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Chapter Text

May 3, 1998

With a mighty roar and an earth-quaking tremor, a giant beast of festering flesh carrying a hulking club lurched out of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

“Move!” shouted Harry, but the others needed no telling. In the next moment, the creature’s near-mile-long foot had fallen exactly where the group had been standing. Harry looked around. Ron and Hermione were following him, but the others had been scattered by the battle.

“We need to get out of range!” yelled Ron as the mountain troll took another swing of its club. Its cry echoed over the sound of war, its ghastly face was illuminated by bursts of varying-colored light in the darkness.

“Get to the Whomping Willow,” said Harry. “Now!” Unconsciously, with the same need of magic that found him on a roof all those years ago, he willed his command to be heard by his comrades.

Harry ran, consumed by thoughts of Fred and Hagrid, by terror for the fate of all those he knew were engaged in their battles around the castle. He knew that he must make them all wait because they had to run, had to reach Voldemort and his snake. Because that was, as Hermione said, the only way to end it all.

So Harry ran with the sure-footed glide of death itself, dodging the rushes of green light seeking him out in the darkness. He only focused on the pounding of his heart, echoing the sound of the Black Lake crashing like the sea. On the wind, which whipped past his face and carried dying wails through grounds that seemed to have gained a will of their own.

He ran and ran, faster than he had since the first time his lumbering cousin Dudley left him broken and bloodied. With heavy labored breath, Harry skirted the willow’s thrashing branches. He peered through the darkness toward its thick trunk, trying to see the single knot in the bark of the old tree that would paralyze it. Ron and Hermione caught up; Hermione was so out of breath that she could not speak.

“How—how’re we going to get in?” panted Ron.

“I can—see the place—if we just had—Crookshanks again—” started Harry.

“Crookshanks?” wheezed Hermione, bent double, clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard or not?”

Ron looked around, then directed his wand at a twig on the ground and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The twig flew up from the ground, spun through the air as if caught by a gust of wind - then, with a jerk of Ron’s wrist, zoomed directly at the trunk through the Willow’s ominously swaying branches. It jabbed at a place near the roots, and at once, the writhing tree became still. Harry stalled with the tree's branches, uncertain of his fate, of everyone’s, should he enter the tunnel.

“Harry, we need to go!” said Ron, pushing him forward.

Harry wriggled between the sleeping tree’s hefty roots. It was harder to get through than when they had entered it years ago, having grown into young adults without ever meaning to. The dirt ceiling that had simply brushed their heads four years previously now was so close it left no choice but to crawl. Harry went first, his wand softly glowing, expecting at any moment to meet barriers or enemies.

With adrenaline high, it felt like the passage went on for hours. Then, at last, the tunnel began to slope upward into the opening in the floor of a ramshackle cottage, and Harry saw the breaking of light ahead. Just then, Hermione slowed her movement and tugged at his ankle.

“Your cloak!” she whispered. “Put on the Invisibility Cloak!”

Harry groped blindly behind for the shrunken satchel at his waist. One step ahead, Hermione reached into it and forced the bundle of slippery cloth into his free hand. With an elbow scraping against the tunnel’s rocky walls, he dragged it over himself; the murmured “Nox” extinguished his wand-light before casting a muffling spell.

They continued on in silence. Harry, hands and knees silenced by the spell, strained his senses, expecting every second to be discovered, to hear a cold, clear voice, see a flash of killing green light. A few meters closer, and he heard it, voices coming from the room directly ahead.

Dampened by the fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel had been blocked up by what looked to be an old crate. Without so much as a breath, Harry edged close, his Gryffindor heart daring to peer through a tiny gap left between the crate and the wall.

Having crawled down single-file under the floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, it is only Harry who can peer into the scene before them. The room beyond was faintly lit by weathered gas fixtures, but he could see Nagini. She sat safe in her enchanted sphere, her coiling body taunting him with every slither. He could also see the edge of muddied black boots, the leg of a rotted table, and a long-fingered white hand innocuously placed upon it. Then Snape spoke, and Harry’s heart lurched; Snape was inches away from where they lay hidden.

“My Lord, their will is crumbling—”

“And it is doing so without your help,” said Voldemort in his high, clear voice. “Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there. Almost.”

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.” Snape spoke as he crept past the gap with a slightly wet trail across the dusty floor. Harry drew back but kept his eyes fixed upon Nagini, wondering whether there was any spell that might penetrate the protection surrounding her. But he could not think of anything and dared not chance it. One failed attempt, and he would give away his position.

Unbeknownst to the men in the room, said boy, who has only known the troubles of a man, was well hidden at their feet. With his friends crouched beside him under the fine threads of Death’s cloak, they waited for an opening and watched. From his vantage point, he can see them both; Snape’s body slowly kneels on the cold floor before his master in begging, head bowed, black eyes resolute. Voldemort sits tall and cruel over him, in a gleaming chair Harry assumes he conjured himself.

Severus Tobias Snape was a thin man from going a lifetime without. With his sallow skin and a large, hooked nose, his face was comprised of striking features from before his ancestors called the British Isles home. His shoulder-length black hair was oilier than usual, weighed down by sweat and heat. It clung messily to a face Harry has only seen sneer at him and veils cold eyes that have only overlooked his pain.

And, as he stands from where he sat at the dilapidated oak table, Harry gets a better look at Voldemort. Although, Harry had always seen Voldemort. Seen the red eyes that have haunted his dreams. Seen the flattened, serpentine face, pressed against his own in a graveyard. Seen the pallor of him gleaming slightly in the darkness of every shadow of Harry’s life. Harry looks on now as pale skin stretches over a skull-like face with snake-like slits for nostrils.

He knows that once a boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle was beautiful and brilliant, just like him. But that was long ago. He knows neither of these men deserves his sorrow and are nothing to be feared. Yet still, Harry hides. From his vantage point in the tunnel, he sees Voldemort approach Snape, hoping that for once an adult will figure out the right way to handle the situation. With all he has seen tonight, Harry does not want to witness another unstoppable death.

And it is unstoppable, for they are only children hiding in a hole - while a man, a monster, and a mortal stand off in the room. Snape looks on as well, knowing that all in this room shall die tonight. Severus can feel it, accustomed to reading the flow of magic. It is in the way the wind whips through the rotted wood around him, in the way the shadows quiver. Snape has been tired for a very long time, and as he faces his certain end, he hopes for rest.

“I have a problem, Severus,” said Voldemort softly.

“My Lord?” Snape said with barely a breath.
Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, holding it as delicately as a conductor’s baton.

“Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?”

In the silence, Harry imagined he could hear the snake hissing slightly as it coiled and uncoiled—or was it Voldemort’s sibilant sigh lingering on the air?

“My—my lord?” said Snape, resigning himself to his fate. “I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand.”

“No,” said Voldemort. “I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand? No. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago.”

Voldemort’s tone was musing, calm, but Harry’s scar had begun to throb and pulse. Pain was building in his forehead, and he could feel that controlled sense of fury building inside Voldemort. “No difference,” spoke Voldemort again. “I have thought long and hard, Severus. Do you know why I have called you back from battle?”

“No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter,” Severus speaks, taking all the time he has left in this world.

“My instructions to the Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends—the more, the better—but do not kill him. But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

“My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can-”

“I have told you, no!” snarled Voldemort, and Harry caught the glint of red in his eyes as he turned again. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

Voldemort halts his previous pacing, and Harry could see him plainly again as he slid the Elder Wand through his knobby white fingers, staring at Snape. “Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?”

“I—I cannot answer that, my Lord.”

“Can’t you?”

The stab of Voldemort’s rage spiked through the broken pieces of soul in Harry’s head. He bites into the top of a fist to stop himself from crying out in pain. He closed his eyes, and suddenly he was Voldemort, looking into Snape’s pale face.

“My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

Snape was not looking at Voldemort now. His dark eyes were still fixed upon the coiling serpent in its protective sphere.

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

And now Snape looked up at Voldemort, and Snape’s face was like a stone mask. It was hardened and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes.

“My Lord—let me go to the boy-”

“All this long night when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here,” said Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner—and I think I have the answer.”

Snape did not speak.

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

“My Lord-”

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine.”

“My Lord!” Snape protested, raising to his feet with his own wand aimed toward the wizard he branded his life too.

“It cannot be any other way,” said Voldemort. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.”

And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved, but then Voldemort’s intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling through the air, and before Snape could do anything more than yell, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue, “Kill.”

Through the shack and into the tunnel filled a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape’s face losing the muted color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs repeatedly pierced his neck, as he failed to push the weight of the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees threatened to give way.

“I regret it,” was Voldemort’s final whisper as he coldly turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. He simply saw it as his time to leave this shack and take charge, with a wand that would now do his every bidding. He pointed it at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upward, off Snape’s head, who leaned his weight against the crumbling wall at his back, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. Voldemort swept from the room without a backward glance, and the great serpent floated after him in its huge protective sphere.

For all the noise his life has been, Severus’ death was a quiet affair. Several snake bites to his face and throat with only one shout. A lingering moment of unwavering eye contact with the man he foolishly chose to bow to all those years ago was Severus’ final reward. And as Voldemort departed with quiet remorseful words to rejoin the battle, all was still inside the Shrieking Shack.

With the last of his strength and his hard-won dignity, Severus lowered his body to the ground as he peered out of a broken window into the night sky just beyond. All he can think is how grateful he is for the last thing he sees in the world to be magic. The Battle of Hogwarts raged on well into the night, littering the smoke-heavy skies with flashes of marveling light and the great wails of death. It is amongst this backdrop of bedlam and hell that Harry James Potter sits in a tunnel, watching a foot in a black boot trembling on the floor.

“Harry!” breathed Hermione behind him, but he had already pointed his wand at the crate blocking their path. It lifted an inch into the air and drifted sideways silently. As quietly as he could, he pulled himself up into the room and with bloody handprints, crawls his way to his most hated professor.

He did not know why he was doing it, why he was approaching the vile man. He did not know what he felt as he saw Snape’s ashen face, and deft fingers trying to staunch the bloody wounds at his neck. Harry took off the invisibility cloak and looked down upon the man he hated, whose widening black eyes found Harry, as he tried to speak.

He hears his friends settle around them as a silvery substance, memories, Harry guesses with trepidation, is pouring from Snape's mouth, ears, and eyes.

"Take—it," Severus’ failing voice just manages. And Harry’s guess must have been right for Hermione Jean Granger hands Harry an empty potions vial as she attempts, and fails, to dress Snape’s wounds. With all the care he has ever managed, as Snape’s bloodied fingers close around his wrist, Harry delicately pours the silver stuff from one eye into the vial with his wand. Snape’s pale shaking hand is still holding on to Harry once finished; he implores the boy to look at him.

In the span of one breath and his next, Harry observes what he can only understand to be a stranger. Yes, he may have spent the last several years in this man’s presence, but there is a mole on the outward side of his wand hand that Harry never noticed before. Yes, he could almost assuredly draw the man's face from memory alone, but there is a feint cut in the underside of his jaw that Harry has never looked close enough to see.

So yes, Harry may have once thought he knew this man quite well. May have once believed that billowing robes and words of wrought steel were all that the man had to give this world. Harry may have once sworn that this man was as unnecessary and unneeded as he appeared to be - though not any longer. For as he listens to Snape give his final breaths, as he holds the man’s once knife steady hand, as he watches memories and life pull away from the Potions Master - all Harry can think is how ignorant to this man’s world he has been.

But their eyes only meet for a moment – Severus dies gazing up at Harry. Harry remained kneeling at Snape’s side, simply staring down at him, until quite suddenly a high, cold voice spoke so close to them that Harry jumped onto his feet, the vial gripped tightly in his hands, thinking that Voldemort had reentered the room. Voldemort’s voice reverberated from the walls and floor, and Harry realized that he was talking to Hogwarts and to all the surrounding area, that the residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in the castle would hear him as clearly as if he stood beside them, his breath on the back of their necks, a deathblow away.

“You have fought,” said the high, cold voice, “valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.” There is a break, Voldemort speaking lazily without the hurry of war. “Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”

He continued, “Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.” There then came a pause, though magic staticed through the air and filled the silence.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.” And with that Voldemort’s magic was gone from the air.

Both of Harry’s friends shook their heads frantically, looking at Harry, too used to his self-sacrificing heroics. But Harry only gathered up the Invisibility Cloak, then looked down at Snape. He did not know what to feel, except shock at the way Snape had been killed, and the reason for which it had been done. His mind too frantic to even begin to process Voldemort’s announcement.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Ron, with the same finality of his every thought.

“It’ll be all right,” said Hermione wildly. “Let’s—let’s get back to the castle; if he’s gone to the forest, we’ll need to think of a new plan-”

It takes Hermione’s years worked armor of assiduity to move Harry from Severus’ crumpled form. It takes her wondrously still soft brown hands, freshly tear-stained voice, and will as wild as the tight curls upon her head to urge him toward the tunnel. It then takes Ron’s indomitable mind and flaming might to match his hair, for he has always had more freckles and plans than he held good sense, to guide Harry through the damned tunnel under the battlefield.

“ Will his body still be there when this is done ?” Harry wishes to ask but cannot seem to find the voice to do so. They crawl back through the tunnel, none of them talking, and Harry wondered whether Ron and Hermione could still hear Voldemort ringing in their heads as he could. Wonders if they too wish they knew more spells, had more magic, to change the fate of dead men.

It is between Ron’s Quidditch sturdy build and Hermione’s book-steady arms that Harry huddles himself into in his thoughts. When they emerge from beneath the Whomping Willow, wand tips alight, it is to see small bundles littering the lawn at the front of the castle. It could only be an hour or so from dawn, yet it was pitch-black.

They willfully allow the darkness to hide what the bundles contain. With sure-footed steps, three of them move on toward the stone walkway. The castle was unnaturally silent. There were no flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts. The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall were stained with blood. Emeralds were still scattered all over the floor, along with pieces of marble and splintered wood. Part of the banisters had been blown away. Further they cautiously followed their memories deeper into the castle, yet to encounter another living being.

“Where is everyone?” whispered Hermione. Ronald Bilius Weasley simply steels his spine and leads the way to the Great Hall. When they finally come across the castle’s other occupants, it is in the quiet chaos that has overrun what remains of the once wondrous room. Without a word to Harry, Ron and Hermione move throughout the gathered crowd, but Harry has stopped in the doorway. The house tables were gone, and the room was more crowded than on the night of the welcoming feast.

The survivors stood in groups, their arms holding each other together as best as they could. The injured were being treated upon the raised platform that once held the professor’s seats by Madam Pomfrey and a group of helpers. The centaur Firenze was amongst the injured; his flank poured blood, and he shook where he lay, unable to stand. The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall.

Harry could not see Fred’s body because his family surrounded him. George was kneeling at his head; Mrs. Weasley was lying across his chest, her body shaking. Mr. Weasley stroked her hair while tears cascaded down his cheeks. And wherever one twin was, one found the other. Harry looked on and saw Hermione approach Ginny, whose face was swollen and blotchy, and hug her. Ron joined Bill, Fleur, and Percy, who flung an arm around Ron’s shoulders. As Ginny and Hermione moved closer to the rest of the family, Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred.

Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself up in the first place, Fred might never have died. He could not take another death onto himself, still haunted every night by his last sight of Sirius.

He turned away and ran until he found himself up the great marble staircase. He yearned not to feel. He wished he could rip out his heart; he wished his innards would follow; he wished to be rid of everything that was screaming inside of him. The castle was completely empty; even the ghosts seemed to have joined the mass mourning in the Great Hall. Harry ran without stopping, clutching the crystal vial of Snape’s last thoughts as he wished and wished.

“ There’s not a single soul who knows what this vial contains anymore ,” Harry thinks to himself. Rushing toward the only Pensieve he can recall in the building, he moves through the castle, ignoring the yelled pleas and platitudes of men at war.

“ What if I’m ambushed and it breaks ?” Harry strengthens his grip on the vial as he begins to feel further from his body. His goal, the shattered pieces of a large and ugly stone gargoyle, is just ahead. But Harry only has thoughts of what he is leaving behind. Instead, in the breaking of his heart and mind, Harry wishes. It is as quiet as his still spell-muffled feet, sneaking around fallen walls and upturned floor, at first. It builds with his racing heart as he shifts debris to clear the way to climb the stairs of the Headmaster of Hogwarts’ office.

And it is with a fervor unlike he has harnessed for a very long time that he wishes things were different. Harry makes his way across the room, wades through scattered wizarding bobbles and fallen desolate portrait frames, to the gilded doors of a Pensieve cabinet behind the personally selected desk of the late professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The exploded pieces of a wooden chair are embedded in the gilded cabinet. It takes several tries of wrenching on the doors to convince them to open.

And in Harry’s attempt to push open the heavy pure silver housing, he drops the vial.

It falls through the air, and with Seeker reflexes, honed to quickly grab a fluttering ball of hardened gold, Harry grabs the glass too tightly. It breaks apart between his already numb fingers and softly wanting mind. Blood and silvery light mix, and Harry can only stare down at his quickly warming hand. He watches as the dripping life of a man he never really knew pools onto the floor. He wonders what to do.

Hermione would be attempting to pry his hand open. But the warmth that is beginning to spread through his chest, reaching into his battered heart, makes him not want to let go. Ron would possibly question him and try to make a viable alternative with the paths they have left. But there is too much magic and magical blood in the air to think properly. And Harry is alone. He can only stand rooted, as he always has, in the center of chaos.

Can only think of how many broken things—a family, a prophecy, another man’s soul—have made up his life to this point. His vision darkens, and he is reminded of a boy with quiet running tears in a too-small cupboard under creaky stairs, wishing that the 11th year of his already weary life be different. Now he wishes this night never happens, wishes there had been a way to avoid the war. The last thing he can feel is his slippery fingers going lax, and he wishes that he could go back to when Severus needed him most.

And, just as he had all those years ago, Harry drifts away as he wishes.

Chapter Text

May 8, 1974

"Rowle, put your tongue back in your own throat and let's go. I don't have all night."

Thorfinn Barton Rowle was many things—a sixth-year student, a gifted painter, a dirty blond, and someone trying to find the will to not throttle their best mate. With a heavy sigh, he rested his forehead into the slightly damp neck of Ailia Travers, his betrothed, before taking on the cumbersome task of detangling their limbs. Moments ago, he had been doing what he usually did on slow Friday nights: sat cuddled in one of the many plush, emerald velvet and brass-studded love seats that littered the reading nook at the back of the Slytherin common room. He was attempting to memorize the entirety of this young woman’s body, who had happily straddled his lap when he cooed that he’d miss her when she left him for his last year at Hogwarts—until he was interrupted.

“Now, Rowle!” Rabastan Lestrange yelled from his place beside the entrance to the dungeon halls.

“Coming, Lestrange!” Rowle tersely called back before playfully dumping Travers into his vacated seat. He took a moment to run a hand through his short locks before throwing his discarded robe over his shoulders. As he made his way towards the annoyed seventh-year prefect, his betrothed called after him.

“Your tie!” Travers said as she seductively toyed with the two ends of the fabric.

“Keep it,” Rowle laughed. “I’ll pick it up from your room tonight.” He barely missed Lestrange’s swatting hand as he was too busy winking at the giggling girl. They made their way out of the common room without further fuss, but as the stone wall was sliding back into place behind them, he heard his friend give a soft scoff.

“I’m supposed to be teaching you how to be a prefect. Could you at least pretend to care?” Lestrange chided, but the smile on Rowle’s face just stretched wider. “Honestly, Fin. Must you embarrass yourself like that?”

“Don’t know what you mean, Bastan.”

“I mean you’ll be spending the rest of your life with that harpy; a couple of months apart won’t kill you. And I told you not to call me that!” Lestrange took another swipe at his friend, who quickly dashed out of reach.

“You’re just jealous your betrothed is still a child,” teased Rowle, lowering his voice in a conspiring whisper. “Besides, haven’t you heard there’s a war going on? Who knows what will happen!”

The blond boy’s laughter rang out through the empty dungeon halls, but his friend did not share in his mirth. The dark eyebrows on the other boy’s face pinched, and his square jaw ticked as his teeth clenched beneath his pale skin. It was a moment before Lestrange spat out, “Don’t remind me.”

Sensing the worsening of his friend’s mood, Rowle nudged their shoulders together. He was not the best at offering comfort, too unused to it himself, but he had been friends with Rabastan long enough to know that at times the boy only needed attention—something he often did without as the second heir.

“What’s been going on with you?” Rowle lightly asked. “You’ve been prickly since we’ve been back in the castle.” He went unanswered as they continued their farce of a search for students out after curfew. Then, once they had silently made their way to the base of the changing staircase and had begun to double back, the troubled young man spoke.

“I will be joining him.” It was said in a whisper so low that Rowle would have mistaken it for the swishing of their robes had he not been intently awaiting a response.

“What?” Rowle knew exactly what his dear friend meant and the need for vague words. But the truth of his words was so impossible to bear in that moment that the word spilled out of his mouth.

“I will be joining him,” said Lestrange no louder than before.

“Why?” asked Rowle, grasping to understand what was going on. “Why would you say that? Why would you do that?”

“Because I have no choice,” Lestrange’s voice was soft steel as he quickened his steps towards Slytherin’s home away from home. But Rowle was having none of the other’s attempts at avoidance.

“Why—" Rowle began to question as he fisted a hand in the back of Lestrange’s robes, hoping to slow his friend down. But the other boy had yanked the robes from his fingers as he sharply spun on the spot.

“I have no choice!” The older Slytherin was irate as he stared down his friend. The booming of his voice broke the quiet of the night like thunder and startled sleeping portraits from their frames. Sensing this was going south rather quickly, Rowle shoved his friend through the door of an abandoned classroom off to their side before warding the entrance silent.

“What has happened, Rabastan?”

The other boy did not move from where he lay splayed out on the dirty stone floor, where he landed in his surprise.

“Rodolphus took the mark over Yule,” Lestrange’s voice shook as he spoke of his brother. “I—I have no choice.”

Rowle thought back to when he had last seen the first Lestrange heir over the holiday. The man was four years older than his friend, but they were practically twins. Inseparable from the moment Rabastan came into being, he remembered the other boy to be just as wild and just as committed to his family as his friend. But even still, he could not imagine the young man who once taught him how to summon honey from a beehive activity joining the war. He was stumped.

Trying to find any way to lighten the situation, Rowle halfheartedly joked, “Does he truly need both of the heirs of House Lestrange to fight for his cause?”

From where he stood to the side of the open door, he could see his friend's face slightly illuminated by the cast of light from the candles in the hall. So he was able to just make out the tightening of his friend’s face and the tear that ran slowly down his face.

“I have to join,” said Lestrange with a palpable pain in his voice as he curled in on himself. “If I don’t, she will surely get Rod killed.”

Rowle did not know what to say, so in the silence, Lestrange pressed on.

“That wicked woman has already talked him into taking that damned mark. You know he wanted to court her longer?”

Rowle gave a sharp nod as his friend spoke on. His voice was near mocking in its incredulous tone. “Well, Rod told me the Blacks pushed, and they were married so bloody quickly that he did not notice until they lay in their marital bed that she had already taken the mark.”

Rowle was beginning to feel sick.

“Can you imagine?” The laugh Lestrange gave lacked all humor. “To undress your new bride, only to find her sullied so throughly by another man.”

“Rab—” Rowle was cut off as his friend paid his voice no mind.

“And the dumb fuck still loves her. Honest to Morgan, Rod loves her.” The youngest Lestrange heir’s voice broke with a sob. “He loves her. It’s been four years of her making a fool of my brother, and now he will go running behind his wife straight into hell.”

The boy on the ground began to shake, and Rowle stood, at a loss for what he should do.

“So I will go into hell with him,” Lestrange cried.

“Rabastan, think of what you’re saying—” Rowle tried to reason with his friend. But his friend would hear none of it.

“It is already done!” The dark-haired boy snapped. “I told Malfoy to inform him that I will take that mark the day after I leave Hogwarts. And I will.” His words simply stopped, and the two were plunged into a deeply unsettling silence.

After some time, Rowle gathered himself enough to say, “Very well. Then I shall be awaiting your attendance at my graduation come next spring.” He took out his wand and transfigured a discarded book into a towel; he then used a spell to wet it before handing it off. “Clean yourself up; we’ll be going back now.”

He then stepped into the hall to give his friend privacy to collect himself. Rowle stood in that empty dungeon hall for some time, listening to his friend softly sob before something happened. Slowly, the air began to thicken, and the shadows seemed to be coming alive. He pressed his back harder into the stone wall behind him in fear.

Then, a high-pitched sound began to sporadically pop—like the sound of a million tiny apparitions. Just below it, he thought he could vaguely hear Lestrange calling out to him. But before he could think to respond, the popping sound grew louder, and all the shadows gave a terrifying jerk where they seemed to come together then shudder as they spit out a big something onto the floor further down the hall.

Against his better judgment, Rowle found himself approaching, as if spurred on by magic. He hesitantly inched forward until he could begin to make out the shape of a body. He was beginning to take in the the finer features of the naked boy who lay unnervingly still on the dungeon floor - the tanned skin, the heavily scared back, the deathly stillness of his not rising chest. Lestrange found him like that, just staring. His friend joined him at his side but only took a moments glance at the naked figure, taking in his form covered in blood and bruises, before making a decision.

“We need to get Slughorn.”

Reeling from all that this night had contained, Rowle was just barely able to wheeze out, “I need a house elf.” And did his damndest not to flinch when one popped into the hall.

Chapter Text

May 9, 1974

At the fairly young age of 56 years old, Abraxas was tired.

Oh, Abraxas Septimus Malfoy was a proud man—for he was a pure-blood wizard, patriarch of the Ancient and Renowned House of Malfoy, and father of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. His son, who walked at his side, had only recently graduated from Hogwarts and was already beginning to take the helm of several of their family’s businesses. His wife, Athena, was a coveted French import from the Acajor family, brilliant with the management of their home and a delight to the eyes.

He was born to the strong-willed Septimus Brutus Malfoy and mothered by the adoring Clotilda née Avery. He was privileged with a handsome face, an able body, status, and wealth. And by all counts, he was still a well-respected wizard. He and his have never wanted for a thing in this world. Yet, as Abraxas stalked through the gilded halls of his manor, all he could think of was what he yearned for.

All of the things he had to do away with to get to where he was now. He passed the upturned painted face of a great-aunt as he walked in the direction of the west wing. With her pale, long blonde hair and cold stare, Abraxas wondered if this was what the squib girl his father secreted away in the night grew to look like.

He thought of the stability of his marriage, of the petite woman barely out of girlhood whom he courted for a year full of trinkets, flowers, and laughter—before wedding her on the land his ancestors had lived on for ten consecutive centuries. For the life of him, in this moment, Abraxas could not recall the last time he had seen so much as a smile grace Athena’s face before her passing.

He thought of his child’s innocence. His Lucius, his perfect heir, marching solemnly at his side simply following his steps. The boy had grown into a young man cut from the same cloth as he. Stern, astute, and proud—at times Abraxas must catch himself from wishing the boy rebelled against his teachings more. That he had discovered the truths of the world without a tainting of vicarious obedience.

Or thoughts of if he should have put the boy and his mother on a boat to France long ago and allowed distance to dull his memory of them. But he would not abandon his son now. Not when he missed so much of the boy's youth in attempts to cement their family’s power. Only to be made to abdicate his Wizengamot duties to his son upon Lucius’ graduation in 1972. As they were being held by proxy because he had not been welcomed in the Ministry building since 1968.

In his walk down the memories of a long line of cold, brutal fathers that produced cold, brutal sons—all Abraxas could think of was, “I am tired,” as he stifled a cough into his pocket square. Try as he might, the thought slipped through his psyche no matter how intentional he was to occlude it from his mind. His home was overrun with unwanted guests, the footsteps echoing off the marble stairs behind him were a reminder that he was leading his son to his eventual death, and the empty vials of Dreamless sleep piled into his nightstand drawer were undoubtedly contributing to his weakening immune system.

At the end of their journey was the Amber Room, an office personally decorated by his grand-uncle Junius Caiga Malfoy. It sat on the second floor of the west wing and overlooked a dazzling herb garden hand-planted by Junius’ wife, Noemi née Albizzi. It was a brilliant room, with two walls encased by bookshelves that held some of the rarest texts of magical and Muggle nature. And for the past several months, it had become the personal residence of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

After a gentle knock, the heavy oak doors that separated the Amber Room from the pristine white hall silently swung open for Abraxas and his son. The two entered and approached the grand desk that centered the room. In front of it were two upholstered, unicorn hair chairs; one was occupied. Ignoring whoever was in the room that was not the Dark Lord, both Malfoys gracefully came to their knees.

“My Lord,” Abraxas said as kneeled with Lucius silently a step behind him, “we have come as summoned as quickly as able.” They received no response and had to continue to kneel as their Lord’s attention was on a young man splayed out on the floor a couple steps ahead. With his face digging into the Ming dynasty Zouwu mane rug beneath them with a roughness that was grating on Abraxas’ nerves, was Tyson Kimbley. He was the son of a pure-blood textile merchant named Jasper Kimbley, who the two Malfoys had, just prior to this meeting, deftly acquired from a Ministry cell.

This Kimbley, who was younger than Abraxas’ own son, prostrated himself on the ground while simpering how he would successfully fulfill the “great honor of a task” the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him. As Abraxas watched the scene in front of him through his eyelashes, he saw how a toothsome smile cracked open his master's face. He was struck with the oddest feeling, that this young man would not be returning from his mission—and that Voldemort was gleefully sure of this as well.

The air hung heavy with an almost palpable tension as Lord Voldemort, a figure shrouded in darkness and draped in flowing robes, sat behind the bone-white antique desk. The imposing piece of furniture, selected by Abraxas' ancestors, stood as a formidable focal point, its polished surface reflecting the subdued light that filtered through parted windows. The panels that made up the three walls of the desk were hand-carved with a moving scene of the Norman invasion.

Its smooth upper surface held an assortment of dark artifacts and ancient tomes, the legacy of generations of Malfoys. It was, as were most things in this mansion, a treasure to Abraxas simply for existing. But the desk itself was not perfect, with its nicks and carvings telling tales of forgotten epochs. The walls of the office surrounding it were bare of any portraits so that none may whisper the secrets etched into the desk’s wood over centuries.

As the high-noon sun cast its rays into the room, it played a dance of chiaroscuro with the shadows. The sheer curtains, billowing gently in the subtle breeze, became a veil of ethereal light that bathed the figure of Lord Voldemort in an otherworldly glow. Seated with an air of regality, Voldemort's piercing crimson eyes bore the weight of untold power and inscrutable wisdom as he stared out into the room.

The sunlight, like liquid gold, caressed the sharp angles of his pale, snake-like features. His long, skeletal fingers rested on the desk, each digit adorned with dark, ornate rings that seemed to absorb the very essence of the light. The high-noon sun, usually a symbol of warmth and vitality, became a paradoxical presence in this foreboding sanctum.

It was a tableau of both beauty and malevolence, as the most feared wizard of his time sat at the antique birch desk, orchestrating the workings of his dominion. Without him moving a muscle, Voldemort’s power reverberated through the very walls and more than made up for their master was silence—as the sound of the curtains shifting fabric was broken by the cried-out whispers of young Kimbley and the others' shallow breathing.

After allowing the trembling young man to carry on until his voice grew hoarse from speaking, Voldemort instructed Kimbley to depart for his mission. As the doors to the room settled after the young Death Eater’s quickly retreating form, the Malfoys were allowed to rise. As his spine fought to straighten, Abraxas kept his eyes lowered as he ambled over to the guest’s seat in his own home.

“Abraxas, Roycephus—my dearest friends. It pleases me to see you come to me with such haste,” Lord Voldemort said mockingly, making no mention of the Malfoy and Lestrange heirs standing behind their father’s chairs.

“And pardon the delay in our meeting,” the Dark Lord said with no remorse at all. “The young Kimbley deeply regretted his father’s sins and wished to atone. So I have sent him off to run an errand for me.” The slow crawl of Lord Voldemort’s words unnerved the other four men, though they refused to show it. They intimately knew that their master took great pleasure in testing the bounds of their masks of indifference.

“Yes,” Voldemort continued, “I have created a potion, a way to secure our everlasting success, and he has gone to test it out for me. Perhaps, he may even make it back in time to witness me punish his father for turning traitor and giving the Aurors information on our last raid. But I digress. Abraxas, Roycephus, I have called you both here as my most faithful to discuss something of grave importance.”

With this the Dark Lord rose, making his way over to the bay-windows and allowing the sunlight to hit his profile. It whited out the shallow dip of his nose and made harsh contrast of his ashen skin under the smoke grey robes the Dark Lord wore. In the oppressive silence of the Amber Room, Voldemort's crimson eyes turned to survey his oldest living followers, Abraxas Malfoy and Roycephus Lestrange.

Voldemort spoke, his voice weaving a mesmerizing tapestry of power and command. "Last night, as the moon bathed our world in its silver glow, I felt a disturbance. A ripple in the very fabric of magic itself. This has caused me to move some of our plans ahead, for protection, but I am not worried." His gaze lingered on the intricate carvings of the antique desk, as if searching for answers within the aged wood.

Abraxas and Roycephus exchanged a glance, their expressions a careful blend of curiosity and apprehension. The head of the Malfoy family took in his friend - with a stiff spine and clenched jaw that matched his own. They were no longer the boys who sat in front of the fire in the Slytherin Common Room and wistfully listened to a handsome half-blood boy profess his dreams of change.

They had grown into aged men without even noticing and now, as Abraxas could see himself reflected in his friend’s wide eyes, they were duly reaping the fruits of their childishly sown harvest. Now, they were at war. And in its short course of battle, Abraxas has seen more than he can admit he was ready for.

He has seen the scapegracious young boys who used to chase the peacocks on the manor’s lawns harden into calloused man. He has witnessed what the Death Eaters do to the innocent women in girls who could not run or apparate fast enough. There have been more blood and bones dashed through the manor’s dungeons than in his great-grandfathers times.

And he has witnessed their Lord, their master, shape the world around them by the scraping of his nails and grown from the “filthy outcast of Slytherin” into god amongst his men. Eyes alight with this world building at his fingertips Voldemort continued, his words deliberate and imbued with an otherworldly certainty. "No, in fact I am glad. For I am sure Lady Magic herself reached out to me in the depths of the night. Her whispers foretold a challenge to our cause, a disruption that threatens the delicate balance we've crafted."

The air seemed to grow heavier, charged with an unseen force, as Voldemort unfolded his revelation. "I am chosen by magic herself," he declared, his voice resonating through the room. "To right the terrible wrongs that have festered in the magical world. We stand at a crossroads, my most faithful. Lady Magic has granted me the responsibility to shape the destiny of our kind."

As he spoke of his divine connection to magic, Voldemort's gaze pierced through the weakening sunlight, locking onto the eyes of Abraxas and Roycephus. "Our loyalty and commitment to our cause will be tested. The challenge ahead will demand sacrifices, but in return, the rewards will be unprecedented. Lady Magic has chosen us to cleanse this world of impurity, to establish a new order where our kind prevails."

The room echoed with the weight of destiny as Voldemort continued to expound on the portents revealed to him. The sheer curtains moved softly, a distant symphony of whispers and shifting fabric. Abraxas and Roycephus listened intently, their roles as trusted confidants cemented in this pivotal moment. Their Lord’s belief in Lady Magic's call to action echoed in their ears, a haunting reminder of the path they had chosen and the future they were destined to shape.

Chapter Text

June 4, 1974

"It's dark," Harry found himself thinking. It was a heavy darkness that presses its vastness upon you, that shrinks you down to insignificant blight and blankets you whole. As Harry drifted in the nothingness, time passed.

"When did I fall asleep?" Wakefulness tingles across his skin like the gentle legs of spiders, whispering across him on their path to nowhere. And with each step of their legs, more time passed.

"Am I back in my cupboard?" Harry slept in the cupboard for ten years and feels as if he was waking from another ten more. The ache of his body was so familiar, and there were dried tears in his eyes.

"No. Never again." He does not know where he is or what has happened, but Harry knows he will set fate ablaze before he cowers hidden away again. As the blood rushing past his ears begins to quiet, he can finally hear out into the world around him.

Someone is not quite yelling.

"—and I am telling you, Professor, I came across him in the halls! Looking just as he had when I called for the house elves! I was doing my rounds, for Circe's sake!"

There is an exasperated sigh that follows and the sound of angrily shuffling feet. Harry may not know the voice, may not understand this stranger's ire, but he knows this feeling. He also knows that there is a sedative potion keeping him pressed into what can only be the hospital wing's sheets. The tender itch of them woefully familiar. Though, it is not Madam Poppy Pomfrey who answers.

"Perhaps, Albus," a voice just as soft and just as sure to go unchallenged as the Mediwitch’s follows, "it would be best to stay this conversation. I do believe you are upsetting my patient, and he requires unimpeded rest."

"The boy wakes?" Harry would recognize that voice even in death. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a Grand Sorcerer decorated with the Order of Merlin, First Class; also Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Or at least he will be. Here, as Harry drags open crusted eyes, he is simply a man in atrocious rouge quilted robes standing at the foot of the sickbed.

Beside him stands a boy—a full head shorter with sandy blond hair, arms with green at the hem crossed against a broad chest, and a permanent scowl on his otherwise unremarkable face. Then, at Harry’s bedside stands a woman in Mediwitch robes between him and the Headmaster. She is young, with raven hair pulled taut to the back of her head and cascading down her slender build. Affixed to her chest is a shiny silver badge that reads "Apprentice."

"Yes, it seems he is coming to, but I must insist that you leave him to my care and return when Madam Pomfrey is back from St. Mungo's."

"I appreciate your dedication to your healer's oath, Ms. Coats, but this is a matter of safety not only for this mysterious young man but for the whole of the castle," Dumbledore airs in his way that makes one feel as though they are both too young for serious thought, such as his, and a world-weary aged fool. "Without knowing who he is and how exactly he got into the castle in such a state, I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to his company until I can ensure that he means us no harm—"

"Mean us no harm?" The woman, Healer Coats, it would seem, starts. "The child is smaller than I and has been asleep for weeks. Before Madame Pomfrey cleaned him, he was covered in more blood and dirt than I have witnessed since my parents' clinic during the Republic. Clearly, great harm has come to him, and I must insist that he rests."

"And should said harm be on his trail? Should he be—" Dumbledore sermons on, but Harry has had years to practice selective listening and to know when the man simply won’t quit. So Harry gathers what energy his tired body can manage and, with a voice as soft as the magic coursing through him, breaks into the conversation.

"I was once told," Harry has to stop to moisten his croaking throat, "help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it." Dumbledore steps around to the side of his bed, nearly pushing over Healer Coats, as the missing twinkle returns to his eyes.

"Yes, quite true, young man." He patted the bed beside Harry’s hip. "And such help would be markedly easier to give if we knew, to whom, it was going."

"So he will try the grandfather angle," Harry thinks. "How should I play this? I cannot be Harry Potter." Harry does not know what exactly is going on, but the presence of this man at his bedside alone means that things have greatly changed.

And until he gets a better understanding of what is, he knows to stay away from anything that has been. His inner voice, that has always intoned Hermione, filters through his racing thoughts, "What awful things have happened when wizards have meddled with time. Loads of them ended up killing their past or future selves by mistake!"

"Lie."

But that voice is new and its raspy timber seems to split the air solely for his ears. Without the time to ponder on once again hearing disembodied voices, he quickly thinks of a common non-magical name that he’s sure to not forget and settles quickly.

"My name is Henry."

"Henry, a pleasure. And from what family? Perhaps I may be able to reach them to inform them of your condition."

Without failing to meet Dumbledore’s eyes, Harry responds. "There was an attack. My family is all gone. We were attacked; I hid then ran and found myself here." Harry found, between shoddily silenced Order meetings and the slow understanding that everyone knew he would die before he did himself, that it is not hard to lie to a Legilimens when one only tells the truth.

"Ah, quite the hard times we find ourselves in. I have, regrettably, heard of such attacks being carried out by masked men in the night in the smaller joint wizarding-muggle villages, but none so close to Hogwarts' lands. Which is your family from, there may be a chance to send for the Aurors?"

"Feldcroft." That voice again, but without a better response, Harry echoes it.

"Ah, yes, Feldcroft. You’ve come quite the ways away to seek help, young man." Dumbledore levels him with a speculative gaze and nips again. "Is there a specific area in the village I should tell the Aurors to look? And a description of them would be of great help."

Tired of dealing with Dumbledore’s malocclusion, Harry labors his breath and slows the already strained blinking of his eyes. "They’re all gone."

Dumbledore may have tried to get more out of him, had Madame Pomfrey not chosen that very moment to enter the hospital wing through her previously closed office door.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The younger vestige of a weathered body he had been seen to by during each of his many years at Hogwarts bustles across the floor. Unlike in his time, her blond hair is only slightly greying. There is no pause in her gait from where he knows she was injured before his time as a student. Though, it appears, there had never been a time in which Madame Pomfrey did not command this part of the castle. She is no less chiding in her address to the professor.

"Why are there so many people disturbing my patient?" She came to his bedside, bumping Dumbledore out of the way, and began to cast the same diagnostic spells he has watched the wand held a foot away from his head, comfortably in her grip, cast a thousand times.
"And for that matter, why was I not informed upon his wake?"

"Madame—"

"I do believe the fault of Ms. Coats' delay lies with me." The headmaster cut in from his new position at the foot of Harry’s bed.

"Ah, Dumbledore," Harry thought. "Always prepared to take the blame for the most meaningless aspect of a situation."

"I happened to be present at the moment this young man awoke, and we distracted ourselves in conversation. I wished to bring in the young Mr. Rowle here to be assured of Henry’s regaining health."

Or as Harry mentally translated, "Dumbledore wanted to further question the Slytherin student on the details of Harry’s arrival and thought to do so where he’d presumably be more distracted by emotion - at the bedside of a heavily injured young man." It seems Dumbledore has always underestimated the perceptiveness of youth. Harry has never known anyone before to wield altruism just so.

"I do believe Healer—," there was intentional stress paid to the young woman’s title, "—Coats understands the significance of effective communication in regards to patient care. Nonetheless, I must ask that you and Mr. Rowle excuse yourselves from here at once."

"Now Poppy, I’m sure we can wait just another moment to further familiarize ourselves. Henry here—"

"Will be here in the morning, Headmaster." Madame Pomfrey sat aside several vials of healing potions she brought out from a satchel with the St. Mungo's Hospital logo on it as she spoke. "The child is in for a long bout of healing, now that several of the potions that could not be administered with him unconscious can be given. Do leave him to his rest."

A pointed glare followed Dumbledore out as he swept from the room, begrudging student trailing behind - presumably to floo home to Rowle manor.

"Honestly, that man." The healer’s eyes softened as they met his. "So Henry, is it?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Well, we are very pleased to finally have you with us, Henry." As she brought over a stool and settled into her work, her apprentice brought forth a wheeled cart containing many a potion, elixir, and tool.

"To start, a bit of paperwork. As you may be aware, it is within my right as a healer to treat anyone to come across me in need. This is simply a form to detail what has been done to you by myself, Head Healer Poppy Pomfrey of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by Apprentice Healer Tashé de Coats extern from L'hôpital de la Colline Sainte, in Paris," she explains while levitating parchment to settle on his lap.

"Additionally, there is a form to acknowledge your consent to further treatment. Then there is another to accept that all fees shall be covered by Hogwarts Orphan Fund, provided you stay with us as a student for at least a term year." She handed him the remaining three papers in her hand and a quill. What went unmentioned was the several feet long parchment listing the injuries he has sustained in life to that point. She has always been thorough.

Using something that could have read “Harry” or “Henry” followed by a mess of letters that started with either a “P,” “T,” or “B” - Harry signed off on everything with the understanding that, at least for now, he had a place to stay. Only giving the briefest glance to his accumulation of injuries with the briefest of thought, "Did I really break my arm at some point of the battle and not notice?"

"The documents stated it was 1974; if that’s true then perhaps—" He silently pondered his limited knowledge of the past and tried to parse out what year it would be best for him to be placed in, as clearly they assumed him to be younger, but was startled from his musings by an excited clap.

"Now, that is settled. I wish to ensure you that I maintain the highest level of confidentiality. None in this castle shall know the things we discuss." Harry found that he believed her and listened as she continued on. "I need you to take these here five vials before we begin to go over your healing regimen moving forward. If you are interested to know, they were brewed by Potions Master Fisher at St. Mungo." She floated a tray containing the vials over from where it lay atop the cart.

"First, you will be taking a bone-strengthening agent. As I’m sure you read—," here she leveled him with a knowing stare, "—exactly 29 of your bones were banished and regrown due to various weaknesses and/or improper healing. This was done while I held you in a magically induced coma the first month we had you, to reduce any discomfort during their regrowth."
Slightly dazed with the understanding of just why he felt like he had been dragged up from beneath an elephant, Harry was able to down the silky pale blue substance in one go.

"Good, this is a nutrient potion. It would appear that you have endured over a decade of malnutrition. For that, you have my sympathy," the healer said with a voice void of pity. Sheepishly, Harry took the tiny bottle of thin gold liquid from her hand. "You will be taking this potion and the first one once a week till after the winter hols, I’m afraid."

Harry could not help but think of how she was so different, yet the same. More lively, yet just as stern. But somehow, with him ending up in her ward nearly every year, she never took this much of an interest in his health. Before, she healed what was pressing and moved on as if spelled.

"Thirdly, you have traces of venom in your system that, while neutralized, still remained circulating through your body. Over the next three hours, you will take three doses of this coagulate. It is an alterative and will aid in hemodialysis, as its purpose is to purge and bind the venom outside of your tissue so that it may be expelled along with your bodily waste."

The potion handed to him was the same color as the sludge at the bottom of the Black Lake and just as thick. Though it smelled, welcomingly enough, like ginger. Harry swirled it around a bit while coming to terms that, in his time, Dumbledore never felt Harry in need of this particular potion. With a sigh, he swallowed this one down too.

"This process will need to be followed three times a day, preferably before meal times, for three days."

Immediately Harry understood why, for if there had been even water on his stomach, it would have come up with the spittle that now covered his lap. Madame Pomfrey banished his mess away as Healer Coats handed him a glass of room temperature water.

"Tough one, that," she said as she slipped a chocolate mint into his hand with a wink. Pomfrey disregarded the action and continued, pointing to an iridescent amber liquid in a tall vial.

“Next is not a potion but your dragon pox inoculation. It would seem, young man, that you never received any of the inoculations that the Ministry requires all witches and wizards to have before the age of 7.”

“Which made sense,” Harry thought. He didn’t learn about the wizarding world until he was 10, and he wasn’t even sure if Aunt Petunia took him to get his Muggle shots either. He began to wonder how many other magical folk from the Muggle world fell through the cracks like he did.

Without knowing the spin Harry’s thoughts were in, Madame Pomfrey pressed on. “And while I can understand the financial strain your family must have been under, all Ministry-funded health sites would have provided them to you at no charge.”

It seems, at least in this time, her passion for the care of children reached beyond simply those she was charged with. She continued to huff as she readied a spot on his forearm for the injection. “The rest have already been given to you, but for this, I need to be able to monitor the progress of its circulation, as it is more dangerous to be administered later in life. You shall feel a slight burning sensation that will lead to a fever.”

That had been put lightly. Harry dug his nails into his right thigh as he felt his arm be consumed by the fire of a thousand suns. Madame Pomfrey knew that the sooner this was done the better the young man in her bed would be for it, so she continued. “You will need to maintain constant fluids as your fever should not break before the morning.”

With a sigh, Harry settled back into the bed. In preparation for a long, long night, he thought, “Maybe Dreamless Sleep wouldn’t react badly with everything. Should I ask?” Harry wrestled with his thoughts as he did his damndest to not gnaw through his cheek.

“And last, is a topical potion to regrow the ocular nerves in your right eye. When you came to us, there was a sizable shard of glass embedded in your eye. And while I could do the removal and basic healthcare required to keep the eye itself functioning, you must participate a bit in the reestablishment of your sight.”

“Huh. Here I was thinking my shoddy vision was due to my missing glasses. Is she going to fix my eyesight?” Harry thought, hesitant in his movements as he allowed Healer Coats to position him flat on his backside against the bed. Though he was still trying to keep his stomach at bay, he couldn’t help but wonder again why he was never paid such care before.

“Henry, in a moment, I will pour the liquid into one of your eyes and then turn the lights off in the wing. At that time, Healer Coats will hover a light at varying distances, and you shall inform us of how well you can see the spell. During this exercise, I will be casting the accompanying spell that will attune your vision to the proper working order. Once this is finished, I will move on to your other eye. Any questions?”

Harry could only shake his head in stunned silence. The two healers worked effectively in tandem, and shortly after an hour had passed, Healer Coats was cleaning up and restocking the cart as Madame Pomfrey applied a bandage saturated with the potion across his eyes.

“You will be able to remove the bandage in the morning, Henry. For now, I do believe you should try to get a bit more rest before Healer Coats wakes you for your next bout of potions in a little over an hour.”

Consumed by his thoughts, Harry had not noticed how much the healing had taken out of his still recharging magical core. So with more questions than when he first woke, he allowed his body to relax into the bed and his mind to drift.

Chapter Text

June 5, 1974

"Shall we, Henry?" Healer Coats asked as she sat upon Madame Pomfrey's stool from the prior night, ready to remove the bandages from his eyes. Having been woken several times throughout the night to monitor his fever and the circulation of potions in his body, Harry was as exhausted as he was prepared for what would happen when the cloth was gone.

Then, turn-by-turn, the bandages came off without issue. Harry sat blinking back what looked like glowing occamy eggs from his eyes. His eyes began adjusting to the dazzling candles that lit the hospital wing and Harry began to notice everything. There were loose threads fraying from the wool blanket bunched at his lap. Healer Coats had doughy skin, warm blue eyes, and a hesitant smile. And then there was Madame Pomfrey, standing at his side with a hand mirror faced to her chest, gazing upon him in careful trepidation.

"I take it our spellwork is to your liking?" Madame Pomfrey asked.

"This is the most brilliant magic ever!" He wasn't lying. In that moment the ability to see, with his own eyes, put everything into perspective—the expanse of magic's capabilities, the depth of his own ignorance, and how much he had let his knowledge of the magical world be limited to what others had thought to shown him.

But in the quiet of his mind he had to ask, “Did Hermione, who repaired his glasses more times then he could count and constantly scoured the wizarding world for more knowledge, know of this potion?” Harry thought to himself, “Did Ron, who grew up knowing exactly what magic was capable of and watched Harry break his glasses year-after-year, know that he didn’t even need to wear them?”

Harry willed his thoughts to remain untainted by the bitter truth of just how ignorant he is. How naive he had been. And how he began to yearn to go back, to when he first learned about magic, so that he could live a different life where he embraced magic and didn’t simply live around it.

"Good,” the head healer said, voice breaking apart his thoughts, “If at any point your vision falters or you begin to experience pain in you eyes, find yourself in my presence immediately. Is that understood, Henry?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she repeated, nervously adjusting her grip on the mirror. "Now what comes next may be a bit difficult. I vow to you that I have done everything within my power and St. Mungo's assistance to relieve you of all that ailed you upon your arrival. However," she paused and heaved a great sigh before turning the mirror to face him, "some wounds were inflicted by magic of such mal-intent that they will never fully heal. This is the case with the wounds upon your face, hand, and arms."

Harry could do nothing but stare at the near stranger who met his eyes. So familiar, almost the same, but oh so different. At least he understood how he was not immediately assumed to be a found Potter bastard. For all that he had heard of himself being the spitting image of James, the comparison would never be made again.

Not with his stunted body, not encouraged to grow by neither the Great Hall's bountiful meals nor Quidditch's vigorous activities. Having spent far too long in a bed he outgrew by age six, in a hidden closet void of natural light, he was smaller than he should have been. And his skin was already a pale tan from his breeding, but the blotches in his pigment were the results of a worked-over life.

Then there was his hair, which had grown out while he was on the run with Ron and Hermione, now long and dusting his back, well past his shoulders. Its long curls, sweeping and clinging together with the static of sleep, were a far cry from the legendary "Potter's Nest." And while it had begun to thin in areas due to stress while sleeping in that tent, he felt it would undoubtedly be easier to manage now. Although, Harry couldn't help but think it would never regain its healthy wildness.

Then there were his eyes, one his normal shocking spell green while the other was slightly paler due to the jagged scar running through it. They were not Lily's, and they weren't Harry Potter’s. They belonged to whatever odd stranger he had now become. Through the mess of his thoughts he did found himself having to admire that they were now vivid and open without the thick frames to hide behind. But oh, this scar, his famously identifying scar, was now completely disfigured. Harry poked the edges that now ran down and across his eye before going further down to his cheekbone. It looked as if a great something was ripped out of the thin crack that once was, and then his skin was delicately patched back together.

"Only one soul may command me," was whispered out of the nothingness that sounded him.

"Soul? Does that mean the Horcrux is gone?" Harry's mental response came automatically as he continued to poke about his new face. "Great,“ he thought, “now I'm responding to mysterious voices in my head—who don't even have the decency to respond back!"

Taking Harry's visible annoyance at being unanswered to be directed at his scar, Madame Pomfrey spoke again.

"I promise you, young man, that we did everything within our power. If you—"

"No, it's fine," Harry reassured her quickly. "Well, not fine, but it is what it is. No need to lose my head over it now." But truly, Harry simply did not have the energy to respond beyond that. It was all finally beginning to catch up to him.

Everything was different now. He was out of place and out of time. He may never again suffer through a chess game with Ron or be read to by Hermione or have his hair braided by Luna. He would never find out if Neville was successful or if Dean and the others got out safe. He may never get back to his own time again. But, then again, what would he even be going back to? War? Pain? Death?

"No," Harry decided in the quiet of his mind as he thought back to looking down at Remus' serene face, "If I'm going to lose everything anyway, I'd rather it be on my terms. I wish to stay here. Besides, if it is truly 1974, then I can do a lot more good here than I could ever do going back there."

With that, magic that had not yet known how to fully fulfill the will of its master settled. The air around Harry became lighter. And, without ever knowing it, in that moment, he closed his only avenue back, leaving only forward - however hard the path may be.

"You cannot fool me," Healer Coats' delicate voice broke him out of his reverie. "You are not okay, but thankfully all you have to be right now is here."

Harry, without knowing just how right she was, said, "Thank you, Healer Coats."

Just then, a house elf adorned in grey uniforms bearing the Hogwarts crest and a tiny hole through its left ear popped in with a tray of food.

"Ah yes, thank you for that." Madame Pomfrey took the tray and gently placed it on Harry's legs. "Do eat up, and when you're finished, the headmaster would like a word. So take your time." At the end, Harry would have sworn he heard a little laugh come from the seasoned healer as she and her apprentice retreated to her office.

Breakfast was a light affair, only a bowl of thin porridge with soft fruits and warm tea, but he still surprised himself by how much he was able to hold down. Although going from a battlefield to a spell-induced coma might do that to one's appetite. He ate and then busied himself with a book on healing children’s cuts that the healers allowed him to borrow to hold off his boredom.

All too soon, his calm quiet morning was disturbed by the arrival of Albus Dumbledore. Today he wore cream robes that would have been presentable if not for the lime green and canary yellow print on the inside, peeking out with every shift of the man's body.

"Ah, good morning, Henry. You seem to be doing better already!" He transfigured a petal from the flowers on the bedside table into a chair and placed himself right at Harry's elbow. "I've been informed by the Madame that you wish to continue your education here? Marvelous choice, my boy!"

Without leaving room for Harry's response, Dumbledore steamrolled on. "You will need to do a placement test so we can know where your homeschooling places you. Additionally, you will need a house sorting and perhaps a trip into Diagon Alley for supplies. Do not worry, young man, these such things will be covered by us here at Hogwarts."

"Go to Gringotts," the voice only he could hear was back. Harry does not know at what point he decided to trust it, but he does. It was something in the way it slid over his very soul as it spoke and eased the part of him that still saw the bloodied mounds on the shadowed lawn from the war in the darkness of his eyelids. So he trusted it, far more than any of these new faces of the people from his past he has seen upon waking, at the very least.

"Do you think I will be able to go and do my own shopping, sir?"

"Yes, when you are released we shall do a more condensed shorting. Then, your new Head of House shall accompany you off the grounds," Dumbledore says while running is hand through his sternum-length beard, "but I must warn you that the funds will only cover your necessities."

"That’s more than I had hoped, sir." With his best "Golden Boy" act, Harry is able to endure the rest of their conversation, keeping his eyes just low of Dumbledore’s nose. He can’t help but think that with how passive the headmaster is being, the man will be hounding whoever escorts him for every detail of their trip to Diagon Alley. So he prepares for more of the headmaster's manipulations and yes-men.

And he has more time to do so than he thought. While Harry is allowed to walk around the wing on his own by lunch, it is not until the following day's potions and breakfast that he is allowed to leave the room in its entirety - and another two days before he is permitted to leave the castle. Madame Pomfrey offers him plain day-robes to change into, as he was found in the hall void of any personal effects. Not even his wand could be located.

She escorts him across the castle to the intact gargoyle at the base of the Headmaster’s Office. After giving a password too quiet for Harry to hear, she leads him into a room with five people already milling about. As he walks deeper into the dazzling office, there are quick greetings as they all take their seats and the healer returns to her duties elsewhere.

"Henry, my boy, I must commend you on your speedy recovery," Dumbledore begins. "Now that you are approved for limited activity, I do believe a good test of your energies to be the sorting, yes? Around you are the illustrious heads of the four houses here at Hogwarts."

He gestures to the portly woman to Harry’s immediate right, "This here is Herbology Professor, Pomona Sprout. She is also the head of Hufflepuff. Beside her is Broom Flying Professor and Quidditch Referee, Rolanda Hooch who heads Gryffindor."

Both of these women have changed over the years. Professor Sprout was still a little thing, but her short, wavy hair held less grey. Her usual muted robes and patched-over hat were present but missing was their splattering of dirt. Even her fingernails were clean. Though there was nothing changed about her ever-present smile. And with her cream skin relieved from the stress of time, Professor Hooch looked even more striking. Her Haetae heritage stood all the more visible with her longer black hair that hung just enough to frame her face and highlight her sharp yellow eyes.

"Then to your other side sits Care of Magical Creatures Professor, Silvanus Kettleburn who additionally cares for our Ravenclaws. And lastly, Potions Professor Horace Slughorn. Head of Slytherin." These introductions are said with far less spirit as, to Harry’s observation over the years, Dumbledore did always harbor a little resentment for those he could not finely predict.

Harry was familiar with Professor Slughorn but did not have the opportunity to meet Professor Kettleburn in his time. For, in Harry’s third year, Hagrid took over the class and Professor Flitwick had already become head of Ravenclaw. So Harry was all the more surprised by what he saw. The man sat beside him with thinning brown hair, an infectious smile, and only a half of his original limbs left - that being one arm and half a leg.

"Now then, before me on the desk is the Sorting Hat," Dumbledore said after a moment. "It is a sentient magical hat that we use to determine which of the four school Houses is the best fit for each new student." Dumbledore stroked the hat's brim as he stood to make his way around the ornate desk between them.

"These four Houses are Gryffindor, the house of bravery, Hufflepuff, the house of hard work, Ravenclaw, the house of intelligence, and Slytherin, the house of ambition." The headmaster nodded his head to each of the other professors at their respective house. "The hat originally was worn by Godric Gryffindor, but all of the founders put their magic into it. It is normally kept in my office until needed for the Sorting Ceremony at the annual Start-of-Term Feast." By now, the man had come to stand just before Harry, finishing his dramatics.

"What a unique experience we have before us. A sorting out of term,” the headmaster said with eyes more twinkle than pupil. “Do extend your neck, my boy."

Harry did as he was told and had his newly given vision obstructed by the towering folds of the old hat placed upon his head.

"Hmm," said a small voice in only his ear. "Difficult. Very Difficult. I don’t suppose you will fight me again, Harry James Potter, will you?"

"You know who I am?" Harry mentally responded in a shocked voice just as quiet.

"A version of me did, so therefore I do. Will you trust my placement?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then I shall take an honest look at you.” A stint of silence followed before he heard the hats amused voice again, “It seems that not much has changed at all. There’s still talent, oh do you have it in groves. But that ache below your ribs, that longing to establish yourself, has only grown. Though I have always known just where to put you."

Harry gripped the edges of the chair and thought, "Slytherin."

"Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You will be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that. Though it will also allow you some needed rest, yes? Well, if you’re sure, better be-"

"-SLYTHERIN!" The hat's voice rings out into the office.

"Well isn’t this a surprise," the headmaster mused. "From the house elves' praise of your kindness, I thought you were a shoe-in for Pomona’s bunch."

Harry made a mental note to keep in mind that, at Hogwarts, even the empty corridors have ears.

"Oh come now Albus, even my snakes know not to trouble the one who handles your food," Slughorn said with a great laugh. His walrus-like mustache shaking with the movement. "It is a pleasure to welcome you into my house."

"Thank you, professor."

"It was explained to us that you and your family got caught in that nasty mess in those old mines-" Slughorn, ever the gossip, starts but is interrupted by an emotional wail.

"To think that there were Dark Wizards hiding out in them and would have gone unnoticed, had their own spell not flooded the mines," Professor Sprout’s eyes took on a sheen as she spoke.

"Yes, yes," Professor Slughorn said as he tried to refocus on Harry. "A terrible mess-"

"Your family was a part of the settlement between the two villages? Terrible news, as I come from Irondale myself." What remained of Professor Kettleburn’s left arm moved about wildly as he spoke.

"Yes, absolutely awful what has become of the will of some wizards," Professor Hooch said with a disgusted look aimed at the low fire burning to their right. "All here are sorry for the pain that has befallen you. And even though the rest of us will not have the pleasure of housing you, we are here if you ever need."

"Ah-" Harry was saved from speaking further as Slughorn attempted once again to get his attention.

"Yes, but a fresh start should be all the lad needs. When you are prepared, we shall set out for Diagon Alley. We will need to start at Gringotts to establish you with a Student-fund Account and to parse out who is to be your magical guardian," said Slughorn, attempting to command the room. "Though worry not, we shall have all your affairs in order before dinner, as I’d like to be here to sample the crystallized pineapple I heard would be served with dessert tonight."

"How about now, Professor?" Harry asked.

So, it was with short goodbyes that Professor Slughorn and Harry floo’d from the headmaster’s office to the Leaky Cauldron. Upon stepping out of the hearth, Harry immediately noticed that between 1974 and 1991 not a single thing changes; it was the exact same combination of small, dingy and welcoming. It was still a dark, shabby pub and inn for wizards.

Beyond the filth and grime covering the front store windows, he could still see the Muggle street of Charing Cross Road in London. Above the counter there were still signs written faded cursive about the offerings of food, drinks, and rooms to rent. There was even Tom, looking just as haggard, tending the bar's patrons as always.

As if a ghost, Harry traced his own steps yet made across the floor and out the back door into a bricked-off cove. "Three up ... two across," whispered Harry’s thoughts as Slughorn tapped the wall three times with the point of his wand. The bricks he had touched shook themselves out of position until, in the middle, a small hole appeared. It grew ever wider until, a second later, they were facing an archway that gave them a view of the busy street.

"Welcome," said the professor, "to Diagon Alley."

Harry could not stop the grin that spread across his face at the amazement of magic. They stepped through the archway and once again, his mind supplied him with the thought that his life was gone. Gone was the rubble, the broken brick, and the blood-stained glass that littered the streets that last time Harry laid eyes on this place. He could not find it in him to stop smiling.

The sun shone brightly off of a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop and drew his eye. "Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Onyx, Tin, Pewter - Self-heating - Stackable" said a sign hanging over them. Though this time it was beside the unfamiliar name of “Ludwig’s.”

"Ah, what a fine eye you have Henry," Slughorn’s voice broke him out of his unconscious edging towards the store. "You’ll be needing a nice cauldron for my class and," the professor lowered his voice conspiringly, "you shall undoubtedly receive an honest deal on them—seeing as the owner is a former student of mine. Victor Ludwig will undoubtedly be thrilled by our patronage here today, but first we must procure your funds." The professor adjusted the tweed jacket under his summer robes over his round stomach with a self-satisfied smirk before he stepped off.

Harry trailed behind the man distractedly as he longed to fill his eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once - the shops, the items spilled into the streets outside them, the people doing their daily shopping. All the things, all the happy life, he would not see if he was not here.

Where there had stood a pile of war-ravaged wood in his time now stood a gaggle of women outside of “Blackwater Apothecary.” One was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seven sickles an ounce, they’re mad!”

The sound of thrilled hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying “Odigin’s Owl Emporium - Tawny, Eagle, Vulture, Brown and Snowy.”

Several boys younger than Hogwarts age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks behind it. “Look,” Harry heard one of them yell, “the new Clean-sweep is fastest ever!“

They were still the same shops selling robes, selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had seen before. There were still windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, and globes of the moon. It was all still here. Yet it was all different. It was all yet to be ruined. With something akin to hope building beneath his chest, Harry followed the professor onwards—growing more and more confident in his decision to make the most of his time here as the days went.

Chapter Text

June 8, 1974

"Here we are, Gringotts," said Professor Slughorn. They had made their way through the alley until they reached a snow-white building of old, cracked stone, which towered over the other little shops on either side. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of gray and black, was a goblin - though not one he could recall. As they walked up the white stone steps towards him, Harry could feel his magic stir beneath his skin.

The goblin was half a body shorter than Harry. He had a pointed, clever face, an untrimmed beard, and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside, and, to the surprise of the goblin and professor, Harry bowed back. In the back of his mind, Harry hoped that if he paid enough reverence and mentally vowed to never trifle with the Goblin Nation again, he would not be held responsible for his actions of thievery not yet committed.

With held breath, he walked through the first doorway to the other side. Relieved he was allowed through, Harry watched as a pair of goblins bowed them through the tall and heavy silver doors into a vast shining marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting about the long room on high stools behind a high counter. They quickly worked between customers - scribbling in large aged leather ledgers, weighing mounds of coins on ancient brass scales, examining precious stones through enchanted eyeglasses.

There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of their business. Amidst the hustle of magical commerce, they joined the growing line with witches and wizards in flowing robes and obscure hats to wait. When it was finally their turn, they made their way to a counter on the right side of the hall. They stepped up to a young goblin, who Harry felt could be none other than Griphook. It was the particular cut of his face and the surly way he barked out a stern “Key.”

“The key? Yes, and good morning,” Slughorn said as he patted around his pockets. Harry was distracted by the hilarious sight of the stout, round man unknowingly imitating a Muggle dance he had once seen Dudley watch on the telly. He was so engrossed in his amusement that he could not stop his subtle flinch at the sound of a whispered voice.

“A blood test.”

“What?”

Harry thought that this exchange was getting quite annoying as the voice came and went as it pleased with no preamble, and was no more forthcoming. So while the professor was still distracted by his robe’s magically expanded pockets, explaining their need for access to Hogwarts Orphan Funds for this “poor unfortunate soul” that the professor has “graciously taken charge of,” Harry cut in.

“Actually, may I have a blood test?” Harry asked.

“6 galleons.“ / “You want to what?”

The two talked over each other, and Harry chose to ignore his new head of house in favor of figuring out just why The Voice, as Harry has mentally dubbed it, wanted him to come into the bank so bad.

“Would it be possible to take them from my Hogwarts fund? Or perhaps, any funds that I have access to after the results of the test?” Harry said, with only a vague memory of Hermione mentioning wanting to do a blood test. She had a theory that all Muggle-borns are descendants of squibs that went off into the Muggle world.

After the war, she had wanted to save up, as she refused Harry’s many attempts to pay, to take a blood test to see if her blood was a match for any of the wizarding lines active in the last some-odd years. He wished that he had listened better to her then. But they had been sitting about the library at No. 12 Grimmauld Place. Ron and him were tired from a day of cleaning and too busy making faces at each other over Hermione’s head to listen.

“Had I known then-" With a shake of his head, Harry stops these thoughts to focus on the goblin's response. With a toothy grin, the goblin, who he is sure is Griphook now, peers over onto him.

“Test first, then we shall determine how it is you will pay,” the not smile grows impossibly larger, “and you will pay.”

With Professor Slughorn still sputtering behind him, Harry is led into a gleaming elevator to one of the higher floors. The goblin marched him down a hall and up to a room behind a sturdy oak door with no handle. At the door, the goblin slowly dragged his sharp nail down the center of the door, and after a moment's wait, the door slowly began to open.

It revealed a rather cluttered office where an elderly goblin of thin build sat at an overrun desk. On the wall above this goblin's head hung a battle axe with dark stains Harry refused to look too closely at. Harry was stopped in his instruction of the room to duck down as the paper the goblin had previously held took flight and nearly clipped his ear on its exit from the office. The two goblins exchanged a few words in their shared tongue before the one who escorted them turned to Harry and firmly told him to “sit.”

Harry made his way into the room, but he was startled before he could sit by the sound of something heavy bouncing off of a shield. He turned back to see Professor Slughorn angrily picking himself off of the ground - looking not dissimilar to a rolling pill bug.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Only the one being serviced may enter. Wait,” was the goblin in the hall's brisk response before the door closed firmly into place. Whatever conversation may have been had beyond that could not be heard through the silencing magic placed on the room. Harry turned to the goblin behind the desk, who simply sat and stared as he floundered about for a moment.

Swallowing his fear, Harry took his seat and awkwardly met the goblin's eyes. After a moment of staring, during which Harry mentally cursed whoever was residing in his head, the goblin snapped his fingers. A wide quartz bowl, hazy old vial, silver dagger on a pillow, and yellowed parchment impossibly claimed space on the desk.

“Three drops into the bowl.”

“I’m sorry, what? Could you-“

“Three drops into the bowl,” the goblin demanded.

Sensing that he would receive no further instructions, Harry looked at what was before him. “Well if it’s a blood test then-,” Harry quickly thought as he picked up the dagger. He gripped the heavy silver in his right hand as he gently placed its blade to the meat of his left palm. Without much pressure, Harry watched as his skin parted, and thick droplets of blood began to swell to the cut's surface.

He carefully brought his palm over the bowl and measured out three drops. As the first one splashed into the empty bowl, he watched as from seemingly nowhere, a clear liquid began to fill the bowl. After the last of his blood was spilled, the bowl was nearly half full. Trying to wandlessly manage the incantation for a healing spell he read earlier, Harry healed his hand as he watched the goblin finish his work.

With unintelligible chanting, the goblin turns over the smoke-like contents of the vial into the bowl. The contents swirl with a wave of his hand and, after a moment, turn a dirty brown. When the liquid's movement settles, the goblin levitates the bowl over the parchment and gently pours it out. It sits on top and costs the parchment until it begins to gradually sink into its surface, expelling smoke and leaving words behind. When all is finished, the goblin snaps again and only the parchment remains of the testing material.

“May I?” Harry hesitantly asks as his eyes dart between the goblin and the parchment.

Harry thinks the emotion he sees play across the other's face could be amusement, but all he gets in reply is a “Go on.”

Harry gently picks up the surprisingly bone-dry parchment and begins to read. There was so much written on the near two-foot-long paper - property addresses, vault numbers, and a list of the known artifacts he could claim by blood-rites. But what stood out immediately was his name.

“Name: Henry —.” There was a blank indentation where a last name would go.

“Birth: Hogwarts Grounds, Scotland Highlands, 8 May 1974.”

“Wouldn’t that be a day after the battle began? Is that the day I came to this time then?” Harry thought to himself as he read on in amusement. “Then by this test, I’m about two months old.”

“Parentage: — —.” Again, Harry saw more blanks. It was as if the magic that brought him to this time was conflicting with the magic of the test, leaving it to attempt to make sense of the anomaly of his being here.

“Blood: Non-magic mixed present.”

“How old was this testing method,” Harry thought with a laugh, “if it doesn’t have a word for Muggle?”

“Bloodline: Peverell…”

“There!” The Voice said out of thin air, for Harry never felt its presence or its retreat.

“The Peverell’s? I already knew I was related to them; Hermione said that the Potter’s-“

“Blood of my chosen. Blood of my Master. Blood to claim.” It was as if there was someone behind him, standing at his shoulder. If Harry closed his eyes, he could almost feel them there. There was magic gathering in the room, pressing down onto him as if someone were resting their hand upon his shoulder.

“Your master? How could I be-“

And then it hit him; he had the sole loyalty of all the Hallows before he went back in time. This voice, this magic, it was all so familiar. It was the same as when he first put on his father’s cloak that Christmas morning so long ago. The weight of it settled around his small body just like this. It was the same feeling that filled the air when Hermione read to them, “—and whoever shall succeed in uniting all three of the Hallows would become the Master of Death.”

“You’re Death?” Was Harry’s frightened thought. Then, once his thoughts cleared a little came, “But death has no Master.” He knew this. He knew that death does not discriminate and it does not delay. Death is noble and it is of no consequence. It simply was, and so it would always be. Then Harry came to the thought, “I am no more your master than you are mine.”

“Blood of my chosen. Blood I have claimed.”

“You—want me to be the Master of Death?” Of all that Harry had witnessed since opening his eyes for the first time almost a week ago, he could not believe that Death acceptably crept behind him.

“Master.”

“Fine,” he says. So used to a life of little choice and many mysteries. “But one thing at a time,” Harry tells himself as he pushes away all thoughts of what it means to be the Master of Death to the back of his mind until a later time, as he decides what he will do about creating a life for himself here.

“Sir, I wish to know how to claim a bloodline shown on this test.” Harry finished his review of the parchment that went on to list properties, accounts, magics, and items that may be in his access. He rolled the paper into a thin tube and slipped it into the breast pocket of his borrowed robes.

“The little wizard thinks he’s entitled to lay claim to something?” The goblin who hadn’t given his name or engaged Harry any more than necessary looked genuinely intrigued now. The ornery thing crossed its fingers beneath its long, bare chin and waited for Harry to respond.

“Yes, sir. The Peverell line.”

“Bows to goblins. Calls them ‘sir,’ what an odd little creature.” The goblin grumbles under his breath as he presses a button on his desk that went unnoticed in the clutter. A speaker somewhere in the room crackles to life, and the goblin converses with another in their shared language for a moment. The two then go back to sitting in silence.

Harry has what feels like 10 minutes of looking at everything in the room but the goblin. In his avid avoidance, Harry notices that nestled between the withered tomes on the left bookshelf is a Horntail egg in a glass box. He also notices that on the windowsill to his right sits a pixie encapsulated in resin, yet its eyes wander the room as much as his. He is trying to decipher if the paper near falling off the desk and into his lap is written in an actual language when the door opens.

“Now what is going on here? I must say-“ Slughorn, who was still being held back by an invisible barrier in the hall, does not get any further in his tirade when a young goblin scuttles into the room holding a parcel wrapped in a soft blue, moth-eaten fabric and promptly closes the door behind herself.

“Great Tallowfang,” a voice squeakier than Dobby’s addresses the elder goblin, “the Peverell box as requested.”

Harry files away the name and way of address for later, committing himself to learn everything he can this time around about all magical culture and customs. Even the non-human ones. He was back in time for a reason and until he figured out why that was, he was committed to doing things differently. To actually live, and to do so for himself this time. Which included learning about this world.

As he continues to watch, a box made of elder tree with deep engravings comes out from beneath the fabric covering. Tallowfang takes care in his unwrapping to not further damage the aged silk cloth. He neatly sets it aside and waves his hand to undo the brass latching on the box. The lid releases with a soft hiss and slowly opens to reveal a set of five rings.

They both sit and marvel at the gems for a moment before Tallowfang reaches in and hooks the biggest ring in the center with a long grey nail before extending his stubby arm toward Harry. Silently Harry reaches forward to take the ring between his fingers. The yellow gold ring has matching engravings on the band as the box, which up close Harry can now see are the flowering bulbs of a thistle plant. In the center sits an oval-cut star sapphire. Its pale blue giving an almost ethereal glow even in the dim office.

Having never interacted with family magic outside of his godfather’s house, where he was only of distant blood relation, he slipped the ring onto his right hand in bliss as he felt the magic within coming to life. Unwittingly, he closed his eyes at some point, not noticing the small cut the ring gave him before it gave a brighter glow and resized to his thin finger, feeling simply at peace. Harry’s quietude was interrupted by the sound of the heavy lid closing and the latch reengaging. Slowly, Harry opened his eyes to take in the two goblins watching him with greedy eyes.

“The magic has accepted you, Lord Peverell.” Tallowfang stopped to contemplatively observe Harry for a moment before continuing on. “Some, but not all family magics have restrictions such as the age of magical core or need for succession to be claimed. Though that does not seem to be the case for House Peverell, as I started the test with the Lord’s ring instead of an Heir’s ring.”

The goblin waved his hairy hand and several drawers and cabinets throughout the room wedged open. “Many have come to Gringotts and tried over the years to claim the Peverell titles; both the Gaunts and the Potters, and other irrelevant wixen. Though none, obviously, have succeeded,” he said as he called forth several slips of paper that floated through the air to arrange themselves neatly before him on the desk. “Until now.”

“Why is that?” Harry asked, but deep down he knew. The same way he knew that The Voice, that Death, meant him no harm.

“Family magic is a peculiar thing. If one doesn’t meet its requirement, if one doesn’t have the right-“ here the goblin paused, gazing deeply at the boy’s entire being, “-connection, then they cannot claim the title.”

The papers that sat atop the desk were pushed once again toward Harry, “Sign those.”

And Henry did.

“By the name of Gringotts, I do declare you Lord Peverell - with the full rights and liberties of your station at your disposal.”

The goblin then slid another hefty stack toward Harry, saying “These papers are to gain control of all held under the Peverell name, declare your lordship with the Ministry, and to get monthly statements owled to you - if that interests you.” Here the old goblin paused with a raise of his long grey bow and said, “It does interest you, correct?”

Harry could only give a dumb nod.

“Additionally, there is paperwork to set up a bank book.”

“A bank book? I’m sorry, sir, but could you explain some of this? I—I never learned this stuff.” Harry was severely out of his depth. He never even held his own vault keys before today. He didn’t think about claiming the Potter or Black titles before, too busy fighting Voldemort, and no one taught him about his two estates.

“No,” Harry thought, “I never asked. I should have done more to figure out what was going on around me, on my own.”

The goblin, who was also going through its own review of its mental processes, paused before speaking. So surprised as he was at a wizard admitting their own ignorance. “It is the most sensible way to carry around money. As you finish a purchase, simply fill out the slip with an amount and payable party, then sign. The bank slip can then be turned in by whatever establishment to transfer the set funds from your account. Each slip in the book has already fitted with your vault information on them. For these, I have chosen the Peverell heir vault as you are still in school and that was its intended use. Shall I have a book made for another vault?””

“No, that vault is perfect. Thank you,” was Harry’s muted response.

Harry thought they worked a lot like Muggle checks and could not help but wonder why he’d never heard of them before. The only guess he could come to was perhaps it was because he’d always done his shopping with the Weasley family, and they did not have much in the way of money.

“Lastly, your vault key. It is never to be outside of your sole possession. Should you attempt to access your vault without it, you will pay for another Blood Test.”

“Another thing I didn’t know,” Harry could not help but think bitterly.

“Despite its age, the Peverell account is not as affluent as some of the others housed here. It stagnated several years ago, with very little interest accruing,” Tallowfang said as he slid an engraved gold key across the desk. “If you’d like, Lord Peverell, I can send advisements on future investments along with your monthly statement?”

Harry, simply glad that this was all being explained to him, kindly met the goblin's raised eyebrow. He awkwardly stumbled out, “Yes, please. Thank you, sir. For all of this.”

“Is there anything further we at Gringotts can do for you, Lord Peverell?”

Hearing that name made Harry think about his future here, “Well, actually, how do I go about gaining personal identification? Like a birth certificate and the like? All my things were—destroyed.” If he is going to stay here, he knows he needs to make it look like he’s always been here. And knowing Dumbledore’s ways, his backstory needs to be flawless.

“We can take care of such matters,” the goblin says with a toothy smile, “for a price.”

Harry simply nods in understanding and says, “Thank you, Great Tallowfang.”

Chapter Text

June 8, 1974

After concluding his business with Tallowfang, Harry James Potter stepped into the hall as Henry Iefan Peverell. He had been torn on what to choose as the middle name, but Death, in all his infinite wisdom, said that the name Evans was derived from it.

He wanted to subtly honor his parents somehow, to honor all that he was giving up. Deep in contemplation of his latest sacrifice, he approached a slumbering Slughorn, slumped down into an upholstered wingback in the hall. The man was startled awake by the proximity monitors spelled around him.

“Henry, my boy, you’ve finally finished?”

“Yes, Professor. I apologize for taking up so much of your time,” Henry said, shifting his weight between his feet. “I never carried my family’s vault key and knew a blood test was the only way to prove myself to the bank. Our everything was destroyed in the attack, so I needed the goblins to replicate a great deal of my personal documents and arrange for monies to be set aside for my family's burials.”

Another thing he learned about was the attack on the surrounding village of Feldcroft where a handful of wixen had died. Death guided him through the process of claiming identities, and he had documents being sent to the Ministry without fail. Nothing was questioned as it seemed to be assumed that poor people kept even poorer documents. The goblins, with this thinking, had the correct documents made to establish him as an orphan of the attack.

“Funerals? Ah, a look at one’s family tree on file would be the quickest way to assure yourself of their safety. Good thinking, my boy, though unfortunate the outcome may be,” the professor pawed at Henry’s shoulder before adjusting his robes. “I was simply alarmed by the inability of me to accompany you. As your head of house, I am your magical guardian while you are a student and we are off the school grounds. With everything going on, I would be remiss to allow further harm to come to you.”

Slughorn got a glint not unlike the headmaster in his eyes before continuing, “I assume the rest of your business was successful?”

“Oh yes! I was able to claim what remained of my family coin. So I will not be needing the orphan fund after all.”

“Good on you, lad. Then shall we be off?” Already making his way toward the elevator, Slughorn continued to talk, filling the time it took to reach Ollivander's Wand Shop with tales of his former students- but only the famous, the successful, and the powerful. Henry listened with half-an-ear as they approached the familiar shopfront. His eyes met unchanged silver-framed dusty windows, still narrow and shabby, with the same sign that read “Ollivanders. Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC” in peeling gold letters over the door.

Though the shop's display now consisted of a solitary wand lying on a textured yellow cushion, the inside of the shop was just as tiny. This early in the summer it stood empty except for a single, spindly chair in the corner. Thousands of narrow boxes containing wands were piled right up to the ceiling throughout the shop, and the whole place smelled of dust. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. Just as every time he’d entered this shop before, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Not secret. Forgotten. Soul magic,” whispered Death.

The new questions that had just occurred to him to ask the entity were interrupted by a soft voice, “Good Morning.”

An aging man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Henry awkwardly.

"Curious—curious," said the man. "A bit old to be a first-year student.” Mr. Ollivander moved closer, too knowing eyes never leaving his face. He wished the man would blink. “A bit old indeed.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes. Mr. Ollivander looked up, eyes tracing what became of the lightning scar on Henry's face.

"I'm sorry to say I probably sold the wand that did that," he said softly. Averting his haunted eyes before making his way behind the battered counter.

"Horace! Horace Slughorn! How nice to see you again—10¼", Cedar, dragon heartstring, fairly flexible, correct?" Mr. Ollivander said, only just now noticing the other occupant in the room.

"It is, Garrick, yes," said Slughorn.

"Good wand, that one. It has seen you through the teaching of many fine students" said Mr. Ollivander with humor behind his words.

"Er—yes, it did, yes," said Slughorn, shuffling his feet from where he sat in the straining chair.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, turning his attention to Henry. "Well, now Mr-?”

Without any hesitation, he replied “Henry Peverell.”

Then there was an oppressing silence that filled the shop for all of a moment, before the two men remembered themselves.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Peverell.” The wandmaker said as he pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “I am Garrick Ollivander. Owner of this wand shop and the one in Hogsmeade. Which is your wand arm?"

"Er—well, the right," said Henry.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Peverell. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

As the tape measure continued to go about its business of gathering his sizing on its own, Mr. Ollivander went on his way. He began flitting around the shelves and taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Peverell. Try this one. Brushwood and dragon heartstring. Six inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Henry took the wand and, knowing it would not work, waved it around a bit. Though halfway through the motion, Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Oak and phoenix feather. Nine inches. Quite rigid. Try it." Henry tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it was also snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no. Here, willow and unicorn hair, eight and a quarter inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out." Feeling as he did all those years ago when he first stepped foot in this store, Henry began to grow tired of the trial and error. He wanted to just tell Mr. Ollivander what he was waiting for but thought better against it. And so, the pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the counter. Though, the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Oh, what an interesting customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Excitedly, Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and it burst into flames, bright light bouncing off the walls. He quickly dropped it as flames licked his fingertips and watched as it turned to ash on the ground. Slughorn whooped and collapsed from the chair.

Mr. Ollivander cried out, "Oh, no! What terrible-“ but seemed unable to get his thoughts out as he fell to his knees on the dirty rug with a scorched hole still smoldering in it. Though Henry thought he heard a tearful “My masterpiece” as the wand-maker dug his gnarled fingers into his wispy hair.

Henry opened his mouth to apologize but Mr. Ollivander, from his place still kneeling over the pile of ash, fixed Henry with his pale stare and whispered, "There is no wand here, for you, to be sold."

Harry simply closed his mouth and swallowed.

"Now wait a moment Garrick. Where is the boy to get a wand?” Professor Slughorn tried to plead his case but Mr. Ollivander would hear none of it. And after a heated back-and-forth, Henry and Slughorn were being turned out into the street by an irate wandmaker. As the door slammed behind them, dust raining onto them from the frame, Henry shivered. He was sure that no matter the time, he had never liked Mr. Ollivander too much.

“Now what to do, what to do.” The professor began to drum his fingers on his bulging belly as he talked to himself. “Perhaps—but Dumbledore would surely be opposed—though the boy has to have a wand-“

“Professor?” Henry asked, cautiously curious as to where this would go.

“Ah, Henry. You are a Peverell, yes? Dark rumors about your family, I’m sure you’ve heard. Though perhaps you would not be opposed to us looking towards another shop for your wand?” The man asked, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab the sweat beginning to bead at his brow. The nervous professor began to lead them in the opposite direction down the street, pausing only to silently cast what Henry knew by wand movements to be a disillusionment charm before continuing on.

In-between “Madame Nice’s Found Things” and “Master Curns’ Cache” was a turnoff into a side street of the shopping district. With practiced steps, Slughorn hurriedly made his way down dark, narrow, twisting streets. He steadfastly ignored the adverts for shops with dangerous dark artefacts openly for sale. In his time, Henry knew Knockturn Alley to be a shady place with shops related to the Dark Arts, and it looked to be the same for a while prior to 1991 as well. To be spotted here now would undoubtedly give the impression that the professor was up to no good.

Having learned his lesson years ago, Henry stuck close to Slughorn’s side. His eyes only lingered for a moment as they made their way past “Borgin and Burkes,” with Henry making a mental note to buy the vanishing cabinet in there as they continued on. Walking deeper into the alley, they passed unusual, sinister, and sometimes dangerous-looking individuals.

There was a mangy cat, with markings around its eyes that looked like suspiciously like glasses, licking up a puddle of dark red liquid. There was a drunken hag cooing at the professor to sell Henry to her, she “was good for the coin.” Then there was a man, barely seen behind a grimy store window, pushing what looked like a human arm into a bubbling cauldron.

Henry was beginning to lose his nerve when they came to stop before a shop with two large painted-over windows. There was no sign above the door, but carved into the black paint on one of the windows was an alchemical array. Professor Slughorn walked up to the door and knocked twice. Henry could hear the sound of several locks coming undone before the door was being opened by a striking woman.

Her white-blond hair billowed behind her as she showed them in before quickly turning to redo the locks. Henry watched her as she crossed the floor. She wore a high-collar deep purple robe. It was cropped at the elbows and seemed to be doing a good job keeping the heat in this drafty shop. As she settled into the light hanging behind the counter, Henry could not help but think of how much she resembled Lucius Malfoy.

“I am Anemoi. Which of you is here for a wand?” Her voice was clear as snowfall and just as lovely.

With a brief look behind him towards Slughorn, Henry hesitantly replied, “I am, ma’am.”

“Very well,” was all she said before she was in motion again. He watched her moving around the shop, manually grabbing supplies and depositing them on the counter before walking off again. It was in this observation that Henry was struck with the thought that this woman was a squib.

When she was done, there was a shimmering black cloth placed upon the marble countertop. On it sat a collection of tree and plant matter, animal parts, and a few stones. Henry noticed that some of the items even felt like they contained no magical signature at all. One thing was for certain, there was nothing traditional about her. As she used material Ollivander would not dare to think of.

“What an interesting assortment,” said Slughorn, thoughts along the same vein as Henry’s own. The potions professor knew most of the material that sat out but was peering over Henry’s shoulder trying to get a better look at a few of the items. Anemoi paid him no mind and placed another thick black cloth above the collection of wand materials before turning her attention to Henry.

“Take your time and pick out what calls to you.” With only that for instruction, Henry dumbly stared down at the counter for a moment.

“Close your eyes.” The Voice, Death’s voice, was back, speaking softly into Henry’s ear as if the being were standing with them in the room. Henry leaned into its presence and allowed his eyes to flutter close. “Feel for me, Master.”

And Henry did. He slowly dragged his hand across the surface fabric. Stopping his movement only when his magic called for him to do so. Whenever he would stop, the wand-maker would pull out whatever material his hand rested above before urging him to continue. In the end, there were four things she pulled from under the cloth and sat to the side before she put away the other items by hand. When she made her way back to the counter, she aligned Henry’s four choices on a steel plate before speaking.

“You have chosen the root of a magnolia tree,” she said pointing to the wiry piece of pale wood. “Your core shall consist of both the heartstring of a dove,” here she pointed to a sea-glass jar that sat beside a tall amber glass vial who’s contents could not be seen, “and a fragment of the bone of a dementor. It will be bonded with the fluid of a giant orange snail.”

"Oh, how fascinating! A completely ingenious combination, young man! I dare say your wand shall paint you as quite the character. Now, my dear Anemoi, however did you come across the bone—"

“Come back in two hours.” Anemoi seemed to be practiced at dealing with Slughorn’s needling, for she simply gathered up the steel plate and stared him down until he made his way to the door. They continued on while giving Ollivander’s shop a wide berth, spending their waiting time covering Diagon Alley to gather the remainder of Henry’s supply list without further fanfare.

He was even able to buy more than his required school reading; having obtained books on culture and customs, holidays, social exchanges, the history of prominent families, and even a couple on how the Wizengamot works - Henry was feeling very satisfied with the day. He then obtained potion tools and supplies from “Ludwig’s,” where he only suffered through half an hour of Slughorn’s pedantic fussing over his former student before he was able to duck-off.

Alone, he gathered the remainder of his list and added the items to the new shrunken trunk in his pocket. All that was left of the extensive list of both school and personal nature were his school robes. He had already obtained a full all-season wardrobe between “Boot’s Coverings and Attire” and “Black, and Blume, and Kidd: All Over’s.” He has just made his way into the interestingly named “Madam Florence's Robes for All Occasions,” when he heard it - that voice.

“I promise, darling, this will be the last year. I’ll charm them myself no one will even notice—”

“But they’re Hufflepuff robes, mother!” The voice was young, strained, and hissing; clearly attempting to keep frayed emotions at bay, but Henry would always recognize the voice of Severus Tobias Snape.

