Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N: This chapter is significantly slower than the last, but fear not. I just wanted to make sure there were spaces between major plot-driven chapters to give a little more world and character building.

(All you need is) A Little Soul Searching

Chapter 2

The human mind is a complicated beast to understand. Each individual has a unique way of organizing their thoughts, often in a way completely alien to another. Their beliefs will be slightly different, their perspectives slightly skewed, and their ideals built by different reasoning.

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle were as different as a black bishop was to a white rook. Not just through memories and experiences, but through personality and mentality. Tom Riddle, even from his earliest years, believed inherently that he was better than everyone around him. Harry Potter, alternatively, had very low self-esteem and felt beneath everyone around him.

This, in turn, reflected their mental landscapes. Occlumency allowed a practitioner to create a "mental landscape" of sorts. Nothing as audacious as a literal landscape, more of a metaphorical concept of organisation - matters of the mind are often difficult to quantify into speech.

Tom Riddle's mindscape was formulaic and organized, arranged in such a manner that he was never plagued by doubt or indecision once his mind was set on something. In an ironic twist of fate, this ability did make Tom greater than the average witch or wizard. Having such a degree of understanding and control over one's thoughts, emotions and memories were rare. However, that single-minded sense of purpose was what eventually propelled him to his downfall.

Harry, to the opposite end of the spectrum, had a disorganized mind. It was one plagued by self-doubt and hints of self-loathing, built up by the insults and torment of his formative years. There was no organisation to how he thought or remembered, just the miasma of an untrained teenager's mind.

Therein lay the issue for the current Harry Potter, he had more than just the memories of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The emotions and justifications were all granted to Harry, equal parts nonsensical as they were perfectly reasonable. Remembering the life of Tom Riddle was a confusing and painful experience, mostly because the emotions felt in them were equal parts alien as they were familiar.

Upon returning to Number 4, and threatening the Dursleys with a potential visit from Sirius, Harry set about trying to sift through his memories. The revelation that he had gained the memories of Tom Riddle up until 1981 helped Harry to organize his thoughts, if only slightly. It was jarring how he could look at the Dursleys, people he had once feared and loathed, and be emotionlessly certain he could kill them all in a heartbeat. He wouldn't even need magic, just add a little arsenic to the food one dinner, and-

Therein lay the issue. Harry was not naturally violent at heart. He wasn't pacifistic per se, but the idea of violence always came last to him. Contrast that with Tom, whose first and often only response to an issue was violence. Harry could respect the tenacity, an unfair statement as he was technically Tom Riddle, but violence really wouldn't help much here. It was a damning comparison of the lives both men led. While Tom decided to rise above the station he found himself, Harry had been content to fade into obscurity. A certain philosophical part of Harry's mind idly wondered that, had their situations been flipped, would Harry have become the Dark Lord? Was it merely Tom's nature to be evil, or was it the situation that he found himself in?

Depressing thoughts of predestination aside, Harry had promised Dumbledore he would refrain from partaking in some friendly avunculicide. For the time being, Harry was perfectly fine with keeping his distance from them. He had enough to keep himself busy then to bother keeping his murderous intent kept down.

However, in attempting to organize his jumbled memories and thoughts, Harry met his first major hurdle, ironically, in the organisation of his mind; or Occlumency. Tom Riddle had been natural in the mind arts, and the mere thought that someone else could teach him how to organize his mind was heresy. In a distinctly un-Slytherin fashion, Riddle managed to brute force a unique form of Occlumency and later Legilimency through trial and error. How he did so without causing permanent brain damage was a mystery to Harry, though a small part of him wished that it had. Another part screamed in horror at the mere thought, as without Riddle there would be no wealth of knowledge flowing through his mind.

Regardless of Harry's constantly contrary and often random thoughts, he was faced with an issue. While, technically, he could just follow Tom's steps and have similar results, he was faced with three major hurdles: firstly, Tom's outcome was pure dumb luck. Secondly, Harry's naturally different mind would significantly raise the risk of magically lobotomizing himself. Thirdly, Harry's memories were not perfect. He remembered as Tom did, but his mind was that of a man. He didn't remember everything from his youth, as was the case with most people, and thus could not recall perfectly what steps were taken. Oh, he could list every ritual in Magick Moste Evile from cover to cover, but nothing important like how to not cause himself violent brain damage.

