A/N

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed – if I haven't answered you yet, be assured that I will. Also thanks to all who added me to their story alerts/favorite stories lists. There's really no better feeling than knowing that your story is appreciated.

Some people have asked why the timeline in this story is so different than in canon. I admit to moving Tom Riddle's date of birth up – also, Dumbledore doesn't officially become headmaster for thirty years or so. Believe me, the second discrepancy will be explained… actually, it's an important part of the story.

None of the characters belong to me.

----------

Harry closed his eyes after he was certain that Dumbledore and Prince had left the room. He wasn't sure that the professor had bought his story about the wristguard and use of soul magic –

Really, Potter, I must say I'm almost impressed. That was quite a bit of fine acting there. Digging into your latent Slytherin side, are we? –

But at least he had given Harry back his wand. Not that he was currently able to use it – his magic was so depleted he was doubtful he'd be able to perform anything other than Lumos.

Potter, we need to talk.

There was, however, a more pressing problem. How had he arrived in 1932? Why was he here?

Potter!

For that matter, why was Dumbledore here at all? If he remembered his history correctly, Dumbledore was the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle would return in another ten years and ask for the Defense position. Why would Prince notify Dumbledore about a suspect patient, rather than the Ministry? Or, for that matter, the hospital administration?

Potter, stop ignoring me!

Harry stalwartly ignored the voice as he stared at the shadowed ceiling and considered.

He had no idea how to get back to Hogwarts. The first thing he had to address, then, was to figure out how he had arrived at the hospital and then how to reverse it – although, come to think of it, wasn't it a bit odd that he'd landed right in the hospital? It was like the spell had deliberately sent him there.

Potter, the voice interrupted patiently, if you'd talk to me, I might be willing to answer your questions.

Wearily, Harry glanced at the wristguard. The risks were considerable – but, if anyone would know anything, he was willing to bet that the wristguard did.

I have a name, Potter.

Harry glanced quickly at the door. Prince hadn't yet returned – plus, he reasoned, it was perfectly understandable that someone injured as recently and as badly as he would take a nap. Reluctantly, Harry swung his feet back up to the couch, lying flat on his back and gazing at the ceiling. He winced as his leg twinged; he was almost reluctant to look at it, certain that anything which couldn't be healed would not be a pretty sight.

Stop procrastinating, Potter.

Harry's lips firmed; quickly, resolutely, he swung the wrist up to his forehead and laid the wristguard flat against his scar.

There was a shot of blinding pain; a rush of green light; a sensation of falling; and Harry was no longer lying on the couch. He blinked, disoriented, and glanced around – it appeared that this meeting would take place in a small, dark room, dimly lit by flickering torches. Two chairs, so close they nearly touched, sat facing each other in the center of the room.

"It looks like a Mudblood interrogation room, doesn't it?", an amused voice said from behind him.

Harry flinched, then forced his expression flat. "As always," he drawled, turning around, "I am delighted to see you, Tom."

A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle stood facing him, smirking happily. Harry eyed him with disfavor and suspicion; the last time they had communicated like this, he had been forced to engage in a frantic struggle for his body. He shuddered as he remembered the pain that particular encounter had caused.

"Harry," Riddle said, rolling the r's in his name. "Or should I say Heinrich? Really, boy" – he smirked again – "Whatever were you thinking, choosing that name?"

"Tom, considering that this is probably at least partly your fault", Harry said coldly, "I would think it prudent" – he paused over the word, savoring it, then heard his voice grow loud and sharp – "That you stop about my name, and instead tell me what the hell is going on!"

If anything, Riddle's smile widened. "Really, Harry… is losing your temper going to do any good at all? Hmm?" Without waiting for an answer, he swept to one of the chairs and sat in it, indolently reclining and gesturing at the other with his foot. "Come along, Harry. Have a seat. We'll discuss this in a – civilized – manner."

Scowling, Harry grabbed the other chair and dragged it as far to the other side, as far away as possible from Riddle. "You parasite," he spat. "Talk."

Riddle sighed wearily. "Harry, we've been over this. My illustrious other self was just as upset as you are about all this mess." He stopped, straightening, and peered at Harry through the gloom. "I will admit," he said thoughtfully, "That Granger's idea – Magicking the wristguard onto you – was one of her better ideas – for a Mudblood, at least." He stopped to smile at Harry's expression. "Well, at least, for me." He said happily. "Left you in a bit of a bind, didn't it?"

Harry very carefully did not answer, pushing the memory of Hermione's screaming face aside. "You wanted to talk, Riddle. Stop with the taunts and start talking. How did we get here?"

Riddle frowned. "I have no idea." He paused. "I suppose it could have something to do with the latest curse I – excuse me, the other me – cast on you – what color was it?"

Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I think it was red," he said hesitantly. "A dark red, I mean, not bright."

Riddle nodded thoughtfully, staring silently over Harry's head. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't say, then. It must have been a curse I recently developed…" He frowned, and then looked directly at Harry. "You must find some way to get into the Hogwarts library, Potter," he said seriously. "There's nothing I can possibly do while we languish here in Snape's grandfather's home." He stopped for a moment, then chuckled. "It is rather ironic, though?" His eyes drilled directly into Harry's. "Even now, your allies are all somehow connected to me."

Harry glared at Riddle. "Tom, how do I know you didn't do this on purpose?" He demanded. "Why should I take you into Hogwarts? I know what you're capable of – what you did to the DADA professor position – how do I know you won't, I dunno," he groped for a word, "change time or something?"

Riddle's expression changed into one of contempt. "Idiot boy," he hissed angrily. "I couldn't possibly do anything without risking the universe completely unraveled – it would be difficult to take over Wizarding society if it no longer existed!" His face calmed. "I would recommend," he said softly, "That you take particular care to stay away from my present self. Dumbledore may not be observant enough to recognize the cover of my old diary around my wrist – but I assure you, the present me most certainly would." He stopped, and smirked. "He would ask you questions that you would not want to answer… and rather insistently, as well," he said silkily. "I think you had rather enough experience with that in our own time, don't you?" He stood. "Get into the Hogwarts library, Potter. We might – might – have a chance of returning home then." He paused. "No, get back to your physical body before Prince starts thinking something is seriously wrong." Harry jerked, distantly feeling pain in his body. He looked at Riddle, and narrowed his eyes.

"Just remember, Riddle," he said, "If I don't get back – then neither do you." With an effort, he closed his eyes. He hoped that he awakened in a better manner than he did last time. He concentrated on his body, on the pain he could feel…

And opened his eyes. He could feel Prince's hands on either side of his face, gripping tightly. Harry groaned softly, quickly moving his arm away from his face. "Healer Prince?" he asked softly. "What – why did you wake me up?" He did his best to make his tone confused. "Where – where's Professor Dumbledore?"

Prince's face twisted briefly. "Just left," he said. He paused, then went on – "Evans, Dumbledore never introduced himself to you. You just knew him, didn't you? Have you ever met?"

Harry felt like slapping himself. "No, sir," He said quickly. "I just – I mean, everyone knows him, don't they?"

Prince grunted noncommittally, then gazed at him for a moment. "Go back to sleep, Evans," he said. "I daresay you need it." He looked briefly in the direction of Harry's leg. "I might be able to do something more with that. It'll take at least another two days, though – the potion is a bit complex. I need you to stay here, on the couch, you understand? No magic, either."

Harry smiled briefly, wondering if Prince was using the potion as a convenient excuse to keep him in one place and from wondering around the house. Considering who his grandson was, he figured it was a safe bet. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged. He paused, then decided, rather wickedly, to ask – "Do you want my wand, sir?"

Prince's gaze hardened. "No need, boy," he said after a moment. "I doubt you can do anything with it, anyway, can you now? Just – just lie still. Don't move. Loo's over there," he gestured vaguely over his shoulder, "in case you need it. Aside from that, I expect you to stay here. Do you understand me, boy?"

Ah. So his little performance hadn't convinced them, after all. "Perfectly, sir," Harry said with every bit of innocence he could muster. "I'll do exactly as you say."

Prince looked at him for a moment. "Good." He said. "Good." There was a pause, until he added, somewhat reluctantly, "I'll go get you something to eat, shall I?" He shuffled off.

Harry sighed, and closed his eyes again. The feeling he had seen after seeing Dumbledore, which he had quickly suppressed, returned. He had missed the old man. The image of the headmaster's broken body, lying on the ground in a pathetic mound, had been emblazoned in his nightmares for the past several months –

He opened his eyes, and stared unseeing at the ceiling. To see Dumbledore again, and so different from how he remembered – where were the bright colors? The twinkle in his eyes? He had seen Dumbledore cold before, angry, but never at Harry himself; being on the other side of the old man (well, Harry reminded himself, not so old in 1932) was unnerving. The difference… it was as though he didn't know his old headmaster at all.

Harry gritted his teeth, and pushed those thoughts out of his head – they went to the back of his mind, along with Hermione's face, Dumbledore's body, Snape's sneering gaze, Riddle's diary, his last glimpse of Ginny, the locket… briefly he wondered how Hermione was, how their quest was, before refocusing on the present. How on earth, he wondered, was he going to gain access to Hogwart's library? Entering as a student was out – he doubted Dumbledore would be willing to accept him, with no educational background and no good explanation for it. Sneaking in was out – the wards would probably notify the headmaster that an unauthorized person was present in the castle. Plus, how could he get into Hogwarts in the first place? He briefly remembered Sirius, then dismissed the thought. He wasn't an animagus – and the Shrieking Shack hadn't yet been built. He had no idea how the Castle had changed, what additions had been made, when the Marauders first made their map.

