Juxtaposition

Harry had spoken only briefly to Walburga before, so it was surprising that she wanted to talk to him.
“Peverell. Are you a mudblood?” She asked candidly.
Harry stared at her in disgust. She really wasn’t different to how Sirius had explained her originally.
“Bloody hell.” Harry swore, “Walburga. Explain to me what separates you, a Pureblood, from a Muggleborn wizard, or a halfblood.”
“My blood is pure.”
“Define pure.” Harry challenged.
Walburga raised her chin slightly, a look of disdain evident in her eyes. "Pure means untainted, uncontaminated. It means that my lineage has remained true to magical blood for generations. We have traditions, knowledge, and power that flows through our veins from ancestors who were true witches and wizards."
Harry frowned, trying to comprehend her perspective. "But does that make you better than someone who just discovered their magical abilities, even if their parents were Muggles?"
"Of course," she replied haughtily. "We have traditions to uphold, spells that are passed down through generations, and a legacy to protect. Muggleborns bring in... uncertainty. We don't know their lineage, their history. They dilute the magic."
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "Magic isn't about blood purity. It's about the individual's ability, their heart, and their choices. People like you, Walburga, are the reason the wizarding world has so many problems. Your prejudices and hatred blind you."
Walburga's face reddened. "You dare to speak to me like this? You, who carry the blood of Peverell and other esteemed families? You should be on my side."
"Blood status doesn't define me," Harry retorted firmly. "My choices do. And I choose to stand against narrow-mindedness and hate."
There was a tense silence between them, the weight of their differing beliefs pressing heavily in the air.
Finally, Walburga spoke, her voice icy but with a hint of grudging respect. "You may have the blood of the Peverells, but you lack the understanding of what it means to preserve our world."
Harry met her gaze squarely. "Preserve our world from what? Muggleborns who are eager to learn about wizarding culture?"
“But that is the thing! They are all blundering idiots. They have changed our historic holiday, Yule, to a holiday about a fat old man in a red suit.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You mean Christmas? It's a holiday celebrated by Muggles. And what's wrong with sharing and adapting traditions? Isn't that what keeps cultures alive and vibrant?"
Walburga's lips curled in distaste. "It's not about sharing, it's about them imposing their ways on us! Our traditions, our values, our very way of life is being eroded by their ignorance and arrogance."
Harry sighed deeply. "Walburga, the world is evolving. It's becoming more interconnected. Instead of resisting, why not try to understand and find common ground? Imagine the advancements we could make if we worked together instead of pushing each other apart."
She scoffed. "You speak like a naive child. The purity of our world is at stake."
“What about sexism? They are similar topics. Wouldn’t you like to be free, and like you said a day or two ago, your family had expectations that you would marry a man to help your family.”
“They are not the same.” Walburga argued.
Harry leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Both issues stem from prejudice and a belief in the superiority of one group over another. Just as you feel oppressed by the expectations placed upon you as a woman in the wizarding world, Muggleborns feel oppressed by the expectations and prejudices of those who believe in blood purity."
Walburga's eyes flashed with indignation. "You cannot compare the two. Our traditions, our bloodlines, they hold power and magic that Muggleborns could never understand."
"But isn't it about equality?" Harry pressed. "Shouldn't everyone, regardless of their blood status, gender, or background, have the same opportunities and rights in the magical world?"
She hesitated, seemingly searching for a counterargument.
“Look, I would love to keep arguing with you, but I have to do some homework. I hope you at least try to understand.”
Harry walked off to his dorm room, where Anakin was sleeping. Harry had been very careful at hiding Anakin, and Merlin was it difficult. Anakin certainly didn’t try to make it easier.
He had taken food from dinner and stuffed it into his pocket, though it would’ve been easier to transfigure a container for it.
He stroked Anakin, the snake slowly waking up.
“Here, eat this.” Harry whispered in Parseltongue. He had also been cautious about using Parseltongue, especially in the dorm area. Harry hadn’t slipped into the language around anyone yet, but around snakes it became increasingly difficult. Harry didn’t even understand why he could still speak it, as he thought destroying the Horcrux within him would make him lose the ability. Ron had mentioned to him that someone - with enough time, energy and resources - could learn it, so perhaps it was muscle memory?

The next morning, as Harry entered the Great Hall for breakfast, he noticed Walburga sitting at the Slytherin table, her gaze fixed on him. As their eyes met, she gave a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment of their previous conversation. Harry nodded back, hoping that perhaps their dialogue had planted a seed of understanding in her.

