"There's nothing wrong with being weak, professor," Harry said slowly. "I have been weak my whole life. But I have also been stronger than yesterday's Harry Potter, every day. This makes all the difference in the world."

"Do you really believe so?" Snape asked, venom dripping from every word. "Do you really believe that simply acknowledging your uselessness will increase your worth, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry, this time sincerely, "yes I do, professor."

—

As the air to the bird or the sea to a fish, so is steel to the fencer.

It is often said that a boy becomes a young man when he falls in love for the first time. Similarly, a young man's love is supposedly first tested upon experiencing physical separation. Thus, it should come as no surprise that after his initial awe and wonder at Hogwarts, and after the nearly overwhelming freedom that came with not living with the Dursleys, Harry Potter entered a state of—if not depression—intense sulkiness.

It seemed so ridiculous that even the boy—or rather the young man of eleven—himself felt upset for having such feelings. For the first time in his life he lived somewhere where he was not hated, with magic around every corner and people willing to be his friend. But emotions are one's most fickle of allies, and joy turns to sadness, bringing with it a guilt at feeling such things that further turns the wheel.

Yet, heartbreak from being denied your passion is no less painful than its romantic counterpart.

"What are those notes of?" Hermione Granger asked him.

Here Harry was taken by surprise—he had arrived at class earlier than most, and had been sketching some blade movements wistfully. To say he was embarrassed would have been inaccurate, but not wholly so. He wasn't doing anything wrong, and many other boys liked to draw Quiddich plays and the sort. But Hermione Granger was a studious person, he knew this much and not much else about her, and as such he felt nearly too childish to be eleven.

Nearly.

"They aren't my school notes," Harry said, picking his words carefully. "I used to fence back home and—" The words used to cut surprisingly deep "—so I like to draw some blade movements to keep everything fresh in my head." Upon noticing her frown, he added, "It's a very…studious sport." Studious was not the right word, but heavens be damned if the young man could say the word 'scientific' and keep a straight face. "It's not just about moving fast, it's about planning and studying yourself. Knowing when and how to move."

"I see," she replied slowly. He could not tell from her voice whether the woman was interested or not. "Have you done your homework? The boys haven't."

"Ah, yeah I imagine they wouldn't have yet… it isn't due for a week or so," he said awkwardly. It was hard to keep a conversation with Hermione. While Harry wasn't particularly close to anyone, he did find himself on friendly enough terms with most. Yet, years of going to tournaments and being in any given gymnasium for five hours due to a late start taught him the art of small talk, even if it often required the sacrifice of pretending to be interested in topics he frankly didn't care much for. "The homework was quite interesting. I didn't realize potions could be used to regrow bones."

"Wasn't it fascinating?" Hermione said, eyes now sparkling. "I hope to have some time soon to read up on more usages of Skele-gro. I really want to know more about how it works—growing bones, fascinating isn't it?—but the more 'dangerous' books aren't available for first-year students. The History of Skele-Gro and other miraculous medicines—the tale of Linfred of Stinchcombe…" Hermione paused and appeared to daydream for a moment, smiling vacantly at the ceiling. "I would love to be able to read that one day when I'm older. But," she continued, in a resigned tone, "as I have to make do with what I have…I read on a book I borrowed from the library on early Skele-Gro experiments that were quite fascinating. A baby dragon—"

"All quiet," said a new, familiar voice. All chatter died, Harry and Hermione's quickest of all, and even the rowdiest of the boys only a second after. "Do not speak when your professor is in class, Potter," Snape said, somewhere between spitting out the words and derisively saying them as he passed.

"My apologies, professor Snape," said Harry, giving a quick, curt bow with his head. Snape paused at this, shook his head angrily and walked up to the front of the class.

Harry and Snape had a curious relationship since their first meeting. Many other first years were unsure how to respond to the man, scared of his clear favouritism, rudeness and his power of authority. Harry, however, had the unfortunate privilege of having had to learn how to talk to referees over many tournaments.

Now, you may dispute this, but any fencer will tell you that nothing will prepare you better for taking full responsibility for your actions while still admitting no fault than being at a tournament. You learn the art of accepting punishment while making it clear you disagree with it, bowing your head respectfully yet showing no subservience. "Forgive me—I had passed by him before I scored on that flèche? My mistake, I thought that it was fine so long as part of my body hadn't fully passed—oh, the toe touch hit the floor, you say? I believe your call, sir, though I'm quite certain I felt it hit the foot—what is the call, out of curiosity? I'm sure I got my riposte in one action so why—oh, I see, of course." It is an art that most coaches need not partake in passing down, for it comes quite naturally to those who hold a blade.

