SECOND ENTRY

02 SEP 1942

RESUME LOG

Tricy looked flustered as they stepped into the Charms classroom. Harry craned his neck a bit, looking past the person in front of him, to see ten more Slytherins in the room—and a lot of Gryffindors. Harry blinked in astonishment. He did a quick count: 27 Slytherins and 32 Gryffindors. There were, indeed, so many students that the classroom was arranged like a theater, with its seats slowly inclining upwards at the very back of the room, while the front of the classroom, where a small woman stood, was lowered so that everyone might see her.

"Late, you lot," said the diminutive woman, her beetle-like eyes narrowing behind round, coke-bottle glasses. Beads hung around her neck, varied and colorful. Harry suspected that they had runes inscribed in them.

"We beg your pardon, Professor Orphel. Professor Kettleburn held us up," piped Tricy, flushing as the professor's dark eyes flashed towards her. Harry found himself a seat next to Ferren Fortsoworth, who was seated next to his twin. Felix Fortsworth, leaning back in his chair flashed him a grin. Lunaria sat next to Harry, primly placing her hands on her lap as she stared straight ahead, not acknowledging him.

"That man," huffed Professor Orphel, who surveyed the late Slytherins with an eagle eye. Once everyone was seated, she zeroed in on Tricy again, asking, "Well, what business did you have with Kettleburn to make you late? As prefect, you should have reminded him of the time, Miss Rowle."

Seated in front of him, Harry observed Tricy as she fidgeted, and decided to intervene on her behalf.

"It was my fault, Professor," Harry said, raising his hand, trying to look sheepish, "Professor Kettleburn wanted to ask me a few questions after class ended. I suspect it's because he wanted to check if I knew my material—having gotten in on NEWT-level Care of Magical Creatures as a seventh year," he said.

"Well," said the professor, her eyes gleaming, "Is that so? Mr. Peverell, isn't it?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Hadrian Peverell, of the Sacred, Ancient, and Most Noble House." Harry smiled, deeply amused that he had to introduce himself thus.

At his introduction, the Professor murmured something too inaudible for him to hear as all of the students turned to look at him. Whispers broke out.

Used to attention, Harry merely continued to smile genially at the Professor.

"Well," the professor started, seemingly impressed despite herself (for no reason that Harry could discern—unless it was a bloodline thing again. These people and their blood obsession, seriously), "Welcome to Newt-level Charms Part II, Mr. Peverell. I look forward to teaching you. I am Aurora Orphel. Now—"

And the class resumed.

Harry's thoughts drifted, turning to look at the large windows to the side of the room, briefly lamenting his place at the center of the classroom before he accidentally nudged his satchel on the floor in front of him.

His thoughts turned to Tom Riddle and their brief encounter. He had blushed, stammered, apologized for bumping into him, and introduced himself before Harry had to beg off to go to Charms. And that was it—but, boy, had it made an impact.

Before Harry had ventured into the past, he had imagined what Tom Riddle would be like. He recalled the memories Professor Dumbledore had shown him in his office in a time long gone, and what Professor Slughorn had said about him. He remembered Tom Riddle's darker moments with prejudice, but also kept in mind that a teenaged Lord Voldemort was charming and undeniably magnetic.

His perception of who Tom Riddle was, was skewed. All he had for insight into his person were the fragmented memories of different people and his memories of the insane Lord Voldemort.

But the enigma that was Tom Riddle was vastly different from what he imagined him to be.

There were two things he immediately noticed in the two-minute interaction between him and the fledgling dark lord.

First, there was the three-dimensional quality to him. He just seemed very real, in the sense that he was made of flesh and blood. He didn't know why Riddle's humaneness astonished him. Harry had imagined him to be pale, sort of grey around the edges, but he realized how ridiculous that idea was. Unconsciously, he had imagined that Tom Riddle would only be a slightly more solid version of his shade—the shade that was a fragment of his soul which had been trapped inside a diary for decades.

