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Chapter Text

The battlefield was chaos. Wails of pain and fury filled the air, punctuated by the sharp cracks of Apparition and the booming thunder of spells colliding. Fires burned along the shattered ruins of trees, their glow eerily illuminating the figures darting through the smoke. At the heart of it all, Lord Voldemort stood tall, a silhouette of merciless precision. His wand slashed through the air, cutting down anyone brave or foolish enough to challenge him.

“Avada Kedavra!” he hissed, his voice like ice breaking apart. A flash of green light surged forward, and yet another body crumpled to the ground. Voldemort’s lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. He relished the destruction. This was his triumph—his vision of the wizarding world remade. He advanced through the battlefield, unstoppable, leaving devastation in his wake.

Behind him, his loyal Death Eaters fought tooth and nail, their laughter mingling with the screams. “No one can stop me!” Voldemort declared, his voice amplified by magic to pierce through the cacophony. His blood-red eyes glowed like embers as he raised his wand for another strike.

But then, a figure appeared through the smoke—a tall, calm figure radiating power.

Albus Dumbledore.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said softly, his voice carrying effortlessly despite the noise. “It ends tonight.”

Voldemort sneered. “You dare oppose me, old man? You think your weak morals can stand against my power?”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed behind his half-moon glasses, unshaken. With a flick of his wand, a shimmering golden shield deflected the Killing Curse Voldemort hurled at him. “Power is not everything,” Dumbledore replied. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

What followed was nothing short of spectacular. Spells crackled like lightning between them, lighting up the battlefield in bursts of color. Dumbledore conjured flames that roared like a phoenix, while Voldemort countered with shadows that writhed and lashed out like serpents. The ground trembled beneath their duel, the sheer magnitude of their magic overwhelming everyone around them.

But Dumbledore was not alone. Members of the Order of the Phoenix, led by James Potter and Sirius Black, surged forward to push back the Death Eaters. Slowly, Voldemort’s forces began to falter.

Voldemort roared in fury. He refused to lose. He unleashed a torrent of curses, but Dumbledore’s defenses held firm. The headmaster’s calm determination never wavered as he pushed Voldemort back, step by step.

And then it happened.

A blinding flash of white light exploded from the center of their duel. It engulfed the battlefield, swallowing friend and foe alike. The world seemed to pause as the light grew brighter, until finally, there was nothing.

***

Fourteen-year-old Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the small clock on his nightstand. Its ticking felt unbearably loud in the stillness of his room.

Tonight was important . His father had said so before he left.

“Tonight, the world changes,” Tom Riddle had told him earlier that evening, his voice calm yet filled with conviction. “Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for—it all comes down to this.” He had knelt before Harry, his crimson eyes unusually soft, betraying a rare flicker of emotion. “You understand that I do this for us, don’t you? For the future we deserve?”

Harry nodded. He always understood. His father was a visionary—a man who had clawed his way to power in a world that didn’t want to change. Everything Tom Riddle did, he did to create a better future. A future where the strong didn’t have to bow to the weak. A future where Harry would never have to live in fear of betrayal or weakness.

But now, sitting in the silence of his room, Harry’s confidence wavered. He had never doubted his father before, but tonight felt… different. Final. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen, something he wasn’t prepared for.

Harry got up and began pacing. He tried to picture the battle that was unfolding somewhere far away, imagining his father at the center of it all. He could see him in his dark robes, his wand a blur as he cut through his enemies. He would win. He always did.

But as the hours dragged on, doubt crept into Harry’s mind. What if the light side was stronger than they thought? What if Dumbledore…?

No. Harry shook his head fiercely. His father was the most powerful wizard alive. No one—not even Dumbledore—could defeat him.

Finally, exhaustion began to weigh on him. Harry lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He pictured his father returning victorious, his sharp features softening into a rare smile as he said, “We did it, Harry. The future is ours.” That thought carried him into a restless sleep.

***

When Harry woke, sunlight streamed through his window. For a moment, he forgot about the war. But then he noticed the unnatural stillness in the house, and his chest tightened.

He sat up, his heart pounding. Something was wrong.

Harry got to his feet and moved to the door. Before he could reach the door, it burst open with a deafening crash.

Harry staggered back, startled, as a man he didn’t recognize stormed into the room. The stranger’s wand was raised, aimed directly at Harry ready to strike.

The man looked like he had walked straight out of a battlefield. His face was scarred and rugged, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once. One of his eyes was normal—cold and sharp—but the other was grotesque, a magical eye that spun wildly in its socket, scanning every inch of the room before fixing itself on Harry. His long coat hung heavily from his broad shoulders, patched and worn, as though it had seen countless battles.

“Don’t move!” the man barked, his voice rough and gravelly. The command was sharp, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—curiosity, maybe even disbelief.

Harry froze, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn’t know who this man was, but one thing was certain, he wasn’t supposed to be here. His father had warned him about people like this—outsiders who wouldn’t hesitate to tear down everything they had built. Harry’s green eyes narrowed as he studied the man, his pulse quickening. He wasn’t afraid—he refused to be—but his mind raced with possibilities.

The man’s magical eye swiveled in its socket, and he called out sharply over his shoulder, “Dumbledore! Get up here now! There’s a kid!”

Harry’s stomach twisted. A kid? That’s all he was to them? The thought made his jaw tighten, anger flickering briefly in his chest. But before he could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway.

Albus Dumbledore.

The moment the old wizard entered the room, the air seemed to shift. His presence was quiet but commanding, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses giving him an air of wisdom and authority. Harry had never seen him before, but he knew instantly who he was. The stories his father had told him about this man were enough to make his blood run cold.

Dumbledore didn’t speak right away. He stepped into the room, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Harry and taking him in as though he were a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension between them almost suffocating.

Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he stared back at Dumbledore. He had always imagined this man as some distant, faceless enemy—a manipulator pulling strings from the shadows. But now, standing face to face with him, Harry felt his chest tighten with unease. Dumbledore wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be on the battlefield.

Realization crept in slowly, icy and unrelenting. If Dumbledore was here, in his room, it could only mean one thing, the battle was over.

And if the battle was over… where was his father?

Harry’s mind raced, and he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. No. It couldn’t be. His father was the strongest wizard alive. He couldn’t lose. He wouldn’t lose. Tom Riddle had told him time and time again that they were destined to win, that the future belonged to them. But now, as Harry stood frozen in the face of Dumbledore’s gaze, doubt began to creep into his thoughts.

His green eyes darted between Dumbledore and the grizzled man standing behind him. Neither of them spoke, but their silence was deafening. Harry’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. His stomach churned as the weight of the situation pressed down on him.

“No,” he said softly, almost to himself. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. “No, that’s not possible. He… he’s fine. He has to be”.

Dumbledore’s expression remained unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something Harry couldn’t place. Pity? Regret? Whatever it was, it made Harry’s chest tighten further.

The old wizard stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over Harry with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. The boy was fairly short and slim, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. His pitch-black curls fell messily around his face, framing sharp, angular cheekbones and a defined jawline. The resemblance to Tom Riddle was unmistakable—it was as if Dumbledore were staring at a younger version of him.

But Harry’s eyes were what stood out the most. They were a piercing, vivid green, so striking that they seemed almost unnatural. They burned with intensity as they stared back at Dumbledore, defiance flickering behind them despite the fear and uncertainty gnawing at him.

Dumbledore stopped a few steps away, his gaze unwavering. “What is your name?” he asked softly, his voice quiet but firm.

Harry straightened his posture, his heart hammering in his chest. He refused to show weakness—not to Dumbledore, not to anyone. Meeting the old man’s gaze, he spoke with a steadiness that surprised even himself.

“Harry,” he said. “Harry Riddle.”

The room fell silent again. The words hung in the air like a spell, their weight almost tangible.

Dumbledore’s calm exterior faltered, his sharp blue eyes widening almost imperceptibly, and then, just as quickly, his composure returned. 

Harry’s chest felt tight, unease curling in his stomach like a snake. The silence was unbearable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm.

“Where’s my father?” he demanded, his green eyes blazing. “Why are you here? Where’s my father?”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of something that looked like sorrow crossing his face. He straightened, folding his hands in front of him as he looked down at Harry.

“It’s over,” Dumbledore said quietly, his voice heavy with finality. “The battle is over. Voldemort is gone”.

Harry felt like the floor had been ripped out from under him. His mind raced, searching for some explanation, some way to make sense of what Dumbledore had just said. No. It couldn’t be over. His father couldn’t be gone . It wasn’t possible. Tom Riddle didn’t lose . He didn’t die .

His mind raced, trying to process what he’d just heard. No. They had to be wrong. His father was invincible. He would never leave Harry alone.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, almost too gently, “your father … was a remarkable wizard. He fought for what he believed in, with everything he had.”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He met Dumbledore’s gaze with defiance. “He’s not dead!” he said, his voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re wrong. He’s coming back.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond. He simply stood there, watching Harry with an expression that only made the boy’s anger burn hotter. 

panic rising in his chest, doubt began to creep in, cold and suffocating. His breathing quickened, his chest heaving as he struggled to push the thought away. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Tom Ribble is not dead!

Chapter Text

The room at the Ministry of Magic was cold and uninviting, the low hum of magical wards buzzing faintly in the background. Harry sat stiffly in a chair near the center, surrounded by members of the Order of the Phoenix. His eyes swept over each of them with calculated precision. They were trying to be subtle, but he could feel their unease, their suspicion. He wasn’t just a boy to them—he was a mystery, an anomaly they hadn’t expected.

Dumbledore stood near the far wall, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Harry, as though he were trying to solve a particularly complex riddle. The silence in the room was thick, and though Harry outwardly appeared calm, his mind was a storm of questions.

Nobody had spoken much since they arrived at the Ministry. They had taken him from his father’s estate without a word of explanation, surrounded him with strangers, and now they were sitting here in this sterile, suffocating room. He had been taught never to show fear, never to let them see any weakness, but he couldn’t deny the burning question clawing at his thoughts.

What happened to my father?

He knew Voldemort wasn’t dead. He would have felt it if he were. His father wouldn’t simply disappear—Tom Riddle was too powerful, too brilliant to fall like this. But Harry needed answers, and these people might be the only ones who could provide them.

Dumbledore stepped forward slightly, breaking the silence. “Harry,” he began, his voice measured and calm. “Where is your moth— who is your mother?”

Harry’s face remained blank, unreadable. He said nothing, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze with an expression of quiet defiance. He wasn’t about to explain himself to this man, the enemy of his father. He knew better than to trust anyone in this room.

The silence stretched on, and Dumbledore studied him carefully, clearly searching for something. Harry refused to look away. His father had trained him well in the art of maintaining control.

But even as he sat there, outwardly still, Harry’s mind was far from idle. He wasn’t just observing the people around him—he was reading them. One by one, he let his gaze drift across the room, carefully sifting through their thoughts with the subtle precision his father had taught him. He was cautious, cautious enough for them not to notice the invasion, he was really good at Legilimency , but avoiding Dumbledore entirely—he wasn’t stupid—but the others were fair game.

Fragments of thoughts began to surface. They were all asking the same questions: Who is he? Where did he come from? Did Voldemort have a son all this time? Harry suppressed a smirk. Their confusion was almost amusing.

But that wasn’t what he was looking for. He wanted answers about the battlefield, about his father. None of them seemed to know anything useful. Their thoughts were disorganized, filled with fear, shock, and uncertainty.

Before he could dig further, Dumbledore’s voice broke through his concentration.

“Is your mother Bellatrix Lestrange?” Dumbledore asked, his tone neutral, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. A sharp scoff escaped his lips before he could stop it. He didn’t bother responding. Bellatrix? As if his father would ever choose someone like her. Don't get him wrong he loves Bella, but she’s definitely not a wife material, especially not to Tom Riddle.

But before the silence could stretch on again, Dumbledore asked something else, his voice softer this time. “Did he ever love you?”

The words hit Harry like a curse, and for a moment, his control faltered. His eyes darkened, his expression hardening as he fixed Dumbledore with a sharp, cutting glare.

“Did Tom ever act like a real father to you?” Dumbledore pressed, his tone measured, but his words struck a nerve.

Harry’s hands curled into fists on his lap, his knuckles white. Anger flared in his chest, hot and consuming, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady. “How dare you?” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “Do not speak about my father like that. And don’t you dare call him Tom.”

His voice carried through the room, sharp and commanding, and for a moment, everyone froze. Harry leaned forward slightly, his green eyes blazing with anger. “It’s Lord Voldemort,” he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. “The greatest Dark Lord of all time.”

The room collectively held its breath. A sharp intake of air rippled through the gathered members of the Order as they exchanged wide-eyed glances. They were too stunned to speak, the weight of Harry’s words pressing down on them like a heavy fog.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, concern flickering behind his calm exterior. He studied Harry carefully, as though he were weighing his next move. There was no doubt about it now—the boy in front of him was not just Voldemort’s son; he was something more. Dumbledore could feel it, the current of magic radiating from Harry’s very core, he couldn’t even scrape Harry's mind, not even a little bit. The boy’s potential was staggering.

After a long pause, Dumbledore spoke again, his tone firm but kind. “You should attend Hogwarts,” he said simply.

***

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. He hadn’t been expecting that. He narrowed his eyes, studying Dumbledore’s face carefully, trying to read his intentions.

But Dumbledore offered no further explanation, his calm eyes remaining fixed on Harry.

Before anyone could respond to Dumbledore’s surprising offer, the tension in the room was abruptly broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. A Ministry wizard, his robes disheveled and his face drawn with exhaustion, burst into the room. Without a word, he made his way directly to the Minister of Magic, handing her a thick stack of documents. The wizard leaned close, whispering something into the Minister’s ear before retreating as quickly as he had entered, leaving behind an air of urgency.

The Minister—Eugenia Jenkins—adjusted her glasses and began scanning the papers, her brows knitting together in confusion. The room fell silent again, all eyes on her as she read through the documents. Finally, her gaze lifted, landing squarely on Harry. She cleared her throat.

“Harry Riddle… Black .”

Harry smirked. he was telling the truth, Bellatrix Lestrange wasn’t his mother. However, she did register him as a Black in the family lineage before she married Lestrange, granting him more than half of her vast fortune, and help with the whole secret identity stuff.

The minister cleared her throat again, her eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced between the documents and Harry. “You’re not Bellatrix Lestrange’s biological son,” she said firmly, as if testing the waters. “But she did, somehow, register you as a member of the Black family. Legally speaking.”

The room erupted into hushed whispers. Several Order members exchanged bewildered looks, clearly trying to process the revelation. The idea of Bellatrix Lestrange naming someone—let alone Voldemort’s son—as an heir to the Black fortune was almost unthinkable. But he wasn’t concerned with them. He had more pressing matters on his mind.

When he had been searching their thoughts earlier, He had also been looking for the names and faces of Death Eaters—those who had been captured and those who had managed to escape. The results were disappointing. Most of the Death Eaters he had known were already in custody, sent to Azkaban before he could even consider reaching out to them.

But there was one face he hadn’t seen in anyone’s mind, Draco Malfoy.

Harry’s lips twitched into a subtle smile. Draco hadn’t been captured. He had escaped unnoticed. And more importantly, his mother—Narcissa Malfoy—hadn’t been at the battlefield. That meant they both had a solid alibi in any suspension occurs. Draco could be useful. If anyone knew what had truly happened that night, it would be him. 

It was a lead, a starting point. Harry’s plan began to form in his mind, and for the first time since stepping into this room, he felt a sense of control.

He turned his gaze to the Minister, ignoring Dumbledore and the others entirely. “I want to be emancipated,” Harry said plainly, his voice calm and confident. The statement sent another ripple of shock through the room.

Eugenia blinked, clearly taken aback. “Emancipated? At your age?” she stammered.

Harry leaned forward slightly, meeting the Minister’s gaze with an unwavering confidence. “Yes,” he said, his voice even. “I am a Black—technically. And the Black fortune is more than sufficient to support me.”

The murmurs in the room grew louder. One of the Order members, Sirius Black, who had been silent until now, looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his wide eyes darting between Harry and Dumbledore. He didn’t seem to know whether to argue, laugh, or demand an explanation. The thought of Voldemort’s son being tied to his family left him completely floored.

Harry spared Sirius a brief glance, his smirk deepening slightly at the man’s expression, but he quickly turned back to the Minister. “I have enough money, and the necessary resources, to take care of myself. There’s no reason for me to be treated like a child, and besides it’s not like I have a family member I could go to” he added, his tone calm but laced with authority.

The minister lowered the papers, her brow furrowed. “Actually if you are, technically, a Black, then that means you still have family alive to take you in,” she said, her gaze shifting pointedly toward Sirius Black, who was standing near the edge of the room. “As far as I know, Sirius Black is your closest living relative. He could assume guardianship.”

Sirius looked as though he’d been slapped. His face twisted with a mixture of shock and indignation as he opened his mouth, but Harry spoke first, cutting through the noise with sharp precision.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but firm as he spoke. “Sirius Black and I are on opposite sides of the war. He’s spent years fighting against my father’s vision, and I’ve been raised to oppose everything he stands for. Do you really think either of us would accept that arrangement?” His tone dripped with derision, making it clear just how absurd he found the idea.

Sirius finally managed to find his voice, “He’s right,” he said, his gaze flickering between Harry and the minister.

Sirius continued, his voice rising as he gestured toward Harry. “He’s a product of Voldemort’s twisted ideology. You honestly think we’d last a week in the same house before one of us ended up dead?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “I see your confidence in yourself is as shaky as your logic,” he said coldly, his voice cutting through Sirius’s rant like a blade.

Sirius stiffened, his gray eyes narrowing in anger. “Don’t push me, kid. I’m already doing you a favor by not outright refusing the idea this very second.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, green eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re already refusing, aren’t you? Let’s not pretend there’s a scenario where this would work.”

Sirius pointed a finger at him, his voice full of anger. “You’re damn right I’m refusing. It wouldn’t just be a disaster—it would be a bloody nightmare! I’m not your babysitter, and I’m sure as hell not going to play parent to Voldemort’s heir. You’re exactly like him, aren’t you? Cold, trained to lie and manipulate, and so smug you can’t even see how wrong you are. you might not have done anything yet, but don't act innocent. you've got your father's blood running through your veins. his schemes, his ideals, they're probably second nature to you.” 

Harry’s smirk vanished, his expression hardening. His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it. “You talk about him like he’s a monster, but he is more brilliant, more powerful, than you could ever hope to be. He didn’t need to manipulate anyone. People followed him because they believed in him. Because he has a vision, not just some hollow idea of rebellion.” eyes locking onto Sirius. “You know nothing about me.”

Sirius stepped back, running a hand through his long, dark hair in frustration. “You’re right. I don’t. But I do know this, us being forced together would only end in disaster. For both of us.”

The minister, clearly uncomfortable, looked between Sirius and Harry, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Still,” she began hesitantly, “it’s highly irregular for someone of your age to request emancipation. You’re still—”

“I am more than capable of taking care of myself,” Harry interrupted, his voice sharp but composed. He turned his gaze back to the Minister, ignoring Sirius entirely. “My records are clean, I have the financial means to take care of myself, and if you’re worried about my safety or my future, I’m going to Hogwarts. I’ll be under the watchful eye of your beloved Albus Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled faintly at that remark, though his expression remained unreadable.

The minister glanced toward Sirius, who gave a sharp shake of his head, still looking thoroughly disgusted at the idea of being tied to Harry in any way. Finally, the minister looked back at Harry, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gauge the boy’s resolve. She closed her eyes and sighed.

Harry had a plan now. Go to Hogwarts. Find Draco. Discover what had really happened on the battlefield. And then, he would go from there.

Chapter Text

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley were uneven beneath Harry’s polished shoes as he made his way through the bustling street. It was a bright, noisy day, the shops alive with chatter and clinking coins as witches and wizards darted in and out, arms laden with packages. Everything had seemingly returned to normal, as though the war that had torn the wizarding world apart had never happened just a couple months ago. Harry found it almost absurd how quickly people had moved on, laughing and shopping as if their lives hadn’t been teetering on the edge of chaos. But he walked among them silently, his green eyes calmly scanning the shops as he ticked off items from his Hogwarts list.

He had insisted on coming alone. The Order had offered to send someone with him, citing concerns about his safety , but Harry had waved them off. He didn’t need a chaperone. He wasn’t a helpless child who needed hand-holding—he had been raised better than that. living at his father’s estate gave him all the reassurance he needed. The wards were unbreakable, the magic ancient and strong. And besides, it’s not like anyone could recognise him as The Dark Lord's son.

The first stop had been Flourish and Blotts, where Harry had purchased his books. He had felt a flicker of excitement when he picked up the required reading for Defense Against the Dark Arts. His father had taught him far beyond any of this material, of course, but Harry was curious about what Hogwarts deemed “appropriate” knowledge. He smirked at the thought of how his father might scoff at some of the lighter, defensive spells in the books.

From there, Harry made his way to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, the bell above the door jingling softly as he stepped inside. The shop was warm and inviting, with racks of robes in every imaginable color lining the walls. The faint hum of sewing charms filled the air as enchanted needles stitched fabric together with precision.

Harry found himself standing on a small stool while the cheerful seamstress bustled around him. “Oh, you’re getting quite the haul, aren’t you, dear?”she said brightly, measuring his shoulders and summoning bolts of fabric with a flick of her wand.

“It’s always such a treat when a student comes in so prepared! You’ll look absolutely splendid”. Harry didn’t mind her chatter, and by the end of the fitting, Madam Malkin was practically glowing as she handed him the receipt. “Thank you for your business!” she said, sending him off with a warm smile.

Now that he was done with his list, making his way to an ice cream shop he used to go to as a child. He came across Ollivanders, the wandmaker. Harry paused outside the narrow, ancient-looking shop, his heart giving an odd lurch. 

Remembering the time his father took him to get his first wand, had even told him about Ollivander himself and how he remembers every wand he sold and every wizard he sold to. Wands choose the wizard, Harry , his father’s voice echoed in his mind. But the strongest wizards always choose what to do with the power they hold. 

Harry allowed himself a faint smile before he continued walking, but his gaze fill on a boy holding a broomstick, beaming with excitement as his parents handed it to him, triggering something else in his mind—a memory, soft and warm, from a time when he had been much younger.

***

The smell of rain lingered in the air as six-year-old Harry sat cross-legged on the carpet in the grand sitting room, his small hands clutching a broomstick that was clearly too big for him. Outside, the storm had eased, but droplets still clung to the tall windows, distorting the view of the sprawling garden.

Tom Riddle sat on the edge of an elegant armchair, leaning forward slightly as he watched his son with an expression of quiet focus. In his hand, he held a smaller broom, enchanted to hover just above the ground. With a flick of his wand, it floated toward Harry, who grinned widely at the sight.

“Is it mine?” Harry asked, his voice full of excitement as he reached out to touch the smaller broom.

“It is,” Tom replied, the faintest curve to his lips betraying his amusement. “But only if you show me you’re ready for it.”

Harry’s green eyes sparkled with determination. “I’m ready, papa. Watch!”

Tom leaned back slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he observed his son. “I’m watching.”

Harry clambered to his feet, gripping the small broom tightly. He placed one foot over it and gave it a tentative kick. It wobbled in the air, unsteady beneath him, but Harry grinned, his confidence unshaken. “See? I’ve got it!”

Tom arched an eyebrow, his crimson eyes glinting with faint humor. “I see you’re trying . Now stay balanced, Harry. Magic responds to confidence, not recklessness.”

Harry furrowed his brow, gripping the broom tighter as he steadied himself. He hovered a few more inches above the ground, swaying slightly but refusing to falter. “I’m doing it!”

“You are,” Tom said, his voice steady but not without a trace of pride. “Now bring yourself down gently. No crashing.”

Harry focused, leaning forward as the broom responded to his movements. It dipped slightly, and Harry yelped, but he managed to lower himself to the floor with a triumphant laugh. “I did it! Papa, did you see?”

Tom stood, crossing the room in a few long strides to ruffle Harry’s already messy black hair. “I did,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re a quick learner.”

Harry beamed up at his father, clutching the broom tightly. “Can we go outside now? I want to fly higher!”

Tom knelt so they were eye level, his sharp features softening. “Not today,” he said. “The ground is still wet, and you’re not ready for that yet.”

Harry’s face fell for a moment, but his father tapped him lightly under the chin, drawing his gaze upward. “Practice is the key to greatness, Harry,” Tom said. “If you rush, you’ll only stumble. Be patient, and you’ll master it in time.”

Harry nodded solemnly, his grip on the broom tightening. “I’ll practice every day,” he promised.

Tom’s lips twitched upward in a faint smile. “Good,” he said, standing again. “Now, let’s see if the house-elves have prepared dinner. We’ll need our strength for tomorrow’s lessons.” said as he winked at harry.

Harry hurried to his father’s side, his broom tucked under one arm, holding his fathers in his other. As they walked toward the dining room, Harry glanced up and grinned. “Thank you, Papa,” he said, his voice full of warmth.

Tom looked down at him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he replied. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

***

For a moment, Harry stood still, the bustling crowd around him fading into the background. A strange ache spread through his chest—an ache that came not just from missing his father but from the uncertainty that no one around him seemed to share.

Harry shook his head forcing his feet to move again. As he passed the boy and his family, his expression hardened, though the warmth of the memory lingered in the back of his mind. His father wasn’t dead. If anyone had the power to survive, it was him. As the crowd swept around him, Harry’s eyes burned with determination. You’re out there, dad, he thought to himself. I know you are. And I’ll find you, no matter what.

By the time he reached Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, Harry’s thoughts had shifted slightly. He stepped up to the counter, the colorful display of flavors almost dazzling in the afternoon sunlight. The cheerful witch behind the counter greeted him with a warm smile.

“What’ll it be, dear?” she asked brightly.

Harry studied the options for a moment before settling on a scoop of mint chocolate chip—something his father would have scoffed at as “frivolous.” It made him smirk to himself as he handed over a few coins.

He took a seat outside the shop, letting the cold sweetness of the ice cream distract him for a moment. As he finished the last bite of his ice cream, Harry stood and picked up his bags. There was still much to do, but for now, he allowed himself one moment of calm before stepping back into the crowd, ready to take the next step forward.

Chapter Text

He was running—his feet pounding against a wet, slippery floor—but no matter how fast he moved, the sound of footsteps behind him grew louder. The air was heavy, almost choking, and a voice—low, cold, and merciless—echoed around him.

“Why didn’t you stop it, Harry?”

Ahead of him, a shadowy figure emerged. At first, it looked like his father—tall, proud, and familiar. Relief surged through Harry’s chest, but it lasted only a second. The figure’s face began to distort, skin peeling back to reveal hollow, empty eyes and a mouth twisted in pain.

“Why did you let this happen?” the figure hissed, its voice laced with accusation.

“I didn’t—I couldn’t—” Harry stammered, trying to reach him, but the ground beneath him cracked like ice. The figure dissolved into ash, scattering on the wind.

Suddenly, another voice—a whisper, but so close it felt like it was right in his ear. 

“You’re too late, Harry. Too late to fix anything.”

Harry’s chest tightened as he spun around, trying to find the source of the voice, but the shadows began to close in, wrapping around him like chains. A scream echoed, a scream so raw and full of pain that it left his ears ringing—

And then he woke.

Harry sat up abruptly, gasping for air, his body drenched in sweat. Tears blurred his vision, but he wiped them away quickly, his heart pounding so loudly it felt like it would burst out of his chest.

He sat there for a moment, letting reality reassert itself. The room was dim, silent except for the faint ticking of a clock. It was just a dream, he told himself. Nothing more.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair.

Sliding out of bed, Harry forced himself into action. A hot shower cleared the lingering fog of the nightmare, and by the time he sat down for breakfast, he felt more in control. Gippy, the house elf, had prepared eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of tea.

“Big day, Master Harry,” Gippy said with a wide grin.

“Yeah,” Harry replied absently, forcing himself to eat. He went over his belongings one last time—his robes, books, and everything else he would need. Today, he was going to Hogwarts.

***

The chaos of King’s Cross Station buzzed around him as Harry made his way to platforms nine and ten. He glanced around, pretending to check a train schedule, before spotting the brick wall he’d been told about. Ignoring the curious glances from passing Muggles, Harry gripped the handle of his trolley and walked purposefully toward the wall.

For a moment, he braced himself for impact—but instead of colliding with solid brick, he passed through and found himself in a completely different station.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was alive with activity. Witches and wizards hugged their children, gave hurried instructions, or waved handkerchiefs as the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express billowed steam into the air. Children ran around, laughing, talking, or crying as they said their goodbyes.

Harry paid them no mind. His focus was on the train ahead. Without hesitation, he climbed aboard, weaving his way through the narrow corridors until he found an empty compartment. He sat down, pulling out a book to pass the time, though his mind was already planning his next move.

Finding Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be difficult. Harry knew Draco was a Slytherin, and he was confident he would be sorted into Slytherin himself. They would cross paths soon enough.

As the train filled up, Harry’s compartment door slid open. A tall, fit boy with dark skin, buzzed black hair, and deep brown eyes stepped in, followed by a girl with pale skin, dark brown hair cut to her shoulders, and striking grayish green eyes. Her freckled face and button nose gave her a sharp, inquisitive look.

“Everywhere else is full,” the boy said casually. “Mind if we join you?”

Harry looked up briefly, shrugging. “Go ahead.”

The boy and girl settled into the seats across from him. They chatted quietly to each other at first, not disturbing Harry as he returned to his book. After a while, though, the girl leaned forward.

“You’re our age, right?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “How come you're not wearing the proper robes? What house are you in anyway?”

Harry glanced at her, barely looking up from the page. “I’m a transfer,” he said simply. “Haven’t been sorted yet.”

The girl exchanged a quick look with the boy, who smirked slightly.

“What do you reckon you’ll be, then?” the boy asked, leaning back in his seat.

Harry mirrored the smirk. “Slytherin, obviously.”

The boy laughed. “Good answer. I’m Blaise, by the way. Blaise Zabini. And this is Pansy.”

“Harry,” he replied.

The conversation was light after that—small, casual exchanges before they all fell into comfortable silence. Harry returned to his book, Pansy skimmed through a magazine, and Blaise busied himself with some parchment. Occasionally, the food cart passed by, breaking the quiet with the clinking of sweets and snacks.

By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Harry felt a flicker of excitement beneath the weight of his nerves. This was it. The start of something new. The next step in his plan.

***

Once the train arrived at Hogsmeade Station, Harry followed the crowd of students onto the platform. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine from the surrounding forest. In the distance, Hogwarts loomed like a beacon, its spires lit against the darkening sky.

