Lucky early update because I felt like being cruel.

Thank you to everyone that has reviewed, favourited, or followed so far! really appreciate it, darlings! Hope you enjoy this one - we learn quite a bit in this one ;)

Harry closed the door to his room and locked it. The privacy wards rose into place, biting in their viciousness; mirroring the steady pulse of frantic panic that was beating away in his chest.

He pressed a palm to his forehead and forced himself to breathe. Riddle's words were still ringing in his ears, taunting, mocking, knowing.

"Who are you really?"

Harry swallowed, frowning in mounting frustration.

"Running makes you look guilty."

That entire conversation had been a reminder he could do without – that even at fourteen, Riddle was too smart and too tenacious for his own good.

Harry had, for the most part, been trying to ignore the boy. The fear of what he might do if he allowed himself to think too long on Riddle – on the consequences of doing nothing, of doing something – played in the back of his mind whenever he saw the other.

He had spoken to him, traded insults, even bore his scrutiny with more patience then he normally exhibited; but it was never too much. Harry had tried to maintain that line between them, a carefully crafted distance that stopped him from imagining what it would be like to wrap his hands around that thin, pale neck and squeeze. Paying attention to Riddle made it too hard to forget how easy it would be to kill him, and with that knowledge always came the temptation; a black toxic urge that pushed hard against his ribs until he could suffocate on it.

He did not allow himself to think of it, because he knew his temper and how often he skirted the edge; how often he was standing at the precipice that loomed large in his mind – and the idea of falling into that abyss terrified him. Harry knew, unequivocally, what he was capable of and that losing the little restraint he had would turn him into something monstrous.

Harry was dangerous. Everyone around him knew it – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, his colleagues, and Ministry officials. Once the glimmer of post-war relief had begun to wane, he had been hounded by whispers and suspicions and speculations. His every move picked apart by the world, all of them looking for a hint of dark intent.

It had lessened once he and Ginny had taken their relationship public, but Harry had known it was never far from people's minds, especially when he did something that reminded those around him of who and what he was.

Voldemort's equal.

A burst of hysterical laughter stuck hard in his throat.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head.

He already knew that killing Riddle was not an option here, not when the ramifications and uncertainty far outweighed the potential benefits. But if the boy was going to keep digging into things, then Harry would have to do something eventually to dissuade him.

If their encounter in the common room had shown anything, it was that leaving Riddle unattended was not viable.

Harry opened his eyes, shifting away from the door. He tossed his bookbag somewhere off to the side, the need to claw out of his skin rising like a tidal wave. He ripped his black outercoat off and pulled his tie loose from his neck. His shirt was almost torn in his haste to escape from it, and fell to the floor forgotten, as Harry's breathing began to finally slow.

He stood in the middle of his room, his hand unconsciously dropping down to curl over where the mark of the Deathly Hallows was still hidden by his pants' waist. It had been inert these last few days, no random spikes of pain, nor rushes of heat; but the sudden lack of anything made him more wary than not.

Sighing heavily, he drew his composure back around himself, smothering the unease. He rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers working at the base of his skull where the tension was gathering. "This cannot get any worse," he muttered.

"Harry."

"Fuck!" Harry leapt forward, spinning as he went. His hands raised as his magic swelled inside him.

Floating across from him, the Bloody Baron winced, the edges of his form quivering tumultuously.

The air was knocked out of him. "Baron," he greeted cautiously, lowering his hands, and wrangling his magic back. It still thrashed under his skin, protective and untrusting, because his track record with ghosts lately was not particularly good.

Harry blinked then, realising what the other had said, his eyes widening. "You know –" he cut himself off, biting his lip as a glimmer of hope bloomed in his heart. "You know who I am."

The baron dipped his head respectfully, "I do, and I came here immediately after debriefing the Headmaster. I wished to apologise for my behaviour in the office. My appearance made you uncomfortable and brought unwanted attention to you."

The genuine remorse in his words was startling. Harry glanced to the side, unsure what to do with that. "It's fine," he assured, "I'm honestly more concerned with how you know my name."

The ghost looked at him, straightening from his bow and hovering there. He folded his hands behind his back and answered the unspoken question. "Any being that bothered to look would know that you are not the boy whose body you inhabit. Your true identity – your name – is stamped across your soul."

Harry shivered lightly, both from the chill encroaching on the room and the ominous undertone to those words. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

The baron's expression turned quizzical, but he replied, nonetheless. "You have been touched by Death," he said plainly, and at the words, Harry closed his eyes. "Your true nature permeates the air around you, surrounding you like a glow. You mastered it, you carry its mark – though how this came to be, I do not know."

