Harry shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Detention with Umbridge -- upon literally the first day of having her -- is a feat that would have James debating pride and disappointment, and that Sirius would have no debate over.

It's certainly got people talking. About Cedric and Voldemort and Umbridge's less than ideal teaching style. But hating Umbridge and talking about Voldemort is not believing Harry, so it is considered a bitter victory. (If one at all.)

Umrbidge's room is fitting from a pink obsessed demon from hell -- which is to say it's fitting for Umbridge. Too vile a creature to have friends, all photos on the walls are that of cats.

He can laugh all he wants -- and WILL; determined to snicker about all parts of her to his friends as soon as he's served his time -- but there is an underlying sense of something deeply sinister here. Like if he peeled back the wallpaper, he would bloodstains.

His eyes drop to the ground beside his chair.

Bloodstains.

Why would he need to peel back the wallpaper? It is not like she's hiding anything.

No.

It's like she wants him to know.

Dolores takes the seat across from him. Harry sits up in his chair, forcing his eyes away from the stains on the ground and onto her.

She sits, same obnoxious expression as ever. Condescending.

Harry is reminded graphically of Vernon hitting him across the face after he grew back his hair. Beating, he said, the freakishness out of him.

"This is for your own good."

Harry shivers.

"For your detention," she says, "you will be writing lines."

Hary reaches into his bag to grab his parchment and quill, but she tuts, shaking her head. "No, dear, none of that now. No, you'll be using a special quill."

She holds it out to him. A scroll of parchment. And a... dark black quill.

Harry takes them, smoothing out the piece of paper so it is flat against the table. He turns the quill over in his hand, eyebrows furrowing.

"But," he says, "there's no ink."

She giggles. Like she knows something he doesn't.

"You don't need ink for this type of quill."

He places it against the parchment. "Alright," he says. "What I will be writing?"

"'I must not tell lies'." She takes pleasure -- oh how she must -- in how his grip tightens around the feather. "We will go... oh, just until the message sinks in, how about that?"

He replies, gritting his teeth, "Sure. "

"Hem, hem."

"Yes, m'am ." Like a fucking zombie. Robotic and obedient and just how she wants him.

He begins writing, but stops halfway through the sentence .

"What is it?" asks Umrbidge... hauntingly; knowingly. "I don't quite think the message has sunk in yet. You do have to keep going."

"No, it's just..." He writes another letter and there it is again -- a sharp pain on the back of his hand.

He turns his hand over. The cut is healed, but there is blood that cannot be anything but recent.

He writes another line and watches in morbid fascination as words -- in his handwriting -- carve themselves into his skin. ( I must not tell lies.) These cuts, too, heal themselves right away.

Harry wonders for how much longer that will happen.

Harry looks over at her, her unchanged expression. She's hurting me, he thinks, dully angry. Is she allowed to do that?

But she's a Ministry worker. And... the Ministry is allowed to do anything.

He writes another line and makes sure he does not flinch in pain, give any sort of subtle wince, any recognition sign that she is getting what she wants. He maintains eye contact with her all the while. He has dealt with people like before. He knows how to deal with them; knows that showing weakness is what she wants and what she wants, she will not get.

It is a challenge and Harry Potter is a challenger.

He lets his hand fall to his side. He wants to see if he can drip the blood onto her carpentry -- see if he can sure her punishment against her. But then Harry realizes he isn't special. Not with that desire. Not with his hatred toward her, not with her punishment toward him. He realizes that Umbridge is experienced in this -- that she has done with before.

He recalls the bloodstains on the floor and thinks, solemnly, that this is not only his loss.

When it comes to the point that his hand splits open and does not heal itself, Umbridge takes his hand in her own, looking it over. "Do you think that the message has officially sunk in, Mister Potter?"

Harry grins. His face is pale and blood covers her hands just from touching him. "Absolutely, Professor."

I must not tell lies.

Umbridge grins back. "I'll see you here tomorrow night, Mister Potter."

...

He had fun with Sirius over the weekend. His time with Tom, too, was not entirely a let down. He had met Remus and that basically outweighed whatever horrible feelings were dredged up while meeting Bellatrix. Tom tells him he will have his casual clothes sent to him sometimes over the week.

