A/N: well hallejuah, an upload! If there are any stupid spelling mistakes I apologise.

Understood has a new cover, hope you guys like it (cause I do)

So chapters will be coming slower, sorry about that. I'm getting a job, and I won't have much time around school for writing. Plus, this is something I don't get paid for so it's not at my top priories list.

Little promo for Dymocks books (not sponsored, just letting you guys know!) they're doing special edition books of Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, in house colours and emblems! They're hardback or paperback. Go check out their website, they're available for preorders. I've preordered all four! What house are you in?

Anyways, I might regret some of the decisions made in this chapter, but my life is one big trashy regret anyways so here we go!!! Enjoyyyyy

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

******

Light dawned across the Hogwarts grounds. The grass sparkled with the melting snow, dewdrops falling from the leaves of the trees in the forbidden forest. Smoke had begun to rise from the chimney on Hagrid's hut, and a few tentacles rising from the black lake as the whomping willow shook off the snow from its branches.

All seemed well on this peaceful morning, the sun peeking above the trees, casting a warm glow over the castle, the white stone shimmering in the dim sunlight.

Draco awoke because of the sunlight pouring through his window and onto his face, forcing him to open his eyes and blink furiously. Although, he rather wished that he hadn't woken up.

A sharp pain echoed in his chest with every breath, almost feeling like someone was repeatedly stabbing him. He gasped, the air entering his lungs almost like a poison, wreaking tremors of pain through him. His first thought was a broken rib; he'd had one of those before, and he always remembered it as a stabbing sensation in his chest, one that came along every time he drew in a breath.

Then what had happened last night all came flooding back. He'd been out of control of his body; unable to say anything but one thing. 'It's for Dumbledore.' The package, where had he gotten it? He couldn't recall a thing about it, only remembering the contents being a necklace. A cursed necklace, one he remembered from Borgin and Burkes. Harry had to stun him after he realised something was wrong.

Draco knew what had done it. He'd been imperiused, there wasn't any other explanation. He used to be able to throw off the imperius curse, as well as veratisium, and most other mind control and mental spells. He knew he was growing weaker for some reason though.

His condition seemed to be slowly deteriorating day by day, his grades slipping as he was unable to perform spells due to a splitting pain in his skull, or simply not able to perform them at all. It wasn't a big surprise to him that he was easier to imperius; but if anything, it terrified him. His mind wasn't guarded, wasn't as stable as it used to be. Now anyone could get in if they wanted to, peek at his thoughts, memories, it wouldn't be difficult.

That thought made him terrified. He didn't want other people invading his thoughts; peering at his desires and memories.

Monday. It was Monday today.

Draco had already made up his mind; he wasn't up to going to classes today. It wasn't worth humiliating himself throughout every class, putting himself through unneeded pain.

Not to mention, the Quidditch tryouts for all teams were this evening. The Slytherin's were the latest, their tryouts in the late evening, no doubt when it would be dark, a black, moonless night. Draco knew he'd be much more likely to fall off his broom or crash into the stands than even attempt to catch the snitch, but Harry wanted him to go, so go he must. His broom was leaning against the desk, looking as black, sleek and polished as ever.

Draco knew that Harry would be beyond dreading the tryouts; having to deal with other people wasn't really his thing. Sure, the vampire was charismatic and clever, but he was a complete control freak, needing to be in control of every situation he was in. Draco knew Harry would love the title of 'captain' and all the honour that came with it, but he'd hate having to deal with his teammates, as he was a very solitary person. He didn't really care for any company that wasn't Draco's.

With the knowledge that he didn't have to get out of bed to attend classes, he spent another half hour lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the pain to pass.

When he finally deemed himself okay to get up, he stood shakily and descended the staircase from his room, legs trembling as he went. As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was pulled into a bone crushing hug, the wind completely knocked out of him.

"H-Harry, I can't breathe," Draco gasped, but he didn't hesitate to hug the vampire back, although he was unsure of why they were hugging in the first place. He didn't care very much though, he was enjoying the attention.

"You had me so worried," the Harry said, voice muffled by Draco's shirt. "After what happened, Snape told me to lock you in your room for the day, b-but I couldn't do that, and I was scared that I'd have to hurt you if you were still like that when you woke up-"

"I'm fine," Draco said quietly, running one of his hands through Harry's thick black hair, carding his fingers through it. At least I think I'll be fine.

