Chapter 4

Harry checked through the store window to see if any of Riddle's friends were there, but the shop was empty save for one older man browsing the shelves, and Riddle himself, seated behind the counter reading a book. Harry pushed open the door without any hesitation, and Riddle only glanced up for a second at the sound of the jingling bell.

Harry wasn't a power-hungry person, or so he thought, but he just couldn't resist coming to gloat now that he'd dealt Riddle some very real setbacks in his quest to become a Dark Lord. It hardly mattered that Riddle had no clue what Harry had done. Harry knew, and that was enough to fill him with a very real sense of glee as he stared at the oblivious Riddle for a few moments.

The old man was browsing the charms section, which Harry had planned to look through because he needed a pensieve and perhaps he could find a book that detailed how to make one. But Harry wanted privacy so he made his way to the potions section instead.

When Harry had learned he needed to sit his potions NEWT, he'd spent an evening whining at Ron and Hermione how devastating it was that they lost The Half-Blood Prince's book because it had been the single most useful potions book Harry had ever had the pleasure of getting his hands on. Hermione had sat on the couch, arms crossed tightly, a sour look on her face, until she'd finally snapped at Harry that if he wanted his book back all he had to do was use a pensieve and he could recreate all of the Half-Blood Prince's recipes himself.

Harry had been so utterly grateful for her suggestion that he might have kissed Hermione then and there, if Ron hadn't been sitting beside her.

Anyway, Harry had asked Kreacher where one might buy a pensieve, because he had no idea, and Kreacher had looked at Harry in obvious disappointment, shook his head and led Harry to Orion Black's old study, where Harry found a pensieve hidden away in one of the drawers of the large, oak desk that dominated the room.

The pensieve was small and looked very old, but it worked perfectly. From that moment on Harry had spent a few hours every evening going through every memory he had of using the Half-Blood Prince's book, looking over his memory-self's shoulder and memorizing all the altered recipes he could see. Once back in Orion's office, Harry wrote them all down in a dedicated notebook. Just the act of memorizing and writing down dozens and dozens of altered recipes did wonders for Harry's understanding of potions, and undoubtedly had been one of the biggest reasons Harry had ended up with an Outstanding on his potions NEWT.

Now that Harry was stuck in the past, he planned to do the exact same thing. He remembered a few of the Prince's altered recipes, of potions he used a lot in his own life and preferred to brew himself, but he knew that if he used a pensieve this way, he wouldn't just be able to copy down all of the Prince's recipes, but he would also be able to observe every memory he had of every potions lesson he'd ever attended, and thus memorize every single potions recipe he'd ever brewed. And any recipe that hadn't been invented yet in 1942, Harry could potentially pass off as his own creation.

He'd pick and choose which potions to claim as his own inventions at some later point, and for now he'd just focus on collecting as many recipes as he could.

Since Harry was going to be creating a potions empire, he had decided to actually apply himself to understanding potions even better than he already did. He had learned a lot while studying for his NEWTs, but he was by no means a Potions Master just yet. Thankfully, Harriet had a very analytical mind, which Harry vowed to put to good use by focussing on learning as much about potions as he possibly could.

Hence why he was now happily browsing the potions section, face carefully hidden by his hood once again.

He quickly found an old potions tome that contained all manner of interesting potions recipes, of things Harry wasn't very familiar with, such as a whole line of euphoria potions that sounded like they might make the drinker high in all manner of ways. Harry was quite sure a number of these potions were illegal, but that didn't mean they weren't interesting to study and perhaps use as a basis for a new potion eventually. There were also a number of healing potions found in the book Harry wasn't familiar with, so he decided to take the book home with him, to give it a thorough read.

He also found a small book completely devoted to Felix Felicis, and the history of this liquid luck, and with plenty of anecdotes of witches and wizards who had consumed the potion at some point in their lives. Harry had some very positive memories when it came to good old Felix, so he selected the book for nostalgia's sake alone.

The next book Harry selected was one full of personal hygiene and cosmetics potions. Harry remembered very well that Fleamont Potter, his previous grandfather, had earned their family tons of gold all by inventing the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, so Harry wasn't about to dismiss the idea of experimenting with such potions in the future.

Finally, Harry found a small book that looked about ready to fall apart. The cover was a dark brown leather, with plenty of rips and scuffed edges, but without any mention of a title or author. Harry found those on the first page: The Potion of the Ancestors, by Florrie Flutterford.

