A/n: Hey, folks. This one's a little bit shorter than the rest, but I think it works just fine. Let me know what you think and visit www(dot)darklordpotter(dot)net if you wish to discuss this story.

This is the second version of this chapter, edited because of some helpful comments I received. Hopefully it works better now.

A Clock on the Face of Hell

Chapter 4 Bloodhound

We were staying in Stanford St., close to Waterloo Rd. and the Thames. I had found a comfortable apartment for rent. It cost me two spells and a smile to pay for it. Not my finest moment perhaps, but certainly not my worst either.

My friend spent his time buried in rolls of parchment and smudgy black ink. He was trying to remember even the finest details of this time so that we could draw a timeline. We were still unsure of how to proceed. We had certainly changed things already – minor things, of course, but they were changes nonetheless – and we knew for sure the world wouldn't implode or the fabric of the universe tear, as some theorists had speculated. The broader, more general consequences, however, were still unknown.

While Filius racked his brain for the tiniest pieces of information I stayed quiet and unobtrusive. There wasn't much I could do. It frustrated me, but I knew myself well enough to understand I wasn't a man of theory and planning. If Filius needed space and time to work things out, then space and time I would give him, if it was at all affordable. And right now, for once in my life, I had time to spare.

I usually got restless staying cooped up in that place for long. It was quite nice, sure, especially after Filius had been satisfied with his decorating, but I still tended to take long walks around the busy London of 1945. I went wherever my feet took me, not particularly concerned about my destination, knowing I could always apparate back if I got lost.

We settled into a bit of a routine after the first four days. It would be breakfast at eight or nine in the morning, followed by Filius working on his facts while I walked around London, prodding here and there for clues, sightings or leads on Mr. Riddle's whereabouts. Yet the timeline remained incomplete and Riddle elusive. I didn't let that bother me though; we had always known it would take more than Legilimency and polite conversation to find a man that would later elude capture for decades, and time and hard work would eventually give us that timeline.

That Saturday 21st of January, 1945, I remember having breakfast with Filius. We woke up around nine in the morning and I quickly manned the kitchen. My friend knew all the nifty little charms to make things work, but we were in a strictly Muggle neighborhood, and magical appliances were as rare as common sense was in the magical world.

Product of my walks, we were pretty well stocked on food. We shared the light meal I'd clumsily prepared and discussed our boring, predictable plans for the day.

"It really is too bad that I was such a hot-head in my youth," Filius said in between bites. The man liked his food sweet. To my disgust he had taken to adding sugar to his eggs or fruit. "If I hadn't spent so much time in the dueling circuit I would remember the war much better."

"True," I conceded. "But then you'd be a wimp and I would have to carry your sorry arse through our duels." Filius shrugged unconcernedly. "I rather have the competent wand on my side, not the walking library."

He chuckled. "That's an odd compliment, Harry, but coming from you, I'll take it."

By then we were comfortable enough around each other that we knew what kind of jibes would be taken good-naturedly and which ones wouldn't. Filius knew not to press me about those years we'd spent apart after the fall of Hogwarts. I knew to be very careful around family matters. My friend was very sensitive when it came to his parents and birth, and I had no idea why.

I sipped my coffee, that disgusting beverage I had come to depend on, and grabbed the newspaper. Titled the Daily Mirror, it was the ordinary soldiers and civilians' paper – a Muggle paper. I didn't like it much, but it showed facts of the Muggle war, of which we made a point to keep ourselves informed, and us buying it regularly wouldn't draw attention from the magical folk out there, just the way we preferred it for the time being.

"News?" Filius asked absent-mindedly.

I scanned the first page and said, "Nothing too important. Some guy named Roosevelt was sworn in as president…Truman as the Vice…Germany retreats from East Prussia…won Battle of the Bulge…"

He shook his head. "You have a curious definition of what is important and what isn't."

I shrugged. The events didn't mean much to me. I had no idea how they would impact the general outcome of the war. All I understood was a battle had been won by what I was starting to call my side – the Allies – and that some man named Roosevelt had won the support of his country's sheep.

"How's that timeline coming along?"

"Slowly," Filius answered with a grimace. "It is hard to remember all these things. And it certainly doesn't help that the Ministry often covers the truth. The events I remember most clearly could be fiction, a twisted version of the truth – anything is possible."

"I see," I said, and paused for a moment. "Then perhaps we can draw two timelines; one with the facts reported by the media and another with the actual – what? Don't give me that look. It's just a suggestion." Filius snorted and muttered something about him doing all the work. "Fine, you're right. Just hurry up please; I'm going bloody mad with the wait."

"I'm doing my best, Harry. All I need is some –"

"Peace and quiet," I interrupted, having heard the comment before. "Yeah, I know."

