Although curfew had begun more than half an hour earlier, Harry Potter lingered in a sixth-floor classroom, still trying to unwind after the hours-long detentions in the Potions dungeon. His right hand still felt cramped from grasping the ink-spattered quill as he’d copied index card after index card from Filch’s filthy files of long-ago miscreants’ juvenile excesses. Snape—CURSE the sadistic git into oblivion!—had decided that merely rewriting information from a few mouse-damaged cards was inadequate to punish Harry for having used Sectumsempra on Draco Malfoy. No, far too inadequate!

Harry kicked the classroom wall beneath the arched windows in angry remembrance.

The very moment Harry had set foot in the dungeon office, Snape had ordered him to start over copying the first box which Harry had completed three weeks earlier—this time, he had to rewrite ALL of the ancient detention cards!

The stone walls of the classroom nearly shivered with the echoes of Harry’s sudden outburst of profanity. At least no portraits were hanging upon them to chastise him for his language. Harry had chosen this particular classroom years before as a private sanctuary due to the unpeopled landscapes adorning the walls. In a castle full of vigilant teachers and hundreds of students, not to mention interactive portraits, this seemed the only room where he could truly find privacy when he needed it.

Tonight, he needed it. Snape had DOUBLED his Saturday detention today, releasing Harry one hour for lunch, following the usual morning detention, but ordering him to return for a second round of detention until supper. Harry massaged his wrist and fingers. His hand would NEVER be the same. This felt worse than after he’d written all of his O.W.L. exams! And Snape had said that every Saturday from now on would follow the same pattern.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaagggggghhhhhhhhhh!

As the echoes from his latest scream slowly died away, Harry sighed deeply and leaned his forehead against the leaded window pane, staring dully into the moonlit grounds far below. The cold glass soothed his aching forehead, and he wished he could go down and stroll through the cool grounds, breathing the fresh night air drifting damply off the Black Lake. He envied the person striding briskly from the castle’s entrance doors toward the distant main gates of Hogwarts’ grounds.

Harry blinked.

There WAS someone outside, and from the billowing black robes…

He pressed his nose flat against the time-rippled glass, holding his breath to prevent the image from fogging over.

Snape.

Harry huffed hotly, and Snape abruptly dimmed through the misted glass. If only it were that easy to rid himself of the greasy git in real life, Harry groused, while wondering where Snape was headed at this time of night.

Silently, he watched the black-robed figure shrink into the distance. A brief flicker of electric-blue static signified the opening of the heavily-warded gates, and Snape slipped through. A second flicker, and the gates had relocked and rewarded themselves behind him. The man’s pale face shone momentarily in the moonlight, then whirled away as Snape vanished in Apparition.

“Good riddance,” muttered Harry. If he ever saw Snape again, it would be too soon. The nasty bat had been the bane of his existence since the day Harry had first entered the dim Potions dungeon as a First Year. He’d arrived at Hogwarts, eager to learn everything he could about being a wizard and using magic, only to have a teacher—a TEACHER—verbally attack and denigrate him for not knowing everything in advance. It hadn’t helped, of course, that bookworm Hermione HAD actually known the answers to all of Snape’s questions, since it showed that Harry could have learned the material, too, provided Uncle Vernon had not locked up his textbooks for the remainder of the summer before he started school. Not that Snape had known about the book situation. But there HAD been a reason for Harry’s ignorance, far more reason than there had been for Snape to run him down in front of the class.

Harry gritted his teeth. Oh, how he despised Snape!

Yes, Harry knew he deserved to be punished for using a potentially-fatal Dark Curse on a fellow student, but Snape had gone far beyond reason in extending the original three months of Saturday morning detentions. Oh, how Harry would give ANYTHING to put something over on Snape. Just one good one, for revenge. For EVERYTHING that Snape had subjected him to throughout the past six years…

Suddenly, the castle felt oppressively silent. No students tramping the worn corridor floors; no owls hooting and swooping; no shrieks from Peeves. Nearly an hour past curfew, Harry finally turned from the window, slipped on his Invisibility Cloak, and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower. He climbed up the single flight of steps to the seventh floor and had almost made it to the Fat Lady’s portrait when the realization struck him: Snape had left the castle!

This might be his only chance!

