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Chapter Text

"…and not least foul is the idea that an épée must be wielded in such a fashion to resemble true combat. While the martial nature of the weapon is hardly undesirable, it is also unintended. The renaissance artist takes a glance at the sport and complains about how it will not teach the youth to fight off a demon, should they meet one. Hereupon I must laugh and say this: sport fights off enemies that a blade cannot cut. A word of warning here, now! At one of life's crossroads, blood will not lead a trail to your correct path. When your fire runs low, when you must fight that which you cannot hurt…it is then that you will need to call upon your days with it, you will need to understand why you held that grip as tightly as you did, and you will remember all that you learned holding it, the weapon of…"

Harry Potter pretended to ignore the incessant chanting of his name. Inside his tent, head low and cloak over his head like a hood, he hid a smirk.

"If you don't have a plan, Potter, then we're both dead." Snape's voice maintained an impressive level of cool contempt in spite of the subject. Even the most important of concerns wasn't allowed in the man's tone; Harry had never seen Snape speak in anything other than disdainful annoyance. For anyone else, I'd have assumed it to be a bluff…but I know that's just Snape's game face. And it was nearly game time.

"I have a plan, professor." Harry smiled in his best attempt at mimicking his father. From his brief trip to the Pensieve, he had only time to learn two things—his father's smirk, and the fact Snape detested it over everything else. "I'm wearing it around my waist."

"Gryffindor's sword will not cut a dragon, Potter."

Harry let his right hand fall on top of the sword hilt and stood up with an expression of shock that bordered on parody before gasping. Then, replacing it with the smirk from before, he said, "It's not about what a sword can do. It's about what it has taught me, professor…it's a much better teacher than you, actually."

Snape tightened his grip around his own crossed arms. "Riddle me this then, Potter! What has the sword taught you?"

"First, I would like each of you to explain why you're here," said the man in white. "What are you hoping to take from these lessons?"

Harry's reason for being there was unpleasant enough he had hoped to dismiss it as a bad dream, hallucination, or elaborate prank. This was partly because of the insanity of the man in front of him: dressed purely in white, mask half-pulled over his face, and most strikingly of all, sword pointed straight down at the floor. Throughout all this, the man spoke with them in a friendly tone, shooting little glances at each and every kid as though nothing pleased him more than to see them standing in that little gymnasium.

Later, of course, Harry would find that nothing quite made as much sense in the world as standing there, in those weird clothes and wielding that very same weapon. But at the time…

There was a dreamlike quality to the moment; the man in white standing there in those strange clothes in the same small gymnasium they had been to their whole school lives…and the sword. Harry could not stop looking at it. The strange background was a fitting start for it all.

"I'm here because my cousin wanted…company," Harry said quietly. Truthfully, Dudley was looking forward to beating Harry with a sword and being praised for it. His cousin had even gone as far as to push for his parents to pay for lessons for this very reason.

When Dudley's turn to speak came, he declared as much—and in a much less cleverly disguised manner than the boy intended it, because the man in white harrumphed once or twice during faintly disguised declarations of intent to hurt Harry. It was, perhaps, because of this that the man in white seemed very careful with his next explanation.

"Fencing!" The Man in White declared. "The best hobby for a man—or woman—of taste! An art, a sport, call it what you will…it is what you kids will think of as sword fighting." He paused to allow the class to cheer at this. "But not all fencing is the same, mind you. There are three weapons you can fence with…and each of them has its own set of skills and weaknesses. Do you know them, Mr. Potter?"

Thirteen sets of eyes turned to face him then. A single squeak from the ceiling fan was all that could be heard then. The sun hung high outside the window, but it wasn't the reason why Harry felt sweat drip from his forehead.

"I…no, I'm sorry sir."

"Really? My mistake. Agnes? Come over here, show them what we have."

He said no more until three different swords were set on the floor so all students could see them. Dudley and a couple others tried to crowd around the blades, but the man in white gently—or at least with a smile—kept them from doing so. "This one is a foil," he announced, holding the one with a smallest hand guard. "It is normally what everybody begins with…but given we have an abundance of teachers here, I feel like breaking common sense and allowing you to pick your favorite weapon from the start. Do not misjudge the foil for simply a beginner's weapon, though. It is a complicated sword…ah, how do I explain this in simple terms?"

A moment's worth of puzzlement passed, and then the man brightened up, tapping his own chest with the blade. "What you need to know is that you score points in foil by hitting someone's torso. If you hit any other area…well, that doesn't count! Agnes, could you pass the sword around so everybody can hold it? Please?"

The foil had not reached Harry's hands before the man resumed speaking, this time holding a light looking blade with a fancy hand guard that went around his wrist. "This is a sabre. With it, you win by hitting your opponent's head, torso or arms. Ah, Agnes, if you will…? Thank you." Curiously, despite the man's formal tone and open smile, he seemed to speak of the sword with a sort of dismissive disdain. "And finally…we have the épée."

This time the man held the final sword with an almost childlike glee. It seemed similar to a foil, but with a bigger guard that covered nearly the entire hand. He held it as if it were a baby and a trophy at the same time, taking it upon himself to hold it to all students. Harry could not stop himself from trembling with excitement when he got to hold it. This is a real sword.

"Ah, um, mister? Can I ask a question?" said a small girl. "My dad told me those swords work differently if you hit each other at the same time…what happens if you and your opponent both stab each other simultaneously?"

"Oh, that…for foil and sabre…there's this thing called Right of Way—it's…it's annoying, it's what it is." The man in white did not bother to hide his exasperation. "It basically means that whoever initiated the attack in question—and this can change depending on parries and a lot of other factors—will be awarded the point in case of a simultaneous hit. The referee keeps track of who has Right of Way for that point."

"Is it difficult to keep track of who has Right of Way?" asked the same girl.

"Oh, absolutely not!" said the man in white, though he frowned at his own words soon as they left his mouth. With a shrug, he continued encouragingly, "You and your friends will learn it quickly enough, we always have students learn so they can judge bouts between their friends."

Dudley smiled at Harry, who tried avoid meeting his eyes. He knew what the other boy was thinking, and this filled him with a sinking feeling. He had dared to keep the tiniest bit of hope that he could maybe have some fun here. But he was never going to be able to do anything like that if others had anything to say about it. Most of the kids around were from their school, and nobody ever wanted to side with that strange kid dressed in Dudley's old clothes.

"When do we get to hold a sword?" Dudley asked, his voice starting in excitement and ending in impatience. "I want to hit someone with it!"

"Patience!" The man in white declared with a thunder. "Patience, dear Dudley. You want to hit people with swords?" He waited until the boy nodded to continue. "Good, then remember this—if you someone to be hit with a sword, you are either patient or you're the one who's getting hit." The man in white finished off strongly, yet after a moment of enjoying his induced silence he shook his head and shrugged slightly as if arguing with himself. "Well, either you're patient or you do sabre—in which case you're still getting hit, you're just also winning the point, if you have Right of Way."

"Bob," the man in white's assistant said, "you might want to slow down. Please."

Harry found himself surprised, and for years he wouldn't even know why. It is only later, with the benefit of age, that we realize that we look at our first fencing coach with a sort of strange reverence. They are the ones that introduce us to that wondrous world, who dress in strange ways and hold swords as if they belonged to a different century.