Dealing with Snape was similar. On their first day, he had accused Harry of being too arrogant due to not having read the textbook at some point. "My apologies, professor, I will keep this in mind for the future," he had said back then. Now, this alone would not have set off any alarms in his professor's head, if not for the fact that this was said with a convincing smile and a curt nod, as though becoming of someone who concedes a point out of pity to the other party.

This set off a silent war of sorts between the two. There is a mastery to passive aggressiveness whereupon becoming visibly angry at one party is but an admittance of weakness, and as such Snape was less vocal about his dislike of Harry Potter than of the rest of Gryffindor. It must be said, however, he made much more of an effort to calmly give the boy detentions and other punishments that even other first-years did not need to fear.

It was altogether a more polite affair of hateful disdain, but a more intense one as well. A gentleman's disdain.

Today was not very different. Harry earned a future detention for something minor, many cold stares, but not much verbal abuse. He was still admonished, to be sure, but anyone who had fenced in London before could take some measure of insults as a joke, so long as it came from an authority figure rather than a peer. Sports breed odd creatures.

"What about your transfiguration homework? Have you started that yet?" Hermione asked, once class was over. Harry froze. He meant to talk to the boys about some game they meant to play together, Ron and Seamus had something in mind, but he could not ignore the girl. "I took a glance at it last night, and it seems very complex. I would recommend starting on it soon. A month is not as long as it sounds—halloween will arrive before we expect it."

"Right," he said, slowly, then more convincingly, "Right—right. I haven't had the chance to yet, I mean to go to the library soon."

"I was going there now too. If we go together, we can probably…go over more books," said Hermione, slowly.

Harry turned round ready to make an excuse, but it died in his throat once he caught the brief hesitation in her face. No one really spends time with her. A hint of pity formed in him, but he turned it to sympathy. "Let's go there. Studying is more fun if we have more people to bounce off. Ah, but, first, do you mind if we go to the owlery? There's a letter I'm expecting." Truthfully, he had been expecting a letter for a few days now, but he tried to keep his hopes from showing.

"Can't you wait until tomorrow morning? Your owl would get you your letter by breakfast—"

"I know, I know," he said, raising a hand to interrupt her. "I just…I just really want to read it as soon as I can, okay?"

She regarded him for a second, then nodded. "Sure. Library straight after, though. I need to get started on my homework." It was weird to form a compromise over something he himself was in no hurry of taking care of, but he felt strangely fine with it.

Two or three moments later, the two had packed up, Harry had expressed his—sincere—regrets to his friends that he couldn't go have fun with them, withstood a judgemental look or three, and so they were off to the owlery.

"Your parents?" Hermione asked, casually, as they walked through the corridors. "The letter you're waiting for, I mean," she added, upon noticing his look of surprise. Realization dawned and she said in a quick, apologetic tone, "Oh gosh, I'm sorry—I meant—your family. I know about your parents, I read about you and your parents I just forgot about it for a moment. I…"

"It's fine. Really," he added, upon seeing the guilt on her face. "I understand what you mean. No, I'm waiting a letter from…a good friend of mine. She studies at Beauxbatons—it's this other wizarding school, if you aren't familiar with it. She's a few years ahead and she's been concerned about how my first weeks are going."

Hermione perked up, and Harry mistook it for interest at Beauxbatons. This was partially correct, but there was something in there too. Eleven year old boys rarely know the comfort the phrase "My friend, she…" can afford a girl. Knowing that a girl, somewhere, somehow, is capable of constructing a relationship of some sort with a man makes said man much easier to trust.

"Tell me more about your friend," said Hermione. "I'd love to know more about Beauxbatons, if possible. How long have you known her for?"

Normally, the journey from the potions classroom to the owlery would not have been long enough to share everything, but the two were still rather new to the castle, and as Hermione mentioned in annoyance many times, there was hardly a map of Hogwarts available anywhere. She took notes best as she could to avoid being late for class, but between moving staircases and unhelpful ghosts, it was still not enough.

Thus, by the time they reached the owlery—and blessedly, Fleur's letter—she had been caught up on most of Harry's life. The parts he was happy to talk about, at least.

Dear Harry,

I'm happy to hear you're adapting to Hogwarts well. For a while, I feared that magical life was going to be quite a change for you…but I should have known you would have adapted fast. Are your classes giving you a hard time? I don't know how much our curriculums overlap, but if you need help with anything you can let me know and I'll do my best to help…although I don't know how much help I can be through a letter.

