Flared temper
— CHAPTER TWENTY —
Flared temper
In the three weeks since their visit to Hogwarts, Harry had learned that there were exactly two wrong ways to deal with Riddle’s punishments. The first was to fall into a state of complete numbness, as he had done after being punished in front of the Slytherins for eavesdropping — that still made him sick with shame. The second was to show open resentment, as he had done this time — a mistake Riddle had corrected with his usual ruthless efficiency, making it crystal clear that he wouldn’t tolerate any more of Harry’s 'sulking', as he’d called it. So Harry had reluctantly settled for option three: pretending everything was fine, just like Riddle did. Smile and move on. Act like nothing had happened.
But it wasn’t fine.
The memory of his latest punishment still made Harry wince internally. Not because of the physical pain — though it had been severe — but because the situation had once again reminded him just how little control he had over his own life now, and how much it was dictated by Riddle's whims. What made it worse was the injustice of it all. Harry had every right to be angry. What Riddle had done to Slughorn was unforgivable, and the thought of the consequences... Harry shoved the thought away before the familiar knot of anxiety could tighten in his chest.
He remembered vividly how he had been fuming when they returned from Hogwarts. Riddle, of course, hadn't given him even a moment to calm down or collect his thoughts.
"Leave your outer robes in your room and come to the library," he ordered icily. Without waiting for a response, he’d turned and disappeared down the corridor.
Harry’s temper flared. Why should he listen? He wasn’t Riddle’s puppet. So, in a moment of defiance, he decided he wasn’t going to.
When Riddle appeared in Harry's doorway minutes later, the air itself seemed to freeze. Harry felt his defiance waver, replaced by a familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. For a terrible moment, he thought Riddle might use the Cruciatus Curse. Instead, with a casual flick of his wand, Riddle summoned Harry's outer robe away.
"Turn around," Riddle commanded, his voice sharp and dangerous. “Hands on the desk. And congratulations — your little act of defiance just earned you an extra strike."
"I had every right to be angry about what you did! You can't just—"
"Four strikes," Riddle cut him off smoothly. "Shall I make it five?"
Harry's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct screamed at him to fight back, to rebel, but the cold gleam in Riddle’s eyes stopped him. It was a look that promised pain. Swallowing hard, Harry turned to the desk, his movements stiff with defiance, and gripped the polished surface. His heart hammered against his ribs, knowing this punishment would be different. His shoulders were taut with tension, his breath shallow. The deviation from their usual routine sent a spike of fear through his chest. If the—
The first strike caught him completely off guard — the searing pain across his back was nothing like the familiar sting of the Belt Spell on his palms. The second strike ripped a strangled gasp from his throat, and by the third, he was clenching his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The fourth — his "reward" for defiance — sent white-hot agony through his shoulders, making his arms tremble as he struggled to keep himself upright against the desk.
When it was over, the silence in the room was suffocating. Harry struggled to catch his breath, his vision blurring as he fought to stay upright.
"I trust this will teach you to control your emotions," Riddle said, his voice infuriatingly steady, as though they’d just finished a polite discussion. "Such outbursts as the one in Slughorn’s office will not be tolerated." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an edge of steel. "And Harry? If you ever raise your fist against me again, I will use the Cruciatus Curse. No matter where we are."
The warning hung in the air like frost. Harry stayed silent, his hands still pressed against the desk. Every breath sent new waves of pain across his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and humiliating.
When the door clicked shut, Harry slumped to the floor. Pressing his forehead against the cool wood, he whispered, "Fuck you, Riddle."
For the first week, every movement was agony. Sitting, standing, even turning in bed sent sharp stabs of pain through his back. When he dressed or washed, he avoided looking in mirrors, knowing the marks would still be there. Riddle had withheld the healing salve this time, and Harry's pride wouldn't let him ask for it, even though he sometimes caught Riddle watching him with that calculating look, as if measuring how long he could endure.
Bug, Riddle's house-elf, made matters worse. During meals, the little creature was shooting Harry venomous glares from the corner of his oversized eyes. It wasn't mere hostility — it was envy, pure and twisted. The sheer perversity of it made Harry's stomach churn. How could anyone want to be on the receiving end of Riddle's wrath?
Riddle, for his part, showed no mercy despite Harry's condition. One evening in the library, Harry was practicing the Whirlwind Charm, which required a wide, sweeping motion of the arm. Each attempt sent waves of pain across his back, making him wince. After another failed try, he lowered his wand, exhausted.
Riddle glanced up from his book. "I don’t recall giving you permission to stop, Harry."
"It hurts," Harry muttered through gritted teeth.
"Perhaps," Riddle replied coldly, "if you learned to think before acting, you wouldn’t be in pain at all." His grey eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "Again."
Harry glared at him, the urge to snap back almost overpowering. "Maybe if you weren’t such a—"
"Watch your words," Riddle interrupted, his tone deceptively soft. "And think twice about what comes out of your mouth, because I assure you, my creativity in correcting you is limitless."
Gritting his teeth, Harry raised his wand and muttered, "Sadistic bastard."
The next day, Riddle dragged him to Borgin and Burke’s, despite the fact that Harry could barely move without wincing. Borgin’s cold gaze landed on him, his lips curling in disdain. "I trust your condition isn’t due to another attempt to steal something, boy?" he sneered.
The accusation hit harder than Harry expected. His cheeks flushed as he muttered, "I didn’t steal anything."
Before Borgin could press further, Riddle stepped in and placed a firm, almost possessive hand on Harry's shoulder. The touch burned. "I assure you, sir, my brother is under control. As for his condition, we were simply practising duelling. Harry lost and is now suffering the consequences," Riddle lied softly. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr Borgin."
