Author: Aedalena
Rating: PG-13, R in later chapters
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Angst
Summary: Harry Potter travels back to the year 1944 to help the Dumbledore of that time defeat the Dark Lord Grindelwald. But there's a catch: only a select number of people can know that he's from the future--and Dumbledore's not one of them. And Grindelwald isn't the only thing Harry has to worry about. An old enemy is helping his new enemy...a Hogwarts student by the name of Tom Riddle. How far will Harry go to see Grindelwald dead? And will he learn to let his own dark past lie?
Thank you: LexiGurl, for all of her editing. Thank you, all who have reviewed and followed this story despite failing hopes that you will ever see its end.
This chapter: Battles of magic and the mind. Humour and exasperation. WARNING! This chapter contains implied rape and torture. If this offends you, stop at the start of the flashback, or press that handy 'back' button.
Extrapolation- n. (mathematics) calculation of the value of a function outside the range of known values
"It is twice the pleasure to deceive the deceiver." –Jean De La Fontaine
When he returned to Hogwarts, Harry could feel a tangible tension in the air. Teachers became irritated more easily. Curfew was enforced more firmly and violators punished more severely. The school itself showed traces of thickening apprehension. The stairs changed often, almost moodily—usually at the most inconvenient moment and often when students were still on them.
The Gryffindors were gruffer than usual. The Ravenclaws snapped at anyone disturbing their quiet studying and rarely passed up the opportunity to ridicule members of any other house, and the Slytherins were especially vindictive; the school's healer could hardly keep up with the number of hexed students. Even Harry's own Hufflepuffs found their patience tried by the electrified atmosphere, their innate good humour conspicuously absent. Harry had never seen such an equal spread of low house points.
At the rate things were going, they would all be in the negatives soon.
It wasn't a natural tension. At least, it wasn't uniform. Professor Grimm and Harry's "study partners" remained untroubled and observed the school's heightened nervousness with something approaching smugness. It reminded him uncomfortably of the way the Slytherins acted his fifth year at Hogwarts.
Most frustrating of all, he had not received a single letter from Perseus. Something important must have happened in the outside world to upset the very atmosphere at the school to such a degree. But what? And why had he heard nothing of it? Nothing but the faintest of whispers from either quarter, while the professors grew more and more haggard. It had been a long time since Harry had been as bereft of information as now. It made him nervous.
"Watch it!" muttered a sixth year housemate of Harry's when he stumbled into the younger boy's path.
His own mood wasn't untouched by the school's atmosphere, especially as day after day passed without him receiving a post. He kept catching himself clenching his wand tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. Every time his Sense warned him of an approaching student, he felt himself go on alert. It was an automatic reflex, one he couldn't even control, to his dismay. Worse still was when his Sense failed him and a student happened to startle him.
He only stopped himself from hexing the startled student each time with a supreme effort of will and control. Not surprisingly, constantly holding his wand at the ready as though only a few thoughts away from hexintg someone did nothing good for his reputation.
And then there was the study group. With them, he tried so hard to relax that he usually accomplished little more than to make himself stiffer with the anxiety of putting up a believable, false front. And they weren't even the most frustrating problem he had to deal with. It was smug, creeping, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Professor Grimm and his love affair with dark magic. If Harry had to cast one more bleeding spell in UDA, he'd practise it on the bastard himself.
But as if having to perform for everyone else in the school everyday wasn't enough, Dumbledore, master of seeing through any charade (discounting those countless Defence Against the Dark Arts professors during his school days, but the old headmaster had been, well, older), had taken an interest of his own in Harry. He'd probably heard about his strange talent for defence spells and had set out to "save" Harry from Grimm and his nasty employer.
As if he needed saving from anything but this school. Harry sighed as he saw the auburn-haired Dumbledore approach. His attempts to evade the old professor and his meddling weren't always successful. His Auror instructors would have been appalled.
"Good evening, Harry," the professor said.
"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," Harry answered wearily. Then, remembering that Hufflepuffs in general spoke more than that, he hastened to inquire about the wizard's health.
"Oh, well enough, well enough, however crushing my disappointment at receiving only books for Christmas. I cannot seem to escape the things. And you, Harry?" His glance was so intense and welcoming that for a second Harry felt like he was speaking to his Dumbledore.
"I could really use—" He caught himself and shrugged. "I'm fine. Just heading to my study group."
The future headmaster half-frowned, a strange expression on him. "Yes, that's right. Mr Riddle's study group. I've heard quite a deal about it. What is it that you study?"
"Most practice Understanding the Dark Arts and Transfiguration and quite a bit of charms. I do mostly defence and potions." Ah, if Snape could only see him now.
"Defence," mused the professor. "Professor Thyme mentioned to me that you managed to cast a spectacular shield charm. Well done."
Harry's Sense prickled as he felt another professor approach, and he barely refrained from groaning or charming himself invisible. Professor Grimm. As though Dumbledore weren't enough.
"I see you have been speaking to one of my star pupils, Professor Dumbledore," said Grimm, smiling with his customary smugness as Harry and Dumbledore turned to face him.
"Yes. I was congratulating him on a well cast defence spell."
Harry wanted to slink away, but he was caught between the two older wizards. Under different circumstances, it might have been amusing to see them try and out-glare each other while simultaneously endeavouring to appear like they were on good terms. A doomed attempt, though Harry did not dare tell them. It would be rather like insulting a pair of old, cranky dragons. And now that he thought about it, there was something of a resemblance…
"That reminds me," said Grimm, moving a bit so Harry could look at him. His tone was gloating, which meant he was up to something. "Harry, I have been consistently impressed by the quality of your spells. I think that you could go far in my field. Would you be interested in some private lessons?"
