— CHAPTER SIX —

Ups and downs, part I

"Follow me," Tom Riddle ordered, rising from the table as their negotiation ended. Harry had no choice but to obey.

As they passed through the massive double doors into the living room, Riddle's voice echoed off the empty walls. "The dining room, living room and library are the three rooms you will have free access to," he announced, moving quickly through the living room. "You won't be able to use the kitchen without a wand anyway, so if you want something to eat or drink, call Bug."

Harry barely had time to take in his surroundings; the living room was vast, yet minimalist in its furnishings. The high windows, heavy curtains and large fireplace all spoke of a subdued opulence. Through another equally massive double door they passed into the library, a room that mirrored the living room in its grandeur but seemed more intimate.

Shelves lined the entire wall, reaching up to the high ceiling. A sliding ladder stood still, giving access to the collections above. To Harry's surprise, however, most of the shelves were empty. He also noticed a heavy, dark desk under the window before Riddle caught his attention again.

The future Dark Lord settled into an armchair opposite the fireplace, which crackled and popped, casting a warm glow over his sharp features. He seated with an air of casual elegance, one leg crossed over the other, his gaze fixed on Harry with unnerving intensity.

"Sit down," he gestured to the chair opposite him. Harry sat on the edge, his posture rigid, the complete opposite of Riddle's relaxed demeanour. Harry was still processing the weight of his promise. The uncertainty of what lay ahead hung heavily in the air.

Riddle's tone was light yet probing. "Let me guess, Gryffindor."

Harry, caught off guard, gave a small nod. "Was there ever any doubt?" he retorted, trying to inject some of his usual defiance into the conversation.

A faint smirk played on Riddle's lips. "Never," he responded coolly. "Typical Gryffindor bravado."

"Bravado for some, bravery for others," Harry shot back, his voice tinged with a defiant edge. "I take pride in that."

"We'll take care of that yet, don't be afraid," Riddle promised, and sounded supremely ominous. "And by the way, who babysits Gryffindors in your day?"

"Minerva McGonagall."

"And the Slytherins? Still Slughorn?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, he was only pulled down by Dumbledore this year. Severus Snape."

Riddle, contemplative, tapped his fingers against his chin. "I don't recognize those names."

Harry couldn't resist a smirk. "Severus Snape was one of your Death Eaters. He switched sides, siding with Dumbledore. When Voldemort returned, he played both sides as a double agent. Allegedly."

Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly. "Death Eaters?"

"That's what you named your followers."

A look of distaste crossed Riddle's face. "What a unpleasant name."

"I couldn't agree more," said Harry.

Riddle sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "But that's part of a future that will never happen. Back to Hogwarts... Sixth year, right? So are you already after the O.W.T.s, or are they no longer held in your time?"

Harry cringed at the mere mention of exams.

"Luckily I'm past them."

"What were your grades?" Riddle pressed.

Harry, sceptical, responded, "Of everything we could discuss, you're curious about my O.W.L. results?"

Riddle simply shrugged, the gesture deceptively nonchalant. "Would discussing why my future self attempts to murder you be more to your liking?"

"That would at least make more sense," Harry retorted.

Riddle studied Harry intently, the firelight casting shadows in his grey eyes. "Well, then?"

Harry shifted in his seat, feeling the absurdity of the situation weigh heavily upon him. Discussing school grades with the young version of Voldemort was a level of surreal he hadn't anticipated. "I don't see why it matters," he muttered, more to himself than to Riddle.

"It matters," Riddle began, his voice smooth and persuasive, "because it helps me understand your strengths and weaknesses. I did promise to oversee your education, after all."

With a resigned sigh, Harry relented. On second thought, talking about grades was better than talking about Voldemort. "O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Es in Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology. A in Astronomy, P in Divination, D in History of Magic."

"And what of Ancient Runes? Numerology? Latin?" he prodded.

"I didn't take those," Harry admitted.

Riddle's face twisted into an expression of obvious contempt. "You neglect the foundational studies of magic for... Divination? And Care of Magical Creatures? How… unambitious."

Harry bristled at the slight. "You know, I had other priorities than just school, like fighting the most feared wizard in history," he snapped.

Riddle's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Of course, how could I forget? No need for extensive knowledge to do that, right? Do you really think your 'O' in Defense is sufficient against the most powerful wizard of our era?"

