A/N: I feel like a complete beginner again, posting their first work on this site, and I'm so nervous it's embarassing. This story is dedicated to Warlock Arkon whose review regarding my story Building Bridges and our subsequent discussion kind of inspired me to return to my fanfiction roots.

This is not another chapter of Building Bridges or anything related to that 'verse and I'm sorry. I cannot even tell you what happened exactly (apart from RL consuming too much time, sucking out the enthusiasm I used to have for the story), but the story has several weaknesses I need to revise first before posting another chapter. If anyone wishes to help me with that, PM me any time. I haven't given up just yet.

The following work could be a standalone. However, the plot bunnies are going mad over this and I intend to continue the story. However, a second chapter will only be posted once I've finished the entire thing (and if you are actually interested in the conclusion). I'm not going to do that to myself again, posting a story before it's entirely finished. Therefore, look at this as either a one-shot or a teaser, whatever you wish. Have fun :)

The Riddle Effect

"You should stay here. It's too dangerous. Their forces are currently gathering around London; the attack will occur soon," she said, looking worried. "Diagon Alley is abandoned. Most families have fled. Nobody will be there to help you. You stay here, I will go."

"Don't be so foolish," he replied, harsher than intended. "Hogwarts is the last stand. You are needed here."

"I cannot let a child enter a warzone," her answer wasn't kinder.

"I'm hardly a child and London has been a warzone for several years." She still didn't look convinced and he decided to end this discussion. "Nobody goes in and nobody leaves; that is the way they operate. Hogwarts has shut down in a similar manner. Apparation is impossible and the use of portkeys limited, whoever enters London will have to run and hide and I seriously doubt you capable of that," said he, eyes fixed on her bad leg. "Besides, they don't know you. They won't trust you and you will never find them. Let me go." When she clearly didn't look happy he added, "You taught me their lives mattered. Don't betray your own teachings."

Harry Potter, a boy of (almost) fifteen with dark, messy hair and emerald green eyes, let his head fall back onto the cushion and took a deep breath.

Every night, he was revisited by that terrible night in the graveyard. Every night, he woke up, haunted by the snake-like figure meaning to kill him.

He refused to think about Cedric.

'Both of us.'

Harry pressed his lips together. He regretted every bitter thought directed at the other boy whom he'd viewed as rival and a fellow student. He'd even resented Cedric's kindness and fair play, all because of jealousy!

Knowing he'd be unable to go back to sleep, he sat up and started doing the only thing that occupied his mind enough to forget about his dreams: studying. With the help of Hermione, he'd acquired a couple of books on defence and started reading them thoroughly. If there was one thing the disaster in the graveyard had taught him, it was the fact that he was dangerously unprepared when it came to facing Voldemort.

The only reason he'd survived was because his wand was made of the same core as Voldemort's. Harry was not a complete simpleton. His parents' murderer was intelligent, dangerously so. He would find a way around the problem and then, Harry was dead. Fact of the matter was that Voldemort had wanted his death to be public and humiliating. However, the idea had backfired and Harry survived. Next time, the snake-like creature he saw rise from the cauldron would just kill him.

Period.

Harry was by no means willing to go down without a fight. His parents had died for him. Cedric had died because of him. Voldemort had returned by using parts of him. He refused to go down like a pig for slaughter.

However, being away from Hogwarts and not allowed to do any magic, his options were limited. That left studying everything he could get his hands on; even ordering the school books for their fifth year by owl-post.

Transfiguration, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts were the subjects he focused on the most. However, seeing what a single potion had been capable of doing and given the amount of creatures and plants he'd come across of these past four years had led to extensive studies in Potions and Herbology as well. Smiling grimly, Harry wondered what Snape would say once he noticed that Harry wasn't quite as clueless as he used to be. The Boy Who Lived was furious with himself for not studying as much as he could have. Oh, his grades had always been acceptable, and Harry wasn't interested in grades anyhow. What use were they out there facing death? However, knowledge was important.

"Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen."

Those were Dumbledore's own words regarding Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry nearly sighed. He wasn't brilliant, Hermione was. The world would be better off if she was the Girl Who Lived even though that was a fate he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy under the current circumstances, not to mention one of his best friends.

However, he may not be brilliant, but the least he could do was putting some effort in studying more. Much more than he had these past few years.

He wondered if his teachers were willing to give him some extra lessons.

Ironically, the only book he hadn't read yet was the fifth years' book on Defence Against the Dark Arts. Flourish and Blotts hadn't been able to order any new books for Hogwarts because the post was yet unoccupied. He ordered some of the books they'd used for preparing him for the Third Task last year, though, just in case.

Harry didn't know if he hoped for the real Moody to give classes or not. He wondered if he could even look at the Auror without seeing him turning into Barty Crouch Jr.

Light tapping at his window nearly made him jump out of the bed.

"Hedwig!" he whispered into the dark and opened the window. His owl flew inside and nipped him affectionately as she held out her leg in order to give him the letter.

Harry immediately recognized Hermione's neat handwriting.

"Dear Harry

Thanks for your letter. Unlike you I can't wait for the summer to be over. There is so much to learn. Next year is very important due to the OWL exams by the end of it.

Speaking of, have you already finished the Transfiguration essay about transforming amphibians into birds? If you haven't, please check "Formidable Transfigurations" by Norton Star. He made an excellent summary on changing frogs into owls.

How are you?

I would love to write more, but my parents have been calling me for the past ten minutes. We're supposed to be leaving for our summer vacation, and my father borrowed our neighbour's car, so he's a bit nervous about damaging it. It's silly, I know, because he's a good driver. We'll be gone for a week, but Hedwig's a smart owl. She'll find me.

I really need to go now.

Love,

Hermione

P.S. You should read the newspaper today. There is such an interesting article on page 4 on muggle-wizard relations. I'm sure your uncle and aunt would be interested in the article as well.

As always, Harry had to read her letter several times to get all the subtle clues. Really, it was surprising the hat hadn't considered her for Slytherin.

He hadn't read the newspaper very thoroughly at first as he was only interested in the front page regarding Voldemort's return until Hermione started pointing out the articles about him. The Daily Prophet's witch hunt (no pun intended) would have hurt if he hadn't already gained experiences in his second and fourth year. However, given he had his best friends by his side this time, he didn't feel half as miserable as last year when his friendship to Ron had been tested.

Also, the first letter by Hermione had told him that they had to be careful about their communication. Whereas Harry's mind had first drifted to Voldemort and his followers, he now had the distinct feeling that Hermione had warned him about the Ministry.