Harry’s first class of the day was Herbology.
“Today, we are working with Sopophorous plants! You will be cutting the beans which are located just next to their leaves. Now, you don’t have to wear your gloves for this, but you can if you want.”
Harry went to grip his plant, to look for the beans, but as soon as his hands touched the plant, it wilted and turned black. Harry recoiled back, staring at his hands. He glanced at the gloves tucked in his pocket and quickly slipped them on.
The rest of the plant started to wilt and crumble into small pieces and Harry stared at it in shock.
“Professor, uh, something is wrong with my plant.” Harry called.
“Merlin’s beard, Peverell, what on Earth did you do to it?”
“I was just holding it, trying to look for the beans.”
“Sopophorous plants are sensitive, yes, but they definitely shouldn’t do this when touched.” Professor Beery explained, carefully picking up pieces of the plant to inspect it, “Grab another one and try, Mr Peverell.”
Professor Beery walked off, his eyes focused on only the plant.
Harry nodded and followed his instruction. The two people next to him gave him curious looks but ultimately ignored him.
Harry hesitantly held the plant again, and to his surprise, nothing happened. Curious, Harry cut off a leaf and took his right glove off. He pressed his finger against it and watched with fascination as it wilted and died immediately.

During lunch, Harry walked straight past the Great Hall and back to the dormitory. He had to test this new power and its limits.

Harry slowly pressed his hand against his other arm, seeing if it would make his skin die, or turn black, or kill him.
Nothing.
Harry felt strangely disappointed but relief washed over Harry as he realised that his touch didn't have the same destructive effect on his own skin. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his hand, half-expecting to see some adverse reaction, but there was none.
Harry wondered if this was a perk of being connected to Death, even if he wasn’t the Master of Death properly in this timeline.

Harry checked the time and realised it was time for him to head to Ancient Runes. He had picked different electives to the ones he had picked in the 90s, purely because he thought he needed more knowledge about these topics. He had picked up Ancient Runes, Advanced Arithmancy and Alchemy.

Gathering his books and parchment, Harry made his way to the Ancient Runes classroom. The decision to choose different electives had been a deliberate one. In this new timeline, Harry wanted to arm himself with as much knowledge as possible, hoping to be better prepared for whatever challenges lay ahead.
As he entered the classroom, the professor looked up from her desk, her eyes brightening at the sight of him. "Ah, Mr. Peverell! Please, take a seat."
Harry nodded, choosing a desk near the front. As the other students filed in, he couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. Ancient Runes had always intrigued him, and he was eager to delve deeper into the mysteries of the magical symbols and scripts that had shaped wizarding history.
“Contrary to what many of you may think, runes are not necessarily more intrinsically magical than your basic sprig of peppermint or stick of oak wood. Taken on their own, runes are simply letters. When put into a string, they may form phrases or simply just words. In this form, they don’t automatically do anything.”
“How do they do magic, then?” One of the other students asked and Professor Vale glared at them.
“Please raise your hand.” She asked curtly, “There is nothing wrong with using runes in this way, and most runic inscriptions are no more magical than the letters you write when completing your homework.”
Professor Vale walked over to her blackboard and raised her wand, drawing a rune onto the board, “The Elder Futhark is, first and foremost, a script for Old Norse in much the same way that Latin letters are used to write English.”
“Runes serve multiple magical functions.” She continued, “They're employed in divination, spell casting, and enchantments. Additionally, they find their way into potions by being inscribed onto cauldrons or vials. Often used as protective talismans, runes are renowned for amplifying various magical disciplines. In some cases, a spell's longevity or potency might hinge on the inclusion of specific runes. As we delve deeper into subsequent sections, the multifaceted applications of runes become evident, suggesting that mastering them could span a lifetime. Yet, even a basic understanding, like discerning between the upright Perthro - a symbol of fertility, and its inverted counterpart - indicating infertility, can be invaluable to a wizard.”
Surprisingly, Harry didn’t find himself growing bored. Hermione had been right: this class was interesting.

