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There was no train station this time. There was no stark white purity of King's Cross, nor the terrifying, flayed baby whimpering under a bench. There was only a soft, velvet darkness, warm and infinite, like being wrapped in a cloak woven from the space between stars.

Harry floated in the void, weightless. The bone-deep ache of the Killing Curse, the stinging cuts from the Forbidden Forest, the crushing weight of the prophecy—it all faded like a bad dream upon waking. He felt light. Lighter than he had been since he was eleven years old, before the letters and the owls and the burden of a world that didn't know how to save itself.

"You are tired, Little Master."

The voice wasn't scary. It didn't boom like a deity or hiss like a snake. It sounded like the rustle of autumn leaves on a stone path, ancient and inevitable.

Harry turned in the weightlessness. A figure stood in the darkness, draped in shadows that seemed to breathe. Death.

"Am I dead?" Harry asked. He didn't feel sad about it. He felt... relieved. The war was over. The snake was dead. He had walked into the forest to die, and he had done it with his head held high.

"Yes," Death agreed, drifting closer. "And no. You united my Hallows. You greeted me as an old friend. You saved a world that asked for your blood, sweat, and very soul."

A skeletal hand, strangely gentle, brushed a stray lock of hair from Harry's forehead. The touch was cool, soothing against the phantom pain in his scar.

"I cannot send you back," Death said softly. "That story is finished. The book is closed. But I can send you forward. Or perhaps... sideways."

"Sideways?" Harry blinked.

"A new life," Death promised. "A second chance. You spent your first life being a savior, a symbol, a sacrifice. You were a weapon forged by destiny. In this next life, you will just be... a son."

Harry’s heart—or the spiritual echo of it—thumped in his chest. "A son? With a family?"

"A family that will love you fiercely," Death said, a hint of amusement coloring the ancient tone. "Your father is... difficult. He is dangerous. He is the Sun itself, burning and bright and sometimes blinding. But he will burn the world to keep you warm."

Harry felt a tear track through the void. "Okay," he whispered, his voice trembling with a hope he hadn't dared feel in years. "I'd like that. I just want... I just want to be Harry."

"Then go," Death said, pushing him gently, a sensation like a warm breeze against his back. "Go, and be happy, my Master."

Harry closed his eyes, expecting soft blankets. Expecting a crib. Expecting a mother’s lullaby.

He woke up drowning.

His first thought in this new world wasn't of love. It was of green. Viscous, bubbling green fluid filled his lungs, burning his eyes. The pressure was immense, crushing his small, unformed chest. He wasn't in a cradle; he was in a jar. He was floating in a glass tube, suspended by wires and tubes that snaked into his skin, surrounded by distorted figures in hazmat suits who looked at him not with love, but with cold, clinical fascination.

Is this the promise? Harry thought, panic clawing at his infant mind as he banged his tiny fists against the reinforced glass, his silent scream swallowed by the fluid. Is this the family?

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't cry. He could only float and hurt.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the fluid was drained, but the horror remained. The needles came. The tests started. The pain became his only constant. Men with clipboards would stand over him, discussing "Sun Flame purity" and "genetic splicing" while Harry curled into a ball on the cold metal table, trying to make himself small enough to disappear.

The pain wasn't just physical; it was the crushing, absolute dehumanization. They didn't speak to him; they spoke over him. He wasn't "Harry." He was "Subject 007" or "The Vessel." He remembered the day they introduced the "pain inducer"—a thick, black collar that buzzed with angry electricity every time his flames flickered out of fear instead of aggression.

“Stimulate the combat response,” the Lead Scientist had ordered, his voice devoid of pity, scratching notes onto a clipboard. “The Sun flame is aggression. If he cries, increase the voltage. If he begs, double it.”

They wanted him to be a weapon. They wanted him to hate. But Harry couldn't hate. He could only hurt. And when the hurting became too much, he learned to leave his body. He would stare at the stark white tiles of the ceiling, finding patterns in the cracks, disassociating until he was floating above the metal table, watching the small, scarred boy weep without sound. Even the dust and spiders of his old cupboard under the stairs seemed like a paradise compared to this sterile hell. At least the Dursleys ignored him. These men were obsessed with him, breaking his fingers just to time how fast they knit back together, muttering about "efficiency" and "yield" while he lay broken and bleeding, praying for the end.

But through it all, Harry held onto the memory of the Void. He locked the memory of the Red Train and the Snowy Owl deep in his heart, guarding them like precious stones against the onslaught of electricity and steel, and he remembered the promise.

The Sun, Death had said. My father is the Sun.

These men weren't the Sun. They were cold fluorescent lights buzzing with malice. They were the winter that never ended.

So Harry waited. He locked his voice away, burying it under layers of silence because screaming only made them increase the voltage. He hid his magic deep inside his core, terrified that if he showed it, they would take that too. He waited for the Sun to come and burn the cold away.

