A/N: Sorry for the extended wait once again. I'm really not going to abandon this, but maybe I'm just a slow writer! Your encouragement helps a lot, it's nice to think there is somebody out there looking forward to reading this. Thanks.

~oOo~

For the first time, Albus did not celebrate the arrival of the first day in September. During his own school days, he had barely been able to conceal his joy at leaving home and travelling to the castle, and as a Professor he disliked the summer break for a wide variety of reasons, but this year…

Hogwarts was the same, of course. The new anxious faces, the elves, the food, the ghosts – the gossiping of the other teachers, the portraits, the clutter in his office and the furnishings in his rooms – indistinguishable from last year, and the four decades before that. The difference, then, was internal; he was uneasy and on edge.

He suffered through the Headmaster's post-feast welcome drinks, where as usual the topic of conversation for the over-seventies was the weather and the topic for the under-fifties was Slughorn's latest conquest. What had he ever found to say about either of those things? He knew he was not like any of the others, and never had been, but equally he had never felt like the complete outcast he did this time. He begged off early, claiming a pressing piece of correspondence from the Minister. In fact he had answered it that morning, and it had hardly been urgent, but they didn't need to know that.

Back in his private sitting room, he sighed heavily and poured himself a brandy. It was probably a bad idea, given that he had just had one in the Headmaster's office – not to mention the wine with dinner – but he needed the fortification. There was no putting it off any longer.

The box was uncarved oak, about ten inches across and eight deep, and had once been used to store pots of ink. He took it from the coffee table, gingerly, as though it might bite, and opened the lid to reveal the stack of parchment within. The scent of stale air and dust wafted out and he fancied he could even smell something of Gellert and, even more faintly, the old house at Godric's Hollow. It was a powerful bolt from the past: he told himself it was just the brandy.

His own handwriting adorned the folded outside of each letter – 1, 2, 3 – labelled chronologically and carefully as if the papers were important historical artefacts. He had laid them inside this very box, one by one as they arrived, almost reverently: the mementos of a great relationship in its infancy. Something to reminisce over fondly in years to come, though reminiscing was not the word for what he was now doing. He forced himself to search inside and remove number one.

Albus –

I write because, despite the lateness of the hour, I cannot sleep for thinking. I wonder if you are awake also?

How fortunate it is that we should have been introduced to each other! I was dubious, I admit, when Aunt Bathilda first mentioned such a thing – after all, in such a sleepy place, what are the chances of finding two such as us? You will forgive my initial rudeness, I hope, or at least forget about it in the greatness of what is surely to come.

Even among the more enlightened members of our society – both here and in Europe – there can be dreadful prejudice lain upon those who dare to suggest an overturn of the Statute of Secrecy: that our views on this matter should coincide is exhilarating to me. Wizards have been given powers that muggles cannot dream of, so why do we cower and hide? It can change, and it must. In fact, magic could be of use to muggles, so the whole thing is in their interests too.

I will see you in the morning, waiting until ten as you suggested, though I struggle to understand your willingness to assist your brother with the daily chores. You are made for far higher a calling than keeping chickens, and he would in all probability enjoy it more without you!

Gellert

Albus re-folded the yellowing parchment and placed it back into the box with shaking hands. He thought about the elation he had felt at receiving it, still sat at his desk gone midnight, silence at last from Ariana's room. Their mother's death had hit them all hard, but his sister the hardest. Aberforth had been in there, comforting her, like always: he was better at it. Albus himself, though he cared, had lacked the patience in those days. He forced himself to halt that train of memory before it could progress any further.

He thought, then, about the contents of the letter, and was reminded of the way Gellert had first seen him – Bathilda had let herself in through the gate just as he was attempting to muck out the pigsty. It hadn't created a favourable first impression, and had been the first nail in the coffin of his withdrawal from helping Aberforth at all. Within days of meeting his new friend, he had left his brother virtually alone in the running of the household and the care of his sister, a fact that had long since made him cringe with shame. They were still not on speaking terms, but was that because of Aberforth's ability to hold a grudge or his own guilt preventing him from initiating contact?