Harry held Riddle's gaze firmly. "I've held my own against you so far."

Riddle's eyebrow arched, his smile sardonic. "Indeed? I hadn't noticed. After all, it took little effort to overpower you."

"Well, it seems that your reflexes have got worse with age. Besides, exam grades do not reflect the level of knowledge."

Harry said it just to get Riddle to let him go, but the carelessly spoken words fell on fertile ground.

"Perhaps you have a point. Let's put your knowledge to the test, shall we?"

Harry's wariness spiked. "What do you mean?"

"Just a few questions," Riddle said casually.

"And will you leave me alone after that?"

"That depends on your answers."

Harry sighed. He didn't have much of a choice anyway. Taking a more comfortable position, he leaned back against the back of the seat.

"Ask your questions."

Riddle needed no further encouragement. He barraged Harry with a flood of questions, from Trasmutation to Herbology, throwing in Astronomy, Spells and Potions along the way. Harry, well aware of his strengths and weaknesses, tried to answer as best he could. Riddle did not comment on his answers, even when it was clear that Harry had no idea what he was talking about. But when he was asked about the difference between monkshood and aconite, Riddle couldn't stand it.

"Monkshood is poisonous... and aconite isn't?" Harry guessed, uncertainty in his voice.

Riddle squirmed in disdain. "They're the same, also known as wolfsbane. Basic knowledge, Potter."

"Maybe for you," retorted Harry angrily. "You could've just said wolfsbane."

Riddle's disapproval was evident. "Clearly, there's more work to be done than I anticipated." he sighted. With a sparsely yet elegant wave of his wand he summoned a book. The spell was cast non-verbally, of course.

The book landed with a soft thud on the low coffee table between them. It was ancient, its cover worn and pages yellowed with age.

"This," Riddle said, tapping the cover with a slender finger, "is The Compendium of Transmutation. You will study the first three chapters. Thoroughly. You have three days."

Harry glanced at the book, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach. "Three days? That's not enough time to— "

"Three days, Potter," Riddle interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. "I expect you to be ready for a quiz on the material Wednesday evening. Your proper education has just started."

And with this unusual order, two of the strangest weeks of Harry's life began. Two weeks that he would remember as a period of ups and downs, two weeks that laid the foundation for his relationship with Tom Riddle.

o.O.o

Tom Riddle didn't bother to knock — he just opened the door and walked into the room Potter was in. The sooner the boy gets used to the fact that there is no privacy in his new life, the better.

Contrary to Tom's expectations, he was not greeted with snide remarks or disgruntled looks. Instead, he found the boy lying on his bed, his glasses still on his nose, his head resting on an open book, The Compendium of Transmutation. A thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of Potter's mouth.

Riddle's eyelid twitched.

Saliva. On his book.

"Well, Potter," Tom's voice cut through the silence sharply, "I do hope this is a result of diligent study and not sheer boredom." His voice, smooth yet edged with a hint of sarcasm, echoed in the spare furnished room.

Startled, Potter jerked awake, his glasses askew on his face. Blinking quickly, he looked up to find Tom's piercing gaze fixed on him. "Wha– Oh, it's you," the boy muttered, quickly sitting up on the bed. "What do you want, Riddle?"

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly at this impertinent question.

"I've come to see how your studies are progressing," he replied, his tone cool and measured. "I trust you're finding the material... enlightening?"

Potter, now fully awake, straightened his glasses and replied with a hint of defiance, "It's going very well, actually. Thank you for asking."

An eyebrow arched sceptically, Tom surveyed Potter. "Is that so?" He took a few slow steps, approaching the boy. Potter, still sitting on the bed, visibly flinched. "Because, from what I've been informed, you've spent more time exploring my flat for an escape route than perusing those pages."

Potter's expression faltered momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. "Well, a bit of exploration never hurt anyone, did it?"

Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"As long as you fulfil your duties conscientiously. But we'll find out in two days." He looked down at the boy. "Stand up and show me your hands," he ordered.

Potter didn't look like he had any intention of obeying. This was beginning to irritate Tom more and more. He had to eradicate this unwanted trait from the boy quickly.

"Potter, make me repeat an order again and you will really regret it," he said in an icy tone.

At least this finally worked.