Merlin's teeth, that man had gall. And a dangerous lack of subtlety. He might as well have proclaimed, "Well, my boy, you've the makings of a damned fine dark wizard. Let's do some black magic, and see if this old fool will do anything about it."
If his intent was to rile Dumbledore, he certainly succeeded in that, at least. Dumbledore looked like he had just swallowed his infamous vomit-flavoured jelly bean, and Harry probably would've too if it weren't for the iron control he'd practised and practised (though practise only went so far, and when his patience ran out, so help him, he'd…). But Dumbledore regained his bearing quickly. "My deepest condolences, Professor. I believe that the Hogwarts charter prohibits the teaching of Dark Arts outside of class, even by such...highly regarded teachers as yourself."
"I—" Grimm stopped, a tiny frustrated frown flitting across his face for a moment. Harry inwardly cheered and contemplations of homicide receded somewhat. "I had forgotten. Of course. Though perhaps the headmaster might make an exception..."
"Come now, Garrick," said Dumbledore good-naturedly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "The boy hasn't even expressed an interest. For all we know, he might wish to retire to a remote island and live out his life as a hermit once he leaves Hogwarts."
They both looked at him expectantly. Harry shrugged, struggling to maintain a neutral expression.
Dumbledore smiled at him. "Once again, magnificent job, Harry."
"Thank you, professor." Harry glanced at his watch not so subtly, delighted for once that he had to go his study group. The meeting had been scheduled much earlier than usual; it was still light outside. "Oh! I'd better hurry along, or I'll be late!"
With a quick smile and a cheerful wave, Harry fled, leaving the two teachers to their differences. Resolving not to run into anyone else who might bother him unless it was in the pursuit of information, he began his quiet walk to the library. The hall was unusually cold today. He tried not to notice how dim the torches seemed on his walks to meetings, but he never had been very skilled at self-delusion.
"Harry." The whisper was so faint he wanted to dismiss it as just a gust of wind. But out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the source. His ghosts were back. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't stop his ears. Several other familiar hushed voices joined the first, whispering a ghostly chorus of apologies, accusations, and regrets.
In a way, the ghosts were a comforting reminder that not everything changed. Well, they weren't actually real ghosts. No one else could see them when he pointed them out. Remus had a thousand and one theories as to why Harry saw them. Harry had a thousand and one suggestions as to where Remus could shove his theories. And then Sirius had his several thousand reasons why Harry should see a psychowizard for his "problem." His own replies to Sirius were more often than not unrepeatable. He had learned from the best, after all: the two Marauders themselves.
Their haunting presence certainly did not cheer him any. And yet, they did calm him somehow. They grounded him, those echoes of the past. Perhaps he was delusional. Perhaps he had merely conjured them out of the dusts of his loneliness. The air suddenly thickened around him.
The voices rose in agitation, and a gust of wind tore through the hall. He opened his eyes, and dim outlines of his friends, colleagues, and enemies swirled before him. Harry looked away quickly. Hermione was screaming silently, her mouth opened in a soundless plea that he couldn't hear, but felt.
Shakily, he wondered what was happening. His ghosts had never manifested themselves physically. Nor had they ever appeared so tortured. The whispered howls stopped suddenly, as though cut off by some strange force. He opened his eyes again, afraid of what he might see.
The hall was empty again.
He trembled the entire rest of the trip to the library. But by the time he reached it, his fear and grief had solidified into anger. For once, he didn't care about hiding it behind an easy smile and laugh. He slammed the door open, earning a glare from the librarian. Defiantly, he closed it just as hard, matching murderous stare for murderous stare. She pursed her lips disapprovingly, but looked away and said nothing.
Harry strode to the back of the library, to the table closest to the restricted section. He dropped his books carelessly on the meeting table, ignoring the somewhat startled looks of his study partners, who had never seen him in such a foul mood.
"What?" he snapped, violently jerking a book open. Some Ravenclaws looked ready to protest such cruel abuse of books, but most students quickly glanced away. Even Riddle, used to a complacent, good-natured Harry, appeared taken aback.
"Anything wrong, Harry?" one student ventured.
"Of course not. If something were wrong, I would be cross, and we can easily see that I'm chipper as a Third Year high on a cheering charm."
"Ah."
Half-heartedly, he tried to clear away his frown. His efforts just distorted it into a bared smile. One girl, a Ravenclaw, made a hesitant attempt at conversation.
"Maybe we can help. Would you like to tell us what's wrong?"
The black mood would not be shaken, and the scowl returned full force. "I would if I had the slightest suspicion someone might care beyond using it as fodder for gossip."
"Pardon me for being friendly," the girl muttered, shrinking back.
"Don't be stupid. If you're friendly, it's an accident and a side effect of nosiness."
Then he noticed how childish and out of character he was acting and clamped his mouth shut. Deciding to ignore his study partners, if only to prevent more outbursts, he flipped the pages of his defence book to the shield charm section and pretended to read, which was frightfully boring. He'd memorised the text years ago, under the influence of more sleep-warding potions than he liked to recall.
He was immeasurably relieved when Riddle got to his feet. The Slytherin Prefect gestured for silence and conversations immediately ceased. Harry had to swallow the sudden urge to speak just to be contrary. What was wrong with him today?
"I have decided to do something different for this meeting," Riddle said. Despite his irritation with the brainless sycophants surrounding him, Harry felt a stirring of interest. "We will head out by the lake and practise duelling. You'll be split into two opposing teams."