The rain in Namimori was usually polite—a gentle drizzle that misted the windows of the school and slicked the streets for the morning commute. But tonight, in a dark alleyway three blocks from the Sawada household, the rain was a deluge. It hammered against the asphalt, drowning out the distant hum of the city, washing away the scent of garbage and gasoline, but failing to wash away the smell of copper and fear.

Harry sat huddled behind a stack of discarded shipping pallets. He was five years old physically, though his soul felt ancient and scraped raw. He was shivering, violent tremors rocking his small frame, but he didn't make a sound. He had learned, through months of white lights and sharp scalpels, that sound brought pain. Sound drew attention. Sound made the men in the suits smile.

“Defective,” the Lead Scientist had sneered three days ago, tossing a clipboard onto a metal table. “The DNA took, the synthesis was perfect, but the spirit is broken. Waste of the Greatest Hitman’s genetic material.”

Harry hugged his knees to his chest. His hospital gown, stolen and filthy, clung to his skin. He wore a burlap sack over it like a poncho. He was free—he had bitten a hand, scrambled through a vent, dropped into a dumpster, and run until his legs gave out—but he was cold. So cold.

He closed his eyes, flashes of his old life flickering behind his eyelids like a broken film reel. A giant man breaking down a door. A red train whistling. A flash of green light. They were ghosts, comforting but distant. He wasn't that Harry anymore. He was just... the experiment. The failure.

"I’m telling you, Juudaime, this is a shortcut! My sister uses it all the time!"

"It’s a dead end, Gokudera-kun! And I’m soaking wet! Reborn is going to kill us if we're late for dinner! He said if I’m late again, I have to run to Mount Fuji!"

"Ma, ma, Tsuna. Relax. Maybe we'll find something cool."

Voices. Young, loud, and vibrating with life.

Harry pressed himself harder into the brick wall, trying to merge with the shadows. Go away. Please go away.

Three figures splashed into the alley entrance. The streetlight flickered, illuminating them. A boy with gravity-defying brown hair who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. A silver-haired boy looking fierce and protective. A tall, black-haired boy with a baseball bat and a serene smile.

Sawada Tsunayoshi stopped dead in his tracks.

"Juudaime?" Gokudera asked, hand instantly diving into his jacket, likely reaching for dynamite. "Enemy attack?"

Tsuna didn't answer. He stood freezing in the rain, his honey-brown eyes widening. The orange warmth of his Sky Flames—usually dormant or suppressed—flared invisibly, flooding the alley with a sensation of pure acceptance.

Harry gasped. It was involuntary—a tiny, hitched breath. The warmth hit him like a physical wave. It didn't burn like the Sun flames the scientists had tried to force out of him. It didn't sting like the needles. It felt like a heavy blanket on a winter night. It felt like the embrace he had been promised in the void. It felt like someone saying, 'You belong.'

"There's someone here," Tsuna whispered. He wasn't scared. He sounded heartbroken.

"Where?" Yamamoto Takeshi gripped his bat, his easy smile dropping into something sharper, dangerous.

Tsuna ignored them. He walked forward, stepping over a puddle, moving toward the pallets. "I know you're there," he said softly, his voice trembling. "I can feel you. You're... you're so sad. It hurts just to stand near you."

Harry trembled. The Hyper Intuition of the Vongola Decimo was stripping away his camouflage. It wasn't just seeing him; it was feeling the void inside him, the jagged edges where his childhood should have been.

Tsuna rounded the corner of the pallets and froze.

The lightning flashed, and for a second, the world was stark white.

Tsuna saw a child. A tiny, skeletal child with messy black hair, huddled in the filth. Green eyes, huge and terrified behind cracked glasses (stolen, too big for his face), stared up at him. But it wasn't just the pitiable state of the boy that stopped Tsuna's heart.

It was the face. The curly sideburns. The shape of the nose. The intense, predatory darkness in those green eyes that mirrored the most dangerous man Tsuna knew.

"Reborn?" Tsuna breathed, the name slipping out before he could stop it.

Harry flinched at the name. A full-body jerk. Reborn. The name the scientists used. The Father. The Source.

"What?" Gokudera was there in a second, peering over Tsuna's shoulder. He gasped, dropping his cigarette. "What the hell? Did... did Reborn-san shrink? Again? Is it another curse?"

"No," Yamamoto said quietly, crouching down. "He doesn't feel like Reborn. Reborn feels like... like a strong espresso. Sharp. Bitter. This kid feels like... spilled milk. Soft. Scared."

Tsuna knelt in the mud, ruining his school trousers. He looked at the boy, and a sickening feeling curled in his gut.

Reborn was the strongest. Reborn was the wall that nothing could break. Reborn was the Sun that scorched everything in its path. And yet, this child—this tiny, shivering reflection of his tutor—was shattered. It was like seeing a law of physics broken. If Reborn could be broken (even in effigy), was anyone safe?

But beneath the horror, Tsuna’s intuition was screaming something else. It was humming with a harmony he had never felt before. Not just Sun. Not just Sky. But a Sunny Sky. A sky that was awake, alive, and desperate for a horizon. It was a flame that wanted to burn, but had been doused with ice water for too long. It was tragic, and beautiful, and terrifying.