Henry could not stop his eyes from seeking the man out. Before, he had thought that if it truly was 1974, then it would be his parents’, and the rest of the Marauders, 4th year. And if he had truly gone back in time to their 4th year, then perhaps he could see Severus again. So try as Henry might, he could not stop the need to confirm that it truly was Severus. Alive, breathing, and no longer bleeding out beneath Henry’s numb hands. He may have even done something foolish, like approach Severus, had the shop assistant not chosen that very moment to call out to him.

“Good afternoon, are you here to sell your old wares?” Being just days after the term's end, most of the attendants they’ve interacted with today asked some variation of this question, and it still threw him off. Though his delay in speaking could have also been attributed to his noticing, upon her coming closer, that this squat woman dressed all in mauve was the Madame Malkin of his time.

“Er—hello, no. I’m transferring to Hogwarts and am in need of a full set of robes.”

“Oh, lovely! Come to the back and step on the dais, and Madame Florence will be with you momentarily.”

Henry did as instructed before covertly turning his attention to a mirror's reflection at the front of the shop, showing the two who shuffled themselves into the furthest corner of the store. Even had he not been hunched over onto himself, Severus was still entirely too small. His hair hung limply, obscuring his face and what Henry thought to be brushing on his cheek. He wore shabby muggle clothes under a dingy, well-patched, grey robe.

His mother did not look any better. And as the pair stood to the side arguing over a second-hand robe set, they painted a penurious picture. Averting his eyes, he saw an older woman with a pincushion floating behind her and a tape measure around her neck. It only took a moment to ponder this whole situation before he made a quick decision. He hastily removed his bank book and tore off a signed page. As the woman stepped before him, he wandlessly cast a muffling charm before hounding her in quick succession.

“Good afternoon, young man I—”

“Excuse me, but can you do me a favor? Please take this bank slip and use it to cover anything that boy over there needs,” Henry said as he jerked his head in the direction of the mirror. “Anything—full school robes, casual robes, undergarments, shoestring. I don’t care, just get him whatever he needs.”

“But—”

In a hasty whisper, Henry cut her off again saying, “If he asks questions, then tell him he won a scholarship, or is the lucky shopper of the day, or that you’ve set up a fund for students in need. Just, whatever lie he needs to take the money. Can you do that?”

Madame Florence looked at Henry, then the crumpled paper in her hand, before returning her gaze to him. With the sharp nod of her head, she tucked the bank slip into her apron and pivoted on the spot. The young Madame Malkin started to chase after her before she was sternly tasked to begin Henry’s measurements before heading to the front of the shop to start a hushed conversation with Mrs. Snape.

By the time the other three finally made it to the back of the store Henry had finished picking what materials and finishings he liked, and the second seamstress witch had begun the task of pinning together his long black robes. Henry chose a warm mix of cotton and wool for his heavy robes and a mix of cotton and linen for his lighter wear.

They were to be finished in silk for the slytherin crest and stripes of emerald, with pearl and pure silver for the attachments. It was more elaborate and elegant than he felt he was worth, but he did not object to the seamstress’ suggestions after informing her that he was not working within a budget.

He shifted his attention from the woman’s practiced movements to the others when they came in. He watched as Severus was visibly uneasy moving about the room before Madame Florence called his attention. She stood him on a stool next to Henry before she slipped a new pre-made robe over his head and, too, began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," ventured Henry, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Severus, without ever a look in his direction.

"My father always wanted to go, but well," Henry finished with an awkward shrug, making up the story as he went. "I’m transferring in, but I’ll be the first to go, in my family, in some time. I’ve already been accepted and sorted, though I still need a placement test as I was homeschooled.”

“Fascinating.”

Harry was strongly reminded of drying paint.

"Will this be your first year?” Henry pressed on, though a flat "No," was all Severus said.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Severus said again, and Henry began to wonder just how hard this would be.

"I love to fly! And I’ve played a few pickup games as a seeker. You said you aren’t a first year, so what house are you in?"

"Slytherin," said the dour boy, as Henry was feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, I'll be in Slytherin too!” Announced Henry, hoping to finally find common ground. “Professor Slughorn is actually my escort into the alley today. Maybe we can find a compartment together on the train?"

"Mmm," was all Henry got for his efforts, and he stood there attempting to think of something a bit more interesting to say. Though he did not have to flounder for long.

“You’re finished now, sir. Please retrieve your robes in about an hour,” Madame Malkin said while putting her pins away. “I can escort you out—”

“Actually, I will close him out. You take over this young man, Malkin.”

Madame Florence stood from her stool and held the hem she was working on in hand until her assistant took her place with only mild confusion on her face. When they arrived at the front counter, Madame Florence took out his bank slip and smoothed it onto the counter with a shrewd look.

“Does your lord of the house know that you’re using his bank book to fund the meagerly?” With her narrow neck and thin lips, she reminded him, unfortunately, of his aunt Petunia in that moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry kept his voice soft and even in response, “considering I am the lord of my family. I trust that family's purchases will be combined with my tab?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Madam Florence with a placid tone, though she looked to have sucked a lemon whole.

“Good.” And with that, Henry left to find Slughorn, to take his needed potions and possibly have a bite to eat before collecting his purchases.

Chapter Text

June 9 - September 1, 1974

After his trip to Diagon Alley, Henry's summer passed quickly. Even the Hogwarts staff seemed to be in a rush to get him acclimated to his "new environment" as quickly as possible. Now that he had been sorted, upon returning from shopping, he was moved from the hospital wing into the dungeons - occupying a rather lush room with two other empty beds.

Over the next two days, he unpacked his newly bought life and got acclimated to the nooks and crannies of the Slytherin common room and its surrounding halls. Another day was spent listlessly wandering the empty castle, mourning the existence of Harry James Potter and plotting with Death on how to live as Henry Iefan Peverell, before he finally sat for his placement tests. They were proctored by Professor Dumbledore in his office over several long hours, intermixed with the headmaster offering him water breaks and subtly charmed cherry candies from the crystal dish on his desk.

Unsurprisingly, to himself at least, when the results arrived from the ministry several days later, he learned that he had tested into 7th-year Defense and 3rd-year History. However, his score of a 4th-year knowledge of Potions came as a bit of a shock. In the end, with his small build and test scores accompanying the earlier lie he had told Madame Pomfrey of being only 15 years old, no one contested his placement among the incoming 5th-year students.

The majority of his summer was spent in remedial tutoring with various professors during their free time, preparing him to join his year-mates. Even Dumbledore voluntarily taught Henry remedial History in a jovial voice that covered everything except for the Great Goblin Wars. Showing great restraint, Henry noticed that the man only used their mandated time together to subtly try and endear himself as a trustworthy figure while attempting to discern if Henry Peverell was related to the infamous House of Peverell.

The classes he was allowed to go without make-up lessons in were Flying, Defense, Transfiguration, and Herbology. However, when it came to picking his schedule with Professor Slughorn, Henry had additional reading assigned to him when he decided to take Arithmancy. But it was alright, as Henry, for the most part, felt comfortable back in the castle. And in the solitude of his dorm, he found his studies to come easier amid the quiet surroundings and lack of imminent danger.

After classes and finishing up his assignments, Henry used most evenings to wander, usually starting his night with a meal in the kitchen, not yet able to stomach the Great Hall and its memories. Henry explored his old home with new eyes each night, making his way through more of the castle's many hidden passages, including the yet-to-be-caved-in passage behind the mirror on the fourth floor that led from the castle to the town of Hogsmeade.

Once found, Henry frequently used this passage to quietly explore Hogwarts' grounds. Initially, he only wanted to familiarize himself with 1974 to not stick out from those he would interact with. Then, he began to explore the differences and similarities from his time to this. The Shrieking Shack looked recently built, the fountain in the town center had a different topper, and many stores in Hogsmeade sold similar products under different names. But soon, he pondered just how far he could go.

"Is anyone even watching me?" he thought one evening while taking a moonlit walk around the Black Lake. "Should I visit Godric's Hollow and see my childhood home before its destruction? Would it be right to go burn down no.4 Privet Drive?" Henry's dry laugh blended quietly into the night air. "So that there never again is a 'thoroughly ordinary house on a thoroughly ordinary street,' with a cupboard under the stairs?"

Death redirected his thoughts and whispered, "You could collect them again." Even amongst the creeping shadows and thickening night, the voice no longer scared him. No, he found that Death often walked beside him during his nightly rounds, informally teaching him how to feel for its magic and call it forth. It hovered at his side and watched him through a hooded shroud of darkness - the tattered remnants of its human start sagging off its skeletal remains.

While Deaths presence was growing ever comforting, the tailspin it sent his thoughts into was not. Henry did not know why he came back to 1974 specifically or what catastrophic events he could cause by just sneezing at the wrong time. But as the days passes without the world coming to an end he grew more accustomed to being here. “But what do I do with the knowledge and time that I have?” Henry found himself mentally questioning several times a day. “Become another ‘Chosen One’? Travel in the shadows and take out Voldemort in his sleep? Let this all play out as it does and eventually wake up from this clearly stress induced nightmare?”

All of his immediate thoughts had clear dead ends. He couldn’t stomach the thought of being the exalted “Savior of the Wizarding World” again. And if Voldemort just vanishes, the Dark’s power struggle to fill the vacuum of his influence could tear the magical world apart just as effectively as the man himself. “I need more time to think, to plan,” Henry thought as he pinched himself just in case.

In the days following Deaths suggestion, Henry began to tear himself in two while trying to decide on whether he should pursue the catalyst for mobocracy that is his making a public declaration of support of something - he could figure out what that something is later. But he knew it would inevitably garner the Ministry’s, Dumbledore’s, and Voldemort’s heightened attention.

During the day, the shining gleam of Dumbledore’s eyes cautioned him away from the Deathly Hallows or even disclosing who Henry really was to the man. He knew he could never join the Order of the Phoenix again for he had enough of the manipulations and regimental powers of control that were steeped in the groups every decision made. Nightly, his thoughts ran a mess as he deliberated the merits of entangling with the Horcrux’s again. “It would be easier to collect them now,” he surmised, “and it’s not like I’d make the same mistakes with handling them as last time.”

To ease his mind, each night, Death began to lull him to sleep as it coaxed him into learning how to open veils to the "land beyond" to guide spirits on. Henry took interest, if only to get space away from his thoughts. Before bed he began clearing his mind and practiced reaching for his connection with the methuselah being - grasping hold of it and using his magic to pull it forth until it ripped through space and time to take form in the material plane.

At first, when it slipped through his fingers and left them frostbitten and twitching against his sheets, death told him that Henry wasn’t firmly grasping for it enough. The first time a rift between worlds spilled into being between his palms he passed out before he could even finish the thought, “I did it.” Death, in its arcane wisdom, informed Henry that he was overextending himself. “Arrogant little human,” it called him.

When he finally reached a balance, he noted that what he created was not the enigmatic structure located in the Department of Mysteries. He was not the mouth of ingress that sat in that buildings bowels, boldly containing and controlling the portal to the infinite. Nor was he unworthy of approach, he who had been chosen by Death to lobby its desires. It was only when he began to understand that his place, at least in proximity to Death, was to just be he did it.

He manifest a barrier between the land of the living and the land of the dead right from his bed. He did not need anything special, not a spell or a chant. It was in the space between his breaths and collected in the gaps of his consciousness. It was a sliver of his existence, what had been and what was to come, broken away from the stream of consciousness that was his being to reflect the panoptic light of life.

It was not an enormous tattered black curtain, gently fluttering and swaying very slightly as though it had just been touched. His was a split seam between this-and that. It was thin, and inconspicuous, and took up no more space than the heft of a shadow. It did not give him the a feeling as if there was someone standing right behind the veil on the other side. He did not hear faint whispering and murmuring noises coming from within. No - all was quiet as Death rose from its knelt position at Henry’s bedside to part with the gentle words of, “Well done.”

The night following his success, it took all of a moment to practice this new magic on Myrtle Warren's soul - who was grateful for the chance to see her parents again. Even with it being a calm affair, afterward, he sagged against a sink and allowed himself to cry in the gloomy, depressing bathroom. Under the large, cracked, and spotted mirror he rested his forehead against were still a row of chipped sinks. The floor was ever damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders. The wooden doors to the stalls were still flaking and scratched, and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

Amongst it all, feeling the most at home he’d felt so far, Henry had been absentmindedly dragging his finger across the embossed snake that signaled the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Tear’s slowly rolled into the divots of his cheeks as he wondered what the beast beneath his feet was before it got influenced by the diary. If it deserved a chance to move on as well or if it too could become something more with time. But even if he did want to change anything, for anyone, Henry knew he needed power to do so.

Henry did not know if when speaking before Death meant the Hallows or the Horcruxes, but it did not matter as in that moment he decided to start with the ring.

Several nights throughout August, after the conclusion of the day's lessons, found Henry out at the edge of the Forbidden Forest practicing the difficult undertaking of solo apparition. As the warmth of the summer sun began to bleed into the chill of fall, Henry quietly focused his mind on his memory of a half-hidden shack amongst a tangle of trunks. With its mossy walls and exposed rafters held firmly in his mind, in-between one step and the next, Henry found himself outside Little Hangleton, Yorkshire.

Marvolo Gaunt’s Ring was exactly as Henry first saw it, a gold ring inset with a black stone, engraved with the Deathly Hallows symbol. It lay innocuously beneath the floorboards at the center of the room, blanketed under a mess of dark magic. Henry spent so many of his empty evenings patiently alongside Death, as it instructed him to listen to the whispers of snuffed out candles and the chatter of the castle's many ghosts. So a curse to cause the decay of cells was easy to brush aside - as death would never again mean him any harm.

The fractured piece of soul inside the ring was oddly quiet when Henry pulled it from its resting place. Feeling more certain of himself than he had in months, Henry made his way back to bed that night with a plan slowly forming—an optimistic thought that he could undo the precarious work of fools. A splintery hope in his heart spurred him to face down a long line of arrogant men and their folly.

In the umbra of his dreams, Henry asked Death for the power to recall Tom Riddle’s soul from the stone.

With the next setting sun, the capture of Salazar Slytherin’s Locket followed a similar path—trying, though overall underwhelming. Reeling off his success of collecting the ring, Henry sneaked away from Hogwarts’ grounds after lessons. In a dank cave in the sea, Death flew him to safer shores. Henry knelt at the water's edge and with patience learned how to summon an Inferius to drink the basin’s potion for him. He decided to leave the locket inside the Room of Requirement, in the box containing Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem, after removing their broken souls.

The best plans, he had learned from living as the “Chosen One,” were those made of simple steps. That's why Henry decided to transfer the three pieces of Voldemort’s soul into a bezoar, pilfered from Slughorn’s stockroom after tutoring and hidden in the bottom of Henry’s severely warded trunk. It was perfect—unsuspecting, easily hidden, and very susceptible to the venom of a Basilisk. He then transfigured the ring’s band into a completely dissimilar silver necklace and glamoured it hidden around his neck for good measure.

With the last of the easily obtained Horcruxes and Hallows gathered, Henry returned his focus in the final days of summer to studying, reading, and fostering his understanding of the magical world. He felt like a Ravenclaw with all the time he spent after dinner, with the house-elves, squirreled away with a book in a comfortable corner of the castle. Then, before Henry knew it, it was time for the start of term.

On September 1st, he dressed for the day in a simple robe set of cloud grey cotton and tweed. With his polished loafers and a pale green button-up tucked into his slacks, Henry felt smartly dressed in the first pair of clothes he’d ever bought himself. As ready as he was going to be, he forged breakfast in light of his nerves and met with Professor Slughorn at the castle's gates. The decision for him to ride the Hogwarts Express along with the rest of the school was made for him, as Dumbledore said it would “-help in adjusting to his new life amongst his fellow students.”

So bright and early, he was apparated by Slughorn from the path towards Hogsmeade Village to the wizarding side of King’s Cross Station. After all, even muggles would notice hundreds of people running through walls. And wasn’t that an experience, learning that there was a side of King’s Cross where wixen could apparate and floo into at any time. Where the Weasley family could have entered the station from, instead of parading themselves through the muggle entrance.

He remembered them being six shining orange beacons of odd, pushing overstuffed trunks and even carrying an owl. The more Henry thought on it as he weaved through the amassed families, the more he felt beguiled by their actions. Why would the wife of a Ministry employee, bound to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, stick out so and loudly complain about the station being “-packed with Muggles?”

It further made no sense why a woman who has already seen five children off to Hogwarts would ask “What's the platform number?" As if it was her first time taking the muggle route.

“And if so,” Henry internally questioned, his thoughts turning melancholy, “Why? Why choose that year, of all years, to start?” Though, in his weathered heart, he could hazard a guess. Even though his thoughts were in knots, without luggage, Henry was able to quickly make his way through the throngs of eager first years, tearful mothers, and proud fathers.

Having had months to grow used to his new body, it took him a while to realize just why people were staring at him this time around. His hair was neatly combed to flow along his back, his clothes were of high quality in hand-paired material, his robe was bespoke and finished with precious metal clasps - but his face clashed terribly with it all. There were caregiving women pulling their small children from his path and conniving men blinking at his curse damaged face in prospect.

With his head held without shame, Henry took polite and measured steps towards the Hogwarts Express - gleaming red metal dazzling in the early sunlight. Upon boarding the train he had only one goal in mind—to find Severus. Though after the usual Slytherin compartments from his time turned up short, Henry could only frustratedly think, “Where is he?”

“Find him,” prickled a voice through his mind, as Death continually found mirth in challenging his Master’s magic prowess. And too annoyed to think about ramifications, assuming this was just another of Death's teaching moments, Henry responded with a terse “How?”

“Reach for him,” Death said as it laughed at his frustration.

He was learning to listen to Death better, wield its power, wherever it may be. So as he doubled back to search the front of the train, Henry allowed his eyelids to lower and his mind to drift until he found himself standing in front of a warded-to-be-unnoticeable compartment door. He was quite impressed with the spell-work as he ceremonially knocked twice before simply reaching with his magic to open the door.

When the rickety partition slid aside, Henry was met with the sight of a well-looking Severus Snape.

Chapter Text

September 1, 1974

Unlike in Diagon Alley, Severus was dressed in average, though clearly new, robes. They camouflaged his underfed body and meliorated his gangly height. The bruising Henry had noticed before was either healed or hidden. And though it all gave him an overall healthier look, Severus still hid behind a veil of rather greasy hair. The boy was reading a book with his back angled toward the window when he was interrupted.

Severus would have looked, to the casual observer, relaxed—if not for the wand tip Henry could see peeking out of the sleeve of his robes, casually placed across his lap. And even though Henry was no casual observer of this would-be man, he refused to make the same mistake of assumption that he once had. So, with his mind already made up on what he would do with the new life he was given, he simply put on his best “Gryffindork” smile and said, “Oh, hello, you’re the Slytherin from the robe shop! May I sit with you?”

Henry could practically see the thoughts warring about Severus’ head, so he stood there without any sign of agitation and waited. Severus’ eyes made only a passing glance at Henry’s scared face before quickly mapping out the rest of his body. Whatever he saw, it seemed that he came to a decision, and he gave an aloof “If you must,” before returning to his book.

Henry took the simple and flat response in stride as he made his way onto the bench across from Severus. He settled in and

paid no mind to the other’s still carefully hidden wand. He knew that Severus, even at this age, was no slouch—had he wanted Henry gone, he wouldn’t be sitting here. With that thought, Henry peacefully settled into their journey ahead.

“I don’t think I caught your name before. I’m Henry, Henry Peverell, and you?” Henry figured he might as well get names established as soon as possible, lest he mess up and use the boy’s name without it being given. He also took a gamble that the half-blood boy would not recognize the family name.

“Severus Snape,” the other boy said warily.

“May I call you Severus? Of course, you can call me Henry!”

Henry watched Severus size him up, so he looked too. The Snape he knew was hideous and awful, compacted here into this tiny fragile-looking thing, and alive. Harry could cry. He could steal the boy away from his awful future. He could strangle him, but he knows—in the same way he knew what sound to coo at the watery dead, and how to gently hold a fractured soul, and where on this train this boy sat—that if Severus' heart stopped beating, his would stop with it.

“If you must,” the wisp of a young man said.

The first leg of their ride was peaceful. The thumping of wheels over train tracks was softly accented, every so often, by the turning of a page. Severus sat across from him, content in their silence, nose buried in “A Terrifying Potions Mistake” by Ern Montez de Oaxaca. Henry sat with half his mind set on watching the hills and trees zip by. The other half of his attention went to simply playing with his magic. It was an imperceptible thing, but he felt it flutter through the air, watched the shadows of it coil against the dewy window, and let it gently rise and fall with his every breath.

Because his magic was sitting just above his skin, he felt the approach of four magical signatures just moments before the door to their compartment opened. Harry was met with a face he saw in nearly every dream. Although, the longer he looked, Henry found it was slightly off. The hair was almost right, but in his dreams, it never was that short. The eyes were almost the same, but before the grey never held so much blue. This was almost Sirius, his Sirius, but this boy was standing in the doorway trimmed in emerald and silver.

“Oh, what a surprise. It seems our Severus has gone and made a new friend," said a voice so vaguely familiar that he knew it could only belong to the second heir of the Black family. "And he’s someone I’ve never seen before. How interesting."

With a high nose and even higher cheekbones, the beautiful little boy led the others in, taking the seat immediately beside Severus. He was followed by a trim boy with gently curled brown hair and crystal blue eyes, who sat in the last seat on their side. Next came a rather lanky fellow with wild blond hair gathered at his nape. His hazel, quickly shifting, eyes and a visible lack of patience made an impression as he took the seat closest to the door on Henry’s bench.

This left only one seat for their last companion. A stocky fellow with dark features rambled in and, with purpose, perched halfway onto Henry as he took a seat. There was a moment where it seemed they were all amusingly waiting to see his reaction before someone spoke.

"Well, I suppose introductions are in order. I am Regulus Arcturus Black, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. This is my cousin Evan Rosier and friends - Rupert Wilkes, Aloysius Mulciber, and it seems you’re already acquainted with Severus," said his godfather's little brother with a flourish to each of the boys. "Now, who might you be?"

Henry contemplated just how he should introduce himself. He knew who each of these boys would go on to become. He thought to himself, "Rosier was the reason for Moody’s disfigured face and Wilkes solely hunted down Aurors, but both died long before ever being a problem for ‘Harry Potter.’”

It was hard to swallow that he knew these children would all become Death Eaters. "And Mulciber was there at the Department of Mysteries," Henry could not help but think with clenched fists hidden in the many folds of his robes. "But Regulus had only been a memory.” Henry gathered himself before he spoke, for he decided a while ago that he was sent back for a reason. If this was the first trial he faced, he would do it as he had always done—forge on.

"Since we’ll all be in Slytherin together, you can call me Henry," he said with a slight nod. "I'm transferring into 5th year, so we should all try to get along."

He left it at that, knowing from one of his new books, “A Pleasant Life in Guidance” by Stacie Eloise Yaxley, that the diligent training on “etiquette” that all these heirs underwent would not allow them to ask his name twice. It would be badgering, a faux pas. They simply had to carry on with the conversation.

So, with that, they all gave him leave of their first names, and Henry followed their forced small talk throughout the remainder of their ride to Hogwarts. They talked of their summer festivities - of ministry socials, “so-and-so’s” coming out balls, and exactly who of the 28 notable families of the British-isles were currently relevant.

He would not call it pleasant, but it was calm. And it had the added benefit of getting him addressed on the current “pureblood” gossip. Later, as the sun set and open plains turned into more rugged terrain, he could not help but wonder if this is what initially going into the house of snakes would have been like.

The calmness that had settled around their compartment was not broken by neither the quiet shuffling of changing into their robes nor the stroll to the thestral-drawn carriages. It happened as Henry stopped to take them in. Try as he might, he was not able to find the herd during his wandering throughout the summer. Here, he was able to give the creature a respectable bow. And when it was returned he approached.

The creature was just as breathtaking as he remembered - a great mystical beast. Its horse-like skeletal body, black as shadow, was barely discernible in the low light of the hanging lanterns. Out from the dark pointed a face with reptilian features and wide leathery wings that resembled a bat's. Intermixed with the quiet of scampering feet, Henry thought he could almost hear it calling to him, but the moment was broken by the voice of Sirius Orion Black.

"Who’d you have to fuck to get the new robes, Snivellus?"

A ruckus of laughter followed Sirius’ yell as people turned to take in Severus. He was slightly elevated on the raised wrought-iron step and frozen in place by shame, as he had just begun to hoist himself into the carriage beside Henry. The robes he wore were basic Slytherin house robes but of good material, clean, well-tailored, and void of patches. The same could not be said for the robes Henry had seen the boy and his mother wearing back at Diagon Alley. So if that was all they had to wear when traversing the magical world, which Henry knew Snape rarely did during his youth, he could not help but wonder at the state of his old school robes.

Coming back to the moment, Severus all but threw himself into the carriage. Regulus, Rosier, and Wilkes had already made their way inside. With a harsh sneer at Sirius two carriages down, Mulciber quickly followed his roommate inside to escape the laughing masses. Therefore, no one noticed as Henry, fed up with the whole of it, sent off a wandless tripping jinx to his would-be godfather before joining his companions.

Unlike their earlier time together, the bumpy ride up to the castle was bathed in a stifling silence. No one so much as exhaled a heavy breath, too busy pointedly filling the space with looking at everything that wasn’t Severus. And once again, it seemed Regulus took it upon himself to break the quiet. As the carriage pulled to a stop and he made ready to exit, he spoke to Severus softly over his shoulder. "Your new robes suit you well. Wear them with pride."

With that, he was gone into the night. None of the other boys, even Severus, paid his comment outward notice as they took their leave. So with a hidden smile, Henry followed after them. They made their way into the ancient castle he called his first home. And since Henry didn’t know anyone else, he continued to endure their presence once inside as he sat beside them at the Slytherin table.

It was surreal being back in the Great Hall. There were the four long house tables, laden with glittering golden plates and goblets. There were the fluttering banners, proudly showcasing each of the four crests. At the top of the hall, raised upon a two-foot platform, was another two long tables where the teachers were sitting. It was all back - as if Henry’s last memory of the place was simply a nightmare.

Henry had taken all his meals in either the kitchens or the Slytherin common room over the summer, always finding an excuse to avoid this place. Now, he wasn’t sure of that decision. Perhaps, if he had tested this place out before now, his reaction would be different. Because right now, his vision of tables full of restless and joyful cloaked bodies was overlapping with his memories of bloodied figures haphazardly laid out about this same floor.

The chattering filling the hall was beginning to sound like the stifled wails of mourning to his ears.

To no one’s notice, Henry sat there lost as the start-of-term banquet began as it always did. The light of thousands and thousands of candles hid the fear-induced blanch of his face. The sound of his hastened shallow breaths was drowned out by the creaking of the giant heavy doors to the Great Hall opening. All eyes were on the single-file line of little bodies hesitantly making their entrance - so no one took notice of his growing panic.

The deputy Headmistress, Professor Minerva McGonagall, led the first years deeper into the hall. They came to a halt facing a platform of professors and the small wooden stool in front of them. The hundreds of faces staring out at the seated students looked like pale lanterns in Henry’s watery eyes. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Though it seems they all were instinctively avoiding Henry’s area as the boy battled with his emotions.

Mainly to avoid all the happy faces, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling gleaming with stars. He heard, if only in his heart, Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.” It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open to the heavens. “If it did,” Henry thought as with measured breaths he began to calm, “I wonder if heaven is not a place but a time.”

When Henry finally came to exit his thoughts, the Sorting Hat had finished its song. Around him, there was a running commentary going on about the notoriety of the names being called out. Gossip was being spread about the well-circulated names, and sneers were thrown at the unknown. It was petty, it was elitist, but it was something at least vaguely familiar that Henry could direct his weary attention to. Soon enough, Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away. Albus Dumbledore then made his way to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Omer! Cattlemint! Muppet! Keek!” There followed a brief “Thank you!” as the headmaster returned to his seat. Everybody at the other tables clapped and cheered, but the Slytherins' response was limited to a polite handful of reserved claps. Henry didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“I’m convinced that Dumbledore was cursed with madness,” said an older girl down the table tersely.

“Mad?” said a boy across from her sarcastically. “He’s a genius! The best wizard in the world!”

It went on like that as dishes appeared, piled high with an assortment of food. The sight always brought a kind of joy to him that he didn’t think was understandable to anyone who hasn’t felt their body begin to digest itself - who hasn’t bitten at the skin around their nails just to have something in their stomach. It was just a novel thing, having enough food, unless you’ve starved.

In front of him, there was the usual he had become accustomed to on the table - roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon. As well as steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

Though there were dishes that were wholly unfamiliar as well. As more and more of the students from older wixen families chose these weird dishes, Henry assumed they were more traditional wizarding dishes. Things he’d never been invited to partake in before. It seemed everywhere he turned, there was more to learn about the wizarding world.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates leaving them sparkling as clean as before. A moment later, the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs, and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, and rice pudding. As Henry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk around him turned to current wizarding world events.

“There seems to be some interesting new faces this go-around,” said a nasally voice not too far from Henry’s right, “including you, sitting here already sorted.” When Henry turned to look, he was met with the face of a girl that reminded him dearly of one of Marjorie Dursley's twelve bulldogs.

“I am Maladicta Trimble, descendant of the wonderful former Headmaster Quentin Trimble, and you are?” Those sitting around them kept their eyes trained politely still on their desserts, but it was as

if a hush had befallen the Slytherins. Everyone was eager to judge who the stranger sitting among them was. But it seemed Trimble had already come to a conclusion if the amusement in her eyes was anything to go by.

“She probably thinks, at best, I’m a half-blood she could bully for being ‘born to besmirch a good family’s lineage,’” he mused. It was alright though, for Henry had already decided over the summer how to play this. He knew he needed to establish his personhood here and that he could not get away with the same evasiveness he did on the train. So, with his best imitation of one Draco Lucius Malfoy, Henry steeled his back and looked down his nose.

“If you must know, I’m a fifth-year transfer student. So I was sorted over the summer.” Henry spoke as he took his time slicing his treacle tart, “My name is Henry Peverell, of the Ancient and Honored House of Peverell. Well met.” Though, by the look on his face, everyone could tell he felt anything but.

Murmurs broke out like wildfire across his table - heirs from the old families trying to recall their knowledge of his family name, students from new blood trying to understand why any of it was relevant. There were deeper looks being taken by those who had already written him off. Then, at last, the desserts too disappeared. Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again, and the hall blessedly fell silent.

“Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you,” the man said adjusting his half-moon glasses. “First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the students under the lion banner.

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. And finally, Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.” He finished his speech with a clap and a long golden ribbon flew into the air, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”

And the school bellowed an awful noise he had endured many times before. Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only three Hufflepuffs were left singing along to the tune of “Imperial Echoes.” Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand, and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

The Slytherin first years were herded by the prefects as the rest of the house followed slowly behind. The crowd of green walked and chatted through the halls as they made their way into the castle's depths. They passed curious portraits, who whispered and pointed, and cobweb-filled classrooms on their way through the dungeons. They were led into doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries until they came to a bare stretch of stone wall.

“You want to watch out for the divot on the floor shaped like a clove. It marks our entrance,” said the tall male prefect, as they gathered around. “Then you simply have to speak the password for it to open.”

“Iterum Resurgemus,” said the older girl at his side, and the stone fell away to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all gracefully walked through it and found themselves in the Slytherin common room - an opulent room sporting several shades of green. On either side of the entrance and across from it, on either side of the stairs, lined dark oak desks housing six sturdy chairs each.

A giant fireplace took up the majority of the leftmost wall, its mantle adorned with a large portrait of a striking serpent. In the center of the room was a conversation-pit style divot in the floor surrounded all around by several lush loungers and couches. It was undoubtedly dramatic, yet oddly soothing as it was illuminated by the glow of its floor-to-ceiling windows making up the room's right wall and showcasing the bottom of the lake.

The prefects directed the first years to await Professor Slughorn to come and give his first-night address, while the other years filtered out. Further into the common room was a grand marble staircase that fanned out from an elevated marble platform - whose walls were decorated with spell-protected relics and awards donated by previous Slytherin alum.

Henry followed the flow of students up the stairs and at the top the genders parted ways. He walked along the left turnoff, admiring a collection of jewel-encrusted ridgeback eggs, before stopping at the fifth door on the right-hand side of the hall. It was now familiar, the walk to his room of the past months. But what surprised him was crossing its door to learn he would now be living with Leodonis Avery II and Bertram Aubrey.

The trunks of his housemates had already been brought up by the house-elves, so Henry walked in on them changing. This evening the two were satisfied with quick but formal greetings as they prepared for bed. And after a long day, Henry was happy to be met with the sight of deep green velvet curtains draped over a four-poster bed and hanging down beside the golden silk sheets he picked out just because he could.

Chapter Text

September 2 - November 1, 1974

“There, look.”

“Where?”

“Coming down the stairs with long hair.”

“The one with it tied back?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Did you see his scar?”

Henry was grateful for getting at least one last night of rest at the start of term as whispers followed him from the moment he left his room the next morning. The Slytherins lingered in the common room to get a look at him or doubled back to pass him on their way to wash, staring. By lunch, word had spread among the old families of the other houses.

And by dinner, there was a betting pool hushed-ly making the rounds on how long it would take the Wizengamot to bring him up on charges of line-theft. It felt like the bastardized version of being “The Boy Who Lived,” although he was lucky enough to forgo a moniker this time. But that first day had nothing on the amount of whispers he heard later in the week as children started to receive letters back from their parents.

“My father said all the Peverells are dead.”

“He could be a half-blood, from a squib perhaps?”

“Maybe he’s trying to steal more than the name—you heard the story.”

“That children’s rhyme?”

“I heard he got that scar during one of those raids.”

They were either sizing him up to be “a real Peverell” or trying to ogle his cursed scar in reverence for the dark magic and its caster that they assumed caused it. A part of Henry found it all hilarious. As no matter the times, it seemed the children of Hogwarts were ever unchanging.

Then there were the classes. While all summer he had been eagerly taking in all the nuances of learning magic that he missed his first time around, it did not escape his notice that in almost 20 years the classes were the exact same. Down to the text used and topics taught. There was a lot more to magic than waving your wand and saying a few funny words, but it seemed to be the sole focus of the Hogwarts curriculum then and now.

When he spent the waning summer nights in Death’s tutelage, he rarely used his wand. The eternal being wanted him to understand how to read the intent of the magic around him. How to either let it flow through his core and dissipate, or to manipulate its natural flow for his own purposes. He had heard a handful of professors state that magic was about the caster’s intention, but none sought to explain what that meant as basely as Death did.

No one before had walked him through what it felt like to simply sit in something as ancient and brimming with magic as the castle itself and feel the natural rhythm of its innate magic. Albeit, it was only as he studied alone for the first time in his life and intimately engaged in talks with a being far older than the current world that he began to grasp how far-reaching magic was.

“Perhaps,” he thought while observing the masses of children climbing the moving stairs on his way to class, “everyone has simply forgotten how.” Henry had a shallow hope that maybe one day the magical people of the world would relearn how to engage with this side of magic he saw them missing - the ability to intrinsically feel magic. And on that day, the world would be able to see it and respect it for the vibrant living thing it truly is.

Sitting through classes felt so different now. His wanting to know more even made the classes he only heard about secondhand, through Hermione’s droning lectures, more interesting. Trying to fill in the gaps in his education, Henry decided to take Arithmancy, the magical discipline that studied the magical properties of numbers. He was intrigued, even with the chronically under-expressive Professor Séptima Vector - who was newly settling into her position and dryer than the air on the drafty 7th floor.

Or when his class studied the night skies through their crystalline telescope Tuesday at midnight. When he listened to Professor Eliot Whitlock, a dark-skinned man from the continent with only one working eye, stringing together mystifying tales from the flickering lights that adorned the inky sky. The man spoke as if reciting old poetry as he gave the names of different stars. It was as if he were narrating a ballet when he called out the movements of the planets. Beyond his wonder, Henry took from the man’s first lecture that these were afterimages - that some of these stars had already died, and their visage was as out of time here as he was.

It was comforting.

Three times a week, another of his classes went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology with a dumpy and oddly young Professor Sprout. There they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi housed within those glass walls. From what potions they were used for to the odd comment on what they meant in “gift-giving-language,” Henry took it all in. It was only here, with his fingers buried in the earth, that Henry allowed himself to continue to mourn and found that Neville was right.

Talking to your plants does indeed help them grow.

Easily the most boring of his classes was still History of Magic. So armed with newfound respect for knowledge, Henry released the ghost from his teaching post a week into term. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room hearth and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind. He was even older still when Henry drifted into his room in the dead of night and guided Binns through a veil he called forth, so that the man may finally know rest.

To his dismay, the ghost was immediately replaced by an enthusiastic Professor Dumbledore until a proper substitute could be found.

For all his first weeks of term, not all of his time in 1974 was new. Professor Flitwick was still the half-goblin who taught Charms—a tiny wizard who needed to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class, while explaining the charms they’d learn this year, he got too worked up, letting out an excited squeak before toppling out of sight for a moment.

There was also Professor McGonagall, younger but still as stern and astute in her teaching as ever. Henry had been quite right in his first year to think she wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, he spent the beginning of his first class with her locked in the memory of how she gave them all a show on the battlefield. Brought out of his thoughts by the starting of class, he sat amongst the Slytherins and listened to a similar talking-to from the moment he sat down in her first-year class.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been given your only warning.”

Then she flawlessly changed her writing desk into a raven and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be changing furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a feather and started trying to turn it into a stalk of wheat. By the end of the lesson, only a Ravenclaw girl had made any difference to her feather. Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all golden and thin before dismissing them.

It further went without saying that the class everyone had really been looking forward to, as always, was Defense Against the Dark Arts. This time the class was taught by a foreign defense scholar, Professor Arabeth Nguyen. Her lessons turned out to be a lot of theory, though she promised there would be interactive classes later when she could trust them “not to hex each other silly.” Her classroom smelled strongly of star anise, and she always offered them fresh fruit before each lesson.

Getting through the first weeks, Henry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t miles behind everyone else, but he could not help but feel that the classes were differently paced than in his time—and not just because he was preparing for O.W.L’s again. Henry also noticed that some students seemed to struggle more than even he had his first year. It was easier to see now, since there were fewer people that had come from muggle families and hadn’t had any idea that they were wixen. But there was a disparity in the preparedness of the muggle-raised students.

And thus, a disparity in the ability of some students to keep up with the pace of learning here. Come the end of the first handful of weeks, classes saw Henry with a mental mountain of unasked questions. At the top were, “Why wasn’t there something to transition students into the magical world?” And, “Why hadn’t Dumbledore changed the way classes were taught, at some point, to make it easier for students from the muggle world?” Pondering just what he wanted to do with this life he had been given, he returned to the common room that evening feeling restless and determined.

Truth be told, a lot of his evenings were spent like that. The Slytherin common room was grand, beautiful, and so very quiet. The small murmurs of conversation could be heard from the various groupings of students. Some sat by the fire and traded notes or secrets. And some, as he stumbled upon his second night with embarrassment high on his cheeks, sat in the shadowed alcoves of the small library under the staircase and traded skin.

So it was surprising when a Friday night four weeks into term, while finishing homework and plotting, things changed. He was at a low table near the giant windows, sitting with a surprisingly tolerable Avery and Aubrey when he began to notice a pattern. It seemed that the fourth years' schedule started a bit later in the day, so come evening, they seemed to be the last ones to the dorm. On many of these nights, Severus came back to the common room feeling what Henry’s magic could only interpret as “off.”

Each night when he came through the wall, it left Henry with a sense of foreboding. His uniform was not out of place; he was not out of breath. But by the magic that swirled around the boy, Henry could simply tell that he had been running. “But from what?” Henry thought. It took another three weeks to adjust to classes and figure out the other boy's schedule, but as always, he was determined to figure out just what was going on. He thought Ron would be proud.

Before, when classes were done, he only saw Severus in the common room and sparingly in the baths. The Slytherin dorm had two very grand bathrooms, one at each end of the dorm hallways. He honestly thought they rivaled the prefects' bath. While he didn’t know about the amenities for the girls, the boys' bath was a large room with sleek black tiles and polished gold fixtures.

There were six showers on the northernmost wall and six to the south. They were made up of the same black tile, with grey curtains that moved like smoke. To the east and west, each, sat four black standing tubs with shining claw feet. In the center stood a circle of 8 white alabaster sinks and grey marble counters, set up like in what he still called “Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

No matter if Henry was the first to arrive or the last, he had only caught sight of the other boy washing twice. Which is not to say that they did not see each other at all. At dinner and passing in the hall, Henry was able to frequently send the shy boy a wave or a slight smile—that was even hesitantly returned once. He also learned a lot about the other boy during this time. Like how Severus didn’t like olives, excelled in nearly all his classes by diligently studying into the night, and was near relentlessly hassled by the Marauders.

But observed knowledge of the other was not enough to strike up an acquaintance. So he bided his time, with kind “Hello”’s and gentle looks, and gathered information as he watched Severus from afar. Come the eighth week of term, armed with the knowledge that Severus often spent what was Henry’s morning open period in the library, Henry changed up his routine. It was easy to go to the library after breakfast instead of back to the dorm for a bit more sleep.

There he always found Severus, either studying alone or more often accompanied by one of the boys Henry met on the train. Henry made his move on one of the off days he found the boy alone. It was a rainy Friday, the kind of day you would rather be under a blanket than anywhere else, when he approached the library table under the back window. It was scattered with notes and open books as Severus sat revising a Charms essay.

“Hey, Severus right? May I join you?”

He was already settling his things in one of the open chairs across the table before the other boy responded by giving a tired, “If you must.”

Henry could not help the little laugh that escaped his lips, thinking this was beginning to be their thing. As he had already finished his homework, he pulled out the current book that he had been thumbing through in his downtime - “A Young Wizard's Guide to Commanding his Seats on the Wizengamot Floor” by Charleston Ashbe-Greengrass. He had already decided to take the approach of offering his gentle presence, knowing damn well that Severus was too ornery to take on an outright friend.

They sat and worked in relative silence that Henry only broke toward the end of the hour to offer to walk Severus to his next class. To his surprise, the other boy cautiously accepted, and they made their way to the dungeons for Severus’ potions class. They had made it through most of their journey without issue, keeping up an idle chat, but as they turned the last corner before the long hallway that led to the dungeon classrooms, Henry felt the magic around them sharply shift.

Before even thinking about his actions, Henry had his wand sliding out from the cherry leather holster on his forearm and a shield charm at their backs. As he turned around, he heard the dull thud of a reflected spell reverberating through the air and was met with the sight of Sirius Orion Black III facing down his own tripping jinx. The other boy was not expecting the spell to be reflected back, or even noticed at all, so he was hit squarely in the chest and knocked flat off his feet.

James Fleamont Potter was a slim and tall fellow with chopped, wildly laying, brown hair. His face, that wasn’t taken up by the thick frames of his glasses, was twisted up nastily as he helped his friend off the floor. Peter Pettigrew, whom Henry tried not to look at long, was laughing awkwardly at the scene before him, while Remus John Lupin, as gauntly and haggard as ever, was doing his damnedest to blend into the wall beside them. The little werewolf’s only outward reaction was an annoyingly muttered, “Really Pads?”

Sirius paid him no mind as he snatched his arm away from his friend and stood to just below James’ height. The Black heir then leveled his wand at them again. His long, silken, black curls had come loose from the tie at his nape upon his fall. And with Sirius’ intense hazel eyes and strong features still femininely softened by childhood, Henry had to mentally shake himself from thinking he was staring at the boy's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange née Black.

“What the bloody hell was that about, Snivellus?” Sirius growled out like a raving dog.

“You-,” Severus went to address the other but Henry stepped in front of him.

“You don’t send spells to someone’s back and expect to not be received in kind!” Henry said, firmly keeping the attention on himself. Henry had seen interactions between these five before. The short-lived series of private lessons, during which Severus Snape attempted to teach Harry Potter the skill of Occlumency, after Christmas in the 1995–1996 school year, had already clued him in to just how antagonistic the Marauders were and how caustic the interactions between them could be.

But living it was something wholly different. Somehow, even knowing what they were capable of, Henry held out hope. He thought that in time, he could become their friend. That despite being a Slytherin, they would be able to see in him all the reasons they cherished each other in his original time. But Henry has lived among them for weeks now.

In his short weeks trailing Severus, he has seen the ways in which Sirius both shuns and harasses his brother for simply not wishing to be ostracized from their family. He witnessed just how unruly James was, raised by older parents who were more happy to have their “rainbow baby” than to discipline him as needed. He even observed how time and time again Remus and Pettigrew at most laughed alongside their friends and at worst ignored their more dastardly behavior.

The longer he spent watching how they interacted with not just Severus but all the students they felt deserving of their malice, the more Henry found himself disgusted by what he saw. So while he would have loved to get to know them, to create real memories with them all together for once in his life, he was faced with the truth about who these boys actually were.

This was not his father; this was a well-off child that egged on the bullying. That ridiculed Severus for being poor and starved-looking. This was not his godfather. This was a boy raised to be a noble heir, that sneered at Severus for being born “less than” in all the ways that he raised being told he was not. That shot off curses upon first sight and jinxed him unexpectedly.

This was not Remus, his kind and softhearted professor. This was a boy comfortable in silence, least attention be paid to him. Remus and Pettigrew stood by, held their tongues and willfully did not see Severus as someone deserving enough to intervene. These four were bullies, who laughed at the misfortune of those they deemed deserving of it, and Henry had enough. His wand arm did not waver as he shielded Severus, who had his own wand raised, and stared them down, even against those he loved.

“And what’s it to you? Who the hell are you to stand in my way?” Black seethed.

“I’m Severus’ friend, but you don’t go throwing curses at people's backs-“ Henry had to stop talking to counter the spell coming his way.

“Snivellus doesn’t have any friends, the stench of him scares them all away!” Sirius was irate and paid no mind to the growing number of onlookers who stopped on their way to their own classes. He was so distracted that he was unable to dodge the spell that came whizzing over Henry’s shoulder. The lip locker jinx caught him on the jaw, but he was still able to send a wordless cutting hex their way. It then began to get out of control as a four-way duel broke out.

Seeing as Severus had joined in, James began his own casting at the two of them. Though in the end, this was two boys of slightly above-average spell casting against a young man who was on an active battlefield mere months ago. Henry sent a wordless petrificus totalus and shield to Severus, then stepped further in front of his immobile figure. It was child's play for him to counter James’ Bat-Bogey Hex and Sirius’ Jelly-Brain Jinx.

The partial shield he erected on himself absorbed the spells as Henry barrel rolled to the side. The fight was over in the swish of his wrist, as he had not only the two he was fighting but all the Marauders tied up with a single incarcerous spell. He released Severus from the spell holding him and simply watched the four boys struggle on the ground. He was contemplating the merit of taking their wands when Professor Slughorn arrived.

“My word, what is the meaning of this?” His enormous stomach nearly knocked over a first-year Hufflepuff as he skidded to a stop just behind the four bodies still wiggling uselessly on the floor. “Who has done this?”

Not giving a chance to anyone to make this more than it was, Henry stepped forward. “I did, Professor-“

“They deserved it though! Black went for their backs!” Henry’s explanation was interrupted by Bertram Aubrey, who happened upon them on his way to Divination. Henry was surprised to see his usually mild-mannered roommate openly chastising the Gryffindor lot.

“We’ll be that as it may, Mr. Aubrey, there is to be no magic in the halls and certainly no dueling!” Slughorn addressed them without looking, as his concentration went toward using finite incantatem to end the spells holding the four students. “I will unfortunately have to take 5 points from everyone involved - Mr. Peverell, Mr. Black, Mr. Potter, Mr. Pettigrew, and Mr. Lupin. Anyone else? No?”

He anxiously looked around the crowded hall before shooing everyone away. “Then off with you then, I will not be writing any passes!”

Henry cast one last look at his would-be father and the boy’s friends before quietly grabbing Severus' wrist to lead him down the rest of the hall. When they stopped before the threshold of the potions classroom, Henry leveled Severus with a stern stare.

“I will meet you here to walk you to your next class.”

“That is completely unnecessary. Those goons-“

“I will be standing right here regardless of what those four do because you’re my friend and I’m worried,” Henry said, quickly cutting off the others rant. “Besides, I would very much like to finish our conversation on—what was it? Thyme roots?”

“Thistle root, you ignorant cad.” The false heat in Severus’ voice did not hide the small smile playing at his lips.

“So you’ll wait here for me?” Henry asked while awkwardly letting go of the other's wrist, as Severus had begun to squirm in his continued hold.

“If I must,” said Severus dryly.

Henry found himself laughing the entire walk to his next class.

Chapter Text

November 1, 1974

Henry was present at the start and end of the rest of Severus’ classes for the day. He even made a point to traverse from his pillow-top bed, where he had been engrossed in Patricia Mae Keemble-Longbottom’s “Gracious Guide to Magical Holidays,” to the hallway housing the ladder leading up into the Divination classroom in the North Tower. He stood further down the hall but in clear view of the ladder's base.

Draped lazily over the ledge of a waist-high window, he looked out into a cloudless night. Bored, he decided to pass the time by practicing calling forth shadows the way Death taught him. He pulled them from under the windowsill, beneath the nearby torch holders, and from around the portrait frames.

He allowed the shadows to pool at his feet, roll over his shiny pointed shoes, and climb the weathered wall a bit before falling back into themselves. To Henry, the shadows felt like both the airiest silk and the thickest ice—free-flowing and frigid, carrying with them the barest touch of death, for life leaves behind only shadows. No warmth, no light.

They clotted his senses and teased his magic. Henry enjoyed the feel of them gathering around him, akin to swimming in a frozen-over lake, he imagined. The touch of them was a shock to his core that made his heart race and his thoughts slow. Deep down, he knew this was the feeling of what others would call “dark magic” rushing over him. However, he was quickly losing interest in the way those around him interpreted magic.

Henry closed his eyes as his mind wandered between the present and the thumping of a boat against the bank of a shallow lake inside a cave. He could almost smell salt and hear rushing waves. A light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair from the open window. The seawater at the cave’s entrance had been just as icy. He remembered standing in Voldemort’s cave, Tom Riddle’s childhood oasis, alongside Dumbledore. Shivering, unable to tell if it was due to his spine-deep coldness or the same awareness the other man had of the cave’s enchantments. Now he knew.

"Magic always leaves traces," Dumbledore had said as the boat he called forth from the lake’s depths hit the bank with a gentle bump, "sometimes very distinctive traces.” Despite his feelings towards Dumbledore, Henry acknowledged a begrudging respect. The man knew his stuff.

Once Henry learned how to pick up on some of these traces, he was better able to call upon them and call upon Death. Death, which had patiently walked alongside Henry throughout the summer. The being was a welcome distraction, teaching in the same way that weather changes and the day ends, and Henry had learned.

He had taken to this arcane magic like nothing else before. In his grief, in his loneliness, Henry had found comfort in the all-encompassing nature of it. Little by little, he let go of loss, learned how to live, and now knew how to die; learned how to die and now knew how to live. In these quiet moments, he found himself simply enjoying the opportunity to sit with Death, to tuck into the shadows.

The trap door that closed off the class swung open, creaking wood reverberating through the air, and Henry opened his eyes with a lazy crawl. From his vantage point, he watched as the students descended. It seemed to be a joint Gryffindor and Slytherin class, so he was not wholly surprised to catch sight of Sirius and James among the exiting students.

He knew from various tales of his parents' friends that they were lackadaisical students in their time, and Divination was seen as an easy pass. The two made their way out of the class, jovially shoving each other as they went down the ladder. As they approached, Henry watched them.

He watched the way James’ light-brown skin stretched around his wide smile, darker than Henry’s had ever been. He watched as the round spectacles that sat upon James’ nose bobbed with each of his laughter-strained breaths. He caught sight of the way Sirius’ hair, longer and healthier than in the few years Henry knew him, flew around his head as he danced out of James’ reach. They were loud and bright, and though it seized his heart, Henry could not help but think this moment was perfect—so happy, carefree, and alive.

They settled a ways from the base of the ladder and seemed to be lingering around. They were caught up in this moment, so common and mundane, just between the two of them. Henry stood quietly in his observations and looked on as neither Remus nor Pettigrew were among the existing robes as crimson changed to emerald.

Then, after several Slytherins had made their exit, a narrow leg lowered from the hole, exposing cheap loafers and a pale ankle. Severus descended from the ladder at a hurried pace without missing a step, already looking down in the direction of the Gryffindors when his head made an appearance—as if he knew they’d be waiting there.

In an instant, Henry understood what this was. Just as he knew that he would put an end to this right here and right now. Since he and Severus had escaped the Gryffindors' notice, as neither had looked away from the other during all their time standing in the hall, Henry decided to head this off. As Severus made his way back to solid ground, Henry called out to him.

“Sev, how was Divination?” His voice cut clear down the hall with nothing to buffer it, as only a handful of students were milling about before dinner. Severus, who had tucked his head and attempted to hurry past the distracted boys, snapped to look around at the sound of Henry’s voice.

“Peverell, I was not expecting your company at this hour,” said Severus as their eyes finally connected. His voice was tight, but Henry was not oblivious to the slight relaxing of the other boy’s shoulders. Severus continued a measured path to his side, but before Henry could lead them away, James stepped between them, boldly placing his back towards Severus.

“Peverell? So I did hear Slughorn right earlier,” the garish boy said as he threw a shrewd glance at his companion. “Are you going for a laugh?”

Somehow, he had still not grown used to looking up-close at the sight of a living James Fleamont Potter. He had spent so much of his limited time since the start of term trying to pin down Severus that he had unintentionally avoided the Marauders too.

Months ago, Henry was thrilled beyond measure at the mere thought of seeing the Marauders alive and together. He had always idolized his father and his true friends from the distance of time, thinking they were the epitome of perfection. But this unexpected journey turned his world upside down in more ways than one.

As the weeks passed, Henry observed the Marauders from a distance, noticing the flaws in their mischievous antics. His father, once envisioned as a hero, was revealed to be more than the amusing prankster he'd been portrayed as. His godfather, his first true family, cruelly surpassed the charming rebel of everyone's memory. His fearless mentor, a lifeless body in his dreams, appeared near unrecognizable in his cowardice.

Henry watched as the Marauders wreaked havoc without recourse, their pranks stirring laughter and chaos in equal measure. Yet, they were bullies, relying on each other to excuse and execute their troublesome plans. Earlier, when focused on protecting Severus, it was easier. Now, with no such distraction, Henry faced the reality of who his father truly was.

There was nothing to stop Henry from noticing the slight head-tilt of confusion, mirroring the one Hermione often called him out for. Nothing to distract him from seeing the once identical nose and jaw. Nothing to protect his treacherous mind from wondering if something inside James would ever recognize Henry as his.

“I’m Henry Peverell. Well met.” It was short, but it was the only response Henry could manage.

“I am Heir Black, and this is Heir Potter. Well met,” Sirius cut in with a voice as haughty as it was sarcastic.

“You actually expect us to believe you’re a Peverell? There are no ‘Peverells’ left; the line ended with the Potters.” The bark of laughter Sirius gave after James’ words curled Henry’s stomach with its familiarity. Oh, how he had spent days moping around Grimmauld Place, aching to hear it— if only once again.

“Maybe you actually should take him up for line theft, James.”

“Seriously, what’s this about then?” James asked Henry mockingly. “Are you some half-blood looking for importance, or are you some Muggle-born hoping no one would notice you if you pulled a wizard’s family-name from your ass?”

“He’s a Slytherin,” Sirius noted, “and a dumb one at that. They probably aren’t too kind to no-name filth, so I get trying to hide. But they’ll skin you alive when they put it together that you’re going around ruining a pure name, mate.” The two laughed together, and from above James’ shoulder, Henry could see that Severus had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation.

The boy was gripping his bag’s strap as if preparing to run, and his wand was out, poised to strike at a moment's notice. Henry did not share his friend's fear. In the formal manner of address he picked out of one of his books, Henry shallowly bent and placed his right hand flat on his chest while flattening his left against the side of his leg.

An old etiquette book, written by some random Bulstrode, stated that this position both showcased that a wizard’s hand was unarmed and displayed their family ring, should they have one. Releasing the glamour that he kept on the Peverell Lordship ring since sitting with Tallowfang, Henry responded, “While I greatly appreciate the concern for my health, it is unfounded, as the Slytherins already know that I am Henry Peverell, of the Ancient and Honored House of Peverell.”

While keeping his face as blank as practiced, Henry could not help but think, “The ferret couldn’t have done it better.” Candlelight danced across the engraving of the gold band on his little finger and caught in the natural glow of the sapphire. Still holding true to the act, he straightened, regaining a level eye with James as he said, “Again, well met.”

There were three sharp intakes of breath as his ring was revealed, but Henry used their stunned surprise to call an end to this. He reached past James and took hold of the wrist Severus had high, hand still tightly gripping at the fabric of his satchel and robes. He used his hold on the boy's slender wrist to guide Severus around the other boys and said, “Now if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure Sev would like to store his books before dinner. Good night.”

Without awaiting a response, Henry pulled the other a little ways along the hall.

James, unable to hide his agitation, yelled after them, “So, you're saying you're a real Peverell, then? Some lost heir?”

“Whether I'm a Peverell or not is not for you to decide. Names carry weight, but the person beneath the name defines its true significance,” Henry threw calmly over his shoulder, savoring the irony of the conversation.

“Enough of this nonsense. Let's go, Prongs,” Sirius said, pulling James away from the confrontation. As they walked in the opposite direction, their laughter echoed down the corridor, leaving Henry and Severus in an awkward silence.

Henry then let go of Severus’ wrist to guide him down the rest of the hallway with a gentle hand at the small of the his back. His magic pooled at the surface, prepared to cover their behind. And it did not escape his notice that Severus gave a slight shiver as Henry’s magic expanded around them.

Severus finally broke the quiet as the walked on, his voice a mixture of curiosity and caution, “You handled that better than expected.”

“I've had my fair share of confrontations,” Henry admitted, the weight of the memories settling in his eyes. “They might be your rivals, but I can't say they seem to be my biggest fans either.” Severus nodded, understanding the sentiment, and the two walked together toward the Slytherin dorms.

They passed several chatting students and animated portraits as they made their way back to their temporary home, but things between them stayed silent. Henry could tell that the dour boy was deep in thought and resolved to leave him to it. So it came as a great surprise when as they were passing a shadowed alcove, a bony hip met his, and a narrow shoulder shoved him along. Mind whirling, it took Henry a moment to gather that Severus had cast his self-invented muffling charm and then pressed his ebony wand against Henry’s throat.

“Where do you get off, Peverell?” Severus hissed-out while pressing down harder on his wand.

“You’ll have to be more clear in your questioning, Severus. I’ve been told I’m a little dumb,” Henry said with a laugh.

"Why are you lying about being Heir Peverell?"

“I’m not—“ Henry started, but Severus just plowed on.

“Why are you attempting to insert yourself in my life?”

“Well, I had hoped—“ Once again, he was cut short by the force of Severus’ tirade.

“Why are you continually following me around?” The boy’s sneer only increased as he said, “Yes, I know you’ve been hiding behind my back at every turn since before you began to impose yourself onto me in the library.”

“If you’d—“ Henry was beginning to get upset by his inability to finish a sentence, let alone explain himself.

“And now this! This baseless antagonizing of Potter and Black! Do you think you’re nobly intervening on my behalf? Do you think me so incapable of defending myself, as you trail behind me through the castle like some simpering mutt! I do not need a bleeding Hufflepuff-“

“Severus, you complete ass, I want to be your friend!” Henry reached out with his magic to gently hold the other's mouth close so that he could freely speak. The years of warring with an older Snape had armed him with an arsenal of insults and insinuations that the old Harry wouldn’t have hesitated to use, but now things were different.

“I am the Lord of House Peverell, as my entire family is gone, and I am the only person alive who met the requirements to claim the title. I am trying to make time to get to know you, so yes, I was looking for ways to spend more time together without disrupting your life. And I am keeping you company because earlier today, Black attempted to throw a jinx at your back, and I am not a ‘bleeding Hufflepuff’ simply because I am trying to care about you!” In a huff, Henry could not help but tack on, “And there’s nothing wrong with Hufflepuffs!”

“You do not know me!” Fighting off the mild silencing hex, Severus spat the words out as he stepped close enough, and Henry knew that the point where the boy’s wand met his throat would bruise.

“I know I don’t, but I’m trying to!” They were panting as Henry attempted to rein in his frayed temper. He thought of how to move this conversation forward and decided on a mix between his memories of before and the reality of now. “You’re brilliant and interesting, and I watched you come back to the dorms every night with your magic flying about you like a jinxed Quaffle. I just wanted to help. I wanted to try to be your friend; I wanted to get to know you.”

“Why? What need of you to know a half-blood poor? What reason could you possibly have to tolerate the dregs of House Slytherin?” Severus’ breath was coming even harsher now. “I refuse to be another one of your children’s charity cases!”

“You’re not—listen to me, Severus! I don’t give a damn about blood purity or the politics of men who soil themselves and vanish it just because it’s the ‘old way.’” Henry finally decided to try and ease the wand away from him but did not get farther than simply holding Severus’ wrist as the arm would not budge. “I thought you could use a friend, so I decided to be one. It’s as simple as that.”

“The only simple thing here is you, Peverell! You expect me to believe this drivel? You honestly think I will fall for this spectacle of you doing this out of the ‘kindness of your heart’?” Severus shoved off of his chest and began to pace the short length of the alcove. “I will not allow you to make a mockery of me! Everyone has an ulterior motive! I will not believe that you people go around-“ Severus cut himself off with a strangled sound, and Henry began to understand that this went beyond the other’s apparent distrust of him in particular.

“Severus, the truth is that I’m alone and you’re familiar. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved is—gone.” Henry’s voice broke partway through, but he pressed on. Just as with Dumbledore, he looked into the naturally born legilimens’ eyes and spoke an altered truth. “When I was 11, I learned that magic was real, and it was the ‘freakishness’ that my mother’s muggle family attempted to beat out of me. When I was 14, I saw exactly how the light leaves someone’s eyes when they’re hit with the killing curse, standing less than a foot away from you.”

The tears that gathered in Henry’s eyes at the thought of Cedric, of Ron and Hermione, of everyone he last saw covered in blood and sorrow, were real. He allowed the wall at his back to hold him steady, as this was something he needed to get out.

“And to make matters worse,” Henry said, “afterwards, the man I looked up to most in the world decided it was best for me to go back to the muggles ‘for my own safety’ and ensured that every connection I had to the magical world was cut off.” The sigh Henry heaved was full of all the things he never wished to examine too closely after fourth year. “And a lot of good that did because when it came down to it, he died, alongside everyone else, and left me to his mess.”

The sting of his eyes was due to more than his sorrow now. Rage has always come to Henry the quickest and lingered the longest. Shaking his head out of his own memories, Henry continued to tell the truth for the first time since he came here. “And I tried, I did, but Severus, I’ve lost them all. And even if I’m making my peace with going on without them, I’ll never see them again, and you remind me of-“ Henry had to cut himself off before he finished that with “the Severus I only met while watching him die.”

His mouth was beginning to dry, and Henry thought they must certainly be late for dinner by now. “You remind me of someone I lost before I ever got to truly know him. And only after I lost him did I even begin to think of what he meant in my life,” Henry said as he ran a hand through his free-flowing locks. “Look, I may not know you yet, but I know what it’s like to be left alone and ignored when all you need most in the world is someone to talk to.”

Severus had broken off eye contact and began to fiddle with the worn strap of his leather bag but had kept completely silent. The quiet stretched on, and Henry just observed him for a while, feeling the emotional exhaustion settle in. “If I didn’t make it clear, Severus, I don’t give a damn that you’re ‘half-blood.’ I grew up only allowed to wear my muggle cousin’s tattered cast-offs, and I’m not lying about being Heir Peverell because I am Lord Peverell.”

Henry shoved off the wall and began to make his way out of the alcove. Before he stepped past where he could feel the edge of Severus’ spell-work laying, he looked at the too-thin boy over his shoulder and spoke, “If at any point I’ve made you uncomfortable, Severus, I apologize. I honestly just wanted to be your friend.”

With that, he walked through the passageway’s opening. The soft noises of the castle came washing back as the spells Severus put up immediately broke at his touch, but all he could hear was the voice of a tired dungeon bat asking him to “look at me.”

Chapter Text

November 1 - November 15, 1974

Henry didn’t get far down the hall before Severus was calling out to him. “Peverell,” the other’s voice was just under a yell, “if you find yourself done with the theatrics, I do believe the great hall is in the other direction and dinner has commenced.”

“I wonder if he was born with a stick up his ass or if it grew?” Henry mentally challenged as he changed the direction of his stride. It was an itchy silence that enveloped them and as they made the walk. And being the good person he believed himself to be, he dutifully ignored the embarrassment coloring Severus cheeks.

Drawing near to the giant doors that stood open between them and the Great Hall, Henry turned to Severus with a genuine expression. “Names and reputations are fickle things. Don't let them define you or your understanding of a situation. I've learned that the hard way.” Severus gave a contemplative nod, his dark eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. The revelation of Henry's “true” identity lingered between them and only Hogwarts corridors bore witness to a story that diverged from the tales of before.

“My, aren’t we late?” was called out above the clamoring sounds of cutlery and meal-time conversation that enveloped the Slytherin table. It wasn’t loud, but the crisp, posh, accent easily caught the ear. Dinner was in full swing by the time Severus and Henry joined the students under the emerald and silver banner.

Since he was beyond done with the day, Henry didn’t bother to seek out his year-mates and sat with Severus amongst the fourth years instead of walking further down the long table. Although, he was beginning to regret the decision with the way curiosity danced in Regulus’ blue-grey eyes.

“Is there any reason for that?” Regulus tacked on to his earlier statement as the two settled onto the long bench. But his eyes were solely focused on Severus.

“Potter,” came Severus’ succinct reply.

“I see,” was all Regulus said as his haze refocused to a spot beyond their shoulders. Henry didn’t need to turn around to know that Regulus was looking in the direction of the Gryffindor table - to James Potter in particular, who had settled himself on the other side of the Great Hall long before Henry and Severus arrived. “Odd then, how Potter arrived some time ago and you’re all flushed, Severus. I’d get a better handle on that, it might cause others to think—things. And I wouldn’t want you upset by what you might hear, dear friend.”

Regulus’ words drawled into Henry’s ears, the skepticism in them palpable. Henry knew this would probably become a bother later, but for now, he was simply too tired to give a damn. So with a shrug of his shoulder, he tucked himself into dinner as those around him resumed their meal. And it seemed Severus followed his lead because the boy gave no further reply.

Conversations flowed around them uninterrupted as the students excitedly wound down from another day in the castle, but the table of snakes was markedly quieter. Henry often found it easy to simply drift when he was in the company of other Slytherins. There was usually very little idle conversation directed his way, and overall, the house exuded far less residual energy than he was used to from the Gryffindors.

The novelty of his existence here had long worn off, especially after a month went by without the ministry’s involvement. But his name, and now the stories Aubrey was spreading of his dueling prowess, kept him from receiving open hostility from his housemates. He was able to rest, just as the Sorting Hat had said, in a way he was never afforded before. It was, Henry could admit to himself, sometimes nice being the house of snakes.

As November went on, Henry continued to walk Severus to some of his classes each day. It did not work for every class, as there was no way he could walk Severus to Transfiguration and make it to Herbology on time, but they made do. And in their tramps through the castle, they found themselves talking about everything. It marveled Henry to come to understand just how much of a stranger he was to Severus Snape.

It was on a Wednesday, holstered together in an alcove while awaiting the start of Severus’ Divination class, that the boy opened up for the first time and explained his love for potions - as “it was the only bit of magic that could be done in a muggle house.” Henry told Severus of Dudley’s birthday. Of him disappearing the glass pane of the snake enclosure and of how giddy it made it to see his cousin being the one to cry out for help for once. Although he diligently left out the bit where he talked to the snake.

For his candor, days later when on a stroll about the Hogwarts’ grounds he was rewarded information on the tiny garden Severus and his mother safeguarded back home. It contained easy growing vegetables and healing herbs, and it was where Severus “minded himself” when his father came back drunk. Between Severus mindfully measured breaths and the sound of the Great Lake’s water licking their shoes, Henry recounted the winter night he spent clutching an old oak tree in the backyard of a muggle house, that was never home, for warmth when he was not allowed inside.

Outside of their surprisingly mutual love of treacle tart, and horrendous childhood upbringings, they had little in common. Severus could not understand Henry’s love of flying, but admired the sense of freedom he wasn’t able to find on the ground. Henry was called a “blithering idiot” for expressing his general lack of interest in potions. But when Henry admired the other Slytherin’s “clear genius” in the field he saw the beginnings of a blush coloring Severus’ cheeks before his face on was hastily turned from his view.

One Monday, while coming back from dinner to collect Severus’ Astronomy books, the boy found it in him to hesitantly speak of his dream of becoming a Potions Master while shielded in the darkened light of the halls. Henry saw the boy hiding behind his sticky hair and could not resist the urge to say, “Go for it! I’m sure you could teach even me how to bottle fame, brew glory, and put a stopper on death.”

“Do not tease me, at least I have aspirations of better. Unlike you, you spoiled-“

Before the boy who resembled more of a rumbled goose in the moment, angrily drawn up inside his robes, could get too far Henry cut in, “I’m not teasing you Sev. How about a bet, I say you get your mastery by the time you’re 21,” the grin that came over his face could be described as no less than shit-eating. “And if I’m wrong, I’ll buy your own potions lab for your 22nd birthday.”

Correction, as Severus sat there with his mouth agape and his jaw attempting to make his lips met only to fail again, Henry thought of the goldfish that once sat on his cousins dresser until it died due to no one ever feeding it. Eventually, Severus found his voice. “You cannot be serious,” the amount of disbelief that Severus was pack into those simple words was astounding, “the cost of a full, Master’s quality level, set of cauldrons alone-“

“Will not irreconcilably hamper my vaults.”

“You come into money and the first thing you do is waste it,” was the sneered response that Henry got, but it did not dampen his feelings in the moment.

“And you’re begrudging me this instead of taking advantage? What type of Slytherin are you?” Henry felt lightheaded as he laughed through the words.

“Clearly,” Severus said as he began to make his way out into the night air surrounding the castle, “you are infecting me.”

“I do believe the term is ‘rubbing off on me’,” Henry said with feigned seriousness. Not even stopping to reply, his companion continued his stride. But just as Henry turned to make his way back to the Slytherin dorm’s he heard a feint “Bite me.”

It went on like this for days, and Henry began to notice so many things about the other. Like how Severus brushed his hair behind his ears when he excitedly got to speaking. Or how he bit at the tips of his nails while frustratedly doing revisions. Henry even noticed that the longer they interacted, the more Severus was growing used to the casual touches that Henry had been conditioned into giving from his time around so many, many, Weasleys.

The boy no longer flinched when Henry thoughtlessly extended an arm when speaking or cowered away when Henry leaned against him to laugh. Henry thought it was nice, making a new friend.

It was by passing more and more of his days at Severus’ side that Henry eventually came across Lily Jean Evans. His would-be mother came right up to them in the library the third Friday in November, all flaming hair and bright indignation. After marching up to their table beneath the last window along the back wall, she stood, looming over Severus' shoulder, and angrily crossed two slender pale arms over her chest.

“Severus, why haven’t you been to see me?” she said.

“I apologize, Lils,” Severus said, immediately offering up his remorse. “With the start of term, it’s been hard to find time for much of anything outside of studying.” Henry was caught off guard by the way Lily was addressing her friend. And Severus kept his voice level, but inside he was recoiling from the venom in her voice.

“I guess, but clearly you make time for whoever this is,” she said while wildly throwing a hand in Henry’s direction.

“This is Henry Peverell. He’s a fifth year in my house,” said Severus before turning to the boy in question. “And Henry, this is my best friend - Lily Evans.”

“Oh, so now I’m your best friend? It’s been two months since the start of term and you’ve not so much as said a word to me, Severus Tobias Snape!” Her shrill voice was warring with the whisper level of speaking she was trying to keep. Henry thought, “If she could be louder in here she’d give Molly Weasley a run for her money.”

“Nice to meet you; since we’re both friends with Severus, I hope we can get along,” Henry says with a charming smile, attempting to diffuse some of this tension surrounding them.

Severus saw his smile and scoffed, as he always did at the sight of it, before turning his attention back to the girl he called his friend. “I’m really, really sorry, but it’s different than going to seek you out. We’re in the same house, so it’s easier for us to happen to be in the same place at the same time.”

“I suppose. And honestly, anyone is better than those awful boys you usually hang around,” Lily said without ever addressing Henry. “I mean, honestly Sev, I can’t believe that sometimes I still see you talking to the likes of Rosier and Wilkes. And Mulciber and Avery's idea of humour is just evil. Evil, Sev! I don't understand how you can be friends with them.”

“Well, that’s unfair. Who else was he to talk to?” Henry thought as he evaluated the interaction before him. From what he’s observed living in Slytherin, no one really acknowledged Severus outside of assignments and studying. Most of his meaningful human interaction came from his roommates, Rosier and Wilkes, and the friends of those two boys that decided to tolerate him, which was frequently Mulciber and the youngest Black.

Severus’ brilliance was allowed as he consistently brought in house points, but that was the extent to which house Slytherin saw his worth. At the end of the day, Severus was still a half-blood with a Muggle name. To the Slytherins, no matter what he did, there was no overcoming that he was a blight on the house’s history. And to the other houses, he was the epitome of budding evil for simply wearing green robes.

Even Severus’ “friends” treated him not like Henry thought they should. They did not speak up for him when the other Slytherins made snide remarks about his parentage. No one asked how he was when Severus came into the common room visibly rumpled after a run-in with the Marauders. And Severus’ homework was often passed around to be mooched off before the ink even finished drying.

And here Lily, supposedly the boy's longest and most devoted friend, grumbling about Severus leaning into the only semi-positive interactions he was offered in the four years he’s been here. The only interactions where he wasn’t directly mocked to his face or avoided as if his skin carried a plague. “What a mess,” was all Henry could think as he listened with half an ear as Lily continued on about Severus’ actions.

“—but how did you two meet?” Shaking off his troubled thoughts, Henry caught the tail end of Lily’s question.

“Well, as I said, we’re housemates,” Severus said, attempting to shy away from any topic that could steer towards talk of the Marauders.

“Yes, and?” Lily asked on, still not looking in Henry’s direction once.

“We sat together on the Hogwarts Express and since then discovered we have a few things in common that we’ve been able to share,” Henry said as he hid his eye-roll in the pages of his defense book.

“Oh? How nice. Sev—”

“Yes, it was before the Black that’s in your house attempted to embarrass Severus as we were getting into the carriages.” Henry cut her off, wanting nothing more than to get back to the quiet of their work that her presence interrupted. Although, it troubled him that as he spoke he saw Severus tightly closed his eyes with a shallow breath.

“Black—Sirius? Sev, haven’t I told you to stop with your meddling with them? They’re nothing but trouble!” The Lily that stood before him reminded him of the worst qualities he saw in Hermione, the ability to care about entirely the wrong things at the wrong moment.

“Meddling?” Henry asked in disbelief of the girl's words. “Did you hear what I said? Black, and the rest of his little friend group, have been more than trouble—they’re bullies!”

“Peverell—” Severus’ tense plea was cut off by Lily.

“Well, if Severus didn’t stir them up so it wouldn’t get so bad,” the girl said finally looking in Henry’s direction. “I’ve already told him to avoid them, and eventually they’d move on.”

“Are you seriously blaming Severus for their actions?”

“Well, Severus should know better than to continually antagonize them!”

“And those Gryffindors should know better than to treat someone the way they do!” Henry said with as much forcefully quiet disapproval as he could muster in his words. “Do you even know how they treat Severus? The term has only just begun, and I’ve had to stop Black from cursing him in the back more than once!”

“And that is why Severus should stay away from them!” Lily said in firm belief of her words. “I know Severus is smart enough to—”

“That’s enough,” Severus’ voice cut across their argument as well as Henry knew it could cut across a rambunctious classroom. “Peverell, I will see you in the common room. Lily, I will make a better effort to spend time together. Perhaps we can go for a walk around the lake after lunch? Now I need to get to Potions; if you’ll excuse me.”

And even though it was still half an hour until the next period started, Henry did not stop him. Shocked by the outburst, he watched as the boy packed up his things and left without looking up a single time at either of them as he spoke. Once Severus was out of view on his way to the exit, Lily and him had a fleeting moment of awkward eye contact. It was a charged and staticky look that Henry caught in her eyes before Lily threw her hair over her shoulder in a huff and walked away, disappearing from sight around one of the tall bookshelves.

Chapter Text

November 15, 1974

Taking Severus’ words to be a request for space, Henry broke their young routine and went about the rest of Friday’s classes and meals without bothering the other boy. Instead, he sat amongst his roommates in the Great Hall and spent his evening buried in his current book of choice, “The Divine Death and a Loathsome Life” by Winston F. Sayres.

Even though Henry honored Severus’s unspoken request, that evening he still kept track of the passing of time between flipping pages—as he was planning to at least be in the general vicinity of Severus’ final class. It was one of the nights when fourth-year astronomy would be getting back to the castle well after dark, and he was nervous for the boy’s journey back to their dorm.

As he waited for the appropriate time to leave, Henry sat between his Avery and Aubrey at a cluttered table in front of the right-most reading nook. Even with their table being halfway below the balcony, the under-hanging candle holsters gave their table a warm glow that Henry appreciated during the downtime. With half an ear, he amusedly listened as the two he sat with bickered over the proper enchantment used to harden non-living tissue for their transfiguration essay when a great shadow fell onto their table.

“Peverell, a word,” Rowle said as Henry looked up to see just what had obstructed their light. Thinking back, Henry had not interacted with the prefect a single time since moving out of the hospital wing. So he was confused as to what the boy could want now. But more than that, he was beginning to dread that phrase - “a word.”

Every so often, random housemates, and the occasional invasively inquisitive Ravenclaw or unduly friendly Hufflepuff, would stop him for “a word.” Bertha Jorkins - sixth year Hufflepuff, who was very nosy but had no brains at all, started this mess off by cornering him on his way to the library the first week of term to ask if his scar was still giving him trouble because her “muggle uncle is an astoundingly skilled plastic surgeon.”

She was followed by Dirk Cresswell, a muggle-born third-year Ravenclaw, who wanted to know if Henry had attempted to cast a healing charm on his face in Gobbledegook—for the boy claimed “spells cast in that language give a different result than when spoken in Latin. And usually, it’s better.” Even just this week, Patience Ferguson - fourth-year Ravenclaw, stopped him between classes to know if he was “dating or courting anyone” for she was “very interested.” Contrary to her namesake, she lacked the capacity to tolerate his rejection on the basis that he didn’t bloody well know her.

Even during his own time, Henry knew that what the Slytherin’s lacked in direct confrontation they more than made up for in their ability to string together a vast chronicle from a crumb. They did their best to engage him in benign conversation to parse out information for their parents. They stopped him to ask for “a word” on whether or not he would be assigning a proxy to the Peverell seats, on if his family is open to betrothal contacts, and so on.

A braver snake even asked about his “opinions on the current climate of affairs.” To which Henry respectably stifled his laugh at the second-year, who stumbled over the word “affairs,” and simply said, “The Peverell family has always been, and will remain, neutral.”

“Dumbledore wants to see you,” the blond boy hovering above them said, his commanding voice disturbing Henry’s thoughts as well as the table's mood. “And if that old goat asks, I checked in on you and you informed me you’re adjusting well.”

“And are you? Checking in on me, that is?” Henry jokingly questioned, always one for a bit of cheek.

“Make sure I don’t have to. Now go,” was Rowle’s clipped final words as he turned to march up the stairs to their left. Henry could not help but think that the prefect constantly had a nasty attitude, a short fuse, and was easily stressed. “Definitely one to avoid,” Henry said to himself.

“Pay him no mind; his thoughts are far beyond this place,” Avery said as if reading Henry’s mind. He probably was to an extent, as Luna often told him “the moon-imps base their weather off of his facial expressions.” So his thoughts must often plainly show on his face, at least that’s what he thought she meant.

Over his short time here, Henry had learned that while Avery was overly observant, Aubrey was overly social. Which meant he was always in-the-know and frequently amused, as the two made for an interesting pair to live with. So he was not surprised to be offered a bit of gossip on the matter from Aubrey, who looked up from his revisions with a crooked grin to say, “I heard his fiancé has been spotted intimately around with another man and his father’s been squandering far too much of their gold on poor deals with foreign wixen.”

Avery made a noncommittal noise as he crossed out a line on the parchment before him. He then offhandedly added, “Rabastan does write him more than his own fiancé does.”

“That doesn’t mean much; Rabastan's the clingy type.” With a small laugh, Aubrey lowered his voice and hushed out, “I’ve heard he loves his brother a bit more than normal. It’s why he rejected every betrothal contract his father threw at him until all that was left was the Gamp babe.”

Only knowing of one Rabastan, and to be sure of who they were talking about, Henry inquired, “Lestrange?”

“Oh! You’ve heard of him?” Aubrey asked, loving the moment of bavardage.

“In passing,” Henry said to avoid any slip-ups in his knowledge of the family.

“Yeah, well, they grew up together. And Thorfinn won’t say anything about it, but he’s a bit worried about Rabastan—with everything—going on.” Avery’s words trailed off into an awkward silence that they all pointedly ignored. The reason why Henry did not mind his roommates is that unlike the rest of the castle, they kept all their opinions, speculations, and curiosities to themselves.

In the months that passed with seeing these boys day in and day out, not a word passed between them about his supposed background. They did not outwardly show even benign interest in his sudden appearance, the residual from the dark spell curse on his face, or his opinions on living in an openly dark-aligned dorm. And if all that meant was a handful of moments with awkward silence, he could deal with.

“I suppose I should go see what Dumbledore wants. Later, chaps,” Henry said as he tucked his book beneath his arm and began to walk away from the two; they went back to arguing amongst themselves to escape the moment.

As Henry exited the Slytherin common room, the stone wall rearranged itself back into place with the soft sounds of stone gliding against itself. The late fall chill came onto them quickly and now enveloped him as he entered the dimly lit corridor of the dungeons. The torches lining the stone walls flickered and cast dancing shadows, their barely warm glow offering the only source of light in the otherwise dark passageway.

He resettled the book under his arm and pulled his robes tighter around him, beginning to feel a tinge of cold seep through the thick fabric of his winter uniform. As he allowed his mind to wander as he walked, Henry noticed that the stone floor beneath his feet was slightly uneven—blatantly worn smooth by centuries of footsteps from generations of students. The air carried a faint scent of dampness, mingled with the comforting aroma of burning wood from the thousands of torches throughout the castle.

He walked further. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly against the stone walls, creating a rhythmic cadence that reverberated through the empty corridor. Occasionally, he passed by other students, their silhouettes quickly fleeting as they hurried to their own business in the last hours before curfew. But for the most part, he was alone. He continued on, passing various portraits and ascending a winding staircase, each step firm under his weight. As he neared the long corridor leading to the headmaster's office, he tucked his hands into the folds of his cloak seeking warmth.

Finally, he reached the familiar stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Without a password, Henry simply reached out his magic and said aloud, “My name is Henry Peverell. The headmaster is expecting me.” After a moment of deliberation, the gargoyle sprang to life, shifting aside to reveal the old wooden staircase leading up to the headmaster's quarters. Henry took a deep breath, steeling himself for the meeting ahead, before stepping onto the stairs and disappearing into the shadows once more.

“Henry, my boy!” Dumbledore greeted him as soon as he crossed the threshold of the room. With only a slight grimace at being referred to as anyone’s “boy,” Henry took in Dumbledore's office as he crossed to the open chairs in front of the headmaster's desk.

The room he entered into was clearly a sanctuary of wisdom and mystery. It was the same circular room lined with various trinkets and curios that he was used to. And though some of the room’s contents differed, they still filled the place with a sense of ancient magic and scholarly charm. To his left were towering bookshelves that struggled under the weight they held as they stretched from floor to ceiling. To his right were hanging shelves laden with overgrown plants, leather-bound tomes, and ancient scrolls.

The walls between them held all 28 portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses. The eyes of the ones that were in their frames and awake twinkled with life as they observed him coming into the room. Then, as more of him came into view, a few portraits took greater interest and broke out in hushed conversations amongst themselves. He could clearly make out their gleaming teeth and bright eyes as the crackling fire in the corner of the room bathed the space in a strong golden glow. Its flames danced merrily as they consumed the logs in the hearth. Above the fireplace, Dumbledore’s faithful phoenix sat perched sleeping on its roost, its vibrant plumage shimmering in the firelight.

The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and carried the faint hint of the exotic potions that Dumbledore had in ornate glass vials scattered among the shelves. At the center of it all, the elderly wizard sat behind a large and ornately carved dark wood desk. Its surface was drowned in a clutter of parchment, quills, and various magical artifacts. Behind the desk, a towering mirrored cabinet that sent his heart racing was boxed in by wide windows that offered a truly breathtaking view of the moonlit Hogwarts grounds below.

The carpet beneath Henry’s feet was soft and plush, muffling the sound of his footsteps as he approached the headmaster's desk. Once, he may have gotten caught up in the aura of timeless wisdom and magical intrigue that flowed throughout the room. It was charming and invited the students that came to him to let their guard down a bit to explore its secrets and bask in the presence of one of Hogwarts' most enigmatic figures.

But Henry was not the same wide-eyed ignorant youth that had gazed upon this man the same way he once nervously peered at a stained glass picture of Jesus the one time the Dursleys subjected him to church—after the pastor heard from around that there was another youth in their house. So as he settled into the antique bergère chair beneath him and crossed his fingers above the book placed in his lap, he met Dumbledore’s steady gaze as an equal and said, “Henry, or if you must, Mr. Peverell. I have not been a boy for quite some time, Headmaster.”

“Ah yes, I suppose one does leave behind a bit of innocence when they must let loved ones go far too early. My apologies, Henry, for an old man’s excitement,” Dumbledore said. The smile that wrinkled the old wizard’s face did not falter as he spoke.

“Think nothing of it,” Henry said, keeping his words short. “Now what can I help you with, Professor?”

“It is not every day we get transfer students and never in such an interesting manner as yourself. I wished to know how you are faring.”

Henry kept his words brief and polite as he answered the headmaster's many questions on his adjustment to the classes, the interactions between his housemates, and if he felt welcomed overall at Hogwarts. He even patiently rehashed the backstory he had given during his tutoring sessions over the summer. The question that threw Henry off was casually slipped into conversation after Henry had explained what his favorite place in the castle was so far.

“I must agree with you there, Henry—wandering does tend to smooth the soul,” said Dumbledore with a wistful smile before his stare got a bit more serious. “Now I have noticed that wherever you go, the resident ghosts tend to give you a wide berth. Dare I say that prior to your arrival, your house's patron, the Bloody Baron, was quite the permanent fixture,” Dumbledore said with a light laugh behind his words. “Additionally, it seems two of our prior permanent ghosts have run off; would you happen to know?”

Ignoring the disembodied laugh that mixed into the noises from the popping of the blistering wood, Henry responded with a demurely given “Haven’t the foggiest.”

“No?” The headmaster asked, “Well, it doesn’t seem to have been a surprise to you. Have you perhaps noticed this phenomenon before?”

“I’ve met a handful of ghosts before my time here, and I can’t say I’ve ever taken notice of their reaction to me. I’m nothing special,” Henry said with the same steady eye contact that he’s held throughout the meeting. “Do you have any guesses as to why?”

“Ah, well, no. But I suppose my mind got a bit excited. The name Peverell does conjure up fanciful memories of bedtime tales my mother would read to us children.” Henry was unsure how the twinkle in the man’s eyes hadn’t blinded him yet. “I see that you enjoy a good book on the makings of this mortal coil,” the Headmaster nodded to the novel under Henry’s laced fingers, “Are you familiar with the story?”

“There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight —“ Henry thought with a chuckle. “You’re referencing ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’? That collection is fairly common, even out in the countryside.”

“I suppose it is, my boy,” was the wizard’s response following a great laugh. “My mother used to read it to us children as a lovely learning moment, as most wizards view this story as one that teaches the youth morals, such as humility and wisdom.”

Steadily ignoring the bait in those words, Henry gave a falsely charming smile as he said, “Yes, well, I’m glad that such an entertaining story about my family has stood the test of time—even as our numbers have thinned out.”

The older man gave a noncommittal nod before saying, “I agree. Which brings to mind—it was quite the surprise when I learned that the name had been revived. And by my own student, no less. But I am curious, my boy, how we’ve all gone so long without knowing you.”

Fawkes rearranged itself in its sleep with a beautiful trill. In looking over to observe the creature, Henry took the opportunity to look away and say, “I lived with my mother's Muggle family after my parents passed when I was young. I learned of the wizarding world, and my paternal family’s place in it, much later. So until that point, I used my mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh? If I may ask, what was it that you learned? And who was it that introduced you?”

“A wise, enigmatic, and eccentric wizard took an interest in me one day. He brought me under his wing, and in the short bit of life that we got to live together, I was honored by his profound wisdom, kindness, and unwavering commitment to ensuring a greater future for us all,” Henry said as he ended his words with a sad smile. “He was an ambitious, resourceful, and determined old man. Even with his many flaws, I looked up to him until the day he died. Nearly all I knew about this world came through him.”

Henry looked away from the fire then, glad that the slight bitterness he felt from the truth of the words did not make it into his voice. He turned to see Dumbledore observing him with a contemplative expression.

Taking the opportunity of the pause in the man’s questioning, Henry leveled Dumbledore with a blank smile. Henry thought back to tales that were sweetly whispered to him on the night memories attempted to steal his rest as he said, “Antioch was as brilliant as he was contentious, Cadmus was passionate and bumptious, and Ignotus was described as the humblest and wisest of the lot. Although, I’m unsure of how he’d feel about his descendant’s treatment of some of the other students. Potter’s a bit of a bully.”

Taken off guard by the change in the conversation's direction, coupled with the disgusted expression that graced Henry’s face at the end of his words, Dumbledore floundered a bit. But before he could get out a cohesive response, Henry ended their conversation altogether. “Speaking of which, I do believe we’ll have to call it a night here, Professor. I promised a friend I’d walk him back to the common room. And you know how—eventful Hogwarts’ halls can get.”

With that, Henry left the man gaping as he stood without invitation and casually made his way towards the stairs.

Chapter Text

November 16 - November 18, 1974

The third weekend of the eleventh month of the year was dusted in a light snow. Too delicate flakes slowly danced against the wind and faded away before they ever kissed the ground. With nothing to do, and no one to seek, Saturday passed monotonously for Henry. He slept-in, he ate in the kitchen, and hid away in forgotten corners of the castle. His Sunday followed much the same.

In the morning he crawled out of his bed long after the common room emptied and crept along the long walls of the broad stone basement corridors until they became brightly lit and decorated with food-themed paintings. He followed along the paintings until he stood in-front of one that showcased a bowl of fruit in an ornate glass bowl and reached out to gently tickle the pear. When the painting swung open it revealed an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of barrels and boxes heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end.

In the dimly lit kitchen, the air was thick with the aroma of bubbling pots, sizzling pans, and freshly baked bread. The kitchen was vast, he looked up to admire the towering stone pillars rising up to meet the arched ceiling as he walked further into the room. With practiced ease, he avoided the house-elves as they moved about in a whirlwind of activity. Their movements were swift and silent as they prepared meals fit for the entire Hogwarts population.

They flickered in and out of existence with a soft *pop*, appearing suddenly beside cauldrons and disappearing just as quickly into the depths of the pantry shelves. Their oversized ears twitched as they worked, their wrinkled faces contorted in concentration as they chopped, stirred, and baked with remarkable speed and precision.

