— CHAPTER SEVEN —

Ups and downs, part II

Harry Potter lay on his bed in the dimly lit room, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. The Compendium of Transmutation lay open on his stomach, neglected and forgotten. A lone candle, hovering near the bedside, cast dancing shadows along the walls. The fire in the fireplace was still smouldering, but it was dying, so the night's chill was beginning to creep treacherously closer, and the thin pyjamas Harry wore offered no protection against it.

One week. It had been exactly one week since Harry had been thrown back into 1947, into a world so familiar and yet so disturbingly different. Last Friday, his main concern had been uncovering the schemes of Draco Malfoy; now he found himself in the clutches of the young, but frighteningly formidable, Tom Riddle.

This version of Voldemort, younger and less scarred by the ravages of dark magic, proved to be an even more complex adversary than the one Harry had known. It only took Harry a week in the company of Tom Riddle to understand why so many people have fallen for his fake charming personality. And while he remained acutely aware of Riddle's manipulation and his true dark nature, some of this week's events showed that he, too, was not entirely immune to the charm exerted by the younger version of Lord Voldemort.

This terrified him the most.

During their evening chess games, Harry sometimes found himself forgetting who he was dealing with. A tacit permission to be blunt, to exchange sharp retorts, to speak freely without fear of retribution — all these things let his guard down. Staying alert was also not helped by the fact that Riddle appeared to be an attentive listener. He seemed genuinely interested not only in how the world had changed over the past fifty years, but also in Harry's life at Hogwarts, his favourite subjects, his opinions of teachers (it turned out that Binns was just as boring in Harry's day as he had been fifty years earlier), and even the school's Quidditch matches. His attitude made Harry feel, in spite of himself, that his words mattered, that someone was genuinely interested in what he had to say. Riddle, for his part, told anecdotes from his time at Hogwarts. Of course, there were subjects they danced around carefully — the dark events of Riddle's school days were left untouched, Riddle didn't mention them, Harry didn't ask.

Yet beneath this facade of normalcy lurked a darker side. His charm was just a cover, hiding the ruthlessness Harry had experienced first-hand. He winced inwardly as he remembered the invasive foray into his memory, which brought back haunting nightmares of his parents and Sirius's deaths. Awakened, he could not sleep, and the nights dragged on endlessly in a silent agony of grief and remorse.

Harry lifted his hands absentmindedly, examining them in the dim light. There was no sign of any burns or swollen welts on the skin. Harry flinched at the mere memory of the situation two days before. It was the first time Harry had experienced such a punishment. The Dursleys, for all their cruelty, had never resorted to corporal punishment. There were times when the vein on Uncle Vernon's forehead pulsed so fiercely that Harry was convinced Vernon was about to reach for a leather belt and beat him painfully, but that never happened. And even though Riddle didn't use a leather belt, but magic and the right spell, it was still a beating, just as painful and real as the traditional one. And not just physically. Riddle manipulated Harry into a situation where he had no choice but to accept it. The humiliation of that moment gnawed at him. The fact that he had to choose this kind of punishment himself, to let Tom Riddle punish him, was a bitter pill to swallow, igniting a mix of anger, shame and an unsettling sense of helplessness within him. This complete stripping away of his defiance and autonomy, lingered in his psyche. A stark, uncomfortable contrast to the resilience and rebellious spirit that had defined Harry Potter through all his life.

And as his hatred for Riddle reached new heights, future Dark Lord did something that only served to increase Harry's consternation. After Harry had dealt with a series of nasty questions about the theory of transmutation from the first chapter of that damned book, Riddle summoned a jar of healing salve. "Rub it in your hands", he said, handing the jar to Harry. And when Harry took it without a word, just raising a questioning eyebrow, he added: "There was a punishment for lack of knowledge, here is a reward." At first Harry had no intention of getting involved in another of Riddle's sick games, a game of carrot and stick, but after a few hours pragmatism overcame pride and he used an ointment to ease the pain.

He had to be fit in case there was a chance of escape.

The reality of his situation was maddening. Trapped in Riddle's apartment with no feasible escape plan, Harry's impulsive nature chafed against the enforced inactivity. He knew he needed his wand, patience was essential, but part of him yearned for immediate action. The forced interactions with Riddle — the shared meals, the chess games — were a double-edged sword. They were despised yet anticipated, providing an illusion of agency, a fleeting hope that he might say or do something to regain his freedom.

Of course, nothing of that sort had ever happened.

And so, the absence of Riddle that afternoon should not have mattered. Yet, Harry couldn't shake off a sense of disappointment, or was it fear? Fear of what the future Dark Lord might be scheming, of what his change from routine signified.

