There has been some confusion over the Black/Lestrange/Rosier connection, so I thought I'd explain.

Bellatrix is the daughter of Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier (who we met last chapter.) Druella and Cassius Rosier are siblings, meaning that Cassius is Bellatrix' uncle. Cassius and Bellatrix look remarkably alike (which is weird, but not impossible). The Rosier features are hooded eyes, height, and Cassius and Bellatrix share a face shape. The Blacks give Bellatrix her lips, nose, figure, etc. There is NO RESEMBLANCE between Bellatrix and the Montgomery Lestrange, because she isn't a Lestrange by blood. The only similarity Harry is picking up on is insanity (and a surname).

Harry didn't know how he got to bed, because he didn't remember returning from the Room of Requirement that night. However, he awoke the next morning beneath his sheets, to Tom Riddle 'politely inquiring' about his state of consciousness.

Harry told him to piss off.

Riddle mumbled something about "only trying to help," and Harry immediately felt bad (which was weird).

Later, when Harry passed Riddle a hairbrush and apologised for his rudeness, Riddle smiled and told him not to worry about it. Which, of course, made Harry feel worse.

Harry now seemed to be an honorary member of Tom Riddle's little group—or at least their newest mystery. Breakfast was relatively civil, thank Merlin: Lestrange was subdued, Orion sweet as ever, and Atticus and Rupert kept their bickering to a minimum. Cassius was silent as a ghost, and Riddle restrained himself to little more than sharp glances and subtle insults. It was a peaceful affair.

Harry had left his timetable in the dormitory, so it was lucky that he and Riddle shared their first lesson. The Slytherin prefect 'kindly' offered to direct Harry to the Transfigurations classroom.

"So…. Transfiguration with Dumbledore, huh?" Harry asked politely, walking quickly to keep up with Riddle. He'd decided he may as well be cordial—as much as he could, anyway. Sulking and spitting wouldn't help anything. With all luck, he'd be home soon.

"Professor Dumbledore," Riddle corrected lightly.

"Merlin, you're worse than Hermione."

"Hermione? And who is that?"

"One of my best mates," Harry smiled, his friend's face filling his mind. "She's great. She always cared what we called teachers, no matter how awful they were."

Harry realised his mistake and felt like hexing himself.

"Teachers?" Riddle raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were home-schooled by your parents?"

"Yeah, I was." Harry said slowly, brain whirring. "Teachers in primary school, I meant."

"Hm," Riddle allowed, inclining his head. "Was Hermione also taught magic by her parents?"

"No, she was muggleborn," Harry said. "Dead clever. Better than any Pureblood."

"Did she get invited to Hogwarts?" Riddle wondered, and Harry could tell that he was mentally running through list of Hogwarts students, searching for Hermione in the crowds.

"No. My parents taught her too."

"And did she come to Hogwarts with you? I wasn't aware you knew anyone here."

"She died." And she might as well have, Harry brooded. He didn't know if he would ever see her again. Would she ever chide him into doing homework again? Would he ever see her argue with Ron over lunch, or curl in the Gryffindor common room stroking Crookshanks?

"How awful," Riddle murmured. (Yeah right, Harry curled his lip. Like Tom Riddle would ever mourn a muggleborn.) "So many dead."

"Yeah, that's what happens when the Dark Lord launches an attack on your village. People die," Harry said sardonically.

"Yet you survived. A chance of luck, perhaps?"

"My mother protected me," Harry said proudly, and then—in case Riddle was getting any ideas: "And I'm not completely helpless."

"Of course not." Riddle soothed. "Anyhow, I imagine we'll see your defensive skills later."

"Huh?"

"We have Defence after lunch. We usually duel during the first lesson back. Professor Merrythought likes to call it a 'forcible reminder of reality'."

Harry wondered how his duelling skills would hold up against the sixth years of 1943. Harry had considerable experience in that field—not many fourteen year olds could say they duelled a Dark Lord and walked away—but perhaps the curriculum was harsher here? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

"So, what kind of teacher is Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked. Harry couldn't say he wasn't curious about being taught by his former headmaster. Whilst Harry wasn't at the height of his regard for Dumbledore, he couldn't deny that the old wizard had always been insanely powerful.

"Oh, an excellent one. He's really very qualified."

Harry took pleasure in the fact that, to Riddle, those words probably felt like punches to the face.

"Someone said that he favoured Gryffindors." He certainly had in Harry's time.

"Every teacher has their preferences," Riddle said diplomatically.

"Are you thinking of going into politics?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I just thought you'd be good at it."

"Thank you," Riddle said graciously, despite the fact that it hadn't wholly been a compliment. "But I plan to teach. Pass on knowledge to the next generation, if you will."

Indoctrinate them, you mean. Harry didn't say that. "Huh. What subject?"

"Defence. It's my passion," Riddle said strongly, and Harry believed him.