Harry's heart must have skipped at least five beats and he was light-headed at once, almost dropping the books in his arms. Taking several deep breaths, Harry opened the small, thin book and skimmed over the text as quickly as he could. He couldn't believe he'd found this little book, and his chest tightened in instant regret when he realized he couldn't share this amazing discovery with Hermione.

During the many, many months they'd been hauled up in a tent together, with or without Ron, Harry and Hermione had talked about everything and anything. Hermione, as it turned out, had lots of interesting ideas about the wizarding world. One of those ideas was that there was no such thing as muggleborns.

Instead, Hermione suggested that all witches and wizards born to muggles were in fact squib descendants. It made perfect sense when you thought about it. Squibs were magical in essence. They caried magical genes in their bodies, even if they themselves didn't have enough magic to cast spells. Then squibs were abandoned in the muggle world, where they ended up marrying muggles and having children, who also carried some of those dormant magical genes in them. And then, at some point down the line, one of these squib descendants had children with another squib descendant, and a magical child was born.

It explained why muggleborns often had more than one witch or wizard in the family. Look at Colin and Dennis Creevey, for example. Both magical, but with utterly muggle parents.

Even Harriet had another magical person in the family. Evelyn's younger sister, Carole Wickens, was a muggleborn witch. She'd attended Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw, had proven to be something of an Ancient Runes prodigy, and after finishing school had quickly been snatched up by the Department of Mysteries, where she worked to this day. As most true academics, Aunt Carole was completely consumed by her work and Harriet had never been very close to her, unfortunately. Perhaps having a magical confidant might have helped Harriet better deal with her troubled life.

Anyway, Harry had agreed with Hermione's ideas, especially when Hermione pointed out how few muggleborns actually were born during any given year. If muggleborns happened spontaneously, why were their numbers so very, very low. There were around 60 million muggles in the UK alone. Yet every year only around 20 new muggleborns were registered, out of 100 or so new students for the average Hogwarts year.

That were only 20 muggleborns out of an average of 700000 muggle births per year. Less than 0,003 percent of muggle births in the UK were muggleborns. That tiny number made sense when you assumed it took two squib descendants to create a new witch or wizard.

Hermione had looked far and wide for evidence of these theories. She'd tried to dig up her own family's records, and she'd looked for a magical way to determine one's magical ancestry, but she'd found nothing. And then her work kept her busy and she got married and she had little time left to dig any further.

Yet here Harry was, stuck in 1942, where he might have just found the answer, if Florrie Flutterford's potion worked. Harry looked over the ingredient list. It required lots of expensive items, plus Thestral blood and tail hair.

Harry couldn't remember ever having come across a potion before that used any part of a Thestral. The magical world mostly feared those bizarre creatures, and shunned them at every opportunity though Harry himself felt only positive things about them.

Harry wasn't even sure if you could buy Thestral ingredients in the average apothecary. Not that it mattered, because Harry happened to know where one could find a nice, sizable herd of them.

Inhaling a deep breath, Harry clutched the books to his chest and hurried towards the counter. Project pensieve could wait. Harry wanted to create Florrie Flutterford's potion as soon as possible and test it out with Harriet's muggleborn blood.

Riddle looked up from his book with an annoyed little frown when Harry placed her selections on the counter. With a small sigh, Riddle picked up her books one by one, to determine their price. Most books were a knut, apparently, but some of the rarer ones were a bit more expensive. When Riddle came across the blank brown cover, he couldn't hold back his curiosity and flipped the cover open.

Harry was very intrigued to witness Riddle's reaction to the title. Riddle's brown eyes widened and he inhaled a sharp little breath before whipping his gaze towards Harry while he narrowed his eyes.

Oh, Harry knew what was happening at once. As far as he could remember, Riddle had discovered his Slytherin ancestry sometime before his fifth year, or very early into the schoolyear itself. And seeing as how Riddle had apparently spent all summer reading in a bookstore, it made sense he'd found Florrie Flutterford's book at some point, used the potion on himself, and discovered his ancestry at last.

Harry quickly bit his lip so he wouldn't start cackling right into Riddle's ridiculously handsome face. Here was the answer to Riddle's most burning question, and Harry was snatching it away from him right under his nose, and all for one measly knut.

