Blanket disclaimer for the whole story: To put it simply, I don't own Harry Potter, that wonderful right belongs to JK Rowling.

To say it had been a long day would be an understatement.

A huge one.

It had all started when the Charm's Professor had quit her post; quite unexpectedly he might add. She had only survived a week of teaching and then, gone. No note, no letter, no nothing. Gone. Under the current, ah, state of their world, a nagging feeling in his gut whispered that she may not have simply decided that teaching was not, after all, her life time ambition, but that she may have become one of the hundreds that had disappeared.

The second mishap of the day had occurred at lunch. Being a school, pranking was, naturally, a frequent occurrence but why the Gryffindors had chosen this day above all others he had no idea! They seemed to have a habit of annoying the Slytherins right at the beginning of the year, obliterating any possible hope that the new first-years of the warring sides would strike a friendship, no matter how tentative. He had no doubt in Albus's abilities to keep the Lions under control but for some ungodly reason the man didn't. In fact, he would even go as far as to say that Albus encouraged the children. He'd have to have a word with him.

On top of all of that, there was the constant flow of owls from worried parents, checking up on their children's security. As if Hogwarts wasn't already the safest place in Wizarding Britain! The idea that Grindelwald's forces could actually enter the school was preposterous, embarrassing even. However, he was forced to reply to each and every letter, explaining in great detail just how impossible it was for their children to be attacked. It had given him a splitting headache.

And now... This.

Sighing somewhat heavily, Professor Armando Dippet raised his wizened fingers, crinkled with age, to his temples and let them rest there. Slowly, he opened his eyes, shifting them to the young wizard before him.

The boy in question had leant back in his chair, emerald green eyes carefully surveying the office. He portrayed a rather odd balance of relaxed and nervous. Absently chewing on his lower lip while his hands clenched together on his lap, the knuckles white.

Tense.

His posture told a different story. Gracefully hunched, not stick straight and on a slight angle on the hard, wooden chair.

Comfortable.

Dippet wouldn't pretend to understand what it meant. Only years of watching students sit in that exact chair had taught him to pay attention to these subtle signs. They reflected the student's true emotions, no matter if their words said otherwise.

Dippet coughed, drawing the boy's gaze. "Luxtor."

"Yes, sir?" The boy said, tilting his head inquisitively.

"I think that, under the current circumstances, it would be best for you to remain here, at Hogwarts," Dippet told him, encouraged as the boy smiled. It made him seem more like the other students, childish and free. "We don't often accept new students, you must understand, although in previous years they have become more common, most for reasons such as your own."

An expression flashed the boy's face but it vanished before he could recognise it. Most likely grief. The poor boy's family had died in Grindelward's attack on his village – it was thoroughly expected for him to be upset.

"You say your knowledge is equivalent to that of a sixth-year's?"

"Yes," Luxtor said simply. "I was home tutored by my parents. They are ... were brilliant at magic."

Dippet nodded stiffly, rifling through some papers on his desk. "You'll need to be sorted of course, and added to our records but that shouldn't take too long. Professor Dumbledore has agreed to look after your paperwork."

Luxtor smiled in amusement but that too vanished before Dippet could question its source. "Thank you, sir."

"Has he already explained how Hogwarts works? Lessons, houses?" Said Dippet, half praying the answer would be yes. He didn't know if he'd be able to stand explaining it all now, at this time of night after this type of day.

"He's gone through everything, sir," Luxtor said and Dippet allowed himself to exhale in relief. Albus could be very helpful sometimes. Thank goodness it had been him that had found the boy wandering about Hogsmeade that afternoon.

"Then you know about our Sorting Hat I presume?" Dippet questioned, standing and making his way over to a glass cabinet that took up a large portion of the circular office wall. Reaching up, he took a dirty, ragged hat from one of the topmost shelves and it fell limp in his hands.

"Yes, sir," Luxtor said, a little apprehensively. With the hesitant movements of one who'd rather be doing anything but, he took the hat from Dippet and placed it cautiously on his head.

There were several long minutes of silence in which Dippet merely observed the boy. He had a rather pronounced frown upon his face, and occasionally his mouth would move as if he were speaking yet he made no sound.

How odd. He'd never seen anybody argue with the Sorting Hat before.

"SLYTHERIN!" The hat eventually yelled and Luxtor's expression turned furious. He tugged the hat off his messy, dark hair and gave it to Dippet, looking away and visibly gritting his teeth.

There was an awkward silence which Dippet considered breaking with a 'congratulations', but something told him that the boy would find that insulting. Before he could come to a conclusion of what to say however, there was a light knock on the heavy, oak door.

They both looked up just as Albus Dumbledore swept majestically into the office.

The dusk light had thrown the elegant room into tones of dismal grey, causing Albus's yellow robe, midnight blue at the hem, to stick out like a sore thumb. It clashed horribly with the auburn hair but Dippet severely doubted that the esteemed wizard cared in the slightest.

Albus beamed at the both of them before his electric blue eyes landed on the worn hat. "I see I missed the sorting then," he said, disappointment clouding the usually sapient voice.

"Yes, sir," Luxtor replied, twisting his fingers in his lap, not meeting the Transfiguration teacher's eyes.

"And?"

