Harry tries out for the Quidditch team, Chloe Babbage is overwhelmed, and Tom's life plans are questioned.

LAST TIME: Harry attempted to draw Orion out of his moping by inviting Walburga for tea. Orion and Walburga reached an agreement about the terms of their marriage and Orion was cheered, but Harry was less optimistic about the future. Harry and Tom became pen pals, and agreed to meet and go shopping. Harry brought along Meissa, but sent her off with Tom as he investigated the Quidditch shop. Tom and Meissa went to Borgin and Burkes, where Tom found a book on Horcruxes and a potential job offer. Finally, everyone headed back to school on the train (Harry and Atticus got into another argument and Caspar Grahams turned out to not be a terrible person), ready for another year at Hogwarts.

Harry fell into the pattern of a new year with ease. The most jarring moment had been when Tom produced a Head Boy badge from seemingly nowhere and pinned it to the front of his robes to much griping from Atticus.

"He gets everything," Atticus had moaned, but he'd gone very quiet when Tom compared their OWL results, and disappeared for the rest of the day.

The addition of 'Against the Dart Arts' to Defence had caused some controversy. Tom had been furious when he'd investigated the library and found all 'suspicious' books removed from the main area. Apparently Dumbledore had hovered in the background smiling smugly, but Dumbledore seemed to spend most of his time regarding Harry with suspicion these days, so he suspected that Tom might have been embellishing somewhat. (Harry did wonder if the events of last year would ever stop haunting him, or if he'd forever be followed by Dumbledore's bad opinion and a gaggle of awestruck first years.)

He tried not to think too much about it. Harry was ready for Quidditch. He'd been a little 'out of it' during try-out season last year- Harry had barely noticed them happening- but this time 'round he couldn't escape. He was practically surrounded by posters screaming 'TRY OUT FOR QUIDDITCH', 'DON'T MISS THE SIGN UPS', 'BRING YOUR OWN BROOM'.

Which was how Harry found himself on a Saturday morning, broomstick in hand, strolling down towards the Quidditch pitch and accompanied by an aggressively bouncy Orion. Inexplicably, Tom had decided to join them, despite his renowned distaste for all things sport.

And he didn't let them forget it.

"This is a ridiculous venture," Tom announced, a drag of reluctance in his walk and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Why are you coming with us, then?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes. "It's a weekend. Go and plan world domination."

"Well, this is all you're going to talk about for the next week," Tom said bad-temperedly. "I may as well witness your ridiculous flying spectacle."

"I think it's going to be fun," Orion said positively.

"You think everything's going to be 'fun'," Tom drawled. "I could tell you that I was going to curse you and you'd get all tingly with excitement."

"Well," Orion stretched out, considering, "it depends what curse you use…"

"Kinky," Harry grinned, and Orion shrieked in disgust, shoving him. Harry snorted at how red Orion's face had turned.

"That's not what I meant," Orion huffed.

"Don't worry," Tom said, his tongue rolling over the words almost sinfully. "Everyone likes to mix a little pain with pleasure."

It was Harry's turn to blush fiercely, mumbling something derogatory under his breath, and scowling. "I don't know why you're so cheerful," he grumbled. "You hate Quidditch and you're choosing to watch amateurs."

"Well, if you embarrass yourself, I might as well be there to see it," Tom said with a slight smirk, and Harry rolled his eyes.

But Orion wasn't convinced. "Harry won't embarrass himself- he's great at flying. And you know that. I think you're being supportive."

Tom snorted. "That's ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous."

"So is Rachel Maddens' poetry, but that doesn't stop her. Why should it stop you?"

"Who's Rachel Maddens?" Harry asked.

"One of the Slytherin chasers. I think she's in the year below us? She tried to set up a poetry evening last year. It… wasn't well attended," Orion said delicately.

"Huh," Harry nodded, committing that to memory. "So who else is already on the team?"

He wanted to know his potential team mates. Perhaps he should have gone to a game last year, but if he was honest, Quidditch had been the last thing on his mind. And it had been painful; the idea of a going to a Quidditch match without Fred and George's jokes, a match where Colin Creevey's camera lens wasn't snapping away, a match where Harry wasn't playing. Quidditch had given him some of the best moments he'd ever had at Hogwarts.

Orion frowned, and Harry imagined he was flicking through his mental record of seemingly everyone in the school. "Well, Chloe's the Captain this year. She's a beater."

"Chloe Babbage?" Harry squinted, his mind conjuring up a cloud of red-tinged hair and similarly scarlet lipstick.

"Yes- she's in Potions with us. Disaster with a cauldron. She's a little silly, but vicious with a bat. She once knocked out six of Artemis' teeth in one swing," Orion said admiringly. "Matthew Stein's the other beater. He's gentler. He tries to aim away from people, and tends to protect the seeker, I think. And Leo Piper's a chaser. I don't really know him," Orion frowned thoughtfully. "He's very quiet, which could mean anything in Slytherin."

"Wow," Harry mused. "A lot of spaces free then. Keeper, seeker and a chaser."

"Yes, there were lots of seventh years on the team last year, and all of the current players are sixth or seventh years. I think they're going to try and fill it up with lower years this time."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, repositioning his broomstick on his shoulder.

"But don't worry!" Orion said brightly. "You're brilliant. You'll definitely get in."

"And if not, you'll have gained the valuable boon of more study time," Tom mentioned, perhaps in an attempt to be comforting. He failed.

"I wasn't nervous before," Harry grumbled.

Orion looked heartbroken. "No, don't be nervous! The Quidditch team has never had anyone as good as you on it. Christina was okay, but she was always more of a tactician than a flyer. She just wanted to be on the team. You fly…" Orion seemed to struggle for the words, and then his face brightened. "You fly like you were born with wings."

Harry's face heated. "That's so sweet."

"Perhaps you should join Rachel's poetry evening," Tom suggested wryly.

"I did try to take part in that, actually," Orion said thoughtfully. "But she said my poetry didn't fit her 'aesthetic'."

Harry cocked his head. "Well, what was yours about?"

"A niffler taking his first steps."

"And hers?"