Harry's hand fluttered down to his hip.

He looked at his feet, lips pressed tight. He remembered a forest and a ring of people in dark clothes and a blinding pulse of green light. He remembered a dream and being pinned by something his eyes could not discern, a hand with too many fingers digging into his flesh and the whisper of his name by a voice that sunk under his skin and hooked into his mind.

"Your appearance here has," the baron paused, his discomfort evident in the way his eyes skittered away from Harry's. When Harry gave no sign of anger or impatience, he continued. "You have unbalanced the order here," his pale hands moved nebulously, trying to convey the words he struggled to give life. "We knew the moment that you arrived at Hogwarts, and many are…unsettled by the shift in energies. The others have elected to remain secluded – to reduce the chances of crossing you."

Harry frowned, disturbed at the implications. "Why are you here then?"

The baron finally met his eyes, though again Harry was overwhelmed with the sensation of being laid bare under that white gaze. "I realised that you were not malevolent. That you seemed," the ghost tilted his head, "unaware of your status." The way he spoke was reminiscent of the way Harry used to speak to his Aunt and Uncle when he was younger. Tentative, hesitant, fearful of retaliation. "I wanted to discuss the matter with you."

Harry narrowed his eyes, more in confusion than frustration.

Shifting energies and toppling balances – it sounded far more dangerous than he was prepared for. And, if the baron was correct, he had done it without knowing he was. Coming to Hogwarts might not have been the best idea.

He looked up at the ghost, "So, I definitely am?" He asked, fists clenching. "I am the Master of Death."

At the baron's quiet nod, Harry had to turn away.

He had known, but to have someone else confirm it was infinitely worse. The acquiescence felt like releasing a weight he had not known he was carrying, only to pick up a heavier one. His shoulders dropped as the knowledge gripped him tight. "What does this even mean?" He whispered, running a hand through his hair.

Annoyingly, tears stung at his eyes.

Harry gritted his teeth, silently cursing this whole situation. He did not want to be the Master of Death. He just wanted to be Harry. He wanted to be back in his body and time, with his friends and loved ones. He wanted to marry Ginny and start a family with her; to be an auror and try and enjoy the peace that he had fought and bled and died for.

He wanted to go home.

"I apologise," the baron murmured, drifting closer to the wall. "I can see that this has upset you."

Harry wanted to laugh, but nothing about this was funny. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head lightly. "It's fine," he lied, shoving back the anxiety that was threatening to crush him. "What did you mean about unbalancing things?"

He needed information, something that he could distract himself with.

The baron still stayed towards the edges of the room as he replied. "Exactly that. You tip the balance of the world. Your connection, your presence, your soul – they all disrupt the natural order of things. You agitate those that reside here, the magical creatures and entities. And you call forth things that should not be in this plane."

At that, Harry's skin broke out in goose bumps. He twisted slowly until he was facing the ghost fully, his mouth parting in understanding. "The girl," he breathed out, "the girl at the lake – she wasn't a normal ghost, was she?"

Intense sorrow filled the baron's face as he nodded once more. "She was a shade."

"What the hell is a 'shade'?" Harry asked, his arms crossing defensively over his bare chest. He could still feel the press of the girl's cold palm to his mouth and the sight of her hanging limply from that thing's hand.

"The imprint of a life that ended tragically," the baron answered solemnly, his lips pursed.

"But," Harry gestured at the baron nervously, "isn't that what you are? And the other ghosts?"

It was clear from the way the baron floated from one corner of the room to the other that he was bothered by this topic, but he did not try to stop their conversation. "No, shades are not ghosts. They are lesser, in a way. Oblivious to their surroundings, the terror and pain of their death was powerful enough to leave a mark on the place they died, but they do not interact with the world. They are trapped in a continuous loop, either reliving their death or the moments leading up to it."

The baron came to a stop, his attention on the far wall. The deep sadness returned to him, "They are usually weak, invisible to humans. They do not exist in this world, not as ghosts do."

Harry licked his lips, "When I first saw her, she was walking back and forth across the beach. Over and over. I reached out, I wanted to help. But I – I touched her." He looked up at the baron, "She snapped out of whatever it was and screamed at me. She attacked, cut up my arms, and that night she tried to suffocate me in the hospital wing."

The baron was silent.