Harry could see the moment Riddle considered going for his wand, probably to obliviate Harry and keep the book for himself. But the old man was still browsing the charms section and would make an unwelcome witness. Besides, Riddle had no idea who Harry was, since her cloak and hood hid her identity. She might be a 15-year-old muggleborn, or she might be an Auror, or a powerful pureblood who'd see Riddle charged for any kind of attempted assault. Riddle's shoulders relaxed and he plastered a polite smile on his face while he ducked his head a little, probably trying to look under Harry's hood.

Not going to happen. Riddle was very tall, even as a teen, and Harry was rather short, so Riddle would have to bend double at the waist if he wanted to get a good look at Harry's face and that would be much too obvious.

"These please," Harry said, pulling Florrie's Flutterford's book out of Riddle's hands and snapping it shut. He did not want to give Riddle the opportunity to glance at the actual potions recipe. "Four knuts?"

Riddle kept smiling, eyes narrowing again as he clearly was thinking of every possible way he could get the information he wanted. "An interesting subject, isn't it?"

Ah. So Riddle was going for small-talk. Harry pulled out his money bag and dug out four knuts. "Yes," he replied, because he couldn't help himself. "It's going to help me prove there is no such thing as muggleborns. There are only squib descendants."

And with that, Harry smacked the four knuts on the counter, clutched the books to his chest and hurried out of the store, leaving a quietly fuming Riddle behind.

Let Riddle believe himself a muggleborn for a while longer, until he found another way to prove his Slytherin ancestry. It would probably do wonders for his overinflated ego.

Harry made a quick stop in the apothecary, to pick up any ingredients he needed for the potion and didn't have in stock in his potions cellar back in Murder Cottage. Then he apparated back home to join his family for a quick lunch. Right after he was done with the dishes, Harry once again broke into Hogwarts. It was becoming a bit of a habit, wasn't it? But no one seemed to notice Harry coming and going as he pleased from the castle, so he saw no reason to stop.

Having seen Riddle again did remind Harry that he wanted to do away with any books mentioning Horcruxes in the Restricted Section of the library. So instead of heading to the Forbidden Forest straight away, Harry made a quick stop at the library. The spells used to lock the library were easily undone for someone with Auror-level knowledge of ward breaking.

Harry knew which book housed all the information on creating a horcrux. He, Ron and Hermione had paged through it often enough during their horcrux hunt, after Hermione had liberated it from Dumbledore's office.

Secrets of the Darkest Arts stood innocently on a shelf in the Restricted Section, as if it wasn't the book that had ended up changing the wizarding world for good. Though why a fucking school kept such a book on its shelves was a mystery to Harry. Yes, he believed that people should be able to study all types of magic, but the kind of subjects discussed in Secrets of the Darkest Arts were perhaps best saved for adult academics, not for a bunch of impulsive teenagers.

Harry tucked the books away safely in his bag, and then skimmed the shelves if he saw any other titles that discussed horcruxes. He didn't think so. But moment later, when he spotted Magick Moste Evile on a nearby shelf, he knew he'd been wrong. He remembered Hermione going through this book because it briefly mentioned horcruxes, though not how to make them. Either way, Harry was taking it as well, because he didn't want Riddle to even realize such a thing as horcruxes existed.

That done, Harry strolled through the castle, enjoying the sights of his old school as he made his way to the forest. Only once he was a few yards into the forest did he drop his disillusionment charm. He summoned a few rabbits, killed them with a quick bludgeon hex, and then headed towards the area of the forest the Thestrals called home.

Thankfully, that location hadn't changed over time, and Harry carefully approached the first Thestral he saw. He offered one of the dead rabbits as a treat while he plucked a few hairs from the animal's tail. The Thestral barely noticed as he started tearing up the rabbit. Harry threw the second rabbit down for the Thestral and got a couple of empty vials out of his bag. The spell to painlessly draw blood was one Harry had learned for his potions NEWTs, because it was important to know it when collecting potions ingredients. Harry hadn't really had an opportunity to use it in the field until now, but he remembered it perfectly, so he quickly filled the vials with blood without breaking the Thestral's skin. The charm summoned the blood directly from the vein to the vial, without causing any discomfort or pain. Quite ingenious, really.

After he was done, Harry patted the Thestral on his neck a few times, thanking him politely, and then he strolled back through the forest. He found a few unicorn tail hairs stuck in some brambles, which he also collected. He kept an eye out for other useful things, and he ended up with a few ingredients he could add to his collection, like borage, some wild dittany and some hemlock he found growing beside a little brook.

Harry returned to Murder Cottage and got to brewing at once. Thankfully Florrie's Flutterford's potion wasn't very difficult, but it did take over an hour to brew, and there were a few steps that took careful timing.