We finished our breakfast in comfortable silence. I was warming up alarmingly fast to the little bastard. I've never been a man of too many words, not much of a writer either, but there was just something that pulled us together. I was genuinely happy Filius had found me, and I could tell he felt the same way. They say excellent partnerships work because one person complements the other, and in our case this was unerringly true.

I picked up my wand and vanished the leftovers. Filius leaned back, rubbing his small stomach, pulled out that damned pipe and fished under the wooden table for something. He grinned when he found his pouch of tobacco and started whistling horribly off pitch as he filled the pipe.

I looked at him with disgust. "Why do you smoke that thing?"

"Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe," Filius said contentedly, as if that made all the sense in the world. He pulled in and exhaled slowly. The grayish puffs of smoke floated lazily around him. "I find it relaxing."

"Yeah, I bet you do," I mumbled.

I had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was or what exactly my friend smoked in that pipe (that red tobacco looked very suspicious to me) but as per our unspoken agreement I stood up to leave. The deepening frown on his face, the shuffling of parchment and the pipe dangling from his mouth meant it was time for me to go for a walk and leave him to his work. I grabbed my black travelling cloak and headed for the door.

"Anything from the outside world?" I asked, as I did every single day.

Today Filius answered something different. Amidst rolls of parchment, broken quills and diluted black ink he looked up, a grin on his face and a cloud of smoke around him, and said, "I shan't need cocaine today, Harry."

I looked at him strangely. That grin never slid from his face, and as I turned around and opened the door to leave I thought I heard him laugh quietly to himself, as if only he knew an amusing secret or the key to an inside joke.

I had quickly grown tired of Muggle London.

There weren't many remarkable or note-worthy things that caught my attention. Everything looked out of an old black-and-white movie; the pedestrians, with their black suits and white shirts walked like ants from street to street, and the old, roundish-shaped black cars cruised slowly in all directions.

Even the shops were dull and plain-looking. They did have, however, that inexplicable familiar feel, like when I visited my old friend's house, the Burrow, and everything was all cozy and comfortable, and the air smelled of food and burning wood. I learned to like that feeling and these particular shops, and it was here that I spent most of my time when I wasn't looking for Riddle or pressing my ear to the ground, hoping to catch a hint of Flamel and his activities.

That day my feet took me west. I walked down Cornwall Rd. and turned left on Upper Ground. I half-interestedly looked around, hoping to find something that would keep me busy for at least a few hours, so that I would return to the apartment after lunch, maybe by sunset. Filius would still be sitting at the kitchen's table, working on that timeline, and the earlier I arrived the more sweet smoke I would breathe, and the more restless I would get.

To my right I saw a gigantic building. Several paths led to a same entrance; a huge wooden door with white pillars at both sides, and two bored-looking guards standing at either side of it, dressed in traditional red and a black and a black, furry hat. There was a metal plaque that read: National Theatre. I stared bemusedly at the strange-looking guards. Practically by osmosis I had learned some facts about Muggle English culture, and one of them was that Royal Guards existed to protect royalty. Places like Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle would be swarming with them, but the National Theatre hardly counted as royal estate.

It seemed I had gotten my wish. Two Royal Guards in a strange location wasn't something as interesting as, say, a dragon flying over London, but it'd do for now. I climbed the short steps and walked over to the entrance. The guards were stiff as if they'd been petrified a thousand times over, and not even their eyes moved to follow me. I stopped before the huge door and looked around.

Nothing particularly caught my attention or explained the presence of the guards. From up close I noticed their tunics had groupings of buttons and a star of the garter was marked on their brassware. I took it that meant they were a special kind of guard, perhaps assigned to a specific person or family.

I was about to ask what was going on when the doors opened from the inside. There was a wide, long and elegantly decorated hallway that led deep into the theatre. I could see rows and rows of seats at the end, and part of a wooden stage decorated with red and blue silk rose above them.

Two men stepped out. One of them looked like your average Muggle. He was very short (his head barely reached my chin), had shiny black hair combed back with gel, brown eyes and a pale complexion, and was wearing a black suit with an ugly red tie. He looked like an usher or a planner. The other one had large grey eyes and silvery-blond hair, with a pair of very thick blond eyebrows. His face was rather pointy and strands of curly, golden hair flowed down past his high cheekbones and stopped level with his mouth.

I took a few steps to the side and watched the usher/planner engage the two guards in conversation. It was rather stilted; the Royal Guards either didn't feel like cooperating or they were under strict orders to keep their mouths shut. My guess was the former.