Yet they all have disappointingly normal names like Bob.

"How does the last sword work?" Harry surprised even himself by asking, and could not blame everyone for turning to face him. "The…épée?"

Bob had been smiling the entire time, but his expression now made it seem as though he was a grumpy old man before. "Ah, the épée…see, this one is a little different. There is no right of way. If you both get hit at the same time, then you both get a point. It…"

"I want to do épée," Harry thought, the rest of the man's words fading out in his head. Dudley and his friends could not stop him from scoring points then, could they? For the first time since he had been told he would be attending a fencing class, Harry found himself looking forward to something.

"HALT! 5-0!" the referee said, gesturing toward the fencer standing across from Harry.

Harry had heard that exact sentence so often these last two months that it was beginning to hunt him in his sleep. He had dared dream, for a single second, that he would have some sort of unmeasurable talent with a sword and that he would defeat Dudley, his friends, and everyone who ever mistreated him. But truthfully, he had barely ever managed to score a single point.

Dudley was fat, but he and the other kids were taller than Harry, and had arms long enough to outreach him any day of the week. Not only that, but Dudley had enough wrist strength to hold a sword for long periods of time, while Harry could barely remain standing after a couple exchanges. Their teacher had tried to help him, but it wasn't enough—Bob was a tall, athletic man who seemed to struggle with the concept of being so small.

"Harry hasn't won a single match yet mom," Dudley said one day over breakfast. "If you ask me, I think it's a waste of money to let him keep coming."

"You might be right," Aunt Petunia responded, giggling.

The worst part about losing was that he couldn't hide his frustration—and, by consequence, how much he enjoyed the sport. Once Dudley took notice of this he took special care to torment him more during matches, and even more at home. The threat of losing fencing shouldn't have bugged Harry as much as it did; nobody needed to be poked with a sword on a nearly daily basis, épées could actually bruise you if they hit hard enough.

Yet he could not let go of the dream of parrying Dudley on the piste, chasing him down and lunging at his shoulder…

"I will start winning soon!" Harry meant it as an exclamation, yet it came off as nearly panicked. "I am getting better!"

"Nonsense," Petunia said, through Dudley's laughter. "You went there because Dudley wanted you to be his practicing partner—oh Dudley, why are you so nice?—but if you can't even manage that, there's no reason to keep you around."

"We should give him a chance mom!" Dudley did not bother to hide his amusement. "If he can beat me next practice, he can stay!"

Harry had never managed more than a single double hit against his cousin and therefore took this for what it was, a taunt. Yet… "Please, Aunt Petunia," he said. "Just one chance...let me show you that I can be good enough to help Dudley practice. Please."

Bob was more than in a hurry, he was nearly in despair. In spite of this, Harry approached his teacher with little regret—chances were, this would be the last time he would ever see him. He stood patiently while Bob talked to a group of students in what surprisingly seemed to be another language, and startled his teacher when he turned around.

"Oh, Harry! Forgive me, I didn't see you there…we have a couple visiting students from France. It's not always that they stop by this club of ours, we don't really give them a lot of reason to, you know…but if they are around anyway…well, I'm more than willing to let them stay around and fence for a bit!" His normal rambling ceased and his smile faded once he noticed Harry's expression. "What is it, kid? Is something the matter?"

"This may be my last time here, Mr. Bob." Harry felt silly calling him that, but it was what the man had asked to be called. "If I don't win today, I can't come here anymore…and I just wanted to thank you for the time I had here. It was really fun."

Sports coaches—bless their hearts—are generally very fond of children and look forward to helping them grow not just as sportsmen, but as people too. Yet, they are no more capable at recognizing underlying parental issues than your average person, and as such are prone to less than sensible responses to certain statements. Harry would one day understand, then, why his teacher responded in the way he did, but at the time it just felt like a strike to his face.

"Nonsense! Just because you lose a couple matches you're going to quit? Harry, listen to me, winning isn't easy. You can't expect things to always go your way, especially not when you're a beginner. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to give you enough advice…tell you what," he said, grinning, "we'll do some drills starting next week, okay? Just you and me."

I won't be here next week, Mr. Bob. My family hates me. It's not about wanting to try. I would give anything for one more chance, I just… He couldn't say any of it. "Thank you, Mr. Bob," he mumbled awkwardly.

"Wonderful! Now go get suited up, you are done with your group drills and warmups right? So you should have a match now."

Harry nodded, and did so without complaint. But he didn't come out of the armory immediately. He was in no hurry to march off to his execution. Instead, he looked at himself, dressed in the same type of white clothes Bob had been wearing that first day that still rang so clearly in his head. Those clothes meant more to him than he cared to admit. Even though he was short and scrawny, Dudley and his friends couldn't just pick him out of a crowd when he wore them. Everywhere else, he was the strange child dressed in Dudley's strange clothes. Yet here, while dressed in white, he was just like everybody else. He was a fencer.

"Harry!" Bob cried out from the piste. "Come out, it's your turn!"

I don't want to go…I. Don't. Want. To. Go! His eyes burned, watered, and he pulled his mask over his face. "Yes, sir," said Harry as he headed out.

It was usually custom to keep your mask off until you and your opponent had a chance to bow to each other, but Bob had long given up enforcing that rule when Dudley was involved in the match. The boy refused to follow formality, and though Harry had overheard the teacher attempt to talk to Petunia about this, he also overheard his aunt respond that refusing to follow rules was perfectly fine for her special Dudley. Thus, Harry felt little guilt over violating this rule himself.

"To five touches," Bob announced happily. Though Dudley already had his mask pulled over his face, Harry could almost feel his cousin's arrogant, taunting smirk.

"En garde!"

I have tried everything…there's nothing I can do, he just has longer arms than me…

"Prêt!"

Harry glanced over and caught his teacher's encouraging smile. Guilt superseded fear then. I'll lunge…if I believe I can do it…if I put everything I have behind the tip of my sword…

"Allez!"

Dudley and Harry advanced toward each other rapidly. Harry had the advantage in speed, but in his mind it wouldn't matter who got to who first. If I want to stay here, I need to go for it! Harry knew Dudley would lunge and responded in kind, dropping to one knee and launching himself forward with his back leg. Thoughts and feelings about the sport carried him forward, and mid-motion, he stuck his arm forward.

"HALT! 1-0!"

Dudley had scored and Harry was on the floor, hand over chest, struggling to breathe. The simultaneous lunges had gone disastrously; both boys had aimed for each other's chest, but Dudley had longer arms and reached first. Harry's speed served only to increase the clash's impact, and his first thought whilst on the floor was that he should slow down next time. No! I have to be even faster, I have to try even harder…

Harry thought back of all movies he had seen, about how the hero always grew stronger with his feelings. He thought about how much he enjoyed fencing, about how amazing it was to feel like he belonged somewhere, about how much he wished to stand up to Dudley for once in his life and to actually beat him…

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley's fat lunge easily penetrated the strongest parry Harry's weak wrists could manage, and knocked him on the floor once more. "HALT! 2-0!"