Burke, standing behind the counter, studied Harry with quiet curiosity, his expression unreadable. However, a few days later, during Riddle and Borgin's absence, he approached Harry and, with an unexpected display of lack of subtlety, demonstrated a charm for detecting enchantments on cursed books — a gesture that left Harry both suspicious and intrigued.
Between work and study, Harry barely had time to breathe, let alone think about the terrible implications of Riddle altering Slughorn's memory. The rigorous study schedule that had been imposed on Harry seemed specifically designed to keep his mind occupied. Despite the plan to use the O.W.L. exams as a cover to steal the Gryffindor Sword, Riddle insisted on thorough preparation and treated the academics with the utmost seriousness.
To Harry's horror, the older boy began enlisting his Slytherin followers as tutors. When Harry tried to protest, Riddle's eyes had gone dangerously cold.
"This isn't up for discussion, Potter," he said. "You will accept their help, and you will be grateful for it. Unless you'd prefer another lesson in obedience?"
The threat hung in the air, making Harry's back throb with phantom pain. And since Harry really didn't have the strength to object, not on this subject and not when he was counting down the days until his arrival at Hogwarts, he just sighed and accepted it with grim resignation as another inconvenience in his current life.
What he hadn’t anticipated was just how unbearable the Slytherins would be. The future Death Eathers, it seemed, shared not only their master's ambition but also his talent for making Harry's life miserable — and some were as good at it as the future Dark Lord himself.
o.O.o
Every Tuesday afternoon, Harry found himself stepping through the fireplace into Brandon Avery’s apartment in Liverpool. It was the first time since his arrival in 1947 that he’d been allowed to leave Riddle’s apartment without the older boy hovering over him like a shadow. Riddle even allowed him to take the wand, for the sake of appearances, as he put it. Not that it felt like freedom. Before Harry’s first visit, Riddle had made it abundantly clear that escape was out of the question. Harry didn’t need the reminder — he’d found out enough times that the bloody location spell Riddle had cast on him worked all too efficiently.
Avery's flat was spacious but dark, with rows of shelves running the length of two walls. The window overlooked a wide river and a Muggle town. On Harry's first visit, the older boy was waiting for him sitting at a large oak table, flipping through a thick herbarium. He barely glanced up as Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, treating the arrival of Tom Riddle's supposed half-brother with all the enthusiasm of someone discovering mold on their breakfast.
"Sit down," he said instead of a greeting, his tone curt.
Harry moved carefully toward the indicated chair, trying not to wince as his still-healing back protested. Of course, Brandon's sharp eyes caught the slight hesitation in his movements.
"What did you do to piss off Tom this time?" Brandon asked, his voice dripping with the kind of mock concern that made Harry's teeth itch. His eyebrow — which seemed to form one continuous line with the other across his face — rose slightly as he leaned back in his chair, studying Harry with a mix of amusement and disdain.
Harry’s jaw tightened. "I breathed too loudly."
Brandon's lips twitched. "Ah, so it was something spectacularly stupid, then. And here I was thinking the last adventure had taught you something. I hope you know more about herbology, though, because I'm only wasting my time on you because your brother asked nicely."
Asked? Rather ordered, Harry thought bitterly as he sat down. He mirrored Avery's feelings — he didn't want to be here at all. The older Slytherin had made no secret of his disdain for him, even if he believed Harry to be Tom Riddle’s half-brother. The fact that Avery had once helped save his life didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it only deepened the unease Harry felt in his presence. It was hard to feel grateful to someone who looked at you like you were something they’d scraped off their shoe.
Avery turned the herbarium toward Harry. "Let’s see what Tom’s little brother knows about magical plants, shall we?"
The first specimen was a dried twig with silvery leaves. Harry recognised it from his own time - Professor Sprout had shown it to them once in the greenhouse.
"Moonleaf," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "It’s planted during the full moon and harvested under the new moon. It’s used in sleeping draughts and—"
"Wrong," Brandon cut him off sharply. "That’s Moonshine Thistle. Similar properties, completely different plant. Moonleaf has serrated edges; this clearly doesn’t. If you gave someone Moonshine Thistle thinking it was Moonleaf, you’d put them in a coma.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing dramatically. "Merlin, did those Irish vagrants teach you anything useful, or were they too busy robbing people to bother?"
Harry’s fingers dug into his thighs under the table. "I know enough to pass my O.W.L.s," he said through gritted teeth.
"Clearly not, or Tom wouldn't have sentenced me to these delightful tutorials," Avery shot back. He pulled out another specimen — this one a dried flower with petals that still held a hint of deep purple. "Try again. And this time, think before you open your mouth."
Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Nightshade?" he ventured, then immediately regretted it when he saw Avery’s expression darken.
"What did I say about wasting my time?" Brandon asked sharply.
Harry flinched at his tone. "I thought I knew."
"Next time, don’t think. Be sure," Avery snapped. "This is Witch's Bell. Two totally different species. Witch's Bell has distinctive striations on the stem. The difference could kill someone." He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into Harry's. "Is that what you want? To kill someone because you couldn't be bothered to learn the difference?"
Harry stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I’m done with this."
Brandon didn't move, his smile turning cold. "Sit down. You're not going anywhere. Tom's orders, remember?" He gestured to the chair with a lazy wave of his hand. "Unless you want me to tell him you walked out of your lesson. I’m sure he’d love to hear about that."
Harry slumped back in his chair with ostentatious anger. "Keep asking, then."
