My dearest Harry,

I meant no offense by not telling you about the Timer Turner Revelation, though I do understand your upset. I didn't want to get your hopes up, is all. I know you are in a hurry to get home -- even if you have spared me the details; we should talk about that sometime, your life at your old home -- and did not want to make any false promises.

Regardless, I can see where your anger comes from. Rest assured, my people are working diligently to utilize this revelation to your, and your godfather's, advantage. It is, so far, a failing quest. I will update you as soon as it's not, love.

I do hope you enjoyed your weekend with Sirius. I have most of your days mapped out with me already, but, if you'd like, I can switch things around. Do write me about this.

In other news, I must inform you that I've gotten wind of some...heinous, is the word they use, activities happening in your classroom. No one is saying where you got the gun replicas -- and I am not asking you to tell, dear -- but it is quite worrisome that you do have them. Even more so that you are training children -- as young as first years -- to use them.

Really, Harry, I am lenient with you. You did not volunteer for this position, nor are you trained for it. You are there because I said so and you are there, being allowed to do this, even to some degree, because you like your freedom.

I respect that, Harry. Really. Really, Harry, I do. Because you may not believe it and may not like it and may not recuperate it, but I love you. So I am lenient.

But, let's be honest here. Let's talk things out, let's voice some reason... what are you doing?

Aurors -- and their guns -- are highly specialized. They undergo three months of training before they are even allowed to touch them and must be trained under the supervision of someone already experienced. I know, when you are involved, neither of us are all up on this 'rule following' concept, but, please. This is basic protocol.

These are children. You are a child -- I cannot stress these two facts enough. You're going to get yourself hurt. You wear your scars like they are medals and though every part of you is lovely, I cannot stand watching you get more and more of them.

There is victory in self preservation, Harry. It's a motto I live by.

Bellatrix -- I know you do not like her; I do not know why... though I am not dense. I pick up things here and there -- is urging me to do something. There is nothing personal about her grievances, of course. If it was anyone else, I would listen to her right away -- she's a very powerful supporter of mine -- but it's not anyone else, so I am breaking this pattern for you.

Harry. Please stop. I am giving you the opportunity now to stop.

I must ask one thing, if you don't mind. About your reasoning. I suppose it's been the one thing I'm confused on.

Why are you teaching people this? And, I suppose, if I were to be less broad with my questioning, are you plotting against me?

If you are, it's okay. We can work our relationship around it. I am flexible, Harry, and only for you.

Do send a response soon. I look forward to another weekend together soon.

Love,

Tom.

...

My dearest Harry,

Severus said that you have read my letter. I was looking forward to a response, but have not been sent one.

Are you mad about my proposition about your teaching? Politics is a tricky subject, Harry. I am working you around it best I can, but there are some parts of it that can't avoid affecting you. I am the President, after all.

I'm open to a conversation about it, if you'd like. Compromise has always been my strong suit.

Please respond.

Looking forward to it, love,

Tom.

...

Dearest Harry,

Listen, I don't even know what you're mad about. I'm not being possessive or weird or 'creepy,' or whatever it is you were complaining about. I am being non-invasive, aren't I? I am asking you your opinion directly.

Are you mad about the spies? Is that it? Because it's not that weird, Harry. And if you still find it disagreeable, whatever. Tell me. And I'll fix it.

I gave you one. A Time Turner. Attached to this letter. Is that what you want? You can investigate it yourself. It's useless, anyway. Why are you mad, Harry? I can't fix whatever it is if you don't tell me. I need you to tell me.

I need you. It's hard to keep my distance when you keep pushing me away. I will find out

Communication is key to any relationship. Will you meet me halfway, Harry?

Love,

Tom.

...

Harry,

I came to pick you up at our usual Teleportation spot. You didn't show. Sirius says he won't be missing you -- I assume you've set up a way to meet up with him for the weekend without me. I could ask him, you know. Get answers one way or another. I could do it. Or I could hunt you down, find you in your place of work. I could do it . So why don't you just talk to me and I won't have to?

Talk to me. I am humbly requesting for just that -- an open, honest conversation. There's little complaints you can make that I can't match.