"What about it interests you?"

"Oh, everything. The theory, the tactics, the decisions you make: split-second but oh-so-crucial." Riddle practically glowed with excitement at the thought. "There's nothing else that makes you feel so alive."

Harry was genuinely captured by this Riddle, all aglow with joy, intelligence and anticipation. He was a world away from the cruel, cold figure of the future, scarlet eyes reflecting emerald green flashes of light. He was warm, and passionate, and sharp.

"I take it you like duelling then."

"Oh, absolutely," Riddle answered swiftly. "Perhaps we could have a bout later?"

"Maybe," Harry allowed, already planning how to get out of it. He wasn't sure he wanted to be utterly thrashed by Riddle in front of the likes of Avery and Lestrange.

"So, this is Dumbledore's classroom," Riddle pointed out, drawing to a stop in front of a door, studded with stars and planets. The large slice of wood was mottled and scarred with curse burns, and Harry could hear the faint murmur of a crowded classroom beyond. Harry narrowed his eyes at the over-sized poster of the universe, complete with a few added stars and planets that Harry was absolutely sure were fictional.

"You'd think this was Astronomy," Harry muttered.

"He's a little eccentric."

"Tell me about it." Harry said exasperatedly.

"Have you known the Professor for long? You seem familiar with him." Riddle eyed him curiously.

"Oh, no." Shit. "I just guessed he'd be a bit weird. From what I know of him. And meeting him earlier, of course."

"Obviously."

"What, don't you believe me?"

"Of course I do." Riddle replied, in the kind of way that suggested the complete opposite. "You just say the strangest things. It makes you rather fascinating. Perhaps that's why you draw so much attention."

"I do?" Harry asked, horrified.

"Why do you look so miserable? Doesn't everyone want to be highly regarded?"

"I'd rather just left be alone," Harry said earnestly.

"Perhaps you should learn a glamour to hide those then," Riddle suggested slyly, pointedly eying Harry's face. Harry's hand flickered involuntarily to his forehead and the lightning bolt scar upon it. But then he realised that Riddle was referring to the golden lines tracing the veins and crevices of his skin, fainter on his visible features, but still apparent. Oh. Harry kept forgetting he had those.

"Perhaps you should learn a glamour to hide your face," Harry said snidely, in the spirit of utmost maturity.

Riddle snorted in answer, and a small smile of what looked like genuine amusement crossed his features. It was tiny, but there.

"Are you ready?" Riddle asked, in a surprisingly thoughtful manner. Harry suspected he was testing the waters for weakness.

Well, Harry wasn't going to show any.

"It's a class, Riddle, not Azkaban." And Harry opened the door, stepping within.

Dumbledore was an interesting teacher. He entered the classroom sporting a knee-length salmon-coloured robe, decorated with moving images of fish (probably salmons, now that Harry thought about it). He gave the class a seating plan (mostly pairing those of different houses) and told them all that this year would mostly be focused on Human Transfigurations.

However, some things never changed, no matter whether he was 100 or 150, headmaster or Transfiguration teacher. Dumbledore was still just as vague and mysterious as ever.

One girl asked, "Professor, how do you become an animagus?"

Dumbledore replied: "My dear girl, there comes a time in everyone's life when they must make the transition from man to beast. It's a moment, not a spell, and there is the magic in it." But he followed that up with an in-depth explanation of the potions and meditative work needed to become an animagus, and the legal paperwork required to register, so Harry supposed he wasn't completely without knowledge.

Harry had never been excellent at Transfigurations, but he wasn't awful. Without Ron groaning about the work, and with a need to gain confidence in this new era, Harry found himself paying more attention and taking down copious notes. He wouldn't say he suddenly became an academic whizz — he'd never have Hermione's talent or work ethic — but he did at least keep his eyes open.

Harry did wish (for the first, and hopefully last time in his life) that he could have been sat next to Riddle, if only for the fact that he was sure the Slytherin would copy down every word said in the lesson, and Harry could probably have stolen his notes.

Instead, Harry found himself sat next to a Gryffindor girl, pretty but bad-tempered, who spent the entirety of the lesson eyeing him suspiciously and bending over her parchment like it held the secrets to life. Despite the lessened tension in this time, all was not well between Slytherin and Gryffindor. In his time, perhaps Harry would have found some sort of nobility within him to bridge the gap now that he was on the Slytherin side of things; to heroically lead the change in integrational attitudes…

But Harry didn't see what it would do. It wouldn't help him in the slightest, and it would surely make him more suspicious and strange in the eyes of his housemates. So he sighed to see the apprehension coming from the lions… and got over it.

Hermione would have been disappointed. Had she been here, she would have made banners and everything. She believed in the good in people, in second chances and giving the benefit of the doubt… But Harry found his personal morals all mixed up. Being in 1943, meeting Tom Riddle and, whilst not liking him, certainly not hating him as much as he should… it went against everything he'd thought he'd ever believe in.

