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Chapter Text

On a dreary, summer's day, a file arrived by owl, sealed in cracked wax and near-illegible ink. It smelled of mildew and negligence. Remus Lupin unrolled it on the kitchen table of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The parchment trembled slightly in his hands, though not from magic. Sirius Black stared at the bolded header at the top:

POTTER, HARRY JAMES – Age: 7 Status: Missing. Presumed Deceased.

Last known location: Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

Sirius let out a sharp laugh. It wasn’t amused.

“Presumed dead,” he spat. “Like they misplaced him in a bloody coat closet.”

Remus didn’t look up. “They did worse.”

Sirius slammed his fist on the table. “He was our family, Moony. James’s son. My godson. They left him with Petunia Dursley. That horse-faced bigot and her walrus of a husband.”

“They didn’t just leave him,” Remus said, eyes flashing. “They forgot him.”

“Not anymore.” Sirius was already reaching for his wand before Remus had time to process everything. The two apparated to the address stated in the letter.

Privet Drive was silent. Too silent. It was paired with an unsettling cleanliness. Neat lawns, trimmed hedges, white cars and plastic flamingos. All hiding something rotten. The moment Sirius set foot on the sidewalk, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Remus felt it too—the staleness, the absence of magic where it should’ve flowed freely.

“Can you feel that, Moony?” Sirius asked.

“Like a cage,” Remus said. “But not locked from the outside.”

The house loomed. Number Four. Wards flickered faintly around the house. It felt old, probably Dumbledore’s work. It was passive. Weak.  Remus cast a quiet diagnostic spell. The results turned his stomach. Blood wards. Ancient; built on sacrifice. But unrenewed for years, barely clinging to the boy they were meant to protect.

“He’s in there,” Remus said tightly. “But he’s suffocating.”

“Then we’re bloody past knocking, are we?" Sirius raised his wand and with a swish, the front door exploded inward.

The Dursleys were in the sitting room when the front door exploded. Vernon roared, red-faced and confused, while Petunia shrieked behind a doily-covered armchair.

“WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS—”

Sirius had him silenced and stunned in a blink.

Petunia turned on them, trembling. “You—you freaks—how dare—!”

“Where is the boy?” Remus demanded, his tone all frost.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Sirius took a slow step forward. His face was calm, but his magic hissed around him like fire. “Try again, Petunia.”

“I—we—he’s not here! He’s not—we haven’t seen him in days—he runs off—he lies—he—”

She didn’t get to finish. Because at that moment, from beneath the stairs, came the softest noise. A small thump, followed by a breath. It wasn't a cry, not a call for help,  just a breath. As if the lungs behind it were afraid of being heard. Remus turned first. His eyes locked on the tiny door beneath the staircase. Painted over with an unlocked bolt across the outside. He moved forward.

“Moony?” Sirius called, voice raw.

Remus didn’t answer, he just quietly opened the door.

The air that greeted him from the inside was stale. Musty. It smelled of damp wood and old sweat and too many days without sunlight. A mattress lay on the floor; threadbare and stained. A broken plastic cup, a small shelf with a cracked torch and a worn blanket.

And there, scrawled faintly on the inside of the door in dull, flaking crayon, were scratch marks and letters. Someone had tried to write 'Harry's Room'  on the door. It had been ha;f-erased. Remus looked around and there,  huddled in the farthest corner, was a boy.

Seven years old. Small. Too small.

His knees were pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them like armor. His face was bruised, cheek swollen and lip split. His black hair stuck to his forehead in messy tangles. His glasses were broken. One of the lenses had fallen out completely. But it was the eyes that stopped Remus’s heart. Green, wide, empty. The eyes weren't scared, they weren't even surprised, they were just... waiting. Sirius dropped to his knees beside him.

“Harry?” The boy blinked. Slowly. Like a machine powering back on.

“Are you here to punish me?” he asked.

Sirius swallowed hard. “No, sweetheart. Never.”

“You’re not Uncle Vernon,” Harry said, tilting his head. “He doesn’t like it when people yell.”

Remus’s voice shook. “We’re not going to yell.”

“Then you’ll just leave again.”

That hit like a knife. Sirius reached out. “We’re here to take you away, Harry. We’re going to take you home.”

Harry flinched, just barely. Then whispered, “I don’t have one.”

“You do now,” Remus said.

Harry hesitated. “The cupboard’s not locked” he said softly.

Sirius’s eyes filled with tears. “Then why—”

“Because it’s better when I stay where they don’t see me.”

He said it like it was a rule, like it was the law, something ingrained so deeply that it had become the truth.

Sirius looked at Harry's body and his heart sank. There were burns on his arms, old welts, and bruises beneath an old shirt that's too big on him. There was also a nasty purple bruise under his collarbone. These monsters hadn't just locked his godson away, they had hit him. Starved him. Forgotten he was a person. 

Sirius coaxed Harry out of the cupboard, when Sirius saw Harry's difficulty in steadying himself, Sirius carried him out. Harry didn’t resist. Didn’t protest. Didn’t ask where they were going. He just curled into Sirius’s chest and shut his eyes like it didn’t matter, like the destination wouldn’t change anything. But his hands, so small and frail, fisted tightly in Sirius’s robes. And Sirius held him like something sacred. Like if he let go, the boy would vanish.

Grimmauld Place was nothing like a child’s home should be. The wards flared briefly when they arrived. The door opened before Sirius could lift a hand. Bellatrix Lestrange stood in the entryway, wand already drown, face like a stone.

Her eyes swept over Remus first and then landed on the boy in Sirius' arms. She stilled. Her mouth didn't move, but her magic did. Thick and old and watching and a bit insane. Harry flinched at the unfamiliar presence, he turned his face deeper into Sirius' chest, silent, small, and shaking.

Bellatrix’s gaze dropped lower, and for one long moment, she simply stared.

At the bruises, the bony frame, the blood on his lip, and the exhaustion baked into his skin like something permanent.

“That,” she said quietly, “is a Black?”

Sirius didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Instead, he said, "How did you get in here, Bella?" 

Bellatrix didn't answer but stepped back to let them in, silent and deliberate. She didn't offer comfort, she offered space. Space for the boy, and fury that boiled behind her narrowed eyes.

They crossed the threshold, and the wards hummed around them. The house, for a heartbeat, seemed to see who had come home.

Regulus' old drapes were torn down, burned in the fireplace without a word. The carpet, musty and stained, was banished with a flick of Remus' wand. The room smelled of dust and something  sad, but it wouldn't last. 

Sirius charmed stars into the ceiling, moving constellations that shone. Remus painted the walls a deep forest green and enchanted the windows to show blue skies, even in the middle of London fog.

Bellatrix did not help but she watched from the doorway, her arms folded and her wand never far, she didn't interfere but she never left. Later, Sirius realized it wasn't about trust, she was guarding the boy. 

That evening, Sirius and Remus guided Harry into his new room. Harry didn’t comment on any of it. He just sat quietly on the edge of the bed, watching the stars move across the ceiling like they were foreign.

“Do you want anything?” Sirius asked gently.

Harry shook his head.

“You can sleep in the bed,” Remus said. “It’s yours.”

“I’m not used to that.”

“To beds?”

“To things being mine.”

He said it without bitterness, just fact, and it hollowed Sirius out all over again. 

Bellatrix stood on the upper landing of Grimmauld Place, half-shrouded in shadow, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed as she watched the scene below.

Sirius was kneeling on the worn carpet, watching as the mediwizard assessed Harry, arms tense beside him as saw the extent of damage those monsters did on harry. They knew he had bruises and injuries, but not that many and especially not to that extent. Seeing how long the parchment that states Harry's injuries was, something dangerous coiled in Bella's chest.

The boy had green eyes. They were wild, terrified, and starving for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

“Such a little thing,” she murmured, half to herself.

He was a Black by blood now—more than a name on parchment. Sirius had invoked ancient rites to claim him and still, the boy had said nothing. Not a single word. Just clung to Sirius as if letting go would kill him.

Bellatrix’s jaw tightened. “If they had kept him one more year,” she said coldly, “we would’ve found a corpse, not an heir.”

Remus flinched at her bluntness, but didn’t disagree.

She looked down again, and for the first time in decades, something in her chest ached. Not softness—never softness—but fury, coiled tight and protective.

“The Dursleys will rot,” she said. “I’ll see to it.”

And then she turned, cloak swirling behind her like wings, and left the room without another word. But before she disappeared fully into the stairwell, she paused, just long enough to glance back one last time.

Harry had looked up. His eyes met hers; haunted, hollow, yet bright. Bellatrix didn’t smile. But she inclined her head, just once. The boy blinked, then turned his face into Sirius’s shoulder once the Mediwizard finished his assessment and Bellatrix walked away, already planning how the Dursleys would die screaming.

The first week after that was silent. Harry didn’t speak unless spoken to. He didn’t cry, apart from the day after he arrived. He ate only when told to. Sat with his back to walls. He woke up in the hallway twice, barefoot, shivering, never asking for comfort, never saying why.

The house creaked around him, restless but never unfriendly. Grimmauld place had changed, not only in color and magic, but in rhythm as well. It softened itself, somehow, around the boy. 

Bellatrix didn't speak to him and she didn't approach the boy, but she lingered, passing silently in hallways, always watching, always guarding whenever she was in the house. And Harry, somehow, never flinched from her presence. 

It took 4 days before he spoke more than one word at a time. On the fifth night, Sirius left a small stuffed dog on Harry's pillow, black fur, floppy ears. The next morning, it was tucked under Harry's arm when he came down for breakfast. 

On the sixth night, Sirius found him curled up beneath the dining table, fast asleep with his stuffed dog clutched to his chest. He didn't move him. Just laid a blanket over him and sat nearby until morning. Nobody said anything, but the house felt warmer. 

Two weeks in, Harry asked, "Was my mum nice?”

Remus looked up from his book, heart still not quite whole. “She was the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“And my dad?”

Sirius’s smile was soft. “He was brave. Loud. A pain in the arse. But he’d have adored you.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “Did they… want me?”

Sirius’s hands trembled. “They died for you.”

Harry didn’t cry. But that night, he slept in the bed for the first time.

One night, Harry had a nightmare. He didn't scream. He simply appeared in the hallway, shaking, barefoot, with tear tracks on his face. 

"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I didn't mean to make the glass break."

Remus scooped the boy up without hesitation. "You're safe. You're safe, Harry."

For the first time since he arrived at Grimmauld Place, Harry cried. Silently, slowly, like he was learning how to do it.

Three weeks in, he said, "Magic makes me feel wrong.”

Remus gently corrected him. “Magic is part of you, Harry. The wrong part is how they made you feel about it.”

Sirius gave him a wand made of carved holly—non-functional, just wood. A placeholder. Harry turned it over in his hands like it might bite.

“I don’t want to be bad,” he whispered.

“You’re not,” Remus promised. “You’re not.”

He was still so small, so quiet. But one day, they found him reading, sprawled on the floor of the study, flipping through a children's book on magical beasts. He looked up, and for a second, there was light in his eyes. 

"Do Hippogriffs really bow?"

Sirius grinned. "Only to those who earn their respect."

Harry turned the page carefully. "Then I'll make one bow someday."

And they knew, the boy was still there. Beneath the hurt, the scars, he was still fighting to exist. And for the first time, when Sirius said, "I love you, Kiddo", he didn't ignore him. Instead, he whispered, “Okay.” quietly.

Like he was beginning to believe it. He was only seven years old, yet he had already survived the worst of the word. And for the first time in his life, someone had come for him.

Sirius tried to spoil Harry rotten. He bought the child sweets, flying toys, and contraband broomsticks. He taught Harry how to ride before he could properly grip the handle.

Remus was quieter, gentler. He taught Harry how to read runes, made him tea when he had nightmares, and always knew when Harry needed space to simply be.

The first time Harry asked if he could call them something, they didn't cry, but the walls of Grimmauld place did. The magic stirred with an old, humming warmth, like something long-withered had begun to bloom again.

A week after that, Sirius began the rites.

The adoption ritual was old and it required witnesses, powerful ones. That night, the Black family gathered. 

Bellatrix arrived first, already cloaked in ritual black. She said nothing, but moved to the eastern side of the circle and took her place without being asked. 

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy arrived together, elegant and cold, their presence like marble. Smooth, silent, and heavy with expectation. Harry had never seen anyone who looked like them before.

They were... Terrifying in Harry's eyes. Their presence filled the room and Harry, who had only heard the name "Malfoy" spoken like a curse by Sirius, clutched Remus' hand.

"This is the boy?" Lucius asked, studying him with unreadable silver eyes. Sirius answered with a nod. Narcissa was a different story. Her expression shifted the moment her eyes landed on Harry. 

"Oh," She breathed. Not in disgust, not in shock, but something quieter. Something close to grief. 

Narcissa stepped closer, slow and careful, her pristine robes whispered across the stone floor. She crouched, leveling herself to Harry's height. Her eyes scanned him, his this arms, faint bruises at his neck, the haunted shadows beneath too-bright green eyes.

"You're almost eight, aren't you?" She asked gently. Harry nodded once, warily.

"I have a son your age," She said softly. "Draco. But compared to him, you are much too small." Harry lowered his eyes.

"But that is not your fault." Her voice, still so refined, had a warmth to it that Harry hadn't expected. 

"If they had let you grow," She murmured, brushing a lock of messy hair from his forehead, "You'd be taller than him, I think." Harry blinked up at her, confused by the tenderness. 

She smiled just a little, then she stood and took her place beside her husband, but not before squeezing HArry's shoulder in a way that stayed with him long after. 

Harry stood barefoot in the enter of the chalked circle, solemn and still, his hands trembling but only slightly. 

Sirius stood at the northern point, robed in deep gray, wand pressed to the center of an ancient family crest. Remus stood beside him, bearing witness. Bellatrix and Narcissa flanked the outer circle with their wands drawn, anchoring the blood magic. Lucius stood behind them, eyes closed in silent consent, his acceptance lending weight and legitimacy to the rite. 

The circle glowed faintly as Sirius spoke words in Latin. The words shimmered gold in the air, spiraling around Harry like thread. 

"Sanguinem meum, domum mean, cor meum. Filius factus es."

My blood, my house, my heart. You are made my son.

Harry flinched as the magic sank into his skin. It wasn't painful, wasn't forceful, but binding. Like roots finding purchase in soil. The crest of the House of Black shimmered above his head, then vanished.

It was done. No ministry forms, no orphanage involvement, just ancient magic that knew what Sirius had already decided. Harry Potter was now, by blood and binding, Harry James Potter-Black.

The room was still. Harry looked up, quiet, stunned. "Do I have to change my name?" He asked, voice small. 

Sirius knelt beside him. "No," he said. "You only change what you want to."

Harry hesitated. Then whispered, "I want to keep Potter. But, I don't mind Black."

Sirius smiled. "Good, because now you have both."

Lucius stepped forward first, offering a formal nod. "You are family now," He said, cool and grave. "And with that name, you inherit more than blood, you inherit protection."

Harry blinked up at him. "Thank you, sir."

Then Narcissa came forward, her hand hovering for a moment before she cupped his cheek.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said quietly. “And I will make sure you never are.”

Harry didn't know what to say. So he just nodded. Bellatrix said nothing. But when she turned and left the room, her wand was still warm in her hand and her jaw tight with quiet pride.

By eight, he was laughing again.

By nine, he was reading beyond his age level and helping Remus brew calming draughts. By nine, he knew how to duel in theory and how to break into Sirius’ locked drawer in practice.

They trained him, yes, but never out of fear. It was respect. Because as Harry grew, so did the magic inside him. Strange things happened around him: a mirror that whispered his name, flowers blooming in his footsteps, wards shifting when he entered a room. He didn’t speak of it often, and Sirius never pushed. But Remus kept notes.

He was different. Not in a cursed way, not in the way the Dursleys had told him, but in a way that made magic listen.

On his tenth birthday, the wards of the house flickered gold when he laughed. And no one dared to speak of it too loudly, but Grimmauld Place itself had begun to feel more alive and less cursed, as if the boy inside it had reminded the stones what family was supposed to feel like. 

On the last night before his Hogwarts letter arrived, Harry stood barefoot in the garden under a thunderstorm, eyes closed, letting the wind coil around him like an old friend. He didn’t know what was coming. But he was no longer afraid.

The letter came the day of his birthday. It was early, just past dawn and Grimmauld Place was still asleep, save for the faint clinking of teacups in the kitchen where Remus was quietly reading the paper. The owl arrived silently, without fanfare. Not a Ministry bird. Not even an official-looking creature. Just a quiet, silvery-grey thing with large, intelligent eyes and a ribbon tied around its foot.

It landed on Harry’s windowsill like it belonged there.

Harry, still blinking sleep from his eyes, padded over and stared at it. It stared back. Then held out its leg. He untied the envelope with careful fingers. Thick parchment. Green ink.

A lion-embossed seal with the words 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' curled in gold.

Harry didn't speak. Not when he padded into the kitchen in oversized slippers. Not when he stood beside Remus, holding the letter with both hands. Remus saw it and froze. The cup he was holding tilted slightly, a drop of tea fell to the floor.

“Sirius,” Remus said quietly.

From the hallway came a crash and a half-muttered curse. Then Sirius barreled in, wand tucked behind his ear, hair sticking out in every direction.

“What? What happened?”

Remus didn’t answer. He just turned Harry slightly and let him hold up the letter.

Sirius’s breath caught. “Bloody hell.”

Then, carefully, softly, he smiled.

“Open it, Pup.”

Harry sat at the kitchen table like it was a sacred rite. He broke the seal gently and unfolded the parchment. His hands shook only slightly.

'Dear Mr. Potter-Black,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress.'

Harry didn't speak, he just read the letter twice. Then, in a very small voice, asked, "Are they sure it's not a mistake?"

Sirius crouched beside him, eyes warm. "They're sure. They've been waiting for you."

"I thought I'd... Miss the letter or something," Harry whispered. "Or they'd forget me... Like everyone else did."

Remus sat down across from him and smiled gently. "The world might forget, but magic doesn't." 

Harry didn't cry. He simply folded the letter carefully and held it against his chest for a long time, and Sirius and Remus let him savor the moment, the feeling of being remembered.

Harry's birthday was simple. There was no party, no streamers, no sea of children (Harry didn't know enough people for that), But Remus baked him a chocolate cake with starlight blue icing, and Sirius gave him a leather-bound journal that smelled like parchment and cedar. 

"Here, you can write down everything," Sirius told him. "Even the things that scare you. Especially those." 

"What about the things I can't say?" Harry asked. 

"You write them twice." Remus answered as he lit eleven candles on the cake. They didn't force Harry to bow them out unless he wanted to. He didn't. He just watched them flicker for a long time. 

"Can I... Can I take Padfoot with me?" Harry asked, almost shyly. Sirius almost said yes, but Remus beat him to it. "Sirius isn't allowed on the grounds, Harry. But we are allowed to floo each other."

Harry shook his head 'no'. "Not Sirius, Uncle Moony... Padfoot. The stuffed dog Sirius gave me." Sirius' eyes widened. Harry named the stuffed dog after him. 

"Oh Pup. Of course you can, he's yours." Sirius answered, tearing up. Harry nodded once, like the approval meant more than anyone understood. 

The day after Harry's birthday, they decided to get shopping for supplies out of the way after Remus owled their reply to Hogwarts. And by midday, Sirius had finished adjusting Harry's glamour charm and triple checking the wards around the house.

His glamour dimmed the green in his eyes and softened the shape of his nose, but he still looked like himself. Just less... Recognizable. 

"You ready, Pup?" Sirius asked, offering a hand. Harry nodded. He didn't say anything, but he clutched Padfoot, the stuffed dog, under his cloak. 

Diagon Alley was... Overwhelming to say the least.

There was too much lights, too many people, and too many people meant too many voices talking at once. The old cobbled street pulsed with color, noise, and curious eyes.

Harry shrank slightly at the swirl fo robes and chatter. Sirius kept a steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him gently. Remus walked a pace behind, wand at the ready beneath his sleeve. Even glamoured, Harry could feel people staring. 

They hadn't gone far, barely past Flourish and Blotts, when Harry spotted them. Lucius and Narcissa stood near Madam Malkin's, dressed in pale summer robes, flawless and composed as always. A pale-haired boy stood beside them, arms crossed, chin slightly raised in practiced pureblood fashion. 

Narcissa spotted them first. "There you are." She greeted, affection dripping from her voice. 

"How are you feeling today, darling?"

Harry smiled style." Better, thank you, Aunt Cissy."

Narcissa's gaze flicked down, noting how the sleeve of Harry's robe still fell past his wrists. "You're growing, finally," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Still far too small, but better."

Lucius inclined his head to Sirius and Remus. "Grimmauld holding up?"

"Surprisingly well," Sirius said. "We haven't blown off any walls in weeks."

Lucius' lips twitched. He turned to Harry. "Are you ready to make your public debut as House Black's heir, nephew?"

Harry blinked. "That's what this is?"

Lucius gave him a look that might've been amusement or warning. "It will be whether you want it or not."

Before Harry could reply, Draco stepped forward. "So you're the heir," He said bluntly, eyeing Harry with something between curiosity and challenge. 

"Harry blinked. "I guess?"

Draco tilted his head. "Glamour's Black-crafted. Clever."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Impressive eye."

Draco didn't look away. "I read." 

He studied Harry for another second, then shrugged. "You're alright."

Harry blinked again. "Thanks?"

Draco turned to his mother. "So we're cousins?"

Narcissa, graceful as ever, said simply, "In all ways that matter."

"Great," Draco said. Then to Harry. "Come on, let's go get robes before the shop fills up with tourists."

Harry hesitated, glancing back at Sirius and Remus. Sirius gave a subtle nod. "Go on, Pup. We'll be right here."

Draco took Harry's hand, thankfully, Harry didn't flinch. 

"I don't know any other kids my age." Harry said before he could stop himself. Draco's expression shifted. Just slightly.

"Now you do."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange, heady blur. Draco talked nonstop. All about Quidditch teams, house rivalries, his dismay at not owning a dragon, the list goes on. And Harry listened, overwhelmed, but fascinated. 

They shared ice creams, argued about broomsticks— "Sirius said Nimbus 1000 is great!" "NO! Sirius is a moron!" "HEY!" — Guess who said the last one.

Anyway, it was loud, bright, and most of all, Harry didn't stop smiling the whole time. From across the street, Sirius and Remus watched them while Lucius and Narcissa sat in the shade near the apothecary.

"I thought it would take years for him to trust anyone his age," Remus said. 

Sirius smiled faintly. "He needed someone who doesn't treat him like glass." 

"Someone who talks over him and drags him around?"

"Exactly."

Narcissa, without looking up from her tea, said softly. "He needed someone who didn't pity him." 

They turned to her.

“He’ll never say it, but it’s in the way he walks—he expects to be looked at like something broken.” Her voice was quiet, not soft. “Draco will teach him to walk like someone who belongs.”

Remus watched Harry from a distance, laughing as he failed to properly argue with Draco about Hippogriffs.

“He’s still too small,” Narcissa added. “Still too quiet. But he’s beginning to take up space again.”

Lucius, eyes hidden behind polished glasses, said, “And when he finally remembers what he’s owed… the world won’t be ready for him.”

That night, the Daily Prophet ran the story. 

''Harry Potter is ALIVE?"

'Harry Potter, The Boy Who Was Presumed Dead, is very much alive!'

There was a photo, blurry but unmistakable. Two boys laughing in the sun. One hooded and one blonde. 

Letters poured in not even an hour of the publishing of the newspaper. Most owls never made it past the wards. Some messages were kind, others filled with suspicion, a few were threatening. 

"How can he still be alive?"

"Where was he when we needed him?" (A bit crazy if you'd ask Sirius, putting a literal child in the line of war. Where was the writer of the letter when the Wizarding World needed saving, hmm?

Harry read none of them, but he knew. He could feel it in the weight of the air, in the way Remus' jaw clenched, in the way Sirius took to pacing again, his wand always in hand. 

Later that night, Harry stood in front of the large mirror in the guest hallway. The one that had once belonged to Walburga Black. He was holding the newspaper, staring at his own face. The caption said his name like it was a prophecy. Harry Potter, heir, survivor, returner.

He looked at the version of himself in the mirror and asked softly, "Do I belong to them?"

Sirius appeared behind him, quiet as ever. "You belong to yourself, Pup."

Harry nodded slowly. "That's harder than it sounds."

"I know." 

In the quiet after, Sirius tucked a small box into Harry's hands. Inside was a silver ring, shaped like a wolf curled around a shield. A Black family heirloom, reforged to fit a child's hand.

"You don't have to wear it," Sirius said. "But if anyone asks who you are..."

"I tell them I'm Harry," Harry whispered. 

Sirius' voice shook. "And that's all you ever have to be, Pup."

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express hissed and groaned beneath a grey sky, its steam curling through the station like a serpent. The platform was bustling with parents and children, trunks and owls, joys and nerves. 

He stood near the edge of the crown, trunk at his side, Padfoot the stuffed dog tucked safely beneath his arm. His robes were dark and unadorned, cloak pressed and boots polished, no house crest on his chest.

His name, Potter-Black, was now a whisper darting between conversations. 

“Harry Potter.”

“The lost boy.”

“Potter-Black. Is that even allowed?” (Why wouldn't it be?)

“Why is he here?” (To go to Hogwarts. Why else?)

“What does he want now?” (What do you mean what do I want??)

He heard them all. They didn't even bother to hid their curiosity. 

Sirius was the first to step back after walking harry to the train. Sirius had squeezed his shoulder once before letting go, voice low and firm. 

"Don't shrink for them, pup."

Remus had hugged him in the shadows and whispered, "You're not alone anymore."

But they hadn't stepped aboard the train with him. So now it was just him, Padfoot, and the name everyone had read about three weeks ago in the Daily Prophet. 

The Boy Who Was Presumed Dead. 

Before he could step foot into the train, a sharp voice called softly behind him, cool and composed. 

Narcissa stood a few paces away, Draco hovering near the train's door, watching. 

Her pale eyes met Harry’s steadily. There was no demand in her gaze, only insistence.

"You're not just a boy anymore,” she said gently, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “You're Black. Let them choke on it.”

Lucius was standing nearby, one hand resting on his cane, expression unreadable. But when Harry looked at him, the elder Malfoy offered the barest, most formal incline of his head.

