A/n: Totally inspired by Welcome to Hogwarts 1949 by Ohyeah100. If you hadn't read it, you should, but it hasn't updated in a while so I decided to write my own :) First chapter's a bit of a bore, but I need the setup so hopefully by chapter three we'll get into the really juicy stuff!
Chapter One- The Spell
20 June 1999, Hidden Room
Harry Potter traced the ground with his wand, beads of sweat rolling down his brow. The runes he was tracing were very precise, very detailed, and he could not afford get them wrong. Muttering incantations under his breath, Harry dug into the earth, not with any physical material, but with magic. That was how a ritual worked; an array made of magic, precisely detailed, coupled with a chant and sometimes a sacrifice. Harry had to make it perfect.
Finishing up Ordin's rune and consequently the whole circle, Harry stood up and examined his array critically. Chimir for stability, Hladin for time, and Sommet for memory. All centred around Ordin, for illusion.
"Wonderfully done my boy!" Dumbledore's voice cut in, cheerful in a way it had not been for a very long time, "Not a line out of place."
Harry smiled, and patted dust off his robes as he turned to look at the twinkly eyed portrait of Albus Dumbledore, the last good headmaster of Hogwarts. "Yeah, I guess we finally did it huh?"
He supposed they had a reason to be happy. They had after all, had little reason to be happy for a long time. Ever since the battle of Hogwarts, when Harry had seized the Elder Wand from Voldemort but not managed to kill him, the Order of the Phoenix had very little to be happy about.
They had won the Battle of Hogwarts of course, but not without severe losses, and in the two years following many others had been lost. This was all compounded by the fact that the majority of the wizard world would not side against Voldemort, and the only people resisting him were the remnants of Dumbledore's old organization.
And Harry was tired of fighting. He wanted to be done with it, but at the same time he knew he couldn't allow Voldemort to win. It had nothing to do with the Prophecy. Harry rather suspected that the Prophecy had stopped applying to them ever since the day Harry became the Master of Death, anyway. Still, Voldemort was bringing terror, and he had killed too many of Harry's family for Harry to simply let him go.
Mum, Dad, Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus… Ron, Neville, Luna… Harry blinked back tears; he wasn't here to think about the friends and family he'd never see again.
But the thought had already soured his mood.
"Are you sure this is going to work?" Harry murmured for the last time, glancing at his old mentor. He hated to ask again, and inwardly he knew the answer to his question already, but still… he was still a bit weak sometimes, he supposed.
The portrait of Albus Dumbledore smiled reassuringly at the nineteen year old boy, and Harry wouldn't be surprised to find that the portrait had somehow read his mind. "Yes, I tried this spell myself when I was younger. Works like a charm."
Spell… it was hardly that.
Harry glanced down at the complex array of circles and lines, only truly understanding what they meant after two years of hard study. Just drawing the thing had taken Harry a month to learn. And Dumbledore had called it a simple spell.
Well then, he supposed it really showed the difference between them. Especially since, Dumbledore had been the one to invent the ritual. The old man had originally done it to see a way to defeat Gellert Grindelwald, who had the Elder Wand at the time and couldn't be defeated with regular means. Dumbledore may have been a genius, but Grindelwald was a Dark Lord for a reason.
And Harry would get to see all that.
The ritual, spell, whatever it was, would take Harry back to an instant in time, and allow him to stay as long as he wanted. Or so he thought. Dumbledore himself had only stayed for a few months before he found Grindelwald's weakness, but in theory Harry should be able to stay for a lifetime. But that wasn't the genius of the spell. The genius of it was that Harry would not truly be there.
Time travel was impossible. Or at least, it was impossible when it extended to more than twenty four hours. However, Dumbledore's spell was not time travel; it behaved more like a pensive, really. It drew on the memory of everyone who was alive during the period Harry chose, and reconstructed a perfect scene. Harry would then be in a ghost like state within the memory, except he could go wherever he chose. It would be perfect for spying on Voldemort.
And the best part was, it would not even seem as if Harry was gone.
Since the spell took place within the mind, no time would pass in the real world. When Harry came back, it would be as if he had simply gained incredible knowledge from mumbling a few words. The only limit on the application of the spell was how long the spellcaster could go on being ignored before they went insane. After all, there is no 'fast forward' in someone's life, and Harry might have to follow all fifty years of Voldemort's life without ever talking to someone before he found something useful. Most wizards would go insane. But Harry was determined.