Harry supposed he would have to partially abandon his moral code. It wouldn't work here; it wasn't relevant. The people to whom it applied weren't those people yet.

Although, Tom Riddle was still a manipulative dick. There was no doubting that.

Speaking of Riddle: watching the battle between the perfect Slytherin prefect and Albus Dumbledore was thoroughly amusing.

The routine went like this:

Dumbledore would ask a question.

Riddle would raise his hand.

Dumbledore would look for anyone else to answer.

Everyone else would look at Riddle, arms at their sides.

Dumbledore would sigh and call on Riddle.

Riddle would provide a five-minute answer, complete with statistics, improvised magical diagrams, and sources.

Dumbledore would provide an even more complex elaboration on Riddle's answer, adding on catchy songs, recommended texts, and eye-witness accounts.

It was brilliant. Riddle looked continually frustrated, and Harry got to write loads of detailed notes, as Dumbledore and Riddle one-upped each other. The rest of the class didn't seem to have a problem with it, as they didn't ever try to interrupt the pattern.

Harry admitted that he was in slight awe of Riddle. Even Hermione paled in comparison. Riddle was a bank of knowledge, quick wit and intelligence. Harry began to wonder how this became the Voldemort in the graveyard; hissing threats to his followers and making illogical decisions whilst screeching dramatically. Something completely crazy must happen, Harry mused, and he really hoped he wasn't still around when it did.

He couldn't be, right? No. He'd be out of here soon.

Speaking of that, he should go back to the Room of Requirement as soon as possible. Harry couldn't actually remember if he'd found anything (the night before was a blur), but he wanted to keep trawling through the books.

He didn't think he could get there that night—Dumbledore set a large essay on the limitations of Human Transfiguration—but he reckoned he could sneak down there Wednesday night. Hang on—he had a free next period, didn't he? Harry brightened at the thought and began bouncing slightly in his seat in anticipation.

His Gryffindor partner gave him a disgusted look.

"Mr Peters."

Harry blinked and looked at Dumbledore. He was shocked—was the teacher actually engaging someone other than Riddle?

The Gryffindor girl next to him muttered, "What the hell is he doing?" so this apparently wasn't a regular occurrence.

"Mr Peters," Dumbledore repeated, beaming. "I thought you might want to contribute to our conversation on animagi. Surely you have something to add from your teachings? I always find our curriculum at Hogwarts so limited."

"I, er, oh." Harry said stupidly. He caught Riddle smirking at him and bristled. Harry scanned his memories- he'd had dealings with animagi before? What could he have picked up on that Riddle didn't know?

Harry saw it in his mind's eye: the flash of blue light, and Scabbers bubbling; fur peeling away to reveal pink, fuzzy skin. A hunched over man where the rat had been.

"Animagus reversal," Harry blurted out.

"What?"

"The reversal… of the animagus… ness. Y'know. Through a spell." Harry stumbled through his explanation.

"A way to reverse the transformation?" Dumbledore asked, peering over his glasses interestedly. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"There's a spell. And blue light. And it forces the animagus back into their human form." Harry announced triumphantly.

"Does this spell have a name?"

"It's called the… the…" Oh Merlin, Sirius had told him this. Harry had asked him over the Christmas holidays… "The Homorphus Charm!"

"Well I wonder! Isn't youth such a wonderful thing? To keep on teaching me even in my old age," Dumbledore reflected happily, and he genuinely seemed delighted to learn. Harry noticed the scribbling of quills around him, and he realised that they were writing down his spell.

Harry sat back and glowed with satisfaction. Was this how Hermione felt after answering questions? It was like being allowed to sit at the dinner table with the Dursleys. He couldn't imagine a more brilliant feeling.

When the bell came, Harry didn't wait for Riddle or any of his sycophants to catch him up. He headed straight to the nearest staircase and began ascending. The seventh floor, and his treasure trove of information on how to get back home, awaited.

Unfortunately, he did not escape unfollowed.

"That was impressive, Peters," came the cold tones of Atticus Avery. Harry turned around reluctantly. Avery lingered a few stairs down, leaning nonchalantly on the bannister.

"Dumbledore hadn't even heard of that spell. Does it work, or did you pull it out of your arse?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Believe me, it works."

"Does it really?"

"Yes! Find an animagus and try it if you want; I don't really care. I've got stuff to do."

Avery moved up a step. "I just wanted to say… if the spell does work… that was impressive. Even Tom didn't seem to know about it."

"Yeah well, Riddle isn't the be-all and end-all of magic." Harry rolled his eyes.

Avery gave him an assessing look and smiled thinly. "I'll see you at lunch."

"Do I have to?" Harry muttered beneath his breath, turning away and continuing up the stairs. He wasn't followed.

