Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that. Simpler, even.

Title: Of What Once Was.

Rating: M.

Pairings: Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.

Warnings: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.

…

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Warning: From this point on, all chapters and follies are mine.

Welp.

.commence thy reading.

Of What Once Was

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Chapter IV

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Tom Riddle wasn't one to show much emotion—ever, really—but, for once, he simply couldn't contain the curiosity bubbling up from within him.

The pleased tilt of his full lips spoke plainly.

His green eyes were bright with interest as he awaited the Headmaster's arrival.

This late after curfew, there could only be so many things that the Headmaster wished to speak to him of.

And of those few things, it's rather easily deduced which he'd like to speak about, Tom thought, images of wild dark hair and fickle magic brushing themselves seductively against his mind.

However, Tom's enthusiasm would've been greater if he didn't have to wait patiently for the Headmaster to arrive. He'd been standing in the bland old office nearly half past the time scheduled for them to meet.

Frowning, he waved his pale wand in the air for a quick Tempus charm.

Make that exactly half past now, he scoffed to himself irritably. While Dippet is quite elderly, I never suspected that it'd take that long for him to make his way through the decrepit particulars of his mind and find the way back to his own office.

Then, as if on cue—a rather thoroughly delayed cue, that is—Armando Dippet stormed in with an immensely dire expression. Robes billowed freely and savagely with each incensed step.

"Sir," Tom greeted with a polite nod, face carefully impassive. Revealing his irritation would obviously do him no favours.

Dippet made a weak effort to compose himself as he turned towards the Slytherin. Tom observed the hardly concealed furrow of the man's thick brows and the unconscious downturn of thin lips.

"Mr Riddle," Dippet greeted with a forced tone of control. His lips pinched harshly as he continued, "I hope you are aware that the next words that pass between us will remain so. Between us, that is."

Straight to business then, Tom noted. Works for me.

"As you say, sir," he dutifully agreed with a well-mannered nod.

"See it is so, Mr Riddle," Dippet snapped harshly, before adding, "Or see to the consequences of disobedience."

Tom nearly snorted in derision at the promise of punishment. Dippet's attempt to mask his blatant desperation beneath a layer of authority did nothing to fool Tom.

But, what is it that has the old man so desperate, I wonder… he thought to himself. His mind immediately went to thoughts of the boy who had fallen from the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, all dark hair and pure magic.

All that power… Tom's thought trailed off as a mixture of longing, greed, and possessiveness scratched insistently at his consciousness.

"Mr Riddle?" Dippet's voice really grated on Tom's nerves. "Are you paying attention, Mr Riddle?"

Holding back an irritated sigh, Tom gave a feigned nod of respectful acquiescence. "Yes, of course, Headmaster." He smiled, eyes lowered just enough to display a false regard for Dippet's so-called authority. "I am much aware of the consequences, sir. I assure you that I hold your confidence with as much regard as I do your respect." The sardonic curl of his lips was barely perceptible under the dim lighting, slyly elongating beneath the cover of shadows. Tom holds respect for very few, and Dippet and his irritating redundancy does not happen to be included amongst the sparse.

Tom's slight went unnoticed; which, logically, should be a good thing, but Tom couldn't help feeling otherwise as he watched Dippet give him a condescending smile, clearly convinced by Tom's display false deference.

Dippet sighed tiredly before pulling out a silken handkerchief from the folds of his robes with a weak little flourish. He coughed into it hoarsely—the sound was terribly guttural and vaguely nauseous. If Tom wasn't known for his composure, he would have cringed in disgust.

"Mr Riddle," the Headmaster paused, seeming uncertain of how to continue. He sighed once more, following up with yet another cough, before venturing forth, "I am sure that you're aware of the incident during the Start-of-Term Feast."

"Of course, sir," Tom replied smoothly. With a good-natured shrug, he remarked, "It was not the most subtle of affairs, after all."

Dippet, clearly unamused, feigned a tight chuckle nonetheless. "That may be so," he agreed. "However," he continued tersely, "the information that I will soon allow you to become privy to is to be regarded with the utmost subtlety. Not only for your safety but for that of the entire school."

"I understand, sir," Tom was quick to reply, as eager and dutiful as the shiny Head Boy badge upon his robes suggested. "This school is like a home to me, sir. Of course, I would never intentionally see harm to it!" he proclaimed with a tasteful amount of fervency. He shook his head, as if he was slightly appalled by the notion, and added, "Not when I can prevent it with something as simple as holding my tongue."