"I don't believe you," Harry mumbled. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Draco answered truthfully. "I wasn't in control. I remember what happened, but I knew that I couldn't do anything about it... I... it felt like I didn't want to do anything about it."

That was true. He could see everything happening, but almost felt... numb. He didn't want to do anything about what was happening; he simply didn't care. Although he knew he should have. He should have cared, because if the old wizard had touched that necklace his blood would be on Draco's hands.

"What do you mean? Were you being imperiused?"

"Probably," Draco said quietly. "I'm not as strong as I used to be, I don't think I ever will be again. Something happened, I can't do magic properly, I don't think it'd be that difficult to imperius me."

Harry didn't reply, hiding his face in Draco's shirt. Draco simply held him tighter, feeling tears beginning to seep through the thin cloth.

"I wish things weren't like this," Harry whispered, voice trembling. "It's not f-fair."

"I know it's not fair," Draco mumbled, holding Harry tighter. "It's okay. We'll get through this."

******

A new feeling of dread had awakened in Harry's stomach, one that he was all to familiar with but usually had an easy time repressing. It was the vague nausea of wanting to throw up yet knowing you'd never be able to, the vague sensation of your stomach simply wanting to either eat itself or implode.

His Quidditch robes felt unusually tight, seeming to cling to his frame slightly. The frosted grass crunched under his feet, pale skinned, black fingernailed hand gripping the polished brown broomstick he held at his side.

The sun was still high in the sky, although the warm glow of evening was approaching. Harry sighed, knowing that after this he'd have to go to a meeting with Dumbledore that had been scheduled this morning, and then wait for Draco to return from his own Quidditch tryouts.

The pitch itself wasn't far up ahead, casting huge shadows over the grounds. Harry could already see a few of the students that had gathered, and he groaned inwardly. He was going to have to make this as quick as he could; he couldn't be late to this meeting.

Standing in the group were a few he recognised; Ron, Ginny, Cormac Mclaggen. A large group of them were teenage girls, all giggling hysterically and holding their Cleansweeps. Harry rolled his eyes at that lot. Hermione was sitting in the stands, watching with her hawk eyes, wary. A group of girls were also up in the stands, and from what Harry could tell, they weren't even Gryffindors.

Harry's presence alone seemed to command silence, because as soon as he neared the group everyone stopped talking, staring at him. For a moment Harry wondered if he'd somehow grown an extra head or something, but he put it down to the fact that his best friend was a Slytherin, and he'd therefore committed 'treason' against the people in front of him.

Ron's expression was rather blank, although he did look slightly guilty about something. Had Hermione talked him round? Either way, he didn't look as bothered about the fact that Harry was a bloodthirsty beast anymore.

Ginny was staring at him as if bewitched, something Harry found rather unnerving and unsettling. She was more of a sister to him than anything; the thought of her having a crush on him didn't really sit well with him. Not to mention he'd just spotted Dean in the stands, who would undoubtedly be watching Harry's every move.

"Right," Harry started, immediately feeling awkward and wanting to sink into the floor. Why was this so unbearably difficult? Harry always knew he'd been socially awkward and rather inept, but now he couldn't even look at people he used to know and be friends with without feeling like he wanted to turn to dust. Did he feel guilty? Did he acknowledge the fact that he didn't associate with them anymore, and it made him feel bad?

No. He had a lot of thoughts about the people in front of him, but an emotion that was definitely lacking from his psyche was guilt. He didn't feel guilty about lying to his two best friends for years, about ditching his housemates in favour of a Slytherin he'd once hated, about breaking into a bloodbank, about killing countless death eaters. He didn't feel guilty about any of it.

"So, I suppose we'll start off with a warm up, and then split up into groups depending on what position you're going for," Harry said, picking up the reddish brown quaffle and holding it at his side. "We'll fly about fifteen feet up in a circle, and pass this around."

Disaster struck as soon as they rose into the air. One of the girls fell off her broom, face bright red, yet she was acting as if she was some sort of damsel in distress, practically pleading Harry's attention. Harry had to resist the urge to curl his lip in disgust.

Again, things actually in the air didn't go too spectacularly either. Ron caught the quaffle every time, thankfully, as did Ginny. Cormac Mclaggen too, seemed to have quite a bit of expertise, as did a few of the other players. The rest of the girls that had managed to get this high in the air though were completely useless, dropping the quaffle and having to make Harry retrieve it more than once.

