Lightning Amongst the Stars

by The Eternal Ursine

Flung into 1977, in a world where the lines between friend & foe blur, Harry must navigate a perilous path using the knowledge of the past & his future to alter the course of history. But can he save the woman he loves from the darkness that threatens to consume her? Can Harry prevent the rise of a Dark Lord he never beat, even if it means sacrificing everything he ever held dear?

6. The Unfolding Geometry of Deception

Lightning Amongst the Stars

Chapter Six – The Unfolding Geometry of Deception

---

Defence Against the Dark Arts was always a subject Harry approached with a strange cocktail of dread and anticipation. Maybe it was the fact that there had never been a stable professor seeing him through his Hogwarts career, but Harry felt apprehensive nonetheless. The seventh years shuffled into the classroom with with a tired and bleary energy in the early morning. Professor Bodie, a man whose reputation preceded him, stood by the window, his back to the class, his silhouette stark against the grey September sky. Harry knew from Vince that Bodie had been the professor here for some time, a good few years before Vince even started first year. Few bad things were said about the man, but a common theme ran like a bold thread through every conversation regarding the Defence professor: he was ruthless.

The room was cold, the air thick with a chill that had nothing to do with the poor weather. As the students settled into their seats, Bodie turned. His eyes, shrewd and dark, surveyed the sea of students before him with calm, efficient deliberateness. His face was etched with a grim determination that silenced any lingering chatter as efficiently as his voice, which cut through any speculation like a knife.

"Welcome to your final year studying Defence Against the Dark Arts. I'm sure you're all positively thrilled, if not pleased as punch to be here, given that you've voluntarily subjected yourselves to the rigours of NEWT-level study. But enough pleasantries.

I expect a great deal from you, not just in theory, but in practice. This year, we will be focusing not on the whys of the Dark Arts, but the hows. You have had six years of theory, and you can forget that textbook nonsense you learned in your OWLs. It is time to put you to the test. This year, I'll be showing you how to use magic in a way you have never been taught before. So, listen up and listen good. I'm not here to teach you fancy wand-waving or spout some Ministry-approved nonsense about magical creatures. You're here to learn how to survive. To fight. To win. And if you think those pretty little shields you learned in your OWLs are going to save your hides, you've got another thing coming."

Bodie stopped pacing and stood over Mulciber, who slouched in his chair. He slammed his hands on Mulciber's desk, making the students all jump in their seats.

"You think you're ready for a fight, Mulciber? You think you can handle the Dark Arts and their practitioners? Because I've seen what that magic can do. I've seen it twist good men into monsters. I've seen it tear families apart. I've seen it leave scars that never heal."

Bodie moved again with assurance and his gaze swept over them all, lingering on a few faces. He stopped in front of his desk, leaning against it with a casual grace that belied the tension in his stance. "The Wizarding world is a dangerous place," he continued, his voice low but firm, each word carefully enunciated. "And it is becoming increasingly perilous by the day. The threats we face are not always obvious and not almost certainly not what they seem. You have a duty to protect yourselves, but also your fellow witches and wizards. And I am here to prepare you for what lies ahead."

Harry was not the only one who appeared to have ceased breathing. Every single student was stock still, almost as if afraid to make a noise for fear of losing Bodie's words.

"We will not be wasting time on frivolous pursuits or obsolete spells. This year will be challenging, demanding, and dangerous. If you are not prepared to dedicate yourselves to the task at hand, I suggest you reconsider your presence in this classroom." He let his words sink in for a moment, the silence thick and heavy, before adding, "So if you're not prepared to fight, to bleed, to sacrifice everything to protect what's important to you, get out. Go back to your cosy common rooms and hide under your blankets. But don't come crying to me when the nightmares come knocking at your door."

Bodie paused again. Harry watched as he stood there, staring at them all as if daring them to pack up their things and go.

"But for those of you who are willing to stand and fight, who are ready to face the worst on offer, I'll teach you everything I know. I'll make you the best damn fighters this school has ever seen. I trust that is understood? Right, then, let's begin. Wands out!"

Harry hurried with the rest of the class as he pulled his wand from his robes. Bodie idly flicked his own, the desks and chairs growing little wooden feet as they trotted over to the far wall of the classroom.

"Practical defence," Bodie declared, "is all that stands between you and a painful end. In a battle, in a duel, you will face magic you may not have seen before. You may face magic that you may not have known existed. Knowledge of the magic you face, and how to apply it and defend against it, are the keys you need to succeed. You cannot simply use an unknown spell, or a new curse you happened to pick up. You need to be familiar with what you are casting. You must know the words; you must understand the effects; you must master the counter."

Bodie kept talking, drilling the principles into them like it was holy scripture. Harry glanced at Bellatrix, who appeared enraptured with Bodie's words. She was all coiled energy and barely restrained scorn, a viper still in its learning stage. Bellatrix did not appear to yet be the monster he knew her to become; she was sharp, undeniably talented and dangerous in her own right, but the full-fledged Death Eater with the blood of innocents on her hands was yet to emerge.

"The best way to know how well you'd do," said Bodie, "is to put yourself in that situation. So, today we'll be duelling."

Professor Bodie's gruff declaration that they would be duelling sent a ripple of anticipation through the classroom. The room erupted with whispers from students. Then came Bodie's voice, slicing through the noise:

"Don't bother worrying about going first, last or any other nonsense – you're all going to get a turn, whether you like it or not!" He surveyed the class, his gaze lingering first on Harry, and then Bellatrix. "Sayre. Black. You two. Front and centre."

Time seemed to slow. When Professor Bodie's gaze landed on Harry, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. Every muscle in Harry's body clenched. Bodie's instructions on how to duel felt like the embodiment of the 'know your enemy' principle Snape had drilled into him back in his own time.

Harry left his seat and moved stiffly across towards the front of the room, his gaze meeting Bellatrix's as she too made her way there. This was more than a lesson plan; it was a lit match thrown into a powder keg. Each step towards Bellatrix was a tightrope walk over a yawning abyss, fraught with a sickening mix of dread and a primal, almost exhilarating, urge to fight.

Bellatrix, as if sensing his internal war, held his gaze, a predatory glint amongst the arrogance of those grey eyes. There was a hunger there, not just for victory but for a fight. His stomach tightened. This wasn't going to be a textbook duel.

And yet was that fear in her own? Bellatrix raised her chin, a challenge flickering across her face. This wasn't fear, Harry realised with a jolt. It was something akin to anticipation. He banished the thought before it took root. Now wasn't the time for misplaced sympathy. He had to keep his head, to fight like she was any other student, only more talented, and with an unsettling predisposition to Dark magic.

"Begin."

As Bodie's command faded, Bellatrix made the initial move. Her first spell was no a mere jinx but a nasty curse, more suited to a back-alley brawl than a Hogwarts classroom. Harry's hastily conjured shield deflected at the last second, his senses assaulted by sparks and the stench of burnt hair. This was not play; this was a battle for something neither of them could quite define.

Bellatrix unleashed another volley of spells. Harry threw up another shield, the spells bouncing off with angry sparks. It was not enough. One curse almost scored his arm, while another left an itchy, burning rash across the side his neck.

"Focus, boy!" Bodie barked. "Stop shielding and start fighting!"

Harry gritted his teeth. Bellatrix was toying with him like he was some helpless first-year. He had fought Death Eaters, faced Voldemort himself. Time to put this witch in her place.

He summoned a desk, narrowly avoiding a jet of red that exploded against the wood, showering him with splinters. "Rictusempra!" he shouted, aiming for Bellatrix. The Tickling Charm hit her squarely in the chest, and Bellatrix doubled over with unexpected laughter.

"What the-?" she sputtered between giggles, her wand arm waving erratically.

Harry grinned, seizing the opportunity. He scrambled to his feet, dodging a stray jinx from Bellatrix that whizzed past his ear. Bellatrix was faster than Harry gave her credit for. She raised her wand before he could fire off his own spell, and snarled the incantation for the Cutting Curse; another curse flew towards him. Harry dove to the side, rolling across the floor, the spell narrowly missing him. His eyes landed on a suit of armour standing guard by the classroom door. With a flick of his wand and a muttered "Piertotum Locomotor," he animated the suit of armour.

The armour sprang to life, its metal limbs clanking as it moved swiftly towards Bellatrix, its sword raised menacingly. She fired off a spell, but it glanced off. The suit of armour cornered her, its sword swinging wildly, forcing her to dodge and weave to avoid its clumsy attacks. Bellatrix, though clearly surprised by this unconventional tactic, quickly regained her composure. With a series of well-aimed spells, she blasted the armour apart, sending pieces of metal clattering to the floor.

Harry, however, had used the distraction to his advantage. Banishing a desk at Bellatrix, he predicted correctly she would deflect it; he said, "Tarantallegra!"

Bellatrix's legs began to dance uncontrollably, her feet tapping and twirling in a wild jig. She let out a frustrated cry, flailing as she tried to regain control of her movements. The class laughed as Bellatrix continued to dance and Harry snickered despite himself. But his laughter was cut short as a sharp pain erupted in his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling back, his hand instinctively reaching for the stinging sensation. He looked up to see Bellatrix, her face contorted in a mask of fury, her wand pointed directly at him, despite loss of control of her legs.