After the potion was done, Harry added seven drops of his own blood. He spread out the largest piece of blank parchment he had and carefully poured the potion across the surface. The liquid seemed to take on a life of its own and fanned out until it covered every bit before sinking into the parchment.

Now Harry had to wait for about ten minutes before the potion would show him his magical ancestors, squibs included. To keep himself from bursting out of his skin with curiosity, Harry busied himself with making a strong cup of tea. He sipped it while he paced in front of the table, until finally words started appearing.

At the very bottom, Harriet Hubble's name appeared. Branching out from her were smudges, little indicators where muggle ancestors without enough magic of their own stood on the family tree. Soon enough, a name appeared above Harriet's matriarchal branch, leading up from her grandmother's name. Someone which turned out to be a great-great-grandmother of Evelyn and Carole.

Ebba Feborg.

The name was unfamiliar to Harry. It sounded Scandinavian, perhaps. He'd look into it later.

Another name appeared above Evelyn and Carole's spots, this time on their father's branch, a little further up.

Alice Graves

And finally, a name popped up that made Harry's breath hitch, and his eyes tear up. Far above Martin Hubble's name, at least eight generations removed, his squib ancestor appeared.

Edward Potter.

Harry sat down on a chair at the table abruptly, his legs suddenly too weak to carry him.

He was still a Potter! Well, sort of. Very, very distantly. But a Potter nonetheless.

Was that why he'd ended up in Harriet Hubble's body? Because she was, however far removed, related to the Potters? Harry frowned as he remembered that the voice had called him the Master of Death. Harry had never put much stock into the whole Master of Death thing, because collecting the hallows had never done anything for him. That he knew of, at least.

But could it be that Harry Potter, a descendent of Ignotus Peverell, could only be reborn into a body that was also descendent of the Peverell family? The only ones that applied to were the Potters, and the Gaunts, of which Tom Riddle was the only one left, aside from his crazy uncle Morfin Gaunt, who wasn't making any babies anytime soon.

Was that why Harry was suddenly living inside the body of a fifteen-year-old girl? Because she was the only one available that was the correct magical match?

Suddenly, Harry missed Ron and Hermione with an intensity that overwhelmed him, and the tears that had been shimmering in his eyes finally fell down his cheeks. How he wished he could discuss all these theories with his friends, like he'd done since they were eleven years old and spent their days solving whatever mysteries Dumbledore wanted them to find.

Fucking hell, he was never getting Ron and Hermione back, was he?

Harry buried his face in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders shaking, now that the knowledge that his old life was well and truly gone finally sunk in. He'd lost everyone he cared about, everyone he loved, and he was alone in this new world.

Yes, he had Harriet's family, and he was grateful for them, but they didn't know who Harry really was, and Harry wasn't about to tell them. Harriet's Aunt Carole might come and lock him up in the Department of Mysteries or something.

Harry cried for a good fifteen minutes, unable to stop now that he'd finally let his emotions out that he'd frantically been pushing back ever since he'd woken up in Harriet's body.

He missed his friends desperately. He missed Ron's laugh, and Hermione's exasperated sighs, and Molly's motherly hugs and Arthur's pats on the shoulder. He missed Ginny's warm body and Luna's bright smile and Neville's flushed cheeks and Kreacher's disapproving frowns.

Strangely enough, Harry did not really miss his old life. He just missed the people in it. Was that why he hadn't made any effort to get back? Because part of him actually enjoyed his current life as an anonymous muggleborn? Yeah, Harry missed his penis, but he also rather enjoyed not being Harry Potter anymore.

Being Harry Potter had been exhausting, to be honest. Spending his teenage years hunting down a Dark Lord and running for his life was only the start of it. Harry was a celebrity in his old life, perhaps the most famous person in modern Britain. People expected all sorts of things from him that Harry couldn't possibly fulfil. The newspapers were constantly making up the most ludicrous stories about him, and people always felt they could talk to him about their own problems whenever Harry quickly tried to run an errand after a long, exhausting day. Then there was the constant speculation about his love life, because every witch and wizard in Britain felt they were entitled to give their opinion on it, preferably to Harry's face when he was out doing his job as an Auror.

For fuck's sake, Harry had on more than one occasion, during a one night stand, had a witch cancel the protection charms mid-fuck with a finite incantatem to try to baby trap him. It was a very good thing that Hermione, wise woman that she was, had warned Harry about such things when he'd first started sleeping around, and from that moment on Harry always took a potion to keep himself infertile on top of always using protection charms.