Harry got lost in his thoughts for a few seconds, but was thrown out of them rather abruptly. The quaffle hit him square in the chest rather hard, no doubt he would have been winded if the need to breathe was there. He caught it immediately before it fell, seeing Cormac grinning at him, snickering. Harry frowned, before realising his jet black fingernails were proudly on display, his Quidditch gloves not hiding the ends of his fingers. Harry rolled his eyes. He'd never had much of a problem with it before, either wearing gloves or keeping his hands in his pockets. It was something that no matter how many spells he tried he couldn't get rid of.

"Got to be on your toes, Potter," Mclaggen smirked, Harry raising an eyebrow in challenge as he tossed the quaffle to Ron. He wanted to mess with a vampire, did he? Oh, it was so on. Whatever position this prat was going for, Harry was going to make it as difficult as he could for him.

Soon the quaffle was back in Harry's hands, and with as much force as he could, he threw the object at Mclaggen. The force of the blow nearly caused him to fall off his broom, flying backwards a few feet. Mclaggen was breathing harshly, too proud to call Harry out on it, passing the quaffle on. Harry pretended to examine his nails, looking up with a triumphant smirk on his face, Cormac's eyes narrowing.

Mclaggen was below him. So very far below him, in every way possible. Harry was smarter, quicker, stronger, better looking. Plus, Harry was higher on the food chain than him. Harry could list off the endless ways in which he was superior to this absolute waste of oxygen and space.

Soon they all descended to the ground, splitting up into the groups.

Ginny was going for the chaser position, which Harry supposed suited her. It was the next best thing to seeker, requiring accuracy and quickness.

Ron and Mclaggen were both going for keeper. Whatever the cost, Harry was determined to make Ron win this, even though he knew that Mclaggen had a rather good chance of beating Ron.

Ginny easily got the position of chaser, besting everyone else.

There were a few other players that Harry settled with as being on the team, before finally the keeper's tryouts started.

Ron managed to save 4 out of the 5 quaffles that were sent his way, better than anyone else had done so far. Mclaggen looked uncannily confident though.

"You think he'll beat me?" Ron asked, Harry almost flinching in surprise. Ron was talking to him?! Since when? Last Harry had known, he was hated with a passion more fiery than Ron's own hair.

"I hope not."

"Why?"

"He insulted my fingernails."

Ron snorted amusedly, shaking his head and watching as Mclaggen rose into the air. Harry couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face, feeling rather happy that things seemed to be relatively back to normal.

Sure enough, Mclaggen was doing well. He'd saved 4, but Harry refused to let this idiot be on his Quidditch team.

Narrowing his eyes, he focused all his magical power onto one object, repeating lessons from his brief training with Victor in his head. In this case, the object was Mclaggen's broom.

The broom jerked violently in the air, almost throwing the boy on top of it off and onto the ground far below. With a yell of shock, Mclaggen missed the quaffle, the ball flying through the large silver hoop.

Harry grinned, knowing that now it was simply up to him to pick between that thing and Ron. The choice was obvious of course.

"You can't do that," Ron hissed.

"Why not?"

"Because the tryouts should be based on whoever's the best!"

"Put it this way," Harry said, batting his eyelashes innocently at the stumped looking Mclaggen, leaning on his broom. "I'm not going to be able to communicate or play well with someone like that on my team. What's the point if he's the best? If his attitude sucks and he's an idiot, then he's not being on the team."

Ron simply stared at Harry for a few seconds, before sighing, although Harry could tell Ron was still happy that he'd made the team.

"The results should be posted in the Gryffindor common room," Harry announced, running a hand through his hair. "At some point."

******

Credence Barebone was lying in the grass, completely surrounded by the earthy smell. His monochrome appearance almost made him look like a stain against the fresh green, a breeze blowing through his hair and ruffling the grass. There were no sounds, only the small whistling of the wind through the trees and the sound of his own breathing. In, out. In, out.

The sunlight shone down upon him, dappled and filtering through the trees above. The sky was a pale blue, a stark contrast to the dark greens and browns that made up the small forest. A few clouds dotted the sky, Credence able to spot something that vaguely resembled a lion amongst them.

He was dozing peacefully, pointless thoughts running through his head. Pondering over the useless things, weird aspects of life, simply lying there, enjoying the tranquility and thinking.