This was going to be a long afternoon.
o.O.o
Harry stood at the workshop table in Secundus Lestrange's private potions studio, grinding mud fungus with perhaps more force than necessary. He couldn't decide which was worse: having to learn potions again or having to spend hours with someone named Lestrange. Both reminded him uncomfortably of things he'd rather forget. If the extra lessons with Lestrange had been like Avery's, once a week, it would have been bearable. But on Riddle's orders, they were held two or even three times a week, like today's.
This has to be some sort of revenge, he thought, carefully measuring the powder. But try as he might, he couldn't figure out what he'd done recently to deserve it. He'd been following Riddle's rules, mostly. Unless, as always, it was about the whole "accidentally destroying the Dark Lord as a baby" thing. Thirteen years in exile seemed just the sort of thing Riddle would hold a grudge for. Permanently.
At least his back wasn't hurting anymore, and the middle Lestrange brother wasn't Snape. Where his future potions professor had wielded criticism like a weapon, Secundus merely seemed annoyed at having his time wasted. He didn't sneer or make cutting remarks — though he did have an irritating habit of glancing meaningfully at Harry's hands whenever Harry made a mistake. Heat crept up Harry's neck every time. The older Lestrange had obviously told his younger brother about that humiliating punishment Riddle had dealt out in front of him.
Harry was carefully mixing his third attempt at an anti-paralysis potion when the door opened. Concentrating on making sure that this time he didn't make the mistake that had caused his almost finished potion to fail half an hour earlier, he jumped in surprise, almost knocking the cauldron off the burner. Sebastian Selwyn swept in, his dark curls disheveled as if he'd been running. A remorseful house elf followed the visitor, apparently horrified to see how his master reacted to allowing this intrusion.
"Secundus, why aren't you — oh." Selwyn's confident stride faltered as he spotted Harry. "Primus said you weren't coming tonight. Now I see why." His lips quirked in amusement.
Secundus sighed, gesturing at Harry with poorly concealed resignation. "Tom's orders. O.W.L. preparation." At the same time, he dismissed the house elf with a wave of his hand, apparently not considering it an offence worthy of punishment.
"But tonight, it's Tom and Alastair. Everyone’s going to be there." Excitement flickered in Selwyn’s dark eyes, sharp and hungry.
Harry’s spoon stopped mid-rotation. Lestrange noticed immediately, of course.
"Keep stirring. You want to ruin it again?" he snapped, irritation threading his voice.
Harry made an apologetic face and resumed stirring, his ears pricked for more information. They're up to something, and judging by Selwyn's reaction, something worth seeing.
Selwyn peered over Harry’s shoulder at the simmering potion. Harry tensed instinctively at the sudden proximity, at the sheer presence of the older Slytherin, who exuded effortless confidence. A sharp, biting scent of cologne filled Harry’s nose.
"What are we brewing here? Looks a bit like a Blood-Replenishing Brew… or wait, is it an Anti-Paralysis Potion?"
To recognize a potion just by appearance? Selwyn was starting to scare him.
"Yeah, it's an Anti-Paralysis potion," he nodded.
"So I haven’t gotten out of practice," Selwyn said, his tone light but his eyes sharp as they scanned the ingredients on the table. Straightening slightly, he tapped his fingers against the edge of the workstation.
"You’re about to throw in the powdered mud fungus, aren’t you?"
Harry gave a stiff nod, preparing to do exactly that, but Selwyn clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"Don’t. Add the juice of smoky garlic first," he instructed, already reaching for the small wooden container of peeled bulbs. Tossing one to Harry, he added, "Speeds up the brewing process. Crush it with the flat of your knife — my grandfather’s trick. Works every time."
Harry hesitated. A petty part of him wanted to ignore the suggestion out of spite — maybe even ruin the potion so Secundus would be stuck here longer, missing whatever Riddle had planned. But his recently sharpened instincts told him that a little cunning could go a long way. Besides, Selwyn, while impatient, didn’t radiate outright hostility.
"Go on," Selwyn prompted, tilting his head. "Unless you’d rather sit here another half-hour making Lestrange suffer."
The temptation lingered, but Harry decided to relent. He flattened the garlic as instructed, watching the milky juice seep into the mixture and change the colour almost at once.
Selwyn grinned, satisfied. "There, almost brewed. This way you’ll have it done in three minutes instead of twenty. Useful trick. Keep it in mind, kiddo." Then, abruptly, he waved a hand. "Well, you’re done, and we’ve got better things to do."
Harry opened his mouth to protest — he was itching to know what Riddle was up to, but if he wasn’t supposed to know, well, that likely meant Riddle had plans he wanted to keep hidden. Selwyn, too restless to stand around, had already nudged him toward the fireplace.
Secundus, sighing heavily, waved a dismissive hand much like he had at the elf. "Bubble can handle cleanup. Off you go."
Harry bristled at this unceremonious dismissal, as he was genuinely curious as to what was going on. Especially since Riddle clearly wanted to keep it a secret from him. Unfortunately, Selwyn, as hyperactive as ever, did not let the steam out of his mouth. Harry had no choice but to take a handful and step into the fireplace. Annoying as it was, an afternoon away from Riddle’s watchful eyes had its own value.
When he returned the following week, Secundus actually nodded in greeting. "Your Anti-Paralysis Potion was… adequate," he said, almost begrudgingly.
Harry hid a small smile as he set up his cauldron. In his situation, even the smallest victories were worth celebrating.
o.O.o
Harry sat in the orangery of the Rosier estate, painfully aware of the wealth around him. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, casting a golden glow over the exotic plants that filled the air with their sweet scent. Beyond the glass, a sprawling garden — no, a private park — stretched out, the kind Harry had only ever seen in documentaries about the royal family. It had taken them a quarter of an hour just to walk here from the main house, a fact that still boggled Harry’s mind.