Feelings aren't enough, Harry thought, in a mixture of calmness and resigned misery. Nobody ever openly laughed during anybody's matches, but Harry knew they were all laughing in silence. I won't get better at a sport just by hoping really hard. Bob and the other older fencers probably worked really hard to get to where they are, didn't they?

"Coward!" said the voice of a girl he did not recognize.

Harry could not disagree with the voice. It was cowardice. Harry felt disgusted with himself, his idea that strong feelings could make up for hard work and skill felt offensive even to himself. He couldn't just dream that mysterious awakened abilities would earn him the life and respect he wanted.

"COWARD!"

This time, the girl's voice was loud enough Harry had to turn to look at her. She looked about three years older than Harry, which would make her thirteen then. In contrast to her words, she had somewhat of a concerned expression on her face. The adult man standing beside her seemed panicked, and spoke with a sharp French accident. "Forgive her, she doesn't speak English very well, ah—she's still learning."

"Be a coward!" The girl screamed, looking straight at Harry.

"You want me to…be a coward?"

"Be a coward!" She said again, nodding. Once she realized his eyes were on her, she thrust her arm forward. "Be a coward and arm forward!"

Bob coughed loudly. "En Garde!" Bob obviously wasn't quite sure what the girl meant to do, as her meaningful words and somewhat aggressive tone contrasted each other, and tried to hurry the match to its conclusion. Harry, meanwhile, was thinking of what she had said. Be a coward…and put my arm forward?

"Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley once more started advancing at a rapid speed. Harry dropped to one knee to ready for a lunge, but did not do so. Instead, he surprised even himself when he stuck his arm forward first, and then retreated backwards. Dudley misjudged their distance and had to stumble forward in an awkward fashion to reach him. At that moment, Harry thought to pull back his sword and regroup. Yet, in his head, only one sentence rang clear. ARM FORWARD!

"HALT! 1-2!"

Harry stared at the green light coming from the tiny black box. He didn't know a single light could look so beautiful, that a single buzzer could be so exhilarating.

"He just got my shoulder!" Dudley shouted. "That's just a lucky shot! He's still terrible!"

But the shoulder was a valid target in épées, was it not? So there wasn't anything wrong with what he had done. Harry had just stuck his arm forward and Dudley basically pushed his own shoulder into his blade. Hadn't Bob mentioned something about that a couple lessons ago? A stop hit.

It was arrogance to presume that feelings were enough to make up for skill, but was it as presumptuous to assume that planning could perhaps achieve much of the same? Dudley knows as much about fencing as I do. It's not arrogant to think I'm not powerless against him.

Harry took a deep breath. He didn't have as much strength as Dudley, nor did he have his reach. If they both lunged, Dudley would win. If Harry tried to parry, Dudley would win. Those two factors combined had seemed like an absolute loss in his head, yet he had scored a point just now. What had he done differently?

I was a coward, he thought with a grin, looking at the girl from before. I retreated…to lunge, you have to drop to one knee and launch yourself forward. If you don't reach your target after that, you are in a lot of trouble, aren't you? So if I can make Dudley miss…how do I do that?

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley nearly flew at him. No soon as the command had been given, the boy ran faster than he ever had since his mom had brought home his favorite candy. Harry retreated again, but this time Dudley did not stop advancing and, by luck or skill, struck Harry at the same time as he was caught by his blade.

"HALT! DOUBLE, 3-2!"

Distance isn't enough...not like this. He's right, I was lucky before. This time we hit each other at the same time…I can't control where the blade catches him. I'm not good enough for that. It pained him to admit it, but he had to be honest with himself at least. If he lost this match, he would never be allowed to fence again. Could he ever look at himself in the mirror again if he entrusted this match up to fate and just retreated holding his sword forward, waiting for Dudley to walk right into it?

But then, what could he do? Dudley was stronger and had longer reach too! What did he have? Well, he was faster. Not only was Dudley slow, Harry himself was noticeably faster than most boys his age. Sometimes, Dudley and his friends couldn't even catch him when trying to torment him…could it be that he couldn't catch him on the fencing piste either?

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Dudley rushed at him, but this time Harry intended for it to happen. He retreated, and though he was slower backwards than his cousin forwards, he managed to increase the distance between the two. Dudley shortened the distance with furious advances, but then Harry stopped retreating—instead, he changed his tempo into a furious lunge forward. This caught the fat fencer by surprise, and all he could do was awkwardly come to a full halt and try to hit Harry's sword aside.

"HALT! 3-3!"

It was difficult not to catch Bob's smile when he made that call, and even more difficult not to smile back at him. Could he do it? Could he win this? No—thinking about it in those terms was just going to make him lose. He had to focus.

"En garde! Prêt! Allez!"

It wasn't a pretty, calculated strike—Dudley hesitated in a way Harry thought he wouldn't, and when he rushed Harry retreated, put his arm forward and prayed. It was just as much luck as anything else that he managed to catch the side of Dudley's shoulder.

"HALT! DOUBLE, 4-4!"

This is fun. This is so much fun. So please…please…let me see that green light one more time.

"Arm!" the French girl screamed again. The man beside her tried to shush her, but she paid him no mind. "Arm!"

It took a second for Harry's tired ears to decipher her accent, and too long for his brain to do the same to the meaning of her words. My arm? What about my arm? It doesn't matter, I have no time to think!

"En Garde!"

Harry looked at the box as if it were the image of a saint. Please, just one more time…light up. Light up!

"Prêt!"

What was it again? My arm?

"Allez!"

There was no time for a plan. Dudley lunged, and Harry thought he was done, but managed to find the time to awkwardly beat it to the side and retreat. His cousin gave chase, and Harry held his sword forward as he retreated, up until the end of the piste. A moment of hesitation passed, and then Dudley lunged again. HIS ARM!

Bob was, by all accounts, not an excellent teacher. While he was most kind and loved the sport dearly, he suffered from not properly explaining the meaning behind the actions he told his students to repeat. Thus, Harry Potter never quite understood why he was told to slowly move his épée toward his practice partner's wrist. Not until that match, anyhow.

"HALT! 5-4!"

There was a bright green light lit on the box.

"That was a…nice match, earlier today," the French girl said. Her accent was thick, but she managed to speak well, albeit slowly. "I think you would benefit from a curved French grip, however…are you new to fencing?"

"I couldn't have done it without your help," Harry said. "Your advice was very useful…have you been fencing for long?"

"Since I was younger than you."

Harry's eyes widened at that. It all sounded so wonderful to him, to be able to fence for such a long time…to stand there, dressed in white all day…he couldn't believe how jealous he felt. "That's amazing," he said.

She smiled at this, and Harry found himself slightly unnerved, as though something was controlling him. "I apologize for sounding rude, back then—in the heat of the moment, I forgot the words to use in English and…well, I may have insulted you while giving you advice."

"No, far from it," Harry said quickly. "It was very helpful. I couldn't have beaten Dudley without you. And thanks to you, I get to continue coming here!" In spite of his best attempts to seem as mild mannered as possible, Harry found himself smiling like a kid.

"Do you enjoy fencing?"

"I do," Harry said honestly. "More than anything else." Truly, he had nothing else, but there was little purpose to say as much.

"In that case, would you like to exchange letters with me? You could help me with my English, and I can give you advice about your fencing, Harry Potter."

"Are you serious? That would be wonderf—" he stopped. "How do you know my name?"