Remus tells me you've been communicating with him, too. And you've forbade him from telling me anything -- I am impressed, I'll admit. He is one of my less loyal, though useful, followers, and you saw that as it was. A weak spot exists, so you struck it. You're marvelous. And that's why it's so disheartens me not to hear from you.

Severus says you're getting thinner. I know you hate him -- and I've been trying to limit his presence in any place you might be, outside Hogwarts-wise; exactly why he was not invited to the dinner party at the Malfoys -- so I beg your forgiveness for using him so habitually.

When you were jailed, eating right was one of your top priorities. You even accepted eating with me, a supposed carbon copy of someone you very much appear to hate, just for the chance at an actual meal. It's endearing. Your body type is not the societal norm, but perhaps your uniqueness is part of the reason I find you so attractive.

What happened to have you so crestfallen? More so than when you were thrown through the Veil and separated from the world you knew, the people you loved?

And I get it, Harry, that the fact that I am corresponding with people behind your back about you may not be the kindest thing I have ever done. (Though it is scarcely the cruelest. Why do you not appreciate the specialty I assign you?) But, Harry. You must understand my situation. You do not like me analyzing you from afar, but it is difficult to learn anything about you otherwise. I want to understand you. You just make it so, so difficult.

And if you don't -- if you don't understand it -- then, alright! We can talk about it!

Please respond.

Love,

Your Tom.

...

My Harry,

I am tired of this game of cat and mouse, darling. You belong to me and I will not tolerate I will be seeing you soon and we can figure this out.

Love,

Tom.

...

Harry holds the letter out in front of him. He sighs, handing it to Sirius, who is sitting beside him. He runs a hand down his face, lying back. "I don't know what to do," he groans. "He's -- he's impossible."

"Well," says Sirius, popping a popsicle out of his mouth. "You could talk to him."

"Gross."

Sirius shrugs. "From the looks of it, you're not having much choice in the matter."

"Just like with everything in our relationship," he grumbles. "Not that we -- er -- have a relationship."

"So you've clarified," says Sirius, "like a thousand times."

Harry hides his flush, moving his arm to lie atop his face. "He's impossible," Harry repeats firmly.

"He's useful, " counters Sirius. He laughs a little. "You got a Time Turner from him, didn't you? Top secret shit, bro! Even Remus didn't know, and he's like a superlevel genius-- "

"Not the time for your guy troubles," Harry snaps, but there is fondness there.

"Right," says Sirius, grinning. "It's the time for your guy troubles."

Harry peeks out from under his arm to glare. "Gross," he says. "Don't call them that."

"Why not? It's obviously true -- or... at least, from his perspective, it is."

"Relationships are two sided," says Harry, burying his irritation because this is Sirius and Sirius doesn't deserve it. This is Sirius and he loves Sirius. "So it doesn't quite matter what he thinks."

Sirius huffs. "I'm just saying. Your reconciliation doesn't have to be genuine. The resources he has are invaluable to getting us home."

And Harry can't help it. He says, dryly, "You're starting to sound just like him. Like Tom."

Sirius frowns. "Harry, I--"

"Nothing matters as long as the big goal is accomplished, right? It doesn't matter how many riots kill children as long as Tom Riddle can stay in power. It doesn't matter what terrible fucking people are pandered to as long as Tom Riddle can maintain his connections. It doesn't matter how unhappy I am as long as Sirius Black can make it back home. It's mere collateral, right? And who gives any semblance of a shit about collateral?"

Harry sighs deeply, sitting up to curl in on himself. "Always suffering for other people's plans. Harry Potter's true signature move," he mutters, bitterly.

He takes a moment to compose himself, air fully filling his lungs again, and glances over at Sirius.

...Who isn't mad, for some reason. Who isn't mad or upset or regretful -- just confused.

"Are -- are you," Sirius sputters out, eyes furrowed, voice soft, "okay?"

"I'm fine," says Harry, out of instinct. "Just..." he tries, sighing. "Just -- stressed. And missing home. I guess."

"You don't have to continue doing this," Sirius says, but his tone relays the fact that he's giving Harry the option, but he doesn't want Harry to take it. He is a kind man and a liar and a kind man for his lies. "We can figure something else out, some other way home. Remus can be a big help. You... you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, kid."

