Nemesis

From a very young age, Harry had to learn Pureblood politics and the Art of Sword at his father's knees.

His mother took care of his education in History, Magical Theory, Literature and other miscellaneous tidbits which would help him be the perfect little scion of the family.

He hated the fact that he had to relinquish most of his childhood in favour of learning the ways of a true pureblood heir.

Even a second chance at life didn't give him a chance at a carefree childhood. Still, Harry gritted his teeth and went along with all the pre-arranged plans made for him.

The simple reason for his acquiescence being that if he didn't, in a few years time, The Blacks would fall apart more easily than a pack of cards stacked haphazardly.

Therefore, he concentrated on the day's work in the library.

He had already received his invitation and acceptance letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Now, he was eagerly anticipating going for shopping in The Diagon Alley for his books and other school supplies.

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Hadrian Black scowled as Madam Malkin fitted his clothes.

The lady looked far younger and happier than she ever had in his timeline.

Still, it wasn't reason enough to prick and prod him with needles as she draped a cloth over a bolt of cloth on him.

It was entirely mother's fault.

She had given a strict order to Madam Malkin to make him five school robes of "the finest material, pure black and plain, no stripes and certainly no patterns" and half a dozen robes for other various occasions that he would have to attend as a pureblood Heir in the upcoming year at Hogwarts.

Then, his mother had flounced off to other shops, leaving him at the tender mercies of this lady and her needles from hell.

Also, he could feel his legs going numb from standing for so long on the stool.

To compound it all, anytime he tried to shift his weight, Madam Malkin would give him a smack on the back and order, "no fidgeting, no moving around, Heir Black."

He didn't remember his first trip to her shop in the previous life being so hectic but seeing that now he was the prestigious Heir Black and not an orphan Potter, he could understand where she was coming from.

After all, if his robes didn't turn out well or even had a single stitch out of place; the nice lady would have to deal with that harpy mother of his.

Soon enough everything was done and the torture was finally over and his mother appeared by his side to take him to Ollivanders.

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The sound of a tinkling bell that rang somewhere in the depths of the shop, announced their arrival at Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 340 B.C.

"Ah, Mrs Black, good afternoon", greeted the eerie voice of Ollivander - a man with watery, silver eyes. "Eleven and a quarter inches rosewood and a gryphon feather core, wasn't it?"

His mother drawled in her trademark pureblood voice, "Indeed."

"It's been a while since we last saw each other, hasn't it?" the man questioned before turning to face Harry.

"And this must be your firstborn, Hadrian Black," the man continued while staring at Harry as if trying to search for his very soul.

"A pleasure meeting you," Hadrian replied softly as if he was afraid of ruining the somewhat solemn atmosphere of the shop by speaking too loudly.

However, he knew it was all just a set-up by the other man to appear mystifying and otherworldly to young, impressionable minds.

How did he know that?

Ha!

That man had spent enough days with him and the rest of The Golden Trio at Shell's Cottage during the last stages of the war and they had become close enough to share trade secrets.

Ollivander had told him all about Wandlore and Harry had discussed all the unimaginable things he had gone through since he had rejoined The Magical World.

"Heir Black, I believe you came here looking for a wand. Which is your wand arm?" Ollivander asked.

"My right one, sir", Hadrian responded and so began the search for a suitable wand.

When more than an hour had passed without even a tiny spark from any of the wands given to him, for the first time in this life, Harry felt a stirring of uneasiness in his heart.

His Holly wand had been given to him in the 1990s and the Yew wand - he didn't even know which year Tom Riddle had started his schooling.

It was supposed to be in the 1940s and it was 1941 this year but still, what if Fawkes hadn't even shed his tail feathers as of now?

Wouldn't it cause a problem if his body and soul were only suited for the Holly and Phoenix wand and the raw materials required for the wand still hadn't been collected by the wandmaker?

Before Harry could go through a full-blown panic attack, he heard the tinkling of the bell at the door of the shop.

He turned to look towards the direction of the sound and it was then that he felt it.

It was as if his soul had met someone long lost to it and his heart quivered.

He knew that face - those slanted eyes set in a plump face, that saccharin sweet smile that hid poisonous thoughts behind it and that self-confident look with a thin veneer of self-loathing underneath the mask.

His shoulders trembled once before his head slowly arched up to stare at the intruder in the eye.

Someone out there must be getting a real kick from watching him suffer and Hadrian Black - Master of Death was damn sure that it was Death playing another joke on him.

Otherwise, how could one explain the boy standing in front of him?

Ha!

It was the bane of his existence and his very own could be/would be Dark Lord, in all his childhood glory and fake innocence - Thomas Marvolo Riddle.