"Mostly death. I think she dressed up as Hela, from Norse mythology? It was quite impressive."

"A real delight at parties," Tom smirked.

"Hey! Rachel's got a lot of depth!" Orion protested.

"Such as?"

"Er…" Orion brightened, and brandished a finger triumphantly. "She likes puppies! She rescued one this summer. Called it Sky."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "How do you know everything about everyone? I barely even know our year-mates."

"I like to make a point of getting to know most of the first years at the beginning of the term. Definitely the Slytherins, at least. It's useful if they need any help. See!" Orion waved enthusiastically at a first year standing in the corridor, who beamed back. "That's Max Babbage. Chloe's brother."

"You're so nice," Harry said, holding back a coo.

Tom let out a soft breath of laughter. "Orion's not quite as selfless as he makes out. He has a neat little web of favours owed to him by the children of some very influential people."

"I help everyone equally!" Orion protested. "Some of them just happen to be connected to the Wizengamot. It's generosity"

"It's how you got a personalised tour of the Ministry Warding Department."

Orion couldn't argue with that.

The Slytherin Quidditch try-outs were probably fairly busy by usual standards, but as Harry gazed around the pitch, he was surprised by how few people had turned up, especially compared to what he could remember of Gryffindor try-outs. Maybe it was because those try-outs had the attraction of 'Harry Potter: Boy Who Lived' or perhaps there were just fewer people in this year, but it came as a little bit of a shock. He mentioned it to Orion.

"Oh, plenty of purebloods think Quidditch is undignified," Orion shrugged. "You wouldn't catch Atticus dead on a broom. Although he probably would actually die if he tried, because he's rather terrible at flying- anyway, I meant it like the phrase. More people try out in the other houses, I think. Derrick told me that Hufflepuff had loads. It's mostly just Slytherin."

Orion grinned cheerfully like he hadn't just reminded Harry that he'd been sorted into the house of Satan, and dragged Tom away towards the stands, calling out well-wishes. Harry wondered glumly why he hadn't been sorted into Hufflepuff. Or Ravenclaw. Or Gryffindor! But no, he thought grimly. He ended up in the house of the snobs who didn't even properly like Quidditch.

"You look like someone sat on your chocolate cauldron."

Harry startled at the familiar voice coming from somewhere to his right. He glanced over his shoulder and blinked, not trusting his eyes. Stood there, decked out in sports robe and sporting an easy grin, was: "Druella?"

Druella gave him a snarky little wave. "Hullo Peters. Bet you didn't expect to see me here, huh?"

"But-but you left! You definitely left!"

"And I came back."

There was a long stretched out pause as Harry tried to remember if it was possible to just 'come back' to Hogwarts once you turned eighteen. If so, he was definitely trying it.

Eventually, Druella got bored of Harry's confusion. "I'm here as an Assistant Quidditch Instructor. I referee, schedule, do a bit of teaching- Madam Erkings can't really handle it anymore, bless her. She's getting a bit old. Keeps tipping off her broom."

"But I thought you wanted to do professional Quidditch?"

"I wasn't sure if I wanted to go pro or not. The female teams are rather underrepresented in the leagues- they don't even count them sometimes. And it would be bloody awkward working in the sports department at the Ministry, after that… whole proposal debacle, seeing as Cygnus is Head of something or other. I was a bit stuck for what to do, but Professor Dippet owled me about a free position free here, so I thought I'd go for it."

"That's amazing," Harry said earnestly.

"Yes, it is," Druella grinned. "My mum's a little bit disappointed that I'm 'ruining myself with a career', but Dad's quite delighted. He always wanted a sporty son, and apparently I'm just as good. And Mum doesn't really mind, so long as I'm happy."

"I'm glad. It's nice to see that someone's happy, at least." Harry found his gaze involuntarily drifting towards Orion.

Druella's gaze followed his. "I did want to thank you, for that day in the summer. You, er, really saved me there." She tore her gaze away from the stands and smiled softly at Harry. "You're a good sort, Peters. I'm glad you turned up when you did."

In that moment Druella's face was lit up, the soft, dappled sunlight sending sparks flying in her hair and painting a healthy glow onto the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with good humour. Harry could understand exactly why Walburga fell in love with Druella, and he blushed.

"It's fine. It was just a bit of ice cream."

"Well, you might have infected strawberry and pistachio with the tang of sadness, but I think it was worth it," Druella grinned. "And now I'll be around for the rest of the year to keep Rupert in toe."

"I'm sure he'll be delighted," Harry said, remembering how Rupert had jubilantly crowed the night before, as he described all of the girls he could chase now that Druella wasn't around to swoop down like a harpy of judgement (somewhere in the castle, Mariana Wheelan's left ear went bright red). Hopefully Harry got to be the one to tell him about her return.

"So you're trying out for the team, eh?"

Harry shrugged. "I thought I might as well."

"No, I think it's a good idea."

"Tom didn't agree."

"Oh, don't listen to Riddle," Druella said, shaking her head exasperatedly. "I don't know where all of his enmity towards the sport comes from, I could never get him to try actually watching a Quidditch match. Anyway, I think it's good you're trying out. And between you and me, if you get onto the team, Chloe's going to need all the help she can get. I fully support her blurring of gender roles, but I once watched her put sugar onto a cheese sandwich and eat the entire thing without noticing because she was distracted by a moth. I'm not entirely sure how the whole 'leadership and tactics' thing is going to work out for her."

"Sounds like Slytherin's going to do great this year," Harry said doubtfully.

"Perhaps I'm being a bit negative," Druella admitted. "She's a brilliant flier. Have you heard about that time she knocked out six of Artemis' teeth?"

"Yeah, Orion mentioned it."

Druella chuckled, shaking her head. "Classic Chloe. But she's a lovely girl- and our second female captain! It's unprecedented."

There was a moment of silence between them as they watched the students spill onto the pitch, chattering and jostling excitedly.

Druella sighed. "I'll tell you what, though: it's really bloody weird to see try-outs happening without Christina."

