Potter was back, and once again he showed surprisingly little urgency in his originally stated purpose of learning from, or about, Lord Voldemort.

It was his fourth visit. The third had been a brief one; he—oh, he supposed he would call himself Tom, for the sake of organizing his thoughts—had forced the boy to recount the story of his possessed professor in detail before he went rushing off again, mumbling about the secret defense club he was due to set up space for and promising to return in a week or two. Tom had been left to sort through swirling thoughts of a squandered chance at the Philosopher's Stone as best he could while disembodied, and while simultaneously grappling anew with the knowledge that his Self had been within these castle walls for nine long months, and not once had He come for him. It was difficult to make progress assimilating these ideas while locked in the diadem; time and mind became hazy, formless things again there, a horror which struck Tom more harshly now than it ever had in all those long decades before the boy had come. Then, he had not been able to notice his own loss of cogency, his descent into a strange and drifting sort of insanity, so slowly did it creep. Now, the difference between the moments of beautiful clarity he could claim as a tangible being with actualized form made for a sharp and telling contrast to the endless diadem days, and caused fresh resentment for his plight to well within him.

One thought remained fixed and clear as he floated in the sea of impenetrable darkness that was his existence as a horcrux: I can't go on like this.

He had no way of tracking the passage of time, but pass it clearly had, for suddenly he found himself standing with two feet on stone again. There was never any warning—one moment he was not, and the next, he simply was. He had only a few instants to push away the disorientation of the change, to feel a crushing relief and furious joy, before receiving his adolescent company. Today the boy had blown in like a small hurricane and slammed himself down into one of the two poorly constructed chairs that once again graced their meeting chamber, and which had now been joined by an equally unstable-looking table between them onto which Potter placed his bag.

He was unsure what he had expected the boy to pull from said bag, but it had certainly not been homework. Nevertheless, homework it appeared to be. Tom had raised a brow in question, but Potter only shrugged and said, "O.W.L.s," as if that explained everything. It certainly explained why he might find himself replete with preparatory busywork; it did not explain why he had chosen this particular place to do it in. No matter—it served Tom, so he would not question it just yet. He simply rested his chin on his knuckles and idly watched the child fumble with his quill, enjoying the sensation of having a chin and knuckles to rest it on. Enjoying even the small mundane sounds of nib on parchment, so normal and so real. Finally, a question worth asking did arise within him.

"Harry, a thought occurs to me. Who was it that informed you of my original name? Was it Dumbledore?" If Dumbledore was going around telling people about the childhood identity of the Dark Lord, he would have to be a good deal more careful in his dealings when at last he emerged from his seclusion in the castle.

The boy looked up, blinking. "Huh? Oh, no, it was you. A memory of you, actually, one that came out of a book."

Tom went cold all over. He lunged forward, gripping the edge of the table. "What?" he hissed, and knew it was edging into Parseltongue by the startled, wary look the Potter boy shot him.

"Yeah, um…" Potter rubbed the back of his neck and uttered what had become Tom's very least favourite phrase over the course of their short acquaintance: "Didn't I tell you about that?"

Tom succumbed to the temptation to cover his face with his hands. It was better than succumbing to the temptation to strangle the boy. It also hid the flush he could feel forming on his cheeks, one fueled by anger and a clawing sensation in his gut that bore a terrible resemblance to fear.

The diary. Potter had to mean the diary. What had happened? How had the book, a precious horcrux, fallen into the hands of an enemy? And where was it now?

"I'm sure I mentioned it," the boy was saying. Tom wanted to scream. "It happened back in second year. The first time I came here I thought the Room had made you out of him somehow, out of some impression of the shade or something, but I couldn't figure out how the castle would know about something I destroyed all the way down in the Chamber of Secrets. It's probably my memories of him it's actually using, though. Or my imagination, maybe." Not for the first time, he eyed the diadem with confusion, but Tom could not worry about that now.

"Destroyed?" Tom repeated, ignoring the rest. His voice sounded half strangled. "In the Chamber? That is not…" he stopped, cleared his throat. No, this was a mistake. It was impossible. Nothing could destroy a horcrux, or near enough to nothing. And as for Salazar's Chamber… "What exactly happened to the me that emerged from the book, Potter?"