He’s not just a victim, Tsuna realized with a jolt. He’s a family member waiting to happen.

"We can't leave him here," Tsuna said firmly, his voice losing its usual wobble. He reached out, moving slowly. "I'm going to pick you up, okay? I'm going to take you somewhere warm."

Harry didn't fight. He had no energy left to fight. As Tsuna’s arms went around him, Harry went limp. He was light. Terrifyingly light.

"He weighs nothing," Tsuna choked out.

"We need to call Reborn," Yamamoto said seriously.

"Reborn is in Italy," Tsuna said, standing up with the bundle of wet, shivering boy in his arms. "He's on a mission for Nono. We call the Arcobaleno. We call Shamal. We get him to the base."

Harry rested his head against Tsuna’s chest. He could hear the boy's heartbeat. It was fast, fluttering like a bird, but the Flames... the Flames were steady.

Safe, a small voice in Harry’s head whispered. For now.

The underground medical bay of the Vongola Japan base was sterile, but it wasn't cold. It smelled of antiseptic, yes, but also of espresso and whatever cologne Dr. Shamal wore.

Harry sat on the exam table. He had been washed—a terrifying experience where he had nearly bitten Yamamoto—and dressed in a t-shirt that belonged to Lambo, which still hung off him like a dress. He was curled into a tight ball, refusing to let anyone touch him again.

The room was crowded. Tsuna was pacing. Yamamoto was guarding the door. Gokudera was aggressively typing on a laptop.

Then, the door hissed open.

"Make way! The Great Skull is here!"

A boy stormed in. He looked young, maybe seventeen, with purple hair, piercings, and a leather biker outfit that looked slightly too big for him. The curse was broken, allowing him to age, though he still carried the chaotic energy of a teenager.

Skull de Mort froze when he saw Harry.

"Whoa," Skull whispered, dropping his theatrical act instantly. He took off his helmet. "He's tiny."

Skull felt a pang in his chest, sharp and familiar. He knew what it was like to be the runt. To be the one everyone dismissed as a joke, as a lackey. He looked at this kid—this scarred, terrified kid—and saw a reflection of his own insecurities, but magnified by a thousand percent. He saw the way Harry flinched at the sound of his voice, the way he made himself small to occupy less space in the world.

They hurt him, Skull thought, his fists clenching at his sides. They took a kid and hurt him because of who his dad is. That’s not cool. That’s... that’s unforgivable.

"Hey, kid," Skull said, his voice softer, lacking the bravado he usually put on for the others. He walked over, ignoring Gokudera's warning. He leaned his elbows on the bed, bringing his face level with Harry's. "I hate doctors too. They smell like bleach and bad news."

Harry blinked. This boy was an Arcobaleno—Harry could feel the energy radiating off him—but he felt young. He felt like the older students at Hogwarts who would sneak first years candy.

Skull reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, squishy purple octopus toy. "This is Oodako. Well, a mini one. He squirts ink if you squeeze him."

He slid the toy across the sheet.

Harry hesitated. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached out and poked the octopus. It squeaked.

Skull grinned, a genuine, youthful smile. "See? Not everything here bites."

"Skull, move aside," a calm voice interrupted.

Fon stepped forward. The Storm Arcobaleno wore red Chinese robes and had a long braid. He didn't walk; he glided. He was an adult now, his curse lifted, but he moved with the same fluid grace. The air around him settled. The frantic energy of the medical bay seemed to slow down, soothed by his Storm flames.

But inside, Fon was a raging tempest. He looked at the bruises on Harry's neck, the unnatural thinness of his wrists, and he felt a cold, disintegration-type rage that threatened to crack his calm facade. As a Storm, he was the eye of the hurricane, but right now, he wanted to be the winds that tore the world apart.

To create life is a miracle, Fon thought, pouring tea with steady hands. To create it only to torture it is a blasphemy against the very martial arts of existence.

"Tea helps the nerves," Fon said softly, not looking at Harry, but letting his presence wrap around the boy like a warm shawl. "There is no rush, little one. You are safe within these walls."

Harry watched him. Fon felt like Dumbledore, but without the secrets. He felt like the eye of a hurricane.

"We have the results," a nasally voice cut through the peace.

Verde, the Lightning Arcobaleno, stood by a monitor. He was a grown man now, with messy green hair and a lab coat that actually fit, though he still hunched over his data like a mad genius. Beside him floated Mammon, the Mist, their form obscured by a hood, no longer bound to a tiny body but still preferring to hover.

"Paternity index 99.99%," Verde announced, adjusting his glasses. "He is Reborn’s biological son. Created in a lab. Splicing markers. Genetic acceleration."

"They made a child to be a weapon?" Skull asked, his voice cracking with teenage outrage. "That's messed up! That's totally uncool!"

"Precisely," Verde said clinically. "And then they broke him when he didn't work right. His vocal cords are intact, but he refuses to speak. Psychological trauma."