"I am proud of you my boy," Dumbledore's words brought Harry out of his thoughts, "To think… it's only been three years and you've come this far. I'm only a remnant of myself, but I think the real me would be… extremely proud of you, Harry. You've come far, especially to be doing a ritual of this level. If it weren't for Voldemort… you'd be the brightest wizard I'd think."
Harry felt his lips twitching upwards, a warm feeling rising in his chest. He didn't necessarily agree with Dumbledore; sure, he had an instinctive feel for magic and could be creative, but lots of people could do that. Besides, he didn't have Dumbledore's and Hermione's logic and reason, or ability to learn things naturally. Still, he couldn't refute the old man… but that didn't mean he couldn't tease. Harry raised his brows at Dumbledore, making his voice as huffy as possible, "So you think Voldemort is brighter, then."
"Well…" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like the cerulean stars, "I wouldn't say that. You and Voldemort are equally as bright, I'd say."
Harry just shook his head. Hermione was still smarter, he thought, but ever since Ron's death she had been…
It was time to start. Harry raised his wand, throwing a lopsided grin at the wizen old man, "Then let's hope that Voldemort's star won't shine on this world any longer. Abyssum vilharra garriusius…"
The runes started to glow. A certain heaviness descended upon the air. Harry closed his eyes, and in his mind's eye he saw threads of violet, red, green, and yellow rise from the ground. They twined and tingled, weaving together, weaving around him. Ordin's red snaked up his body, sending little tingles of pleasure throughout Harry's senses. Chimir's yellow lay at his feet, seeming to purr as they spun themselves thicker and thicker.
Sommet's violet reached for his wand, the direction to find the way to go, and lastly Hladir's green settled on Harry's shoulders, waiting for the boy's command. A soft music filled the air, though its source Harry did not know. And quite frankly, at this point Harry did not care.
"…lactrum ricillus mitrisilum. Constra Memphis lactium. Astralla ruksa ma-"
A sudden, loud, jarring noise cut through the music. Harry furrowed his brows, pausing; what was that? The colours dimmed, the music started to fade, and the magic…
"Do not stop!" Dumbledore had never sounded so frantic, "Continue Harry! You must continue!"
Ah yes, that was right, Harry had to continue. Now that he'd initiated the ritual, he couldn't stop or else it'd bring down the whole building, "-matum sutumcris timprus traa…"
Someone had just entered the room, Harry felt that in the half trance state he was in. Now what idiot did that? He was sure he had informed anyone important in the Order of the Phoenix not to disturb him. Well it didn't really matter he supposed; Dumbledore would tell them. Harry should just focus on his words and intent, or else the spell wouldn't come out right.
"Well, well, if it isn't ickle Potter."
Harry's eyes shot open, the sight that greeted him making his blood run cold. Bellatrix was standing there, the door behind her slightly ajar and her hair flying wildly. Behind her, Harry could hear screams and sounds of spells being cast. The Death Eaters had found them.
How? Well, it didn't really matter. All that mattered now was that he had to repel them. Harry tensed, shifting to duelling stance; he had to stop the ritual, and fight!
"No Harry!" Dumbledore's portrait cried, his voice shrill despite the din of battle noises, "Continue the spell!"
Like heck he was going to do that. Intellectually, Harry knew it really made no difference whether he said the spell now or later. After all, to the others it would seem as if no time had passed. Still, he couldn't bring himself to utter the words. The Order could be in serious trouble right now. This room was hidden in the very center of their hiding place, and if the Death Eaters had discovered it then that meant…
Bellatrix raised her wand, her face twisting into a wicked smile, "My Lord has invented just the spell for you, oh master of death. Let's see how you do against this! Lisentium-"
"Alcro tanctum sicilyssum!" Dumbledore cried, finishing the words that Harry would not say. The magic roared. It seemed as if it no longer cared who said it, as long as the words were said.
Blinding silver light filled Harry's vision, but a second before it hit he felt a sharp tug on his naval, and then colours swallowed him. Red, yellow, violet, green, the colours streaked past his vision. The howl of the wind filled his ear, and there was a sharp tug on his naval, reminding him oddly of—
His feet slammed onto the ground, and white hot pain shot up through his left calf. Harry staggered, and then fell over completely. He barely caught himself with his hands.