From looks alone I would've said the blonde guy was around thirty years old and worked moving boxes, scenery and props, or perhaps he was a carpenter. He was handsome in a roguish sort of way, but was way too underdressed to hold an important position in the theatre, plus he had an air of not caring about the shorter man's discussion with the guards.

"Will you please at least confirm attendance?" the black-haired man was asking impatiently, holding a clipboard and a stylish golden pen in his hands. "I know taking the time to answer a question must be terribly upsetting to you two, what with all the time you spend standing around here, all serious and busy. But if he wants a seat I'm afraid you two will have to make a phone call."

One of the guards twitched almost imperceptibly while the other looked more amused than angry. I snickered and turned to leave, satisfied with my findings and not terribly impressed with a member of the Royal family attending a show. Perhaps there would be something to see in Diagon Alley. If I was content to eavesdrop on one-sided discussions then magical one-sided discussions would do just as well, and maybe I could pick up some chicken soup and a certain waitress' Floo address…

As I walked away I heard one of the guards saying, "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but we're not allowed to speak on behalf of the Prince, let alone comment on his schedule. The best I can tell you is that, as far as we were told, the Prince has yet to decide on next week's schedule. I'm afraid you'll have to await his decision."

I stopped at the steps and leaned against one of the columns, curious as to hear what the other man would say.

"Fine," he grumbled, "I'll wait. It's not like an over-booked theatre can't reserve a whole box for someone." I watched the short man consult something with his partner, who stood by the entrance with an amused expression on his face. The taller of the two nodded briefly and said something I didn't quite catch. Then the usher/planner said, "Alright, not a problem, sir. And we're terribly sorry we asked you to come for nothing."

The blonde man waved the apology away and walked past the guards and the usher. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and sat down on one of the steps, his back against the other column, so that he was facing me.

His grey eyes fell on me and he said, "Having fun?" I shrugged. He grinned. "Life is full of indecisive folks, but these royal guys are the worst. Change their schedules every hour."

He pulled out a cigarette and offered me one. I declined and sat down opposite him, thoughts of leaving quickly vanishing from my head. Now that he was closer I could see he was wearing blue denims and a plaid shirt in red and black. He looked as out of place as I did, wearing black denims and a long travelling cloak.

"Wizards don't smoke here?" he said casually. I froze and looked at him guardedly. "Ah, come on. Don't tell me you're one of those stiff-ass Brits too. And here I thought you were alright." I glanced at the guards, who were still staring ahead, stony faced. He jerked his thumb in their direction and added, "Don't worry about 'em. You could say you're Hitler himself and they'd still try and look bored."

I stared at him speculatively for a moment, then sat down opposite him and said, "Harry."

"The name's Conning, Gary Conning."

"Nice to meet you, Gary," I said. "Didn't have you pegged for a wizard to be honest."

He grinned. "That's probably because I don't look like a Brit wizard. Matter of fact I'm not even British."

"American?"

"Born and raised."

Gary glanced at the Royal Guards and plopped the cigarette in his mouth. With a jerky twitch of his index finger the tip lit on fire. I relaxed further. He'd already told me he was a wizard, but seeing proof put some of my concerns at ease.

There was a moment of silence that for some reason wasn't uncomfortable. Gary pulled deeply, as if he'd been waiting to have a smoke for a long time, and exhaled with a small smile on his lips. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the white column.

"So what do you do, Harry?"

I hesitated for a split-second before saying, "I'm a consultant."

"Really? That sounds…fascinating."

I laughed. "It's not really as boring as it sounds, and I get by and fix my own hours."

"Like our friend the Prince or do you have a regular schedule?"

"I'm pretty much free all the time. Clients usually first owl to schedule an appointment. The rest of the work I get to do whenever I feel like it."

A blatant lie, that much was clear, but I could hardly say I was an unemployed time-traveler, or that my full-time job was hunting down the next Dark Lord. Perhaps I should've said I was a Hit-Wizard, maybe an Auror. It would've been closer to the truth, but it could've led to awkward questions I didn't have answers for.

"A consultant," he repeated, as if testing the feel of it. "No, you don't really look like the ones I've met. But a man's not his job, eh? I definitely wouldn't wanna be just my job."

"Why? What's your job?"

"Me?" He grinned, displaying two rows of huge, white teeth. "I'm a part-time bomber."

"What the hell's a bomber?" I asked curiously. An image of Gary flying a Muggle combat plane wearing blue denims and a yellow cowboy hat flashed in my mind.

He exhaled the grayish smoke slowly and shook his head. "You Brits got special names for everything. Guess y'all call it curse-breaker or warder."

"Oh, right," I said. "A curse-breaker then."

