Chapter Seventeen

September flies by as quickly as warm weather leaves their little sanctuary by the northern Atlantic. The living room at the lighthouse is turned into a war room. Scrap paper, posters, new clippings float everywhere. Why they don't make use of any of the massive studies at the Potter estate is anybody's guess. Harry supposes he understands. He'd trade solemn arches and frowning portraits for something snug and cozy any day. Almost every evening, they all pack themselves in the Lighthouse ground floor to prepare for the upcoming candidacy announcement.

Harry is not much one for politics - never has been - but he enjoys their evenings in the war room nonetheless. He usually takes up one of the beanbags by the hearth, attempting to read, although he spends less time with his eyes on the words than on Riddle. It's fascinating, really. The former dark lord is mesmerizing when he works. The mission tonight is to come up with a campaign slogan, and progress is slow. Discarded suggestions are traced out in the air in shining letters, angry strikethroughs across all of them, courtesy of Desmond who's twirling his wand and declaring this a waste of time. Riddle, on the other hand, is in his element, tracing the perimeter of the living room with such focused energy that reminds Harry of a panther.

"Liberty, equality, fraternity?" Erin suggests teasingly, probably making a reference to muggle history. Riddle stands still and glares at her.

"We could use some of that." Erin defends, smirking. Riddle resumes pacing.

"... Unity … Unity … Impartial - yes, impartiality …"

"Impartiality - we haven't seen that around here in a while, have we?" Desmond, always the cynic.

"And modernity." Riddle stops, a look of triumph on his handsome face. It's like he's facing a crowd of supporters already. "That's just it."

They announce the Riddle candidacy on the day Harry starts Sentinel training. Summer holiday can't last forever, and when Desmond suggests the training program, Harry agrees readily. It's not like he's signing a contract. All he wants to do is learn more magic. That morning, Riddle delivers a big speech in front of the Town Hall, making traffic stand still for a good fifteen minutes. Over the next two weeks, the town talks about nothing else than the British emigrant who wants to run the place. Harry gets hounded by reporters once again, but they mostly leave him alone after he refuses to comment. Any campaign issues, he reiterates, should be brought up to either the candidate or Desmond Potter, the campaign manager. Still a few stragglers half-heartedly crowds him after he gets out of training every afternoon, and Harry feel slightly resentful towards Riddle for putting him in the media spotlight again, all the way across the Atlantic.

Harry calls the rest of the Golden Trio one night to catch up. He hasn't been talking to them enough, but things happen. The first ten good minutes are spent listening to Ron's complaining, so nothing's out of the usual.

"... and then we need to write this 100-inch essay on 19th century British laws on, on restricted spells, so that's more books to read - A hundred inches! Like why would I ever need to know -?! And we haven't even learned a new hex yet!"

"Oh stop whining, Ron. You know understanding historical legislation and their impact on society is tantamount in present day law enforcement. And you really can't say current legislation has changed that much, now that everything's back to its pre-war state, so of course it's highly relevant …"

Harry smiles fondly. Leave it to Hermione to justify the mandatory reading of any book …

"Don't worry, Ron. Sentinel training's the same way. They've been making us read books for the past three weeks too. And our midterm essay is ten U.S. pages, which is a hundred and ten inches - I looked it up."

"That makes me feel rather better." Ron concedes. Hermione swats his head.

"Well, I think it's great you're going into further education too, Harry." Further education is for sure what Hermione will be doing for the next five years or so. Apparently, she has decided to try on being a healer for size, and has secured an apprenticeship on St. Mungo's. From what Ron describes, her entire study is cluttered by medical books. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

Ron sighs dramatically. "No, no, we would not want the Potter heir to become a rich aristocrat brat that sits on his bum and does nothing all day … Oh, did you know Malfoy was in Auror training?"

"For real? I wonder how he got in!"

"It's a right riot." Ron is back to complaining again. "And he was paired with me the other day in practical cause no one else wants to partner with him. It's so unfair."

"Kingsley believes in second chances." Hermione reminds them. And oh boy, Harry is not one to talk when it comes to giving gratuitous second chances, is he.