Letting out a thinly controlled breath, Harry shifted to a more comfortable position, and carefully scrutinized the place where the pain was coming from. There, his calf was bleeding freely, and he thought his ankle might be sprained. Odd. How had that happened?
Was it because of Bellatrix's spell? But then… why did this injury seem so familiar…?
Harry's eyes widened, and his head shot up, causing his glasses to jerk slightly. No, it couldn't be-! But it was…
He was sitting in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside. Little Hangleton.
There was no doubt. His bones rattled, and his head ached. He was in the graveyard where Voldemort had resurrected himself.
Harry swallowed, and ignoring his pain, started examining everything. Every blade of grass was exactly as he remem— wait, no. There were gravestones missing, especially the large one he had hidden behind while fighting Voldemort. There were little, subtle things. The church looked newer, and the yew tree smaller. Usually Harry didn't notice these details, but he had been having nightmares of That Day for years, and the graveyard was as familiar to him as his cupboard.
Just what was… going on? He had to investigate.
He got to his feet… and immediately had to sit down again as his leg refused to support him. Right then, he would have to take care of that first. Harry sucked in a deep breath, and reached for his wand.
Except his wand wasn't there. Not his holly, nor the elder.
He was alone in the place of Voldemort's resurrection, injured, and without a wand. Harry started to hyperventilate. What had gone wrong? The spell was supposed to— the spell was supposed to— oh right, the spell.
Now he felt stupid.
Of course, this was the spell at work. Obviously, whatever Bellatrix had shot at him had hit, thus resulting in the injured leg. The spell then promptly sent him to the memories right after, which is why he was here. No wonder everything looked newer- this wasn't Harry's fourth year; this was fifty some years ago! Tom Riddle's place of conception, if Harry remembered correctly.
So it had worked after all. Harry grinned. And then frowned. Ow, his leg still hurt.
The green eyed boy glared at his leg, wondering what to do. He couldn't walk around with this leg, and he needed to walk around in able to follow Tom. He had learned a few healing spells over the past two years, but none of them would work without a wand and-
Oh, being an idiot again.
When had he started being as thoughtless as pureblood wizards? Then again, that might be the blood loss. He was feeling rather out of it, and the headache that always accompanied graveyards certainly didn't help. Shaking his head slightly to clear it, Harry ripped off a large part of his robe and tied it tightly around his calf, staving off the blood flow.
Maybe he should wait for his leg to heal before he went investigating. After all, it wasn't as if skimping a few days would have a huge effect. He had years and years after all. Then again, could an injury even heal in a memory?
Oh well, it didn't hurt to try. Satisfied that he wasn't bleeding like a pig anymore, Harry leant back and stared at the clouds. It wasn't actually that bad, this graveyard. It was where people were put to rest after all, and this was all before Voldemort had tainted it with his ritual. It was sort of peaceful, in a way. If Harry could just ignore his pounding headache, and his throbbing calf, then he could almost…
It was bright within the castle. Hundreds of expensive chandeliers hung, drooping down from the ceiling like a sparkling bat convent.
Hamburt kneeled at his feet, shaking uncontrollably.
Harry smiled childishly, though his thoughts were anything but childish, "Do you know what you have done, Draven Hamburt? You have failed to report about Asnakur. Did you really think I would not notice?"
"No-nothing like that my lord," Hamburt stammered, not daring to look up from the marble floor, "I simply forgot and did not think it important, that is all."
Harry tsked, walking in a lion-like manner around the Hamburt. The poor chap just started shaking harder. "Very well Draven, I'll believe you. I know you're one of my most loyal followers, after all. And Draven, I don't want to punish you, I really don't, but… I don't want to set a bad example for the rest of my supporters, do I? I can't let them think I'll let them get away with sloppy work. You understand, right?"
"Ye-ye-yes my lord," Hamburg stuttered, braced himself for torture.
Harry smiled; ah, he so loved servants that were intelligent. Now if they were only intelligent enough not to get into trouble… well, he supposed he couldn't have everything. Harry raised his wand, a glittering black elder, "Prometheus Tormentus."