Damn Riddle and his study groups, Harry groused, his interest gone. Fat lot of good a mock battle would be if he couldn't practice anything without giving himself away. And how long would it take? He did a quick mental calculation. There would be eighteen students on each team, if Riddle participated. That could make for a lengthy fight. Then again, this was mini-Voldemort who would be participating. Scratch that, I give them one minute before he trounces them. Well, without me to balance things, anyway. But isn't that what I do all the time? Balance?
"This way."
Minutes later, the students were outside, stamping their feet on the snow to shake off the cold. Harry watched them with amusement, warm under his heating charm, wondering why they didn't use one. Then again, the sheer amount of magical energy it took to keep the charm up longer than a dozen minutes—well. And it was strangely gratifying to see the young snots suffer the biting chill while he remained comfortable.
The students clumsily clumped into groups as Riddle divided them, huddling closely for warmth. Once again, Harry marvelled that of all these intelligent students, not a one thought to use magic to overcome the cold. Hermione would've had a spell ready for Ron and him before they left the school.
His face darkened, and he remained lost in a world of gloomy thoughts until Riddle signalled the start of the skirmish.
Instantly, there was chaos, and no time to dwell on anything aside from not being trampled by some graceless student. Students half tripped over each other trying to get to their opponents. Bumbling and uncertain, like a bunch of Firsties trying their magic for the first time. There was a lot of force and power, but it was clumsily aimed. What good was a handful of powerful spells, if they never reached their targets?
His quick eyes spotted the spell speeding toward him. Harry dodged and erected a glowing shield around most of his teammates. They smiled gratefully at him, and Harry winced inwardly as a few distracted ones were hit by some newly learned curses. Had he been so green once? Slipping, sliding, knocking Ferguson over, tripping and almost breaking Ron's nose, accidentally hexing Corson himself... The memories his mind obligingly conjured brought a blush to his face.
He noticed an equally exasperated expression on Tom Riddle's face. The Slytherin was on the opposing team, and they were doing as poorly, if not worse, for all of Tom's furious casting. Harry contented himself with maintaining the shield and letting the rest of his group do the fighting, but when a duo actually hexed each other (how, Harry could not begin to imagine), he started giving quiet advice.
"Organise into trios and guard each other's back. You won't be hexed as often."
His advice was obeyed with the enthusiastic energy of an adrenaline-filled mob latching on to any voice of reason. He was quite certain that if he had told them to hold wands in a circle and chant nursery rhymes in even a remotely level-headed tone, they would have complied with blind obedience.
It took only a few carefully chosen words, but finally Harry's team to begin gaining the advantage. Gratified that years of working solo had not completely crippled his ability to command a team of wizards, he continued murmuring instructions until his Sense warned him of enemy students sneaking up, using the chaos of battle to cloak their slow crawl towards him.
Taking out the leader and main defence, he thought. One of Riddle's schemes no doubt. Feigning ignorance of the danger behind, he continued directing. Then, he took a step forward and "tripped." The curses just released from his hidden assailants sailed over his head, and curses of a different kind reached Harry's ears. He smiled devilishly and replied with a rude gesture, which was met by more swearing. Alerted by the wild curses, his teammates rushed to the aid of their shield wizard.
They were actually learning (amazing though the phenomenon seemed). Harry smiled delightedly, wondering if teachers felt like this all of the time. Then again, Fred and George and all of their antics just might be enough to offset any warm fuzzies. He stifled a snicker.
The inclination to laugh turned to surprise as he became aware of a strange burning sensation on his chest. He glanced up, startled, and met Tom Riddle's eyes across the small battlefield. A hex. A test of his defence abilities? Harry casted a protective spell on himself, and relaxed slightly when the pain subsided.
The opposing team, at a great disadvantage without a shield, buckled quickly. Soon only Riddle remained, and Harry remembered the Slytherin's final stand with awe and admiration for weeks afterward. It was as if Riddle did not even need to move his wand or mouth. All colours of magic spilled out of it, in an almost continuous beam of punishing force. The students outside of Harry's protected circle fought well, but could not stand the onslaught. Only those under his protection remained standing.
In the end, it came down to Riddle's curses against Harry's shield. Harry agonised over keeping his shield up—no easy feat against a wizard of Tom Riddle's power—and letting it fall. Would he appear too skilled if he didn't drop it? But somehow he knew that if he gave in, Riddle would know he was holding back.
So he held his shield, though he did allow it to ripple a few times to give his fighters incentive to work harder. It was odd not being on the offensive, he thought, as he watched the battle. One hex finally got through Tom Riddle's considerable defences, but he still found strength to take a student with him as he fell.
Still shaking his head with amazement at his opponent's skill, Harry tallied the Slytherin's "kills." Riddle had "killed" about eighty percent of his remaining team—twelve wizards!
While the students left standing walked to their fallen classmates and revived them, Harry took down his shield. He was surprised to discover that his limbs were stiff, and that sometime during the battle he had become very sweaty. He was out of shape, no doubt due to his rather long break from casting any advanced magic. There had to be an abandoned room he could use somewhere to practise the complex magic he was accustomed to.
He looked up sharply at the sound of a hoot, and picked out a small owl flying toward him at a staggering velocity. He dropped to the ground, and if the rush of air above his head was any indication, he had done so just in time. The owl looped around and dropped a thick, rolled up bundle of parchment. Harry caught it, puzzled.
He read the first lines quickly. The letter was from Uncle Perseus. As he read on, his foul temper returned.
…and Grindelwald's attacks continue to grow in frequency and ferocity. He is increasingly more confident, though we're not certain why. There have been no indication that he is planning for a mass attack like he did the week before you arrived, thankfully, but I am still filled with a sense of foreboding.