Even possessing half of his soul as he had, Diary Tom Riddle was a pale, pale caricature compared to the hale and whole version of him.

He remembered Riddle's red face, idly wondering if the notorious manipulator could blush on command, and snorted.

"Is something bothering you, Peverell?" asked Ferren beside him. Harry turned to look at the blond boy and smiled at his concerned yet curious expression. Harry could sense that the elder Fortsworth twin was drawn to him, no doubt because of his family name, and yet it was a harmless fixation. He suspected he would meet a lot more of this kind of interest in his "peers" around him, drenched as they were in Pureblood customs. He shook his head at the boy and said, "Nothing, Fortsworth. My mind just wandered a bit."

"Peverell!" said their Professor, perhaps noting his conversation with Ferren and his drifting attention, "The incantation to levitate a magically-absorbing object, now."

"That's hardly fair, professor. There is no way to cast magic at a magically-draining object. However, Tempero Anemoi should be able to levitate it—it's a charm that controls the air around something, potentially giving you the ability to float something that absorbs magic. Although one should watch out for the object's tendency to drain the magic around the air as well, so the best way to—"

Smiling, Professor Orphel raised her hand, "That's enough, Peverell," and continued with her lesson.

Harry huffed a small laugh, inwardly chiding himself for acting like a know-it-all. Hermione would be proud, though.

And so the rest of the day went.

In all of his classes, Harry was treated like a rare exhibit—stared at, examined, tested for his mettle—and Harry, indulgent and laid back now in his old age, had taken it all in stride. Perhaps if he was truly the seventeen-year-old he portrayed himself as, he would have found the day exhausting. As it was, Harry had just observed everything with the passive amusement of a lounging animal—a lounging snake, in his case. Despite being in the past, almost nothing could shake Harry anymore. He had seen it all in his 300 and more years of life.

He had become the Master of Death. He had seen the rise and fall of a few more Dark Lords after Voldemort, had seen loved ones grow old and die even as he remained ever-youthful. He had even seen the decay of magic itself.

He was here because he was the only one who could do this job, and he was not about to let the first day of class affect him. He was leagues above every student—and every teacher—here.

When dinner rolled around, Harry observed his classmates, noted their soulless expressions, and chortled.

"What?" sniped Everard Rosier, looking even worse than he did that morning, "What's so funny, Peverell?"

"All of you. You look like Dementors just came by and gave you a quick peck. Why do you look so glum?"

Harry was seated in the Great Hall in the Slytherin table facing the rest of the tables, surrounded by the people he sat with during breakfast. On his left sat Beatrice Rowle, on his right Ferren and Felix Fortsworth, who (from his observation throughout the day) were glued to the hip. In front of him sat Everard Rosier with ample space around him, but Lunaria Nightingale and Catalina Ventic were nearby as well.

"Are you joking?" hissed Tricy, "Today was a nightmare! The course load we have for the rest of the year is ridiculous! Why are you so relaxed?! They grilled you today! I don't know how you know all the answers to the questions, Harry, but—it's not funny!" she exclaimed when she saw Harry smiling at her in bemusement.

"I want to sleep a thousand years," declared Lunaria, sitting adjacent to him. Beside her, Catalina looked the soul of discouragement.

"Shut up, Nightingale, you always want to sleep forever," spat Everard.

And then Lunaria flicked her eyes to the side and said in a non-sequitur, "Oh no. Incoming," she said softly.

"Rowle, introduce me," said an imperious voice behind Harry. He and Tricy turned.

The person who spoke had white-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, steely grey eyes and features that Harry would describe as "pointy"—that is, everything about him was sharp: from his jawline to his nose, to the pale blond brows that were knitted together. There were two people behind him, who were both staring straight at him: a boy and a girl with identical black hair and eyes.

Harry blinked, starting to get the feeling that he was the new kid in a playground and was just about to meet the schoolyard bullies. He turned towards Tricy, expecting her to rear up and put the blond brat in place.