Hamburg's stomach split open, and his screams along with it…
Harry shot up, his eyes snapping open as he became fully awake. The bright morning sun stung his eyes, but Harry neither noticed nor cared. His heart beat wildly in his chest, filling his ears with its pounding. He had not had a dream like that in a long time. Ever since Voldemort destroyed the Horcrux within Harry, Harry had lost all connection with the Dark Lord. But… he was sure that was a vision. How…?
No matter how he thought about it, he couldn't think up of an explanation. Perhaps an investigation was in order after all.
And then his stomach rumbled.
That was odd. Could somebody even get hungry in a memory? Now that he thought about it… could his leg even heal? After all, it wasn't as if he were really here; maybe he'd just have to learn how to deal with the pain.
Harry pushed himself to his feet, wincing at pain shot through his leg; but it was bearable. Maybe the rest had made him stronger, or maybe his leg had healed anyhow. It looked as if he had slept for fifteen hours, anyhow.
Slowly, Harry made his way towards Morfin Gaunt's house; he wanted food and if it was one family he wouldn't mind stealing from, it was them. Actually, Harry wouldn't mind stealing from Riddle's mansion either, but it was on a hill and Harry doubted he could climb it right now. So, the Gaunt House it was.
It was exactly as he remembered it; or rather, exactly as whomever Dumbledore had taken the memory from, remembered it. Through a twisted path of thick greenery and overgrowth, Harry at last arrived at a small clearing, where a house of moss stood proudly in the centre. If Harry had not known what he was looking for, he would have easily overlooked it; it was hidden in a path of magic, and the camouflage made it even harder to distinguish.
But Harry did know, and he had all the advantage here.
He stalked up to the door (or limped, as was in his case), ignoring the dead snake nailed onto it, and… and he'd have to wait for someone to open the door, since he had no physical presence. Great. But then how in the world was he going to steal food then, if he couldn't actually touch anything? Maybe this spell worked differently.
Feeling that he had nothing to lose by trying, Harry pushed on the door… and it opened. Just like that.
Harry felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. But it was good for him, so he wasn't going to complain. Harry stepped inside.
A hissing sound filled the room, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Quite suddenly, a man appeared in front of Harry, dressed in rags and a dead snake hung around his neck. He was unshaven, dirty and pockmarked, and his clothes seemed to have been grown from the plants themselves. Harry recognized him immediately. Morfin Gaunt. What a sorry fellow.
Morfin hissed something, holding up a bloody knife towards Harry's face. But that couldn't have been right, because Morfin couldn't see Harry. Harry turned around, wondering if some intruder had managed to slip past Harry and was threatening Morfin, but there was no one there.
Morfin hissed again, drawing Harry's attention back to the deranged man as a hint of real malice entered the Gaunt's tone. A sinking feeling settled in Harry's chest. No… it couldn't be. Harry moved to the right. Morfin's eyes shifted right, as did the knife. Harry moved to the left. Morfin's head severed left.
It… it was…
"You can see me?" Harry asked dully, knowing the answer already but hoping beyond all hope that he was wrong. This was not supposed to happen. Merlin, couldn't something expected happen to Harry Potter for once? It was almost getting cliché, how much things went wrong around Harry Potter.
"Non-speaker," Morfin said his words in plain English this time, but Harry still felt that there was a hissing quality in it, "Leave."
There was no doubt about it, now. Heck, there had been a lot of hints that Harry had been turning a blind eye on, but he shouldn't have. Harry was corporeal.
"Too late to leave now."
Huh… what…? Suddenly, Morfin lunged forwards, making a sudden, wild slash at Harry. It was untamed, it was imprecise, and normally Harry would have only dodged it with the minimal amount of movement, but he wasn't exactly feeling normal right now.
He was hungry, he was scared, he was shocked, and he was injured. Most of all, he had been trying to think hard on something when he suddenly saw a threat to his life. He reacted instinctively, really.
Morfin, a wild but isolated man, was the first to attack, but really he stood no chance. Harry had been fighting for his life ever since he turned one year old, and had been getting formal training for it for the past two years. He had escaped the Dark Lord nine times, and Morfin was nothing compared to his nephew Voldemort.
As soon as Harry noticed Morfin move, he was reacting. Harry caught Morfin's wrist, and twisted. Morfin let out a slight scream of pain, and the dagger clattered to the ground. Harry usually followed this up with a flick of his foot, so that the dagger either ended up in his own hands or at least far away, but with his leg he wasn't going to risk it. Instead, Harry used Morfin's momentum and added to it, turning sideways and tugging Morfin's wrist downwards.