Dippet narrowed his eyes with shrewd skepticism, but the edges of his lips slightly curled, betraying his satisfaction with Tom's performance. "This shall be the only warning I give, for the topic of which I am about to breach is not to leave these walls unless further discussion states otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

"I can not express the utter importance of maintaining secrecy and handling this affair with as much subtlety as possible, Mr Riddle." Dippet gave a tense grimace of an attempt at a smile. "I have the utmost faith in you, but I am responsible for notifying you of the consequences nonetheless."

Tom nodded solemnly, though internally seethed with impatience.

I hate people who blather on and on around topics. His eyes narrowed at Dippet's poorly concealed paranoia. Dippet is often one who does such; however, not usually to such an irritable extent.

"Please, sir," Tom cajoled before Dippet could recant another useless warning to him. With a weak smile, he asked with feigned dejection, "Can you not trust that I will retain whatever knowledge you give with as much secrecy need be?" Tom's lips pursed into a saddened frown when Dippet remained silent. "Whatever have I done to discourage you from my confidence, sir? I must insist that I'm sincere in my previous words. If I have done this school—my only true home—any wrong, please allow me to make amends."

Dippet gave a shuddering sigh, sullenly shaking his head. "It is not you, Mr Riddle. You've always been an upstanding young wizard. One of the brighter ones of your generation, I believe. The brightest, even. I do not doubt your sincerity in the least. It is just…" he paused, giving another weathered sigh. Steeling himself, the old man stated, "We are at a time of war and information can no longer be given freely without consequences. The Ministry has become involved and as a result, its politics has entwined itself with the safety of this school."

"The Ministry and the safety of Hogwarts… Does it serve my assumption correct if I were to say both of these topics have something to do with the boy that dropped into the Great Hall on the first?" Tom enquired.

Dippet nodded solemnly. "Yes, and he is precisely what I wish to speak to you about."

Tom tilted his head with genuine interest, pleased that the conversation was actually venturing away from hopelessly pointless to becoming somewhat interesting.

The Headmaster continued with a thunderous frown, "He breached Hogwarts' wards and is currently suspected of active involvement with Grindelwald."

"Thus, the Ministry involvement," Tom concluded. "Has he been taken in by the DMLE then, sir?"

"No," Dippet said with an angry shake of his head.

Tom contained his smile, oddly relieved by the single syllable of denial.

"And that is what I do not understand," the Headmaster proclaimed furiously. "The Minister himself got involved but the boy still, somehow, remains within our school. And he's currently being nursed and mended together in the infirmary like he is but some helpless victim!" He raised and dropped his hands with an exasperated huff, growing more incensed as he continued with little restraint, "The boy was even pardoned of all suspected crimes by the blasted Minister, personally, at that—though I suspect the favouritism was due to the Minister's rather… profligate interest in the child." He sneered with disgust at his own words. "Then, as if that weren't enough, he had the gall to insist the boy stay at Hogwarts, for his own protection. I refused, of course, but the man had cared for nothing but the boy and proceeded to threaten me with his over glorified title. 'Minister of Magic,' he says. Pah!" he sneered. "To think I had once thought fit to choose him as a Head Boy of Hogwarts. It has become abundantly clear that Diggory clearly has little regard for the safety of our current students, being so quick to demand we protect a suspected terrorist. The sheer amount of disrespect is absolutely astounding…" He shook his head in disbelief, rubbing furiously at his temples as he paced about the room.

Tom raised a brow at the Headmaster's evident ire towards Eldritch Diggory, the current Minister of Magic, the youngest of this century.

Diggory had been six years ahead of me, Tom recalled. A Ravenclaw, I believe.

Being that they were in neither the same year nor house, Tom did not personally know the man. However, Diggory had held somewhat of a reputation within the rumours that plagued Hogwarts during Tom's first year.

Diggory was a man defined by endless praise. 'A handsome and charming ladies' man,' people often fancied as a description. Tom scoffed to himself at the thought. But despite his stellar reputation, there was still that one incident with his younger brother that most plead ignorance to.

Eldritch Diggory's younger brother—a Hufflepuff whose name Tom never bothered to learn—was a fifth year when it happened. Tom wasn't interested in rumours about Hufflepuffs being found in broom closets with three younger Gryffindor boys, but the aftermath of that discovery was violent enough to garner Tom's attention.