This particular letter also contained various messages:

The first part, well, that was just Hermione looking forward to school, but she also sympathised with Harry's confinement at Privet Drive number 4. The green-eyed boy had thought it unwise to state just how miserable he was at the Dursleys, so he'd sounded very positive in his letters. Hermione caught on quickly and doubled her efforts in telling him that school would begin soon.

Second, Neville asked how he was doing (which was a tad bit surprising. Harry hadn't known Hermione was in contact with the timid Gryffindor).

The bit about her father borrowing a car puzzled him at first, but then it hit him.

Burrow.

For a week...

Hermione would be with the Weasleys for the rest of the summer. Did that mean they would pick him up soon?

Perhaps even in six days?

Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He dearly hoped so. He'd already had the faint hope they'd come by on his birthday, but apart from cards and gifts from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, Sirius and Mrs Weasley, nothing arrived.

Then her last note let his heart sink. Hermione had stopped pointing out the subtle insults covered as articles two weeks ago and simply resorted to highlighting important, usually disheartening, news. Harry quickly picked up yesterday's Daily Prophet and started reading the fourth page from the back (as Hermione always read the paper from back to front; a fact she'd pointed out in response to his puzzled reply to her first letter on the subject). At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary, but then he caught what she'd wanted him to see:

Albus Dumbledore – Negligence or Ruthlessness?

Professor Albus Dumbledore, former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, former Chair of the International Confederation of Wizards and current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been accused of severe negligence by Amos and Amanda Diggory. The parents of Cedric Diggory, the latest Triwizard Champion of Hogwarts, have handed in a complaint in regards to their son's mysterious death. Whereas the official report states that this was an accident, malicious gossip has it that a more cautious and responsible headmaster could have avoided this tragic incidence. Furthermore, an alarming number of witches and wizards believe that, in his attempts to make his Golden Boy look less incompetent, he manipulated the events to aid Harry Potter.

"Cedric's death is most certainly an accident," a good friend of the diseased Triwizard Champion, who wishes to remain anonymous, said to the Daily Prophet. "But the circumstances are not. The audience was unable to see what happened inside of the maze. I don't believe that his death was deliberate, mind you, but everybody noticed how jealous Potter was of Cedric."

His parents chose not to comment these rumours, "We simply want to know what happened."

The outcome of this trial has yet to be determined, but this is yet another example of the dangerous pair that is the formerly brilliant Albus Dumbledore and the power-hungry Harry Potter whose thirst for attention has led many of his peers into danger.

Harry felt his hands shake at the accusations. It didn't take long and his entire body began to tremble. Of all articles this summer, this was the worst. He didn't want to be reminded of Cedric, his nightmares were more than sufficient. He wondered which one of Cedric's friends had talked to the Daily Prophet and was able to think of at least five different people. He wondered how many of his peers would read this article and how many would believe it. It didn't bode well.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he flinched at the sudden sound of a flat hand banging at the door.

"Get up! Make breakfast!" Petunia's brash voice sounded through the door.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry answered dully. Vernon Dursley hadn't forgotten the incident of last summer when their fireplace had been destroyed by the Weasleys. Also, given that Sirius never actually came by led them to believe he'd lied to them. So, life in Privet Drive was the same as ever, after Vernon had made it clear to him that he didn't appreciate being lied to.

Mechanically, he got dressed, descended the stairs and started his daily chores. As he prepared the table, Vernon and Dudley took their seats, and Petunia started cleaning the lounge, which was rather unusual.

"Who's coming?" Harry asked his uncle, for a moment forgetting who he was talking to.

"Don't you speak in that tone with me, boy! Hurry up!" Vernon barked.

Harry didn't even bother to reply. He might be doing the same chores as he'd done since he was (barely) old enough to stand by the stove, but he wouldn't let this man bully him into submission.

Not anymore.

"Aunt Petunia never cleans the lounge in the morning unless we have visitors by lunchtime," he commented.

"I TOLD you to SHUT UP and hurry up with breakfast! NOW!" Vernon repeated, his broad face purple. He looked like the Poisonous Swamp Morel Madame Sprout once showed them.

He didn't try again. He'd find out soon enough. After all, they had to tell him what kind of behaviour was expected of him.

However, breakfast (no bacon, lots of fruits, whole-meal bread, fat-free butter and milk – an interesting change to Dudley's diet last year) was prepared, finished and cleaned up without a word regarding a visit whereas Petunia readied everything for visitors, while he was told to weed the garden, cut the hedge, mow the grass and... Prepare the guest room?

"Aunt Petunia," Harry began, dreading her response. "Is Aunt Madge coming to visit?"

She didn't answer, her lips tightened and she continued preparing the covers. Harry was positively alarmed when Uncle Vernon came back from whatever errand he'd made and brought all kinds of medical supply.

He refrained from asking any more questions, but he was suddenly nervous. Dudley was still in the house, which was rather unusual as well. Ultimately, he decided to do something he hadn't done since the age of four: ask his older cousin a question.

"Do you know who's coming, Dudley?"

His obese cousin, who was dressed in very nice clothes, looked at him, his pig-like eyes narrowing.

"Aunt Madge," was the dull reply, which was unusual because he was normally looking forward to whenever Uncle Vernon's sister was visiting.

"Is something wrong?" Harry would never claim to like the woman and he was well aware she hated him, but he couldn't help worrying.

Dudley looked startled.

"You don't know?"

"Not if you don't tell me," Harry answered, a bit peeved by the scandalised expression on his cousin's face.

"She had a stroke in February. She nearly died. At least, I thought she was dying. She couldn't talk or walk at first. It was horrible!" Dudley began, the more he spoke the faster words left his lips as if he'd burned to tell someone what had happened. "She was just in bed all day and she could hardly eat anything, the food just fell out of her mouth whenever she tried. And she cried, but no sound came out. It was a bit like she was whimpering. I haven't visited her since June. She still can hardly walk and she has extreme trouble talking. How come you don't know about this?" Reproachfully, the fifteen-year-old looked at him.

"I... You didn't tell me," Harry defended himself. He was shocked. How could he possibly react? As much as he disliked her, he wouldn't have wished her something like this.

A stroke?

"Well, it's not like you ask!" Dudley hurled back. "You wouldn't care if we died!"