With a reluctant sigh, Potter finally stood beside Tom and held out his hands. The numerous burn marks on his hands were tangible evidence of the boy's attempts to escape. So Bug wasn't exaggerating when he said that Potter had tried every door and window, desperately looking for a way out. Well, it was a good thing Riddle had seen this coming and put a spell on every escape route.

Tom watched the boy's hands for a moment with cold interest, wondering if the pain would be enough. He had his doubts, but that was really Potter's problem. He healed his hands for the last time. The spell he had cast made the burns disappear, leaving Potter's skin untouched.

The boy stood, confused and frustrated. He looked at his healed hands and then back at Tom, relief mixed with suspicion in his gaze.

Tom allowed himself a barely visible smirk.

"Now that you know which doors are locked and out of your reach, I expect you to devote your free time to study." There was a warning in his eyes, a storm brewing beneath the calm surface. "Next time, Potter, I won't be so generous in healing your wounds." Potter started to reply, but Tom wouldn't let him. He turned abruptly on his heel and cast over his shoulder. "Now follow me, Bug has prepared our dinner."

o.O.o

Harry mindlessly poked the beans in tomato sauce that Bug had served for breakfast. With a lack of enthusiasm, he grabbed a piece of bacon, the perfect crispness of which went unnoticed as he chewed it without any real hunger.

Halfway through a yawn, Harry thought about covering his mouth with his hand, realising too late who was watching him from across the table. It was when Riddle's patience seemed to snap.

"Potter, did no one ever teach you the rudiments of table etiquette?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation.

Harry looked up, a defiant glint in his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were dining with the Queen," he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Riddle's lips thinned. "It's not about royalty, Potter. It's about basic civility. Use your napkin, not your trousers, for those greasy fingers. And the knife — it's not merely a buttering tool but for cutting as well."

Harry rolled his eyes but reluctantly wiped his fingers on the napkin, feeling a bit like a scolded child. "Anything else, your highness?" he asked, his tone bordering on insolent.

Riddle's gaze sharpened. "Elbows off the table, Potter. You're eating a meal, not lounging in Gryffindor common room. And try to eat in a way that keeps the food on the plate rather than around it."

Harry's annoyance bubbled over. "You know, if you're so bothered by the way I eat, why don't you just stop insisting that we eat together?"

Leaning back, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips, Riddle replied, "Because your absence at the table wouldn't solve the underlying issue of your lamentable manners, and we're going to be spending a considerable amount of time together. Indulge me, Potter. Prove that my efforts to instil some civility in you aren't entirely in vain."

Harry replied with a look full of undisguised hatred.

He reached for his knife.

o.O.o

Tom made his move, a knight leaping over pawns with predatory grace, and then leaned back, his gaze never leaving the boy across from him. "Tell me, Potter," he began, his voice smooth and probing, "how did Dumbledore prepare you to face me? To face Voldemort? Surely, he must have given you private lessons, taught you things beyond the curriculum..."

Playing chess in the evenings was slowly becoming their new habit. Tom needed something to bring routine into their lives, to lull Potter's vigilance, to make the boy relax in his company and forget, at least for a moment, who he was actually dealing with. Of course, Riddle hadn't expected this to happen on the third evening, but in time...

Moreover, these games served as an excuse to converse; Potter, surprisingly engrossed in the game, often got distracted, inadvertently revealing more than he intended.

Just like now.

Potter hesitated over a bishop, his expression sharpening subtly. In the light of the fire, he looked even younger, more childlike. "Dumbledore never trained me in spells, if that's what you're getting at," he replied, a hint of barely perceptible bitterness in his voice. Sensing Tom's trap, he cautiously moved a pawn instead. "Our lessons were more about... understanding the past. Your past, specifically."

Riddle's eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. "No direct training? Even with a prophecy hanging over your head?" He moved his queen, a silent threat on the board. "That seems... negligent, doesn't it?"

"Not at all. Dumbledore taught me something far more important than new spells," Potter answered, cautiously, his gaze locked on the chessboard. "He taught me about choices, about what it means to stand up for what's right, even when it's hard."

Tom's face remained unreadable, but internally, he was astounded. How could Dumbledore, the great manipulator, have left Potter so unprepared? It almost seemed as if he was preparing the boy not for battle, but for... sacrifice?

This was utterly nonsensical.