Morfin fell to the ground with a thump, and didn't get back up.
Harry blinked, then squatted, keeping his left leg stretched out so he didn't agitate it. He looked at Morfin carefully, but the man didn't seem to be trying to trick Harry. It looked like… he was knocked out cold.
"Oh bugger," Harry said, scratching his head. He hadn't meant for that to happen. But then again, maybe it was for the best. Still, he couldn't just leave Morfin lying on the floor; if Merope or Marvolo Gaunt came in and discovered Morfin like this, they'd be sure to—
Wait a minute, where were Marvolo and Merope Guant?
Shouldn't they have heard the commotion?
Harry tried to remember what exactly had happened during this time, but was failing very hard. Some ministry official had came here, right? And during that time, all three Gaunts were in the house. And what had happened after the ministry official left…?
Harry peered at Morfin, thinking hard, and then he remembered. Of right, the Gaunts were crazy. If Harry recalled correctly, the Gaunts had attacked the ministry official like Morfin had attacked Harry, and the ministry didn't like it much better either. Morfin and Marvolo were sent to Azkaban, and a few months later Merope eloped with Tom Riddle Senior. Marvolo died shortly afterwards, and Morfin returned to live alone, until the young Lord Voldemort came back during the summer of his fifth year…
So, Harry had landed sometime between 1926 and 1942, then.
But something didn't seem right about all this. Something was tugging at the back of Harry's mind and urging him to pay attention.
Harry was too hungry to care at the moment. He got up; well if Merope and Marvolo weren't in the house, he could wait before reviving Morfin. Nodding to himself, Harry went about rummaging the house for food. The kitchen in the next room looked to be a good place to start. Smiling slightly at the prospect of food Harry reached up to open the cupboards— and found himself short. Literally.
He was far shorter than he remembered.
Now what was happening?
Harry let out an angry snort, and looked around wildly for a mirror. He had to know what was going on with his body. Or if it even was his body. Maybe he had even managed to possess someone by accident; it would certainly explain why he was corporeal.
What he found instead, was much better.
Harry's eyes lit up, and he quickly scanned the front page. It looked new; Morfin had probably decided to keep an eye on the outside world after the disaster with the ministry. Harry didn't really care what the reason was, all he knew was that he was lucky. He adjusted his glasses, and began reading.
British Win Battle of Forrey Against Grindelwald's Forces
By Anthony Withers
On Tuesday June 10, British forces intercepted the Germans at the strategic apparation point of Forrey, and have managed to secure a sound victory. Costs were high, but gains higher, as now British wizards can apparate to Western France without fear of ambush. The Germans have gained much ground in France, but they are slowly being pushed back and…
The date said 1942. That was really all Harry cared about. The war with Grindelwald could be agitating, but Harry knew the outcome to that so he didn't give it much thought. Besides, this was just a memory anyway, and it wasn't like he would actually be saving lives if he just went rushing in.
Dumbledore had taken six months to pound that lesson into his head.
Harry had to focus on the current war, and how to defeat the current Dark Lord. So, 1942. He and Dumbledore had been through all the dates, just to make sure Harry didn't miss anything. 1942 was the start of Tom Riddle's fifth year, in which he discovered the Chamber of Secrets. However, he didn't open it until 1943. Okay, check.
Harry put down the newspaper, standing in thought. Here, it was sometime in June of 1942, so he had three months before September. Three months to figure something out before school started. Once again, something tugged on the back of his mind, but Harry forced it away. He needed to think.
Well if he was corporeal, that meant he actually had to have a legitimate reason to get into Hogwarts and close to Tom in able to observe him. He could not just walk in like a ghost like he was originally planning, and with the tensions high due to Grindelwald, Harry had to be careful how to approach this.
How in the world was he going to get into Hogwarts…?
Try his hand at getting a teaching job? Well, that was sketchy at best, especially since Harry didn't think Hogwarts was hiring currently. The only way he could think of to get a job would be to dispose of one of the current teachers. Besides, he wouldn't be able to get close to Tom at all as a teacher.
Pretend to be a transfer student? Hm… could work, but Harry didn't have any student records. If he was a transfer, where did he transfer from, and why? Plus, Harry didn't think Hogwarts had a tradition of accepting transfers.