"The first rule in this house is not to ask questions!" Harry hissed, strangely hurt by Dudley's accusations. "Of course I'd care if..." He couldn't even say it. Lifeless, grey eyes haunted him. Had Aunt Madge looked like this, too?

"She wants to die." Disbelievingly, Harry watched his cousin's eyes fill with unshed tears. "She told me on her last visit that she doesn't want to live this way."

"Oh," the dark-haired boy breathed. He couldn't wrap his mind around this. He didn't even know what to feel. Here was his cousin, almost reduced to tears, and the woman who'd helped making his childhood miserable wanted to die.

"And... The doctors said her const..conis... body mass is partly responsible and he warned Dad and me about our weight. He said... he said that Dad's temper and his weight is a dangerous combination and that he is at a high risk for heart attacks," the boy said, tears flowing freely over the round cheeks of his pink face.

Harry felt very cold all of a sudden. Uncle Vernon could die? Of course, logically, he'd known all that, but hearing this from his clearly terrified cousin made everything much worse.

Now that he thought about it, both Uncle Vernon and Dudley had lost weight. They were still not even close to an ideal weight, but neither of them was as burly as they used to be.

"I... Are you okay?" He didn't even know why he asked.

Obviously embarrassed by his outburst, Dudley wiped his face, "Shut up!"

"Dud..."

"I said 'SHUT UP'!" he roared, advancing Harry quickly, forgetting he was supposed to be afraid of him.

"Both of you be quiet!" Both, Dudley and Harry, stared at Petunia. She hardly ever raised her voice to Dudley. Her lips trembled and her voice was shaky, "Your father is stressed, Duddy-Kins. Do not upset him any further!"

Only moments later, Vernon entered the lounge and looked at Harry menacingly, "If you do anything to upset her, boy, you will wish to have died alongside your parents."

The dark-haired boy was ironically aware that somewhere out there was a completely insane, powerful wizard, wishing that very thing.

He didn't say anything and entered his room. It was strange. He truly, seriously despised the woman, but... the thought of something like this happening to Uncle Vernon was strangely frightening. He didn't know for how long he sat there, until a shout from the doorway made him jump, "BOY! Get down here and bring you aunt's suitcases to her room!"

With dread, Harry descended the stairs and, with more reluctance than he'd originally expected, he looked up and regarded his aunt.

What he saw wasn't Aunt Madge. He'd known her for as long as he could remember, an imposing, burly, strong, rude, horrible woman with a broad face and a remarkably quick gate. This broken, still broad but strangely gaunt, old woman who was leaning heavily on two crutches couldn't possibly be Aunt Madge. When she looked up, Harry realised that her face too had changed. It took her a long moment before she opened her mouth and said, "'iw 'ere?" Her voice was no longer harsh, deep and loud. It sounded tired and drained.

Harry knew what she'd been meaning to ask and answered, "Yes, I'm still here. St. Brutus doesn't keep us over the summer."

She merely made a huffing sound and slowly, with Vernon holding her arm, made her way to the lounge where Dudley was waiting for her. He hugged her and Harry was surprised to note that it neither looked forced nor strange. His pale eyes were soft, and there was a kind smile on his lips as he helped her sit down on the couch. Fascinated, Harry watched his cousin dealing with the situation better than either Vernon (who looked very uncomfortable), Petunia (who hovered in the background, unsure how to approach her sister-in-law) or Harry, who was still forced to wrap his mind around the whole thing. Aunt Madge didn't look very happy, though. Once she was settled, she looked ahead, free of any expression.

"Would you like some tea, Madge, my dear?" Petunia finally asked, her voice shaking a bit. All she received was a shake of the head.

"You know what, there are a couple of things I need to show you, I'll be right back," Dudley quickly said and left the room. Harry followed.

Dudley grabbed two suitcases, and tried to take the third, but was unable to.

"Wait, I'll help," Harry said and together, they brought their aunt's things to her room. Dudley opened the suitcases and started unpacking. Flabbergasted, almost feeling in trance, Harry mechanically helped him. His cousin was by no means graceful or quiet, but there was a sort of competence about him that Harry had never seen before. Still, Harry had been taking care of this house long before Dudley knew how to turn on the stove, so he quickly found a rhythm to complement his large cousin's ministrations.

When he was placing a couple of pullovers into a drawer, Harry just had to ask, "Where's Ripper?"

"Dead," Dudley muttered dully. "He bit a boy from town. It was a very nasty bite that got infected. The parents sued. He was put down in February in spite of her efforts to keep him. A week later, she... She really loved that dog... Just don't mention him around her."

"Oh." It seemed as if his inability to say something smart was a continuing problem. "You seem to know what you're doing." He finally said.

"Dad... Well, you know him, he can't deal with something like this, and Mum... I got three extra weeks off to take care of her. Thought at first it'd be nice. You know, no school, watching TV, hanging out with... It wasn't nice. Scared the hell outta me." Angrily, he looked up, teeth clenched. "Come on! Mock me! Stupid little Diddykins who can't count to ten is scared of his ill aunt."

"Am I mocking you right now?" Harry asked seriously. They weren't friends, not even close; Dudley had been his enemy, the evil boy who made his early school years hell. However, he'd never felt less inclined to mock his cousin than in this moment. "I mean, you saw how gracefully I've handled the situation... I'm more clueless than you are."

"Ha!" Dudley exclaimed bitterly. "You reacted perfectly! As always! You know how to handle strange situations. You quickly assumed the role of the insolent, arrogant, ungrateful bastard she wanted to see. How the hell do you do that?"

Confused, Harry looked at him, "What?"

Merlin only knew how densely he was acting most of the time. Without Hermione to point things out to him or Ron telling him the rules of the Wizarding World, he'd be lost.

"Oh, please!" Dudley exclaimed angrily, grabbing the box of paper tissues so tightly it crumbled. "You are bright... as in 'off the charts bright'. You always were. Not books, books would have been yours if Mum and Dad had let you at 'em, but instead you read situations and you act and you're usually right. That's not your... your You-Know-What, that's you. And I hated you for it because you always knew things before I did. I couldn't even say 'hello' when I first met her after... And you made her happy."

"Happy?" Harry asked disbelievingly. "She looked at me like the kind of dirt she wouldn't even want to step on with her oldest boots."

"Yes, exactly!" Dudley confirmed. "Precisely! That's what she did. She was being her old self, and believe me I tried to achieve that for the past six months!"

"I... I just knew what she wanted to say to me because that's what she always says."

"You did, but last time, you just said 'yes'. This time, you knew she wouldn't be able to give a retort, so you gave it yourself."