We don't know where these sudden resources of his have come from. By our last estimates, he should not be able to conduct raids as frequently as he is. And that is not all. A few old contacts of mine have heard whispers of Hogwarts itself being infiltrated. I know that this is the very reason you are there, but if what they tell me is correct, the school is in even more danger than we believed it to be. Don't limit yourself to thinking that the only supporters he has are the ones you can easily spot. I have fallen into that trap before, been blinded by overconfidence, only to find myself attacked by someone I would never have suspected. I trust that you will take every necessary precaution.
Call me a sentimental old coot, but I do worry about you. Something about you reminds me of...someone I knew a few decades back--a young firebrand who was always getting himself into and out of myriad messes. And before you owl me back with a dozen reasons I should trust in your abilities (and don't deny that that was the first thing on your mind, young man), listen to me.
I know you are here to help defeat Grindelwald, but that doesn't mean you must do this alone. I met your godfather and his friend at Christmas, of course, and Dumbledore explicitly told me that one of them is ready to help you if you need him. And if you don't wish to risk them (don't pretend that this isn't your main concern), I want you to know that if you ever need a friend, or I suppose that would be uncle, I am here. I've seen countless young Aurors like you burn out, burn up, and burn things up, over the years. If you need to do one of those three, try for that last one, will you? You've got one friend willing to help you out with that, in any case.
Harry folded the letter and sat down heavily. Other club members milled around him chatting excitedly about the battle as if it were something grand, and though he thought the comparison to the Battle of the Founders rather unwarranted, he ignored them, instead thinking intensely about the wizarding world's worsening state of affairs.
"You seem troubled," said Tom Riddle, the stiffness with which he sat next to Harry a testimony to his previously Stunned condition.
Harry shifted warily, but inspiration struck as it was prone to do just when situations seemed beyond repair. Grasping for his earlier grouchiness (though it really wasn't that difficult), Harry nodded and stuffed the letter in his pocket. "It's my uncle. He's displeased with me."
"Your uncle?"
"Yes," said Harry nonchalantly. "He used to be an Auror. Perseus Hudson, have you heard of him?"
"Perseus Hudson?" Riddle's voice raised an octave. Harry suppressed a smile at the near reverent tone. Then he frowned. No ordinary Auror would merit that much regard from someone like Riddle. Just who was Perseus, anyway? "He's your uncle?"
"Yes," he continued mournfully, slipping fully into his role of disgrunted nephew. "He doesn't like me attending these study groups. He says I should be able to work on my own. In fact, he threatened to pull me out of Hogwarts if I didn't quit! Would you believe that? I thought he would be glad I was learning something."
Riddle practically glowed with excitement. "What's the matter? Does he seem worried? Tell me about it," he demanded. "Did he mention my name?"
"Worried? I suppose," Harry said with a shrug. "As for your name...in fact, he did talk about you once or twice. Said you weren't suitable company, though I can't begin to imagine why." Harry was rather proud of his ability to say that with a straight face. "But then, he never was a great fan of Slytherins. Or even Gryffindors for that matter; you should hear what he says about Wilson Hawkfeather."
"Not suitable company," echoed Riddle, seeming to completely disregard the last two sentences, looking giddy as a teenager preparing to take his apparation test. No doubt "worrying" a famed Auror was one of the greatest accomplishments of his young life. Harry suppressed a snort of amusement. If Perseus' letter was any indication, an owl looking at him funny would worry the Auror.
"We've been through this before, of course. Again and again, I tell him that I'll do what I want. I'm not a child anymore—I can make my own decisions. But he just doesn't seem to listen."
"That's right," encouraged Riddle, eyes bright with glee. As this image of Riddle, about ready to break into a jig, juxtaposed with one of his future self, the malevolent Voldemort in his mind, Harry didn't know whether to burst out laughing or be afraid. "You should cultivate your independence, instead of letting your uncle choose what to do with your life."
Harry nodded emphatically. When the Slytherin did not speak again, the he struggled to his feet, a surprisingly wearing feat. He attributed the difficulty to the overtaxing of his magic. Magic, like a muscle, had to be exercised to stay in top form. And, Harry thought ruefully, overuse could make a person feel "sore."
Riddle dismissed the club, but Harry did not return to the school with the other students. Instead, he watched the sky mix its pastel pinks and vibrant blues into the deep indigo of night. The wind blew through far off trees; the gentle rustle of their needles sounded almost like rain. His good spirits fell slowly.
How many times, he asked himself. How often had he sat outside with Ron and Hermione, appreciating just being with them, taking in the beauty of the sights around them? Far too seldom. And how many years would he regret that?
Now he viewed those sights by himself, while something deep within him ached like an old wound that had never been allowed to heal. Nature only compounded loneliness when a person gazed alone.
Soon the stars would wink into existence. It would be wise to go inside before he thought himself into yet another self-pitying depression. But he didn't move; he kept watching. He should go...but to hell with common sense. A person had to indulge in some cold angst every once in a while.
Harry closed his eyes, both to block out the painfully beautiful night (if any time of day belonged to him, it was bloody dusk) and to banish his melancholy. To his surprise, it receded somewhat, to be replaced by a different pain. He struggled to identify this new misery, then, with a start of shock, he realised what it was. He was lonely, yes, but more--he was homesick. Homesick, of all things! He wanted to go home to the friends he had deserted and spend time with them. Before they, too, were lost to the hungry spectre of death that followed him everywhere.
How like him, to have run away from his problems without realising it.
