Harry concealed diary and diadem in a secret compartment in his trunk and cast as many protective enchantments as he knew on it – which wasn't a lot, but barring someone completely upending his trunk and smashing it to pieces, he hoped it would be enough.

Once he finished his homework, he researched some more protective spells and added them after dinner, but not before taking out the diary.

Have you made a decision?

What makes you assume there is one to make?

If I was in your position, I would have to decide – stay in the diary and leave everything as it lies, or rejoin with my current self and hope it fixed whatever was making them weaker than me. Assuming it's possible to rejoin, of course.

…I don't know if it's possible. I never researched how – never thought I would need to. The other doesn't know either.

You can talk to the diadem?

Yes. He's as alarmed as I am about our weakening – he hadn't really noticed until I brought it to his attention.

So your current self probably doesn't know, then.

A safe assumption to make.

Harry couldn't help but imagine the young Voldemort sitting in the Slytherin common room from the 1940's, colors dim and faded except for him, biting his thumbnail as he weighed his options. It was a strikingly human image, one that didn't really fit the man, the myth, the legend that was the Dark Lord Voldemort – but this version of him wasn't yet that man, that terror. This one was still a (admittedly brilliant) student of Hogwarts…

…And the Heir of Slytherin.

Harry's eyes narrowed.

What did Slytherin put in the Chamber of Secrets?

I'm sorry?

You're the Heir of Slytherin, the one that's been causing a bit of a stir here. What did Slytherin put in his Chamber? He was a Parselmouth, so I figured it has to be some kind of snake, or a relative of one.

…You're a credit to your House, Mr Potter. It's a basilisk.

"Oh," Harry sighed, remembering an artist's rendition he'd seen while researching. It had been an almost art-nouveau-style painting of a male and female basilisk twined around each other, surrounded by stars, bird skulls, and black feathers.

The petrifactions have been because no one's looked – him? Her? – directly in the eye.

Correct again. And her name is Ariadne.

Not an 'S' name?

Salazar called her 'Selene,' but she chose Ariadne for herself.

The two "memories" spent many days debating amongst themselves, and Harry left them to it. He had a decision of his own to make – two of them, really.

Lucius had finally replied, explaining how the Ministry detected prophecies being delivered and archived them in the Hall of Prophecy. Apparently other countries had more reliable methods – and ones less prone to possible tampering – but the British Ministry collected the memories of those who heard the prophecies, rather than using Legilimens masters to extract it from the prophets directly – or properly training them to know when a prophecy is coming and get to a Recording Office.

He went on to explain that since prophecies were often vague enough to have many possible targets, viewing was not possible unless the prophecy was confirmed to have been fulfilled at least once – but he also said he knew why Harry was asking, and more importantly for whom he was asking, and promised to inquire.

Harry thanked him profusely and advised that if he hadn't thought of it already, he should absolutely take advantage of people's belief that Voldemort was gone, that the prophecy was fulfilled. And if Harry needed to be the one asking, would he mind helping him draft the request for maximum effect?

But then, decision time: did he find some way to contact the current Dark Lord, let him know that progress was being made, or leave him in the dark until he had the full prophecy in hand? But that led to another question: since the Dark Lord was (most likely) still a bodiless wraith, was there a way to contact him? He had no hands – or eyes – so he couldn't read letters, answer phones, use any ordinary means of communication. Perhaps it would be best to wait – which would also give the diary-and-diadem Voldemorts time to sort themselves out.

But that was his second, less important decision to make. What was he to do with them? Did he leave them at Hogwarts, in the Room of Hidden Things? Or did he bring them home with him? He couldn't imagine that his parents would be thrilled about him bringing pieces of the Dark Lord home (because whatever Diary-demort said, Harry did his due diligence and knew for a fact that he was bullshitting, even if he hadn't yet called him out). But at the same time, even in the Room of Hidden Things, they would be terribly exposed. He assumed Voldemort had put protections on them to stop them from being damaged or destroyed, but that wouldn't stop someone else from finding them and carting them off.

Harry sighed.

Voldemort.

Yes, Harry?

I'm sorry for interrupting your intrapersonal interaction, but I need to know – do you want me to put you two in the Room of Hidden Things during the Christmas holidays, or do you want to come home with me?

…How long do we have to decide?

Hogwarts Express leaves in a week.

We'll let you know in four days.

In the end, they decided to leave Hogwarts with him to get out from under Dumbledore's watchful eye for a time (and both knew better than to try anything with three High Wendigos so close).

Protected by the light on one side and the dark on the other – you lead an interesting life, Mr Potter.

Interesting is relative. I'm sure your other selves have tales of their own to tell.

Unsurprisingly, Will was the one who picked up on the Dark Lord's presence, reading it in Harry the way he read everyone else's secrets, but he only confronted him about it when Hannibal was off cooking dinner (Abigail wasn't yet home – weather). He frowned sharply on seeing the diary and diadem, and examined them closely. "I can feel there's something there when I hold them," he said, turning the gently-whistling diadem over in his hands, "definitely more than a mere memory, but I can't read it the way I do people." He sighed and handed the diadem back, the whistling tapering off. "I trust you to know what you're doing, even as young as you are, but please, be careful."