Homosexuality was not as prosecuted within the Wizarding world as it was amongst the Muggles but rather something of which you are aware of and maintain discretion about.

However, when the younger Diggory was outed for having 'relations' with three Gryffindors, it seemed no one could remain mum about anything.

Especially not Aidan McLaggen—whose own younger brother, Tiberius, was one of the three younger boys involved.

Being brash and shamelessly Gryffindor to the tee, McLaggen viciously jumped Diggory Jr. with a group of his seventh-year mates, brutally beating the Hufflepuff until the younger boy ended up with a ruptured spleen, several broken bones, and heavily bruised spinal cord.

Tom had found it all rather barbaric—seeing as McLaggen and his lackeys had all seemed to forgo the fact they were wizards and proceeded to exact revenge through base physical violence—but the primitivity must have been the catalyst of Eldritch Diggory's, much more impressive, retaliation.

The Ravenclaw Head Boy had cursed McLaggen and his group of offending Gryffindors with some rather vicious, underhanded hexes. It was all quite impressive, considering the do-gooder façade Diggory often employed. McLaggen and his crew ended up with an extended stay at St Mungo's, displaying a set of injuries that appeared identical to Diggory Jr's on the surface, but since they were magically inflicted, they were much longer-lasting and infinitely more vicious. Tom had been briefly amused by the irony.

However, Diggory's actions didn't stop there.

Similar to how a volcano can rarely cease mid-eruption, the Ravenclaw could not leave the situation well alone even after he had successfully landed McLaggen et al in the hospital.

Rumours upon rumours had piled up about Eldritch Diggory and his poof of a younger brother, effectively tarnishing both their reputations. That bothered the Ravenclaw's 'delicate sensibilities', Tom assumed.

After dealing with the Gryffindors, the elder Diggory had then turned his wand upon his younger brother. He declared the boy unfit to hold the family name due to his indiscretions and brutally hexed him in his hospital bed.

Of course, Diggory hadn't wanted to take the blame for his actions, so he had washed his hands of it by pinning his brother's injuries on McLaggen's crew while, in turn, pinning McLaggen's injuries on his younger brother's visibly irate friends. And before anyone could bother to protest, Eldritch Diggory had somehow managed to convince his parents to take his brother out of school. Then, the Ravenclaw tidied up his mess by blackmailing McLaggen with threats against the Gryffindor's own homosexual younger sibling.

All in all, Tom had thought Diggory's work was rather mediocre in terms of settling affairs—too many witnesses and too many loose ends. No one should ever be able to recount your revenge with a play-by-play. However, Tom would acknowledge that the older Ravenclaw's discretion was still rather commendable for an amateur; Tom himself was of the few who truly knew what happened beneath all the rumours and hearsays—and that was only because his network of information had branched further than one would assume for a 'mudblood' Slytherin first year.

Hearing of Eldritch Diggory's 'profligate interests' in the boy who fell into the Great Hall struck something odd within him, suspicions rising as he was quick to remember Diggory inflicting a far more vicious attack upon his homosexual little brother then upon the Gryffindor attackers of said little brother.

Eldritch Diggory was much too eager to hurt his brother, Tom recalled. He was too willing and merciless to have harboured anything but hatred for his brother's interests. And he behaved much too apathetically to have been one who held similar ones. He pursed his lips in contemplation. Which brings us to the question of why is the Minister so interested in the boy who fell?

Tom voiced his as much out loud, interrupting Dippet's frantic pacing.

Posturing tensing infinitely as he stilled, Dippet answered stiffly, "The boy's name is Hadrian Peverell."

Peverell? Tom narrowed his eyes, considering the significance of the name. What a curious, curious name. Quite old, I believe, he mused. Old enough for many to believe them to be a mere myth. And more specifically, old enough to be considered long since dead… How interesting, indeed.

"Hadrian Peverell?" he feigned ignorance. "Do you mean Peverell, as in the characters within Beedle the Bard's A Tale of The Three Brothers?"

"The last I'd heard of the Peverells was in that childish fairy-tale as well. To think the young Minister was so easily fooled by a mere child, especially one with quite an obvious taste for fictional names, at that," Dippet scoffed in distaste. "All inquiries I attempted to put forth were swiftly brushed under the rug by the Minister's sudden imposition of authority." He scowled sourly, hissing angrily, "'Confidential,' they insisted—both he and that wretched boy."