The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder and louder. Harry listened intently. Each passing second stretched into eternity in his mind, mocking his forced passiveness. And suddenly, like a missed bludger, he was struck by an overwhelming longing for Ron, for Hermione, for the life he hoped to reclaim.

o.O.o

Riddle moved his king from F1 to C1, and then casually remarked, "I hope your recent interest in magical oaths doesn't mean you're seeking ways to break the one you've made to me, Harry."

Harry's fingers, hovering over his knight, stopped. The fire crackled in the ornate fireplace, casting flickering shadows on their concentrated faces. He wanted to deny it, to shrug it off, but Tom Riddle's ability to sense a lie even without using Legilimency made it futile. Harry shifted his knight, a resigned weight in his voice. "Was it Bug who ratted me out again?"

Riddle, moving his pawn with a smooth, calculated motion, didn't look up as he responded. "No. This time you betrayed yourself by placing the book upside down on the shelf."

Harry remained silent, pushing down the rising frustration within him. The anger seemed pointless now. Encouraged by the fact that Riddle had also missed breakfast today, which gave him almost two days without the future Dark Lord's company, he decided to find out more about the restrictions placed on him. The thought of losing his magical abilities frightened him the most, prompting to begin his research with the magical oaths. But even with free access to the books in Riddle's library, finding clear answers proved difficult. The world of wizard oaths was vast and varied, and Harry struggled to determine which specific oath Riddle had used.

So not only did he fail to gain any useful information, but he also betrayed his intentions. Great.

For a while they played in silence, concentrating on the moves they were making. Harry had recently noticed that when Riddle played with the whites, his moves were repetitive, as if he was playing the same game over and over again. So when, as Harry had predicted, Riddle moved his queen from F3 to B3, he tried remembering what was coming next.

"So what exactly did you want to learn about magical oaths, Harry?" Riddle asked suddenly, returning to the earlier topic.

Harry. For some time now, Riddle had been calling him by his first name. The first time it happened, Harry had corrected him. Potter had been more impersonal, more in keeping with their relationship. Riddle had just laughed. And stayed with Harry. At least during their evening conversations.

So, Harry stopped paying attention. It didn't mean anything.

"I wanted to understand how this oath works," he sighted, deciding it wouldn't hurt to admit it.

Riddle's eyebrows rose slightly, betraying his surprise. "You took an Oath of Submission to me without knowing exactly what it entailed?"

He knew he had reached a new peak of stupidity, but he had already made so many mistakes that day that one more wouldn't have made any difference."

"Did I have another option?" Harry's retort came with a shrug, but the bitterness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Finally figuring out what Riddle's next move might have been, Harry moved his king.

Riddle leaned back in his chair and watched him for a moment with an unconcerned expression on his face. Feeling uncomfortable under this intense gaze, Harry looked sideways, towards the windows, at the darkness spreading outside.

After a moment of silence Riddle spoke: "What do you wish to know about your oath?"

Harry turned his head abruptly and looked at Riddle in surprise. The played game suddenly forgotten.

"You're the only wizard I know who would do such a thing," Riddle said with a little amusement in his voice. "I think it's only right that you know exactly what you've gotten yourself into."

"How generous of you," he retorted, unable to stop himself.

Riddle raised one of his eyebrows. "So, you're not interested then?" His attention returned to the chessboard, where he casually noted, "You're going to lose again." That said, he moved his pawn one field forward.

"Can this oath affect my free will, force me into specific behaviours?" asked Harry, deciding that it might be worth taking Riddle up on his offer after all. If he was going to lose again, he could at least gain some knowledge.

"No," Riddle began, his voice calm and measured. "The magic of the oath doesn't control your will. You're free to make your own choices, but you must be prepared to face the consequences of those choices." He gestured to the board. "Fight to the end, surprise me."

Harry made a decisive move with his bishop, nailing the queen. A bold, desperate play, to which Riddle responded almost immediately with a move of his pawn. The battered bishop came off the board.

"So if I obey your order, it will be because I've decided to do so myself?" he made sure. "Not because the oath's magic forced it upon me?"

He didn't know if that was good news or bad. It certainly didn't lift the weight of responsibility from his shoulders.

"Exactly," Riddle confirmed with a strange glint in his eye. "All decisions will always be yours."

"What if I disobey? Will I lose my magic instantly?" There was the tension in Harry's voice, but he didn't dare look Riddle in the face when he asked this question.

"A single act of disobedience won't result in the loss of magic," Riddle explained. "The loss of magic will only occur if I'm truly convinced of your disloyalty. This isn't automatic but depends on my perception of your obedience and your intentions."