Have you made friends? I hope no one is treating you too differently because of your background. If they are, I'm sure they will forget soon and start treating you better. Don't take offence to this, Harry, but eleven-year old boys are not known for their consistency of behaviour…so I'm sure they will start treating you well soon enough.

How are you liking Hogwarts' food? A friend of mine studied there briefly before transferring to Beauxbatons and always told me about how much she preferred the food there…tell me, is it really that good or is it just her trying to make me jealous?

Oh, and I won gold at the Junior Nationals, so you better not be slacking off on your footwork practice just because you're at Hogwarts!

-Fleur

Harry read the letter thrice over, not saying as much as word. On the first read, he was thrilled to finally hear from her. On the second, he was pondering how to reply to her and what questions to ask. On the last, he felt jealousy strike at his heart. Junior Nationals…I can barely win bronze in the local cadets. And yet here he was, not practicing.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, a mixture of concern and impatience in her voice. "Library?"

"Library?"

"We were going to do our homework, remember?"

"Ah…yeah. Library. Let's go there. Right."

Hermione must've known that Harry's mind was anywhere but on homework at that moment, for she said nothing during their walk. Harry knew this to be rudeness on his part, but he could not control himself. I want to fence. But there's nowhere to fence in Hogwarts…what can I do? "Do your have your textbooks with you?" Harry said, in an attempt at normalcy.

"Always," she replied with a sort of mocking laugh, as though trying to pass real offence for the parody of it. "Why would I not have them with me?"

He nodded, absently, as the two made their way to one moving staircase. I bet my legs would hurt just holding an En Garde now…my lunges must be a mess. "They can get pretty heavy or maybe they wouldn't fit in your bag." I want to fence. I want to fence. I want to fence. "We can just keep going to the library, then? No need to stop at the tower?"

"None," she replied as they crossed the staircase and made their way into a hallway. "I bought a magical bag at the Diagon Alley to help me carry my textbooks everywhere," she said, chin raised high and a note of pride in her voice. "I'm perfectly prepared!"

"That's good," said Harry with a half smile. I want to fence I want to fence I want to fence I want to—"What's that door right there?"

Hermione frowned. "I don't know. I know I have been to this hallway before, I always walk past it before I reach the library. But…I am also sure I have never seen this door."

"Me neither…" He looked round briefly. "I don't see any signs or anything as to what it could be either."

When he turned around, Hermione had a hesitant hand over the doorknob, her face a struggle between curiosity and properness. "It doesn't seem like it's a restricted area, but…I don't want to open it without knowing what it is. What if we disturb someone—"

Harry Potter placed his hand over hers and turned the doorknob with a smile. He smelled adventure behind it in the way only young children can. He turned around to smile at the outraged Hermione, and walked in. The girl chased after him, out of concern, he was sure, but also out of curiosity, he hoped. Life was more fun this way.

The door slammed shut the moment they walked in. To say the room was pitch black would've been incorrect—dimly lit would've fit better, yet Harry was damned if he could tell how. There was no window nor fire, yet the room felt as though illuminated by a furtive candlelight.

"I don't like this, Harry." Hermione drew her wand. "We aren't supposed to be here. We—"

Light illuminated a bookshelf at the end of the room, as though showcasing the leading actor on stage. Curiously, the bookshelf itself was empty, save for one book prominently displayed in the middle.

"The History of Skele-Gro and other miraculous medicines—the tale of Linfred of Stinchcombe," said Hermione, eyes wide. "That book…the one we were talking about before. It shouldn't be just lying out here, it should be in the restricted area of the library! What…" She hesitated. "Do you think we can get it?"

"I mean…it's right there. Why shouldn't we?"

"Because why would a book we were just talking about earlier just happen to be in a room that appeared magically?"

"Well, I don't—I don't know," Harry said. He thought about it for a moment, shrugged and took a step toward the bookshelf.

Before Hermione could even raise an objection, a suit of armour dropped from the ceiling.

It wasn't like the other majestic, imposing suits of armour around the castle. This one was only as tall as an adult human and about as wide too—elegant, not threatening. It also didn't bear a giant longsword, but rather what seemed more like a rapier—smallsword? No, an…

The armour fell into a stance.

"Harry, I don't like this, let's leave," said Hermione. "This isn't good, this—"

"Wait," Harry said slowly. "That's…odd."

"What's odd?"