Pretend to have been homeschooled? Could work, but then again Harry wasn't that brilliant of an actor. He was pretty sure someone would see through the fact that he'd been to a boarding school before. Homeschooled kids tended to act rather differently, Harry knew.
Kill himself and become a ghost? Okay… now Harry was getting ridiculous. He definitely wasn't going to risk dying for something that may or may not work. Sheesh, this spy business was hard.
Thinking about it hurt his stomach.
Wait, no, he was just that hungry.
Sighing, Harry went back searching for food. He'd finally found some, though it didn't exactly look edible and tasted even less appetizing. But, he was hungry, and he could have eaten anything. Still, if that type of food was what the Gaunts ate all the time, then it was no wonder they were so grumpy!
When he finished, Harry went back to the living room, knowing he had to do something about the unconscious Slytherin. Pacing around the prone form of the disgraced descendent of Slytherin, Harry wondered what he should do with the man. He'd have to make sure Morfin found nothing suspicious about this encounter, so Tom Riddle would not know that Harry Potter had come to visit, but how could he do that when…?
His eyes strayed down to Morfin's pant pockets, where the tip of a blackthorn wand was poking out. A terrible, callous idea came across Harry's mind.
His fingers twitched, but he wasn't sure. On one hand, he needed the wand more than Morfin. He'd have to set up his identity after all, use the wand for transport, food, and other necessities. Besides, it wasn't as if Harry was planning to never return it; as soon as he got a wand that was more suited to himself, Harry'd return Morfin's blackthorn immediately.
On the other hand…
Robbing someone's wand was the highest offence. Most wizards could do no magic without one, and to take away magic from wizards was the cruelest thing one could do. Plus, with someone like Morfin, who valued his status of a wizard before all else and thought—
Wait a minute. Morfin would only use his blessed gift to harm muggles anyway. Harry couldn't condone that. If anything, Morfin deserved to have his wand taken. That decided, Harry quickly snatched the blackthorn from Morfin's pocket, fingering it to get used to the weight before stuffing it back into his own pocket.
And then, he saw it. The large black and gold ring resting on Morfin's middle finger.
No way… but it was. That was… the resurrection ring! It sang to him.
The- the- the- resurrection ring… Harry couldn't just abandon it. Besides, if he didn't take it, it'd just go to Riddle in two years anyway.
Harry guiltily wiggled the ring off of Morfin's finger, feeling like this was highway robbery. First the guy's wand, now his ring. Harry would probably have to take the man's memories too, in preparation for when Tom Riddle came to visit. To Morfin, it would feel like he just woke up one day and lost two of his most important possessions. Well, Harry would find a way to return the wand later at least; Morfin's wand simply had to serve as his temporary. As for the ring… Harry doubted he could leave it now that he was—
Harry froze as a sudden thought struck him, the thought that had been nagging at the back of his head. The resurrection ring, which connected him to…
Heart pounding in his ears, Harry scanned the room for a mirror, and reflective surface at all. He wanted to deny— because it couldn't be— because it'd simply be too cruel for him—
And then he remembered. Shakily, Harry brought up his right hand, tugging the sleeve downwards and almost too afraid to look. His hand was clear, unblemished, missing the oh so familiar I must not tell lies that kept Harry's hatred of the ministry burning. He closed his eyes. It was true, then.
He hadn't been sent to the graveyard because that was where he should start tailing Tom Riddle. No, that hadn't been the reason at all. His broken leg, his lack of wand, his unblemished hand… it all pointed to one thing. He hadn't just landed within memories; his body had taken the form of a memory as well. Back to the time… when he had first seen death.
Was this magic's cruel irony? Or did it have something to do with his status as Master of Death? He had to be back in the body when he could first comprehend what it mean to die, the day that the veil of innocence had been ripped from him and allowed him to see thresals, the guardians of the underworld. Why couldn't anything ever be normal with him?
Harry took a deep breath, and let it out. Well at least he knew that Death was with him for this journey. That should account for something, at least.
In fact, it gave him an idea. A horrible, disturbing idea, but possibly the only plan that could possibly work against the likes of Albus Dumbledore. Why did the best ideas always come when he was feeling his lowest?
"It's sick," Harry muttered, but he couldn't convince himself not to do it.
It was time for a trip to Germany.