The sun steadily shifted in the sky with every minute that passed. Time flowed on, no matter how much Credence may have wanted it to stop in that moment. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, all melting into one eventually. Time. Such a difficult concept to grasp.

Bright light was shining into his eyes as the sun shone through the trees and onto his pale face, Credence wincing at the brightness and lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the unrelenting whiteness.

Credence almost jumped as fingers intertwined with his own, the body of Newt Scamander blocking the sunlight and casting a shadow onto him.

Newt looked like some sort of angel, the bright sunlight behind him making his nearly ginger hair shine gold. He was smiling, blue eyes sparkling with childish glee and love.

"You scared me," Credence mumbled as Newt flopped down beside him, Credence shifting slightly so that the sun wasn't in his eyes anymore. Their fingers still stayed intertwined, Newt's rough hand warm in his scarred own.

"Did I? You looked like you were about to fall asleep," Newt replied, shifting closer.

"I was just thinking," Credence replied quietly, eyes flickering over to Newt, a small smile on his lips.

"That's dangerous," Newt grinned, poking Credence's cheek with his free hand. Credence rolled his eyes, looking back at the trees above as silence fell upon them, a bird chirping nearby.

"So..." Newt started. "We've got another one of those meetings with Dumbledore this evening. We'll go after dinner."

"I didn't like the last one very much," Credence sighed. "It freaked me out a bit. Nailing a snake to a door? And that Morfin kid didn't look very pleasant either."

"No. I must say that I feel bad for Merope, though. Horrible situation she was in," Newt replied, a small frown on his face. "Pity she passed away. Her child might not have become who he is today if she hadn't."

"You think so?"

"Definitely. Losing parents at a young age does strange things to people. They're the two most important people in that child's life, and without them, someone can grow up to be bitter and hateful."

"I-I'm not like that, am I?" Credence asked, a hint of worry and shame in his quiet voice. Was he bitter? Hateful? Well, sometimes. But everyone was sometimes, right?

"Most definitely not," Newt replied, leaning on his elbow and locking eyes with Credence. "No, never. You're perfect to me," Newt leaned in, pressing his lips to Credence's cheek softly. "And you always will be."

******

Harry and Draco stood outside Dumbledore's office, saying the headmaster's password in unison. The corridor was empty, golden shadows casted over the white stone walls from the setting sun outside.

The stone gargoyle turned with a sound that bore on Draco's senses, the sound of stone grating together. He winced at it, but followed Harry up the staircase that revealed itself.

Like last time, Credence and Newt were already present. They both looked healthy and in good spirits, to Draco's relief. He knew Remus would be glad to hear that they were doing well.

"It seems you've been busy while I was away this weekend," Dumbledore said, light blue eyes locked onto Draco, who felt like cowering slightly.

"He was imperiused," Harry was quick to stand up for his friend, voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It wasn't his fault."

"Of course it wasn't. It just means we have to be wary; as there may be a traitor in our midst."

Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously. Whoever it was, was going to have to face the onslaught of curses and anger Harry would send their way. Whoever it was probably wouldn't want to mess with him or Draco again, or wouldn't even be able to.

"You were away?" Harry cleared his throat while speaking. "Where were you?"

"I would rather not say right now," Dumbledore replied pleasantly, reaching inside is robes with his still blackened hand and pulling out a bottle containing the swirling, white wisps Draco recognised as memories. He uncorked the bottle with his wand. "You will all remember, I am sure, that we left off the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings when Merope had run away with Tom Riddle Sr, and he had abandoned her and returned to his family in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would become Lord Voldemort."

"She was in London?" Newt asked, frowning.

"Yes. We know this because of the owner of the shop that sold the necklace that we were discussing. Caractacus Burke, owner of Borgin and Burke's." Dumbledore dropped the contents of the bottle into the Pensieve and waved his wand, the little figure of a man appearing in the smoky depths.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a witch a little before Christmas, all dressed in rags and pretty far along... going to have a baby, you see. She said she needed the money, and that the locker had been Slytherin's. A few simple spells told me that she was telling the truth, and it was an item near priceless. Of course, she didn't know how much it was worth, happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

"He only gave her ten Galleons?" Credence asked incredulously. Despite not being in the wizarding world for very long, he'd quickly learned about all the four founders of Hogwarts, and had to learn the money system as well. Ten Galleons, he knew, wasn't very much for an artefact that could have easily sold for thousands, if not more.