"Fascinating," Tom mused aloud, his fingers lightly tapping on the table. "The great Albus Dumbledore, leaving his protégé so vulnerable. It's unlike him. Well, unless that's what he meant. To make you vulnerable. How did it go?" Riddle pretended to wonder, though the prophecy echoed in his thoughts whenever he looked at the boy. "And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

This sentence made even less sense than Dumbledore's behaviour.

Potter carefully avoided looking at him, his fingers finally taking hold of the knight as he tried to evade them. "Maybe he thought I had enough on my plate..."

"Or maybe Dumbledore doesn't expect you to survive."

The abrupt way Potter placed his knight was a sufficiently meaningful response.

"Maybe he knows I'll find out. Or maybe he believes in my ability to stay alive," Potter said, a spark of anger in his voice. "Either way, I trust his judgement."

The word 'trust' seemed to linger mockingly in the air. Trust was a foreign concept to Tom, a weakness he had long since eradicated from his own psyche. Yet, it was this very concept that seemed to define much of Potter's relationship with Dumbledore.

Even if, in Tom's opinion, it was going to lead the boy to his death.

"If you say so..."

These dismissively thrown remarks finally caused Potter to lift his gaze and look hard into Tom's eyes. Riddle was tempted to slip into the boy's mind, to see what he was really thinking, but a recent promise was tying his hands. However, what he saw in the green eyes was enough.

"I trust Dumbledore," Potter repeated firmly.

A little too firmly.

When it came to the chessboard, Tom did not have to think long about his move. He shifted his knight, knocking down the Potter rook. And as for the relationship between Potter and Dumbledore, it was enough for Tom that the seeds of doubt were sown.

For a while they just played, moving their pawns around the board. Tom allowed Potter to take his two pawns, but in retaliation he took his knight. The fire crackled in the fireplace and its glow cast long shadows that made the living room, usually empty and gloomy, seem even more ominous. Outside, the wind was howling and snow covered the streets again.

"We taught ourselves," Potter said unexpectedly. "Last year, in our fifth year. We formed a group — Dumbledore's Army. We learned from each other."

"Dumbledore's Army," Tom said, the name rolling off his tongue with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "A group of students banding together to learn what the great Albus Dumbledore couldn't be bothered to teach you himself."

"It wasn't like that," Potter protested, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. However, indicated that loyalty prevailed, for the moment. "Dumbledore didn't know about us. That bitch, Umbridge, got him kicked out of Hogwarts. And she forbade us to say that Voldemort had returned. So, we had to take our education into our own hands."

Riddle considered for a moment whether to punish Potter for swearing but decided to deal with the boy's vulgar language at the next opportunity. For now, the conversation was more important.

"A band of students, taking matters into their own hands. Admirable, if somewhat naïve."

Potter moved his queen forward, a bold and assertive move. "We weren't naïve. We were determined. We knew what was at stake."

Tom's reply was a calculated move of his bishop, trapping Harry's king. "Determination is a powerful tool," he acknowledged. "But it needs guidance, Potter. Something Dumbledore obviously failed to provide you with. Checkmate, by the way."

o.O.o

"List and describe at least five basic human transfigurations."

Tom Riddle, his sharp features softened by the glow of the fireplace, held a thick tome in his hands. His piercing grey eyes were fixed on Harry, who tried to hide his discomfort. He shifted slightly in his seat, his green eyes flickering with a mixture of defiance and suspicion.

Riddle was really going to quiz him on the damn theory of transfiguration.

It's not that Harry didn't try to study. There were a few times when he sat down with a book in his hand, but he found it so boring and written in such abstruse language that each attempt ended with him falling asleep over it.

His only hope was that the first three chapters actually covered the material he had learnt in his time, and that this time Riddle would not ask anything tricky.

Luckily, the first question turned out to be quite simple. Or so Harry thought, until he began to answer it.

"Appearances can be changed with potions, like the Polyjuice Potion. Then, there's the transformation into Animagi. There are also spells for changing appearance, and some wizards, known as Metamorphmagi, can do this without a wand."

Riddle's eyes narrow slightly, "Partially correct. You've missed one, Potter. But, moving on," he said, flipping a page with a flick of his wrist, "name at least three spells that change a person's physical appearance and describe them."

"Glamour," Harry started tentatively, his mind racing for another spell.

"And?" Riddle prompted, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

Harry remembered there had been several of them. He had even taken notes from them before exams, but now his mind was completely blank.

"It's... all I remember," he muttered, avoiding Riddle's piercing gaze.

