Chapter 25:

Quidditch Tryouts dawned on a crisp wintery morning. It was the beginning of December now, with Christmas tearing closer every second.

Harry sort of dreaded it - Christmas. He had no one here to really celebrate it with, and certainly none of the people who he really wanted to celebrate with.

He clutched his wand tightly in his hand. He was going to see Roger later, now that the boy was finally out of the Hospital Wing and ready to see people again. He only hoped it went well, even though he couldn't possibly see how it would when the guilt writhed in his stomach like worms.

It was his fault. Tom's fault. His fault for baiting Tom so much.

He wanted to fight, and he had no intentions of surrender, but it terrified him that every time he fought back Tom inevitably took it out on someone.

He was absolutely fine confronting pain for himself, but he didn't much like the thought of inadvertently inflicting it on other people.

It was better for everyone if Riddle's regime was destroyed, and he was past caring about what it would take to do it.

Dumbledore and Dippet still hadn't found a way for him to get back - Time Turners hadn't even been bloody invented, and they weren't going to invest too much time on one errant traveller when they had a war to fight.

He suspected the only reason they were even bothering, and not just disposing of the possible threat he caused - at least in accordance to the Ministry - was because it was in their benefit that if they figured out the secrets of time travel they had an advantage in the current war.

He kicked off the ground.

He hadn't realized how much he missed flying, even on a broom that was painfully slower and less advanced than his firebolt, until he was in the air again.

It was...fortifying, the wind in his hair, the troubles and struggles of time travel and Tom bloody Riddle shrinking away into a speck on the ground that didn't matter.

This was where he belonged, even in 1942.

He felt free. The wind whipped through his hair, as he soar through the air, and, for the moments before the snitch was released, he just had fun.

With the Triwizard Tournament, and getting sent to the past, he couldn't even remember the last time he just enjoyed himself without any underlying motive or manipulation.

That was pretty sad actually.

It was only once he stopped that he realized everyone on the ground was staring at him.

The Slytherins had been rather skeptical of his involvement, he felt a little smug by how wide-eyed they were now.

The Captain of the team was a sixth year called Crockett. Harry hadn't had many dealings with him; he was a burly boy, and whilst very enthusiastic about Quidditch in a way that reminded Harry of Oliver Wood, he seemed like a shadow captain sometimes to the domineering Walburga Black - Sirius' mother - who was in the year above, and played as a Chaser.

She was the only female on the Quidditch Team, as Harry was led to believe in this time that they were rather more strict about such things and the 'proper' place of a woman.

Hermione would have thrown a fit. So would Angelina, Katie and Alicia for that matter.

Crockett was smitten with the Lady Black. Harry disliked her on principle and made no effort to talk to her, remembering she'd disowned Sirius, and generally been horrible.

He would have avoided them all if he could, especially Riddle, but the bastard was persistent.

Crockett was a beater, along with Alphard. Rosier and Abraxas were the other two chasers.

Their seeker had just graduated the year before, which was bloody convenient really, and the keeper too. So they were looking for a seeker and a keeper.

He knew Mulciber and Lestrange were both desperate for the keeper position, and Nott was also trying out for seeker.

"Okay," Crockett said, when he was on his broom. "Welcome to Quidditch Tryouts. We hold a winning streak against the other houses which we don't intend to lose. You better be bloody good, because the rest of us have no intention of carrying your weight. We will do the keeper trials first - go over there. Whoever defends the most hoops wins."

Harry soared above, ignoring the looks Nott was giving him, and almost hoping the other would try and knock him off his broom because he was itching to retaliate.

There was a familiarity however, in Quidditch Trials, that despite the green and silver was starting to slowly settle him, giving him roots and calm the mess his emotions had been since he got here.

Things like this were important, now, up in the air, he could see how alarmingly immersed he'd got in Riddle's world and game, even if he'd been acting in defiance.

There was just something about the other that suckered him in, frustrated him and clawed under his skin until it was difficult to find perspective on the whole situation.

It was maddening.

He was starting to see where people were coming from with the intense thing, but it didn't make him any happier about it.

In the end, Lestrange saved all of his five goals, and so did Mulciber, so it went to a trial of whoever let the quaffle in first.

Mulciber lost. Lestrange became keeper; Harry started wondering if this was really a good idea because as much as he sincerely loved flying it would mean spending more time with the baby Death Eaters.

Then again...it was time with the followers without Riddle's presence, and so could provide him with an invaluable way in for sabotage.

He still firmly believed he'd find his way home - he had to - and he was loath to change the past significantly still out of fear. Otherwise he was pretty sure he would have tried to kill Riddle for real. Sure, maybe he wasn't Voldemort, he could see that, and he couldn't hate the boy for the despicable things he would grow up to do - but he could hate him for Roger, and for generally being a manipulative bastard.