It was fun, but he is back to Hogwarts now. Hogwarts, with Snape and Albus and Hermione and Neville and maybe-Ron. Hogwarts, where he is a professor and where he might not be one for much longer.

Hogwarts, where he has things to do so he better get to doing them.

Harry settles on top of his desk, sitting Indian style. Sitting in his actual chair makes him feel all too... professor-y, and he's no professor. He's a kid with a lil too much power and a plan that's well underway.

"Today," he says, "I'll be teaching you how to shoot a gun."

Hands shoot up instantly. "Kale. What's your question?"

"Are we going to be using real Auror guns? " he asks, his excitement evident. "I don't know how you would manage to get your hands on some--"

"I have no real guns," Harry clarifies, putting his hands up. He rolls his eyes, "Not like Auror guns are real guns, but..."

Sarah pipes in. "What do you mean? And what are we going to be shooting with?"

"I mean -- they're... they're wands, bro!" Harry laughs. "They're just wands."

"Wands? Like... from the movies?"

"NO," snaps Harry. "No," he says, calmer. "Like from my world. Where we use wands to cast things. Wands made from wood with specially tailored cores to channel our magic."

"Then those weren't wands," says James, puzzedly. "Those were guns."

"You are this close to getting my point. ANYWAY," Harry says, "that's besides the point. I got Albus to make us wooden replicas of Auror guns. They're just without a core. If you channel your normal, wandless magic through them, you'll get a similar result. Aiming, really, is what we're trying for, so it should work you."

It is Hermione who raises her hand next.

Harry swallows. "Yes, Hermione?"

"Why," she asks, never lowering her hand, "are we learning how to shoot guns in class?"

Harry tries to laugh it off. "Who knows?" he says, jokingly. "Maybe next week, we'll learn to build them."

Hermione's eyes narrow. "Unless we are going into Ministry business, such as you have, sir," she says, pointedly, "then we have no need nor use of an Auror gun. And, if we are, then we'll be taught them while training for the occupation. As such, this lesson seems unnecessary."

Harry shifts so his legs dangle off the desk. "I just like violence," says Harry, carefully. "Bellatrix Lestrange said we needed less of it in the classroom, and I live half my life by spite. Then again, she also said that we needed more corporal punishment in the classroom, so the fuck does she know, really?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"For the record, I'm literally not."

Students murmur to themselves. Harry rolls his eyes. "Auror ' guns ' are cool as fuck," he says, exasperated. "They also work exceptionally similar to Muggle ones, which I'm more familiar with."

Zach scoffs. "You've used Muggle guns?"

"Yes," says Harry, hopping up on his feet. "And I will tell you allll about it while we practice, if you're good."

He grabs the box of fake guns given to him by Albus and says, "I'd love to clear the room with magic, but." He shakes the wrist with the bracelet on it in the air. "I've kinda had those privileges revoked. So, if you'd please..."

The kids get to moving the desks and chairs to the corner of the room. Harry moves everything off his desk and makes sure his drawers are secure before turning his desk of its side. "Line up at the end of the classroom."

He pops up the box of guns and begins handing them out down the line. "Now," he explains, "there's some rather essential rules of gun safety that we'll boil down to today as; don't aim the gun at anyone you're not willing to shoot."

Hermione takes her gun without even looking at him.

"Hold the gun with two hands -- yes, Sarah, like that -- erm, Zach, your angle is a bit... ah, that's much better." He sets the empty box down, holding the last one in his hands. "What you want to do is to make sure the crosshairs here , and the notch here are lined up -- cause that'll show you accurately where you're aiming. Aim at my desk, at the front of the classroom. Don't shoot yet."

He walks down the line, adjusting people's form. "You're way too tense, bro -- James... I don't even know what you're doing."

"So," Hermione pipes up. Harry glances at her. "You've shot a gun before."

He moves Pany's gun to the left. "I have," he allows. "Though I've never shot with these before."

"I'd assumed," she says. "Given that you're just no arriving here."