Tom hummed thoughtfully, more intrigued than he let on. "And Professor Dumbledore, sir? What did he say?" he prompted, hoping to incite the Headmaster further; Dumbledore and Dippet always disagreed whenever it came to the subject of authority and who should wield more.

"Little of anything useful," Dippet huffed. "Albus was too easily swayed by Diggory's influence and the teary eyes of an adolescent charlatan; he quickly folded beneath the pressure. Not only that, he didn't let me get a word in edgewise before tactlessly agreeing to the Minister's unreasonable demands," he seethed. "I often doubt Albus' ability to consider the consequences of his actions, seeing as he constantly behaves on mindless impulse without any sort of further discussion."

That sounds just like Dumbledore; always ready to manipulate the power into his hands without a single care as he steps on Dippet's toes in the process of gaining the higher ground, Tom thought wryly. However, I thoroughly doubt he truly folded beneath the pressure of Diggory's posturing. Nor that he acted on 'mindless impulse'.

"And, what are the Minister's demands if I may ask, sir?" Tom asked, opting to direct Dippet's attentions to another topic before an impassioned rant about Dumbledore could begin.

Dippet remained silent for a moment, lips turning down harshly. "The Minister commanded—the absolute gall of that shameless boy," he muttered spitefully under his breath, before speaking up once more, "He dared to command us into keeping Hadrian Peverell—if that's even the child's name—under Hogwarts' supervision and protection until further notice."

Tom could feel the anticipation run its eager claws down his conscience. Despite what the teachers seemed to think, it was Tom who commanded the most authority within the school's community. Having the boy placed as a ward under Hogwarts' influence practically affirmed that the dark-haired boy would soon be another one of Tom's.

"Then, sir, I assume the reason you called me in here is to inform me of the said task of supervision," he stated, lips tightening to suppress a smirk.

Dippet nodded. "Yes, seeing as you are the most logical choice, being Head Boy and all," he sniffed. "While this in no task for a mere student, the staff have more dire worries and far less time to deal with a potential fugitive when Grindelwald is practically circling in upon us from the outside. I believe you can handle this task, yes?"

'A mere student', you say, Tom wished to scoff, eyes slightly narrowing at the unintentional slight.

Nonetheless, Tom nodded dutifully. "Of course, sir. I also expect you wish for reports upon the boy's actions and intentions, as well?" he queried politely.

Dippet ascertained his agreement with a brusque nod. "Yes, yes." He gave a dismissive wave as he collapsed into the seat behind his desk. "Go to the infirmary; you will find your temporary charge there and I expect you to deal with him responsibly. Hopefully, your involvement will help prevent any further breaches in our security," he said with a terrible scowl. He narrowed his eyes in Tom's direction; eyes squinting unattractively. "After all, Mr Riddle, you are currently one of our best and brightest; we would not want any incidents to affect the outcome of our future, would we?"

The underlying threat did not go unheard. Tom would have laughed if it wouldn't have made him seem disrespectful.

"No, we wouldn't." he agreed with polite poise, tactfully brushing off the Headmaster's threatening remark. "I shall observe the boy as you suggested, sir."

Of course, what I report may differ from what I observe, he thought smugly to himself.

Dippet nodded. "Good." He flicked his hand towards the door. "You're dismissed."

Tom pivoted on his heel, striding out of the office with an easy grace and the urge to roll his eyes.

…

…

…

The croaking hacks of a tired old man echoed forebodingly along the castle's hallowed walls.

Harry sat nervously on the infirmary bed, pale hands clenching and unclenching against sheets. His cold sweat lightly dampened the starched cotton blend, allowing the white linen to adopt a translucent quality that traced the vague shape of a handprint. He grimaced in disgust at the evidence of the profuse amount he seemed to be sweating.

Professor Dumbledore, who happened to be perched casually on a stool by his bedside, stared at him with something akin to curiosity. Though Harry chanced a glance at the long auburn scruff lining Dumbledore's jaw, and up the crooked nose to just under familiar half-moon glasses, he didn't dare to meet the twinkling blue eyes.

All these years and I'm still absolute balls at Occlumency. That, and lying. And dealing with Dumbledore…

Harry's gaze quickly shifted away before he was caught staring, flittering about the room anxiously as he awaited the blasted nurse's return. The atmosphere was getting awkwardly charged with tension because he was pretty sure Dumbledore thinks he's a dreadful liar who is in over his head and Harry himself had mixed emotions over what he thinks of Dumbledore.