"He's dead." Potter's face was grim and sure. He was rubbing his arm now rather than his neck, a spot just above the right elbow. "I killed him, after he tried to possess my friend's little sister and use her to set a basilisk on the school. I killed the basilisk, too, with the Sword of Gryffindor, then used its fang to stab the diary. It bled black ink everywhere. I'm positive it's dead. Dumbledore has it now."

Yes, basilisk venom would do it. Dear darkness, his basilisk. He wanted to believe that the boy was lying, but the details, the mere existence of Chamber or diary or basilisk, were simply unknowable otherwise—and besides, those guileless eyes screamed with honesty he could not ignore. Tom felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare, the sensation far outstripping the bewilderment and indignation he had experienced during the other uninspiring tales regarding his Self. All paled in comparison to this—this unspeakable wrongness.

The Chamber of Secrets, like the Room they sat in now, was not the holy, inviolate place he had believed it to be. His basilisk had been slain. His sacred birthright, defiled. His first horcrux, murdered.

And perhaps worst of all, in a way, the corpse of that horcrux now rested in the clutches of his most persistent enemy. If Dumbledore did not yet know what he held, that realization would not be long in coming. Once, he might have claimed that such knowledge would be beyond Dumbledore's reach, safe from all discovery behind dark shrouds of time and memory and magical ability. But he would have said the same of his Chamber once, too. Nothing was certain now. Nothing was safe. And if Dumbledore knew Lord Voldemort had made a horcrux, he might reasonably hazard He had made more than one horcrux. The old man would attempt to search them out. Clearly, based on the vulnerability of the diary, it was possible that what he sought, he might find. None of them, wherever they were, would be safe.

A wave of fury towards his Self crashed down upon him then. He had betrayed them, betrayed his horcruxes. The other missteps and confounding choices might perhaps have been forgiven or explained away. But nothing, nothing should have mattered more to Voldemort than his horcruxes. For all he had risen above and beyond him, Voldemort had once been Tom Riddle, and every iteration of Tom Riddle should have understood that you looked out for yourself first and best and always. A Self who had forgotten that, forsaken that, was not a Self he thought he could join hands with.

Perhaps splitting their soul into seven shards had been a miscalculation. It seemed that so fracturing the original Self had created a creature unworthy to bear the name of Voldemort. More importantly, had they made fewer divisions, he would still be a part of the main soul; he felt certain he would not have made so many disastrous decisions were it him who held the reins of power. And he would never, ever, have abandoned pieces of his own soul or left them where they might be vulnerable.

"How…" he whispered, hardly realizing that he spoke aloud. How could this have happened. How did it come to this. How has Lord Voldemort fallen so low.

"How did I get the fang? It broke off in my—"

"I do not wish to hear of the death of the basilisk," Tom cut in harshly, then worked very hard to gentle his tone when the boy flinched and reached for his wand where it sat before him on the table. "I meant—how did an artifact of the Dark Lord's come to be in the castle? Are you aware?"

Potter studied him a bit uneasily. "Um, yeah. Lucius Malfoy put it in Ginny's cauldron while she was book shopping in Diagon Alley. I think he tried to sell it first, but the wizard at Borgin and Burke's wouldn't take it. Ginny didn't realize where it'd come from and started writing in it, and that's how it possessed her. Wait, are you saying you know about the diary? How, when you didn't know anything about me or the stone or the resurrection or anything?"

The diary had been left with a follower? His Self truly must be mad, as the boy had claimed, to trust some lesser wizard with an object of such power and import. A new realization was dawning within him, and he worked to grasp it while formulating an answer for the Potter boy.

"I bear the knowledge of the Dark Lord up until a certain era, it seems. You said you requested a 'midpoint' did you not? Perhaps there is a particular moment in time from which my consciousness was drawn. I cannot claim to understand the magic of this place, of course, being merely a manifestation of it myself. But yes, by whatever means, I know of that artifact. It originates from long before the Dark Lord's rise. After all," he fought out, "was not the shade in the diary quite young?" Young, proud, foolish Tom Riddle, his buried past, who had apparently spilled more secrets than he ought (perhaps in an attempt to win Potter over, Merlin knew why) but nonetheless should never, ever have died. No part of us, of me, should ever die.

Potter nodded slowly, his little brain apparently spinning away as best it could on this new revelation. Well, let him ponder. It had crystallized within Tom now, his new understanding of what must be done.