Harry's rook knocked down another Riddle pawn.

"So, is everything up to you?"

"Yes and no," Riddle replied, looking carefully at the situation on the board. "For example, if I took your behaviour now as a sign of disobedience, nothing would happen anyway. For your magic to disappear, I'd need to be utterly convinced of your defiance."

Harry processed this, his mind racing. There was a certain comfort in this. "If I were to lose my magic, could I ever regain it?"

Riddle finally moved his pawn, getting dangerously close to Harry's king.

"Yes," he said, a hint of a smirk appearing on his lips. "But you'd have to convince me that you're truly sorry and that your intentions are sincere. When I believe you genuinely submit again, your magic would be restored. But I can assure you that regaining my trust is no easy task. I don't often forgive or give second chances. In fact, never."

The calm tone with which Riddle gave him all these answers encouraged Harry to ask another question. He could always pretend he was doing it out of curiosity.

"And the oath itself? Can it be broken or ended?" he asked casually, neutralising the threat to his king with his bishop.

Riddle's voice was calm as he replied, "Yes, but it requires the conscious consent of both of us. That's the only way to end it. Otherwise, it can't be broken".

In this case, Harry had no intention of taking the future Dark Lord's words for granted.

"And how does it work from your side?" Harry asked, watching as Riddle's rock made a seemingly insignificant move, going to the left by one field. "Will you have to keep your promise to help me get back to my time?"

The expression on Riddle's didn't change.

"Yes, I'll have to. But remember, I swore to you that I would only do it when I decided I no longer needed you."

Harry felt cold vices squeeze his stomach as he realised what that answer meant.

The calculating grey eyes locked with the greens.

"But so far, you are proving to be increasingly interesting."

Harry's king moved to the corner of the chessboard.

o.O.o

On a frosty Sunday midday, the world outside Tom Riddle's apartment was bathed in an unusually clear blue sky. Rays of light flooded the library, giving it a calm and elegant feel, far from the usual cold and gloomy atmosphere.

Tom Riddle was leaning against his massive, dark desk, his silhouette clearly outlined in the bright sunlight. His hair was neatly combed, as always, but there was a casual air to his attire. He was dressed simply but impeccably, in dark, perfectly fitting trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He waited for Harry with his arms crossed and an expectant look on his face, and even in this relaxed pose he exuded an aura of authority and dominance.

"Bug mentioned that you called me," Harry said as he entered the library, his voice laced with a nonchalant tone, a mask for the tension that lingered within him.

Riddle greeted Harry with a cold, chiding look. "You were in no hurry to come, I see," he observed with a hint of mockery.

In response, Harry merely shrugged, striving to maintain his façade of indifference.

"Next time come immediately," Riddle said icily, and although he didn't add 'because if you don't', it was still clear that this was an order, not a request. Then he straightened up, spread his arms and pushed away from the desk. His movements were fluid and marked by a predatory grace. "Today we're going to have a practical lesson in magic," he announced casually.

Harry's heart leapt, though he carefully controlled his expression.

The practical lesson meant casting spells. Casting spells required a wand. And with a wand in his hand… A myriad of possibilities flashed through Harry's mind. He could cast a curse or two, disarm Riddle, try to escape and contact Dumbledore, maybe even…

But before Harry could fully grasp the implications, Riddle reached into his pocket and with a fluid motion pulled out Harry's wand. With a knowing smile, he held it out to him.

Harry's fingers twitched with the urge to snatch it from Riddle's hand. His wand, his ticket to freedom. However, suspecting deception, Harry hesitantly reached for his wand and his fingers slowly tightened on the wood. As the familiar sensation flowed through him, the impulse to attack Riddle became almost irresistible.

But one glance at Riddle's face — the calculating, expectant look — quashed the impulse. Harry recognized the trap laid out before him. Riddle was baiting him, anticipating his every thought and movement.

The memory of their last and only duel flashed before his eyes.

No, he must be smarter, smarter than the cleverest snake of this century.

With a deep, calming breath, Harry raised his head, steadily meeting grey eyes. Pushing down the urge to lash out, he asked with a measured tone, "What are we going to study?"

Riddle's smile widened slightly, seemingly amused by Harry's internal struggle, yet pleasantly surprised by his restraint. "Today, Harry, we're going to test your accuracy in casting spells. We'll be concentrating on Engorgement and Shrinking spells." His tone was casual, but his eyes had a sharp intensity that told Harry he was being tested in more ways than one.