"She was the last captain, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. We may not have agreed on most things, but she was a genius. Of course, she's engaged now. To a Crabbe, no less! It's a disgrace." Druella shook her head and tutted, a move which Harry suspected she had borrowed from Walburga. "Oh, they're calling you! That's Chloe, over there."

And Druella pointed to a girl who was waving an enthusiastic hand, her reddish-bronze hair (tied up in a bun and secured by her wand, it looked like) shining like a beacon against the green of the grass.

"I know," Harry agreed. "She's in my Potions."

Druella snorted. "Good luck with that. She burned down a laboratory in her third year- Slughorn nearly had an aneurism."

"That does sound like Chloe."

"Well, I'd best be off. Try not to get knocked off your broom, yeah?" Druella said bracingly, and awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. She retreated quickly, disappearing into the stands, presumably to watch the proceedings and make sure nobody died.

Harry wandered towards Chloe along with the rest of the gathered players, his broom a familiar weight in his hand. They ended up gathered in a corner of the pitch, milling uncertainly as Chloe turned away to consult a solemn-looking girl beside her. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, and mused how nice it was to anonymously attend Quidditch. No bias, no expectations- just the sport.

He had spoken too soon. Before long, one of the younger boys screamed rather shrilly and pointed an accusatory finger at Harry.

"It's you!" he gasped. "The Saviour of Hogwarts! My sister talked about you all summer. Georgie! You met her. You're brilliant!"

The boy fired off several rapid sentences that had Harry's brain racing to catch up. Mostly, his mind began flashing red lights and blaring alarms of 'CELEBRITY RECOGNITION ALERT', barely enabling him to stutter: "N-no that wasn't me."

The young boy blinked, and turned bright red, the shade standing out starkly against his dark, almost black hair. He looked mortified. There was a long pause, as Harry saw the people around them mutter uncertainly. He crossed his fingers- maybe he'd get away with it this time.

Once again, fate was not on his side.

"Yes, it was," one small fourth year said finally, with what seemed like a lot of unprovoked aggression. She was tiny, and Harry might have mistaken her for a first year if she'd been… less anatomically developed. As it was, he reckoned she was around fourth or fifth year. Despite her gruff demeanour, she was angelic-looking: all fine blonde hair and blue eyes, like a porcelain doll.

"Oh yeah?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know?"

She scowled derisively. "The patchwork gives it away."

And then she gestured to his scars, which Harry always managed to forget he had. His hand shot up defensively to his face, and he instinctively went to hide the golden lines creeping up his neck.

"I like it!" the boy said firmly, all smiles now that he'd been proven right. "It looks almost like Kintsugi."

There was a murmur. As Harry glanced around, he saw mixed reactions to the Japanese term; a boy turned and spat on the ground, another boy smiled, and a group of girl whispered excitedly.

The girl sneered, but it was not as vicious as it could have been. "Remember your audience, Rowling. And what side of the war we're supposed to be on."

"It's my heritage," 'Rowling' said stubbornly, his little chin raising, and Harry noticed now that there was a slant to his eyes.

"You're a fucking idiot," the girl grumbled. "Don't know why I fucking bother."

"Watch your language," Chloe chiding, turning her attention back to the group.

"You don't have authority over me yet," the girl said defiantly, crossing her arms.

Chloe looked rather flustered at the girl's irreverence, but she gathered herself back together quickly enough. "What's your name then?"

"Rachel Beastone. Your new keeper."

"Oh," Chloe blinked, glancing between the morose girl next to her, and the tiny thing, still swearing. "Well, this is going to be confusing. I know!" she declared, clapping her hands delightedly, and pointed excitedly at the small girl. "You can be Bea! For 'Rachel Beastone'. Get it? And you're a sharp little thing."

Chloe seemed very pleased with herself, but 'Rachel Beastone' growled. "Why don't I get my own name? I'm more interesting, faster, and in every way more superior to her."

And the newly christened 'Bea' brandished an accusatory finger towards the solemn girl next to Chloe, who Harry was coming to realise was probably Rachel Maddens; the mysterious poet.

"Well, Rachel's older and she's been on the team for longer. And I like her," Chloe said, raising an eyebrow and twirling a tight red curl around her finger. "You might not even need a nickname. You're not our keeper yet."

"I will be," Bea promised savagely.

As the try-outs began, Harry realised that Bea was probably right.

Bea flew like a wasp: darting through the air, every movement powered by angry passion. She loved flying- it was obvious. And her love gave her speed. Harry had perhaps not quite believed that this tiny little elfin thing could possible keep up with the game, but he was quickly proved wrong. She rocketed from hoop to hoop, broomstick flicking and slicing from seemingly nowhere to send the quaffle rocketing away towards the other side of the field. Hummingbirds couldn't compare.

The rest of the keepers were good, but none of them quite matched up to Bea's effortless agility. And she knew it. She watched the other keeper candidates with a smug little smirk, crowing loudly every time one of them faltered or missed. She was deplorably talented.

Rowling- the excitable fan- kept up a steady chatter next to Harry, describing over and over again how cool he thought Harry was and recounting an interview he'd done with Myrtle for the school newspaper, which was apparently a thing (but didn't have very wide circulation). He only stopped talking when Chloe began reading out names for the Chaser try-outs, and 'Peter Rowling' was called.

The Chaser try-outs took much longer but they were at least a little more evenly matched. (Harry watched Chloe's energy and focus throughout get steadily weaker and weaker, and wondered if she'd make it to the end). Peter was very good; fast and light with balls of energy. He was, however, knocked out of the sky by a bludger when he glanced down to check that Harry had seen a particularly good pass.

Peter wasn't necessarily the best: there was another boy, whose age Harry couldn't quite work out, but he had a very aggressive arm and managed to throw the quaffle through the ring from midway down the pitch. And another girl, perhaps a seventh year, seemed to know exactly where the quaffle would end up before it was even thrown.

The choice would be difficult- Harry supposed it depended on exactly who was already on the team. Whether Chloe wanted speed, power, or accuracy. Harry, if it were him, would probably go for the girl.

At last, the Chaser try-outs were over and it was Harry's turn.

"Oh hello, Harrison!" Chloe said, looking rather frazzled; flyaway hair curling around her ears as she clutched her clipboard for dear life. "I didn't know you were trying out."