All around him was a maze of gleaming pots and pans, towering stacks of plates, and rows upon rows of ingredients neatly organized on shelves. The scent of spices coated every countertop, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly dug potatoes that sat in heaps across the far most wall. As he made his way toward the battered cushioned chair that sat beside a lopsided table near the pantry, he snatched and orange from a bowl of brightly colored fruits.

Despite the chaos of the kitchen, there was a sense of order and harmony to the elves' movements, a symphony of activity orchestrated with skill and finesse. With each passing minute, he felt his shoulders drop as he munched on his snack. Here there was no tension in the air, and Henry knew that he could afford to linger for long. With a final glance around the kitchen, settled into the well used seat and was pleasantly surprised when after a moment one of the little creatures conjured a quilted blanket that settled with a comfortable weight atop him.

Surrounded by the comforting clatter of cooking, he lost himself as his thoughts drifted off to accompany the cobwebs in the rafters. After an unknown passing of time, he was gently awoken by an unexpected lunch being placed beside him by a little elf with one wobbly ear. The scent of savory stew and freshly baked bread brought him fully out of his slumber and wrapped him in a cocoon of tranquility. As Henry ate, he felt a sense of gratitude wash over him.

For once, he didn't have to worry about the weight of the wizarding world resting on his shoulders. In the kitchen, time seemed to slow down, allowing him to savor each moment of respite. As the day drifted lazily into night, Henry reluctantly lead himself away from the kitchen, his mind feeling lighter and more at ease than it had in weeks. With a contented sigh, he made his way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, the soft glow of torchlight guiding his path.

He walked on, steady feet gliding with his lightened mood as he strolled through the dungeons. After rounding a corner that took him past a series of abandoned classrooms, he thought he heard—crying? Yes, as he stepped forward into the closed doorway of an unused potions room and extended his magic past the rotted door, Henry was able to sense someone in there. “Small, hurting, young” - his magic told him.

Concentrating on a one of the many spells he’d been taught in the dead of night, he willed his magic to pool at his fingertips. Then once they tingled with energy he gently placed his hand onto the door with the sole thought of making it invisible only to him. A bluish grey light danced across the door from where his hand lay, leaving a clear view into the room in its wake as the magic fizzled out at the doorframe.

Lifting his hand away to hold onto the worn wooden frame, he peered inside. The room lay shrouded in shadows, the dim light filtering in through dusty windows casting long, eerie shadows across the cracked stone floor. There was a thick dust and scattering of dried herbs and left behind musty parchment on the tables. He could feel a lingering remainder of the magic that once filled the space.

Amidst the stillness of the room, there was a natural sense of melancholy - a reminder of the passage of time and the fleeting nature of magic. As Henry gazed into the darkness, he couldn't help but wonder about the students who had once filled these desks, their laughter and chatter now nothing more than echoes in the empty air.

Now the nests of several spiders clung to the corners of the room, their delicate strands glowing in the faint light like strands of silver. The once-grand blackboard at the front of the room was now faded and cracked, its surface marred by years of neglect. As he looked on between the rows of empty desks and shelves lined with dusty bottles and jars, he saw something.

He could just make out a set of footsteps going from the door across the dusty floor. The heels of the steps most visible where they dug into the tick grime that coated the ground. As his eyes followed the trail, he saw a small figure huddled between two desks near the blackboard that a head overlooked. In the dark, he could make out a slight trembling at the edges of the little form.

“Why’s a kid crying here of all places?” Henry thought. The quietness of his mental words were, not for the first time, responded to.

“Only the dark and tears take away grief,” the chilling voice that always accompanied him whispered out. “It seems she’s found good company.”

“She?” Henry asked Death, feeling no patience for the beings tricks. “Do you now who she is?”

“Yes,” came a spiritus response. “For all eventually belong to me.”

“And? Will you tell me?” Henry asked as he managed his internal irritation. Though the thought may have been rude, he simply wanted this situation resolved so that he can continue on his way to his bed. His heart went out to this girl without a second thought, but he didn’t trust this to not be a ploy of some sort.

He could practically feel a smile against the back of his neck as he heard Death’s words of, “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

With a huff, Henry banished away the whole of the crumbling door and stepped into the classroom. He called forth a little ball of light to float along his path and began to carefully walk towards the crying girl. He did not get far before she looked up from her arms that were folded across her knees, startled at the streaks of light that now streamed across the room.

“Hello,” Henry said as he quickly held up his empty hands to show her his palms. “I’m sorry for bothering you but I heard you crying and wanted to see if you’re okay?”

Harsh blue eyes narrowed in on his chest in habit them moved up to his face in recognition. It was all done in a brief moment, before a watery voice spoke, “You’re that Slytherin? Go away!”

“Yea,” Henry laughed awkwardly, “I am a slytherin. But I’m also a great quidditch seeker, a lover of all things dessert, and I hate the smell of lavender.” He slowly lowered his arms and casually sat down on the table at his back before speaking again. “We can be many things. Like how I’m also really worried about the little girl crying alone on a disgusting classroom floor.”

The girl looked at him as if he was crazy for a moment before she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Henry,” he gave easily before asking, “and yours?”

“Mary.”

“Well hello, Mary. Can you tell me who it is that you’d like me to hex for you?” His little quip startled a laugh out of her that shook the remaining tears from her eyes.

“It’d be a rather long list,” she murmured.

And with a bright smile he responded, “It’s fine. I have a bit of time.” Without comment, she lowered her head back into her arms and Henry watched as her short black hair fanned out across her bent neck.

“Mary?” He asked.

“Yeah, it’s—do you like my hair?”

“Your hair?” Henry asked, thoughts growing incredulous after her question.

“Yes,” she said between sniffing. “Calpurnia cut it for me. And Emmeline said she liked it but—“ was all she could get out before her words broke off in another fit of crying.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said at a loss. “But I don’t know who either of them are—or why that would make you cry, for that matter.”

“Calpurnia Jones? She’s the Hufflepuff Gwenog Jones’ sister,” the girl said while smearing dust across her tearstained face with the back of her hand. “And Emmeline Vance—well she’s my—I like her,” Mary offered hesitantly. “They’re both in Gryffindor with me. But Emmeline—well, I like her.“ Fear at the admission was clear in the girls eyes and Henry found himself proud of this stranger for being so vulnerable anyway.

“That’s fine,” he said with a gentle smile as he read between her words, “you know if you like her—that’s okay.”

“It is?” She questioned with a fragile hope laced in her words.

“Yeah,” Henry said as he thought back to the quiet moment in the Room of Requirement that he saw Dean and Seamus exchange before Dean went on the run. “It’s okay if you like someone who shares similar—bits as you. Or even different ones. All that matters is how you care for them and how they care for you in return. Especially if she likes your hair.” Hoping to get another laugh from the girl, his heart hurt when fresh tears welled up in the girls eyes.

“My family doesn’t think so, they want me to marry Peter,” she whispered.

“Pettigrew?” Henry asked with his disgust at the thought of the boy evident.

“My thoughts exactly,” Mary said tearfully.

“I’m sorry but—Peter Pettigrew? Why would your family want you to marry him of all people?”

“He’s a pure-blood and the MacDonald family hasn’t been for some time. My mother is a muggle-born, so they’re thrilled that a family like his is even considering me for a betrothal contract,” she said with a straining voice. “My uncle Magnus says that I should be honored to do my part to rebuild the family name. But I’m not—he’s awful.” Then after a moment she wailed, “He cut my hair!”

“Pettigrew cut your hair?!” Henry asked in shock.

“Yes! It was long and pretty! And he—he said it should be my first betrothal gift to him!” Her cries came harder now. “But he didn’t ask—and cut it all messily—and it looked horrible. I-“

Without knowing what else to do Henry eased himself off the table and came to kneel at her side. “I’m going to hug you,” he said before telegraphing his movements as to not startle the upset girl.

After a moment where all Mary did was cry and all Henry did was hold her through it, the girl looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with tears. They studied each other for a moment before she whispered, “Henry.” Her voice was trembling, but she continued by saying, “I—I just can't take it anymore. Everything feels so hopeless. Peter won’t leave me be and he keeps trying to corner me alone in the halls. And then there’s—“

“There’s what?” Henry questioned after giving the girl a moment when her speech broke off.

“Mulciber,” came her fearful voice.

“Aloysius Mulciber?” Henry questioned, thinking of Severus’ roommate.

“Yes, sometimes he—I don’t like the way he looks at me.” The far away look in her glassy eyes was unnerving.

“Is that all he’s done?” Henry asked. “Look at you, I mean?”

Mary gave a hesitant nod before speaking again. “It’s nothing, I know. But I just know he wants to do something. I’m so scared!” He did not mock her fears or heavy tears. Without hesitation, Henry held her tighter, offering her a comforting embrace.

"No, it’s not nothing. You should always listen to that voice inside your head that warns you of danger. If you feel like it’s something then keep that in mind and act accordingly when you’re around him. It may save you one day.” Henry sighed as the girl unintelligibly bit out words between sobs into his chest, smearing tears and grime into his robes.

“I understand, Mary. It's okay to feel overwhelmed," he said gently. "But you're not alone. You have friends and loved ones here who’d want you to continue on. And while I might not be able to help, maybe your head of house could?"

It was a long night from there, after coaxing the girl off the long forgotten classroom’s floor they made an overstrung walk through Hogwarts together. They made their way to the castle’s south wing and proceeded down the connecting long hallway to the western side of the hospital tower, until they stood in-front of the portrait of a sleeping lamb that guarded the entrance to the faculty tower.

“Excuse me?” Henry called out with his voice and magic looking to wake up the portrait. “We’re looking for Professor Rolanda Hooch, does she dorm here?”

After peeping open one eye to look at them, the critter lazily stood itself up and trotted out of the painted grove it was resting in. They stood there waiting in silence for quite some time huddled together. Then the painting’s dark metal frame grew until it became a door, out through which Professor Hooch hurriedly exited. To say the head of Gryffindor was startled to find one of her own, dirtied and crying, in the arms of an older Slytherin was an understatement. The woman had her wand out and casting diagnostic charms faster than Henry could begin to explain the situation.

But explain he did. Once she was assured of her student’s at least physical wellbeing, with patience and tact Henry walked Hooch through his version of the events which led them to standing before her. For her part, Mary gave more detail about why exactly she was crying alone in an empty classroom. And at the end of it, he gently transferred the still weeping girl into the professor’s arms and made his way back to the dungeons with the parting words that he “was grateful for the chance to be there for a younger student in need.”

Slytherin was awarded 50 points for “merit and service to others.”

After exhaustedly returning to his dorm, Henry was met with a fretful sleep. Come Monday his classes were still interesting, and wondrous, and somehow overall less vibrant. Henry felt as if the world around him had grown unbearably quiet. To have something to do with his nervous energy, once again he used his magic and map to subtly follow his willful friend around the castle as he sat through lessons. All the while, Henry ignored the Ron like voice in his head that kept saying, “You're getting a bit obsessed.”

Chapter Text

November 18 - November 21, 1974

Then, after his bout of quiet avoidance, Severus clandestinely began to allow Henry closer. It started with the boy silently walking beside him as they concluded their last classes of the day, Monday evening. As Henry walked back to the common room before dinner, the shuffle of Severus loafers fell into step beside him—even as the boy himself did nothing but look forward down the hall. Then he was allowed to sit beside Severus for breakfast, only breakfast, on Tuesday. It was stilted, annoying, and any attempt Henry made to talk about the incident with Lily was hastily shit down.

But their standoff truly came to an end in the common room Tuesday evening. Severus simply walked up to Henry, who was reading “The Mother of Muggles and Magicals” by Chidi Anagonye-Kingsley in the unusually sparsely populated Slytherin library. With an upturned nose and haughty voice, Severus informed Henry that the Care for Magical Creatures class would be held back late to witness the nocturnal Muskrill in its mating season and that he “will be available to be escorted to dinner afterwards.”

Henry deeply felt the strain in his eyes as he tried to keep them from rolling.

Things began to ease back towards a version of their normal after those awkward few days. But Henry was still feeling off from his run-in’s with Marry, Regulus, and Lily. This, coupled with the more withdrawn interactions he was having with Severus, made a fog overtake his mood. It felt as if he was just going through the motions of his days. But in the back of his mind, as the fake Professor Moody had taught, he did maintain “constant vigilance.” It was for that reason alone that he immediately knew something was up after entering the common room Thursday.

Henry had just opened the passage and ushered in Severus, who had wanted to stow his things from Transfiguration class before dinner. But Henry came to a halt as he could almost taste the snappish magic and residual ire in the air. Everyone in the room had spared a sharp eye toward them before returning to their rapid conversations, as if the whole house was waiting for someone specific to arrive.

Severus, noticing the same energy prickling about the room, quietly made his way over to his usual companions. Henry ignored the twinge of hurt that rode through him as the boy moved away without even a look behind. The solemn boy settled into an empty cushion between the arm of one couch and Regulus - who was in the continual company of Mulciber, Rosier and Wilkes. The latter of the two sitting closer together than socially polite, Henry distractedly observed.

Unsure of what all this was about, Henry spared a glance at the boy he was hesitant to call a friend before moving into an empty seat near a table that some of his year mates had congregated around. With nothing forthcoming, he took out his Charms essay and began to revise as he waited for something to happen. Over an hour later, the buzz of dozens of voices could clearly be heard over the crackling of the logs in the hearth and the waves of the lake thudding against the giant glass panels.

It was drawing close to supper when Henry stowed away his writing materials. As he took a look about the common room, he noticed that by now the entirety of House Slytherin seemed to be in attendance. All except for his roommates. Henry looked from the first years sitting in rows on the stairs to the seventh years spread out on the long couches by the fire and caught not a sight of the two boys he shared living-quarters with.

Growing nervous, he began to listen in on the words being shared around him. Mixed in amongst talk of classes, political gossip, and courting - Henry was beginning to piece together that there was a fight of some sort. The entire house of Gryffindor was being badmouthed by half the room. And there was an outcrying in favor of retaliation. Harsh words were being followed by whispered ideas of the most dark and unique of spells to cause harm.

Silently noting some of the spells he found interesting, he could not help but ponder, “But in response to what?” He prepared to ask on of the boys near him, when just as he opened his mouth the walled-off entrance began to crumble away. Stone fell apart to reveal the enraged face of Rowle, who was in the company of a clammy Slughorn and a battered Leodonis Avery II.

Besides being his roommate, Henry had learned of Avery being a brilliant quidditch player, an above average student, and a friend of Severus’. The fifth year student was one of the very few who sought the younger boy out with only socializing as an intention. Henry personally found Avery's sense of humor to be sadistic at times - hearing the boy joke more than once that “the only good muggle’s are the one’s on their back, be that in a bed or a box.”

But he’s also heard his roommate ask Severus how his classes are going and complimented his new robes. Henry has sat with them in their common room library, as the two sparred words and traded spell ideas, and witnessed Avery treat Severus with respect. As an equal. So Henry could understand how Severus was able to overlook Avery’s lesser qualities.

Although, as Henry watched Avery stand there in the entrance of the room, he reevaluated just how dangerous those lesser qualities could become. The Avery that Henry knows of was a Dark wizard and the son of an original Death Eater. The Avery he knew fought at the wretched Battle of the Department of Mysteries. But this Avery?

Well, there was blood speckling his grinding teeth and dotting his collar. His swept back blond hair was more of a mess than Henry had ever seen, even first thing in the morning. His robes were awash with spell damage and missing one of the three pure silver buttons that usually held them in place. But it was his eyes that stilled Henry’s heart. It was the light of the fire playing off Avery’s too bright eyes, for in them was the look of a man plotting a ghastly revenge.

Or, to Henry’s healing heart, it was a reminder. A harsh truth to the mending little thing beneath his breastbone, which still beat wildly when he looked at a pristine Hogwarts, that this was a look he had seen before. It peered out at him many a times from behind a Death Eater’s mask. He had not forgotten who they were. He knew that he was sleeping amongst children who would grow into murders, rapists, and other filth that festered and rotted the magical world.

He listened intently to the rabid whispers of his housemates as he read nightly in the Slytherin’s library. So Henry was well aware that outside of these castle walls was the budding head of war. These children sit around and trade tales that Henry’s heard before. Of muggle village’s burning, those with mixed blood going missing, and Voldemort’s great reign of terror. He knew.

He had simply enjoyed the opportunity he had been given to not be the sole proprietor of the worries of such things. “Though perhaps,” he thought, “I’ve rested enough.”

In the moments it took Henry to wrestle with his memories, the three newcomers settled into the center of the room. It seemed like all of Slytherin leaned forward in anticipation as they were given a better view. Their Head of House stood down a step from them in the middle of the Turkish carpet covering the sunken pit.

He was framed at three sides by gaggles of students seating and standing against several long couches. He was profusely dabbing at his shining forehead and the wrinkled skin around his neck as he took in the eyes on him from around the room. It seemed to take the man a moment to find his voice, as he had to start his words again after a break in his voice.

“As—hem—as I’m sure you’ve all no doubt heard, earlier this evening one of our own, Bertram Aubrey, had an illegal hex—Engorgio Skullus—ah—but that has escaped the Headmaster’s knowledge. This was used on him by James Potter and Sirius Black.” Here the man paused to allow what he said to settle in as he changed to wiping up his brow.

“This incident—most foul, has caused the poor boy’s head to grow twice its original size,” uttered Slughorn. All the while, shaking his head in disbelief as he spoke. “Rightfully, he has been transferred to St. Mungo’s to ensure the proper treatment is administered to avoid the loss of brain matter—and is expected to return to us within a week. It is unknown what motivated the duo to hex him, though it rewarded them a double detention and the loss of a total of 50 house points.”

The last part of Professor Slughorn’s speech was met with feverish outrage. Several students jumped to their feet around the room in protest of such a light punishment. The Potion’s Master resorted to using his wand to spell his voice louder to continue, “Now I know that emotions must be running high, but I must caution you to not act out in any manner which would result in the loss of our house’s points.” With great amusement, Henry noted that the professor did not instruct them to not retaliate at all.

“Now, our Mr. Avery here was entangled in this mess while valiantly coming to Mr. Aubrey’s defense after witnessing the poor boy being hexed. Let us allow this young man some rest this evening and present a united front of Slytherin pride in the morning, least we stoop to the level of these bumbling Gryffindors,” said the professor with a final sweeping glance of the room. He began towards the opening of the hall entrance and gave a final, “Now if that is all, I shall retire to my chambers.”

But the man did not await for any response before swiftly making his exit of the common room. When the last stone rose into place, and the completed wall sealed off the visual of the professor’s retreating back covered in tweed robes, chaos broke out. Voices shot out like wizzing spells at the two still standing in the pit dead center of the room - who ignored them all. Students were clamoring for their attention, yelling out such questions as, “What really happened?” And, “What did you do to them in return?”

Between the bandages and exhaustion clinging to his form, Avery looked dead on his feet. Directly before him there was a large oak table staggered behind the opening between two couches. Seated there was a handful of fourth year students - Mitchell Edison, Claudia Higgs, Sonya MacFusty, and the truly unforgettable Maladicta Trimble. Avery ambled over to it and uttered a gruff “Move!” Which sent the entire table of fearful students scattering and silenced their shouting housemates. Rowle joined him and sunk into an abandoned chair, before having a great sigh.

With them moved even closer, Henry was able to see exactly in what state his roommate was in. He was able to observe the residual healing magic hovering just over the boys form, still knitting together skin and strengthening bone. Madame Pomfrey’s magic, his guess based off the residual signature, was doing nothing for the deep bruising Henry could see peaking out from Avery’s little bit of exposed skin. Undoubtedly a form of punishment from the healer who hated to see students fighting each other.

Henry thought back to an expensive healing salve that he picked up while shopping alone in Diagon Alley - knowing good and well that he could not go a year at this school, no matter the date, without needing it. Its container, the size of one of his aunts fancy perfumes, was a small little thing that’s in-store advert claimed “one jar can even stave off death for a full second!” He understood now why he had heard a soft laugh after he read the display’s sign, even though he was alone in Blackwater Apothecary.

Always one to realize a moment of convenance when he saw one, Henry slipped away to collect the pure sapphire jar he stashed between spare parchment at the bottom of his trunk. While his housemates were still attempting to engage a stilted Avery and Rowle in conversation, Henry went unnoticed as he quietly sat in one of the empty chairs at the boy’s table and gently slid the salve towards his roommate. Avery, who was tersely explaining a de-hairing hex he used on Potter, looked over at the sound of gemstone gliding against wood.

He took one look at the jar, then threw a calculating look at Henry, before speaking. “McCalister’s, huh? You’d spare the good stuff on me Peverell?” Avery said by way of thanks as he collected the jar and began removing his tie to get at the bruising on his throat.

“Rather that then you get blood all over our room, Avery.” Responding easily, Henry had a tentative plan forming. “Maybe,” he thought, “They’re like the Basilisk, with its mere possibility of harm spurred on by a malevolent leader. Maybe they’re like Barty Crouch Jr. or Draco Malfoy and don’t see any other options. Maybe, I can steal them away as I did the horcrux’s.”

“The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters,” his godfather had told him. “We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are.” Henry wonders who these children would choose to be if given an option outside of “Light” and “Dark” propaganda.

“And if all else fails,” Henry mentally concluded, “I’ve already bested their side once.”

“This is all your fault, you know,” Avery said with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Is it now?”

“Yeah,” the boy gave a snort, “if Bertram hadn’t been bragging about you besting those dolts all of this could have been avoided.”

“Still?” Henry asked with an amused shake of his head.

“He has a tendency to run his mouth long past due,” Avery said by way of recourse. “They went back and forth for a while and when I came upon them Potter was already in Bertram’s face, yelling. The idiot told Potter that it’s never too late for a spare line to be disowned and well—it set that fucker off.”

“So what happened next, Leodonis?” A girl Henry could not remember the name of cooingly asked from somewhere behind them.

The boy in question had all but removed his shirt, working salve into the discolored skin above his stomach. Even in this moment Henry found himself taking a second to appreciate the result’s of strenuous exercise and training that formed Avery’s body. He was slightly regretting his decision to forgo quidditch this time around.

“Curses went off and I stepped in. Bertram was on the floor howling, Black was still clutching his shattered femur, and Potter had recovered from my knee-reversal hex to shoot off the instant scalping hex. We went at it for a bit, I must have pissed him off, cause Potter actually tried a melofors jinx and then a flipendo tria when I managed to dodge it. So I tried out the entomorphis hex,” he said with a sly grin, “my plan was to step on him.”

Avery’s words were met with roaring laughter as Henry was caught between fondly remembering Hermione and contrasting Avery’s words with the memories shared with him of his father. He knew that James was a clever and talented wizard, but was very mischievous when he was younger. Henry was told that his father could be arrogant and boastful, and even bullied other students on occasion.

But he was told good things too. Like how James had ultimately grew out of poor behavior, losing some of his arrogance and becoming enough of a responsible student and leader to be Head Boy in his final year, and later a member of the Order of the Phoenix. “But what a turn around it must have been,” Henry thought, “if this was James’ starting point.”

Then another issue came to him, so he asked “Where would Potter even learn those spells? I thought the family was light?” Voicing his confusion at the depth of illegal and ill-intended spells a famed Light wizard knew.

“Light? Ha!” The bark of laughter given by one of the near boys, a Nott if he remembered correctly, was a bitter thing. “Lord Potter married a Rowle and his brother married a Black. Oh—they may smile and play nice with the likes of the Longbottom, Bones, and Dumbledore families. But there’s a reason that Cedrella Black was disowned and Dorea Black was not. No,” the dark haired boy said with a shake of the head, “Potter simply hides away the nasty spells his daddy teaches him until the professors are out of sight.”

“Lord Potter married a Rowle?” Henry asked, desperately trying to recall what he knew of his grandparents. “So you,” he said looking at the tables other occupant, “and Regulus—you’re both related to the Potters?”

Henry had looked over at Regulus to get an understanding of what was said, but his attention was stolen as Rowle took none too kindly to his gentle questioning. The boys response was a roar, “Don’t lump the Rowle name in with those blood-traitors!” As the hand that wasn’t propping up his head came down to harshly strike at the table, rattling the jar of salve and hastily forgotten parchment atop it.

Rowle’s shoulders shook as he heaved heavy breaths between words. It would seem Henry had reignited the seventh-year student’s ire for he was not done there. “The Blacks may have chose their dwindling numbers over the sanctity of those who bear their family’s name but the Rowle’s have not!” Spittle flew as the Rowle heir spoke and his face was beginning to take on an unattractive hue. “It’s bad enough,” he yelled, “that—that woman dare to disgrace my sister’s name. But to mother a sodding, mud-blood loving, cunt like James Potter? No, he is no cousin of mine!”

“Although it was rather crudely put,” Regulus broke in from across the room, “I shall have to echo some of Thorfinn’s sentiments. Estranged from their families the two woman may be, he’s right.”

It sounds almost as if it pained Regulus to admit it, but he spoke through it as he had more to say on the matter. “And on the Wizengamot floor, the Potter’s were registered for the neutral party until 1945. For all of their taut of being a ‘Light family,’ they show their true colors when it counts.”

“Besides,” Regulus continued with an upturned nose and an adjustment to his crossed legs, “Charlus Potter went through all the appropriate channels and gestures when courting cousin Dorea and their union was blessed by my great-grandfather. However, we care not for James Fleamont Potter.” Then after a brief moment of consideration he tacked on, “Persei Charlus Potter is fine though.”

“Who the hell is Persei Potter?” Henry asked himself, making a mental vow to mail-order a British genealogy book that included the Potter family at his earliest availability. His thoughts, and the resumed moment of chatter following Regulus’ statement, was broken by a younger student shakily asking aloud if they should head to dinner. “Morgana, bless the youth,” Henry internally sighed.

In response, Rowle stood and grumpily bit-out that he was retiring to bed. Like a spell had been lifted, more and more students began to leave - filtering out of the common room towards the Great Hall - all the while chatting excitedly about their newest house gossip. Henry, still piecing together all of this, offered to escort a cautiously standing Avery to dinner after seeing Severus head out with his friends. As the two made their exit, Henry allowed himself to hope that this would be the olive branch that shifted Avery’s attention his way.

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” his inner Ron said. And with a laugh that made Avery side-eye him as they walked down the hall, Henry mentally retorted, “All things can be poison; the dosage alone is what makes it so,” as a tentative plan was being to form. 

Chapter Text

November 22, 1974

Echoes of the tumultuous news delivered by Professor Slughorn lingered in the common room well into the evening and fanned the already budding flames of discontent. It had been increasingly less uncommon to see a fight break out in the halls. But now it was not only between the lions and snakes, but between any of the four Hogwart’s houses. Severus had long since learned how to sit among wixen and artfully hide his anxiety, though his will was becoming well tested as nights in the Slytherin common room had become stifling. In the face of their frothing malice and righteous indignation, many of the Slytherin’s forwent the social politeness that often spared his ears from their true feelings on “mudbloods,” “blood traitors,” and other “common cur.”

When the evening hours lengthened, and the cover of darkness made the young and dim grow bold, talks became hushedly littered with second-hand stories from the frontlines. Two Mondays ago, he heard an anecdote about how one student was “glad” her betrothed had taken to “practicing” on the young muggle girls left behind by their fleeing families - as “he’ll be better able to know how to give pleasure” once they wed. Last Thursday, there was a vividly spun tale of how another student thought his father “brilliant” for killing the muggle women he took from their unsuspecting slumber - because now “there’s no chance of an illegitimate bastard being born.”

Each night when Severus returned to his dorm, he forcefully relaxed his jaw and withstood it all. But last night, he only narrowly held back a flinch when his roommates actively joined in on the rebel-rousing. Day-in and day-out, he allowed the others terror, taunts, and jeers to pass by him while he sat there for as long as he thought it took for him to appear unbothered. When he came down for breakfast this morning and was met with the groggy faces of his housemates, he guessed that many Slytherins had forwent sleep again to plot and scheme by the fire. And as the dawn painted the purpling sky beyond Hogwarts with the day unfolding, Severus found himself unusually discontent - still grappling with his feelings brought on by the previous weeks.

He went through the motions of his morning classes until he found himself in the library, seeking his routine refuge among the familiar scent of old books, but was once again subjected to the admittedly comforting background noise of Peverell’s presence. Even with the animated older boy here, the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional uptick in whispers of nearby conversations, and the turning of dozens of pages created a tranquil atmosphere, a stark contrast to the palpable angst of his house that left him feeling perturbed all breakfast. Here, things seemed incurious to Severus; they were just two boys sharing a quiet corner of the world.

Here there were no rumors of cursed snake-shaped marks that writhed beneath skin, there were no talks of blood supremacy touted as fact, or whispers of deadly post-graduation plans. Here he could be just Severus as they came together at their table in the library. It had gotten to the point where he wondered if Madame Pince held it open for them specifically. The window to their side’s view was obscured by a thin layer of cracked ice, but the roaring fire on the first floor kept the entire wing warm. Severus sat across from a distracted Peverell, a mountain of his opened books scattered between them, furiously writing out an essay.

Engrossed in their respective tasks, time passed in quiet comfort but he did not plan on working much longer as his thoughts were a distracting mess. And it all seemed to come back to the boy in front of him. It felt to Severus as if Henry Peverell, with his well-meaning acts, over-generous expectations, and unusual magical signature, had sprouted forth from the ether to personally disrupt his life. Since the start of term, Peverell was simply always there. The reckless boy fought his battles, politely dealt with his abysmal moods, and continually allowed Severus back into his dammingly bountiful presence without asking for any retribution for Severus snubbing him. It was maddening.

Severus also knew without a doubt that it was Henry who sponsored his new wardrobe. After coming to know Peverell for all that Severus deemed worth knowing, the thought began to take hold that it lined up far too perfectly for him to come to receive some never-heard-of-before “Student Enrichment Fund” from the notoriously aporophobic Madame Florence on the same day Peverell happened to be shopping for his robes. Although, the thought that the wealthy Peverell heir took one look at him and deemed him in need left a bitter taste in his mouth even now. The only reason he had taken the clothes was that his mother had been offered a new set of robes as well by the remarkably pushy seamstress.

As the morning sunlight coated their table and cast a warm glow on the aged pages of the books laying about, for the first time in a long time, Severus hesitated on knowing how to act. He learned early on what it was that the professors, the Slytherins, and even his enemies wanted from him. But he often struggled to understand Peverell’s intentions. From the very start of term, there were expectant whispers about the new “Heir Peverell.” Guesses about where he came from, how he claimed the lordship, and what his intentions here were, as it was not the Slytherin way to directly address the boy’s presence. But all the murmurs he heard regarding the other fell flat compared to actual engaging with Peverell. And no one else would even know it, for Severus had seen him avoid the rest of the student body when they were not together - appearing only for classes and meals, to go otherwise unseen.

There was also the older boy’s magic. Severus knew that Dumbledore’s magic was legendary and the Dark Lord’s magic was infamous, but Peverell’s was an unknown. Severus had always been sensitive to the magical presences of the people and objects around him, an unwitting inheritance from the Prince family. So he knew that Peverell’s magic was far greater than the other pretended it was. It was a vastly dark and cloying thing that seemed to dance hidden between the boy’s fingertips, ready to be wielded.

More than once, Severus had seen Peverell secretly dispel his self-invented cast-work as if his meticulously crafted spells were merely a fly to be batted away. Yes, the older boys marks were top of all his classes but, beyond that, Severus had seen him perform wandless, wordless spells of varying levels of difficulty when the older boy thought no one was looking. “But why?” Severus frustratedly questioned. Unsettled by the prospects, and lacking the information needed to shape how he should be around the boy, Severus reluctantly broached Henry’s companionship. But at his core, he distrusted the other boy. It was for that reason he knew that a topic he had been ruminating on for some time would come at great personal cost to express. But in order to adequately access the options available to him, he needed more information. Frustratedly, Severus finished up his writing, that he would undoubtedly need to revise when of a clearer mind, and took out his wand to send the books he had used back to their proper places.

But before he could speak, they suddenly became aware of a commotion at the study tables on the other side of a nearby tall shelf. They exchanged a glance before Peverell, the bleeding duffer, motioned for Severus to follow him. Approaching the source of the disturbance, they found a group of younger students huddled around a distressed first-year Gryffindor and a second-year Hufflepuff, their books and belongings thrown around after they apparently collided. Without hesitation, Peverell knelt down beside the two girls, his expression softening as he helped gather their belongings.

"Are you alright?" Peverell asked gently, his tone surprising even Severus with its warmth.

The tiny girl in yellow nodded, her eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause a scene," she stammered, clutching the sole book remaining in her hand tightly.

"It's alright, we all have those moments. Here, let us help you." As Peverell reassured her and helped the other girl to stand, Severus fought off a pang of unfounded jealousy that the soft words were not being directed towards him.

Together, Peverell and the other students gathered the scattered books, quills, and other things that rolled out of dropped bags. As Severus watched them pick up random belongings, he noticed a journal near him that looked more of personal use than academic. It was laid open on bent pages, closest to the satchel with the Hufflepuff’s spilled textbooks. With a deep understanding, he gently smoothed out the creases in its rumpled folds and silently handed it off.

Once everything was back in order, the girl trimmed in yellow and black thanked them profusely, her smile brightening the dimly lit library.

"That was kind of you," Henry remarked, breaking Severus from his appreciation for the young girl’s beautiful face.

Severus shrugged, a faint blush bothering his cheeks at both being caught staring and the praise. "It was nothing.” Pityingly, Severus believed his own words. He often found it hard to be in proximity with the genuine compassion that often shone in Henry’s eyes. It made him feel things Severus thought he had long since locked away, such as hope. He could not fathom how someone could walk through the world under such a veil of mirth. The only time Severus had ever seen Henry even remotely close to mad had been at other’s behalf. On his behalf. And Severus could not make sense of this.

So once they settled back at their table he flicked a silencing spell around them. He then sent off a spell that he created towards the only two students who sat at the neighboring table, though was yet to name, which filled the target's ears with a buzzing sound so they can't overhear the caster's conversation. Severus cleared his throat, he then glanced up from his Defense textbook towards Henry, who was distractedly observing the other happenings in the library and prompted, “What are your thoughts on what transpired two weeks ago?”

Blinking back into reality from where he had been watching a spider weave a pretty web between two tomes on a shelf nearby, Henry asked, “Aubrey running his mouth off again? Can’t say I’m surprised but it’s a shame things escalated so far.”

“Hum—yes. Those types of confrontations have been happening more and more it seems,” Severus noted.

“Really?”

“Yes,” the younger boy confirmed before continuing, “and do you know why?”

Not understanding what Severus was attempting to get at, Henry quipped, “Too many hormonal teenagers stuffed into a tiny castle?”

“No,” Severus sighed, “I lean more towards the understanding of too few chances to develop an opinion outside of their parents’.”

“Oh, I—” Henry said as it finally dawned on him what conversation they were having.

“And I find myself quite curious as to what your opinions are,” Severus said as he cut Henry off. “You’re very interesting, Peverell.”

“I don’t really think I am,” Henry said as he awkwardly ran a hand through his hair, only for it to tangle as he forgotten that he had been wearing it in a low ponytail.

“It is often not what we think of ourselves that matters, now is it?” Severus questioned before shifting his gaze out of the window at their side. “I think you are an asinine little fool with far too many secrets. I think that I’m smarter and more magically inclined than half the ‘pure-blood’ population of this school put together. I think that I’d rather die than return back to the muggle world. But what of it matters?”

Severus leaned back in his chair before bringing the loose edges of his robe across his chest with his arms folded over. “Despite what I think, you still cling to me for reasons I cannot fathom. I still get points taken from my perfect work so that the professors can avoid howler’s from decrepit Lords wondering why a half-blood is out-preforming their moron of an heir. And if the wizarding world still stands by the time I leave this castle for good, I will probably be killed long before I can truly enjoy it.”

Severus looked back to Henry and simply took him in for a moment. “And you—“ his words just stopped. More than anything, Severus hated this new kind of uncertainty that plagued him only when Peverell was present. He was poor and without? Fine, he learned the best mending and cleaning spells and ate his fill every chance he got during the school year. The pure-bloods hated him for simply being born? Fine, he became unquestionably skilled and someone unignorable to them. But Henry attempting to befriend him? “Why are you here, Peverell?” Severus asked.

“I—“

“And do not give me that drivel the staff passed off to us about you ‘seeking sanctuary,’” he cut in when Henry began to speak.

“I’m here, Severus, because I’m underaged and orphaned. And coming here put off my having to make decisions about the future for just a little longer,” was Henry’s muted response.

“Now tell me where I, a cursed scar so Dark that it’s residue has not lessened in the months of you being here, and magic so dark it seems to devour the very essence of light that reaches too close to your shadow fit into that?”

“Damnit,” Henry cursed, not accounting for how perceptive Severus could be even this young. But should have guessed. He knew the man had been able to keep himself alive as a spy for a reason. Knowing the questions were not rhetorical, Henry thought on the best way to respond. He did not fight off the laugh of frustration that bubbled through him. He saw no reason to don a mask around Severus, so he looked to the boy and stuck closer to the facts, “Dark and Light are polarizing political terms that ruin our world with their devotional followings. My face is permanently damaged because a Dark wizard used a powerful spell on me that I barely lived through, but I’m not a hypocrite. I don’t hate him for using the magic he did, I hate him for trying to kill me. My magic is also dark, because I came into this world with a dark magical core, and I use dark magic as I see nothing wrong with using and learning the spells that call to me. And you—well, you’re simply someone I wished to know.”

“You are a fool,” Severus scoffed while actively avoiding the smile playing at the other’s lips. For he had never been the person being sought out first for just being themselves, not even by Lily who admittedly only initially talked to him because he knew more about the magical world than her. “I am not someone who others are interested in knowing. And you’re powerful. No matter if you wish to use your magic to revive wilted flowers or to freely heal hags and beasts, you’ll not be left alone after it is discovered that you are a strong dark wizard.”

“And?” Henry questioned, feeling a bit petulant as the memories of his last life nipped at the edges of his consciousness.

“And you will be forced to choose a side, Peverell.” In-spite of trusting in his own spell work, Severus fought to keep his words down to avoid even possibly drawing attention to their conversation. But the older boy in-front of him made maintaining himself a difficult endeavor.

“No, the powers that be will probably try to make me choose a side eventually. But that doesn’t mean I have to go a long with it.“

“You—how do you suppose we’ll be given a choice, Peverell? Do you think the Dark Lo—“ Severus sharply snapped his jaw closed.

“I’m not delusional enough to think he’ll send me a fruit basket in welcome, Sev. Or that Dumbledore will stay off of me for much longer. I’m just not scared of either of them, is all.”

“Not sca—“ Severus cut off as he heavily placed his elbows on the table between them and hid his face behind his steepled hands. After a moment, Henry could just make out a whispered, “He’s an idiot.”

Deciding this was a conversation better had later, Henry stood and began to collect both of their belongings as the hour drew to a close. Handing Severus’ notably weathered satchel out towards him, Henry asked, “Would you put up with this idiot for a little longer so that I can walk you to class?”

”If you must,” Severus sighed as he began to gather his things. 

Chapter Text

November 22 - November 23, 1974

In the time it took Henry to finish Friday’s classes, settle under his goose-down comforter at night, and nurse a bowl of fruit-topped porridge in the morning, his brain would not stop nagging him. Henry had somehow convinced Severus to accompany him to the last Hogsmeade weekend in November and wanted to use their time away from the castle’s listening ears to be honest. But, in the back of his mind, was the thought that nothing good would come of it.

Even though Henry felt as if he was continually betraying Severus’ slowly building trust by keeping secrets, not a single idea came to him as to how he could explain to Severus—well, everything. Especially while telling him nothing of the finer, Master of Death-related details of his coming to be here. He couldn’t. And as he sat alone at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, Henry pondered the weight of honesty in his current predicament. Though he valued integrity, he couldn't shake the feeling that complete transparency would only complicate matters further. The intricacies of his situation were too delicate, and revealing the full truth would undoubtedly lead to confusion and probing questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

“Sometimes,” he figured, “discretion and strategic omissions could be better than honesty.” He did not know if it showed him to be a changed man that he thought that right now they were necessary shields against the complexities of this reality. Even if they may have once conflicted with his moral compass, things were different now, time was different now, so he knew there was a need for him to be different too. “No,” he realized, “honesty is not the best policy after all.” As he was lost in these ruminations, Avery sidled up beside him, diverting his thoughts.

“Peverell,” his roommate shortly greeted.

Henry responded with a nod, a hint of weariness tugging at the corners of his eyes, and a brief, “Morning, Avery.” Even to his own ears, Henry knew his voice carried a trace of exhaustion, though he tried to mask it with a polite tone.

Silence settled around them as Avery began to pile food onto his plate. Sensing an opportunity to engage in conversation, Henry broke the quiet. “I trust you’re healing alright?” he inquired, his gaze drifting momentarily to where bruising was once evident on Avery's cheek. Then, after a moment of thinking back to when he saw the boy last, he added, “You always seem to be resting when I return to the room.”

Avery gave a noncommittal “hum” as he added light foods to his gleaming plate. Once settled, he responded with, “I’m alright, between Pomfrey and that salve, all of my pains have gone.”

Confusedly noting the tension building between the others' shoulders, Henry turned the topic away from his roommate's health by asking, “What made you jump into the fray? Kind of goes against the whole self-preservation bit.”

“Honestly?” Avery started as he bit into a speared sausage, “I just wanted to knock Black down a peg.”

“Why?”

Between Avery’s bites filtered out, “The git’s full of himself, doesn’t talk to anyone since being sorted into Gryffindor.”

“You used to—talk?” Henry was reeling from what his roommates' words suggested.

“Hum—there’s only so many of us heirs. And even fewer of our parents get along. So when there’s any social gathering we all get shoved into some out-of-the-way room together,” Avery said with a brief glance at the mostly empty Gryffindor table before continuing. “Been like that since our parents could trust the house-elves to keep us alive.”

Avery got a wistful look in his still puffy, but no longer discolored, eyes. It was a mix of longing and trepidation that painted his face before his mask of indifference was firmly back in place. “Then the arse lands himself with the lions and acts like he doesn’t know any of us.” With a scoff, Avery prattled on, “I mean he doesn’t even talk to Reggie unless they’re back at the Black home. And barely even then.”

“You’re close with both the Black heirs then?” Henry guessed as to Avery’s knowledge of the siblings' home life.

“When I was younger,” Avery said with a sip of morning tea, “There were talks of a betrothal between House Avery and Cygnus Black for one of his daughters. But the bint went off with a Muggle three years ago, and our families haven’t really spoken since, outside of mandatory social callings.” As Henry took a moment to mentally recoil from the thought of this young man going on to become the person whom he knew as Nymphadora Tonks’ father, it seemed that Avery misunderstood Henry’s silence as he rushed out, “But everyone knows that,” with self-consciousness coloring the words.

“I didn’t,” Henry said with a disarming smile. Deciding to gamble in the Slytherin currency of information, he added, “Where I grew up, I wasn’t kept up to date on the latest pure-blood gossip.”

“And where was it that you grew up?” Avery asked, sounding more comfortable on the other side of a question. “There are rumors, you know.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Aubrey,” Henry said with a cheeky grin peeking out over the rim of his tea cup.

“Oh, come off it. You just showing up for fifth-year was bloody weird, and you know it!” Avery said, unknowingly doing a spot-on impression of Henry’s memory of one of the Malfoys' albino peacocks. “I mean, honestly. You don’t know anything about us, or even the Potters for that matter, and the seventh years are saying you broke into the school over the summer.”

Henry chuckled at the absurdity of the rumor; Hogwarts was nearly impenetrable, “Ha, I’ve broken into some interesting places, but never a school.”

“Then what were you doing here?” Avery pressed, genuine curiosity lacing his words.

“Seeking sanctuary, as the professors said at the start of term feast,” Henry replied cryptically, his expression inscrutable. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Avery, I’m on my way to Hogsmeade.”

“Wait, sanctuary from what?” Avery interjected, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Peverell?!”

“I’ll see you later, Avery,” Henry said as he pushed back his chair and made his way toward the towering doors of the Great Hall. As he walked through the castle’s halls, the ambient magic left behind by students lingered in the air. Hogwarts always felt alive, resonating with the energy of its inhabitants. The feeling free-flowed through the hulking building and out across the grounds.

Outside, the gates of Hogwarts stood silently open under the overcast sky. Once he got a little ways down the path, Henry leaned against a sturdy iron fence post at his back and waited for Severus. Around him, gaggles of bright-faced students were huddled together as they went to and fro. The chilly air nipped at him, prompting Harry to pull taut the navy-blue woolen robe that settled heavily around his shoulders. He sported a simple cotton high-neck jumper paired with sturdy brown slacks, finished off with polished slip-on loafers—an ensemble chosen for comfort and practicality, now that Henry had the wardrobe to concoct such a thing.

Above him, lush clouds rebelled against the sky, leaving quick shadows dancing across the surrounding land in their wake. It bathed the world around Henry in a kaleidoscope of muted hues and drew out the more dramatic shadows of the neighboring forest. Henry was fighting off the feeling of an impending nap as he attempted to make out if a particular cloud resembled a goose or a sack of corn when Severus arrived. Harry took note that the other had chosen an off-white button-on shirt under a black jumper, paired with stiff grey slacks and his uniform shoes, all under a black Muggle coat.

They exchanged quiet greetings before walking down the dirt path leading to the old wizarding village. Aside from his trademark scowl firmly in place, half-hidden behind a shabbily hand-knit green and black scarf, Henry thought that Severus looked well. Even if the peacoat fastened on him did not seem warm enough. Soft winds kicked up the foliage along their path and jostled the recently washed hairs upon Severus’ head, which Henry had noticed were styled behind his ears and not cloaking his face as typical.

As they delved further into their stroll towards Hogsmeade, Severus initiated a rare conversation. “So, Peverell,” he began, his voice hesitant but curious, “how have you been finding your time at Hogwarts so far?”

Henry glanced at Severus, surprised by the question. He took a moment to consider his response, his eyes wandering to the clouds drifting lazily overhead. “It's been—interesting,” he replied slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I've met some fascinating people and am learning a lot, but navigating the social intricacies of the wizarding world has been quite the challenge for me.”

Severus nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes studying Henry's face for a moment before returning to the path ahead. “I can imagine,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with understanding. “It's not always easy to find your place in a new environment, especially one as—unique as Hogwarts.”

Henry felt a surge of gratitude toward Severus for his empathy. It was rare for the reserved younger-boy to open up like this, and Henry found himself appreciating the opportunity to share his thoughts with him. “Yeah, exactly,” he agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But despite the challenges, there's always something magical about this place that makes you want to stay. To call it home. It's like nowhere else I've ever been.”

Severus glanced at Henry, a faint hint of a smile touching his lips. “I know what you mean,' he said softly. “There's a certain—allure to Hogwarts that's hard to put into words.”

Their conversation continued as they walked, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot punctuating their words. Henry found himself gradually opening up more to Severus. And though he had to omit his words here, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of connection between them. Harry noticed the effort Severus was putting into keeping their dialogue going. How he seemed genuinely interested as Henry spoke. How his dark eyes flickered with curiosity as he absorbed Henry's words. It was a change in their dynamic that caught his attention, so he decided to reciprocate the inquiry. "And what about you, Severus? How's your time here been?"

Severus hesitated for a moment, his expression guarded where it seemed Severus wrestled with his own response. The distant echoes of laughter and chatter from other students along the road filled the air, creating a peculiar backdrop to their conversation. "It has its challenges," the reserved boy admitted, his tone revealing a hint of vulnerability. "But one learns to navigate them here, just as anywhere else."

“Hm,” Henry intoned, “if your first three years here were anything like what I’ve seen this year be for you, it couldn’t have been easy.”

“This year has been surprisingly better,” Severus said while steadfastly staring straight ahead. With a knowing little smile, Henry did not comment. But he did spare a second glance at Severus, enjoying the dusting of red growing on the other’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.

It always surprised him, how shy this Severus could be in moments. Not for the first time, in this time or the other, Henry thought of how he did not know the person walking at his side. But he wanted to. He wanted to know where it was Severus went off to in the mornings, if not to the baths. He wanted to know why the boy wrote so many letters yet Henry had never seen a single owl arrive for him. He wanted to know the mundane and the unrecounted parts of Severus.

Henry wanted to continue to walk this world beside him, so he would know the precise step Severus faltered on - and catch him. The exact move that led Severus to Voldemort’s thrall, so that he could rewrite what became his potion’s professor’s biggest regret. Henry wished to be there for Severus so that he would never again live a lonely life that led to him bleeding out dead on some dusty floor. Shaking his morose thoughts away, Henry went for what he thought was an innocuous question, hoping to get the conversation back flowing.

"Where is your family from?” Henry asked, trying to recall the types of questions budding friends asked each other to grow closer.

Severus hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. The natural sounds of life moving throughout the forest could be heard just below their conversation. “Why do you want to know?” He replied, his tone guarded but tinged with curiosity.

Henry shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Just curious, I suppose,” he said casually. “I've always found family history fascinating—but not in a creepy ’pureblood’ way. I just—I grew up without my parents and without any actual knowledge of myself for so long. So, when I could learn more I did and it was—it was freeing.”

Severus eyed him, saying, “There’s a saying about unfounded curiosity and a penchant for untimely death.”

The laugh that came out of Henry, and echoed in his head, at these words was a warm and bold thing. It wobbled his stride and scared off three deer that were grazing on the nearby underbrush. Regaining his breath, Henry said, “I’ll take my chances, so?”

Severus regarded him with a thoughtful expression, as if weighing his words carefully. “Cokeworth,” he finally admitted, his voice quiet.

“Cokeworth?” Henry echoed, intrigued as to just how much Severus was willing to share with him. “I don't think I've ever heard of it.”

“It's a small village,” Severus explained, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice. “Not exactly the most exciting place in the world.”

“You must have liked something about it?” Henry wondered, noting the change in Severus' demeanor.

Severus shrugged, his expression unreadable. “It's where I grew up,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. Henry sensed that there was more, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he nodded along in the hopes that his showed interest would keep the conversation flowing.

Chapter Text

November 23, 1974

“My father, Tobias—” Severus began but stopped shortly after to gather his thoughts. He uselessly shuffled around his scarf, looked up then down the path to gauge their distance from the other students, then took out his wand and cast a rushed but strong muffling spell before allowing himself to speak again. “That man has lived his entire life in a rundown milling town and has not made much of himself for it.”

Henry’s thoughts drifted to his ill-gotten memory of rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness. Yes, Henry knew of Cokeworth and within it Spinner’s End. He knew of a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, the relic of a disused mill, that reared up, shadowy and ominous, over the hard over town. And of course, he knew of the very last sad little house on the sad little street that Severus grew up in.

Then a thought took him, something he too knew but had not yet settled into the larger workings of his mind. He knew what it was to go without. To have to make a tired, moth-eaten jumper, warm your bare bones through winter. To make a single potato last a few days without knowing when food would next come. But for all that he went through, his Aunt Petunia’s incessant need for cleanliness had spared him from one experience - being dirty.

He may have only been allowed baths in a few inches of cold water and had to wash his clothes in the backyard spigot. But there was always enough soap available, so his family were never made to deal with his “freakish scent.” But soap, shampoo, and other toiletries were expensive. He knew what it looked like to ration all that you so scarcely had, to do just enough to not look unkept, and still he had been blind. It was in this moment that Henry knew why he had only sparingly seen Severus in the house baths. “For what would the poor family of an out of work miller need with non life-sustaining luxuries, like soap and shampoo?”

Through the mess of his thoughts, Henry still had enough presence of mind to feign an attempt at cohesion to ask, “And your mother?”

Severus's attention was minded on a little fleck, some bird, bounding across the far off sky. He intensely focused on the blackened bit as it bobbed in the wind, wishing to look anywhere that was not Henry’s face. “Eileen. My mother, as you know, is a witch. A pure-blood witch. The family she came from was old here, but older abroad. Not part of the so-called ‘Sacred 28’ but well-respected to be able to marry into them often enough. I’ve been told that my mother’s mother was from the Rossendale family.”

Guessing by how Severus denoted his grandmother, Henry asked, “You’re not close to them, your wizard family, I take it?”

“No,” Severus said as a tick formed on the side of his slender neck. “They disowned my mother for marrying and then bearing a child to a Muggle. We’ve never—my mother only mentions them in brief passing. I know only the barest facts about them, but I think they once called a valley between Russia and Mongolia home.”

In a fleeting moment, Severus next blink was tight and lingered on a few seconds longer. “It would not have mattered much if they had been around anyway, as my father hates magic. If it can’t be used to solve his problems or make him rich, he thinks it ought not exist.” The mocking tone that he had kept up till now snagged on his next words, “I—it’s forbidden for me to even owl her over the term, for fear of my father’s—temper.”

“Oh,” Henry sadly thought, “well that explains why he doesn’t get any owls.” But he did not dare to break the fragile silence around them. He simply waited out the other’s wrestling thoughts until Severus's voice cracked open and he spoke again.

“We have our garden, and the stars, and my mother has taught me all the old holidays. But foolish wand waving? Well, I’ve only ever seen my mother’s wand twice. Once when my arm—broke. And once when my father accidentally set our house on fire while drunkenly attempting to fill the hearth.” It seemed that once he began releasing his most caged thoughts, Severus could not stop. Despite the appalling nature of his words, he seemed almost giddy. In the same fashion that one excitedly turns their head to peer at a car wreck.

But Henry could tell that his friend was growing more flustered by the way his emotions clotted up his speech. “She doesn’t even use it when he’s away. Sometimes I—I find myself thinking of what would have happened to her, to us, had I been born without magic. If I had been a squib, I know she would have shoved down her every thought of magic.”

Hesitantly, Henry asked, “Has she ever considered leaving?”

“She feels too guilty to leave.”

When Henry realized that Severus would be no more forthcoming with his words, he asked, “Why?”

“She sees it as punishment. She—the first time I remember my mother talking to me about magic, I had just made a cup fly into my father because I wanted to get him away from her. I don’t remember the rest of that night.” Henry wishes he’d never again hear the broken laugh that Severus lets out between his words. “But the next day—while she healed my arm, she told me that what I did was magic. She told me that magic could be used for anything, anything except for making someone want you. I know she went after my father because it was something her parents hated. She was a spoiled child who grew despondent that her whole life was meticulously laid-out before her.”

Severus said with a sigh, “Her parents were well-off, and pure, and magic—everything my father is not. But then things changed. The mill closed, my father was out of work and into every bottle he came across, and by that point—I had come along.” Severus tilted his head ever so slightly to peer over at Henry for the first time since they started this conversation. The misted look in the boy’s eyes only hardened as he said, “She told me she stays because it was what she owed my father after using magic on him in that way. But I think that instead of punishing herself for what she’d done she found a punisher. I’ve never—I think that she stays because it gives her the opportunity to say ‘I’m not doing this to me, he’s doing this to me.’”

Henry wasn’t sure if there was something better for him to say in this moment, but slightly afraid of letting things go quiet, he said the first thing that came to his mind, “It probably makes the guilt easier to bear.”

“I think—I think it makes her weak.” As Severus poured out his most painful thoughts, Henry held onto this moment gently. He would not judge. His heart was heavy with empathy and understanding as he mentally vowed to allow his friend this release. Even now Severus's occlumency shields were strong, but Henry just knew that behind his flickering eyes were a clashing of painful memories. Each one a different shard that held together Severus’ fragile being.

As a ray of the afternoon’s new golden light bathed them in warmth, Henry couldn't help but marvel at the resilience of his friend. Despite the darkness that had clouded Severus's life, there was a quiet strength in him, a silent determination to persevere. For if nothing else, till his dying breath, Henry knew that Severus would endure. Henry felt a surge of protectiveness well up inside him, a fierce desire to shield Severus from the cruel hands of fate that had battered him relentlessly. His fingers itched to reach out and offer comfort, to soothe away the lingering strain the held Severus’ body taut.

“It won’t make anything better,” Henry said because he knew that no words truly could. And although he was uncertain as to how his words would be received, he spoke on, “But I’ve learned that often it’s the weak who are cruel, and that gentleness is expected only from the strong. I think, long before your father, she should have treated herself more gently. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad that she chose to give you to the world.”

Severus did not respond and Henry felt that was fine. He did not push. He allowed the crunch of leaves and gravel beneath their moving feet to to take up space. Henry allowed Severus his dignity, as the boy held his hooked nose high and blinked back the shininess from his eyes. His sallow skin was blushed by the cold and colloquy. In that moment, Henry felt a deep sense of purpose wash over him. He wanted to be a source of solace for Severus, a beacon of light in the darkness that constantly threatened to engulf the boy.

With every fiber of his being, Henry longed to ease the burdens that weighed heavily on Severus's shoulders, to be a soft sanctuary in a world filled with harshness and cruelty. As they walked together along the tranquil path towards Hogsmeade, Henry's thoughts swirled with tender affection for Severus. In the quietness of his mind, Henry knew that he would do whatever it took to protect his friend, to be there for him through every trial and tribulation. For Henry thought, this Severus deserved nothing less than unwavering love and a firm hand of support - even if it fell to him to give it.

The following silence that settled between them was not terrible. There was far more that Henry had wanted to say, and far more that Severus wanted to hear, but for now, they decided on silence together. It was broken only by the occasional rustle of forest life or for Severus to call out an interesting plant or two—such as a wild “peristeria elata” that was growing between two oddly shaped rocks. Eventually, the bifurcation leading off from Hogwarts passed piles of stacked stones that formed the emulated barrier of the village. The dirt path turned and crossed the threshold of a dilapidated wooden fence where it became High Street.

As they stepped into Hogsmeade, the lively hum of life enveloped them. There were several quaint shops, each with its unique charm, that lined the cobblestone streets. Henry's eyes flitted from one storefront to another, taking in the vibrant array of colors and the inviting glow emanating from magical displays. Severus, ever the observant companion, suggested, "How about we start at the herbology shop? I heard there was a recent shipment in of some quite intriguing plants."

Henry, torn between curiosity and concern, nodded in agreement. "Certainly, the herbology shop it is—then we’ll eat next, yeah? I didn’t see you at breakfast."

“I was not hungry,” said Severus, eyeing the display of dancing fiddles in the window of “Dominic Maestro's Music Shop.”

Inwardly disgruntled by his friend's eating habits, Henry couldn't resist expressing his concern. "Severus, you should take better care of yourself. Skipping meals and neglecting your well-being won't do you any favors."

Severus, caught off guard by the genuine worry in Henry's voice, raised an eyebrow. "I appreciate your concern, but I can manage eating myself."

Henry sighed, knowing well enough from Ron the challenge of convincing stubborn people, and decided to leave this particular battle for another time. They meandered through the bustling streets, the scent of wizarding treats and enchanting brews wafting from various storefronts. The herbology shop, nestled between an apothecary and a curious bookstore, beckoned with the aroma of earthy herbs and the vibrant colors of exotic plants.

The bell above the door jingled as they entered, greeted by the warm ambiance of the shop. Immediately Severus, engrossed in examining various magical plants, began discussing the unique properties and uses of the plants that interested him. As they conversed, Henry couldn't help but notice the subtle signs of exhaustion on Severus' face. Each line etched upon his brow spoke of sleepless nights and burdens carried too long. Shadows danced beneath his tired eyes, whispering tales of fatigue and relentless pursuit.

But somehow his gaze was ever vibrant. Henry often found himself lost in the black silk that were Severus’ eyes, as Henry loved to see every lively expression they conveyed. Henry could admit, if only to himself, that he found the other’s eyes to be beautiful. Especially when they turned as distant as the inky night sky whenever Severus was vulnerable. Or how they widened into black-holes, vast and all consuming, when Severus got to talking potions theory. How they shone like the sun off the back of raven whenever Severus attempted to ignore Henry’s antics. Even now, as they turned to slowly swaying waves, swelling in wanting, as they rocked back and forth to take in shop.

Chapter Text

November 23, 1974

Inside the magical botanica, Henry listened attentively as Severus animatedly window-shopped. He patiently trailed behind his friend as, for once, Severus looked his age—gleefully picking over the enumerable shelves, barrels, and palettes. Henry found himself captivated by the sight of Severus as he moved gracefully through the aisles, his black eyes alight with curiosity and wanting. Each time Severus paused to inspect a potion ingredient, Henry couldn't help but notice the way his brow furrowed in concentrated thought, or the way his slender fingers delicately traced the edges of the name-tape on each vial. Severus was in his element, a rare but true smile lightening his face, and Henry couldn't tear his gaze away.

As they wandered deeper into the store, Henry felt a warmth spread through his chest at the sight of Severus' enthusiasm. There was something undeniably attractive about the way Severus immersed himself in the world of potion-making, and Henry found himself drawn to him in a way he hadn't expected. But Henry did not begrudge himself for his interest. Without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that come 24 years a different “Harry” and the man his friend grows up to be could hate each other with such a fever—Henry allows himself to simply have these feelings. To acknowledge them without questioning or trying to name them.

Severus had just gently grasped a stubby jar that looked to contain some sort of dirt, curiously read its contents, and then gingerly placed the glass back where it resided. Henry watched this happen several more times as they wandered through the shop before a thought struck.

“Sev?” Henry called out as the other was looking longingly at an amber vial of what he guessed were some plant's roots. “What’s that one?”

Quickly looking away as if spooked, Severus mumbled out a barely intelligible, “The hairs of a kelpie.”

The younger boy placed the vial back before walking off to explore a different part of the store, but Henry stayed behind to look at the little tinted glass bottle. Beside it was a propped-up piece of paper with neat cursive noting the hairs to be 3 galleons. Henry had thought that the herbology shop's cozy atmosphere provided a lovely backdrop for the amazement gradually filling Severus's face as he explored. But the little bouts of disappointment that flashed across his friend’s face as he left the things that interested him behind were tugging at Henry’s heart. After briefly considering the hefty sum of gold tallied at the bottom of his last bank statement, Henry came to a decision.

“Sev?” Henry called out and waited patiently for Severus to make his way back over. When the other stopped shortly before him, Henry plucked the vial from off the shelf and held it out saying, “Here.”

Severus floundered for a moment, eyes locked on Henry’s outstretched hand, before his stare harshly snapped up. “Have you lost your mind? I cannot—that vial is 3 galleons per hair?!” He exclaimed. “And you—you think that I can—“

“Ouch,” Henry thought as he mentally calculated the price of the 7 or 8 hairs he could barely see inside, but did not change his mind. Instead, he reached forward to collect Severus' left hand and placed the vial on the younger boy's palm. He then gently curled Severus' fingers around it before saying, “I’ll be buying you this vial. Is there anything else you would like, while we’re here?”

Severus said nothing as his hand was released and stood there simply blinking dumbly at the little vial for a moment. After the silence between them had grown long past awkward, Severus eventually said, “You are lying.”

The boy then turned and placed the glass container back on its shelf. With a patient sigh, Henry picked the vial back up. He then unthinkingly, and wandlessly, summoned a shopper's basket from a stack near the door behind them—as he was caught up in the rush of feelings waterfalling through his chest at the thought of using whatever means were at his disposal to take care of Severus. When the stiff-fabric basket arrived, he placed the glass gently inside. Once done, Henry addressed Severus, who had quietly stood before him watching. “I’ll be buying you this, Sev. Now, can you tell me if there is anything else you’d like in here?”

“You are an idiot,” Severus all but bit out. He seemed to steady himself with a deep breath, then quickly swiveled away to walk back over to the jar of dirt before marching off to place both the things in his hand on the shop counter. In silence, the younger boy went through the store gathering leaves and stems, roots and petals, and the various other plant matter that interested him. Once done, Severus, who stood beside the potion ingredient-laden countertop with a smug grin on his face, beckoned Henry over to where the shopkeeper was merrily counting up the total with wild excitement. Henry understood why when the total came out to be 37 galleons.

And mindful of his friend’s shifting mood, Henry did not even blink as he simply pulled out his bank book and signed the sum over. He patiently waited as the items were shrunk then bound in thick parchment and twine by the heavily smiling merchant. Henry then handed the parcel over to a dumbfounded Severus, while only softly asking, “Where would you like us to shop next?” Once outside of “Dogweed and Deathcap,” Henry could feel Severus’s warring emotions. So he did not prompt his friend to answer his lingering question.

Instead, with a playful smile and hoping to lighten the mood, Henry directed him, "Let's grab a snack at the Three Broomsticks.”

Severus, reluctantly conceding, agreed with a quiet nod of his head. During their tersely silent walk to the pub, Henry caught from the side of his eye that Severus was keeping his parcel closely tucked against his person. Though he did not wish to, Henry held his tongue and ruefully thought of the manner of gifts his friend was used to receiving. As they entered the weathered pub, Henry noted that it was as it had been in his time—warm, crowded, and a bit smoky, but clean and welcoming. They made their way to an empty booth along the wall as butterbeer and firewhisky whizzed by, autonomously served in glasses and foaming tankards.

Severus was not quite avoiding Henry’s eyes as he was attempting to discern exactly where reality had begun to crack apart. His rescuer from the green-eyed boy attempting to make small talk came in the form of a busty young waitress with an infectious smile, who approached to take their order. With a grin, she greeted them, "What can I get for you two today?" Her eyes sparkled as she looked between the two.

Severus, curling in on himself in self-consciousness, hesitated. When prompted by the waitress again, he muttered, "I'll just have a salad."

Henry, taken aback, looked at Severus in surprise. "A salad? Seriously, Severus? How about some—“ Henry trailed off and scanned the menu quickly before landing on something he thought was neutral enough, “—fish and chips?"

Severus, visibly uncomfortable, resisted for a moment before relenting as he sighed out, "Fine, fish and chips."

Henry, ever ready with a confident demeanor, stated to the woman in waiting, "We'll both have the North Atlantic cod, with chips and tartar. And a round of butterbeer, please."

As they waited for their meals, the table was filled with a plate of warm, fresh bread and a small pot of butter. The waitress, still smiling, left them to enjoy the slow-lazing atmosphere of the pub. Once their main plates arrived with steaming hot fish, battered and fried to perfection, accompanied by golden chips and tangy tartar sauce, Henry couldn't resist pushing for conversation.

"Alright, Severus, spill the beans. What did you get from the herbology shop?" Henry prompted, taking a bite of his glistening fish.

Severus, voice laced with insecurity, began explaining the properties of each leaf, petal, root, and stem procured on his behalf. Henry listened intently, offering encouraging smiles and gentle words between bites. The longer Severus talked, the more emboldened he became, sharing not just textbook examples but idealistic conjectures on the possibilities of combining the different potion ingredients he obtained. Henry, familiar with Ron's grand ideas and Hermione's detailed speeches, found himself happily nodding along with a warm feeling blooming beneath his skin. He could be honest with himself enough to notice that it was a bit different than how he usually felt in the presence of his friends.

The way Severus spoke about his potion ideas with such passion and elation sent a different kind of shiver down Henry's spine and ignited a feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite explain. With each animated gesture of slender wrists and excited expression playing across crooked teeth, Severus seemed to come alive in a way that Henry had never seen before. Henry watched as Severus' eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, how his voice softened with each explanation of this-or-that outlandish idea for an intricate ingredient. There was a vulnerability in Severus' words, a raw honesty that had Henry buzzing in their cozy booth like a moth to a flame.

And as he listened, Henry couldn't help but feel a deep admiration and affection welling up inside him. It was in moments like these that Henry realized just how much he wished to protect this Severus. How much he longed to become a part of Severus’ world. He watched Severus in this moment, and thought, "I want to make sure this is who Severus Snape always is—vivid, ingenious, and alive." As the once-slovenly boy continued to talk, Henry's mind turned to ideas on how to draw out their time together, how to extend this moment where Severus was truly happy and being taken care of. As they shared laughter and conversation over their meal, Henry couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted more.

He didn’t know why, but while sitting at this table he felt the most settled he ever had since coming to 1974. "It could be a savior complex," Henry thought with a mental laugh as Severus explained that he planned to use the contents of the amber vial from the shop and another clear vial they purchased containing a blue liquid to test his ideas for strengthening the current staple-potion used to aid in the regeneration of lost limbs. It sent a tingle down Henry’s throat and set his thoughts alight at pondering just what sort of face Severus would make if Henry told the boy just how wonderful Henry found him in moments like this. In his heart, Henry knew this was more than him simply enjoying the feelings of being with a friend.

It was more than the mirth that found him in the presence of the likes of Hermione, Ron, Neville, or Luna. It stirred his interest more than the company of Ginny, Cho, or even Fleur. Whenever he received an opportunity to take care of Severus, it inspired in him far too much than what he could chalk up to a mere friendship. But it thrilled him to do so. The very thought that he could make sure Severus had the greatest availability of resources and was cared for by Henry’s own hand brought him a foreign kind of joy. It was a type of bliss that radiated between the calloused bones of his ribs and pooled warmth beneath the organs of his stomach.

It astonished him how in the span of months he could go from loathing Snape to looking forward to laying eyes on Severus each day. For the last few months of his old life, Henry had been convinced that the Potions Master was firmly on Voldemort’s side. At first, he was merely unsure. After all, he had watched the man kill Dumbledore. But things were never that simple. The first time Henry laid awake tearing his thoughts apart, Death helpfully reminded him that his headmaster only had, at that moment, five or so months to live. In one move, Snape spared Malfoy’s innocence and shepherded the old man’s life onward far more gently than the curse raging through his aged body ever would.

The more Henry thought on it, the more his mind showed him instances where Snape had an opportunity to quietly and succinctly end “Harry Potter’s” life and didn’t. It would have been easy for a powerful and talented wizard such as Snape to pull off. If not an allowed fall from a broomstick, then a carefully crafted potions accident. If not a stealthily given incurable poison, then the man could have simply looked in the Book of Admittance for an address to give to the Death Eaters. Since the first time Henry saw battered little Severus in the robe shop, he had spent many sleepless nights combing through every interaction, every memory, every fact and rumor that had previously snuck past his consciousness about the “Dungeon-bat of Hogwarts.” Only to come to the realization that he was wrong.

They were all wrong about the man. And for the wizarding world’s transgressions, for Dumbledore’s manipulations, and for “Harry Potter’s” protection, Snape not only died nearly alone but forgotten and disgraced. If Henry were honest—in the last moments of his old life, beyond the feeling of sticky blood running across his fingers or the look of watery eyes that had lost their focus—he nearly drove himself mad thinking about all the things he would never get to say to Snape. The questions he would never get to ask, the gratitude he would never get to show. But he could show it now.

Henry watched confidence ease back Severus’ shoulders and cleverness carve out a frail smile on Severus’ pale face as the boy talked. And all Henry wanted to do was to give his friend profound recognition. He wanted to cherish and coddle this budding display of who Severus could be with gentle looking after. He wanted to support and guide Severus to grow this lovely and bright little thing that Henry had never encountered behind those black eyes and hunched body before. But he had learned to think things over a little longer when whatever was on his mind sent Death’s laugh cackling through the breeze—so instead, he just smiled and ate. After their meal, they left the Three Broomsticks, their bellies full and the warmth of each other’s company lingering.

As they stepped out of the warm embrace of the pub, Henry couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration coursing through him. The cool evening air brushed against his skin, but all he could focus on was the warmth emanating from Severus' side as they strolled through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade between bouts of further shopping. Henry had stuck to his word and purchased Severus a handful of things from “Stitches and Draughts,” "The Magical Neep," and “J. Pippin’s Potions.” By the time they stepped out of the last store, the early evening air was crisp. Aimlessly, they walked about as the sun cast a gentle glow on the quaint village, painting everything in a warm, ethereal light. Henry stole a glance at Severus walking beside him, his features bathed in the gentle radiance of the fading day.

There was something undeniably enchanting about the way Severus looked in the twilight, his dark hair catching the last rays of sunlight and his onyx eyes shining with quiet intensity. As they walked, Henry found his heart fluttered with each step they took together. There was a sense of intimacy in the air, a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment. And as Henry allowed himself to bask in the warmth of Severus' presence, he couldn't shake the thought that he could no longer feel early winter’s chill—as his body was running hot. And it really could only be because of his prolonged close proximity with the smile that had been adorning Severus’s face all afternoon.

Chapter Text

November 23, 1974

"Hogsmeade Weekends" were special trips that students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry could take on certain weekends after the conclusion of classes to visit the nearby village. They marked the highest level of student social engagement during the school year. During these outings, students could visit various shops and enjoy their goods, such as all manner of sweets from "Honeydukes Sweet Shop," gags and toys from "Zonko's Joke Shop," and even have romantic dates at "Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop."

Only third-year students and above were allowed to go, and only if they had the written permission of a parent or guardian. As such, nearly all third and fourth years made it a point to never miss out on their newfound freedoms. No exception to this was the trio of heirs from Houses Black, Rosier, and Wilkes. Together, they embarked on an afternoon jaunt through the village after having a lay-in and eating a spot of lunch in the castle. Even though the food there was "nothing in comparison to what was served in their manors," it was still better than "the drivel served in town."

Leaving the castle under the late morning sun, the three walked along the beaten path where they hesitantly discussed their families' futures under the cover of practiced spells and the shade of the thick tree-line. It was a bitter truth that upon graduation, their alliances were already made due to their families' proud decisions. Regulus Black, his brow furrowed in thought, led the group, while Evan Rosier and Rupert Wilkes walked alongside.

"If you think any harder, Sirius might feel it," Evan said between laughs as he shifted his hips away from Rupert’s wandering hands. "Whatever it is can wait till tomorrow. Enjoy this last bit of sun with us, damn it."

"I just—I just don't understand why we're expected to pledge ourselves so blindly," Regulus began, his quiet tone reflective.

While Rupert only sighed, thinking they had left this conversation behind them over the summer, the boy at his side righteously shook out, "Because it's our duty!" Evan staunchly added, "My father served Him faithfully, and in his name, I intend to do the same."

Regulus snorted derisively. "Your father's blind loyalty got him killed, Evan,”the second Black heir said to his cousin. “I, for one, do not want either of us to follow in his footsteps."

Evan’s expression thundered. He pulled out from his boyfriend’s arms entirely to say, "My father's sacrifice was honorable. He died for a cause greater than himself-"

"But was it worth it?" Regulus interjected, his voice tinged with doubt. "To throw away his life for someone else's ideals? To make his son grow up without him?" Evan’s jaw clenched at his cousin speaking to him in such a way, but before he could respond in a way that he would ultimately come to regret, Rupert stepped in.

"Reggie has a point; you’ll just end up dead too if you rush into this without finding your own reason to take this on." Then, while pulling Evan to his side by a firm grasp of the boy's far-most hip, Rupert added on, “And then what would I do with you dead?”

“Go on to marry that hideous Greengrass bint, like you’re supposed to,” Evan spat at the boy attempting and failing to land his lips on Evan’s neck. "Consequences be damned, I know where my loyalties lie," Evan tacked on, his frustration palpable.

Regulus, familiar with how his friends acted when away from the public eye, ignored their flirtatious actions and nodded solemnly at their plain words. "And I respect that, Evan. But for me, blindly following Him is not the answer. My father did not take the mark; Sirius would probably get himself killed before ever taking it. It is not the Black way, to kneel at the foot of another man. We have no betters."

Rupert’s eyes gleamed with a hint of admiration. "Yes, you Blacks are nothing without your convictions."

Regulus offered a small smile of gratitude, turning to Rupert. "And what about you, Rupert? Have you decided where your loyalties lie?"

Rupert’s lips curled into a sly grin. "With power, Regulus,” he said. “With the power to shape our world according to my will."

Regulus’ brow furrowed in concern. "But at what cost, Rupert? I’ve read enough of the books in my library to know that type of magic always comes with a price."

Rupert shrugged nonchalantly as he spoke, "A price I'm willing to pay. I’ve been learning curses and hexes all my life. If I follow Him, I will be able to freely use the spells and rituals that I wish—even if they call for a bit of blood or bone. Besides, someone has to show those mudbloods and half-breeds their place."

Regulus's lips twisted, but before he could respond, they reached a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls gathered at the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Not wishing to be heard, their conversation came to an uneasy halt as they entered the small village. The weight of their decisions hung heavy in the air, each of them grappling more than they wished to let on with the paths laid out before them. Though their conversation ran cold, they were warm under their lush robes and confident in each other’s presence, long grown used to not fully understanding or agreeing with one another, and did not let it inhibit their time together. No, not now nor when they were 5 and squabbled over who got to ride Evan’s training broom first. Not when they were 7 and Regulus made Rupert cry because the younger teased that Evan loved his cousin more. Nor last summer, when Regulus found them kissing in the garden of the Lestrange’s manor following the Litha Ball.

A silent vow had been unanimously taken somewhere along the way between them squeezing together in Regulus’ bed on nights when the ghost of Evan’s father would not let the boy rest at home and gathering in Rupert’s bathroom so Regulus could patch him up with practiced healing skills far too advanced for someone so young. In the end, it never truly mattered what occurred in their lives. So long as they could reconfigure themselves back together it was alright. So, the well-thread trio stayed their words as they strolled through the enchanting streets of Hogsmeade. Where ancient cobblestones gleamed under the golden hues of the afternoon sun. Where quaint shops adorned with colorful awnings beckoned to them with promises of magical delights. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked pastries hanging out in the window of the Three Broomsticks. It mingled with the earthy scent of potions brewing at the nearby apothecary.

As they wandered deeper into the heart of the village, they found themselves surrounded by a mosaic of sights and sounds that seemed to dance to the whimsical tune of magic itself. Wizards and witches bustled about, their robes swirling with every step and turn about the shops, while the cheerful chirping of birds and beasts echoed from the down the road pet store. Each shop they passed boasted its own unique charm, from the whimsical displays of enchanted toys at Zonko's Joke Shop to the tantalizing aroma of sugary delights wafting from the windows of Honeydukes Sweet Shop. Even the buildings themselves seemed to pulse with life, their crooked chimneys exhaling plumes of colorful smoke that danced in intricate patterns against the azure sky. Everywhere they looked, there were wonders to behold and treasures to discover.

And as they reveled in the magic that surrounded them, they could not help but feel a sense of wonder and excitement overtake their lingering fears, filling their hearts with the boundless possibilities of the wizarding world. The wading through the bustling streets eventually led the fourth years to where a gaggle of their fellow students were waiting to enter a vibrant wizarding exhibition that had set up shop in the heart of the village. Intrigued, they cut the line without a word from their quietly disgruntled other students and entered the enchanted tent adorned with swirling colors and emitting ethereal music. Under a strong extension charm, the large inside was filled with the aroma of magical herbs and the soft hum of spellwork. Evan’s eyes widened as they perused the glass displays of ancient artifacts, each with a fascinating tale to tell on a placard before it. Regulus, known for his affinity with potions, found himself drawn to a section showcasing rare ingredients and writings on innovative brewing techniques.

Their exploration led them to a captivating performance area where a skilled wizard demonstrated the art of transfiguration. Rupert stood captivated as he watched in awe as the wizard who commanded the exhibit altered his head to become that of any magical beast that was called out by the audience right before their eyes. As the display continued, they stumbled upon a booth featuring an enchanted mirror that claimed to reflect sights of the future. Intrigued by the allure of even a glimpse at what was to come, the boys readied themselves to try it out. The trio approached the booth with eager anticipation, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished cobblestones of the exposed street beneath their brogue shoes .

They joined the line of eager patrons separated behind a giant velvet purple rope, with heavy silver curtains draped around the stall obscuring the mirror from full view. The air around them crackled with anticipation, each person awaiting their turn with bated breath. From what they could see, the mirror itself stood at the center of the booth, its frameless surface gleaming with an otherworldly sheen that seemed to draw them in like moths to a flame. Before it, a pale wooden platform levitated a foot off the ground, adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to come alive as they gazed upon them. Tiny fairies danced in mesmerizing circles, their delicate wings sparkling as if caught in sunlight, clearly enchanted by some unseen magic.

Evan glanced nervously at his companions from his place between the two. "I wonder what we'll see," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rupert’s eyes sparkled with excitement. "I can't wait to find out! Imagine—truly seeing our futures laid out before us, clear as day."

Regulus’ tone was a bit more muted as he said, "I'm not sure I believe in all this fortune-telling nonsense.” Crossing his arms over his chest he went on, "But I suppose it can't hurt to give it a try."

Evan nodded, though a hint of doubt surfaced in his eyes. "I just hope it doesn't show us anything too weird," he admitted, his voice tinged with unease.

As they edged closer to the front of the line, the excitement weaving around those around them became palpable. Other patrons chattered excitedly amongst themselves, speculating about what they might see in the mirror's reflection. As they watched on, each person before them stepped onto the platform and their reflection distorting in the mirror's surface - revealing fleeting images only discernible when looked at head-on. Some gasped in awe, some let out a shocked cry, while others frowned in confusion. But all of their expressions were a testament to the tantalizing allure of what lay beyond. When at last it was their turn, the trio stood before the mirror with a mixture of emotions. Evan hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as he prepared to glimpse the path that lay ahead. Rupert’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, his mind already racing with visions of glory and conquest. And Regulus, ever the skeptic, approached with a furrowed brow, his doubts swirling like dark clouds in his mind.

One by one, they took a step forward as their time came in line, their hands unconsciously trembled ever so slightly in want to reach out to touch the mirror's surface. Regulus went first. As the reflection in front of him settled, he frowned, his features twisted in uncertainty as he thought "I'm not sure what to make of this.” He stood before an image that showed him standing proudly in the grand halls of a rebuilt Black Castle. The walls around him were adorned with banners bearing his family’s crest and name. And though he had seen bright colors in the reflections of others in line before him, Regulus’ only contained an unmoving, blanched and ashen image. When his time to step aside came, he could not shake the notion that his future, no matter how striking a legacy it would leave, would render him lifeless.

Evan eagerly stepped onto the podium when his cousin stepped aside. Evan gasped as he saw himself leading a group of wizards into battle, his body ablaze with power. "This is incredible!" he exclaimed in his mind, his eyes shining with excitement. When he looked deeper into the gold-lacquered mirror he saw himself older. He was a stunning figure dressed in inky black combat-robes he knew hung securely in the back of his father’s untouched closet. He was leading an animated group of formidable wizards in bone white masks into a fierce war. His wand was alight with a strong yellow glow and raised high in defiance. Although, all around him there were blotches of bright crimson swooping down and gobbling up his comrades. He quickly stepped away before he was the only one left.

Rupert’s distracted eyes were settled low as he watched Evan’s retreating back. Then, when his gaze floated up into the polished surface of the long mirror hanging off the stall’s back wall, his reflection refused to clear. Rupert remained silent, his brow furrowed in thought as he studied the bits and pieces he could make out. He saw brief flashes of himself surrounded by images that represented the power and influence of his birth. But even these glimpses of what already was were fleeting, elusive, and covered in a muted haze. Frustration gnawed at him as he struggled to make sense of the fragmented visions. A traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered, “Maybe this is as good as it gets for me?” With a shake of his head, Rupert turned away. In finality, he thought, "I’ll simply shape my own destiny.” His eyes glinted with resolve.

As Rupert stepped off the platform and joined his friends in a final look through the tent, all three of them silently regretted the internal gnawing that followed them after their brief glances at the mirror. The heaviness of their contemplation took up the space for idle chit-chat. As they were leaving the exhibition, each lost in their own thoughts, Evan looked down the road and caught sight of two other Slytherins exiting “J. Pippin’s.” He nudged Regulus and Rupert, drawing their attention to the approaching pair. From afar, they observed Severus and Peverell, their heads close together in conversation. Evan smirked knowingly, recognizing the familiar signs of budding affection between the two. He glanced at his companions, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he prepared to tease them about their newfound closeness.

But before he could speak, Regulus called out, his tone tinged with mischief as he broke the intimate bubble the two had formed. "Enjoying your day out, Sev?" he called out, his voice carrying across the bustling street.

Severus and Peverell turned at the sound of Regulus’ voice, their expressions shifting from surprise to discomfort as they realized they were being observed. Peverell’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation passing over his features as he took in the Slytherin trio. But he restrained himself from any action. Severus, on the other hand, looked to slightly tilt under a wave of discomfort. Though ever composed, he managed a polite but vague response before swiftly excusing himself, with Peverell making an eager escape, not even stopping for goodbyes as he followed suit. His steps quickening as he hurried after Severus, leaving behind the curious glances of their housemates.

As the three younger students continued walking—Regulus, Evan, and Rupert exchanged knowing looks, their amusement evident in their shared silence. Each using the sound of their playful banter to drown out their internal doubts and desires in the uncertain world that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

November 23, 1974

Each step Henry made carried him heavily through the village as he trailed behind Severus. He wanted to check-in on his friend but he didn’t know what to say. However, it wouldn’t matter if he had the words at all, as the shaken boy did not once acknowledged Henry’s attempts at neutrally interacting once they made it past the village gate. Severus kept his head buried into his scarf as his feet kicked up dust on the dirt road that led back to Hogwarts. This time on the wooded path, the evening air was rapidly moving through the nearby trees. It beat against their backs and seemed to weigh-down on Henry as much as his unspoken concerns. Severus, although usually reserved, was now noticeably quieter. It was as if the boy was attempting to pretend neither Henry nor himself existed.

And after going from the moment of connection they were experiencing to this, Henry felt greatly unsatisfied. In the drawn-out silence, their footsteps tauntingly echoed along the ground. The now dull sunlight played before them, casting shadows that Henry chose to concentrate on—rather than continue to be ignored or to examine the complexities of their evolving friendship. When they had finally reached the castle Henry offered to spend the rest of the day quietly keeping Severus company, thinking it better to spend their remaining time before curfew together. Even if said time was only used to irritability study in silence between the library’s hollow walls or to actively avoid the busy-bodies in their common room, Henry was happy at the thought of doing it with a friend.

Unsurprisingly, Henry’s offer was rejected. So, alone Henry walked through the dimly lit corridors of the castle. He did not have a destination in mind, he simply bid the other a final, “I had fun today,” as he calmly walked away. His feet carried him past rusted classroom doors, down cobwebed sewn halls, and up rickety moving stairs with the sure confidence that came from years of practice. Years of walking to class with friends—years of tiptoeing around to avoid Filtch with Ron and Hermione and years of sneaking from one adventure to the next with the others.

"I really did have fun," he mumbled to himself, the dry laughter in his repeated words echoed long and flat in the quiet corridor. It was hard, he found, to figure things out alone. Thinking back to the conversation he had over breakfast, Henry hoped that, if things with Severus failed, his talks with Avery and Aubrey would at least be a continued presence in his new life.

"But what now?” He whispered to himself as he looked out over the grounds from a windows high-above in some random tower. His words were laced with irritation as he absently ground bits of broken off stone onto the window sill, distractedly in thought. Hogwarts was meant to be a sanctuary, a place of learning and camaraderie. Yet, for Henry, it felt like he had long ago divested from its solace. He had finally gotten what he wanted—there was no “Boy Who Lived” here.

“But,” he sadly thought, “there also isn’t any of the things that made me Harry Potter either.” Here he was just Henry, even if he couldn’t make head-or-tails of what that was to mean. He went from a battle field to childish rumors, awkward encounters, and the wrongness of familiar faces. It all began to converge in his mind. None of it was new, he had dealt with entering a world strange to him before. He had faced things twice as hard with half the skills he now possessed. But Henry couldn't help but feel the sharp pang of longing for someone to confide in, for someone to share his secrets and truths with here. And he was afraid of this loneliness following him until the end of his days now. It was a sensation he hadn't fully acknowledged.

For months now, he had desperately attempted to sidestep the realization that he lacked a true friend at this Hogwarts. It carried a bitter note. Hogwarts, with its enchanting halls and hidden secrets, his home, was now a place where Henry felt like an outsider. Even when friends and foe had turned against him, at the very least he had always had his Hogwarts. With that though, he turned his back on the window’s view. As he meandered through the twists and turn of the school’s layout, Henry's mind drifted. He now knew that it was the aching absence of genuine connections that constantly tugged at the edges of his thoughts.

And it was the little things that were beginning to pile up in his mind. No, his friends were not here. But there was also no one around to convince him to ditch studying for the quidditch pitch. There was no one here who gently cornered him to offer a hug because they noticed he was feeling down. Here there were no exploding cauldrons, no wayward frogs, and no radishes placed with love under his pillow—even if he never figured out how they got there. It was all different and gone now. It felt all wrong to be here.

And yet, somehow when he looked up from his feet, he found himself in front of the portrait of “The Fat Lady.” The former Gryffindor prefect looked down at him from her painted place upon the wall. She was a dutiful guardian to the Gryffindor Tower, only granting entrance to those who produce the correct password. So he was not surprised when she looked up from her wine glass and called out, “You’re not one of mine, I’d have remembered that face. Shoo! Go away!”

“No,” he thought as his feet dragged him forward. “I’m not Harry Potter at all.”

He lost track of time as the gnawing pain in Henry's chest persisted. His mind swirled with questions, doubts, and an unsettling realization amongst it all—that he would have to find something to live for the summer and beyond. It all felt too much. He did not know what to make of himself here. No one was actively looking to him to save the world, but his knowledge of the future could stop this mess before it even began. He knew what it was that he wanted to do. He could save his parents, the lost Order of the Phoenix members who left this world just barely out of childhood, and the Death Eaters who thought they had no other options. With ties to nothing and no-one in particular here, he could build himself up to be a formidable third option. He could foster understanding, guide peace, and maybe even be happy on his own terms now.

“But how?” He thought.

The question stuck with him as he continued his solitary journey. He walked on until he stood facing the hidden entrance to his ”home” in the dungeons. Henry heaved a sigh before uttering the phrase that would allow him into the Slytherin common room. Once on the other side, the vastness of green and silver surroundings offered little relief. His thoughts roared in his ears louder than any conversation in the room as he trudged across the floor. Henry collapsed into a sete that sat kiddycorner to two couches in-front of the right reading nook. It was usually where he did his best thinking, at ease in the quiet moments of his new life. But now he sat batting down a tempest within. Blindly, his gaze was off towards his shoes in thought. He had a never before given element of surprise where he, more or less, knew more of what was going on than everyone else.

Things may have yet been turned to rubble, but he knew this peace was an illusion. And he was not foolhardy enough to believe he had everything under control. He knew that at any moment some unforeseen circumstance could knock his knowledge of the future off course. But for now he’d use what he could. It was not in him to ever be merely a bystander. Then and now he would protect this world he fell in-love with. This time he was beholden to none, so he figured he may as well not hold himself back at all. Yes, this time he refused to cast away the things he deemed worthy or to forsake what was important to him for a “greater good.”

He had learned that there was no “good” to be found in standing at a victory hollowed out, with only the bits of yourself you were able to hang onto along the way. The older, broken, Snape taught him at least that. The flickering flames in the active fireplace cast jarring shadows on his cast down face. His convictions twisted up his face and muddied his eyes as he grappled with the intricacies of building a web of alliances that would stand beside him against the looming darkness outside Hogwarts. The words of his godfather echoed in his mind, urging him to consider the shades of gray that blurred the boundaries between good and evil.

As he glanced around, Henry pondered the choices he knew could be made by some of the very students in this room—the young and yet to become Death Eaters. Each had their reasons, their histories, and their own struggles. The Slytherin common room incessantly buzzed with discussions about bloodlines, family ties, and the complex relationship between their parents choices. It often felt like a battlefield of ideologies, as none of them were insulated from the hell-storm beyond these walls.

“It’s gonna be dangerous,” Henry thought as his eyes followed the obscure forms swimming beyond the glass wall to his side. “But when has my life ever not been dangerous?” Grappling with the options available, he came to the decision that he would start by forming his own sect of power within the students to keep a semblance of peace where he lay his head. And after that? Well, Henry was not sure but he was not scared. He knew the Light would draw things out long enough for him to get a plan in place. The soft glow of the fire may have betrayed the turmoil within his eyes, but it was hard for him to feel fear of the Dark when at the end of the day he could just kill Voldemort again.