Harry hunched a little under that unfathomable gaze, "This…thing came and ripped her off me. It was big. Shadowed. It killed her. And it looked at me and laughed, then said my name and disappeared." Even recounting that night made him feel sick. He absently rubbed his arms to try and chase away the cold.

He did not want to ask, but he needed to know. "Was that –"

"Death."

The baron's rasp was terrified, and Harry felt phantom fingers caress his throat. He shuddered at the teasing touch.

"It walks in your shadow," the baron continued, merciless and afraid. "You are bound together. Your soul is aglow with Its claim."

"How do I break it?" Harry asked, arms dropping as he stepped forward. "I don't want this, I didn't ask for this to happen to me. I was taken from my rightful time and place and shoved into this body. There has to be a way to reverse this."

But the baron was shaking his head, backing away from Harry's advance. "I cannot," he denied, a hunted look overtaking his features.

Harry pushed the waist of his pants down enough that half the symbol branded on his hip was visible. "Do you know why this burns?" He demanded, tone biting and desperate. "Do you know why it hurts?"

The ghost shook his head again, "There has never been a Master before. Death is not meant to be chained or controlled. It is a wild force, beyond our grasp. Its power is untold, and something like that – I doubt It is pleased with your situation."

"That makes two of us," Harry hissed, his temper careening higher. "If It's the reason I'm here then It has some things to answer for."

The baron looked scandalised, one hand actually flying to his chest with the strength of his horror. "Death is not something to be commanded," he protested, flustered.

"Maybe not," Harry agreed, because he had no idea of what mastering Death even entailed. "But if I'm stuck with this thing, I want to have a damned explanation."

The baron swooped forward, incensed. "You cannot do such a thing – and certainly not here. Hogwarts is a nexus of magical energy, consolidated over nine centuries. The longer you are here, surrounded by such potent magic – do you have the vaguest comprehension of how dangerous this all is? You cannot tempt such a force, not in a place filled with children."

The ferocity behind the words had Harry stepping back, the baron's snarl befitting a feral beast. Whatever fears he had held regarding Harry were washed away in the wake of his desire to protect the castle's occupants.

And faced with such candour, Harry could only lower his head in compliance. He had spoken in haste, his own fear stealing his reason from him, and he regretted the suggestion of his thoughtless words.

"No," he said softly, "no, not at Hogwarts. You're right. This – whatever is happening with me – it's too dangerous to continue here. I came to Hogwarts to find a solution, to see if there was a way to return to my home. But my answers clearly lie elsewhere." He sighed, exhaustion emerging once more, dragging at him after such an intense day. "Maybe I should leave."

It would not even be hard. A disillusionment charm, up to the One-Eyed Witch's passage, through to Honeydukes and then out of Hogsmeade. He could be gone in a night, with no one the wiser. Without the Trace on him, Harry could be halfway across Britain before anyone even realised that he was missing.

And that was without effort. If he purposefully tried to mislead the staff and students, if he used his knowledge of aurors' techniques and methodology, he could lay a false trail, sending them scurrying in a completely different direction. Disappearing into the muggle world was his best bet, slipping between the cracks that the war had opened up. International travel would be more challenging, but Harry knew that if he really wanted to, he could find a way out of the British Isles all together.

He had been chafing under the constraints of being Nathan Ciro ever since he had woken up in the hospital. Trying to contain himself – not completely, never completely; but enough that he would come across as weird rather than deadly – and it had done nothing more than draw attention and add to the mess he was attempting to fix.

One thing he knew – he would never get back home if he stayed like this. He was not cut out for pretending, nor playing whatever twisted games Riddle and Dumbledore were so eager to.

He needed to act; needed to do something to remedy this problem.

"Whatever you decide," the baron said, "know that nothing will coax Cuthbert back to his class while you remain within the school."

Harry inclined his head in acknowledgement, his thoughts barely pausing as he continued to ruminate over the possibilities. Over everything he had been told.

Likely sensing the end of the discussion, or just eager to escape, the ghost rose a few feet. "I take my leave," the baron told him, bowing stiffly before shooting up through the roof, resembling a spooked animal in his swift retreat.

Harry stared at where the ghost had disappeared. After almost a minute, he made his way to sit down on his bed, then looked down at his hands.

He did not move for hours.

OoO

Simon was numb.

His hands moved blindly, picking up a book from his desk and sliding it into his bag. The lunch break would be coming to an end soon, and he wanted to avoid the mad rush of students trying to get to their afternoon classes.

He fiddled with his bag, fingers twitching uselessly over the strap as his eyes grew troubled.

Nathan had not been at the Great Hall.