Surprise colored the girl's face for a moment, but then it was gone, replaced by a warm smile as if it was never there. "Perhaps I will need to teach you more than about fencing, Harry Potter. I will look forward to exchanging letters with you."

Harry watched her leave the nearly empty gymnasium then, and once the doors were shut behind her, he let himself fall onto the floor and looked at all the equipment left around, at the box, remembering how it lit up when he fought Dursley, how the girl had helped him, and how he felt when he heard that wonderful buzzer.

That day, Harry Potter met the love of his life.

He also met Fleur Delacour.

Chapter Text

"Many things. Most importantly, it taught me how to take a loss, professor." Harry was aware of what he was saying and thus put in the effort to make those words sound as cheerful and confident as possible. When his prediction of Snape's glare materialized, he smiled broadly.

"Losing is not going to help us, Potter."

"You worry too much over someone who fears me."

"He fears you because I made it so. If he finds out exactly how incompetent of a loser you were born—"

Harry whirled around to look his professor in the eye. "Then he should fear me all the more! Any kind of weak minded imbecile can walk with his back straight if he never had to taste a particularly humiliating defeat. Tell me, professor, what's so difficult about being born a champion? Listen up, professor—the ones you should be afraid of are the ones who get their face shoved in the dirt, their pride stepped on, their hopes shattered and still get back up, blood flowing from the corner of their unjustified grins."

I never want to fence again!

Only one thing kept Harry from despairing then; Bob's most important lesson resonated with him and had become somewhat of a prayer whenever things turned hard. Don't be surprised. A surprised fencer was always weaker fencer than a calmer one. Should reality not match what you have in mind, you must change your mind without the need for a second breath. A bout wasn't so long you could waste time with a misconception, afterall.

Harry had thought himself prepared for the worst, but quickly found out that the cruelty of competition was harsher than his mind could dream of. It's not that he had expected to win any matches—but he hadn't expected to end the group stages without scoring a single point. It all happened blindingly fast; his parries he had carefully built over the past weeks were often too slow to catch most fencers' blades and always too weak to keep them engaged when he did catch them.

Yet out of all his matches, the one following the group stage felt the most painful.
"HALT! 0-8!"

It was a light touch to the side of his wrist. There were no physical injuries, yet his spirit was in such a state that Harry softly fell to his knees then. It was an almost elegant fall, like a curtain from the ceiling, gently and so lightly that by itself seemed less of a plunge and more of a hurried attempt at rest. Yet the crashing sound in his chest, in contrast to that chilling lifelessness…
Harry Potter remained on the floor for nearly five seconds, and it was only creeping pain that seemed to revive his will. There are still a couple points to go… Each intake of air seemed so wonderful, so intoxicating, as if he had never felt oxygen in his lungs before.

"Are you all right?" The referee did not sound concerned – he had clearly seen this many times before. "If so, En Garde!"

Absent-mindedly, Harry dragged his back foot behind his front in an l shape, bent his knees and aimed whatever remained of the determined gaze he started the day with at his opponent. At least one point. I need to score at least one miserable point... "Prêt! Allez!"

Harry stuck his arm forward, advanced, and propelled himself off his back foot into a lunge. The blade made it past his opponent's and for nearly a second he thought he had scored. "Halt! 9-0!" Yet that red light told the story he had missed. His opponent opted against parrying or beating his blade out of the way, instead simply extending at Harry before being hit.

40 miliseconds. 1/25th of a second. It seemed like an infinitely small amount of time for two people to stab each other, yet it was all you had in épée fencing to score a double touch, and in spite of what you might expect, it happened quite frequently. Between your own movement and your opponent's sudden acceleration, it was quite rare for a pair of on-target lunges not to result in a simultaneous hit. That this hadn't happened here was odd.

I'm sure we started our lunges at the same time…our speed is comparable…no! He remembered, with a sudden fierceness, the times he was forced to run from Dudley and his friends…and how they could never seem to catch him. If it's speed, I'm not losing! Harry knew this was less a fact and more of a stubborn assertion of pride, yet he could not let go of it. It was a type of bargain that frequently happened to young athletes; when completely outmatched, it is not uncommon for a young fencer to cling on to the idea that at the very least, they are superior to their opponent in some rather specific and often untrue way.

If I'm the smaller one, then I must be the faster one too…being tall isn't just about advantages. I'm losing those touches because my arm takes longer to reach its target, but I'm definitely faster!

"En Garde! Prêt! Allez!"

This time Harry was certain he started his lunge before his opponent did—yet, despite the fact they both aimed for each other's chest, only the red light lit up.

"HALT! 10-0!"

Harry stood motionless for a second or two, watching out of the corner of his eye that frightening person in white standing quizzically, whirling around and walking away. I'm a disappointment, aren't I?

It is extremely hard to see your opponent's eyes under that thick black mask. While you can generally see the outline of their faces, it is nearly impossible to distinguish what kind of eyes they have. Thus, it is often up to your mirror of an imagination to decide whether your opponent looked at you encouragingly or mockingly.

"En Garde! Prêt! Allez! Halt! 11-0!" It seemed to Harry that the referee had announced the score in the same breath as he had signalled the match to start.

I'm slower, Harry thought bitterly. There was no time to hold on to his prejudices.Don't be surprised. If reality conflicts with your mind, change your mind without taking a second breath. He was smaller, true, but his opponent was more athletic and had a much more flexible body. Be positive, he told himself. Bob had told him that framing his problems in the most positive manner made it a lot easier to deal with them, and it is always when your lungs burn and sweat falls over your eyes that your coach's words seem wisest. Even if we had the same speed, the most I could do with blind lunges is score a bunch of doubles…those won't help me when I'm behind eleven points! I need to score singles…so my speed doesn't matter. My flaws don't matter. I need to find a way to get a single light!

Harry considered his options for a single light. Since his opponent seemed content in lunging at the right side of his chest, he could attempt a quarte parry or a counter-sixte, the circular parry. He was quite proud of his ability to parry, after all—Bob had mentioned he was the best in his class. Yet looking back on all his matches, he knew that he could not parry someone who had more fencing experience than his classmates. During practice, Harry was relying on his knowledge of his classmates' habits rather than on his own parry speed, and this was not something he could replicate against a new opponent.

Parries are out, then. No parries, no surprise lunges. What do I have? Harry knew the answer before he finished asking himself that question, and he wasn't happy about it.Distance. Fleur had explained as much in one of her many letters—he was small and not particularly athletic. Yet there was one area where height and strength didn't matter.

The arm.

It didn't matter how strong you were or tall you were born—everybody's swords were the same length, and everybody's swords had a hand holding it at their handle. Thus, the minimum distance each fencer's blade had to travel to reach a valid target was the same regardless of their physical attributes. Most importantly of all, however, was the fact that it was possible to position yourself in such a manner where you could reach your opponent's hand while still being far enough away from them that they could not simply lunge at your shoulder. This course of action was a two-edged blade, however.

"En Garde! Prêt! Allez!"

First, Harry led with a feint to his opponent's high line, then dropped the tip of his blade when the expected parry came, and went for a low thrust to the hand that needed to be raised high for such a parry. "HALT! 12-0!" His plan had gone perfectly, it was the execution that was the issue. The wrist was such a small target that without tremendous amounts of practice one could hardly be surprised at his own blade flying past it in a violent thrust.