Harry just couldn't believe that Dumbledore was sitting at his bedside, alive and looking far younger than he had any right to. Old feelings of lovehateangerdespairhatehatehate welled up within him far easier than Harry anticipated.

Minister Diggory and his Aurors had left him in the care of Hogwarts and within its impregnable walls. Once, Harry would have been more than glad to spend his time in the only place he's ever truly considered home (despite the multiple attempts on his life that had happened within it), but at the moment, he could only feel a vague sense of dread as he was constantly being reminded that he wasn't in Kansas anymore, per se.

Harry felt the burn of bile threatening to rise up his esophagus. Clapping a dampened palm across his mouth, he quickly stuttered, "I'm s'rry, uh, sir, Professor Dumbledore. Um, w-where's the, uh, loo in here?"

Twinkling blue eyes pinned him with a look of concern. "Just by Miss Pomfrey's desk, right behind—"

Harry didn't bother to let the man finish as he scrambled off the bed, tripping over himself as he dashed to the aforementioned loo, slamming the door shut behind him. The layout of the infirmary hasn't changed much from what he remembered, and Harry had stayed there more than enough times to know the location of the toilet like the back of his hand.

It's practically a home away from home, he thought sardonically. The year-end retreat after Voldemort tries to off me via a megalomaniac plan of certain doom that's generally avoidable through dumb luck and convenient timing.

In the back of his mind, Harry was aware that he was probably encouraging Dumbledore's suspicions about him, but the threat of projectile vomiting into the man's face and appallingly ginger beard definitely overrode his logic and capacity for well thought out actions.

As he curled himself over the porcelain bowl and heaved into it, finding little relief as the thoughtlessness of his actions caught up to him. He heaved once more. Then again. And again. And again.

It took about ten more excruciatingly long minutes before his stomach settled and the dry retches into the toilet ceased. Sighing tiredly, Harry quickly flushed before using the sink to crawl back onto his feet.

Using the back of one hand, he wiped away at a thin trail of vomit while the other fumbled shakily with the tap handle. As it finally turned under the push of his spastic fingers, cold water splattered loudly into the smooth bowl of the sink, the jets of water coming out at the highest pressure and wetting the paper-thin gown he'd been forced into.

Harry yelped in surprise, hands fluttering in a panic to turn down the water. After almost a full minute of helpless flailing, he heard a knock on the door to the loo.

"Mr Peverell? Are you alright in there, m'boy?"

Dumbledore.

Shit!

"Y-yeah," Harry attempted to sound firm as he called out over the splashing of water. A hand finally managed to stop spazzing out just enough to grip desperately onto the tap handle; Harry quickly turned it off. "Yeah, I'm alright! I'm all good! Just, just give me a sec, yeah?"

The was a pause, before, "Alright, m'boy. I'll trust you on that."

Harry actually cringed. He hated when Dumbledore said stuff like that. Stuff designed to make you feel guilty one way or another.

He shook his head with a sigh.

Making sure to take better care this time, Harry slowly turned on the tap, letting the cool water trickle into the cusp of his palms. He splashed his face with it in order to freshen up.

From what he caught in the mirror, the water wasn't doing much for the dark smudges beneath his eyes and his pallid complexion.

W-wait… Harry thought, jolting up as if electrocuted. He leant forward, nose almost pressed up against the glass of the mirror. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

His reflection stared back at him with equal bewilderment, mouth hanging agape.

Harry couldn't believe what he was seeing and didn't know how exactly he felt about it.

For one, he felt infinitely daft for not realizing it all sooner.

The clarity of everything. The weakness of his muscles. The way he tripped over himself.

Bloody hell, he cursed silently as his pale, trembling fingers dragged across the baby-smooth skin of his cheeks.

Not only had Harry somehow been shrunk back into the size of a poorly-fed seventeen-year-old who's been on the run for the better part of a year, but he also had an absurdly clear ability to see despite the lack of glasses perched customarily onto the bridge of his nose. Meaning, he had the ability to see the detailed state of his face.

Harry noted that although the apparent differences in his facial features were no more changes than they were a revelation of what had always been there, the damage done was much more horrific than that which affected his height, build, and eyesight. The bare display of his countenance was remarkably intrusive in its effortlessly natural presentation, rendering itself both tactful and tactless at the same time.