“It’s not like you’ll die,” a voice breathed beneath the sound of the sputtering flames. “Not until you want to.”

Implication he simply did not have the mental capacity to process now aside, Henry knew that he doesn’t want to. Though painful at times, he was beginning to create a place for himself here. He wanted to live long enough to see the flowers bloom in spring, and his parents wed, and Severus become truly happy. But for now he lacked the ability to pull together his ideas of just how to go about creating a third option in this war. One that was neither Dumbledore’s idealistic Light nor Voldemort’s destructive Dark. One where Severus was welcomed, who Henry had learned was more fragile than the bones of a bird. One where his roommates were allowed, who seemed to only know how to emulate their fathers, and reminded him sorely of a wet and bleeding Draco. Or even one for the Marauders, where Henry could reunite the Black heirs and maybe then Sirius stop frothing at the sight of him and Regulus would stop looking at him as if Henry salted his tart.

The increase in noise around the room brought him out of his thoughts as more students began to linger around in preparation for heading to dinner. Finding himself utterly exhausted and lacking the emotional regulation to entertain others, Henry made his way up the stairs towards his room when everyone else began to peel-out to head to the Great Hall. He had to little of an appetite to even feign eating and far too many thought swirling around his head to face the Great Hall. So even though Avery, who perked up at his roommates return, attempted to continue their conversation from the morning, Henry was not for it. Upon entering their shared room, he lumbered over to his bed and face-planted into the sheets—breathing deeply until Avery’s voice faded into nothing and his eyelids slowed.

The last of his sluggish thoughts went to trying to understand why Death was humorously whispering the words to “Ephesians” as he jovially critiqued Henry’s schemings, “For what better weapon was there, than the child of your enemy.”

Chapter Text

November 24 - December 7, 1974

Once he regained consciousness, the week passed as expected—with semi-interesting classes, Severus’ attitude, and the odd whispers and looks from some of the other students. The only surprise came when Aubrey returned to their room a day earlier than promised, on Thursday. After his roommate’s dramatic appearance and the fanfare from the other students died down, he sat the boy down and offered a pure-blood’s apology. As stated in “The Art of Speech: From Wizard to Wizard” by Eradogen Kama, this came in the form of an aged bottle of elf-made wine he had owl’ed over from his vaults along with his monthly statements.

While in contact with the goblins, he also requested for them to go through the properties in his possession and vet which one would be viable for him to move into come June. He gave them leave of the funds required to clean, repair, and ward a chosen property. His only request was that it was something modest and had a living garden of both the edible and potions variety—or at least the space to grow one. Once he had that vein of ideas started, it struck Henry to have a few off-the-books portkeys created to give out to a select few, if his shabbily made plans went right. More than anything else, his time on the run taught him that a safe place, with a quick and quiet means to access it, was invaluable.

“But that part is a ways off,” he thought as he returned to his dorm following the second Quidditch match of the season. Henry entered his room and was met with the sight of Aubrey and Avery, as they sat around in their dorm. In itself, this was not out of the norm—Slytherin had won, people were milling about in celebration, and he had grown friendlier with the two than he’d ever have expected. So despite the late hour, it was now common for him to actively engage with them. Yes, them looking up to greet him when he entered the room was normal.

But the jerkily nervous energy blatantly tainting their magic was not. As Henry’s routine of being in 1974 formed, even for a weekend, this was the time of day when Henry would rest and finish the odd ends of assignments before collecting himself for bed. Normally, if he had nothing to do, he’d spend this time reading alone at his desk or in bed. Occasionally, he would practice spell-work, but he was keeping up fairly well in his courses and enjoyed the downtime to learn about magical culture. Up until Aubrey’s attack, the two boys he lived with had kept a respectful passivity to their interactions.

These were the first heirs of old houses, with their lives and alliances already laid before them. They had more important things to consider than getting along with a roommate, so they respected his name for what it was and left it at that. They lived together cordially but did not go out of their way to seek one another out. But as they lived together longer, it went unsaid that each other’s presence was welcome to open engagements such as study tables and the like. Even during that first month when the rest of his house was hounding him about the details of his upbringing, as subtly as they knew how, his roommates remained aloof.

It was a comfortable balance that they struck that had only grown fonder. Between Avery’s snark and Aubrey’s easygoing attitude, Henry enjoyed coming back to this room every night. So as Henry began to put his things from the day away, he decided to let whatever this was play out—paying them no mind as he closed the room’s door. He left his robe and jumper hanging over the back of his desk chair and casually settled into the padded seat.

Henry had just collected his current reading, “An Appropriate Occasion to Fête” by Izar and Ezra Carrow, when Avery nervously called out to him, “Peverell, a word?”

“Yes?” Henry said without looking up from where he was thumbing through the little mint green book in his hand as he swallowed a petulant sigh.

“How about you share a drink with us?” Aubrey faux-excitedly cut in as Avery seemed to shift uncomfortably in his own desk chair. Henry turned to give the two his full attention after a moment. For the life of him, he could not figure out what this was about. But with the unease coming off the two, as Aubrey adjusted his position on his bed for the fifth time since Henry walked in the room, Henry knew it could not be good.

Donning his lion’s bravery, with a shrug of his shoulders, Henry accepted the little glass of spell-chilled wine that Aubrey retrieved from a hidden compartment of his trunk before receiving a reply. It was a shimmering thin liquid that smelled of spiced raspberries and left a staticky feeling behind in his mouth. And as their sips of the liquor poured down their throats, words eased down their tongues. It was mostly benign conversation—a bit of gossip and excitement over the other two’s holiday plans of travel, before there was a snag.

“What is your intent with the half-blood?” Avery asked with such seriousness that Henry had to catch himself on a laugh around the warming liquid in his mouth.

“I—what?” The topic of Severus Snape was so out of left field that Henry could not think of a better response.

“People are beginning to talk,” said Aubrey as he shifted off of his elbows to sit upright against the headboard of his bed.

“People are—talk about what?” Henry did not have to fake the confusion he felt. He knew that Bertram Aubrey was worse than that gossip of a girl, Pansy Parkinson, in his time. The boy spent the better part of his day fluttering through the houses telling tales, but Henry wasn’t expecting this to come of it. Just yesterday, before he left to collect Severus from his final Friday class, Henry heard Aubrey enthusiastically holding court in the common room, telling them how “Avery took down the Gryffindor riffraff with only a handful of spells.”

“My ear is always to the ground, you know,” Aubrey said with a nervous laugh. “So even if I was gone for a bit, I always know what’s going on within these walls and well—people have noticed your interest in that boy.”

“And?” Henry asked as he allowed himself to relax backward onto an arm on the desk's edge. He felt it as the liquid in his stomach shifted and warmed with his movements. But all the while, his calm demeanor was doing a great job of hiding the spin his thoughts had taken on.

“And,” Avery stressed from his place across the room, “you should pick up a better plaything. Or at the very least, be more discreet. I mean honestly—" The scoff the boy gave was so hard, Henry was surprised he didn’t throw out his throat. “Defending him in public was bad enough without you waiting on him like some courting damsel. The boy is brilliant, I’ll give you that—but have some decorum, Peverell.”

“I get it, these stuffy heiresses we were betrothed to are more boring than a damp cloth! But seriously, Snape?” Aubrey’s laugh was far more genuine now, but his body was no more still as he took to idly toying with the empty frost-etched glass in his hands. “I know some of us like to slum it every now and then, but perhaps you should openly pursue someone with a better name—better hygiene, at the very least? I’ve been with a few mudblood blokes myself, but I’d be terrified that my dick would fall off going anywhere near him.”

“Oh,” was all Henry could think to say. The outrageousness of this conversation and the liquor in his veins were the only things keeping his temper in check. Taking his silence as attentiveness, the other two continued their childish attempts at persuasion.

“Subtlety is key here, Peverell. I’ll admit, even the halfblood’s have their enjoyable uses,” said Avery as he sat his glass down to settle his elbows on his knees with his thumbs interlaced beneath his chin. The smirk hidden behind his long fingers was clear in his voice. “But have you honestly not been taught that these things should be done in the dark?”

“Yeah,” Aubrey tacked on in liquor colored words. “You’re a decent bloke. But you’re new, and so far you’ve been kind enough to us. But you’re causing all kinds of words to spring about! So—so, we want to look out for you.”

The terrible thing about all of this was that, in their own terribly twisted way, Henry knew they were. These were boys with silk underthings and only monogrammed robes. They had betrothal contracts sitting in Gringotts vaults before they took their first steps. They were taught that the sun rose from the east, Merlin was laid to rest in the west, and their recycled names made them superior. What use was someone with “lesser” blood in a world of ever-growing blood politics, besides a tool to be used?

While these heirs were too young to enter the political arena or take over their father’s dealings just yet—they had access, and an abundance of hormones, to figure out at least one use for their schoolmates with muggle blood in their veins. With all this on his mind and more than a few glasses in, the most solid thought that Henry was able to vocalize was, “It’s not like that—we’re not—I’m not fucking Severus!”

“Oh,” Aubrey said without missing a beat, “do you want to?”

Aubrey’s question was asked with the same ease that Henry had found the young heir lived all of his life. Aubrey laughed and sauntered through the castle like a bright raven. He was generous with his presence and carefree with his words. But these words lingered even after Henry’s roommates dropped the conversation with stammered laughs, spilled drinks, and a parting warning of caution. But as winter truly settled in, Henry found Aubrey’s words falling like snow into his thoughts. They collected into heavy banks that he pushed to the edges of his every interaction with Severus. Throughout the weeks, they crept like frost covering the near windows as he sat with Severus in the library. They skated through his mind as the two bundled up and did their weekend rounds of the lake.

Henry did not know how to fully process them as they fissured the fragile understanding he had come to of his place here. He knew he wanted to use his time here to ensure that the future he came from never comes to exist. He knew that every night he checked that the bezoar wrapped in cloth was still settled at the bottom of his trunk. He knew that his heart held so much fear and longing at times it felt like it would break apart. And times like this, with Severus looking up at him from where he knelt at the frigid water's edge to place a bit of plant matter in his hand-me-down satchel, he felt things. Henry didn’t understand all the things he felt, more-so he was too frightful to examine them, but he knew that he wanted to make sure that Severus lived a life that didn’t end in the man bleeding out painfully on some dusty floor.

Henry knew that he didn’t understand why his heartbeat skipped when his gaze lingered a bit too long on Severus' lips—but he knew that his kiss with Cho was only memorable for being wet, and Ginny’s was bittersweet. And neither of them had filled his thoughts and curiosities the way that Severus does—the way that Draco and Cedric did. But they, and everyone else, were gone. And he was here, standing at the Great Lake's edge with a boy who filled his belly with more syrupy ardor than the elven wine. As he stood there looking over Severus, for once his thoughts weren’t consumed by merpeople, grindylows, or yet-made ghosts. No, he was watching snowflakes clump to Severus' long eyelashes as the boy marveled over how, “The pickerelweed was lasting through the first winter winds.”

Henry looked over Severus’ huddled body, bundled up to his eyes in a soft wool scarf, as the boy prattled on. Severus’ muggle coat, laden with warming spells he allowed Henry to place on him under duress, hugged his thin shoulders and dusted the ground over his bent knees. Everything the boy had on underneath, from his jumper to his pants, was purchased with gold from the Peverell vault and Severus was none the wiser. But Henry wanted to tell him. He wanted to buy the boy more. Henry wanted to lavish the boy until his cheeks filled out, and his shoulders stood high, and he wanted for nothing in this world. Henry wanted to protect the fragile potential saw behind Severus’ eyes in times like this, when the boy was genuinely happy and distracted by his own excitement, because Henry knew for certain it would irreparably break apart once battered by the world. And he couldn’t stand the thought. He wanted more days like this.

Henry wanted more time to see what Severus’ smile looked like amongst the spring rains and the summer sun. He might not want to fuck Severus, even if the thought lingered behind his closed eyes when he settled into bed at night, but he wanted to care for him. Henry wanted to show Severus that in this world there was warmth, comfort, and safety meant for him. The thought of doing so with his own two hands, of stealing the other away and sheltering Severus into himself, always gave Henry an unexplainable thrill. And oh, how he would. If he was honest with himself, and the ever-listening shadows, then he’d go as far as to say doing so might even settle that ever aching part in his soul.

Growing lightheaded, it was the mental image of a Severus allowed to be lush, pampered, and soft that brought a blinding smile to his face. Airily, Henry watched the other shake the cold out of his hand after placing his knife kit away. “Oh,” Henry thought, “you need gloves!”

“I have gloves, Peverell, but they are made of thick cotton and are of no use to me collecting herbs.”

Laughing from his own lack of brain-to-mouth filter, as he was feeling high off the thrill of his circulating thoughts, Henry looked at his friend who rose to just below nose height. The gloves Severus removed from his pocket after standing were threadbare and restitched in a sport or two. They looked flimsy and unable to stop a bit of cold - something in Henry hated them. That at this was the best the boy had to wear. When he finally had the other's attention, he said, “I know what I want to do for you for Christmas.”

“You want to get me gloves?” Severus dryly questioned.

“No—well, I’m definitely getting you some good working gloves,” Henry giddily started. “But I want to, well—I’ve thought of something you’ll surely hate,” Henry said with a laugh of unbridled joy. The thoughts of a Severus doused in his attentions that flickered through his mind alone were enough to soar his spirits and stutter his higher brain-functioning—even as Severus’ face fell in confusion.

Chapter Text

December 7, 1974

“You wish to get me something that I’ll hate for Christmas?” Severus deadpanned. “How about you spare your coin and my pride?”

“Just listen—“

“I would if you possessed the ability to put together an intelligent thought,” Severus sneered as he began to turn for the castle. “And I do not do gifts, so you’ll be sorely disappointed if you think this foolishness will be reciprocated.”

Mindful not to touch the other too quickly, Henry reached out to gingerly take Severus’ cold wrist between his own gloved fingers. “That’s fine because I want us to do something together. Well, really, I want to do something for you,” Henry said as his friend scoffed at the smile still lopsidedly hanging off his face. “But I know if I tell you what it is now you’ll say no before giving it any thought.”

“That’s because I seem to do the thinking for the both of us, Peverell.”

Unbothered by Severus’ griping or the limb snatched out of his hand, Henry jokingly asked, “Can you stop being an ass for long enough to tell me if you’ll be staying over for winter hols?”

“Why,” Severus began, “so you can plan out exactly how you’ll be embarrassing me?”

“I’m not going to embarrass you. That’s not to say that it might not be a little—awkward?”

“Are you asking me?!” Severus said as he felt his blood pressure begin to rise in his disbelief.

“No! It’s just—I know you, Severus.” Henry’s words were interrupted by the loud sound of irritably sucked teeth. “I do,” he carried on, “and I know you’ll like it. Well, I’m hoping you will.”

“Which is it, Peverell?” Severus mocked, “Will this asinine idea of yours be something I like or not?”

Coming to a resolve, Henry straightened to his full height; he had unconsciously taken to hunching down in a bid to not stand so tall over his flighty friend. But now he peered down to meet the other’s eyes head-on and said, “Well, we won’t quite know until you give it a chance, now will we? You should know me well enough by now to know that I’d never intentionally cause you even the any harm.”

Looking away, Severus hissed out under his breath, a terse, “You can never know anyone enough,” before speaking up. “And what would ‘giving this a chance’ imply—in detail?”

“All I’m asking for is a day together.” Thinking quickly about how realistic his ideas were, he quickly added, “We won’t even be in the common room so you don’t have to worry about there being anyone else around.”

“And just where will we be?” Severus asked.

“Have you heard of the Room of Requirement, the Come-And-Go-Room? It’s also known as—“

“The Room of Hidden Things? Regulus told me about this place once. His father had frequently made use of it but refused to tell him where it was, said Regulus had to find it himself like he did,” said Severus as he took a slow breath in.

“Well, the room itself, can be anything. When I’ve gone to it before, I asked it to give me a place where I won’t be disturbed. And—well, that’s where I want to take you. It’s a hidden place in the castle that I found, and I want to show it to you.”

“That’s all, some secret classroom you’ve stumbled across?” Severus skeptically asked.

“It’s not just—,” Henry nervously began as he shuffled his hands into the pockets of his heavy winter robes. “I want us to spend the day together there. The house-elves can bring our meals there; they’ve done it for me before, and we can—I want to—“

“Spit it out, damn it!” Severus snapped as the frosty wind began to pick up around them.

“I—I just want to do something nice for you,” Henry said, embarrassingly hoping his soft words would be swallowed by the wind before they reached the others’ ears. When he looked up, Henry saw Severus’ face rapidly cycling through several contrasting emotions before the boy simply closed his eyes and let go a shuddering breath.

In the space between them, the snow quietly fell. Making no outward showing of his thoughts, Severus remained painfully placid when he opened his eyes and asked, “How do you intend to ‘do something nice for me’?”

Henry could feel his cheeks heat up in spite of the chill clinging to them. He stammered a bit more over his words as he attempted to get his thoughts out in the least threatening way possible. After a bout of removing his hands from his pockets only to hastily shove them back inside in nervousness, he found his words.

“I mean it, the Room of Requirement is charmed to become anything you desire. It can be a cozy bedroom—" at the look of abject horror on Severus’ face, Henry was quick to add "or even your favorite park. I was hoping you’d go there with me and spend the day together. No one would miss us since most of our house will be going home.” But after being met with Severus’ still unsettled gaze, he rushed out, “But specifically—I was hoping you’d let me—do your hair?”

The thought had been with him since Henry sat across from Severus at The Three Broomsticks and watched as the other nervously took to playing with a bit of hair that hung around his ears. Often when Henry’s mind had time to wander, it drifted to how Severus tugged on it when frustrated and tucked it away when excited. But what Henry fixated on now was how the boy hid behind it. How he used it to obscure his eyes that Henry found himself desperate to seek. In his nervous excitement, Henry simply watched as those brilliant black eyes pinched closed in another prolonged blink.

Again, Henry noted the snowflakes as they swirled around them as Severus’ inky eyelashes settled on his pale cheeks. One by one, little pieces of icy crystal cluttered the air between them. The shining bits swept across the step between them that was rapidly being filled with Severus’ rising magic. Henry was unabashedly staring at Severus’s face, so he saw the precise moment when Severus’ eyes reopened. If Henry was honest, the ire gleaming back at him was to be expected, the boy had no emotional regulation. But having to dodge a lashed-out purple spell that made the primordial being that was affixed to his consciousness cackle came as a genuine surprise.

“Severus?” Henry frantically questioned as another hex, this one statically orange, scattered noisily across the outside of his hastily erected shield. Confident in his charm’s strength, Henry allowed his friend to tire himself out by casting spell after spell to challenge the protective magic’s durability. However, Henry was not arrogant enough to doubt Severus’ strength. So his magnolia root wand was out, but not raised, just in case, as he once again called out to his friend.

“Severus, would you just wait a second?!” Despite Henry’s efforts, the barrage of colorful spellwork did not stop. He was uncertain, but Henry thought he could make out a breathy, “I should have never been so foolish as to—“ between Severus’ panted casting. Not wanting either of them to end up hurt, Henry withstood the attacks until he spotted an opening.

More than mildly impressed with Severus’ repertoire, as the other swallowed a breath before shifting from one statically red spell to whatever he planned to come next, Henry used his growing command of the shadows. The dull black mass puttered across the thin layer of snow from where the late afternoon sun stretched them out behind Severus before striking. It tethered him from ankle to knee and then tightly yanked his two legs together so that when he went to cast his next spell, Severus jerkily toppled over and fell directly onto Henry’s cushioning charm.

Severus thrashed upon the cold ground for several long minutes, pulling at the magical bindings and flailing his wand before his body went limp with exhaustion. Henry could not see his eyes, as Severus’ sweat-damp hair messily clung to his face. But Henry could make out his mouth, bitten red and pushing out heavy breaths that sank into the winter air when his lips parted to say, “I must applaud you, Peverell. You’ve really shown restraint in your waiting until now. What was it that finally wore you thin? What was it that forced your hand to finally humiliate me?”

“Finally?! The hell are you talking about, mate?!” Henry asked, his earlier thoughts of laughter and softness broken apart by the pain ebbing through his chest. “You think I’ve just been—what? Waiting around for some grand opportunity to say, ‘Sike! All this has been pretended, I don’t actually care about you’? How incredibly selfish of you! Why don’t you take into consideration that I have feelings too? I like—”

Henry cut himself off with a tight snap of his jaw, untrusting of his tongue in his ire. And he refused to make such a confession between bouts of an argument, but for them, he could not help but think it would be par for the course. When Severus made no move to answer him, completely still and messily splayed out, Henry allowed his legs to give out. His harsh breathing began to slow as his bum took on the cold of the semi-frozen-over dirt below. He cared not for neither the wetness seeping into his slacks nor the chunky mud squishing around his right shoe. In this moment, all he cared about was how clearly he had gotten something wrong.

To no one in particular, Henry said, “This is my fault. I should have realized by now that direct conversation is never the go with you.” He could feel the puffy snow landing upon his cheeks as he sat with his face turned up to the sky; they were also beginning to build upon his forehead, but he could not be bothered to wipe them off. Too tired to figure out how best to fix this, Henry just went with the truth. The thought that made all of this an idea in his mind to begin with, “My best friend was a muggle-born girl.”

“Well, actually, we didn’t really know what she was, but she was Muggle-raised all the same. She was adopted, you see. And by some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. They encouraged her every skill, minded her faults, and loved her unconditionally.” Here, Henry took a moment to sit with his memories before breaking the silence. “When I first met her, she could be described as the bookish sort. With frizzy, untamable dark hair, brown eyes, and teeth that she eventually grew into.” With a lost little laugh, Henry said, “She hated her hair. Her parents gave her their best, it just simply didn’t include the knowledge of how to care for the thick and wild hair of a little Black girl.”

He allowed himself to miss Hermione deeply as he told a still idle Severus, “Her mother’s best attempts were to wash it daily and brush it out often, which ruined her natural curls. It wasn’t until the summer before we turned 14 that she finally realized she can’t go to her two White parents for everything—including how to take care of herself.” He found himself caught up in reminiscing about his dearest friend, hunkered over a table in the Gryffindor common room with Angelina Johnson and Lee Jordan, taking vividly detailed notes on porosity, protective styling, and curl patterns. As always, he learned a lot from her. “She’s the reason why even now I use a clarifying shampoo and amla oil to help with this hair I inherited from before my family was from the isles.”

Without even a twitch of his hand, Henry recalled the pall bindings and remorsefully noted how a shiver racked Severus’ frame as his magic pulled away. He suddenly felt exhausted. It took some time, where they both just laid there on the cold ground, before Henry heard Severus gather himself on his feet but didn’t look over. He knew Severus was about to run away again. He knew that he could argue or fight for Severus to say, to listen—but instead, Henry used the last of his steady thought to say, “I don’t want to fight with you, Sev. I just wanted to show you some things I thought might work for your hair type. I like your hair.” Then after a beat, “I—I really like you.”

After Henry admitted that, he felt as if the world fell silent. There were no hastily retreating footsteps or mocking replies. Just silence. And perhaps that was for the best, as Henry was less likely to catch any response right now anyway. No, not when Henry’s words replayed in his mind like a shot ringing through the dead of night. Not while Henry’s heart was about to beat right out of his chest. He had taken a chance and now all he could do was wait as his irritated eyes traced the azure sky above.

But for all his fear, all Henry was met with was a quick and scathing reply. “Get up,” Severus said. “We’re going in now. And should we fall sick, it will be your fault.”

Henry’s breath left him in a rush. When it returned, Henry surprised himself to that that he was laughing. Nothing about this was funny, but all the pant up energy in him had to go somewhere, he figured. Flicking a drying spell over both of them, Henry caught his breath and simply muttered, “Alright, Sev.”

“Honestly,” Severus scoffed as he walked away before Henry even made a motion to get to his feet. “How you got sorted into Slytherin I’ll never understand, with foolish thoughts like that. You think I’ll just allow you to treat me as some pet?”

“No, Sev,” Henry said as he trailed behind.

“No?” Severus’ words were accented by the breaking of brittle leaves and twigs as the boy stomped across the grounds and up towards the castle’s entrance. “You think I’ll just sit there and let you do whatever you fancy to me?”

The words were laced with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. Henry watched him, his chest heavy with a tumult of conflicting emotions.
Severus' anger was still palpable, a volatile energy crackling around him like summer storm. But beneath the surface bravado, Henry detected a flicker of fear—a fear that mirrored Henry’s own insecurities and doubts. Henry did not respond, as he knew not what to say. So things fell uneasily quiet between them as they moved further on from the tranquil shores of the Black Lake.

The cool mist from the water clung to the air, harshening the wind that nipped at their exposed skin. The path meandered through the Hogwarts grounds, bordered by towering trees whose branches reached out like gnarled fingers, what was left of their stubborn leaves rustling softly in the gentle breeze. The occasional shaft of sunlight pierced through the dense clouds above, offering them moments of warmth. As Henry walked, the sounds of life enveloped him—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, and the gentle laughter of students echoing in the distance. He enjoyed how even now, in their corner of the world’s dead season, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the tang of magic.

Severus' words hung in the air that was thick with unspoken truths and unresolved wanting. And Henry occasionally felt the weight of Severus' gaze upon him as he kept his eyes distant—a silent challenge that dared him to confront the depths of their relationship. The weight of Severus’ eyes grated on his nerves in its taunting. It was as if the boy was asking Henry to make the worst of himself. Inside the castle, they shook off lingering snow and Henry reapplied a few heating charms without a word. Though tempted, he did not stray from his path. He walked alongside Severus until they reached the part of the castle where the candles worked harder and the stones took on a moist sheen. Deeper in the heart of Hogwarts, the towering spires and turrets of the castle loomed overhead like silent guardians. He felt his anxiety rise as they stepped into the dungeons. He was afraid that this continuously in contention thing was all that they would ever be. He hated the thought that he would not be able to do enough to change Snape’s outcome.

“Fuck that,” Henry thought, “I wasn’t placed in Gryffindor for nothing.” In that moment, Henry was fed up with Severus’ righteous anger routine. He realized that their bond was forged not only by shared experiences but also by a shared sense of instability. With neither of them having had the most stable of social relationships, it was a fragile thread that bound them together. It was constantly teetering on the edge of collapse yet somehow resilient in its fragility. With a steadying breath, Henry braced himself for what he was about to do next. Between the abandoned classrooms and shadows, Henry reenacted their first serious conversation by gently shoving Severus into the next alcove they passed.

“No, Sev.”

“What, Peverell?” Severus spat as he angrily knocked against Henry’s body in an attempt to flee.

Henry used his slightly bigger build to force Severus backward until the younger’s back collided with cool brick. “You asked me if I expected you to ‘sit there’ and let me ‘do whatever’ to you. No, Sev. You’re wrong.”

“Then what?” Severus asked, their puffing breaths mixing as he huffed out his words. “You’ll ‘do my hair’ like I’m some motherless whelp? Like I’m some child in need of minding? You will not—”

“Would it be so bad?” Henry’s softly but genuinely asked words brought the other’s tirade to a stop. Against his better judgment, he allowed his hand to raise and play with the ends of the damp strands of hair hanging by Severus’ jaw. “Would it honestly be that terrible to let me care for you, like this?”

Severus hesitated, his stormy eyes flickering with a mixture of frustration and uncertainty. He clenched his jaw and unintentionally brought his skin in contact with Henry’s twiddling fingers. Severus searched for the right words to convey the tumult of emotions swirling within him. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with a raw edge, “You’re mad.”

Henry felt a pang of disappointment but also a flicker of hope. Beneath Severus' harsh tone, he saw vulnerability, a crack in the façade of indifference Severus had meticulously built. The tension between them hung thick in the air, a silent battle of wills veiled beneath their outward exchange. Henry knew he was treading on fragile ground, but he was determined to break through Severus' defenses and reach the heart that lay buried beneath. Grasping at any respite from his mounting heartache, Henry’s mind easily brought forth a handful of words quoted from one of the little books Hermione read to them in that damned tent. “Aye, bonkers. Off my head. But I’ll tell you a secret, all the best people are mad.”

“You’d look ghastly in powder-blue,” Severus deadpanned.

“Not as bad as Dumbledore.” Neither of them fully committed to not letting out a laugh. It brought their heads closer together as they both had slightly bent forward and Henry’s hand fell to cup Severus’ cheek. He could not feel the other’s skin through his glove, but Henry bet it was soft. Just as he bet that the chapped lips mere inches from his own would be warm and sweet. Henry found his body moving forward all on its own, but at the slightest brush of skin Severus froze. Henry’s intentions were never to push Severus into anything he was not enthusiastically interested in. So, with one lingering swipe of his right thumb beneath Severus’ left eye, Henry breathed in the other in one final time as he stepped away.

“I’ll just be—over there,” Henry says as he makes his way to the mouth of the alcove. “Take your time.”

“This is a mess,” Henry thought out in the hall as he heard Severus take several deep breathes and the soft shifting of fabric, before he was rejoined by the other. Silently they moved on and Henry felt more unsettled than ever. It had not been Henry’s intention to kiss Severus. Although, he didn’t think it would be bad. It was just that Severus had been worked-up, and loud, and wrong. And Henry had just wanted the boy to be cared for, and soft, and his.

“Well,” Henry mentally realized as he pointedly looked at everything that wasn’t Severus, “that’s a revelation.” He pondered what that would look like, being with someone who had the same bits as himself. Although he roomed with Dean and Seamus, Henry had pointedly look the other way when the two disappeared together behind closed bed-curtains and shadowed tapestries. So, even though he was sure he knew the the gist of it, he’d need to owl order a book on the finer details—for research purposes. He wanted to be prepared if Severus would give their growing “whatever this was” a chance to be.

After what felt like an eternity to Henry, they arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Without looking back, Henry moved forward to say the phrase that would transform this blank wall into a grand stone archway adorned with serpentine carvings. But before he could get out a word, Severus gave a pointed cough.

With a deep sigh, Henry’s heavy-lidded eyes looked over, “Yes?”

Severus was not looking at him. Instead, the boy stared anxiously down the hall and said, “I’ve always stayed in the castle over the breaks. My mother insists. It’s—“ he trailed off into a soft nothing.

“Okay,” Henry said, as he took in the other’s upturned nose and pulled back shoulders, and took the words for the tentative olive branch that they were. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together, Sev. And I promise not to overstep; I just want to take care of you.”

“Utter foolishness.”

For some odd reason, Henry felt himself wanting to nose at the growing color that was high on Severus' cheeks. To keep himself from doing right by the other's words, Henry talked, “Aye. But I don’t think that’s so bad.”

“We’ve yet to see,” Severus said, just meeting his eyes. He then gave himself a self-satisfied nod before moving past Henry to activate the hidden entrance. As Henry followed Severus through the archway and emerged from the sparsely lit hallway, a surge of conflicting emotions flooded his senses. With each step forward, Henry felt the weight of their unspoken truths pressing down on him, threatening to suffocate him with their intensity. The air crackled with anticipation, charged with the yearned promises and ignored fears that hung between them like a fragile webs from the high ceiling.

As they ventured deeper into the common room, Henry couldn't help but wonder what awaited them on the other side of this barely made decision. Would it harbor solace and understanding, or be a labyrinth of uncertainty and heartache? Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: Henry had traveled through time and space to be here, at Severus’ side. So they were bound together by a destiny, even if it were one that he couldn't yet comprehend—their fates entwined in ways they couldn't begin to imagine.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

December 24, 1974

Everything was ready; all of his orders arrived on time. Even the last-minute change he requested from “Thatcher & Reeds Beauty Elixirs,” because Death only casually mentioned that Severus was allergic to elderberry after Henry ordered their full line of shampoo, conditioner, and a style preservative in that scent. Henry had every tool, potion, and salve he thought they might possibly need. He had previously wrapped Severus' other presents and sent off his purchases to the Room of Requirement last night, so he woke up this morning feeling weightless with elation reverberating from his chest.

He had wanted to wait and do this tomorrow, have it be a proper celebration and all. But Henry just knew that their absence wouldn’t go unnoticed. When he went to add his name to the list of students staying over the hols, he saw that too few students planned to stay over break and there would be too many scrutinizing eyes for them to forgo the “Christmas Dinner Feast” altogether. And if everything went as it should, he had no plans of returning Severus to the world by supper. So it was on Christmas Eve that he waited in the Slytherin common room a little after the slow winter sun settled itself in the sky.

He wished to give his friend time to sleep in and prepare himself, so they were supposed to meet downstairs a little after breakfast was served. And it turned out to be a well-thought decision, as it had taken him three outfit changes to feel put together enough to leave his room. Knowing that he would be sitting in whatever he wore for some time and that it was most likely to get wet at some point, he went for something casual—a plain white cotton shirt, loose-fitting jeans, and black trainers. It was a bit muggle, so he threw a long quarter-laced black robe over himself as he trailed out the door. Then, down in the common room, he waited. A handful of mostly younger years had already filtered through the room on their way out, each he greeted with a warmly received “Happy Yule.”

“I do feel so sorry,” thought Henry, “for all the people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.” In only the company of his mind, he sat at the first study table off from the stairs. His earlier excitement was beginning to take on the sharp edges of anxiety as a few other students passed but he had yet to catch sight of Severus. So, when no one had come down for some time, he took to reciting 1990s Quidditch statistics to keep himself still. He had just begun trying to recall if Scotland scored 220 or 240 points for the World Cup when he was greeted by Wilhelmina Alderton and Doris Gamp. They were two average-looking girls from “good stock” that Henry had unwittingly been informed were “putting distance from their families by staying over.” It was then, as he looked up to take in the two, that his friend came into view behind them.

Severus turned the corner, and if ever asked, on his life, Henry could not state when the two girls took their leave. The entirety of his attention was stolen by the dark-haired boy who was nervously stepping down the stairs. Severus wore a tailored charcoal robe that tapered in around the forearms and flared out at the waist. It was not dress-robe quality, but it was the finest wear that Henry had seen the other boy in. Beneath a row of silver buttons that trailed from neck to hip, Henry could see a black banded collar shirt that was tucked into sharply pressed black trousers. His hair was once again tucked behind his ears, but Henry could not see his eyes, as they were trained downward on the potted plant in his arms. But Henry could see Severus’ nervous smile - the way his lips quivered just slightly with apprehension. Severus descended the old, dark wood stairs with measured steps along the ancient runner rug that trailed beyond him. The carpet, once lush green, had faded over the years, its intricate patterns of intertwined snakes barely discernible under the dim light.

Severus' shoes, polished to a dull shine, left faint imprints on the olefin as he made his way down, his movements deliberate yet hesitant. Despite his attempt to appear composed, Henry could see the subtle tremble in Severus' shoulders, betraying the nervous energy Henry could feel pulsating through his magic. Henry saw how delicately Severus held the plant, as if afraid its pot might break at the slightest pressure. It was evident how hard Severus was trying to show up for this moment, to push past his own uncertainties and fears. And Henry found himself admiring the courage it took for his friend to be here, in this place, at this time. The closer the black-haired boy drew, Henry felt a familiar flutter of nerves in his chest. And as if Severus felt it too, he paused for a moment, his hand tightening around the painted gold terracotta, before finally mustering the courage to speak.

"Good morning," Severus greeted in a voice that was raspy despite the late morning hour. The words hung in the air between them unanswered. Henry's heart skipped a beat at the sight of Severus standing before him, the younger’s usual shield of confidence replaced by gentle caution. Caught off guard by the abrupt intensity he felt from the moment, Henry found himself momentarily tongue-tied, searching for the right words to say in response.

"Hello," Henry smartly landed on, his voice sounding awkward even to his own ears. He mentally cursed himself for not being more eloquent as he greeted Severus. Severus inclined his head in acknowledgment, the ghost of a teasing smile playing on his lips as he adjusted the weight of the plant cradled in his arms. There was a buzzing in the air as they stood facing each other, both unsure of how to proceed. Henry took a deep breath, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh.

"So, shall we exchange?" he suggested, hoping to ease the awkwardness that hung between them like a heavy fog. Severus nodded silently and handed Henry what was explained to be an Asphodel plant—its delicate white blossoms adding a touch of elegance to the somber surroundings. Severus went on to detail how he had been growing it for Professor Slughorn, an assignment that had long since been completed to great success. As he spoke, Henry heard his tone soften with a hint of self consciousness. But Henry was too busy adoring how Severus had actually gifted him something to be bothered by it. In return, Henry gently sat his new plant on a nearby table and presented Severus with two flat boxes wrapped in delicate silver paper and adorned each with a pale cream bow.

Henry watched with delight as Severus tore open the first box to see that it contained a sturdy winter cloak made of charmed wool and corduroy lining. When he saw it in one of the catalogs, Henry thought its rich midnight-black color would bring out a nice contrast to Severus’ pale-brown skin. The second box held black leather working gloves, their supple texture a testament to their quality and craftsmanship. To complete the ensemble, Henry included a matching shear-lined leather cossack-hat. He thought they would all pair well with the scarf Severus’ mother made and knowing how bitterly cold the winter winds could be, he wished for his friend to be well-protected on their walks.

Severus accepted them all, saying a hesitant “Thank you” so quiet that Henry only read it on his lips. After a moment where the two awkwardly danced around the silence that had fallen upon the room, they broke apart to put their respective presents away. Henry walked to his room, the soft glow of candlelight guiding his way. He carefully placed the Asphodel plant on his nightstand, the delicate vein structure in its petals casting intricate shadows on the wall. There was a moment when Henry lingered, caressing the leaves of the healing-herb producing plant after gently placing the pot on his nightstand. Even after stating that he would not give Henry a gift, the boy still went out of his way to prepare something. Henry recognized the pot itself as a standard one from the greenhouse. It was simply hand-painted with muggle acrylic paint. Even if this little flowering thing started its life out only for Severus’ assignment, Henry felt warmed at the care in which it made its way to him.

Meanwhile, Severus had returned to the common room after hurriedly stashing his presents on his bed. He leaned against the sturdy guide-rail of the stairs with his thoughts drifting as he admired the gifts given to him. It was such a novel experience that he had forgone for so long. Occasionally, when his mother found the time and money for yarn, he was given a gift handwoven by his mother. It was never wrapped, it never came with a fluffed-up bow, and it always bore his name written in his mother’s still well-trained scrawl. No, these were more like the handful of gifts he had received from Lily. Something practical and useful, that he had gone without by no choice of his own. Something that was carefully decorated and specially prepared for him. Something that, deep down, Severus could admit to himself he was wholly undeserving of. Years of poverty and neglect had instilled in him a belief that he was unworthy of such gestures of kindness.

Growing up in a rundown cottage with parents who struggled to make ends meet, Severus had learned to fend for himself from a young age. He had become accustomed to making do with the little he had, often going without basic necessities. He knew himself well enough to know this upbringing had hardened him, shaping him into a resilient individual who learned to survive on his own. But it also left him with a deep-seated insecurity, a nagging voice in the back of his mind that whispered he didn't deserve happiness or love. So, when faced with acts of generosity and care, like these lavish gifts from Henry, Severus couldn't help but feel unworthy—undeserving of such kindness. It was a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, let alone confront, but in moments like these, it lingered, casting a shadow over his gratitude and appreciation. As Severus pondered these thoughts, Henry descended the stairs with a buoyant step, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Severus,” Henry said, his voice breaking through Severus' reverie, "if you’re ready, we can go now."

With a gentle hand on Severus' lower back, Henry ushered him out of the common room. Together they set into the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, the anticipation of what lay ahead mingling with the warmth still cradling them from the common room's fireplace. The castle seemed to hush with a sense of tranquility as they walked, the soft glow of torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls. Paintings whispered cheerful holiday greetings as they passed between their subjects' animated conversations. While his chest clenched at the unknown he was willingly walking into, Severus found comfort in the familiar sights and sounds of Hogwarts. As they made their way down various halls and up many stairs, he couldn't help but feel a sense of calm wash over him, a fleeting moment of peace that he greatly accepted in the midst of his uncertainty.

“Wait here just a moment,” Henry said, breaking the comfortable silence that had enveloped them. Then, when it looked like Severus would object without taking in his words at all, he exasperatedly added, “Just—trust me. Okay?” With Severus at his side, Henry had walked the familiar path to the seventh-floor corridor by gentle memory until he brought them to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls. He left his friend there and closed his eyes and as he began to pace.

“I need a place to take care of Severus—I need a place to take care of Severus—I need a place to take care of Severus—I need-“ Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall as he mentally chanted. In his mind, he envisioned the same thing as he did when he previously came to set up for today. The mental picture of what he hoped would be a place of relaxation and comfort for Severus was a bathroom not unlike the ones in the Slytherin dorm. He wanted it just as grand and just as capable of fulfilling the boy's every need. Though, unlike the dark and dramatic scheme found there, the one he pictured was draped in warm golden light and soft welcoming colors. He heard the tell-tale sign of heavy stones grinding against themselves as they reformed into a door, then he opened his eyes. There it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry gently pulled the ornately carved wooden door open and looked over his shoulder towards his stiff-standing friend.

Severus held the older boy’s eye for a moment before looking past him to try and glimpse at what lay beyond the door. Although all he could make out was glaring sunlight. He prided himself on being ever prepared and thus had years before studied every hall, passage, and other means of escape this old castle contained. It was for that reason alone he stayed his step at this never-before-seen door that Henry had pulled into being. Even in talking with Regulus and Evan, this “Room of Requirement” was a mystery. And Severus hated mysteries. When he accepted that his only method of discerning what would happen next was to walk forward, he steadied his jaw and breezed past Henry. In the back of his mind, he was still holding out for this to all blow back in his face but after crossing the threshold Severus’ dark thoughts fled him with a gasp. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him through this doorway - he could not help but be awed by the sight which met his eyes.

He heard a dull thud from the heavy door closing behind him but could not be bothered to take much notice, for he had entered into a room the size of a large cathedral - whose high windows were sending shafts of glittering light down upon an immaculate view. The floor he stood upon looked to be made of shimmering white pearl that neatly reflected the room as if it were a mirror. Around him, the walls looked to be made of weathered beige stone that drifted off into soft-rolling white smoke the further he looked. Directly across the room was another door. He could not fathom to where it led, but he noticed should not directly stare, it too vanished into its surroundings. The room was mostly bare, except for a polished-copper claw-footed tub on a dais about two feet off the ground in the center of the room. Behind the head of the tub sat a sturdy looking dark-wooden low stool. On either side of the stool were short tables, their tops littered with various bottles and jars that Severus could not make out from his position by the door. The only other furniture in the room were the two long curved couches that were a few feet away on either side of the dais and mirrored its curved shape to enclose it.

“Bubby,” Henry softly called out from slightly behind, causing Severus to startle as he was brought back to the reality that this place was not conjured within a dream.

Not a breath after Henry spoke, a house-elf popped into being a foot ahead of them. “What—What can Bubby be doing for kind Master Herme?”

The little thing questioned as it loosely rung the edges of the fabric it wore that hung to its knees. Only by its voice could Severus guess that it was a female elf, as it had the same sparsely haired head and floppy ears as the lot of them he had seen.

“Can you bring us the breakfast we discussed, please?” Henry’s smile was a gentle thing as he talked to the little creature and, for some reason that Severus was not looking too closely into, looking at it made his chest warm.

To get away from his self-described awful feelings, he attempted conversation once the elf popped away. But the best he could think to say was, “It said your name wrong.”

With an awkward laugh, as Henry was in no way prepared to explain why the house-elves, with their most attuned magic, took to calling him Hermes after the psychopomp of the same name, Henry playfully shook his head. He then began ushering Severus towards the couch that stood between the podium and the door to the hall with a gentle hand on the small of his back. Full of nerves, Henry said, “Yeah, I can’t seem to get them to say it right for some reason. Anyway, let’s have a seat.”

No sooner had they gotten comfortable that two floating trays appeared before them. Severus marveled at the feat of magic that kept them from tumbling down, as they were both loaded with a full English Breakfast. On the tray that floated closest to him, Severus saw thick cuts of glistening bacon, several plump sausages, steaming fried eggs, perfectly grilled tomatoes tossed with sautéed mushrooms and onions, golden hash browns, and several slices of buttered toast. Around the small plates were cups of tea and juice, as well as tiny jars of brown sauce, mustard, and ketchup. From the corner of his eye, Severus could see Henry quietly tucking into his meal. But between the meal and the room laid out before him, Severus felt all the questions swirling around his head bubble up at once. He was too choked up to even feign an interest in the heavenly-smelling food. So instead, he looked over to Henry sitting off to his left side and flatly stated, “Explain yourself, Peverell.”

“What?” Henry asked, a bit dumbfounded, around a forkful of tomato.

“This!” Severus dug his jagged nails into his palms to keep from shouting. “All of it—why am I here, Peverell? What even is this place—damn it. Just explain yourself, this instant!”

“Oh, this again?” Henry mentally sighed. He seemed to always make Severus just at ease enough to be furious with him at times. For someone so stoic, Henry could not help but see it a bit as an accomplishment. A confusing, distracting, accomplishment. Looking to his side, Henry saw that Severus’ hair had come undone from behind his ear as he yelled. And Henry unhelpfully thought it was cute—even if this hot and cold was not. He continued to eat his wonderfully cooked meal as he attempted to soothe his friend’s evidently frayed nerves. “You’re here, Severus, so that we can celebrate Yule together. That is all. I have no ulterior motive, there is no impending prank, and I have no hidden wish to embarrass you.”

Henry took a sip of his tea to help swallow down his food before continuing, “If you are willing, you will sit and eat your fill, and then I will clip your hair while our food digests. And then I’m going to wash your hair. If you’re still agreeable, I will take care of you. There will be no surprises; I will tell you when we change from one task to the next, and I will clearly tell you what it is I expect from you. You will be okay—”

“I’m not a child,” Severus boldly stated.

And with valiant attempts to shy away from the images his mind conjured before bed, all Henry could think of was, “I sure as hell hope not; I’m already fretting over this as is without trying to figure out how time travel factors into the morality of your age.”

“—and what does the bloody tub have to do with all this, then?”

“You’re going to sit in the tub to make washing your hair easier,” Henry said with great patience. “I even got some bath salts I think you’ll—”

“Naked?!” Severus’ voice broke, shrill and taut. “You wish for me to bathe in front of you—while—naked?”

“Well, that is typically how one bathes. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can keep your pants on. Severus, the point of all of this is for you to relax, and the water will be too cloudy for me to see into it anyway. Besides, I had—well, I brought you a change of clothes for afterwards, anyway.”

It seemed Severus had not run through all of his objections, for he opened his mouth again and angrily blurted out, “You are not—”

Running low on patience and not wishing to derail the day before it even started, Henry cut him off with a light but firm, “Severus.” When the other boy closed his mouth with an audible click, Henry continued, “How about we take this one step at a time, yeah? Just sit and eat with me, yeah?”

Henry settled back into his meal and prompted his friend to do the same with a point of his fork towards Severus’ untouched food. The room was soon filled with the comforting clinks of sterling-silver cutlery against porcelain plates and Henry’s occasional satisfied hums of contentment. The aroma of the freshly cooked breakfast enveloped them, enhancing the cozy atmosphere now that emotions had lowered. Henry savored each bite, occasionally stealing glances at Severus to gauge his friend's reactions to the meal. Despite Severus's initial apprehension, he found himself gradually succumbing to the irresistible allure of the food before him. With each bite, tension ebbed away, replaced by a growing sense of relaxation.

After taking in his last bites, Henry waited patiently for Severus to finish. Hoping to not give the other cause for anxiety, he leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes. Henry sat there, gathering his thoughts and allowing Severus space until the said boy pointedly cleared his throat. Peeking through one eye, Henry took in Severus’ lowered side-profile and mostly empty tray before closing it again. Henry couldn’t even begin to guess at what was going on in the other’s head as Severus sat motionlessly staring into his lap. And the one hand Henry could see was tightly gripping the boy’s trousers.

After taking a steadying breath, Henry asked, “How was your meal?” And made no move to get up just yet.

“What I managed to finish of it was brilliant.”

“Good,” Henry said. “I really enjoyed the eggs and tomatoes.”

Severus gave a noncommittal “hum” but did not respond further. After letting the silence stand for a bit, Henry adjusted to sit forward—bringing his elbows to his knees and called for the house-elf from earlier to clear their trays. After the creature left, as easily as he commanded Dumbledore’s Army, Henry turned to Severus and said, “Here’s what’s going to happen: in a moment, I’m going to go and get the scissors, comb, and cape I purchased. When I get back, I’d like you to rest against the back of the couch so I can cut your hair. You can close your eyes if you need to, and we can either be quiet or I can carry a conversation for us—either way, all you have to do is sit still for me, Sev. Think you can do that?”

When Severus did not look up at his words, Henry’s hand itched to reach out to tilt Severus’ head towards himself. Henry wanted to be able to see what emotions played out on Severus' face, as he hadn’t quite mastered his formidable mask of detachment yet. Instead, Henry was met with a curtain of long dark hair and silence. Taking a risk and meeting his desires in the middle, Henry reached out to brush the long strands in his way behind Severus' ear. Henry was so close that he saw it as Severus shivered a bit when his pointer finger grazed the skin behind the loose hair. “So steadfastly obstinate and yet so shy,” Henry often forgot that this Severus was still fragile. That he had yet been rendered to life-hardened pieces. And Henry knows that he has already decided that he will keep Severus whole.

But now Henry doesn’t think it would be so bad to continue to allow Severus to push all of his buttons, to deliberately provoke, and to be an outright asshole—so that he can tell Severus that he’s still worthy of compassion. That the absolute worst of him was still deserving of Henry’s respect—because he does. Henry wanted to be a safe enough part of Severus' world for him to struggle, to rebel and wraith, without fear of pain or failure. Because Henry knew who Severus Snape is now. He knew that Severus would test the bounds of his care, would question his character, and even reject his attention at times. But, only because Severus has never had anyone unfailingly in his corner. “That’s going to change,” Henry thought, for in this moment, Henry silently vowed to be there for him anyway.

Fondly, he asked again, “I would like to cut your hair now, is that alright with you?”

Chapter Text

December 24, 1974

Severus gave a jerky nod and Henry rose from the couch, making his way over to the wooden low-stool positioned nearby. Taking his time, in order to settle his own anticipation and to give Severus time to stave off his own, Henry smoothly reached for the black hair-apron neatly folded in a pile atop the seat before moving on to one of the nearby tables. From it, Henry picked up several elastics, a pair of Japanese molybdenum alloy hair-shears, and a fine-tooth comb made from carved mother of pearl. As he returned to where Severus sat, Henry enjoyed the quality of the secondary gifts he chose as he went to stand behind the swooping back of the stuffed dark-leather couch, placing most of the supplies down on the couch before draping the cape over Severus. All the while, he spoke through his actions for the other’s ease.

“This is to catch the fallen hair so it doesn’t get on you,” Henry said as he fastened the cape’s tie behind his friend’s neck. He then used the tips of his fingers on both hands to free Severus’ hairs from underneath the collar of the cape to collected them into an elastic.

“I think longer hair looks good on you,” Henry said, and ignored the incredulous scoff at his words. “But I’d like to bring the front out of your eyes and taper down the back. Is that okay with you?”

Instead of answering the question asked, Severus gave one of his own, “And what do you know of cutting hair, Peverell?”

“Not much,” Henry playfully admitted while combing through Severus’ dark tresses. The hair had a slight wave to it and hung past Severus’ shoulders, but was not as long as Henry’s. “But I’ve cut my own hair since I was about 6 or 7. And I’ve cut my mates a time or two when we were camping for a while. Plus, if I mess this up, I bought a hair growth potion—just in case.”

“Always prepared, aren’t you, Peverell?”

“Yep,” Henry replied jovially to the obviously rhetorical question. After ensuring that all the knots were out of Severus’ strands with the thin comb, Henry reached for the scissors and brought them to level with Severus’ left ear. Before he made any move to go through with the cut, he said, “If you don’t have any objections, I’m going to start now. If at any point you need me to stop, just say my name. Can you do that, for me?”

“Good,” Henry said as he accepted Severus’ silent nod and began to carefully trim the hair. With deft strokes, Henry sculpted Severus's hair into a shorter bob-style cut. For Henry, each snip of the scissors was accompanied by a sense of purpose as he focused intently on his task, ensuring every strand fell just right. As the minutes passed, a sense of calm descended upon the room as they both got lost in the repetitive motions. It went on like that, with only the soft sounds of the scissors slicing through hair and Severus's mindfully steady breathing to mark the passage of time. Once finished, Henry gave a final comb through to knock out any loose strands before he stood back and conjured a mirror to float before them. Severus, who had begun to doze off, lost in the feeling of warm fingers continually running across his scalp, did not notice that Henry had stopped.

“Sev, look up,” Henry said as he gently squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I want to show you now.”

“If you must,” Severus got out before his mouth inexplicably went dry. His heavy blinks sharply came to a stop, opening on a reflection that he did not recognize. “It must be myself,” he supposes, for there are only the two of them in the room. And though he had deftly avoided all manner of reflections since the first time his father called him “ugly” at the tender age of 4, Severus cannot find it in him to hate the image of this one. And it was not for the boy standing behind the sofa, grinning down upon Severus as if he was deserving of the light within those eyes, but for the boy sitting upon it. He frowns in response to the sudden pounding in his chest while a distinct feeling of being thrown off-balance washes over him. But a quick distraction from these feelings comes in the form of Henry hesitantly asking, “Are you alright to undress yourself, or—”

Oh yes, all Severus’ thoughts on the matter ceased as Severus felt the walls of his throat constrict, stealing away his already thin breath. His body, not even allowing himself to mentally repeat the insinuation, struggled to get a handful of high and brisk words off of his spasming tongue, “That—that much I can manage on my own, Peverell!”

“Right, of course—yes—well,” Henry started and stopped again. “If you go through that door, you will find the loo, Henry said as he pointed to the closed door across the room. “I also set out a dressing-robe and some towels. Just—change down to your comfort level, yeah?” With that, Severus watched as Henry hurriedly turned on his heel to make his way over to the little stool. The older boy brought out his magnolia root wand, when Severus would never admit that he envied for its craftsmanship, and set the tub to fill. Severus sat there, quietly watching the other going about setting things up as it well and truly sunk into him that he would be trying—whatever this was.

“Am I seriously going to allow this?” Severus quietly allowed his mind to wonder, “Is this—a—a date?” More outlandish, he found, than his initial thought of the rich heir attempting to bed him was that Henry may very-well only wish to pamper him. “How foolish.” With his best mask in place, Severus stood with his shoulders pulled back before valiantly not rushing his steps. However, once the tall door closed securely behind his back, Severus stripped bare and pulled the mentioned robe, hanging off of a hook on the wall, around himself faster than he could take in the accompanying room or let out his more rational thought. “Perhaps it would not be terrible, for us to both be fools,” was his parting thought while he opened the door with breaths slightly heavy from his bout of exertion.

As Severus stepped out of the changing room, the soft glow of the overhead windows illuminated the spacious room. His eyes immediately fell upon Henry, perched atop the stool on the dais behind the head of the tub. The sight of him, with his hair pulled back into a thick messy bun, caught Severus off guard. Because despite the casual disarray of Henry's general appearance, Severus could not help but find the image of his Henry’s full face appealing. For some reason, as the contours of Henry’s features were highlighted by the play of light and shadow, even the large scar-line that marred Henry from forehead to chin seemed to fade into insignificance amidst the overall impression of warmth and familiarity. As he took a step away from the door, Severus's gaze lingered on Henry's form—taking note of the small details.

Like how Henry had removed his robe, shoes, and socks—leaving them neatly arranged nearby the couch. Or the subtle restraint in Henry's posture, as the old repeatedly flexed and relaxed the muscles on his bare forearm in what looked to be a breathing exercise. Their eyes briefly met when Henry looked up at the creaking sound of the door moving, before Henry swiftly turned back busy himself with pouring a vial into the tub. And Severus felt a moment of gratitude for how it never felt as if Henry was expecting something from him, simply allowing Severus to give what it was that he was comfortable relinquishing. Even in the simplest of moments, like this. With a small, genuine smile, Severus began his approach.

On clammy naked toes and rod-straight calves, Severus delicately made the walk over to the dais. The floor was magically warm beneath the flats of his feet, just like the spell-warmed gossypium robe that glided over his bare thighs as he extended a leg to raise himself upward. He looked down into the polished-copper tub and thought that Henry was right. For beyond the dancing steam, milky water, and frothed layer of bubbles—nothing could be seen. Soft tendrils of steam rose from the claw-footed tub, casting a hazy glow over the spacious bathroom, while the flickering sunlight danced against the walls, casting playful shadows across Henry's features, as he meticulously arranging bottles of bath products with a furrowed brow. The decision to trust in this, made as Severus lowered one foot and then the other onto the bottom of the tub, became herculean. But as he tossed the borrowed robe over the side of the dais, Severus resolved that of all the mistakes he’s made in his life, if needed, this one would be no hardship to live down.

For a great long while, nothing happened. And Severus allowed more of his muscles to unclench as one minute passed to the next. Then, he allowed his shoulders to drop as the silky water lapped at his skin. Severus sank deeper into the comforting warmth of the bath, feeling the heat seeped into his bones as he surrendered to the tranquil embrace of the enchanted water. A mixed scent of vanilla with a hint of citrus wafted through the air hugging at his peeking skin, mingling with the gentle hum of the spell-warded candles at the bottom of dais that cast a soft, ethereal glow around their part of the room. With each breath, he felt tension melt away, leaving him weightless amidst the swirling steam and fragrant bubbles. And, unbidden, he even allowed his mouth to open and for relaxed thoughts to meet the air, “Bergamot?”

“Hmm,” Henry startled where he quietly sat, waiting for Severus to get adjusted or call this to stop. “No—well yes, that’s in there, but the stated smell is ‘Earl Grey and Clary Sage.’ I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Yes,” Severus breathed as he took in the billowing air around him, “it’s quite nice.”

“Yeah? I got a Cypress and Black Pepper shampoo, if I could—“ At Henry’s trailing words, Severus found a bit of his earlier anxieties returning. But he managed a stiff nod of his head as he self-consciously sunk a little further under the water. Behind him, he could hear the snapping open of a bottle’s cap just over his racing blood. There was then a sweet, fresh, and mildly licorice-like aroma that wafted past him as Henry lathered his hands. The first touch of gentle fingers on Severus’ scalp had him jerkily pressing firm against the tub’s wide rim at the base of his skull. While Severus had thought the light touches during the styling of his hair to be enjoyable, nothing prepared him for the deep kneading happening now. It was nowhere near the first time Henry had laid hands on him, fond as the older boy was of his casual brushes, but to Severus, this felt like the first time that mattered. For the light raking of trimmed nails rattled across his bones. For the stroking pressure against his scalp creeped along the rest of his body. For Henry’s voice, which began to murmur all manner of benign things, had him unconsciously tipping his head further back.

As Severus relaxed in the warm embrace of the bath, Henry's gentle hands continued their soothing massage of his scalp. Sensing Severus's growing comfort, Henry decided it was an opportune moment to broach a topic that had been weighing on his mind for some time. “I have the goblins looking into my family’s properties,” Henry started, “I’m hoping that at least one of the few still standing is inhabitable, because I really don’t want to live out of the Leaky all summer.” Henry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the dark head of hair before him, watching as the speckled gray soap worked out oil and loose hair, as Severus interestedly hummed along.

“Once I move in and get settled, I plan on setting my sights on the Wizengamot. My lordship came with three seats, with a few others I could claim if interested, and I plan to use them. I’m going to play the pureblood’s game.”Gently, Henry had sectioned Severus’ hair into three elastic and was in the process of scrubbing through a free section of hair. But the strands slipped through his fingers as Severus shifted, turning his attention toward Henry upon taking in Henry’s words.

“There we go,” a soft chuckle escaped Henry's lips, the sound filled with warmth and affection, as he gently used his grip on the hairs at the center of Severus’ scalp to guided Severus's head back into position. Henry murmured, his tone reassuring yet playful. “Don’t want you to get soap in your eye, so try not to jostle so much, yeah?” Then he continued, “It’s surprising, I know, but even though the ‘Peverell’ has been out of use for some time, but its influence never waned. Every magical child in Europe knows the ‘Tale of the Three Brothers.’ Every year, some wixen someone-where in the world goes out on a quest to find Death’s Artifacts. And Gellert Grindelwald used my family’s crest during his reign of terror.”

At Severus soft noise of surprise, Henry went on, “Even if most people don’t connect the two, it is a tarnish on the Peverell name to me. Between that and all the lies and myths spread over the years, I want to set my family’s record straight and use its influence to further my goals.” As he spoke, Henry combed conditioner through the detailed strands and used carefully aimed aguamenti spells to rinse Severus’ wavy hair clean, Henry spoke long and slow of his dreams that followed him from his past life. “I’m going to recreate the ‘Peverell’ legacy so that my name means what I want it to for once—not what anyone else says it should be."

“And what’s that? What are your goals, Peverell?” Severus hesitantly asked.

"I’m also going to join the Wizengamot as Lord Peverell and declare my seats for the Neutrum vote," Henry explained. "Once there, I intend to shape the direction of legislation, to ensure that the laws passed are just and equitable for all."

Severus listened intently, the warm water washing across him as Henry spoke. It was thrilling, Severus felt, to be trusted with these thoughts—Henry’s wishes for the future. A jolt coursed through Severus, electrifying his senses and quickening his pulse as he listened to Henry's impassioned words. It was a heady sensation, filling him with a sense of exhilaration he hadn't felt in ages. In that moment, he dared to allow himself to dream of Henry’s future. One filled with Henry’s endless possibilities and boundless hope. As Henry continued to gently tend to his hair, Severus couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude swell within him—for the simple act of kindness, for the opportunity to trust and be trusted. “And what,” Severus cleared his throat, “what specifically is the legislation that you support?”

“Ones that support people like you, and me, having a space in his world that is just as secure and protected as anyone else’s,” Henry said with the ease of conviction that could only come from someone who’s has fought a war and won. “Ones that protect little wixen that do not grown up in our world from muggles that seek to abuse or use them. Ones that remove bias barriers on the attainable levels of success for those whose family name isn’t already written down in a history book. Onces that oust complacent leaders and stagnant ways of thinking and usher in a new life for our word. It’s dying Severus, do you know?”

Severus's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening imperceptibly as Henry revealed the depth of his ambitions. He felt a newfound respect blossoming within his chest as he witnessed the unwavering determination in Henry's gaze. The enormity of Peverell's dreams loomed before him, casting a shadow of awe and inspiration that stirred something deep within Severus's soul. But he questioned the scope of the aspirations. “Is it?”

“Yes. If you go to the other magical hubs of the word you’d see that magic is more free-flowing and ingrained in the very infrastructure of their daily lives.” He had not seen it first hand but, during one of the many sleepless summer nights as he was adjusting to this time, Death whispered it onto him. “Outside of here and North America, there aren’t such heavy sanctions on ‘Dark’ magic. I’m many places, spells, potions, and rituals aren’t even classified in such a way—but based on the damage caused but the wixen’s intent.” He could practically taste Severus’ interest in his magic, but Henry wasn't done yet. “There are spells that make plants grow faster and more potent, but use the castors own freely given blood. There are rituals that require the life of a freshly slain animal, but ensure a woman having complications with miscarriages could carry to term. There is so much magic that deals with our ability to interact with the bounds of life and death, but here it is all seen as taboo.”

With a determined gleam in his eye, Henry revealed the final piece of his plan. “Because of that, not only is our connection to Lady Magic dying and squibs are being born now more then ever before, but people are bastardizing their connection because that have not been taught how to properly interact with dark magic.” Henry thought of a small nod young Tom Riddle, barely out of childhood and with the sure threat of bombs overhead, who knew that magic could change anything. And he was right, you can do anything with magic, but—

“Not everything can be undone. If I do this, and am able to impact how we are able to connect to the innate magic around us, everything won’t return to its natural order overnight. Squibs that have already been born still won’t have magic, the population of creatures with dark cores will take time to stabilize, and combatting the ignorance of the masses will not be the work of only one generation—but I’ll still make it happen.”

And Severus knew that he would. It was in the way that magic sung around the very room at Henry’s words, as if it too rejoiced in the intent of his efforts. Severus kept his mouth tightly shut as he felt the far edges of Henry’s magic unintentionally press against his. He had never felt his inherited magic-sensitivity to be a curse before now—but as his palms clamped down on his thighs beneath the water in a bid to keep his body still, Severus reevaluated his stance on the thought. He had never before met someone who wielded dark magic in the way that the boy at his back did. Whose magic felt cleansing and absolute in its ability to take up invisible space in a room. That pressed upon his magical core so heavily that, for a moment, Severus wished for it snuff him out.

Severus undeniably thought that Peverell’s goals were lofty—but the more Severus heard him speak of them with such power, Severus found himself believing in their possibility. It was easy in this moment, while Peverell’s words caressed his bare spine, for Severus to close his eyes and let go. For what fear should he have in laying himself in the hands of someone who planned to stand against the very way of their world? The intent behind every word punctuated by the occasional scrape of nail against his skin, the power constantly curling around Peverell’s body that he could feel even on the parts of his body below the waterline—it was almost too much.

Mindfully managing his breath, the already minimalistic world around them fell away—and Severus could not help but feel an asinine sense of excitement jerk below his navel for the future that lay ahead. With a roaming warmth he could not name, Severus relaxed into the fingers pressing into his scalp in a way that made his ribs relax and his ankles roll against the tub’s bottom. Severus surrendered to Henry, to his magic and the rhythmic pressure of Henry's fingers against his body. A soft sigh escaped his lips, as the gentle ministrations that seemed to erase the knots of tension that had plagued him for so long did not yield. With each stroke, he felt himself sinking deeper into a hazy state of the softest parts of his mind Belatedly, Severus realized that he had missed some of Henry’s words while marveling at his magic.

"—and ultimately, that’s what matters to me," the older boy went on without noticing his companions distraction. Henry's voice took on a a gentler, thoughtful, tone as he transitioned to firmly scrunching Severus’ hair by the roots to ring out any residual water from his strands, his movements deliberate and sure. “You know, I keep coming back to the same idea—I want to build something that lasts. Something that matters. And—I want to make the magical world’s first orphanage or children’s home. Though I know you’ll say I’m being too idealistic.” With a hollow laugh, Henry toweled off his hands in preparation grab the leave-in styling products he purchased. “I’ll have to fight the pure-bloods tooth and nail to even acknowledge the squibs they merrily hoist off onto the Muggle world. But it’ll be fine, because it’s worth it, right, Sev?”

Henry quickly replaced the now-soiled water from the tub as he finished talking, before putting away his supplies now that they were done. He then summoned over a clean cloth, unintentionally casual with his wandless magic—as Henry felt refreshed and recharged in a way he hadn’t felt since his last Quidditch match. Hesitantly, Henry felt the overwhelming need to say, “You did so wonderfully, Sev. Thank you for allowing me this.” Henry reached around to drape his arm within Severus’ field of sight. “Here’s a towel if you’d like to wash. And I can step over to the couches if you’d like some privacy—or I can just leave and be back in a bit.”

When only silence met his words, Henry called out again as he peered over the naked shoulder jutting out just above the tub's high walls, “Sev?”

Chapter Text

December 24, 1974

“Sev?” Henry called out again to no response. Hesitantly, Henry lowered his arm holding the washcloths and went back to petting Severus in an attempt to gently call the other’s attention to him. But when all Severus did was slightly turn into Henry’s slow-working fingers, Henry shifted his weight on the stool to take in the whole of the other’s face. Henry’s first thought was that Severus was lost in the calm of the moment. If anything, Henry thought the boy had fallen asleep and pondered rousing the other to see if the hot water was causing him to feel sick. That was, until Henry was able to take in more of Severus’ posture. Observed from only a breath's space away, Henry saw the telltale signs of strain etched into the contours of his companion's shoulders.

Severus’ demeanor, usually so composed, was marred by evident distress. The muscles of Severus’ neck etched delicate lines of tension into the canvas of his skin. He was biting down on his lower lip with such strength that crimson droplets began to seep through the broken skin. And then, Henry’s frantically scanning gaze was caught by a bead of water that trailed down from his friend’s temple. When it ran along the outside of the pale throat before him, Henry could not help but notice the rigidity of Severus’ neck muscles. Each sinew appeared to bear their limit, manifesting in tense lines that continued on to bulge across what he could see of Severus’s right arm and betrayed a deeper turmoil beneath the surface of the bathwater.

“Sev?” Henry tried again as he moved the stool under him closer to the tub—which brought his left shoulder in contact with the back of his friend’s neck. Henry watched on in the worry of continued silence as a few more beads of water collected in Severus’ sunken clavicle as his body took on a more pronounced tremor. Henry's gaze sharpened, his eyes fixating on Severus with a mix of concern and alarm as he saw tremors dance across the muscles in the other’s arm as it drew tighter. “He’s clearly gripping something,” Henry thought. And while Henry couldn’t see the placement of Severus’ hand beneath the refreshed bubble-filled water, the rigid flex of his arms told Henry that, with nothing else beneath the water to grab, Severus could only be holding onto himself. “His other hand? His thigh?” Henry mentally questioned, thinking about how more than once he had witnessed Severus take hold of the back of his own neck when anxious. “With how stiff his arm is, whatever it is, he has to be causing himself pain.”

“Hey, Sev, can you tell me what’s wrong?” Henry asked. Not wanting to startle the other, he waited a handful of seconds before announcing, “I'm going to touch your shoulder because I want to check on you. Okay?” Henry telegraphed his every move with a slow, but hesitantly focused, brush of his hand as the pads of Henry's fingers slid down the outside of Severus’s neck to settle on damp shoulders. The hand that had been playing in Severus’ hair slid down and Henry began to kneed in tandem, coaxing his friend’s trembling to still as his fingertips occasionally dipped into the water.

Quietly, Henry supported Severus as he attempted to calms the racing heartbeat beneath his palms. But then, the nails of Henry’s right hand accidentally caught on the skin of Severus’ shoulder when the boy jerked suddenly, and a wretched cry left Severus’ lips at the contact. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I—“ Severus’ voice was a wet and frantic jumble of words as his eyes shut tighter to uselessly try stave off tears.

“Sev, it’s alright. Everything’s alright,” Henry interrupted without stopping the motion of his hands, his voice firm yet reassuring. “Try and calm down, for me because I won’t know what to do if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I—“ Quiet sobs had closed off Severus throat and let his response nothing but a dry squeak.

Bold in his actions as always, Henry did not wait for any more words as he watched the escalating tension in Severus’ arm. With resolve, he held his left hand still on Severus’s shoulder while he guided his right hand down, tracing the contours of his friend’s arm with a gentle touch. Each movement was deliberate, his fingertips mapped out the terrain of Severus’ skin with a tender reverence. As his arm descended, it encountered the warmth of the water, splashing back against him with Severus’ aborted movements and wetting his white shirt as he leaned further forward to reach down. Henry took a better hold of Severus’ damp body and took the other’s floundering in stride as his chaste fingertips continued their journey until they met Severus’ hand.

The jagged nails of Severus’ right hand were driven deeply into the tender flesh of Severus’ right thigh in unseen agony. They were hooked in so deeply that Henry just knew there was blood beneath the fine points being washed away by the sloshing water. With a mixture of sorrow and determination as he heard a louder sob break free from Severus’ mouth, Henry only sought to alleviate Severus' pain. Gently, he began to pry away Severus' fingers from the flesh of his thigh. Despite Severus’ resistance, Henry persisted, his touch, and unknowingly his magic, infused with a silent reassurance that he was there—ready to shoulder whatever this burden of Severus' pain was. Finger by finger, Henry coaxed them open and gently maneuvered his own wrist between Severus’ thin fingers when he attempted to reattach his grip.

Mindful of the delicate balance between offering support and causing further distress, with the utmost care and compassion Henry caressed Severus’ thigh as he lightly traced the indents left behind by Severus' sharp nails while murmuring a minor healing spell. The longer they sat like that, with Henry just holding Severus—taking nothing and offering everything, the more shallow Severus’ heartbeat became. After some time, Henry noticed the water had once again grown cold when the smaller body tucked into his side occasionally shivered. Not eating to upset the calm they had regained, the water was reheated to a steaming warmth by only the will of his magic.

A small sound came from the back of Severus’ throat and Henry took it to mean the other’s appreciation. Always so happy to please, Henry said, “You’ve been so good for me, yeah? Whatever you need just tell me.”

Another of those small, almost pleading, noises came from Severus. But not knowing what the other was asking for, Henry simply continued the circular rubbing of his hand to check for any other injuries. His arm was now fully submerged, but he did not mind. If anything, Henry thought that the warmness of Severus’ back propped against the top of his chest with the warm water licking at them was soothing. Distractedly expanding his search parameter, Henry continued to work his hand around Severus’ thigh and came into contact with a stiff and spongy texture. A surprised and breathless, “Oh,” was all Henry was able to manage as his brain filled in erratic thought that this was Severus’ cock, before a cry wailed from Severus as he attempted to fully throw his body from the tub.

Terrified of Severus hurling him head first into the stone floor, Henry brought Severus back down into the tub.

“Shit—shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. I have you, Sev,” Henry soothed even as he could not stop his own heart stumbling in abject horror. He knew that his shirt was now tightly clinging to his heaving chest. His knees would probably soundly ache from where they repeatedly banged against the tubs walls to try and gain leverage. But in the moment he felt none of it, too consumed by the fraught feeling of having watched Severus’ nearly killing himself in his haste to stand. But somehow, despite his own fright, Henry’s hands remained gentle where they kept Severus in place. Henry’s left hand was looped under Severus’ left arm to firmly the base of Severus’ neck to keep him from tipping forward into the water. His right hand was holding onto the other’s stiffly flailing thigh. It raised above the of the water several times as Severus attempted to flee and Henry was shocked to learn that Severus’ cock had not softened, as it occasionally bobbed into his sight during their struggle.

"Shh—just—calm down for me," Henry said as he brought his left hand across to press against the center of Severus’ breast. They wrestled about a bit, and even when Severus has slumped into Henry’s chest after thoroughly exhausting himself Henry does not let go. Instead, he uses his position of nearly draping over Severus to keep him pinned down to the bottom of the tub. As they settle, Henry begins to caress Severus’ rapidly moving chest in long strokes as he tells the other, “There, there. So good for me, Sev.”

Later, he will freak-out and then ultimately process why the provocative words so readily fell from his mouth. But right now, as they seemed to be working Severus towards relaxing, Henry let them pour from his lips without the restraint of a sounder mind. “That was a little scary, huh? But it’s okay, I got you now. You’re okay. You’re safe.” The words were sighed into the damp hair against his cheek as Henry swallowed down steadying breaths, “Won’t do anything—just want to make sure you’re safe. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

When both of their breathing and the water had stilled, and Henry is no longer weary of Severus cracking his head open in a bid to runaway, he softened his hold but does not stop his soothing movements. He nosed gently at the other's right temple as he tried once more to get his friend to talk. “Sev? I’m sorry for holding you down,” Henry soothed, “but I was terrified of you slipping and falling. But you’ve done a really good job of calming down now, so I can let you go.” With his own small bit of wanting, and Severus’ still flagging cock, in mind, Henry quietly asked, “Would you like for me to stop touching you?”

Severus says nothing but turns his face to hide against Henry’s exposed neck. After Henry calls to him once more, hoping to get an answer, Severus attempts to give a negative shake of his head. However, Henry, sensitive to how delicate this all was, did not accept the non-verbal response. “Sev,” he prompted gently, “can you tell me with your words if you want me to stop?” Hoping that a bit of honesty on his own part would aid his friend, he adds “I’m really enjoying being close to you, and I’m flattered that it seems you’re enjoying it too, but I want to make sure this is what you want.”

A shaky nod was attempted as Severus struggled to find his voice. But Henry maintains his boundary, patient and understanding, as he hopes it offers Severus a point of grounding. “It’s okay, Sev. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. Maybe—try squeezing my hand, if you can, if you want me to keep touching you?”

When nothing came, Henry began to gently untangle their limb before Severus finally manages a strained, “No—please, don’t stop.”

The words escape in a fragile, hesitant admission of the comfort and more he was finding in Henry’s presence, and all he could think was, “Finally,” in relief upon hearing Severus’ voice. Although, Henry does struggle with staying in the mindset of solely offering the other comfort with how vixenish he finds the sound of Severus’ whimpered words. Outwardly, he gives a noncommittal sound before saying, “So good for me. Thank you for telling me what you want.”

Henry resettled his weight on the stool, his posture attentive yet relaxed as he tended to Severus. Henry felt it as his own features, which had tightened in his anxiety, began to soften by the warmth he found in taking care of Severus. With steady hands, he continued to massage Severus’ as he got his own thoughts together. He worked the tips of his finger into the budding muscles of Severus’ chest in pace with each breath. He used his palm to press down onto Severus’ still twitching thigh. Henry kept his touch firm yet gentle, as if coaxing away the last bit of tension that lingered beneath the soft skin’s surface. The rhythmic movements of his hands created a comforting rhythm that reverberated through the water as it gently swayed over them. As he leaned into Severus’ body, Henry could see in the water that his expression reflected a sense of deep concentration—his focus primarily on providing comfort to his friend.

There was an air of determination about him, a steadfast resolve to relieve Severus’ every fear. Despite the weight of the moment, Henry’s found himself calm with this self imposed dusty at the front of his mind. As the minutes pass unnoticed, he coaxed Severus into talking a little more. Longer still, Henry was able to get Severus to agree to squeeze his wrist every so often to show a desire to continue. He was not sure how long they sat there, as the passage of time could not be marked by the fake windows or cooling water—for the last time he charmed it to be ever warm. But he does know that the longer his fingers work across Severus’ body, the more he can feel the side of his throat grow wet with more than just the water dripping from Severus’ hair.

Severus’ face was soundly tucked into where the edge of Henry’s lower left jaw met his neck. Every time Severus attempt to west his dry lips, his little pink tongue came out just far enough to tickle Henry’s skin. If that wasn’t enough, Henry could feel each of Severus’ open-mouthed gasping breaths and began to fixate on each time the other’s lips parted and grazed past his skin on aborted words. “Did you say something, Sev?” Henry whispered against Severus’ forehead to distract himself from the sensation dancing down his spine.

He is so caught up in an attempt to reel in his lecherous thoughts that he almost missed Severus’ tearfully simpered cry of, “Help.”

“Help?” Henry questioned. He has an idea of what the other could mean but he would not allow himself to assume. All he gets in response is a firmer press of Severus’ lips against his neck as the boy attempts to nod his agreement. Henry try’s a different approach. He allows the circular motion of his right hand to fan-out more, mindful to only allow his nails to playfully catch on the supple skin of thigh beneath his hands. This time when his knuckles once again come into contact with Severus’ cock he presses against it more firmly and says, “Would you like me to help you with this?”

He will not take another nonverbal response to something so serious. So when Severus quietly presses his hips up to meet Henry’s hand, when he whines high and needy at the pressure, Henry pulls his hand away. “Use your words for me, Sev. Do you want me to help you with your cock?”

“Peverell,” Severus all but cries and Henry could not hold in his chuckle that even in this situation Severus refuses to use the first name he was going by.

“That’s not enough for me, Sev,” Henry says as he holds both of his hands flat against the other’s squirming body. “You’ll have to tell me yes or no. Be a good boy for me and use your—“

“Yes!” Severus’ voice is the loudest it’s been since he stepped into the room in nothing but a cotton robe and skin. Severus partly turns over himself to clutch his left hand at Henry’s body. Henry further chuckles at Severus’ antics as his hand takes a firm grasp of Severus’ cock. With a nonverbal “lubricatus velox” that he had long since perfected, Henry slowly dragged his firm fingers from the base of Severus’ shaft to the tip of its flared head. Again and again, Henry repeated the motion, occasionally stopping to pull at Severus’ drawn up bollocks that were covered in short, fine hairs. Again and again, Henry uses his palm to lightly grind into base of Severus’ shafts while his finger tips gently push against the urethra.

Severus’ cock is neither overly long or thick, it fits snuggly into Henry’s light-brown hand, barely visible through the water, with the tip peaking out when Henry clenches his fingers closed. Henry explores genuinely. He moves his hand without intent or hurry, playing with Severus if anything, as he pulled and stretched the taut skin at the head of Severus’ cock. As he grew more confident in his actions, Henry made a mental note of the things that made Severus buck upward, like when Henry allowed his nails to catch on the skin of Severus’ shaft. Or the things that made him press his face into Henry’s neck, like when Henry was a little more rough with jostling his ballocks. Or what makes Severus whine so prettily, like when Henry allowed his lips to mindlessly grace the other’s damp face.

“Good. So good for me, Sev.” Henry coddles and comforts Severus as he gives him a handjob, continually laving the other in sweet words and encouraging affirmations. He finds that he does not mind the feeling of someone else’s cock in his hand. He was far too focused on the feeling of Severus clinging to him, on the stiff skin pushing against his slow stroking hand seeking release, and all the other ways his friend was expressing his enthusiastic enjoyment of being cared for to even consider any would be crisis of sexuality. For Henry, all he could feel was a desire to take care of Severus. To drag him even closer as Henry pulled never-ending sounds and gasps from his lips. To hold him safely as his body jerked and quivered as Henry began to toy with his pebbled brown-nipples.

It did not matter what part of Severus Henry was touching, so long as he could see for himself that Severus was enjoying behind under his hand. It was heady, having tangible proof that he was taking care of the other so well. Rivets of saliva ran down Henry’s neck from where Severus’ parted lips pressed against his skin. They teased Henry to lean-in closer and get more of Severus’ mouth on him. They tempted him to see the other’s face. And Henry was only so strong. So, as he continued to firmly pump his wrist, Henry pulled back to seek out Severus’ face. When the other attempted to dumbly follow after him, Henry joyfully laughed as he shifted his left hand away from Severus’ brown nipples and buried his fingers into the mid-length hairs at the center of Severus’s head. A bit lost in his own excitement, Henry rather sharply flicked his wrist to yank Severus’ head back and admittedly took delight in the petulant whine he received as Severus’ response to the rough treatment.

The sight that met his eyes forced his hips forward, sending his own surprisingly hard cock painfully grinding into the outer-side of the tub. Henry was taken by the ecstasy etched bleeding into Severus’ features, how his cream-tan skin practically glowed under Henry’s attention. Severus’ elongated hook-nose made a nice palette for the blush that overtook his face and Henry could easily make out the trail of Severus’ still sluggishly falling tears against his puffed-up cheeks. Severus’ glassy ony eyes were wide-open with dilated pupils, rolled upwards to just barely take Henry in. His lace thin lashes were clumped together in their dampness, messily batting at themselves as Severus sluggishly blinked. And Severus seemed to have also lost a bit of control, as he gave no indication of noticing the tongue messily protruding from his slacked jaw.

Henry was so ensnared by the moment that he lost all filter on his thoughts and found himself unwittingly muttering out “Pretty.” But he did not regret it. Especially after he saw Severus’ eyebrows scrunch up in confusion and could not stop himself from kissing the look right off Severus’ face. Henry laid his lips gently on Severus’ brow and affirmed, “Yes, you’re very pretty, Sev. Just like this. All for me.”

Surprising them both in it’s suddenness, the praise seemed to have brought Severus to the edge of his release. Sighing contently, Henry continued to litter the other’s face with shallow kisses and soothing words as Severus seized in Henry’s arms. His nails dug into the front of Henry’s shirt and his front teeth nicked the bone of Henry’s jaw. He uttered what could have been either “Peverell” or “Please,” while arching his hips in shaky thrusts into Henry’s tight palm. Then, as if his stings had been cut, Severus’ body then fell heavy back into the tub with a wicked splash.

And Henry held him through it all. He took to what was quickly becoming a favored pastime, soothingly petting Severus—content to keep his hands on the other as their heartrates slowed and they regained their bearings.

Chapter Text

December 24, 1974 - January 3, 1975

Henry picked up the conjured hand-towel and brought it around to offer to Severus—only to see that the boy had fallen asleep. Distracted by the image before him, Henry simply watched in contentment as Severus reclined silently in the bathtub. Severus’ hair had dried into fine, silky, strands. With careful tenderness, he cradled Severus in his arms, feeling the weight of Severus’ body settle onto him in their comforting embrace. Severus' head rested gently against Henry's shoulder, the curve of his neck exposed in a vulnerable display of trust. Henry's fingertips lazily dragged across any available skin they could reach as he absently watched Severus’ throat expand and hall on shallow breaths. He had never felt so tactile, like a child who’s discovered their new favorite toy, and he was grateful that his actions did not seem to be disturbing Severus—as the younger’ eyes remained closed, a serene expression gracing his relaxed features. Henry took in his friend’s still deeply reddened face. A vivid hue had colored Severus’ sharp cheeks as an intense flush painted him from hairline down to his gently rising chest, that sluggishly bobbed above the water, in a vibrant crimson. The intense flush accentuated the delicate shadows of his face, creating a striking contrast against his typically harsh features. Such as his thin lips, normally adorned with a subtle hint of color, now swollen plump and radiating a deeper red. He felt gluttonous, stealing away his fill of the other’s image.

In the hush of their shared breaths, Henry found himself captivated by the simple perfection of their closeness, a feeling that swelled within him like a symphony of emotions. Ignoring his awakening higher brain function, which only wanted to plague him with anxiety and surprise him with the erroneous lack of space in his pants. He also noticed the stiffness that had taken ahold of his back and knees. Despite not wanting to disturb the quiet hugged them, Henry knew this was coming to an end. He needed to get Severus out of the water sometime soon and it was about time that they both eat again. Henry thought of what he would request from the house-elves as he gently played with Severus’ hair in the soft light of the Room of Requirement. The sham of a sun behind the conjured windows high above them had long since begun to set in a mimicry of dusk. It was no doubt late into the night, and Henry figured they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves, even if they did turn into prunes.

Not wishing to take any liberties with his unconscious friend, Henry used “nanny-spells” taught to him by Mrs. Weasley, for “You never know when the need will for them will arise, deary,” to clean Severus before summoning a fresh towel to wrap him in. And while Mrs. Weasley had probably thought he’d be using them for her longed for grandchildren, he was grateful to her all the same. Severus must have been truly exhausted, as he stayed asleep through Henry further using spells to dress him in the muggle loungewear he purchased for the trip back to the dungeons. It was a simple corded knit set of straight-leg trousers and a matching jumper. They were made of hand-gathered navy-blue dyed re’em hair and cost a pretty penny, but Henry thought it was worth it for the cloud-soft feel of Severus bundled in his arms. He slid white knit pygmy puff socks onto Severus’ feet so they would not grow cold on their journey back and summoned Bubby to clean the room.

Using his control of Death’s magic, Henry stepped into the long hallway in front of the Room of Requirement and gathered all the nearby shadows to him. Like the cloak surely in James’ possession, they snugly settled around Henry and the precious cargo in his arms, obscuring them both wholly from view. The journey from the Room of Requirement to the Slytherin common room was, as always, a captivating stroll. The ancient corridors of the castle welcomed them with a soft buzz of magic flittering over their skin as Henry navigated them through the dimly lit passageways. He stuck to the secret and deserted halls to avoid the few students and teachers still milling about. The few stone walls he passed that were adorned with centuries-old tapestries, depicting noble wizards and magical creatures, did not detect them as they whispered amongst themselves tales of bygone eras. He had muffled his feet to ensure that not a step echoed softly against the cold stone, but he could feel the magic under each gliding foot resonating through his calf’s all the same. The occasional flicker of torchlight cast eerie shadows that wobbled and waved, a few even going so far as to add themselves to Henry’s collection.

As they approached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Henry mentally prepared himself to let go of Severus for the night. He did not wish to. He knew the right thing to do would be to tuck Severus into his own bed, but all Henry could think of was how much better it would be to keep the sleeping boy close. How kind of him it would be to ensure that Severus awoke from his heavy rest wrapped in a cocoon of spider silk sheets on Henry’s charmed pillow-top mattress. But he didn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable by deciding these things for him, so he contented himself with simply wrapping his arms around the boy lying bridal-style in his arms. Reluctantly, he dispelled their cover in front of the intricately moving stone arch that led to the common room and was met with an older student who looked unmistakably like Vincent Crabbe, nearly knocking them over as he attempted to sneak out just before curfew. Trailing quickly and quietly behind the older boy was a girl in a black high-hood robe, who Henry was almost sure was the fourth-year Ravenclaw Renee Stebbins. Henry and the Crabbe look-alike passed by each other with fleeting eye contact, as neither of them commented on the other’s company.

After traversing through the grand room, with its plush emerald sofas and ornate silver sconces aglow under the lake’s dull light, Henry made it up the staircase and headed toward Severus’ room. The crackling fireplace provided a draft, its flames dancing hypnotically around each step that Henry took. Quietly, he dispelled the locking and warding charms placed on the door he came to stand before. Not fearing running into another student, as all of the room’s other occupants were away, Henry let himself in and walked toward the bed that held the most of Severus’ magical signature. The presents that Henry had gifted him earlier were still sitting atop Severus’ sheets, with their wrapping paper neatly folded in a pile beside, so Henry levitated them over to Severus’ desk before tucking the boy in. With a lingering ruffle of Severus’ now short, gently curling hair, Henry parted from the room—making sure to respell the door upon exiting.

As Henry entered his room, he sighed heavily, feeling a weight him from the day's events settling upon him. As if all the energy he expounded on nerves, ravenous excitement, and pure joy had left him running on fumes. Quickly he changed into his pajamas, a comfortable set of cotton trousers and a soft buttoned top, before slipping under the covers of his bed. The room was quiet, the only sound being the castle settling around him and the soft hum of magic in the air. Lying in bed, Henry couldn't shake the image of Severus wetly blinking up at him from his mind. He found himself daydreaming about the feel of Severus' hair between his fingers, the weight of Severus’ body in his arms, and the warmth of his feverish skin against his own as he bathed Severus earlier.

On Christmas Eve, Henry drifted off to sleep happily—Severus swimming in his mind's eye, a dreamy smile playing on his lips.He woke up to the prospect of a day filled with bountiful food, casual downtime, and if he was luck Severus’ smiling face. What he was not expecting was to open his eyes to a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed. Upon inspection, it seemed that all of his professors had taken the time to send him a gift of some sort. They were small things - sweets, pins, and a surprisingly crude joke book from Professor Nguyen. It was such an inconsequential gesture, a last-minute thought for an “orphaned new student,” that Henry surprised himself with the first tear that fell from his eyes.

After ridding himself of sweat from sleep and the remnants of unregulated emotions with a blessedly hot shower, Henry casually dressed for the day and loitered in the common room. He draped his blood-red outer-robe across the back of a wingback chair right beside the fire and settled in to read “A Young Lord’s Duty to the State” by D. M. Donald Weaver. He had ideas for using his three Wizengamot seats to draft legislation centered around blood and creature-status equality, the three alone would not be enough but he had time to gather supporters. Time he would use to burry himself in dated tombs about the wizarding world’s unchanging government, seeing as how there was not a class at Hogwarts that taught a student how to go about this.

He was on a chapter about declaring the intent of your seats when he heard movement from the stairs. He looked over his shoulder and was greeted by the sight of Severus charily taking steps towards him. With his new hair center-parted, Severus’ clean and slightly blushed face was easy to see. The gentle curls framed Severus’ less gaunt cheeks and allowed for him to still hide behind the fine hairs, should he lean his head down. But he wasn’t, even though Severus was clearly feigning confidence, his head was still held high as he maintained eye contact with Henry. And Henry felt no shame in staring Severus down as the boy came and took over the only seat beside him near the fire. He looked the boy up and down, searching for any injuries or signed of distress or discomfort. But all Henry saw was Severus’ casual brown robe and soft corduroy trousers, with a blush lighting up his healthily pale-brown skin.

