Orson seemed content to leave Harry the first word as they trekked through a dimly light, mostly barren Diagon Alley. The old man was on guard, watching for trouble, no doubt.
"Who is Emily Riddle?" The question was so simple, though Harry expected the answer to be anything but. Harry stopped walking to watch Orson for a reaction.
"A witch," his lips twitched. "One who attends Hogwarts."
"Not just any witch," Harry shot back. "One who was hiding under a Fidelius, the location of which you gave me."
"That I did, son," the man drawled. "What of it?"
"One question, one answer at a time," Harry demanded. Orson was already trying to control how this conversation would be going.
"Now," continued Harry. "Answer me. Who is Emily Riddle?"
"The most prodigious magical to grace Hogwarts since Albus Dumbledore himself," he could hear Orson's voice dripping with something close to sarcasm.
"Any family?" he asked.
"She lives at an orphanage, no?" Orson returned condescendingly. "No siblings, either. You know, boy, you seem awfully interested in a person you've never met."
"I'm the one asking questions," Harry hissed, doing a pitiful job at hiding the frustration in his voice. That was at least some information. Emily Riddle was the only Riddle, it meant. She was either Tom Riddle incarnate or a different person entirely, but Harry very strongly doubted the second possibility.
Talented magicals who spoke with perfect, flowery language that could charm a Cerberus into slumber and who carried scary amounts of intelligence. All the same, from what Harry could see.
"Well," interrupted Orson, fully meeting Harry's now distracted gaze. "Ask again."
"Who are you, Mr Orson?" Harry asked. He could tell thatwas a question the old man was not expecting. He stayed silent for a moment, looking at Harry as though he were sizing him up.
"I... believe I already told you," he said slowly. "An interested party."
Orson was choosing his words very carefully.
"And what are those interests?" Harry did not intend to let Orson dodge his questions so easily.
"Interests born of my petty curiosity," said Orson with a mocking sound of guilt. "I hope you understand my curiosity about a teenage boy who was able to sneak into a country – with strict war-time security measures in place and remain completely under the radar."
"And yet, you don't suspect me," retorted Harry. "You saw fit to relay this to me," he waved around the slip he had been handed.
"Who knows, son," drawled Orson. "Maybe I rigged that place with explosives and am eagerly awaiting the day your curiosity sends you there."
"Bullshit-"
"The first step to being properly informed," the man interrupted harshly, his eyes glowing – "is to never get all your information from the same place."
"I don't have any other option-"
"The second," Orson pushed, his voice now forceful and his tone imposing, "is to never trust strangers, Mr Evans."
"I don't trust you," Harry returned with a forcefulness of his own. "I distrust you the more you speak."
"Ah," he said, snorting derisively. "But my principles still stand." Orson walked around for a moment, likely expecting Harry to bombard him with another question.
"If you must know," the old man said. "I had nothing to do with the Fidelius being cast," he said it as though the prospect were absurd. "I did not choose to be secret keeper," he continued in that same, forceful voice.
Harry blinked. He had never heard of someone being forced to act as Secret Keeper – it was a matter of the soul, and such things could not be forced.
"I never said I refused, boy," Orson added, seeming to have read the doubtful look on Harry's face. "Merely that I never asked for it."
"But you regret doing so," Harry pushed. "Now you want out."
"You know very little, boy," Orson said firmly. "What makes you think I'm inclined to humor your juvenile inquiries?"
"For every answer, two more questions take their place," murmured Harry. He said little more after that, standing in silence, locked in staring match with the old man in front of him.
"Emily Riddle is suspect," said Orson. Harry waited for the man to continue speaking. "She is suspect through an inquiry filed by an anonymous Pureblood family who suspects her of obtaining illegal access to 'sacred family magic," Orson finished sardonically.
Of course, Dumbledore had told Harry. How Tom Riddle would walk around Hogwarts castle with a group of the most influential heirs and heiresses of Pureblood families, exploit them for their resources and libraries, leverage their political sway and eventually, turn many of them into Death Eaters.
"I was sent to investigate," continued Orson. He worked for the Ministry? He was certainly bitter about that, Harry thought. "She seemed like a fine girl. Intelligent, polite, and respectable. Nothing out of the ordinary." The old man turned his walk into a pace, eyes still fixated on Harry.
"I was wrong."
Harry guessed that much.
"When I took on a job at the orphanage, it was only three weeks before she discovered I was a magical – and saw fit to make me the Secret Keeper the day she hid the place under a Fidelius."
Harry was sure there was a wealth of knowledge that Orson was still refusing to share. But he dare not push, not when Orson finally decided to begin speaking.
"Interestingly," continued the old man, tense – "She found a way to key the information to magical power – her magical power. An average Witch or Wizard would look at that slip," Orson pointed to the paper tightly squeezed in Harry's hand – "and see nothing."
"She was arrogant," Harry guessed, viewing Orson curiously. "She thought no one would be a match for that power. And anyone who was wouldn't bother wasting their time."
"No, no, son," Orson smiled lightly, though it never reached his eyes. "She wasn't arrogant. She was right. No one could – no one that wasn't important, at least. Until you came along."