"You'll regret that, Sayre," she hissed. Despite her involuntary jig, Bellatrix slashed her wand. A bolt of purple light, a curse that Harry recognised as far more dangerous than anything she had used before, shot towards him.

Harry's war-honed instincts took over. He did not think, nor did he hesitate. He acted purely on reflex, his body moving with a speed and precision born of years of fighting for survival. With a flick of his wrist, he fired a non-verbal Blasting Curse, aimed directly at her chest.

But just as it was about to hit her, Bodie stepped in front of Bellatrix, a shield charm erupting from their wand. The orange light of Harry's curse collided with Bodie's shield, exploding in a shower of light that illuminated the suddenly silent classroom. Every eye was glued to the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, who stood protectively in front of Bellatrix, his wand still raised.

Bellatrix, momentarily stunned by Bodie's intervention, lowered her own wand, her chest heaving. Her furious gaze, however, remained locked on Harry.

Bodie turned his head slightly, addressing Bellatrix without taking his eyes off Harry. "Miss Black, if you would return to your classmates." His voice was low, but it carried an undeniable authority that made even Bellatrix obey.

With a final glare at Harry, she stalked back to her desk, her movements stiff with suppressed anger. Bodie turned his full attention to Harry, his expression unreadable. The silence in the room stretched, thick, heavy and horribly uncomfortable. Harry met his gaze, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Mr. Sayre," Bodie finally said, his voice dangerously soft. "Would you care to explain yourself?"

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I was trying to stop her, sir."

"By resorting to non-verbal Blasting Curse?" Bodie raised an eyebrow. "A rather advanced technique for a seventh-year student, wouldn't you say? Not to mention how lethal it would have been had it landed."

Harry remained silent. Bodie studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes seeming to pierce through him. Then, to Harry's surprise, a flicker of something that might have been amusement crossed his face.

"Improvisation," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry. "Ruthlessness. These are qualities that are essential in a real fight. Mr. Sayre here has shown an instinctive knack for the right response when faced with the enemy; put them down at all costs. Ten points to Slytherin."

The Gryffindors groaned as a few of the Slytherins made noises of approval. "However," Bodie added, his voice hardening again, "recklessness and disregard for instructions and the safety of your classmates will not be tolerated in my classroom. Controlling your actions are just as important as being wiling and able to complete them. Five points from Slytherin, Mr. Sayre."

A collective groan arose from the Slytherin side of the room. Harry winced, feeling the weight of their disapproval.

"As for Miss Black's and Mr. Sayre's duel," Bodie continued, addressing the entire class, "consider it a demonstration of the unpredictable nature of combat. You must be prepared for anything, and you must be willing to adapt your strategies on the fly." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the students. "Now, clear the floor. We will continue with the next pair-up. Talkalot, McKinnon - you're next."

The next pair came up sprang into action, eager to move on from the tense confrontation. Harry walked towards the back, nodding at some of the 'congratulations' and 'well done's' thrown his way. He could feel Bellatrix's gaze on him, and a quick glance showed a mixture of anger, resentment, and perhaps, a grudging respect. Vince clapped him on the shoulder.

"Merlin, Harry," Vince whispered, his eyes wide. "You've got guts, taking on Black like that. And non-verbal magic? Where'd you become so good at that? Durmstrang?"

Harry shrugged, offering a non-committal reply. He couldn't exactly tell Vince the truth, that he'd learned fighting for his life in a war that hadn't happened.

"Yeah… I just got lucky, I guess," he muttered, the word hollow even to his own ears. He turned away, trying to shrug off the encounter, but a sharp, burning pain in his shoulder, a souvenir from Bellatrix's curse, made him flinch. He rubbed his shoulder, trying to ease the ache. He glanced back towards her. Bellatrix stood across the room, her grey eyes, like chips of flint, followed his every move, and a shiver, unrelated to the lingering pain, traced its way down his spine. Clearly, Bellatrix was furious about losing and suffering humiliation. And as he focused on the unfolding duel in front of him between Talkalot and McKinnon, Harry knew that whatever was festering between him and Bellatrix was far from over.

---

The faint scent of wood-smoke and old parchment clung to the air in Riddle's office. He nursed a coffee with a drop of firewhiskey, but it did little to ease the tension that gripped him. Riddle sat at his desk, the polished surface reflecting the flickering gaslight, his gaze fixed on the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, its headline screaming in stark black ink: "AURORS AMBUSHED BY UNKNOWN ATTACKERS!"

His fingers drummed a restless tattoo against the smooth wood, a rhythmic, almost unconscious gesture that was a counterpoint to the disquiet churning within him. It was a nervous habit he had never quite managed to break, even after all these years. He reread the article, the details of the brutal attacks on Auror patrols. Three Aurors dead. Five more fighting for their lives at St. Mungo's. Stark and brutal, the words were etched into his mind. Ambushed on the south coast. No witnesses. No clear magical signature. Just carnage. The lack of a clear signature was the most concerning part; it meant they were dealing with a professional, or professionals. Whatever was happening in Europe was no longer a distant threat; it was a looming shadow, poised to engulf them all.

A sharp rap on the door interrupted his grim contemplation. Riddle sighed, setting the newspaper aside. "Enter," he called, his voice betraying a hint of weariness.

McGonagall walked in, her expression grim, her lips pressed into a thin line, a mirror image of the worry etched on his own face. She clutched her own copy of the Prophet that lay open on Riddle's desk, the headline glaring accusingly from the page.

"Good morning, Minerva. How may I help you?"

"Good morning, Tom," she said gravely. "I saw the Prophet. Have you?"

Riddle nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the newspaper on his desk. "Yes, Minerva. And I fear it's only the beginning." He gestured to a chair opposite him. "Please sit."

McGonagall obeyed, settling into the chair with her usual ramrod straight posture. She placed her hands in her lap, her fingers interlaced, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.

"This greatly worries me. It was an attack, make no mistakes about it," Riddle continued, his voice laced with a grim determination. "No witnesses and no survivors who could identify the attackers. It has Grindelwald's mark all over it – or that of his followers."

Riddle picked up a quill and began to absently twirl it between his fingers. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. "I had hoped that his defeat in '56 would have broken his followers' resolve, and scattered them to the winds. But it seems I was wrong. I've already heard enough from my contacts on the continent to know that his ideas are taking root. They've regrouped, reorganised, and now they're bringing the fight to our shores."

McGonagall met Riddle's gaze, her own eyes reflecting the same grim understanding. "What are we going to do, Tom? Can we help, if at all?" she asked. "Is Hogwarts in danger?"

Riddle's mind, usually so sharp and calculating, seemed clouded with a rare uncertainty. "Hogwarts in danger? I do not believe so. But as for the rest, I do not know, Minerva," he admitted, the words heavy with a weariness that belied his years. "I thought I had prepared for something like this, but… this is different."

He stopped twirling the quill and set it down with a decisive click. Riddle sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"They're bold," Riddle murmured, "Confident. Evidently coordinated. It's as if someone is testing us, probing for weaknesses that even we are not aware of ourselves."

"Should we not increase security at Hogwarts anyway, as a preventative measure?" McGonagall said, breaking the silence. "I can speak with Filius, William and Horace about strengthening the defences."

Riddle nodded slowly. "Agreed. That is a good idea. I'll speak with the prefects and Head Boy and Girl. They should be able to double the night patrols, and I will personally reinforce the school's wards."

"And the rest of the students?" McGonagall pressed, her gaze unwavering. "We can't keep them in the dark, Tom. They deserve to know what they're facing."

"Of course," Riddle agreed. "But we'll need to strike a balance between informing them and… well, not inciting unnecessary panic. They know of the attacks, but there's little need to tell them all the details." He gave a wry, humourless smile.

"They're stronger than you think, Tom," McGonagall said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Especially the older students; they are more aware of the situation than you might realise."

"I agree," Riddle conceded. "But his Acolytes are not to be taken likely, especially if this attack is them. We need to be careful, Minerva. One wrong move, and we could expose ourselves to even greater danger. The attacks on the Aurors… they were coordinated, precise. They knew their routines and patrol routes. It has the mark of someone who provided them with inside knowledge."

"A spy, then? Someone within the Ministry?" McGonagall bit her lip as she stared at the paper. "Who would betray us like this? Grindelwald was years ago - why now?"

"I don't know, Minerva," he admitted, his voice low and grave, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, "Not yet. We will find out - I will not tolerate similar leaks occurring where Hogwarts is concerned. We have a clearer picture of the situation and indeed, it would be wise to prepare the students. They may be young, but they are not helpless. And they have a right to know the truth, to be prepared to defend themselves and fight for their future."

He stood up and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his mind whirring to piece together the fragments of the puzzle. "We're sailing into uncharted waters, Minerva, with no map to guide us, and a storm is brewing on the horizon. But we will face it together." He stopped pacing and turned to her, resolve hardening his features. "We will protect Hogwarts, Minerva. And we will protect our students. Whatever it takes."

---

The crisp autumn air swirled with fallen leaves and vibrated with the excited chatter of students enjoying their freedom in the bustling streets of Hogsmeade. Harry made his way along the street, in no hurry as he breathed in the scents around him. The aroma of spiced pumpkin juice, freshly baked cauldron cakes, and roasting chestnuts mingled with the crisp scent of fallen leaves, creating a heady mix that invigorated the senses. Harry, relishing the brief respite from the oppressive atmosphere within the castle walls, strolled along the cobbled streets, his gaze taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the wizarding village. He had obtained Riddle's permission for the weekend excursion, promising to remain vigilant, avoid any unnecessary risks, and return to Hogwarts before curfew.