Then there was Bellatrix, perched slightly apart, leaning against the iron railing in her charcoal-black traveling cloak. She didn’t say anything at first. She just watched Harry the way wolves watch the wind—alert, patient, unnerving.

"Write to us." She said simply. "If anyone touches you, they'll answer to us." 

There was no threat in her voice. Only a promise.

Harry gave a half-smile. “Okay, Aunt Bella.”

She grinned.

"That's my favorite nephew." 

"HEY!" Draco shouted from the door. "I'm right here you know!"

Harry laughed, turned, and stepped onto the train. 

In their train compartment, Draco was holding court like a tiny aristocrat, but for once, his usual entourage wasn't inside. Crabbe and Goyle hovered just beyond the door, confused. 

Draco had crossed his arms and simply said, "Not this time."

Harry tilted his head. "You're abandoning your bodyguards?"

Draco scoffed. "They're not bodyguards, they're walking meat shields. Besides, I have to make room for a scandal." 

"A Scandal?"

“You." He gestured lazily. "Harry Potter-Black, Half legend, half mystery. You’d think you were some ancient ghost come back to curse them all.”

Harry raised a brow. “Aren’t I?”

Draco blinked. “Don’t joke like that.”

“I’m not.”

Draco sighed, “You know you’re famous, right?”

Harry kept his eyes on the passing scenery through the window. “People keep saying that.”

“No, I mean, properly famous. My father talks about you sometimes.”

Harry turned sharply.

“Not like that,” Draco added quickly. “Not with… hatred. He, I can't believe I'm saying this, boasts about you, I guess. How the family's somehow related to you. He's in awe, but cautious at the same time."

"I didn't ask for ay of this." 

"I know," Draco said. "But it's here, might as well hex anyone who thinks you're weak."

There was a beat of silence, then Harry turned to Draco. "You hex people a lot, don't you?"

Draco smirked. "Only when they deserve it."

Outside the compartment, the train gave a low whistle. The platform was fading behind them. On it, Narcissa stood with one hand over her heart. Lucius beside her, quietly protective. Bellatrix grinning, like the chaos had only just begun

Sirius and Remus stood, clutching each other's hands, hoping, praying, that Harry will be alright

.

And in the compartment, as the train curved north toward Hogwarts, Harry allowed himself the smallest smile. Because maybe, for the first time, he wasn’t leaving home. He was carrying it with him.

When the train stopped, rain had begun to fall in misty veils. The first-years filed out, gathering near the edge of the platform. Some stared openly at Harry, their mouths half-formed with questions. Others looked away too quickly, pretending not to notice the way the crowd shifted subtly to give him space.

Harry tugged his cloak tighter.

“Firs’-years! This way now!”

Hagrid’s booming voice cut through the fog like a beacon. He was massive with wild hair and kind eyes. Harry felt something twist in his chest at the sight of him, recognition without memory.

“I knew your parents,” Hagrid said softly as Harry approached. “You look like both.”

“I don’t know what they looked like,” Harry said, voice small. He proceeded to board the boat, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle in tow.

The boats crossed the lake, rocking gently with each movement, carrying their silent cargo beneath the moonlight. Hogwarts loomed in the distance. Massive, ancient, and impossibly beautiful. But it wasn't kind. No, it watched Harry. Harry felt it in his magic, it was subtle and constant. The wards brushing against his skin, the long reach of enchantments coiling through the air like fingers tracing his outline. 

He turned to Draco. "Do you feel it?"

Draco leaned over. "It's like it already knows us."

"Does it?" Harry murmured.

"It should," Draco said simply. "My godfather says the castle has memory. Old magic, it sometimes even chooses favorites."

Harry frowned. "Who's your godfather again?"

Draco's smile sharpened. "Severus Snape."

When the boats finally stopped, Hagrid was there, endorsing the kids to Headmistress McGonagall. The entrance hall was colder than he expected. When the great oak doors opened and they stepped inside, dozens of paintings turned in unison. Some gasped. Others scowled. A few whispered names too quietly to hear. The first-years gathered near the foot of the stairs, dripping wet and half-shivering.

Professor McGonagall stood at the front like a sentinel of stone. Her eyes landed on Harry. Her breath caught but only slightly. And at the staff table, Severus Snape sat, dark and composed in his high-collared robes, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, unreadable and sharp as cut obsidian, found Harry the moment he entered the hall. Neither looked away.

The sorting began. One by one, students were sorted beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. Stars glimmered faintly above their heads, and floating candles flickered like they, too, were waiting. Names were called and were followed by a bellow of "HUFFLEPUFF", "GRYFFINDOR", "RAVENCLAW", or "SLYTHERIN".

Draco's name was called. "Watch." The blonde whispered to Harry. He strutted forward, confident. The hat had barely touched his head before roaring, "SLYTHERIN!"

He turned back to smirk at Harry before joining the green-trimmed table.

Then came: "Potter-Black, Harry."

Everything stopped. A fork clattered to the floor. Dozens of heads turned in perfect unison. Harry walked forward slowly. Each step echoed. When he reached the stool, the Sorting Hat let out a hum he felt in his bones. The hat then started talking when it was placed on his head.

"Ah, now this is interesting. Power. Pain. Fire. Silence. And something buried deep, deep down. A sleeping storm. The Cunningness of a Black, the heart of a Potter, and something... Older. Yes, I remember this name. But this boy is not what I expected. Magic soaked into your skin like blood. And such walls. Who taught you to build them, child?"

"I just want to be left alone," Harry thought.

"Do you? Or do you want them to listen for once? To stop speaking about you and start speaking to you?" 

Harry didn’t respond.

“You’ve survived pain. Carried it. Hidden it. And yet… still you burn with the need to understand. To choose your path. You crave freedom—but also structure. Protection. Control. You would do well in Ravenclaw. And Gryffindor… there is courage here, to be sure. But no, no. Not there. You’ve seen too much to fit into a lion’s world.”

“I just want to belong,” Harry whispered, heart pounding.

"Then let them fear you. Let them whisper. Let them see. Better to be underestimated in..."

“SLYTHERIN!" the hat bellowed.

The silence afterward was staggering. Harry rose. The green-trimmed table erupted into murmured voices—some cheers, others hushed tension. He walked slowly to the seat Draco was saving, trying not to flinch under the weight of stares. As he passed, Snape's eyes flickered with something unreadable. Recognition And something sharper.

From the staff table, several professors exchanged tight glances.

“Black and Potter blood in Slytherin.”

“He’ll change everything.”

“He’ll shatter everything.”

And far below, at the table of emerald and silver, a small boy with dark hair sat with his hands in his lap, gaze lowered, as magic itself wrapped tighter around his fate. The feast passed in a blur of clinking silver and low conversations. Harry barely touched his food. Every few minutes, he caught someone staring then pretending not to. 

From Gryffindor, Weasley was openly gawking at him. From Hufflepuff, someone mouthed, "Is that really him?" From Ravenclaw, a girl with a quill was looking up at him then back at her paper and vice versa. From Slytherin, people were giving him dirty looks. And from Snape, across the staff table, there was only a watchful stillness.

Snape rose from his seat after the sorting and the feast ended, his robes billowing behind him as he approached the Slytherin table with predatory grace. 

"First years," he drawled, eyes scanning the group, then landed on Harry.

"Follow your prefects. They will lead you to the dungeons." He then turned around and walked away, his robes billowing behind him. 

After the feast, as the first-years were led down into the dungeons, a tall boy named Nott brushed past Harry and muttered under his breath:

“Traitor’s son.”

Harry turned to look at him fully. His voice was calm, but unflinching.

“I never betrayed anyone.”

“You're a symbol,” Nott sneered. “You’re a message. You don’t belong here.”

Harry stepped closer. “Then why did the Hat put me here?”

Nott faltered and Harry didn’t wait for an answer.

When they descended into the dungeons, the air turned colder. The halls were older here, steeped in magic and shadows. As they entered the common room, carved in stone and lit by green-glassed sconces and enchanted lanterns, Professor Snape spoke once more. 

"Mr. Potter." Harry had the urge to correct him that it was Potter-Black, but then he remembered that nobody liked a smart mouth. 

Snape approached him slowly, Draco was on the sideline, watching the exchange. 

"You carry the names of two families who make was against everything this house stood for. And now, you sit beneath its banner."

Harry slowly meet his gaze. "Did the hat make a mistake?" He asked quietly, making Snape's lip twitch. Not quite a smile, but not a sneer either.

"No, it rarely does." A beat passed. Then, "Mr. Malfoy, please make sure that he doesn't start a war before classes begin."

Draco gave a theatrical sigh. "No promises, Professor."

Snape swept away, robes snapping like thunder. 

Harry sat on the edge of his bed and unpacked slowly, placing Padfoot onto his bunk bed. At the bottom of his trunk was the silver ring Sirius had given him. Black crest. Wolf wrapped around a shield. He turned it in his fingers. Put it on. It fit. Perfectly. He felt the magic hum like something was waking. Around him, the river outside the walls cast shimmering light across the stone.

He then took a piece of parchment from his trunk, his quill, and ink. He dipped his quill and began writing in the dim light of the room. 

Dear Moony, Dear Padfoot,

I got sorted into Slytherin. I think the hat made the right choice. It felt… honest.

Some of them hate me. Others don’t know what to think. But Draco’s here. That helps. The castle feels old. It remembers things. Sometimes it feels like it remembers me. I’m trying not to be afraid of that.

Tell Bella I didn’t hex anyone yet and te ll Aunt Cissa I wore my cloak properly. Also, t ell Lucius I didn’t get into a duel. (Not yet.)

I  miss home. I’ll write again soon.

Love, Harry'

Later that night, with the lights out and the castle quiet, Harry stared up at the stone ceiling and whispered,

“Welcome back, Potter.”

And somewhere in the dark, the magic whispered back:

'We never forgot you.'

Hogwarts had always hummed with secrets, Sirius told Harry one time.  They slipped through the moving staircases and danced behind stone tapestries, pressed into whispers in the dark. Things older than the war, older than blood.

Harry felt it in the silences between conversations. The way upper years paused mid-sentence when he entered a room. The fleeting glances at his scar, not with pity, but calculation. Fear, yes. But also speculation.

He had seen his name in the Daily Prophet. Heard the way Professor McGonagall had stumbled over it during the Sorting. Had felt the weight of every stare that followed him through the Great Hall. A Potter. A Black. The Boy Who Was Presumed Dead.

And yet, it wasn’t only him. The halls whispered of another presence, one who hadn’t appeared at the Sorting Feast, hadn’t sat among the first wave of Slytherins during class. Prefects gave clipped answers when asked, professors even less.

"Prefect Riddle has his own priorities," Snape had said with a sneer, offering nothing more.

Even Draco had been oddly quiet. Harry hadn’t thought much of it. Why would he? He had enough to deal with. The strange glares, a growing stack of assignments, and the ache of trying to prove he belonged when he was constantly reminded he didn’t. But something stirred beneath the surface. The kind of name spoken like an omen. The kind of silence that meant someone dangerous had yet to arrive. And when he did, the castle would shift around him. Like it always had.

It started with a shove. Harry had just left the library, his arms full of books, his head down, and his steps hurried. The castle was quiet at this hour. The students already trickling to their classes, parchment rustling and echoing faintly along the dungeons. He didn’t see the older boy coming. Didn’t even know the name. But he felt the push, it was sharp and deliberate, right between his shoulders. He stumbled forward, the books he was carrying flew and slammed directly into another student walking the other way.

His knees cracked the stone. A breath escaped him. Then the corridor fell dead silent. Harry scrambled to his feet, cheeks burning. “S-sorry,” he stammered, reaching down for his books. He felt eyes on him. Too many, too quiet. A pale hand moved before his, picked up the top book, and held it.

Harry looked up. The boy was taller than him, but not by much. A little older. Black robes, cut sharp and clean. Silver and green. A prefect badge gleamed from his chest—rare on someone so young. But it wasn’t the badge that made Harry’s stomach turn. It was the eyes. Flat, deep, and dark as storm glass.

Expressionless but not empty. Something moved behind them. Something calculating.

The boy held out the book but didn’t offer it.

Instead, he asked quietly, coldly “Are you in the habit of throwing yourself at people, Potter?”

The words were soft, but there was a cold bite in them. Ice over steel. Harry felt every syllable like pressure against his ribs.

“No,” he managed.

“Strange,” the boy said. “You seem the type.”

Harry stiffened, standing straighter. “Someone pushed me.” The boy made no move to look behind him.

“I saw.”

“Then why-”

“Because I decide when someone has earned mercy,” he said, voice colder than before. “Not when they beg for it.”

That silenced Harry. Around them, students were frozen in place. Some had backed into the walls. One girl had dropped her bag but hadn’t dared retrieve it. From the shadows of the corridor, whispers rose like smoke.

“He touched him.” “Potter doesn’t know.” “He’s going to get hexed.” “That’s Tom Riddle.”

Harry blinked. “Who?”

The boy’s brow barely lifted. He tilted his head just slightly.

“You don’t know who I am.”

“No,” Harry said, honest and unblinking.

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Most people, Harry realized, would have already apologized again. Would have begged. But he didn’t feel fear. Not exactly. He felt something else.

Instinct. Like a mouse watching the edge of the field, knowing something’s there, just out of view.

“Then let me educate you,” the boy said. “Tom Riddle. Third-year. Prefect.”

“Third-year... Prefect?" Harry echoed.

“Youngest in Hogwarts history,” someone breathed from the shadows.

Tom didn’t acknowledge it.

“Tom.”

The voice broke the stillness. Draco stepped into the corridor, tension in every line of his face. He moved between them, cool and controlled, like a diplomat walking through a war zone.

“Heir Potter-Black didn’t mean to,” he said carefully. “Someone shoved him. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know,” Tom said.

“You… do?”

“I saw it happen.” A pause. “I’m not blind.”

Draco swallowed. “Then let’s leave it at that.”

Tom finally looked at him and something in the air shifted like a cold front slipping through old walls.

“We live in the same manor, Draco,” Tom said.

“I know.”

“Then remember that I tolerate few things less than being made a fool of.”

Harry blinked.

“He didn’t know,” Draco said firmly.

“He should.”

Harry had had enough.

He stepped forward. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

The corridor flinched. Tom turned to him slowly.

“How brave,” he said, not impressed. “How utterly naive.”

Harry didn’t answer. Tom studied him like one might a cracked wand. Like something curious, possibly broken. Then, with a flick of his hand, he passed the book to Harry just a little too forcefully. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make it known.

“Apology noted,” Tom said, tone as lifeless as frost. “Try not to make the same mistake twice.” And then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

The corridor exhaled. People moved again, some students ran, while others whispered. Draco stared after him for a moment, then turned to Harry, face pale.

“You’re insane.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said.

“You collided with him.”

“I was shoved.”

“You stood your ground.”

“I was confused!”

Draco ran a hand down his face. “That’s worse. You didn’t even know who he was.”

“I still don’t. Just a name.”

Draco looked at him flatly.

“That’s Tom Riddle. Son of the Dark Lord. He lives in my house. My father trained him like a prince. He’s brilliant, ruthless, and more dangerous at thirteen than most wizards will ever be. People disappear around him, Harry. Professors fear him.”

Harry stared. “He’s thirteen.”

“Exactly.”

That night, back in the common room, Harry sat by the fireplace, arms folded around a borrowed book. The flames crackled, but the warmth didn’t reach him. His eyes drifted to the shadows beyond the hearth, where the light didn't touch. Something lingered there. A presence that hadn’t been there before.

He didn’t find a note. Nothing so obvious. But when he opened his Defense book again, he noticed the page he’d been reading was dog-eared, something he’d never do.

Just beneath the fold, one line had been underlined in ink too fine to smudge.

'You'll find out who I am. Soon.'

No name. No mark. But Harry knew. he was being studied. Watched. Measured. And whatever Riddle had seen today, it hadn't been dismissed. It had been catalogued. 

After the castle had hushed itself to sleep, Harry sat cross-legged on his bed with a quill and another piece of parchment. 

'Dear aunt Cissa,

I met someone today. Or rather, I collided with him. Literally. Third-year. Prefect. Tom Riddle. You probably know who he is—Draco said he lives in your house.

I didn’t know. I should have. Everyone else does. He’s… something. He's not loud and he isn't cruel the way bullies are. But cold. Exact. Like he’s playing chess and I’m a pawn he hasn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

He didn’t hex me, though I think he could’ve. Should’ve, maybe. He looked at me like he was trying to peel my name off my bones. Like I was… interesting. But not in a good way.

People are scared of him. They talk about him like he’s a curse you summon by accident. Professors avoid answering questions about him. Students pretend they don’t notice when he walks into a room—but I noticed.

I’ve seen people flinch before. I used to be the one flinching. It’s different watching it from the other side. I don’t know what he wants. Maybe he doesn’t want anything yet. Maybe he’s just watching.

But I’ve learned to pay attention to the things that watch me back. If any of you know anything I should know… Please tell me.

I’d rather not be blindsided again.

Love,
Harry'

---

He folded the page carefully, sealed the letter with wax Sirius had taught him how to use, and tied it to the leg of a sleek black owl that Narcissa had sent him as a gift after the adoption ritual.

“Take this to Aunt Cissa," Harry whispered.

The owl didn’t blink, just waited with regal stillness, then swept silently into the night. And Harry sat back down, Padfoot the stuffed dog tucked under his arm, eyes staring into the fire until the flames blurred and the sound of the river lulled him into dreams. Dreams full of green light, unreadable eyes, and a name that now lingered like smoke in his lungs.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the drawing room as Narcissa read the letter for the third time, her long fingers resting lightly on the parchment. The Malfoy family owl had returned not half an hour ago, elegant and efficient as ever. She said nothing as she finished, only passed the letter to Lucius with a look that made his brow furrow even before he began to read.

Lucius's eyes scanned the words slowly, his expression unreadable, though his fingers tightened faintly at the edges.

"He's observant," he said finally.

"He's wary," Narcissa corrected, voice gentle. "He noticed everything. Including what most children would have missed."

Lucius nodded once. “He saw Tom for what he is. Or at least… what he chooses to show.”

Narcissa reached for her teacup and paused. "He described Tom like a storm on the edge of a map—dangerous because he’s still. But watching."

Lucius lowered the letter, thoughtful. “He’ll survive Hogwarts. He’s cautious. Smart.”

“That’s not what worries me,” she murmured.

Lucius looked over. “You think Tom will take notice?”

“I think he already has.”

And then the study doors opened.

It wasn’t loud. There was no dramatic swirl of magic or thunderous arrival. Just the soft, unmistakable glide of well-made shoes on marble, and a silence that stretched itself over the room like a held breath.

Lord Voldemort stood at the threshold, sharp and still in tailored black robes, eyes the color of aged garnet.

“Am I interrupting?” His voice was velvet and menace in equal measure.

Lucius stood immediately. “My Lord.”

Narcissa merely inclined her head. “We were reading a letter from Harry.”

There was a pause. Then,

“Ah. From young Harry.” Voldemort stepped into the room like he had always belonged there, his eyes flicking briefly to the folded parchment still resting beside Narcissa’s teacup. “May I?”

Lucius hesitated. But Narcissa was the one who handed it to him.

He read it slowly. Thoroughly. Not a twitch of emotion on his face, but the room seemed to grow colder with each passing second. When he finished, he set the letter down with a strange kind of delicacy. Like it was a prophecy. Or a trap.

“He noticed Tom,” Voldemort said softly, more to himself than to them. “That’s… fascinating.”

Lucius cleared his throat. “He didn’t know who Tom was. Draco had to explain.”

“Yes,” Voldemort murmured, and there was a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not anger. Not even pride. Just… calculation. “And yet he still saw him.”

Narcissa stood now, tall and unflinching. “He’s asking for guidance. He doesn’t want to be caught unprepared.”

“A wise instinct,” Voldemort said, nodding faintly. “One I respect.”

The silence stretched. Then Voldemort turned toward the hearth, as if considering something buried deep within the flames.

“I will not interfere,” he said finally. “Tom is… curious. Let him be curious. For now.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “And if curiosity becomes more?”

“Then we see what the boy does with pressure.” He turned, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “After all, that’s how diamonds are made.”

Without another word, he left the study. Narcissa sat again, slowly, and looked at the parchment one more time. Her fingers brushed the edge of Harry’s signature.

“He asked us to tell him what we know.”

Lucius exhaled. “Then tomorrow, we tell Sirius.”

Narcissa’s voice was quiet. “And Bella.”

Lucius nodded once. “Let them decide together. He deserves that much.”

The air shimmered faintly as the wards of Malfoy Manor adjusted to new arrivals.

A loud crack announced Sirius’s arrival in the main atrium, already halfway through a curse as he appeared, wand out and hair wind-tossed. “If this is about Lucius being smug over Quidditch again, I swear to—”

“Sirius.”

Narcissa’s voice cut through the echo of apparition like a blade—calm, cool, and absolute.

He blinked. “Cissy?”

Bellatrix was next. She stepped through the Floo in a cloud of green fire, brushing soot from her sleeves like it had offended her personally. “You better have a reason for dragging me away from a perfectly good bottle of—oh, you’re here too.”

Remus arrived last, quiet as ever, dressed plainly, eyes alert. “What’s going on?”

The drawing room was quiet save for the crackling fire and the long oak table laid out with a single piece of parchment at its center. The letter.

Lucius was seated near the hearth, legs crossed, wine untouched. Narcissa stood behind the table, spine straight, the picture of poise—but her fingers were clenched slightly at her sides.

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, glancing at the others. “What’s this?”

“Read,” Narcissa said simply.

Sirius approached first, jaw already tight. He picked up the letter with careful hands—recognizing the handwriting immediately—and began to read aloud, the firelight catching in his eyes.

Sirius went still. The room was silent for a long beat.

Then Bellatrix laughed—sharp and dark. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

Remus exhaled slowly. “He’s already noticed something most adults miss. That kind of perception at his age…”

“…is dangerous,” Lucius finished quietly. “Or invaluable.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “He was shoved, and the first person he hits is Tom bloody Riddle? What are the odds?”

“Not odds,” Narcissa said. “Patterns. Fate, maybe.”

Bellatrix snorted. “Or the castle simply likes drama.”

“Bella,” Narcissa warned.

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “He’s scared. Or worse—he’s not scared, and that’s scarier.”

Remus crossed his arms. “It’s not just fear. It’s caution. He’s asking for guidance.”

“He’s asking to not be blindsided,” Narcissa echoed.

Bellatrix plucked the letter from Sirius’s fingers and scanned it for herself. Her mouth curled in something close to respect. “Riddle didn’t hex him. That’s the part that gets me.”

“He’s intrigued,” Lucius said flatly. “And that’s not always a good thing. Tom doesn’t waste time on people who bore him.”

“He doesn’t waste time on anyone,” Bellatrix muttered.

Narcissa’s voice came soft but steel-edged. “He saw something in Harry.”

Everyone fell quiet again.

Then Sirius said, “We tell Minerva.”

“No,” Narcissa and Lucius said in unison.

Remus added, “That would paint a target on Harry faster than any article in the Prophet.”

Sirius looked between them, exasperated. “Then what?”

“We give him what he asked for,” Narcissa said. “Answers.”

Bellatrix grinned. “You want to brief an eleven-year-old on Tom Riddle?”

“No,” Narcissa said. “I want to prepare Harry Potter-Black for surviving him.”

Lucius stood. “We teach him to see the board.”

“To move his pieces,” Narcissa added.

“To defend himself politically,” Remus said softly.

Sirius glanced back at the letter. At the closing line. I’d rather not be blindsided again.

“Then we don’t let him be.”

Bellatrix raised her glass. “To the heir of two houses, and the boy who looked Riddle in the eye.”

Lucius didn’t smile, but he raised his own glass nonetheless. “To legacy.”

And in the quiet that followed, the fire burned high, casting long shadows over the carved walls of Malfoy Manor, where names carried weight, power watched through ancient eyes, and the future was already shifting on its axis.

The response letter arrived before the sun even rose. Harry was still half-asleep when he hear insistent tapping coming from the window. He looked and saw that it was the Malfoy's owl. He opened the window, took the letter attached to its leg, uncoiled the parchment, and read quietly. 

'My dearest Harry,

First, know that I am neither upset nor disappointed. You did exactly what you should have done: you observed. You noticed. And you told us.

That alone makes me proud of you.

You ask if we know Tom Riddle. We do.

He has lived under my roof for some years now. He is... not like other boys. He does not play, he does not stumble. He listens, always, and he watches, even when you think he isn't. He is brilliant, precise, and difficult to read. His magic is refined beyond his years. So is his ambition.

And yes, many fear him. Some with reason. Others because they mistake silence for malice.

I do not ask you to fear him, Harry. But I do ask you to be careful. Tom notices everything. If he has turned his eyes on you, it is not out of boredom. You will not be forgotten by him.

Your letter described him exactly as he is—cold, exact, strategic. That is not an exaggeration, nor a mistake. But what caught my attention was this:

He looked at me like he was trying to peel my name off my bones.

That is how Tom studies things he does not yet understand. You are, in many ways, an anomaly to him. A story resurrected. A contradiction. Do not let that frighten you—but do not let it flatter you either. He does not give attention for free.

Draco will do his best to shield you, but Tom rarely goes through obvious paths. If he is curious about you, he may test you. Subtly. Thoroughly. That is his way. You must not panic. And you must not retreat.

Remember this: silence is a weapon. So is knowledge.

Ask questions, but not all at once. Hold back more than you reveal. And if you must speak—speak with purpose. You are not prey, and you must not let him treat you as such.

You are a Potter, yes. But you are also a Black. That means something. You carry names that built this world—and names that broke it.

Use them. Let them protect you, but do not hide behind them.

And if the day comes when he presses too hard—when he tries to test the boundaries of your name or your blood—you write to us immediately.

We will not let you stand alone.

With all my love,

Narcissa.'

A second note is tucked beneath the first, in Sirius’s scrawl, crooked, fierce, and completely unfiltered.

'Oi, Pup—

I nearly choked on my tea when I read your letter. Tom bloody Riddle?! Only you would trip into the path of a dark-haired, cold-eyed prodigy with too many secrets and a suspiciously powerful glare.

(You get that from me, obviously.)