The students were ushered toward carriages that appeared to move on their own—no horses, no drivers, just seemingly empty vehicles rolling along the path to the castle. Harry paused for a moment, pretending to be unfazed, though he could feel the faint unease of some younger students nearby.

“Creepy, aren’t they?” Blaise said, gesturing to the carriages.

“Not really,” Harry replied with a faint smirk. “There are horses. You just can’t see them.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Horses? What are you on about?”

“Thestrals,” Harry said matter-of-factly, stepping up into the nearest carriage. “You’d see them if you’d… Well, if you’d seen death.”

Both Blaise and Pansy exchanged a quick glance but said nothing. Harry didn’t elaborate. Tom had taught him everything he needed to know about hogwarts. The Thestrals weren’t strange to him. They were just another part of the wizarding world—one he already felt he understood better than most. 

As the carriages rattled along the path, Harry leaned back and took in the view. The great gates of Hogwarts loomed ahead, and his anticipation grew.

Inside the castle, the crowd of students was directed toward the Great Hall. The first years, wide-eyed and nervous, huddled together at the front. Harry, standing a full head taller than them, stuck out like a sore thumb. At fourteen, he was no first year, but he had to wait among them all the same.

The hall was vast and majestic, with floating candles casting a warm glow and the enchanted ceiling showing a twilight sky. The four house tables were packed with students, and Harry could feel their stares. Whispers rippled through the hall like a current, but he ignored them, keeping his head high and his expression indifferent.

When all the first years were sorted, Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding the Sorting Hat. She called out names one by one, and each first year approached the stool nervously. The hat shouted their house, and the students hurried to join their new tables.

Finally, when the last name had been called, McGonagall cleared her throat and announced, “Harry Riddle.”

A ripple of mild curiosity moved through the room. Whispers of “Who’s that?” and “A transfer, maybe?” floated faintly above the general hum of the hall.

Harry could feel the eyes on him as he strode toward the stool, his head held high. He ignored the quiet interest around him, focused entirely on the Sorting Hat ahead.

As he sat down, the Sorting Hat was placed on his head. It barely hesitated.

“Slytherin!” the hat shouted.

The Slytherin table erupted into cheers, standing high and proud as they welcomed their new student. Harry rose, the faintest smirk curling on his lips, and made his way to the table.

He spotted Blaise and Pansy waving him over, their expressions smug and impressed. Harry slid into the seat between them, and Pansy wasted no time.

“Well, we knew you’d make it,” she said with a smirk.

“Obviously,” Harry replied smoothly.

Blaise leaned closer. “Harry Riddle, huh? Transferring as a fourth year? You don’t see that every day.”

Harry shrugged, his tone casual but his mind sharp. “It’s a bit unusual, I guess.”

His eyes scanned the table until he found Draco Malfoy. The blonde boy was sitting further down, wide eyed, his expression in utter shock and disbelief. Harry locked eyes with him, holding his gaze for a moment before giving him a subtle nod.

Draco’s expression shifted immediately, his look sharpening with recognition of Harry’s unspoken order. Harry didn’t look away until Draco inclined his head ever so slightly, acknowledging him.

Satisfied, Harry turned back to Blaise and Pansy, joining their chatter as if nothing had happened.

Then, Dumbledore stood.

The hall fell silent almost immediately. The old man spread his arms with that same maddeningly serene smile, the kind that set Harry’s teeth on edge.

“Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. “But this year is not like any other. As many of you already know, this year, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament .”

A wave of whispers surged through the students, a mix of excitement and nervous speculation.

Harry barely reacted, aside from arching a brow slightly. He knew about the Triwizard Tournament. A dangerous competition between three wizarding schools, with one champion selected from each to compete in life-threatening tasks for the Triwizard Cup, and the title of eternal glory, whatever that means. 

Dumbledore continued, “However for the safety of our students, the ministry have decided, only those who are of age— seventeen or older —will be eligible to place their names into the Goblet of Fire.”

Harry let out a quiet scoff under his breath. How convenient.

A chorus of protests immediately erupted from the younger students, their voices rising in frustration. “That’s not fair!” a forth-year Gryffindor shouted, echoed by murmurs of agreement across the Great Hall. “Why should only the older students get a chance?” another Ravenclaw argued, crossing their arms in defiance. The sense of injustice was palpable, with students exchanging disappointed glances, their excitement for the tournament now tainted by resentment. But Dumbledore, unfazed by the outcry, simply raised a hand. Instantly, the noise died down, his unspoken authority settling over the hall like a heavy blanket. Without acknowledging their complaints, he pressed on.

“Now, let us welcome the two other schools who will be joining us for this legendary tournament,” Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying through the hall. As he spoke, the great doors of the castle groaned open, and the students turned in anticipation. First came the delegation from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, their arrival marked by a graceful procession of students clad in flowing silken robes of pale blue. They moved with an almost ethereal elegance, their steps light and precise, as though they were gliding rather than walking. A few students gasped as they caught sight of the Veela-like beauty of some of the Beauxbatons girls, their presence enchanting and dreamlike. At the front, their headmistress, Madame Maxime, an impressively tall woman, strode forward with regal confidence.

Before the whispers could settle, a sudden gust of cold air rushed through the hall as the Durmstrang Institute made its entrance. Unlike the airy grace of Beauxbatons, the Durmstrang students marched in with a sharp, disciplined formation, their heavy fur-lined cloaks swaying with each step. Their presence exuded an aura of strength and intensity, their expressions unreadable, their movements precise. Some carried tall, carved staffs, and as they moved, a few of them struck the stone floor with their boots in synchronized rhythm, a display of unity and power. Leading them was Headmaster Igor Karkaroff, a man with a sharp gaze and a calculating smirk, his eyes scanning the hall with quiet assessment.

“And now,” Dumbledore finished, clapping his hands, “let the feast begin!”

The hall filled with the sound of laughter and conversation. Plates of food appeared, and Harry served himself, listening to the buzz of excitement around him.

But beneath it all, a quiet tension lingered in his chest. He had taken the first step, but he knew this was only the beginning. For now, he played his part, blending into the crowd, but his mind was already working, laying the foundation for what was to come.

***

The Slytherin common room was far from the cold, intimidating space Harry had imagined. It was surprisingly inviting, with high-backed leather armchairs and plush green sofas arranged around a grand fireplace that crackled softly. The emerald and silver décor was tasteful, casting a luxurious aura over the room. 

Despite the coolness of the dungeons, the warmth from the fireplace made the space cozy. Soft rugs covered the polished stone floor, muffling the sound of footsteps. In the corners, small clusters of students chatted quietly or read books, the atmosphere calm and subdued.

Harry couldn’t help but feel a certain comfort here, as if the room itself welcomed him into its embrace. It was nothing like he expected, and yet it felt oddly fitting.

***

Harry’s eyes scanned the common room, pausing when he spotted Draco Malfoy sitting alone in front of the fireplace.

Draco was slouched in an armchair, his chin resting on his hand, his pale features illuminated by the flickering firelight. When he noticed Harry, their eyes locked, and there was no need for words. Draco stood immediately, his expression unreadable but intense, and followed Harry as he turned and walked away.

Harry led the way through the common room, going straight to one of the empty study rooms in their dormitory—he needed a place where they could be alone, undisturbed. Harry moved with purpose, his steps familiar despite this being his first night here.

Once they entered the room casting a silencing spell, lighting a few candles. For a moment it was silent, the only sound of their breathing. 

Draco moved without hesitation. He crossed the space between them and hugged Harry tightly.

Harry froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden gesture, but then he let out a shaky breath and hugged Draco back.

When they finally pulled apart, Draco’s voice was low and urgent. Hands on either side of Harry's jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his gray eyes searching Harry’s face. “I—Harry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t do anything. I—”

Harry stared at him, surprised by the raw emotion in Draco’s voice. He had always been able to let his guard down with Draco. Their history made it easy, natural. He remembered being a bored child complaining to his father about wanting friends his age, only for his father to command Lucius Malfoy to bring Draco along to his meetings. It became a routine, and through those stolen hours, a friendship had formed.

Now, standing here with Draco after so long, Harry couldn’t stop the shaky feeling that rose in his chest. His voice trembled when he finally replied. “I don’t know how I feel,” he admitted quietly, the weight of the past few weeks threatening to overwhelm him.

Draco’s expression softened with understanding. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. Instead, he stepped forward and hugged Harry again, tighter this time, as if willing him to hold himself together.

Harry clung to him, the pressure of everything crashing down all at once. “Draco,” he said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper, “what happened on the battlefield? I need to know. I know my father is alive. I know he is, but—what happened?”

Draco pulled back slightly, his hands still on Harry’s shoulders, his gaze steady and serious. “I’ll tell you everything,” he said firmly. “But you have to promise me something.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

“Don’t do anything reckless,” Draco said, his voice heavy with concern. “Your father… He wouldn’t want you to lose yourself over this.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Just tell me.”

Draco sighed and stepped back, running a hand through his pale hair. “It wasn’t supposed to go the way it did…”

Chapter Text

Draco leaned against the desk, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was pale, but his expression was calm, calculated—though Harry could tell the memory was affecting him.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Draco said, his voice low. He glanced at Harry, who was waiting silently, his fists clenched. With a sigh, Draco continued.

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way, you know. Your father… he planned everything. Every detail. The Death Eaters—my father included—were supposed to keep the Order and the rest of the resistance occupied. He didn’t want anyone near him. The whole point was to duel Dumbledore one-on-one, without distractions.”

Draco pushed off the desk and began pacing the small room. “But then that idiot—whoever he was—ran, and dragged a couple more Death Eaters with him. They just bolted, and it opened a gap. That’s when they got through.”

He stopped and turned to Harry. “Potter, Black, Lupin, and the Longbottoms, joining Dumbledore. They all broke through and went straight for him. Right when he was in the middle of the ritual.”

Draco’s tone hardened as he spoke, his frustration clear. “It wasn’t just any spell he was doing, Harry. It was old magic. Ancient. Something no one even knows how to use anymore. It was… dark, but brilliant. Your father said it would destroy Dumbledore—pull him out of this world entirely, send him somewhere he could never come back from.”

He stopped pacing and rubbed the back of his neck. “But the thing about rituals like that—they need time. Precision. Focus. And then they showed up, throwing every spell they had at him. He had to defend himself, and the ritual—” Draco’s voice faltered slightly, and he took a breath before continuing.

“The ritual became unstable.”

He looked at Harry again, his gray eyes sharp but haunted. “I was watching from the ridge—just far enough away to see everything, but close enough to feel it. I saw him standing there, right in the center of that circle. The runes were glowing, and the air felt… wrong. Like it was alive or something.”

Draco shook his head, his voice quieter now. “Then the spells started colliding. Dumbledore and the others were throwing everything at him, and your father… he was trying to keep the ritual going. But there was too much magic in the air, too much interference. The runes started burning out, one by one.”

He swallowed hard. “And then the white light came.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, his jaw tight. “What light?”

Draco hesitated before answering. “It was blinding. Pure white. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It wasn’t just light—it felt like the air itself had stopped moving, like time had… frozen.” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking slightly.

“For a moment, everything slowed down. I could see the spells frozen midair, like they’d stopped halfway to their targets. Everyone on the field just… stopped. It was like the world forgot how to move. And then—”

He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And then everything snapped back. The light disappeared, and it was over.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his voice tight. “Over?”

Draco nodded. “The battlefield went quiet. When the light was gone, so was your father. Just… gone. The runes were burned into the ground, and the air still felt heavy, but he wasn’t there anymore.”

Draco stepped closer to Harry, his tone growing more insistent. “But I know he’s alive, Harry. That light—it wasn’t death. It was something else. He’s out there. Somewhere. I’m sure of it.”

He straightened, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “I know the others think it was just an explosion, that he’s dead. But I saw it. I felt it. Whatever that ritual was meant to do, it backfired. Instead of trapping Dumbledore, it took him.”

Draco took a step back, his expression guarded now. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t know how to get him back. But I do know this, if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

Draco’s voice softened slightly, almost reluctantly. “He trusts you, Harry. And if he’s out there, I think he’s waiting for you to bring him back.”

***

Harry stared at Draco, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in his chest. He felt his hands curling into fists, his emotions a chaotic mess of anger, guilt, and confusion.

Draco’s final words hung in the air. Harry scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. “Trusts me? If he trusts me so much, why didn’t he tell me about the ritual? About the runes? About any of it?!” His voice rose, trembling with frustration. “I didn’t even know it was happening, Draco. He didn’t trust me enough to let me help, and now he’s gone. And you’re standing here telling me it’s my job to fix this?”

Draco took a step closer, his expression tightening. “Harry—”

“No!” Harry snapped, his voice breaking slightly. “If I’d been there—if I’d known—I could’ve stopped it! I could’ve done something! Instead, I was just sitting in the dark like a child, while everything fell apart.” His voice cracked again, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair as he tried to hold himself together. “I could’ve stopped the ritual from going haywire. I could’ve kept him from—”

Draco interrupted sharply, stepping forward. “Stop it, Harry.”

Harry froze, his breathing heavy. Draco’s voice was firm, almost harsh, but there was an edge of something softer underneath.

“It’s not your fault,” Draco said, his gray eyes locking onto Harry’s. “You couldn’t have fixed it. You couldn’t have stopped it. You don’t understand how chaotic it was out there. It was insane . And your father knew that. That’s why he didn’t tell you.”

Harry turned back to face him, his jaw tight but his eyes wide with pain.

Draco’s voice softened now, less sharp but still insistent. “Do you really think he doesn’t trust you? Harry, he trusts you more than anyone. But that’s exactly why he didn’t tell you. He didn’t want you anywhere near that battlefield. He didn’t want you to handle it, because he knew you could. And he didn’t want that for you .”

Harry blinked, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

“He didn’t tell you because he wanted to keep you safe,” Draco continued, his voice quieter now. “He knew you’d step in if you had the chance. He knew you’d try to fix it, even if it killed you. That’s why he didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t trust you—but because he did. He trusted you to stay safe. To stay out of it.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged slightly, his anger ebbing away and leaving only the hollow ache behind. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I could’ve helped him.”

Draco shook his head. “Maybe. But maybe you would’ve just made it worse. You weren’t there, Harry. You didn’t see it. There was too much magic in the air, too much chaos. No one could’ve fixed it. Not even you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence in the room was heavy, filled with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Harry slumped into one of the chairs, his hands gripping the armrests tightly. “I don’t even know where to start, Draco. If he’s out there… if he’s really alive… how do I even begin to bring him back?”

Draco sat down across from him, his tone quieter now but steady. “We start with what we know. The ritual, the runes, the light. You’re not alone in this, Harry. Whatever it takes, we’ll figure it out.”

Harry glanced up at Draco, the faintest flicker of determination returning to his eyes. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco smirked faintly, his usual confidence creeping back. “What else are mates for?”

***

The morning sunlight filtered through the small, enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting a soft greenish glow over the room. The space was silent, empty save for Harry. He sat on the edge of his bed, slipping on his shoes and lacing them tightly. His trunk was already packed and neatly stowed at the foot of his bed, and his robes hung ready on the chair beside him.

Harry moved methodically, his thoughts swirling as he reached for his tie. As he looped it around his neck, he glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall. It reflected back his own face—calm, composed—but Harry could still feel the slight tension in his jaw. He muttered under his breath as he tried to adjust the knot, the fabric twisting stubbornly in his hands.

The sound of the dormitory door creaking open drew his attention. Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Draco entering, dressed neatly and perfectly put together as always. His pale hair was swept back with an air of practiced precision.

Draco paused for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning the room before settling on Harry. His expression softened slightly as he approached, stopping a few feet away.

“How are you?” Draco asked, his voice low but careful. There was a hint of hesitation in his tone, as if he wasn’t sure how Harry would respond.

Harry’s hands stilled on his tie, and he turned to face Draco fully. His eyes narrowed slightly—not with anger, but with a sharpness that matched his tone. “I’m fine, Draco,” he said, his voice clipped. “You don’t have to keep asking me like I’m about to fall apart. You don’t need to worry.”

Draco frowned but didn’t argue. Harry turned back to the mirror, his movements deliberate as he tightened the knot of his tie.

“What we need to focus on,” Harry continued after a moment, his voice steady, “is what’s important. Classes. The plan. Everything else. Not how I’m feeling.”

Draco crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the nearest bedpost. “You know, you don’t have to be so stoic all the time.”

Harry gave him a pointed look in the mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I’m not being stoic. I’m being practical. There’s a difference.”

Draco shook his head, but a faint smirk crept onto his face. “Fine, have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when Snape eats you alive in Potions.”

Harry looks at him wide eyed, amused.“We have Snape for our first class?” He said in an aggressive whisper.

Draco chuckled lightly as he nodded in conformation.

***

The Slytherin common room was buzzing with activity. Pansy Parkinson was sitting near the fireplace, chatting animatedly with Daphne Greengrass. The two girls looked up as the pair passed, and Pansy gave Harry a sly smile.

“Look who decided to join the rest of us,” she said, her voice teasing but not unkind. “Ready for your big debut?”

Harry glanced at her, his expression neutral but his tone sharp enough to match hers. “I think I’ll manage, thanks.”

Pansy grinned, clearly pleased by his response. “Good. Wouldn’t want the new star of Slytherin to embarrass us.”

Draco rolled his eyes as they continued toward the entrance. “Ignore her, Harry. She’s like that with everyone.”

“I noticed,” Harry muttered, though there was no real irritation in his voice.

***

The Goblet of Fire burned brightly at the front of the Great Hall, blue flames licking at the rim, casting an eerie glow over the enchanted parchment already swirling inside.

Students had gathered in eager clusters around it, watching as the older ones stepped forward and dropped their names into the goblet with hopeful, determined faces.

“You think Krum’s going to be Durmstrang’s champion?” Blaise mused as they walked to their table.

Draco nodded, taking his seat. “No doubt. He’s the only reason people even talk about Durmstrang outside of the Dark Arts curriculum.”

The Slytherin table was already lively, with students exchanging stories and the occasional glance at Harry as he took a seat between Draco and Blaise.

“First class is Potions,” Draco said, glancing at his schedule. “At least we’ll start with something tolerable.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Tolerable? You mean Snape?”

Draco smirked, filling his plate with some scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast. “Tolerable if you know how to keep him happy. Just don’t look like an idiot and he won’t have your head.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. As he’s reaching for the orange juice. “Please. Keeping him happy is impossible.”

Blaise studied the two of them, his brow raised. “You two seem close. How do you know each other?”

Draco glanced at Harry briefly before answering. “Our fathers work together. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Harry smirked faintly, leaning back. “I wouldn’t say it was always smooth sailing. We spent more time arguing than anything else.”

Draco huffed lightly. “That’s because you were insufferable.”

“Me? You’re the one who always turns everything into a competition ,” Harry countered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Blaise smirked, leaning back in his seat. “So this has been going on for years, then. Makes sense.”

Draco shrugged. “It works. Most of the time.”

Harry smirked. “Most of the time.”

Pansy, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. “Sounds like the two of you had a front-row seat to the Snape Experience.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, we did. Front row, no refunds, no escape.”

Draco exchanged a glance with Harry, his smirk returning. “My father hosted small gatherings fairly often, and Snape was always there. You’d think with how much time he spent lurking in the corners, he was part of the furniture.”

“Lurking is an understatement,” Harry added with a dry chuckle. “I’d sit in the corner, trying to stay quiet, and Snape would just appear out of nowhere. One time, I nearly spilled my drink all over the floor because he startled me.”

Draco leaned closer, clearly enjoying himself. “And the way he used to show up unannounced? Merlin, he’d just pop into the drawing room like he owned the place. No knock, no warning. My mother hated that.”

“She’s not the only one,” Harry said, smirking. “I swear, every time he turned up at my house, Gippy—our house-elf—would hide in the pantry. He called Snape ‘the angry bat. ’”

Pansy laughed openly now, her usually composed demeanor cracking just a bit. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Harry said, grinning. “And the funniest part? Snape knew it.”

They all started laughing so hard, nearby students began glancing over, curious. 

For the first time since arriving, Harry felt a genuine sense of ease. Even with the looming weight of everything he had to do, moments like this made it feel a little more bearable.

***

The Potions classroom buzzed quietly as Harry and Draco settled into their seats. The low murmur of students quieted as the door to the classroom opened with a sharp creak. Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing dramatically as if carried by an invisible wind. He moved with purpose, setting down his materials on the desk at the front with a sharp clink of glass and metal.

Without looking up, Snape began in his trademark monotone. “Today, we will be brewing a Wit-Sharpening Potion. Instructions are on the board. Ingredients, as always, are in the cupboard. If any of you have forgotten what precision means, you’ll learn the hard way.”

As he finished speaking, Snape glanced up—and his eyes locked on Harry. 

For a long moment, the room felt unnaturally still. Snape’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable, and he simply stared at Harry.

Harry, fighting the urge to laugh at the sheer predictability of Snape’s theatrics, gave him the faintest, almost cheeky smile—one that hinted at the laughter he was holding back.

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned sharply and continued speaking, as if nothing had happened.

Before Harry could relax, a sharp kick to his leg made him jolt. He glanced at Draco, who gave him a warning glare, his lips barely moving as he hissed, “Don’t even think about it.”

Harry stifled a grin, focusing on his cauldron as the class moved on. By the end of class, Harry’s potion was a perfect shade of lime green. Draco gave a satisfied nod as they bottled their samples for grading.

***

The rest of the morning passed quickly. Defense Against the Dark Arts was more entertaining than Harry expected, though the professor’s frantic energy bordered on comical—After all their professor is the great Gilderoy Lockhart— . The dueling stances he insisted they practice had Draco muttering under his breath about “pointless theatrics.”

As the students filed out, Draco leaned toward Harry and muttered, “We could teach that lesson better than him.”

Harry smirked. “Not without a dramatic twirl or two.”

***

By the time lunch rolled around, the Great Hall was bustling with students. Harry and Draco sat with Blaise and Pansy at the Slytherin table, their plates piled high. While Blaise and Pansy debated over whether they’d need their textbooks for Transfiguration, Draco leaned closer to Harry.

“We should go to the library after classes,” Draco said quietly, his tone casual but deliberate.

Harry nodded, keeping his voice low. “I was thinking the same thing. Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Draco confirmed, his expression unreadable to anyone who might have been watching.

Blaise glanced at them briefly. “What are you two whispering about? Plotting something already?”

“Just discussing the absurd amount of homework they’re probably going to pile on us,” Draco said smoothly, leaning back in his seat.

“Fair enough,” Blaise said with a shrug, returning to his meal.

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Draco, and the two continued eating as if nothing had been said.

***

Transfiguration proved to be just as tricky as expected. Harry managed to turn his beetle into a button with relative ease, but Draco spent most of the class muttering complaints as his beetle stubbornly refused to cooperate.

“It’s defective…” Draco said flatly, earning a sharp glance from Professor McGonagall, and a light chuckle from Harry.

By the time they reached Charms, Harry was starting to feel the weight of the day. Professor Flitwick’s cheerful demeanor was refreshing, though, and the simple spells they had to perform gave them a moment to catch their breath.

Harry caught Pansy flicking a paper bird across the table with her wand and smirked when Draco sent it sailing back toward her with an exaggerated wave of his own.

***

When they finally sat down for dinner, Harry felt the ache in his legs from walking up and down the castle’s endless staircases. He picked at his food distractedly, laying his head on Draco’s shoulder.

“We didn’t get to the library,” Harry muttered quietly, keeping his tone low so Blaise and Pansy wouldn’t overhear.

Draco, who was far more relaxed, took a sip of his pumpkin juice before answering. “It’s the first day, Harry. You saw the schedule—we barely had a second to breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

Harry frowned slightly, raising his head, leaning on his hand. “I just don’t want to waste time.”

“You won’t,” Draco said firmly, keeping his voice calm, he reached out, resting a hand on the back of Harry’s neck and giving it a gentle squeeze . “Take it easy for one day. There’s plenty of time to… focus on things later.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. We’ll make time tomorrow.”

“Exactly,” Draco said with a faint smirk. “Besides, knowing you, you’d probably end up trying to read every book in the library tonight and forget to sleep.”

Harry snorted softly, finally picking up his fork.

Pansy glanced over from across the table, raising an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Draco said smoothly, brushing it off. “Harry was just whining about Transfiguration.”

“Me?!” Harry shot back, though his tone was light.

Blaise chuckled. “First day, and you’re already losing it, huh?”

“Just tired,” Harry said, keeping his tone casual as the group laughed.

As they finished their meal, Harry felt some of his frustration fade. Draco’s words, as much as he hated to admit it, made sense. The day had been overwhelming, but there was time—there had to be.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was dim and quiet, the glow of the green-tinted lake filtering through the tall windows. Harry sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. It had been a week since term began, and he hadn’t made it to the library.

Assignments had piled up, classes stretched longer than expected, and every time he tried to carve out a moment to slip away, something—or someone—got in his way.

And then there was him .

Marcus Flint was sitting just a few feet away, glancing at Harry every so often. At first, Harry had chalked it up to coincidence—passing each other in the hallways, sitting nearby at the table in the Great Hall. But after a week of finding Marcus always close by, always lingering, Harry’s patience was gone.

He knew why Marcus was there.

Dumbledore.

The thought sent a wave of anger crashing through Harry. It was exactly the sort of manipulative thing Dumbledore would do—plant a spy to follow him, report on his every move, and try to control him. The idea burned in Harry’s chest.

Another glance from Marcus. Another smirk.

Harry snapped.

“The fuck are you looking at?” he roared, his voice cutting through the low hum of the common room like a blade.

The room fell silent. Every head turned toward him, wide-eyed, but Harry didn’t care. His focus was on Marcus, whose face froze in a mix of surprise and amusement.

“I’m not doing anything,” Marcus said smoothly, his tone dripping with false innocence.

Harry stepped forward, his eyes blazing. “You’re not doing anything? You’ve been following me around like a damn shadow for a week. Don’t even try to deny it. Who sent you?”

Marcus blinked but didn’t respond, his smirk faltering slightly.

“Say something!” Harry growled, his voice low and sharp.

“Sounds like paranoia to me,” Marcus said after a moment, his voice laced with smugness.

That was it.

Harry’s magic flared to life, crackling in the air around him. He raised his hand—not needing his wand—and Marcus’s body suddenly rose, fell to his knees so hard the whole common room heard it, locked in place by an invisible force. The smugness drained from his face, replaced by panic as Harry stepped closer.

“I asked you a question,” Harry said coldly, looking down on him, his voice sharp and unrelenting. “Who sent you?”

“Dumbledore!” Marcus stammered, his voice breaking as he blurted out the name. “It was Dumbledore! I was supposed to… to watch you! Report back every night! Please—”

Harry’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “See how easy that was! But let’s make sure you don’t get any ideas.”

He snapped his fingers, and Marcus’s body jolted as Harry’s magic shifted. The air around Marcus shimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly, but Harry’s intent was clear. He reached into Marcus’s mind, weaving his magic into the memory like a masterful artist altering a painting.

“Oh, don’t worry! you’ll remember everything,” Harry said, his tone deadly calm. “The fear, the humiliation, and my warning. But when you go to him —when you try to tell him or he tries to read your mind—it’ll show something else. A pleasant little conversation where nothing important happened.”

Marcus whimpered, his body still trembling.

“Don’t bother fighting it,” Harry continued, his voice quiet but firm. “Even he won’t be able to see past it. And if you do try to go against me…” He leaned in closer, his green eyes burning into Marcus’s. “You’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

With a wave of his hand, the shimmering magic faded, and Marcus collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. He didn’t speak—couldn’t speak—as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the door.

The slam of the door echoed through the common room, and the oppressive tension began to ease.

Draco stepped closer, his expression carefully neutral but his tone sharp. “Was that really necessary?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately, running a hand through his hair as he sat back down. His magic still hummed faintly in the air, though it was beginning to fade.

“Yes,” Harry said finally, his voice calm but clipped. He glanced at Draco, his gaze firm. “If Dumbledore thinks he can control me through spies, he’s wrong. I’m not playing his games.”

Draco studied him for a moment, then sighed, sitting in the chair beside him. “You could’ve just threatened him, you know. You didn’t need to rewrite his brain.”

Harry smirked faintly. “Didn’t I?”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t press the issue. “At least now he knows better.”

Across the room, the other Slytherins whispered among themselves, stealing cautious glances at Harry, who sat calmly as though nothing had happened.

***

When Marcus reported to Dumbledore later that evening, his hands shook as he sat across from the Headmaster.

“You seem unsettled, Mr. Flint,” Dumbledore said kindly, his blue eyes watching him closely.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Marcus stammered, his words tumbling over each other. “He… he’s not someone you can… he’s dangerous.”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his expression softening but his gaze sharpening. “Dangerous?”

Marcus nodded frantically. “I can’t spy on him anymore. He’ll know. He’ll…” His voice trailed off, his face pale.

Dumbledore frowned slightly. “Let me see, Mr. Flint,” he said gently, making eye contact.

Marcus stiffened but didn’t resist as Dumbledore delved into his mind.

What Dumbledore saw was harmless, Marcus sitting in the common room, exchanging a brief, meaningless conversation with Harry before leaving. There was no sign of pain, no fear, no threat.

Dumbledore’s frown deepened as he withdrew from Marcus’s mind. “Curious,” he murmured. “Very curious.”

Marcus didn’t wait to be dismissed. He bolted from the office, leaving Dumbledore staring pensively into the fire, his thoughts clouded with suspicion.

***

The long table in the center cluttered with parchment, maps, and a few half-empty cups of tea. Members of the Order of the Phoenix were gathered, their voices low but tense as they discussed the latest reports.

Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his expression calm but thoughtful as he listened. He let the others speak freely, allowing their thoughts to unravel before he offered his own insights.

But the calm shattered when Sirius Black slammed his hand on the table, his gray eyes blazing with fury. “I still can’t believe this, Dumbledore. You’ve let him into Hogwarts? Are you out of your mind?”

Several heads turned toward Sirius, some frowning at his outburst, others nodding subtly in agreement.

Dumbledore looked at Sirius steadily, his expression unreadable. “Harry Riddle is a student, just like any other,” he said simply.

“Just like any other?” Sirius repeated, his voice rising. “He’s Voldemort’s son , for Merlin’s sake! You’ve let him walk into the safest place in the wizarding world, surrounded by innocent children , with no guarantee that he won’t try something! How can you justify this?”

“Sirius,” Remus Lupin interjected, his tone calm but firm, “Dumbledore has a reason for everything he does. Maybe we should hear him out.”