"Who made you?" Mammon asked, floating closer. "Information costs money, but I’ll waive the fee this time. Just point on the map."

Harry shrank back. Too many people. Too many questions. He looked at Tsuna. Tsuna, who felt like the sky.

Tsuna stepped between Harry and the Arcobaleno. "Stop. You're overwhelming him."

"We need to know," Verde insisted. "Reborn is landing in ten minutes. He will want answers."

Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs. Reborn. The name again. The Father. The monster the scientists spoke of in whispers. He's coming.

Harry started to shake. The monitor connected to his heart rate began to beep rapidly.

"He's panicking," Skull said, looking worried. "Hey, kid, it's okay! Reborn is... well, he's a demon, but he's our demon. He won't hurt you."

Harry didn't believe him. Monsters didn't have friends. Monsters destroyed.

"Everyone out."

The command was absolute. It wasn't a shout. It was a statement of fact that bent reality to its will.

Harry froze. The beeping of the monitor seemed to deafen him.

Standing in the doorway was a man. He wore a black suit, a yellow shirt, and a fedora. He was tall, elegant, and radiated an aura of absolute danger. The cursed yellow pacifier that used to hang around his neck was gone—safely tucked away in a velvet box in Italy—but the phantom weight of authority remained.

Reborn.

"Out," Reborn repeated, his obsidian eyes locked on the trembling boy on the table.

"Reborn, he's scared," Tsuna tried to intervene, brave despite his trembling knees.

Reborn glanced at his student. "I know. Leave us."

Tsuna hesitated, looking at Harry, then at Reborn. He nodded slowly. "Call me if you need anything."

Skull patted Harry's foot lightly. "Good luck, kid."

They filed out. The door clicked shut.

Silence descended. Heavy. Suffocating.

Harry dared to peek through his fingers.

Reborn hadn't moved. He was studying Harry with eyes that absorbed all light. There was no anger in his face. There was no disgust. There was a terrifying blankness.

Inside, however, Reborn was screaming.

He looked at the boy—his boy, biologically speaking—and felt a violation deeper than any curse. Someone had taken him. Stolen a piece of his soul, a piece of his essence, and twisted it. They had tried to make a replica of the Sun, but they had forgotten that the Sun nourishes as much as it burns.

He looked at the scars. He knew those scars. He knew which tools made them. He knew exactly how much pain was required to leave marks like that on a Sun-active body. The realization was bile in his throat.

They tortured him to make him like me, Reborn realized, the thought tasting like ash. They hurt him to make him a monster. And when he refused to break, they threw him away.

Reborn walked forward slowly. His footsteps were audible, deliberate. Click. Click. Click.

He stopped at the side of the bed.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Do it. Make it quick. Don't let it hurt like the needles.

"You look like hell," Reborn said.

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

Reborn reached into his jacket. Harry flinched, a violent recoil that nearly sent him off the table.

Reborn paused. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in calculation. He moved his hand slower, revealing not a gun, but a small, foil-wrapped espresso candy.

He placed it on the bed next to Harry’s knee.

"The Jessos Family," Reborn said conversationaly, as if discussing the weather. "A splinter cell. They thought they could clone the Sun to fight the Vongola."

Reborn pulled a chair over and sat down, crossing his legs. He looked relaxed, but the air around him was vibrating with suppressed violence.

"I killed them," Reborn said.

Harry stared.

"On my way here," Reborn clarified. "Verde sent the coordinates of the lab where your DNA markers originated. I made a detour. The facility is now a crater."

He looked at Harry, his gaze intense. "The scientists who touched you. The guards who hurt you. They are dead. They died screaming."

Harry felt a strange sensation in his chest. It was a cold knot loosening. Dead? The bad men were dead? The Sun had burned them away?

"You are my blood," Reborn said, pointing a gloved finger at Harry’s chest. "I didn't choose to have a son. But you are here. And you are of my line. That means you are under my protection."

He leaned forward. "You don't have to speak. You don't have to be strong. You just have to exist. I will handle the rest."

Reborn stood up. He took off his fedora—the famous hat—and placed it gently on Harry’s messy, black hair. It was too big; it slid down over Harry’s eyes, plunging him into darkness again, but this time it smelled of leather and gun oil and safety.

"Rest, Tesoro," Reborn whispered.

Harry pushed the hat up. He looked at Reborn. For the first time, he didn't see a monster. He saw a wall. A high, impenetrable wall standing between him and the world.

Harry took the candy. He unwrapped it with shaking fingers and popped it into his mouth.

Reborn smirked. "Good taste."

That night, Reborn didn't sleep. He sat in the chair by the bed, Leon resting on his knee as a loaded pistol. He watched Harry breathe. He watched the way the boy’s fingers twitched in his sleep, reaching for something that wasn't there.

I am not a father, Reborn thought, the moonlight casting long shadows over his face. I am a killer. I am a teacher. I am a curse.