When he couldn't sidetrack himself any longer, he thought about the letter he had excitedly scribbled in response. He didn't have it now, obviously, and hoped fervently that it had been burned, because he could remember with pinpoint clarity four particular words he had chosen to use. He might have even capitalised them, the way he had later seen them in a picture in the Daily Prophet. Above a caption that read Grindelwald builds prison to detain political opponents. He shivered, though a fire burnt in the grate and the night was not cold. How many people were held inside Nurmengard at this very moment, behind the gates bearing that slogan? How many people had died, resisting that cause?

He shut the box. It had barely turned ten o'clock, but he was exhausted; he would try again another night.

~oOo~

He told himself that the first day would be the hardest. When the second came, and the ache in his chest had not diminished, he told himself that once the week was out the worst must surely be over – and when the next, too, came and went, he stopped telling himself anything at all.

Talking to his younger self about any subject was awkward, at best, these days. Talking to the elves involved endless references to the very person he was trying so hard to stop thinking about, and talking to the thestrals was barely better, so very soon he began to withdraw altogether.

Knowing a set of events was going to unfold didn't help you cope when they finally did: he knew that now. Perhaps while she had still been there, he was kidding himself that it was only a matter of time before she… before she what? Forgave him? Even in his own head, it seemed unlikely and ridiculous; too shallow a word for the magnitude of the action involved. He had seen her on that last night, barely able to look at him and averting her gaze whenever their eyes began to meet. It was like she would no longer acknowledge the very fact of his existence.

When he had talked about needing the disguise, he hadn't been prepared for her expression. He probably should have been. It wasn't as though he had expected her to take to his true appearance – very few people ever had – his seduction had always relied on other factors. In the tenth century people had found his Spanish features particularly unusual next to their pale skins and mostly fair hair, though in this age of migration he supposed that was not the issue it had once been. Maybe his appearance was irrelevant to her apart from the fact that it was different to how he had been before. Either way, she didn't want him.

Her silences that night had crushed him and made him keep talking like an idiot, revealing more and more in the hope of a redemption which never came. He had almost begun to consider reading her thoughts in order to gain an insight, but even aside from the morality of it there was no point. It was clear that she hated him, and if she were ever to not hate him again, he was going to have to stop behaving like a child seeking approval. He forced himself to back off. He forced himself to burn the letters he wrote to her, and to stay away from Hogwarts.

It was the most desolate he had ever felt; even the deepest depths of his centuries-old hopelessness could not compare. At least back then he had known the outcome he wanted. Now, though, the thought of crossing to the other side was, if anything, marginally less appealing than the thought of remaining in this world indefinitely. Was his fate even tied to that of his younger self anymore? He wished he knew the answer, though in practice it made little difference at the present moment.

Not for the first time, he wished he could speak with Merlin, or somebody, but still he didn't dare. He couldn't predict what penalty his time-altering plan might incur, and it was unthinkable to subject himself to something so totally out of his control. They might force him to be Death eternally, or force him to pass over… but on the other hand, he could hardly just stay here forever. It was almost worse, not collecting the souls, even though the day was far shorter. He needed to find something to do. Activity to suggest purpose, purpose to suggest achievement, achievement to suggest self-esteem.

What could he do? The world was vast and its possibilities abundant, even in the face of eternity. He had seen every inch of the planet and all of its inhabitants, from the highest peak to the deepest ocean. Where was his place amongst them? Apart from soul-collecting, the only job he had ever done was teaching, and he wasn't altogether sure he had been much good at that anyway. Perhaps it was time for a change.

He went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and tried to tell himself it was what he actually wanted, rather than what would please Hermione, if she were here, which she wasn't, anyway. Then he found a chocolate frog, mostly out of habit, and went to sit down and consider his options.

Newt Scamander (1897 –) is an English wizard regarded as the world authority on magical creatures. He is the author of 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them', which has been an approved textbook at Hogwarts since its first publication in 1927.

And, just like that, he had an idea.