Sirius turned to Remus, his frustration evident. “Hear him out? You’re okay with this? With Voldemort’s kid roaming around Hogwarts?”

“I didn’t say that,” Remus said evenly. “I’m saying we don’t know what Harry’s intentions are yet. He hasn’t done anything—”

“Yet!” Moody interrupted, throwing his arms up. “He hasn’t done anything yet. That doesn’t mean he won’t. Do you think Voldemort raised a saint?”

“That’s enough, Moody,” Dumbledore said quietly, his calm voice cutting through the tension.

Sirius turned back to Dumbledore, his jaw tight. “You’re taking a massive risk, Albus. You’ve put every single student in that school in danger, and for what? Some naive hope that Voldemort’s son will suddenly turn good?”

James Potter, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. “Sirius has a point,” he said hesitantly. “I mean, I trust your judgment, Dumbledore, but this feels like a bigger risk than usual. Let’s not forget—my son Harrison goes to Hogwarts too, and I don’t want him associated with something this dangerous.”

“Everything we do is a risk, James,” Dumbledore replied, his tone patient. “And I understand your concern. But the safety of every student at Hogwarts, including Harrison, is always my priority.”

“But why, Albus?” Sirius pressed, his voice softer now but no less intense. “Why take this chance? What are you trying to accomplish?”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his long fingers steepled under his chin. He regarded the group for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful.

“Because Voldemort may be gone ,” Dumbledore said quietly, “but I do not believe he is truly gone.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“What do you mean?” Frank Longbottom asked cautiously.

Dumbledore’s gaze shifted to him. “The magic that Voldemort wielded—the magic that allowed him to rise to power—is not easily undone. The events on the battlefield that led to his disappearance were… unusual. And while I cannot say for certain, I have reason to believe that he may return.”

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the group.

“So… what?” Sirius said, his voice strained. “You’re using the boy as bait? Is that what this is?”

“No,” Dumbledore said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I brought the boy to Hogwarts for several reasons. First, because I believe he is safer there than he would be anywhere else.”

“Safer for him, maybe,” Moody muttered bitterly.

Dumbledore ignored the comment and continued. “Second, because I believe that he has the potential to be far more than his father ever intended him to be. He is powerful, yes, but he is also young. He has been raised in the shadow of great darkness, and yet… I see the light in him. He is not beyond reason, nor beyond redemption.”

“Redemption?” Sirius scoffed. “He doesn’t need redemption, Albus. He needs to be watched. Controlled.”

“Controlled?” Dumbledore repeated, his gaze sharp. “You would suggest treating him as a prisoner? As an enemy before he has done anything to warrant it? Is that who we are, Sirius?”

Sirius hesitated, his anger faltering under Dumbledore’s steady gaze.

“The boy is not Voldemort,” Dumbledore said, his voice softer now. “He is his own person, with his own choices to make. And I intend to give him the opportunity to make the right ones. To see that there is a path other than the one his father walked.”

“And if he doesn’t choose that path?” Remus asked quietly.

“Then we will deal with that when the time comes,” Dumbledore replied, his tone resolute. “But for now, I will not condemn him for sins he has not yet committed. And neither should you.”

The room fell silent once more, the tension thick but muted.

Sirius sank back into his chair, his expression conflicted. “I hope you’re right, Albus,” he muttered.

“As do I,” Dumbledore said softly, his eyes distant.

***

The library was quiet, save for the faint rustling of pages as Harry flipped through yet another old, dusty book. The soft, golden light from the lamps illuminated the rows of shelves around him, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Across the table, Draco sat hunched over a thick tome, his brow furrowed in frustration.

It had taken Harry a week to finally get here. Between classes, assignments, and being constantly watched by Marcus Flint (until he’d taken care of that), his patience had worn thin. But now, with the library’s vast collection at their disposal, Harry and Draco had spent hours combing through books about ancient magic, runes, and rituals—only to come up empty-handed.

“Nothing,” Draco muttered, shutting a book with more force than necessary. Dust puffed into the air, making him wave a hand in irritation. “I swear, these books are ancient and useless. Half of them don’t even explain anything beyond basic runes.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He was tired, his eyes burning from reading for so long, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “There has to be something,” he said, his voice low. “This kind of magic doesn’t just disappear. It’s written down somewhere.”

Draco sighed, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “If it’s written down, it’s probably in the restricted section.”

Harry glanced up at him. “The restricted section?”

Draco nodded, his tone matter-of-fact. “Where else would your father have found it? You’ve seen how he operates—he wouldn’t have been interested in anything ordinary. Whatever ritual he used, it had to be obscure. Dangerous. Stuff the library doesn’t let just anyone read.”

Harry frowned, considering this. “So, how do we get in?”

Draco smirked faintly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “We wait until the library closes, sneak back in, and make sure no one sees us. Simple.”

“Simple,” Harry repeated dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Draco waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll deal with it. It’s not like we haven’t done worse.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. He nodded reluctantly, closing the book in front of him. “Fine. We’ll come back after everyone’s asleep. But we have to be careful.”

“Obviously,” Draco said, standing and stretching. “It’s a good thing tomorrow’s a Saturday. We’ll need the sleep.”

***

The Slytherin dormitory was quiet as Harry and Draco waited for the rest of their housemates to fall asleep. The low, steady breathing of their roommates filled the air, and the dim light from the enchanted windows cast faint shadows across the room.

Harry glanced at Draco, who gave a small nod. Silently, they slipped out of bed, their footsteps muffled by the thick rugs.

The castle was eerily still as they made their way toward the library. The corridors stretched endlessly in the dim light of the torches, and every creak of the floorboards or rustle of their robes seemed amplified in the silence.

Draco whispered, glancing at Harry as they reached the library doors. “We’re almost there.”

Harry gave a curt nod. He pushed the heavy doors open just enough for them to slip inside. The library was dark, the shelves towering over them like silent sentinels.

Draco led the way to the restricted section, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed them. The gate separating the restricted section from the rest of the library loomed ahead, locked as expected.

“Need help princess?” Harry asked, a small smile tugged at his lips.

Draco rolled his eyes, pulling out his wand. “Oh, piss off.” He muttered a spell, and with a faint click, the lock released.

They slipped inside, shutting the gate behind them. The restricted section was even darker than the rest of the library, the shadows deeper, the air heavier. Harry lit his wand, the soft glow illuminating the spines of old, worn books.

“Start looking,” he said.

For the next several hours, they combed through the restricted section, pulling books off the shelves and flipping through pages filled with intricate diagrams and ancient text. Some books contained snippets about rituals involving runes, but nothing concrete.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This is impossible. How did my father even find this ritual in the first place? Did he piece it together himself? Did he combine different ones?”

Draco looked up from the book he was reading, frowning. “If he did, he must’ve kept notes. A journal or something. Did he ever mention anything like that?”

“No,” Harry said, his voice laced with frustration. “He never told me anything. How am I supposed to figure out what he did—let alone reverse it—if I don’t even know where to start?”

Draco didn’t have an answer. The silence between them grew heavy as they continued searching, but the deeper they delved, the more questions arose.

As the hours passed, their exhaustion grew. Harry’s eyes burned from reading, and Draco rubbed at his temples, yawning every few minutes.

Finally, Draco checked the time. “It’s almost five,” he said quietly. “We need to get out of here before the librarian comes back. Or Filch.”

Harry nodded, snapping the book in his hands shut. “We’ll come back later tonight. For now, let’s go before we get caught.”

They carefully put the books back in their places and slipped out of the restricted section. The castle was still silent as they made their way back to the dormitory, the first hints of dawn creeping through the windows.

By the time they climbed back into their beds, neither of them could sleep. Harry stared at the ceiling, his thoughts racing, while Draco lay on his side, his eyes open and distant.

But exhaustion eventually won out, and the two drifted off into uneasy sleep, their minds still churning with questions they had yet to answer.

***

Draco stirred, groaning softly as he woke. The faint green glow from the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory told him it was late morning—much later than he intended to wake. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, 11:27 .

Missed breakfast , he thought, though he couldn’t bring himself to care. After last night’s late excursion to the restricted section, sleep had been a necessity, not a luxury.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair to smooth it into something less chaotic, and glanced around the dormitory. It was empty. His housemates were long gone, likely off to lunch or lounging in the common room.

Draco’s gaze shifted to Harry’s bed. The curtains were drawn open, and the bed was neatly made—too neatly, as if it hadn’t been slept in for long.

Where the hell is he?

Draco frowned. He doubted Harry had gone to the library, given how fruitless their search had been last night. And surely Harry wouldn’t risk the restricted section during daylight hours, not with the librarian or Filch likely lurking nearby.

Still, there was nowhere else that made sense. He pulled on his robes and left the dormitory, his steps brisk as he made his way to the library.

The library was quiet when he arrived, the faint hum of students flipping pages and scratching quills the only sound. Draco scanned the rows of desks, the aisles between shelves, and the far corners where Harry might have hidden himself—but there was no sign of him.

“Where are you, Riddle?” Draco muttered under his breath, his irritation growing.

He retraced his steps, wandering the corridors and even checking the Great Hall during lunch, but Harry wasn’t there either. By mid-afternoon, his irritation had turned into genuine worry.

Draco leaned against a column in the entrance hall, his arms crossed tightly as he watched students milling about. He caught sight of Blaise and Pansy coming down the stairs and quickly intercepted them.

“Have either of you seen Harry?” Draco asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Not since last night. Why?”

“He’s gone,” Draco said flatly. “I’ve looked everywhere. He’s not in the dorm, not in the library, not at meals—nowhere.”

Pansy frowned. “Maybe he’s just off brooding somewhere. You know how he gets.”

“Brooding doesn’t explain why he’s been missing all day,” Draco snapped.

Blaise shrugged, his expression indifferent. “He’s probably fine. You know Harry. He’s not exactly predictable.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing more. He turned on his heel and stalked away, his frustration simmering.

The hours passed, and as curfew approached, Draco found himself sitting in the Slytherin common room, his mind racing with possibilities. He’d given up his search after scouring every possible corner of the castle twice , but Harry was nowhere to be found.

What the hell is he up to?

Just as the clock neared curfew, the door to the common room creaked open, and Harry strolled in.

Draco’s head snapped up, his relief at seeing Harry immediately drowned out by the anger boiling in his chest.

“Where the hell have you been?” Draco demanded, rising to his feet.

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered. “Out.”

“ Out? ” Draco repeated, his voice sharp. “You’ve been gone all day, Riddle! No one’s seen you, no one knows where you are, and you just stroll in like it’s nothing?”

Harry glanced around briefly, ensuring no one was paying attention, then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I went back to the restricted section.”

Draco’s expression shifted from anger to shock. “You what ? In broad daylight? Are you trying to get caught” he hissed, his tone equally quiet but incredulous.

Harry shrugged, keeping his voice low. “I had to. We didn’t find anything last night, and I couldn't sleep, so I went back. Thought maybe I missed something.”

Draco didn’t bother responding. Instead, he grabbed Harry firmly by the wrist, dragging him toward the entrance.

“Draco—what the hell?” Harry hissed, trying to pull free, but Draco’s grip didn’t falter.

“Shut up,” Draco snapped, his voice low but furious. “We’re going somewhere private. Now .”

Draco didn’t stop until they reached a deserted study room far from the common room, where the shadows of the castle walls swallowed the dim torchlight. He let go of Harry’s wrist and spun to face him, his expression thunderous.

“What is wrong with you?” Draco hissed, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. “Do you have any idea how reckless you’re being?”

“Reckless?” Harry repeated, his voice calm but edged with defiance.

“Yes, reckless!” Draco snapped, stepping closer. “You disappeared for an entire day, didn’t tell anyone where you were, didn’t show up for meals, on no sleep ! And you think that’s fine?”

Harry crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his anger flaring. “Oh, don’t you? Let me remind you that we have a plan, Harry. A plan that requires you to not get yourself killed or caught doing something stupid.”

“I wasn’t doing anything stupid,” Harry said evenly.

Draco let out a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Of course you don’t think so. You never do. But you’re not just anyone, Harry. People notice when you’re gone. People like Dumbledore .”

At the mention of Dumbledore, Harry’s expression darkened, his calm exterior cracking slightly. “What I do is none of his business.”

“It becomes his business when you make yourself a target!” Draco shot back. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. Not yet. You’re smart, Harry, but you’re not invincible. Stop acting like you are.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, both of them glaring at each other in silence.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm. “I wasn’t putting myself in danger.”

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. “Fine. Keep being stubborn. But don’t expect me to sit around while you disappear on me again.”

Harry smirked faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

Draco glared at him. “Don’t push me, Riddle.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Draco shook his head, turning away. “Go to bed. You look like hell.”

Harry chuckled softly, his smirk growing. “No I don’t.”

Draco didn’t look back as he walked away, suppressing a smile, his cheeks burned faintly, and the knot of worry in his chest was now tangled with something he refused to name.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was alive with the hum of students enjoying dinner. Plates clinked, chatter filled the air, and the enchanted ceiling reflected the evening sky, a deep indigo. Harry sat at the Slytherin table, poking absently at his food. His thoughts were elsewhere, still tangled in the frustrations of the past few days.

Draco set his goblet down with a scowl. “I cannot stand that child .”

Harry, who had barely been listening, blinked and looked up. “Who?”

“Harrison,” Pansy supplied, casually twirling a strand of her hair. “Draco’s arch-nemesis.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Arch-nemesis?”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t make it sound ridiculous. He’s just insufferable.”

Blaise smirked. “You do talk about him an awful lot.” Draco’s gaze flickered, and Harry started paying a little more attention.

“That’s because he won’t go away!” Draco said, exasperated. “Everywhere I turn, there he is, acting like he owns the place.”

Harry frowned, trying to place the name. “Wait… Harrison who?”

Pansy sighed dramatically. “Harrison Potter.”

Harry blinked again. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve even had a conversation with him.”

“Then consider yourself lucky,” Draco muttered. “He’s arrogant, careless, and doesn’t take anything seriously. And somehow, everyone likes him.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, curious. "So, he’s just... existing? And that bothers you?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. “It’s the way he exists.”

Blaise chuckled. “I think what Draco means is that Harrison doesn’t react the way he wants him to.”

Pansy smirked. “Oh, definitely. He’s tried provoking him a hundred times, and Harrison just laughs and walks away.”

Draco huffed. “Because he’s infuriating!”

Harry, who had gone from confused to mildly annoyed, set his fork down. “So what I’m hearing is that he breathes, and you can’t handle it.”

Draco glared at him. “That’s not—”

“Because honestly,” Harry interrupted, rubbing his temple, “I don’t know why we’re spending dinner talking about some irrelevant boy who, from the sounds of it, doesn’t even care that you hate him.”

Pansy stifled a laugh, and Blaise looked vaguely amused. Draco, however, looked personally offended. “He’s not irrelevant,” he argued, crossing his arms. “He’s everywhere. It’s obnoxious.”

Harry let out a slow breath, wondering why Draco was so fixated on this. “Okay. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Before Draco could continue his rant, a sudden flutter of wings caught Harry’s attention. An unfamiliar owl swooped down, landing gracefully in front of him, a neatly folded note tied to its leg.

Harry frowned, untied the note, and opened it. His eyes scanned the parchment, his brow furrowing as he read,

‘Mr. Riddle,

Please meet me in my office at your earliest convenience. The password is ‘lemon drops.’

- Dumbledore’

Harry stared at the note, his mind racing. The timing couldn’t have been worse. He was already behind on his research, and now Dumbledore wanted to speak with him? Harry folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket, his expression unreadable.

“What’s that about?” Draco asked, leaning closer.

“Dumbledore,” Harry replied smoothly, standing and grabbing his bag. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Draco frowned, clearly concerned, but didn’t press the issue as Harry left the hall.

***

Harry made his way to the Headmaster’s office. The corridors were quieter than usual, the distant hum of students fading as he climbed the spiral staircase.

He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. Dumbledore’s motives were always too carefully veiled, his questions too probing. Harry wasn’t naïve; this wasn’t a casual chat. The Headmaster wanted something.

When he reached the top, he knocked once on the heavy oak door.

“Come in,” Dumbledore’s warm voice called.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside. The Headmaster’s office was as cluttered and eccentric as ever. Shelves of ancient books stretched to the ceiling, odd magical contraptions whirred and clicked, and Fawkes sat on his perch, preening his golden feathers.

Dumbledore was behind his desk, his blue eyes twinkling as he gestured to the chair opposite him. “Ah, Harry. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

Harry sat stiffly, his eyes scanning the room. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought it was time we had a conversation, you and I. Tea?” He lifted a teapot, offering it with a kind smile.

“No, thank you,” Harry said curtly.

Dumbledore poured himself a cup, the soft clink of porcelain breaking the silence. He sipped thoughtfully before setting it down. “How have you been finding Hogwarts so far?”

Harry’s expression didn’t change. “Fine.”

Dumbledore nodded, as though he’d expected that answer. “And your studies? I’ve heard from several professors that you’ve been excelling.”

Harry shrugged. “I try to keep up.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, though his tone remained light. “You’ve shown remarkable aptitude for magic, Harry. It’s clear you are your father’s son in that regard.”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly at the mention of his father, but he kept his composure. “Is that why I’m here? To talk about my father?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Dumbledore said, his voice softening. “There is much to be learned from the past, Harry. Both about your father and about the choices we make.”

Harry frowned, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering directly, Dumbledore stood and moved to a cabinet behind his desk. He retrieved a shallow, silver bowl etched with intricate runes. Harry recognized it immediately, a Pensieve .

Dumbledore set it on the desk between them, the faint glow of the swirling memory within casting soft light on their faces. “I’d like to show you something,” Dumbledore said.

Harry hesitated. He didn’t trust Dumbledore’s intentions, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity. Slowly, he leaned forward, peering into the shimmering surface of the Pensieve.

“Touch it,” Dumbledore instructed gently.

Harry placed his fingers on the surface, and the office dissolved around him.

***

Harry landed lightly in a dimly lit chamber. The room was ancient, with walls of rough-hewn stone carved with intricate runes. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting long, eerie shadows.

At the center of the chamber stood a younger Voldemort, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of a magical circle inscribed on the floor. He was muttering in Parseltongue, his wand tracing patterns in the air as shimmering runes burned into the stone around him.

Harry watched in silence, his heart pounding. The ritual was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The air crackled with energy, and the runes pulsed with an otherworldly light.

A figure stepped into the edge of the circle—a Death Eater, judging by the robes and mask. Voldemort paused, his crimson eyes narrowing as he addressed the figure.

“You doubt me,” Voldemort said, his voice cold and venomous.

“N-no, my lord,” the Death Eater stammered, bowing deeply. “I only—”

“Silence.” Voldemort’s wand moved sharply, and the Death Eater crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony. Voldemort continued his work as though nothing had happened, the magic swirling around him growing darker, more volatile. Harry suppressed a smirk.

The memory faded, and Harry was pulled back into Dumbledore’s office.

***

Harry blinked, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. He could still feel the oppressive energy of the memory, the weight of Voldemort’s power.

“What was that?” Harry asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

“A fragment of a memory,” Dumbledore said, sitting back down. “An example of the magic your father sought to wield.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why show me this?”

Dumbledore met his gaze, his expression calm but serious. “Because it is important for you to understand the path your father walked. The choices he made. Power, Harry, is not inherently good or evil, but how we use it defines us. Your father was brilliant, but his brilliance led him to destruction.”

Harry bristled, his fists clenching slightly. “I’m not my father. And I'm certainly not going to discuss politics with you right now.”

“This is not about politics, Harry.” Dumbledore agreed. “This is about understanding yourself— your strength, your weaknesses, and the weight of your choices. You may not be your father, but you have inherited his strength, his drive. And with that comes the same choice he faced, to use your gifts for creation or for destruction.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, his voice low. A ghost of a smile played at the corner of his lips.“You think I’ll destroy, don’t you?”

“I think,” Dumbledore said carefully, “that you are at a crossroads. And the choices you make now will shape the wizard you become.”

Harry stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Professor. I know what I’m doing.”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch, his voice calm. “I hope you do, Harry. But should you ever find yourself uncertain, my door is always open.”

Harry didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and left the office, his mind a storm of anger and unease.

***

Draco glanced up from the table as Harry walked into the common room, his tension evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and the faint crease between his brows.

“What happened?” Draco asked, his voice low, his eyes narrowing in concern.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head toward the stairs leading to their dormitory, a silent gesture that Draco immediately understood. He stood, leaving the common room behind, not bothering with collecting his things, as if none of it mattered. He followed Harry upstairs.

Once inside the dormitory, with the heavy door shut firmly behind them, Harry finally spoke. He sat on the edge of his bed, his green eyes sharp and focused, as he recounted the details of his meeting with Dumbledore.

Draco listened intently, leaning against the post of his own bed, his expression shifting from frustration to intrigue as Harry described what Dumbledore had shown him in the Pensieve. Harry’s voice was steady but clipped, the lingering irritation clear as he relayed the memory of Voldemort, the cryptic warning about power, and Dumbledore’s carefully veiled intentions.

When Harry finished, the room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the information settling between them.

“What does it mean?” Draco finally asked, his tone thoughtful.

Harry exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s the question, isn’t it? The memory Dumbledore had shown me wasn’t just a warning—it was a clue. Whatever my father had been doing in that chamber was tied to the ritual.”

Harry shook his head in frustration. “But why had Dumbledore shown it to me? Was it a manipulation tactic—or does he know more about The Plan than he was letting on?”

They began to brainstorm, piecing together fragments of what they’d learned so far. The ritual Voldemort had used was unlike anything either of them had seen, its intricacy and danger clear even in the brief glimpse Dumbledore had offered. But if the ritual was so obscure, so specific, why was there no record of it in the library—even in the restricted section?

It was during this back-and-forth that the realization hit Harry, sharp and sudden like a bolt of lightning.

“The language,” Harry said quietly, his voice filled with dawning clarity.

Draco frowned. “What?”

“The ritual wasn’t written in a normal language,” Harry said, standing as the pieces clicked into place. “That’s why we haven’t been able to find it. It must’ve been written in Parseltongue.”

Draco’s eyes widened, understanding immediately. “That’s why nothing in the library has been helpful. Hogwarts doesn’t have books written in Parseltongue—except…”

Harry nodded, his mind racing. “Except Salazar Slytherin’s books.”

They exchanged a look, the enormity of the discovery settling over them. Slytherin’s personal works were rumored to be hidden somewhere within the castle, inaccessible to most. But if the ritual Voldemort had used was written in Parseltongue, then those books were likely the only place where Harry could find the answers he needed.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his resolve solidifying. “If my father found those books, so can I. They’re here, somewhere. We just have to figure out where.”

Draco nodded slowly, his expression serious. “And we’ll have to do it carefully. If Dumbledore catches wind of what we’re looking for—”

“I know,” Harry said, his voice firm. “We’ll be careful. But this is it, Draco. This is the lead we’ve been waiting for.”

The conversation quieted, the two of them lost in their own thoughts as they began to plan their next steps. The search for Salazar Slytherin’s books wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time in weeks, Harry felt a flicker of hope.

The answers were within reach. He doesn’t care that the clue came directly from Dumbledore, and whether it was intentional or not. He won't let anything stop him from finding his father, not even Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

The house was silent, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the distance. The long corridors were shrouded in darkness, lit only by the occasional flicker of moonlight spilling through the tall windows.

Six-year-old Harry padded softly down the marble floor, clutching the edge of his blanket. He was small for his age, his dark hair tousled from tossing and turning. His green eyes were wide, still haunted by the remnants of the nightmare that had woken him.

He hesitated at the door to his father’s study, his fingers curling tightly around the doorknob. He knew his father was working—he always worked late—but the fear gnawing at his chest was too much to ignore.

Steeling himself, Harry pushed the door open.

The study was warm and dimly lit, the golden glow of the lamps illuminating rows of ancient books and neatly stacked papers. Behind the grand oak desk sat Tom, his sharp features softened by concentration as he studied a piece of parchment. His quill moved swiftly across the page, his expression unreadable.

Harry stood in the doorway, unsure for a moment. But when Tom glanced up and saw him, his expression shifted. The sharpness melted into something gentler, his dark eyes studying his son.

“Harry?” Tom’s voice was calm but tinged with curiosity. “What are you doing up?”

Harry stepped closer, his blanket trailing behind him. “I had a nightmare,” he mumbled, his voice small.

Tom’s quill paused mid-air, and he raised an eyebrow. “A nightmare?”

Harry nodded, his fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of his blanket. “It was bad. I… I couldn’t sleep.”

Tom pushed his chair back slightly from the desk, gesturing for Harry to come closer. “Come here,” he said softly.

Harry hesitated for only a second before shuffling forward. Tom reached out, his strong hands gently lifting Harry onto his lap. Harry sat stiffly at first, but the warmth of his father’s presence soothed him, and he relaxed against Tom’s chest.

“Tell me about this nightmare,” Tom said, his voice low but steady.

Harry shook his head, burying his face against Tom’s black button-up. “I don’t want to.”

Tom’s hand rested lightly on Harry’s back, his fingers tracing small, calming circles. “Dreams can’t hurt you, Harry,” he said quietly. “You’re safe here. Always.” planting a kiss on Harry's forehead. 

Harry didn’t respond immediately, but the steady cadence of his father’s voice and the warmth of his embrace slowly eased the knot of fear in his chest.

After a few moments, Tom shifted, his arms wrapping more securely around Harry. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Tom carried Harry out of the study, his strides smooth and measured as the boy rested against his shoulder. The marble corridors felt less foreboding with his father holding him, the soft sound of footsteps echoing faintly.

When they reached Harry’s room, Tom gently placed him on the bed, tucking the blankets snugly around him.

Harry blinked up at his father, his voice barely above a whisper. “Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

Tom tilted his head, nodding. “Of course.”

He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress. As Harry’s eyelids grew heavier, Tom’s fingers found their way to his son’s dark hair. He smoothed it gently, his touch soft as he combed his fingers through the messy strands.

“You’re safe, Harry,” Tom murmured. “I won’t let anything harm you.”

Harry’s breathing slowed, his small hand clutching the edge of the blanket. The steady rhythm of his father’s presence lulled him into a peaceful sleep.

Tom sat silently for a while longer, his fingers still lightly brushing through Harry’s hair. His gaze softened as he watched his son, the faintest glimmer of something uncharacteristic crossing his usually sharp features—something almost tender.

When he was certain Harry was fast asleep, Tom stood, his movements careful so as not to disturb him. He cast one last glance at the sleeping boy before slipping quietly from the room, the door closing softly behind him.

***

The following morning, the sunlight streaming through the windows found Harry already bored. Breakfast had been a solitary affair; his father had left the table almost immediately, retreating to his study as he always did.

Harry tried to amuse himself. He wandered the halls, poked his head into the kitchen to bother Gippy who immediately fled the moment he approached (probably because he kept playing pranks on the poor house-elf), and even ventured into the garden to chase butterflies. But nothing held his interest for long.

By mid-afternoon, Harry had reached the end of his patience. His steps were quick and determined as he marched toward his father’s study.

Without knocking, Harry pushed the door open with a loud creak .

Tom looked up from his desk, his quill pausing mid-stroke. His dark eyes fixed on Harry, his expression unreadable. “Harry—”

“It’s boring in here!” Harry blurted, his voice rising with frustration. “I don’t have anyone to talk to! Everyone’s old, or they’re house-elves who run away from me!”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Harry didn’t give him the chance.

“I don’t have any friends my age!” Harry continued, his green eyes blazing with anger. “I don’t want to sit in this stupid house all day, playing by myself or trying to talk to people who don’t even care!”

“Harry, I do care—”

“No!” Harry snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get it! You’re always in here, working on… whatever it is you’re working on. You don’t care either!”

Tom’s expression remained impassive, though there was a faint flicker of something in his eyes—frustration? Concern? It was impossible to tell.

Before Tom could say another word, Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the study, his footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.

Tom could hear him scream at the top of his lungs. “Nobody cares about meeee!”

He didn’t stop until he reached his room, slamming the door behind him and throwing himself onto his bed.

***

Harry avoided his father for the rest of the day, his anger simmering even as he tried to distract himself with books and the occasional snack brought by the house-elf.

But the following morning, everything changed.

Harry was summoned to the living room. When he entered, he immediately noticed two figures standing near the fireplace.

The first was Lucius Malfoy, his pale blond hair tied back neatly, his posture as regal as ever. But it was the second figure that caught Harry’s attention—a boy about his age, with sharp features and the same platinum blond hair.

Harry hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the scene.

“Harry,” Tom said from where he stood beside the sofa. His tone was as calm and commanding as ever. “This is Draco Malfoy. Lucius’s son.”

Draco’s gray eyes studied Harry for a moment before he smirked faintly. “Hi,” he said, his voice light but confident. “Do you want to play?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. But then his lips curved into a small smile. “Sure.”

Tom watched as the two boys ran off toward the garden, their laughter echoing faintly down the hall. Lucius glanced at Tom, raising an eyebrow.

“Not like you to entertain such requests,” Lucius said.

Tom’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Even kings must make concessions for their heirs.”

***

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the vast garden as Harry and Draco ran through the grass, their laughter filling the evening air. The day had started awkwardly—two children, strangers at first, eyeing each other with cautious curiosity. But it hadn’t taken long before they were chasing each other around the garden, climbing trees, and daring one another to jump from increasingly higher branches.

Draco stood with his hands on his hips, watching as Harry scrambled up a tree with a determined look. “You’re going to fall,” he announced, though there was no real concern in his voice—just a challenge.

Harry shot him a look from above, his fingers gripping the bark tightly. “No, I’m not.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Bet you won’t make it to that branch.” He pointed to a sturdy limb a little higher up.

Harry narrowed his eyes but grinned. “Watch me.”

With a determined push, he climbed higher, finally settling onto the branch. He looked down at Draco with a triumphant smirk. “Told you.”

Draco huffed, though a small smile played on his lips. “Alright, maybe you’re not terrible at this.”

That was the moment something shifted between them. No longer strangers, no longer wary. Just two boys who had found someone equally willing to test limits and chase adventure.

As the sky deepened into shades of purple and orange, the boys sprawled out on the grass, their limbs tired from running, their clothes streaked with dirt, their stomachs full from the dinner they had eaten right there in the garden. The house-elves had brought their plates outside upon request, and they had sat cross-legged under the open sky, eating roasted chicken and fresh bread, laughing between bites.

Harry found himself glancing at Draco, who lay beside him, hands folded behind his head. He had never really had a friend before—not like this. Not someone who kept up with him. It made his chest feel warm in a way he didn’t quite understand.