And then there were the teacups.
Harry stared at the one in his hands, afraid he’d break it just by lifting it to his lips. The porcelain was so thin he could almost see through it. And of course, Everett had to casually drop into conversation that his great-great-great-grandmother had specially imported the entire set from Japan, just because they were "perfect for reading tea leaves." Because apparently, regular teacups weren't fancy enough for fortune-telling.
Harry really didn't need this information to realise how different the world in which Rosier grew up was. The more time Harry spent with Riddle's Slytherins, the clearer the source of their arrogance became. It wasn't just about blood status — it was this: sprawling estates, inherited wealth, and armies of house-elves at their beck and call. The irony wasn't lost on Harry. These purebloods, who sneered at everything Muggle, lived exactly like the Muggle aristocracy his Aunt Petunia worshipped in her magazines. Same grand estates, same obsession with status, same contempt for those beneath them. The only difference? The Slytherins would have been mortified by the comparison.
But the real joke was watching these pampered purebloods defer to Tom Riddle — an orphan raised by Muggles. Here they were, with their centuries of magical heritage and mountains of gold, hanging on every word from someone they'd normally cross the street to avoid. It was almost impressive how Riddle had walked into their world with nothing but talent and ambition and turned them into his eager servants.
And when Riddle gave an order, they obeyed—even if it meant spending an afternoon tutoring his 'younger brother', a nobody in their eyes, and pretending they didn't mind.
So that's why Everett Rosier sat in a chair opposite him with the grace of someone who had never questioned his place in the world. His perfectly tailored clothes of the finest materials and his manicured hands were evidence of a life Harry had never known — even the Malfoys of his time, for all their wealth, did not exude such refinement.
"Are you finished?" Everett asked, his polite tone carrying just enough warmth to preserve decorum, but not enough to suggest true kindness.
Of all the pre-Death Eathers, he was the best at showing that he didn't mind wasting afternoons teaching Harry. Which was saying quite a lot.
Harry glanced at his almost-full cup. "Not yet."
"Then look at mine first."
Everett placed his cup on the saucer with a grace that made the simple act seem like a performance. Harry, suppressing a sigh, did the same and leaned over to look into the cup. He saw nothing but a jumble of leaves. In Trelawney's class he'd at least had Ron to joke with about making things up. But his lessons with Avery and Lestrange he'd learned that Riddle's Slytherins didn't appreciate creative interpretation.
"I'm afraid I don't see much," Harry admitted cautiously, watching Rosier's reaction.
To his surprise, Everett's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Neither do I, these days," he admitted, though his casual tone seemed calculated. "The readings have been rather... inconsistent. One day it's prosperity and success, the next it's all doom and gloom." He traced the rim of his cup with one manicured finger. "It's as if the future itself can't quite decide what it wants to be."
A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine. Was his presence here, in 1947, already causing ripples in time? Were his attempts to resist Riddle while appearing to submit creating alternate possibilities that even divination couldn’t sort through?
Rosier must have taken his silence for confusion. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. "It’s all about you passing the exam, isn’t it?"
Harry forced himself to focus on the present. "Yes. Tom expects me to do well."
"Ah." Everett's smile sharpened slightly. "I must admit, I'm surprised he's allowing you to take Divination at all. Given his... particular standards." The way he studied Harry's face made it clear he was fishing for information.
Harry kept his expression neutral. He knew every word he said would be analysed. Interacting with Riddle’s inner circle was like walking through a minefield — one wrong step, and everything could fall apart.
"Tom insisted that I take O.W.L. this year," Harry said carefully. "Since I have to pass two extra subjects and I've never studied runes or arithmetic, we agreed that Divination would be the easiest to learn."
Everett nodded, though Harry wasn’t sure if he bought the explanation. Not that it mattered —Harry had played his part, and whatever happened next was Riddle’s problem.
"Well, that makes sense," Everett said, his tone light but still carrying that edge of calculation. "Let me give you some advice, then. If you want to pass, improvise. The O.W.L. examiner won’t be able to tell if you’re truly Seeing or not. Learn the basic signs — love, wealth, illness —and apply them liberally. Add enough specific details, and they’ll assume you know what you’re talking about."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the advice. Everett, noticing his reaction, gestured to Harry’s nearly full cup with a sly smirk. "Drink up and try again with yours."
o.O.o
Unlike Rosier or the Lestrange's, Alastair Macnair did not live in a large mansion with a garden the size of a park. On the contrary, his apartment was small — smaller than the one occupied by Avery or even Riddle. Though sparsely furnished and equipped with only the essentials, it was here that Harry felt most intimidated. Macnair didn’t need wealth to make an impression. His reputation as an Auror who had infiltrated Grindelwald’s network was enough to command respect — or fear.
Now, on the orders of his real Dark Lord, he too had been temporarily reduced to the role of tutor to his younger, fake brother. To say that Macnair was brimming with enthusiasm would be an understatement.
"Sit," Macnair commanded, his voice sharp as he closed the study door with a flick of his wand. He gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair in front of the desk. Harry obeyed hesitantly, perching on the edge of the seat, his hands clenched in his lap.
Macnair didn’t sit. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, his broad frame towering over Harry. His yellow-flecked eyes locked onto Harry with a cold, appraising stare that made Harry feel like a specimen under a microscope. The memory of their first meeting — Harry’s humiliation, the Belt Charm, Macnair’s indifferent gaze — flashed in his mind, and his cheeks burned. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the older man was thinking the same thing.
