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Chapter Text

"Why is mum always so strict anyway?" Harry Potter, 8 years old, asked sullenly.

"She's just worried about you," James Potter, Harry's 31 year old father and current jailor, replied evasively. "You shouldn’t have told Arthur’s son that there’s a spider in his hair. You know he’s afraid of spiders. It was mean.”

"But you laughed," Harry said knowingly. "I saw you. Uncle Sirius laughed too. And loudly. Besides, Ron said that I cheated in chess. And even if I did, it still doesn't mean that he should accuse me. Mum is being unreasonable. How is grounding me going to help?"

"Harry," James said, fighting down the urge to smile. "In this life, you can't go on making enemies. Why can't you and Ronald just play nicely?"

"We do."

"Only when the Snide Sisterhood is here for you to gang up on Junior.”

“Mum doesn't like it when you call the Malfoys that," Harry pointed out. “It's because they're a respectable pureblood family. Which we're not." James sighed heavily, feeling both sad and frustrated.

“Harry,” he said. "Lily is a tad sensitive about the fact that she isn't, well, a pureblood. Her parents were Muggles, as you know. But that doesn't mean that you are any less of a wizard than Draco Malfoy or Ronald Weasley."

James fully believed in what he said, and he could only hope that someday Lily would come to see things this way as well. It was unlikely however, as even though he himself had never been one to think much of blood purity, most people thought of it far too much. Their world, their society, was built on power, fortune and purity of blood. And while the Potters had power and fortune enough to rival the oldest Families, James's choice to marry Lily had taken away their status as a solely Pureblood family.

The Dark Lord, their supreme ruler, had been the one to establish their society as it was. People adapted to live accordingly, but there were still some rebels roaming the grounds, speaking of unity with Muggles and calling the Dark Lord a murderer. Which he was, but, well... after the war and the still ongoing battles... who wasn't?

"I didn't mean to make Ron cry," Harry admitted after a long moment of silence, "Not really."

"So you'll say sorry," James said, relieved to solve the problem this easily.

"No," Harry denied with a shake of his head, "I'm being punished. It's either I say sorry or get punished. You can't have both, Daddy."

"Right," James muttered, unsure of what to do. Lily was so much better than him at this 'negotiating with Harry' business. "How about you have a nap now, and—"

"Mum says I can't have naps anymore because then I'll stay up all night," Harry said wisely, "And it's not even six yet."

"Your son is a smartass," a new voice declared, and the two Potters turned to see Sirius Black standing in the doorway of Harry's bedroom. The man's black robes were dirty with mud and the white mask he was holding was cracked.

"You look like you got caught up in a battle," James noted, standing up, "Are you okay?"

"Bruised, but nothing more," Sirius replied, grinning at Harry. "Hi, Harry!"

"Hi, Uncle Sirius," Harry said. "What's smartass?"

"How about we go to the library and you'll tell me what sort of fight you were caught in?" James rushed to cut in; Lily would kill him if she came back home from work only to find out that their young child had learned something she would definitely dislike. "Harry..."

"I'll stay here," Harry lied, wide green eyes staring up at his father innocently. "I'll take a book and read."

"Good boy," James approved and left the room with Sirius trailing right behind him. Harry waited for a few long minutes before sneaking after them.

Harry, the only child of the Potters, wasn’t a particularly special child. Most people tended to forget him as soon as they weren't looking at him. It used to be slightly upsetting, but Harry had learned to accept it – it gave him the freedom to do what he wanted most of the time. The only person who seemed to be constantly aware of Harry's movements was his mother, whom Harry was sure, had eyes in the back of her head.

Harry's father was an Auror – an occupation that was not as glamorous as Harry had thought at first. From what he had heard, it included mostly travelling around the world doing something that made his mother look increasingly worried every day. Lily, Harry's mother, was a healer specializing in spell-induced serious muscle injuries. It was gross and Harry hadn’t wanted to know anything about it beyond that. Being a healer was a job that kept her busy most days and even some nights, but Harry didn't really mind. He used to miss his parents a lot, but now he was pretty used to this.

Silently the boy crept through the hallways towards the library room, and slipped in, quickly hiding behind the shelves.

"...said that all Mudbloods should be killed, but that's just insanity," Sirius was saying, "So we duelled a bit and that's it."

"Carrow was always a bit off," James said in response. "Just don't tell Lily about this, she's overly sensitive about her blood. You know how she is."

"Yeah. You know, I can't say I like muggles. They're like an unknown species to me. But man, a witch is a witch in my book, heritage be damned. Lily is one of the best witches I’ve ever known!"

"Thanks. I'm just worried about Harry, though."

"How so?" Sirius asked, sounding concerned. "He's okay, isn't he?"

"Sometimes, I just feel that he's... I don't know. Like Lily, feeling inferior due to his blood," James admitted hesitantly, and in his hiding place Harry flushed with shame.

"Harry's got nothing to worry about," Sirius scoffed, "Being a half-blood is the thing nowadays, considering that the Dark Lord himself is one. The beau monde approves and adores... at least on the surface."

"People don't talk about that!" James hissed, "Honestly, Sirius! For a Death Eater, your lack of respect is ridiculous. Nobody talks about the Dark Lord's past, you know that!"

"Calm down, James, I'm not going to join the rebels even if I crack a joke every now and then." Harry could then hear the sound of a smack and a pained groan, followed by a short bark of a laugh.

"There's so much going on nowadays," James said after a short moment of silence. "Politics, economy... ten years ago, everything was so different!"

"Don't think of the past," Sirius advised. "Just focus on your family and make the most out of this life. And steer away from the rebels. They're nasty. The more we capture, the more insane they seem to have become."

"They see Dark wizards everywhere," James agreed gloomily, "and refuse to listen to common sense. The Dark Lord is right to demand their deaths."

"It's not really a matter of right or wrong," Sirius said with a shrug. "The Dark Lord ordered it, so it'll happen. Right and wrong are just labels attached afterwards."

"Some would curse you for your words."

"But not you."

"No," James admitted quietly, "Not me."

*

Harry remained sitting in his hiding place behind the shelves long after his father and godfather had left. The library was dark and rather cold, and the stone floor wasn't comfortable for Harry to sit on, but he simply didn't have the will to move right then. He was feeling restless. Anxious. As if something bad was about to happen and he'd be in trouble.

But most of all, he was feeling lonely.

It wasn't that Harry didn't have any friends, he did. Ron Weasley, the youngest son of the Weasley Family, was a good friend even if he was quite annoying at times. Draco Malfoy was a ponce, but a nice ponce sometimes and his snide remarks were always priceless. The occasional arguments aside, Harry considered them both to be friends of his.

So no, the loneliness didn't come from not having friends at all. Rather, it was the absence of a certain type of friends that made him feel lonely. He wanted a best friend. Like his dad has uncle Sirius and Draco had Theo Nott.

'I guess I'm more like mum,' Harry thought then. Lily didn't have friends. Lily didn't seem to want or need friends. She was friendly, yes, but also a bit distant with everyone excluding her husband and son. ‘I don’t think she has a best friend either.’

Sighing tiredly, Harry finally stood up to leave. With any luck his dad still thought that he was reading, and would let Harry fly for a little bit today, even though it was quite late already. Feeling hopeful, Harry turned to head towards the door, when something caught his eye.

A book.

It was partly hidden by several other dusty books, and yet somehow it seemed to stand out on its own. Harry pulled the book off the shelf to see it better, and grimaced at the sight of the worn and blotchy leather covers that carried neither a title nor an author’s name.

"Master Harry," a slightly squeaky voice said behind him, startling the boy. Harry hastily shoved the book back into where it had been before turning to see a house-elf staring at him. “Master James is requesting Master Harry be in Master Harry’s room.”

"Thank you for the reminder, Vurney," Harry said, wondering what his father would want from him now. "I’ll go. Did dad seem angry?"

"No, Master Harry," the house-elf replied, and Harry felt a wave of relief. He then dismissed the house-elf before leaving the library and making his way towards his bedroom, where he saw his father. Despite what the house-elf had said, the man did look a little bit annoyed.

"Where were you?" James asked as soon as Harry entered the room. "Didn't you say that you had a book you wanted to read?"

"I was bored," Harry replied, sitting down on his bed and not elaborating further on where he had been. "Did Uncle Sirius leave?"

"Yes. He has... work. It's getting late, are you hungry? You should be in bed and asleep already. Lily will be home tomorrow morning, so let’s both sleep now and wake up early to welcome her back.

"Not hungry. Not sleepy," Harry claimed and ended up a moment later hiding a yawn behind his hand. James smiled fondly and moved to pull out Harry's pyjamas. “I want to say welcome to mum when she comes back.”

"You will. Now, change into these and brush your teeth. Do you want a bedtime story?" James asked, watching over Harry while the boy did as told.

"Unh," Harry nodded, "Something cool. Draco says that his father has seen the Dark Lord. Have you seen him too? Did he say anything to you? What does he look like?"

"Anything related to the Dark Lord hardly counts as a bedtime story," James said dryly, "You should stop listening to what Draco says, Harry."

"Tell me about Hogwarts, then," Harry ordered, "I'll be going there in a few years, won't I?"

"Maybe," James replied, "Hogwarts is probably the most beautiful place I have ever seen"

"Uncle Sirius says that snivellus is a blemish in Hogwarts," Harry cut in, blinking sleepily, "What's a snivellus?"

"Snivellus is, er, a nickname. Of a person. A man. His actual name is Severus Snape."

"Is he a Death Eater too? Are you?"

"He is, I’m not," James sighed. "All those who carry the Dark Mark – a sign of loyalty gained during the Great Purge – are Death Eaters. Very few are marked nowadays. Exceptional people. People who achieve great things on the battlefield.”

"Like heroes? War heroes?" Harry mumbled, eyes already closed. James swallowed and his lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"Yeah," James said. "Heroes."

*

Harry woke up to the sensation of someone running their fingers through his hair. He could smell the faint scent of lavender and knew that it was his mother, sitting by his bed. With a smile, eyes still closed, Harry rolled closer to where she was sitting.

"You're home," the boy sighed happily.

"Did you miss me?" Lily asked fondly. "Come on, sweetheart. It's time to wake up and start the day. Did you do anything productive yesterday?"

"Not really."

"Then how about you go with me later on to the library? We'll pick good books to read and have a nice evening together."

"I was supposed to wake up before you came back, but I couldn’t,” Harry pouted, finally blinking his eyes open. He looked up at his mother whose hair was redder than he had remembered and eyes as green as his own. "And which book would I read? I don't want anything boring. Can't we go out instead? To Diagon Alley or something? And buy new books?"

"Some other day," Lily promised. "I have a bit of paperwork to do. If you don’t want to get something from the library, we could find you something else. I received a collection of essays from a friend and one of those essays is about Hogwarts—"

"What're the others about?"

"It's rude to interrupt, Harry. Don't do it again."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, peering up at his mother warily, before speaking again. "What're the other essays about if only one is about Hogwarts?"

"Other schools," Lily replied. "Salem, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons... There are about a dozen magical schools in the world."

"I've heard of Durmstrang," Harry said. "Draco says it's the best school and that he wants to go there but that his mum wants him to attend Hogwarts. Why is Durmstrang better than Hogwarts? Why did you and dad go to Hogwarts if Durmstrang is better?"

"Durmstrang has the reputation of teaching Dark Arts, and it does not admit Muggle-born students," Lily explained quietly. "It's also said to be the school the Dark Lord occasionally visits and picks up potential Death Eaters from."

"Can I go there?" Harry asked, "To Durmstrang, I mean. Is it pretty? Dad says that Hogwarts is the prettiest school."

"I have never been there," Lily said gently. "If you attend Durmstrang, baby, won't you be lonely? As far as I know, all your other friends will be going to Hogwarts."

"But if Durmstrang is better..."

"It's too early, either way, for you to think of school."

"But!"

"When you turn ten," Lily said, "I will... James will take you to see Durmstrang and a few other schools, and then you'll get to pick which one you want to enrol into. How does that sound?"

"That's too far away," Harry pouted, and his mother snorted before giving her only son a loving look.

Back then, things were perfect.

Back then, things were normal.

*

By the time Harry turned ten he had forgotten all about his mother's promise. His birthday party wasn't extravagant and he hadn't asked for other children to be invited - his friendship with Draco and Ron had mellowed out during the two years and it had been months since he had even left the house.

James and Lily were slightly worried, but they couldn't exactly force him to spend time with other children if that made him unbearably uncomfortable. The only one to be invited was Sirius who, despite his loud and obnoxious entrance and the pile of brightly wrapped gifts that he levitated behind him, was just as worried.

"He's lonely," Sirius whispered to James later on. "I can see it, James."

"There really isn't much I can do," James sighed in response. "He doesn't want to spend time with other kids. We’ve tried to make him, but he just… it doesn’t go well at all."

"Maybe you should sign him up for a hobby?" Sirius suggested.

"Like what? All he does is read and fly when the weather is good."

"Read? He's not becoming a Lily-clone, is he?"

"Hardly," James scoffed. "Lily loved science. Harry loves stories and fairytales. Potions, magical theory, herbology; he's got no interest in those. But give him that stupid Beedle Bard book..."

"I remember that book," Sirius smiled. "I loved it – still do, actually. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. I used to transfigure the covers to look like Charms text books.”

"Good old days," James said, "Remember Dumbledore?"

"Who doesn't?"

"He used to be against the Dark Lord. We all thought he had a chance of defeating him, in the beginning."

"You know," Sirius sighed with a contemplative expression on his face. "This world could very well be different had Dumbledore not died at the end of our fifth year."

"He was a good man," James said. "Idealistic and foolish, perhaps, but also powerful and kind."

"I didn't much talk with him," Sirius said. "Once, when we went to talk to him about— well, remember that werewolf boy we discovered in our third year? What do you think happened to him?"

"Probably dead. I still can't believe that Dumbledore let a werewolf live in Hogwarts and pretend to be a human."

"Well, he let Snivellus in, too, and there's no way that slimeball is all human. There's got to be a bit of a slug in his ancestry."

"That's too disturbing for me to think about," James declared, though he couldn’t quite keep a straight face. "Although I can't really say that I disagree."

"Do you actually know what happened to him?"

"Snape?"

"No, you idiot. The werewolf. Do you really think he’s dead?"

"If he’s lucky, then yes. If not, then he was probably sent to one of those werewolf humanization camps."

"What did you give to Harry?" Sirius asked then, after a moment of silence while watching his godson at the other side of the room. "Wish I could give him a friend. I bought him pretty much everything else instead."

"Lily said that she wants Harry to go to Durmstrang if it's possible," James said quietly, seriously. "Said he suggested it first and she ended up liking the idea. Maybe he'll find kids there he can connect with. I would really have wanted him to go to Hogwarts, though. I should have known that Lily would want Durmstrang for Harry, if only to emphasize the fact that Harry isn't a—   That Harry isn't like her."

"Durmstrang has its reputation," Sirius said with a nod. "It'd help Harry immensely in the future if heäs Durmstrang student. I heard, however, that they have an entrance examination of sorts."

"Of course they do."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"I need to talk with Harry and I might get him his wand early."

"You're going to train him?”

"Not much, but at least the basic spells that any other pureblood child would or should know."

"I can give him some lessons too, if you want," Sirius offered. "Or we could get him a tutor."

"A tutor would be great, actually," James said, looking excited. "I'm sure that Lily will love the idea!"

"I'll love what?" Lily said, appearing suddenly while holding a tray on which there was a slice of cake and a cup of milk. "I'm taking this to Harry first and then you'll tell me."

"Yes, ma’am!”

*

"A tutor," Lily breathed, eyes wide after James and Sirius had told her of their discussion, "I can't believe I hadn't thought of that yet! This is fantastic! Do you have anyone in mind?"

"I'll ask around at work," James said. "Employing tutors is a fairly common practice. I’ll ask for recommendations and see where that takes us."

"This is brilliant," Sirius grinned. "Will you tell Harry now or later?"

"I'll tell him," Lily offered, standing up and walking towards her son, who was still immersed in reading the book on his lap. Lily sat next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"Harry darling, I have important news for you. It’s about something you’ve really been looking forward to."

"My own library?" Harry asked, looking up with an excited expression. “Or, or, we’re going to watch a real Quidditch match?”

“Not quite,” Lily replied with a fond smile. “You’re already ten, sweetheart, and school is not so far away anymore. Do you remember us talking about our options before? Hogwarts and Durmstrang?”

“Yeeeees,” Harry said hesitantly, not exactly sure if he remembered whatever his mum was talking about, but unwilling to have her repeat what could possibly end up as a long lecture.

“We decided to enrol you into Durmstrang. There will be an entrance exam that you must pass, but don’t worry, it won’t be too tough for you,” Lily told him gently. “Part of success lies in preparation, and that is why your dad and I have decided to buy you your wand as soon as possible, as well as find you a tutor who will help you prepare for the exam.”

“My wand,” Harry breathed, excited. “Yes, mum! I want my wand! When are we going?”

“You have to be responsible and careful with it,” Lily instructed. “No independent attempts at magic until you’re older, is that clear?”

“Yes, yes,” Harry agreed immediately. “When will we go? Can we drop by Flotts too?"

"Flourish and Blotts, Harry, not Flotts. But yes, if you wish, we can go and buy you a new book. Adventure this time?"

"I'll see what Flott- Flourish and Blotts has on their recommendation list. The lady who makes that list every month is a genius."

On the other side of the room, James and Sirius were watching the two talk, feeling rather satisfied with the new development. “I'll go and have a talk with Igor," Sirius said. "Igor Karkaroff. He's the Headmaster of Durmstrang and a Death Eater, so I know him somewhat. I'll be back tomorrow to tell you what news I've got."

"You’re going now?" James asked, and his best friend nodded.

“A lot has been going on in the warfront,” Sirius replied quietly. “I’m actually really busy, but I couldn’t just not drop by on Harry’s birthday, you know?”

“Thank you,” James said, walking Sirius towards the fireplace. “Take care, all right?”

“Always,” Sirius grinned, before hollering his goodbyes loud enough for Harry and Lily to hear, and then leaving.

"Where is Durmstrang, anyway?" James heard Harry ask as he walked closer.

"It's Unplottable," Lily replied, "But most likely somewhere in Sweden."

"Sweden? What language do they speak there?"

"Well, Swedish, of course."

"Do I have to learn Swedish?"

"Unlikely," James told him, sitting down on the couch nearby. "Overall, there are about two dozen – well, could be more but who really knows – schools in the world that teach magic. Four of them are in Europe. Hogwarts is the only one that has limited its student to only those who live in Great Britain and it's also the only school that sends invitations to its students without having them pass any kind of test. The other three schools accept students worldwide, but only after a test. The language requirements depend on the institutions, of course, but in Europe the only required language is English."

"What are the other three schools?"

"There's Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. It’s said to be a great school, although its curriculum emphasizes arts and etiquette over, say, duelling. Then there’s Hogwarts, which you know already. The third school – and currently the number one choice of every Pureblood family with a shred of ambition – is Durmstrang Institute.”

"What's the fourth school?" Harry asked, curious.

"Flora Charm's School of Magic. It's for witches and wizards with special needs," Lily explained. "You have two great options: Hogwarts and Durmstrang. Although, of course, Durmstrang would be better."

"When will we go get my wand?" Harry repeated his earlier question, unsure of which school he would want to pick.

"Why not today," James said with a shrug. "The day is still young and we've got no reason to wait."

"We'll go to Ollivander's, of course," Lily smiled. "All right, let's get ready!"

*

Diagon Alley was always crowded and noisy, which tended to make Harry slightly dizzy - he simply wasn't used to seeing and hearing so much at once. Being surrounded by people was strangely draining.

"Stay close to me, Harry," Lily said, hand on his shoulder. "Don't wander away from me. We’ll head first to get your wand."

"Will I get my own owl too at some point?" Harry wanted to know as they walked past Eeylops Owl Emporium, "Can I get one; may I get one?"

"Did I just hear a comma splice?" Lily asked him, smiling slightly, "But yes, fine, you'll get one. Not yet... though if you pass the entrance exam, I'll buy you whichever owl you want."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now, here we are."

The shop they had stopped in front of was rather narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters painted over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion behind the dusty glass of the display window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny, tiny place – barely able to fit them all at once.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, and an old man appeared from the back of the shop, looking at them with his wide, pale eyes that shone like moons through the gloom of the shop. The old man was unnerving, and reminded Harry of the tricksters in his fairy tales.

"The Potters," said the man, then, "A bit early, but not overly so. Indeed, not overly so. Mrs. Potter – nice to see you again. It seems only yesterday that you were here yourself, buying your first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice for charm work."

"Yes, Mr. Ollivander," Lily replied evenly, "It has served me well."

"Glad to hear that. Glad indeed. And James Potter! Mahogany wand, wasn't it? Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration."

"Yes," James said awkwardly. "We're here today for my son's wand, however. Shall we, um, proceed?"

“Of course. Let me see, young Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said and pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Right."

"Hold out that arm then. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

"Is that set in stone?" Harry asked, as Ollivander stopped measuring him and stepped back.

"Perhaps not," the old man said evasively, before reaching for a box, "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave." Harry did, and instead of shooting sparkles like he knew it should, the wand's tip exploded with a small bang. Ollivander blinked a few times rapidly, before shaking his head.

"Wand was too weak, eh. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try." Harry tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it burst up in flames, making him yelp and drop it just as a bowl of water was thrown on the burning stick. Ollivander frowned again and turned away for a moment, before pulling out yet another wand.

"Will that one be safe?" Lily asked warily, "I don't want my son injured."

"Here," Ollivander said, handing the wand to Harry, "Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out." Harry tried. And tried. And tried some more, with more or less destructive results. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the more interested he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, "Do I have to try all of these wands?"

"When you reach for the wand, what do you feel?" Ollivander asked, and Harry shrugged, not quite understanding why the question was being asked.

"Nothing, really," he replied, "I feel nothing."

"Your wand will be the one you feel yourself pulled to," Lily explained softly, and Ollivander nodded.

"Walk around there," the old man said, gesturing to the back of the store and the corridor between towering shelves full of wands, "and try to feel which wand would be… appealing." Harry wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to do, but went to walk between the shelves anyway. He had an odd feeling though. An odd feeling that he couldn't quite place. As if... as if...

And suddenly Harry remembered a book he had never opened. A book that had no title. The half-hidden, dusty book with dirty brown covers that Harry had seen years ago and forgotten. Why was he remembering it now? It couldn't be useful, now, could it? Except that remembering the stillness of time when he had seen that book reminded him of what he was doing now, and suddenly there was a pull, and, blindly and without hesitation, Harry reached for a red box that seemed to jump into his hand.

He stood there for a long moment, clutching the box, before hesitantly making his way back to the front of the store.

"Found it, have you?" Ollivander said with a smile. "Let me see, young ma— Oh, Merlin." The man's reaction, the abrupt change in his voice and attitude when he saw the wand, made Harry both worried and self-conscious.

"Is there a problem?" Lily asked, gesturing for Harry to come and stand next to her, which he did. Ollivander looked up from the wand and gave Harry a long stare, as if he was seeing the boy for the first time.

"Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. This is your wand."

"Y-yes? And?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, never forget that."

"I'm not sure I understand," Lily sighed, "You're shocked because Harry's wand's brother is in the possession of someone already?"

"No," Ollivander said. "While indeed brother wands are not common, that is not the reason for my... awe, Mrs. Potter."

"Then what is the reason?"

"The one who own the other wand, of course."

"And who might that be?" James asked, curiously. Ollivander looked at Harry again, eyes gleaming oddly.

"The Dark Lord, Mr. Potter. The Dark Lord himself."

*

"We cannot speak of this to anyone until Harry learns how to defend himself. If even then," Lily declared as soon as the three were back home. Harry was clutching his wand, wondering why everything had to always be so complicated. "The Dark Lord has enemies and if this became public knowledge, Harry will be thrust into the spotlight and people will make assumptions."

"Yes," James said, nodding. "We don't want or need the attention. Remember that, Harry, and never tell anyone of your wand. All right?"

"Okay," Harry promised. He was still thinking of the untitled book that he had seen years ago, and wondered if he could still find it. Maybe he should ask help from a house-elf? "Will you tell Uncle Sirius, though?"

"He'll be the only one told," James told him, "I'm so glad that Ollivander swore to not speak of this to anyone."

"Tell me about it," Lily agreed, "Imagine Skeeter smelling this scoop."

"Would’ve had to kill her to keep her quiet," James said with a grimace. "Not something I think I could do, honestly. Ah, I'm tired. I think I'll take a nap."

"Are you tired, birthday-boy?" Lily asked, and Harry shook his head.

"I want to go the library room, actually," Harry said, "We didn't go to Flotts after all."

"Have you read Pride and Prejudice yet?" Lily wanted to know, and her son made a disgusted face.

"I read a bit. It's so lame."

"It's romantic, that's what it is. But I suppose you want adventure and fantasy? There's the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I think you'll love the books."

"Wasn't that the series written by a squib?" James asked.

"Yes, James. Doesn't make the books worse, I assure you."

Harry left his parents to talk with each other and made his way towards the library. He didn't quite remember where he had seen the book, but since he had been spying on his father and godfather back then, it must have been near the chairs.

'Reclaiming Magic, Redemption and Traditions, Resolutions and How To Keep Them... these aren't fiction. Pity. Maybe I won't want to even read the book after I find it? What if I— there!'

Eagerly, Harry pulled out the ugly notebook and felt yet again the odd tingle of magic at the contact. The book itself looked just like Harry remembered: old and uninteresting. His fingers pressed against the soft leather of the cover, and he carefully wiped off the dust on the book.

After a few minutes of hesitation, Harry opened the book to look at the first page, and squinted at the almost illegible writing he found there. He couldn’t quite make out the date written, but the text below it was somewhat readable.

I do not know what will be said of me in the future, if anything. I’ve heard them calling me Haines the Foul when they think I do not hear them. Foul, they say, as if ambition is something to shirk away from.

"Is this a diary?" Harry muttered aloud, frowning. Why would they have a stranger’s diary in their personal library?

I grew in the shadow of those whose powers manifested well before mine. My brothers, each one more successful than the other, were considered of far greater value than mine. Belittled, my ambition was set aflame by desperation. I went to lengths I shouldn’t have even thought of.

Harry stopped reading and browsed through the rest of the book, noticing a reoccurring signature. It took him a moment to read the name: Haines Potter.

‘A relative of mine? I’ve never heard of him before,’ Harry thought. Then again, researching his own family history had never been one of Harry’s interests.

Deciding to take the diary with him, the boy held the book against his chest as he made his way out. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read it quite yet – he had already three other books he was only halfway into – but preferred to keep the book in his room anyway. Just in case.

Tomorrow, Sirius would come and tell them about Durmstrang and whether or not he managed to find a tutor for Harry. What would his tutor teach him anyway? Would he make Harry read about magical theory and history like his mum did sometimes?

'I hope it's not some strict aunty,' Harry thought, entering his room. 'I don't think so. Surely Uncle Sirius isn't going to doom me like that.'

Absently Harry wondered if Ron or Draco had tutors, or if they were going to get any at all. It had been quite a while since he had last seen either one of them, and sometimes Harry wondered whether or not the other two boys even thought of him anymore.

Probably not.

Maybe they even forgot him. People always seemed forget Harry easily.

'I wonder if everyone will be like that at Durmstrang, too,' the boy thought, feeling a little bit upset by the possibility. His dream of having a best friend was still living in his heart, but Harry feared that perhaps he simply wasn’t interesting enough for that to actually happen.

He wondered if that was ever going to change.

*

The following day, Harry woke up to someone sitting down on his bed. He opened his eyes only to see his godfather looking down at him with a serious expression.

"It's half past ten," Sirius said, "Aren't you going to wake up?"

"But it's so comfortable here," Harry replied, and yawned, burrowing further into his warm blankets.

"Your parents told me about your wand," Sirius then continued, moving his hand to rest on Harry's head, "They have... told you already to not talk about it, right?"

"Yeah."

"They're worried."

"But," Harry started, "isn't it sort of cool that I have the Dark Lord's brother wand?"

"It'd bring the attention upon you," Sirius explained softly, "and the Dark Lord's attention is a heavy burden to bear. He would consider your wand his own, and, if you were to be unworthy in his eyes, he would kill you to get it back."

"Really?" Harry whispered, eyes widening while a cold feeling settled inside. He didn’t feel sleepy anymore, and the blankets weren’t enough to keep him warm all of a sudden. "He would?"

"He would," Sirius confirmed, "and, even if he would let you be, his Death Eaters – the ones that are actively still fighting for him, fighting against anyone and everyone, even their own – wouldn't leave you alone."

"Just because I have that wand?"

"The smallest of things can bring the biggest of problems."

"That's why mum and dad are worried."

"Yeah."

"I'll keep it a secret," Harry promised, "I'll be so secretive that no one will know."

"That’s the spirit," Sirius said, and finally smiled. "Brush your teeth, wash your face and get changed, kid, and then come down. There's breakfast ready and I'll tell you about Durmstrang."

"You went there?" Harry asked, sliding off his bed and rushing to the bathroom to wash his face and teeth. Sirius followed him and stood in the doorway.

"I attended Hogwarts, so all the information is provided by Igor Karkaroff, who’s the headmaster there. But I did visit Durmstrang yesterday, yes."

"What is it like?"

"The building is smaller than Hogwarts. Uglier too. But their curriculum is better and for now there are more students attending."

"But how come Hogwarts is bigger if Durmstrang has more students?" Harry asked, voice muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. Sirius grinned at the adorable sight, before answering the question.

"Hogwarts has many unused classrooms. Durmstrang's school building is only four stories, and it's all classrooms. The dorms are in separate buildings. The grounds, though, are far more extensive due to their three Quidditch pitches and two open-air duelling arenas. The student count, however, is set to be cut down to a fraction of what it is now – I’m not yet sure why or how, but that’s what Igor told me."

"Duelling arenas?" Harry repeated with disbelief, after finishing washing his mouth, "Are you serious? Do they really duel there?"

"Duelling is actually a course that starts during the third year of education," Sirius said, "Karkaroff said that it's very advanced there. And you know that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the seventh year students himself, don't you?"

"I didn't know that," Harry said, "Will the Dark Lord recognize my wand if he sees it?"

"We're not sure," Sirius told him, while leading the boy towards the kitchen where they'd eat their breakfast, "but there's always a risk. That's why, Harry, when you start attending Durmstrang..."

"We want you to come across as mediocre," Lily said, finishing Sirius's sentence when the two entered the kitchen; she had obviously heard them talking. "Of course I want you to do well, but don't give others a reason to single you out."

"You're making me sound like a secret agent," Harry grinned and sat down next to James, who set down a muffin in front of his son.

"Here," the man said, "Treat!"

"Cereal first!" Lily said, grabbing the muffin before Harry could, setting instead a bowl of cereal in front of him. "There."

"Oh, mum."

"What did Karkaroff say about the entrance exam?" James asked, and Sirius, who was now sitting in front of him, grinned.

"I signed Harry in. Next July he'll sit through the exam. If all goes well he'll start school September the first, next year."

"Did you ask him what kind of exam it is? Practical, theoretical?"

"Actually, they're just going to test his magic's compatibility to certain spells and materials. It's nothing he could really study for. Having a tutor, however, will help him prepare to what comes after he gets in."

"Did you see what the dorms are like?"

“Yes, they’re very different from how Hogwarts was,” Sirius said with a nod. “They’re cutting down the student number and changing the accommodation system completely. The dormitories are newly built and will be taken into use once the student body has been cut down. The Seven Towers is what Igor called the dormitories, and that’s what they really are. Seven apartment complexed with one studio flat on each floor.”

“How many floors will there be?” Lily asked, curious.

“Ten, I believe. There will be a total of seventy students once the new changes have been made.”

“That is so few,” James said, clearly surprised. “How much do they have now, six hundred?”

“Just about, yes,” Sirius replied. “They’ve been preparing for this for quite a while now, and there are many partner school willing to accept the students who’ll be kicked out after the cut.”

“That is cruel,” Lily murmured. “What is the reason, do you know?”

“Nothing for sure,” Sirius admitted. “I did take a look at the apartments, however. They’re really nice, let me tell you. If Harry gets in, he’ll have his own bathroom and a small kitchen. Apparently the students have a choice between eating in the main hall the food made by the house-elves or making their own food in their apartments."

"Maybe we should sign Harry up for cooking lessons," Lily suggested. “Even if he's too young to cook now, he’ll surely find a use for that skill later on in life."

"Mum!" Harry all but shrieked, "I can't cook! That's—"

"Girly stuff," Sirius continued, "Baking cookies is what girls do for their boyfriends."

"There's nothing effeminate in butchering a chicken for dinner," Lily snapped, "There's nothing girly in using sharp, big knives to cut and slice and dice. And honestly, you two, it’s cooking. How on earth is cooking related to gender? What, is eating feminine too?"

"She's got a point," James said with a grin, "By the way, did you find a tutor for Harry?"

"Asked a friend, she recommended this guy," Sirius started, "His name is Gilderoy Lockhart. Apparently, he's some sort of a genius? A hero? I'm not too sure, but he's won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row."

"I know him!" Lily exclaimed, delighted, "Such a handsome, charming man! Oh, James, we're definitely going to hire him!"

"Just for smiling?"

"He also has an Order of Merlin, Third Class, and is an honorary member of the Dark Force League! Not to mention that he has written so many books about, well, everything!" Lily explained rapidly, eyes shining, "He wrote Wandering with Werewolves and Voyages with Vampires, for example. He's incredibly popular!"

"Mum," Harry started with disbelief. He, his father and godfather were all staring at Lily with surprise. "Are you a fan of his?"

"No!" Lily exclaimed, blushing. "I just, well, he's courageous and said to be powerful and has achieved so much, and—"

"And won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row," James cut in, repeating Sirius's earlier words, "Fine, if he agrees, we'll hire him to tutor Harry. You said you haven't met the guy personally?"

"I haven't," Sirius said, "I've got no idea what he looks like, but I'll ask Sinistra to schedule a meeting. An interview."

"I can take care of the interview, since I have read his books and know what I'm dealing with," Lily offered, "I'm sure that he'll be a fantastic teacher for Harry."

"Hurray," Harry muttered into his cereal, "Can't wait."

*

It was three days later that Harry finally was to meet his tutor. The Potter Manor had been cleaned and Harry was wearing a new set of uncomfortable robes. He was sitting in the living room next to Sirius who was trying to make him feel anxious.

"What is he going to teach me anyway?" Harry asked, "And do I always have to be dressed like this?"

"You know Harry," Sirius chuckled, "I've noticed that more than half of your sentences are questions. You're one curious baby stag, aren't you?"

"I'm ten. Not a baby."

"Of course not."

"He'll be here soon," James said, entering the living room, "Best behaviour, yeah?"

"When have I ever been rude to guests?" Harry asked, and his father grinned.

"I meant Sirius, actually, not you."

"Hey!" Sirius exclaimed indignantly, "I'm always at my best behaviour!"

"Merlin save us, then," James replied cheerfully just as they heard the floo activating. Soon enough Lily stepped into the room with a bright smile on her face, followed by Harry's future tutor. He was a tall man with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. A smile showed straight, shiny white teeth and dimples.

He was also dressed in bright purple robes.

"Hello, hello," the man said, shaking hands with James, then Sirius, and lastly with Harry. "I am, as you without a doubt know, Gilderoy Lockhart. Or Professor Lockhart in this case, heh. Beautiful home, Mrs. Potter. Absolutely delightful."

"Oh please, call me Lily," Lily said with a smile, "And thank you. Um, please sit down. Would you like some tea, coffee?"

"Spring water, please," Lockhart requested with another blinding smile, "I don't really drink tea or coffee – they're bad for my teeth you see."

‘Really? This is the tutor?’ Harry thought with disbelief, eyeing ghastly purple robes. 'This guy?'

"He sounds incompetent," Sirius whispered, and after making sure that Lily wouldn't notice. James nodded with a pained expression as they watched the interview go on.

"He doesn’t sound too convincing to me," James hissed, "but Lily clearly likes him and if I don't hire him, she'll be mad at me."

"Whipped."

"Married."

"Dad, am I seriously going to be that guy's student?" Harry asked quietly, "I mean, not that I think that his skull is full of nothing, but I don't really think that he'll be able to teach me anything."

"He could teach you how you shouldn't be like," Sirius replied with a grin. Harry scowled, and shot him a glare.

“You’re the one who found him,” Harry said. “Uncle Sirius, I hate you right now.”

He really wasn't looking forward to his future lessons. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Harry to decide that the only subject Gilderoy "call me Gildy" Lockhart was the master of, was the subject of himself. It was, more often than not, frustrating. How his mother had come let this guy— Oh, right, she was a fan, no matter how much she wanted to deny that fact. Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the new revelation concerning his dear mother.

At the manor, the house-elves had prepared a study for Harry, wherein Lockhart would tutor him every weekday for two hours. Usually the tutoring sessions went along the lines of Lockhart giving Harry something to read, Harry choosing to read something else, and Lockhart talking about himself, seemingly unaware of what Harry was doing.

The arrangement worked just fine.

"—now, trust me, any other wizard would have fled the scene if they'd been there! Ten, no, actually, I think it was almost twenty werewolves that were running towards me, clearly intending on ending my life. But hah, they didn't know who they were up against! I, of course, managed to defeat them all—"

'I can't believe that he hasn't been assassinated yet,' Harry thought, after finishing the third chapter of The Green Witch by Susan Cooper.

"Tell me, Harry," Lockhart said suddenly, leaning forward, "Have you considered peacock-patterned robes? The colours would be so fantastic on you! All I see you wearing is black, and while that is a great colour and easy to match with anything, it just isn’t enough.”

"Peacock robes?" Harry repeated, feeling unsure of how to even react. "Um, no. I mean, really, no. No peacock robes. Please. Say, what were the incantations you used to defeat the werewolves?"

"You're too young to know them," Lockhart said dismissively, "But how about I tell you of the time I saved two maidens from a boggart, hmm? I was in Zimbabwe, from where I bought an orange set of robes that I will show you tomorrow, when a boggart— well, it was actually more than one boggart. It was more like a pack of boggarts..."

Harry stared at the man for a few moments, before sighing and deciding to resume reading his book. If he wanted to learn something, he'd obviously have to study on his own. Lockhart was clearly uninterested in doing anything but wasting his time.

His mum had told him that the man used to be from Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts that was supposedly for those of keen mind... but Harry found that very hard to believe.

'I can't just waste away like this,' Harry thought miserably, holding back a yawn, 'I really do need to study. Something useful. Mum wants me to get into Durmstrang – what if I fail because I didn’t prepare well enough?'

Harry knew that, in Durmstrang, the heirs of some of the most infamous Dark families would be studying. Other kids were bound to know Dark spells and they would know how to defend themselves, if nothing else. How was Harry supposed to impress anyone when compared to people like that? He couldn't afford wasting time like this.

Harry had been listening to everything Sirius had been telling his parents about Durmstrang. Apparently the student admission methods were now harder than ever, and the accepted amount of students had been cut to a fraction to what it used to be. While his mum had become more determined than ever to get Harry into Durmstrang, Harry himself couldn't help but wonder if that would be possible.

And even if he did get in, how would he survive? What kind of changes had happened, really? Why change the amount of the accepted students so abruptly, going as far as to relocate the ones who weren’t allowed to remain at Durmstrang from now on?

Harry didn't like studying - not really - but he knew that he'd have to do a lot of it in order to somehow survive.

"Professor Lockhart?"

"I told you, Harry darling, my friends call me Gildy."

"Will I get the chance to practice spells?" Harry asked, "I mean, learning theory is nice, but I want to do practical work as well."

"There’s no need to hurry in regards to that," Lockhart said dismissively, "You're still—“

"I'll be going to Durmstrang," Harry cut in seriously, fear forcing his words, "I will end up studying with kids who've all been taught by their Death Eater parents. I can't waste my days listening to you talking about fictional heroics while knowing that the school I will start attending is one known for its Dark magic."

"Harry, darling," Lockhart started, but got interrupted again.

"I need a teacher," Harry insisted, horrified to realize that tears weren’t that far away from falling, "Not a… I don’t know, whatever you are. A babysitter? I need to learn how to survive, not how to sit here bored out of my mind. I can't afford being even average. I've got no one to protect me there. I need to protect myself. I need to learn how." Lockhart stared at Harry with an oddly blank expression for a moment. It looked almost frighteningly out of place on his face.

"Are you sure?" Lockhart asked, "Because when you learn some things, you can never unlearn them. The knowledge can be a burden. And the more you know, the harder it becomes to forgive those who don't know."

“Can you teach me?” Harry wanted to know, feeling hopeful at the seriousness of the man’s voice. “Who even are you, really? A fighter? A storyteller?”

“I am me,” Lockhart told him. “I love the way I am now, and that gives me a very real sense of identity. There are plenty of mind-altering spells that do not work on me, simply because I know exactly who I am.”

"..."

"There is power in being individual," Lockhart continued, flicking imaginary dust off the feathers on his cape, "People don't understand those who are unlike them. And people cannot predict what they cannot understand."

"What will you teach me?" Harry asked hesitantly. Lockhart gave him a brilliant smile and waved his bright fuchsia quill at the young boy.

"I'll teach you what's useful," the man promised, "Starting from body language to body disposal. But first, your clothes need a colour-change."

*

“Gildy is so strange,” Harry declared at the dinner table later on. “He’s so different from anyone else I’ve ever known.”

“Well, he has to be something, all right, to have you calling him Gildy,” James stated. “Did you learn anything useful?"

"Not yet, not really. Waste of time if you ask me." At least, so far. Harry had a feeling, however, that after the day’s discussion with the man, things would change for the better.

"Oh come on," Lily sighed, "You've been through, what, five lessons so far? Give him time. Teaching new students is always challenging in the beginning. He doesn't know how much you know and what he should be teaching you."

"He says that I should stop wearing black all the time. He wants to dress me up in rainbow colours and peacock patterns!" Harry would rather

"That'd be a sight," James muttered, "You do have green robes too, though. And blue.”

"Blue isn't really Harry's colour," Lily noted, "Green, grey, black, silver... I'd say those colours suit you the best, little man."

"Can we focus on what's relevant?" Harry asked, "You're not going to make your only child dress up in rainbow colours, are you?"

"Might be a good experience for you," Lily teased, making her son throw his hands up in frustration before leaving the kitchen, where his parents were trying to not laugh too loudly. Stomping up the stairs, feeling like the whole world was against him, Harry wasn't exactly in the mood of sitting down with a good story and enjoying his existence.

Ever since Harry had been told about Durmstrang and the possibility of him studying there, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. Would he... could he make new friends there? That was admittedly his biggest concern, because while Harry did feel uncomfortable with other children, he still felt very lonely. But what if they all were like Draco? Not that Draco was exactly a bad guy – just incredibly self-centred and boring.

‘I should probably get used to that,’ Harry thought, ‘I’m being tutored by another incredibly self-centred idiot after all.’ Except that he wasn't so sure anymore of whether or not Lockhart really was as much of an idiot. It was all so confusing – just what kind of man was he?

Sighing, Harry decided to stop thinking of the issue for now and reached for the diary he had found in the library. Maybe it was the time to read it? With any luck, it'd have an incantation of a spell or two somewhere.

"Haines Potter," Harry muttered, aloud, squinting at the badly written signature. Merlin, how could anyone’s handwriting be so lousy, he didn’t understand. "I wonder how long ago he wrote this." The pages of the journal were slightly brown already, but it didn't seem that the papers had suffered nearly as much as the covers. The diary wasn’t fiction, however, and didn’t hold his interest for long.

'Maybe Gildy will be able to teach me properly once I start wearing less black,' Harry thought reluctantly, 'He did seem serious for a moment when he spoke.'

The man's words from earlier that day about being an individual and being unpredictable made Harry feel as if he was holding all parts of a puzzle that he just didn't know how to connect. It was a stupid feeling - he wasn't in the middle of a mystery, after all.

Would it yield any results if Harry made a list of things he wanted to be taught? Would Lockhart ignore the list or actually consider it? Harry had studied enough theory already – he wanted something that would actually be useful. Something he could use his wand for.

Slowly, Harry moved from where he was sitting on the bed and stared for a short moment at the red box that had his wand in it. Nervously, he opened the box to see the wand inside. Eleven inches, made of Holly. Phoenix feather inside. To think, this wand that looked so harmless was the brother of the Dark Lord’s wand.

It was astounding, and Harry couldn't deny the slight thrill he could feel. He had something in common with the Dark Lord himself. How cool was that?

The Dark Lord Voldemort was the official ruler of the British Wizarding World, and the unofficial leader of the European Wizarding Societies. From what Harry had found out, the Dark Lord rose into power after the mysterious death of Albus Dumbledore well over a decade ago, and had led them all to a new age of prosperity and peace. Harry had read enough stories to be wary of anything that blindly praised the people in power, but he didn’t dare to speak his mind on the issue.

Politics. The mere word was enough to make Harry’s skin crawl. Everything was far more complicated than it should when one added politics into the mix. Harry was just glad that his family wasn't one of those that were in the middle of the political circles. Draco’s dad was heavily involved, and so was Sirius. Then again… both were high ranking Death Eaters.

Harry would make sure that he would follow his parents’ footsteps and never get involved in politics. No matter what.

*

Weeks passed and life remained mostly unchanging. Harry still had to sit through the 'tutoring sessions' five days a week, much to his annoyance. His flashy, flamboyant teacher wasn't as annoying as he was in the beginning, though, and at times taught Harry a few quite useful spells.

Not that Harry got to actually use those spells outside the tutoring sessions.

"I have a question," Harry said one day, interrupting Gildy's chatter. Despite all his oddities and how damn annoying the man sometimes was, Harry had recently come to the shocking realization that he didn’t actually dislike Gildy.

“Ask away, my dear,” the older wizard said. “I am here to shed light on your ignorance, after all.”

"Thanks," Harry said flatly, "If Hogwarts is for British students only, and Durmstrang admits so few now, and Beauxbatons doesn’t accept much more than Hogwarts, and Flora Charm's School is for those with special needs... then what about the rest? Where do the rest go?"

"Schools elsewhere, in other continents," Gildy said, "Or homeschooled. It's very common in small villages for the locals to gather all the children and make classes where the parents each teach a subject they're good at. It happens."

"I've never heard of that," Harry muttered.

"Well, I can't expect everyone to be as educated as me," Gildy said with a shrug, "I'm used to it, don't worry."

'And I'm used to you,' Harry thought when he noticed that he couldn't muster up the annoyance he used to feel for the man.

"And that's why I'm here," Gildy continued gently, "To save you from stupidity and ignorance that aren’t your fault, dear child. We can't all be born geniuses like me."

Forget it. Now he could.

"Mum mentioned that you talked to her about a field trip of sorts?" Harry asked, changing the subject, "Is that true?"

"Yes, actually. I find your social awkwardness rather tragic. You need to be more outgoing. Like me."

"I don't think I could be like you."

"Oh, Harry," Gildy chuckled, "You need to have more confidence."

"No, really," Harry insisted dryly, "I couldn't. Where we'll be going? When's the trip anyway? It's not a fashion exhibition or anything, is it? Because if it is, I'm not going."

"Oh come on, Harry dear. Don't be such a bore."

"It is! What could seeing a bunch of clothes do for me?"

"A world of good," Gildy said with a tone that was a smidge away from judgmental, "You'll learn a lot about fabrics: which ones will protect you from fire, the price of dragonhide boots, which will make you unable to drown – or dive, for that matter. Not to mention that my good friend Peppita Peppino will show you her Edition Electra dressrobe line that I have been waiting for since last Christmas. Also, we might get you something that is not black."

"And my opinion—"

"I listen to what your soul yearns for, not what your mouth is saying. We're going tomorrow. Don't wear black, or I'll make you wear orange."

And that was why and how Harry Potter, ten years old and dressed in dark green robes, found himself in Rome the next day.

His teacher, dressed in golden robes, fluttered around in a crowd that he seemed to know very well. Harry was dragged along and his cheeks had been pinched - for being cute – too many times for him to count, but certainly enough to make his cheeks ache.

"And this, Gildy-darling, has augurey feathers on it! Look!" a woman with her dark hair tied up in what looked like a very complicated hairdo involving gold and ribbons was saying in heavily accented English, "They repel ink and oil and generally don't stain. See, I designed this cape to have them on the shoulders and arms because this way - they repel water too, as you know - you'll be safe from rain while wearing this! Fabulous, isn't it?"

"Peppita you are a genius," Lockhart said admiringly, "This is a masterpiece! Harry, come on, Harry! Look at this."

"This is your... son?" Peppita asked, looking at Harry, "A lovely child. Very pretty, well done."

"He's my student," Gildy hurried to correct, "I was hoping we'd find a souvenir here for him. Poor child, almost always wears black."

"But that is dreadful!" Peppita gasped. "No worries, none anymore! Peppita will take care of you, young man. How old is he, Gildy-darling?"

"Ten, and will be starting school soon."

"Oh, delightful! How about boots? Genuine leather! And not just any leather, no. Peppita doesn't design boots to be made of normal leather." The woman shook her head with a smug smile on her face, before continuing. "Clabbert skin! Smooth and hairless and green. Green suits you, young man. Suits you so well."

"I was actually hoping for something more... specific," Gilderoy said slyly, and Harry blinked with surprise at the change of his tone. He was clearly up to something. "Harry here may very well be going to Durmstrang."

"Ah," Peppita said, and it seemed that some kind of realization dawned. Harry wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but he just hoped that it wouldn't be too damaging for his pride. "Invisibility cloak? We found a few demiguises and managed to make two capes."

"No," Gilderoy said, shaking his head, "That is so, well, not ordinary, but achievable by others."

"Then how about a diricawl-feather coat?" Peppita asked, before turning to Harry, "The diricawls are remarkable for their method of escaping danger: a diricawl can vanish in a puff of feathers and reappear elsewhere. To a lesser degree, the coat allows you to do the same."

"That'd be like Apparating, which he's going to learn eventually anyway."

"How about erumpent-skin jacket? It repels most curses."

"Hm," Gildy pursed his lips and thought for a few long moments before shaking his head, "I'm sorry, doll, but I've got to say no. There're specific spells to cause harm when one's wearing erumpent skin and I don't want to subject Harry to that."

"Understandable," Peppita nodded, "Don’t worry, dear, we’ll come up with something eventually. You know, a few days ago a fraud tried to sell me what he called nundu fur. Nundu! Ha! Fifty wizards together cannot kill a nundu to get its fur!"

"Fabric scammers are shameless," Gildy agreed, "Listen, I've wanted to ask you all evening... that gown you're wearing, could it possibly be Pogrebin?"

"Good for camouflage," Peppita confirmed with a smile, "People notice me only when I want them to."

Harry stood, bored out of his mind, watching the exchange between the two. Admittedly, the properties of the different skins and scales used for clothes were interesting, but Harry knew that the most common fabrics were still the basic ones: cotton, silk, wool and the other 'normal' sort like that. Besides, his mother was quite against animals being killed for things like clothes.

"For Harry, I'd want something subtle, even if it's not on this season's collection. As I told you, he's going to Durmstrang, and I want him to be protected without other people knowing." Suddenly, the designer drew in a sharp breath and grabbed Gilderoy's arm. Harry tensed, not sure of what had changed.

"I have just the thing for you," Peppita whispered, "But it's expensive and dangerous to smuggle around, Gilderoy Lockhart. I keep it in the backroom, in a safe that only I can access. If you want it, we can go immediately to get it, but the boy must wear it right away - that's the safest way he could carry it around. Peppita knows, Gilderoy, that if anyone knew he has it, they would love to kill him to get it."

"And what would that be?" the man asked, and Harry half-expected the woman to suggest yet again something outrageous.

"A manticore, what do you Englishmen call it, undershirt," Peppita replied in a voice that was even quieter than before, "Manticore skin repels almost all known charms and curses regardless of how thin it is. He'll wear the undershirt beneath whatever else he's wearing, and his torso will be protected. The material stretches quite a bit, so he can use it for a few years, depending on how much he grows."

"You, my lady," Gilderoy breathed, deeply impressed, "are a gem."

"I know," the woman said with a nod, "I am Peppita Peppino after all!"

"Hear that, Harry?" the man said with a wide smile, hand on Harry's shoulder, "Aren't you glad now that I am your teacher, no one else? Aren't you glad I brought you here? Peppita darling, additionally, I want to get him that jacket there," Gildy said, pointing at a shining silver jacket that seemed to be made of scales, "Genuine leather?"

"Moke skin," Peppita confirmed, "A good jacket, one of my best. Mokes have this ability to shrink and grow depending on what they want - that means that clothes made of moke readjust their size as the one who wears them grows."

"And it looks good," Gilderoy muttered, "Come on, Harry, let's go check it out."

'So this trip wasn't for nothing after all,' Harry thought, following the man to where the designer was leading them, 'Maybe he's a good g-'

"Harry-dear," Gilderoy said, turning to the boy, "Now that you have something to shield you, you don't need to learn incantations, right?"

*

A few months passed, bringing change with them.

The situation with the Rebels – a worldwide group that opposed the Dark Lord Voldemort and wanted to put an end to his regime – was becoming worse, which led his parents working longer hours than before. Even Sirius, who was a high-ranking Death Eater, was busy with is duties.

This led to the unfortunate result of Harry spending even more time with the man he had to call ‘Gildy’.

"It's not long till the examination day," Gildy said one rainy Monday, "How are you feeling, Harry-darling?"

"I don't know," Harry grunted, not looking up from the book he was reading. Gildy looked at him for a few moments, before sighing and turning to readjust the hat he was wearing, vowing to never wear red again. It just wasn't his colour.

"If you get in, it'll bring a lot of prestige to your family. And to me, of course, since I'm your tutor. Not that I don't have enough prestige to my own name already. I am, after all, the hero Gilderoy Lockhart."

"If you're such a hero, why aren't you fighting the rebels?”

"To take care of you. I'm sacrificing all of my future Order of Merlins just to make sure that you're not lonely."

"Your absence won't be a source of sorrow."

"Ah, absence," Gildy sighed, "Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream. And I seek then in vain by the meadow and stream."

"What?" Harry asked, frowning. The blond man winked at him and offered a wide smile.

"George Linley. Girls dig it."

'I wonder what kind of woman would have a relationship with him,' Harry wondered, before shaking his head and returning to his book. Gildy frowned, feeling bored and in the mood for sharing his worldly wisdom about, well, anything and everything.

"You always read stories," the blond man said, "They're not even facts. Stories are, some people have claimed, completely void of benefit."

"Some stories are true that never happened," Harry replied, not looking up from his book. "Imagination and fiction make up more than three-quarters of our real life."

"You're... quoting people at me," Gildy said, surprised, "Then how about this? He who has imagination without learning has wings but no feet. Joseph Joubert. You know him?"

"No."

"Well, he was a squib. One of the most famous squibs, but still a squib."

"I see."

"Ah, you're getting snippy. Is it because my knowledge is making you feel inferior? Harry darling, don't worry - I have more than 20 years of experience more than you."

"Experience on what?" Harry asked.

"Life," Gildy replied, "Being a hero. A celebrity. It teaches me to live my life differently. Unlike you, I have enemies out there. You have none."

"For now," Harry corrected, "Dad says that every man with an opinion has an enemy. And mum says that I have a lot of opinions."

"That's delightfully depressing. Say, what do you think of attending another fashion show?"

"Are you mad?"

"Why does everybody ask me that?" Gildy muttered, shaking his head, "Fine. Go back to reading your silly book then, Harry-dear. Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

"That's alright," Harry assured him, " I'm happy about it."

And he was. The stories weren't affected by the rebels like his family was.

*

Harry had waited for July to come for what seemed like a lifetime. And now that the month had finally started, he didn't know what to do. The entrance examination of Durmstrang would be in three days and Harry was too nervous to even study.

'What if I fail to get in?' the boy thought, 'Well, of course there's always Hogwarts, but still.' Deciding to go for a bit of a walk before going to sleep, he exited the room only to stop when he heard his mother's voice talking.

"Only ten students get accepted," Lily was saying nervously, "I wonder why the system was changed."

"Rumour has it that the Dark Lord wants to turn Durmstrang into a military school," Sirius replied, "Apparently, the Rebels are becoming dangerous and they want to start scouting for the army early on."

"The Rebels," James sighed, rubbing his eyes, "How I wish they'd give up already... Why are they even fighting? What are they fighting for?"

"Mudblood supremacy," Lily said sharply, and a part of Harry flinched, hating his mother for saying what she said with the knowledge that she herself was a 'Mudblood' in the eyes of many others.

"Lils..."

"What? That's what they—"

"You don't need to use that word," James said softly, "There's nothing wrong in not being a Pureblood. You know it better than most - there's no need to compensate for anything."

"I-"

"I don't think that Harry will fail," Sirius hurried to cut in, "I mean, Karkaroff knows Harry's my godson. The thing is, are you sure you want Harry in Durmstrang, knowing that it could potentially be turned into a military school? What if all the times the Dark Lord has visited Durmstrang till now was for this purpose? Actually, Merlin, how could I have been so blind? That'd totally make sense!"

"Harry is going to be a Death Eater no matter which school he attends," Lily pointed out, "So yes, I'm sure that Durmstrang will be the best for him."

"Yeah," James echoed, less sure of himself, "It's just that everything is so unpredictable nowadays."

"Life is unpredictable," Sirius said with a shrug, "So don't even try."

"My biggest concern is about someone finding out about Harry's wand," Lily admitted, "What kind of test did Sirius say it was?"

"Well, he was told that it'd be some sort of magic compatibility test, but I'm not so sure since so much has been changed already," James replied, "What do you think, Sirius?"

"I don't know what to think," the man admitted, "I just feel like suddenly everything is confusing, and I don't know how much has changed and why. I don't even know if the rumoured plans for Durmstrang are really going to be true. Why would the Dark Lord need a special squad of Death Eaters? Why does he suddenly— Does he need a special squad? Surely the Rebels aren't that dangerous?"

"You think," Lily breathed, leaning forward, "That something concerning the Rebels is being hidden from us? Something big?"

"I don't know. I’m a Lieutenant General, there isn’t much that I don’t know. If the Rebels are a worse issue than we thought before, then I most certainly should be made aware of it."

"With students so few in number the risk of Harry standing out in ways we don't want will be greater."

"Not only that," Sirius said, "But if Harry gets in and is only average and shows no particular ambition – it's going to be noticed. And not in a good way."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," James decided, "All we can do is to tell Harry to be careful and avoid drawing attention to himself if possible. He's rather good at that, though. People always seem to... forget him. Not notice him."

"That will change if people become aware of him for some reason or another," Lily pointed out, "All because of one wand!"

"It's not any wand," Sirius reminded her, "Although I admit to being curious as to why Harry got the brother wand of the Dark Lord. Could there be a connection?"

"Don't say that!" Lily exclaimed, thinking of the possibilities of what could happen if there truly was some kind of connection between the Dark Lord and her son, "Harry is normal. He is ordinary."

"We know," James assured her.

"For now," Sirius added.

*

Despite it being early July, the examination day was cold and windy.

"You're not coming down with anything, are you?" James asked with a concerned frown when he saw his son shivering.

"He's just nervous," Lily said, "Happens to me too, that. Feeling cold and shivering when nervous. Similar."

"Is the portkey ready?" Sirius asked from where he was readjusting his collar, "Because we ought to get going."

"Yes. Is everyone ready to go? Harry, this is it now. Do you have your wand with you?"

"Yeeees," Harry said, feeling sick already. So many things could go wrong, and the only things that gave him any comfort were his father's words of crossing bridges when they'd get there. It wasn't as if he had any other options. His hand was sweaty when he gripped the portkey, and by the time they arrived, he was feeling nauseated enough to almost throw up. Lily's cool hand on his forehead and a murmured spell made him feel slightly better, though. Good enough to go forward, at least.

The Durmstrang school building was exactly how Sirius had described it and it did not look inviting at all. Harry's godfather led them through the crowd; there were so many other families there, each escorting their child for the examination hall and saying the final 'good luck's.

"There has to be at least a thousand kids here," James whispered, reluctantly impressed.

"That's Durmstrang's attraction for you," Sirius said with a shrug, "Only ten will pass, though. One of which will be our Harry. Come on, kiddo! We'll get you to the examination hall soon enough. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," Harry replied hesitantly, just as they entered the building. The whole place seemed to be made of an odd combination of stone, wood and glass, and while, from the outside, the building had looked plain, on the inside, it was impressive and a bit ominous.

Sirius spoke to a dark-haired man whose smile was too wide to be entirely normal. Harry shivered, getting a bad feeling from this guy. Suddenly, Sirius turned and gestured for Harry to go to him. Lily gripped James's arm, and the two stayed back when their son went to his godfather.

"This is Harry Potter," Sirius said, "Harry, this is Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang."

"It's an honour to meet you, sir," Harry said nervously, and Karkaroff's eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn't quite identify.

"Likewise, young Potter. Eager to be a student here, are you?"

"Quite, sir."

"Disciplined and polite," Karkaroff muttered, "I like that. Come on. I will personally escort you to the examination hall. Sirius, you can wait here with the boy's parents." Feeling increasingly nervous, Harry didn't get the opportunity to even look at his godfather before he was pulled away, having to run to keep up with the long strides of the Headmaster.

'I wonder what kind of exam it's going to be,' Harry thought, 'I feel like I know nothing.'

"You're eleven, are you not?" Karkaroff asked suddenly.

"Ten," Harry replied, "I'll be turning eleven in a few weeks, though."

"The steps you need to take during the exam will be explained here," Karkaroff said just as they stepped into a spacious auditorium that already was almost full, "The number of applicants for admission this year exceeds one thousand, and we had to employ more than one auditorium to ensure that everyone would have a place. Are you prepared?"

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly, and the wide grin of the Headmaster turned into a tight-lipped smile that, while it wasn't as cheerful, seemed to be far more honest.

"Good answer," he said, "Sirius, your godfather, is a very good friend of mine. He wants you to get in and he has assured me that you have the talent to become an outstanding wizard. I am yet to be convinced of that fact, but then again I do not know you. Succeed and prove him right."

"I'll try, sir," Harry replied warily.

"Now take a seat and wait for Professor Lyuben to start talking." After saying that, Karkaroff didn't stick around for any longer. Harry was left there alone and uncertain. There were countless other people trying to get into Durmstrang... how could Harry be one of the top ten? It seemed like an impossible feat!

'We won't be tested individually, so it has to be some sort of a mass-elimination process,' Harry thought, trying to calm down. Losing confidence now would be a grave mistake. 'Uncle Sirius said it's not a written exam, and the tables are empty, but...’

The loud sound of the hall's door closing startled Harry out of his thoughts. He looked around and saw hundreds of other boys and girls of his age sitting and waiting nervously. At the front stood a tall, old man with a thick grey beard and his equally grey hair tied into a short braid. A pair of glasses was balancing on his nose, and he stood with the easy confidence of a wizard who clearly knew where he belonged.

"I am Thomas Lyuben," he started, tired voice carrying over the huge auditorium easily. "I am the Deputy Headmaster of Durmstrang and also the Professor of History of Magic. You are here to try to get yourselves accepted into Durmstrang, and whether or not you succeed will be determined by the results of the entrance examination today."

'Here we go,' Harry thought, taking a deep breath.

"Since you are not in school yet, we assume that you know no spells. However, you all have your wands. Above your heads, you will see a quill and a piece of paper hovering - your first task is to use a spell to bring them to you. I will show you the spell and the wand-movement. If you succeed, you'll get the paper and answer the questions, after which you'll stand up. An assistant will then approach you and take you to your next stop."

'It has to be a summoning spell, the one he'll show us,' Harry thought, 'I wonder how many here know it already.' Harry knew the incantation and the wand movement - his both parents used the spell often enough - but he wasn't sure whether or not he'd be able to cast it correctly.

"The incantation is Accio," Professor Lyuben said, "Direct the wand on the thing that has to be summoned or name the object. You have one hour to complete this part of the examination. You may begin."

'Concentration is the key,' Harry told himself, looking up at the purple quill and the rolled paper waiting for him. He could hear a girl's voice behind him repeat the incantation a few times with frustration and he tried to block her voice out. His wand was warm in his grip and he could feel it in a way that made him think of the twin brother he never had. He trusted his wand more than he trusted himself.

Harry could hear the sound of papers shuffling and quills either dropping down or bumping into something or even a few exploding. He could hear the hissed curses of those around and he could hear his own steady breathing when he finally lifted his wand and said the spell.

The rolled paper and the purple quill floated down and settled onto the table in front of him. Knowing that the first part of the test was only halfway done, Harry didn't let himself feel happy quite yet. Nervously, he undid the seal that kept the paper rolled and read the few questions there.

Where do you see yourself seven years from today?

What courses in Durmstrang's curriculum interest you the most?

How aware of the current politics are you?

Do you choose obeying orders over doing what you think is right?

‘It’s like a survey,' Harry realized, writing down vague answers that he'd most probably forget by the time they actually became relevant, 'I wonder what for. It's not like these questions will really determine whether or not we're good enough to become students here, right? I wonder how many passed this part of the test.’

Finishing quickly, Harry stood then up, looking around him. There were only three boys and one girl standing up aside from him, and in a few minutes they were approached by whom Harry could guess to be the assistants. He, too, felt a hand on his shoulder and allowed himself to be led out of the hall.

"Well done," the person leading him said, and stopped to turn Harry around. The young man was a tall, blue-eyed brunet with a freckled face dressed in black robes. "I'm Felix. A prefect here, starting my seventh year after the holiday. Well done indeed back there... the summoning spell might sound easy but it's rather tricky. Um, are you nervous?"

"What was that survey about?" Harry asked him instead of answering, "I mean, it seemed pretty pointless."

"Character evaluation," Felix replied, starting to walk again, "They'll be relevant only in the final selection."

"What's the next step? How many prefects are here? How many students?"

"A lot has changed between last year and the next. The number of students was cut down insanely, although you probably already know that."

"Where are you taking me?" Harry asked.

"Not many kids go past the first step, but there're still too many. The next part will eliminate even more, and only the top ten will remain— why am I tell you this? It's like, I don't know, talking to myself." Felix said with a frown and shook his head before finally stopping in front of a doorway, "We're here. In you go." Harry nodded, swallowing nervously. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

And then everything went black.

*

The first thing Harry became aware of was the damp coldness surrounding him. And then, the hard wood he was laying on. The sound of bypassing trains was oddly comforting, but still strange. Harry finally opened his eyes and sat up, taking in the sight of the almost empty train station he was in right now.

'It's cold,' Harry thought, rubbing his arms, 'Where am I?' It felt like he was in a dream... there seemed to be a light fog over the place, and how had he ended up at a train station alone at night anyway?

"And... why are you here?" a voice asked, and, startled, Harry turned to see an old man standing next to the bench he was sitting on. The man was tall and thin, with long silver hair and a long beard. Brilliant blue eyes twinkled in a way that Harry had never believed to be quite possible.

"Who are you?" Harry asked warily.

"A dead man," the old man replied calmly, "Just one of many. It's rare that I see any of you young ones here, though."

"You can't be dead," Harry said, "I'm not! I'm— Oh God! The exam! I was at Durmstrang doing the entrance exam! What am I doing here? Why am I here! Is this... Where am I?"

"This station is on no map," the old man said and sat down, "Entrance exam, you say."

"Yes," Harry confirmed, standing up and looking around him with increasing panic, "I should be doing the second part now, not be here! My mum and dad..."

"Maybe you are," the man noted kindly. He said something else, too, but the sound of a bypassing train drowned the words with its noise. Harry looked around again, forcing himself to stay calm. If he failed to get into Durmstrang, then he'd just go to Hogwarts. No panic. Really, no reason to panic.

"Where do these trains go?" he asked suddenly, "Can one take me home?"

"These trains?" the old man chuckled, "No. They go... nowhere."

"That's silly," Harry said, "It can't be. If they leave here, they go somewhere else. Not nowhere!"

"Perhaps I phrased it wrongly. They go to Nowhere. At least some of them. Some others go elsewhere."

"I don't understand."

"Not many do. That is fine."

"Who are you?" Harry demanded to know, "How do I get back to where I was?" The old man smiled at him wistfully and sighed.

"Young ones. Always so impatient."

"Where do I go from here?" Harry asked, "Help me, please."

"But you don't need any help," the man said, clearly surprised, "You came here on your own, and you can leave on your own."

"But how?"

"How did you come here?"

"I don't know!"

"My boy, calm down first," the old man said soothingly, "Your magic led you here, and it will lead you back if you allow it to."

"But the exam..."

"This could be a part of it. Durmstrang was known for its trickery back when I was alive too."

"You went there?" Harry asked, curiously. The old man shook his head.

"No, no. I was a Hogwarts student back in the day. But a... former close friend of mine attended Durmstrang."

"Who?"

"I doubt that you'd know him," the old man said, blue eyes dimming slightly, "It has been so long."

"You said that this could be a part of the exam. How?" Harry asked.

"Who knows," the man replied, and Harry could see him talking, but suddenly he couldn't hear. It was as if he had gone deaf or something. A strange pull was twisting his insides, and it felt like he was using a portkey and—

*

Harry woke up gasping for breath. He sat up, feeling sick.

"Number three!" a female voice called, "We have number three here! Woke up third."

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter," a man was saying, and Harry could hardly understand him, "You have passed the second test."

"What?" Harry asked faintly, frowning and trying to ease the throbbing in his head, "What's going on?"

"When you entered the room, you were stunned," the man explained, "All of the students were stunned when they arrived 'til all of you who passed the first test were finally here. Then we lifted the stunners and cast a sleeping spell. The ten who could work out the way to wake up first would pass this exam."

"Sleeping spell?" Harry asked, "I was asleep?" So did that mean that the train station was a dream? But it had felt so... real.

"Yes," the man said, pulling Harry to stand up, "You were the third one to wake up. Congratulations. Now, we go find your parents, do a bit of paperwork, and the next time you come here will be in September."

"Thank you," Harry said dazedly, following the man out.

He had succeeded. He had really succeeded.

Chapter Text

This was it. He was really going to Durmstrang.

"Alright, I checked your trunk - you have all your books," Lily said, hurrying past him carrying a pile of clothes, "Do you have enough underwear?"

"I have everything I need," Harry replied, "All the books, all the equipment, all the clothes. The studio flat comes furnished."

"I don't really like the idea of you living there alone," Lily sighed, "You're just a baby. Maybe I should send a house-elf with you."

"Mum!" Harry shrieked, flushing with embarrassment, "Mum, it's a dorm room of sorts. I won't be alone. And I am not a baby!"

"You better make some friends, buddy," Sirius said, walking past the two, "Did James give you his cloak? The invisibility cloak?"

"He's not giving it to Harry," Lily declared, "Merlin knows what kind of trouble the boy would get into if he could turn invisible whenever he wants."

"As much as I hate to say this - and I hate it plenty - I don't think Harry should pull any pranks there," James said, walking into the room. At the sight of Sirius’s horrified expression, he rolled his eyes. "At least not yet. We don't know what kind of punishments they dish out. If it's a military school, I doubt that they'll stick to detentions and trophy-polishing the way Hogwarts did."

"I don't think that they'll start right away with the hard bits," Sirius said, "I mean, rumoured military school or not, they're still just kids and the Dark Lord cannot be that desperate!"

"Speaking of desperate," Lily sighed and glared at Harry, "Did you really think that I wouldn't see you smuggling a broom to school? They've specifically said that first years have to pass the flying course before they can bring their own brooms."

“Oh, did they really,” Harry said evasively, before hiding his face behind a book.

"Did you see their curriculum books?" Sirius asked, and James nodded with wide eyes.

"When will you even have the time to read all that junk?"

"Junk!" Lily gasped, outraged, "Did you just refer to a valuable source of knowledge as junk!"

"Oops," James offered unapologetically, making his wife glare. "It's just, are they going to just study there?"

"Since when did people go to school to study?" Sirius wanted to know, "I never did! It doesn't make sense to me! Harry will drown in a sea of science and he'll become a bookworm!"

"He already is," Lily stated flatly, and the three adults turned to look at the young boy who was too focused on the book he was reading to pay attention to them. Lily smirked at the two men who had pained expressions on their faces. "See? Bookworm and the pride of his mum!"

"I tried my best," James sniffled, and Sirius laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"There, there. I'm sure he'll be cured one day."

"Grow up," Lily said with a smile, "And I think that you had a gift for Harry, didn’t you? Harry! I know the book is interesting, but it's time to stop reading now."

"Why?" Harry asked, sighing and looking up at his mother, "I already did everything you told me to do."

"Remember when we went to get your wand," James started while gesturing for Sirius to get the gift Lily had mentioned, "And we promised you something if you'd get into Durmstrang?"

"You promised me an owl," Harry said, "I've yet to get it."

"You're getting it now," Sirius said, walking back into the room, carrying a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. Harry couldn't stop staring at it, feeling like he had just gotten the most beautiful owl in the world. "Snowy Owl. The owner called her Hedwig. Said she's a bit snobby for an owl, probably believes herself to be as much of a queen as her namesake."

"Hedwig," Harry muttered, "Wicked cool."

"I picked her," Sirius said proudly, "The owner said that she was reserved already for someone else, but I made him see the error of his ways."

"That's your godfather, increasing his criminal record for your sake," Lily remarked, making Harry laugh, "I'm going to pack some snacks with you tomorrow morning."

"Like what?" Harry asked just as his mother left the room.

"James, we can't let her do that," Sirius whispered, "She'll pack some salad, maybe some fruits and a cereal bar if we don't interfere!"

"That actually sounds good," James replied, "I want a cereal bar."

"God, she corrupted you! Tomorrow, you'll tell me that you’ve given up on pasta and cake!”

"Harry," Lily called, making a reappearance at the doorway, "Have you already picked out what you will wear tomorrow?"

"Um... the school uniform?" And the manticore shirt, but Harry wasn't going to tell his parents about that; he had a feeling that they'd either get angry or insist on paying it back to Gildy. Or worse - make Harry give the shirt away. Harry liked the shirt. It was very smooth and cool against his skin and felt really comfortable.

"Gilderoy sent you a set of lovely robes," Lily said, "I thought you'd be..."

"No," Harry, Sirius and James said simultaneously.

"How do I go to Durmstrang this time?"

"A portkey will take you - and only you - to a meeting place at school," James explained, "while your trunk will be sent separately and it'll wait for you in the flat they've decided to give you. I'm not sure of what else you'll be doing, though. You're not nervous, though, are you?"

"No," Harry lied, "I'm not nervous at all."

*

The following day, Harry was awake and drinking apple juice in the kitchen at half past six, even though the portkey that'd take him to Durmstrang wouldn’t activate until nine. He just... couldn't sleep. A part of him was happy that finally he was going, but another part of him was afraid of the change. He could handle being friendless... but what if the teachers would hate his guts too?

'I wonder if I can change schools if I don't like it there,' Harry though, before another realization dawned on him: 'If it's the Dark Lord's military school, then does that mean that I’ll get to see the Dark Lord? Will he be there?' Then again, even if he was... it wasn't as if he'd notice Harry. Nobody did, except for his parents and godfather, and oddly enough Gildy.

He had gotten a sparkly letter of congratulations from the eccentric man who claimed that his sixth sense had told him that Harry would succeed. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Gildy would one day claim to be a seer of some kind and demand to be declared a saint patron of something or other.

"You're awake," Lily said, appearing at the doorway before moving to sit in front of him. The expression on her tired face was gentle and proud, and it made Harry feel a little bit better. "How are you feeling?"

"Anxious," he confessed, smiling weakly, "What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing will," Lily assured him, "Harry, just be yourself. Exceed expectations or not, don't pretend to be someone you're not. I talked with James about this, and we decided that the best way to keep you from seeming suspicious, is to have you simply act normal. You have nothing to hide."

"But what about-"

"Even if, some day, someone was to find out about your wand, it's not exactly your fault, now is it? Just don't flaunt it. Even if you're the best, never make a fuss over that. You're good at not being noticed, baby. I want you to use that to your advantage."

"I'll try," Harry promised quietly, "Anything else?"

"Just be careful who you associate with, there," Lily said, "Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate. You don't want to end up being hated by people who could destroy you. And… even if something goes wrong, don’t let that bring you down. Things go wrong all the time, and the best thing you can do is deal with it swiftly and logically."

"All right," Harry promised easily. "I'll write to you as often as I can."

"Focus on your studies there. Most of the day, you'll be spending in classrooms, and the free time you have is better spent revising."

"Oh, come on."

"Harry," Lily said quietly, seriously, "Your father didn't want me to tell you this, but to make you understand how important it is for you to acquire as much knowledge as possible, I think you're better off knowing."

"Knowing what?" Harry asked, feeling worried.

"We suspect that the Rebels might be becoming a greater threat than anticipated," Lily explained, her voice calm and steady. "The more you learn, the better your chances of survival are, even if you were to meet a Rebel at some point."

"Do you think that I will meet one?" Harry asked curiously. The whole idea of him meeting a Rebel seemed to be a paranoid nightmare of his mum's. Like a distant, dangerous possibility.

"I'd rather have you be ready than sorry," Lily replied, "For all I know, you could spend your whole lifetime not meeting a single Rebel. That's unlikely, but could happen."

"What do they do? The Rebels, I mean."

"They blame the Dark Lord and accuse him of terrible things. Harry... The Dark Lord is not a kind man. On the contrary, he's cruel and some say he's downright evil. But he has done a world of good to our society. Never forget that."

"I won't," Harry said, before finishing his drink and slipping off the chair, "How will you send my trunk to school?"

"The school sent a specific portkey for the luggage," Lily revealed, "So we'll be able to send it very easily, don't worry."

"I'm not worried."

"Uh-huh."

"I'll be going to shower and brush my teeth again," Harry said, "Are you sure I can't take my broom with me?"

"I am certain, dear."

"Alright then," Harry sighed with resignation.

*

"Are you ready, Harry?" James asked, "Five minutes 'til the portkey activates. We already sent your trunk."

"I'm ready," Harry said, heart beating rapidly. He was dressed in his Durmstrang uniform: brown trousers, a white shirt, a brown tie, and a brown jacket. The shoes, too, were brown. Harry didn't mind the colour. Actually, he liked it quite a bit.

"Take care of yourself," Lily said, beautiful face full of concern, "If anything bad happens, just come back home."

"If anyone gives you a tough time, just tell me," Sirius piped in. He had arrived half an hour ago to spend few more minutes with his godson before Harry left for Durmstrang. "I'll kick their sorry asses-"

"Sirius Black!"

"What? I'd do it!"

"It's activating!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, his voice high with nervousness. He cast a wide-eyed look at his parents and godfather before the portkey whisked him away, before he could even yell out one last goodbye.

Generally speaking, Harry hated portkeys. They always left him with that dizzy, nauseated feeling, and this time was no different. He could hardly feel the grass beneath his feet for the first few moments it took him to compose himself.

"Harry Potter?" a voice said, and Harry looked up to see the Deputy Headmaster who had introduced himself during the first exam. "I am Professor Lyuben. Welcome to Durmstrang."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Harry said, scrambling up. He saw five other students already there – three boys and two girls – and wondered whether or not his future friends were amongst those five. The boys were wearing the exact same uniform as he, while the girls wore a brown knee-length dress with a brown jacket that had the Durmstrang insignia on it.

"We'll wait for the other students to arrive before proceeding to a location more suitable for the orientation session,” Professor Lyuben said. “There you will be given your schedules, assigned housing quarters and introduced to the rules of this institute. For now, however, do wait with the others.”

Silently, Harry obeyed, moving hesitantly closer to where the five were standing. Nobody spoke, and with some relief Harry realized that perhaps everyone else was just as nervous as he was.

It didn't take long for the other four students to arrive, after which the group of ten was led to what looked like a meeting room furnished with a long table made of dark wood and black leather chairs surrounding it.

"Take a seat, everyone," Professor Lyuben commanded, heading towards the door after making sure that everyone was present. “Your homeroom teacher, Professor Dietmar, will arrive shortly to begin the orientation. Wait patiently.” The old man then shut the door, leaving then children to sit alone.

'This feels awkward,' Harry thought, 'I'm surrounded by strangers.'

"Only the ten of us passed?" a brown-haired boy with round face and even more freckles than Ron Weasley asked, "There were over a thousand other students who tried!"

"Yes, well, the point of the entrance exam was to weed out the trash," another boy, a blond one with bright grey eyes retorted bluntly, "Out of all other participants, we're - arguably - the best."

"You don't think we are," a girl spoke up, and something in the way she spoke made Harry think of Peppita Peppino, "At least, you don't think that all of us deserve to be here."

"Luckily, it wasn't for either one of you two to choose, eh?" the boy who had first spoken up said with a sneer, "Who are you, anyway?"

"Clemens Marvin," the blond boy said coolly, "And you?"

"Nikolai. Nikolai Rolan."

'I wonder if they are going to be friends now,' Harry thought. He then heard the door of the room opening and a man in his mid-forties, dressed in a fur-trimmed teal set of robes, entered. Was that perhaps Professor Dietmar whom the Deputy Headmaster had mentioned?

"Alright, new kids," the man said, before straightening up and smiling at them. The smile didn’t look even accidentally sincere, "I'm your homeroom teacher, Artur Dietmar. Call me Professor Dietmar since I'm also your Herbology professor. This room is our very own meeting room, and we'll meet here once every week unless stated otherwise. Once I give you your schedules, you'll see when."

'He doesn't seem to be scary,' Harry thought, relieved.

"I was thinking of making you introduce yourselves but we're short on time so you can do that later on your own. Firstly, I'll explain a bit about Durmstrang, the school system and the changes that have taken place here this summer. I'll also tell you the rules and give you your schedules and finally show you your dorm rooms. Well, flats." Professor Dietmar smiled again at the ten children before continuing.

"Out of nearly a thousand hopeful applicants, only you ten got in," the man said, "It has nothing to do with how good you are, the amount of spells you know, or how strong you are physically. What we seek here in Durmstrang is potential... and you have it. The first test showed us that you can learn a spell quickly and the second spell showed us how quickly your magic reacts independently, a trait that says a lot about its quality. You ten... are special.

During the past summer - and party last year too - huge changes have been made not only concerning the curriculum and the number of students allowed in, but also regarding our expectations of you. Do you have any questions at this point?"

"Is it true that even the upperclassmen went through a test?" a girl asked. Professor Dietmar nodded.

"Yes. Only ten students of each year remain."

"But why?" the girl who reminded Harry of Peppita Peppin asked, "Why such drastic reduction?"

"To better concentrate on the students that we have."

"I heard that we'll be trained to be the best of Death Eaters," a boy sitting to Harry’s left suddenly said, "Is that true?"

"In time you'll know," was all Professor Dietmar said, "There are few rules in Durmstrang, and breaking them will lead to detention on first offence, suspension on second and expulsion on third. Yes, we're strict. The rules exist for good reasons and are all written in a handbook. A copy of that book is in each apartment, make sure to read it carefully. The most important rules to follow are: no skipping lessons, no fights in the hallways, no destroying school property, and no talking back to teachers. You are to never be late and never to be ill mannered. We expect your academic success to be remarkable."

'Blimey! They have more rules than mum and are stricter, too,' Harry thought with amazement, 'I guess dad was right. I'm sorry, Uncle Sirius. Your legacy just died.'

"Here are your schedules," Professor Dietmar continued, and Harry's eyes widened when he got his own, "As you can see, most of the time will be spent in classrooms. Sundays are free. As you can see, every day starts at eight. Lunch is at one o'clock."

"Sports," a boy read aloud, "We have sports on Monday. Does that mean Qudditch?"

"Flying, swimming, horse riding, and fencing among other things. Three hours a week."

"How do we find the right classrooms?" someone else asked.

"For that, I'll give you these," Professor Dietmar said, setting ten rings on the table, "Take your own. These rings have a navigation charm on them. All you need to do is to tell them where you need to go, and you'll be led there."

"Even outside the school building?"

"As long as it is on Durmstrang grounds, the charm can lead you." Harry reached for a ring and stared at it for a short while; it was a simple golden brand with the Durmstrang insignia and motto engraved into it - before deciding to wear it on his right hand's middle finger.

"Oderint, dum metuant," Professor Dietmar said, "Let them hate, so long as they fear. That is the motto of Durmstrang. You all will grow up to be individuals with power and influence. People will envy you and hate you. And most importantly... they will fear you."

"Doesn't that sound ominous," the boy sitting next to Harry said, "Sounds a bit like brainwashing.

"We give you the means," Professor Dietmar said with a gleam in his eyes, "To reach an end that is beyond the reach of others. Now, I think we're done here. Let's proceed to the apartment complex reserved for you ten. Follow me, please."

'I don't think that coming to Durmstrang was such a good idea after all,' Harry thought nervously, following the others out, 'I want to talk with mum about this... I wonder how Ron is doing at Hogwarts. I bet he's in Gryffindor.' Although, Harry did admit that Durmstrang could offer more to him than Hogwarts. Not only with better living arrangements and a more advanced curriculum, but after graduation - anyone would prefer a student of Durmstrang over anyone else.

Then again, if they were really meant to become powerful Death Eaters... wouldn't that mean a life full of politics? Joining the army early on and climbing up the ranks as well as they could? The mere thought of that made Harry cringe.

"We used to have girls' dormitory separate," Professor Dietmar explained, stopping in front of a tall white building, "But then we decided to separate students by year only, since you all will have your own flats anyway. It's easier this way. There are ten apartments in this building - one for each student. It's the place where you will live until you graduate, so take care of it. If your parents give you the permission, you can live in your flat even through the summer."

"Are they connected to the Floo Network?" a blond boy asked.

"You have a fireplace for Firecalling, but the Floo Network has been locked," Professor Dietmar said, "Now, when I call your name, you come forward. I’ll hand you a key with the number of your apartment, and you go settle down, refresh, do whatever you need to do. Today, at six in the evening, you are to wear your uniforms again and make your way towards the Main Hall where the Headmaster will officially welcome you. Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Well then, let’s begin with Petronella Albin." The girl with hair as red Harry's mum's stepped forward, and as soon as she got her key, slipped into the apartment complex.

"Jakob Eckart." A boy with light brown hair moved to get his key, and Harry couldn't help but think that there was something sneaky about him. Maybe it was the smug expression?

"Heidi Jöran." The girl behind Harry walked past him, and the boy wondered absently whether or not his turn would ever come. What if this all was a mistake, and after reading the list and not finding his name there, he'd be sent home? While he did think that Durmstrang was scary and he maybe wanted to go home, he hadn't been completely serious about it!

"Truls Kettil." The boy who had asked about sports lessons, the one with curly golden brown hair and bright blue eyes pushed past the two people standing in front of him and accepted his key.

"Björn Lennart, Clemens Marvin, Filippa Peppino, Harry Potter." Finally hearing his own name, Harry moved forward hoping that he wouldn't trip or stumble. Professor Dietmar smiled briefly at him before calling for the next of the remaining two boys.

Harry stepped into apartment number three, unsure of what to expect. What he found was a pleasantly decorated flat with a small living room to his left and a kitchenette behind it. The door to his right led to a surprisingly spacious bathroom, with a bedroom right next to it.

Overall, it was better than he had expected.

The flat's wooden floor and colours of beige and brown made the whole place seem homely. His trunk was in the bedroom, and though Harry knew that he should start unpacking, he decided to Firecall home first. He had never been particularly fond of this way of contacting people, but he didn't exactly have any other options.

"Harry?" Lily's face appeared in the flames. "How are you, love? Did you settle down yet?"

"I just got into the apartment," Harry said, "Just needed to see you."

"Is it nice? Do you need anything? I was actually just packing a few snacks for you, I was planning on sending them to you soon. Are you hungry? The owl will be there in three or two hours if I send it now."

"Not really. I'm just nervous."

"I'm sending it anyway. Tell me if you need anything else, love."

"Sure. Is dad there?" Harry asked curiously, and his mother shook her head.

"No, an urgent message arrived. He and Sirius left for a mission. Apparently- oh well, no use talking about this. Did you make any friends yet?"

"No. They all are... I don't know."

"As soon as you settle down with a routine, everything will seem better," Lily assured him, "It's Thursday tomorrow. Two days of school and then you have the weekend-"

"We have school on Saturdays. Only the Sundays are free," Harry told her, "We have time today to settle down and wander around, I guess. Tomorrow, it's slaving away."

"Make me proud, baby!"

"Not a baby," Harry said, "I’ll try."

*

Dear Harry,

I heard from your darling mother that you're now in Durmstrang. I also heard that your uniform is brown. I'm so sorry to hear that, I really am. If you wish, I can talk to the headmaster and send you a set of golden robes. I'm sure that they will allow you that. No one says no to me! I'm Gilderoy Lockhart!

On better news: I heard that Peppita's niece is also in Durmstrang! Bad news is that she is apparently a very strict young woman who wears only one colour at a time. Dreadful, isn't it? Either way, it'd be good to make friends with her. Connections, you see, rule politics. Connections are what bring influence to individuals - no one is influential without connections.

To ease your concerns about me, I have been alright. Fabulous, actually. I got a new haircut and am thinking of launching my own fragrance line, Lock of Hearts. I must admit that the name alone makes my heart speed up - I cannot wait to see fans from all over the world buying it!

How are you, Harry? Tell me everything about your life there. Your studies, your friends, your Dueling Instructor... I do not have a crush on him, I'll have you know! It's ridiculous, Harry-dear, don't even suggest it. If I was to have a crush - no, actually, I don't do crushes! Crushes are for teenagers. And even if - and I said IF - I happened to have a crush on him - or anyone at all - I could easily ask them out. So there.

Anyway, just take care of yourself, try to get out of this silly obligation to wear brown (although I heard that during winters there's some fur involved in this uniform somehow. I approve.) and brush your teeth three times a day - a sparkling smile revealing sparkly teeth can save your life one day.

Hugs and kisses,

your mentor Gildy

Written on a light blue scented paper with dark purple ink, the letter that had been carried by a weird sparkly owl-swan hybrid was impressive in a way that it shouldn't have been. Luckily, the flashy creature had left as soon as it had finished its business and hadn't waited for a response, and Harry could only hope that no one had seen it.

The boy stared at the letter after he had finished reading it for a few long moments, before shaking his head and putting it down on the living room's table. He could ignore this. He really could. Except that maybe he should quickly tell Gildy to forget about the golden robes.

Who wore golden robes anyway!

Aside from Gildy himself, of course.

Harry yawned, and resisted the urge to go to sleep. Although the huge bed looked very inviting, Harry didn’t wish to risk sleeping past their intended meeting time in a few hours and make a bad impression on everyone in the Main Hall.

'Luckily, Thursday seems to be the shortest school day,' Harry thought, inspecting the schedule, 'Charms double period, Herbology double period and one hour of History of Magic. Doesn't sound too bad. Who the heck is this Duelling Instructor anyway? I don't have duelling in my schedule and I think Sirius once said that it comes later.'

Harry moved to finally unpack his trunk, and was almost done when he heard a tap from the window. He turned to see the familiar Eagle Owl of his mother's, hovering outside, carrying what looked like a small basket. Eagerly Harry pushed the window open and took the basket of food that his mother had said she’d send him, not minding the bird that hit his head with its wing before flying away.

He began eating as soon as he had finished feeding Hedwig, and read through his schedule yet again.

Tomorrow, if he woke up at half past six, he'd have plenty of time to shower and eat and then find his way to the classroom. The first period would start at eight o'clock. Charms. The Way of Charms 1 by Leo Lippidi was a rather thick and heavy book, and Harry didn't much look forward to having to read it all.

