannot."

"Why is that, sir?" Harry asked, having never really looked into the matter.

"Intent my dear boy, magic is all about intent and with the exception of extreme cases such as yours, the intent to kill, control or torture is fundamentally more powerful than the intent to protect, hence why no shield can stand against the unforgivable curses.

"But enough of an old man's philosophical chit chat, we are here to teach you Occlumency and as I was saying, I will be teaching you to defend your mind directly against Legilimency." Harry set his jaw with determination as he looked eagerly, if a bit nervously towards Dumbledore. "You will remember last year when I taught you to detect presences in your mind?" Harry nodded. "Well, we will be expanding upon that idea tonight. You remember as well, I take it, how you detect a presence in your mind?"

"There's usually a sort of distortion at the corners of the image you use to clear your mind."

"Correct. Now, there are many ways to shield your mind. Unfortunately, there are, to a certain extent, ways around all of them, which is why it is important to master as many methods as possible. The more fluid and well rounded your Defense, the less likely your mind will ever be breached. Tonight, we will begin with the most basic method of doing so. It is also the easiest to overcome, but alas, the fundamentals must be learned before the complexities can be mastered."

"How do I do it, sir?"

"When you notice the distortion, you must focus on it while simultaneously keeping the conjured image in mind. Imagine as if your vision is tunneling towards the distortion and imagine, all while keeping your image in mind, the distortion being physically shoved from your mind while willing the very thing to happen."

"Sort of like how I would for Transfiguration?"

"Almost exactly the same, though with more variables in play. As I said, magic is all about intent."

"You said this is the easiest method to get around?"

"All in good time, Harry. Let us hone this skill before we suitably deconstruct it." His eyes were twinkling again. Dumbledore really did miss teaching, especially when the pupil was as bright and eager to learn as the boy that sat in front of him.

"Shall we begin?" Dumbledore inquired, to which Harry nodded. "Alright, prepare yourself; this endeavour may prove to be a fairly exhausting affair."

Exhausting it was.

By the end of the session, Harry had managed to disrupt Dumbledore's intentionally weak probe on a number of occasions but as of yet, he had not truly managed to repel it completely. In spite of this, the headmaster seemed in high spirits, while Harry himself felt positively exhausted as he wished the man a good night and slunk towards the door.

September 5th 1992.

Gryffindor Tower.

4:56 AM.

Harry snapped awake far faster than he was accustomed too and couldn't quite figure out why. That was until a moment later when he felt someone shake his shoulder and his instincts kicked in. He sprang up, nearly driving his head straight into the offender's nose before he snatched his wand from under his pillow and took aim quickly.

"Wow!" Said the familiar voice of Oliver Wood, causing Harry to curse under his breath as he lowered his wand.

"Don't do that!" He hissed to Wood, which the boy did not acknowledge, choosing instead to gaze at Harry with obvious bemusement.

"Point taken." He muttered dumbly, shaking his head in apparent shock. "We're meeting down at the pitch in half an hour." He said, causing Harry's eyes to go wide.

"Oliver," protested Harry, casting a quick Tempus spell before continuing, "it's not even 5:00 AM for Merlin's sake!"

Instead of looking apologetic or even a little bit taken aback, Wood's face split into a maniacal grin that Harry instantly realized was the result of him earning the exact opposite result he had hoped for. "Exactly!" Said Wood. "That's why we're going to trounce the lot of them this year. I'm not letting us lose the Quidditch Cup again!"

Harry winced. The reason they had lost the cup last year to begin with was because he had spent the team's final game against Ravenclaw in the hospital wing after his battle with Quirrell. This had resulted in not only a loss for the lions, but their worst in a century. At the time, Harry had seriously doubted whether or not Oliver's pride would ever recover.

'Great, now I have to find another time today to do Moody's torture regiment.'

Harry had been diligent in completing the exercises given to him by the crazed ex auror. He was eager for the day that he would begin to see the promised improvements, though if he were being honest, he was more looking forward to the day when he no longer felt as if he had been the victim of a particularly gruesome car crash since that was how he had felt every day since starting the regiment and as of yet, he had noticed not even the slightest improvement on that front.