"I forgot to put my name up," Harry admitted. He hadn't gone through this whole process the first time around. It was actually very odd actually having to fight for his place on the team- it had always just sort of been there.

"That's fine," Chloe said breathlessly, looking like nothing in the world could have been less fine. She glanced down at her clipboard and her eyes widened. "Oh no," she murmured in horror, and turned away to bury her head in the papers.

The potential seekers- Harry thought there were perhaps six of them- glanced uncomfortably at each other and wondered whether they should say something.

"So are you good at seeking?" Rachel Maddens asked suddenly, making eye contact with Harry. Her voice was low and gravelly, and she raised an eyebrow like she was just daring him to comment.

"I, er, think so?" Harry replied.

From across the pitch, Orion's faint voice bellowed, "HE'S GREAT!"

Harry realised with embarrassment that they must be using some kind of listening charm. Probably Tom's doing, at that kind of range.

"A strong commendation," Rachel said, voice still just as quiet, but this time with a hard little smirk.

Harry felt himself shrinking back, envisioning the fires of hell rising to bathe her shoulders (Hela had been a realy good choice). Harry took a deep breath and steeled himself, remembering that she was both a year younger than him, and as willowy as the whomping tree of the same name.

"He gets excited," Harry said firmly. "He's a good friend."

"His poetry isn't very good," Rachel hummed, but she appeared appeased and gently nudged Chloe. Chloe jolted and spun back around.

"Right!" she said, her eyes very wide. "This is fine. There are only six of you, so we can do something a little more 'fun'," Chloe looked like she doubted her own definition of the word. "I'm…" she lowered her voice and muttered sideways, "Rachel, what am I going to do?"

"You're going to release five-"

"-right, I'm going to release five snitches, and we'll see how many you can catch in fifteen minutes. They'll stay in a small space, about forty metres wide, to make it easier. You don't need to catch them all- it just gives us a chance to see some different manoeuvres. We'll go in the order on my list because otherwise I might cry, so Harrison, you'll be last."

Harry agreed that was fine.

Chloe took a deep breath. "And so up first we have Alicia Smythe?"

A girl, athletically-built with dark, sweat-covered skin stepped forward, looking utterly terrified.

"It's all about self-belief," Chloe said very encouragingly. Alicia Smythe went grey, swayed, and then ran to the side of the pitch to promptly throw up.

"Oh dear," Chloe fretted, and looked torn between running to help the girl and carrying on. Rachel solved the problem by marching over to Alicia and patting her on the back with an air of great suffering.

"Wonderful!" Chloe forced a bright smile. "Max Hughes?"

Harry was a little taken aback by the high standard. Every seeker managed to catch at least one snitch in fifteen minutes which was pretty impressive, seeing as it took professional seekers hours to find one. Harry supposed that having five snitches in a small space raised the chance of catching one pretty significantly, but still- there was a faint patter to his heart that he hadn't felt since first year as his name was called and he took to his broom.

As his broom rose in the air, it wobbled slightly. Harry's heart gave a leap this time- his broom had never done that before. The whistle blew, and somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry realised that meant he now only had fifteen minutes. 900 seconds. To catch five snitches. No big deal.

He felt a bit dizzy. Why had he never noticed how high brooms went?

Desperate to distract himself, Harry glanced over at the stands and saw Orion and Tom sitting side by side. Orion was whooping loudly, waving his hands in the air. Tom, on the other hand, was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed. Harry could just imagine his smug expression and how bloody unbearable he would be if Harry didn't get on the team- and the fear melted away. Fuelled by the desire to punch Tom Riddle in the face- as he often was- Harry fell into a perfect corkscrew dive, and fastened his fingers around a golden snitch.

The rest of the time seemed to pass in a blur. All Harry could remember: the feeling of wind in his hair; fogged glasses as he squinted through the lenses; and chill metal against his fingertips, quickly slipped into his pocket. It wasn't until his feet rested on the ground that he became aware of his surroundings again, and the raucous applause from the stands.

Harry pushed a hand into his pocket, still trembling from the adrenaline racing through his veins, and withdrew it heavier. He dropped one, two, three, four, five snitches onto the grass, and the world seemed to hold its breath as he stared down at the glistening golden shells, counting over and over again.

Peter Rowling's voice pierced the silence with a high screech. "THAT WAS AMAZING, YOU'RE AMAZING- mph!"

Harry wondered what he did to deserve Colin Creevey's ancestor finding him in the '40s. He looked for the boy and spotted him clutched close to Rachel Madden's chest, a hand secured over his mouth and still faintly mumbling. Rachel 'Bea' Beastone was stood behind the pair, glowering at Harry in such a way that made him fairly sure that she was imagining him on fire.

"That was very impressive," Chloe said, her eyes very wide, trotting towards him as quickly as her heels allowed. She knelt down to scoop up the snitches, inspecting them closely. Harry wondered if she thought he'd conjured them. "All five!" She declared, and started to scribble down the information with the desperation of a drowning woman.

"You're very attached to that clipboard," Harry said.

"I forget things otherwise," she said, tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration. "In one ear and out the other. That's what Rachel says."

Harry watched for a few more seconds before taking pity on her. "The quill's upside down," he pointed out.

"Oh, yes," Chloe said, turning very red. As she attempted some kind of fiddly manoeuvre to flip the quill over, it fell out of her hand. Harry bent to pick it up and Chloe must have too, because he suddenly felt blinding pain in his head, and when the white spots on his vision cleared, Chloe was lying on the grass.

"Do you want help up?" Harry rubbed his head gingerly and peered down at the girl, who wasn't making any signs of movement.

"Just leave me here to die," she groaned. "The team list will be up Monday evening."

Harry nodded uncertainly and began to edge away, feeling certain Rachel would come to help her fallen teammate. As he wandered towards the stands, he thought he heard Chloe's faint mutterings of "never should have taken the job…" and "don't know how Christina did it".

Yes, he agreed, catching sight of Druella's wild curls bobbing behind a crowd of heads at the side of the pitch. Chloe Babbage was a bit all over the place.