But as Harry whimpered in his sleep, turning to face the direction of Reborn’s warmth, Reborn felt something shift. A realignment of gravity. The Sun was supposed to be the center, but looking at this small, broken comet that had crashed into his orbit, Reborn knew he would happily become a satellite if it meant keeping the boy safe.

But for you, Reborn vowed silently, I will be the only thing standing between you and the dark.

It didn't take long for the Vongola—and their allies—to realize that Harry Potter was not just Reborn’s son; he was a tactical weakness for the entire alliance. Because he was adorable, he was kind, and he had them all completely fooled.

The first month was a learning curve for everyone.

Dino Cavallone, the Chiavarone Boss and Reborn’s former student, tripped into Harry’s life literally. He had come to visit "Reborn's kid," nervous and clumsy without his subordinates. He walked into the living room, tripped over his own whip, and sent a priceless Ming vase hurtling toward the floor.

Harry, who had been reading a picture book on the floor, didn't flinch. He simply reached out a hand. A pulse of soft Sky flame cushioned the vase, catching it inches from destruction.

Dino stared. Harry stared.

Then, Harry stood up, patted Dino on the knee, and offered him a cushion to land on next time.

"He... he pities me," Dino whispered to Romario later, looking starstruck. "Reborn's kid pities me. He's an angel."

The Varia, the Vongola's assassination squad, were the next to fall. They had come to intimidate the "new heir," expecting a miniature Reborn. They found a miniature angel instead.

It started with Lussuria. The Sun Guardian had come to "inspect the brat," but upon finding Harry in a plain, oversized t-shirt, he had nearly fainted.

"Oh, honey, no!" Lussuria had shrieked, clutching his pearls. "Drab is not your color! You are a Sun! You need to shine!"

Two hours later, Harry was standing on a coffee table while Lussuria pinned a miniature leather trench coat on him.

"Turn, darling, turn!" Lussuria commanded.

Harry twirled, the coat flaring out. He touched the peacock feather embroidery on the back and looked at Lussuria with wide, sparkling eyes. He gave a silent, shy clap of his hands, his face lighting up with pure joy.

"Magnificent!" Lussuria clapped back, tearing up behind his sunglasses. "You are a fierce little fashionista! I’m making you a matching scarf. And maybe some sunglasses."

Squalo, the loudest man in existence, found himself tiptoeing.

Harry had fallen asleep on the couch in the Varia waiting room while Reborn discussed business with Xanxus. Squalo stormed in, mouth open to shout "VOI! WHERE IS THE WHISKEY?"

He saw the sleeping boy curled up with a stuffed shark Squalo had "accidentally" bought (he claimed it fell into his cart).

Squalo turned purple holding the shout in. His face contorted with the effort, looking like he was choking on a lemon. He whispered, barely audible, "voi," and slowly, silently, backed out of the room. When Levi walked past, boots clanking, Squalo slammed him into the wall with Rain-enhanced speed. "Quiet, trash! The kid is sleeping! Wake him up and I'll skin you!"

Even Xanxus wasn't immune.

One dinner, Harry sat next to the Varia Boss. Xanxus was eating a rare steak, scowling at everyone. Harry looked at his own plate of vegetables, then at Xanxus’s steak.

Harry picked up a piece of his broccoli. He reached over and placed it on Xanxus’s plate. Then, he pointed at the steak. A trade.

The room went deathly silent. Belphegor stopped throwing knives. Lussuria gasped. Tsuna looked ready to faint.

Xanxus stared at the broccoli. He stared at Harry.

Xanxus looked at the kid and saw... trash. But not the usual kind. This kid was manufactured trash. A fake. A clone. Someone created to be a tool, just like Xanxus had been adopted to be a tool for the Ninth. A weapon forged, tested, and found wanting.

We are the same, Xanxus realized, the thought dark and amused. Both of us, pretending to be real boys in a world of monsters. Rejected by the makers, but stronger for it.

"You want my meat, trash?" Xanxus grunted.

Harry nodded seriously. He poked the broccoli on Xanxus's plate, indicating it was a fair exchange.

Xanxus huffed. He cut a prime piece of steak and stabbed it with his fork, holding it out. Harry took it, ate it, and gave Xanxus a double thumbs up.

"Che," Xanxus smirked, eating the broccoli. "Better than the other trash around here. At least he eats his greens."

But Reborn... Reborn was the worst of them all.

The World's Greatest Hitman, who shot people for sneezing wrong, was currently sitting in the living room cleaning his CZ-75. Harry was sitting in his lap.

Harry tapped Reborn’s hand. He pointed to the disassembled gun parts on the cloth.

"You want to learn?" Reborn asked.

Harry nodded.

"No," Tsuna squeaked from the doorway, holding a stack of paperwork. "Reborn, he's five! He shouldn't handle firearms! It’s dangerous!"

"He has excellent dexterity," Reborn argued, ignoring his student. He handed Harry the recoil spring. "And he needs to know how to pistol-whip someone properly if he runs out of ammo. The element of surprise is key, Harry."