But before that, the welcoming feast. At six.

He couldn't wait.

*

The Main Hall was huge. There were seven round tables reserved for students, and it was clear that classmates were to sit together, no exceptions allowed. Harry ended up sitting between two girls, both of whom were silent as they sat there, waiting for the Headmaster to make a speech.

"I believe that no one is ignorant of the changes that took place recently," Karkaroff started, "Right now, Durmstrang has only seventy students. Out of the countless young wizards and witches who wanted in, you were the ones to succeed. Congratulations."

'Why do I get the feeling that he's going to give us a speech similar to the one we got from Professor Dietmar?' Harry thought, 'I wonder if this really is a military school.'

"Your days here will not be easy," Karkaroff continued, "You will receive the best education that can be produced. You will receive training and knowledge. And when the time comes, you will graduate and serve the Dark Lord as you should."

'Yep. Sounds like it.'

"There are a few notes I wish to make known before I allow for the dinner to start."

'Oh dear.'

"Firstly, while every apartment has its own kitchen, you are strongly encouraged to dine here in the Main Hall. All the announcements that will be made, will be made here at dinnertime. Secondly, seventh year students are to start preparing their apprenticeship papers as soon as possible - they are to be ready by the end of October. Thirdly... no pets are allowed into the school building. If you have any pets, you either keep them in your apartment or outside somewhere."

'Alright, wasn't too bad. Then again, even if the Dark Lord was to turn this into a military school, I doubt that they'd announce it.'

"We live to serve the Dark Lord."

‘Oh come on. Really?'

"And to fight the Rebels. Never forget that."

'Seriously.'

"Once again, welcome to Dursmtrang, and may you make us all proud. You may now begin the feast." The man had barely finished the sentence when the tables were suddenly filled with all kinds of food. Harry, still thinking of the possible meanings of what the Headmaster had said, stared at his empty plate till he felt someone elbowing him.

"You need to eat," the girl next to him said. Harry offered her a nervous smile, unsure of what to say. Luckily, she didn't seem to expect him to talk, considering that she turned away to focus on her own meal.

"You're mothering him already?" a boy sneered, and the girl narrowed her eyes at him.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"Well, no—"

"Let's keep it that way." Harry blinked, his mouth slightly ajar. Did all people here talk like that? So... sharp? Mean? Sneering? And there was something strongly familiar about this girl.

"Peppino," Harry exclaimed, and the girl turned abruptly to stare at him.

"What?" she snapped.

"I mean, er... are you related to Peppita Peppino?" Harry asked, flushing slightly. "I, um, met her and was told that her niece—"

“The designer Peppino?” one of the other girls gasped, eyes wide.

"Attends Durmstrang?" the girl Harry had spoken to scowled, "Yes, that's me."

 “—wears one colour at a time," Harry finished hesitantly, and the girl blinked at him with surprise, her eyebrows rising high.

"So you really have met her. She always keeps complaining about that, even if it’s not entirely true.”

"My tutor is a friend of hers."

"Your tutor?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Oh Merlin, is he really?" the girl sitting on Harry's other side exclaimed, making him turn to her, "I'm Heidi Jöran, by the way, and I'm a fan on Mr. Lockhart! Oh, he's so mysterious and handsome!"

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, "Please call me Harry. And Gildy isn't exactly someone I'd describe mysterious and handsome." Flamboyant, loud, stupid, strange, alien... all that was far more accurate than 'mysterious and handsome'.

"I'm Filippa," Peppita Peppino's niece said, brushing her dark fringe to the side, pitch black eyes glaring at Harry, "How would you describe Mr. Lockhart? I have read all his books and have to say that he is indeed impressive."

"For the sake of your life, don't answer her question," said the boy with short brown hair, sharp brown eyes and freckles. "I have two sisters and I know how girls are regarding Lockhart. You say anything bad about him and they're ready to hex you to death."

"But why?" Harry asked with a frown "He's my tutor and most of what he does consists of telling me what to wear and what the newest fashion is."

"Dreamy," Heidi sighed, and Harry stared at her with disbelief, finding no traces of sarcasm no matter how hard he tried to find some. He cast a panicked wide-eyed look at the boy who had spoken.

"I'm Nikolai Rolan," the boy said, and even though he smiled politely, he did not manage to come across as friendly. Harry remembered him from earlier.

"What do you and Mr. Gilderoy talk about?" Heidi asked, "Does he tell you about his heroics?"

"Sometimes. Say, who's the Duelling Instructor here?"

"Two seats to the left from where the Headmaster is sitting," a boy with messy, slightly curly golden brown hair said, "Bartemius Crouch Junior. We don't start his lessons till third year, though. That's what my dad told me."

"You're Kettil, aren't you?" Heidi asked, "I think I've seen you before. Tor Kettil?"

"Truls," the boy corrected, "My name is Truls Kettil."

"Close enough," Heidi said, waving her hand dismissively, "Tomorrow's the first lesson. How about we form a study group? There're just ten of us and—"

'I wonder if I could call them friends, now,' Harry thought. He felt anxious and worried, even though everything so far had gone perfectly.

There was just... something wrong. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he couldn’t quite relax yet.

*

"If the Dark Lord doesn't change his approach, a war is inevitable," Sirius muttered, dodging a spell shot at him by a Rebel. “The fact that I’ve been sent out with a team of Aurors is strange, too. Why not just a team or two? Hell, even an entire platoon. I’m a Lieutenant General, for Merlin’s sake.”

"What do you call this, then?" James asked, sending a blood-boiling curse at a woman nearby and choosing to ignore the rest of what Sirius had said. “Not a war quite yet?”

"This is just a battle. I meant a full war. Two sides, casualties, armies..."

"From where would the Rebels get an army?"

"Alliances from aboard," Sirius said, "I know for a fact that the French aren't too fond of the Dark Lord. Their minister detests him."

"Any wars that happen, we will win," James said, "Have no doubt of that."

"But at what cost will it be? Wars with so many strong, resourceful and cunning people fighting each other... it could be years till we win."

"What brought this on?"

"You know I'm part of the Inner Circle—"

"Hello, Captain Obvious."

"Shut up, wanker. What I'm getting at is that people, well, talk."

"Uh, let me get this straight, Siri..."

"Listen," Sirius sighed, grabbing James's arm and hauling him behind a tree for a moment of safety to explain what was on his mind, "if this war lasts for longer than seven years, chances are that Harry will end up fighting."

"Fuck," James hissed, finally realizing the problem, "But hey, there's no war yet, but even if there will be-"

"There will be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I told you, people talk," Sirius said. "Bellatrix especially is fond of sharing her conclusions, and as much as I hate it— she's usually right."

"And she says that there's a war coming?" James asked.

"She says that the Rebels are growing in numbers. And that they're forming an army. Do you remember the short war that took place when the Dark Lord came to power? Remember the times of terror when black letters were a daily occurrence?"

"There's nothing we can do about it, though, is there? If war starts, we'll be just pawns, you know."

"I know," Sirius sighed tiredly, "I'm just... worried about Harry, you know. If the rumours about Durmstrang are true, that means that eventually he'll be where I am now."

"What?" James asked, completely caught off guard. "You... he what? What the hell are you talking about!"

"I did tell you that there're rumours about Durmstrang being turned into a military school?" Sirius started, just when a cutting curse hit a branch nearby. The man frowned and shot a killing curse back. "It's true."

"True! You mean... Oh Merlin."

"Rumour has it that the Dark Lord occasionally disguises himself and goes to test the older students personally. That's something he used to do, and I doubt that he'd change that just because the system changed at Durmstrang."

"Older students? How old?"

"Sixth and seventh years. Harry's safe, of course. He's too young to be noticed yet. Besides, he's always been a bit of a hard to notice, yeah?"

"I'm not too sure about that," James said hesitantly, "There will be only ten students in each year. It's impossible to vanish into the crowd if there is no crowd."

"Especially if Lockhart really starts forcing Harry to wear glittery robes," Sirius grinned, "Imagine that!"

"Lockhart," James grimaced, "What a joke, that one. We should get Harry another tutor, really. If only I could make Lily agree with me on that!"

*

That evening, Harry found himself sitting on Filippa Peppino's couch, watching Heidi paint Petronella Albin's - the third girl of their 'generation' - nails green. The colour supposedly went well with her pale green eyes. In all honesty, Harry wasn't sure exactly why he had been invited. Surely, they wouldn't spend all the time asking him about Gildy, right?

"I want to be a designer like my aunt one day," Filippa said, tying her long black hair into a bun, "I want to design and sew clothes, and I want you to model for me."

"Um..."

"Look," Petronella started, "She could ask you, but I think she'd just wear you down in time and you'd agree anyway. You're just saving some time."

"Why me?" Harry asked, honestly curious. He couldn’t quite muster up the courage to ask how she knew that about the Italian girl already.

"Because the other boys are pricks," Filippa declared, "Besides, it's sad that there are only three girls out of ten students. You'll even out the number."

"I'm not a girl," Harry said, "I'm not even girly."

"Granted," Heidi said, "That Italian guy on the other hand..."

"Lorenzo Tancredi," Filippa cut in, "And just because his hair is rather long doesn't make him girly at all."

'Why does their chatter remind me of how mum and Mrs. Weasley sometimes talk?' Harry thought, 'I need to get out of here.'

"I'm feeling a bit sleepy," Harry said, standing up, "I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Half past six pick me up, yes?" Filippa called after him, "We'll go have breakfast together!"

"Why so early?"

"Just in case."

"Alright," Harry replied, "See you."

Filippa's apartment was a floor above his own, and in a matter of seconds Harry was in his own flat, finally getting the opportunity to relax. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Harry crawled into his bed, feeling exhausted but content.

His first day had been pretty good - he had made a few friends and no enemies. The schedule seemed reasonable even if there were lessons on Saturdays as well.

Overall, Harry was happy.

And this is how his life in Durmstrang began and continued for quite a while: peacefully. Even though Harry had been raised surrounded by magic, there just seemed to be so much that he didn't know, and time passed by fast when he was busy nearly every day.

Charms class with Professor Elis was most probably Harry's favourite - the subject was enjoyable and somewhat easy. Even reading the school books and doing homework was fun for him when the subject was charms. Potions, on the other hand... much to Filippa's devastation, Harry absolutely sucked at potions.

"It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad," Nikolai once remarked, "And unexplainable. How did you make a diluted calming draught explode anyway? It's almost all water!"

"Talent manifests in many ways," Harry had replied evenly, unfazed. Professor Bertham had stared at the melting vials and then closed his eyes, making a strange sound that reminded Harry of a kicked mouse.

Dark Arts lessons were perhaps the most interesting. Professor Ulrich Dietmar - the brother of their homeroom teacher - was a man full of hero-worship towards the Dark Lord and was always willing to retell a tale of the 'good old days' when he had fought in the short war when the Dark Lord had first risen to power.

He told them about the incantations, the shields used, the tactics and strategies... and while he taught them only the most basic of spells, Harry wasn't disappointed. It made him curious, though, to know that the man who had achieved all that was the one whose wand's brother was currently in Harry's hand.

"There is so much of the will involved in a spell," Professor Ulrich had said, "Emotion fuels the spell. Never think that you have to stop feeling emotions. I'm telling you this now because, in the future, you'll be told to not feel. That is wrong. Rage, joy, love, grief... different spells become stronger through different emotions."

"Such as?" Jakob Eckart, a boy who seemed to have a small knowing smile fixed permanently on his face, asked, "Any examples?"

"Healing spells," Professor Ulrich said, "The Killing Curse. The Curciatus Curse. It's not just a matter of focusing and spitting out the incantation. You have to feel."

What gave Harry a bit of a tough time, aside from potions, was transfiguration. It wasn't that the subject was tough, no. He could do his homework just fine on his own, actually, and he didn't have trouble understanding the book. The teacher, Professor Kay, however, was a bit bad at explaining things. Maybe it was only he who found it hard to understand the man – the others seemed to understand him well enough.

The class that Harry absolutely loved was sports. He adored flying and swimming, and even though he had never tried horse riding or archery before, he did well enough to enjoy the activities.

Life went on in Durmstrang and weeks passed. All ten first year students were growing rather close, although Harry mostly spent time either with the girls or Nikolai. The Russian boy was a complicated person and he seemed to find reasons to make fun of everyone within sight.

Things didn't change till the end of November, two weeks before the start of the Christmas holiday.

*

"Look," Truls Kettil said, "It's just a flying competition. Just to see who's the fastest. It'll be fair since all the brooms school lends to us are the same."

"It's Sunday, and I know that you've already finished your homework," Harry continued, looking at Nikolai, who scowled.

"I don't fly."

"Pansy," Lorenzo Tancredi said dismissively, "Count me in, though. I'll make you cry uncle."

"Like you could," Truls shot back.

"What's the point of this competition?" Petronella asked, "It's not like any of you can try out for the Quidditch team yet anyway!"

"It's for our own enjoyment," Clemens Marvin said, "Better fly on Sundays than rewrite the potions essay for the seventh time."

"Seventh?" Harry gaped, and the blond shrugged, not offering any explanations.

"Look," Filippa cut in, scowling, "All this testosterone is irritating me. Be macho somewhere else."

"You just can't stand being in a crowd where you're not the centre of attention," Truls stated, "You-"

"I'm reading Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed," Filippa interrupted.

"That means: think twice before finishing what you were about to say," Harry explained with a grin, "Either way, let's just go. We can't spend the whole day convincing others."

"Right you are, Harry," Björn Lennart, whose hair was as red as Ron's and eyes of almost the same shade, said.

"I thought you didn't like flying," Lorenzo said, looking at Björn, who shrugged.

"I like watching," the boy replied, "Much safer. Besides, I like betting even more."

"Shall we get going, then?" Truls asked, "Fifth years have practice in two hours."

"How do you know that?" Clemens asked as the group started to move towards one of the Quidditch pitches, "Upperclassmen don't generally speaking talk with us."

"Truls Kettil here," Truls replied, "Nobody ignores me."

"You just reminded me of Gildy," Harry shuddered, "Lockhart, I mean."

"Why do you call him Gildy?" Truls asked.

"Used to it, I guess. He pestered me all summer and wouldn't respond if I didn't call him that. Guess the habit stuck."

"What a bad habit."

The boys had finally reached the broom storage, and eagerly each grabbed a Nimbus before racing to the Quidditch pitch.

"Pity we can't play a game," Clemens said.

"How's the school's Quidditch team kept in shape?" Harry asked, "I mean, there aren't really that many who can play, are there?"

"The school's team plays against other schools' teams and sometimes even small official teams," Truls explained, "They've been doing well - they got last year a new seeker. Viktor Krum. They say he's a real talent."

"Isn't he a third year?"

"Yeah."

"He got in when he was a second year?"

"Yeah."

"Come on guys," Lorenzo called, "Less talk more flying!"

"Prepare to lose," Clemens said, and Harry grinned. It felt weird - but awesome - to be with the other boys and feel like they were really friends. They noticed him. Maybe they were like Ron and Draco who noticed Harry only when he was present. Maybe the other boys would forget about Harry if he wasn't there to remind them of his existence... but right now, they were with him. Noticed him. And it felt amazing.

Flying with friends was different from flying with his dad or with Sirius. It was more... free. Wild and less controlled. It was thrilling.

"Careful, Truls," Björn called from the ground, "You don't want to end up falling of your broom dodging birds, yeah?"

"I'm going to be alright," Truls replied with a grin, spinning upside down on his broom again. Harry, flying nearby, shook his head.

"Be careful."

"I'm alwa— whoa!"

Later on, Harry couldn't remember what exactly had happened, in which order, and how much time it took. All he remembered was that Truls's grip on the broom had faltered, and that it had taken Harry an instant to realize that if the other boy was to fall from that height, he could die. Harry vaguely remembered angling his own broom, remembered flying so fast that the wind seemed cutting, and he somewhat remembered colliding with the falling boy. He remembered the panicked screams of his fellow classmates and desperately hoped that he had managed to at least slow down Truls's fall with his own body.

After that, there was pain and darkness.

*

There was a sense of deja  vu when Harry woke up. As if he had felt that damp coldness before, as if he had seen this empty train station...

He had.

Eyes widening, Harry sat up, looking around him. Yes, he was indeed in that same strange train station that he had ended up in during the entrance exam over half a year ago. And it was exactly just as dark, cold and damp as he remembered. Had it been raining or something?

"Ah, you're back," a familiar voice said, and Harry turned abruptly to see the old man again, "Didn't expect to see you again for a very long time."

"I don't know what happened," Harry said, deciding to keep his cool. There was no need to panic and act like a fool twice in front of the same person, now was there? "Who did you say you were?"

"I didn't," the old man replied, blue eyes twinkling, "My name is Albus."

"I'm Harry," Harry said, "Can you tell me what this place is?"

"It's a train station," Albus said, "There have been more trains coming and going through, lately. You wouldn't know the reason?"

"Um, like what?"

"Is there a war, where you come from?"

"No," Harry said, "There isn't. But some people think that there'll be soon."

"Terrible," Albus muttered, "Wars never bring anything but grief to everyone involved."

"You know about wars?"

"I was in a few."

"What were they like?" Harry asked, curiously, "All we're told about wars is that they were glorious."

"There is no glory in wars with no noble cause," Albus replied, the twinkle in his eyes dimming, "Tell me, my boy, who is the current Minister of Magic?"

"Well, no one really," Harry said, "All is ruled by the Dark Lord."

"What?" There was evident shock in the exclamation, and Harry felt a twinge of nervous fear when he saw the old man's expression. "The Dark Lord?"

"The Dark Lord Voldemort," Harry clarified hesitantly.

"What year is it there?" Albus asked, an odd look on his face.

"Nineteen ninety-one."

"Good grief." The words were full of emotion – disbelief, sorrow, shock. Horror. Harry could see the old man becoming, if possible, older in an instant. "So long."

"W-well..."

"And Tom took over. Of course, with no one to stop him. He was always a resourceful one, he was."

"Tom?" Harry asked hesitantly. Albus gave him a look that was void of all mirth and twinkle.

"That Lord Voldemort of yours. His name is Tom Riddle."

"Tom?" Harry repeated, baffled, "But that's... that's a cat's name or something!" A small reluctant smile returned to Albus's face, and the old man sighed.

"What has he done? Are there any Muggles alive?" he asked.

"Plenty," Harry replied, "Billions, in fact. They're just kept separate from the Wizarding world, and most schools don't allow muggleborns in anymore. I heard they used to. My mum's a muggleborn, you see."

"You're...?"

"A half-blood. Much like the Dark Lord."

"You know of his blood?" Albus asked, surprised, "And yet people still follow him?"

"I think there's more than just blood to it," Harry replied slowly, "I mean, I don't think that most of them really care about blood that much. As long as the person has power and money, they can look past the heritage."

"And you said that there might be a war coming?"

"It's just a rumour, though. I heard my parents talking about it. The Rebels - they're a group of people still fighting the Dark Lord's Death Eaters - are, I don't know, becoming more of a danger I guess."

"And your parents are on which side?"

"Dark Lord's side, of course. My dad is an Auror in the service of the Dark Lord."

"The world has changed," Albus said, shaking his head. After that he fell silent, and stayed quiet for a very long time. Harry, after few minutes of waiting for the old man to speak, decided to walk around in the train station. He wondered how he could go back. Last time it had just happened... would now be the same?

Another train went past Harry, and the boy shivered, looking after the vehicle. Had it been empty? He hadn't really seen anyone, and yet there was the feeling that it wasn't completely void of... people. Maybe he should check one from the inside?

"You don't want to do that," Albus said as soon as Harry approached one of the trains. "They're not there just for fun."

"Where do they go?" Harry asked.

"I told you, didn't I? Nowhere. The most of them go to Nowhere."

"Where is nowhere?"

"Elsewhere." The cheerful reply made Harry give up his questions - he really wasn't in the mood for this. He wanted to go—

And suddenly, Harry remembered why he was unconscious in the first place. He had fallen off his broom somehow! Oh yes, to save Truls. What happened? Did he succeed? He'd have to wake up... he couldn't spend all his time at the train station, now could he? However, he was yet to figure out how to leave.

"Are you sure that none of these trains will take me back?" Harry asked, and Albus nodded.

"None of them will take you where you want to go."

"Where would they take me, then?"

"That's a tale for another day," the old man said and smiled tiredly, "Your reflection is wavering, young Harry. Soon, it will be your time to go again."

"Does anyone else ever visit?" Harry asked, "Don't you get lonely?"

But again, much like last time, he suddenly could only see and not hear, and he couldn't see either.

*

Pain. That's what Harry felt when he woke up. And then he felt someone gripping his hand.

"Wha-?"

"Harry?" a vaguely familiar voice said urgently, "Harry? Are you awake? NURSE! NUUURSE!"

"Ester Siegbert," a female voice - Filippa? - supplied.

"ESTER! NURSE ESTER! Harry's awake!"

"Sort of."

"He's alive!"

"He's not comatose!"

"Move aside," a female voice ordered and Harry, eyes still closed tightly, could hear his friends shuffling aside. The nurse's hands were cold and her wand was sharp as she poked and prodded and muttered incantations to check on him. "He seems to be alright. Mr. Potter, can you hear me?"

"Yeeesh."

"Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Dizzy," Harry mumbled, finally trying to open his eyes, "Head hurts. Chest hurts. Shoulders too."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Mmm? Truls?"

"Yes, you saved Mr. Kettil. He has been healed already. By colliding into him while still somewhat hanging onto your broom, you managed to slow down the fall. You both broke a few bones although the initial impact hit you, not him. Either way, you'll both be right as rain soon enough. And let this be a lesson to you two!"

"Trains?" Harry mumbled, not quite listening to what the woman was saying. There seemed to be something else, something important in his mind; a memory trying to push its way through the haze of dizziness and confusion. "Station...." Yes, there had been a station... and emptiness... and cold...

"Harry?" a voice Harry now recognized to be Heidi's said, and with a groan Harry finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to look at his friends. The person holding his hand was Truls, who was pale and wide-eyed, staring at Harry with concern.

"I'm alright," Harry rasped, "Are you? Is everything okay? What time is it?"

"Still Sunday," Filippa said, "Half past six." Harry nodded, and glanced at Truls who was still staring at him anxiously. He then looked around, taking in the sight of the hospital wing wherein he was.

"We'll leave now," Björn said suddenly, "If Truls wants to say thank you, I know he'd rather do that alone. Take care, you two."

"What you did was really brave, Harry," Petronella said softly, letting her small delicate hand rest on Harry's shoulder for a few moments, "Stupid, but brave. See you soon."

"We've got sports tomorrow," Lorenzo said, "Maybe you should ask Nurse Ester to give you a pass to skip that?"

"Just get out," Truls snapped, scowling at the loitering friends "We'll catch up with you guys-"

"And girls," Heidi added.

"-and girls later." Still feeling slightly out of it Harry watched how his other classmates left the hospital wing, leaving him alone with Truls. The boy in question looked at Harry for a few seconds before returning to sit by the bed again.

"Are you really alright?" Harry asked.

"I am," Truls replied, the usually bright cerulean eyes looking dark with guilt, "Why did you do it?"

"You almost died," Harry said, "Look, I knew what I was doing, sort of. Better the two of us injured than one dead. Right? At least now we will both be eventually fine."

"I owe you my life."

"Oh come on..."

"An honest-to-God life debt," Truls said, tugging nervously at his golden brown curls, "Thank you, Harry."

"It's... er... well... you're welcome," Harry muttered, flushing. Truls's hand found his again, and Harry wondered if now, after these few months, he could finally call someone a best friend.

Elsewhere, the Dark Lord Voldemort had just entered a wand shop in search of a second wand.

Chapter Text

Ollivander looked up from the floor he was sweeping when he heard the door of his shop opening. When he saw the tall, dark-haired man who had just stepped into his shop, the old wandmaker held back a reaction of surprise and bowed deeply instead.

"My Lord," Ollivander said warily, "How can I be of help?" It wasn't unusual for the Dark Lord to go wandering alone– he was fond of solitude, that much was known. And while everyone was wary of his magical prowess and intelligence, it was the unpredictable personality that truly made his mere presence dangerous. No one could tell whether or not he was about to murder someone or promote them in his ranks.

Then again, not many would actually recognize their commander unless he so allowed. The man knew of magic Ollivander himself couldn’t begin to imagine, and hiding his identity in ways that defied logic was hardly a feat to him.

"No retelling me what kind of wand I have? As far as I know, you're yet to end that habit," the man said, voice a mixture between boredom and amusement, "I'm seeking a second wand, Ollivander."

Had it been any other person, the wandmaker would have asked for reasons– the request was rather unusual. But one didn't ask the Dark Lord about his reasons. It just wasn't done. "A specific wand?"

"Decades ago," the Dark Lord started, "when I bought my first wand. Remember what you told me?"

"That it was made of—"

"That it has a brother wand."

"Ah," Ollivander said, a troubled expression making an appearance.

"I trust that you will be giving me that wand now," the Dark Lord said, "For out of all wands, only it can work as well as the one I have now."

"My Lord," Ollivander started hesitantly, "There is a slight problem."

"And what would that be?" the Dark Lord asked, red eyes darkening with sudden surge of anger, "Bring the wand. I'm sure it will work."

"I do not doubt that, my Lord," Ollivander replied, "The wand would indeed work. Alas, you see, the wand is… gone."

"Gone? Sold? You mean to tell me," the Dark Lord hissed, stepping closer towards the wandmaker who shuddered and resisted the urge to flee, "You mean to tell me that out there, someone has the brother of my wand? My wand?"

"Y-yes, my Lord."

"Who?"

"M-my Lord…"

"Who?"

"He's eleven years old, my Lord," Ollivander said in a shaky voice, "He's just a child."

"The only reason why I am yet to take action against you and your insolence, Ollivander, is due to your superior wand making abilities," the Dark Lord said silkily, "That does not, however, make you an exception in my book. Continue this insubordination and I shall have to… do something about it. The name. Now."

"The Potter heir," Ollivander finally revealed, "Harry Potter."

*

It was odd how, even with the piles of homework that had previously seemed so unconquerable, Harry still managed to finish them in one evening and still have the time to think too much. He had managed to get the permission to leave the Hospital Wing, but Nurse Ester had insisted on giving him a note to excuse him from sports on Monday. Harry didn't want that– he didn't want to have free time, because free time made him think, and all he could think about was war. And the train station. And Albus.

Could it be that it wasn't a dream? But what else could it be? A vision? Hardly!

He wouldn't be in this situation had he bothered to wear the manticore skin undershirt. No, really. Had he put it on, even a fall like that wouldn't have hurt him as much as it did. Maybe. Possibly. Then again, if he had put it on and been alright after a fall like that, the others would have asked questions and Harry would have had to give them some kind of answers. And all this… friendship thing and the warm feelings it brought with it aside… Harry wasn't fond of the idea of telling anyone about the manticore shirt.

It was a simple precaution, really. Not that he didn't trust his friends. He was just being careful.

Maybe he should just keep wearing it and play dumb if someone figured it out? Not to say that Durmstrang wasn't safe– it was, really. The fights between students that happened were always between the older students and Harry's classmates tended to stay out of them. Well, with the exception of Björn who found it hard to resist betting on anything even remotely interesting.

Tomorrow, the day would start with History of Magic. Harry didn't mind history as a subject– he liked it quite a lot, actually. There was more to history than just Goblin wars and house-elf rebellions. There was more than Merlin's legend and the history of spells. It was the story of Europe – the forging of the magical Europe. And yet every attempt to read a bit ahead in the history book ended up with Harry thinking about the train station.

'I wonder if I can find any information about it in the library,' Harry thought. He could also ask his parents– his mother might know– but he didn't want to. What if it really was just a reoccurring dream and he'd end up making a fool out of himself by asking about it? Surely he wasn't going to let a simple dream scare him? Besides, it had happened only twice. Even though the dreams were realistic, they were hardly anything to get worried about.

The following day Harry got something else to worry about.

His… friends. There seemed to be a slight change in dynamics of the group, and Harry wasn't sure what to think of it. It wasn't that their behaviour had changed, not exactly. There just seemed to be some sort of distance growing between them, and it reminded Harry quite painfully of how he had grown apart from Ron and Draco, who probably didn't even remember Harry anymore at all. It made Harry yearn for his story-books again, if only to chase away the awful feeling he was getting.

Truls sat by his side all the time and yet hardly spoke two words to him, and Harry felt ridiculous for thinking that saving the other boy's life could have made them best friends. It had seemed like it in the beginning– they all had been there for him in the Hospital Wing… So what had changed overnight? Could it be that his classmates had talked with each other and decided to ignore him? But they weren't really ignoring him, were they? Maybe they had just decided that Harry wasn't worth being friends with? But why? He saved Truls's life! And the initial aftermath had gone well enough! So why this kind of behaviour now?

Plagued with such thoughts, Harry couldn't bring himself to even attempt starting a conversation. It was odd how he could hang out for months with the same people, and think that he knew them, but then suddenly realize that they were strangers. That was why, after showing the sports instructor– Madam Wieland– the pass excusing him from the lesson, Harry didn't stick around. He didn't feel like returning to his flat either, and so he headed towards the library instead.

Durmstrang’s library was perhaps his favourite place in the entire school. It was clean and quiet, with an air of stillness that made Harry's heart beat faster with delight. The librarian looked up from her desk, didn't smile at Harry– only stared– 'til the boy walked past her and headed towards his favourite corner after grabbing a few books. Eventually he settled down there to read Beauty and the Beast, determined to forget everything surrounding him.

*

The Dark Lord Voldemort was curious.

How could he not be? Someone– some child out there– had been chosen by the brother of his wand. What kind of child was Harry Potter? Of course Voldemort knew of the existence of a Potter family, but as far as he could tell, the patriarch of that household wasn't a high-ranking Death Eater and, therefore, not really worth being noticed. It didn't take the Dark Lord long to find out that the boy was studying at Durmstrang of all places– Durmstrang. The thought was strangely pleasing; at least the child must have some potential.

He didn't inform Igor of his visit to the school. Why should he? He had the right to go wherever he wanted to, and if someone had a differing opinion, they were welcome to express it… and then suffer the consequences, of course.

"Point me," the Dark Lord whispered, holding his wand at the tip of his fingers. It twirled twice before finally stopping, pointing at the direction where this Harry Potter would be.

Voldemort was yet to decide what he was actually going to do once he found the boy. He could get rid of him, but he didn't think that he'd do that. The Dark Lord wasn't against killing children, but doing so at school grounds with no reason wasn't good considering his public image– an act such as murdering an heir of a pureblood family just so he could get his wand would surely make some people betray him, and he really couldn't afford that right now.

Perhaps later.

For now, he'd just see what kind of creature was actually worthy of a wand equal to his own. Was the child exceptionally talented? Was his magical signature stronger than average? Was he unusually intelligent? The Dark Lord entered the library, not minding the librarian who paled and hastily stood up to bow deeply – she recognized him; everyone at Durmstrang should – as he made his way to where his wand was pointing him to. Finally, he reached a corner where he saw the boy that must be this… Harry Potter.

The child was rather scrawny, with thick, messy black hair and pale skin. He was curled up on a sofa with a book on his lap and seemed to be completely focused on it. Why wasn't the boy in class? Was he skipping? Why was he so small anyway; surely not all first years were that tiny? The hunched back didn't speak of confidence and the messy hair didn't show signs of proper grooming. Was this…whelp really deserving of his wand?

The Dark Lord was displeased. He stood silently; taking in the sight of the boy he was already deeming to be careless and weak. Perhaps his intelligence could make up for it? Except that the book he was holding wasn't even an educational one, but a fairytale. Did this Harry Potter have even one redeeming quality? Why should the Dark Lord spare him after all? Surely no one would miss this little ghostly creature.

And then the boy looked up, and the Dark Lord almost took a step back– the vivid green eyes reminded him of the Killing Curse, and the look was so intense that, suddenly, the man was certain that there weren't many who could look this boy in the eyes for longer than a few seconds.

"How can I help you?" Potter asked softly, and the Dark Lord realized with disbelief that the foolish child didn't even recognize him.

"I was merely observing," he replied evenly from where he was standing, "You're reading… a fairytale. How come you're not in class?"

"Sports. Nurse told me to not go today."

"Why not use the time beneficially, then?"

"I don't understand," the boy said, appearing suddenly rather bored. It irritated the Dark Lord– no one looked bored in his presence. He wasn't boring! "I like fairytales. They keep me happy. Stories in general are enjoyable. Far more pleasant than people."

"Not a social person, then?" the Dark Lord asked, wondering why he was even talking to this brat anymore, "I see no benefit in reading fiction. Surely something else is not only enjoyable but also useful." Come on. One tiny redeeming quality in the brat's personality so the Dark Lord could give himself a reason to let the boy live.

"Does it matter?" Potter shot back, before shaking his head and looking down at his book, fringe hiding his face almost completely, "You never do anything that is enjoyable that doesn't have an academic value of some kind? Like, some people drink two cups of coffee in the morning. Why two? Because they're thirsty? They could drink water for that. To stay awake thanks to the caffeine? There're pepper up potions available. So why coffee? Because they desire it even though it's not particularly beneficial."

"And your desire is to waste time reading stories?" Voldemort asked with disbelief, yet feeling reluctantly fascinated. It had been a while since someone hadn't known who he was, and therefore talked back to him. Not that he enjoyed people talking back to him– actually, he hated it. And yet, coming from this child, it wasn’t quite as annoying. Perhaps it was because the boy wasn't really talking back to him as much as just involving himself in a conversation where he had a differing opinion. "Is that wise?"

*

"Is that wise?"

Harry stared at the stranger, wondering how anyone could ever think that stories were a waste of time. Oh sure, he had heard it before, but this man seemed to be completely… not understanding it. As if he honestly couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to read a fictional story that didn't provide any facts.

"Who are you?" Harry finally asked, and the red-eyed man rolled his eyes before shooting him an irritated glare.

"Right now, that's irrelevant," he replied, and Harry couldn't help but shake his head at what he thought to be childishness. The man appeared to be around his thirties– why did he act like a brat? "Now answer my question."

"A spoiled pureblood brat," Harry muttered aloud, shaking his head.

"What?" the man asked, rising an eyebrow, "Do tell what that was about."

"Just thought that you remind me of someone. He's a pureblood, and a bit… spoiled," Harry said reluctantly, unsure of what the man's reaction could be. Would he be angry? But no, while the man did, indeed, narrow his eyes and glare, he didn't really seem angry.

"And you're not a spoiled pureblood brat, then?"

"Half-blood," Harry admitted, knowing that his mother would cringe at him confessing his blood status to a stranger, "And I'm pretty sure I'm not spoiled. To answer your question, though, I think it's just as wise as doing anything else at this point. It's half past twelve, my next lesson starts at two. Even if I had any homework I'm yet to do– and I don't have– I could do it later."

"This conversation is boring me," the man said suddenly, apparently losing all interest, "You tire me."

"You're free to go," Harry replied sharply, "Your absence will not be a source of grief for me. Actually, if you leave, I could just return to my reading."

"You're terribly rude," the man observed, "What if I was to… hurt you? What if your rudeness would make me angry and I—"

"That's a hypothetical situation," Harry cut in, "And I don't think that you'd do that. Not now, at least. You don't even have your wand out. Besides, you were being just as rude, if not ruder. Who tells someone else that they're boring?"

"I do."

"Well, yes. My point."

"I fail to see your point," the man said neutrally, "You're strange."

"And you are giving me a headache," Harry snapped. Heavens, this man was worse than Uncle Sirius on a bad day! "So what did you want again?"

"I said," the man sighed, "that I was merely observing."

"Why would you observe me?" Harry asked with a frown, "Who are you anyway?"

"That's irrele—"

"You tell me your name or I'll give you one."

"You can't just give people names," the man said and Harry was strongly reminded of Draco when the blond had been four and Harry had told him that no, Harry's birthday didn't mean that Draco Malfoy had the right to do what he wanted. "Look, I'm probably older than—"

"You don't act like it," Harry cut in again with a displeased expression, "You don't act like an adult at all. I'll call you… I think I'll call you Tom." Where had that name come from? It was as if someone had mentioned the name 'Tom' to Harry before, but the boy couldn't really remember. Either way, the red-eyed stranger's eyes widened, and he tilted his head to the side with a very peculiar expression.

"Why?" the man asked. "Why… Tom?"

"You look like a Tom," Harry claimed, "And until you tell me your real name, that's what I'm going to call you."

*

There had to be something about this brat. There had to be. There were simply too many little things that the Dark Lord had noticed, and he didn't really believe in coincidences.

He could have, eventually, moved on and perhaps even forgotten about the brother wand issue. He could have forgotten about the eyes that were so vividly reminding him of the Killing Curse. He could have ignored the boy's reluctantly refreshing– and annoying– manners and possibly even the fact that the boy had named him Tom. Which was, coincidentally, his real name. The one no one was supposed to know.

But all of these little signs together? No. There had to be something. And that's why he couldn't kill the brat yet– he was like a tiny, remotely interesting puzzle.

"Did you fall asleep on your feet?" the boy asked, "My godfather does that sometimes. Mum says it's because he's a head case. Listen, if you're a bit slow, that's alright. Just sit down. Don't think on your feet or you’ll fall down and injure yourself."

‘Slo— what?' Voldemort wasn't a man easily surprised. He was the one who surprised others – usually with a curse of some kind. But here he was now, starting to feel like a fool in front of a child that couldn't possibly be any more brilliant than he had been decades ago. "What if I cursed you now, for your insolence?"

"I'd rat on you," Potter replied promptly.

"Ah, but what if I told you that I'm the Dark Lord?" Voldemort asked, with a small smile twisting his lips, "What would you do then?"

"I wouldn't believe you," Potter said calmly, "I mean, come on. Why would the Dark Lord himself be suddenly sneaking into the library of Durmstrang to have a conversation with a first year student about stories? It just doesn't make sense. He's probably out there doing something about the war."

"The war?" the Dark Lord hissed sharply while deciding reluctantly to not inform the boy of his identity, "What do you know of that?"

"It's just a feeling I've got," Potter replied, "And maybe I've heard rumours. There's a war coming, supposedly."

"What kind of rumours have you heard?"

"Just that the Rebels are gathering an army and that it means war, eventually."

"War would have been inevitable no matter what," Voldemort said, straightening up and looking down at the child with a sneer, "Get a hobby. Thinking about politics at your age is unhealthy."

"You think I like politics?" Potter exclaimed, "Look, I told you I don't like people. And politics is all about people."

"You're boring me again. I think I shall leave."

"Then go. I'll try to not cry– since I obviously will be devastated. That's how much I liked you."

"Are you always this rude?" the Dark Lord snapped. Potter smiled at him sweetly, face bordering angelic in its innocence.

"No," the boy admitted, "You're just special."

*

Harry watched as the man – Tom – growled and turned and left. He didn't know what it was about this person but Harry felt almost compelled to be as terrible as possible. Tom's behaviour didn't encourage Harry to treat him like he'd treat other adults.

It was strange. It was more than just strange– Harry, generally speaking, was almost fearful of behaving rudely towards others. Shy, is what his mother would say. And yet with Tom, he had acted so unlike himself that it, frankly, confused Harry. Should he just forget this strange man? It was unlikely that they were going to meet again.

Either way, it was time for lunch now anyway– the time was almost one o'clock. The others would be now either showering or already making their way towards the dining hall– Harry didn't think that anyone really had the time to cook for themselves. Besides, the elves made delicious meals.

Harry wasn't sure how he'd behave with the others now that he had picked up on the change of atmosphere. He still didn't understand why it had happened, but he wasn't going to ask. So at lunch, he sat quietly between Filippa and Heidi again, listening to the others talking about one thing or another while feeling like an outsider.

'Actually, the most fun I had today was when reading, before Tom appeared,' Harry thought bitterly. Not bearing to be where he was anymore, he stood up abruptly, startling the others. Not looking at anyone, Harry grabbed his bag and headed out of the dining hall. The classroom of Transfiguration, where he was heading now, wasn't that far away, and so Harry arrived there in a matter of few minutes. It wasn't long after that he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Why did you leave?" Truls asked, trying to catch his breath. He sat down next to Harry and focused on calming down.

"I didn't feel comfortable there," Harry replied warily, "Why did you follow?" His question made Truls tense, and after a few long moments of silence, the boy spoke again.

"The others said that we need to talk."

"Not really."

"But yes. Don't you see? Harry, I owe you my life."

"I know," Harry replied, heart beating rapidly, "I know that you do."

"I haven't told my parents about it," Truls admitted, "They won't be pleased."

"Is it really a big thing?" Harry asked, "Ever since this morning, I feel like everything has changed. As if I'm not… included anymore."

"No!" Truls exclaimed, eyes wide, "That's not it! I mean, yes, it is something big, and everything– well, not really everything– has changed. But you're definitely not excluded from anything!"

"Then what? Why are you guys, I don't know, behaving like you can hardly look at me."

"I owe you my life," Truls repeated again, "I basically owe myself to you. Which pretty much makes me… well, it makes you my owner. And that means that—"

"Ignore it," Harry interrupted, "I don't want to own anyone. I just want to have friends, Truls."

"But—"

"Look, one day I might need your help or something. And you'll help me. 'Til then, we'll both pretend that you owe me nothing. You don't even need to tell your parents."

"That's very kind of you," a new voice joined in, and Petronella sat down next to Harry, making the boy only now aware of the fact that the others had arrived, "Usually when someone owes someone else a Life Debt, the person it's owed to likes to brag. Especially if a Pureblood owes them."

"Well, I don't care about stuff like that," Harry said with a scowl, "But why would you suddenly behave differently?"

"You really don't get it?" Nikolai asked, eyes wide, "Look, we all used to be equal. Owed nothing to anyone and no one owed anything to us. Now Truls owes you his life, and—"

"But what does it change?"

"Look," Filippa started, "I'll be the one to offer the short, brutal and honest answer. All groups have a hierarchy, whether or not they're aware of it. We used to be equal. Now we're not. Why? Because you own a human life, and that– even if no one but us knows– puts you above us in hierarchy simply because now you have something that the rest of us don’t."

"That's stupid."

"No, it—"

"It is," Harry insisted, "What happened between Truls and I is in no way anyone else's business, so I don't understand why everyone else should even have an opinion on the matter. There's no reason for it to affect anyone else but the two directly involved."

"For a pureblood, your thoughts are weird," Nikolai said, shaking his head. Harry was already opening his mouth to tell the others that he was, in fact, a half-blood, when he decided against that. He wasn't ashamed of being what he was, but there was still that new kind of reluctance.

"I don't care if you all think I'm weird," Harry said, and he knew that he wasn't completely honest when he said that. He did care. Actually, he cared quite a lot. He didn't want to be considered weird, an oddity.

"How long are your Transfiguration essays?" Clemens suddenly asked, changing the subject, "The deadline was today, right?"

"When else?"

"Well, we do have Transfiguration first thing in the morning tomorrow. Could be then."

"Wishful thinking, buddy."

"Hey," Truls said quietly, side pressed against Harry, face tilted down for the boy to hide behind the curtain of golden brown curls, "Thank you. I'm not saying this about the life debt. Just… thank you. I can't imagine being dead."

"Where do the dead go?" Lorenzo suddenly mused, "I've always wondered. I mean, religions aside– where do you think they go?"

"Nowhere," Jakob replied promptly, "The dead go nowhere."

And suddenly Harry felt chilly, as if he was on the verge of understanding something he really didn't want to know. Nowhere. Nowhere. He had never realized how ominous that word actually was.

*

"We have gained new information regarding their whereabouts. Those filthy blood-traitors have allied themselves with the French!"

Araminta Meliflua was old as England and thrice as English. She wore hats of oddest designs, insisted on making Muggle-hunting legal, seemed to have a cup of tea attached permanently into her hand, and hated anything foreign or different – even dialects and accents. She refused to leave her country even for any reason – including holidays – and strongly disapproved of those who did.

She also hated the French with fury that impressed even the Dark Lord himself.

Granted, he thought she was a tad obsessive about the issue, but it was entertaining to watch so why not just let her keep at it?

Araminta Meliflua was also, much to a certain Death Eater's misery, the cousin of Sirius's mother.

Sirius rarely enjoyed the strict and stuffy meetings of Dark Lord’s Army’s highest officials, as they often tended to go on forever. Sirius tiredly listened to his Aunt Araminta arguing in defence of some point or another, wondering if she knew that almost nobody was really listening. The perspective she was providing was interesting, certainly, but not really important. Sirius watched carefully the bored expression of the Dark Lord.

It was hard to believe that he was who he was and had achieved what he had.

Lord Voldemort was very handsome and charming, and didn't look a day over thirty. Sirius knew that the man was said to be immortal, but somehow– regardless of the evidence– he just couldn't wrap his mind around that fact. No one could be immortal.

"I have also acquired new information," the Dark Lord said suddenly, his voice silky and dangerous. Sirius tensed, knowing that whatever the man had found out, it certainly wasn't good. "Do you remember what I told you of the… war? Of the Rebels? Do you? Bellatrix?"

"O-of course my Lord," said Bellatrix Lestrange the Defence General of the Dark Lord’s army, bowing deeply with eyes wide in a way that didn't appear completely natural, "To keep it hush hush."

"And yet," Lord Voldemort snarled, red eyes almost glowing with anger, "And yet, I find that there are rumours. Of the war. Tell me, Antonin, how can that be if everyone really was quiet about the issue?"

"I… I don't know, my Lord."

"What do you think happened, Bartemius?"

"Someone talked, my Lord," Durmstrang's Duelling Instructor and one of the Lieutenant Generals, said. Sirius tensed, knowing that he was one of those who had talked rather carelessly of the matter – but only to James and Lily! And they wouldn’t actually say it to anyone else. It had to be someone else.

"Any suspicions on who might have…talked, Lucius?"

Of course, the Dark Lord wouldn't be getting any real answers– no one was stupid enough to reveal that they had done what he had specifically told them not to. Sirius knew, however, that this tactic of using their names was to make them feel threatened and more aware of their status and duties. And it worked– he saw from Bellatrix's cowed expression that she wouldn't be mentioning her predictions of the eventual war to anyone anytime soon again.

"My dear sister-in-law has been rather vocal on her… opinions, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy said, and Sirius heard someone behind him scoff. Of course Malfoy would rat out someone – anyone – if only to avoid being punished. It didn’t help that Bellatrix outranked him.

"Lies!" Bellatrix shrieked, "No, my Lord, I haven't—"

"Crucio."

It was strange, Sirius mused, how the Dark Lord could look completely at ease while torturing others. As if it really didn't matter to him. No, he hadn't expected hesitation, of course, but even the cruellest Death Eaters showed some emotion– even if it was just enjoyment.

Lord Voldemort was a complicated man. Sirius had thought that just defining him as a psychopath would have said enough of the man's personality, but there was more to that than just words. Actually, Sirius could vaguely remember Lily once saying that the Dark Lord might not necessarily even be a psychopath, but a sociopath. Personally Sirius didn't really know what the difference was, but, then again, it was none of his business anyway.

Maybe Sirius should tell Harry, though. Just in case. He didn't know if the kid knew anything about the rumours– but there was a chance that he could have overheard something. So just in case, Sirius was going to send him a short letter with a bit of advice… and maybe some chocolate frogs too.

*

On Wednesday, Harry woke up to the sound of an owl trying to blast its way through the window. Yawning, he scrambled off his bed, wondering who in their right mind would send him a letter this early. It couldn't be his mother– she would just firecall unless there was an actual package that she wanted to send.

Harry recognized the small brown owl to be his godfather's, and with curiosity – and delight – dug into the box of chocolate frogs before sitting down to read the short letter.

Harrykins!

I'm well. All's well. I know I haven't been all that good at this whole letter writing business, but rest assured– I still think of you every day. Usually when I do something your mother wouldn't approve of.

Cheery small talk aside, my sweet little godson, I actually wrote for a reason. Not only to remind you of my own existence, but also to ask whether or not you have overheard anything your parents might have mentioned about a possible war against the Rebels.

The thing is, Harry, it was supposed to be a secret. It was supposed to be private and yet people talked, and the Dark Lord found out. Someone overheard the gossip and told him. I know you have nothing to do with it, but I decided to take the opportunity to just remind you to be careful– don't talk about politics with anyone, and burn this letter.

Yours,

Sirius

Harry folded the letter, trying to smother the feeling of guilt inside him. Why should he even feel guilty? He hadn't talked about the—

"Why would the Dark Lord himself be suddenly sneaking in the library of Durmstrang having a conversation with a first year about stories? It just doesn't make sense. He's probably out there doing something about the war."

"The war? What do you know of that?"

"It's just a feeling I've got. And maybe I've heard rumours. There's a war coming, supposedly."

"What kind of rumours have you heard?"

"Just that the Rebels are gathering an army and that it means war, eventually."

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling sick as he remembered the conversation he had had with the mysterious Tom. It must have been Tom who had told the Dark Lord. So it really was Harry's fault. Or perhaps it was really Tom's. That good for nothing bastard. Harry had known that there was something horribly wrong with the man.

'I swear, if I ever see him again, I'm going to… well, I can't really say anything, can I? If he knows that I know, he'll wonder from where I found out that the Dark Lord knows. And Uncle Sirius doesn't hide the fact that he's my godfather.'

Harry was still thinking about the issue when he finally headed towards the first lesson of the day after a quick breakfast, Care of Magical Creatures– known better as just 'Creatures'. The lessons were more often than not held outside, and the students would see either the animals they were supposed to study or just holograms of them.

"What do we have after this?" Lorenzo whispered next to Harry.

"Herbology," Filippa replied, "Then Transfiguration."

"How come we always have Transfiguration?" Harry scowled, and Heidi giggled next to him.

"Not always. Just three times a week."

"Oh, now there are some creatures I want to study," Petronella suddenly said, both Heidi and Filippa nodded appreciatively at the sight of the 4th year boys having their sports lesson nearby.

"Speaking of finer specimens," Heidi started, and Harry decided that it was high time to tune the girls out. That, however, made him refocus on his thoughts about Tom instead of the ongoing Care of Magical Creatures lecture. It was strange, actually, how much he thought about the man. What was his real name anyway? Maybe he should ask Sirius? Describe him and…

No. Because then Sirius would ask from where he knew the man, and Harry didn't really feel like explaining why he didn't go to sports on that day– the tale would eventually find its way to his mother, and Harry honestly wasn't fond of the thought of his mother finding out.

She'd either assassinate him– and save himself the trouble of getting himself accidentally killed– or decide to home school him. And being home schooled meant more Gilderoy Lockhart in his life. Uh, no. The man's letters were more than enough torment.

Harry was carefully avoiding thinking of the bizarre, massive crush his self-declared 'mentor' had on the Duelling Instructor, often referred to as Crouch Junior.

"These unfortunate mishaps notwithstanding, we wizards may congratulate ourselves on a job well done," the professor was saying, "There can be no doubt that the overwhelming majority of present-day Muggles refuse to believe in the magical beasts their ancestors so feared. Even those Muggles who do notice Porlock droppings or Streeler trails– it would be foolish to suppose that all traces of these creatures can be hidden– appear satisfied with the flimsiest non-magical explanation. Now tell me... Mr. Lennart! To read a fascinating examination of this fortunate tendency of Muggles, which book would you consult? We talked about this last time!"

"The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why the Muggles Prefer Not to Know," Björn drawled, "I read it once. Awfully dull."

"Who wrote it? Miss Albin?"

"Professor Mordicus Egg," Petronella said promptly, and Harry wondered if he should have also read the book in questions. But how could he, when there were so many other– far more interesting– books available?

"Think we'll get to play Quidditch soon?" Truls whispered, and Harry shrugged.

"I doubt it," he said. “Not with how busy they’re keeping us.”

"Sucks."

*

Harry met Tom again on Sunday. This time outside, while Harry was having a walk in the Garden of Grindelwald– a huge labyrinth that Harry found absolutely irresistible. For some strange reasons no one else liked it half as much as he did.

"Is it possible that you have become even shorter?" Tom asked, speaking to him with the familiarity of someone who had known Harry for years. Harry himself didn't feel as if this was their second meeting at all, which was rather curious. "You're doing something wrong if your growth is reversed."

"Why are you here?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Giving a guest appearance and testing some of the older students," the man replied.

"Are you a teacher at some other school?"

"I teach lessons, yes. Daily. How old are you again?"

"Eleven," Harry said, resisting the temptation of asking the man his age, "I'm a first year here."

"Ah yes. I hate children," Tom said, looking at a strangely shaped bush nearby, "So… useless."

"Why do you work as a teacher then, if you're not fond of children?" Harry asked incredulously, "Besides, why do you even talk to me? Last time we met—"

"Look," Tom cut in, "I'm a busy man."

"Could have fooled me," Harry muttered.

"I don't have much entertainment in my life, I'm afraid. Right now, you're the funniest thing I've stumbled upon for the past… very… many years."

"The funniest?"

"Granted, the most irritating as well. And strangest. You are rather odd."

"You're one to talk," Harry said slowly, staring at the man, feeling suddenly irritated. "Who the hell are you?"

"You're eleven. You're not supposed to talk like that."

"Look, I'm pretty sure you're not my mum."

"What a disturbing mental image you're giving me. I'm definitely not your mother."

"Why are you still here?"

"I wonder that too," Tom said, "But then I realize that this is the most fun I have had in a while. And then, I realize that you're just a kid, and it makes me feel disappointed that you can entertain me better than any of the people surrounding me at… hm, work." Harry eyed the man warily, before shrugging. He really didn't know what he was supposed to do or how he was supposed to react. Ever since he had arrived in Durmstrang, it seemed as if everything was gradually changing. People appeared to see Harry, now, and the boy couldn't help but wonder what had changed in him to make that happen.

Tom… was unexplainable. This was the second time Harry met him and he knew nothing about the man… and yet there seemed to be this strange something between them. It made Harry speak his mind– the thoughts he usually left unvoiced.

"What do you think of war?" Tom asked suddenly.

"Someone once told me that there are no winners in a war," Harry replied, and the man scoffed.

"Hypocritical naïve little pacifist," Tom said, "Probably a vegan and an animal rights activist as well. You're suddenly getting on my nerves again. Get lost."

"You were the one who approached me! Besides, there's nothing wrong in being—"

"I'm currently trying to think of the reasons why I haven't cursed you yet."

"That's because you know you have no real reason to," Harry snapped, "It'd also make you question your own maturity."

"If only you knew," Tom said, shaking his head, "I shall be taking my leave now, Perry—"

"Harry."

"Do try to improve your personality by the next time we cross paths, mm?"

Then the man was gone and Harry was left standing alone, wondering why he would even want to see Tom ever again. The Christmas holiday would start the following week and was going to last 'til the seventh of January, after which Harry doubted that he'd have the chance to wander around– the exams would surely keep him busy.

And no, he didn't feel disappointed.

*

"Wanna bet on who gets more gifts?"

"I'll send you a card, I promise!"

"See you in a few weeks!"

"Firecall me, yeah?"

James blinked with surprise at how much noise ten little children were capable of making without really even shouting. It warmed his heart, however, to see how well his son was interacting with others. Actually, all ten of them seemed to be rather close, hugging each other and talking animatedly. Finally, after over ten minutes of 'bye bye's, Harry finally reached him, and James could apparate them back home.

"Mum!" Harry flung himself at his mother, without bothering to take off his coat or shoes, "I missed you two so much!"

"Even if I didn't get a hug, I'll believe you," James laughed.

"How have you been, baby?" Lily cooed, "Firecalling just isn't enough. You've grown taller!"

"I'm still almost the shortest guy, though," Harry revealed, "I wish I can be as tall as Clemens or Truls. Mum, did you buy me any gifts?"

"Of course—"

"Because Björn's got a betting pool going on about who'll be getting most gifts. I think Petronella will, because her parents are super rich and they spoil her rotten. Where's Uncle Sirius?"

"Change your clothes first, dear," Lily said, "The house-elves will unpack your bag. Then you'll come down again for a bit of cookies and milk and you'll tell me all there is to tell. Alright?"

"I'll be right back!" Harry declared, and rushed away. James chuckled quietly, coming to stand next to her.

"I've never seen him this energetic before," Lily admitted.

"You didn't see him with the other kids. Trust me, they're all good friends," James told her, "It was… heart-warming to watch."

"I'm glad," Lily whispered. "I was worried about him. Always so lonely. So alone. Were there any girls he was close to?"

"What? Lily, he's eleven!"

"Oh trust me– even girls of eleven can tell if a guy is worth their time."

"You hated me when we were eleven."

"You were rather terrible."

"You are terrible," James accused, wrapping his arms around Lily, "Terribly beautiful. And amazing. And talented. And I love you so much—"

"Oh, yuck," a scandalized groan came from the doorway, and the two adults turned to see Harry staring at them with a disgusted expression. "I didn't want to hear that."

"Stomp louder on the stairs next time," James suggested, "We might even hear you."

"Look, dad, you're about four hundred years old—"

"I am not—!"

"You shouldn't do stuff like that!" Harry sounded so adorably disapproving while James looked gravely insulted that Lily couldn't contain her laughter any longer.

"I'm not even forty yet!"

"Forty. Four hundred. One zero here or there. Doesn't matter."

"It does!"

"Come on, boys," Lily giggled, green eyes twinkling, "Let's just sit down for a snack. I need to tell Harry a bit about our plans for this year's Christmas."

"Will we be going to that dreadful Malfoy Christmas party again this year?"

"Yes, well, it's tradition. You'll see Draco again. Don't you miss him?"

"Honestly?" said Harry, "No. I don't. And I don't think he misses me either."

"You've changed," Lily muttered, "You're more… outspoken. I'm glad."

"A lot has happened," Harry told her, "Is Uncle Sirius going to visit today?"

"Sirius is on a mission," James said, "He'll visit when he comes back. And no, I don't know when exactly. How are the lessons at Durmstrang? Tell me about your friends."

"Challenging," Harry replied, "The lessons, I mean. And my friends are cool. Will we go meet the Weasleys, too? I don't really miss Ron either, but at least he's more fun to hang around than Draco."

"Sure. Maybe you'll talk with Ginevra too," Lily said cheerfully, "I saw her and Molly last week. That girl will be one beautiful woman, one day."

"…why would it matter to me?" Harry asked, confused, "I've never played with Ginny before."

"Let's call it investing early," his mother smiled. James snorted, and then shook his head.

"Don't…"

Harry wondered why all adults in his life were weird.

*

The Malfoy Manor was just as extravagantly, dreadfully flashy as Harry remembered it to be. His parents and godfather were all with him as they made their way inside, where the numerous guests were already mingling.

Harry couldn't stand it.

There was just that something in the pretentious atmosphere that made him shudder inside. People pretending to be close friends while in truth they couldn't wait to stomp on each other to boost their own reputation.

"Sirius, James," Lucius Malfoy said, approaching them, "And Lily, of course. Hello, Harry. Draco is in the grey lounge as always. All of the visiting children will be meeting there. If you need anything, just call for a house-elf."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," the boy muttered and after smiling hesitantly, left their company.

'Bet he picks the grey because it makes his eyes look good,' Harry thought while making his way through the familiar hallways to where the other boy would surely be waiting with his friends, 'He's so… Gilderoyish sometimes.'

"Hi Draco," Harry said, and the blond turned with an expression of delighted surprise on his pointed face. He really hadn't changed much at all.

"Harry!" Draco exclaimed and then waved towards his friends, pointing at each one of them in turn, "I'm so glad you came! You remember Pansy and Blaise and Theo, right?"

"Yes," Harry lied with a smile, "How have you all been?"

" Quite well, Potter," Pansy drawled, eyes fixed on someone else. Probably some other girl whose dress was better than her own. "Pleased to meet you… again."

"Heard you got into Durmstrang," Theodore Nott said, "How is it there?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied with a shrug, "How's Hogwarts?"

"Easy," Draco said, "It's almost pathetic, really. At least I'm in Slytherin."

"We all are," Pansy hurried to say, finally turning to look at Harry, "Have you met anyone interesting in Durmstrang? I heard that both Anthony Lestrange and Cassius Meliflua study there– have you seen them?"

'Who and who?' Harry wondered, but didn't voice his questions. "We don't really mix with the upperclassmen. We prefer to stay with our own."

"Your own, huh," Draco repeated, "Made any new friends there?"

"Quite a few, yes," Harry said, starting to feel bored already. If only he could make the others focus on something else for a few moments, Harry was sure he could just sneak away and hide somewhere 'til it was time to go home. Or perhaps he should just— "I think I see someone familiar there. Do excuse me."

Harry hadn't, of course, seen anyone familiar. He just couldn't resist the chance to leave; slip out of the door and into a huge hall wherein the more important guests were talking and dancing. Locating one of the balconies easily, Harry finally reached the place that would guarantee him some solitude amongst all this terrifying socializing.

The sun was starting to set outside as Harry entered the balcony and closed the door before moving to sit a bit to the side, as to remain unseen by anyone inside. Through the glass, he could hear the music to which all the people danced.

Admittedly, had it not been for his hate towards this sort of events, Harry would have readily admitted that the Malfoys had outdone themselves. Now, he just reluctantly accepted that fact, wondering whether or not there was a reason for this kind of fuss.

He was so comfortable in his hiding place, almost dozing off eventually.

It wasn't 'til he heard the door of the balcony slam shut again that he was startled awake, and it still took him a few moments to realize that someone was kneeling in front of him. Blinking his suddenly tired eyes open, he almost shrieked with surprise when he met the gaze of the person in front of him.

She was a beautiful woman with long, thick, shining black hair. Thin red lips were twisted into a curious smile and heavy-lidded eyes were a tad too intense for Harry's liking. They were both silently staring at each other just as the first melodies of what Harry recognized to be one of Mozart’s compositions floated through the thin glass of the door.

'Who is she?' Harry wondered, the beating of his heart calming finally down. The woman didn't move at all– just kneeled there, staring, looking scary and imposing somehow, her black robes making her resemble a dark queen of some kind.

She was beautiful.

"Thank you," the woman said, her voice lighter than what Harry would have assumed it to be.

"I didn't say that aloud," Harry said, thinking of how regardless of the words, the woman didn't sound grateful at all.

"You didn't have to," the woman replied. "Harry Potter. Here hiding from ickle little Draco and his friends."

"How—"

"It's all in your mind, boy. People don't stare at anyone's eyes just because they're beautiful. Even if yours are exquisite."

"Wait," Harry said, mind working rapidly. He had read about something that involved eye-contact to read minds. Something called... "You used legilimency on me?"

"You know the term," the woman said, smiling again, "Impressive."

"I study at Durmstrang," Harry replied warily, back still pressed against the wall behind him, "Our materials are very... extensive."

"So you'll be a fine, fine Death Eater one day," the woman almost sang, "Serving our Lord. Faithfully, yes. You should feel honoured, boy. Honoured. You are predestined to be one of his best. Finest. To follow in my footsteps. I'm his most faithful, you see. Most faithful." And suddenly, Harry knew who she was. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins as fear returned in one, almost overwhelming rush.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," he whispered, and the woman's eyes widened as she let out a short, delighted laugh that was little more than an exhale.

"Had you asked who I was," she hissed, leaning even closer, "I would have killed you here, little one."

Harry didn't doubt her words. He was still shaking when the woman stood up and left to seek entertainment elsewhere.

*

It was half past two at night when the Potters finally returned home. Harry had stayed quiet most of the time, hiding and avoiding everyone– especially Bellatrix Lestrange– and was exhausted by the time he found his parents and left for home. His mother had tucked him in and told him that he could sleep in the next day, and then wake up to open his gifts.

Harry, regardless of his exhaustion, couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered his meeting with the Bellatrix Lestrange.

The woman was legendary.

She was one of the Dark Lord's finest– or worst, depending on the point of view. There had been so many tales about her, and thanks to Draco and Ron, Harry had ended up hearing every single one of them. The woman of his nightmares. The cruel, powerful Death Eater who was said to be so mad that even the Dementors knew to stay away.

One of the two Generals of the Dark Lord’s army. Her authority was second only to the Dark Lord’s.

And now she seemed to have… noticed Harry.

Was this some kind of punishment? No one had noticed Harry before, and now suddenly it seems that crazy people like her noticed him a bit too easily? Was Tom crazy too? What should he do? He couldn't tell his parents; that was certain. What was left? He'd have to learn how to protect himself. He would have to. Or was he being paranoid? Was he overreacting? Maybe Bellatrix had forgotten him already? Would he dare to count on that?

Harry wasn't by nature an ambitious child. All he yearned for was to read more stories in peace. But he knew that stories wouldn't keep him safe if Bellatrix decided to come up with another reason just to kill him. Why did she hate him anyway?

'Maybe she doesn’t hate me. People like her,' Harry suddenly realized with dread, 'they don't need a reason to kill somebody. All they need is the opportunity to do so.'

It was almost four in the morning when Harry rolled off his bed and fell onto the floor with a thud. It hurt a little bit, but the carpet was rather comfortable and it certainly offered a change of scenery. Harry sighed and pulled himself up, before noticing the vaguely familiar old notebook on his desk, exactly where he had left it before.

And suddenly, all traces of exhaustion vanished with the appearance of new hope. A whisper of a memory, bringing hope with it, made him reach for the old notebook and look at it seriously for the first time. The thought of his wand suddenly surged forward in his mind, as if by force, and he didn't think twice before reaching for the notebook and his wand.

He stood there, in the darkness, for a few moments with both the notebook and his wand in his hands. There seemed to be magic– different kind of magic– that went through him. Or perhaps it wasn't magic at all– maybe it was just feelings. Hope. Determination. Fear. Courage. Something else. Whatever it was, it made Harry switch the light on, sit down on his bed, and open the notebook once more.

He skipped the pages that he had already read, and went on to look for anything that could be a useful spell or a rune. He found none of that. The writer, Haines Potter, seemed to have written more of a manifesto than a series of actual lessons for Harry to learn from.

It is often said that a man should not hope for something outside his reach. Humbug, I say. One must always reach for what is previously thought too grand for him – that is how he grows. What make a man’s influence, however, are the allies he can count on. The network that maps out his presence.

Harry wasn’t sure if whatever Haines Potter had written about would actually be useful in the long run, but he set aside all doubts for now. The mere memory of the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange, her words, her soft tone, and the absolute fear she had made him feel wasn’t something to sneer at. He had never felt quite like that before, even though he knew that Draco's father was almost as highly ranked as Bellatrix.

And yet, Lucius Malfoy didn't have the same atmosphere of darkness around him.

Maybe he just wasn't unpredictable enough? Sirius had often called his cousin insane, but Harry had never really thought that he had actually meant it. What if he did? What if Bellatrix really was somehow insane? Could someone’s unpredictability be seen as a sign of madness or was that simply ignorance? She certainly didn't come across as an ordinary person, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t of sound mind.

Harry hated the idea of being targeted by someone. He hated not being sure about that even more. He really couldn't tell whether or not Bellatrix was really a threat to him. Maybe she really wasn't? Maybe the threat was just a one-time thing? Maybe she had forgotten already about Harry?

Would he dare to count on that?

It is rare for stars to be so aligned as to grant a man success without him working for it. For those of us who aren’t so fortunate, success is something we must deliberately seek. How far a person is willing to go and what they are willing to do is what will define their chances of achieving success.

I have realized that in the face of desperation and ambition, honour and morality and good and evil are mere words with no meaning.

It does not matter who or what one seek alliance with, so long as they will enable the fulfilment of ambition. Allying oneself with powerful families and people – even creatures, in some occasions – is a practice old as time. It is the base of marriages and friendships and at times even procreation. Seeking and gaining the right allies is of utmost importance.

First Tom and now Bellatrix.

How the hell could the Death Eaters be so deprived of entertainment that they would start considering an eleven-year old boy as the next best thing? Shouldn’t they be busy fighting the Rebels? Did the Dark Lord know that his finest were gallivanting around threatening children instead of doing their jobs?

No wonder the Rebels were becoming such a threat if all the adults were so incompetent.

Either way, Harry needed to find a good way to protect himself. He knew that there were no real shortcuts to power– he knew that even if he found out how to gain power, it could take years before he actually achieved that.

But he was willing to try. He didn't know yet how far he could go, didn't know what he would be able to eventually sacrifice for the sake of achieving what he wanted. Harry didn't want to end up like the men in stories that died and had their families killed just because they weren't prepared, but he also didn’t want to end up like the men who gave up too much and lost their purpose for seeking strength in the first place.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe not. But the mere thought of meeting Bellatrix again was enough for Harry to yearn for the power to protect himself, no matter the price.

My search for the right allies led me to places no mind can imagine. Should I describe it in words, I would find myself incapable of finding the right language to use. There were many that were worthy, but their pre-existing alliances with other parties are the kind of ties that I seek no involvement in.

I found my answers in the simplest inevitability of human life: death itself.

And in death, I found the Gone Tribe.

Chapter Text

He didn’t understand.

The Gone Tribe? Harry had never even heard of anything like that, and he had read quite a lot. As far as names went, the Gone Tribe didn’t sound interesting, let alone cool enough to indicate any merit through association. Going by the context, however, Haines had found them to be quite useful. Would Harry?

It wasn’t that Harry was feeling threatened at that moment, but… he knew that having some other form of defence alongisde the manticore shirt would at least help him sleep better at night. The shirt would protect his upper body, but what about his head and neck and arms and— well, the rest of his body as well.

Old tales speak of a race long gone – a tribe of vicious creatures that drive a hard bargain. But oh, glory to the man who allies himself with their kind. The Gone Tribe are, well, gone. They’re gone, until the moment they’re not, and that is when one must learn to battle nightmares in the waking hours.

Perhaps Harry, too, ought to look into what information he could find about this new, strange tribe. If it turned out to be dangerous, he wouldn't really use the knowledge. He could just keep the knowledge as some sort of a backup plan. A security measure.

‘But then again,’ the boy thought, ‘why waste my time on this at all?’ Harry wanted something he could use to defend himself with. Learning things he would never use would just be a waste of time.

And yet… why did he have this feeling of unease that made him almost sick? If Bellatrix turned out to really be a threat, here he had the solution. Or rather, the possibility of a solution. He wasn’t yet sure if what Haines had found – this Gone Tribe – would even be useful, but what if.

What had brought Bellatrix out to the balcony in the first place? Had she seen him go there? Why would she chase after him?

Harry closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes, knowing that it would be morning soon. The imminent feeling of fear Bellatrix had inspired was slowly vanishing, leaving behind anxiety and confusion. Harry looked down at the notebook again and knew that with it, if he wanted to, he could defend himself. Maybe.

If he wanted to.

'I need to talk with someone,' Harry thought, 'but who?' He needed advice. Advice that was not only good but also wouldn't reach the ears of his parents. But who would give him that kind of advice? Gildy? Hardly! While Harry did not think of the man as an ignorant, uneducated fraud anymore, he didn't think that the ability to survive the wrath of Bellatrix Lestrange was a craft the glittery socialite knew anything about.

Strangely enough, Harry felt as if there was someone he was forgetting. As if he was on the verge of remembering a name that would make him gasp 'but of course!' and feel stupid for not remembering them sooner. Sighing, he readjusted his pillow before deciding to sleep, leaving the heavy thoughts for the morning.

Wait.

Sleep?

…unconsciousness…

There was a memory. A vague memory. A familiar memory of a train station… and cold, wet grey weather, trains, an old man—

Oh.

Albus.

Suddenly fully awake, Harry sat up and switched the lights on. His fears and thoughts of Bellatrix and the Gone Tribe were pushed away by the dawning realization that his dreams might not be just dreams after all. Could it really be? If it was a dream, then could he really remember the coldness and wetness and—

'Both times I had that dream, I was knocked out by something or someone else,' Harry thought, 'Maybe I need to knock myself out to get there? But what if I don't succeed?'

Oh well, he had been planning on practicing stunning spells anyway. Might as well practice on himself.

It didn't take Harry long to find the spell needed– it was in a book not his own, but an old defence book that belonged to his mother when she was a third year student in Hogwarts. He was already pointing his wand at himself, ready to say the incantation when he started wondering whether it would knock him out or just petrify him.

'Why is nothing easy in my life?' Harry thought bitterly, 'A guy wants to knock himself out and even that is being hindered. I wonder what exactly the spell was that they used on me at the entrance exam.' Then again, the second time it hadn't been a spell, but an accident. However, Harry doubted that his mother would really approve of deliberate attempts at passing out by jumping through the window.

So did that really leave just Gildy for him to talk with?

Good grief.

*

Harry had eventually fallen asleep, and didn't wake up until half past twelve.

And when he finally, around one o'clock, made it to the living room, he was greeted by a sight that made him almost return back to bed. His parents were there, as well as Sirius. And Gildy. Was this some sort of a message? A nudge from a higher power?

"Harry!" the man exclaimed, beaming, "I came personally to tell you—"

"Yes, yes," Harry cut in, making Sirius and James snicker while Lily looked appalled, "Merry Christmas and all that. Why are you dressed in red and orange? Wouldn't green be more… into the theme?"

"Green isn't really my colour," Gildy sighed, pouting, "It makes me look rather sickly. I didn't want to risk it in case we bumped into your Duelling Instructor."

"Wha— Why would you bump into him here?" Harry asked, feeling indescribable amounts of confusion at that moment. "And why are you even prepared to bump into him in the first place?" Harry hadn’t yet bumped into the man in question anywhere, and likely wouldn’t until he started his duelling classes in the future.

"Well—"

"No. I don't want to know."

"You got a letter," James said, changing the subject, "We put it with your gifts. Go on, Harry, it's gift-opening time! Rip those papers to shreds!" Hesitantly, Harry made his way towards the neatly wrapped gifts while his mother left towards the kitchen, saying that she'd bring the food, and James make yourself useful and help me, for Merlin’s sake.

"By James, she means the two of us," Harry's father told Sirius, who snorted, but allowed himself to be pulled away. Harry was about to open the first gift when Gildy sat down on the floor next to him and stared at Harry with a serious expression for a long moment.

"Is something wrong?" the man asked finally, "You don't look radiant at all."

"There's just been a lot on my mind," Harry admitted hesitantly, setting down the gift he had been holding, unopened, "I'm confused."

"Maybe talking will help. Sometimes, it really does."

"It's hard to explain."

"Try."

"If you were in danger, or if there was a threat," Harry started, looking at his self-appointed mentor warily, "and the best way to protect yourself would be by doing something you maybe shouldn't. Like, it could be risky and could go against your morals, sort of. What do you do then? Beside seek other alternatives? Because the way that exists is the easiest and probably the strongest, just a bit dangerous."

"You know, Harry," Gildy started with a sigh. "The problem in defence is how far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from. If you want to protect yourself… do you really have to compromise who you really are to do so? Because if it's harmful—"

"It's not really harmful. Not to me. I think," Harry stuttered, looking lost. It would have been easier to decide if he knew actually what the Gone Tribe was, exactly. "But… it might involve… others. And it'd be for a good cause. I mean, well… I have a really good reason, you know."

"Just because you have a good excuse," Gildy said gently, appearing uncharacteristically sensible and smart, and, fleetingly, Harry wondered if someone had polyjuiced themselves to impersonate the man and give wise advice, "does not make it right. Justification does not make a right out of a wrong, even if it provides an excuse that in turn would allow you forgiveness."

"What do I do, then?" Harry asked.

"What kind of problem is it? A threat, you said?" Harry was about to answer– say something, anything, he wasn't sure what exactly– when he heard his parents and godfather returning.

"I have never quite understood why women love cats," his father was saying, "Cats are independent, they don't listen to orders, don't come in when they're called, they want to spend the whole night out, and when they do come back home, they want to be alone and sleep. In other words: all the things women hate in men, they love in cats."

"Well, yes, but women aren't out to marry cats, now are they?" Lily shot back, carrying a tray of drinks, "It's the men who have their cat-girl fetishes, am I right?"

"Cat-girls?" Sirius exclaimed with a disgusted expression, "Yuck!"

"You're a dog, Padfoot."

"Why do I have to listen to this?" Harry asked, traumatized, "Wait, why are you people even talking about this?"

"There's nothing appealing about cat-girls," Gildy agreed, "Speaking of appealing… not that I find him appealing in any shape or form– of course not– but does your Duelling Instructor—"

"I have never talked to the man," Harry cut in, "Look, why don't you just corner him or something, if you're so curious about him? Are you a fan of his?"

"Um," Gildy said, blue eyes suddenly fixed on something behind Harry, and with disbelief the boy witnessed a flush making its way up the man’s neck, spreading all over his face. Yes, the flamboyant idiot– who was probably not that much of an idiot, actually– was officially blushing.

"Merlin," said Harry and decided that he didn't want to pursue that topic. Ever.

"It's not what you think," Gildy insisted.

"Look," Harry groaned, "I'm eleven. I don't care. Now hand me those tacos and leave me alone."

*

There was something different about Harry.

Lily had noticed it before– after the entrance exam of Durmstrang, for example. Since then, Harry had gradually, almost unnoticeably, changed in ways that weren't really alarming as much as just confusing. He had seemed to achieve a kind of presence, if it could be called that. As if he was a painting that had only recently gained its colours. He was more outgoing, more confident… and while, indeed, people seemed to notice him much more nowadays, there still was something… almost transparent about him.

Which was ridiculous, since he really wasn't. He was solid, there, sitting and eating tacos while sneering at Gilderoy Lockhart with all his might. And yet, Lily couldn't shake off the feeling… the fear of Harry vanishing suddenly.

"Looking focused, Lily," James said, and she smiled tenderly at her husband.

"Thinking about Harry," she replied, and Sirius grinned.

"He's doing great, isn't he?" the man said, "Makes me proud, he does. Even if he seems to actually like that fraud."

"Gilderoy is a great man," Lily snapped, "Why are you so against him anyway?"

"You know he's queer," Sirius pointed out, and the woman groaned, shaking her head.

"What, don't tell me that you think homosexuality is contagious, you moron," she asked, "Don't be stupid."

"But he might get influenced," Sirius insisted, and Lily hesitated before shrugging. James frowned at the two.

"Would it matter?" he asked, "If Harry turned out gay, I mean. Well, right now, he's not interested in anyone, of course, since he's too young. But eventually, when he grows up. Would it really matter even if he brought in a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend?"

"You need an heir to the Potter line," Sirius reminded him, and James shrugged.

"What I need is to see Harry happy, Siri. You know I've never really given a damn about whether or not the actual Pureblood Potter line continues. If he settles down with a man, he can adopt. Merlin knows there're enough kids out there with no families.”

"I understand your point," Sirius insisted, "And I don't have anything against queers in general, but you have to know that if Harry rises up in Death Eater ranks and then gets a male…partner, it will definitely be a scandal. A minor one, but still—"

"Not really," James cut in, "If Harry's influential and high-ranked, and if his partner is high-ranked as well, people will accept it. Catering to power, that's what they do. Hate them when they're weak, love them when they're strong. Sexualities don't matter a whit, and you know that. On the contrary, people will be delighted. That's less one competing pureblood family to them."

"I think the time for this conversation isn't now," Lily said suddenly, forcing a smile, "As you said, James, Harry is still a child, just eleven years old. We don't know what his choices will be. Maybe he'll get to know Ginny Weasley and—"

"You just said that he's still a child," James cut in, feeling suddenly irritated, "Come on, Lily. No matchmaking."

"Look at the time," Gilderoy suddenly exclaimed, standing up, "I must be going now. Thank you for the invitation, dear Lily and James."

"We're glad you could come," Lily said, relieved to find a way out of her current conversation, "You'll be visiting us soon again, yes?"

"I shall try," the man said, shaking her hand before heading towards the fireplace, "I'll see you soon, Harry! Remember what I said, yes? Goodbye!"

'I think he might be good influence on Harry, actually,' Lily admitted to herself, watching her son stand up and grab his gifts– and the letter he got– before heading to his room, 'Harry could learn to be a bit friendlier.'

*

As soon as Harry closed his room's door behind his back, he dropped the gifts onto the floor and ripped open the envelope of the letter he had received. He had recognized the handwriting and knew it to be from Filippa. Question was, why would she send him a letter? Quickly scanning the words written neatly onto the piece of parchment, Harry couldn't help but gasp, heart skipping a beat. This was not good. Not good at all.

Harry,

I received a message from Heidi two days ago. I don't know what is going on, but it seems that Bellatrix Lestrange has for some reason or another approached Björn, Nikolai, Heidi, Jakob and Truls. She might seek you out as well. She might seek out the rest of us for some reason or another. I already talked with Lorenzo, who says that Clemens might know something. However, all of my messages have been ignored. As I said, I don't know what's going on, but keep your wand nearby.

Take care, Harry, and see you in a few weeks.

Filippa

"What the hell is going on," he whispered. So Bellatrix had sought out his other friends too? Why? He needed to talk with Filippa. He needed to send her a letter pronto. But an owl wouldn't reach her for a few days, if she was currently in Italy. Would he really have to wait till the holiday ended before talking about this– whatever this was– with his friends?

But if it was true, if Bellatrix had really sought out all of them… would that increase the danger on Harry or decrease it? Why would one of the Dark Lord's finest seek out a bunch of kids? Granted, they were Durmstrang students and the first generation to enter after the change of system there… Could that be the reason? Maybe he should send a message to Filippa and tell her about his theory?

Yes, he could do that.

Scrambling quickly to get a piece of parchment and a quill, Harry scribbled down a short message.

F,

She cornered me too. Could look for all of us. Maybe because we're the true first generation of Durmstrang's new system? Could be dangerous. Be careful. See you.

H.

Harry then hurried out of his room towards the owlery of the Potter Manor, to seek out Hedwig. The snowy owl hooted at him and pecked him once before taking off to where Harry instructed her to go. The boy stared after the bird for a while, before the cold up there became too unbearable for him. He didn't know how long it would take for Hedwig to reach Filippa, but he didn't care. If he was right and the situation turned out to be dangerous, then he might have to end up using the Book of Allies. It'd be—

"Justification does not make a right out of a wrong."

— justified.

Damn you, Gilderoy Lockhart.

So caught up in his thoughts, Harry was, that he missed a step on his way out of the owlery, stumbling at the stairs and falling down, hitting his head and effectively knocking himself out.

*

The train station was just as grey, wet and depressing as Harry had remembered. Unlike the two previous visits, however, he now knew– or strongly suspected anyway– that this place wasn't a dream, and that Albus wasn't a person his subconscious mind had created during idle hours.

"I want to know," Harry said as soon as he saw the old man, "I want to know if this really is a dream."

"A dream?" Albus said, blue eyes twinkling with delight, "No, goodness, no. This was never a dream. But then again, a part of you knew that, yes?"

"No," Harry denied, "Maybe not. Possibly. Perhaps. I mean, look. That's irrelevant."

"Most things are," Albus agreed, and Harry shuddered when a bypassing train caused a strong gust of cold wind to hit him.

"I wanted to talk with you," Harry said, "I guess I really did know that you're not a dream. Otherwise, that would have been like asking advice from my mind."

"You'd be surprised by how much your mind actually knows," Albus told him, "It just never tells you. What did you want to talk about with me, my boy?"

"What is this place?" Harry asked, finally sitting down on the bench next to the old man, "I mean, really."

"I told you already, my boy, didn’t I? During the first visit, I believe. This is a… stop of sorts. You die, you come here."

"Why am I here then? I'm not dead. At least I don't think I am."

"An interesting question. I do not know the answer, I’m sorry to say."

"But…"

"I believe, however, that you had something you wanted to talk about? Is it truly this?"

"Oh, no," Harry said, returning to his original topic, "I need advice."

"I shall try my best, young man," Albus replied pleasantly.

"What do you know of the Gone Tribe?" Harry asked, and the twinkle in the man's eyes suddenly vanished.

“You must not talk of them here,” he said, shaking his head. “You must not talk of them anywhere in fact. They can hear you and could think that you’re calling for them. And I assure you, my boy, that you do not want to have them called.

"But it – they – could save my friends and me!" Harry exclaimed, making Albus give him a long, hard stare.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" the old man asked, "Tell me everything."

And Harry did.

He told Albus about his parents, about the Death Eaters, about the world outside. He told Albus about the brother wand, about Bellatrix, about Durmstrang, and about the rumoured future plans. He even revealed everything about the notebook. After he was done, the old man was quiet for a long time.

"Am I a coward?" Harry asked finally, "Being so hesitant about this all the time…"

"It's not cowardice that stops you from doing this," Albus replied, "I believe it to be common sense and self-preservation. Traits that are rather admirable, indeed."

"I just feel like I'm stuck between should and shouldn't."

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years, my boy. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up your ideals and morals wrinkles the soul," Albus said, and Harry vaguely remembered the quote from a book he had read months ago, "Do you know how that relates to what you're going through?"

"You think that by calling the Go— calling them, researching them, relying on them… I'd be deserting my ideals," Harry said, unsure of what his ideals even were.

"Is that what I think or what we both think?"

"…I don't know. We… Both of us, maybe?"

"It's so easy," Albus started gently, a wrinkly hand resting on Harry's shoulder, "to accept any shortcut when you're in a time of need."

"Someone… well, he's not a friend, really, but let's call him that for now," Harry started, "told me that having a good excuse doesn't mean it's right."

"A wise friend you have there."

"Uh, right. Wise." Gilderoy Lockhart, wise? Well alright, maybe sometimes.

"The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridges to cross and which to burn. You might think right now that sacrificing something great to achieve what you want is worth it, but is it really? Will you be able to live with your choices in the long run?"

"But what other way is there?" Harry asked, "Bellatrix can snap her fingers and skin me alive if I so much as blink in a way that she would consider disrespectful. Or something. I've heard stories about her."

"And you think that solution is found in Dark magic?" Albus asked.

"Where else?"

"Light magic, of course.

"But—" Harry started with a frown, and shook his head. Albus sighed, before explaining.

"Bellatrix, if you have described her accurately, must know most of what there is to know of Dark magic. And yet, there is a common mistake that Dark wizards and witches make– they ignore Light magic, a magic with equal potential and strength."

Harry bit his lip, thinking. He wasn't convinced– he had never really heard people talking of Light magic's power. Sure, it's noble and complimented and commendable, but nobody calls it powerful.

"Say," he then started, changing the subject momentarily to satisfy his curiosity, "Why is this place always so empty, if it's where the dead go before departing to wherever they go?"

"Empty?" Albus said, clearly surprised. "But it is not, my boy. It's actually quite crowded here. Why, can't you see them?"

*

"I just found him there," Lily sobbed, sitting next to her son's bed, where Harry was lying, unconscious, "Why isn't he awake yet!"

"He must have hit his head on the way down," Healer Jones said, pulling back from hovering over her patient, "Might have a concussion. Don't worry, though. I'm sure that he'll be alright."

"Is there anything we can do to make him get better sooner?" James asked from the doorway, a troubled expression on his face. Healer Jones shook her head with a small smile.

"It's not serious, Mr. Potter. Your son will be right as rain soon enough. I already did some checking and can assure you that aside from the bump on his head and possible concussion there is nothing wrong with him."

"But concussion is still a brain injury!" Lily exclaimed.

"A mild brain injury," Healer Jones corrected, "Rest is all he needs, Mrs. Potter. I can guarantee that he isn't the first patient with a concussion that I have treated during my career. Now, I believe it is time for me to leave."

"I'll show you the way out," James said, and Lily grimaced after the healer left. Her baby was hurt and so pale and it broke her heart to see him like that. Healer Jones clearly didn't understand the situation– Lily hated seeing even a simple bruise on Harry.

Sighing, she moved to kiss her son's forehead, only to blink with surprise when she saw how… damp his skin was. Harry wasn't usually a sweaty person, which made this slightly odd– besides, his skin was cold. Not to mention that there was this strange smell; it made Lily think of mud and stone, maybe rain and smoke as well.

As if Harry had spent the past moments in a cold, wet place instead of at home, in his room, on his bed.

Could it be that he had fallen down in the Owlery as well, not just the stairs? Being an owlery, it had no glass in the windows and therefore snow must have gotten in. She should see about that– there definitely were charms to keep the snow away while allowing the owls to come and go. What if Harry caught a cold because of this? And what a timing, too! He hadn't even opened his presents yet!

"He's still unconscious?" James asked, and Lily looked up to see him holding on his arm what looked like black robes.

"You have a mission?" she asked in return, and her husband grimaced.

"Note arrived seconds after Healer Jones left. Apparently they've found a werewolf camp that might be willing to start cooperating. I don't know how long this will take."

"Werewolves," Lily repeated with dread, "Take care, James. Be very careful."

"Don't worry love, I won't be alone."

"Alone or not– be very careful. Werewolves are said to be temperamental and physically quick and strong."

"I won't be in the front line," James promised, "Take care of him, yeah?"

"Of course," Lily replied, wondering why her holiday had to be ruined like this.

*

"But," Harry said, "I see no one! Why can I see you but not them?"

"Perhaps because I'm not going anywhere yet," Albus replied.

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm waiting."

"For who?"

"A dear friend of mine," Albus said wistfully in a way that made Harry feel a bit bad, without knowing why exactly, "Returning to what's troubling you, my boy…"

"Everything is troubling me," Harry sulked, "Everything."

"I'm sure it's not quite that bad."

"It's worse."

"Now, my boy," Albus said and Harry had the suspicion that the man was holding back a chuckle, "Light magic depends strongly on positive emotions such as hope and belief in what is good."

"Are there wizards who can be both?" Harry asked suddenly, "I mean, both Dark and Light."

"Yes. I believe they're called Grey wizards. Neutral ones. They're very rare to find– most people tend to go one way or another, it's simply easier that way."

"Were you Light?"

"Yes."

"And the Dark Lord is, well, Dark of course."

"Indeed."

"And you say that Light can be just as strong as Dark?"

"Yes. You have no need for that tribe, Harry. Give yourself the time and opportunity to learn Light spells– you might find yourself surprised."

"I'll think about it," Harry said hesitantly, and the old man smiled. He didn't say anything, and yet Harry was suddenly sure that even if he would have, Harry wouldn't have heard him. Because once again he was being pulled away and—

— suddenly Harry was awake.

It took him a few moments to open his eyes and see his mother sitting by his side.

"How are you feeling, baby?" she asked him, and the boy groaned in pain when the headache made itself known.

"Head hurts," he replied, "I slipped? Fell down the stairs…"

"And hit your head, yes. Healer Jones said that you'll be alright with enough bed rest. Are you thirsty? Do you need anything?”

"No," Harry croaked, feeling dizzy and just about ready to pass out again. "Just… sleep."

*

Eventually, it was time to go back to school, and Harry couldn't have been happier. The atmosphere at home was becoming increasingly tense, what with his father being included in a project that seemed to involve werewolves. James was often gone, working from very early till late hours, sometimes staying overnight. From what Harry had understood, the negotiations included making some werewolves learn how to live in wizarding societies, and if a werewolf was to step into the Potter household at any point, Harry de finitely wanted to be elsewhere at the time.

Going to school again and meeting his friends was definitely a better alternative. All ten of them had portkeyed to the area in front of their apartment complex, and Harry's heart almost skipped a beat with happiness as he was surrounded by his friends.

"I designed a few clothes for you," Filippa said, hugging him when she saw him, "You'll have to try them on later. The green tie especially."

"You didn't reply to my message," Harry said in response, and the girl offered him a tired smile.

"Didn't know what to say. Talked with Lorenzo about it, though."

"Harry!" Truls exclaimed, pulling the shorter boy from Filippa's arms into his own, hugging him tightly, "How are you?"

"Pretty good, Truls. And you?"

"People!" Heidi called, voice rising above the noise, "We've all got bags to unpack and what not. How about we all go to our flats for now and in an hour or so meet, um—"

"At my place," Petronella offered, "I've got some snacks with me."

