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His body felt heavy, like he was sinking into something too deep to escape. His eyelids barely obeyed when he tried to open them, sluggish and slow.
Darkness.
The only light came from flickering candles, their weak flames barely holding back the shadows. His breath hitched. Small. Shallow. The air smelled strange—like something old, like damp stone and melted wax.
Where…?
His first instinct was to make himself smaller. He curled his fingers into the fabric beneath him, pressing his hands flat as if bracing for something. His uncle’s voice echoed faintly in his head, the memory of a firm grip yanking him from his cupboard surfacing before he could push it away.
The car. Being thrown inside. The cold night air.
And then—nothing.
His body tensed. He didn’t know where he was, and that was never a good thing. He should be quiet. Still. If he didn’t move, if he didn’t make a sound, maybe they wouldn’t notice him. Maybe they would just—
A figure moved.
A dark silhouette loomed in his limited vision, shifting at the edge of the candlelight. He flinched, barely breathing, his stomach twisting in knots. He had learned not to meet people’s eyes. Looking up too quickly could mean trouble.
"You’re perfect,” the figure murmured. The voice was smooth, almost pleased. “And you've come at the perfect time. This must be a sign…”
A sign? He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand.
His head was spinning, vision blurring at the edges. The words faded into an indistinct hum. He swallowed, trying to will himself to stay awake, to pay attention—he needed to, didn’t he? But his body felt so tired.
“It’s okay. Shush, you need to sleep for now.”
A hand. A touch—too close. His shoulders twitched, expecting a sharp grip, but there was only a distant pressure against his head. And then—pain.
The world tilted. Then vanished.
—
When he woke, the first thing he noticed was the voices.
Low. Whispering. Chanting.
He kept his eyes half-lidded, forcing himself to stay still. He knew better than to move too quickly. The air felt thick, pressing down on his chest. Shadows flickered around him, bodies shrouded in black cloaks forming a circle. He couldn’t see their faces, but he knew—he knew they were watching.
He stayed quiet. Quiet was safe. Quiet meant no one noticed him.
But someone did.
A figure stepped closer. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched, instinct telling him to move back, to shrink away—but his body didn’t listen. He was too weak. His stomach ached dully, a deep hollowness that hadn’t gone away for days. Aunt Petunia had been extra angry this time after he’d accidentally broken one of her fancy plates. No dinner. Not even leftovers scraped into a napkin.
He was used to hunger. But this… this was worse.
Something was wrong.
The air felt colder. His skin prickled as the chanting grew louder. The figure raised an arm, and before he could even process what was happening—
Pain.
Blinding, burning pain tore through his stomach. His small body jerked, breath knocked from his lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The pain was too much. It stole everything.
Something sharp jutted from his stomach. A dagger.
A dagger.
The realization barely settled before the pain dragged him under. His pulse pounded in his ears, the candle flames suddenly roaring to life, burning too bright. He could see everything now—see the altar beneath him, see the red pooling around his small frame, soaking into the cold stone.
The chanting was frantic now. The air crackled. Something was happening.
Something terrifying.
The room trembled. The air thickened, pressing down on him, and the voices—no, the chanting—stumbled into silence.
An overwhelming presence filled the space—a force so powerful, so suffocating, that it pressed down on everything around it. It was ancient. Primal. The sheer weight of it made the cloaked figures freeze, their chants faltering into stunned silence.
It was vast. Overwhelming. It seeped into everything, coiling through the air like something alive. It was too much, too big, too powerful. It made his bones feel small, his breath catch in his throat.
And then, a voice.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t need to. It rippled through the air, heavy with something indescribable. It demanded attention. It demanded obedience.
"Who…"
The darkness took him before he could hear the rest.
He drifted into awareness slowly.
His body ached, a deep, dragging exhaustion that made even the smallest movement feel impossible. His limbs were heavy, as if weighed down by something unseen, but it wasn’t just the exhaustion—it was habit. Stay still. Stay unnoticed. Stay safe.
His eyes remained shut, not only because they were too heavy to open but because he knew better. If he kept them closed, he could listen, assess, decide what kind of place this was before anyone realized he was awake.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth.