"Back then, I never really thought about missing them," he commented to the empty night. Silence was such a good listener. "Why should I have? I never imagined they'd be gone someday. And now that I know what it feels to lose friends, I'm too afraid to spend time with the ones I have." He laughed suddenly. "Besides, I'm shouldn't have attachments. Not after Ginny. Especially not after C-Ch—ah hell. I still bloody can't say her name. It's not worth it. They'll just...get in the way."
He made a face at his own words, for once looking his young age. "Ugh, listen to me. Why does that sound so stupid now when it made sense before? Staying away from Sirius and Remus and Tonks won't make it hurt any less wh--if Voldemort kills them. Look at me!" He laughed again. "Running away from the few reasons I have to live. Well done, Harry. Brilliant. You've had an epiphany, too many years too late. Story of your life."
He reached into a pocket and felt for the panic button. Dumbledore had told him to use it if he was ever lonely…but the he shook his head uncertainly and withdrew his hand. He should save the device for emergencies.
All half-formed ideas about going home scattered as alarm rippled through his Senses. An aura which he quickly identified as Riddle was heading towards him. He quickly got to his feet (wishing his sore muscles would just shut up, for Merlin's sake, he knew they were tired!) and gauged the distance to Hogwarts entrance. Could he enter before Riddle met up with him?
"Williams!"
He sighed and let the Slytherin approach. "What?"
"I'm glad I found you out here. It will make things easier."
Easier? He didn't like the sound of that. He took his wand discreetly out of his robes. "Easier?" he echoed.
"Why did you stay outside?" said Riddle, ignoring Harry's inquiry. "The others returned over an hour ago. Dumbledore sent me out to get you. You're worrying the professors."
Had it been a whole hour? "Oh. I didn't mean to cause any alarm. I was just...thinking."
"In the cold?' asked the other wizard doubtfully.
"Cold is why wizards invented heating charms."
"Heating charms!"
From the sheepish expression on Riddle's face, Harry guessed that he, like all the others, had not thought of casting one. Not very bright as a pup, were you, Voldemort?
"You might try one sometime."
"Yeah." The Slytherin eyed Harry shrewdly. "You know? You're pretty smart for a Hufflepuff."
Hm, thought Harry warily. What to do with that statement? Well, at least it gave him an opening for a lecture. He needed to vent some steam, and ranting about inter-house prejudices--which he'd discovered in his post-Hogwarts years were extremely useless and more often than not completely wrong anyway--seemed a safe enough way to do that.
"Don't be stupid. Trying to judge a person by his house is pointless." His mood lifted as he gathered momentum. And it wasn't every day you had the chance to call a feared dark lord "stupid" to his face.
"You Slytherins think you're so cunning, but what about Ravenclaws? So are they, in a different way. They have their own ambitions, but they hide it better beneath books and patience. And Gryffindors aren't always brainless and rash. Their ideas might seem simple, but sometimes those are most useful. There are fewer things than can go wrong. At least a Gryffindor will never have to regret having the chance to do something and not do it. They're very impulsive.
"And Hufflepuffs. We're a hardworking lot, but don't mistake our enthusiasm as compensation for lack of intelligence or magical ability. I know many people from my class that are very intelligent." A lie, actually; he didn't know his housemates too well, a fact which he planned to soon rectify. "You shouldn't judge people as a group unless you plan to regard them as one your whole life. Get to know a person individually if you want to know if he's smart or foolish or cowardly. That's the only way you can be sure."
"A philosophical Hufflepuff. Now I've seen everything."
Harry nodded amicably and prepared to continue his rant but stopped abruptly in surprise. The Slytherin had been—teasing? Disconcerted, Harry drew his robes tighter.
"So. What do you want?"
"I want you to meet someone."
"Meet—oh, all right. Lead on." At last, some results.
Riddle shook his head. "No. We need to use a Portkey."
Very suspicious now, Harry studied the cold snow on the ground. "Right. Well, bring it out."
The other wizard's hand dipped into his pocket, bringing out a transparent, red sphere that reminded Harry of the prototype Remembrall. He reached out to touch the object, firmly restraining the impulse to flee. Though he had prepared himself for the unpleasant pull that accompanied Portkey travel, the harsh jerk that snatched him from Hogwarts was so violent, he almost blacked out.
The world finally came back into focus, so promptly that Harry wondered which had been the most disorienting: the ride there, or the aftershock. Riddle steadied him, and Harry murmured his gratitude. He felt the urge to straighten his glasses, which was odd. He had not worn them in years.
A pleasant voice interrupted the unnatural calm of this new place. "Tom has told me many...interesting things about you, Mr Williams."
Grindelwald. Even without Dumbledore's pictures, he would have known, somehow. Harry's Sense snapped into use. He reached out with it to feel the evil wizard's magical signature and nearly jumped back with a surprised yelp. He had recently started associating colours with magical auras, and Grindelwald's was darker than anything he had ever come across (although he guessed that Voldemort would "feel" similar; his skill at Sensing had been almost less than nothing before defeating the Dark Lord).
The black would not have been so horrible if it weren't for the strong, almost magnetic pull it had, like a black hole. The man's magic sucked at every living thing around him.
"Who are you?" he asked, obligingly ignorant and dense, like one of those overrated heroes in Muggle telly. And, though he was loath to admit it, like most famous Gryffindor heroes.
"I am called Grindelwald." There was no gloating or pride, a fact that was worrying. Harry knew how to deal with egotistical dark wizards. They were actually very simple to deal with, if such a term could be applied to hunting dark wizards. It was the practical ones you had to worry about.
