Paranoid

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It wasn't all pranks and daisies, of course. Between messing with Hermione's Time-Turner schedule and keeping up with his studies, Harry had a more pressing issue to manage—Avery, his latest pawn in the wider game he was playing. Sneaking out to Knockturn Alley every week to meet with Avery and keep the man alive had become a routine. Lucky for the poor bastard, he believed Harry's warning about the poison and hadn't tried to seek treatment elsewhere. If he had, Harry would've been down one spy—very dead, no question.

Avery, jittery and desperate to stay in Harry's good graces, had been delivering his reports regularly. Most of the information was useless—who was seen at which pub, some vague rumors about potential dealings—but Harry wasn't expecting much. He knew how this game worked. Avery was his eyes and ears in the darker parts of the wizarding world, and even if most of it was rubbish, every now and then, a gem would surface.

The first few weeks were nothing special. "He was spotted there." "She did this." Harry had barely paid attention to Avery's usual drivel about random witches and wizards moving around Knockturn Alley. But by the last week of October, Avery had brought something interesting—something worth listening to.

"She's returning to the island," Avery had said, his voice barely above a whisper as he glanced around the dark alley. His eyes darted nervously, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Harry leaned back in his chair, watching Avery fidget. "She?"

Avery swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Bellatrix. She's coming back."

The name hung in the air like a curse. Harry didn't flinch, though he could see the fear in Avery's eyes—the man's pale face, the way his hands trembled slightly as he wrung them together. Whether Avery was more scared of him or Bellatrix, Harry wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. Both options worked to his advantage.

"And when exactly is this happening?" Harry asked, his tone flat.

Avery licked his dry lips, his voice shaking as he replied, "A month. Maybe two. She's been moving between safe houses on the continent, but she's definitely coming back to Britain."

Harry gave a slow nod, taking in the information without a hint of emotion. Inside, his mind was already racing through the implications. Bellatrix Lestrange returning to Britain was a complication, no doubt. 

Harry had been making his moves deliberately open. He wanted Bellatrix to know he was searching for her. It was easier to draw her out than spend his time hunting her down through the mess of dark alleys and hidden places. He was certain she had spies—probably right here in Knockturn Alley, scattered across the pubs and shadowy corners. Harry had let his intentions be known, dropping just enough breadcrumbs. It was risky, sure, but calculated.

But Harry didn't think Bellatrix would return just for him. That would be far too reckless, even for her. His real hope was that she would send someone—a trusted lieutenant, maybe even one of her more loyal followers—to hunt him down. That way, through them, Harry could learn more about her current situation, her plans, and who exactly she was working with. He wasn't interested in playing a cat-and-mouse game with her just yet, not until he had the upper hand.

As Harry handed Avery the weekly antidote, he couldn't help but think over the timing of all this. 'Is she really coming for me?' he wondered. 'Or is this just another task she's got lined up? If it is me, why? What's drawn her in—the name or the face?' His hand lingered on the vial for a split second longer than necessary, but he quickly masked his thoughts, his expression unreadable as always.

Avery, as usual, looked like he was seconds away from collapsing from sheer nerves. His hand shook as he took the vial, his eyes darting around as if expecting Bellatrix to leap from the shadows any moment. Harry didn't even bother hiding his smirk this time.

"Next week. Same time," Harry said flatly, watching as Avery nodded vigorously, too terrified to ask any questions.

Without another word, Harry turned on his heel and disappeared into the darker part of the alley, his mind already back to planning. He wasn't convinced Bellatrix had enough information on him to make any real moves, but if she was sniffing around Knockturn Alley, that meant someone had dropped his name in the right circles. He needed to figure out who—and fast.

Harry Apparated back to Hogsmeade—Oh yeah, he'd learned the art in the last two months. After nearly being caught by Dumbledore, he had practiced obsessively in the Virtual Room. It had been a painfully risky process, especially with the threat of Splinching, but the room allowed him to keep trying without real consequences. Now, he could pull it off smoothly. Being caught off guard by Dumbledore after the close call had been a wake-up call. That extra training had paid off, and now it was just another trick up his sleeve.

Cloaked in his Invisibility Cloak, Harry walked silently toward the castle, choosing the secret entrance. Hogsmeade was quiet at this time, the village lights dimming as the evening settled in. He moved silently, slipping through the passages and emerging in the lower corridors of Hogwarts, unnoticed and undisturbed.

'Could it be Dumbledore?' Harry mused, he thought how the headmaster appeared the first night he made his debut as "Albus Riddle." It wasn't exactly subtle. The man was clever, far too clever to miss a connection like that. 'From what I've found, Voldemort erased almost all records of his original name. Only a handful of people know the truth. And as he said in the Chamber of Secrets, he was ashamed of his Muggle last name.'

That was the crux of it. Voldemort's aversion to his Muggle lineage wasn't just a matter of embarrassment; it was a deeply ingrained hatred, something he'd scrubbed from his own history. But Dumbledore—Dumbledore knew. He always knew more than he let on, and the connection between Tom Riddle and Voldemort was not something that would slip past him. Even before Harry showed them the memories of Jacob, Dumbledore probably knew Voldemort's real identity.

A smug decision to use the name "Riddle" had landed Harry in this mess. At first, it seemed like a clever alias, something that would keep him under the radar while simultaneously striking fear into anyone foolish enough to ask questions. But now? It was drawing far too much attention, and not the kind Harry could easily shake off.

'So, is Dumbledore involved?' The question hung in his mind. It would be typical of Dumbledore to try something like this—lure someone like Bellatrix out by dangling a tempting bit of bait. A name like "Riddle" was enough to get anyone's attention, especially someone as fanatically devoted to Voldemort as Bellatrix Lestrange. She shouldn't know the name, though, not without someone pointing her in that direction. So why now?

'Could Dumbledore be using her to draw me out as well?' The idea wasn't far-fetched. Dumbledore had done stranger things, always with the greater good in mind. But that didn't mean Harry liked being a pawn in whatever game the headmaster was playing.

'Or am I being too paranoid?' That thought gnawed at him, too. After all, Harry had been taking risks, making moves that were bound to get someone's attention. Maybe it wasn't Dumbledore at all. Maybe it was just his own recklessness catching up with him. But the timing was too perfect, too suspicious.

Sighing, Harry made his way back to the dungeons. Bellatrix on the move, Fudge making messes, and Dumbledore lurking in the background—none of it boded well for what was coming. But that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, he just wanted to get back to his room and crash.

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