"Just one? And no description?"

"What more can I say about Glamour? It's used to change your appearance, mainly your facial features, but that's what you asked about," Harry said angrily.

"Disappointing, Potter," said Riddle coldly, his displeasure evident. "You've only scratched the surface. You could have demonstrated the movement of the wand, talked about the pros and cons, how it could be taken down, what the limitations of this spell are. Now try harder." Riddle turned a few pages, probably moving on to the next chapter. "List the five basic principles of transmutation."

Harry fell silent, his mind a whirl of anger and frustration. He had learned this once, but the theory always slipped away from his mind like sand through the fingers.

Seeing Harry's struggle, Riddle leans forward, his eyes locked onto Harry's. "Let's try it another way, then. What can you tell me about the Elemental Reality Principle?"

One more time silence was the only answer.

Closing the book with a soft thud, Riddle placed it on the table, his movements controlled, betraying none of the anger simmering within. He looked at Harry with an inscrutable gaze that sent shivers down the boy's spine.

"Potter," he began, his tone deceptively calm, "what, pray tell, was so important that it prevented you from following my orders? From studying?"

Harry almost burst out laughing. Oh, for Merlin's sake, he could think of a million things more important than learning some boring, useless transmutation theory. Except that, judging by Riddle's deceptively calm voice, honesty would not end well for him.

Fuck it.

"I had many other things on my mind," he replied, deciding not to be intimidated. He had fought Voldemort to the death more than once, so explaining his lack of knowledge to Riddle couldn't have been worse. "Like thinking about how my appearance here will change the future. Like wondering if my friends still exist."

Riddle leaned back in his chair. "These aren't issues that should be on your mind right now," he replied, tone icy cold.

"Well, let me decide for myself what I will and won't think about."

One cheeky sentence too many. Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Show me your hands, Potter," he commanded icily.

Harry considered ignoring the order for a moment, but decided it wasn't worth arguing about. Riddle probably knew what he was really doing anyway, that bloody Bug must have told him everything. Reluctantly, Harry extended his hands. The new burn marks were evident, betraying his newest attempts at escape. He saw a flicker of fury pass through Riddle's eyes, quickly masked by that same unsettling calm.

"So, not only have you ignored my directive to study, but you've also been trying to escape, despite my explicit orders." Riddle's voice was low, dangerous. "Explain yourself, Potter. And this time, let it be the truth."

Harry's jaw tightened, the anger and fear intermingling within him. "You can see what I was doing," he snapped back, the words leaving his lips before he could restrain them. "Do I really need to say this?"

Riddle's eyes darkened. "Ignoring a direct order is a serious offense, Potter. According to our agreement, the punishment for such a transgression is the Cruciatus Curse."

Harry's blood ran cold at the mention of the curse, the very thought of enduring such torment making him visibly flinch. "Punishing with an unforgivable spell for not reading a book is madness, Riddle. A display of sadism," he argued, angry with himself for the shadow of fear in his voice. Riddle wasn't serious, was he? "You were supposed to be different from Voldemort."

Riddle, unperturbed, countered smoothly, "This is not about the book, Potter. It's about your blatant disregard for my orders. We have an agreement. And we have defined the consequences of certain behaviours." He paused, looking at Harry with a calculating gaze. Then he slowly leaned back in his armchair, a movement that did not bode well. "However, to demonstrate that I am not like my future self, I will allow you to suggest an alternative punishment. This time. So? What do you propose?"

Harry blinked. This was something he didn't expect at all.

"Limit my privileges," he finally suggested, when it became clear that Riddle was indeed waiting for his proposal.

Riddle shook his head. "You have no privileges here to restrict. Another suggestion?"

"A mild curse, then," Harry offered, forcing himself to remain calm. "A stinging hex, perhaps."

This is not really happening.

Riddle considered this for a moment, then replied, "Insufficient for two direct disobediences. That leaves us with one option: corporal punishment. So, Potter, you have a choice — endure Crucio or accept corporal punishment. Decide."

Harry's heart pounded in his chest. The thought of submitting to corporal punishment at Riddle's hands was abhorrent, humiliating. Yet the alternative was unthinkable. He remembered the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, a pain that tore through every fibre of his being, leaving no room for anything but agony.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Tom Riddle watched him. There was a sense of curiosity in those piercing grey eyes, a desire to see what Harry would choose, how far he could push him before he snaps.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting eerie shadows across the room. Harry's gaze flickered to it, seeking a brief respite from the intensity of Riddle's stare. His mind was a whirlwind of conflict, anger, and revulsion, yet beneath it all lay a resolute determination.