It was half-habit at this point for his gaze to skim along the Slytherin table, trying to find those familiar features in the sea of faces – and each time he failed to see the other, the knot in his heart grew impossibly tighter.

Simon pressed a hand to his chest, kneading the heel of his palm into his sternum as if that might elevate the pain emanating from there.

He could not recall a time when he had been as confused as he was now. The uncertainty and apprehension had been hounding him since that meeting in the hallway the other day.

Simon could still see the fury in Nathan's eyes, the disinterest and disregard that had morphed into a forest fire within a blink, turning the blank grey slates into gleaming steel.

"Nathan isn't here right now."

Simon swallowed, one hand nervously fluttering to brush his hair back.

Admitting it, even to himself, made him ashamed – but in that moment, faced with Nathan's ire, Simon had felt nothing but pure, unfiltered fear. Being the sole focus of such potent rage had had him shaking, and even now his arms and legs were racked with tremors.

He closed his eyes, hands winding around his bag's strap.

It had finally dawned on him that he no longer knew Nathan – that this façade he had put on was not a façade at all. Simon could not recognise anything in the other anymore. Where before he had only needed to look to know, Nathan was a closed book to him now; with thoughts and mysteries that he could not untangle.

It was disquieting, and disturbing in so many ways, to look at a face he knew intimately and see a stranger staring back at him.

Simon shook himself, frowning fiercely. He reached down and grabbed his journal – the one his mother had gifted him for his birthday – intending to put it in his trunk for safe-keeping.

As he stepped away, a piece of parchment fluttered to the floor. Simon stared down at it, puzzled. He plucked it from the ground and opened it, only to release it almost immediately when he recognised what it was.

It dropped back to his bed, the neatly written words on display for him.

He…he thought he had gotten rid of it.

The sight of it made his stomach lurch, bile crawling swiftly up to his throat. Simon's hand hovered in front of his mouth, as he read it once more for the first time in months.

A deal is a deal. A favour for a favour. I will be in touch.

He wanted to be sick.

OoO

Harry eventually came back to himself slowly, sitting back and sighing.

He had likely missed afternoon classes, but at this point maintaining his guise as a diligent student was the least of his concerns. He stood, patting down his pants to remove the creases, and freezing when something crinkled.

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, blinking at it stupidly until he remembered it was from Cynthia. He had received it just this morning – and Harry marvelled at how long this day seemed to drag on for.

Delicately, he pulled the letter out once more, driven by curiosity and a need to be distracted from his chaotic thoughts.

Harry read through the contents with care.

The letter was, in a word, warm. Cynthia's love for her son practically shone from the page, and though Harry had found her presence overbearing and frustrating while he was exposed to it, he really could not fault the woman.

Cynthia reminded him distantly of Molly – the attentiveness, the protectiveness, the adoration for her children – and several times while reading her words he found himself smiling.

It was a relatively short letter, but it was still refreshing to immerse himself in someone else's idle problems for a time. The gossip of the high society circles, the stress over which style of dress to buy, a disagreement between herself and Benedict over where to spend their next holiday. Trivial things, issues he would never have paid a mind to back in his own time, and yet it was strangely soothing.

An escape from the madhouse his own life was these days. His conversation with the baron still plagued him, but Harry forcibly pushed it to the side.

Cynthia's probing over his own experience at Hogwarts was softer too, less abrasive than he had initially found her. Her suggestion to visit Hogsmeade on the weekend was a good one, though her recommendation to go with Simon was not. Harry did not care much for Nathan's twin, and certainly did not want to subject himself to the other's company.

But he could admit that a part of him missed the quiet charm of Hogsmeade. It would be nice to see it again, as it had been before the effect of Voldemort's brief reign had taken its toll on the village.

Harry tapped the parchment against his palm, gazing off to the side. It would be strange visiting without Ron or Hermione there with him. This whole disaster was difficult without his friends, without Ginny, but Harry did not let himself dwell on the void inside his chest for long.

He looked back at the letter, debating. He knew he would have to reply to her, but he needed to consider what he wrote carefully. The last thing he wanted was to set the woman off, or cause any distress –

Harry stopped, his lips parting as an idea formed in his mind.

He wanted to leave Hogwarts, had already planned a possible route out of the castle, but what if he did not have to run at all?

Cynthia had said plainly that he could return to their home should school prove too much for him, and she did not strike him as the type that would rescind her word on such matters. If he wrote to her – if he mentioned the bullying and snide comments and dark looks, the deliberate inattention from the staff – surely, she would pull him out.