So, despite how much it bruised his strange and frankly contradictory ego, Harry knew he was going to have to start from scratch. That meant finding a mostly useless book in Diagon Alley: Inner Workings of the Working Mind. Its author had been a master of the mental arts in her time, though to say she was eccentric and nonsensical was to say that Albus Dumbledore was slightly off. Her tendency to ramble nonsensically truly made learning anything worthwhile an exercise in futility, but on occasion, she could reveal some nugget of knowledge.

Harry left the house without a word from his family, a mutual agreement to stay out of each other's way left unspoken.

It was a tepid, overcast day in East Anglia, indicative of another cool English summer. Privet Drive was nearly devoid of life, it being late morning on a Tuesday and all. As such, it was without much worry that Harry blatantly drew his wand on the front lawn and summoned the Night Bus.

Despite his mental age, which even Harry was not completely sure of, he remained wary of using magic lest he failed to cover his tracks. By his fifth year, Tom had managed to circumvent the Trace for most minor spells. However, Tom Riddle had a natural control over his magic, one Harry had yet to gain. So, he would have to rely on another of the poor forms of transportation used in the magical world.

Mere moments after Harry had called, the outdated bus came screeching around the corner down the road before coming to a violent stop before Harry. With the memories of Tom came the general numbness he felt towards magic. While just-Harry was surprised by every little thing about the magical world, Tom had experienced and dissected it all. Truly an inquisitive mind if unexciting, that one.

So it was only with a lingering sense of dread that Harry board the bus. Stan Shunpike was his usual boisterous self and talked about everything under the sun to Harry, who was attempting to keep his breakfast down.

The trip to the Leaky Cauldron was thankfully brief and saw Harry dismounting as if the hounds of hell were at his tail. Shunpike's oblivious farewell was returned with a curt nod as Harry didn't quite trust himself to speak.

It was humorous in a mundane sort of way that Tom Riddle, who had learned how to fly unassisted, still felt a great discomfort in the Night Bus.

The Leaky Cauldron, much like the Night Bus, was thankfully devoid of its usual crowd. A few smatterings of customers and Tom himself were all that greeted Harry.

"Morning, Tom," Harry said in greeting as he passed through, hoping to make a clean escape before any of the wizards and witches present could accost him.

"Mornin'," Was the response Harry received, the toothless bartenders offering him a wide grin, "What can I do for ya?"

"Just passing through, Tom, but I won't say no to lunch once my business is done in the Alley. Say, half an hour?"

"I'll have something made up. Getting an early start on your school shopping?"

"Of a sort."

With that, Harry left through the backdoor of the establishment and into the dingy alleyway behind. It was as run down as Harry remembered, barring the especially well-maintained wall separating the Cauldron from Diagon Alley. Almost through muscle memory, as Tom Riddle had taken this very route countless times in his youth, Harry entered the unchanged password in the wall. Brick by brick, it fell away. Diagon Alley, in all of its resplendent glory, stretched out endlessly before him. Harry was hit by a sense of nostalgia twice over, how long had it been since he was able to experience the Alley in a time of freedom and peace? Technically, a year, but simultaneously it felt like decades.

Countless parents and their little children moved freely from shop to shop, enjoying the summer day with a carefree air. Students, some of whom Harry could vaguely recognize, ran about with friends, laughing and screaming as they went. Covens of witches grouped together spoke with hushed tones and hidden giggles. None crept about corners, watching every neighbour or passers-by with fear and suspicion. No Aurors in their red robes stood at intersections, palming their wands with a severe scowl levelled at anyone even mildly suspicious.

All of this brought a slight smile to Harry's face, filling him with a certain hope and purpose. Despite the hardships of a decade and some change past, the wizarding world did as it always does and persevered.

Careful to keep his scar covered, Harry began slipping his way through the throngs of people. Flourish and Blotts, the most famous and popular of the bookstores in Diagon and Knockturn, stood out among the other shops with a great big sign. It was hardly known for its more obscure section of books, but thankfully this mind magic book wasn't exactly unknown.