He paused outside Honeydukes, his mouth watering at the sight of the colourful sweets displayed in the window. A wistful grin tugged at his lips as he remembered the countless times he had gone to this very shop with Ron and Hermione, their pockets overflowing with Chocolate Frogs and Every Flavour Beans. He pushed open the door, the familiar tinkling of the bell announcing his arrival, and stepped inside, the sweet aroma of sugar and chocolate washing over him like a warm wave.

He spent a few minutes browsing the shelves, his fingers tracing the labels of Exploding Bonbons and Fizzing Whizbees, a pang of longing for his friends tugging at his heart. He selected a few treats for himself, a small indulgence to brighten the otherwise sombre day, and then continued his stroll through Hogsmeade.

A gaggle of younger Slytherins ran past him, paying him no heed as they sprinted towards the sweet shop. Harry watched them go, before pausing, considering his options. Perhaps a quick browse through Gladrags Wizardwear wouldn't hurt, or maybe a visit to the Apothecary to stock up on potion ingredients. Just as he was about to make a decision, a familiar voice called out his name.

"Sayre! Over here!"

He turned to see Vince waving at him from across the street, a broad grin splitting his face. Beside him stood a tall, lanky, older boy with a tattered Ravenclaw scarf wrapped around his neck and an air of quiet intelligence about him.

"Vince!" Harry greeted him with a relieved smile, crossing the street with a slow jog to catch up with them. "What are you up to? I thought you were caught up with Slughorn after Potions. He didn't look too impressed."

"Ah, it's all square now," Vince replied dismissively with a wave of his hand. "More importantly, I didn't miss the Hogsmeade trip!"

"I can see that! Who's your friend?" asked Harry.

"This is Edgar Bones," Vince introduced, gesturing towards Edgar. "He's left Hogwarts a year or two ago, but our fathers are in business together. Edgar Bones, meet Harry Sayre. He's our new transfer student I've told you about."

"Pleasure to meet you, Sayre," Edgar said, offering a polite nod and a handshake. "Vince has told me quite a bit about you."

"Considering it was him filling you in, all good things, I hope?" said Harry, returning the handshake with a smile.

"Only good things, of course," Vince interjected, his grin widening. "We were just heading to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Care to join us?"

Harry felt a surge of gratitude at Vince's words, a genuine sense of camaraderie that he hadn't expected to find in Slytherin House. He had been so focused on being stuck in this world that he had almost forgotten the simple pleasures of friendship and belonging.

"Sure," he agreed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I could use a butterbeer."

As they made their way towards the pub, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. He had found friends who accepted him for who he was, or at least, for who he pretended to be. And as they stepped into the warm, inviting atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks, the sound of laughter filling the air, Harry allowed himself a moment of respite.

As they moved to get a table, he spotted a familiar figure seated by the window. It was Regulus Black, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his gaze fixed on a book with an intensity that surprised Harry. He sat with another boy, whose back was turned so Harry could not see his face.

Harry hesitated, unsure whether to approach him. As if sensing Harry looking at him, Regulus looked up and locked eyes with Harry. The younger boy gave him a curt nod, which was returned with a smile, before Harry moved on and settled in his seat.

As they settled into their seats, Edgar leaned towards Harry, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Vince tells me you're quite the duellist," he said, his voice a soft murmur that barely carried over the din of the pub. "He spoke of your display in Defence Against the Dark Arts the other day; if it's to be believed, it sounds it was rather impressive."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling a blush creep up his neck. "It was nothing," he mumbled, trying to downplay the incident. "Just a bit of luck."

"Don't be modest, Sayre," Vince chimed in, clapping him on the back. "You practically owned Black with a Tickling Charm! That takes skill." He grinned, clearly enjoying the memory.

"It got too much, Vince," Harry said, his voice hardening slightly. "She was going to use a nasty curse on me and I almost put a hole through her chest."

Before Vince could respond, a buxom witch with a kind smile bustled over to their table. "What can I get for you lads?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with warmth.

"Three butterbeers, please, Madam Rosmerta," Vince said, flashing his most charming smile.

"Coming right up," she replied, winking at Vince before disappearing into the crowd.

They fell into easy conversation, discussing their classes, the upcoming Quidditch season, and the latest Hogwarts gossip. Edgar, despite being a few years older, seamlessly integrated himself into their talk, offering witty remarks and insightful observations. Harry found himself relaxing in their company, the tension that had been coiled within him since the duel slowly unwinding. He learned that Edgar had specialised in Ancient Runes, and was now working a curse-breaker firm. It was clear he was on good terms with Vince, and Harry was surprised by how comfortable he felt around the two of them. Edgar provided insightful commentary on the latest Ministry pronouncements and the growing concerns about the Auror attackers. He spoke with a quiet authority, his analysis sharp and insightful. Harry listened intently, comparing Edgar's observations with his own knowledge of the future, searching for any clues, any hints of how this timeline might diverge from his own.

As Rosmerta returned with their drinks, Harry's gaze drifted back to Regulus, who was still engrossed in his book, seemingly oblivious to the bustling activity around him. He still sat with the boy whose back was turned to Harry. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should talk to him, perhaps offer a friendly gesture, but something held him back. He didn't know what.

"Knut for your thoughts, Sayre?" Edgar's voice broke through his musings.

Harry started, realising he'd been staring. "Just thinking about the Prophet and the Aurors again," he said quickly, deflecting the question. "It's hard to believe it's actually happening, even here in Britain."

Vince's jovial demeanour sobered slightly. "It's only getting worse," he said, his voice low. "My father says things are heating up in Europe, and it some places it's practically lawless." He shook his head. "I say it's only a matter of time before it reaches here."

"I hope not, but it appears it will be the case, from what I hear. My cousin, Amelia, is an Auror, Harry," Edgar explained, his voice filled with pride. "She's been working tirelessly to combat the growing threat from Europe."

"Your cousin is Amelia Bones?" Harry asked, surprised. He knew the name well, a respected Auror and future Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Voldemort had killed her early on in the second war of his time.

Edgar nodded. "Yes. She's dedicated to her job," he said. "But she's worried. Attacks on Aurors are concerning and the last thing they want is certain individuals or groups becoming more brazen with more frequent attacks. She fears that something big is being planned. She's working herself ragged at the Ministry. These attacks are stretching the Auror force thin. She barely has time to owl these days, let alone visit."

Something big. The words resonated within Harry, a low hum of unease vibrating through him. The memory of Bellatrix's argument with Rabastan flashed across Harry's mind with a sudden, unnerving clarity. What did Rabastan know? Did he know something that everyone else did not?

Vince nodded sympathetically. "Tough gig," he commented, his brow furrowed with concern. "Being an Auror's always been a dangerous profession, but these days it's downright suicidal.

Edgar frowned, butterbeer halfway raised to his lips. "It's more than just dangerous, Vince," he said seriously. "These attacks aren't random; they're targeting experienced Aurors, weakening the Ministry's defences. Amelia says they're using tactics she's never seen before, almost as if…" He trailed off, a troubled expression clouding his features.

"As if what?" Harry pressed as he leaned forward.

Edgar hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to share his thoughts. "As if they're being trained," he finally said, his voice barely audible over the cheerful din of the pub "As if someone with extensive knowledge of Auror protocols, someone who knows their weaknesses, is advising them." He shook his head, as if trying to dismiss the unsettling thought. "But that's impossible. Who would have that kind of knowledge and be willing to share it with terrorists?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. The seemingly random attacks, the disappearances, the climate of fear and suspicion. It had all started subtly, insidiously, with whispers of a hidden hand guiding them, much like Voldemort had done. Could history be repeating itself here?

Over more butterbeers, Edgar continued his impassioned discourse on the political climate. Vince, however, grew increasingly restless, his attention wandering as he gazed at the other patrons.

Vince rolled his eyes. "Look, Ed," he finally interrupted, his tone apologetic. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but can we maybe change the subject for a bit? My brain's starting to hurt from drama this, death and destruction that. I'm supposed to be enjoying my Hogsmeade weekend, not worrying about what you think is the potential impending end of the world."

Edgar look surprised, before something like guilt flashed across his face. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Apologies, lads."

Their conversation drifted towards Quidditch; Vince regaled them with tales of the latest Quidditch exploits, his voice booming with exaggerated enthusiasm, his gestures wide and theatrical. He speculated on the upcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin match, predicting a resounding victory for his own house, his confidence bordering on arrogance.

Vince continued his animated discourse. "Mark my words," he declared, "this year, Slytherin will take the cup. We've got the best team we've had in years. Moore and Morris are unstoppable Beaters, the Prescotts and Talkalot are superb Chasers, and our Keeper… well, let's just say Warrington's got to be part-ape."

"And what about your Seeker?" Edgar inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Last I heard, you were still short one."

