HP:The Phoenix Reborn

Chapter 4: The Art of War

The book Dumbledore had given him was old. Ancient, even. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible.

It wasn't just any book.

It was a record of failed time travelers.

Harry read through it with calculated patience, his fingers tracing the names of those who had tried to manipulate the past before him.

Every single one of them had failed.

Some had been erased entirely, their actions causing paradoxes that the universe had corrected violently. Others had been consumed by time itself, as if their very existence had been a mistake.

But one pattern emerged across all the stories—

The past fights back.

Harry closed the book and exhaled. He wasn't like the others. He hadn't traveled back in time—he had been sent here. Magic itself had chosen to remake him in this era.

And that meant he was an anomaly.

Something outside of fate's control.

A variable that even time itself couldn't erase.

Which meant he had one advantage.

He wasn't bound by the same rules.

The Marauders' Den

Sirius threw himself onto the couch in the Gryffindor common room, stretching like a lazy cat. "Alright, Hadrian, spill. You've been acting even more mysterious than usual."

Harry smirked, not looking up from his book. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," Remus interjected, his sharp gaze unreadable. "You always know what we're talking about. Which means you're hiding something."

James leaned forward, grinning. "We've been discussing. Sirius thinks you're secretly a Ministry spy. Peter thinks you're a dark wizard in disguise."

Peter sputtered, going red. "I never said that!"

"Eh, close enough," Sirius dismissed.

Harry sighed, setting his book down. "You lot really need better hobbies."

Sirius grinned. "And you need better lies."

Harry tilted his head. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

Remus exhaled. "You know things you shouldn't. You speak like someone who's been through hell. And you fight—Merlin, you fight like a bloody duelist. That's not normal, Harry."

James folded his arms. "We trust you. But we need to know—are you in trouble?"

Harry met their eyes, something like fondness flickering in his expression.

The Marauders were loyal. That was what had always made them dangerous, what had made them legendary.

And now, they were his.

Harry leaned forward. "I'm not in trouble," he said honestly. "But there are things happening at Hogwarts. Things bigger than pranks and Quidditch. And I need to stop them before they start."

James frowned. "Stop what?"

Harry's voice was quiet. "A war."

Silence.

Then Sirius snorted. "Bloody hell, mate. That was dramatic."

Harry smirked. "Well, I do have a flair for the theatrical."

Remus sighed. "And how exactly do you plan to stop a war?"

Harry's smile didn't reach his eyes. "By winning before it starts."

———-

Tom Riddle made his move the very next day.

Harry had been expecting it.

The moment he walked into the Great Hall, he felt it—a shift in the air, a presence that coiled around him like a snake. When he glanced toward the Slytherin table, Riddle was watching him.

Not glaring.

Not hostile.

Curious.

And that was more dangerous than anything.

Harry met his gaze, unflinching. He didn't look away.

The message was clear: I see you.

Riddle smirked.

And just like that, the invitation was made.

That night, as Harry walked through the castle, he felt it again—magic, thick and calling to him.

A summons.

He followed it.

It led him deep beneath Hogwarts, through forgotten corridors and darkened halls, until he reached an entrance he had never seen before.

A doorway carved with serpents.

And beyond it—Tom Riddle.

He stood in the center of a dimly lit chamber, alone. No followers. No guards.

Just him.

Harry stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him.

"You came," Riddle murmured.

Harry smirked. "You called."

A pause. Then Riddle chuckled. "You're not afraid."

"Of you?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Not even slightly."

Riddle's eyes gleamed. "Fascinating."

They circled each other like predators, neither willing to show weakness.

"Who are you, really?" Riddle asked softly. "I've looked. There is no Hadrian Peverell. No records, no history. You appeared out of nowhere, and yet you know things. You move like someone who has seen battle. And your magic…" He inhaled slightly. "It is old."

Harry's lips curled. "Jealous?"

Riddle smirked. "Intrigued."

There was a pause.

Then Riddle spoke again. "Join me."

Harry's expression didn't change. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you are like me," Riddle murmured. "You do not belong here, do you?"

Harry felt something cold settle in his chest.

Riddle didn't know the truth.

But he sensed it.

"You and I," Riddle continued, stepping closer, "we are above them. The sheep who follow. The fools who do not understand power. I could teach you things, Peverell. I could make you something more."

Harry tilted his head. "You assume I want more."

Riddle smiled, dark and knowing. "Everyone does. Even you."

For the first time, Harry let his mask slip, just slightly. His emerald eyes burned as he whispered, "You have no idea what I want."

The chamber seemed to grow colder.

Riddle's smirk widened. "Then tell me."

Harry leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper.

"I want to watch you fall."

Riddle stilled.

For the first time, something like shock flashed across his face. It was gone just as quickly, replaced with amusement.

"You are fascinating," Riddle murmured. "I cannot wait to see what you become."

Harry smirked. "Likewise."

He turned and walked away, the door sliding open as he stepped through.

The war had begun.

And Harry?

He was ready.

Author's Note:

Harry has officially drawn Riddle's attention. He's playing the long game, setting his pieces, but Riddle is doing the same.

Should Harry continue manipulating from the shadows, or should he start making bolder moves?

Let me know what you think! More coming soon.