"Before we get down to practice and visit my family's farm," Macnair began, his voice as sharp as a knife's edge, "let's establish whether you possess even basic theoretical knowledge." His tone suggested he highly doubted it. "How do we classify magical creatures, and what do the classifications signify?"
Harry let out a breath. It wasn't that difficult — even Hagrid told them about it in his lessons.
"Each class is marked with the letter X and indicates how dangerous the animal is and the chances of domesticating it."
"Go on," Macnair prompted, his stern expression unchanged. "What’s the range of X's?"
Harry's temporary confidence wavered. "One to... nine?" He remembered Ron's book about Acromantulas having that many X's, but even as he said it, he knew he was wrong.
"Are you asking or answering?"
Harry blushed. So, Macnair was just like Avery and Lestrange—rigid, exacting, and utterly intolerant of improvisation.
"I'm not sure," he replied quietly, looking away.
All he heard was a loud sigh.
"One to five," he corrected, each word dripping with contempt. "Five-X creatures are the most dangerous, while four-X creatures are dangerous but manageable with proper protocols." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Speaking of which — basic handling protocols for four-X creatures. List them."
Harry's mind raced through his experiences. He'd handled Buckbeak, fought a dragon, ridden Thestrals — but none of that would help here. He needed textbook answers, not practical experience.
"You need to approach them carefully—" he began.
"Specific steps," Macnair cut in. "In order."
"Check for signs of aggression first..."
"Which are?"
"If they're showing their teeth?" Harry offered weakly, knowing he'd just dug his grave even deeper.
A muscle twitched in Macnair’s square face. "Showing their—" he broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose as if Harry’s ignorance were physically painful to him.
"I never had particularly good teachers for this subject," Harry said quietly, unable to keep the defensive note from his voice.
"That," Macnair replied icily, "is not an excuse. Tell that to the hippogriff that mauls you because you failed to show proper respect."
Harry bristled internally. He wanted to argue, to tell Macnair that he definitely had more experience with hippogriffs than him. And none of them tore him apart with their claws. But before he could open his mouth, Macnair opened the door with a wave of his wand.
"Tell your brother to buy you Scamander’s textbook on magical creatures. Don’t come back here until you’ve read it at least three times. And bring your notes. Now, you’re dismissed."
Harry blinked. Just like that?
"Why are you still sitting here?" Macnair said, his voice sharp. "I told you to go."
Five minutes later, Harry emerged from the fireplace in Riddle's flat. He knew he had to let the older boy know that he had finished his lesson and, although he was in no hurry to do so, he made his way to the library.
Riddle, as usual, was buried in a thick book. He didn't look up, but his hand extended expectantly.
"Back already? I didn’t expect you to return so soon."
Harry sighed but without unnecessary hesitation he handed his wand over to Riddle. He was so used to it that he almost felt no inner opposition. Almost. After that he slumped into an armchair, his frustration simmering just below the surface. "Yeah, well, Macnair kicked me out after two questions," he complained. "I thought your Slytherins were supposed to teach me, not humiliate me."
Riddle finally looked up, his grey eyes cool and assessing. "I asked them to evaluate your knowledge and help you fill in the gaps," he said coldly. "Not to teach you from scratch. If you’d bothered to learn the basics, you wouldn’t be in this position."
Harry glared at him, his pride stinging. " If I had access to resources, I would have prepared. By the way, Macnair said to tell you to buy me Scamander’s textbook," he said, his voice clipped. "Apparently, I’m supposed to read it three times before he’ll even consider teaching me again."
A slight twitch of Riddle's lips suggested he found Harry's predicament amusing. His gaze drifted to the bookshelves. "Second shelf from the window, third row from the bottom," he said dismissively. "You'll find what you need there. And do start now — you have another lesson with Alastair next Wednesday. I won't allow you to reschedule."
o.O.o
Despite Slytherin's carefully arranged network of teachers, there were some subjects that Riddle would not delegate. Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts made sense — after all, these were the subjects that would give Harry the skills to challenge Riddle. But Astronomy? That was unexpected.
"The examiners are especially strict about star positions," Riddle had said one night as he led them up the creaky ladder to the roof of their tenement. "So, you need a lot of practice."
Harry couldn't help noticing that Riddle's usually immaculate appearance was somewhat dishevelled after a long day's work - it made him look normal, like an ordinary wizard, rather than a future tyrant and mass murderer.
"In my time, we also had a practical exam — I had to complete a map of the sky and mark the missing stars. And I passed it," he grumbled.
Riddle looked at him with disdain.
"Here you'll have to draw some of it yourself." Riddle's voice carried that particular tone he used when he thought Harry was being deliberately obtuse. "The 1940s curriculum expects more... rigorous understanding."
Harry bit back a retort about how living fifty years in the future might actually make him more knowledgeable, not less. Instead, he gritted his teeth (his aching back was still no excuse for letting anything get to him) and began to climb after Riddle.
The London sky of 1947 was clearer than Harry was used to, though the glow of the city still obscured the stars. As Riddle pointed out various constellations, Harry found himself unwillingly impressed by the depth of his knowledge. It was easy to forget, standing there in the cool night air, that this same man would become Voldemort. That the same elegant hand gesturing at Cassiopeia would one day cast the curse that killed his parents. The thought always came with a bitter taste of self-hatred, for there had been moments when he had let his guard down in the company of the future Dark Lord. Especially on those rare occasions when, after correctly answering a tricky question, Riddle's face would flash a look that, with a bit of good will, could be mistaken for an expression of satisfaction at the knowledge displayed.
"Pay attention," Riddle snapped whenever Harry's mind wandered, his voice carrying that edge that promised consequences. "The question about Orion's position may be on your exam."