Orion was beside himself with excitement as Harry came towards them, barely able to talk other than to assure Harry that he would definitely make the team. Harry thought- slightly resentfully- that Orion and Peter should start a fan club (which reminded him that someone might actually have set one up towards the end of last year, and he hoped to Merlin that had died a swift death).

Tom was the real surprise. He nodded reluctantly, and admitted that: "You were good. Better than the others, anyway. It wasn't complete torture to watch."

"That was almost approval," Harry said cheerily, and considered hugging Tom to properly get the sarcasm across.

He didn't quite go that far.

Tom had spent a lot of the summer considering death.

Apus Black's untimely demise, despite Tom not having known him, had made the problem appear very immediate. Death could strike at any point and Tom was currently unprepared. That had to change. There would be no ordinary, unremarkable gravestone for Tom. He would have processions.

"What was it called?" Tom muttered, trailed a finger along the book spines in the 'History of Magic' section. "Ah yes, a horcrux."

The book he'd picked up at Borgin and Burke had been frustratingly vague on horcruxes, and had mostly focused on magical creatures and the Deathly Hallows. Apparently horcruxes were too wretched for even that book. And so Tom had waited patiently. Hogwarts had one of the most expansive libraries in Britain- it had to contain something on horcruxes. Remembering that it had been dark magic (soul magic usually was), so it would probably be in the restricted section, Tom began to wander over towards the back of library. Before he could slip past the rope, however, Madam Longstock blocked his path.

"I'm sorry, Tom," she said, with a genuinely apologetic expression. "But Professor Dippet has increased the age restriction to cover all years. You'll have to get permission for any books you want from the restricted section now."

Tom froze, and his jaw locked tightly. This had Dumbledore written all over it, and- though he hated to be self-centred (somewhere in the castle, Harry laughed suddenly and had no idea why)- Tom couldn't help but feel like this had something to do with him specifically.

"That's a terrible shame," Tom said very delicately. "I had something rather important to do." He drew himself up to his full height, adopted a charming smile, and stepped a little closer. The librarian had always been very 'friendly' to Tom- it was time to exploit that.

Madam Longstock turned pink, and giggled (which a woman of 40-something should never do). "Oh?" she asked, her voice a little higher. "What was that?"

"Just a personal project. It's not for any subjects so I'm just…" Here, Tom stepped a bit closer, tilting his head to look down on her with a suggestive smirk. "…A little concerned that perhaps the teachers might not be… receptive to granting me permission for a little pet project of mine."

"Well…" Madam Longstock hesitated, her pupils very dilated. (Tom felt a distant stirring of disgust- she wasn't a strictly unattractive woman, but she was at least double Tom's age.) "It wouldn't be anything bad would it?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort," Tom assured her smoothly. "And it does seem rather ridiculous, doesn't it? To keep wizards who are already 17-" Tom smiled suggestively "-away from a few books?"

"A little ridiculous," the librarian agreed, her voice never rising above a low hush.

"So it wouldn't be the end of the world if you let me have a little nosy through, would it? And the teachers don't need to know… It would be our little secret."

"Our little secret."

Tom let the corner of his lips turn up, and gently moved Madam Longstock to the side. "Thank you so much, Rachel," he murmured softly. "I won't forget it."

And then he strolled past her, his shoulder barely brushing hers, never looking back. From the silence behind him, he envisioned the librarian staring after him, barely daring to breathe. Tom smirked, and plunged into the restricted section.

It actually took Tom surprisingly little time to find information on horcruxes. He headed straight for the darkest magic possible, and, after flicked through a few options, quickly found Secrets of the Darkest Art. It seemed like the kind of book that would include information on splitting one's soul (the real clue was the glazed-over human eye embedded in the spine).

Tom heaved open the heavy cover (weren't there lightening spells? Book-binders should be notified). He trailed a careful finger down the contents page and let out a soft breath of triumph as his eyes alighted on a spikily scrawled 'horcruxes'.

"You always get what you want, don't you?"

The familiar voice had Tom's entire frame tensing. He turned his face slightly so it was in profile and murmured: "Cassius. I didn't know you were joining me."

Cassius let out a light hum, and from the thud, Tom guessed he had dropped a book of some kind onto a nearby table. "Honestly, why is no one ever happy to see me?"

"Perhaps you should work on a less ominous entrance if you're looking for a warm welcome."

Cassius laughed this time, like Tom had accidentally stumbled on an inside joke. "You'd know all about dramatic entrances, wouldn't you?"

Tom finally relented and turned around fully, the tome clutched securely to his chest. "Or maybe you should cut down on the smug chuckles. People tend not to like feeling mocked."

Cassius eyed Tom curiously, like the entire world was reshaping before his eyes. "No. No, you wouldn't."

Tom rolled his eyes (there was no point trying to translate Cassius- he was vague for the vagueness' sake) and retrieved his wand from his pocket. He'd shrink down the book and take it back to his dorm to read in peace. "How did you get in here?"

"Well, I certainly didn't seduce anyone," Cassius said. "I just walked in. It was easy, because the librarian's in her office now, you know, bent-"

"-I really don't need to know what she's doing," Tom said firmly, his stomach rolling at the thought. "It doesn't matter. Sacrifices had to be made."

"And you're certainly looking at a big one right there," Cassius raised his eyebrows at the shrunken book that Tom was tucking into his pocket, like he could see straight through the cover and into the contents. "Have you talked to Harrison about that?"

"Why on earth would I talk to Harrison?" Tom nearly did something undignified, like snort. Cassius was talking as if Tom needed 'permission'.

"You've only got a few strikes left. Splitting your soul is a fairly serious business."

"Keep your voice down!" Tom snapped, half-expecting Dumbledore to spring from behind a book shelf and declare 'ah ha!', but the library was silent. "I still don't see what that has to do with Harrison."

Cassius tilted his head and smiled slightly (Tom got prepared for the proverbial 'bombshell'). "Well, if he's going to commit to someone, he'd probably prefer a whole soul. More 'bang for his buck', if you will."

"Commit? With Harrison?" Tom's cruel laugh sounded more derisive than he felt. "You may have finally cracked, Cassius."