"Has the ferret been causing trouble?"

"Not yet." Ron bites out. "I wonder if I can possibly help him along …?"

"Ron!"

"How's Kingsley doing?" Harry expertly rescues Ron from Hermione's ire. "With the November election and everything?"

"Oh that." Hermione sounds disappointed. "There's been tension among the higher-ups in the Ministry - some sort of special inquiry."

"Is Kingsley all right?" Harry asks, worried.

"Suppose so. But the old families and the hardliners are giving him a tough time again, now that the war's way behind us. They are going to delay the election. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh. Nah we get the British papers at least half a day late. And you know me - not much into politics." Except when my cousin goads a former dark lord into running for mayor and commandeers my living room for campaign purposes, he muses. Not like he's gonna bring that up. What Ron and Hermione don't know can't hurt them.

"Me neither, I think." Hermione says, a bit melancholy. "I guess I've realized I wouldn't really want to spend my life on politics. Such a waste of time."

"So, healer?"

"There's nothing simpler than helping people, Harry." And how he wishes that's always true.

"Well, have you learned new spells at Sentinel training, Harry?" Ron interjects. "George keeps saying Canadian Aurors dress up in red and wear cowboy hats."

"I haven't seen them do that yet. I don't really see myself in cowboy hats." Harry laughs. "And no, I can't say we've learned any new spells. We just had our first practical today, and guess what spell we worked on?"

"What?"

"Expelliarmus."

That gets a good laugh out of Ron. "Well, at least you're very, very good at that super important spell! Dark Lord killer, that one!"

Harry's been looking forward to their first practical for weeks. And he has to commend their instructor, McNeil, for starting them off on the disarming spell. It is a super important spell, thanks Ron. But of course he'd get there only to discover Peter Gillis' younger brother, William, is in the same class. And of course they'd get paired together, cause why not. It's just cherry on top that they are picked to go first, in front of the whole class.

"A truly exceptional disarming spell can break rudimentary shields, and that's extremely useful in combat situations." McNeil emphasizes. Ugh, not like they haven't sat through a thirty minute lecture on this topic already. Desmond has warned Harry about McNeil's tendency to chew his recruits' ears off. "And remember, Sentinels never injure or kill when they have the option to disarm!"

Harry faces William Gillis on the dueling platform. The training mat underneath feels oddly squishy. The younger brother looks less pompous than Peter, a lot more meek, but Harry can't help the feeling that William is brainier and therefore the more dangerous of the two. They both have their wands at ready, and Harry's magic sings at the prospect of a good duel, can't wait to be unleashed.

"Gentlemen, if you would go ahead whenever you're ready." Then McNeil warns, "Disarming spell and basic shielding only! This is not a duel!"

Like hell this isn't, Harry thinks to himself. The hungry look on William's face should tell anyone that much. Taking in a deep breath, Harry focuses his energy, and casts the spell that's saved him and his friends dutifully over the years. William, quite the competent wizard, throws up a shield and blocks it with little effort.

"What, that's all you've got, Potter?" The slightly nervous frown on William's face melts away to a smirk. All of a sudden Harry's back in second year, facing a yee-high Draco Malfoy, and isn't that a pleasant experience. "You better hold tight to your little stick."

And good thing Harry does. William's attack comes swift and silent, and he does a little trick with his wrist so that his spell twirls in mid-air before Harry's shield barely catches it on the edge. Harry feels the yew wand start to slip out of his hand - maybe no one would notice? - and has to jump a little to grasp it firmly again.

Oh but everyone's noticed. A few of his classmates snigger a little, and Harry feels his cheeks grow hot. Right, it's not like he's used to feeling like the greatest wizard alive, far from it - he's always known his enormous fame isn't backed up by skill, but still … If anything, he expects Riddle's kitchen tutoring sessions would've prepared him better for this not-a-duel. He can't help feeling embarrassed.