The first curse came without warning. With the lightning reflexes of years of duelling and a muttered "Protego," Harry threw up a light barrier. A small pause, and the second curse, much stronger, hurtled toward him. He pulled at the strings of magic in the air and wove his second barrier. It was barely enough—the shield wobbled and groaned under the pressure.
Without waiting for the next spell, Harry added the third layer of shielding. The instant it settled in place, two spells tore at the dome. Wonderful. Voldemort-in-training had decided to join in. Practising Harry-bashing early on; no wonder he was so good at it.
Gritting his teeth, Harry focussed all his efforts on keeping the shield up. Really wishing that he had been exercising his magic more, he summoned a fourth layer. This was bad, he told himself in the very brief pause he allowed himself for thinking. He very rarely went beyond fifth layer. Because if things were desperate enough that you needed it, chances were it would buy you only a few extra seconds to make peace with the deity of your choice.
The next assault was stronger; Harry almost fell to his knees under the strain. Only iron control and a healthy supply of frustration and annoyance kept the shield from falling.
Steadying himself, violently burying terrifying thoughts of defeat and capture as deep as he could, Harry invoked the fifth barrier. This would not be enough, he knew. With demonic speed, he gathered the magic around him and whispered another incantation, building the rarely used sixth layer of protection. One Unforgivable…then another…and a third. They bounced away, although each impact made Harry dizzy with weakness. He was about to attempt the impossible and risk the seventh barrier when he finally remembered the panic button. And then the attacks stopped.
"I told you," said Riddle very calmly to his fellow dark wizard.
"I always like to know how skilled my defence wizards are. The best way to discover this is to attack before they trust me. Your Hufflepuff certainly passed the test." That even voice sounded impressed—he damn well better sound impressed, Harry thought darkly, taking heaving breaths to recover from the huge energy expenditure. He's just lucky I didn't have time to prepare myself for the offensive.
"I'm floored by your friend's hospitality, Riddle," he gritted out, taking down the shield carefully and trying not to sound as winded and exhausted as he felt. Or as irritated as he felt. "As if the bloody 'key weren't enough."
"Well, you had a rather strong shield up during the mock battle. I was curious how much stronger it could be. Now I know."
With admirable restraint, he did not mutter the age-old phrase about feline mortality rates in relation to curiosity.
Grindelwald spoke next, soothingly, as if he were coaxing an injured animal to let him close. "We bear you no ill will. As your young classmate said, it was a test of your abilities. Your defence skills are quite formidable."
Not as formidable as my offensive skills as I will be delighted to demonstrate at a time of my choosing, Harry thought. But now was not the time, and he donned his mask of innocence yet again. "I'm not sure I understand. Why did you want to test my defence skills? This isn't school."
"It's quite simple," said Grindelwald, still maddeningly soothing. After Riddle's insensitivity, it was enough to calm Harry down somewhat. "What do you plan on doing after you graduate?"
Been there, done that, still doing it. Truthfully? Kill you. "I've never thought about it."
"You are very talented at defence," Riddle suggested a bit too quickly for it not to have been contrived. Ah well, Harry awarded him points for the attempt.
"My uncle—"
"Yes, your famous uncle. He has some suggestions for you, doesn't he? Perhaps too many." Even though his "uncle" had made no such suggestions--at least, not in the way Grindelwald meant--Harry felt a slight stirring of anger directed at Perseus. He quelled it hastily, and confusion replaced the feeling. Since when was he so fickle? "But you are not restricted to what he wishes you to do. There are other paths open to you, should you choose them. Whatever he might think, you are capable of making your own decisions. He doubts you, but you can prove your capability to him."
"I think I see," Harry said, carefully dropping his façade of simple-mindedness. "But I wouldn't really 'prove' anything to him. In fact, I won't be able to let him know."
"You do understand." The older man moved closer to Harry, smiling kindly. But he wasn't fooled. Er, he didn't think so, anyway. "Our needs complement each other. I am in need of a skilled defence wizard, and you need a purpose. Don't all young wizards?"
"You've killed people," Harry stated, curious to see how Grindelwald would respond to that. "Many of them."
"I do not deny it," agreed the other man. "What about your uncle? Has he never killed?"
"He has, yes."
"Aurors kill wizards as surely as my people do. Both use Unforgivables to accomplish this, don't they? The only difference is that they have the formidable backing of the government, unlike us. And yet, what crimes are we committing? Is desiring change a crime? Is dreaming of progress wrong? And would you be committing such a crime to side with those you believe can accomplish more?"
"I couldn't—what would—" What was wrong with him? Why were his thoughts so muddled? Was he that tired from the shield spells? He tried to form a cohesive sentence. "How do I know you're the ones doing the right thing?"
"Ah, 'the right thing.' Always an ambiguous phrase. The right thing according to who? To your uncle? To me? To you?" Grindelwald chuckled softly. "It is not so simple to define. But--ask around. Observe. Surely you notice the disorder that hampers the effectiveness of our government? The shroud of chaos has fallen, leaving the future clouded and uncertain. Our wizarding nations are divided over the question of the war. Do our people participate in the Muggle war? No, it is forbidden. Yet how many would, if they were allowed? How many of our people die because of our neutrality, the very thing that supposedly keeps us safe?"
Clarity returned somewhat, and Harry suspected that the dark wizard had practised that speech many times, on many other people. "I don't know."
"Thousands. Can those of us who support the war effort be accused, then, of sinister intentions? I wish to save lives. The Muggle bombs that drop on our cities do not care who their targets are. Wizard, Muggle, they kill both without prejudice. If we were allowed to use our weapons to protect ourselves, how many innocent lives would be spared? Surely that is a cause worth fighting for, even worth dying for. Perhaps killing for. That choice is difficult to make...but you must know where you stand when the time comes to decide."