"Perhaps," Cassius shrugged. "But you'll never stop thinking about it now." And he wandered out of the library, whistling softly.

Tom wrestled down his urge to curse him.

Monday morning dawned, and all Harry could think of was the Quidditch list finally being up at the end of the day. It was the only thing on his mind right through Potions, Herbology and lunch. Orion was almost as excited as Harry, which didn't exactly help Harry to calm down or focus. He was a bag of nerves.

"You've definitely got it," Orion said, his voice loud enough that Harry tried to shush him as they walked into the Defence classroom.

"Maybe," Harry said slowly.

"'Maybe'? Chloe would be crazy not to pick you."

Harry hoped so. He'd tried to catch Chloe's eye during Potion and maybe see if he could tell who she'd picked, but then he'd remembered that distracting Chloe during Potions was a terrible idea, and would end in a Hospital Wing visit for the whole class.

"Matthew McKinnon was pretty good," Harry pointed out.

"Matthew McKinnon caught one snitch and then forgot about the others."

"But he caught it very quickly-"

"Is this a conversation that we all need to be privy to, boys?" Professor Merrythought asked sternly. Harry and Orion grinned at each other, but obediently shut up and sat down. "I thought not."

Merrythought's voice wasn't as sharp as it usually was, and as Harry inspected her carefully he thought she looked wearier than usual. Age hadn't seem to touch her before, but now it was draped over every line and shadow of her face. She looked tired; slumped against the edge of her desk where before she would have stood tall.

Orion probably saw the concern playing over Harry's face, and leaned over to murmur to him. "Her wife died in the summer."

"Merlin." Harry gaped in horror. "That's awful. "A beat. "Wait- she has a wife?"

"Yes," Orion replied, like it was obvious. "I mentioned it last year."

"You said she couldn't get a husband, not that she was married to a woman."

"Oh," Orion looked a little taken aback. "Isn't it the same thing?"

Product of the times, Harry reminded himself, product of the times. "No, it's not. Think of Druella and Walburga." Harry immediately regretted his words, as there was a flash of sorrow across Orion's face, but he seemed determined to soldier on.

"Well, that's different," Orion justified. "That's Walburga and Druella."

Harry decided that a DADA lesson probably wasn't the place to educate Orion on generalisations, but he added it to his mental checklist. Maybe he'd throw him into a room with Druella later and have him repeat what he'd just said. Harry got back on track. "How did her wife die?"

"They were holidaying in France, and there was some kind of attack. Merrythought fought her way out. Her wife wasn't as lucky."

Harry thought that Merrythought might have heard- she twitched as she finished writing on the board, but she didn't even glance at Orion or Harry as she turned back to the class and gestured to the words scrawled across the board: 'Defence Against the Dart Arts'.

"The more observant of you may have noticed something different about your schedule," Merrythought said, crossing her arms and surveying the class with a steely eye. "I'd like to clear that up. It wasn't a misprint, it wasn't a mistake. The name of the course has changed this year, from 'Defence' to what you seen written before you. This is part of Hogwarts' new scheme to protect its students against the rise of Dark Magic and those it would harm. Of course, you could also call it excessive and intrusive censorship, but then I'd be fired, so let's not."

There was a rumble of aggrieved mutterings from the gathered Slytherins, and Harry glanced around to see them all looking mutinous once more.

Merrythought ignored them. "Now normally I'd use the first lesson of seventh year to demonstrate the Unforgiveables for you."

The aggrieved mutterings turned into loud chatter, and Orion turned to Harry with wide eyes. "I thought that was just a rumour," he breathed. Harry stiffened- the last lesson he'd had on the Unforgiveables hadn't exactly been a resounding success, especially not the 'teacher demonstration' bit.

"Shut it!" Merrythought shouted, and the noise died down. "If you'd bothered to keep listening, you'd have heard the addendum: 'on rats'. Despite what people may say about me, the first years are quite safe. But I'll admit that I'm… perturbed by this alteration to the course. In my opinion, students often have to see the spells for themselves to truly understand. Unfortunately, there are those-" and here she let out a cough that sounded suspiciously close to 'Albus "-who think this is unnecessary. So we'll simply be discussing the spells today. Can anyone tell me what the Unforgiveables are?"

A Gryffindor that Harry didn't recognise stuck up his hand and reeled off the three spells with a look of intense concentration.

"Very good," Merrythought nodded approvingly. "That textbook must almost be digested by now."

The Gryffindor looked confused, and Harry heard a distinct exhale of amusement from Tom, who had sat behind Harry today.

"But what about the things a textbook can't tell you?" Merrythought said with increasing urgency, prowling across the front of her classroom. "Like how the Cruciatus curse feels. How the Imperius curse is remembered. How the Killing curse looks."

"Like someone being killed," a girl at the back piped up.

Merrythought barely deigned that worthy of her interest. "Don't be an idiot, Masters."

"A flash of green light," Tom suggested, and Merrythought snorted.

"First page, Evanson's History of Death."

"Painless."

"Second page."

"Quick."

"Third page."

Finally, Harry spoke up, his voice barely rising above a murmur as, before his eyes, a woman floated to the ground, her red hair flashing through the air. "It looks like a breath."

Despite the low volume, his voice sounded like a yell. The class- perhaps the whole world- held its breath. All eyes focused on Harry. Merrythought raised an eyebrow.

"It looks like a breath," Harry continued, hands clenched into fists where they rested on his desk. "Like they took a breath, and forgot to ever take one again."

"And how is the Imperius curse remembered?" Merrythought asked, equally as quiet, holding very, very still.

"It's like… wanting to do something so badly that every moment you're not doing it feels like dying."

"And how does the Cruciatus curse feel?"

"Like tearing your ribcage apart, one sliver of skin at a time. It's…" Harry paused, searching for the words. "It's your spine, bending into your body and up through your neck. It's the world on fire. It's thinking the pain will never stop, because there's never been anything but pain."

"That's it," Merrythought murmured. "That's what we're missing. Personal experience." She turned back to the class and the moment broke, but Harry felt Tom's eyes burning into the back of his neck and Orion's fingers curled around his tightly. As Harry's breathing slowed, he realised that his hands were shaking. The world itself felt shaky.