But then, a voice interrupted the peaceful silence.

“Draco, it’s time to go.”

Draco sat up at the sound of his father’s voice, brushing dirt off his trousers. “Guess I have to leave now.”

Harry frowned, the warm feeling in his chest dimming a little. He had never really minded being alone before, but now, after a whole day of not being alone, the idea of it felt… strange.

Draco, unaware of Harry’s thoughts, dusted off his hands and stretched. “Can I come back?” he asked, turning toward the looming figure of Tom Riddle, who had appeared at the garden’s edge.

Tom, ever composed, offered a slow nod. “Of course. You’re welcome anytime, Draco.”

Harry perked up at that, glancing at his father, who met his gaze knowingly.

Draco smirked. “Good. Because I still have to prove I can climb higher than you.”

Harry rolled his eyes but grinned. “You wish.”

With a final smirk, Draco turned and followed his father, disappearing into the evening light.

Harry remained where he was, sitting cross-legged in the grass, staring at the empty space Draco had just left.

Tom stepped forward, his presence calm but commanding. “You enjoyed yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

Tom watched him for a moment, then, with measured grace, lowered himself onto the grass beside his son. It was rare to see him in such a casual position, but Harry had long learned that his father operated on intent. If he was sitting here, it was because he wanted to.

“Something is on your mind,” Tom observed.

Harry looked down, picking at the hem of his sleeve. “I just… I didn’t want him to leave.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Then tell me, Harry—why didn’t you say so?”

Harry frowned. “Because… I didn’t think I could. It’s stupid.”

Tom’s lips curled into something almost like a smile, though it held the sharp edge of certainty. “You can always ask for what you want.” He reached out, resting a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You are my son. There is nothing in this world I would deny you. If you want something, you only have to speak it into existence.”

Harry looked up at him, searching his father’s face. “So if I wanted Draco to come back tomorrow…?”

Tom nodded without hesitation. “Then he will.”

Harry wasn’t sure why, but the reassurance settled something inside him. His father had never given him reason to doubt his words, and tonight was no exception.

Tom’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer before he stood, offering Harry a look of quiet certainty. “You are never powerless, Harry. Not while I am here.”

And as Harry followed his father back inside, the loneliness he had feared creeping in… never came.

***

The dormitory was quiet, the only sounds the occasional crackling of the dying embers in the fireplace and the slow, steady breathing of his sleeping dormmates. But Harry couldn’t sleep.

He lay on his back, staring at the canopy above his bed, his mind tangled in thoughts he didn’t know how to escape. His father. The memories. They wouldn’t stop replaying, each one pulling at something deep inside him. It was like a hollow ache, one he wasn’t used to feeling—one he didn’t know how to feel. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling lost .

But tonight, he did. And it scared him.

His fingers gripping the front of his shirt as he tried to steady his breathing, but it wasn’t working. The silence around him felt too big, too consuming. He needed… something. He needed someone. Where was Nagini when he needed her.

Slowly, Harry sat up, his pulse unsteady as he reached for the curtain of his bed. He hesitated for a second before pulling it back, his gaze shifting to the bed next to his. Draco’s curtains were drawn shut, just like everyone else’s, but that didn’t stop him from leaning forward slightly.

He swallowed, then whispered, “Draco? ”

For a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe this was stupid.

But then, the curtain shifted. Just enough for Harry to see a glimpse of pale hair, the faint glow of Draco’s eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Draco blinked sleepily, his brows furrowing as he took in Harry’s expression—the slight tremble in his shoulders, the way his fingers clenched at the fabric of his blanket.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

Instead, Draco reached up, pulling his curtain open all the way. An unspoken invitation.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He slid off his own bed, slipping into Draco’s without a word. As soon as he was in, Draco pulled the curtain shut again, enclosing them in a small cocoon of quiet.

Neither of them spoke.

Harry lay down beside him, still trembling slightly, but the weight of another presence—the simple reassurance of not being alone—was already easing something in his chest.

Draco didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to make him talk. He just was .

And somehow, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Harry sat at the Slytherin table, his shoulders stiff and his food untouched. Across from him, Draco and Blaise were deep in conversation about their Potions assignment, but Harry didn’t hear a word of it.

His mind was spinning. The pieces he and Draco had connected three nights before—about Salazar Slytherin’s books, and the Parseltongue ritual—had sent him into a sleepless spiral of thoughts. If the ritual really was hidden within Slytherin’s books, then everything depended on finding them. But where would they even start?

Dumbledore knows , Harry thought, his hand tightening around the fork in his hand. He has to know.

He glanced up, scanning the staff table. Dumbledore sat at the center, as calm and composed as ever, sipping from a goblet. But Harry could feel the weight of the Headmaster’s gaze, even when Dumbledore wasn’t looking directly at him.

The paranoia that had been creeping in for weeks now threatened to swallow him whole. Dumbledore’s careful questions, the pointed warnings, the memory he had shown him—they weren’t random. Dumbledore was trying to control him. To manipulate him.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Harry blinked, realizing he’d been gripping the fork so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Draco was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“You alright?” Draco asked quietly.

Harry forced a nod, releasing the fork and flexing his fingers. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just thinking.”

Draco’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he shifted a little closer to Harry, their legs pressing together beneath the table. He turned back to Blaise, but Harry could feel his friend’s eyes darting back to him now and then.

***

By the time the afternoon rolled around, Harry’s nerves were frayed. He skipped his afternoon classes, unable to sit still. Every shadow in the corridors felt like it was watching him. Every passing glance from a student felt like suspicion.

He found himself pacing in the Slytherin dormitory, his thoughts looping endlessly.

What if Dumbledore already knows? What if he’s letting me search because he’s setting a trap? What if he’s already found the books and hidden them somewhere I can’t reach? What if he already destroyed the books?

The thoughts felt like a storm battering his mind, each one louder than the last. His breathing grew shallow as he ran a hand through his hair, his pacing becoming more erratic.

I’m wasting time. I’m already too late. He’s always one step ahead—

The door creaked open, and Draco stepped in, his eyes narrowing as he saw Harry pacing like a caged animal.

“Harry,” Draco said slowly, shutting the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

Harry didn’t stop pacing. “He knows,” he said, his voice tight. “He knows what we’re doing. He’s just sitting there, watching, waiting for me to slip up.”

Draco frowned. “Who?”

“ Dumbledore! ” Harry snapped, his voice rising. He turned to Draco, his emerald eyes blazing with frustration. “He’s playing games with me. He’s always playing games, trying to get inside my head, trying to turn me into one of his pawns. He thinks I’m stupid. He thinks I can’t see what he’s doing—”

“Harry—”

“I can’t do this if he’s constantly breathing down my neck!” Harry’s voice cracked, and he grabbed the edge of the bedpost, his knuckles turning white. His chest heaved as his anger and panic coiled tighter, threatening to explode.

Draco crossed the room quickly, grabbing Harry’s shoulders and forcing him to stop. “Hey! Breathe,” Draco said firmly, his voice cutting through Harry’s spiral.

Harry tried to pull away, but Draco’s grip tightened. “Harry, stop. You’re losing it,” Draco said, his tone sharp but not unkind.

“I’m not losing it!” Harry snapped, but his voice wavered, and his legs felt weak. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Draco knelt in front of him, his hands still resting on Harry’s shoulders. “Listen to me, are you listening?” Draco said, he didn’t say another word until Harry nodded, his voice quieter now. “Dumbledore doesn’t know everything. If he did, he’d have already made his move,”

Harry didn’t respond, his breaths shaky and uneven.

Draco waited a moment, then added, “And even if he suspects something, he’s not invincible. We’re smarter than him. We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?”

Harry finally lifted his head, his eyes still stormy but his breathing more controlled. “It doesn’t feel like it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s because you’re overthinking everything,” Draco said. He stood up, then lowered himself beside Harry, resting his hand on Harry's arm now. “You’re always five steps ahead, Harry. Dumbledore might think he’s playing chess, but you’ve already seen the whole board. You just have to trust yourself.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. Draco’s words weren’t just empty reassurance—they were grounded in truth. Harry was smart. He was powerful. He could handle this.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, standing and rubbing the back of his neck.

Draco smirked faintly. “Don’t mention it. Just try not to blow a hole in the castle next time you spiral, alright?”

Harry let out a small, humorless laugh. “No promises.”

***

As the fire in the common room crackled softly, Harry felt the weight of Dumbledore’s game pressing down on him. The Headmaster’s moves were deliberate, calculated, but Harry refused to be outplayed.

“This isn’t just about the ritual,” Harry said quietly, staring into the flames. “This is about proving that I’m not one of his pawns. He thinks he can control me, but he’s wrong.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Good. Because the only way we win this is if we stay ahead of him.”

Harry nodded, his jaw tightening. Dumbledore might have set the pieces on the board, but Harry was ready to take the game into his own hands.

***

Harry and Draco sat at their usual corner table in the library, surrounded by stacks of books and scattered notes. The faint glow from the enchanted lamps overhead made the ancient wood of the shelves seem even darker, the shadows stretching long across the room.

Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, the faint sound of his frustration breaking the silence. “Alright,” he said, his voice low but determined. “Let’s go over what we know.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, watching as Harry organized the notes in front of him into a neat stack.

“The ritual,” Harry began, glancing at Draco, “was written in Parseltongue. That’s why Dumbledore showed me the memory. He wanted me to notice it, to figure it out.”

Draco tilted his head, frowning. “Do you think he’s trying to help you?”

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course not. He’s testing me. He wants to see what I’ll do with the information. He’s always playing games, always waiting for me to make a move.”

Draco nodded, the skepticism in his expression fading. “Alright, so what’s next?”

“The ritual has to be in Salazar Slytherin’s books,” Harry said, his voice firm. “They’re the only books written in Parseltongue. That’s the key.”

Draco tapped his quill against the edge of the table, thinking. “If those books are the key, then maybe there’s something here in the library that could point us in the right direction. Something like Hogwarts: A History —maybe even something about where Slytherin hid his work.”

Harry looked up. “You mean like books about the castle itself?”

“Exactly,” Draco said. “If Slytherin had a collection of books, someone must have written about it. Or at least hinted at it. There’s no way something that important didn’t leave a trace somewhere.”

Before Harry could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. They both looked up to see Pansy Parkinson rounding the corner, her arms crossed as she sauntered toward their table.

“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” she said, smirking.

Harry shot her a small smile but didn’t say anything. Draco rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Pansy?”

Pansy tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced at the books and notes spread across the table. “What are you two working on? You’ve been in here for hours.”

“We’re looking for information,” Harry said smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

Harry hesitated for only a moment before answering. “Salazar Slytherin’s books.”

Draco stiffened slightly at Harry’s honesty, but Pansy didn’t seem suspicious. Instead, her curiosity piqued. “Oh, that old mystery? Everyone’s heard about that.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

Pansy shrugged, pulling out a chair and plopping down uninvited. “It’s one of those things people talk about when they’re bored. You know—rumors about how Slytherin supposedly hid a bunch of secret passages and chambers in the castle. Some people say he had a whole library somewhere, filled with all sorts of dark magic.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a quick glance.

“Did they ever say where this library might be?” Harry asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Pansy snorted. “Of course not. If anyone actually knew, don’t you think they’d have found it by now? It’s just one of those things people like to gossip about.”

Draco leaned forward slightly. “What else have you heard? Anything about how to get there? A secret door, a passageway?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Why would I care about something like that? I’m not planning to spend my time digging through dusty old books written by some dead guy.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask another question, but Pansy stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off her robes. “You two are so weird,” she said, smirking as she started to walk away. “Good luck with your little treasure hunt.”

As she disappeared around the corner, Draco let out an exasperated sigh. “Unbelievable.”

Harry, however, was staring at the space where Pansy had just been, his mind racing. “A secret passageway… a whole library…”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s real?”

“I think,” Harry said slowly, his voice steady with determination, “that if Slytherin left behind a library, we’re going to find it.”

***

The Slytherin common room was quiet. Most of their housemates had already retired for the night, leaving the room empty—almost.

As Harry and Draco stepped inside, the faint murmur of voices drew their attention to the corner near the fireplace. Sitting together, waiting, were Blaise and Pansy.

When they noticed Harry and Draco, Pansy nudged Blaise with her elbow, a sly smirk playing on her lips. “See? I told you they’re hiding something.”

Blaise straightened, crossing his arms and giving Harry and Draco an unimpressed look. “Hiding something, are you?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity. “You two have been sneaking around all week, and we’re starting to wonder if we’re still friends or just conveniently left out of whatever’s going on.”

Draco sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not like that, Blaise.”

“Isn’t it?” Blaise countered, raising an eyebrow. “Because the two of you disappear every other night, muttering to each other like it’s the end of the world. Meanwhile, the rest of us are here, wondering if you’ve joined some secret society.”

Pansy tilted her head, her smirk softening into something more curious than accusatory. “Come on, Draco. We’re your friends. If you’re plotting something, you can at least let us in on it. Unless it’s illegal—then we definitely want to know.”

Draco shot her a look, but Harry stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he said finally, his tone even. “But this isn’t something we can talk about here.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, but Blaise nodded, gesturing toward the corridor leading to the dormitories. “Fine. Let’s find somewhere private.”

***

Minutes later, the four of them sat in one of the unused study rooms attached to the Slytherin common room, casting the already heavy door with a silencing spell ensuring their privacy. Blaise and Pansy sat across from Harry and Draco, both waiting expectantly.

“Well?” Blaise said, leaning back in his chair. “Are you going to tell us, or do we have to guess?”

Harry glanced at Draco, who gave a small nod.

Taking a deep breath, Harry leaned forward, his voice steady but quiet. “We’re looking for Salazar Slytherin’s library.”

Blaise blinked, caught off guard. “His library?”

“Supposedly, it’s somewhere in the castle,” Draco added. “And it’s rumored to contain all of his personal writings—books written in Parseltongue.”

Pansy’s eyes widened slightly, though her expression quickly shifted into one of amused disbelief. “And why, exactly, are you two looking for books written in a language no one can read?”

Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “I can read them.”

For a moment, neither Blaise nor Pansy said anything, their expressions frozen in a mix of shock and confusion. Then Blaise burst out laughing, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.

“You’re joking,” Blaise said, still chuckling. “You—wait, are you saying you’re a Parselmouth?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply.

“Well,” Blaise said. His laughter fading into a grin, “this just got a lot more interesting.”

Pansy’s eyes darted between Harry and Draco, her curiosity now fully piqued. “Okay, hold on. Let me get this straight. You’re looking for Slytherin’s library because you think it has something written in Parseltongue that’s… what? Important?”

“Very important,” Harry confirmed, his tone firm.

“Do we get to know why it’s very important?” Blaise said after Harry's lack of elaboration.

To that Harry simply shook his head. “Not yet.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Alright. What do you need us for?”

Blaise tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Actually, I might have something useful. There are a few hidden places I’ve heard about around the castle—ones even the professors don’t talk about.”

“Like what?” Draco asked, leaning forward slightly.

Blaise ticked them off on his fingers. “ The Room of Requirement , for one. It’s this room that’s supposed to give you whatever you need. There’s also the Chamber of Secrets —you know, the one Salazar himself supposedly built. And then there are a few other secret passageways I’ve heard rumors about, but nothing as grand as a library.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. “ The Chamber of Secrets …”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Draco said, his voice quickening with excitement. “If Slytherin hid anything important, it would be in his chamber.”

Blaise nodded, his grin returning. “Alright, I’m in.”

Harry looks at Pansy. “And you?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Obviously. This is too good to pass up.”

Harry leaned forward, his expression serious. “Then let’s start planning.”

Chapter Text

Halloween was fast approaching . The Great Hall was decorated with floating jack-o’-lanterns, and the enchanted ceiling was a deep, stormy night. The students buzzed with energy, waiting for the moment the Goblet would decide.

Dumbledore stood at the center, his expression composed but expectant. He raised a hand, and the lights in the Hall dimmed slightly as the Goblet’s flames roared higher.

The first parchment spat out of the fire.

“Viktor Krum!”

The Durmstrang table erupted into cheers, the Quidditch star standing smoothly and walking toward the front.

A second name appeared.

“Fleur Delacour!”

The Beauxbatons table clapped gracefully, though a few seemed disappointed they hadn’t been chosen. Fleur rose with elegant confidence, moving toward Krum’s side.

Then, the final parchment flew into the air.

“Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table exploded in cheers, and Diggory walked up, looking both excited and humbled.

Dumbledore smiled. “And there you have it! Our three champions—”

But the Goblet of Fire wasn’t done.

The flames roared violently, turning an unnatural shade of red, and another name shot into the air.

A fourth name.

Dumbledore caught it before it could fall, his expression shifting into something unreadable. His eyes flicked over the letters, and when he spoke, his voice carried an odd weight to it.

“Harry Riddle.”

Silence.

Complete, utter silence.

Then, whispers—loud, incredulous whispers rippled through the Hall.

“Did he just say—?”

“Riddle?”

“Isn’t he a fourth year? how—”

Harry sat very still.

For a brief moment, he didn’t move, didn’t react. 

Then, he exhaled slowly, standing.

All eyes were on him. The entire room was waiting for his response.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He walked.

Controlled. Smooth. Unbothered. What the actual fuck Just happend?

He stepped forward and approached the front of the hall, where the other champions stood—where he was not supposed to be.

Dumbledore was still watching him carefully, too carefully, and Harry didn’t miss the way the old man’s eyes glinted behind those half-moon spectacles.

You did this  Harry thought, his stomach twisting with something colder than anger.

This is another test.

He reached the front and met Dumbledore’s gaze dead-on, his expression calm, unreadable.

Then, he smirked. I'm going to make you regret every single decision you made, old twat.

***

Harry sat in one of the high-backed chairs across from the headmaster’s desk, completely composed, fingers loosely interlocked in his lap. Around him, the Triwizard Tournament judges stood in various states of outrage.

“This is madness!” Madame Maxime was the first to speak, her deep voice booming through the office, in a thick french accent. “This is impossible ! How did he even enter the tournament? He is fourteen!”

Harry said nothing, only tilting his head slightly in amusement as she gestured wildly in his direction, as if his very existence was an insult to the process.

“I agree,” Igor Karkaroff snapped, his pale face twisted in displeasure. He jabbed a finger in Dumbledore’s direction. “This is your school, Dumbledore. Explain how a child was selected when it is explicitly against the rules!”

Ludo Bagman, for once, didn’t look cheerful or foolish—he was fidgeting slightly, looking between them all with an uncomfortable expression. “It’s… well, it’s highly unusual, certainly. But I suppose if his name came out, the Goblet must have recognized him as a contender.”

Madame Maxime let out a scoff, folding her arms. “Ridiculous! The Goblet does not make mistakes.”

“Exactly,” Karkaroff cut in coldly. “And since we did not put his name in, it means someone else did. Someone manipulated the Goblet.”

At this, all eyes turned to Harry.

Harry leaned back in his chair, entirely unbothered, and arched an eyebrow. “You think I did it?” he asked, voice smooth, with just the right amount of detached amusement.

Bagman gave a nervous chuckle, as if trying to lighten the mood. “Well, it is a bit strange, isn’t it? Surely if you had entered, you’d have known you’d be chosen.”

“ Surely ,” Harry echoed dryly.

McGonagall, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, her lips thin and pressed tightly together. “Dumbledore,” she said firmly, not looking at Harry but directly at the Headmaster, “this is beyond dangerous. We cannot allow him to compete.”

Karkaroff nodded sharply, gesturing at Harry. “For once, I agree. He is fourteen years old. This tournament is designed for adults—not children. The Goblet may have chosen him, but we have the power to remove him from the competition.”

Harry said nothing.

Because he already knew what Dumbledore’s answer would be.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers together, his expression unreadable. He looked almost sad, as if weighed down by some great burden, and yet… Harry caught the glint in his eyes, the calculation behind his calm.

“…The Triwizard Tournament is bound by an unbreakable magical contract,” Dumbledore finally said, quiet, yet firm. “Once a name is chosen, it must compete.”

A tense silence followed.

McGonagall stiffened. “Albus.”

Madame Maxime’s expression darkened. “There must be some way to override this.”

“There isn’t,” Dumbledore said simply.

Karkaroff let out a sharp breath, clearly furious. “You mean to tell me that we’re just going to let a kid compete in a tournament that has historically killed its champions?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I understand your concerns.”

“Do you?” Karkaroff snapped. “Because it certainly doesn’t seem like it!”

Harry, who had remained silent throughout this whole ordeal, finally spoke, voice even. “So, what you’re saying, Headmaster,” he said, his tone mockingly polite, “is that despite being fourteen, despite not entering my own name, despite the fact that every person in this room thinks this is a terrible idea… I still have to compete?”

Dumbledore looked at him, eyes calm. “Yes.”

Harry nodded slowly, letting the moment stretch as he stared at the old man.

And then, he smirked.

McGonagall exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what was happening.

Maxime, still furious, turned to Harry. “Do you even want to compete?”

Harry leaned forward slightly in his chair, never breaking eye contact with Dumbledore.

“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Dumbledore did not look away.

Harry’s smirk widened.

Let the games begin motherfucker.

***

The moment Harry stepped into the Slytherin common room, the heavy door barely shut behind him before Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him into the nearest empty alcove.

“What the fuck just happened?” Draco hissed, his silver eyes burning with something between outrage and disbelief. “You’re fourteen, Harry! You’re not supposed to be in the tournament! How the hell did your name even get in the Goblet?”

Harry yanked his arm free, smoothing down the sleeve of his robe as he sighed, clearly unbothered. “I don’t know, Draco.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit. You’re too powerful to not have noticed if someone was messing with your magic. Did you put your name in?”

Harry gave him a flat look. “Oh, yes, Draco, I woke up today and thought, ‘ You know what would be a fantastic use of my time? Volunteering to be set on some magical death trap, that everyone calls ‘just a game’. Sounds like fun!’ ”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “Then who?”

Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before leaning against the cool stone wall. His green eyes darkened, his mind already putting the pieces together.

“It’s Dumbledore.”

Draco scoffed. “Of Course it’s, but why?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know yet.”

Draco stared at him for a long moment before crossing his arms. “Well, what’s your plan?”

Harry smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Survive.”

Draco isn’t having it.

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh, fantastic. That’s so helpful, Harry. Survive? Wow. What a brilliant strategy.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, amused despite everything. “I aim to impress.”

Draco shot him a glare. “Be serious.”

Harry’s smirk faded. “Fine. Then here’s the truth, I know Dumbledore has a hand in this. He wants me in this tournament for a reason. Maybe it’s a test, maybe it’s a game, maybe he’s just waiting for me to slip. But I don’t play his game.”

Draco nodded, clearly still irritated but slightly less panicked now. “Alright. Then we find a way to make sure you don’t get killed.”

Harry hummed, tilting his head. “ Oh, Draco . I didn’t know you cared so much.” 

Draco punched him in the arm.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “If you die, I’ll have to actually start talking to Blaise.”

Harry smirked as he stepped forward, slipping his arm through Draco’s and pulling him along as they continued walking through the common room. “Now that’s a real tragedy.”

Draco just rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away.

As they approached their usual spot, Pansy, lounging on the couch with Theo beside her, looked up with a smirk. “Oh, look, the lovebirds have arrived.”

Theo snorted, flipping a page in his book. “Should we give you a moment alone?”

Harry, unbothered, plopped down into one of the chairs, finally unlinking his arm from Draco’s. “You’re just jealous.”

Draco, however, shot Pansy an unimpressed look. “You wish.”

Pansy ignored him, turning her attention to Harry. “So, tell me, mystery man, how exactly did you get your name into the Goblet?”

Harry exhaled dramatically, leaning back. “Ah, yes. I performed an ancient ritual involving dragon’s blood, a stolen wand, and an interpretive dance at midnight.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

He let his smirk fade slightly. “I don’t know, Pans. I didn’t do it.”

She studied him for a second before shrugging. “Well, that’s not nearly as interesting.”

Draco sank onto the couch beside her. “Because it’s stupid. Someone clearly did it to set him up.”

Theo finally closed his book, looking between them. “Maybe, but the real question is why ? What do they get out of it?”

Harry shrugged. “A good laugh? My untimely demise?”

Pansy scoffed. “Well, they’ll have to try harder than that.”

Draco sighed, rubbing his temples. “If it was some elaborate murder plot, it’s not a very smart one. I mean, if they wanted to kill him, there are easier ways.”

Theo smirked. “That’s a bit concerning coming from you.”

Draco shot him a look. “Oh, shut up, you know what I mean.”

Pansy grinned. “Speaking of people trying to kill each other—did you hear about Nott hexing McLaggen in Defense today?”

Theo groaned. “That wasn’t my fault. He wouldn’t stop talking about how Gryffindor was going to ‘destroy us’ in the next match. He was asking for it.”

Draco snorted. “And now he’s got boils on his hands. Effective.”

Harry smirked. “Bet McGonagall loved that.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Oh, absolutely. Gave me detention. Said I need to learn ‘self-restraint.’”

Pansy laughed. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

Draco glanced around the common room before frowning. “Where’s Blaise, anyway?”

Theo leaned back against the couch. “Up in our dorm. Said he was turning in early—apparently, he’s not feeling well.”

Pansy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Not feeling well, or avoiding us?”

Theo shrugged. “No idea. He didn’t look that bad, just said he was exhausted.”

Draco scoffed. “Doubt he’s ever been exhausted a day in his life. He probably just wants to skip out on whatever mess Harry’s gotten himself into this time.”

Harry smirked. “Smart of him.”

The conversation shifted after that, settling into familiar banter. They went from mocking Theo’s detention to complaining about homework, trading Quidditch predictions, and gossiping about who had hexed who that week.

Chapter Text

A week passed in a flurry of classes, assignments, and stolen moments of planning. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Blaise had agreed to be discreet, keeping their mission tightly under wraps. They couldn’t risk raising suspicion—not from their professors, not from their fellow Slytherins, and certainly not from Dumbledore. The task became ten times harder considering how famous Harry is, a fourteen-year-old who somehow is going to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. But of course no one dares say anything to his face. 

As the days went on, Harry found himself weighing his decision to involve Pansy and Blaise. Sitting in the Slytherin common room one night, he watched the two of them laugh over something Draco said. They were loyal to their own, that much was clear—but were they loyal to him ?

Harry wasn’t ready to trust them entirely. He had told them the truth about the library, but only part of it. He hadn’t mentioned the ritual, the real reason he needed Salazar Slytherin’s books. Not yet.

Loyalty has to be earned , Harry thought, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair. If they want to be part of this, they’ll have to prove they’re worthy of it.

He thought briefly about the stories his father had told him—the origins of the Knights of Walpurgis, who had later become his most loyal Death Eaters. Voldemort had hand picked them, testing their loyalty and dedication before ever sharing his grand plans.

Maybe it’s time to start building my own circle , Harry mused.

The thought lingered for a moment before his gaze shifted to Draco, who was seated beside him, his expression calm but focused. If there was one person Harry trusted completely, it was Draco.

Draco had proven himself over and over again—not just in his loyalty, but in his understanding. He never questioned Harry’s motives, never doubted him. Draco was sharp, resourceful, and ambitious, with an edge of cunning that complemented Harry’s own drive.

And then there was the way Draco looked—sharp, elegant, every inch the perfect Slytherin. Harry found his thoughts wandering, noting the way Draco’s hair fell just right, the subtle curve of his smirk when he teased Blaise.  Harry’s stomach tightened, and he quickly shook his head, mentally chastising himself. Focus, he told himself. We don’t have time for distractions. Or whatever that was.

***

The first few days of the mission were spent gathering information during their free moments. Harry and Draco scoured the library during study periods, searching for maps of Hogwarts or any mention of the Chamber in historical texts. Blaise casually asked older students about the castle’s hidden passages, playing it off as idle curiosity. Pansy, meanwhile, kept an ear out for rumors, her sharp wit and charm making her a natural at extracting information without raising suspicion.

Between classes, the four of them would regroup in the common room, huddling together under the guise of working on assignments.

“I found something interesting,” Draco said one evening, pulling out a dusty tome he had borrowed from the restricted section. “It’s a collection of accounts from wizards who studied Hogwarts’ architecture. One of them mentions that Salazar Slytherin was obsessed with secrecy and left ‘hidden works’ somewhere in the castle.”

“Hidden works,” Pansy repeated, her brow furrowing. “That has to mean the Chamber.”

“Probably,” Blaise said, flipping through his notes. “But none of the books say where it is. Just vague hints about it being underground and accessible only to Slytherin’s heir.”

“Well, we’ve got that part covered,” Harry said with a smirk.

Blaise let out a small huff, shaking his head. “You know. I’ll never get used to this.”

Pansy tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You could explain it to us, you know.”

Harry simply raised an eyebrow at her, unimpressed.

Blaise smirked. “Oh, come on, Pans. You know he’s not going to answer.”

She sighed dramatically, leaning back in her chair. “I know, but it’s annoying.”

Harry just smirked. “That’s part of the fun.”

Draco shot him a knowing look, choosing to ignore the shift in conversation . “Still, we need to figure out how to get there without anyone noticing.”

***

It was late Thursday afternoon when Blaise approached Harry and Draco in the courtyard, his expression alight with excitement.

“I overheard something interesting,” Blaise said in a low voice, glancing around to ensure they weren’t being watched. “One of the portraits in the dungeons mentioned an old staircase near the Potions classroom. It’s mostly hidden now, but apparently, it used to lead to one of Slytherin’s private chambers.”

Harry straightened, his interest piqued. “Did they say where exactly?”

“Not exactly,” Blaise admitted. “But I think I know where to start looking.”

***

The Slytherin common room was alive with laughter and music, the glow of enchanted jack-o-lanterns casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Their housemates were fully immersed in the Halloween party—costumes, sweets, and a few illicit bottles of firewhiskey smuggled in by the older students.

But Harry, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy had other plans.

While the rest of Slytherin reveled in the festivities, the four of them slipped unnoticed from the common room, weaving through the dimly lit corridors of the dungeon. The torches flickered as they moved, their footsteps light against the cold stone floor.

Blaise led the way, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re doing this on Halloween night .”

Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh, folding her arms as she walked. “I can’t believe I’m skipping the Halloween party just to go treasure hunting with the lot of you.” She shot Harry an accusatory look—though there was no real bite behind it, only playful irritation. “What have you done to me?”

Harry smirked. “Corrupted you, clearly.”

Pansy huffed. “Obviously.”