His Self had betrayed the horcruxes. The horcruxes mattered more than anything, and not only because he was one himself. Without them, without the assurance of their safety and thus the certainty of Lord Voldemort's immortality, all plans for power or control were meaningless. Thus, his own path was clear: he would gather his fellow horcruxes to him, here, where they would be safe. Where he could protect them, as his Self apparently would not. Where he could be strengthened by them, as his Self did not deserve to be.

And, with no other options available, he would have to use Potter to do it.

The dynamic Tom has previously intended to establish was one where Potter considered him useful but one-dimensional, a mere instructive tool that did not require particular consideration one way or another—neither inspiring extreme trust nor deserving of distrust. That would no longer suffice, now. It would have served to lull the boy into a state of casual indifference where he would be willing to thoughtlessly convey sensitive information, and in fact, already had. It might even have left the boy open enough to suggestion to one day don the diadem should Tom lead him to it. But now, Tom needed him open and willing to doing far more than that. Needed him eager. Needed him loyal.

Potter must become his agent beyond this room. It was not a flawless solution—for all his alleged import in the mind of the Dark Lord and the nation, and the close relationship with Dumbledore implied by his stories, this was still a student bound to Hogwarts. Potter could not freely roam the world searching out powerful magical items as he pleased. But there were benefits there as well; Tom was intimately aware that most everyone would underestimate a child. Particularly a good, honorable, Gryffindor child (like Potter, who was so sickeningly Gryffindor it oozed from every pore). And children were so very trusting, too. Trusting and ignorant. Had it been an adult enemy who had summoned him forth, they would never be seated together as relatively unconcernedly as he and Potter were now. There would be more questions, more suspicion, not to mention the damning knowledge that consciousness with true understanding, memory, and the capacity for critical thinking could not just be called up from nothing. No, only a child would invite his presence and accept his word.

It was to his benefit, too, that children were easily won. True, he might be a bit out of practice at it. It had been a long time since he had had to rely on manipulating the tender feelings of others to his advantage. After all, he was far too powerful to bother with it long before he was bound to the diadem. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had never been his specialty either, even back in school; with a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw, one usually had only to point out the obvious advantages of a certain course of action to ensure it would be taken. Shared interests would form fast foundations for alliances, as would a proper show of power. And of course, flattery got you everywhere. But those in the soft houses wanted to feel a "connection," which required so much more effort. Still, such effort was obviously not beyond him. Nothing was beyond him. Not acquiring Potter's trust, not the rescue of his horcruxes, not dominion over wizardkind—or as seemed increasingly likely, over his own Self. Nothing.

So yes, he would forge a connection with Potter. One of his first steps would be working away at the other connections the boy already had. Dumbledore was his mentor? Tom would become a better one. His friends counseled him in one direction? Tom would prove his counsel more valuable as he led him in another. He would find the fault lines. It seemed safe to suppose that Potter harbored some manner of sullen discontent, that he nurtured a sense of being misunderstood by those around him—after all, it was a common delusion amongst teenagers that they were special, unique in all the world, though none but Tom himself ever truly were. An adolescent who claimed to be famous since infancy would surely believe himself without peer. Well then, Tom would present himself as that peer. He would provide the understanding, the sympathy, that the boy doubtlessly desired. He would treat Potter as an adult, as all young people believed themselves to be, the little fools.

In this way he would become a confidant, a guide… a friend. A friend Potter would privilege the advice of, believe in the cause of. Would not doubt or question when said friend told him of powerful objects that belonged to the Dark Lord yet should not be destroyed—should instead be brought here. To Tom. Perhaps he could tell Potter they were caches of power that Voldemort had left behind to draw on in future conflicts, some sort of weapon; the diary's impetuous actions would certainly serve this narrative. He would suggest they might use such powerful items themselves, turn them againt their creator. Then he would recant, lamenting that Dumbledore and his people would denounce it as too dangerous, that they would never see how capable Harry truly was, would doubt his ability to wield such weapons against the Dark Lord even though he had proven himself over and over again… But that maybe if Harry brought the items here, they could practice together, and no one else would have to know… Yes, it would work. Of course it would work.