"So do I," Jakob said, "I'll bring mine along."

"Sounds good," Heidi grinned with delight as they made their way together towards the dorm building, "I've missed you guys so much!"

"Truls," Harry started quietly, catching the taller boy's attention, "Have you… I mean, I was told that Bellatrix Lestrange—"

"Yeah," the blond boy sighed, "She didn't do much, though. Just stood and stared at that one party I was attending with my sister. It was pretty creepy."

"She… didn't talk with you?"

"No. Maybe she didn't get the chance. Why?"

"I'll tell you later," Harry promised when they reached his apartment, "See you in an hour."

Inside his flat, Harry couldn't resist making a quick check– opening doors of the closets and cupboards, checking under the bed and tables and chairs… He didn't know what exactly it was that he was looking for… but he just had to do it.

'I'm not paranoid,' the boy told himself while changing into a more casual wear– while he had been wearing the school uniform earlier, there really was no need to do so. School would start tomorrow on Tuesday, and Harry couldn't help but feel slightly disheartened about that– Tuesdays were the longest school days and included two hours of Transfiguration.

Harry stood in the middle of his apartment, feeling cold and wondering whether or not life would have been easier had he decided to go to Hogwarts. Then again, he couldn't imagine hanging out with Draco or Ron instead of Truls and the others. There was just that connection.

Knowing that it wasn't he alone who had been cornered by Bellatrix did make him feel better– surely, together they would be able to find an explanation to what was going on? Now, he would just have to know if he was the only one she actually talked to.

That was still on his mind when he finally made his way to Petronella's place, carrying with him the pumpkin pastries and tuna breads that his mother had packed for him.

"How was your holiday?" Heidi asked, hugging Harry again when he arrived. She, Petronella, Nikolai and Björn were already there.

"Surprising," Harry replied, "But I trust that we'll talk about that later."

"You too, huh," Heidi said, gesturing for Harry to sit down after leaving the snacks on the table.

"I suspect that all of us were… confronted," Harry told her, and sat down between Nikolai and Björn who made space for him just as Filippa and Lorenzo entered the flat.

"Just leave the door open," Petronella instructed, "No one but us is in the building anyway."

"I met your Lockhart," Filippa said, squeezing herself between Harry and Björn, "He's absolutely stunning!"

"He's not my Lockhart!" Harry exclaimed, "And stunning wouldn't be my first choice of word on how to describe him. Besides, you can't have a crush on him."

"Why not?" Filippa asked, looking slightly offended.

"He's definitely gay," Harry told her, but didn't reveal who the man had a crush on.

"Oh, that absolutely blows," the Italian girl exclaimed. “Well, as long as he’s happy, I suppose.”

"What?" Clemens, who just walked in with the rest of their group, said, "Blows what? Who?"

"Nothing!" Filippa snapped, "Look, it's a saying! No one is blowing anyone."

"Aww, her heart broke," Jakob mocked and got slapped for his attempt at humour.

"Alright people, if everyone's here then come on and gather around the table," Petronella suddenly declared, clearly enjoying her role as the host, "Come on."

"We have a lot to discuss," Heidi said, closing the flat's door before taking her seat and pulling a glass of water closer, "Order in the court!"

"Yes ma'am," Nikolai said, bowing mockingly, "We'll shut up."

"I'll get directly to the point," Heidi stated, "Those who have been in contact with Bellatrix Lestrange, hands up!"

"More accurately," Harry cut in, "If there's anyone who hasn't been approached by her yet, hands up." Harry couldn't bring himself to even feign surprise when no one moved.

"You were right," Filippa said, before turning to the others, "I got a message from Harry few weeks ago suggesting that Bellatrix would probably approach all of us."

"But why?" Petronella asked.

"Could be because we're the first generation of Durmstrang's new system," Harry said, "Also, I recall being told that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the upper years. What if Bellatrix has been assigned for us?"

"That would make sense," Truls said, nodding, "But we won't know for sure unless she approaches us at school again." A silence fell over the group and Harry couldn't help but feel warm inside at how comfortable and familial it was. He felt as if he belonged.

"I'm scared," Petronella suddenly whispered, "I mean, we're just first years, but eventually we'll become Death Eaters. And because we're who we are– Durmstrang students, I mean– one day, we'll be out there fighting people who might be even stronger than Bellatrix." Harry, knowing the truth in her words, felt chilled and didn't even notice when Truls's hand had started to grip his own under the table.

"We're together in this," Clemens said, brushing his blond fringe to the side, "All of us. If we train hard, even if we can't defeat people as strong as her on our own, together we'll definitely be able to do so. Father used to say that individually, we are one drop and together, we are an ocean."

"That actually sounds encouraging," Heidi said, her hand resting on Petronella's shoulder comfortingly, "We shouldn't be hasty, though. Perhaps she wanted to just see what we look like for future references?"

"She didn't talk to you?" Harry asked, and the others turned to him.

"No," Heidi replied, "Did she talk to you?"

"Yeah," Harry said nervously, noting that he seemed to be the only one the woman had talked to.

"What did she say?" Truls asked curiously, hand still holding Harry's own comfortingly.

"Threatened to kill me," Harry responded immediately, "Said my eyes are exquisite. Then, she said that I'll make a good Death Eater one day, and that I'll follow in her footsteps to become his most faithful. Or something like that."

"Gode Gud," Björn breathed, "Why? Why you?"

"Wish I'd know," Harry said anxiously, "Everything is suddenly complicated in my life."

"You're not the only one thinking that," Jakob said, "But I think we're worrying a bit too early, yeah? Nothing happened yet, and for all we know, nothing might end up happening. So let's just focus on our studies and work hard– no matter what happens, it's bound to be the most rewarding course of action in the long run."

"Because we'll end up on the field anyway," Heidi muttered, "We might have to kill people."

"I wish I could say don't be stupid," Filippa sighed, "but I know you're right."

And Harry, once again, thought of the Gone Tribe.

*

The next time Harry met Tom was on the fifth of March.

The past few months had flown by as Harry and his friends did their best to focus solely on studying, and, eventually, Bellatrix was mostly forgotten – or at least not the most pressing worry. That didn't mean, however, that all was well. At school, the sixth and seventh years had started a vigorous training program, and rumours of battles in England and beyond became part of their everyday lives, which in turn made even the youngest students aware of what was going on. Harry, as worried as he was, kept receiving reassuring letters from his mother.

"They say that there's a Rebels camp in Italy, too," Lorenzo once said on their way to a Charms lesson, "My sister is a journalist and our parents are afraid that she'll be sent to report on what's going on in that area."

"It's so weird," Clemens had sighed in response, "Feels like the battles are happening all over the world, not just the UK. Think a war will really start?"

That short exchange was on Harry's mind on that day as he was making his way from his flat towards the Garden of Grindelwald. As much as he enjoyed being with his friends, Harry valued his Sunday mornings as a time of solitude and a rest from all the socializing, and found the garden to be the ideal place for that. This time, however, he had barely stepped into the labyrinth when he saw Tom standing there, staring into nothing with a blank expression.

Stopping few feet away from the man, Harry took in the signs of exhaustion that were visible regardless of how well-groomed Tom was. The man didn't look at him, but Harry knew that he knew that Harry was standing there.

"You look terrible," the boy said eventually, warily. It was strange how he feared Bellatrix so much, and yet, this man who was probably equally ranked didn't omit such aura of madness. The logical part of Harry's mind knew that perhaps this seeming harmlessness was what made this man possibly even more dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

"It's a good place to think," Tom told him, "And you sure don't do that flattery thing, huh?"

"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked, ignoring the second part of what the man had said.

"Oh, the usual," Tom replied dismissively, "The idiocy of some individuals, torture, gore… And why the hell do people mourn for each other even after almost fifteen years?"

"When people care, that's what happens," Harry said, sitting down on a bench not two steps away, "You miss someone?"

"Hardly," Tom scoffed, "The Rebels… I have to understand what makes them fight in the name of someone long dead."

"Like who?"

"An old man. A fool. You wouldn't know him. There has been an unwritten rule against saying his name aloud in England."

"The Dark Lord hated him, then?" Harry asked softly, and Tom looked at him oddly and there was a strange, almost lost look in his eyes.

"The Dark Lord probably hates everyone," Tom finally said, "Even if he doesn't always act like it. Yes. All he really enjoys is causing others pain, and why not? If people are inferior to you, then why should you concern yourself with their petty emotions? They're so fickle anyway."

"Is he evil?" The suddenly blurted question made Tom pause, sigh and stare at the blooming bushes for a long time before answering.

"Voldemort doesn't… believe in good or evil... because there is no good or evil. Not really. There's only power, and those too weak to grasp it."

"That sounds like a villainous catchphrase," Harry remarked, "'There's no good or evil', 'I'll win next time', 'what doesn't kill you makes you the villain', 'brush your teeth'— no, wait, that one was Gildy's."

"Gildy?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart. He's my, uh, mentor."

"Oh. No wonder you're so strange, then."

"Excuse me?" Harry snapped, appalled to the core, "Did you just compare me to— look, the guy wears purple and has a secret crush on Professor Crouch—" The outburst of laughter that cut off his starting rant caught Harry off guard, and he stared wide-eyed at Tom who didn't seem to be able to stop cackling.

And this guy called him weird.

Ha. Like he could afford saying that.

"It's not that funny," Harry said, "It's traumatizing."

"You're too young," Tom finally managed to get out, forcibly calming himself down, "To understand."

"It's not like they'll ever meet."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

"Look," Harry said. "You're being weird today. What's wrong with you?" All the amusement drained from Tom, whose face once again showed only boredom.

"It's time for me to go now, I suppose," he said, turning away and starting to walk away, "It was nice seeing you again after so long, Harry."

"You're not going to tell me who it was?" Harry called after him, "The old man? His name?"

"Albus," Tom replied, not turning to look at Harry as he kept walking away, "Albus Dumbledore."

*

There couldn't be many men named 'Albus Dumbledore' in history, right? And yet, Harry couldn't find a single thing about the wizard, no matter how much he searched. It was strange. He hadn't dared to ask his parents directly, but had gone and borrowed the book 'Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century' and yet, there wasn't even a mention of the man. Could it be that he wasn't great after all? But if he wasn't that great, why would the Rebels follow his ideals even after death?

No, there had to be something in the equation that Harry was missing.

Right now, Harry was still browsing through that book, sitting on his couch while Filippa and Heidi baked something.

"I still don't understand why you do that here," Truls, who was sitting next to Harry, said to the girls.

"Why not?" Filippa asked, "It's not like Harry ever does anything with this kitchen. I think we all should sign up for cooking lessons. Would you like a raspberry muffin, Truls? Your favourites, I believe. We just finished a batch."

"Are they poisoned?" Truls asked with evident suspicion. Heidi picked one up and took a small bite.

"No," she said, "I promise, they're not."

"No thanks."

"Look," Harry said suddenly, looking up from his book, "That sounds like you would have taken them had they been poisoned."

"I don't trust those girls to not poison me," the Swedish boy replied defensively, "Filippa especially. She would if she could! I mean, look at her glares!"

"I'd rather not. I could die."

"My point exactly!"

"You guys are so childish," Heidi declared, pulling forward a chair to stand on for better access, "I can't wait till I grow up. I want to be tall."

"Growing up means we'll get to go to the parties of grown-ups," Filippa agreed with a grin, "The dresses! Harry, you're going to be my partner in future balls, yes?"

"Why not Nikolai?" Heidi whispered, "I think he likes you." The Italian girl shook her head, but smiled anyway. Harry sighed, feeling utterly bored all of a sudden.

"Shall we go fly?" Truls suggested, "We can leave the girls here."

"Alright," Harry said and stood up, "I miss flying. It's such a pity that we can't play Quidditch properly. Damn those stuck-up second year morons."

The weather outside was just as pleasant as it had been in the morning, if a little bit chillier. The closest Quidditch pitch was, however, occupied by Durmstrang's official Quidditch team and the second string.

"We can walk to the other pitch," Harry said.

"Or watch them play," Truls replied, before pointing out a player who had just pulled off what seemed to be a rather complicated feint, "That's the third year everyone's been talking about. Viktor Krum."

"Lucky sod," Harry muttered, "He can play proper Quidditch whenever he wants to."

"They say he's special," Truls said, "I can believe that. Just watch him fly."

And Harry watched, wishing that he could be where Krum was now. Flying without a care in the world, not worrying about the future and his family and just enjoying his time being a student. Harry couldn't help but think that had he been in Hogwarts right now, what would he be doing? Certainly not be standing next to Truls watching an admittedly excellent Quidditch team practicing.

"Truls," Harry started, still looking at the flying form of Viktor Krum, "If a war starts, what will happen to us?"

"Nothing, I think," Truls replied, "I mean, we'll be here, studying, and it'd take years before they'd make us go fight. And I don't think that the war would last that long."

"What about our families?" Harry asked, "Aren't you worried?"

"I don't want to think about it," Truls admitted, "My family lives in Sweden and will most likely stay safe."

"The future is scary," Harry sighed.

"In more ways than one," Truls agreed.

*

It was already June– the last of school months– when Harry received a rather worrisome letter from his mother.

My dear son,

I do not know how to tell you this and make it sound less terrible. However, I trust you to behave maturely and accept the situation as it is. You’ve always been very mature for your age, and right now I truly appreciate that.

Perhaps you remember when your father returned from his first mission regarding the werewolves, during that Christmas break of yours? How his task was to go with a team to investigate werewolf camps and see who were faithful and potentially useful, and then to be trained by wizards? We were told of the possibility of a werewolf being taken in temporarily by a wizarding family, to be taught manners and our way of life.

Our family was chosen to be one of the families that are to take in a werewolf.

Trust me when I say that the werewolf– Remus Lupin is his name– has been made harmless. During the full moon, there are potions and a cage to keep him restricted, and otherwise, there is a collar around his neck that will make him harmless in case he turns out to be a threat. However, I remember Lupin from our school years at Hogwarts– he is a polite, nice man, and had he not been a werewolf, I would have readily called him a friend.

When you come back from school, he will already be here. We have given him lodgings in the basement, where he will stay during the day when James and I are away. You needn't worry, Harry– you will never be in his presence without James, Sirius or I accompanying you, just in case.

I cannot wait to see you again, dearest.

Your loving mother,

Lily

Harry set down the letter numbly, feeling as if his insides had just frozen. He stared blankly through the window at the setting sun and absently thought of how in the world he was supposed to sleep early after receiving this kind of message. Tomorrow would be Friday and he couldn't possibly be anything less than 100% focused since the exams were less than a week away.

But a werewolf.

Harry had never even seen a werewolf, and now he was supposed to live with one?

'Then again, mum did say he's polite and nice,' Harry thought, 'Which can't be said about some humans. I wonder what he will look like. Will he be tall and hairy and with huge teeth?' And suddenly, a memory of the Beauty and the Beast surfaced. The story of seeing beyond the monstrosity that was on the surface. And sure, while the werewolf surely wasn't like the Beast, who's to say that he was a monster?

'That's something I should tell Tom,' Harry suddenly thought, and grinned, 'That the fairytales he sees no point in have taught me to not think of every beast as a monster.' He'd surprise his parents and godfather and try to, well, not make friends with the werewolf, but perhaps to be polite to him. Friendly, even.

Thinking like that made him feel slightly better, and Harry smiled, relaxing slightly. Should he send a response to his mother? Perhaps later– or maybe just wait till he went home. The 31st of July wasn't that many weeks away after all.

The first year at Durmstrang was almost over, and Harry could hardly believe how much had happened and how much he, as a person, had changed. It was rather strange and he wondered if Draco or Ron would notice a difference.

Sometimes, Harry found it funny how his family was regularly associating with families that were a word away from starting a feud. The Weasleys were friends of his parents– truly friends, with similar ideals and hopes. The Malfoys had been introduced through Sirius whose cousin was Lady Malfoy.

He wondered what kind of reactions the two families would have about the werewolf. Maybe the Malfoys had one too?

'I have to ask mum about that, then,' Harry thought while switching off the lights and walking towards his bed, 'I wonder what the werewolf looks like.'

It was three weeks and two days later that he met Remus Lupin.

Chapter Text

Harry had been so prepared to see a monster, that, when he first saw Remus Lupin, he felt almost cheated.

The werewolf was tall– very tall– but also very, very thin. Harry didn't know the man’s age, but there was an odd blend of old and young in him, as though he was young in years but old in everything else. There were a few lines on his face, and his hair was closer to grey than light brown. There were also scars on his face, and his robes were shabby at best. The only thing that actually hinted at him not being human was the pair of golden eyes that seemed to be rather blank. Or maybe tired.

"Are you sure he's a werewolf?" Harry asked sceptically, still dressed in his Durmstrang robes– he had arrived less than five minutes ago and had immediately wanted to at least see their newest houseguest. "Looks pretty normal to me."

"You should see him during full moon, then," Sirius said cheerfully, and didn't seem to notice the flinch of the werewolf at the words. "Shouldn't you get changed and then come tell us about your amazing school year?"

"Changing can wait," Harry said, still staring at Lupin, insides burning with curiosity. "They told us during history lessons that quite a few werewolves were specifically created during the first war to—"

"Harry!" Lily exclaimed, appalled. "The past is past. Let it be."

"Yeah, sure. War makes thieves and peace hangs them," Harry replied, not sure why exactly he was suddenly feeling agitated. Perhaps the Beauty and the Beast had left him with an impression far stronger than he had initially thought? But he couldn't just ignore the feeling of wrongness in this whole thing, especially if that bit of history was really true.

There was an odd expression on James's face as he watched his previously shy son reply to Lily in such manner. Harry's green eyes shone with the same determination that James had seen in Lily's eyes when she had defended Snape from him and Sirius years and years ago. But surely Harry wasn't defending— What was he defending the werewolf from, anyway? The boy hadn't even talked with the creature yet! Was this some power of werewolves? No, impossible. Couldn't be, otherwise it'd have been made known already.

"Go change your clothes and then come to the lounge," Lily said, her voice calm and controlled, "and then we'll introduce you to… him."

"And when you introduce us, will you actually use his name? It's not like I don't know it already," Harry said, heading towards the stairs, not waiting for his mother's reply. There was just something about the situation that didn't sit well with him; it just oozed this sense of wrongness.

"Honestly," Lily huffed as they made their way towards the lounge, "why is he acting like this? He's usually so… not like that. I told him to accept the situation maturely!"

"Maybe it's the shock," Sirius suggested. "It's not every day that a kid returns home to see a werewolf inside."

"I doubt that was the reason, Sirius," Lily sighed, sitting down next to James, who gestured for Lupin to take a seat on the armchair nearby.

"You studied at Hogwarts with us, weren't you?" James suddenly asked, already knowing that he was right. "Which house was it?"

"Yes, sir," Lupin replied, his voice a soft, tired, wary rumble. "Gryffindor."

"Ah, yes. I, er, almost remembered that. Um, well, that was Harry. The boy, I mean. My son," James stammered awkwardly, feeling rather out of his element. He really wasn't cut out for this sort of speeches. "He, er, is…"

"You're not to stay with him in the same room unsupervised," Sirius took over. "He's a curious little fellow, but not stupid. You won't be able to fool him." Sirius might have continued, but the appearance of his godson put a stop to the starting lecture.

"One of the first things they taught as in the Dark Arts lessons," Harry said, entering the room dressed in dark green trousers and a black shirt, "was to never mistreat an ally needlessly."

"Why are you so agitated?" Sirius asked. "I mean, honestly, Harry. Few minutes at home and you're trying to start an argument?"

"I'm not starting an argument," Harry replied evenly, hands clenched into tight fists behind his back. "I just—"

"Dear," Lily said calmly, "sit down. The house-elves will bring you something to eat soon enough. How were your last few days at school?"

"Good," Harry replied, a smile appearing on his face. "There's this guy at school– Viktor Krum. Mum, he flies like an eagle! Truls says he's so going to get scouted once he turns fifteen, and I wouldn't be surprised."

"That good, huh?" Lily asked with an amused smile. "Any best friends we should know about?"

"Truls, I guess," Harry said dismissively. "He's the closest, you know. Then there's Filippa whose life ambition is to become my wardrobe supervisor or something. Mum, you should see the outfits she makes me wear sometimes! I mean, I get that she wants to be a designer, but there was this one purple-pink shirt and I couldn't just tell her no, you know. The girls are scary when one of them cries and says that her feelings have been hurt. Once, Clemens said that Petronella looks a bit like Björn, and it's true, you know, since they both have this really orange hair… but then, Petronella almost cried, and Heidi slapped Clemens and said that girls don't look like guys. Clemens couldn't even snap back at her because Nikolai was there, and everybody knows that Nikolai has a crush on Heidi, and Nikolai is bloody good at fighting."

"Preteen drama," Sirius grinned with delight. "What about you, my favourite godson? Any girls you have a crush on?"

"I don't have time for girls," Harry replied promptly, thinking of all the troubles in his life. "I mean, seriously. No time."

"Your studies are that time-consuming?" Lily wanted to know, and Harry nodded quickly.

"Six days out of seven were spent in classes. Although Björn said– and he should be right, I think one of his uncles is in the school board– that next year we'll have fewer hours even though we'll get Divination to add into the schedule. He said it's because all the basics were already focused on when it comes to Herbology, Creatures and History, so they've lessened those classes a bit. Not by much, though, just that we have only three hours a week Herbology, for example. Unfortunately, we still have Transfiguration thousand hours a week."

"Transfiguration can't be that bad," James protested with a laugh, before returning to the very first, original subject. "Harry, I know your mother wrote to you about this already, and you did see him briefly few minutes ago, but I'd like to introduce the two of you to each other. Lupin, as you know, this is my son Harry James Potter. Harry, this is Remus Lupin. He'll live in the basement, and whenever Lily and I are out, he'll stay there. From now on, that place is off limits to you. Alright?"

"Sure," Harry replied, smiling hesitantly at the golden-eyed man who just eyed him warily, as if suspecting the smile to turn into something else.

His mother had said that the man had been polite and nice… but years in a werewolf camp could change a person even if they had been saints in the beginning. However, Harry swore to himself, just like the Beast had turned out to be no monster, he wasn't going to declare Lupin as one, either.

Not yet, at least.

*

During the following weeks, Harry didn't see Lupin almost at all. In fact, he hardly saw anyone– his parents were constantly working, and his godfather seemed to be rushing from one mission to another. The letters from his friends were entertaining, but didn't really fill his days. He had already finished most of the summer homework, and flying alone wasn't that much fun anymore.

This boredom was perhaps the reason as to why Harry didn't pretend to be asleep when Gildy flooed in.

"Harry!" the man shrieked, barging into Harry's room and flinging himself onto the bed, almost squishing Harry under him. "You won't believe what happened! It’s time to party!"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," Harry replied, taking in the sight of the messy hair and slightly wrinkly robes. "What's wrong with you?"

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts is gone!" Gildy exclaimed, beaming happily. "And when I say gone, I mean dead."

"You have a party because someone died! Look, start backing away from me right now or I swear I'll start screaming."

"Oh, darling, you're so silly sometimes. Of course I'm grieving because Professor Squirrel– I think that was his name, or if it isn't, then close enough at least– died regardless of his relatively young age…"

"Yes. You do look so very grieving," Harry muttered.

"But, as you know, I always look for what is positive," Gildy crowed gleefully, blue eyes sparkling. "I didn't even apply, and yet, I received an invitation to start teaching there! Yes, I, Gilderoy Marshall Hippolyte Lockhart, am going to be an official Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor!"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts? Wait, hold on, Hippolyte?"

"It's a bit like the Dark Arts taught at some other schools, only this one is a bit more into defence than attack," Gilderoy explained, ignoring the second part of Harry’s input.

"And you got an invitation…?" Harry asked with disbelief. "Why?"

"Well, who'd be a better option? When Headmaster Yaxley told me of the new position… oh, I was so delighted."

"Well," Harry said unsurely, "congratulations, I guess."

"Thank you," the man breathed with a blissful smile. "Now, I can ask advice from Bartemius."

"Uh, he's just the Duelling Instructor. The Dark Arts teacher is Ulrich Dietmar and—"

"I don't want to come across as racist, but I'd rather ask an Englishman."

"If Crouch wasn’t English, you’d suddenly require some intercultural advice, wouldn’t you."

"One day," Gildy said gently, "you will fall in love. When that happens—"

"I'm not going to tell you," Harry deadpanned. "Besides, do you really think that Professor Crouch is going to help you just like that? Reality calling, hello, we got your contact information, classified as Most Urgent—"

"Haven't you always said that practical politics consists in ignoring facts?" Gildy asked, waving his hand dismissively. "And love, my dear Harry, is all about politics. Only that the circles are a bit different. And the rules too. I'll nail him down."

"Coming from you, that sounds alarming. Stop it. And don't stalk him."

"It's not stalking. It's called dedicated observation."

"How did you even get the job?" Harry asked. "I mean, if you didn't apply…"

"Headmaster Yaxley said that he got a recommendation from someone rather influential," Gildy replied. "I wonder if it's that bloke I saw in his office. Very handsome, if a little bit creepy with his odd red eyes."

'No,' Harry suddenly thought when a suspicion attacked his mind. 'He wouldn't. Couldn't.'

"Did this stranger, perhaps, have brown hair as well? A bit taller than you, very pale, very well dressed, and seems to be constantly smirking at something mockingly?"

"Yes," Gildy said, blinking rapidly with surprise, "you know him?"

"No," Harry lied, "just a lucky guess. Work at Hogwarts, huh? Do you already know any teachers there?"

"Well, there's Sybil– she's an old friend. A delightful, if a bit eccentric, woman. Always thought that someone would drop dead and wasn't hesitant in telling them so. Why, I remember when she helped me write Seers and Sirens, she—"

Harry yawned, pressing his face against his pillow, dead set on ignoring the colourful chatterbox in his room.

And eventually, he dozed off.

*

Pain, confusion, fear. It's cold, he's freezing. The ground is wet, dirty. He is just as filthy.

He's hungry. He's so hungry that he thinks that his stomach will start eating itself somehow.

He wonders if he could buy socks. Warm socks. Thick socks that would at least make his feet less… less like the way they are now.

In the basement, Remus Lupin was trying to ignore the ache of his bones. He was so tired. His body felt heavy and cold, and all he wanted to do was just lay down somewhere and forget everything, including what the hell he was doing here.

He wasn't being mistreated by the Potters, Remus knew that, and he was grateful. He wasn't so naïve as to think that the other werewolves that had been 'relocated' were as lucky as he was. The basement he was in had been cleaned and equipped with a bed, a closet, a table, and a cage he'd crawl into every full moon. He even had his own bathroom. The doorway of the basement was two-layered– first a wooden door that when opened would reveal a set of bars, behind which Remus's room was. House-elves popped in and out four times a day to feed him, and the Potters had even bought him new clothes.

He was hunting. He hates hunting. Hates the aftertaste of blood and raw meat in his

mouth after he's done. Hates the memory of a rabbit struggling beneath his hand. Hates

the sound of the neck when it breaks.

Hates being a predator.

Yes, he was living now in a condition much superior to the one he had left behind. But at the same time… he didn't see the point in him being here, under an unofficial house arrest, in the guise of being taught how to behave. The Potters– and Sirius Black– ignored him most of the time. Sometimes, Lily Potter would send books on Wizarding traditions for him to read. Books such as The Beast Within by Doug Umbridge, How To Be a Human by Betty Brown, and Humans And The Rest– How To Coexist by Marcus Meliflua.

He hadn't touched those books.

He couldn't.

What he could do, however, was guess what kind of advice the books held within their tasteless covers. It was painful to think of such wounding words being printed to be read by thousands of people. Wrong beliefs that would worm their ways into the hearts of the young, undoing the hard work of Dumbledore who had spoken in favour of acceptance and equal rights. With prejudice, there would be no peace– that he was sure of.

This world, this strange and unfair society, was something Remus couldn't bring himself to accept. He had tried to adapt, once; he had tried so hard. But how can you adapt when the people surrounding you didn't want to give you the chance to do so? Or if the only way they would let you into their world was if you were to take the role of a slave, a creature that was allowed to live only due to their non-existent, whimsical mockery of mercy.

Sometimes he regrets being born.

Sometimes he hates others for making him feel like that.

Hurt, he feels always.

The Dark Lord had created this world, and sometimes, Remus wondered whether or not the man was satisfied with his kingdom. Remus had personally never met the wizard; hell, he hadn't even seen him. It was surprising, really, how most of the wizarding population didn't even know what their ruler looked like. The Dark Lord had forbidden the papers from publishing any pictures they had of him– if they had any– and at public celebrations, he wore a hooded cape. It was strange, and Remus couldn't understand why, but then again, there was a lot about these power-hungry purebloods that he didn't understand.

'And yet,' he thought, 'the one who baffles me the most is Harry Potter, a half-blood.'

When Remus had been told that he'd stay with the Potters, he got to hear quite a few things of the family that seemed to be full of controversies. The Potter line had been pureblood till James Potter married a Muggleborn witch, who seemed to know more of pureblood traditions and etiquette than her husband. The family was considered to be close to the Malfoys and the Weasleys, which was a whole another level of strange. And their son, their son who has been raised in a well-off household, brought up to pureblood manners and beliefs and attended Durmstrang of all schools… that very same boy didn't seem to hold an ounce of hostility or disgust towards him, a werewolf.

Eyes that glare. Eyes that show pity. Eyes that show disgust. Eyes that show fear.

And eyes that show nothing at all, because they're not looking at him. Will never look at him. Sneers and scoffs and jeers and curses. Hurled words, each one weighing a ton.

He used to have a place. Now he doesn't.

Then again, Remus had hardly seen the boy ever since he arrived. Looked like a perfect mix of his parents– father's hair, mother's eyes, average in height for his age, and a bit to the thin side. Sometimes, Remus could smell the scent of something… something that reminded him of the cold, wet caves he had sometimes had to live in, lingering around the boy. It was the scent of dirty rain and… and something else Remus couldn't quite recognize.

The boy, Harry, had been right, though. During the war, many people had been purposefully turned into werewolves, simply because they were a better weapon to fight with. Stronger, more resilient, faster, easier to control by Dark curses. And far more 'affordable' to lose. But why would an eleven-year old child be taught that, already? Or was making the students jaded as soon as possible a part of Durmstrang's curriculum? What else were children taught to be, nowadays?

'If only Dumbledore had won,' Remus thought bitterly, sitting on his bed, with his back against the stony wall. 'I bet things would have been vastly different.'

*

It was a few days later when Remus was startled out of his nap by the sound of footsteps approaching. These footsteps, however, weren't those of an adult, and thus, Remus was only slightly surprised when he saw Harry Potter pulling the wooden door open and staring at him from behind the solid, silver bars.

"You shouldn't be here," Remus said, and the boy nodded.

"I know," he replied and shrugged. "I know I shouldn't be here."

"Why are you here, then?" Remus asked gently, sitting on his bed, resisting the temptation of moving.

"I'm not sure," the boy, Harry, said. "I might be curious. And bored. Aren't you bored here?"

"I'm being well taken care of," Remus said carefully. "I am grateful."

"Being grateful doesn't really answer anything, you know," Harry said, leaning his forehead against the bars. "I saw the books mum's been sending you."

"They are educational, for sure."

"Biased material is never the best source of education. The best way to get educated is to learn from a neutral source and form your own opinions."

"That's a smart thing to say," Remus said quietly. "Is there anything I could help you with?"

"Not really," Harry replied. "I just wanted to see you. I have never met a werewolf before. I want to understand."

"Understand what?" Remus asked, honestly curious.

"Have you read the Beauty and the Beast?" the dark-haired boy asked suddenly, and Remus shook his head wondering whether or not the boy had changed the subject or if this had something to do with it.

"I haven't."

"It's a story about a man who looked like a monster," Harry explained, "and he really did look like one. Everyone who'd see him would think of him as a monster. But he wasn't, not really. He was just cursed, against his will, to look like one. I know that being a werewolf is something beyond your control, sort of like that curse. I just want to know if there's more to you than that. I want to understand if you can be a werewolf without being a monster."

Harry would never perhaps find out how much his words meant to Remus, right at that moment.

The feeling of tightness in his chest, contractions, giving birth to hope. Tears waiting to fall, disbelief waiting to turn into realization.

"Thank you," Remus breathed, sweaty palms pressed against the cotton fabric of the grey robes he was wearing. The words felt so inadequate in a way they hadn't ever before. Not even when the boy's parents took him in, clothed him and fed him. And when Harry had to leave a few minutes later, lest his parents catch him talking with the werewolf, Remus allowed his tears to fall.

He didn't know what exactly he was crying about.

*

"How's Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

It was the day after he had talked secretly with Remus Lupin, and Harry was at the Weasleys, talking with Ron. His mother had had enough of him moping around the house and promptly sent him to 'reconnect' with Ron Weasley. And reconnect they did. It was much easier to get along with Ron than it was with Draco, for example. Right now, they were sitting in Ron's room, eating home-made cupcakes and drinking tea.

"Hogwarts is neat!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm a Gryffindor, of course. Thank Merlin. Wouldn't know how to live if I was in Slytherin."

"Draco's in Slytherin."

"Yeah, well. Malfoy. One of the many reasons why the house just isn't for me, you know."

"I know," Harry nodded. "He'd probably drive you nuts."

"Doesn't help that some professors favour him," Ron said, managing to almost swallow a cupcake whole. "There's Snape. Malfoy gets away with anything during that greasy git's lessons. Snape's the Head of House of Slytherin, so I guess that could be the reason."

"Severus Snape?" Harry asked and, at Ron's nod, continued, "Snape is mum's friend. Dad and Sirius hate him, though, and he hates them just as much. I don't really know why."

"I can guess," Ron muttered. "Anyone sane would hate the man."

"But my mum does like him."

"Mums are like that. My mum thinks he's a good man, too. I don't know why all mums think like that."

"Maybe they think all he needs is a hug," Harry giggled suddenly, and Ron grinned, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I'd get detention for life if I was to tell him that. But oh, maybe we should tell Fred and George! They've been pulling these awesome pranks! Bloody hell, you should have seen this one where they charmed the pumpkin juice to turn into bubbles whenever anyone tried to drink! It was brilliant!"

"And they didn't get expelled?"

"No. Headmaster Yaxley just sort of curled his lip like he'd just stepped on shit and said that he'd rather see such fantastic spell work used on something useful. Then he gave detention and docked points off. But it was worth it."

"I wish I'd seen it."

"Don't you pull any pranks in Durmstrang?" Ron asked, brushing his red fringe to the side. "None at all?"

"None," Harry replied, "we'd get probably cursed for that, there. It's a bit strict and the curriculum is killing me. I mean, we don't even have weekends off, only Sundays!"

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, torn between disgust and pity. "I'm sorry to hear that, mate! What do they teach you there, to need so much time? Hey, wait, I heard that you've got Dark Arts! What're they like?"

"I heard that you've got Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry asked, just as curiously, "tell me about that?"

"You tell me first about Dark Arts and then I'll tell you about DADA," Ron replied, standing up and grabbing the empty cupcake tray, "but first I'll go refill this– don't want to run out of snacks while talking."

Yes, Harry decided, he really did prefer Ron's company over Draco's. Not that he'd ever tell Draco or Ron about that.

*

"Durmstrang is turning out to be just as you planned, my Lord," Igor Karkaroff said. The Dark Lord was sitting on his throne, trying to not look as bored as he felt.

"Of course," Lord Voldemort murmured, "I wouldn't have it any other way, Igor. Any specific outstanding talents I should be aware of? I have duelled with your seventh years, the ones that graduated recently. And I have to say that, while they are indeed talented, none are outstandingly so. I hope that the next group of students will be better."

"Yes, yes, my Lord," Karkaroff said quickly, bowing, "The seventh years were still taught by the old system, even if their numbers were cut. I have high hopes for the first years that'll be starting their second year soon. They are our true product, my Lord. The first generation of real Durmstrang students who are being properly educated since the very beginning. Each individual will become an outstanding wizard– or witch– to support our cause. Durmstrang, unlike other schools—"

"If that's another jab about Hogwarts," Yaxley cut in sharply, "then I shall ask our Lord to give me the permission to formally challenge you to a duel."

'Might be entertaining to watch,' the Dark Lord thought, but waved his hand dismissively, "We do not have the time for your hurt pride to be soothed, Yaxley. Karkaroff, do I have to remind you that I graduated from Hogwarts?"

"M-my Lord—"

"Instead of punishing you," Lord Voldemort said, and the spark in his red eyes promised nothing good, indeed, "I have decided that you two are going to volunteer yourselves to go to Italy and give me a report on how the front is dealing there regarding the rebels. Two weeks will be enough, yes? You'll still be returning early enough to keep running your schools."

'That's not really what volunteering means,' his subconscious mind, that was sounding alarmingly lot like a certain Potter boy, said. But if Voldemort can bend and break rules, then he can just as easily bend and break words and their meanings, damn it. Besides, he hadn't seen the boy– Harry– for months, and he refused to listen to a voice that resembled his. Perhaps he should do something to remind the boy of his existence? Yes, he'd pass along a signal of some kind through one of his followers– someone was bound to know the Potters, after all.

"As you wish, my Lord," Yaxley said with a bow, Karkaroff following his example quickly.

"I trust that you have managed to make at least some of the prisoners speak, Mulciber?" the Dark Lord said then. "I will be most displeased if that's not the case."

"My Lord," Mulciber started warily, "there are several things preventing them from speaking, even if they would want to do so. There are oaths and curses and sometimes something as simple as a language barrier is what's—"

“Crucio," Lord Voldemort said, and sighed while watching one of his oldest Death Eaters shudder and scream under the curse. By the time the Dark Lord had lifted the curse, Mulciber was twitching on the floor, incapable of moving, let alone standing up for the next few minutes.

"The thing is," Lord Voldemort started, voice deceivingly pleasant, "that I hate incompetence. We don't get things done when incompetent people mingle amongst us, hindering our progress, assuming that their lack of competence will go unpunished. We can't have that, now, can we?"

"Of course not, my Lord," Bellatrix Lestrange declared, her voice breathy with delight. "He must be punished. Please, my Lord, let me do it! I can, for you I can do it, and I would do it so well, my Lord! He would never again dare to fail you, I—"

"You, Bellatrix, will be taking over the interrogation," the Dark Lord said softly, and the woman let out a strangled gasp, full of pleasure. Lord Voldemort then let his gaze linger on one of his most trusted, and a wicked smile twisted his lips. Bartemius Crouch Junior– although after his father's death over a decade ago nobody really bothered with the ‘Junior’ part anymore– stood silently, staring at Mulciber with a disgusted expression.

"Mulciber, you will take over Crouch's duties as the Duelling Instructor in Durmstrang for the next year," The Dark Lord suddenly decided, and saw Crouch's eyes widening with surprise.

"M-my Lord?" the man started, bewildered. "What shall I do, then?"

"I have assigned a new defence teacher to teach at Hogwarts," the Dark Lord said easily. "Your task will be to… assist him. Perhaps with your help, the quality of Hogwarts education will rise." And even if that didn't happen, it'd be hilarious to see that glittering fraud harassing Crouch.

"Is that not a punishment to Crouch, my Lord?" Karkaroff asked warily.

"Hardly," Lord Voldemort replied. "It'll be just for a year, after which Crouch will resume his job at Durmstrang. He will be rewarded greatly, after his task."

"I live to serve you, my Lord," said Crouch.

"Yes," his Lord said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't live at all. Now, moving on…"

*

"Your birthday is in three days," Lily said while watching her son eat his breakfast, "Is there anything specific that you want?"

"No party," Harry told her, "I know my friends from school wouldn’t probably be able to make it, and I don't want Ron to stress himself to death because of a gift. I also don't want Gildy to take me to another fashion exhibition."

"What do you want, then?"

"There's this book series," Harry started, "The Dark is Rising Sequence. I want it. I borrowed a copy of the second book from Petronella and I want to read the rest of it. I know that I'll like it."

"Who wrote it?" Lily asked, not recognizing the book.

"Susan Cooper," Harry said with practiced nonchalance. "She's a Muggle."

"Why does a friend of yours have a Muggle book? The are no Muggleborns at Durmstrang."

"She got it as a prank from a cousin. She never read it, but mum, I don't care if a Muggle wrote it. The second book was so good. Please?"

"Do you expect me to go to a Muggle-made bookstore just for a story, Harry?" Lily asked, displeased and troubled. "Or, well, a book series?"

"I don't understand why you even have a problem with it," Harry said with a scowl. "Your parents were Muggles. What's wrong with Muggles?"

"Harry," his mother said sternly, "I am not going to discuss this subject with you."

"But why?" Harry wanted to know. "I don't get it, mum. You—"

"Harry," Lily's voice was sharp and her glare was piercing, "when I said that I refuse to talk about this subject with you, I meant it. When you're older, you will understand."

"The Countess of Blessington once said," Harry started, "that prejudices are the chains forged by ignorance to keep people apart. Why shouldn't we mingle with Muggles if we don't tell them about magic? It's not like they can see from our appearances that we're magical, as long as we wear proper clothes that don't stand out in Muggle society."

"Quoting wisdom doesn't make you wise," Lily pointed out. "Now finish your breakfast and tell me what you want for your birthday."

"Mum…"

"Harry, I understand that you are going through this, oh, I don't know what to call it… social justice phase? I'm sure that you've opened your eyes to see the world around you and now think of it terribly prejudiced and narrow-minded, and you think that everything should change and be more… accepting and friendly. But son, the world doesn't work that way," Lily explained. "If we show our magic to Muggles they'll either hate us right away or start depending on us to do everything. Eventually, someone will start a research on how to distribute magic amongst muggles, and who knows how much we will suffer from that? Or perhaps they'll start hunting us with their mass-destructive weapons."

"Fine," Harry snapped. "I didn't say that we should share our world with Muggles. I just don't see why we should mistreat others and think less of them simply because they were born without magic. It's just as absurd as hating someone just because they were born in another country. It's baseless. It's like a story with a bad plot."

"Darling…"

"Look, I know you think that the stories I read are useless, but that's not true. Just because storybooks teach different things from what schoolbooks do, doesn't mean that they're any less educational."

"How long have you waited to get the chance to tell me that?" Lily a sked.

"Quite a while," Harry admitted. "Doesn't mean I'm not right, though."

"Honey, you're eleven—"

"Might as well be twelve, mum."

"Fine, twelve. You're twelve. There's so much you still don't know. When you grow up—"

"Sometimes," Harry cut in, feeling strangely disappointed and angry, "I think that you're so focused on thinking of who I'll become tomorrow that you forget who I am today."

"Harry," Lily sighed sadly, feeling helpless. She didn't know what to say, how to make him understand that while she did love the idea of everyone living equally in this world, she also knew that it couldn't happen. Naïve dreams were a part of the stories her son loved but didn't have a place in reality. Any signs of being Muggle-friendly could lead to personal disasters, and Lily didn't want that to happen.

She couldn't say any of that, though. She didn't know how.

*

The morning of Harry's birthday was rainy.

He was still uneasy with his mother, his father was in a meeting with some other people who were housing werewolves, and Sirius was on yet another mission. Harry didn't get any gifts, and while he knew that it would probably be compensated for later on, it didn't make him feel any less miserable. A bit after half past twelve o'clock, his mother received an urgent call from the hospital, and after a few words to Harry and the house-elves, she, too, left the house.

So, overall, it sucked.

Harry had said that he didn’t want any people visiting, but… perhaps he shouldn’t have said that.

He couldn't even count on Gildy dropping by– the man had visited yesterday, cheerfully telling Harry about how Barty-darling was helping him prepare a teaching schedule, and Harry couldn't believe that Tom was probably playing matchmaker. Just how high-ranked was the man, to be able to pull this off? Because it definitely had to be his handiwork.

'Maybe I'd be able to find out, but I don't even know his real name,' Harry thought. 'I wonder what his views on Muggles are. Probably terrible, considering that he's most likely a very important Death Eater. Does he hate werewolves, though?'

"What a way to spend a birthday," Harry muttered aloud, standing up. Maybe he should go talk with Lupin? It had been quite long since he saw the werewolf, and he couldn't really form an opinion on him if he didn't spend time with him, right? Should he take something for the man to eat? What about books? Harry couldn't imagine it to be too entertaining to be locked in the basement most of the time, especially if the only books he had were the sort his mum picked.

'Maybe I should take a book down with me,' Harry thought. 'But no– if mum sees it, she'll figure out that I gave it to him and I don't know what'll happen. Nothing good, that's for sure.' For all he knew, his mother could decide to punish Harry or request for Lupin to be moved away. And somehow, the thought of Lupin being shipped off to someone who could possibly abuse him made Harry feel really troubled. This, in turn, led to Harry not carrying anything at all with him when he went to see the werewolf.

Lupin was a miserable sight.

He was pale, sickly, and appeared to be in physical pain. There seemed to be bruises all over his body– well, the parts Harry could see, anyway– and there was a new wound near the man's left ear. His amber eyes looked tired and bloodshot when he saw Harry, and yet, he managed to muster up a smile.

"Full moon last night," he croaked, and Harry understood, holding back a shudder.

"Do you need anything?" Harry asked warily. "Anything to eat?"

"No, thank you," Lupin replied. "I was fed recently. What brings you here?"

"I was feeling lonely," Harry replied, and then continued, saying what he perhaps should not have said, "My parents are away and I've been having lot s of arguments with mum."

"Do you want to talk about it?" How could a werewolf's voice sound so gentle? Harry didn't get it. Werewolves howled and growled, and, and, and didn't sound that gentle. Suddenly, Harry found himself crying, and he didn't even understand why. Tears came out of nowhere. Or maybe they came from the same place where the words, the words that were suddenly tumbling out of his mouth came from.

"It's my birthday and nobody is here and I don't have gifts and my dad and Uncle Sirius are going more and more often on missions and I've heard so many rumours about the upcoming war and my mother works overtime at the hospital and—" Harry's voice wavered then, and he pressed his lips into a tight line in an attempt to prevent a sob from escaping. It didn't work.

He hadn't even realized that he was that upset about not getting gifts. For heaven's sake, he wasn't a kid anymore. But somehow, for some reason, it mattered. Harry wanted to tell Lupin about Tom and Albus and his mother and Muggles and the stories he adored, but he couldn't. He wanted to somehow talk away the pressure in his chest, to tell all his secrets and let an adult fix them because he didn't want to deal with them. He wanted to ask if it was normal for him to feel like his parents were strangers and were doing things that he couldn't accept. It hurt; it hurt so much when Harry had realized that his parents held beliefs that he could never have. He didn't know whether or not he was wrong or his parents, and he couldn't understand why his views were so hard for his mother to accept.

"I hate war," Harry said, voice a mixture of a whisper and a sob, "I hate fighting. I don't want to fight. I don't want my parents to fight. I hate prejudice too, and I… I just want to live in a world where people are judged by what they do, not by who they are."

"The Rebels believe in that," Lupin told him quietly, and Harry shook his head.

"You cannot prevent and prepare for war at the same time," Harry replied sharply, wiping his tears. "You need at least two sides to be able to have a war, and the Rebels are just as much at fault for this war as Death Eaters. And… and I just wish that we'll get to see the day when a war is declared and no one shows up to fight."

"That would be ideal," Lupin sighed.

"But, like mum, you don't believe that it could happen," Harry said.

"I can't tell you. I don't know what the future looks like."

"Neither does my mum but she still doesn't believe in it. Says it's not realistic."

"You shouldn't involve yourself in an inevitable war," Lupin said, and Harry scoffed.

"I'm Harry Potter," the raven-haired boy replied. "My godfather is in the Dark Lord's inner circle. My mother is a hypocritical Pureblood supremacist despite being actually a Muggleborn, and my father is a Death Eater. I've been told by Bellatrix Lestrange to follow in her footsteps. I attend Durmstrang, the military school with the sole purpose of producing perfect Death Eaters. I will be involved in the war when it starts– and that's a matter of time– regardless of what I want."

"Are you sure?" Lupin asked, and his tone wasn't gentle or soft or kind anymore. It was sharp, and Harry felt as if he was truly being asked. As if Lupin wanted him to think before answering, and that's why Harry paused for a few long moments before replying.

"I think so."

"So you're not going to work for your dream?"

"It's not the sort of dream I can fulfil on my own," Harry said.

"But you can start it," Lupin said. "If you think that both Rebels and Death Eaters are wrong, then talk to the people who are neither. If you don't think that war is the answer, then make people share your opinion. Put your future in good hands, Harry. Your own."

"I'm just Harry, you know," Harry whispered, suddenly breath less. "Beneath all the big talk, I'm really nobody. I'm, yeah, I'm just Harry."

"Or Harry the Just," Lupin pointed out with a smile that made his amber eyes sparkle mischievously. "How often in life do we complete a task that was beyond the capability of the person we were when we started it. We learn plenty by trying."

"But this is more than just passing an exam," Harry replied, and while he knew that the idea he was entertaining was impossible, his heartbeat still sped up with excitement, and something in him, in his heart, in his mind, shifted, "and I don't want to take over the world."

"You don't need to take over the world to change it," Lupin told him. "Change the people, and with them, the world will change."

"But if I can't even make my parents understand that their prejudices are stupid, then how can I change the world as you say?" Harry said, and the moment during which he believed that he could change the world passed, as if he had never felt so hopeful and magnificent. He was again just one random kid in his parent's basement talking with a down-on-his-luck werewolf. "I'll be going now. I think I might need to revise a bit– school starts in a month after all."

"All big things started out as an absurd dream," Lupin called after him, still taking care to not stand too close to the silver bars, as Harry made his way out of the basement. "That Dark Lord of yours, for example, couldn't have been born a Dark Lord."

Harry shut the door of the basement behind him and wondered if he could spend the next summer holed up in his flat at Durmstrang.

Probably not.

*

Two days before his second year at Durmstrang was to start, Harry was woken up by his mother shaking him awake.

"Get dressed quickly and come down to the floo fireplace," she whispered, and there was something almost pained in her expression.

"What time is it?" Harry asked and yawned, cuddling the warm blankets around him. "Do I have to wake up?"

"It's half past four. I have set out your clothes for you," his mother replied, moving away. "If it will wake you up, then shower quickly and then get dressed, Harry. We don't have time." Her voice was still low as a whisper, and Harry yawned again, wondering why she was acting to strangely. He did, however, do as told and, in less than half an hour, was standing half-asleep, dressed in a set of black robes in front of the fireplace. He could hear his mother walking– her high-heeled shoes making a clacking sound against the wooden floor. Soon enough, she appeared in front of him wearing a black dress and a fitting hat that even had a black veil that, while it didn't hide her face, gave a rather mysterious impression.

"Where's dad?" Harry asked.

"He went already before us," Lily replied, brushing off imaginary dust from her son's shoulder. "Behave, alright? Be quiet unless you're spoken to."

"Where're we going? Is it a funeral?"

"No. It's not. I'll explain when we arrive."

And that's how Harry found himself flooing with his mother, her hand gripping his shoulder tightly enough to bruise. Only when Harry stumbled out of the fireplace on the other end, did he realize that perhaps his mother had a real reason to be so concerned. He was in a huge hall that he wasn't sure how exactly to describe– its walls seemed to be made of black stone and the torches floating above their heads weren't a good source of light. Everyone was dressed in black robes, and Harry could pick up the atmosphere– a mix of excitement, fear, disgust and glee.

'What's going on?' he wondered and noticed that the people present were studiously avoiding what looked like a tall, thick tree with no branches. He also noticed that there were no other people even close to his age present. Feeling increasingly alarmed, Harry grabbed his mother's hand and pressed himself against her side.

"Lily," a familiar voice called, and Harry saw his father and Uncle Sirius walking towards them.

"James," Lily breathed, a sound full of misery, "does Harry really have to be here?"

"The Dark Lord specifically invited all three of you," Sirius whispered. "I do not know why– nobody does, I even asked Snape and Bella and Malfoy. I'm sorry. It came out of nowhere."

"Is this because we're housing a werewolf?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't relate to this at all."

"What is this?" Harry asked, and his father gave him a look that mirrored the one Lily had had when she woke him up. James kneeled in front of his son and grabbed his arms, trying to smile reassuringly.

"Everything will be all right," he said. "I promise you, Harry. Try to focus on something else, alright? List the ingredients of Veritaserum in your head or something."

'You're not exactly making me feel any better,' Harry thought, but kept quiet. James stood up, squaring his shoulders and, grabbing Lily's hand, turned to look at a balcony that Harry hadn't noticed before. Soon enough, the boy realized that it was not only his parents and godfather looking at the balcony but everyone else as well. Strangely, Harry felt an odd kind of pressure in the air long before the glass doors of the balcony opened, and a man wearing a hooded robe appeared. And then, suddenly, everyone was kneeling down. Harry, too, as he was pulled by his mother.

"Rise," the man commanded after a moment, his voice closer to a hiss than anything else. Harry felt his insides twist and blood run cold when the realization dawned. This man, this person who could make all these powerful witches and wizards kneel down like that… this couldn't be anyone else but the Dark Lord Voldemort himself.

"My faithful followers," the Dark Lord started, and Harry couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of familiarity all of a sudden, "thank you for arriving on this early hour to witness the execution of Marius Maucett, accused of treason for protecting Rebels and shielding them from our reach."

Execution.

Execution.

Harry flinched, turning to stare at the branchless tree again, only now realizing that it wasn't really a tree at all, but a stake. Was someone seriously going to be— No, impossible. Not in front of him. This kind of… something just didn't happen in front of him. Harry knew that if his parents could, they would send him home. But they didn't have the authority– not even Sirius did. What about Tom? If Tom was there, maybe he could allow Harry to go home and not see—

An old man, short and thin and wrinkly and clearly in pain, was dragged by two men towards the stake. He was lifted by a spell to be tied high enough for everyone in the hall to see him, and Harry had to look down when one of the two men spelled seven torches to surround him while the other put up the wards protecting the witnesses from the fire. Harry was feeling increasingly nauseated and wished that he could pass out or just vanish or wake up and call this a nightmare. The screams he was hearing weren't his own, but those of the man who was slowly being burnt to death.

The scent of burning flesh filled the room, and Harry wondered why exactly this was happening. Had his parents done something to anger the Dark Lord for the whole family to be punished like this? He didn't want to see, he didn't want to hear, he didn't want to smell. He didn't want to know. Harry had so far thought that the captured Rebels were executed by a simple Killing Curse, not in this kind of terrible, inhumane way. To be burnt on the stake was… it was wrong in so many ways.

Harry was gripping his mother's hand again, trying to block out everything. He didn't know for how long they stood there– the man didn't die quickly, and most of Harry's thoughts went back and forth between 'I want to throw up' and 'just die already'. He wished he was elsewhere, anywhere else. He wished, he wished so hard.

And then, for an instant, everything changed. The scent of burning body changed into that of rain and smoke. The temperature dropped from slightly hot to quite cold. His mother's hand vanished from his grip, and he couldn't hear the convict's screams anymore. Just as soon as Harry had realized the change, everything turned back, and he was left dazed and unsure, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. By the time he came back to his senses, his mother was already pulling him towards the Floo, and Harry caught a glimpse of the Dark Lord staring at– not to sound arrogant or anything– but right at him, Harry, of all people.

Even if he was to live forever, Harry doubted that he'd ever forget the execution he had just witnessed. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, it wasn't humane. If law condoned this sort of act, then the law was wrong.

But there was nothing Harry could do about it.

Chapter Text

"Why, Sirius? Why were we invited?"

"I already told you, Lily, I don't know. I honestly don't know. I can't just march up to the Dark Lord and ask him why!"

From Harry's point of view, the time between the execution and school was spent in a daze.

He didn't feel like he had slept at all, and yet, he wasn't sure what he had done during the hours he was awake. He was vaguely aware of his parents and godfather sometimes trying to talk with him, but he couldn't focus.

How could he, with the scent of a burning human body still lingering around and the screams still ringing in his ears? It was all in his head– Harry knew that. He had showered five times and bathed twice during the past two days, and the clothes he had been wearing for the execution were tucked in a corner of his closet after being washed by the house-elves. There was no way that any scent could truly be so stuck on a person as to survive through all that.

A part of Harry's mind also thought of the instant during which he had somehow slipped away– Where? To the train station?– but he couldn't wrap his mind around how that could have happened and therefore tried very hard to not think of it at all. Harry was tired of things that didn't make sense.

"What did the Dark Lord say? When he told you to invite us, I mean."

"He asked: who knows the Potters. He didn't give any reasons, and it's not like I could just ask. Then, half an hour before I was to attend the execution, he ordered me to fetch all three of you. He specifically told me to include Harry. He knows Harry's name. He said, 'Don't forget Harry Potter.'"

"You don't think he knows about the wand, do you?"

"I… I don't know…"

There was a lot Harry couldn't stop thinking about. Not only the execution itself, but also the man who had ordered it to happen, the hooded man, the Dark Lord, had been there in person. Harry had seen him. Suddenly, having that man's wand's brother felt somehow different. Far more dangerous and risky, and Harry found himself staring at his wand with reluctant wariness. Every time he thought of lifting it and casting a spell, he thought of the Dark Lord's hand curling around his own wand and the Dark Lord's lips ordering the brutal execution.

Had Tom been there? Harry hadn't seen him, though, but he must have been. Perhaps he had been standing behind the Dark Lord or somewhere near him? What had he thought of the execution? Was it a normal occurrence? Did he approve of such events?

It was monstrous. Burning people on the stake. It was… it was… Harry couldn't find the words to describe how exactly it made him feel.

"Maybe it's good that school is starting. It could give him something else to think about."

"Yes… A change of environment could cheer him up. Maybe we should buy him a book? You know how he cheers up after reading a good story."

"He asked for a series of books… I didn't want to buy them because they're written by a Muggle, but maybe I should get them anyway. James, I hate seeing Harry so sad. Why our baby?"

"He'll be alright, Lily. I promise you. We'll get those books and send them to him, and in no time he'll be alright again."

The execution wasn't something Harry wanted to talk about with his friends, especially if there was a risk of them asking for details about it. But at the same time it didn't feel like something he could just hide away– it'd mean keeping big secrets from his friends, and that didn't exactly make him feel comfortable, considering that he had already several secrets he was hiding. The wand, the train station… even Lupin, in a way, was a secret.

Why were secrets such a burden? It didn't make any sense why hiding some information felt so awful, especially since the information really didn't concern anyone but him. He'd just have to be careful to never mention anything about them, and eventually, he'd get used to it. Harry wished that he could go and talk with Lupin– the werewolf had a rather soothing presence– but with his parents and Sirius home, Harry couldn't do that. Not to mention that Harry's own portkey to Durmstrang would activate in less than three hours, and the likelihood of having the opportunity to sneak away for a chat was non-existent.

Harry wondered if Lupin had ever seen an execution. It was a possibility. How often did the Dark Lord have those executions anyway? How many times— is it a routine already? A tradition that reminds his strongest followers of what happens to people who cross him? Using fear to keep them grounded? Why had Harry been invited, then? Could it be that Tom—? No, no. Tom wouldn't—

"Harry," Sirius said, sitting next to his godson, interrupting his thoughts. "How are you feeling?"

"You don' t need to act as if I'm sick or something," Harry replied, "because I'm not."

"Your parents have told me that you've had some nightmares."

"Once. I had only one nightmare."

"Do you want to, uh, talk about it?"

"Would there be any point?" Harry asked. "Have you ever read the Belgariad?"

"No," Sirius replied, wondering if it was a cult book or an introduction to a new religion. "What is it about?"

"It's a story," Harry started. "In that story, there's a god called Torak. His people sacrifice humans for his sake and serve him out of fear, not out of love. Eventually, Torak is defeated by the hero, who does what is right even when he's plagued by fear."

"I see," Sirius said, not really understanding what Harry was getting at. The boy continued after a fleeting smile.

"The Dark Lord uses the same tactic as Torak, even if the people he kills are his enemies," Harry said. "One day, people will get over their fear, and in the absence of fear, how would he control them?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harrykins," Sirius said, ruffling Harry's hair. "There's more to control than just fear. Either way, you're way too young to be thinking of such things, yeah? How about we go for a bit of flying before you have to go to school?"

"Alright," Harry agreed reluctantly. Maybe it would, indeed, do him some good.

*

"Harry!" Filippa shrieked before flinging herself at the boy, hugging him with surprising strength as soon as the portkey took him to the square in front of the apartment complex. "You're taller! Look at yo— hey, hold on. Did you stop sleeping or something? Why do you look so-"

"Drop it," Harry said flatly. "Just don't ask. Please, Filippa."

"Are you alright?" the Italian girl asked, previous cheer vanishing, leaving concern in its wake. "Harry?"

"Are the others here yet?" Harry asked instead of replying. "How are you, Filippa?"

"Petronella, Nikolai and Lorenzo are in their flats," Filippa answered, "I had planned on waiting outside here to greet everyone, but I guess we'll see them tomorrow at the homeroom class. We have one already at nine o'clock, and Professor Dietmar will give us our schedules and stuff. And I'm alright, I suppose. Harry, are you sure you're…"

"Filippa," Harry interrupted. "Please."

"Fine," Filippa said. "For now. Fine. Let's go to your flat and I'll make some tea and we'll pretend that you're honestly alright, if that will make you feel better." Harry nodded, feeling relieved, and walked with her to his apartment where she indeed set out to make some tea while Harry went to check that his trunk had indeed arrived safely. He found it in the bedroom. Hedwig's cage was there as well and Harry set her out to fly for a few hours– he knew how much she hated being in a cage.

"What were you doing down there at the portkey square?" Harry asked, sitting down on a chair. “Were you really waiting for everyone to turn up?”

"Well, I just wanted to say hi to everyone as they arrive," Filippa replied. "Lorenzo's feeling a bit down and isn't much of a company. You see, there've been some political fights going on in Italy and rebel activities have been sighted, and since his family lives right in the midst of the Wizarding Rome where it all is happening, they're in a bit of danger. Not to mention that his sister is one of the reporters working on that."

"What about your family?"

"Oh, well, we're not into politics– we work with fashion, all of us, even though it's Aunt Peppita who's the most famous. Everyone knows we're neutral. Besides, my family's mansion is hidden in a muggle neighbourhood in Padua. I'll actually be the first person in my family to become a Death Eater."

"What about Petronella and Nikolai?"

"Petronella said that she forgot to finish one of the summer essays and is going to do that tonight even if it kills her."

"And Nikolai?"

"Well," Filippa started quietly, setting two cups of tea finally on the table and sitting down as well. "Harry, does Nikolai come across as a bit… odd?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked curiously. "I haven't spent that much time with him, to be honest. All I can say is that he's very smart and looks like he's up to something mischievous."

"Mischievous," Filippa repeated. "I don't think so, Harry. I mean, I've heard rumours of him doing pretty nasty stuff. Like burning dogs alive and drowning ca— Harry?" The girl's voice rose in alarm when Harry seemed to lose all colour in his face, his hand clenching the hot cup of tea tightly. Harry, for his part, was feeling suddenly overwhelmingly nauseated, and he didn't want to hear about burning, didn't want to hear about fire, didn't want to hear— Breathing was difficult, and Harry didn't understand why. He wasn't the one breathing smoke in, was he? And yet, he couldn't breathe and he could feel tears burning behind his eyelids and he could hear fire somewhere and—

"Harry," Filippa repeated, soothingly this time, not sure what had triggered such a reaction, moving to sit next to Harry instead of in front of him, gripping his shoulders and trying to make him focus on her. "Just breathe in and out. Come on, calmly. In. Out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold on, I'll bring you some water." No, no, he didn't want to be alone right now. Why was he suddenly feeling like this, as if he was back watching the execution again?

"Don't leave," Harry choked out, and suddenly– why was he crying anyway? If he was so terrified, so shocked, so traumatized, why had he waited till now to react? This didn't make any sense, but Harry felt as if nothing really did, and it all was so overwhelmingly awful.

"It's okay," Filippa said, voice wavering slightly. "You can cry. Come on, let it all out." Harry might have made a sound of some sort, before just pressing his face against her shoulder and sobbing loudly, his hands gripping the silky fabric of her shirt. Filippa ran her fingers through his soft hair gently, unsure of what to do to comfort one of her best friends.

Robin Hood had never cried. Had Belgarion? What about Gulliver? Peter Pan? No, his stories had never talked about heroes crying over things like this. Heroes weren't— heroes were so much braver than him. Heck, had even Snow White cried? Cinderella's step-sisters had brazenly cut parts of their body to try and fit their feet into a shoe of glass and probably never shed a tear. If even side characters can man up, then why not Harry, who wasn't a character at all, but a person?

But he just couldn't. These tears might have been waiting for the past few days to be let out, and now that Harry had started, he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop thinking of the execution hall, the fire, the victim… and the Dark Lord. Why had Harry been invited there? Really, why? He couldn't, for the life of him, come up with a sensible reason. Maybe he should ask Tom? If anyone knew, it'd have to be that guy. Maybe he could send a message to him? Would Hedwig be able to find Tom— no. Tom wasn't even his real name, and Harry wasn't sure of how Hedwig could even locate him. Maybe he could try, anyway?

"I'm sorry," Harry croaked, pulling away from Filippa after a while. "I know you don't need any more troubles."

"Don't be an idiot," Filippa replied. "You look exhausted, though. How about you go take a nap?"

"You're not going to ask me anything?"

"Maybe when you wake up, if you feel like you want me to ask about it."

"Are you going to tell the others?" Harry wanted to know, rubbing his eyes. "I mean…"

"If you don’t mind, I'll only tell Truls," Filippa told him honestly, "because I know how much he cares for you. I'll bring him here in the evening and we'll catch up, yeah?"

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, "for, well, being like this."

"Don't apologize," Filippa said. "It's just… Harry, don't keep secrets from us if there's no absolute need for it, all right? Because secrets build a wall around their carriers, separating them from the people around. Secrets can be isolating in a way solid walls can never be. Secrets can make people lonely. At least, that's what my papà used to say. And being lonely is sad."

"Then—" Harry started, but Filippa cut him off, shaking her head.

"I'm still not going to insist for you to tell me now. Go to sleep, Harry. When you wake up, Truls and I will be here. I'm borrowing your key."

"Thank you," Harry breathed, not sure of what else to say. Filippa smiled, and Harry felt that he didn't even have to say anything aloud for her to understand how grateful he was.

*

Harry woke up to see Truls lying next to him on the bed, reading a book. The only source of light was coming from the wand his friend was holding in his hand.

"What time is it?" Harry mumbled, before yawning and burying his face into the pillow. He felt as if he could sleep forever – it was warm and soft and comfortable and he had the nagging feeling that something was wrong, but he didn't quite remember what exactly that was, and he didn't want to remember, either.

"Half past eight in the evening," Truls replied, shutting his book and setting it on the floor before rolling to face Harry. "Filippa told me that you were crying."

"Oh…" Harry remembered, not only the execution, but also the embarrassing, tear-filled minutes during which he acted like an overgrown baby. What did Filippa think? Good grief, he had been crying! How humiliating.

"Want to talk about it?" Truls asked.

"Not here," Harry said. 'Not ever,' he thought, knowing already that that was one wish that wouldn't come true.

"I think here's the best," Truls told him. "We talk here, and then we move to get some tea and leave the bad thoughts behind."

"Is Filippa…?"

"No. Apparently, Lorenzo is going through some shit right now and she's comforting him. Do you want me to get her?"

"No need," Harry said quietly, and sighed, clenching his eyes shut. He wanted to talk, but wasn't sure from where to start.

"Come on," Truls said, pressing his body closer to Harry and wrapping his arms around his friend. "Don't go into that defensive turtle mode now." That brought out a chuckle from Harry, who then took a deep breath before starting.

"I witnessed an execution," Harry whispered, and instead of tensing, Truls rubbed Harry's back comfortingly, and for those moments it seemed as if only the two of them existed in Harry's world. To hear the heartbeat of someone, to feel their breath and warmth… It meant that they were alive, and that was exactly what Harry needed right then.

"When?"

"Two days ago. It was very early when my mum came to get me. They burnt a man alive. For supposedly helping the Rebels."

"And it makes you feel…?"

"Sick. Angry. Terrible. I don't know. It's just… wrong. I don't know what to tell you, Truls. I don't know how to make this go away."

"Is it just the execution that makes you feel like this?" Truls asked quietly, and Harry shifted, pushing himself up to look down at his friend, seeing only the clear blue eyes in the darkness.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"The man who ordered that execution…"

"Is the Dark Lord."

"Yeah, and our parents serve the Dark Lord. Eventually we, too, will be servants of the man who ordered that execution," Truls said quietly. "And it's not the first and won't be the last execution that will take place. Actually, it might not be the last execution you'll have to witness. It's not a question of what is right and what is wrong… it's going to happen, Harry. You can't let it bring you down."

"But I can't accept it!" Harry exclaimed, and clenched his eyes shut again to hold back the tears while Truls just pulled him back into the hug.

"You don't have to," Truls told him. "Suck it up now, and when you can, change it."

"How can I stop an execution if it's ordered by the Dark Lord? No matter how influential I could become—"

"You might not be able to ever stop the executions, but you can change the way they're done."

"Oh," Harry said, and felt as if he was on the verge of realizing something great, but he couldn't quite grasp it. "That didn't… cross my mind."

"Yeah," Truls sighed, tugging playfully at his friend's fringe. "Instead of brutal, painful ways, you can order an execution to happen through an overdose of sleeping potion– it's painless, probably. Or the killing curse– it takes an instant. Trust me, my big brother's got a master's degree on killing methods. He studied in Svergies Nationella Magi Universitet, and it's pretty prestigious in its own right."

"Universi…tet?"

"It's basically more school after graduating from any of the normal institutions. It's like… if you want to specialize in something, get a master's degree to teach or anything, you go there to study for a few extra years to become an expert. I'm not clear on the details, though. I’m not planning on studying more after Durmstrang."

"Oh."

"How about we go get something to drink, now?" Truls suggested. "I don't think that tea will be good though– we don't want to stay up all night."

"I've got some herbal infusions," Harry said, sitting up and looking at his friend. "Thank you, Truls."

"You'd do the same for me," Truls told him, fingertips touching Harry's hand. "And you've already done more."

"Are you doing this because I saved your life?" Harry asked, feeling something inside him twist. Truls shot him an insulted look and shook his head, sitting up as well.

"Of course not," he replied. "The life debt has nothing to do with this. We're friends, Harry. Right?"

"Right," Harry breathed, turning his hand and entwining his fingers with Truls's own. "Best friends."

*

The following day, everything seemed brighter, somehow clearer even though Harry knew that he'd never really forget the execution and it'd take him quite a while before he'd feel completely alright again. He didn't feel tired anymore, though, and there was an inkling of happiness inside him when he was walking towards the homeroom class with Truls. Certainly enough for Harry to muster up a smile when they entered and saw Filippa, making the girl beam back in response.

"Jakob and Björn are yet to arrive," Heidi sighed. "I hope they won't be late… Truls! Harry! How are you two?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied, sitting down. "And you?"

"I'm fabulous," the girl grinned brightly, her blue eyes sparkling with delight. "We're second years! Did you see any of the new first years yet? Oh gosh, I can't believe we're not the newbies anymore! We're veterans!"

"Well, I wouldn't say veterans," Clemens said, just as Jakob and Björn came in. "I just hope that no one will expect us to mingle with the new first years."

"Let's hope so," Petronella agreed. "Hi Jakob, Björn."

"I wonder what kind of schedule we'll have this year," Filippa sighed. "I can't wait."

"I doubt that it'll be anything good," Harry said gloomily. "Bet you we've still got millions of Transfiguration periods. Every day."

"Oh, Harry," Petronella laughed, leaning to pat his arm, "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"I can tutor you if there's anything difficult," Truls promised just as the classroom's door opened and Professor Dietmar entered. It was odd how that man never changed– always finely dressed and appearing both timid and strangely strong at the same time.

"Today is Tuesday," the man said as soon as he sat on his chair at the front. "Every Tuesday, at nine o'clock, you'll be in this classroom. It's our official homeroom period. I'll pass you your schedules and then address a few points."

'I hope nothing too bad,' Harry thought and couldn't wait to get to see his schedule. The first thing he did when he got the piece of paper was to count the Transfiguration periods– five hours every week. Why so many? Why couldn't they have more… Charms instead?

"As you can see, you'll be starting Divination this year," Professor Dietmar said. "Three hours of Divination by Professor Folke Benyamin. Also, you might notice that, for example, you'll have only four hours of Herbology every week, instead of five like last year. If there's anything unclear, you can just ask– I don't want to waste the whole hour talking about schedules."

'I wonder what we'll learn in Divination,' Harry mused silently. 'I hope it's actually something useful. It'd be so neat to be able to see the future before it happens.'

"You're now starting your second year at Durmstrang, and you will be expected to behave in a manner that brings no shame upon this institution. You are to set an example to all of the other students– old and new. Because you ten are the first generation of what Durmstrang is today. You are expected to keep your educational standards high and have an outstanding academic record…"

'Oh God, that sounds awful,' Harry thought, sighing and getting increasingly distracted. Eventually, he ended up staring at Lorenzo, wondering whether the other boy was thinking of his family. 'If I was in his situation, I probably would try to make a deal with the Gone Tribe to keep my family safe.'

But luckily, Harry's family was safe. Ever since Lupin had been assigned to their care, Harry's father hadn't been called for any risky, time-consuming missions. His mother worked at the hospital, and Harry was certain that Sirius was strong enough to take care of himself. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Lorenzo, and he wondered if there was anything he'd be able to do to help the other boy. They weren't that close, though, and Harry trusted Filippa to do the job better.

'What about Truls' family, though?' Harry suddenly realized. 'They're into politics or something. Pretty high up. What if they are in danger, too? What if it's Truls who'll one day feel like he's alone? Would I be enough to help him? I wouldn't even know what to say!'

And then Harry remembered the feeling of Truls's hand in his, the comfort sweeping through their entwined fingers, and decided that sometimes words aren't needed as much as gestures.

*

The first few weeks of school passed quickly. Harry, much to his own surprise, didn't struggle much with Transfiguration so far, and while he would never enjoy the subject, he was no longer actively praying for its banishment from the curriculum.

It was a rainy Sunday evening that found him once again walking through Garden of Grindelwald, enjoying the weather and wondering if he could learn a charm that would keep him shielded from rain if he wanted to read a book outside. So deep in his thoughts he was, weighting theories and possibilities, that Harry at first didn't see the huge snake in the bushes. But when he did see it, Harry froze, feeling his breath catch in his throat and his heart skip a beat, mind trying to calculate whether or not he could run away or if the snake would be able to catch him.

'Maybe I could hex it,' Harry thought, swallowing and trying to stay calm. 'It's so big… I wonder how poisonous it is…'

"She's not going to attack you," a familiar voice said, and Harry was tempted to turn and glare at Tom– because of course it was him, who else would set a massive snake loose on school grounds, damn it – but he wasn't going to turn his back to this creature. Warily, he watched it and didn't relax until he felt Tom standing right behind him, with the man's hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, still staring at the snake. "Is it… she, he… yours?"

"She is Nagini," Tom replied, "the Dark Lord's pet. I find this garden to be exceptionally enjoyable and therefore decided to share my… enjoyment."

"With the Dark Lord's pet?" Harry said, finally turning his head to look at the man. "There're some things I want to talk about, with you."

"I'm certain," Tom drawled. "Let us go find a seat, unless you wish to stand here while talking. I'm not in the mood of standing still if I can sit."

"All benches are wet," Harry pointed out, allowing himself to be led towards one. With a scoff, Tom used a spell that made the chair dry, and Harry blinked, trying to not feel embarrassed by his error. "Alright, that works, I guess."

"You said you wanted to talk about something specific," Tom said, and his tone was… oddly anticipating.

"What brought you here?"

"Is that what you're curious about?"

"No," Harry admitted, feeling reluctant to get to the actual point and therefore deciding on another topic he wanted to know about. "You… made Gildy– Gilderoy Lockhart– teach at Hogwarts. Just… why? And how high-ranked are you, to be able to make that happen?"

"The school was in need for a Defence teacher, and I simply suggested one," Tom said with a shrug. "There's nothing suspicious about that. Really, none at all."

"You're not trying to play matchmaker, are you? Because now, Gildy has an excuse to harass Professor Crouch, and the thought of you trying to fix up those two is just wrong in so many ways."

"Oh, nonsense. Besides, wouldn't it be amusing to watch the two of them fumble around?"

"I don't trust your motives," Harry deadpanned. "Seriously."

"You're throwing out such accusations with ease," Tom said, smirking. "I'm hurt."

"I doubt it," Harry muttered, brushing his fringe to the side. "I know you have some ulterior motives, and I'm going to find out what. Also, stop avoiding my other question. How high ranked are you, exactly?" Tom shrugged with an amused smile that made Harry immediately sceptical.

"If I told you that I'm actually—," he started.

"Don't be stupid," Harry cut in, and the man's self-assured expression turned into a bewildered one.

"I didn't say anything yet!"

"You were about to say something absurd. Like, like…"

"Like what?"

"Like claim to be the Dark Lord himself, or something."

"That," Tom said, "is because I am."

"Don't be stupid," Harry sighed, casting a pitying glance at the man. "It's alright, though. You're cool even if you don't control half the world."

"This is so bizarre," Tom muttered. "Fine. Believe what you want, but I'm going to say I told you so when you realize the truth."

"If you're the Dark Lord," Harry said, suddenly feeling anxious and far less amused, the dulled feelings from the execution weeks ago surfacing again. "Then… why would you have invited me to the… to see the… Right before school started. The execution." Tom stared at Harry for a few long moments with an unreadable expression, before turning away.

"I saw you. You didn't enjoy it," the man finally said.

"Of course I didn't enjoy it," Harry exclaimed. "Why did the Dark Lord want me there? And if you saw me, then, why… why couldn't you… I don't know. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to see it. It was terrible. Monstrous. Inhumane!"

"Really?" Tom asked, appearing to look honestly surprised. "I thought it was entertaining."

"Entertaining," Harry repeated, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. "Entertaining?"

"Yes. It's… fascinating, really, to see how permanently a life can end. How some people can be robbed of their tomorrows by a simple order, reminding us that real life is merciless like that. Some people enjoy this by nature. To others, it's an acquired taste. I take it that you belong to the latter category."

"It was wrong, what was done to that man."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?" Harry demanded to know. "He was burnt alive. Didn't you hear his screams or were three weeks enough for you to forget them? Doing something like that to another human being is—"

"Stop," Tom hissed, and there was a tone in his voice that Harry had never heard before. The boy shut up, feeling as if he had just gotten himself into serious trouble, yet not understanding why exactly he was feeling so. "I did notice before, these… moral things you seem to have. I do not understand you. You seem to live in a world of stories you keep carrying around where right and wrong are as different as white and black, and you want to apply that on real life. It won't work. There are no noble knights who can win dirty battles, Harry Potter, and all battles are dirty. Maybe you should realize that there's a difference between real life and fairytales. You need to know that the world is full of ideals, but most of them cannot be applied."

"So what was the point of me seeing that execution?" Harry asked, convinced that Tom was wrong, but not knowing how to express himself well enough to get the message across.

"If it didn't serve as entertainment," Tom replied. "Then maybe it will serve as a lesson. It was a punishment to a Rebel supporter and a warning to others of the same mind-set, and the receiving end was a criminal. What does his life matter?"

"Every life matters."

"What a naïve statement. Next, you'll claim that people are equal— Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. People are not."

"Don't sneer at me," Harry said quietly, staring at Tom with a hurt expression. "People should be treated as equal as long as they haven't done anything to deserve else."

"Of course," Tom scoffed. "And when people become equal everywhere, eventually they start taking liberties. I have the right to do this; I have the right to do that. Then everyone has the right to do everything, because with everyone equal there's no one superior to set the rules of the playground. And you cannot count on the flimsy human morals."

Harry wanted, so desperately, to make Tom understand. But how could he? Harry had thought himself to be eloquent and articulate, and yet, right now, he couldn't find a single word he could use. Disappointed in himself, Harry glared at Tom, vowing silently to never again allow himself to feel this helpless during a discussion.

"You're going to be a Death Eater, not a saint," Tom said after a long moment of silence. "Saint Potter sounds ridiculous, anyway."

"Was it you?" Harry asked. "Who got me invited to the execution?"

"Perhaps."

"I'm not going to change my mind."

"I didn't think you would. You'd probably be a Gryffindor, if you were at Hogwarts." Harry shrugged, not really understanding what exactly being a Gryffindor mattered. "You're blind to the dangers of the irrationalism clouding your judgement."

"I don't understand you."

"That's because you refuse to understand that some people enjoy causing pain. Or rather– are indifferent to it. Also… you're just twelve, are you not? I admit to being disappointed, though. I thought that you'd be mature enough to accept the execution for what it was– instead you view it as a wrong deed and stubbornly refuse to accept the facts."

"What facts?"

"That it happens. And will happen again. That it's a necessity, not something that can be defined as wrong or right." Tom stared at Harry, red eyes narrowed, and the boy suddenly realized that he, in fact, didn't know anything about the man standing in front of him. Tom could be a mass-murdering criminal or a… a madman on the loose or something.

"I don't think we'll reach a point of agreement," Harry said.

"You need to grow up," Tom told him, standing up and reaching for the snake– Nagini– obviously intending on leaving. "Dreaming of ideals in a world that respects nothing but power will be the end of you."

Harry said nothing while watching the man leave.

Suddenly, he was missing Truls almost too much.

Tom, on his part, wondered why he bothered talking with this child whose morals were irritating him. But he was curious– the boy was strange, and as annoying as the boy's views were, Tom was still fascinated. But that wasn't the only thing.

The boy didn't mention it, and Tom hadn't expected him to. He didn't want to ask about it yet, either. Not until he got a confirmation on whether or not the boy had, for an instant during the execution, flickered away.

*

The following day, Harry was still thinking of Tom during the first period. He couldn't help but feel as if he had… made a mistake. He wasn't sure at which point, exactly, or if he was just being overly suspicious.

'I need to learn more about Tom,' he decided. 'I must. I won't return to the garden before I know at least who I'm dealing with.' But he didn't even know Tom's real name! How he wished that he could ask Sirius and simply describe Tom to him. But then his godfather would want to know how Harry had met the man, and the boy was a bit reluctant to do that.

"For homework," Professor Dietmar said, and Harry started packing his bag with relief. "I want a short essay on five water plants you think are most useful. Dismissed."

"We have Herbology tomorrow already," Petronella whined when they left the classroom. "I hope that we won't be getting any more essays to do today."

"Considering that we've got Dark Arts next, and Professor Dietmar's brother is teaching it, and they seem to share teaching tips, I think that getting another essay to do is very probable," Björn told her. "Wanna bet?"

"You need to control that betting of yours," Jakob said. "Seriously, man."

"Gambling is fun," Björn replied cheerfully. "I'm already starting my personal fortune!"

"Well done," Heidi drawled, making the boy scowl at hear.

"With you girls, it's easy enough to look pretty and snag a rich husband," Björn claimed. "But with us guys, it's different."

"That's right," Filippa suddenly said, although she didn’t sound as if she agreed. "When a woman is useless, it's kind of cute in the archaic circles. When a man is useless, he's just shit. Harry, these are…?"

"Double standards," Harry said, sounding like the term alone was a personal insult of some kind. He shook his head and noticed Nikolai standing a bit to the side, staring at nothing in particular. Ever since Filippa had let it slip that Nikolai enjoyed tormenting animals cruelly, Harry hadn't known quite how to act around the other boy, usually pretending to not know a thing. But sometimes, he couldn't help but remember and shudder, feeling unexplainable fear.

He hadn't noticed anyone else acting strangely around Nikolai, and Harry wondered if anyone but he and Filippa even knew. How had she found out anyway?

"You're quiet," Truls said, startling Harry out of his thoughts. "Is something wrong?"

"I was just thinking about something," Harry muttered. "I, er, think it's best to not talk about it where someone might hear."

"We've got Creatures and Divination after Dark Arts," Truls said. "And then we've got the lunch break. Let's go to my place, then."

"Alright," Harry agreed with a smile just as they entered the Dark Arts classroom.

"I wish we'd start duelling already," Filippa sighed, sitting in front of Harry and Truls.

"But didn't you hear?" Heidi asked, sitting next to her. "I heard that Professor Crouch was temporarily transferred to Hogwarts. Rumour has it that he's helping a professor there." Harry's eyes widened, his mouth falling open.

"What?" he exclaimed. "What?"

"Didn't you know?" Heidi asked, clearly surprised. "How come I know if you don't? I mean, you're Gilderoy Lockhart's pupil, right?"

"Wrong," Harry said. "I'm his nothing. He just occasionally barges into my room—"

"Oh, he can barge into my room any time."

"Filippa! Ew!"

"I read it in Hexogue," Heidi said. "He's got an article there… Harry, I don't want to ask weird questions, but is Lockhart, um, interested…?"

"I don't want to hear this!" Harry yelped. "Whom he's having an affair with isn't any of my business!" 'No wonder he hasn't written a word to me yet– he's too busy hitting on Crouch!'

"Oh my God," Heidi gasped, grabbing Filippa's arm. "Lockhart is having an affair with a man! He's gay!"

"Maybe he's bisexual?" Filippa suggested.

"Can we change the subject?" Harry asked. "To something actually relevant?" Heidi smiled oddly, looking for a split-second at Truls.

"How about," she started, but the appearance of the Dark Arts professor Ulrich Dietmar saved Harry from hearing what kind of suggestion she had been about to make.

*

Truls's flat was almost identical to Harry's, except that it was slightly tidier and its kitchen was fully stocked.

"My mother keeps sending a house-elf," Truls explained when he saw Harry's surprised expression. "Anyway, we've got two hours till Charms. Want to tell me what has been keeping you down lately?"

"Life in general," Harry replied, sitting down and setting his books on the table in front of him. "How about we work on our Herbology essays while we talk?"

"Alright, I'll just make us some tea. Are you hungry? I can make pancakes or something."

"Tea's enough, thank you. Say, Truls, what do you think of Nikolai?"

"Nikolai?" Truls said, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

"Filippa told me something about him, and I haven't been able to stop worrying, sort of," Harry admitted. "She said he likes… hurting animals. And, well, is that true?"

"I don't know," Truls replied, relaxing. "Wouldn't surprise me, though. Nikolai's got a bit of a reputation."

"What do you mean? Why does everyone else know this but I don't?" Harry asked, scowling. "Who else but you and Filippa know?"

"I didn't know about him torturing animals, but Harry, Nikolai… Well, just look at him during lessons. He enjoys tormenting the animals during Creatures lessons, in Transfiguration, he asked once if a human can be killed by transforming half of him into something else, he soaks up every single thing in Dark Arts, in Herbology it's slow poisons that he's interested in… He sets things on fire, is egocentric, isn't hesitant to use violence…"

"I didn't know any of that before."

"It takes time to notice– it's not like he does all that in a day, or even a month. And the issues are never big enough to really be noticed on their own. And Harry, in all honesty, you're not exactly the most observant guy out there."

"I'm dense?" Harry asked, honestly surprised. Truls smiled fondly and set down two cups of tea and a plateful of cookies on the table before sitting down.

"You're a bit dense," Truls replied. "I think it's because you've got your stories filling your head."

"But I know about Björn's budding gambling problem."

"Everyone knows about that. The guy's going to end up in debts before we graduate, I swear."

"Did Nikolai really do all that? You know… hurt animals and stuff. Why?"

"I don't know. I guess he likes it."

"But it's wrong," Harry said, frowning. "It's… it's like that execution. Wrong. Maybe it's a phase?"

"He's got a soft spot for Heidi," Truls said, reaching for a cookie. "If it's a phase, then she will eventually bring him out of it. Clemens says that Nikolai's got the right mindset for a Death Eater, though. He'd know, I guess– his mum has worked with some high-profile Death Eaters before, and apparently, her tales of those are gory."

"Death Eaters," Harry sighed. "Somehow that doesn't sound as neat as it used to."

"What do you mean?" Truls asked. "Is it because of the execution? Every side has that kind of stuff, you know. The Rebels are no better– at least we target criminals, not civilians."

"I don't know what I mean. I just feel so confused about this whole thing, and Truls, what if I have to kill someone, some day?"

"Then you do it."

"It's so easy for you to say that."

"No," Truls said. "It isn't. And right now, I know that neither you nor I would be able to kill anyone. But that's why we're here and not at any other school, Harry."

"Truls," Harry started hesitantly. "Is it wrong… that I want to do what I think is right?"

"I don't know," Truls replied. "But don't worry– even if it's wrong, I'll still stick by you. You're so oblivious that you need someone taking care of you." The Swedish boy smiled reassuringly. Harry felt his own smile falter and looked down at his barely-started Herbology essay.

"Truls?" he said after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah?"

"Would you… Hand me the ink, please."

"Sure?" Truls said, pushing the bottle of ink closer to Harry, even though it had been within his reach already. Harry offered a forced smile and returned to writing his essay, adding a paragraph on Gillyweed. The two sat silently for several minutes before Harry spoke again.

"Truls?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you… um, find this essay easy?"

"Yeah, it's pretty easy. Why? Do you find it difficult? You can copy from me—"

"Ah, no, no. I think it's easy enough, too. Thank you, though."

"Harry," Truls said, reaching to touch Harry's face and make him look at Truls. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Harry replied nervously, heart skipping a beat. "I just, nothing. Nothing."

"Harry."

"You'll… not like me anymore."

"Impossible for that to happen," Truls stated. "What' s wrong?"

"There's something you don't know about me," Harry said, not believing that after all these months of keeping it a secret, he was actually going to say it. Truls stared at Harry for a few moments, before moving to sit right next to him and holding his both hands, and Harry continued, "And I just think that you need to know before you promise to support me in whatever I do."

"It's alright," Truls said. "You can tell me."

"Truls," Harry started quietly, nervously, knowing that even though to him it wasn't a big issue… if it was to Truls, he could lose a friend. "I'm a half-blood."

*

"You're still thinking of him."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Nagini," Tom hissed back. He was alone in his study, browsing through reports about immigrant vampires and contemplating if some of Durmstrang's seventh year students could survive getting a bit of specialized training.

"You keep on making remarks about him," Nagini pointed out lazily. "He's—"

"Infuriating," Tom snarled. "That's what he is. Have you ever met anyone who's so Gryffindor? He thinks people are equal, and he doesn't understand the necessity of executions! He'd probably ban the cruciatus curse if he could!"

"And yet you keep returning to him and you think about him."

"He has the brother wand of mine. I thought that it would matter, but now, I can't help but think how? He's so different. I was never like that."

"If you don't like him, why do you keep thinking of him and visiting him?" Nagini hissed, and Tom got the vague impression that if she could roll her eyes at him, she would.

"I don't like anyone," he said. "I just don't understand him. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking of him as someone who… isn't like other people. As if he's… different? Extraordinary? Which is—"

"True."

"—ridiculous!" Tom blinked a few times in surprise, before turning to give the huge snake a glare. "What?"

"He smells dead and alive," Nagini told him. "As if he's sometimes dead, but humans can't really do that, can they? Die a few times and then wake up again. Because if other humans could do that, they'd smell like him, I'd say."

"What are you talking about?" Tom asked, now completely intrigued.

"The boy," Nagini clarified. "The boy who's got you so fascinated. This conversation is boring me. I want a sunny spot. I'm sleepy."

"The boy has the brother wand of mine which means that the cores of our magic are similar," Tom muttered, ignoring his pet. "What if there's some other connection? But why? How? How can someone die and return to life— Nagini, are you sure? And he did flicker away, vanish, in a place with anti-apparition wards. But he's too young to know how to apparate anyway."

"I'm hungry."