But this also meant that it was harder for your opponent to get a simultaneous hit, unlike chest hits—especially since you were unlikely to extend at their hand unless they were in an awkward position to begin with. I can't afford doubles. If I have any hope of doing anything here, this is my only shot!

"HALT! 13-0!"

Bob had warned him beforehand not to carry over any disappointment from a touch to the other, lest he self-destruct. Yet it was difficult not to feel frustrated. Is there nothing I can do? At the same time, a little voice inside his head told him to keep calm, to not be surprised, to keep calm and adapt.

Harry searched in his mind for anything he could have learned in the last two months that could have helped him. Parries, distance, disengages, step-lunges…and yet nothing that came to mind that could have helped him. Desperately, he tried a fleche—a running attack. Lacking height but bearing plenty of desperation, it was a nearly suicidal move and was countered as such.

"Are you all right?" This time, the referee sounded, if concerned, then at least uncertain. Harry's opponent had simply kept an extended blade forward and Harry's momentum did the rest, running straight at it with the speed he was so proud of.

"I'm fine," Harry said in a hushed tone. His chest burned—he was sure it was bruised heavily—but he was pleased to note that in spite of his pain, he was still able to glare at his opponent. You're right here…and I'm disappointing you. I'm sorry. But I will get at least one point from you, I swear I can do that much!
He just needed a plan—any plan. It didn't even matter anymore if it was a good or a bad one. All Harry wanted was something he could commit himself to, something he could devote all his efforts towards to keep him from giving up and falling over. Lunge… parry… fleche…. disengages…step-lunges…

Toe.

To hit one's toe, you must bend your knees as low as they will go and lean forward in very much the same way your coaches tell you not to when fencing normally. To bend yourself so low is to expose your head to a simple counterattack, and to lean forward while bending down means forfeiting or diminishing your ability to retreat, thus making this an incredibly risky attack. In addition, the toe is an even smaller target than the wrist—a fencer needs above-average accuracy to be able to consistently hit one of those. Harry hadn't even managed a wrist hit, much less a toe strike.

"En Garde!"

Yet, for once, his size gave him hope. Bending down to strike at your opponent's toe was often a race—could you catch his toe before he could bring down his blade, which is normally held much higher, directly to your head? This was often a race that could only be won with trickery and false starts, but for once in his entire fencing career, Harry noticed the biggest advantage he possessed.

"Prêt!"

A tall fencer such as his current opponent holds his blade higher than an average sized one, and a shorter fencer takes less time to reach his lowest possible position and strike at a toe. His height also benefited him in that a taller opponent would be standing simply so high above him that he would take longer to be able to find his head once he bent his knees. This difference of heights would only give Harry about half a second an advantage, if that. It wasn't much at all.

"Allez!"

But it was all he could ask for.

Harry feinted towards the high quarte line, then retreated with his arm extended. From a safe distance, he continued to feint upwards. Here, his incompetence worked in his favor—so flawed were his true strikes that it was truly difficult for an opponent to tell a bad feint from simply a bad attack. Ineptitude fueled his strikes and his opponent had no choice but to defend from each as if they were real. And with beat, each disengage, that blade went enticingly higher in the air, until…

TOE!

Harry dropped down, then launched himself with his back foot, leaning forward until his right armpit was just over his knee. He watched his blade, hoping, praying that it would reach his opponent's foot. Yet, there was still distance between the two when his momentum stopped. GO FORWARD! Though his blade stopped, his prayers did not. It seemed like a useless struggle, something to appease his frustration, yet he gripped the handle tighter and for a moment really did believe that he could hit, as if his blade could stretch forward.

And it did.

"HALT! 1-14!"

Harry's blade inexplicably grew in size, extending forward to reach his opponent's foot before retreating back to its original size, a small orange spark flying around its side.You must have noticed it at some point, Fleur's letter had said, Harry Potter, surely you must have come to realize that sometimes you will things into reality that otherwise shouldn't be…that's magic, my dear friend.

"Wait!" Harry's words pained him, yet he did not regret speaking out. Once the referee looked at him, he said, "It wasn't my touch. I…hit the floor. It's not grounded so that's why my light lit up." It hadn't been skill that earned him that point. It wouldn't be fair to get it.

Harry knew this was likely the only point he would score this match, but it hardly mattered to him. There was an odd satisfaction in watching his single point be taken off the scoreboard. I may be an idiot, but I'm not a cheater.

"En Garde! Prêt! Allez!"

Harry received the final strike rather quickly, and though he fell to his knees once more, this time he could not help grinning when he took off his mask. It was frustrating, to be sure, but he also felt like he would do better next time.

"Thank you," his opponent said, approaching him. "It was a nice effort. I'll fence you again anytime." His opponent's face was still hidden by the mask, but Harry knew there to be a playful smile behind it rather than an arrogant taunt. The woman took off her mask as well, and in spite of his earlier satisfaction Harry could not help but be a little annoyed when he noticed how clean and pristine her face was.

Fleur had literally beaten him without breaking a sweat!

"A strange day," Fleur declared, "is absolutely the only way to describe it. I can't say I ever thought I would be on the receiving end of Harry Potter's magic! I wonder, is that how you defeated that…wizard whose name I should not say?" She trailed off uncertain of her English and smiled when Harry didn't correct her.

"Did you defeat that wizard with a toe touch?"

Harry shifted around in his seat. While he had come to terms with the fact that magic existed, he wasn't entirely comfortable with what Fleur expected of him "I don't think I could even hold an épée correctly when I was a year old." Harry laughed at this, but also felt disappointed when he reminded himself he still could not hold the weapon correctly.

The oak doors to the room beyond the gymnasium opened. Marc, Fleur's coach, his youthful, squared face filled with fear, stalked into the room. "I feel like I should warn you, Fleur, that Mr. Delacour is downstairs. He wants to see you."

Fleur, who had been absent-mindedly taking her épée in and out of its sheath, made a hushed noise and then started putting her equipment inside her fencing bag rather quickly. She only stopped to look at Marc for a moment and ask with a fearful expression, "Are you certain?"

"He asked for you by name."

"But" — it seemed like less an objection and more of a tantrum — "he's supposed to be in Bulgaria today!"

"Yes, but it seemed like he also had a meeting with this country's minister, heard about a local fencing tournament, saw your name on the list…"

"Are you certain it was my name? I used a fake name, I'm sure of that."

"Well, he saw the name of the English friend whose name you borrow to compete here, Fleur. While he cannot be certain of the fact it is you…well, if he asks around everyone is going to describe you perfectly, aren't they?" There was a deliberate pause. "He is with his business partners right now, Fleur. Ministry people." Harry couldn't be certain, but was there a fatalistic quality to Marc now, as if he was announcing a funeral? "He seems very keen on meeting you."

Fleur said something in French—Harry did not know the language, but he could tell she was not using the most polite of words.

Under the portrait of the club's champion there was a series of metallic knobs intended for visiting fencers to hang their jackets on. With an attempt at playful casualness that would not have fooled even Dudley, she picked hers up and threw it over her shoulder, not even shoving her arms through the sleeves.