But seriously—good instincts. And better reflexes. I'm proud of you. You're learning fast, and you’re learning well.

But if that bastard so much as breathes wrong in your direction, I will hex him into next Tuesday. Yes, yes, I know Narcissa says don’t provoke him. Remus says to keep calm. I say: trust your gut and keep your wand handy.

And write back soon.

—Sirius

P.S. Don’t let Snivellus catch you off guard either.

P.P.S. No Nimbus for you just yet, Minerva might castrate me if I send you one.'

A third note is attached, written in Remus’s soft, careful hand.

'Harry,

You did the right thing.

I will only add this: you're not the only one who's learning. So is he. Watch how he reacts. Why he reacts. You don’t need to outmatch him—not yet—but you can outpace him. Sometimes, the fastest wand isn’t the one that wins. It's the quiet mind that sees the game before the first spell is cast.

Write us again when you can. I want to hear everything.

—Moony'

Harry read the letter while clutching Padfoot. He felt the wisdom and love in their letter, they didn't coddle him, they didn't dismiss him, they warned him. Not from fear,  but respect. 

He folded the letter gently and pressed it between the pages of his journal, then he sat back and let the silence breathe around him. Harry wasn't naive, not anymore. He knew what fear looked like, he lived in its shadow. But that was different, Riddle didn't inspire dread Luke Vernon or Dudley... He inspired calculation. 

Riddle had looked at him like a question he wasn't finished answering, and Harry, small for his age and unwanted for so long, was used to being overlooked,  discarded, and underestimated. But not anymore, not by someone like that, not by anyone. 

He could feel the castle watching again, its magic curling against his skin like a challenge. So, Harry sat taller, shoulder square, and eyes clear as he looked out past the enchanted windows. 

I'm watching too not," He whispered in the quietness of dawn. 

Chapter Text

The magic in the deepest vaults of Gringotts did not lie. It did not flatter, did not guess. It spoke only in blood and bone, in ancestral threads too old to be forged, and when summoned, it remembered.

The goblins had called it a formal confirmation of magical inheritance, an ancient rite, rarely invoked unless bloodlines were in question. Sirius had argued at first. “We know who he is,” he'd said, bristling like a dog too often kicked. “He's Harry. That’s all that matters.”

But Remus had understood the subtext. The whispers after the Sorting. The reporters outside the wards. The way the magical world watched Harry not as a child, but as an echo of something greater, something old.

So they went.

With McGonagall's express permission and goblin escort, they descended into the Hall of Inheritance, deeper than any vault Sirius had ever known. Older than the Lestranges' cursed fortune. Older even than Black family rites.

The walls were carved from obsidian and spell-bound iron, covered in sigils that moved when you weren’t looking. Runes burned cold across the stone. Harry stood still, his hands loose at his sides, heart hammering like a drum.

He expected gold. He expected vaults. Maybe a crumbling title or two. What he didn’t expect, what none of them expected, was the flame.

It started as a low whisper in the stone. Then came the arcane pulse of deep magic responding to his presence. The hearth flared, the carved altar ignited, and ancestral fire curled upwards in brilliant arcs, golden and blue and burning ancient.

Then the voice came. Not a voice spoken aloud, but one that echoed through the bones.

“House of Potter.” Expected.

“House of Black.” Naturally.

“House of Peverell.”

The room went dead silent. Sirius, who had been tapping his fingers nervously against his wand, gasped so loudly it echoed across the stone. “No bloody way,” he muttered, eyes wide.

Remus gripped the railing. “That’s not a cadet branch.”

“No,” the goblin intoned. His eyes flicked toward Harry with something just shy of awe. “That is direct descent.”

Harry stood frozen in the firelight as the air thrummed with recognition. He didn’t fully understand but the magic did. It hummed beneath his skin like something waking after a thousand years asleep.

 The Hall bowed. Even the goblins bowed, not a curt nod or shallow gesture of politeness, but a real, full bow. To him. The last Peverell. The heir of Death’s own gift.

Back at Grimmauld Place, hours later, the firelight was gentler, but no one spoke above a whisper. Harry sat in the kitchen at Bellatrix’s insistence, hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate she had made herself.

“Aunt Bella?” he said finally, voice small.

Bellatrix didn’t turn right away. She was watching the embers flicker in the hearth like they were prophecies written in flame.

Then, softly, “You are my nephew, Harry. My kin by name and magic. But your blood,” She turned, eyes gleaming, not wild, not mad, but reverent. “Your bloodline transcends us all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Not yet. But his fingers tightened around the warm ceramic. He felt it again—like a vibration under his skin. A silent hum. A call and answer from something deep within him. Magic waking. Magic remembering.

Outside, the wind howled against the old walls of Grimmauld Place. Inside, the heir of the Peverells breathed in the firelight and did not flinch.. 

The next day, when Harry returned to the castle, the Great Hall was colder than usual. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. There was an anticipatory hush that clung to the rafters and pressed down on every table. 

When Harry sat down next to Draco for breakfast, a regal tawny owl with violet-tied scrolls arrived. The letter bore the ancient seal of the WIzengamot. It was addressed not to any professor or head of house, but to Lord Harry James Peverell-Potter-Black, Heir of Ignotus Peverell, Head of House Potter, Heir of House Black.

Headmistress McGonagall read that out loud and the hall stilled. Harry felt as though the walls had turned toward him, watching, waiting. He stood slowly, face blank despite the weight rising in his throat. Beside him, Draco whispered, "This is a recognition rite, old magic. They're calling your blood forward, Harry."

Harry swallowed. "What does that mean?"

"It means they want the castle to know who you are." Draco answered.

Harry was excused from classes that day. None of the teachers questioned it, none of the students dared. They watched him go, flanked by headmistress McGonagall and Professor Snape, two silently gliding Aurors in ceremonial blue, and with Sirius and Remus greeting them from the entrance, their steps echoing like a drumbeat. 

Every step Harry took, he felt the magic thrum under his skin, waiting, scanning, recognizing. Some of the portraits bowed as he passed while others turned their faces away. Whispers traveled after than footsteps. Before he reached the lower levels, half of the school already knew, and those who didn't, felt it anyway. The recognition of old and ancient blood, the kind of magic that didn't need to be taught. 

The ritual chamber was ancient, it was older that Hogwarts herself. Built of obsidian and dragonbone, its circular walls whispered secrets through flickering runes that pulsed to life as Harry stepped through the threshold. Candles ignited, casting the room in a shifting gold-and-shadow. At the center stood a stone basin surrounded by three carved pillars, each bore a family crest. 

The Black Pillar. An armored hand wielding a wand above a shield bearing three black ravens and a golden skull.

The Potter Pillar. A shield with a golden outline and a black shield with a golden hippocampus rising from stylized waves, horns curling toward the sky. Symbols of guardianship, mystery, and unyielding legacy.

The Peverell Pillar, A triangle enclosing a vertical line, intersected by a horizontal circle. Not just a symbol, but the very heart of myth.

Behind them, a spectral guardian emerged. tall and faceless, cloaked in ash and flame, its arms folded like a judge waiting to weigh a sentence.

“Do you accept your inheritance?” The voice asked. It was neither male nor female, old nor young, just... eternal.

Harry's voice did not shake. "I do." 

Blood answered blood, a single golden knife hovered before him, Harry reached without hesitation. He sliced his palm and blood hit the basin, red turned into gold and the basin glowed white-hot. The carved crests on the pillars ignited and the room pulsed. Then, the magic unleashed. A shockwave of golden light erupted outwards from the chamber, rocketing through the very bones of the castle. Above them, students gasped, staircases trembled, and candles burst into cold blue flames. 

Painting of Merlin blinked in disbelief, a tapestry of the Founders caught fire but did not burn, and in the Astronomy Tower, the stars seemed to flicker out for five full seconds. In the dungeons, Tom Riddle looked up from his book, his hands clenching. 

"What was that?" Theo whispered from beside him. Tom didn't answer but he felt it. Power, old and boundless. Potter magic and Black magic fused into something that should have died years ago. 

Peverell magic, the kind of magic that belonged to death. Tom felt it and it singed something I him he didn't have a name fore. Interest? Or maybe threat... Maybe both. And that, was intolerable. 

When Harry returned to the common room that night, his robes still faintly glowing from the ritual, nobody dared to speak to him. Not even draco. Harry's skin was pale, but his eyes burned with something no one could name. It wasn't defiance nor pride. It was something deeper, something older, like a soul rethreading its seams. 

When he retired to his room, he saw a piece of paper atop his pillow. 

'You reek of royalty.'

It was unsigned but the ink was cold and sharp and Harry read it three times before sleeping. And in his sleep, he dreamed of ravens, oceans, and a cloak that laughed in the wind.

It was an unspoken rule in Hogwarts that you do not challenge a prefect publicly, you don't cast first in the corridors, and you most certainly do not speak the name of Death like it belonged to you. 

But Harry had never been one for rules. Not since he'd felt the old magic pulse through his skin like blood on fire, not since the ritual had called him back to himself, a legacy risen from ash and flames.

He had tried, for weeks, to remain unremarkable. He failed. It all started with a whisper, then a dare, then a letter. By the time word reached the Great Hall, it was too late to stop it.

Two names on the enchanted dueling board, written in silver.

T. Riddle & H. Peverell-Potter-Black

No one knew who cast the first vote or whether it had been a choice at all. But everyone knew wit was inevitable. And when the hour came, Hogwarts held its breath. Harry stared at the board, incredulous. He only knew how to duel in theory, Sirius and Remus taught him, but how was he supposed to hold himself against Tom Riddle? Harry sighed and went to his seat in the room beside Draco, who patted him on the back, trying to pat his weariness away. 

Draco understood what Harry's feeling, Tom's a third year, he's far more advanced than Harry even with the lessons that Cousin Sirius taught him. Draco wanted to erase Harry's name from the board, but it wouldn't even smudge, it would only get erased if Harry refused the duel... But that didn't happen. 

Professor Snape, former Potions Professor turned DADA Instructor, had barely turned his back before it started. One moment, he was lecturing on the theory of magical resistance, the next, the room dimmed. Magic stirred as the desks scraped back. The students tensed, some were already moving to the walls, their instincts taking over. 

The students whispered to each other. They said the enchanted dueling board had pulsed for hours before class, silver script burning through the old oak of the board.  Prefect Tom Riddle who was only supposed to observe the class vs. First Year Harry Peverell-Potter-Black. 

It should've been dismissed, but it wasn't. Why? Because Tom didn't dismiss it, Harry didn't verbally refuse although he wanted to, and neither, unsurprisingly, did Professor Snape. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was fear, or maybe magic herself had demanded it. 

The dueling ring was conjured within seconds, runes sparking to life in a perfect circle that shimmered faintly red. Old magic, binding, protective but only just. It would contain the spells, but not the consequences. 

Tom stood on the other side of the circle, immaculate as always, cold. A marble prince with a hawthorn wand and a gaze like polished glass. He didn't smirk nor did he taunt. He just raised his wand and nodded. It was an invitation and a warning all in one. Harry raised his wand in return. The air snapped around them.

"Bow to your opponent," Professor Snape drawled. "Begin."

The first spell came fast. Tom had cast wordlessly, a flick of his wrist sending a javelin of blue fire straight towards Harry. The younger boy stumbled into a dodge, nearly falling. He whipped his face to look towards Draco, his eyes wide. He looked back at Tom and hastily casted Protego, which flared and shattered under the force of the flame. 

Gasps echoed. Harry rolled, scrambled, and flung a weak Expelliarmus that missed by feet. Tom countered with Confingo, and the blast cracked the floor at Harry's heels. It wasn't a duel, it was a storm. Harry was panting within seconds, his arms trembling with the effort to keep his wand steady. He barely dodged a Diffindo that whistled past his ear. A second later, he was slammed backward by a Depulso that threw him against the edge of the ring. He groaned, blinking away stars. His shoulder throbbed.

Draco watched the duel with pursed lips and furrowed brows, so unlike his pureblood mask. This duel, if Snape doesn't interfere, will end in one to two ways. One, Tom will win and Harry will leave the dueling ring with minimal injuries or, Tom will win and Harry will leave the dueling ring dead.

The room was holding its breath. Tom advanced slowly, wand raised. But Harry gritted his teeth, pushed himself upright, and retaliated not with a spell, but a blast of raw, unfocused power that knocked Tom a single step back.

It wasn’t refined, it wasn’t pretty, but it worked. Something changed in Tom’s posture. A flicker of... attention. Then the next exchange began.

Stupefy. Protego. Expelliarmus. Rictusempra.

Light met shadow. Sparks flew. Every spell Tom cast seemed woven from precision and artistry, ancient forms refined to lethal efficiency. Harry, in contrast, was wild and instinctive. His counters were raw, more desperation than design, but some of them struck.

A Stupefy clipped Tom’s shoulder. A shield formed too late and Harry’s Flipendo hex burned a line across his robe. Nothing damaging, but enough to make the older boy pause. Enough to remind everyone that Harry was still standing.

"Enough," Professor Snape barked as a bolt of white-hot energy struck the dome’s boundary. It fizzled violently then the ring dissolved. Draco released a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. Harry stood, chest heaving, bruises forming under his sleeves. His wand arm dropped to his side, trembling. He had lost, but he had lasted. Tom lowered his wand slowly. He didn’t speak. But he stepped forward, gaze burning into Harry’s.

"Interesting," he murmured. "You reek like royalty but you fight like something older." His tone was unreadable, then he walked past. A hush followed him, and Harry didn't move until the echo of Tom Riddle's footsteps had vanished entirely. 

Harry collapsed to his knees the moment the door closed. Draco rushed to his side. 

"Merlin's bollocks, Potter, you're a bloody idiot," Draco muttered, crouching to grip Harry's good shoulder. His voice was harsh but his hand was steady. 

"I'm fine," Harry croaked. "Just need... I just need a minute."

Draco didn't argue. He just hauled Harry up, slinging the smaller boy's arm over his shoulder. They walked through the stunned classroom in silence, nobody stopped then, not even Snape who Draco threw a glare at.

Draco brought Harry to the Hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey greeted them with a gasp when she saw them. 

"What in Morgana's name happened?"

“A duel," Draco said shortly. “He needs help. Now.”

The mediwitch wasted no time. Harry was guided to a bed, spells flitting around him in glowing swaths of diagnostic blue. Bruised ribs. Mild wand arm strain. Fractured collarbone. "That last one's going to make Cousin Sirius' mad." Draco muttered. 

Harry didn’t complain. He just lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, the duel replaying over and over in his mind. Every spell. Every glance. The way Tom had looked at him in the end. Madam Pomfrey forced a pain-relief potion into his hands.

Draco didn’t leave. He sat in the chair beside the bed, arms crossed.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he said quietly.

Harry swallowed the potion and set the glass down with a faint clink.

“But I didn’t today.”

Draco didn’t smile. But he nodded.

“No. You didn’t.”

And neither of them said what they were both thinking. He just let you live.

The day after the duel, Tom watched. He didn't speak to harry, he didn't smile at him in the halls or greet him. He didn't do anything at all, except observe. Like a serpent watching a sleeping lion cub. 

And Harry felt it. He felt it with the prickle on the back of his neck, the heat in his spine during Potions, the flicker of dread whenever his gaze snagged on movement just beyond the corner of his vision. But he refused to flinch, refused to acknowledge it. Because if he did, if he gave Tom Riddle the satisfaction of fear, he he's lose. 

So, Harry stood taller, spoke louder, and met every stare with an even glare of his own. He was brushed and limping for days after the duel, Madam Pomfrey gave him strict orders to rest, and for once, Harry agreed. But the whispered didn't stop. 

“Did you see the way he looked at Potter?”

“Riddle never loses control. Why didn’t he finish him?”

“Is he playing with him?”

No one asked Harry how he's doing, but two tried to approach him.

Hermione Granger, bushy-haired and breathless, cornered him outside the library one morning. She had a stack of books clutched to her chest, and her eyes shone with a desperate kind of concern that grated the moment she opened her mouth.

“You should really consider reporting that duel to a professor,” she said without preamble, voice firm and righteous. “Riddle’s dangerous. Someone has to put a stop to this.”

Harry blinked at her, momentarily stunned. “It was a professor who let it happen.”

“Yes, and he shouldn’t have. That match was completely unethical! You're a first-year, and Riddle, he's practically a Dark wizard!”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “I’m not a victim.”

“No, but you could’ve been,” Hermione insisted, eyes narrowing. “If it had gone even a little differently—”

“But it didn’t,” Harry snapped. “I’m still here.”

Hermione faltered, lips parting like she might argue again but Ron Weasley cut in, barging into the conversation with a scowl already forming. “You think you're something special, don’t you?”

Harry stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ron said. “Riddle’s the most dangerous bloke in school, and you just, what, walked into a duel with him and lived? Now everyone’s talking like you're some sort of legend.”

"You're making it seem like I wanted to participate in the duel. Besides, I didn't ask anyone to talk, especially not about me." Harry said coldly. 

“Yeah, but you’re not stopping them, are you?” Ron stepped closer, voice dropping. “You strut around like you’re better than everyone else. Like surviving Riddle makes you royalty or something.”

Harry felt something bitter spark in his chest. “And you’re angry that I didn’t die?”

Ron flushed, but didn’t back down. “I’m angry that someone like you, an orphan who just suddenly appeared, thinks they can walk around like they matter.”

Hermione’s face tightened. “Ron.”

But Ron shook her off. “You were supposed to be in Gryffindor, Potter. That’s what everyone thought. The brave one. The hero.” His voice curled with disdain. “But no, you slither into Slytherin wearing green like it fits you. Like you belong with them.”

Harry stared, the weight of it hitting harder than any spell.

Ron’s voice dropped lower, meaner. “You’re not a lion. You’re just another slimy snake, pretending not to bite.”

Hermione made a small sound of protest, but Harry didn’t hear it. He was already stepping back. Already turning. “Thanks for clearing that up,” he said. “I’ll be sure to remember where I stand.”

He brushed past them, shoulders rigid, something hollow and burning settling behind his ribs. From the shadows behind a pillar, Tom Riddle watched all of it, his eyes unreadable and his lips curved, not in amusement, but calculation. He had seen the way Harry held himself, bruised and rigid. The way his voice shook with restraint. The way his magic had surged, raw and ancient, in the face of humiliation. Harry Potter was not just surviving. He was evolving.

That night, Harry found a book on Peverell bloodlines in his dorm. No note. No signature. But he knew exactly who had left it. The binding was black velvet, lined in silver thread, the title etched in runes: Mortem Sanguis: The Inheritance of Death.

Inside, entire pages had been annotated in crisp handwriting. He didn’t sleep that night and neither did Tom.

In the dark of the Slytherin common room, beneath the flickering green firelight, the youngest prefect in Hogwarts history sat surrounded by tomes of ancient bloodlines and magical inheritance. His gaze was fixed on the runes detailing Peverell descent, each glyph committing itself to memory.

The door creaked open, and Draco Malfoy, only a first-year, but a Malfoy nonetheless, stepped inside.

"You're awake," Draco said sharply. "Of course you are."

Tom didn’t look up. "What is it?"

Draco shut the door behind him and crossed the room in three quick strides. “Why did you accept the duel?”

Tom turned a page. "Because I wanted to."

Draco's jaw tightened. “You don’t duel other students like that. You don't duel first years like us when you're already in your third year. You especially don’t duel Harry.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Especially not a boy with Peverell blood?”

Draco’s voice was low and cold. “Especially not my family.”

Tom stilled.

Draco stepped closer, eyes burning. “He’s a Black. You may not care, but I do," Draco's hand clenched beside him. "Cousin Sirius does, my mother cares, and my aunt does."

Draco," Tom tried to talk but was cut off.

"Cousin Sirius went through hell to take care of Harry, to erase the scars unworthy people left on him. Aunt Bella took care of Harry's abusers, and that's just from seeing Harry's eyes. Mother asks him for updates every week, wanting to know how he's doing. And if they find out you’ve hurt him, really hurt him, there will be consequences.”

Tom’s expression remained unreadable. “I didn’t hurt him.”

“You tried,” Draco snapped. “And that’s enough.”

There was a beat of silence before Tom said, “You’re very protective of your own.”

Draco’s voice dropped. “You forget, Riddle. The House of Black has long memories and longer knives. You may be the Dark Lord's son, but Harry is the Black Heir.”

Tom tilted his head, curious. “So what are you trying to do? Threaten me?”

“No,” Draco said. “I’m warning you. You're used to getting what you want with a flick of a wand, but know this, when you cross a member of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, you cross their entire bloodline."

He turned toward the door but paused at the threshold. “You want to understand him? Fine. But don’t treat him like a puzzle to be solved. He’s not yours to play with.”

Tom watched him leave, the firelight flickering shadows across his sharp features.

He whispered, almost to himself, “Not yet.”

Chapter Text

Professor Kettleburn, ever the eccentric, had declared that the first years would gain a better appreciation of magical animals if they saw them in the wild. There were whispers that he had a reckless flair for danger but was tempered slightly by a greater interest in "controlled chaos". Students where sorted into small groups, spaced evenly across a carefully warded trail. Creatures ould be observed at a safe distance, Kettleburn claimed, and the paths were reinforced by enough magical protection to keep even the hungriest acromantula at bay. 

Harry stood beside Draco, arms crossed and shoulder tense. "You're fidgeting, harry." 

"I don't like the way the trees move," Harry muttered. "It's like they're breathing."

Draco frowned. "They probably are." Draco didn't know how this was approved, they were first years for Merlin's sake. Even third years don't come out into the forbidden forest. 

They were told that it was safe. Supposed to be safe. But the forest, it seems, had its own will. They were in the middle of the pathway when the air rippled and the magic around them stirred, making the wards flicker for less than a second, but that was long enough. Just enough to reach in and choose. 

Harry had barely blinked when it happened. One moment he was adjusting his grip on his wand, the next he was ripped sideways, magic yanking at his gut. He landed hart on the forest floor, feeling the damp moss, his breath knocked from his lungs. Beside him, another figure groaned and sat up, pale hands brushing leaves from immaculate robes. Tom Riddle.

What the hell? Where did he come from? Harry heard another groan from his right. He looked over and saw blonde hair. 

"Draco?" Harry called out. The figure's head snapped up and sure enough, it was Draco. Harry stood and rushed towards his cousin to help him up. 

"Where the hell are we?" Draco asked Harry.

"I don't know, Dragon... But one thing's for sure, we're still in the forbidden forest." 

Tom, who had just stood up, flicked his gaze around the forest. "You're further than where you're supposed to be." Harry looked at him.

"How'd you get here?" 

"And I'm supposed to know, how? One moment I was at the library and then I'm suddenly being yanked like a portkey gone wrong the next." 

"Are we within the wards that Professor Kettleburn set up?" Draco asked.

"No." Harry and Tom both answered at the same time.

"Well, that's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be." Tom snapped. 

"Well, was this random? Like, a hole in the wards that sucked us out?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe in randomness. Something, or someone, wanted us here." The forest creaked overhead, boughs shivering though no wind stirred. Magic hung in the air, thick and heavy... Watching. 

"Lovely," Harry muttered. "Dragged into the middle of the woods by an invisible force with two of the most charming people in the school."

Tom didn't rise to the sarcasm, opting to stare at the undergrowth, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring. Draco however, had some grievances to air out, but was cut of by a roar. It was low, guttural, and close. Very close.

The two first years froze while Tom turned slowly, wand slipping into his hand like it belonged there more than anything else. Between the trees, something moved. It was broad-shouldered, too fast to be a human.    

"Don't panic," Tom murmured, more towards Draco than to Harry because he KNEW Draco and his tendency to scream when he's panicked. 

"I wasn't planning on it," Harry said, nudging Draco to also get his wand out of it's holster. 

The thing that lunged from the darkness was malformed, like a beast caught between evolutions, its claws were too long, its jaw was split unevenly, and its fur streaked with glowing runes. It looked like a failed magical hybrid, half-manticore, half-something darker. 

It shrieked, making the trees tremble, Draco shrieked with it, raising his wand but was too scared to utter anything.

"Protego!" Harry shouted, the shield snapping into place as the beast struck. It was a good thing that Sirius and Remus taught him advanced spells. 

"Confringo," TOm hissed, the spell slamming into its shoulder with a crack  of light. It stumbled, shrieking once more.

“Stupefy!”

“Incarcerous!”

Tom and Harry moved in sync, different rhythms, Harry wild and reactive whilst trying to keep draco behind him, Tom precise and lethal.

“Impedimenta!”

“Flipendo!”

The spells layered in the air, a mesh of color and force, battering the creature from both sides.

A slash of its claw caught Harry’s sleeve, tearing fabric and skin. He bit down a cry and ducked. Harry's cry seemed to snap Draco from his fearful daze.

“Diffindo!” The blonde casted. 

The creature howled. Blood, black and silver, spattered the ground. Its tail lashed, catching Draco across the side. He staggered, teeth bared.

Tom’s voice dropped into something low and guttural, a hex in Parseltongue that crackled like breaking glass. The beast reeled.

“Crucio—”

“No!” Harry barked, and the spell fizzled.

Tom glanced at him, surprised. “That spell would’ve worked.”

“We're not using it.”

Tom’s gaze darkened. “You’ll learn.”

Harry’s lip curled, but the beast shrieked again, buying them no time for argument.

“Reducto!”

“Expelliarmus!”

The creature lunged one last time, and with a synchronized effort, Tom casting a Disarming Charm strong enough to slam the creature into a tree and Harry and Draco binding it in thick magical ropes, they brought the monster down.

It collapsed with a groan and didn’t move again.

They stood panting, shoulders heaving, the air thick with smoke and magic. Ash fell like snow around them.

Harry wiped blood from his cheek. “That was fun.”

Tom turned slowly. “You held your own.”

“You didn’t abandon us,” Harry said, voice quieter now.

Tom’s mouth twitched. A shadow of amusement. “You’d have annoyed me by dying. Both of you."

Harry snorted, looking at Draco, Harry became worried when he saw Draco's side was bleeding. He walked towards his cousin but stopped then winced, hand going to his side.

“You’re bleeding,” Tom noted.

“No kidding.”

Tom didn’t offer help. Just watched, clinical. Cold. “It could scar.”

“I’ll add it to the collection,” Harry muttered while Draco said, "NO! I can't have a scar!"