The interior of Flourish and Blotts was as chaotic as Harry remembered, with stacks of books and bookshelves spiralling nonsensically in every direction. To the book worm in Harry, this treatment of the books was nothing short of heresy, but he was thankfully not as fanatical as Hermione and so got past his concerns fairly quickly.

Unfortunately for Harry, his memories of the bookstore were muddled and confused. As just-Harry, he had never really paid much attention to how the store was laid out and it had changed drastically since Tom had last been there. However, Tom was almost completely certain that 'mental arts' fell under charms, so it served as a surprise that Harry found nothing on the mental arts.

He raised the issue with one of the attendants, a younger witch at the front of the shoppe. She, too, bemoaned the absence of the books among several others.

"Damn Ministry busybodies," She announced, slamming a hand on her desk with a scowl, "Have to justify their financing bypassing pointless laws. A massive tax on what they called 'obscure or dangerous books', and of course the high-ups decide to stop shelving them."

Damn busybodies indeed.

Harry's searching at the other two bookstores in Diagon Alley, Colette's Collection and Trixie's Tricky Tomes elicited a similar response, not that the former two could much afford what they called an "outrageously high tax policy". Obscurus Books was right out. Newt Scamander, for all his brilliance regarding the magical creatures of the world, was hardly the man to go to for lessons on the mental arts.

As Harry had feared, only one place would have the book he was searching for: Knockturn Alley. Frankly, Harry was slightly leary of ever going there again. He wasn't afraid, per se, but treated the dingy step-cousin of Diagon with a respectful amount of paranoia. It was where Tom had learned his earliest spells of a darker persuasion, after all.

However, Harry's paranoia was tempered by self-interest. He really needed that book if he wanted to protect and organize his mind. As such, with a hardened heart and an internal promise not to let his Riddle-fueled curiosity get the better of him, he went to Gringotts. It wasn't as if he was carrying a large amount of Galleons.

Gringotts was as bustling as could be expected, the goblin attendants and guards regarding their paying customers with the customary contempt.

Harry fought down a sneer as an old disdain rose from his chest. Tom had scorned the goblins for their greed and how they looked down on witches and wizards. Ironic considering Riddle's views on his fellow Wizard, but Harry now shared the overall sentiment. The goblins were given innumerable concessions after the last war and as such acted above everyone that walked through their gates. Harry had half a mind to remind them why he was the most feared wizard of the century- No, that wouldn't do.

Harry pressed a hand to his forehead as he fought down the old bloodlust that had once controlled Tom. He disliked the goblins deeply, but they were a necessary evil for the time being.

Carrying himself with far more haughtiness then one would expect from him, Harry approached the nearest goblin teller. He knew that any attempt at kindness or respectability would be wasted on the goblins and so defaulted to the expected disdain.

"What do you want?" The goblin demanded, clearly annoyed that he was kept from counting his spoils of a battle against some other poor wizard. Its sneer was matched in its intensity only by Harry's, who glared up at the baleful creature.

"I require access to my trust vault." Was Harry's blunt response, opting not to mince words. The goblin pushed aside the pile of coins and held out a long-fingered hand.

"Your key." It demanded, adding after a moment's hesitation, "Please."

"I don't have it." That earned Harry a cruel smirk as the goblin leaned back into its seat.

"No key, no vault," It said with a contrite tone, its nose turning up as it leered down at Harry.

"Unless, of course, you did a blood test. Perhaps you can refrain from wasting my time, goblin."

Oh, did he hate that. A goblin always disliked being marginalized by a wizard; treated as if they were lesser in some way. The quickest way to earn the ire of a goblin was to just call it "goblin" as if it were just one in a million. The sneer on its sickly face lost any hint of amusement, replaced by obvious disdain and anger. Was Harry setting back wizard-goblin relations? Probably, but he couldn't much find it in himself to care. Maybe, if there was another rebellion, they could finally replace the blighters with more pleasant bankers; like dwarves or gnomes?

"We don't have to give snotty wizards to test if we don't wish to, boy."