"Burke was not known to be a generous man," Dumbledore said, looking a bit sad.

"She could have done magic to help herself," Newt pointed out. "She was a witch, right?"

"Perhaps she could've," Dumbledore replied. "It is my belief, however, that when her husband left her, she stopped using magic. She didn't want to be a witch anymore. Of course, it is also possible that the loss of a loved one and the despair that came with it sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life."

There was silence for a few moments. "Where are we going this evening?" Harry finally spoke up, curious.

"This time, we're going to enter one of my memories," Dumbledore said. "I think you'll all find it very accurate and interesting. Well, after you."

Harry was falling through darkness again, spinning, whirling, unable to see anything but the inky blackness that surrounded him. His feet finally hit the firm ground, before a picture slowly blurred into view. Draco was standing beside him, looking a bit shaken up, but otherwise fine. Newt and Credence were already looking around their new surroundings, searching for anything of relevance with their eyes.

"There I am," said Dumbledore happily, pointing to a tall man crossing the street. This Dumbledore was far younger, beard not nearly as long. Instead of the silvery white it was now, it was a fiery auburn. A few people glanced oddly at him, probably due to the flamboyant velvet suit he was wearing.

The five began to follow the younger Dumbledore, eventually reaching a courtyard bordered by tall, steel gates. There was a large grey, stone building, looking like it had all the happiness and colour sucked out of it by a dementor. The place simply looked drab and sad, giving off unfriendly vibes.

Younger Dumbledore walked briskly to the front door, knocking twice. The door opened, and a scruffy looking girl opened it.

"Good afternoon," younger Dumbledore greeted her pleasantly. "I have an appointment here today, is Mrs Cole in?"

The scruffy looking girl nodded, opening the door further and gesturing for younger Dumbledore to follow.

Harry quickly found himself pressed up against Draco as they hurried into the building, the room they had just walked into being absolutely tiny. There was a desk which took up most of the space, and a staircase leading upwards into the next levels of the building. Two doorways were on either sides of the room, the floor tiled in a faded and old black and white. The whole place was shabby and small, but surprisingly clean.

"MRS COLE!" The girl screeched over her shoulder, a skinny looking woman opening one of the doors and hurrying towards them. She walked right through Credence, the boy nearly gasping in shock and retreating to the safety of Newt's side.

"Take the iodine upstairs, Billy Stubbs has been picking at his scabs again," the woman, Mrs Cole, said to a girl who had followed her in, looking more anxious than unkind. "Not to mention that Eric Whalley has chicken pox on top of everything else, check up on him."

Her eyes finally fell upon Dumbledore, and they widened, expression turning from a firm, sharp one to one of pure astonishment.

"Good afternoon," young Dumbledore said cheerfully. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment, and you very kindly invited me here today."

"Ah, yes, yes," Mrs Cole said, a rather blank look in her face as she seemed to recall inviting Dumbledore. "Well then, you'd better come to my office."

The group followed her down a hall, one Draco wouldn't say differed that much from the type of corridor you'd see in an asylum. Spotlessly clean, yet extremely old looking.

They reached a room which looked to be a mix of an office and a living room, old plush furniture scattering the room, a small desk covered in papers.

"As I said in my letter," Dumbledore said, sitting down on a rickety, old armchair. "I'm here to discuss Tom Riddle."

The name sent shivers down Harry's spine, making the hairs on his nape prickle.

"Are you family?" Mrs Cole replied, her eyes narrowed, almost suspiciously.

"No," Dumbledore said. "I am a teacher, at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer Tom a place at the school."

"How come you're interested in Tom?"

"He has certain qualities that our school looks for."

"So he's won a scholarship, or something? I didn't know he'd been entered for one."

"His name's been down for our school since his birth."

"You mean his parents registered him?" It was clear Mrs Cole was sharp and suspicious, inconveniently so.

"Here," Dumbledore picked up a piece of paper off the desk beside him and waved his wand discreetly. "This should explain everything."

Harry didn't see what was on the paper, but as soon as Mrs Cole's eyes found it, they glazed over. She stared blankly at the piece of paper for a few seconds, before speaking in a monotone. "That seems perfectly in order."

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? He was born here in the orphanage, correct?"