Then it was time for the seekers.

The snitch was released and they had to wait ten seconds for it to disappear. Then it was time to get it whilst the beaters took turns hitting bludgers in their direction.

His heart raced in his chest as he scoured the sky for that hint of gold. It took a minute, but he caught it - it was charmed to stay in the arena for tryouts, so it wouldn't take too long, then he was tearing through the air after the snitch. Nott was soon quick on his heels, neck and neck.

Nott had the advantage of being used to such old brooms, whilst Harry was used to his Nimbus and his Firebolt, which had always been top of the range.

He was currently on an Cleansweep Five, whilst Nott was on a Comet 180.

It was a joke against the Firebolt, honestly, but at least he was up in the air.

They tore around the stadium after the golden orb, dipping and swirling, up and down before the snitch took a sudden dive towards the ground.

That was an exhilarating familiarity too, and despite the older broom Harry didn't hesitate to follow.

He may have been inexperienced and losing at Slytherin Politics and games, but he was still bloody good at flying. Despite the age of the broom, handling it came naturally to him, even if the firebolt had only required the smallest of touches to guide it.

He pressed in close against the wood, eyes fixed on the snitch, forgetting Nott and everyone else, with the rush of the wind in his ears and the broomstick between his hands and the ground racing towards him.

He had no awareness of Nott anymore, just of his hand reaching out to grasp around the snitch like it was the most important thing and catching it would rewind all the crap that had happened and bring him home, he would wake up to find this was all some long, fevered nightmare or delusion brought on by the Dementors, not real.

He drew sharply level with the ground, then up again sharply, leaning forward, pushing harder - yes! His fingers tightened around his fluttering prize and he came to a stop in the air, looking down.

Nott was on the floor, his broomstick bent in two beneath him with a bloody nose, and people swarming around him, staring up, including Riddle, as the rest of the players flew in closer to him.

"So," Harry said, after a moment, with an innocent smile. "Did I make the team?"

Considering they were people of magic, Roger would have assumed that there would be some easy fix for an exploding potion and a damaged leg.

It seemed there wasn't, and he'd never felt more disappointed and disenchanted in his life. There was a bad taste in his mouth, as he stared down at his wheelchair, wondering how the hell he was supposed to navigate the winding staircases of Hogwarts in this thing?

He could no longer play Quidditch, and he was absolutely terrified of the pity he would face.
He found himself hating Harrison Evans, even if he understood it wasn't the other boy's fault.

They said he wouldn't walk again, and he couldn't feel his legs or move them so it was probably true. He was told he was lucky that the potion hadn't severed his spine higher up, and that he hadn't died, but sometimes he selfishly thought death may have been easier.

He was being pathetic, he knew - this didn't mean the end of his life, definitely not. He could still see and feel and hear and go to the movies and cast magic.

But he also couldn't help but feel the doubts and insecurities bubbling in his chest.

The chair was only temporary, thank god. They intended to make him a new pair of wooden or metal prosthetic leg. He just had to get used to walking around on them, and taking them off and putting them on. He swallowed, thickly.

He'd always intended to be a healer, so he tried to tell himself that this was just a better motivation for that - that he would become the best healer ever, and find a way to better treat such things as exploding potions and mangled legs.

Surely, with magic, he should be able to do anything?
He'd never get his own legs back, and it still hurt to breathe, but at least he could make it better for other people.

The current limbs were a muggle invention, invented by a Doctor Vanghetti in 1898 and advanced now by magic, but it was still stiff and didn't work quite as well. It certainly looked more like something a pirate would wear.

But it allowed him mobility, and a sense of normality, though he would have to do a lot of physiotherapy.

He looked up as he heard a tentative knock on the door.
Harry.

That just brought more questions, considering the conversation he'd heard.

It had taken him a while to pick it out through the pain and the haze of his accident as reality and nothing else, but now he was certain of what he'd heard.

He knew Harry had saved his life, begged for it, and at least when it came to Tom Riddle, such a thing seemed a very rare thing.

"Can I come in?" the other boy asked, still in Quidditch Robes, face a little pale, eyes screaming guilt so loudly that he wanted to turn away from it.

He also remembered that Riddle had called Harry 'Potter'.

"Yes. I think we need to talk."
He carefully wheeled himself away from the window, to face the other, and Harry stood in front of him, fiddling with his shirt sleeves for a moment before squaring his shoulders.

"Roger, I cannot even begin to say how sorry I am," Harry's voice was a little hoarse, and he ran a hand through his hair shakily. "This is all my fault-"

"Well, yours and Riddle's. He's the one that caused the damn explosion, even if you somehow annoyed him enough for him to seek vengeance by assumedly firing a memory charm at him.."