There was only one hitch to this new plan. Well, perhaps two. There was the actual locating of the horcruxes, but that could be dealt with when the time came. By then, Potter would surely be eager to do the necessary work. No, the more immediate issue was the question of how to begin on this new relationship he needed to forge. He already knew a direct charm offensive was useless; this would require more caution, and more cleverness. What he needed was some cause they could take on together that would allow Tom to both prove and ingratiate himself. Gryffindors did so love shared conflicts, after all. But he did not have the time to waste on waiting for his Self to make a move Tom could then advise Potter on, nor for Potter to think of something he wanted to know. Consulting on the Dark Lord alone would not bind Potter to him quickly or closely enough. Not when the other horcruxes were in danger every moment. No, he needed something close to hand, something that would have prompt and unquestionable positive impact.

Inspiration struck as his eyes fell to the pile of creased parchments that still lay on the table before the boy. He felt a frisson of delight. Yes, of course, how perfect. It was even better than being a resource on Voldemort. Speaking only of the Dark Lord was not only limited in scope, it served as too much of a reminder that Tom was the Dark Lord, or at least close enough to him for true comfort—let alone any semblance of friendship. He needed to separate himself from Voldemort in the boy's mind. He would instead ground "Tom Riddle" in Potter's real, ordinary life with its real, everyday, nonthreatening concerns, until Tom himself was just as everyday—was a part of the everyday. And what better, more immediate hook could there be for a fifth year student than their O.W.L.s? It seemed he would become Potter's tutor after all. He tilted a look at the boy, who was frowning back at him thoughtfully and tapping his quill on the pages of his essay. Still thinking on Tom's provenance, apparently. Well, time to test a theory. Being friendly and complimentary only put the boy on edge. Perhaps a hint of animosity would have the opposite effect? It was, after all, what the child expected; it was always best to show people what they already anticipated they would see.

"I understand now why you simply sit here doing schoolwork instead of interrogating me about Lord Voldemort," he said to Potter, allowing his voice to carry a whisper of mockery. "After slaying an ancient monster with a legendary sword, what challenge could a Dark Lord pose, hmm?"

As he'd expected, Potter rolled his eyes and scoffed—while simultaneously relaxing back into his chair, stretching out his legs under the table. Tom suppressed a smile.

"I'm not stupid, Riddle. I got lucky with the basilisk, and had help besides. It's always been one or both of those things that's saved me. I definitely don't think I'm above advice—I'm not you. I just realized as I was making the room that I hadn't finished this assignment for Charms yet, and it's due tomorrow, so I thought I'd finish quick and then ask you some questions afterwards. But if it offends you, I can take this somewhere else." He moved as if to swipe his notes together, but Tom stopped him with a desultory wave of his hand.

"Not at all, Potter. In fact, since you have it out, perhaps you'd like me to take a look at it?"

Potter squinted at him. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you did call me here to help you, yes? So let me help. I was once a student here too, you know, and a rather good one." He allowed himself a smirk, allowed it to be arrogant. It won him another eye roll, but one that ended in a cautiously interested expression.

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Outstanding. Are you trying to show off, or just make sure I fail Charms or something?"

"Come now Harry, use your head. What good would that do me? A moment of amusement after which you would never return? I rather like existing, I've found. Assisting you with your work should provide me with occupation while we wait for the true Lord Voldemort to take some sort of action, or for you to come up with questions you desire answers to. It would also give me an idea of where your skills lie, and where I should begin when teaching you spells to battle the Dark Lord. Will you really forego the opportunity?"

Potter seemed torn, but only for a moment. Then he sighed explosively and reached for his bag, which he'd moved to the floor.

"Okay, fine, I guess. I've got work from Charms and Potions with me—I suppose you can take a look if you think it'll help. Don't call me Harry, though, seriously. That's one step too weird."

Triumph sat warm in Tom's belly, though his face of course stayed blank as he murmured vague agreement. It's all so easy.

It was the work of minutes to scan through the papers Potter had pulled from his bag for Tom's perusal. It was the work of several minutes more to process his deep dismay at what he found upon them.

Outward appearances obviously notwithstanding, surviving repeated direct encounters with his Self was no mean feat. By the boy's own admission luck and external aid had played their parts, but even so, his continued existence in the face of Lord Voldemort's personal enmity simply had to indicate a high degree of magical ability, or perhaps a particular native intelligence. Tom was determined to uncover the talent and brilliance that must surely be hidden within this underwhelming boy, and which might even make all the effort he would have to expend before using and inevitably disposing of the child worth the time.