Dudley was thinking more about what Harry was doing than he himself did.

"Oh," he repeated. "What can I do to help?"

"She doesn't read the newspaper much anymore, and I don't think she'll appreciate it if you read it to her. But you sound better..."

"Why read them to her at all?" Harry interjected. "Just tell her what you read. Like this, she won't feel helpless. I don't think she appreciates being treated as if made of glass. Anyway, she'll throw something at me if I try to read anything to her. Preferably a tea cup filled with hot tea." She'd done it once when they were outside about seven years ago.

"Oh." It seemed as if loss of eloquence was a contagious disease. "That's... How do you know that?"

"She's been living alone in a house for ages, Dudley. She wants to feel independent."

"Oh," Dudley repeated.

"Look... She adores you, but if you start coddling her... At one point, she'll explode and you'll feel terrible, but she'll feel worse."

To his consternation, Dudley's eyes filled with tear.

"It already happened," Harry realised. "On your last visit. That's why you haven't been at her house since June. Just how often were you at her house?"

"Almost every weekend since she left the hospital," Dudley shrugged. "And five weeks in spring, including spring break."

"You've lost some weight, too."

His cousin's lips formed what could be interpreted as a smile, "Thanks. Dad hates the new diet, I kinda like it."

Harry returned the half-smile. It had only taken them fourteen years, but this was an almost brotherly moment.

"I'll go down. Might as well put my very existence to good use."

Dudley grinned.

"This portkey will transport you to Brixton. From there, you will have to find your way," she said and he could see her hands shake slightly as she handed over the small device and a map that gave him the exact location of where he'd land.

He supposed that her obvious fears should humble him, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but tense anticipation that bordered on exhilaration. This task would demand all his wits, knowledge and power. He could hardly wait to leave.

"Thank you."

Some people were made for peaceful times. He was born for war.

The following days were very strange. Not only did Harry experience the frightening, disheartening and humbling aftermath of a stroke, he could actually make a difference. Unlike Dudley, he'd taken on the role of the pitiless, sorry excuse of a nephew who challenged her on a daily basis. A role that was more painful than he'd anticipated as his uncle had no tolerance for his disobedient freak of a nephew. Uncle Vernon had pushed him so hard against the wall he'd seen stars. If it hadn't been for Dudley's quick intervention, he'd have ended up with some serious bruises.

Dudley's behaviour was the strangest of all.

Somehow, while their short talk didn't eradicate their past, it certainly laid the foundation for something Harry had never thought possible.

As Dudley had anticipated, Vernon was completely incapable of handling his sister's illness. He was either angry or solemn and was unable to say one straight sentence to her. Aunt Petunia too was uncomfortable with the situation. Aunt Madge's sudden illness wasn't normal and therefore not acceptable. Harry was well aware that if it hadn't been for his cousin's support, Uncle Vernon would have blamed him for everything; as if the stroke was directly related to Harry's bout of accidental magic two years ago. Harry was more than a little intimidated by the dark looks his uncle sent him. To be under Dudley's protection made the entire situation even more bizarre as well as scarier.

Meanwhile, Harry noticed that working together with Dudley felt far more natural than he could've ever anticipated. It was even, dare he say it, fun.

If Harry didn't sleep, studied, or performed his chores, he worked with Dudley to accommodate Aunt Madge in their own way. Whereas Dudley was as soft-spoken as the first day, Harry tried to spirit her by challenging her on a daily basis. He was never impolite, he never insulted, but he wasn't being a perfect little angel either. He was being sharp and curt, always read her hostile gaze, translating what she wanted to throw at him and gave an appropriate retort. Sometimes, she looked angry enough to snap his neck, and then she almost grinned as if relieved that there was someone who still treated her like a person, not a victim. By the end of the week he realised that he neither pitied her nor despised her for the past. She was just... a person with a fate he wouldn't wish on anyone (certain dark lords excluded).

August 11th was a particularly difficult day. Madge was in pain, could hardly move and was unintelligible even for Harry. At lunch, she broke down and started crying because she was unable to move her arms the way she wanted to. Once Dudley and Harry had moved her to the couch (because the mere thought of going upstairs had her cry out), they returned to the kitchen table, and sat down, exhausted.

Harry noticed the newspaper by his elbow and started checking the headlines.

"Why are you so interested in our news, boy?" Vernon asked harshly, apparently unwilling to think about his ailing sister. "There's nothing about your lot in there."

"I..." Harry struggled for a moment, but finally decided to be truthful. "He's back. Lord Voldemort is back. I'm waiting for the hammer to fall."

"Lord... The one who murdered your parents," Vernon said, unnaturally calm.

"Back?" whispered Aunt Petunia. Harry felt an icy chill run down his spine. As her large, pale eyes caught his, he knew without the slightest doubt that she knew exactly what Lord Voldemort's return meant. Never again would Harry believe her furious pretence, which included the complete denial of the Wizarding World.

"He's after you, isn't he? You are the one he couldn't kill. He wants you," Uncle Vernon said quietly.

"That's a safe assumption, yes," replied Harry, but as he spoke, the burly man moved and threw him off the chair.

"Dad, no!" Dudley exclaimed, shocked.

"And you dare come back to this house?" Vernon shouted, grabbing Harry by the collar before his nephew recovered and pressed him against the still hot stove. The underage wizard hissed when his left hand got burned while trying to steady himself.

"Vernon, no!" Petunia interfered. "The boy has to stay." Her voice was quiet yet firm. "The neighbours are watching this house closely enough because Madge... because of her... I don't want them to have any more reason to gossip."

Reluctantly, his uncle let go off him and Harry went to the bathroom upstairs to cool his hand.

"You okay?" a familiar voice sounded from the door.

"Yes, Dudley, I'm fine," he answered mechanically. "I guess it went better than I thought."

He wanted to pull his hand away, but Dudley protested, "Ten minutes. Cool water, but not too cold."

"When did you do a first aid course?" Harry asked, smiling weakly.

"Right after I heard what happened to Aunt Madge," Dudley shrugged. "Thought it might come in handy one day."

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't unbearable either.

"You say he came back. How do you...?" He didn't finish the sentence.

"I'm... I was there to see him return. Believe me you don't want to know anything more."

To his surprise, Dudley started laughing. It wasn't mean laughter, just the exhausted 'if I don't laugh right now I'll start crying and won't be able to stop' kind of laughter that Harry knew all too well.