The rest of the lesson felt like it passed in a blur. Merrythought explained a little of the history behind the curses and then read out some personal accounts, which Harry found chillingly tame, even as the students around him regarded their teacher with obvious horror.

It was as the bell rang and people began to hang pack away that Merrythought dismissed the class and said, "Peters, stay behind."

Harry exchanged a look with Orion, who shook his head minutely and remained exactly where he was, even as everyone filed out.

"Black, you can go," Merrythought said pointedly, but Orion stood his ground.

"I'm not leaving Harry here," he said firmly.

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not going to murder him," she said exasperatedly. "There'd be no point unless the rest of the class was here to make notes. Get out before I curse you."

Orion didn't move.

She sighed. "You can wait outside the door. Go on."

Harry lightly pushed Orion's shoulder, who looked at him a little like a wounded puppy.

"Get out," Harry said gently. "I'll be fine."

Orion slipped uncertainly from the room, but not before giving Harry one last glance. Professor Merrythought leaned back against her desk and exhaled slowly, watching Harry like a hawk. Her gaze was kind, though.

"That was quite the poetry back there, Peters," she said gently. "Personal experience, eh?"

Harry shrugged stiffly. "I've seen things."

Merrythought hummed. "Want to be more specific?"

"I think I'm good."

Merrythought considered Harry carefully, her lips tightly pursed. He hovered awkwardly, and wondered whether he should sit down or whether he could leave yet. When Merrythought was done with her perusal, she knitted her fingers together and took a deep breath.

"My wife died this summer."

"Professor, I-"

"I know the news doesn't come as much of a surprise-" Her gaze was knowing, and Harry's ears pinked. "—but the staff 'sensitivity' meetings were all about empathy, so I'm trying something new. I'm afraid it might get... personal." Merrythought's face twisted at the word.

Harry nodded, because what else was he supposed to do? He sat.

Merrythought began slowly. "This summer… Merlin. I was an auror for 20 years and I've been a teacher for what feels like decades. You see some terrible things on the job, but I've never experienced anything like that attack… It was raw, staining, even their laughs crawled on your skin- it was humanity at its worst. The hatred-" her breath caught. "And then there was Di, lost in the midst of it. The bodies, and the screaming- those poor children- and then she's lying on the floor like she's just fallen asleep." She coughed uncomfortably. "So I've 'seen things' too."

Harry wasn't sure what to do as his teacher's eyes glistened, so he reached forwards and gingerly patted her arm. "I-it's okay," he mumbled.

"No, it isn't," Merrythought told him, her voice gaining some strength. "But that's not a bad thing. It's not weak to feel, Peters. Or to suffer. But you can't let it stop you." Her jaw tensed. "You make it push you on. Forwards. It's not always easy," she admitted. "God knows, there are days when I want to lie in bed and never face the world again. But I do. I've learnt that you can miss someone and live on without them. People do it every day." She smiled sadly. "I've read your file, Harrison. I know what happened to your family, and I'm deeply sorry. Missing is the hardest thing you can do."

Merrythought conjured a tissue, and instead of patting her face like he'd thought, she held it out to Harry. That was when he realised he was crying.

Harry missed them. He missed Hermione, and Ron, and Luna and Neville and Ginny. He missed his parents. He missed Hagrid. He missed Sirius. They could be dead in a ditch, struck down by that fatal flash of green light, or held under agonising pain, or forced to murder their loved ones, and he wouldn't know. The lesson had shaken him.

"You let them push you on," Merrythought repeated, like the words were foreign to her own ears. "That's what you do. And I want you to know, Peters, that you can talk to me. Or someone else, God knows I'm not the most empathetic of people. I hear Albus is good at that kind of thing, uses his beard as a tissue or some other bullshit. But I am always here. And technically so is your head of house, of course, but Horace is useless at anything not involving fame or chocolate."

Harry nodded his thanks, but didn't think he could say anything without his voice breaking.

Merrythought sighed heavily. "Merlin, I'm good at traumatising children."

Privately, Harry agreed.

"So what do you want to do with yourself eventually, eh?" Merrythought asked, clearing her nose and sweeping to her feet; the model of detached professionalism. "An auror? You're not bad at duelling."

"I-I want to be an Unspeakable," Harry said, the quiver in his voice nearly under control.

Merrythought did a little double-take, looking Harry up and down. "Are you sure?"

Harry nodded.

"You know how theoretical their work is, don't you, Peters? That's really not your strength, your practical work is where your real talent lies-"

"No," Harry said, more firmly. "I need to be an Unspeakable."

"Well, you're going to have to work your balls off then." Merrythought marched towards her diary and flipped it open, writing something down in very small, very neat handwriting that seemed entirely opposed to her personality. "There. Two sessions a week: Fridays and Sundays, two hours of theory work. I'll find out from your teachers what you need to work on, and we can make sure you get the grades you need. The TOADS application needs to be in for the beginning of February-"

"-Professor, what are you doing?" Harry asked, his head spinning with all this new information.

"I'm pushing you on," Merrythought said briskly. "Did you get that? Friday and Sunday- that shouldn't interfere with your Quidditch practises."

"Quidditch practise?" Harry echoed. "I don't even know if I got in yet."

Merrythought rolled her eyes. "Oh, you got in."

That evening, Harry stood in front of the common room noticeboard for ten minutes straight, a stupid smile fixed firmly to his face.

QUIDDITCH TEAM

Thank you to everyone who tried out and if you weren't successful, remember there's always next year!- C.B

(Unless you're a seventh year, in which case hard luck and you probably need to accept that Quidditch just isn't for you- R.M.)

Keeper: Rachel Beastone

Beater: Chloe Babbage

Beater: Matthew Stein

Chaser: Leonard Piper

Chaser: Peter Rowling

Chaser: Rachel Maddens

Seeker: Harry Peters

Well, what did you know? Merrythought, as per usual, had been right.

Evening couldn't come soon enough for Tom. His day had been long, painful and dull, and he just wanted to sleep.