"Oh, I'm certain your superiors and the Ministry would love to hear that you refused Harry Potter, slayer of Voldemort, Boy-Who-Lived access to his vault."

If anything, that seemed to make the goblin's sneer more pronounced. The goblins might dislike wizards, but Harry was the Ministry's darling child. It was hard to tell which would make the Ministry more outraged; refusing the boy hero his birthright or telling them that they had to stop treating the French with contempt in the ICW (the hundred-year war might be distant history to the Muggles, but wizards have a longer memory).

"Very. Well." The goblin bit out through clenched teeth, ducking behind his desk from a moment. He returned with a pale mortar and a wicked-looking dagger.

Both were handed over to Harry without a word, the goblin seeming to expect Harry to ask what he was supposed to do. Much to the goblin's annoyance, Harry just pricked his thumb and let a couple of blood drops fall into the artefact.

"Wait here." Was the short order before the goblin disappeared into the back of the bank.

Beyond the unpleasant teller, the rest of Harry's exchange at Gringotts went smoothly and without issue. The goblin found, of course, that he was Harry Potter. The Thief's Downfall, a waterfall of enchanted water or some-such, proved he wasn't under polyjuice or a charm.

The trust vault had refilled since last Harry had visited and as so he filled his moleskin pouch with its contents. While the gold was nothing to scoff at, Harry knew he was going to have to play things safe and avoid massive purchases. While at the present moment he had no major expenditures planned, they often tended to creep up on one.

It was a challenge to get a new key created, as his claim that he 'lost his last one' was met with contempt and barely hidden mockery from the tellers. After an outrageous payment of thirty galleons, something Harry knew was marked up for his cheek, he escaped Gringotts hundreds of galleons richer and with a new key. Naturally, he had the other key 'cancelled' and removed its permissions to open his vault. Whether Mrs Weasley or Dumbledore had it was immaterial, Harry trusted no one but himself to have unrestricted access to his accounts. Dumbledore especially.

Harry's thoughts and feelings regarding the Headmaster were contradictory at best. On one hand, he respected him immensely and saw Dumbledore as an extremely trustworthy individual. On the other, Harry feared him. Dumbledore had made a significant mark on Tom's life, standing as the greatest threat to his plans and dreams. Dumbledore's less-than-vague threats were what finally pushed Tom over to using the Horcruxes, after all. That wasn't to say Tom was a force of good pre-Horcrux, but the effects of using such dark magic were as clear as day. Rampant madness replaced cool calculation. Constant cruelty came in place of measured malice. Other needless alliterations could join those, but the point has been made.

Harry wasn't so naive to think that he came out of the merger without some amount of Tom's old malice. His default solution to the Dursleys was one sign, but there were a thousand other little ticks and actions that irked Harry so.

Shaking these thoughts from his head, Harry marched into Knockturn Alley with a head held high. Would it be counter-productive if a peer or worse, a teacher, were to see him entering the infamously dark cousin of Diagon? Perhaps, but Harry's newfound ego shuddered at the mere thought of cowering while in Knockturn.

Wizards and Witches of a darker persuasion leered at Harry from under hooded robes and dark masks. Beyond them, beings far less human stalked the shadows that clung to every surface. A dozen piercing gazes followed Harry as he moved through the dingy street, yet none dared draw close. Harry needn't worry if any of these vagabonds recognized him, the sheer confidence and lack of disguise he showcased were enough to make even the most enterprising salesman or thief think again.

The streets were familiar to Harry; familiar, but not the same. A dead-end that became a full street there, an abandoned shoppe that had once been bustling here. However, one building that remained a constant even in Tom's time was Borgin & Burkes, the aspiring dark wizard's one-stop-shop for the odd cursed artefact or forbidden tome. Naturally, it was the corner store of dark magic and so could not be relied upon as a source of true black arts, but the book Harry was after wasn't exactly the rarest.

The interior was as dingy as the exterior, great shelves filled with mismatched items of indeterminate age scattered to and fro. The door itself entered right next to the front counter, likely so whoever was manning it could keep an eye out for would-be thieves.