"Forget it," says Harry. "It doesn't matter."

"What you're feeling does matter--"

"Don't try to go all therapist on me, bro. I'm not able to shake him, and he'll give me -- us -- whatever we want. So," harry says, taking a deep breath, uncoiling himself. "So it's fine."

Sirius keeps staring at him with that strange, concerned look on his face.

"Fawk off with that look, alright?" Harry grumbles. He lies back down on his back. "Forget my rant. It's all fine and I'm all fine. Your pity can suck my momma's toes for all I care."

Sirius cracks a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says.

Everyone is, Sirius. "Don't be," Harry says, forcing a grin. "I'll play him like a fiddle."

"Unless you can get him to leave you alone," suggests Sirius. There is less reluctance this time.

"Yes," Harry allows. "Unless I can get him to leave me alone."

"If you can't... you're allowed to feel however you want to him."

"Which is anger," Harry snaps.

"Which is anger," Sirius repeats, gently. "But if it ever comes to a point where it isn't--"

"Then I have my godfather's blessing," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Sirius, I heard you the last time. I know. But it'll never happen. He's broken."

"But you're fixing him," Sirius says. "Aren't you? He said in his letters that you're an exception. You're changing him and he doesn't change for anybody -- and isn't that proof that whatever typa broken he is, it's not beyond repair?"

"I can fix his personality in a personal sense," Harry humours, though he doesn't really buy it. "But that doesn't change... well..."

"The fact that he's a politician?"

Harry thinks of Ron, dying at eleven years old. He thinks of Hermione's voice, sounding so out of character, so small, saying that compliance saves lives. Harry's gaze darkens. "Yup," he says, curtly. "That. I can't fix that."

"You could try... I dunno, explaining it to him? Talking to him?"

"Now you're really starting to sound like him."

Sirius huffs but insists, "I'm serious!'

"Hi Sirius, I'm Harry."

"No -- I mean, that's hilarious -- but--!"

"Not the time," says Harry, smiling. "I get it."

Sirius puffs out his checks. "He wants to adapt to you. So... let him, that's all I'm saying."

Harry shakes his head. "He won't understand."

"So make him!"

"He didn't even know Ron," Harry says, exasperated.

"He knows you !" Sirius exclaims.

"That doesn't matter," says Harry, wrapping his arms around his legs. "Not to him." Harry Potter is always secondary.

"I think you'd be surprised," says Sirius, shrugging. "The choice is yours -- and I'll support you, no matter what you choose."

Harry, personally, disagrees. He thinks Sirius' love is conditional. He thinks only Hermione knows him fully, every ugly crevice and corner of his personality he keeps hidden, and only Hermione has the ability to love him regardless -- and Sirius... he is lovely. Harry loves him in a way that is nearly unique to him (like father, like son) but he can't compete. Not to Hermione.

But Harry doesn't say that. Because this is Sirius. And there are some things he can't say in front of Sirius. So instead Harry smiles, gently and says, some a trace amount of sincerity in his voice, "Thanks, Sirius. I'll keep that in mind."

(These are the things we keep hidden in the guise of politeness.)

...

Tom is a man of his word only sometimes, and always (to the best of his ability) when it comes to Harry.

He makes good on his promise -- otherwise interrupted as a thinly veiled threat -- the Monday after his weekend with Sirius. He is called, in the middle of class, to Dippet's office. Albus says this with a kind, tired smile on his face. "I've been appointed to look after your class in the meantime," he says, gently.

His friendship with Albus is a hesitant, tentative one. He is so similar to the Dumbledore Harry'd known -- and yet, so different, too. This Albus would not, from what Harry can tell, hide important information from him. Would not bar him from the Order in the manner he was, would not hide the prophecy from him...

This Albus gives Harry replica Aurors guns. This Albus has, on multiple occasions, offered Harry harbour. "Powerful men," he states, gravely, "are often the hardest to get away from."

Harry had raised an eyebrow. "Powerful men such as yourself."

"Yes," Albus said. "Such as myself. I understand the nuance of your situation... and understand it is one that might be best avoided. If you ever need placement out of the country... well, then. I have friends everywhere."