Blaise chuckled but didn’t slow his pace, guiding them toward the area near the Potions classroom. “It should be around here,” he muttered, glancing at the walls. “The portrait mentioned a section of the wall that doesn’t match the rest. Like it’s been bricked over.”

The four of them spread out, running their hands along the cold stone as they searched for any inconsistencies.

“Here,” Pansy said suddenly, her voice barely audible. She pointed to a section of the wall where the stones were smoother and slightly lighter than the surrounding bricks.

Harry stepped closer, brushing his hand over the wall. His instincts prickled, a strange sensation creeping over him as he studied the stones.

“It’s here,” he said softly.

Draco frowned. “How do we open it?”

Harry hesitated for only a moment before stepping back. His voice dropped into a low, hissing tone, the words coming naturally to him.

“Open.”

The effect was immediate. The bricks shifted and slid apart, revealing a dark, spiraling staircase that disappeared into the depths below.

Pansy stared, her mouth slightly open. “You’re right Blaise, I’ll never get used to that.”

Harry ignored her, his focus on the staircase. “Come on,” he said, stepping inside.

***

The air grew colder as they descended, the faint scent of damp stone and earth filling their noses. The staircase seemed endless, the faint glow from their wands the only source of light.

“Are we sure this isn’t just some old wine cellar?” Blaise muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow space.

“If it is, it’s the creepiest wine cellar I’ve ever seen,” Pansy quipped, though her voice was tight with nervous energy.

Finally, the staircase ended, opening into a long, cavernous hallway. The walls were lined with serpentine carvings, their eyes glinting faintly in the wandlight.

“This is it,” Harry said, his voice steady but low.

Draco stepped closer to one of the carvings, running his fingers over the intricate patterns. “Yeah, this definitely looks like Slytherin’s work.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Harry said, leading the way.

***

The hallway stretched on for what felt like hours, winding deeper into the earth. Finally, they reached a massive door, its surface engraved with a coiled serpent.

“Another Parseltongue lock?” Blaise guessed.

Harry nodded, stepping forward. He spoke again. “open.” and the serpent on the door came to life, slithering aside as the door creaked open.

Beyond the door was a large, dimly lit chamber. Dominated by a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin with his long beard cascading into the gaping mouth. With flickering torchlights casting eerie shadows across the ancient carvings of snakes coiled along the floor and walls.

“Well, this isn’t creepy at all,” Blaise said, his tone more intrigued than unsettled as he took in the chamber.  

Harry moved frantically to the center.

“Is that it?” Pansy asked, her voice hushed.

“Looks like it,” Draco said, stepping closer.

But as Harry took another step closer to the statue, the chamber suddenly rumbled, and the sound of grinding stone filled the air.

“Harry, I think you triggered something!” Blaise shouted.

Harry took a few steps back, his heart racing. Watching the mouth of the statue slowly open. Whatever they had just unleashed, they weren’t alone anymore.

***

The ground beneath them shook as the rumbling sound grew louder. The grinding of stone echoed through the chamber, sending dust cascading from the walls.

“Harry, what did you do?” Pansy shouted, her wand trembling slightly in her grip.

Before Harry could respond, a Basilisk slithered from the statue's mouth, its body emerging from the stone as though it had been sleeping within the wall itself. Its emerald eyes glowed with a fierce, otherworldly light as its enormous head lowered to the ground, fixing its unblinking gaze on the four intruders.

Pansy let out a strangled gasp, stepping back so quickly she nearly tripped. Draco grabbed her arm to steady her, though his face was pale.

“That’s not fucking normal,” Blaise muttered, his voice tight with fear.

“Don’t look at it!” Harry barked, his voice cutting through their panic. He stepped forward, placing himself between the snake and the others. “Close your eyes or look at the ground. Don’t make eye contact with it!”

The three of them obeyed immediately, their breaths quick and shallow.

Harry raises his head to the Basilisk without looking it in the eye. “Stop,” Harry hissed sharply, stepping forward with steady steps. “I am one of your own. Do no harm to us and shield your gaze–we mean no threat.”

The Basilisk tilted its massive head, the movement slow and deliberate, as though it were studying Harry. When it finally spoke, its voice was a low, guttural hiss that sent shivers down their spines.

“A speaker… After all this time. Look into my eyes, little one.”

Harry didn’t flinch. He straightened, meeting the Basilisk’s gaze with calm determination. “Yes,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “I am a speaker. My father was one as well. I am a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

The Basilisk’s eyes narrowed slightly, its massive coils shifting as it raised itself higher, towering over Harry. “Your bloodline is strong, young one. But why do you disturb my slumber? Why are you here?”

Harry held his ground, his tone firm but respectful. “We seek the library of Salazar Slytherin. I was told it is hidden here, within the chamber. Can you guide us to it?”

The Basilisk let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound reverberating through the chamber. “You are bold, little speaker. Many have sought the library, but few have dared to awaken me to find it. And none have spoken to me as an equal.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I am not afraid of you.”

The Basilisk’s amusement deepened, its forked tongue flicking out briefly. “Good. Fear is a weakness unfit for the heir of Slytherin.”

At the mention of Slytherin’s heir, Harry felt a strange mixture of pride and unease. He pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand.

“Will you show us the way?”

The Basilisk considered him for a long moment, its glowing eyes narrowing. Finally, it dipped its head slightly, its massive body shifting as it turned toward the far end of the chamber. “Follow me, speaker.”

Harry glanced back at the others, who were still staring resolutely at the ground. “Stay close, and you can look now, it won't harm you,” he said. “Don’t fall behind.”

Draco nodded, looking upwards at the Basilisk, his hand gripping his wand tightly. Pansy and Blaise exchanged nervous glances before following Harry’s lead, their footsteps hesitant but determined.

***

The Basilisk slithered ahead, its massive body moving with an eerie grace as it led them through the chamber. The walls were lined with intricate carvings of snakes and ancient symbols, their meanings lost to time.

After what felt like an eternity, the Basilisk came to a halt before a small archway carved into the stone. It was barely noticeable, half-hidden by shadows and overgrown vines.

“Through here lies the library,” the Basilisk hissed, turning its glowing eyes back to Harry. “But beware, young speaker. The knowledge within is not for the faint of heart. Slytherin’s wisdom is not kind.”

Harry nodded, his expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

The Basilisk tilted its head, amused once more. “You are bold, indeed. But do not forget, speaker—respect the legacy of Slytherin. Should you dishonor it, the chamber will not forgive you.”

Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Basilisk let out a low, rumbling laugh before its massive form began to retreat. Its coils slithered back into the shadows, its body dissolving into the stone as though it had never existed.

As the chamber fell silent once more, Harry turned back to the others.

“Is it gone?” Pansy whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

“Yes,” Harry said. Looking back at her, she still had her eyes shut, holding onto Blaises arm “...You can look now.”

Pansy raised her head cautiously, her eyes scanning the space where the Basilisk had been.

“That,” Blaise said after a long pause, “was the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I second that,” Pansy muttered, brushing dust off her robes.

Draco, however, was watching Harry with an expression that was equal parts admiration and curiosity. “You really know how to make an impression, don’t you?”

Harry smirked faintly, turning toward the archway the Basilisk had revealed, he could feel his ears burning. “Come on,” he said, his voice steady. “We’ve come this far. Let’s see what’s inside.”

They stepped through the archway, their wands lighting the way as they entered the library of Salazar Slytherin. The room was vast, its walls lined with towering shelves filled with ancient tomes and scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink, and the faint hum of magic seemed to linger in the air.

For a moment, none of them spoke, their eyes sweeping over the sheer magnitude of the collection.

“This is it,” Harry said quietly, his green eyes glinting with determination. “This is what we’ve been looking for.”

Chapter Text

Despite the major breakthrough they’d uncovered, the Triwizard Tournament had been the last thing on Harry’s mind. Between rituals, secret chambers, and plotting his next move, the competition had seemed like a distant nuisance. But reality came crashing back as he woke that morning to the buzz of excitement and tension in the castle. The first task was here, and no amount of preparation—or lack thereof—could push it aside now. Today, he’d have to step into the spotlight and face whatever danger lay ahead.

The stands around the arena were packed with students, professors, and visiting wizards, all buzzing with excitement. The anticipation was palpable, and the enchanted banners floating above the stands displayed the names and crests of each school, glowing faintly with magic.

Before the task began, the champions gathered in a small, enclosed tent at the edge of the arena. The air was thick with tension as Dumbledore stood at the front of the tent. His expression was composed, but there was a weight to his presence that made the space feel smaller, more suffocating. He clasped his hands behind his back, sweeping his gaze over the four champions.

“As you are all aware,” he began, his voice calm yet firm, “the Triwizard Tournament is not a test of brute strength, but of wit, courage, and magical ability. Each task will push you beyond your limits, forcing you to think on your feet and utilize every skill at your disposal.”

His eyes settled on each of them in turn before continuing. “Your first task is one of both strategy and bravery. You will be facing a dragon.”

There was a subtle shift in the tent—a sharp intake of breath from Fleur, Viktor’s jaw tightening, Cedric’s shoulders going rigid. Harry kept his expression unreadable, even as something cold coiled in his stomach.

Dumbledore gave them a moment to process before gesturing toward the large wooden chest in the center of the tent. “Within this chest are four miniature dragons—each representing the creature you will face in the arena. Your task is to retrieve a golden egg that the dragon fiercely guards. How you do so is entirely up to you, but remember—your approach will determine your success or failure.”

His gaze lingered on them for a moment, letting his words settle. Then, with a flick of his wand, the chest’s lid creaked open, revealing the restless miniature dragons within. Their wings twitched, smoke curling from their nostrils as they snapped at the air, awaiting their selection.

“The order will be determined by drawing from the chest,” Dumbledore said, stepping back slightly.

The champions stepped forward, one by one, drawing a dragon at random.

Viktor Krum drew first. He reached into the chest with steady hands and pulled out a tiny Ukrainian Ironbelly, its silver scales glittering faintly in the light.

Fleur Delacour followed, selecting a Chinese Fireball, its vibrant red-and-gold scales glinting as it puffed a tiny ring of smoke into the air.

Cedric Diggory reached in next, his fingers closing around a miniature Norwegian Ridgeback, its black, spike-covered body coiling in his palm.

Harry was the last to draw. He reached into the chest without hesitation, his expression calm but his mind sharp. His fingers brushed against one of the tiny, thrashing creatures, and he lifted it carefully.

It was a Hebridean Black, its sleek, obsidian scales shimmering as it hissed in defiance. Even at its miniature size, its spiked tail and piercing violet eyes exuded danger.

“Fitting,” Harry murmured under his breath as he studied the tiny dragon in his hand, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

Madame Maxime nodded and took the dragons back, their tiny forms vanishing into the chest as she marked down the selections. “Your order is set,” she announced. “Prepare yourselves. You will each face your dragon in the arena.”

With that, the champions were dismissed, and Harry stepped out of the tent, his thoughts already turning to the task ahead.

***

The arena itself was vast, surrounded by high stone walls with an open sky above. At first glance, it seemed like a standard dueling or battle pit. But as the first champion—Victor Krum—stepped forward, the ground began to rumble.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed across the stands, amplified by magic. “Today’s arena is no ordinary battleground. Built with advanced enchantments, it is designed to adapt and shift as the champions face their dragons. The terrain will change—creating obstacles, traps, and challenges unique to each encounter!”

The crowd murmured in excitement.

The floor beneath Victor's feet began to shift, splitting apart to reveal a sprawling maze of jagged rocks and glowing lava streams. A Ukrainian Ironbelly, its scales gleaming like molten metal, emerged from the far end, roaring so loudly the stands shook.

“The magical engineers behind this masterpiece ensured no champion will have the same experience. From molten lava streams to enchanted forests and icy tundras, the arena will test not only their skill but their adaptability. It’s a fight not just against the dragon, but against the arena itself!”

Krum wasted no time. Using brute force and calculated spellwork, he managed to disorient the dragon long enough to retrieve his golden egg, though not without earning a few scorch marks.

Next came Fleur Delacour, who faced a Chinese Fireball in an arena that shifted into a dense, enchanted forest. The dragon’s fiery breath ignited the trees, creating a chaotic and dangerous environment. Fleur relied on speed and grace, weaving through the flames and using her veela charm to momentarily confuse the dragon before seizing her egg.

Cedric Diggory followed, his arena morphing into a frozen tundra as a Norwegian Ridgeback thundered forward, its frost-coated breath freezing the ground around him. Cedric cleverly used the icy environment to his advantage, creating slippery barriers to slow the dragon and finally capturing his egg with a daring dive.

As Cedric exited the arena, sweat-soaked and triumphant, Dumbledore’s voice boomed through the stands.

“And now, our final champion—Harry Riddle, representing Hogwarts!”

Once Harry steps out, the arena shifted, the earth groaning as giant square boulders erupted from the ground. They stood like towering monoliths, uneven and precarious, separated by wide gapes filled with bubbling green acid. The heat rising from the pits made the air shimmer, and the acidic smell of sulfur stung Harry’s nose.

At the far end of the arena, the Hebridean Black emerged. Its massive form moved with predatory grace, obsidian scales glinting like black steel in the sunlight. The dragon roared, its violet eyes locking onto Harry with feral intensity. Without hesitation, it launched itself into the air, wings beating powerfully as it swooped towards him. The gust from its flight sent loose rocks tumbling into the acid below, the hiss of vapor rising as they dissolved.

Well shit, though Harry didn’t flinch. He raised his wand, his jaw tightening.

“You have very beautiful wings, it's a shame what I’m about to do to them. Diffindo!”

The severing curse struck the dragon’s right wing, ripping through the leathery membrane with a sickening tearing sound.the beast let out an earsplitting shriek as black blood sprayed into the air, splattering across the boulders and sizzling when it hit the acid below.

The dragon faltered midair, its wing flapping uselessly the torn membrane hanging in shreds. It landed heavily on one of the boulders, its claws gouging deep into the stone as it snarled in fury.

Harry moved quickly, leaping from one boulder to the next. The gaps between them were treacherous , but he didn’t hesitate.

The Beast lunged, its sharp claws tearing at the edge of a nearby boulder, Sending chunks of rock tumbling into the acid. Harry jumped in time landing on the next platform as the Dragons spiked tail swung past him close enough to rattle his balance.

“That was a close one.” Harry said with a breathless laugh, swiping the sweat from his forehead.

The golden egg was just ahead, Perched on the tallest Boulder. Harry could almost feel its magic coming in the air but the Dragon wasn't finished. 

It snarled, dragging itself into a nearby platform, It injured its leg from falling. Smoke curled into its nostrils, And its tail whipped dangerously as it Prepared for one last charge.

Harry's eyes darted to the platform beneath the Dragon. The boulder was unstable, its edges already crumbling from The beast's weight.

He raised his wand, a wide smile pulling at his lips, revealing a full set of teeth, his voice sharp.

“You poor little thing, Bombarda Maxima!”

The explosion was deafening. The boulder shattered into pieces, sending shards flying in every direction. The dragon roared in fury as the platform beneath it gave way, its massive body sliding toward the edge.

The Hebridean Black tried to beat its wings, desperate to regain its balance, but the damaged membrane on one wing left it unable to lift off. It clawed at the remaining stone, its tail thrashing as it teetered precariously over the chasm.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He leapt to the final boulder, snatching the golden egg from its pedestal just as the dragon let out one last roar, as it slipped from the edge.

“Stop!”

Dumbledore’s voice rang out, calm but commanding. With a wave of his hand, the arena shifted once more. The acid pits vanished, replaced by solid ground, and the boulders flattened into a smooth stone floor.

The dragon collapsed onto the ground, exhausted but alive, its violet eyes glaring at Harry with a mix of fury and fear.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the task, and the crowd erupted into cheers and gasps.

Harry straightened, the golden egg tucked under his arm. His robes were torn, his face streaked with dirt and blood—not his— but his expression was calm and composed.

As he walked toward the exit, he glanced up at the judges’ platform. Dumbledore was watching him intently, his sharp blue eyes flickering with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or unease .

Harry met his gaze, his lips curling into a faint smirk before he turned and disappeared into the tunnel, leaving the chaos of the arena behind him.

***

“He destroyed that poor creature,” Madame Maxime said, her voice sharp as she turned to Dumbledore. “This is barbaric.”

Karkaroff sneered. “That boy… there’s something wrong with him.”

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, his hands steepled under his chin. Finally, he spoke, his tone calm but laced with a subtle edge.

“He is… determined,” Dumbledore said simply, his gaze still fixed on the tunnel where Harry had disappeared.

***

The Slytherin common room was alive with energy. Students crowded together on the leather sofas and chairs, raising goblets filled with pumpkin juice or smuggled Firewhiskey in celebratory toasts. The air buzzed with murmurs of admiration and disbelief.

Harry sat in his usual spot by the fire, leaning casually against the armrest of a long, dark-green couch. The golden egg rested on the table before him, its gleaming surface catching the flickering light of the flames.

“You were incredible, Harry,” Pansy gushed, perched elegantly on the arm of the chair next to him. Her gray-green eyes sparkled with excitement. “I mean, did you see the way you took down that dragon? Everyone’s been talking about it—you had total control.”

“Total destruction is more like it,” Blaise added, his tone dry but not without a hint of amusement. He leaned against the back of the couch, his arms crossed as he studied Harry with a raised eyebrow. “You weren’t holding back at all, were you?”

Harry smirked, tilting his head slightly as he swirled the goblet in his hand. “Why should I? It’s a competition, isn’t it? I played to win.”

Draco, seated on the couch beside him, chuckled softly. “Played to win? You practically tore the thing apart. That wing—” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “Beautifully done. Though, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were showing off.”

Harry’s smirk widened, his green eyes glinting mischievously. “Maybe a little.”

The noise of the room seemed to fade as the four of them huddled closer. Pansy sipped from her goblet, her expression suddenly thoughtful.

“So,” she said, lowering her voice. “Now that you’ve got this out of the way, what’s next? You’ve been… busy lately. Even more than usual.”

Harry’s smirk faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, leaning back in his seat. “Research,” he said smoothly. “There’s more to this tournament than just dragons, isn’t there?”

Blaise exchanged a glance with Draco, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re always up to something, Riddle. And whatever it is, it’s big, isn’t it?”

Harry set his goblet down, the faint clink echoing in the momentary silence, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder. “Bigger than you can imagine.”

Draco tilting his head shot Harry a warning look, but there was no real heat in it. “Careful, Harry. Blaise has an insatiable curiosity, and Pansy’s worse. You keep teasing them with hints, and they’ll never leave you alone.”

Pansy scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t need hints. I know Harry’s working on something… important. You don’t need to tell me now.” Her lips curled into a sly smile. “But when you’re ready, don’t forget who your allies are.”

Harry’s gaze softened, but his smirk remained. “I won’t.”

The golden egg glimmered in the firelight, its surface smooth and inviting. Blaise reached out, tapping the side of it with his finger.

“So, what’s the secret, then?” he asked, his voice light but curious. “What’s inside this thing?”

Harry shrugged, snuggling closer to Draco. “That’s for me to figure out.”

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have it cracked before anyone else. You always do.”

The four of them fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the background noise of the celebration washing over them.

Pansy broke the quiet with a playful grin. “By the way, I heard half the Gryffindors think you cursed the dragon to lose its mind. Something about you being a dark wizard.”

Harry laughed softly, his expression unreadable. “Let them think what they want. It keeps things interesting.”

Draco smirked, raising his goblet. “To keeping things interesting, then.”

Harry raised his goblet, his smirk deepening. “To winning.”

Chapter Text

The Riddle Manor was eerily quiet. Harry stood in the dimly lit hallway just outside his bedroom, heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick, heavy, filled with something wrong.

A sound drifted through the silence—a faint, rhythmic scratching of quill against parchment.

His father’s office.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry as he forced his feet forward. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the doorknob, pushing it open.

The room was just as he remembered—dark wooden shelves lined with books, a fireplace casting flickering shadows across the walls, and at the large mahogany desk sat Tom Riddle, quill in hand, writing as if nothing had happened. As if he had never disappeared.

Relief surged through Harry like a tidal wave, his chest tightening as he took a shaky step forward.

“ Dad? ”

No response.

Harry’s breath hitched. He stepped closer.

“Dad, I—I’m sorry. I swear, I’m trying. I’m trying everything. I’m going to fix this—I just need more time!”

Still, his father didn’t react.

His quill never wavered, his posture never shifted, his gaze never lifted from the parchment in front of him.

Harry’s stomach twisted in panic. He was right there—right there.

“Please, look at me—”

Nothing.

Desperation clawed at his throat as he took another step forward, his voice cracking.

“Dad— ”

Tom stopped writing.

For a long, agonizing moment, he remained still, his quill frozen mid-air.

And then, slowly—too slowly—he lifted his head.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Something was so wrong.

The face that met his gaze was not his father’s—not entirely. His features were sharper, hollowed, his skin pallid like aged parchment. But it was his eyes that terrified Harry the most—dark, endless voids that seemed to stretch into nothingness.

A creeping, suffocating dread coiled around Harry’s ribs as the figure at the desk pushed back his chair, standing to his full height.

“It’s too late now, Harry.”

The words were soft, yet they echoed like a death toll in the empty room.

“You took too long.”

Harry’s body locked up. His hands trembled.

“No—no, I didn’t! I swear, I’m almost there! Please, just—”

But the shadow grew taller, darker, filling the room with an unbearable weight.

Harry’s knees buckled. He tried to reach for his father, but the darkness swallowed him whole, pulling him down, drowning him in his own fear.

“Dad—please—”

Tom turned away.

Harry’s vision blurred. His chest ached as sobs wrenched from his throat, hot tears streaking down his face.

“Don’t leave me again!”

The darkness consumed everything.

Harry jolted awake, gasping for air.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his fingers gripping his shirt so tightly they trembled.

He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Just a dream.

A cruel, agonizing dream.

His father was waiting for him. He knew he was. He just had to be faster. Had to be smarter. He didn’t have time for nightmares.

With slow, mechanical movements, Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes before getting up.

By the time he emerged from the dormitory, dressed and composed, not a trace of his restless night showed.

But as he sat at breakfast, his friends quietly observing him from across the table, he could feel the weight of their concern pressing against him.

Draco nudged his foot under the table, a silent question.

Harry didn’t respond.

Blaise and Pansy exchanged glances, but they left him be.

Harry carried on, as if nothing had happened.

As if his father’s haunting voice wasn’t still whispering at the edges of his mind.

He went through his classes as if nothing had happened—because, as far as anyone else knew, nothing had. It was just a stupid nightmare. Even though he wasn’t as engaged as usual, no one said a word. Draco, however, stayed close, always within reach, ready to be there for Harry whenever he needed grounding.

***

It was late at night in the common room, and Harry couldn’t sleep. So he sat in his usual chair by the fireplace, his head bent over a thick book written in Parseltongue. His fingers absentmindedly traced the ancient runes etched into the pages, his eyes scanning each line with a growing sense of urgency. He has more than enough time to deal with the golden egg mystery later.

The ritual his father had performed was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. It was intricate, dangerous, and nearly impossible to reverse. The books he had taken from the Chamber of Secrets offered fragments of understanding, but not enough. Every piece he uncovered raised more questions than answers.

He muttered softly in Parseltongue as he read, the hissing syllables reverberating in the air. The snakes carved into the walls stirred faintly, their coiled bodies shifting as though awakened by the sound.

Harry didn’t notice. His thoughts were consumed by the mounting pressure in his chest, the weight of his father’s absence and the uncertainty of how long Voldemort had before the ritual’s effects became irreversible.

I don't have much time, I need to focus, Harry thought bitterly, his hand gripping the edge of the book.

The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. Harry didn’t look up immediately, but the low murmur of voices made his jaw tighten.

“Look who we have here,” a familiar, sneering voice said.

Harry slowly lifted his gaze to see Marcus Flint standing at the entrance to the common room, flanked by three other Slytherins—Adrian Pucey, Derrick, and Warrington.

“What do you want, Flint?” Harry said flatly, his tone devoid of patience.

Marcus smirked, crossing his arms as he stepped closer. “I’ve been thinking, Riddle. You’ve been walking around this place like you own it. Like you’re better than the rest of us.”

“I am better than you,” Harry said coldly, snapping his book shut.

Marcus’s smirk faltered, but he quickly recovered, holding his wand up placing a silencing spell. “You think you’re untouchable because you humiliated me the other day. Well, guess what? That doesn’t sit well with me.”

“And?” Harry leaned back in his chair, his emerald eyes gleaming with dangerous calm. “You’re here to try your luck again?”

The group behind Marcus laughed nervously, emboldened by their leader’s presence. Marcus stepped closer wand pointing at Harry, his expression darkening. “You need to be put in your place, Riddle.”

Harry’s anger, already simmering from days of fruitless research on both the ritual and that stupid golden egg (that keeps making that annoying screeching noise every time he tries to open it), he snapped. He rose slowly from his chair, the air in the room growing heavy with magic.

“You think I have time for this?” Harry hissed, his voice low but laced with venom. “You think I care about your petty revenge when my father is out there somewhere, waiting for me?”

Marcus frowned, confused. “ Your father — ? ”

“Enough!” Harry’s voice rose in Parseltongue, the hissing tones echoing off the walls. The snake carvings along the stone began to move more noticeably now, their bodies twisting and writhing as though they were alive.

The group of Slytherins froze, their eyes wide with terror as the snakes seemed to glare down at them.

Harry raised his hand, his emerald eyes glinting with cold fury. “You wanted to see what I’m capable of, Marcus? Fine .”

Without a wand, Harry channeled his raw magic. Marcus crumpled to the floor, a scream tearing from his throat as the Cruciatus Curse enveloped him. His body convulsed, the pain coursing through him so intense that even his friends stumbled back in horror.

Harry didn’t stop. His voice was low and menacing, almost taunting. “Do you know what happens when you’re under the Cruciatus for too long? It starts breaking you—your mind, your body.”

Marcus’s screams grew weaker, his breaths ragged.

“Harry, stop!”

Draco’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. He could feel Harry's magic from their dorm room. 

His presence was unmistakable, grounding, but Harry’s rage kept him focused on Marcus.

Draco grabbed Harry’s shoulder, forcing him to look at him. “Harry, enough! You’ll kill him!”

For a moment, Harry hesitated, his breathing labored. He released Marcus with a sharp flick of his hand, sending the older boy crumpling to the floor.

“Get out,” Draco said coldly, glaring at Marcus’s trembling friends. “All of you. Now .”

The group didn’t need to be told twice. They dragged Marcus out of the common room, their fear palpable as they avoided Harry’s gaze.

The door shut behind them, leaving Harry and Draco alone in the now-silent common room. Draco’s expression was a mixture of anger and concern as he rounded on Harry.

“What the hell was that?” Draco demanded, his voice sharp.

Harry didn’t respond, pacing in front of the fireplace like a caged animal.

“Harry,” Draco said, stepping closer. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing control like that!”

Harry finally glanced at him, his green eyes burning with frustration. “I didn’t lose control,” he snapped.

“Didn’t you?” Draco shot back. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were about to tear Marcus apart without a second thought.”

“I don’t have time to care!” Harry snapped, his voice cracking. He turned to face Draco, his green eyes burning with frustration and desperation. “I don’t have time for Marcus Flint, or anyone else, when my father is out there somewhere—trapped, or hurt, or worse! And I can’t… I can’t find the answers fast enough!”

Draco stared at him, the raw emotion in Harry’s voice catching him off guard.

Harry’s breathing grew ragged as he continued. “I’m running out of time, Draco. I can feel it. I can feel him waiting for me, and I don’t know if I’ll reach him before it’s too late. And I keep having these stupid dreams—”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Harry cut him off, his words tumbling out in a frenzied rush.“You don’t understand,” he said. “You can’t understand. He’s my father. He’s counting on me, and I’m failing him.”

“You’re not failing,” Draco said, standing beside him now.

“I am!” Harry snapped, rounding on him. His chest heaving as he struggled to contain the storm inside him. “Every night, I’m sitting here reading these books, trying to piece together something that feels impossible. And all I can think about is how I’m running out of time—how he’s running out of time. And what if I can’t do it, Draco? What if I’m not strong enough?”

Draco stepped closer, his pale gray eyes steady. “Harry, stop.”

Harry shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “ I’m not strong enough, I'm not strong enough, I’m not strong enough, I’m not—.”

Draco didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out, grabbed Harry by the front of his robes, and kissed him.

The world seemed to stop.

Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat as the warmth of Draco’s lips silenced his frantic thoughts. For a moment, everything fell away—the pressure, the anger, the fear. There was only the unexpected softness of Draco’s lips on his, the grounding weight of Draco’s hand against his chest.

When Draco pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and he looked as surprised as Harry felt. “You need to stop,” Draco said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to burn yourself out if you keep going like this.”

Harry stared at him, his lips parted slightly, his mind still reeling. The suffocating weight in his chest seemed to lift, replaced by something he couldn’t quite name.

***

The silence stretched between them, but it was different now—softer, calmer.

Draco released Harry’s robes and took a small step back, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he said softly. “You have me. You’ve always had me.”

Harry swallowed hard, his voice unsteady as he replied. “Draco, I…”

“Don’t,” Draco said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me help you. Let me be here for you.”

Harry nodded slowly, his hands unclenching as he took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Good.”

The tension in the room began to ease. The fire crackled softly, filling the quiet with its warm glow.

As they sat down, side by side, Harry felt something shift between them. It was subtle, but it was there—a new understanding, a fragile but unspoken connection.

Whatever came next, Harry knew one thing for certain, Draco was with him. And for now, that was enough.

***

The Black Lake was calm, its surface reflecting the faint glow of the crescent moon above. The grounds were silent, the usual hum of life at Hogwarts muted under the weight of the night. Harry sat at the edge of the lake, his knees drawn up to his chest, the chill in the air biting at his skin.

He’d slipped out after midnight, unable to stay cooped up in the common room. The pressure building inside him had grown unbearable, and he needed the stillness of the open air to collect his thoughts.

The events of the past few weeks played over in his mind—every clue, every discovery, every growing tension. They were close. Closer than they had been when they first stepped into the Chamber of Secrets, closer than Dumbledore probably realized. And as that realization settled in his chest, Harry felt a flicker of determination burn brighter.

He traced his finger along the surface of the cold grass, his gaze distant. When I'm done with the ritual… The thought echoed in his mind, heavy with both anticipation and dread.

It wasn’t a question of if anymore. It was a question of when . The books, the knowledge—everything they needed was falling into place. But with that clarity came the haunting realization of what would come next.

This isn’t going to be easy.