Seriously, though, having to worry about all of shit whenever he wanted to get laid was a fucking nightmare.

So, if Harry was honest, he didn't miss his old life and he rather liked having a anonymous identity that he could use to build a whole new life for himself. He did miss his penis, and his friends, but perhaps that was the price he had to pay for this new opportunity.

Harry wiped his eyes dry, made himself another strong cup of tea and gave himself a break while he sipped his cup. Hermione's theory so far proved correct. Now Harry had to convince a few more muggleborns to use the potion, but that was something that could wait until September. Harry decided to take the rest of the day off, and returned to the Hubble's home, where he put some of the magic he'd learned from Mrs Ashford to good use and cleaned the whole house in less than an hour. Then he cast a discreet ventilation charm on the sitting room, since Martin smoked a pipe and Vincent was going through cigarettes like they were candy. Seriously, did no one realize how bad smoking was in the 1940s? They were both doctors, for fuck's sake. Anyway, Harry was tired of sitting in a room full of smoke every evening.

Finally he prepared a nice meal for his new family. He was getting pretty fucking good at cooking charms, much to his relief. It saved an enormous amount of time instead of having to prepare everything by hand.

The next day Harry decided to spend a quiet day in Murder Cottage, preparing several shield charms. Harry was well aware that he'd drawn the attention of Tom Riddle, now that Harry had snatched something away that Riddle desperately wanted, so it was time to make sure Riddle, or anyone else, couldn't easily curse Harry in the back.

Harry started with a few small items of the silver jewellery he'd kept from the Hogwarts stash. He inscribed them with the necessary runes, added protection charms, and then put them on. They were only a necklace, a bracelet and some earrings, all small and unobtrusive. After that was done, Harry started adding shield charms to all his clothing, both his muggle things and his Hogwarts robes. He remembered how easily Mulciber had stunned poor Harriet in the back, and he wasn't about to let something like that happen to him.

The day after that Harry realized that while he'd been an excellent dueller in his previous life, he was now occupying a completely new kind of body. It was much smaller than his previous one, plus it had breasts, that sometimes got in the way when Harry made quick arm movement. It was probably a good idea to practice duelling in this new body before he ended up in a real duel and found out that his new body didn't move like the one he was used to.

So Harry set up some quickly transfigured dummies in the yard and put his new body through the paces of learning how to duel. Breathing techniques, the correct placement of his feet, his posture, Harry didn't skip any of it.

Duelling in Harriet's body was a whole different experience. For one, her cardio was abysmal, and Harry started rectifying that at once by spending a few hours every day riding a bicycle around the countryside as fast as he could. Women weren't supposed to jog in the 1940s, but no one blinked an eye at a teen girl riding a bicycle. Harry also took many vigorous hikes up and down the hills surrounding Murder Cottage to build up his stamina.

Harriet's body was quite small, no taller than 5 foot 2, and therefor made a small target. Harry also practiced ducking and evading, which his new body was exceptionally well suited for.

After a couple of days of focusing on his physical fitness and his magical protection, Harry felt confident enough to return to Riddle.

To find a book on pensieves, or so he told himself.

In truth, Harry was getting a bit bored, now that all the most pressing matters were dealt with, and he did so enjoy messing up Riddle's life. A man had to have his hobbies, after all.

But as Harry walked inside the bookstore he realized at once that things were about to go very differently than before. Because instead of barely glancing up, Riddle sat up straight the second he recognized the grey cloak and hood Harry was wearing. He might not know Harry's identity, but naturally he'd memorized what Harry always wore.

Riddle closed his book, got up and hurried towards Harry as quickly as was polite to do for a store clerk.

"Good afternoon," Riddle said with a little bow as he appeared beside Harry, an eager little smile on his stupidly handsome face.

"Hi," Harry replied quietly, keeping his side turned towards Riddle while he looked over the charms section. He was the only customer in the store, but he wasn't worried. If Riddle dared to go for his wand, Harry would smack him down hard.

But Riddle did no such thing. "Your comment about muggleborns being squib descendants was very intriguing. Did you manage to prove it?"

Harry briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Of course Riddle would want to try to get Harry to cough up that potion one way or another. Harry should have just kept his mouth shut, but baiting Riddle was just too tempting, wasn't it. Harry knew very well he lacked any kind of impulse control. "I did, though my sample size is very small still."