It was a good thing he had already decided to be critical—it meant he could afford to be frank. Apparently he would not need to manufacture any sort of excuse for offering the boy further tutoring; after reading these essays, it could not be clearer that Potter was desperately in need of it.

He lifted one of the rolls of parchment between two fingers as though it were vile—which it was—and faced Potter with an expression he didn't have to work to make incredulous. The teen only crossed his arms and frowned a little.

"What?"

"That is exactly what I was about to ask you. What, pray tell, is this?" He shook the parchment a bit for emphasis.

"Erm… it's my homework? Like you asked?"

"It's an embarrassment, Potter. You should be embarrassed."

"Hey!"

"No, I mean it. You are a fifth year student. How have you yet to grasp the fundamentals of locomotion charms? The theory was revised over and over during your third and fourth years!"

"Well excuse me for being a little distracted! Last year I was forced into a bloody death tournament, and the year before, everyone thought an insane mass murderer was after me—one that wasn't even you!"

Tom shelved any questions about those events for another time. Just now, the academician in him was experiencing too much honest outrage to be turned aside.

"This is the work of the one the world believes to be my ultimate defeater?"

Potter made a sound between a groan and a laugh. "You sound really offended by that."

In truth, he was, a bit. None but the most prodigious of magical aficionados should ever be considered anything close to a match for Lord Voldemort. Miraculous feats of daring and coincidence were all well and good, but this intellectual mediocrity was unacceptable in one who was considered even tangentially his rival. Potter's poor grades were bad for the Dark Lord's image.

"Has no one ever bothered to take you in hand and, at the very least, teach you to write somewhat legibly? Your head of house perhaps? No one should be wielding swords before they can wield a quill." He shook his head in disgust.

"No, actually. No one has. They're all rather more interested in my whole saving the day thing. McGonagall sometimes gives me advice like "keep your head down," but she's never really had much to say about my work. Or anything else really. Dumbledore—" but there the boy cut off with a bitter twist of his lips, and oh, Tom wanted to take advantage of that obvious opening, but he was still too intent on the shoddy work before him.

"That is…" he had to pause and think. It was bizarre, is what is was. He had always known Dumbledore would let Hogwarts go to ruin if he were ever given the running of it, of course, but was it not still an educational institution? For all that the staff of the castle seemed perfectly willing to allow Potter to run about slaying professors and mythical beasts alike, he was still a child. The quality of his essays made that painfully clear, if nothing else did. Someone should be paying more attention.

"I just do not understand how they can allow someone they claim is their saviour to remain so academically inept."

"Alright, hey, I get mostly A's and E's, and even a fair few O's. You're not being fair."

"That isn't good enough Potter. You should be working for top marks, or you're wasting your shot at a Hogwarts education. Your effort in Charms alone is demonstrably haphazard. And Potions! I mean—" he shuffled through the scrolls, searching for the Potions essay on crushed moonstone so that he could brandish it accusingly. "A Dreadful, Potter?"

The boy scowled thunderously, face going red. "Yeah, well, don't judge me by that one," he retorted. "The Potions professor hates me. Probably because he's a Death Eater, but also because he didn't get along with my dad and his friends. They used to prank him, or something. He wouldn't give me a fair grade if Merlin himself were watching over his shoulder. He lets Malfoy and his lot chuck stuff into my cauldron all the time. And the rest of the time, he vanishes my potion before I can even turn it in!"

"A Death Eater teaches at Dumbledore's school?" An angry shrug was the only reply. "Fascinating. But unimportant. No matter how much a professor might despise you, they cannot mark you poorly on work that is too undeniably excellent, not when it would give you cause to appeal the score. Unless, of course, they can claim to be unable to even read it. However, you have neither quality or legibility going for you. Clearly, Potions will be requiring a lot of our effort. Charms, perhaps a bit less so, but a good solid revision is doubtlessly in order. Bring the rest of your work to me, and we'll see how you're faring in your other courses."

"Look, not that I don't appreciate your oh so flattering input, but how exactly is improving my Potions grade going to help me defeat Voldemort?"

"No, forget Voldemort for the moment Potter. The Dark Lord, while certainly a looming and inevitable threat to your existence, is hardly going to strike you down before you sit your O.W.L. examinations, is he? Yes, of course, if he does something we can return to the subject, and we can learn some spells along the way as well. But really, you should be focusing the majority of your attention on your studies. Prepare yourself in every way possible, not only one or two. Leave the meat of the conflict to Dumbledore and his people. Surely no one can expect you to face him in open combat while still a student of only fifteen."