Vince's face fell, his boisterous confidence momentarily deflating. "Yeah, well," he mumbled, his gaze suddenly fixed on his butterbeer. "That's the one snag. You remember Emma Vanity? We lost her last year - absolute cracking Seeker and captain, Harry, by the way. And finding a replacement Seeker isn't going to be easy. Lucinda Talkalot's captain now, and she needs someone quick, agile, with a good eye. Someone who can handle the pressure, you know?" He sighed dramatically. "It's a tall order, especially with the Gryffindor match coming up. You wouldn't happen to know any good flyers, would you, Harry?"

Harry, startled by the sudden question, nearly choked on his butterbeer. He could fly, obviously, but he had not flown in months, not since… well, not since he arrived in this time at least. The war had taken up so much of his life that Harry had barely given Quidditch a second thought. The idea of flying again, of soaring through the air, of feeling the wind in his hair, sent a pang of longing through him, a bittersweet reminder of a life that felt a lifetime away.

"I used to fly," he finally said. "But I haven't done so for a while. I don't thi-"

Vince suddenly got very excited. "Nonsense," he said. "A few practice sessions, and you'd be back in form. Come to think of it, you've got the right build. Lean, quick, good reflexes. You'd be a natural." He paused, his eyes gleaming with an idea. "Tell you what, try-outs are next week. Why don't you speak with Talkalot and come along? No pressure, just a bit of fun. See if you've still got it in you."

Harry weighed his options, then shook his head. "Thanks, Vince, but I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe I'll just watch the try-outs."

Vince's face fell, disappointment evident. "Come on, Harry," he wheedled. "Where's your competitive spirit? We can't let Gryffindor win!"

"I'll think about it," Harry said, noncommittally. He stood up, suddenly eager to escape the confines of the pub. "We should probably head back, though. Curfew and all that."

Edgar nodded, rising from his seat as well. "Good idea," he said. "I should be getting back myself. Long day tomorrow."

Vince, though clearly reluctant to end the evening, also stood. "Right then," he said, sighing dramatically. "I'll guess I'll join you bores. But you'll come to the try-outs, yeah, Harry? At least watch?"

"Fine, yes," smiled Harry.

They paid for their drinks and stepped out into the cool evening air, the warmth and boisterous noise of the pub fading behind them. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange, purple, and a deep, encroaching blue, with the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade were bathed in the soft glow of lanterns.

As they walked along the cobbled street, Edgar turned to Vince, a curious expression on his face. "So, Vince," he began, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of inquiry, "what's the story with you and Penny these days? Still on-again, off-again?"

Vince kicked at a loose stone on the path, his eyes fixed on the ground. "It's complicated," he mumbled, his usual jovial demeanour replaced by a rare moment of uneasiness. "I'm trying to figure things out."

"Figure things out?" Edgar repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds suitably ominous. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's fine," Vince said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. He avoided Edgar's gaze, his attention suddenly focused on a particularly interesting patch of cobblestones. "Just… you know. She's just got the wrong end of the wand about something."

Harry observed the exchange with a quiet interest. He had not known Vince long, but he had quickly learned that Vince was usually an open book, his emotions readily apparent on his expressive face. This uncharacteristic reticence was unusual.

"She seems like a bright girl," Edgar commented, trying a different tack. "Always thought she was a bit too good for you, to be honest." He grinned, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

Vince managed a weak chuckle. "Yeah, well, she kept me on my toes, but I don't think she's going for another round."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So am I."

The conversation died as the three moved on towards Hogwarts.

"Well, this is me," Edgar said, stopping at the edge of the village where the path diverged towards the road that led away from Hogsmeade. "I'll see you both around."

"See you, Edgar," Vince said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Thanks for the company."

"Nice to have met you, Edgar," said Harry.

"You, too," replied Edgar.

Just as Harry and Vince were about the leave, he heard raised, angry voices. He looked at Vince, whose brow furrowed. Edgar seemed to be concerned too, as he drew his wand.

"I think we should see what that's about," Harry said and Edgar nodded in agreement.

The three wizards moved towards the edge of woods that ran around Hogsmeade, moving in on the commotion. As they drew closer, Harry recognised the hunched posture of Remus Lupin and the defiant stance of Sirius Black, cornered by a group that sent a jolt of anger through him.

Severus Snape, his sallow face contorted in a sneer, stood alongside three sixth-year Slytherins Harry recognised from his classes – Mulciber, Avery and Rabastan Lestrange. But it was the two other figures flanking them that made Harry's blood run cold. Lucius Malfoy, his long, platinum-blonde hair gleaming even in the fading light, stood with an air of cold detachment, his grey eyes fixed on Sirius with disdain. Beside him, Rodolphus Lestrange, his features a darker, harsher version of his brother's, radiated a barely suppressed violence. Edgar subtly nudged Harry, and in a low voice said, "Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange. Both graduated ahead of me. Bad news."

Harry didn't need the warning. He knew exactly who they were and the threat they represented. Before he could even think of a plan, Harry was moving, Vince and Edgar close behind. "What do you think you're doing!?" he barked.

Snape turned, his black eyes narrowing. "This is none of your concern, Sayre," he drawled, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his voice. Snape, Avery, Mulciber and Rabastan had cornered Remus and Sirius, their wands drawn, their expressions menacing. Malfoy and Rodolphus stood nearby, their faces twisted into sneers of disdain, clearly enjoying the unfolding confrontation.

No thought guided Harry's actions. He launched a stinging hex at the group, the spell catching Rodolphus completely off guard, sending him sprawling backwards onto the cobblestones, his wand clattering out of his hand. Before the others could react, Harry darted forward, his movements fluid and decisive, his eyes locked on Malfoy, the smug arrogance on his face twisting into an expression of stunned surprise. Years of pent-up rage and frustration were behind Harry's fist as it connected with Malfoy's jaw with a sickening crunch, sending him reeling backwards, the older wizard staggering back, his eyes wide with shock.

The sudden eruption of violence broke the stalemate. Vince and Edgar, taking their cue from Harry, waded into the fray. Vince, surprisingly quick on his feet, disarmed Mulciber with a well-aimed spell, while Edgar conjured a thick rope that bound Rodolphus' arms to his sides. Snape, snarling, raised his wand, but a jet of red light from Sirius caught him in the shoulder, forcing him back. Remus, taking advantage of the distraction, tackled Avery to the ground.

The four, realising they were outmatched and outnumbered, scrambled to their feet and fled, disappearing into the crowd. Malfoy, clutching his jaw and spitting a curse, glared at Harry, his eyes filled with cold fury. Rodolphus escaped the ropes and retrieved his wand, before levelling it at Harry. Edgar stepped in front of him, his own wand raised in a clear challenge.

"I wouldn't," Edgar said testily, "unless you want to explain to the Aurors why you were attacking students in Hogsmeade."

Rodolphus hesitated, his gaze flickering between Edgar and Harry. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He look very similar to Rabastan in that moment. Then, with a final, venomous glare that could have curdled milk, he slowly lowered his wand. He and Malfoy turned and stalked away, their expensive robes billowing behind them.

The following silence was deafening. Harry slowly lowered his wand, his gaze fixed on the retreating figures of Malfoy and Lestrange. He could feel the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving behind a throbbing ache in his knuckles and a bone-deep weariness. He flexed his hand, wincing slightly at the pain.

"Are you alright?" a female voice suddenly asked.

Marlene McKinnon and, surprisingly, Penny. Concern etched on their faces, they were looking at Sirius and Remus, who were now getting to their feet and brushing themselves down, looking slightly worse for wear but otherwise unharmed. Penny's hands pressed against her cheeks, her gaze fixed on the spot where Malfoy and his cronies had vanished, a mixture of shock and residual fear still evident in her expression.

"We're fine," Sirius said, answering for both of them. He dusted off his robes with a forced grin, ever the picture of nonchalant bravado, but Harry noticed the slight tremor in his hands. "Just a minor disagreement with a few overly enthusiastic admirers. But no harm thanks to our new friend here." He clapped Harry on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger. "Never thought I'd see the day when a Slytherin would come to my rescue. Especially not by decking Lucius Malfoy."

Remus nodded his agreement. He winced slightly as he straightened his arm, his usual composure faltering for a brief moment, replaced by a grimace of pain. ""That was brilliant, Harry," he said. "Some quick thinking back there. We owe you one." He offered a small, grateful smile.

"It was nothing," mumbled Harry, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under their scrutiny, the adrenaline of the fight beginning to dissipate and replaced by a familiar wave of self-consciousness. "I couldn't exactly stand by and let them-"

"Nothing! I wouldn't call that nothing!" exclaimed Penny, her hands still on her cheeks. She still hadn't moved, her gaze fixed on the direction where Malfoy and the others had disappeared. Harry saw that she was eyeing Vince with something that looked like worry. "It was six against two. They could have seriously hurt you!"

"Absolutely true," Marlene said, walking over to join them, her eyes wide with the aftershock of the fight. "But that was bloody brilliant, Sayre. Absolutely brilliant! You're certainly full of surprises! Most people would have just kept walking, kept their heads down and pretended they hadn't seen anything. You're alright, Sayre, for a Slytherin."

"Hear hear!" Sirius said. "Who knew a Slytherin could have such a strong moral compass?"

"Oi!" exclaimed Vince. Harry shrugged, feeling uncomfortable under their praise.

"Is everyone OK?" Edgar asked, his gaze sweeping over the group, his eyes lingering on Remus for a moment longer than necessary. "No serious injuries?"