Orion greeted him from an armchair beside the fireplace. "Good evening! How's your day been?"

"Fine," Tom said shortly.

Orion wasn't fazed, and pointed excitedly at the noticeboard. "Look at the Quidditch team list!"

Tom couldn't stop a little smile from slipping onto his face as he wandered over and read Harrison's name. No matter how much Tom loathed the sport, he had to admit that Harrison was a talented flyer. He'd looked free, dangerous (and yet strangely beautiful). Like a bird of prey: an eagle perhaps, or a falcon. Tom hadn't been able to keep his eyes off of him.

Cassius' self-satisfied smirk slid to the front of his mind, and Tom's smile dropped. What was he doing? He felt like a teenage girl: mooning over someone sitting on a bloody plank of wood.

Tom climbed up to the dormitories in a distinctly grumpier mood, pushing open the door with a bad-tempered huff. Which was why it took him a second to notice Harrison sat on Tom's bed, holding a thick, black-bound book and reading intensely. Tom immediately recognised the book, and his mind began racing. How had Harrison found it? He'd left it on his bed with deterrent charms and no one went near Tom's bed, not since he 'educated' them all in first year… Oh. But Harrison hadn't been there. Tom had forgotten.

Tom moved slowly towards the bed, anticipating Harrison's reaction. As Tom came to a stop just in front of the boy's bent figure, Harrison's gaze shot up from the page and they linked eyes.

It was then that Harrison tipped forwards and threw up onto Tom's robes.

"What are you doing?" Tom stumbled back in alarm, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Have you been poisoned?"

"Horcruxes?" Harrison said, his throat scratched and his voice raspy, but not raspy enough to disguise the snarl. "Horcruxes, Riddle?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tom said, shuddering at the feeling of the vomit soaking into his pores. "It's just some light reading."

"The page was bookmarked."

Tom hesitated, searching for an explanation. "It's not illegal to research."

"I don't see why you'd need to research this. It's horrific," Harrison spat.

"I don't see how it's any of your business what I'm reading-"

"This involves murder, Riddle. I've just made it my business."

"How did you find it? It was on my bed-"

"That's not really the issue here, is it?" Harrison's jaw clenched. "I was looking for a quill. Apparently you were looking for a prison sentence."

"It was simply curiosity-"

"Don't lie to me!" Harrison's voice rose suddenly, raw and unrestrained. "I am not in the mood."

The air around him crackled, and Tom took an uncertain step back. He wasn't sure what to say.

"Don't you understand, Tom? This is disgusting. Physically repulsive." Harrison lowered his voice, like he could barely stand to speak the words. "It's eating someone."

Tom didn't have an answer to that.

Harrison ran a hand unsteadily through his hair, looking vaguely deranged. "I know you're scared of dying, Tom. I get it. Apparently you want to fucking cling onto life so desperately that you're thinking of fucking cannibalism! But you're not going to do it."

Tom bristled. "I don't think you have any say in that."

Harrison wasn't having any of it. "I can forgive you for Lestrange, because he was going to kill me and I'm grateful for being alive. I can forgive you for Myrtle, because every day I see her smiling with her friends, solid and alive. I can forgive you for a lot of things, most of which you haven't even done yet." Harrison's face flickered, and it was so open and coarse and hurting. Then he snarled. "But not this. Never this." Harrison grasped the front of Tom's robes and pulled him very close, mindless of the slick vomit. "Do you understand?!" he hissed, furiously. "I will never speak to you again! You will never see me again! Promise me."

"I won't give up my goals," Tom said, but the certainty wasn't there and he didn't fully understand the stabbing pain in his chest at the idea of Harrison gone.

"It will go wrong," Harrison seethed. "Listen to me: I've seen it, it will go wrong. You'll end up a pathetic wraith- it won't be worth living. And you will die in the end, I guarantee it."

There was something in Harrison's voice that betrayed truth, and Tom felt a chill of fear at his warnings. Whether it was cigarettes or horcruxes- Tom didn't want to die. His world fell apart and swiftly reassembled as he snapped to a decision. "I understand."

"See, I don't believe you." Harrison stepped away, regarding Tom with immeasurable sadness. "I want to, but I just don't."

"I promise I won't use them," Tom repeated, and he didn't know why, but he reached out and lightly brushed his fingers against Harrison's face. "I'd rather avoid that potential scenario."

Harrison nodded tightly, his eyes flickering down. The energy drained out of him, and he seemed lesser.

"I'll take the book back," Tom promised, to himself and Harrison. "I'll find another way."

"Another way? You don't need to live forever, Tom. Can't you just deal with what you have?" Harrison shook his head, and it was so clear that he just didn't understand.

"I won't be insignificant," Tom said. "I'm going to be someone. Remembered."

"That isn't the only way." Harrison rubbed his eyes, sighing. "We live on through memories. People who love us."

And what happens, Tom wondered grimly, when you don't have one of those? But Tom didn't say that. He said: "So what about when they die? Who remembers you then?"

Harrison flung his arms up. "Why do you need to be 'remembered' or 'important' if everyone you care about is dead? Who cares?"

Tom couldn't answer. Harrison just didn't understand. Tom refused to feel insignificant: a guttersnipe who could die unnoticed. And he wasn't going to depend on anyone else for recognition, or anything as fleeting and flighty as love. Tom would rewrite the history books.

"Just no horcruxes," Harrison sighed.

Tom's eyes flickered down and his lip twisted. "No horcruxes."

I've been pretty distracted by general loneliness and sadness this past month or so, so this chapter is pretty damn late XD Sorry about that.

But my exam results went well! (They were my GCSEs, which- for all you non Brits- are the big exams you take at 16, which you use on your CV and for applications to A-level courses and sixth forms, which are the final stage of examinations before uni.) And I'm totally boasting and very proud when I say that I got all A*s XD

I've reached a point in my life where I've printed off some of the fanart for this story and hung it up in my room. I'm there, right now. That's the low I've reached. (So if you do art, maybe you'll end up on my bookshelf. There's some quality motivation, right there.) ((I'm only kidding, there is no motivation, I deserve none of this))