"Can you promise not to be upset at me?"

"Harry, this is not the time. Let's leave now and call a teacher. This can't be normal."

"Before we got here, I admit I was thinking I didn't want to study," Harry said slowly. "I wanted to fence. But I also didn't want to let you down, so I wanted you to have something fun too and you seemed to really want that book earlier. So it's strange that I have everything that…I wanted…" He stopped, nodding to himself. "Hermione, is there a study table by the door?"

"What? No, there—there is." She sounded as though she disagreed with herself. "There is, but there wasn't…is this something the room is doing?"

"I honestly have no idea," he said, slowly. "Does it have fencing gear on top of it, by any chance?"

"No—yes." Hermione sounded less surprised this time, but hesitation still coloured her voice. "We should call a teacher. We should—"

"Look at the armour's sword. It's an épée. Épées are sporting equipment, not dangerous swords. There's a button at the tip. It's not sharp. It won't hurt me even if he attacks me with it."

"But we should make sure this is fine with the teachers before you do anything!"

Harry did not listen. Excitement flared at him. Without another word, he rushed past Hermione and quickly tossed his fencing gear over his clothes before holding the épée the room had prepared for him. Ah, that épée…I missed the feeling of holding one of these. He swung at the air a few times, then took a few fencing steps forward before retreating while holding his arm out. I'm out of shape, but…I can hold an En Garde.

When he turned around to face the monstrous armour, he instead met an angry Hermione, who stood before him with her arms crossed. "Harry if you don't stop now, I'll…" But her anger died down, and he saw the concern in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't want to make you worried. But I really think it's safe. I promise if I get hurt we'll run from here, first thing. Alright?"

She hesitantly nodded, and Harry felt guilt stab at him. It felt as though he had bullied her into it rather than convinced her about anything. But he was pretty sure he was right. It felt right. And if he was wrong…well, there were worse places to be hurt at than a magical school, surely. They could probably heal him up, couldn't he?

But it was all just rationalizations. The fact of the matter was, he felt as though he wouldn't be hurt, and he wanted to try it, feeling every bit as invincible as his youth would lead him to believe. Truthfully, many years later, he would look back on this and think, "I frankly deserved much worse than I got."

Physically, he was quite correct. He attempted to close in by closing the quarte line, the inside line, and pushing his opponent's blade out of the way. He failed at the action, and the armour beat his blade aside before lunging him. He did not get injured, and the armour only lightly tapped at him. Mentally, however, his pride took quite the beating.

"I thought you were good at this," Hermione said, with a sort of mocking affection. "Wasn't fencing supposed to be your specialty?"

"No," Harry grunted, standing up with some effort. "I said I loved fencing, not that fencing loved me. I'm rather mediocre. Sit down and start studying, it's gonna be a while before I can get that book for you…I assume that armour is not going to let me just take it."

"If you're so mediocre at it, why do you like it so much?" Hermione's tone was sincere rather than mocking. "Why do you keep at it?"

"Who knows," Harry said through a muttered a breath, pulling his mask over his head one more time and getting in position, "all I know is that as mediocre as I am now, I'm still not as mediocre as I was before I started trying. So if I keep going…" He grinned.

"Allez, you piece of junk!"

He flèched at the suit of armour.

—

A cool November breeze stirred that morning, and it had made Quirrel feel quite distraught. It was a day for celebration, to be sure, but something about it filled him with unease. Would he lose this wonderful bond with his master, once he had reunited with its other half?

FEAR NOT. YOU WILL ALWAYS SHARE A BOND WITH ME, QUIRREL.

The words caught him by a surprise that shouldn't have existed. The two shared thoughts—souls, even. He should not think such things when with him. Forgive me, master. I cannot seem to do away with human feelings.

YOU NEED NOT DO AWAY WITH ANYTHING. GIVE ME LOYALTY AND YOU MAY KEEP EVERYTHING ELSE TO YOURSELF, MY LOYAL SERVANT.

Quirrel tapped at the door with his wand, but he locked it behind him manually once he was in. He could not justify to himself why he had not also used his wand to lock it. Nerves, it had to be. Always nerves. Nonetheless, he would have time to calm himself once settled in—

"Ah," said a new voice, "you are early. So am I, as it turns out…come in, come in!"

Master, should I? A mental prod confirmed as much, and with considerable effort, Quirrel willed himself into the next room over.