"Dudley?"

"It's just... Are all w...wizards like this? Or is it just you with a truly extraordinary talent to find trouble? No, that's not it... who's found by trouble on a regular basis no matter how much you may kick and scream," Dudley giggled.

Harry laughed sardonically. He'd once tried to explain that to Hermione, but he wasn't sure whether she heard or believed him. How come Dudley knew? Something must have reflected in his facial expression as Dudley continued soberly, "Don't get me wrong. What we... I did to you was wrong, but sometimes... We didn't have to do much, just urge you to do something you shouldn't and we knew you'd get caught. You always did."

"What you did was wrong, you say?" Harry repeated. This was the first time Dudley actually came out and said it.

"I bullied you," his cousin replied, not even trying to change the subject. "I realized that when I started at Smeltings and wasn't the biggest fish in the pond anymore. The fattest, oh yes, but certainly not the biggest." There was a very ironic smile on his lips. "Then Aunt Madge got sick and all of a sudden, I was an outsider. Kinda makes you think."

"Tell me about it," Harry couldn't smile, though he tried to.

"I'm sorry."

It was honest, straight-out, and for a moment, Harry wanted to pay back every insult, every blow, every scheme he'd suffered under Dudley by telling him to shove it. However, he...

"It's the past, forget about it."

Hadn't Dumbledore told them to form strong bonds of friendship and trust? Why not start with someone who, in another life, could've been as close as a brother?

Dudley didn't beam exactly, but he seemed heartened by his words.

"Are you in danger?" the Muggle asked after another moment of silence.

"I've yet to see a year at Hogwarts without getting into hazardous to the point of potentially lethal situations." He was surprised by how calm he sounded. "I'm still here, Dud, don't worry. I don't plan to go down quietly."

As he spoke, he heard a faint popping sound of people apparating, and immediately drew his wand.

"Dudley," he hissed. "Get downstairs and call your parents! Someone's in the house!"

All blood drained from the burly teenager's face, but he quickly followed his orders. Harry left the bathroom, wand at the ready. Stealthily, he moved towards his bedroom, from where he'd located the sound. Just when he was about to open his bedroom door, he heard a crash within. He used what he hoped to be a temporary distraction and ripped the door open.

"Hold it!" he shouted, but froze when he recognised Remus Lupin and Professor Moody alongside four unknown wizards and three witches standing in his bedroom.

"Professors?" he regarded them both with a puzzled expression, lowering his wand.

"Be ever watchful, Potter!" Moody hissed. "Always make sure that what you see is real first! Never lower your wand before you're absolutely sure you haven't met an imposter."

"Sir, if you were a Death Eater, you'd have stunned me by now, or even more likely, Voldemort would've come by personally to finish me off," Harry retorted dryly. "However, he told his Death Eaters that 'not even I can touch him as long as he's under his relations' protection' or something along those lines," he continued, even imitating Voldemort's tone of voice. "I think if the wards fell, this street would be nothing but a black hole in the ground."

Stunned, the adults stared at him.

"He does have a point, Alastor," Remus Lupin said mildly, but he asked him after the form of his Patronus nevertheless. Introductions were easily made and Harry instantly liked Tonks whereas the others were met with a healthy amount of caution as he was reminded just how much he hated being viewed as a particularly interesting animal at the zoo.

"We are here to escort you, Potter. A day earlier than originally intended, but we act on Dumbledore's orders," said Moody hoarsely. "How long does it take you to pack your things?"

"First, I need to tell my cousin that everything's fine, sir. I'll be back in a moment."

It was strange. Usually, he couldn't wait to leave, but this time, he really didn't want to leave Privet Drive without at least saying goodbye to his cousin. If they wanted him to leave immediately, they simply had to learn to announce themselves ahead of time.

"Of course, Harry. Take all the time you need," Lupin smiled kindly, but it faded once he caught sight of Harry's left hand. "What happened?"

"Kitchen accident. I underestimated the heat of the stove," Harry lied calmly and left his bedroom. He quickly descended the stairs only to see Petunia hurriedly packing stuff, while Vernon and Dudley lifted Aunt Madge.

"Stop, stop! I'm sorry," he apologized. Thankfully, Madge looked so disoriented she probably didn't realize what was going on. "False alarm. Everything's safe. It's my ... lot. I've got to leave now, though. So, you won't have to ... You're safe. I'll see you next summer." Feeling awkward, his face burning, he turned and hurried back upstairs.

Stupid! What, one week of relative peace with his cousin, and he already felt inclined to say goodbye? He was an idiot.

"Harry!" Dudley called causing him to turn mid-step. "Are you... I mean, can I... How...?"

It was comforting to see his older cousin handle the situation no more gracefully than he did.

"I'll write. Hedwig will find you. Just, be nice to her, okay?" Then he added, "See you." He tried very hard not to add 'hopefully'.

"'Kay. See you," Dudley replied, smiling faintly.

They hadn't noticed the portkey. It had brought him precisely to the place she'd told him it would. It wasn't within their parameter. Unwilling to use magic due to fear of being detected and hunted down, he was forced to walk.

Wonderful.

If anyone had told Harry that he would wish to go back to Privet Drive after returning to the Wizarding World, he'd have laughed. Loudly. And he'd have put said person under psychiatric care. However, arrival at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, soon taught him the better. He was introduced to several members of the Order of the Phoenix, could finally wrap his arms around Ron and Hermione, see his godfather again, but that was overshadowed by the oppressive darkness of the house and the complete lack of information he received. If Hermione hadn't pointed out the Ministry's attempts of manipulating Wizarding Society beforehand, he would've exploded, probably unleashing his frustrations on the very people who were the least responsible.

Dumbledore had visited the night he'd arrived, but he hadn't talked to him. Harry wondered if the Headmaster was angry with him for all the trouble he'd caused by announcing Voldemort's return.

It probably would have been better staying at the Dursleys until the beginning of the new term because he'd have remained blissfully unaware of the fact that they weren't going to explain anything. Even Sirius, who'd insisted on telling Harry that Voldemort was looking for something he didn't possess in the first war, refused to tell him much else.

He was too young.

Harry had to bite back a nasty remark when Lupin said that.

Voldemort didn't care how old he was.