"You're mental!" Harry muttered with a dazed shake of his head as he looked at Oliver Wood in an entirely new light. "Absolutely mental."

Wood shrugged. "I can tolerate being mental as long as you're on time. Oh — bring your friend too — the one who wants to go for reserve. Ron, right?"

Harry winced. "Yeah, he's not going to take kindly to being woken up at this bleeding hour though."

Oliver merely shrugged for a second time. "Not my problem," he responded, already on his way out of their dorm, likely to go wake the others, "let's see how badly he wants it!"

"Absolutely mental." Harry repeated, slowly and cautiously making his way over to Ron's bed, figuring a cautious approach would likely be best for his health. "Dolor." He incanted, pointing his wand towards his friend and firing off a mildly powered stinging hex, causing Ron to wince in his sleep. After a few more well placed hexes and a rather rushed explanation, both he and Ron were showering in a hurry.

As he showered, Harry reflected on his first week back at school. With the exception of the fiasco that had been Gilderoy Lockhart's first excuse for a Defense Against The Dark Arts lesson, Harry had experienced a fairly mundane first week by his own standards. It was true that now, he found himself on the receiving end of some rather suspicious, if not worried glances from a few of the second year Gryffindors who had seen him incinerate the pixies, as well as a few from other years who had been privy to the gossip but aside from that, all had gone quite smoothly by his own admittedly abnormal standards. Part of him thought, both due to his history, pre conditioning to expect the worst, and the rather ominous warning that Dobby had delivered him that something was bound to go wrong soon. Despite all of that, as he stepped out of the shower and saw the near decrepit appearance of his friend, he could not help but smile and allow those worries to wash away as he laughed openly at the corpse like appearance of the youngest Weasley son.

"Not a morning person, huh?" He asked rhetorically. Ron's answer was immediately evident by the fact that the boy could not even summon the energy to glare at Harry.

"W-what was your first clue?" He asked through a tremendous yawn that caused Harry to snicker some more.

"Probably the fact that you're usually immobile until about ten any day you can be."

Ron scowled. "I'm up now, aren't I?" He asked irritably, to which Harry just rolled his eyes in response.

Together they descended the stairs into the Gryffindor common room, with each of them carrying one of Harry's state of the art racing brooms. He had told Ron that he could use his old Nimbus 2000 for training while he rode the 2001. The fact had overjoyed the youngest Weasley brother, who had never been given such an expensive toy in his life, even if his playtime was limited. When they entered the common room, it came as a great shock to both of them that, miraculously, they were not alone.

"Hey Harry!" Said an excited voice as the mousy haired first year who had asked him for the photo a few days previous sprung up out of his chair and bounded to the side of the two second year boys. "I heard a few of the Quidditch players leaving a minute or so ago and figured you'd be going too. You are on the Quidditch team, aren't you Harry? I've heard that you're the youngest seeker in a century, is that true too? Come to think of it, what's a seeker anyways? I don't really understand the-"

"Oi!" Exclaimed Ron with his hands over his temples. "Can you please shut up!" He hissed, causing Colin to fall quiet at once.

"S-s-sorry." He said meekly, clearly taken aback by Ron's outburst. As impolite as it was, Harry was rather grateful for it. To do such a thing was not in his nature and had it not been for Ron's intervention, he feared as though he would have had a very unwanted sidekick for the remainder of the walk down to the stadium.

"For future reference," said Ron a bit short temperedly, "don't throw a million questions at somebody all at once. It's annoying and rude, and at 5:00 in the bloody morning, it might get you cursed next time."

Colin flushed and scrambled back the way he came as the two of them clambered out of the dormitory. "Have I mentioned that I'm really grateful you're not a morning person?" Harry asked innocently, causing Ron to snort as he smiled in spite of himself.

"Who'd have guessed it had its perks?" Ron said with mock surprise, looking oddly smug as the two of them made their way down towards the pitch.