Harry tilted his head back, staring at the vast expanse of stars above. The world felt both enormous and suffocating all at once. He knew that reversing the ritual—undoing whatever ancient magic had pulled his father from this world—was going to cost something.

Magic this powerful doesn’t come without a price.

And yet, no matter what the cost was, Harry would pay it. His chest tightened as his resolve hardened. He would bring his father back. Even if it meant bending the world to his will, tearing it apart piece by piece until he found the answer.

Even if it meant lighting a battlefield that never really ended.

The thought lingered in the back of his mind—an unspoken truth he wouldn’t dare admit aloud. But as he stared into the dark waters of the lake, he couldn’t deny it.

If I have to burn the world to the ground, I will.

The weight of that truth didn’t scare him. It didn’t feel like a burden—it felt like purpose. Voldemort had always spoken about legacy, about power, about doing whatever it took to shape the world in his image.

Harry didn’t care about legacy. He didn’t care about shaping the world. All he cared about was him . His family.

The world could turn against him. Dumbledore could try to stop him. It didn’t matter. Whatever obstacles stood in his way, Harry would face them head-on, unflinching and unyielding.

I’m ready for this. Whatever it takes.

***

The faint sound of footsteps on the grass pulled Harry from his thoughts. He turned his head slightly to see Draco approaching, his figure silhouetted against the faint light from the castle.

“You’re going to freeze out here,” Draco said softly, coming to stand beside him.

Harry didn’t respond at first, his gaze drifting back to the lake. After a moment, he said, “I needed to think.”

Draco crouched beside him, his expression calm but searching. “Thinking about what?”

Harry didn’t answer, what was he supposed to say? ' Oh, I was just trying to figure out how to keep my distance without making things worse,'  or ' yeah, I might fight a battle that I don't want you to be involved in because you mean so much to me, so piss off…'   

Draco sighed and sat down beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“You’re going to figure it out,” Draco said after a long pause. His voice was steady, confident. “Whatever it takes, Harry, you’ll do it. You always do.”

Harry didn’t reply, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He lays his head on Draco's shoulder, intertwining their arms together (it’s not because he's cold or anything…).

As they sat together in the quiet, Harry felt the flicker of resolve in his chest grow stronger. The path ahead was uncertain, dangerous, and riddled with challenges he couldn’t yet see. But as the moonlight glinted off the lake, casting a pale glow across the two of them, Harry knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t afraid.

Chapter Text

The morning air in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was charged with tension, as it often was when Professor Moody set up for dueling practice. The desks were pushed to the sides of the room, creating a large open space in the center, and the students stood in a loose semicircle, wands at the ready.

It was still strange, Harry thought, to have a competent professor teaching the class (a little mad—but competent). After months of enduring Gilderoy Lockhart’s useless and self-aggrandizing lessons, having a battle-worn Auror like Alastor Moody at the helm was nothing short of a shock. He didn’t waste time with frivolous speeches or impractical theories. No, he demanded readiness, and every student was expected to pay attention—Or suffer the consequences. His teaching wasn't gentle, Nor was it comfortable. But it was effective. And, Much to his own irritation, Harry couldn't help but respect that. 

Harry leaned casually against a desk, his wand in hand, his green eyes scanning the room. He wasn’t particularly nervous—dueling practice was something he enjoyed. What irritated him, though, was the tall, silver-bearded figure standing near the back of the room.

Fucking Dumbledore.

Harry’s gaze flicked to the Headmaster, who was watching the students with that infuriatingly calm expression, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Dumbledore had started appearing in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes more frequently in the past few weeks—after the first task—always watching Harry with a little too much interest.

“Today, we’re doing practical work,” Moody barked, his gruff voice cutting through the classroom chatter. His magical eye whirled wildly, scanning the students as if searching for weak links.

 “Pair up.” His scarred face twisted into something that might have been amusement. “The goal is to disarm your opponent—no overly aggressive spells… unfortunately.”

Harry knew Mad-Eye Moody (of course he did, he was the first person Harry saw after that night, how could he forget). He is one of Dumbledore’s attack dogs. He also knew exactly who Harry was. 

Yet, the man never treated him any differently than the other students— which was…surprising?—Well, he was hard on everyone, giving every student a very hard time. But he was keeping an eye on Harry, literally.

Whether it was because Moody was naturally distrustful or because he wanted to see how deep the Riddle blood ran, Harry wasn't sure. And he didn't care enough to dwell on it. 

The students began to pair off, the usual murmur of conversation filling the room. But before Harry could move, Dumbledore’s soft voice carried across the space.

“Perhaps Mr. Longbottom would be a fitting opponent for Mr. Riddle,” he said, his tone mild but unmistakably pointed.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at Neville Longbottom, whose freckled face had turned a shade of pale pink. Neville’s eyes darted nervously to Harry before glancing at Moody, as though hoping the professor would intervene.

Moody didn’t blink. His magical eye whirled in its socket, locked onto Neville before swinging back to harry. “On your feet, Longbottom. Riddle,” Moody barked, his voice carrying across the room. “Let’s see if either of you actually learned something or if I’m wasting my bloody time.”

Harry stepped into the center of the room, his movements fluid and unbothered. His expression remained calm, though there was a faint glint of annoyance in his eyes.

Neville approached more hesitantly, gripping his wand as though it might slip out of his hand at any moment. The room grew quiet, all eyes on the two of them.

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You sure you’re ready for this, Longbottom?”

Neville’s grip on his wand tightened. “I’m not scared of you.”

Harry’s smirk widened. “You should be.”

***

Moody gave the signal, and Neville immediately fired a Disarming Charm.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry sidestepped easily, his expression almost bored. “Predictable,” he muttered under his breath, raising his wand. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a Stinging Hex toward Neville, forcing the Gryffindor to stumble back with a yelp.

The room buzzed with whispers as Harry advanced, his movements calculated and smooth.

“Come on, Longbottom,” Harry said, his tone almost teasing. “Is that all you’ve got? I expected more… bravery.”

Neville’s face turned red, and he fired another spell, this time a Stunning Charm. Harry deflected it with ease, the rebound sending a small ripple of energy through the room.

“Not bad,” Harry said, smirking. “But not good enough.” fucking pathetic.

With a quick motion, Harry sent another spell Neville’s way—a nonverbal disarming spell this time. Neville’s wand flew from his hand, clattering to the floor several feet away.

The duel ended as quickly as it had begun.

The Gryffindor stared at his empty hand, his face a mix of embarrassment and frustration. Harry, unimpressed, lowered his wand, his smirk fading as he turned to Moody.

“Done?” Harry asked, his tone polite but laced with impatience.

Moody let out a low, gravelly chuckle, his magical eye zooming in on Harry like a hawk surveying prey.

“Efficient,” Moody admitted, tapping his cane against the floor. “But too damn easy.” His real eye narrowed. “You're not here to toy with your opponents, Riddle. That boy barely had a chance to react. Where is the lesson in that?”

He turned his glare to Neville, who had bent down to retrieve his wand.

“And you, Longbottom—You're dead the second you hesitate. That is how it works. That is how it's always worked.” His voice wasn't cruel, Just matter-of-fact.

Neville swallowed hard, Nodding stiffly.

Moody exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. “Next.” 

Dumbledore’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Impressive work, Mr. Riddle. Your reflexes are exceptional.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to Dumbledore, his green eyes sharp. “Thank you, Headmaster,” he said, his voice carefully measured.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer before turning to leave the room, his blue robes sweeping behind him.

As the Headmaster disappeared, Harry felt Draco sidle up beside him, his gray eyes glinting with amusement.

“That was almost too easy,” Draco murmured.

Harry smirked faintly. “I think Dumbledore wanted to see if I’d lose my temper.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “And?”

“I didn’t,” Harry said, slipping his wand into his pocket. “But if he keeps pulling stunts like this, I might start.”

***

The tension from Defense Against the Dark Arts carried into their next class. Harry sat beside Draco in the Potions classroom, his movements sharp as he chopped ingredients with precise, almost aggressive motions.

Snape prowled the room as usual, his sharp eyes scanning each student’s work. When he reached Harry and Draco’s table, he paused, his gaze flicking over their cauldron.

“Decent,” Snape said curtly, his voice low. “Though I’d expect a Riddle to do better.”

Draco tensed slightly, but Harry simply gave Snape a tight smile. “You’ll have to settle for decent today, Professor,” he said, his tone smooth.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment further, moving on to the next table.

Draco shot Harry a look, his expression half amused, half exasperated. “Do you have to antagonize him every chance you get?”

Harry smirked. “It’s too easy. And besides, he’s too full of himself to admit that it’s actually perfect.”

The rest of the class passed uneventfully, though Harry couldn’t help but feel Snape’s gaze on him more than usual. The moment the lesson ended, Snape called out sharply, 

“Mr. Riddle. Mr. Malfoy. Stay behind.”

The other students filed out quickly, glancing curiously over their shoulders. Draco shot Harry a wary glance as they moved to the front of the classroom, where Snape stood by his desk, his arms crossed.

The door shut behind the last student with a resounding click .

Snape’s dark eyes bored into Harry’s, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been drawing attention, Mr. Riddle,” he said finally, his voice low and precise.

Harry didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. “Have I?” he said coolly.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Snape snapped, his tone clipped. His gaze flicked briefly to Draco before settling back on Harry. “Dumbledore is watching you. You should be more cautious.”

“Cautious?” Harry repeated, arching an eyebrow. “I’m not the one lurking in classrooms hoping to catch people out, Professor . Besides, I'm not doing anything wrong.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably beside him, his eyes darting between Harry and Snape.

“Enough,” Snape said sharply, his tone carrying the weight of command. “You may think you’re untouchable, but that arrogance will only get you so far. Dumbledore’s patience has its limits, and so does mine.”

Harry tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming with defiance. “What exactly are you implying, Snape ?”

Snape stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m implying that if you continue down this path, you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can handle. Whatever you’re planning—whatever you think you’re entitled to—it won’t end the way you want it to.”

For a moment, the air between them was charged with unspoken tension. Harry held Snape’s gaze, his jaw tight, refusing to back down.

Draco finally spoke, his voice measured but firm. “With all due respect, Professor, we don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snape’s gaze snapped to Draco, his expression sharp. “And I think you are playing a dangerous game, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco met his gaze evenly, though his posture remained guarded.

Snape straightened, his expression smoothing into something cold and calculating. “I’m warning you both. Keep your ambitions in check, or you’ll find yourselves on a path you can’t return from.”

Harry smirked faintly, though his eyes remained hard. “Thank you for the advice, Professor. We’ll keep that in mind.”

Snape’s lips thinned, his irritation clear, but he said nothing further. Instead, he flicked his wand toward the door, which opened with a sharp creak .

“You’re dismissed,” he said curtly.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance before leaving the classroom, the tension lingering between them.

As they made their way down the corridor, Draco finally broke the silence.

“That could’ve gone worse,” he said, his voice light but strained.

Harry let out a short laugh, though there was little humor in it. “Snape likes to think he’s intimidating. He doesn’t realize I’m already two steps ahead of him.”

Draco glanced at him, his expression thoughtful. “Still, he’s not wrong about one thing. You’re drawing too much attention.”

Harry’s smirk faded slightly, his thoughts already shifting back to Dumbledore, to the duel earlier, to the relentless pressure weighing on him. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But attention doesn’t matter. What matters is the outcome.”

Draco frowned but didn’t press him further.

As they walked toward the common room, Harry’s mind raced. Snape’s words had struck a nerve, but not in the way the professor intended. Harry wasn’t afraid of trouble—he was afraid of failure.

And failure was not an option.

***

Snape sat at his desk in the stillness of his office, the dim light from a single lantern casting shadows across the rows of potion ingredients lining the walls. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the wood, his dark eyes fixed on the swirling contents of a Pensieve in front of him. A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

He had played this role for years—balancing the precarious line between two masters. Spying, lying, bending the truth until it became a weapon he could wield. He was no stranger to deceit, but this assignment felt… heavier.

Dumbledore’s instructions had been clear, “Watch him. Observe his behavior. Ensure he doesn’t stray too far from the path.”

But what path? Snape wondered bitterly. Dumbledore spoke in riddles as often as he spoke plainly, leaving Snape to decipher what exactly he was meant to do. Was he supposed to guide the boy? To test him? Or simply to report back every flicker of rebellion or ambition he saw in Harry’s eyes?

Snape’s fingers tightened against the edge of his desk. The truth was, he didn’t trust Dumbledore’s intentions entirely. The Headmaster had his plans—grand, all-encompassing schemes that Snape was often left in the dark about until it was too late to object.

And yet, he also didn’t trust Harry. How could he? The boy was his father’s heir in every way that mattered. The raw magical power, the cunning, the arrogance —it was all there, simmering just beneath the surface. Snape had seen flashes of it in the classroom, in the way Harry carried himself, in the way he stared down anyone who dared to challenge him.

And Harry was growing stronger. Snape had seen it in the first task with the dragon, the way Harry moved with confidence, his spells sharp and precise. It was no accident that Dumbledore had orchestrated the whole thing, of course Snape knew. The Headmaster had wanted to see Harry’s limits, to gauge just how much of Voldemort was in the boy.

Snape had watched from the sidelines, his sharp mind cataloging every movement, every spell. Harry was calculating, controlled, but he also looked like he relished it , like he took satisfaction in the brutal, efficient dismantling of the dragon, as if he saw no worthy opponent before him—only prey.

But it wasn’t just his skill that concerned Snape. It was the way Harry had stared Dumbledore down afterward, the defiance in his eyes as though daring the Headmaster to push him further. That look had unsettled even Snape.

He doesn’t just want to prove himself, Snape thought. He wants control.

Snape leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared at the Pensieve. Memories swirled within it, fragments of his interactions with Harry over the past few weeks. He hadn’t yet decided how much to show Dumbledore—or how much to keep to himself.

With a quiet sigh, he leaned forward and let the swirling silver mist envelop him.

***

“You don’t seem like the sort of person who believes in mindless ideologies,” Snape said carefully, his voice as smooth and controlled as ever. He leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze fixed on Harry. “So tell me, Riddle—what do you believe in? Forget your father’s ideals, forget anyone else’s. What does Harry Riddle stand for?”

Harry regarded him for a moment, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s a rather pointed question, Snape,” he said, his tone almost amused. “But I’ll indulge you.”

Snape didn’t respond, waiting for Harry to continue. The boy’s green eyes glinted faintly in the lamplight as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“I believe in strength,” Harry began, his voice calm but firm. “Strength of mind, strength of will, strength of magic. The wizarding world survives because of its strength—because we understand power, control. It’s what separates us from the chaos of the Muggle world.”

Snape studied him, his expression unreadable. “And by ‘control,’ you mean enforcing pure-blood superiority?”

Harry gave a slow smirk, but there was no humor in it. “Pure-blood traditions have their place. They always have. But that’s not what this is about.” He leaned forward slightly. “There are magical children out there—hundreds, if not more—born into Muggle families. Some of them are lucky. Others…” He exhaled sharply. “Others grow up in homes where they have to hide what they are. Where they’re punished for things they don’t understand. You think that’s acceptable?”

Snape’s gaze darkened, but he remained silent.

“They have no protection. No real recognition. We wait until they turn eleven, then we pluck them from their lives and expect them to integrate seamlessly. But before that?” Harry’s jaw clenched. “Before that, they are at the mercy of people who don’t understand them. And Muggles fear what they don’t understand.”

For a brief moment, his mind flickered back—to the stories his father barely spoke of. A cold, gray orphanage. A boy locked away, scolded for things he couldn’t control. Beaten when he slipped. Isolated because he was different . Harry had never asked his father about those years. He didn’t need to. He had seen the scars they left, even if most weren’t visible. And no other magical child should have to endure that.

Snape tilted his head. “And what do you propose?”

Harry’s fingers curled against his sleeve. “The answer is obvious. We stop letting Muggles control the narrative. Right now, all they know of us is what we allow them to see—what slips through the cracks. Accidents. Things that make them afraid. But what if they understood that we are more than just stories and myths? That we are real, and that we are above them?” His voice cooled, taking on the sharp edge of certainty. “We don’t need to hide. They need to learn their place.”

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And who decides what that place is?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “The strong. The capable. Those who actually understand what’s at stake.” He met Snape’s gaze evenly. “People like us.”

Snape regarded him for a long moment before finally speaking. “And you truly believe that forcing Muggles into submission is the solution?”

Harry’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s not about cruelty or submission. It’s about order. Magic is more than just power—it’s civilization. It’s history, progress. Legacy . If we don’t take control of our world, someone else will. And we’ve already seen what happens when Muggles think they can dictate our existence.”

There was something unreadable in Snape’s expression, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he simply said, “And your father?”

Harry exhaled slowly. “He understands.” His voice dropped slightly, just above a whisper. “He always has.”

***

As the memory faded, one detail lingered in Snape’s mind, nagging at him like a thorn he couldn’t quite remove. It wasn’t just the conviction in Harry’s words that unsettled him—it was the way he spoke about Voldemort. 

My father understands . As though Voldemort were still here, still alive, still capable of influencing the world around him. 

Snape’s lips thinned as he considered this. Whether it was denial or unwavering faith, Harry’s refusal to speak of his father in the past tense was telling. To Harry, Voldemort wasn’t gone—he was simply waiting. And that belief alone was enough to make the boy a force to be reckoned with.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin dormitory was alive with movement as students prepared for the trip to Hogsmeade. Outside, the sky was a crisp winter blue, the ground dusted with a thin layer of snow that had yet to melt under the weak December sun. The air carried the distant sound of laughter and chatter from students already making their way out of the castle, eager to escape into the bustling village.

Inside, however, Harry was still sitting on his bed, arms crossed, watching with mild disinterest as his roommates rushed around gathering scarves, gloves, and coats.

Blaise, already dressed and standing by the door, tapped his foot impatiently. “You’re not seriously going to stay here, are you?” he asked, casting a disbelieving glance at Harry.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t see the appeal.”

Draco, who had been fixing his scarf in front of the mirror, let out a long-suffering sigh before turning to face him. “Merlin. You’re hopeless.” He marched over and gave a sharp tug at Harry’s sleeve. “Get up. You’re coming.”

Harry didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head, unimpressed. “Why?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Because if I have to suffer through a day of Blaise flirting with anything that moves and Pansy dragging us into every shop, then you do too.”

Blaise scoffed, clearly offended. “Rude. I do not flirt with everything that moves.”

Harry snorted. “No, just anything with a pulse and decent cheekbones.”

Blaise placed a hand over his heart in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know, I have standards.”

“Debatable,” Draco muttered, and Blaise shot him a glare.

Harry exhaled slowly, still not making a move to stand. The truth was, he hadn’t been feeling particularly social lately. With everything going on, a simple trip to Hogsmeade felt… unnecessary. Pointless, even. But then again, he supposed spending the afternoon locked up in the castle wasn’t particularly thrilling either.

Draco, arms crossed in his usual impatient stance, stared at him expectantly. “Stop being dramatic and move .”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

“Yes, you are.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What if I just don’t want to go?”

Draco arched a brow. “Then that’s unfortunate, because you are going.”

“I could just stay here and enjoy some peace and quiet.”

“You could, but you won’t.”

Harry let out a suffering sigh. “You’re both insufferable.”

Blaise grinned. “And yet, you love us.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but finally stood up, muttering something under his breath about persistent Slytherins. Draco, looking entirely too pleased with himself, tossed Harry’s scarf at him.

“Come on before Pansy gets here and starts nagging us for being late.”

As if on cue, a familiar voice rang from the corridor. “Are you seriously making me wait?”

Draco smirked. “Too late.”

With an exaggerated groan, Harry pulled on his scarf, resigning himself to the inevitable chaos that was about to unfold.

***

The village was as lively as ever, students chatting excitedly as they wandered through the snowy streets. As they were walking, the crisp air biting at their faces, but the scent of warm butterbeer and roasted nuts drifting from the shops made up for the cold.

“Three Broomsticks first?” Blaise suggested.

“I could use a drink,” Draco agreed.

They made their way through the cobbled streets, the familiar wooden sign of The Three Broomsticks coming into view. The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped them, the sound of chatter and clinking mugs filling the air.

They managed to grab a booth near the fireplace. Blaise, as promised, paid for the butterbeer, though he made sure to announce his generosity at least twice.

“To dragging Riddle out of his self-imposed isolation,” Blaise toasted, raising his mug.

Harry scoffed but clinked his mug against the others’. “You make it sound like I never leave the common room.”

“You don’t,” Draco pointed out. “Unless it’s for scheming.”

Pansy smirked. “Or sneaking off to do something suspicious.”

“I am deeply offended by these accusations,” Harry said dryly before taking a sip of his butterbeer.

The conversation flowed easily, mostly consisting of playful jabs, exaggerated complaints about their professors, and Blaise’s latest drama with a Beauxbatons girl who he swore was obsessed with him.

“It’s tragic, really,” Blaise sighed dramatically. “I am but a simple man—”

“No, you’re not,” Pansy cut in.

Harry snorted into his drink as Blaise continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “—trying to navigate life, but alas, some people just can’t resist.”

Draco made a gagging motion. “Spare us.”

After finishing their drinks, the group wandered back out into the cold, the fresh air a sharp contrast to the warmth of the pub.

“Where to now?” Pansy asked, adjusting her scarf.

“Let’s just walk,” Draco said. “See if anything catches our interest.”

As they strolled through the streets, Harry’s eyes landed on a small outdoor market stall selling enchanted toys and trinkets—tiny wooden figurines that moved on their own, enchanted snitches that hovered just above their stands, and delicate ornaments that glowed softly in different colors.

One item, in particular, caught his attention—a charmed snow globe, its swirling flakes falling in an endless loop over a miniature castle inside. The sight of it stirred something familiar in his chest.

***

Harry, around ten years old, stood by the grand windows of Riddle Manor, his forehead nearly pressed against the cold glass. Snow was falling, blanketing the vast gardens in white. He had never seen snow like this before—never seen the world outside so quiet, so untouched.

Draco, visiting for the weekend, was sitting on the floor beside him, absently twirling a charmed snow globe in his hands. The tiny flakes inside danced in an endless swirl.

“Do you think we can go outside?” Harry asked suddenly, turning to his father, who was sitting in his usual chair with a book in hand.

Tom Riddle barely glanced up. “Why?”

Harry blinked. “Because it’s snowing.”

Tom finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “And?”

“And… it looks fun?” Harry tried, as if that alone should be reason enough.

Draco, ever the instigator, perked up. “Yes, it does. I think we should go outside.”

Tom sighed, closing his book with deliberate patience. “You two are perfectly capable of watching the snow from in here.”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s boring.”

Tom tilted his head. “You want to go outside? Into the cold? Where the snow is wet and unpleasant?”

“Yes.”

Tom stared at him for a moment, as if trying to comprehend why any sane person would willingly leave a perfectly warm room to freeze in the snow.

“Fine,” Tom finally relented, standing up. “But if I have to go outside, I expect you both to suffer equally.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a look before grinning and dashing toward the door.

***

The memory faded, leaving Harry staring at the enchanted snow globe in the market stall. The tiny flakes inside still swirled in slow, endless motion, just like the one Draco had held all those years ago.

“You okay?” Draco’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Harry blinked, glancing at him. “Yeah.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly before nodding toward the globe. “You remember these? Last winter break before you went to hogwarts.”

Draco followed his gaze, his lips twitching slightly. “I do. You sulked for an hour because your father refused to let us go outside.”

Harry scoffed. “He gave in eventually.”

Draco smirked. “Yes, but not before making us shovel snow off the patio as ‘punishment’ for making him go outside.”

Harry huffed, shaking his head. “Honestly, I was surprised that was all we got. Considering, you know…” He trailed off, giving Draco a knowing look.

Draco grinned. “Ah, yes. The snowball ‘incident’.”

Harry snorted. “I mean, in our defense, we were already outside. And he was just standing there.”

“Looking particularly unimpressed,” Draco added.

Harry chuckled. “I really thought we were done for when he turned around.”

Draco smirked. “Well, he did get his revenge.”

Harry groaned at the memory. “Right. By throwing as many snowballs as he could at us.”

“To the point where we were basically soaked,” Draco said dryly. “I swear he charmed half of them to hit only me.”

Harry grinned. “You did hit him first.”

Draco scoffed. “And you encouraged it.”

Harry shrugged, smirking. “Worth it.”

Draco nudged him lightly. “Are you going to get it?”

Harry hesitated for only a second before picking up the globe and handing a few coins to the vendor.

***

By the time the sun began to set, the four of them had wandered to the frozen lake. They sat on the low stone wall near the shore, their breath visible in the cold air.

Harry absently turned the snow globe in his hands, watching the tiny flakes swirl inside.

Draco nudged his knee. “Regretting coming yet?”

Harry smirked. “Not yet.”

Blaise tossed a small stone across the frozen surface. “Well, don’t get used to it. We’re dragging you out again next time.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he looked back toward the lake, the peaceful silence settling between them. For the first time in weeks, he let himself relax.

***

The Slytherin common room was quiet, save for the occasional pop of the green-tinted fire in the hearth. Most of the house had retreated to their dormitories for the night after a long day spent at Hogsmeade. It was a rare free weekend, and the four of them—Harry, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy—had the space to themselves.

Harry, however, was seated in his usual chair near the fire, nose buried in a thick, ancient book written entirely in Parseltongue. The flickering light danced across the strange symbols as he traced them with his fingers, utterly absorbed. Leaning slightly on Draco’s side. While Draco was leaning against the back of the couch, watching Harry with growing impatience.

Across the room, Blaise was lounging sideways on the couch, tossing a small ball in the air and catching it lazily. Pansy sat perched on the armrest, her legs tucked under her as she skimmed a magazine. 

Finally, Blaise broke the silence with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, I can’t take this anymore. Harry, put that bloody book down.”

Harry didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

Pansy snapped her magazine shut. “Busy with what? Translating snake poems?”

“It’s not poems,” Harry muttered, turning a page.

“Oh, pardon us, Professor Riddle,” Blaise teased, sitting up. “You’re killing the vibe. This is supposed to be a relaxing day, and you’re over there acting like a—what’s the Muggle term? A bookworm?”

Draco smirked. “I believe the term is ‘obsessed.’”

Harry sighed loudly, straightening up, finally tearing his gaze from the book to glare at them. “I’m not obsessed. I’m just… focused.”

“Focused,” Pansy repeated with a laugh. “You’re literally glowing with stress, Harry. We’re worried you’re going to explode if you don’t take a break.”

Draco slightly nudged Harry's arm.“She’s right. Even your father would’ve told you to take a break by now. You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”

At the mention of his father, Harry paused, the book hovering just above his lap. He glanced at Draco, who raised an eyebrow expectantly, then at Blaise and Pansy, who were both looking at him with mock innocence.

With a dramatic sigh, Harry shut the book with a satisfying thud. “Fine.”

Blaise stretched out with a content sigh. “Today was surprisingly tolerable. Even with Pansy dragging us into every shop and Harry sulking half the time.”

“I did not sulk,” Harry said, his tone flat as he leaned comfortably into Draco’s side on the couch. “I was… observing.”

Pansy snorted. “Observing what? The inside of Honeydukes while pretending you didn’t enjoy it?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I plead the Fifth.”

Draco rolled his eyes but nudged Harry’s knee with his own. “You literally bought three different kinds of fudge.”

“Two,” Harry corrected. “The third one was for you.”

“See?” Blaise grinned. “That’s friendship. Or bribery. Hard to tell with you two.”

“Both,” Draco said smoothly. “But I’ll allow it.”

They all chuckled, the fire crackling softly beside them.

Pansy tilted her head back against the couch. “If you could skip one subject forever and never face any consequences, what would it be?”

“History of Magic,” Blaise said immediately. “I swear Binns is trying to kill us slowly.”

“Divination,” Draco said. “I don’t care what the tea leaves say. If I wanted to be scammed, I’d ask Blaise for dating advice.”

“Oi,” Blaise protested. “Rude.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “I’d say Astronomy. I like the stars, just not when they’re at two in the morning and I’m freezing on a tower.”

Pansy groaned in agreement. “Ugh, yes. I’d rather read my horoscope and pretend it’s science.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts, the occasional soft laugh still slipping between them as they shared little memories or half-jokes. No one was trying to impress anyone. No one was trying to be anything but present.

Harry let his head rest against Draco’s shoulder, his fingers absently playing with the hem of Draco’s sleeve. Draco didn’t move away.

When the fire had burned low and the room was bathed in soft shadows, Blaise yawned. “I vote we never move again.”

“Seconded,” Pansy mumbled, eyes already closed.

Harry smiled faintly, his voice quiet. “Best vote you’ve ever made.”

And for a while, they said nothing at all—just letting the quiet hold them together until sleep or the dying fire pulled them apart.

Chapter Text

The air inside Hogwarts was alive with the spirit of Christmas. Despite the cold that seeped through the castle walls, the atmosphere was warm, bustling with students who had stayed behind for the holidays. Most were there because of the Triwizard Tournament. Others had chosen to stay simply to bask in the festivities. The halls were adorned with garlands of holly and ivy, enchanted snowflakes falling gently from the ceiling in the Great Hall, and warm lights flickering from every corner.

It was Christmas Eve, and tomorrow would mark not only Christmas Day but also the much-anticipated Yule Ball (at least for anyone other than Harry). For once, even the most competitive of students seemed to put their rivalry aside for the sake of the season.

The Slytherin common room was bathed in the soft green light of the roaring fire.Harry sat in his usual spot by the fire, leaning back comfortably in his chair while absently flipping through a book. Draco was beside him, fiddling with the clasp of a small black box in his hands, his expression thoughtful. Blaise sprawled lazily on the couch, sipping from a mug of spiced cider, while Pansy, ever the organizer, was busy setting up an impromptu Christmas gathering.

“Alright, boys,” Pansy said as she walked into the room, a small wrapped package tucked under her arm. She was wearing an oversized emerald-green sweater, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire. Trailing behind her was a familiar figure—tall, dark-haired, and reserved.

“Theodore Nott,” Pansy declared, gesturing toward him. “You know him, obviously, but just to make it official—he’s joining us tonight.”

Theo nodded, his gaze lingering on Harry for a beat longer than necessary before he glanced at the others. “Evening.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Nott. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Pansy insisted,” Theo replied, his voice calm as he took the chair Pansy had saved for him.

Harry caught the brief glance but dismissed it, figuring Theo was simply trying to find his place in the group. Though he’s their fourth roommate, he remains somewhat detached. He tends to keep his distance, engaging only in brief conversations, and usually spends time with other Slytherins. Harry gave him a small nod of acknowledgment and returned to the book in his lap.