Then, from the distance, there were shouts. Magic flaring. The professors were coming.

Tom straightened his collar, suddenly composed. “They’ll be here in seconds. We should lie.”

Harry blinked. “Lie?”

“Tell them you got separated. You found shelter and didn’t duel anything. They wouldn’t believe what actually happened.”

Harry hesitated. “And what did happen?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. “A test.”

Harry studied him, breath still shallow. “You think everything is a test.”

Tom's tone was smooth. "And everything is."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Two boys with power beyond what they yet understood, standing amid ruin and smoke, joined only by a thread pulled taut by fate.

"How are we supposed to explain our injuries?" Harry asked but found that Tom disappeared. He shrugged and went towards Draco, "Come on, Dragon, we can't have you scarring, can we?"

Branches snapped nearby. A shout, Professor Kettleburn.

"Over here!" Harry shouted so that they'd know where they were. Footsteps neared then Professor Kettleburn's familiar robes came into view, followed by Professor Snape. 

"What happened to you two?!" Professor Kettleburn exclaimed. Harry stayed quiet, unsure how to explain anything. Harry doesn't know how to lie and how was he supposed to explain the creature bound beside them? Harry looked and saw that it wasn't there anymore.

"Interrogate them later, SIlvanus. Let's take them to Poppy and notify their guardians." 

Sirius will be livid. Harry sighed, assisting Draco to walk as if he wasn't injured himself. The walk to the hospital wing was... Long. It's like the way multiplied ten times longer. Everything felt heavy, and hot.

When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey got to work fast. They didn't know what happened to the boys or what did this to them, the two boys didn't know either. 

"I'll leave them to your care, Poppy. I need to contact these boys' guardians." Snape said, turning to exit the wing. Professor Kettleburn stayed, feeling at fault for what happened. 

As they were being assessed, Harry's mind wandered. He can't help but wonder about what happened. Why were they taken from the wards? Why them specifically? And why was Draco pulled into it as well?

The day after the incident, Their parents came. Sirius and Remus in a flurry of unmasked worry, Lucius and Narcissa were the opposite, masks properly in place. 

"What happened, Pup?" Sirius asked as Remus stroked Harry's hair. 

"I don't know, Siri. We were within the wards and then suddenly, we were yanked out and was suddenly in the middle of the forest."

"Why were you even in the forest, Harry? It's named FORBIDDEN forest for a reason." Remus chastised.

"We were there for Care for Magical Creatures." Draco spoke when Narcissa looked at him after Remus asked his question. 

"What?" Narcissa uttered in disbelief. "Headmistress McGonagall signed of on this activity?" 

"It was supposed to be safe, Aunt Cissa. The wards were strengthened and reinforced. We don't know how this happened." 

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “Clearly, your Headmistress’s assurances were unfounded.”

“I’ll be speaking to Minerva,” Sirius snapped, pacing by the bedside. “This wasn’t just reckless, it was dangerous. Deliberately dangerous.”

“Wait,” Remus said softly, a finger twitching on the bedsheet as if replaying every word. “You said… we were yanked out. Who else was with you?”

Harry hesitated. Draco looked at him, then turned to his father. “Tom Riddle.”

The temperature in the hospital wing dropped. Lucius went still.

“Tom?” Narcissa repeated carefully, eyes narrowing. “Are you certain?”

Draco nodded. “He was there. He got yanked too. Said he was in the library. Then suddenly, he was just, there.”

Sirius let out a low breath. “So three students disappeared from two separate locations and ended up in the same spot in the middle of the Forbidden Forest?”

Remus stood slowly, voice sharp in the quiet room. “This wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “And Tom said the same thing. He said someone wanted us there.”

Lucius’s expression was unreadable. “Did he say who?”

“No,” Harry said. “Just that it wasn’t random.”

“And the creature?” Narcissa asked, eyes flicking to Harry’s bandaged arm. “What did this to you?”

Harry hesitated again. He glanced at Draco.

“There was a creature,” Draco muttered, voice quieter now, uncertain. “Something twisted. Runes on its fur. It looked like it had been... made.”

Lucius stepped forward, voice low. “Constructed?”

Harry nodded slowly. “It didn’t look natural. It was... wrong. Like someone wanted to see what it could do.”

“And then it disappeared?” Remus asked.

Harry nodded again. “It was bound one moment and then gone the next. There was no sign of blood, like it was never there.”

“A summoning. A controlled release,” Narcissa murmured. “And a recall. That would require dark magic of considerable power. And knowledge of the forest’s shifting ley lines.”

Lucius’s mouth was a thin line. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

Sirius ran a hand down his face. “And this happened under McGonagall’s nose.”

“I don’t think this was meant for Draco,” Harry said quietly, staring at the blanket in his lap.

Everyone turned toward him.

“Draco was just near me. I think… I think it was after me.”

Lucius’s gaze flicked to his son, sharp, but then softened. Draco didn’t flinch—he knew Harry was right.

“I was pulled first,” Harry said. “Draco just got caught in the same tether. Tom said the same, he felt magic grab him like a portkey. But I was in the middle of the forest before either of them appeared.”

“So someone summoned you, specifically.” Narcissa’s voice was crisp. “And others were just... collateral.”

“That, or witnesses,” Sirius muttered.

Remus’s hand gripped Harry’s shoulder gently. “We need to get to the bottom of this. Properly. No more excuses from staff. No more ‘it was safe’ nonsense.”

Harry turned to Sirius. “What if it wasn’t someone outside the school?”

Silence.

Lucius was the one who broke it. “You believe it was a student?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Maybe not alone. But the wards didn’t fail on their own.”

“And someone had to bring that creature in,” Draco added. “And know how to summon it. And vanish it.”

A knock suddenly sounded from the door. It opened, revealing Headmistress McGonagall, her face pale and drawn, eyes tight with worry.

“I need a word,” she said, voice strained. “With all of you.”

She stepped inside, followed by Professor Snape, his robes were unruffled but his jaw was clenched.

“The wards did not fail,” Snape said without preamble. “They were rewritten.”

Everyone straightened.

“Traces of spell manipulation were found,” he continued. “Complex layering. Illegal runes. Designed to collapse a very precise segment of protection for approximately ten seconds.”

“A window,” McGonagall said grimly. “Just long enough.”

Lucius’s voice was like ice. “Then we are not dealing with a prank or misfire.”

“No,” McGonagall agreed. “We are dealing with an infiltrator.”

Silence fell again, heavier now. Harry looked at Draco. Then he remembered what Tom had said. A test.

The headmistress' office was warded six ways over. No portraits stirred, no magical quills took minutes. The room was sealed and guarded by more enchantments than Hogwarts had used since the last war. A perimeter was secured, no student or staff would overhear what was to be said. 

McGonagall stood at the head of the long table, hands braced on the polished wood. Beside her sat Severus Snape, expression cold and sharp, and beside him sat Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, silent but visibly disturbed. Opposite them were Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. The latter radiated calm urgency; the former, a storm barely restrained.

Then the last chair was filled. Lord Voldemort entered with no need for introduction.

His presence silenced the room entirely, though it had already been hushed, now it was dead still. The Dark Lord, cloaked in ink-black robes with only a silver serpent brooch adorning his collar, surveyed them all with unreadable expression. His eyes were not the scarlet Harry had once heard of in stories, but a cool, calculating grey, not unlike his son's. Yet, they gleamed with dangerous brilliance.

"Headmistress," Voldemort said, his voice a soft, serpentine lilt. “I understand my son has been violently extracted from the wards of your school.”

McGonagall's jaw clenched slightly. “Yes.”

Snape cleared his throat. “Three students, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Tom Riddle, were forcibly removed from two separate warded zones. They reappeared together in a deep sector of the Forbidden Forest.”

“Coincidence?” Voldemort asked lightly, almost amused.

“Not in the slightest,” Lucius replied before anyone else could. “Whoever orchestrated this, knew what they were doing. The breach was precise. The manipulation involved rune arrays buried beneath layered school enchantments. Beyond even most of the staff’s capability.”

“And a creature was summoned,” Narcissa added, voice like ice on glass. “A malformed hybrid, bearing ancient runic brands. Engineered. It attacked them.”

“They survived,” Snape said curtly. “Barely. Potter and Riddle neutralized the threat together.”

Sirius gave a bitter laugh. “Bonding over bloodshed. How nostalgic.”

Remus, calmer, added, “There’s reason to believe Harry was the primary target. The others were collateral or… possibly witnesses.”

Voldemort's fingers tapped the table once.

“You’re telling me,” he said softly, “that my son was dragged from his studies, placed in mortal peril, alongside the Heir of the House of Black… and no one noticed until it was nearly too late?”

Minerva’s voice, for once, wavered. “I take full responsibility, my Lord—”

“I’m not here to play politics, Minerva,” Voldemort interrupted gently. “I want the truth.”

Snape spoke next. “We traced the breach to a section of the outer ring—along the northern line. Someone rewrote the ward anchors. It required internal access. Staff-level clearance.”

Lucius leaned forward. “So we are looking at a traitor.”

“Or,” Narcissa said, eyes narrowed, “a student with assistance.”

McGonagall exhaled sharply. “There are few students with the ability to even see the structure of a Hogwarts ward, let alone dismantle and recode it. But one of them… might be your son.”

All eyes turned to Voldemort again.

He didn’t react. “Tom is… exceptional. But not foolish. He would not endanger himself for sport.”

“He said it was a test,” Sirius muttered. “When Harry asked what it was. Not an accident. Not a coincidence. A test.”

Voldemort’s gaze darkened. “And who was being tested?”

Harry’s name lingered unspoken in the air.

“It’s possible,” Snape said carefully, “that the attacker wanted to see how he would react. What spells he would use. Who he would protect.”

“Or corrupt,” Narcissa added, eyes flicking toward Sirius.

Sirius bristled. “You think someone was trying to turn him?”

“I think someone is watching your godson very closely,” she said evenly. “As they are mine. And the Dark Lord’s heir. That’s not a mistake. It’s a pattern.”

Remus sat forward. “Then we need to act. Quietly. Discreetly. Public scandal will only push this further underground. We need a list of suspects, a surveillance strategy, and tighter security around the boys.”

“I agree,” Voldemort said smoothly. “And I would like full access to the investigation. Every detail. Every report.”

McGonagall stiffened. “I must remind you, my Lord, that—”

“That my son nearly died.” Voldemort’s voice was still calm, but the temperature in the room dropped. “You have failed to protect him. As you failed to protect the Potter boy, and Lucius’s heir. From now on, I will be involved. Or I will remove him from your care entirely.”

Silence again.

It was Lucius who broke it. “If the threat is within Hogwarts, then the school itself is compromised. Removing the children will not stop the threat, it will only scatter them and make them more vulnerable.”

“I don’t intend to scatter them,” Voldemort said. “I intend to control the field. And the bait.”

Everyone tensed.

“You’re proposing we use them?” Sirius barked. “As bait?”

“I’m proposing we anticipate the enemy’s next move,” Voldemort replied silkily. “And stay one step ahead. They want to test the children? Fine. Let them. But this time, we will be watching.”

Remus looked at him, hesitant. “And what if the next test kills one of them?”

Voldemort’s smile was knife-thin. “Then we hunt.”

In the Hospital wing, Harry awoke to a folded note on the bedside table, no signature, no footprints, no explanation. Only his name in ink so dark that it gleamed. 

'Peverell-Potter-Black,

Come alone. Midnight. The Room of Requirement.'

He knew the handwriting, he's seen it before. It was Tom Riddle's, his script was unmistakable, meticulous, elegant,and inherently smug. Draco looked over from his hospital bed and saw him clutching the paper, his eyes narrowed.

"If that's what I think it is, you're not going alone." Harry didn't reply, he tucked the parchment into his robes and close this eyes once more. He only opened his eyes again when he realized he had no idea where the Room of Requirement was. 

It turns out, Tom had already thought of that. When the clock struck eleven forty-five in the evening, a small silver note fluttered from the air and landed on Harry's pillow. 

'Seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of barnabas the Barmy. Walk past three times, thinking of what you need.'

So harry did. Three turns, heart thudding anxiously. I need answers. A door appeared. He hesitated before push it it open, fingers twitching nervously at the hem of his robes. Tom was already inside, waiting. 

The Room of Requirement had reshaped itself into a cold, domed chamber that pulsed with ancient magic. Tall, narrow windows of smoky glass lined the walls, though no light filtered through them. Shelves, some broken and others pristine, groaned under the weight of ancient tomes and parchment scrolls. Enchanted instruments floated in the corners, spinning gently, whispering in languages no longer spoken aloud. The air was thick with the scent of dust and forgotten things.

At the center of the room sat a large obsidian table, its surface cold and slick like still water, yet etched with runes that glowed faintly gold. Surrounding it were drifting parchments, hovering quills, and a small constellation of candles suspended midair, their flames unwavering despite the draughtless stillness.

It was a scholar’s haven, dense with purpose, precision, and something colder beneath, foreboding.

“Punctual,” Tom said, his voice smooth, though he didn’t look up from the scroll he was studying.

Harry paused in the threshold, the door sealing shut behind him with a sound like a held breath being released. He shifted uncomfortably, clearly favoring his left side, the long robes hiding little of the slow, stiff movement in his step.

“You called me here,” Harry said. His voice was quiet, but not meek. Tired. Cautious.

At last, Tom turned to him. His dark eyes swept over Harry like a scalpel, noting the faint limp, the way he held his left arm close to his chest, the slight tension in his jaw—pain masked with practiced restraint. The aftermath of what happened in the forbidden forest still clung to him like a second skin.

“You’re healing,” Tom said, flatly, almost disinterested.

Harry looked down. “Not fast enough.”

"You’re recovering slowly,” Tom corrected, and there was something unreadable in his tone—not mockery, not quite concern. The words struck like a blade drawn too casually. Harry flinched barely, but Tom saw it.

Tom’s expression didn’t shift. But his gaze did. Sharper now. Focused. He stepped back from the scroll and exhaled—a short, rare sound, like a chisel tapping marble.

“This isn’t about what happened in the forest” he said.

He gestured toward the obsidian table, now glowing more clearly beneath the floating candlelight. The parchment rearranged itself as Harry approached, maps spreading out like wings.

“This is about what’s coming.”

Harry stepped closer, slowly, warily. Spread across the table were not geographic charts, but flowing blueprints of magic itself—ley lines crisscrossing the globe in tangled, pulsating patterns. Some burned brighter than others, while others faded into faint, blinking pulses. Nestled between them were diagrams of blood rites, pages from volumes in forgotten magical tongues, and bindings written in silver ink.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

Tom moved beside him, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the cold strategist.

“We’re not just anomalies, Potter. We’re legacies. Living fault lines in something older than any war our parents fought. This,” he gestured to the table, “is inheritance on a scale no one has touched for a thousand years.”

Harry frowned, watching lines flare and pulse on the map. “So it’s about blood.”

“It’s always about blood,” Tom said. “But this is deeper than lineage. Your name, Peverell-Potter-Black, didn’t just inherit titles. It disrupted balance. It stirred ancient magical law, woke dormant enchantments, cracked open paths that were sealed after the Founders died.”

He reached for a page covered in old Celtic runes and laid it over a pulsing node on the ley line map.

"You are the consequence of convergence,” he said. “And consequence… attracts attention.”

Harry’s eyes flicked down again. One parchment had names. Names woven through bloodline diagrams, tangled with prophecy and bindings. His name was there, written in stark, dark ink.

And so was Tom’s. Their lines intersected.

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Why are you in this?”

Tom was silent for a moment, face unreadable.

“Because my father won a war,” he said eventually. “And I was shaped by the world he carved from that victory. Molded by it. Told I was born for it.”

He looked at Harry then, and for a brief second, the firelight caught something raw in his eyes—resentment, certainty, fear.

“I was chosen. Not by prophecy. Not by magic. But by him. And that’s a weight of its own.”

Harry didn’t speak. The diagram before him was shifting now—symbols moving with a strange, clockwork grace. They pulsed faintly in time with something he could feel behind his ribcage. Not his heart. Deeper.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Harry said, voice quieter than before.

Tom’s reply was steel.

“None of us did. But that doesn’t change the fact it’s yours now. The old magic doesn’t care about fairness.”

At that moment, a flicker of something  passed over the runes, an echo of magic. Harry saw something that wasn't quite a vision or memory, but a flash of blue eyes, unnaturally calm, watching from behind a curtain of golden light, and a Phoenix feather, burning then falling to ash. 

A long silence stretched between them, taut with everything left unsaid. The kind of silence that lives between opposing forces, no longer enemies but never allies. Harry’s hand hovered over the table before he stepped back.

“You didn’t have to show me this.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “But I needed to. For both our sakes.”

Harry glanced at him sharply, but Tom wasn’t looking anymore. His gaze had returned to the table, to a constellation of runes moving in formation like a ritual yet to begin.

“Why this room?” Harry asked after a moment.

Tom’s voice didn’t waver. “Because the Room listens to need. And I needed a place to prepare.”

Harry paused at the threshold again, one hand on the cold doorframe. “And are you prepared?”

This time, Tom looked up. His face was still carved in calm, but there was something beneath it—uncertainty or understanding, it was hard to tell.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I will be.”

The door swung open, silent on its hinges. Harry didn’t look back. He went straight to the Hospital wing, not wanting to get caught out of bed.

The next day, he and Draco were discharged from Poppy's care, but was not allowed to attend classes for a week. Sirius and Remus said goodbye last night, satisfied with Harry's recovery.  When the two went to the Great Hall for breakfast, the air was heavy. 

Harry didn't see them at first, but the silence did. Four new figures entered the Great Hall, gliding like shadows.

Lucius Malfoy, dressed in immaculate dark green robes lined with silver embroidery, walked with effortless authority. Beside him, Bellatrix Lestrange floated like a wraith, graceful and intense, her dark eyes sweeping over the hall with barely restrained pride. On Lucius's other side was Narcissa Malfoy, regal and serene, her platinum hair swept into a flawless knot, her expression unreadable but unmistakably protective when her gaze settled on Harry. Beside him, cloaked in black, was the Dark Lord.

"I thought they already went home." Draco whispered to Harry who simply stared. Whispers died, forks paused in midair, every student sat rigid.

Harry’s eyes locked with Voldemort’s. There was no hatred in the look, only curiosity. Amusement. And something else. He smiled. Thin and deliberate.

Professor Snape stood immediately, bowing with careful grace. Even Headmistress McGonagall rose from her seat with visible restraint, offering a stiff nod of acknowledgment.

Lucius spoke first. "In light of the incident that happened a few days ago, My Lord wished to see the state of the school firsthand,"

"Why didn't they do it yesterday? I mean, they were already here." Draco murmured, making Harry snort. 

"I guess uncle Lucius wanted a grander entrance." Harry whispered back,

Tom, who fetched them from the apparition grounds,  had entered behind them, trailing two steps behind as custom dictated. He was composed, unreadable, his gaze skating over the Slytherin table. When he passed Draco, he inclined his head slightly. When he passed Harry, he didn’t look at all.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, stopping beside the Slytherin table. His voice was softer than expected. It was measured, almost gentle. The hall held its breath. “You’ve grown.”

Harry looked up, startled for the briefest second before he recovered. “Thank you, my Lord.”

A slender, gloved hand came to rest lightly on the Dark Lord’s arm. Bellatrix Lestrange stood beside him now elegant, composed, and smiling.

“Our little stag turned serpent,” she said fondly, her voice like velvet. “You always were more Black than Potter. I heard what happened, my love. We'll see to it that the matter will be handled accordingly."

Harry’s throat tightened. “Aunt Bella,” he said quietly, offering her a respectful nod. 

Narcissa Malfoy stepped closer, her touch feather-light on Harry’s shoulder. “How are you feeling, darling?" she asked gently. “I hope you are not aching still.”

“I’ve had help,” Harry replied, his voice just above a whisper. "Draco and I were given potions for the pain." Harry continued, making Lucius nod in approval.

Draco, sitting beside Harry, gave him a brief nudge under the table, muttering, “You still owe me for that potions essay I did for you last night."

Harry almost smiled. "You still owe me for saving your rear from that beast." Draco shut his mouth promptly after that.

Bellatrix’s gaze flicked fondly between the two boys. “Just like Regulus and Sirius when they were young,” she mused. Harry glanced up at Voldemort again, surprised to find no malice, only reflection.

"You carry their legacy well,” the Dark Lord said, voice thoughtful. “But you will be known for more than their name. You are Harry, and in time, the world will know what that means."

Harry’s chest tightened. “I hope so.”

Voldemort inclined his head again, warmer this time. “Good.”

Voldemort studied him, his eyes, dark, not red, mirroring Tom’s but older, more seasoned. There was no hatred in them, only a knowing quiet.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” he said softly, almost to himself. “And your father’s temper. But you’ve tempered it, I see. That’s good.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “Thank you, sir.”

There was a trace of something close to fondness in the Dark Lord’s smile.

“I do not mourn those who stood against me,” he said carefully, “but I do respect their strength. Your parents were brave. You, I think, will be wiser.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “I hope so.”

Just then, the sharp flutter of wings drew attention. An owl swooped through the enchanted ceiling and landed directly in front of Harry, startling several first-years. Harry took the parchment tied to its leg and unrolled it quickly. His eyes scanned the familiar scrawl.

'Harry,

Bellatrix is coming. Try not to let her hug you too hard. I know how you hate being fussed over but you know how she gets. Touchy. And loud. Be polite. Be careful. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t challenge her to a duel.

Love, Sirius & Remus'

Harry gave a soft snort as he rolled it back up.

“You’re late,” he muttered to the owl, then looked up to see Bellatrix watching him with a suspiciously raised eyebrow.

“Letter from Sirius?” she purred.

Harry offered a sheepish smile. “And Remus. They figured you might smother me.”

Bellatrix cackled, clearly pleased. “If I wanted to kill you, nephew, I’d use a wand, not affection.”

Lucius chuckled, and even Voldemort’s lips curved ever so slightly.

Draco leaned over and muttered, “You’re the only person I know who gets death threats and hugs in the same breath.”

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "You’ve done well here, Harry. Hogwarts suits you and the House of Black stands stronger with you in it."

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully, gaze never leaving Harry. “Indeed. The boy is... curious. A thread knotted in old magic. It’s rare for bloodlines to awaken so vividly.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Draco, seated beside Harry, had gone utterly still. His eyes were fixed on Voldemort, jaw tight. One hand clenched slightly beneath the table. He didn’t speak—but his entire posture had shifted, rigid and coiled. Protective.

The Dark Lord paused a moment longer beside Harry, then turned to continue his inspection of the hall without another word. Tom followed in perfect silence, his expression unreadable as ever. Harry didn’t look at him but he felt the weight of Tom’s gaze as he passed.

Voldemort looked between them. “Magic answers to blood. And you, Harry, are blood. Peverell. Potter. Black. In this new age, those names will mean something again. Do not waste them.”

He turned, the hem of his cloak trailing cold silence.

“Come, Lucius. Tom.”

As the four visitors and Tom turned to leave, the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Lucius, the atmosphere in the Great Hall remained suspended, like the breath of a single living body held too long.

Voldemort paused once more at the door, his gaze sweeping across the students. Then his eyes settled on Harry with finality, and—almost imperceptibly—he inclined his head.

It was not a gesture of command, nor of threat. It was acknowledgment. Respect, even. And with that, they were gone. Only then did the students resume moving, breathing, whispering in tight, frantic clusters.

Draco leaned in closer. “Well,” he said, with a low exhale, “that was subtle.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the heavy wooden doors long after they’d shut. There was a pressure in his chest, not quite fear. Not quite pride. The lines had blurred.And somewhere between ash and fire, something ancient was stirring.

The doors to the Great Hall closed with a final, echoing thud. Whispers picked up again like wind through a graveyard, rising and falling in hushed waves around the room. Students leaned toward one another, speculating, marveling, whispering about what it all meant.

But Harry barely noticed.

He was still staring at the doors, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His heart beat too fast, too loud. There had been a strange warmth in the Dark Lord’s parting words, a subtle, haunting kindness that didn’t match people's description of him.

You have your mother’s eyes, he had said. And your father’s temper. But you’ve tempered it, I see. That’s good.

Bellatrix’s laugh still rang faintly in his ears. Narcissa’s touch still warmed his shoulder. Draco had whispered something sarcastic and typical, but grounding. Lucius had looked at him like he belonged.

Too many things to feel. Too many things to sort. He didn’t even notice the taste in his goblet had changed. Didn’t see the shimmer across its surface. Didn’t realize anything was wrong until it was far, far too late

Harry blinked hard. The light above him seemed to dim, though no one else noticed. He touched the edge of his goblet. It felt oddly warm. Draco, sitting beside him, leaned closer.

"Harry? What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice suddenly too loud in Harry’s ears.

Harry rubbed at his temple, blinking rapidly. "I... I don’t know. The light... it’s weird."

Draco frowned. "You look pale. Did you eat anything weird? Drink something?"

Harry didn’t answer. His hand trembled slightly around the goblet.

Draco reached out and touched Harry’s wrist. "Hey., Talk to me. You’re shaking."

When Harry didn’t respond, Draco stood halfway from the bench, alarm rising in his voice. "Oi! Something’s wrong with him!"

Then came the pressure, the kind of weight that settled behind the eyes, like old dread being called forward.

He heard a scrape behind him. Somewhere far off, a laugh.

Marc Avery, a cocky seventh-year Gryffindor with a cruel streak and a pureblood disdain for any house but his own, exchanged a smug look with his friends. He twirled his wand idly beneath the table, whispering the fading residue of a spell he'd been perfecting since summer: Memoria Dirum.

Avery had slipped the charm onto a dissolvable rune fragment and dropped it into Harry’s goblet earlier. He hadn't expected it to work so quickly but it did. And Avery had timed it perfectly.

Right as the world was watching the legacy boy bask in the Dark Lord’s approval. Because what better way to humiliate a prince, than to show them he was once a trembling, broken thing?

The first wave of unease hit him just after he took a sip of juice. His fingers went numb. His mouth tasted ash. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop by degrees. The vibrant chatter of the students warped in his ears, low and threatening.

Then came the pressure. Like an invisible hand had wrapped around his chest, squeezing. Harry's fork clattered to his plate. His heart pounded. The edges of his vision turned too bright. The noise, the laughter, the scrape of knives, the rustle of cloaks, they all turned sharper. His breath hitched, everything was too much. Too loud. Too close.