Unbidden, thoughts of Bill Weasley surfaced from deep in my mind. We'd developed something akin to friendship while on the run. The last time I saw him, Bill and his younger brother, Charlie, took two brooms and flew to the Ministry. The news of their father's death, Arthur Weasley, broke both of them. They died trying to get inside the Aurors' office, which had been transformed into another Death Eater base by then.

"Yeah, curse-breaker" Gary said, unaware of the sudden turn my thoughts had taken. "These idiots called me for a job here, something about putting up some barriers against bullets and some curses. Now I'm guessing it was all for his lordship, the Indecisive Prince." He snorted. "Now I get to take four portkeys across the Atlantic and then apparate from New York to Dallas, and then to Houston."

"That sounds pretty bad," I conceded. "So you get no pay and have to go back? Just like that?"

"Well, not exactly," Gary said. "I'll be staying for a few more days, just in case his Highness decides to attend. In that case I'll get some work. But if he doesn't want to show, then that's fine by me, too. I'll just put up my cheaper set of wards, collect a few of your…Galleons – Really? You call them Galleons? – and then go home."

"Quite the exciting life you've got there, Gary," I said.

"Yeah, a consultant would say ward-building is exciting." He laughed, and it sounded boisterous and contagious. I grinned, too, caught in the care-free mood of the strange American.

I stood up and stretched my back. He said, "Now, now, you ain't offended, are you?"

"Nah, it'd take more than a yank to offend me," I said. "But I probably should get going."

"Busy then?"

"Me? Not really. But you are"

He looked puzzled. Gary opened his mouth to say something but a voice coming from the door of the theatre interrupted, "Mr. Conning, if you're ready we can get started on the security."

"Ah, yes," he grumbled, "the Normal's security. It don't get any more fun than this." He stood up too and crushed the butt of his cigarette with one of his huge black boots. "Guess I'll see you around, Harry. Drop by next weekend if you wanna see some opera. These folks always say they're out of space but they give me five or six seats every time."

I shrugged. Opera wasn't one of those things that got me all warm inside, but Filius would probably enjoy it, and I wasn't one to stand in between a man and his hobbies. Usually.

"Alright, Garry, thanks," I said. We shook hands. "Nice meeting you."

"Yeah, nice to meet you," he said. He turned and walked towards the entrance.

I watched him go for a moment. The usher/planner tapped his pen impatiently against the clipboard and glanced irritably at the Royal Guards. They were still unmoving and silent, and apparently hadn't heard much of our conversation. Gary stopped right before crossing the wide doors and turned.

"Don't go looking for trouble, man," he called. "And make sure you drop by. Your Brit friends here have a nasty habit of boring me to death with their pretentious dicking around."

I laughed at the look on the usher's face and left.

Past the theatre I walked and then turned right. The weather was pleasant and a light breeze blew through the busy city. I decided Saturdays were better for walking than week days were. There was less traffic and smaller crowds. Plus I got to meet someone like Gary, who so far was the only bloke worth talking to I'd met in the past. Though to be fair I hadn't talk to many…

I pushed the matter of the Indecisive Prince and the American Magical bomber to the back of my mind. Maybe I'd get to see the guy again next weekend, maybe not. But at least he had provided me with a distraction, and if nothing else, by the time I went back to the apartment I would have something to comment to Filius, besides the usual, "Bad weather. No clues. How's the timeline?"

Although I didn't look it most of the time, I had a job to do. At the mere thinking of my 'responsibilities' and self-imposed objectives, thoughts of Riddle, Flamel and Dumbledore started running through my head. These moments usually led to frustration and discarding new and old ideas.

I had looked around Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, but Riddle hadn't showed up, and I never saw a sign of him inside or outside Burgin & Burkes either. I had, however, discovered Flamel's estate. It wasn't something to be proud of though. It turned out the address was listed in a book that named all the famous witches and wizards that lived in Britain.

Still, progress was progress.

What irritated me the most were thoughts of Dumbledore. All that shit, all those half-baked plans and crazy theories… I didn't understand him. Sometimes I caught myself hoping there was a reason for what he did, hoping he'd really cared, because I had once cared for him too. But most of the time my cynical and experienced side would approach the memories and declare Dumbledore an incurable, lunatic asshole, maybe schizophrenic too.

Angry memories and sentient feet led me to the water. The Thames spread on both sides before me. It was a sunny, warm day with little cloud-cover, and a few Muggles were walking by the shore. Through the middle of the canal ships slowly sailed, their decks stacked with containers, while other, smaller vessels spread their jib and mainsails and leisurely sailed away.