It made Harry feel immensely uncomfortable in his own skin as he stared at the unwanted transformations to his being, none too subtly reminded him of times better forgotten and memories that never were.

Without his glasses, Harry looked far more like his parents than he ever wished. Gone was the generically attractive, average-looking man whose only remarkable features were his eyes and distinctively-shaped scar. In his place was a familiar stranger that he did not want to accept.

Green eyes—bright and luminous—were highlighted by dark bruises along the delicate skin beneath them. His facial structure was always compared to his father's but without his round wire-lenses obscuring a section of his face, the thin aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and narrow jawline were blatantly displayed in a perfect blend of both Lily Evans and James Potter.

Well, a highly unhealthy and underfed version of them, anyway, Harry noted with a grimace as he took notice of the depressing way his infirmary gown draped formlessly against the severe angles of his shoulders.

The familiar, thin-but-not-quite-yet-emancipated quality of his body reminded him of those hollow-boned birds that Hermione was so fond of—fragile and feeble with sharp beaks and keen eyes. And the way his waxen flesh pulled across jutting cheekbones and an unhealthily sharp jawline were not unlike that of those tiny pixie-creatures Lockhart had once let run rampant in their class; his skin even had a similar abnormal smoothness to it, making him seem frighteningly of the Otherworld.

Harry hadn't looked so utterly depressing since back when he'd been forced to spend his summers with the Dursleys. The recollection made a foul churn of sickness twist at his insides.

Also, judging by the way he'd displayed subpar basic motor skills, Harry assumed that he was not only thinner but also shorter; his limbs unfamiliar and slow to respond.

Harry couldn't tell the explicit difference in the mirror, but knew he had to begrudgingly confront the fact that his well-earned height of just about six-feet was no longer a thing of reality.

And all that effort completely wasted, he thought spitefully. That ruthless training regiment. That unforgivingly strict diet. That cruel period of time where not a single treacle tart could be consumed. He couldn't help the slight shudder at the memories. All that bloody effort to undo years of neglect and of course I still get shoved straight back into this long-forgotten body—a second-rate husk of humanity, rife with memories of abuse and unfamiliarity.

This made him feel more angry than sick, but the uncomfortable tightening in his gut persisted nonetheless.

Suddenly, a violent sting of pain bloomed from his forehead, forcing him to crunch forward in agony. As he gripped the edges of the sink for support, the unexpected ache of his ribs had him careening forward into the mirror.

Harry stifled a yelp of pain with a press of teeth against the back of his hand; the muffled sound hissed out in a string of irate profanities. He pressed back unruly bangs with his other hand, examining the damage.

Beneath the redness of a growing bruise, Harry's signature scar was no longer a pale imprint faded into porcelain flesh; it was angry and inflamed, edged by scarlet hues and the threat of gore. It looked and felt as if someone had taken a knife and reopened the cursed wound with a slow meticulous hand.

Horror-stricken green eyes were shuttered with a mix of rage and pain, glaring back at him from the tired contours of his face—stark in its shock.

"Mr Peverell?"

Harry's neck snapped towards the door at the sound of Dumbledore's voice calling through the door again.

Clearing his throat, he replied shakily, "I'll, uh, be right out!"

"There's a visitor here to see you," Dumbledore told him, tone oddly tight.

A visitor? he wondered silently, furrowing his brow. Another Ministry member, maybe?

With the back of his hand, he wiped away the blood blooming from his scar before combing his messy hair over it in an effort to conceal its existence.

He was suspicious enough without the bloody curse mark.

"Mr Peverell?" Dumbledore called once more.

"I'm fine, sir. Coming right out!" Trepidation fell heavily upon Harry as he grasped the doorknob and twisted it open.

It would have been rather apropos if dramatic music had queued along with the slow creak of the door swinging open.

Green eyes widened infinitely.

Harry had only been as horrified as he was now only a handful of times in his life.

It approached him—limbs long, pale and elegant; a figure painted with the stale air of confidence.

Harry tried to stop himself but he was but another subject governed by Murphy's Law and the cold, cruel mistress that wrote it—utterly helpless to the inevitability of his fate.

And what a horrid bitch, Fate could be.

…

…

…

Harry released what was left of his stomach's meagre contents into the face of his horrors—quite literally.

—

.to be continued.

—