And Harry had almost wanted to say yes. Take me out of here. Save me from Tom. He's a monster and he's dangerous and he wants me -- oh, and Albus, whatever the President wants, the President will eventually get.

But he thinks he's a challenger and this thing with Tom -- this cold war standoff -- is a test of endurance. Give up and give in first, and you lose. The mere idea of it is something Harry cannot stomach, so he tells Albus, "Thank you. But I'll have to pass."

He is reminded vividly of Malfoy when he says, "Alright. But my offer still stands."

Albus sees the good parts of the old Harry in him. Harry sees the same thing. They mistake each other for something other than a stranger... but, still. It is a mutually beneficial scenario. Whatever they see in each other, they get something out of.

Besides. Harry's glad to have friends again. (Hermione and Neville -- and Ron, poor Ron -- have been less successful areas of his life.)

When Albus comes into his classroom and tells him he is needed elsewhere, Harry smiles and stands. "Be nice for Albus," he warns the class.

Albus' eyes twinkle with (familiar) mirth. "Oh, Harry," he says. "There's nothing this crowd can do I haven't handled before, I assure you."

Harry smiles as he leaves, waving one hand behind him before sticking his hands in his pockets.

His pockets -- jean pockets -- are a true gift. One that arrived sometime the week before. He'd been hesitant to accept anything from Tom -- Tom; the man who murdered a version of his best friend. Who murdered a child -- but he was tired of wearing clothes in an entirely different style range than his. Sick and tired.

He wears his t-shirt and jeans with guilty felt comfort.

Harry stops in his tracks when he reaches Dippet's office. Standing right outside it, chatting happily away with the Headmaster, is the man himself.

Tom Riddle.

Harry's breathing speeds up and he considers, absently, if there's still enough time to retreat without being spotted. Maybe he could make himself sick, hide out in the infirmary until Tom gets bored enough to go away--

But he is not given the chance. Tom's eyes lock onto him and a wide, sharp grin breaks out on his face. "Harry!" he says.

Dippet blinks, turning toward him. "Oh, yes. Harry, just the man I wanted to see."

Harry squares his shoulders. It's okay. He knew Tom would try something like this. He's prepared. He lets his face fall into a relaxed, friendly grin. "Dippet," he greets, finishing the walk up to him. (He imagines Tom calling his bravery 'marvelous' and resists the urge to hurl.) He tilts his head at Tom. "Mr. President," he says.

Tom's expression does not waiver. But it is a close thing.

Harry shakes hands with Dippet. He pointedly does not even offer his hand to Tom.

Dippet gets down to business. "You've been a joy here, Harry -- really. There, however, have been a few... problems," he says, wincing, "with your teaching style. Your curriculum have have passed in your own world--"

"But not here," Harry finishes. He'd seen this coming -- had known it would happen sooner than later, actually -- and had crammed as much as he could in the time he had accordingly. He rolls his shoulders. "Completely understandable. I'm fired, right? That's fine."

Continuing his work here from the Ministry building with Sirius would alleviate stress -- he understands why any teacher would take to alcoholism -- but it'd make his proceedings much more difficult. Still, he was sure he could work around it.

But then Dippet says, "Oh, not at all! I mean," he clarifies, "I, unfortunately, can't allow you to continue teaching Defnes, you understand--"

"Right," says Harry, curious to as where this is going.

"-- But President Riddle here has come forward with a proposition I see no reason to refuse."

Harry looks at Tom. His eyes are crinkled at the corners; his demeanor purposefully casual. There is something smug -- predatory -- about the way he looks back at him.

"Is that right?" Harry breathes, holding eye contact.

"Precisely," says Tom. "The Muggle Studies Professor is also qualified to teach defense."

"A switcheroo," says Harry.

"If that's the phrase you wish to use, yes." Tom grins, tilting his head. "It's figured you're less likely to cause problems that way. If you have any experience in the Muggle world, of course, and are willing to take the task on. What do you say, Harry?"

His tone is kind, understanding and his offer is not a lie. It's just not made in good faith.