"Very good, Mr. Gillis!" McNeil remarks, probably as cheerily as he can muster. "You've almost got it. And don't feel bad, Mr. Potter; I'm sure you'll do better next time if you just …"

"Let him try again, would you, Mr. McNeil?" William suggest innocently. "After all, Harry's quite the war hero over in England, isn't he? What do they call him - 'the boy who lived'? He must have a trick or two up his sleeves!"

Oh yes, I do, Harry thinks bitterly. Bully for me, that trick is usually the disarming spell.

"I don't see why not." McNeil agrees. "Mr. Potter, on your own time."

Harry feels the weight of everyone's stare on him once again. The exact amount of magic … command the wand! He urges himself. But William's stupid, smug face doesn't help. Focus on the magic, the magic …

Harry closes his eyes.

His magic slithers out into the room like tentacles, giving everything a new light. It cackles, burns, waiting. He can be way more powerful than this Gillis' brat, he knows, but he's got to show them. Got to have his magic show them… He raises his wand, soaking up just enough energy, no more, no less.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Protego!"

He doesn't need to voice the spell, but no matter. A brilliant ball of light shoots out of the yew wand. William senses something's up too, ducking even as his shield materializes, but that doesn't help him. Harry's spell hits true, cutting clean through the shield. William is blasted backwards like a rag doll, landing on the mat with a whoosh. His wand sails through the air in a graceful arch, bouncing on the hardwood floor a few times before rolling under a desk. The look on everyone's face just then is absolutely priceless.

"So the moral of the story is, I am very good at disarming spells." Harry concludes smugly. "Who'd have thought?"

The three-man campaign squad have been relegated to the veranda to give Harry some privacy, and because altogether it isn't that cold tonight. But now it's pitch dark out and Desmond and Erin have packed up to go home. Riddle sees them out, good-natured host he's appearing to be, and stands looking at Harry from the doorway.

"I gotta go. Early morning tomorrow." Harry excuses himself hurriedly. It's partially true - for a bunch of lazy Canadians, the Sentinel trainees are made to get up annoyingly early. Harry wonders what kind of bloody murder Ron would scream if he knew the former dark lord is now listening to their every word. If anything, Harry needs to end this conversation before Hermione can bring up his "research" into killing his permanent house guest in front of him.

"You stay out of trouble, Harry!" Hermione slips in even as Harry reaches to hang up.

"Yes, mum." Harry mutters. Fat chance of that.

The thing is, Harry's been trying his very best to stay out of trouble. He truly has. But it seems that, as always, trouble comes to find him. All he's been doing is having a nice night out on the town with his somewhat reformed archenemy - how Harry has roped Riddle into watching that stupid slasher Halloween film, he cannot say himself - and is there anything wrong with that? No! Yet the moment they turn off of George Street into a side alley, not even a hundred yards from their dinner spot, looking for a secluded spot to apparate home, they realize they've made a grave mistake. There, clustered in the dimness, puffing cigarette smoke and smelling faintly like alcohol, are none other than the Gillis brothers and their cronies.

"Ha look who's here!" Peter jumps off the milk crates he's been lounging on and saunters towards them, aristocratic features twisted into an ugly jeer. "Well, boys, our evening just got this much more interesting!"

"Look, Peter, we don't want any trouble, okay?" Harry tries to reason first. "Just trying to find a quiet spot to get home. So if you would just let us through ..." But Peter and one of his friends are getting too close, almost flanking them, and that makes the war veteran in Harry incredibly tense. He'd be one man against five, and Riddle can't even protect himself. "William, talk some sense into your brother …"

"Or what? You gonna disarm me real good?" William puts on a leer identical to his brother's. Well, so much for hoping at least one of the Gillis clan would be sensible.

"Oh yeah, Potter needs to be taken down a peg." Peter has the playground bully chuckle down pat. "But my main issue here is with Riddle. What kind of name is 'Riddle' anyway? Who's he to waltz in here and try to run our town, hmm?" Harry, quite instinctively - shut up, Ron - moves to put himself between Riddle and Peter, which seems to rile Peter up even more.

"... Making those grand speeches and writing these essays, as if he's not some filthy mudblood - "

The next second blurs past in deja vu. Harry has his wand out before Gillis could finish the sentence, and beside him, Riddle grows completely still.