"I should abduct the boy and experiment on him, test his magic and blood and scan his brain, and maybe do the same to his parents."

"I want mice."

"But he wouldn't talk to me after that. Why is he so complicated?"

"Or rats. Fat rats."

"What if he has discovered some other way to become immortal?" Tom paused, frowning. "No, he's too morally correct to do that. He's so much like… Dumbledore…" Nagini looked up at the mention of the name she knew her Master hated.

"Dumbledore," Tom repeated. "Yes, the boy reminds me of Dumbledore a bit… doesn't he, my pet?

"No," Nagini replied. "I don't remember that human. I remember the name, but not the human."

"So if we could understand certain things about Dumbledore, perhaps I could understand Potter's tiny little immature, idiot brain somehow?"

"Why is understanding him so important? If he's a bother, just get rid of him."

"I think we have to visit a certain someone," Tom decided, reaching for his hooded cape. "Come on, Nagini."

"Where we'll be going?"

"To Nurmengard."

*

"The term my mum likes to use is first generation pureblood, but I know it's not accurate," Harry said. "I, er, think that you should know. Just, please, don't tell the others yet. I want to tell them on my own, eventually." Truls stared quietly at Harry for a few moments, during which Harry felt almost nauseous due to how nervous he was. Finally, Truls nodded, and smiled.

"You're still a Potter, though," he said. "And I— you're my friend. Besides, being a half-blood isn't too frowned at, you know. Actually, there've been claims that the Dark Lord himself is one."

"So you don't mind?"

"I don't mind."

"I'm glad," Harry breathed, closing his eyes. "I was scared. Thought that you might, I don't know, treat me differently."

"I won't," Truls promised. "And I'm sure that neither Filippa nor Lorenzo would, either. Or Björn– he doesn't care about blood purity, all he cares about is money. Heidi… wouldn't hate you, but would probably treat you like a child or something. You know, be really protective and think that you're somehow helpless. Nikolai… it's hard to tell, with him. The two who, I'm pretty sure, would feel freaked out are Clemens and Petronella. They both come from families that have really strong ties to Death Eaters for the past generations, and Clemens's parents used to attend the Muggle Hunt parties."

"I'll keep it a secret," Harry decided. "I just… didn't want to… you… well…"

"Thank you," Truls said quietly, and he was so close, closer than before. Harry could feel Truls's breath and could count his eyelashes– that's how close they were. "It makes me happy to know that you trust me."

"Thank you," Harry insisted. "For being… for not, you know…"

"Do you mind me asking… your mother is…?"

"She's a muggle born witch."

"Do you have any muggle things at home? Muggle traditions and the like?" Truls asked.

"No," Harry replied. "Mum is… very strict at keeping all things Muggle away. Dad thinks she's trying to, I don't know, compensate for something. I think it's stupid. Blood purity doesn't affect power and intelligence, so why all the prejudice? What is it based on?"

"Maybe you could ask your mother?"

"I've tried, but she always either changes the subject or scolds me for asking."

"Does she have any family in the Muggle world?" Truls asked. "Maybe if she does and never contacts them, it could be that she's trying to distance herself from anything that reminds her of them. That could be, if they never got along or had a really bad falling-out or something."

"I don't know if she has any Muggle relatives," Harry replied. "What if I have a bunch of Muggle cousins and never knew?"

"Are you going to find out?"

"How? Mum is definitely not going to tell me."

"All we need is a name," Truls said, suddenly grinning. "Then, come summer, the two of us will go on an adventure to find your relatives. Wouldn't that be like in one of your stories."

"Oh, my God," Harry laughed. "Imagine us walking amongst Muggles!"

"Can't be that hard to deal with, right?"

"We don't know anything about Muggles, aside from that they don't have magic."

"We'll find out. Research."

"Would your parents let you just… do that?" Harry asked, not believing that he was starting to actually think about this. "My parents… I wouldn't be so sure."

"The school year has just started," Truls replied. "We'll figure out something. Anything."

Chapter Text

There were very few places in the world that Tom liked. One of them was Nurmengard.

The towering prison, the grim fortress, the place that, to Tom, signified irony at its finest– hadn't Grindelwald built it and been so proud of it, only to end up a prisoner there himself? Some people had foolishly thought that Lord Voldemort would let out the old man after he took control, but no. The world was too small for two Dark Lords. If Grindelwald wasn't so useful in terms of knowledge, Tom would have killed him decades ago.

Azkaban held his enemies. Nurmengard held the competition.

In all honesty, Tom liked death sentences far more than life sentences– leaving someone troublesome alive was potentially dangerous and could later on in life come and bother him. It was simply unfinished business. Unfortunately, though, it was sometimes necessary to leave an enemy alive, either to experiment on or to use them for their knowledge. And that's why he had such fine prisons in the first place.

"It's cold," Nagini said. "Why is it so cold? Do something; I don't like being cold."

"Be quiet or I'll transfigure you into a cat," Tom replied. "Then you'll have a fur to keep you warm."

"What's a cat again? I know mice because I eat them. Can I eat a cat? I can, right? I can eat anything I want."

Tom didn't bother replying as he had just arrived in front of the cell that held within it his favourite prisoner. Gellert Grindelwald, the man who had almost achieved what Tom had, was nothing but a frail skeletal figure with a skull-like face and sunken eyes.

"Gellert," Tom said, smiling politely, "glad to see you in… good health. Alive."

"Riddle," Grindelwald replied with practiced neutrality. "Who do I have to, ah, thank, for making you seek me out again? What is it that you need this time?"

"What have I ever needed from you?"

"Spells? Lessons in history? Or just someone who talks back to you? I know better than anyone how dull it becomes to be surrounded by groveling, sniveling psychophants all the time."

"I have found someone else who talks back to me, not that I like it, actually," Tom said. "Say, did you understand Dumbledore?"

"What?" Grindelwald hadn't expected that question– in fact, he hadn't expected to hear Albus Dumbledore's name ever again. What was Riddle playing at? What did he have to gain? The current Dark Lord didn't usually get directly to the point like this.

"His views," Tom clarified, annoyed at not being understood immediately. "Did you understand his views of wrong and right?"

"It has been years. I hardly even remember him," Grindelwald claimed, but Tom sneered at the obvious lie.

"He loved you. Doesn't that count for something?"

"What… is this about, really?"

"Crucio." Ah, nothing worked as a better stress relief than causing someone else a bit of pain. Tom didn't like not understanding something, and what he hated even more was having to rephrase his questions just for the less intelligent people to be able to catch up. After lifting the curse, Tom stared at the shaking old man for a few minutes, before sighing. "I ask the questions. Not you. You just answer. Did you understand what made Dumbledore care for what is right and what is wrong?"

"No," Grindelwald croaked. "He just wanted to do the right thing."

"Like when he defeated you, the love of his life, for the greater good. Doesn't remembering that make you feel betrayed? And I'm not just talking about him using your own catchphrases against you."

"I never loved him. I cared for him, but I didn't love him. Not that you'd understand the difference."

"I don't believe you, but that's irrelevant anyway," Tom said dismissively. "What I want to understand is why someone would think that people are meant to be equal. It's not true– look at the world. You're there and I'm here, and yet, you once stood where I used to stand. Isn't that a proof of that people aren't meant to be equal? Only some achieve greatness and manage to keep it while others achieve greatness and then lose it all. Because unlike me, they weren't meant to lead the world."

"People define greatness in different ways," Grindelwald said, remembering a pair of bright blue eyes and wisdom that went beyond age. "You're what, seventy now? How come you're so void of wisdom?"

"Age and the passage of time are meaningless to me," Tom reminded the older man. "I am immortal."

"A fool, that's what you are."

"I'm the Dark Lord!"

"So? I was too, once."

"Yes, and we all know how that went."

"Why do you boys insist on acting like two hatchlings comparing their length," Nagini hissed. "Get to the point and then out of here. I'm cold."

"Bossy, that's what you are," Tom hissed in response before refocusing on Grindelwald again. "If you cannot be of any use to me regarding this—"

"You said earlier that you have already found someone who talks with you," Grindelwald cut in. "And now all these questions… Don't tell me… Could it be that the person you have found, is more like Albus than—"

"Crucio. This is getting old."

"You need a new favourite curse," Naginig agreed sleepily. "Not the green one, though. It's not fun when they die so quickly and don't even struggle."

"I was talking about having to curse this bastard at least five times every time I visit," Tom hissed, before lifting the curse and staring at the old man with a disgusted expression. To think, Grindelwald used to be such a powerful wizard…

"He's rather persistent, isn't he?" Nagini hissed.

"There's no rage in my curses today which is why they're not as strong as usual,” Tom replied to her. “I need my answers."

"So get them quickly and let's leave. I'm still hungry. Are you going to ask him how someone can be sometimes dead and then wake up?"

"I'll research that before asking anyone."

"Can we get some mice?" Nagini asked again, but her Master ignored her in favour of returning to his questioning.

"If I agreed with you," Tom told Grindelwald, leaning closer towards the bars separating them, "what would you say? What would your answer be?"

"If he is like Albus at all, then I know why you can't understand him," the former Dark Lord rasped, "why you will never understand him."

"And the reason is?"

"He has a heart. And you do not."

*

Dear Harry,

It has been a while since my last letter, and I'm sorry about that. I have been very busy with work– there have been so many people injured, and most of us Healers are getting retrained to treat injuries that don't have anything to do with our field of expertise. I'm working overtime. It's terrible, and sometimes, I feel that no matter how many I heal, there are still more left.

I heard Healer Merrick– he's from my department– saying that soon some of us will be sent to the battle fronts to give assistance there. Even if I get picked, my son, do not worry. Mommy knows how to take care of herself.

How are you? I trust that you have been eating and sleeping and studying well? Are there any parent-teacher meetings I should know about? Do you need anything from home? Everyone at home is well. I talked a few times with Mr. Lupin, and he seems to be a decent fellow, regardless of his condition. James says that he has adapted well to life amongst wizards, and I quizzed him about some of the books I gave him– Wizarding traditions and such.

James admitted that if Mr. Lupin keeps up with his progress, he will be able to live alone and get a job by the time your summer break starts. Isn't that lovely? I can't imagine what kind of job he'd get, though.

I spoke with Mrs. Malfoy as well– Bellatrix Lestrange asked about you. How does she even know you? Have the two of you talked? Harry, Mrs. Lestrange is a dangerous, dangerous woman. If she ever approaches you, flee, my son. I admit to being very concerned over this. What would Mrs. Lestrange want from you?

Mrs. Malfoy said that her sister merely asked how you were doing and whether or not you're as… lovely as she remembers. When did you meet her? I need to know, Harry, even if Mrs. Malfoy assured me that the interest was nothing alarming.

Christmas holiday is still months away, but I miss you so.

I love you.
Mum

PS. I also sent you some books. The ones you asked for. Dark is Rising sequence by Susan Cooper. I hope I remembered correctly. Have fun reading, but don't neglect your homework!

Harry set down the letter and stared at it for several long minutes. It was Friday morning and Harry was supposed to get dressed and hurry to the Transfiguration classroom, but the letter he had just received made him forget all about school and worry about Bellatrix instead. She still remembered him. Why did she still remember him? Maybe Tom had mentioned his name? Somehow, the thought of Tom and Bellatrix being good friends was troubling and made him feel uncomfortable.

And once again, like a wound that had already healed but was now ripped open again, Harry remembered Haines Potter and the Gone Tribe. If Bellatrix was to approach him again— Would he really—? What should he tell his mother anyway? Maybe he should ask Tom? Ah, no, he had already decided to not meet Tom again till he found out more about the man. Maybe he could go after classes to the library to see if there were any books on active Death Ea—

Hold on.

Classes?

"Shit!" Harry exclaimed aloud, rushing to pull on his uniform and deciding to skip breakfast. He had two minutes’ time to reach the classroom, and Harry could only guess what Professor Kay would do to him if he was late. Had Truls knocked? No, Harry was sure that his best friend hadn't tried to drop by. Which was odd. Generally, Truls had been behaving a bit strangely lately, sometimes even avoiding Harry and scowling whenever someone smirked at him.

'Maybe I could ask Ron if that kind of behaviour is normal,' Harry thought, running towards the classroom as fast as he could. When he reached the room, he was surprised to see his classmates in their seats already, and yet. the teacher wasn't present.

"What' s going on?" Harry asked, sitting next to Truls.

"Jakob fainted," the Swedish boy replied, and only now did Harry notice that, indeed, the German boy wasn't in the classroom. "Nobody knows why. I don't think he was hexed or anything."

"Maybe he's just stressed?" Heidi suggested. "Few badly slept nights, skipping meals, and trying to keep up with long hours of studying and tough sports lessons? That's begging for a dizzy spell, let me just say."

"Did Professor Kay check who're present before he left?" Harry asked quietly, and Truls shook his head.

"No. He was about to, but then Jakob fell off his chair. What were you doing to be this late?"

"You didn't drop by this morning."

"You wanted me to?" Truls asked and looked down at his hands. Harry frowned, not understanding the reason for the question.

"Of course. Why do you suddenly think else?"

"I just… wondered if, maybe, I've been bothering you."

"Nonsense," Harry replied, pulling out his homework. "Did you finish all the essays we should be working on?"

"I've still got Charms homework, but it's for tomorrow so I'll do it today after school. You've done it already?" Harry nodded and was about to give a verbal response when the classroom's door opened, and Professor Kay sauntered in to start the lesson.

'I wonder what's wrong with Jakob,' Harry thought. 'I don't really know him, though. Should I visit him in the hospital wing? I think he hangs out with Lorenzo and Filippa usually.' Zoning out while his teacher talked, Harry's thoughts returned to his mother's letter. She had ventured to a Muggle bookstore to get his books. What had made her change her mind? Was she still concerned about the execution's after-effects? Harry didn't feel shocked anymore– not really. He definitely didn't accept it but he wasn't going to let it bring him down.

When Bellatrix had been his age, had she been like him at all? Somehow Harry doubted that, thinking that she had most likely been similar to Nikolai. What had Bellatrix thought of the first execution she had witnessed? What about Tom?

'Then again, I don't really know her either. I have met her only once and the rest of what I know is based on rumours,' Harry thought. 'I need to forget about Death Eaters and the war and focus on my studies instead. Maybe I'll go fly today after the classes are over. I don't have a broom with me, but I think Clemens once said that the school lends brooms to students.'

Yeah, maybe he really should go flying and forget all about the rest of the world. Especially if Truls was going to be busy writing an essay. Harry was going to fly, close his eyes and enjoy the speed as he sailed through empty skies.

He couldn't wait.

*

"You're brilliant!" Marlen Redoslav crowed, a huge grin almost splitting his face in half. Viktor Krum smiled awkwardly and shrugged, holding a snitch in one hand and a broom in another.

"It was nothing," Viktor said, his English slightly more accented than that of his friend.

"To you, it probably is," Redoslav nodded, before grinning at a few girls nearby. "You're so going to get scouted, man. Next year, as soon as you turn fifteen. I know it. No team would pass up having a seeker like you!" Viktor forced another smile, trying not to cower under the attention he was getting.

Viktor was a tall, thin, sallow young man with dark hair and eyes. He had a large, curved nose that he inherited from his father and a sharp profile. He wasn't graceful– actually, Redoslav had once commented on how weird it was that despite appearing graceful while flying on a broomstick, he was round-shouldered and duck-footed while on the ground.

Viktor also knew he wasn't particularly good looking. He liked flying, loved it, even. But he honestly couldn't understand why would someone else care about how quick he was to catch a snitch outside a game, and why it would make him more popular amongst his peers.

"Oh boy," Redoslav sighed, still looking at the group of girls nearby. "If Mette Erling would smile at me like she smiles at you, I'd be a happy man."

"Who?" Viktor asked, and followed his friend's gaze to see a tall girl with sparkling blue eyes and long golden hair. She seemed to be bored more than anything else, and while she was very pretty indeed, Viktor didn't feel that being the receiving end of her smile would make him feel anything.

"Maybe I could escort her inside," Redoslav said, and Viktor shrugged.

"Go ahead. I'll fly for a little bit longer."

"Alright, man! See you later!"

Viktor pushed the snitch into one of his pockets before turning to fly to the opposite direction. He didn't fancy talking with anyone right then– there was something strangely exhausting in socializing with people. He'd rather practice the Plumpton Pass– it was a move considerably harder to make than one would initially think. Viktor felt, however, that if he wasn't capable of pulling that move off perfectly, he wouldn't be good enough to play Quidditch for a living.

He let go of the snitch, waited for a few moments for it to speed away, before he flew after it.

Flying like this, he could forget all about the political complications that seem to be muscling their way into the lives of everyone– even the people who honestly wanted nothing to do with Englishmen and their silly notions of grandeur. Although Viktor wasn't going to say that aloud to anyone– that would be a social suicide if not an actual one. It would cost him his place in the team and his friends, and he most likely would suddenly find himself facing too many enemies to count.

His own classmate Anthony Lestrange would definitely start causing him grief, and the infamous Cassius Meliflua from 6th year would most probably try to kill him either by challenging him to a public duel or by some sneaky, underhanded tactic. Then again, Viktor supposed that criticizing the Dark Lord might very well result to expulsion. It wouldn't surprise him.

Seeing the snitch vanishing behind the broom storage building, Viktor hurried after it, not even considering the possibility of anyone being there.

He had barely rounded the corner when he felt a body knocking against his own, brooms colliding, and only his strong hold on the broom kept him from falling. Whoever he had collided with, however, wasn't so lucky, and with varying degrees of panic, Viktor realized that the body that was falling towards the ground wasn't a hallucination. Panicked thoughts of 'Oh no' and 'Thank God we weren't flying high' short rapidly through his mind as he flew after the person he had collided with.

It was a boy, maybe a second year? Very thin and rather small, with skin so pale that Viktor had to wonder if he was a human at all. His hair, pitch black, was rather messy, and he was wearing casual clothes. His eyes were clenched shut.

"A-are you in pain?" Viktor asked, feeling stupid and guilty while kneeling next to the boy. Of course the boy would be in pain, for heaven's sake. "I'll take you to the hospital wing. I'm very sorry."

He didn't know if the boy was even conscious– what if his unnatural paleness was due to some damage caused by the fall? What if the boy had broken a bone or received some kind of internal injury? Nervously, Viktor used a levitation spell, before hurrying towards the hospital wing.

*

Harry heard the sound of trains before he felt the cold and smelt the scent he had come to associate with this place.

"You have grown," Albus said as soon as Harry opened his eyes and sat up, seeing the old man standing a few feet away. "I suppose more time has passed than I thought."

"Albus," Harry breathed, feeling strangely relieved to see the old man again, "I fell off my broom. That must have knocked me out. Albus... so much has happened."

"No summoning unknown beings, I hope?"

"No, no. I have, er, decided to not use that option for now. But there's so much else, and I don't know what to think and I feel like I don't really know anyone anymore and my family took in a werewolf and he's nice, but I don't know, my parents don't think so – well, I mean they think he’s nice, but not person kind of nice, more like pet kind of nice. And I saw an execution and I want to know who Tom really is and—"

"How about you start from the beginning?" Albus suggested with a smile. "I'm afraid I did not understand much of what you just said."

"My main concern is about this Death Eater," Harry started, after taking a few deep breaths. "I don't even know his name. I just call him Tom."

"Do you feel threatened by him?"

"No! No. I just... I mean, I know that he's a high-ranked Death Eater. But he's nice. He visits me sometimes– well okay, not really, we just find each other or something. But my point is that he's nice to talk with even if he doesn't seem to understand some very simple things."

"Such as?"

"He doesn't think that people were born to have equal rights. He, well, I saw an execution not too long ago and he doesn't understand why I didn't find it entertaining at all. In fact, I found it terrible, but he just doesn't understand that. It's like there's a bit in his brain that's missing– the part that can process certain kind of feelings. He talks about this current world like it's an ideal place, but ideal for who? Only specific kind of people can be free and happy and—"

"What will you do about it?" Albus cut in, an odd spark in his eyes. "You complain a lot about the world, Harry, but you do nothing."

"I can't change the world!" Harry exclaimed, bewildered and defensive. "Besides, I'm only twelve!"

"But you can change the people," Albus told him gently. "And for that you needn't be any older or younger. Talk to your friends, even this Death Eater friend of yours. If he doesn't understand, then teach him. But for that, Harry, you need to change as well."

"Change how? And… and I don't want to have anything to do with politics."

"Not politics, Harry. People. Like I said, my boy, just because you can't change the world, doesn't mean that you can't change people. And eventually, with enough people, a change will occur. Hopefully for the better."

"I can't— I mean, I'm just Harry, you know," Harry said, the idea of actually doing something instead of holding his arguments back appearing completely befuddling.

"You biggest obstacle isn't other people, but your own hesitation," Albus said carefully. "That's one thing you must overcome. If you're not sure of your own beliefs, then how can you convince anyone else?"

"But I—"

"There's something wrong with the world, Harry. If you want it to be fixed, you have to fix it yourself."

"If I was to gather people," Harry started, rubbing his forehead. "I… what if… I don't want to start a war, Albus!"

"Why in the world did the idea of starting a war even occur to you?" Albus asked, surprised. "You cannot prepare for peace while preparing for war at the same time, Harry. There are no solutions in wars. Organized slaughter does not settle a dispute; it merely silences an argument."

"I know that," Harry said. "I know that.”

"Know what you're fighting for, and what you're fighting against," Albus advised. "Even if you cannot talk to the people as a whole, talk to the few individuals that matter to you. That would be a start."

Harry stared mutely at the old man, feeling slightly overwhelmed. There had been so much else he had wanted to talk about, and yet, he couldn't remember a single thing. Why were they even talking about this? Change the world? Harry wasn't delusional. He couldn't even convince his mother that Muggleborns were just as cool as Pure-bloods– and she was one herself!

"I need to think," Harry said. "I need to… to… I don't know. I need to—"

"Run away?"

"No," Harry snapped, scowling. "Why are you… being so… I don't know. Bossy?"

"Harry," Albus sighed tiredly. "Have you not noticed that I haven't been able to move from where I am standing during this meeting at all?"

"I… er…" No, he hadn't noticed, but now that the old man had mentioned it…

"Do you want to guess why?" Albus's voice was so gentle and tired and pitying when he continued when Harry nodded. "Right now this station is so crowded that there isn't enough space for me to walk to where you are. In fact, I can hardly see you– there are so many people between you and I."

"What do you mean?" Harry gasped, leaning back and feeling suddenly slightly scared. He saw no one but Albus there, and the thought of being surrounded by invisible dead people was chilling, to say the least.

"The numbers of those getting killed in the Wizarding World has risen," Albus said. "If this continues, who will be left?"

*

Harry woke up in the hospital wing, Albus's words still fresh in his mind. It took him a few moments to notice that he was staring into a pair of concerned, dark eyes. Memories of him going to fly– only to end up crashing into someone and falling down– made him cringe and wonder if he could somehow prevent his mother from finding out what had happened. He could succeed in that if the damage wasn't too bad. Or maybe he should let her know to distract her from asking about Bellatrix?

Why was Harry's life so darn complicated anyway?

"Are you okay?" the vaguely familiar boy asked. "I'm sorry about—"

"It's probably my fault," Harry assured him. "I think I'm okay. Where's the nurse?" And what was her name again?

"I do not know where Madame Siegbert is," the boy said with a shrug, before offering Harry a tight-lipped, forced smile. "I'm Viktor, by the way. Viktor Krum. A fourth year student."

"I'm Harry Potter. Second year student."

"I wish you a swift recovery, Harry Potter, " Viktor said awkwardly, standing up. "I am sorry for causing you this pain."

"It's alright," Harry replied, watching the older boy leave. Barely a second after the hospital wing's door had swung shut, a rustling sound from the bed next to him caught Harry's attention. Jakob was looking at him with a tired smile and a slightly surprised expression.

"You're still here," Jakob said. "How're you feeling?"

"I've got a bit of a headache, but that's all," Harry told him. "And you?"

"Dizzy," Jakob admitted, closing his eyes and resting again against the pillows. "Weak. I keep dozing off, no matter how much I try to stay awake. The nurse says something's wrong with me. She's calling my parents right now to get my medical records sent to her in case there's something of relevance there."

"Oh," said Harry. He didn't know what else to say– was he supposed to comfort Jakob, and if so, then how? Luckily, he was saved from the situation by the arrival of his classmates.

"Harry," Truls breathed, rushing next to him, "are you okay? I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier, but—"

"Chill, Truls," Filippa cut in, rolling her eyes. "Hi Jakob, hi Harry. I'm not even going to ask how the two of you are feeling. Are you hungry, though?"

"Viktor Krum visited Harry," Jakob said suddenly. "The local Quidditch star—"

"Man, you spoke with Viktor Krum?" Clemens exclaimed, eyes wide. "Everyone says that he's going professional as soon as he turns fifteen! Did you get an autograph? Man, I'm so jealous!"

"I'm not," Björn said. "I won't get jealous since my beloved Mette Erling wasn't the one to visit Harry."

"Mette Erling?" Harry repeated. "Who's that?"

"That's Miss Mette Erling to you, my friend."

"One of Krum's fangirls," Petronella said patiently. "Björn's got a crush on her."

"She's perfect," Björn sighed dreamily. "She's so beautiful, isn't she, Truls?"

"Are you seriously asking Truls?" Filippa asked with an odd tone. Björn, Jakob, Clemens and Petronella seemed to smother their giggles while Truls scowled. Harry frowned, confused.

"Why wouldn't he ask Truls?" Harry wanted to know.

"Oh, Harry," Filippa sighed, while Petronella patted his arm. Truls flushed, glaring at the Italian girl.

"Are you going to make a move on Erling, Björn?" Jakob asked curiously. "She doesn't look like she's easily impressed."

"I'm going to confess my feelings to her in a way that is going to make a lasting impression, I assure you."

"Write her a poem," Filippa suggested suddenly. "It'd be such a sweet, romantic gesture!"

"Björn writing poetry," Truls said incredulously, his hand finding Harry's hand under the blanket. "Yeah right."

"I can be very poetic when I want to," Björn claimed. "I could say… Dear Mette, my day went from shit to sunshine the moment I saw you smile. Your laugh made my ill mood vanish like a gust of wind that takes away the scent of that shit."

"I think that's good," Clemens said approvingly. "Really metaphorical. Girls like that, right?"

"No," Filippa snarled. "Try again!"

"Dear Mette, you hit my heart like the Unforgivables. You make my heart twitch like a Cruciatus, you make me wish to obey you like an Imperius, and you take my breath away like an Avada Kedavra."

"I never realized, before this, how much love and the Unforgivables resemble each other," Jakob sniggered. "But she does have a nice smile, that Mette of yours."

"Yeah, but women don't always smile," Clemens said.

"They do to me," Björn replied with calm confidence. "Some even point and laugh."

"I think you're misunderstanding something," Filippa muttered, shaking her head.

"Anyway, I think you should give up on poetry for now, Björn," Petronella said, giggling. "Harry, did the nurse say when you can leave?"

"I haven't seen her yet," Harry admitted. "But that's okay. I'm sure I won't have to stay here overnight."

"Lucky bastard," Jakob sighed. "I'll definitely have to stay here overnight. I just know it."

'If staying overnight in the hospital wing is your worst problem,' Harry thought bitterly, 'then you're the lucky bastard here.'

There was just so much going on, and if Harry was to follow Albus's advice, then… his life would get even more complicated. Would he want that? Was he ready to go out of his way and challenge the Dark Lord's policy and rules? No, definitely not. Besides, he didn't even know from where to start. If he even wanted to start. Which he definitely didn't, because doing as Albus had advised him to do would be pure madness, without a doubt.

It could cause so much grief.

It could bring harm upon him and his family.

His friends would abandon him. Even Truls, probably.

He had thousands of reasons more for staying where he was, challenging no one, accepting the world for what it was.

Somehow, they all sounded more like excuses.

Harry felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and his heart was telling him to jump, while his mind was telling him to turn back.

*

Harry found a… well, not a solution, exactly, but a way to avoid thinking of his issues. He reread all of the books he had brought with him from home, and it was so easy to forget the world when he was focused on what was happening to Gulliver or wishing that his adventures were more like those of the Peverell brothers. How neat was making deals with Death anyway? Super neat!

Between schoolwork and stories Harry really didn't give himself the time to think about anything even slightly rebellious.

Till the fourth of November, anyway.

When he woke up on that day, everything seemed innocent and normal. It was a pleasant Sunday morning and Harry had planned already to go to the Library to borrow a few interesting books for him to read. And that's what he did– he went to the library, returned the few books he had borrowed before, and then went to look for more.

Except that the usual shelves held nothing of interest– he had read most of the books in that section already, anyway, and Durmstrang unfortunately was severely lacking when it came to story-books– thus forcing him to go look elsewhere for entertainment.

It looked like a corridor like any other. And it was, maybe. Harry should have known that the amount of dust there was a clear sign of it being a not-so-popular place and that maybe there was a reason why people didn't go there. At the end of the corridor there was a door.

From where Harry got the idea that perhaps the door would lead him to something interesting, even he didn't know. The rusty lock of the door broke alarmingly easily when Harry twisted the doorknob with some force and he finally got to enter the room inside.

'Well, isn't this a cosy place,' Harry thought. 'If I didn't have my flat for myself already I'd readily make this my hideout.'

It was tiny, really. One table, one chair and a rather small bookshelf that couldn't possibly be holding more than a dozen books. Dust covered every corner of the room, but Harry didn't care about that. Curiously, he stepped closer to the bookshelf to read the titles. Perhaps he'd find an old fairytale book that he hadn't read yet?

The curious smile fell off Harry's face as soon as he read the first three books' titles. A feeling of fear crept over him and suddenly Harry got the feeling that was he not to turn and look at the empty doorway, he wouldn't see it empty anymore. So he kept his gaze fixed on the book titles, hoping for this unpleasant feeling to pass.

Defining Humanity: Men Made of Magic by Magnus Nettle
Wizards and Wars: A Minister’s Road to Darkness by J. M. Dolohov
Protecting Your Mind – Secrets of Occlumency by Anya Numous
To Lead, to teach, to achieve by Galahad Wood

Harry felt very, very troubled. Actually, as he read on, he felt increasingly sick. What were books like this doing in Durmstrang? The amount of dust implied that the books were old, but that couldn't be the case– the books didn't look old.

Harry's expression was changing from a sceptical, disbelieving frown into something else as he read the titles of other books on the shelves. Time For A Change was yet another book on leadership. The Black Book of Persuasion Skills did seem like something a Durmstrang student would love to read, but who would throw in a book like that with books like this? And, and, and something just was wrong about this whole thing. Something was very wrong. Harry reluctantly, as if out of his own control, moved to read the next book's title.

Beyond War– the human potential for peace by Douglas P. Fry

This couldn't be a coincidence.

This couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

He couldn't… it didn't make any sense. Why were books like this… Why did he find this kind of books? Why? It was as if he was being mocked by someone unknown, someone who knew his dilemmas and enjoyed seeing him torn between voice of reason and obligation of morals. Harry couldn't breathe, his heart was beating with absurd speed against his ribcage and right then, it happened again.

--that strange, sliding sensation that had happened during the execution. Cold swept into his body and the scent of rain and smoke washed over him in waves. He couldn't see the room anymore– instead he could see people. They were everywhere, crowding around him, running, yelling, and there was again the familiar sound of trains—

It lasted longer than an instant, this time. No longer than a few seconds, though, but to Harry they might as well have been hours. He stood shaking, back in the room, gulping air as if he had been drowning. He cast a frightened glance at the books before running out of the room, deciding to never enter the place again. It wasn't… something wasn't right. Something in his life was going very, very wrong and he didn't know what exactly the source of this problem was or how to fix it.

'I can't even die to escape this misery,' Harry thought. 'Somehow I feel as if… as if even if I died, it wouldn't be the end of this.'

How he wished to return back to the days that were void of all these complications. Worst of all– he didn't know who was to blame for this, or who could fix it.

But for now, he was going to forget all about this room and the books and the train station. If he could.

*

"You're sulking. Stop it. It's annoying me."

"I am not sulking. I'm simply displeased."

"You've been skipping breakfast for weeks. You do that only when you're sulking. Even worse– you've been forgetting to feed me!"

"It's not possible for me to forget to feed you, Nagini. You whine too much when you're hungry."

"Why are you sulking?"

"Why do you care?"

"If it affects my feeding schedule, I have to care."

"I am not sulking," Tom repeated, signing a document approving of some basic plans someone had drawn about a long-forgotten tournament of sorts. "As I told you– I am displeased."

"It's because of that dead-alive boy, isn't it?"

"I do not know whom you're talking about."

"Really?" Nagini hissed mockingly. "The human who—"

"Look," Tom snapped. "Just because Potter hasn't appeared in the garden for the past few weeks doesn't mean that he's avoiding me. And even if he was, I do not care. He's just one little wizard who's absolutely insignificant whereas I am the Dark Lord. I rule the world. Almost. I have everything already. I don't need the company of one little… child. "

"But of course. "

"I didn't even experiment on him! Why would he stop talking to me? I don't understand! He isn't my enemy and he isn't afraid of me, so what in the world— Why is he so complicated? He's like a… a little woman!"

"I'm sure he'd be flattered to know of the comparison you just made, " Nagini hissed. "You… what do you humans call it? Ah. Chauvinistic pig. "

"I’m not even going to ask where you heard those words, and I'm going to ignore you," Tom said icily, when he suddenly drew in a sharp breath and narrowed his eyes at his pet. He had a contemplative expression for a few long moments before starting to speak. "You annoyed me, so I decided to ignore you. Could it be that I annoyed him and he decided to ignore me? But what did I do? Should I curse him? I'm yet to encounter a problem I couldn't solve with a curse of some kind."

"I do not see any solutions here. "

"Our last conversation was about the execution. He cannot possibly be still angry about that. Is he angry because I invited him? How was I to know that he'd take it so… like that. Was it my disagreement with his naïve, foolish belief regarding equal rights for all humans? I stand by what I said back then. I was right, he was wrong, end of story. Nagini, I can't find a single thing that would make him annoyed at me and lead to making him behave like this."

"You're acting like a hatchling in an adult's body."

"I need to kill someone or I'll be very upset soon."

"You could confront your dead-alive boy," Nagini suggested suddenly. "You could ask him."

"Of course not," Tom replied dismissively. "He'd think that I care."

"Why do you want to still talk with him, then, if you do not care?"

"I told you. He fascinates me. Do I really have to list all the reasons why I'm curious about him?" Tom sighed, and put down the green quill he had been holding all this time in a tight grip. "If I could ask him without him knowing it's me… or if I could just use Legilimency on him…"

"Pity he doesn't speak our language, " Nagini noted carelessly. "Otherwise, I would have gone to ask him and spared you all this trouble and confusion…" Tom turned to her abruptly, red eyes almost glowing with sudden delight.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I just need to figure out a way around the language barrier and—"

"No. "

"—will send you to him!"

"This isn't going to end up well," Nagini hissed quietly, while her master rushed to find several books that could be useful. "You're rarely this rash, my human. Think about this. Reconsider. You don't want to send me flying with an owl all the way to where your human is. I hate heights, and it'll be cold. Too cold. And I'll get so hungry that I might thoughtlessly eat the owl and then I'd fall down to my own death. Because of you. Quit acting like a… a… what was that word again? Gruff-in-door? Gruffed-door? Gryffin… Griffin… Gryffindor?"

Secretly, she didn't mind, though. Her master was acting in entertaining ways – like an actual human – when it concerned that dead-alive-boy, keeping her boredom at bay. Not that Nagini particularly approved of human behaviour, but her Tom was. a human– arguably– and dead-alive boy had seemed like a person who wouldn't forget to feed her.

Maybe he'd even feed her rabbits; Nagini was getting sick of rats. If having Tom act more like a typical human would result in dead-alive boy being included in Nagini's life– which in turn would mean more food– she was going to root for i t.

A snake's gotta eat, after all.

That didn't mean, though, that she was going to allow herself to be sent flying to where the dead-alive boy was. Nagini hissed with displeasure when her Master returned.

"Why are you sulking? You told me last year that you wanted some plans for Christmas. This is it, isn’t it?"

*

Clearly, Harry's life didn't have enough problems, no. Now Truls was acting oddly. Not that he hadn't been acting slightly weird lately anyway, but it had reached a very strange point that seemed to somehow result in Harry ending up with either Truls's hand holding his own, or Truls touching his hair, or shoulder, or they were sitting a bit closer than before… not to mention that he had started greeting Harry with friendly hugs and often kept his arm thrown over Harry's shoulders.

Few days before the Christmas break was to start, Harry decided to… seek help.

Confused and on the verge of developing a permanent headache, he explained his situation to Filippa.

"Sometimes, I wonder if there's something wrong with you," the girl said mildly, making Harry gape. He was in her apartment, sitting on a chair while she was seemingly busy designing new outfits. Heidi was reading a book on the sofa, but Harry suspected that she was paying far more attention to what he was saying than to what she was supposedly reading– the girl hadn't turned the page for the past ten minutes, at least!

"Wrong with me?" Harry said. "I— what? Why me? It's not me who's acting strangely here!"

"How do you feel about Truls?" Filippa asked. "Deep inside your heart, how do you feel?"

"He's my best friend," Harry replied, starting to become even more confused than before. "What should I be feeling towards him?"

"Let's put it this way," Filippa started. "If I told you that Truls feels… urges towards you. That he… wants to give you a whole new experience and show you, er, something very… new? Well, new to you two as people but not to the mankind, actually. People have been doing this and that ever since they realized that there're holes in human bodies that can fit… stuff… inside. Like, er, metaphorical wands."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Harry asked, and he could see Heidi's form shaking while she kept the book pressed against her face. Was she crying or something? He didn't hear sniffling.

"Truls wants to show you his true… He wants to give you a ride, Harry. And, and, and… give you a colourful experience."

"Is he taking me to a carnival?"

"Oh, it would be a carnival alright," Heidi said, her voice strangely muffled. Harry glanced at her only to see that she had replaced the book with a pillow and was pressing it against her face while she was still shaking. Was she all right?

"Harry," Filippa started. "Have you had the talk yet?"

"What?"

"The talk. About sex."

"Oh." Harry flushed, and coughed. "Yes. Somewhat." Sirius had done a terrible job by using a donut and a lollipop and jelly to explain some facts few years ago. But Harry had gotten the gist of it. Besides, he wasn't completely ignorant– he had read books after all that had quite explicit scenes. His personal conclusion had ended up being that sex was rather messy and too taxing to be of interest to him.

"And you know about puberty?"

"Yes."

"And about sexual urges?"

"Yes…"

"There you go, then!" Filippa exclaimed, feeling immensely relieved that her task was over. Harry blinked owlishly at her, before tilting his head to the side while a frown appeared on his face. He thought about asking for more clarifications, but he feared that he'd only get more confusing explanations from his friend.

"I don't get it."

"Harry…"

"But that's okay," Harry hastily added. "Some things just are meant to be mysteries, right?"

"Poor Truls," Heidi said. "I think we need to talk him out of this madness. For the sake of his own health."

"I think I'll go now," Harry said, standing up. "I've got a bit of homework I need to finish. Thank you Filippa. You too, Heidi." He then exited Filippa's apartment, walking towards his own. Asking Filippa had obviously been the wrong move, but who else could he ask? It's not like he had many options whom to ask about this. Should he just confront Truls? Or perhaps the best thing to do was to…not react in any way?

Did Truls expect him to react somehow?

Harry entered his flat and was surprised to see his mother's owl flying outside, waiting to be let in. Curiously the boy rushed to do so and proceeded to read his mother's letter. Why would she send him a message, though? He'd be home soon enough, so why would— Oh dear.

My dear Harry, 

As you know, I have been terribly busy with work. Your father, as well, has been so overworked that he had to arrange for the werewolf to temporarily live in a camp instead of our home. It doesn't seem that this situation is going to change anytime soon.

I am very sorry to tell you this, my son, but your Christmas holiday will be spent with Gilderoy at Hogwarts. He will take care of you in our absence. We'll send you your gifts, and I promise you that you will love them.

Never forget that we love you, Harry. You are the most important person in the lives of your father and I. Take care of yourself.

— Mum

Chapter Text

As soon as he woke up, he knew that it was one of Those Days.

He could feel his magic waiting, right beneath the surface, to be used in ways that would satisfy his heart. There was a strange sort of comfort to having the ability to hurt others, and sometimes Tom needed that comfort. Needed to see their tears and hear their screams. Needed to take his time and leave them with hope only to come back and kill them. Sometimes he would leave his targets with damage that could never be repaired.

On those days people suffered, but Tom – Tom was content. On those days he didn’t speak much, didn’t even reply to Nagini as she greeted him in the morning. Didn’t acknowledge the portraits as he made his way through the Riddle Manor, towards the Floo.

There was a heavy, dark feeling inside of him and it kept him calm. That's how it had always been, for as long as he could remember. It wasn't rage or anger. It wasn't fury or even hatred. It was just a need – an all-consuming need to vent, to release a build-up of tension inside of him that he never truly understood.

In all honesty, sometimes he felt pathetic.

It didn't matter that he had already achieved what no other wizard or witch before him had, not when he was in this mood. It made him angry that he had no equals even though the mere thought of someone claiming to be his equal was enough to make him reach for his wand. He was sick of the people around him. Of people in general.

Days like these, Tom wished that he was the only person in the world.

He could hear sounds around him. Each and every single one of those sounds was getting on his nerves, from the wind bellowing outside to the faint sound of a house-elf working in a room nearby.

He stopped in front of the fireplace connected to the Floo, trying to decide whether going to pick a few prisoners from Azkaban to torture and kill was worth having to talk with a few people first. Maybe he should just satisfy his hunger with a few Muggles? He could apparate to a Muggle-infested area, pluck one or two, and vent a bit before going to read the reports about the front.

Ah, the front.

Tom’s hold of his want became tighter with agitation as he thought of the rebels.

No, he didn't want to torture Muggles right now. He wanted to hurt rebels. Those arrogant traitors that fought against him, the filth that refused to remember its place. Maybe he should personally lead a raid? To remind the people of how brutal war really could be? Some of his henchmen were getting a bit too comfortable.

Or perhaps he could start sending seventh-years to complete the easy missions? Maybe even sixth year students from Durmstrang and Hogwarts? Perhaps he could use that Tournament idea that had been presented to him a while ago to somehow determine the best candidates to be sent for actual combat training? Oh well, he could think of that later. Right now he wanted… he wanted… he wanted…

He wasn't exactly sure what was it what he wanted.

But he knew, from experience, that torturing someone to death was close enough.

*

Gilderoy was dressed in green and red when he came to pick Harry up. He also had colourful bells in his hair and glitter on his face.

"You look like a Christmas tree gone wrong," Harry said. The man smiled brilliantly at him in response while trying very hard to attach a red, round nose to Harry's face.

"Did you say bye-bye to your friends, Harry darling?" Gildy said cheerfully, succeeding in his quest. "Yes? Then let's go! I can't wait to introduce you to Barty-darling… if I can get my hands on him first."

"Have you heard anything from my parents?" Harry asked, pulling off the red nose before the man could cast a sticking charm on it. "Because after mum's last message, I haven't received anything. Are they alright?"

"Of course! You needn't worry! Come on, now. The portkey to Hogsmeade will be activating shortly. You already sent your luggage, yes?" Harry nodded, still looking troubled. Most of his friends had left already, and while he wasn't all that thrilled by the idea of going with Gildy to Hogwarts, the thought of staying alone in the apartment complex for the Christmas Holiday was extremely unappealing.

"Yeah. Let's go," Harry said, trying to shrug off the feeling of having forgotten something.

As they travelled with the portkey, the boy tried to distract himself from feeling increasingly nauseated by worrying over whether or not Ron or Draco would be at Hogwarts. It was very unlikely that the Malfoy heir would stay at school for the Christmas Holiday, but maybe Ron was there? Maybe he'd take Harry to see the Gryffindor common room that his parents had talked about?

The portkey took them atop a hill right outside the village. Harry fell face-first into the snow while Gildy brushed imaginary dust off his cape, rearranged the curl on his forehead, and waited patiently for his young companion to stand up and stop glaring.

"This, my dear, is Hogsmeade," Gildy said, pointing at the village. "We'll walk through it and then some before we reach Hogwarts. Come on."

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees. Harry's bad mood eventually vanished as he saw many intriguing shops, among which was the bookshop Tomes and Scrolls that his mother had mentioned once or twice.

"There's a huge library at Hogwarts, right?" Harry asked as the two walked side by side. "Am I allowed to go there?"

"Of course! You can wander as you wish. I'm sure you won't be up to no good."

"Will you let me come alone here to do my shopping? I need to buy some gifts."

"Absolutely not. Besides, I need to buy Barty-darling some gifts too. Mainly a new outfit or two. As much as I love that man- and I love him plenty- I must say his fashion sense is a source of grief to me. Mainly due to its absence."

"Hold on," Harry said, stopping and staring at the man. "Love him? You? Love… Professor Crouch?" He had thought that Gildy had a crush on the man, but… love?

"When you're old enough, you'll understand," Gildy assured him gently. "You too will have a friend who hugs you, touches your hair, smooths your clothes, carries your bags…"

"After avoiding me for no reason for a few weeks?" Harry asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as a realization was about to creep into his mind. "And then everyone else around you just smirks at the two of you and offers nothing but confusing, vague explanations?"

"Why, yes?" Gildy said, looking at Harry with surprise. "You read Witch Weekly?"

"I don't!"

"Then how—?"

"Oh my God," Harry groaned. "Can I un-realize something after I have realized it?"

"Oh, Harry, never mind that," Gildy said, his hand finding its way to grip the boy's shoulder as the two started walking again. "There are far more pressing issues to be discussed, after all. You see, I would like to give you some… advice. If you could call it that. More like… instructions? Oh, whatever. If you see Barty-darling, and if he talks with you—"

"Why would he talk with me?"

"— memorize every single word of what he says and report them to me. And if he asks you about me—"

"Tell him the truth and warn him away?"

"— tell him the truth of how wonderful and perfect I am."

"You know," Harry said, "we're both talking but somehow I feel like there's no conversation going on."

"Talking? You said something?"

"…"

"Anyway—"

"I should write to Filippa."

"— about Barty…"

*

Admittedly, while Durmstrang was very modern and prestigious and had an extraordinary reputation, Hogwarts was… special. Impressive. Amazing in a way that no other place could be. Harry could feel the ancient magic humming around him, and he felt as if Hogwarts not only had a story, but was a story. Maybe that was because, as far as Harry knew, Hogwarts was built with the dreams and hopes of the Founders while Durmstrang was simply made due to necessity?

Did something like that really even matter?

"You'll be living in the room next to mine– Headmaster Yaxley was kind enough to allow that to happen."

"Are there any students here during the Christmas holidays?"

"Not many. Mostly muggleborns."

"Really?" Harry breathed, his heart skipping a beat. If he could meet a muggleborn like his mother, maybe he could get a different point of view on the Muggle society. "I completely forgot that muggleborn students are allowed here. I mean, in Durmstrang, you've got to be at least a half-blood. It's weird, actually. One would think that Hogwarts, since it's in the UK which is the Dark Lord's domain, would be the one turning muggleborns away—"

"Harry," Gildy interrupted with uncharacteristic seriousness. "That's not an issue I'd suggest discussing here." Harry's mouth snapped shut, and he swallowed the remaining words, hunching his shoulders. Of course. He'd have to watch his words, his steps, even here. Everywhere. If he was to do what Albus wanted him to do, he'd be in even more trouble. Things would be so much tougher and complicated.

And yet, Harry still thought about it. Thought of the possibility of, of… doing something. The feeling of frustration was like a pressure, slowly building inside him. Harry was sick of feeling lost and confused. He was tired of being so indecisive. But he simply didn't know what to do and from where to begin.

"I'll introduce you to a good friend of mine, soon," Gildy said, leading Harry through Hogwarts' corridors. "Sybil. She's absolutely delightful! I'm certain that you'll love her sense of humour." They had turned to a wider hallway that had a few students loitering around, some of them giving Harry appraising looks. The boy knew that his Durmstrang uniform could be recognized, and he felt an unfamiliar twinge of pride.

And then he saw her.

She was small and very thin, and Harry was sure that a fall would break her bones. Her straggly blonde hair was long and pulled into a loose ponytail, and her silvery grey eyes were staring at a spot on the wall as if it was the most fascinating thing in existence. Her wand was behind her ear, and she had a wreath of daisies on her head.

"Who's that?" Harry asked, but they had already walked past her. Harry turned to look, noticing that she wasn't even wearing shoes.

"Who?" Gildy asked in return. "I saw only Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws there. Speaking of Ravenclaw– did you know that both Barty-darling and I were in Ravenclaw? When I was a fifth year student, he had already graduated, which was very sad for me."

"So this unhealthy obsession has a long history?"

"What unhealthy obsession?"

"I remember when you used to claim that you didn't care about him at all," Harry said.

"Denial," Gildy replied dismissively. "Denial is a waste of time, Harry darling. Oh, here we are! This room is yours, mine is that one there. It was actually intended to be the teacher's assistant's bedroom, but for some reason, Barty-darling wanted to live near the Ravenclaw Tower. Oh, maybe he misses old times. Do you like these rooms? Unfortunately, I wasn't the one to decorate this place– I'm not sure who did. Maybe the house-elves."

The room was surprisingly big with its own bathroom, but no kitchen. There were thick, green carpets on the floor, and the furniture was very old-fashioned, if not old. The curtains were white, and Harry could see the windows through them. It was a basic room, but then again, it wasn't as if Harry had expected quarters like the ones he got in Durmstrang– he was here just for a few short weeks before going back to his own school, after all.

"Your trunk is on your bed, as you can see. I'll leave you to unpack," Gildy said. "When you're done, you can go out and wander around if you wish. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, supper at six, and if you get hungry or lost, call for a house-elf."

"Alright," Harry replied. When the door clicked shut behind him, he felt… strange. Slightly hollow inside, and he couldn’t help but think of what his parents were possibly doing, where Sirius was, where Tom was, what his friends were doing, and maybe he should have just told his mum that he'd rather stay at Durmstrang?

'It's pointless to think of that now,' Harry thought. 'I think I'll go look for the library and unpack later.' With a sigh, Harry turned to reopen the door and almost yelped in surprise when he saw someone standing there, right outside his room. It was that girl– the little girl he had seen on his way here.

"The Blibbering Humdingers were right," she said, sounding and looking dreamy and distracted.

"Uh, who are you?" Harry asked curiously.

"Luna," the girl replied, "Luna Lovegood. And you? Daddy says that Blibbering Humdingers don't lead astray so you must be someone I was meant to meet. It's nice to meet you for the first time."

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, feeling more and more fascinated with every second that passed. "You're a student he re, right?"

"A first year Ravenclaw," Luna told him, and somehow it felt completely natural for her to grab his arm and pull him away from the doorway to walk through the corridor with her. "Would you like an earring, Harry? You look like an earring could make you happy."

"Uh…"

"You don't believe me, do you? It's alright, not many do."

"It's not that I don't believe you, it's just—"

"You don't think that earrings would make your worries easier to handle?"

"Frankly, no," Harry replied before taking a long look at the girl and feeling yet again that strange sensation. It was as if his magic was fluttering around them, mingling with hers. "How did you know that? That I’m worried about something, I mean."

"You're covered in Wrackspurts," Luna said faintly. "I saw them earlier when I wore my glasses. Right after you stopped looking at me."

"What… are wrack...spurts?" Harry asked curiously.

"They're invisible," Luna started. "They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy." Harry's lips twisted into a bitter smile as he nodded.

"Sounds like what I've got, all right."

"It's fine," Luna assured him, her hand covering his. "Nowadays, most people do."

*

By midday, Tom was in a considerably brighter mood.

If there was something he hated in his enemies– aside from their views and idiocy, of course– it was when they smiled at him. It was aggravating. However, almost nothing was quite as delightful was wiping off those smiles for good. There was a special thrill in witnessing the exact moment when an enemy lost their hope and gave up. When they gave into dismay. Even if they didn't beg for mercy, it was written on their faces clearly.

It made Tom feel superior, and more than that– it made his opponents realize that he was superior. He enjoyed crushing their self-esteems, and sometimes, when he wanted prolonged enjoyment, Tom wouldn't torture a person physically as much as psychologically. Nothing made him feel accomplished the same way driving someone to suicide did.

Good times.

However, this was precisely the kind of enjoyment that Potter was simply unable to feel.

'Maybe instead of trying to understand him, I should just pity him,' Tom thought. 'I don't need to keep in contact or send him a gift or seek his presence. He's going to become a Death Eater, and eventually he will have to come to me.' And yet, he couldn't just let go. There was something about Harry Potter that drove Tom to seek his presence. The boy was young, but he would grow and become a powerful tool.

'Except,' Tom thought reluctantly, 'I can't exactly imagine him wearing a Death Eater's mask.' And knowing the boy, he would somehow succeed in becoming a Death Eater as independent as he was problematic.

It was alarming. Tom hadn't gotten this far by giving his followers privileges they didn't deserve. Having the brother wand of Tom's own wasn't something the boy had achieved. Perhaps, instead of sending Nagini to Potter, he should send something else? Or maybe he shouldn't send Potter anything at all. He should let Potter be the one to seek him out and make the first move.

There was so much Tom needed to figure out about Potter before knowing even how to use that particular pawn of his. The dead-alive thing Nagini had talked about was still an unsolved mystery, and Tom was getting frustrated with not knowing things. How could other people, the ones with less knowledge than him, deal with being so ignorant?

Then, a thought occurred to him.

The idea came to him out of nowhere, but the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced of it being the right option. It'd take a while, though– Potter was still in his second year, and he'd have to be fourteen at least for him to take part. He could involve Hogwarts, too… and to keep up appearances, one of the other schools. He'd let his finest Death Eaters take a look at Potter, and the aftermath of that would determine his next move.

'A year and a half before I can start,' Tom thought. 'That gives me enough time to settle the battles in Italy and focus on eliminating the hideouts in Ireland. I'll need to send some Healers right to the front and keep them there for a few months to treat the injured and draw in the locals.'

Only after that was done would he have time to start solving the mystery that was Harry Potter.

Tom leaned back on his chair, startled by the unfamiliar surge of pleasure he felt at the thought of what he could do to Potter once he got the chance.

*

"So this is the famous library of Hogwarts," Harry muttered as he followed Luna into what appeared to be a maze of bookshelves. As they walked, Harry saw study tables nestled in alcoves and between the shelves throughout the place, none of them occupied. What really made him happy, though, was the amount of books surrounding him.

"It closes at eight," Luna told him, looking at something near the top of the shelves they were walking by. "Maybe we can find out a way to get rid of those Wrackspurts around you."

"I don't think that the solution to my troubles will be found here," Harry admitted, feeling gloomy. "I've been so confused lately."

"No, not really," Luna said dismissively, dancing a few steps ahead of him. "You're not confused. You're scared. "

"What?"

"You're not confused; you already know what you should do. But you're scared, and that allows the Wrackspurts fly around you so annoyingly, making your mind funny."

"What the hell do you know?" Harry asked breathlessly. He wasn't angry, as much as… surprised and suspicious. "How do you know?"

"I'm very observant," Luna replied, bending down to pick up a fallen chess piece and tying it into her hair, not minding at all the little soldier's flailing. "Do you want to talk about it? I could listen. I'm very good at listening."

"I don't—"

"— know if you can trust me?"

"Yes."

"As much as you can trust yourself if you weren’t you," Luna said, and oddly enough, that made sense to Harry, even if he didn't quite understand why or how.

"I'm confused," Harry said again, but the words felt overused and false. Luna smiled at him and shook her head.

"You're scared," she repeated, her voice void of accusation. She was simply making a statement. "You lack courage."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"Mm-m. Yes."

"You," Harry started, feeling uneasy and now a little bit angry, "have no idea what I have been through!"

"It doesn't really matter, you know," Luna said, twirling while tugging at the end of a few strands of her long hair. "Not really. What matters is here and now. The past isn't going to change just because you're too afraid of picking a future."

"I'm not scared," Harry insisted. "I'm not… I'm not a coward." And of course the past mattered – it’s what brought him here after all!

"Courage can't see around corners, but goes around them anyway," Luna replied, her voice just as dreamy and calm as it had been during the whole conversation.

"Mignon McLaughlin," Harry said, recognizing the words. "But I still don't know why you— from where did you draw those conclusions of yours?"

"You don't know, even though you felt it, too?" Luna asked, blinking at him curiously. "The connection. I think it's what made the Blibbering Humdingers lead me to you. They can sense these things, you see. They can tell."

"C-connection?"

“We’re a bit like oceans and lakes, you’ll find.”

"I don't understand you," Harry admitted, wondering why he wasn't feeling annoyed at the strange girl. However, as odd as it sounded… he felt as if he was talking to himself. "How do you know so much? I mean, you said that you're observant and that we have a connection, but…"

"Aren't you tired of doubting? You've already seen beyond the veil of reality, Harry. Why do you insist on keeping your eyes closed?"

"You don't understand. You think you do, but really you don't ."

"Is it easier to believe that?"

"Stop," Harry finally snapped. "I don't… Don't talk to me about that. Please."

"Do you want to go look for Gibberdubs with me?" Luna asked pleasantly, changing the subject. "They hide under snow and bring good luck to their finders."

"No, thank you," Harry replied. "I think I'll… stay here and read."

"As you wish," Luna said, smiling dreamily. "I'm happy to have met you. I'll see you soon again."

Harry couldn't help but feel as if meeting Luna was the start of something. But what?

*

On the evening of the third day of his visit, Harry was ambushed.

Well, not exactly ambushed. He had been walking towards his room when someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into what turned out to be an empty classroom. Alarmed, Harry turned to take a look at the ambusher, only to be surprised when he came face to face with a pale and cranky-looking Crouch Jr.

"Professor," Harry started, clearly surprised. "What—"

"You're Harry Potter," Crouch hissed, his voice unexpectedly soft. "A second year Durmstrang student."

"Yes sir."

"You're also here under the care of Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Yes," Harry said, looking resigned to his fate. "Not by choice, though."

"I was hesitant in the beginning," Crouch said, "but I am left with no options. I need your help."

"Let me guess," Harry sighed. "He's been harassing you?"

"You could say that," Crouch admitted with a grimace. "In a most inappropriate, showy manner. I do not appreciate waking up to see a carpet of purple feathers on the floor."

"He's good at breaking and entering, isn't he?"

"Alarmingly so."

"I'm not sure how I can help you, though," Harry said. "I can distract him during my stay here, but when I leave…"

"Can you not," Crouch hesitated, looking for the right words, "steer him to a different direction?"

"He's in love with you," Harry said bluntly, and Crouch flinched. Was that a faint blush making an appearance? "I can't just point him towards someone else and say fetch."

"I'll… teach you the basics of duelling," Crouch offered. "Just get him off my back." The man was clearly desperate, and while Harry didn't think that he'd succeed, he also didn't want to turn down the opportunity to receive some teaching. Duelling was interesting and he had read several books about it, and knowing how to duel was definitely something he would benefit from.

"Alright," Harry said. "I'll try. When will you start teaching me?"

"I'll write you a pass," Crouch replied, pulling out a piece of paper and conjuring a quill wandlessly. "After curfew– it's at nine– go to the seventh floor and wait for me near the tapestry depicting the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. Do not talk about this to anyone or I'll make you sorry. Are we clear, Potter?"

"Crystal," said Harry.

*

The meeting was all Harry could think of as he made his way back towards his room. A part of him was still disbelieving– the meeting had lasted less than a minute, maybe– and did he really just score dueling lessons with a renowned duelist such as Crouch! Pity that he had to keep quiet about it– this was something Harry would have loved to talk about with Truls or Filippa.

Harry turned around the corner only to see Gildy talking with a strange woman who was wearing a gauzy shawl covered with shining sequins and a pair of bright orange slippers.

"Harry," Gildy exclaimed at the sight of him, "perfect timing! Let me introduce you to one of my close friends, Sybill Trelawney, the professor of Divination and an excellent Seer. Sybill, this is my charge, Harry Potter." The woman turned to take a look at Harry, who felt uncomfortable as she stared at him with wide eyes through a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

"I see misfortune befall you," she said, her voice raspy. "Loss. So much loss. And death. How is your mother?"

"She's fine," Harry replied, feeling a chill wash over him. "She's perfectly fine."

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," the woman murmured, and instantly Harry knew that he wouldn't like her. That he wouldn't be able to like her. Who was she to—

"If that was all," Harry said, trying to not scowl, "I'd like to go to my room."

"You shouldn't dismiss my warnings so easily," Trelawney reprimanded. "The light of Life only makes the shadows of Death stronger."

"Excuse me," Harry snapped, pushing past the two. Was Hogwarts the gathering place of oddities or something? Luna, Gildy, Trelawney… and then there was Snape whom Harry had seen a few times since the man was his mother's friend. Were there any ordinary people at Hogwarts?

'I need to write to mum,' Harry decided as soon as he entered his room. He didn't want to believe Trelawney, but she had… well, it could be a guess. A bluff. But why would she talk about death to him if she didn't know—? Was she like Luna? No, no. Luna was different from everyone else– Harry knew that even though he had no idea how.

"I must figure out why I end up at the train station in the first place," Harry said aloud. "That's the first step. To find out why and what does it mean."

Meeting Luna, scoring some dueling lessons, meeting Trelawney, and needing to write to his mother… With all that, Harry had completely forgotten about his realization regarding Truls. As things were, whether or not his best friend had a potentially embarrassing crush on him wasn't something Harry had the energy to worry about right now.

Luna had called him a coward. Maybe he had been, partly at least. Afraid of finding out the truth, afraid of doing something– anything. But it was going to stop now. Harry was going to find out how to stop these trips to the train station, and he was going to tell Albus to give up on trying to convince Harry to go against the Dark Lord.

He should go to the library as soon as possible to start his research… but what kind of books could possibly have the information he needed? Maybe, instead of a library, he could go to a bookstore and ask for a book on how to find uncommon information? He'd have to go to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade soon anyway, since Christmas was only three days away.

So much to do, so little time.

*

Half past eight, Harry left his room, clutching the pass Crouch had written for him in his hand. It took him some time and several wrong turns before he found the tapestry depicting the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. Harry had read the biography written about that man and hadn't found him impressive or remarkable, and didn’t know why someone would bother to immortalize any aspect of his life.

When Crouch arrived, he didn't seem to even notice Harry at first. Instead, the man walked a few times across the hallway with a scowl firmly on his face before a doorway suddenly appeared.

"Come on, Potter," he said, still not looking at Harry. "In we go."

"What's this place?" Harry asked curiously, following the man inside. "A hidden dueling arena?"

"Not quite," Crouch replied. "It's known as the Room of Requirements. Its existence isn't really common knowledge so I'd appreciate you keeping quiet about it. This room appears only when needed and transforms itself into whatever you need it to be."

"How fascinating," Harry muttered. "I wonder what kind of magic could achieve that…"

"It's said that somewhere in Durmstrang there's a room quite similar to this," Crouch continued. "Except that while this room gives you what you consciously desire, that room gives you what you subconsciously need. It's just a rumour though, and the existence of that room has never been confirmed. But that aside, I trust that you have your wand with you?"

"Of course," Harry said. "Will we start imme—"

"Of course we won't duel right now," Crouch cut in, sighing with irritation. "I'd kill you in half a second. I'm going to first teach you a few spells that you must practice. One spell for defense and another for attack. Remember, however, that most spells– even the ones that seem useless– can be used in a duel. Winning a duel is really more about how you use the spells instead of which spells do you use."

"Even the milder spells?"

"If not to injure, then to distract."

"Is there a way to cast two spells simultaneously?" Harry asked. "For example, by using two wands? Can a wizard have two wands?"

"It's impossible to cast more than one spell at the same moment," Crouch replied. "You can however, non-verbally, cast a few spells in rapid succession right after one another which, if done fast enough, could give the impression of several spells being cast at the same time. What comes to owning multiple wands… it's possible. Your first one, however, is the one that will serve you the best, and no other wand will choose you like it did. You can acquire a second wand by winning it from its owner in a battle. Killing the previous owner to prevent any lingering bonds from distracting the wand is advisable."

"Have you ever… taken someone else's wand?"

"I have a few wands from several Rebels, but I do not carry them around all the time. Anyway, we have wasted time already– let's start. Show me your grip. Yes, boy, how do you hold your wand—?"

*

"You look like you didn't sleep last night," Luna said to Harry when she sat next to him during breakfast. "Did you stay up all night hunting for Wibbleberries?"

"Something like that," Harry muttered in response before yawning widely. "Where's the hair-thing you wore yesterday?"

"It's gone," Luna replied simply, and didn’t elaborate further on how it had disappeared. "Want to come later on look for it with me?" In all honesty, what Harry wanted to do was to go back to his room and sleep, but he didn't feel comfortable with the idea of leaving Luna wandering alone– what if something happened to her? What if she… tripped or fell down the stairs or something? And so, instead of excusing himself politely, Harry nodded tiredly and allowed himself to be dragged away after breakfast.

At least they weren't looking for an imaginary creature, but Luna's lost hair-thing that Harry didn't know what to call. Perhaps he could use a locator spell to find the trinket?

"Do you want a copy of the Quibbler, Harry?" Luna asked as they made their way through the corridors. Harry shook his head. What in the world was a quibbler anyway? From where did this girl get these ideas? Harry had thought that he was too deep in stories, but compared to Luna, that definitely wasn't the case!

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though. If Luna viewed the world differently, then perhaps she could have answers other people didn't have, simply because other people overlooked things that were noticeable to her?

And, well, vice versa.

"Luna," Harry started. "How often do you lose your things?"

"Often," the girl replied. "I'm not worried, though. I'm sure my things will turn up eventually. Maybe the Snorkling Sleizers are borrowing them, and it'd be terribly rude of me to demand them back."

"You," Harry said suddenly, "are odd."

"Oh, Harry," Luna replied with a pleasant smile. "You're not so ordinary yourself, are you?”

"I guess not," Harry admitted, and it felt… somehow weird to say it aloud. They were on the third floor when Luna suddenly pulled him into a room full of shiny cups, plates, shields and other trophies.

"This is the Trophy Room," Luna said. "I wonder if I'll find it here. The Snorkling Sleizers like shiny things, you see, so I wouldn't be surprised. Oh, there's a mouse. It's a cute little mouse, right, Harry? I wonder if it's a real mouse or a Snorkling Sleizer pretending to be a mouse. Or maybe it's neither. Maybe it's a whole new undiscovered race that looks and acts like mice but actually isn't… What do you think, Harry?"

But Harry wasn't listening. He had stepped closer to take a look at the trophies when he saw a vaguely familiar name on one of them. A burnished gold shield hanging on the wall had been awarded to Tom Riddle in 1944. Why was that name so familiar? Someone had said that name to him before… who? A classmate? No… Ron? Draco? Sirius? His pare—Albus. Albus had said…

"That Lord Voldemort of yours. His name is Tom Riddle."

"Luna," Harry said breathlessly, "can we look for your stuff later?"

"Of course, Harry," the girl replied. "Shall we—"

"Go to the library? Yes."

As they rushed towards the library, Harry couldn't help but wonder at the world's blatant… what should he call it? Pretentiousness? Hypocrisy? The Dark Lord Voldemort was a known half-blood, and yet, he ruled a world where the purity of blood was an important factor. How was it that the people knew of him being a half-blood, and yet it didn't seem as if many knew of him being Tom Riddle– otherwise the shield in the trophy room would have been in a much more noticeable place, surely.

Harry had thought that there were some people who didn't really care about blood purity, but put up a front to lure in power and fortune. But surely there were some who thought less of the Dark Lord for being a half-blood?

'He rules this country and affects most of the world beyond it greatly,' Harry thought. 'I wonder how he achieved that. He… did he start from nothing or did he have an inheritance?'

"What are we looking for?" Luna asked when the two finally arrived at the library.

"Is there a list of Hogwarts students?" Harry asked. "I need to look for a student who—"

"There're yearbooks somewhere here. I saw Madam Pince rearranging them once," Luna replied. "Who are we looking for? If you know when the person you're looking for graduated, you can easily find their name and picture and general information in a yearbook."

"Where are those yearbooks? I need from… year 1944 onwards. Can you find them? Do you know where they are?"

"This way." It didn't take them long to find the yearbooks, and while Harry didn't find his target in the yearbook of 1944, they found him in the yearbook of 1945.

"Here he is," Harry muttered.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE; b. 31.12.1926
Student: 1938–1945; Slytherin House.

"He was a Prefect and the Head Boy," Luna read aloud, standing next to Harry and leaning her head against his shoulder. "They even have a picture of him."

"I've seen this guy before," Harry whispered. The picture was in black and white which meant that Harry couldn't figure out what were the man's eye and hair colour. But there was something familiar in Tom Riddle's face that Harry couldn't exactly put his finger on.

"Who is he?" Luna asked, slipping her hand into Harry's.

"Promise not to tell anyone?" Harry asked, knowing already that he could trust Luna as much as he could trust himself.

"Of course," Luna assured him. "I know how to keep your secrets, Harry."

"It's the Dark Lord," Harry whispered. "This guy… years after this picture was taken, became Lord Voldemort."

"No wonder he looks so lonely, then," Luna noted.

"What? Lonely?"

"Yes. I wonder if the Umbugular Slashkilters attacked him."

"Luna. He's the Dark Lord."

"I know, Harry. But he's a human too, isn't he? I think he is. And Daddy says that even if I suspect otherwise, I mustn't tell anyone. It's apparently illegal. Funny, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Harry muttered, biting his lip and staring at the picture of the 18-year-old Voldemort. Was it presumptuous of Harry to feel as if he could relate to this guy somehow? If Harry was going to walk the path his heart told him to… it could be dangerous and devastating. Had Voldemort ever hesitated? Had he doubted himself? Or had he succeeded because he hadn't doubted or hesitated?

Maybe it was high time for Harry to start talking with Tom again. He could ask the guy about Lord Voldemort… and hope for the best.

*

"I just feel, dear Sybil, as if love is waiting for me just around the corner," Gildy sighed during dinner, shooting meaningful glances towards Barty who tried very hard to not see or hear the blonde man. Why was he sitting near the two frauds anyway? It was probably Yaxley's fault. Most things were.

"You never know, Gilderoy," Trelawney said dreamily. "Love could be within your reach soon enough. Just let it wait for a few short moments, and then pluck it out…"

'I want to go back home,' Barty thought morosely, staring at his meal. Maybe he should ditch his agreement with Potter and just assassinate the glittery fraud that was sparkling at him?

"My love is lost," Gildy moaned. "Because Mr. Narnia is so oblivious!"

'I can hear you! And I know who you're talking about!'

"Maybe you've been too subtle. How about you give love potions a try?"

'Stop encouraging him, you old liar!'

"I don't know… I don't want him to love me just because of a love potion."

"Oh, Gilderoy, you're so noble."

"I should try a lust potion instead. One night together is bound to get something started."

'I'm going to kill him.'

"Do you know from where to get a lust potion, dear?"

"I was planning on taking Harry tomorrow to Hogsmeade anyway, so I'll just let him wander around alone or with a friend– he has been terribly attached to that little Ravenclaw girl, it's cute– while I go and buy the potion. Or check if it's available. If it isn't, I'll have to resort to plan B."

"Which is?"

"I'll barge in when he's having his daily evening-bath."

"…he… how do you know if Cro— Mr. Narnia bathes every evening?"

"Oh, I observed."

"Well! How dedicated of you! I'm sure he's honoured!”

'Someday I'll boil the two of you together,' Barty thought, trying to not grab his wand and start the bloodshed. 'To death. And I'll watch and laugh.' He looked up, searching for the Potter boy whom he quickly enough found sitting with a blonde Ravenclaw girl. The boy was… strange. He was well-mannered, quiet but didn't seem to be shy. He was also surprisingly serious and hard-working… and very hard to predict and understand.

It was as if there's an invisible wall separating the boy from the rest of the people. Barty couldn't imagine what the boy would want to become or what he was thinking. Even in dueling tactics– not that they had dueled yet… Barty had thrown in a few questions for Potter to answer with surprising results. At times when Barty had expected a shield or a form of defense, the boy would attack instead, and sometimes, Potter would suggest a clever transfiguration trick instead of a known hex.

What also was very interesting was the boy's approach on how to attack someone with their defense shields up– the child had immediately suggested blowing up the ground beneath the enemy's feet, for example, instead of even trying to break the shields. It was so very refreshing to know that there were people who seemed to actually think about dueling tactics instead of just charging in. He couldn't wait until Potter grew up and became an active duelist.

What Barty found potentially troubling, though, was that the boy didn't seem to have presence at all. If Potter was to stand still in a corner and be quiet, chances were that Barty wouldn't be able to even realize that he was present. It was, of course, a very useful talent… but it was the sort of skill you would want to have yourself but never see another person with it.

Especially not a kid like Potter.

*

Harry was in his room, thinking.

He had a lot to think about, and yet, it was hard to organize his thoughts. Mainly, though, he was mulling over a belated realization. Didn't Crouch say that Durmstrang had a room relatively similar to the one where they trained? How can a room know what a person's subconscious desires were? What kind of magic had been used? Somehow, to Harry, it seemed that the magic they used nowadays was nothing compared to the magic that had been used centuries ago.

What had changed?

Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking of Tom Riddle either. He wanted to know more of who the Dark Lord had been before he had taken over the Wizarding World of Britain, but he could only imagine what kind of trouble he could get into for researching that. Ah, life had been so much easier when he had had only his stories surrounding him. If only Harry could get guidance… Will Stanton had had Merriman, and Garion had had Belgarath, and Polgara… But who did Harry have? Albus? Who was… who exactly?

'Maybe Albus studied here too, ' Harry thought suddenly. 'But how could I search anything about him? I only know his first name and what he looks like…'

The best thing he could do was to ask Tom's advice. Maybe he should stop thinking of Tom Riddle as Tom Riddle, since the name 'Tom' belonged already to someone else? What did the Dark Lord look like now? It was known that the man didn't allow his pictures to be taken, but Harry knew that he was past his seventies or something… Was he ever going to retire? Or was it true what some people believed…?

Sirius had once told Harry's parents that some suspected that the Dark Lord was immortal.

There had been disbelief and awe in their voices, but Harry… Harry still could remember the absolute feeling of wrongness that had almost overwhelmed him. He… knew without a doubt that no one, absolutely no one, had the 'right' to be immortal. Harry wasn't sure where this knowledge came from, but so deep in his heart was the belief of it that he didn't have a thought of doubt. This belief had been with him ever since he could remember– from the first time he read about immortality, the feeling…

Ah, whatever, this wasn't the time to think about anyone's rumoured immortality; Harry had a letter to write. The boy dipped the tip of his quill into the bottle of red ink before starting to write.

"Dear Tom…"

Chapter Text

Dear Tom,

I wish to meet you soon, there's a lot I want to ask you about and I hope that you'll be able to answer.

I know you might not wish to see me again – it has been quite a while after all and we didn't part on best terms – but I don't think anyone else can help me. I'm currently at Hogwarts, spending the Christmas Holiday with a friend of my parents. I think I could sneak out at some point and meet you in Hogsmeade (it's a little village nearby).

Sincerely,

Harry Potter.

PS. How are you?

"If your followers were to see you now,” Nagini hissed, “they'd think again whether they want to bow down to you or just find someone else."

"Look," Tom hissed in reply while standing on his desk with Harry's letter still in his hand. "I haven't had this much fun with anyone since I was born unless it involved somebody’s death. Probably. Do you know how many decades that is?"

"No. But I know it makes you look pathetic," Nagini said, not bothering to lift her head to take another look at her master. "And what happened to your I-don't-care-about-Potter, he's-only-a-random-loser-and-I'm-the-Dark-Lord attitude you've been sporting for the last few centuries?"

"He is just a kid who only happens to have the twin of my wand," Tom said absently, wondering if he should just jump off the desk onto the floor or if he should step on the chair first. "I'm just investigating to make sure that that's all of what he is. I'm being cautious. Besides, he wants to ask questions. So do I! I found nothing about his dead-alive issue so I'm going to try and find out by observing him."

"You're going to meet him?"

"After Christmas and before the end of the year, since people will be mostly meeting their families or friends then and there won't be crowds wandering outside."

"It's not like there are many outside of your Inner Circle who'd recognize you anyway. Between us, I'm the… what's the word? Celebrity? The more recognizable one?"

"I wonder if Potter is going to ask me about politics and the war… He might."

"…boring."

"Should I tell him that one of his classmates died? I just got a report regarding that," Tom said, before frowning and shaking his head. "He'd just want to know from where I got the information and how could I justify that the Durmstrang reports are sent to me without revealing my true status? Besides, he's unpredictable. What if he reacts weirdly?"

"Like?"

"I don't know. What if he cries or something? How do I make someone stop crying without killing them?"

"Just throttle him till he passes out. That works. People are happier when they're unconscious."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I haven't yet met anyone who complained about anything while they were unconscious."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Also…"

"What is it?"

"You're a really bad dancer. Don't dance on the table ever again. You'll fall and break your spine and my primal instincts are telling me that you won't know how to explain that to your healers."

*

"This is sickening," Emalda Brown muttered while pulling a white sheet over yet another corpse. "I feel like there's no end to this."

"No kidding," Lily Potter sighed, exhausted. She had been working almost non-stop for the past few weeks and was just about ready to call for a break of a few days – not that she could, even if she wanted to. It wasn't as if wars paused for Christmas just because the people wanted to celebrate.

Lily's long red hair had been cut short to make it easier to manage. Her skin that had always been a bit pale was almost ashen and her lively green eyes looked tired. There were lines on her face that hadn't been there before and often at night she' d press her face against her pillow and cry. She missed her family so much. She wanted to see James and be protected by him and she wanted to hug Harry and spend time with her precious son. But she couldn't. Not even for a day.

She hated staying here. Most of the other healers were Italian and almost half didn't speak English very well. The War Hospital was always so filthy and noisy and there weren't enough healers working. The constant urgency to treat the worst injuries first made everyone sloppy regarding hygiene and treating non-fatal injuries. Lily wanted to go back home, return to her ordinary shifts at St. Mungos and worry about Harry's grades and James's late nights out with Sirius instead of… this. She wanted to be with her family.

But quitting wasn't an option.

James was stuck somewhere in Ireland fighting for ideals that he didn't fully believe in and her son was at Hogwarts for the break. Lily hoped that at least Harry's Christmas would be an enjoyable one. She had received a few letters from him, but she hadn't had the opportunity to reply to any of them – she had barely managed to scribble something on a card and send it, apologizing for the lack of a gift and a proper party.

"I didn't know that there were that many Rebels," Emalda said. "I thought that there were less than hundred here. How can they manage to keep fighting us when we have hundreds of trained Death Eaters—"

"The battle started when we attacked a Rebel camp," Lily cut in quietly. "They're fighting like this to keep their families safe. They're giving all of what they have because their backs are up against the wall and they have no other option but to win or to see their families executed."

"This is war, isn't it?" Emalda whispered, blinking her tears away. "Back in England there has been only whispers of a possible war, but here it's already the current reality. What's the point of all this… killing? Why can't we just live and let others live?"

"I don't know."

"I feel like… we're fighting for nothing here. We've got nothing in Italy that we need to defend. Is this war still right?"

"My son once said," Lily started, closing her eyes. "That one should never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime. I still wonder if that applies to all wars or just a few."

"You have a son," Emalda smiled, leaning forward. "How old is he? He's a Death Eater?"

"He's twelve. Studies at Durmstrang."

"You miss him a lot."

"Yeah," Lily admitted quietly. "He, my Harry, he's… a good child. He's a bit of a dreamer and likes his stories but I know that he's got a good head on his shoulders and a heart of gold. I hope… I hope that he won't ever have to fight in a war like this."

"I wish I could say that's every mother's wish," Emalda said. "But I know what kind of mothers are in the ranks."

"We need some Dittany here! " a healer Lily didn't recognize called suddenly, interrupting the conversation of the two women. "We've got four severely splinched wizards!"

"Back to work," Lily sighed. "This never ends."

"It's past midnight," Emalda noticed and turned to look at the redhead who had grabbed a bottle of Dittany Extract and was heading towards the splinched patients. "Merry Christmas, I guess."

*

We're on the island of mystic toys.

Here we don't want to stay

We want to travel with Santa Claus in his magic sleigh

Harry had to admit that the Christmas Feast at Hogwarts was fantastic. It was attended by the students who hadn't gone home for the Holidays, the Professors – including Snape, who was shooting occasional glares towards Harry – and a few guests, none of which Harry could recognize. There were four Christmas trees in the Great Hall, the stars of the ceiling twinkled merrily and there was even a choir or singing gingerbreads floating around.

"Headmaster Yaxley really likes Christmas," Luna said while trying to decide between roasted and boiled potatoes, before just taking a bit of both. "Maybe it's because—"

"Hey Loony," a girl who was passing by with her friend cut in. "Got any gifts from your friends?"

"Imaginary friends," her friend added. "Since she doesn't have any real ones." Snickering they continued their way towards the end of the table. Harry stared at them for a few moments, bewildered at witnessing something like this happening right in front of him, before turning to Luna.

"Can nothing be done about that?" he asked.

"There's no need," Luna told him. "Their words don't affect me one way or another."

"You don't feel slightly hurt?"

"I don't have a reason to."

"But they insulted you."

"By saying that I don't have friends? I have you, which means that they're wrong and that their insult is invalid," Luna said with an easy smile. "It usually is like that, you know. A bully who doesn't even know you – it doesn't even have to be a bully. Simply someone who disagrees with you or doesn't like your personality. Someone like that could call you all sorts of things but they're all just guesses. It's like raindrops trying to hit me through a wall of stone."

"In time water can wear down the stone," Harry told her quietly. "Even if the first thousand times can be shrugged off with ease. And I know that these people don't stick to words only."

"This just means that I have to get stronger, right?" Luna said, leaning her head against his shoulder while reaching for his bottle of pumpkin juice. "Like you, Harry."

"I'm not that strong," Harry replied, thinking of his classmates. "But Luna, those bullies have to be stopped before things escalate further. And aren't you, you know, lonely?"

"One can be alone without being lonely. You just have to start liking yourself and your own company."

"But—"

"Not everyone in this world will like you, Harry, just like you will not like everyone in this world," Luna said, her dreamy smile widening. "That's good. That's how it's supposed to be. It's not wrong. Of course being disliked doesn't feel good, but if you're disliked by someone who doesn't even know you, then might as well just forget about it. Have you tasted these potatoes? They're delicious!" The abrupt change of subject caught Harry off-guard, and he stared at Luna silently for a few moments before managing to nod.

"Delicious, yeah."

"Your problem is that you think too much about your problems," Luna continued. "You think too much and do too little. But don't worry; I'll still give you your Christmas gift."

"Thank you. I'll give you yours, too."

Harry had realized that he couldn't count on Gildy to take him to Hogsmeade, and so with the help of Luna and a few catalogues he had figured out how and what to order. The bill he sent back home where it'd wait until one of his parents returned to pay it.

'I wonder what they're doing,' Harry thought, unable to shrug off the worry he was feeling. He had received a card from his mother and short letter from his father – neither had had the opportunity to buy him anything, and while Harry didn't necessarily even want gifts, it just made him realize how busy his parents really were.

'I hope they're okay… I wish I could see them already.'

"We can go now," Luna said with a smile. "I'm finished with this and you don't look like you're about to eat anymore."

"Ah, yeah." Harry stood up and held his hand out for the younger girl. "Let's go to my room, then."

*

"Potter!" a squeaky voice called, and soon a short man with wide blue eyes and a balding head sat next to James, who was having his lunch break. "Almost didn't see you here."

"Pettigrew," James said in response. Of all the people in the camp, it had to be this wimp of a man who wasn't reliable or competent. James could vaguely remember Peter Pettigrew from Hogwarts – he had been a Slytherin. Not loyal enough for Hufflepuff, not brave enough for Gryffindor and not smart enough for Ravenclaw, but apparently cunning enough for Slytherin.

"I heard we'll be transferred from Waterford to Tramore soon," Pettigrew said, holding a mug of hot mulled wine in his hand. "Suspicious activity there too."

"Mm-hm."

"I heard your wife is in Italy? How are you coping with the stress? I mean, you're worried about her, right?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," James replied sharply. Had it been Sirius, then of course James would have confessed all of his worries, but this was Pettigrew. Why was the loser focusing on James anyway? Why wasn't Sirius here? Damn that stupid dog.

"At least your son is safe," Pettigrew continued.

"I know that Harry is safe," James snapped. "But my wife isn't, so shut it!"

"Touchy," Pettigrew muttered, before smiling brightly again. "But this is war and there are no wars without casualties."

"What the fuck?" James growled, dropping his fork and standing up. "Stay away from me Pettigrew or I'll—"

"Curse me?" Pettigrew cut in, standing up as well. He was in no way a threatening sight, and yet James couldn't help but take a step back. "Sit down, James. Finish your lunch before going out to fight." After a moment of hesitation, James reluctantly sat down again, and immediately Pettigrew followed suit.

"Don't talk to me," James hissed, grabbing his fork again. "I don't want you to ever talk about my wife again."

"What about your son?" Peter grinned, a knowing spark in his eyes. "I was surprised to hear that you have a son, to be honest. You see, my mother used to work as a midwife before she returned to France."

James felt his whole body freeze and for a few moments he wasn't sure if he knew how to breathe. His heartbeat was loud, so loud and there was an unpleasant feeling inside him. How did— Nobody was supposed to know, no one but him and Lily and the midwife. It was nothing. It didn't matter. It had been a mistake. The midwife had been confused, she had admitted her mistake. And it had been so long ago, they had already forgotten. It had been nothing. There was no proof—

"Wh-what, did you think that the baby was a girl?" James sneered, finishing his food in a few mouthfuls and standing up. He wanted to leave before Pettigrew spoke again, because this unpleasant feeling wasn't vanishing and—

"No," Pettigrew called after James, who didn't turn or slow down. "Nobody ever claimed it to be a girl. I heard it was a stillborn."

*

They had dropped first by the Ravenclaw Tower for Luna to fetch Harry's gift, before the two made their way towards Harry's room. When they finally arrived, Luna shoved the relatively big box into Harry's arms for him to unwrap immediately and bounced to take a closer look at the other gifts he had received. The present he had bought for her was on his table, but the girl didn't grab it yet.

"You got lots of cards as well," she said.

"Ah, yeah. I haven't read all of them yet," Harry replied, setting the box onto his bed and starting to open it warily, not knowing what to expect.

"Your parents didn't send you any gifts?"

"Yeah. I didn't expect them to – they're both very busy. It's oka… huh?" Harry had unwrapped Luna's gift and he stared at it with confusion. "Luna… this is a gas mask. A muggle gas mask. I read about them when I researched the history of air-cleaning spells."

"Why would you research the history of air-cleaning spells?"

"I was writing an ess— wait, that's not the question here, Luna. Why are you giving me this?"

"I have one too. We match."

"But what do I do with it!"

"It’ll give you a breath when you’ve gone none left,” Luna said, smiling dreamily. "And see how many people scream at the sight of you. It's fascinating."

"…I'm impressed," Harry admitted reluctantly. "I mean, it's terrible, but…"

"There's a darker side to all of us. That's my gift there, right?"

"Oh yes. You can open it if you want," Harry replied. He was tempted to try on the gas mask, but for some reason he felt slightly reluctant to do so. He didn't get the feeling that he shouldn't wear the mask, no. He got the feeling that he shouldn't wear the mask right now.

"Lovely," Luna said with a pleased smile as she lifted the music box she had received for closer inspection. "There's an owl outside your window, by the way."

"What?" Harry exclaimed, turning to see that indeed, a rather large owl was waiting to be let in. As soon as Harry opened the window, the owl dropped in a tiny envelope before sweeping out again. Luna, who was sitting under his desk while listening to the sleepy melody of the music box, didn't pay him any attention. Hoping for it to be a message from one of his parents, Harry hurriedly opened the envelope, and was disappointed to find only a neatly folded piece of paper.

27th of this month at 13:00. Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks Inn, room 11. Wear a hat and hide your face. Come alone.

- "Tom"

Strangely enough, even though this meeting was what Harry wanted, the first thought that came to his mind was 'what if he kills me?' Perhaps he was being paranoid… besides, Harry knew that this secrecy was necessary. Tom – whoever he really was – had to be someone high-ranked and infamous, which meant that if someone caught wind of their meeting, things could turn complicated and uncomfortable questions might be asked.

Harry didn't want that.

This wasn't like meeting at Durmstrang – there'd be nothing that would stop Tom from killing Harry if the man decided to do so. However, Harry needed to ask his questions and there was no one else but Tom who could answer them.

"Why don't you open the rest of your gifts?" Luna asked suddenly. "And then read the letters? You look like you're thinking too much again. You'll be getting wrinkles if you keep that up." Deciding to worry later about whether or not to meet Tom after all, Harry nodded and moved to do as advised. He received books from Truls, Filippa and even Sirius– although the man had sent him Becoming Animagus by Lord Austen Jane, not a storybook. From Gildy, Harry received a pair of high-heeled white boots that the boy decided to burn as soon as he got the chance. Or maybe he could give them to Filippa? What had Gildy been thinking?

'Or maybe that's the problem,' Harry thought sourly, glaring at the boots. 'He didn't think. Like always.'

*

"Just because I said that it's fun doesn't actually mean that I like doing this all day," Bellatrix Lestrange said, eyeing the five caged wizards in front of her with a bored face. "Life's not all fun, you see? My Lord wants answers and you're being stingy and mean. Now tell me so I can finish you off already."

"Your negotiation skills leave much to be desired, cousin," Sirius said, not looking up from the documents he was supposedly reading. "Have you tried to use Imperio on any of them yet?"

"Of course! But they keep somehow either avoiding the question or telling me nonsense about birds and sand. There's clearly a spell of some kind acting as a barrier between the information and I. Which means that the information has to be given, not taken."

"If that's true, that rules out Veritaserum as well."

"I tried to threaten them, of course," Bellatrix sighed. "Even killed two of them. But they're still keeping quiet. Ah, maybe I should… oh, yes, why didn't I think of that before?" She smiled, and once again Sirius realized with a start how… outstandingly beautiful Bellatrix actually was. All Blacks were beautiful, of course, but Bellatrix took it to near perfection with her flawless skin, ruby lips and dark, long hair. Admittedly, though, her personality was nasty.

"This ought to work," the woman muttered, casting a few spells to enlarge the room and then transfiguring four new cages that looked exactly like the original one. "Help me, cousin. I'm going to put these dogs into separate cells and Legilimens the life out of them!"

"Don't call them dogs," Sirius protested, and belatedly Bellatrix remembered what his animagus form was.

"Terribly sorry," she replied, not sounding sorry at all. "Now help me with this. I'm going to get these answers even if I have to cut their skulls open and pick on their brains."

"Didn't you try that once already?"

"Yes, well, I'll try it again. My Lord wants results. And I will not disappoint him. I'm not like those fools, Yaxley, Karkaroff and Mulciber!"

"Can't believe Mulciber's actually teaching brats to duel. In Durmstrang of all places." Bellatrix stood still for a moment, completely quiet, before smiling slowly and turning towards Sirius again. Her dark eyes were a tad too wide for it to be natural, but then again she always looked like that when she was thrilled.

"Your godson," the woman started softly, and Sirius tensed, completely surprised.

"What about him?" he asked warily. How did she even know about Harry?

"He's such a beautiful child," Bellatrix sighed. "His eyes… The first time I saw those eyes of his, I wondered if he could kill like a basilisk."