Riddle's face lit up at once. "If you require more volunteers to test the potion on, I'd happily suggest myself."

Of course he would, the opportunistic bastard. "You're a muggleborn?" Harry asked, curious to see Riddle's reaction to that. Voldemort would have murdered someone straight up for even just suggesting such a thing.

But Riddle only gave a sad little shrug while ducking his head. "I am an orphan who grew up in the muggle world. My name is Tom Riddle, which is not a wizarding name to my knowledge."

"No, it's not," Harry agreed, but even that didn't get a negative reaction. "The potion requires blood. And it's very expensive."

Riddle briefly bit his lip, which looked downright endearing, which what the fuck? Why would Harry even think such a thing? He blamed Harriet's stupid crush for that. Just a weird reaction from his new body.

"I don't have much money," Riddle said, and he sounded like he truly regretted that. "But I am a talented wizard."

"You're what, thirteen?" Harry asked, because he just couldn't help himself. He pursed his lips so he wouldn't cackle in Riddle's face.

Riddle frowned, his eyes darkening just a bit in annoyance. "I'm fifteen. I'll be sixteen in just a few months."

Harry shrugged. "I'll be happy to take you on as a candidate for the potion, but you do have to pay for it. The ingredients alone cost at least a galleon." Which wasn't a lie. And a galleon in the 1940s was at least 150 pounds in 2005 money, so it was far more than a poor orphan would be able to afford.

Riddle's frown deepened while he pursed his lips, staring down at Harry's hood. "I cannot pay you that amount. But if there is anything else I can do for you, just name it."

Harry was about to dismiss Riddle completely, until he realized that this was a unique opportunity. Riddle desperately wanted something from him, which put Harry in a position of power. "There is nothing I need at this time, but I would be willing to accept a favour from you."

"A favour?" Riddle asked, just a bit suspiciously.

"Yes. At some point in the future I will ask you for a favour, and you will grant it to me. It's nothing that will endanger your own life, I swear it," Harry explained patiently. "But I will need a magical promise."

"And in exchange I receive what exactly?" Riddle asked with a shrewd look, eyes narrowed and head tilted.

"In exchange I will come here tomorrow with the potion and we'll find out if you're a muggleborn or not," Harry said, and he was terribly amused to see Riddle's eyes light up like a child's who'd just been promised ten extra presents for his birthday.

"It is a tempting offer," Riddle said, not unreasonably. "But I cannot in good conscience promise a favour to a person whose identity I do not know."

Harry didn't blame Riddle for saying this, since Harry himself would also refuse such a deal. Any sane witch or wizard would. There really was nothing keeping Harry from revealing his identity to Riddle at this point. Harry very much doubted Riddle even knew who Harriet Hubble was. So without any further hesitation, Harry pulled his hood back and blinked up at Riddle.

Riddle scrunched his eyebrows up as he peered down at Harry's face in obvious confusion. It took everything Harry had not to burst out in laughter, because he'd been right. Riddle had absolutely no idea who he was.

"We go to Hogwarts together. We're in the same year," Harry pointed out, just because he could. Riddle's eyes widened for a second, before he narrowed them, now looking even more bewildered than before.

And even though Harry wanted to laugh in Riddle's ridiculously handsome face, a part of him also felt a very deep sadness on Harriet's behalf. Here was a person who'd shared numerous classes with her for four fucking years, and he had no clue who she even was. Harry's heart ached on Harriet's behalf.

"Of course," Riddle murmured agreeably, probably trying to save face. "We have…ancient runes together, correct?"

"And arithmancy," Harry said, unable to hold back a very amused smile. "And potions and defence."

"Ah yes," Riddle said, as though he suddenly remembered Harriet, which Harry was absolutely sure he didn't. He probably just remembered their shared class schedule. "You're a Ravenclaw."

"Yep." Harry kept his mouth shut. It was clear Riddle couldn't come up with Harriet's name, and Harry wasn't going to make it easy on him.

But apparently Riddle didn't need to know his name to assume Harry wasn't a threat to him. "I accept," Riddle said, holding out his hand. "The ancestor potion in exchange for one future favour."

"I accept," Harry replied formally, taking Riddle's large hand in his own much smaller one. "One future favour in exchange for the ancestor potion."

To seal the magical promise, they both pushed a little magic into each other. This was expected.

What wasn't expected was that Riddle's magic felt so familiar and warm and inviting that it was like coming home, and Harry's knees instantly grew weak.