Harry beamed. He picked up the slide and the spring. His small fingers moved with surprising grace, clicking the mechanism into place perfectly. Reborn watched him, not with the critical eye of a tutor, but with the soft, terrified wonder of a father watching his child take a first step.

"See?" Reborn smirked, though his eyes were soft. "Natural talent. That’s my boy."

Harry leaned back against Reborn’s chest, feeling the vibration of his father's chuckle, and knew he was safe.

Trust came slowly, like a sunrise. But fear was a shadow that lingered in the corners of Harry's mind.

Harry knew he had Flames. He felt them buzzing under his skin—a unique, paradoxical mixture. He had the Active Sun flames, inherited from Reborn’s DNA, which always wanted to move, to accelerate, to burn. But wrapped around them, soothing them, were the vast, heavy Sky flames of his own soul, the legacy of a Master of Death.

He was a Sunny Sky. A duality of chaos and peace. But he was terrified to use either.

Flames mean pain, the scientists had taught him. Using magic means punishment. Using magic means the shock collar.

It happened during a "friendly" sparring match that went wrong.

The Varia and the Vongola were training in the underground hall. Reborn was refereeing (which meant shooting anyone who bored him). The air was thick with the smell of ozone and rain flames.

A stray attack—a misfired explosive from Gokudera colliding with a Rain-enhanced blade from Squalo—sent jagged shrapnel flying toward the sidelines.

Reborn moved. He didn't dodge; he shielded. He stepped in front of Harry, who was watching from a bench.

Thud.

A jagged piece of reinforced steel embedded itself deep in Reborn’s shoulder.

Reborn didn't make a sound. He just grunted, the impact jarring him. Blood, dark and alarming, soaked the yellow shoulder of his shirt instantly.

"Reborn-san!" Gokudera screamed, horror-struck.

Harry’s world stopped.

He saw the red. He smelled the copper.

Papa is hurt.

The memories of the lab crashed over him—blood, pain, death. But this wasn't his blood. It was Papa’s. The man who burned the world for him was bleeding because of him.

Harry didn't think. He didn't care about the rules. He didn't care about the scientists or the punishment.

He scrambled up Reborn’s leg, clutching the injured arm.

"Harry, get back," Reborn hissed through gritted teeth, his face pale. "It's just a scratch. Don't look."

Harry shook his head violently. Tears streamed down his face. He pressed his small hands over the wound, right over the metal shard.

Heal, he screamed in his mind. Fix him! Please! Take my magic, take everything, just fix him!

It wasn't the sharp, stinging activation of the Sun flames the scientists had forced. It wasn't the cold fire.

It was an explosion of warmth.

Orange flames, laced with brilliant, frantic golden vines, erupted from Harry’s hands. It was the Sky's Harmony guiding the Sun's Activation. A perfect, impossible blend.

The light filled the room, blinding everyone. It was warm, harmonious, and overwhelmingly kind. It felt like sunlight filtering through leaves. It felt like a mother’s kiss. It was aggressive in its healing, the Sun flames demanding the cells repair now, while the Sky flames soothed the trauma of the injury, harmonizing the foreign object out of the body.

The metal shard was pushed out by the regenerating tissue with a soft clink. The skin knit together, cells dividing and healing at a speed that was purely the domain of the Sun, but without the chaotic burn, stabilized by the Sky.

Harry gasped, the energy draining him. The flames died down.

He stood there, trembling, his hands covered in Reborn’s blood. He looked up at Reborn, then at the others who were staring in shock.

Then, the realization hit him. The adrenaline faded, leaving only the cold, sharp shards of memory.

I used magic.

The thought was a bell tolling his doom. The training hall dissolved. The concrete walls melted into white tiles. The smell of ozone and rain was replaced by the stinging scent of antiseptic and burnt flesh. He wasn't in Namimori anymore; he was back on the metal table.

He felt the phantom weight of the shock collar around his neck, heavy and cold. He heard the buzzing—the angry, insect-like hum of the electricity powering up.

“Subject has violated protocol,” the Lead Scientist’s voice echoed in his ears, overlaying Reborn’s face. “Initiate punishment sequence. Voltage level five.”

Harry’s breath hitched, turning into ragged, terrified gasps. He couldn't breathe. The air was too thin. He backed away, stumbling, his hands—stained with Reborn's blood—clawing at his throat, trying to remove the collar that wasn't there.

"No," Harry whimpered, the sound small and broken. "No, please. I won't do it again. I promise. Don't turn it on. Please don't turn it on."

He curled into himself, dropping to the floor, wrapping his arms around his head to protect himself from the blows he knew were coming. He made himself small. He tried to disappear. If I'm not here, they can't hurt me. If I'm nothing, they can't break me.

Reborn watched, frozen.

He had expected the healing. He had suspected Harry had flames. But he hadn't expected this.

He watched his son—his brave, quiet son who had pistol-whipped a target dummy earlier that week—disintegrate. He saw the way Harry’s eyes glazed over, seeing a horror that Reborn couldn't fight with a gun. He saw the way Harry clawed at his own neck, leaving red welts on the pale skin.