Harry sees the act of kindness, immediately, for what it really is. It's like the press thing, when Tom refused to give his personal details to the public. It is a real offer. It is also a bet for his attention; something to earn his favour; something to learn more about Harry inadvertently.

If he says yes, Tom will know more about him. He's, at this point, picked up on the fact that Harry is not a pureblood. He wants something more specific -- and the entitlement to his background is not charming; it's sickening. He wants to know if he is a halfblood; if he was, at least, raised as one.

And Harry is reminded all over again that Tom has demonstrated a willingness to change but that that is not the same as actually changing.

He wants to turn up his head and says, No, thank you. I've had enough of the teaching scene for a lifetime. But he also knows that then, he'll be forced into being Tom's personal assistant, full-time. Spending more time -- any time at all! -- with Tom is the exact opposite of what Harry wants.

Harry recognizes this for what it is, too.: A lose-lose. Harry hates those.

Harry titls up his chin; resigning himself to the lesser of two evils. "I'll take the other teaching position. I was practically raised Muggle."

Tom's eyes flash at the wording of the second sentence -- he's surely filing it away for further Harry Potter Analysis -- but Dippet claps his hands, giving off a small 'whoop.' "Delightful!" he says, grinning. "I can show you to the Muggle Studies class -- oh, but you better grab your stuff from the Defense room, shouldn't you--"

"Don't worry about it, Dippet," Tom says. "I'll show him. Hogwarts was once my home, after all; I have the layout practically memorized."

And Dippet does not see or does not care to see Harry's pleading eyes so he exclaims, loudly, "Oh, would you? So helpful, I cannot thank you enough."

"There's no need," Tom assures smoothly, but his eyes are locked on Harry's.

Dippet tucks himself back into his office a moment later and Harry is left, alone again, with the monster of a man running the wizarding world.

Harry cocks his head from the direction he came from and says, bitterly, "Onward, I suppose."

"Yes," says Tom, breathless. "Onward."

...

"You know," says Harry, hands in his pockets, eyes tracing the tiles in front of him, "in my world, ghosting is usually an accepted -- if frowned upon -- form of discontinuing communication."

"Is that what it's called?" Tom's voice still has that echo-y quality to it and though Harry refuses -- flat out, full on refuses -- to look at him, he can still feel Tom's eyes locked onto him. A man so smitten, his body cannot portray anything else. Here, finally back, basking in Harry's presence, he is not at all the possessive, ravenous monster he makes himself out to be in his letters.

A weak man in love is all he is and Harry wonders where Albus got off referring to him as powerful.

"And," Harry adds, letting his irritation show, " generally, when a person says 'no' -- even subtly, even a 'no' that is just implied -- it's common courtesy to, I dunno. Respect it? "

"I will respect it," says Tom, "when I know the reason behind it."

"I don't owe you that, either."

"Can we--" and Harry would say that he's begging here; pleading and desperate. He would say that but he knows better. He knows men like Tom do not beg. "Can we at least talk about it?"

Harry stops outside his classroom -- former classroom, he corrects himself -- and turns to Tom, one hand on the doorknob. "Later," he says. "But you got me fired, so you'll have to excuse me a moment."

He sees guilt flash on Tom's face and feels an odd mix of vindictive pleasure and guilt. He does not care about losing the Defense position. It is another one of those things he says; just something to hurt others he thinks deserve to be hurt.

He is not a kind creature. There are some things he will never tell Sirius.

Harry enters his classroom, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Albus moves aside and watches him start opening drawers, stacking things into his arm that he wants to take with him. "Didn't go well," Albus says, softly, "I presume."

"You presume," says Harry, closing a drawer, "correctly, my friend."

"What are you doing?" asks James, confused.

"Gathering my things," he answers.

"What for?"

Harry stands up straight and announces, facing them, "I will no longer be teaching Defense, I'm afraid."

"They fired you?" Hermione voices softly. Almost joyfully. Harry feels a flash of ire he never would've felt for his Hermione. He is reminded of her speech outside the classroom and wonders, for a fleeting moment, how he ever could've thought the two girls were the same.

"Don't get your hopes up," he snaps. He adds, calmer, "I'll still be teaching at Hogwarts. I will, instead, be teaching Muggle Studies."