Except she didn't. She turned meek, her entire being yielding to the person before her. Harry was taken aback.

"Yes, Heir Malfoy," she said, "Harry," (and at Malfoy's sharp look, she flinched), "Th-this is Abraxas Malfoy, Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy, Heir Malfoy, this is Hadrian Peverell—of the Sacred, Most Ancient, and Noble House of Peverell."

Then Malfoy did the most archaic thing ever—he unfurled a coil of magic and reached out his hand: the parody of a muggle handshake but was, in fact, an invitation to taste one's magic. It was the most respectful way one could introduce yourself according to Pureblood custom. Snubbing it sent the message that the person wasn't worth his name, wasn't worth his magic. Snubbing it meant a declaration of war.

It was first year all over again. Seriously. What is it with Malfoys and handshakes? Harry internally sighed as Malfoy began to speak, "Nice to meet you, Hadrian Peverell. I assume you are Heir of your House as well? It was a shock to us to hear your name called out during yesterday's sorting."

The Hall was eerily silent as Harry made his decision. As he reached out with his hand and his magic, time stood still.

And he

b

r

e

a

k

s

into pieces, unraveling

being unmade and

made

again and again.

It was pain and agony. It was death and rebirth, death and rebirth, death and rebirth.

Time stretched into infinity.

Harry did not know how long how long how long—

before a hand clasped his and he felt magic pull him back into reality once more.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Harry says, remembering a second later after an infinity spent in limbo that he was in 1942, meeting Abraxas Malfoy for the first time. It was his third instance of chrono-displacement. He wondered what changes in history were made just by taking this person's hand. It was the worst one yet. Not even his run-in with Riddle was this bad.

Harry had thought that something happened to him while he was experiencing chrono-displacement that the others could somehow sense, but it seemed that these people, who rightfully belonged in this fabric of time, were unaffected by whatever was happening with Harry. To them, it would be nothing but the twinkling of an eye.

To Harry, it wasn't.

He was pulled out of his musings when Abraxas Malfoy gasped and flushed a deep red, his pale skin showing the color easily. It was only then that Harry realized Malfoy was affected by Harry's magic, which he usually kept under an extremely tight leash. It had grown exponentially in more than 300 years of life, and he was sure that being Master of Death had something to do with its abnormal growth as well.

With a firm shake of Malfoy's hand, Harry pulled his magic back into himself and let go of his hand.

Malfoy whimpered.

Several things happened at once: the Slytherin table, already quiet, suddenly broke out into the sound of students' susurrus as they observed Malfoy's reaction, the boy behind Malfoy erupted into a loud guffaw, and Harry asked Malfoy if he was all right.

Malfoy seemed to flush deeper before he coughed into his hand and said, "I'm all right, it's—it's nothing."

"If you're sure," Harry said dubiously.

"Was it that good, Abraxas?" teased the boy behind Malfoy, "Introduce me so that I might feel Peverell's greatness as well-if you know what I'm saying."

"Shut up, Alphard," Abraxas hissed, still flushed a deep red, but did as he told nevertheless. "These are Alphard and Walburga Black, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."

Walburga Black—and yes, she did look a lot like a younger version of the portrait in Grimmauld Place—Sirius' mother, curtsied at him, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sacred," she said, once again very strictly adhering to archaic Pureblood customs. "Forgive my younger brother. He is a clown. But he is amusing at times, so we keep him," and she smiled predatorily at him.

Harry inwardly shuddered.

"Oh do shut up, you cow," said Alphard, extending his hand and magic, "Nice to meet you, Peverell. Call me Alphard."

Harry shook it, this time only letting the tiniest tendril of magic through. Alphard, though, shuddered, his eyes widening. Walburga sent her brother a curious look, no doubt wondering what Harry's magic felt like.