It wasn’t the smothering heat of too many bodies packed into a cupboard, nor the stale, trapped air of a locked space. It was soft. Comforting, even. The surface beneath him wasn't cold stone but something plush, something almost… safe.
He knew better than to believe in that.
A shift. The mattress dipped beside him. Someone was there.
A light touch ghosted over his hair. He tensed before he could stop himself, every muscle coiling tight. His body resisted the warmth, waiting for the touch to turn harsh, for the fingers to pull, to shove. But nothing happened. The hand simply rested against his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
"Poor thing… stuck in such a horrible situation."
The voice was soft, almost sad. A woman.
He stayed still, his breathing measured, controlled. People spoke more freely when they thought he wasn’t listening.
A sigh. Then, the woman spoke again.
“Dad, what exactly happened? How could a little boy end up there?”
Dad? So there was someone else here.
A deeper voice responded, smooth and almost familiar in a way that made something in his chest twist.
"I don't know, Char-Char. I never expected them to use a child. It's been a long time since something like this happened."
That voice… He had heard it before. But where?
The woman sighed again, the weight of it pressing into the air.
"Well, I’ll leave him with you for now. I need to check in with Vaggie about the hotel."
"Go, Char-Char. The hotel is your dream. Al and I can take care of the boy."
Al? There was another person?
"Alright, Dad, I’ll see you later."
Her presence left his side, her footsteps fading, followed by the quiet click of a door. Silence wrapped around the room, thick and expectant.
He forced himself to relax, loosening his body enough to keep up the illusion of unconsciousness. He had learned long ago that just because he was awake didn’t mean he should let anyone know.
Then, another voice.
It was different. Strange. It crackled and shifted, layered with an odd static, like an old radio struggling to hold a frequency.
"Well, care to enlighten me? This has happened before, hasn’t it? And why, pray tell, is the boy here instead of being left behind?"
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier.
A pause. Then, the deeper voice sighed.
"It's not that I don’t want to tell you—it’s just complicated."
"Oh, I have time. I’m sure I can comprehend it."
"If you say so. First things first, you know there are many cults out there, right? Most of them believe Satan is the ruler of Hell. And a lot of them think Lucifer and Satan are the same."
"I do. But what does that have to do with this?"
"Patience. Usually, when they attempt summoning rituals, they fail. They don’t use the right name or title. If they chant 'Satan, the ruler of Hell,' nothing happens because it’s wrong. But if they use just 'the ruler of Hell' or, somehow, they find my true name—then, well, I get summoned."
His breath hitched.
Summoned?
Why? Why would anyone summon him?
"And what does that have to do with the boy?"
Another sigh, deeper this time.
"For a summoning ritual, a sacrifice is required. Most use sheep or goats. But sometimes… they use humans. It’s rare these days, but it does happen. And this boy—he was the sacrifice."
Something inside him went cold.
The room, the dark figures, the chanting—the knife.
His stomach twisted, nausea curling up his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, forcing himself to stay still.
"Charming," the radio-voice drawled, almost mockingly. "But that still doesn’t answer my question. Why is he here? He should be dead, or never have ended up here at all."
The silence stretched, heavy and unspoken. Then, finally—
"Al, do you know what happens when a human is used as a sacrifice in a demonic ritual? No matter their age, their innocence, or whether they should have gone to Heaven—once they become a human sacrifice, they belong to Hell. Automatically."
A sharp, bitter laugh.
"What a biased and prejudiced system. Who decided—ah. Heaven. Of course. That sounds exactly like them." A pause. "But that only applies if the sacrifice dies. So why, pray tell, is this child still alive and here in Hell?"
The air in the room felt different now, as if something unseen was shifting, crackling beneath the surface.
"When I was summoned, I realized immediately they were using a human sacrifice. And… the boy reminded me that I have a child too."
His voice was quieter now. Thoughtful.
"He was barely clinging to life. On impulse, I killed the cultists and brought him here." A low chuckle. "It’s not like Heaven can do anything about it. He’s already counted as a citizen of Hell, under my rule. Besides…"
Something darker crept into his tone.