"You try saying that again." Harry says very quietly, a fire burning in the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden, he feels thirteen again, and some pompous pureblood brat just called his brilliant friend a mudblood. That won't do. That won't do at all.

Gillis throws up his hands mockingly and laughs. "Aw how cute - Potter here is defending his mudblood boyfriend …"

"Shut up, Gillis, or I swear to -"

"What will you do, Potter?' Gillis jeers. "A Sentinel cadet gonna curse me in the muggle part of town?"

That much is true. They shouldn't be fighting here - at least, he can't start a fight here, not when he can still hear fiddle music up in those pubs. Like how he couldn't hex Dudley and his gang in those long, hot summers in Little Whinging, how he couldn't blow his uncle up for talking shit about his parents, how he couldn't curse Malfoy seven ways to hell outside the Potions classroom. He's so sick of - he didn't move all the way across the Atlantic for more of this nonsense. Gillis is right - he can't hex a civilian, not to mention on George Street - so he does the next best thing.

Pocketing his wand, Harry lunges forward and swings, his fist connecting with Gillis' nose with a satisfying crack. The pureblood scum bends down in a muffled howl of pain. Two of Gillis' gang have their wands out, and the rest start to pounce on Harry. Before they can get a hold of him, Harry ducks with a Seeker's agility and grabs Riddle by the elbow. The two former enemies run down New Gower as if they had a basilisk hot on their heels. Crisp autumn air digging into their skin, their hearts pounding, they don't stop until New Gower merges into Water and Water turns into Topsail. Harry leads them into a small alley between two houses, and they lean against opposite walls, panting, laughing.

"I … think … we've … phew … lost them." Harry flexes his right hand, groaning and giggling at the same time, knowing full well he looks like a fool. "Gosh, this bloody hurts!" He meets Riddle's eyes in the dimness, and they burst into laughter again. Riddle doesn't laugh like this very often. Seems that Harry smashing someone's nose for him really amuses him.

"The gallant … Mister Harry Potter," Riddle muses, still panting. "Defender of … my honour."

Harry straightens up. Riddle is half illuminated by the soft yellow glow from the street lamps. It's a quiet neighbourhood, the hustle bustle of the pubs blocks away. The former dark lord's looking at Harry in a way that makes the teen want to either grin stupidly or douse himself in fiendfyre.

"That was fun." Harry declares, looking down at his hand. The stinging has lessened. "Merlin knows I've wanted to try that since the time Hermione punched Malfoy!"

Riddle smirks at that. They stay silent for a moment, finally catching their breath.

"Were you really surprised?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you expect? Someone was bound to come out and say it - mudblood." Riddle says the last word in a peculiar voice, as if suddenly unfamiliar with the taste. "I'm running for mayor of Magical St. John's, a penniless foreigner with a name like Tom Riddle, the muggle-loving Potters my main benefactors. Doesn't take much for them to latch onto that angle, yes?"

Harry almost replies that Riddle's merely having a taste of his own medicine, but sensibly bites it back. Fighting with Gillis is somewhat entertaining; fighting with Riddle never is.

"I was worried about - about how you'd react." He offers instead.

Riddle turns pensive. "Did you know that my housemates used to call me mudblood?"

Harry didn't know that. He never has comprehended how Voldemort rationalized his pureblood supremacy given his own blood status - mostly he chalked it off as the Dark Lord being conceited and delusional, as usual. They've never talked about it in the months that they've been civil with each other either. They've never brought up Voldemort's politics in general - it's a topic as taboo as the war and everything that came with it.

"I always believed I had magic in my blood, of course. But there was no way to be sure." Riddle continues. He does still enjoy long monologues, and keeps choosing the strangest occasion to deliver them. "For the longest time, I thought my father's side had magic. Because if my mother had been a witch, how could she have died a pauper?

"The Slytherins were quick to brand me as a mudblood, of course .. oh how wrong they were! You can't imagine - the very first time I looked into that basilisk's ugly yellow eyes and knew -"

"Didn't you know before?" Harry can't help but interject. He can only put up with a monologue for so long, as fascinating as this one is.