“As previously touched upon, runes, much like any written script, convey messages across generations. While the linguistic essence of runes enduring over time is understandable, what about their mystical essence? Historically, during the Renaissance, there was a prevailing belief that runes harnessed collective willpower or belief. If a community ceased to believe in a rune's efficacy, it was thought to lose its potency. However, archaeological findings from places like Egypt challenged this notion. Modern scholarship now contemplates two primary hypotheses regarding the magical efficacy of runes. Who can tell me what they are?” She asked.
Harry could see Tom, who was also sitting at the front, just at a different desk, whose hand shot up. Harry glared at Tom, hoping he would notice. Harry was still pissed off.
“Mr Riddle?”
“The Battery theory was the first theory developed. Specifically in the early 18th century by French and German wizards.” Tom said as if it were the most common knowledge in the world.
“Fantastic. 5 points to Slytherin. Can you tell us what that theory is?”
“It says that runes are like enchantments, that they are imbued with magic at the time of spellcasting and once that store of magic is gone, the rune must either be recharged or become a non-magic rune.”
Professor Vale nodded enthusiastically, “Does anyone know the second theory?”
Tom’s hand shot up again.
“Someone other than Tom?”
Harry looked around to see if anyone else was going to raise their hand, and upon seeing no one else, Harry decided to.
“Ah, Mr Peverell. Answer away.”
“Uh, the second theory is the self regenerating theory. The main point is that the runes only need the initial transformation and then they would be able to self-sustain.”
“Wonderful, another 5 points to Slytherin.”

The lesson continued, and Harry found himself in a sort of competition with Riddle. Harry answered a question, and then Tom would provide a more thorough and in-depth answer. But, despite the subtle rivalry brewing between them, Harry was genuinely engrossed in the subject matter.
For their homework, Professor Vale instructed them to inscribe a rune of their choice into whatever they wanted and bring it to the next class. Harry supposed the goal was to replicate the symbols with precision, understanding the intricacies of each stroke and curve.

Harry still didn’t really know how he qualified for the class, but he had taken multiple tests when he first arrived to see what electives he could take. He guessed all the reading he did in the Peverell Manor paid off.
After their last lesson, as Harry returned to his dormitory, he found a small note placed on his bedside table. He picked it up and read the elegant script:
"Meet me by the Black Lake tomorrow at sunset. - W.I.B."
Harry's brows furrowed. Was this a trap? Or was Walburga reaching out for a genuine conversation? Regardless, Harry knew he had to find out. He tucked the note into his bedside table.

Under the shroud of night, the world took on a different hue. Shadows seemed deeper, sounds more muted, and every rustle of leaves felt amplified. It was during such a night that Harry, feeling restless and contemplative, decided to indulge in a solitary flight.
With his school issued broom in hand, Harry made his way to an open field, away from the prying eyes of the castle and its inhabitants. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could truly be free.

Climbing onto the broomstick, he kicked off from the ground, feeling the immediate rush of adrenaline as he soared higher into the night sky. The world below became a blur of greens and browns, dotted with shimmering lights from distant villages. The moon, full and luminous, cast a silvery glow over the landscape, illuminating Harry's path.
Feeling more confident, Harry decided to challenge himself further. He shifted his position on the broomstick, attempting to stand upright—a manoeuvre that required immense balance and core strength. With each adjustment, he could feel his muscles tense, working in tandem to keep him steady. The sensation was exhilarating, a dance between man and machine, as he navigated the night sky with grace and precision.
However, just as Harry was getting accustomed to this new stance, a sudden gust of wind swept across the field. The force caught him off guard, causing the broomstick to wobble dangerously. Harry's heart raced as he fought to maintain control, his fingers gripping the handle tightly. For a few heart-stopping seconds, he teetered on the edge, the ground below looming closer with each passing moment.
Drawing upon years of Quidditch training and an innate sense of balance, Harry managed to steady himself. With a sigh of relief, he shifted back into a seated position, opting for a more conservative to flying. He knew it would definitely help if he could properly stand on a broom while flying, as he would be able to reach further to grab the snitch.
Harry took a deep breath and slowly stood up again. He was determined not to fall this time.

The night sky was beautiful as Harry slowly flew around the pitch. He had wobbled profusely multiple times, but regained his posture every time. The sky was covered in stars, but Harry’s eyes scanned for Sirius’ star.

Touching back down on the pitch, Harry’s eyes drooped at the thought of Sirius. He missed his godfather everyday. However, his attention was quickly diverted when he noticed something out of place—a shadowy figure lurking at the edge of the field.
On high alert, Harry's senses went into overdrive. The figure, obscured by the darkness, seemed out of place in this remote location. Who could it be? A student sneaking out past curfew? Or perhaps someone out to get him?

Drawing his wand, Harry approached cautiously, each step calculated and deliberate. His eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of movement. The figure remained still, their presence an enigma.
"Who's there?" Harry called out, his voice echoing slightly in the night air.