It took a great deal of convincing on Harry's part for Ron not to go on a wild goose chase trying to find the kitchens, a place neither of them had an inkling as to the location of, but eventually, the two of them stepped into the dressing room with Harry looking far more alert than the rest of the team as this was quite normal for him while Ron, much like his two older brothers, looked very much like he would keel over from exhaustion at any moment.

'Must be genetic.'

To Ron's credit, unlike Fred, he did manage to stay awake through the entirety of Wood's impossibly long lecture, though that may have been because unlike his older brother, who's head was resting peacefully on Alicia's shoulder, Ron did not have such a comfortable headrest.

By the time they had survived the lecture and strategical marathon they had been put through, the sun had risen and it was well past Seven O'clock. As the team stepped out onto the pitch and took flight, Harry noticed that Creevy had not been quite as deterred as they had first thought. There he was, sitting in the center most seat in the top row, snapping pictures madly as the eight players flew in a warm-up lap around the pitch.

"Oi!" Called Oliver once the team had all completed a number of laps at top speed. "Who's that in the stands? It could be a Slytherin spy."

"He's a Gryffindor." Said Harry exasperatedly.

"A bloody annoying one." Put in Ron, to which Angelina and Alicia nodded along with in agreement.

"Besides," said George darkly, "the Slytherins don't need a spy here."

Oliver looked immediately indignant. "Why would you say that?" He asked, to which George simply pointed downwards to the pitch below.

"Because they're already here."

"What?!" Exploded Wood as they all looked down on the seven figures in green and silver robes trudging onto the pitch. "To hell with that! We've got the pitch booked! The nerve of Flint!" And he shot toward the ground, the team hot on his heels. On his way down, Harry spotted Dean and Neville making their way towards the pitch. Neville had been making an effort to be up earlier as of late and he had clearly dragged Dean along with him, who did admittedly still look better than Ron, though only just.

"Flint!" Wood boomed immediately upon touching down as he charged towards the Slytherins. "What the hell are you doing here?! We've got the pitch booked all morning!"

Flint just grinned lazily back at the eight of them. "Calm your jets, Oli, plenty enough room for all of us, and besides," he said, pulling a piece of parchment from the pocket of his team robes, "I've got a signed note from Professor Snape granting us special permission to use the pitch."

Wood snatched the note furiously from out of Flint's hand and read it aloud, his voice taking on tones of fury and incredulity.

"I, Professor Severus Snape, grant the Slytherin Quidditch team special permission to use the pitch on account of a need to train their new seeker." Wood looked up. "New seeker? Thought Higgs was still on for another year?"

"At school and on the team are too very different things." Came a horribly familliar drawl from behind the hulking figures in the front. As several of the Slytherin players parted, the smallest among them stepped forward, his blonde hair gleaming in the morning sunlight as his grey eyes, which fixed intently upon Harry's green ones, positively shown with victory.

"You!" Exclaimed Ron, glaring hatefully at Malfoy. It was a look that the Slytherin returned with equal venom.

"Surprised to see me, Weasley?" Asked Malfoy smugly.

"Yeah, now that you mention it." Quipped Ron. "Thought you had to be a bumbling troll to make the Slytherin team." He glanced mockingly at the hulking figures of Flint, Derrick and Bowl before shrugging nonchalantly. "I guess they make exceptions for talented players though," he said, before the ghost of a smile crossed his face, "or, apparently rich stuck up snobs who think they're the next Merlin.." He looked between Harry and Malfoy. "Last time I saw you in the air, Harry damn near knocked you off your broom. Are you so eager to get embarrassed again?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "The only person here who should be embarrassed, Weasley, is you! Only one of us got on the team through charity!" Malfoy turned his milevilant smile onto Harry. "How much did you have to beg for him to get on, Potter? I'd bet it took a few hours at least."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Flint with mock indignance, "this is no place to bicker! The lions are here to train some undoubtedly brilliant schemes no one has ever come up with before." He mock bowed to Wood. "And we're here to put our new seeker and brooms to the test-"

"New brooms?" Wood asked sharply, his eyes roaming over the seven players in front of him before widening comically seconds later.