I started walking parallel to the Thames, heading east now. It was pleasant in a way, to be able to move around Muggle London without looking over my shoulder. In the past – the future – excursions to London were rare. Voldemort's finest patrolled these places, some looking for excuses to arrest wayward Muggles, while others did so grudgingly, respectful of their superiors and orders but disgusted with their unimportant roles. Either way I ran the risk of being spotted unless carefully disguised, and on those few occasions I ventured around London there was always a bigger picture, a plan I was to carry out, a man to assassin.

By 11:30 a.m. I was once again lost. Like I said though, it wasn't much of a problem, for I could always apparate. But what did inconvenience me was a lack of knowledge on restaurants and stalls. I had never been here before and I was getting hungry already, and I didn't want to lunch on sweet smoke and Sherlock Flitwick's riddles.

The street signs told me I was walking south on Hatfields. There weren't any restaurants or food stalls within my sight. I approached a man wearing a black tuxedo and asked for directions.

He gave me an amused look. "I'm afraid you're quite far from any restaurants, young man," he said, a bit pompously perhaps, and leaned forward on his walking cane. "See that street over there? That's Roupell. Go ahead and walk that way. There's a nice place called The King's Arms – the food is excellent – shouldn't be more than ten blocks."

I blinked, surprised at the helpfulness, and said, "Thank you, sir."

A good forty feet away I heard the man call, "And do be careful. That street is a little shady."

I waved at him and resumed walking, sweating in the hot, humid day. Following the man's instructions I turned right in Roupell St. and walked past a hair salon. I paused at a newspaper stall and briefly considered buying a few other papers – anything to speed up Filius' work. The publications were, however, gossipy in their nature, and for the most part unrelated to matters that interested us. Save for the Daily Mirror, which I already had, there weren't any I particularly cared to read.

That's when I first noticed someone was following me.

To the casual observer he would've been lost amidst the sea of people. But I was used to keeping my eyes open for potential threats, and while this man was subtle, he wasn't an expert or very experienced.

I thanked the guy manning the newspaper stall continued walking down Roupell St., presumably in the direction of The King's Arms. My shadow followed, always there, walking leisurely half a block back.

I casually stopped and gawked around, playing the part of a curious pureblood wizard in foreign, Muggle soil, or a strangely dressed Muggle tourist. It afforded me a glance at him, and that was all I needed to identify my tail as a wizard.

He wore dark blue robes and boots that looked made out of dragon skin, had pale skin and a mane of carefully kept brown hair. There were details I was missing, but it was enough to spot the wizard among Muggles, and though I wasn't terribly worried about my well-being, knowing I was being followed had saved my life many times.

After a few blocks I felt a vague wave of magic spread over me, past the buildings to my side and above the street. The Muggles scurrying from shop to shop suddenly felt the urge to leave, and quickly closed the distance with the nearest street.

I stopped walking and turned, staring expectantly at my shadow, looking for all the world as if I'd been waiting for him. He wasn't hiding anymore. He walked confidently forwards with wand in hand, and stopped thirty feet away from me. Though I had my suspicions, the hood that felled shadows on his face prevented me from identifying him.

His faceless head swiveled to the side, watching the last of the Muggles disappear, so that the street was empty but for us. Next he spoke, his voice confident and with an eloquent cadence; a cultured man's tongue.

"To the whims of wizards do animals dance." His head turned to focus on me, and I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, "Good morning, Mr. Bonham. Having a pleasant day so far?"

"Tom Riddle," I said coolly, having recognized the high-pitched tone. "Show your face."

Pale hands pulled back the hood, revealing a handsome face with neat, brown hair, dark eyes and high cheekbones, and a chilling smile etched from side to side. "Have we met before?" he asked.

"You wouldn't remember."

The street was completely silent. Muggle cars weren't coming and going anymore, and I could see pedestrians in the next and previous blocks, but none in this one. Riddle still smiled easily at me and turned to look at one of the buildings with an indecipherable expression on his face.

It was a grim, squared-shaped building surrounded by high railings. I was hit by one of those pulls, like a déjà vu. There was something unnervingly familiar about this street. It made me think of Dumbledore for some reason, and that was rarely a good omen.

And then the memory came to me. I had seen this building before in someone else's memory. It was the orphanage Tom Riddle had grown in, the one Dumbledore had shown me when discussing Horcruxes and their possible locations.

"I understand you have been looking for me," Riddle said, his features relaxed, human-looking. "There is no need for this dramatic chase, Mr. Bonham. If you wish to talk to me you have but to ask politely. An owl would suffice."

I felt the adrenaline coursing through me, much like a bloodhound must feel when its prey hops ignorantly within its sight. My hands clenched into fists but I was careful not to let my thoughts show. It looked like Riddle had found me after all – though I didn't know how – and I wanted to make the most out of this moment.