Harry swallowed, thickly.

"If there's anything I can ever do..."
They were weak words, inadequate, and they both knew that, but the sentiment expressed was sincere. Harry was trying. He wasn't quite sure he was in the mood to accommodate right now.

"The thing is," he interrupted, staring at Harrison, hard. "Is that I am very, very curious about what you would be so desperate to make him forget. He called you Potter. I heard. Explain."

Harry shifted on his feet.
"It's complicated..." the boy hedged, and he wanted to punch the other for it.

"You fucking well owe me an explanation!" he nearly screamed the words, and Harry looked startled. Maybe he startled himself a little too, as he panted in the chair, so different from previous mildness.

Harry swallowed once more, nodded jerkily.
"Yes, yes I do," the Slytherin agreed, drawing his wand. Roger stiffened, and he saw a flash of hurt go through the other's eyes, before he smoothly continued and cast up privacy wards.

"You-you said you were from the future," he murmured. "Is that true?"
He'd thought a lot about that, if it was possible, where Harry could be from, toting up the evidence for and against in an almost obsessive manner.

"Yes, it's true."

"And you're a Potter." He may not have been a Ravenclaw like Im, but that didn't mean he wasn't stupid and couldn't put two and two together or was an idiot.

"Yes."

"Are you Leonard's - Charlus' - son?"

"Grandson," Harry supplied, after a moment. "At least I think."

"You don't know?"

"I wasn't lying that my parents were killed by a Dark Wizard, just about when it was and which Dark Lord it was."

"There's another one outside of Grindelwald!?" Roger yelped, and Harry swore, rubbing his eyes. Roger studied him carefully, mind racing. "It's Riddle."

"What? What makes you-?"

"The way you behave with him. The fact he crippled me just to get back at you. You hate him far too much, and I always thought there had to be history between you two." His voice was quiet, his head rolling.

"You can't tell anyone," Harry said, firmly. He glanced up at that, expression hard.

"Why not?" he demanded. "Why haven't you killed Riddle yet?"

Harry let out a deep, exhausted sigh, and for the first time Roger thought he might have seen something real - tiredness, black smudged eyes, something broken and ugly that was trying to keep itself together and was in no place to be fighting anything.

"In the simplest explanation, I don't want to wreck the timeline."

"Wouldn't it make a better timeline?" he asked.

Harry shrugged, helplessly.
"I don't know. I don't know what to do - part of me thinks I should, but another part of me thinks I can't, because well, if he hadn't grown up to kill my parents, I wouldn't exist and so it would create a paradox as I never would have been here to kill him in the first place."

Well, that made an awful amount of sense.

"Must be frustrating."

"You have no idea."

"So basically he can do whatever he wants, but you're trapped with knowledge and can't kill him, but he can kill you without it affecting the timeline, or maim you, or anything like that. What he does to you, so long as it doesn't cause public scandal and only involves you, has no effect on the timeline."

"I guess," Harry muttered,eyes pinched. "Isn't it just wonderful being us?"

"And Riddle knows you're from the future?"

"Halloween. He drugged me and forced truth serum down my throat."

"Bloody hell." Roger's eyes widened, and, just for a second, the chair was forgotten, as were the limbs.

They talked for a while more, quietly, and he could almost see the relief in Harry's shoulders. It must have been difficult only having his worst enemy knowing.

Of course, Harry didn't tell him much, or probably really anything of importance, he couldn't, but...well, he no longer felt a burning hatred bubbling in his chest, though he couldn't say he was fond of the boy either anymore, or that they could ever be so close friends without some lingering bitterness.

Harry left several hours later.
And he had work to catch up on.

A/N: Felt it was getting too long, so I cut out the confrontation with Tom.

Note, I am now going on HIATUS, with all of my stories, or at least a semi hiatus. I just figured it was rude to do an A/N chapter again, and I didn't fancy the flames for it. I may still be around, but I'm going to work on my novel and my screenplay for a while. Fanfiction was always supposed to be something I did just for fun, and, recently, it's just not been that. Too much pressure, and negative reviews and PMs on every single update I've made for a while now has a draining effect, I guess because apparently I don't update enough and my characterization is off among other things and I'm not even going to go into it. Point is, it's getting stressful and more like a chore than what was supposed to be my fun hobby because I love writing and Harry Potter and I can make myself feel crap already without other people doing it too and frankly feeling crap kills my ability to write well, which some of you have picked up on in your comments. Most of you are still wonderful, so I'm sorry to you guys, and I'll still be around occasionally. Might even make a different account and start afresh though that sucks considering the work I put into this one, but anyway. I hope this isn't coming out as a whiny rant, just thought I should give you a head's up before disappearing and explain my decision.