"Like them, Oli?" Asked Flint, prompting all seven Slytherin players to hold up identical, rather familiar looking silver broomsticks with the golden words Nimbus 2001 imprinted upon the handle.

'Well shit. And here I thought I'd have an advantage this year.'

The Gryffindor chasers had gone completely silent, Ron's face had flushed a furious shade of red and the twins, for once, seemed speechless.

"These beauties were a generous donation from Draco's father." Flint told them proudly, resting a large hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Only just came out; state of the art at that. I've been told they outstrip the old 2000 model by a sizable margin. And as for those Clean Sweeps," he shot a disgusted look towards Fred and George, "well… I reckon if you auctioned those off to the highest bidder, you might be able to afford my broomhandle." The Slytherins all around them laughed as the twins gritted their teeth, a glint of promised vengeance gleaming behind their eyes.

Harry noticed at that moment that his two other friends, Dean and Neville, had reached the pitch now, and they stood on either side of Ron and Harry, looking at the new scene in front of them.

"Oh," said Malfoy with a smirk as he spotted the pair of them, "perhaps if Thomas's filthy parents put in their life savings, maybe they could even afford the label." There was more laughter but Harry almost winced for Draco's sake. Dean was a rather quick witted boy, and he was not who Harry would have targeted had he been in Draco's shoes.

Dean just scowled. "A bit rich you talking about money, isn't it Malfoy?" Asked Dean, to which the Slytherin Quidditch team took as their queue to fall silent.

Malfoy sneered. "I can talk of money all I want, Thomas. I could buy and sell your family home ten times over with my monthly allowance." This caused the Slytherins gathered round to laugh once more.

"I never said you didn't have money," said Dean, completely unbothered by Draco's latest remark, "the opposite actually. I just thought it was a bit rich that you'd talk about your money and draw attention to the fact that it's the only real reason you're on the team at all. I mean — last I checked, none of the Gryffindor players had to buy their way onto a Quidditch team."

The Slytherins fell completely silent now and it was clear by his expression that now, for the first time during their conversation, Draco was legitimately flustered, and the next words out of his mouth were a clear display of that.

"Shut your mouth, you good for nothing Mudblood!"

Pandemonium broke out all at once.

Harry's wand was in his hand in an instant and though it was the first, it was not the last. "Diffindo!" He snarled, slashing his wand towards Malfoy. The boy tried to duck out of the way but was too slow, having been caught off guard by Harry's immediate reaction. A gash sliced itself open on Malfoy's cheek and he staggered backwards, only to be tackled to the ground by Flint as other hexes from the rest of the gathered Gryffindors sailed over his head. The Slytherins drew their wands to retaliate and as a matter of fact, Harry had to hastily cast a Protego in order to shield himself from the oncoming curses. Before the impending duel could get too far out of hand, a voice that was jovial to the point of being out of place sounded across the grounds.

"Now, what on earth is going on here?"

They all froze and despite himself, Harry couldn't help but think. 'Why did it have to be him?'

A moment later, Gilderoy Lockhart stepped forward, interposing himself between the two sides, his flowing turquoise robes blowing in the early morning breeze as he looked at the lot of them.

"Duelling on the school grounds?" He asked, sounding affronted. "Dear me, dear me indeed. What an act!"

"It was Malfoy, sir, he called Dean a m-m-Mudblood!" snapped Ron at once, causing the Slytherins to immediately bite back with their own accusations, aimed mainly at Harry for attacking Draco.

"Enough!" Snapped Lockhart, his voice becoming uncharacteristically strict. The sudden shift was such a surprise to the lot of them that they actually listened. "Mr. Potter, your wand, if you will?"

"Why?" Harry asked, immediately suspicious.

"I would like to check the magic it has cast as of late."