"I admit this is quite unexpected," I said, and I was pleased to note my voice sounded calm. He nodded, his cool smile firmly in place and that keen intellect assessing me. "Your associate, a Mr. Borgin, claimed to have no knowledge of your whereabouts."

"Borgin?" he said amusedly. "The poor man is past his prime, I'm afraid. Excellent salesman and contacts everywhere, but his mind is not quite what it used to be." He took a step forward and raised an eyebrow elegantly. "What is it that you wish to talk to me about? Somehow I doubt this is just business as usual."

I had heard about young Tom Riddle's infamous calm and charm, a presence he exuded that naturally drew you to him. I was surprised to see how true it was. Had I not known what the man was and would later become I doubt I would've distrusted him so. But I did know – I knew better than anyone – so I was alert.

"I'm looking for the wizard with two identities," I said, thinking quickly, and gave him a bland smile. He tensed. "A man who hides his true self behind his real name, who can only be on the run or a very ambitious coward."

His eyes became guarded and he didn't hide the fact that he was close to drawing his wand. I smiled a grim smile. Riddle gave me another assessing look, as if changing his initial impression of me.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," he said. "How is it that you know so much about me while I know so little about you? Who are you really, and what is it that you want from me?"

He didn't sound frightened or nervous, only wary but confident he wasn't at risk, a trait that his older self had shared, and it pleased me to see this particular trait wouldn't change.

"How did you find me?" I asked, ignoring his questions.

A bit of his smugness returned to his expression as he said, "A stroke of luck, some would say."

"And what would you say?"

"Me?" He smiled confidently. "Let us say I just happened to stumble across my colleague, who seemingly against his will told me you were…painstakingly looking for me, and everything just snowballed from there. It seems I am not the only one with a fondness for chicken soup."

"Laura!" I hissed. "What the hell did you do to her?"

"Oh, dear." He smirked. "It is most unbecoming for a grown man to show such –"

"Have it your way, Riddle," I spat. "Always the double-talk, always misleading – such a snake's tongue you have."

His eyes narrowed into slits and his wand seemed to appear in his hand.

"What do you want?" he growled.

I used the conversation to get closer, walking slowly but purposefully forward. We were a mere fifteen or sixteen feet apart.

My expression darkened with every step. "What do I want? What do I want?" I repeated, and some of my anger bled into my voice. Riddle noticed and pointed his wand at me, as did I at him. "I want vengeance, Riddle. I want you to pay for it…"

I waved my wand in a circular motion over my head. Riddle tensed, his wand up and ready, but didn't act, because nothing happened. He looked up and noticed a speck of gold blinking to existence, which in seconds had expanded and encased the both of us like a dome; an anti-apparition and anti-portkey ward. His eyes darted from side to side.

Another step closer and he threateningly gestured for me to stop, his face blank and brown eyes tainting with specks of red. As we regarded each other silently my wand came up too and the empty street seemed to hold its breath. The orphanage beside us was quiet, the light breeze seemed to die out and every part of me was screaming retribution, screaming murder and revenge.

His wand was pointed at my chest, and mine at his.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else," he said coolly. "State your business and walk away with your life."

At that moment murder was the only thought I was capable of. Everything had led me to this moment. I could end it all now. Had he made any Horcruxes already? The first one had been a diary, according to Dumbledore. Destroying Riddle without having the diary wouldn't be permanent, but damn it if it wouldn't be satisfying.

"You are exactly who I've been looking for," I said coolly, taking a sick pleasure in my words. "…Lord Voldemort."

"You know not of what you speak," he snapped. His voice started to acquire a hissing quality. "For the last time, what do you want?"

"Your life, Voldemort. I'm here for your life."

He smirked at me then. That old, familiar smirk I had come to hate, and which was usually followed by the gruesome death of a bystander or a friend.

"Do you think you can beat me?"

I raised my wand and concentrated, letting my power show. A strong wind whipped the street, overturning benches and raising a cloud of dust and dirt in the air. The canopies of the trees shook and the barks bent precariously. A low rumble was heard, faint at first but quickly becoming louder, and the street shook.

I fixed Riddle with a confident look, my magic fading and the street returning to its usual stillness, and said, "I'm sure of it."

His customary aplomb vanished from his face, yet I knew he still thought he could win. I could see it in his eyes, which were slowly turning from dark brown to glowering red. He raised his wand and the light around us seemed to dim, as if the sun couldn't quite reach this street anymore.

"Then let us test your resolve," Riddle hissed. "You dare challenge Lord Voldemort? I will show you what I, only Heir of Slytherin, can do!"

"You will bleed, Riddle."

He smiled mockingly – a portent of death.

"I do not bleed anymore."