Harry chuckles. "'Course, yeah. It was when I was... ehhh, I wanna say thirteen. My cousin and his friends had taken Uncle Vernon's gun -- Hannah, if you hold it like that you will blow your head off, I swear to god -- and... and he had captured one of the neighbor's kids and taken it out to the woods."

"I thought this story was about you using guns," says Hermione. Her stance is in need of no corrections. " Sir. "

"It is," says Harry, settling back at the end of the line. "So I show up in the woods, right? And I'm like Ahhh what the fuck are you doing -- 'cause he's got one of his friends holding out the cat to shoot -- very poor gun safety, by the way, and I can see the disaster waiting to happen. I say, 'Dud, let's not doing anything too hasty, alright? Let's put the gun down, let the cat go, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.'" Harry rolls his shoulders, holding out his own gun, despite the fact that he has no magic to fire from it. "'Course, Dudley ain't all up on that 'empathy' shit and I get told to get lost or I'm next -- very Dudley stuff. So I do something I do not recommend and started wrestling him for the gun -- the very loaded gun, terrible fucking idea. I eventually grab it and take off, booking it down the woods until I've lost them. I hide it there. Uncle V beat my ass when Dudley told him I lost his gun, but I wasn't going to risk having it back in the house."

Harry holds out the gun in front of him, the weight familiar in his hand. "So, anyway, what we'll be doing is aiming at my desk. Use a simple cutting curse, please, nothing too extreme. Channel your magic through your gun; aim; then fire."

"But," says Harry Goldberg, hesitantly, "it's... your desk. Why do you want us to destroy your desk?"

Because I don't think it'll be mine for much longer, Goldberg. "Not destroy it," says Harry. "Just cut it up."

"That's still--"

"Okay, kids," Harry says, ignoring him. "Go wild."

Cutting curse begins being fired off. Harry watches, correcting someone's aim or posture when they're too far off. He stops by Hermione at one point in time.

"Impressive," he notes. Her aim is immaculate and every time she shoots a curse, it doesn't miss.

"You didn't use a gun."

"Hm?"

"In your story." Hermione glances at him out of the corner of her eye, then looks back at the target. "You said you're familiar with them, but you didn't shoot the gun."

"I practiced with it on my own time after that," he amends. "I'm a good shot. With my glasses on, of course. I didn't really use it outside the woods, though, but I do remember where it is. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?"

Harry smiles. In case I go feral. "In case it's necessary for my survival, of course."

Hermione says nothing, keeps shooting, but Harry can tell she does not believe him.

That's alright. His Hermione didn't, either.

He takes a deep breath, remembering what Tom said to him.

You will never have a relationship with her if you do not at least try.

He takes a deep breath and then asks, tentatively, "Hermione?"

"Sir."

"Will you see me after class?"

Something in his voice, in his gentleness, in his hesitance, gives him away. "I thought," she says, tensely, "you weren't a professor."

"I'm not asking you to stay as my student," says Harry.

"No?"

"I would just... like to talk. That's all."

"And you can't do that here?"

"Considering your response last time I tried to breach the topic," says Harry, tilting his head, watching recognition light up in her eyes, "I think privacy would be in order."

She stops firing, the barrel of her gun lowering until it is pointed at the floor. She does not look at him. "This is invasive," she says, "and rude and -- and dishonest. "

"Maybe," says Harry. Soft. "But I cannot know why unless you tell me."

She sighs. She raises her gun to shoot again and Harry thinks he will be ignored completely until she answers, so quiet it is nearly a whisper, "Alright. I'll see you after class."

Harry does not disturb her further. He walks further down the line, thinking, happily, that he'll have to thank Tom for the advice.

And what an insane thought that is. Thanking Tom.

He stops where a girl is and watches her shoot for a moment. "Interesting ratio," he says. "About a 70/30 hit-to-miss, right?"

She sighs, frustrated. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"You're... Hannah? Hannah Abbott?"

"That's me."

"Well, Hannah," he moves to the other side of her. "Your hands are shaking."

"I'm upset, " she snaps.

"Because you keep missing?"

"Duh."