His thoughts scrambled again. Harry closed his eyes, nauseated by the tingle of foreign emotions, a seemingly innocent stir of patriotic anger and eagerness to help this older wizard. What—was—wrong with him? He struggled to find where his feelings ended and the strange ones began. Some unseen fist released his mind, and he could once again think. This wasn't Legilimency. It was too...broad for that, somehow. Unfocussed. Could this be some hitherto unknown branch of mind magic?
"But how can I know?" he asked a bit shakily, trying to gather his wits. "How can I be sure what I'm doing is right?"
"You try," answered Grindelwald. "Try, and see if it feels right to you. I can give you that opportunity."
"I...I'll think about it."
"Good." Grindelwald smiled with quiet satisfaction, as though he'd already won. The sight sent chills up and down Harry's spine. "Do let me know what you decide. Tom will see you back to Hogwarts. Tom?"
"Take this, Harry." Riddle held out a different globe, a green one. Harry withheld a sigh of both relief and dismay as he put his hand over it. The brutal tug was even more jarring now that he anticipated it.
Swirls of colour melted into snow and sky and stars.
"Isn't there some way you can make the ride smoother?" he asked, massaging his pounding temples.
"No."
"Ah. It was worth a try."
The two wizards walked silently back to the school; Riddle's silence likely due to the importance of the last hour and Harry's because of a headache that would have amplified any sound twice as effectively as a Sonorus charm. Too drained to revel in the lack of attention his housemates paid to his late arrival (something that would have been the talk of the Gryffindor Tower, had this been Hogwarts during his years there), Harry fell into his bed.
"Night," he called out quietly.
"Night, Harry," chorused the other boys, who were engaged in the somewhat quieter pastime of wizard's chess. And at that moment, he would have given anything to be in his dormitory listening to Ron and Seamus and Dean play Exploding Snap, headache and all.
"Night, Ron," he mouthed, wondering if his silent ghost was listening. Not that it would matter. Few things did.
"Alohomora!"
Harry swore bitterly when the spell failed. He tried another lock-forcing spell of more questionable origin. It, too, failed. "They know we're here, and they've taken precautions. We're going to have to force our way in. Wands up." At his command, eight hands rose. "Aim." Eight wands steadied. "Cast!"
Eight beams of magic hit the door, closely followed by a thick ray that was searing with brightness, tempered by desperation. The sealed door groaned and a large crack formed in the middle. Pressing his lips together grimly, Harry performed the spell a second time. His sole effort smashed the door into a smouldering pile of splinters and molten iron.
He half-leapt into the misty room, but one of the Aurors, a grim, grey-haired one, pulled him back. "No. We're not risking you. Move in, boys." The seven other Aurors in Harry's unit obeyed the tall, imposing man who had spoken. Harry blinked eyes that were filling with tears not entirely caused by the smoke seeping from the exposed room.
"McClaude." His voice shook and he took a calming breath. "McClaude, please. I have to see. I want to—no. I have to know. Don't keep me from her. If she's still alive…She'll have—she'll need—"
The other man shook his head gently. Brushing at his eyes, Harry cursed again. He cursed the devotion of his men to their leader, the Death Eaters that taunted him by letting slip where they were holding Ginny before vanishing moments before he arrived, and most of all himself, because it had been his fault in the first place.
"It's not your fault," McClaude said firmly, correctly interpreting Harry's thoughts. Despite the man's advantage in both size and age, he seemed reluctant to physically keep his commander away from the carnage. "Let the men do their job. If the Death Eaters saw you…" He let the sentence trail off. There was no need to say more.
If the Death Eaters saw Harry they would either kill Ginny right then, or use her to force him to go with them. If she was even in there. Harry stopped his feeble struggles and squinted at the impenetrable grey that masked the actions taking place past the smashed doorframe. Finally, a shout was raised.
"Four dead, one survivor. We've got him secured, move out!"
Harry clenched his hands, ignoring the pain from where his fingernails cut into his skin. All seven Aurors re-entered the hallway, a cloaked figure held tightly, almost harshly, between two of them. The duo shoved the captive at Harry, who glared with such venom, the other men looked nervous.
"This one wants to speak with you," rumbled barrel-chested Greevar, eyeing "this one" with open distaste. "Thought we'd let you talk with him before handing him over to the pokers."
"The pokers" was the cheerful nickname most Aurors used when referring to the Interrogation Wizards. The term generally evoked a less positive response from prisoners.
"You will let me? Really, how generous," Harry said acidly. Greevar made an apologetic gesture. "Leave us."
His squad started to protest, but Harry shook his head fiercely. "Leave. No arguments."
In chagrined silence, the other Aurors shuffled out of the hall. As much as silent killers of dangerous capability can shuffle.
Harry studied the bound Death Eater in front of him, not bothering to mask his hatred and his fear for Ginny. Matters could explode if the two were further provoked.
"The Dark Lord has a message for you," said the captive softly, almost in a gloating singsong.
"Say it," said the young Auror through clenched teeth, his heart pounding wildly. Why was the Death Eater cooperating? He wasn't supposed to…it didn't make sense…Merlin, he didn't want to know what Voldemort had to say.
"He says to give up. Turn yourself in. If you do, he'll kill the girl. If you don't, he'll keep her alive."
"What do you mean, he'll kill her if I give in?" snapped Harry, in no mood for more of Voldemort's mind games. "That makes no sense."
"Makes perfect sense, if you know what happened to her." The Death Eater's lips curved upward in a horrible parody of a smile. "If you knew what happened to her, you'd beg us to let you kill her."