The walls of the Great Hall seemed to stretch and flicker. The enchanted ceiling stormed and twisted. Then, it happened. A sudden rush of air, like he’d been plunged underwater, and the world was no longer the Great Hall.

He was back there. The cupboard.

“Boy!” a voice screamed, though it was only in his mind. “You dare answer back? You think you deserve food?”

He gasped. The goblet fell from his hand and shattered at his feet, liquid spreading like blood across the stones.

He stumbled backward, his spine slamming against the bench. “No, please, don’t lock me in again—” A few students nearby turned, confused.

But it didn’t stop. He heard the slap, the crack of a belt, the sound of his own whimpers from years ago, the ones he thought he’d buried. A phantom hand grabbed his wrist, twisted it—

He screamed. And this time, it wasn’t in memory. The Great Hall fell silent. Utterly still.

Harry Potter, Heir of Potter, Black, and Peverell, was curled on the floor, arms over his head, sobbing, begging something unseen to stop.

Some laughed. One Gryffindor,  bold and unthinking, jeered, “What’s wrong, Potter? Forgot how to be a prince?”

More laughter. But not from everyone. Draco was on his feet in a second.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley.”

Hermione Granger had risen too, her expression torn between horror and confusion. “Someone get a professor!” she shouted but it wasn’t fast enough.

The memory had him fully now. Harry was lost in it, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Don’t lock me in—I’ll be good—I swear—no more freakishness—”

Students shifted. A few backed away, uncertain. Madam Pomfrey rushed from the staff doors.

“Move aside!” she barked, wand already drawn.

Snape was not far behind, dark robes billowing like thunderclouds. He took one look at the shattered goblet, hissed a word, and the fragments floated into a vial.

“He’s been dosed,” he said grimly. “Potion-based. Strong.”

“Worse. Trauma spike.”

“I need space!” She knelt, waving her wand in a precise arc over Harry’s trembling form.

“He’s not responding to grounding spells,” she muttered. “It’s deep.”

Draco remained crouched beside Harry, who was barely coherent, trembling violently as his breath came in shallow, rapid bursts.

"We need to get him out of here," Draco said, looking up at Madam Pomfrey with sharp urgency.

"Help me lift him," she replied, already conjuring a stretcher charm with a flick of her wand.

Snape was beside them in an instant, his wand glowing as he scanned the remnants of the goblet once more. "Confirming trauma-inducing charm. Likely tied to a cursed rune fragment. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."

Draco supported Harry’s shoulders as Pomfrey directed the stretcher into motion, gently levitating him. The boy’s skin was pale, his eyes glassy and distant.  They moved swiftly through the halls toward the Hospital Wing.

When they arrived, Pomfrey quickly ushered the stretcher to a bed and began casting diagnostic charms. Snape assisted without a word, his movements quick and efficient.

As Snape analyzed the potion residue once more, he muttered something under his breath, making Poppy glance at him.

"Something's strange about the magical signature. It's something old, but it isn't foreign to the castle."

Pomfrey frowned. "You mean...?"

"This spell isn't in any curriculum. Not anymore."

Moments later, the doors slammed open.

Voldemort entered first, tall, quiet, and terrifying in his stillness. His crimson eyes swept the room. Lucius and Narcissa followed in his wake, their expressions sharp with concern. Bellatrix trailed behind them, her features twisted in something like fury. And behind them came Tom, silent, composed.

“What happened?” Voldemort asked, his voice unnervingly calm.

Snape turned to him immediately. "Someone spiked Mr. Potter’s drink with a trauma-triggering potion. A cruel, calculated act."

Narcissa made a quiet, horrified sound. Bellatrix stepped closer to the bed, her expression wavering between rage and protectiveness. Harry stirred under Pomfrey’s spells, a faint whimper escaping his lips. Draco stood protectively at his bedside, his hand still on Harry’s shoulder.

“Whoever did this... they wanted to break him.” Draco said bitterly.

Voldemort stepped closer, the air shifting.

“He will not be broken,” he said, eyes locked on Harry. “We will find the one responsible. And they will understand what it means to cross a line.”

Lucius placed a hand on Draco’s back. "You did well, Draco. He needed someone who wouldn’t flinch."

Narcissa reached down and brushed a curl of hair from Harry’s forehead. "Poor boy," she murmured. "Not again."

Tom remained by the door, eyes unreadable. But not idle. He turned without a word and swept back into the Great Hall. Students fell silent as he entered. The air shifted, electric, tense. He strode down the center aisle between the tables, every step measured, deliberate. He stopped near the Gryffindor table.

“Who did it?” Tom asked, voice calm but razor-sharp, cutting through the low hum of the Great Hall.

The silence was immediate, heavy. Then Marc Avery rose with a smug expression, clearly mistaking the nature of Tom’s question.

“I did,” he said, puffing his chest slightly. “Pretty clever, yeah? I figured someone like you would see the merit. Put the snake in his place.” A few Gryffindors chuckled under their breath.

Tom tilted his head, as if evaluating a particularly pathetic insect.

“I see,” he said smoothly.

Marc took a step forward, clearly emboldened by the attention. “Didn’t think anyone had the nerve, but I—”

Tom flicked two fingers. Marc Avery flew backward, slammed against the stone wall behind the Gryffindor table, choking mid-sentence. Utensils scattered and plates clattered as students leapt to their feet. The Great Hall exploded in whispers.

“You humiliated the Heir of Peverell and Black,” Tom said coldly, approaching the struggling Marc. “You tampered with legacy magic and brewed a potion designed to force trauma to the surface.”

Marc’s bravado shattered instantly. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You meant to hurt him,” Tom interrupted, eyes blazing like cut glass. “And you thought I’d applaud you?”

He stepped closer, his magic winding around Marc’s throat. “You thought wrong.”

Marc gasped, scrambling against the stone.  Tom’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t need to raise his voice.

“You tampered with legacy-bound blood. You forced trauma on someone who’s done nothing to you. And you expected a reward?”

Marc's smirk faltered. “I, I thought—”

“Silence,” Tom said coldly. “You humiliated yourself. You’ll answer to more than just me.”

Snape rose from the staff table, lips thin. “Mr. Avery. With me. Now.”

Marc paled. “But—”

“Now,” Snape repeated, voice like broken ice.

As Snape escorted the disgraced Gryffindor from the Great Hall, murmurs erupted across every table. Tom’s eyes followed Marc until the doors slammed shut. Only then did he turn and return to his seat at the Slytherin table, expression cool, movements calm.

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t have to. Everyone had seen enough. Then, without another word, Tom turned his back and strode out of the hall and back to the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey had given him a Dreamless Sleep potion. Snape had promised to find the culprit. Draco had stayed until curfew. Now, only silence remained.

Until the door creaked open. Tom Riddle stepped inside. He didn’t say anything. He just sat in the chair beside Harry’s bed, arms crossed. Minutes passed and Tom didn't utter a word. Tom's gaze on Harry didn't waver.

"I know you'll ask why I did it," he paused and looked out the window. “I did it because... I know what it’s like to be trapped in a place no one can see. And I know what it’s like when they finally do.”

"Your Aunts and Uncle will be staying within the castle for the meantime. Your guardians have also been notified. McGonagall said that she already gave out her punishment to Avery, Snape as well." With that, Tom stood and turned to exit the wing, but not before looking back and glancing at Harry once more. 

He left the Hospital Wing with slow, deliberate steps, the corridors empty and echoing in the dead of night. Outside the window, the forest swayed with the wind, a dark sea under silver clouds. Tom didn’t go straight to the dormitories.

Instead, he wandered.

Past the torch lit corridors, past the cold whisper of portraits that turned to watch him but dared not speak. One portrait f an unnamed man with sharp blue eyes and half moon glasses followed him with eerie precision.

Eventually, he found himself at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, high above the castle. He stood alone under the stars, wind pulling at his robes, hands tight against the railing.

He remembered what his father had said in passing as they left the Hospital Wing earlier that evening.

"He’s not unlike you, Tom. The boy you were before the world hardened you."

Tom hadn’t answered then, not out loud. There had been too many eyes, too many ears. Bellatrix’s manic stillness, Narcissa’s carefully veiled concern, Lucius’s mask of calm fury, Draco’s anxious pacing near the hospital bed. He had merely inclined his head and followed silently, but the words had stuck like thorns.

Now, beneath the stars and the thinning night, the memory replayed with sharper clarity.

“No,” Tom whispered to the darkness, his voice more fragile than he intended. “He reminds me of who I might’ve been... if someone had loved me before the world taught me to bleed first.” And that thought didn’t just unsettle him, it fractured something deep within.

The next morning, the tension in the hospital wing never lifted. Pomfrey remained alert, monitoring spells hovering like clouds around Harry’s bed. Draco refused to move more than a step from his side, sitting straight-backed in a chair he refused to leave.

Bellatrix’s pacing grew tighter, more erratic. “If I ever find out who did this,” she spat.

“We know who it was,” Lucius said coolly. “Marc Avery.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t get to him first,” Sirius snarled from the corner as he burst through the doors in a storm of fury. “He’s going to pay for touching my godson.”

“Sirius,” Remus said firmly, stepping beside him. “That’s not the way to go about this.”

"He dosed Harry with a memory-triggering curse,” Sirius growled. “That’s torture.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve consequences,” Remus replied, voice quiet but hard. “But murder isn’t justice.”

Sirius raked a hand through his hair, the tremble in his fingers betraying him. “He could’ve broken him, Moony. First, the incident in the forest, now this?”

“He didn’t,” Remus said. “Because Harry is stronger than that. And he’s not alone.”

Draco remained kneeling beside Harry, eyes shadowed with worry. “He’s been like this for hours. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even after the duel.”

At that, Sirius stilled. Bellatrix, too, straightened sharply, her eyes narrowing into slits.

"What duel?" Sirius asked, voice low and dangerous.

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard. "It... It was sanctioned. During Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Snape supervised."

Bellatrix surged forward, nearly knocking over a tray. “Who did he duel with?"

Draco didn't know if which was wiser, to answer or not. "He... he dueled with Tom..."

"You let him duel Tom?” Bellatrix hissed. “Who in their right mind thought that was wise?”

Draco bristled. “It wasn’t my idea, but Harry accepted the challenge. He didn’t back down.”

Sirius rounded on Snape, who had just returned with a tray of potions. “You let my godson duel Riddle?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “It was a formal duel. Controlled. Potter held his own.”

“That boy has more trauma laced through him than bone,” Sirius snapped. “You think throwing him into a wand match with that snake was a good call?”

“He consented,” Snape said flatly. “And proved more than competent.”

Bellatrix’s voice was a blade. “If I had known, I’d have been in that classroom myself.”

“I doubt the Headmistress would’ve approved your methods,” Snape replied coldly.

Narcissa stepped in quickly, voice calm but firm. “Enough. This isn’t helping Harry.”

But Sirius wasn’t done. He paced the length of the bed like a storm held in human form. “You let him duel the boy of the man who orphaned him! How is that sane?”

“He wanted it,” Snape said, arms crossed. “You think I would’ve forced him?”

Bellatrix scoffed, her hair wild around her shoulders. “That duel could’ve killed him. Tom’s no ordinary student. He’s his father’s heir in magic and mind. And you,” she jabbed a finger at Snape, “Stood there like a statue while he tore Harry to pieces?”

“He didn’t,” Draco cut in sharply. “Harry held his ground. He was incredible.”

Sirius halted, running a hand through his already-tangled hair. “He’s seven parts bruised and one part boy, and you all let this happen. You think courage is throwing him into fire and watching if he burns or flies?"

Remus finally stepped forward, voice steady but tight. “Sirius, enough. What’s done is done. We protect him now. We hold whoever hurt him accountable, Avery, the ones who stood by and laughed. But shouting doesn’t undo what’s been done.”

Lucius watched it all from the corner, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice measured but clipped. "The duel was a mistake, clearly. Harry should never have been placed in that position, not with Riddle. It was reckless. The Dark Lord learned about the duel the day it happened. He was... impressed. But even he questioned the judgment behind allowing it to take place."

“Great,” Sirius muttered. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Voldemort’s approval.”

Narcissa reached forward and gently tucked a stray curl from Harry’s forehead. “He’ll come back to us,” she murmured. “He always does.”

Lucius stood like a sentinel behind her, hand resting protectively on Draco’s shoulder. Bellatrix hovered on the opposite side of the bed, a storm of fury behind her tight smile.

Sirius turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he caught movement in the doorway. Tom stood there, silent as ever, framed by the hall’s pale light.

“You,” Sirius hissed, taking a step forward, jabbing a furious finger toward him. “You think you can waltz in here and play heir to a tyrant and duel him like it’s some game of bloodlines? He’s a child. My godson.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest flicker of something, disquiet perhaps, passed through his eyes. He met Sirius’s fury with a chilling calm.

“I didn’t force the duel,” Tom said evenly. “He agreed to it. And he held his own.”

“Held his own?” Sirius snarled, voice rising. “You could’ve killed him. You're a third year, for Merlin's sake!”

“Then he shouldn’t have accepted,” Tom replied, voice like ice.

Sirius surged forward again, jaw clenched tight—but stopped cold when Harry stirred suddenly in the bed. A low groan. A twitch of fingers.

“Harry?” Remus moved first, instantly at his side.

Sirius froze, chest heaving, the fire still burning in his eyes but banked by fear.

Harry’s eyelids fluttered, but it didn't open. He didn’t speak. But his hand reached out blindly, grasping for something. Draco took it without hesitation and the room fell quiet.

Tom remained in the doorway, watching everything unfold. These people, so different in background, allegiance, temperament, stood united around Harry like the core of some new constellation.

He had never seen that before, not for himself, not for anyone. And Harry, traumatized, unconscious, still trembling, was the center of it all. The Heir of Peverell. The boy with too many titles and not enough childhood. Tom stared longer than he should have. Not out of pity. But out of a question that clawed deeper with every breath:

Why him? As the first silver of dawn crept over the horizon, Tom slipped from the corridor and into the chill air, the words still echoing in his mind. He’d always thought the greatest weapon was fear, control, and isolation. But now... He wasn’t sure.  Maybe love was the sharpest blade after all.

The day Harry woke, the castle exhaled.

It had been three days of uneasy quiet—no pranks in the corridors, no chatter in the courtyards, not even the usual first-years bickering over gobstones in the common rooms. It was as if Hogwarts itself had been holding its breath, waiting for a verdict it hadn’t yet dared to name.

Sirius and Remus never left the Hospital Wing. One or the other was always present: Sirius, pacing like a caged thing, too volatile to be still, while Remus read aloud from tattered books with trembling fingers. Sometimes they argued in soft, worried murmurs—over potions, over pillows, over how many blankets Harry needed. Most often, they simply sat and waited, with looks on their faces like war veterans staring at a battlefield that wouldn’t end.

Bellatrix, Lucius, Narcissa, and the Dark Lord had all departed the evening Harry first stirred, leaving no grand farewell behind. Voldemort had simply paused at the foot of Harry’s bed and said, “Let me know when he wakes.”

Narcissa had lingered to straighten his blanket with quiet care. Bellatrix had hovered near the doorway, a storm sheathed in silence. And when Harry’s eyes fluttered open, blinking against the slanted morning light, it was Draco who noticed first.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, stunned, like he hadn’t believed it would happen.

Harry frowned, groggy. “Did I miss dinner?”

Sirius let out something between a laugh and a sob as he rushed to the bedside, brushing messy hair away from Harry’s eyes. “You little menace.”

Remus was next, kneeling beside him and pressing a hand to Harry’s shoulder. “Welcome back, kid.”

Draco didn’t speak, but his hand hovered close to Harry’s wrist, as though ready to catch him again. And in that moment, brief and soft and too bright,  Harry didn’t feel cursed or watched. He just felt held.

In the Great Hall, rumors bloomed like ink in water, each one wilder than the last. That Harry had collapsed because of a failed ritual. That Tom had cursed a Gryffindor into a coma. That Voldemort had declared Harry the next heir of Slytherin.

None of it was true, not entirely. Some whispered that Avery hadn't acted alone, that he'd been guided. Not by a student, but by an old voice. 

"The light never truly fades," A Hufflepuff muttered before Professor SInistra snapped at her to stop spreading nonsense.

Marc Avery had not returned to Gryffindor Tower. Snape had personally escorted him to Headmistress McGonagall’s office, and from there, he vanished into school legend. The punishment was severe. Some said he’d been expelled. Others said worse.

No one laughed about Harry Potter anymore. Not even the Weasley twins. Not even Ron. Especially not Ron. Tom entered the Great Hall without his usual guards of space and silence. The Slytherin table shifted as he approached, students straightening, eyes wary.

He sat beside Draco. The younger boy looked at him without fear, but without deference either.

"He's awake," Draco said simply. "Asked for water. Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be fine in a few days."

Tom didn’t ask how Harry had slept. He didn’t ask if he’d eaten. He only said, “Good.” But the silence between them was thicker than before.

The golden plates in front of Tom remained untouched. He heard every whisper. Every stolen glance. Even those too afraid to speak looked at him differently now. Not because of what he’d done to Avery. But because of who he’d done it for.

That night, Tom returned to the Room of Requirement. This time, it shaped itself into a dark chamber filled with symbols of lineage and prophecy. In the center, a raised dais held a mirror. But not the Mirror of Erised.

No, it was something older. The Mirror of Vael. It didn’t show desire, it showed paths, potential, and legacy. The things one could become, if they dared. Tom stood before it, face bathed in silver light. In one reflection, he saw himself, robes like a king, wand alight with seething green, the world bowed at his feet.

In another... Harry stood beside him. Not as a subject, but as a partner. Not an equal, not yet, but a necessary counterpart. The axis around which everything turned.

Tom turned from the mirror with a clenched jaw. That could not happen. And yet... Behind him, the room stirred, like something ancient had awoken. Whispers rose in languages too old to name. Among them was one word. Soft, persistent, and quite like a wound refusing to heal. Albus.

He returned to the Hospital Wing one final time before curfew. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Harry sat upright, arms crossed over his chest, blanket thrown aside. His skin still looked pale under the lamplight, but his eyes, his eyes were fire again.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," Harry said, dryly.

Tom didn’t smile. But his shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to see if you were dead,” he said coolly.

Harry snorted. “Disappointed?” Tom stepped inside and closed the door behind him. For a moment, silence hung like fog.

Then Harry asked, “Do you believe in fate?”

Tom tilted his head, curious. “No. I believe in power.”

“I think,” Harry said, staring at the far wall, “I was supposed to die in that cupboard. But I didn’t. And every time something like this happens, it feels like the universe keeps asking, what will you become instead?”

Tom didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the same question had been clawing at him since the night he saw Harry’s bloodlines intersect with his own on that obsidian table in the Room of Requirement. Not enemies. Not allies. Something more dangerous.

“I’m not sure what to make of you,” Tom said at last.

Harry shrugged. “That makes two of us.”

Tom hesitated, as if weighing something.

Then, “People like us, we don’t get to just be. We have to choose what we become. And we don’t get to choose without consequence.” Harry looked at him, something unreadable in his gaze.

“Then maybe,” he said slowly, “it’s not about choosing what. Maybe it’s choosing who.”

Tom turned to leave. But at the threshold, he paused.

“You were never broken,” he said, without looking back. “They just wanted you to be.” Then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Harry staring after him. Eyes wide, heart unsteady.

The next day, Harry was discharged. The Great Hall quieted the moment Harry walked in. No loud reactions, no gasps, just silence—charged and heavy. Eyes flicked toward him from every table, heads turning like compass needles. But for once, it wasn’t judgment that met him.

It was awe.

Harry walked in with Sirius and Remus flanking him like twin sentinels, all dark robes and quiet power. Draco trailed slightly behind, sharp-eyed and tense. A seat scraped across the stone floor at the Slytherin table.

Blaise Zabini offered a simple nod.

Pansy Parkinson smiled, tentative and real.

Even Theo Nott, usually expressionless, gave a curt, “Potter.”

He didn’t sit with them. Not yet. But he saw them. They saw him and when Tom Riddle entered moments later, the stillness didn't shift back to him. It didn’t have to. Eyes flicked between them, between the boy who’d ruled from a pedestal and the one who had risen from a fall.

Even fear had changed its shape.

“You’ve made quite the impression,” Remus murmured.

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said under his breath.

Sirius smiled, but it was tight. “Sometimes, kid… surviving is the thing.”

In the days that followed, the castle began to bend, not to Harry’s will, but around it. People moved aside in the halls, not with fear but with deference. He noticed it most in the silences: how no one dared whisper his name like a curse anymore. How the shadows had stopped reaching for him.

Even the teachers began to see something else.

In Defense, Snape stopped ignoring him. He asked Harry questions. Hard ones. And when Harry answered correctly, Snape didn’t sneer, he nodded. In Transfiguration, McGonagall let him transfigure an entire desk without correction. At the end of class, she paused, hesitated, and said, “Well done, Mr. Potter.”

In Potions, ingredients responded to him like old friends. Cauldrons didn’t bubble over. The air didn’t bite. It was like magic had begun to settle in his bones, claiming him fully. And Hogwarts… watched. And yet, not all glances held admiration.

One professor, Vector perhaps, watched him too long after class, brows drawn tight as though worried or unsure of him. 

Harry overheard a Hufflepuff whisper in the corridor, "They say he's different now." 

And in the library, an older Ravenclaw closed a book a little too quickly when Harry passed by. 

"He's not ready," He heard them mutter. "It's too soon... He's too willing."

Willing to what? Harry didn't ask out loud but the chill that ran down his back wasn't from the open windows.

Even the walls felt different. Some Gryffindors still avoided him. Draco trailed him like a shadow. Not always speaking. Not always near. But present.

And one day, when a pair of third-years muttered the word “freak” as he passed, Daphne Greengrass turned.

“What did you say?” she asked, mild and icy. They went silent.

Daphne’s smile was sharp and satisfied. “Thought so.”

Harry didn’t say anything. But when he looked at Draco afterward, the other boy only shrugged, like what did you expect?

A Hufflepuff prefect was watching him in the corridor outside Ancient Runes, his eyes tracked Harry.

"History remembers those who obey," The Hufflepuff whispered as he passed. "Even when the war is over." 

Draco glanced back, frowning, but Harry didn't turn.

That night, Tom stood alone in the Room of Requirement. Staring at the unchanged images that The Mirror of Vael kept showing. Tom thought that it might change if he returned but no, it still showed Harry. Not kneeling, not bleeding, but standing beside him. Not as a rival, but as something Tom couldn’t name. something equal. Power, not divided, but shared.

And he hated it. He hated it so much he could barely look at it. But worse, far worse, was that he didn’t. He wanted it.

“Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?” Tom asked out loud. 

The room did not respond, it just waited,  like it always did.

And Harry… Harry had felt it, too. Not just the whispers, the glances, the silence when he passed. But the pull. The slow, steady draw of something bigger than himself. A force he hadn’t asked for—but was starting to understand.

“I’ve been the archer…”

“…and I’ve been the prey.”

And now? Now he was becoming something else, not a symbol, not a weapon. Just Harry. But maybe, finally, powerful enough that no one would ever make him feel small again.

Chapter Text

The days after Harry's recovery passed like water slipping between fingers. It was tense, quick, and impossible to hold. He had returned to classes, to silence, to stares than no longer mocked but measured. They looked at him now like something that rose from the ashes, different and dangerous. 

He no longer walked in the shadows of pity, he now walked in the eye of the storm, and Tom saw it all. He watched with a hunger he didn't bother to hide anymore. Harry didn't speak to him, didn't look at him, and yet, their orbits dragged each other closer with every passing day. A glance in the hallway, a brushed sleeve in passing, and a pull in the air like static before lightning. 

Tom's expression never changed in public, but Harry could feel it, the pressure of being watched, of being wanted. But it wasn't affection, it was possession waiting to be named and it was wearing Tom down. Not outwardly, not obviously, but the cracks were there, in the space between blinks. 

Tom sat differently now whenever he was in the Great Hall, from what Harry could see, he was still, but sharp. Students avoided sitting too close, even professors had begun tiptoeing around his moods, pretending not to notice the way candles guttered out when he passed, or how the painting refused to meet his eyes. 

Tom had always been intimidating, but now, now he was unstable. And when Harry laughed once, just once quietly, at something another first year Slytherin said, Tom stood up and walked out. He didn't show up in the Great Hall or the Slytherin common room for two days. 

When the Room of Requirement called to them both, it wasn't a request, it was a summons. The door appeared before Harry like a wound in the stone wall, jagged at the edges, the magic bleeding from it was colder than any corridor should be. It was pulling at him like breath on the nape of his neck.

He looked around before stepping inside. 

The room was vast and echoing, like a cathedral made for something that's no longer worshipped. Torn green banners lined the rafters, swaying with no wind. The floor was cracked marble,  veined through with something that looked like old blood and ran deep. 

At the center, waiting like a king in a dying court, stood Tom. 

He wasn't facing the door, his back was straight, his hands clasped behind him. He was the very image of composure. But Harry knew better now.

"Are you following me?" Harry said, keeping his voice low.

Tom didn't move. "You're here."

"I didn't mean to come here," Harry muttered. "The castle-"

"Always gives us what we need." Tom finished, still not turning. 

There was a tremor in the air, one that Harry didn't feel so much as taste. It was like smoke on the tongue. 

He stepped forward cautiously. "What is this place to you?"

Tom's shoulders rose and fell. When he finally turned to face him, the look in his eyes nearly stopped Harry's breath.

It was too calm, too quiet, like standing at the edge of a frozen black lake and realizing that the ice was about to crack.

Tom smiled. Barely.

"This is what I wanted. Once," He said. "A throne mimicking my father's, a legacy that outshines his, and power so absolute no one can touch me."

Tom didn't speak for a while. He turned just as something appeared in place of the dais. 

"Do you see it?" Tom asked, staring at the mirror. Harry didn't answer for he didn't know how.

"I thought that this mirror would lie, that it was broken and cruel, that it mocked me." He took a slow step forward, the air warping faintly around him. 

"But it doesn't lie, it shows what we pretend not to want."

"Look." Tom gestured to the mirror, Harry doesn't know why but he walked towards it. And what he saw, it wasn't what he feared, it was worse. He saw himself, older, harder, and colder... Standing beside Tom.