On misty nights, when London's notorious fog made the Thames invisible, Riddle would Apparate them to windswept cliffs or desolate moors. These excursions were somehow worse than their rooftop sessions — the surrounding darkness heightening their strange dynamic. Just the two of them, under an endless canopy of stars, with Harry constantly reminding himself that this man who could speak so passionately about celestial bodies and their influence on magic and magical ritual was the same man who had created the army of the Inferi from the bodies of the dead.
Of course, preparing for the exams did not mean that Harry was free from studying black magic. According to their agreement, Riddle continued to teach Harry, and Harry, despite his reluctance and inner resistance, tried to show the minimum interest required. This meant Riddle had to honor the second part of their agreement, and their training duels in the courtyard of Lestrange Castle ruins became as routine as their nightly chess games.
Though Riddle never repeated his offer from their first duel, that didn’t stop Harry from occasionally trying to negotiate rewards for his performance. His first attempt was met with that infuriating, razor-edged smile — the one that said Riddle found his efforts amusing. Yet, to Harry’s surprise, he agreed. It didn’t take long for Harry to understand why. Riddle used this as an opportunity to show Harry just how much he’d held back during their initial clash. Now, there were no such concessions. If Harry wanted something from him, he’d have to earn it through sheer effort and skill.
Yet, rather than deterring him, the increasing difficulty of their duels only fuelled Harry’s determination. What began as mere training sessions transformed into something far more personal: an outlet for every bitter thought, every suppressed emotion, every moment of forced submission. Here, in the heat of combat, Harry could finally unleash the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface, without fear of the consequences of showing it.
Far from being bothered by this, Riddle seemed to actively encourage it. His insistence on Harry’s full effort only stoked Harry’s resolve to excel while clinging to his principles. It became another form of resistance: Harry doggedly sticking to neutral spells, even as Riddle pushed him toward darker, more destructive magic. Of course, the future Dark Lord had his ways of drawing out Harry's darker side. Sometimes this was done by subtle manipulation, sometimes by more direct means, and sometimes it was Harry who used it as an opportunity to achieve his own ends.
One day, when Riddle was positively oozing with suspicious self-satisfaction, Harry mischievously suggested:
"How about this? If I last two minutes and use at least one dark spell, you'll answer one of my questions."
Riddle studied him for a moment, his face impassive. "Five minutes. And you can only use dark magic." His tone was light, almost playful — the voice he used when setting traps.
"Three minutes. And I'll use whatever spells I see fit. Neutral and grey ones have their uses too."
"Very well," Riddle agreed. "But if you ask about Horcruxes, I won't answer."
Harry hadn't planned to — he knew that knowledge would come at a much higher price.
They took their positions, wands raised, the air between them charged with anticipation. The first curse came whistling through the air before Harry had fully straightened, but he was ready for it, throwing himself sideways as purple light burned the grass where he had been standing.
Harry didn't hesitate with his own response. Between dodges and hasty shields, he hurled spells without restraint, knowing that the magic of the life debt wouldn’t interfere here—it was sophisticated enough to read intent, and his only goal was to get an answer. It was strangely exhilarating, almost like flying on his Firebolt, to cast without restraint, to watch Riddle dodge and deflect spells that could have been dangerous in a real fight.
And Harry, as Riddle demanded, didn’t limit himself to spells compatible with his morals. Several times, he cast curses Riddle himself had taught him, and once or twice, he even resorted to the Half-Blood Prince’s creations. When he sent a slashing Sectumsempra, Riddle parried it with effortless grace.
"Interesting," the future Dark Lord said, a flicker of approval in his voice as he forced Harry onto the defensive. "I don’t recall teaching you that one."
Harry gritted his teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs and the acrid smell of his singed sleeve. He retaliated with another of the Prince’s curses, one he hadn’t even tested. He didn’t know what it did, but the way Riddle’s eyes flashed as he sidestepped it told him everything he needed to know. It bought him a moment, a breath, not enough to win, but enough to fulfil their agreement.
Three minutes and five seconds. That’s how long it took before Riddle finally — efficiently, ruthlessly — disarmed him, the spell ripping the wand from Harry’s grip. The sheer force of the spell threw Harry backwards onto the grass.
Harry forced himself into a sitting position. He was panting, sweat running down his face, his body aching and his mind racing. He was exhausted, battered, but strangely triumphant. He had made it.
"Well?" Riddle asked as he knelt to take care of Harry’s more severe injuries, a routine they’d fallen into after every duel. "What did you want to ask?"
Harry took a careful breath. His ribs hurt, but he could breathe, so it was good. "What did you do with Mulciber recently?" he asked, his tone deliberately casual, watching Riddle's face for tells.
Surprise flickered across Riddle's features, but Harry wasn't sure if it was genuine or fake. "How do you know we did something together?"
"I was having lessons with Secundus Lestrange when Selwyn turned up. He mentioned that you were planning something and that everyone would be there," Harry explained cautiously. Selwyn had always been nice to him — he was the friendliest of all Riddle's Slytherins — so Harry hoped he wouldn't get into trouble over it. However, their relationship was not close enough for Harry to feel the need to protect him from Riddle. If it was something Harry was not supposed to know about, Selwyn would have to explain himself.
Riddle’s expression smoothed over. "We had a duel."
Harry's mouth dropped open. He hadn't expected the answer. "What do you mean? A practice duel or a real one?"
Riddle raised a hand, cutting him off. "One question," he reminded him, though there was no real reprimand in his tone.
Harry snorted. "At least tell me who won."