"Just a few bumps and bruises," Sirius said, forcing another grin. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Good," Edgar said, nodding slowly. "Then perhaps you should all head back to the castle. It's getting late, and I imagine Headmaster Riddle won't be too pleased to hear about this little altercation. Especially considering the involvement of individuals who are no longer students here."

"I'll make sure they all get back safe," said Vince.

Harry nodded. He turned to Edgar. "Thanks for your help back there, Edgar."

"Any time. But be careful, Harry," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Be very careful. You've made some powerful enemies tonight. Vince, I'll see you around. Say 'hello' to your father from me."

And with that, Edgar left, heading back towards Hogsmeade. Before Harry could say anything else, Marlene ushered Sirius and Remus forward, herding them towards the castle. "Come on, you two," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "Hospital Wing for the both of you. And no more protests, Black. You too, Lupin. I know you're trying to be all macho, but even you can't deny that was a bit more than 'a few bumps and bruises.'"

"We're fine, honestly," Remus protested, though he winced as he moved his arm, betraying his earlier bravado. "Just a bit sore."

"Humour me," Marlene said, rolling her eyes.

"Just let her fuss," Sirius muttered to Remus, rolling his eyes. To Marlene, he said, "Alright mum, we're coming, we're coming. Keep your hair on."

Penny, who had hung back, gave Harry a small, uncertain smile. "Thanks again, Harry," she murmured, looking towards Vince, who was watching them. "For… you know."

"Sure," Harry replied, offering her a smile.

"Well," Penny said, taking a step back. "I should… go with them. Make sure they don't cause any more trouble." She gave him another quick smile, then turned and hurried after Marlene, Sirius, and Remus.

Harry didn't miss the way that Vince's grin fell slightly. They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds their footsteps on the gravel path and the distant murmur of voices from the last few stragglers leaving Hogsmeade. Vince remained uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. He kicked at loose stones, his shoulders slumped, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. It was clear that Penny's abrupt departure had affected him more than he was letting on.

"She's alright, you know," Harry said, trying to break the silence, though he wasn't entirely sure what to say.

"Yeah. It's just…" Vince said quietly. "I don't want to lose her, you know? But I can't be someone I'm not. Maybe that's my fault. I don't know. Maybe… I'm just not good enough for her."

As they walked back towards Hogwarts, the sky above them transforming into a tapestry of deep blues and purples with the last rays of the setting sun casting long, dancing shadows across the grounds, a comfortable silence settled between them.

As they reached the castle gates, Harry finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. "She cares about you, Vince," he said. "That much is obvious. Maybe you just need to talk to her, explain how you feel."

Vince snorted, a humourless sound. "Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You don't know Pen like I do. She can be stubborn. And I'm not exactly great at the whole 'talking about feelings' thing."

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Just give her some time," he said. "She'll come around." He hoped he was right.

"You should try out, you know," Vince said suddenly. "For the Quidditch team. You might enjoy it."

Harry glanced at him. "Maybe," he said, knowing Vince was changing conversation deliberately.

"We still need a new Seeker," Vince continued, undeterred by Harry's lack of enthusiasm. "I saw you in the Three Broomsticks, you were practically reading my mind when it came to where I was going. Your reflexes are lightning fast. You'd be a natural. You'd certainly be better than anyone else in Slytherin."

Harry shrugged, unconvinced. He had more pressing matters to consider, more urgent concerns to address, a war to fight, a love to reclaim.

"Just think about it," Vince continued, nudging him with his elbow. "Slytherin hasn't won the Quidditch Cup in years. We could use someone like you."

They reached the castle doors, the imposing stone archway casting a long, dark shadow over them. Harry doubted he would be joining the team. Right now, playing Quidditch seemed like a lifetime ago. They entered the castle and made their way inside, heading back to the Slytherin common room.

---

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual cacophony of clattering cutlery, boisterous laughter, and chattering students. Harry, however, found it difficult to focus on the food in front of him. He picked at his shepherd's pie, his appetite gone, still replaying the events of the day. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed Vince nudging him with his elbow. "You alright, mate?" Vince asked, his voice filled with concern. "You've barely touched your food."

Harry forced a smile. "Yeah, fine," he said, pushing his plate away. "Just not very hungry." He wasn't sure he could stomach another bite, and he did not fancy explaining himself further.

He stood up, excusing himself, and began to make his way out of the Great Hall. As he did, Professor Slughorn, his usually jovial face set in a frown, intercepted him.

"Mr. Sayre," he said sternly, "a word, if you please."

Harry followed Slughorn. Slughorn led him into his office, the air thick with the scent of potions ingredients and disappointment. Rabastan Lestrange stood nearby, nursing a bruised jaw and shooting daggers at Harry with his eyes. "Mr. Lestrange here tells me that you assaulted him his friends in Hogsmeade," Slughorn continued, his eyes narrowed in disapproval. "He claims it was unprovoked. Is this true?"

"It wasn't unprovoked. I was stopping them from assaulting Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, six against two," Harry retorted, his voice calm but firm. "It wasn't a fair fight. I was merely intervening to prevent a more serious altercation. Would you have preferred I stood by and watched them get hexed into oblivion?"

"Six?" Slughorn's eyebrows rose. "Mr. Lestrange, you neglected to mention that part."

Rabastan shifted uncomfortably. "They were being disrespectful, Professor," he mumbled, avoiding Slughorn's gaze.

"Disrespectful?" Harry scoffed. "You were threatening to hex them. Sir, honestly, I didn't lay a finger on Snape, Mulciber, Avery or Lestrange here."

"Liar!"

Harry went to retort, but Slughorn raised a hand.

"Quiet! Even if that was the case, Mr. Sayre," Slughorn said, his voice softening slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing his features, "you should have reported the incident to a member of staff, not taken matters into your own hands. There are procedures for dealing with such situations. I don't know what actions were sanctioned within Durmstrang, but here at Hogwarts, we don't condone vigilantism."

"But what good would that have done?" Harry countered, his voice rising slightly, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "By the time a professor arrived, Lupin and Black would have been cursed into oblivion. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and clearly in danger. I had to act."

Slughorn's frown deepened. "You still should have reported it. Such behaviour is unacceptable, Mr. Sayre. Slytherins are expected to uphold the values of our house, not engage in brawls in the streets and especially not members of your own house."

"With all due respect, Professor," Harry said, "I doubt that would have stopped them. They didn't seem to care that I am a Slytherin either. Besides, I engaged Rodolphus Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy."

"So who did assault the other boys?" Slughorn pressed. "Who cursed Messrs. Snape, Mulciber, Avery and Lestrange?"

Harry shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I suppose Black and Lupin did? Either way, I don't particularly care."

Rabastan stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. "He's lying!" he shouted. "You filthy blood-traitor!"

Harry's blood boiled. "Call me that again," he growled, taking a step towards Lestrange, "and I will hex you."

Rabastan snarled. "Blood-"

Harry lunged, his fists clenched, his body trembling. But Slughorn intervened, grabbing his arm and holding him back, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice booming through the office. "I will not tolerate fighting amongst my students, especially not with students from other houses. Or, Merlin forbid, with those who are no longer students here." He sighed, rubbing his temples. "And you, Mr. Lestrange, calling anyone a 'blood traitor' is unacceptable. Would your father be fine with you acting in such a manner?"

Rabastan bristled, but before he could answer, Slughorn raised a hand, silencing him. "As for punishment," he continued, "you will spend the next week cleaning the potions cupboards, without magic. Perhaps that will teach you some humility."

Rabastan scowled, but he did not protest. "And you, Mr. Sayre," Slughorn said, turning his attention back to Harry. "You will spend the next week assisting Professor Bodie with whatever tasks he deems appropriate."

Harry felt a surge of frustration. He had not asked for this nor had wanted to get involved in the petty squabbles of Hogwarts students. Harry's shoulders slumped. Detention with Professor Bodie? This was not how he had envisioned spending his free time. And of all the professors, it had to be Bodie. He opened his mouth to protest, but Slughorn cut him off with a sharp look.

"No arguments, Mr. Sayre. You are both dismissed."

He clenched his jaw and nodded curtly. "Yes, Professor," he said, his voice barely concealing his resentment as he accepted his punishment with a grudging nod, his jaw clenched, his fists still balled at his sides. He knew he had been reckless, that his anger had almost gotten the better of him. But he knew he had no choice but to accept his punishment. But he could not find it in him to regret his actions, not entirely. Protecting Sirius and Remus had been the right thing to do.

Harry and Rabastan left Slughorn's office, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Rabastan turned to Harry, his eyes filled with a cold fury.

"You'll pay for this, Sayre," he hissed. "Mark my words."

"Anytime, Lestrange," Harry sneered, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Rabastan spat on the floor. "Mudblood."

Harry lunged at him before he could even think, tackling him to the ground. He rained down a flurry of punches on Rabastan before a strong hand pulled him off. He looked up to see Professor Slughorn, his face now apoplectic with rage.

"That's enough!" he roared. "Both of you, another week's detention! Now get out of my sight before I add a month!"

Harry, his chest heaving, glared at Lestrange, who was now nursing a bloody nose and a rapidly swelling black eye. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. Not only was he on the outs with Slughorn, but he had two weeks of detention with Bodie to look forward to. Kicking himself, Harry made his way back to the common room.