Not subdued, but matching. Two kings in the dark, two pillars of something ancient, neither good nor evil. Just... Inevitable. 

Harry stepped back, like the reflection might leap forward and claim him.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s not me.”

Tom’s voice came from behind, soft, seductive. “But it could be.”

He stepped to Harry’s side.

“You feel it, don’t you? That pull. The freedom of stepping off the path they built for you.”

He stepped down from the dais with measured grace, each footfall echoing like a judgement. "You saw what the mirror showed me."

"You and me," Harry supplied quietly, mouth dry. "The world at our feet."

"Not as enemies," Tom said, voice dropping. "As something... More."

There was silence. Then, "I don't want it," Harry said. "Whatever that was."

"You lie," Tom said smoothly. "You hunger, just like I do."

Harry shook his head. "No, you obsess and that's not the same."

Tom stopped in front of him, too close.

"You think I don't know that?" Tom asked, voice silk over razors. "You think I don't lie awake and feel it? This thing in me that wants and wants and never stops? You've infected it, you've named it. And I hate that I can't carve you out of me"

Harry stared, his throat tight. 

Tom leaned closer, his voice low and deadly. "Do you have any idea what it means for someone like me to feel anything? It. Ruins. Everything. It ruins every plan, every purpose, every layer of control I've built."

He exhaled and it shuddered. A small, human sound. 

"You've made me hesitate," He whispered. "You've made me hope and I was never meant for that."

"Careful, Tom. You're unraveling." Harry said. Tom smiled in return and it was terrifying. 

"I am," He admitted. "And still, I'd burn this castle to the ground just to keep your eyes on me one second longer."

Harry stepped back, his pulse pounding. "You don't want me, you want to own me."

Tom didn't follow, he only tilted his head. "Would you rather I lie and call it love?"

Harry's breath caught. "No," He said as he turned. "I'd rather you let me go."

And then, quieter, a whisper of pain laced with steel, "Because if I don't leave now, I never will."

Tom didn't stop him, he didn't chase, he didn't say a word. But when the door shut behind Harry, the Room began to collapse in on itself. The torches blew out, the throne cracked, the marble floor split clean down in the middle.

And in the dark, Tom laughed. A single, broken laugh. Just once, and then silence.  

He didn’t attend meals for three days. The halls spoke of curses blooming in the West Wing. Of books screaming in the library. Of a mirror down in the dungeons that now reflected every student as a corpse.

Harry didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. Because every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw Tom’s. Lit with something not quite madness, not quite sorrow. But something far, far worse. Hope. Twisted, sharp-edged hope. The kind that devours everything it touches.

≪ •❇• ≫

A few days after the encounter in the room of requirement, classes moved like clockwork. Students bustled from lesson to lesson, their chatter muted under the weight of recent events. In professor Flitwick's classroom, Charms had just ended. Desk's scraped and books closed, the sound of laughter was brittle and forced. 

Harry lingered behind, quiet as ever, head bowed slightly as he spoke to Flitwick about layering defense charms with nonverbal intent. The conversation was brief, academic, lasting for five minutes, maybe six. 

But when Harry stepped into the hallway outside, something was wrong. The air was too warm, it was heavy and cloying. He could feel pressure behind his eyes, his steps slowed as he rounded the corner near the eastern stairwell. And then, the world exploded. 

A soundless pulse of magic cracked through the stone. Flames burst from the walls, swallowing the corridor in a sudden, searing roar. Green fire licked the ceiling, heat smashing Harry's skin like a wall. In the center of the floor, a sigil burned, a twisted, spiraling rune, ancient and unstable. It throbbed with malevolent intent, vibrating against the very magic of the castle.

Harry didn't scream. His wand was already in his had, a shield char erupted from his lips but it barely held, the curse seared through it like parchment.

His left side took the worst of it. Heat clawed at his face and shoulder, the magic in the air wasn't just fire, it was vengeful, designed to hurt, to mark. The sigil flared once more, pulsing like a heartbeat. And then, it stopped.

The flames froze midair, time seemed to halt for a split second. Then, a shockwave ripped through the corridor like a storm. The green fire snuffed out. Harry fell to one knee, coughing, dazed. Then, footsteps. Hard, purposeful, echoing through the scorched stone like a drumbeat of doom. Tom.

He emerged from the smoke, black cloak billowing behind him like a living shadow. 'He must be taking lessons from Snape.' Harry thought despite the searing pain he's feeling. Tom's wand glowed white-hot in his grip, magic coiling around him like a smoke of a volcano. His face was pale with fury, eyes burning with something that made even the walls recoil. 

He didn't say a word, he just knelt beside Harry, close enough to feel his breath. Then his fingers, ice cold, reached for Harry's jaw, tilting his face to the light.

"You're burned," Tom said, voice low and guttural.

Harry blinked, disoriented. He could feel the raw heat blistering across his cheek and neck. His robes were scorched, his left sleeve hung in ribbons.

"I'm fine," He rasped, forcing the words through clenched teeth. 

Tom's expression tightened. "You were almost killed. Again."

"But I wasn't" harry said, stubborn as ever. 

That snapped something in Tom.

He rose to his feet, eyes blazing, and with a whip of his wand, obliterated the sigil on the floor. The magic crackled and wailed in protest. Then he turned again, eyes wild and chest heaving.

"Someone targeted you once more," He growled. "In my territory, my-" He cut himself off sharply, as if the next word burned him. 

Harry, still catching his breath, pushed himself to his feet. 

"You think this is about territory?" He asked, voice hoarse. "You think this is yours?"

Tom said nothing.

Footsteps thundered towards them. Draco was first, eyes wild with fear; Snape followed, wand drawn. A handful of prefect trailed behind, all pale-faced and breathless. 

Then Madam Pomfrey appeared, flanked by to house elves hauling burn salves and healing draughts. She took one look at Harry and began barking orders. 

'How the hell did they find me so fast?' Harry thought sluggishly.

Tom didn't move, his jaw was clenched, his knuckles white around his wand.

Madam Pomfrey ushered Harry away with the help of the house elves, Draco hovering by his side like a storm cloud. Snape's eyes met Tom's briefly, and whatever passed between them made the Potions Master pale. 

≪ •❇• ≫

That night, Hogwarts entered lockdown. The castle sealed itself as if responding to a threat it had already known was coming. Gargoyles moved, the staircases froze, and the portraits whispered warnings in forgotten dialects.

By dusk, the Aurors had arrived. Six of them in full uniform, tense and unsmiling. They were met at the gates by McGonagall and Snape, both taut with fury. McGonagall's jaw was like iron, Snape's hands never left his sleeves.

But before the Aurors could so much as set foot into the entrance hall, another group arrived through the Floo in a rush of green fire in the Great Hall.

Lucius Malfoy. He came cloaked in black velvet, silver serpent pin gleaming on his collar. Behind him were three curse-breakers, one goblin, one witch, and one bleeding wizard who looked as though he'd just walked out of a duel. Lucius didn't wait to be announced, he swept through the corridors like it was his Manor. 

McGonagall met him with steel in her voice. “Lucius, this is a school-”

“This is a political act of war,” Lucius cut in coldly. “And my son is inside. Along with Harry Potter. I will not be kept out of the investigation.”

The eastern corridor was warded off, but the magical residue still hissed and bled into the air. One of the curse-breakers flinched as he approached the scorched stones.

“Dark magic,” the goblin muttered. “Old. Layered. Egyptian framework, but twisted through runes I don’t recognize.”

“Whoever did this didn’t just want him dead,” the bleeding wizard said hoarsely. “They wanted him erased.”

Lucius’ face tightened. “Then they failed.”

Behind him, Tom stood utterly still, eyes fixed on the burn mark where Harry had stood, his silence more terrifying than any outburst.

In the Hospital Wing, Pomfrey worked with steely precision. The burns on Harry’s face were treated with cooling salves laced with phoenix tears, but she kept glancing at the dark vein of curse residue still etched faintly beneath his skin, like the fire had tried to fuse itself to him.

Draco sat beside the bed, refusing to speak. He held Harry’s wand in one hand, his own in the other. Twin sentinels. His knuckles were white.

It was nearly eleven when the letter arrived.

It wasn’t delivered by owl. It crashed through the fireplace, singed around the edges, wrapped in emerald silk and sealed with twin crests—the House of Black, and the House of Lestrange.

Madam Pomfrey caught it mid-air, startled. Draco recognized it instantly and took it from her with shaking fingers. He read it silently, lips pressing into a thin line. Then he handed it to Harry.

To our dearest, maddening, fire-magnet ward,

What in Morgana’s name is happening over there?!

The handwriting was Narcissa’s at first. Controlled, elegant, but dangerously fast.

We heard about the corridor fire before McGonagall even finished her statement to the press. A sigil? Ancient curses? Blood magic? Have you no instinct for self-preservation?

If you are conscious and reading this, look at me in the eye, Harold James Black-Potter, and know that I am seconds away from dragging you out of that castle by your burnt robes.

At that point, the ink changed violently. Bellatrix had clearly seized the quill.

WHOEVER HURT YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE THE WEEK.

Tell Sirius to save them a grave if he gets there first. Or not. Leave the body. Let the crows have it.

Back to Narcissa:

Stay in bed. Let the staff handle the investigation. If Tom so much as breathes the wrong way, hex him. We love you. DO NOT DISMISS THIS LIGHTLY. You are not allowed to be injured again this year. That is an ORDER.

P.S. Tell Remus to breathe. Tell Sirius to calm down. Tell Tom to back off. And for Circe’s sake, take a nap.

Not long after the letter exploded into existence, the real storm hit. The doors to the Hospital Wing slammed open with a crash of raw panic and rage.

“SIRIUS!” Pomfrey shouted, “YOU CANNOT JUST—”

But Sirius was already there, wild-eyed, cloak half-off his shoulder, wand drawn as though he were prepared to duel Death itself. Remus was right behind him, disheveled, trying, but failing, to look composed.

They’d apparated to Hogsmeade and ran to the castle.

“Harry!” Sirius gasped, striding forward, nearly dropping his wand when he saw the boy sitting upright.

Remus was breathless. “Are you-? Merlin, are you okay?”

Harry blinked. “Hi,” he croaked.

Sirius didn’t speak again—he crossed the space in three strides and crushed Harry into a hug. His arms shook.

“You’re warm,” Sirius muttered. “Too warm.”

“Fire,” Harry said flatly. “Surprise.”

Remus followed a beat later, placing a hand on Harry’s back. There was no reprimand in his voice. Just quiet pain.

“When will you ever get a break?”

That did it. Harry’s mouth twisted into a broken smile. “When the world forgets my name.”

“You’ll be waiting forever,” Sirius said bitterly.

They stayed the night. Pomfrey tried to kick them out—failed. Even Draco refused to leave.

Harry lay on the bed like something fragile and untouchable. Every time his head tilted toward the door, Tom’s absence burned in his chest like a second fire.

Sirius sat beside him, hair tangled, boots muddy, looking every bit the mad godfather who would burn the world down for his boy.

Remus didn’t sleep at all. He read through the curse-breakers’ preliminary findings with a frown deep enough to carve through stone.

The eastern corridor, it seemed, had been warded with a binding-pyre curse—an ancient ritual designed to cleanse magical signatures. It didn’t just target the body. It targeted identity. Had Harry stayed in the flame a second longer, he wouldn’t just have died.

He would have been forgotten. Gone, in every sense. Erased.

“That’s not just a murder attempt,” Remus muttered darkly. “That’s execution. That’s political assassination.”

Sirius looked up, eyes narrowed. “And you think this was a student?”

Remus shook his head slowly. “No. I think this was a message.”

Harry said nothing. Even as Madam Pomfrey habitually checked on him. He said nothing, not until the room emptied. Not until midnight.

The silence stretched. Then, the door creaked open. Tom didn’t knock. He never did. Harry didn’t flinch.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

Tom ignored the words. He crossed the room like the shadows belonged to him and stood at the foot of the bed, silent for a long moment.

“They wanted to destroy you,” he said at last.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t scream.”

“That’s not who I am anymore.”

“They want to break you. Because they fear you.”

“And you?” A pause.

Then, quietly, “I fear no one. But you… you unravel things in me I cannot name.”

Harry swallowed. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Tom didn’t smile this time. His voice was low, rough.

“You still don’t understand what you are.”

“And you still think I belong to you.”

Tom leaned closer.

“You don’t belong to anyone,” he whispered. “That’s the point. That’s why they hate you.”

Harry met his eyes. “I’m not your weapon.”

“No,” Tom murmured. “You’re not. You’re something worse.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous hush.

“You’re my reflection.”

And then he turned and vanished, cloak trailing behind him like a black flame. Leaving Harry in the stillness, breath caught, heart racing, and the echo of fire still clinging to his skin.

≪ •❇• ≫

Tom did not return after that, but his magic lingered in the air like smoke after a fire. Lucius Malfoy sent word to Narcissa by private Floo. Bellatrix was seen in the Atrium the next morning, pacing, wand spinning, waiting for a name.

In the quiet hours just before dawn, when even the portraits had gone silent and the candles burned low, Harry turned in his bed.

Sirius had fallen asleep sitting up, arms crossed, mouth tight even in rest. Remus leaned against the far wall, one hand still on his wand. 

Harry stared at the ceiling. He should have felt something. Rage. Fear. Relief. But all he felt was tired. So tired. The echo of fire still clung to his skin. Tom’s words still clung to his chest.

You’re my reflection.

He didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Harry sat upright now, a thick blanket draped over his shoulders. His burns were mostly gone, but the skin still ached—tight, sensitive. Draco sat beside him on the bed, legs folded underneath him, wand resting casually across his knee.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Draco said, very quietly, “Mother wrote again.”

Harry looked up. “Already?”

Draco nodded. “She and Aunt Bella want blood. Actual blood.”

He passed over the letter, written in Narcissa’s precise script, with interjections in Bellatrix’s increasingly manic hand. It was the last part that made Harry stiffen.

'If Hogwarts cannot guarantee his safety, we will escalate this. We will go to the Dark Lord himself if we must. He will not ignore an attack on his heir’s counterpart. He cannot.'

Harry’s blood turned to ice.

“She’s serious,” Draco said.

“She always is.”

“But this…” Draco hesitated. “They’d do it. I know they would. The Dark Lord listens to Mother. And Bellatrix…”

“Would enjoy it,” Harry finished dully.

Neither of them noticed Sirius stir from his chair until his voice rasped out of the darkness like a knife cutting through cloth.

“What did you say?”

They froze.

Sirius sat up fully now, the firelight sharpening the tiredness in his face into something harsher, more brittle. His hands were clenched into fists.

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

“Bellatrix said she’d go to him,” Harry murmured. “If this doesn’t stop.”

Sirius didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it was terrible. His shoulders sagged like something heavy had finally snapped loose from the inside. Remus, still half-dozing by the wall, tensed instantly.

“Sirius—”

“Don’t,” Sirius said, voice strangled. “Don’t tell me to breathe. Don’t tell me to be reasonable. Because what exactly do you want me to say to that, Moony?”

He looked at Harry then, and it wasn’t anger in his eyes. It was grief. Raw, fresh, and shattered.

“He hurt you,” Sirius whispered. “When you were a baby, he tore your life apart. He killed your parents. And now they, our family, want to ask him for help?”

“They think it’ll protect me,” Harry said softly.

“He is the reason you need protecting in the first place!” Sirius exploded, finally cracking. “And now you’re all tangled in his politics, and his son, and this cursed school and—”

His breath hitched.

“I can’t protect you, pup. Not here. Not with him watching. I try, and I try, but it’s never enough.”

Harry said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

Remus crossed the room and placed a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, grounding him. His grip was firm. Steady.

“You haven’t failed,” he said gently. “You’re still here.”

“But for how long?” Sirius whispered, broken.

Draco looked away, jaw tight. Harry stared at the floor as Sirius paced the room. The words lingered in the air like smoke.

If Hogwarts cannot protect him, the Dark Lord will.

It didn’t sound like a threat anymore. It sounded like a promise and that terrified everyone in the room in a different way.

The after-hours of dawn came with a kind of haunted stilled. Grey light filtered through the tall windows. The doors to the Hospital wing opened quietly this time.

Narcissa Malfoy entered first.

Not with drama, but with purpose. Composure.

She wore grey wool over black robes, her silver-blonde hair twisted into a tight knot, not a strand out of place. Her eyes scanned the room and settled on Harry.

She didn’t speak. Just crossed the space in calm, measured steps and knelt beside his bed, placing her cool fingers to the unburned side of his face.

“You could have died,” she said softly, fingers ghosting his cheek like she could press life back into him.

“I didn’t,” Harry murmured.

“You were nearly erased,” she whispered. “Not just killed. Gone. As if you were never born.”

He blinked slowly. “But I wasn't.”

Narcissa exhaled, rose, and turned to Sirius and Remus.

“You should have taken him home after Marc Avery’s attack. This school is cursed ground.”

Sirius tensed, but before he could answer, the door banged open again.

A whirlwind entered.

Bellatrix.

Wind-tossed, wand strapped to her thigh, eyes alight with that dangerous glint that only ever meant one thing: she’d done something irreversible.

“Good,” she said brightly, clapping her hands once. “He’s awake. Is your skin still on, darling?”

“Mostly,” Harry said.

Draco subtly slid closer to the bed, blocking Bellatrix’s direct path.

Bellatrix raised a brow at him. “Protecting him now, are we?”

“Don’t start,” Draco muttered.

But Sirius had gone still.

There was something in the way Bellatrix held herself. Too pleased. Too still.

Sirius stared at her. “What did you do.”

Bellatrix’s grin widened like a wolf showing teeth. “Oh, cousin. Why do you always assume the worst?”

“Because I know you,” Sirius growled, rising from his chair.

Bellatrix shrugged. “Fine. I told him.”

The world tilted.

“You what?” Sirius said, voice hoarse.

“I told him,” she repeated, sweetly. “The Dark Lord. I told him what happened. About the corridor. About Harry.”

Remus stood so fast his chair scraped back. Narcissa closed her eyes.

“You swore,” Sirius hissed. “You swore, Bella.”

“And he had a right to know,” Bellatrix snapped back. “You may still be living in some fantasy where he’s the villain in a child’s bedtime story, but I live in reality. And reality is this: he knows Harry. He values him. And he would never have let this stand unanswered.”

“He valued Regulus too,” Sirius snarled, stepping forward, “and we both know how that ended.”

Bellatrix flinched. Briefly. Barely.

“He wouldn’t have let this pass,” she repeated, more tightly now. “Not if he’d known. And now he does. And if that makes you uncomfortable, Sirius, then maybe you should’ve done more than fall asleep while your ward was nearly incinerated.”

The slap of that landed harder than any curse. Sirius didn’t scream. Didn’t lunge. He cracked. His knees nearly buckled. His hand reached for the wall behind him as though to steady something inside that had just shattered. His face, usually so expressive and emotional, went blank.

“You went behind my back,” he whispered. “You went behind our agreement. Narcissa, Lucius, Remus, we all said no. Not him. Not again.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” Bellatrix said coolly. “You’re not his father.”

“No,” Sirius said, voice breaking. “But I’m all he has. I’m the one who stayed. And every time, every time I think I’ve put enough wards around him, enough shields, someone, you, call down the very monster we fought to escape from.”

“Enough,” Narcissa said quietly, stepping between them. “Sirius—”

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t defend her. Don’t tell me he deserves Voldemort’s attention. Because he doesn’t. He deserves peace. He deserves normalcy. He deserves to be a boy.”

Bellatrix looked at him with something dangerously close to pity. “He was never meant to be just a boy, Sirius.”

“I KNOW THAT!” Sirius screamed.

And the silence after that felt like it shook the walls.

“I know,” Sirius whispered again. “I know. But I still hoped.”

Minutes passed before anyone could move again. Then, softly, like paper being slid under a door, the flames in the fireplace sparked green.

A letter emerged. Black parchment. Silver seal. No name. No flourish. Harry took it with cold fingers, breaking the wax. Inside, in careful, slanted handwriting:

He will not fall.

No signature, no threats. Just a claim. And that, more than any prophecy or curse, was what finally broke Sirius’ heart. Because he knew exactly what it meant. The air in the Hospital Wing was too still.

Narcissa stood near the far window, arms folded tight. Bellatrix was by the door, sharp-eyed, silent now. Remus sat with his head in his hands, motionless.

Sirius had been quiet for too long. Finally, he stood. Walked to the letter in Harry's hands. He merely looked at it, not wanting to touch it. 

Then he turned to Bellatrix and said, simply, “You really did told him.”

Bellatrix tilted her head. “I did.”

Sirius nodded once. No anger in his face. Just something heavier. Older.

“Alright.”

That one word landed harder than a scream. Bellatrix blinked, surprised by the lack of argument. Even Narcissa looked up sharply.Sirius didn’t move. He kept his gaze on Bellatrix as he continued, calm and steady.

“You told him. That’s done. I’m not going to fight you about it, not anymore. I’m tired of fighting family who never listens.”

He crossed the room and sat back beside Harry, rubbing a hand down his face. His voice was quieter now, but firmer.

“You want him involved? Fine. Let the Dark Lord intervene. Let him play protector. Let him send owls and make statements and remind the world that he’s watching.”

He glanced at Harry, then back at Bellatrix.

“But know this.”

The pause wasn’t long. But it was cold and final.

“If my Harry gets hurt because of the mess your Dark Lord and his son drag into his life, I won’t write letters. I won’t make speeches. I won’t talk to the Ministry.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, gaze never wavering.

“I will rain hell.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. A silence that said he meant every word and had nothing left to lose. Bellatrix didn’t reply. Narcissa looked away. Sirius stayed by Harry’s side, hand resting on the boy’s arm like an anchor. And that was the end of the discussion.

The Hospital Wing had gone still again by nightfall.

Sirius and Remus had argued with Madam Pomfrey for a full fifteen minutes before reluctantly agreeing to return to Grimmauld Place for the night. “Just to get supplies,” Sirius had muttered. “We’ll be back first thing.”

Lucius and Narcissa followed soon after, their presence no longer requested by the Headmistress. The castle was locked down; the Aurors were sweeping the halls. There was nothing left for them to do.

But Draco remained.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told Pomfrey, simply. “He’s my cousin.”

She grumbled but didn’t stop him.

And so it was Draco who sat in the quiet, pretending to read while Harry slept beneath thick blankets. Outside, the castle groaned softly as the walls shifted. Wind pressed against the windows.

It was nearing midnight when the lamps flickered once. Twice. Then stilled. Draco tensed. Slowly, he set the book down.

The shadows at the far end of the ward… moved. They didn’t shift. They didn’t slither. They simply stepped forward. A man emerged from the darkness as if the castle had carved a doorway just for him. Robes of deep black, pale hands, and no wand in sight.

Eyes like molten garnet, burning slow. Lord Voldemort.

Draco stood, calm but coiled. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He couldn't help but grimace inside, he forgot to address the Dark Lord properly.

Voldemort didn’t smile.

But something passed over his face that might’ve once been amusement.

“I was invited,” he said simply. “Your dear aunt made sure of it.”

“You sent a letter,” Draco said carefully. “That doesn’t mean you can—”

“I don’t need permission to check on what’s mine,” the Dark Lord said smoothly.

Draco’s spine stiffened.

“He’s not—” Voldemort raised one finger.

“—what I protect.” A pause. “Nothing more. For now.”

Draco’s mouth was dry. But he didn’t move. Harry stirred in his sleep, shifting beneath the blankets, and Voldemort’s gaze drifted.

The power in the room… changed. It didn’t rise, it sank. Pressed low, into the floorboards and the walls and the air itself. He moved to Harry’s bedside slowly, quietly, standing over him like a shadow born from prophecy.

“He is becoming,” Voldemort said softly. “He is changing the way this world breathes.”

Draco didn’t answer.

“You see it too, don’t you?” the Dark Lord asked. “You’ve always been a clever boy.”

Draco swallowed. “He’s just a first year.”

“No,” Voldemort said, eyes never leaving Harry’s sleeping form. “He’s the storm beneath the tide.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the blankets, not touching Harry, but close.

“A sigil meant to consume him,” Voldemort murmured. “Old magic, desperate. They fear him already.”

“Shouldn’t they?” Draco asked, quieter now. “You do.”

That made Voldemort pause. Not in anger, but in reflection.

“Once, perhaps,” he said. “But fear is a young man’s weapon. I find myself... curious, these days.”

He looked down at Harry again. His voice softened in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.

“There is something about him. Not just power. Not just legacy. He… endures.”

Draco stepped forward slightly, still alert. “You’ve never come for any of us like this.”

“I have never seen another like him,” Voldemort answered.

The words were spoken with no reverence. No affection. But something closer to recognition. A mirror, perhaps. Or a haunting.

“Tell your parents I was here,” Voldemort said suddenly, straightening. “Tell your aunt she was right.”

“And Harry?”

The Dark Lord looked at Draco for the first time. And then, shockingly, impossibly, said, “Take care of him. You may be the only one who understands the price.”

Then he stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

Draco didn’t sleep that night. He just sat there, watching Harry breathe. Because for all the things the world thought of Lord Voldemort, Draco had never seen him look at anyone like that. Not even Tom.

Harry didn’t ask about it the next morning. He could feel something strange had passed through the room while he was unconscious. He saw it in Draco’s drawn face, in the way his hands stayed fisted in his sleeves.

But Draco didn’t say anything. And Harry didn’t ask.

He spent the day in a haze, muffled questions from professors, hushed stares in the corridors. He gave answers where he had to, nods where silence wouldn’t do. Pomfrey finally released him with a list of restrictions he never planned to follow.

He couldn’t go back to his dorm. Not yet. And the dungeons felt wrong now. Too many questions. Too many people who thought they knew what he was.

He passed Weasley in the corridor outside the Great Hall.

Ron stood surrounded by a cluster of Gryffindors, but when he saw Harry, his voice rose.

"Oi! Potter!"

Harry slowed, but didn’t stop. Ron stepped forward, arms crossed. His eyes flicked to the healing burn on Harry’s cheek. He sneered.

"Heard you got toasted. Bet that knocked some sense into your Slytherin head."

Several students snickered behind him. Harry didn't flinch. He met Ron's gaze without a word.