"Don 't be foolish. And where have you ever seen Harry?"

"A year ago. The Christmas Ball of the Malfoys. That pretentious party with too many hopeful idiots mingling. I saw him, I looked at him, and I saw something pleasant. Sirius… I know you do not believe in Divination, and most of the time, neither do I… but that boy, cousin… there's something about him."

"Harry's a completely ordinary boy, I assure you."

"Then you are blind and stupid."

"Stay away from Harry," Sirius said then, his mouth pressed into a firm line. His fingers were already curling around his wand, and his whole body was tense. Harry catching this woman's attention was not a good thing at all. But what had she seen in him, in all honesty? Harry was quiet, and, true, his green eyes were almost frighteningly eerie, but… there wasn't anything suspicious about him. Sirius had been there since the beginning; he'd know if there was something wrong with Harry.

"If that boy became My Lord's aid," Bellatrix murmured, "he'd follow in my footsteps, that Potter boy. He'll grow up to be so fine, I'm sure, and he'd stand tall and proud beside the Dark Lord. He'd be like me, the most faithful and useful—"

"Bella!" Sirius cut in sharply, glaring at the woman who was smiling in a crazed manner at the cowering Rebels. "Focus on your work and stop daydreaming. Stun them, separate them, make them blind and deaf for all I care. Just stop even thinking about Harry. He's not going to fall victim to your scheming."

"When something is destined," Bellatrix whispered, "you needn't scheme to see it happen."

*

The twenty-seventh of that month was a clear day. The sun reflected brightly from the snow that covered the ground like a white sheet, and the cold seemed to sweep through the thick layers of clothing that Harry had pulled on before leaving. He vaguely remembered the village from when he had arrived with Gildy, but luckily the Three Broomsticks Inn was easily found after a bit of wandering. The Inn was slightly crowded inside, warm and a bit smoky, but clean and welcoming. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face saw Harry and smiled widely at him.

"Hello dear," she said, and her smile dulled a bit when she recognized the sign of Durmstrang on his cloak. "Something to snack on?"

"I have a meeting," Harry replied warily, tugging his hat lower and scarf a bit higher. "Room eleven. At one o'clock. Can you tell me where that room is?"

"You're right on time, then," the woman said before pointing towards a staircase. "Third floor, the first room."

"Thank you," Harry murmured before nervously rushing towards the stairs. Was Tom already there? In all honesty, Harry wished to get a few moments alone for him to organize his thoughts and decide what he should ask about. The Dark Lord, of course, but what exactly about him? And what if Tom decided that it was rude of Harry to pry and cursed him or something? Then again, Harry had a hard time believing that the man would do that to him.

The room was small and tidy. There was a thin white carpet on the floor, white and red striped curtains, and a king-sized bed. Next to the window, there were two chairs and a round table. When Harry entered the room, Tom didn't bother standing up from the chair– he merely gestured for the boy to shut the door behind him and sit down.

"I'm pleased to see you," Tom said easily as Harry pulled off his hat, scarf and coat and sat down. "You've grown taller. Your hair is longer, too."

"And you haven't changed at all," Harry replied. "Er… have you eaten anything?"

"I don't eat outside," Tom said. "But I did order one of my house-elves to bring us something to eat shortly after it sees you arriving, so expect to be fed soon."

"Oh… thank you."

"I was… surprised to receive your letter. I didn't expect you to contact me, much less for you to ask me out like this."

"Look," Harry started, before taking a deep breath and then continuing. "I'm going to be completely honest and go directly to the point. I need to ask you about the Dark Lord."

'Well, isn't this a surprise,' Tom thought, leaning forward curiously. "Why?"

"His name is Tom Riddle, right," Harry said, and he'd never know how much these words startled the man in front of him. "He… I saw the shield he was awarded when he was still at Hogwarts. I also saw his picture in a yearbook. I just… I want to know if he started from nowhere or if he had an inheritance and a strong family that helped him…"

"The Dark Lord…" This would be the perfect opportunity for Tom to tell Harry who he really was. But did he want to? He wasn't sure what he should tell the boy– should he go along with this or should he put a stop to it? Deciding what to do what hard since Tom had no idea what Harry would do with the information. "You do know that asking about the Dark Lord is potentially dangerous? I happen to know that he does not like the idea of anyone snooping around, asking about him."

"Which is why I'm asking you," Harry said. "You're the only one I can get these answers from."

"You don't even know me," Tom replied. "Really, Harry, who do you think I am?"

"A Death Eater," Harry said, trying to ignore his own nervousness and the loud beating of his heart. "An important Death Eater. Dangerous, too."

"How adorably vague," Tom sighed and watched silently as a house elf carrying a tray popped into the room and set food and drinks on the table. When the creature was done, it left immediately and Harry and Tom were once again alone.

"If you don't want to tell me about the Dark Lord," Harry started, sounding braver than he felt. "Then can I ask you about yourself?"

"I can tell you," Tom said with a slight smile. "Either about the Dark Lord or myself… But you'll have to answer some questions as well. So how about we ask questions in turns? We can choose between answering honestly or not answering at all– if you choose to not answer, however, I'm allowed to ask another question. Of course, that works the other way around as well."

"Okay," Harry agreed, wondering which one of the numerous questions he had should be asked first. "Will I start or will you?"

"You can start if you wish."

"Okay… um… What's your name?"

"Marvolo," Tom replied easily. It was his name. One of them.

"What a weird name," Harry muttered, staring at the older man's face. All of a sudden Harry felt as if he should… remember something. Those features… "It doesn't really suit you."

"You can keep calling me Tom if you wish," Tom replied. "Why did you choose Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts?"

"Not sure," Harry said. "Felt like a good idea at the time and my parents really recommended it? I'm not sure actually… Um, I was wondering, if people don't even know who the Dark Lord is, then how do they know of his blood status?"

"He deliberately let them know. Keeping that kind of secret hidden would be foolish in case someone else was to ever somehow find out and reveal it to the world through their own words. So the Dark Lord made it known in order to not only erase the threat of exposure but to make it also acceptable to be a half-blood in this society."

"…that makes sense, I guess."

"Of course it does," Tom said dismissively. "Harry, are you healthy? Physically, I mean. Completely healthy?"

"As far as I know, yes," Harry replied, feeling wary. Should he ask why the man wanted to know? But there was so much else he wanted to find out first! "Has… what… is… Is the Dark Lord satisfied with this world?"

"Sorry?" The word escaped Tom's lips before he even realized that he had spoken aloud. For a few long moments, he stared at Harry with something that wasn’t quite shock, watching the boy's face become gradually redder.

"You don't have to answer," Harry hurried to say almost breathlessly. "I mean, I was just… I…"

"It's okay," Tom said, eyes still focused on the boy. "But first, I want a vow of secrecy."

"You're really going to tell me?" Harry asked, sitting straighter. "Really?"

"I see no harm in telling you this," Tom replied, feeling thrilled at this new possibility. "But first– the vow." He put down his cup of tea and reached forward to grab Harry's hand. The man's grip wasn't overly tight, but it was firm enough to make Harry unable to pull away.

"Just a vow of secrecy, right?" Harry said nervously, and the man nodded. Only then did Harry notice that Tom was holding a wand, its tip pointing at their joined hands. While Tom was concentrating on casting the spell, Harry used the few moments to take a look at the man's face.

'He's actually pretty handsome,' Harry thought. 'I wonder if Gildy would ditch Barty for this guy. Except that Tom would probably kill Gildy instantly.' Harry was hard pressed to not flinch in surprise when he felt magic suddenly wrapping itself around him for a split-second before vanishing. Tom's hold on his hand was tighter and the man had turned to stare at Harry's face instead of their still joined hands.

"There's something about you, Harry," Tom whispered, and for some reason Harry felt almost flustered. "I wonder… what you will become. Do you think you'll be a Death Eater, Harry? Bowing before the Dark Lord, finishing the missions he gives you?"

"It's not your turn to ask," Harry replied just as quietly, body tense and heart beating rapidly. Tom blinked once before letting go of Harry's hand and leaning back again.

"Oh yes," the man said, not whispering anymore. "Is the Dark Lord satisfied with the way this world is now? I could have spared us both from this secrecy spell and answered either yes or no, but I cannot resist the temptation of telling you more. The Dark Lord… well, isn't this complicated to answer. The Dark Lord is… well, not content or pleased or even satisfied… He's fine with how the world is now. For him, it could be better."

"But why? The pureblood supremacy has been achieved already!"

"He isn't a pureblood, as you well know. Promoting pureblood supremacy was just an open opportunity."

"But why did he then… Did he… What does he believe in, then? What's his goal? What's his motivation?"

"The Dark Lord," Tom started, "was born in a filthy little Muggle-filled orphanage in London. His Muggle father had abandoned his pure-blood mother as soon as he could, and the woman died as soon as she had named her child. The Dark Lord's father, despite his wealth and prowess in the Muggle society, never once looked for his son, and the Dark Lord grew up right where he was born - in that orphanage. He was completely unaware of his Wizarding heritage 'til the day he received his Hogwart's letter. By then, Tom Riddle had already seen a glimpse of the true face of reality, you could say. How dirty people were inside. How selfish and greedy and hypocritical, no matter how young or old."

"He views all people like that?" Harry asked, feeling his heart flutter in… It wasn't fear. More like disappointment and… sadness?

"Since the beginning, it was clear that the Dark Lord was far more powerful and intelligent than his peers and even many of the people older than him," Tom continued, not replying to Harry. The man was seemingly looking at the cup of tea on the table, but somehow Harry felt as if he didn't really see it. "People realized quickly how outstanding he was, and there were many who wished to befriend him. Make him their ally. But regardless of how they treated him, he knew what they were like inside– undeserving. Eventually, the Dark Lord realized that there is no one who is equal to him in any way. He realized how superior he was to everyone else, and the stronger he got, the harder it became to forgive other people's weaknesses and ignorance."

"Then why did he become the Dark Lord if he hates everyone?"

"It wasn't his first option, initially. He… you could say he suffered from extreme apathy. It was a fog around him and only his bouts of rage could momentarily make that fog fade. He studied, became stronger day by day, living in that state of apathy. He didn't feel many emotions, had no particular desires and believed that one day… he'd die out of sheer boredom and depression. Till something happened to turn that emptiness into hatred and make as many people as possible suffer."

"What happened?" Harry asked. While he did feel intrigued, he couldn't help but feel a bit bad for the Dark Lord.

"He found his father and killed him," Tom said, his tone dismissive again. "The man deserved it, I assure you, so don't go all moral on me now. After the death of his father, the Dark Lord decided to take over the Wizarding World of Britain. He didn't care of pureblood supremacy but knew that using that as an excuse, he'd gain powerful followers quickly. And he did. Now he has achieved the position that he wanted– he's safe and he can hurt anyone and everyone he wants. And while to him that is enough, it's not… it'd be inaccurate to say that he's content with the world."

"You mean he started from nothing?" Harry muttered, pressing his hands together in an attempt to stop them from shaking. "He… Did he ever… was he ever scared?"

"Whether or not he was ever afraid didn't matter to him. He isn't the type to let fear hold him back," Tom replied.

"I bet he never cried, though."

"He cried plenty. 'Til he got sick of his own tears and decided to grow up and strike back twice as hard. He had many opponents, but only ever one true enemy, and that was mercy."

"He's amazing," Harry whispered. "I—"

"Isn't it my turn to ask a few questions now?" Tom cut in, casting a spell to reheat his tea. "Do you think you could ever serve the Dark Lord, now that you know that he's more than just a… Well, you get the idea."

"I… I think I respect him," Harry started. "It's amazing to have achieved what he has, starting from less than nothing. And… and it makes me sad, to think of him being an orphan. It makes me even sadder to think that he must have had reasons to believe that people are, um, greedy and selfish and all that. I'd be honoured to follow him, one day, but… not as a Death Eater. I… I can't… imagine myself hurting anyone just because they're werewolves or muggles or seemingly less deserving than rich purebloods."

'I can't see you as a Death Eater either,' Tom admitted to himself, watching the boy think. 'It makes you sad, to think of my life? Ignorant child. He… how can someone be so weak emotionally while having the potential to be so strong magically? I don't understand.' "What do you think of war?"

"War is wrong… and should be avoided instead of sought. Who are we to decide who is good and who is evil?"

"It's not about good an evil, you little idiot. It's just us and them, and that's all the difference that matters."

"…I wonder."

"And," Tom said suddenly, "what do you think of dying?"

"What?" Harry's green eyes widened with surprise when he heard this question. He gaped at Tom for a few moments before taking a deep breath and leaning back on his chair. "I… Death is… necessary, I think?"

"Do you think there's life after death? Or that people can be… revived after they're gone?" Tom asked, wondering if he was going to get a clue, finally, as to why the boy, according to Nagini, smelled as if he was sometimes dead, sometimes alive.

"No," Harry replied slowly. "I mean, no one can be revived, and no one should be immortal. But I think that there is certainly something after death, and… I believe that the dead could be, um, contacted. Spoken to, or something."

"Well, there are ghosts," Tom said. "But I wasn't talking about those."

"I wasn't either," Harry blurted. "I, well, the dead… they… go somewhere, you know. After they, er, die? And, um, maybe someone can, uh, occasionally go to where they go and—"

"That's what you do?" Tom cut in, feeling the heat of excitement inside his body. Could it be? This possibility hadn't even crossed his mind, but… seriously. The mere idea of it was simply outstanding.

"No!" Harry exclaimed hastily. "I was just wondering. If it's possible. I, I, I th-think I read about it somewhere. Maybe in a story, or something. It just, it's nothing."

'To g o to the realm of the dead and return,' Tom thought. 'It would explain why he'd smell sometimes dead, I think. But why and how could he have gained such power? Can he do it consciously— He must. I remember that he flickered away during the execution all those months ago. Amazing. Simply amazing. I wonder if he can affect Death itself, or can he only contact the dead? I want to experiment on him…' "It's your turn to ask, isn't it?" Tom said suddenly. He had no idea whether or not it was the boy's turn, but that didn't really matter.

"Actually," Harry said, trying to not sound too shaken, "I should be going now. I didn't exactly ask for permission when I sneaked out, so…"

"Write to me, then," Tom told him, not moving from his seat as he watched Harry stand up and head for the door after a few moments of hesitation.

"Goodbye," Harry whispered before slipping out. Tom allowed himself to smile as soon as the door was closed again.

"No, Harr y. Not goodbye," he hissed. "Hello, instead."

Because if Harry really could move between the realms of the living and the dead, then the boy had moved from being an 'interesting little creature' to being a 'potentially invaluable creature'. Even with his moral dilemmas and general naivety. Tom didn't regret telling Harry about himself, even if he had ended up revealing more than originally intended– he had given Harry a lot to think about, and the boy probably didn't even realize that he hadn't asked really anything important about ‘Tom the Death Eater’.

Well, the boy had asked for this meeting, so the next meeting would have to be initiated by Tom.

He couldn't wait.

*

"You're leaving tomorrow?"

It was almost ten days after Harry's meeting with Tom, and he was currently in his room, packing his bags. The Christmas holiday was almost over and it was time for Harry to return to Durmstrang. Luna was sitting on his bed, knitting what looked like a really long scarf while trying to not look as disconnected from reality as she felt she was.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Right after breakfast. You'll… take care of yourself, alright? You don't have to put up with anyone pushing you around."

"Of course, Harry."

"If anyone bullies you, you'll go directly to the teachers."

"Of course, Harry."

"Remember to keep your trunk locked to prevent anyone from stealing anything, and don't be afraid of secretly jinxing anyone who mistreats you."

"Of course, Harry," Luna said for the third time, smiling absently. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Luna."

"You'll write, right?" the girl asked. "No one but daddy has ever written to me before."

"I'll write," Harry promised. "And next summer, I'll ask my parents if we can meet or visit each other. We could hang out and stuff."

"That would be lovely," Luna whispered, before smiling dreamily at Harry. "Don't change too much."

"What?" Harry asked, looking up from his trunk. "What do you mean?"

"Hmm, nothing special," Luna replied. "You'll be going on your own?"

"No," Harry said. "Gildy will take me there. I wonder where he is right now." Probably somewhere harassing Crouch. Harry had done his best with trying to distract Gildy from Barty in order to keep on receiving private tutoring on duelling, but at times, he just had to let the glittery blond wizard out of his sight. Unsurprisingly, harassing Crouch was exactly what Gildy was doing at the time.

'I wonder if the Dark Lord will forgive me if I killed this freak,' Crouch thought, pressing his back against the wall while trying to keep Gildy away with the power of his glare. The Potter boy had managed to distract the flashy wizard from cornering Barty before, but this time, the kid was nowhere to be seen. Probably packing and preparing his escape. Lucky little bastard. "What do you want?"

"You," Gildy replied immediately. "But I know it's too early for you, so I just want to say that I will be leaving the country tomorrow for a few hours."

'But why are you telling me that!'

"He doesn't get it, darling," Sybil Trelawney said from the background where she was filling her smoking pipe with something purple. "I think he's immune to your charms."

"No one is immune to my charms."

"Just what the hell do you see when you look in the mirror?" Crouch sneered. Gildy smiled gently, taking a step forward while Crouch tried to somehow push his way through the stone.

"Me looking fabulous," Gildy replied. "Speaking of which, I've wanted to tell you this for a while, sweetheart, but dressed like that you… Well, you're handsome, of course, but you're missing something."

"He's too dull," Sybil said, closing her eyes and enjoying whatever she was smoking.

"Yes," Gildy breathed. "And if you'd just let me help you, we could turn that dull thing you're channelling into something else. Into…"

"Dull-icious, " Sybil stated. Crouch cursed the lack of a backdoor in his own classroom where he was being cornered. Maybe he could just hex these to and call it an accident? No, no. With his luck, his punishment would be nursing them to health.

"Yes, that," Gildy agreed. "But we're getting side tracked here. Darling, I'm going tomorrow to take my young charge– Harry, you've seen him. Cute, but not as cute as me, is heI just wanted to ask if you'd like to come with us. I mean, you could wait here and worry about me, or you could tag along."

"I'd rather not," Crouch said, scowling.

"He's being shy," Sybill declared before focusing again on her smoke pipe.

"I'm not being shy. I'm uninterested."

"I don't think so," Gildy said, his face void of the usual mirth. "I think you're just so deep in denial that even the suggestion of having sex with me scares you. You're trapped by your foolish belief that passion can truly exist only between a man and a woman, and that makes you blind to the possibility of discovering your inner pervert with me. I don't hate women– really, I love them. Platonically. But the mere idea of having sex with a woman confuses me. Where do you grab her? She doesn't have a penis! At least, most of them don't, and a strap-on doesn't count. You just, what, fondle her breasts?"

‘How can you love women – platonically or otherwise – and speak of them like that?’ Crouch thought.

"I think he's properly traumatized now," Sybil said approvingly at the sight of pale and nauseous Crouch. "Our work here is done. He's definitely not going to recover quick enough during your absence for him to get involved with anyone else."

"Excellent," Gildy smiled. "I'll leave tomorrow after breakfast and will be back before lunch. See you then, Barty-darling!" The man's words seemed more like a threat than anything else, and

Crouch couldn't help but feel threatened.

He needed a plan, and he needed it now.

Potter would surely like to continue his lessons even after the break. He definitely wouldn't turn down another offer of alliance, would he?

*

His bags had already been sent back to Durmstrang, including a basket full of food that Luna had insisted on preparing for him during breakfast. He was dressed in his usual Durmstrang uniform and he was ready to go… except that he really didn't want to.

It wasn't just the issue of having to leave Luna behind. Actually, it was more about having to face Truls. With all the things going on during this holiday Harry had nearly forgotten what he had found out about his Swedish friend. Then again, he could have been mistaken? Truls certainly didn't act like Gildy in any way, and he didn't look like he was in love or anything. Maybe he was just being friendly?

And even if he wasn't, Harry didn't want to confront him about the maybe-feelings that could be a potential source of trouble. Would it be terribly rude if Harry just ignored them? As long as Truls didn't confess to him or anything, everything would be fine, right?

"I'll see you in a few months again, Harry," Gildy said when they had finally reached the apartment complex where Harry and his year mates lived. "Take care, darling. And do wear the lovely boots I gave you."

"They're too big for me," Harry said. "Anyway, just go. Thank you for escorting me, but, uh, I'm sure you already miss Professor Crouch so—"

"Don't worry," Gildy said dismissively. "I made sure that he won't be hooking up with anyone else anytime soon."

"…" 'Poor Crouch.' "Bye." Harry didn't start moving towards his flat 'til he made sure that Gildy had indeed left. Only then did he turn his back to the portkey-point and hurry inside– it was cold, after all. Had his friends arrived already? Surely at least some of them?

'Oh well,' Harry thought while shrugging off his coat and proceeding to light a fire in the fireplace. 'Tomorrow morning will, without a doubt, start with the homeroom hour so I'll see all of them then.' He could enjoy his day alone, reading a book. Perhaps he could take a look at that animagus book Sirius had sent him?

That's what Harry did. He sat in his flat, focusing on the rather fascinating book while occasionally snacking on the food Luna had given him. And while he did hear when some of his friends arrived, he remained in his flat, completely unaware of the fact that the apartment below his own had been emptied.

Chapter Text

The following day was bright, clear, and cold. Fresh snow was covering the grounds outside, and the mere idea of going out there made Harry shiver and pull on another shirt just in case. When he finally left to go to the homeroom class, he bumped into Filippa in front of the apartment complex.

"Darling!" the girl exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. "Looking good, Harry. How are you?"

"Pretty good," Harry replied with a smile, hugging her back before stepping away to take a good look at her. "And you?"

"Simply fabulous," Filippa said. "I thought about dropping by your place yesterday, but by the time I had exchanged news and gossip with Heidi and Petronella, it was simply too late."

"It's okay," Harry assured her as the two started to walk again together towards the classroom. "Besides, we'll all get to see each other now anyway."

"Yeah, in this Death Eater factory," Filippa muttered, and Harry was surprised to hear the tone of her voice.

"You disapprove?" he asked curiously.

"I spent Christmas with my family in Italy," Filippa replied quietly. "And while we weren't involved in any of the battles– since none of them took place anywhere near us– we still got the news, you know. So many die, Harry, and for what exactly? I can't help but remember what Professor Dietmar told us when we started studying here… I don't want to be hated and feared, Harry. I… I just… Please don't tell anyone. I know I shouldn't be like this…"

"On the contrary," Harry told her firmly, "I agree with you– these wars are pointless. They're nothing but the suicide of the Wizarding World masked as a struggle between what people like to call right and wrong."

"Don't tell the others, though," Filippa whispered right before they reached the classroom. "They wouldn't agree. Especially the likes of Clemens and Petronella. I know that Lorenzo is pretty relaxed about that stuff, and Björn only hates poor people. I'm not sure about Heidi and Nikolai, though. But just in case, let's keep this a secret– we could get into trouble if someone finds out."

"Don't worry," Harry assured her and sat down on his usual seat. He and Filippa were the first ones to arrive, and as usual she took the seat in front of Harry instead of the one next to him. That seat belonged to Truls. Speaking of whom… "Hey, I think I realized something during the break, but I need your confirmation about it."

"Hmm?"

"About Truls."

"Oh!" Filippa's expression brightened suddenly as she turned to look at Harry with a grin on her face. "Finally figured it out, did you?"

"He likes me," Harry whispered, unable to not blush at the admission. "What should I do?"

"Do you like him?" Filippa asked quietly, and Harry shrugged.

"He's a friend," Harry said. "Like you and the others. Sure, he's sort of my best friend, but I haven't really thought about liking anyone that way."

"Liking isn't something you can really decide to do or stop doing," Filippa said. "Give it time. Hi, Heidi! Hi, Nikolai!" Harry hadn't even heard when his other classmates had entered the classroom, and when he looked at Nikolai he couldn't help but remember what he knew about the guy. Harry didn't have the time to focus on those thoughts, though, since Truls arrived soon after.

'It's not that he's not good-looking,' Harry thought. Truls seemed to have grown quickly in a short amount of time and was most likely the tallest one in their class now. His curly blonde hair was well groomed, and his eyes were very, very blue. But did Harry like him? Somehow, the boy couldn't help but feel that even if he was aware of someone being handsome or beautiful… it just didn't click. It didn't make him feel one way or another, and Harry couldn't even comprehend why anyone would develop feelings for him, for Harry.

"Students," Professor Dietmar said, entering the classroom, "take your seats and be silent; there is something important I must tell you."

'Oh dear,' Harry thought. 'I wonder what kind of news we'll be getting.' The students did as told, sitting quietly and nervously, wondering if they were in trouble for some reason.

"As you can see," Professor Dietmar started, "one of your classmates isn't here. Lorenzo Tancredi was killed during the Christmas break."

It took Harry a few seconds to understand what the man was saying. When he finally did, he felt numb. Of all the things he had expected to hear, this wasn't it.

"What!" Filippa shrieked. "How? Why?" Petronella, who was sitting next to her, immediately wrapped her arms around the girl to comfort her.

"This is ridiculous," Jakob muttered with disbelief, turning to look at the other students present, as if to make sure that Lorenzo wasn't there. Jakob's face was very pale and he looked much thinner than when Harry had seen him last time.

"Mr. Lorenzo's family lived in Rome and were, unfortunately, caught in the crossfire of the battles between our troops and the Rebels," Professor Dietmar explained, and as far as Harry could see, the man didn't appear to be particularly concerned or sad. "This is a very unfortunate incident, but it shall not affect your schedules in any shape or form. I must urge you to push it from your minds and focus on what is relevant– your studies here."

"One of our friends died," Heidi said, her tearful voice not masking her anger. "And you expect us to just… go on as if it didn't happen? As if Lorenzo never existed?"

"Every single one of us will die," Professor Dietmar said, his voice just as monotonous as it had always been, "one way or another. Some of us could die fighting. Some of us could die in accidents. Some of us could end up getting murdered. Some of us could die of old age. Some of us could die of illness. One way or another, Miss Albin, everyone will die."

"But—!"

"This is your future," the man continued, looking at the nine students in the classroom. "You're here to be trained to survive situations such as the one your friend died in. You're going to kill people or get killed for being too weak to succeed in that. Reality– this world– is brutal. It will not offer you sympathy, and it will not be affected by your death and sorrows. In the big picture, none of us is significant. A hundred years from now, we might as well have never even existed."

"But you can't expect us to be so jaded from the get go," Heidi protested. "He's—"

"Was."

"—our friend!"

"I’ve said this already, but it bears repeating: we all die. There is no happy ending; there is no happily ever after. There is just this: we all die," Professor Dietmar said. "You nine out of all the other people should understand this. You will be elite Death Eaters eventually. This in comparison to what will happen in the future amounts to nothing. The person who is sitting next to you right now could be the next one to die. It's something you'll just have to deal with. You're now dismissed from here– your next lesson, history, will start at ten as usual. You have over half an hour to calm down, accept this situation, and move on." After saying that, the man didn't wait for his students to leave, opting to do so himself first.

"Calm down, calm down," Petronella whispered to the sobbing Filippa, even though Harry could see the tears in her eyes as well. He turned to Truls, and the taller boy gave Harry a strained smile, while reaching for Harry's hand under the table.

"Should we go back to the flats?" Truls asked quietly. "Maybe we could all after school gather there and… talk about this. How to get over it. We should… I don't know, have a funeral or something, even if we don't have Lorenzo's body."

"You're right," Harry whispered, letting go of Truls's hand and standing up. Filippa also stood up, turned, and threw her arms around Harry, pulling him into a tight hug, sobbing all the while.

"I can't believe this," she gasped between her sobs. "He's dead. He's dead. Lorenzo- our Lorenzo is gone."

"You guys know what it means, that Professor said 'crossfire' and not 'killed by the rebels'," Heidi said, clutching Nikolai's arm.

"They don't know who killed him," Truls said quietly, moving to stand right behind Harry.

"Which one of the rebels, you mean?" Jakob asked, looking almost green.

"No," Clemens replied tiredly. "Whether he was killed by the Rebels or by Death Eaters in the crossfire."

*

Professor Thomas Lyuben looked at the nine glum faces in front of him. He was supposed to start the history lesson, but he knew that it'd be a waste of time to talk to this bunch as long as they were distracted by the death of their classmate.

"This is what war does," Lyuben said, catching the attention of his students. "It kills. Freeing countries, promoting causes, conquering places– all those are side-effects that might or might not happen as a result. But the only certainty of war is death. And as long as this war against the Rebels goes on, the more you'll have to face the deaths of people you know and care about."

"Is this war necessary?" Filippa asked with sudden anger.

"All wars serve a purpose," Lyuben replied. "Even if it's not the purpose they were meant to serve. Some say that certain wars are unavoidable because they were meant to happen. Because their consequences must come around. For example… the Salem witch trials. They were terrible, tragic and unforgivable… and they led to the creation of the law separating Muggles and us. Now tell me– where's the benefit in what happened? Why is it good that that particular event happened at that particular time?" The man waited for a few moments, but none of his students seemed to know the answer. They did, however, look much more focused than before.

"What's the only area wherein Muggles have improved more than us?" Professor Lyuben asked softly. "Weapons! If they had decided to develop their weapons before attacking us, then who's to say what could have happened to us? The Rebels seem unable to believe that Muggles are vicious—"

"Humans," Harry found himself saying. "They're humans. There are all kinds of humans with different personalities. The good and the bad. The kind and the vicious. The stupid, the smart, the hard-working, the evil… Whether or not someone has magic does not contribute to their intelligence, I think."

"So you're saying that Muggles are like us?" Clemens asked sharply, and for the first time, Harry sensed hostility from him.

"I don't think that's what Harry meant," Truls said quickly, preventing Harry from replying. "Intellectually, Muggles can be just as intelligent as some witches and wizards, so we should be careful. Especially since Muggles have their own advanced weapons now." Harry knew that Truls had just saved him from a very awkward situation– he hadn't meant to reveal his thoughts regarding Muggles. The words had just slipped out. Merlin, how could he have been so careless?

"Yeah," Harry lied, feeling uneasy and troubled. "That's what I meant."

"Treat the death of your comrade like a lesson," Professor Lyuben advised. "The war raging in Italy will spread soon, and if it ever was to reach England, then all of us will certainly be sent to fight. And when we fight, we show no mercy or pity. We fight to win. You, as second-year students, are still very sheltered. Next year, however, we'll be focusing on the current goings of the Wizarding World, the political environment and how our history led up to it. In Divination next year you'll be taught to look for signs of disaster and death, and as far as I know, even your Dark Arts lessons will finally advance from theoretic to practical. You are being prepared to fight in a war. You're elite. You're chosen."

"So we should just… forget about Lorenzo?" Petronella asked with disbelief. "That he died?"

"One day, we'll run out of tomorrows. Every single one of us," Professor Lyuben said, before sighing and reopening his book. "Now, let's focus on what's relevant. Chapter twenty-seven. The Harpy Wars. Calling them Harpy Wars is slightly inaccurate considering that the enemy consisted of harpies, mermaids and even some veela, but…"

Harry was feeling sick. And cold. And tense. His body was shivering and Truls's hand felt so hot compared to his own. He didn't know what to think, what to feel, what to do. He hadn't been that close to Lorenzo, but what Professors Dietmar and Lyuben had said was true – they'd have to be aware of the possibility of dying. Of losing friends to death in this war. Whether or not they liked or approved of it was completely irrelevant to the reality going on.

'I've never felt this helpless,' Harry thought. Never felt this helpless or this insignificant. He remembered the execution he had witnessed a year ago. Remembered Albus's words. Remembered that small room he had found before the Christmas Holiday.

'I don't have to become a leader if I don't want to,' Harry assured himself. 'But I'll go back there and read those books. There must be something I can do.' Hadn't Albus said that Harry could just… influence the thoughts of some people? The opinions? If he could make people see sense, then maybe there'd be hope of some kind. And if he remembered correctly there had even been a book about Occlumency in the collection – it'd be useful to study, especially if he was to hang around Tom a lot.

'Then again I heard it's difficult to learn,' Harry thought, not even pretending to be listening to what Professor Lyuben was saying. Feeling tired and unmotivated, Harry leaned to rest his head against Truls's shoulder.

"Tired?" Truls whispered, and Harry nodded.

"I'm worried about Filippa," Harry said quietly. "Lorenzo was a very close friend of hers. We need to do something to cheer her up."

"We can talk with Björn– he comes up with pretty good ideas."

"You mean we can buy ideas from Björn? That guy sells anything he has that can be sold."

"He's going to end up rich one day," Truls muttered. "Unless his gambling habits make him bankrupt."

"We have Charms next," Harry said. "Can I sit next to Filippa? I mean… do you mind if I do? I just think that she'd need…" 'Why am I asking his permission anyway? It's not like he's going to feel hurt even if I don't sit next to him every time!'

"Petronella seems to be taking care of her, though. Maybe after school we could visit her?" Truls suggested.

"Alright," Harry agreed hesitantly. There was… something going on. He was feeling slightly uneasy. Maybe because he had no idea how to comfort Filippa? That could be it. He'd need to look for a book of some kind to give tips on how to comfort people properly. Or maybe he could ask Luna? He'd need to write to her anyway.

"You can lean on me again if you want," Truls whispered, lips almost touching Harry's ear. "I don't mind."

*

The remaining of the school day passed slowly. Harry was very worried but didn't get a chance to talk with Filippa, even though the girl had shot him some desperate looks earlier.

"I'll drop by tonight sometime," Harry had managed to whisper to her during lunch break. "That way, no one will disturb us. Don't worry, Filippa. You're not alone." The girl's sad expression had turned into an almost scarily blank one, and she nodded.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll… I… Thank you."

Before that, however, the nine gathered in Petronella's flat. The girl had insisted on all of them spending a few hours together after dinner.

"We'll all be thinking about it anyway," she said. "We might as well talk about it together."

"What's there to talk about?" Nikolai asked. "I won't lie to you guys– I don't really care. I didn't know the guy well, and I can't see how his death should affect me."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Filippa hissed tearfully.

"He's just being honest," Heidi reminded her. "Either way, we ought to plan a memorial of some kind, right? We can't have an official funeral here, but we can do something."

"Which one of us will die next, I wonder," Jakob suddenly muttered. "Will we forget those who die?"

"Never," Filippa snapped. "I don't forget my friends."

"You heard what the professors said," Clemens said. "We're going to be Death Eaters, Filippa! Not some fucking Peacekeepers! What if, one day, we end up in a situation where we have to kill a friend to save someone else? Or… or that you'd have to kill someone you know because if you let them live, they'll end up leaking information? Death happens! It'll happen to all of us!"

"The only way to maximize the probability of survival is to become the strongest," Nikolai said calmly. "Had Lorenzo been strong, he would have been able to fight his way out, I'm sure."

"Bastards," Filippa said darkly. "You two utter bastards."

"No need for name-calling," Heidi sighed, standing up. "It really seems that we're all too emotional to talk about this right now. It was nice of you to invite us here, Nella, but maybe we should talk about this tomorrow."

"Indeed," Nikolai agreed, standing up as well. Harry was mute with shock– he hadn't expected such lack of… empathy? Compassion? Sorrow?– from these people he had thought of as friends. Then again, hadn't he already known that something was wrong with Nikolai?

"See you tomorrow," Clemens said before leaving as well. The door had barely swung shut behind him before Filippa burst into tears. Petronella was quick to move and wrap her arms around the Italian girl.

"I see how it is," Jakob muttered, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the armrest of the couch. "When we're gone, we're gone."

"I'm surprised, though," Björn said. "Not that I expected any genuine compassion, really. I didn't think that they'd be so bold about it, though."

"If only closed minds came with closed mouths," Harry sighed, before reaching to touch Filippa's shoulder gently, unsure of what to say. "We won't forget him. We definitely won't. Not him. None of us. We won't forget each other, no matter what happens. Not just Lorenzo. I'll never forget you or Truls or Jakob or Björn or Petronella either. I won't forget Nikolai, Heidi or Clemens regardless of how they act."

"Harry's right," Petronella hurried to agree. "There are ten of us. And as long as we remember that, there will forever be ten of us, no matter what happens."

"We'll have a tombstone set for him somewhere," Truls promised. "We'll look for a good place and make it worthy of him."

"You look exhausted, Filippa," Björn said. "How about we plan the memorial later? You try to sleep a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah," Filippa replied, although it was clear that she didn't think that she'd be able to sleep. Jakob, whose flat was the nearest one to Petronella's, offered to walk all the way down to Filippa's flat with them, but Harry declined.

"You look exhausted too," Harry said. "Filippa knows that you care. We all do. But just like we care about her health, we care about yours too." Jakob shot him an appreciative look, before smiling tiredly.

"He was a close friend," the German boy admitted, even though they both knew that Jakob's exhaustion had little to do with that. "Thank you."

Harry ended up being the one to take Filippa all the way to her flat. Then again, she did live right next to him. When they entered the flat, Harry helped her to the couch before gently taking off her shoes and jacket, offering to even make some tea.

"I wonder if he was hurt," Filippa said instead, closing her eyes. "I need to know. He was like a brother to me, you see. Our families knew each other and… I can't believe… I just…" Her whole demeanour was so defeated that Harry felt almost scared. He moved to sit next to her, reaching to hold her hand. He couldn't help but do what his heart told him to, regardless of the risks he knew he was taking.

"Filippa," Harry started. "If… if you promise to not ask me any questions, I can… have access to that information."

"What?" Filippa asked, startled out of her sorrow. Harry was aware of the confusion and bewilderment in her voice and eyes, but he still continued.

"Promise to never ask me about this," Harry demanded. "To never try to find out… and I'll reach the dead to find out what happened to Lorenzo."

"What are you saying?" Filippa asked, wide-eyed. "That… Are you humouring me? Do you know someone who was there? Or are you going to talk to the divination professor or something?"

"No," Harry replied. "I don't need the help of others. I shouldn't even be offering you this, but I don't want to see you so sad. I never had any siblings, but the thought of losing someone I love like that is too painful. If I can bring you any relief… Just promise me to never ask me about it, and to never tell anyone either. Not even Truls. No matter what."

"You're not lying," Filippa whispered, lifting her hand to touch Harry's cheek with her fingertips. "You're not lying."

"Give me a week," Harry said. "There are some books I need to read, some decisions I need to make, and some letters I need to send. But I'll find out and I will tell you. I promise."

"You know," Filippa breathed. "I used to think that you'd be the hardest one to approach."

"What?" Harry was genuinely surprised at the admission. "Why?"

"There's something about you, Harry. Something… like a thin, invisible wall. The others can sense it to some degree, but as far as I know, only I am consciously aware of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Filippa."

"Probably," Filippa murmured, and Harry could see that she was almost asleep. He didn't dare to remove her skirt or shirt, but he did pull off her socks, undo her plaits, and carry her to her bed. He was about to leave her bedroom when the girl's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Harry," Filippa said drowsily, staring through the darkness at him. "Can you stop this war?"

Harry stood for a long time, feeling frozen inside. He was tense and afraid and wary. Filippa's even breathing indicated that regardless of what the girl herself had believed– that she wouldn't be able to sleep– she had still managed to do so. Harry couldn't help but remember what Remus Lupin had told him all those months ago–

'if you think that both Rebels and Death Eaters are wrong, then talk to the people who are neither. If you don't think that war is the answer, then make people share your opinion. Put your future in good hands, Harry. Your own.'

When Harry finally left Filippa's flat to return to his own, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have to return to the train station again and have another long talk with Albus.

But before that– tomorrow already– he'd go back to the secret room and take another look at the books there.

*

'Stones and trees and rivers as far as the eye can see,' James thought gloomily. 'With that stupid Pettigrew hanging around, there's no way I could enjoy the scenery. If only Sirius was here, we could push that bastard of a cliff.'

James hadn't been able to shake off the feeling of wariness and dread ever since Pettigrew had talked about Harry with him. What the man had said, however, was true. As unbelievable as it was, Harry had been thought to be initially a stillborn. And magic couldn't lie about that kind of things. It was no misdiagnosis. Harry had been dead and then somehow came back to life.

Lily and James hadn't known why or how, but they had been so grateful; their baby was alive despite everything, and for a while, Lily had insisted on calling him her 'boy who lived'. Harry had grown up to be almost like any other child, and James couldn't be prouder of his son.

Harry had, though, had a hard time remembering Lily's name in the beginning– James remembered with amusement the times when Lily h ad tried to teach her son to say her name, only for the little child to insist calling her Merope. Where had he even heard that name? There weren’t any Meropes in their lives.

'He's going to become a Death Eater,' James thought then, remembering the unfortunate, depressing truth. 'I hope that these battles will be done by the time he's expected to take part in any of them. Ah, I wish I could just go back in time to when it was peaceful. Last year was good. I miss Lily and Harry so much—'

James wondered what his wife was doing. Was she still working in the hospital of Rome? Was she safe? She was scheduled to return back home in the summer, and James couldn't wait to see her. And Harry. But at least he knew that Harry was safe at school.

'My thoughts are too scattered. I'm getting a headache.'

"You know, James," Pettigrew said suddenly, walking quicker to keep up with James's steps. "When we started attending Hogwarts, we didn't even know what Death Eaters were. And we used to hate Dark magic so much, didn't we.? And we—"

"Stop saying we," James interrupted, feeling irritated. "You were a Slytherin, and we never hung out. I hardly remember you anyway."

"How harsh," Peter whined, but somehow James felt as if the man was amused. "Why are you always so cruel to me? When did I offend you? Surely it's not when I mentioned your son—"

"Never," James hissed, reaching for his wand, "mention Harry again. Besides, even if you told anyone about the mistake a nurse made, no one would take it seriously. Stop hanging around me and get lost."

"I can't really do that, James," Peter replied, amusement now clear in his tone. "We needn't talk about your son if that makes you uncomfortable, but I'm still going to spend time with you. We could catch up and exchange news regarding what we have been up to since we graduated, yes?"

"You and I have nothing to talk about," James snarled, hurrying forward. Peter shook his head and sighed.

"You're a fool," Peter muttered, before following the other man slowly. "A poor fool, James Potter."

*

While Sirius liked France, he wasn't particularly fond of Paris. However, that's where his current mission took him to. 'Gauge the atmosphere,' he had been told to do. 'See if they feel the war. If they're nervous. If they are hostile towards England. If they're planning an attack.' Sirius hated information gathering missions– he'd have to keep low profile, avoid catching attention, not drink much at parties, and basically be focused on work all the time with no chance of a break.

Although he did get the chance to charm French ladies– he just loved French women. How could he not? All they needed to do was talk, letting the French words roll out of their precious mouths, and Sirius would feel the urge to be very friendly towards them.

He couldn't wait to meet yet another Monique or René.

'I wonder what James is doing,' Sirius thought on this third day of walking through tricky and dark alleyways. 'Bet he's having fun in battle, duelling his worries away. Damn it, I want something to drink.' He was grumpy, getting even grumpier, when he almost tripped at the sight of a familiar man begging at the corner of the street.

'Should have known that scum like him wouldn't be able to survive even after being helped,' Sirius thought with disgust, standing still and almost glaring at the beggar. 'After all of the help James and Lily offered, and he still ends up in the streets.' Sirius was conveniently forgetting about the simple fact that no matter where– not only in England and France– werewolves had no chance of survival on their own. Who'd hire a werewolf? Even if someone hired one, due to the protocols, any small mistake would definitely lead to immediate firing.

The werewolf was, if possible, even thinner than before. Sirius didn't bother to try and remember his name– it didn't matter anyway. The Death Eater did wonder, however, where the man went every full moon– he definitely didn't roam the streets in his savage form, did he? Besides, why was the creature in France anyway?

'Either way, none of my business,' Sirius then decided, turning away. 'He ruined his life on his own.' Surely if the wolf had actually tried a little bit harder, he would have succeeded in adapting to live with civilized human beings. Sirius started walking again, trying to think of something else.

The dirty snow beneath his boots made squelching noises as he walked, and he wondered whether or not there was this kind of snow near Durmstrang. Perhaps they had more snow? Since it was up north and all. Was Harry cold? Maybe Sirius could buy something nice and send it to his godson? He missed the little brat so much. Harry—

'—would give that wolf another chance. '

Sirius froze in his tracks with wide-eyed surprise at the thought. It had come out of nowhere, but he knew that it was the truth. Harry would insist on saving Lupin again. Sirius could still remember very clearly the way his godson had acted when the werewolf had been brought to the Potter Manor.

'The wolf is dangerous. Where would I keep it anyway? Besides, my mission isn't even finished yet!'

Well, he could restrain the wolf easily. And keep it in one of the rooms of Grimmauld Place– Sirius lived there alone, after all. But why? Sure, Harry would be glad, but… Harry wouldn't even need to know that Sirius had seen Lupin at all. Involving a werewolf in his life was simply too risky and troublesome and didn't come with any benefits.

Besides, no matter what Harry would think, Sirius was sure that James and Lily would disapprove.

Not to mention that he really was still dealing with an unfinished mission! He simply didn't have the time to help anyone– surely Harry would understand that?

'James and Lily don't have to know.'

He'd have to keep it a secret from everyone. Being branded as a werewolf-sympathizer was just wrong and unacceptable.

'Only Harry would know.'

But was it worth it? Sirius didn't like werewolves– they were nothing but a burden to society, and frankly, he wasn't even amongst those who thought of the werewolves as weapons.

'But it'd make Harry happy. And I'd do anything to make Harry happy.'

What came to the mission, Sirius could spend a day in England and then return to complete it. The man nodded to himself, turned and strode to where the werewolf still was.

*

Leaders need to be aware that communication relies at least as much on how you say things as what you say. By appreciating how easy it is for messages to get distorted and misunderstood, leaders take care to ensure that they communicate effectively, encouraging the behaviour that they intended. Leaders also have to be good– active– listeners, so that they recognize the message behind the words others use.

Harry closed his eyes, yawned, and resisted the urge to throw the book into the fireplace.

It was Wednesday evening, and Harry was in his flat, reading the books he had taken from that secret room. Filippa had dropped by and sat on Harry's couch for a few hours, drinking tea and staring into nothingness while occasionally reaching to hold his hand. When Truls had arrived, Filippa had left.

'He keeps looking at me,' Harry thought, feeling his concentration falter.

"You look tired," Truls said suddenly. "Maybe you should rest, Harry."

"Maybe," Harry agreed and yawned again. "My head hurts. And shoulders, too."

"You've been very tense lately," Truls sighed, standing up. "Want me to massage your shoulders… and back?"

"Oh God, yes," Harry sighed, setting down the book. "Do I go lie on the couch?"

"I think it's best if you went to lie on your bed," Truls said. "I mean, we don't have any massage oils anyway so the bed won't get messy. Also, chances are that you'll fall asleep at some point."

"I'll go brush my teeth, then," Harry decided, rubbing his eyes and yawning again. "Do I change into my pyjama?"

"Actually…" Truls started after a moment of silence. "It's best if you'd wear just your underwear. If possible." Harry, who was too exhausted to think straight, simply nodded and left the bathroom's door open while he brushed his teeth and undressed. Truls wiped his sweaty palms and took a few deep breaths to calm down. He was just going to give Harry a massage. Massages were good, and it'd help his best friend relax. There was nothing weird about giving someone a massage.

'I need to stop thinking about this,' Truls thought, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "Is your bed empty?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. He didn't bother folding the clothes he had been wearing, leaving them on the floor of his bedroom instead while he went to lie on the bed. "This good?"

"Lie on your stomach," Truls instructed before climbing on the bed as well. His fingertips were toughing the back of Harry's right thigh lightly, making the dark-haired boy shiver and hide a blush by pressing his face against his pillow.

"Next time, we could do this properly," Truls said, sliding his palms down Harry's leg, applying slight pressure. "With oils and all. Would work better. I can bring some oils and leave them here, if you want. I think Filippa has many, and if she's against parting with one bottle, I'm sure she could at least tell us from where to buy some."

"Mm-hm." Truls almost chuckled at Harry's tired response but then opted to just focus on what he was doing. Harry's legs were smooth, and he didn't seem to have any scars. Truls kneaded the right leg, avoided the back of the knee as he should, and spent quite a while massaging Harry's thighs. Harry's skin was warm and smooth against Truls's fingers, and the boy barely managed to resist the strange urge to press a kiss on Harry's thigh.

"We haven't played Quidditch in ages, have we?" Truls asked, not expecting an answer. When he moved to the other side of the bed from where he could get a better access to massage Harry's left leg as he had done to the right, he saw that Harry's eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open.

'Is he sleeping already?' Truls thought with surprise, leaning closer to take a good look at the dark-haired boy's face. "You awake?"

"Mm," Harry replied, and Truls returned to massaging the left leg. Harry opened his eyes and sleepily watched the Swedish boy whose face was serious with concentration. Truls was unaware of being watched as he was wondering which position he should take to be able to massage Harry's back properly. A few minutes later, he ended up sitting on Harry's thighs, his front pressed against Harry's arse, trying to not even think about anything remotely forbidden.

Again, Truls pressed his palms against the Harry's back, starting from the bottom and kneading slowly and smoothly upwards, all the way to the shoulders. He did it twice before moving off and wondering whether or not he should continue– being in that position while actually facing Harry was just… Truls knew that he liked Harry, of course, and he really did want to be as close to the other boy as possible… but the strange feelings inside his own body were almost frightening.

Maybe he should stop the massage and just have a nap?

Harry closed his eyes, feeling so very relaxed and sleepy. Truls wasn't massaging him anymore– the other boy's touch was now feather-light and left a strange, tingling sensation on Harry's skin. Harry yawned yet again, and a s soon as he felt Truls's body lie down next to his own, he pressed closer, seeking comfort and warmth. Truls let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around his best friend.

"I'll always be here for you," Truls whispered, running his fingers through Harry's dark hair. "Sweet dreams, Harry."

*

Remus Lupin looked up when he saw an unfamiliar pair of boots in front of him. The boots, he thought, looked expensive. The boots, he noticed, were also being worn by someone who was sneering down at him. The man– tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed and relatively handsome– was very familiar, and it didn't take long for Remus to remember who he was– Sirius Black.

"Werewolf," Black said, "stand up." Remus, unsure of what was going on, shakily did as told. He knew that he looked extremely unflattering, but he was starving, felt cold, and hadn't had a chance to wash up for days.

"Yes?"

"You're the one James and Lily tried to help, aren't you? What are you doing here? Why did you fail?" Black's words were blunt but also honestly confused. Remus refrained from sighing tiredly, opting to answer instead.

"I did get a job," he started quietly. "But since the owner knew that I'm… what I am, he fired me as soon as he could find an excuse to do so. I spent a few months travelling, looking for a job, but… no one would hire me."

"And so you ended up begging here," Black muttered with clear disgust. "Where do you go during full moon?"

'Why do you ask? It's not like you care,' Remus thought but didn't say it, knowing that Black could kill him for such insolence. "There's an abandoned basement not too far from here. I lock myself down there a few hours before I… transform."

"You're going to come with me," Black said suddenly, surprising the werewolf. "I won't lie to you– I do not think that creatures like you should be allowed to roam freely. But… I remember how Harry acted towards you, and that is the only reason why I am going to help you. If you stay here, you'll die. Either you'll freeze to death or die of starvation or someone will half-accidentally curse you to an early grave."

"That child," Remus muttered, remembering the young boy who had treated him like an equal– something that Remus hadn't experienced in years. "Is he well?"

"You're not permitted to ask me any questions," Black snarled, turning away. "Come on, follow. And don't think that I'll let you stay in a room with Harry alone. I just know that my godson has been feeling down lately– he even had to spend Christmas alone!– and considering his lack of hostility towards you, he'd probably like to see you again."

"He's a fine young man," Remus said, following the Pureblood. "Wise beyond his years."

"Idealistic and naïve, actually," Black muttered. "But he's the most precious and amazing child in the whole world. Now shut up. I don't want to hear your voice, wolf."

In all honesty, Remus thought about refusing to go with Black– for all he knew, Black could be planning on just killing him somewhere or torturing him and using his body for research or potions. But why would the man bother claiming otherwise if he wanted to hurt Remus? It's not like Remus would be able to defend himself if Black was to stun him and portkey him away.

He couldn't shrug off the feeling of being considered as a pet, though. Black's attitude reminded Remus of a parent reluctantly buying a puppy to their child. And yet, that attitude was far better than the other alternatives.

"When we arrive at Grimmauld Place," Black started. "You'll vow to never harm Harry and never betray him. Oh Merlin, why am I even doing this?"

"You," Remus said, voicing his thoughts before even realizing it, "do not understand. Do you think that my condition makes me feel—"

"I said I don't want to hear your voice," Sirius snarled. "You're nothing but a monster that needs to be trained."

"You should talk to him," Remus continued calmly, not bothering to even try and dodge the sharp slap he received. "Your godson. It seems he has far more wisdom than you."

"All the months before Harry's summer break," Sirius said. "It seems I really need them to train you properly."

*

When Harry woke up early next morning, Truls was gone. The clothes Harry had thrown carelessly on the floor were now folded neatly on the chair. It was still dark, and Harry could hardly believe his eyes when he turned to the clock he had on the table and saw that it was only half past five in the morning– his first lesson wouldn't start till eight. And yet, Harry felt far more awake and far less tired than he had in ages.

'How can a simple massage affect me so much?' Harry wondered, sitting up. He turned to look at the empty spot on his bed where Truls had been lying down hours earlier. 'I wonder if he wanted to kiss me at any point.' Didn't people who liked other people want to kiss them, after all? Did Truls even know how to kiss? Harry only had a vague idea– what if everyone else knew how to kiss but Harry was the only ignorant one?

'Why am I even thinking about this?' the boy then thought, standing up. 'I'll go shower and eat some breakfast.' And then, perhaps he'd refocus on those books he had brought. Harry also knew that he needed some kind of a plan if he wanted to go to the train station and hopefully meet Lorenzo.

All the previous times when Harry had ended up at the train station due to an accident of some kind, he had only been able to see Albus. Harry did, however, remember twice when he had had a strange sliding sensation and ended up at the train station for an instant, during which he was able to see the crowd– the dead. He was sure of it! Which meant that even if he knocked himself out, he wouldn't be able to find Lorenzo anyway… and therefore, he'd have to figure out a way to go there intentionally.

'But what if Lorenzo has already boarded the train?' Harry realized, entering his bathroom to take a quick shower. 'I have no idea how quickly they board a train. Surely a week is too long of a time to wait! But then again, Albus didn't seem to be aware of the time passing at all… I wonder if the time is still somehow there? Is that even possible?'

Most importantly, Harry was worried about whether or not he'd be able to keep his promise to Filippa. What would he tell her if he failed?

'I have to figure out how to get there pretty soon,' Harry decided, reaching for the shampoo. 'I don't recall using any magic though, so maybe it's all just concentration?' Was it really that simple? Besides, Harry knew that, during the execution, he had just wanted to vanish without thinking of any particular place.

"This is giving me a headache," Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes. But as soon as he decided to think about something else, his mind brought up the other annoying topic: kissing.

Was it normal for him to think about kissing? Was it normal to be worried about whether or not he knew how to kiss? He wasn't planning on kissing anyone anytime soon, so why couldn't he stop thinking about it? Was it Truls's fault? How exactly could Harry blame Truls for this– the guy hadn't done anything!

He should really just focus on his plans. Maybe he should make a list of the important things he ought to do and not think about anything else? Yeah, that could work.

After his shower, Harry made some porridge, and by the time he was done, it was barely five past six. Still too early for him to go to the school building, but perhaps he could take a walk? The sun hadn't even risen yet, and it probably wouldn't rise for at least another hour. If Harry took his wand, surely he'd be safe enough outside. Besides, the area was shielded from outsiders.

Harry prepared his schoolbooks, put them into his bag alongside with quills and parchment, and left the bag on the couch– he'd later drop by to get it before going to class. He put on his uniform and the heavy coat and didn't forget to wrap a scarf around his neck and wear his gloves before going out.

The temperature outside was colder than Harry had thought it would be. The stars were hidden somewhere behind the clouds between him and the dark sky. The snow beneath his feet was fresh and a few inches deep– it wasn't hard to walk on, but Harry knew that, sometimes, this deceptively beautiful snow hid ice right beneath it. A careless step could make him fall down.

'Aren't most things in life like that?' Harry thought. 'Some of them, at least.'

"I'm confused," Harry said aloud, then, as he walked further away from the apartment complex. "I… am not sure about what I should do. I think I know, but…" The boy's voice got quieter and quieter until he fell silent and stopped walking. If the possibility of him reaching the train station intentionally depended on his willpower, then he should focus on that. Harry knew that whatever willpower he had was being hindered by the confusion he found himself constantly plagued by. To get rid of that confusion, he'd need to… be organized.

He really needed to make a list of things he'd have to do.

Talk with Albus. Talk with Tom. Write to Luna. Write to his mother. Write to his father. Ask about Sirius, too, while he was at it. Find out how Lorenzo died. Learn how to kiss, in order to avoid future humiliation. Do something about his resolution.

'There's a lot more I have to do,' Harry thought. 'I'll add to the list whenever I remember something new.'

To be more confident, he'd have to be more… daring, right? Bolder. Willing to take risks. But how could he do that? What could he be bold about without really risking anything serious?

'That kissing thing,' Harry decided. 'It's the first step.'

And he knew exactly who to ask for help.

*

"You mean he started from nothing? He… Did he ever… was he ever scared?"

Tom was used to thinking a lot. He was used to having something constantly in his mind. But he wasn't used to being unable to control his thoughts like this. It just didn't happen – he usually could just shove even the most persistent thoughts to some corner of his mind with the help of Occlumency. And yet… he couldn't forget Harry's words.

The boy was strange.

But was he dangerous? Tom didn't think so– Harry didn't seem like the type to intentionally do anything risky. But he also seemed to be very…morally correct. What if the brat decided, one day, to spread those ideas of his? What if he gave Tom no choice but to erase him? Should Tom just go ahead with that? Tom knew that if it ever came down to it, he could kill Harry. But would he? Perhaps he'll never know unless he ended up in a situation like that.

The problem with being bored most of the time was that when something interesting finally appeared, he'd find himself reluctant to let it go… no matter how risky it could be.

"He's amazing. I… I think I respect him."

The admiration Lord Voldemort had gotten from thousands, if not millions, of people worldwide was flattering– he wasn't going to deny that. But there was still something special about the admiration when the source was Harry. Perhaps because Harry's worth in Tom's eyes was different from the worth of everyone else? Why would one little boy– no matter how interesting– become so important to him?

Tom could claim that Harry's importance was solely because of the boy's possible connection with the dead… but he knew that that wasn't exactly it. And it wasn't just because the boy was entertaining either.

In all honesty, it was starting to get on Tom's nerves how much he thought about Harry. It wasn't like him to obsess about people like this. Tom had considered his fascination to be some kind of attraction but had then dismissed the idea– Harry was… much too young.

Tom had never really been emotionally attracted to anyone, and whatever sexual attraction he had felt had been short-lived. People served many purposes, but none of those purposes had anything to do with actual attachment. And yet… Harry wasn't exactly useful. Not yet, at least.

"It's amazing to have achieved what he has, starting from less than nothing. And… and it makes me sad, to think of him being an orphan. It makes me even sadder to think that he must have had reasons to believe that people are, um, greedy and selfish and all that."

What kind of face will Harry make when he finds out that his Tom is the Dark Lord? Tom had tried to tell the boy before so surely the brat would have no right to accuse him of lying. Would he be angry? Calm? Accepting? In denial?

Maybe Tom should reveal himself to Harry at a certain moment, see the reaction, obliviate the boy, and do it again at a different time? Would Harry have different reactions? Maybe he could experiment a little bit? Well, not really. He didn't want to take the risk of making the boy intellectually damaged, somehow. That'd ruin the fun.

The boy was, as far as Tom knew, academically pretty good. Did he stumble upon the information regarding contacting the dead during his studies in Durmstrang? But what the hell had the boy been searching for to find that kind of— no, it was impossible. If Harry didn't acquire the information from a book or learn the skill from a teacher– which was very unlikely anyway– then that meant that the boy was born with this ability.

But what kind of…heritage could do grant this gift? Did one of his parents have it? No, Tom had already researched the Potter family and found nothing out of ordinary there. Had he missed something? Surely not. Then again, he hadn't really been looking for this either.

"Not that I even know what exactly 'this' is," Tom muttered sullenly. Should he ask the boy directly?

"I'd be honoured to follow him, one day, but… not as a Death Eater. I… I can't… imagine myself hurting anyone just because they're werewolves or muggles or seemingly less deserving than rich purebloods.

What would Harry look like five years in the future? He'd be seventeen. Still growing up. What would his magic feel like, then? Will his delicate features ever harden or would the boy look so… fragile even when he grows older? He wouldn't be a good Death Eater, though. Harry's moral compass seemed to be very much active, and while Tom didn't understand the point, he didn't think that Harry would be giving up on his views. The boy, despite his young age, seemed to be very aware of his own opinions.

Maybe associating with the dead had made him like that?

If the boy did not become a Death Eater, then what? He wouldn't be able to keep Harry as an advisor either– the boy would probably insist on saving kittens and adopting orphans and stopping wars with poetry or some other nonsense like that. Letting the boy live his life as a regular citizen was out of question as well– education in Durmstrang shouldn't be wasted like that.

"I mean, no one can be revived, and no one should be immortal. But I think that there is certainly something after death, and… I believe that the dead could be, um, contacted. Spoken to, or something."

Harry would have to learn how to lie. The boy had been pathetic at it when he denied his abilities. But were Harry's powers limited to speaking with the dead or could he actually control them somehow? Tom wanted the information, and he did think about using Legilimency after all, but what risks would that include? If Harry's abilities gave him some kind of immunity or defence against mental attacks, then there could be some damage waiting to be unleashed on whoever dared to try and intrude.

It was such a pity that powers of that kind were granted to Harry who clearly would never use them the way they were meant to be used.

Tom had already ruled out asking the brat and then obliviating him. Using the Imperius curse wasn't an option either because there was a chance that the boy would remember it afterwards.

Well then, it seemed like Tom would have to do it without magic.

Now, all he needed was an opportunity to get Harry drunk.

*

"I need to talk with you," Harry whispered to Björn on their way towards the last class of the day– Divination. "I need a favour."

"Said something?" Truls asked, turning towards the two. Harry shook his head with an awkward smile on his face.

"Nah, just… I really am not in the mood for Divination of all things."

"Fat lot of good that craft is doing," Filippa snarled. "If you can't predict death, then—"

"Too many people are dying nowadays," Petronella sighed. "It's so sad."

"I want to play Quidditch," Jakob suddenly cut in. "Think we could? After the lesson's over, I mean?"

"Well, we could go fly at least," Truls said. "You sure that you're up to it?"

"Bet you I can fly faster," Clemens claimed, looking at Truls.

"Bet accepted," Björn said quickly, grinning.

"I don't think he was talking to you."

"When you talk about bets, you talk to me. I'm joining too."

"If it's a race, I guess I won't do it," Jakob said quickly with a slightly troubled expression.

"Can you teach me how to fly?" Filippa asked suddenly, and Harry almost smiled at the way her request made Jakob's expression turn into a happier one.

"Sure!"

"You'll be joining us, Harry?"

"I'll watch," Harry said. "I've got a book I want to finish, so… I'll leave flying for summer."

And so, less than two hours later, Harry was sitting on a bench wrapped in his warmest coat and reading a book. Jakob was giving Filippa and Petronella instructions nearby, while Clemens, Truls, and Björn were having their race. Heidi and Nikolai had both decided to not venture out, and Harry could understand that– it was a cold day, after all.

'Lorenzo should be here with us,' Harry thought. 'He—'

"Harry Potter," a vaguely familiar voice said, and Harry turned to see Viktor Krum standing awkwardly nearby.

"Viktor Krum," Harry said, smiling. "Hi. Want to sit?"

"Ah, no, I was… I'm actually on my way to, ah, the other Quidditch pitch," Krum stammered. "W-we're practicing. I just wanted to, ah, ask if you're alright. I mean…"

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry assured the endearingly awkward upperclassman. "Really, no permanent damage of any kind. Thank you for asking, though. I really appreciate it."

"I'm glad," Krum sighed, his dark eyes squinting at Harry's classmates, particularly the three boys racing. "Why don't you go there and fly with them?"

"I'm not in the mood, really. I'm reading…"

"Do you mind if I ask… what are you reading?"

"I don't think this book will interest you," Harry admitted. "It's about war."

"War and sports are… same paintings, in different frames," Viktor said. "Enemies, strategies, attacks and defences."

"You're right,” Harry said thoughtfully, wondering if there were any useful books he had overlooked simply because they didn’t directly address what he wished to learn about. "I've been so… blind and careless."

"Is something wrong?" Krum asked, and Harry shook his head. They could hear a male voice calling Krum from a distance.

"On the contrary," the boy replied, "you've just solved a problem for me. Thank you."

"I'm not sure what I did, but you're welcome," Krum said, offered a tiny– almost unnoticeable– smile, before leaving. Harry stared down at the pages of his book, thinking about his mistake. Krum had barely left when Harry noticed Björn walking towards him.

"The other two are still racing," Björn said, sitting next to Harry. "You wanted to talk about something?"

"Uh, yeah," Harry muttered, flushing. "But first, promise me that you'll tell no one."

"Cross my heart," Björn assured him, leaning closer. "What is it that you need my help with?"

"Can you," Harry started, voice hesitant and wary, "can you teach me how to kiss?"

"Me? Why not ask Truls?"

"Because he likes me. I just want to learn how to kiss. I don't want any… you know, uh…"

"I get it," Björn said after thinking for a few minutes. "I can do it. Our friendship will not turn awkward because of this, right?"

"Oh, absolutely not. Don't worry," Harry hurried to say. "We would have to keep this a secret though."

"Yeah, of course."

"Do you know how to kiss?"

"Not really, no. Never done it before," Björn admitted. "I don't think others know either, but you've brought up a good point. What if I really should know how to kiss?"

"The others don't know?"

"Hmm, Nikolai and Heidi maybe, but definitely not the rest of them."

"Oh well, I won't stress about this if we aren't supposed to even know yet," Harry sighed with relief, closing his book and standing up to leave. If the others didn't know how to kiss, then there was no shame in him not knowing either. He wouldn't have to feel worried about this issue.

"Wait!" Björn called. "For five galleons an hour, I'll agree to be your practice partner!"

"What? Doesn't that make you feel like a… well, you know?" Harry asked with genuine astonishment, sitting down again. "And no, forget about it."

"Fine, I'll do it for free," Björn said. "I'm convinced that I really need to know how to kiss. What if Mette snuck into my flat some night—"

"No, I don't think that will happen. Ever."

"It will," Björn said confidently. "I'll become the richest man on earth, Harry. I don't care how. And some women can't resist rich men. But yeah, you in or out? Don't tell me you're a chicken."

"Of course I'm not; I'm the one whose idea this is in the first place," Harry sighed. "Where and when? And if you laugh at me, I'll just…"

"I get it. How about your flat after curfew today? Just make sure that Truls won't be there."

"All right," Harry said. He would have, perhaps, said something else as well… but the sight of Jakob suddenly collapsing made both him and Björn leave their seats and rush towards the boy.

Chapter Text

"He'll be alright, won't he?" Filippa asked, clutching Jakob's hand. The boy was pale and barely conscious on the hospital bed. Nurse Ester's face was serious as she cast a few spells before turning to the students gathered there.

"You might as well leave," she said firmly. "He'll need quite a bit of rest."

"What's wrong with him?" Clemens asked. "He was just fine. He couldn't have caught a cold, could he? Or is it the same cold he had since before Christmas break?"

"You mean you didn't figure it out yet?" Filippa hissed. "This isn't some cold—"

"Hey!" Harry cut in sharply, sounding ruder than he had intended. "If Jakob wants to tell us at some point, he will."

"You mean you knew?" Petronella asked, bewildered. "That he has something serious, I mean.

"I thought it was anaemia or something," Björn said.

"Well, he never outright told me anything," Harry replied truthfully to Petronella. "I just sort of… figured it out."

"Figured it out," Clemens repeated. Harry, who didn't like the tone the other boy was using, held back a grimace.

"Exactly that," he said.

"When will he wake up?" Filippa asked.

"Not for a few hours, at least," Nurse Ester replied. "Now, children, out, all of you. You can drop by tomorrow if you insist. But now– out!"

'I wonder how serious it truly is,' Harry thought, casting one last glance at Jakob's unmoving form before following his friends out of the hospital wing. 'I hope it can be cured soon. I bet it's no fun to be bedridden. Maybe it really is anaemia like Björn said? Does anaemia cause fainting spells like that?'

"You look worried," Truls said, and Harry looked up with a frown still on his face.

"I am," he admitted. "I just hope that he'll eventually be alright again."

"Soon, preferably," Clemens said. "If he ends up falling behind, who knows what will happen. Maybe they'll force him to withdraw from Durmstrang or transfer or something."

"No!" Filippa exclaimed, appalled. "Don't even say that!"

"It's a possibility," Clemens insisted. "Nobody wants it, of course, but—"

"We can tutor Jakob," Björn cut in. "He won't fall behind if we all help him. He won't go to the classrooms, but we'll take his homework to him and help him as well as we can. If we do our homework at the hospital wing with him, I'm sure he won't fall behind."

"Not sure if that will work. I sort of got the impression that we aren't supposed to rely on each other too much,” Clemens said. “Besides, think about why we're in this school. It's not just to get high grades and some office job."

"I'm afraid Clemens is right," Truls agreed reluctantly. "Besides, if Jakob is seriously ill, then… I mean, physical fitness is required…"

Harry stopped walking then, feeling uneasy. He watched the backs of his friends as each step they took, took them further away from him. What was going to happen to them? The world was changing, and Harry felt as if he was on a Ferris wheel, hanging on to a capsule from the outside, on the verge of falling off to his sorry end.

"Harry," Truls called, snapping the boy out of his thoughts. "You okay? I can carry—"

"I'm coming," Harry cut in and hurried after his friends.

*

What Sirius hated about that werewolf the most was that the creature looked so… harmless. It was quiet, didn't eat much, didn't spit insults or threats, didn't even growl. And most appallingly: it claimed to prefer vegetables over red meat. That just didn't… it wasn't… it must have been a lie because Lupin was a werewolf and what kind of werewolf didn't like meat?

Not to mention that the thing kept shooting him these exasperated yet amused looks, as if it found him funny!

Sometimes, Sirius wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. Kreacher had fixed the basement to resemble a prison, and even though Sirius allowed Lupin the freedom to walk inside the house– provided that he wouldn't enter certain rooms– the wolf rarely ventured out of its cage. Occasionally to the library and the bathroom, but other than that… it just sat on its bed and read. He came to the kitchen only when told to.

Sirius spent most of the time in France anyway, using the Floo to travel between the countries. However, the time period of the mission eventually ended, and Sirius was once more stuck in England waiting for the next mission.

"You owe Harry for this, you know," Sirius once said, watching Lupin drink a cup of coffee. "If it hadn't been for him, I would have just left you there."

"There must be some good in you too, though," Lupin replied quietly, not looking up from his drink. "Thank you. Although I'll be sure to thank Harry more sincerely."

"I don't understand you," Sirius huffed. "What is it like, to be a werewolf? Do you dream of ripping people to shreds and eating them raw?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the werewolf replied.

"What is it like, then?"

"Painful." Lupin said that single word and then fell silent. His golden eyes weren't focused on anything in particular, and Sirius wondered what the creature could be thinking about.

"Well, surely cannot be more painful than a Cruciatus, " Sirius said nonchalantly, but then felt strangely cowed when Lupin shot him a look. It wasn't even a glare; it just made Sirius feel stupid. Like he had said something foolish.

"The full moon is pretty soon," Sirius hurried to continue, trying to regain his superior attitude regardless of how flustered he actually felt. "You'll be locked in the basement, of course."

"Of course."

"Do you… do you need to be fed when you're, eh, under the influence of… of…"

"No," Remus said flatly. Under the influence? What did this man think Lyncathropy was? A drug? "I'll manage."

"Well, yes, obviously you can, since you've done that so far," Sirius agreed, "but I don't want you to decide that being away is better. I'm keeping you for Harry. You deciding to hitch it isn't…preferable."

'What kind of answer is he expecting?'

"Just tell me one thing," Sirius continued. "Do you have… any urges to bite people – for example Harry – when they're around?"

"Not more so than you do," Remus replied tiredly.

"But Greyback is known for biting people, especially children. You're both werewolves. Do you still claim to not have the same natural urges as that werewolf?"

"With all due respect… Evan Rosier is known for torturing children and molesting them. You're both humans. And related. Do you molest and torture children?"

"Hey—" Sirius protested angrily, but was interrupted.

"Greyback's urges," Remus continued sharply, "are no more natural than those of Rosier."

Sirius stared at the werewolf for a few seconds, silent and angry, before turning and leaving the room. Lupin was making him think, and there were some things Sirius wasn't ready to think about quite yet.

They both wondered what Harry would say of the situation.

*

It was almost a week since Harry had promised Filippa to somehow find out about Lorenzo, and the boy was getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to go to the train station. It was already Saturday evening, and he hadn't been able to do anything worth mentioning. Sometimes, he'd feel a weird sensation, as if he was being taken on a Side-Along Apparition, but when he'd open his eyes he'd still be in his flat.

What was he doing wrong?

He was focusing as hard as he could, but was it enough? Should he… meditate or something?

Harry closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. He was feeling hungry and faint and annoyed. He couldn't fail- he had promised to talk with Lorenzo. And Filippa had believed him. What would she say if he told her that he hadn't been able to do what he had promised?

'Should I just trip on the stairs and hope to knock my head?' Harry thought with no real intentions of going through with the idea. His eyes were still closed, and he tried to remember all of what he could about the train station. The colours, the smells. The bench he'd be sitting on… the slight chill… the noise.

Harry had, after the days he had spent thinking carefully about the train station and his methods of going there, discovered a rather curious thing.

Most of the previous times– actually, every time except once– when Harry had found himself in the train station, it had been an accident. When he'd wake up, someone would be there, and they'd think that Harry had been unconscious. There were no after effects of any kind aside from the ones he'd get from whatever had knocked him out in the first place.

The one time Harry had managed to transport himself to the train station intentionally, many things had been different. Sure, it had happened only for an instant, but Harry could quite clearly remember that the sensation of holding his mother's hand had… well; it had been as if his mother's hand had vanished from his grip. What did that mean?

'It's all so confusing,' Harry thought. Merlin, he wanted to go to the train station, and he wanted to go there now. He wanted to talk with Albus, wanted to talk about the world, about what was going on. Harry wanted to see if Lorenzo was there, wanted to keep his promise to Filippa, wanted—

And suddenly, an overwhelming sensation of sliding washed over him, and Harry could see himself in the station. He was there, and he barely managed to see Albus turning to look at him with surprise before he was already back in his flat.

"What," he croaked with disbelief. "What? " Instinctively, he sought out that sliding feeling, tried to imitate it, and managed to suddenly stand once again in the train station.

But it was different.

Albus was talking but the noise was too overwhelming for Harry to hear him. It was hard to breathe, as if the air itself was grainy somehow. There was a pull clutching the boy's body, trying to bring him back to the real world. Like a rubber band, he was barely managing to prevent it from snapping him back before he wanted, although Harry could feel his grip on this– whatever 'this' was– faltering. And there were people– so many people. Old and young men and women from all over the world… Harry could even see some pets.

Were they… were they really all dead?

Seriously?

The horrifying reality had just managed to sink in when Harry found himself once again in his flat, this time a few feet above the couch he had been previously sitting on. With a loud yelp, the boy fell on the couch, feeling slightly dizzy and nauseated. There were so many thoughts running through his mind, disorganized, and it was giving him a headache and making him feel slightly panicked.

Harry was almost relieved when everything suddenly faded to black and he passed out.

*

Gilderoy Lockhart was worried.

"This is worse than when Yves Saint Laurent rejected my advances," Gildy whispered to himself, clutching the message he had received from Peppita Peppino in his hands. It was a bright, cold morning, and he had just opened the windows of his quarters to let fresh air in. He was dressed only in a pale yellow silk robe with orange feathers, and yet, he was too distracted by the letter to notice the cold. Peppita wrote:

Prepare for war, my friend for it is war that is in your future. And when I say war, I don't mean a catfight like the one between you and that German ragazza from two weeks ago who had better legs than you. I mean armies and killing and blood.

"This can't be happening," Gildy whimpered. "Not in my lifetime!" Of course he knew of the rebels and had heard and read reports of some battles, but this sounded so serious, as if he was under the risk of getting sent to some distant corner with no fashion to fight for a lump of bread. Or worse– that the rebels would bring the battles right here to England. Maybe even Hogwarts!

You scholar-type Englishmen, especially the ones like you, probably are completely unaware of how to survive in the wild. I know how good you are at dueling, my dear, but I also know that you'd rather not do anything that might lead to your face getting injured. If you really want to avoid getting caught up in the upcoming war, then I must urge you to leave England behind. Go to Japan or China. Or Morocco or Canada. But do not stay in England or anywhere in Europe. This war… I have a bad feeling about it.

"Well, I can't exactly abandon my home country," Gildy muttered, folding the letter and sliding it back into its envelope. "That'd be like treason." The man sighed, feeling gloomy and tired. He hated fighting, although Gildy wouldn't quite dare to call himself a pacifist. He did base his books mostly on reality after all. Well, somewhat. Partly. Someone else’s reality, at least.

But really, if a war did break out in England, what would he do? He'd be expected to fight. Maybe he should get some Healing training and offer his life-saving services at hospitals? Maybe he could be the one to save the life of a handsome, injured colonel and finally get the romance he so longed for? He'd be… He'd finally get his Scarlett O'Hara days, except hopefully without the heartbreaks, widowing, and all that poorness.

Fine, maybe he shouldn't call them his Scarlett O'Hara days. Maybe calling them… Elizabeth Bennett days would be better. He'd definitely rather live Elizabeth's life than the life of Scarlett.

"Hey, friend," Trelawney said, sauntering into the room while wiping what looked like white powder from around her nostrils, effectively interrupting Gildy's musings about love and life. "I brought you something."

"Sybill," Gildy said with a small smile before he almost gaped when he saw the man who walked in after her.

"I was ordered to discuss the next semester's lesson plan with you," Crouch said stiffly. Gildy stared at the man's handsome face for a few moments before turning gloomily away. Even the sight of his crush didn't make him feel better. There was war coming! He couldn't enjoy seducing anyone right now. He wanted to be seduced instead, damn it. He wanted the wooing and the pampering and that wonderful getting-stalked-by-love-interest thing to happen.

"Gildy," Trelawney said warily, "what's wrong?"

"Maybe-" Crouch started.

"I know what's wrong with you," Trelawney interrupted before turning back to Gildy. "Hey. Look. He's here. Sure, he's got his clothes on, but I personally would rather not see him naked anyway."

"I received dreadful news," Gildy sighed mournfully. "And I am not in the mood to… to bother with someone who clearly doesn't want me."

"By the Grim," Trelawney swore, utterly shocked.

"Well, then—" Crouch started, taking a step back, thankful for the miraculous chance to retreat. Talking at all at this point was a wrong move to make, though– that was something the man realized after Trelawney turned to glare at him, her eyes behind the wonky glasses dilated with rage.

"You broke him!" the Professor of Divination hollered, flinging herself towards Crouch with her hands extended. Her nails resembled a dangerous set of claws, and her frizzy hair and the dozens of colourful scarves draped around her thin body made her look like an exotic predatory bird trying to maim whatever it was flying at. "I'll make some death predictions come true if you don't fix him right this instant!"

Gildy offered another sad smile and wished that he'd have at least some white roses and maybe a dead dove nearby to make himself look even more tragic and beautiful.

*

Harry woke up knowing, even before he opened his eyes, that someone was nearby. He could smell Filippa's perfume.

"How did you get in?" Harry asked, still keeping his eyes shut.

"Did you sleep all night on the couch?" Filippa asked in return before sighing. "I picked the lock. Sorry." At this, Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to take a look at her. He was still lying on the couch, and the Italian girl was sitting on the floor right next to him.

"How?" he asked. "And what time is it?"

"It's half past five in the morning. And… and I tried to knock first but then used a spell. Effringo. It works better than Alohomora with locks like that."

"Not that I don't want you here, but why are you here?" Harry asked then, sitting up. There was a strange feeling thrumming inside him, as if his blood was… happy? What a ridiculous thing to think! But it left him feeling very shaky and… he had this unexplainable urge to be somewhere else. Somewhere… back at the train station, perhaps?

"I couldn't sleep," Filippa confessed, and only now did Harry notice that she was dressed in her nightgown. "I… I thought if I came here I could. Why were you asleep on the couch? I actually didn't even notice you there when I first came in. Only after I couldn't find you in your bed and came to take another look did I notice you. Stupid of me to not notice you immediately since it's not that dark here."

"You know when I told you that I could find out about what happened with Lorenzo?" Harry whispered and shifted a bit to the side to let Filippa squeeze into the space next to him. "Well, I did it. Partly, though. I went there but couldn't find him yet. So you'll have to wait for a few days still before I can tell you what happened to him."

"It's okay," Filippa said quietly, reaching to hold Harry's hand in her own. "I… I don't think I want to know after all."

"What?" Harry asked, surprised. "But—"

"I'm scared of knowing," the girl admitted. "I know it's very weak of me, Harry, but I just… I don't want to know. Not yet. Perhaps someday in the future when all this is a distant memory. But right now, I just can't. What if he died after hours of horrible pain? I don't want to know, Harry."

"Okay," Harry replied soothingly. "That's all right, Filippa. It's nothing to be ashamed about."

"Can I ask you how you do it, though?" Filippa whispered. "I swear I won't tell anyone else. I know you told me to not ask, and you don't have to answer, and if you tell me to not ask again, I won't, I just…"

"Sometimes," Harry replied quietly, tightening his hold on Filippa's hands, "sometimes, I can go to where the dead go." Whatever Filippa had expected, it certainly wasn't this.

"I don't know why," Harry continued. "I'm not even sure how it's possible. But I go there, and I see… those who died recently. I don't know how recently though. Filippa… there are so many of them."

"Many of what?" the girl asked breathlessly, pressing even closer against her friend.

"So many people who died recently," Harry said. "The ongoing war that killed Lorenzo is killing thousands of people all the time. Even as we sit here…"

"It needs to stop."

"Yes. But what could stop it? There are two sides in a war and neither will listen us."

"If the reason for this war ceases to exist, then surely eventually people will stop fighting?" Filippa asked. Harry shrugged.

"You never know." Actually, he didn't think they would, for a few years at least. It was, after all, easier to start a war than to end one. Even if the war was to officially end, even if it was declared to be over by the leaders of both sides, the people would still remember. There would be matters of revenge and wrongdoings of all kinds to sort out. Would they ever be able to coexist peacefully? Was it possible?

"Jakob is still in the Hospital Wing," Filippa said after a few moments of silence. "I… I wonder what it is that he really has. Think it's serious?"

"It probably is," Harry admitted honestly. "His stints at the Hospital Wing aside, he has been very… pale and thin lately. Paler and thinner than he used to be, I mean. And he gets tired very easily. He tries to not to show it, but next time you walk with him– especially if you go up the stairs at some point– listen to how he's breathing."

"If I had gone to Beauxbaton like my family had originally planned, I wonder what I'd be doing now," Filippa huffed. "Why is life so… complicated?"

"I've been thinking the same," Harry admitted. "If I had gone to Hogwarts… but if that had happened, I wouldn't have met you or Truls or Björn and the rest."

"Oh well," Filippa sighed, standing up. "I guess I better go back to my flat now. I seriously don't want to be caught by Truls. He'd think that I'm trying to do something to you."

"He's not that bad."

"Not yet." Harry smiled and shook his head in response to Filippa's words. The girl winked and snuck out of his flat, and Harry could hear her fixing the lock from the outside. The smile on his face melted off as he remembered the train station again. And the people. He'd have to talk with Tom, somehow. Make him realize that too many were dying, and hopefully the man would talk about it with the Dark Lord.

*

A week later, Jakob was still in the hospital wing. Most of his classmates had decided to go along with their plan of helping him keep up with his studies as much as they could with tutoring sessions. That Sunday, it was Truls's turn, and since Filippa was having some kind of fashion designing weekend with the girls, Harry had expected to spend most of the day alone. Therefore, it came as a slight surprise to him when the doorbell of his flat rang.

"Hi," Harry said to Björn who offered a nervous smile before slipping past Harry into the flat.

"Hey," the redhead said, sitting down on the couch. Harry closed the front door and moved to sit next to his friend.

"What brings you here?" Harry asked, and Björn flushed slightly.

"I'll be blunt," the boy started. "It's about that kissing thing we talked about a week ago, remember?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I thought that you had… forgotten or something."

"Well it's not like I could just talk about it, what with Truls hanging around you all the time! We're not telling him about this, by the way. I value my life too much."

"Fine, fine. But, um… you mean you want to…?"

"Yeah," Björn said awkwardly. "If you don't have anything else to do right now…"

"We could try, I guess," Harry said, feeling suddenly very hesitant. The two boys stared at each other for a while, gathering courage, before Björn took a deep breath and moved to sit very close to Harry. After a few seconds of silence, Björn moved his hands to hold Harry's face still before finally leaned in to kiss the other boy. The kiss was nothing more than a faint touch of lips. Frankly, Harry barely felt it and couldn't believe that all the fuss about kissing could really be because of something like this.

'It's not difficult,' Harry thought. 'It's not unpleasant, but not particularly fun either.' After doing nothing but this kind of kisses for the next ten minutes, Björn slowly and hesitantly pushed Harry to lie on his back on the couch, settling to sit on the other boy for a few moments, trying to think of what to do next. Neither was feeling awkward anymore, although they did feel slightly embarrassed. Neither, however, suggested backing down.

"We should open our mouths the next time we kiss," Björn said instead. "I think that's called French kissing. I don’t know what the French have to do with it, though."

"But I don't want your saliva in my mouth," Harry said. "No offence or anything. What did you eat at lunch?"

"I drank tea before I came here," Björn said, leaning closer again. "When you feel me opening my mouth, you do the same. Then we move our tongues."

"Do you even know how stupid that sounds?"

"Look, I'm not exactly clear on the details here either. We'll improvise." That said, Björn leaned closer once again, and kissed Harry with far more determination than the other boy felt reasonable. Soon, Björn warily opened his mouth, and when he felt Harry doing the same, he touched the other boy's tongue with the tip of his own. Then he pulled away.

"Your tongue is like a dead fish," Björn said. "Move it a little bit."

"Fine," Harry sighed. "Pucker up." This time, their kiss went much smoother; the tips of their tongues even touched properly, which was pretty damn strange in Harry's opinion, and while it didn't make either boy feel any sparks, they both agreed that it was pretty okay.

"We'll continue this next week," Björn decided. "If you want."

"Sure," Harry replied. "Although I can't figure out why anyone would be particularly enthusiastic about this. Are you sure we’re doing this right?"

"No. But I think it's because you and I aren't attracted to each other like that," Björn said. "I mean, if I was Truls, he'd be—"

"Stop it," Harry interrupted. "Seriously, why is everyone always talking about Truls like that? He likes me, okay, I know that. But not that much."

"I don't know," Björn said. "I mean, he's pretty freakishly obsessive about you, to be honest. Maybe it's the life debt."

"What?" Harry frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, I'm not exactly clear on the details about this either," Björn started. "But as far as I know, the longer a life debt lingers unfulfilled, the stronger its effects become. I think there's some kind of theory about these effects intensifying the most prominent feeling the debtor has towards the creditor."

"Great," Harry groaned. "One more thing I should research."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Björn said lightly. "That theory isn't really well supported. Could be proven false by anyone, I'm sure."

"Really?" Harry asked hopefully. Björn nodded.

"Trust me and forget about it. I know these things."

*

James was throwing up, leaning against a tree. The brains of someone– he wasn't sure whose exactly– had splattered on his robes when a blasting curse hit the head of a fellow Death Eater who had been walking nearby.

"You don't really have the time for that," Pettigrew said nonchalantly, walking to stand next to James. "It happens."

"Fuck you," James spat, before casting a cleaning charm on his face and mouth and then a few more on his clothes. He then turned to the battle scene again, holding his wand tightly and ready to charge.

"How many are you going to kill?" Pettigrew asked, following James closely. "Of these…enemies?"

"As many as I can," James grunted, flinging a severing curse at the closest Rebel he could find.

"Maybe you'll kill… fathers, like you. Or sons, like your own son," Pettigrew said, James only barely held back from casting a cutting curse at the man's throat. "Ever wonder why we meet the people we end up meeting? Or become—"

"Supplanto." James didn't turn to watch Pettigrew tripping, thanks to the hex, and focused on hitting as many Rebels as he could with far more dangerous curses. He was there to fight, not to think. He wasn't a strategist; he was a soldier. He wasn't high ranked like Sirius to be able to go on missions instead of fight in battles like this one. He wasn't a healer like Lily to work in a hospital saving lives instead of ending them. He wasn't a student like Harry who could stay at school and not think of war.

He was there to follow orders, not to decide what was wrong and what was right.

"Tripping hex? Really?" Pettigrew said almost cheerfully, scrambling up and shooting a few quick curses towards the enemy with surprising ease and speed. "You never change."

"I have never used a tripping hex on you before," James hissed, dodging a strangely coloured and potentially unpleasant spell. "And stop hanging around me!"

"So rude," Pettigrew said, but did not sound particularly offended. "You make me feel rather unwanted. What if I ended up committing suicide because of you?" Frankly, James didn't care. Well, of course he didn't want anyone to kill themselves because of him, but he also didn't care whether or not Pettigrew died.

"Why are you pestering me?"

"I can't tell you that."

"So there is a reason!"

"There's a reason for everything, James," Pettigrew said. "You're always too stubborn to notice these things. You can only see things through your own point of view. Lily is like that, too, isn't she? I wonder from where your son got his—"

"Why the fuck," James interrupted, growling. "Do you talk about my family as if you know us? You don't, Pettigrew. You don't know us. You never knew us and you never will." James then turned to another direction, running to fight Rebels as far away from Pettigrew as it was possible at the time.

Peter, with a strange expression on his face, stared after the other man and shook his head.

"Then things you don't know, Prongs. The things you don't know."

*

It was nearing the end of March, and Harry had finished reading most of the books the little secret room had provided. He couldn't help but remember Albus's words when the old man had encouraged him to… to do something. He also remembered Luna calling him a coward. Filippa, half-asleep and most probably unaware, had asked him to stop the war.

As if he could! Just what was expected of him?

Did some people– dead and alive– really think that Harry could do something to change the world? The mere thought was enough to exhaust him and make him feel small and insignificant. He was just Harry. Practically a nobody. These thoughts plagued him even when he was with his other classmates, making him zone off every now and then.

"You need to eat more," Filippa said during dinner, shoving some potatoes onto Harry's plate. "Want some salad?"

"Don't tell me you're still affected by Lorenzo's death?" Nikolai asked then, his voice almost mocking. "Or maybe by the deaths you read about in the newspapers? Potter, life isn't fair. Man up and just live it."

"You think you're so jaded," Harry replied coldly, much to the surprise of others who hadn't expected him to say anything. Harry wasn't one to fight with others, even verbally. And yet… this time it seemed that Nikolai had said the right words to annoy the usually quiet and peaceful boy. "You think you're so cold. You sneer and hark and laugh when you see injustice and someone being slighted, and the best line you ever have is life isn't fair."

"Hey—," Heidi said sharply, but Harry continued, not even sparing her a glance. He didn't let his rage show fully, but the others could feel it. They could feel the temperature around them dropping rapidly, and it was only Truls who didn't seem to be alarmed in the slightest.