Harry nodded, clutching his wand tighter. He could feel Riddle's eyes on him, measuring him, judging him. The air in the room seemed thick with anticipation.

And then, as if oblivious to the tension, or perhaps consciously ignoring it, Riddle waved his wand and summoned a coffee table into the centre of the room. After another nonverbal spell, a paperweight, a piece of polished stone resembling an egg with a flattening on one side, rose from the desk and landed with a soft thud on the coffee table.

"Let's see how well you paid attention in class, shall we?" Riddle's tone was soft, mocking, a challenge cloaked in false politeness.

Harry, masking his inner turmoil with a feigned half-smile, replied, "Well enough, I suppose."

"Shrink it down to about an inch," Riddle commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and pointing with his head at the paperweight. "Then increase it to about three inches and then back again, only this time let it be exactly one inch and then three inches. Let's see how much control you have over that spell."

There was nothing suspicious about the order, so Harry decided it would do no harm to his pride to carry it out. Gripping his wand tightly, he focused his attention on the paperweight. His mind wavered between concentration on the task at hand and the ever-present awareness of Riddle's scrutinising gaze. The spell left his mouth and the paperweight shrank, but not to Riddle's exact size, as the conjured ruler that suddenly appeared in the air informed him.

Almost an inch and a half. That wasn't too bad.

Harry looked at Riddle expectantly, but the future Dark Lord just repeated his earlier instructions. "Now enlarge to about three inches."

This time it went better; he was only off by three-tenths of an inch.

"Close, but not close enough," Riddle commented, his tone cool but not unkind. "Try again. One inch, precise."

Harry cast the spell again, his green eyes narrowed in concentration. This time, he managed to get closer to the target, but it was still off by a fraction of an inch. Riddle's gaze felt like a weight upon him, pushing him to do better, to be more accurate.

"Now, enlarge it to three inches," Riddle instructed.

The lesson continued, a constant shrinking and enlarging. Harry's spells fluctuated, sometimes hitting the target, sometimes not. A few times Harry glanced sideways at Riddle, but it was hard to tell from his expressionless face whether he was pleased with Harry's level of skill.

Finally, Riddle halted the exercise with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Enough. I've seen what I needed. You lack control over magic, Potter. Not to mention precision when casting spells."

Harry's response was a mix of defiance and exasperation. "No one's ever asked for such exact measurements, not even during the O. ."

"My expectations are higher. Get used to it," Riddle replied, his voice as calm as ever. "When I require precision, you will provide it."

Snorting in disbelief, Harry challenged, "Prove it. Show me such accuracy is even possible."

With an air of nonchalance, Riddle effortlessly shrank the paperweight to exactly one inch, then to three, as if playing with the laws of physics at his whim. "Concentration, Potter. That's the key."

Harry shot Riddle a murderous glare. Concentration! As if he wasn't concentrating.

Riddle raised an eyebrow in response. "What are you waiting for? Keep practising. Start by making the button exactly two inches heigh. It's easier with larger dimensions."

Harry resumed the exercise, but there was no enthusiasm in his movements and his brow furrowed in frustration. Riddle watched him for a while, his eyes sharp and calculating, before finally retreating to an armchair by the fireplace and opening a book with an air of detached interest.

The room was filled with the sound of Harry's incantations, punctuated by the soft rustle of Riddle turning pages and the crackle of the fire. From time to time, Riddle changed the desired size to which Harry was to shrink the paperweight, although Harry had failed to achieve a repeatable result twice in a row. Worse still, the fatigue and lack of sleep during the night had finally set in; Harry had done the spell several times, barely holding back a yawn, and the urge to attack Riddle in return for this pointless exercise was growing by the minute. It was all making Harry's frustration simmer, gradually reaching boiling point as Riddle's demands escalated to the absurd precision of a tenth of an inch.

"I've had enough of this," Harry finally blurted out, unable to contain his growing resentment. "This is ridiculous. I won't do it anymore."

Riddle didn't even look up from his book. "You'll stop when I say you can stop, Potter," he said, his voice as cool and detached as if he were discussing the weather.

Harry's frustration turned to outright rebellion. "And if I refuse? What then, Riddle? Will you force me?"

There was a dangerous edge to Riddle's calm as he closed his book with a soft thud and finally turned to face Harry. "Don't test me, Potter. You know perfectly well what I'm capable of. Did you enjoy being punished so much that you want me to do it again?"

A fierce determination could be heard in Harry's voice: "You can punish me all you want, but that won't make me begin happily obeying your orders. Besides, our agreement gives me the right to refuse to obey an order."