"You're upset that you keep missing, which causes you to keep missing. " She shakes his head sadly. "How the vicious cycle continues. Hey, I can call this off for a minute, go get you a calming draught--"

"I just need to calm down," she interrupts, "and I'll shoot better? Is that what you're saying?"

Harry shrugs. "Pretty much."

" So, " she says, taking a deep breath, closing her eyes. "I don't need a calming draught."

Harry watches as her muscles relax, her breathing evens out, and her hands steady. Her eye open up and she sends off a cutting curse.

It lands perfectly.

"Astounding effort," he says. "Ten points to Hufflepuff." While it certainly is impressive... it's also something Harry has done. He has calmed himself down from a panic in a matter of moments because he could not afford to panic. "How old are you, Hannah?"

"Thirteen," she says, beaming. "But my -- my birthday's this weekend."

"Is that so?" he hums. "Well, happy birthday. Your... skill is formidable, for someone so young. Tell you what. If you ever need someone to talk to, stop by my office after hours. Alright?"

"You can't be friends with your professors. " She says, chuckling. "That's just weird."

Harry taps his temple. "Not technically a professor, remember?"

"I guess," she says. "Still. The President chose you for this job for a reason."

Harry winces. It's called 'simping,' and it's not a valid one. "And once I figure it out, I'll be the first to know."

"So you really are just fifthteen?"

"I cannot say it enough. Though," he adds, tilting his head, "my birthday is in five weeks -- July 31st... not that it matters here."

"Your birthday is on the goblin visit?"

"The what now?"

"Once every year, a large selection of goblins from gringotts, enjoy a feast, usually with the President present. As sort of a show of good faith with the wizarding community." She hums. "I wonder why the President didn't tell you. You two seemed rather close."

"Yeah," Harry says, recalling visiting them with Tom. Using their life as blackmail to help Sirius. "That's a good question."

He leaves her be. He thinkly, idly, that the goblins will be visiting in five weeks time. It's good information.

Something he ought to mark on his calendar.

Before the end of class, Harry learns two more surprising thing. He is told by Kale Goyle -- who shares the last name of a boy who is the opposite of him in every way -- that they're made progress with the Veil. Harry tips his desk back onto its front and asks, humouring him, "How do you know that, Kale?"

He says, proudly, though not smugly, that "my father works in the Unspeakables Department."

"Really?" If it is true, he doubts they'd made any large advancements since he talked to Remus yesterday. But this is a child and he is not mean to children. "What'd they figure out, kiddo?"

"They're using this spell that can track if something can exi--"

"-- Even from the other side of the Veil, yeah. I'm up on it."

"Oh. Well, okay -- well, they've found something."

"You mean this place's Harry and Sirius?"

"Yes," says Kale, beaming. " And a Time Turner. President Riddle's told them to keep the discovery on like... secret secret lock down until he decide what to make of it, but my dad was one of those who made the discovery." He puffs out his chest. "So I get to know about it."

Harry frowns. Stares. "You're... joking. Right?"

"Nope," he says. "Exciting, right? But I'll miss you... the old Professor Potter was... not fun." He rubs the back of his hand nervously. "But! You'll be happy to be home, right?"

"Right," Harry says, absently. "Right -- thank you, er, for... for the information." Meanwhile, his mind is running a mile a minute.

The kid, he reasons, could very well be lying. He appreciates him, as a teacher -- something Harry never thought he'd get to say -- and might be trying to win his favour, impress him. There's no reason a Time Turner, of all things, would be A, thrown through the Veil, or would B, make it. Lying fits.

But there is also the scary, maybe hopeful, possibility that he isn't.

Question A: Why is Tom hiding this from the public? Why is Tom hiding this from him ? Is he trying to keep Harry here; a desperate attempt at entrapment? OR is this PR management and something he plans to reveal to Harry only if it is found to be useful? Maybe he doesn't want there to be such an uproar over something that very well might be a dead end.

Harry does not know. And, like Tom said when he asked how to deal with Hermione, the only way to figure out is to ask.

Harry will write him a letter later.

Question B is, of course, is this helpful to Harry's escape? If he had Hermione with him, he'd know for sure, but he's running nearly completely on his own. Albus created the duplicate guns for him when he asked. Albus is nice, in some way...