"Mostly, but not for sure - how could I? I couldn't possibly afford a lineage test at Gringotts. But the true heir of Slytherin commands the monster, and is able to look it in the eyes - all the books said so. That was my only sure fire way to know. So I snuck down to the Chamber and called upon the basilisk. With my eyes closed, I ordered it to look me in the face. Then I opened my eyes. "

Harry suddenly feels a chill down his back. "But what if -?"

"What if I was wrong? Well." Riddle chuckles. "Then I'd die. I was scared stiff, mind you. But I'd been obsessed with finding out my lineage for years, you see, and to believe I was the descendant of the purest of the pure … If I was wrong about that, then what was the point -" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I guess I thought if I'd made a mistake this stupid, I deserved to die for it."

"That's just stupid." Harry counters hotly.

"Yes, exactly -"

"No, I meant -" To think the need to prove he was somebody was worth dying over was stupid, is what he means. Or rather, feeling there's no point to life if he hasn't got Slytherin in his blood … But Harry doesn't know how to say it without setting Riddle off. What he wants to ask is whether Riddle still thinks any existence other than one as the Heir of Slytherin is not worth living, but that'll hit too close to home. That'll start a row, and Harry doesn't want a row right now, least of all against Tom.

"Never mind." He says quietly. "How old were you back then?"

"Fourteen?" Riddle narrows his eyes for a second, but lets it slide. "Can't be older than that. And I didn't die, however stupid that venture was, and just the moment itself was more than worth the risk. Then I took my most avid tormentors down to the Chamber, Malfoy, Black, Lestrange … Made them stand there with their eyes screwed shut while Hissy licked them on the forehead. Then I told them it was an honour, a ritual, and they were selected for it because they were the most powerful and most pure." There was a wry gleam in Riddle's eyes. "They followed me ever since. I could swear Malfoy pissed his pants."

Harry laughs. Any member of the Malfoy family, past or present, pissing themselves is not something Harry would begrudge anyone over. "Hold on - Hissy?"

Riddle stills for one second, then shakes himself out of it. His mirth, although still evident, seems strained somehow. "I named it 'Hissy'. For hissing a lot. It didn't like the name. Didn't like me either - could smell the muggle blood in me, it said."

"Well, I killed it back in second year." Harry offers tentatively. Then I took its fang and slaughtered a piece of your soul, he doesn't add. No need to be crass.

"I can't say I'm greatly saddened." Riddle smirks. "It wasn't a nice creature, or a clever conversationalist. Its only concerns in life were eating and killing mudbloods."

The jibe's too good to pass up. "But wasn't it like that with half of your followers?" Harry gives a silly grin. Three months ago, he wouldn't have made that quip. Now he's more familiar with the things that would and the things that would not bring out Riddle's infamous temper. A surprisingly large collection of things belong in the latter category.

"Cheeky." Riddle mutters, sounding fully seventy years' old. Erin needs to work harder at converting his speech patterns to 1998 standards.

They fall silent for a while, until Harry asks the one question that he's been stewing in for weeks.

"Why are you running?"

"Why am I?"

"Why exactly are you running for office? Mayor of Magical St. John's - you never wanted a Ministry post, did you." Harry makes it more of a statement than a question. "Hell, if you had … They were pegging you for Minister, weren't they? Probably the youngest Minister in history. All the old families you already had at your whim, all the Slug Club connections you had … Instead you went on and …" He leaves the rest unsaid. "What is your endgame here, Tom?"

Riddle is silent for the longest time, staring down at his knees as he leans back against the wall.

"Would you leave it be if I told you I'm simply bored?" Riddle looks up finally, his expression impossible to read in the streetlight. Harry holds his gaze for a little while and sighs, pushing off of his wall.

"Let's go home - it's getting chilly."

Riddle agrees readily.

A/N: I haven't abandoned this story! And I even promise to have more than one chapter out this year cause I already have 18 mostly drafted. School is hell even when we're just three weeks in, but I wanted to get this done before the midterms kill me :P

Meanwhile, reviews really keep me going? Let me know what you think!