The seventh floor was mostly deserted, so Harry encountered little difficulty in pacing three times and entering a vaguely familiar room. Harry had been too tired to fully appreciate this place last time, but now he that was more awake, he could take it all in.

The room had turned itself into a safe haven. All Gryffindor colours, decked out in gold and scarlet wall coverings and a thick crimson carpet, furnished with comfy sofas and armchairs. On the wall; a 'subtle' painting, depicting a proud knight astride a magnificent horse, holding a vibrant banner in one hand and a long spear in the other.

Harry chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Wow. What a modest painting. Thanks," he addressed the room.

He got closer, examining all the little details. A maiden in the background, waving a sheet of parchment into the wind with an angry yell. A hulking beast of a man, standing tall in the background, supporting an eagle on one arm and strangling a dark figure with the other. It was a medieval setting, of course, made even more obvious by the castle in the background. Was that—? Yes. The castle was Hogwarts; older and grander than Harry had ever seen it, but those turrets were unmistakeable.

Harry got even closer, and then he spotted it. Crouched in the corner of the scene, half-hidden beneath a discarded shield, was a wild child. Pale and sickly, with a head of uncontrollable black hair. Harry knew that hair was uncontrollable, because he'd attacked it with a hairbrush every day of his life.

"It's me," he whispered, narrowing his eyes.

The very same painted, emerald orbs stared back, widened in terror. He was himself, but maybe 4 years younger, looking almost identical to when he faced Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry reached out to poke at himself but hesitated at the last minute, suddenly afraid that something awful would happen. But his finger touched the painting, and nothing exploded or set on fire. It was just rough, old canvas creaking beneath his fingertips.

Harry licked his lips and laughed uncomfortably. "That's weird," he said.

He placed his fingers around the edge of the portrait frame, and pulled, prising it away from the wall. He half-expected it to swing open, revealing a passageway which he would crawl through and emerge, unscathed, in a DA meeting. Perhaps this had all been a prank. Dean would take credit for the painting, and Ron would look sheepish.

'Just a joke, mate' he would say, and Hermione would roll her eyes, enfolding Harry in a hug.

'I told him it was stupid' she'd assure Harry, before reminding him that he'd missed nearly three days of homework. He'd laugh.

But Harry pulled the painting off the wall with a faint 'pop', and it dropped to the ground. The wall underneath was plain, empty of any kind of passageway or window. There was faint mildew and weird-looking mould, but that was all.

Oh. Harry felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, despite the fact that it had been a stupid theory. This whole charade would have been a pretty elaborate prank. Two months long, with a replica of Tom Riddle involved… he couldn't imagine Dumbledore agreeing to it. Harry gave a bitter laugh at the idea of the DA crowding into the headmaster's office, pitching an over-complicated plan to make Harry think he was in the 1940s.

Actually, that definitely sounded like something Dumbledore would agree to.

Harry collapsed to the ground in disappointment, slumping next to the fallen painting. He debated hanging it back up—the blank stone looked really dull without its decoration. But instead, Harry took out his wand and aimed it at the canvas, murmuring a faint spell.

The painting went up in flames; the noble knight's face melting into the carpet, the maiden's screaming mouth swallowed by embers, and the giant's strong jaw line eaten by fire.

The miniature figure of Harry turned to ash.

Harry sprayed the small inferno with a flow of water from the end of his wand, and the flames dwindled with a hiss until there was naught but a burnt frame and scorched patch of carpet to show for it.

As soon as the painting was gone, Harry began wondering if, perhaps, he'd been mistaken. That couldn't have actually been him, could it? Why the fucking hell would there have been an image of him in a centuries old painting? Merlin, he'd been stupid. And he'd just set it on fire? What the bloody hell?

Uh. This time travel thing was really messing with Harry's head. Harry supposed he had just been lucky that none of the books caught on fire.

The books...!

Harry erased the painting incident from his mind and turned back to what he'd come here for. He could see the books that he'd gone through last night, littering the ground. But what he hadn't seen were the bookshelves, holding more tomes. Not many, but enough to give Harry real hope that he would find something useful.

Some of the books left on the carpet held bookmarks of ripped paper nestled in their pages. Harry assumed he'd done that to keep track of useful information. He settled himself on the floor, crossing his legs and pulling one of the thickest books onto his lap.

He blew on the cover, covered with dusty fingerprints; which read 'Time Travel Throughout History' and then opened it to the first bookmark. It read:

THE MYTH

Time travel is one of the most mysterious and strongest of magics available to wizarding kind, and certainly one of the most talked about. However, there have been no notable advancements in creating a stable and safe method of time travel any further back than a few minutes (see page 62), and certainly, none available to the general public.