---

Harry arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom for his detention, a sense of trepidation gnawing at his stomach. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, his footsteps echoing in the dimly lit chamber. To his surprise, he was not alone. Bellatrix Black, her arms crossed and a sneer curling her lips, sat behind a desk, her dark eyes fixed on him with a mixture of disdain and amusement. Bodie came out from the door leading to his personal quarters and saw Harry standing there, waiting.

"Ah, Mr. Sayre," Bodie greeted him with a curt nod. "Punctual, I see. Good. Miss Black here has kindly volunteered to supervise your detention while I attend to an urgent matter. You'll be grading the first year's essays regarding Dark creatures, specifically hags."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise, meeting Bellatrix's cool gaze. A flicker of amusement danced in her dark eyes, as if she relished his discomfort.

"Supervise?" spluttered Harry in disbelief. "You mean, she's in charge?"

Professor Bodie sighed. "Indeed. Miss Black has been assisting me with some additional research, and she's proven to be quite capable. I trust you'll be in good hands. Miss Black, should there be any issues, please send for me."

Bellatrix's smirk widened. "Of course, Professor," she said.

With a final nod, Professor Bodie swept out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Bellatrix. Harry set to looking at the essays with a sigh. He vaguely remembered the lessons from Quirrell, which whilst hampered by the man's stutter and the fact that Voldemort was poking out the back of his head, were generally quite informative. Time ticked along as Harry scribbled and annotated – he was impressed. The overall quality was good.

"Well, well, Sayre," Bellatrix drawled after some time had passed, her eyes flicking over him with a predatory glint. "Fancy seeing you here. What idiot escapade landed you in detention?"

"None of your concern, Black."

Bellatrix laughed. "Oh, baby Sayre has claws. My, how adorable. Maybe it's that same ignorant audacity that landed you here in my company."

Harry bristled at her words, the casual cruelty grating on his nerves. "Better than being here because I'm sucking up for extra credit," he shot back, his voice tight with annoyance. "I suppose you're here to learn how to duel better after I wiped the floor with you. What's the matter, Black? Afraid of a little competition?"

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, her dark gaze boring into him like a physical force. "Competition?" she scoffed, dripping with disdain. "You? Don't flatter yourself, Sayre. You're nothing but a jumped-up half-blood with a misplaced sense of self-importance."

"And you're nothing but a spoiled pure-blood princess with a stick up her arse," Harry snapped, patience wearing thin.

Bellatrix's smile vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. Harry knew he had pushed her too far, but he could not bring himself to care. He was tired of her taunts, tired of the constant undercurrent of threat that seemed to surround her like a shroud.

"Careful, Sayre," she hissed. "You're treading on very thin ice. You may have gotten lucky in the classroom, but you wouldn't last five minutes against me in a real duel."

Bellatrix moved towards him, the proximity sending a jolt of electricity through him. He could smell her perfume, a heady mix of some expensive floral scent and something darker, something wilder, that made his senses spin. "For someone with your name and having come from Durmstrang," she continued, her voice a silken whisper, her eyes raking over him, "you do act like a Mud-"

"Don't you dare," Harry seethed. His hand slipped into his robes and tightened around his wand, his knuckles bone white. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. He could see the pulse pounding in her throat, the slight widening of her eyes that betrayed her surprise at his sudden ferocity. He knew he should step back, put some distance between them, but something kept him there.

It was Bellatrix who finally broke the stalemate, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips.

"Or what, Sayre?" she purred softly, challenge in her every move. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she tilted her head, mocking him. She turned and moved away. "What are you going to do about it? Hex me? Curse me?"

"Don't tempt me."

Bellatrix's smile widened, revealing a hint of sharp teeth as she drew her own wand. "As you wish."

Her first move was almost too fast to track. Without warning, Bellatrix struck, a jet of red light shooting from her wand. Harry deflected it with a flick of his own, the spell ricocheting off the wall and shattering a nearby vase.

"Stop, before you get hurt," warned Harry.

"Oh, that's cute," Bellatrix singsonged as she giggled. "Do you really think a Mudblood like you could hurt me?"

Harry's control snapped. The pent-up rage and grief that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted, fuelling his magic with a primal intensity. Without thinking, he raised his wand and unleashed a Blasting Curse which streamed towards Bellatrix. She side-stepped, the curse missing her by the barest amount as she laughed and dodged effortlessly, her movements fluid and graceful.

The duel escalated, spells flying back and forth, the classroom becoming a whirlwind of light and sparks. Harry fought with a ferocity that surprised him, his war instincts taking over. Bellatrix, her face alight with a manic energy, matched his every move, her laughter echoing through the room.

Harry was suddenly transported back to his fifth year going to the Ministry, that same awful cackle from the witch before him ringing in his ears. Instead of measured counter-spells, he was distracted with memories of his future: her laughter in the Department of Mysteries, Neville's cries of pain, the flash of green that ended Sirius' life. He tried to throw it off, ignore the sense-memory of rage and horror as Bellatrix threw another curse at him, this one with intending to invert his kneecaps. Battles against Voldemort and his Death Eaters flooded his mind. He saw Sirius falling through the veil, Cedric's lifeless body on the ground, the countless innocent lives lost to the darkness.

That was all it took. A current of something ugly, a primal urge to destroy and dominate, rose within him. The dam within cracked, unleashing a darkness he had struggled to contain for years. Usually crisp and aimed with the intent to disarm, his spells turned vicious. Grief warred with rage for supremacy. A Cutting Curse thrown with brutal force sent Bellatrix staggering, her expression caught between fury and a flicker of surprise. His follow-up curse seared a line through the air.

Bellatrix had never been one to back down before and even in this time, she did not disappoint. Bellatrix retaliated and adjusted with dizzying speed, her spells growing in intensity with each parry. Her attacks were not just random any more; there was a growing focus, a learning curve accelerated by the raw aggression Harry threw at her.

Harry dug deeper.

He countered with curses meant to maim more than disarm. A spell hissed through the air, a vibrant scar of energy that forced Bellatrix into a desperate dodge, drawing out a gasp of surprise as it left a scorch on the stone floor.

Bellatrix's spells became calculated, no longer powered solely by a need to dominate. She was finding weak spots to exploit, learning with each exchange. It sent a surge of cold through him – Voldemort's deadliest hadn't held that title for no reason.

One eventually clipped him, drawing blood with a curse that grazed his cheek. The scent of blood, that heavy iron tang saturating the air he breathed fanned the flames of his rage. This was no longer a duel, it was a descent into something darker. Their eyes locked, and for a scarce second, there was a flicker of something like recognition in Bellatrix's eyes. She fired off a sickly yellow spell towards him and Harry dodged with a sharp intake of breath, the spell flying faster than he could ever hope to snap a shield up. His heart hammered against his ribs as he countered blow for blow. Part of him screamed to stop, to pull back, but another part relished the raw energy of the exchange.

Another wordless curse sent Bellatrix stumbling, her wand sparking from the force of the blocked attack. The crack echoed his own laughter, a harsh, mirthless sound that scraped his throat raw. Her startled gasp was the only warning he had before she retaliated with a vicious Serpensortia. It was a monstrous serpent, conjured with a fury he'd never witnessed in a student duel, aimed straight for him.

Adrenaline surged through Harry, sudden fear momentarily eclipsed by a raw, base anger. He couldn't let this snake touch him, not now, not ever. Without a conscious thought, a spell he hadn't uttered since his sixth year, when Malfoy almost died slipped from him before he could reign it in.

"Sectumsempra!"

The curse ripped itself from his lips, a jagged blue blade of pure, malicious force. Bellatrix flung herself out of harm's way with a hiss, barely evading the dark energy whip that gouged into the far wall, leaving behind smoking, broken stone. The serpent wavered, its form dissolving into wisps of smoke just before it reached Harry.

A stunned silence descended upon the classroom. Harry stood frozen, wand trembling in his hand, the echo of the spell hanging heavy in the air. Sweat dripped into Harry's eyes, the familiar taste of adrenaline on his tongue. He'd used a curse as close as could be to an Unforgivable Curse, one he knew all too well the devastating effects of.

Across the room, Bellatrix stared at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else, something Harry couldn't decipher. She clutched her wand, her face pale, the usual arrogance completely shattered.

Clarity crashed through him, a bucket of icy water dousing the rage-fuelled fever. His hand trembled, the wand suddenly heavy as the nauseating echoes of his own uncontrolled power churned his stomach.

He turned to find a furious Professor Bodie entering the room.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?!" he roared.

---

Bellatrix stared at the steaming groove marring the ancient wall of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. It was not just the sight that sent shivers down her spine, but the memory of the spell that had created it – a searing flash of cerulean, laden with unbridled power. The echoes of Professor Bodie's reprimand barely registered above the roar of blood in her ears. Duelling had always been about more than winning; it was about breaking your opponent, showing them their place beneath your heel. Today, however, as she watched Sayre across the room, a strange sense of unease prickled along her spine.

Sayre was fuming, the effort to regain composure evident in every taut muscle and etched across his face. Her eyes were drawn to the pulse throbbing visibly in his neck as his hand clenched his wand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Not for the first time, she felt a pang of curiosity. What was it about him that set her teeth on edge?