~oOo~

"You found it!" was the first thing she said upon rounding the corner. She had had some time to come up with a strategy for this moment, and had opted to ensure she would be there when the Chamber was opened – she had been in her room, using the time before dinner to read up on Occlumency, when her alarm ward went off. It had been a matter of seconds before she was out of the door and running towards the dungeons.

Tom was on his knees, examining an elaborate snake carving that had appeared on the large cornerstone at the end of the most remote dungeon corridor. Salazar had described it to her, but only someone with his blood could make it appear, so she had not yet set eyes on it.

He looked up in shock – of course he did, because why on earth would she be there? Why on earth would anyone be there, it that corridor, when it lead nowhere? It took several seconds for him to compose himself, but when he spoke it was with the dangerous undercurrent she had not heard him use for a long time.

"Found what?" She maintained her air of nonchalance with some difficulty.

"Well, the Chamber of Secrets, I assume."

Never had she seen him show so much emotion – horror, disbelief and anger easily visible, followed eventually by curiosity. Two years ago, she knew, he would have done something terrible to her, but she had predicted correctly that he was far more in control now. Perhaps he even liked her, though she wasn't about to bank on that.

"Alright," he said, and he was almost smiling, now, and she hadn't predicted that – "how did you know?"

"I read about it in Hogwarts: A History," she said, the smugness not entirely forced. "I was curious, of course. The library doesn't have much else to say, does it? But I figured that you would know more, since you're the heir of Slytherin. It was obvious you've been looking for it." She wondered, in the original timeline, how often Tom Riddle – or Voldemort – could have described himself as shocked. It was clear he was unused to it, and even clearer that he hated it.

"Nobody knows about that," he said, coldly, standing up. He was several inches taller than her. "You can't possibly know about that."

"Oh, come on. I've got a brain just the same as you have. I worked it out ages ago, when you were getting all those ancestry books. I only had to find out your middle name to be certain, and that's on the school record. It took me a lot longer to catch you speaking to a snake, though, so I don't suppose anyone else suspects unless you've told them."

Tom blinked in disbelief. It was a turning point in their relationship, or in his life, she hoped – she had engineered it that way. He would either turn against her now, and throw her out, or let her in. Defeat Voldemort, or change Tom Riddle: the decision would be made for her, here and now. She played her final card, and hoped.

"Have you worked out how to get in? I'd really like to see it. Besides, if there's a basilisk, it might be safer with two of us."

He turned away from her, resuming his examination of the snake carving, and for a while she wondered if he was opting for ignoring her indefinitely. Then she realised that he was stuck, but not going to admit it. She weighed her options quickly.

"Have you tried… talking to it?" Did her voice sound odd? She was terrible at hiding things, even now – Tom made her nervous, with the way he always seemed to spot a lie. It was in her favour now that he was concentrating on something else, back turned.

"What?"

"Talking to it… you know, as if it was a real snake." There was a long pause, because Tom wasn't someone who responded well to suggestions. She should probably have let him work it out on his own. Eventually, he began to hiss quietly. She couldn't understand it, of course, and wondered if she should be trying to learn, but could barely even work out where one word ended and another began.

She was starting to worry that she would have to make another suspicious suggestion when all of a sudden the wall appeared to melt away. Behind it, the first two steps of a steep staircase were visible but whatever followed was shrouded in complete darkness. Her gasp was, somehow, genuine, but Tom made no outward reaction.

"You first, then," he said with a smug expression, and she just caught it turn to shock as she swept past him and into the shadows.

There were torches on the walls, as there were everywhere else in the castle, and she lit them one by one as she descended, careful to proceed with an amount of caution appropriate for someone unaware of the recent demise of the Chamber's lethal inhabitant. From higher up the staircase, Tom's hissing heralded the sealing of the passageway behind them; she thought of how terrifying it would have been, had she really been not-quite-fourteen and unknowing of what lay beyond.