Despite this, myths on time travel and its uses are rife. One such legend suggests that Rowena Ravenclaw, one of Hogwarts famous founders, was in possession of a time-manipulating beetle, which she had crushed into a powder and used to imbue enchantments upon an amulet. Thus, she was able to manipulate time through use of the artefact. This accounts for many claimed sightings of Ravenclaw throughout the centuries, despite the fact that she is recorded to have died sometime in the eleventh century. However, she is also rumoured to have created Ravenclaw's diadem; said to enhance the wisdom of its wearer, which is Ravenclaw House's most treasured attribute. As no obvious evidence of either object has ever been found, they remain myths.

Other uses of time travel in stories include many wizarding fairytales. The story of Cecily Time describes a witch who discovers an ability to travel through time from her grandmother and is promptly lost after killing her grandfather in a freak potion accident nearly 80 years before she is born. This is a cautionary tale told to young magicals to warn against meddling with mysterious magics like time.

This theme of fear perpetrates many time travel-related rumours and tales, and there seems to be an excessive—

Harry stopped reading. He didn't need to know how scary time travel was (he'd sort of got that bit already, thank you very much), and made up artefacts wouldn't help him one bit. He flipped to page 62, to read about the working time travel.

THE MINUTE PHENOMENA

In 1925, there was a case which rocked wizarding newspapers. A nomadic experimenter in dangerous magics (Gilderys Hawthorne) reported travelling backward in time almost 3 minutes, having a brief but enlightening conversation with himself, and promptly passing out. This case didn't leave the headlines until weeks after the occurrence, and Ministry response was swift.

The Ministry launched an investigation into the events and demanded that the nomad's methods be handed over for experimentation. The investigation into the events revealed that the nomad had been high on opium at the time of the incident and displayed evidence of hallucinations and mental instability. However, it was taken into consideration that at the apparent time of the event, every light, candle or fire in the area suddenly disappeared, and then reappeared exactly three minutes later. This suggested some magical phenomena of strength had occurred.

The method of time travel given to the Ministry by the nomad proved ineffective and was subsequently leaked to the newspapers. But cases have been reported of individuals repeating the events both under the influence of different narcotics and 'sober', to varying effect. Some reported similar experiences, and some stated that they would have been better 'soaking their undergarments in piss and choking themselves with it'.

So completely useless bullshit then. Harry didn't want to go further back in time, and a few minutes wouldn't help him with the fifty years he had to cross.

Harry considered the rest of the book and groaned. What he wouldn't give to have Hermione.

The Clock In The Corner of the Room

The grandfather clock in the corner of Sarah's room had been there as long as she could remember. It had been a gift to her mother from a great-aunt of some kind and was one of the most hideous pieces of furniture she had ever set eyes on.

"Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!" Her younger brother, Austin, bowled into the room. "Mother's home!"

A disturbing number of the books were also apparently fictional, which Harry failed to realise until several chapters in and a fair amount of emotional investment. Harry wiped away a tear and picked up the next.

A few books later, Harry was glad he didn't have Hermione. A disturbing amount of the texts cited the power of menstrual blood as a symbol of change. It was apparently an important factor when considering time travel. Harry was so desperate right now that he probably would have tried it.

He still hadn't found anything else useful. Harry screaming in frustration and punched a pillow. He knew the answer was somewhere in here; he knew it!

Harry glanced at his watch and froze. He'd missed lunch. Damnit.

And he'd have to hurry if he wanted to reach Defence in time.

Harry sunk into the empty seat next to Orion and let out a heavy sigh of exhaustion.

Harry had been forced to run back to the dormitory to fetch his timetable so he could find out where the Defence classroom was. This meant that he had to sprint to the second floor (which had completely changed) from the dungeons, so he then spent a few panicked moments wondering where Classroom 31 was. Finally, he recognised a Gryffindor from Transfigurations entering a non-descript room to his left.

"This castle is a bloody maze," Harry mourned, getting out his parchment and quill.

Orion gestured towards his stationary. "You're not going to need that."

"Oh, right." Harry experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. "The duel thing."

"So you've heard about it! Don't worry. She doesn't really watch them unless they're really good. Mostly, she lets us fire stunners at each other until someone cries," Orion said, disturbingly brightly.

"That sounds… bloody awful," Harry said slowly. Not even fake-Moody had been that intense.

"Nah. It's nice to take out some anger in a supervised environment," Orion said, looking like he'd never been angry in his entire life. "And she spends most of her time complimenting Tom anyway."

"Of course she does." Harry rolled his eyes.

Orion turned sideways in his chair, looking concerned. "So where were you at lunch? I saved you a seat."

Harry felt touched. "You did?"

"Yeah. And then I checked the library, but you weren't there."

"I want back to the dormitories."

"Why?"

"I had Transfigurations homework to do, and it was quieter there." Harry could remember when Hermione would growl in frustration during homework and slink back to her dormitory, muttering about noise and the 'sound of people breathing'.

"Wow." Orion blinked. "Not even Tom does that. I'm not sure when he does his homework actually, it just always seems to be done. You must be really dedicated."