"Yes, that's right. New Year's Eve, bitter and cold outside. And this girl, not much older than myself, comes staggering up the steps. She wasn't the first to turn up et the orphanage, so we took her in. She had the baby within the hour, and died within the next," Mrs Cole's voice seemed to have returned to normal, and there was a hint of sadness in her voice. "Told us that she hoped he'd look like his father. Tom, we were to call him, after his father, Marvolo, after her father, and the last thing she said was that his surname was to be Riddle. Well, no Tom, Marvolo, or any kind of Riddle came looking for him, so he's been here ever since. He's a rather funny boy."

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, a knowing look in his eyes. "I thought he might be."

"Funny baby, as well. Hardly ever cried. And when he got older, well... he's definitely got a place at your school, correct?"

"Correct."

"And nothing I can say will change that?"

"Nothing."

"You're taking him, whatever?"

"Whatever," Dumbledore replied.

Mrs Cole sighed. "Well, he, he scares the other children."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think he must be a bully, but I've never caught him at it. Strange things happen, nasty things. Billy Stubbs' rabbit... well, Tom said he didn't do it, and I don't see how he could've done, but it couldn't have hung itself by the rafters, could it? I wish I knew how he'd done it. And every summer, we take them to the seaside. Two of the boys went exploring in a cave with Tom, and they haven't been the same since. I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much so," Dumbledore replied, rising from his seat.

The group followed Mrs Cole up a grey, stone staircase, the woman calling orders to other people as she went. All the children wore the same, drab grey tunics, but looked otherwise well cared for. Harry knew it would be a grim place to grow up, and he felt slightly lucky that he didn't end up here. Although, the Dursleys weren't a great alternative.

"Tom?" They stopped in front of an old looking, black door. "Tom, you've got a visitor. This is Mr Dumbarton- sorry, Dunderbore, and he's come to tell you - well, I'll let him explain."

The door opened, Dumbledore walking in. Everyone followed, although it was a bit cramped.

Merope had gotten her wish, this was most definitely Tom Riddle's son, with a few aspects of his facial features able to be traced back to Marvolo. Sharp, handsome features, high cheekbones, exactly like his grandfather's, the pale skin that the Gaunt's all had, and midnight black hair. He was clearly tall for his age, his eyes completely colourless. His eyes carried a haunted look, darkness hiding within them.

Credence simply stopped, completely frozen, staring. This boy, this boy who would go on to become the most prolific villainous serial killer the world would ever experience, was a spitting image of what he looked like at that age.

Sure, there were differences, particularly in their height and eye colour, but they both had the same high cheekbones, dark hair and pale skin. If you sat an eleven year old version of Credence beside this boy, one would think they were twins.

Yet at this age, this boy was in an orphanage. Credence however, was in the process of destroying himself.

"How do you do, Tom?" Dumbledore asked, sitting down in a chair opposite Tom. "I am Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor?" Tom questioned, looking wary. By now Newt had picked out the similarities in their features, and was looking ultimately confused, but was hanging on every word that the two said.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied.

"Are you a doctor?" Tom's tone turned from wary to hateful and frustrated. "I know she wants me looked at, they all think I'm mad. You're a doctor, aren't you?!" His voice wasn't questioning, it was demanding.

"No," Dumbledore said calmly. "I am a teacher, at a school, called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school."

"You're from an asylum, aren't you?! Don't try to fool me, I know you're lying! Tell me the truth! I'm not crazy!" Tom hissed, voice filled with viciousness. He looked so bitter, so hateful.

"I am not lying to you, Tom. Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities-"

"I'm not insane!"

"I know you're not, Tom. Hogwarts is not a school for insane people, it is a school of magic."

Dumbledore's final word hung in the air for a few seconds. The boy had frozen in shock, and was staring at Dumbledore. "Magic?" He whispered, looking like he'd finally pieced together a 1000 piece puzzle. "That's what I can do, magic?"

"What can you do?"

"All sorts," Tom breathed, looking excited, some colour returning to his hollow cheeks. "I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make things move without touching them. I can make bad things happen to the people who annoy me, I can hurt them, if I want to."

Credence blinked furiously, clutching Newt's arm. "I don't want to be here, Newt," he whispered, utterly terrified.

"It's okay, don't worry," Newt's reply calmed Credence slightly, but not much.

"I always knew I was special," Tom went on, a gleeful look on his face.

"Well you are," Dumbledore replied. "You're a wizard."

"Are you a wizard too?" Tom asked, eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

"Prove it."