"The right to refuse does not mean that it will be heeded, only heard. However, you have forgotten the second important condition: you can do it, but with the appropriate respect. Rebelling like a small child is not a manifestation of it."

As he spoke, Riddle rose from his chair and walked slowly to the centre of the room, standing directly in front of Harry. His close, clearly threatening presence made Harry want to take a step back, but he decided not to be intimidated. He raised his head and looked defiantly into the grey eyes.

Instinctively, he clenched his fingers tighter on his wand.

"If you want, I can also say it more calmly: I won't be practising this spell again," Harry stated coldly, keeping a semblance of courage despite the fear squeezing him inside.

Riddle's reaction was both swift and surprising. His wand swung, Harry leapt back and immediately assumed a duelling pose, but to his surprise, no spells bounced off from the hastily erected shield. Riddle lowered his wand calmly. Then he pointed his head at the paperweight.

"Measure."

Harry bit his lip, unsure of what to do. Finally, urged on by Riddle's burning gaze, he walked over to the table and reluctantly grabbed the ruler.

One tenth of an inch. A perfect fucking tenth of an inch.

"In case you were wondering why you lost the duel, here's the answer," Riddle said icily.

Harry swallowed. Adam's apple in his neck moved visibly.

Another hour passed before Riddle finally took mercy on him and announced the end of the lesson. This time Harry did not dare interrupt the exercise again, although he was seriously fed up with the Shrinking Charm. He was almost certain he would never use it of his own volition again.

"And? What precision have you achieved?" he asked, and if Harry didn't know him better he could have sworn he heard genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Two inches. I manage it almost every time. I've had more trouble with an inch, but it's worked a few times."

"Let me see," Riddle demanded, coming closer.

Harry sighed, but obediently cast the spell again. At two inches, it was perfect; at one, the paperweight was a fifth of an inch too big.

Riddle nodded. The ruler disappeared with a quiet pop.

"So, there's hope, but you'll have to practise this more," Riddle said tartly, then snapped his fingers and summoned a roll of parchment from his desk drawer.

Summoned. With. A. Snap. Of. His. Fingers.

Harry didn't even know it was possible. His mouth gaped open.

In the meantime, Riddle, as if unaware of the impression he had just made on his reluctant pupil (or perhaps the opposite, for there was a shadow of satisfaction on his face), handed the parchment to Harry.

"Go through this list and tick the spells you know," Riddle instructed, his voice as smooth and controlled. "I have limited myself mainly to the spells needed during the O.W.L.s, but I have also added a few from the sixth-year curriculum. To make it easier, I've grouped them by subjects: Transmutation first, then Spells, then Defence Against the Dark Arts and finally the Art of Duelling. If you know any that are not on the list, add them. I expect you to have it done by breakfast tomorrow."

Harry took the parchment, trying not to touch Riddle's fingers. The list, written in neat, familiar handwriting, was long and quite detailed. He looked through the spells, some familiar, others completely unknown. At the same time, Harry wondered what Riddle was trying to achieve by this. To learn the extent of his ignorance? Or, on the contrary, to find out what spells Harry knew so that he would not be surprised by anything unpleasant?

Riddle's next words snapped him back to the present. "Your wand, Harry," he said expectantly, extending his hand.

Harry raised his head abruptly, feeling an instinctive, fervent defiance. He gripped his wand tighter. He felt as if he had been petrified. He couldn't obey this order even if he wanted to.

And of course he didn't want to.

"Harry," Riddle prompted, a hint of impatience colouring his tone.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach as he looked at his wand, the epitome of his independence and strength as a wizard. Handing it over was not just a physical act; it was a silent acknowledgement of the power Riddle had over him. A recognition of the hierarchy that bound them.

But what choice did he have? If he wanted Riddle to trust him enough to let him leave his flat, he had to play along, pretend to obey.

With a heavy heart and a trembling hand, Harry forced himself to extend his wand towards Riddle. In doing so, he glanced sideway, not wanting to look the future murderer of his parents in the eye at such a moment.

Riddle's fingers closed around the wand, his grip firm. "Good," he said simply, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Tomorrow evening, I'll start checking how you're getting on with casting these spells, so you'll have your wand back for a while again," Riddle continued, and there was a harder, colder note in his voice. "If I catch you knowing a spell you haven't marked, I will treat it as an act of disobedience. So if you think of deceiving me and hiding your true abilities, I'd advise you to think twice."

Harry just nodded stiffly. Without his wand, he felt a nagging emptiness, as if Riddle had deprived him of an essential part of him.

It meant nothing. He just did it to outwit Riddle and get back to his own time. Just for that.

And only because of that.