Take Me For A Ride (Please Don't Make Me Hide)

Five Seconds Until A Heart Attack

I quickly snap shut my jaws, holding back a wince as the sound echoes in the room—and as memories flood my mind.

Lord Voldemort raises his wand, a cruel smirk on his face as he drawls out, "basanismenos echthros suniticos." Screams echo in the room.

Ron screams in agony as the fiendfyre eats him alive. I watch, helpless, struggling against my chains, reaching out—dead.

I stare at the limp figure in my arms, a tear slipping down my cheek.

Not her.

She was too young.

I hold Ginny close to my chest, realizing the only time I'd ever get a private moment with her would be in death.

Dumbledore gives me benign smile, warm and comforting. In an instant, his form transforms to that of Lord Voldemort. He raises a trailingly sleeved arm and drops it, sending a wall of green fire at me.

Fawkes swoops in, giving a wail, a desperate cry, of a thin strand of hope.

"May I ask of your names?" Headmaster Dippet inquires.

I open my mouth to answer—Hermione is still cackling—but nothing comes out. Hermione, though insane, is my partner.

She immediately quiets, her expression turning solemn, grave. "My friend's name is Harrison Evans . . . mine is Hope. Hope Gabriaux. We're cousins." Well, that was quick. Then her words hit me—Hope. I hold back from closing my eyes in despair as more memories knock on my mind, ready to arrive.

"Beautiful names," cheers Headmaster Dippet, "but alas—we are still unaware of what happened."

"Armando, if I may?" Dumbledore murmurs quietly, continuing at a slightly confused nod from Headmaster Dippet, "You have a meeting with the Wizengamot, about the wards at Hogwarts, and I fear that Tom is missing out on a vital Potions lesson . . . I could take care of our young guests here, if you wish."

Headmaster Dippet practically lights up, the old codger. Honestly, we don't look that bad.

While Headmaster Dippet leaves whistling a merry tune—I see where Dumbledore got it from—Tom leaves with a bright smile at both us and the Headmaster. If looks could kill, Dumbledore would be in ashes, and Tom would by writhing in agony. I only protest one of those.

"Now, Mister Evans, Miss Gabriaux, do you mind telling me what happened?" he asks genially.

Without a second thought, I spill everything: "We're from the future . . ." My only defense is that he makes it really hard to lie. A bad defense, if Hermione's withering glare is anything to go by. Then, I feel a subtle probe on my skeleton, sending me horrible migraine.

My heart practically shatters. Or what's left of it.

Dumbledore just tried to mind-read me.

He's not my Dumbledore.

(Or did he, as well, read your mind? You were always a fool; you were one then, you are one now . . . )

I give a barrier of hissing snakes in response, continuing the conversation as though nothing happens.

Hermione knows me better as she gives a simmering glare to Dumbledore. "We're from a future where we need to fix things," she cuts me off, "and, we're going to get back as soon as possible. Sorry for disturbing Hogwarts, but we'll be on our way now, Dumbledore."

He looks surprised. "But, of course—I understand . . . although, would it not make more sense for you to continue your efforts here at Hogwarts? We do have the finest professors of each subjects—"

"Not of dark magic," she tells him flatly, "and that's what we need."

Dumbledore winces, but perseveres bra—foolishly. "You . . . you could make use and utilize our library."

"All of it?" pushes Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Gabriaux, all of it," sighs Dumbledore.

"Why do you want us here so badly?"

His expression turns vulnerable for a quick second, before it shutters up again. "I don't want a single child to be helpless . . . and I don't want anyone without a place to stay. I mean only the best."

The question in me rises up again. Then why did he sacrifice my bloody life if he only meant the best?

"Mean the best for us, or for you?" presses Hermione as she continues coldly, darkly, "And I'll have you know, we're not children anymore."

"For you, of course," he beams as though it was obvious. "As well as this, you are children to me in all regards—"

"We've faced a war, Dumbledore," I say grimly. "We're not children—don't treat us so."

"We'll stay at Hogwarts, but only of our choice," agreed the brightest witch of our age. "But how will we be sorted? We're both of age—not eleven."

"Yes, yes, well, I shall still use the Sorting Hat of course, no need to lay waste to tradition," says Dumbledore amiably, "but I'll give the best student from the house you are selected for to tour you around. Shall we start?"

Hermione looks satisfied as she put on the hat. A few seconds later, she crowed with laughter, hysterical laughter mind, and alarmed Dumbledore, seeing as he looked faintly shocked.

"Ravenclaw!" chortled the hat, "No less!"

I picked up the hat without dread or anticipation. I knew which house I was going in already—no point in worrying.

Ah, Harry James Potter, whispers the hat. What a mystery you are.

Why don't you get it over with already? I ask it, resigned. We both know I'm going in—

I'd put you in with the Claws, to be with your "cousin", interrupts the hat. But we both know that won't suit you at all. And—

In— I try again.

Hufflepuff would be good for you—if you had an ounce of loyalty left. Your spirit, alas, is gone, but I think that Gryffindor won't bring it back this time. So—

Slytherin? I finish for it, exasperated by the prolonging.

Yes, well, grumps the hat. Fine. "Slytherin!" it calls.

Dumbledore looks as though he's five seconds from a heart attack.

Hermione looks smug.

Later, Hermione would tell me that I looked dead.

"Ailwyn Brown is the prefect I've chosen for you, my dear," trills Headmaster Dippet, Dumbledore sulking in the corner. "And, my boy, Tom Riddle is to be yours."

"Off you trot to your common rooms now, the lot of you," says Dumbledore sullenly.

Hermione falls silent as we walk.

"Hermione," I start. "I . . . I don't want to create attachments." Not after last time. "I don't want people to know me. The real me. You know?"

"I get it, Harry," she says. "I think . . . I'm going to live how I want to this time. I'm not going to try and fail to live up to expectations. Sometimes it's better not to have expectations at all."

"Yeah," another step. Another. "This is the year of the Death Eaters, Mi."

"Harry, if you have a plan," she looks up at me, her eyes shining with emotion. I hope I have emotion. I hope I'm not numb just yet. "then follow it. Follow it to the best of your ability, and I'll die for it. Without a plan—we're dead here."

"Alright," I swallow. "What if V—"

"Riddle, Harry," she corrects me. "He's not him right now. And it'll cause suspicion if we know the name."

"Alright, then, Riddle," I concede. "What if he's," I drop my voice down to a whisper, "still recruiting? What'll I do then?"

Her eyes light up with a plan. "Go under the radar. Act . . . act weak. He won't be interested in another, average transfer. Just act like Pettigrew," she only looks vaguely apologetic, "weak, both magically, and physically. No offence, but with your eyes," at this, Hermione bites her lip sadly, "you'll pull it off well."

We depart ways, a plan in mind.

I know what she meant.

With your eyes, she said.

With my dead eyes.