"Or maybe it just burned off whatever pride you had left," Ron continued. "Doesn’t seem like your slimy house protects you that well, does it?"

Draco, walking just behind Harry, stopped in his tracks.

"Watch your mouth, Weasley," he said coolly.

Ron laughed. "Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend your pureblood sensibilities, Malfoy? Or are you just angry your little prince here got scorched and still thinks he's invincible?"

Harry stepped between them. His voice was low and dangerous.

"You think this is about me being in Slytherin? About sides?"

Ron blinked. "It always was."

"No," Harry said. "It never was. You just never bothered to see past what you were told."

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it. The smugness faltered for a split second.

Harry looked past him. "Tell the rest of them to stay out of my way. This school has enough shadows without adding yours."

He walked on. Draco followed, gaze locked on Ron until they rounded the corner.

That night, long past curfew, Harry wandered. He didn’t intend to. Only meant to clear his head. Just for a little while. But the castle was quiet in a way that felt intentional. Like it, too, was holding its breath.

He found himself in the corridor outside the library—stone cold against his fingertips, torches flickering low.

He paced. He hadn’t meant to. But the weight of everything, of fire, of legacies, of Sirius’ grief and Voldemort’s eyes, it all pressed too hard. And he couldn’t carry it quietly anymore.

Then, a presence. Tom. Stepping out from the wall like he’d always been there. Like the night shaped itself around him.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

Harry didn’t turn. “You make it hard not to.”

Tom’s footsteps were soft. Measured. When he stopped, he stood at Harry’s shoulder.

“Is that why you look like you haven’t slept in days?”

Harry gave a bitter breath. “You’d know, wouldn’t you? I’m sure you’re always watching.”

Tom didn’t deny it. Harry finally turned to him. Looked into that maddening face. That unreadable calm. And the words tumbled out, jagged and low.

“Why do you care?”

Tom’s eyes darkened, and his voice was just as low. “Because you matter.”

“You didn’t used to think that.”

“I didn’t used to know you.”

“And now you do?”

Tom stepped in closer. “Enough to know you don’t want me to say it.”

Harry took a step back. “Say what?”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “That I can’t stop thinking about you. That you undo me just by breathing.”

And before Harry could respond, before he could summon logic or warning or even breathe, Tom stepped forward and kissed him. It wasn't soft, it wasn't sweet. It was claiming. A collision of fury and longing, of power and panic. 

Harry froze for a second then recovered, shoving Tom away. It wasn't hard, not enough. His breath came in sharp bursts. He stared at Tom, stunned, voice barely a whisper. 

"What the hell was that?"

Tom looked composed, but his eyes were wild. "Exactly what it was."

"You can't just-"

"You didn't hate it." Harry's stomach churned, he wanted to punch him, he wanted to scream. He wanted to do it again.

"This doesn't change anything,"Harry said, voice shaking. Tom looked at him like it changed everything. 

"No," He said. "It only proves something."

Harry didn't know how to react. The moment the shadows swallowed Tom, he turned on his heel and fled. Ran. Back through the corridors, heart pounding, mind racing.

What had he done?

What had they done?

He rushed to the dorms, throwing himself onto his bunk bed. The kiss kept replaying in his head like a curse he couldn't lift. Every time he close his eyes, he felt Tom's breath, Tom's hands, the truth in that maddening gaze. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think.

What should he do? Should he write to someone? Should he tell? Was that assault? Would it be considered assault if he liked it? If he did tell, who? 

Sirius would go mad, absolutely unhinged. He's never see sunlight again, or worse, Tom might not. 

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn't supposed to happen, not with him. But the thought remained, a spark lodged under his ribs, refusing to die. And he hated how badly he didn't want it to. 

No amount of Slytherin cunning would let them pretend it didn't happen.

Harry didn't sleep that night. He lay awake in the dorms, heart pounding, lips tingling with memory. His fingers kept brushing his mouth like he could erase the feeling, or relive it. 

He hated that he didn't know which one. 

Every instinct screamed at him to bury it, to shove it into the back of his mind and lock the door, pretend that it hadn't happened. Pretend that Tom Riddle hadn't kissed him like a storm breaking through a wall. 

But pretending was never Harry's strength. He pulled the blanket over his head like it could protect him from the thoughts spinning in his skull. Tom had kissed him. Tom had kissed him and he didn't stop it. Not really. What was wrong with him?

Tom didn't sleep either. He stood for hours at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, the wind slicing through his robes, his fingers curled like they had held something precious. 

Because they had. Harry Potter was not supposed to feel like this. Not soft, ot close, not real. He had kissed him, and Harry kissed him back, briefly, tense. 

It had shaken something loose inside Tom. Something that scared him in a way no enemy ever had. Because he didn’t want to take control of Harry. He wanted him to choose him.

And that made him dangerous.

He didn’t eat at breakfast. He didn’t speak in class. He spent most of the day buried in books he barely read, his mind running every expression Harry had made after the kiss.

Shock, fury, want, fear.

Tom could live with fear, he was raised on it. But not Harry’s. He didn’t want to break him. He wanted him to understand. And that, more than anything, made Tom feel like he was standing at the edge of something he couldn’t walk back from. Not this time.

Chapter Text

After everything that happened, Hogwarts felt colder. Not in temperature, but in something deeper, like the magic in the walls had grown cautious. Like the portraits whispered less. Like the ghosts watched more. Harry felt it in the silence that stretched between conversations, in the glances that lingered too long, in the way professors said his name like they were weighing it. The aftermath of the fire still clung to the halls. The damage had been repaired, but scorch marks still whispered beneath the stone if you knew where to look.

Everyone knew Harry had been targeted. No one knew why and no one dared ask. Classes resumed. Prefects resumed their patrols. But the rhythm of the castle had changed. There was a tension to everything now, as if the foundations themselves were bracing for the next blow. Harry kept his head down. Mostly.

He avoided Tom. Or tried to. But avoiding someone like Tom Riddle was like trying not to think of fire when you’d been burned. You could pretend, for a while. But the memory always came back. Especially when it left marks.

Draco stayed close. He didn’t press, he didn’t ask. But his presence was unwavering. A silent sentinel at Harry’s side. And for the first time, Harry found himself grateful for it.

Until the owl came.

It was late. Past midnight. A soft tapping against the tall windows of the Hospital wing, where Harry had returned to ask for a dreamless potion, to which Madam Pomfrey obliged but told him to sleep in one of the wing's bunk beds.

Madam Pomfrey had long gone to bed. He was alone. The owl was black. Its eyes glowed faintly red. He let it in. It dropped a letter in his lap and vanished into the dark.

The parchment was thick. Familiar. The seal was unbroken. But Harry knew the emblem by heart. The mark of the Dark Lord. He stared at it for a long time before breaking it open.

Inside, only a single sentence:

“We must speak, Mr. Potter. Come to the North Tower at dawn. Alone.”

His hands trembled. He didn’t sleep after that despite the potion he took.

≪ •❇• ≫

The North Tower was silent when Harry arrived at dawn. The sky outside was a bruised lavender, not yet morning but no longer night. He climbed the last step with a sharp breath, cloak tight around his shoulders, wand at the ready. 

The Dark Lord was already there.

He stood facing the tall arched window, hands clasped behind his back, as still as carved stone. He did not turn when Harry entered.

“Thank you for coming,” Voldemort said. His voice was quiet. Almost tired. “I would not have summoned you if it were not urgent.”

Harry stepped forward. “What is this about, Sir?”

Finally, Voldemort turned. His red eyes studied Harry for a long moment before he spoke.

“The curse that nearly took your life was not a simple act of malice,” he said. “It was a trigger. A catalyst for an older enchantment hidden in the foundations of this castle. Something that predates even Hogwarts itself.”

Harry's breath caught.

“What kind of enchantment?”

“A rite,” Voldemort said. “A magical contract. One that demands balance in blood and power. The moment it was disturbed, it began to awaken.”

“Awaken how?”

Voldemort's gaze did not waver. “It requires a sacrifice. To reset the binding. To keep the castle standing and the old wards from collapsing.”

Harry's fingers clenched. “What kind of sacrifice?”

Voldemort said nothing. That's when Harry understood.

“It wants me.”

“It wants one of you,” Voldemort corrected. “You or my son. The rite has recognized you both as anchors. As heirs of power that were never meant to coexist. The magic sees your presence as an imbalance. It demands... resolution.”

Silence. A silence so deep, Harry thought it might split the stones.

“So one of us has to die?” he asked.

Voldemort’s expression was unreadable. “One must choose. Willingly.”

Harry stared out the window, down at the fading stars.

“Does he know?”

“He suspects. But he does not know I’ve told you.”

Harry laughed, bitter and quiet. “Of course not. You’re still playing your game.”

“This is no game, Harry,” Voldemort said. “This is legacy. Magic. Cost. You and Tom are two ends of a thread that was never meant to knot.”

Harry turned, lips parted to argue, to shout, to refuse. But he didn’t. Because deep down, something in him already knew it was true. The fire hadn’t been the end. It had only been the beginning.

Harry didn’t return to the Hospital Wing. He wandered. Through the quiet halls, the hidden staircases, past stone that had listened to too many secrets. His hands shook, but he kept walking. If he stopped, he feared he’d collapse.

A sacrifice.

He was only a first year. Eleven. A child, by all accounts. Why did he have to do this? Why him again? He could barely understand his own heart, let alone the ancient magic that now demanded blood.

He wanted to write to Sirius. To Remus. To someone. But what would he even say? That Hogwarts might fall unless one of its most powerful students laid down their life?

Sirius would lose his mind. Remus would try to stay calm and fail. Draco would simply tell Lucius and Lucius will tell the family. Bellatrix would want names. And Narcissa—Narcissa might cry.

So Harry told no one. Not yet. But the weight of it hollowed him.

≪ •❇• ≫

Tom found him the next evening in the abandoned astronomy archives, where old star charts had long since gathered dust. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched Harry from the doorway.

“I know something’s wrong,” Tom said quietly.

Harry didn’t look at him. “When is something not wrong?”

Tom stepped inside. “You’re hiding something.”

Harry finally turned. His eyes were tired. “What if I am?”

Tom crossed the room slowly. “If it’s about the castle… the wards… the way the air feels heavier, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Harry hesitated.

Tom’s expression darkened. “What did he tell you?”

There was no use denying it.

Harry spoke softly. “There’s a rite. An enchantment. Ancient. It wants balance. It wants either you or me to die.”

Tom stared at him. And for once, he looked unguarded. Exposed. “So that’s what this is,” he said, voice low. “The fire… the magic shifting… it’s a ritual waking up.”

Harry nodded. “He said we’re two ends of a thread. Too powerful to coexist.”

Tom was quiet for a long time. Then, bitterly: “Of course he told you and not me.”

“I think he wanted me to choose,” Harry said.

Tom’s gaze snapped to him. “He what?”

“He said one of us has to be willing. That’s the only way to contain it.”

Tom stepped forward. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

“Tell who, Tom?” Harry snapped. “My godfather? The professors? The Ministry? What would they do? lock me up? Hide me? Sacrifice someone else in our place?”

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You’re right,” he said darkly. “They’d never understand.”

Harry sank onto a bench, covering his face with his hands.

“I’m eleven,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have to make this choice. I shouldn’t be carrying this.”

Tom knelt before him.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Not in this. Not anymore.”

Their eyes met. And in that moment, the consequences of the rite weighed down on them both. Not just death, but legacy, war, and a future neither of them were ready for. But it was coming anyway.

≪ •❇• ≫

Draco noticed. Not at first. Harry had always been good at hiding behind his silences. But something had shifted. His posture was tighter. His smiles didn’t reach his eyes. He flinched when people called his name, as if the sound hurt.

Draco watched. Waited. And then, finally, he cornered Harry on the edge of the Slytherin common room one evening, voice low and firm.

“Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Draco folded his arms. “If you won’t tell me, I swear I’ll unleash Aunt Bella or Mother on you. Maybe both. Let’s see which one gets here faster.”

Harry looked up, startled. “You wouldn’t.”

Draco raised a brow. “Try me.”

Harry hesitated, eyes flickering with something dangerously close to grief.

Draco took a step closer. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone. Not with me here. Not when we’re family.”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t answer.

But the next day, when he sat beside Draco in class, he didn’t pull away when their shoulders touched. Draco didn’t speak of it again. But he watched. And he waited. But waiting only went so far. Draco couldn’t take it anymore. The silence. The haunted looks. The way Harry would drift off mid-conversation like he wasn’t really there.So he pushed. He pushed when they studied. When they walked to class. When Harry tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

And one afternoon, in the empty corridor near the enchanted suits of armor, Harry finally snapped.

“Stop it!” he shouted, voice hoarse and raw. “Just stop pretending like you understand!”

Draco reeled, eyes wide.

Harry stood there, trembling, fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get it. No one gets it. I have to choose, Draco! I have to choose who dies!”

The words echoed like a curse. The corridor went still. Draco stared at him, stunned. Harry was breathing hard, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t cry.

Draco took a step forward. Then another. Until he was close enough to lower his voice.

“Then you should've told me sooner,” he said, quietly fierce. “Because now that I know, I won’t let you face it alone.”

Harry didn’t move, but he didn’t push him away either. Draco led Harry to the common room after. The wards flickered. Candles sputtered in empty halls. Even the staircases had started to shift more violently, refusing to settle. Something old was stirring beneath the stones, and it was hungry. Tom stood at the top of the stairs leading to the boys' dorms Tom and Harry's eyes met and for the first time, there was no fire between them. Just quiet. And a question neither of them could answer.

How do you carry the weight of a choice that might end you both?

Chapter Text

The castle was far too quiet for spring. The portraits were watching again and birdsong had stopped. A sealed scroll arrived in the dead of night at the Malfoy Manor, bound not in wax, but in blood. Voldemort read it alone beneath the glow of green flames. The script was ancient, older than any still used by the Ministry, and it reeked of magic that had not been stirred since the Founders.

One phrase stood out, scrawled in curling ink like a curse.

The One Who Remains shall rise.

Voldemort did not sleep that night. And in the morning, he acted. The world was unaware that the Dark Lord had moved. But within twenty-four hours, the full weight of his inner circle was moving silently.

Voldemort stood before the great window facing the vast lands that the Malfoy Manor covered, hands clasped behind his back.

"They're moving," He said to no one. "Old ghosts are stirring, ancient spells are being casted... Dumbledore never really knew how to stay dead." 

Lucius knelt. "What do you need us to do, my lord?"

Voldemort turned. "Protect what matters." Lucius did not ask what that meant. He simply rose, bowed, and left to gather his influence.

"Narcissa," Voldemort said softly. She was already behind him. 

"I'm going," She said, not leaving anything up for discussion. "I know what's at stake. My son, your heir, him."

Voldemort looked at her then. "Whatch them all. Especially Tom. If the castle turns against us, it will start with him."

"To the last breath," Narcissa replied ust as Bellatrix entered the study, silent for once. 

"I want you at the edges, Bella." Voldemort said. "Not seen, not heard. If anything comes out of the forest or rises from the castle's bowels... End it."

"And if it's Harry?" She asked, smile crooked. Voldemort's expression darkened. 

"Not even you could kill Harry Potter." He said softly, almost reverently. Then, turning away, voice low and sharp, " But  if it is him, then pray he chooses us... Pray that Dumbledore was unsuccessful in wrapping the boy in his fingers."

The room emptied, leaving Voldemort to stare into the green flames. 

"These boys were never weapons," He murmured, voice thick with conflict. "If he does choose between Tom and himself, the world might lose them both. And the world won't survive either's death."

Something was coming. And Voldemort, for all his power, feared it would not be his son who remained. So he sent them. All of them. To protect his Heir. To protect the heir of Malfoy. To protect the boy who was never supposed to live.

After that, Lucius was dispatched to Hogwarts as a "concerned Board member", his smile tight, his walking stick sharper than usual. He requested to speak to McGonagall in private. He never left the castle after that. 

Narcissa followed shortly after, draped in elegance and frost, her presence excused as a motherly check on Draco, but she lingered in the shadows, wand always within reach.

Bellatrix appeared in Hogsmeade, officially visiting to observe Draco's progress, but she haunted the castle's perimeter like a storm cloud. He laughter echoed though corridors she had not stepped in for years. 

Severus, who had remained neutral under McGonagall's tenure, began patrolling the dungeons again. He said nothing, not even to Harry, but his black eyes flicked towards moving shadows and vanishing staircases far too often. 

The Lestrange brothers stationed themselves in the Forbidden Forest, they dared not enter the castle, but the wards pulsed at their presence.

And Tom? Well, Tom watched. He had been dreaming in foreign tongues. The Mirror of Vael, once a reflection of his ambition, now showed nothing but a void. 

≪ •❇• ≫

Inside Hogwarts, unease was setting in. Students whispered about the portraits that won't speak, about staircases that didn't go where they used to, about doors that should ot exist. 

A tapestry appeared overnight outside the Great Hall, a Phoenix burning itself alive.

"It's a prophecy," A random Ravenclaw murmured when Harry passed it. 

He paused. "Whose?"

The Ravenclaw just looked at him. "Yours. Or his. Maybe both."

Tom overheard that and as a result, he had grown quiet. Not in the way that he usually did, where silence meant calculation. This quiet was different. It was the kind of quiet that comes when one is restless and watching. 

Draco noticed, of course he did. So did the professors. Even the ghosts started keeping their distance.

Remus and Sirius arrived by week's end, under the guise of reviewing Harry's academic and magical progress. But Harry noticed the way Remus scanned the walls with narrowed eyes, or how Sirius stood too close when others passed him in the corridor. 

"Something is terribly wrong here," Sirius muttered to Bellatrix one night in the Slytherin common room, their voices low. "It's in the air."

Bellatrix smiled, sharp and knowing. "It's not in the air, Cousin... It's in the foundation." 

That night, Harry began dreaming of eyes like winter, of broken wands, and phoenix feathers falling like snow. 

At dawn, Harry found himself walking a corridor he didn't remember. It bent wrong, like the castle had grown it just for him. At the end, there was a wooden door that seemed as though it was breathing softly. Alive and ancient. 

Harry, against his better judgement, opened it. 

The room beyond was not a room, it was a memory made physical. Candles floated, books lay open in midair, and dust did not fall. At the center of it, seated in a high-backed chair, was a man Harry had not seen before. 

He was old, regal, and terrifying in his stillness. 

"Harry," The man said with something like reverence. 

Harry stepped back instinctively. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes were pale blue, like the ones in his dreams, and it was far too sad. "Someone who tried... And failed."

He stood. "My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I once ran this school."

Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. "You're not supposed to be here."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Neither are you." He stepped forward, hands raised, not in threat, but in persuasion.

"Harry, I did not come to fight you," He said softly. "I came to remind you of who you are. You were meant for more than this... Darkness they've cloaked you in." 

Harry's eyes hardened. "You mean Sirius? Remus? Aunt Narcissa? The ones who actually cared for me?"

"They love you in their own way," Dumbledore said carefully. "But they built you for war." 

"I carry my own choices," Harry replied, voice steel. "They gave me the chance to choose, they let me be."

"You were supposed to dies for them, Harry." Dumbledore whispered. "That was the only way to break the curse. Your death was the key."

Harry took a step back, disbelief giving way to fury. "You wanted me dead before I even lived." A small reminder that Harry was only 11 years old.

"I wanted peace. It's for the greater good."

"No, Harry said. "You wanted obedience. And when you didn't get it from me or from Sirius, you waited here. Like a shadow."

That's when a second door appeared and opened, Tom stepped through, his wand drawn and eyes burning. 

"Step away from him." Tom snarled. 

Dumbledore tilted his head. "Ah. The heir of the dark. Your father thought he had conquered death, but he created you instead."

"Say one more word," Tom growled. "And I'll tear your soul in half."

Dumbledore raised his hand and the air thickened like honey, it made the wards clash and the castle groan. "I am what remains," He said.

"Not for long." Harry whispered, raising his wand. 

Suddenly, blue fire shot from Dumbledore's palm, ancient and twisting. Tom responded with a spiral of blacks serpents that hissed as they unraveled mid-air.

"Protego Maxima!" Harry shouted, shielding himself from the backlash as the room imploded around them. Candles shattered and the floor cracked open beneath Dumbledore's feet, but he hovered, eyes glowing with raw magic.

"You were my last hope, Harry." Dumbledore said, his voice cracking. "You were supposed to die to save them."

"You don't get to decide what I live for!"

"Then die for naught!"

Dumbledore snapped his wand through the air in an arc that made time itself stutter. The room twisted, making gravity warp. Harry's knees buckled as stone bent like wax.

Tom screamed. "VOLATUS FERVENS!" And the column Dumbledore stood on detonated in a blast of obsidian and fire. The older man reappeared midair, robes charred, bleeding from his temple. "You think this power makes you gods?" He hissed. "You are children wearing crowns made of fire!"

"Better fire than chains." Harry spat, his magic flaring like a sunburst, a combination of controlled and accidental magic. "You had me caged!"

Dumbledore roared and drove his wand into the floor. Everything collapsed. They fell into void, blackness woven with fragments of memory. Harry's cupboard, Lily's screams, and Tom's empty crib.

Tom blinked. "This is his spell. It's a time fracture."

Dumbledore hovered in the distance. "Here, we see the truth, Harry. You weren't meant to love and be loved, you were meant to fall."

Tom surged forward. "And you were meant to stay buried!"

Their spells collided again. No colors, no words. Just raw, violent will. The walls howled. Blood dripped from Harry's ear, his hands trembled, but he didn't fall. 

Dumbledore staggered. Harry took the opportunity and advanced, his eyes burning. "You used me before I even had a name. But I know who I am now."

Behind him, Tom stood tall. Together, they raised their wants. Dumbledore tried to whisper something, but then nothing. There was no light, there was no noise. Just... Nothing.

Then, Hogwarts wept. The door from the outside disappeared, the chamber has sealed itself. Forever, maybe. And for a moment, too long and too still, there was only the hiss of stone closing and the low, groaning pulse of magic retreating into the walls. The surge of magic drew Narcissa, Lucius, Bellatrix, Draco, Sirius, and Remus to where the door was once located. They saw how the door disappeared and how the stone closed. Then, the world split. A jagged shrieking tear carved down the corridor's end, like the castle itself had been ripped open by something ancient, furious, and grieving. 

Tom was flung out of the tear. He hit the floor, hard and gasping, magic clinging to him in erratic flickers. His chest rose and fell like someone drowning on dry land. 

Lucius caught him. "Tom! Where is he? Where is Harry?" But Tom just stared back at the stone, wide eyed and broken.

"The magic," He rasped. "It threw me out. We were duelling against Dumbledore and then... I didn't..."

The wall began to heal. And Harry potter did not follow out. The silence shattered.

"WHERE IS HE?!" Draco screamed, pushing past his mother. 

Tom's voice barely held shape. "He... Magic made him stay. It threw me out but not him."

"No." Sirius whispered. "He's a kid. He's a child. Magic would never—"

Bellatrix exploded, her wand bursting with red light. "NO! GET HIM OUT!" She fired blast after blast at the wall, but the stone drank the spells and grew stronger.

Remus screamed ancient unlocking charms as Narcissa pressed her hands to the wall, whispering Harry's name like a prayer. Snape, who had just arrived as Tom was thrown out of the crack, shouted at the runes, trying to collapse the spell structure by force. But the magic would not break. And Harry remained gone. Until the wards screamed. A howl of raw magic, furious and unfathomably deep, ripped through the corridors. 

He has arrived. Voldemort. He strode forward, his presence choking the air. Black robes snapped behind him, the temperature dropped. Shadows twisted around his feet like vines curling toward flame. Nobody dared to speak as he stepped up to the sealed wall and placed a single palm against the stone.The castle paused. And then it opened. Only for him. He stepped in and disappeared into the void. 

Inside, it was a tomb of magic. The room had folded in on itself, glass, blood, and light hung midair. In the middle of it all, was Harry. 

The boy knelt in the ruin. Not standing nor crumpled. Kneeling, upright only because his body refused to collapse. The boy was burned. His hands blistered, one arm hanging limp. Blood streaked down his cheek, his wand had fused with his fingers. Every breath he took was a miracle.

But still, he knelt, refusing to fall. 

Voldemort froze. His mind, so sharp and brutal, broke. The boy had nothing. No protection, no guidance, no glory. Just will. And yet, he had fought against Dumbledore... And won. 

Voldemort sank to his knees beside the boy. His hands trembled. 

"This wasn't yours to carry." He whispered. "You were never meant to clean our blood from the stone."

He didn't say 'I gave you everything', because it wasn't true. He hadn't given Harry anything. It was the Blacks who held him. The Malfoy's who taught him. The Lestranges who shielded him. Remus who stitched him back together. Sirius who fought for the boy. 

Not Voldemort. And yet this boy, at a mere age of 11, the one he might have feared the most at one point, had chosen to fight his battle. And nearly died for it. Voldemort reached out, cradled the boys bloodied face, and breathed like something inside him was cracking open.

"I will not forget this." He said. "I will not let the world forget this."

He gathered Harry into his arms, not as a general retrieving a weapon, but as a man who had just realized what it meant to be powerless. And then he stood, turned, and walked through. The corridor fell into stunned silence as the wall peeled open again and Voldemort emerged. In his arms was Harry. The boy hung limp, unconscious, one hand still clutching what was left of his wand. Blood dripped down Voldemort's sleeve. 

For a moment, no one moved. Then, Draco choked out a cry. "Harry. HARRY!"

Remus fell back against the wall, hand over his mouth. Sirius looked as if he were going to collapse entirely. Narcissa's eyes filled with tears. Bellatrix gasped, and for the first time in anyone's memory, she did not laugh. Lucius took a single step forward, then froze. Snape closed his eyes and turned away. Tom stared. Silent and terrified. And Voldemort, he looked at all of them. Face like stone carved from grief. 

"He finished what none of us could," He said gently. "No one will ever touch him nor question him. Never again." And then, he walked past them, carrying the boy who had dared to burn for the future of people who once feared him.

≪ •❇• ≫

The Hospital wing doors slammed open, and the world turned white with panic. Voldemort entered first, still carrying Harry. Behind them came Narcissa, Lucius, Remus, Bellatrix, Sirius, Snape, and a pale, reeling Tom Riddle flanked by Draco, who refused to leave his side.