"If you are accepting the place at my school-" Dumbledore said.

"Of course I am!" Tom replied indignantly.

"You will address me as 'sir', or 'professor'."

For a moment Tom frowned, looking extremely offended and angered, before composing himself. "Ah, sorry, sir, I mean, professor, could you show me-?"

Dumbledore pulled his wand from his robes, and waved it. In an instant, the rickety old wardrobe in the corner burst into flames. Tom jumped, looking frightened, but in awe.

"Where can I get one of them?!" He demanded.

"All in good time. I think there's something in your closet that wants to get out, Tom."

A faint rattling could be heard within the wardrobe. Tom paused for a second, before throwing open the door. A small, cardboard box sat at the top of the wardrobe, rattling and shaking furiously. Tom took down the box, holding it apprehensively.

"Are there things in there that shouldn't be, Tom?" Dumbledore asked.

"I suppose so, sir," Tom replied, voice expressionless and emotionless. He emptied the contents out on his bed, to reveal little trinkets, a yo-yo, a thimble, and some other things.

"You will return them to their rightful owners with apologies. Stealing is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Tom," Dumbledore said firmly.

"Yes sir," Tom replied, voice cold. He looked like he resented Dumbledore for the fact that the man had stopped his petty stealing.

"So, this is some money to buy all your spellbooks and everything you need-"

"Spellbooks? Where do I buy those?" Tom asked, taking the heavy bag of jingling coins that Dumbledore had offered him, examining a big, golden Galleon.

"In a place called Diagon alley."

"How do you get there, sir? I'm used to going places by myself, I'm sure I can get there."

Dumbledore quickly explained where the Leaky Cauldron was. "Just ask Tom the bartender- not hard to forget, I suppose, as you share a name-"

Tom twitched, almost irritably.

"Do you not like the name Tom?" Dumbledore asked.

"There are a lot of Tom's," Tom replied, looking like he felt like he was deserving and entitled to a much more original name. "So when can I come to Hogwarts?"

"Everything you need is here," Dumbledore said, handing Tom an envelope. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of November. There is a train ticket in there, along with your book list."

Tom nodded, Dumbledore getting to his feet and preparing to make his leave. "I can talk to snakes, too," Tom said after the retreating figure. "Is that normal, for someone like me?"

"It is uncommon," Dumbledore replied slowly. "But not unheard of. Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."

Everything dissolved into darkness, and after a few whirling, jerking moments, they were standing back in Dumbledore's office.

Newt looked confused. Credence looked scared. Harry looked apprehensive, and Draco looked like he was about to pass out.

"Did you know?" Harry demanded.

"Did I know, what I'd just met the most dangerous wizard of all time?" Dumbledore replied with a heavy sigh. "No. I did want to keep an eye on him though. His powers were surprisingly well developed, he knew how to use them, and wasn't using them for the right things. Stealing things from others, using his powers for cruelty... it surprised and shocked me, the drive he seemed to have to cause others pain."

"Why did he look like me?!" Credence spoke up, voice faux angry, he was clearly terrified.

"I don't know, Credence," Dumbledore replied. "He did, most indeed, resemble you. You would have been the same age, come to think of it. It was about 1910, if my memory suffices."

******

It was just beginning to get dark as Draco walked across the grounds towards the Quidditch pitch. Even though he was exhausted, mentally and physically, he wanted to give this a fair shot.

The sky was a pale purple colour, the clouds almost a pure black. Stars were beginning to appear, some obscured by the looming clouds. The sun was setting over the trees of the forest, and soon the moon would rise.

The Quidditch captain this year, Marcus Flint, stood on the pitch, a group of other hopefuls milling around with their inferior brooms. Draco stood patiently on his own, simply wanting to get this over with. He had more important matters to attend to.

"Surprised you showed up," Blaise sneered, walking over. Draco rolled his eyes, uncaring. "Thought you'd be too busy with Potter."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco snapped, eyes narrowed. If this idiot dared to insult his mate, then this evening would be ruined with a trip to the headmaster's office again with him, and Blaise would be sent to the hospital wing screaming blue murder.

Blaise just chuckled cruelly. "You know exactly what it means," he replied easily, voice taunting. "People aren't blind, Malfoy. We all expected better of you."

"Shut your mouth, Zabini," Draco snarled. "You don't know anything."

Blaise just shrugged, but his smirk remained. "Whatever you say."