"I am terribly sorry, Harry, I haven't seen you in person since the first time we met, and yet I have to leave now."

He stared at her, mouth open. "But you can't go, because…" Because she was his friend, and nothing quite made the clock tick so fast as talking to her about fencing. "Because won't it really upset your dad if he comes looking for you and you're not here?"

"Not nearly as upset," Fleur said with a laugh and a flick of her hair, "as he would be if he came here and actually found me." She fumbled through her dress pockets until producing a long wooden stick from it. "Listen, Harry, I didn't take a plane to be here. What I did—" Footsteps prompted her to nearly trip over empty air, but she recovered, only dropping some of her épée wires out of her bag.

Harry failed to fight off the urge to laugh, but could not fight off a smirk, and Fleur's cheeks reddened at that. Sudden inspiration downed upon him. He knelt down, picked up her wires and hastily shoved them inside her fencing bag.
"You came here using magic, did you not?"

"Magic? I—"

"You told me we weren't allowed to use magic until we were older. You also said we probably wouldn't see each other for a long time. But then I mentioned this tournament to you and you suddenly mentioned a school project near England…this is some sort of illegal magic, isn't it?"

"Illegal?" Marc laughed. "It's not just illegal, Harry—this is very illegal, not to mention dangerous. You're not supposed to apparate until you are at least seventeen, but Fleur has been trying since she was twelve…to make it to fencing tournaments. With varying results, mind—some of her early attempts didn't go so well. It is the single most impressive waste of talent that I have ever seen."

Something about the seriousness of her tone took the fun out of the moment. "Look, Harry—illegal or not, think about it! Would you not at least consider it if it meant you could fence internationally? Imagine your family wasn't as supportive of your fencing as you'd have hoped them to be…"

"I don't have to imagine it," Harry mumbled. The only reason he was even allowed to keep fencing was because Dudley wanted a chance to beat him again; the Dursleys would have been more than happy to deprive him of anything that made him happy.

"Then imagine you could somehow fence in France, England, even Italy, all in the same day! Would you not at least try it?"

"I don't' know," he said, looking down. I want to use that magic, he thought. "It's dangerous, isn't it?"

With a smile that betrayed her awareness—if not enjoyment—of Harry's objection, she hurried past Marc, who stood to the side with an all knowing smile, and in a sudden whirl disappeared as though she had never been there.

Harry stared at where she had been a moment before, took a single deep breath and resumed smiling as though nothing else had happened. I hope she stays longer next time…I like talking to her. She's so fun to be around!

"I understand you're new to this entire magic business, are you not, Harry Potter?" Marc seemed less surprised and more amused. "Yet watching Fleur disappear into thin air doesn't shock you. Why is that?"

"It's not that it doesn't shock me, it's just that…" Harry trailed off, and without noticing let his right hand rest on top of his épée. "I don't think being surprised would help me out in the slightest. If the way I see things doesn't reflect reality…I guess I have to change how I think, don't I? Life isn't that long."

Marc gave him an approving nod, followed by a mysterious smile. "You are going to Hogwarts this year, aren't you? Ah, exciting times…I've barely been out of Beauxbatons for two years and I already miss the place. Are you excited about going out into the world and learning magic?"

"No—yes?" Harry paused, bit his lip and said slowly, "Not as much as I should be."

"Oh? Why is that?"

Harry diverted his eyes away. He didn't want to speak lest he offend the man, but fencing coaches were creatures that did not take the absence of speech as the ending of a conversation. "Magic is amazing, it's—it's more than I ever thought life could be. It's just amazing to know that there's a whole new world just hiding in the corner, and that there's just so much you can do with it…"

"Yet…?" Marc leaned forward. "C'mon, Harry. If you can't be honest with yourself, be honest with me. It's part of my job description."

"I don't think I'll fit in there," Harry said. It felt weird to say it out loud when he had hardly even admitted it to himself. "Everyone else has been raised to be part of this, but I…haven't, and they expect me to do more than fit in, they expect me to be amazing! I just…won't belong there."

"Do you think you would belong more in a Muggle school, Harry?"

He thought of life just a year ago. "No."

"Where do you think you belong?"

He thought of life just six months ago, and his eyes drifted off toward the gym, toward the source of the sound of steel clashing. Before he could say a thing, Marc went on as though the matter had already been settled. "It doesn't matter if you fit in there or not. If you know where your real home is, think of magic as less of a goal and more of a stepping stone. You'll go, have fun, and learn whatever you think will be useful for you...most importantly, at the end of the day, you will have a place to return to."

"Can I really do that?" Before he could stop shut his mouth, Harry found himself asking the question that had kept him awake many times since his first victory.

"Can I really...fence my entire life? Can I always come back, no matter how old I get? Even if the Dursleys don't want me fencing anymore?"

"Yes, if you want it so. But do you really, Harry? You won't make any money in the sport, might never make a name for yourself, and are likely going to spend many cold nights in a dark room trying to fix your equipment before a big tournament. All for one more minute on that piste, where no glory or power awaits you. You won't become the powerful wizard everybody hopes you will by standing there, and there's no reason to believe you'll get anything more than the sport itself out of your journey. But I swear it, if one day you look me in the eye and tell me that this mess is where you belong, I will personally see to it that you will always have a place here."

"I want it!" Harry had not notice the tears in his eyes, not the least because he didn't feel sad in the slightest. "I always want to be here! I don't care if I learn to be a wizard or an accountant, I don't care if I never get anything out of it...as long as I get fencing out of this, that's all I want!"

"That's good, Harry, that's all you need," Marc said quietly. It struck Harry that the man had the same sort of smile as Bob did, as if he was in to a private joke and was eager to share. "To the man who loves sport for its own sake," he started, in tone of careful paraphrase, "it is frequently in the least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. Should you want to keep fencing, I'll only remind you of one thing—the healthiest fencers are not those who think of how to get the most from fencing for their lives, but rather those who think of how to get the most fencing out of their lives.

The Diagon Alley was what Harry expected. This is not to say that Harry wasn't amazed, only that he wasn't speechless. He was most fortunate that his guide—a kind hearted, tall man called Hagrid—seemed to smile at every one of his excited exclamations. There was almost a song in the duo's conversation, where a 'What is that' would be met with a succinct explanation which would then be followed by an excited 'Wow!' and an increased pace for all of two seconds, until Harry would come to an absolute halt when he laid his eyes upon a new store and the chorus started playing again.

"I can't believe you bought me an owl," said Harry. "That's incredibly nice of you!"

Two hours ago, Harry would have said it was the nicest thing anyone had ever gotten him for his birthday. Yet that morning he received a package from Fleur and absolute shock was the only thing that kept tears away. His own fencing starting kit, including jacket, fencing bag, plastron and—he could not believe it—his own electric épée, with a specially canted French grip with a heavy pommel. Happy Birthday Harry, I hope you like your gift. Good luck buying your school supplies, and just promise me you will try to make friends and avoid trouble. It was a short note, yet Harry had read it a thousand times over long after having committed it to memory.

"It's nothing! You deserve a good birthday…and I doubt those people you were living with ever gave you anything you cared for much, eh?"