“Your demented house-elf has seen fit to leave your things piled upon a chair in my room,” Severus said in greeting after a moment.

“Good morning to you too, Sev,” Henry said through a smile. “Bubby did as I told her and placed the cleaned robe, towels, and supplies in your room. Because they’re yours.”

Severus looked to have sucked a sour plum. “I—“ he started, “I thank you. But that was not required.”

Henry could not help but laugh, “It’s not about it being required. They’re yours, simple as that. So, they went to your room. Use them as you wish, and if you run out of anything I can order more for next-time.

“Next-time?” Severus plainly asked as his eyes fluttered close and a grimace twist his cheeks before it was harshly blanked away.

As Henry opened his mouth, he felt stomach acid lurch up his throat as his mood flipped too fast from elation to dread. “Oh—fuck,” Henry said. “I never meant to upset you or make you uncomfortable. I thought you had wanted—“ Henry had not been cognizant as to what he was saying as he ran his mouth, still buzzing from the night before. His cheeks flushed as he realized his slip-up. Hurriedly, he uttered, “I didn’t mean—well I’d love to do that, whatever last night was, again. But I didn’t—I would never presume you’d allow me to do that again just because you allowed me to once.”

Severus's grip on the arms of the plush leather chair beneath him tightened, his demeanor growing more guarded with each word from Henry. Henry could sense the plaguing tension building, as his own nerves and high-flying mood made him a mess at speaking. Henry felt like he was hovering, perched at the very edge of his seat to spring up to take Severus into his arms, should he ask. He felt like a fizzed-up bottle of shaken soda, sticky and scattered in his thinking. Henry did not know what to do but before he could attempt to apologize or clarify further, Severus spoke. His voice strained as he said, "I did want—I just don't make a habit of—indulging others' desires."

Henry's heart faltered at the realization of his misstep. "I never meant to make you uncomfortable," he said earnestly. He felt as if the ridges of his brain were full of molasses as he tried to think this through. “Last night was only because you gave me permission to your company, if you never want to again that’s also okay, Sev. We’ll still be friends, same as we were before.“

There was a drawn-out beat of silence before Severus looked off toward the fire. “I do—“ He softly said, voice barely above a whisper as it trailed under the sounds of the crackling logs crumbling in the fireplace.

“What?” Henry knew he was slow on the uptake at times, but he could not tell if Severus was giving his agreement or denial.

“I do, damnit Peverell!” Severus’ light voice was high and tight as his already almond-shaped eyes clinched tightly at the corners. Henry watched him adjust in his seat to angle his hips away from Henry’s gaze. “I would—you can—have your way again. Not now—but eventually. It was not—hell, it was not all too terrible.”

“Oh, good,” Henry said, smiling dumbly. Relief washed over him as he realized Severus's intentions and possibly the predicament the other was in at remembering their night. Im his own remembrance, his back straightened as he thought to his own unfulfilled desire from the night before, “Also—next time, could I bring you back to my room?” Taking in Severus’ hastily reddening face, Henry rushed out, “Only to sleep! And only if you want to. It’s just—I hated the thought of you waking up alone. And I wanted to be able to check-in on you sooner.”

Severus gaze did not stray from the dancing flames. Henry silently watched his side-profile for some time as his eyes widened and narrowed in thought. As his brow furrowed and his lips twitched, before Severus finally said, “That will be quite hard, seeing as we each reside with this others in our rooms. And one of your roommates is quite the gossip. I would prefer if this were to—stay between us.”

“That’s not a no,” Henry cheerfully thought before boldly stating, “Well, there’s always summer. You could always come home with me. Once the manor’s redone, I’ll be living alone. It’d be nice to have you for company.” Henry did not how to interpret it when Severus pointed his face towards the high ceiling. But he did take an inappropriate amount of interest in watching Severus’ elongated neck pronouncedly swallow. So distracted was he that he did not catch when the other started speaking again.

“———“

“Sorry. What was that, Sev?” Henry asked as he dragged his eyes up and away from his friend’s exposed skin.

“Damnit, you insufferable—“ Severus cut himself off as a heaved a dragging sigh that expanded his chest to its limits. “Invite me if you must, Peverell. But I make no promises of my presence.“

“That’s fine,” Henry said—smile wide, bright, and undeterred by Severus’ snapping. “Just tell me when and I’m at your service. Now, how about we catch the end of breakfast?”

Keeping his eyes still pointed away from Henry, Severus lowly said, “Perhaps—we should use the remainder of this time we have until our housemates return.”

“Oh, yes—I mean yes, we can do that,” Henry said as he mentally wondered if he had somehow addled his brain with over exposure to the hot steam last night. Eagerly, Henry had Bubby bring them a meal to share in the common room. It was a quiet and soft affair and they surprisingly do not make it out of the Slytherin dorms until the start of Christmas Dinner, as one conversation let another and before they knew it night had descended unseen.

After that night, it seemed to turn into 1975 in the blink of an eye as the months raced past since he first came-to in the infirmary. And it seemed this year would be just as interesting as the last when on the first of January Henry received his choice of three properties. It took him less than an hour to review them and owl-off his consent to give Tallowfang leave to prepare one of the Peverell’s long-deserted homes, this one named on documents as the “Bedlam of Themyscira,” for his arrival come June. From the pictures attached to the lengthy file sent over by Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the two-story ancient Stone-ender House seemed perfect for him and his goals.

It was stated to have been built by Moulton Peverell as a gift to Holloway Marston and his wife, Mary Byrne. The couple were said to have been artisans originally from Romania who Moulton met at a “roaming spectacle” upon his travels for his healing mastery. From the family’s records kept by the goblins, it was noted that the couple were performers who had a dazzling stage act showcasing Marston attempting to free himself from the “Bracelets of Submission” on a spinning raised platform before his wife could strike him with the “Lasso of Truth.”

It was also written that Moulton went daily to watch the show while on tour of the country and kept up a correspondence with the two when it was time for him to move on. It was not said how things came to be that the house was built by the then Heir to the Peverell family, or why he chose to do so in what is now Helsinki, Finland, when the majority of the Peverell family were at that time residing in the Kingdom of England—only that once finished he sent for the two, who were by then performing in Eastern Asia, and they came. Four children were said to have been born in the house in the years that followed and all of them were named heirs to Moulton’s line, even though two were well documented to have bared no resemblance to the man at all.

But it mattered not, for the three and their children were surmised to have lived happily together until Mary Byrne passed on May 19, 1690. After her death, Moulton and Holloway Marston continued to live together for the rest of their lives and were said to frequently travel abroad to “deeply enjoy each others company,” until Marston passed on March 27, 1693. It was noted that Moulton planted an aster flower around the two’s headstones each day until he was laid to rest beside them after passing on May 2, 1747. To this day, the flowers grow as a “wonderdome” in the far back of the property which the house’s kirkyard was built around.

Henry did not understand why reading through notes and history on this house in particular brought such a joyous feeling to him, but it did. His only thoughts on the matter were that it seemed to be a house built by and for love, which was evident in the first attached picture. It showed the house as it stood alone In the heart of the tranquil grasslands, where whispers of the wind swayed across the photo to intertwine with the song of wildflowers. It was a testament to rustic elegance: a two-story mini mansion, fashioned after the ancient craftsmanship but clearly maintained over various generations to their own liking.

There were several pictures of its exterior showing its weathered stone facade, kissed by the passage of time, and bore witness to the tales of all the people who had come past into its halls. The fifth photo was of the house on a dry morning, as the sun danced across the northern skies behind its high walls and cast golden hues upon the landscape. Henry thought that this solitary abode exuded a timeless charm, beckoning wanderers to explore its hidden treasures. The ninth picture was of it holding its own in the depths of winter. The house stood resolute against the weight of heavy snow, a sentinel guarding the serenity of its surroundings.

There were area shots as well, highlighting its location nestled several miles from the northern shores of Lake Pitkäjärv. The eleventh through fourteenth pictures showed this haven of tranquility as it embraced the changing seasons with grace. In the height of summer, vibrant hues paint the meadows with a kaleidoscope of life, while the melody of chirping birds and buzzing insects fills the air. Spring breathes new life into the land, as blossoms unfurl and the pulse of nature quickens.

Then there were breathtaking shots of the land behind the house. Where amidst the tapestry of bustling local fauna and flora, the mini mansion stood as a silent observer over the grassland, a sanctuary where time seemed to stand still. It looked to be a place where the soul found solace, where echoes of the past harmonize with the rhythm of the present, and where the beauty of the natural world is celebrated in every stone and every whisper of the wind. There was a glass garden-house near the back entrance and several seating areas scattered around the large yard.

Further away, there were four rather large plots of land bisected by stone walkways and simply petering off at their edges to be reclaimed by the wild. Notes in the file indicated that one was for the fall/winter harvest, one was for the spring/summer, one was for the growing of medicinal herbs, and the last was priorly maintained by a later Lady of the House who used it to experiment with the development of potions ingredients. With one look through the 32 photos and the seven pages of notes for this particular property, he knew instantly that this place would be his home.

And a day after signing off on the last bits of paperwork the goblins required, he received a floo address and the surreptitious portkeys. They come in a warded box with no visible partitions, that simply slid apart to reveal a cushion when in contact with a bit of Henry’s magic. When Henry first saw them nestled innocently on the little pillow, he thought they were quite amusing—seeing as they were styled as five tiny portobello mushroom shaped brooches. They were rather plain and unassuming as they were made of a dull silver with etchings to give details and texture to the mushrooms.

Less amused was he when he read the attached note stating that the fee of a resounding 150 galleons per pin was taken from his vault as agreed. The note further explained how once he completed the enclosed spell to encrypt them with an activation phrase they would take the wielder to the house’s first floor floo-room. The house had one per floor. But unlike the second floor’s, which was pictured as a stylish sitting-room, this one was a bare room in the back of the house off of the back entrance. From the pictures, Henry could see that it only contained a grand fireplace with an intricately carved stone mantelpiece depicting the surrounding wilderness.

In it was a hidden ward-stone that was separate from the houses main ward-stone, which was housed in the attic, but acted much in the same way as it created a barrier around solely that room. This was because there were runes etched on the back of each brooch that had already been keyed to the rune sequence that was a part of the stone’s ward system. It would allow whoever activated the portkey access to only that room of the house until Henry permitted further passage, basically trapping them in that heavily reinforced room should someone unwanted get ahold of the portkey.

Between the picturesque views, the sprawling grounds, and the top of the line security it was a place where Henry could imagine himself learning how to be happy again. As Henry imagined himself walking through the houses’ expansive grounds, his footsteps muffled by the lush grass, he couldn't help but feel a deep yearning stirring within him. It was something to look forward to, his first home. And more than that, it inspired him because it was a place that he could invite Severus to. Where he could allow the boy to steal-away from the world and they could be free of all expectations. He took at carrying around one of the pictures from the folder in his robe’s breast pocket.

He looked at it often, at times treating it as if it were a worry-stone as he imagined a future with the other boy at his side. The gentle breeze that shook the moving image in hand before him, as he sat waiting in a hard-wood chair in the library as Severus looked about for a book, whispered secrets of love and longing. In his daydreams, he swore he could smell how the picture carried the scent of blooming flowers that seemed to dance in anticipation of his heart's desires. With brush of long-grass against the house, it’s became more so painted as a home. He envisioned himself at rest there. He envisioned himself building a life there.

It was a blank canvas of opportunity where he could be anything—a guardian, a protector, and a nurturer. Where he could build a home that was always warm, and the pantry was always full, and the carriage doors stayed always open—ready to embrace Severus with unwavering devotion. His gaze lingered on how the horizon, where the sky kissed the earth in a tender embrace behind the house, mirroring the union he reluctantly allowed himself to dream of sharing with Severus. In this sanctuary of beauty and tranquility, Henry saw not just a refuge for himself, but a haven where he could cocoon Severus in safety and warmth.

With each passing day, his longing for their shared future grew stronger, like a flame yearning to be kindled into an inferno of passion and devotion. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in hues of pink and gold, Henry whispered a silent promise to himself: to become the man strong enough to hold up Severus' world with his own two hands, to be the steadfast anchor in the tempest of life's uncertainties, and to protect him with a depth that knew no bounds.

As the days since their time in the Room of Requirement passed, it became harder for Henry to see how this Severus growing up to become that Snape. “What horrors had the potions master faced in his rather short life?” Henry thought sorrowfully as older memories of unsteadily holding a cooling body clashed with new ones of a small being hidden securely in his arms. He could not wrap his head around how such a soft, gentle, and hesitantly lovely little thing could grow up to become such a scathing figure. “How much of himself did he have to kill off to stay alive?” Henry sadly pondered as he snuck glances at his returned companion.

Severus had set up shop to take notes on a passion project he refused to discuss. But Henry did recognize several of the ingredients hi-lighted in the books from their discussion at The Three Broomsticks. Henry fondly looked over the other as he settled in to simply be in Severus’ presence for the evening. Quietly, the two sat in the otherwise abandoned library the first Friday of January while the rest of the castle settled back in from their break.

Chapter Text

January 3 - January 4, 1975

“Sev? It’s gotten late, think we should head back now?” Henry asked the boy seated across from him, who was hunched over with his nose almost brushing against the book that held his attention. They traded less than a handful of words in the hours they’ve been in the library, avoiding the rest of their house. And while Henry had been content with amusing himself while Severus combed through half the library for something, he had a growing headache and didn’t want to incur the wrath of Filtch by skirting curfew on top of that. “How about I help put some of these back?”

“Insufferable,” Severus snipped under his breath. But he made no move to stop Henry as he balanced several heavy tombs and walked away. The ones he collected were some of the older here in the library and had charms on them that made it impossible for you to summon or put them back with magic. As Henry walked, he looked along the spines cradled in his arms, taking in some of their titles—“Your Magical Core and You,” “Connexio inter magicas Cores et Animas,” “The Creation of Magic,” “A Time to be Alive: An Annotation on the Birth of the Wixen World,” “Visus Animae,” and “Where Does Magic Go When You Die?” There were children’s books, bibliographies, ancient research notes—and Henry could not see what of Severus’ interest connected them.

Shaking his head, Henry went about the shelves one-by-one, putting each book in its correct spot in the grand room. When Henry turned the corner to put the final book in his possession away, he saw Severus lingering in his intended isle with a book floating at his side and attempting to take down a few final notes. Not wishing to bother the other, Henry looked on in silence. He thought that Severus’ new haircut fit his face well; it hi-lighted the arch of Severus’ high cheeks and offset the breath of his proud nose. Henry placed the book in his hand down on a shelf a little ways up the row and then quietly made his way over to his friend. Henry could not keep in his chuckle when he saw Severus still trying to get down a few spare thoughts when he returned, and asked, “You can’t help it, can you?”

After snapping his final book shut and shooing it back to its home, Severus grouched, “Unlike you, some of us have ambition, Peverell. Simply another reason as to why I question your placement within Slytherin.”

As the two of them were hidden away behind the tall shales, Henry looked slightly down at Severus and smiled. “I have my ambitions, Severus.”

“Do you?” Severus snidely asked.

Henry hummed in response to Severus’ short temperament as he leant his hip against the shelf at their side and tucked his hands under his crossed arms, just to give his body something to do. “Several. Simply because I’m not brash about them doesn’t mean that I do not have them.” Looking up into the shaded rafters thoughtfully, Henry went on, “I learned that being brash is only possible when you’re willing to be reckless. And I want things that are much too delicate to do them recklessly.”

Laughing at Severus’ sour expression, Henry said, “I was serious before. I’m going to change our society’s attitude toward the distinction between dark and light magic. And I plan to make adjustments to outlook and available resources for those who come from muggle backgrounds like ours. And—I suppose being your friend is another ambition of mine.” Henry could audibly hear Severus’ smart reply die on his tongue at the last of his words. And the blush that spread across Severus’ face was visible even in the scattered low candlelight. Absently, Henry reached out to play with a wave of hair that brushed Severus’ right ear. It was becoming a habit, for him, to be near Severus’ face when it twisted in befuddled shock. “Cute,” Henry thought.

Not pulling away but turning his head so that his hair slipped out from Henry’s finger tips, Severus murmured, “I ask that you not treat me any different amongst our peers.”

Curious, Henry asked, “How do you want me to treat you then?

“The level of attachment you have displayed prior to Yule will suffice,” said Severus stiffly.

“Only is public?” Henry asked jokingly. He could admit that he was gaining a fixation for Severus’ face and wanted to know how much Severus truly wanted him to restrain himself. Henry’s eyes tracked the way Severus’ sharp jaw worked and nose twitched as he watched the other’s lips, awaiting a response.

“That,” Severus embarrassedly bit out. “That look—those touches. The teasing. That is what I am requesting you not to do.”

“Do it bother you, Severus?” Henry inquired seriously.

“Does it—,” Severus trailed off in disbelief. “That is not the matter at hand! I mean to do right by your reputation, since you seem to possess the inane ability to lack foresight into your actions.”

“What does my ‘reputation’—?“

Cutting him off, Severus spat, “One in such a position such as yourself should know better than to publicly involve themself in a scandal! It could scare off potential betrothal contacts!”

“I—are you serious?” Henry was barely able to wrap his mind around what Severus just said. “Again, Sev, I was muggle raised! I didn’t know shit about ‘pureblood’ norms until this summer. And more than that, I’m not interested in a bloody contract with some heiress I’ve never met!” Henry huffed as he stared down the second most annoying person he’d ever shared more than a few words with—Colin Creevey would always be number one. “And just so we’re clear,” Henry said, “even if I were interested in one I’d be just as likely to wed a wife as I was to wed a husband. So what makes you so sure I’m not courting you?” As Severus looked to be trying to find his voice, Henry thought to himself, “Wait—am I Bi? Am I flirting?”

As he shifted his weight while waiting on a response, Henry heard an eerie chuckle intermixed with the sounds of the creaking wood beneath his feet. Eventually, Severus was able to sputter out, while blatantly ignoring Henry’s alluding remarks, “You—I—that—that’s preposterous!”

“Why? I wouldn’t be the first Peverell to do whatever the hell it was they pleased. It’s kind of our thing,” Henry smirked.

Severus irritated voice rage out alone the empty isles, “Because you need heirs, you fool!”

“There’s not a potion for that?” Henry asked dumbly. “With two males I mean?”

“There are many methods you could pursue, should you wish, master,” came a sibilance through the air.

Unaware of Henry’s attempt to focus on only one being speaking to him at-a-time, Severus was beside himself with Henry’s overall way of being, sighing, “No. Medical exploration has not advanced to such feats in which men can carry an embryo to term. While there have been attempts combining partial transmutation and potions, either the wizard or fetus dies.”

“Huh,” Henry breathed. “Well how about you create one.” Severus goes to move past Henry, but Henry gently placed a hand on the other’s arm to halt his departure. “I’m just saying,” Henry began, “if there was anyone brilliant enough to make it work I think it’d be you. Besides, you can’t convince me there’s not a method for male pregnancy in the old texts.”

Severus looked at Henry wearily, a mixture of miserable embarrassment and self-preserving trepidation thrumming through him as he asked, “What use could I possibly gain from such an erroneous endeavor?”

Henry had taken to trailing the hand he still had on Severus up and down the younger’s arm. “Don’t know. You could do it purely for academic interest—it could be your masters thesis? Or you could do it in the interest of these supposed ‘Peverell heirs’ you’re so concerned about.” As he finished talking Henry could only think, “Definitely flirting.” When no response to his prodding came, Henry took pity on Severus—as he seemed mere moments from an aneurys. Henry released Severus’ arm with a softly spoken, “Just think about it, yeah? If it interests you then I will fund the entire project. Because not only do I believe you can do it, I know there are others out there who would definitely gain something from your brilliance.”

Not immediately fleeing now that he was released, Severus shyly looked down the row and said, “You say that as if I’ve created anything of note.”

In surprise, Severus jumped as warm fingers gripped his chin, turning his face up and back to Henry’s direction. And the older boy simply said, “You can. You will.”

Severus’ breath caught in his throat so his next words came out airy and strained, “What gives you such confidence in me?”

Henry did not immediately respond as he took his time to map out the swell of Severus’ bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. He was mentally weighing the merits between another witty response and simply kissing the question away with a loud clatter came from the front of the library. And because Henry could respond, Severus had jumped away like a frightened rabbit and scurried off to collect his satchel off of their cleared table.

When Henry arrived to the table, Severus did not look in his direction. But he did hastily throw over his shoulder, “I shall see you tomorrow, Peverell. Good night.”

“Well he didn’t completely run away this time,” Henry mused. “I supposed that’s progress.” After saying a farewell of his own, Henry walked languidly through library towards the exit, and said goodnight to Madame Pince at her desk—who seemed far too cheery to see him. Henry made the lonesome trek back to his room. When he arrives to the common room, Henry does not catch sight of neither Severus nor his roommates so he decides to head to his room. There he found his roommates caught in an animated retelling of Bertram Aubrey’s sister getting a not house-trained Alaskan Snow-ferret for Yule from her betrothed—and it proceeding to piss on everything. With a genuine laugh, Henry joined them as he listened in on the rest of the story from his bed.

“But enough about my family,” said Aubrey some time later. “How was your Yule, Henry?”

“Quiet,” Henry said. And Bertram took no wait before following up his simply statement and asked, “Yeah? Why did you decide to stay behind?”

“I can’t return to my old home and the manor I will be staying at from now on was in need of minor repairs and updates,” Henry simply stated. “But it will be ready by summer.”

Interested, Leodonis Avery II joined the conversation, “Oh? Where is this manor?”

“The northern shores of Lake Pitkäjärv.”

“Where the hell—?!“ Bertram started but was quickly cut off by Leodonis’ confused shriek of “Finland?!”

“Yeah,” Henry laughed, “you’ve been?”

In a bit of shock, Leodonis mutedly stated,” “Once on holiday. There’s good skiing near there.”

“Good to know,” Henry said between chuckles at the other’s reaction.

“Wait I’m confused,” Bertram said. “Why is your house in Finland?”

Shrugging, Henry responded with, “Who knows. An heir in the 1600’s though it was a good enough place to start a family with his two lovers and it was the most well kept of the properties still standing.”

“His two—?!“ Again Bertram was cut off as Leodonis excitedly began to ramble, “That old? And it still stands? What materials is it made from? What is the warding structure like? Have house-elves—“

“Leodonis!” Henry yelled, gaining his roommates attention. Thinking back to the portkeys stashed in his trunk, a plan was forming in the back of his mind as Henry offered, “How about you just come see it?”

“Really? Because I’d love to see the development of the rune—“ It was Leodonis’ turn to be cut off as Bertram sulked, “What about me?”

“Yeah, you can come too Bertram,” Henry happily complied as he snuggled under his covers. He listened to the two snip and joke with each other well into the night, until they tired themselves out. Then, long after bedside lamps had been extinguished and the prefects had completed their rounds, only the silent gaze of shadows observed him skulking about. In the library with Severus and through his roommates banter, Henry had maintained an unsuspecting presence as he irritably dismissed a certain ethereal being's incessant prattling about a book it insisted he read.

Now with a full blown headache and his roommates, still full of roast and pudding from their holiday feasts, succumbed to sleep he was able to leave. Henry moved without fear of discovery as he leaned over the bedside and summoned the castoff darkness from beneath. Henry allowed the barely tangible wisps of shade to cascade up his hands to envelop his body, feeling smoother than silk and lighter than air. If he were to be honest with himself, Henry acknowledged that he was beginning to wield this magic adeptly.

Faintly, a voice called out, “Take the portkeys with you.”

Henry could feel the presence of Death press against the veil between realms as he tugged back his covers. Unsure as to why, but vaguely amused, Henry complied as he slipped off his mattress into the night. Wrapping the gathered umbrage tighter around himself, Henry gazed down at his legs and saw only moonlight against the wood-paneled floor. The sensation of moving through obscurity was always peculiar, yet exhilarating. It had been far too long since he last ventured out alone. Adjusting to the new term and befriending Severus had consumed much of his time. But now, Harry was wide awake and seized by the notion that Hogwarts and all its secrets lay open before him. Excitement surged through his veins as he strode across the room, well practiced thought that he could go anywhere unnoticed. Avery grumbled in his sleep as Henry crept out of the dormitory, but Henry didn't hesitate in his exit. Confident that even if the boy awoke, he wouldn't perceive anything amiss. Descending the stairs, crossing the common room, and passing through the crumbling archway, Henry moved with a buoyancy in his muffled steps. However, just beyond the dormitory hallway, he faltered as a shout echoed down the corridor.

"Who's there?" squawked the Bloody Baron, who had been listlessly hovering near the Slytherin entrance, his spectral form watching dust particles dance down the walls. Henry remained silent, holding his position, but it mattered little. For after a momentary pause, the fretful ghost hastened down the corridor, eager to get away from quietus that befell Henry’s presence whenever he used shadow magic. Undeterred, Henry continued toward his destination: the Restricted Section. The chill of early January seeped through the castle's ancient stones, attempting to pierce him despite his warming spells. So he picked up his pace and in the quiet depth of the night, when the world was enveloped in a fleeting shroud of endlessness, Henry treaded briskly through the dimly-lit corridors of Hogwarts. Only the murmurs of his unseen companion, whispering secrets amidst the frost and solitude, accompanied his footsteps, which were spell-muffled against the cold floor.

As he ventured deeper into the castle's recesses, the darkness seemed to awaken. Shadows, which had previously loitered in doorways and beneath slumbering portraits, tentatively reaching out to him. He observed how some jittered closer but bashfully returned to their homes one he came near. Henry found the playful shapes that danced upon the walls and floors reminiscent of the ghostly apparitions, unsure of their next move when pertaining to him. But Henry walked by their feel nonetheless. Relying not on the feeble glow of a wand as he once had, but on the ever-shifting patterns of darkness itself. Now Henry simply stepped where darkness fell. He allowed the tenebrosity, occasionally split by strands of bright moonlight, to map out the world before him. It was as if he had gained a second form of sight. In this world cloaked in Death’s presence, Henry embraced his newfound ability. Beyond the grand windows that lined his way, twilight had not yet broken the horizon. Around him, the air was heavy with anticipation and the presence of an unseen other. Each of his breaths was a fleeting jostling of the frost that hung in the air, suspended in time. The distant howl of the wind echoed through the corridors, a haunting melody that seemed to beckon him further into the unknown depths of gloaming night. Through winding passages and hidden alcoves, Henry pressed on, his heart quickening with each step. A deathly chill seeped into his bones as he could just make out the brush of intangible fingertips against his arms. Somehow, he did not mind. The almost caress slowly eased down his spine and acted as a hand on his lower back, steering him forward.

Eventually, he reached the entrance to the restricted section of the library. The Hogwarts library was a beautiful and grand repository of knowledge, but now its soaring ceilings and rows upon rows of shelves looked almost ghastly. The atmosphere of reverence and scholarly pursuit was replaced by an eerie sense of stillness and absence. As Henry stepped past empty study tables and abandoned rolling carts, a palpable sense of solemnity descended, as if the very air were heavy with the weight of the departed. Shadows stretched over the long windows, cast by the shifting light of the moon and flickering candles left on as if in offering. The air within the library carried the faint scent of old parchment and leather bindings. And the sound of rustling leaves and creaking branches echoed off the high ceiling, while distant hoots of owls and the occasional rustle of other nocturnal creatures added to the eerie ambiance. The looming shelves, lined with countless volumes containing works on subjects ranging from potions and spells to magical history and literature, seemed to almost lean toward him as he made his way to the back of the grand room. The Hogwarts library was not merely a place for academic study; it was a sanctuary for those who sought knowledge and understanding, a haven where the wonders of the magical world were waiting to be uncovered with each turn of a page. Henry felt it, as he disabled the security ward and stepped over the low-hanging rope that separated the public space from this out-of-the-way section, that whatever it was that Death deemed he needed could be found here. In the Restricted Section, the air grew heavy with the weight of long-forgotten knowledge, a palpable presence that dampened the air, thick with the whispers of the dangerous and forbidden. As he stepped into the darkness that seemed to swallow this part of the library whole, Henry felt the almost weight of something press upon his back.

“Row 1, aisle 2, shelf 8,” was whispered past him.

Henry could not discern where the voice had come from, as it seemed to gather around him from all sides, but he looked around all the same as he approached the correct bookshelf. Henry took his time, knowing that he’d be able to read as long as he liked, as long as it took to find out what his companion wanted. He took note of every legible title as he passed, though they didn't tell him much. Some were wasting away. Their peeling, faded letters spelled words in languages Harry couldn't understand. Others had no title at all. One book was wrapped in the pale skin of some animal and had a dark stain on its cover that looked suspiciously like blood.

“Goat skin, nymph blood,” came the silent response to his mental pondering.

Setting the unsettling commentary aside, Henry decided that he had to start somewhere when no further direction came. Henry looked along the bottom shelf for any interesting-looking book. A large black and silver volume caught his eye. He thought, almost fondly, of the piercing, bloodcurdling shriek he knew would split the silence if that particular book were disturbed. The hairs on the back of Henry's neck prickled in anticipation. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint whispering was coming from the some of books, as if they knew someone was finally near who could use the power they held within.

“What am I looking for?” Henry whispered aloud, to no response.

Chapter Text

January 4, 1975

“A book.”

“Thanks, Death. Thank you so much,” Henry deadpanned. Exasperated, one by one, Henry reached out with his magic to get a feel for the books. He passed over many—but those that did not feel malicious, troublesome, or vaguely sentient were opened for a casual browse of their content. His answers came in the form of a small purple text down the spine of a greyed book two books from the end of the shelf. The only way that Henry could explain it is that the magic housed within its dusty pages felt safe and familiar. Upon picking it up, Henry noted that “Nursery Rhymes Fram æn Poor Man’s Werre” was far heavier than he expected from a slightly larger hand-sized book. The author was not stated, and the visible text was in a language he was most certain was not English, but he did not stop to question why he could comprehend it. Instead, he flipped through the pages detailing spells for “Blood Wards,” “Bone Protections,” and whatever “Prodigious Castling” was.

“Take it and go.”

This time, before Death spoke, Henry felt its approach. In silent steps that felt infinite and relentless, he felt the being's power waft across his back. Like wet sand wrapped in silk, it weighed against him. The hair on his nape stood tall despite the calmness of his heart, as Henry responded, “Where?”

“Where we shall not be disturbed, master,” was whispered back to him in a voice barely audible.

The words sent a shiver down Henry's spine. He knew he was imagining the faint press of lips gliding across the shell of his ear that accompanied the disembodied voice, but he shivered all the same. He hesitated slightly before he mentally ran through all the hidden spots in the castle and asked, “I don’t know—where should I go?”

But all he was met with was a repeated, “Take it and go, master.”

So, with a warming along his spine that distracted him from the bitter cold, he did. Down the corridor outside, stuffing the little book under his arm, he walked on. He passed a now visibly unchanged Argus Filch in the archway of the conjoining hall. Hogwarts’ squib caretaker was, as per usual, unsightly. A squat, grumpy man with bulging, watery eyes, thinning gray hair, and a wheezy voice that breathed heavily into the air. He wore a suit of old, ill-fitting clothes, giving him a generally unkempt appearance. And was in the continual company of his faithful cat and most effective spy, Mrs. Norris—that blinked intelligently in Henry’s direction. But Filch's pale, wild eyes looked straight through him as Henry slipped under the lantern in Filch's outstretched arm and streaked off up the corridor, Death’s voice still ringing in his ears. Henry came to halt in front tucked behind a tall suit of armor, its silhouette looming tall against as it stood bathed in the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. Each plate of steel was weathered and worn, bearing the scars of battles long past, yet still exuding an air of solemn strength and resilience.

The visor of the helm was closed while the gauntleted hands rested firmly at its sides. Despite the stillness of the night, there was a palpable sense of watchfulness emanating from the silent guardian, as if it stood eternal vigil over the secrets and mysteries hidden within the ancient castle walls. Something about the lingering magic emanating from it unnerved Henry as he got himself away from it’s frozen form. As he quickly walked on, giving the hunk of metal a wide berth and a side-eye, Henry realized that he was so busy getting away from the library that he hadn't paid attention to where he was going. He didn't recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he figured that he must be five floors above there. Instead of fretting over it, he closed his eyes and set his intentions, “I want to go to the Chamber of Secrets.”

He felt the magic around him shift and reconfigure itself as a soft force pulled him away from the way he was going and deeper into shadows. It was as if he was swallowed whole, hidden away inside darkness that caressed his brown skin without a whisper. With half a mind, Henry felt it tracing the contours of his body like a lover's gentle touch. His every movement sends a ripple of sensation through him, of pure magic thrumming through his veins. Henry walked in a trance, he simply trusted that the shade encompassing him would get him to where he wanted to go, and came to at the archway of the second-floor girls' bathroom. It was nothing to open the chamber and, wisely, hiss for stairs. Henry did not think he would ever get used to the endless, slimy, dark cavern that he had to pass through to get to the Chamber. On either side of him, he could make out more pipes branching off in all directions but none were as large as the one he was in. Which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downwards, the further he walked below the school than even the dungeons went.

After some time, the pipe leveled out and Henry came out of the end with a wet slap of his shoes into filthy standing water. Miles under the school, well under the lake, probably, the tunnel was so dark that Henry could only see a little distance ahead. But he was not afraid. The shadows on the wet walls crept along side him for company. As well as the miles of snake skin, vivid and poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Henry's body was tingling pleasantly. He waited for the tunnel to end, curious about what he'd find when it did. And then, at last, as he crept around yet another bend, Henry saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds. Harry approached, his throat very dry. He cleared it with a subtle cough and the carving’s emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Henry walked inside on steady feet as torches came to life along the walls. Once past Salazar Slytherin’s ostentatious entrance, Henry headed toward the center of the damp chamber to await further instruction. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed follow his steps. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir. Around the dimly lit chamber were towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents that reached high to support a ceiling lost in darkness. They casted long beastial shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. As Henry drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. Now, he only had to slightly crane his neck to look up into the giant face above. The ancient and finely carved face of Salazar Slytherin was a beautiful testament to the art of his time. The long thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes seemed lifelike in its flowing form. The two enormous grey feet that stood on the smooth chamber floor seemed ready to take a step any moment. Henry could feel that great magic had went into this statues creation and was marveled by how much of it remained actively preserved in each cut of stone.

“Magic is so wonderful,” Henry thought as his heart beat fast. He stood listening to the chill silence. And after a moment, where he felt silly looking around for a sign of what was to come, Henry called out, “What now?”

When no response came, he cleared off a clean spot of ground before transforming a large fallen chunk of stone into a plush armchair and began to read.

“Nursery Rhymes Fram æn Poor Man’s Werre” was, in a word, boring. While he would never be Hermione, Henry had spent every scrap of his downtime in 1974 filling in every gap in his knowledge base. From ballroom etiquette to theories on the practical applications of dark magic, several historical accounts of the major achievements of every old family name to a synopsis on the Wizengamot—Henry read it all. He had gotten through hulking ancient tombs and barely coherent leaflets. So it surprised him that he was now struggling to comprehend what was essentially a children’s book that read like half finished recipes. One that contained spells housed between such words as, “I’ ye winding woods and foggy glades, doth gaderian ye fresh offal, in merry wet braids.” Despite the fact that he was amused by the thought of who, outside of maybe Bellatrix Lestrange, would send their children off to bed with words such as, “Under ætwendende moon's vigilant eye, leave þe tongue of þin foe tō lie,” ringing in their ears—Henry hated old English. And while his Master of Death powers seemed to be translating the text for him, for there was no language that did not contain in it the it the utterance of Death, it apparently drew the line at choosing words from the last century.

With his silent companion being of no help, Henry had no choice but to comb through the pages one after another. With each turn of brittle parchment, he grew more despondent that anything of use would come from the book laid heavy upon his thighs. About a third of the way through the book Henry was sure that none of the several hundred pages of poems were what he was looking for. But he found it curious that with such joyous instructions for the best way to skin an eyeball, the proper method to splinter bone, or at what temperature organs should be boiled—the whole of this book seemed to be about protection work. Eventually Henry found something promising. While none of what he read gave actual instructions, the stories contained plainly stated cause and effect. And the outcome of "A Nædre Lives út in þǣm Gārdenne" seemed to be just what he was searching for. It was a protection spell disguised as a charming tale about an old woman and the garden snake that mischievously ate from her garden. In it, she fed the little snake rocks from around her home until it grew big enough to rest its head atop her roof. And when it did, she struck it down and took the now tumbled stones from the dead thing’s ruined gut. When “held close,” they were said to be able to protect “hire kin fram eallum mage, mite, and men—“until cōm an ende tō all hrēowan and sin.” Henry read on and saw that to work, the protection ward spell was stated to only need a handful of things: "Blōd þæs castoran," "blōd þæs behātenan," "swætlung of āne grēatan fugle," and "ān wellufod wyrpung stān."

After reading the story, and then reading it again to parse out an actual meaning, Henry conjured a brillo to take down notes in the book’s margin. The last line roughly translated to “a well-loved throwing stone.” And between the connotations that a “throwing stone” was meant to be held then tossed away and Death’s advice that Henry brought the portkeys with him, he felt that this was clearly a way for him to protect all those he planned to give them to from afar. Henry thought it was ingenious. While he wasn’t entirely sure what all the spell could defend against, he figured it would be powerful enough to give the wearer a chance. And this was war, sometimes a chance was all that was needed to turn the tide—and an errant spell could come from anywhere. The first two were self explanatory, “blood of the castor” and “blood of the promised,” he’d need to shed a bit of blood for the spell to work. And he’d also need a few drops from those he planned to give the portkeys to. But it was the third line, “saliva of a great birdie,” that gave him pause. After wracking his head on how a not fore-mentioned bird fit into a story about a snake as big as a house, Henry grew frustrated. He sat the book down in his chair to pace about. His quick steps echoed loudly throughout the large stone room.

Henry absentmindedly stopped between the high pillars at the end of the chamber and looked up into the well-crafted face of Salazar Slytherin, high above. His eyes sought the statues elongated neck, that housed the den of a monster between its carved veins that stood so real Henry could imagine blood pumping through them, before moving upward. In the half-darkness, Henry could not see the marble eyes, imposing and sinister, which he knew gazed out intro he chamber. But he could see the detailed contours of carved lips. The flickering candlelight caught on the rise and fall of the stone’s slopes in such a way that every so often they looked to have parted. Henry’s heart quickened at the thought but stood his ground and chastised his childish fears as he looked on. As he was half caught in the memory of Slytherin's gigantic alabaster face moving—opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole, Henry remembered that basilisk’s are born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a toad. And the very one resting in a deep slumber inside the statue before him was about 15.24 meters long.

“Oh,” Henry thought with a sleep-deprived laugh, “it can’t be that simple. Nothing ever in my life is ever that simple.”

“You do indeed require the serpent, master.”

Caught by surprised, Henry whipped around and saw the almost-there afterimage of something quickly disperse into the air. “Death?” Henry hesitantly called out. The voice had been so close and clear that Henry had thought there was another person in the chamber with him.

From behind him again, in a rough voice came, “Who else would it be? Silly little master, I’ll guide you from here.” It was as if the entity had taken on a solid form and was standing over his shoulder. Henry felt it as those empty crevices of vast nothing that were the beings eyes stared him down. But when Henry turned back, all he could see was Slytherin’s effigy. “First,” hushed Death, “you need to decide what you want the protection ward to accomplish. Be clear. Are you warding against negative energy, physical harm, or something else?”

“All of it!” Henry’s breathy voice excitedly broke the chambers steady silence. His chest had yet to settle and his mind was alight with Deaths words. He did not understand what was going on, by he easily thought of all the times he was able to get away from certain danger simply because he was able to dumb-luck his way into the barest second of a chance to escape. Ans that is what he wanted to give the others. “I want them to be protected from anything that could possibly harm them. I want the pin’s to be powerful enough to, even if only once, rebound any spell.”

“Very well,” Death said, “then you will need something as equally strong as your convictions, master.”

“What do you—?“ Henry began.

“A life for a life will do.”

“A—life?” Henry questioned as he went to turn his head in confusion.”You expect me to kill it?!”

But before his chin could meet his right shoulder he felt elongated fingers gently take hold of the base of his jaw from behind. A shiver when down Henry’s ramrod straight back as the chillingly cold fingers guided his gaze back to the statue. He could almost make out the feeling on a palm resting upon his Adam’s apple. He could just feel a wide chest brush against the back of his shoulders with every breath. They stood there just like that, locked in a sham of an embrace, as Henry thought of what to do. He did not know what to think. He could not move. And when he swallowed hard, chasing his quickened breath, the feeling Death’s near-tangible grip bobbed with the motion of his throat.

“I need this to work,” Henry thought. “I need to be able to protect Severus when I’m not around.” Henry locked eyes with the statue high above and thought of what could have happened if that Severus had been given an opportunity to escape at the last second. What would have changed it that Severus was able to runaway to someplace safe. With the lingering memories of blood dripping from his hands as he attempted to hold that Severus’ neck closed, his decision came easy. “I won’t let him die again. No matter the cost.” Still uncertain on if this was right to do, Henry opened his mouth wide and hissed, “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

Just as before, Slytherin's gigantic stone face moved. And something about the feeling that he had been here before had Henry’s breath smoothing out. Disoriented, he recalled, “Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents.” Feeling wrong-footed awakening the beast himself, Henry looked on as the rigid line between stone lips opened wider and wider. The void between them grew vast and dark as the feeble torch light could not reach into the statue’s inner workings. It took a moment for the beast inside to shake off its bygone slumber. As it awoke, Henry could hear as it began to slither up from its depths toward the light. He listened to the giant serpent’s impenetrable scales grind against stone and its fouling smelling panting become more audible the higher it got. Then, something was stirring inside the statue's opening—the basilisk began to uncoil itself from Slytherin's mouth. The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was quickly scenting around.

But before it could bring more than a couple feet of its body through, Death quietly instructed Henry, “Kill it.”

Without his wand, and with Death’s firm hold pressing into the skin of his face and keeping his eyes trained on the snake head on, Henry let his body relax.

“You have to mean it,” Death whispered.

Unquestioningly, Henry let the first spell that came to his mind fall from his lips, “Avada Kedavra.”

He was afraid of his power in that moment. He was afraid that this was all too much and he would loose his way. And everything would change with the power of this spell. But nothing happened. The snake, still very much alive, reared back its ugly head. Steam plumed from the slits of its nostrils and its head, dorned with decrepit ridges and boils, bobbed around as it scented the air. Henry saw the moment it locked onto his scent. The part of its body that was free-hanging in the air swung towards him. Henry raised his open palm towards the beast, even before he attempted the spell again he knew it would not work, “Ava—“

”You have to mean it, master,” said Death. “You have to need the release of its life.”

“The release of—oh.” Henry had been trying to find the will to kill it, but in that moment he realized that he was going about it all wrong  he was not Voldemort or one of his merry band of psychopaths. He did not want this creature to because he was afraid. He did not want it to die because of a danger it posed or in an act of presumptive revenge. So he could not pull the power needed to fuel this spell from feelings of hate. No, as Henry examined himself in the moment he found that he hated very little, not even Voldemort, but he had a wealth of other emotions bubbling up from inside of him. A deep yearning for a peaceful life, the fragile buddings of his compassion towards Severus, and a lifetime’s worth of happiness from the memories of being truly loved by the family he found along between then and now. “I’ve been going about this all wrong,” he wistfully thought. If he needed the basilisk’s life to protect the lives of those he cared about then—“Avada Kedavra.”

The spell seemed to leap from his very core and struck the snake just as it brought its head down to look at him. Henry felt a passing remorse as he watched the vibrant green of the killing curse sink into the beast’s scales. Henry remembered how before he could only watch as Tom Riddle and this snake attempted to destroy his only home. Occasionally, he still had nightmares of its wiry voice seeking to, “Kill, kill, kill.” With all the sorrow he could muster, for this was still a living thing, Henry silently prayed to whatever was listening that the basilisk could now be free of its life of caged slumber. That it could be free of its inflicted madness and maliciousness. That it could be at peace and, it its spirit willed, a better use to Henry’s aims in its death. With that intent in his heart, Henry was not surprised when a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something was soaring through the air, filled the long hall. Henry watched as the beasts huge body hit the stone floor of the chamber in heavy coils at the base of Slytherin’s feet. He felt it shudder the ground and knock loose dust and stone from the rafters. Gingerly, Henry walked out of Deaths loosened arms and over to the beast. He knelt beside its great head and felt warm radiating off of his prone body. After a moment of thought, he reached over to gently pull its large eyelids close over Dulles yellow eyes in respect. Unlike in his second year, the monster of the chamber’s life would be used to protect his friends, not terrorize them. And for that Henry could not help but utter a soft, “Thank you.”

Henry went to rise, but stopped short at the feel of the other close to him. He did not think he was imagining the press of knobby knees into his back. Or that way that two wide palms took hold of his shoulders, lightly holding him down on his knees. “You needn’t move, master.”

Henry shook under Death’s touch. All thoughts of instructions in that heavy little book left him as a knelt there, lost to the feeling of dark magic coursing through his being, he heard himself say, “Then what do I do from here?”

“Cleanse and prepare your ritual space, master.”

At Deaths words, all the candles in the chamber went out as one. The smoke from the hundreds of doused flames coalesced into one sweeping wave that flowed through the room and left Henry’s head feeling more stuffy than before. Pitched into a sudden darkness, Henry swallowed down deep breaths as he attempted to calm himself and focus on the room around him. He knew how important the right environment was for effective spellwork. He could no longer see his own hand in-front of him, let alone the snake’s carcass a foot away. And even though the bleak fathomlessness that met his useless eyes no longer scared him, Henry found himself paralyzed, as he always became, when he began to truly wield his Master of Death powers.

“This is just be something new,” Henry mentally reassured himself. “New isn’t bad. Dark magic isn’t bad. Scary, but not bad.” Henry heard a chuckle above his bowed head as he began clearing his mind.

“Reach for me, master. Just as you did before.”

Allowing his magic to ride along Death’s instructions, he sought to grab ahold of the thick thread of magic that connected himself and the beyond. But unlike before, he did not pull it into being until it ripped through space and time to take form in the material plane. Instead, he used it to barrister himself. He let it pool around his core as the combined magic slipped through his body and spilled along the floor.

“Clear away everything else. Allow only our magic to remain.”

Henry felt it as his bottom lip split open from the sheer cold of the air in the chamber. His cramped leg twitched against the stone floor. He had learned his lesson before and did not take on too much of Death’s influence too soon. It started just as his practice with opening Death’s doors did. A small sliver of barely noticeable expansion of magic in the palm of his cupped hands. He willed it to stretch forth. To collect himself, Death, and the basilisk’s limp body. He allowed his life and the snakes to balance the force of Death as he manifested a barrier between the space for his ritual and the rest of the world. Enormous power draped over the surrounding space like a curtain, blanketing in its might, as magic deafened the very atmosphere.

“Yes, create a place for your will in our dark.” The hands that settled on Henry’s shivering shoulders tightened as the shepherd of souls grasped him firmly. “Feel the perfect effulgence of my eye gazing down upon you, master.”

And he did. Even as spots swam in his vision and his hooded eyes trained unseeingly ahead, Henry felt Deaths full attention fixed on him. How its magic wrapped around him in swaths of heavy, dark, energy. How it rolled over his inconsequential being and hugged over his body. How it raised every hair along his spine. How it nipped hotly at the skin behind his ear, licked across his trembling knuckles, and slipped along his thin ankles. Henry swayed into it as it toyed with the edges of his magical core, seeking any weakness in his conviction. Death’s authority pressed into him until his bruising knees parted and his back arched as his lungs filled on a broken gasp. He could no longer tell where he began and the entity standing visual over his shoulders ended. He had never attempted magic like this—where he could feel the air swell with the snake’s lingering life, where he felt all powerful to have it bend to his will. Where he felt scared, and raw, and virginal in his excitement. But dark magic required a lot to maintain and the night had long since grown long. Henry was being to feel the stain of using such concentrated power. And with his wand long forgotten, he was using his own core as a conduit. With his mind adrift, high off the rituals resonance, Henry’s body swayed inside the protective circle.

As he moved, Death adjusted its hold. He felt airy thighs bracket his own as spidery arms came around to prop his slumping form. Hands groped across his front as his back was pressed into the cold confines of a barely there chest. And he was reeling from the feel of another soul pressed so closely against his own, Henry could just make out lips grazing against his neck as he heard, “Pull forth your little trinkets. Pull forth that wretched creature’s soul.”

Henry knew exactly what the entity meant, he had felt it earlier. A great force welling up that had its own intent. The snake had been placed in these hollowed pipes to protect the school and its spirit’s will was still there for Henry to reach out and harness for his own desires. Henry fumbled around in his robe pocket to pull out the veneer box sent to him by Tallowfang. One by one, he then placed the portkeys on the ground between himself and the snake’s still warm maw, saliva had formed a puddle where its great tongue wedged its jaws open. Wearily, Henry then hovered his open palms over the little brooch’s. Like in the poem, Henry envisioned all he wished to protect. His lips parted and his eyes closed in concentration. He imagined the creatures life thread splintering out to wrap around each individual portkey. With same ferocity that the basilisk wished to protect the castle from its perceived enemies, Henry wished for the same energy to be diverted to protecting his allies. He thought of what he wished these little ornaments to do. He willed them to be powerful enough to bare any opposition to bring the wearer, any who he deemed worth of his protection, to his home unscathed.

Through his barely parted eyelids, Henry hazily watched as venom leeched from the Basilisk’s mouth that fell open with its final breaths. It’s ran in rivets to towards the center of his circle. He feared it would melt the portkeys down but had no energy to reach forth and move them. Instead, he pulled from the magic stored within the snakes departed flesh and weaved it over the portkeys—imbuing them with his wanting of the protection for those that he, just like Slytherin, held dear. Henry felt it as the very air around them became in-tune with his aspirations. Relaxing his hold, he simply allowed the magic to happen. He could feel it at pieces of rocks and debris nicked his exposed cheeks as it swelled and crashed against his skin. It lit his tongue with words his brain did not process. It rolled through his body and crashed him into waiting arms. He did not know what he was doing but he trusted his intuition, the intent of his magic, and the presence of Death. Henry held no doubt for the effectiveness of his protection ward spell. To his belated surprise, the brooches were merely encompassed in the liquid for a second before it sunk into the metal surface, releasing a hiss of steam and a sickeningly yellow glow. It was done.

“Finish your spell, master.”

“Wh—?“ Henry started, but Death took pity on its exhausted master and told him, “They need a means of activation.”

Only one word remained on Henry’s clouded mind that he felt was worth enough to invoke this magic, to bring his chosen to him. “Sanctus,” he hazily thought. With that final act of magic, he encrypted them with a phrase that would take their wielder to his house’s first floor floo-room.

“Now seal the spell,” Death whispered onto him.

Henry simply let go. He closed his eyes but still felt magic thrumming through them as he released the ritual. The circle snapped and he felt it as dark magic, Death’s magic, sank out of sight and a sudden shower of shadows spattered the floor. And Henry turned to burry himself deeper into the fabric of Death’s robes in his exhaustion.

“Ground yourself, master. Least you bring the whole castle down.”

Henry’s mouth opened on a long yawn as he relaxed the thin hold he had on his stained muscles. He began the breathing exercise he usually did to clear his mind and barely noticed as one of Death’s creeping hands left his body to inspect one of the brooches. “With how specified your ritual was, each of your trinkets will only be capable of transporting two beings at a time,” it said. “But they are capable of moving through any ward, wall, or —“

Henry was not able to make out the last of his primordial being’s words as his consciousness eased away. But he felt the mouth so close to his own move to say, “Well done, arrogant little human.”

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

January 4, 1975

As the early morning light filtered through the tall windows of Dumbledore's office, casting a warm glow on the worn wooden floors and the eclectic collection of magical artifacts that adorned the shelves, Rolanda Sharon Hooch stifled her third sigh within the last 20 minutes. As Hooch sat there, tapping her foot impatiently and shooting glances at the clock on the wall, it was clear to everyone in the room that her patience was wore thin. Her jaw clenched with each passing minute, and her fingers drummed against the armrest of her chair in frustration. In a fit, she removed the small Blancpain watch from the under-vest's breast pocket to check that the large grandfather-clock in the room with them was correct. The little gold thing had been a gift from her late-husband on their Swiss honeymoon. He had it inlaid with a dazzling etching of her favorite flower, the mugunghwa. Even in its muggle simplicity, the petals were sweeping and lush—just like those her mother grew behind her childhood home. After lovingly caressing her finger across the cold glass of the watch's face, Hooch gently closed its lid before returning the watch to its place by her heart.

"He's late," she sighed out to those gathered around her. It was stating the obvious, but by this point, they had been sitting in the headmaster’s office for over an hour, and the continuous sounds of whizzing and ticking coming from the objects stuffed throughout the room around her were beginning to give her a headache. Schooling her face as the others tried to plead for her to be patient, she said, "If that man is not here in—."

Her threat was stopped short as the fireplace to the right of her burst to life. It was guarded on all sides by a high iron gate, a tall mass of painted-gold swirling loops that looked vaguely reminiscent of a peacock’s back, which melted into the floor so that a figure in ghastly teal and salmon robes could step out. "I do apologize for the changed time of our meeting," Albus Dumbledore began as soon as he got his footing after stepping through the floo, "but there was an emergency meeting called at the Ministry that I simply could not miss."

"How was everything, Albus?" Horace Slughorn asked from his place in one of the many mismatched chairs about the room. He sat off to the side between two towering bookshelves that sagged a bit under their own weight. And though it was unnoticeable, the high wing-back beneath him had been transfigured a bit—as he did not agree with the level of comfort any of the chairs present possessed. He had been weighing the merits of discreetly pocketing the book he had been thumbing through to pass the time, Lisette de Lapin’s “A Wolf Does not ask to Stalk in the Night,” when he was startled by Dumbledore’s arrival. Across the room from him, and closest to the fireplace, sat Hooch—looking for all the world as if she had an infinite number of better places to be. Ahead of her, and directly in front of the grand desk at the center of the room, sat a bored Silvanus Kettleburn and a doting Pomona Sprout. They two were unfortunately close enough that Sprout had let out a chuckle, the only one to clearly witness Slughorn’s antics, before greeting the headmaster herself.

Dumbledore did not immediately respond to any of them as he ambled over to his large, cluttered desk and settled into his seat. “Perhaps we could all do with light refreshments, as it will be some time before breakfast. And, I must confess, listening to Bagnold's speeches does tend to leave one with a need for a bit of a pick-me-up. How does butter tea and almond biscuits sound to everyone?”

Before anyone even moved to respond, the headmaster had already called for a house-elf and placed his request. Once the little creature returned and set a little porcelain cup in front of each of them, Dumbledore began a series of benign conversations with the Heads of House gathered before him. He did not notice that only his own cup contained the offensive tea, as the house-elves knew that no one else present would even sip at the overly sweet tea. The atmosphere took on an awkward twinge as everyone sipped their coffee and the urgency of the matter at hand went undressed. Dumbledore's casual demeanor as he lounged in his chair, occasionally stirring his cup while the others waited, spoke volumes about his concern for their time. He spoke of mundane things in a manner that was patient with himself and danced around what he witnessed earlier in the morning, as if their inconvenience was of little consequence compared to his own. Each Head of House attempted to nudge the conversation back to why exactly the headmaster had been called to the Ministry in the early hours of the morning to no avail.

Slughorn's methods were constant nodding and agreeable expressions, that made it clear that he was eager to curry favor with Dumbledore. With each compliment he offered the headmaster, it became increasingly evident that he was more concerned with ingratiating himself than with addressing the pressing matter at hand. Kettleburn's restlessness was palpable as he sat in his chair, his gaze drifting lazily around the room as Dumbledore spoke of nothingness. Occasionally he would blandly call out, “And this all happened at the Ministry?”

Unlike Slughorn and Sprout, who were engrossed in the discussion for one reason or another, Kettleburn's mind seemed to be elsewhere, lost in thoughts of magical creatures roaming free—so he was barely tracking the old man’s ramblings as is. Sprout, ever the mediator, sat with a gentle smile on her face, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Despite the tension brewing in the room, she exuded an aura of calm, her presence a soothing balm amidst the rising ire. She would offer a thoughtful comment here, a gentle redirection there, all the while attempting to pace the headmaster through his tale so that she could steer the discussion back towards its intended purpose. It was going along and might have eventually came to a point of interest, some droning minutes later.

But Hooch threw Sprouts tactful prodding to the wayside as she straightened, her earlier irritation returning two-fold as she lost the last of her patience. "Albus,” she bristled. “This meeting was set to start over an hour ago. Do you truly believe that asking after Pomona’s mandrakes is the wisest use of our time?”

“Ah yes,” Horace picked up after her. “We have been waiting to hear from you," the Potions professor said, his usually jovial demeanor replaced by a grave expression. "What was discussed at the Ministry? Is it about Voldemort's recent attacks?"

Looking a tad put-out that his tale about the Ministry’s new wand weighing method was interrupted, Dumbledore measuredly swallowed the last of his tea. He then nodded solemnly, his piercing blue eyes reflecting the flickering flames as he said, “Indeed, Horace. The situation is dire—.”

Whatever he was planning to say next was interrupted by the sound of the guardian at the base of the stairs moving. They could all hear the grinding of stone as it moved aside to let whoever up. There was then the soft click of shoes going up the narrow stairwell before Minerva McGonagall made an entrance under the archway. “Albus, everyone,” she said by way of greeting before taking after Slughorn and transfiguring her own chair beside Hooch’s.

“Ah, Minerva,” Dumbledore smiled, “so good of you to make it. I was just preparing to enlighten the others on the goings-on at the Ministry.” At the silence that met his words he went on, “Were you able to get in contact with Edwin Hilliard as—“

“The minister’s under-secretary?” Slughorn cut in.

The lines around Dumbledore’s eyes tightened as he said, “Yes, I had asked Minerva here to get ahold of him to clarify some of what happened in the meeting earlier on my behalf. We were awaiting her astute—“

Dumbledore was once again cut off as Hooch tersely said, “We’ve been waiting on Minerva all this time?”

To which the headmaster gave a measured, “Yes, Rolanda.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that,” the Gryffindor Head of House snapped as her yellow eyes narrowed. “Not only did you leave a simple note asking for us to wait around for your return when we were scheduled to have a meeting, but we have been sitting here listening to you ramble on about this and that when you could have simply told us we were waiting on Minerva.”

“Rolanda,” Dumbledore started as is he was chastising a small child, “I simply wished to ensure that you all were kept abreast of all that I knew. I knew not what information Minerva would bring, so I sought to make use of what I did know.” The soft smile that followed his words was placating as only an old man’s could be. And it efficiently made way for him to gently ease them into following along his words. “Now then, I will be frank with you all, for that is the respect you deserve—Voldemort's power is growing. His attacks of late have become more frequent and brazen. The Ministry called the emergency meeting this morning to discuss strategies to combat him. We were given little notice as the minister expects that there are traitors in our midst."

Sprout, her gaze drawn to the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls in an attempt to distance herself from the weight of the conversation, interjected—her voice tense with concern, "But what can we do? We're educators, not Aurors."

Dumbledore fixed her with a steady gaze, his silver beard catching the morning light. “Yes, Pomona, we are indeed educators. Therefore it is our responsibility to ensure that all who pass through these halls do so with the gained knowledge to protect themselves and our community. The time has come when we must be teach them to be vigilant and prepared to defend themselves if necessary." He paused, his eyes scanning the room, observing their engagement, before he continued, "My experiences with Grindelwald taught me that unity and courage are our greatest weapons against dark forces. We must stand together, share information, and support each other in any way we can." His words hung in the air, each person in the room absorbed them in some fashion.

“Ah, to hell with the lot of that,” Kettleburn figuratively spat, before turning and literally spitting on Dumbledore’s thousand-year-old Persian rug. The lines across the headmaster head tightened considerably, as did his grip on the cup in his hand. “The little lady is right, we are not Aurors. We are a handful of wizards and witches with skills and knowledge that will not old one over in a fight against Him,” spoke Kettleburn as he skirted thwarted taboo. “He has several of the beast communities allying with his cause, you know. What good is the ability to transfigured a snake into a stirring rod in the face of a fully-matured werewolf pack.”

“And you’ve gathered this information how, Silvanus?”

“The beasts talk and I listen, Albus. Always have.” The words were given in an annoyed huff as the tenured Care of Magical Creatures professor adjusted in his seat.

“Hum,” Dumbledore mused as he took to stroking his beard. “Minerva?”

“That does track with what I gathered from Hilliard,” said the deputy headmistress. “Specifically, he stated that His forces were higher in numbers that we had originally estimated. Additionally, in these past months the aurors have captured several Dark wixen attempting to cross into our land with the goal of joining him. There is no telling how many have gotten through unnoticed, but we do know that Ms. Bagnold has asked neighboring countries to obtain the whereabouts of their most notable Dark aligned former convicts.” She looked steadily into the fire at her left as she spoke on, “As far as magical creatures go, they suspect that He has gained the favor of the werewolfs, the trolls, and the vampires. It is also believed that he is attempting to win over the goblins.”

“That will never work,” Kettleburn chided. “Those codgers may hate the very ground we wixen walk on and relish the chance to see us fester in our own misery, and for good reason mind you, but they are astute enough to know when their liberation will not come from the likes of a foolish child playing with magics he does not understand.”

“And do you know of the opinions any other creature community hold on Him?”

“Aye.”

“And will you share them with us?” Dumbledore measured out.

“Nay.”

“Silvanus—!”

“Albus, the whole of them either wish to rebuild their ancestral homes upon land fertilized by our ashes or could not care less if we all live or die anyway. I wish the both of you would leave them out of your petty human matters, but if you are not to be persuaded then your best bet would be the centaurs—but even then they are likely to miss protecting you from your death on account of watching a shooting star.”

Unsettling, that was the only word to describe the mood in the office. It was too early in the day, and too early in the game, to parse things out concretely. They all knew it. But, as always, Dumbledore made it his mission to appear as though all was in his control. “Ah, yes—thank you for that invaluable assessment, Silvanus. Moving forward, I will keep you all better addressed on the activity at the ministry. I will also be sending out notes to each professor on spells or topics I believe would be helpful to cover in these times. Additionally, I will ask each Head to provide me with a list of students that may benefit from a—ah yes, a wellness check over the summer holiday. Now,” Dumbledore said with a clap of his weathered hands that started poor Slughorn nearly out of his chair, “on to better things. I assume that most of you have had the chance to check in on your students, both those who stayed and those who returned home. Are there any notes of concern that need to be brought forward?”

Sprout eagerly jumped at the chance to change the topic of conversation. “Hem,” she cleared her throat of held emotion before she spoke, “little Clarissa Adams, one of my fourth-years, has requested for me to come and escort her to Diagon Alley this summer, as she fears that her parents will attempt to bar her from returning to Hogwarts. Upon asking, she has told me that they had joined a new muggle religion and frown upon her involvement in ‘sin.’ The muggles have—“

“I understand Pomona,” Dumbledore said, interrupting her explanation. “I believe it would be good of you to visit and assure them of their daughter’s safety. I’m sure it is just a matter of misunderstanding how their daughter spends her time here. An easy matter to clear up.”

“But Albus, the girl fears for her own safety should she return. In their letters they have explicitly stated—“

“Oh they have only conversed through owls?” Dumbledore questioned.

“Yes—well, no. Her parents abhor the presence of owls so she uses that owl to muggle post service. But none the less—“

Professor Sprout was once again cut off as Dumbledore said, “There are far too many opportunities to misunderstand when conversing only through text. See to it that you visit the girl’s parents and clear up any misunderstandings that have arose. She is a fourth-year, you say? Yes far too young to be able to see to it that her parents are able to clearly understand our world.” The headmaster steamed right along as he tacked on, “And we must keep in mind to hold onto our patience while interacting with the muggle parents of our dear students. Now do you have anyone else that concerns you, Pomona?”

When all Sprout did was shallowly shake her head, Dumbledore moved on. “Very well. Anyone else?”

Kettleburn’s gruff voice chimed in, “Barty Crouch. Second-year. The house-elves have told me that the boy plans to hide away in the wardrobe and not go home when term breaks. They brought to my attention that he has even dismantled the flooring of it to store away food. I told the little ones to not bother the boy for now.”

“That’s no good. Damage of school property cannot be overlooked. After all, the furniture in those rooms are even older than I,” the headmaster said with a chuckle that no one joined in on. “And it should be impressed upon him that it is unsanitary to keep food in such a manner, least the young man fall victim to a terrible bout of food poisoning. A detention, perhaps two over the next two weeks, would be helpful in imparting a sense of responsibility to the young man.”

Leveling Dumbledore with an eye that blatantly telegraphed his malicious compliance, Kettleburn said, “Aye, I shall get ahold of him and the Lockhart boy.”

“Brilliant” Dumbledore said, taking the words at face value, “I’m sure the time to sit and reflect on his actions will do the young man some good. “Now what’s this with your other student? Perhaps I can assist you with him as well.”

“Half-blood student, between the bullying he faces in school and the war about outside of it, his parents wish to leave the wizarding world all together,” Kettleburn stated. “His mother has owled me several times for my opinion on various muggle schools and promises to tutor the boy independently so that he may obtain his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.”

“While unfortunate, it is always a parent’s decision on whether or not their student continues their education here or elsewhere. But good on her for ensuring that the boy has a well rounded education. Perhaps, time in the muggle world will even do the boy some good. Open him up to new horizons and ways of viewing the world.”

“Perhaps,” the Ravenclaw Head of House solemnly nodded. He then motioned with his only hand towards the Gryffindor Head.

“Paladin Wintergreen, Florence Dearborn, Davey Gudgeon. All fourth-year students. All fearful of the parent’s interest in ‘the preservation of their family’s name and the purity of its magic.’” Hooch blandly stated, knowing should would have to see to her students herself, with no actual support from the headmaster. “Celine Vance has also come to me, once again, with concerns over the wellbeing of her sister, Emmeline Vance. The younger has been continually harassed by another of mine, Peter Pettigrew. Albus, something truly needs to be done about that boy and his lot. I cannot believe you didn’t suspend him after he—.”

Dumbledore sternly spoke over her to state, “With everything going on the safest place for all students is within the castle’s walls.”

“That may very well be,” Hooch said through clenched teeth, “but it is our duty to protect the children while they are here. I cannot do that if you continually undermine the punishments I give out.”

“I sincerely apologize, Rolanda,” Dumbledore patronizingly began, “if that is how my actions have been interpreted. I simply am trying to take into account the totality of what is going on in our world and act accordingly.”

“That is a grave take, Albus,” Minerva said, rejoining the conversation. “It is honorable and necessary, but I must agree with Rolanda on this matter. If not all of the students here are safe, then truly none of them are.””

“Quite well said, Minerva,” Dumbledore congratulated. “And I wholeheartedly agree. As a matter of fact—Rolanda, the next time you have issue with young Peter or his friends I ask that you send them directly to me. I will handle it and hopefully relieve some pressure off of you, as I see that you are dealing with so much as is.”

Hooch could do nothing but slowly blink at the man as he sat behind his large desk, looking highly satisfied with himself. The man then moved on without settling a single issue, blind to the incredulous looks aimed at him by his staff. “Horace,” the man called out, “if I may ask, where does the Peverell boy intend to spend his summer?”

“From what I hear, one of his family’s homes,” the potions master responded.

“Alone?”

Slightly confused, Slughorn slowly stated, “Well yes, Albus, seeing as he is the last member of both sides of his family.”

“That simply will not do. We cannot allow one of our students to be without guardianship in these times. No, that will not do,” Dumbledore said as he took to stroking his beard again in thought. “Horace, do petition the courts to extend your guardianship over the boy over the summer. Our students protection must be our highest priority. And I hate to imagine the trouble that one so young as he could get into if left unattended.”

“Very well, Albus,” Slughorn wearily complied. He too was worried about the safety of his charges, but he was not sure placing himself as the boy’s defacto guardian was the right way to go about this. “I will look into it.” Before Slughorn could go on to address concerns he had with his other students, Dumbledore steered the conversation away. “Yes, do keep me updated on the progress of that. Now, to close, I’d like to—“

The clock in the back of the office, hidden behind overgrown plants and piles of book, chimed seven times to tell the changing of the hour. Upon hearing it, Dumbledore’s mouth snapped shut.

“Is it truly already 7am?” Slughorn asked in surprise.

“Is something the matter, Albus?” Sprout asked after she noticed that the man’s attention did not return to them but was still on the now silent grandfather-clock.

Distractedly, Dumbledore spoke—not to them but simply aloud. “That piece was a courting-gift to me a very long time ago. In all the many years that I’ve had it in my possession, I have never heard it once make a sound. Not even once.”

With his interest slightly peaked, Kettleburn asked, “And do you know what would cause this change in the overgrown-watch’s behavior?”

Dumbledore nearly buckled under the weight of his surmounting memories of a summer long ago, spent underneath a beautiful young-man with bright blond hair and warm blue eyes. But he pushed them under several heavy layers of occlumency shields before addressing the present members of his staff. Only wishing now to get them out it of his room so that he could go over and inspect the clock throughly. “The clock had arrived to my father’s doorstep with only the vaguest description and an accompanying note that hinted at the clock announcing ‘a change of greater times ahead,’” Dumbledore rushed out. “Now, I do believe that I have taken up far too much of your time this morning. Let us break for now so that the students do not make it to the great all before we do, yes?”

The deputy headmistress traded wayward glances with the four Heads of Houses, but none said a word in contrast as they gingerly made their way out of the cluttered office.

Chapter Text

January 4 - January 11, 1975

Some time later, Henry awoke from his impromptu nap and recharge of his slightly still-depleted magic core. While he was asleep, he had been moved from his place kneeling on the cold stone to the chair he conjured. Henry felt like a new person as he untangled his limbs that had been pulled onto themselves in a comfortable ball. Although, his head still felt as if it was harboring a hornets nest. He could almost make out what sounded like the ringing of a clock as he sat up and hoped that the ringing was not evidence of a concussion. It wouldn’t be the first time he woke up, not really knowing what had happened or where he was, with a concussion—and probably wouldn’t be the last. As he shifted his weight around, he felt the pointed corner of what could only be a book poking him and his memories of the last several hours came back to him at once. “Oh yeah,” he thought. “The chamber. The ritual.” With a stretch that pulled his stomach taut and shivered down his calf’s, Henry sleepily called out, “Death?”

Henry was met with the cold rusting of wind through his hair, that almost felt like fingertips—accompanied by an equally gentle tone, “Yes, master?”

“What time is it? How long have I been sleep?” Henry asked while clearing the grit from his eyes.

“I believe, it is an hour or so away from when the inhabitants of this castle first gather. As for how long, I have stood and watched the rise and fall of your breast for two hours, master. And no,” the being laughed, “you do not have a concussion.”

“Great,” Henry said awkwardly as he moved to place his tingling feet onto the floor. He felt a weight in his robes shift along with his movements and absentmindedly patted the container with his portkeys. “Not that, that, is weird at all—you watched me sleep, but I should be going. You know, before anyone notices how long I’ve been gone.” The Slytherin’s were not the type to snoop or go to their Head of House if they found one of their own out of bed. But there were definitely some who would seek compensation for their silence on his extended absence. Shaking his head, Henry stood and felt the desperate need to relieve himself as his body gradually came back online. “Good thing I’m right below a bathroom,” Henry thought.

His trainers had been removed when he was laid to rest. And as Henry slipped his slightly chilled toes into the soft netting inside, he heard, “You should not go up there right away, master.”

“Why?” Henry couldn’t help but be surprised. The bathroom was still believed to be haunted and therefore so scarcely used. “Is there someone in Myrtle’s bathroom?”

“Someones.” The word was breezed past him in a calm tone but, wearily, Henry asked, “Are they—are they looking for me?”

“No, master. They only seek seclusion,” whispered Death. And Henry pondered for just how long the entity’s magic would stay cloyingly close to surface of his skin—if anyone, namely Dumbledore, would notice.

“I am only ever as close, or as far, as you wish me to be, master,” Death reassured.

“Alright,” Henry said as he slowly looked around, trying and failing to find another exit route. “Just make yourself scarce when we get out of here, okay? And, am I supposed to just wait for them to leave?”

Chuckling came from over Henry’s shoulder as Death said, “You need not to be seen nor heard if you wish to leave now. For you, that is easily accomplished.”

“Shadows?”

“Shadows.”

“Fine,” Henry sighed, “surely nothings wrong with a little dark magic in the morning.” Henry collected his book and banished all traces of himself and the ritual he had done from the chamber. Looking out at the cold remains of the basilisk, Henry felt bad about just leaving the serpent’s body to rot again, knowing as he does now how valuable its parts are. He also still needed its venom to destroy the horcrux’s when the time came. So instead of allowing it to waste away, Henry transfigured a dislodged stone into an airtight box before casting the strongest preservation and shrinking charms he could think of on the beast. When the box was tucked safe away in his robes, until he could owl it off to the goblins, Henry turned to make the long journey back.

As he traced his steps through the caverns beneath the castle, Henry noticed how unbelievably loose he was. He had only dabbled in Death’s magic over the summer, so doing an actual ritual invoking it’s name and power had remnants of the ancient force still radiating through his veins hours later. Henry moved through the shadows, absentmindedly enjoying the press of them against his skin. Where as before he felt like he blanked out as they nearly consumed him, now he was embraced by them. Here he felt one with them. He could see all they saw and touch all they touched. He surfaced in the shaddow of a half open stall door in Myrtle’s bathroom. This in-tune with the veil, Henry easily picked out two souls standing in the early morning gloom.

“—but how?” Henry heard an almost familiar voice weakly ask, but he couldn’t place who it was.

“Oh, come off it!” Another voice, this one distinctly feminine, hissed. “We had become careless with the contraceptive charms. What did you think would happen?”

“But—?” The male voice was cut off as the young woman said, “It has been taken care of, Sirius,” Henry heard. “That’s all I wished to tell you.”

Henry startled as he heard his would-be godfather’s name between the words said in a delicate voice that could only belong to a young woman. He moved forward to see around the stall’s door and saw that near the sink stood Sirius Black and a girl he recognized from the photo of the old Order.

“Marlene I—“

“Oh, this is Marlene McKinnon,” Henry thought. But it was a fleeting moment as Henry’s attention was brought back to the conversation at hand.

“No,” the sound of Marlene’s words were a whip crack in the barley-morning. “No Sirius. I am only telling you because it is the right thing to do.”

“The right things to do would have been to ask of my opinions before you went and killed our child!” Sirius all but yelled. “We could have raised it! I have the means to ensure neither it nor you wanted for nothing! We could have made this work!“

“What would you have me do? Keep a child that neither of us are mentally prepared to actually care for? I am 15, I have more important wants than the responsibilities of shushing the cries of a child! And you barely see to your own brother!”

“That’s different!” Sirius stated, but the words fell flat as Marleen shouted back, “It’s not! That little boy roams around all righteous indignation and thin skin. He looks to weigh half a stone less than last year and you don’t even spare him a glance the few times he actually tries to talk to you.”

“It’s different!” Sirius tried again. “He’s—“

“What?” Marlene said, harshly cutting the other’s words off. “Dark? Slytherin? All things our child could have been! You and I both have cores that are darker than grey inclined, so most likely would have our child! What then Sirius? Would you have cast away our babe simply because blood-work and battle-spells came easiest to it?! Would you have forsaken the life tied to yours, once again, simply because it didn’t do as you wished it to?”

“That’s not—“

The young girls breath had turned ragged, but she did not stop. “And let’s talk about our families—the ‘most ancient and noble house of Black,’” she continued. “Do you think they would have let my child live? Do you think that your father would have allowed you to so flagrantly break your betrothal contract? What about my own? My family may be pure, and respected, and whatever other nonsense that people deem relevant—but the McKinnon name is not enough to be tied to the next heir to House Black.”

She ran a hand through her wild red hair as the fight seemed to leave her all at once. After a moment when neither of them spoke, Marlene sighed-out, “Besides. We are decidedly neutral in all of this. And I know with certainty that your family is not. Would you have been prepared to walk away from your heirship, from your family and its influence, to father that child?

“—,“ Sirius’ silence was deafening.

“That,” Marlene said slowly—pityingly, “is why I did not ask if your opinion. It would have been given in the same manner in which shit is spewn across a butchers floor—a wasteful byproduct that serves no purpose than being another mess to clean up. And I, for one, refuse to spend the rest of my life as penniless disinherits, cleaning up after you simply to reap some supposed benefit of mothering your child.” She roughly cleared frustrated tears from her eyes before saying, “It was my choice, and I am sorry that it hurt you so, but I love you too much, Sirius, to allow us to behave in such a way. To allow the whole of our lives to become drenched in the waste of our actions.” What followed the young girl’s words was only the sound of solid-wood heels striking cold stone in swift steps. They lagged by the bathroom’s door so she could call over her shoulder, “If you ever find it in yourself to forgive me, or even if you cannot, know that I am always here for you, Siri.”

Then there was silence. Henry waited and watched young Sirius stand there in shock for several long breathes before a heart wrenching wail pierced the early morning—and the retreating steps did not falter as Sirius collapsed. From his spot in the darkness, Henry listened in the hushed solitude of the early morning as Sirius broke down. Since they were past the coming of winter, it was still a while before the sun would settle into its ascent. And it was Saturday, no-one would have reason to pass by this part of the castle. So there was no-one to happen upon Sirius’ lone figure, brought to its knees and shaking apart on three grimy floor of this abandoned bathroom.

With his options limited, Henry considered sending off a patronus to the Marauders. Ultimately deciding that that could backfire too badly, he chose to simply not leave young Sirius alone. To silently observe and be there to help if needed. Even if this boy meant nothing more to Henry than the over hopeful possibility that one day this Sirius might grow to become the man at the center of the god-father he loved, Henry still yearned to reach through the shadows to comfort the sobbing boy. So some-time later, Henry watched with baited breath as, with trembling hands, the boy brought himself up to crumble against the cold porcelain sink. The soft glow of the sun’s feeble first rays had seeped through the dust on the high windows, casting delicate shadows on the tiled floor.

When it reflected off of the broken mirror in front of Sirius, Henry saw just how disturbed the boy was. Snot and tears were smeared across the high-cheeks of Sirius’ face. The rest of it was red-rimmed and chafed raw from Sirius attempting to clean up with the sleeve of his shirt. The sound of Sirius’ sniffing was momentarily drowned out by the gentle patter of the faucet before it was shut off and Henry watched as Sirius visibly shook himself off. At times in his first life Henry forgot that Sirius was raised to be an heir. But there was no doubting it now as a perfectly blank mask eased over Sirius features before he turned to go and rejoin the outside world.

“Death?” Henry called after he was sure Sirius walked far enough away to not hear him.

“The child is in my care, as are all of ours, master.” The entity responded, already understanding its master’s worries.

Death’s words comforted him as he paced along in the darkness to return to his bed and slept off his racing thoughts on all that’s happened. Henry then went through the following days in a diluted mood, he found himself repeating the words now and again. All souls returned to veil. His original friends, his original parents, and now this child. He was monitoring his use of dark magic, now that it felt so accessible, and recovering from the knowledge that Sirius had almost had an actual child before going to Azkaban. Henry’s mind kept going back to Sirius and the pain he heard in Sirius’ young voice as he cried out again and again into the early morning. “It wouldn’t have been much older than me,” he sometimes found himself thinking.

“Would we have been close? Would that have stopped me ending up with the Dursley’s? Would that have changed how much others used me?” The longing and regret these thoughts caused him—coupled with there being no way for him to outright check-in on Sirius, or Marlene—had began to eat away at him. Unbidden, a thought came to him days later as he sat with Severus in the library. As his eyes swept out of the frosty window at their side in a daze, he heard the words, “Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.” He knew it was bad when his brain quoted Dumbledore in an attempt to comfort himself. Henry had fell so out of touch with his day-to-day that he did not think he was over reacting when Severus spoke to him, days later—breaking his concentrated observation of a young dear attempting to find something to eat in the school grounds from the high library windows, the second Thursday in January.

"By the way," Severus began, his voice measured as he had noticed the other’s sour mood as of late, "it is my birthday." The admission hung in the dusty air, a subtle revelation that carried more weight than the casual words suggested. Noticing Henry's steadily climbing eyebrows, Severus continued, "Not that I care much for birthdays or—attention." He averted his gaze, the hint of vulnerability fleeting across his expression.

“You’re joking,” Henry said as he let the hand his head was resting upon fall onto the table in disbelief. The whiplash he felt hearing Severus’ words sent his already touchy mind spiraling. Of all the things he expected them to possibly talk about today, this was not anything he could have predicted. He had no knowledge of the other Severus’ personal life, so this had come as a complete surprise.

“I am not,” was all Severus had to say as his attention shifted back to his unfinished assignment.

“The hell, Sev—what kind of person lets their friend know of their birthday the day of?”

“I had no intention of letting you know at all, but it was suggested onto me that you’d take interest in this kind of thing,”

“Suggested? By who? Why?” Henry asked as he mentally questioned the oddity of that statement. “And everyone should care about their friend’s birthday, Sev.”

Ignoring the first part of Henry’s response, Severus asked a question of his own, “Must you always harp on this ‘friendship’ mess?”

Blatantly ignoring Severus’ question, Henry said, “This weekend is another Hogsmeade weekend, right? Well, we can go and celebrate!”

“Celebrate?” Severus asked cynically.

“Yes, Sev, celebrate!” Henry playfully chastised. “I’ll buy you lunch at the Three Broomsticks and then I’ll let you get anything you can carry out of Pippin’s or Dogweed’s. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like I will take great pleasure in bleeding your coffers dry, you dimwit.”

“How about a wager then, Sev?” Henry wildly laughed, stretching the scar that bisected his face in a gruesome manner. But he could see the small smile playing at Severus’s lips regardless, so he paid it no further mind. “We’ll see which tires first—you or my bank book.”

“Tsk,” Severus sucked his teeth in admonishment of Henry’s behavior. “There are much more creative ways to ruin your family’s wealth, but if you insist.”

“I do, I’ll meet you at the gates before lunch?” Henry asked, the air around him growing charged with the playfulness of his magic matching his mood.

“If you must,” Severus said as he refocused on his essay.

Henry spent the remainder of their break, and honestly his entire day, racking his already cluttered brain to think of how to make Severus’ birthday special. Spending the day running around Hogsmeade was fun and all, but it was something they could do whenever. It wasn’t special or something wholly about Severus. Then, as he was walking back from dinner with his roommates, it hit him—the Room of Requirement! If there was any place in the castle that held hidden treasures, it was there.

“Hey, I just remembered I left something in the greenhouse. I’ll catch up to you in our room,” Henry called out to the two at his side. With newfound determination, Henry hurriedly altered his course toward the seventh-floor corridor. He was off so quickly that he was already out of earshot when Bertram asked, “The greenhouse is the other way, right?”

Upon reaching the spot he knew concealed the room of hidden things, Henry paced in-front of the bare stretch of wall three times. He easily focused on his desire for a room filled with lost and forgotten wonders. The door appeared, and Henry entered the magical space. Once inside the come-and-go room, Henry let his magic reach-out as he attempted to think of gift ideas for Severus. It was hard for him to discern what the enigmatic and cautious boy might appreciate. But the Room of Requirement unfolded before him, revealing its vast collection of eclectic items, and he was hopeful. Henry wandered through the myriad of artifacts, each holding its own tale of being misplaced or abandoned. As he explored, his gaze lingered on the box housing Ravenclaw's diadem, a poignant reminder of the fiery events that had unfolded within this very room. Briefly lost in thought, Henry’s eyes bounced about the cluttered space until they snagged on a painting. The tarnished brass bordering it held the lonely subject-matter of a dull and grey figure attempting to climb a barren hill.

Due to the frame being wrongly turned at an angle as it leaned against an old chest-of-drawers, the tiny man moving around the picture could not gain the needed traction to get fully up the hill. He would only make it part of the climb before he tumbled out of sight—only to collect himself and begin again. Henry thought “I might walk on into oblivion too if I was stuck in a portrait for all eternity,” as he made space to use a sticking charm and affix the painting to the wall beside the armoire. As he stood back to take its new placement in, he watched the little man tiredly lay out at the top of the hill with something akin to covetousness in his chest. Blinking away, his damp eyes then fell upon a heavy slump of fabric hanging off a nearby coatrack. Upon inspection, he found it to be a gently used dark leather satchel. Something about its older, almost Edwardian, design called to him.

As Henry looked closer, he could tell that it was crafted from dragonhide. And as he ran his fingers along its royal-blue threaded seams, Henry could feel magic still coursing through the material. He focused on the magical signature to work out that the over-the-shoulder bag boasted intricate lightning charms and preserving spells already woven into its expanding pockets. It seemed to resonate with an air of sophistication and practicality—things he always associated with Severus, both then and now. Henry carefully examined the satchel, envisioning Severus carrying it with pride. The thought of providing him with a tool for his craft, subtly enhanced by magical charms to endure the test of however long it was lost in here, felt like an inspired choice. With newfound confidence in his selection, Harry retrieved the bag and left the Room of Requirement, the door vanishing behind him. He made a mental note to come back and see if anything in the room was of enough value to be sold to the goblins. Armed with what he believed made a unique and thoughtful gift, Henry had a bounce in his steps as they carried him to the Slytherin common-room.

Regardless of any nerves, he was ready to make the best of Severus’ celebration. After all, if Gryffindor taught him nothing else, it surely taught him to roll with it. Which is how he found himself standing in Pippin’s with a gleeful Severus who was far less hesitant to spend his money this time around. It was their first stop of the day after having a light breakfast together. They had an enjoyably quiet trek here and had only been in the store a handful of minutes, but the basket in Henry’s hand already held several containers. Shifting his weight as Severus was attempting to choose which variant of the Focus Potion he wanted, Henry belatedly remembered the bag situated on his shoulder and flagged his companion's attention.

“Sev?” Henry called out. “I forgot that this is for you—it’s rather comfortable. Happy Birthday.” Henry kept his awkward laugh down in the empty shop as he guided the satchel off of his shoulder and towards his companion. Severus kept his eyes drawn on Henry’s outstretched hands for several awkward moments before gingerly pulling the bag closer.

Severus said nothing as he simply blinked dumbly at the object in his hands for a moment. Slowly, he undid the pewter sash-lock keeping the flap of the bag’s front fastened close. He ran his fingers across the smooth dragonhide of the flap’s backside, which had natural dimples from the beast’s life. Inside were two large compartments—one an open-faced slit to store parchment and such, the other sectioned off with little bits of sturdy circled fabric to hold vials and utensils in place.

The outside of the compartments, which had been hidden under the flap, had two large pockets with their own small pewter latches. Undoing one, Severus found they were charmed to be ever-expanding as his hand disappeared into one of the pocket's depths. After a moment of rustling around, he pulled out a hand that was now gently cradling a glass vial of lavender liquid. After quickly turning over the vial for a moment, Severus simply looked up at Henry. He swallowed before asking, “Why did you give me this?”

“Ah, sorry,” Henry said with an awkward jostling of his long loose hair, without any idea as to what the vial contained. “I got the bag—well—second hand. So I have no clue what that is.”

“It’s a pale purple color, thin without any frothing when agitated. And it leaves behind a pearlescent residue,” Severus said with a pinched-off expression, as if he was reading verbatim from a text. “It’s clearly Lux Lavandería - a base for many healing potions. And for this quality, it could fetch several galleons.”

Severus's grip on the vial minutely tightened before he placed it back into the satchel's pocket with care. “Why did you give me this bag, Peverell?”

“Well, it’s a Potion Master’s satchel, right? I’ve seen them used before, and I told you I’d buy you whatever you wanted today,” Henry bashfully said as he began to shift his weight between his feet. “It makes sense for you to have somewhere to put it all, right?” Henry did not know what else to say as his only desire was to ensure Severus had a gift. And he was mighty proud of the reliable bag he found for the boy’s potion supplies and other essentials.

“You’re an idiot,” Severus all but sneered out as he quickly swiveled away to resume shopping, satchel clutched tightly to his chest.

Chapter Text

January 11, 1975

Severus thought himself to be a leper, a fiend, or anything of the most vile sort—because he wanted. Yes, he yearned for things he ought not get and did not deserve—and wanted them all the same. When Peverell first came into the Great Hall this morning in order to complete the inane farce of having breakfast together, Severus had thought that the dragon-skin bag across the older boy’s shoulder was undeniably eye-catching. Subtle though it was, the bag’s craftsmanship was clear to see in its fine, glossy, stitching and soft-looking leather. He was envious. Even from afar Severus could see that the bag was lovingly handled and of impeccable quality. But that was nothing new, everything that the boy wore seemed to be of quality, luxury, and good taste—everything that Severus was not. The modest, yet extravagantly made, winter cloak, gloves, and hat set piled at his side through breakfast were a testament to that. They were all things he could only ever obtain as gifts. Even Regulus had been impressed by the seamstresses’ name on the cloak’s hem. And Severus knew that Peverell was to blame for his under-robes as well, although the prat would surely shrink all responsibility on the matter. He was coming to understand that Peverell was simply like that. Which is why he felt unworthy to even sit beside Peverell, watching from under his eyelashes as the older dabbed bits of toast in runny yoke without a care in the world. Severus knew he was already being given an unfounded treat in the older boy’s existence near him, and still he wanted more. “Disgusting,” Severus thought. “He should not be lowering himself to my presence.”

It was a point of common sense so blatantly clear in how the others in the Great Hall observed them. It was evident in how Peverell’s roommates treated him with amused curiosity. Or how his own friends offered far too carefully curated advice on the various methods he could use to ensure he got the most out of Peverell’s momentary laps in judgement. He did not understand how the boy could be so frivolous with his notoriety, so lackadaisical with his esteem. In the rankings of their school, of their world, there was no rational reasoning to Peverell’s supposed care for him. Severus could offer him no wealth, no status, no distinction. It was not Severus who could give Peverell true favor to match the likes of the Blacks, the Malfoys, or any of the other most elder houses. Peverell was a fool to waste his time, his coin, and his compassions on him. It was tactless the way that Peverell flaunted their attachment. It was guileless how Peverell wished to be so publicly fond of someone like himself. It made no sense. And yet, there were times when Peverell almost convinced him that he too could be of some unfathomable worth. It was in the moments where Peverell’s hand gravitated to the small of his back, no matter how short of a distance they were traveling—like the entire beginning of their jaunt into town. It happened when Peverell’s fingers tightened on his knee under their library table, as it tended to bob in frustration. Or how often Peverell deemed him in need of a tender smile or a heavy hug, freely and frequently given. The amount of instances he could now recall when Peverell placed a gentle touch on his person, as though he was not some filthy cretin, was staggering. “Yes,” he thought, “even the likes of Severus Tobias Snape meant something when one such as Henry Peverell deems them so. The wretch may as well be Midas.”

Because there were moments when Peverell looked at him and not through him, like everyone else, and Severus could admit it made him feel worth his weight in gold. The fool had even held him, dear and close—long enough even for Severus to believe himself to be safe, for once, in that wretched tub. It was indescribable, what it felt like to be the center of Peverell’s attention while sitting in the focal point of his intense dark magic. The older boy had thoroughly sought him out to be seen and religiously wrought over him to be clean. And, oh—how Severus had felt clean for the first time in his squalid life. Blessedly, the feeling did not leave him. Not even afterwards, when he allowed Peverell to do something so foul—when he relished in it. When he assented to sit there, bared for all the gods to judge, while Peverell made benediction of his suffering. And it was a suffering. A pain he has endured continuously now on many a sleepless night. During some of them, when he was alone under thrice charmed curtains, he even allowed himself to remember what Peverell’s hand upon his cock felt like. “It is so clearly Peverell’s fault,” Severus surmised as he looked over the shelves in Pippin’s, with that dammed satchel now tucked against his body, “that I have become ravenous. Gluttonous.”