"Don't bother," snarled Harry, clutching it protectively, "I cursed the git and I'd do it again; he deserved it!"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," patronized Lockhart, sounding like a rather disappointed father. "It is not for us mere mortals to decide what people do and do not deserve. I'm afraid I'll have to give you detention." He sounded truly regretful about the whole thing. "Tomorrow night in my office — 7:00." He turned to Draco. "You as well, Mr. Malfoy, but you can do your detention with Mr. Filch at the same time." Malfoy scowled, still wiping blood from his still open cheek, but he did not dare argue. "Well, I don't think either of you will be using the pitch now. Off with the lot of you. Go!"

They did not need to be told twice and now, all of a sudden, Harry was wondering if the blood he had drawn from the pureblood had really been worth it.

'I mean — I can tolerate a lot and all — but detention with that git?'

September 5th 1992.

The Library.

7;53 PM.

Ginny slammed her matchstick down onto the desk in frustration, drawing a patronizing glare from the librarian but she did not care. She had thought she was doing so well when she had dealt with all of the pixies in DADA, despite not really remembering where she had learnt that spell from. Later that day, however, she had been granted a rather rude awakening in the form of her first Transfiguration lesson with her head of house and now, sat in the library twenty-four hours later, Ginny still couldn't get the blasted spell to work.

Sighing, she set her wand down on the desk and did the first thing that came to her mind in terms of relaxing or decompressing; she took her diary out of her bag, flipped it open and began to write.

Hello Tom,

It's been a really long day! Can you tell me another story from your school days?

There was the typical few moments of delay before Ginny's words sank into the parchment and were replaced by those of a neater, smaller handwriting.

Good evening Ginny,

The correct question to ask would not be can I, as we both know full well that I can, but rather, will I.

Ginny sighed. She had not in her wildest dreams expected Tom to be such a grammar critic, but the boy was as set on perfection in diary form as he seemed to have been in human form.

Fine! Will you tell me a story about your Hogwarts days?

Of course, but first, why don't you tell me why it has felt like such a long day?

Ginny sighed, knowing that to argue was an exercise in futility.

Because I've been trying to transform a matchstick into a needle for the last three hours and I just can't do it!

Tom's response was slower this time. It took Ginny's slightly blotted words several minutes to sink in to the parchment, words blotted by the extra force she had unintentionally put into her quill out of sheer frustration

Well then, I will make you a deal. I will tell you a long story, but only once you've managed the transfiguration.

Ginny swore under her breath in a way that would have infuriated her mother.

But I can't do it! That's the whole point!

Can't? Of course you can do it! It is a basic and rudimentary transformation that is not at all difficult. The only reason it poses any challenge at all is because you have not yet built the magical memory to aid in your transformations and because you lack practice with visualization. Here, let me help you. What are you picturing when trying the transfiguration?

The completed matchstick like Professor McGonagall said to do!

Allow me to offer a more unorthodox approach. Instead of picturing the completed needle, imagine every change happening. Play all of the changes happening in your mind in slow motion as you speak the incantation clearly and perfectly trace the wand movement. As a matter of fact, draw the movement on the page so I can tell if it is correct or not.

She did.

Your jab resembles a slash, make it tighter — straighter.

She drew it out again.

Better. Now, transfigure the matchstick using the method I told you.

Ginny sighed exasperatedly, wanting only to complete her task and get the whole day over with. If only Tom could ACTUALLY help her, ACTUALLY be there to help her. As she said it, she felt… something — odd. It was hard to explain, but it was as if her mind was receiving a massage. Closing her eyes and figuring she would get the attempt over with so she could hear her story, Ginny closed her eyes and found, to her astonishment, that the vivid image Tom had so eloquently described practically played itself. She drew out the motion in what she hoped was a precise manner and jabbed her wand perfectly towards the matchstick. "Composatus Verto." When she opened her eyes, ready to throw the matchstick into her bag and call it a night, her eyes widened as her heart skipped a beat.

There was no matchstick at all.

Instead, sitting in front of her on the desk was the most picture perfect needle Ginny could have ever imagined.

Ginny's face broke into a wide grin as an odd warmth spread throughout her body. She was so elated, so drunk on her own glory that when later asked, she could never quite recall how she even spent the rest of that night, nor which story Tom had told her.