"I'm not actually that great," Harry said, feeling like an imposter. "I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment, so y'know, I like the quiet. It's a bit weird going from a small house to… this." It wasn't a total lie—it had been relaxing to sit in the Room of Requirement, just him, alone.

"I've always had a large family," Orion shrugged. "Two sisters and a younger brother tend to make for a noisy household. I understand what you mean."

"That's a lot of siblings," Harry said, wondering why Sirius had never mentioned so many relatives. "Do they go to Hogwarts?"

"They're not the right age. Lucretia left Hogwarts last year, Meissa's around eight, and Rigel's only six." Orion smiled at the thought, and bent over to get something out of his bag. He resurfaced holding a moving photograph and passed it to Harry.

The photo showed Orion, clad in dress robes and looking very well put-together, surrounded by his family. The girl to his left, who Harry assumed was Lucretia, stood out if only because she was blonde. She was quite short (Harry empathised) and kept fiddling with her hair. Meissa was a lively child, sticking her finger up her nose and giggling when the person behind the camera told her to stop. The baby, Rigel, burbled from Orion's arms and tugged on his hair.

"Your hair's longer in this," Harry said in surprise. Orion looked even more like Sirius in the photo.

"Yes, it is. Rigel kept pulling on it, so I had it cut. He likes to grab onto things." Orion took back the photo and smiled at it lovingly. He obviously cared a lot about his family. "So are you good at Defence?"

"I dunno if you'd say good, but it's always been my favourite subject. I haven't really duelled a lot, though."

"It'll be fine. I'll duel you, and we'll keep it civil." Orion winked. "Just a tip: don't duel a Gryffindor. Inter-house duels can get… aggressive, and Dark magic is only frowned on, not disallowed."

"Dark magic?" Harry imagined what Riddle could do if he was allowed to use dark magic and strengthened his resolve not to duel Riddle like he'd suggested earlier.

"Well, they couldn't ban a whole branch of magic, could they?" Orion laughed and then, seeing Harry's concern: "But we're not supposed to seriously injure each other, don't worry."

"Humph." Harry sank back into his chair and frowned.

It was at that moment that Professor Merrythought swept into the classroom in stern black robes and steep stilettos. She was a dominating woman, similar to McGonagall but shorter and more sadistic looking. She also had a bob.

"Alright class, you all know what we're doing. It's duelling time. Pair up—wait." Merrythought stopped at the front of the class and snapped round, pointing a finger directly at… Harry. "You. I don't know you."

"I'm Harry. Peters. I'm new." Harry felt a little scared.

"You'll catch up," she snapped. "Okay class, let's pair up."

Harry turned expectantly to Orion, who grinned at him.

"Harrison Peters, would you do me the honour of being my duelling opponent?"

Harry snorted and bowed. "Why, Mr Black, I—"

"Harrison."

No.

Harry turned at the tap on his shoulder reluctantly, hoping that it wouldn't be who he thought it would be.

It was.

"Riddle," Harry said stiffly. "What do you want?"

Tom Riddle surveyed him with those dark, sinful eyes and gifted him a faintly amused smile. "I thought I'd make good on our earlier deal. Want a duel?"

No, was the honest answer.

"Of course he does!" Orion agreed, pushing Harry forwards.

Harry protested, shooting Orion a betrayed look. "But we were going to—"

"Don't worry about me!" Orion assured him happily. "I'll find someone else to duel. If you promised you'd duel Tom, you should probably do it."

"Excellent advice, Orion," Tom said cheerfully, and grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling him away to an open space.

The Defence classroom was huge. Only the corner of it was taken up by desks, but the rest was an open space. The pairs of students had swiftly found themselves small areas, and so Harry and Riddle did the same.

"Have you ever duelled before?" Riddle asked, rolling up his sleeves.

"Not really?" Harry really, really didn't want to do this.

"The rules are simple: we bow, and then we duel. Dark magic allowed, but no fatalities," Riddle smirked.

"How comforting."

Riddle flourished his wand a little. "Shall we begin?"

Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest. All of a sudden, the frustrations of the day: that bloody painting, the useless books, being stuck here with Tom Riddle—! bubbled to the surface. This was the man that would kill his parents. Even if he couldn't win, Harry could at least try. This was something he could do.

"Why not?" Harry challenged.

They bowed: Harry's barely a bob, and Riddle sinking into a low lunge. And then the duel began.

Riddle struck first; firing two consecutive stunners. Harry dodged the first and threw up a thick shield to halt the other. He acted quickly, firing a disarming spell and then a body-bind. Riddle side-stepped the disarmer and the bind barely took effect before Riddle cancelled it.

"Let's make this interesting," Riddle said.

A shower of burning arrows fell from the ceiling towards Harry in a blaze of light, who conjured a wall of water. The arrows sizzled and fell uselessly to the ground. Harry threw a slicing charm, which cut a thin line across Riddle's cheekbone even as he dodged it.