But Albus is not Hermione.

Harry watches the class file out as he sorts through his drawers, reorganizing them, sighing. It's frustrating, he thinks, unlocking the draw with the prophecy in it, being the Brawns with no Brain. He makes sure the prophecy is intact and places it back, moving onto the next drawer, the one he hasn't had a reason to open it.

It's also frustrating that no one is as open with him as he'd like them to be. He is used to it. It is nothing new. At least, in his own timeline, he had his own Order. Information he was not freely given, they decided to take.

But here, he has no Order. The people in it do not even know it -- do not know him or trust him or like him.

Frustrating. His friends are right here but a million miles away.

Hermione stands in front of his desk, arms full of books. "Are you ready, sir?"

"Er," says Harry. "Give me a minute, I'm almost finished cleaning up. Wait outside the door, will you?"

She nods and leaves the classroom.

Harry unlocks the final drawer. He pulls it open.

And then he stares.

(You'll be writing lines.

But... there's no ink.

You won't need ink for this type of quill.)

"No," whispers Harry. His voice sounds detached from his body. "There's... no..."

(She's hurting me.

Is she allowed to do that? Should I tell someone?

No. I can't. I cannot lose.)

Harry's breaths come in short pants. He reaches into the drawer and with a shaking hand, he pulls out a quill.

A dark black quill.

Harry drops the blood quill back into the desk and closes the drawer, slamming it shut.

He swallows. He feels his lungs struggle to contract and places his hands onto the desk, trying to catch his breath.

Professor Harry Potter used a blood quill.

He used a blood quill on children.

He USED. A BLOOD QUILL. On CHILDREN.

Harry stares at the back of his hand. He smooths over his face. He pushes those memories -- this disastrous revelation -- out of his mind. She lets out a deep breath.

"It's fine," he tells himself. Still, those scarred words look back at him.

I must not tell lies.

...

He meets Hermione Granger outside his classroom some five minutes later. "Sorry for the wait," he says cheerfully. "I made a right mess in there, didn't I?"

Hermione stares at him blankly. "So I'd say. You wanted to ask me something. About Ron."

Right to the point. She's always been the straightforward type of gal. "I want to establish something," he says. "Before we start."

"Go on."

"I don't know what happened to Ron. That's -- that's why I'm asking, and it might be rude for Professor Potter to ask. But I'm not him. I'm no Professor. And I just wanted to know. I did not -- and do not -- mean to hurt you."

Hermione tilts her head at him. "And yet you corner me in class," she says, "and ask me, as my superior, to do something for you. It feels like you mean to hurt me -- or you at least don't care if you do."

"You are allowed to leave at any time," assures Harry. "You can choose not to answer and you can leave -- I'm not holding you hostage. I'm barely older than you. I'm not your superior."

Hermione looks at him. "That's..."

"Here," he says. "To help you feel more comfortable. You can ask me anything you want to know at any time -- so it doesn't feel like... like an interrogation, k'know? 'Cause it's not."

"Alright," she says, squaring her shoulders. "Why do you want to know about Ron?"

An easy first question. "He was my close friend," answers Harry. "In my world, one of my best."

"So you're looking for him here."

"I'm looking for all of my friends here." Harry chuckles nervously. "So far, I guess it's not going as well as I hoped."

Hermione hums. "That's odd. Your differences to Professor Potter."

Harry's gaze darkens. "From what I can tell, we've got a lot of those."

"Yes," says Hermione, clasping her hands in front of her, holding her books to her stomach. "Yes, I'm starting to see that, too." She pauses, then looks back up at him, bravely. "You want to know what happened to Ron Weasley?"

Harry nods mutely.

"It was my -- our first year of Hogwarts. We're friends. Good friends. And then he goes home for Christmas -- he has a big family that is big on celebrating and though he tells me he's sure Hogwarts' celebration is amazing... there is nothing better than family." She smiles weakly.

Harry swallows. Nothing better than family... Harry's Ron believed that, too. Except his friends were a part of that, too.