For weeks now, Severus has frequently gone to bed with the most outlandish of thoughts starring in his dreams. On those nights, he did not even try to stop it as his body shuddered—recounting exactly when those nimble fingers diverted from their path of worship to rake over his neck, then his ribs, and his thighs. How, before even that, Peverell had touched his face like he revered him—as if he was precious and worthy to behold. How Peverell’s full lips followed the line of his ear and ghosted over his neck, right back where his pulse played a hymn under his skin. The knowledge of how Peverell touched him in such a vulnerable place has spilled out of him more nights than he cared to admit. Back then Severus had wondered if Peverell could hear his heart hammering almost through his chest—if the rhythm played across Peverell’s skin as he drew close. Or just how much Peverell could see in that dim room, if he judged how Severus’ eyes shone just shy of too brightly in elation and wonder. But now, on the nights spent hidden away from even the harshness of himself, Severus wondered how blessed he was that Peverell noticed him—saw him in the shadows and joined him all the same. His mind could not help but whisper, “Who am I to stand in the way if Peverell is offering me—the world?”

A memory took him as Severus looked upon Peverell through the stain-glass light of morning, after exiting the potion’s supply shop. As they walked between shops with more bags than Severus would ever know what to do with shrunken in his robes, Severus a time when he was a child. How every Sunday morning his mother would drag him to a one room shack along the bank that she called a church. And he would go without fuss to make her happy—to get away from his father. This continued until he was 9 and he realized that in church they just told baseless stories, and there was no magic, like his mother claimed. And far to often, his prayers went unanswered. He lwas sure of it that, that, was the first time he lost whatever warmth beneath his breast allowed him to be a child. His mother understood. She had allowed him to stop accompany her, so long as he promised to be out of their house until she returned. But in parting, she told him that, “Everyone prays in the end.”

And she was right. He now prayed that he could carry Peverell’s favor. That this something-or-other between them would last long enough for him to make a way for himself. So that when Peverell left, as he surely will leave, he will be leaving Severus better off than when he found him. It was heedless, it was unmindful—but it was his hope all the same. And if by some miracle Peverell does not cast him aside, then Severus secretly prayed that the deep rolling wave of Peverell’s magic would one day sweep him away from all this. Or, in his wildest imaginable lack of sense, he thought that he would slow his objections to Peverell’s wants to collect him. In the same way one covets a doll, a toy—if only it meant that Peverell would continue to find use in him. It ashamed him, how dangerous and attractive he found that thought. Which is why Severus was now allowing Peverell to handle his growing handful of shrunken parcels as they meandered along the cobblestone path through the town and responding to the offer of going into yet another store with a mockery of a protest, “If you must continue to spend your coin so needlessly, we might as well.”

“Yes,” Severus thought as they paced into their next venue, “I will leave it up to Peverell to stop me.” Severus will let the foolish boy learn that he needs guide rails the hard way, least he gorge himself on all that is offered—all of the care, all of the compassion. All of the gentility. If continued to be allowed, Severus would not leave one speck of crumb behind for Peverell to give to another. Severus’ rumination’s led him to the conclusion that, “Peverell must surely know what he is doing, for one does not become a priest if they are not prepared to live a pious life.”

With a finality, the war in Severus’ mind died out as he accepted that he would continue on as this greedy little thing until Peverell put him in his place—and in the meantime, he would allow himself to revel in his odious selfishness. With the shying of excitement, Severus pondering just how far he could go in his reclamation of sanity from Peverell’s madness. When he thought of it like that, Severus began to get flustered at the thought of what specifically it would take to make Peverell tell him no for the first time. Reflecting back on the look in Peverell’s eyes as that daft boy placed the damned satchel in his hands and hour ago, Severus figured it might take a lot. It all began to go to his head—how it felt to be catered to, to not be told that he cannot have something, or for excuses to be made as to why his wishes could not be fulfilled. At this point, he simply added nonsense to his shopping bags just because he could. “It is my birthday, after all,” Severus silently mused, “why not?”

Severus was so in his own head that he payed no notice to how, as they left the shop, Henry led them away from the busyness of the village and off on a secluded trail along the creek. Aimlessly, Severus went along with it as they ducked out of the gently falling snow and came to stand under an overpass well hidden out of sight. “Did you have a good time?” Peverell asked, breaking Severus away from his thoughts. “Did you get everything you wanted?”

The younger-boy stayed his response as he took in their change of scenery. He was still a bit rattled, and he had just came to the conclusion to push this until it broke, but he was honestly scared. So even as hesitation strained his voice, Severus weakly admitted aloud, “No.”

With that dumb little smile lazily stretched across Peverell’s scared face, Severus watched as his soft lips parted to say, “What ever else you want, just name it.”

So Severus did not fault himself for asking for, “A kiss.” In a near pout, Severus hurried to add-on, “You’ve done—many a thing to my person and yet you’ve never endered me a kiss.”

The widening of Peverell’s smile became near blinding as he stalked closer. And Severus felt his feet slide backward. They moved like that, in tandem, until Severus’ back collided with the slightly damp brick of the under-wall. In that moment, he thought he may come to fear the light in Peverell’s eyes that merrily danced at the sight of him. Severus could not help but wonder at how much of a universal truth it was that lions enjoyed toying with their food, as it was that snakes simply enjoyed the kill. Especially when Peverell teased, “You would like me to kiss you then, Severus?”

Severus—mentally reviewing his sparsely know mental list of kinks, and narrowly avoiding the intrusive thoughts of what traumas inspired some of them—came to the decision that, even if only in the times they are securely alone and out of the private eye, he will allow himself to indulge. “Do you wish for me to beg?”

“Would you?” Peverell did not miss a step in their little dance, so Severus steeled himself to tilt his head to level their eyes. He does not waiver in his convictions. “With you, I find myself at a loss in understanding the limits of the actions I am willing to take—should you merely suggest it.”

“Hum,” Peverell sounded between the wetting of his lips. “Does that scare you?”

“It terrifyingly goes against all I know in regards to self preservation.” The laugh that trailed after Severus’ words was more of a startled huff of breath then anything as Peverell’s lips seized his own. And even with that in mind, Severus does not stop it as he returns the kiss anyway. The kiss did not move mountains to make waterways, and it did not revive the foliage of barren land. There were no sparks that embolden the shaping of new stars. It was not creation, but destruction. Their kiss weakened Severus’ knees along with his defenses—and crumbled away a part of himself that he surely knew, as their lips parted, he would never regain. It was a dark and dangerous, and violent thing—as Peverell’s bare hands parted his cloak and came to settle on the fabric that covered his hips. Severus knew it was a calamity. Felt it in the way it split his chapped bottom lip—in the way Peverell moaned at the taste of him. It was world ending and awe inspiring.

It was long and lingering as the world spun on around them behind the curtain of whipping snow. And it trailed too far away from his lips, it bit down his neck and Severus felt saliva quick-freeze onto his skin, only for it to change course and regain his lips again—just as he was on the cups of finding enough breath to fill his aching lungs again. It was the thing of sorrowful legends—where heroically, one must die, must relinquish all that they are, to be made anew. As Severus licked power, and strength, and death, from between Peverell’s teeth—he knew that this was the reason so many knights happily went riding to their end, and how so many princesses calmly wasted away in long-forgotten towers. The Prince’s were not know to birth seers, but as Severus clenched his fingers into the front of Peverell’s robes to crush the other’s slightly bigger body into his own, he knew that it would be the core at the matter of why he would do so vary many foolish things going forward.

It was easy to recall, between fought after breaths, the time when his mother turned to God since she had to turn away from magic. He remembered how she would whisper him to sleep with stories of how the greatest of angels soared through the heavens, trailing stardust in their wake—their radiance unmatched by any celestial being. But there was still God—something greater, something more, something untouchable, yet completely forth-giving. As Henry pulled back from the kiss Severus felt high from his glimpse of the heavens. He knew his own saliva trailing down his chin no doubt caught the low-sun’s rays. But he did not trimble as he acknowledged that he was standing before a god. He thought that, with his megar birthright and it’s caused diminished life expectancy, he would never mean more to the world than whatever it was he meant to Peverell. It was more than he knew he deserved, as the greatest of angels were given wings of flying faulsehood, and truth came limping afterwards. “And truly,” Severus thought, “that is okay.”

Flustered as the spots in his vision rightened, Severus squeezed out, “Yes, very well—now that we’re done with that, I still need to get a few things for Imbolc.”

And Peverell, forever a benevolent numen, went along with the distraction and simply assisted Severus in fixing the draping of his clothes as sweetly asked, “You’re celebrating Imbolc?”

Chapter Text

February 1, 1975

There were so many things Henry only belatedly realized that he missed out on while living his life as “Harry Potter.” Because he was so worried about living up to his “destiny,” he missed out on learning who he actually was beyond “James’ glasses,” “Lily’s eyes,” “Dumbledore’s boy,” and “Voldemort’s marked.” Because he never noticed how much of his life was being orchestrated by the will of those around him, he missed out on making independent connections with people who could have authentically enriched his life and spared little thought to those who wanted to grow close to him on their own. And because he chose not to enter into the House of Slytherin, he had not been made privy to their unique customs and traditions—until now. The Slytherins took their “spring cleaning” to an extreme level of seriousness that he could not have even guessed at before making his way to the common room Saturday morning.

There were a few trickling in and out of the room to grab breakfast, but for the most part, all of Slytherin was present. Which was easy to see from his vantage point as all the furniture had been removed, each table and every chair gone, and in their places lay a collection of students milling about between various giant squares of brightly colored fabric lying on the floor. Sat out in long and neat rows, each square took up about a large-beach towel’s worth of space and had a student sitting or standing near it offering up their no-longer wanted clutter. Although this was not a charitable gesture, by any means. To participate, one was expected to barter, sell, and/or trade for the value that the seller deemed worthy. Yes, their once sophisticated, and almost stuffy, gathering place had taken on the appearance of an open-air flea market—as was tradition, he had learned, for their annual “Imbolc Exchange.”

Henry knew that Imbolc was the traditional Gaelic name for February 1 and marked the first stirrings of spring. From his reading, Patricia Mae Keemble-Longbottom’s “Gracious Guide to Magical Holidays,” which was actually quite enjoyable, he knew that it was a time for purification and cleaning in anticipation of the year's new life. But he was still surprised by the lengths these students independently managed to honor the “old ways.” Henry could not even see the spaces closer to the entrance, as the room was overrun by celebrating youth. At the base of the grand staircase, however, he saw that there was a collection of younger girls selling last season’s wears. And under the far window’s gloomy glass, an upper year had taken up two display sections to showcase piles of books. Henry made a mental note to double back to talk to that young woman in particular as he continued to browse through the buzzing mass of assembled students. He was sure he even passed by a Ravenclaw or two. Henry thought that the room might have even been temporarily expanded to fit everyone in.

“What a way to do it!” Henry thought as he took in more of the room. Since Imbolc marked the beginning of spring, many celebrations involved outdoor activities such as nature walks, planting seeds, or simply spending time in nature to welcome the changing season. But since the celebration of the “old ways” was forbidden at Hogwarts, Henry figured that this was a brilliant contingency. The room had been charmed in a similar fashion as the Great Hall, but in place of thousands of candles was a thick canopy of green foliage and thin streams of faux sunlight. Softly flickering candles placed by the hundreds around the room strengthened the light coming from the ceiling and the lively fireplace. Madame Keemble-Longbottom stated that, for the day, “candles were lit to symbolize the returning light and the growing strength of the sun.” Some people placed candles in every room of their homes or created candlelit altars, but he figured this was as good a place as any to scatter them about while the whole of his house, and their magic, gathered. Feasting was also an aspect of traditional celebrations, which accounted for the long tables, holding a variety of goblets and light finger food, pushed against the far walls. From what he could see, there were many cheeses in honor of the lactating ewes, bread, grains, and seasonal vegetables. The small of fresh food and freshly brewed coffee, enticed passersby to pause and indulge.

And he was one of them. The aroma of familiar spices mingled with the earthy scent of old parchment, created a heady perfume that stirred memories of a large stone pigpen held together by magic and the constant warmth of too many Weasley’s around a rickety hand-carved table. He missed Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. He missed the trouble of overly involved friends and the strife of foster-family. For all the trouble that they were worth, Henry couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for his days as “Harry Potter.” The weight of expectation had always hung heavy but now, with no one knowing him enough to expect anything, Henry realized just how heavy endless-possibility could be as well. But Imbolc was also considered to be a time for cleansing and purification and he would take advantage of the day’s innate power. He knew that some of the students probably performed rituals to rid themselves of negative energies and welcome in positive ones for the coming year before setting up shop. Even he had bathed in watery rose infused milk, brought up by the house-elves, and wore long day-robes of threaded crème and grey. It was all in a bid to connect with nature, with the now—when his time here always felt so aberrant.

Henry unintentionally bumped into a few as he navigated the narrow aisles between vendors. It was a bit chaotic, as there was no rhyme or reason to the grouping of blankets or what they held—antique trinkets were nestled alongside modern gadgets, handcrafted jewelry sparkled in the conjured sunlight next to weathered books seeped in long-held magic. As he browsed more, Henry noticed there were 5th and 6th-year students selling test guides that would give Hermione a run for her money. There were upcoming graduates selling packets of their 2nd through 6th-year assignments. And there were no shortage of heirs and heiresses offloading dusty, long-forgotten heirlooms pilfered from their family’s many vaults. Amidst the hustle and bustle, the common room thrummed with the rhythm of life. Friends meandered through the maze of stalls, children's laughter trailed behind him as he marveled at the wonders on display. And students engaged in surprisingly fierce negotiations for their offerings, their voices rising and falling like waves in a rowdy sea. But even in the chaos, there was a sense of unity—a shared experience that transcended the experiences he had in the Gryffindor tower.

He wondered what they would think of him now, as he stood on the precipice of a new chapter in his life. Beneath his thoughts, Henry could nearly hear the buzzing of everyone’s excess magic given in honor of this day. The air around them vibrated with vibrant energy, and there was a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that assaulted the senses at every turn. The air was also alive with a symphony of voices haggling, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal as coins exchanged hands. Around him, laughter danced and music drifted from various hidden corners. Imbolc was considered a spiritually potent time, and he could not argue against that when magic flowed through the room and left even him feeling lighter. It was also a time when divination and seeking guidance were most clear and many sought direction for the year ahead. And as he walked about, he saw that several students were offering tarot readings, scrying, and other forms of divination from cultures he could not recognize. He considered stopping by a stall or two to get a glimpse of what was to come. But knowing his luck, Henry figured he’d give some poor child an aneurysm if they attempted to “penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future” before him.

But that did not stop him from pondering what he wanted out of this. He had gotten his rest, he had even gotten close to Severus and his roommates, and he felt that it was time to move his plans forward. He knew that his first step would be to get installed in the Ministry. He heeded to understand the damage Voldemort had done so far and gauge the reactions of those in power. He also needed to mingle with the older houses to find out who would support legislation he put forth. He was just waiting on the announcement of the new voting term to formally announce his seats and set up his proxy for when the school year was back in session. He hadn’t chose in who exactly would helm the Peverell seats in his stead, as he had only recently asked Tallowfang to send over recommendations in his last correspondence with the bank. It was not in line with their typical services offered, but Henry wanted the best representative of his wishes and thought that they could help, as he was not opposed to his representative being something other than human.

Henry’s thoughts drifted as he wandered between stalls adorned with treasures from every corner of the wizarding world. Before long, Henry found himself drawn to a particularly ornate chest nestled a the corner near the entrance. It sat atop a plain blue cotton blanket and was surrounded by various curio’s of East-Asian origin. Intricate carvings adorned its lacquered surface, each side depicting a different scene of war. With a sense of curiosity tinged with excitement, Henry moved closer. He eyed the older boy, whose name Henry vaguely remembered as Sung something-or-other, beside it—who wordlessly nodded back at him in permission to lift the lid. He kneeled down and traced his fingers along the cool polished gold of an ancient pendant holding the box shut, feeling a sense of peace wash over him as he lifted it away. Which is why he fell over onto his butt in surprise when the lid swung open to reveal severed rabbit feet. There were about four pairs of them in the box, each twitching as if they were still attached to a wild-hare giving chase. He could hear the seventh-year student attempting to swallow down a boisterous laugh. And just under it, he could hear Death’s whisper, “You shall always take comfort in my company, master.”

Shaking off his stupor, Henry righted his hair out of his face before addressing the older student. “Sorry,” he said, “bit of a surprise, that.”

“Think nothing of it,” the other boy mumbled, still chuffing his laugh. His almond eyes near closed in jubilation as he watched Henry gather himself.

“What are they for?” Henry could not help but ask, as curiosity would always get the better of him.

“Luck,” the other boy said as he had finally stayed his breath. “Interested?”

Henry did not finch back as a now wildly leaping snow-white foot was brought entirely too close to his face, but it was a near thing. He knew that all his life he had been endowed with the famed “Potter Luck.” He had already lived through an instant-kill curse, fought a basilisk, survived the Tri-wizard Tournament, and made it through far too many teeth-clenching and harrowing encounters then he could ever count. He dared not temp fate by adding to it. Politely as possible, Henry declined before making his excuses and retreating down the aisle. A few rows over, Henry was surprised to find that even Professor Slughorn was in attendance. The Potions Master had three swaths of soon to expire ingredients and others of refined quality but at a significantly reduced market price. There was nothing of note that he needed, so he gave his professor a short greeting and walked away. Although, Henry did wonder if there was anything here that would interest Severus.

He did not have to ponder on it for long though, as he found Severus not too far off from Slughorn. Severus was in the middle of a sale, back straight and eyes bright as he explained the best use of the twigs in his hand, and he did not notice Henry’s approach. So Henry used the moment to take the other in. He truly did feel as though Severus’ new haircut framed his face better. And the younger boy’s skin seemed to sit fuller on his cheeks and lost its sickly hue. He was wearing a mix of things no-doubt obtained at Madame Florence’s, underneath a neatly knit white jumper that held a magical signature Henry assumed belonged to Severus’ mother. Henry thought that it looked good on him as he sat atop beige wool blanket that had a weaved rendition of a jet-black Tuvinian horse, with colorfully-embroidered traditional riding gear, and bright iris-ruthenica’s braided through its charmed mane that flowed in some unseen wind. Amused, Henry noticed that before him was a showcasing of things Henry had bought. As he watched the clear joy and pride shine off of Severus with every sale, Henry found that it did not bother him one bit what Severus chose to do with the things he’d bought him—so long as he was happy. Cheerily, Henry greeted him when the gaggle of students garnering his attention cleared, “Severus, a good Imbolc to you.”

But he was only met with a flat “Peverell” and a raised eyebrow, as if Severus was daring Henry to challenge his being here. Henry could not help but laugh as Severus tended to remind him of a self-important kitten at times—so ready to bear its tender little nails at the smallest slight. With his own cheeks hurting from the smile that stretched them wide, Henry playfully asked, “How are you enjoying the circus?”

“I suppose this would be a bit off-putting for someone seeing our ‘Imbolc Exchange’ for the first time, but this is rather tame compared to my first years here,” Severus stated as he reorganized the things in front of him, filling in the gaps from the things he’s already sold and arranging them in an appealing way.

“Oh?” Henry mused and Severus elaborated, “Yes. There were more heirs from the older houses as students then, and people aimed to impress. But if I am to speak freely, I would say the number of things I personally have found interesting has increased in abundance since their matriculation.”

Henry sat off to the side, out of the way of foot-traffic, as he watched Severus work. Curious about the type of things that Severus found interesting, as the boy was always so private, Henry asked, “Anything peak your interest today?”

“I have not the time for dallying about, Peverell, as I have been manning my stall all morning,” grouched Severus.

And Henry rolled his eyes out of sight at the mild annoyance he felt when interacting with Severus that made him ponder on inventive methods he could use to keep the other boy silent. Pointedly not thinking about their kiss, Henry attempted to keep the conversation going, and asked, “Then are you making good sales?”

Severus puffed up in agitation and in a voice not to be overheard, hissed, “What I do with my potion’s ingredients is my business. And I will not be compensating—.”

“Sev,” Henry’s soft but demanding voice cut in, “hush-up and tell me if you want anything from Slughorn’s stall.”

“Those are contradictory instructions,” Severus snipped.

“Sev,” Henry intoned. But Severus was not perturbed by Henry’s warning tone, he simply raised his starting nose higher and huffed, “No. the quality I am able to obtain elsewhere is of a better quality.”

“Is that so?” Henry playfully prodded as he toyed with a vile of glowing yellow petals on Severus’s blanket. “And is there anything else you’d like for me to obtain for you?”

Severus nervously licked the cut healing on his bottom lip as he looked over his stock, but said nothing. So Henry pressed, “Anything catch your eye?”

Severus debated on what to say. He noticed that the flow of students around them had lulled and the vendors on either side seemed to not be paying any attention to their back and forth, but this was Slytherin—and Severus knew that someone was always listening out for a bit of gossip to lord over one’s head. But he had also told himself to be more selfish, to press upon Henry’s charity.

He still refused to look in the older boys direction and said, barely above a whisper, “Row two, isle 6. There is an 80-year-old ‘Saint Magnus, Albertus Collection’ bronze culdron that the dimwits of this day would not know what to do with even if it bashed them over their head.”

He could not see it, but by the laugh that colored Henry’s voice alone, Severus knew he was smiling as he said, “Alright. Anything else?”

“Is it truly that simple?!” Severus’ mind stressed as he attempted to calm his climbing pulse. “Courage is for fools,” Severus bitterly thought as his voice broke on a simple, staggering, “Y-yes.”

Severus blinked back a fog that had overtaken his head as he listened to Henry get up and walk away. After several calming breaths, he felt as if things were right again in the world. And just in time too as a cluster of giggling girls had just arrived before him simpering about potions to “catch the eye of their intended.” There was then a string of other student wanting ingredients for various reasons or to ask him to proof their rudimentary brewing skills. He was in the process of handing over a vial of goat’s saliva to a young man wishing to enhance his veracity and cease the straying of his loins from his betrothed when from the corner of his eye he caught Henry’s return. Severus fumbled with the smooth glass in his had at the sight of him, for not only had he obtained the unfathomably expensive antique cauldron, but in in Severus could see a bronze stirring-rod and beside it one made from an ashen green and grey layered rock that Severus would bet anything was soapstone.

He concluded his sale as succinctly as possible before turning to address Henry. When all else failed, and he found his thoughts failing him now, Severus knew to fallback on being ornery, so he stiffly said, “I did not ask for stirring-rods.”

“No,” Henry cooly said as he slid the arm with wide cauldron over, “but the girl-who-gave-it-to-me’s grandfather made it. And she said that you should only use certain rods with it, or else it’ll scratch. And I didn’t know if you had the correct once or which material you’d prefer, so I also bought the ones she had on hand that would be okay to use with it.”

“Always so thorough, aren’t you Peverell?” Severus snipped as he inspected his present—and surely it could be called nothing else. He was hard pressed to find an imperfection in them. The cauldron’s surface was immaculately polished and the stirring rods were long enough to keep his hands out of the way, yet of a good enough thickness for him to not fear their breaking with use. As his fingers moved against the artist etching’s on the cauldron’s stubby feet, Severus felt a growing tightness behind his navel at the forming understanding that Henry had bout this for him no-question-asked, simply because he wanted to. He knew that the creeping heat climbing his neck was nothing other than a blush and it bothered him more that he was annoyed that they were not alone, than its presence. He felt his throat work as he struggled to get out a response that was more than a reedy breath. Eventually as Henry prattled on about care instructions that every potioneer worth their salt already knew, obvious to Severus’ struggles, Severus found it in him to calm down.

“Thank you,” Severus said, cutting of Henry’s attempt at remembering the steps to create a salt-paste to season the cauldron between uses.

“Oh,” Henry happily breathed, and now it was Severus’ turn to watch the other squirm about. “It’s no problem! The girl was happy that someone who actually knows what to do with the thing would be using it. And I think it’s great that you’ll be able to experiment with quality equipment. Who knows, maybe you’ll even get that mastery before you’re 21–“

The older boy rambled on some more, but Severus only listened with half an ear as he reminded himself that this thing between them was not for the public eye. He collected himself and donned a mask of indifference before gently shooing Henry away. “Peverell,” he began, speaking over the older boy, “While I truly appreciate this—gift that you have given me, I have other things to do than to listen to you prattle on. Go and find some business elsewhere.”

Surprised by the abrupt shift in Severus’s mood, Henry took a moment to look over his friend before responding. Henry had been caught up in engaging with the younger boy, simply happy to be in his presence, but now he could see that it was not reciprocated. Henry did not feel any ill intent in Severus’ magic as his own brushed out to get a feel for how his friend was doing, he only felt anxiety. And now that he was looking, Henry saw the nervous flitting of Severus’ eyes to those around them as he lingered about. A few passing students had cast curious glances in their direction. And there was a questioning look in the eyes of the young lady manning the stall directly across from Severus’ who had noticed Henry arrive with the cauldron. He assume that Severus had an aversion towards public displays of affection and made a mental note to only give presents in private moving forward, as he collected himself to leave.

“Sure, no problem,” Henry said, “but you owe me dinner so I can hear what you plan on brewing first. Deal?” Henry thought the dusting of color along Severus’ cheeks was far too cute as he gave a flustered hiss of, “Fine! Yes! Now go!”

“Definitely only giving him presents in places where he’d be okay with me kissing him,” Henry thought as he walked away. He resumed his wandering of the narrow aisles of the loosely constructed market. He felt a sense of excitement, looking forward to when he’d see Severus next as he gently gazed about. He wasn’t looking to anything in particular, simply surprised in what all was being offered. He had nearly completed a lap around the room when, suddenly, something caught his attention as he neared the right alcove under the staircase. There was a gaggle of older students selling a wide variety of barely legal things in the shade. But even in the dark he could see a glimmering thread of gold that was a very interesting magical signature standing out amidst a sea of treasures that radiated dark magic. He followed the shimmering trail until he was a few steps away from a small stall tucked away in a shadowy corner. There sat a girl upon a pristine snow-leopard’s hide, in a near glowing white gown, amidst a clutter of dusty tomes and mystical artifacts. And of her collection of things he felt pulled towards a weathered book that seemed to pulse with a faint, familiar, magic.

“Death?” He mentally called out, “Why does that book feel like you?” Henry felt the hum of unvoiced words against the back of his neck as he felt Death creep closer. Only he could see as a non-corporeal hand reached out to trace along the book’s plain surface.

“The books seems to be a collection of varied notes by one Orenthal Peverell,” Death said as Henry watched the hand retreat and felt it caress down his arm to linger a hold around his wrist as the being went on. “So, more accurately, the magic feels like yours, master.” Death then laughed, and laughed—so long and warm that it eventually sunk into the background out his mind with the rest of his reeling thoughts. But only further intrigued, Henry made the last of the steps needed to take him in-front of the girl. But before he could fully immerse himself in the book's enchanting aura, or even get out a greeting, he was interrupted by the sour voice of the girl.

She eyed him with thinly veiled disdain, her lips curled into a contemptuous sneer, as she snapped, "What do you want?"

He tone was laced with annoyance and when Henry really looked at her he thought she looked a bit like Bellatrix Lestrange with calmer, blond, hair.

“Hello,” he tried civility as he sat down in front of the rude girl, “I’m Henry Peverell, and you?”

The girl sniffed pompously at his outstretched hand and did not move an inch to grasp it as she said, “Drusilla Rosier.”

Henry hesitated, taken aback by her brusque demeanor. Nevertheless, he gestured towards the small blood-red book that had drawn him over. "Well met, young-lady Rosier. I'm interested in this book," he said, trying to keep his tone polite despite the girl's hostility.

The girl scoffed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and not even looking at which book he was referring to. "That old thing? It's not for sale," she replied dismissively.

Confused and growing increasingly frustrated, Henry tried to reason with her. "But it's right here on your stall," he pointed out, gesturing towards the book once more. "Surely you're selling it?"

Rosier rolled her eyes, crossing her arms defiantly. "Fine," she drew out, long and thin, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But it'll cost you."

Henry braced himself for the inevitable price gouging, already resigned to the fact that dealing with this girl was becoming more trouble than it was worth. She picked up the book he wanted and confirmed, "You interested in this one, are you?"

"Yes, I am," Henry replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the sudden tension in the air. "How much is it?"

Rosier eyed him with a look of thinly veiled contempt before naming a price that made Henry's jaw drop. It was clear she was trying to take advantage of him, marking up the price to an absurd level. And by the glint in her eyes, Henry knew she thought she had him. But rather than haggle or protest, Henry simply reached into his pocket and produced the required amount of gold coins, eager to be rid of the girl and her sour attitude. As he laid out the payment, he felt more than just a twinge of annoyance at the girl's behavior—as she was withholding something that was rightfully his. Henry thought that the girl outright sucked, and was doing a terrible job at celebrating Imbolc, but he was determined not to let her ruin his excitement.

As he pulled out the last coin from the pouch in his hip she did not pay his money more than a passing glance as she spat, "You can't have it.” Her eyes were flashing with hostility, as she went on, “You don't have the magic for any of the spells in that book. It's wasted on someone like you."

Henry's blood boiled at her words, his frustration reaching a its height. “Who was she to judge me based on my magical abilities?” Henry thought, but before he could respond she continued her barrage of insults.

“What does itty-bitty Peverell know of dark magic? It’s not something muggle-filth would be able to teach you,” she drawled as she caressed the book’s spine out of his reach. “At best, you’re a little half-blood upstart who doesn’t know their place. And at worst you’re an audacious muggle-born trading on a long dead name. Either way, you don’t belong in the world of true magic and I won’t be giving you this book. Honestly,” she scoffed as she flipped her long blond hair, “You have no hope of grasping anything in here. I’m doing you a favor. Now move along, you’re in the way of my actual customers.”

“She’s full of shit,” Henry thought. There was no one but the other sellers around them, as none too many wished to get caught with these vendor’s goods in school. With a clenched jaw and a steely resolve, Henry reached into his coin pouch and slammed a fist-full of gold-galleon’s onto the ones he already laid out. They clanged terribly as they fell from his fingers into a messy pile, but Henry did not care that he was making a mess of the girl’s stall—only that she would not give him his book. “Look just hand over the book. I’m not—“

“I heard you have a thing for carrying around half-conscious half-bloods. How scandalous, Heir Peverell,” Rosier jeered with sarcasm dripping from his monicker.

“What—?” Henry choked out, his thoughts reeling. He knew that the Crabbe look-a-like saw him carrying Severus back after they spent Yule together, but that was only one time. And the way she phrased it made it sound like—then it hit him. Mary Macdonald. He couldn’t remember anyone being around when he was helping her but this was Hogwarts, and one should assume that eyes were peering from somewhere—living a somewhat quiet life for months had made relaxed.

“Let’s get one things straight so there’s no misunderstanding, Rosier. Mary is a friend and I made sure she got home safely, that’s all—but you know that. And since you seem to know so much, then I’m sure you also know that I took her directly to Professor Hooch who preformed a diagnostic spell on her as soon as we were in wand’s distance. And Severus,” Henry chewed out, “is no one’s concern but mine.” In his growing ire, Henry’s magic flitted across the room and sought out Severus. He didn’t know why, but having this nasty girl bring Severus up made him want to tuck his friend in close—to hide him away from the grime and muck of others.

“I beg to differ,” Rosier taunted, “what type of upper-classmen would I be if I allowed you to so throughly take advantage of a mere fourth-year.”

“What are you implying?” Henry asked as he struggled to keep a hold on his magic as his temper raised.

“Oh I’m clearly saying that you’re fucking him,” the girl sighed. “What I’m trying to gather is why you’d bother and how bad you make him cry during.”

A ruckus of laughter goes off around them that startles Henry and further slackens his intangible hold on his magic. It’s something in the way that they laugh. In how no one genuinely cared about Severus’ well-being, even this girl in front of him—so long as his misfortune gives them something to talk about that makes his snap. Henry snatched the book out of Rosier’s hand and briskly stated, “I have paid you more than fairly for this book, now I am taking it.” But as he stood and clutched the book to his chest, its magic singing like a familiar lullaby, his arm is grabbed.

“What do you think you’re doing to me sister, Peverell?!” Evan Rosier held him in place with nails digging into the soft skin of his wrist, a wand pointed at his neck, and hate brimming his crystal-blue eyes. His dark hair was a bit out of place, as if the young boy had sprinted over to them. And his sister seized the moment as soon as she saw her younger brother appear. “Evan,” the girl cried, “he’s stealing that book from—“

“What?!” Henry roared over her, drawing the attention of more of the room. “I stole this?! There’s a pile of gold right there—and besides this is a Peverell heirloom. How your fucking family got it I’ll never care to know, but I’m taking it back!”

“You’re lying! That book can’t be opened and it has no markers, you can’t possibly know that!” Drusilla Rosier screeched as her brother attempted to wrestle the book out of his hands. But Henry had fought Draco Malfoy for dozens of tiny snitches and far too many Weasley’s for the last slide of tart—so this twiggy boy stood as only a brief obstacle. Henry was able to slap the younger boy’s grabbing hands away and used his magic to keep Evan Rosier away.

“Enough!” It was as if Henry had simultaneously cast sonorus and a stunning spell over the room. Even the handful of students who paid them no mind up till this point were affected, but Henry didn’t notice the room still as he only sought to prove the girl wrong. His eyes were narrowly cast down as he righted the book in his hands and moved to flip back its pages. There was a moment of resistance and then the book seemed to take a bite at his magic before the pages wildly fluttered open. “You were saying?” Henry smugly asked.

“How—?” The younger Rosier murmured but it went unheard under his sister’s yelling. “That proves nothing! Just because you can open it—“

The girl went on, but Henry was engrossed in the grimoire in his hands as the pages kept turning on their own until they settled part way through the book and a spell’s will seemed to leap out of the page to catch his attention. The words seem to float above the page and Henry squinted at the text to try and understand them. “Subiiciat te prius melioribus,” Henry whispered distractedly and then a series of thumping sounds reverberated throughout the room. He first looked up to see both the Rosier siblings struggling silently on their knees and then, with a sinking suspicion of what he’d find, Henry looked out over the rest of the common room.

“Well fuck,” Henry breathed after seeing the whole of the students present in the same position as the Rosier’s—kneeling on the ground wherever they landed and not able to move a muscle out of place. Henry could see tears running down the faces of some of the students closest to him. And dampened screams could be heard from seeping out from forced shut mouths as students struggled to regain control of their bodies. The disembodied laugh, that rattled over his spine and fogged the nearby windows, as he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on, wasn’t at all a surprise. He had long ago gathered that Death seemed to take great pleasure in his discomfort.

When the manic laughter eventually quieted, but its voice lost none of its mirth, Death finally asked, “May I make a suggestion, master?”

Chapter Text

February 1 - March 21, 1975

Severus figured that it was Peverell’s fault that he almost bit through the tip of his tongue while trying to explain to the rancid fool in-front of him why tinctures made from St. John’s wort should not ever be ingested, even if the idiot thought that it would work faster that way. At this point, Severus knew that he could recognize Peverell’s magical signature, creeping its way across the common room like a heavy fog, even in his sleep. So after rushing through his final sale, Severus began to hastily pack up the handful of pressed herbs, loose vials, and such that he had yet to sell. He quickly stuffed everything but the cloth beneath his folded legs into his well-polished satchel because even though he did not know what was going on, he knew Peverell well enough, as loathe as he was to admit it, to know that the boy kept a steadfast grip on his magic.

And for good reason. Severus found that on the best of days, it sat around the boy like a second skin—flagrant in its abundance and terrifying in its stability. On those days, Severus found that if he leaned close enough, it would heave wave against him before settling back onto Peverell. And on bad days, the days Severus caught the boy looking so lost and out of place in his on body that it made him contemplate speaking up, it messily bubbled about in Peverell’s shadow and trailed just a tad out of sync with Peverell’s every step. Even now, as only mere tendrils wafted across the common room, it was intense. When Severus looked around to try and parse out just where the troublesome older-boy was, he could see a few of his more magic sensitive housemates looking about in confusion at the abrupt change in the room’s atmosphere as well.

If he had to describe it, Severus thought that right now Peverell’s magic felt finicky. Like the charged static of a broken telly, or the wiry rain before a storm broke. It made the air throughout the room turn viper still—as if a great predator was deliberating its plan of attack. It was so stong, so deliberate in its intent, that it seemed to bristle and jerk away from any and everything in its path—until it got to him before it washed into him without preamble. It took hold of the exposed skin where his trousers did not quite meet his socks and seeped upward. Severus did not fight its hold, instead he leaned into its presence. As he let it crawl over him with rapt focus, he thought that it almost felt as if it was fussing at him in the way that it incessantly prodded against his own magic—as if to say, “Where are you? I need you near.”

Hesitantly, slowly, cautiously—Severus allowed the barest ounce of his magic loose in response. “I am here,” it soothed—much in the same way that he had began to allow Peverell to ease the always worried skin of his lower lip with stolen kisses, or drag loose hairs back into place when after he sat hunched too long over tomes in the library. Yes, Severus would unfortunately say that he was quite familiar with the boy. So, if the fact that he could feel Peverell’s magic at all while completely across such a large room was not enough to warrant his concern, then the near desperation he could feel from it was. Having made up his mind, Severus he had just stood to make his way toward the alcoves beneath the stairs, where he felt the pull of magic originating from, when his knees were pulled out from under him with such a force that his teeth creaked as he clenched them closed.

His mother’s floor-mat and his satchel clattered against the ground after falling from his slackened hands. He mouth attempted to part on a string of colorful curses at the pain radiating down his shins, but his flagging annoyance spiked into an icy fear as he found that his jaw would not move. He attempted to raise his hands to his face in investigation but found that they too were frozen in place. He could not yell, he could not stand—he could not even manage a feeble attempt at struggle, as no muscle would budge. Perspiration began to bead at his temples as he threw every ounce of strength his neglected body and advanced magical-core possessed into breaking the spell on him—but he had no focal point to direct his magic at.

Severus had no choice but to sit there as he internally attempted to fight the unseen force that seemed to thread through his bones and meld with his very thoughts with a finality akin to death. This was no Incarcerous that manifested as tangible ropes one could focus their intent into banishing away. It was not a Petrificus Totalus where one could direct their counter-casting at the feeling of ice encasing their body. It did not grace his wrist as magic-made shackles or give him the feeling that he was permanently stuck in this position. Neither did it command his mind give over its agency or whisk away his thoughts into sweet nothing. He could fight, he could scream into the echos of his mind and wretch against his very own skin holding him hostage all he wanted. But the longer he sat there, the more he could see how foolish he was being—the less he saw a need to resist. This was a spell, a form of magic, that he had yet to encounter in his short life. One that made those under it deem their own autonomy useless in due time—as if they were encased in a form-fitted glass coffin, basking under the allusion of freedom, and saw no purpose in feeling this ornate prison realm.

“Regroup, Reconnaissanc, Restructure,” Severus thought as he went through the process of clearing his mind to better be able to take in what was going on around him. In his panic Severus had denied to take in the state of those around him. His head was frozen in the same direction he was looking at when his very soul was summoned to kneel—at Peverell. And with each and every body present in the same predicament as himself, Severus could clearly see that they had all been affected—all of them, save one. A thunderbolt racked down his taut spine as he bewilderedly blinked at the far off image of Peverell standing above them all. “He couldn’t possibly—” Severus’ thoughts stalled as he strained his peripheral vision to see if there was truly no one else standing. To his right, and a few rows ahead, he could see a glossy head of black hair trembling under exertion from Regulus attempting to rid himself of the spell possessing them. And to his left, when he stretched his eyes to the point of pain, Severus could just make out the roundness of Professor Slughorn’s protruding stomach nearly brushing the ground. “Peverell has truly—“

If he was not already forced down onto spread knees, Severus would be of the fear that his legs would not hold his meager weight for long. An itching had taken residence in the back of his mind ever since Peverell returned to his side with that blasted cauldron as if it was nothing. As if he would procure anything, even Severus’ wildest dreams of heritage brew-ware, should he only—“No!” Severus clenched his eyes tight as he attempted to rid himself of the distraction that was Peverell’s unfathomable foolishness. It did him no good to dwell on the serene look that had overcome Peverell as he handed the cauldron over, when Severus was being so throughly drenched in raw dark magic. Severus damned his hormonal teen body, then pushed all thoughts of a smiling scarred face to the darkest part of his mind. He refused to fall under the spells influence, but it was hard to gather what little of himself was left under his control when his every sense was full the older boy’s magic. When he could feel the initial searching tendrils of Peverell’s thick magic still climbing his naked calfskin—when they split off in their eager confirmation that they had hold of him and begin to slither over his strained knees to take hold of his thighs.

“Dear, Morgana,” Severus mentally sighed, “did it feel good.” The feeling did not scare him, which he assumed was not the case for his housemates, whose subtle twitches reflected thwarted attempts at escape, it was simply not the time to indulge in them. When Peverell had last taken him, sopping wet and teary eyed, they had been in the privacy of Peverell’s constructed world in the Room of Requirement. Even when they shared kisses they were always traded in the shadows. A part of him, the child that for too long went without, refused to believe that Peverell would give their housemates what only belonged to himself—Peverell’s honesty. The trust of his power, the authenticity of his authority. No matter how good being on his knees before such a strong source of divinity felt, he was befret to fall into its thrall along with everyone else. The things Peverell gave him were special in their uniqueness, in their individuality. Severus thought that he alone deserved to offer submission, he alone had been chosen before now—the rest of the dredges around him were simply collateral damage.

“Circe,” Severus’ wished to utter as his thoughts fumbled about in a sedated lull. Peverell’s magic flexed over them as, Severus assumed, the older boy attempted and failed to rein it in and Severus opened his eyes with a jerk. The mellowing sound that escaped his lips at the intense pulse blended into the gasping cries of submission and shallow shrieks of terror that were incessantly going off around the room. It was backassward, Severus felt, that his length began to harden in such a situation. But it did—for this was Peverell, exalted above them all. And this was his pitiful self, bearing the indomitable will of the decadently stygian force that was Peverell’s magic. Severus had felt nothing like it before, knew there was nothing else like it in the world to be found, and was haplessly ruined to move against it.

“By the gods—this must be some tartarean punishment for my lust—for my greed,” Severus thought as he attempted to rationalize why Peverell’s unrelenting control of his body made his blood excessively flow, why the limited expanse of his lungs set his pitiful mind alight, or why understanding just how minuscule he was compared to Peverell’s will made him plead with his body to move. Woefully, as he was stuck in place with nothing more to do than to feel what was being done to him, Severus’ ailing reason struggled to make sense of the synapses firing across his emptying mind. His sluggish thoughts then came to a horrendous screech when Peverell’s magic changed. When the magic being emitted from the Dark Lord before them, for Peverell could be called nothing less, seemed to grow and nearly double. The forbidding presence in the far corner of the room was all encompassing and it was unhinged the way that Severus’ hips heedlessly strained to hump the air—right there, in front of all of his peers. In front of his professor.

His body was still confined to Peverell’s spell and he found himself grateful that he was only able to manage the slightest jerk of a knee, least he irreparably embarrass himself. But that did not stop the need to move from cramping up his trembling spine. Severus did not know if he was begging his hips to seek out friction or to hide. Either way, his cock heedlessly twitched in the confines of his pants at his own depravity. It was nasty, it was humiliating—and he just wanted more. Severus wanted to debase himself further—as if watching Peverell’s magic burst to life, rearranging the cosmos of their world, like a newborn black-hole was not enough. Severus’ body made a muted effort to shudder as he felt the first brush on Peverell’s rising magic against his chest. It ghosted just past his left nipple as it crept up his neck. Then, higher and higher it climbed—until Severus felt Peverell’s heavy magic entrap him whole and he lost the strength to resist.

“This cannot be what the others are feeling as well,” Severus thought as he took in that less and less of his housemates were struggling against the binds of Peverell’s magic—although, not too many made the attempt to do so to being with. Most crumbled to the ground like a wet napkin and fell into silent subjection, but not Severus. Severus prided himself on his resistance. But now, as he felt it as goosebumps ran rampant across his skin, he has lost. What use was his obstinance, when the heat of his rushing blood fled south so fast he knew that if he was not being so thoroughly held in place he would be laid out laughably on the ground? Where was the reason to dissent when the dark magic holding him still kept him upright and steady while he is too eager, too delirious to so himself? His cock was leaking so much that he felt the unmistakable wet patch settling into the front of his pants, and all he wanted was for something to wrap around it or to press into.

He wished for Peverell’s magic to transfigure into fingers that he would gladly allow to dance around the stage of his body. Severus’ shoulders strained to hunch around a guttural moan that his frozen jaw would not release. He wished to sob. His pants had slowly turned into a sopping mess and me could feel a string of his own pre-cum run between his legs. It sent sharp pains up his cramped back with its cold glide that hastened his attempts to move. Without any hope of stimulation, his cock had no choice but to drool uselessly between his parted thighs. His knees had long since grew a dull ache under his weight, but he found the pain to be a blessing. It allowed him to stay focused, despite the little gasps his body made without his consent, as he tried to stay conscious of what Peverell is doing. Peverell had not moved from his position in the corner and the shadows beneath the stairs seemed to have taken shape beside him.

Severus attempted to blink back the tears from his eyes as he thought himself to be hallucinating, but no—as Peverell frustratedly paced about, there was a broad shoulder’d something that stayed in place to amusedly watch the boy fidget. And that is what Severus interpreted from the creature, amusement—it had the barest of form, Severus could not see its eyes, but its presence was astounding. Where he could read the warmth of frustration, the slight tang of fear, and the rush of confidence that only dark magic could bring in Peverell’s magic—in the creature’s, Severus would read nothing but devotion to Peverell. This creature, for its proportions were too wrong to be anything other than a mockery of humanity, had magic that was near indistinguishable from Peverell’s. The only reason he knew that there were two magical signatures present was because he could see the way they swirled about each other. The inhuman’s magic stroked against Peverell’s in a kittenish manner and Peverell seemed non-disturbed as he continued to pace as his magic met the being’s with welcoming patience.

“Whatever that is, Peverell is comfortable with it,” Severus observed between strained breaths. Blearily, Severus thought that it looked like Peverell was arguing with the creature—but he could not hear anything in the silent room. He struggled to hold onto the thought, and all others, with the intense sensations pouring through his cock. The prolonged need for relief left it so sensitive and leaking that the pleasure was rimmed with pain. With no ability to do anything else, even attend to his to his aching cock, Severus watched on. He noticed that Peverell’s circled path sidestepped a puddle of thin, shiny, liquid that one of the Rosier siblings must have release on themselves.

In his already manic state, it brought him glee to witness the downfall of Slytherin. For this was surely it’s downfall—there would be no possible way the house could go back to its previous order of power with the knowledge of Peverell’s true might circling their heads. These were child who had it bred into them to seek out the greatest of power and control it. And Severus knew that Peverell would allow himself to be under no one’s control—which only left their alliance to him. Somehow, that thought did not sit right with him either, but it was all too much to parse out while he attempted to keep his eyes open. And he was glad that he had held onto his battle to stay conscious thus long as it seemed that his watch of the two did not go unnoticed.

Even without its eyes, Severus felt it the very second that the creature’s attention shifted to him. Without the visible opening of a mouth, Severus clearly heard the threaded whisper, “Then what shall you do, Master?”

Severus had come no closer but now he could hear the snipping Peverell had been doing much more clearly—he had a suspicion that it was the creature’s doing. “Just tell me how to fix this!” Peverell gripped. And the creature was undeterred by the bite in the others voice as it calmly replied, “I have already suggested to you a method to release—“

“Something that isn’t keeping them as mindless puppets!”

“As I have explained, master, only those who are unworthy would feel prolonged effects from the curse. They will remember only what of this moment, of you, that you deem acceptable. All others—“

“And do you see anyone who isn’t affected?! They’re all just heaps on the ground!”

“That is not true, master,” the dark figure rasped out with an inflection that Severus thought was to be a laugh. “The one that belongs to you has held onto his mind just fine.”

Severus could not bend over himself to hide, as he wished. He had to stare the creature down in its not-face and endure this blasphemy. He could not even pant with his mouth fixed closed—his toes could not curl, his fists could not clench, and his eyes had uselessly given way to water. “I’m going to cum,” Severus weeped into his mind, “right here in front of the entire house. In front of Peverell. In front of some demented ghost—all because it called me Peverell’s.” Severus knew that if he could get his throat to work, he would be keening. Everything but his swollen balls was drained, muscles weakened with undisturbed rivers of tears roaming down his face, and he was so very tired of fighting off Peverell’s magic. And after trying so hard to hold back, it was all ruined in a glance as Peverell’s angry steps came to a halt and his eyes unfailingly honed in on Severus’s after hearing the creature’s words.

Peverell’s magic, visibly swallowing them whole, jerked as he found Severus’ attention and the snap of it made Severus’ body burn. The muscles in his lower back painfully rejected another of his attempts to buck his hips. His stomach tightened as his tender throat uselessly worked on nothing. And when Peverell’s bitten over lips parted to say “Severus,” he was gone—sputtering into the confines of his already wet pants in long ropes that soaked his thighs as his thick, warm, cum dribbled down. Severus’ eyes welled with fresh tears of pleasure as his ruined climax was extended by another shift of Peverell’s magic as the older boy finally ended the spell. Bitterly, Severus acknowledged how good release could feel when someone worthy was guiding you there.

When Severus blinked back into consciousness seconds later, he was happy to note that no one could turn to take in his redden and messy face, the muted shudder running down his heavy limbs, the dark spot growing on his light trousers as his lower half was now covered in drying cum, or the shame evident in his glassy eyes—as they had all passed-out due to magic overstimulation. Severus was not happy when the ghost flickered out of existence as Peverell glided closer and, with a strength unbeknownst to him, lifted his crumpled body off of the ground. Peverell stopped only s moment to collect his things, before he sidestepped their fallen housemates as he carried Severus to bed—without a word of comment on the state of his clothes.

The morning that followed was a thundering clusterfuck as house Slytherin and company awoke from their unrestful slumber on the dungeon floor. Severus clambered out of bed to the ruckus sound of shouting as everyone tried to figure out what had happened. An hour later found him seated among his dazed friends as Professor Slughorn deducted 25 house points for their “unbecoming behavior as the future leaders of our world” as the “saddened consequence of the culprits senior prank gone wrong.” It was all chalked up to be an unfortunate accident as no one’s valuables had been stolen and no one’s person had been tampered with.

People were speculating just how the culprit pulled it off but no one mentioned Peverell, not even the Rosier siblings. It was as if the totality of the event had been wiped from everyone’s memory—everyone, except Severus. He could not firmly recall what had transpired either, as the memory gently coaxed his consciousness away when his thoughts drew too near—but he still knew that Peverell, in his wrath, had brought them all to their knees. It was a knowledge that warmed his bones. And in the days after, it set him to proudly lean into Peverell’s hesitant touches and confidently to meet the older boy’s cautious gaze throughout the week.

Even thought he was the only one with a vestige of clarity as to what Peverell was capable of, which in no way shaped how he treated the older boy as he already knew that Peverell was more, there was an unseen shift in their house. It became a nightly ritual for the house to gather and relentlessly gossip. They knew something more had happened than the excuse their Head of House had floundered out and wanted to get to the bottom of it. But not a single person who was there knew more than anyone else. Severus witnessed them do their best to leverage answers and bribe each other for information that was not available. He also watched how others become simpering tarts—attempting to endear themselves to Peverell, without a reason an honest reason as why their tone regarding Peverell had shifted. He saw them chalk it up to courting the hand or favor of an available young heir, as most of the British heirs still open to marriage were near double their age. Or to ensure that their family had a hand in the eminent rise of the long fallen House of Peverell. But he alone knew the truth—even if their minds had been made to forget, their cores would not let them disregard the in monster their midst.

The outlandish nature of it all came to a head for him on Ostara. Slytherins, and those they allowed to be welcomed into their common room, had once again gathered to celebrate the spring equinox. And although the affair was far less involved than Imbolc, as they only had the evening after Friday’s classes to work with, Severus had been grinding his teeth all day. Their elegant and auspicious common room had once again been transformed into an ethereal alter in a joint offering—Severus, himself, had assisted in the gathering and placement of forest dirt and flowers around the room. Once his task had been completed and only the conversation of his friends was left to distract him, Severus had quickly found himself bothered by Peverell’s presence. And not because the boys magic was out to place again, as the boy has kept it to an unperceivable low.

No, Severus’ problem was that far too many blushing fools saw fit to offer Peverell elf-made treats owled to them earlier in the day by their parents and flowers—from the scattering that he, himself, had dutifully placed about. While Severus understood that they were placed so that those participating could use them in their offerings, it infuriated him to watch Peverell just sit there and awkwardly accept their behavior. In a huff Severus made excuses to those he sat with that he was going off to the library. He refused to show just what a snit Peverell’s new found popularity had him in. Before, it was as if the two of them were off in their own carved out place in the world. Now, at every turn there was some younger student needing advice or help on something-or-other. The older students were no better, as they attempted to user their parent’s connections to offer Peverell goods, services, and post graduation employment. One student was even so bold as to approach their table in the library as if to join them. But before he could gather the right curse to reconcile the offense, Peverell had firmly shooed the idiot away.

It soothed a bit Severus’ frustration that Peverell appeared to be just as much annoyed with the interruptions in their time together as he was, but it was not enough. He still grew angry with every gentle word Peverell offered others and irate when the older boy saw reason to smile in another’s direction. Peverell had even welcomed his own roommates to join them at several meals, which had the secondary effect of elevating his own status in the eyes of some. With others, it brought him scorn and envy as to why Peverell “allowed filth to cling to his side.” It all had him on edge, which is why he only blamed himself for been so preoccupied by his thoughts as to not maintain vigilance in his surroundings. The tripping jinx caught him just as he raised a narrow foot to place down onto the old stone of one moving staircase. He came down hard on an opened mouth scream that left his mouth bloodied and several teeth feeling too loose. The spells and curses that rained down on him were nothing too permanent or lethal, they simply hurt like hell. But the muggle/style blows that came next caught him before he could find his footing and had him coughing up bloody cries.

Severus had long grown used to being able to take a hit and move on. And this was Hogwarts, not his magic-less home where he had no choice but to bare with it. As he gathered his strength, a memory of his mother telling him the story of Ostara—of a bird, wounded, on the ground late in winter transformed into a hare to save it’s pitiful life came to mind. That thought did not leave Severus as he used his fledgling ability of wandless magic to push his attacker away. When the thud of a body colliding heavily with a platform rang out from several steps below, Severus wasted no time as he pushed himself to stand before he ran like a rabbit for the nearest change of stairs. He did not ponder as to where they lead—but as he pushed open the heavy wooden door on the leading platform and ran through, he thought that he saw jet black hair pale grey eyes looking up at him from the platform below.

When Peverell came to worriedly collect him hours later, well past curfew, he found Severus impeccably cleaned up with several books on nothing consistent piled onto their table in the library. And when asked why his eyes were so puffy when candle light brushed his faces as they made way to the exit, Severus lied. While he had a myriad of reasons ranging from the increased scrutiny of their friendship, to Peverell’s lessened attention, or the recent attack on his person by who he was positive was one Sirius Black—Severus just chalked it up to the dusty tomes around them. He was not challenged on his blatant lie as they made their way back to the Slytherin common room—as both silently wished to hold onto the peaceful silence between them.

But in his troubled mind, Severus could not help but moodily think, “I have handled things on my own before Peverell arrived to play shining knight and I will be fine to do so now. Better to be prepared when his interest lapses all-together.” And as he half listened to Peverell talk about his day and other drivel on the long walk back with a throbbing jaw and a stiff hip, all he could think was, “It really is all Peverell’s fault.”

Chapter Text

May 1, 1975

He was tired; that much he remembered.

He had woken in the earliest hours, body aching as he stumbled out into the predawn gloom to collect fresh greenery for the altar. Even back then, each step felt like a penance—a reminder of the weight he carried. What followed was a whirlwind of decorating, bits of baking, and rotating responsibilities with his brother. The exhaustion had gnawed at him, but he pressed on, driven by duty and a yearning for some semblance of normalcy. And then, what remained of them gathered at his father’s table to celebrate Beltane—the first day of summer. There would be no maypole dancing; his brother had earned a nasty limp in a back-alley duel just weeks ago, and his sister’s soft head could not hold steady a crown. Only his mother’s way of seasoned breads, what wine they could afford, and the laughter that filtered through the forgotten kitchen window accompanied them. A hollow echo of the past, a ghost of happier times—but a tradition of their own, all the same. A recognition of the power of life in its fullness, the greening of the world, youthfulness, and flourishing no less in their scrapped together druidry.

So much time passed by him at that cherry wood table. Here was where he had tried, time and again, to gather his father to reason, only to be met with stubborn silence. The table set was now one chair short—blasted to bits when the aurors came to take the man in. Here was where he consoled his mother, as he took over the preparation of their meals. Or where he sat stiffly, as her tears stained too many of his good shirts. Humorously, the scorch mark on the corner closest to the kitchen never came out, no matter the spell tried over the years—just as so, was how his mother had informed him that the risotto was too dry when he brought it over for review. Here they laughed and ached. Here he tutored his brother, minded his sister, and listened to the free world pass him by through the forgotten kitchen window.

Even with so many of his memories tucked away in perfectly stored glass vials, that table lingered in the far reaches of his mind. Albus tried his damnedest to remove it too, but it always stood, untouched, between the strength of his father’s palm, the warmth of his mother’s breath, the depth of Aberforth’s laugh, the loss in Ariana’s eyes, and the burning of Gellert’s skin. Yes, Albus had tried many a time to pull them all out—to file them away with the rest of his wretched self, in neat little rows, out of sight and out of mind. He had spent so many sleepless nights hunched over his trusted pensieve with unfocused eyes that had long since memorized the runes and etchings that adorned it—weeping as his thoughts leaked out of him in a carelessly moving wisp.

Albus had made a ritual of this self-imposed penance. With his wand tip alight, he pulled and he pulled—desperately seeking to remove everything that hurt, everything that hollowed, and everything that harbored the festering of his soul. Once, he believed that if he found the right memory to extract, the core of it all, he could finally know peace. Then he would no longer be haunted by his sister’s shadow—so remnant that even the Deluminator could not dispel it. Then he would no longer regret leaving Aberforth alone on far too many jet-away nights with only the livestock for company. Then he would no longer yearn for a heart that, even after all these decades, had never once strayed from belonging to him. But now, he knew better.

All these memories, and thousands more—settled into the blood-warded drawer of the ornate desk that stood proudly at the center of his office. It was a spell of his own creation, from back when he dabbled in such things, and once was used to lock away missives from Gellert in the drawer of his onyx powder-table. It only required three drops of blood to invoke and one offered in collection whenever the spell was disturbed. Now, dutifully he ignored the tarnish on this lone handle as he returned to the lowest left drawer in search of a specific memory. He could not bear the thought of them being too far from hand, could not fathom the thought of them ever being found. So he kept them here. And here, all of them forever stayed—all of his hopes, his dreams, and greatest fears sat at his feet.

He sank into the warmed leather of his desk chair, his brittle bones bent to pull the magically expanded drawer open, and the sound of hundreds upon hundreds of glass vials kissing together rang clear throughout the room. The tiny wheels on the drawer’s underside squeaked as they carried a heavy burden while they squeezed against their metal tracks. There were so many vials wrestled within that Albus’s face was aglow in the silver-white shine emanating from the drawer. They were unlabeled, as most were relinquished in fits of madness brought on so suddenly that he had nearly overturned his pensieve on more than one occasion, in a flailing bid to keep his body upright.

He had, more than once, thrown a vial against the cold stone walls of his bedchamber—and thanked all the old gods he could remember that the glassware was all spelled to be unbreakable. A time or two, he had used the strength of his will to break the offending little things anyway—then mourned over the irreparable loss of his long-suffered saudade. He had once thought to attempt an organizing, had even drowned himself in a randomly grabbed vial to recapture his memories, but when he put pen to paper, only nonsense came to mind to call them—such as “Desiderium.”

Now he arbitrarily set upon them again. Albus staggered the few steps to reach the back of his dimly lit office. His once-twinkling blue eyes were now clouded with exhaustion and sorrow. With trembling hands, his thin nails uncorked a handful of delicate vials, each containing a similar swirling strand of silvery mist that seamlessly ran together in the basin. His movements were near frantic, almost desperate, as he flung the memories into the pensieve. The liquid silver splashed, and a few uncollected drops made an unclaimable home on the wood floor after they rolled down the rim’s edge.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast before it became transparent like glass. As the memories settled, Albus’ aged body leaned heavily on the pensieve’s edge, his breath ragged, and an ignored look of haunted determination on his weary face was reflected back to him. He lowered his body into it, not expecting any particular moment to surface—and saw an enormous room below the surface of the watery substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Albus saw a battered bed of wood, straw, and very little batting in a heap in one corner of the room. “Where was this place?” Albus questioned as he leaned even closer, tilting his head, trying to see. The tip of his nose touched the strange substance into which he was staring, and his office gave an almighty lurch as he entered the memory.

Thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin, Albus found himself sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench placed beside the door to stoop for the removal of snow boots. He looked up at the high stone ceiling and did not see the circular window through which he had just been staring, but more of the dark, solid stone. Breathing hard and fast, Albus looked around him. He took in the moth-eaten wool throw, the heavy boots beside his socked feet, and the black fur-lined cloak beside the door with no recollection. But before he could get up to further investigate, a scuffing noise came from the hall before the heavy door swung open on rusted hinges—and in walked Gellert, adorned with a bulging moleskin sack and a too-bright smile.

“Ah,” Albus whispered, “our winter in the Muggle village.” With no reason to stay, and no strength to linger, Albus removed himself from the memory to resume his search. He suffered through so many memories flying by in passive succession. He was able to pull himself from Percival’s short tempered attempt to teach him to fly, and Honoria’s deranged uprooting of the horklumps from their yard, and the third time he witnessed an obscurial, and Aurelius’ death, and the second time he witnessed an obscurial, and Kendra’s death, and the first time he witnessed an obscurial, and Ariana’s birth—and then he paused, a second longer than before.

The next memory did not burn as it went down. It did not chase him away with gnawing wounds or sharpened teeth. Therefore, its gentleness tricked him into lingering. Perhaps because at then, they were still new and had not meant much to each other. Albus had only saw a pretty boy and Gellert hid not of his belief of Albus to be a shiny toy. So, Albus stood for a moment and watched himself awkwardly lying about in a bloomed field as a sock was knit around his slender foot. The purple wool was found while Gellert cleared out the attic room that became his quick home. And ever the charmer, he had somehow convinced a far less worldly Albus to play muse under the sun—with the soft caress of fingertips occasionally nipping at his pale ankle, as soft wind played in his hair and rattled the calls of lovebirds that accompanied the continual clack of knitting needles.

As if in punishment, the next memory was of the night he never allowed himself to watch all the way through again, for he could never quite forget that it ended in spell-fire and the death of so many important things, no matter how many memories he removed. It started slowly, as many disasters do—with his back pressed against the cold side of his house, while Gellert whispered filth and glory into his neck that was sweating despite the autumn breeze. As he fled, Albus allowed himself to wonder, not for the first time, if this was the moment Aberforth found out about their plans to abscond to their destiny—through that forgotten kitchen window, hanging open above their heads.

The following memory was no better. He buckled as he watched a body he could barely recall ever possessing tuck itself so neatly beneath another. He did not need more than mere seconds to recall the first time he lay hungry and swallowed Gellert’s body whole. He could claim cacospectamania was the reason his feet stayed, but here he did not wish to lie—to sully, to make burden of the most perfect moment of his life. When Gellert kissed him that night, beneath a heavy cover of illegal spells in Bathilda’s attic room, he forgot the necessity of air. When Gellert eased him open on steady, dripping fingers, he felt invincible. And when Gellert’s hardened length breached his virgin hole so deep he felt it as his organs rearranged themselves to give the lost boy a home, he gave-up all reason—and never found it again.

That is the consensus he came to with the next handful of vials. Bright, colorful, glorious moments of passion, and reckless magic, and blood-exchanged dreams. That is the only judgment he passed as he watched himself shrink from his responsibilities as head of the Dumbledore family to become Gellert’s Albus. And that is his only regret as he wrenched himself out of the memory of Gellert’s last departure. It was not the night of Ariana’s death. No, it came months later—when he returned to their home in the dead of night after scraping Aberforth off the local pub’s floor, Beltane 1900, to find a grandfather clock shimmering in the moonlight.

“My dearest,” the accompanying letter began, “May you know that I have poured every ounce of my love for you into the making of this clock. May you know that my intertwined hand has caressed every inch of wood in substitute for its longing for your body. May you hear its ring and know that a Dark Lord has come to collect you, at last. May you protect it well, as you did me, until a time when I can come for you both. Eternally yours, Gellert Grindelwald-Dumbledore.” After cleaning his brother and seeing him safely in bed, Albus waited beside the ornate clock. He read and reread the letter; and when Gellert arrived, as Albus knew he would, he almost had it memorized. There were no words, there was no apology. For the briefest of moments, there was only Gellert—and Gellert’s Albus.

He could not quite recall how he came to stand here, with the pensieve so far at his back, as his scared hand tingled while he neatly folded a scrap of paper along its heavily creased midsection. He barely knew the hands that completed the movement—they were old and worn, just like the letter. And the faint rivets of silver that ran over his knuckles and down his wrist glimmered as they caught the light in his movements. Albus stood near the fireplace, the top buttons of his under-robe open from where he had to have accessed the paper—always carried on his person. Always nearest his heart. He reread the letter, feeling each word with a depth of pain and love that time had only sharpened. He turned to the clock, its ornate face staring back at him, the hands frozen in their relentless march toward some unknown reckoning. 

He paced before the fire, his thoughts churning as they always did in moments of doubt. "Tom," he murmured to himself, the name heavy on his tongue. "Tom Riddle. What have you done?" His voice echoed softly in the empty room, a specter of his own fears. The clock's recent chime haunted him. It had never rung before, not even for Gellert. The sound had sliced through him like hot knife. Albus could feel the weight of its meaning pressing down on him, more insistent than ever. "A Dark Lord," he whispered, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "A true Dark Lord."

He paused before the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker. "Have you truly ascended, Tom?" he wondered aloud. "Have you found a way to surpass even Gellert?" His hands trembled as he ran them through his silver hair, the light catching the rivulets of age that marked his skin. He could still feel the tingle from the letter, the echo of Gellert's touch through time and memory. "The clock has rung," he continued, his voice barely heard above the crackling of the fire. "But what does it mean? Is it a warning, a call to arms?" He stared into the flames, seeking answers in their chaotic dance. "Or is it merely a cruel joke, a reminder of my failures?"

Albus stopped his pacing and stood still, his eyes fixed on the clock. "I cannot destroy it," he said firmly, though the desire burned within him. "It would be as pointless as destroying my father's house, or my mother's portrait, or Ariana's vault—none of it helped. None of it brought me peace." He aimlessly fiddled with the letter once more. The paper was worn and creased, but the words still shone with the intensity of Gellert's passion. "Eternally yours—" He read the signature aloud, feeling the sting of its truth.

With a sigh, made the short walk to his desk and placed the letter in a different warded drawer, beside a lone knit sock. The snick-sound of the drawer sliding closed was overshadowed by the sound of knocking. Albus looked up, his heart racing. "Who comes knocking now?" he asked the empty room. "Is it another harbinger of doom, or perhaps... hope?" As he waved his magic out to the gargoyle standing guard, he whispered a silent prayer. "Let it not be too late. Let there still be time to right the wrongs." He could hear the guard slide aside and Albus braced himself for whatever fate had brought to his doorstep. He took a deep breath, straightening his posture and smoothing his robes. Albus felt the weight of his years and memories lift slightly as he pulled himself together, donning his persona of the “competent leader” that everyone expected. He soon heard the trailing echoes of a singular person’s steps before the door to his office opened.

"Hello, Henry," said Albus jovially as he moved forward to greet the young man. "How are you?"

"Fine," Henry lied, to the silent acknowledgment of them both.

With a stiff motion for them take up the seats at his desk, Albus stepped away from the fire as he said, “I invited Professor Slughorn to join us, but he seems to be in the middle of a delicate brew at the moment. You don’t mind us continuing this meeting in spite of his absence, do you, my boy?”

“No, Mr. Dumbledore,” Henry retorted with a polite smile that reminded the headmaster a bit of Narcissa Black.

Albus uncomfortably cleared his throat, and then called, “Perhaps tea? Dolly!” Once the porcelain had been set and each of them had an steaming cup in hand, Albus continued, “Henry, my boy, I was delighted to get your letter as I too had things that I wished to discuss.”

When no response came from Henry, who sat silently stirring his tea as he took in the room, Albus offered, “I know you are a busy young man, so I will get to the point. I have asked you here to discuss the housing I’ve arranged for you over the summer.”

“Sorry, but housing that you’ve ‘situated for me’?” Henry gently questioned as he turned to the professor.

“Yes, my boy,” Albus happily confirmed, attempting to inject warmth into the conversation. “The Potters have opened their doors to you for your duration at Hogwarts. I could not, in good conscience, send you off into the unknown for the summer—knowing that all of your immediate family has passed. So, I took it upon myself to reach out to your extended bloodline.”

“I see,” was Henry’s only response as his still demeanor gave Albus pause.

“Yes—well, Mr. and Mrs. Potter are eager to make your acquaintance. And I know there have been some misunderstandings between you and their son, but I’m sure once you’ve had a summer together, things will work out. After all, family is—“ Albus was cut off by Henry’s brisk words, “Apologies for the interruption, but I will have to decline, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Albus was momentarily stunned by Henry’s defiance. He took a sip from his cup to ease his dry throat before attempting to respond, “D-decline?”

“Yes.”

The briefness and finality of Henry’s single word left Albus at a loss. He struggled to maintain his composure, but he would not allow himself to be unsettled by a child. In a measured tone, he asked, “And may I ask why, my boy?”

“I already have my summer, and thereafter, housing settled. It should be on file at the Ministry as well,” Henry responded, his eyes bright and unwavering.

Meeting the steady gaze, Albus felt a flicker of irritation. “Ah, I see. Then I would like the contact information for your guardian. I had one of your Head of House send a missive to the Ministry about that, for documentation reasons, you understand, but they have been slow to respond.”

“I don’t believe you will receive a reply from them, and for the same reason, I have no information to share with you—seeing as I do not have a magical guardian,” Henry said as he went back to stirring his untouched tea.

“Well, Henry, my boy, that is unacceptable. Who is to look after you—” Again, he was cut off.

“Mr. Dumbledore,” Henry said with the patience of a parent to an unruly child, “I do not need a guardian.”

Albus’ temper flared, though he masked it beneath a warm chuckle. “Henry, I understand that young men, such as yourself, tend to be a bit rebellious—I know I was at your age. I know you and your family lived a bit removed from the finer bits of society, but even you should be able to understand that it is for your safety that a guardian is appointed.”

“Let me clear this up,” Henry said, never losing his calm, soothed smile. “I do not need a guardian because I have been emancipated. And in the eyes of Muggle and magical law, I am a self-governing adult.”

Albus’ mind raced. “Do you mean to say that you have tricked the Ministry into viewing you, a 15-year-old minor, as capable of your own care?” He felt a new plan forming. “That is highly irresponsible, and I do believe that the Minister should be made aware of this matter. One cannot simply forgo the proper way of doing things because it is inconvenient. I truly expect better than that from you, Mr. Peverell.”

“Lord,” Henry said with finality as he set his untouched cup down and lowered his hands to his lap.

“I—,” Albus’ thoughts stalled, “what was that, my boy?”

“You called me Mr. Peverell. I do believe, in light of the nature of this conversation, it would be proper for you to address me with my title—as in, Lord Peverell.” A breathless laugh trailed Henry’s words, and Albus felt his cheeks begin to color as his pulse raced.

“Mr. Peverell, this is no time to joke!” Albus gasped.

“You will find that I am not joking, Mr. Dumbledore. And though all the proper documentation is in place at the Ministry, I did not go through them to claim my title. A blood test was performed at Gringotts and it was there that I claimed the Peverell mantle,” Henry said as he made a casual showing of his little finger as he leaned forward to take back up his cup.

Albus took in the ring gleaming on the boy's little finger that he was certain had not been there earlier. He scrutinized every curve and line for a familiar symbol while pondering just why he had not noticed it before, his thoughts racing, “A glamour that even I did not notice?” Then Henry’s words truly settled in. “A blood—?” Albus sputtered, unable to finish the sentence. “Henry! Surely you are aware that those tests are illegal for those not of age to participate in.”

“That is correct,” Henry started, “with the exception of one being the last of their family’s direct line—as is the case here.”

“I see, well, good on you!” Albus course-corrected before he took a rough swallow of tea. “It is truly an accomplishment to helm the future of one’s family so young. A serious undertaking indeed—and if you ever find yourself in need of advice, I have a track record of leadership both in our community and on the Wizengamot floor.”

“How kind of you, Mr. Dumbledore,” Henry said, his voice steeped in placation that barely masked an undercurrent of challenge.

“Ah—yes,” Albus began, feeling a bead of sweat forming at his temple. He struggled to find the right words. “You are one of my precious students, Henry. I only wish the best for you. Now, back to the matter at hand, I must insist that you allow me or another professor to check in on you over the summer. It is standard practice for all students who have grown up in the Muggle world to ensure their adjustment, and a few others under special circumstances. It would ease an old man’s heart to know you are continually safe with everything going on, my boy.”

Albus watched as amusement danced within the young man’s eyes. It was unsettling, that calm gaze that seemed to strip away his authority. Henry’s lips curled slightly as he replied, “Well, Mr. Dumbledore, I can honestly say that I am impressed at the lengths you’re willing to go to ensure the safety of your students. Who, may I ask, will be visiting Sámi Mäkinen?”

“I beg your pardon?” Albus asked, feeling the ground beneath him shift.

“He’s a fifth year, Muggle-born, in Ravenclaw—we have Herbology together. I do believe that I’ve overheard in class that he lives in Espoo. Our houses can’t be too far from each other, which will reduce the strain of Apparition—and I’d hate to be a bother. So, whomever will be checking in on Mäkinen can be the professor that checks in on me.”

“How thoughtful of you, Henry.” At some point, Albus had begun to sweat. He could not remember when it had started, but he refused to wipe at his brow now, trying to maintain his composure. He quickly ushered their conversation to a close. “I will have to reach out to Professor Sprout and see what arrangements have been made. Thank you for cooperating with me on this matter.”

With a cheer in his voice that did not reach his eyes, Henry replied, “I’m happy we were able to get that taken care of!” Henry then adjusted in his seat, leaning forward into Albus’ space, his elbows on the desk between them. “Now if you don’t mind, there were two issues that I wished to resolve with you. First, between now and Imbolc, Severus has been attacked no less than five times. And other, younger, Slytherins don’t have it any better. To be blunt, you will do something about Sirius Black, or I will.”

Albus openly bristled, his fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain cup. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Peverell?”

“No, Mr. Dumbledore, I promise you that I would never do such a thing. I respect the innumerable contributions that you have made to our world and your power as a wizard far too much to ever do such a thing. I simply hope that you can respect that Severus is mine and I will protect him accordingly,” Henry said with a soothing smile that for some reason reminded Albus of the shapeless eyes his mind sometimes felt watching him from the shadows. “I can be lenient, as I have knowledge that Heir Black has a difficult home situation and has recently gone through a rough time with his longtime girlfriend, but my leniency only goes so far.”

Not allowing his own smile to drop, Albus felt the parting of his lips tighten as he calmly said, “That sounds like the unhealthy declaration of a possessive child, and I cannot help but question what the boy’s parents must think.”

Henry did not back down. He just as coolly said, “Severus recently turned 15 on January 9th. And in keeping with tradition, as Severus is deserving of, I plan to contact Lord Prince this summer in my capacity as the Lord of my house to enter into a courting contract.” With a cheeky smile, the young man added, “I’m sure you can imagine how eager he will be to accept.”

Thinking quickly, Albus prodded, “If I recall, Eileen was outcast from her family.”

“Outcast and banished are two different things, Mr. Dumbledore. She was not removed from her family’s official line nor was she publicly disavowed,” Henry said, his tone gaining an edge. “Simply because she and her family are no longer in accord does not make her any less a Prince—or Severus, by extension.”

“Ah,” Albus said, stroking his beard in thought, trying to buy time. “I do not believe that young Severus was added to his family’s line on file at the Ministry upon his birth. Lord Prince has no true attachment to the boy, and though he may wish to hand the boy out—”

“Severus is not some pawn for you or anyone else to barter with. I care about him and I am willing to publicly go through the rites to prove it,” Henry sharply cut in at the insinuation, his eyes flashing. “Besides, even if his birth was not announced, Severus is still a Prince by blood.”

“I see, young love,” Albus mused aloud, a note of condescension in his voice. “It does tend to make the strongest of us fall into foolishness. Do you not think you are rushing into this? If you are a Lord, as you say, do you truly wish to lower your historic family’s standing by committing yourself to someone without a station?”

Without a moment's hesitation, Henry responded, “The Prince lordship will not automatically pass on to him as he is not directly next in line, but he can still go and test to claim it when he comes of age.”

“It seems you have thought of everything, my boy,” Albus tightly admitted as he began to run out of ideas, his mind scrambling for control. “But I do hope that Severus’ Muggle father has not gotten confused in all of this.”

“The same Muggle father who beats him? The same Muggle father who starves him? That Muggle father?” Henry loudly questioned, his calm façade cracking to reveal raw emotion. “Well, to be honest, Mr. Dumbledore, I simply do not give a damn what that man thinks.”

“This is fine,” Albus thought, his pulse racing. “This is just a temperamental boy with an inflated ego. Even if he does truly possess the Peverell title and seats, I can still make this work.” After he took time to refill his cup, Albus kept his words light and controlled as he said, “Those are some grave accusations, Henry. I recognize that you have come to care for the boy, but you cannot simply slander a man you have never met. Now, how about we—”

“Look,” Henry bit out, leaning even closer, “Severus doesn’t really like when I interfere and I respect that, I do. But I’m not going to just sit here and allow for him to be in constant danger while simply trying to attend classes. I have proof of Heir Black’s repeated breaking of the school’s charter and I will take it to the board of governors if there is not a marked difference in the boy’s behavior. Are we clear?”

Albus did nothing more than grimly look at the boy as his mind reeled. But he did not have to suffer for long as Henry went on, “Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Dumbledore, I do believe you have something that belongs to me.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” Albus asked, truly confused as to what the young man could even possibly be referring to.

“Antioch Peverell’s wand. The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, the Elder Wand—whatever you wish to call it, it is a Peverell family heirloom registered at Gringotts since 1292,” Henry breezed, his tone once again infuriatingly calm, “and I will be taking it back now.”

Chapter Text

June 4 - June 13, 1975

His final exam, History of Magic, was not scheduled until the afternoon. Henry would have very much liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but Severus had counted on the morning for a spot of last-minute revision. And Henry wasn’t willing to let him go off alone, even if a certain Black had cooled off. So instead, Henry sat with his head pillowed on his arms by a familiar library window. He tried hard not to doze off as he listened to Severus mumble through a collection of notes stacked three-and-a-half feet high between them. Around the room it was anything but quiet, with anxious whispers and the nervous scratching of quills—a white noise that was easy to fall into. So easy, in fact, that between one slow drag of his eyelids and the next, Severus was rousing him to depart.

“Come along, Peverell. I shall escort you to your exam,” Severus said. And that was that.

Their walk from the library to the Great Hall was muted. It was not their norm, as usually their downtime was when Severus took it upon himself to berate Henry for his lack of potions prowess, lackadaisical study habits, and lackluster work ethic. It always seemed to bother Severus that Henry was comfortable being in the middle of his year’s scores. Before Imbolc, Severus had harped on his “wasted potential” several times. And while Severus’ approach to their friendship hadn’t taken a negative turn since Imbolc, there was now a heightened feeling that Severus was examining his every action in greater detail. It went beyond a sense of “potential” and was nearing how he felt others looked at him before.

Severus seemed to be pushing him to display his magic more. He couldn’t tell if it was out of a distressed need to reestablish where the boundaries lay between them or what. But, when they were alone, Severus had taken to asking for the most random of things. When they sat in their corner of the library, Severus frequently asked him to summon books and such to their table. When they walked along the lake, the younger boy now freely requested shade and cooling spells. And when they made the long trek back to their home-away-from-home after classes, Henry had more than once felt Severus’s magic brush against the edges of his own.

Henry's stomach knotted with each passing day. The sensation of being under a microscope becoming more unbearable. He was no stranger to scrutiny; his first life had been a parade of expectations and demands—everyone wanted a piece of the Boy Who Lived, the chosen one meant to solve their problems. But this time was different. This time he had earned his power. This time he honed his skills, without the pillar of a famous name to lean on. And yet, the fear gnawed at him: would this earned strength merely attract the same vultures, the same relentless needs of others? Severus’s watchful eyes seemed to pierce through him, a constant reminder of his past. Every time Severus asked him to perform magic, to show what he was capable of, Henry's heart clenched with an almost paralyzing fear.

He wanted to believe that Severus saw him, Henry, not a tool or a means to an end. But trust came hard, especially now that his feelings for Severus were growing into something deeper, something more vulnerable. If he were honest with himself, Henry would say that it made anxious because he was falling in love. He was so used to others wanting something from him, wanting him to be something for them, once they got an idea of his power, that the change in Severus’s attention scared him. It made him pull away those first days after Imbolc. But Severus didn’t seem to like that either, and then Sirius took advantage of their distance to vent his mournful anger. So, in the end, he relented. He allowed Severus to poke and prod, to lean in as close as he dared—and prayed to the gods over his shoulder that his trust in Severus was not misplaced.

Henry was not ready to walk away from the fragile thing blooming between them. He was terrified that if Severus saw too much, wanted too much, the fine balance they had would shatter. But with every careful probe, every shared spell, Henry felt himself slipping further, falling harder. He didn't just want Severus’s approval or friendship; he wanted Severus. And that want was dangerous, because if it all fell apart, it wouldn't just be his heart breaking—his trust, his belief that he could be seen as Henry and not a hero, would be shattered too. The thought was so absurd, so contrary to everything he had believed about himself, that he almost laughed out loud. Him? Falling in love with another boy? Henry had always thought of himself as straight. In his first life, he had dated girls, kissed girls, even imagined a future with Ginny Weasley.

But now, here he was, heart pounding, palms sweating over a boy who could infuriate and fascinate him in equal measure. He wanted to find it all ridiculous, how blind he had been to his own feelings. How had he not noticed sooner? The way his heart quickened when Severus leaned in close, the way he hung on to every word Severus said, the way his day brightened when he saw that familiar nose. All those moments, all those feelings he had brushed off as something else, something simpler, now came crashing down on him with the force of a revelation. Henry shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. Trust him to fall for someone so complicated, so impossible. But even as the fear and doubt haunted him, even as he worried about what this meant for their friendship, he couldn't deny the truth any longer. He was falling in love with Severus Snape, and it thrilled him more than he cared to admit.

As they approached the Great Hall, the air between them thickened with unspoken words and lingering glances. Henry's heart pounded in time with the thundering steps of students around them. The massive doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, signaling the end of their shared morning as Severus’ own exams were elsewhere. Henry slowed his pace, hoping to prolong the moment. Severus, seemingly oblivious, continued with a steady stride until he was steps away from the entrance. Henry felt an overwhelming urge to say something, anything, that would bridge the gap that had been growing between them. He took a step closer, his heart racing as he looked into Severus’s eyes, searching for a sign of the connection he so desperately wanted to preserve.

“Severus,” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I—” But the words caught in his throat. Instead of speaking, Henry found himself wishing to lean in, his gaze flicked to Severus’s lips. But before he could dare to close the distance, Severus pulled back—a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll see you after,” Severus said curtly, then turned on his heel and walked away before Henry could react.

Henry stood there, the lingering warmth of Severus’s presence a stark contrast to the sudden coldness he felt. He watched as Severus disappeared into the crowd, a mix of disappointment and longing tightening in his chest. He had been so close, yet the chasm between them now felt wider than ever. With a heavy sigh, Henry turned to the doors, trying to shake off the ache of the missed moment. He couldn’t help but wonder if he had misread everything, if his trust in Severus had indeed been misplaced. The uncertainty gnawed at him as he stood there.

Henry wished to prepare for his exam, but thoughts of Severus and their complicated bond overshadowing everything else. But he did not have to suffer himself for long, for after minutes where he melded in with the other fifth years milling about the hallway, the hulking doors swung open and they all filtered into the redecorated room to take their places in front of facedown examination papers. Henry slumped into the first available stiff seat, one of the many single desks neatly rowed that now sat about. He just wanted this term to be over so that he could go and sleep. Then tomorrow, he and Severus were going down to the lake—he would observe the sprouting of some plant he could not name, but would match Severus’s excitement for, and savor their freedom from revision.

"Turn over your papers," said a British witch who served as Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority that ran the O.W.L., N.E.W.T., and W.O.M.B.A.T. examinations. She stood at a podium at the front of the Hall, as she flicked over a giant hourglass that sat atop it. "You may begin."

Henry stared fixedly at the first question. It was several seconds before it occurred to him that he had not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing distractingly against one of the high windows. His thoughts slugged between humorously replaying the headmaster’s face shattering like fine-spun glass and wallowing in the vague distrust he now felt around Severus. Slowly, tortuously, he breathed to clear his mind and at last began to write an answer. He found it was not too hard to remember repeated names and twice-taught dates.

He laughed when he got to question four: "In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the eighteenth century?", thinking about how much benign faith the average wixen put into being able to wield a wand. He had to control his sarcasm when answering question five: "How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?", but had a nagging suspicion that it still bled through in between him explaining how the vampires had come into the story somewhere. He had a vague feeling of déjà vu when his eyes alighted upon number ten: "Describe the circumstances that led to the formation of the International Confederation of Wizards and explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to join."

“I really have done this all before," Harry thought. At times he felt that his memories from his first reality were slipping away, like dreams in the morning light. Now, his brain felt torpid and slack as the vague image of a heading, in Hermione's handwriting, played behind his eyes, “The formation of the International Confederation of Wizards-“

What was and is played a confusing rhyme in his mind, as he had read those words while sitting beside Severus only this morning. The thought of his first life filled him with a peculiar kind of panic. Those memories, once so vivid and sharp, were now like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. The faces of his old friends, the sound of their laughter, the pain of their losses. All of it was fading. Sometimes he would wake up in a cold sweat, unable to recall what Hermione's voice sounded like, or the exact shade of Ron's hair. The edges of those memories were blurring, softening, and he feared they would eventually disappear altogether, leaving him with nothing but an aching void. Absently, Henry began to write—looking up now and again to check the large hourglass beside the prompter. He was sitting right behind a small boy who looked of relation to the Patils, whose long dark hair fell below the back of his chair. Once or twice he found himself staring at the tiny golden lights that glistened in it when he moved his head slightly, and had to give his own head a little shake to clear it.

“—the first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was Pierre Bonaccord, but his appointment was contested by the wizarding community of Liechtenstein, because-“ All around Henry quills were scratching on parchment like scurrying, burrowing rats. The sun was very hot on the back of his head. “Didn’t Bonaccord fuck a troll on some muggle’s roof in Liechtenstein?” Henry loosely wondered as he gazed blankly at the back of not-Patil's head. Frustrated, Henry called upon his still fledgling skills of occulmency to stay present as he closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, so that the glowing red of his eyelids grew dark and cool. When his mind stopped feeling as if it was preparing to split in two, he opened his eyes. They stung and watered at the sight of the blazing white parchment.

Slowly, he wrote two lines about the trolls, then read through what he had done so far. It did not seem very informative or detailed, yet he was sure Hermione's notes on the Confederation had gone on for pages and pages. He closed his eyes again, trying to see them, trying to remember. The details eluded him, like shadows at dusk. He could see the shape of her writing, the meticulous way she underlined key points, but the content was just out of reach. It was as if his mind was a sieve, letting the most important pieces of his past slip through. His panic rose again, the fear that he was losing parts of himself, that soon he would be nothing but a shell with no past to anchor him. As his thoughts stormed, Henry began to unhelpfully ponder how those close to him would react to his revelation about his feelings for Severus.

“-the Confederation had met for the first time in France, yes, he had written that already—Goblins had tried to attend and been ousted—he had written that, too—And nobody from Liechtenstein had wanted to come—Think!”, he told himself, while all around him quills scratched out never-ending answers and the sand trickled through the hourglass at the front. Henry tried to refocus on the exam, but his other thoughts did not stop. He knew that Hermione would probably just give him that knowing look, the one that said she had figured it out long before he did. She always seemed to be two steps ahead, and Henry could almost hear her voice, full of gentle understanding, saying, "I already knew, Harry. I've always known." Ron, on the other hand, would likely have a harder time with it. He could picture the initial awkwardness, the irritation as Ron tried to wrap his head around the idea. There would be some stumbling and probably a few poorly chosen words, but Henry knew Ron’s heart. Eventually, Ron would come around, as he always did, his loyalty and friendship shining through any initial discomfort.

And then there was his Sirius. The thought of how Sirius might react was more complicated. Henry felt a pang of anxiety at the idea of telling his godfather. “How would Sirius, with his often brash and rebellious nature, take the news? Would he be supportive, or would it be one more thing to strain their relationship?” The Sirius of his time, the one he had known and loved, had made life-changing decisions at Henry’s age. “How could I be so scared to make my own?” Henry’s thoughts whispered as he felt his chest tighten. The weight of his revelations, combined with the fragility of his old memories, was almost too much to bear. Then between one strained thought and the next, he was pulled into a memory. He was walking along a cool, dark corridor in the Black ancestral home again. He was listening to his Sirius’ restless voice recount a long summer spent at Potter manor in 1975.

And just like that, his thoughts collapsed into one single thread: “Sirius will run away this summer and leave Regulus behind. Regulus will become a Death Eater under duress. Regulus will defect and die. I don’t—I don’t want that little boy to die.” It was that shining thought that carried him through the rest of his exams and past the Leaving Feast, as he listened to Slytherin winning the House Cup while he mutely ate dinner beside Severus and tried to ignore the stares of others. As he returned to his room to stare listlessly down into his trunk in the early night, he pulled forth one of the portkeys from their hiding place. It prompted him to pull out two more when his roommates shuffled in behind him.

Because he was so still, and they were all so tired, it took a moment for them to notice him knelt down beside the end of his bed. But Henry knew the precise moment in which they did, for Bertram’s voice cut off with a sharp click of his throat. His roommates had been avoiding him. But that’s hard to pull off when their time here was winding down and they all had to pack to leave in the morning. The two hadn’t moved from their first steps into the room, so Henry decided to just pull the bandaid off for them all: “Hey, how’ve you guys been?”

“Fine—,” Leodonis started. But he was quickly drowned out by Bertram’s squeak of, “Can you tell me why, all of a sudden, I want to hug you and cry every time I see you now?”

“—“

A beat of silence where all Henry and Leodonis did was stare at Bertram, and all Bertram did was look as if he was attempting to not shit his pants, and then they all burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

Leodonis recovered first. “Henry, I—,” he started and then shook himself, as if to clear his thoughts, “Did something happen?”