"You think you have experienced all the darkness the world has to offer. You think yourself to be… disillusioned and, thus, wise. You, Nikolai, are nothing but an example of a person who keeps his eyes clenched shut while mistakenly thinking that his mind is open. I am not surprised, though, because despite of what you think you've been through, you've actually lived a pretty sheltered and privileged life. If it was someone else, I'd say that they'll never truly comprehend how terrible injustice is, till they see with their own eyes an innocent man executed for no reason. Witnessing it happen, feeling every second as an oppressing weight above you. You know that what is happening is wrong but you also know that speaking out against it will get you killed. But you…"

Harry could absently feel Filippa's hand on his arm as he still continued with his speech. "You've never considered yourself really alive, have you? You feel like a void, and the only things that bring you pleasure are the pain of others and being admired and feared. The enjoyment brought by injustice is based on either ignorance or inhumanity. With Heidi and Clemens, it's ignorance. With you, I know it's partly both, but it's only a matter of time before the reason is only the latter."

"That's a terrible thing to say!" Heidi exclaimed angrily.

"It's the truth," Filippa shot back.

"Guys, calm down," Jakob said shakily. "Let's not fight, please."

"You seem to think that you know me well," Nikolai finally said, still keeping his gaze fixed on Harry.

"I do," Harry replied. And he did. The little gestures, the words, all the little things Nikolai had mentioned… Harry hadn't been aware that his mind had stored all of that information, but now it all came to the surface, and the dots connected to form a picture. Perhaps he was misjudging the other boy… and perhaps he wasn't. Either way, Harry wasn't going to put up with getting mocked when there was so much else bothering him.

"School will end in a few short months," Björn hurried to change the topic. "Any summer plans?"

"How about a road trip, Harry?" Truls asked eagerly, and Harry remembered vaguely planning on going with the Swedish boy to look for any Muggle relatives his mother might have. The thought of an adventure that didn't involve war or politics made Harry almost smile.

"If nothing urgent and important comes up, then why not?" he replied. "Could be interesting."

"I'm going to spend the summer going between Milan, London, and Paris," Filippa revealed. "The fashion weeks, you see, and the whole ordeal revolving around them."

"Can I come with you?" Petronella asked. "I don't have any particular plans, and I think it'd be interesting."

"Sure," Filippa replied with a small smile.

'It's time like these,' Harry thought, 'when we talk about the future and our plans… times like these when we feel Lorenzo's absence the most. I wonder what he'd have been planning…'

*

Sirius was bored.

It was mid-May, and while usually Sirius would be enjoying his life– summertime always came with a delightful promise of skirts shorter than the year before– this time around, he was stuck in his house. The Dark Lord had given him a file on a rather tedious project and told him to start working on it. He 'd have one year’s time to prepare; set up the challenges, seek the contestants, organize the prize, and the location and what not.

'I can focus on this tomorrow,' Sirius decided, dropping the file onto his table. 'I wonder what that werewolf is doing. Probably reading. How can anyone read so much? It's not normal. Maybe he's up to something?'

Much to Sirius's… well, not exactly dismay… Lupin seemed perfectly content and was up to nothing evil. Sirius had tried time and time again to sneak and ambush the werewolf, expecting to catch him in the act of something that would uncover his beastly nature, but… he hadn't succeeded in that quite yet. Sirius had used spells to mask his presence and had succumbed to looking pretty ridiculous, sneaking from shadow to shadow inside his own house just to see Lupin… reading!

Reading!

Not even books like So You Are A Captive– What Now? by Murdy Murguggle or How To Flee The Household You Just Committed A Murder In by Knot Nown, no. Lupin would be reading books about household charms and muggle history and birth of traditions! Sirius narrowed his eyes and, after casting a few presence-masking spells on himself, raced once again to where Lupin was without a doubt reading.

Remus was so used to Sirius Black randomly flinging himself into rooms that he didn't bother looking up from Philosophical Theories of Transfiguration by Marius McGonagall when the man once again made an appearance. He did, however, ask what he was doing.

"None of your business," Black spat, scrambling up from the floor, his icy blue eyes still fixed on the werewolf. "Oh Merlin, what are you, a walking encyclopaedia? A Library in hu— werewolf form? Are there books that you haven't read yet?"

"Yes, there are many books I'm yet to read."

"Why are you doing that?"

"I like reading."

"How can you like reading books like that !"

"It's educational."

"HOW CAN YOU FIND SOMETHING EDUCATIONAL FUN!" Sirius bellowed. "I can't let Harry anywhere near you! You'll turn him into a bookworm! A worse bookworm than he already is, but at least Harry reads stories. Fifteen minutes with you and I might see him enjoying a book about potions!"

"There's nothing wrong in enjoying studying."

"Everything's wrong with enjoying studying. It's… it's a disease! A disorder! A mental condition!"

"…" Lupin's golden eyes were almost twinkling with suppressed amusement as he watched the dark-haired pureblood rant, throwing around some bizarre theories about book-aliens and book-curses. The most amusing thing was, in Lupin's opinion, that Black was most likely completely serious.

"…and then all everyone will ever talk about is books, books, and books. People will start talking by quoting other people all the time…"

'He's also prone to exaggeration,' Lupin thought.

"…and I'd need to read and recite War and Peace just to pick someone up, for Circe’s sake…"

'And dramatics. I wonder if he's going to stop ranting anytime soon.'

"…and even in bed, only Arithmancy formulas would work…"

*

"Two weeks before freedom!" Clemens yelled, hanging upside down on his broom. It was a warm, sunny Thursday evening, and they were done with their lessons for the day. Instead of going to the Hall to eat, the nine students had packed together three baskets full of food and went outside to one of the least used Quidditch pitches. Clemens was eager to lure the others to fly.

"I can't wait," Harry grinned, feeling happy and impatient. "I miss my parents."

"We'll be third year students!" Filippa cheered. "I'll be thirteen!"

"Feels like time goes by so quickly," Jakob said, sitting on the grass and tiredly leaning his head on Petronella's shoulder. "Second year is practically over. Next is the third. Then the fourth. Then the fifth…"

"When I turn fifteen, I'm going to throw the biggest fashion party in Europe," Filippa said. "And I'll have my designing debut! Heidi, Nella, you'll model for me, right?"

"Sure," Heidi promised with a smile.

"I will if I'm skinny enough at the time," Petronella said. "It'd be so cool. I can't wait to see your designs."

"Mette and I would love to attend your party," Björn promised cheerfully.

"Erling still doesn't even know that you exist," Jakob pointed out. "The likelihood of the two of you—"

"This year, my betting profits rose to five hundred galleons," Björn cut in. "The older I become, the better betting chances I get with higher stakes. I'll be super rich in a few years, and no one is going to say no to me."

"Oh come on," Filippa exclaimed, shaking her head. "Not all women are swayed by money!"

"Correct," Björn said calmly. "But Mette is. She's a gorgeous gold digger with an empty head and perfect face."

"You know that, and you still want to get her?" Petronella asked, clearly surprised. "I want to marry for love."

"Same here," Heidi agreed, blushing slightly. "I can't wait to experience romance."

'I wonder if Tom is involved with someone,' Harry suddenly thought. What kind of woman would suit Tom anyway? Someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, perhaps?

"What about you, Harry?" Filippa asked suddenly with a mischievous expression. "Do you want to marry for love?"

"Right now, I can't even imagine falling in love," Harry replied honestly. "I can't imagine a girl I'd fall in love with."

"Well," Björn drawled with a smirk. "It doesn't have to be a girl." Harry resisted the temptation to glance at Truls and focused on trying to not blush. While he did succeed in the former, he failed miserably at the latter.

"Shut up," he said instead, standing up. "Anyone up for a round of Seeking? Clemens, got the Snitch?"

*

There was something seriously wrong with Peter Pettigrew. Usually, James would have been curious, trying to find out what… but not this time. He didn't want to know– all he wanted was to see the man gone. Or more accurately, James didn't want to see Pettigrew at all ever again. Then again, he had only three days left before he'd get to go back home. Harry's school would end in two days, too, and hopefully, Lily could make it back from Italy for the summer as well.

Even now, Pettigrew abruptly looked up from his bowl of soup with a toothy grin on his face. His watery blue eyes were full of mirth as they were suddenly fixed on James who couldn't help but suspect that Pettigrew had somehow heard James thinking about him. Or as if there was some secret about James that Pettigrew knew and found amusing. Either way, it was very unsettling.

'But that's impossible,' the man thought. And then; 'I wonder if he's human.'

Pettigrew looked human and was definitely not a vampire or a werewolf or a veela. He didn't act or look like any magical creature, and yet… he was too creepy and unreal to be just a human. Or was James just becoming paranoid? Maybe he was. All this camping around, fighting, and looking for more rebels was really taking its toll on him. Lucky Harry– the kid got to be at school, enjoy his days with no stress.

"Mr. Potter," a familiar voice said, and James turned to see the Lance Corporal of his team, Jeremy Gills, standing behind him.

"Yes?"

"Could you please come with me for a few minutes," Gills said, and warily, James stood up.

"Did something happen, sir?" James asked. "I… I didn't break any rules here, did I?"

"No, Mr. Potter," Gills replied as they walked towards Corporal Carrow's tent. "We… received some news that concern you."

"Did something happen?" James repeated, this time feeling worried and alarmed. "Are my wife and son alright?" he asked just as they entered Carrow's tent.

"Mr. Potter," Corporal Amycus Carrow said, looking up. "Please sit down. I have… unfortunate news for you."

"My family… are they alright?"

"We have already sent a message informing your son in Durmstrang," Carrow started. "A few rebels attacked the Central Wizarding Hospital of Rome… And I am sorry to be the one to tell you that your wife… was amongst the fallen."

"What?" James whispered. 'I didn't hear this. I'm misunderstanding something.' "You're saying…"

"The death of your wife is very unfortunate," Carrow said, his monotonous voice betraying no emotions. "I am sorry for your loss."

"My loss," James repeated, feeling numb. What was going on? Surely Lily wasn't… couldn't be.

Lily was gone. His Lily was gone.

No. No, no, no. Nononononono. It couldn't be. It wasn't. There had to be a misunderstanding. Maybe they mistook some other redhead for Lily. Yes, that's what happened. Lily couldn't be dead. She couldn't just… just die.

Elsewhere, Harry had finished packing all of his things that he'd take back home with him for the summer when an owl carrying a black envelope entered the flat through an open window.

To Mr. Harry Potter:

I extend my most profound condolence to you on the loss of your mother Healer Lily Amelie Potter, née Evans, who died on 27th of June 1993 as result of an enemy attack. I sincerely hope the knowledge that Healer Lily Potter was an exemplary member of the healing unit and died while serving the Cause and the Country will comfort you in this hour of great sorrow…

Chapter Text

To Mr. Harry Potter:

I extend my most profound condolences to you on the loss of your mother Healer Lily Amelie Potter, née Evans, who died on 27th of June 1993 as result of an enemy attack. I sincerely hope the knowledge that Healer Lily Potter was an exemplary member of the healing unit and died while serving the Cause and the Country will comfort you in this time of great sorrow.

Harry felt his whole world shutting down. All he was aware of consisted of the slip of paper and the words on it – and the sound of his own, loud breathing. A small part of Harry wondered how was it that he could breathe when he had such a painful feeling in his chest right now.

He felt as if he had been pushed off a bridge. He didn't know what to do and didn't even notice when his legs gave in from beneath him, and he fell to sit on the floor. The slip of paper was still in his hands, and he kept reading the words over and over again.

He didn't understand. There was probably a mistake in there somewhere.

Harry's face was a blank as he left his flat, still clutching the paper. He didn't wear his shoes or jacket, didn't care that it was rather late and everyone would probably be resting at this hour to be up tomorrow bright and early to go back home. He didn't even hesitate when he stood in front of the door of Truls's flat and rang the doorbell.

He was carefully trying to not think about the possibility of the message being true. And yet, the knowledge pushed through denial, making silent tears fall down his face.

"Who's the— Harry?" Truls's tired tone changed into an alarmed one when he saw his best friend crying in front of him. The blond pulled Harry inside and led him to the couch, trying to think of what could have possibly happened. He didn't need to ask, though, as Harry handed him the letter he had been clutching.

As Truls read the paper, a loud sob escaped Harry. His tears were falling freely now, and he didn't want to believe this, didn't want to accept it. Wasn't going to accept it. This couldn't happen, not to his mother. She was just a healer; she wasn't a fighter! Why would she—

"Harry," Truls breathed, sitting down next to Harry and wrapping his arms around the boy, "I'm… so sorry… Merlin, I don't even know what to say…"

Harry opened his mouth, wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn't. He held back his sobs, tried to not cry anymore because crying would mean that he had a reason to cry, right? And he didn't have a reason because this wasn't, couldn't be, true.

What was he supposed to do?

"Harry, do you have anyone we can contact?" Truls asked. "Is your father—"

"In Ireland. Deployed," Harry whispered. He wanted to… he wasn't sure what. Scream? Wail? Circe, how could someone feel so much pain without a curse of some kind?

"Is there anyone else who can come now and help you home?" Truls asked gently, rubbing Harry's back. "A relative or a family friend or a godparent?"

"Godfather," Harry croaked. "Sirius Black. But Truls… this isn't… she… my mum…"

"I wish I knew what to say to make you feel at least a little bit better," Truls muttered. "But any way I can, I'll stand by your side. If there's anything you need, anything at all that I can give…"

"There's going to be a funeral," Harry whispered, moving to press his face against Truls's shoulder to hide his fresh tears. His voice was slightly muffled when he continued: "My mum is going to be in a coffin and buried."

Truls ran his fingers through Harry's hair in a manner that he hoped would be soothing. He didn't know what to say– Harry was right after all.

"And then insincere people who barely knew her will come to me and tell me how sorry they are that she's dead," Harry said, sounding bitter. "People who, when she was alive, kept thinking less of her because she wasn't a pureblood like them."

"Do you want me to attend the funeral with you?" Truls asked, and after a few moments of silence, Harry shrugged and sighed.

"I… I don' know," he said. "I don't want… the funeral…"

"What's your godfather's address?" Truls asked.

"He lives in number 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry replied, finally leaning away from Truls who nodded and moved towards the fireplace.

"I'll firecall your godfather," Truls said. "He'll get you home tonight, I'm certain. You and your dad will support each other."

"But—"

"I'll tell the others tomorrow morning that you had to leave early due to a family emergency. Unless you don't want me to tell them?"

"…I… thank you."

"You'll pull through this, Harry," Truls promised. "You will."

*

Harry was aware of what was happening around him. Somewhat.

Sirius had come and picked him up from Truls's flat, and Harry hadn't had the energy to so much as greet his godfather. When they came back to Godric's Hollow, Harry… didn't know what to do. How could his mother not be there? It didn't feel right to be there if his mother… wasn't.

"Go to your room and try to rest, Harry," Sirius said, looking exhausted after a few hours of trying to make sense of things. "It's almost morning. I'll… speak with James."

James.

Harry's father. The man who had locked himself into the bedroom he used to share with his wife and hadn't made a sound since doing so. He hadn't checked on Harry, and the boy was partly relieved about that– he didn't feel like seeing his father either. It'd just make it more real. That… only the two of them were left.

Harry felt as if this wasn't part of reality. As he walked towards his room, he expected his mother to call him, and when she didn't, he felt scared. So scared. His room… the last time he had been there, his mother had been in the house as well.

"Don't be gone," Harry whimpered clenching his eyes shut. "Mummy, don't be gone." Thoughts of possible courses of action filled his mind before he suddenly remembered the train station. Harry's eyes widened, and he stood up in his room, breathing hard.

"I'll do it," he hissed before clenching his eyes shut. If his mother was at the train station… if he could find her… Maybe he could pull her back? Maybe he could… he didn't know what, but Harry needed to see her. Needed to talk to her one more time. Needed it so badly—

The overwhelming sensation of sliding came faster this time.

He felt the coldness of the train station surrounding him again and heard the faint noise of the trains as they moved, stopped, or just passed by. Perhaps because he was so desperate? Because he had done it before already? For some other reason? Harry didn't know or care about that right now. All he wanted to focus on was finding his mother.

Except that it would be easier said than done.

Just like last time, the train station was packed. Harry looked around, tried to find his mother, but just standing still and searching with his eyes didn't much help him. There were too many people, even children! How was he supposed to find Lily in this crowd? He couldn't even see Albus anywhere!

Harry ran, looking for his mother, calling her name. Maybe if she wasn't here, she'd be alive? Maybe a mistake had happened? He didn't stop and ask people, none of them looked friendly.

"Lily!" he yelled. "Mum! Mum!" He bumped into someone, got a glare sent his way, but didn't stick around to offer an apology. It wasn't important right then, he had something far more important to do. The pull that was trying to push him back to the world of the living was strong, very strong, and Harry didn't know how much time he had before he'd be pulled away from the station.

"Mum! Lily Potter!" What was he supposed to call her? It felt so weird using her name but how would she recognize herself if all he called was 'mum' or 'mother'?

A woman with long red hair was just boarding the train, and Harry almost screamed when he saw her. He ran as fast as he could in order to reach her, only to realize– when he was already close– that she was far too tall to be his mother.

He almost cried, then.

Harry was feeling increasingly desperate when a thought occurred to him– if his mother wasn't in the station, maybe she was in the train? Yes, he would board the train and—

Suddenly, someone was gripping Harry's arm and pulling him back, away from the train. Away from where his mother could be.

"No!" Harry screamed and then struggled, but the grip of the person dragging him was far too strong. "Let me go! I have to find my mo—"

"I didn't let you die then," a female voice snarled. "And I'm not going to let you die now!"

"My mum is there! She must—"

"No."

"I have to find her!"

"No."

"LET ME GO! I WANT TO FIND MY MOTHER!"

"And I said NO!" The last 'no' was accompanied by a pull, and Harry was suddenly shoved against the wall, and the person– the woman– who had dragged him away from the train was glaring down at him. It was a frightening sight as the woman's eyes kept twitching to opposite directions in her pale face that was framed by lank, dull hair.

She looked… familiar. He had seen her before… Had… he knew her name… knew her.

"I've seen you before," Harry gasped, stopping his struggle to catch his breath. "I know you. You're… you're…"

"You're far too important," the woman hissed at him. "You have great things to do; you can't collapse just because of something as insignificant this."

"It's not insignificant! My mother—"

"Your mother does not matter in the big picture, Harry Potter. And neither does your father. But you do, Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived."

"What?" Harry asked, confused. He was simmering with rage at this woman's belittling words regarding his mother, and he felt even more desperate than before. But he couldn't move from where she had pushed him. "What are you talking about?"

"Ask you father," the woman hissed, bringing her face closer. "Ask your father about when you died."

"You're crazy," Harry snapped, trying to push her away. "I need to find—"

"Your mother is long gone. And you don't belong here. Go back."

"I won't!"

And yet, despite his words, Harry found himself back in his room, falling onto the floor and holding back a scream of pain and disappointment. His vision was blurred by tears, and he didn't bother trying to stand up and move. He didn't want to cry, he didn't know what to think or feel. He was so confused, and everything was crazy, and… and maybe he was the crazy one? Maybe that's why he didn't understand anything anymore?

Harry hoped that he would pass out– his mind was going overdrive and he needed a break. Everything was so overwhelming. So maddening, so—

Harry didn't even notice when his table started shaking or when the bed started creaking. He was so fully focused on trying to organize his thoughts. He shouldn't have gone to the train station– it only had made things worse. He hadn't managed to see his mother. His mum was dead. Gone.

Harry just… couldn't accept it.

Didn't want to even try.

*

Meanwhile, Sirius was trying his best to comfort James, who had managed already to down one whole bottle of firewhisky and seemed to want more.

"You loved her, and she loved you just as much, James," Sirius said, "but don't forget that Harry needs you now, too."

"She's gone," James replied hoarsely. "My Lily is gone."

"Harry—" Sirius tried again but was interrupted by his friend.

"Harry is bloody fine!" James snarled. "He's up in his bloody room safe and sound! But Lily is gone! My wife dead! MY… WIFE… IS… DEAD!"

"As if I don't know," Sirius muttered. He honestly didn't have any idea of what to say, what should be said. "Don't let the grief overwhelm you."

"It's not like you would understand," James snapped angrily. "You've never been married!"

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean that I haven't experienced loss—"

"Just shut the bloody hell up, Sirius! Get out of here; I don't want to see you right now. I don't want to see anyone right now."

"Fine," Sirius said. "I'll come back when you've managed to sober up a little bit."

"Like I'm going to let that happen," James muttered, reaching for another bottle of firewhisky that Sirius hadn't noticed before. The elite Death Eater shook his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. After a few moments of standing still, trying to figure out how to handle this disaster, Sirius decided to go and check on Harry, hoping that the boy wasn't in a state similar to that of James.

He wished that he knew what to say, anything that would bring a little bit of comfort. But he didn't. Sirius had never been good with feelings and all that talking business. Although, lately, the werewolf had been telling him to work on expanding his emotional side or whatever.

Sirius found the boy lying on the floor. His tears had dried, and he stared at the ceiling with an expressionless face. It… wasn't an expression Sirius wanted to see on his godson's face.

"Harry?" he said quietly, and the boy turned look at him.

"Uncle Sirius," Harry whispered, and he sounded so… defeated. Sighing, Sirius stepped into the room, noticing the mess but not commenting on it.

"You shouldn't lie on the floor like that," Sirius said gently. "Come on, at least on bed. It's softer and warmer."

"When's… When will mum be buried?" Harry asked, and Sirius froze, feeling his heart ache painfully. He didn't want to reply, didn't even have the answer. So he stayed quiet as he lifted Harry off the floor and onto the bed. The boy, so pale with such wide, tired green eyes, stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"I don't know," Sirius finally replied, staring down at Harry. "I'm sorry. Is there… can I do anything for you, Harry?"

"How's dad?"

"James is… upset. He's grieving. It's understandable, and I guess it'll last for… I don't know how long. Grief is a… terrible thing, I've heard. But it's also necessary."

"Will he take care of the funeral?"

'Why are you so practical?' Sirius thought. ‘Let me handle this if your father can’t. You’re too young to force this kind of control on yourself.’ "I… I'm not sure. I'll ask him. If he doesn't, then I will."

"Thank you," Harry said, closing his eyes. "Can you close the door behind you, Uncle Sirius?"

"Sure," Sirius replied, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "Harry… I'm not really good at comforting people, but don't forget that I'm here for you, alright? No matter what."

"Thank you," Harry repeated, and didn't turn to look at his godfather when the man left. Alone again, the boy covered his face with his hands, taking a deep breath. He wasn't crying. He didn't want to cry. But… how was it possible to feel this bad and not die?

He felt lost and empty inside and had no idea how to get rid of that feeling. Then there was nausea… Nausea that didn't make him want to throw up– it just burned inside him like acid. It was difficult to breathe, as if breathing had become a chore too heavy for him.

Was this the grief Sirius had mentioned? Or was it denial, the way he didn't want to think about the aftermath of his mother's death? The consequences. Couldn't imagine a future where he'd never see her again.

Grief.

How many emotions can one word truly include? It felt as vast and deep as the sea, as high as the sky, as unmovable as earth itself. Like an open wound set on fire, and Harry didn't know how to deal with it. He had foolishly thought that by accepting Albus being dead he had understood death.

How wrong, how naive he had been.

And how he hated himself now for such naivety.

*

Tom had recognized the name Lily Potter the moment he had seen it amongst the names in the list of deceased. He had stared at it for a few long minutes, feeling highly uncomfortable, wondering what her son would do. Will he cry? Will he hate the war and blame the Dark Lord?

Will he blame Tom?

Even if he did, Tom couldn't bring himself to feel sorry. Harry's mother had worked in the front where many people died anyway. And war was necessary. Her death didn't make war any more or less terrible, didn't make it any more or less… necessary.

"Well, aren't we being gloomy tonight, " Nagini hissed. "What's up, ugly? "

"I am not ugly. And the boy lost his mother," Tom said. "I expect him to be quite upset about it."

"Are you going to see him? "

"I might be recognized so I won't go undisguised to the funeral."

"Why not go as, well, Voldemort? If the boy gets angry about that, it could distract him from being upset. "

"And then he won't talk to me ever again. Not likely, Nagini."

"When is this… funeral? "

"I was recently informed that it'd be on next Tuesday. Organized by Sirius Black since apparently the boy's father is in no condition to… do anything."

"What will you tell the boy? You're not sorry. "

"What if he starts crying?" Tom asked suddenly, scowling. "I doubt that throttling him 'til he passes out is appropriate in a funeral."

"…I don't know, " Nagini replied. "But I can tell you that few moons ago I saw a woman crying. She was comforted by getting naked with one of your black things. People. What do you call them… Death Eaters? How can you eat Death anyway? "

"…what!"

"There were stabbing motions involved, anyway. Just not with a knife. "

"I am NOT going to— Oh, get lost, you!" Tom glared at the snake as it hissed in a way that could be considered laughter before slithering away. He then shook his head and clenched his eyes shut. Why was dealing with people such a complicated thing to do?

Except that… hold on…

The boy would be in a very vulnerable state of mind. He'd be missing his mother terribly and all that nonsense. Perhaps Tom could use that to find out whether or not the boy was truly able to travel between the realms of the living and the dead? He would be off guard and even if he denied it, Tom could easily see the lied.

Fantastic!

Now, to wait for the funeral. It had been a while since Tom felt as excited about one of those as he did now.

*

The sky was grey. The sun was hiding behind the dark clouds, but there was no rain and no wind. Harry stood between his father and godfather through the entire ceremony. Sirius's hand was on his shoulder, but James hadn't so much as looked at him. Harry felt hurt, but also… strangely understanding. They were both focused on trying to not crumble under the terrible feelings of loss caused by the death of the woman in the beautiful, ebony casket.

There were many guests attending. The Malfoys, the Weasleys, all of Lily's friends and co-workers, and many neighbours. Even Gildy was there. And some of Harry's classmates, too, who had come to show him support. Harry was thankful even though he had yet to get the chance to talk to them. Just knowing that they were there for him made this all more bearable.

When the coffin was lowered into the open grave, Harry wanted so desperately to hold his father's hand. But when he lifted his own hand to do so, James folded his arms on his chest as if rejecting any kind of touch coming from Harry. The boy clenched his fists and ignored the burning behind his eyelids.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the ceremony was finally over. The people started moving towards the house, but Harry stood still, not saying anything or looking up even when his father and godfather left. After a few moments, he could hear someone approaching him from behind and felt a pair of arms warp around him. A faint fragrance of lotus revealed the person to be Filippa, who was crying against his back.

"Oh, Harry," the girl sobbed. "I can't even imagine how devastated you must be."

"Condolences, man," Björn said with a serious expression, coming to stand next to Harry. Not a second after, Truls was also there. Truls took Harry's hand into his own and held it, knowing that nothing he could say would make things better.

"Is there anything we can do?" Petronella asked, pushing to stand between Björn and Harry. Her black dress made her seem paler than usual, and for a moment, Harry wondered if she had always been that skinny. "Also, Jakob offers his condolences, but he couldn't come. His condition—"

"I understand," Harry said quietly. "Thank you. Every one of you. Thank you." Filippa's hug tightened, and the girl burst into tears again.

"We'll support you as well as we can," Petronella promised, touching Harry's arm gently. "No matter what."

"This is the first funeral," Harry said, not looking at any of them. "But the war is only starting… How many funerals will we attend before all this is over?"

"The downside of war," Björn said grimly, "is that funerals become a habit."

"So many stories claim that it’s sweet and fitting to die for your country," Harry continued darkly. "But there's nothing sweet of fitting in dying like this, dying after fighting on foreign soil to kill, not to defend. Dying like a dog for no good reason."

"The Cause," Petronella muttered, sighing. "To some, it's a good reason."

"My mom was a Muggleborn," Harry said and didn't pay attention to the surprise clear on the faces of Petronella and Björn. They both recovered from their surprise fairly quickly, and despite what Truls had predicted a long time ago, Petronella didn't seem to be particularly alarmed or disapproving.

"No cause, then," Filippa said, finally letting go of Harry. Her red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks made the boy almost break down and cry as well, but he didn't. He refused to. He wasn't going to cry. "No reason whatsoever. I'm so sorry."

"Harry," a familiar voice called, and Harry turned to see Ron Weasley walking towards him with, surprisingly enough, Draco Malfoy trailing a few steps behind. "I'm sorry for your loss, mate."

"My condolences," Malfoy, too, said as soon as he was close enough to be heard without shouting. His silver eyes were warily looking at the Durmstrang students surrounding Harry. He blinked with surprise when he saw Harry's hand held by a tall, blond boy but didn't comment on it. Whatever assumptions he had, he kept them to himself.

"Thank you," Harry said. "Is my father inside?"

"Yes," Ron replied. "Do you want me to, um, call him here or something?"

"No," Harry muttered. "I want to be alone."

"We'll go then, now," Truls said, finally letting go of Harry's hand. "Don't stay out for too long and take care of yourself."

"I… will. Thank you." Truls offered one last smile before turning towards the others.

"Come on, all of you. Let's go." Understanding that Harry would need some time alone, the rest didn't protest, merely offered final condolences and followed Truls towards the house, from where they each flooed back to their homes.

And Harry stood alone, staring at his mother's last resting place and wondering how sad the lilies on the fresh grave looked.

*

Tom saw the boy before the boy saw him.

Standing alone, so pale, dressed in black funeral robes with a grim expression on his face, the boy looked older than his age. He hadn't, in the end, bothered with a disguise, only using a strong notice-me-not charm. He didn't want to be unrecognizable to the boy, after all.

"Um," Tom started, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Are you really?" the boy asked, not looking up. "Why are you here? By your standards, she's just a Muggleborn and wasn't even a useful one. She was just a healer. So why did you come? Shouldn't you be somewhere killing more people to please your master?"

'Awkward,' Tom thought, moving to stand next to the boy. The man didn't get angry at Harry's words– he had stayed up late last night reading a book about grieving and that kind of nonsense, and apparently, lashing out thoughtlessly was only part of the picture. "Well, I didn't know her so it's not my loss. That's why I said I'm sorry for your loss, not mine. And I am sorry for your loss. It upsets me to see you…sad."

Much to Tom's own surprise, he wasn't lying. Actually, seeing the boy in such a miserable condition made him decide to not even try to wheedle out information– he wasn't in a hurry to find out the details after all. And he could always just drug the boy and legilimence the information out of him next summer.

"I want her back," Harry whispered, and Tom glanced at the grave and the text on the tombstone. It was, admittedly, a simple and tasteful thing. Then again, it had been a Black that had organized all this.

"Why did this have to happen?" Harry asked. "Why did she have to die?"

"Well," Tom started. "I… am not sure. Why do people usually die?"

"I miss her," Harry said, and Tom felt immensely grateful and relieved that the boy wasn't crying. Encouraged by that, he continued.

"Some old fool once told me that to the well organized mind death is but the next great adventure," he said. "Does that make you feel any better?"

"Not really," said Harry.

"Dreadful," Tom muttered, frowning. Stupid Dumbledore.

Harry then took in a shuddering breath before he clenched his eyes shut and burst out crying.

"What? Why are you crying now?" Tom yelped. He wouldn't admit it later, but at that moment, he was panicking, not knowing what to do. "What did I say? Potter, did I say something wrong? Harry! Stop it! Merlin, can I stun you? Should I stun you? How do I stop people from crying?"

"You're pathetic," Harry cried, his whole body shaking as he sobbed. "You utter bastard."

"Yes, I am a bastard," Tom agreed. "But certainly not pathetic. How do I stop you from crying!"

"Don't yell at me!" Harry sobbed.

"I'm not, I'm not yelling at you," Tom yelled at the distressed boy. He needed Harry to quiet down or the noise would catch someone's attention despite the notice-me-not charms. So he kneeled in front of the boy and pulled him into a stiff, awkward hug. Harry didn't seem to care about the awkwardness at all as he instantly wrapped his arms around Tom, pressed his face against the man's shoulder, and cried even harder.

'Merlin, I sure hope nobody can see us,' Tom thought, patting Harry's back in what was supposed to be a soothing or comforting manner. "Okay. There you go. What should I say to make you feel better?"

"Don't say anything," was Harry's muffled response. "You suck at comforting people."

"Well, to be fair, you're the first person I have ever comforted."

"I want my mummy back."

"Yes, Harry, and so do many others. I, of course, was different. But then again, I never knew her."

"You never knew your mum?" Harry asked, pulling slightly away. "Why?"

"She died right after I was born," Tom replied, glad that the boy seemed to have calmed down at least slightly. "And at the time, I had no idea who my father was so it's not like I got to hear anything about her anyway."

"You didn't live with your father?" Harry asked, and he had a peculiar expression on his face. Not quite curious, more like… wary? Suspicious? "Why?"

"Oh, he, well, didn't stick around once my mother told him about me."

Harry, from his part, was coming to a very mind-boggling realization. He had thought that Tom's face was slightly familiar and vaguely similar to the face of the boy in the picture… the Dark Lord. And now… what had Tom said about the Dark Lord's past?

"His Muggle father had abandoned his pure-blood mother as soon as he could, and the woman died as soon as she had named her child."

But it couldn't be! The Dark Lord must have been… at least seventy years old! But Tom– who had claimed that his real name was Marvolo– didn't look older than a man around his early-thirties! So surely he couldn't be…

'Except that wasn't it rumoured that the Dark Lord is immortal?' Harry thought, and the magnitude of the possibilities presented almost made him fall down. If Tom really was the Dark Lord, then how come he hung around Harry anyway? Wait, what if the man knew about Harry's wand? But he hadn't acted hostile towards Harry aside from that very first meeting in the Library a long time ago.

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked, his hands still on Tom's shoulders, staring into the man's eyes. "Are you my friend?"

"What?" Tom asked, blinking with surprise. He couldn't help but notice that even though a lot had changed in the boy– he wasn't as annoying or rude, for one– the Avada Kedavra-g reen eyes were still the same. "What's this, now? My response depends on whether or not you'll start crying."

"Oh, shut up," Harry snapped, scowling. "I'm not going to cry again… I think."

'I take back that bit about him not being rude anymore,' Tom thought. "It's probably going to rain soon. Shouldn't you go inside?"

"Perhaps," Harry replied, narrowing his eyes again. "Why don't you come with me? Uncle Sirius is an elite Death Eater too. You probably know him."

"Well actually, I have some things to do," Tom said hastily. He did not want to see Black's expression if the man was to see him… as hilarious as the reaction might be. "I just thought I could drop by and see how you were doing. I'll… just… take my leave, soon."

"Who can I blame for this?" Harry asked suddenly. "My mum's dead. Who can I blame? The Rebels? The Dark Lord?"

"Blame the war," Tom replied. "And for the war, blame the Rebels."

"As long as I don't blame the Dark Lord, huh?" Harry stated bitterly.

"You and I will soon have to talk about this," Tom said, letting go of Harry and shrugging the boy's hands off his shoulders before standing up. "If you're not going to be a Death Eater…"

"Shouldn't you just get rid of me, then?" Harry asked, taking a step back and looking up at the man with a blank expression. "I wouldn't mind. My mum's dead, and my dad can't bear to look at me anymore. Life is too confusing, and everything's a mess anyway."

"Don't be stupid," Tom replied, offering Harry a handkerchief. "Wipe your nose and look presentable. Always act like you're wearing an invisible crown."

'I'm probably mistaken,' Harry thought, doing as told. 'He's much too nice to be the Dark Lord.' "What should I do? I don't… mum isn't here, and…"

"Focus on your studies," Tom said. "You're still just a brat; you aren't supposed to have any grand goals or responsibilities anyway at that age. Besides… if you try to get involved in this war at this point, all you'll manage to do is to make yourself an enemy of the Dark Lord. And that, as much as I'd hate it, will get you killed."

'I don't doubt that,' Harry thought and nodded. "It's not like there's anything I can do anyway."

"Precisely," Tom said and nodded as well. "I'll take my leave now. Just focus on school, and learn as much as you can. Your mother is gone, but you're not. Your future is still ahead of you."

"Goodbye," Harry said, and watched the man walk past the wards as easily and unnoticeably as he had done before. As soon as Tom was outside the warded area, he apparated away.

'You're right,' the boy thought. 'There is no such a button that I can press on to stop the war, but I can definitely do something to help that process.'

"Mum," Harry said, "I don't think I can stay hidden anymore, no matter what your wishes were." But first, he'd have to confront James about something. He hadn't forgotten about what the woman at the train station had told him.

"Ask your father about when you died."

*

Sirius had ended up force-feeding James two vials of Calming Draught before the man could sit still and talk. Harry was still outside, and all the guests had left, thankfully, not wishing to linger around for any longer than necessary.

"Your attitude is hurting Harry," Sirius said. "I know you're in pain right now, but he's a child, your son, he needs you."

"I want Lily to come back," James muttered, eyes closed. "What's the point in doing this shit anymore if I can't have Lily with me?"

"Doing what?" Sirius asked, alarmed. "Look, buddy, I know you're mourning, but don't do anything hasty—"

"Hasty like what?" James drawled, sounding almost drunk. "Give it a few years, and then Harry will be in the front, too. He's going to be elite, you see. All that Durmstrang nonsense and all. He'll go and fight in that war, and what if he dies too, huh? My wife's gone, and my son will die before he reaches twenty—"

"Don't be stupid," Sirius scoffed. "I'm not going to let Harry end up fighting in a battle if I can prevent it."

"I don't know how I can survive without Lily, Sirius."

"You just have to be strong, James."

"And… and what's the difference between being strong and being jaded?" James snorted. "Wish I could be jaded. Maybe… maybe I would feel less miserable."

"I'm not telling you to not feel sad and grieve," Sirius said. "I'm just telling you that there's life even after this."

"No there isn't," James deadpanned. "I'm going to live in this stupidly big house on my own with the house-elves—"

"And Harry."

"Harry will be in Durmstrang. Or he can be with you. He can do whatever he bloody wants, I don't care."

"James!" Sirius snapped. 'I'm glad I fed him the potions. Who knows what he would be like otherwise without them.' "I told you a few times already– I know that you're sad and grieving, but don't you fucking dare to take it out on Harry like this."

"Take it out on Harry!"

"You're ignoring him! Fuck, more than that, you're neglecting him! You didn't bother asking about him at all, whether he's eating or sleeping or—"

"Fuck you Sirius," James hollered, feeling such anger that it even pushed through the haze of calmness the potions had forced him into. "You think I bloody care if he sleeps badly for a week! My wife is dead! Which do you think is worse!"

"Don't you love him, you—"

"Well of course I do! I just don't think that he's important right now! He’s fine!"

"If that's what you think," Sirius growled, "then I'm taking Harry to live in Grimmauld Place with me for the summer. Meanwhile, do try to snap back to your senses before you end up as alone as you really think you already are."

"Lily would know what do," James groaned, covering his face with his hands. "She would…"

'I didn't know you depended on her that much,' Sirius thought and sighed. "You're not the only one who lost someone important in this war, James. As devastating as it is, you have to move on. Eventually."

"Don't take Harry away yet," James said then, sadly. "I'll try to get better. Just… not today."

"As you wish."

"I'm tired."

"Go to sleep."

"I can't."

"I can stun you."

"Don't be a bitch."

"Bastard," Sirius grinned, standing up. "It's getting late, mate. Instead of stunning you, how about you just get a sleeping potion?"

"I think I have some left," James muttered. "Hand me one?"

"I'll put it on the table," Sirius said. "Grab it when you want to sleep, though I suggest talking to Harry first."

"You'll come tomorrow?"

"For sure. See you."

"Yeah… See you."

Sirius left then, right after positioning a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion within James's reach. He wondered absently where Harry was on his way out. He didn't see the boy on his way to the Floo, and the only thing that stopped him from looking for Harry was the possibility of him wanting some time alone.

'If he really is alone,' Sirius wondered while grabbing a handful of floo powder. 'Did all of his friends leave? Maybe one of them stuck around or something.'

*

It was almost an hour later that James moved from the armchair he had been slouching on. He stood up, rubbing his face and wondering if the sleeping draught would really help him. He was tired, so tired, but he knew that, if he went to bed, he'd just stay awake thinking and thinking and thinking.

He had no idea what to do without Lily.

He didn't have any idea how to raise Harry on his own. Didn't know how to order the house-elves to do all of what they should– Lily had handled that part, always. And now, she was no longer there. Whose wise advice would he listen to now? Who'd know to soothe his doubts and fears?

His wife had been more than just a spouse– she had been his friend. And now, it felt like James was missing a half of his heart and soul, and he didn't know how to cope without that half. Who'd be there to say no when James and Sirius would try to lure Harry into doing something reckless? Who'd be there to stop them from eating a whole cake in one go?

For some reason, James was frightened of the idea of having to drink his morning coffee alone. At breakfast, lunch, dinner… there'd be just him and Harry. And every time he saw Harry or thought about him, he'd also think about those future moments when Lily should be there, but wouldn't be.

Like Christmas.

Or birthdays.

What about when Harry graduates? Who'll stand by James then, clapping and watching Harry with pride? Sirius? No offence to the man but James didn't want Sirius to look like a proud mother. Best friend or not, there were some things a guy just shouldn't do, in James's opinion.

Sighing again, James grabbed the vial and exited the office room. He'd sleep in a guest room– sleeping in the room he had shared with Lily would be just too painful.

'I wonder if this feeling will ever go away,' James thought. Suddenly, he stopped. In the hallway in front of him, Harry was standing with a peculiar expression on his face. The boy looked taller and older than James remembered. Then again, he hadn't really looked at his son for… almost a year. He hadn't seen Harry at all for months, and when he finally could, he had tried to avoid doing so.

James felt ashamed but didn't regret it. Couldn't. It hurt, looking at Harry who had eyes so similar to Lily.

"I have something I want to talk about," his son said.

"Harry, I don't want to talk right now," James replied tiredly. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting, but—"

"I don't care," Harry cut in. "It's important."

"Not now, Harry," James said, scowling. His earlier irritation was surging up again. Why couldn't even Harry understand? Why was the child being so dense and insensitive? James really didn't have the energy to deal with this kind of behaviour right now. "Just go back to your room—"

"I'll leave you to drown in your self-pity as soon as you answer my question," Harry snapped, glaring. James was… surprised? Maybe even shocked. Harry wasn't really a negative person, and James couldn't remember a time when his son had looked so angry and… hateful.

"I'm not drowning myself in self-pity," James muttered, hunching his back.

"In self-pity and whatever liquid you get your hands on," Harry replied coolly, eyes flickering towards the half-hidden bottle of firewhisky in James's right hand and the dreamless sleep potion in his left. "Since, according to you, you're the one who suffered the worst loss, isn't that right?"

"You wouldn't understand," James groaned. How many times would he have to re peat it for people to finally understand? "She's… was… my wife, Harry."

"And she was my mother," Harry replied. "No amount of grief will bring her back."

"So you're over it already?" James growled, narrowing his eyes. "You—"

"I don't think I'll ever truly be over it," Harry said calmly. "But there's something I need to know. And you're going to tell me, dad."

"Fine," James relented. "Fine. Quickly, though. I just want to go and… rest."

"I'm sure," Harry muttered. "I want you to tell me about an event that took place probably very early in my childhood."

'What the hell is that about?' James wondered, frowning. "What is it?"

"Tell me," Harry started, taking a deep breath. "Tell me about when I died."

Chapter Text

James found it hard to breathe. Had he been prone to heart-attacks, he was sure that he'd be in the middle of one right at that moment.

"What?" he croaked, flinching when the bottle slipped off his hand and landed with a loud crash on the floor, resulting in a puddle of firewhisky and sharp pieces of glass scattering around him. "I… I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me dad," Harry said, and he looked so tired. Even old, strangely enough, and James wondered what kind of lessons his son had gone through in Durmstrang for him to have changed so much from the timid, shy and unnoticeable boy he had once been.

"Harry—"

"I'm tired of having too many questions in my head. Tell me. Please."

"There isn't much I can tell you," James stammered. "Almost nothing at all, in fact. Not because I don't want to, but because I really don't know. "

"Then tell me what you do know," said Harr y. "I need to know."

"Now really isn't the time for it."

"Now really isn't the time for getting completely drunk either, but that isn't stopping you."

"I am not getting completely drunk!" James snapped, flushing as soon as he said the words out loud. He then sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking almost tearful. "Can't this wait till tomorrow? I'm tired."

"Your tomorrow," Harry said, shaking his head, "will never be my today if I let you decide when."

"Fine," James finally sighed. "But not here in the hallway. Let's go… to the kitchen. I might want some coffee after all."

'I wonder what he'll tell me,' Harry thought, following his father towards the kitchen. 'This is so surreal. I had thought that he'd… say something different… Deny it more. That he'd give a reasonable excuse or…'

"Do you want anything to drink?" James asked as soon as they reached the kitchen. Harry shook his head, sitting down. "Hot chocolate? Tea?"

"No. No, thank you."

"Alright. Um. Well… You asked… about that. And, well…"

"Just get to the point," Harry urged. He felt, as silly as it might sound, scared of hearing what James would have to say. He did want to hear it and knew that it'd be important, and yet… he was afraid. He wondered fleetingly what his mother would have said.

James, after making himself a cup of coffee, sat down as well. He didn't look at Harry, opting to keep his gaze fixed on the dark surface of the table. He stayed silent for a few long moments fore looking up with troubled expression.

"You were a stillborn," he started. "When you were born, you were dead. You didn't breathe. Your heart wasn't beating."

"Did you do some kind of a ritual or something, then?" Harry asked quietly, forcing himself to believe and try to accept what he was hearing. James shook his head.

"No. After a few moments you… coughed and started breathing. And your heart, too, started beating. We… passed it off as a misdiagnosis, but we know… knew that it wasn't. You were dead and we don't have a clue how come you… lived again."

Lived again.

The Boy Who Lived, that's what that crazy, familiar woman had called him at the train station.

"I didn't let you die then," she had said. "And I'm not going to let you die now!"

Did that mean that the woman – if only he could remember her name! – had something to do with him living after being a stillborn? But how did that work, technically? Was he a healthy baby till minutes before being born or was he somehow—

"Do I have any kind of internal deformities?" Harry asked nervously, feeling almost nauseous. James shook his head.

"No, no. You… we checked you… We took you to several different, extremely skilled Healers all across the world. There was nothing physically wrong with you that they could point out."

"And that's all you know about this?"

"Yes. I told you, it's not much. I don't know what happened, Harry. But I do know that it did happen." James then sighed and looked away from Harry again. "There were several instances, though, when we'd wonder if… well… what kind of effect having been dead would have on you."

"Like what?" Harry asked quickly. "Did I do something strange or…?"

"Not really strange," James explained. "You were a quiet child and there's nothing wrong with that. But up till you were… six, I think, you used to sometimes… call your mother and when she'd come running, you'd claim that you weren't calling her, but calling… what was that name again… Merope. "

"Merope," Harry whispered, feeling as if some parts of a very big, vastly unknown puzzle were sliding into place. Merope. The woman at the train station. She was Merope. But why did he know her name? Why did she know him? Why was he so important to her, for her to keep saving him?

"From where… did you find out about this?" James asked warily. "Not many know about this and it worries me greatly to think that you're being approached by some stranger."

"I have my sources," Harry replied, resisting the temptation to continue: 'none them alive.' Instead he said: "Are there any more secrets I should know of?"

"I don't know," James said. "I don't think so. Are you… okay with this?"

"When the possible stops making sense, it's time to believe in the impossible," Harry muttered. 'I need to go back and find Merope again. I wonder if Albus knows her.'

"Harry," James spoke again, after a few moments of silence. "I don't know what to do." Harry looked at his father, who was staring gloomily at his cooling cup of coffee, looking more like a lost child in a man's body than the strong, dependable father he was supposed to be.

What could he say? He knew how he felt and knew that he'd need a lot of time and Merlin knows how many crying episodes before he'd be able to cope well enough to find some semblance of peace. But saying that would do nothing to help James, and Harry felt as if he was with a stranger there, not with what was left of his family.

"I'm unbelievably sad about mum," Harry finally said. "But I think that if I don't force myself to move on, I'll be unable to do anything anymore. I think that… You have to move on or you won't be able to live."

"Move on? " James sneered. "Move on when her body is yet to cool in its coffin? Move on when the mud on her grave is still fresh? Move on—"

"You're weak."

The words escaped Harry and it took him a few moments to realize that he had actually been the one to say them. James's mouth was gaping open but no sound was coming forth. And so Harry gathered his thoughts and continued, deciding that nothing he could say would be able to bring more damage than what had already been brought.

"I feel like a part of me is in that grave with her," Harry said, feeling tears burning behind his eyelids once again. "I feel like all I can remember right now are the moments when I said something mean and nasty to her. Every time I didn't say thank your or sorry or please. Every opportunity I wasted being silent when I could have told mum that I love her."

"Nothing," the boy continued, "is going to bring back those moments for me to fix them. And I don't think I'll ever stop dreaming and wishing upon every star for the chance to talk to her at least once more. I feel so sad and angry and terrible and guilty and so many other things I can't even start naming. And yet, you know what dad? I'm not going to forget about… tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. The future. My future. The future without mum."

"Harry—" James started, but Harry cut him off.

"And I think that's what being strong is, sort of. To move on in order to survive even if you don't want to. Because times like these we have to decide, dad, between what we want to do and what we should do. It's no different from deciding when to fight and when to not fight."

"Durmstrang has taught you well," James muttered.

'I need you,' Harry thought, but didn't – couldn't –say that. So instead he turned to leave the kitchen. "I'll sleep the night here and tomorrow will go to Grimmauld Place. I'll spend most of my day there."

James didn't stop him.

James didn't stop him the following morning either.

*

"…and thus, knowing that it would please you greatly, I saved it from a definite death," Sirius said, finishing his explanation regarding the presence of Remus Lupin in his house. Harry, who had been pleasantly surprised, was very relieved to hear that the werewolf was in good health and nearby.

"Thank you, Uncle Sirius," Harry said to the dark haired man who nodded with a satisfied expression.

"Just remember to not go outside with it or anything. I made it take an oath a while ago so you're not in danger even when I'm out. Which is… soon, considering that I have to help your daddy dearest regain his lost senses."

"He's completely lost his footing," Harry muttered sadly. "And I said… mean things to him yesterday. I think you're the best person to support him right now."

"Kid," Sirius sighed, reaching to ruffle Harry's messy black hair. "Knowing you, mean or not, whatever you said was probably something very meaningful."

'If only you knew,' Harry thought. 'Or maybe you do. I don't know and I don't want to know.'

Less than an hour later Sirius finally was done combing his hair and picking his robes – not that Harry could see a difference from the man's usual appearance – before Flooing to the Potter Manor with the promise of getting James's drinking under control.

'He's probably going to get them both drunk,' Harry thought, making his way towards the basement where Sirius told him the werewolf would be. 'And then the world's worst hangover would supposedly teach dad a lesson.'

Seeing Lupin after what felt like an eternity was nostalgic. Last time when Harry had seen the creature, so many things had been different. His mum had been alive, for one.

Lupin was just as tall as Harry remembered, but not quite as thin. He was dressed in dark brown robes that were of finer quality than what he had been wearing when he had lived with the Potters. The werewolf was looking at him silently, with a friendly expression on his face.

"You know," Harry started. "I think I missed you."

"Well, that's something I haven't heard before," Lupin replied with a smile, before it faded away. "I'm sorry about your mother. And please, do sit down."

"Thank you," Harry replied, walking towards one of the chairs in the room and sitting down. After a moment of hesitation he kicked off his shoes and lifted his legs to curl on the chair comfortably.

"Your godfather—"

"Went to talk with dad."

"He isn't coping well, I take it."

"He isn't even trying."

"Do you want to talk about your feelings regarding this?" Lupin asked gently. Harry shrugged. He sort of wanted to talk, but at the same time he felt that he had already talked and thought so much about this. So he shrugged again and shook his head.

"A… friend said that to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure," Harry said. "I wonder… where my mum is right now."

"How strange," Lupin muttered. "Do you know who the person who originally said those words is?"

"No. My friend just said that it was some old fool."

"Your friend was quoting the previous headmaster of Hogwarts. His name was Albus Dumbledore."

"Albus?" Harry said sharply, eyes widening. "I mean… what a strange name. It's not very common, is it?"

"No," Lupin replied. "He was the Dark Lord's most dangerous enemy… Although, in my eyes, Albus was always a good man."

"What was he like?" Harry asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "I mean, what did he look like?"

"Tall and thin, he was," Lupin said. "Long silver hair and a long beard too. Blue eyes, if I remember correctly. He was a good, wise man."

'If we're thinking about the same person, then I probably agree,' Harry though, feeling the now familiar disbelief and doubt enter his mind again. "Do you miss him?"

"Not particularly," Lupin said. "But I do sometimes wonder how different the world would be, had he lived to see this day."

"When I woke up this morning I didn't remember at first that mum's gone," Harry admitted suddenly. "Remembering was terrible. I thought I was doing well, trying to get over it, but…"

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, and love leaves a memory no one can steal," Lupin quoted. "Give yourself time."

"I can't imagine staying at home anymore," Harry whispered. "It feels so wrong, with mum gone. And whose bloody idea was it to place a family cemetery so close to the main house anyway? It's like a constant reminder, forbidding us from feeling happy without feeling guilty at the same time."

"Mignon McLaughlin once said," Lupin started, "that the death of someone we know always reminds us that we are still alive - perhaps for some purpose which we ought to re-examine."

"Purpose," Harry repeated, as if tasting the word. "I think I know what my purpose is. Or at least… I think I know what I want my purpose to be."

"Good," Lupin said simply. "Moving on is easier when you know where to go."

*

"Crucio. "

Tom stared at the convulsing body of a Rebel with dark sense of satisfaction. It was a woman, perhaps in her forties, who had tried to smuggle a stolen file of important documents out of England. Her piercing screams irritated Tom, but silencing her would be pointless.

"The problem is that you confuse me too much," Tom muttered, thinking of Harry. "I should just kill you, Harry Potter. Who knows what kind of problematic character you'll end up becoming in the future."

"Why didn't you? " Nagini asked, slithering into the cell. "If dead-alive boy is dead then he'll do you no harm in the future. "

"I told you," Tom replied, scowling. "He's entertaining."

"You were never into dangerous entertainment. "

"Shut it, Nagini."

"Ooh, cranky, are we? "

"I don't feel good," Tom said, not looking at the snake, focusing on torturing the Rebel instead. "I don't feel good at all."

"Why? Surely not because of what you're doing. "

"Mm? Oh, this. No, of course not."

"Explain yourself. "

"Well, I—"

" Boring. What's for dinner? "

"Sometimes I hate you," Tom hissed, scowling at Nagini.

"Only sometimes? Good scales, I'd say. You hate everyone else always, " Nagini replied, before it seemed to rear back and hold its breath – if snakes could do that. Tom wasn't sure. Contrary to popular belief, his animagus form was not a snake. Not that Tom was in a hurry to correct that particular misconception. He did feel that it was vastly unfair for him to not be able to turn into a snake, but never knew quite on whom to pin the blame.

Definitely not himself.

He was the epitome of all things Slytherin. He was a Parselmouth, for Merlin's sake! He was cunning and ambitious and… he was…a thestral animagus of all things. What for? Sure, the animals were all things dark and dangerous but they weren't snakes! They weren't—

"Smell that? " Nagini suddenly said, flickering her tongue. "This room is suddenly reeeeeking of self-pity."

"I am not wallowing in self-pity!"

"…I was talking about the female human there. "

"…oh."

"Anyway, " Nagini said. "I think you feel uncomfortable because you don't hate your dead-alive boy. "

"That doesn't make sense."

"Think about it. "

"You say that I'm feeling uncomfortable because I don't hate Harry," Tom said. "I refuse to think about it."

"Because you know I'm right. "

"Because you're a snake and you don't understand humans."

"I understand you well enough. "

"No," Tom said, sending the Killing Curse towards the Rebel. "No you don't." He then stood up, still feeling troubled. There was so much that still could go wrong, as long as the opposition existed. He'd have to snuff them out quickly and focus on making the rest of Europe submit to him the way England has.

Excluding Muggles, of course. Those were only good for being hunted like the disgusting filth they were. Sub-humans. Lacking. So very… weak.

"I hate Harry Potter," Tom murmured. "And I hate how he makes me feel all these… feelings. " The feelings he didn't even know he had, such as the feeling of being content simply due to the presence of another person. The feeling of wanting to see someone, to enjoy the company of someone. And this…confusing, troubling hesitation that stopped him from getting rid of him.

Tom didn't, couldn't, understand why he was feeling like that. He couldn't even pinpoint when exactly during the past two years he had started feeling like this. All these little attachments had crept upon him like invisible thieves in the dark.

"How do I fix this?" he asked the corpse of the dead Rebel. "What do I do with that child?"

*

Harry's days were busy.

There was so much he needed to think about, so much he needed to research and so many questions he needed to find answers to. He focused on that with everything he had, allowing his research to distract him from thinking about his mother. It did help, a little bit. He'd see her after-image standing where she'd never stand again, conjured by his imagination and desperate wishes, and nothing but closing his eyes and thinking about his research would succeed in driving the thoughts of her away.

He'd be reading a book and for a few insane moments hear her calling him, though he knew that she wouldn't – couldn't – do so from the world of the dead. So he'd start reading aloud and pretend that everything was fine and nothing affected him. It'd work, somewhat. He'd read and research for as long as he could stay awake. He'd sleep only when he was too tired to resist, ending up resting on couches and chairs and sometimes even on the floor of the library.

Harry was sure that he wouldn't be able to stop the war – thinking that he could was unrealistic. But he could try to find out what were the aims of the Rebels and what were the aims of the Dark Lord and then he could look for ways to either make both happen or come up with a compromise.

There was so much he would have to do, aside from that. Making people understand that not every werewolf was a monster would be tough, if not near impossible within Harry's own lifetime. But if he could start the process, that would surely, eventually, one day improve something. It all was in the education. If people would just learn from neutral sources before judging… why was that so difficult to some?

There were so many people who mocked others for being easily fooled, and yet believed most of the propaganda said about strangers. Not just creatures, but foreigners and people of different religions. Didn't they understand that magazines sensationalize things in order to sell? They encouraged stereotypes and prejudice and more often than not offered only the convenient, misleading, scandalous side of the truth. How many people thought that they knew everything about a group of people just because they read a few articles about it?

With papers like that, was it really a wonder that people thought that every werewolf was a monster, every foreigner a criminal, every person with a different religion a cult-obsessed killer?

'Maybe that's where I should start,' Harry thought. 'Subtly. I need the co-operation of some magazine. I wouldn't declare anything drastic right away… It works best when an idea is thrown out there and people would get their time to think about it… get used to it… Heck, I could simply start by focusing on offering the complete, unbiased truth of what happens. Introducing thoughts of equality could come later.'

Harry reached for a piece of parchment and wrote down a note about looking into the option of using media to his advantage. He'd have to divide h is cases and recruit people at some point – there was simply too much for him to handle on his own. It would be dangerous, but what did Harry have to lose anymore? His own life? He honestly couldn't bring himself to worry about that right now.

'It's not like people would even have to know that it's me behind this,' Harry thought. 'Who knows that I'm behind one idea doesn't have to know that I'm behind other ideas. I just need to… I need advice. I don't know how to deal with people. I don't know anything about how to be a politician.'

Yet another thing he'd need to talk about with Albus.

Harry had tried to understand all of what politics involved, but there was so much that didn't make sense to him. He had read many books, even the mind-numbingly boring tome Politics of the Proper and Pure by Pius van Houten, but nothing had given him the answers he needed.

The boy didn't look up from his notebook when he heard someone walking nearby, coming closer by the step – it'd be either his father or Sirius anyway.

"Harry."

Harry looked up then, to see James standing there, looking awkward and tired and old. The man had lost weight and was very pale and he hadn't bothered to even shave for quite a while.

"Yes?" Harry asked, wondering when he had started to think of his father as 'James' anyway. When, during these past days, had James the father turned into James the man, James the Death Eater, James the husband-of-Lily… and most of all: James the widower.

But not James-the-father. Not anymore.

Not that Harry didn't know that James was his dad, and of course he loved him still, but he didn't feel as if he still had the father he could depend on. The father who had been there.

"I'm going with Sirius to France," James said. "He thinks it'd do me some good to leave the country. Do you want to come with us?"

"No thank you," Harry replied evenly. "I can manage being here on my own. The house-elves will clean and prepare the food and I'm well capable of making… sensible decisions."

"I contacted Gringotts yesterday," James continued. "Siri's idea. I know you're a smart boy, Harry, so I'll leave you the key to your vault. It's not the Family vault, obviously, but it does have quite a few galleons in it. So… if you need to get anything during my absence… you can. I put five hundred galleons there, just in case. Should cover for the whole summer holiday if I don't return before you go back to school."

"Thank you," Harry said. "I'll see you… when I see you, I guess. Take care."

"You too," James replied, hunching his shoulders and turning away. Harry stared at the spot where his father had been, and couldn't… didn't want to believe the conversation that had just happened. He'd be alone in the manor, feeling even more like the orphan he was now.

What would he do in an empty house, on his own? Sure, he and his father hadn't interacted much and whenever James made an appearance it was so very depressing, but... Did he want to be alone?

The decision was made for him when, on the evening of the next day, an owl with dyed feathers brought him a letter.

Dear Harry,

Many little sparkly moons have passed since we last talked. I miss you dearly.

I was at the funeral, of course, but I didn't want to make you think. You always think so much, Harry. Perhaps you should buy a pensieve? Although they can be very expensive, so how about you steal one instead? You have my full support and approval.

When I was nine my mum died in an accident. She was experimenting with some spells and the results were less than stellar. I still wish she was here with me, or at least more than pieces in a box, but I'm no longer sad about it. You see, Harry, there are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go.

That said, I would like to come and see you. If you have absolutely nothing against it, I'd like for you to be home tomorrow. I'll come for lunch.

Love and livers,

Luna Lovegood

*

Luna hadn't changed much, only gotten taller.

She arrived carrying a basked, her hair in a braid and a crown of sticks and flowers on her head. Her layered green and white dress and bare feet didn't make her look any less like a human-shaped forest fairy.

"Hello Harry," the girl said, smiling dreamily. "How have you been holding up?"

"I'm fine," Harry replied. "Let's go to the lounge."

"Oh, you're not fine," the small girl said, reaching for Harry's hand. "It's warm outside. Let's go see your mum."

"What?" Harry blurted, eyes widening. He hadn't even thought about going to see his mother's grave so soon, and he certainly didn't feel like doing so even now. "I don't want to."

And yet, despite his protests, he found himself following Luna, who apparently didn't mind walking outside with no shoes on.

"Such a nice weather," the girl said pleasantly as they approached the graveyard. "Perfect for telling your mum that you're not yet alright."

"It's not like she's there anymore," Harry replied sullenly.

"Of course not," Luna agreed. "But we don't know if she can hear us through it anyway, now do we?"

"I have so much I should be doing, though. Like research and stuff. I haven't even done my summer homework yet."

"Careful, darling. I understand your thirst for knowledge but don't drown in all the information. Give your mind the time it needs to process everything. Oh, here we are." And then, much to Harry's astonishment, Luna spread a blanket in front of Lily's grave, sat down and started pulling out snacks from the basket.

"A picnic?" Harry asked, disbelieving. The last time he had been there, it had been… awful. And now…

"Hello Mrs. Potter," Luna said kindly. "I'm Harry's friend, Luna."

'She's crazy,' Harry thought, but sat down next to the girl anyway. He looked at the tombstone and oddly enough didn't feel like crying. He missed his mother so much, but it didn't hurt like it used to.

"Harry hasn't been doing well lately," Luna continued talking to the grave while handing a cup of tea to Harry. "He looks almost transparent, doesn't he?"

"I don't," Harry said, shaking his head. He was reluctant to admit that the weather really was nice and that as bizarre as it was to have a picnic where they were at the moment… it seemed to help, in some strange way.

"Nobody is completely gone till they're forgotten and all signs of their existence have been wiped out," Luna said, reaching for a purple cupcake and offering it to her friend. "Eat, Harry. You're way too skinny."

"Like you're one to talk," Harry muttered, but did accept the offered cupcake. "Did you make these or your house-elves?"

"Oh, we don't have house-elves. I made these. Mum's recipe – she used to write all of her recipes into cards and pin them on the walls."

"When... when did you get used to the idea that your mum was, you know, gone?"

"When I realized that if I don't take care of the snacks during trips, we'd go without," Luna said. "Daddy is very bad at organizing things."

"You're weird."

"But so are you. It's not a bad thing."

"Mum," Harry said, speaking for the first time to the grave. "I'm here with the oddest girl in the world." Luna smiled, picking up a green cupcake and licking its frosting.

"I don't think I mind, though," Harry continued. "The world needs more people like you, little Luna."

"Coming from you, that means a lot," Luna replied lightly. "Eat some more. I made over sixty cupcakes."

By the time Luna left the amount of cupcakes had been significantly lessened, and while Harry felt more nauseated than ever, he also felt more content than he had for the past days.

*

Harry hadn't heard of his father for two weeks, and despite the complicated feelings he had – the anger and resentment he didn't want to admit to feeling – he was quite worried. What was James up to? What was he doing? As long as he was with Sirius, then surely he'd be alright, right?

Harry sincerely hoped so.

He had been thinking a lot about going to the train station soon, but was yet to get around to doing that. He wasn't sure, after all, when his father would come back barging in. Or when someone would visit him and not give him a chance to regain his composure or something.

He'd have to do it in a room that wouldn't be the first option for him to be found in, should someone come looking. That ruled out his own room and the library. Perhaps one of the guestrooms would be the most suitable.

"Vurney," Harry called, and the house-elf in question appeared immediately, looking at him with wide, wary eyes.

"Master Harry," the thing squeaked.

"I'll be in the third guestroom," Harry said. "If someone comes in and asks about me, tell them that I'm resting and must not be disturbed. If it's my father, then warn me before he reaches me."

"Yes, Master Harry."

'I wonder if I can take one of the unused rooms and turn it into a secret study or something,' Harry thought, on his way to the third guestroom. 'I could fill it with my own books about this research… but I don't know any good locking charms that could keep Sirius and James out if they decided to snoop. Does Fidelius work on rooms?'

Oh well, he'd have the time to think about that later.

Harry locked the door of the guestroom behind him before lying down on the bed and clenching his eyes shut. It took him longer than usual to concentrate, but when he finally managed to focus, the sliding sensation washed over him so fast he was left breathless and nauseated for a few long moments.

Once again the first thing he became aware of was the damp coldness surrounding him, and a moment after, the sound of by-passing trains. When he opened his eyes, Harry was surprised to see considerably less people in the train station than what he had seen there before.

'Well, it's not like attacks happen every day,' Harry thought, rubbing his eyes. 'Maybe the others boarded their trains, already. Mum, too.'

"It seems that you have learned how to come and go at will," a familiar voice said, and Harry turned to see Albus smiling at him from a bench nearby. "Come sit, Harry."

"It's been a while," Harry said, eyeing the man curiously while hurrying towards him.

"Yes," Albus replied. "You are… taller now. And far less… naïve."

"How can you tell?" Harry scoffed. "Naivety—"

"You're weary," Albus cut in. "Your face is tired and set on such a grim expression. You have… experienced loss, no? Last time I saw you here—"

"I have a lot I need to ask you," Harry interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. "I have decided to do something about the situation out there, but I have no idea how, which steps to take and what I can even do. I can't bring peace to a world I do not know how to deal with. And… and there's so much I need to ask you, about Tom Riddle, and there's this woman called Merope, and there's just so much I don't know, Albus."

"Well, sit down and I can try to answer some of your questions, my boy," Albus offered. Harry nodded, and finally took a seat next to the old man.

"Are you Albus Dumbledore?" Harry asked. The old man nodded, and although at some level Harry was aware that he was talking to a supposedly great man, great wizard, he didn't feel any different. "A friend of mine quoted you at my mum's funeral. He said… that to the well-organized mind…"

"…Death is but the next great adventure," Albus continued with a warm smile. "Who is this friend of yours?"

"His name is Marvolo," Harry replied. "He's a very high-ranked Death Eater. Although… I've had my suspicions lately."

"Marvolo," Albus muttered, looking surprised. "How… peculiar. Which family—"

"Gaunt, I think he said," Harry said. "Marvolo Gaunt."

"Can you tell me about your… friendship with this person?" Albus asked, narrowing his eyes. "What does he look like? What does he tell you?"

"Well, he…"

*

"Lily was always a better parent than I could ever hope to be," James sniffed, looking at his drink. Sirius made a sympathetic sound while checking out a brunette dancing nearby.

"You're a good dad," Sirius said absently, gesturing for the barmaid to bring a few more bottles. "Really. You are."

"That's a lie," James muttered, sighing. "I'm nothing but a failure."

"I'm sure that Harry doesn't think that. Did you talk with him yet?"

"You should have seen him, Sirius. I felt like I was breaking to pieces in front of him and he was so composed all the time."

"What did he say?" Sirius asked. "I mean, you did mention that you have some kind of a serious discussion before he came to Grimmauld Place that one morning. So, uh… what exactly happened? He didn't tell me any details, just said that he had been harsh with you."

"Not sure if harsh is the right word," James replied, sighing. "And I know that a lot of what he said was reasonable, but… I just can't help but feel that he's not feeling enough. As if his emotional capacity is stunted or something. Don't you think that Harry has changed vastly ever since he started his studies at Durmstrang? Maybe they taught him something strange there—"

"And how'd that make him feel any less?" Sirius snorted. "Jamie, I don't think that Harry feels any less sad than you do. But he expresses it differently."

"But you do think that Harry has changed a lot!"

"Well… yeah, I guess. He's growing up away from home and all that. I think it's just normal."

"What should I do?" James groaned, reaching for a new bottle of whisky. "He even…he even told me to move on. S-said that I'd have to move on or I won't be able to live. Called me weak. And you know what, Siri? Compared to him, maybe I am. "

"Readjusting is a painful process, but most of us need it at one time or another," Sirius said wisely.

"So what does that have to do with anything I've said today?" James asked, looking and sounding unimpressed. Sirius grinned sheepishly.

"Uh, haha, nothing?"

"What do I do?"

"Talk to him again," Sirius suggested. "This time without thinking about yourself all the time. I mean, of course tell him about how insecure you feel and all that rot, but ask him what he wants. What does he think he needs from you. That song and dance."

"But what if I offend him or something? I don't want him to hate me," James muttered. "I want to be a friend, not an enemy."

"Harry's got plenty of friends," Siri us said. "What he needs for you to be is a parent. "

"I need to take care of him," James said, and although it was a statement, it sounded more like a question. Sirius nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! Focus on taking care of Harry! Whenever you feel dangerously depressed, do something to make Harry happy! Buy him a book or take him to a Quidditch game or something."

"Alright," James said, and for the first time ever since his wife passed away, he felt a ray of hope. Yes, maybe if he focused all of his energy on keeping Harry happy, he could somehow survive. Harry was a smart boy; he wouldn't need James to tell him what to not do or set limitations or punish him.

"I'll talk to him," James decided. "Tomorrow. Let's drink till we drop tonight, because tonight's my last night of mourning."

"That's my mate," Sirius grinned, before turning to see where the closest barmaid was. "Wench!" he yelled when he saw one. "More whisky!"

"More whisk y," James repeated, sighing quietly. "More, much more whisky."

And tomorrow he'd go to Harry.

*

"…and after that I haven't seen him," Harry said, finishing his tale about Tom.

"I believe that what you have suspected regarding his identity is true," Albus sighed after a few moments of silence. "Your Marvolo Gaunt might indeed be the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle."

"But why would he be so nice then?" Harry asked. "I mean, if he's really the Dark Lord, then… so much doesn't make sense! Why does he even bother with me? Why… why did he tell me about his past? What made him notice me? There's just so much that I don't understand."

"The lives of you two are connected," a familiar voice joined the conversation, and startled, Harry turned to see Merope standing a few feet away from them.

"You!" Harry exclaimed, standing up. "What are you—"

"Merope Gaunt," Albus murmured. "Indeed, it seems that young Harry here is connected to Tom somehow, for you to care."

"He is," Merope confirmed, her eyes glaring at Harry. "But this child is far too confused and ignorant to understand what's going on and what he should do."

"Why won't you tell me, then?" Harry snapped, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me! Tell me about who you are, who Tom is and, heck, even who I am and what I'm supposed to do!"

"You asked your father about when you died?" Merope wanted to know, and after a few moments of wary silence, Harry nodded.

"I was a stillborn," Harry said. "It's why I can come here, right?"

"Is it?" Merope grunted. "Is it that you can come here because you're supposed to be dead, or are you supposed to be dead because you can come here?"

"…it's not the same, is it?"

"No. And some things nobody knows. We might never know which one is the reason and which one the consequence."

"Do you know how Tom and I are connected? How do you know Tom, anyway?" Harry asked. Merope smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile at all, and Harry shivered, feeling suddenly almost scared.

"Tom has told you a lot about himself," Merope drawled. "But not everything."

'I'm still doubtful about if Tom is really the Dark Lord,' Harry thought. 'It just feels so bizarre. I think… Should I ask him?'

"You know that Tom was an orphan," Merope started, and Harry nodded.

"Yeah… he said that his Muggle father abandoned him and his witch mother died."

"I'm that witch mother who died."

'What? Wait, what?' Harry gaped, before shaking his head and clenching his eyes shut. "There should be a limit to… shocking news. I just…" It sometimes overwhelmed him, and he wasn't sure if he knew how to cope.

"Are you all right, my boy?" Albus asked.

"When the possible stops making sense, it's time to believe in the impossible," Harry muttered. Just how many times would he have to repeat those words for him to stop feeling surprised?

"That's a good rule to live by," Merope said, sounding bored. "You think your life is bizarre now? Just wait till I'm done explaining."

"It's alright, Harry," Albus said, patting the boy's shoulder. "At least your life is exciting."

"That's not exactly something I'm happy about," Harry said, and opened his eyes, nodding with a grim expression on his face. "All right. Start explaining."

"Let me tell you first all that there is to know about my son's life," Merope started. "Before I start telling you about your death from my point of view."

"How do you know that much anyway? I mean… you're dead, right? And most ghosts are visible if they stick around."

"Death has its secrets. Stop asking me or I'll kick you in the face."

"…yes ma'am."

*

"I thought you said you weren't going to visit him."

"Because I'm not going to visit him."

"Really? I suppose you're clearing your schedule for tomorrow's, uh, Quidditch match? "

"Since when do I care about Quidditch?"

"Then why are you clearing your schedule for it? "

"I'm not clearing my schedule for it!"

"For what, then? "

"For… for… just in case," Tom snapped, glaring at Nagini who was rolling on the carpet. "Vanish from my sight."

"I want to see the dead-alive boy, " Nagini whined. "I want to. I want to. I want to. "

"I don't care about what you want."

"But you're going to see him? "

"No!"

"Yes you are. "

"No, I am not."

"Yes, you are. "

"I said I'm not going to see him, Nagini."

"You are. "

"This is juvenile," Tom hissed, turning away from the snake. "But fine, since you seem to be so fixated on the issue – I'll go and see him tomorrow."

"Oh sure, be my guest and use me as an excuse. Are you going to tell your dead-alive boy that bad old Nagini forced you to drop by? "

"Amusing."

"But in all seriousness, " Nagini said, lifting her head up from the carpet. "You need to stop letting the dead-alive boy throw you off your game. You've been distracted lately. "

"Which is why I need to talk with the brat," Tom said. "I need to… establish his position or something. See if I should… think about ways to, uh, take him out of the picture."

"Kill him? "

"More like… keep him out of the way."

"And if you can't? "

"He's still young. I don't need to think about that yet."

Tom was going to seek Harry and have a word or two with him first. He'd go visit the boy and talk with him – surely the brat was going to be at home? If not, then Tom would just wait for him to return.

If the boy didn't want to be a Death Eater, then what? Tom knew that he'd never hire advisors - fake or genuine - and even if he did, he wouldn't hire an advisor with such strong feelings about right and wrong. Especially if they tended to make sense, like Potter often did.

Tom didn't need or want anyone with a conscience around him.

Tomorrow, he'd go to talk with the boy and finally decide what to do. He hated being unsure and since the situation didn't seem to get solved on its own, he was going to solve it himself.

By force, if necessary.

…and maybe with a bottle of spiked firewhisky.

Chapter Text

After Merope had finished telling him about the life of Tom Riddle up 'til the moment he became Lord Voldemort, Harry sat in silence for a long time. He almost couldn't bring himself to believe all of what he had been told. He was overwhelmed by the achievements of the Dark Lord. Had Tom… had that man really been the one to do all that? It seemed so unbelievable. Horcruxes, murders, immortality, dark magic… it just didn't sound… real.

"Are you sure you that we're talking about the same person?" Harry asked skeptically. "The Tom you're describing sounds so… bitter, angry, and cruel. My Tom isn't—"

"There are different sides to people," Merope replied curtly. "People can hide monsters behind smiles."

"Tom isn't a monster!"

"Not to you, not with you, he isn't," Albus agreed, "but I'm afraid that all you'll need to do to see what Voldemort believes in is to take a look at the laws that uphold the Wizarding World right now. The system that values those laws above justice."

"You can't blame one man for the faults of the whole system," Harry snapped, scowling. "I mean, sure, I don't agree with what's going on and yes, if Tom really is the Dark Lord then he's responsible for a lot, but not everything."

"And that's why you're going to help him," Merope said, sounding strangely pleased.

"Help him in what!" Harry snapped loudly, feeling a surge of irritation. "I was planning on doing what I can to stop the war and bring some sense of equality, one way or another. How can I… why are you asking so much from me? I can't do this! I still doubt that I can actually accomplish what I'm trying to do!"

"Don't let what you can't do stop you from doing what you can do," Albus said lightly.

"Your mother died because of this war," Merope said bluntly. "Who's going to die next? Your father? A friend? War is not a game, Harry Potter. If you don't stop it, then no one will."

"Why me!" Harry all but shrieked. "Why me! Why did you choose me to do this! Why is this all happening to me!"

"It had to be someone," Merope replied. "You're not special on your own, Harry Potter. You are special because the circumstances made you so."

"I don't understand," Harry groaned, clenching his eyes shut and trying to not let the desperation overwhelm him. There were so many questions without answers inside his head. Why did Merope make him live? Why did Tom tell him about his… about the Dark Lord's past? Had he ever told anyone else before? What did he see in Harry, for him to seek Harry's company and— did he know about the wand? Ah, his thoughts were swirling, and Harry couldn't focus on anything. He was starting to feel a dizzy.

"That's a lot to take in, I suppose," Albus sighed. "Go back home, Harry. Rest and think. You still have time. Many hours must have passed since you appeared here, and someone might be missing you already."

"Hah? You can't just… Look, there's still so much I need to know!" Harry exclaimed, although he did believe that he had spent the whole night at the train station. "Merope promised to tell me about my death from her point of view."

"If unfulfilled promises were nooses, we'd all be hanging before turning seventeen," Merope said wisely. "I'll tell you when you come back here again, Harry Potter. But now, you must return to your own existential dimension."

Harry looked at her for a while, silently, wondering if he really should go before getting the explanation he wanted from her. Then again, to be fair, she had already given him a lot to think about. All of which concerned Tom. He'd have to spend a lot of time trying to understand, trying to accept that maybe his Tom really was the Dark Lord.

The boy didn't resist the pull of magic as it snatched him away from the train station. He was, instead, trying to make sense of the strange feeling of… disappointment and dread inside him. If Tom really was the Dark Lord… then all the terrible, unjust things that had happened… The pointless executions, the racist speeches… had Tom really…?

Did Tom know about Harry's wand? When he had found Harry in the Durmstrang Library all that time ago… what had he even been doing there?

"I was merely observing," the man had said. His surprise when Harry had called him "Tom"– the name of the Dark Lord. Tom had red eyes. Wasn't there a rumour that the Dark Lord's eyes were red, too? And in the beginning, when Harry had told Tom about the rumours regarding war… then he had received a letter from Sirius saying that the Dark Lord had been told by someone that there were rumours going around. Harry had assumed that Tom had told the Dark Lord, but what if that wasn't the case? What if it had been Harry who told Tom who was the Dark Lord?

"Karkaroff said that it's very advanced there. And you know that the Dark Lord occasionally tests the seventh year students himself, don't you?"

Bright sunlight indicated clearly that not only had Harry spent his entire night with the dead, but that it was well into the morning by now. Harry, who hadn't moved from his position on the bed even after he came back from the train station, clenched his eyes shut and cringed when he remembered the words Sirius had said years ago. And then he remembered something else, too. A conversation between him and Tom.

"Why are you here?"

"Giving a guest appearance and testing out the older students."

How come Harry hadn't noticed all this?

Did Tom tolerate Harry just because Harry had his brother wand? Because right now, most of what Harry could remember about their past conversations was somehow… dangerous. Suddenly relevant. Harry had been careless, obviously, when talking with Tom, even if he hadn't noticed it at the time.

"Do you think you could ever serve the Dark Lord?"

Tom had asked Harry that, hadn't he? He had asked Harry about his views on death, war, Death Eaters, life after death and the more Harry thought about it, the more… wrong it all felt. How stupid had he been, to carelessly just reply to everything! Had Tom been using him all this time? For what purposes? Did the man know about Harry's ability? That was impossible, wasn't it?

What if? But what if not? Could it be? Was it? Was it not?

At the funeral, though, Tom hadn't done anything suspicious to him. Harry had been very vulnerable back then and all Tom had done was… comfort him. Had that been just a ruse to make Harry trust him? What was it? Why did the man have to be so complicated?

'I wonder what will happen once we meet again,' Harry thought, opening his eyes and sitting up on the bed. 'I guess I'll avoid him 'til I know what to do. Oh Merlin, what would I even say if he appeared now? Something completely stupid, I bet. '

Just then, a house-elf popped in.

*

'I just came waltzing in,' Tom thought disapprovingly. 'The brat needs better wards. Someone will murder him in his sleep if they're not fixed.' He glared at a trembling house-elf that squeaked something or other and then vanished, presumably to fetch the boy. Well, at least Harry was home. If the brat hadn't been there, then Tom would have… done something. He wasn't sure what exactly, but he knew that it wouldn't have been pleasant.

"You." The word was said breathlessly, almost disbelievingly. Tom turned to look at Harry and frowned. The brat looked exhausted, pale, and messy. The expression on his face seemed to be frozen to show some kind of… horror and shock? What for?

"You look terrible," Tom said. "Do I really have to ask you about your sleeping and eating habits?"

"You're the Dark Lord," Harry blurted out, and Tom tried very hard to pretend that his grimace was a pleasant smile.

"Well…" he started, setting the bottle of spiked firewhisky onto the table and nodding approvingly when two glasses appeared. "Well. "

"The first time we met," Harry continued, still standing at the doorway, "I called you simple-minded."

"And told me to not think on my feet lest I fall down and injure myself," Tom continued, sounding reluctantly impressed. Harry closed his eyes, and for a moment, the Dark Lord thought that the boy would pass out. Eventually, the child opened his eyes again and moved to sit down on one of the chairs in the lounge they were in. Tom, wary, sat down as well.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Harry asked, sounding desperate and confused. "You have had so many chances and so many reasons. Why haven't you? Is there a reason? Is… I just… And why didn't you deny it? You've been hiding it so far; why didn't you just tell me that I'm being stupid and that you're not him!"

"What does it matter?" Tom sighed. "I have my reasons for doing what I do." Usually. Most of the time. Sometimes. Okay fine: that was what he said when he had no idea what the hell he was doing but didn't want to admit it.

"This is insane," Harry said, and alarmed, Tom looked at the boy sharply. Why was the brat sounding tearful suddenly? He wasn't going to cry, was he? He had absolutely no reason to cry! The boy was, however, hiding his face behind his hands, and his hunched shoulders didn't seem to be shaking.

"The truth won't change regardless of whether or not you like it," Tom said, pouring some firewhisky into the two glasses on the table. He wasn't, of course, going to drink his own– the whiskey was doused with a modified calming draught that should work to make the boy agreeable and talkative.

"This is too much," Harry said, clenching his eyes tightly shut behind his palms. "This is too much. "

"What—?"

"Are you really the Dark Lord?"

"Didn't we already—"

"Are you?"

Tom stared silently at Harry for a few moments, his mouth slightly open, before swallowing and nodding. "Yes. I am."

"Then why are you so nice to me?" Harry asked, finally looking at Tom. His green eyes were wide and… Well, not deranged exactly, but Tom did wonder fleetingly if the boy's sanity was under pressure of some kind. Perhaps Tom wouldn't need the spiked whiskey after all. Harry didn't seem to be up for any mind games anyway.

"I… have been alive for many, many decades," Tom finally replied, sitting down again. "I've seen thousands of people, achieved more than anyone else. I won't say that I'm bored, because there's still plenty to keep me entertained. The Rebels, general politics, that kind of things. You could say that there are many situations, numerous occurrences, several tasks that prevent me from dying out of sheer boredom, but when it comes down to people… I find them lacking."

"I think you told me something along those lines a long time ago," Harry said quietly. "Remember? When we met in Hogsmeade."

"Yes," Tom said softly. "People… always seek the easy way out. If anything is difficult or complicated or doesn't go as planned, they complain and whine and might leave the task unfinished. People judge, people think they're better than their superiors; they're never satisfied with what they have and demand more, more, and more. People are slaves to their desire to impress one another. They are so simple and weak and easy to figure out. Don't get too arrogant now, and I do not think of you as my equal, but you, in my eyes, are superior to the rest of them."

"How so?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I don't understand you. I can't figure you out."

"Well yes, that's mutual."

"That's pleasant to know," Tom said, leaning back on the chair and staring at Harry. "As I told you, I don't think you're my equal– I don't have equals. But… you might be the closest equivalent to what equal could be."

"You're the Dark Lord," Harry muttered again. Tom scowled.

"Yes, didn't we already establish that fact?"

"You're not as pompous as I thought you'd be."

"I'm never pompous. I simply know my position. I thought that you'd be far more scared, though."

Harry bit his lip and shrugged, then nodded. "I… don't know. I think I will be, as soon as I manage to wrap my mind around it. I… this is ridiculous. You're unbelievable. Are you sure you're the Dark Lord? Well, of course you are. And you don't want to kill me?"

"No, although, if you keep repeating yourself, I just might. You look exhausted, by the way. You should probably go to sleep," Tom said, watching Harry yawn and rub his eyes.

"And you look kind of pretty," the boy mumbled sleepily, making the Dark Lord's mouth fall open in shock. "I thought you'd be plenty uglier."

"Excuse me! "

"Oh my God, you're the Dark Lord."

"For Merlin's sake, boy!" If Tom hadn't already accepted the fact that he didn't understand Harry Potter, he would have done so now as the boy suddenly, for no apparent reason, burst out laughing. Granted, there might have been a slightly hysterical undertone to the laughter and it didn't last long. "How did you find out anyway?"

"I figured it out," Harry replied after he had calmed down. "I should have noticed it sooner. Are you going to kill me now, though?"

"What is it with you and getting killed?" Tom asked. "Do you want me to kill you?"

"That's not it, I just… I don't know how to…," Harry sighed, shook his head and stood up, walking stand in front of Tom. "How am I supposed to treat you?"

"The way you've been treating me so far, I suppose," Tom said calmly. In all honesty, he himself didn't know what was going to happen next between him and Harry– he hadn't expected revealing his identity to go quite like this. "Although we might still want to keep this a secret."

"It's not like anyone would believe me anyway," Harry muttered and leaned forward to press his forehead against Tom's. "Thank you, though. Considering how busy you probably are all the time, you still came to my mum's funeral."

"I'm glad that you're being calm and reasonable about this," Tom admitted, moving his hands to rest on Harry's hips. "It's quite a shock, I'm sure."

And that was the scene James Potter walked in on.

*

Sirius had woken him up at eight in the morning, kicked him into the shower, and told him to clean himself up. By the time it was eight o'clock, James looked more than presentable. He felt better, too. As if he had survived some kind of a dark cloud and finally left it behind.

"Do you want me to tag along when you go to Harry?" Sirius asked.

"No," James replied after a few moments of silent contemplation. "I think… I'll try to do this alone. I'm… scared, though. I feel like I might throw up after all."

"Did you drink the hangover potion yet?"

"Yeah. Drank it as soon as I could move, actually."

"Good. Now go there, talk to him again, and don't lose your temper, no matter what," Sirius advised. "Don't make him feel as if you're judging him or that you're angry at him. Listen to him. Be honest."

"And if he—"

"If you mess up again and he disowns himself, I'll do something. Trust me."

"Okay," James said, nodding a few times. "Okay. I'll go home and… talk to him. I'll see you later."

James had thought that he'd find Harry in the library. Or perhaps in his own room, studying or something. Maybe even flying outside. He had not, however, expected to find his son in the main lounge with a strange man that looked to be only slightly younger than James. Far too old to be a friend of Harry's in any case. The situation was not made better by the fact that Harry was standing too close– much too close– to this stranger whose hands were on Harry's hips.

"What," James croaked, and at the sound of his voice, Harry took a step away from the man who was still sitting on the couch. "Who is this, Harry?" The words 'and why are you so close to him' were left unsaid as James battled inwardly between staying calm and pulling out his wand because ohmerlinwasthatapaedophile!

"Put that wand away," the man ordered firmly, and James narrowed his eyes. Red eyes? Who had red eyes these days? Aside from vampires and some nutjobs with issues.

"I'm not in danger, dad," Harry said, smiling awkwardly. "Really."

"Really," James repeated, wholly unconvinced. "Then tell me why an adult man was molesting you."

"Excuse me!"

"What!" Harry's mouth was hanging open as he stared at his father in shock and disbelief. The man on the couch sighed and stood up, pushing Harry to sit instead.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding," the man said in what probably was supposed to be a soothing manner. Instead, he came across as condescending. "However, I'm reluctant to explain myself to you."

"Wait, Tom," Harry started, looking alarmed.

"Who the hell—," James started at the same time.

"Stupefy," said the red-eyed man.

*

"You stunned my father," Harry groaned, rushing to kneel next to James's stunned body. "You stunned my father! "

"Next, I'm going to obliviate him," Tom said, looking satisfied with himself.

"Obliviate me, too," Harry snapped, scowling, before he sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Oh Merlin, I need a vacation."

"It's your summer holiday, boy," Tom reminded him. "This is vacation." Harry stared at him silently for a few moments with a strange expression on his face. Then he let out a sound that was either a sob or a giggle– Tom wasn't quite sure– before he burst out laughing. Or crying. Or maybe both. There were tears and there was giggle-sobbing, how was Tom supposed to know what to call it?

"This is vacation," Harry repeated, laughing so hard that his whole body was shaking. "This… is… vacation!"

'Did I say something strange?' Tom wondered. 'Should I make him drink that firewhisky after all? Or should I stun him too? Firewhisky first.'

Tom turned towards the table where the bottle of whiskey and two glasses full of the liquid were. He reached first for one of the glasses before changing his mind and grabbing the bottle instead. Then he kneeled next to Harry and, after a moment of hesitation, grabbed the back of boy's head and poured some whiskey into his open mouth. He then forced the boy's mouth shut and told him to s wallow.

Harry, of course, in order not to choke, swallowed.

"What is that?" the boy croaked with tears in his eyes, before sneezing a few times. "Oh Merlin, it's dreadful. It burned! "

"Really," Tom said and repeated the process, forgetting that Harry, as a twelve-year-old boy, was most definitely not used to drinking firewhisky. In the end, Tom ended up with a very drunk Harry who was giggling and… giggling some more.