The putrid odour of smoke hit Harry the moment he entered, overpowering whatever natural musk might have permeated inside the store. Its source was the ancient Wizard seated behind the front counter, wiry and so stooped that one might mistake him as dead. Harry could see the faintest movement of the man's eyes, though, milky but still as sharp as Harry remembered.

Barino Borgin spoke with a raspy voice, muffled somewhat by the misshapen pipe sticking out from his lips.

"What do you want?" His tone was neutral, but Harry could feel the lingering worry in its depths. No doubt, having Harry Potter walk through the front door was dangerous for business. Harry couldn't find it in himself to care.

"A book," Harry responded just as shortly, knowing that mincing words or playing the scared schoolboy would get him nowhere with the likes of Barino Borgin, "Namely Inner Workings of the Working Mind by Delphine Dandalious."

The man moved the pipe held in his mouth from one side to the other. Borgin did not speak for a very long moment, his piercing gaze never once leaving Harry's own. His stance was relaxed, at least as far as Harry could tell, but no doubt there would be trouble if Harry made any sudden moves. Finally, when he spoke, it was that same raspy tone.

"Book has a heavy tax on it, boy. Ministry doesn't much want anyone to get their hands on it."

A ploy, of course, Borgin wanted to see just how much Harry wanted the book. Desperation would get him fleeced, disinterest would see him kicked out of the store. So, Harry did the next best thing; mockery. He stepped up to the counter and leaned over it, planting his hands down on the grimy surface and inwardly shuddering at the grease now staining his sleeves.

"Fortunately, your store is located in a demilitarized ghetto, then," Harry drawled with all the contempt he could manage, which was quite considerable, "I was under the impression that your store was the best for difficult to acquire artefacts. If you cannot even procure a child's first Occlumency textbook then your reputation is unwarranted. However, if I want garden variety cursed trinkets, I'll be sure to come back."

Harry rose and stared down at the despicable little man, silently awaiting his response. Borgin seemed momentarily stunned by Harry's words. Such casual disrespect and contempt were not expected from him - how Borgin could know enough about Harry to form an opinion about him remained a mystery.

"Garden variety…?" Borgin muttered to himself, blinking in confusion. Internally, Harry was having a good chuckle. Tom had said much the same thing to Borgin when he had first come to work at the store, referring to Borgin's inventory as "garden variety, bargain bin children's trinkets hardly deserving the title of 'cursed'". Borgin had found the comparison hilarious then and, if his snort was anything to go by, he still did.

"I see, wouldn't do to have my stock to be seen as such. Wait here," The stool Borgin had been seated on creaked as he rose. With slow, deliberate movements, the old shopkeeper moved to the door behind him and vanished beyond. It closed with a soft click behind him.

Borgin returned shortly after, bringing Harry from his perusing of nearby items - a cursed deck that looked to always give anyone but the owner horrible luck and a severed hand that could absorb all nearby light for those not keyed to it if anyone was curious.

In the man's wrinkled hand was a thick tome, its cover gleaming with a glossy finish that seemed untouched by time. With a soft thud, the book sat between Harry and Borgin. The cover was a charcoal grey, lacking any picture or fancy design. The spine had its full title listed, however. Simple and to-the-point, a shame its contents did not subscribe to the same philosophy.

With a glance at Borgin, who remained standing behind the counter, Harry opened past the first few pages. The foreword, which was nearly twenty pages in-and-of-itself, held a long-winded spiel about the nature of the mind and how the author had come to understand its great potential. Tom, as a younger man, had barely made it through the first ten pages before throwing it aside in disgust, but Harry could not be so picky.

Accidental lobotomies did not bode well for him.

"How much?" Harry asked, closing the book and returning to his staring contest with Borgin. The shopkeep seemed to deliberate for a few moments - a show no doubt - before settling on a price.

"Due to the rarity of the book and its purpose… forty galleons." Borgin's lips parted into some facsimile of a smile, his yellowed teeth being bared in all their glory. Harry returned the grin-bordering-on-sneer with a small smirk of his own, but inwardly he was seething. Forty galleons?! Highway robbery that was.