"Make space!" Pomfrey cried as her wand flow to life. Voldemort laid Harry down gently, with hands that had cast death, but now cradled life. 

"He's crashing." Pomfrey hissed. "This level of exposure... He shouldn't be breathing."

"But he is." Voldemort said, his voice grave. "He chose to stay."

Narcissa moved before anyone could object, already rolling her sleeves up and conjuring sterile barriers with a flick of her wand.

"Let me help." She said. Pomfrey blinked. "Unregistered." Narcissa said tightly. "But trained. War-level trauma, necrotic curses, magical shock collapse. Let me."

Pomfrey nodded once. "Get me a vial of Etherium. He's fading between light and dark frequencies."

"Already on it." Narcissa snapped, summoning it from the cabinet across the wing. Her hands glowed a faint, steady blue as she stabilized Harry's nervous system. "His wand's fused to his bones, we need severing charms and anti-pain stabilizers before we move it."

"Circulatory's a mess," Pomfrey muttered. "But his heart's steady. Merlin, what happened?"

Tom finally spoke. "He fought Dumbledore. "He rasped. His robes were torn, his shirt soaked with blood from a gash along his side.

"Bring him here." Pomfrey ordered, nodding at Tom. "That's a rib fracture and magic scarring. Severus, tend to him." Draco guided Tom onto a second cot with a trembling hand as Severus casted charms towards the boy.

Voldemort watched them all, unmoving. And then, without a word, he turned and walked out. He really is Tom's father. 

The stone staircase uncoiled for him before he even reached it. When VOldemort burst into the Headmistress' office, Minerva stood from her desk at once.

"Tell me, MInerva," Voldemort growled, his voice shaking the shelved. "Tell me how Albus Dumbledore was able to enter the school."

Her face drained of color. "That's impossible, he's barred from Hogwarts by every ward!"

"Then explain to me how he stood face to face with the black heir and my son in a room that was made by him, and very nearly killed both of them!"

A silence descended so heavy, the portraits stopped breathing. McGonagall swallowed. "The wards—"

"Lied!" Voldemort hissed. "Or they were bypassed. Someone let him in. Someone inside this school aided him."

Her eyes flashed. "You can't mean—"

"Who, Minerva?" Voldemort shouted, the fire behind him turning green. "Who among your staff or ghosts or forgotten enchantments still serve him?"

She did not answer. He stepped forward, towering over her. "I left my son in this castle as you promised me they were safe. And now, the Black heir lies unconscious, clinging to life. All because you couldn't detect the one man who nearly destroyed this world crawling through your halls like a ghost!"

Her mouth parted, then closed again. "I will not have this school compromised. I will burn it to the ground myself before I let it become his again. Though, I do doubt he'll ever get his grubby paws on this castle. He is dead, after all."

"Find who did this, Minerva. Or I will." He turned and swept from the room, the stone walls shaking behind him. 

≪ •❇• ≫

The next morning, Hogwarts was no longer just a school, it was a fortress under siege. Without proclamation, Voldemort's inner circle had begun their sweep. They didn't bother with cloaked or masks, there were no secrets anymore. 

Lucius Malfoy’s cane tapped like a metronome through the marble halls. “Where does the castle bend?” he murmured to the walls. “Where does it yield?” And the stone, old and wary, listened.

Bellatrix haunted the halls like a storm cloud. She cornered portraits and whispered threats that made paint peel. “You saw him,” she purred. “You always watch. If you lie, I’ll make sure you rot in silence.” Even the ghosts fled her.

The Lestrange brothers combed outer towers and sealed wings, drawing blood sigils that glowed and hummed when they pulsed near old magic.

Snape moved through dungeon corridors without sound. “Wards like these don’t fail,” he said. “They’re broken. Or invited.”

In the Great Hall, students whispered what they dared not say aloud:

“Who let Dumbledore in?”

Harry had not woken, not that anyone expected him to wake immediately. His burns had been treated and his internal injuries stabilized. But his magic remained volatile, coiled and trembling beneath his skin, as if it had seen too much and would not be tamed. 

Pomfrey had never seen magic do this. And Narcissa, sleepless but steady, refused to leave his side. She whispered stabilizing incantations every hour, hands glowing faint blue. "The damage is interwoven," She murmured to Pomfrey. "Some of this magic isn't his."

"We have to be careful," Pomfrey agreed grimly. "He's still trying to protect... Something."

They had to surgically unbind his wand from his fused, burned palm. Even then, his fingers twitched, grasping at nothing. 

"He's fighting," Narcissa said when Draco asked why he hadn't woken. "But he's alone in it.

Tom sat beside Harry, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders. Bandages wrapped around his ribs and left shoulder. He had refused to sleep, refused potions. Hi eyes never left Harry's face. 

He didn't speak, until one night, when the ward was quiet and no one else stirred, he reached for Harry's hand, fingers hovering a breath above the bandages. 

"I don't know how to make you come back."

Narcissa gently adjusted Tom's blanket but didn't speak. She simply pressed her hand to the crown of his head and exited the ward to speak with her husband. 

 ≪ •❇• ≫

The inner circle made their routine sweep of the school. They turned the castle upside down, inside out. It was Rodolphus who found it. A mirror tucked in a dust-choked hallway behind a tapestry near the Divination Tower, plain and cracked. It wasn't the Mirror of Vael,  it showed memories instead of ambition. 

And in one of them, Albus Dumbledore stood. His voice was warped and distorted, but familiar and easily identifiable. Beside him was a hooded figure in Hogwarts robes. The insignia on the shoulder, a Defense professor. New, unremarkable, no background. 

Snape stared long and hard. "He was placed here this year. Who placed him?" McGonagall had no answer. 

They acted immediately. They dragged him to the Chamber of Secrets with blood on his robes and terror in his eyes. The room thrummed with magic etched into the walls, pulsing faint green. 

Voldemort stood at the far end, silhouetted by cold firelight. His expression was unreadable. The very air bent around him, it was charged dangerously. 

The professor's knees hit the floor. 

"My Lord." He gasped. "I swear to you.... I- I didn't mean"

"You opened MY school to the man who tried to destroy the world I rebuilt." Voldemort said, unmoving. "You shattered wards older than your bloodline."

"He told me he only wanted to speak! He said that Potter was being corrupted, he said-"

Voldemort's hand twitched, the man's mouth sealed shut mid-babble. 

"You think I don't know how DUmbledore works?" Voldemort's voice was low. "He whispers of light. Of peace and sacrifice. But he speaks in Riddle's because the truth would damn him."

The man's eyes were wide, shaking. 

"You let him near my son. You let him hurt Heir Peverell-Potter-Black. You early tore open fate."

Lucius stood by the entrance, silent. Bellatrix smiled like she could taste fear. Snape didn't speak, but even he looked away. 

"You believed the old man's lie?" Voldemort stepped closer, magic hissing off his robes like steam. "You believed he would reason? You believed he would merely talk?" 

His voice dropped like a dagger pressed to the heart. "He only ever takes."

The torches died out, one by one, until only the circle around Voldemort burned. 

"You were a coward." Voldemort whispered. "And now, you will be forgotten." 

He didn't need to raise his wand, nor speak a spell. He just looked at the man, then he was gone. Only ash where a body had been. 

"Clean this up. The basilisk HATES litter."

Then he turned and exited the chamber in favor of walking to the Hospital wing. 

Tom was still in the ward when Voldemort arrived. Narcissa gave him a look and quietly withdrew. Tom didn't move, he didn't speak, even when VOldemort sat beside him. For a long time, neither said a word. Then, finally, 

"I thought I had lost you."

Tom looked up, voice low. "You didn't"

"I thought he would take you. Or that Potter would burn trying to stop him." 

Tom's jaw tightened. "He almost did." Voldemort turned his head slowly toward Harry's bed. The boy lay pale, still breathing, but only barely. 

"I never should have let it go that far." He murmured. "I asked him to choose. Between you and himself. And he chose to save you."

Tom swallowed hard. Voldemort leaned back in the chair, eyes unreadable. "He was never supposed to matter this much."

Tom didn't answer. "Yet here I am," VOldemort added, voice ragged. "Terrified he won't wake. And that if he doesn't, you'll never be the same>"

The fire crackled in the corner. "I wont be." Tom whispered. "I already know that."

Voldemort didn't look away from Harry. "Neither will I." 

The investigations did not end with the Defense professor, whose name had already been scrubbed from every official record by dawn. Not even he could remember how Dumbledore had passed the Hogwarts wards. That terrified everyone.  And that was why Voldemort’s command rang sharp and immediate.

“Find who else helped him. I want the cracks sealed And the hands that opened them broken.”

The first summoned was Marc Avery. The boy who spiked Harry's drink. He sat pale and trembling under the flickering torchlight. Two Lestrange brothers stood behind him, arms folded, wands out, certainly not for show. In front of him was Snape and Lucius. 

Snape’s voice was cold. “You’re going to tell us everything.”

“I—I didn’t—” Marc choked, trying to hold his tongue.

Lucius raised a brow. “Bring the Veritaserum.”

Snape didn’t hesitate. The silvery vial was poured drop by drop into Marc’s throat, and then the boy’s face slackened, and he began to speak.

Monotone. Raw. Honest.

"I heard a voice in my sleep. It told me to move Potter. Said it’d be funny. I—I thought it was a dream. But it felt real. So I did it.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “What else?”

“There was a girl. Seventh year. I don’t know her name. She said she was collecting parchment for the professor. Asked me if I could deliver something. I did.”

Lucius leaned forward, voice low. “What did you deliver?”

“A crystal sphere. Cold. She said it was for ‘monitoring magical emissions.’ Said the professor needed it to track Harry’s spellwork.”

Snape went rigid.

Lucius’s voice dropped. “Was that all?”

Marc hesitated then his jaw went slack again.

"No. I also… I put something in his drink.”

Everyone stilled. Snape’s eyes snapped toward him. 

"Apart from the one in the Great Hall?" Avery nodded.

Lucius: “When?”

“Three nights before the duel happened. At dinner.”

“What was it?” Snape asked, dangerously quiet.

“A vial I found under my pillow. Same voice. Same dream. It told me Harry needed to be… slowed down. Weakened. Said it was for the Greater Good.”

Lucius whispered, “What did the vial look like?”

“Black glass. Blue wax seal. Marked with a phoenix.”

The torches flickered. Snape’s face had gone deathly white. Marc continued, flat and hollow.

“It said he had too much magic. That he needed to be softened. It was just a little. It wouldn’t kill him. Just… make it easier.”

“Easier for who?”

“The One Who Remains.”

Then came the final question:

“Did anyone else help you?”

Marc twitched. “I don’t know.”

Snape pressed: “Who else did you see involved?”

“There was a list. A parchment that the girl showed me. She said it was the circle of guardians. The ones ‘waiting for the light to rise again.’”

Lucius: “Names.”

Marc began to speak. And the names, each one, were known.

Emmeline Vance. A former Order of the Phoenix member. Thought to have gone into hiding. Recently reemerged as an “educational advisor.”

Sturgis Podmore. Posing as an enforcer in Diagon Alley. Pardoned after the war. Caught relaying messages via enchanted mirrors.

Arabella Figg. Registered Squib. Had contact with Harry in early childhood. Found to have sent encoded messages to the Defense professor.

Dedalus Diggle. Had a cleared record post-war. Caught tampering with Floo records between Hogsmeade and Knockturn Alley.

Hestia Jones. Had infiltrated Hogwarts through staff rotation six months prior. Disappeared two days before the Dumbledore incident.

Mundungus Fletcher. Claimed to be dealing in cursed antiques. Arrested carrying two phoenix-marked vials.

Elphias Doge. Publicly known as a Dumbledore loyalist. A founding donor of the “Phoenix Restoration Fund.”

Madam Hopkins. A new librarian’s aide who matched no real background and was later identified as a transfigured operative.

And at the top of the list, written in gold ink was, 

"The Order of the Phoenix."

The room turned to ice. Lucius crushed the parchment in his fist. Snape didn’t speak for a long time.

 ≪ •❇• ≫

By dawn, the Daily Prophet's headline screamed in gold-embossed ink.

"DUMBLEDORE RETURNS! BLACK HEIR COLLAPSES: WHAT IS HOGWARTS HIDING?"

Within hours, every floo-connected fireplace in Britain whispered the same question.

"How did the most dangerous man of the last century breach Hogwarts and nearly kill the heir of House Black?"

And worse,

"Why didn't the Headmistress stop him?"

Other headlines followed, each more vicious than the last. 

"THE BOY WHO LIVED TOO LONG?"

"Unnamed sources claim Harry Potter's magic is unstable, possibly corrupted by dark rituals within the Black family vaults."

HOGWARTS UNDER SHADOW: IS MCGONAGALL FIT TO LEAD?"

"An anonymous Board member suggests ward failures may indicate covert loyalty to the old regime."

"BLACK BLOOD BURNS BRIGHT; BUT AT WHAT COST?"

"How much raw power can one boy hold before he becomes what we fear the most?"

The Prophet didn't stop there. They printed a photo of Narcissa Malfoy seated at Harry's bedside, wand alight, tending to him by hand. 

"BLACK WITCH TENDS BLACK HEIR" The caption read. 

"Sources allege Narcissa was never registered as a Healer—was she hiding forbidden arts?"

Lucius' presence sparked a different fear.

"HOGWARTS OR HIGH COURT?"

"Rumors swirl that the Malfoy's are using Harry's condition to push for sweeping control of school governance."

THey even printed Tom's photograph, blood on his sleeve and his eyes distant.

"RIDDLE'S SON: SAVIOR OR SORCERER?"

"Whispers abound: Was this an assassination attempt gone wrong? Or a ritual interrupted?"

"Is the heir of Voldemort hiding what really happened in that sealed room?"

Then, everything changed. At twilight, the ink on the Prophet dried differently. Lucius emerged from a private audience with the Dark Lord, his robes immaculate, his expression merciless. 

From that moment on, an announcement was made.

"All published material required approval from the Office of Magical Media Affairs — newly formed, newly armed." And Lucius sat at its head. 

The first decree under the new office was simple, “No slander against the House of Black, the Malfoy line, or the Riddle Heir shall be printed without certified truth and authorization. Violation constitutes sedition.”

Dozens of reporters were detained. Several printing houses were burned to the ground “accidentally” by cursed owls. The Prophet's editor was replaced overnight by a pureblood loyalist.

The new headlines, sharp and calculated, began shifting tone.

"DUMBLEDORE'S FINAL BETRAYAL: UNAUTHORIZED RETURN NEARLY KILLS CHILD HERO."

"BLACK HEIR IN HEALING; NATION HOLDS ITS BREATH."

"MALFOYS INTERVENE TO PROTECT HOGWARTS' STABILITY."

"RIDDLE HEIR SAVE FELLOW STUDENT; DUEL OF THE CENTURY LEAVES CASTLE SCARRED."

Behind it all, Voldemort never once appeared. But the quills bet to his shadow. And the wizarding world began to forget what it had fears, because the new fear was already there. 

What would happen if Harry Potter did not survive? What would rise in his place if he did?

 ≪ •❇• ≫

The hospital wing was dim, Harry lay motionless beneath layers of enchanted linen. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm. His skin had turned a dangerous shade of pale, veins lit faintly with residual magic still trying to hold him together. 

Narcissa sat beside him, hair loose, robes wrinkled. Her wand moved in delicate motions over a series of runes etched into his sternum, her jaw clenched in furious, focused silence. It has been 4 since Harry fought Dumbledore, 3 days since the traitors were indentified, 2 days since the Prophet published slandering articles, and a day since the publishing was taken over by Lucius.

Tom sat in the corner of the ward, his wounds bandaged and healing already but his hands still trembled. Across the room, Remus paced. He hadn't been able to sleep since and he doesn't know where to find Sirius who suddenly exited the room a few hours ago. 

And then, the doors slammed open with a thunder crack. Sirius stormed in like a hurricane, magic rolling off him in wave. Remus knew that this was Sirius' emotions overflowing, he knew that the calmness Sirius showed a few days ago was too much and was too good to be true. 

"WHERE IS THE BASTARD?!" Sirius' voice was ragged, feral. "BRING ME THE BASTARD WHO LET THAT OLD GOOD FOR NOTHING WIZARD!"

"Sirius, please." Remus intercepted him, grabbing his arm.

"Don't" Sirius snapped, his eyes wild. "Don't try and rationalize this, Moony." He shoved past him. 

"I PROMISED HIM!" Sirius shouted, hands trembling, lips curled in grief stricken rage. "After the cupboard, after the punishments, after all the Merlin forsaken silence, I told him he'd never b hurt again!" 

No one spoke.

"He said he was afraid of going to Hogwarts." Sirius growled. "And I told him he was being silly. I told him it was the safest place in the world!" He turned, shaking, his eyes landing on the bed.

"And now look at him."

He crossed to Harry's bedside, fell to his knees, and clutched the frame so hard it splintered under his grip.

"He's just a boy." Sirius whispered. "Just a little boy with too much power and too many names and not enough time to be a child."

Remus moved towards him again, but SIrius broke.

"I don't know what I'll do if I lose him." Sirius rasped. "He's not just my godson. He's my second chance. He's everything I couldn't protect the first time."

Silence fell heavy, like snowfall in a graveyard. Bellatrix leaned against the far wall, eerily quiet, face unreadable. Lucius watched with a stone-cold stare, arms folded. Draco sat with Narcissa, silent, eyes locked on Harry. 

And Tom... Tom didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He looked like something inside him had cracked and never set right again.

"I'll never forgive myself," Sirius said, fingers brushing Harry's lifeless han. "If he doesn't wake up."

"He will." Narcissa said softly. "He must."

Then, the air dropped ten degrees. The doors opened again and Voldemort entered. The room froze, not from fear, but from fury. Sirius stood slowly, his head turned towards Voldemort. And his eyes, burning, red-rimmed, and wet with grief, locked onto the Dark Lord like a storm about to break.

"You," Sirius said, voice low and venomous. "You're the reason he's like this."

"Sirius," Remus warned but it was too late."

"You made him choose between himself and your son!" Sirius exclaimed, wand out, his magic sparking dangerously. 

"You used my boy!" Sirius roared. 

"I sent my entire circle to guard this castle."

"And still," Sirius' voice cracked like thunder. "Still, he's dyi-" Sirius choked out the last of his words. Magic snapped around him, glass shivering in its panes. 

"Enough, Sirius." Remus said, trying to calm Sirius down, but Sirius didn't relent.

"If he dies..." His voice dying out in the end. "If he dies, I swear to every god and ghost left in this cursed world that I will burn this castle down with you inside it."

Voldemort didn't speak at first. Then, quietly, he said, "If he dies, Mr. Black, I will not stop you." 

Then silence, terrifying and crushing silence. Because it was honest. Tom looked up at his father. And for the first time in his like, he didn't see a powerful man. He saw a father, standing at the edge of a cliff he never wanted to look down from. 

Narcissa stood after another beat of silence. She smoothed Harry's blankets with a trembling hand, kissed his temple like a mother would, and stepped back. Lucius followed, dragging Draco gently with him. 

Bellatrix hovered for one more second. She looked down at Harry with eyes that did not often know softness, and then left. Even Voldemort, he looked at Harry for a long, breathless moment, then nodded once and turned away. And then the door closed, leaving only four souls behind. Harry, Remus, Sirius, and Tom. 

After the doors closed, Sirius collapsed into the chair at Harry's bedside where Narcissa was, as if his legs could no longer carry the weight of his grief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the bed's edge, gripping his boy's hand in his like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. 

"I should've protected him." Sirius whispered, his voice raw. "That was the whole point. That's why I fought, that's why I lived."

Remus knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his back. "You did."

"No, I didn't!" Sirius snapped, eyes wild again. "MY boy is lying here, like this! And I don't know how to fix it! I don't know how to... How to live if he doesn't wake up!"

He choked on a sob, dragging Harry's hand to his lips, kissing scraped knuckled like a prayer. 

"I wasn't strong enough for James, I wasn't there for Lily. And now... Now he's all I have left, Moony. All I have left." Remus didn't reply. He didn't have to, because the truth had no balm. 

Suddenly, Sirius turned to look at Tom, eyes bloodshot and brimming. 

"You." He said hoarsely. Tom didn't flinch.

"You stood in that room. You watched him burn."

"I fought beside him."

"But you didn't stop him." Sirius rose to his feet, towering over the boy like a storm cloud. 

"Do you even understand what he gave up for you?" Sirius whispered, dangerously low. "He could've ran, he could've chosen himself."

"I know."

"No, you don't." Sirius spat. "You don't get it. Because you're still breathing. You're still standing and he isn't."

Tom said nothing, Sirius stepped closer.

"He loves you. He would never say it, and he would most probably hex me if he heard  me admit it out loud, but he does. And you let him walk into that room."

"I didn't-"

"Yo let him burn!" Sirius roared. Tom's mouth parted but no defense came, because Sirius was right. 

Sirius' voice cracked again, not wth rage this time, but grief. "If he... Dies..."

Tom closed his eyes, just for a second.

"I don't care whose sone you are. I will never forgive you." A silence followed and then, softly, Remus touched Sirius' arm. 

"Come on, you need some air."

"I need him to wake up." Sirius rasped but he let himself be led away, one broken step at a time. Leaving just one.

Tom came closer to Harry's bed after Sirius and Remus left. "I didn't mean for any of this." Tom whispered, his hands hovering above Harry's but he didn't touch him.

"I didn't want you to choose for me. I didn't want you to break like this." He looked at Harry's face, pale and peaceful.

"You make me feel, Potter. That's the most dangerous thing you've ever done." The silence between them crackled, alive with things unsaid. 

"If you don't wake up," Tom said, his voice cracking for the first time. "I'll burn this world until something brings you back."

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to Harry's, letting his magic wrap around the boy. And he stayed like that, still, small, silent, and waiting. Then, the air shifted.

Beneath Harry's body, the bedframe groaned, not from weight but from resonance. The ancient runes Narcissa had carved into Harry's skin began to glow faintly. The lanterns flickered, then a pulse. Not from Harry's chest, but through it. A heartbeat that didn't belong entirely to him. It was magic, but not Harry's alone. 

And for just a moment, the air near Harry's mouth shimmered, as if he were breathing words into existence without voice. 

"The wound remembers."

Tom's breath hitched, because he had heard those words before. In the Mirror of Vael, in Parseltongue. spoken by no one, and everyone.

The names that Marc Avery gave were not ignored. Every adult named by Avery was tracked, summoned, and interrogated. First by the Malfoy-controlled Wizengamot investigators, then by VOldemort's own inner circle. 

They were all given Veritaserum, no exceptions. And under its influence, many confessed to varying degrees of involvement. There was plotting to "awaken" Harry's magical core through magical trauma, coordinating minor enchantments on castle infrastructure, using students as pawns under the pretense of "training", communicating in code through copied of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and worst of all, they had knowingly allowed DUmbledore to re-enter magical space. They had endangered a magical minor, tried to unseat a government through a child. 

Within a week, dozens of names were signed onto official charges. 

- Conspiracy against a magical minor

- Endangering Hogwarts

- High Treason against the Wizengamot

The trials were swift, their sentences harsher. They were thrown into Azkaban without fanfare, without public explanation. Lucius made sure the press published only what the Dark Lord permitted. Every article, every headline went through Malfoy control first. 

The ministry, still loyal to Voldemort's quiet dominion, did not object. And the Wizarding World saw only one headline.

'THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX: A REIGNITED BETRAYAL AND TREASON."

And beneath it was,

"Justice, at last, for the Boy Who SHould Never Have Burned."

 ≪ •❇• ≫

The hospital wing had never been so quiet. The curtains were drawn tight, the air was thick with sterilized spells. It had been two full weeks since harry fell, two full weeks since the earth groaned and the sky cracked open, two full weeks since the boy who defied death once more had not opened his eyes. He hadn't moved. Not once. 

During the trials, Narcissa never left Harry's side. Not for water, not for food, not even for Tom. She stood like marble, elegant and unyielding, but slowly and visibly fracturing. Her hands rested over Harry's. Slim fingers ghosting over too-pale knuckles, murmuring healing chants that hadn't been used since the old magic still ruled. 

Pomfrey came every few hours with updates. Most of them were lies, small white-lipped things meant to keep her own hands from shaking. And Snape... Snape brewed and burned through the nights. His table was a chaos of shattered vials and textbooks, smudged blood prints on parchment, runic sequences that defied logic. He didn't sleep nor did he sleep. 

"His core didn't collapse." Snape muttered under his breath one morning, staring at one of the floating graphs. "It fractured. It's still active, but it's refusing to stabilize. It's bleeding back into the system."

He looked up and Narcissa's hollow eyes met his. "Like lightning inside a boy's chest." She said. 

Snape's voice, however monotonous it may be, cracked. "Yes." 

Pomfrey approached with another charm. It flickered when it touched Harry's sternum then dimmed. It was the same result. Again and again. The same silence. 

"He's not unconscious." She whispered, voice fragile. "He's... Not there."

Narcissa's hand clenched Harry's fingers tighter. "He's here." She said fiercely, mirroring Sirius' expression when he suddenly bursted into the wing a few days ago. "He's just buried somewhere deep. You don't disappear from this world unless you want to, and he doesn't want to." 

Nobody corrected her, but they didn't agree, not out loud. Not anymore. She had tried every known stabilizer, Snape tried combinations that hadn't been legal for a century, Pomfrey wept in the corridor when no one was looking. 

Remus came in every evening. He placed a hand on the boy's blanket  and sat in silence for a full hour each time. He whispered stories when no one else was listening. Sirius had not returned. Not since he broke down. He had not dared to come back.

On one of Remus' visits, he was telling a story, one of the many rendezvous of the Marauders, when his heart suddenly dropped with dread. His wolf smelled it before he could. Rotting. He looked at Harry and saw that he was barely breathing, lesser than he already was. He called for help, summoning Madam Pomfrey, Narcissa, and Snape. 

The three rushed in the ward, wands in hand. Spell after spell coming out of the tips. They surrounded the bed with wards. Runes scorched into the floor, circle upon circle of containment, of protection, and of preservation was carved. 

"We're losing him." Snape declare after a gruelling 30-minute spellcasting. Lines crackled around Harry's bed. If there was ever a place safe enough to keep a soul from falling, it was here. And still, he did not wake. He had given too much, and they did not know if he had enough left to come back.