And then, Reborn saw the flinch.

When Reborn took a step forward, reaching out a hand to comfort him, Harry screamed. It wasn't a loud scream. It was a strangled, high-pitched keening of pure, unadulterated terror. He scrambled backward, crab-walking away from Reborn, eyes wide and unseeing.

He thinks I'm them, Reborn realized, the thought hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He thinks I’m going to hurt him for saving me.

A fury, colder and darker than the deepest abyss, welled up in Reborn’s chest. It was a murderous, suffocating rage directed at the ghosts of the men he had already killed. He wanted to resurrect them just to kill them again. He wanted to burn the entire world until the memory of that lab was nothing but ash.

But he couldn't rage now. Rage was what Harry feared.

Reborn dropped to his knees. He forced his body to relax, forced his flames to dim from blinding to warm. He ignored the others—Tsuna looking sick, Squalo turning away—and focused entirely on the small, trembling ball of misery on the floor.

"Harry," Reborn said. His voice wasn't the smooth baritone of the hitman. It was low, rough, and desperately gentle.

Harry didn't hear him. He was rocking back and forth, muttering "sorry" over and over again like a mantra.

Reborn moved slowly, telegraphing every motion. He didn't grab. He didn't pull. He simply sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and opened his arms. He released his Sun flames—not the activated, burning combat flames, but the soft, radiant warmth of a morning sun. The kind that wakes you up gently.

"There is no collar, Harry," Reborn murmured, inching closer. "Look at me. There is no white room. There are no needles."

He reached out and caught one of Harry’s flailing hands. Harry tried to yank it away, but Reborn held firm—not tight enough to bruise, but steady enough to ground. He pressed Harry’s small, blood-stained hand against his own chest, right over his heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Feel that?" Reborn whispered. "That’s my heart. You fixed it. You made it strong."

Harry’s rocking slowed. The frantic gasping hitched. He blinked, the white tiles fading, replaced by the concerned, dark eyes of his father.

"Papa?" Harry choked out.

"I'm here," Reborn said, and he pulled Harry into his lap. He wrapped his arms around the boy, creating a cocoon of safety that nothing could penetrate. He buried his face in Harry’s messy hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and fear and life.

"You are safe," Reborn promised, his voice vibrating through Harry’s chest. "No one punishes you here. Not for magic. Not for flames. You saved me. You are a hero. My hero."

The warmth of the Sun flames soaked into Harry’s bones, chasing away the phantom cold of the lab. The buzzing in his ears was replaced by the steady, strong beat of Reborn’s heart.

Harry slumped against him, the adrenaline crashing. He buried his face in Reborn’s yellow shirt, gripping the fabric like a lifeline. "I... I was scared."

"I know," Reborn kissed the top of his head. "I know, Tesoro. But I've got you. I've always got you."

A year had passed since the accident in the training hall. Harry was seven now, a little taller, a little louder, and infinitely more loved.

It was a quiet evening at the Vongola Mansion in Italy. The Arcobaleno had gathered, a rare occurrence where no one was shooting at anyone (yet). They sat in the private lounge, a fire crackling in the hearth.

Reborn was reading a newspaper, Colonnello and Skull were arguing over a video game, Fon was meditating, and Verde was tinkering with a tablet. Mammon was counting money in the corner.

Harry sat on the rug in the center of them all, coloring.

He stopped, his crayon hovering over the paper. He looked up.

He felt it again. The warmth. The dual-natured flames that buzzed under his skin, no longer scary, but eager. He looked at the people around him. His family.

The broken pieces of a rainbow, gathered in one room.

Harry put the crayon down. He stood up.

The movement was small, but Reborn noticed instantly. He lowered his paper. "Harry?"

Harry walked to the center of the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to heal anyone today. He just wanted to... hold them.

He let the barrier in his core drop.

Harmony. Activation.

It rushed out of him, not as a blast, but as a tide. A warm, golden-orange light that flooded the room, smelling of ozone and sun-drenched linen.

It touched Colonnello first. The Rain Arcobaleno stopped shouting. The restless energy of the Rain—the need to wash everything away—settled into a tranquil pool. He blinked, looking at his hands, feeling a calm he hadn't felt in decades. It’s quiet, he thought, amazed. The war inside my head... it's just quiet.

It washed over Skull. The drifting, chaotic Cloud found a place to rest. He felt tethered, not trapped. He looked up from the controller, his purple eyes wide and misty. For the first time, he didn't feel like the extra wheel. He felt like a spoke.

It grounded Verde. The striking Lightning, always looking for the next path of least resistance, found a conductor. His mind cleared. The frantic buzz of thoughts slowed into a coherent stream. Logical, he thought. This warmth is perfectly logical.

It gave substance to Mammon. The Mist, always hiding, felt seen. Not exposed, but acknowledged. The cold void of the illusion was filled with warmth. Better than gold, Mammon realized with a shock. This feels better than money.