Sayre had gone straight onto the offensive. She had responded in kind, not with the hexes and jinxes taught in classrooms, but spells infused with the raw, untamed magic honed under the watchful eyes of her parents, aunts and uncles, whispered under moonless skies away from prying eyes. She had been taught that hesitation was to be scorned, that the first strike should leave your opponent dazed and reeling. And for a moment, she felt the familiar surge of satisfaction as she saw the surprise on Sayre's face.

His hastily cast shields shimmered blue against her curses, sparking viciously against the onslaught. There was strength behind it, yes, but it was unfocused, driven by panic more than skill. Still, they held. That was the cause of the first flicker of doubt in Bellatrix's mind. Usually, her initial barrage left an opponent scrambling.

His vicious retaliation was unexpected. These were not the standard jinxes and charms one learned in a duelling club. A flurry of spells spewed towards her, each one like it was going to bite, laced with genuine intent to harm, maim, rather than simply disarm. Her instincts, sharpened by countless drills, kicked in screaming warnings at her. She dodged in time, but a particularly vicious curse singed her arm, leaving a burning line of pain that ignited a fury of her own. It was exhilarating and darkly thrilling, yet uncomfortably familiar. A real fight. This wasn't play-acting; this was how she practised with her kin outside of Hogwarts, pushing themselves to their magical limits, revelling in the wild, destructive power coursing through their veins. This was how they honed themselves, preparing for a future their parents spoke of only in hushed whispers, their smiles sharp as knives. Yet Sayre and she weren't enemies, merely sparring partners, but he was throwing magic at her with such venom it made her wonder if he had a grudge to hold.

The duel blurred into a chaotic exchange, a maelstrom of spells flying, floorboards cracking under the onslaught, the air charged with the tang of ozone and mingling with the sickly-sweet sharp scent of fear. Usually, she delighted in seeing that fear in her opponent's eyes, using it as fuel for vindication, proof of her power. They would look at her like she was something monstrous. But the room had all but melted away, and all she could see was Sayre's hardened gaze echoing a reflection of her own relentless drive. There was no fear in that stare. There was anger, yes, but it was edged with something she recognised, something she usually reserve for those deserving of true punishment, those who dared oppose her family and everything they stood for. His rage was not born of weakness, it was the rage of one who had fought and bled and lost. It held a darkness, a desperation that was a grotesque reflection of her own tightly leashed impulses. Sayre's magic hummed with the same volatile thrum that sometimes pulsed in her own veins at night, the urge to break something, someone, anything to appease the hunger for power.

It made her own blood sing.

He stumbled, not from her skill, but from a blinding fury that made his control slip. His incantations became wild, sloppy, but each delivered with a delicious strength she had not anticipated. Her own spell work mirrored his decline, instinct forcing her to match his reckless fury, counter-curse slamming into curse until the classroom was a kaleidoscope of destructive energy. Yet, she was starting to learn his rhythm, the ebb and flow of his desperation, to find the chinks in his armour and cracks in his control. After a particularly vicious curse from Sayre and hearing his mocking laugh, Bellatrix saw red. A spat "Serpensortia!" was meant to wipe the smile from the brat's face.

She wished it had worked.

The curse was not something taught in classrooms, not something she had stumbled upon in even the most forbidden, dust-covered tome hidden in her family's vast library. It pulsed with a familiar, intoxicating energy that made her feel drugged, despite the brutal, malevolent energy making her bones vibrate in discordant symphony. The taste of iron bloomed in her mouth, sharp and metallic, as she bit down hard on her tongue to prevent a moan of fear escaping her. Instincts born from forgotten curses and blood-soaked family lore took over – a frantic dive, a hasty counter-spell – anything to stop the curse that would surely end her. When the dust settled, the deep grooves in the classroom wall held a permanent testament to the power he wielded, a power which would have erased her from this plane of existence.

Silence descended. It was a silence filled not just with fear, but a sort of horrified awe. But her gaze remained locked on Sayre. That flash of darkness, the rage-fuelled spell... for a fractured second, a reflection flickered in his eyes, his face pale against the vivid backdrop of his own uncontrolled magic. A boy – a man – teetering on a precipice, a darkness simmering beneath the surface, a potential she'd felt stirring within herself ever since she could remember. It terrified her, and in that same terrifying moment, it was enrapturing.

She whirled around to find a furious Professor Bodie.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?!" he roared.

They froze, their wands still raised, their chests heaving with exertion, their faces flushed with adrenaline, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. The air crackled, the scent of ozone and burnt wood lingering in the air. Bodie's eyes, usually filled with a cool amusement, were now blazing with anger, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. He surveyed the scene, taking in the overturned furniture, the scorch marks on the walls, evidence of the sheer chaos that had erupted in his absence.

"Explain yourselves!" he demanded.

Bellatrix opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, to justify her actions. But Sayre got there first. "She started," he snarled. "She called me a Mudblo-"

"He's lying!" Bellatrix retorted, her voice shrill with indignation, her eyes flashing with anger. "He drew his wand first–"

"Silence!" Bodie bellowed, silencing them both with a single word, the force of his command undeniable. Professor Bodie's voice was hard with anger, a cold lash against the tension in the room. "Twenty points from Slytherin, Sayre! And twenty more points again, Miss Black! Detention for both of you unauthorised duelling! I don't care who started it. Your behaviour is reckless, irresponsible, and utterly unacceptable. Miss Black, go to the hospital wing. Get those cuts looked at."

Bellatrix hesitated, her pride wounded by the implication that she needed medical attention, that she had been in any real danger. She had always considered herself superior to her classmates, a natural talent, a prodigy. The thought of being rescued by a professor, of being seen as weak or vulnerable, galled her. But the sting of the injuries Sayre inflicted on her convinced her to comply.

Bodie turned to Sayre, his eyes narrowed, his gaze penetrating, his face a mask of cold fury. "As for you, Sayre," he said, his voice low, "your detention is extended. Another week. Is that understood? Or would you prefer to spend the rest of the term scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons?"

"Understood, Professor," Sayre said tightly. He kept his gaze level, refusing to back down. Bellatrix felt annoyed at the small glimmer of respect within her.

"Good," Bodie said, a curt nod punctuating his words. "Now, get out of my sight. Both of you. And if I catch either of you so much as looking at each other the wrong way again, you'll be facing far worse than detention; you'll be facing expulsion. Dismissed."

Bellatrix, her face still pale but her composure regained, tossed her hair back. With a muttered curse, she turned and stalked out of the classroom, her head held high, her back ramrod straight, her every movement a testament to her wounded pride.

As she made her way towards the hospital wing, the adrenaline bled away, replaced by a hollowness that echoed strangely beneath her ribs. It mingled with a bitter aftertaste, a hint of shame mixed with the undeniable tremors of exhilaration. She saw something in Sayre today. Not just an opponent to break, but the reflection of a kindred spirit. She had glimpsed the heady, destructive lure of raw power, felt its seductive call in her veins. It made her skin crawl. It made her crave another duel, one pushed beyond any boundaries imposed by professors, textbooks and classrooms, until her fingers bled and her voice cracked. Today, she had not just duelled a schoolboy. She had duelled someone who was as close to herself as could be, and the result was nowhere nearly as clear-cut nor as satisfying victories as she had grown accustomed to.

---

The heavy door to his office slammed open with a resounding crash, the sound echoing through the normally tranquil space. The source of the commotion was Bodie; he burst into Riddle's office with all the grace of a dragon in a wand shop and looking as if he would breathe fire, such was the anger blazing in his eyes. Riddle carefully placed the edition of the Evening Prophet on his desk, another headline about the Auror ambush screaming up at him.

"I found them duelling!" Bodie exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a rush, his frustration and concern evident in his tone. "A full-blown duel! Sayre nearly took Black's head off with a some sort of Cutting Curse. It was like watching a seasoned Auror in action, not a seventeen-year-old!"

Riddle looked up from his work, his expression calm, his eyes narrowed, taking in Bodie's agitated state, assessing the situation with his usual detached composure. "Explain," he said simply.

"They were duelling," Bodie repeated, "Sayre and Bellatrix Black. I had left Miss Black with instructions to watch Sayre for his detention whilst I attended to matters elsewhere. She was meant to be supervising Sayre's detention, but it seems she had other ideas."

Riddle allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible sigh. So, the boy had been unable to resist the lure of another confrontation. Slughorn had already informed him of Harry's incidents with Rabastan Lestrange earlier in the day. It appeared he was on the warpath with those within his own house. But picking a fight with Bellatrix, that was different – Riddle was not so blind as to not be aware of Bellatrix's reputation amongst the student body and whilst Harry had only been at Hogwarts for a short while, he must have heard rumours, perhaps even the ones that concerned Riddle. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his expression thoughtful. "And what, pray tell, prompted this?" he inquired, his voice smooth, betraying none of the thoughts that murmured away beneath the surface.

"I don't know," Bodie admitted. "I came upon them as I returned. They were already going at it, full tilt. Spells flying, curses - it was brutal, Tom. More brutal than before, during their first lesson with me." He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the memory. "Black is… well, she's exceptional, you know. One of the best duellists I've seen in years. Fluid, powerful, instinctive. She has a natural talent for it and is quite remarkable, honestly. But Sayre…"

Riddle leaned forward, his eyes now gleaming with an unsettling intensity. "Harry," he prompted, his voice a low murmur. "What about him?"