"I could use the sobering charm," Tom muttered, staring at the boy for a few long moments before he sighed and shook his head– the sobering charm would make the boy vomit, and he'd throw up Tom's carefully prepared potions, too. "Why do you always mess up my plans, little Potter?"

"Wheee," Harry said, allowing himself to be carried to the couch. Tom sighed, shaking his head again. Why did the boy make him always feel so chaotic? None of this was supposed to happen! The boy wasn't supposed to have discovered Tom's identity on his own and his father wasn't supposed to barge in on them like that. And the man had called him a molester!

A molester! Tom had never been called anything as appalling before! And he had been called many things so far in his lifetime.

'I'm going to obliviate him and keep him stunned 'til Harry recovers,' Tom decided and proceeded to do so, not stopping for a moment to think that perhaps Harry would have preferred not having the Dark Lord mess around in his father's mind. Either way, after Tom was done, the man refocused on the drunken boy who was still muttering and giggling quietly as if he was telling himself a story of some kind. Oh well, Tom was there for business, not for fun, and he was done playing considerate.

"Harry," Tom said quietly, sitting on the couch and pulling the boy to rest his head on Tom's lap. The potions should have worked by now, and all Tom could do was hope that the firewhisky wouldn't make the boy's words too slurred to be understood. "Harry, are you awake?"

"Eehhh?"

"Remember when we talked about the war?" Tom said pleasantly, his hand touching the side of Harry's face gently. "Remember when we talked about the war, Harry?"

"Mmmyeeeesss…"

"And the Death Eaters? Do you remember when we talked about the Death Eaters?"

"Yeeaahh… m' dad's a… dether. "

"And you, Harry? Do you want to be a Death Eater like your father?"

"Can't," Harry mumbled and yawned. "Woulda been ees, easy, easier."

"Why can't you be a Death Eater, Harry?" Tom asked carefully, wishing that he could have added Veritaserum into the mix. Unfortunately, though, the serum was known to sometimes react badly with alcohol.

"Can't," Harry repeated, sounding sad, and something in his tone and the way he spoke now made Tom remember how young the child he was interrogating actually was. "I can't, Tommy," Harry said and turned to press his face against Tom's stomach.

'What am I supposed to do?' Tom thought, not even noticing how his own fingers were now combing Harry's hair. "I don't think I'll get you drunk again if you're going to be sad all the time."

"Gotta… gotta save you, Tommy," Harry mumbled, and after a few moments of silence, the boy started sobbing again. Tom sighed, leaning back on the chair couch and relaxing.

"I give up," the man muttered, keeping his fingers entangled in the boy's hair even after Harry had stopped crying. "For Merlin's sake, Harry Potter, I'm never again making any plans that involve you. You're not even making sense anymore. Who even told you that I'm the Dark Lord?"

"M'rope," Harry replied before he yawned. The boy, in his intoxicated state, didn't realize that the name had caused Tom to tense, and the man's red eyes widen in shock. The answer now was different from the reply he h ad gotten earlier.

"What?" Tom hissed, glaring down at Harry. "What did you just— How— What? Potter, wake up this instant!

"Shh," the boy said, turning his face up towards the Dark Lord while reaching to pat the man's cheek with his hand. "Evere… everything is gonna be, gonna be okay, hm? I'll take care of you, Tommy. Whassamatter? I'll take care of you."

"Idiot," Tom whispered numbly. He was feeling strange. He shouldn't even be there. Why had he wanted to meet Potter again? The longer he kept the boy alive, the more dangerous everything became. He didn't want to change; he didn't want to… to not want to kill someone. He couldn't leave things as they were– Tom knew that he had to do something about Harry, but he wasn't sure what exactly. The boy had said Merope, hadn't he? Where did he get that name from? Unless Tom's suspicions had been correct and Harry really could speak to the dead.

If that was the case, then Tom would have a good, solid reason for not letting the boy leave his sight.

Not that he wanted to keep an eye on Harry all the time or anything. But… just in case.

'There has to be a way to solve this problem and get all the answers that I want,' Tom thought, frowning. 'Brainwash the boy? If only I could just imperio him… but that'd be too risky. If this goes on, I'll be left with no options but to use legilimency on him.' And even though Tom was more than ready to blame Harry if he ever was to do that– because clearly, Harry and his stubbornness were to blame– he doubted that the boy would share that belief and accept the blame quietly.

No, Tom couldn't force Harry because then he'd be expecting the boy to somehow figure out how to betray him, and Tom would exhaust himself with paranoia while waiting for that to happen. No, there had to be something else. He had to make Harry want to obey him… He had to make Harry feel honour-bound, obligated to obey him. There had to be some way for that to—

Ah.

Tom relaxed slightly, smirking as the plan started to form in his mind. Feeling better now that he had something he could do, the man called a house-elf to point him towards Harry's room. He then carried to boy to lie on his bed. James Potter was still lying on the floor, obliviated and unconscious. Tom did think about what to do with the man before deciding to just leave him as he was– Harry could try to explain his way out of that one. The brat deserved some trouble anyway for making Tom feel so strange all the time.

'I need to make some research about life-debts,' the Dark Lord thought as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder. 'And after that happens and I have him under my complete control, I'll interrogate the information out of him. Every bit of it.'

Because Tom hated feeling confused and not knowing.

*

Harry woke up feeling awful.

He felt incredibly nauseated, the ceiling wouldn't stay still, and there was a general atmosphere of dread. His head and eyes hurt, and it took him quite a while before he realized that he was in his room. What had happened to him? Was this some kind of a curse? Or a reaction to a prolonged stay at the train station? Merope hadn't told him about his death despite what she had promised. Instead, she had told him that Tom, his Tom, was the Dark Lord—

Oh Merlin.

Harry was gradually remembering what had happened earlier that day. Tom had been there. They had… talked? Had they talked? Harry wasn't sure, but he vaguely remembered his father barging in and accusing Tom of being a molester. Accusing the Dark Lord of being a child molester… Harry would laugh at the absurdity of it if it wasn't so terrifying. And then Tom had… obliviated James and stunned him. Or had he stunned James first and then obliviated him? Did he reall y obliviate James? Harry remembered that Tom had stunned his father, and then he had made Harry drink something…

He had made Harry drink something.

Oh yes, Harry remembered the awful, burning liquid. It must have been an alcohol of some kind. The bottle! Tom had brought a bottle with him, hadn't he? Had the man planned on getting Harry drunk? What for? Just what had they talked about for him to decide to do something like that?

'All this thinking is making my head hurt,' Harry thought and cringed when he heard the door of his room opening.

"Harry?" James said, walking towards the bed. "You awake now? Good. Drink this, it's a hangover potion. You, er, you have a lot to explain."

'If he's really been obliviated, I'll have to come up with a believable story,' Harry thought, slowly sitting up and accepting the potion. 'If he hasn't, then, well… I could say that Tom is a teacher. Someone from Durmstrang who came to… talk to me about coursework. And he's a bit eccentric and simple-minded so… '

James sat down on the bed and looked at his son, wondering if the boy had tried to drink because of him. He had been bad influence, and perhaps Harry had thought that James encouraged getting drunk. How was he supposed to fix this misunderstanding? If only Lily—

'I'm not going to think about her now,' James told himself before focusing on Harry again. "Why were you drunk?"

"Do I really have to tell you?" Harry asked, feeling sick. Sure, his father didn't look angry, but… what if he was just barely holding back some simmering rage?

"Yes," James replied. "And you'll also explain why I was unconscious in the lounge."

"I was practicing a spell," Harry said, the lie slipping out before he had even realized that he had thought about it. "The, um, sobering charm. But something went wrong, and it hit you when you arrived into the lounge and knocked you unconscious. Then it flung back at me and made me sick. Drunk. Sick." Harry's heart was beating rapidly, and he was so sure that James would realize that he was lying.

Lucky for Harry, though, James was caught up thinking about why Harry would feel the need to learn the sobering charm, ending up feeling guilty and responsible. He shouldn't have gotten so recklessly drunk in front of his son and so frequently, too. He shouldn't have… And James knew that while he'd try to not repeat his mistakes, it'd be very difficult because… Lily wasn't there and he missed her. Didn't know how to live without her.

It was easy to tell him to move on. It was hard– but doable– for him to think about living his life, taking care of Harry and getting over Lily. But when it came down to actually putting theory into practice… he just… couldn't.

Lily would know– would have known– what to do now. Should James leave Harry to sleep some more? Should he offer to make the boy something to eat? Was he supposed to stay at home or something? Harry was just hungover, not sick, so maybe James should just… ignore this?

'Sorry, Sirius,' James thought, 'but I don't think that there's a reason for me to talk with Harry about what happened after all. I wouldn't even know what to say.’

Harry, on his part, felt increasingly awkward due to the reigning silence. He looked at James and couldn't help but… prefer being alone. The twinge of guilt he felt due to that wish did nothing to lessen it though, and he wondered if he could ever again feel at ease with his father. It wasn't that Harry loved James any less, of course, but… a connection that had been there before his mother's death… was now severed. James and Harry were a father and son, but for the life of him, Harry couldn't consider them a family anymore.

"I'll be returning to work in a few days," James said suddenly. "Harry… I…"

"I'll be able to take care of myself," Harry assured him.

"That's not it," James sighed, shaking his head. "I'm just… sorry. I'm failing as a parent, aren't I?"

"That's not—"

"Don't lie to make me feel better. Just promise me, Harry, if you ever need anything… you won't hesitate a second before contacting me, alright? Please, promise me that." Harry stared at James's grim and serious expression for a few moments before nodding.

"I promise."

Three days after that, James rejoined the Death Eater army in Ireland.

*

On his 13th birthday, Harry was alone at home. He didn't mind– to him, this day was just as good as any other for him to return to the train station. He still had to ask Merope to tell him about his death from her point of view, and he needed to organize his plans– he really needed to know and make it clear to himself what he should be doing next.

"Don't let anyone come in," Harry said to the house-elf Vurney before heading towards his room. He was eager to go back to the train station, but he was worried about the possibility of someone trying to barge in. Harry knew that he should probably wait for a few days more and think about how to handle Tom– how to act around the man and just… what to do– but his thoughts kept circling around unsolvable problem points that were driving him insane.

Such as, Tom being Lord Voldemort… meant that Tom was actually Harry's opponent. And to think that Merope wanted Harry to save Tom while Albus wanted him to save the world from Tom. Just what was he supposed to do? Unless saving Tom would somehow contribute to saving the…world?

'This is ridiculous,' Harry thought, taking a deep breath and lying down on his bed. 'I'll leave saving the world to heroes and supremely powerful people with enough ambition and skills. I'll focus on something less challenging. Something smaller.'

It was with notable ease that he could now go to the train station. The resistance, the pull back to the living world that had been almost impossible to fight against was now nothing but a tug– nothing he wouldn't be able to control if he cared enough to do so. Breathing there, however, wasn’t getting any easier.

Harry arrived just in time to see a train leave from the station. He wondered absently if Lorenzo had left in a train like that, if he had perhaps left in the same train as Harry's mother. And where did these trains go, exactly? He had tried to board one not so long ago– had Merope not stopped him, what would have happened?

'Maybe that's one more thing I should ask her about,' Harry thought, seeing the woman standing alone in the distance and walking towards her. Harry wondered where Albus was; were there parts of this station that he wasn't aware of? Probably yes, Harry hadn't ever really looked around in this place, and not just because he had always been busy doing something.

The place was creepy. Harry felt nervous being alone, and he walked faster towards Merope.

"You shouldn't come here so often," Merope said as soon as he was within earshot. "It's taxing to your body and spirit."

"Where's Albus?" Harry asked. "And I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Dumbledore is doing something or other; I don't care enough to find out," Merope replied coolly. "However, your assumption about you being fine– or that you will be fine– is wrong. The air around here isn't suitable for a living human."

"I can breathe just fine." The lie slipped out too fast for Harry to catch it.

"Oh yes, and every time you inhale, particles of this unholy air here enter your body and stay there."

'Is that why I can come here easily, now?' Harry thought suddenly, before shrugging. He hadn't come here for that this time. "Very well, I'll be more careful about coming here. Anyway, will you finally tell me about when I died?" Merope stared at him for a long moment with a grim expression, and Harry feared that she'd deny him his request. He wasn't, however, going to leave before getting some answers.

"Fine," the woman finally sighed and gestured for Harry to sit down with her on the cold floor of the train station.

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Huh?"

"Fate, boy," Merope sneered. "Destiny. Pre-destined occurrences and all things included."

"Not really," Harry said hesitantly. "I mean... I'd like to believe that people can affect their—"

"Spare me that song and dance," the woman scoffed. "You don't believe in God, do you?"

"I never thought about it," Harry admitted.

"Of course, because human arrogance seldom wants to accept the fact that there's some power far superior to it. However, I am not willing to have a religious debate with you about this, so for the sake of you to understand this explanation about fate, let's say you believe in God."

"A-alright," Harry said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Religions always made him feel uncomfortable.

"The most common misconception is that destiny and fate exclude free will," Merope said, and Harry, who really didn't know what to say about that, shrugged. "As I said, that's wrong."

"What is correct, then?"

"Destiny, or fate, rather, is what God has decreed to happen."

"Doesn't that already exclude free will?"

"No. It is fate, not because it happens despite what you decide, but because it has happened already according to your choices, and God, who is not bound by time, has made that your fate."

"...I'm not sure I understand," Harry said hesitantly, and Merope let out an irritated sound. She scowled at Harry before talking again.

"Fine, let me explain it to you in simpler terms. Hypothetically, God told you that, according to your father's destiny, he's going to eat tomato soup tomorrow. The next day, you see him making some tomato soup and eating it because according to him, that's what he wants. Does that make his choice fate or free will?"

"Uh... f-free will?"

"Both. It's fate because he wanted it, and God, who's not bound by time, went to the day after tomorrow, and by then, your father wanting to eat tomato soup had already happened."

"...oh."

"That's why it's said that seers are prophets. God has granted them the gift of foresight, and it's based on their ability to see the threads of fate."

"Okay," Harry said, frowning, "but... what does that have to do with me?"

"Listen and focus," Merope ordered darkly. "Once you die, some of these threads become visible if you spend years learning how to see them. I've been watching the thread of my son's fate for decades, and when you arrived, I could see your thread entwining with his. That's why I pushed you back, because I knew that that's what was meant to happen. You were supposed to die, and I was supposed to bring you back to life. That was part of our fate."

"How can I know what else I am supposed to do?" Harry asked, and the dead witch shrugged.

"I don't know," Merope replied. "What you can really do is go forward on the path you've chosen. And whatever you chose to do, boy, do it wholeheartedly. Nothing is worse than half-assed effort."

"But that's the thing," Harry said. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Albus wants me to save the whole world from Tom, and you want me to save Tom. Whichever I choose, I don't know how to start, how to proceed, how to—"

"Save Tom," Merope cut in, looking annoyed. "Save Tom, and teach him how to accept being normal. Make him understand that he doesn't have to live forever and rule the world to be accepted, loved, or respected– whatever that boy is wishing for, anyway. And by doing that, you will take the most dominate pawn off the chess board."

"And then the smaller pawns will declare wars against each other," Harry said immediately, "and there will be war for decades to come. As much as I hate some of Tom's decisions, laws, and rules, I also know that without them– without him– there would be chaos."

"How about you—"

"No," Harry cut in firmly. "I am not going to step into the limelight. I am not going to lead or rule. Not now, not ever. Maybe I could learn how to, but I don't want to."

"Then you must make someone else do it for you," Merope said. "You have to be bold, you have to be daring, and you must take risks to succeed. I told you already: half-assed effort will only get you killed. Don't let anything hold you back or make you hesitate."

"I'm just… afraid of doing something I'll regret," Harry admitted.

"Everyone does things they will regret at some point or another," Merope told him. "If you learn from those mistakes, however, they have been necessary."

"I'm such a coward," Harry groaned. "I'm just too scared. I wish I wasn't afraid."

"A man with no fear isn't brave," Merope sneered. "He's just a man with no fear. A man with fear who still does what must be done is brave. Now stop being a spineless worm and do what you know you should be doing."

"I want to be brave," Harry muttered, standing up. "I just don't know how to, though."

"The next time somebody you care about dies," Merope said, "you'll wonder whether or not you could have saved them. Think about that." Harry stared at the woman for a few long moments before nodding hesitantly. He wasn't sure why he was nodding– he didn't feel like agreeing with her at all. And yet… he couldn't quite give up the thought of doing what Albus and Merope wanted him to do. Maybe he should talk with… Truls, maybe? Or Filippa?

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He was going to return back home now and think about what to do next. How many times had he told himself to stop being so hesitant about everything? How many hours had he wasted feeling confused? Nothing changed, and Harry was sure that as long as he stayed in this should-I-or-should-I-not state of his, he'd be stuck in this strange situation.

'Yeah,' Harry thought as he returned back to the realm of the living, back to his own room. 'I'm done standing still. It's time to start walking forward.'

Chapter Text

Merope.

Tom had never expected to hear that name again. And yet, he had heard it from a boy who was so beyond Tom's understanding that he didn't know from where to start guessing how and why and when Harry Potter found out about her. How could one name, one person, one child… be so complicated?

Tom was feeling… strange. Worried? Anxious? He didn't know, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced by the fact that if he wasn't able to make Harry tell him everything, he'd just have to kill the boy. Sure, Harry was entertaining – and potentially useful – but he was an unpredictable pawn, and if the Rebels became any more dangerous, then Tom wouldn't be able to afford having his attention divided between two potentially disastrous things.

Between entertainment and survival, Tom would always choose survival.

Then again, if his plan regarding the life-debt worked, then he'd have nothing to worry about when it came to the Potter boy. Tom really hoped that it would work because killing Harry Potter wasn't something he particularly wanted to do at the moment. Good entertainment was hard to come by these days.

'He said that Merope had told him,' Tom thought, 'so he is able to talk with the dead. Does he have limitations? Did he choose to talk with Merope or was it a coincidence? Who else has the boy managed to talk with? How often can he do that? Since when and how is he able to do it anyway? He doesn't seem to be the type to conspire, but I have to find out if he's up to something.'

There was so much he'd need to find out, and yet, he couldn't. All he had been doing so far consisted of guessing and playing nice. But Tom knew himself. He knew that if he didn't find the answers soon, eventually his patience would run out, and he'd legilimence everything out of the boy's mind, not caring about the state Harry would end up in afterwards.

It would, of course, be completely Harry's fault for being difficult.

"You're scowling again," Nagini hissed, lifting her head up from inside a vase. "Are you hungry? Or! Don't tell me… it's about that boy again. "

"Nagini," Tom replied, "I have come to the strangely upsetting realization that I have to pick the boy's brain apart before killing him if my next plan fails."

"Since when has torturing somebody been upsetting news to you? "

"It's just, he's… well, he has the brother wand of my wand. His mother died, his father isn't much of a father, and he's different from everybody else. I can't help but feel that there's a reason as to why he… exists."

"I think he has made your world smaller," Nagini hissed. "You used to see the world and focus on the plans and schemes you had going on. Lately, it seems that all you see in this world is that dead-alive boy."

Tom was ready to open his mouth and deny that accusation when he actually thought about it. Had Harry's presence really become that distracting? Tom knew that he was sometimes– rarely– in the bad habit of obsessing over something completely irrelevant rather single-mindedly. If that was really the case, then would making Harry his obedient servant really fix the problem? Maybe he should just stop thinking about the boy for now– simply not contact him at all for a considerable amount of time? Take a bit of distance.

Ah, he'd think about that later. Now he had some other issues to worry about– the war, for example. He had a pile of papers he needed to read and a few people to meet. Bellatrix was going to drop by soon to give her report, and her excessive groveling was something Tom wholeheartedly approved of. He liked being worshipped, and why wouldn't he? He was better than everyone else so wasn't it just right that they treated him accordingly?

'That's one thing Harry's yet to do,' Tom thought. 'He should, though. Next time I'm going to—' Ah, right. He was supposed to not think about the boy anymore. Tom sighed and scowled, reaching for his cup of cooling tea.

He had much else to focus on. Things that were far more important than Potter.

*

Harry had almost forgotten about the birthday gifts he had received. When he finally sat down to go through the pile, he was trying hard to not think about his previous birthdays when his both parents and godfather had been present.

'Next year, I'll spend this day with someone,' Harry promised himself and grabbed the first gift, which turned out to be from Luna. Remembering the previous gift he had received from her, he felt very curious as he brought the small box closer. The gift turned out to be a pair of earrings in the shape of two purple hearts. Was Luna seriously expecting him to wear these? Hopefully not, because Harry wasn't going to.

The next gift was from Filippa: a pair of black dragonhide gloves that seemed to have a strange red glow to them. Harry wondered what his friend was doing at the moment– he hadn't seen her since his mother's funeral. Filippa was the only one who knew about Harry's ability to talk with the dead and also the only one who had told Harry about her true feelings regarding the war. Should she be the one he'd open up to about his plans first? Well, not that he had any good plans, really.

Then again, maybe he should talk to Truls first? Truls was Harry's best friend, and the thought of talking with Filippa about this kind of thing before discussing it with Truls made Harry feel as if he was betraying his best friend somehow. What if Truls was to disagree though? Could Harry even start such operations without Truls finding out at some point on his own?

'I'll tell Truls first,' Harry decided. 'And then I'll tell Filippa. After that, maybe Luna.' Aside from those three, he really didn't know who else could be a potential ally. With a sigh, Harry reached for another present, smiling and shaking his head after unwrapping it to find a book titled How To Charm Your Clothes by Meredith Malkin sent to him by Gildy. Well, at least this time, it was a book and not some strange outfit.

From Sirius, Harry got a beautiful dagger that the boy couldn't help but warily admire while wondering why he had been sent such a thing. Then again, coming from Sirius, it was very likely that his godfather had simply thought something along the lines of "Shiny! Pretty!" and bought it. Jakob's gift turned out to be a book of maps, while Petronella had sent him a fancy tea-box. From Truls, Harry had received a very much appreciated collection of Grimm's Uncensored Fairytales.

Harry took care to not think of his father or his mother at all. He didn't want to think about them, didn't want to think of what had changed during this one year. How much was different now, how the loss of one person seemed to end a family of three. Harry would much rather focus on feeling surprised at the gift he had received from Björn.

It was a music box made of dark wood. On the lid, there was a silver plate onto which T H E R E A L W A Y S was engraved. When Harry opened the box, he could see two tiny white foxes playing on the surface of a mirror while a lovely melody that reminded Harry of a lullaby could be heard.

"There always," Harry murmured. "Is that the name of this song?" It was a wonderful gift– it reminded Harry of the many stories he had read so far in his life and brought a smile to his face as he held the box closer. It was surprising to receive such a gift from Björn– the boy hadn't seemed to be particularly thoughtful about things that didn't involve either money or one Mette Erling.

'He always says that he's going to be richest guy in the world,' Harry thought, chuckling. 'It wouldn't surprise me, what with the way he deals with money. I wonder where all of us will be in ten years… Alive, I hope. Alive and well. But I doubt that I can really achieve what I need in ten short years.' Not to mention, what was his goal exactly? Ending the war sounded nice in theory, but to succeed in that, so many other things would have to be done.

Besides, even if the war was to end, there'd be so much else to fix. Harry wasn't interested in fixing the world, and he didn't want to ally himself with the rebels. Maybe he should work on creature equality? Remus Lupin was a prime example of potential gone waste due to prejudice. Or should he just do as Merope had told him to and focus on saving Tom? How could he save the Dark Lord anyway, and from what exactly? The thought of Harry being able to do something that Lord Voldemort couldn't was ridiculous!

Then again, hadn't he made some plans just a few weeks ago about this? He'd need to find a way to secure the alliance of some magazine which he'd start using to his advantage. Subtly, with suggestions. But how? He had nothing he could offer in return, and the Daily Prophet would not only mock him but probably cause him to get into some legal trouble under the accusations of treason! Well, maybe nothing that severe but still… nothing nice. He'd have to polish that idea into a usable one.

First, he'd have to find out the aims of the Rebels and the aims of the Dark Lord and find some kind of a middle ground he could use for negotiating. Then… what would he negotiate with? Who would he negotiate with? Tom? Sure, huh. Somehow, Harry couldn't imagine the man paying attention to that kind of requests. What about the Rebels– what reason would they have to listen to him or trust him? It's not like he could just go and tell them that Albus had told him to do something!

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the headache he had.

Everything felt so suffocating, and he was afraid of failing.

He just wanted to go back to Durmstrang.

*

They had been fighting since before the battle, trying to keep their guards up all the time while keeping on advancing with only a few moments of rest between the fights. James had hated these kinds of battles before– they demanded all of his concentration, all the time. Now, he was grateful about that as it prevented him from thinking of his own life's problems.

"Potter!" A familiar, annoying, squeaky voice called, and Pettigrew appeared next to him just in time to send a severing curse at a Rebel who had been trying to run away. "It has been a while, eh?"

"What do you want?" James asked sourly, scowling. Why didn't the pest leave him alone? "My day was going well before I saw you."

"Why do you hate me so?" Pettigrew asked, although the hurt expression on the short man's face was clearly insincere as it faded quickly, replaced by a grin. "I heard that your wife passed away recently. I'm sorry for your loss."

"That is none of your fucking business," James growled. He didn't want to talk about Lily and especially not with Pettigrew of all people. In fact, he didn't want to talk with Pettigrew about anything at all. The man didn't even sound sorry!

"Think positively," Pettigrew continued as if he hadn't heard what James had said. "In some other universe, she could be alive." James didn't know what to say to that so he simply focused on trying to see if there were any Rebels hiding nearby. He really didn't want to talk or think about anything else but this current mission he was trying to complete right now. Because if he thought about Lily, he'd end up eventually thinking about Harry, and thinking about Harry and Lily was enough to make James sick with guilt and grief.

The solution was, clearly, to not think about them. Pettigrew, however, seemed to be hell bent on making James do exactly that.

"Isn't it fascinating? The thought of alternate universes existing? Perhaps in another world, you and your wife—"

"Stop!" James growled grabbing the front of Pettigrew's jacket and lifting the short man up. "I don't want to talk about my family with you, Pettigrew. Stop hanging around me, and stop talking to me. And for the record– I don't believe in alternate universes or whatever you call them!" Seriously, no one sane would believe that kind of tripe anyway.

"Pity," Pettigrew said, not looking threatened or cowed at all. His watery blue eyes seemed to look through James in a way that left the dark-haired man feeling quite uncomfortable. "To some, the existence of alternate universes signifies the existence of second chances."

"You're mad," James hissed, letting the other man go. "I should have realized it sooner– there's something very wrong with your head. I don't care; it's none of my business. Stay away from me or I'll lose my temper with you, Pettigrew."

"Am I crazy just because you don't understand me?" Pettigrew asked with an amused grin on his face. "Is that how you define everything, James Potter?"

"I—"

"Then what about your son? You don't understand him either, you know. Is he crazy too?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" James asked, feeling confused and angry. "You don't even know Harry so don't even bother to talk about him!"

"Poor James, it must be hard," Pettigrew said mockingly, stepping away. "You're so focused on having lost your wife that you never even noticed that you lost your son long before that." With that, the man left to join some other Death Eaters, leaving James behind. James, who wasn't sure why he was suddenly feeling hollow with hurt and loneliness – because surely what Pettigrew had said, meant nothing. That annoying pest didn't even know Harry and, and, and why was he so fixated on James's life anyway, huh?

"Go to hell," James yelled after Pettigrew, who didn't turn, but replied anyway right before vanishing behind the trees.

"Your son will always be destined for things greater than you can imagine."

'There's something going on with Pettigrew,' James thought, frowning. 'I should investigate this guy… just in case.' Also, he should probably warn Harry that if he ever was to meet someone called Peter Pettigrew, that he should avoid the man.

Then again, Harry was soon going to go back to Durmstrang, and there, he would be safe.

*

Dear Harry,

I am going to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy my school supplies. Would you like to accompany me? We could get some ice cream!

Love, Luna.

1. Wear the earrings. They deflect Wrackspurts. Your mind won't be fuzzy anymore.

Harry had smiled when he had read the message Luna had sent him. He had already owl-ordered the supplies he didn't already have and needed nothing in particular from Diagon Alley, but he had missed hanging out with Luna and here was his chance to do exactly that.

Which is why, a day later, he was in Diagon Alley, wearing black robes and boots and purple heart-shaped earrings while waiting for Luna in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. His earlobes were still aching slightly – he had had to use a spell he had found in a magazine in order to be able to wear the earrings as his ears hadn't been pierced before. He had contemplated leaving the earrings aside and apologizing to Luna, but he had then decided against that.

Unknown to whoever would see him, Harry was also wearing his manticore shirt, and the dagger he had gotten from Sirius was hidden in his right boot. The boy had decided to get himself used to carrying these two items with him as often as possible– just in case he'd even need them.

"Harry!" a familiar voice exclaimed, and Harry turned to see Ron Weasley with his family and a few friends making their way towards him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to meet a friend soon," Harry replied, before proceeding to greet everyone in the group. Mrs. Weasley hugged him and told him that if he was ever to need anything, he'd be welcome to contact her at any time. Harry smiled, feeling strangely happy with the offer even though he doubted that he'd ever really take advantage of it. He couldn't. He didn't even want to. Somehow, the thought of opening up to an older woman– not just Mrs. Weasley, but anyone at all, felt to him like a betrayal to his mother.

Harry didn't want to think about it. He wasn't sure if he could understand why, and he wasn't going to dwell on it.

"This is Neville, by the way," Ron said, pointing at a boy standing next to him, and Harry guessed that he was the Neville Longbottom Ron had told him a long time ago about. Ron's best friend. He was round-faced with blond hair and a chubby build. "Nev, this is Harry. He goes to Durmstrang."

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said, and the other boy stuttered something in response. Ron turned to Harry again.

"You're not waiting for Malfoy, are you?" Ron asked, and Harry could see Ginny Weasley grimacing when she heard the name.

"No," Harry replied. "Are you guys here to buy your school supplies?"

"Yeah," Ron sighed, nodding.

"Luna!" Ginny exclaimed suddenly. "What a surprise! How are you?" Harry felt slightly relieved at the knowledge that his friend was nearby– it was slightly awkward to stand there with Neville and the Weasleys. Why had they stopped anyway?

"Quite well, Ginevra," Luna said, her voice as dreamy as always. "Hello, Harry, you look dashing today."

"So do you," Harry grinned, turning towards the girl and stepping closer. "Your father isn't here? Shall we go then? You have your list, don't you?"

"Of course," Luna said, linking her arm with his. Harry turned to say goodbye to Neville and the Weasleys– some of whom looked quite surprised at seeing Harry with Luna– before the two started walking towards the bookstore nearby.

"How have you been?" Luna asked. "I see that you're wearing the earrings. There are no Wrackspurts on your shoulders today."

"I'm feeling better," Harry replied, looking at her. "There's something I have to do—"

"I know."

"—and I've finally gathered enough courage to start doing it."

"I'm proud," Luna smiled, patting his arm. "The courage and the will to start are very important. Always. Pity people don't appreciate them more."

"I'm scared, though," Harry admitted. He wasn't sure if Luna actually knew what he was talking about– most probably not, he hadn't told her after all– but he still felt like he could talk to her about it without actually explaining himself. "People… scare me. Their reactions… their beliefs in right and wrong… People can be so narrow-minded and prejudiced. How can I deal with that? How should I feel about them?"

"You can pity them, Harry," Luna told him softly, her blue eyes looking at something he couldn't see. "Their minds are the blindfolds that prevent their eyes from seeing the sceneries you can see. They won't even realize the existence of the roads you've walked on, they won't hear the sounds that fill your silence. Doesn't that make you... sad for them?"

"I guess, when you put it that way," Harry sighed. "But how can I make them understand?"

"There are people who will never understand," Luna said as they entered the bookstore. "There are people who will say that you are wrong even when you know you're right. You can only do your best to prove them wrong, Harry. But never let them bring you down. That aside, would you like a Quibbler?"

"A Quibbler?" Harry repeated, vaguely remembering the name. "Oh! The magazine?"

"Newspaper," Luna said, handing him a copy of the Quibbler. It was sparkly and– Harry glanced at the front page quickly– seemed to be mostly about nonsense, what with titles such as 'Smurkling Snugglebugs Gone Rabid!' and 'House-elf Legless Tells Us His Amazing Story!'.

"It looks interesting," Harry said. "Uh, very interesting. Do you subscribe?"

"Oh, no," the girl replied. "My dad owns it. He lets me help sometimes." As their arms were still linked, Luna almost stumbled when Harry stopped walking abruptly, almost knocking her against a bookshelf. Blinking owlishly, she turned to look at him.

"Your dad owns a newspaper," Harry whispered, his eyes almost glowing. "A newspaper full of wild, new theories, right?"

"Yes," Luna confirmed. "Do you want to subscribe?"

"Yeah," Harry said, feeling refreshed at this potential new opportunity. "I do."

For the rest of their trip– which tool almost the rest of the whole day– Harry was admittedly slightly distracted unless they were discussing the Quibbler. Luna didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, the girl seemed to be pleased at the interest Harry was showing in her father's work.

She didn't ask why, and Harry didn't tell her. Then again, it was Luna, so perhaps she already knew.

*

Two days before going back to Durmstrang, Harry's peaceful morning was interrupted by one Gilderoy Lockhart. Much to Harry's misery, Gildy wasn't alone– he was accompanied by Sybil Trelawney and a basket of firewhisky bottles.

"Harry!" Gildy exclaimed, rushing to hug the boy. He was dressed in tight white pants, a feathery turquoise jacket, a red shirt, and sparkly green boots. "I have missed you terribly! How are you?"

"Are you drunk?" Harry asked, smelling the whiff of alcohol on the man, who smiled dazzlingly at him.

"I don't like to do things sober anymore," Gildy said before letting go of Harry, sashaying towards the closest chair and sitting down. The basket of firewhisky bottles floated after him. Trelawney also, looking like a junkie from Knockturn Alley, stumbled after him, pausing only to put a battered flower wreath on Harry's head. A dead bee fell on the floor, and Harry spent half a second watching it with horror before a house-elf took it away.

"What are you two doing here?" the boy asked warily, wondering if he should call his godfather to do some damage control. Then again, Gildy was mostly harmless and Trelawney didn't seem the type to do anything violent. Besides, Harry had his wand, the manticore shirt, and the dagger.

Just in case.

"You're going back to Durmstrang soon," Gildy said, conjuring a few empty glasses. "Let's celebrate!" Harry cringed, remembering the last time he had ended up drinking. He did not want a repeat performance, and so he just shook his head and sat on a chair as well, taking care to sit as far away from the two adults as he could.

"So Barty's going back to Durmstrang too," Gildy started after a few moments of silent drinking, and Harry felt as if he should have figured that that would be Gildy's main topic. "I can't believe that he's just going to leave me behind like nothing happened between us."

"Nothing happened between you two," Trelawney pointed out while rolling a joint.

"Compassion, Sybil. It won't kill you."

'Figures that he's whining about Courch. These two are obviously planning on getting smashed,' Harry thought, eyeing the two with disapproval. 'I wonder if Trelawney will have a fit if I throw this wreath away. Ah, I better wait 'til she's too drunk to notice. I really don't have the energy to deal with any scenes now. Why did they come here, anyway?'

"Professor Crouch still hasn't caved in, huh," Harry said, and Gildy sniffled loudly.

"Maybe he hates me because I'm blond," the man wailed.

"That xenophobic little shit!" Trelawney bellowed suddenly before gulping down what seemed like half a bottle of firewhisky. Harry was torn between feeling disgusted and awed. He settled for feeling reluctantly respectful.

"You won't be doing coitus with him if you keep on failing like this," Trelawney continued. "You have to grab him and make him cry uncle or you won't bed him. Ever."

"You don't know that!" Gildy exclaimed. "I, this is, it's just a phase! A slump!"

"Well, unless you force him to coitus with you—"

"Stop it!"

"What now?"

"Stop calling it coitus. I can't focus when you use 'coitus' instead of sex."

"Why not? It's the correct term."

"No. Well, yes, it is. But I still don't like it. No calling it coitus. I don't want to hear the word coitus ever again."

'Doesn't coitus mean the sexual unison between a male and a female?' Harry thought before deciding to stop thinking about that right now and never think about it again. He shook his head before speaking up again. "Why do you insist on targeting Crouch, anyway? I'm sure there'd be many other people interested in you." Not to mention that the thought of forcing or harassing someone the way Gildy and Trelawney had been doing – it was really unsettling.

"That's what I've been telling her," Trelawney said. "I mean, him," she corrected, sounding as if she didn't really care whether she was referring to Gildy as a male or a female.

"I might seem normal right now," Gildy sobbed, hugging one of the firewhisky bottles against his chest, "but actually I just want to bite my tongue off and die."

"Do it," Trelawney urged. "We'll take pictures and use them when we crash his future wedding with some woman."

"Who's we?" Harry almost shrieked, feeling very alarmed. "Don't include me in your crazy schemes! Don't you have any morals?"

"I have morals," Trelawney said, her pupils so dilated that Harry was starting to wonder what she was seeing, exactly. "I just choose to ignore them blatantly. And you, my friend, man up. He's an asshole. Try some of this Chinese herb joint– I used to be different before I got my hands on this stuff. Much more timid, I was. My life used to be all about predicting the deaths of others. Now, it's all about making those predictions come true while being higher than the fucking sun."

'Did she just imply that she's some kind of a serial killer?' Harry thought before swallowing and turning away, hoping that the woman was just joking.

"But I love him," Gildy whined, not even bothering to look up and see the joint that was being offered. "I love him and his tiny little asshole self anyway."

"But he doesn't love you," Trelawney reminded him, pulling back her joint.

"I hate you, Sybil. There's a special place in hell reserved for people like you."

"I've always wanted to travel somewhere warm."

"I think I'll go back to sleep," Harry muttered, sliding off his chair and heading towards the door.

"Beds aren't meant for you to lie alone in!" Trelawney hollered after him.

"You can't leave!" Gildy wailed, lunging at Harry and grabbing his arm. "It's your farewell party!"

'Oh Merlin, somebody save me,' Harry thought, trying to come up with an excuse as to why he was going to sleep so early in the day. He wasn't fast enough though, and so Gildy dragged him back to his chair and forced him to sit down. "Is there a point to this?"

"He asked!" Gildy crowed before looking at Harry with a focused expression. Well, as focused as he could, in his drunken state. "Barty will be in Durmstrang with you!"

"Yeah," Harry said, remembering that the dueling lessons were going to start that year. "I'll even start attending some of his classes."

"So you'll be a good boy and keep us updated," Gildy said. "And if my Barty-darling seems to be showing some kind of interest in anyone who isn't me, you'll send me the info, alright?"

"I am not going to stalk him on your behalf," Harry protested. "He's my teacher!"

"Well, it's not really stalking in the full meaning of the word," Gildy tried to reason. "I'm not going to tell you sneak into his rooms and watch him as he undresses that sinfully wonderful, muscled body of his. Oh, the mere memory of those scars—"

"Spare me," Harry whimpered, closing his eyes. "I don't want to hear that!"

"He said he doesn't want to hear," Trelawney snickered. "Tie him up and force him!"

"Which one?" Gildy asked, sounding interested. "Tie this one and force him to listen or tie the other one and force him to—"

"Don't you have any honour! That’s disgusting to joke about!" Harry exclaimed, standing up again, dead set on escaping the kitchen where they were all gathered.

“I lost that at fourteen,” Gildy giggled. “Come here… I’ll tell you how and when…”

Harry was sure that he was going to end up with lifelong traumas, despite his attempts at ignoring everything the two adults were trying to tell him. After Gildy and Trelawney had finally left, the boy, exhausted, had collapsed onto a chair and asked a house-elf to bring him a cup of tea.

He was, without a doubt, glad that soon he’d be returning to Durmstrang where would have the time to think, plan and rest.

And where he’d have some sensible company.

*

When Harry’s portkey took him to the square in front of the apartment complex where his flat was, he was pretty sure that no one else would be there yet – it was early, and even the sun hadn’t properly risen yet. He hadn’t originally planned on coming here this early, but he hadn’t been able to sleep anyway and had decided to just make the trip and sleep in his flat if he felt like doing so.

‘Besides at least here I won’t have to worry about surprise visits from people I don’t want to see,’ Harry thought, setting down his trunk and sighing with relief as he closed the door behind him. It felt strange, to be back in his flat after all of what had happened. Harry felt as if his whole world had changed during the few months he had spent away.

He had a whole day ahead of him, and he was looking forward to seeing his friends after what seemed like an eternity. Tomorrow he’d get his schedule for the year and start with the lessons the day after. A familiar routine, and it was exactly familiar routines that Harry needed to feel comfortable in midst of chaos.

The boy made himself a cup of tea before sitting down to read yesterday’s copy of the Quibbler. It was nonsense, of course, but he wanted to familiarize himself with the paper before doing anything. He would have made something to eat but his fridge and cupboards were woefully empty, and he wasn’t in the mood for summoning a house-elf and ordering it to do some grocery shopping on his behalf.

It wasn’t till well after midday that Harry heard someone walking past his door, continuing their way up. He considered leaving his door ajar as a sign to let the others know that he was there, but then decided not to. As much as he had missed his friends, he didn’t wish for any obligatory visits that would be full of awkward small talk; something Harry knew would occur if Heidi was to arrive.

‘There’s so much I can’t help but think about,’ Harry sighed, refilling his cup of tea. ‘Like Tom. What am I supposed to do about Tom? He didn’t seem too angry when I last saw him, but he’s the Dark Lord, which means that he’s far more complicated than what I’ve thought so far. I mean… otherwise he wouldn’t have managed to achieve what he has, especially considering what kind of dangerous, cunning Dark wizards and witches are out there.’

And now a guy like that would be Harry’s… opponent. Maybe. Harry did want to make Tom consider him an enemy, but he doubted that the man would understand why Harry needed to do what he was going to do.

‘If I just knew what exactly I should be doing,’ Harry thought, ‘I would also know where I stand. For all I know maybe he won’t mind me trying to change the way people think about werewolves and other magical creatures… if that’s all of what I should do. And if I’m supposed to save him, just how do I do that!? If he’s truly immortal, then should I make him mortal? How am I supposed to do something like that, for Merlin’s sake?’

Harry was startled when the doorbell suddenly rang, and he hastily put down his cup of tea before rushing to open the door. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw Truls standing there.

“Harry,” Truls said, grinning. He was taller than when Harry had last seen him. His hair was slightly longer and his voice was a tad bit rougher.

“Come in,” Harry said, pulling his friend inside. “How have you been?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Truls replied, kicking off his shoes and moving to sit on the couch, pulling Harry to sit right next to him. “Are you okay? Need anything?” He didn’t – and Harry was thankful about that – comment anything about the purple heart-earrings Harry had taken to wearing.

“I miss mum, but I’m learning to cope with it,” Harry sighed. He wasn’t going to tell Truls yet about his plans –perhaps later on in the evening. “But really, what have you been up to?”

“Since my parents found out that we’ll start dueling this year,” Truls started, “they got me a tutor. It’s been hell – the guy’s a slave driver. Not too pleasant either.”

“Poor you,” Harry chuckled, before sighing, feeling content. It was so nice to be with Truls again.

“I missed you,” Truls said, as if he had heard Harry’s thoughts. His blue eyes were fixed on Harry and he leaned slightly closer. “I really missed you. I wished so hard that I could have been with you and supported you this summer. I don’t like it when you’re sad.” Harry swallowed, reaching to curl his fingers around Truls’s own.

“Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning against his taller friend. “I missed you too, you know.” And then, suddenly, Harry remembered what he had found out about Truls’s feelings towards him. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do – did Truls expect something from him? Did Truls even know that Harry knew?

“Do you know who our dueling Instructor is going to be?” Truls asked. Harry nodded.

“Bartemius Crouch Junior,” he said. “I met him a while ago. He’s good. Very good. I don’t know about what kind of reputation he has, though, but I expect that we’ll be starting from the very basics, as he won’t expect us to know anything beforehand.”

“My parents said that according to what they’ve heard, this year we’re going to start our real training,” Truls said, just as the doorbell rang again. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“Perhaps they mean dueling by ‘real training’,” Harry said, standing up and moving to open the door. He stepped aside to let Filippa and Petronella in.

“Harry,” Filippa exclaimed, hugging him tightly. “Oh, sweetie, are you okay? Nice earrings! Didn’t know you were into that, though. I’ve got remember it then.” Harry wasn’t sure what in the world Filippa had meant by ‘that’, and he wasn’t eager to ask either. He didn’t want to know.

“When did you become so… affectionate?” Truls asked. “Seriously, hugging him. First few weeks we saw you, Filippa, you’d barely crack a smile.”

“She spent most of her holiday with even more affectionate fashion designers,” Petronella revealed, before moving to hug Harry as soon as Filippa let go of him. The boy couldn’t help but notice how thin she was.

“Hugging a friend is not unusually affectionate,” Filippa said, sitting down on the couch as well.

“It is when you do it,” Truls claimed. Petronella giggled, taking a seat as well while Harry wondered if all of his friends would drop by at some point. He wasn’t sure what brought them to his flat, specifically, but he didn’t mind – it felt nice, to be sought out like that.

“I can’t wait to see our schedule,” Petronella said. “Really, I wonder if we’re still going to have to put up with those astronomy lessons. Honestly, I don’t want them.”

“No kidding,” Filippa agreed. “I’m still baffled at how they managed to find enough material to cover for two years. Surely there can’t be much more to teach regarding that subject!”

“We can certainly hope so,” Harry said, moving to open the door once again when it rang. Björn walked in, followed by Clemens. Harry was, in all honesty, surprised to see Clemens there – he wasn’t really a good friend of Harry’s and they didn’t particularly hang out together.

“You guys know of Viktor Krum, right?” Clemens said immediately after the obligatory greetings. “He got scouted by the Bulgarian team! The national team, I mean!”

“It’s giving me something new to bet on,” Björn grinned. “That guy’s the best seeker I’ve ever seen!”

“You mean he’s playing professionally now?” Filippa asked, sounding impressed. “We’re schoolmates with a celebrity!” Harry thought of the older boy who had come across as quiet, rather shy and awkward. And, well, very polite. He somehow doubted that Viktor Krum would really enjoy being a celebrity. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise Harry if the guy was secretly terrified of it.

“I guess everyone’s looking forward to the dueling lessons the most,” Björn said suddenly. “You know the rumours about the older students, right?”

“What rumours?” Harry asked, frowning.

“That the best of them get to meet the Dark Lord himself,” Björn said, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat when he thought about Tom again. He wondered what his friends would do or say if he was to ever tell them – but no, they probably wouldn’t even believe him.

 “Isn’t that just about the seventh years, though?” Filippa asked.

“We’re the special generation, though,” Truls reminded her. “He could observe us from, say, next year onwards!”

‘The Dark Lord they’re talking about is really, really, really Tom,’ Harry thought. Of course he knew that his Tom was the Dark Lord, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel… unsure. He was nowhere near used to the idea, and more often than not it still seemed so unbelievable.

Harry really missed the simpler days from the past. The days when what he worried about were the characters in his books, not the people in his actual life.

The simpler days when he knew where he stood. Perhaps friendless, but with his family.

‘The world keeps changing,’ Harry thought and sighed, watching his friends talk. ‘I can barely keep up with it now. I can’t imagine what Tom must have felt when the world kept changing drastically around him. Then again it’s mostly the kind of changes that he has approved of… But to think… if he really is immortal, then eventually he’ll see the day when nothing in this world is how it used to be, and nothing he could do could bring back what once was.’

Maybe that’s what he could start with, Harry thought, sitting up straighter, deep in his thoughts. Maybe he could start by trying to convince Tom of the necessity of being mortal. There was no need for those… what they were called again? Oh yeah, Horcruxes.

‘It can’t be that hard, right?’ Harry mused silently. ‘Surely it’s doable.’

*

When Harry and his classmates received their schedules, he wasn’t the only one who grimaced.

“Sir,” Heidi started, sounding desperate. “Are we not allowed to have free time at all?”

“You exaggerate, Miss Jöran,” Professor Dietmar replied, looking uninterested. “Besides, do remember, you all are here to study. Free time is necessary only for completing your homework.”

“We still have astronomy,” Petronella groaned. “Tuesday night. Oh, the agony.”

“You know, I was thrilled about the dueling lessons,” Björn said, inspecting the schedule. “But Merlin’s balls, just look at Saturday! Six hours! I’ll spend my Sundays dead.”

“I don’t think that we’ll have time for any extra Quidditch,” Clemens said sadly. “Last year’s schedule was so much…well, less demanding.”

“You are older now,” Professor Dietmar said. “And you are expected to work hard if you wish to keep up with the new standards. You are elite, and if you ever have a student of some other school as your opponent, you must be the victor. You are being trained to succeed in that. Your education will be heavily focused on dueling and improving your fitness and stamina… none of you – not a single one of you in this room right now – is meant to work in an office, pushing papers. You belong out there, on the battlefield. As leaders.”

“What if we don’t want that?” Petronella asked, sounding almost tearful. Harry saw Jakob nodding, and the expression on the other boy’s face showed a mix of hope and bitterness. It made Harry think, once again, of the illness the other boy had. Did Jakob know already what it was and how serious it was? Would he tell them? Could it be cured?

“You still have time to change your mind, if that’s the case,” Professor Dietmar replied. Harry could see Filippa’s expression turning sour, before his Italian friend turned to offer some comfort to Petronella, who seemed genuinely distressed.

“And those who fail to live up to these high expectations?” Björn asked, narrowing his eyes. “What will happen to them?”

“If you work hard, you needn’t worry about that,” Professor Dietmar told him. “Now, is anything else unclear? No? Dismissed. Your lessons will start tomorrow. Good day.”

“This is ridiculous,” Filippa hissed to Harry as they packed their bags. Harry glanced at Truls who didn’t look particularly concerned.

“Well, at least tomorrow morning will start with Divination,” Petronella said. “It’s not as tough as the other classes so we have a bit of time to get used to this pace.”

“And what a pace it is,” Björn whistled as they left the classroom, all together. “I mean seriously, did you see what we have on Saturday?”

“No kidding,” Clemens agreed, nodding. “From eight in the morning till nine in the evening! That’s crazy!”

“Well, at least we have three empty hours in there somewhere,” Heidi said, trying to sound hopeful and yet unable to erase the misery completely from her voice. “I’m almost scared of seeing what kind of schedule we’ll have next year!”

“It’s not so bad,” Nikolai said. “We’re obviously going to get a tougher kind of education that the students of other schools. We work hard now and we’ll surpass all the outsiders when it matters.”

“That’s true,” Harry muttered, thinking of what he’d have to do in the future. “If the war gets any worse, we’ll have to be the best of the best. I’m sure that the Rebels train every day to fight for what they believe in. We have to be… better, more skilled, in order to win.”

“And here I’ve spent years thinking that you’re a softy,” Clemens said, sounding approving. Harry didn’t feel particularly delighted to be the receiving end of the boy’s approval. Neither did he like agreeing with Nikolai.

“Aww, look!” Petronella suddenly exclaimed, looking at a group of students following a teacher. “Aren’t those first year kids?”

“They look so tiny,” Filippa sighed. “Poor dears.”

“We’re just two years older than them, you know,” Björn reminded her. “Think they’d be interested in betting?”

“They, too,” Nikolai said suddenly with a dark look in his eyes. “They too will be our rivals. We not only have to be better than the students from other schools, but we also have to be better than the other students at this school.”

“Not each other, though,” Petronella said hastily, sounding almost frightened. “I don’t want to think of any of you as competition or opponents!”

“We’re the first generation,” Björn said pompously. “We’re allies!”

‘I wonder if everyone agrees with that,’ Harry thought, remembering how Nikolai, Heidi and Clemens had reacted after Lorenzo’s death. ‘When the time comes to do more than just talk, what will they do? Will we all really stay as allies forever? I can’t see that.’

“Think we’ll ever really be officially tested against students from other schools?” Heidi asked. “I mean, really, what are the chances of that happening?”

“Maybe in a competition,” Clemens replied. “Which means that every lesson we receive is valuable. We simply can’t afford being worse than them. Hell, we can’t afford even being equal to them. We have to be better.”

“That terrifies me,” Petronella admitted. “I mean, honestly. Acing written tests and succeeding in practice during lessons is one thing, but the idea of actually having to be able to defeat someone… it’s scary.”

‘Scary,’ Harry thought. ‘That describes life itself pretty well.’

*

“My Lord,” Bellatrix Lestrange said, kneeling down in front of Lord Voldemort. “I come bearing good news.”

“Speak, then, Bellatrix,” Tom ordered.

“One of the Mudbloods we captured recently has revealed that there are at least eight major Rebel camps in Europe,” the witch said eagerly, loving the chance to gain the approval of her Master. “Previously we only knew of the camps in Ireland, Spain and Italy.”

“Do you have the exact locations of those camps?” Tom asked, hiding his displeasure well. If there were indeed that many major camps, then the number of Rebels would be much higher than what anyone had estimated. Just how could there be that many? Did they recruit Muggles or something? Or did they really have nothing else to do but breed out there?

“We have the locations of two of those camps, my Lord,” Bellatrix replied promptly. “Both of them are in France.”

“Ah.” France. The most problematic country from his point of view. Why did they have to be so dramatic and opinionated all the time? They would readily offer promises of alliance and glory and brotherhood, and yet Tom was more than aware of how the majority of the French magical population considered him an enemy.

Of course Tom understood why. They were afraid of being absorbed and turned into a subservient branch, different from his British servants only in name and language.

“I have a job for you, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said, and the woman leaned forward, devotion shining in her dark eyes.

“Anything, my Lord,” she whispered. “Any way I can serve, I—”

“You are to choose a few Death Eaters – whichever are fine – and train them personally. You’ll teach them Legilimency and Occlumency and how to survive while gathering information,” Voldemort said. “Their eventual task will be to abduct a Rebel and impersonate them, and to succeed in that they will have to be… perfectly trained.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Bellatrix said, her lips twisting into a wide smile. “It’s an honour to be trusted. An honour…”

“Think this one would try to get rid of your dead-alive boy if she knew how much time you spend thinking about him?” Nagini hissed, lifting her head from a vase nearby. “I wonder if he could ever behave like that towards you.”

Tom didn’t reply to Nagini, although he couldn’t help but think about Harry kneeling like that in front of him – the way Bellatrix was doing now, showing her submission – offering his devotion so readily and promising to do whatever he was told. The thought wasn’t unappealing.

“Sirius Black,” Voldemort called then, and the Death Eater in question stepped forward. “I gave you, quite a while ago, a rather special mission. What is its current status?”

“I only have a few technicalities to sort out, my Lord,” Black replied, kneeling down as well. “Hopefully a year from now on we can reintroduce the Triwizard Tournament. There are a few things I wish to have your opinion on, though… If I may be so bold as to ask, of course.”

“Speak.”

“Where will the tournament take place? I would think Durmstrang, but—“

“Hogwarts,” Tom cut in. “It will happen in Hogwarts.”

“And the judges—“

“I have no interest in who you nominate to be a judge. You are free to pick whomever you want.” At this, Sirius bowed once more before taking a step back. Tom spent a few moments in silence, trying to think of anything that should be discussed and hadn’t been yet. When he couldn’t find anything, he dismissed the Death Eaters and retreated to his private study with Nagini following him, fully intending on thinking about war strategies and how to track down and hunt Rebels.

He did not want to think of what he had dubbed the Potter Problem.

Chapter Text

When Harry saw Professor Crouch, he thought about Gildy.

It was Saturday, and their first dueling class was about to start. They were gathered in a spacious, empty room, dressed in simplified children's version of real battle robes. They'd have three consecutive hours of dueling, then an hour's break, and then two hours of the same kind of hard work again before the lessons of the day would be over. As much as Harry wanted to learn how to duel, he did think that five hours were a bit too much to start with.

Crouch seemed to recognize Harry when he saw him and nodded in greeting to his direction. Harry smiled back, warily.

"You don't need to pull out your wands yet," Crouch said, looking at his nine students. "Sit down. Yes, on the floor." Harry could see Filippa's disapproving expression at sitting on the floor. The girl had also managed already to express her dislike towards the grey garments they were wearing.

'Well, at least she can be happy knowing that real battle robes are fancier than these,' Harry thought, sitting down and turning to look at Crouch, who remained standing. He was dressed in black battle robes with silver runes around the collar, and Harry wondered what their purpose could be.

A long time ago, Sirius had told Harry about runes that made battle robes better, safer… and more dangerous. Runes for resisting fire, runes for defense against certain curses, runes that make apparating easier, and much more. It was very hard to find well-runed robes though. Runemasters were rare, and runes were expensive to create and embroider onto robes.

"Contrary to the popular belief," Crouch started, "dueling is far more than just flinging hexes at your opponent. Formal dueling has rules and protocols… and the only time you are permitted to neglect those rules and protocols is during war. Anytime aside from that, you'd get disqualified for breaking the rules. Let's start with the absolute basics– What is the definition of a duel? Mr. Marvin?"

"A confrontation between two or more wizards. Or witches." Clemens replied, and Crouch nodded.

"Yes, a duel is a confrontation. You face your opponent, bow, and then start. Your aim is to disarm, injure or kill. Usually only magical means are allowed in duels, but knives and swords are nowadays commonly accepted. Using your actual body to physically hit your opponent, however, is frowned upon in a formal duel."

"So we won't be learning that?" Petronella asked, sounding relieved. Much to her grief, though, Crouch shook his head.

"You will be learning hand-to-hand combat, of course, because most of the time you will not be fighting in formal duels, but in a war. And in war whatever can give you the advantage should be used. No matter what it is. Now, can anyone here tell me what a 'Second' is? Mr. Lennart?"

"A stand-in duelist who'll take over if the original one is beaten?" Björn replied hesitantly. Again, Crouch nodded.

"Duelists will often have a 'second'– a person who will take their place in a duel if necessary. What makes a good duelist?"

"Extensive knowledge on different spells," Heidi suggested.

"How to use whatever spells he or she has," Harry said, remembering what Crouch had told him quite a long time ago. "And to think outside the box."

"Quick reflexes," Truls added. "And the ability to stay calm."

"Willpower and stamina," Filippa said. "Awareness, too."

"All that," Crouch told them. "Your sports lessons for the past two years have included activities such as running, swimming, and Quidditch to improve your stamina and aerial balance. You will not only continue to keep up with those, but we will also devote some of the dueling lessons to improve your physical fitness."

"And… and if someone is unable to keep up?" Jakob asked, and Harry felt a twinge of pity towards the other boy who looked embarrassed, guilty, and even slightly bitter. "If they try hard and still don't succeed, what will happen?" Crouch looked at them for a few silent moments, and Harry was starting to think that he wouldn't reply, when he finally spoke.

"We will look into that when it happens," the man said simply. "Now, you can start by running laps around this area. The first lap is to warm up, the second lap is for you to run as fast as you can, and the rest are at your own pace, for an hour. Go on."

*

The hour was almost over when Jakob fell and was unable to stand up again. Harry felt his heart ache when he saw the way his friend was lying on the floor, sweaty, pale-faced, eyes clenched shut, and expression of pain clear on his face. Before he, or anyone else, stopped and went to check on him, Crouch told them to keep on running.

"In a mission, if you're being chased," Crouch said coldly as they ran, leaving Jakob on the floor on the verge of passing out, "if one of your comrades falls, you will not have the time to turn, help them up, and carry them– you too will be caught. It's always better for one person to be caught instead of two. And in missions where your fallen comrade knows something the enemy must not find out about, it is your duty to shoot them with a killing curse to ensure their silence."

Harry had, to some extent, expected this kind of instructions. He was sure, though, that some of his classmates– especially Petronella – would have a hard time accepting it.

'Not that I can blame her,' Harry thought. 'We're just thirteen. Why do we even have to know about a possible future where we would have to kill our friends?' Then again, perhaps it was better for Harry to get used to the idea of not always keeping the friends he had now. They would surely leave him anyway if they were to know about his future plans.

"You okay there, Harry?" Truls asked, jogging next to him.

"I wonder if Jakob will be okay," Harry replied, gasping for breath. "He should be taken to the hospital wing."

"Professor Crouch put a stabilizing spell on him," Clemens said, sounding far less winded than Truls or Harry, making the two boys wonder what kind of private training their classmate was secretly doing. "I don't know why he'd still keep Jakob there, though."

'To humiliate him?' Harry thought angrily before dismissing that thought. Crouch wasn't the type to do that. 'More likely, it's to teach us a lesson. Make us endure the sight of a fallen comrade. I wonder if this is making Jakob feel betrayed or angry… oh Merlin, I hate this.'

"Start slowing down now," Crouch suddenly said. "Don't stop immediately… slow down gradually 'til you're walking before you stop. Then stretch."

"Finally," Harry groaned. His legs were aching, his heart beating fast, and there seemed to be some kind of a pain right beneath the right side of his ribs. He was very, very glad at the thought of finally getting to stop walking. How were they expected to do anything after this first hour?

"It's probable that we'll have to do this in the beginning of every dueling lesson," Clemens said, slowing down as well. "But once a week won't be enough."

"I am not going to sign up for morning jogs if that's what you're implying," Harry replied. "Doing this once a week is bad enough. Oh Merlin, my legs hurt." Eventually, they got to sit down on the floor– after stretching their sore muscles– and were soon enough joined by the rest of their classmates. Heidi was lying on the floor next to Nikolai, gasping for air.

"If I move now, I'll throw up," the girl said. "I feel like someone threw me into a barrel and made it roll down a rocky hill."

"How do you think Jakob is feeling?" Filippa asked, wiping her sweaty face with the hem of her shirt and sitting down after she finished stretching. "Santo inferno sulla terra, that was painful."

"I'm not going to even pretend I understood two thirds of that sentence," Petronella said. Her face was as red as her hair, and Harry could see her arms and legs shaking. "But what comes to Jakob, I think we should go and see him."

"He'll probably have to transfer away," Nikolai said. "If physical fitness is so valued here, those who don't have it will be better off somewhere else."

"Not necessarily," Clemens said. "There have to be more than just good duelists in a team. We'd need a healer and a strategist. As long as Jakob excels in something, I'm sure that will be good enough to keep him here. With a modified schedule, maybe."

"Why would they do that just for one student?" Heidi asked.

"It's not like we got in by luck," Clemens reminded her. "We got in because we have something the other examinees didn't have. If the magical potential that we have really isn't common, then they're not going to throw out those who actually fill the criteria of getting in. Not unless they absolutely have to."

"He's got a point," Harry said, feeling relieved. "Jakob still has a chance."

"What do you think we'll do after Professor Crouch returns?" Petronella asked. "I hope no more of this or I might end up joining Jakob in the hospital wing. I thought I'd pass out. My legs were starting to feel numb, and I just couldn't breathe." Their conversation was cut short when Crouch returned. He didn't ask them if they had obeyed his orders, and Harry suspected that he didn't care. The man's instructions were meant to aid them, and ignoring them would result in a natural punishment.

Crouch stood silently for a few moments before he spoke.

"Only one hour has passed," Crouch said. "One hour out of five. Since your physical fitness s seems to be so dreadful, I can assure you that we won't be doing any actual dueling practice for quite a while. Now, stand up and follow me – there's no point in staying in a dueling arena anymore."

"Where are we going?" Heidi asked, sounding alarmed as she stumbled up. Harry couldn't see the smile on Crouch's face as the man was already turned away, but somehow, he could hear it when the man replied.

"To the gym."

*

"Supporting Muggles and Mudbloods," Tom murmured, looking at the four bound Rebels kneeling in front of him. "Helping them, protecting them, considering them equal to you… What a disgrace to the Wizarding kind."

"A Dark wizard like you is the disgrace here!" one of the Rebels snarled. "Torturer! Murderer!" Tom's lips curled into a tiny smile as he stopped Rabastan Lestrange from killing the Rebel who had spoken to him so boldly. No, he wouldn't need Rabastan to set them straight this time. He had something far more entertaining in store for all four of them.

"And you believe that… Muggles are harmless?" the Dark Lord asked. "You believe that they couldn't, not in a million years, invent a way to torture that is worse than the worst of curses out there? Well then, I must say that it is my duty to prove you wrong, isn't that right? Rabastan, Rodolphus, bring the prisoners and follow me." He had a special section in the dungeons, and he had been waiting eagerly for the chance to use it. Now this chance had finally arrived.

The first room he took them to was very, very simple. There was only one thing, and that thing was a chair. But what a chair it was– there were spikes covering the back, arm-rests, seat, leg-rests and foot-rests. There were also leather straps hanging from the sides of the chair.

"One of you four will have the pleasure of experiencing this, ah, product of Muggle inventiveness and goodwill," Tom said, enjoying the expressions of dawning comprehension and the fear caused by understanding. One of the Rebels was untied, and he was dragged towards the chair. The man cursed at them and tried to break free, but his attempts were doomed to fail.

"This is the Judas Chair," Tom said, his voice as calm and sweet as he could make it. "Muggles used it 'til the end of the 19th century, when it gave way to far more… civil methods. It's a pity, really– I find this particularly delightful as it will not kill you immediately." The Rebel screamed as he was tied down to the chair and the spikes penetrated his flesh. Tom paused with his explanation, enjoying the pained screams.

This is what his enemies deserved.

"None of the spikes will penetrate any vital organs," Tom said after a few long minutes, during which the Rebel's pained wails had quieted down to pitiful whimpering. "And the wound is closed by the spike so the blood loss will be greatly delayed. Now, do you want to know what else Muggles did with this thing? They lit a small fire under the chair, to heat those spikes. Shall we try that method of Muggle kindness?" The Rebel howled as the pain intensified, and Tom turned to look at the other three captured criminals. None of them was unaffected by the sight.

"You brought this upon yourselves," Tom reminded them gently. "You just had to make me your enemy, hm? Why, if I may ask? What in this world of mine is wrong, for you to want to change it?" He didn't receive an answer. Not that he had really expected one. The only one who talked back to him was, after all, Ha- Potter.

Tom waited for a few moments watching the Rebel sob and writhe in pain before gesturing for Rodolphus and Rabastan to grab the remaining three prisoners and follow him to another room again. The straps holding the fourth rebel weren't going to let him go– Tom had made sure of that.

"I am not going to ask you to volunteer any more information," the Dark Lord said to the rebels as they entered the second room. "I gave you a chance already, and I… do not believe in second chances. Now, this one here is known as the Rack." Once again there was only one thing in the room– it looked like a wooden frame with two ropes fixed to the bottom and another two tied to a handle in the top. It was held a few feet above the floor by two pipes, and there was a handle on its left side.

Once again, one of the Rebels was untied. The man was pulled onto the Rack, his legs and hands tied with the ropes. Tom tried to not smile too eagerly when he gestured for Rodolphus to turn the handle, making the ropes pull the Rebel's limbs.

"A long time ago, Muggles used this to tear each other apart," Tom said, watching as the Rebel struggled to not to scream. "Your limbs will never work again after this. Not that you'll be needing them– the dead have no use for their limbs, after all." At that, the Rebel screamed. Just as there was pain in his scream, there was also rage. Anger. Was it directed at Tom? The Dark Lord wasn't sure– perhaps the man was angry at himself for getting captured? Or maybe even angry at supporting a cause that was clearly not worth it?

Tom didn't know, and he didn't really care either. He stood there, listening to the captured man's screams as they grew louder and louder. He heard when the first bone in the man's body broke, and when he turned to look, he could see the skin stretching as far as it could go as the bones inside it moved in unnatural ways.

'Harry would hate this,' Tom thought. He didn't understand why. He tried, as he stared at the tortured man, to muster up something he could call regret, or even pity. But he couldn't. All of what he could see in front of him was a Rebel being rightfully punished. It was just something that had to be done– it was his duty, a job. He wasn't even feeling angry. He was… having fun, ac tually. Who told these people to join the Rebels, huh? This is what they deserved, for preferring to protect Muggles over serving a righteous cause. Over serving him.

The world he had worked so hard to create was being sneered at and ignored by fools like this. They chose wrong, when they chose the Rebels. Tom wanted them to be aware of that. He didn't need confessions, didn't care about their silly little plans.

He wanted to make them sorry for crossing him.

By the time the Rebel had died – ripped apart and bled to death – the other Rebel in the previous room had fallen silent as well. Tom doubted that he was dead – more likely he was simply unconscious for now. Not caring enough to check, the Dark Lord led the two remaining prisoners and the LeStrange brothers to the next torture chamber. There were two hooks in the ceiling of the room with a bit of rope hanging off them and a saw on the floor.

"Now which one of you to choose?" Tom murmured, turning to look at the prisoners – a man and a woman. The woman was sobbing quietly and the man face showed already a pained expression. Perhaps the woman would be easier for this kind of torture. With a smirk Tom spelled the ropes off her, alongside with her clothes, leaving her nude, humiliated and afraid on the stone floor. Not wasting any more of his precious seconds, the Dark Lord levitated the woman towards the hooks.

"Attach her legs to the hooks using the rope," Tom instructed, and Rabastan Lestrange hurried to comply. When that was done, Tom cancelled the levitation spell, leaving the woman hanging upside down.

"This is actually one of the most popular torture methods Muggles used in the Middle Ages," Tom explained. "You will be cut in half using the saw. This can go on for hours, depending on how much we use the saw. Now do send a thankful thought towards those Muggles you've been protecting. They're the ones who invented these kinds of delightful methods of torture and extracting information. The people you have been helping and protecting all this time will betray you the moment they think they can win. I was never your real enemy, you fools."

Truly, aside from seeing his servants grovel in front of him and torturing people for fun, Tom really, really, really liked crushing dreams and hopes. It made his heart skip a beat.

Because, honestly, whoever stood against him deserved this.

*

Harry wasn't sure how he managed to drag himself to his flat after the dueling lessons. His legs could barely carry him, and in the end he had to take a bath rather than shower, simply because he didn't have the energy to stand any longer than necessary.

The following day his legs – no, his whole body was still aching. Harry tried to get rid of that feeling by taking a short walk outside, enjoying the few free moments before he'd have to go back inside and focus on his homework. The busy days had prevented Harry from thinking about his plans, much less actually tell someone about them. He wasn't really sure about how to even approach the subject.

Humming quietly, Harry walked further away from the apartment complex and towards the garden. He thought about Tom – what was the man doing? Planning the war? Make more rules? Order more executions like the one Harry had witnessed once? So focused on his thoughts, Harry was, that he didn't see Viktor Krum till the older boy was standing right next to him.

"Harry Potter," Krum said, and startled, Harry looked up.

"Viktor Krum," Harry said. "Hello. And congratulations on joining the national team."

"Thank you," Krum replied, although he didn't look particularly thrilled. "What brings you here?"

"Had my first dueling session yesterday and my muscles are still a bit sore," Harry explained. "I thought that a walk will make me feel a bit better. And you?" Krum shrugged, looking at a fountain nearby. He stayed silent for a few long moments before speaking.

"It's very quiet here," the boy said slowly. "I… feel like I can breathe."

"You've been hounded by people, huh," Harry muttered, feeling a bit sorry for the older boy. "Well, you're a celebrity now, aren't you? Many learn to enjoy the fame."

"I don't like being famous," Krum muttered, his shoulders hunched and arms folded. To Harry it looked like the older boy was expecting a blow of some kind, and trying to shield himself. "I just like Quidditch. A-and I don't even want to be famous. It's…" He quieted down, as if embarrassed to talk about whatever was on his mind. After staring at Krum for a few moments in silence, Harry pulled him towards the bench he could see nearby and pulled the older boy to sit down with him.

"You can talk," Harry said soothingly. "I won't tell anyone. I can give you an oath if you want."

"Ah, it's not important," Krum said, flushing. He didn't stand up and walk away, though, and Harry wondered if he was just gathering his courage to talk. It took quite a while before Krum sighed, coughed and started speaking.

"It… used to be worse," the boy muttered, his blush darkening as he avoided looking at Harry. "You hear the way I speak. It's… slow." Not just slow, actually. Krum was in the habit of carefully pronouncing every word, as if they were strange to him. Harry had just assumed that Krum wasn't as used to English language as most of everyone else at Durmstrang was.

"Stammering problem," Krum continued. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, but Harry could still see from the boy's red ears that the blush was firmly there. "It… used to be worse. Now I can talk without stuttering if I'm careful, but when I'm nervous or stressed it… comes back. And… I hate it. It's terrible. It's… I can't control it." Harry nodded, trying to not look pitying as he glanced at the boy by his side. He could only imagine how much a boy from a pureblood family – and now a celebrity – could suffer from a stutter.

"You have bad memories about it?" Harry asked gently. "Something happened?"

"P-people used t-to ask my parents wh-why I talked… talk… like that," Krum admitted, distress evident in his speech and voice. He was talking faster now, though, and he didn't seem to bother with trying to control the stutter as he spoke "It… it was…"

"Painful," Harry said quietly, feeling his heart ache at the thought of someone being mocked for stuttering. He was sure that no one who didn't have this problem would ever completely be able to understand how painful it could be. How much it could really burden a person, especially if they were in the limelight.

"People th-think less of you if you stutter," Krum said grimly, his stutter lessening as he regained his composure. "They th-think you're stupid or s-slow. Mentally, I mean. Th-they think it-it's a joke. They think it's a joke. R-respect is hard to earn. There is prejudice but n-no one really talks about it be-because only th-those who stutter know of it. Experience it."

"Have you tried therapy?" Harry asked, and wasn't surprised when Krum nodded.

"Speech therapists and mind healers," the older boy replied. "I w-want to fly forever but I don't want to be a celebrity. I don't want to have to talk to people suddenly. I… will be expected to do press conferences. I will be introduced to important people I don't even want to meet. M-my new team mates told me all about that. The thought alone makes me… anxious." Harry wished that he would have been able to say something – anything – comforting, but he couldn't. There just wasn't anything he could say. He just didn't know what to say.

"It's never too late to teach people to give up their prejudices," Harry finally said. "If you can't get rid of your stutter, then accept it. You are already respected, and the more you play, the more people will respect you as a wizard with superb flying skills. What comes to intelligence – well, you attend Durmstrang and everyone knows how high the standards here are."

"It's not that easy," Krum replied tiredly. "I-in my head it can be done. But then I just c-can't do it."

'Well, that feeling is familiar,' Harry thought. The two sat for nearly an hour in silence, thinking of their own problems. Neither felt the need to talk, simply enjoying being alone with someone else, without feeling lonely. Harry's muscles weren't any less sore, but he was still feeling quite a bit more alive than he had been before.

When Krum – or should Harry call him Viktor from now on? – left, Harry was still sitting on the bench, wondering if he would be able to help anyone at all, or if he was just trapped by delusions of grandeur that he didn't know he had.

*

"I'm starting to hate history lessons," Björn whined on Monday as they left Professor Lyuben's classroom behind. "Honestly, I'm up to my ears with politics. Completely fed up!"

"It wasn't that bad," Truls said, and Harry grinned. Truls had seemed to enjoy debating about the current political events. "But cheer up, we have sports next."

"Oh Merlin, no," Petronella groaned. "I don't want sports. I always end up almost passing out after the lesson."

"Eat more," Heidi told her promptly. "Honestly, Nella, you're way too skinny." Harry silently agreed with Heidi, but was distracted when another issue crossed his mind. He bit his lip and glanced at Jakob, wondering if the boy was going to attend the sports class or if he was going to go somewhere else. Harry was really curious about what his friend could possibly be suffering from, but he didn't dare to ask.

"Think we'll finally play some Quidditch?" Clemens asked eagerly. "I just hope that we won't be stuck running laps or – Merlin forbid – be dragged to the gym again. I bet no other school focuses of physical fitness like Durmstrang is doing!"

"Next Sunday, how about we race or play?" Truls suggested. "We could invite some second-years to play with us. What do you think, Harry? Björn, you in? Clemens?"

"Yeah of course," Clemens said immediately. Filippa scowled.

"Where's my invitation?" she asked. Truls looked at her with a surprised expression.

"I didn't know that you liked Quidditch," the boy replied. "You never fly if you can avoid it."

"Whether we give or refuse," Filippa told him, "women are glad to have been asked."

"So when Mette slapped me for asking her out, she was still glad on the inside?" Björn asked. Harry gaped at him. When had that happened and how come he hadn't heard about it?

"Um, no," Petronella said. "That's a different matter altogether. Really, Björn, move on. She's obviously not interested."

"She will be once I turn fifteen and get to officially start gathering my fortune," the Swedish boy replied confidently. "If it wasn't for the age-limit needed for the bank account applications, I'd be her main target already by now."

"You're seriously going to be rich one day," Jakob said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you really ended up being the richest wizard alive."

"With his betting luck, he's bound to get assassinated before he turns thirty," Clemens mocked, before his expression turned serious. "I wonder what we all will be doing after we graduate. Or where we'll be ten years from today."

"Probably hunting stray Rebels if there are any after the war," Nikolai said.

"And if the world was to change?" Harry asked him. His eyes were open, but instead of seeing his friends who had now turned to see him, he, for an instant, daydreamed of a peaceful world void of unfair executions, prejudice, and useless hatred. "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

'He's going to change the world,' Filippa knew suddenly, watching her friend mutely. The thought had crossed her mind uninvited, making her almost breathless with surprise. Harry's brilliant green eyes were half-closed, and there was a beautiful smile on his face. But what really made him special, at least to Filippa, was the feeling she got from him. She couldn't help but remember the words her own grandfather had told her a long time ago; something about seeing what everyone else could see, and thinking what nobody has thought before.

"To believe in dreams," she muttered, feeling suddenly as if her heart was full of happiness. Really, if there's someone– anyone– who could change the world, it would be one of them. More specifically, Harry. Or maybe all of them, together. But that was a dream, a dangerous dream, and as much as she yearned for it, fear kept her away from it.

"Isn't the world changing all the time?" Nikolai said dismissively, and Filippa was almost ready to glare at him when she happened to glance at Jakob. It had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but Filippa was sure that she saw a very uncharacteristic expression on her friend's face.

She couldn't tell, though, what kind of expression it was.

*

"Where did my week vanish to?" Petronella all but sobbed as they made their way yet again to the dueling classroom. Heidi was trying to comfort her, although she looked just as miserable about it. Harry noticed that Jakob's expression portrayed nothing of what he must have been feeling.

They entered the classroom and were positively surprised when there were nine chairs, presumably for them to sit on. When Professor Crouch eventually arrived, he simply nodded in greeting before closing the classroom's door and starting.

"We will, today as well, do some running and physical exercise," he said. "But first, there are a few things I would like for you to discuss."

"I hope it's not politics," Harry hear Heidi whisper. "I hate politics."

"There are many things you need to be aware of when you duel," Crouch said. "Your outfit, for example. The things you're wearing. Some of you use earrings– now tell me, why is wearing earrings unwise if you're in a duel?" Harry flushed slightly, wondering if this example was specifically aimed at him.

"A summoning charm would be harmful," Nikolai said, glancing at Harry, making the green-eyed boy's blush darken. "By summoning the earrings during a duel, they'd rip their way off the earlobe and distract the opponent quite painfully."

"Only if the summoning charm is strong," Petronella added. "And only if the one who wears them hasn't cast an anti-summoning charm on the earrings."

'I should remember that,' Harry thought, before speaking up. "Not just earrings, though. I mean, can organs be summoned? Even if they don't get a way out of the body, the summoning spell can cause a lot of damage internally." Crouch stared at Harry for a few moments before a tiny smile appeared on his face.

"An excellent thing to notice," Crouch murmured, looking pleased. "Excellent indeed."

"But gory," Petronella shuddered before glancing at Harry. "How'd you think of that?"

"It just crossed my mind," Harry admitted. The words had tumbled out of his mouth before his mind had even registered them. He wondered if Tom's company was to blame.

"I'm surprised," Clemens said and grinned. "You don't seem the type to have ideas like that."

"How can we defend against that sort of attacks?" Nikolai asked curiously. He, too, had glanced at Harry with a sly expression before asking his question. Crouch's smile melted away, and he nodded.

"There are many ways to protect your body," the man replied. "Usually, battle-robes have all kinds of protection runes. However, some people go to runemasters to have runes carved into their bodies– that's blood magic. It's very rare to meet someone who has gone through that process."

"They're expensive, right?" Björn asked. Crouch nodded.

"Dangerous too. Only outstanding runemasters know how to wield that kind of blood magic. You will be taught the basic theory of blood magic, but it's too complicated for third-years like you. Now, moving on to other matters… There are different stances one can take before a duel. The way you stand matters– each way has its advantages and disadvantages, and you will have to know which one to use in what kind of situation."

"Will you teach us how to duel even if we're not standing?" Clemens asked suddenly. "If we're, for example, forced onto our knees and still have the power to keep on fighting—"

'Just what kind of family does he have,' Harry thought, looking at Clemens warily. 'His physical fitness is notable, his political opinions well-explained, his behaviour… I think that Clemens, rather than Nikolai, would be the perfect Death Eater. Does he do some kind of special training in his free time?'

"Yes," Crouch said. "I will teach you that as well; however, not quite yet. There is a lot to teach in the field of duelling, and we will need all of our lessons for the next few years in order for you to learn as much as you should."

'I wonder how well Tom can duel,' Harry thought suddenly. 'He's the Dark Lord, and I bet he's very, very good. I wish I could see, but I'm not sure if I want to be in a situation where I'd end up seeing him duel seriously. That'd be one scary situation, I bet.' Scary and potentially lethal. Harry didn't want to be the receiving end of anything like that.

"Now, stand up," Crouch said. "I'll teach you the most basic battle stance. No, you don't need to pull out your wands right now. You won't need to do that for quite a while, actually. Stand up and keep a distance of a few feet between one another…"

*

Tom was, simply put, exhausted. He had kicked away his shoes, shrugged off his robes and shirt, and was now sitting on a chair with his eyes clenched shut. A house-elf popped in, bringing him a light snack and a headache potion.

It had been a long day.

Sure, many necessary things had been done, such as torturing Rebels and showing off some new interrogation ideas to his Death Eaters. He had also managed to extract fair amounts of information from the last Rebel who had happily agreed to talk when promised with a merciful death instead of the torture his team mates had been subjected to.

He had Bellatrix already working on the preparations for an important undercover mission, but that wouldn't be enough to give him the chance to get rid of the Rebels for good. Killing one there, another here, and capturing a few more people just won't be enough to bring him the victory he so desperately wanted.

He needed something new. He needed something grand. Something… final and unexpected. If only he knew the exact locations of every Rebel camp, he could send Death Eater units to annihilate and mass murder. However, because he didn't know of their locations, he'd have to lure them out.

If Bellatrix's undercover project worked out as it should, the Death Eaters could sabotage some of the camps, set traps, and spread wrong, misleading information to the Rebels.

'This work never ends,' Tom thought, rubbing his eyes and sighing. 'Merlin, even if I manage to get rid of one group, another will pop up soon. Oh well, I suppose it at least keeps me from getting bored.' He would need to make things a tad bit more entertaining, though. A convenient disaster that would make time pass faster.

He would have made some Potter Plans, but he still didn't feel like approaching the boy.

Tom didn't even notice his lips curling to form a reluctantly amused smile. Harry Potter. Such a funny child. If only the little bugger would stop being a source of constant headache, Tom suspected that he could even learn to tolerate the boy's presence for quite a while.

"I ate a mouse, " Nagini hissed, slithering into the room. "It was big, it was fat, and it struggled before losing the fight. Wonderful, juicy meat. Crunchy small bones. The— I know that face. Thinking about the dead-alive boy again, are we? "

"Shut up," Tom replied, wondering when his snake had become so eloquent. She hadn't always been like that, had she? He could remember the time when Nagini kept asking for clarifications and explanations. In all honesty, Tom had never met a snake quite as smart as Nagini. Then again, she was one of his horcruxes.

'Ha— Potter said he talked to Merope,' Tom suddenly thought, narrowing his eyes. Pushing aside the questions of how and when temporarily, just how much did the boy know about Tom? The Dark Lord would need to know, for sure.

Tom sat up straight, completely forgetting about the food near him. A plan was forming in his mind, and he hastily reached for a quill and a piece of parchment to write it down.

He'd need to investigate a few things, such as who Harry's best friend was and how easily Tom could use him for information gathering. Didn't typical kids tell their best friends everything? A bit of good old possession tricks could give Tom the information he wanted while keeping Harry unaware.

But who was Harry's best friend? Did the boy even have any good friends? And who could find out that kind of information for him? Crouch. Wasn't that man teaching in Durmstrang? Crouch could get him that information. It wouldn't even be difficult– the only thing required would be to make the target drink a certain potion, and the rest Tom could take care of on his own.

If he couldn't stop thinking about the boy, at least he could focus on trying to solve the potential threat Harry Potter presented.

It was about time that he solved that mystery and moved on with his life.

*

Harry hadn't planned on talking with Truls about his future plans on that day. Really, the thought of telling anyone had actually vanished to the back of his mind, not to mention that he had first planned on talking with Filippa, not Truls.

That evening found him in Truls's flat, working on his homework. Harry had seen Truls's flat quite a few times before– it always gave him an odd feeling. Truls, to him, seemed so normal. No specific interests or hobbies, no unique, outstanding talents that would make him stand out in a crowd of other talented students.

His flat, however, showed off the blond boy's interest in runes and sports. It was a rather dark, cool, and comfortable place, and to Harry, the time seemed to stand still whenever he was there.

Then again, hadn't Truls's presence always seemed calming to him? Harry knew that some of his other classmates were, for some reason, wary of Truls sometimes… but he couldn't figure out why.

"Here," Truls said, setting down a cup of tea in front of Harry before sitting down as well. "Trouble with Transfiguration?"

"Trouble with everything, to be honest," Harry said, the words slipping out. He looked warily at Truls before sighing and pushing away his homework. "I don't even know how to talk about it."

"Try anyway," Truls encouraged. "If something is bothering you, then please talk to me about it. Together, we can solve it."

"It's complicated," Harry said, feeling uncomfortable. "It's… dangerous, too. Very dangerous."

"Trust me," Truls said, and Harry knew that he could.

"I want to change this world," Harry started, feeling embarrassed for some reason. "There's so much wrong with it, not just the war. The Dark Lord's world works for the benefit of a small population in this world, but the rest suffer terribly for no good reason. And it's all just… wrong. Something needs to be changed. The war needs to be stopped before it kills most of the people. And if the system isn't changed after the war is stopped, it's going to start up again for those same pointless reasons."

"The world isn't going to change on its own for the better," Harry continued. "And waiting for someone else to do this will just be a waste of time. But I'm so terribly scared, Truls. I don't know what to do for sure, how to do it, who to trust, and I feel like this all is going to just fall over my head and I don't know what to do!" The more he talked, the more the stress seemed to catch up with him.

"And as if it's not enough that I have to basically stand against the Dark Lord and the world he created, I'm in a school surrounded by people who would gladly kill me for it. I'm expected– we're all expected– to fit into a mould that the Dark Lord has designed, and failure to do so will lead to failure in life itself. It's wrong that the whole world has to dance to the tune of one person only, no matter who this one person is!" Harry took a deep breath and looked at Truls with a wary expression, leaning slightly forward.

"Am I the first one you've told about this?" Truls asked. Harry nodded, and the blond boy smiled slightly with a strange expression on his face.

"We'll do this together, then," he said after a few moments of silence. "You and I. The two of us. Do you have any plans yet? We need to first set certain goals and start planning on how to reach those goals."

"We'll need more people, though," Harry said, and Truls shrugged.

"First, we plan. Then we can see who is fit to be recruited and who isn't."

"You seem to be accepting this easily," Harry said suddenly, hesitantly. "I mean… this isn't a harmless game, you know. It could set you against your family. And—"

"I trust you," Truls replied, shrugging. "I don't know everything yet, but I trust you to choose well and decide wisely. I know you, Harry. You're not into doing risky things recklessly. If you're ready to do this, then it's going to be worth it." He then moved to touch Harry's cheek gently with an odd little smile on his face.

"It's going to be worth it," Truls repeated, and Harry wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel comforted or disturbed. There was something very odd in the atmosphere around them, and it made Harry feel slightly suffocated.

"There's a lot more I need to tell you," Harry continued. "Things you probably wouldn't believe."

"You wouldn't lie to me," Truls said, sounding utterly convinced. "How about you stay here tonight and tell me all of what you feel like telling? Tomorrow's free anyway."

"What do you think the others would say?" Harry asked hesitantly. "Filippa, for example?"

"Don't think about any of the others yet," Truls replied, standing up. "You don't need to go and get your clothes– just take one of my T-shirts."

"Okay," Harry said. It wasn't the first time he shared a bed with Truls although, sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder if the other boy's crush was still there or if it had changed into this close friendship. If Truls still liked him that way, was it unwise of him to go along with things such as sleeping in the same bed?

Maybe he should ask Filippa about this.

His concern about the unclear relationship with Truls was pushed to the back of his mind by the time he had brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and climbed into the bed next to the other boy. Truls turned to look at him and gave him an encouraging smile.

"You'll think that I'm crazy," Harry warned. "But I promise that I'm not."

"I wouldn't think that," Truls assured him, moving even closer. "I'd never think ill of you."

"Alright then," Harry said, his heart hammering nervously in his chest. "It actually started quite a few years ago, and I thought that it was a dream at first…"

Chapter Text

By the time Harry had finished telling Truls about the train station and Albus Dumbledore – carefully leaving aside everything about knowing Merope and Tom personally, as well as big parts of Tom's past– the sun was just about to rise. Truls was lying on his back with Harry sprawled next to him on the bed, their bodies almost touching. The Swedish boy was thinking about what Harry had told him, and while he didn't understand all of it, he didn't think that Harry would lie to him. Truls wasn't sure, however, of how to react.

"You'll put yourself against the Dark Lord," he finally said.

"And against the Rebels, too," Harry whispered. "Sort of. Although I've been thinking… I don't really need to wage a war against them or anything, do I? I want to stop the war. If I could find another way to convince people of what is right… Or even just convince the leaders to persuade their followers to stop killing… It's all so very confusing and I don't know what I should do, exactly."

It didn’t help that voicing his ambitions aloud made them sound unrealistic to the point of fantasy. It was… it was embarrassing. Thankfully, Truls didn’t comment on that.

"From what I gathered, you've got three projects at least," Truls replied. "First, stop the war. Second, promote equal rights for everyone, including werewolves and Muggles. Third, promote freedom of speech which includes the right to criticise anyone without the fear of getting killed. That’s… that’s a lot to handle. Actually, maybe you should start with the third point first."

"A friend of mine, well, her father," Harry started, "owns a magazine. I had thought about writing articles there or something. But, Truls, are you really not bothered? I mean, this kind of thing isn't exactly… void of danger."

"Worried, I am for sure," Truls said, gently touching Harry's cheek with his fingertips. "But I'd never abandon you, Harry. You want to do it, so you will. And I'm going to stand by your side through the good and the bad."

"People have been sentenced to death for less than speaking of this kind of matters."

"I know."

"I have no idea how to start," Harry huffed, feeling almost tearful. "One wrong step and—"

"It's all about saying the right things to the right people," Truls explained quietly. "We can do nothing right now, though. When we get the opportunity, we'll use it well. Don't worry, I'll help you."

'The whole mission seems impossible,' Harry thought, before suddenly remembering the Horcruxes. Maybe he really should start with them? If he could make the Dark Lord mortal, then, eventually, his era would end – that was the law of nature. He wasn't some kind of a hero, after all, and saving the whole world couldn't be done. Because, well, it was impossible to save humans from the human nature.