"I think I’ve been too lenient with you during our duels if you’re bold enough to ask that," Riddle said dryly. He stood and offered Harry a hand, pulling him to his feet.
Harry suppressed a smile. "You know, you didn’t exactly impress me today."
"Because I was curious about what you wanted to ask," Riddle replied, his tone sharp but not unkind. "But now I won't be. It seems you skipped the chapter on magical shields." His smile turned predatory. "Time for some real learning."
Harry suppressed a shiver but couldn't quite hide his grin. It was exactly what he needed — when he was tired, he didn't think.
He didn't worry.
o.O.o
Harry's fingers drummed restlessly against the polished mahogany table in Abraxas Malfoy's study, his jaw clenched as he endured another Thursday afternoon of what he'd begun mentally calling "History of Pureblood Propaganda." The spring sunshine streaming through the tall windows seemed to mock the darkness of the lesson's content.
Harry really had no idea what Riddle was thinking when he decided that Abraxas Malfoy should give him extra lessons in the History of Magic. Certainly not to have reliable knowledge and an objective approach. Unless that wasn't the point. But Riddle couldn't have been so stupid as to think that Abraxas Malfoy was the right person to brainwash Harry and convince him that Muggle-born wizards were a lesser class of wizard than pure-bloods. Or perhaps the lessons were a delayed punishment for his outburst at Malfoy's birthday party and this meant to teach him to keep his mouth shut? If so, it was also a very bad idea. And not just because Harry's blood was boiling at the sight of Malfoy's smug face.
"Pay attention and take proper notes," Malfoy drawled, and at the same time a sharp sting hit Harry's left hand — Abraxas's favourite way of making Harry listen. Harry bit back a hiss of pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "I won't repeat myself."
"I'm noting down everything that's actually important, Malfoy. The last ten minutes of your... personal opinions about medieval witch hunts weren't exactly part of the O.W.L. curriculum."
"Perhaps we should test your grasp of the material then. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Tell me when and why it was implemented," Malfoy's voice dripped with false politeness. "Include also how the Moodbloods contribute to its constant violation and weakening."
Harry met Malfoy's gaze with barely concealed hatred. "The Statute was implemented in 1692 to protect wizarding communities from Muggle persecution during the witch-hunting period," he recited mechanically, deliberately ignoring the last part of the question.
"Incomplete," Abraxas tsked, his wand twirling lazily between his fingers. This time, however, Harry was ready. He shifted slightly in his seat, and the Stinging Hex missed him by a hair’s breadth "When I ask you something, I expect a full answer for all of my questions."
"Fine. Whatever. I don't think wizards from Muggle families break the Statute any more often than purebloods who have grown up in this world. In fact, I'd say purebloods like you are more likely to exploit loopholes for personal gain." Harry replied, leaning back in his chair and looking defiantly into Malfoy's eyes.
"That's not what I taught you," Malfoy hissed.
Harry slowly folded his arms across his chest, his exhaustion and frustration simmering just beneath the surface. A sleepless night spent worrying about how his presence might already be altering the future, combined with a grueling day at Borgin and Burke’s — where Borgin had been particularly unbearable — had left him on edge. The only bright spot, if it could even be called that, was Riddle’s absence, who was busy with his wealthy old lady client, who always spent lavishly. But even that small reprieve was ruined by the prospect of enduring Abraxas Malfoy’s lectures. Listening to his nonsense was bad enough; repeating it was unthinkable.
"No. You didn't teach me anything at all back then, you just shared your opinion. I won't repeat it like a mindless puppet. There's no mention of this in the textbook, and in the exam they will require facts from me, not opinions soaked in prejudice."
This made Abraxas rise from his chair in one fluid motion, looming over Harry with his hands planted on the desk. "You forget yourself. You are in my study, receiving lessons I provide solely out of respect for your brother—"
"Respect?" Harry's voice dripped with contempt. "Let's be honest, Malfoy — you're terrified of him. You'd kiss a flobberworm if Tom suggested it might please him."
The transformation in Abraxas's face was instant — aristocratic composure shattering into raw fury. "How dare you, you little—"
"What's wrong, Malfoy?" Harry taunted, shooting to his feet as his chair scraped back. "Truth stings worse than your hexes? If my brother ordered you to polish every Muggleborn's shoes with your tongue, you'd ask which foot to start with."
Abraxas's wand appeared in his hand, pale eyes flashing dangerously. "You forget your place"
Harry's own wand was already drawn, his heart thundering with accumulated rage. "No, Malfoy. For the first time since I got here, I remember exactly who I am."
Both stepped back, wands raised, the air electric with tension. In that moment, Harry saw not just Abraxas, but every Malfoy who would follow — the same arrogance, the same cruelty, the same blind devotion to power.
“Last chance to apologize,” Abraxas said, his voice low and lethal.
Harry's response was to raise his wand higher, a grim smile playing at his lips. "Make me."
When Harry thought about it later, the only mitigating circumstance he could come up with was that it wasn’t him who had started the duel. But that didn’t make anything that happed any less horrifying.
"Stupefy!" Malfoy's spell shot across the room like crimson lightning, shattering the fragile tension between them.
Harry's body reacted before his mind could catch up, muscle memory from countless duels with Riddle taking over. He dove to the side, retaliating with a quick "Expelliarmus!" that the other wizard batted away with contemptuous ease. The smirk on Malfoy’s face only fueled Harry’s anger, his pulse pounding in his ears as the room erupted into chaos.