They crept along for what felt like a long time, her making a show of listening around all the corners and him making a show of bold indifference; neither spoke. Eventually the steps levelled off into an antechamber where the relative warmth of the dungeon corridor above gave way entirely to cold and damp. Puddles had formed here and there and small bones littered the floor, algae and moss adding a green hue to the walls. Twin corridors stretched, darkened, to the left and right; directly ahead was a large archway revealing a glimpse of the pillars in the central hall beyond.

Tom began to speak in Parseltongue again, presumably hoping to locate the basilisk, and she took the time to light the torches in the two side passages. Apart from the similarities with every other dungeon hallway they did not seem familiar; the pipe from Myrtle's bathroom evidently connected with the opposite side of the chamber.

"Do you hear anything?" she whispered. He shook his head irritably.

"Which way?" If, like Tom, she had never been there before, her instinct might have been to skirt the archway and inspect the corridors. It was obvious he was having the debate in his mind. Eventually he drew himself up taller and walked straight into the main chamber. She was struck by the notion of how odd it would seem for Draco Malfoy – actually, any Malfoy – to do a thing like that.

It was empty, of course, and just the same as it had been several weeks ago. A greenish light illuminated the space from an unseen source, the ceiling high and vaulted. They were far below the earth here – for the first time she appreciated the scale of the work. With a reversal of the neglect it had suffered, it would be one of the more impressive parts of the castle. Tom began hissing again, louder this time, and a rat scuttling across the stones in the distance made her jump even though she knew there could be no basilisk.

In here, at least, there was no sign that the creature had ever existed, and the thought was somehow saddening. It had been intelligent, evidently: not simply a monster. It couldn't help how deadly it was… but what choice had she had? A basilisk was just about the last thing she wanted on Tom's side.

She had been tuned out, thinking, and when she snapped back to reality Tom was examining the stone bearing the tail-eating snake: she had been wrong. There was one sign. Naturally, Tom assumed that this image, like the one in the dungeon corridor, would respond to Parseltongue.

The minutes ticked gradually by, the cold seeping steadily through her jumper, and Tom's hissing became progressively more irritated.

"Tom –" he did not stop, merely turning his back on her more completely. "Tom! We're going to miss dinner, let's go back…"

"Shut up and go back then." He didn't turn to face her.

"I can't get back through the wall, stupid." She saw his fists clench at his sides – it probably wasn't a good idea to call him names when he was already irritated, but she didn't really care.

"Shut up and wait for me, then."

"Fine. I just thought you were smart enough not to make people suspicious about where you are. Professor Dumbledore, for instance."

The sound of stone exploding made her scream: she had to cover her face to shield herself from flying debris from the wall. When she looked up, Tom was already striding back the way they had come.

Somehow, the space containing the basilisk ashes had not been exposed by the blast. She forced herself to hurry after him without repairing the damage; he would unquestionably love the opportunity to shut her in down here. As it was, she only just caught up to him as they reached the top of the staircase. He was blocking the exit, rather unnecessarily.

"You won't tell anyone." It wasn't a question. "What I did to that wall… I could do to you. I don't suppose they'd ever find your body if I hid it down here."

She narrowed her eyes. He wasn't joking, of course, although he'd be in for a bit of a surprise given her habit of resurrection.

"I might not be able to get in here by myself," she said, icily, "but don't think that means you're so superior. I'm not scared of you. And I won't tell anyone, but only because it suits me best that way."

In the dim light she almost missed the slight flick of the wrist that was Tom's preferred method of casting, but she was always ready these days; as comfortable as him, now, without a wand. The spell – whatever it might have been – collided with her shield in a shower of blue sparks. She felt the weight of his glare, but no further hostilities came. The shield presently stuttered and faded, taking some of the tension away with it. Tom turned abruptly to face the wall and it opened before she noticed he was giving the password, allowing them back into the still-deserted corridor. Somewhere above, the clock bell was chiming.

She had been imagining the save Tom scenario, or failing that, the defeat Voldemort scenario. On the way to dinner, she began to realise that there were more than two possibilities. The future was many things, but black-and-white was not one of them.

~oOo~