Memories flashed past in my mind; memories of Ron, body mangled, limbs torn; of Hermione, her clothes slashed open, her body bruised; of Fleur, body cut and her shame exposed, an expression of misery on her beautiful face; of Ginny, skin burnt black; of Lupin and Tonks, eyes glassy and unseeing; and of Minerva, stripped naked and throat sliced open, her body stuck to Hogwarts' main door.

"Here, Riddle – I'll make you bleed!"

The tip of my wand suddenly burned a harsh red. His eyes narrowed and his wand was set ablaze too, its colour a vivid green; a green too bright to be natural, a green too dead to be right. Riddle's face twisted into something I'd seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve; his lips curled into a snarl; gleaming, white teeth bared; eyes glowing crimson; the expression I had come to expect in battle – in battles I couldn't have hoped to survive, in battles I had come close to winning, and in battles I had conquered.

And in battles I would conquer.

I wasn't the first to open fire, he was; the usual Killing Curse, Lord Voldemort's opening move. With a whirl of my cloak I vanished and reappeared on the other side of the street, and the green jet of light smashed against a red mailbox. It exploded and unsent letters flew and scattered on the sidewalk opposite me, some of them burning in a green fire.

Riddle's gaze snapped from the mailbox and to me, just in time to bring a silver shield up as my bludgeoner smashed against it. A deep, gong-like sound reverberated through the empty street, trapped inside my golden anti-portkey and anti-apparition wards. My arm buckled imperceptibly as a series of three thick jets of white light sprung towards Riddle. My smiled faltered when he seemed to reconsider his stance, and instead of shielding himself Riddle apparated a few feet to the side.

I considered changing the ward's setting to include anti-apparition within its boundaries as well, but there was little time to do it, and another idea popped into my head as I shielded myself against Riddle's return fire.

I spotted his narrowed red eyes through the flying debris, product of my spells hitting the orphanage's brick wall. There was a flash of green again and I neatly side-stepped it, brought my wand up and gave a long sweeping gesture. The small pieces of rock and dust seemed to melt and blur before grouping together. Riddle tried to blast the pieces apart but it was already too late.

A long and thick chain of rock and earth burst out of the ground. Smaller pieces of rock and dust were spewed everywhere, and Riddle, covered in white dust, apparated far away from its range and snarled, "Avada Kedavra."

My construct seemed to coil onto itself, much like a snake would, and sprung towards me. It met the killing curse half-way and a chunk of it exploded, jagged pieces of rock ricocheting everywhere. I tapped my wand on my left fist and a grey glow enveloped my hand. With my right arm now free I shielded myself against the debris as my eyes followed Riddle, who was keeping himself carefully away from the rock serpent and casting curses in my direction whenever he thought he could afford it.

My left arm went to the right and the animation followed. Riddle noticed and tried to blast it apart, but to no avail, and I made the construct rise and then crash on where he was standing. Just in time he managed to apparate away. The heavy rock fell and the ground shook ominously.

I felt my pulse quickening, adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I found myself grinning. Amidst the feelings of hate and righteousness there was this inexplicable sense of my power being tested, of my will being faced against another's. These were the moments I lived for, where there was nothing but my wit and power protecting me from certain death. At some point I had come to love the feeling, and surpassing a challenge had become something almost necessary, much like an alcoholic who lives to drink another day.

I cackled almost maniacally and said, "Come on, Riddle! Face me!"

His furious red eyes set on mine and he whipped his wand over his head in a circular motion. A steady stream of fire came out of it and began crawling towards me. I raised my wand and prepared myself to vanish or douse it, but the rivers of fire split and ran to the sides, far away from where I stood, and finally connected behind my back, forming a full circle around us.

While Riddle was busy with his casting I pointed my wand at the railings of the old orphanage. The iron tore from the wall behind Riddle and I shaped it to my will. It seemed to melt and contract, until what was left was a solid, thick bar of metal, taller than a grown man and as thick my waist.

Before he could finish his casting I slashed my wand to the side and the metal bar followed, wheezing through the air. Riddle saw it coming and he raised his wand to vanish it, but it was too late. It hit him squarely in the head and sent him careening against the orphanage's ruined wall.

I stalked forward, ignoring the streams of fire that ran around us, far away enough that they weren't a nuisance and close enough that I could feel the heat they gave off. Riddle tried to stand up, and against all odds he almost did, his movements slow and clumsy. He looked up with a murderous glare on his face and blood trickling from his forehead, where the metal bar had struck.

"It's over, Riddle," I said. "Drop your wand."

He wouldn't do it; there was too much pride and confidence in him. He tried to lift his wand to curse me, but I deftly disarmed him. The first Phoenix wand clattered to the ground. I raised my wand and the metal bar I'd transfigured rose silently behind me. From his position slumped on the ground, his back against the orphanage's wall, Riddle watched it slowly come closer.