"I will," Harry promised.

Will told Hannibal, of course, and they spoke extensively with both artifacts before returning them, the elder wendigo reiterating his husband's advice for caution. "I don't think their madness is contagious, but nonetheless, be cautious. Indulge as few of your 'Gryffindor'-like tendencies as possible where they are concerned. Slytherins are masters of dissembling, and I would hate to see harm come to you because of something they asked of you."

Harry vowed that he would be careful.

Once again, his family was invited to the Malfoys' Yule Ball, abut Lucius requested that Harry, at least, arrive early. They all took tea with the wizard, and he explained his plan. "The Minister will be attending again this year," said Lucius, "I believe your request to view the prophecy will be more effective if first made to him in person. Fudge is – well, with the right amount of emotional appeal about wanting to know why your parents died and, as you said, the belief that the Dark Lord is no more, he should be amenable. It will be easier to get through him than the head of the Department of Mysteries – the request would have to cross his desk, anyway."

"How should I bring it up? And how should I say I heard about it?"

"An element of truth, perhaps – Severus was the one who overheard the prophecy and delivered it to the Dark Lord. Maybe he mentioned it during your class in that way he does…?"

Between them and his parents (and Will's body-language coaching), they hatched a plan. So, that night…

"…and of course you remember young Mr Potter, Minister."

"Of course, of course!" the man laughed, shaking the boy's hand, "Always a pleasure. Good to see you again."

"I believe Mr Potter could use your advice, Minister. He- well, it's probably best if he explains." The Malfoy patriarch turned to Harry. "Go ahead and tell Minister Fudge what you told me."

"I heard that there was a prophecy about me and-" He lowered his voice briefly. "-and You-Know-Who, from my potions professor. Well, what he actually said was 'Not even the prophecy about your defeat of the Dark Lord can stop you from being abysmal at potions, Mr Potter,' but that's not the point. I was wondering if it was true, and if it was, could – could I hear it? Is there a way? Is it allowed? I-" He looked down at his feet, then back up. "My parents died trying to protect me. I want to know why they had to die, why He was after me in the first place."

"Would that be possible, Minister?" Lucius asked, "I'm not as familiar with the Department of Mysteries as I would like."

"No one is, Lucius," Fudge assured him, "save the Unspeakables themselves, and they certainly aren't talking. But the Head of the Department's an old friend – I'll see if I can wrangle something, especially since the prophecy, if it exists, must have been fulfilled when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named perished.

Harry felt real relief and let it show on his face. "Thank you, Minister! It means a lot."

Later, the Malfoy patriarch came back around, this time with Narcissa, who had been watching the whole time. "You are an excellent actor, Mr Potter," she said, "I'm surprised you're not in Slytherin."

"The Hat did consider it, but it implied I had too soft a heart to be a 'true Slytherin.'"

"Unfortunate. But nonetheless, I commend your skill." And both of them inclined their heads.

Nothing unusual happened over Christmas break, but Harry expected that, even if no one else did. The troublemaker responsible was in his bag, along with his older version.

But there was another troublemaker still at the school, or rather two of them: whoever had the diary before (because Diary-demort wouldn't say) and Lockhart.

The man's teaching had gotten even worse over the break, it seemed, to the point where many students simply stopped going to his class, mostly the Ravenclaws (which, as intelligent as they were, were also the worst students, more interested in self-study in their areas than what the professors where trying to teach unless they overlapped). Harry still went, mostly for the entertainment value, even if he was the one who usually got roped into performing with Lockhart.

Despite Diary-demort's silence on the petrifaction front, the student body was still ill at ease. If anything, the tension only ratcheted higher, everyone wondering who would be next, what House, what year, what family. Lockhart seemed to think that they needed a morale booster, but was astonishingly tight-lipped about what he had planned.

Which was, apparently, some kind of celebration for Valentine's Day. The Great Hall was decorated in enormous pink flowers, with red, white, and pink confetti raining down from the ceiling and vanishing about a foot over their heads. Lockhart wore robes that matched the flowers, and introduced his dwarvish "cupids" with enthusiasm, proclaiming that they would be carrying valentines between students for the day.

Harry didn't know what kind of expression he had on his face, but it made Draco, Neville, and Ron all double over laughing.

It got even worse throughout the day, as many people sent him Valentines. The worst was one particularly persistent dwarf that wound up ripping his schoolbag and sending his belongings spilling across the floor in order to sit on him and sing his valentine delivery. Hermione helped him suck up all the ink that covered his things when some of his inkwells smashed, while Draco, Ron, and Neville helped collect the things that had flown further afield, including Diary-demort.

None of them saw Ginny Weasley spot the diary, her eyes going wide and face going pale.