Finally, he looked up, his green eyes meeting Riddle's grey ones. The weight of his decision hung heavy in the air. "Corporal punishment," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of his resolve.

Tom Riddle's expression remained unreadable as he nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of Harry's choice. "Stand up, Potter. In the middle of the room," he ordered, his voice calm yet commanding.

Harry pushed himself up from the armchair, his movements stiff, his body tensed for what was to come. He moved to the room's centre, feeling exposed and vulnerable under Riddle's scrutinizing gaze. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls echoing back his rapid heartbeat. Every instinct screamed at Harry to escape, to rebel, yet he knew that any sign of defiance would only make things worse.

Besides, they did have a deal. And Harry had to keep up appearances.

Tom Riddle rose from his seat, his movements graceful and deliberate. He circled Harry like a predator, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. "I wonder, Potter," he mused aloud, "how should I punish you? A traditional spanking, perhaps? Or maybe something more... inventive?" His low voice dripped with sinister delight. "What about whipping your back?" Riddle said, gently brushing his hand over Harry's back.

Harry's instinct was to recoil, to lash out against this unexpected violation. This unwanted touch. But he knew any such reaction would be a sign of weakness, something Riddle would relish. So he stood still, his fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to react.

Finally, Riddle stopped in front of him.

"No, let's keep it traditional, shall we? A method favoured by teachers even at Hogwarts," his voice was smooth, almost taunting. "Stretch out your hands, palms up, Potter."

Harry looked defiantly at Riddle, then extended his hands, the backs of his palms pointing downwards. The fresh burn marks on his hands perfectly visible, a reminder of his failed escape attempts.

He will not show weakness.

"Six slaps on the hands," Riddle said. "One for each question you failed to answer, and one for each order you ignored." And then he moved his wand and cast a quick, non-verbal spell.

The first strike hit, a sharp pain that felt like a belt against his skin. Harry's hands jerked back reflexively, a new red stripe joining the earlier burn marks.

"Put them out again," Riddle ordered, a cold warning in his voice. "Do it one more time and I'll start again."

Harry, gritting his teeth, forced his trembling hands back into position. The challenge to keep them steady, to suppress the instinct to recoil, was immense. The strikes came in quick succession, each one sending waves of pain through his already injured palms. He focused on a point over Riddle's shoulder, trying to detach himself from the situation, to be anywhere but in that room, under Riddle's cold gaze.

But Riddle wasn't finished with him. After the third blow, his icy, commanding voice rang through the room, "Look at me, Potter."

Harry's green eyes met Riddle's cold ones, filled with pleasure at the power he now wielded. The humiliation of this moment, the prickling tears, the inability to hide his suffering, was almost more than Harry could bear. It was the hardest thing he had done, looking into the eyes of the younger version of his greatest enemy, while in such a vulnerable state. Harry tried to maintain his dignity, to keep the pain from showing on his face, but the effort was futile. Riddle could see, could probably feel the pain Harry was enduring. And he was enjoying it.

The fourth strike drew a sharp intake of breath and the fifth a stifled moan from Harry, each one more painful than the last. The sixth strike was the worst. A short scream escaped Harry's lips despite his best efforts to contain it. A barely concealed satisfaction flashed across Riddle's face.

And it was over.

Riddle stepped back, observing Harry with an unnerving scrutiny. "Have you learned your lesson, Potter?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, as if they were discussing something mundane.

Fighting back tears and trying to regain his composure, Harry nodded. The words stuck in his throat, the pain and humiliation too fresh, too raw. He had endured the punishment, but at what cost? His pride, his sense of self, felt as if it had been trampled on.

Was it worth it?

"A verbal answer, Potter."

"Yes," he managed to say, though the word was barely audible.

Riddle's smile widened slightly, but there was no warmth in it. It was the smile of someone who had just confirmed the extent of his power over another person.

"Good. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I will quiz you on the first chapter. I trust you will be better prepared this time. Now you may return to your room."

A/N

I don't know if this will please you or not, but scenes like the above won't appear too often in this story. Although they will remain an essential part of it ;)