It would be more reliable than going on the run, and the relative safety of having a home and resources and connections at his disposal would be better than having to barter or steal his way across the country. The fussing he would have to endure from Benedict and Cynthia was a small price to pay for the security they would provide.

And, a smaller part of him whispered, it would feel less like he was kidnapping their son from them. They had almost lost him once, and Harry would like to spare them the tragedy of him vanishing without a trace if he could.

He could handle some coddling if it meant he could get out of this place, away from Riddle and Orion and Dumbledore, from the ghosts and shades and creatures. He doubted there was anything more that he could learn about his predicament here – it would be best to cut his losses before getting in any deeper.

Eager, Harry moved to his desk, stepping too fast. He clicked his tongue when his hip clipped the corner of the desk and a glass ornament toppled over the edge. It clattered to the floor before he could grab it.

Harry frowned; one hand braced on the surface of the desk. He dropped the letter and took a step to the side, watching as the bauble – unbroken thanks to a simple protection charm – rolled away, then turned his eyes to the floorboard that it had landed on.

The one that had sounded distinctly hollow.

Eyes narrowing, Harry quickly knelt and felt along the wooden boards, rapping his knuckles between the two and listening to the difference. He huffed, lips curling upwards, "Oh, you clever kid."

He was not even surprised. Harry already knew that Nathan was the type to squirrel secrets away, so finding something in his dorm room was expected. He was more disappointed in himself for not thinking of checking properly for hidden compartments.

Harry grabbed his wand and ran a diagnostic spell over the floorboard; other than some mild defensive charms there did not appear to be anything dangerous. He set to unravelling the net of protections, and then dug his fingers under the crease of the board, lifting it up smoothly.

He peeked inside the rather deep space, instantly spotting the folded slip of paper resting there innocently. Again, he sensed nothing that was a threat, so Harry picked it up. Using his thumb, he flipped it open and began to read.

He almost dropped the floorboard in shock, his interest roaring to life.

It was the cipher.

Harry shot to his feet, fingers creasing the paper from how tightly he was gripping it. In the chaos of the past few days he had completely forgotten about Nathan's journal; the lack of the key making it far too taxing to try and decode.

But with this…

Harry held out his hand, a nonverbal accio bringing the red leather-bound book soaring into his grasp. He turned to the desk, tugging his chair out with his foot, and dropping into it. He opened the journal to its first page.

The jumble of letters was still mildly disorientating to look at, but the renewed energy burning in his gut made it easy to ignore.

Harry laid the single sheet of paper down beside the journal, then grabbed one of his unused books.

His hands were steady, and his brewing excitement crushed any lingering thought of his troubles beneath it.

Harry looked over the cipher circle – a simple shift one – and found where the alphabet began in the outer ring, then looked down to the inner ring for the translation.

He smiled to himself and began to decrypt the first line, just to ensure it matched up.

It took only a handful of minutes, but once he was satisfied, he moved the cipher and the journal beside each other. Harry levelled his wand at the pages, "Transferendum."

With a shimmer of gold, a copy of the cipher rose from the page and moved to hover above the journal. Harry sat with bated breath, watching as the cipher sections began to flash rapidly, each flicker of light corresponding with a letter on the page changing, until words began to unveil before him.

Harry did not get a chance to read the first page as the journal automatically flipped to the next one, continuing relentlessly with its task.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, lounging back in his chair as he thought. It would be best to allow the spell to run its course before trying to read anything. He had all night, after all.

He sighed, settling in for the wait.

Even with the translation spell going at such a speed, it still took well over an hour for the full journal to be decoded.

When the golden cipher dispersed in a shower of harmless sparks, Harry sat forward and turned back to the first page. He ran a hand over it, half-reverent, half-cautious.

He took a breath then began to read, losing track of himself within minutes.

Most of the entries were daily records of Nathan's life, starting from what seemed to be midway through second year, and painted a very different picture than Harry had been expecting.

…Damian made it onto the reserves for Hufflepuff. He was so excited…

…and even though I told him not to, Simon still bought it for me…

…Jasmine is rather pretty, and she said she thought I had nice eyes yesterday…

…nice to go out together, I am still surprised Father let so many come to the manor…

Harry frowned, mouthing along to what was written, trying to understand how Nathan seemingly went from having an abundance of friends to being an outcast in his school.

The entries showed him to be a normal boy, smart and driven, though perhaps a touch shy. It made no sense to Harry, who had experienced firsthand the disdain and outright disgust so many held towards the boy he was pretending to be.