A bead of blood trickled down Riddle's face, and he advanced furiously, face set in a vicious snarl. He snapped his wand quickly and a barrage of spells flew at Harry; entrail-expellers, Repulsos, and Confunduses. Harry's shield stopped most of them, but the Confundus got through.

The world turned hazy, and Harry felt himself swaying on his feet. With a yell, he shot a surprising "avis!" in Riddle's direction, and the haze cleared. Harry saw Riddle yell as a vicious bird clawed at his face, but it didn't last long. A bolt of electricity hissed in the air around him, and the birds fell to the ground, fried.

"Confringo!" Riddle hissed angrily, slicing his wand through the air. Harry rolled to the ground, the curse flying over his head and singeing the ends of his hair. It exploded somewhere behind him. From his position on the ground, Harry sent a gust of wind towards his opponent. Riddle was caught off guard and knocked to the ground, but the Expelliarmus Harry cast soon after was halted by a strong shield.

Riddle blew on the floor whilst twirled his wand, and Harry saw something move. Hundreds of little spiders began scuttling towards him, moving quickly across the floor to where he lay. When Harry began pushing himself backwards, Riddle smirked and a circle of flames erupted around them with a flick of his wand, stopping Harry in his tracks and causing heat to beat onto his back. When the spiders reached Harry's skin, they began to bite at every available inch of him, each one a small shot of agony.

Harry screamed, clawing at his skin, but fought through the pain and cancelled the transfiguration. Dust fell from his body where the spiders had been. Harry laughed. Riddle scrambled to his feet, but Harry cast the Knockback Jinx. The Slytherin flew back into his conjured flames with a grunt.

Harry held his breath for a moment, but Riddle must have cast a flame-freezing spell or something, because he emerged from the fire swiftly, robes singed but undamaged. The flames exploded into sparks and drifted away.

Now Harry and Riddle were back on their feet, circling each other and glaring.

"Never duelled before, huh?" Riddle snarled.

"I guess it's just natural talent."

"Or beginner's luck." And with that, a pale white fog started to rise around Harry, slipping through his lips and quickening his breathing, whilst sticking to his skin and making it hard to move. He couldn't see anything. "Densaugeo!" he yelled, the sound somehow muffled and sounding strange to his ears. "Densaugeo! Densaugeo!" he repeated, trying different directions. Finally, the fog began to clear away, and Harry saw Riddle clutching his mouth as his teeth erupted from his mouth. Unfortunately, it took little effort to cancel the spell.

Harry and Riddle began exchanging spells at lightning speed. Harry didn't even know what he was casting: it was just instinct at this point. To an outsider, it would've looked like nothing more than cracks and flashes of different coloured lights. The two duellers got closer and closer until they were duelling practically chest-to-chest. Harry could feel himself losing ground, and Riddle only seemed to be getting faster.

Harry gritted his teeth and ripped his wand away, raising a disillusionment charm and moving swiftly away. He was lucky he did, because Riddle immediately sent out a pulse of magic about a metre wide. Harry didn't know what it would have done to him if it'd hit him, but he didn't want to find out. Harry cast another slicing charm, but Riddle side-stepped it, and returned with a ball of flames.

Harry could feel the disillusionment eating away at his energy, so he lifted it. He used Riddle's surprise to cast a binding spell, holding his arms back with chains. Harry cast an Expelliarmus but, before the spell could impact, Riddle cut the chains in half and flung a similar spell at Harry, leaving a wide gash on his forearm.

"Shit!" Harry cursed, covering the wound with his hand. It came away bloody.

Riddle now had a hand to his ribs, as they'd presumably been hit at some point. Harry couldn't remember when. Both duellists were panting heavily, and even Riddle looked exhausted: a thin layer of sweet covering his brow.

"I'll finish this now," he spat, walking towards Harry slowly, twirling his wand between his fingers.

"You never do get over your dramatics," Harry taunted, and played his last hand. "Expecto Patronum!"

The stag burst out of his wand, charging down the space between Harry and Riddle in a matter of seconds. It shone brighter than Harry had ever seen it, glowing a blue-silver in the dark classroom. It let loose a ghostly bellow as it charged into Riddle's chest and sent him hurtling onto the ground. Harry followed close behind, falling forwards onto Riddle's chest and pressing his wand to his throat.

Harry watched Riddle's eyes widen with shock, lungs heaving and hair falling into his eyes.

"Check," he panted viciously, driving his wand harder into Riddle's jugular.

Harry felt an unexpected force press under his ribs. Riddle's wand.

"Checkmate," Riddle hissed, licking his lips.

Neither moved: both caught in a potentially fatal position. The tension between them buzzed and crackled.

"Excellent job!"