Pansy clapped her hands together. “Right, let’s get to it. Gift exchange time! Theo, I already told you not to worry about bringing anything. You’re covered.”

Theo held up a small box, glancing at her. “I didn’t listen.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Nott doesn’t follow orders—who would’ve guessed?”

“Very funny,” Theo said, placing the box on the table.

They began exchanging gifts.

“Alright, my turn,” Blaise announced, handing a small package to Harry.

Harry opened it, revealing a sleek silver cuff with an engraved serpent winding around it. The emerald eyes sparkled in the firelight.

“Very Slytherin of you,” Harry remarked with a smirk.

“Of course,” Blaise replied, grinning. “I figured you’d appreciate it.”

Pansy handed Draco her gift, a beautifully bound journal with his initials engraved in silver. “For your musings,” she teased.

“Very thoughtful,” Draco said, his tone warm as he flipped through the pages.

When it was Harry’s turn, he handed Draco a small, unassuming package. Inside was a simple yet elegant quill with dark green feathers, the handle engraved with tiny runes.

Draco’s eyes softened as he turned it over in his hands. “You remembered I broke mine.”

Harry shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. “You complain about it enough. Thought I’d save myself the headache.”

“Thanks,” Draco said quietly, tucking it away with care.

Draco then handed Harry a small, weighty package. Inside was a compass-like device with intricate carvings of Harry's initials. H.R .

“It’s a locator,” Draco explained, his voice almost hesitant. “If you ever need… well, if you ever need us, this will lead you back.”

Harry stared at it for a moment, touched in a way he couldn’t quite express. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

Theo handed Pansy a sleek necklace with a single pearl charm, and she beamed as she fastened it around her neck. Blaise, of course, couldn’t resist teasing them.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Blaise quipped, winking.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Blaise. We’re not—”

“We’re definitely not dating,” Theo interjected, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“Right,” Blaise drawled. “And I’m the next headmaster of Hogwarts. Anyways,” Blaise said, leaning back and stretching. “Pansy, you’re going with Theo, right? Might as well make it official.”

Pansy smirked. “Fine, yes. Theo’s my date. Happy now?”

Blaise grinned. “Ecstatic. Meanwhile, I’ve got my eyes on one of the Beauxbatons girls.”

“Shocking,” Draco deadpanned. “We never would’ve guessed.”

Blaise ignored him and turned to Harry. “What about you, Riddle? Who’s the lucky girl?”

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “No one. Don’t care enough to bother.”

“Same,” Draco added, his tone casual. “Not worth the fuss.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, sharing a quiet understanding.

“Well, aren’t you two a pair of romantics,” Blaise teased.

***

The Slytherin common room was unusually elegant that evening. The usual green glow was softened by enchanted silver lanterns, and a faint hum of excitement filled the air as students prepared for the biggest event of the year—the Yule Ball.

Harry, dressed in a Striking blend of elegance and sharp sophistication, Perfectly suited to his Slytherin heritage. His attire features a deep emerald-green tailored coat, Its silhouette accented by angular labels and a sleek sheen along the edges. Beneath the coat lies a black ruffled high-collared shirt, its fabric gathered intricately at the chest, creating an air of elegance. At the core of the suit, a lace-up corset in matching emerald-green cinches the waist, creating a fitted and striking silhouette, with black fitted pants completing the look.  sat on one of the velvet couches, waiting.

For once, he was the one waiting.

Blaise sat beside him, looking effortlessly composed in sleek black dress robes, his date a pretty Ravenclaw with dark curls (this same ravenclaw that was obsessed with him) perched next to him. The two were chatting idly, Blaise occasionally shooting Harry an amused glance.

“You’re unusually patient tonight,” Blaise noted, swirling the drink in his hand.

Harry exhaled dramatically. “Waiting is awful. Why does Draco take so long?”

Blaise smirked. “Because he enjoys making an entrance. You should know that by now.”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms but not disagreeing.

Before Blaise could tease him further, the common room door swung open, and Pansy stepped in.

She looked… stunning.

She wore deep navy-blue dress robes that complimented her complexion perfectly, her dark hair swept up into an elegant style, silver earrings dangling delicately.

Both Harry and Blaise stood up instantly.

“You look—” Blaise began.

“Beautiful,” Harry finished smoothly.

Pansy flushed, though she tried to wave them off. “Oh, shut up,” she muttered, adjusting her bracelet. “I look fine.”

Harry smirked. “No, you don’t. You look fantastic, and you know it.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lips twitched. “Well. Thank you.”

Then, stepping aside, revealing the tall, dark-haired boy beside her. Theodore gave them both a polite nod.  

Blaise raised a brow, looking between them. “Aren’t you a lucky girl.”

“Shut up,” Pansy cut in swiftly. “We’re just friends.”

“Right,” Blaise said, smirking. “For now.”

Pansy smacked his arm.

The group chuckled, but then Pansy turned to Harry, her brows lifting slightly. “Speaking of dates… you still don’t have one, do you?”

Blaise grinned, immediately jumping in. “Right, I almost forgot! Riddle, tell me, how is it that the most eligible bachelor in Hogwarts is going to the Yule Ball alone?”

Harry sighed dramatically, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead in mock despair.

“Alas, no one is worthy of me,” he declared. “I am simply out of everyone’s league.”

Blaise snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, of course, how could I forget? It’s everyone else’s fault and not yours.”

Pansy laughed. “Unbearable,” she muttered.

Harry smirked, dropping his hand. “At least I have self-awareness.”

Before anyone could argue, the door swung open again.

Draco finally arrived.

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected, but he certainly wasn’t prepared.

Draco looked effortlessly stunning.

His robes were tailored to absolute perfection, deep silvery-grey that shimmered subtly under the dim lights. The high collar and sharp-cut design suited him almost too well, his platinum-blond hair neatly styled, his posture exuding elegance and confidence.

Everyone reacted instantly.

Pansy smiled warmly. “You look amazing, Draco.”

Theodore gave an approving nod. “Nice choice of robes.”

Blaise, of course, smirked. “Took you long enough. But I suppose the dramatics were worth it.”

But Harry?

Harry didn’t say a word.

He just looked at him, lips curling into a small, private smile.

Draco noticed immediately. He tilted his head slightly, raising a brow. “What?”

Harry blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Nothing. Just…you look good.”

Draco looked away, a faint pink dusted his cheeks.

Blaise, watching the exchange, exhaled in exaggerated annoyance. “Merlin, just kiss already.”

Harry kicked his shin under the table.

***

The Great Hall had been transformed beyond recognition.

Icicles hung from the ceiling, enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily in the air, and the long dining tables had been replaced with round, candlelit ones. A large crystal stage stood at the front, where the enchanted orchestra was playing a soft, elegant melody.

Students were already gathered, dressed in dazzling robes of all colors, chatting, laughing, waiting for the night to officially begin.

And at the center of it all, the champions of the Triwizard Tournament stood waiting.

Because tradition dictated that the champions were to open the first dance.

Harry exhaled slowly as he took his place among them.

He had known this was coming—had read the invitation, had sat through the explanation during the pre-ball etiquette lessons. If a champion didn’t have a date, it was common to dance with a friend instead. Which was perfect.

So instead of awkwardly finding a girl he barely knew to pair up with, he did what felt natural.

He turned to Draco, and held out a hand. 

Draco blinked, eyes flickering to the outstretched hand before looking back at Harry’s face.

Harry smirked slightly. “Would you dance with me?”

For a moment, Draco said nothing.

Then, grinning slightly, he took Harry’s hand.

“Of course,” he said smoothly.

And just like that, the music began.

They moved effortlessly.

Draco, naturally graceful, took the lead, guiding them into smooth, practiced steps.

Harry followed easily, years of practice and agility making it second nature.

They danced like they had done this a hundred times before.

Draco’s hand rested firmly at Harry’s waist, while Harry’s fingers curled around Draco’s shoulder, their movements perfectly in sync.

“You know,” Draco mused, tilting his head slightly as they turned, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you actually enjoy this.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “I might.”

Draco smiled softly, voice low but clear. “You look beautiful tonight.”

Harry glanced away as he muttered, “Thank you.” his ears burned red, and if Draco noticed, he didn’t say anything.

The music swelled, and soon, the rest of the hall began to join them.

More couples moved onto the floor, the enchanted snow drifting softly around them, the warm candlelight casting a soft glow over the scene.

Harry barely noticed.

Because right now, it was just them.

Draco’s breath was warm, his grip steady, his smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips.

And Harry forgot about everything else.

***

As the music slowed and the initial dance began to shift into a more open floor, Harry and Draco stepped away, moving toward the edge of the dance area.

Harry let out a slow breath, his heart still racing slightly, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was from the dance itself or something else.

Draco, beside him, smirked. “Admit it—you actually enjoyed that.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his lips curled into a small smile. “It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “High praise.”

Before Harry could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Ah-ah, don’t think you’re done dancing yet.”

Harry barely had time to turn before Blaise stepped in front of him, smirking as he extended a hand.

“We still haven’t had our turn,” Blaise said smoothly, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

Harry arched a brow, suppressing a chuckle. “Oh? I didn’t realize we were scheduled.”

Blaise smirked. “We are now.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before taking Blaise’s hand without hesitation.

Draco, beside them, raised a brow. “Well, I suppose I should take your date then,” he said, turning to Blaise’s girlfriend —Eleanor Fairfax, a Beauxbaton girl, with clever blue eyes and sleek black hair.

She gave him an amused look but accepted his hand gracefully. “Try to keep up, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked. “I was about to say the same to you.”

And just like that, they switched partners.

As Harry and Blaise began to move, the music shifting into something lighter, more playful, Blaise grinned.

“You’re surprisingly graceful, Riddle,” he mused. “Should I be worried?”

Harry scoffed. “You sound like Draco.”

Blaise smirked. “And yet, you’re still here dancing with me. I must say, I feel honored.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head as they twirled effortlessly into the next step.

Across from them, Draco and Eleanor danced with similar ease—Draco moving with practiced elegance, Eleanor keeping up without issue, her expression vaguely amused as Draco twirled her dramatically, earning an eye roll from her and a smirk from him.

For a moment, the weight of the world didn’t exist.

It was just the music, the warmth of candlelight, the glittering decorations, and the sound of laughter as the Yule Ball continued on.

***

As Harry and Blaise stepped away from the dance floor, the music shifting into a softer, slower melody, they wandered toward the refreshments table, taking a moment to breathe.

Blaise smirked, running a hand through his short curls. “Alright, I’ll admit, I see the appeal now. Maybe I should’ve forced you to go dancing sooner.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “You? Forcing me? That’s adorable.”

Blaise looked at him with amusement in his eyes, but before he could retaliate, Harry spotted Pansy and Theodore nearby, engaged in an easy conversation.

A thought struck him.

“Well,” Harry mused, adjusting his sleeves. “Might as well dance with all of my friends tonight.”

Without hesitation, he stepped up to Pansy, offering his hand with a small, knowing smirk. “Would you dance with me?”

Pansy blinked, clearly caught off guard, before her lips curled into an amused grin.

Harry didn’t pay much attention to Theo, though he acknowledged him briefly, glancing at him as he added, “Unless you have any objections.”

Theo, to Harry’s mild surprise, smiled easily, leaning back slightly. “Of course not. If she wants to, go ahead.”

Pansy raised a brow at him before turning back to Harry, placing her hand in his. “I’ll dance with you.”

Pansy was a natural dancer, her steps smooth, her posture elegant, as she followed Harry’s lead effortlessly.

“You’re better at this than I thought,” she commented with a smirk.

Harry huffed a quiet chuckle. “Why does everyone sound so surprised when they say that?”

Pansy tilted her head, mock-thinking. “Maybe because you’re more known for sneaking around and setting things on fire than being an elegant ballroom presence.”

Harry grinned. “Fair.”

They continued dancing, moving in sync with the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the enchanted snowflakes drifting above them.

Then, after a beat of silence, Pansy leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just for him to hear.

“For the past few weeks, you’ve been… tense,” she said, her usual playful tone a little softer now. “And I know it’s because of that bloody golden egg.”

Harry tensed slightly, his grip unconsciously tightening on her waist.

Pansy rolled her eyes, sensing his shift in mood. “Relax. See unlike you, I didn’t go digging through dusty old books like some insufferable Ravenclaw.”

Harry smirked. “Because you can’t stand books?”

“Exactly,” Pansy said smoothly. “Instead, I did something better—I asked around. Not any students, of course, but people close to the champions. And guess what?”

Harry raised a brow. “What?”

“Cedric Diggory already solved the egg.”

That got Harry’s attention. His eyes sharpened slightly. “And?”

Pansy smirked, enjoying the thrill of holding onto information for just a second longer before finally giving in.

“You need to submerge the egg underwater and open it there. The sound changes. That’s where the real message is.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, his mind already racing.

Pansy grinned at his reaction. “Not bad, right?”

Harry shook his head in disbelief, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Not bad at all. How the hell did you find this out?”

Pansy flipped her hair dramatically. “Because I’m amazing.”

Harry chuckled. “No argument there.”

She smirked, pleased, then leaned in again. “Oh, and apparently, the best place to do this is in that abandoned girls’ bathroom on the second floor.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “The abandoned—what? Why?”

“No clue. But Diggory’s been going there.” She shrugged.

Harry nodded, his mind still processing the revelation.

When the song ended, Harry smiled at her, grateful. “Thanks, Pansy. Really.”

She winked. “What are friends for?”

After the dancing, the entire group gathered around, sharing drinks, chatting, and laughing as the night stretched on.

But when the ball started winding down, and students began returning to their dorms, Harry leaned toward Draco.

“We need to go somewhere,” he murmured.

Draco arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Second-floor girls’ bathroom,” Harry continued, smirking. “Weird, I know.”

Draco snorted. “That sounds like the setup to something—.”

Harry grinned. “I know.”

They waited until most students had cleared out, then slipped out of the Great Hall, making their way through the dark, nearly deserted corridors.

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows along the stone walls, and the castle was eerily quiet.

Harry smirked as they rounded a corner. “You do realize that we’re walking into an abandoned place, alone, at night, on the night of the Yule Ball?”

Draco gave him a pointed look. “Yes, thank you for the observation.”

Harry mock-sighed. “And we both know what people usually do when they sneak off alone after the ball.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, fuck off.”

Harry laughed, shouldering open the door to the girls’ bathroom.

The eerie silence of the bathroom was broken by the faint sound of dripping water echoing against the stone walls.

Harry and Draco had barely stepped toward the large, circular bath before a voice floated through the air.

“Who’s there?”

From one of the stalls, a ghostly figure drifted into view, her pale, translucent form hovering slightly above the ground. Moaning Myrtle .

She peered at them through thick, round glasses, her face twisted in mild suspicion. “This is the girls’ bathroom, you know. Not that anyone ever listens to that.”

Harry crossed his arms. “What is a ghost doing in an abandoned bathroom?”

Myrtle huffed, flipping her semi-transparent hair over her shoulder. “I haunt this bathroom, obviously.” She floated closer, squinting at Harry. “Wait a second… I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Harry didn’t answer immediately, tilting his head slightly as he watched her.

Her brows furrowed, as if something was bothering her.

And then—

Her expression shifted entirely.

She froze midair, her eyes widening, her transparent hands clutching at her robes.

A sharp, visible fear took over her entire form.

“ You ,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Draco blinked, glancing between Harry and Myrtle in confusion. “What?”

Myrtle began to float backward, trembling, her ghostly form flickering slightly. “You’re—” she cut off, her voice turning to panic. “You look like him . You—”

Her entire body shuddered before she let out a small squeak and bolted, disappearing through the nearest wall.

Draco stared at the empty space where she had been. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Harry simply rolled his eyes. “Forget about her.”

Draco frowned. “What was that about?”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Draco with deadpan seriousness and said, “Take off your clothes.”

Draco choked. “Excuse me?”

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not like that, you idiot.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, looking highly skeptical. “Then like what?”

Harry held up the golden egg. “Pansy told me that in order to hear the real message, the egg has to be submerged underwater.”

Draco blinked, realization dawning. “Oh.”

Harry smirked. “Unless you want to go swimming fully clothed, by all means—”

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he pulled off his robes. “You could’ve led with that.”

Harry just grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Harry and Draco tossed their robes aside, stripping down to their boxers before stepping into the large, circular bath in the center of the room.

The water was warm against his skin, steam curling into the air.

Harry held the golden egg in both hands. “Alright. Here goes.”

He submerged it, twisting the latch—

A song filled the water.

A haunting, ethereal melody, the words clear as day:

“Come, seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground.

And while you’re searching, ponder this:

We’ve taken what you will sorely miss.”

Harry’s stomach twisted slightly at that line.

“An hour long you’ll have to look,

To recover what we took.

But past an hour—the prospect’s black,

Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”

The moment Harry pulled the egg back out, the song cut off instantly, leaving only the soft ripple of water.

Draco ran a hand through his damp hair, blinking at Harry. “What. The hell. Was that?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately.

Something about the words bothered him—hit too close to home.

He didn’t know why.

But something about the warning in that song felt too real.

Draco nudged his shoulder. “Well? Any clue what it means?”

Harry exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the egg.

“No,” he murmured. “But we’re going to find out.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat at the Slytherin table, idly picking at his meal. His fork dragged through mashed potatoes more than it ever reached his mouth. He wasn’t particularly hungry—not after another night spent awake, carving ritual runes by wandlight and counting how many sleepless hours remained before the Tournament resumed.

He had nearly completed them all. Each stone had been etched with precision, the ruined corners of old texts cross-referenced again and again. The ritual was nearly ready. Just a few final alignments, one last piece of magic—and yet, the further he got, the heavier the weight on his shoulders grew. It felt like walking closer to a storm with each step.

Across from him, Draco was engaged in a light conversation with Blaise and Pansy, their conversation light and full of holiday sarcasm. Every now and then, Harry felt Draco’s knee knock gently into his under the table, a grounding nudge that didn’t demand a reply. Still, Harry couldn’t bring himself to join in. Not tonight.

His mind was too full. The Tournament. The Plan. Dumbledore’s watchful eyes. Every corridor in this castle seemed lined with invisible threads, tugging tighter around him.

And then—

“Um—Harry?”

Harry blinked and looked up. A younger Slytherin stood beside the table, shifting on his feet and twisting the end of his sleeve nervously.

“Professor Snape wants to see you,” the boy said, voice barely above a whisper.

Draco’s attention immediately turned toward Harry, his brow furrowing. “Snape? What could he possibly want during the holidays?”

The boy shrugged, clearly having no idea. “He just said it was urgent.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco, who looked mildly suspicious.

“I’ll find out soon enough,” Harry muttered, standing from his seat. “Don’t wait up.”

Draco nodded, but his expression remained unreadable.

Harry strode out of the Great Hall, weaving through the near-empty corridors, his thoughts racing. Snape summoning him during the holidays? That wasn’t normal.

He didn’t like the uncertainty.

By the time he reached Snape’s office, the heavy door creaked open before he could knock, revealing Snape seated behind his desk, his sharp, black eyes already fixed on Harry.

“Riddle,” Snape said coolly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Harry hesitated for only a second before complying, his expression carefully neutral.

“What’s this about?”

Snape sat back in his chair, folding his hands together. “I thought it prudent to… have a conversation with you. Away from prying ears.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “About what, exactly?”

Snape’s voice was clipped, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable.

“Your father.”

A tense silence settled between them.

Harry kept his face unreadable, but his hands clenched into fists under the desk. “Go on.”

Snape’s dark eyes didn’t leave his. “Do not mistake my role within your father’s circle as blind loyalty. My allegiance was always conditional, and the same remains true now. I am not here to help you fulfill some inherited ambition, nor do I intend to allow you to repeat his mistakes.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register.

Then—anger flared hot and sharp in Harry’s chest.

He leaned forward, his voice dangerously quiet. “You’re saying you weren’t loyal to him? To us?” 

Snape didn’t flinch. “Your father trusted me because he understood the value of strategy. But I will not let sentiment cloud my judgment, as it clearly does yours. You may share his name, his magic, and his ambition, but you are not him.”

A muscle in Harry’s cheek twitched. “So why now?” he asked. “Why tell me this now ?”

“Because you’re standing on the same precipice he once did,” Snape said, voice quieter now. “And you need to know who’s holding the line—and who’s waiting for you to fall.”

Harry’s silence was tight and brimming with restraint. His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately.

Snape met his gaze without hesitation. “Your father’s downfall was his inability to recognize when to adapt. You would do well to learn from his mistakes, not repeat them.”

Harry’s breath came slower, more controlled, but his fury still burned under the surface.

Snape leaned forward, his voice dropping.

“You are being watched, Riddle—by the Order, by Dumbledore, even by those who call themselves your allies. Every move you make is being weighed and measured.”

Harry gave a humorless smile. “And what about you, Professor ? Are you weighing and measuring me too?”

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I am offering you advice. Whether you take it is your decision. But know this—your father’s shadow looms over you, and it will either shield you or consume you. The choice is yours.”

The words sat heavy in the space between them.

Then, slowly, Harry stood. The chair scraped against the stone floor, but he didn’t care. His gaze was cold, unreadable.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “And you certainly don’t have the right to talk about my father like that.”

Snape’s expression remained unreadable as he added one final thing,“Your father always underestimated Dumbledore. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Harry looked him in the eye, a cruel smile on his face. “And you’re underestimating me, Snape.”

He walked out, the door slamming shut behind him, but his mind was spinning.

Snape had just confirmed what he had long suspected. And now, Harry knew exactly where he stood. The lines of loyalty were far more tangled than they appeared, and trust was a commodity he could no longer afford to give freely. 

*** 

He sat at his usual spot in the library, parchments and books sprawled out in front of him, each filled with intricate symbols, translations, and detailed notes. His quill scratched against the parchment, meticulously writing down the last few details of what he had deciphered.

The ritual.

The answer.

He was so close.

For months, he had poured over books, painstakingly unraveling the complexity of his father’s work. The pieces had been scattered across various texts, hidden within layers of ancient magic and riddles. But now—now he had nearly everything.

The key to bringing his father back.

The ritual required three essential things:

1. The original location where the disappearance occurred. That meant he had to return to the battlefield—the exact spot where his father had vanished in the white light. The magic was bound to that place, and it could only be undone there.
2. A source of immense magical energy. He had already figured this out—his father had used a combination of ancient runes, ritualistic magic, and his own power. The Triwizard Tournament’s magic had been interfering with Harry’s ability to test his theories, but the energy it produced was something he could manipulate if necessary.
3. Precise timing. The ritual couldn’t just be performed anywhere, anytime. It had to be under the right conditions. And now, as he cross-referenced another book, he was beginning to realize why the timing mattered.

He needed to act as soon as possible. But that was the problem. He was being watched.

Dumbledore, the Order, the teachers—everyone had their eyes on him.

Leaving Hogwarts undetected was not as easy as it once had been. He had too many people observing his every move, waiting for him to slip, waiting to confirm their suspicions about him.

Which meant he had to wait.

And he hated waiting.

His fingers curled into a fist as he glared down at his notes. The logical part of his brain knew he had no choice. He couldn’t just walk out of Hogwarts in the middle of the school year and apparate to a battlefield swarming with Ministry protections and lingering remnants of Order activity.

He would be caught immediately.

But summer break?

That could work.

By then, security would be lax, students would be leaving, and professors would be distracted with the year’s end.

And that meant he had only a few more months to perfect everything.

The thought both excited and frustrated him. So close, yet so far.

Draco’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.“You’re thinking too hard again.”

Harry looked up, blinking as Draco took the seat next to him, eyeing the mess of papers with a knowing expression.

“I’m close,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands. “I have everything. I just need the right moment.”

Draco leaned forward slightly. “And that moment isn’t now.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “No. But I don’t want to wait until the summer, either. I need to find another way.”

“What you need,” Draco moved his chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the stone floor. His presence was steady, grounding. “is some rest. You’ve been at this for hours. Take a break.”

“I can’t—” Harry started, but the words faltered as Draco reached out, his hand resting lightly on Harry’s forearm.

“You won’t get anywhere if you collapse from exhaustion,” Draco continued, his voice low but firm. “You’re no good to anyone—not to your father, not to this plan—if you burn yourself out. Just rest for a bit.”

Harry’s protests died in his throat as his body betrayed him, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Without even realizing it, he shifted, leaning his head against Draco’s shoulder. The warmth was comforting, and before he could stop himself, he let out a soft sigh.

“I need to keep researching,” Harry mumbled, the words slurring slightly as his eyes drooped.

Draco didn’t reply, but Harry could feel the faintest movement as Draco adjusted his posture to make Harry more comfortable. The faint noise of quill on parchment in the background, the library silent except for the occasional flick of pages, and whispering students.

Within moments, Harry’s breathing evened out, his exhaustion finally winning the battle. Draco glanced down at him, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Stubborn idiot.” he muttered quietly, though his tone lacked any bite.

Draco stayed where he was, his shoulder supporting Harry’s weight. And for the first time in a while, Harry was at ease. Broad shoulders slumped softly against the seat. Nimble hands rested limply in his lap. Pink lips parted the barest amount, while dark lashes rested against soft cheeks. Though, Harry’s eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath thin lids, mind incapable of resting even as he slept.

Chapter Text

December 31st was meant to be a day of celebration. The castle hummed with excitement, alive with the few students who had stayed for the Yule Ball and the tournament. The Slytherin common room buzzed with activity as preparations for their annual New Year’s Eve party took shape. But for Harry, the day had felt heavy the moment he woke up—or rather, the moment he didn’t wake up.

He hadn’t slept at all the night before. The unease that had been building inside him had kept him awake, turning over in his thoughts until dawn. He even tried to sleep beside Draco, as he usually did when he was overwhelmed and needed some comfort, but it hadn’t worked. The quiet of Draco’s presence didn’t calm him this time. The anxiety wouldn’t fade, no matter how close he was to him.

Since it was the holiday season and they didn’t have any classes, Harry saw no reason to get up early. So he stayed in Draco's bed, letting the hours stretch on, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets. As evening began to approach, he reluctantly left the comfort of the bed, knowing that avoiding everyone and everything wouldn't make things better.

Draco, of course, knew what was going on. He knew why Harry was "sulking," but he didn't press. Instead, he had quietly told Blaise and Pansy to leave Harry be, understanding that today was harder for him than most.

Harry barely spoke during lunch. His mind wandered aimlessly. The chatter of students, the laughter echoing through the halls—it all felt distant, like background noise.

Because today wasn’t just the end of the year.

It was his father’s birthday.

Nearly a year since he disappeared. Almost a year had passed. 

Harry clenched his jaw as he walked through the corridors, trying to push the thoughts away. He couldn’t afford to get lost in them—not here, not today. But the weight in his chest lingered, pressing down, making it harder to breathe.

Draco noticed.

Of course, he did.

Draco always noticed.

By mid evening, the Slytherin common room had transformed into a whirlwind of activity. Music played, drinks flowed, and students laughed, preparing to welcome the new year.

Harry sat in his usual spot by the fireplace, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the flames, though he wasn’t truly seeing them. The noise of the room felt muffled, as though it was happening far away. He hadn’t touched his drink and had barely spoken more than a few words all night. His thoughts weighed on him, growing more overwhelming by the minute.

Finally, unable to ignore the heaviness pressing on him any longer, he stood, planning to head to the dorm and escape to some solitude.

But as he moved, He felt Draco’s eyes on him long before the other boy spoke. Without hesitation, Draco’s voice cut through the chatter, firm and unyielding.

“Come with me,” Draco said suddenly, stepping beside him.

Harry glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

“Just—come with me,” Draco repeated, quieter this time.

There was something in his voice. Something certain.

And Harry—always—trusted it.

So, without another word, he followed.

The castle was nearly silent. The torches flickered dimly as Draco led him through the halls, his pace steady and determined.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

But when Draco finally pushed open a door, the scent of warm spices and fresh bread filled the air.

The kitchen.

Harry blinked as he stepped inside, his gaze falling onto the large island counter—where bags of flour, sugar, eggs, butter, and chocolate chips were neatly arranged.

His stomach twisted.

Slowly, he turned to Draco, confusion flickering across his face.

Draco met his gaze, his expression soft, steady. “It’s his birthday,” he said simply. “And we always baked on his birthday.”

Harry’s breath hitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Because Draco remembered.

After all this time, Draco remembered.

For a second, Harry thought he might cry. But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded. “Alright.”

They worked in silence at first.

Draco measured the flour while Harry cracked the eggs. The only sounds were the occasional clinks of metal bowls and the rhythmic mixing of ingredients.

But slowly, the tension began to ease.

It started small—Draco flicking a bit of flour onto Harry’s sleeve.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Did you just—”

Draco smirked. “No idea what you’re talking about mate.”

Harry responded by tossing a handful of flour at Draco’s chest.

Draco gasped, offended. “You absolute menace.”

The kitchen descended into war.

Eventually, they got back on track, albeit slightly covered in flour.

The dough was nearly done when Draco opened the bag of chocolate chips and poured a handful into the batter.

He hesitated before throwing in the rest.

Harry noticed immediately. His lips twitched. “Don’t even think about it.”

Draco shot him a mockingly innocent look. “Think about what?”

Harry snatched the bag from his hands before he could steal any. “Merlin, you’re just like him.”

Draco scoffed. “Excuse me?”

Harry smirked, rolling his eyes. “You know exactly what I mean.”

And Draco did.

Because Tom Riddle—Lord Voldemort himself—had an unhealthy obsession with chocolate.

Specifically, chocolate chips.

Every year, without fail, Tom would stand at the counter of the kitchen with his arms crossed, pretending to supervise while stealing handfuls of chocolate chips when he thought they weren’t looking.

Harry and Draco had tried to stop him.

They never succeeded.

Harry shook his head, laughing softly at the memory.

“He thought he was subtle about it, too,” Draco added with a smirk, clearly remembering the same thing.

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Until we started hiding the bag from him.”

Draco grinned. “And he retaliated by vanishing every chocolate bar in the house for a month .”

Harry laughed at that—a real laugh. The kind he hadn’t felt in a while.

Draco smiled at the sound but didn’t say anything.

They finished the cookies without any more war crimes, setting the tray in the oven.

And when they finally sat down on top of the counter, warm cookies in front of them, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Harry stared down at the cookie in his hand. He could feel the weight in his chest—the grief, the ache that never truly went away.

But sitting here, in this kitchen, with Draco in front of him, he also felt something else.

Something lighter.

Something almost peaceful.