A few more people turned up, most of the group being comprised of younger students. They all regarded Draco with caution at the very least, most of them shooting looks at him out of the corners of their eyes. They were all judging him, wondering how exactly he was friends with Gryffindor scum, wondering if the rumours were true. Well, the rumours were true, but no one knew that, and there wasn't anything to prove it, either.

The Slytherin's didn't have time to warm up, simply getting right into the tryouts. They all had to be back in the castle before curfew, so Flint was clearly trying to make things as quick as possible.

It was completely dark by the time the seeker's tryouts began. Draco most definitely wasn't the build for a seeker, but somehow he made it work.

Seekers were meant to be small, fast, light. Draco was rather tall, but he doubted that he weighed anywhere near as much as Blaise did.

"First one to catch the snitch," Flint said, holding up the little golden ball. "Gets the position."

As soon as he let go of the snitch, four people rocketed into the air.

Draco knew that he definitely had the advantage. Despite being the tallest, and not having the fastest broom against Blaise's, he had something they all didn't. Night vision.

He circled the pitch once, eyes narrowing as he searched around for a tiny glimpse of gold. Most of the other people were flying aimlessly around the pitch; the most luck they would have would be to bump into the snitch by accident.

Finally Draco caught sight of it. The snitch was buzzing around the tallest ring at the end of the pitch almost tauntingly, lazily, knowing that if anyone tried to grab it in the dark they'd bash into the metal goalpost and knock themselves out.

The wind rushed through Draco's hair as he descended into a swooping dive, leaning forward on his broom. The quicker he was, the better.

It seemed that a few of the other wannabe-seekers had been watching him and waiting for him to move, because before he knew it, he had three people on his tail. The bleak, half hidden crescent moon gave a little bit of light, not enough to see properly, but Draco knew it was enough to spot him, especially with his almost pure white hair.

Draco was no expert when it came to Quidditch, but he knew how to force a couple of idiots to leave him alone.

Without warning, he dove straight for the ground. The rest followed, Draco bracing himself as the ground rapidly came up to meet him.

At the very last second, he pulled his broom up, the tips of his Quidditch boots grazing the grass below. Two of the others didn't pull up in time, and they came crashing to the ground.

Blaise was still hot on his heels as he skyrocketed upwards, flying along the length of the goalpost, right towards the snitch. Somehow, the little golden object seemed to notice the two Quidditch players rapidly approaching, and whizzed off, flying quickly down to the other end of the pitch.

Draco, thankfully didn't manage to hurt himself as he made the sharp turn to fly after the snitch, but the same couldn't be said for Blaise. Whiplash caused the other boy to let out a screech of pain, and he quickly lost control of his broom.

Draco knew he was no hero. He wasn't going to do anything; it was a trait Slytherin's all carried. They didn't care for anyone but themselves in the end.

Draco was the slight exception to that rule. He cared about a few people, one in particular. The one person he would die for, the one person he'd suffer endlessly for. Harry James Potter.

His hand closed around the snitch, a surge of triumph racing through him as he descended to the ground. He handed the snitch to Flint proudly, who frowned in confusion, clearly not having expected someone to catch the golden ball so quickly.

Draco excused himself as fast as he was able to, sprinting back up to the castle. Instead of turning down the corridor to his and Harry's common room, he began heading for the seventh floor.

After reaching the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, who was fast asleep, he paced three times in front of the blank wall. A door materialised, one Draco was all too familiar with, one that at the sight of it, filled him with dread.

Yet he pushed open the door anyways, stepping into the room. It was so quiet you could've heard a pin drop, the silence eerie. Draco gulped, before hurrying around the piles and piles of random objects.

A tall, black cabinet finally came into view. Next to it was a dusty stack of books from years ago, ones he'd checked out from the library and never handed back. Picking one up, he blew the dust off the cover and put down his broom.

He flipped through the pages, before finally reaching the one he remember using spells from to fix the cabinet in the first place. Fixing an object like this was no simply feat; it required many, many spells, some extremely powerful.

The thought of casting any of these spells alone made Draco want to vomit, but he squared his jaw. He had to do this, for whatever reason. Otherwise next time it wouldn't be Dumbledore in danger, it would be Harry.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he focused his mind and spoke the first incantation. A splitting pain echoed through his head, but he gritted his teeth.

He could do this. He could, and he would, no matter what the cost.