"He's… different," Bodie said, struggling to find the right words. "It's like he's been forged. He fights like a soldier, one who has done this hundreds of times before – I watched him anticipate Miss Black's attacks before they even happened. His reflexes are borderline preternatural. He's precise. Efficient. He doesn't waste energy on flashy displays," Bodie paused, as if he were seeing the duel play out again in his mind's eye. "He shouldn't have those instincts, Tom. Not at his age. Not without years of training, years of experience. Experience he clearly has, if that duel was anything to go by."

A muscle twitched in Riddle's jaw. He had suspected Harry was skilled, if he had vanquished the Riddle-turned-Voldemort of his home universe. Riddle had sensed something off within him, and he clearly had the potential for violence if their first meeting was anything to go by. But to hear it described so vividly, by a man like Bodie, a man who had seen his fair share of battles… it was unsettling. He fights like a soldier. Bodie's words from earlier echoed in his mind. Was Harry a danger to the students? Was he a threat that Riddle needed to deal with?

"Where did you find this boy, Tom?" Bodie asked again, his voice low, insistent. "What aren't you telling me?" There was a hint of desperation in his tone, a plea for answers that Riddle knew he wasn't willing to provide. Not yet.

Riddle leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully neutral, his eyes like chips of ice. "Harry is my concern and responsibility," he said. "I will not betray his trust in me by divulging his life story when he is not prepared to tell it. You know the basics, which is all you need to know at this time."

"The basics?" Bodie scoffed, his earlier restraint giving way to barely suppressed frustration. "A boy who fights like an Auror, who wields magic with a precision and power that most adults would envy, who turns up out of nowhere, and you expect me to believe that's all I need to know?" He shook his head, his gaze piercing. "There's more to this, Tom. Much more. And I don't like being kept in the dark."

Riddle's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the arms of his chair. He had underestimated Bodie's persistence, but the man was clearly not going to be satisfied.

"Harry Sayre," he began, choosing his words with meticulous care, "is a special case. He has experienced things, seen things, that no boy his age should ever have to endure. He has been shaped by hardship and adversity. He is a product of necessity, not choice."

He leaned forward, his gaze intense, locking with Bodie's. "I brought him to Hogwarts to offer him sanctuary, a chance to heal, to learn to control his abilities in a safe environment. He is not a threat, William."

Bodie snorted, a harsh, disbelieving sound that echoed in the tense silence of the office. "A safe environment? Tom, the boy nearly took off Bellatrix Black's arm in a duel! Black, off all people! If I hadn't intervened, who knows what would have happened? He may well have killed her! Does that sound like 'safe' to you? Does that sound like 'healing'?" He shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "You're seriously telling me he's not a threat? This is the sort of behaviour I would expect if he were at Durmstrang still, but he's not. He's here, as Hogwarts. I too, am beholden to this school and ensuring the safety of all within it – is Sayre a risk you're willing to take? Is he worth jeopardising the safety of this school, of our students? The clock ticks still – please do not let familial affection blinker you from what is right in front of your eyes!"

"I am aware of the risks, William," Riddle said, his voice low and even, each word carefully measured. "I will speak to Harry and make it clear that his actions will not be tolerated."

He stood up, signalling the end of the conversation. "I appreciate your concern, and you were right to bring this to my attention," he said. "I assure you, I will deal with Harry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

Bodie simply nodded again, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he slipped out of the office, leaving Riddle alone in the silence.

Riddle remained standing, his gaze fixed on the closed door. He knew he had not fooled Bodie, not entirely. The man was too perceptive, too experienced. But he had bought himself some time, and a little breathing room.

He turned and walked towards the window, his reflection staring back at him from the darkened glass. He had taken a risk bringing Harry to Hogwarts, a calculated gamble. He had sensed the power within the boy, the darkness that resonated with his own. He had hoped to mould him, to shape him into a weapon he could use.

But now, he was not so sure. The boy was a wild card. And as he gazed out at the darkened grounds of Hogwarts, a sense of unease settled over him. Too many pieces were bring moved and the play his hidden enemy was making was obfuscated by too many smaller details. He only hoped he could stay one step ahead. His plans depended on it. And perhaps, he would need to have an enlightening conversation with Harry Sayre about his part in it all.

---

Harry sat alone on a wall in the Slytherin common room, the flickering firelight casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, the silence broken only by the crackling of the flames and the gentle sounds of the Great Lake above them against the dungeon walls. A weight heavier than detention or lost points hung around his neck. He replayed the duel with Bellatrix in his mind, the clash of magic, the surge of adrenaline, the raw power that had coursed through his veins. The calculating wariness in Bellatrix's eyes didn't hold a candle to the harsh internal judgement he currently felt. He had been reckless, he knew, allowing his anger to get the better of him, letting his emotions take over. Shame burned through him hotter than the Sectumsempra curse scorching his conscience. He hadn't bested Bellatrix with skill or strategy, but through sheer uncontrolled anger. Bodie's words had barely registered as Harry was left to grapple with the storm he had allowed to rage within him.

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers, trying to massage away the tension that knotted his muscles and the anxiety that gnawed at his gut. He could not afford to be reckless. He needed to be smart, to think before he acted, to control his impulses. Harry was playing a dangerous game, surrounded by enemies, with no one he could truly trust. One wrong move, one slip-up, could expose him, could jeopardise everything. And what about Riddle's warning? The Headmaster had been clear: no attacking those from his own time who were Dark wizards or witches. What if he had hurt Bellatrix? Or killed her? He shuddered at the thought, the implications of his actions sending a shiver down his spine. Harry could not imagine that Riddle would be forgiving.

He leaned back against the cold, stone wall, the rough texture a stark contrast to the plush velvet of the armchairs that dotted the common room. The other students had long since gone to bed and he now alone with his thoughts. Uncertainty gnawed at him, a constant companion to the grief and fear that already plagued him. He felt lost, adrift in a sea of unknowns, with no land in sight, no compass to guide him, no anchor to hold him steady. All he wanted, more than anything, was to go home. To go back to his own time, where his friends were, where Padma was. This strange world was no comfort for him; the lack of Voldemort here was alien and he was no longer used to living with looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next attack.

Harry closed his eyes, the image of Bellatrix's furious face, contorted in a snarl, burned into his mind. He'd been so reckless, so stupid. He'd let his anger control him, allowed himself to be goaded into a duel he should have avoided. What had he been thinking? There had been no thought, that was the problem. He had reacted on instinct, on raw emotion, fuelled by a potent cocktail of anger, frustration, and a deep-seated fear that had been simmering within him since he arrived in this time. Shame filled him; he was supposed to be laying low, not picking fights with the future Death Eaters.

The fire had died down to embers, mirroring the dying embers of his hope. His hand instinctively went to his shoulder, where the remnants of Bellatrix's spell still throbbed beneath his robes. Pomfrey had cleared him of any issues, and given him a balm to take the majority of the sting away.

Harry shook his head, the dim light of the common room doing little to dispel the shadows that clung to him. He needed Riddle's help. He was stranded, adrift in a time that was not his own, with no way to return to his own timeline. He was sure of it. He needed someone with power, someone with knowledge of obscure magic, someone who could help him find a way back. And in this time that someone was Headmaster Tom Riddle.

But after his reckless behaviour and blatant disregard for Riddle's instructions, could he still count on the Headmaster's support? He had shown himself to be impulsive, undisciplined, and a liability. Picking fights wouldn't help him. Why would Riddle help him now?

Harry stood up abruptly, the need to move, to do something, overwhelming him. Becoming a permanent fixture in this time was an unbearable thought. The sounds of his pacing along the length of the common room echoed in the silence as he grappled with doubt. He had to convince Riddle that he was still an asset, not a burden. But how? How could Harry make a man like Riddle understand the importance of returning to a future where he was a defeated monster and the Darkest wizard of all time?

A thought struck him. If Harry helped Riddle with a problem, maybe he would help Harry get back sooner, rather than later. What did Riddle need? What problem could Harry solve that would be so valuable, so crucial, that Riddle would be willing to expend significant resources to send him back? There had to be an angle, a way to make himself essential to Riddle. He owed it to himself, to his friends, to everyone who had sacrificed so much.

A shiver of hope ran through him. He would gain Riddle's trust, not through pleas or explanations, but through action. He would become the solution to Riddle's most pressing problem. Then, Harry would go home. He just needed an opportunity. And he would not waste it.

---

A/N: If you made it this far, thank you for reading. A little more Bellatrix this time around and a little more of the OCs. Please feel free to follow, favourite and leave a review.

So, scheduling the chapter releases for this story has changed somewhat. Rather than making it 1st of every month, I shall now release chapters as and when they are finished, polished and ready for you lovely lot. Now, that comes with a small caveat - there will some months where I can write more than others months, which means some chapters will be released rapidly over a short period of time, and sometimes there will be a small drought. I make no promises, but I will endeavour to keep the times between releases no longer than four weeks. I'm doing this around various other things going on in my life, but make no mistake, this story will be finished one way or another. Chapters 7 and 8 are written and require refining from the raw material splurged onto a document, so hang on tight - they are coming!