September 6th 1992.

Gilderoy Lockhart's Office.

11:34 PM.

Harry had decided after four long hours of signing Lockhart's fanmail that in his opinion, the blood he had drawn from Malfoy, though completely warranted and incredibly satisfying in his eyes, was absolutely not worth the four plus hours he had so far endured in the presence of Lockhart. The man seemed to take it upon himself to try and impart words of wisdom in regards to fame and how to handle it every so often. Harry really did not have a whole lot of patience by the time 11:30 had come around and felt downright delirious when he heard it.

"Rip… tear… kill!"

Harry's head snapped up at once as he gaped at Lockhart before realizing that the sound, like nails scraping across a chalkboard, yet still so clear in his mind had not come from his professor. The man still appeared to be dutifully marking essays as Harry worked.

"P-p-professor," he said, his voice shaking despite himself. Lockhart hummed to show he was listening. "D-did you — did you just hear that?"

Lockhart's quill paused. "Here that? My dear boy, I must admit that I'm baffled as to what you are talking about."

Harry shook his head slowly as if to rid himself of the cobwebs that had evidently taken up lodging inside his head. Clearly the monotony of his task was getting to him. Perhaps he really was becoming delirious. Harry thought this, remained in blissful ignorance for another three or so minutes until the same horrible voice spoke again, though it sounded quieter this time, as if it were further away.

"Let me rip you… let me tear you… let me kill you!"

"Professor, there it is again!" Harry said, causing Lockhart to actually set down his quill and look up, bemused.

"There is what, Harry?"

"The voice? Did you n-not hear it? Not hear what it just said?"

Lockhart's brow furrowed in evident concern. "Harry, my boy, I am afraid there was no such-" but then he paused as his eyes widened upon seeing the clock. "Dear me!" He exclaimed. "No wonder you're hearing voices, you poor boy, we have been at this for nearly five hours! Can you believe it? Time really does fly when you're having fun, doesn't it? Well, I think it best you get to bed, Harry. You've clearly had a very long and difficult night. Do try and stay out of trouble. I'm afraid I will not be able to swoop in and turn all of your detentions into such a treat, good night."

Normally, as Harry numbly left the room and quickly hid under his cloak for the journey back to Gryffindor tower, he would have internally remarked at the boldness and idiocy of Lockhart's statement. Tonight though, he was far too focused on voices that only he could hear, and the implications of a being that seemed to want to do nothing but rip, tear, and kill.

September 7th 1992.

The Potions Classroom.

9:10 AM.

Harry's night of sleep had been, even by his own low standards, anything but restful. He had intensely debated whether or not he should tell Neville about the voice he had heard in the corridor but he had dismissed the idea. Last year, Neville had been hesitant to believe him over the whole Quirrell versus Snape debate despite Harry having actual evidence, shaky as it may have been. If Harry told Neville that he was hearing voices that no one else could seem to hear, he thought there was a good chance that Neville would refer him to St. Mungos before he actually took him seriously. It wasn't until these thoughts had crossed his mind that he realized that he had not yet told Neville of Dobby. He would have to do that soon, but he would let the year get rolling before he decided to drop a bomb like that on Neville.

Whether or not he would tell Dumbledore was something that he was still debating with himself. On one hand, he had promised the old man that he would share any information on potential threats within the castle but on the other, he could not see any way that this information could be valuable.

'Hey professor, I heard a voice no one else could hear and it wanted to rip, tear and kill.'

'My my, Harry, what a wonderful revelation! And what exactly would you like me to do with this invaluable bit of information?'

Harry nearly snorted aloud at the image that played through his head. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that perhaps Lockhart had been right. Perhaps he really had been delirious.

'I mean, how would I just hear something that nobody else could hear? I mean, even for me, that's an entirely new level of weird.'

Harry was snapped out of his musings a second later when the classroom door slammed open and in stormed their Potions Master, Professor Snape. He looked upon the full classroom with apparent disinterest. That was until he met a pair of emerald green eyes, at which point his face twisted into a scowl for the briefest of moments before he looked away.