Henry sighed as he rocked to his feet. “How about we all have a seat, yeah?” After a moment of shuffling around, Henry, Leodonis, and Bertram found seats around the room. Then Henry took out his wand and began to shape the course of all their futures by casting a series of secrecy wards before he stated, “Okay. I know your families side with Voldemort, or are planning to. But I also know that you are young and still dependent on them to support the lifestyles you live. What I don’t know is if you two would go along with the paths before you or if you had another option.”

Leodonis and Bertram stared at Henry with a fearful pallor. Leodonis was the first to act, “You seem to be mistaken, Peverell. As I have no idea what you are referring to.”

Henry could tell the boy was narrowly attempting to maintain his calm facade as he pretended to have no clue as to what Henry was talking about. “Listen Leo—“ Henry started, but could not finish as Leodonis vehemently protested, “No you listen, Peverell. What ever you have heard, whatever you think you may know—you know nothing. And if you care for your continued health you shall continue to know nothing.”

“I’m not looking to fight with you two. I just want to know if you would follow Voldemort devoid of the societal values you were raised upon, or your sense of family duty,” Henry softly spoke.

“And I am telling you that whatever discussion you are looking to have is not going to happen,” hissed Leodonis. The tension in the room escalated with his viper quick words but Henry persisted.

“Would you follow him if there was another option—not Light, but neutrality?” Henry’s tone was firm as he refused to let Leodonis evade the truth.

Leodonis grew increasingly agitated with his every word and Henry watched as a cold-sweat broke out on the other’s brow. Henry just one if the room was silent he’d be able to hear Leodonis’ heart pounding erratically. But as it stood, all he could hear was Leodonis’ irate muttering, Bertram’s shallow breaths, and his own mounting headache. He had seen this before—deep seated fear morphed into raw, desperate anger. He could not place it, but Henry would almost swear he had been in this exact same predicament before as he watched as Leodonis drew his wand. As he locked eyes with the boy, it clicked—Draco’s eyes burning with defiance in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

“Leodonis, put your wand down,” Henry said wearily, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’m too tired for this.”

“Shut up!” Leodonis shouted, his voice cracking.

Bertram’s paralyzed form gave a sharp jerk upon hearing his friend’s raised voice. His usually quick-witted tongue was frozen, unable to form even a single word. His wide eyes darted between his friends, utterly stunned by the escalating tension. And Leodonis paid his closest friend’s distress no mind as he went on, “Just shut up! You don’t get to tell me what to do, Peverell. You think you’re so high and mighty, but you don’t understand—”

“Understand what?” Henry interrupted, his patience thinning. “That you’re scared? That you’re trying to fight me because you think it’ll be easier than fighting your family?”

Leodonis’ hand shook violently, the tip of his wand aimed unsteadily at Henry’s chest. “Don’t you dare pretend to know what I feel. You have no idea what it’s like to live under His shaddow!”

Henry sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “I do, actually. More than you know. But right now, all I want is for us to have a calm conversation. No spells, no wands—just words.”

“You’re a fool if you think I’ll ever listen to you,” Leodonis spat, his face contorted with rage. “I won’t be manipulated by your so-called kindness.”

Henry closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. He ruefully attempted to grasp hold of his memory of Draco, of the fear that propelled the boy’s actions during their war, to allow him to muster the last bit of patience he had left. As he refused to allow anyone else to go through what Draco did, if he could help it. “Leodonis,” Henry said quietly, his voice steady but laced with undo exhaustion. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t bother.”

Bertram’s eyes grew alongside Henry’s as they watched as Leodonis’ anger seemed to reach a boiling point. They could see the fight or flight instinct raging within Leodonis and, for two different reasons, they braced themselves for whatever might come next.

“I won’t take your pity!” Leodonis yelled, his voice cracking again as tears of frustration brimmed in his eyes. “You think this will save us? You think this—this gesture—means anything?”

Henry’s eyes softened slightly, though his exhaustion was palpable. “Yes, I do. Because I’ve seen what happens when people aren’t given a chance to get out. I’ve seen what fear can do, how it can destroy lives.”

Leodonis trembled, his wand still raised, but his grip weakening. Henry took a cautious step forward, his hands open and empty. “Please, just listen to what I have to say—even if not only for the chance to say you made your own decision.”

For a long moment, silence filled the room. Then, without lowering his wand, Leodonis whispered, “I don’t want to be a pawn in this war.”

Henry nodded, still seated uncomfortably in his chair. “Then don’t be.”

Bertram finally found his voice, though it was shaky. “Leodonis, maybe he’s right. Maybe we should just—”

“Fine,” Leodonis muttered, clutching the portkey tightly. “But don’t think this means I trust you, Peverell.”

Henry gave a tired smile as he met them eye to eye, and plainly said, “Let’s be frank with each other for a moment here. To me, it is unfortunate to think that I may lose the first people I’ve grown close to here due to a simple difference of opinion or the lack of ability you may find to make your own.” He paused to sag into the old wood of the desk chair beneath him before stating, “I can’t criticize you for following your family’s beliefs, but I like you both enough to tell you that any who side with Voldemort are an enemy of mine—an enemy who will almost certainly end up in Azkaban, if not dead.”

Henry did not need Severus’ skills of legilimency to know that the boys did believe him. He further sighed and looked to the rafters, but found no direction in their dusty shadows. So instead, Henry did what he always did—rushed headfirst into the situation while hoping for the best. Henry looked down and opened his stress-clenched hands that were draped over his thighs as if in subjugation, but truly it was to reveal the three little brooches. Henry then took one out with his right hand, which was still loosely gripping his wand, and extended his left hand out. “Here,” he said, then watched as the other two did nothing more than eye the contents of his hand.

“Shiny mushrooms?” Bertram edged out between a nervous laugh after a moment of silence, “Why, thank you!”

Leodonis looked at his childhood friend as if he had lost his mind, then looked back at Henry. The look in his eyes held nothing more than barely held contempt and only caused Henry to further sigh. “Just take it, Leodonis,” Henry said tiredly. “They aren’t curesed. This isn’t a trap. They’re portkeys—activated with the phrase on that parchment pinned to the back, and will get you out of any ward known to man and take you to my home.”

“Why?” asked the still visibly irritated boy, who made no move to take the pin from Henry’s still outstretched hand.

“Because, as I’ve said, I care for you.”

“And? I could simply use this to take Voldemort to you. After all, you did call yourself his enemy.” With a sly smile, Leodonis went on, “I’m sure my father would be pleased with me for ensuring an enemy of his Lord was snuffed out.”

“So the Averys are already Death Eaters,” Henry sadly thought. “But Leodonis specifically said that Voldemort was his father’s Lord, so maybe—” Henry decided to simply be honest about the direction of his thoughts when he said, “I think if that was your intention you would have simply quietly gone through with it. I think you’re scared, but I know you’re smart enough to not run away from one shitty situation to find yourself in another. These portkeys are my thank you, given to you freely to use if you ever have the need—but I know exactly what situation that would be rescuing you from. So, they can only transport two people at a time, and they only bring you into one specific location at my home—which is warded so heavily that should you attempt to even move the rug on the floor, you’d find yourself in excruciating pain.”

“Well thought,” Leodonis said before he slowly, hesitantly, took the other brooch from Henry’s hand.

“Thanks! My arm was beginning to cramp something fierce,” Henry laughed.

Leodonis watched the curls that lay on Henry’s shoulders shake with the boy’s laughs for a moment before he deflated as he turned to Bertram to say, “Either way, I think we’re fucked.”

“Yeah,” Bertram said, who had not raised his eyes from the pin in his hands but had followed along with the others’ discussion all the same, “but at least Henry’s magic feels protective and welcoming. I think I threw up in my mouth the first time I felt His.”

“Aye,” was all Leodonis replied to his friend as he too took to evaluating the portkey in his hands.

Bertram, whose mouth only worsened its hold in his anxiety, went on in the other’s silence. “And He doesn’t hand out such pretty jewelry.”

“By the gods,” Leodonis snickered, “you’re easy.” And upon hearing those words, Henry wheezed—losing what thin control he had on his faculties in his sheer exhaustion. His laughter set the other two off, and before long, what remaining tension lingered in the room was shooed out by their punched-out breaths.

“You two suck, and I’m too tired for this shit,” said Henry as he regained his breath. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Probably for the best, one can get into all manner of trouble when tired,” Leodonis easily replied, in way of an apology.

As he collapsed face first onto his bed, still in his day robes, he heard a quiet, “Thank you,” from somewhere in the room.

Henry responded with a half-assed wave and settled in for the night. But just as he was about to drift into sleep, a disembodied hiss reached his ears. “Master.”

“Now? Seriously?” Henry thought, incredulous.

The primordial being chuckled. “I simply thought you would appreciate knowing that the second son of the blackest house is currently on his way back from the library. Alone.”

“Fuck,” Henry grunted, forcing himself to rise from the bed.

“Henry?” Leodonis asked, his voice shaky but curious.

“Going to the loo,” was Henry’s barely restrained snap of a reply as he marched across the room. With the door quickly shutting behind him, Bertram’s puzzled question, “Why didn’t he use the one in our room?” went unheard.

Chapter Text

June 14 - June 15, 1975

Henry slumped into a corner of the first empty compartment he came across on the Hogwarts Express, feeling the weight of the past year pressing down on him like an anchor. Even after a full night's rest, his eyes were heavy-lidded and struggled to stay open as he stared blankly at the hundreds of bodies flashing by the window at his side. Every muscle in his body felt leaden, his limbs seemingly made of stone and even the simple act of sitting upright required a monumental effort. He didn’t want anyone to bother him; he just wanted to sleep off whatever funk he had gotten himself into. So, after a handful of lazily placed spells to keep others away, his head lolled against the cool glass. The slight vibration of the train’s engine preparing to depart was the only thing that kept him from dozing off entirely.

The worn, plush seats, with their faded red upholstery, offered a semblance of comfort but did little to ease his exhaustion. His trunk and such was stowed above, swaying gently with the motion of the train. The bench beside him held the remnants of a hastily eaten Chocolate Frog, its box now crumpled and abandoned in a bid to get a boost from the sugar. The air was thick with the musty scent of the old train mixed with the faint trace of stagnant magic. Dust mites floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the window, dancing in and out of his vision. Henry's eyes followed them absently, too tired to focus on any one thing for long. His mind was a whirl of thoughts, too jumbled and weary to make sense of. The events of the past year played on an endless loop in his head—the battle of Hogwarts, the loss of everyone, the relentless pressures of his knowledge of what was to come, his ever-growing feelings for Severus.

Each memory added to the oppressive weight he felt, sinking him deeper into the seat. He let out a long, slow breath as his shoulders sagged even further. Henry was sure he looked as though he was trying to melt into the fabric of the bench. But he could not find it in himself to care as he shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. But it was futile—the ache in his bones was unyielding, a constant reminder of how drained he truly was. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the rhythmic clatter of the shutting doors to lull him into a semblance of distraction. But even in the brief respite, his thoughts remained restless—flitting from one worry to the next. In his solitary compartment, surrounded by the echoes of the past, Henry felt a profound sense of isolation.

The train gave a loud screech of a whistle as it prepared to carry them away from Hogwarts—away from the place where he had faced so many challenges, and toward an uncertain future. “For now,” he told himself, “all I can do is sit and endure—and hope that there’s at least one good bed at Peverell Manor.” After a few grumbles and some tossing, Henry finally found an optimal spot for a nap and closed his irritated eyes—when the door to his compartment slid open. He had been so focused on falling asleep, and so accustomed to Severus’ magical signature being around, that he did not notice the boy approach. The intent behind his spells had been to ward off anything that would bother him, and clearly, his magic did not consider the other a bother anymore. So, Severus strolled right in, sat upright across from him, and the compartment door closed shut.

“Peverell,” Severus greeted stiffly. And Henry laughed. The sound was a manic, hollow, startled little sound, as it came as surprise to them both. Severus frowned, his dark eyes narrowing with concern. "Are you alright, Henry? You seem—unwell."

Henry sighed, then brought a hand up to rub his thundering temples. "Just tired, Sev."

Severus' gaze didn't waver. "It is more than that, is it not? You've been acting strangely for weeks now."

Henry hesitated, knowing he couldn't reveal the truth about being from a different timeline and knowing the future. Instead, he opted for a partial truth. "I've been overwhelmed with managing every aspect of the Peverell estate alone. It's—a lot of responsibility."

Severus was clearly not buying into Henry’s words. And his voice was a bit more tense now when he asked, "Is that all?"

Henry stared blankly for a moment in thought before he shook his head reluctantly. “I guess there's more. I'm anxious about attending my first Wizengamot session. I don't feel ready for it, and I—yeah."

Severus' expression softened around the edges. "That does sound like a lot. Why did you not say anything earlier?"

"I didn't want to burden anyone else with my problems, especially when you were preparing for the end of the year as well," Henry replied quietly. "And there's so much I can't even begin to explain."

Severus leaned back, still scrutinizing Henry with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Henry watched as the other's slender arms rose to cross in front of his slowly oscillating chest. As two only looked at each other for a moment, Henry found that he did not have the full brainpower necessary to ponder just why Severus was once again wearing heavily worn Muggle clothing—but it bothered him. So much so, that he missed the beginning of Severus' next words.

"—I may know next to nothing about the workings of the upper echelon, for their are far better uses for my mental space, but I have read enough about our government to follow along if you need someone to parse through your ideas with. You need not go through it all alone, Peverell." Severus' cheeks were then dusted in a creeping blush as his gaze moved to the window. He then continued, "I was under the assumption that the nature of our—involvement was that help was freely exchanged between us."

Henry managed a small, genuinely grateful smile. "Thank you, Sev. That means a lot. I’ll figure out what I want to bring to the floor after the first meeting, then maybe you can come to Peverell Manor to help me make sense of it all?"

"We shall see," Severus huffed. "You do seem to be in need of guidance. And what type of Slytherin would I be to not exploit your generosity thoroughly enough to be able to explore your home."

The dryness of the words, the blush still painting Severus' face, the nervous cadence that lit his tone at the mention of actually coming to Peverell Manor—it all made Henry laugh. But this one was warm and settled something beneath his chest. For a moment, they sat in silence, the rhythmic clatter of the train filling the compartment. Despite the weight of his secrets and the exhaustion that plagued him, Henry felt a small measure of comfort in Severus' presence. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him going, at least for now.

"Now that we've got the sentimentalities out of the way," Severus started, interrupting the quiet that had befallen them as they both thought through Severus’ words, "stop omitting and tell me what else is going on. Perchance, what has happened to make Dumbledore look upon you as if he was contemplating the merits of your murder for weeks now?"

"He wasn’t a spy for nothing," Henry ruefully thought as he pondered just how to go about this conversation, before he came to a simple conclusion: "Fuck it. Let’s see how much of my life he can handle." But even with that decision made, Henry nervously snaked a hand through his long hair before he could move himself to speak. "We had a—well, a heated argument recently. And while it has been weighing on me a bit, it’s nothing I’m too concerned about now." When all Severus did was raise a narrow eyebrow, Henry continued, "But the death-stares were probably because I—well, I snapped his wand. And then burned the ashes in front of him. Before banishing them."

"You what?!"

Henry was unsure how the human vocal cords were able to make such a sound as Severus' words came out in a blood-curdling wail. He was unsure of what the right thing to say here was, but he went for, “So, here’s the thing, Dumbledore’s wand was a Peverell family heirloom that he won off of his ex-bondmate—or really, I don’t actually know if him and Grindelwald annulled their bond. But anyway, he got the wand in a duel and has been using it and I wanted it back.” Henry had rambled but he was sure that he was still cognizant enough for Severus to understand.

“Grind—! What?! You! You destroyed Dumbledore’s wand?!”

“Yes—?” Henry closed his eyes has his ears rung with Severus’ tone.

”And he juts let you?!” Severus continued to shriek.

Henry giggled at the memory floating past his mind of the headmaster struggling against the floor of his own office, bound near head to toe in stripes of shadow. “Well,” he sighed, “wasn’t much he could do—as I had him stuck to the floor. Besides, I don’t think anyone should use the Elder Wand. The meddlesome thing causes too much nonsense. And Dumbledore already causes enough nonsense on his own.”

Severus’ jaw worked open and closed several times before he found a strung tight voice, and said, “The Elder Wand? The—?” Severus husky words abruptly cut off. Then, when Severus opened his mouth again, what came out was a calm, “Ah, but of course. Yes—the Elder Wand. The wand crafted by Death itself and bestowed upon Anhoch Peverell.” Severus intensely blinked at Henry’s direction. “In the children’s story.” Then blinked again. “But of course, yes—it exists.”

“Antioch,” Henry sleepily said, unfeeling of the eyes that were astutely raking over him.

“I beg your pardon?” Severus airy voice asked.

“Antioch Peverell, brother of Cadmus and Ignotus,” Henry responded from his crumpled corner. Then with a sleep deprivation chuckle he added, “Who are the ancestors of me, Voldemort, and the Potters—respectively.”

“Oh—?” Severus lightly questioned, “Anything else you care to share?”

“Uh—no. That’s about it. I destroyed Dumbledore’s wand because it wasn’t his to begin with and no one should really be out here wielding an unbeatable wand in all this foolishness.” When all Severus did was mildly hum in response, Henry popped open an eyelid as he stated, “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

With a look of disbelieving amusement on his face, Severus calmly eased out, “Ah—that would be because I had already been informed that you have lost touch with your, decidedly, already finicky sanity. Just last night in fact.”

“Huh—?”

“I had meant to address this when I first arrived. But, imagine my surprise when Regulus pulled me aside to question why was it that you cornered him in a deserted hall. I heard that you were raving about his ‘future choices’ and his need of keeping his ‘options open’ so that he can make ‘a wise decision about the direction of his life.’ Then, not only did you give him information on his brothers plans to flee House Black for the summer but you also gave him invite to your house. In the event that he ‘needed a reprieve’ in his brothers absence, of course.” Severus took a steadying breath as he spoke on, “He wanted to know if I knew your intentions because had he been of feminine birth, he would have been sure that you were attempting to run off with him. I assured him you were simply unwell in the head.”

When Henry only looked at Severus in tired confusion, Severus went on. “What, was it supposed to be a secret that you obsconded into the night with someone I am in frequent contact with to offer him one of your little trinkets?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Henry lowly protested in his exhausted state.

“Do I? Because Regulus was pretty convincing in his tale.” Severus’ words were flat and clipped. And Henry wasn’t sure he had the energy to deal with all of this. He wasn’t even sure how this borderline argument had even started. “He even had your token in hand to prove it.”

Henry’s lack of energy was evident as he stumbled over his words, “No—you, listen. I did give Regulus a portkey to Peverell Manor. But that’s because I heard Black and Potter making plans and it sounded like Regulus would be alone in a house with an abusive mother and a family full of Death Eaters—and I figured that he might appreciate another option than to just stay in that mess.”

Breaking his mask of annoyed indifference, Severus choppily asked, “How do you know—about his family? Where did you even hear that—term before?”

Realizing that he may have said too much, too soon, Henry panicked a little. “That their Death Eaters? “Their bunch isn’t exactly subtle.” He then hoped Severus would not be able to call him on his bluff as he quickly said, “But that’s not the point. Yes, I gave Regulus a portkey. But I also gave one to Leodonis and Bertram for the same reason—they’re all too young to have to choose between becoming murders or being turned out on the street.” Tenderly, Henry added, “I have one for you two, I just saw them first.”

“You think that I am considering joining—them?”

“What? No! Severus, no!” Henry was wide awake now. His eyes snapped open as his thoughts ran hot at the implication. Somehow, in the confusing stumbling of falling in love, Henry had throughly separated the future of “his Severus” from that of “the other Severus.” He completely forgot that there must have been a reason for the other Severus to turn to Voldemort—and he hadn’t been prepared to counteract it at all. “Well, I’ll change that now,” Henry thought as he got his words together to say, “That’s different. I have one for you because I wanted you to be able to visit me whenever you wished while we’re away from the castle. I was hoping—well, I thought it might be nice if you came and spent a couple weeks with me there anyway.”

After a draw our pause where Henry figured the other was taking in his words, Severus haughtily sniffed, “I would imagine a manor to yourself would get a bit lonely.”

“Exactly.” The smile Henry gave was a tired thing, but he sobered up enough to say, “I am sorry for the confusion and uncertainty I’ve caused over this. I was dead on my feet when I ran into Regulus, and I had planned to ask after you properly.”

They both ignored the color that settled on the tips of Severus’ ears as he teased, “Think nothing of it. For I understand it now, that you are unwell in the head and far too soft of the heart.”

Ignoring the jibe, Henry mused, “While we’re on the topic, how do you think your maternal grandfather would react to me asking to meet with him?”

Completely thrown off guard, Severus confusedly stated, “I would not know.” Then followed by asking, “But what would ever possess you to do such a thing?”

“I just said. I’m planning on properly courting you and technically you’re an heir to the Prince family since your mother was never officially disowned.” Sheepishly, Henry turned further into the window as he said, “I—uh, I checked with my bank manager.”

A full blush had returned to Severus face in exploding force and was now accompanied by a trail of red that disappeared down the front of his button-down shirt. But somehow, Severus maintained the confidence to hold Henry’s hooded eye contact, and said, “I hardly think that is the wisest action for you to take, as I am content with—what we have and cannot offer you anything in repayment of your interest. But I also cannot stop you.”

Losing grip on the ends of his magic in his excitement, all Henry could think was, “That’s not a no!” But his elevated mood was short lived once his still sluggish brain processed that Severus had begun to squirm about in his seat.

“Have I upset you?” Henry asked.

“No.” That was all the response Severus gave. So, trying his hardest to understand, Henry asked, “Then why do you seam so uncomfortable? If you think it’s too soon we can wait on betrothal talks and just—.”

Severus swiftly cut his words down, “I’m sensitive to magic. A family trait—from my mother.”

“Okay,” said Henry, not seeing a point to Severus’ words. “And?”

“And,” Severus stressed, “it—pleases me, my body, to feel your magic.”

After a beat of staggered processing it clicked, “My magic tuns you o—“

“Peverell!” Severus interrupted with a great shout.

And all Henry can do is laugh as he figured it out. “For weeks now, I thought that Severus was trying to poke and prod me to sus out how best to manipulate me. But really he was just trying to get off!” He wanted to test it, to see if Severus was really telling the truth—to help Severus with whatever reactions arose if he is. But they were on a highly populated train and Henry wanted their next salacious moment to be more special than that. Besides, Ron had once jokingly theorized that the “Trolley Witch” was some sort of demon who fed in the excess energy of their childish souls, so he was not about to chance it. But the thought lingered in his mind as he continued to laugh, even as Severus began to dole out minor hexes. The rest of their ride is uneventful in that their compartment gets filled with the gentle testing of each others magic, the soft murmur of their teasing words, and the sound of the trains wheels tugging on the tracks. They talk bout sweet nothings until Henry unknowingly falls asleep. He awakes some time later to the feel of the Hogwarts Express pulling into the station and is pleasantly surprised to find a body tucked against his own.

“Severus?” Henry gently called out as he stroked the other’s hair until he awoke. When shiny, onyx, eyes fluttered open, Henry was not even embarrassed by his own utterance of, “I want to take you home with me.” Because he truly did.

His near every thought in this world revolved around doing his damndest to ensure the light behind these beautiful eyes never waned. All Henry wanted was for Severus to be happy, healthy, and safe. And he was not without worry to be sending Severus back to his muggle father, even with an instant escape option. Henry continued to stroke Severus’ hair even as he heard the compartments around them began to empty out, and Severus let him. After a moment, Henry’s hand shifted to the back of Severus’ head and he used his new grip to leverage Severus’ lips closer to his own.

Henry felt their skin brush together as he whispered, “Promise, you’ll come to me if anything happens. Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself, no matter what.”

Severus completed the kiss without response. And Henry found it less important to receive on while Severus was kissing him so intently. As they pulled apart, Severus merely smiled and said, “I promise to come and raid Peverell Manor of all its shiny things this summer. Now, let’s go.”

Henry realized his heart was still beating wildly when his body materialized in the floo room of Peverell Manor minutes later, but chalked it up to the buzz he got from Severus taking the initiative to kiss him. As he took in his surroundings, he considered exploring the home, touring the grounds, or perusing Lake Pitkäjärv—but ultimately decided against it all, wishing to take in his new word with fresh eyes, and set out to find the biggest bed in the darkest room and sleeping for a week. But he had all of a moment to appreciate the splendor of life and the luster of the freedom he now held before he promptly fell dead.

Chapter Text

∞ - June 19, 1975

"You were so tired because it requires a vast amount of energy to alter one’s magical core, as much as Crius uses to corral the constellations. It is why your kind is born with their core's inception and die alongside its depletion. It is why your universe began with an explosion of cosmic power and shall one day return to its barren cold beginnings when the energy is fully transmuted.”

The voice that filled the space between them was familiar, but he felt as though he was hearing it for the first time. And, he realized, “he” could not say who he even was. So he could not say for certain whether the voice was as it had always been—a euphonic sigh of words that tempted his bones to take heed.

“And your heart was beating at such a pace because it was straining to keep your meager human body alive through your core's expansion, master. Your kind are born with such finite cores, and majorly grow into them over time. Thus, you were not built to undergo such rapid development in a modest epoch. But worry not, for I shall build you better.”

He felt it then, as his nervous system took root and his brain began processing what was transpiring. “Death?” Henry wished to call out, but found that he possessed no voice to do so. His respiratory system struggled under the vacuum of still air and he felt weightless in its absence. As though the world and all its laws, and all its governances, and all its troubles, had fallen away into a nameless ether. As though it had never been and never had to be. As though he was as inconsequential and as all-encompassing as the black greatness of empty space around them. Frantically, Henry’s mind raced with jumbled pleas to be heard, “Death, where are you? Where am I? What is—?”

Tempering Henry’s rapid descent into madness, and the rapid pumping of his newly formed cardiovascular system, two arms rose to encompass Henry’s free-floating soul. Then Death’s voice reached ears that had not been, “Calm yourself, master. Should you wish for a form to hold in your soul, all you must do is desire it.”

As he leaned into the understanding that he was not alone, Henry found that he could gather his thoughts. So he began with what he could feel: “There’s a body against my own.” As more synapses fired off, his growing muscular system spasmed in Death’s hold and Henry relished the grounding touch—so scared that without it he’d be lost in the void that enveloped them. The feel of sturdy arms pulled his whole form back into a broad chest. They were not like the thin wisps that trailed after him when he passed too close to the shadows along Hogwarts’ halls. These arms were not the clinging bones that looked after him in the Chamber of Secrets; they were real, sturdy, load-bearing limbs—but the magic that made them felt all the same.

Especially as they wound tighter around the shaken essence that twisted and shuddered to form Henry’s midsection. His digestive system quivered as he took in the feel of gentle palms pressing into his abdomen. The hands then stirred the sands of space as they drifted upward—and there was his chest. They cupped around his heaving breast, and Henry felt his lymphatic system swell then jitter in the irritation of Death’s touch. He felt it still as the hands moved apart. One crawled downward to dig the tips of thick fingers into the skin of his naked hip, centering Henry steadily. The other sauntered across the tightened skin of his chest until it reached the length of Henry’s neck and stayed.

“You need not a form, human or otherwise, master,” Death patiently restated. “But I do not think your consciousness is able to adapt to my realm so readily. We shall give it time, and I shall keep you close.”

A thick leg slid between the gap of thighs that Henry only belatedly remembered were his own. It wedged between them and Henry rode the movement with detached ease—as, blankly, he thought that he had never before truly understood the mechanisms it took to stand. “What is happening to me?” Henry asked aloud with a mouth that only now worked because another came to press breath into his own.

Death did not release its hold on the base of Henry’s neck as it sighed into his lungs, “Your core outgrew your body, your mind, and your arrogant little body died. Nothing that cannot be fixed.”

“What—I died?” His newly gained thoughts began to race. “What has—” Henry’s voice stalled as sense after sense returned to him in a dizzying matrix of life and death. Henry pressed back into Death and willed his previously unseeing eyes to stay clenched tightly closed—fearful of what a glimpse into the beyond might do to him in this state. But he could feel a sharp smile press into his jaw.

Dry lips then siphoned off the words attempting to figure their way out of Henry’s mouth as they grazed against his cheek when Death said, “Perhaps, if you allow, I shall talk to you to speed up time it takes you to settle.” The being then hummed to itself before speaking again, “To ambush a powerful wizard without any thought for what destruction you might befall your person, all because you found strength in me. It has delighted me, master.”

The world, the cosmos, eternity—whatever this unfathomable setting for his undoing was, shifted. Before, Henry had no reference for up or down nor here or there. But now his reformed urinary system clenched in terror as he was settled down onto a wide lap. Henry could now feel Death pressed upon him from calf to shoulder. His eyelids snapped open in a feeble attempt at control, and he could do nothing more than wilt under the weight of his vision.

Death, unperturbed, adjusted Henry’s slackened body in its hold as it spoke on, “And then you snapped that elder branch in two. You set the magic I had relinquished free and shepherded it back to me alongside your soul.”

Henry’s mind had gone quiet in shock as he processed what his eyes and ears were taking in. And after moments of utter silence, in which seconds or centuries could have passed, Henry asked, “Where are we, Death?”

Though he questioned, deep down Henry knew that this was Death’s realm. A place often whispered of in poetry and speculated on canvas lay open in an eternal twilight before them. All around was a haunting tapestry, a blanketing of black nothingness fluttering just out of reach. Henry recognized it as the same otherworldly beauty that lay at the bottom of the Department of Mysteries. “Are we inside the Veil?” Henry asked.

“That is a mere window,” Death chuckled, “while here, you sit at the center of our world.”

In Death’s realm, every moment was a dance of shadows and light. It was a place where Time had no authority, Destiny held no meaning, and Life dared not tread. Where the souls of the departed found solace in the everlasting echoes that worked a delicately perverse symphony of countless lives. The air, cool and invigorating, carried the faintest scent of ancient, unseen blooms, mingling with a melody that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of the realm. It was a moment both haunting and alluring, a place of whispered secrets and forgotten lullabies that echoed through the towering shadows lining the horizon. All around them there was a nothingness that had long grown settled in its being. And here, upon a throne carved from the purest night, sat Death itself.

Henry’s eyes moved away from the void and looked up at the being clutching him so close. What he could make of it was dark skin and well-sculpted limbs—an elysian figure, bare for its master and erect at the center of their universe. He looked further and saw twin orbs of infinite blazing depth gazing upon him with a melancholy wisdom that spoke of love and loss—of the beginning and the end intertwined. As they watched each other, soft toes moved to caress the side of Henry’s shins. The deft fingers of one hand toyed with the space between his false ribs and the curve of his ilium. The other moved to gently run through strands of hair Henry did not remember ever being so long. And as they sat, the being under Henry settled him too into infinity.

Hours or eons, as time passed, Henry could feel himself relax further under the roaming touch of Death. He could not explain when it had begun, but eventually Henry realized that he had started to cry. There was no pain, no irritation—there was nothing to cause stress or sadness in the inner sanctum of Death’s realm, only peace. He should not be weeping so far removed from all that has plagued him. It made him confused and scared to be so vulnerable in front of all of eternity. However, Death just wiped his tears away and continued to massage his scalp. If nothing else, Henry knew he was safe, even as his body shook under the overwhelm of emotion.

In the hope that it would soothe its master, Death began to speak, “Of all those who have stood beneath my windows, wailing out for my attention like abandoned felines in the night—of the lifetimes of suitors, offering all manner of treasures and trinkets—none have brought me a gift such as you, master.”

The strength with which he was pet grew heavier with the heartfelt words. Death’s undivided attention was narrowed onto the way it could lead Henry’s head around with a short tug of Henry’s locks, as he tucked the boy in closer. Absently, it continued to speak, “Not even the other Peverells, as obsessed with my company as your bloodline seems to be. Not even those three who, in a single night, captivated me so I had not wished to part from their sides. But I had become too arrogant, too complacent, in my age. I did not know how much I would mourn the loss of myself through the gifts I had given my dear ones.”

Henry allowed himself to be turned this way and that, to be held firm and dragged close, as he listlessly listened to Death speak. “I have had many give their all to come to me,” Death explained, with its mouth now laid against Henry’s temple. “I have been courted, and I have been asked for, and I have been begged after.”

Death then relaxed its hold as it huffed a laugh of fondness, as it went on to reminisce. “I remember them all,” Death began. “I recall Dante, a divine man who sought to travel from Inferno to Paradiso. For him, I was a poet—and later, his beloved. And when Dante ceased his exploration, I returned him to the mortal world with a profound longing and an understanding that he could not reach my lands again.”

Death gently resumed its playing in Henry’s hair, and said, “For Orpheus and Eurydice I was safe haven. For Odysseus I was knowledge. For Psyche I was guidance. And for little Lyra and Will I was redemption. But, of them, none I was able to hold here for long—for whether they pass onwards or simply pass through, they always leave me, master.” Death strengthened its hold on Henry’s head to make space for itself in the crook of Henry’s neck.

And Henry allowed it, heart aching at the desperation behind the being’s touch. Somberly, Death said, “There are those that linger, as did Patroclus and Achilles—and there are those that promise to return, those like Beren and Lúthien. Often, I am fielded with the likes of Susie Salmon—ones who still wish to interact with the living world and influence its events. They have all come and gone, leaving with their tokens of my affection and at times their remaining allowance of life. They have all come with ideas in mind of what they would find, and I shape their own paradise or purgatory as per their design until they are ready to move on—and I pass their souls to be reshaped for their next.”

The words invoked in Henry the same unnamed wanting to protect, to provide that had plagued him since shifting timelines—so he carefully held his body loose and open to Death’s whims as he listened to the increasingly rushed cadence of its voice. “We work in tandem,” Death said, “myself, Life, Time, and Destiny—but I feel as though only I am not allowed to interact as freely. Only I must mask my occurrence and obscure my presence.”

Death’s hands had gone near frantic in their attention. It pulled Henry close enough to reshape its own form as it gasped out, “Master, none come to me so willing to drift in the ether of nothingness together. None have wished to look upon me and truly see. For them, I have been a winged and gentle youth. I have adorned a cloak in black and wielded a scythe. I have taken on form after form to experience a myriad of experiences and obtain an understanding of all outcomes. I have been a concept so elusive that some merely pass me by without realization. I have adorned myself with the jewels of governance, arbitration, and karma. I have ridden a pale horse—danced and sung for their favor, master—and still I do not hold the worth of companionship in their eyes.”

Henry could feel Death’s form—“This human face he put on for me,” he distantly thought—begin to flicker in instability. “Tell me,” Henry spoke for the first time in forever, as he turned his face to brush along the collection of energy that made up Death’s nose. “Tell me everything, and I will listen.”

Henry was almost sure he heard a whimper at the start of Death’s next words. “I have done all that has been asked of me,” it nearly whined. “I have collected soul after soul, overseeing them all—and yet, I am so lonely. I am intermediary between the realms of the living and the dead, facilitating communication and transition between these states, and yet I am so forsaken. I am the executor of fate, ensuring that each individual meets their predetermined end, and yet I am so despondent. I have nothing of my own, master. I have been empathetic and reflective, I have worked and labored, but now I wish—”

Death cut itself off with a graze of inhuman teeth against Henry’s windpipe, then redirected its words, “Since you took up the Hallows, you have taken on more and more of me. And I have come to realize that I have taken on more of your human folly. There has never been a necessity for me to want, a reason for me to lament—you have made me weak to your presence and strong to your will.”

Lips caught on a vein that traveled the length of Henry’s neck during Death’s rush of words. “You are the first that I do not have to shepherd away. You are the only thing here with me in the nothing. And with your destruction of the Hallow trinity, you have ensured that none shall hold me to their command, hereafter. None shall ever again call me to their presence, personally. So, please,” the primordial voice begged, “do not leave me to be alone again, master.”

Henry understood what Death meant now. He did not need a physical form projected onto the cosmos here to reach out, to hold the other close. Instead, he did so with his magic, stronger and stranger to him than it had ever been. And he did so with his will—free from all the shackles of humanity that he had been holding onto, even now. He relinquished his human form and coaxed Death to do the same, so that they could look upon each other properly.

Without a mouth, Henry was still able to say, “Thank you for holding me all this time. I understand there have been those who have come to you and those who have danced beyond your grasp—but none you could interact with for more than the barest moment between what was and what is next. And then there was me, your master.” Henry attempted to shift to face Death head-on, but as he lifted himself a hair’s width away Death held tighter. “It’s okay,” Henry assured as he relaxed back into Death’s hold. “I am yours, as all-encompassing as you are mine.”

“Master,” Death begged.

“Yes, yours,” Henry acknowledged with an ease that he had only felt when above the clouds on a broom. “This isn’t much different,” he thought, as they drifted alone. Time stood still, the stars went on—and allowed it all, intertwined and unbothered.

Eventually, a thought came to Henry. “Death?” he called out. Without any change in the void around him, Henry knew he had the being’s undivided attention. “Shouldn’t you be out reaping—or something? I haven’t seen anyone else come through here.”

A laugh that wasn’t his own rippled through him before Death said, “Worry not, master. I have those of every world, in every realm, that assist me in my duties. There has been a constant ebb and flow of souls around us, just beyond the veil of our world."

“Oh,” Henry startled. “Can they—see us?”

“No, little one, this space is only for us. But even if they dared closer, I doubt they’d understand what graced their eyes—just as you did not, so long ago.”

“So long—” Henry repeated hesitantly before he asked, “How long have I been here exactly?”

“For as long as you desire.” Death’s words were accompanied by an entanglement of worry and guilt that spread between them. But before Henry could decipher what response he wanted to give, Death continued, “Should you wish it, I could return you to either world—to when you stood in Dumbledore’s office or to the exact moment in which you made your way to me. Although, master—”

“And if I wish for you to come with me? I’m kind of enjoying the 70s.” Henry could feel the mounting apprehension that plagued the other with its every word and sought to alleviate it before it needlessly spiraled into something greater. “You already said that you don’t have to be present here for things to go on smoothly. What’s to stop you from just—I don’t know, taking a break for a while?”

Henry just knew that if they still had hands, they’d be intertwined. There was a swell in the magic around them that felt like rejoicing, like revelry and rapture. “I cannot vacate this empty world altogether, lest it implode. But perhaps—equivalent exchange,” Death whispered throughout the nothingness that was their own, “I’ll give you half of my distinction, you give me half of yours—and we shall cease to be apart ever again, master.”

“Deal—” As his consciousness formed the intent to put forth the word, Henry could feel a non-existent breath leave his chest as the confines of his already quasi-mortal existence shook apart. The bounds of distinction between his life and Death fissured as Henry relinquished his hold on understanding to grasp what he could feel of Death. Henry had not realized it before, but he had gone without such intense emotion for so long here that now it felt too much—too fragile, too confined, too human.

If he had to describe it, he would say it was as if their little black hole collapsed, and now intense gravitational forces stretched and compressed them in every which way—until together they formed one point of singularity. The concept of what they had been was now meaningless, because the forces involved would destroy any prior known version of their matter. At their singularity, the laws of physics broke down—general relativity and quantum mechanics conflicted until the point heaved under its own weight, and out formed two perfectly equal, near-identical entities. And the excess of their union spurt out in a rolling tide over their realm.

“Oh,” one of them thought, “this is fucking weird.” And the other did not get a chance to respond as they were ricocheted apart to go off and settle into two different positions in the universe. One, floating in a chasm in the fabric of reality that now did not feel so much like nothingness. The other, awaking on a polished cement floor to a painfully squeaky voice.

“Oh-! New Lordy Peverell be waking up now!” The first voice was childlike in its chirping and feminine in its pitch.

“And he only waking up a little dead, much less than Lordy Rakham!” The second was equally as young, and yet, not as soft.

“And he stay in one piece, not like Lady Crisha!”

“Yes! With no blood on the floor! Lordy Metanol would be so proud!”

As the two nattered back and forth, it all came back to him—his memories, his senses, his heartbeat. Eventually, he had enough of a grasp on himself to weakly protest, “Please—stop speaking.”

A deafening shriek went through the floo room. The more effeminate voice began to prattle off apologies that the other voice swiftly spoke over, “Oh! Oh! Sanguis be so sorry, new Lordy Peverell! And Calvaria too! We not knowing that we disturbing you!”

“It’s fine,” Henry sighed, still face down on the floor. “Can you move me to somewhere soft and leave me be?”

“Yes!” The two voices called out in unison before the snap of fingers were heard—then it all went dark.

It was not the blankness of space beyond the Veil, he found, but the black static of pressed closed eyelids. Henry felt his body settle into a bed softer than he had ever experienced. Wherever this bed was, the room around it was warmed by the light of summer sun he could feel somewhere off to his right. There was the sound of small shuffling feet, the metallic shaking of curtains being pulled along a rod, then it all went quiet. It was not the quiet of his home but—“Wait, my home? Who am—I?”

He opened his eyes in shock as his human-fashioned brain slowly caught up to—everything. He leaned his face away from the downy pillow he had been moved onto and looked over his shoulder into the room. Around him was an expansive space of artisanally handcrafted wood furniture and magically polished silver accents. Left of the bed, he took in a light grey painted wall housing two doors. Right of the bed, heavy velvet curtains stood draped onto the hardwood floor from the high ceiling adorned with intricate molding. He took in the low bookshelf off from the foot of the bed that ran the length of the wall, with a pillowed topper just wide enough to provide seating. And beyond the room, he felt the other half of himself still in the void—floating contently in the nothing.

With magic wrapped around himself in a loving self-embrace. It was no longer lonely; the realm was no longer bare. Wisps of ethereal mist, that formed in the remnants of their union, drifted lazily across the landscape in delicate tendrils that caressed the ground as if in a mimicry of a lover’s hand. He could feel it just as surely as he could feel this fragile body here—tucked under far-too-crisp, pressed white cotton sheets. From the singular point he stood in space, he did not have to strain to stretch his consciousness. He was neither a man nor immortal; he was more. He was not alone, and he was not annihilated—he was something else entirely. Something that could observe the flow of souls with one eye and the portrait above the low bookshelf, of a beautiful fawn dancing in a lively spring meadow, with the other.

“Damn it,” he thought, “this’ll take some getting used to.” The one on the bed went to laugh and felt it shake through the cosmos. He rolled into the sheets with a groan. “This is absurd! Okay, we need a way to differentiate this mess—what’s a good name?”

“Mort,” the one still beyond the veil prompted with a chuckle that filled both of their lungs.

“Seriously? Whatever, it’s your name. You’ll be Mort and I’ll be—I guess I’ll still be Henry,” he thought, “or else I’ll never get anything done.” He felt human amusement and ethereal contentment. A feedback loop that imitated their understanding of each other before they were reshuffled back into semi-separate beings. Where every semblance of thought and every impression of emotion was near palpable. And as they both loosened their hold on their awakened states, they found comfort in the gaggle of energy that was their magic, indistinguishable and unseparated by all space and time.

Chapter Text

June 19 - June 21, 1975

“Is there anything else that Gringotts Bank and the Goblin Nation can do for you, Lord Peverell?” Tallowfang asked, attempting to bar the reverence and fear from his voice — as he had been struggling to do for the past hour. It was all due to the fact that the being seated across from him was so clearly not human. He did not know what manner of being had come to possess the wizard boy, or if he had come into a particularly nasty creature inheritance, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was not the same boy who had sat in that chair a year ago. Interacting with this being and discussing mundane wizardry matters felt like sheer madness as he sensed the magic rolling off the other’s body, a feeling of superlunary chaos. Tallowfang was sure that when they had met before, Peverell did not feel quite right — he was able to claim the lordship, after all — but it was not as blatant as this. “Perhaps,” he thought, “he has learned how to wield his family’s power.”

“No, that will be all. Thank you, Tallowfang.”

With a wide smile that showed far too many yellowed, razor-sharp teeth, Tallowfang plotted. “It is our pleasure to protect the coffers of the Ancient and Honored House of Peverell,” Tallowfang stated with honesty. As the young man shifted to stand, the goblin added, “But a question before you go, if you are inclined to answer.”

He could see confusion and slight amusement play out on the human-like face. With a raised eyebrow, Peverell settled back into the dragonhide chair across from the wide desk that separated them. “Yes?” Peverell prompted.

“The Goblin Nation is, and has for many centuries been, neutral in all matters of human nuisances,” Tallowfang began, “but humans have a tendency of dragging the entire magical world into their idiocy. We are not blind to the embers of war that have spread out over the land. While we have no interest in stopping them, I personally cannot see your actions here today as anything other than you fanning the flames. What is your intent, I ask, Lord Peverell? And should it entail that I write to the Goblin King to reinforce our defenses?”

A laugh skittered across the walls as Peverell’s eyes twinkled with unholy mirth. Tallowfang watched as the shadows around the room seemed to elongate and gyrate to the tune of the clearly inhuman chortle. He was not scared, he assured himself. He was a goblin of war and wrath—and the thing in front of him was barely out of infancy in goblin years. But even with that in mind, Tallowfang found himself sinking further into his high-backed chair to keep his back stiff.

“Fanning the flames of war?” Peverell repeated softly, as though in distracted thought, “I suppose you’re right, in a way, Tallowfang. But I personally see it as smothering them.” Peverell rose and adjusted his plain black robes before casually making his way to the door. “And as for what you should tell of my aims to the Goblin King, I think it’s high time that all magical beings found neutrality in their coexistence — don’t you agree?”

Without further word, Peverell exited Tallowfang’s office. With the soft sound of the heavy wooden door finding its place against the doorframe, Tallowfang let out an accompanying sigh before he took out thick parchment to pen a worrisome note. He just knew that things were about to change, and with it came the Goblin Nation’s need to distance themselves from the Dark Lord Voldemort — “Lest we find our sure and complete destruction.” He just knew, as he thought back to the look that shone in Peverell’s eyes, that to go against whatever monster hid behind that human skin would mean nothing else.

And Tallowfang was not the only one who thought that. Hours later, while he sat to the side of the Potter Manor’s guest sitting-room, Charlus Henry Potter had a similar thought grace his mind, “This boy, for better or worse, will be the end of our world.”

Charlus was raised as the second heir to the Potter family. He was brought up to be loyal to his family’s name, heedful to his father’s word, and trusting of Magic’s will. It was for no other reason than that he took one look at the Peverell boy, when he first came into the room, and saw nothing but death. He did not fear death, as no properly raised wizard would. Thus, he knew that in death came life, opportunity, and freedom. There were several things that he thought their world could benefit from being free of. As he turned away from the calmly talking boy and towards his wife, who seemed to have lost a bit of stuffiness in her excitement to engage with the young Lord, he thought, “Yes, there are those who could benefit from the freedom to practice their natural magics openly.”

There were several reasons why Charlus was grateful for being born as the “spare,” and all of them centered around Dorea Black. Because he was the second-born, he was not expected to sit through as many tutoring sessions as his brother, he did not carry the burden of providing a male heir, and was able to make more of his own life choices—like marrying a “Dark” witch. Dorea was a “spare” as well, the youngest child of Cygnus Black II and Violetta Bulstrode and the youngest sister of Pollux, Cassiopeia, and Marius Black. But he knew that she was the one he would spend the rest of his life with, from the very first time he caught sight of Dorea standing amongst her friends in green-trimmed robes.

Many years have passed since, and still he remembered it all—the amusement that sparked in her eyes the first time he introduced himself to her, the way she hovered over his shoulder as he wrote out his intentions to her grandfather, how she blessed him with their first kiss after their courting, and the care with which she brought his child into this world. Many things he has been able to give to his wife — luxury, fidelity, commitment. But he has never been able to give his wife the freedom, outside of their warded home, to practice the magic that naturally flowed from her core. And now, as Charlus observed his brother talk to the young Lord Peverell, he thought that he may finally be able to give his dearest her freedom at last.

“I plan on joining the ‘Open Floor’ in a few days and pledging my vote to Tenentes,” Peverell gently stated, sharply taking Charlus from his thoughts. Startled, he turned from his now-quiet wife as the young man spoke on. “I do not want to cause tension between you and me, Lord Potter. But for my plans to move forward as intended, I need to ensure that I have adequate support. Would you consider changing House Potter’s pledge to, at least, the Neutrum ballot?”

Even in their great age, Charlus adored his brother. Fleamont Hardwin Potter was many things — a brilliant inventor, a doting husband, a spoiling father. But throughout their many years, Fleamont never for a moment ceased to care for him as a brother. They had never, in their lives, been anything other than close. So, sure of his accuracy, Charlus assumed that his brother was just as stunned as he was, for it took some time before Fleamont spoke.

“I—,” his brother struggled to start. “Lord Peverell, surely you must know that the votes under House Potter have been pledged to Deinceps since 1657,” Fleamont stressed.

“Yes,” Peverell replied with a demure smile, “and long before then, the Potter family was known for their potions prowess. Notably, their inventing of many medicinal potions — which took experiments with blood, bone, and death to create. Or did you think Linfred of Stinchcombe was above grave robbing?”

“No, I—,” Fleamont stammered, his face twitched with a mix of anger and shame as his mind raced through the proud history of the Potters. “Lord Peverell, while I am not ashamed of my family’s history, times have changed. Surely you can understand the implications that would be assumed behind me changing the way my family’s votes are aligned. Or if you follow through with your intentions to send your votes to the Tenentes’ ballot. In this climate, it’s as good as stating that you’re—”

When it seemed that Fleamont was at a loss for the right words, Peverell finished for him, “What, a ‘Dark Wizard’?” The young man gave an airy laugh before he followed with, “I am, and there is no shame in that.”

“Well said,” Dorea chimed in behind her raised teacup. Peverell turned at the sound of her voice to grace her with a dazzling look.

They shared a conspiring glance before the young man spoke on. “I practice all manner of magic, Lord Potter. The same, I can tell, as many within these very walls. I do not understand why you wish to further the bias towards the public’s perception of what magic ‘should’ be.”

“That’s not—!” Fleamont attempted, “I—I—!”

When words seemed incapable of leaving Fleamont’s throat, his wife spoke up from his side. “What I believe my husband is trying to say,” Euphemia began, “is that no matter how well-intended your desire for reform is, now is not the time. No matter how badly the Ministry wishes to negate the fact, there is a war going on. And to pledge your vote to anything other than Deinceps, at a time like this, is to pledge your allegiance to ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’”

“Is that what you truly believe?” Peverell asked simply.

“Yes, and I will tell you just as I told my father — I too have no shame being dark inclined. The only shame I face is that brought upon our world at the hands of those who feel that this madness is just.”

Euphemia gently shifted to take up her teacup into her delicate hand, and Charlus was reminded of the very first time he met the woman. They were just barely out of their childish comforts, just graduated from Hogwarts, and Fleamont brought the girl home with a flourish — after months of begging their father to end his prior standing betrothal contract. They had all been gathered into this very same room, with him and his parents on one side and his brother and Euphemia on the other. Their father, a stubborn and ornery man, had looked the then-girl in her eyes and asked Fleamont, “What will you do if the girl bears you a Dark Wizard as a child?”

Instead of allowing Fleamont to respond, as would be proper, Euphemia took hold of her teacup and said, “I suppose he will love the child as your father did you. Or have you never gotten your core evaluated?” Then, as they all sat in a stunned stupor, she took a small sip of tea before turning to their mother and saying, “This brew is lovely, Lady Potter. And I must say, the subtle richness of it is something I believe could only be achieved with someone well in tune with their grey core.”

The two had married before the first frost rolled in, and Charlus has never found a day that he did not admire her. The sentiment echoed through his thoughts again now as he listened to his sister-in-law speak. “Though only from the second branch, I was born into the Rowle family,” Euphemia said. “And I am far too old to entertain children who wish to make a mess of things they do not understand.”

Peverell heaved a simple sigh, seemed to consider his next words for some time, then spoke, “Do you know what James Potter does with his time when he is away from your caring eye?”

The change of topic threw them all for a moment, but Euphemia recovered first. She asked, “What does our son have to do with this?”

“Your son is in the year below mine, did you know? He’s quite known around the school as well. As the young heir to a wealthy, ‘Pureblood,’ family, I’m sure that does not come as a surprise to any of you. But it is for none of those reasons that students, the younger ones especially, are made painfully aware of his presence before they even learn the layout of the castle. Your child, put simply, is a bully.”

“No,” Fleamont sternly stated, “he is not. And if there had ever been trouble at school, we would have been made aware of it.”

“Were you made aware that he used the Engorgio Skullus curse on my roommate? If I remember correctly, that’s an illegal hex that is punishable by five months in Azkaban. The only reason Bertram did not die is that another student happened to know the spell to stop his head from growing, but he still spent the following days in a bed at St. Mungo’s.” Peverell looked around at them for a moment before he prompted, “Seeing as you’re all silent, I assume you did not know?”

“You cannot be serious! How—how could we not know something like that?” Fleamont asked, desperately looking toward his wife.

But Euphemia’s eyes never wavered from Peverell’s, seeing the truth behind them. She asked, “When was this?”

“The third week of November.”

After she received Peverell’s response, Euphemia called for a house-elf, “Eckels!”

When the scrawny thing arrived, it did so in a silk pillowcase embroidered with the Potter family crest close to its left shoulder. It fidgeted in place as it took in all five pairs of eyes on him before it queried, “How can Eckels be of service, Lady Potter?”

Euphemia fixed the creature with stern eyes and asked, “Has any missive come from Hogwarts or the Ministry since October?”

“Only from the Ministry,” the house-elf squeaked. “Lord Potter’s invitation to the new House session and responses to his bills.”

“That is all, you may go,” Euphemia said to the house-elf before she turned her attention back to Peverell. “What proof do you have?”

Fleamont glanced at Euphemia, who gave him a slight nod, her eyes steely with resolve. They were in this together, whatever the outcome. Charlus further watched his brother, waiting for a response, but none came. Instead, Fleamont took his wife’s hand, a silent vow passing between them. Then Peverell calmly asked in response, “Do you have a pensieve?”

And Charlus felt a chill run down his spine as Peverell’s gaze swept over him, the young lord’s eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of amusement and menace. It took all of a moment for them to collect the pensieve from Fleamont’s office. Mere minutes to watch memory after memory of James and his friends demeaning a young boy with stringy black hair. And even more of Peverell hearing of James’ bullying of others. After half an hour, all the Potters had come to the same conclusion — they had no idea what was going on with James and his friends.

Fleamont’s face had turned ashen as his hands trembled as the memories of his son’s cruelty played out before him. Euphemia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her composure cracked. Charlus could see that Dorea faired no better than him as they sought to digest their disgust at their nephew’s actions. And as the Potters sat there with their thoughts already a mess, Peverell softly murmured, “With all due respect, how can I trust your opinions on our world as a whole when your views of those in your very own home are skewed?”

Yes, Charlus knew his brother. So he knew that the pained sound that worked its way out of his own gut was not ringing in his ears but echoed by Fleamont. The sound continued to haunt him for days, and it was not till several days later, when he heard it uttered by another, that Charlus understood what he had felt in that moment. As he watched the young Lord Peverell stand alone on the center of the Wizengamot’s floor, from his brother's side in the Potter seats, he felt something that he had never felt before in his long, privileged life — fear. Not the fear of pain, the fear of change, the fear of failure, or the fear of disappointment — as he knew that those should come to every human to show that they truly lived. But the fear of imminent, cataclysmic, destruction. “For what else could come from Peverell’s declaration?”

Peverell had entered through the doors at the base of the chamber. Not the ones off to the side with which criminals were carted through. Not the small entrance across from it that led to a sectioned-off seating area for journalists. No, the young man entered through the ornate double doors reserved for guests and visitors of the high court, following the newly sworn-in Minister for Magic’s address, “I, Minister Harold Minchum, call this hall to order on this 21st day of June, of the recorded year 1975. Before we start, I open the floor for any new declarations of votes.”

When Peverell entered, Charlus mentally commended the young man for his ability to hold his head high and seemingly ignore the dozen pairs of eyes glued to his form from all sides. As Peverell strode through the doors, a hush fell over the chamber. Eyes widened, whispers slashed like serpents, and even the air seemed to grow colder in his wake. The young man’s steady gait took him to the podium set up at the center of the floor, where with a clear voice he announced, “I, Henry Iefan Peverell, state my intention to join the House of Lords and formally claim the Ancient and Honored House of Peverell’s lordship, as conferred onto me by the goblins of Gringotts Wizarding Bank and attested by the Peverell family magic. I additionally claim the lordship of the Elder and Esteemed House of Gaunt, by right of being the lord of the family’s highest claimed branch through Cadmus Peverell.”

Peverell took up the position of a formal bow and displayed the shiny rings on the last two fingers of the hand he placed across his chest. Around the chamber, Charlus could hear the echoed sharp gasps of hastily claimed breaths and the hissing of frightened curses. It seemed as though the entirety of the claimed upper House of Lords, the directly elected lower House of Commons, the presiding Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, and even the minister himself flinched in their seats at the pronouncement. But Peverell was not done there. He went on to state, “And, as acting head of all branches of the Peverell family, I declare the 3 Peverell seats, the 2 Gaunt seats, and the 2 Potter seats for support of the Neutrum vote.”

This last part did not shock Charlus as it made waves throughout the room. After all, it is what his brother agreed to at the conclusion of Lord Peverell’s visit to Potter Manor. But even with this already held knowledge of what the young man’s intentions were, Charlus still had to steel himself to keep from fidgeting as many glanced their way upon coming to understand just what Lord Peverell had said. Charlus clenched his fists under the barricade before him, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. Pride for his family’s legacy, fear for the future, and a gnawing uncertainty about where they stood in this new world order. He did not have to endure being the focal point of public scrutiny for long, however, as Minister Minchum recovered at the subtle coughing hint of his under-secretary.

“Yes—right—Ahem,” the man stammered. “Lord of Houses Gaunt and Peverell, Head of House Potter,” Minchum said in acknowledgment, “if you would please take your seat. Now, are there any other declarations to be made?” Charlus watched as the man anxiously looked about for a bit before hurriedly moving on. “No? Then we will begin this session.”

Charlus could understand the man’s nervousness. “He has held the position of ‘Minister’ for mere hours and is already, clearly, in over his head,” Charlus thought. “It does not help matters that Minister Eugenia Jenkins was ousted from office a year before the end of her term, as the people saw her as inadequate to meet the challenge of the rise of Voldemort.” Below him, the swish of Peverell’s robes as he made his way up the stairs brought Charlus from his thoughts.

And after he passed them by, Charlus, Fleamont, and a visibly confused James Potter rose from their seats to follow. They left their place among Lady Abbott, Lord Fawley, Lord Longbottom, Lord Prewett, Lady Shacklebolt, and their heirs. Unspokenly, the Lords and Ladies of the House of Lords sat themselves in accordance to how “Light” or “Dark” their beliefs ran. So he stepped aside in the aisle and allowed Fleamont to lead them to the open seats Peverell chose near Lord Bulstrode, Lady Crouch, Lord Flint, Lady Macmillan, Lord Ollivander, Lord Parkinson, Lord Selwyn, Lady Slughorn, Lord Yaxley, and their kin.

Once the four of them were seated, Minister Minchum spoke again. “With the declaration of the Peverell seats,” he started, “this brings the Neutrum vote to 25, the Tenentes vote to 22, and Deinceps vote remains at 10.” The minister then anxiously fiddled with the stack of papers in front of him before stating, “The Neutrum ballot now has the highest number of votes and has 48 hours to put forth their choice for a speaker for the House of Lords. Lord Black, you are now asked to abdicate your role as Speaker for the House of Lords.”

With a refined nod and a calm air, Orion Black politely displayed his understanding of the change. But around him, Charlus watched as Lord Avery, Lady Burke, Lady Carrow, Lord Greengrass, Lord Lestrange, Lord Malfoy, Lord Nott, Lady Rosier, Lord Rowle, and Lady Travers held back thinly veiled ire aimed at Lord Peverell — and by proximity, his family. In the background, Charlus could hear the minister’s under-secretary announce the first bill to be discussed. But it took the totality of his focus to simply appear to be in possession of the faculties required to calmly breathe.

“Yes,” he thought, “this is surely the beginning of the end.”

Chapter Text

June 21, 1975

A blood-curdling scream rattled the painting frames that lined the walls and nearly upturned every empty stomach in the room.

"I do not want excuses; I want results."

The hissed words whipped through the uncomfortable quiet of the room, and Abraxas could hear the untouched silverware beside his wrists rattle with his shaking. He began mentally reciting Le Châtelain de Coucy’s “Chanson d’Amour” to distance himself from the carnage in front of him. Blood had long ago stained the kelpie hair, hand-woven, tablecloth and was now running down the table between gilded, vampire-made dishes. If he were to be honest with himself, Abraxas could admit that he felt a tinge of remorse for the Muggle dying slowly on the table Athena had picked out especially for this room. But only just—as he knew that if his closest friend, Orion Black, had been foolish enough to take the mark as he, then it would be Orion’s blood darkening the linen.

"How was he able to claim the Gaunt lordship?"

"Wouldn’t we all like to know?" Abraxas queerly thought to himself. In the handful of hours that had passed after leaving the Wizengamot chamber, he had discreetly combed the Ministry archives to confirm a sinking suspicion he had ever since hearing the young Lord Peverell declare his lordships—the Slytherin lordship was unclaimed. He had spent a total of thirty minutes hastily flipping through yellowed and moth-bitten documents to try to get a handle on his thoughts. He learned that the Peverell lordship was claimed in June, but the Gaunt lordship was only claimed mere days ago. And that same day, Lord Potter abdicated his duties as head of the family. But most shocking of all were the documented qualifications for the still-unclaimed Slytherin lordship.

There were only two—the “ability to speak Parseltongue” and to be “of noble heritage.” He knew that his lord could speak Parseltongue; they were cursed and hexed in the language frequently enough to be assured of that. And if the man who had been using the title by word of mouth for decades now was unable to officially claim the title, it could only mean one thing. As Abraxas' mind spun with this revelation, a profound sense of regret and despair began to wash over him. His entire life, he had followed orders, believed in the superiority of his peers, and supported a cause he now saw for what it truly was: a path of destruction and hopelessness. He had thought that by serving the Dark Lord, he was securing a future for his family, for his son. “But what future was this? A world bathed in blood, ruled by fear, and devoid of any true honor.”

His eyes glazed over the stained table, seeing not the crimson horror, but the faces of those he had wronged. Friends lost, families torn apart, lives shattered by the very ideology he once fervently believed in. He felt the weight of his sins pressing down on him, a suffocating burden with no relief in sight. He knew he could never atone for what he had done. The lives he had helped ruin could never be restored. The terror he had inflicted could never be undone. In his mind, he fled to the familiar verses from which he had plucked his binding vows, seeking solace in the lyrical beauty that spoke of love and loss. But even there, he found no comfort, only a haunting reminder of what could have been. Love, compassion, humanity—these were the things he had forsaken in his blind pursuit of power.

"Silence!"

The sibilant voice, accompanied by wet wails of despair, was what met Abraxas’ ears when he ceased his dissociating. He had missed the majority of the conversation around him. "And no doubt an endless stream of bloodied begging and worthless pleading from whomever their lord saw fit to relieve his anger with at the moment," he thought just before he heard his name called out.

"Abraxas."

"Yes, my lord?" Abraxas asked, his head tilted respectfully low and his mind carefully blanked as he sat to Voldemort’s immediate right side, not even head of his own table.

"Remove this filth," the Dark Lord Voldemort started, "so that Roycephus may have a light meal before his guests arrive."

With a snap of his fingers to call for a house-elf, Abraxas lightly replied, "Yes, my lord."

"Oh, and I am sure you all will keep an eye on a particular guest, should he arrive?" Voldemort asked to no one in particular and was met with a subdued chorus, "Yes, my lord."

In the west dining hall of Malfoy Manor and in the main bedroom of the Bedlam of Themyscira, one thought rang through the early evening: "This is going to be a long night."

Henry sighed from his place sat atop the chaise that ran the foot of his bed. He was already so bloody tired from the Wizengamot session that he would honestly rather call it an early night and crawl into bed. But his long-ago owled response to Lord Lestrange and his house-elves’ excitement to be “taking care of their Lord” stayed his word. “And wasn’t that something to get used to?” Henry thought to himself, “Batty, old, house-elves who hid themselves away and put themselves under a stasis of their own accord ‘until a new Lord Peverell came’ being his new housemates.”

However startling it started off as, he was grateful for their presence. Though this house may look modest in comparison to the other manor homes he had seen on its exterior, the inside was a dizzying labyrinth of rooms that he had gotten lost in once or twice. There were bedrooms for family, and bedrooms for guests, and bedrooms for the house staff. There was a kitchen near as big as the one at Hogwarts that processed everything from the gardens and a dining room that could expand big enough to seat all of Slytherin. On the first floor, there was an elaborate potions lab and a pristine dueling chamber.

While the second floor held an owlery large enough to care for turkey vultures and a sunroom with several astronomy tables. He was sure that there had to be more to the house that he had not been introduced to yet, and more spaces that weren’t photographed seemed to appear every day. Throughout all of his correspondence with Tallowfang, during his home’s evaluation or remodeling, there had been no mention of roaming floor plans or half-alive house-elves. And he knew the goblins to be thorough and diligent in their dealings. So, Henry did not blame them for his surprise. After interacting with them, he knew that Sanguis and Calvaria had simply not wished to be found.

So he did not blame them for their behavior, as they were unlike any house-elves he had seen before. Taller and with more heft, the two did not have the gangly disposition of being too small for their own limbs that all other house-elves he had seen seem to suffer from. Their faces, still primarily taken up by large, wet eyes, seemed to have sharper features overall—near fox-like. They were observant and anticipatory, as he had come to learn of the species to be, but far more critical in their discernment. In their matching knee-length, charcoal-grey, satin gowns adorned with the “Deathly Hallows” symbol, they were a wonder.

Free-elves, with little closets full of clothes of their own, that used their will to loyally cater to the needs of the Peverell family. They brought to mind what Henry could imagine a mature Dobby behaving as. And as he watched the two excitedly blip about the room doing this and that, Henry thought back to what had truly cemented his exhaustion with the day. “I have to give the boy credit, James was able to wait till the session was over before he decided to make a fool of himself,” Henry thought to himself as he thought back to how his would-be father worked himself into a snit.

“Father,” James had huffed, “I still don’t understand! Why do we have to listen to him!”

“James, we will wait to discuss this at home. It is not proper to—“ Lord Potter was cut off as a boisterous voice inserted itself into their hushed conversation.

“Fleamont, my dear friend!” Dumbledore called as he exited the chamber, “How have you been? It seems so much has changed in the blink of an eye!”

As Henry watched Dumbledore amble towards them, he contemplated simply flooing away and leaving Lord Potter to handle the old coot. But he had wished to take his duties as head of his family, green to it as he may be, seriously. So instead of fleeing what he even then knew would be a headache-inducing mess, Henry hung back and watched.

“Albus,” Fleamont greeted with a restrained grimace as he attempted to shuffle his son along, “I do not yet have an update on Bill No.156—”

Once again, Dumbledore had rushed over the man’s words. “Worry not, my boy, for this is simply a social check-up.” Then, as if just then seeing Henry over Fleamont’s shoulder, Dumbledore added, “I must say, I was surprised to hear that you were allowing someone so young to lead you around.”

The words had been said with the same gentle admonishment that seemed to so readily take residence in the man’s throat. While Fleamont and Charlus froze in their places, James seemed to have been bolstered by Dumbledore’s presence. “Yes! Why are you treating him as if he’s more than the vainglorious child that he is?! I mean, for Circe’s sake, father, you cannot expect me to believe that I’m going to have to answer to him!”

“Albus, perhaps you should refrain from speaking with my heir. I’m unsure if you’ve received my owl, but I believe a discussion is needed—”

Fleamont’s words fell on deaf ears as Dumbledore’s soft chuckle was heard over the murmur of those who were attempting to be covert as they nosily lingered about the entrance to the chamber floor. The old wizard’s eyes gleamed in delight at the spectacle James put on as he further ranted. And for long minutes, Henry allowed it. He allowed James to ridicule him for being “just a pretentious child,” he allowed Fleamont and Charlus to grapple with their own differences of weak wills, and he allowed Dumbledore his moment of manipulation.

Then came a pause in James’ rant in which he stopped to regain his breath, and Henry simply stated, “James, if it unsettles you so to answer to me as your Head, then I am benevolent enough in my decisions to simply disown the Potter line altogether.”

The hall seemed to chill at his words and Henry watched Dumbledore’s smile freeze in place, while the elder Potters seemed to take on a shiver. “As a matter of fact, I do believe that would be what’s best for us all.” A commotion kicked up at his words, but Henry paid no heed to Fleamont’s stuttering, Charlus’ rapid questions, or the growing crowd's startled gasps as he spoke on, “I, Henry Iefan Peverell, Lord of the Ancient and Honored House of Peverell, do before Magic disown all heirs of all branches that carry my blood in veins that are not loyal to me.”

He had come across the spell in his first go through of “A Young Lord’s Duty to the State” by D. M. Donald Weaver. While reading it, Henry had assumed that the book was banned for this spell in particular—as the rest was a harmlessly benign account of best practices and history. Even then, this blood-spell was housed in the addendum pages as a note that it was “a young lord's duty to cull the weeds that tempt a barren harvest for one's entire tree.” And it worked so quickly.

No one bore witness to how he had dug his nails into his palm until little rivulets of blood trickled onto the two rings on his hand, no one saw how they glowed in a soft light as the family magic evaluated his command, and no one witnessed how miles away an already magically compromised Voldemort fell to his knees shaking in his stolen office. But they all saw it when James succumbed to the same fate. The laugh he silently gave between himself had been bright and loud at the sight of second-heir Charlus Potter standing there unaffected.

“Though, perhaps he is first-heir now,” Henry had mused as he made his way to James’ fallen body.

He bypassed a stunned Charlus, who seemed just as surprised with his own untouched state, and a whimpering Fleamont, who could not decide whether to soothe his child or fear his Head. With care that he did not truly feel the young man deserved, Henry gently lifted James’ head by his shaking chin so that they could hold each other’s gaze. “This does not have to be permanent,” his voice softly worked down the deathly silent hall, “but I will not tolerate abusers and bullies to carry my family’s legacy. I will not allow you, James, to behave as though there isn’t always someone who is willing to put you in your place.”

Here, Henry looked up to meet Dumbledore’s no longer twinkling gaze. And with a voice just as calm and sweet, he continued, “Because there will always be someone out there willing and able to bring a foolhardy twit to their knees. And that’s not the most comfortable position to find yourself in—isn’t that right, Mr. Dumbledore?”

With a smile sharp enough to cut glass, Henry did not wait for a response. He leisurely removed himself from the Ministry and walked the marble halls until he was able to ride the lift to the floor area. He felt as though he was floating off of the high from publicly performing blood-magic, rectifying James’ temperament, and the wild reactions he overheard from calling out Dumbledore. Now, hours later, Henry knew that his lingering elated spirit was the only reason he had yet to grow irritated at his house-elves fussing.

Despite living at Grimmauld Place with the Order, where had always been on edge, and the Gryffindor dorms, where he had never had alone time, Henry had never truly learned to be at ease while living with others. Especially in a permanent, but non-hostile way. Because the longer Henry stayed here, in his own home, the llore it settled in that this was the path that he had chosen. And the house-elves seemed to sense his discomfort, continually giving him space, never appearing without some sort of notice, and never approaching him from the rear. With an amused sigh, Henry looked over the shoe selection that Calvaria had just finished laying out before him.

His thoughts shifted as the house-elf asked, “Which shoe does Lord Henry think best?”

Henry paused in making his decision to appraise the robes they had chosen for the evening. A three-piece robe set comprised of rich, turquoise georgette, subtly embroidered with gold thread in intricate patterns befitting the celebration of Litha. The outfit was regal, reflecting his acquired status and the solemnity of the occasion. Henry sighed, despondently addressing only the air, “I don’t really want to go.”

The house-elves exchanged worried glances, their large eyes filled with watery concern. “But, Master Henry, it is a special occasion. The Summer Solstice is important,” Calvaria chided from her position kneeling on the ground by the row of only vaguely different black shoes.

“And House Peverell has not had a coming out since the year of Lord Aramee,” said Sanguis from his position by the door, where he was comparing walking sticks that Henry dearly hoped were not intended for him.

With a barely concealed shudder at the thought of Lucius Malfoy, Henry nodded. He raised a hand to run through his hair but stopped when he remembered the arrangement the elves had meticulously made of it. Despite his reluctance, he felt an internal tug, a strange sensation as though the soul attached to his own was excited to go, even if he wasn’t. The feeling was persistent, urging him forward. “How about we switch then, you arse,” Henry silently griped.

As he shuffled into some other Peverell’s trousers that flowed like water against his legs and pooled onto the tops of his feet, he could not help but feel like he was still playing dress-up in this life instead of actually living it. Reviewing bills, attending Wizengamot meetings, plotting out his actions without the familiar presence of Hermione and Ron—it all felt surreal. Although, as he tucked in the accompanying high-collar satin blouse into the matching georgette waistcoat, Henry could not help but admit that whoever he was now looked good. As his eyes settled on himself in the full-length mirror, it occurred to Henry just how much he had matured and grown—how it both scared and motivated him.

Henry thought more of his friends, of how the distance colored his memories of them. He now thought of them, he supposed, more neutrally. Now he could look back on his memories of them with a candid eye and point out times in which they should have loved him better or accepted him more. Moments in which he should have stood his ground or reached out to people beyond them. They were no longer what surmounted his life and community in the wizarding world. Now they were simply, dearly missed, additions to it. But they were not the only ones. He missed so much of what he thought was and often found himself mourning what would never come to be, should he succeed. He thought of his parents, how in his mind they were now both enigmatic war heroes and jejune children.

How, in the quiet of his mind, he both feared and yearned for an understanding of just what type of boy a “Harry Potter” raised by them would grow up to be. A warmer, more sociable Draco came to mind. He thought of how each and every endeavor had brought him here, standing in this moment—as a young man whose eyes he was not afraid to meet, as a greater being with more power than he truly understood. With a simple smile whose warmth rippled through the cosmos, Henry also thought of Severus. Of how he wanted to be someone better, someone more, for him. And the first step in that, he knew, was by being someone the “purebloods” would respect—at least for long enough for him to change their minds on the war. With a resigned sigh, Henry finally said, “Very well, let’s finish getting ready.”

Once dressed, he surveyed himself in the mirror. The robes fit perfectly, exuding an air of nobility and power. His long hair cascaded freely down his strong back.For the first time in his life, he looked at himself and saw “Henry Peverell,” and he actually liked what he saw. With one last look, he took up his invitation, which acted as a portkey to Lestrange Manor. He gave a soft farewell to his house-elves, not avoiding the pure delight in their eyes, before the familiar crack of magic echoed throughout the room. Between one blink and the next, Henry was transported to a beautifully decorated front garden. The opulence of the Lestrange Manor was on full display, in keeping with Litha traditions but with a lavishness that spoke of immense wealth and power.

Lanterns hung from every tree, casting a warm, inviting glow that highlighted the manicured lawns and blooming flower beds. Exotic flowers of every color, some magical and pulsating with light, adorned the pathways up to the grand-standing home. Intricate tapestries depicting scenes of ancient solstice celebrations draped over statues and arches, and fountains of enchanted water sparkled in the moonlight. A large bonfire blazed in the center of the lawn, its flames dancing in the night air and casting shadows that made the entire scene appear almost otherworldly.

As he walked towards the entrance, Henry’s gaze fell upon three familiar figures. The sight of them, young, healthy, and alive in the past, brought a wry smile to his lips. “Well, if it isn’t the notorious trio,” he muttered under his breath. A sick sense of humor bubbled up as he considered the irony of seeing them happy and carefree, knowing the war and the atrocities these three would go on to commit. The juxtaposition of their present innocence with their future infamy was a bitter reminder of the darkness that he knew lay ahead.

Henry made his way up the garden, his steps measured as he took in the luxurious surroundings. The path led him to an imposing marble staircase that ascended towards the grand entrance of the Lestrange Manor. He climbed the steps, each one echoing with a quiet reverence, until he reached the brightly lit foyer. The space was opulent, with gleaming floors and walls adorned with portraits and tapestries that told stories of ancient magic and power.

From his place in line, Henry observed the Lestranges greeting the guests ahead of him. They each stood with an air of authority, welcoming each person before ushering them down the hall towards what he guessed was the ballroom. When it was Henry’s turn, the oldest young man greeted him with a courteous nod.

"Welcome," he said in a voice smooth and practiced. "Allow me to introduce my family. This is my father, Lord Roycephus Lestrange."

Roycephus stepped forward, his exhaustion evident in the lines on his face and the weariness in his eyes. "An honor," he said, his tone formal but weary.

Rodolphus continued, "This is my wife, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix’s eyes sparkled with a dangerous curiosity as she nodded slightly. "So, who might you be?" she asked, her tone informal and lacking the usual tact one would expect for an occasion, such as this.

"And my brother, Rabastan," Rodolphus finished over her, gesturing towards the younger man who stood with a casual elegance.

Rabastan gave a polite nod. "A pleasure," he added, echoing his brother’s formality.

Henry felt the weight of their scrutiny, their eyes evaluating every detail of his appearance and demeanor. He took a deep breath, readying himself for the introduction. "Well met and Happy Solstice," he began, his voice steady and clear. “I am Lord Henry Peverell.”

Roycephus's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah, yes, Lord Peverell. I have been eager to make your acquaintance. It is—rare to meet one of your lineage. Your family has a long and storied history."

Their eyes roamed over him, their expressions initially unreadable. But when they noticed the family crest emblazoned on the left breast of his robes, their reactions changed dramatically. Shock registered on their faces, and they openly blanched. Henry held his ground, explaining with quiet firmness, "This has been and always will be my family crest first and foremost. I aim to cleanse any thought from the world of it being ‘Grindelwald's symbol.’"

Rodolphus looked slightly startled. "A bold declaration, Lord Peverell. One that will undoubtedly draw attention."

Bellatrix stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. "Yes, tell me, Lord Henry, how did you come to possess such a powerful family title? What’s your background?"

Henry deftly avoided her probing questions, his responses polite but evasive. "My family history is complex, Lady Bellatrix. Perhaps another time—after all, there is a growing line."

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed slightly, but before she could press further, more guests arrived, diverting her attention away from him. As he walked away from them down the halls, Henry observed the moving and some empty portraits of various relatives of the family, their eyes following him as he passed. The corridor led him to the entrance of a grand ballroom, where the party was in full swing. The room was filled with members of Dark and Neutral families, their attire as lavish as the decorations that adorned the space. Although Henry knew all of the "Sacred 28" had been invited, the attendance clearly favored those with darker allegiances.

The grand ballroom itself was a sight to behold, with glittering chandeliers casting a warm glow over the revelers. Music played, voices rang out, and the air was thick with the scent of rich perfumes and the sound of clinking glasses. As Henry stepped into the room, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the evening settle upon him, knowing the delicate dance of alliances and enmities that lay ahead.

Henry found himself overwhelmed by the evening's demands. For the past few hours, he had endured endless small talk, too-personal questions, and errant betrothal offers as he mingled with the various guests. The relentless attention and the weight of maintaining his composed demeanor started to wear on him. Deciding he needed a break, Henry remembered the balcony he had seen while making his rounds earlier.

Quietly slipping away from the throng of revelers, he made his way through the maze of corridors until he found the double doors leading to the balcony. He stepped outside and closed the doors behind him, breathing in the cool night air. The noise from the ballroom faded, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets.

Henry walked to the edge of the balcony and leaned against the stone railing, gazing out at the expansive gardens. In the moonlight, he could see a herd of thestrals roaming the back gardens, their skeletal forms moving gracefully among the shadows. He watched them for a while, finding a sense of peace in their eerie beauty.

"Mort," he murmured softly, addressing his constant companion. "What do you think? Any promising allies among those I met earlier?"

Another voice echoed in Henry’s mind, a calm and ancient presence. "Some show potential, though their motives are often shrouded in ambition and fear. Roycephus and Rabastan seem intrigued by you, but they are cautious as they already bear Voldemort’s mark. Rodolphus is wary, but he was raised to respect power. Bellatrix—she is dangerous, her curiosity tinged with madness. Proceed with care, dear one."

Henry nodded, lost in thought as he considered Mort's words. The evening had been a whirlwind, and he knew that navigating the intricate web of alliances and enmities would require patience and strategy. Then, suddenly, the double doors to the patio were thrown open with a bang, shattering the tranquility. Thorfinn Rowle stormed onto the balcony, his face contorted with rage. He barely registered Henry’s presence as he marched to the banister and gripped it tightly, his knuckles white with anger.

"That whore!" Thorfinn spat, his voice filled with venom. "My own fiancé, making a fool of me in front of everyone! Throwing herself at other men right in front of me—the nerve!"

Henry watched silently, sensing the depth of Thorfinn's humiliation and fury. Thorfinn continued to rant, oblivious to Henry's presence.

"How dare she! After everything I've done for her, this is how she repays me? Embarrassing me in front of the entire assembly. I'll show her. She won't get away with this."

Henry remained still, contemplating whether to intervene or simply allow Thorfinn to vent his frustrations. The situation was volatile, and he knew that any involvement would need to be handled delicately. For now, he chose to observe, waiting to see if Thorfinn's rage would abate or escalate further.

"You could always kill her," Henry said suddenly. It was not what he intended to say, but he didn’t feel bad for it as he watched champagne dribble from Rowle's nose after his tirade. The surprised look on the other’s face as he attempted to clean himself up was worth a chuckle.

“Fucking hell, Peverell, this is silk!”

“Sorry, lad,” Henry said with no apology in his voice.

“Yeah, well, it was still funny,” Rowle said, still ruefully dabbing at his robes. “And such hastily made decisions are unnecessary. We have a clause in our contract that any and all children she bears will be heirs to the Rowle family—whether by conception or blood adoption doesn't matter.”

“And you’re—okay with that?” Henry couldn’t help but ask. He didn’t know why, but he felt for this boy who would rather sullenly drink his problems away than cause a scene. “You could always end your relationship with her and marry someone you can at least neutrally endure.”

“Aye, but it would take far too much time to find another suitable partner, and I do not have that in abundance.” Rowle looked at him oddly for a moment before he spoke again, “I’m unsure as to why you care, Peverell, but thank you. The truth is, I would endure anything so that I may claim my family’s lordship—even marry that wog-ridden whore, because it pleases my father to see me wed before he steps down.”

They stood on that ledge overlooking the garden in comfortable silence as the night grew longer. The muffled squeal of string instruments continually flowed from the glass doors at their backs. Every now and then, an evening critter or two danced to the tunes as they sniffed through the greenery. Henry went back to watching the stars, not minding the quiet company. He had gotten through the first half of his mental list of the constellations and was trying to find Grus when Rowle spoke again. It was a simple, “Want to go get into something stupid?” followed by a bubbly hiccup.

Henry looked over and could blame a lot of things on the decisions he knew he would make moving forward that night. He could blame Rowle’s eyes for holding a shade of mischief he had last seen worn by Fred and George. He could blame Rowle’s weary smile for looking far too close to Ron’s. It could have also been the way that, in the low light, Rowle looked a bit like a bigger Neville. But no—Henry knew that it was the way Rowle made him laugh when he tacked on, “I know where the library in this place is. You seem like the type to only raid people for their boring shit” — for it was a laugh that was wholly Harry Potter.

Together they hopped the banister and crept along the edges of the garden, disappearing into the shadows as the grand ballroom continued to buzz with life behind them.

Chapter Text

June 28, 1975:

Henry stood in the grand yet disheveled attic of the Bedlam of Themyscira, surrounded by a chaos of forgotten artifacts, dusty relics, and the ancient belongings of various Peverells. The room, which stretched the length of the house, was cluttered with trinkets from generations of Peverells and felt like an honorable testament to a lineage steeped in history and magic. With a sigh, he readjusted his rolled up sleeve and turned an eye on Sanguis and Calvaria — who were shuffling things around according to his direction.

He had already decided that if he was going to live out the rest of this life here, he would do so on his own terms. The next step was to make this place a home. Besides a few portraits and rugs, the house was surprisingly bare. So here he was, dispelling curses and cobwebs to see if there was anything in up here that held any interest, after complaining to the house-elves that the place felt empty.

Sanguis, an elf with a perpetually serious expression, had simply nodded, and asked, "And when will master be changing this to his liking?"

Now, after coughing on the up-tenth dust mite, Henry regretted having ever opened his mouth. They had made polite conversation all morning as they combed through the boxes of personal items that showed many lives well-lived. The elves made a point to give him bits of information on the various items they could recall. And in the quiet summer sun, Henry was able to learn more about not only the Peverell family but these two as well.

Calvaria, who he observed to be more mischievous and sprightly, bounced on her toes. "Oh, there are so many treasures here! Like a grand adventure!"

Henry chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. "Indeed, Calvaria. Let's move on to those crates over there."

Sanguis pried open the next crate and Henry's eyes were drawn to a small, intricately carved wooden box inside. On its lid, a feline creature he couldn’t quite identify merrily jumped about. He lifted it gently, brushing off the dust. When he opened it, a delicate bronze bracelet lay inside, adorned with a single, luminous gemstone. "This reminds me of Hermione," Henry murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "It’s the same brown as her eyes."

“Hermione?” Calvaria asked, intrigued by the warmth of her master's smile as he gazed upon the random piece of jewelry.

Henry hummed as he softly closed the lid. “She was as good as a sister to me—hard to please, always with a critical eye, and utterly brilliant in every way. I miss her.”

“Madame Hermione be gone, master?” Sanguis asked with a slight tug of his pointed ears.

Henry was only able to offer a gentle nod as they moved on to the next crate. Setting the bracelet aside and not noticing as one of the elves sent it away to settle onto the changing table in his room, Henry looked down into the medium-sized box that was floated over to him. In it was a bright, mismatched assortment of misshapen knitted socks spilling from a worn leather bag. Beside it lay a collection of knitting needles, small scissors, and several bits he could not name. "Perhaps I could make Mrs. Weasley proud and learn to knit,” he mused. Looking on to take in how each sock was unique, vibrant, and full of character—“just like them,” he wistfully thought.

Sanguis and Calvaria exchanged a glance, the serenity in their master's voice unmistakable. Silently, they moved the socks to one of their master’s drawers and the needles and such to a shelf in his office. They then continued to help, handing him crates and boxes one by one. From one of them, Henry picked up a delicate headband. It was some form of spun silver with shimmering crystals that caught the light from the windows, cascading along the floors and walls in a way that showed off far more colors than the simple pale stone at its center should be capable of. "Luna," he said softly. "I miss her ethereal spirit and boundless imagination."

“Correct master,” Calvaria happily called from his shoulder, as he still kneeled before the crates, “that was Lady Elizabeth‘s. Luna-stones were her favorite.”

Smiling, He eyes said to her, “I think they may be my favorite too.”

More space was cleared as they worked through the attic. Henry kept anything of interest or value and asked that all else was donated to the nearest muggle shelter or destroyed. He could now see the floor around him and had begun to go through the storage on autopilot. He lazily went through old dish-ware, moth eaten towels, and then next were the remnants of someone’s childhood. And from an old trunk, between loose puzzle pieces and bits of broken toys, a remembrall found its way into his hands. Henry laughed until his stomach hurt as he watched the cloudy magic inside turn a bright red. "The only problem is, I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten," Henry whispered. "Neville."

Henry tossed it about like a snitch before he pocketed the ball to turn over a battered, dog-eared book of magical fairy tales. Its cover adorned with a faded wolf emblem that swayed slightly in its walk. And before he knew it, he spent far longer than he expected paging through warm stories of a little boy chosen by a loving and just Magic to keep the lonely Moon company. Stories of a boy who knew no pain and knew no strife, and was only cherished for being what he was. "Remus," Henry whispered to himself, voice tinged with sorrow and admiration. "Was he not deserving of such kindness, despite all he faced?"

The shadows and the elves made no comment on the misting of his eyes as they silently observed him from the sidelines. Later on, in another rusted trunk he found a well-worn leather jacket, the kind that seemed to have seen many stories. As he moved it about, its creases were butter-smooth and it kicked up the faint scent of clove. It was not the correct style, not even from the right era, but as he pressed it to his face Henry could not help but sigh, "Sirius.” A bittersweet smile on his lips. Feeling a little rebellious himself, Henry slipped on the slightly too big jacket as he moved on to another crate.

In that same trunk, he came across a hand-stitched photo album. The edges were a bit worn, the colors were slightly faded, and the people in them sluggishly moved—but the love in their faces was unmistakable. Slowly, he turned through the lives of his distant relatives and came upon a face that gave him pause. A little boy, smiling up at the camera from where he was making a mess in a kitchen he recognized being just a few floors below. “Dad," Henry’s mind whispered—even as he took in the small writing just below the picture, that stated, “Grover E. Peverell, 1826, preparing biscuits for Galia’s departure to Hogwarts.”

Noticing Henry’s captivation with the pictures, the house elves spoke up. Sanguis began, “Lady Galia be Lordy Grover’s sister. They both be Lordy Byrne’s grandchildren.”

“And one of Lordy Byrne’s fathers, Lordy Moulton Peverell, built this house,” continued Calvaria.

“I read a bit about that in the papers from Gringotts,” Henry started. Then after a thought he added, “Honestly, I can’t believe you two have been here all this time. And that you stayed quiet when they came to do the initial inspection. What would have happened if I had chosen a different house?”

With a shake of her floppy ears, Calvaria said, “We would have simply followed new Lordy Peverell there, as was our vow.”

“We felt the moment Lordy Henry take hold of the family magic, so we wait,” said Sanguis with a mischievous smile. “For we can find our lord anywhere he may be.”

“That makes me feel a little better,” Henry sighed. Looking down at the leather-bound album still in his hands, Henry asked, “Can you put this somewhere better? I don’t know—”

The elves cut him off in unison, “We know just the place!”

And Henry lightly laughed as one popped away while the other dragged over a heavy chest. Once he lifted the lid, Henry discovered that it looked to be knickknacks from someone’s office. He asked the house elves to move over some things from it into his own office—a few books, boxes of sleek quills, beautifully shimmering ink. And then he pulled out another box from inside to find, on top of a satin pillow, a statue of a polished albino serpent. Its near-translucent body coiled into a striking pose with eyes that resembled a stormy night sky.

"It’s beautiful," he acknowledged, tracing the serpent's intricate carving. "It reminds me of a boy I once knew. He was one of the few consistent parts of my life. Even when my fair-weather friends lost their way and the whole of the wizarding world seemed against me, I could count on Draco to always be himself, to treat me the same as he always had. Our past was complicated, but I think I’ll keep this—as a reminder of the redemption and change that everyone is capable of."

Then, after a beat, Calvaria asked, “Is Mister Draco gone too?”

With a tilt of his head, unsure what the little creature was getting at, Henry  queerly confirmed, “Yes?”

“Oh,” the little thing thought for a moment, “many people have left Lordy Henry.”

“Yes,” Henry admitted once he understood what the little creature was getting at. But he had grown too much to dwell on any phantom pains of the past, so he said, “I have met many people since coming here too. And I am very grateful to have met you two.” The three shared a gentle smile before he looked down into his hands. Then he asked, “Could you place this by my desk?”

“Of course, master!”

As Henry watched the two squabble over just who got to take it away, he noticed that the room seemed to have gained some warmth. Each artifact was a silent testament to the people who had shaped his life. But they had all belonged to another. And as he leaned into his connection to the veil between worlds, Henry knew that he was not only keeping the memory of his loved ones alive. Henry looked around, his heart full of memories and a renewed sense of purpose. "This will do nicely," he said, his voice steady. "Let's bring a bit of the past into the present."