When they received their Hogwarts letters, Harry finally received notation regarding the new Defence book, and his two best friends were announced as new prefects for Gryffindor. Hermione wasn't surprising at all, but Harry had trouble with accepting Ron's badge. Harry was a magnet for trouble, yes, but Ron usually wasn't that far behind him, so the objection of him causing too much trouble wasn't a valid one. Who else could have become prefect, though: Dean, Seamus, Neville? Neville would have been ripped apart in the first week, given how often prefects had to interfere... Dean and Seamus? No, they usually minded their own business. Harry and Ron had been the best choices.

He was still surprised, and a little hurt, but it was after Sirius' announcement that James hadn't been a prefect either when he started being genuinely happy for Ron. It was very late when he remembered the Mirror of Erised. Becoming Head Boy had been Ron's greatest wish; the desperate desire to stand out in contrast to four older, very gifted brothers. Given how often Ron was in Harry's shadow, he realized that Ron probably earned the badge as much as he did, but he needed it in a way Harry couldn't truly fathom.

There was just one more thing.

"Professor Lupin?" Harry asked, after closing his Charms book.

"Yes?" Lupin smiled kindly.

"What about my mother? I remember Hagrid telling me that they'd been Head Boy and Head Girl." He'd thought of it just before falling asleep. "So, was she a prefect?"

"No, she wasn't. She was popular, but she wasn't a prefect. She was rather shy in her first four years. It was only in her fifth year when she started coming out of her shell."

Harry's heart constricted painfully. According to Professor Lupin, Sirius, Hagrid – everybody, really – he was a lot like his father, but in this moment he had to wonder if something of his mother lived on, other than the protection she'd died for.

"What were her favourite subjects?"

"Oh, she was Professor Flitwick's personal favourite," Professor Lupin smiled. "And she was top of the class in Potions, apart from Severus, of course, who was in his own league."

Okay. Their similarities ended right there.

"You're a lot like her, you know," Lupin said as if reading his mind. "I know we always compare you to James, and there is an uncanny resemblance, but sometimes... You enjoy the quiet. I've seen you at the table; you are happiest just listening and occasionally throwing in a word or two, in the exact same manner she loved to."

"Truer words were never spoken, Moony," said Sirius, who entered the kitchen from the left. "Remember that one time Flitwick asked her to perform a nonverbal summoning charm?" a small smile graced his godfather's lips. "You probably don't know this, but she had horrible difficulties with that spell in Fourth Year. Really. Even those who usually struggled a lot more mastered it before her. She practiced every night in the Common Room until..." a barking laughter escaped him. "She accidently hit your father with a Transfiguration book, just when he was being a bit, well, we'd just won a Quidditch game and he was enjoying the attention, so she didn't apologize as profusely as she normally would have. Just a short apology and adding something along the lines of 'Airheads are solid objects, now that's interesting...'" Harry grinned a little. "Her cheeks were flaming red. In that moment, your father irrevocably fell for her."

Harry laughed, but another piece of information was more important. "Mum struggled with the Summoning Charm," he repeated.

"Oh yes. However, after she mastered that spell, there was no holding her back. She could summon anything. In Sixth Year you learn non-verbal spells and she was capable of nonverbally summoning a marble at her first try. When she was supposed to demonstrate in front of the class, though... Complete disaster," Sirius chuckled.

"She couldn't summon the marble?"

"Not the marble she pointed at," said Lupin, smiling brightly. "Every other marble flew towards her with dangerous speed, but she ducked in time. Poor Professor Flitwick wasn't fast enough."

"Oh."

"That was the only time her cheeks were as red as her hair," Sirius laughed. Then he looked thoughtful before he called for Kreacher.

"What does the master wish from Kreacher?" the miserable house-elf muttered. "What does he want from the worthless excuse of a house-elf?"

"My school books, are they still around?" he asked curtly.

"Yes," large eyes shined brightly. "My beloved Master Regulus hid them in his room. Ungrateful master broke his heart when he left. Master Regulus didn't want mistress to destroy the filthy traitor's things. Made Kreacher promise not to say anything to the mistress."

The news seemed to surprise Sirius.

"He kept my things?" He asked softly.

Kreacher caught the tone and looked up with the kindest expression Harry had ever seen on the weird elf, "Yes, master. Master Regulus missed his brother, cried every night all summer." Then he looked as unpleasant as ever. "Nasty, ungrateful master hurt his family to fraternize with blood traitors."

Sirius' face hardened, "Get my old school books."

Kreacher obeyed.

"Sirius, don't let him get to you," Remus said soothingly.

Harry's godfather chuckled as if amused by the mere suggestion, but his eyes told a different story. Harry, who was currently living through the same thing with Dudley said, "It's okay not to hate him, you know."

Startled, Sirius looked at him.

"I mean both, Regulus and Kreacher."

"I don't hate Kreacher."

'Maybe not,' Harry thought sadly. 'But you despise him and that's worse.' "My cousin and I aren't really close, but this summer we made peace..."

Harry fell silent when Kreacher appeared with a bag full of school books.

Sirius, deep in thought, said, "Thanks, Kreacher," missing the house-elf's startled look completely.

He opened the bag and started looking for something specific.

"Ha!" Smiling broadly, he extracted two books. "These were your mothers'. Her notes were the best of our year, so I borrowed her books in our fifth year." The way he said 'borrow' indicated that Lily Potter hadn't known she'd lent him anything. "That summer I ran away and left almost everything behind. Including her books. I replaced them later, but I never returned hers. They're yours now."

Gingerly, Harry took the books, almost fearing they might fade if he touched them.

"Thanks," he breathed. He looked at the covers: Charms and Potions, the same editions he'd received in July.

Sirius ruffled his hair and both left the room, giving him time to absorb the treasure he was holding in his hands, but Harry didn't even notice. Clumsily, he opened the books and read the first inscription.

This book belongs to Lily Evans, August 12th, 1977

Her handwriting wasn't as neat as Hermione's; in fact, it resembled more Harry's scrawl. Slowly, he ascended the stairs, told his friends he was busy and stayed in his room until Mrs Weasley called for lunch. It had taken him more than two hours before his brain finally cooperated enough to actually understand her notes. In the beginning, he'd just marvelled at the fact he was holding something that belonged to his mother. He learned one very important thing in the course of this afternoon: his mother had been a cheerful, optimistic, very intelligent young woman. Given what Lupin and Sirius had told him, his father too had been brilliant. It was mildly disconcerting to realize just what kind of expectations people had in regards to him, simply because they'd known his parents.

Another thing he learned was that his mother's handwriting was painfully small and a nearly unreadable scrawl when she made a quick note.