Harry's magic had been described in a lot of ways—powerful, warm, protective, and, worryingly: seductive and addictive. He hoped that the last one was only said in jest.

Turning his attention back to Alphard, Harry remembered that this was Sirius' Uncle, the one who left him money after he was blasted off the family tree. He smiled, genuinely pleased to meet him. He seemed leagues away in terms of personality to Walburga.

"Feel free to call me Hadrian, as well. I'm sure it's nice to meet all of you," Harry started, "But I was wondering if you needed something? I'd like to get back to dinner."

And just like that, Malfoy was back to acting imperiously again. He cleared his throat, "We came over because we were wondering why you were hanging out with riffraff."

"Excuse me?" asked Harry, wondering if he'd heard Abraxas Malfoy correctly.

Malfoy scoffed, "Really, Peverell. You could do a lot better." He sneered disdainfully, and it was like looking at Draco Malfoy all over again, "Only Ventic among your group is from a House that is Most Ancient and Noble—and even then, that's debatable. Her family's from Spain, you know? Rosier and Rowle are from the branch family of their Houses, Nightingale's family is just a House, and the Fortsworth wonders here are filthy half-bloods."

The Slytherin table was silent—Harry idly watched them from his position and noted their avid expressions. Harry could feel listening charms being cast in their direction from people further away from them and debated if he should null them, but decided to let it be. Let the Slytherins have their fun.

"Now I understand your confusion," Malfoy continued, "Your homeschooling must have left gaps in your education, but I can help you there. Come sit with us, and I'll introduce you to the better sort."

Ah. It was so ridiculous Harry could laugh. Once upon a time, when he was young, Harry would have raised a shield in sheer defense of the bigotry that Malfoy just spouted, but he was too old to be taunted by a schoolyard bully now.

Harry knew better. So much better.

He smiled indulgently at Malfoy and plopped himself back on the bench, leaning his elbows back on the table, "Tell me, Malfoy. How Pure is your line?"

Malfoy puffed himself up in pride, "My family is Pure up to the 39th generation."

"And the Fortsworth line?"

The blond sneered, "Their line is broken now. They don't even have a House to their name."

"Well, in 33 generations, that won't matter, will it? As long as the Fortsworths marry Pure, they'll have the same standing as your family. Yes, your family might be Pure to the 72nd generation, but you still won't be considered Sacred, will you? You need to be Pure to the 77th generation for that.

"So you see, to me—someone whose line has been Pure for that long—the difference between half-bloods and Most Ancient and Noble Houses is null and void," Harry finished, his expression bored.

Before Malfoy could splutter in outrage, however, Harry intervened, "You know, I admire the Malfoy line. When they were but a House during the Founder's time, the Malfoy Heir Sheltered the muggle-born lines of Crabbe and Goyle, who, even now, remain vassals of your House. And in the next generation, won't their line be considered Most Ancient and Noble as well?" asked Harry rhetorically.

There was stunned, heavy silence. Malfoy was looking at him with wide, flabbergasted eyes.

"So you see. While Purity should be celebrated, every muggle-born and half-blood should be people us purebloods consider worthy of note, as well. It's something to think about, isn't it, Heir Malfoy? I believe muggle-borns are blessings from Hecate Herself—opportunities for more lines to be born and whatnot. We could discuss this later if you want, but right now I just want to finish eating. Blessed be, Heir Malfoy, and to you as well, Miss and Mister Black," and after Harry dispensed the archaic, yet proper, greeting, sending a small ping of magic at the Malfoy Heir and the Blacks to indicate non-hostility and blessing, Harry turned back in his seat to face his dinner.

The Slytherin table was pin-drop silent before another loud laugh bubbled up from Alphard. Harry decided to ignore the hushed conversation going on behind him as he focused on his dinner. So, too, did he ignore the looks everyone around him was sending him. Harry was hungry—he needed to eat.

When he heard shuffling sounds from behind him, indicating that Malfoy and the Blacks were walking away, Harry relaxed further in his seat.

