The scratching of a quill on parchment was the only thing that could be heard in the room. Then a sigh and the flutter of paper as another scroll joined the "done" stack on the right of the desk. The next was summoned from the seemingly never-ending pile of "yet to do," and unrolled on the desk, and the laborious task of grading the essay was started anew.
Harry Potter hated grading essays.
It was part of his daily grind as a faculty at Hogwarts; a boring reprieve from reading up on current and past events and trying to figure out how to best approach the situation. Harry was used to waging war - what he wasn't used to was having to lead it. The quill stilled, and Harry suddenly realized his hand was shaking as the reality of the situation hit him. Here he was, trying to change the course of history and attempting to take on one of the most feared dark wizards of all times, in a battle of magic and wits. And if that wasn't enough, then there was everyone else whom he would have to outmaneuver - Dumbledore, the Blacks, the Malfoys… and Bellatrix.
The thought of out-manipulating any one of these master manipulators alone would have been ludicrous, but here he was taking them all on at the same time. What am I thinking? he thought to himself as he forced his hand to stop shaking. Did he really think he could succeed? What was he even trying to accomplish? Now that things were in motion and he had the time to think things through, Harry realized that he had no idea what he was doing in the past. Was he trying to kill Voldemort, prevent his rise to power?
And then what? With Voldemort dead, where would that leave him? He was stuck in a time he knew nothing about, in a universe that was no longer his own. Alone. What would he do then? Harry held no illusions that once his usefulness ended, so would his affiliation with the Blacks and Malfoys. How was he going to live, earn a living? Was he even willing to? Aside from Bellatrix, he had no real friends, no one he could fully trust.
That thought brought him up short. Trust? Bellatrix? It was a notion that would've been utterly laughable to him just a few months ago, before his trip back in time. She was the enemy, then. See Bellatrix, exchange witty (and sometimes childish) insults with Bellatrix, shoot at Bellatrix, disengage. Lather, rinse, repeat. Harry sighed wearily. Back then, everything had been so easy. Voldemort and his Death Eaters were the bad guys, Dumbledore led the war, and the Ministry was incompetent. Harry went out, blasted a few Death Eaters, and ran back into hiding, and that was that. Simple.
And now he was playing games of politics and intrigues that he was completely unfamiliar with, in the hopes that he could somehow out-smart Voldemort. If he could be defeated, at all. Voldemort in Harry's time had been… incredibly, insanely powerful. More so than even Albus Dumbledore, despite the fact that Voldemort resided in a magically crafted body. Would he be able to deal with Voldemort when it all came down to it?
"You quite done moping, Ashworth?"
"What?" Harry's head shot up from where he'd buried it in his arms. "Oh, it's you."
"And a good day to you, too," Bellatrix responded with mock cheer.
Harry decided not to grace that with a retort. "What do you want?"
"That any way to talk to someone bearing news?" Bellatrix snorted in disdain and carelessly tossed a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table. "My uncle's moving things ahead."
Picking up the paper, Harry skimmed through it briefly, one eyebrow arching curiously. "He nominated your father for Minister?"
"Yep."
"And they're going along with it?"
"Yep."
"And you're going along with it?"
"Yep."
Harry sighed and put the paper down. "Are you going to tell me the rest of it, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?"
"Well… since you asked so nicely," Bellatrix smirked and polished her nails on her robe. "Since my uncle met with you last week, he's been in almost constant meetings with Malfoy, senior, and my father, I think they're up to something. That's probably part of it - since it's Prewitt sponsoring the motion, you can bet my uncle's got his fingers in there somewhere."
Harry leaned back and resisted the urge to tell her that he had already suspected as much. He had a feeling that she knew that he knew, and that she was just looking for an excuse to come talk to him, presumably to…
"By the way, Ashworth," she continued, "it's been a week, and you still haven't gotten off your butt and done anything."
"And how would you know that?" Harry replied evenly.
Bellatrix opened her mouth to reply, but closed it when she couldn't really think of anything to say. With a huff, she crossed her arms. "You haven't done anything but show up to class," she finally said.
"As far as you know," he said.
"Fine. Have you done anything, then?"
"I-" Harry just managed to stop himself from saying 'no,' knowing full well that she'd smugly give him that 'I-told-you-so' look of hers. It was almost as aggravating as her future self's insane laughter. He was saved, however, by the proverbial bell in form of an owl that entered through his window and made a smooth landing on his desk. "I've got mail, apparently," he finished lamely.
"So you do," Bellatrix deadpanned.
Taking the letter from the owl's proffered leg, Harry noticed that it hopped over to the corner of his desk and settled in, obviously waiting for a reply. He rooted through one of his drawers for an owl treat, and fed it to her, patting the bird on the head as it crooed in contentment.
"Are you going to open it?" Bellatrix asked, pointing at the envelope whose front merely declared Mr. Harold Ashworth, Hogwarts Potions Master's Chambers in an elegant green script.
"I think my mail's none of your business," Harry shot back, but picked up the envelope, anyway. Turning it over in his hands, he noticed that there was no return address, and the handwriting was unfamiliar. He didn't especially feel like reading through his mail in front of Bellatrix - for all he knew, this was a prank love-letter from her just so she could see him blush and stammer - but somehow he had the feeling it was important. Tearing it open, he unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr. Ashworth,
I am a scion of one of the less prominent pureblood families, who is concerned with the current state of affairs. My sources inform me that you may be sympathetic to our cause, and I would very much like the opportunity to speak with you in private. If you would be so gracious as to accept my invitation, please send your reply by owl. I will be expecting you on Saturday by ten at night, at the Gaunt Estate, reachable by floo.
Harry frowned as he skimmed the letter then froze as he reached the signature. His face paled and his hands trembled slightly.
Instantly, Bellatrix noticed. "Ashworth?" Bellatrix leaned over the desk in concern. "Hey, Ashworth, don't freak out on me now! What's wrong?"
Stuffing the letter into the first drawer he managed to claw open, Harry tried to force himself to calm down. "Nothing," he replied shakily, "nothing at all."
"Don't nothing me, Ashworth, you look like you've seen Madam Pince's underpants! Spill it, what the hell was in the letter?"
The mental image of the phrase so close to a similar muggle phrase that Harry knew was so utterly ridiculous he couldn't help but choke out a helpless laugh. "Don't worry about it, it's nothing."
The look in Bellatrix's eyes told him she wasn't buying a single word that had just come out of his mouth. He'd expected that, and waved her off. What he hadn't expected was for her to reach over, grab a hold of his lapels, and haul in across the desk to stare right into her eyes.
"Dammit, Ashworth, when are you going to get it through your thick skull that I'm on your side?" she spat angrily. She looked like she was about to say more, but opted for shoving him back violently. The young witch stood and walked over to the window, her shoulders heaving in restrained fury. Harry could tell from the way she stood and the tension in her back that she was fighting with herself to keep calm.
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