"Forty galleons? What, is the author herself coming to tutor me? Fifteen galleons." Borgin's smirk vanished at Harry's words, a dangerous glint appearing in the depths of his pale eyes.

"Rare book, lad. Thirty galleons."

"Rare book? I know for a fact it was the most popular mind magic books in the sixties and seventies. There are as many of those in dusty warehouses as there are Lockhart books on shelves. Twenty galleons."

"Twenty-five."

"Deal."

Money was exchanged and hands were shaken, and Harry left twenty-five galleons poorer but with the first step in his travel towards mental protection. To be entirely honest with himself, Harry silently admitted his lack of knowledge on how Horcruxes worked irked him quite heavily. As perhaps the foremost living expert on them, Tom was little more than a child playing God when he first began to study them.

With the most immediate source of an accident, self-inflicted lobotomy removed, Harry re-entered Diagon Alley with a far lighter heart. He ignored the glances sent his way by worried passers-by - he had just exit Knockturn Alley - and made his way back towards the Cauldron. A steaming midday's meal awaited him, and Harry knew he had been away for far longer than half-an-hour.

"Hey, Harry!" Alas, his welcomed meal would have to wait even longer as a familiar voice, from his life as Harry thankfully, came from somewhere behind him. Harry looked back, his book tucked under an arm, at the familiar visage of Angelina Johnson. At her back, unsurprisingly, were her close friends and fellow Chasers of the Gryffindor house Quidditch Team: Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet.

Outside Quidditch, Harry rarely if ever interacted with the three girls - a sign of his isolated nature no doubt - so Harry found himself mildly surprised as they approached him.

"Angelina," Harry said in greeting, his tone mild, "Katie, Alicia. A little early to be doing your school shopping."

"Same to you," Katie jumped in, indicating to the blank-faced book under Harry's arm. Harry tightened his grip on the book - while the mind arts weren't exactly forbidden, there was a taboo associated with them - and patted it with his free hand.

"A bit of light reading to go with a project of mine," Harry explained flippantly, hoping that was enough to dissuade further questioning. That seemed to be the ticket, as the girls all had a chuckle at his expense.

"A project? Over the summer?!" Bell demanded in mock horror, a hand shooting theatrically over her mouth as she spoke, "Maybe Granger has had a bit too much influence over you? What would she say if you were learning now of all times?"

"Oi," Harry growled good-naturedly, glaring at the girl, "Let's not bring it up, yeah? If she got the idea that I enjoyed studying or something like that, I would never hear the end of it. She might even start calling me 'responsible'."

"The horror," Alicia said, her expression and voice deadpan before quickly breaking into another round of laughter. With a chuckle, Harry led the way back towards the Leaky Cauldron citing his ordered meal. The girls merrily joined him in that venture and seemed thoroughly stunned when Harry offered to pay for their meals. Another difference to add to the long list; Harry now had a streak of old-fashioned chivalry… Though he would rather call it common decency.

It was fifteen minutes later that the quartet of Gryffindors found themselves situated at a booth. While Angelina had taken Harry's offer only as far as a light snack, Alicia and Katie were unfortunately not so restrained. A full-course meal sat before both girls, both of whom ate with impressive gusto. Though Harry's purse could feel the hit to its contents, both from his business in Knockturn and this suddenly-expanded lunch, Harry couldn't deny that interacting with people he liked was a welcome change. For a few minutes, at least, he could feel like a normal person again.

"So, if it isn't school supplies, what were you here for? If you don't mind my asking?" Harry asked once the group had finished their meals and were allowing the food to settle. Katie, who was sat to Harry's right, swept the bag she had brought along up and onto the table. The weight of the bag was enough to rattle the table and nearly upend Alicia's drink. While the latter girl hissed her displeasure and shot her friend a glare, Katie happily opened the bag and withdrew its contents.

Several printed pictures and a large wizarding camera, which seemed to have been dragged from the late 19th century, were scattered across the table.

