Harry froze. He could hardly believe his ears.
Voldemort had returned, and his maternal cousin, Hogwarts's most mysterious and powerful Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, was actually telling him to go... take his exams?
"I want you to take those questions with you into your exams."
Douglas looked at him.
"If your results are good, very good, I'll consider telling you more of what you want to know."
"But if your results are poor..."
Douglas's voice suddenly turned icy, filled with a peculiar sense of pressure.
"You should know that our dear senior Riddle, the very Mr. Voldemort you speak of,
"was once Hogwarts's finest student. Straight O's, Head Boy, and a recipient of the Award for Special Services to the School."
"There's no shame in being unable to beat Voldemort as he is now."
Douglas patted Harry on the shoulder, his tone full of coaxing persuasion.
"But surely you can beat a fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle?"
"If you want to defeat him, you have to start with what he's proudest of."
"So, Harry, start by utterly crushing him in grades, in every possible way!"
This barrage of twisted logic left Harry reeling.
Yet somehow, he felt that his heart, thrown into chaos by anger and confusion, really had found a clear, achievable goal.
That's right.
If I rushed out there now, how would that be any different from throwing my life away?
But if... I could defeat that monster in the field he was proudest of...
Harry looked at Douglas, at that unquestionable gaze brimming with "trust," and an entirely new fighting spirit, utterly different from vengeance, blazed to life deep within him.
"I understand."
He solemnly tightened his grip on his wand. It felt less like holding a tool for casting spells and more like accepting a