Books flew from their shelves as deflected spells struck the walls, sending showers of shards and dust into the air. Portraits of ancestors screamed in outrage, their occupants ducking for cover behind their gilded frames. Harry's blood sang with adrenaline, his movements fluid and automatic — duck, shield, counter, strike — the familiar sequences he'd learnt in the abandoned courtyard. But this wasn't like dueling Riddle. Abraxas was skilled, yes, but predictable, his movements telegraphing his intentions in a way Riddle never did.
And yet, Malfoy still was pressing him back, forcing Harry to give ground. A cutting hex sliced through Harry’s sleeve, drawing a thin line of blood. Another spell grazed his cheek, leaving it burning. Desperation clawed at Harry’s chest as he found himself cornered, his back against the bookshelves. The metallic taste of blood filled his nostrils, mingling with the scent of old parchment and polished wood.
One more spell and he'd be down — defeated by a Malfoy. The thought of Abraxas's triumphant sneer standing over him sent a surge of blind fury through his veins. No. Not like this. Not to him.
Without thinking, Harry shouted: "Sectumsempra!"
The curse struck Malfoy square in the chest. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the spell hit its mark, the force of it sending Malfoy staggering backward. And all of a sudden, blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest, as if he had been cut by an invisible sword. His eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the floor, his wand slipping from his fingers.
"NO!" Harry rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside Malfoy’s prone form. Blood was everywhere, soaking into the expensive carpet in dark, spreading pools. Harry’s hands trembled as he reached for Abraxas, his mind racing. He hadn’t meant to—he hadn’t thought—
"No, no, no, NOOO! " Harry lunged for his wand, desperate to at least try to stop the bleeding, but before he could reach it, the crack of a whip cut through the air and Malfoy’s house-elf appeared, its tennis ball eyes blazing with fear and fury.
With a gesture, the creature flung Harry backward. His head cracked against the bookshelf, stars exploding across his vision. Pain lanced through his skull, and for a moment, the world went dark at the edges.
More cracks split the air, and when Harry's vision cleared, Sebastian Selwyn was there, his usual easy charm replaced by bewilderment and fear as he assessed the scene. His dark brown curls were disheveled, and his sharp, angular face was pale with shock. He hurriedly knelt beside Malfoy and tried to help him, but when his efforts had the opposite effect — Abraxas moaned softly and the blood stain on the carpet spread — he turned his attention to Harry, who was trying to get to his feet.
The usual playful glint in Selwyn's eyes had hardened to something dangerous with a flick of his wand, he summoned Harry to him. Harry felt himself yanked forward by an invisible force, only for Selwyn to shake him a moment later, holding him by the front of his robes. The sweet scent of whiskey on Selwyn’s breath was nauseatingly close.
"What did you do?" Selwyn's voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with contained rage. "What curse was that?"
"I didn't mean—" Harry's voice cracked. The guilt was crushing, making it hard to breathe. "He attacked first, but I—I can't—"
"What. Did. You. Use?"
Harry tried to wrench away, panic rising in his throat. "I didn't mean to—"
Selwyn’s eyes narrowed. He raised his wand and without warning, he plunged into Harry’s mind The invasion was brutal, tearing through Harry's memories like paper. Recent images flashed past — Harry's voice shouting the curse, Malfoy falling. But Selwyn drove deeper, searching, until he found what he wanted: the Gryffindor dormitory, a half-blood prince's textbook, spidery writing in the margins — For Enemies.
Selwyn thrust Harry away with disgust. "Ditty!" he barked at the house-elf. "Find Bug. Get Tom here now." He turned back to Abraxas, his wand moving in complex patterns as he tried to stem the bleeding.
Harry crawled backward until his shoulders hit the wall, his injured arm ached. The cut from Abraxas's hex burned like fire, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread spreading through his chest as he waited for Riddle to arrive. His eyes remained fixed on Selwyn's desperate attempts to save Malfoy, the pool of blood still spreading across the expensive carpet.
He did not have to wat for it too long.
Tom Riddle materialized in the centre of Abraxas's library, his presence instantly filling the room like a gathering storm. One look at his face made Harry's blood run cold — beneath Riddle's carefully maintained mask of composure, Harry could see a fury that promised something far worse than the Cruciatus Curse. And he didn't need the increasing throbbing in his skull that was splitting his head in half to realise it.
Riddle's gaze swept over Harry for a moment, assessing. Finding him relatively intact, he turned his attention to Malfoy, smoothly pushing Selwyn aside as he knelt beside the fallen wizard. "What happened?"
"They were duelling," Selwyn's voice was raw. "The house-elf summoned me. I arrived moments ago."
Riddles head turned slightly, grey eyes finding Harry over his shoulder. "Sectumsempra?" he asked simply.
Harry's heart stopped. How could he know? That spell hadn't even been invented yet — wouldn't be for decades. True, he'd used it against Riddle in their last duel, and Riddle had asked about the incantation, but they'd never discussed it further. Never practiced it. Never—
"Yes," Harry managed to whisper, the word barely audible.
Riddle turned back to Abraxas, bending low over his prone form. What emerged from his lips wasn't an incantation but something closer to song — an eerie, otherworldly melody that made the hair on Harry's arms stand on end. The bleeding began to slow.
"Will he live?" Selwyn asked, leaning forward anxiously.
"Yes," Riddle replied, his voice clipped. "But he needs more extensive treatment. Get Brandon here. Now."
Selwyn disappeared without another word, leaving Harry alone with Riddle and the unconscious Malfoy. When Riddle spoke again, his voice was terrifyingly soft.
"Go home with Bug. Wait in your room. If you move so much as an inch before I return..." He let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but crystal clear. "You'll wish I had only used Crucio."
Fear froze Harry, but he managed a jerky nod. A moment later, Bug's long fingers closed around his wrist, and he felt the familiar tug of Apparition.