"What the hell happened?" He murmured, finger curling under the corner of the paper in preparation to turn. He finished the last paragraph – detailing Nathan's last day at Hogwarts before the annual break – and flipped the page.

His frown became more pronounced when he saw the stark jump in dates, from the end of June to halfway through August. But what was worse was the single line written on the page; every alarm in Harry's mind beginning to blare.

They lied to me.

He traced his finger over the line, his gut clenching in confusion and concern. "What is this about?" Harry whispered, flicking to the next page, and skimming the words there – noting the date as being October, months passing without another entry, Nathan's third year well underway. He only read long enough to figure out that the attitude towards Nathan had deteriorated already, before going back to the previous entry.

He stared down at those sinister four words for a long moment, mind buzzing intently.

Harry jolted when someone knocked loudly on his door. He gasped, blinking as his head rose sharply. Annoyed at the interruption, he pinched the bridge of his nose. The knocking continued, and Harry bundled the loose pages into the journal and shoved it in the drawer of his desk.

He cast a swift look around before darting to the door and yanking it open.

Orion smiled up at him pleasantly. "You really need to stop skipping lessons," the younger boy said in lieu of greeting, "you might have the professors' sympathies for now, but if you keep doing things like this that will change."

Those curious grey eyes raked over him, seeing far too much and yet nothing at all. "I came to get you for dinner," he said after he finished his perusal.

Harry squinted at the other, then all at once, he felt the sharp pang of hunger rise. He had not eaten anything since breakfast, he remembered.

"I don't need a minder," Harry said without heat, feeling drained and far too perturbed to bother maintain his irritation. He was, in truth, grateful that Orion had come to collect him even though he suspected there was an ulterior motive. If there was one thing he had figured out, it was that Orion was not a naturally thoughtful person. For all he looked sweet, there was a wide streak of maliciousness in him, coupled neatly with his cunning and sly personality.

Though, knowing that he would be gone from Hogwarts soon made Harry feel more charitable towards the other.

"You sort of do," Orion commented lightly, stepping back as Harry exited his room and locked the door. "It feels like every time I turn my back you are off doing something interesting." The boy paused meaningfully, then asked, "What were you doing? Riddle said to give you space – were you upset about something?"

Safely facing his door, Harry allowed his face to scrunch in displeasure. He did not want to go through another interrogation. Two with Dumbledore and one with Riddle had already stretched him thin.

"No. I was reading a book," he offered, hoping it would be enough to stall anymore questions.

Orion's nose crinkled at his answer, "All day? That sounds like a lie." He shook his head, tugging on Harry's arm, "Let's go." Unlike usual, the boy did not latch onto Harry, instead keeping his hands tucked behind his back. He looked remarkably settled and mature.

Harry eyed him suspiciously, thrown by the change. He knew that Orion was mercurial, but this seemed different somehow.

Though what the other had said brought his thoughts spiralling back to Nathan's journal, and the last passages he had read.

They lied to me.

He bit his lip again, the flesh beginning to feel tender, and came to a standstill. Orion stopped next to him; head cocked.

Harry slowly let his bottom lip slide free of his teeth; his eyes seeking the ceiling briefly before he turned to the other boy. "Orion," he began, waiting until he was sure he had his full attention. "What did you think of – me? Before."

Orion appeared surprised, though the expression quickly fell into something of polite interest. His eyes were bright with intrigue, however. "Boring," the Black heir answered succinctly, unbothered by the ruthlessness of the statement. "Weak, plain, and he cried too easily. Smart, but too soft to use it. Incapable of standing up for himself."

"Why?" Harry asked quiet but firm. When Orion raised an enquiring eyebrow, Harry made a vague gesture. "Why was he – I – bullied? Why does everyone hate me?"

Orion hummed, leaning back an inch, and fixing him with a curious, assessing look. "It is mostly a compilation of many things, but I suppose it started because of the rumours," he replied evenly.

"What rumours?" Harry's tone edged towards impatience. He just wanted to know.

Orion's expression grew callously amused, his lips quirking.

"The rumours that you are illegitimate," the boy's eyes seared into him. "The rumours that you are a bastard."

Haha, oh man. I love when I get to reveal foreshadowed things. Hope no one is too freaked out, but we're starting to get the bigger picture now. Trust me, it'll make sense eventually.

As always, my tumblr is 'Child_OTKW'. Come along if you want to discover theories, scream at me, discuss my new snippets or get some behind the scenes commentary! Thanks guys, have a great day / night!