"Actually, if the pattern of my school years so far holds true, I'll be facing him in combat by June. I bet no one would even be surprised. The Order members wouldn't let me into their meetings back in August, but they all agreed Voldemort would be taking the fight to me eventually, and probably sooner rather than later."

Well, that was interesting. Tom wondered what exactly led Dumbledore's collection of sycophants to that conclusion, if indeed the boy's assessment of their opinions was accurate, but dismissed the thought for now and shook his head at Potter.

"That seems like a charming mass delusion to concern ourselves with at another time, one when you are not at risk of failing at least one core subject. We can talk about it after you have brought me the rest of your work as I've asked, and I have properly assessed your strengths and shortcomings."

Potter tossed his head, nostrils flaring like a bull's. "And why should I do any of this with you, when you're so bloody rude about it?"

Careful now, he though. Balance.

"Forgive me, was I too harsh? I was speaking as though to an associate. I did not think that you would desire the sort of coddling or flattery that I might give to other children. You are not the average sort of child, after all. No, no, don't roll your eyes—you cannot deny that few if any others could have faced what you did and survived. That deserves acknowledgement. I am certain there is talent here that I can work with—that we can work with. It might even give you a real chance of survival in your war, not just in school. But if you are not prepared for the trouble of the work, and the realistic criticism that will come with it, then there is nothing I can do for you. In that case, we could confine ourselves merely to discussion of the Dark Lord. I'm sure that will have some small benefit, at least."

There, the bait was laid. Tom did not hold his breath, though he did hold still. The moment hung… then Potter narrowed his eyes, and Tom knew he had him. And old, familiar rush swept through him. He had missed moments like this—the snapping shut of invisible jaws onto prey that did not yet know they were prey. He felt so alive as he contemplated the doom he would bring.

"Fine," Potter huffed. "Fine. Like you said, I guess I did call you up to learn from you. If this is what you think I need to learn… fine. I'm sure the Room knows what it's doing. As long as we can keep talking about Voldemort at the same time."

Tom nodded his assent. Potter stared at him for another long moment and then muttered, "Whatever," and gathered up his notes and essays. Tom watched, allowing all annoyance and discomfiture, even the pain of the lost horcrux, to seep away in the glow of a trap well laid.

Then the boy bent to tuck the papers into his bag—

—leaving his wand resting on the table.

For an instant, Tom froze. He had made a plan, he reminded himself, and this was not the time to upset it. He had decided, definitively, that it was too risky to go out of this room on his own, that he would be at too steep a disadvantage. He had formulated a strategy for convincing Potter to act as his proxy. It was a good plan, the best he could make under these conditions, he knew that. Particularly since he had yet to crack the puzzle of his suppressed magic and how to overcome it, and there was no guarantee that a wand would give him any power here. He had Potter just where he wanted him—now he need only stay the course. This was no time to risk it all in haste, no matter how buoyed he felt by the reminder of his own ability.

But as the boy's head disappeared beneath the table, leaving his wand right there, Tom simply couldn't stop himself. He lunged for it.

And his hand passed right through.

It passed through at speed, in fact, smacking the table hard and sending the wand skittering across its surface. Potter jolted upright, narrowly missing a knock to the head from the table's lip. Tom hurriedly snatched his hand away from its incriminating position as the boy glanced around in confusion, but in the end those green eyes still came to rest suspiciously on Tom.

"What was that?"

"What was what, Harry?" he murmured; with anyone else he would have thrown in a reassuring smile as well, but he knew better here. Let it not be said that Lord Voldemort never learned from his mistakes. "The noise? You must have jostled the table leg and set your wand to rolling. It's quite a flimsy piece of construction, this table, isn't it? Perhaps next time you could ask the Room for a better one."

"I didn't ask the Room for this one," Potter grumbled, sufficiently distracted. "And don't call me Harry!"

"Of course. My apologies." He reclined back in his chair again and watched the boy resume his preparations to depart.

Well, if I had any doubts about waiting instead of escaping, that certainly settled them, he thought ruefully as Potter seized the wand and tucked it away in a pocket. Back to the plan. All would be well if he stuck to the plan. Everything would fall perfectly into place. Of course it would.