Quickly, Harry ran past the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room and traversed the width of the castle’s seventh floor. Three long corridors and two turns later, he stopped breathlessly in front of the wall that held the secret entrance to the Room of Requirement.

The Half-Blood Prince’s Potions textbook lay within, and Harry was determined to get it back tonight. He hadn’t dared to attempt returning to the Room to recover it in the month since he’d desperately hidden the book. Snape always seemed to have an extremely close eye on him—just waiting for him to slip up, Harry had grumbled to Ron. And after all of the incidents during years past, when Snape’d had SUCH a knack for turning up when Harry least wanted him to, he’d had to bide his time, waiting for the right opportunity.

And now, at long last, the moment had finally arrived. Concentrating hard, he thought, “I need to retrieve the book that I hid,” as he walked back and forth in front of the bare wall. On his third pass, the door suddenly appeared, and Harry blew out his breath in a sigh of relief. At least Draco Malfoy didn’t appear to be using the room tonight for all of his mysterious doings; that would make Harry’s mission much simpler.

He opened the heavy door and stepped into the huge, vaulted chamber crammed full of a thousand years’ worth of hidden things. He slid off the Invisibility Cloak, wadding it up inelegantly and tucking it under his arm. Now, if he could only retrace his steps to the blistered cupboard where he’d hidden the book that horrible day when Snape was hoping to confiscate it. The day Harry had nearly killed Draco with the Sectumsempra Curse. He shuddered at the memory, then tried to push the indelible image from his mind.

“Lumos,” he said, after closing and locking the door to the corridor behind him. The relatively feeble light from his wand tip barely augmented the thin shafts of moonlight angling down through the high windows. The entire cathedral-sized room remained eerily dark, and Harry couldn’t help shivering involuntarily as he recalled the massive blood-stained axe, lying somewhere nearby. Nearly every item in this Room of Hidden Things represented guilt of some degree. A forbidden Fanged Frisbee; stolen jewels; ominous vials, presumably containing deadly poisons; damaged furniture; weapons employed in committing long-ago murders; and, among nameless thousands of incriminating volumes, a Potions book with a hand-scribbled Dark Curse upon its pages. Every object had a tale to tell.

With a bit of trepidation, Harry stepped forward, holding his glowing wand tip high overhead, but the resulting illumination was little better than a mere candle flame in that dark vastness.

Damn, it was creepy in here!

Time to pull out all the stops, he thought, and pointing his wand high toward the center of the Room, he shouted, “LUMOS MAXIMA!”

A blinding ball of light burst forth from his wand, arcing toward the vaulted stone ceiling. Suddenly, the Room of Hidden Things came into bright focus; aisle after aisle weaving between pile after towering pile of centuries-old contraband. The moonlight vanished behind the night-black windows as the brilliant, glowing Lumos orb hovered high above the room.

A thick, blood-encrusted blade shone dully off to Harry’s left as he made his way along the central aisle. Almost certainly, someone had been killed with it in some dark era in the past. But who? And when? Did the castle ghosts ever come into the Room of Requirement in any of its various forms? Did the axe’s ephemeral victim ever come to stare at the ancient weapon? To rant and rave at the injustice of life and death? Had the victim been a student or a teacher? Or a Squib like Filch? Or a house elf? What about the killer himself? Or herself, even.

A sudden sharp “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” in the silence caused Harry to nearly wet himself. As it was, he jumped violently, stumbling sideways into an uneven pile of broken portrait frames and mismatched, dented cookware. The detritus crashed loudly into a flattened sprawl of awkward rubble across the cold stones of the floor.

Heart galloping in his throat, Harry whirled, frantically pointing his wand this way and that, his dilated pupils seeking the source of the unearthly screech.

Over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, he heard a softer version of the screech, and his mind identified it as metallic in nature. Rusty metal upon metal, to be exact. Followed by a soft “thump”.

“Who’s there?” shouted Harry, pointing his wand down a side aisle. “Malfoy? Come out of there now! Show yourself!”

The blond Slytherin had apparently forgotten to lock the Room’s door this time, and Harry’s need to retrieve the Potions book was suddenly surpassed by his desire to confront Malfoy and discover what he’d secretly been doing in the Room all year long.

Anger at Draco’s refusal to appear combined with Harry’s Gryffindor courage to force his shaking legs to move down the side aisle, faster and faster. Another “thump”—just around the next corner…

“Malfoy!”