He was just trying to decipher a particularly tiny set of hieroglyphs when he heard someone enter the basement kitchen.

"Potter, even though I am aware this might be a foreign concept to you, your brain won't absorb knowledge through osmosis regardless of how closely you inspect the pages."

Harry would have recognized the quiet, degrading and silky tone anywhere and spun around. Cold, black eyes regarded him contemptuously.

"Professor Snape, sir, I... er..." his mind was completely blank. Strangely enough, he couldn't remember the last time he had no reason to feel guilty meeting Snape outside of class, and he was absolutely clueless how to continue this conversation.

In the meantime, Snape had taken a step forward, close enough to recognise the design of the book.

"Will wonders ever cease? Harry Potter deems to open a Potions book during summer vacation." Harry stiffened indignantly. He wanted to give an appropriate retort when his curiosity won.

"Sir, may I ask you a question?" he asked through clenched teeth, hoping to keep his temper under control.

"Careful, Potter. I might have to verify your identity if you keep acting out of character," Snape sneered.

"It's just, sir," he wasn't capable of entirely removing the annoyance from his tone. "You're a teacher. You've probably seen every kind of chicken scrawl known to mankind."

"Oh yes, Potter. Yours is a particular gem in the collection of outrageous handwriting," Snape replied.

"Oh well, that's hereditary," Harry shot back.

"Manners, Potter," black eyes warned him. "Black uncovered some of your father's old school books then." Snape couldn't sound less interested if he tried.

"No, my mum's," said Harry, starting to feel annoyed. Talking to this man was a waste of time. He returned his focus to his books, not caring whether Snape would make him pay double for disrespect. "And a friend of hers. Brilliant bloke, but his handwriting is terrible."

He felt the wizard stiffen and draw closer. Harry's muscles reacted in kind and he turned around defensively. To his surprise, Snape's black eyes were widened and his mouth wasn't entirely closed.

He'd managed to render Professor Snape speechless, now that had to be a first.

"A friend?" the potions master repeated, deceptively calm, as he came to stand next to Harry's chair, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," said Harry, "see here and here?" He pointed his fingers at two notes written in another, less readable hand than his mother's. "They had a discussion about the proper use of monkswood in a general antidote. I was wondering the same thing, but I can't make out the answer... It can't read 'cleanse with ethanol' because apart from making no sense, the toxic effect of monkswood is intensified by adding alcohol to the mix."

"It's 'cleansed charcoal,' Potter," Snape explained, sounding a bit odd.

"Oh! Of course, carbon can bind toxic substances. But monkswood should be dried before use, and the root must be removed, doesn't it?" Thoughtfully, Harry blinked at the smallest portion of the sentence. "Do you think that's what it says?" he was so immersed in his mother's notes, he belatedly realized whom he was talking to.

"Yes, but it also says to remove one ingredient."

"Calabar because it intensifies the toxic effect of monkswood," Harry said slowly, no longer reading notes but trying to analyse the ingredient's list. "But then you need to add wood spider, otherwise the drinker will suffer from horrible cramps."

"Precisely. Your mother also realized this. Here and here." Long fingers pointed out the respective personal notes.

"Right! Thanks, Professor," Harry said and froze once it finally came through to him that he'd actually had a somewhat polite conversation with his Potions professor. He looked over his shoulder. Cold, black eyes didn't look at him, though, as they were fixed on the book.

Harry felt very awkward. He had no idea how to go from there. So he said the first thing he could think of.

"Professor Lupin said she was top of her class in Potions, so I can't really compare, but it's nice to know that she had her own personal Hermione," he smiled weakly. It was true.

Finally, Snape looked at him, but Harry was unable to read his face. That wasn't unusual, but normally Harry recognised his professor's hate-filled, dark scowl.

"What did you say, Potter?"

Snape's mind seemed to be elsewhere today. Harry wondered if he'd just been at a Death Eater meeting with Voldemort being as enthusiastic in cursing his followers as that night in the graveyard.

"My mum's friend. I think it was a bloke... She had trouble understanding the Cor Lucis potion because it's a basic potion brewed on high flame even though you mainly add acidic ingredients, which have to be brewed on low... Argh!" Frustrated, his eyes turned back to the book, rereading the explanation her mother had received. It made so much more sense: two of the ingredients interacted, causing an endothermic reaction and turning the liquid into a basic substance. Thus, the potion remained cool and the other ingredients could function normally. "Whoever wrote the chapter of this book was on a sugar-high! No brain can keep all this information together." He stopped ranting, once he began to realise he was complaining not only to Snape, but forgetting that Snape was a Potions master. His brain obviously contained that information. Quickly, so his cheeks didn't redden any further, he picked up his mother's Charms book and said, "My mother was also great at Charms, but here the instructions don't make any sense whatsoever. Nevertheless, it's entirely clear to me after reading her friend's advice."

"You are not a visual learner, Potter, whereas Arsenius Jigger and Miranda Goshawk clearly were," said Snape, for once without his usual sneer. Then he straightened, turned and left abruptly without saying another word, leaving a confused Harry alone at the kitchen table.

He burst into the building, wand at the ready.

He despised this place with all his heart.

"Maria? Amy? Dennis? Billy? Sebastian?" Even while calling their names, he knew they were gone. He was too late. Oh, how he wished that this realisation hurt!

He'd heard it felt like a razorblade cutting through your insides when those you cared about died. He honestly wanted to feel that pain, this sensation, but he didn't. Galatea wouldn't scold him, he knew, if he told her, but there would be that kind, sad smile, telling him it was not a bad thing, that he wasn't bad, he just had to think before he acted.

Thinking wasn't the problem, though, feeling was.

It didn't matter. He was here. Then he heard sounds coming from the cellar. Someone was still here, but it couldn't be them. He followed the tiny little sounds with near-silent steps, ready to fight if necessary. It wasn't anyone with magic power, he was sure of it. He ripped the door open and spied into darkness.

Three bodies flinched simultaneously in response.

His heart skipped a beat and he was quite sure that his body relaxed. Did he feel relieved?

"Andrea, Marcus, Liam," he spoke their names softly, because he was sure they didn't recognise him in the dark. "I'm here to bring you to a safe place."

The rest of the summer was strangely uneventful. Before Harry knew what was happening, they were already at King's Cross. Once Hermione and Ron left for the prefect carriage, Harry started looking for a compartment with as few people as possible. On the platform, Harry hadn't been able to miss the various looks ranging from pity to outright hostility, so he was intent on avoiding them.