'I had considered asking Tom about the horcruxes directly and convince him to give them up,' Harry thought, closing his tired eyes. 'But the more I think about it, the less likely it seems that he'd readily give up all of what he has worked hard for so far.' Which left him with one option: disposing of the horcruxes without Tom knowing.

Easier said than done. He didn't even know what could be used as a horcrux, and he didn't know how many of them Tom had. Not to mention that he honestly had no clue about how to even destroy a horcrux. Would he be able to do it without Tom feeling it somehow? At least he'd have Truls's help, though. That was a relief.

'I'm surprised at how agreeable he is about this, though,' Harry thought suddenly. Wasn't it rather… odd? Truls was his best friend, sure, but what Harry was technically asking for went beyond what friends were obliged to do. Truls didn't so much as look reluctant, and while that did make Harry happy and relieved, he now couldn't help but feel… worried? Wary? Not that he'd accuse Truls of betraying him or anything, but… was it normal?

A long time ago Björn had told him something about life-debts… something important… but Harry couldn't quite remember what it was…

Harry yawned. He was tired and more than ready to fall asleep – he'd have enough time to worry about horcruxes and the world after waking up.

*

Bartemius Crouch Jr. hadn't expected to be called for a mission by the Dark Lord during the school year. However, on Sunday morning, a neat little envelope with an invitation within made it clear that his presence was required on that very same day, as soon as possible.

And when the Dark Lord says 'as soon as possible', he means 'now'.

Trying to remember if he had done anything wrong and calculating the probability of ending up as a human sacrifice of some kind, Barty pulled on his cloak, checked that his wand was where it should be, and left to meet the Dark Lord.

'Last time I was singled out, I got stuck assisting Lockhart,' Barty thought warily, as he made his way towards the office room where the Dark Lord would be waiting. 'Merlin, I sure hope this mission doesn't involve dealing with him again, in any shape or form.' The corridors leading towards the room were mostly empty, and when he entered the Dark Lord's office, he wasn't surprised to see that no one else was present there aside from the two of them.

"My Lord," Barty said, kneeling down. The fact that Lord Voldemort's appearance was that of a man around Barty's age didn't make him seem any less threatening. In fact, knowing his real age – or the estimation, really – just made him come across as some kind of… deity. A deity with a taste for torture.

"You're late, Bartemius," the Dark Lord hissed. "But no matter, you're forgiven this time."

"Thank you, my Lord. You're most merciful—"

"I have a mission for you."

"Anything, my Lord," Barty said, hoping that he wouldn't be sent off to some faraway island to hunt for some rare snake food again. Or worse: bring some important plants that fought back viciously.

"Does the name Harry Potter ring a bell, Bartemius?" the Dark Lord asked, his voice deceptively smooth. Barty was startled; he had not expected to hear the name of his arguably favourite student here. What— how and why did the Dark Lord know about Potter? Was the kid somehow important?

"Yes, my Lord," Bartemius replied honestly. "He's a student of mine."

"Who," started Lord Voldemort, "is the closest one to him there? His… closest friend, so to say."

'Why does he want to know?' Barty wondered, and tried to recall with whom Potter seemed to be the closest. He couldn't quite remember… he wasn't sure. There was that girl, Peppino. And two boys – a tall blond one, Truls Kettil, whose records spoke of aggressive magic best suitable for offense. The other one was the red-haired Lennart boy, whose talent in Charms was remarkably superior to that of not only his classmates, but probably many of the older students, too.

The Dark Lord sighed, sounding displeased, and put a small vial full of light blue liquid onto the table.

"Look at this, Bartemius," the man hissed. Barty, obediently, stared at the vial. "This, as you can see, is a potion. Your task is very simple – find the one closest to Harry Potter and make him or her drink this potion. That is all."

Questions were barely held back as Barty nodded, wondering if he'd have a dead student in his hands soon. "Yes, my lord."

"Once you're done," the Dark Lord continued, "you'll bring the vial to me. You are to tell no one – directly or indirectly – of this. You will not research the potion and you will do nothing more or less than what I told you to. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," Barty said, torn between feeling thankful for not being sent somewhere suspicious and wary at the thought of feeding a student an unknown potion.

"You have three days," the Dark Lord said, his red eyes almost glowing with glee. "Dismissed. Get to work."

*

Harry was still sleepy when Truls dragged him to have lunch with the rest of their classmates. The dark-haired boy could barely keep his eyes open, and for some reason Heidi, Petronella and Filippa couldn't stop making cooing noises at him. It was disturbing, to say the least.

"My muscles are still sore from yesterday," Björn said, piling what looked like grilled fish and roasted potatoes onto his plate. "Speaking of yesterday, did anyone else see my darling Mette? Her skirt is shorter than it was last week."

"Because Viktor Krum was confirmed single only three days ago," Filippa said dryly. "Before that, nobody knew for sure if he was dating some girl who just didn't attend Durmstrang. But he doesn't, never has, so he's the most sought-after guy at school right now. Which leads to shorter skirts, apparently."

"Well, at least in this liberated world she can do what she wants," Heidi said. Filippa shook her head with a frown on her face.

"This world isn't half as liberated as you think," the Italian girl said. "Liberated? This world where everything is judged and criticised and categorised? This world where, if you're a vegetarian, you get criticised, and if you're not a vegetarian, you get criticised for that too? This world where, if a woman wears short skirts and a sleeveless top and as much make-up as she wants she's a slut or if she wears a burqa she's oppressed? This world where you're always either too thin or too fat? This world where, if you have an opinion, it's always the wrong one? This world where every person with a flaw feels persecuted so badly that even the slightest insult will hurt them deeply? Is this what you call liberation?"

"She's got a point," Petronella said, and Harry was almost startled at the grim tone the girl was using. "People are brainwashed to believe that they're free to think and do what they want as long as they harm nobody else, but society' s oppression is like an invisible chain. How pleased must the brainwashers be – people have faced the uncomfortable truth and opted to believe their comfortable lie."

"That's not entirely true," Heidi argued. "If you're brave enough and with a backbone, then you can be the person you want to be, no matter how different you are."

"And by standing out in a crowd you have to bear the burden, the stigma of being different," Filippa sighed. "The prejudice of people is a terrible thing. In theory, you're free. But in reality, you're not. How many of us are right now free to do whatever we want?"

"The problem is that people mistake their freedom of speech and expressing opinions as the freedom to judge," Björn said. "Most people do that, actually."

"But isn't having an opinion already classified as judgement, no matter how private it is?" Heidi asked curiously. Harry replied, shaking his head:

"No," he said. "The difference between an opinion and a judgement is, for example, the difference between 'I don't like apples' and 'apples are bad'. You're free to have your own opinion – that you don't like apples – but you're not entitled to label all apples as bad just because you don't like them. That'd be rather…"

"Egocentric," Clemens finished for him with a nod. "I get your point. Never thought of it like that before, to be honest."

"To think that from discussing the length of Mette Erling's skirt we ended up talking about human nature," Björn said, sounding oddly proud of himself. "Next we can talk about her unde—"

"We could start a conversation about the regular size of potatoes in Asia and end up discussing human nature," Filippa cut in, before changing the subject. "I heard that seventh year students get to drink wine at dinner. How unfair is that?"

"You drink wine at home?" Petronella asked curiously.

"Italian, duh," Björn told her. "She probably started drinking wine from the bottle as a baby."

"Hilarious, Björn," Filippa said coldly. "I'm splitting my sides with laughter, I am."

"Oh Merlin, we've got Arithmancy tomorrow," Harry suddenly realized. "I haven't done my homework yet."

"I haven't done mine, either," Truls said. "We can study together."

"You two always hang out together," Heidi suddenly said, leaning forward. "There are going to be rumours sooner or later if you don't put some kind of a distance betwe—" The words seemed to die on her lips when Heidi finally saw the expression Truls was regarding her with. A cold feeling washed over her body and with a small shudder she leaned back and pressed herself closer to Nikolai.

"Rumours?" Harry asked, oblivious to what had made Heidi quiet down. "What rumours?"

"Never mind," Filippa replied, pushing a mini pizza onto his plate. "Eat, my dear. You too, Nella. You're too skinny, girl. Don't you eat? Honestly, you guys make me feel fat." Harry saw Clemens grin suddenly and open his mouth, and with dread he realized that the other boy was going to make a joke that would set Filippa on warpath.

'I guess researching horcruxes can wait,' Harry thought, enjoying the time he was spending with his friends. 'I don't want these people as my enemies.'

*

"I hate idiots," Bellatrix said, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. Sirius yawned, shuffling a few papers to the left, and then back in front of him again. The words 'Triwizard Tournament – Task Ideas' stared up at him from an otherwise empty paper.

"I hate work," Sirius said. "Aren't you supposed to be torturing those poor spies of yours into submission and obedience?"

"I sent a few out to work already, but the newer ones are pathetic," Bellatrix sniffed. "As soon as I use Legilimency on them they start whining and collapsing and bleeding from their ears. You try to work when your test subjects keep dying."

"I don't think they're meant to do that," Sirius pointed out, before yawning again. "I'm hungry."

"What are you even doing there?" Bellatrix asked, sitting up on the couch. "I heard that you have… some kind of a festival to plan. It better be something interesting."

"It's not a festival," Sirius replied. "It's the Triwizard Tournament. It's a magical contest held between three schools. It's an ancient tournament, and the first one was held in twelve ninety-four. Each school is represented by one Champion, and the Champions compete in three extremely dangerous tasks that are meant to test magical ability, intelligence and courage. The prize for the victor is the Triwizard Cup and money. However, the Tournament was discontinued in seventeen ninety-two when the death toll became too high."

"What's wrong with a few deaths? It just sets the mood! Not to mention if there are a few mudbloods at Hogwarts – I have no idea why they're still allowed to partake in education – we could use as target practice, to create a nice atmosphere."

"Anyway, cousin. Now the Dark Lord has given me the task to bring back this tournament. I've already decided that the schools taking part in this will be Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons and the competition itself will be held at Hogwarts. I'm now working on the tasks."

"Ooh," Bellatrix said, her dark eyes suddenly sparkling. "I want to help. Who are the judges?"

"Traditionally, the judges were the Headmasters – or Headmistresses – of the schools," Sirius said, "but I thought that they'd end up being biased if that's the case. I mean, can you see Yaxley being fair? Yeah, my point exactly. So I'm choosing three neutral people who are not in the school board. I will be too busy to judge, myself, but—"

"I'm one," Bellatrix decided. "I'm going to be a judge."

"Merlin save us," Sirius muttered. "But fine. And if you're not doing anything else right now anyway, then come up with task ideas."

"Just lock them in a room with transparent walls and have them duel to death while we watch," Bellatrix suggested, lying back down. "Last one alive is the winner."

"We want something spectacular. Something… showy. Flashy. Interesting. Three tasks, Bellatrix, not one."

"Let's have them hunt werewolves during a full moon."

"And how are we supposed to watch that happen? No. Besides, it's boring. Another no. We need something new, something…" Sirius paused, looking for the words, before continuing: "something real." There was a sudden silence in the room as the two Blacks thought about the words, before they slowly turned to look at each other.

"Real," Bellatrix murmured. "Like… the Rebels…"

"It could be a wonderful experience," Sirius said, his mind coming up with more possibilities on how to use the Rebels. "For the audience, at least."

*

"We'll be leaving Ireland soon," a Death Eater – Septimus Rolfe, if James remembered correctly – said. "About time. Bloody hell, feels like I've been stuck here for years. But at least the place is clean now from traitors and we can relax a little bit."

"Where do you think they'll send us next?" James asked as the two walked through the muddy roads of St. Cattlesweep, a small village not too far away from Dublin. "Think Italy? Spain?"

"Or France. Thornfield from the fifth division said that France is infested with Rebels. Although the French government might not allow British Death Eaters to fight there," Rolfe replied. The two men entered a tavern where many of their squad members were already drinking. James could see Pettigrew sitting alone in the far corner.

"Can't wait to drop by home," a man was saying when Rolfe and James sat down. "Haven't seen my wife and kids in months."

"You got kids, Potter?" Rolfe asked, and James nodded, accepting the drink offered to him. "A son. Harry," James said. "He's in Durmstrang. Third year."

"Elite, mate," Rolfe whistled. "My nephew tried to get into Durmstrang last year, but he failed. I don't have any kids, myself. My wife is still young, though, so we'll see about that."

"Just take care that she doesn't see about that with someone else," a man nearby laughed loudly, before trying to grab Rolfe's drink. Sourly the other man sent a stinging hex and turned back to James with a scowl on his face.

"Asshole," he grumbled. "She wouldn't. She's a good woman, she is."

"My wife died," James said, the gloom of months ago returning now with vengeance. "Last summer. She was a healer, was sent to Italy. And then she died there." Rolfe didn't say anything, just refilled James's pitcher with more ale.

"And then my son," James started, before pausing to stare at the alcohol in front of him. Harry. What had he promised Harry? There was a nagging feeling as if… he was supposed to remember… "And my son… I… should have taken more care of him."

"If your son is in Durmstrang, you've got nothing to fear," Rolfe assured him. "The kids there, they've got their future bright and welcoming. Nobody will turn down a job application from someone who studied in that school. Not since the Dark Lord made the adjustments and made it special. The kids there have no worries, nothing that would make them fail."

'Is that really the case, Harry?' James thought, feeling tired and so very old and useless. 'But if your life was really full of careless days at school, from where did you get that maturity I can't remember you learning from home?'

"Soon we all can go home," Rolfe continued, gulping down a few mouthfuls of ale before continuing. "And then we'll get to live with our families again, and if there's anything that needs to be fixed, we can finally fix it without worrying about the next great absence."

"Wouldn't that be nice," James muttered, and he couldn't help but glance at where Pettigrew was sitting alone. Pettigrew didn't look dangerous or impressive in any shape or form. He didn't come across as a threat and didn't inspire feelings of wariness. And yet, when he suddenly looked up from his drink and stared at James with his watery blue eyes, the dark-haired man couldn't help but shudder.

He couldn't wait to leave this place and go home. At least there he'd never have to see Pettigrew again.

*

It would have to be Truls Kettil. That boy was, without a doubt, the closest friend of Harry Potter.

This was the conclusion Bartemius Crouch Jr. came to after a whole day of observing. It was painfully obvious, now that he bothered to actually watch the third year students. Where Potter was, Kettil was as well. Always together, and most of the time so close that another person couldn't come between them. Strangely, that lack of distance didn't seem to be a result of conscious effort. It was actually… a bit odd, seeing boys at that age being so close.

The more he observed, the more aware of it he became. The proximity, the touches. They were young, though, and Barty couldn't help but get a sense of wrongness from the thought of those two being intimate in any way. They were too young – just children, still.

'Focus on what's relevant,' Barty told himself, trying to shrug off the uncomfortable feelings he had.

Making Kettil drink the potion would be easy enough – all Barty would need to do was use a house-elf to include it in the kid's breakfast or something along those lines. So no, he wasn't worried about whether or not he'd be able to succeed in the mission. Rather, he was worried about the aftermath.

Barty hadn't inspected the potion – for all he knew, the Dark Lord could legilimence the truth out of him and he'd be in a world of trouble and pain as a result of going against direct orders. But he was curious, and very much concerned. He doubted that the potion would kill the boy – why would the Dark Lord benefit from killing Potter’s closest friend?

'Or rather, the questions should be: what brought Potter to the Dark Lord's attention?' Barty thought while doing his regular morning exercise. 'The Dark Lord knows Potter. Why? Potter, whose family is not high-ranked. Potter, who doesn't seem to stand out in anything in a way that would make him more remarkable than the rest of the special students here in Durmstrang. Why Potter?'

What made Potter different from everybody else? Well, the brat could mask his presence alarmingly well… but that was nothing outstanding. Surprising for someone so young, yes, but nothing special. Not unless… it was part of a bigger picture.

What would happen to Kettil after drinking the potion, and how would that affect Potter?

'I shouldn't think about this,' Barty told himself. 'The Dark Lord's orders were clear.' He didn't want to end up being tormented by curiosity about a mystery he had no permission to solve. That would be worse than being stuck with Gilderoy Lockhart in a room.

Too much had happened for Barty to voluntarily risk his position for a bit of curiosity. He wasn't where he stood now simply because of luck and connections. It had taken a lot of time and effort to work off his father's legacy and build a reputation good enough for people to forget or ignore what Crouch Sr. had done before the Dark Lord took control.

"Tip," Barty called, and a little house-elf appeared. He levitated the vial with the potion towards the elf, and frowned at the trembling creature. It was actually one of his own, not one of the creatures that belonged to Durmstrang. He didn't trust those things with important tasks such as this one. "Make sure that the third year student Truls Kettil drinks this potion, one way or another. Don't let anyone know of this. Once you're done, bring be back the vial."

"Yes Master," the house-elf stammered, bowing deeply before taking the vial and vanishing. Barty stood still for a few moments, wondering what would happen next. Should he start paying more attention to Potter? He'd have to observe Kettil, that was a given, but what about the others?

Or should he just pretend that nothing had happened?

*

"Does anyone know how the Bitsheet Bumblebee affects Draught of Pleasant Dreams?" Filippa asked, looking up from her potions essay. "Harry? Nella?"

"If the chopped bits aren't fried first the draught turns into a nightmare potion," Petronella replied. Everyone was, once again, in Harry's flat doing their homework. The boy himself was trying to make sense of the transfiguration essay he was supposedly writing.

"How about we have a break and go play some Quidditch?" Clemens suggested suddenly. "Just for half an hour."

"I'm in," Björn immediately, throwing his quill down. Truls turned to Harry with a questioning look on his face.

"You go and have fun," Harry told him. "I'll try to tackle this hurdle first."

"All right," Truls said, standing up. Eventually, Nikolai and Heidi left as well, and only Harry, Petronella, Filippa and Jakob remained in Harry's flat, working quietly on their essays. After a few minutes of quiet working, Filippa sighed and put down her quill.

"This is so complicated," she said, pulling closer a potions book she had borrowed from the library. "Why's the Christmas Holiday so far away?"

"What are you going to do on Christmas?" Petronella asked, pushing aside her own essay and leaning forward. "If there are any fashion shows going on, please invite me too, okay?"

"Of course," Filippa replied. "But don't you want to spend the time with your family?"

"Not really," Petronella snorted. "They're not… well… whatever. What about you guys?"

"Nothing special," Jakob replied, and Harry nodded, agreeing with him.

"I'm probably going to spend the holiday here," Harry said. "I've got no reason to go home, so… might as well stay here."

"With Truls?" Filippa asked, grinning. Harry rolled his eyes and set down his quill as well and didn't reply. Petronella, however, spoke up.

"You know, I've been wanting to ask about that," she started. "How come you're so… close to him? I mean, I know you're best friends or something but Truls – his whole family – has a rather dangerous reputation."

"First time I've ever heard about that," Harry said warily. "Can you elaborate?"

"Well, Heidi has told me a few things," Petronella said. "She's Swedish too, you know, and their families move in the same circles. And… there was this scandal about his older brother poisoning people and stuff."

"Truls is scary," Jakob said quietly. "Not in the same sense as Nikolai, though."

"Nikolai is evil," Filippa agreed grimly. "The things that guy has done…"

"But what makes you say that Truls is scary?" Harry demanded to know. "He's the nicest, most loyal person I have ever known. So, no offence to you guys, but if you can't back up any of your claims, then don't say things like that so carelessly."

"It's just hard to explain," Filippa told him. "I don't know much either, and I know nothing certain about Truls's family. All of my comments are only about him and according to what I have observed with my own eyes. Truls is usually the nice, funny guy you see him as, but sometimes it seems as if something clicks inside his head and he changes completely. I can't give you any proof yet, so I won't tell you to believe me, Harry. But you'll find out on your own, eventually."

"It's not that Truls is a bad person, though," Jakob said. "Just sometimes very brutal and ruthless. Like when Nikolai said something about Harry and Truls just glared. I thought he'd kill Nikolai, that's how mean his glare was."

"How come you guys know about that and I don't?" Harry asked, feeling almost angry. "I'm with him most of the time. So how come you know and I don't?"

"He's careful when you're nearby," Petronella replied quietly. "He's very, very careful when you're by his side." There was something in the way she said those words, something in the expressions of Filippa and Jakob as well, that chilled Harry to the bone.

"I think I know Truls better than you do," he replied, pressing his lips into a tight line.

"Rather than know better, you know sides of him we haven't seen," Jakob said. "And we, too, know a side of him that you're unfamiliar with. I think it's because he cares about you the most so he doesn't treat us the same way. He's pretty… well…"

"Possessive about you," Filippa for Jakob. "He doesn't really let anyone else near you, does he?"

"Don't be silly," Harry replied, reaching for his quill and pulling his half-written essay closer. "Let's not talk about this anymore. It's nonsense."

"As you wish," Petronella said. "Mind if I make some tea? I feel a bit thirsty."

"Make some for all of us," Filippa told her. "Please."

"Consider it yours," Harry said, nodding towards the kitchen. "Have fun." He kept his tone light and expression neutral, but inside he couldn't stop thinking about what the others had told him. Truls wasn't like that. Truls was… well, he was Harry's best, best, best friend. And Harry trusted him with his life.

When Truls came back with the others, he sat next to Harry like he always did. Harry glanced at -Filippa, who was looking at him with a serious expression. To prove a point – he wasn't sure what kind of a point exactly – Harry didn't move away even though the other boy sat close enough for their bodies to be touching.

Filippa bit her lip, unsure of what to do next. She had tried to tell Harry, but the other boy seemed to be dead set on not believing that there was anything off about Truls. She'd have to wait, and hopefully get some kind of a proof before trying again.

'It's not that Truls is a bad guy,' the girl thought, sighing and looking down at her essay again. 'I just don't think that he's… a good guy either.'

*

Thursday evening the house-elf Tip popped into Professor Crouch's quarters, holding an empty vial. Barty took the vial, sent the elf away and got ready to go to meet the Dark Lord again. He wondered if there'd be some news about Truls Kettil falling ill soon, but then decided to not think about it.

Really. Because it just wasn't any of his business. He had nothing to do with it. Dark Lord's orders. He wasn't responsible for this.

'I just hope that the brat won't die,' Barty thought while turning towards the fireplace. 'Not that I care about him personally, but the performance of the other kids could suffer because of any sudden deaths. Merlin knows they're now bad enough. If the progress was any slower it'd be a disaster.'

Entering the headquarters where without a doubt the Dark Lord was, Barty stopped in the front hall to be called further in. He wasn't sure how long he'd have to wait – he had come unannounced, after all, and the Dark Lord was probably busy. Much to his relief, however, it took less than an hour for a house-elf to appear, telling him to proceed towards the office room where the Dark Lord was.

'I've met him dozens of times,' Barty thought, bowing deeply. 'I should stop feeling so surprised every time I see how young he looks.' "My Lord. Thank you for your time."

"You have succeeded in your mission, Bartemius?" the Dark Lord said. Barty swallowed and nodded.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Well done," Lord Voldemort murmured when the Death Eater presented the empty vial to him. "I trust that the boy has already drunk the potion and soon… it will take effect. Well done indeed. Now… step closer." Feeling his heart beat loudly against his ribs, Barty took a few steps closer towards the Dark Lord and kneeled down. A moment later he felt the man's cold fingertips lifting his face up.

"Look into my eyes," the Dark Lord ordered, his voice, as usual, void of emotion. Barty swallowed and did as told, knowing that he was leaving his mind vulnerable for inspection. He was glad that he hadn't gone against the Dark Lord's orders, having opted to ignore his curiosity instead.

"How smart of you," the Dark Lord murmured, clearly having read that stray thought. "You have done well indeed. However… leaving you curious isn't something I intend on doing." The Dark Lord let go of Barty, taking a step back, as if reluctant to stand too close to a mere mortal for any longer than necessary.

'He's going to tell me?' Barty thought, feeling surprised. 'Well, maybe I should have expected that. He'd need to tell me for me to know how to deal with the aftermath.' It did make him feel honoured, of course, to be the only one in the know about this secret plan.

"Unsatisfied curiosity brings unexpected problems," Lord Voldemort continued. "Which is something I wish to avoid."

"Thank you, my Lord," Barty said, bowing again. "I'm most honoured."

"Long story short," the Dark Lord started, turning slowly towards Barty. "Obliviate. "

*

"Are you all right?" Harry whispered to Truls. They were in the Charms classroom, and Harry had noticed that his best friend seemed to be a bit off his game. He looked rather pale and tired and Harry contemplated taking him to the hospital wing.

"Just got a headache," Truls replied. "Probably just muscle pain in the shoulders and neck. I get headaches easily when my muscles are tense."

"I can give you a massage later on if you want to," Harry offered quietly. "You can stay over at my place tonight." At this Truls smiled, moving to rest his right hand on Harry's left. He didn't reply anything for a while, content with just looking at Harry for a few moments in silence. In the front of the class, Professor Elis was explaining something about the numerous uses of a scrubbing charm and how it could be used to scrub the skin right off a person.

'Why would I ever even wish to use that kind of a spell for that sort of purposes?' Harry thought, and sighed. He glanced at Truls again, feeling concerned. He thought about Jakob, too, and Jakob's illness, and hated himself a little bit for being grateful that it wasn't Truls who was sick.

'I'm a terrible person,' Harry thought gloomily, before his thoughts wandered to what Filippa, Petronella and Jakob had told him about Truls. He didn't want to believe their suspicions - whatever it was that they suspected. They didn't know Truls the way he did, and... well... they just didn't. He couldn't, however, just dismiss their claims as lies because they were his friends too, and he knew that Filippa in particular would never lie to him.

"For homework," Professor Elis said, "I want you to list five household charms that could be used for defence during an attack. I want you to be able to tell me about them adequately without checking your notes. Dismissed."

"Not the scrubbing spell, though," Heidi was saying when they gathered their books. "I mean, the Professor already mentioned it. Maybe a cleaning charm? A dusting charm?"

"How would you use a dusting charm for defence?" Filippa asked, shaking her head. "I'd say... maybe a waxing charm."

"Chopping charm is considered a household spell," Nikolai said. Harry nodded - he had actually been rather surprised when he had learned that bit.

"If you're feeling sick then maybe we should drop by the hospital wing and get you a headache potion," Harry suggested, looking at Truls. The blond boy once again refused, with a small smile on his lips.

"I'll be fine soon enough," Truls said. "Really, Harry, you needn't worry."

"Our next Charms lesson is tomorrow morning," Petronella said. "I'm off to the library, I suppose. Anyone tagging along?"

"I will," Björn said. "I have some other books I need to check out anyway." Harry and Truls didn't stay with the others to sort out who'd go to the library and who wouldn't, continuing their way together towards the apartment complex instead.

"I'll just quickly do my homework, have a shower, get changed and then I'll come by," Truls said. Harry nodded.

"You'll stay the night, right? Want me to make dinner or anything?"

"Personally, I'm not hungry, but if you want to eat then fine."

"Nah," Harry said, smiling. "See you in a few hours, Truls." He waved to his best friend before entering his flat and closing the door behind him. Aside from the charms homework, he'd only need to quickly finish his Dark Arts essay and then have a shower as well. He wasn't actually all too sure about how to give anyone a massage, but he did have a vague idea.

Besides, Truls would guide him if he did anything wrong.

*

"You finished delivering a file to me," Tom said, planting the carefully constructed images into Crouch's memory. "And now you're leaving. If you wrote down any notes regarding this task I gave you, you'll simply dismiss them as something unimportant and feel the urge to destroy those papers immediately. You can leave now."

"Yes, my Lord," the dazed man replied, scrambling up. He was blinking rapidly and seemed slightly unbalanced, which, from Tom's point of view, wasn't an uncommon look on him. Crouch had always come across as slightly unbalanced, regardless of whether he was affected by magic or not.

Tom watched him leave, before sighing and disposing of the vial. It was done. He'd have to wait for a few long hours before opening the connection, but that task wasn't difficult at all. The toughest part had been brewing the potion, and he had, of course, succeeded in that already. Erasing Crouch's memories had been just a step of caution – Tom knew how dangerous curiosity in other people could be.

"Well, look at that smile," Nagini hissed, lifting her head up from behind a pile of books on the table nearby. "Something good happened?"

"You could say that," Tom said, brushing his fringe to the side and sighing, feeling content. "Something potentially good, indeed." He was so close to achieving his goal that it made him feel almost giddy.

He wouldn't be able to control the body of the target – in fact; he wouldn't be able to even affect the target's thoughts. This was more of a way for Tom to see through the target's eyes for a limited amount of time and hope that Potter would actually trust the person with his secrets or reveal something about himself. The only way for Tom to really be able to control the targets body would be if the target was asleep or unconscious for some reason.

He had plucked out the name Kettil from Crouch's mind, and assumed that to be the target's name. How close was Kettil to Harry? In a way, Tom hoped for them to be quite close, for him to be able to benefit from the close ties between the two. On the other hand it felt… strange to think that the strange child had a close friend. Tom didn't know why it felt odd – it just did.

'Even if Potter doesn't reveal any of his secrets,' Tom thought, sitting down on his chair, 'at least I might figure out how to deal with him. What to bribe him with. Or what to threaten him with.' All of his plans seemed to be going well enough, but the biggest elation was brought by the feeling that soon the Potter Problem would be solved.

"About time," Tom muttered.

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, you once told me, " Nagini hissed. "I'd start worrying, if I was you."

"Don't be foolish, Nagini," Tom sneered. "I was simply thinking that soon Potter—"

"Oh no, not the dead-alive boy again."

"— will be a problem of the past."

"You mean," Nagini hissed, sounding far too sceptical for a snake, "that if you figure him out you'll… what, kill him? Stop thinking about him? Stop talking to him? Forget about him?"

"Well," Tom started hesitantly. It was a good question – what would he do after figuring Potter out? He didn't feel like killing the boy and the thought of purposefully treating him like a stranger didn't sound… natural, oddly enough. It made him feel weird. "Well…"

"That's what I thought. "

"I didn't even say anything yet!" Tom protested, before taking a deep breath and calming down. "I'll observe first. When I know what exactly I'm dealing with, I'll figure out how to deal with it." If, after all, Potter turned out to be as useful as Tom wanted to believe him to be, he could just proceed with his make-Potter-owe-you-a-life-debt plan.

"Why can't you just let me eat him? "

"I don't want him to die yet. I have plans for him!"

"That doesn't make sense to me," Nagini hissed, sounding disapproving. "I do not understand."

"It all makes sense," Tom told her firmly. "I just don't know how, yet."

*

"Feeling okay now?" Harry asked, rolling off Truls to lie next to him on the bed. The other boy sighed and nodded, the tension gone from his muscles. They were both lying down on Harry's bed, in his dark and quiet flat.

"Yeah, felt good." Truls's headache, however, seemed to only intensify. He didn't tell Harry that, though, opting to just yawn and close his eyes, ready to fall asleep. He smiled, being clearly aware of Harry so close to him, which made him feel… weird. Happy, way too happy. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Harry replied. "Besides, you've done it to me too so it's payback rather than a favour. Do you need anything?" Truls blinked his eyes open and took in the sight of his grinning friend, which made his own lips pull into a smile, too.

"Just sleep," he said, closing his eyes again. "Come on, you. We've got charms early tomorrow."

"I'll set the alarm clock first," Harry muttered, and Truls heard him getting out of bed, setting the alarm before crawling back and pulling up the covers. "If your headache comes back in the morning, we'll go to the hospital wing."

"Mmkay," Truls mumbled, and yawned again. Harry grinned, and settled next to his friend, ready to go to sleep as well. He had decided to ignore what Filippa and the others had told him about Truls, because even if Truls wasn't as good of a friend to them as he was to Harry, he couldn't bring himself to care. Truls had always been there for him, since the time they met. Or well, since the life-debt…

'I really should research that one soon, though,' Harry thought. 'Just in case.' It didn't seem so urgent anymore, however, and the idea was pushed away as sleep claimed him, too. The room – the whole apartment, in fact – was dark and silent as the two boys slept side by side on the bed.

It wasn't till a few hours later that Truls suddenly frowned in his sleep, sighed and shuddered, before slowly opening his eyes.

His eyes, that weren't blue anymore but a deep red, widened with shock as they took in the sight of Harry Potter sleeping next to him.

Chapter Text

Tom didn't know what to think.

He didn't… know… what to think. It felt as if his mind was suddenly blank, as if it was void of any thoughts and feelings aside from confusion and shock. So startled he was, that he barely even realized it when his awareness slid back into his own body, undoing all the hard work Tom had put into this project so far.

"Your face looks funny," Nagini hissed, seeing her Master's expression. "Did your thoughts fight and break something in your head?"

"He," Tom started suddenly, still not looking at Nagini but at the empty air in front of him. "He was sleeping next to me. I mean, no, not next to me, but… Durmstrang dorms aren't… he shouldn't have a room-mate, I am sure of that. How come, then…?"

"I don't understand."

"Why would he share his bed with… anyone if he doesn't have to? Are they having a sleepover? Why would he want to…? It's dangerous, how could he trust anyone to not put a spell on him while he's not awake to even know about it? A simple Imperio… maybe I should use that on him. Would teach him a lesson."

"I'm not getting it, friend," Nagini hissed, slithering closer. "I order you to make some sense."

"Shut up," Tom replied, clenching his eyes shut. He scowled, then grimaced, then shrugged and shook his head. "I do not understand people," he said finally. "Or maybe he's… oh, who cares. I tested the potion and it works." He hadn't tested for how long he could control the boy's body, but then again that wasn't what he was aiming for in the first place. If he was to take over the boy's body, it was probable that some of his own features would show – the eyes, for example, and maybe the hair, too.

He had intended for the possession to last for much longer, but no matter – he knew now what to do if he wished to do this again. Too bad, however, that his options were limited in terms of what he was capable of doing while in someone else’s body. Too bad he wouldn't be able to browse through the boy's memories – he'd need legilimency for that – but this would have to do for now.

'I'm thinking too much,' Tom decided. 'There was absolutely no reason for me to behave like an unprepared… idiot. This isn't me. This isn't the way I act.' To be fair, though, waking up in the same bed as Harry Potter was a strange and unexpected experience. The man sighed again and summoned a house-elf, ordering it to bring him a cup of tea. Nagini was still staring at him, before slowly lowering her head onto a pillow.

"If you kill the boy, all your confusion regarding him will vanish."

"But so will the possibilities!"

"You're beyond my help," Nagini hissed. "Don't talk to me anymore. You might give me the harpies."

"You're the one who started talking to me!" Tom exclaimed, before sighing and flinging a hex at a vase nearby, making it explode. He then frowned and turned to look at his snake. "Harpies? "

"I heard that one of your white-faced people got harpies from a Muggle woman," Nagini replied, before turning away. "He didn't seem happy about it."

"Harpies," Tom repeated, imagining a Muggle woman with a cage full of screaming Harpies. One Harpy would be bad enough, to think that more would be available— but no, Nagini must have misheard or misunderstood. One Harpy would easily be able to slaughter twenty, thirty humans before they'd manage to even wound it. A woman who'd have enough Harpies to give was… not real. Anyway… he didn't really care enough to think about that.

Muggles just didn't make sense.

"Potter," Tom hissed, glaring at the darkness outside. "Harry Potter. Once I know his secrets and solve the puzzle, I'll decide whether or not to kill him." But what if he'd end up not wanting to kill Potter? Potter, with his ridiculous Gryffindor habits would be a bad, bad Death Eater. Tom knew with absolute certainty that if Potter didn't somehow amputate his morals and mutilate his personality, he'd never ever torture anyone the way Tom would expect his elite soldiers to be able to do.

'Maybe I should give him a crash course with Bellatrix,' Tom thought, finding the thought amusing. If he did end up wanting to let Potter live, then he probably would do exactly that.

*

"Charms this early in the morning should be illegal," Björn said and yawned. Harry, just as sleepy as the red-haired boy, nodded and closed his eyes. If only he could go back to bed and sleep a few extra hours he'd do exactly that. No matter the season, why was the world always colder outside the bed in the mornings?

"Did you finish your homework?" Petronella asked while rummaging through her bag. "I'm so nervous about this. I just ran out of ideas of how to use household charms and I had to redo my list a few times because there were some ridiculous ideas and—"

"As long as you got five, you won't fail, even if the explanations aren't stellar," Heidi replied. "Did anyone else include the freezing charm glacius in the list?" Harry nodded and tried to stop himself from yawning again.

"I did," he said. "Truls did too. And Filippa, who probably has a list of twenty instead of five."

"Björn should get an award for most creative uses of levitation charm and carrots," Jakob said, and grinned. "I mean honestly, levitating carrots to block every orifice in the human body? Can you even do that?"

"With practice, I'm sure I could," Björn replied dismissively. Their conversation halted when they saw Professor Elis approaching with a stern expression. The man pushed past them and opened the classroom's door, but oddly enough didn't step in first like he usually did.

"Now, the lot of you," he said instead, turning to look at them with a serious expression. "You'll go in there and take your seats – quietly. Then you'll open your books and start reading from chapter seventeen onwards till chapter twenty. On Saturday I'll quiz you about it."

"Yes, sir," the students mumbled, and Harry couldn't help but feel curious about what was going on – this procedure wasn't ordinary in Durmstrang. Professor Elis wasn't done yet, though.

"I will not be here to keep an eye on you," the man said, "but do not for a moment think that your misbehaviour will not be revealed to me if anything was to occur. Now, Mr. Marvin…"

"Er, what?" Clemens asked, looking just as surprised as his classmates at being singled out. "I mean, yes sir?"

"Follow me to the Principal's office," Professor Elis said. With a wary expression, Clemens did exactly that, and the others stared after the two till they were out of sight before finally moving into the classroom and taking their own seats in silence. Harry felt strange and even slightly sick when he thought that once upon a time there had been ten, not just eight in a classroom.

'He'll be back,' Harry told himself sternly, remembering Lorenzo. 'Nobody is going to die.'

"What do you think that was about?" Petronella whispered suddenly, looking clearly worried. "He hasn't broken any rules, has he?"

"None important enough to warrant a trip to the Headmaster's office, that's for sure," Filippa said. "His grades are good, right? He hasn't failed anything, has he? Or cheated in an exam?"

"No, no, he hasn't done anything like that, I'm sure," Jakob assured her. "This has to be something else. Maybe some news from his family. If someone is injured, some families prefer to contact the student through the school staff instead of directly."

'I got a message first from Mum's boss, I think,' Harry thought, before shaking his head. 'And then Sirius took over. The school was just informed separately.'

"We can ask him when he comes back. Next period is History of Magic and I doubt that they'll keep him from attending today's classes even if he's in trouble of some kind," Truls said. "For now, we better focus on reading these chapters and prepare for the quiz Professor Elis mentioned."

The minutes passed, and eventually – to Harry it felt like an eternity later – Professor Elis returned to dismiss them. He had come back alone, Clemens was nowhere in sight. For a few hopeful moments Harry assumed that Clemens would be waiting for them in front of the History classroom, but he was absent from that lesson too.

"He'll come, eventually," Filippa said, looking at the others with a worried expression. "Today. Right? Any minute now. Or maybe next period. We've got Ancient Runes and you guys know how much he loves that subject. He won't miss it, for sure. He'll be there."

"Yeah," Petronella agreed, nodding. "He'll be there."

But he wasn't.

*

The sound of her quick footsteps echoed in the empty corridors of the manor as Bellatrix Lestrange made her way towards the meeting hall, where the Dark Lord and a few others of the Elite were most likely already waiting. She hated being late, hated the thought of making the Dark Lord wait, but this time… it was for a reason.

"My Lord," she said, curtsying deeply once entering the hall. "I apologize for my tardiness." She could see the white-masked elite, not unlike herself, whispering amongst each other. She knew which ones did, Bellatrix knew all the subtle differences between the masks and the way these fools stood – later on, she would gladly track down Mulciber and Karkaroff for a delightful and clearly needed face-to-face lesson of attitude.

In fact, she kind of didn't understand why they would even need masks anymore. They didn't need to hide their identities and everyone knew who each one was anyway – well, almost everyone. Why couldn't they just ditch the masks?

'Just seeing them irritates me,' the woman thought, her fingers itching to wrap around the wand in her arm-holster and show Mulciber and Karkaroff the meaning of pain.

"I trust that you have a reason for that, Bellatrix," Lord Voldemort murmured, and Bellatrix curtseyed again, nodding eagerly. Her handsome Dark Lord was sitting on his throne, with his snake on the armrest. What did the serpent tell its master? Did it speak of desires to hunt and maim or did it whisper of secrets only snakes knew? Nagini, the Dark Lord's snake, was truly a creature of great mystique and wisdom.

"My Lord," she said again. "I come bearing good news." She knew that the attention of everyone was fixed on her now. Well, let them stare! She was the most competent one and they really ought to finally accept that fact. She was an example to be followed and a perfect Death Eater in every way.

"Speak," Lord Voldemort ordered. Bellatrix took a deep breath before starting.

"The first team of spies I sent have returned with important information," she said. "According to documents they managed to obtain, there are seven big Rebel camps in Europe, and twenty-four small ones, resulting in a total of thirty-one camps."

"And the locations of these camps?" Lord Voldemort asked. It wasn't evident from his tone or expression, but the news pleased him to no end. Even though the actual amount of Rebel camps was surprisingly large – he hadn't expected there to be so many of them – he was pleased. No wonder the battles seemed to be never-ending.

"The exact locations of only five have been confirmed so far, my Lord, but I'm working on confirming the locations of the rest, too," Bellatrix said. "I sent my spies back to keep working, but if you wish for us to attack—"

"No," Lord Voldemort interrupted. "We will attack after we have located at least half of the camps. Moving before then would be unwise. We will first deal with the front in Italy, and only later shall we attack the rest."

"Ah, my Lord," Bellatrix hurried to continue, in fear of being dismissed. "There is also a little something… an idea, my cousin and I, came up with in regards to the… Tournament." The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at her, wondering why she would bring up the subject of the Triwizard Tournament in a meeting that was about the Rebels.

"Continue," he said, feeling mildly curious.

"If I could say this to you privately, my Lord," the woman suggested. "I wouldn't want to suspect that some of the, ah, proud parents here would perhaps prepare their children in case they were selected to be champions, but one must be aware of the possible… risks." She shot a smug look at Lucius Malfoy when she said those words, knowing that the man, if he knew what kind of a tournament they were discussing, would do his damnest to not only make his son a contestant, but also the winner.

"Is the suggestion worth my time, Bellatrix?" the Dark Lord asked softly, with a slightly amused expression. "If it is not, you will be severely reprimanded for wasting my time."

"It is to ensure the… enjoyment during the event, my Lord," Bellatrix said, curtsying again. "I'd be most honoured for your time and attention, my Lord…most honoured indeed."

"Very well," Lord Voldemort said. "After the others are dismissed, you and your cousin are to remain."

"My Lord," Bellatrix said almost breathlessly, wishing for a way to be able to show her gratitude to the man in front of her. "Thank you, my Lord."

*

Luna Lovegood was pretty used to missing people.

She missed her mother, who died years ago, and she missed her father who was at home. Right now, however, the person she was missing the most was, well, her only friend. Who was slightly odd but, then again, people considered her to be odd, too. Perhaps that meant that they were destined to be friends? Luna wasn't sure but she liked to think so.

She did, however, try to never dwell on depressing matters such as missing people who weren't there and wishing she'd have a friend to talk with. It'd do her no good, she knew that for sure. Besides, being alone wasn't so bad.

At school, Luna was most commonly called 'Loony'. It wasn't pleasant, but she had long ago learned to not pay attention to the names people chose to call her by. Right now, however, it was hard to not pay attention to one Ginny Weasley who was not only calling her 'Loony', but also standing right in front of her.

In all honesty, Luna suspected that Weasley wasn't calling her 'Loony' to insult her, but because she had no idea what Luna's actual name was.

"How can I help you?" Luna asked, smiling faintly at the red-haired girl, who smiled back nervously.

"Uh, well, the thing is," Weasley stammered. "I have a question. Well, it's actually Ron – my brother, who's an idiot – who has a question but he's too, uhm, I'm not sure what exactly but whatever. I mean, look, the thing is, I just want to ask… you know Harry Potter?"

"Harry and I are friends," Luna replied. "He is a very nice boy."

"I don't know him well," Weasley said. "But my brother does. He was curious… I mean, he just wants to know how you became such good friends. I, we, saw you in Diagon Alley that time and, uh…"

"It's very easy to be friends with Harry," Luna told the red-haired girl. "He's a very good person. Would you like to sit down by the way?"

"Ah, thanks," Weasley said, blushing, and sat down on the chair next to her. "I'm Ginny, by the way."

"And I'm Luna," Luna said with an easy smile. "Not Loony. Not that I mind being called that. It doesn't really bother me."

"Not Lo— oh Merlin, I'm sorry!" Ginny exclaimed. "Ron said that's your name and I wondered how come but I just…

"A lot of people call me that. But Harry doesn't. He never has." Luna closed her eyes and thought about Harry. What was he doing now? "He'd be a wonderful older brother, wouldn't you think?"

"I, er, I don't know," Ginny admitted. "I have seen him a few times and he sometimes – very rarely – visits Ron during the summer, but I don't remember really talking to him. He seems kind of… unapproachable."

"It's because he's different," Luna explained, as if it was a perfectly common feature in someone. In fact, Ginny felt as if Luna expected her to somehow understand how and why Harry Potter was 'different'. From what she had seen, he had come across as a rather quiet, serious boy who didn't look hostile but not particularly friendly either.

"He studies in Durmstrang, doesn't he?" Ginny asked. "That elite school. So amazing – I heard Malfoy wanted to get in there but he couldn't. Not sure if that's true or just a rumour, though. I wonder what it is like, there. I bet they have the best of everything!"

"I think that Hogwarts is better," Luna replied, thinking of the place she was in and of the magic surrounding them. "I can't wait for Harry to come here again." Perhaps she should write to him – even if he wouldn't have the time to respond, at least he'd know that she hadn't forgotten about him. The Christmas Holiday was less than a month away… perhaps she could persuade her friend to drop by for a visit?

*

"You agreed to her idea," Nagini hissed after Bellatrix Lestrange and her cousin, Sirius Black, had apparated away. Tom sighed and turned to leave the hall and head towards his private quarters.

"It sounded interesting," Tom said. "Something worth watching. Far more entertaining than watching those children duel each other, that's for sure. I can't wait to see how the education of the new Durmstrang can be used on Rebels."

"What if your dead-alive boy is the student who has to complete that task?" At these words, Tom paused, not sure of what to think. It would surely be most fascinating to see that do-no-evil brat put in a situation such as that.

"Nagini," Tom murmured, before starting to walk again. "I am very tempted to somehow rig that Goblet of Fire that's going to be used for selecting the champions." Because the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see Potter being put into a situation that would force him do something he'd rather not do.

"I don't know why, but," the man continued, entering one of his rooms, "the mere thought of tormenting Potter makes me feel… delighted. But it's also very strange… I don't want to torture him, not like I torture others… I just want to… torment him a little bit. Differently. It's not reasonable."

"You two-legged creatures tend to be unreasonable," Nagini hissed, slithering to lie onto a pillow on the couch. "Do what you want and stop being so boring."

"You're the one who made me interested in Potter initially," Tom accused. "You were the one who kept calling him 'dead-alive boy'!"

"If you'd just do something about it, I could start calling him dead-boy instead. Or corpse. Oh yes, I'll call him Corpse from now on. It will keep me hopeful."

"Back to the subject at hand!" Tom exclaimed, and scowled. "Should I or should I not rig the thing?"

"Depends," Nagini replied. "Do you want him to catch people's attention? As a champion, he definitely will. If someone else gets the boy before you do, how would that make you feel?" The snake's words made Tom breathless for a few silent moments, during which the scene of the previous night flashed into his mind.

"Why would Potter prefer to work for anyone else but me?" Tom asked, but somehow he didn't feel fully convinced of his words. He didn't feel particularly good, either. And his good mood seemed to be trickling away rapidly as well. "It's not like anyone can offer him more than I do. I could… make him my second in command. If he'd be worthy of being that, I mean."

"If he disagrees with your ideals…"

"It's not like I haven't convinced people to agree with my way of thinking before."

"And then you'd have to fear betrayal from him. You'd need to constantly keep an eye on him and—"

"Speaking of which," Tom suddenly said, sitting down on a comfortable chair. "I think it's time to retry what I did last night. With any luck, there will be enough potion left in the boy’s system still to get this done."

"…Hatchlings?"

"What? No! I didn't— Merlin… get out!"

"Sensitive fellow."

"And stop spying on my Death Eaters!"

*

"If his mother is sick or something," Björn reasoned, "Clemens might have gone to see her. So he'll probably be absent for a day or two." It was lunchtime already and none of them had heard a word from or about Clemens that would explain his sudden disappearance. Due to that it had been quite hard for any of them to focus on anything aside from thinking of what could have happened to their classmate.

"That actually makes sense," Filippa said. "Want some cheese or butter with those bread slices, Nella?"

"Ah, no thanks," Petronella replied. "They're good the way they are."

"Did you slice them once more?" Jakob asked, comparing the girl's bread with the other slices in the bread-basket. "Are you sure you don't want even a little bit of cheese —"

"Can we not talk about my eating habits?" Petronella demanded, frowning slightly. "What do we have next, by the way? Transfiguration?"

"Dark Arts," Truls replied. "If we keep going by the order of the book, we'll be starting to learn about shields."

"There aren't many shields that can stop a Dark curses," Nikolai said. "And many of them can't be stopped at all. You can only dodge."

"In theory, yeah, a magical shield isn't enough to stop a particularly Dark curse," Truls said, "but if someone flings a killing curse at you, for example, it can be stopped by simply levitating a solid object of any kind to take the damage for you. No curse is unstoppable." Harry, uninterested in the conversation going on, glanced at Filippa, who was looking at Petronella with a worried expression.

'Are her eating habits really that bad?' Harry wondered. The girl was eating bread, and surely she had already eaten something else as well. He sighed and refocused on his plate. Worrying about Clemens had killed his appetite; maybe Petronella's lack of appetite was because of the same thing?

"Looks like I forgot my book," Truls said suddenly, standing up. "I'll go get it quickly. See you guys later."

"Hold on, I'll come with you," Harry said, standing up as well. He waved briefly to his classmates before walking by Truls's side out of the dining hall and the main school building, towards their apartment complex. Truls looked slightly pale and rather grim, which prompted Harry to ask if something was wrong.

"I just got a headache all of a sudden," Truls replied, sighing and shrugging his shoulders as if to shake off a burden resting on them. "I was alright earlier but… I don't know. Maybe it will pass quickly. Hopefully."

"Maybe you should go to the hospital wing," Harry suggested, frowning. "If it bothers you and makes it hard for you to concentrate…"

"If it continues, I will," Truls assured him. He then glanced around them, and when seeing no one nearby, continued in a much quieter tone: "I was earlier thinking about what you said yesterday. About writing columns for that newspaper you mentioned."

"Oh yes," Harry whispered, nodding. "The Quibbler."

"What kind of articles were you thinking about writing, exactly?" Truls asked. "You can't make them too radical or there will be a world of trouble. Besides, for all you know, the owner of the paper might refuse to publish what you write."

"I'll use a different name," Harry replied, frowning. "And I can't be sure, exactly, but I think that Mr. Lovegood might surprise us." If he was anything like his daughter, at any case. "And regarding the topics of articles… I don't know yet. I mean, I'm not sure. I just can't think of a topic that would help people be… more tolerant."

"Tolerance," Truls sighed. "I think the world is doomed to repeat a circle of intolerance and attempts at racial obliteration. When everyone has the freedom of speech, speeches become worthless. Every idiot's opinions can be heard and for many it's easier to live with prejudice than to muster up the courage to let go of their fear of the unknown."

"They don't realize that they don't know," Harry muttered, frowning again. "It's… people get wrong information regarding a specific human group or sect or something. And if that wrong information is spread actively, then everyone is judged based on… a misunderstanding. Is it like that with the Rebels, too? It's especially bad if the media is what provides us with wrong and biased and sensationalized information."

"I don't know," Truls admitted, unlocking the door of his flat. "I'll just grab my book and then we can go back. Just a second. I won't make you wait for long, I promise."

"No need to hurry," Harry told him. "We still have time. Maybe we'll go back and see Clemens there waiting for us with the rest of them."

*

"That little son of a mudblood really is planning something," Tom hissed as soon as he returned to his own body. Okay, fine, maybe speaking and writing about tolerance wasn't exactly illegal. However, not only did such topics make him think of one Albus Dumbledore but they were potentially… hazardous.

'What will I do if people start developing morals!' Tom thought. "That would be terrible. I need to do something." Actually, he knew exactly what to do to solve this particular problem. But what would stop Potter from planning something else to make this world resemble a Gryffindor’s daydream?

'I need to give him something to worry about,' Tom decided. 'Keep him occupied with something trivial to prevent him from doing anything foolish.' Maybe he should kill off the boy's father? That would leave Potter having to focus on not only his education, but also his duties as the new head of the family. Not to mention that he'd have to organize a funeral and deal with all that grief that was bound to appear in the picture. He wouldn't have any free time to waste on being troublesome.

But no, who knew what would happen if the boy would somehow figure out that his father had been specifically targeted. Besides, in the long run, being an orphan might end up giving Potter far too much freedom to do reckless and stupid things. Although… Potter's father didn't seem to be particularly competent. Or bright, for that matter. He had accused Tom of being a molester, for Merlin's sake! Him! A molester!

It was unlikely that he'd ever be able to forget that incident. Ever.

"I could distract him with anything small till next year," Tom murmured. "And then I could rig the Goblet and make him too busy to even think about writing silly little articles. That foolish child." And then he'd kill the boy's father and make Bellatrix adopt him, if only to see how that would turn out.

Unable to suppress his smile, Tom thought about the entertainment that would be provided by Potter if that was to ever happen. Would the boy protest? Would he struggle? Would he run away and give Tom an excuse to declare him an outlaw and start a big-scale game of hide and seek?

'Entertaining these ideas is okay, but I won't kill the boy's father – I decided that already,' Tom thought. 'Either way, I'm glad I went through with this plan. First visit and already I have something to prevent.' He had been prepared to put up with a few hours of boring discussion about… well, whatever boys of that age talked about. Tom didn't know or care.

"I am a genius," Tom murmured, mentally saluting himself.

"Spare me," Nagini hissed. "All that smugness is ruining my appetite. What did you do to deserve such praise anyway? All of I've seen you do consists of you just sitting there."

"Someone is cranky," Tom replied. "I am simply pleased about my progress. Remember when I told you about that plan I had that would enable me to observe Potter better? It's working. It's a success!"

"Based on the information and experience of years that I have gained during my time with you," Nagini hissed, sounding genuinely irritated, "what you're doing is called stalking, not observing."

"Call it whatever you want, I don't care. It's working and that's all I need. Why are you so angry anyway?"

"Your single-minded idiocy is the reason. Just kill the boy and be done with it! Focus on what you have focused on so far!"

"But why?" Tom asked. "I want a bit of a change in my daily routine and Potter is providing it. He isn't a threat, not really. This magazine thing is irrelevant; I'm stopping him from doing it simply out of caution. So why are you so dead set on having me kill him? He isn't distracting me enough for it to affect my work, you know."

"You must kill the spider to get rid of the cobweb," Nagini told him. "You stopped a harmless plan but his schemes will evolve and improve."

"It doesn't matter how brilliant a plan is. If I have the information of how everything is going to happen, I can stop any plan at any time," Tom pointed out. "And in all honesty, if it really came down to it – if the boy would really end up being a threat of some kind, I will kill him. I don't want to and it'd be a pity, but I would do it."

"That's what you keep saying," Nagini hissed, before turning away. "I wonder if you really mean it, though."

*

A few days later, on a Tuesday evening, Clemens returned. They saw him waiting for them in front of their apartment complex, after the last class of the day. He looked tired – exhausted, dead on his feet – and the smile he mustered up didn't reach his eyes at all. Harry very nearly frowned, wondering if the boy had been mistreated somehow during the days he spent missing.

"Clemens," Petronella gasped, and was the first to run towards the boy who looked so grim and serious – a vast difference from what he had been like before his absence. "It's cold here! Why are you outside? When did you come back?"

"Where have you been?" Heidi exclaimed. "We were so worried! We sent you letters and you never answered and—"

"You're not injured, are you?" Filippa demanded to know. "And you're not in trouble either, right? You're not leaving?"

"You're not sick?" Jakob asked with a concerned, even a slightly panicky expression on his face. "You're all right?"

"Your family didn't go bankrupt or anything, did they?" Björn asked, looking torn between worried and horrified. "Man, I—"

"It was nothing important," Clemens cut them off. "I'm… it was just a family emergency, but nothing really worth mentioning."

'How can a family emergency be not worth mentioning?' Harry thought, frowning. 'Perhaps he just doesn't want to talk about it. Yeah, that must be it. It's easier to claim that nothing is wrong than to actually explain if it hurts. I wonder if he needs help, though.'

"I'm actually incredibly sleepy," Clemens continued, "but I wanted to see you guys and tell you that I'm back and in good health. I did receive your letters but I didn't have the chance to respond. I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, no problem," Filippa said cheerfully. "As long as you're back with us and in good health. We tried to ask Professor Elis and even Professor Dietmar about where you were but they wouldn't tell us. Said to butt out and stop asking – well, not in those terms – and gave us more homework. You've got a lot of catching up to do!"

"You can borrow my notes, if you want," Petronella offered, and Clemens's expression softened a little bit and he nodded and thanked the girl.

"Let's go inside," Truls said suddenly. "It's getting increasingly cold here."

"If you guys don't mind, I'm going to go directly to my flat and sleep," Clemens said as they entered the apartment complex. "I haven't slept well for the past few days and my thoughts are all jumbled. Thank Merlin tomorrow is Wednesday and our lessons won't start till ten."

'I wonder if he'll get angry if I ask him later on privately of what's going on,' Harry thought after wishing a good night to the others and entering his ow n flat. 'Not that I'm particularly curious, I'm just a little bit worried. A family emergency… It's really none of my business, though. I don't want to make him feel as if I'm prying.' If he'd get the chance, he'd ask, but only if the opportunity came up naturally. He wouldn't go out of his way and he wouldn't corner Clemens and demand answers.

"Family emergency," Harry muttered, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket while moving to sit on the couch. 'I wonder where da— James is. If he's all right. If he's injured. Is Uncle Sirius there with him, wherever he is?' Maybe he could write to Lupin. It had been so long and he really needed to know that there was a stable-minded adult in his life. He could ask if his godfather was all right, although he doubted that Lupin would know the answer to that.

'How strange,' Harry thought. 'Trusting a werewolf. Mum would disapprove, I know that for sure.' But then again, his mother had disapproved of many things, including treating werewolves rightfully at all, not just trusting them. Despite her flaws, though, Harry would readily give up anything just to spend once again some time with her.

He missed her. He missed her terribly.

*

"How are the plans going?"

Sirius looked up from the books, maps and parchments he had around him, to see Bellatrix standing in the doorway. She looked just as immaculate as she always did, and had it not been for her too-wide smile and for the fact that he simply knew her, Sirius could have mistaken her for a respectable pureblood lady.

"Pretty well," Sirius replied. "I was thinking about how to put that Rebel-task idea's theory into practice. We could use an improved scrying system to keep an eye on the contestants while they complete their task and somehow show it to the whole audience."

"That could work," Bellatrix agreed, stepping further into the room. "Are you going to use Rebels for all of your tasks, though?"

"Would it be too repetitive of me?" Sirius asked. "You wouldn't have any of your fabulous ideas to share, cousin?"

"You want me to do your work for you," Bellatrix laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh and it didn't fit her, in Sirius's opinion, even though he knew that Bellatrix wasn't a pleasant person either. "Fabulous ideas? Truly, flatterers look like friends, as wolves look like dogs."

"Ah, but I am a dog," Sirius said and grinned. "You can go and hunt for wolves elsewhere, if you fear them so."

"Don't be an idiot," Bellatrix sneered, and sat down. "How about we make those students battle a bunch of inferi? With Rebels they can be cunning and use as many tricks as they want, but fighting inferi will force them to bring out their real power."

"And where do you think I'll be able to find a bunch of inferi?" Sirius asked, bewildered. "I can't exactly mail-order thirty of those to be taken to Hogwarts!"

"Why not?"

"Because! Just because!"

"You never really grew up, did you," Bellatrix said, sounding wholly unimpressed. "How about Dementors, then? Although they tend to be boring, considering the limited selection of spells that actually work against those things."

"I want something flashy and shocking," Sirius said. "Maybe we can really base it all on a Rebel-theme? Have all three tasks be about doing something regarding the rebels. We'd prevent it from being boring by being… creative."

"How many rebels can they catch and torture in twenty-four hours?" Bellatrix suggested. "Or perhaps, how creatively they can kill their Rebels and we'll rate their style!"

"No," Sirius frowned. "Honestly, no. There will be first-year kids watching this tournament, maybe even younger ones if families will attend with their broods. We have to keep it all within the limits of what's proper. If they kill, it has to be... clean."

"Fine," Bellatrix sneered. "You'll probably have them hunting unicorns and saving orphans from trees or something. I don't like saving orphans from trees and I refuse to watch it happen."

"You hate everything about orphans."

"Not quite. I like making orphans."

"That's beside the point," Sirius said, yawned and stood up. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"How many breakfasts have you had so far?" Bellatrix asked, not moving from the couch. "Also, while planning these tasks, you did remember that your godson might be one of the contestants, didn’t you?"

*

"I have told you, countless of times – Runes are a language," Professor Didi said with his heavily accented English. "You must use that language to not forget it. You must use it daily to feel it become a part of you. Ancient runes can contribute actively to this modern world."

Harry hid his yawn behind his hand, wishing that he had been able to sleep properly the night before. He had tried, but thoughts about Clemens, of what could have happened to him, kept him awake. And even after he managed to fall asleep, Harry dreamt of his mother and woke up crying.

'I thought that I had recovered from… losing her,' Harry thought. Could grief really resurface like that? Because last night he felt as if the saying about time healing wounds was nothing but a lie. However, he had felt just fine before that, for quite a while already.

"Runes can be used for protection, in wards and clothes and even skin. But they also can be used for…"

'Christmas break is drawing near,' Harry remembered suddenly. 'I wonder what I should do. I don't want to go back home. And somehow going to Hogwarts again doesn't seem like a good option. Maybe I will really stay here – it's not like that's forbidden or anything. I'll be able to take a portkey to Diagon Alley if I need anything.' Not to mention that it seemed like a lifetime ago that he last talked with Merope and Albus, and if he was alone for the holiday, he'd be able to contact them without worrying about being interrupted.

'I wonder what Tom is doing. I haven't seen him in ages, either.'

"Are you okay?" Truls whispered, leaning closer to Harry. "You look rather distracted."

"Just a bit tired, really," Harry replied just as quietly. "We still have herbology, transfiguration and charms, though, so I can't go to sleep or anything."

"Maybe eating something will restore your energy," Truls said. "We've got lunch next." Harry nodded, hoping so too. As tired as he was feeling now, sitting through transfiguration would be pure agony. Thankfully, though, it wasn't a Saturday – he'd die if he'd have to go through six hours of dueling practice.

"I wonder if Clemens is really as okay as he wants us to believe," Harry whispered. Truls frowned.

"Why are you worrying about him?" the blond boy asked. "I'm sure he'll be just fine. Even if something is wrong, there must be a reason as to why he isn't telling us. Maybe he doesn't trust us or maybe he just prefers to keep it private. Or perhaps it's not his secret to tell. You needn't worry so much about others, Harry."

"I can't help it," Harry admitted.

"Would you worry this much if it was me acting like Clemens now?" Truls asked, and for some strange reason Harry found himself blushing. Why would he blush? There was no rational reason for this reaction, and yet he couldn't stop it.

"Yes," he said. "Of course I would, Truls. You're—"

"Oh, gag me now," Björn, who was sitting behind them, said. "Seriously, you two. Slap a rating on it and mind the kids."

"Mr. Lennart," Professor Did said, finally noticing the lack of concentration going on in his classroom. "If you have something more important to say than what I am right now telling you all about runes, then please, do us all a favour and share."

"I was simply wondering if runes can be crafted on air, sir," Björn lied quickly. "Air isn't exactly nothingness, after all. Or is solid material required?"

"I'm sure you were wondering that," Professors Didi replied with a suspicious look. "Stay after class, young man, if you want the answer. I will not ruin my lecture by adding unplanned parts just because of your curiosity."

'Feels like this class will never end,' Harry thought. 'I wonder what Luna is doing right now. The time difference isn't that big – she's probably in class, too. I miss her a lot… Maybe I should ask to spend some days with her during Christmas break. I wouldn't want to stay at Hogwarts since I have my flat, but spending a day or two with Luna would be nice.' He should buy her a gift first, though. He'd need to buy gifts for others too, of course.

Should he send a gift to Tom, too?

'He probably gets tons of gifts from everybody,' Harry thought. 'Adding mine to the pile… He probably won't even notice it. Oh well, if I find something that would fit him, I'll buy it. But I won't specifically search for anything.'

"Now," Professor Didi said. "Much to the delight of Mr. Lennart, I am going to end the lesson five minutes earlier than I should. For homework I want you all to write a list of fifteen pros and cons regarding runes, with brief explanations of why. Dismissed."

"He's never going to forgive or forget," Björn muttered sullenly as they left the classroom. "Not unless I bribe him. On a scale from one to ten, ten being the toughest, how easy or hard would it be to bribe Professor Didi?"

"Eleven," Nikolai replied immediately. "Your only chance is to ace every exam from now on if you want him to approve of you again."

"What did you say, anyway?" Filippa asked. "I didn't even hear you!"

"I was just commenting on a cavity-inducing scene I was forced to witness," Björn replied. "Just be happy you didn't see it. My eyeballs almost rioted and left my face."

"Oh, put a sock on it," Truls said, sounding unimpressed. "Harry and I were just talking."

"Pity I missed that," Filippa muttered, and Heidi grinned. Truls sighed and shook his head, looking rather annoyed.

"Okay guys, let's hurry and get something to eat," Harry said, changing the subject to something less potentially dangerous. "I'm starving!"

*

That evening found Harry alone in his flat, doing his homework. He had decided to temporarily push aside all thoughts about his future and worries about everything in order to finish his assignments. This was, much to his annoyance, easier said than done.

'For a duel or a battle, runes should be prepared beforehand because writing runes during the battle would slow you down,' Harry thought. 'I wonder how good Tom is at runes. He probably knows and has used a lot of them… I wonder if I should learn how to properly use runes, too.' Harry yawned and stood up, deciding to make some tea, when the doorbell suddenly rang. The boy turned away from the kitchen and rushed to open the door instead.

"Trul— er, Clemens!" Harry exclaimed. "What are you— Come in! Do you want tea? I was just about to make some. Come in and sit down."

"Hi again, Harry," Clemens grinned tiredly, pushing past the shorter boy into the apartment. "Sorry for intruding."

"You're not intruding," Harry said. "I was alone, trying to battle with my homework."

"Ah," Clemens replied, sitting down on the couch and sighing heavily. Harry's smile vanished as he took in the tired appearance of the other boy. Deciding to leave the tea for later, Harry sat down as well.

"Do you need to talk about anything?" Harry asked. "I mean, I can't really say I can give any advice, but if you need to vent…"

"Thanks," Clemens said. "But I doubt I even know what to talk about. I just feel like being quiet. Everything is so exhausting. I… don't want to be alone, but I just… don't want to talk, either."

"It's okay," Harry assured him. "If you want, you can sleep here tonight. I'll just do my homework."

"I don't want to be a bother," Clemens said, but he looked rather relieved. Harry offered him a smile, wondering if the family emergency was similar to the one he had gone through when his mother died. The mere thought of that made Harry's heart ache and he wished desperately that his family would still be the way it had been before.

"It's not a bother," Harry said. "Do you want to sleep in my bed like Truls does sometimes or would you prefer the couch?"

"Truls does—? Um, the couch, please," Clemens stammered. "He won't be coming here tonight, though?"

"Truls got some pain-relieving potion from the hospital wing," Harry explained. "He has been suffering from a rather intense headache for a while. The potion knocked him out. I'll go grab some extra pillows and blankets so you can sleep anytime you feel like doing so."

"Need help?"

"No thank you. I'll be right away back there with you," Harry called, walking into the bedroom and to the closet, where the extra pillows and blankets were folded neatly. 'I wonder what brought him here of all places. Not that I mind, but I didn't think he considers me that close to him…' Then again, Clemens didn't seem to be on particularly close terms with anyone. None of the girls – expect maybe Petronella – and while Björn and Truls both shared Clemens's passion for Quidditch, they never really seemed to spend time together voluntarily.

'I wonder if he'll ever tell me what's wrong,' Harry thought. 'Ah, I might as well finish my homework tomorrow morning. If nothing else works, I'll copy from Filippa. My head hurts and I'm tired, too.'

"Thank you," Clemens said again. Every time Harry looked at him, he couldn't help but feel worried about how exhausted and pale the other boy looked.

"Anytime," Harry replied. "I mean it. You can stay here for as long as you want. Sleep well."

That night Harry tried very hard to pretend that his mother was still alive and James was still someone he could call a father.

He tried, just as hard, to pretend that he didn't hear Clemens crying himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

“One week to go before we’re free!” Björn cheered happily as he and his classmates left the transfiguration classroom. “I can’t wait! Mother promised to take me to bet on racing horses and that’s a golden opportunity! In more ways than one, ha!”

“I heard that YSL is releasing a Christmas line this year,” Heidi said, turning to Filippa. Petronella looked up, interested as well. “Will you and your aunt attend the fashion show?”

“I wish!” Filippa replied. “I mean, my aunt is obviously going but she hasn’t said anything about me being allowed to go with her.”

“What are your winter break plans?” Truls asked, turning towards Harry. Harry shrugged.

“I think I’ll stay here, in the flat,” he replied. “And once or twice take the portkey to England to meet some friends, maybe.” He’d also need to talk with Albus and Merope, write obligatory letters to Gildy, James, Sirius and Lupin, look for Christmas gifts and a few other things as well. Well, at least he had already sent a letter to Luna, and he was waiting eagerly for her response.

“I have to go home,” Truls said after Harry asked about his plans. “I don’t really want to, but there are some things that need to be done there and my presence is required. I’ll try to arrange for a swift return, however—”

“Don’t be silly,” Harry grinned. “You needn’t cut off your time with your family for my sake.”

“I don’t want you to stay here alone, though,” Truls insisted.

“He won’t,” Clemens said suddenly, joining their conversation. “I’m staying too.”

“You are?” Björn exclaimed just as they entered the apartment complex. “Why?” Clemens shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. Harry wondered if the boy’s reason for staying had anything to do with his tears last night. Clemens had left before Harry had woken up, leaving a thank you note behind. Clemens… just didn’t seem the sort to cry over anything. He was a bit like Nikolai – not as friendly and nice as the rest of Harry’s classmates. Like Nikolai, Clemens had a certain kind of coldness about him. It was easy to forget that the feelings of people so cold could be hurt, too.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Nikolai said, opening the door of his flat. Harry felt slightly intrigued when he realized that even though Nikolai had visited Harry’s flat quite a few times during the past few years, Harry has yet to visit the older boy’s flat even once.

“I’ll drop by later on,” Heidi said, and Nikolai nodded before pulling the door shut.

“I hate these stairs,” Jakob muttered then. “And I live on the ninth floor. Merlin.” As they passed the second floor, Harry glanced at Filippa who was, just as Harry knew she’d be, looking slightly gloomy at the sight of Lorenzo’s abandoned apartment. Not for the first time Harry wondered if the girl would ever truly get over their friend’s untimely death.

“It’d be wonderful if we could spend a holiday together,” Petronella said. “Maybe travel somewhere, all nine of us. Go explore the world and just…be together.”

“Once we graduate,” Björn said immediately. “The summer right after it, we’ll go. All together. Tour the world or something!”

“You guys must come to Italy,” Filippa said, stopping in front of Harry’s door while Harry dug around in his pockets for his keys. “Even though they’re mostly muggle events, the carnivals in Italy are beyond description. You have to witness the annual Carnevale at least once in your lives!”

“I really envy your life sometimes,” Heidi admitted. “Fashion shows and carnivals, high profile parties and model friends.”

“She’ll show us all that one day,” Harry said, finally finding his keys and managing to open his flat’s door. “Anyone coming in?”

“I will probably sometime later on today,” Filippa said. “One of my cousins sent me a box of struffoli and I’ve been dying to make you all taste some. So keep the tea ready and anyone is welcome to have some.”

“I’ll drop by my place quickly and then be right over,” Truls promised, shooting a slightly irritated glance at Filippa. Harry nodded with a smile, happy that he really had so many friends who’d enjoy spending time with him. It was a bit strange to think that a few years ago he had had no friends and the only way he could pass his time was by reading stories.

It felt like a lifetime since he last read a story – perhaps he could do that during the break. He could read all of his favourite stories. In fact, why wait till the break started? Why not now? The Secret Garden would be perfect. He’d make a cup of hot chocolate and read quietly that evening, everything else be damned.

After his friends would leave, of course.

Harry closed the front door after entering his flat, and after a quick shower and a change of clothes, he emerged from the bathroom only to find a familiar owl right outside his window. Much to his delight, it seemed that Luna had been quick to reply. Soon enough Harry was on the couch, opening the envelope, eager to read what his friend had written.

Dear Harry,

I was very happy to receive your letter and even happier to know that you’d wish to meet during the holiday. Of course the answer is yes. As you know, my winter break starts in less than a week, and I do believe that so does yours. I will be staying at Hogwarts, but I am very sure that we can meet in Hogsmeade at some point.

I am well, and I hope that you’re well too. What comes to my father, I’m sorry to say that our Quibbler is currently put into use by the Dark Lord. For some reason my father was sent to Spain to keep an eye on what’s going on and report every two days. Father says that it’s a pity how the war has driven away the most peaceful creatures. Spain used to be full of dancing morinoleys but now he says there are hardly any left.

I made a new friend! Well, I have known her for quite a while, but only recently do we seem to spend more time together. You do know Ginny Weasley, don’t you? I think you and her brother are friends. She’s a nice girl. Very brave, too.

Ah, I hate to cut this letter short, Harry, but a herd of bluwywings is suddenly approaching, so I must seal this letter and send it before they see it. They like to eat parchment, you see. It’s quite a treat for them, especially if there’s blue ink on it.
With sincere love,

Luna

*

“Potter,” Tom said, “is staying at Durmstrang.”

“Well, he does study there,” Nagini hissed, staring at an oblivious rat that was creeping a few feet away from her. “If you didn’t know even that—”

“Of course I know that he studies there, you overgrown flobberworm,” Tom sneered. “What I meant is that he’ll be staying there during the winter break. Alone and defenceless.”

“Hmm, sounds like the perfect time for a murder. Make Corpse truly a corpse.”

“No. It sounds like I could go and… well, talk to him. About things. Important things.”

“Such as?” Nagini asked, sounding unimpressed. “Dinner? That’s important. And if you didn’t realize it by now, I am trying to subtly tell you that I’d appreciate something else aside from mice and rabbits.”

“Fine,” Tom said, “it’s not that there’s anything specific I could talk to him about, but I still think that I should go. I feel like I just keep revolving around this same issue—”

“You do. And the issue is that boy. Forget about him and focus on something else. Something more important. Like feeding me.”

“—but I just can’t stop either. I’m not even exactly sure why, but there’s… something I can’t ignore about that child. My… instincts or… something of the kind.”

Nagini stretched her jaws, imitating a yawn.

“Maybe I ought to find a competent seer to look into the boy’s future,” Tom said, and sighed. “If I could just focus on my actual work and not be constantly distracted…”

“Go to the battlefield,” Nagini suggested. “Kill a few dozen people. Get in touch with who you really are.”

‘Who I really am?’ Tom thought, leaning back on his chair with a contemplative expression. ‘What a strange thing to say – I have never been anyone else but me.’ Sure, he lied to others almost at every chance he could simply to mock them silently about their lack of intelligence and awareness… but he had never lied to himself, or been in denial about anything.

He still hadn’t decided what to do about the Triwizard Tournament, and whether or not he should rig the Goblet to pick Potter. It was a good thing that the war fronts were in the steady and capable hands of competent generals, because as important as they were, Tom was far too distracted to focus on all the details.

Maybe he really ought to go to the battlefield and torture a few dozen rebels. He had a cause to see through, and he didn’t want anyone to think that he was losing interest in taking over the, well, world, and try to overtake him. The last thing he needed was a third party trying to confuse the clear enmity between his forces and the Rebels.

Tom had learned a long, long time ago that there was nothing quite as dangerous as determined, self-confident stupidity. He, in fact, hated stupidity, and had it not been for the fact that almost everyone was an idiot, Tom would have made stupidity a crime punished with death.

“You say you could kill him if you want to,” Nagini hissed suddenly. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Tom replied, sounding dismissive. Nagini’s words, however, echoed in his mind and he knew that if he didn’t prove his claims to himself, he could end up doubting himself. He wasn’t overly worried, though.

He knew exactly what to do.

*

“If there’s anything you need,” Truls said, for the hundredth time. “Anything at all, just write to me and I’ll come back.” Truls’s arms were wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, and the taller boy seemed reluctant to let go. Harry smiled fondly.

“I’ll be alright,” Harry assured him. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise to call you if I need anything.”

“You’ll miss your portkey if you don’t move,” Clemens said, sounding bored. The look Truls gave him was a bit more than simply displeased, but Clemens stared right back at him, seemingly unaffected. After a few moments Truls pulled away from Harry and sighed.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said, and turned to leave.

“I’ll write to you,” Harry called after him, and the boy couldn’t help but feel slightly lonely, especially after Truls disappeared with the portkey. Soon it was only Harry and Clemens, standing in front of the apartment complex.

“You two are very close,” Clemens said suddenly. “Very, very close. It’s obvious to everyone.”

“He’s my best friend,” Harry explained.

“Even most best friends aren’t that close. If they’re just friends, that is.”

“And things outside the norm are not a part of reality, I assume?”

“I didn’t say that,” Clemens said, and turned to go back in. “It’s cold here. Let’s go to my place and I’ll make us something warm to drink.”

“Alright,” Harry murmured, and followed his classmate inside. He knew – and didn’t like – what Clemens had implied. He and Truls, they were close. Very close indeed. But they weren’t… they weren’t like that. Harry didn’t think that he’d even have the time and energy to be involved with anyone, what with the hectic school schedule and his other obligations.

Not to mention that Harry needed to focus fully on Tom. He couldn’t afford being distracted by anyone else, be it a girl or a boy. That was why he, while sorry on Luna’s behalf, wasn’t overly sorry for the fact that he couldn’t use the Quibbler the way he had wanted. By deciding to focus on Tom, Harry wouldn’t need to speak to the public at all, right?

Harry and Clemens entered the boy’s flat, and Harry was surprised to see how… still it was. It seemed as if time itself stopped inside the small flat. There were thick, soft carpets on the floor, bookshelves hiding the walls, and weapons on nearly every flat surface.

“Sorry about the mess,” Clemens said, not sounding sorry at all. “I was cleaning up my collection earlier and it’s kind of… unfinished.”

“That’s alright,” Harry murmured, sitting down warily. “You collect weapons? I never knew that.”

“Not many know,” Clemens replied. “People think it’s… dangerous. As if I, just because I like collecting these, would one day snap and use them all. A bloody stupid way of thinking, but people tend to be like that. They’re so lacking on the inside that they want to think the worst of everyone else.”

‘That’s an unusual thing for him to say,’ Harry thought. ‘I wonder what in the world happened for him to… well, change. Should I ask him? Maybe he needs someone he could talk to. And since he has been voluntarily spending time with me, he most likely doesn’t dislike me…’

“A sickle for your thoughts,” Clemens said, putting a cup of tea in front of Harry. “Is something bothering you?”

“Isn’t that what I should be asking?” Harry asked warily, looking at Clemens’s face. The older boy looked exhausted, even slightly desperate, and it was painfully clear that something was troubling him a lot. Harry sighed and stood up. “You’re going to sleep, now. Unless you want to talk about what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Clemens claimed, but it didn’t sound convincing. “What makes you say—, just drink your tea, alright?”

Harry narrowed his eyes and levelled Clemens with a serious look, before nodding slowly. He would stay till the boy went to sleep, and hopefully by then Clemens would have opened up a little bit. Harry didn’t wish misery for anyone, especially not one of his friends.

*

“Want to talk about the mission?” Sirius asked, pouring a glass of whisky for his friend. James accepted the drink with a grateful smile before sinking into the chair.

“Not really,” he replied. “I’m just glad it’s over. I have two days of rest before I have to go to Russia for a month of, well, they called it training but who knows what they will teach us there. Maybe a few spells. I don’t even care.”

“Have you,” Sirius started carefully, eyeing his friend with a wary expression. “Have you thought about Harry?”

“What about him?” James asked dully. His hands were rummaging through his pockets, and eventually he pulled out a box of cigarettes. Sirius didn’t know when James had even started smoking, and he wondered if it was stupid of him to feel a bit… sad.

“Aren’t you going to spend Christmas with him?” Sirius asked. “When did you last even see him?”

“He’s a Durmstrang student,” James explained, closing his eyes. “He can handle himself. Besides… I don’t think that he’d enjoy spending time with me anyway.”

“Where did you get that idea from?” Sirius demanded to know, frowning. “Honestly, James. Harry is still just thirteen you know. You can’t just let him stay at the Durmstrang dorms if you’re at home, doing nothing important! The kid needs his family! You are his family. There’s only so much a godfather can do – there are some things only a father can do, can be.”

“Sirius,” James murmured, still keeping his eyes closed. “Don’t pester me about this.” Sirius huffed, drank a few mouthfuls of whisky before speaking again:

“You’re still grieving, and I understand that, but—“

“I’m not sad anymore,” James cut in tonelessly. “I just… don’t feel anything at all, Sirius. I feel like after battling with so many feelings for so long, I’m suddenly drained. I’m not sad, but I can’t quite remember how to be happy, either. It’s like something inside me is switched off now.”

“You need to see a mind healer,” Sirius stated. “Come on, James, old boy. Life goes on.”

“Indeed it does,” James murmured. “But I can’t be made to care. Give it a rest, Sirius. I’m actually feeling much better now than I was, say, a week ago. It’s much easier to carry on once you stop caring about your misery.”

“It’s not that you’ve stopped caring. You’re just resigned to it,” Sirius said sharply, before sighing and slumping against the cushions of his chair. “I shouldn’t have given you anything to drink before bringing up this issue.”

“If you’re so worried about Harry, why won’t you go see him?”

“Because I have work. A lot of it! I can hardly believe that I have an evening of freedom that I could spend like this!”

“He’s going to grow up well,” James said. “Much better than me. He’s a smart kid, he is. Durmstrang is good for him. I’m glad we ended up picking that school, despite the claims of it being, well… a military school. Harry’s going to be alright. He’s an independent little fellow.”

“But he’s still just a kid,” Sirius insisted. “I’m giving you time until next summer. If you don’t get better by then, I’ll take you to see a healer.” James snorted, and repeated that he was, in fact, better than he had been in a long time.

Somehow, Sirius wasn’t quite convinced.

*

“This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” Clemens said, pulling the covers up to his chin. Harry, who was sitting next to him on the bed, gave him an amused look.

“Done what? Had a sleepover?”

“Yeah, that.” Clemens fell silent, and remained so for a few long minutes. Harry didn’t push him to talk – he knew that eventually the boy would end up telling him what was wrong. If Clemens had no intention to confide in him, he wouldn’t have asked Harry to stay the night at his flat.

“You know when I was called by the Professor, and left the school for a while?” Clemens started finally, hesitantly, his voice barely more than a whisper. Harry nodded, but then realized that due to the darkness it was likely that his friend couldn’t see him.

“Yes.”

“My dad died.” Clemens’s words held no particular emotions in them – they were simply a statement, as if his father’s death had nothing to do with him. Harry suspected, however, that rather than cold and unfeeling, Clemens was simply holding himself back.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry whispered. “You know my mother died last summer.”

“Yeah,” the older boy said. “It’s why I came to you. How is… how is your father taking it? That his wife is gone?”

“Not well, of course,” Harry told him, wondering what Clemens was aiming at. The curly-haired blond sighed.

“My mother is… she… already has a new lover that she introduced to us,” the boy revealed, and this time rage and helplessness were clear in his voice. “She had the nerve to bring him to father’s funeral. I… I hate her for it. I just… I knew that she didn’t love father but… the nerve!”

“That’s horrible,” Harry murmured, and offered comfort in the only way he knew how – shifting closer to Clemens and reaching to hold his hand. “She didn’t talk with you before about it? Didn’t warn you?”

“No. She… I did ask her, but she simply ignored me. You know, Harry, some days I feel like I’m invisible. Like I don’t even exist. People don’t reply to me, don’t notice me, don’t… acknowledge me. I feel as if… if I looked into a mirror, I’d see no one. And I don’t know if they’re ignoring me on purpose or if they just honestly don’t notice.”

Harry wished so desperately to be able to find the right words to say, but he couldn’t. Every option that crossed his mind seemed so pretentious and insincere, and so he simply pressed his ear against Clemens’s chest, and listened.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Harry said quietly. “I know you’re here, Clemens.” The raven-haired boy then felt his classmate’s arms wrapping loosely around him, and he did not shrug them off.

“Sometimes I wish I was like Truls,” Clemens whispered. “But I can’t feel the way he does.” Harry frowned, unsure of what the other boy meant, though he didn’t bother to ask for a clarification. He was feeling increasingly sleepy, and although the position he was in wasn’t particularly comfortable, it wouldn’t keep him awake for much longer.

“How about we go somewhere away tomorrow? We can request a portkey from Professor Lyuben,” Harry suggested sleepily. “Change the scenery, the mood and have fun. If we go to Hogsmeade – it’s a nice little village near Hogwarts – I’ll introduce you to Luna. She’s a bit odd, but very nice and I’m sure that you’ll like her.”

“That’d be nice,” Clemens whispered into the darkness of the room. “Let’s do that.”

*

The sun was setting, casting its orange glow on the snow beneath his feet. He was approaching the graveyard of Godric’s Hollow with steady, heavy steps. He had no flowers with him and no candles either. He wasn’t even sure why he had come here – it hadn’t been his intention when he left his house.

Peter Pettigrew passed the gates of the cemetery and didn’t stop until he had reached the grave of Lily Potter. He stared at the tombstone for a few long moments before crouching down.

“Again, huh,” the wizard said quietly. “I’m sorry, Lily. I really am.” He had never really met this Lily, but that did not matter to him right now. Nothing was like how it could have been, and yet Peter knew that this was how everything should be. Almost. There were still a few things he needed to make happen before he could, finally, move on. Events that were bound to happen and paths that were bound to cross one another at some point. Everything was simply a matter of time.

He was tired, though. Tired of all this. After so many years of doing this, of being who and what he was, Peter wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, and perhaps never wake up again.

Not yet, though. He had a job to do.

‘James is slightly disappointing, though,’ Peter thought. ‘I know that how he’s coping is beneficial to me, but still… Then again, one could assume our roles have been reversed. Now I’m the strong and he’s the weak.’ The thought of that did not make him happy – not that he had expected it to. His life now served a purpose that had no space for personalized measurements of worth. He was as he did, and without his mission he would be nothing.

Peter sighed, and stood up from his crouching position. Lily was gone, and her death had resulted in a necessary chain of events. It was unfortunate, though, that she died so young, once again. At least she got to see her son grow from an infant into a healthy preteen.

Not that Peter knew much about Harry. The boy wasn’t one of his… targets.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him stand up and turn sharply, fingers curling already around his wand while a pleasant smile was plastered on his face. ‘I should have known,’ Peter thought, once he saw Severus Snape standing a few feet away from him, eyeing him warily. The man’s expression was void of anything that could be called sorrow, but Peter knew that Snape had never been one for showing emotions aside from anger and contempt.

‘I’ll leave him to it, then,’ Peter thought. He didn’t feel like talking right now. He didn’t feel like throwing off Snape’s composure by revealing how much he knew about the man’s past. He didn’t feel like saying ‘I’m sorry for your loss. She was your best friend, wasn’t she?’ even though he could have done so. He just… didn’t want to talk and let words out, because some words were too heavy, some meanings too big, and some secrets too dangerous.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Snape would recognize him anyway, at all. Not in this life. Which meant that Snape would most likely just ignore him and come up with his own explanations eventually – explanations that would be wrong. It didn’t matter, though. Not much mattered anymore.

Peter’s pleasant expression didn’t change as he walked past the taller man, unwilling to risk having anything happen by staying for too long in his presence. There was an unpleasant feeling in his stomach and everything felt so wrong, even though he knew that nothing was out of order. He knew it as well as he knew his reasons for doing all this.

Atonement.

*

In Hogwarts, one Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting by the windowsill, watching the beautiful scenery outside. Behind him, Sybill Trelawney was pushing herbs into her bottle of firewhisky, and she didn’t look up from her task even when she heard Gildy sigh heavily.

“This world is changing,” Gildy said. “It’s most noticeable when I think about the little ones. Like Harry.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I feel as if it was not long ago that he was barely eleven. And his mother, Lily Potter, she was a good woman. Back then we didn’t think of a big war approaching. We didn’t think about… life. We just lived it. I still try to do exactly that… I just want to have fun and be silly sometimes. All the time.” Gilderoy sighed again and turned towards Sybill with a worried expression. “Am I immature?”

“I don’t know,” Sybill said, “but being mature doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to be silly. Like, picking fights with adults won’t make you an adult. Pretending to be mature doesn’t mean that you are. Mature is… it’s a way of thinking. Maturity is all about what’s inside your head, how you think, how you see yourself. Basically… the more you understand how unimportant, insignificant, and ignorant you are, the more mature you are.”

“That sounds appropriately depressing and wise.” Gildy said, nodding. “Depression and grief is what’s in right now. Everyone who is someone is depressed. I suppose one must be, if they want to be part of the high crowd. Where did you quote all that from, anyway?”

“Hell if I know,” Sybill grunted, lifting the firewhisky bottle and shaking it. “Pretty sure he’s dead, though. I don’t quote people who’re alive, they tend to sue if they catch me stealing their words.”

“How terribly inconsiderate of them.”

“Selfish savages.”

“Anyway,” Gildy said. “Harry sent me a letter that arrived yesterday evening – he will be dropping by a few times during the Yule break. The poor dear – once again spending Christmas without a family. I’m just glad that he won’t be completely alone – he did say that a friend was going to stay at school for the break as well.”

“The boy’s father is alive, isn’t he?” Sybill asked, finally pouring some of the firewhisky into a glass. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I must confess I never knew James Potter well. He and I… do not swim in the same ocean, if you catch my drift,” Gilderoy said, and then continued almost hesitantly: “I do admit to being rather appalled and sorry on Harry’s behalf, though. It seems that dealing with family after the wife’s death is… well, Mr. Potter is out of his depth, let’s just say that.”

“I’ve met Potter, years ago,” Sybill declared after swallowing a mouthful of her whisky. “He’d be out of his depth in a puddle.”

“To make Harry feel better, I was thinking about giving him an extraordinary gift,” Gildy said. “Like a… unique pet. Nothing like an owl or a cat or a dog. Something like… a unicorn.”

Sybill said nothing, but she did give him a look that told him ‘fat chance’ and ‘are you stupid’ in several different languages.

“Alright,” Gildy sighed. “How about a peacock instead? Or… an albino squirrel! Oh wait, no, I got it: a dragon—”