"We went to see Ollie over at Puddlemere's new training pitch," Katie explained, sifting through the mess of photos until she found the one she was searching for. Accepting the photo, Harry watched as Oliver Wood, resplendent in his Keeper pads and Puddlemere uniform, floated at the end of a pitch. The picture version of Wood seemed to realize he was being watched and waved up at Harry with a large, goofy grin. In that moment of distraction, a quaffle whirled past Wood and into the furthest goal. A brief look of shock flashed across Wood's face before he looked back at his missed goal.

"I'm having this one framed," Katie declared much to the amusement of the other three present students. Harry regretted not remaining in contact with his now-former team captain, silently realizing how much of his life he was missing out on by being a shut-in. Maybe a dose of Riddle confidence would give him what he needed to live life to its fullest?

You know, after that whole Dark Lord issue was dealt with.

"So he made it into Puddlemere?" Harry asked, "Wasn't Falmouth scouting him?"

The conversation continued into unimportant topics, ranging from Wood's newfound place as reserve Keeper to classes they were taking in the coming school year. It was as odd as it was cathartic for Harry, who knew conversations from the perspective of both the silent and awkward type to the charismatic sort. Where a year ago he would struggle to hold a conversation and not come across as anti-social, now he could easily build up a rapport with his fellow Gryffindors.

"You seem different today, Harry," It seemed his sudden confidence was noticed, as Alicia spoke, "More confident."

Katie and Angelina gave sagely nods and leaned closer, giving Harry the sudden feeling that he was being boxed in. The gleam in their eyes did little to assuage his rising fears. Was he worried that the three girls had cordoned onto him having the memories of Tom Riddle or something as bizarre? Of course not. His fear was one born of a teenage males desperation to avoid the most terrifying topic of all; his personal life.

"More outgoing, too," Katie agreed.

"In fact, if you weren't a fourth-year…" Angelina said with a purposely lilting tone, but the amused gleam in her eye spoke volumes. The Harry of a year ago would have been sent into a spiral of blushing and stuttering, no doubt playing right into the devious girls' trap. Alas, Harry of today was not so easy. With a gasp of mock horror, Harry leaned back and put a hand over his heart.

"For shame, Angelina! I'm an ickle fourth-year, how can you talk about such scandalous things in front of me?"

"Don't worry, ickle forthy, Angelina has her sights set on George-" Alicia started before having her face suddenly and violently covered by a flushed Angelina. Harry raised an eyebrow as the two struggled for a moment, Alicia's following words muffled by her friend's hand.

Finally, the settled, Angelina purposely ignoring the chuckles of the other occupants and returning her attention to Harry.

"Okay, settle it down, Shakespeare," Angelina said, "But seriously, what is it? New girlfriend? Is it Granger?"

"Ginny?" Alicia asked though the chuckle from Katie made it clear what she thought of that idea.

"Parkinson?" Katie's idea suddenly made her incredulity regarding Ginny beyond bizarre. The looks of horror from the other three occupants sent Katie into a laughing fit, one she was brought out of by either Alicia and Angelina delivering a swift kick to her shin.

Harry rapidly denied any rumour that he had a girlfriend or other significant other. At the same time, he felt slightly sick at the thought of getting into a relationship. Not out of any asexual perspective, Tom in his younger years was just as much of a red-blooded man as any other (and a bit of a Cassanova in his later Hogwarts career). However, mentally, Harry had the influenced personality of a man in his seventies. He might be in the body of a teenage, but he was far and beyond the mental age of his peers. Any relationship with a fellow student would put Harry in the position of immediate power as he was both more mature and more experienced (as far as his memories were concerned).

Any woman over his current age that was willing to get involved with him was right out, for obvious reasons.

That was how Harry left his fellow Gryffindors: their suspicious and rumour-mongering gazes on his back the whole way to the front door of the Cauldron. No doubt he had done little to waylay their suspicions, but there was little Harry could do to keep himself incognito. The mere thought of reverting to the naive, foolish, and hopelessly lost Harry Potter of a year before irked him beyond words.

The Night Bus ferried him back to his family's house. Though Petunia and Dudley were home, neither seemed to be in any rush to speak to Harry. It was an unharassed Harry that made his way to his bedroom, book under arm and a smile on his face.

The first step in his preparations to rival Voldemort was underway.

Only twenty-thousand more to go.