Luxtor visibly swallowed and he clenched his hands tight as if to steel his nerves. Boy should have been in Gryffindor. He twisted over his shoulder to look directly at Albus. "Slytherin."

Albus's smile faded slightly as the two exchanged a significant look.

Dippet frowned, partly because he didn't truly understand the look and partly because of the subjective implications being aimed at Slytherin. "Now, now," he began, shaking his head and drawing their attention. "I don't know what Albus has been telling you, Luxtor, but Slytherin house isn't nearly as bad as it you think. Ambition can be a good trait too, you know. In fact, I have almost no doubt that one of our current Slytherins will go on to have a very important role in the Ministry in the upcoming years. Tom Riddle, he's called-"

The effect was instantaneous.

Luxtor's eyes went wide as he half stood, stumbling backwards and almost tripping over the chair. The boy froze, emerald eyes flicking between the two professors, mouth agape. "You can't be serious," Dippet thought he heard the boy mutter, accompanied by a string of terms often neglected of use in polite company.

Albus narrowed his eyes, surveying the boy with open curiosity. "Harold," he probed after a minute had passed and still the boy hadn't moved.

"Um, yes, sorry, sir," Luxtor snapped out of his trance, running a weary hand through his thick, black hair though his eyes were still as wide as saucers. "I-I thought I recognised the name, that's all. I was mistaken, it seems."

Dippet didn't believe a word of it.

Before he could even open his mouth to question, however, Albus flung the door wide open, gesturing for Luxtor to step through. "I'll have his paperwork to you for tomorrow evening, Armando," Albus said quickly, making to follow the boy out.

"Yes, yes," Dippet said, puzzled and taken aback at the abrupt departure, though he wasn't entirely displeased. Silence would be welcome as of now.

The door swung shut with a bang and Armando Dippet was left alone with his thoughts once more.

The long corridors were draped in a heavy darkness that the flickering torches could hardly penetrate, pressing down on all sides; suffocating him. Crushing his lungs until he could barely breathe. Tom Riddle. At Hogwarts. With him.

Crap.

Quite possibly one of the only words in the English Language capable of summing up the situation that he had somehow winded up in. Harry's hand slipped into his robe pocket again, a thumb running absently over a solid black box, no bigger than a chess piece. A pawn, probably. His hand tightened around it, begging for it to transport him home. It wouldn't. He knew that. The magic it had been filled with had all but vanished. It was nothing more than a box.

"Harry."

"It's Harold," Harry immediately retorted, correcting his fifty-year-younger headmaster. "Harold Luxtor as I remember it." He couldn't help the snide tone. Why hadn't his current-day headmaster intercepted the owl? Surely there were wards against unknown owls bringing unknown packages to the Chosen One. Wasn't his security of 'top priority'?

Bloody Ministry. Bloody press. Bloody Voldemort. Bloody Dumbledore, come to think of it.

"You know of Tom Riddle." It wasn't a question therefore Harry didn't bother to indulge his headmaster with a reply. Next to him, Dumbledore sighed wearily. "I won't ask for fear of changing the future. Time should never be messed with, after all, but if there's anything I could do to help..."

Harry looked down at his feet, their steady path upon the flagged-stone. "Help me get back to my own time."

"Naturally," Dumbledore smoothly answered. "I'll need the box, of course."

The tightened fist withdrew from his pocket, the object neatly shielded inside it. He almost didn't want to let it go. Lose his faint hope that it would transport him back any second now; that he wouldn't be stuck here forever. Dumbledore raised his own hand, the skin intact, not charred and burned like his older self. With a deep breath, Harry unclenched and let it fall into the other's palm.

Quick as a flash, Dumbledore placed it within the relative safety of his cloak folds, tucked away, hidden from prying eyes. You never know who could be stalking the halls, a strong and stealthy predator. A silent shadow. A mass-murdering, evil psychopath.

Oh wait.

"Do you know of Professor Slughorn?" Dumbledore asked mildly, as if they'd just been talking about the weather, not time travel and the implied fact that he may never return home.

Harry mutely nodded, despite still venturing on unknown territory with the new Potions professor. He'd only known him a week, minus their brief interaction over the summer. He wouldn't specifically say he disliked the man, just that they didn't exactly have much in common, both being on directly opposite wavelengths regarding fame and fortune.

"He'll be your head of house," Dumbledore continued. "If there are any problems with current issues, he's the one to go to. Although please remember that my door will always be open to you."

Together, they stepped off the last stair of the sweeping marble staircase, footsteps now echoing eerily in the dark, empty entrance hall. Night had now fallen, the dusk giving way and the horizon swallowing the sun. Not that it would make a difference in the gloomy dungeons where Dumbledore was now leading him. It wasn't as if there were windows.

Anything. He'd do anything. Replay his summer with the Dursleys. Or have detention with Snape for a year. Heck, even be kidnapped by Voldemort. Anything to not be stuck in September 1942.

A/N: Okay, so a quick note to make. In canon, Tom Riddle begins his sixth year in 1943 and opens the chamber during his fifth year. In my story, however, he's beginning his sixth year in 1942 and will open the chamber (eek spoilers) in the same year. This is simply for ease of the story for reasons that will come to light as it progresses. Just need to get that out there so no hate! Review, I'd love to know what you think.