"So you still got fired, you don't want to call it that," says Hannah.

"If you wanna be a bitch about it, sure."

There's scattered giggles.

"I'll miss bitching out with you guys," he says. "Teaching you all was like dealing with a bunch of small, feral balls of fury I almost want to call my children."

"You're, like, three years old than us."

Harry coos. " Babies. And, anyway, if you miss me too, my office hours are always open."

He moves to tuck the prophecy orb into his waistband, but Albus gestures to it and asks, "Is I may?"

Harry shrugs and watches as he shrinks it and places it in Harry's palm. He curls Harry's fingers over it. "The charm will wear off in a few hours," he tells him quietly.

Harry looks up at his face. He lets himself forget the man who would not face him after his trial, who would not talk to him for months of heartbreak on end. He lets himself forget the man who he still cannot figure out how to feel about.

He lets himself forget the Headmaster and sees Albus as he is here; a Professor, just like him. A friend. (Something like a grandfather.)

"See you at lunch," says Harry, "friend."

Albus smiles tenderly at him. "Of course."

Harry is looking through the last drawer -- deliberately ignoring the blood quill staring back at him -- when Kale lets out a large gasp, pointing to the door.

"Is that, right outside the door -- just look at him -- the President ?" His eyes bulge out of his head. "That's him, isn't it?"

" No, " says Harry, lying through his teeth.

"Oh my, god, guys, that's totally him."

"No way."

" Yes way. "

"Tom's not here," Harry says quickly. He is promptly ignored.

"What's he here for?"

The child scoffs, waving their arm widely to Harry at the front of the room, who is looking increasingly like he wants to crawl out of his skin, "Are you serious? Dumb, dull, perhaps?"

" Hey !"

"He's obviously here for Harry!"

"I fucking kept telling you guys they were dating and you guys didn't believe me."

Harry buries his head in his hands, groaning. Tom, ruining his life even when doing nothing. Classic Tom behaviour.

Albus places a hand on his shoulder, glancing toward the door. Tom's looming figure can be seen, vaguely. (Though, in Harry's opinion, not near vague enough.) "My offer still stands," he says, quietly.

Harry raises his head out of his hands, blinking at him. "What?"

"To harbor you," he explains, his voice full of truthful earnesty. In this reality, his words are not crafted by the hands of an experienced liar. When he says friend, he means it. A part of Harry still thinks that his Albus could never. "I could still do it. We could do it here. Right now."

Harry turns his head toward the door. He closes his eyes and imagines it. Imagines Tom entering the classroom eventually, tired of waiting, and seeing that Harry isn't here. Someone will spill that Albus put a Dissilument Charm on him and he slipped out the classroom when Tom wasn't looking, but by the time that happens, Harry will be already long gone.

He will hide out in the kitchens, maybe, until he is given opportunity to move further on. He will take to the mountains of a frogein country, living alone or with friends of friends who are in reality glorified strangers, and accept mail from only his closest circle. He will check the newspaper regularly to see if there are any further advancements on the Veil, trying in the meantime to see if he can remove the magic suppressing bracelet from his wrist.

He will run, hide... and then what? Wait , absently, idly?

Harry Potter is not an idle waiter. He is in no way absent.

Harry opens his eyes. "A coward's retreat," he croaks out, "is no retreat of mine."

Albus smiles, fondly, like he was expecting that answer. And maybe he was. Harry Potter is a predictable creature, a simple one. He knew Harry would reject it and had to offer it anyway. Harry suspects that's what being Albus' friend is like; a series of kind acts sometimes futile.

Harry slips the shrunken prophecy into his pocket. He scoops the rest of his things into his arms and gives one last half-bow to his class, listening to the calls of 'bye, Harry!' and 'seeya, Professor Harry,' before turning to the door. He squares his shoulders.

"I wish you the best of luck," says Albus.

But this is nothing to do with luck -- Potter brand specialty or not -- so he turns his head to lock eyes with Albus and says, grinning, "No need. He's the one who'll need it."

Albus smiles. (It does not quite reach his eyes.) "Yes, Harry. I'm sure he is."