He entered a seemingly empty compartment, only to walk in on two seventh years who'd obviously snuck away for some privacy. Face flaming red, he stuttered an apology and fled the compartment without waiting for an answer.

"Harry!" Neville's voice had never sounded so welcome.

"Neville, hello," he breathed and approached his fellow Gryffindor with a genuine smile, but his cheeks were still very red, he could feel it. Given that the other boy was also still carrying his luggage, he refrained from asking whether he'd found a seat.

"Have you found a compartment yet?" Neville asked shyly.

"No." If his voice was a tad bit higher than usual, he'd deny it.

"How about...?" he gestured toward the compartment he'd just exited.

"Nope, believe me, that one is occupied," he replied hastily, gently shoving Neville the other way. The Ravenclaw seventh year had looked murderous at the interruption.

"How was your summer, Harry?" the shy Gryffindor asked as they continued their search.

"You know, the usual," he answered casually.

Nightmares of Dark Lords and murders.

Being declared insane by the majority of the Wizarding World.

Spending his time with his aunt and uncle.

'Usual' didn't necessarily mean 'normal' after all.

"What about you?" he returned the question as he was genuinely interested in how Neville spent his summer vacation.

"Same," Neville replied just as eloquently. "My Gran was asked to take care of a kneazle while friends of hers were out of town," he continued after a moment, grinning wildly. "They bumped heads a couple of times, but I really liked her. Gran was surprised just how well we got along and is now looking up the requirements for a licence."

"So you'll get a kneazle?" Excitement rushed through Harry. It seemed like a good idea. Kneazles were extremely loyal and Neville certainly deserved a protector. While his schoolmate was attached to Trevor, the Boy Who Lived felt like the boy could do with an actual companion. After all, he still viewed Hedwig as the second friend he'd made in his life.

Just when Neville was about to answer, they heard their names called by Ginny who'd found a compartment. There they met the quirky Luna Lovegood, who'd apparently sat there by the time Ginny found it. There were two more people occupying the compartment: Terry Boot and Michael Corner, Ravenclaw fifth years. He hardly knew them despite them being in the same year and he felt a bit hesitant. Both looked at him with curiosity and wariness. He preferred Luna's unblinking scrutiny, which was also characterised by a distinct lack of ill will.

He silently listened to their tales regarding their uneventful summer, when he noticed that Ginny and Michael were holding hands. He quickly averted his gaze, wondering whether Ron knew about this. The only remarkable thing happening on their journey was when they arrived and he discovered that the coaches weren't horseless after all. The Thestrals looks precisely the way they'd been pictured in one of the books he'd read this summer.

"Quickly," he hissed sharply, his lean body pressed against the wall, "Don't make a sound!"

They just looked at him with those pathetic, haunted, petrified eyes and he suppressed a groan. This wasn't the time!

"I'm not going to hurt you," he spoke softly and smiled. If it seemed a bit strained, it was probably related to the fact that if they didn't move within the next three minutes, somebody else would probably hurt them all. He could hear them nearby; their magic was hostile and they were on the hunt. "I promise."

Just as they were about to come closer, a piercing scream ripped through the crackling of flames and buildings crashing down. Another bomb had hit not too long ago. As if the wizards weren't giving their best on levelling the city to the ground, the muggles decided to give a helping hand on top of that!

London was on fire and their escape route was cut off.

It was time for desperate measures.

Following Professor Umbridge's speech and Dumbledore's subsequent dismissal of the student body, Ron, Hermione and Harry stood up to join the others. He heard the new Gryffindor prefects call for the first years, but was distracted by a strange crackle in the air as if the room was charged with electrical power. He turned around in time to see a flash of light revealing a tall, dark-haired boy his age and three little kids by his side. Harry grabbed his wand, but froze when he recognised the boy.

He heard Ginny gasp while his own heart was in his mouth. He could hear it pounding in his ears. The boy's eyes quickly surveyed the room at the same time as the teachers and the students seemed to realise what happened. All chatter quieted down.

Tom Riddle froze when he looked upon Dumbledore. Harry could see the fear in the face of the boy that would later grow up to kill his parents. Two flicks of the boy's wand and the children disappeared, his wand was held in a defensive position.

"You!" he shouted. He stood right in the centre, obviously aware he was surrounded, but refusing to back down. "What have you done?"

"Tom?" For the first time since he'd known him, Harry heard genuine surprise in Dumbledore's voice.

Even more surprising was Riddle's reaction, who balked, "And why would the illustrious and grand Albus Dumbledore know my name?"

"I was deputy headmaster and your transfiguration teacher for seven years," the powerful wizard replied slowly, blue eyes seeking Riddle's who locked gazes, but trembled visibly.

"This is not possible," he whispered. "The spell..."

Harry watched him sway. Whatever happened before, Tom Riddle swiftly lost all energy that was left in his body. He began to approach Riddle, but Dumbledore quickly stepped forward, obviously guessing Harry's intentions.

"Space and time are very closely related, Tom," the headmaster spoke calmly. "It seems to me you've overcome both."

Riddle didn't lower his wand. His dark eyes coldly inspected Dumbledore. "Has Hogwarts robbed you of your youth, oh Dumbledore the Great and Terrible?" he mocked, a cold, humourless chuckle left his lips. "What else did she take when you violated her?"

"Tom, I am not who you think I am," the headmaster continued slowly.

"Do not think me a fool!" Riddle screamed, breathing harshly. "Until my last breath I will defy you. This is nothing but a trick of the mind!"

"Why then can you hardly move? Why have your arms turned to lead? Why do you feel your mind reeling from exhaustion if this is but a trick?" Dumbledore continued mercilessly and with little compassion.

Riddle, who'd looked like a caged animal seconds ago suddenly straightened, looking proud and defiant. Harry knew exactly how the future Dark Lord felt and it scourged him. "Where is your lover, Dumbledore? Conquering what is left? Now that Hogwarts has fallen, all is lost. Your triumph won't last forever, old man," he continued, visibly shaking. "Empires rise and fall and the empires made by tyrants are the fastest to crumble."

Harry had no idea what this was about. All he knew was that whoever this guy was, it definitely wasn't the Tom Riddle he'd met, unless this was the most elaborate trick he'd ever witnessed. He was the first to move when Riddle's posture broke and his knees buckled. Just before the boy's head hit the ground, he grabbed him. Wide-eyed, he stared at Dumbledore, who thoughtfully observed the unconscious body of Tom Riddle.