"No, they didn't," Harry answered quietly. If anything, the Dursleys were inclined to take things away from him if they at all could. It was the reason why he insisted on bringing Fleur's present with him, despite the oversized fencing bag on his back attracting almost as much attention as Hagrid himself. "But I'm still very thankful for the owl, thank you so much!"

Only one thing kept Harry from being absolutely happy at that moment—the knowledge of how expensive fencing equipment was. While he knew Fleur was wealthy, he had made a point to try to hide from her how the Dursleys treated him. He didn't want her to feel sorry for him, to think of him as anything lower than herself. Harry didn't know if that was a rational feeling or not, but he just wanted Fleur to look at him the same way she had when he had beaten Dursley, as though her eyes said, "That wasn't bad, Harry. I'm almost impressed."

"Everyone has been so nice to me lately." Harry looked up. "I just feel like…I
have to do something to thank everyone."

"Thank everyone? For heaven's sake, Harry, you're barely eleven and you're talking like you're older than I am. Don't worry about it so much, people are only in positions to help you because we're older than you. When you reach our age, you'll be able to pay it forward, you understand?" Harry felt uncomfortable in that he had no true objection here; Hagrid was right. Even Fleur was older than him. His discomfort must have reflected on his face, because Hagrid said, "Brighten up! Listen, Harry, if you want to truly thank everyone…then work hard at Hogwarts, eh? Make us proud!"

"If I do well…and make everyone proud…I'll also be able to pay it forward, right? When I'm older, I'll be able to help someone the same way everyone has been helping me, won't I?"

Hagrid smiled at this and put his oversized hand on top of Harry's head.
"You're your parents' son. Anything you want, you can do!"

Harry listened patiently for Hagrid to explain how incredible his parents were, up until the man politely excused himself to do some shopping of a shady nature or another. Soon as the gigantic looking man was out of his sight, Harry stood up and made his way toward a nearby store. He already had all his required textbooks, yet he felt compelled to buy more, to learn more to become more, all so that he could become someone who could help others one day.

Unfortunately, his determination was such a priority in his mind that he entered the first store he saw without looking at its name, and thus entered a memorabilia shop rather than a bookstore.

I might as well take a look since I'm here, Harry thought with a shrug. It was hardly a big store, and not a busy one either. Outside of a very sad looking clerk and a small boy around his age, Harry was alone to browse wherever he pleased and shop around, a stark contrast to how busy every other shop seemed to be right now. A lot of people are probably getting ready for Hogwarts around this time of the year, Harry thought absently as he looked at a small statue before putting it back in place. At least I don't need to worry about hitting someone with my fencing bag like this…how does Fleur carry those around everywhere? I can barely walk without hitting someone!

Most of the store's contents flew right over his head—some literally, such as the tiny statue of David, a Quiddich legend from a century before—but four big marble statues placed directly in front of the windows facing the street caught his attention. Even with only passing knowledge of the wizarding world, he could surmise who they were from the plaques underneath them.

This did not stop the blond boy from appearing beside him and informing him of their identities in as smug a tone as Harry had ever heard. "The four Hogwarts founders…good taste. Nice statues, but not as well-made as the ones I have back home. Are you shopping for statues? Don't waste your time in this store. My father has a few contacts in Bulgaria that produce much, much better ones than this second hand garbage." An audible sigh from behind both boys punctuated this sentence. The boy did not speak loudly, but it wasn't as though he tried to hide his voice from the sad clerk either.

If there was one skill Harry had learned over the last year, it was the art of sounding thankful at advice he found useless and appease upstarts with faint praise. "Really? Thank you, that's nice of you."

Rather than say anything, the boy merely smiled before continuing. "I figured this store was a good place to meet people of…a certain quality. Smart ones, you understand? Would I be correct in assuming you're like that? Of course I am, since you went straight for Slytherin's statue." Truthfully, Harry had just walked to the nearest statue. "Draco Malfoy."

"Harry Potter."

"I noticed," Malfoy said, still smirking and gesturing at the scar on his forehead. Harry forced himself to continue smiling. Something about the way the boy smiled felt phony, and this irritated Harry to an irrational degree. Don't lose your patience…Fleur asked for you not to get in trouble. Come on, Harry, keep being pleasant. Malfoy took this as a sign that they had reached an understanding and went on. "It's funny, when I saw this terrible statue I figured it was a good place to stand by…I figured that only someone with magical parents would enter a store dedicated to remembering our past. Clever way to stay way from those people, don't you think?"

Don't lose your patience, Harry told himself, instead flashing a noncommittal smile. Fleur had warned him about people who judge others based on their magical blood, and how they probably would have looked down even on him if not for his encounter with Voldemort. To him, that way of thinking seemed so…wrong. It felt like something Dudley would have done, if he was a wizard.

"Disgusting! Keep your head low, Potter." Malfoy's hushed tone was the kind you'd use if you were trying to avoid a particularly unsightly bear. "That…thing outside in the streets appears to be looking for someone. The windows are very wide and I don't want him to come ask us if we know anything. I don't suppose he'd come in just to ask for help but…then again, who dresses like that? Then again, I don't suppose they make good clothes his size…and he doesn't seem like he has money to custom order them."

It seemed logical to assume that Malfoy was talking about Hagrid. Harry did not look to confirm, yet it only seemed reasonable that since Malfoy had so far managed to sound as irritating as possible that he would insult the person Harry liked the most in Diagon Alley. There is nothing to be gained from having an argument here. We'll probably be classmates. Even if he insults my friends, I can't lose my head. Of course, Harry had no intention of stepping on his friends or agreeing with some terribly offensive ideas either. Just remain neutral…you can't lose until you move.

"Next time we meet," Harry said in as casual a tone as he could muster, "do tell me more about those better statues you mentioned earlier." Harry clutched on to his fencing bag over his shoulder in the way one does when preparing to leave. He had an exit strategy planned out, one that always works in social occasions—with every step he took towards the exit, he would say something to Malfoy to appear as though he was enormously interested in what he had to say but regrettably had to leave to attend to other businesses.
Harry took his first backwards step toward the door and said, "I think this store showed me that the Hogwarts founders are very interesting…to me, at least."

"I suppose this shop is not a complete waste of space, then." Malfoy's voice was loud enough for the sad looking clerk to respond with an equally loud sigh. It was less of a complaint and more of a genuine resignation, and this made Harry wish he could comfort the man, though he knew he could not so without starting an argument with Malfoy. Easy…even if he's worse than Dudley, there's no point in having this talk. Fleur asked me not to fight anyone.

Harry took his second backwards step, being careful not to knock anything over with his bag. Only two more steps separated him from the door now. "If you don't mind sharing your knowledge of our history with me…The one dressed in red? That's…Gryffindor?"

"Yes," Malfoy said with a sneer. "Slytherin was friends with him, until he revealed himself to be a Muggle lover. What a waste of a person…he could have been such a better wizard, don't you think?"

My mother was born Muglge…you know that. You know who I am. Are you trying to insult me or…are you just so arrogant you think I would agree with you in spite of that? Fine. Insult my parents, I won't lose my head over this. One more step. "Why does his statue have a sword? He seems like the only one of the founders who has one."