"You didn't—" Harry broke off, his mind unable to function for a moment. "Not dementors?"
"No," answered the other man breathlessly, taking obvious satisfaction in the reactions he'd provoked. "Not dementors. Men. Wands. Magic. Exactly like dementors but nowhere near as quick. She didn't want to scream, but she gave in, in the end. She had a beautiful scream. The kind that went on and on and you listen for hours to. Like music."
Harry had to remember to breathe. Inhale, exhale, do not kill the enemy, inhale, exhale. "You…"
"Just like a dementor kissed her. Pretty ornament, now, but no one home." The voice became mocking. "Too bad, really. Like buggering a zombie."
Exerting every ounce of willpower he had, Harry kept his wand at his side and his voice even, scornful. "And you really expect me to accept your demands?"
"The esteemed saviour of the world wouldn't turn himself in to release his best friend?" With a sardonic bark of disbelieving laughter, the man nodded at one pocket on his robes. "There is a password-activated Portkey in there. You could go right now. None of your Auror friends are here to stop you."
Harry hesitated, looking uncertainly at the slightly bulging pouch. It could very well be a regular 'key, designed to take him straight to Voldemort. Biting his lip, he reached and took a ballpoint pen out of the Death Eater's pocket. The potential of such disaster in so ordinary (so Muggle!) an object made Harry want to laugh. But if he did that, he feared he would be unable to stop.
"The invocation is 'Liberatio.'" Liberatio? Voldemort certainly had a keen grasp of the darkly ironic. Harry stared at the pen a moment longer in detached fascination, and then put it in his own pocket. "You might not want to take too long, making up your mind. Other things can happen.
"What can I say? Some men get a kick out of fucking a living corpse. Not that it matters. She was just a Muggle-loving whore anyway. Did she spread for you, before your engagement? Maybe she did after, no telling what those Muggle lovers will do. Say, you know what she kept screaming, when we tortured her? She kept screaming and screaming your—"
Harry's self control shattered. His wand arm was raised and aimed in less than a second. He fought to regain his calm, but the world was red and black and everything hurt, inside and outside.
"Ginny was my friend, and a remarkable woman," he growled, grinding his wand into the Death Eater's chest.
"Do it," said the man, showing no trace of fear. "Do it. Say it. Climb down from your pedestal and dirty yourself with some dark magic."
"I won't," said Harry weakly, the firmness of his wand arm belying his words. "I won't," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself.
"Maybe you shouldn't. Like you said, she's quite...'remarkable.' I would like to give her one more go, after my lord frees me."
Harry became very still. Suddenly, morals, ethics, his bloody oath not to use the Dark Arts unless absolutely necessary...all of it seemed empty. Worthless. He aimed his wand and said very firmly, "Avada Kedavra."
The flash of green light was deep emerald, a thing of nightmares for Harry. But it worked splendidly. The prisoner fell, a dreamy, satisfied look frozen on his face. Harry faintly heard the heavy thunder of footsteps running toward him and the anxious shouts. In seconds, McClaude was at his side, asking a thousand questions Harry could not answer. He studied the dead body calmly.
"I killed the prisoner," he remarked, the total lack of emotion in his voice so eerie he barely recognised it. "The pokers won't be happy."
"Are you all right, sir?" A tight, frightened voice—Freeman's. Greevar's rolling tones overrode the others' words. "Harry?"
"It's worse than being dead. She's worse off." A thousand images played through his mind. His best friend laughing with him, just when he needed to be cheered up. Bringing some new confection for him to try on a bad day. Late nights studying. Even later nights searching through hundreds of tomes in search of some way to defeat Voldemort.
"Harry, what did he—" It was McClaude again. "Damn that bloody Death Eater! What did he say to you? Harry?" The older man shook Harry, who made no response. "What did he say? What did he tell you?"
"The truth," Harry answered faintly, feeling the edges of the numbness starting to crumple. "He told me the truth. But I'd rather he'd lied." In little more than a whisper, "I could have taken it if he'd lied."
McClaude continued to speak, in increasingly urgent tones, but Harry could only gaze at the smirking corpse not two metres away. The room grew blurry and the he started shaking. He tried to stop but he couldn't; it didn't matter anyway, because Ginny was good as dead. He would never talk with her or share a joke with her again. Hear her laugh. See that sad smile she sometimes got when they talked about friends long dead. All because of Voldemort. All because of who he was. Because of a little blood.
"Give me a hand, Gregor."
"…get a psychowizard?"
"…knew we should have kept that bastard away from him…"
"…call Dumbledore…?"
"Quiet! Gregor, I want that thing out of my sight. Greevar, start the clean up, take Swanson and Jameson. Freeman, forget the goddamn pokers and get working!" McClaude shook Harry carefully. "Harry? I need you to move; you need to get out here."
Harry jerked his head back and forth. "Harry, give me your hand." The older Auror was almost pleading now. "Go on. Let's get you...somewhere safe."
The young man took the hand, trying to focus anywhere but the pain that slashed through him, inside where it hurt the most. He could only see Ginny's brilliant smile twist and distort into a grimace of pain and then a blank mask of nothingness. "There's a good lad. It will be all right. Another step now, that's good."
Was he moving? Was that him walking? It didn't feel like it… Harry felt for the pen that rested innocently in his pocket. And with a shaking voice, he whispered a promise to one loyal friend he knew he would keep. Some of the others looked around upon hearing the sound, but Harry did not meet the glances.
"Let's get you home," said McClaude with forced cheer. "Cho will be beside herself with worry."
Harry nodded, took a shuddering breath, and let go of the pen in his pocket.