Now that Harry knew more about Snape's backstory with his mother, he could not help but think of the man a bit differently. Mind you, his outlook had not changed, but he wondered, especially knowing how well he had once gotten on with his mother, how Snape justified hating him with such a vehemence.

"Well, well, well, I see that none of you have managed to sufficiently dim your minds to the point of being unable to find the classroom over the summer. A good thing too, as I fear some of you have more brains cells at your disposal than others. It would be most unfortunate for those of you who do not have the sufficient brain cells to spare." His eyes rested maliciously upon Neville, who sat beside Harry. Neville did not cower under Snape's gaze like he used to, though he did fidget a bit, and looked supremely uncomfortable. "Today, for example, I think we shall see just who those individuals are, as I thought a little check in as to your competence was in order." Snape waved his wand and suddenly, instructions were written upon the board. "A simple sleeping solution, to be handed in for grading at the end of the class." His eyes rested once again upon Neville, though they flicked to Harry sitting beside him as his lip twitched upwards as if he were holding back a smirk. "This will be an individual project." Neville tensed beside Harry and he did his best to shoot his best friend a reassuring look but if truth be told, Neville never had been great with a cauldron.

"Begin!"

While he worked, doing his best to whisper instructions to Neville whenever he thought he could likely get away with it, Harry wondered how he had ever managed to brew based on Snape's instructions alone. Mind you, this was not the most fair comparison, as Daphne had actually used this exact potion as an example, so he was really just repeating her steps. Even in saying so, she still somehow managed to finish more than ten minutes ahead of him, though to his great pride and Snape's obvious displeasure, Harry was the second to hand in a vial of perfect potion, beating the third, Hermione Granger, by nearly as much as Daphne had beaten him. This fact earned him a rather vicious looking sneer from Snape and a very subtle, very discrete smile from Daphne.

Harry found that as he left the class, he was in rather high spirits. His friends seemed to mostly be in the same boat.

"Not bad for Snape." Commented Ron as they left the class. "Only ten points lost from Seamus the entire lesson."

"Yeah," noted Dean with a crooked smile, "that must be some sort of record." He turned to Neville. "I was working with Ron and Merlin over here clearly managed just fine, but how'd you make out, Neville?"

"Not bad I don't think," said Neville, "it didn't seem like the right shade, but it didn't seem much worse than most of the others." He smiled sheepishly at Harry. "I had help though."

"Wish I had." Muttered Ron.

"Yours wasn't that bad." Commented Dean.

"Yeah, but not that bad for a Gryffindor means a P from Snape." Harry rolled his eyes, not at the statement but at the truth behind it. He could not believe what Snape got away with. As they made to round the corner, Harry felt someone bump into him from behind, sending him stumbling forwards, though he managed to keep his balance. As he stumbled, reaching out for the wall, he felt something gracefully slide into his palm. His eyes widened for a split second and as a result of this, he was not overly surprised to see Daphne and her friend, Tracey Davis.

"Watch where you're going, Potter." She said, doing a good job of making it sound believable before she stormed off with her chin held high, Tracey not far behind her.

"Oi!" Ron called after them, but they were gone. "That cow!" He protested. "She just walked into you and told YOU to watch where you're going!"

"Thanks for the breakdown, mate, I noticed." Harry said with a roll of his eyes.

It was not until later that day that Harry got to read the note from Daphne, but when he did so, he could not help but feel a flutter of anticipation in his chest.

Potter,

I'm sure you've been dying to see me for ages by this point, and your wait will end on Saturday. Meet me at our usual abandoned classroom in the dungeons and don't be late.

See you soon,

Daphne

Authors Endnote:

Well, I know a lot of you have wanted more Daphne, so here you go.

I hope the Dumbledore scene didn't come off as too much of an info dump. I reworked it a few times to try and break it up and justify the large amounts of info, but I hope it turned out to be enjoyable to read.

Please read and review.

PS: The next chapter will be posted next Sunday, April 19th at approximately 3:00 PM.