"Because he was a Muggle lover." Malfoy seemed torn between amusement and disgust. "Back then it wasn't illegal to use magic in front of Muggles…most of us just used our wands if we got into a fight with them. Gryffindor was weird, he insisted on fighting on their terms."

"Nice sportsmanship," said Harry. Without realizing, rather than taking his last step toward the door, he looked back at the statue as if he was seeing it for the first time. He looked straight into the statue's marble-carved eyes, and for a moment he wondered if the statue would look back at him. It was a magic store, after all. "It would have been very easy for him to just cast spells during duels, but instead he chose to use a sword. That's impressive!"

"Impressive?" Malfoy's tone was such that for a moment Harry thought he would not avoid an argument. It was the tone of someone who had seen through Harry's disguised interest and felt insulted. "What's impressive about that? He's a wizard! He didn't need to do that!"

Don't get in trouble. Fleur asked you not to…you're at the door. Just walk away. Harry laughed as though he had been joking. Offer a compromise, let him take it, and leave."I know, that's why it's admirable! He could have killed anyone he dueled without breaking a sweat, but instead he chose to spend countless hours learning how to use a sword just to give them a chance. That's a lot of effort for something he didn't need to do. You have to admit that's pretty impressive, at least." Harry reached the door and smirked to himself when he did that. I managed it. No arguments. No trouble, no making enemies before school starts.

"Effort? Don't make me laugh, Potter. What's so difficult about that? It's a sword. You just poke someone with the sharp end. There's nothing difficult about it, anybody can do it."

Harry whirled around. "What did you just say?" Harry laughed, and he could not keep the mockery out of his voice. "You think there's no skill in using a sword?"

"What skill is there? Potter, it's just an oversized knife, it's not exactly a wand."

To his credit, Dudley had only ever managed to infuriate Harry. His constant bullying led mostly to a wish he would go away and never bother him again, or at very worst a desire for revenge—it was always a superficial anger never too far from its root.

And yet, right now, what Harry felt ran deeper. He wasn't angry, he was offended.

"We're in London right now," Harry said slowly. "There are a couple fencing clubs around." Harry clenched the straps of his fencing bag—and this time, he did not mean to run. "Would you care to test that theory of yours, Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy did not answer to his parents that day. Tears still scrolling down his face, he forced himself into the first room he could find—his father's study—and locked himself in there. It was flippant behavior, and Draco knew it. That his father had not reprimanded him for it was less a kindness and more of a pity, and Draco knew that too. Father looked at me like I was so worthless. He doesn't even know what happened, and he's already disappointed in me. Worst of all, Draco could not disagree with him.

"Damn you, Potter!" Draco made the name sound like a curse, yet he kept his voice low, a type of hushed scream. It would have been even worse if his parents knew the cause of his anger—his father was of belief that Harry Potter could have been a great dark wizard, perhaps even greater than the dark lord himself. Making enemies with him was hardly a good move. The dark lord killed thousands, why were you not one of them, Potter? Why did he have to let you live to meet me?

Many of Malfoy's textbooks met the wall and at least one of his glass cups met the floor. For hours he threw what he knew amounted to a tantrum, half hoping his parents would come up and assure him he was still himself, and that nothing had changed. When no such comfort came and when energy deserted him, he sat on the floor with his back to his father's bookcase.

Father thinks Harry Potter is a dark wizard…is that possible? It didn't seem that unlikely. Now that emotion had left him, Draco started to think rationally on why he had lost. The only way he could have lost as badly as he did, without scoring a single point, was if Potter was using some sort of magic. He was probably using legilimency, Draco thought, a smirk forming in light of his discovery. Everything makes sense if I look at it like that…he always predicted everything I was going to do before I even realized what I was doing. He's a cheater!

And worst of all, at the end of the match, Harry Potter had dared to sarcastically extend a hand toward Draco, and mockingly saying, "It was a nice effort. I'll fence you again anytime." That arrogant, satisfied face behind that mask would hunt Draco's dreams for days. He was laughing at me…I could see it in his eyes, he was pleased at humiliating me.

Even if Potter was a dark lord, however, could Draco really justify working with him as his father wanted? Could he ever bend his knee to someone who humiliated him such?No, he thought firmly. After a moment, he thought, Not yet.

It was better to serve one and rule over all others, after all. Yet there was no reason to commit to Potter just yet. Even if Potter was a powerful dark wizard, was he truly the only one? Grindelwald had come from a different country, had he not? Was it not prudent to venture outside, to see if there was a more powerful wizard first? Someone who would not treat him like Potter did? It was time for a new generation wasn't it?

I'll go to Durmstrang. His mother would be opposed to the idea, but he was sure he could convince her—some empty words would be enough, and his father would support the idea. There, he could see if he could find a wizard to overthrow Potter. And failing that—which he knew was likely—he could always transfer to Hogwarts in two or three years, armed with dark magic learned in the castle in the north and proving himself an asset for Potter.

He would do all in his power to avoid working for Potter, but he had seen the boy's powers first hand. An eleven-year-old capable of mind reading to such a degree was unthinkable! Unless he could find someone better, he would have to bend his knee to him. Who knows, maybe by then he'll have forgotten about this incident and will treat me better.Four years, then. Draco saw the disdain behind that mask and knew it would have taken at least that amount of time for him to be forgiven.

Durmstrang first, Hogwarts later if I can't avoid it. I'll come out ahead from this,Draco thought smugly. I turned this bad situation into an opportunity…this is just the push I needed to go to Durmstrang!

Curiously, Draco did not feel his elbows brush up against the bookshelf. Yet, he surely must have, because a single book fell from the top shelf and onto his lap, so gently it might as well have been a curtain. "What is this? One of father's books?" Draco stood up with every intention of putting the book back in place, yet something held him. It was a dirty, unattractive book, yet he felt compelled to keep it. For a moment he dismissed the feeling as foolish, but it was half hearted. Father won't care if I take one of his books. I'm his heir, when it comes down to it this all belongs to me too.

It was only after he had made the decision to keep it he realized what the book was – a diary. Father's diary? Why would he keep something as dumb as that? Remembering Lucius' disappointed eyes, Draco wished for there to be something embarrassing about his father's youth written there. In absence of that, there could always be details about the dark lord's reign over Britain, things he could learn now instead of "when he was older."

This diary will make for a fine read in Durmstrang.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

———————————————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

“What are those notes of?” Hermione Granger asked him.

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

Nearly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t you wait until tomorrow morning? Your owl would get you your letter by breakfast—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Harry,

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

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

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

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

-Fleur

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

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

“Library?”

“We were going to do our homework, remember?”

“Ah…yeah. Library. Let’s go there. Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like this, Harry.” Hermione drew her wand. “We aren’t supposed to be here. We—”

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

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

“I mean…it’s right there. Why shouldn’t we?”

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

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

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

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

The armour fell into a stance.

“Harry, I don’t like this, let’s leave,” said Hermione. “This isn’t good, this—”

“Wait,” Harry said slowly. “That’s…odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“Can you promise not to be upset at me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Allez, you piece of junk!”

He flèched at the suit of armour.

———————————————————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master, are you—QUIET, QUIRREL!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is only one Voldemort. You are me.”

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

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

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

QUIRREL! MOVE! CRAWL IF YOU MUST!

“Yield thy name and perish, my once future.”

Death fell.