He glanced at Draco, his throat tight.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Draco didn’t look at him, but his lips curled into a small smile as he took a bite of his cookie.

“Anytime.”

***

The Slytherin common room was alive with chaos. The only source of light came from enchanted green LED orbs strung across the walls and ceiling, giving the room an otherworldly glow. The music boomed from a DJ table someone had somehow smuggled in, shaking the stone walls as students danced wildly on a makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

Bottles of Firewhiskey, champagne, and all sorts of other contraband were scattered around, their contents fueling the energy of the night. Pansy was the star of the dance floor, dressed in a short silver sparkly dress that caught the green light with every spin. She was laughing, spinning, and dancing with a group of Beauxbatons girls that had snuck in, her carefree energy infectious.

Blaise, never one to be left out, was dancing alongside a few others, his voice rising above the music as he sang along dramatically to the lyrics. He had a bottle of champagne in one hand and a mischievous grin on his face as he twirled one of his dance partners.

Draco, meanwhile, sat on one of the sleek leather couches lining the room. He held a glass of Firewhiskey, watching the party with a soft, amused smile. He seemed perfectly at ease, occasionally exchanging sly comments with Blaise when their eyes met.

Harry, however, stood against the wall, away from the chaos. His drink sat forgotten in his hand as he quietly observed the scene. The pounding music and flashing lights weren’t his thing, but he wasn’t about to ruin the fun for his friends.

“Not much of a dancer, are you?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Harry glanced to his left and found Theo Nott standing there, holding a glass of Firewhiskey. His posture was relaxed, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Not really,” Harry replied, his tone clipped but not unfriendly. He wasn’t sure where this was going.

Theo smirked slightly, leaning back against the wall beside him. “Didn’t think so. You strike me as someone who prefers watching the chaos rather than joining it.”

Harry hummed noncommittally, not taking the bait.

A moment of silence stretched between them before Theo spoke again. “Your lot—Draco, Blaise, Pansy—tight-knit group, huh?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing at Theo. “You make it sound like we’re some exclusive club.”

“Aren’t you?” Theo’s smirk widened, but there was a curiosity in his tone that betrayed his attempt at casualness. “I mean, people talk. It’s not every day you see Slytherins actually trusting each other this much.”

Harry shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. “Trust is earned, not given.”

Theo tilted his head, studying Harry for a moment. “And how does one earn yours?”

Harry’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That depends on the person.”

“Fair enough,” Theo said, his tone light, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in his expression. “Still, it must be nice. Having people who’ve got your back.”

Harry let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head as if considering. “Well, it certainly makes it harder for people to sneak their way in.”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not making this easy on me, are you?”

Harry smirked, taking a slow sip of his drink before replying, “And why would I?”

Feeling like he’d spent enough time against the wall, Harry made his way to the couch where Draco was sitting. He sank into the seat beside his best friend, exhaling softly.

Harry had never been particularly close to Theo Nott. Sure, they were dorm-mates, but beyond the occasional shared moment in class or brief conversation, they’d never really interacted much. Harry couldn’t figure out if it was because Theo was shy or if he just didn’t know how to break into the group, but there had always been a noticeable distance between him and the rest of them.

Tonight, though, things seemed different. Theo, usually content to linger on the edges of their social circle, was now trying to engage with Harry, asking questions, making comments, even trying to get under his skin with casual jabs. It was clear that something had shifted. Maybe it was the holiday atmosphere, or maybe the alcohol had loosened him up, but Theo was suddenly trying to wedge himself into Harry’s tight-knit group.

Harry wasn’t sure what had prompted this change, but he wasn’t ready to let Theo in just because he’d decided to make a move tonight. Blaise and Pansy had earned their place in Harry’s circle, and trust wasn’t something Harry gave away easily. He picked his friends carefully, and while Theo might be a dorm-mate, that didn’t automatically mean he had a right to belong.

It was obvious that Theo was eager to be part of something, to join the group that Harry had worked so hard to build, but Harry wasn’t going to make it easy. Trust had to be earned, and Theo would have to prove that he was more than just a passing curiosity.

“You’re not going to join them?” Draco asked, his voice teasing as he nodded toward the dance floor.

Harry snorted. “Do I look like someone who dances?”

Draco smirked. “Not particularly.”

They both watched as Pansy’s wild energy slowed, her dance moves giving way to something much more intimate. She was now kissing one of the Beauxbatons girls, her hands tangled in the other girl’s hair as the crowd around them erupted into cheers.

Harry and Draco exchanged a look, their expressions a mix of amusement and surprise.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Draco said, taking another sip of his drink.

Harry huffed a laugh, rubbing his forehead on Draco’s shoulder. “Honestly? I kind of did.”

The countdown to midnight began, and the room was electrified with excitement.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

Everyone grabbed their drinks, clinking glasses and pulling loved ones closer as the numbers ticked down. Draco moved his hand to his thigh, palm up, a silent gesture for Harry. Without hesitation, Harry smiled and placed his hand in Draco’s.

“Three… two… one… Happy New Year!”

The room exploded with cheers, and a burst of silver confetti rained down from above, shimmering in the green light.

Amid the chaos, Draco turned to Harry. Without a word, he reached over, gently tilting Harry’s chin with two fingers so that their eyes met.

“Happy New Year,” Draco said softly, his voice barely audible above the noise.

Before Harry could respond, Draco leaned in and kissed him. It was soft at first, tentative, but Harry found himself leaning into it, his hand brushing lightly against Draco’s.

When they finally parted, Draco’s lips curved into a smirk. “Well, that was overdue.”

Harry’s cheeks were warm, but he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Happy New Year, Draco.”

The party raged on around them, but for a brief moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin dormitory was unusually quiet. Most students were either still out in the common room or had already turned in for the night. The only sounds in the boys’ dorm were the occasional flicker of the fire and the faint rustling of parchment as Harry absentmindedly flipped through one of his Parseltongue books.

When a sharp, familiar hiss cut through the silence.

His head snapped up.

Low, smooth, unmistakable.

Harry froze.

A dark shadow slithered along the stone floor, weaving between the beds before stopping just at the threshold. The dim green light of the torches flickered over her gleaming emerald-black scales, reflecting off her impossibly smooth body as she lifted her head.

Harry recognized her instantly.

“Nagini?”

The snake tilted her head, golden eyes unblinking as she flicked her tongue.

“Little heir.”

Draco, sitting on his own bed, stiffened but didn’t react. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker of recognition in his silver eyes.

Blaise, however, was not calm.

“The hell is that?” Blaise muttered, sitting up so fast he nearly knocked over his bedside lamp.

Theo, who had been standing near the window, turned slowly, his entire body rigid as he finally spotted the massive snake coiled near the entrance.

“You have got to be joking,” Theo muttered.

Harry was already moving, crossing the room without hesitation, kneeling down in front of Nagini like this was a completely normal occurrence. his hands trembling slightly as he cradled the sides of her head, unsure if she was real or if he was imagining her presence. He couldn’t believe she was actually here, in front of him again, after so long.

“Where have you been?” he asked in Parseltongue.

Nagini shifted slightly, her large body curling in a relaxed posture. “Far. Wandering. Watching. Waiting.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a careful hand along the smooth scales of her head. “You should’ve come sooner.”

“I did not know if I was welcome without him.”

There was a sharp pang in Harry’s chest at that, but he shook it off.

“You’re always welcome,” he murmured.

Meanwhile, behind him, Blaise and Theo were both having silent heart attacks.

“What. The. Hell.” Blaise hissed, his eyes locked onto the massive serpent like it might suddenly strike.

Theo hadn’t moved, but his grip on his book was white-knuckled. “You’re all acting like this is normal. This isn’t normal. How is he doing that ?”

Harry barely spared them a glance, his hand still moving over Nagini’s scales.

“She won’t hurt you.”

Blaise made a noise that sounded a lot like doubt.

Draco finally spoke up, exhaling slowly. “Calm down, both of you. It’s just Nagini.” giving Nagini a small wave.

Blaise shot him a look. “Just? Just? Malfoy, that thing is huge.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “And?”

Blaise gestured wildly. “And? That’s not normal snake size, Draco!”

Nagini’s large head turned slightly, her long body shifting as she regarded the other boys in the room. “They do not trust me.”

“They don’t know you,” Harry responded simply. “But they will.”

Harry smirked. “She’s fine. You’re fine.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Harry ignored them, his focus still on Nagini, who was watching him with the patience of a predator.

“You’ve been alone this whole time?” he asked her, his voice softer now.

The snake shifted slightly, her large body curling closer, though she remained regal and composed. “Yes. But I knew you were here. I have watched. I have waited.”

Harry’s stomach twisted slightly at the thought of her wandering aimlessly for nearly a year, waiting for something—for him.

“You’re safe now,” he promised, his hand still smoothing over the cool scales of her head. “You’re home.”

Nagini simply blinked at him, but it felt like an agreement.

“She’s staying,” Harry announced simply.

Theo looked deeply unamused. Blaise just dropped his head into his hands.

Draco, as usual, looked entirely unfazed.

“I figured,” Draco said.

Nagini slowly slithered deeper into the room, curling herself comfortably in the shadowed corner of Harry's bed like she belonged there.

Harry smirked as he sat back down on his bed, cuddling up with the snake. 

Theo looked about two seconds away from hexing someone—likely himself, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

Blaise finally broke the silence with a sharp, “I swear to Merlin, if I wake up in the middle of the night and that—Nini, Nago—whatever the hell her name is—is trying to eat me, I will commit arson.”

Harry, perfectly unbothered, casually leaned back on his bed, stretching his legs out like this was just another Tuesday night. “Relax, Blaise. She’s family.”

Blaise’s eyes bugged out. “She’s what?”

Theo rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly. “Of course she is,” he muttered, looking like he needed a very strong drink.

Harry smirked, his fingers idly tracing patterns on Nagini’s head. “She doesn’t eat humans.”

Blaise did not look reassured. “That sentence had a lot of room for fine print, Riddle.”

Harry tilted his head, feigning deep thought before adding, “Well… not unless she really, really wanted to.”

Blaise made a strangled noise, and Theo looked done.

Draco, who had been completely unbothered this entire time, finally cut in with an amused drawl, “Blaise, if she wanted to eat you, she would’ve done it by now.”

Blaise gaped at him. “That is not comforting, Draco.”

Harry smirked, barely suppressing his amusement. “Then don’t give her a reason to eat you.”

Theo, still rigid with disbelief, took a few slow steps closer to the bed, his eyes flicking between Harry and the massive snake. "I just—" He paused, clearly trying to wrap his mind around the scene. "How is this even possible? You—you can talk to her. You’re a Parselmouth. How are you doing that?"

The room fell quiet, save for the soft hiss of Nagini’s tongue. All eyes were on Harry, who was still gently caressing the snake’s head as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Draco exhaled slowly from his bed. "It’s simple, Theo," he said, his tone as casual as ever. "Harry's the heir of Slytherin. Parseltongue comes with the package."

Theo’s jaw dropped. “The heir of—? You’re telling me you’re…?”

Harry, with a smirk, simply nodded. “It’s not exactly a secret. Just not something I advertise.”

Theo blinked, his disbelief not quite fading. “You’ve been hiding that for how long now?”

“Not hiding,” Harry corrected, leaning back on the bed, still tracing circles over Nagini’s scales. “Just... never came up.”

Theo groaned into his hands. “I’m going to need a drink after this.” 

Blaise shook his head, still stunned, but Draco, ever unbothered, and in a teasing mood, shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. Just don’t make any sudden moves around Nini .”

Theo went back to his side of the room with deliberate movements before rubbing a hand over his face. “I am never getting used to this.”

Harry just grinned. “Give it time.”

Nagini flicked her tongue, curling tighter in her spot, completely unbothered by the chaos she had caused.

Blaise groaned, flopping back onto his bed, dramatically muttering something about being surrounded by lunatics.

***

The morning after Nagini’s dramatic arrival, Harry woke up feeling irritated.

Not because of the snake—she had curled up silently in the corner of his bed (more like half of his bed) all night, undisturbed and completely unbothered by Blaise’s lingering paranoia. No, his irritation came from that damn golden egg.

He had solved the clue inside—or at least, part of it. He knew the second task involved the Black Lake. He knew that something valuable to him had been taken and hidden beneath the water. What he didn’t know was how deep it was, how long he had to search, or what he was actually supposed to be rescuing.

And that was pissing him off.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, still in his sleepwear, he rubbed his hands over his face.

The Black Lake.

That was his answer. That was where it would happen.

He had done enough research to know that there were merpeople living beneath the surface, and while they weren’t inherently hostile, they weren’t exactly welcoming either. They had their own society, their own rules—and if the task involved something being taken into their territory, then the real challenge wasn’t the water.

It was them.

Draco sat up in his own bed, stretching before giving Harry a pointed look. “You’re thinking too hard this early in the morning.”

Harry huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saving. Could be anything.”

Draco snorted. “It’s obviously not ‘anything.’ It’s whatever’s most important to you .”

Harry shot him an unimpressed look. “Yes, Draco. I gathered that part.”

Draco smirked, throwing the covers off and standing up. “So what’s your plan? Walk in there, glare at the merpeople, and hope they just give it back?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don't be a smartass. First, I need to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to breathe underwater.”

Blaise, who had just woken up and was already annoyed, muttered from his bed, “Gills. Try growing some.”

Harry ignored him. He wasn’t particularly worried about what he’d find under the water, but if he couldn’t stay down there long enough, it wouldn’t matter.

He needed a solution. A spell, a potion—something.

Draco sat next to Harry, running a hand through his messy black curls as he thought. “There’s the Bubble-Head Charm.”

Harry nodded but frowned. “Too unreliable. If something breaks the charm, I’ll be screwed.”

Theo, who had been awake but purposefully ignoring them, finally spoke up. “You could try Gillyweed.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Gillyweed?”

Theo didn’t look up from his book, flipping a page lazily. “It’s a water plant. Eat it, and you grow temporary gills. It’s rare, but not impossible to find.”

Harry considered that. If it worked, it might be his best option. But there was still the matter of actually getting his hands on it.

Draco’s silver eyes narrowed slightly, clearly thinking the same thing. “I doubt it’s just sitting around the greenhouses.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his now combed hair, leaving it messy again. “I’ll figure it out.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by that non-answer. “So you’re just going to walk up to Snape and ask for it?”

Harry smirked slightly. “I’d rather drown.”

Blaise, still half-asleep, muttered, “Drowning sounds like the easier option, honestly.”

Harry stood up, already thinking about his next move. “No one’s drowning. I just need to find someone who actually has the stuff.”

Draco exhaled, rubbing his temples. “And I assume that means you already have someone in mind.”

Harry simply grinned.

Theo shook his head, muttering, “Of course he does.”

Because of course he did.

***

Draco leaned forward, smirking as he lazily picked at his food. “So, Pansy, should we talk about how you were visibly checking out that Gryffindor girl who just walked past us, or should we all just politely pretend we didn’t notice?”

Pansy, who had just taken a sip of pumpkin juice, paused mid-swallow, side-eyeing Draco like she was debating whether to hex him or let it go. “Oh, please.”

Blaise, never one to miss out on entertainment, perked up instantly. “Wait, wait—who?”

Draco grinned. “You know, the one with the dark curls, Granger was it? She passed by a few moments ago, and Pansy’s head actually turned to follow her.”

Blaise let out a mock gasp. “Merlin, Pans, at least be subtle.”

Pansy scoffed, completely unbothered. “And here I was thinking we were talking about actual news.” She set her goblet down, raising an eyebrow. “Like, say… the fact that you two”—she gestured between Draco and Harry—“finally stopped playing that ridiculously long-winded game of ‘we’re just best friends’ and actually kissed.”

Harry, who had been cutting into his food peacefully, froze for a fraction of a second.

Draco huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he picked up his fork. “Well, that came out of nowhere.”

Blaise, grinning wildly, leaned forward. “No, no, she’s right, let’s talk about this. I mean, you two have been practically unbearable with the tension for months , so I think we all deserve to acknowledge that moment for what it was—a victory for common sense.”

Harry exhaled slowly, setting his knife down and giving Pansy a look. “So, just to clarify, your shameless staring is off-topic, but our relationship is fair game?”

Pansy shrugged. “You and Draco finally making a move affects all of us. My harmless interest in a cute Gryffindor doesn’t.”

Blaise snickered. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”

Draco, smirking, turned to Harry. “You did kiss me back.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that like it’s some sort of evidence.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

Blaise and Pansy both exchanged a look, positively thriving on this conversation.

Harry, deciding he had enough of this, leaning forward planting a soft kiss on Dracos pink lips, and simply returned to eating. “You lot are ridiculous.”

Draco hummed, pink coloring his cheeks. “Ridiculous, yet correct.”

As they were walking back to their dormitory, at some point, Harry was just… gone.

It wasn’t obvious at first.

One minute, He was walking beside Zabini, mid-conversation, and the next—Harry was missing.

At first, no one thought much of it. Considering stunts like this were typical of him.

But then time passed.

Blaise and Theo played a round of wizard’s chess.

Pansy came down to the common room, scolding them for being too loud.

Draco sat there, not saying much, but watching the door like he knew something wasn’t right.

Then, just as suddenly as he had disappeared—Harry came back.

He didn’t make an entrance.

No dramatic reveal, no explanation.

Just Harry, walking into the dorms as if he hadn’t been gone for hours.

By the time Draco actually noticed him again, Harry was already in his dormitory, lounging comfortably on his bed, his posture completely relaxed.

Nagini was curled beside him, coiled loosely around his legs, her massive head resting on his stomach as he idly ran his fingers along her scales.

He looked perfectly at peace.

Draco hesitated for a moment, watching Harry silently, before stepping forward. As soon as he did, Harry glanced up at him and patted the space next to him on the bed in invitation.

Wordlessly, Draco sat down, stretching out alongside Harry. Harry adjusted himself, shifting closer until his head rested on Draco’s chest, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns over Nagini’s smooth scales.

Draco’s voice broke the quiet. “Where were you?” His tone was curious, not accusing, though the question hung heavy in the air. “What were you up to?”

Harry tilted his head slightly, looking up at Draco with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a small, enigmatic smile. “It’s a surprise.”

Draco raised a brow but didn’t press further, instead letting the silence settle between them as they lay there.

Nagini shifted slightly, but Harry’s soothing touch kept her calm, and soon enough, the steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing combined with the warmth of his chest lulled Harry into an unintentional nap.

Draco glanced down, noting the relaxed features of Harry’s sleeping face. He didn’t move, letting the moment linger, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up, stretching lazily before he reached out instinctively, but the warmth of Draco was missing, leaving the bed feeling slightly cold. He looks up towards his bed finding it was empty as well.

That was… odd. Draco never woke up earlier than him. In fact, Draco hated waking up early.

Frowning, Harry got up, dressed quickly, and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Draco wasn’t there either.

Still, Harry didn’t panic. Maybe Draco was off somewhere else, maybe he had an errand or a last-minute meeting with Snape—whatever.

Blaise and Theo eventually came in, sitting down across from him, but Draco never showed up.

Harry tried to keep his rising unease in check.

The second task was only a couple of hours away. He didn’t have time to be searching for Draco right now. But something wasn’t right.

Draco was never late for meals.

And now, as the minutes ticked by, he was nowhere to be found.

***

The champions stood at the edge of the Black Lake, the crowd buzzing with excitement as Dumbledore stepped forward to make his announcement.

Harry wasn’t focused on the crowd.

He was focused on Dumbledore, who—as always—looked far too calm which alway pisses Harry off.

Dumbledore’s voice rang clear and steady across the water.

“What you hold dear has been taken.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

Dumbledore continued, his expression serene. “Beneath the lake, a treasure most valuable to you lies hidden among the merpeople. You will have one hour to retrieve them.”

I must have misheard.Them?

Not an object. Not a challenge. An actual human being.

Harry felt like the world had just tilted sideways.

He turned his gaze sharply toward Dumbledore, and for the briefest second, Dumbledore met his eyes.

Harry knew.

He knew exactly who had been taken.

His fingers curled into fists, and his magic swelled, anger simmering dangerously beneath his skin.

That old bastard.

He didn’t just take Draco. He dragged him into some underwater village, most definitely left him all alone with no protection, all for some fucking game.

His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He wanted to march straight up to Dumbledore, wanted to demand how the hell he thought this was acceptable, wanted to—

But the task was starting.

And Draco was still underwater.

He had no choice.

Not now.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He reached into his swim shorts, pulled out the Gillyweed he had stolen from Snape’s inventory last night, and shoved it into his mouth.

The taste was horrendous.

As he chewed, a choking sensation took over his throat. His body revolted against it, but he forced himself to swallow. His lungs seized—for a horrifying second, he thought he’d actually suffocate right there on the dock—

I don’t have time, I need to get to Draco.

The timer had barely started when Harry launched himself into the lake.

Then suddenly, he could breathe again.

He felt it—the shift. His hands tingled, his fingers webbed together slightly, and a sharp sensation bloomed at the sides of his neck—gills.

The water was freezing, but he didn’t care. His lungs expanded easily, and the initial panic of drowning melted away as his body adjusted.

He needed to move fast.

He pushed forward, cutting through the water with ease.

The deeper he swam, the darker the lake became, but his vision adjusted. Shapes began to form—shadows moving beneath him.

The merpeople.

Dozens of them. Watching. Waiting.

They didn’t approach him, which was a good sign.

And then—he saw them.

Four students.

Four figures floating limply, their ankles bound by enchanted chains, suspended in the eerie stillness of the water.

And Draco was among them.

Harry wasted no time.

He reached Draco first, wrapping an arm around him immediately as he grabbed the chain and yanked. It didn’t budge.

His magic surged. He wasn’t about to waste time undoing a ridiculous magical lock. He forced it open.

The chains snapped apart, disappearing in a whirl of magic.

Harry grabbed Draco, securing an arm around his chest before kicking off the ground, propelling them both toward the surface.

It took him around thirty minutes to complete the task.

As soon as they broke the surface, Draco coughed violently, spluttering as he finally woke up in Harry’s grip.

Harry barely gave him time to breathe before pulling him into a tight embrace.

Draco was shaking, still gasping for air, but his arms clawed around Harry just as tightly, his fingers digging into the fabric of his robes as if anchoring himself to reality.

Harry’s voice trembled, barely a whisper. “Are you okay? Draco, are you okay?”

Draco couldn’t find the words, still struggling to catch his breath. Instead, he gave a small, shaky nod, his grip tightening in response.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

But Harry didn’t care.

His gaze snapped toward Dumbledore.

His rage hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it had only grown stronger.

Draco was safe. But Harry wasn’t relieved. He was furious.

His emerald eyes burned as he glared at Dumbledore, his anger a silent, seething storm.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

***

The walk back to the Slytherin common room was dead silent.

Harry wasn’t just angry—he was seething.

His steps were quick, sharp, and full of barely contained fury, his magic crackling beneath his skin like wildfire. His breathing was steady, but his jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

Behind him, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy followed, their expressions ranging from concern to outright fear.

Draco had been trying to talk to him since they left the Black Lake. Harry wasn’t listening.

“Harry,” Draco called again, his voice quiet but firm.

No response.

Harry’s fists curled tighter.

The moment they stepped into the common room, Harry didn’t pause—he made a sharp turn toward one of the study rooms, pushing through the door, and the others had no choice but to follow.

The door slammed shut behind them.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry cast a silencing spell around the entire room.

And then—he snapped.

“Who the hell does he think he is?”

The rage in his voice was unfiltered, raw, and loud.

“He took you!” Harry whirled around, his gaze locked onto Draco, his expression dark with fury. “He took you, threw you into that lake, chained you to the bottom, and used you like a piece in his game. Like you were nothing.”

Draco didn’t look away. His hands were still slightly shaking, but his expression remained neutral, waiting.

Harry’s voice only grew harsher.

“He talks about safety, about how younger students shouldn’t be in danger, and then he pulls a fucking stunt like this?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “So it’s too dangerous for us to enter the tournament, but it’s perfectly fine for him to use our lives like we’re disposable? Like we’re just—props in his ridiculous schemes?”

No one spoke.

Pansy and Blaise were standing stiffly near the door, listening but not daring to interrupt.

Harry slammed his fist on the table, the impact echoing in the quiet room.

“I’ve had enough.” His voice was low now, but deadly calm. “I don’t care what game he’s playing. I don’t care what he thinks he’s doing. If he wants to see what I’ll do when he pushes me to the edge—”

His green eyes burned as he slowly lifted his gaze.

“Then I’ll end him with his own game.”

The words settled heavily in the air.

Then, Harry turned his attention to Pansy and Blaise.

He looked them both dead in the eyes.

No more half-truths. No more hiding.

They needed to know everything.

His voice sharp and unwavering. “The reason I needed those books, the ones about ancient magic, runes, and spells no one teaches anymore—is because my father is Lord Voldemort, and he is not dead, and I’m going to bring him back.”

The reaction was instant.

Pansy gasped sharply, taking an instinctive step back, like the very air had been knocked out of her lungs. Blaise’s eyes widened so fast it was almost comical, his normally composed expression completely shattered.

Silence.

A deep, heavy silence.

Like the weight of the revelation had sucked all the air out of the room.

Harry just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

Pansy was visibly struggling for words. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then tried a second time, her voice almost breathless.

“I’m sorry—WHAT?”

Blaise, for once, had nothing to say. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

Harry just watched them. Calm. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

“You—you can’t be serious.” Pansy’s voice had dropped slightly, like her brain was still trying to compute the information.

Blaise finally found his voice, though it was slightly hoarse. “That’s—That’s not a joke you can just say, Riddle.”

“Do you see me laughing?” Harry’s tone was steady.

Blaise and Pansy stared.

Lord Voldemort’s son .

The Dark Lord’s. son.

Pansy’s breathing had slowed, her hands slightly curled at her sides, her gaze flickering rapidly between Draco and Harry—looking for some kind of denial.

She found none.

Draco, standing beside Harry, wasn’t shocked at all.

Pansy turned her gaze back to Harry. “You’re actually serious.”

Harry’s expression didn’t shift. “Yes.”

Then, Blaise let out a long, unsteady breath, running a hand over his face. He looked like he was about to start laughing from pure disbelief.

And then, after a few more seconds, he finally said “Well. Shit.”

Pansy exhaled. “No kidding.”

The shock was still there, but it was easing into something else.

Something new.

Something unspoken, but understood.

Harry wasn’t just their friend anymore.

He was a legacy. A leader. A game changer.

And suddenly, everything—the secrecy, the runes, the research, the knowledge he shouldn’t have had at his age—it all made sense.

Harry wasn’t just researching powerful magic.

He was reclaiming something.Fighting for something.

A long silence passed before Pansy straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

Then, she simply asked, “What do you need us to do?” No hesitation.

Blaise, after a beat of silence, sighed heavily before shaking his head. Then, without missing a beat, he smirked slightly.

“Well, I suppose if we’re going to commit treason, we might as well do it properly.”

Harry exhaled slowly.

They were in.

His sharp green eyes flickered toward Pansy. “What about Nott?”

Pansy, who had still been absorbing everything, blinked. “What about him?”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “How long have you known him?”

Pansy frowned slightly, considering the question. “Since childhood. Our families have always been close.”

Harry didn’t look away. “Can he be trusted?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. Then, her expression hardened into certainty.

“Yes.”

Harry studied her, looking for any doubt, but there was none.

“This isn’t a game, Pansy,” he said seriously. “If he’s involved, he’s involved . There’s no going back.”

She didn’t waver.

“I know.”

A beat of silence. Then, he nodded.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the room.

Harry, Draco, and Blaise stood there for only a few minutes before the door creaked open again.

Pansy stepped back inside—Theo following behind her.

Theo’s expression was unreadable. His sharp eyes flickered over everyone in the room, his usual smugness nowhere to be seen. He closed the door behind him, hands casually in his pockets.

“Alright,” he said, voice measured. “Pansy says you lot are up to something interesting. Let’s hear it.”

Harry nodded once.

And then—he tells them the plan.

Everyone listened, watched.

They talked strategy. They took notes.

They planned.

Because this wasn’t just a tournament anymore.

This was something much, much bigger.

And with every passing second, with every piece of the puzzle falling into place, one thing became increasingly clear—

Dumbledore had made a mistake missing with him, with his family.

And Harry was going to make sure he regretted it.

Chapter Text

Snow drifted lazily from the enchanted ceiling, disappearing just before it could touch the tables. At the Slytherin table, Harry sat comfortably against Draco, his shoulder brushing against Draco’s as he absentmindedly toyed with the other boy’s fingers beneath the table. Across from them, Theo and Blaise were deep in a heated debate about Quidditch strategies, though neither seemed particularly interested in reaching a conclusion.

“All I’m saying,” Blaise huffed, “is that Krum isn’t that great. He’s all flash, no strategy.”

Theo scoffed, “Please, Zabini. You just don’t like him because he turned down your autograph request.”

Blaise gasped, clutching his chest. “That was years ago, and I’ve moved past it.”

Draco smirked. “Clearly.”

Pansy arrived then, plopping herself beside Theo and stealing a croissant off his plate.

“Did you lot hear?” she said around a bite. “Apparently, that French girl—what’s her name, Amélie?—admitted she’s in love with Diggory. The whole thing is ridiculous. Poor thing doesn’t know his heart calls out for a specific Ravenclaw, Cho Chang . ”

Blaise groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “I swear to Merlin, if I hear one more thing about Diggory—”

“Jealous, Zabini?” Draco drawled, shifting slightly so he could drape an arm to the back of Harry’s shoulder, fingers lightly grazing Harry’s nape.

Blaise scoffed, “Of a Hufflepuff? Please.”

Theo smirked. “Relax, Blaise. Not everyone can be as tragically unattainable as Harry.”

Harry arched a brow, tilting his head. “Tragically unattainable?”

Theo gestured vaguely. “The whole ‘dark and brooding prince’ thing. It’s a very specific aesthetic.”

Draco made a thoughtful sound, tracing idle patterns against the back of Harry’s neck. “He does pull it off well.”

Harry didn’t even look up from his tea. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Draco smirked. “What can I say? I have a thing for tragic figures.”

Blaise groaned. “Merlin, you two are disgusting.”

Pansy hummed, pretending to gag. “Disgustingly adorable. Please keep going.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was an unmistakable fondness in his expression.

Draco, ever the menace, leaned in just enough to murmur near Harry’s ear. “If we’re disgusting now, just imagine what they’d think if I—”

Harry pinched his thigh under the table, cutting him off. Draco hissed, but the smug glint in his eyes remained.

Pansy sighed dramatically, turning to Theo. “Can you believe them?”