Harry hurtled around the corner, wand thrust forward in preparation for a pre-emptive strike—

Only to find a familiar wand pointed directly at him. Between his eyes, to be exact.

“Mal…foy…?” Harry whispered, knowing he had to be wrong. If this was Draco Malfoy, then he had to have gotten into some bad Polyjuice Potion.

By the light of the Lumos orb, emerald eyes stared back at Harry.

The holly wand aimed between his eyes never wavered.

Harry’s OWN wand, which he could still feel—still SEE—in his OWN hand… It had just that same tiny nick…

Harry’s own features, but not quite, on a body that … didn’t quite look familiar. Something was … off…  Perhaps someone—not Malfoy?—had mismeasured the lacewing flies? That could cause a … distortion … of physical features. Hermione had said so. In second year.

“Please don’t do anything rash,” said the Distortion, quietly. “If one of us harms the other, we’re both doomed.”

“Doomed?” Harry repeated automatically, trying to force his mind to work.

The Distortion smiled.

Smiled? Harry thought he must be going mad. How could anyone SMILE at the idea of doom?

“I’m going to lower my wand,” the Distortion told him, “and I would appreciate it if you would do the same.” The Distortion’s holly wand slowly sank from its stance.

Harry stared at the Distortion, his own wand never relenting. “Who are you?”

The Distortion gave a lopsided grin, reminding Harry of photos he’d seen of James Potter. But James had had hazel eyes…

“I’m you, Harry,” replied the Distortion. “From your future.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, but his wand remained pointed at—himself? This Distortion was HIMSELF? From the future?

“How… ?” He couldn’t even form the question.

“A Time-Turner,” replied … Future-Harry. “Technically, you really weren’t supposed to see me, but I think it’s better this way.”

“Better?” Harry couldn’t help thinking that he was beginning to rival the echoes in the Room of Requirement.

“At least you’ll know what happened to it. That’s how I found out, actually, when I saw my own future self standing right here a couple of years ago. It was quite a shock.” Future-Harry grinned again. “Believe me, I know exactly how you feel!”

The words bounced around inside Harry’s brain without making any sense. Struggling to wrap his mind around one bit of information he asked, “What happened to what? What ‘it’ are you talking about?”

Future-Harry grinned and held up a book. A familiar book. “This, of course!”

Harry gawked at it.

Advanced Potion Making. From the cupboard where Harry had hidden it—the blistered cupboard with the screeching hinge.

“That’s mine!” he burst out.

Future-Harry shook his head. “No it’s not—it belongs to—“ he hesitated, “—to the Prince.”

“Well—“ Harry growled, “—even so! Give it here!”

Again, Future-Harry shook his head. “You won’t need it the rest of this year. Nor all of next year, for that matter. But after that—well, you can come back and get it then. Like I am now. Like my future self did.”

Harry stared at him. “Come back? You mean—in Time? Like you?”

Future-Harry nodded. “Just remember to come back to this date and time.”

“But—but why couldn’t you just enter the Room of Requirement in your time? Is—OH NO! HOGWARTS IS DESTROYED, ISN’T IT? VOLDEMORT—“

“NO-NO-NO!” Future-Harry held up his hands placatingly, trying to calm Harry. “Hogwarts is fine. It’s just that the CONTENTS of this room were destroyed, so the only way for me to get the book back was to use a Time-Turner.”

Harry considered for a moment. “I thought all the Time-Turners were destroyed during the Battle at the Ministry.”

“No—only those that were actually IN the Ministry that night. A number of others were in private use elsewhere around the world, and they still exist.”

“Oh.”

Harry stared longingly at his—the Prince’s—book. “So, how long did you have to wait before coming back to get the book?”

“About a year and a half. Believe me, the time will pass faster than you can imagine,” Future-Harry tried to assure him.

Harry realized he was still pointing his wand at his future self and lowered it slowly. Future-Harry seemed to relax. Harry, however, found it impossible to “relax”—incredibly, he was actually speaking to HIMSELF! From his FUTURE! How weird was that?! Future-Harry could tell him so many things… But what to ask first?

As if he’d read his mind, Future-Harry shook his head. “You know I can’t discuss specific details of the future. Sorry.” He gave that lopsided grin again. The emerald eyes sparkled humorously.

Still, Harry had to ask. “Voldemort?”