Well, that left one option. Somehow, he would have to get a job. But, again, how? He had no references, no resume, and he didn't even know if there were any vacancies… bitterly, he remembered Mad-Eye Moody's impersonator, Barty Crouch. It didn't seem fair that he could get in while he, Harry, couldn't…

Harry's eyes widened, then narrowed. Wait a moment. Moody.

------------

Dumbledore sat in his office after returning from Abner's home, staring absently out the window while stroking the phoenix paperweight. He desperately wished he had a real, live, phoenix – he could use the comfort phoenix song brought. Healing tears, he thought, his hand drifting down to his left knee where his robes hid an alarmingly large scare, would also be nice.

Of course, phoenixes reputedly only bonded with wizards or witches of great power and great wisdom. That left him right out.

Sighing, Dumbledore returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down heavily, reaching once again for Potter's application for the Defense professor's position. Slughorn was right, of course – Potter was more than academically qualified to take the position. But after the matter with the Muggleborn girl, he couldn't imagine letting Potter anywhere near his students. He shuddered as he remembered Liliane Braddock's face, tearstreaked and ashamed, and her voice as she begged with him to keep her away from Potter. Sometimes he wished he had a way of emptying his head of thoughts.

His hands smoothed over the lamia-skin folder, as his thoughts turned to Evans' wristguard. The leather had seemed familiar – not leather, perhaps, but very similar to the lamia-skin he had before him. But that was impossible – lamia-skin was very valuable, and closely guarded by the pureblood families who stored it. Only three families reputedly possessed lamia-skin, Dumbledore knew, and two of them were close to dying out.

Of course, he thought grimly as his eyes went back to Potter's resume, the other family was the Potters.

So, then, what did it mean, to have a boy appear mysteriously in a hospital, with equally mysterious injuries, lie about his family, all while wearing a wristguard possibly made of lamia-skin which reeked of soul magic? Was it possible that the boy was truly a victim – but of his own family? Dumbledore stroked his beard, thinking carefully. Rumors circulated about Albert Potter's multiple indiscretions over the years – was it possible that Evans was the result of one of them? Evans did look familiar, but not like a Potter; Albert Potter was tall and blonde, with chocolate brown eyes. Both of his sons closely resembled him.

Perhaps young Evans resembled his mother, then. Dumbledore frowned, then made a note to research witches who had been associated with Lord Potter over the years.

He sighed. Speculation over Evans' identity notwithstanding, he still had to decide what to do with the boy. It would not be prudent to admit him to Hogwarts as a student, but it would not be wise or kind to leave him alone (unsupervised) in the Muggle world.

Dumbledore's phoenix paperweight, which he was still holding, chirped suddenly. Dumbledore looked at it, startled, before realizing it was glowing a hot red.

Merlin. Was he late for the staff meeting? He quickly glanced around his office, before realizing he had not yet unpacked a clock. He grabbed frantically at his robes for his pocket watch, before realizing he was not wearing it –

A voice cleared behind him. Dumbledore froze in the middle of grabbing his robes, then swung around quickly to face a startled Horace Slughorn. "Albus," he said slowly, eyeing Dumbledore closely, "Are you quite alright?"

Dumbledore straightened quickly, dropping his hand to his side and knocking the paperweight off his desk and out of sight, wincing slightly as it squeaked as it hit the floor. "Yes, yes, Horace," he said, trying not to sound embarrassed. "Of course. I was – just getting ready to come down to the staff meeting – "

Slughorn cleared his throat. "Yes, Albus. The staff meeting – it ended ten minutes ago. I took charge, since it seemed you weren't intending on coming – "

Dumbledore flushed. "Ah. Yes," he said awkwardly. "Thank you, Horace, for that – I got rather caught up – "

Slughorn looked at him, an eyebrow raised, then smiled sardonically. "Of course, Albus. I trust we will see you next week, then? Same time?" Dumbledore nodded meekly. Slughorn spun on his heel and walked out the door, stopping before he walked down the stairs. "Albus," he said, still facing away from him, "Since you weren't present, I took the liberty of telling Horatio Potter and Albert Potter that you had agreed to permit Mr. Potter to teach as Defense professor this term." Leaving Dumbledore gaping in dismay, Slughorn strode out the door.

Dumbledore sank into his chair. Evans – soul magic – Potter teaching – Liliane –

Now what was he going to do?