Harry looked around wildly for the source of the compliment and found Professor Merrythought looking mildly impressed. He also found the rest of the class, gathered around Harry and Riddle, and watching intensely. Apparently, they'd all abandoned their own duels at some point to watch Harry's. Harry found Orion in the crowd. He looked slightly shocked, and extremely impressed.

Harry began to blush in embarrassment.

Merrythought clapped slowly, and was gradually joined by others. "Wonderful duel. You both made several tactical errors—especially you, Peters—but you have raw talent and skill. A perfectly corporal patronus, you don't see that every day. I'd say you have a competitor, Riddle.

"Apparently so," Riddle bit out, leaning his head back against the floor and sighing. "Would you mind getting off, Harrison, or should I forcibly removed you?"

"I'd like to see you try," Harry muttered, but obligingly lifting his leg over, and fell onto his back beside Riddle. "Ugh."

"Up!" Merrythought demanded. "Up! We're going to analyse your performance, and see where you could've improved. Back to your seats. Enough drama."

Harry sat up and immediately regretted it. "Head rush," he moaned, clutching his temple. Lights were exploding behind his eyes. Suddenly, the pain disappeared, leaving behind a pleasantly warm sensation. "Wha—? Oh."

Riddle put his wand back into his pocket and rolled his eyes. "It's a simple healing spell."

"Thanks," Harry said grudgingly, and clambered to his feet. He offered a hand to Riddle, who grabbed it and pulled himself up, licking his finger and touching the wound on his cheek.

Harry ignored the curious gaze of the students around him and dragged himself back to his desk, where an even more curious gaze was waiting for him.

"That was amazing!" Orion enthused. "You were so fast. He was like 'fire!' and you were like 'woah invisible' and then he was like 'spiders' and you were like 'light!' Where did you learn to do that?"

"I don't really know." Harry couldn't exactly say that he'd picked it up whilst annually fighting the Dark Lord that had haunted his life since he was a baby. "Around."

"Well, it was brilliant. I've never seen Riddle that into a duel—or anything! I've never seen Riddle beaten!"

"It was a draw. We drew." Harry still didn't know how he felt about that. He took a deep breath. "Er, so why were you all watching? Weren't you supposed to be duelling?"

"Well, we were. But, then you two got really intense, and there were 'rings of flames', and Professor Merrythought looked scarily like she wanted to hug one of you, so we all stopped. It was really, really, really good, and sort of terrifying?"

Harry was raising a hand to calm Orion down, when he got woozy. "Oh, bloody hell," he winced, rubbing his eyes. His arm started stinging, and he suddenly noticed the blood soaking through his shirt. Red looks really serious against white.

"What's wrong?"

"My arm…" Harr murmured.

"Merlin, you need to go to the hospital wing," Orion panicked. "That doesn't look nice. PROFESSOR! PROFESSOR!"

Somehow, Orion managed to persuade Professor Merrythought that Harry really couldn't wait to go to the hospital wing, and no—he wasn't being overdramatic, and it was quite urgent? And then Tom Riddle of all people volunteered to take him.

This day was weird.

"You're both in a terrible state!" Madam Hallpepper fussed, tightening the bandage around Harry's arm. "How you students are allowed to beat each other to death is beyond me."

This visit to the Hogwarts wing proved two things to Harry: he could never go long without significant injury; and all matrons fussed exactly the same.

"Mr Riddle, your ribs are seriously bruised, will you lie down!?"

Riddle was also evidently injured. Apparently his act of kindness in accompanying Harry to the hospital wing had not been without ultimatum. How shocking.

Madam Hallpepper flapped her hands and tutted. "Honestly, it's like you both want to stay overnight. I'm going to get more Painkiller Potions—don't move!" she shrieked, and swept out of the room.

Harry lay back in his bed and scratched at the bandages, staring up at the familiar white ceiling.

"You were good," Riddle said reluctantly, looking beautiful even when washed-out and injured. "That was possibly the most difficult duel I've ever had. Obviously I still won…"

"We drew," Harry crowed. "I drew with you."

"I think I clearly had the upper hand."

"I was on top of you!"

"You had the most vulnerable position—"

"'Most vulnerable'— I was sat on top of you!"

"I could have blown your intestines to pieces."

"Did you miss the part where I had my wand to your throat?"

"You did, didn't you?" Riddle said disbelievingly, and chuckled.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

Well, this wasn't something Harry had ever expected to happen. Lying in a hospital bed, chatting with Tom Riddle jovially… he was so high on Painkiller Potions.

The tension between him and Riddle was still there; still crackling on the corner of every conversation they had. There was still that weariness between them, like two predators who weren't quite sure who had the upper hand. Harry still really hated him, and he was pretty sure Riddle still found him unbearably suspicious. But tonight, at least, they could be civil.

"Do you think she's going to let us go back to the dormitories?"

"No."

"Me neither," Harry said, resolving himself to a night in the hospital wing. "Me neither."