Harry remained silent.
"Imagine my surprise when a no-name, mysterious boy who appeared to come out of nowhere does nothing but radiate that magical power, and shares that mutual interest," the old man waved around the copy of Transfiguration Today Harry had been interrupted from reading. "
Harry still had so many questions. What had Orson so desperate that he would gamble on a teenage boy that he had never met? How did he know Slughorn? Who was he?
"I want your help, Mr Evans." The blunt statement broke Harry's train of thought.
"I have done you a favour, and have accidentally forgotten to notify the Ministry of your existence. They'll know only when you make it to Hogwarts. In return, I want you to keep an eye on Miss Riddle and one Albus Dumbledore. What do you say?"
Dumbledore was new. But Harry doubted asking questions would lead anywhere.
Orson was untrustworthy. This meeting had all but confirmed that further for Harry. But as there were things Orson knew that Harry did not, the old man would never know everything about him.
"I have a price," the young man declared smoothly, raising his eyebrows. Mr Orson remained stoic. "60 Galleons."
"Steep," he grunted. "But practical."
Harry pocketed the gold coins, conceding the staring match that had been going on to look at Ollivanders' shop, just a few meters away.
"Would you look at that," Orson drawled, waving the copy of Transfiguration Today in his hand. "It's almost August."
The mysterious Ministry employee handed Harry back his copy of the paper, smiling sardonically as Harry picked up almost instantaneously where he left off.
"I told you, son," the man said. "You would be mad by the month's end."
Harry had little to do but wander the streets of Diagon Alley after Orson decided to vanish in front of his eyes, leaving him with more questions than answers. Not that he trusted the answers he had been given.
He still felt the strange tug from his wand whenever he went to cast a spell – it was especially strong when Harry had attempted to disillusion himself for the purposes of sneaking around Knockturn Alley, and it had ruined his spell.
The area was more populated now – families were going Hogwarts shopping, something Harry needed to do himself, though it could wait. 14 of his 60 Galleons would go to Ollivander when his shop reopened soon. He no longer looked so awkwardly out of place.
He needed a way to send letters and receive them. Getting another owl would feel wrong – nothing could ever replace Hedwig. The thought alone made Harry shiver.
Flourish and Blotts.
The store seemed livelier here than it had in Harry's time. The walk into the shop was shorter, and there were a fair few shoppers scanning the shelves.
Unlike when Harry first went, the shelves had not yet reached the ceilings, and books were bound in cleaner leather that were the size of everything from mini-guidebooks to thousand page textbooks. Horace Slughorn's newest publication did not take too long to spot, though from the looks of it, it wasn't selling so well.
"Looking for something?"
The voice belonged to a boy who was scanning the same shelf of books Harry was – ones all on dueling and defense. He was scrawny, with shaggy-blonde hair and crooked teeth that reminded Harry slightly of Hermione.
"Nothing in particular," said Harry casually. The boy looked a little sheepish.
"Sorry if I startled you, mate," he said, sticking his hand out. "Jules Lockhart."
It took everything within Harry not to widen his eyes and drop his mouth agape. Lockhart? The resemblance was definitely there now.
"Harry Evans," he accepted, "Going on my Fifth Year."
"Me too," said Lockhart, his face scrunching up strangely. "Say, I've never seen you around. Who're you? Some big-shot fourth year getting moved up?"
Oh, he was bitter. And not subtle. Probably a Gryffindor. As was Harry.
"I'm a transfer student," said Harry calmly. Jules raised both eyebrows, waving him off.
"If that isn't the most fantastic thing I've ever heard-"
"It's true," cut in Harry with a smile. "You'll see. They'll call my name up at the Sorting, explain what the hell I'm doing there, everyone will move on, and you'll feel like an idiot."
Jules barked out a short laugh. "See," he said. "You already know about the Sorting."
"I have my sources," Harry deadpanned. It felt good to speak with someone that wasn't a dead serious adult, Harry would not lie to himself about that.
"I'm sure," Jules said dryly.
"You like Dueling?" asked Harry, right as Jules began to eye what looked to be new book on the middle shelf.
"Yeah," said Lockhart. "You?"
"I live it," said Harry dramatically.
"Now that, Evans, I don't doubt," said Jules. Why, Harry did not know.
"Do you think you could help a stranger out?" asked Harry, bringing his voice down nearer to a whisper.
"If it's reasonable, yeah," said Jules, looking skeptically at Harry. The taller boy took a deep breathe.
"Do you know an Emily Riddle?"
A/N: I goofed in the last chapter and wrote Harry's age down as 16 instead of 15, for some reason. He's about to turn 16, but he is fifteen right now. Sorry if that caused any confusion!
I was incredibly tempted to end this one on the final line of the scene with Orson, but I also didn't want to publish a 1.3k word, one-scene chapter. So, I moved that second scene here. Shouldn't change too much.
As always, feedback, reviews, and the like are all greatly appreciated. Reviews in particular make my brain go brrrr. I'll also make sure to respond to all reviews that have any questions or comments they want to see addressed.
Thanks for reading, everyone!