It soothed Fon. The raging Storm inside the martial artist, usually held back by sheer will, quieted into a gentle breeze.

And finally, it reached Reborn.

The Sun met the Sunny Sky.

It wasn't a collision. It was a homecoming. Reborn felt the chaotic activation of his own flames—the curse of the Sun to always be active—harmonize with Harry’s Sky. But more than that, he felt the resonance of the Sun within Harry calling out to him.

Harry wasn't just a Sky who accepted them; he was a Sky who understood the burn of the Sun, because he held that fire in his own blood.

Reborn exhaled, a sound that was half-sigh, half-prayer.

Harry opened his eyes. They were glowing a soft, vibrant orange with flecks of gold.

He looked at them. He saw the threads of light connecting his heart to theirs.

"My family," Harry whispered. His voice was clear, confident.

The room was silent. The Arcobaleno looked at the small boy who had just effortlessly harmonized with the strongest flame users in the world. He had claimed them. Not as subordinates, but as his constellation.

Reborn stood up. He walked over to Harry, who was beaming, looking a little tired but incredibly proud.

Reborn knelt. He reached into his pocket—not for a weapon, but for a handkerchief to wipe a smudge of ash from Harry's cheek.

"You have a big sky, Tesoro," Reborn said softly.

"It has room for everyone," Harry answered simply.

Colonnello laughed, a wet, choked sound. "Kora, kid. You really know how to hit a guy right in the feels."

Skull wiped his eyes. "The Great Skull... approves."

Harry grinned. He walked forward and hugged Reborn. One by one, the others drifted closer, drawn by the gravity of their new, tiny Sky.

They didn't need pacifiers anymore. They didn't need the curse to bind them. They had Harry.

"Left flank! Take the left flank!"

"I'm trying, but the enemy has a pie!"

"Lambo, stop eating the ammo!"

The backyard of the Sawada household was a war zone.

Harry Potter, age seven (and a half, thank you very much), dove behind the inflatable barricade. He was wearing a pristine miniature suit, identical to Reborn’s, but currently covered in colorful chalk dust.

"Status report!" Harry barked into his walkie-talkie.

"The Cow is compromised," Tsuna’s voice crackled back, sounding exhausted. "I repeat, Lambo is eating the chalk bombs."

Harry sighed, a perfect imitation of his father. "Dame-Tsuna. Plan B. Unleash the Cloud."

"Skull! Go!"

Skull de Mort soared over the fence on a tricycle (don't ask), raining water balloons down on I-Pin and Fuuta.

Harry grinned. He popped up, his toy gun—modified by Verde to shoot harmless paint pellets—ready.

He saw Reborn sitting on the porch, sipping espresso, watching the chaos with a critical eye.

Harry aimed. His Sky Flames flickered playfully at his fingertips, aiding his aim, guiding the pellet.

Bang.

A bright pink paint pellet splattered squarely onto Reborn’s fedora.

Silence descended on the yard. The birds stopped singing. Tsuna turned pale white.

"Hieee! Harry! You shot Reborn!"

Reborn slowly lowered his cup. He reached up and touched the pink paint. He looked at it. Then he looked at Harry.

Harry stood his ground, grinning mischievously. His green eyes sparkled with life, the shadows of the lab long gone, burned away by the Sun.

"Direct hit," Harry chirped.

Reborn stood up. A slow, terrifying, shark-like grin spread across his face. He drew his own paint gun—a custom model, naturally.

"Five second head start," Reborn said.

Harry shrieked with laughter and took off running, his little suit jacket flapping in the wind.

"You'll never catch me! I'm the Master of Death!"

"I'm the World's Greatest Hitman!" Reborn shouted back, vaulting over the railing and giving chase.

"Save me, Tsuna-nii!" Harry yelled, tackling the Vongola Decimo.

"Why me?!" Tsuna wailed, falling into the grass as Harry and then Reborn piled onto him.

Laughter. Pure, unadulterated laughter rang out under the blue Namimori sky.

Harry lay in the grass, squished between a panic-stricken Tsuna and a tickling Reborn. He looked up at the sun. It was warm. It was bright.

You were right, Harry thought, casting his mind back to the Void. He burns the world to keep me warm.

"I love you, Papa," Harry whispered, closing his eyes in the sunlight.

Reborn paused, his hand resting gently on Harry’s messy hair.

Reborn froze. The words hit him harder than any bullet, sharper than any curse. He looked down at the boy squashed between him and Tsuna—this miracle of biology and magic who had crawled out of a hellhole and decided to love the monster who shared his blood.

For decades, Reborn had been the World's Greatest Hitman. A gun for hire. A force of nature. He had accepted that his legacy would be written in lead and gunpowder. He never expected his legacy to be warm. He never expected it to have messy black hair and green eyes that held the universe.

If the world tried to touch a single hair on this boy's head again, Reborn wouldn't just kill them. He would burn the earth until it was nothing but ash, just to ensure his son had a soft place to land.

"Ti voglio bene, figlio mio."

I love you, my son.

And Harry knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never be cold again.