Then, Everard started clapping, and Harry tore his attention away from his food to look at him. "What?" Harry asked when the Rosier branch member continued clapping at him.

"That was inspired, Peverell. Way to hit Malfoy in his soft spot. Everyone knows how protective he is of Crabbe and Goyle, who both chose to stay in Hogwarts for him. Goyle should have graduated three years ago, and Crabbe six," Everard said.

Harry hummed in interest, "Which ones are they? They're in our year?"

"No," said Tricy, "They're both in their fifth year with Heir Malfoy. They're over there, near the middle bracketing him." Harry looked over, noting that both men were staring at him. Harry half-expected them to look as oafish and stupid as Crabbe and Goyle of his era, but no. Both men had a gleam of respect in their eyes as they nodded at him—

—and Harry remembered that a blood-enemy of the Malfoy line had cursed the vassal lines when they reached their 33rd generation. This era's Crabbe and Goyle would have sons with trollish intelligence—the effect of the Curse of their line.

"I admire Crabbe. It takes absolute talent to fail First Year six times, waiting for his Lord," said Lunaria without a trace of sarcasm. Harry looked away from them, feeling sorry that the gleam of intelligence he saw in Crabbe and Goyle's eyes had dulled during his time.

"Do you really mean it, Peverell?" asked Ferren. Harry turned to his right and saw that the twins were looking at him intensely, "About what you said?"

"Every word," Harry said, "We can talk about my opinions on blood politics later if you want. We're roommates, aren't we, Ferren?" At his nod, Harry continued with an impish smile, "Then let's talk later. For now, let me enjoy my treacle tart, hmm?"

"Oh!" said Ferren, blushing, "Of course, Peverell—"

"Call me Harry, Ferren. After a full day of being seatmates, we should be on first-name basis by now, huh?"

"Oh!" repeated Ferren, blushing deeper, "Right. H-Harry."

"Ooohhh~" sang Everard, "H-Harry, thanks so much for bestowing me the absolute honor of your name—OW!"

"You deserved that, Rosier," said Tricy, her fierce expression belied by the amused twinkle in her eyes, "Be nicer to Ferren, won't you? Isn't Felix your best friend?"

"That's debatable," both Everard and Felix said at the same time, and then laughed.

"That was some speech, Hadrian," Felix said, dimpling at him, "Should Ferren and I bow and call yourself our Lord, now?" he asked. Although his words were said in jest, Harry could sense a sort of warning in them. Felix was telling him that just because they were half-bloods, doesn't mean that they would immediately jump to be Sheltered by Harry. Harry smiled. How interesting. Felix wasn't at all like the jovial character he met this morning. He'd already sensed it throughout the day, that Felix was the yin to Ferren's yang, and it intrigued him. Twin dynamics were always an interesting avenue of study.

"Only if you want to, Felix," answered Harry seriously, taking the liberty of using his first name.

Felix's eyes seemed to glint before he returned to poking at his pie.

"No fair," said Lunaria tonelessly, "Me too, Lord Peverell."

At this, Harry gaped at the emotionless girl as his newly found friends laughed. And Harry, despite himself, felt warm.

It wasn't so bad being stuck here, after all.

02 SEP 1942

LOG PAUSED

A/N:

Annnnd after eons, I finally update. Phew.

First of all, thank you for your patience and for reading this, my lovely readers. As always, your comments were what drove me to continue this and update. They're my bread and butter, they are. If you have time, please point out any plot points you'd like me to improve on and I'll look into that.

Not much of Tom yet here. I know we left him in the last chapter after bumping into Harry—but honestly, how much interaction could they have when Harry and the other 7th year Slytherins are late to Charms? Professor Orphel was waiting for them, you know! :D

As you progress further in the chapters, Harry's purpose will be revealed. For now, he's content to completely shatter age-old Pureblood beliefs about blood purity.

Wonder what Tom thought about all of it?