"This is not over," Riddle spat, chin held up defiantly.

I stepped to the side and had the metal bar hover beside me. "No, it isn't," I said grimly. "But now you know how next time will play out."

With the swiftness and viciousness that had once brought fear to whole countries, I yelled the incantation and the metal bar was impaled through Riddle's head and the wall. Blood and brain matter were splashed everywhere.

Riddle's body convulsed, and even with its head missing his arms flailed about as if he were in pain. His skin began to decay, shriveling and darkening, and his whole body began to smoke. An inhuman scream carried through the empty street, coming from a mouth that no longer existed. Tom Riddle turned to ash, and before my very eyes, a wraith-like form, shrouded in shadows and with a pair of glittering, malevolent red eyes rose from the dead carcass and took to the sky.

I turned to watch the destroyed state of the neighborhood, feeling that perhaps it would be fair to repair it while the Muggle-Repelling Charm was still in effect.

It was in ruins; part of the pavement had deep, wide holes from where I'd gotten the necessary materials to transfigure my rock-snake, which now lay in pieces on the street; street posts had been uprooted; a circle of fire burned around me; there was a thick coating of dust and dirt on the street and sidewalks; walls had been demolished; and an acrid, repulsive smell lingered stubbornly in the air.

I raised my wand, the correct, wide-area repairing charm on my lips –

But I heard a series of popping noises coming from further down the street, and my connection to the anti-portkey and anti-apparition ward snapped. A new wave of magic descended upon me from everywhere at once, and I was quick to discover that the new ward was sturdy and well-cast; my wards had been replaced by foreign ones.

Then I heard a roaring noise, and I turned to see the thin rivers of fire Riddle had cast thickening and growing. Within seconds what had been a gentle fire became impenetrable walls of hot, blinding flames. I was completely surrounded by the cursed fire, and its heat was stifling and asphyxiating.

The flames started to close in on me as if they were sentient. With wide eyes I tried to apparate but the air felt heavy, solid – signs of an anti-apparition ward in place, one that was clearly not of my making. Desperate now, I raised my wand above my head and tried to vanish the flames. It didn't work and the fire moved closer, fast and unassailable, hot and deadly.

Thick, black smoke curled upwards. I felt my skin burning and my throat was dry from the heat. My wand shot waves of water at the flames. It worked to a certain degree, and while I wasn't out of the woods yet maybe I could keep the burning to a minimum.

The walls of fire thinned and I caught glimpses of moving shadows on the other side. Someone was trying to help. Torrents of water joined mine, and with a final cry of pain and hope I conjured a thick wall of water that expanded away from me, finally dousing the flames and revealing my surroundings.

"Drop your wand!" a voice boomed authoritatively.

There were dozens of wizards surrounding me, their wands drawn and faces grim. They were clad in red robes and golden hoods. The one who had ordered me to drop my wand stepped forward while two others put out a few small flames that had survived my tidal wave.

"Drop your wand, now!" the man repeated. "On behalf of the Ministry of Magic you are now under arrest. Resistance will be met with force. Surrender your wand and drop to your knees."

I leveled him with a glare. Dizziness gripped at me, probably due to the lack of oxygen inside the fire, and the world seemed to tilt sideways. My eyes darted from side to side, taking in the amount of wizards, and I forced my mind to think through the haze.

The place was in ruins. The street was scorched, walls had been destroyed and fire still burned in some places. Debris spread like a blanket over the block and already I could see a crowd of curious Muggles being held back by wizards dressed in green robes.

I was clearly outnumbered and my odds didn't look too good. But I was willing to fight. Who knew what would happen if I let myself be taken away? There was no way I'd spend time in Azkaban. Maybe Filius could help me break out, but how to inform him?

My mind ran in circles. I was losing the battle with this dizzy spell that had taken over me. Maybe I would be sent to jail, but I'd try and make a run for it first. Yes, I decided I would fight my way out of here.

"Drop it!" the man said again, and I noticed the other Aurors tense, their wands pointed at me and expressions wary.

"Screw that," I muttered.

With a turn I gathered my power and tried again to apparate away. My magic met the ward and struggled against it. It was a sturdy, well-cast barrier, but I was confident I could break it, given enough time.

And it turned out time was one thing I didn't have.

The Aurors recognized my movements for what they were and with cries of "Stupefy" a wall of red light sped towards me. I felt the ward begin to give away, but right before I could plough through a stunner hit me and everything went black.

A/n: Ladies and gents, thanks for reading this far. Drop me a review if you're feeling generous.