"It seems like he was sold to them."
Sold.
The word rang through his head, louder than the conversation, louder than anything else.
Sold.
His chest tightened, breath stuttering. He clenched his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms as a quiet tremor ran through him.
Stay still. Stay quiet. Don’t react.
But the panic pressed in, crushing and suffocating. His pulse roared in his ears, his vision darkening at the edges.
And then, just like before, the darkness swallowed him whole.
A slow exhale.
His eyes fluttered open, greeted by the familiar emerald, green canopy of his four-poster bed. The fabric swayed slightly, disturbed by the subtle draft that always lingered in the Slytherin dorms.
For a moment, he remained still, his breath evening out as he reoriented himself. The weight of sleep clung to his limbs, sluggish and heavy, but not nearly as oppressive as the remnants of his dream—no, memory.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, rubbing his face with one hand while the other clenched the duvet in a white-knuckled grip. His gaze swept the dimly lit room, landing on the two other beds, their curtains drawn tight. His dormmates were still asleep.
Slytherin dorms. Hogwarts.
A weary smile ghosted over his lips.
An absurd, almost hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up inside him, clawing at his throat. He pressed his fingers against his lips, forcing it down. Waking his dormmates with unhinged laughter in the dead of night wouldn’t do—he had a reputation to uphold, after all.
He let his head drop forward, fingers digging into his scalp as his other hand tightened around the duvet. He thought he’d left it all behind. Thought that part of his life had finally been buried, tucked away like a distant chapter of a book he no longer had to read.
But ghosts of the past had a way of creeping back in.
He wouldn't call it a nightmare. Nightmares were twisted illusions, warped and exaggerated by fear. That? That had been reality.
The moment he met them.
It had taken weeks for him to ease into their presence, to stop flinching at every unexpected touch, to believe that the warmth they offered wasn’t a trick. But they had been patient. And when the time came, Dad and Papa hadn’t just taken him in—they had made him theirs.
Blood-adopted.
The memory shifted, bringing with it the recollection of when they first discovered his magic.
Dad had immediately called Stolas to confirm what it meant. Another contact of Stolas was sent to investigate the human world, and that was when they learned about the wizarding world and his supposed fame.
A quiet chuckle escaped him. He could still picture Papa’s reaction—the way his red eyes had burned with outrage as he ranted for what felt like hours.
"Fame? FAME?! The humans worship and revile a child in the same breath? Hypocritical, self-righteous, utterly incompetent—honestly, the lack of common sense in that place is appalling! Absurd! Ridiculous! They throw titles around like confetti at a funeral!"
Harry had stopped listening after the first ten minutes, though Dad had watched the entire rant with thinly veiled amusement.
That had led to a trip to Gringotts, where they arranged for a proper blood adoption.
It had solidified everything. He wasn’t just someone they cared for—he was theirs. He carried their blood, their lineage, their protection. The inheritance he gained from the process was just an added benefit.
Since then, Papa, Dad, and Stolas had trained him in everything they could, preparing him for the world beyond Hell’s borders.
They hadn’t wanted to send him to Hogwarts.
But Charlie—sweet, optimistic Charlie—had suggested that he maintain some connection to his biological heritage. “It doesn’t have to define you,” she had said, “but knowing where you came from might help you decide where you want to go.”
Neither Dad nor Papa had liked it, but they relented.
They had ensured he was prepared.
Now, here he was.
His smile softened, losing its weary edge.
He loved his adoptive family, as chaotic and dysfunctional as they were. But then again, they lived in Hell—dysfunction and violence were as natural as breathing.
And yet, despite it all, they had been the first to show him what it meant to be wanted.
He was grateful Dad had saved him that day.
As for his human relatives… well, he had nothing to say to them. If not for them, he wouldn’t have been sold. Wouldn’t have ended up on that altar, waiting to die.
Wouldn’t have found them.
Should he be grateful for that?
Perhaps.
With a quiet sigh, he let himself fall back onto the bed, pulling the duvet over his body. The warmth of it settled over him like a protective cocoon.
His eyes drifted shut, a small, content smile still playing at his lips.
Harry Potter was home.