“Dead. For good, this time.”

Harry stared at him. “Did you—do I—?”

Future-Harry hesitated, then nodded.

“How?” breathed Harry.

“I can’t tell you.”

“What!”

Future-Harry shook his head. “Truly, I can’t tell you details of the future. It could mess up everything. It could change history. Maybe even to the point where Voldemort could win, after all.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then conceded the logic. “I understand. I guess.” He sighed. Regarding Future-Harry uncertainly, he ventured tentatively, “Is everyone… okay?”

Future-Harry bit his lip, the light in his eyes darkening with remembered grief. “No.” He held up a forestalling hand. “I can’t tell you who or how, but just know that they won’t die in vain, okay? We’ll win in the end.”

Harry gazed, wide-eyed, at his future self, examining the longer hair, the harder eyes, faint lines at the corners of his mouth, the leaner, well-muscled frame, and his overall somewhat-haggard appearance. Oddly enough, despite his strained physique, Future-Harry was attired in better-fitting, higher-quality clothes than Harry himself had ever dreamed of wearing. His mind reeled, unable to comprehend… What experiences would change him into this unfamiliar version of himself over the next eighteen months or so? How many friends would he lose? Who? How could he bear it? After Cedric, after Sirius—who else? When? And how?

“Is there—is there ANYTHING you can tell me?” he finally begged, though he feared the hearing. “Even generalized?”

Future-Harry considered, frowning in concentration. Finally, he said, “I can only tell you what my own future self told me in this same situation. After everything that’s happened—well, now I understand why he said what he did. Now that I can see the complete picture in retrospect, it makes perfect sense. I can only tell you this one thing: TRUST DUMBLEDORE. Above all else, trust his judgment. He has a reason for each of his actions. No matter what happens, trust Dumbledore. Even when a situation doesn’t seem to make sense. Okay?”

Harry nodded silently, staring into the eyes of the future. His future.

“I’d better go back now,” said Future-Harry. “Gotta get this Time-Turner back to its rightful owner before it’s missed.”

He snickered, making Harry wonder exactly whose Time-Turner was hanging from his future counterpart’s neck. Surely he hadn’t swiped it from McGonagall! Providing she was still alive. Or—and the horrible possibility caused his stomach to lurch sickeningly—was her death the reason that the Time-Turner was available in the first place? Suddenly, he realized he’d rather NOT know about the future. Let tragedy take its time in arriving.

“But Harry?”

Harry looked at Future-Harry enquiringly.

“I’m taking the Prince’s book, but it’s important for you to remember EXACTLY where you hid it, okay?  That’s extremely important. Don’t forget!”

Looking at the distinctively-blistered door, with the wig-covered bust of a warlock sporting a tarnished tiara perched atop the cupboard, Harry nodded. “I’ll remember.”

Giving another lopsided grin—did Harry himself grin like that, he wondered, or was it a habit he’d adopt in the months to come?—Future-Harry took hold of a golden Time-Turner and spun it, winking out of Time. The Prince’s Advanced Potion Making textbook vanished, even as Harry squelched an urge to lunge for it.

Whoa! That was certainly…

“Different” wouldn’t even begin to describe it, Harry mused.

Slowly, he made his way back toward the door.

The Lumos orb began to fade, and shadows deepened as he retraced his path between the towering piles of discarded junk. As he reached the door, he shook out the shimmering folds of his Invisibility Cloak, looking back over his shoulder at the Room of Hidden Things. It would be interesting to come back here sometime soon, to see if there might be anything worth scavenging before the contents got destroyed—How?—in the future. Ron and Hermione might like to come along. Well, Ron would, anyway—like Harry, he’d consider it a worthwhile adventure. On the other hand, Harry could just hear Hermione scolding the two of them over the very idea! Although, it wouldn’t be a bad tactic to tempt her with the lure of thousands of discarded books… But scavenging would be okay, wouldn’t it, so long as they checked for Cursed or Dark objects, right? Hermione would be especially good at that. There was no telling what they might find in here!

“Lumos,” he said, illuminating his wand as the Lumos orb vanished completely. In the meager lighting emanating from his wand tip, Harry turned the key, unlocking the door to the corridor.

Before he could put on the Cloak for the trip back to Gryffindor Tower, the door was abruptly shoved open from the outside, knocking him off balance, and he clutched at the edge of the heavy door to keep from sprawling upon the stone floor.