"They're going shopping in Diagon Alley. And then Ron... he gets lost. It's no one's fault. They have a large family -- too many heads to feed, too many hands to hold -- and there's a large crowd in front of one of the shops that they try to pass. It is no one's fault that he gets lost. It just happens.

"This crowd is a protest, edging, at the time, on a mod. They work for one of President Voldemort's franchised stores." Harry has heard about them. He has read up on Tom Riddle's legacy and the fact is that he was the son of a rich man before he was the President. "And they're fighting, you know. For worker's rights. Time off, better pay... silly things, in hindsight. Things they want and deserve but are silly and small in hindsight -- because the crowd of striking workers is growing steadily unruly and police presence is becoming increasingly unsure how to deal with it.

"Ron is still lost in the crowd.

"Voldemort will be declared, officially, dead the next day and Tom Riddle takes over as acting President the same day... but these numbers are speculated to be fudged. So someone is in charge of these guards, someone is leading them, and no one knows which one it is.

"Either way, the police working at the scene are given permission to use whatever force necessary to disperse the crowd. And... they follow those orders, like good, law-abiding citizens. I do not know which side starts killing the other first. It is still debate who throws the first punch -- but in my opinion, sir, it doesn't matter. Whoever threw it, it was thrown.

"The protestors start scrambling to leave and in their haste..." she takes a deep, shuddering breath. "In their haste, Ron is trampled. When the scene finally clears, he is found without chance of resuscitation. Ron Weasley was my best friend and he died when he was eleven years old."

"I'm..." says Harry. "I'm so sorry."

Ron Weasley was my best friend and he died when he was eleven years old.

What would Harry do, if Ron died? (What is Ron doing right now, in his leave?) And Harry had hoped -- had allowed himself that small mercy, despite Sirius' urgings and Tom's tentative advice -- that the people he would find here would be, or could become, just as close friends as their counterparts are.

But he sees now that he was not just wrong in his assumption, he was naive.

Ron Weasley is not his friend. Ron Weasley is dead. And Harry Potter's counterpart is in love with the man that made it happen.

About that, Harry has no doubt. He remembers vividly Tom leaving him at St. Margos.

I am a very busy man.

Riots to quell, orders to fill, papers to sign.

You know how it is.

And then he had left him in the hands of Draco Malfoy but that is not what is telling about the scene, not anymore.

Riots To Quell.

Tom, thinks Harry, what have you done? But he knows the answer to that. He knows what Tom did.

Tom killed fucking Ronald Weasley.

Harry sees why she was so aggressive when he brought Ron up, and why his counterpart didn't. (He allowed her a small mercy, too. He is alike Harry in the smallest of ways.)

Hermione is not oblivious to his distress -- the brightest witch of her generation -- but does not acknowledge it. "There's some debate. About what killed him. The protestors, for fleeing so hastily. The police, for giving them reason to. Whoever gave the order to use lethal force... Or Voldemort, for running a business so many wanted to protest against. And... And I'm of the opinion it's none of the above."

Harry says, breathless, his rage being joined by confusion, "Really?"

She nods smally. "If the workers had just... dealt with their conditions, none of this would've happened. Ron would still be alive. So -- so complacency is bitter. It's better to shut up than voice your disagreement because if you do, kids die and--"

Harry laughs, incredulously, his rage still poking through his voice. "You don't seriously believe that, do you?"

She speaks over him, tears shining in her eyes. "And that's why it's worrying, what you're doing here. Because complacency would not have just saved lives then -- it's an end all rule and -- and you're breaking it. It's transparent, your rebellion. Guns and," she laughs, "the James Formation. You're crafting a well trained militia and you're going to get them all killed. Your rebellion is violent and not just toward the President--"

"What about him?" Harry challenges. Because Tom Riddle may love him and Harry is still debating whether he likes Tom but he knows he does not like his policies. "Tom Riddle, what his people have done and are doing ? The rollbacks on healthcare and minority rights and -- and the censorship in the education? Is there not inherent violence in oppression?"

She bites her lip so hard it bleeds and says, quietly, looking down at her clasped hands, "Not violent like this." And then she walks away, the clink of her shoes against the tile ringing in Harry's ears.