His steps were slow, deliberate. Ending his communion with his master was not something he had looked forward to, true, but there was something else in there as well—a certain hesitation, fear of looking at the man who awaited them, as though afraid of looking directly at the sun. Duty demanded him to look into this sun, however, if only for a moment.

And for this single moment, it took him all of his might not to fall to his knees. The glory, the presence, the power of this man…! Yet he could not bend a knee. Not when his body housed the dark lord himself. He began to breathe rapidly, as though he had been running for hours, his hands shook and cold sweat dripped from his forehead.

"Turn around, servant," said the new voice. "Let me speak with myself."

My duty is done. I have but to exist in their presence. Yet, before he could comply, he looked upon the young man. Sixteen years old, if that. Smiling like the world belonged to him.

"I had hoped," said Voldemort, once Quirrel had turned, "that the diary would serve this purpose, ultimately…albeit not like this. The chamber of secrets…you didn't reopen it."

"I had no choice," the teenager said lazily. He sat on a chair, carelessly placing a foot over a coffee table and stared at Voldemort with a sort of youthful grin. "When I came to, I was in Durmstrang. Draco Malfoy was in possession of the diary…once it became clear I couldn't unlock the chamber from there, well…it seems like an old associate of yours—a future associate of mine—was headmaster of the school. Remember Karkaroff?"

"Karkaroff…yes," Voldemort said, disgust in his voice. "Was he of use to you?"

"Yes. He helped me quietly dispose of Draco Malfoy's body once I had drained his life from him."

"Malfoy…" Voldemort stopped. "His father will be rewarded for this sacrifice. For allowing me to rise again…I have waited long for this. So long." Slowly, he reached out Quirrel's hands to touch the teenager's face. "Give me my youth again, my shadow." MOVE, SERVANT.

Quirrel walked backwards towards his master's shadow, trembling, dreading, hoping, dreaming—

Quirrel and Voldemort were sent flying against a wall, his wand lost at some point during the impact.

Master, are you—QUIET, QUIRREL!

"Ah," said the teenager, "do not misunderstand me, Voldemort. I understand why you were hoping to get this body Malfoy so kindly gave me…but I do not, for the life of me, understand why you think I would be so cooperative."

"FOOL!" Voldemort cried out. "You're nothing but my shadow! Return to me, now. Fulfill your purpose. Become part of Lord Voldemort—"

"Part of Voldemort…" The teenager seemed disgusted at that. "You mean, part of the man who couldn't defeat a small child? The man who lost to an infant dark lord? Pitiful." He raised his leg, and stomped on Voldemort's face. "You are not Voldemort. You are my shadow. You are the tool. Voldemort is what you left behind at Hogwarts when you killed that girl. I am the true dark lord."

"How dare you!" Voldemort spat out, voice weakened by injury, but amplified by anger. "My mistakes—my losses—Harry Potter—they are yours as they are mine."

"NO! NEVER!" In a fury, the shadow continued to stomp at Voldemort, at Quirrel, crushing their legs. "I AM LORD VOLDEMORT! I HAVE NEVER BEEN DEFEATED BY A CHILD!"

"This should not be—what did Karkaroff do?" Voldemort said slowly. "You should know your role. Why do you rebel?"

"Why do you, my future past? Why did you take up wands against the wizarding world?" He shook his head. "The name Voldemort belongs to me. Not you. Not once have I ever suffered the indignity that you have…this world's ruler cannot have been subjected to what you have. At first, when young Malfoy told me of what became of me I couldn't believe it. But I slowly came to terms with it…first with my failures…and then with the fact that they weren't mine."

"Karkaroff," Voldemort whispered again, "what did he do? Was he afraid of me? Because of his disloyalty? How dare he—how dare you—"

"You call me 'you' yet ask for my body as if it was yours." The shadow drew his wand. Quirrel could not see him, but he whimpered nonetheless. "There's only need for one Voldemort. You need not a body, nor a will."

"There is only one Voldemort. You are me."

"Yes, my dear future past, I am you. But I am more you than you are, in this pathetic state. Why should you be given the prize of my body—my life—as a reward for your losses? No. There are no second chances. You fell, so stay down. It is my time now. I am the you who has never suffered defeat."

"I cannot be killed!"" Voldemort thundered. "As long you exist, I cannot die!"

"I need not you to die, only for you to leave. You may wander this world forever, as less than a ghost. Watch as the true Lord Voldemort, the one who was once called Tom Riddle, exerts his will upon the weak. But for now?"

QUIRREL! MOVE! CRAWL IF YOU MUST!

"Yield thy name and perish, my once future."

Death fell.