“Potter!”

Harry stared in shock as a-person-who-wasn’t-Malfoy for the second time that night confronted him in the Room of Requirement. No mystery to THIS person’s identity—the ominously-flowing black robes, hooked nose, and threatening glower spoke for themselves.

Snape! Back from who-knew-where. The older wizard stood silently, grimly grasping each side of the door frame, the spread of his voluminous robes firmly blocking Harry’s exit from the Room. The intolerable man obviously hoped that the full force of his presence would intimidate the recalcitrant miscreant who stared back at him with wide green eyes. To say that Harry was stunned was an understatement. Snape was the LAST person he would have expected to find waiting for him in the corridor.

But why HAD he been lurking outside the Room of Requirement, Harry wondered. Unless… If the brilliant light of the Lumos orb had shone through the castle’s high windows—specifically, the Room’s windows which were normally dark when seen from the outside—the Lumos beams stabbing into the night sky would have alerted Snape as soon as he returned to Hogwarts. That must be it. And then, quite obviously, he’d come looking to see who was using the Room. Just like the git…

“What are you doing out of Gryffindor Tower after curfew, Potter?” demanded Snape, leaning toward Harry, glaring fiercely at the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Been-In-Bed. Or, at the very least, in his Common Room.

“I—I—“ Harry stammered, his mind a blank. So much had happened since he’d bypassed the Fat Lady’s portrait…

Snape’s black eyes narrowed, then bored into Harry’s own before the youth had conjured up the idea that he should have lowered his gaze to avoid making eye contact. With a sick sense of déjà vu, Harry saw the Prince’s Potions book materialize in his mind’s eye.

Breaking off from Legilimency, Snape raised his flowing-sleeved arm and silently flicked his wand toward the black depths of the Room, waiting expectantly.

Nothing happened.

Giving Harry a suspicious glance, Snape flicked his wand a second time into the dark cavern. This time, he seemed to have put more force behind his flick, since it took his robes a bit longer to settle into place afterward.

Nothing.

“Accio Potions textbook!” The Professor’s ebony robes fairly quivered with the force of the Summoning Charm this time. Once again, he waited, wand in one hand, the other hand slightly opened to catch the flying book when it finally arrived.

Nothing.

Harry desperately tried to straighten the corners of his mouth out of the grin that threatened to take over his entire face as he watched the unexpected drama unfold. He’d be dead a thousand times over when Snape got finished with him, but he relished the hilarity inherent in this moment. Revenge was, indeed, sweet. Especially when it wasn’t even deliberate!

“LUMOS MAXIMA!” Snape thundered, dark robes billowing from head to toe as he thrust his wand high over Harry’s head, his voice echoing wildly off the towering stone walls and vaulted ceiling.

For the second time that night, the Room of Hidden Things burst into view, and Harry couldn’t help noticing the look of shock on Snape’s face. For someone who had faced Voldemort numerous times and continued to survive those encounters, it seemed almost comical that the appearance of a mere Room could affect Snape so. But suddenly, Harry remembered that even Dumbledore had had no knowledge of the Room’s existence prior to the night of the Yule Ball during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Even then, the Room of Requirement had contained only a collection of chamber pots. Hogwarts held many secrets, even from humorous Headmasters, not to mention from snarky Potions-turned-Defense Professors.

“Have you never been in here, Professor?” Harry asked quietly, studying Snape’s frowning profile.

Snape shook his head slowly, while casting his piercing black gaze everywhere within view of the door. “What is this, Potter?”

“This is one aspect of the Room of Requirement,” Harry explained, waving a hand expansively toward the countless piles of abandoned incriminating artifacts. “Sometimes people use the Room to hide—“ Harry broke off an instant too late, his eyes widening guiltily before dropping their gaze toward the stones underfoot.

Snape’s eyes swerved fiercely toward him, seemingly leaving black scorch marks in the Lumosed air itself.

Harry instantly cringed in the face of the man’s fury, but continued to stare steadfastly at the cold floor, unconsciously counting the worn stones just in front of the toes of his tatty old trainers.

“Where. Is. It?” Snape hissed into his ear. “What did you do with it?”

Involuntarily, Harry emitted a helpless, high-pitched giggle.

“I know you’ll never believe me, Professor, but I honestly have no idea!”