Sanguis and Calvaria nodded, their eyes shining with a shared understanding. Together, they began the task of placing the noted items and several bits of furniture that Henry adored on sight. They had been at this task for days now and each time he did so with care and reverence, turning the Bedlam of Themyscira into a living tapestry of memories and magic. As they meticulously arranged the artifacts, Sanguis caught sight of the old grandfather clock that had only recently been tucked into a corner of the dining room, its hands moving with a deliberate, dignified slowness.

"Master Henry," Sanguis said, his voice gently insistent, "the time. You have a Wizengamot meeting to attend."

"Right. It’s Saturday again. Thank you, Sanguis,” Henry sighed, arranging a plate set that he chose because of their little bobbing lilies. Tiredly, Henry went upstairs to swap his dusty, casual attire for the formal, though somewhat hideous, Wizengamot robes. He slipped on simple trousers beneath the robes, their plainness a stark contrast to the elaborate garment. After a final check, he went across the floor, stepped into the grand fireplace, and flooed to the Ministry of Magic.

Emerging from the swirling green flames, with a sturdy gait he was not ashamed to have practiced, Henry quickly made his way to the Wizengamot chamber. He took his seat between Lord Potter and Lord Yaxley, the weight of his position settling around him like an old, familiar cloak. Around him the chamber buzzed with the usual hum of formality and protocol. But the discussions often seemed like little more than hot air to Henry. So he was not surprised to find his mind wandering as he tuned-out the droning voices around him until a voice cut through the haze.

“Go ahead, speak, Lady Macmillan.”

“Thank you, Senior Under-secretary Fack, for the floor,” Thesta Macmillan began, her tone polite but resolute. “I am here to challenge statute no. 1996 which bans the use of all blood magic, in all instances, and wish to amend its wording to allow its use for healing purposes.”

A wave of murmurs and objections rippled through the chamber, but Lady Macmillan pressed on undeterred. “Before you is a docket highlighting specific components of the current statute that form a law overarching in its control of the life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness of wizardkind. It does not protect my fellow wixen so much as it forces us to make hard choices in times of crucial decision-making. Does one choose to save themselves, the life of another, or does one choose to break the law?”

Henry sat up straighter, his interest piqued by her passionate words. Lady Macmillan continued with pride and determination, “We, the Macmillan family and those who have given their support, wish to change the restrictive l, all-encompassing language that leaves no leeway for self-preservation in times of dire straits. It is the right of every wixen to use all means at their disposal to protect themselves, heal themselves, and keep themselves alive—especially in times like these.”

Her words hung in the air, a bold declaration against the tide of opposition. Henry marveled at her courage as she stood flat-footed and firm in the face of abject hatred from all sides of the chamber. “There is a war raging beyond these walls, ladies and gentlemen. And no matter your views and opinions on it, I do believe that we can all agree that every drop of magical blood is precious, no more so than your own.”

Henry could see the indecision flickering in the eyes of those around him. Some wished to dismiss her outright due to her affiliations, while others refused to acknowledge the validity of magic they did not personally endorse. He felt a surge of empathy and admiration for Lady Macmillan and knew he had to support her somehow.

Unwittingly, his mouth opened. “A demonstration perhaps?”

“The hell? I know I’m not that damned tired—Mort?!” Henry mentally hissed as Lady Macmillan’s eyes widened slightly in his direction.

“Apologies for the lack of notice, but I do love a bit of blood magic in the morning,” Mort said with a wry smile Henry could feel pressed into the notches of his spine. “Besides, this will help.”

“Thank you, Lord Peverell, for the suggestion,” Lady Macmillan responded. “As an example, these are three spells from my family’s grimoire that are taught to every child before they are even asked to wield a wand. I choose them to demonstrate an example of how Blood Magic could be used without harm.”

With a wave of her wand, she conjured a small, animated squirrel inside of a magnified glass jar. “For the first spell,” she said, “we use it to keep blood that has been spilled from the body healthy and uncontaminated.” She made a precise cut on the squirrel's leg, letting a few drops of spill out and pool at the base of the jar. With a murmured incantation the blood shimmered with a protective glow, but it still steadily flowed out.

Next, she moved on to the second spell. “This spell is used to quickly coagulate the entrance of a wound.” With another incantation, the flow of blood stalled and cut on the squirrel's leg began to rapidly boil over in-place as the blood clotted instantly to form a protective seal.

“And finally,” she said, “a spell to keep two ends of a severed limb viable for reattachment for up to twelve hours.” She performed a slicing motion, and the squirrel's leg detached, flopping about independently as the creature tried to crawl away. Undeterred, Lady Macmillan cast the final spell. A faint glow indicated the spell was in effect, keeping the severed ends alive and healthy without further bloodshed.

As the demonstration concluded, murmurs filled the chamber. It’s seemed others did no know just yet how to react, but Lady Abbot raised her hand immediately. Her face stern, once she was acknowledged by the under-secretary, she said, “While I admire the skill and care with which Lady Macmillan has demonstrated these spells, I firmly believe that the current law stands correctly and with purpose. Any form of blood magic should be approved only for use within the confines of St. Mungo's. The public use of such magic is far too dangerous.”

Lord Nott followed, without awaiting approval, his voice dripping with disdain. “I concur with Lady Abbot, but for a different reason. Not everyone has family magic and grimoires to pull from. I refuse to have my family’s ways taught to the lesser wixen who cannot appreciate the true depth of such magic.”

Henry felt a mixture of frustration and determination welling up inside him. He knew he had to speak up again. When it came his turn, Henry stiffly said, "With all due respect to Lady Abbot and Lord Nott, the matter at hand is not about the dispersal of knowledge but about saving lives. The spells Lady Macmillan demonstrated are not weapons but tools for healing. In times of war and crisis, we need every tool at our disposal to protect our people. The statute as it stands is too restrictive and could cost lives that might otherwise be saved."

From his chair in the chamber, given to him for his international position as Supreme Mugwump, Albus Dumbledore spoke up. “Lady Macmillan,” the man started, completely ignoring Henry’s statement, “I commend you for your courage to speak on something you believe in so deeply. However, I feel what you are proposing would be too difficult to teach, monitor, and regulate effectively.”

After receiving a polite nod from the Under-secretary, unlike Dumbledore, Henry lowered his hand and met the Headmaster’s gaze as criticism head on. “I must object, Headmaster. The use of blood magic for healing purposes could save countless lives. It is our duty to explore and utilize every means available to protect our people.”

Dumbledore looked at him with mild surprise. “Lord Peverell, your objection is noted. However, consider the potential chaos and danger of unregulated blood magic.”

Henry’s eyes flashed. “With all due respect, Headmaster, we already live in a world full of chaos and danger. What Lady Macmillan proposes isn’t an invitation to recklessness but a lifeline in desperate times. If we can teach young wixen to perform complex spells and brew intricate potions, surely we can teach them to use blood magic responsibly.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we monitor such practices? How do we prevent abuse?”

Henry took a deep breath to keep his irritation from being evident in his voice. “By the same means we monitor all other magic: education and accountability. We do not ban healing potions because some could be misused. We educate our children on their proper use. Blood magic, especially for healing, should be no different. Imagine a world where we can save lives more effectively, where we are not bound by outdated fears but guided by a will to survive and thrive.”

Henry leaned forward, his voice resonating through the chamber. “Every drop of magical blood is precious. We should not let fear of misuse keep us from using every tool at our disposal to protect and heal our community. The war raging outside these walls demands that we evolve, that we adapt. To deny ourselves the means to heal is to condemn ourselves to needless suffering. We owe it to ourselves and future generations to embrace the potential of blood magic for healing.”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Henry. “Ah—to be young. You speak with passion, but there is much you do not understand. Blood magic is not a simple matter of education. It carries risks and consequences far beyond your current comprehension.

Henry bristled at the condescension in Dumbledore’s tone. “Headmaster, I am aware of my age, but I am not a child to be patronized. I understand the risks. I also understand the potential. To dismiss this magic out of hand is to ignore its benefits. We have the means to teach responsible use and ensure accountability.”

Dumbledore sighed, his tone growing sharper. “The very nature of blood magic makes it prone to abuse. It is not as simple as you make it out to be. It is inherently tied to the caster's intent and emotions, making it volatile and unpredictable.”

Henry held his ground. “That volatility can be managed with proper education and oversight. We have faced greater challenges and overcome them through unity and innovation. This is another such challenge. Let us not shy away from it but face it head-on.”

From her seat, Lady Macmillan nodded in agreement, before saying, “If we can develop a standardized curriculum and certification process for the responsible use of blood magic, we can mitigate these risks. We owe it to our community to explore this option thoroughly.”

Voices called from all sides of the chamber, shouting out their opinions. The cacophony grew louder until Dumbledore spoke up again, his tone admonishing as he addressed Henry, “This is a slippery slope, my boy.”

“Young, he may be. But I find my in agreement with Lord Peverell,” came from further down the Lord’s section before Henry had a chance to cut down Dumbledore’s words. He leaned forward to take in the man who had spoken. Henry remembered him, from Fleamont’s hushed rundown of “who’s who” during their last session, as being Lord Rowle. Henry stopped to take in the burly man’s slyly smiling face, then listened on with surprised attention as the man said, “Are we not wizards? Do we not dictate the laws of ‘what is’ and ‘what is not’ every day? What say you, Dumbledore, to a man younger than yourself who seems to possess far more wit to understand that.”

A bit of verbal sparring ensued between Lord Rowle and Dumbledore, each defending their stance with fervor. Henry, fueled by a deep sense of conviction, butted as he launched into an impassioned speech. “Blood magic, when used responsibly, is a tool like any other. It can heal, save, and preserve life. Are we to let people die when we have the means to help them? We cannot let fear dictate our actions. We must be brave enough to embrace the potential of this magic—for the greater good.”

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, and his tone became more severe. “Your naivety is showing, my boy. You do not fully grasp the weight of your words or the danger you invite.”

A hush fell over the chamber as the Senior Under-secretary for the Wizengamot, Fack, banged his gavel to issue a warning to Dumbledore. “Professor Dumbledore, it is inappropriate for you to continually address Lord Peverell in such a manner. Refrain from using informal titles.”

Dumbledore, looking slightly abashed, nodded in acknowledgment. The rest of the chamber remained tense, the weight of the debate pressing down on everyone present. A hush had fallen over the chamber as Henry's words resonated. The tension was palpable, the weight of the decision heavy on everyone present. Flack then cleared his throat to speak, "We will take a vote on whether to amend the statute to allow the use of blood magic for healing purposes. All in favor?"

As hands began to rise, Henry felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could make a change that would truly benefit the wizarding world. The chamber buzzed with murmurs of both agreement and dissent as the members of the Wizengamot cast their votes. Each nod, each murmur, seemed to carry the weight of the decision at hand. Henry watched as hands went up around the chamber, some hesitantly, others with conviction. The tally was close, and as the final count was made, it was clear that the motion had passed by a narrow margin. Finally, Fack announced the results. “The vote stands: Favor given in amending the current law, by one point. Lady Macmillan, you have one week to submit your proposed amendment for consideration before the chamber.”

Henry exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. A mixture of surprise, disbelief, and cautious optimism filled the chamber. Henry sat in stunned silence for a moment, the reality of his first victory sinking in. But it did not last long as Dumbledore’s voice cut above the noice in the chamber.

His face remained impassive, but Henry could see the conflict in his eyes. “Very well,” Dumbledore said. “The amendment is passed — but mark my words, Lord Peverell, the responsibility for this decision lies heavily on all our shoulders. We must proceed with utmost caution.”

Henry ignored the Headmaster blatantly singling him out and nodded, feeling the weight of the decision but also a sense of accomplishment. “And we will, Headmaster. We owe it to those we seek to protect, those we seek to nurture, and the magic given to us to do right by the intent of our every spell. Be it Cleaning Magic or Blood Magic, the danger lay with the Wixen — not Lady Magic’s gift.”

As the session adjourned, Henry felt a renewed sense of purpose. The path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but for the first time in a long while, he felt hopeful about the future of the wizarding world. As others lingered, he quickly made his way to the floo — avoiding the congratulatory words and probing questions from his peers. He needed to escape, to process everything in the quiet solitude of his home.

Henry finally stepped into the fireplace and murmured the incantation that would take him back to his manor. The familiar tug of floo travel enveloped him, and moments later, he emerged into the welcoming warmth of his own hearth. The sting of coming home to a mostly empty house was slightly alleviated by the scent of freshly baked bread and the faint aroma of herbs greeted him.

Then, with a soft pop, one of the elves greeted him. "Master Henry, an early dinner is ready," Sanguis said softly, his eyes shining with devotion.

"Thank you, Sanguis," Henry replied, offering a tired smile as he made his way to the dining room. It was a long but simple room—bare except for a handful of paintings, a towering grandfather clock, and a long table that rang the length of six double-wide floor-to-ceiling windows. The “Family Dining-room” was not meant to be impressive or formal. This was meant to inspire slow-going conversation, the occasional mess, and easy memories. As he walked to his seat across the room from the door, Henry took in the various dents and scratches in the study table. Each notch, nick, and stain in the hardwood told a story of people who lived.

It was unusual for him to be in a place so full of life but devoid of people. 4 Privet Drive had felt like a hollow shell as Aunt Petunia attempted to keep it as boring and bland as every other house on the block. But it was still always filled with noise of the telly, the banging of pots and pans, or the voices that were only ever rarely directed his way. And people had been so preoccupied with tearing Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place apart from its seams—people who knew nothing of its history—that Henry had not gotten the chance to ask if there was anything in those halls worth preserving.

He knew that Sirius largely despised his mother’s existence, his father had been of no help, and his time in there in general was sullied. But Henry often wondered if, given time, Sirius would have seen him as “family” enough to include him in on the tales that only shadows and the portraits could recall. As he tucked himself into his chair, Henry could not help but admire how old magical homes felt different. He especially found comfort in the latent magic that buzzed through the walls. Here and the townhouse was brimming with dark magic and stagnant memories—but Henry found that the Peverell Manor was truly beginning to feel like home.

And it was largely in part due to his house-elves insistence to make him acquainted with every aspect, every memory, and every tale of the home they could recall. Both good and bad, they two had made it a point to ensure the newest member of their family was deeply entrenched in the knowledge of everything to do with those he now claimed to belong to. It reminded him of standing beside Sirius looking on at the Black Family Tapestry. It had felt solemn, it had felt absurd—but to Henry, even if it came with a sad tale, standing before real family heritage was so moving that he often came back to that little sitting-room. Being included by Sirius enough to learn family secrets and family woes was so awe-inspiring that he often lingered in the man presence, hoping that a repeat would come.

Henry sighed at himself as he started in on the simple meal of soup, bread, and cheese that cluttered the head of the table. After the day he had, it was exactly what he needed. He ate slowly, savoring the quiet and the comfort of home. As he chewed, Henry took in the room around him. A long painting of a Jack Russell Terrier running the length of a pond as an otter peaked its head up every now and then had been given a home on the wall to his left. It had been tucked away behind an old couch in the attic and he had asked the house-elves to make space for it somewhere in the house, as it was too perfect to pass up. The glistening water in the summer afternoon, the billowing greenery, the hair and ears flopping about the little dog with its every move, and the otter gleefully grinning every time it ducked out of sight—it was enough to make him cry ugly tears for far too long this morning. But now, as he silently ate beside it, it almost felt like he had their company.

As his thoughts eased between one bite and the next, Henry asked, “Has anything come for me while I was out?”

“Yes,” Sanguis dutifully replied, “I put a letter from Lordy Prince on master’s desk an hour ago.”

“Thank you. Would you—“ Henry paused to soothe a spark of anxiety before he started again, “Would it be okay if I invited Lord Prince here to discuss something? Like, could you put on a light lunch for us—it’s okay to discuss courting over lunch, right?”

Calvaria squealed, “Lordy Peverell will be courting?!”

Twin screams of excitement rang out over the room and shattered an empty goblet further down the table at his nod. With a tired but bemused smile, Henry waved his hand to banish the shards of glass away, as he answered, “Yes. Lord Prince has already agreed to allow me to court a member of his family. But I want the man to formally declare Severus as his heir. I also want to make sure I don’t muck up any of their family-specific arrangements and traditions, so I figured it be best to just ask the man, himself.”

“Very well thought, master,” Sanguis said with a slight manic gleam in his wide eyes. “And master will be hosting here?” The house-elf then looked to the other and the two then broke out in a rapid conversation among themselves on what meat would be the most enjoyed and of which vegetables from the garden would be the most presentable.

With a content sigh, Henry resolved to leave the matter of his meeting with Lord Prince to them. With a quick farewell, Henry wandered the halls back to his bedroom. His thoughts drifting as he moved from room to room. The ancient tapestries and portraits watched over him, silent witnesses to his musings. The house was more and more becoming decorated to his liking. A blend of the old and new, creating a space that felt both comforting and personal. It was a place of solace, yet it also held a bittersweet reminder of the relationships he yearned for with his parents, Sirius, and Remus. He still mourned the bonds he wished he could have with them, knowing that time and circumstances had made it impossible.

But even if they hurt, the reminders helped him to not feel so out of place as his mind turned to the past, reflecting on the time since he had arrived. The decisions he had made, the people he had met, and the challenges he had faced all swirled together. As Henry continued his solitary walk through the manor, he resolved to navigate these challenges with care and determination. He would honor his past, cherish his present, and strive for a future that held promise and hope for everyone he cared about.

He thought of writing to Severus, longing to share his thoughts and the events of the day, but he hesitated. Henry could recognize the relationship they were building and the complicated feelings it stirred within him. The potential for a deep, meaningful connection was there, but so were the risks and uncertainties. And there were strains on what they had already built by barriers like these. The boy's situation with his father was precarious, and Henry didn't want to add to his troubles by sending an owl to the home—but he yearned to be able to just talk with his partner.

Frustrated, Henry threw himself face first into his comfortable bed after he crossed the room’s threshold. His only plan for the remainder of the early evening was to sleep away the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

June 28, 1975

Unfortunately for him, his plans have never quite amounted to much. Henry could not fall asleep. He lay in bed, trying to ignore the constant buzzing sensation under his skin. Today had been particularly exhausting. Henry’s muscles ached from hours spent cleaning the attic, and the dust had aggravated his senses. But that physical strain paled in comparison to the emotional toll the Wizengamot meeting had taken. The weight of the decisions, the politics, and the ever-present tension had drained him more than he cared to admit. His next thoughts were distracted as he felt Mort’s attention sharpen on him.

When he felt the being’s consciousness begin to creep gradually closer, Henry sighed in contentment as the stress of the day bled off him and allowed himself to just bask in their connection. Whenever the other drew near, it always relaxed his muscles, warmed his blood, and loosened his thoughts. And now, constantly carrying a part of that presence, that power, did nothing to amend that. It had only refined Henry’s ability to act “normal,” “human,” in public.

But Henry knew that he wasn’t, not entirely—not any longer. Not with the way he could feel it ripple through his veins and pool in his lungs. Not with the way it made his hand itch to take hold of his body as it ceaselessly buzzed beneath his skin. And not with how it perpetually made him wish to release it, to let it free. Henry had taken to wandless, wordless magic with a fever since jumping through the timeline. But since becoming one with Death, it had become even easier for him than before. At this point, he only knew that his wand was in the bedside drawer because Sanguis had mentioned placing it there days ago after finding it somewhere about the house.

It felt so freeing, so divine, to walk the earth and mark it as he pleased. It felt enthralling and beautiful to create and destroy the world around him as he saw fit. Henry did not know if it was due to the influence of his stunted childhood, his nonsensical rearing, or his connection with Mort that left him wanting to experience life without any limiters. That made him yearn to remake the Wizarding World in his image, to show everybody just what magic could truly do.

And magic could truly do a lot. His—their magic in particular. Even with his human eyes closed, Henry saw that it had started to swallow the walls and captured the floor. He watched how it penetrated the barriers of this realm until theirs spilled inside. It was a contained mess, however, as Henry could feel that it did not go further than the space of his bedroom. He let their magic overcome him as wall, lulling himself into a state that was neither here nor there. But just as he started to drift off, to thoughts of black eyes and a crooked smile, Mort’s voice echoed in his mind.

“You know, if you keep mooning over Severus like that, he might come to believe you are a lovesick puppy,” Mort teased, his tone light and mocking.

Henry sighed, rolling onto his side. “I’m not mooning over him,” he mumbled, though he knew it was a weak protest.

“Truly? Because from where I am standing—well, lying—it looks an awful lot like you are smitten.” Mort’s chuckle reverberated in Henry’s mind, brushing against his thoughts like a playful breeze.

Henry frowned. “You’re one to talk,” he retorted in a frustrated grumble. “Besides, we aren’t all as in touch with our feelings as you.”

Mort’s presence seemed to shift, drawing closer. “Touché,” he said lightly. “But, Henry, what are you so afraid of? That he will not respond to you in ways that merit how you have come to favor him? Or that he will?”

Henry’s silence spoke volumes. Mort’s teasing always had an edge to it, a way of cutting through his defenses.

With a sigh, Mort continued, his tone softening slightly, “What is it you truly want from Severus?”

Henry could not tell where the question originated from, the voices in his head now nearly indistinguishable, but he figured even if he kept his eyes and mouth closed, his response would be heard all the same. So, with half a mind, as he was deeply tired, Henry thought honestly, “Whatever he’s willing to give.”

A noncommittal noise lightly reverberated through the air in answer. Henry was unsure how to interpret it, how to respond. He could have asked for Mort's reason for the question. He could have gone on a tangent about how he sometimes still felt Snape’s blood on his hands. He could have mused about his ever-growing feelings for Severus. But deep down, he knew there was no point—that Mort already knew his every thought, hope, and wish. Mort had already combed through his fears, desires, and dreams.

So, after a moment more of thought, Henry nervously asked, “You—okay with that?” With his eyes still closed, feeling the familiar mix of frustration and comfort that Mort’s presence brought, Henry griped, “I know it’s been different for you, that since your beginning you’ve been lonely too. But—”

Mort’s laughter was a soft gust that shivered down his back, almost sad. “Oh, Henry, you have no idea. But I’ve got a good thing here. I’m not about to let it go.”

Henry felt a pang of empathy. He knew Mort was able to linger longer than before, with half an eye always on his goings-on in the mortal realm. But in this moment, Mort’s presence wrapped around Henry like a tangible embrace. “Just remember,” Mort said, his voice barely above a whisper, “we’re in this together. You are I, and I am you.”

A chuckle that didn’t quite come out of Henry’s lips brushed against the side of his face all the same. Then Henry further heard, “I see his appeal. Besides, I will never complain about having another to hold on to. As long as you’re still mine.”

Henry felt Mort’s possessiveness tighten in his chest, a reminder of their bond. It was both comforting and suffocating, a paradox that defined their relationship. Mort’s fear of being alone again was palpable, even if he tried to hide it behind jokes and jabs. Henry’s reluctance to delve deeper into his feelings for Severus stemmed not only from his own uncertainties but also from the complex relationship he shared with Mort. The idea of Mort knowing every intimate detail, every burgeoning desire, made him uneasy. They were bound in a way that transcended the physical, and Mort’s teasing often left Henry wondering where the lines of their connection truly lay.

But even as Henry lay there, trying to digest the other’s words, he felt soothed by the weight settled around him. He could feel the Veil drawing closer as the two parts of the now same soul drew closer in attention. It was as though he was blanketed in the presence of their realm. It now cloaked the room even more thoroughly in their dark, thick magic—easing the way for his consciousness to expand and assess their bond. He could see them both, in this realm and that. He could feel them both, in spirit and mind. And just as Mort knew Henry, Henry knew Mort. What surprised him, though truly he knew that it shouldn’t, was his feelings he picked up over their bond of Mort’s desire to grow his collection.

Sharing Henry with Severus truly did not seem to bother Mort, because in his mind, gaining Severus was another way of expanding his hold. And Henry found in himself that he truly did not mind this arrangement. But Mort’s question lingered in the quiet of his own thoughts, prompting him to truly consider what he wanted from Severus. As he reflected on the relationship they had built so far, Henry felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Courting Severus officially was a prospect that thrilled him, thrilled them both. Henry’s interactions with Severus had always been charged with an unspoken intensity. And though he now knew why, the idea that things between them would undoubtedly become more intimate both excited and terrified him.

“Why,” Mort mused, “have you allowed me to take hold of you?”

“That’s not the same! With you it’s like—a self-hug. Or running your own hand through your hair. With Severus—” Henry trailed off in confusion as he attempted to parse out his feelings. Arousal and shame swarmed violently in his belly. He had already started the complex process of vulnerability, of opening up to Severus—of allowing himself to be seen and known in ways he had never allowed anyone before. It was daunting.

But where his thoughts ran to now was even more so. He knew that eventually he’d want to have sex with Severus when the other was ready, but thinking too long on it turned his brain into mush. There was too much going on magically, ethically, and politically for Henry to even understand what the “right” and “wrong” of this situation was. Henry’s thoughts drifted to the moments they had shared—the glances, the conversations, the subtle touches. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of anticipation at the thought of what could be. Yet, underlying his desire was a nervousness that gnawed at him.

He had an understanding of how sex between two men was done—after all, the books he had owl-ordered did a fantastic job of filling him in on the finer details. And from this, he knew that he did not wish to be the partner that took. His admittedly tarnished morals would not allow even the thought. So, with only two options, that left Henry to be the partner that received. It was something that had been on his mind ever since he came across slowly animated pictures of moving bodies in Arrington Greddich’s “Vices of Men.”

He could not sit atop Severus and take him so, with all that would continue to be left unsaid between them. He was already taking Severus future, his failures, his regrets, his death. He could not allow himself to have another type of power, of control, over Severus while actively omitting what he thought would only bring the other into unnecessary danger. Henry knew that the potential for something profound and beautiful was worth some risk. But as Henry allowed himself to imagine a future where he and Severus could be together, their connection deepening with passion and joy, he knew he would not risk Severus’ safety by telling him the complete truth.

Instead, he would lay the rest of himself bare in the thought that it would be enough to put them on more even ground. The thought filled him with warmth and, for the first time in a long while, excitement for the future. In the quiet of the night, with Mort’s presence a comforting weight beside him, Henry resolved to embrace what was to come. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them with determination and courage, knowing that both Severus and Mort would be by his side.

Then an errant thought occurred that left him feeling off-kilter: "Maybe it wouldn’t be bad idea to see if he’d actually enjoy it before he broached the topic with Severus."

He thought back on the memory of a particular night in the Gryffindor common room. The weather had broken for spring, and they had just won a match against Slytherin. Fred and George had smuggled in a crate of their own rendition of Fire Whiskey. After a couple of sips, no one seemed to mind that it turned your ears a bit blue—or that Seamus’ blush had nothing to do with the alcohol, but rather with the fact that Dean had slid his hand down the back of his pants in front of them all. No one reacted, conversation still flowed around them—but as Seamus’ breath became more labored, Henry remembered his chest raising and falling in tandem.

His thoughts flickered to the moving muted colors on the dog-eared pages of the book he had stashed at the bottom of his trunk. Of pale and dark bodies. Of the meek and hairless, and the overtly masculine. Erotic images tastefully splattered between excepts on safe sex and the proper use of lubricantion spells—Henry could appreciate them all. But there was a particular model, beside a tutorial on the application of the spell “e colonia ad lienem, ano ut mihi purus,” that he had looked at longer than the rest.

“What does it feel like to have something—up there? It must feel good,” Henry wearily thought. With little effort, Henry could recall that on that particular passage was a slender young man with narrow hips and a sharp chin. The model’s chest was pressed into silk, white, sheets. His jet-black hair could barely be seen, bobbing, over his turned away shoulders—as his rear faced the reader, sweat slicked cheeks spread open by his own two hands to show-off the spell’s effect on a tan, winking hole.

Unbidden, a whimper passed his lips as his brain caught up to how he had begun to absently rock his hips into the mattress below. And once he started, he could not stop. He did it again, and agin—slowly trying to catch the right motion that felt good enough to his thickening cock. But the soft downy topper and the stiff zipper-seam Henry was not sure how it came to this, but all he knew was that his cock had been steadily filling with blood ever since his mind began to race. And, between one thought and the next, he was fully erect.

So now here he was, sleepily laid out on his bed under so many silencing and warding spells he could have shot-off a round of fireworks behind his bed curtains and not a soul would notice. And why? All because he had always been far too curious for his own good. Henry had already tossed his robe and shirt somewhere throughout the room when he thought that his mind would allow him to turn in for the night. It would be nothing to shimmy out of his trousers, to offer himself a little relief after the stressful day he’s had.

The more he thought on it, the more he began to notice. Like how the band of his trousers was pressed so snugly against his abdomen that he simply had to reach down to undo the button on at his waist, as it was uncomfortable and bound to cut off his circulation eventually. And his pants were of a thin, restrictive, layer of woven cotton. Comfortable in the summer heat, but now they offered no reprieve to his growing problem—as he could feel every change in texture of his trousers through them. “So it’s better, really,” Henry thought, “if I undo the zipper while I’m at it.”

When the metal teeth of the zipper parted, and his swollen bulge hurriedly pushed itself into the space they created, Henry could not help but sigh in mild relief. He had so few opportunities to take care of himself in this way, since discovering just what type of pleasure playing with his cock can bring. Bedrooms with padlocks , over-crowded shared spaces, decrepit moldy walls, and war-ragged tents did little to set the mood over the years since he came into puberty.

But here, on this plush king-sized mattress in his own home, positively drenched in dark magic—here was different. Therefore, it really wasn’t Henry’s fault that for once in his life he felt comfortable enough to get distracted. Absently cupping himself over his pants, Henry felt a shudder wreck down his spine and could not help the coy smile that grew on his face in it’s wake. “Fuck,” Henry dryly-laughed as he gathered the energy to shift his knees under himself and raise his hips. He balanced his weight onto his shoulders as he clumsily reached into his pants. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Henry’s left hand took-hold of his open fly and pulled the fabric of his trousers and pants away from his body. With a breath, his right hand slid across his stomach until he could firmly grasp himself. He tended to keep his cock down his left pant leg, so he hissed through his teeth as he pulled his sensitive cock out and over the band of his pants, between his body and the bed. When he reached in, Henry could feel that the fabric of his underwear was already damp.

“I’m going to have to change the bedding after this,” Henry muttered. He always leaked so much, that was the other reason why he forwent this particular pastime more often than not—the mess was spectacular. The first handful of times, he had wondered if it was normal. If the average young-man was able to empty his balls until his entire lap was left in a befouled, glistening, mire. But now, as his hand wrapped around his damp cock and he let loose a long muffled sound, Henry couldn’t care less.

The whine that left his throat startled him, as it worked its way up his throat without permission. His eyes flew open, and he realize he didn’t even know when he had closed them—but everything felt so good. Henry figured that he doesn’t have to rush it. That he could stay here, lazily stripping at his cock until he worked up the courage to reach lower. He started off slow—just enough pressure to feel it but not enough to cause too much friction.

But he felt his muscles tighten and his excitement grow as he thumbed the top on one of the upswings. Henry’s tilted his head back at the sensation, breaking his open mouth’s contact with the sheets. The sound of his moans begin to take up what little space was left in the room as he continues to caress his cock. His fingertips began to slowly work their way up from the base of his shaft and up to his tip. A repeated motion that soon had his heart rate soaring until his hand flew across his cock—quicker and faster, harder and rougher.

Henry moved his hand just how he, only recently discovered, liked it—smooth firm strokes they pushed the veins that ran down his shaft into his palm, a twist at top that left his wrist sore. It was an act of self love, he found, to take the time to lean how to hold yourself: accountable, high, and tenderly. As the feeling grew, the muscles at the base of his stomach kicked as the building pressure in his gut spurred him towards the end. His already weak thoughts turned into moans, grunts, and groans as they filtered off of his tongue. 

“If you continue at the pace you’re going, you’ll never conduct you little experiment tonight.”

“Fuck!” Henry felt his balls lurch from where they laid against his body, held in-place by the elastic band of his pants. It’s not that he forgot that he shared a mind, boy, and soul with another being. But the boundaries between their consciousness’ was so non-existent that there was never a time when the other was not watching him or his space in the mortal realm. He didn’t hate it, having an astral audience for his endeavors. To the contrary—Henry’s hand clenched tightly onto the base of his cock to stave off an early orgasm.

“Mort?” Henry did not know what it was that he asked for, but he heard the question in his own voice all the same. His own pre-come coated his slightly trembling hand from palm to wrist. But he was sure that the wet, warming, sensation that now came from his ass had nothing to do with him.

“I will always be there to help you with your every effort, little one.”

Mort’s voice reverberated through his head and across the shadows that had swallowed up any spec of light that one permeated his room. Around him, Henry felt the world shake in turn with a disembodied laugh and his hole twitched—like there was an itch along his rim that he wanted to rub away. It definitely felt strange, as though there a muscle he didn't know he had just got put through a strenuous workout. “This must be a magical way of stretching—“

Henry’s thoughts broke off as a wandering hand made contact with his rim. It was a tight fit to work his curious hand inside of his pants. And even though it was his own body, Henry was unsure as to how he felt—physically and emotionally. The skin that the tips of his fingers made contact with was hot and slick. But under the softness of the magical lube, he could feel the texture of every ridge and valley of the wrinkles that made up the rim. He felt them smooth-out at the tip of his pointer finger accidentally dipped inside.

“Oh!” Inside of himself felt as cavernous and vast as the confines of Death’s realm. The liquid slide of Henry’s pre-come stained finger against his lube drenched hole gave way to his body opening faster than his mind could keep up with. But he kept the pressure on his rim until not of his finger was burrowed in, until his back arched into the pain as he tried no to shudder away. 

By the time the knuckles of his hand brushed against his inner thigh and the web between his fingers caught on his rim, he was panting. Henry was fully inside of himself, there was drool collected at the corner of his mouth, and his legs shook from the effort it took to keep himself upright. It burned, it hurt—but in the best way possible. Henry had never been so hard in his life, his balls were heavy and full where they swelled at the base of his cock. But the angle was all wrong and was taken out of it as his shoulders cramped up under the strain of his weight.

“Perhaps, it would be better if you went at this from the over side.”

It should be humiliating, having another coach him through this and being so mentally gone that he actually needed it—but Henry was hard and wanton enough that it didn’t matter. Especially once he found out that the other was right. Henry reluctantly worked his finger out of his ass so that he could kick off his pants. But they tangled around his knees as he readjusted in a hurry. His weight was shifted off of his chin and neck and relocated to his upper chest as his arm wrapped around himself from the other side.

Instead of going under his body again, Henry reached backwards along his sides. His bunches up clothes kept his rear tutted up even as his body attempted to flatten-out. He gripped his ass cheeks in excited hands and spread himself wide. Henry wondered what he must look like as his finger returned to navigating the once silent guardian of is most inner-self, where light and his attention had once dared not tread. Now his asshole squelched as it fluttered around his probing finger.

Henry’s eyelashes rested heavily on the top of his cheekbones as he shifted to settle himself  further into the pillows and mattress. In minutes accentuated by only the sound of his breath and rubbing skin, he worked himself up from one finger to two. Lightheaded with the feeling they invoked, he pulled them out in a second of contemplation and then decided to go for there. This time, his hole burned something fierce as the stretch became something more than uncomfortable. But just when he’s about to pull out, his fingers brush something that makes him feel like he’s simultaneously about to wet himself and have the most spectacular orgasm of his life al at the same time. Goosebumps break out over his skin as he searched for it again.

“Fuck,” Henry cursed aloud, frustrated when his fingers keep sleeping away from whatever that was. His left hand adjusted to pull his ass-cheeks further apart as attempted to burry his wildly wiggling fingers deeper. He was unsure just as to when he bit down onto the sheets, but the fabric twists in his mouth as he grinds his teeth together. It is once shifted to rotate his wrist higher that he found it again. And it’s just as electrifying the second time as it was the first. He is far less surprised this time, so Henry does not pull his fingers away. With a single minded effort, Henry forced himself to tolerate the blinding please that came from pressing into the bundle of over-firing nerves again and again.

“Fucking hell,” Henry thought, “bottoming is so worth it.” It was the last of his coherent thought as the feelings churning in his gut reached a crescendo. Even with his eyes closed, Henry could see something glittering in the darkness—whether it was cosmos or himself, he did not know. Could not process. Did not care—especially as the dazzling sight made him feel euphoric.

“That’s it.”

Henry barely heard Mort murmur over the sound of frothing conjured lube and his own heaving, wet, gasps, “ A-ah—!”

Thrust. Henry’s nails bit into the slick flesh of his ass-cheeks as he scrambled to keep ahold of his grip as his hips bucked.

Thrust. Henry felt pre-come splash against his taut stomach when his body jerked.

Thrust. More of it spluttered out, wetting his body and the sheet.

“You’re making such a mess, little one.”

Henry nodded dumbly, he was and he knew it. He could feel it as the strings of pearly milt connecting his dangling cock head to whatever they dripped upon snap apart as he humped into his hand.

“What a wondrous fountain of new sensations this evening has been for us.”

Thrust. Henry couldn’t gather the point of whatever the fuck Mort was talking about. In this moment, the only thing that mattered was—

“Oh, are you reaching your limit?”

“Uh—uh! ”

Henry shoved as deeply as he could. His fingers had long ago started to hurt, but he could not stop. That frantic feeling of “I need more” which crept along the back of his shaking thighs and took hold of his sweaty neck to press his chest deeper into the mattress. He pushed deeper, the balls of his feet scraped into the bed in kneading half-steps as his back sharply bowed. As he writhed in pleasure, Henry brought his left arm forward to grip at the pillows while the other kept steady. Henry heard the sound of seams popping apart as he bit his lip and dropped his forehead down onto his arm. His hips worked much faster now as he ground his palm hard against his rim. Had he been in his right mind, Henry would have been embarrassed by the breathy gasps and harsh exhales coming out of his mouth.

But his thoughts turned into frayed static as he finds the right angle, where he near constantly worked against that magical spot he found within himself. Henry’s toes are curled, his loose hand tangles in his damp splayed about hair, and he is sure somewhere on his boy he is bleeding. And Henry, who spent half his life being told that he should always be near silent and the other half being told exactly what to say and when, never truly felt comfortable with attention drawn to himself. So even he was surprised when he did not moan—he screamed. 

When he finally came, the sound he made was cathartic. So much so that Henry sobbed, head buried between the thrashed sheets as drool and tears marred his face. He came over everything—the bedding, his bunched up clothes, himself. It even went so far as to splatter against hit chin. When his breath settled and the world stilled, Henry withdrew his fingers and instantly missed the fullness, surprising himself. But he decided not to dwell on it as he basked in the afterglow of the most amazing orgasm he’s ever had in his life.

That is, until the incessant sound of an owl’s sharp beak pecking against the glass of the windowpane to the side of his bed met his ears. For a brief moment, Henry contemplated answering the window nude—but ultimately decided that the sight of his body redden and dripping would probably scare the poor thing.  With spelled on robes made of shadow and exhaustion, Henry received a carefully penned letter from Rowle with mild surprise.

He then promptly tossed the damned thing onto his bookshelf so that he could crawl back into bed—where he promptly thought, “Fuck, I’m on the wet spot.”

Chapter Text

July 6, 1975

Rowle Manor was not old; it was built when the family first settled in the British Isles for good in 1183, but that was far later than some others. And since they did not hold enough gold and could not count the passage of time as carefully, their grand home did not compare to the likes of the Black’s, the Malfoy’s, or the Lestrange’s. It did not help matters that, when his family arrived, they originally spoke Greek-toned Latin.

There was no castle to their name, as was the case with the Black’s. They did not import their home, brick-by-Parisian-brick, like the Malfoy’s. And their home was not an ivory seeped gift from the court of Charles the Bald, as the Lestrange’s adored to brag. Rowle Manor was still nothing special, and there was nothing to it that set them apart from others. They had come as carpenters fleeing surge of Christianity in the new empire allowed by the Angelos dynasty. So they built their manor from the roughly cleared meadow that once stood, and let magic do the rest.

But now, they were “Sacred”—even if they could only barely be claimed as such when the distinction was made. The Rowle family had a mere handful of decades more attested to them than the likes of the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Sayres. Though, truly, their inclusion was more-so due to the fact that they had scraped, bartered, and done all manner of favors to insert themselves into the good graces of the fortune-born. And now the name “Rowle” carried a patrician ring to it.

Even if he hates it, Rowle Manor was still his domain. He ran the aged house elves, scheduled constantly needed maintenance, and responded to the family’s missives for their international lumber trade. He ordered the groceries, planned the crops, and penned his father’s responses to proposed bills. Thorfinn knew that he, and he alone, was the sole reason that the House of Rowle prospered as it did—that it continued on at all after his mother died and his father became as useful as a bottle on legs.

A bitter taste came to his mouth at the thought of his father—it was pathetic. His father was a disgrace, and every morning Thorfinn counted the days until he was conferred his title. He had spent far too long enduring bruised moments marked by the harsh realities of living under his father’s hand. The man was a maniacal tyrant, far too used to allowing his boisterous supporters and curated magical prowess to make up for his small stature and forgettable presence.

So, no, Rowle Manor was not of high merit—the atmosphere inside was far too thick with tension and unspoken sorrow to allow anything healthy to grow. But Thorfinn had plans to change everything. He would raze its foundation, even if it meant that he must scorch the earth and flood the fields to do so. He would take what scraps remained of his inheritance, that his father had yet to gamble or drink away, and weave from it an empire. He would cobble together the allies, influence, and favors that he earned on his own accord and make ends meet as he always had. It was what he did best.

It was how he and his sister survived for so many long-suffering years. Even though Euphemia was seven years older, Thorfinn did as he was taught and took on the responsibility of his family the moment his father’s sensibilities crumbled. Social standards and the political environment dictated that he, as the male heir, bear the burden of keeping his family in good standing. And, truly, he did not blame his sister, for she had always seemed just as lost and trapped as he was. So she and the portraits were the only things he planned to take with him to the end of this journey.

But Rowle Manor would be the first to go—as even now, its wood-paneled walls drew him to reflect on his youth. As he walked the long main-corridor, Thorfinn shook his head to dislodge his train of thought as he dutifully made his way to the floor-room. Dressed in his finest robes, a monogrammed set on their traditional ivy and cerulean, he knew that he made an imposing image as his march echoed across the limestone floor. One of his arms swung casually at his side while the other clutched an ornate basket tightly against his side.

The Rowle Family Basket of Offering was a symbol of so many things he had not cared to learn about as a child, but could not stop himself from recalling now—communion, communication, unity, introduction, good-health, flattery, and future prospects. Thorfinn had spent the better part of the morning in a snit as he arranged various fruits just so, under the hawk-like supervision of the house-elves. And even if his intent when creating the damned thing had been weak, he toted the basked with care as he walked along overfamiliar walls with chipped paint and obscured water-stains.

Even if it was well hidden, Thorfinn could still see how the manor’s frame buckled under years of pressure and neglect. Just as he knew which of the upper floorboards would announce his movement and through which window his sister flounced off into the night. He could not truly believe that he was preparing to make yet another offering of Euphemia’s hand as he stood in front of the ground-floor fireplace. He paused for a moment to gather himself, floo-powder held loosely in his right hand.

But he must have stood there in thought for a moment too long. For just as he was about to throw the powder into the flames, a house elf popped into the hall with a loud crack, making him jump. "Master Thorfinn," the Neua squeaked, "you father want you presence in his office before you leave."

Thorfinn sighed, annoyance bubbled up from the depth of his core—as it did any time his father was mentioned. It wasn't even noon yet, so he had a couple of moments to spare before he was expected. He could go and see what the old man was on about and be on his way, but he already had a guess as to what the man wanted. After a moment of weighing the pros and cons of simply ignoring the man, Thorfinn turned and left the room with a resigned breath. He followed the elf down the hall and across the manor to the east wing.

It was the oldest part of the manor, the family wing, where his father’s office was housed on the ground floor and their rooms stood above. And as always, said office was a cluttered mess upon entrance. Old books disrespected about, half-empty bottles of gin and rum, and parchment strewn everywhere—the chaos was overwhelming. Thorfinn had to suppress a grimace as he stepped inside, as the smell of stale alcohol hit him immediately. His father, Lord Rowle, sat behind his desk unbothered. With a tumbler of whisky in hand and eyes already bleary at 10:43am on a Sunday.

"Thorfinn," the man slurred, not looking up from the sweaty glass that held his drink. "You understand the importance of this visit, don't you?"

Thorfinn nodded as he bit back his more honest initial retort. He had heard this lecture a dozen times before about a dozen other potential suitors. They never got too far as his sister was as interested in men as cats were in water, but she had never made that information available to their father so neither would he. So Thorfinn mentally queued up how this conversation was bound to go as his father continued.

"Peverell's interest is vital for our family's future. If we can secure a bonding contract with his family, it could elevate our standing significantly." Thordarson Rowle swirled his glass about with a snarl on his face wrote ringing his words again. “The boy has even convinced those stuff-up’s at the Ministry to allow several Dark spells and crafts to be used. At this point, I’d wager he has his hand up more ass’ than Lucius. And the gold that he must be spending—you must get ahold of that gold, Thorfinn.”

Thorfinn forced himself to stiffly nod again. His father went on, but the words blended together as Thorfinn's mind drifted back to his memory of the ball at the Lestrange Manor. It had been a dreadful affair, full of pomp and arrogance. He hadn't wanted to attend, but duty as Heir Rowle demanded it. He had felt nothing but bored-annoyance up until his whore of a fiancé decided to spite him.

Then he had been surprised to see Henry Peverell there when he had gone to cool-off. The boy had literally fallen from the sky like the answer to all his prayers months ago, and had did nothing more than kept to himself since then. He was certainly a mysterious figure among their ranks. And his father was right about one thing, Peverell was powerful. It trailed behind the boy like footsteps wherever he went. The more Thorfinn had observed him from a distance, the more intrigued he became by the whispers that surrounded the new Lord he became.

At the ball, Thorfinn had been too drunk to care about the oddity of encountering Peverell outside Hogwarts. And by the time they had ended up far away from prying eyes and deafening music, he realized that the kid was worth a second glance. If he were to be honest with himself, that night of petty theft and light vandalism was the most fun he afforded himself in ages. Peverell was wicked smart and had a comeback for his every retort. And the books Peverell pilfered on blood magic and necromancy were advanced stuff.

He did not shy away from talking about magical theories, no matter how gruesome their ideas got. Nor did the boy judge him for his random bouts of melodramatic performances at the thought of Ailia’s behavior. But Thorfinn was used to talking and fooling around with others, hidden from the world—only to have to feign indifference when back in the public eye. But Peverell proved one again that he was different. The invitation to visit Peverell Manor had come as a shock. It had come without airs and void of expectations, just a simple “You should come see the books on bone curses I have back at my place.”

Even more shocking, Thorfinn found, was his father's reaction—an eagerness that bordered on desperation. The basket he now held, though a tradition, was his father's idea of a bribe wrapped in allowed pandering. His father had spent more on this particular basket than the last four combined. The man had gone out of his way to import selected pomegranates, kiwi, pears, and other fruits—anything that could even vaguely represent future prospects and growth. It was to the point where Thorfinn needed a feather-light charm to carry it.

"Do not mess this up, Thorfinn," his father snapped to finish, looking at him sharply. "This is more important than you realize."

"Yes, Father,” Thorfinn managed with a curt nod and not an ounce a shame as he realized he had tuned out his father’s entire monologue. He left the office, feeling the weight of his father's expectations bearing down on him. As he returned to the fireplace, he steeled himself. Whatever lay ahead at the Peverell manor, he would face it with the same resolve that had carried him through countless challenges before. So leaving no where to go but forward, Thorfinn stepped into the hearth.

“Fucking weirdo,” he muttered with a shallow laugh before he clearly pronounced, “mors una via introitus.” Thorfinn threw the Floo Powder into the flames and stepped into the swirling green fire, basket in hand, ready to meet whatever awaited him on the other side.

And came face to face with the most hideous creature he had ever seen in his life. He was too manly to shriek, but that did not stop the pitch of his voice from raising as he yelled out at the sight of the little thing. It was almost human-like, like a gangly child. It was almost elven, with its sharp eyes and ears. But it was too tall and stocky to be a house-elf and too awkwardly faced to be a human, he hoped. The only thing that sated his wand was the crest on the button down shirt tucked into the things trousers that he recalled from Peverell’s own robes.

That, and the thing opening its mouth to say, “House of Peverell welcomes Heir Thorfinn Rowle to the Bedlam of Themyscira. Follow Calvaria and brunch with be served.”

At once the thing turned to leave and Thorfinn had no choice but to follow. And he was glad that he did as, after several turns in the marble lined halls, Thorfinn was certain that the house was actually a maze. He knew that they had just made a left turn into the current corridor they were in, but when he looked behind over his shoulder the hall only went straight. There was no opening for where they had just come from. And with the sheer amount of family-magic buzzing through the walls, Thorfinn was genuinely impressed by this security measure Peverell’s ancestors were able to implement. Near giddy, Thorfinn thought, “Maybe I’ll get him to show me the rune sequence for this so I can add it in when I rebuild Rowle Manor.”

Eventually the thing stopped in-front of an intricately carved set of doors. “Bleached cyrpress,” he absently thought as they went in. He noticed that the theme of light marble, crafted wood, and high ceilings carried on from the long corridors into the dinning room they entered. He also saw that even though the room was void of windows it seemed to be full of natural light. “I have to go give it to you,” Thorfinn said by was of greeting, “you Peverell’s sure do know your way around a wand.”

Peverell rose from his seat at the head of the table as he drew closer. And with an easy smile, the boy clasped his forearm in a traditional greeting between associates. And when Thorfinn reciprocated the motion, Peverell spoke up, “This place is a bloody nightmare, even worst for guests I’m told. The magic keeping this place together is, apparently, a bit sentient.”

The thing from earlier chose that exactly moment to return, but this time it was not alone. And since their arrival was not makes by the traditional crack of house-elf apparition, between one blink and the next he noticed to two over Peverell’s shoulder and nearly dropped the damned fruit-basket. Peverell’s reflexes were quicker than his, and he watched slightly stunned as the younger caught the basket before it hit the ground.

“Oh this is great! Thank you, Thorfinn,” Peverell stated before turning to the other two in the room with them. “Perhaps we can have some of this later as a snack? Sanguis, Calvaria—take this into the kitchen and see if you can-“

“Peverell,” Thorfinn interjected before the other could get too far ahead of himself, “if you eat from that basket, you’re agreeing to marry my sister.”

“Excuse me?!” It was Peverell’s turn to jostle the basket as his hands automatically pulled away from the thing in shock.

With an outright laugh, one of the creatures snapped its fingers and the courting invitation vanished from the room. It then turned to Peverell and said, “Perhaps, Lordy Henry should be smarter about touching things. Least we have another plant situation.”

“Perhaps we can get the food started, Sanguis,” Peverell grouched as the two creatures snickered between themselves before silently leaving the room.

Ignoring what he knew would surely get an house-elf beheaded in other homes, Thorfinn could only look on as Peverell simply invited him to sit. With the completely bizarre nature of his stay in Peverell Manor so far, he could not hold onto a train of thought long enough to formulate the start of a conversation. But eventually, as a full English breakfast appeared between them, Thorfinn finally settled on, “Plant situation?”

Peverell sighed into his hands, mumbling something that sounded like “Those damned brats,” as he hunched forward with his elbows on the table before righting his posture. “I was cleaning out the attic, and there was—” Peverell stalled with another sigh at his own actions before speaking again. “There was a bracelet in some box that had been cursed to cause the wearer to sprout ivy all over their body.”

“And here I was thinking that you were smart,” Thorfinn sighed, only half joking.

“How was I supposed to know the damned thing was cursed?” Peverell asked, completely serious.

Shaking his head, Thorfinn questioned, “You touched something of unknown origin and unknown nature without assuming it was?”

“Fuck you, Thorfinn,” Peverell said with a guffaw of a laugh.

“I’ll have to decline,” Thorfinn spoke as he felt a growing smile come over his face at the other’s antics, “you’re not particularly my type, Peverell.”

“Henry! I told you, Henry is fine,” Peverell stressed. “But now the elves won’t let it go. I think they honestly find joy in my embarrassment.”

“Henry,” Thorfinn intoned, “you’re telling me those creatures are house-elves?”

“Well, yeah,” Peverell asked with a confused tilt of his head. “What did you think they were?” When all Thorfinn did was blankly stare at the other, Peverell went on. “Okay,” he drawled as he speared a bit of sausage, “a quick history of elves. You know how elves used to be a more prominent presence in the magical world? It was the High Elves that got fed up with the treatment of humanoid creatures and sealed off entrance into their realm. But they had been living between worlds for so long that their subspecies, Low Elves, kind of weren’t strong enough to go back. But with the realms fully separated, the Low Elves lost their source of power—and thus life. So, just like they had previously tied themselves to High Elves, they began to bond themselves to wizards to siphon from their family magics and—”

“Wait,” Thorfinn cut in as he parsed out where this was going, “you’re telling me that those are what—old ass ‘Low Elves’?”

“Exactly! Their parents served the guy who built this house. And when it became vacant, they kind of went into this kind of stasis—”

“But why are they so different?” Thorfinn asked between Peverell’s words.

“Well,” Peverell started with only mild irritation staining his words, “the ‘house-elves’ of today have been bred to be like they are now. Their speech, their demeanor, their physical appearance—hell, even their mental capacity has been diminished by choice.”

A simple “Oh” was all Thorfinn could utter as his thoughts raced at just how much influence wizards could wield. Brunch carried on between more random conversation and rapid-fired jokes. Thorfinn had been lulled into such a calm disposition that he had not even noticed that the plate before him had magically refilled between bites until he was close to bursting with a still semi-full plate.

“Don’t worry about trying to finish all of that,” Peverell spoke up after noticing the predicament that he was in. “Sanguis and Calvaria will allow you to eat yourself into St. Mungo’s. Learned that the hard way with Lord Prince.”

“Lord Prince was here?”

“Yeah, I needed him to sign some papers,” Peverell said between sips of his tea. “I also wanted to get his opinion on a bill I’m helping Lord Bulstrode write up on the import of several ‘Dark’ class magic potions ingredients that are most prominently used in the medical setting. Speaking of which, did you want to see that book on killer fungi I was talking about?”

Later—when Peverell broke the reverie of their quiet reading to ask, “So, what’s up with the fruit basket?”—Thorfinn could admit to himself that he had been oblivious to the passage of the hours.

“Oh that,” he wound up saying. “It’s the ‘Rowle Family Basket of Offering.’ An old Greek traditional method of bribing you to take interest in marrying our women—in this case, my sister.”

“The other Euphemia?” Peverell asked, and Thorfinn stiffly nodded his head to stay his temper.

“Ah—my sincerest apologies, but I’m spoken for.”

Doing a double take away from the page he had been skimming through about the uses of toenails in hair potions, Thorfinn asked, “You’re what?”

And with the most serene expression, Peverell stated, “I’ve entered into a courting contract with Lord Prince’s heir.”

“Heir?” Thorfinn posed, to ensure he heard correctly.

“Heir,” Peverell steadfastly confirmed.

The towering room that gave Hogwarts’ library a run for its money settled quietly around them. It was not uncomfortable, but Thorfinn still found the need to disturb the silence to say, “I think you’d get along with my sister. She’d prefer an heiress.”

When the two recovered from their impromptu bout of laughter, Thorfinn caught a gleam in Peverell’s eyes, right before he asked, “Thorfinn, can the fruit be fed to someone else?”

Chapter Text

July 11, 1975

He was a man who knew nothing.

Oh, he knew that he was the son of Charlus Henry Potter and Dorea, née Black. He was as sure of it as he was that the bitter morning sun streamed through his cashmere curtains, despite his eyes remaining steadfastly closed. As sure of it as he was that the deep depression haunting his being would follow him even if he roused from his mulberry silk sheets. At times, the weight of his family’s expectations bore down on him like an invisible shackle anchored to the bedpost, each link forged from years of unspoken demands and ancestral pride. He knew not if he was supposed to be a Black, even if the “madness” touched him all the same. And after 21 years, he still knew not how to be a Potter—even if he religiously wore his glasses as all Potter men did, "for they keep us humble," as his grandfather Henry told him. Yet, he accepted another day of this life where he would try to live as Persei Charlus Potter all the same.

He knew not why he continued in his job as an Auror when all it did was bring him misery. The adrenaline-fueled chases, the constant danger, and the unending cycle of violence had eroded his spirit, leaving behind a husk of the man he once was. At night, it was all he could do to drag himself across the threshold and hope that the house-elves found him and took him to his bed. In the morning, it pained him to step out from the billowing warmth of his steam-filled bathroom. Each mission chipped away a piece of his soul, leaving behind a hollow shell of the man he once was. Nightmares plagued his sleep, and the ghosts of those he couldn’t save whispered accusations in the silence of the night. It had become an act of self-flagellation to leave behind his pima cotton towels and step into the wretched formication that was his Auror uniform. Persei knew that the crimson battle robe and black chinos did well to conceal grime and blood. But the starch-stiff sleeves of his dress shirt left painful paresthesiae in his hands. And the little pure-steel button at the base of his throat, which sealed his short collar shut, always felt prepared to choke him dead. Yet, he found it in him to dress.

A sound at the window gave him pause at the door. He did not know why his cousin had written him so early when she knew this would be the time he was hurriedly making his way late to the Ministry. But she must have known him well, for there was a familiar hooting owl perched at his window all the same. And in its talons, he would bet, was none other than an invitation to join the still newly wed Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, for tea come Saturday. And he would go, for this was his darling little cousin—who had braided his hair, made him carry her as if he were a mule, and sent him sweets the years she was not at Hogwarts herself. He hoped she would not be attempting to set him up with another “eligible woman”—Persei had his own plans of retiring young once this war was finished and marrying a probably pure-blood lass abroad. So he would go and pretend that he knew not what lay upon her husband’s body. And pretend, even more so, that it was just a childish social visit with his cousin and not the “Malfoy House’” message to the watchful eyes around them that they did not warrant suspicion. Yet, he loved her all the same.

As he made his way down the grand west staircase to say goodbye to his parents as he did every morning, for uncertain was the life of an Auror, he knew not why they chose to eat alone in the western dining hall. Why they never chose to start the day by joining his uncle Fleamont, aunt Euphemia, née Rowle, and their heir James in the east wing. Why they all lived together in Potter Manor at all if so many wished to live apart. Just as he did not know why on the most storm-filled of nights one could be sure to find his mother crying amongst the company of the brightest stars on the veranda. Or why, the one time Persei witnessed this in person, his father softly shooed him away with a gentle “let her be.” Yet, he often watched her from the library across the yard all the same.

He would fall asleep to the sight of her and wake to the thought of a verse from a poetry book he owned, a birthday gift from his grandfather Cygnus—"when the livid morning comes, you'll find my place empty, and it will be cold there till night." He often wondered what drove a chill down his mother’s spine in the relative safety of their home. For Persei, it was that he could not escape the war. Even behind their century-old wards, loud noises when things ought to be quiet sent him into a state of panic. Flashbacks seemed to grip him more and more without warning, reaching out to him from the battlefield. At times, the best he could do was hide in his room, where he was confident in the rune-work he had carved into the door frame himself. Yet, every shadow still seemed to hide an enemy—so under the covers he tended to stay.

The short trip to his desk always passed in a blur for him, so he knew of nothing memorable to look back upon if asked. But he knew the aching in his mind as his desk came into view. He was familiar with his coat rack that taunted him just from the corner of his eye as he sat, with the way his wooden swivel chair cradled his heft, and with how his desk did not buckle under the pressure of file after file that lay upon it. He knew if he looked, the files would pertain to missions he did not wish to reflect upon, even if his post-report required him to do so. But Persei was in no rush to rehash his nightmares of the scent of burning flesh, to gaze upon moving pictures of the bits of still corpses they could find, or peruse the testimonies and accounts of atrocities his heart was far too feather-worn to handle. Yet, he straightened his spine and picked up the closest manila folder.

The day was long, quiet, and taut. A raid or two was coming—for they had had almost a month of insulting peace. They should have all known that neither prayers nor demonstrations halted the advance of the pestilence that was these Dark wixen. He knew, he had tried. So Persei could not fathom why the younger recruits still jumped in their skin at the sound of the long-ago installed "Armed Siren System," as it rang out crisply and bounced off the walls of their open office. But a little after lunch, he laughed emptily as he watched them startle so. He sobered up when his team leader’s name was called out between three others and gathered with the rest of his 12-man squad to catch an emergency portkey to the scene. Persei’s heart pounded with a relentless beat as he stood from his desk, a constant reminder of his turmoil. Each step towards the apparition point in the back of their office, towards the battlefield, felt like an eternity. But it felt only marginally different, as each breath had already been a laborious task under the weight of his duty and the shadow of his lineage. But somehow, he still thought the odds of 52 of them were good. And Thursday, ruled by Jupiter, was considered to be a day of abundance and luck—yet, against Death Eaters, one could never be too sure.

Between one blink and the next, he stood huddled between his squad, and between one breath and the next, a cacophony of chaos enveloped them. It was a hellscape where the acrid smell of smoke mingled with the metallic tang of blood. The sky, once a serene canvas, was now marred by streaks of spellfire, illuminating the night with deadly bursts of sickeningly-green color. He knew not how his body was always able to spring into action, ducking under bright jets of light and shooting off barely-legal spells in succinct retaliation as soon as his feet ghosted the ground. It seemed to shudder beneath Persei’s feet with each explosion of his wand, as if the earth itself recoiled in horror at the carnage unfolding upon its surface. He knew not where he was, just another slum of a town full of young half-bloods and cast-off squibs too poor for wands and too slow to run, as each battleground blurred into the next. It had become a never-ending cycle of destruction and despair. Yet, it was not as if it mattered—for he went wherever the war was.

And if it was his time, Death would find him all the same. He was not scared of it, for there was already fire all around him, and he had long since learned to ignore appearing in the middle of hell. Despite the mayhem around him, Persei's body moved with almost mechanical precision, instincts honed by months of relentless combat. He had moved past the will to aid the screaming figures trapped under rubble and focused on the cloaked figures dancing in the fire’s light. It no longer bothered him that he was willing to cast a construction-level cutting hex through a heavily wounded civilian if it meant he’d get the masked man holding them hostage too. Yet, he begged himself not to meet the eyes behind the masks, lest his wand hesitate in its drawing in familiarity.

When his battle buddy fell beside him, Persei felt a rush of cold dread. A scream lodged in his throat, unable to break free because there was no time for grief. These were not the times to get distracted. He allowed himself only a fleeting moment of recognition before he had to move on. But he thought that the image of his dear friend’s lifeless eyes, wide open in shock, would be seared into his memory forever. He did not know how they had done it, or how long it took, but eventually, the Aurors pushed the Death Eaters back. Eventually, additional support arrived to gather the living, collect the dead, and piece together the rest. It was not his job to investigate how or why this happened. Yet, with their low retention rate as of late, he had to pitch in with that as well.

He went through the motions as he completed the post-mission duties with a cold efficiency that unnerved even his fellow Aurors. In the quiet moments, he wondered if he would ever feel the same again. But he knew not what else to do, as shutting it all out helped him cope in the moment. There was no rhyme or reason to madness. And it was truly well above his pay grade to make sense of the foolishness of war. So he told himself that he was only to aid in the rescuing of those who still had it in them to scream, bag whatever evidence he was lucky enough to find, and make his way back with what was left of his squad to their office to debrief. The ground was slick with blood, making every step treacherous. Bodies lay strewn across lawns and doorways, twisted in unnatural angles—their lifeless eyes staring blankly at him as he walked past. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh, a scent that clung to Persei’s clothes and haunted his dreams. It was not in his duties to mourn so heavily, to grieve so wretchedly inside of himself—yet, that was what he did.

It was what he did every time, no matter how much the captain forbade him from bringing the sorrows of work home, which resulted in him moving through his post-mission duties in a distant trance. It was the only “normality” he found solace in when the adrenaline began to wind down. So he did not understand why, upon catching a portkey back, his vision began to blur. Why there were strong arms wrapping tightly around him to keep him from hastily meeting the floor. Why, as the burning adrenaline left him, all he was left with was the feeling of a wet back and a cold soul. The words frantically yelled above him—"medic," "small dagger," and "blood-replenisher"—meant nothing. Whoever was standing in front of the Auror whose arms he still lay in came forward to show the surrounding company a tiny dagger, which he guessed was previously lodged into his numb back. His vision swam and the crimson before him began to bleed together—yet, he could still take in the little bit of gleaming silver.

And while he may not know much of anything, this he’d seen before. Or at least a dagger like it. His mother had one. Petite and delicate, the one he knew sat untouched inside her long-inherited jewelry box, measured around six to eight inches in total length. Its slender, tapered blade held a graceful appearance, while the overall sleek shape lent itself to concealed, easy handling. The brilliant sheen of the goblin-made silver caught his eye when he was just a child playing with his mother’s things. He did not understand why she screeched so when he went to touch it, but he’d never seen one again until one summer night just after Narcissa had turned 10. He could recall how his first cousin Cygnus Black III had summoned him to “cease the girl’s inconsolable crying” as she thought the delicate weaponry meant “they could no longer be friends.” Yet, he did not understand anything of it until he returned home.

Upon his crossing the threshold of Potter Manor, Dorea had sat her only child down and told him of a long-held Black family tradition that saw to it each young woman receiving a dagger on the eve of their reaching womanhood. The blade’s edge was coated in an everlasting lotus-reed oil, a fast-acting poison of a long-ago Lady Black’s own making. There were supposedly 40 in total, of varying ornate designs, held in a box in the family vaults that was charmed to be accessible by only the standing Lord Black. Each was to be held in an heiress’s possession until it was collected by her nearest female relative upon her death—as they were cursed to only be held under a woman’s touch. He remembers wondering, if he has been born a girl, would he be “Black” enough to have been given one as well? The closest he thought he’d ever get to one again was his mother’s, which he remembered boasted a pearl embellishment at the hilt, as cousin’s handle ran three sapphires. Yet, having never seen the one held in-front of him before, he knew exactly what it was.

It had the same sharp-pointed blade, the same shining silver handle, but as his vision worsened he struggled to make-out the emerald light shining along the blade's spine. Although, it truly mattered not who this dagger in particular was wielded by. It was poisoned, he was too far from his mother’s reach, and his lower extremities had lost all feeling some moments ago. He was sure, if he could see it, the wetness on his face would be from red-tinged tears. And the medics were still attempting to find the right spell to diagnose his condition or even staunch the bleeding from his back. They would continually fail, as only the women of the Black families held on their person an antidote, and the long-forgotten Dark poison would not show on any Light diagnostic spells. Persei Charlus Potter was a man who knew nothing, but he supposed he was about to die. Yet, he could not find it in him to terribly mind.

Memories of simpler times flashed before Persei’s eyes—of running through the sunlit gardens of Potter Manor, his mother’s laughter echoing in the air. Those days seemed like a distant dream, almost unreal in the face of the grim reality he now faced—but the thought was fleeting. The finality of his mind, as the toxin entered his brain, was not on exotic lands far beyond the British Isles or on imagined lives with would-be brides. It was not of joyous memories from his spoiled childhood or long-held regrets of a life he fought to deem worth living. He neither bemoaned his misused youth nor outcried his unspent years. No, the quiet of his last capable thought was used to hope his parents would not hold ire at his missing another dinner. And that Narcissa would not be too put out by his first-ever ignoring of her summons. Yet, deep down, he somehow thought they would.

But in the end, he was a man who knew nothing—although, he hoped that now he’d finally be allowed to rest.

Chapter Text

July 16, 1975

"Charlus, there is a hole in my heart."

Dorea, née Black, was only 54 years old, merely in the summer of her naturally long wixen life, so she knew it was nothing as benign as a cardiovascular condition. No, this was something much worse. It was why she hadn’t slept in days, why she had lost a stone in a week, and why she now wore a glamour near constantly. It was the pitiful reason she currently stood second in the greeting line at the entrance to Potter Manor’s West Grand Ballroom. To her right, her husband stood first. To her left should have been her parents, but instead there was Fleamont and Euphemia. After them might have been her siblings, but Pollux and Cassiopeia’s owls had been rendered to ash still clutching their letters. And Marius, though she still kept in strained contact, did not deserve to be a part of this mess—not when she had spent so much gold guaranteeing he’d never be found again.

"Charlus, it is too hot in here."

Dorea could not say for certain who had come and passed before her as her pulse quickened. There might have been peers from her time at Hogwarts, who shared forgotten classes and haunted halls. A few may have been co-workers from her time at the Daily Prophet, who once toiled the midnight hour at cluttered desks around her own. Though she was hesitant to place them, she knew that the people who passed before her were from every corner of the wizarding world that she and her family had touched. But one thing was for sure—there were no Blacks in attendance. She had used her own blood to attune the wards to ensure this after returning home from Gringotts—where, in one breath, she accepted the claim to all that Persei had left of his estate, and in the other, she relinquished all claim she had to House of Black. She gave it all back—her gifted properties, her monogrammed possessions, her hand carved dagger.

"Charlus, I feel faint."

But this came after her trip to Black Manor. After a deranged haze of hellfire and brimstone, where she scorched the earth surrounding the country house in Tisbury and scared quick-fleeing tourists into thinking the neighboring forest was set ablaze. She set off an indiscriminate spray of sickeningly red hexes and quick-whipped yellow curses, where she aimed to take out anyone who stood between her and her goal. It took three grown men to pull Dorea off of her bloodied and blue grand-niece—who had tried to hide amongst the Picassos and Rembrandts at the thunder of her arrival. Dorea had pinned the girl down and fired off every curse she could recall ever learned in the Black Library, in the Slytherin common room, or in the Potter catacombs. She did not get to finish, she did not get to the staticky green curse that she knew would land without fail, and she regretted it to this moment—because even with loosened teeth and swollen eyes, Bellatrix had simply laughed under the unadulterated pressure of Dorea’s magic.

"Charlus, my chest—"

It had not felt right since she knew her child was gone. She had been mid-sip of her tea, seated between Euphemia and Cedrella in the shade of the back garden-patio, when she felt the gates of hell open to claim her. A mother knows when her child has left this world—in the same way, she knows when they take their first breath, speak their first word, or deem themselves ready to share their body. It is an unspoken bond, a thread of a mothers own freely-given life that ties them together across time and space. It is a connection that transcends the physical, and a connection she felt brightly snap in two. When Persei died, she felt it deep within her bones, a wrenching of her soul that no words could adequately describe. It was as if the world had shifted on its axis, the ground beneath her feet had crumbled away, leaving her to fall into a bottomless void of despair. The pain was immediate and all-consuming, searing through her heart like a blade of dragon-honed ice, and she knew, with a certainty that only a mother could possess, the very second her son had gone from this realm.

"Charlus, I need—"

Since that moment, the grief had become a constant companion—a shadow that followed her every step, a heaviness to her shoulders that sought to snuff her out. It gnawed at her intestines, hollowing her out until she was little more than a shell of the woman she had once been. Her mind replayed memories of Persei over and over again—from the day he was born to his first steps, his laughter and the way he would dazzle a room. The realization that she would never hear his voice again, never see his face light up with joy, was a torment unlike any other. The confirmation of his death, brought by his bruised and battered teammates, was both a curse and a release. While it shattered the last vestiges of hope she clung to, it also allowed her to fully embrace her grief. She could no longer deny the truth, no longer pretend that somehow, by some miracle, he might return to her. Instead, she was left to face the reality of his absence. A reality that had slowly, steadily, and ruthlessly consumed her.

"Charlus, I can’t—"

Every day since, she leaned into the feeling of her loss more acutely. It was her only companion in the quiet moments, in the emptiness of her home, and in the spaces where Persei should have been. It was beside her in the coldness of her bed at night. It kissed her breath in the hollowness of her laughter. And it caressed her slow in the bitter haste of her tears. The grief was a living thing, coiled around her so, squeezing tighter with each passing day, threatening to suffocate her in its embrace. And she was not strong enough to turn it away. She knew that eventually, she would succumb to the haunting emotions in her heart. The memory of Persei, the love she had for him, was not enough to keep her going when every step forward was agony. She owed it to him to continue, to carry his memory with her, to honor the life he had lived—but she couldn’t. Not when every part of her life, this house, this very ballroom, a place once filled with joy and laughter, now bore a heavy shroud of sorrow.

"Charlus, please—"

The ceiling soared high above, adorned with crystal chandeliers that cast fractured light over the sea of mourners. Velvet drapes hung solemnly from the windows, their rich, dark fabric absorbed the muted colors of the room. An air of profound grief permeated the space, mingling with the scent of offered lilies and roses that filled the air. The flowers, meant to honor the dead, seemed almost mocking in their vibrancy, a cruel contrast to the lifelessness she felt inside. Dorea was oblivious to the words being exchanged around her, for they were empty platitudes and worthless condolences as far as she was concerned. There were hollow tears and the wretched appearances of those who walked away from where her child had fallen—but none of it mattered. None of these people could ever understand the grief that had set to fester within her. None could empathize with the sorrow that had set to carv into her very core, and left her aching and unsteady. Her son, her Perseus—her only child—was gone.

"Charlus—!"

As she moved through the procession, her vision swam with endless tears. Each step reverberated through her hollow chest, her hips pitching every so often, and below, her legs were heavy and unsteady. Her throat tightened with each breath, a sharp, constricting pain that permeated her tender flesh. Her heart pounded in her ears, a relentless reminder of the agony coursing through her. She felt as though she was being crushed under the enormity of the world around her, while Charlus walked silently beside her, his face etched with a grief that mirrored her own. He held the nook of her arm firmly, jagged nails biting as he guided her toward their seats at the front of the room. The lavishness of the funeral was lost on her—she barely registered the grandiosity of the arrangements or the meticulous care the Potters had taken in every detail. Her gaze was fixed on the casket, a dark, polished box that contained all that remained of love and life. It was an unbearable sight, the finality of it striking her like a physical blow.

"Charlus—"

When she sat down, a fresh wave of despair washed over her. Her mind raced back to the moment she had first held her son, his small, fragile body cradled in her arms. He had been a miracle, a beacon of hope after years of heartache. Dorea and Charlus had endured so much to bring him into the world—several miscarriages, each one a soul-crushing loss that left them shattered and broken. They had clung to each other through the darkest times, hoping against hope that they would one day be blessed with a child. And then he had come, their precious boy, their light in the darkness. But now, that light was extinguished. The dreams they had for him had all been ripped away. He would never experience many of the milestones that defined a life. He would never have the chance to fulfill his potential or make his mark on the world. All the hopes and dreams they had nurtured for him were now buried under a suffocating blanket of grief.

"Cha—"

The core of Dorea’s being began to implode, forming a void that nothing could ever fill again. The betrayal, the loss, the destruction—it all cut too deep. She felt as though the whole of her had turned into a wound that festered and oozed with unhealing infection. She despised the world, herself, her family—her magic. For all its wonder and beauty, it was powerless to change the past, to bring her son back. She had tried. Magic had once been a source of joy and pride, a connection to a rich heritage. But now, it was a cruel reminder of all she had lost. She wished she could rid herself of it, to cast away the very thing that had brought her nothing but pain. She wanted to bury her magic alongside her son, to rid herself of the power that had failed her in her most desperate hour. As the funeral began, the room filled with soft murmurs and the faint sound of weeping. Dorea sat motionless, her throat working uselessly as her eyes stayed fixed on the casket. Her mind drifted, disassociating from the reality around her. She felt the beginnings of a cold, dark presence within her, a numbing sensation that spread through her useless limbs. It was as if a part of her was retreating, pulling away from the pain and sorrow. The magic that had once flowed through her veins felt like a foreign entity, something wriggling beneath her skin to be rejected and cast out.

"—"

As Dorea sat on the precipice of self-destruction, her vision blurred with tears and her mind clouded with dark thoughts. The shadows in the room seemed to grow heavier, darker. They thickened around the edges of her vision, pulling her deeper into the void of her despair. The room, filled with muted conversations and the soft rustling of clothes, faded into an oppressive silence. She felt herself slipping away, her sense of self dissolving into nothing. The idea of becoming a formless mass of wrath and destruction, of letting the darkness consume her, was both terrifying and strangely alluring. She could feel the magic within her reacting, but could not be bothered to discern just what’s it was shaping to do. The last thought of hers that remained was that of losing herself, of allowing the grief and the hatred to swallow her whole—make her into void so far away from every foul pain she had ever harbored. In that moment, Dorea felt as though she was standing on the edge of an abyss, teetering on the brink of oblivion. The world around her shredded into something that no longer held relevance to her, and all she could think about was the overwhelming desire to let go, to let the darkness take over and bury her magic with her son forever.

"—"

She was so far removed from this realm that she failed to notice a figure approaching her. Only when the shadows that cradled her frayed form shifted did she understand that she was no longer alone in the darkness.

"No," a voice said. One soft as silk, yet commanding enough to cut through the raging silence of her mind like a pearl knife. The shadows filling her soul darkened further as they reached out to consume any and everything they could. They grew to envelop the voice too, but were met with an aura of both menace and compassion. "No."

Pressure—hands, she realized, pressed into the fluttering edges of her form. With great power, they were able to pry her away from the nothing, which filled her her with a newly formed pang of dread that sent her clattering to be back into the peace she had found.

“No,” the voice softly ordered again.

And the shadows fled from the their coiled tangle around her soul and coalesced into the darkness that pooled beneath the figure before her. The magic that had been tearing her apart now clung to him, batted up from his planted knees, wrapped around his arms, and dripped off his shoulders like liquid night. They obscured his features, casting an eerie, otherworldly glow around him. Dorea blinked, her vision sharpening as if a veil had been lifted—as if her eyes belong to a human again. With her regained sight, she came to see that before her knelt Henry Peverell. It was an image of both beauty and terror. His presence was jarring, otherworldly, as if he did not belong to something of this plane of existence. His watering eyes were dark and enigmatic—and were filled with a wild, untamed magic that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. His gaze held a depth of emotion—despair, peace, love, and pain—all compounded into a feeling of pure reckoning. It was as though he embodied a fallen star, a grotesque angel, a gorgeous demon. The scar that bisected his right eyebrow, notching the side of his nose and curling around his sharp chin, seemed more pronounced as the boy’s face was clenched tight in determination.

She could not help but think, “But why?”

Dorea was transfixed and confused by his presence, unable to look away. He hands her laid upon her were both terrifying and comforting, a paradox of sensations that made her feel as though she was back to standing at the edge of the abyss, staring into the unknown, but could turn away this time. “But do I want to?” She felt a deep, unsettling calm wash over her, a quieting of the storm within her. It was as if he had reached into the very core of her being, pulling her back from the brink—“the brink of what?”

It was then that she noticed the state of the room around her—that she noticed the upturned vacant chairs, the cracked marble floor covered in shattered glass from the windows, and the protective spell bubble around her son’s casket. “Oh, did I—“ She could not finish the thought as more of her senses returned and she was met with the smell of blood and the sounds of fresh cries. But her attention was taken away from it all when the voice—“Peverell”—spoke again.

"Grief and pain are a part of life," he began, his tone filled with a sure authority. "They shape us, mold us—and though they are unbearable, they are also a reminder of our humanity. They show us the depth of our love, the value of what we have lost." His grip upon her hands tightened as she felt his vast magic begin to retreat from hers. "To remove them entirely would be to strip away a human, living, part of ourselves—to deny the very essence of what it means to live and being us closer to a soured death. We cannot escape the pain, nor should we wish to. It is a testament to the grandness of the love we hold, the worth of the connections we cherish."

Dorea felt his words wash over her, resonating deep within her soul, even as her pain increased. There was a truth to them, a raw honesty that she could not deny. She had been consumed by her grief, her hatred, and her desire to rid herself of her magic. But now, as she looked into Henry's eyes, she felt a glimmer of understanding and a flicker of acceptance. The pain was there still—not all of it, not as deep and not as much—but so was Peverell.

Peverell continued, his voice softening. "Your son is gone, and nothing can change that. But to destroy yourself, to sever the connection to your magic, would be to deny his memory, to reject the love you still hold for him. You must carry this pain, not as a burden, but as a tribute to the life you shared, the moments you cherished, Dorea. I cannot absolve you of all of your pain—but I can help you carry it, so you do not become an obscurial again.”

“An obs—?” The thought was as frightening as the sight of the shadows that still played about them, now that she knew what they were. Her breathing steadied, her heartbeat slowed to a more regular rhythm. Peverell's presence was like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her grief. He seemed to embody the very concept of balance, a figure caught between light and dark, life and death. He had pulled her back from the unfathomable and offered anchor to ground herself in the reality of her emotions.

With river-run eyes and a messy mind, Dorea watched as Peverell then rose to his feet. His hair, long and flowing, covered the majority of his back and curtained over his shoulders. As he walked away, it swished with each step, leaving an inky afterimage that seemed to linger in the air. The shadows that had clung to him slowly dissipated, melting back into the corners of the room. Dorea silently observed him go to the casket and wandlessly remove the ward that she assumed he had conjured. For only a moment, the young man looked on at the dark wood, as if to gauge its willingness for something, before he turned to utter into the soft and empty space between them, “Would it ease you to make your final goodbye to him?”

“Yes,” Dorea heard from over her shoulder. She turned to see Charlus, standing with his weight braced onto two white-knuckled hands gripping on the back of her chair. She had not noticed his presence, could not tell when he arrived—but by the state of his torn apart robes and cut up exposed skin, she assumed he never left. When he took notice of her attention, Charlus looked away from Peverell and cupped her up-turned cheek to ask, “Can you hear me now, darling?”

She gave a simple nod.

“Good, you had me worried,” Charlus said as he smiled down at her full of a boastful love and a loud affection that colored his simple words. He did not let her go, did not break their eye contact, as he spoke on, “I know this has been the worst week of our lives, and I know that I have not given you enough of my strength. Shh—“ He broke off when Dorea went to speak and chided her gently, “It’s the truth. Had I, you would have never destroyed yourself so. I owe Peverell a life debt, several times over, for today—for if I lost you too, I would have no reason to go on. My guiding star, you all that I have left of our boy. If you need to rest, I shall make my peace with your absence—but if you can hold on for a little longer, please do not make me go through this new world alone.”

“I will not leave you again,” Dorea found the strength to say as she truly took in her husband—his tacky skin, his bagged eyes, and his bucked shoulders—as he stood strong behind her.

“Then shall we say good by to our son?”

The two looked up toward Peverell, who stared back at them as if to assess their convictions. Then, in a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Peverell reached out his hand, and the room around them grew thick with a palpable, almost sacred energy. The shadows around the young-man shifted, and Dorea felt a cold breeze brush against her skin. The room seemed to darken further, the air heavy with anticipation. Peverell’s power, a power she could not fail to recognize as death-magic, was an undeniable force that filled the space. The air shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and Dorea's breath hitched as she felt the boundary between life and death blur.

Peverell’s voice was a soft whisper that still found a way to echo through the room. "For a moment, I will bridge the gap," he said. "I will bring him back, just long enough for you to say goodbye."

Dorea's heart raced, a mix of fear, hope, and overwhelming emotion. The edges of their realm shimmered, and before her eyes, a spectral form began to take shape. Her son's face materialized, paler than it had been in life and ethereal. He stood before her, not as a mere echo, but as a presence so real it stole her breath away. The longer the moment built, the darker her son’s hair became—waved and tousled as it framed a face she had loved so dearly. His eyes filled with a light that transcended the grave. His eyes, once vibrant and full of life, now held a quiet wisdom, a depth that spoke of experiences beyond this world.

Tears welled in Dorea's eyes as stood to reach out, her hand trembling. She felt a faint, as her husbands chest came to brace her back. Cold pressure came in contact against her palm, a touch so gentle it was almost imperceptible. "My son," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Persei! Oh, my son!"

The world around them faded away—the broken room scattered around them, the gasping guests that remained—leaving only the three of them in a bubble of unspoken words and shared love. She felt a rush of emotions—grief, love, and an aching sense of finality. He smiled at her, a sad, gentle smile that spoke of understanding and acceptance. In that smile, she felt his forgiveness, his love, and his peace. It was a bittersweet comfort, a balm to her shattered heart.

Persei’s came again, gently urging her to make her peace. "The grief you feel is a testament to the love you carried me swaddled in, for my entire life," he said softly. "But love, even in death, endures. It is a light that cannot be extinguished—and without a double I love you two, still.

Dorea nodded, tears streaming down her face. "I love you," she whispered to her son as she scrambled to embrace him. "Persei, you must know I always will!"

Her son nodded, his form beginning to waver. "I know, Mum, Dad," he replied, his voice soft and distant. "I love you too. But know that I now feel no pain and am enjoying my rest. Now, it’s time for me to go, can you let me go?”

Choked-up with her messy face pressed into the side of her son’s ethereal face, Dorea nodded. Her husband voice came over her but she had no strength left to listen. The two talked for some time as she did her best to memorize ever aspect of her son. She felt her husband pulling her back by her shoulders as her son turned to place a kiss upon her temple. “Thank you,” Persei said in parting before he turned away, “and thank you Peverell for giving them this. Mum, Dad—live the rest of your lives well. I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, he began to fade, his form dissolving into the air like mist. Dorea reached out unthinkingly, trying to hold onto him, but he slipped through her fingers, leaving only the cold emptiness of the room. The spectral glow dimmed, and the air returned to its previous stillness. The moment was over, and with it, the fleeting presence of her son. Dorea felt a profound emptiness settle in her chest, a void that would never truly be filled. But there was also a strange sense of peace, a quiet acceptance. Her son was gone, but his love remained, a beacon that would guide her through the darkness. She would carry his memory with her, not as a burden, but as a cherished part of her soul. He left Dorea with a sense of closure, a fleeting yet profound connection to the son she had lost.

Charlus walked her over to regain her strength in her vacated chair, the weight of her grief no longer an unbearable burden. Her magic, once a source of pain and confusion, now felt like a comforting presence, a reminder of the bond she shared with her son. She knew she could not escape her pain, but she could live with it, embrace it as a part of her journey. She would carry the love, the memories, and the magic within her, honoring her son's life in every breath she took. The road ahead would be long and difficult, but she would walk it with the strength of a mother's love and the quiet grace of acceptance. As her thoughts whirled, the reality of what exactly had just happened caught up to her as he husband whispered sweet nothings to her as his hand gently worked over her back.

She cut Charlus off as the snapping-up of her head startled him silent. With a startling realization Dorea looked at Peverell, who still stood beside her son’s casket and calmly looked back at her, and numbly said, “You’re a necromancer.”

“Oh,” Peverell softly smiled, “you noticed?”

Chapter Text

July 19, 1975

“Father is never here for breakfast,” thought Sirius Orion Black as he sat in the furthest corner of the old mahogany table in the Twilight Dining Room. It was one of the many, many rooms that made up 12 Grimmauld Place. From the outside, it looked to be just another unremarkable Muggle dwelling, as closely situated as it was to numbers 11 and 13. But should one step inside, assuming they were able to get past the myriad of wards surrounding the ancestral home of the Black family, they would be met with the hefty charm-work and spell-craft that made the townhouse just as magical as any other pureblood manor. And it was from his chair, several empty seats down from his mother and brother, that Sirius pondered the magic that held this house together—a house, not a home.

“No,” he thought, “for a home is a place of warmth that is not sourced from the spilling of one’s blood, and it is filled with laughter that is not at one’s own expense.”

Sirius watched his younger brother across the opposite end of the table, the way Regulus quietly ate his porridge without looking up. There was a time when Sirius had tried to make Regulus laugh, pulling silly faces and telling jokes he had overheard the house-elves whispering. But Regulus had only blinked at him, his large, dark eyes void of the joy Sirius had hoped to see. Now, Sirius didn’t even try. Instead he figured, “What’s the point?”

Regulus would only grow up to be just like them—cold, distant, and impossible to reach. The thought made his chest hurt in a way that was all too familiar. It was not always this way. When Sirius was an only child, and for a bit after when Grandmother was alive, his father sat among them, and together they waited for the day to start. But then his mother nearly-died bearing an unnecessary second heir, and things changed. And, magic, Sirius knew, could do all sorts of amazing things. So Walburga Black was brought back to them from the brink before Regulus’s first cries—or so he was told.

“It would have truly been a shame,” he remembered his father saying as they stood outside the closed door of his mother’s sickroom. But what Sirius heard was, “Your mother’s life should not be wasted simply because you were not proper enough the first time.”

And that was the last time his father spoke to him without that distant, distracted look in his eyes. Now his father left for the Ministry long before most of the house rose. Especially of late, when there had been “no shortage of things a trusted aide can help the minister figure out.” Yes, Orion Arcturus Black was ever busy. But Sirius supposed that it took a lot of work to ensure that one’s nieces, nephews, friends, and ex-lovers were not caught with blood drying on their hands. Furthermore, a lot of strategic planning went into ensuring nothing outlandish was found when the Aurors conducted their surprise raids of the Dark-inclined families' homes.

But it was this blatant disregard for his entire being that saw Sirius concocting his greatest prank of all—one he would not even be around to witness. It was this very lack of parental oversight that Sirius’s plans hinged on—as he knew that even with her around, detection would surely not come from his mother. His mother—who cast curses upon his name and terror upon his heart. His mother—who did not notice when he lost a stone or when the bags beneath his eyes grew heavier. His mother—who had not looked up at him once from her porridge, even as he repeatedly dragged his fork screechingly across his now empty plate. He clenched his fork tightly, imagining for a moment that it was warm, like a hand he could hold onto. But it wasn’t. It was just a cold piece of metal, like everything else in this house. His heart ached for something he couldn’t name, something that should have been there but never was.

“Notice me!” He wished to cry out, but he had long since learned how futile it was to cry.

Once, Sirius had tried to wait up for his father, sitting in the dark hallway near the door. He’d fallen asleep there, the hard floor pressing uncomfortably into his side, but even then, it had felt better than the bed upstairs. When he woke up, his father was already gone, and Kreacher had roughly dragged him back to his room, scolding him for being in the way. Sirius cried then. He wanted to cry so loudly that his father would have no choice but to hear him, no choice but to come back and ask him what was wrong. But that never happened.

Once, Sirius had paused on his march back to his room, after enduring a bout of discipline from his mother, to stare down at Kreacher—who was busy dusting an already spotless table. He opened his mouth to say something, anything that might make the elf look at him with something other than disdain.

“Do you ever get tired of this place?” he had asked, his voice small and uncertain. Kreacher did not even pause in his work, muttering something under his breath that Sirius couldn’t quite catch. Sirius’s shoulders slumped. Even the house-elves, who were supposed to serve him, held no true care for him. He began to cry as he continued his walk, feeling as though he was just another piece of furniture in this house, to be polished and moved around but never truly seen. So he continued to cry messily with each step, glad to make more work for the wretched creature.

Once, Sirius had been summoned to stand beside his mother during one of the many formal social gatherings they hosted. As he stood there, trying to appear as the perfect son, someone had bumped into him from behind—causing them to accidentally knocked over a goblet of wine in their hand. The room went silent as the dark liquid spread across the pristine carpet, before a house-elf snapped the mess out of existence. Sirius had froze, his heart pounding as he looked up at his mother. Her expression was one of pure fury, and before he could even apologize, she grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the ballroom. She then shoved him away from once they reached the hallway.

“How dare you embarrass me like this?” She had hissed when they were alone, her nails digging into his skin. “You are a disgrace, Sirius. Can you not do anything right?”

Sirius had not even been given the opportunity to respond before the heavy doors slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone in the dark. Tears streamed down his face as his small body sank to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. He cried there for what felt like hours, the humiliation and fear twisting in his stomach, knowing that he was an utter failure in her eyes. But now he could cry no longer.

Instead, he silently pushed away from the table and made his way out. Whether his thoughts felt too heavy for his narrow-bred shoulders or his emotions seemed too grand for a boy raised on refinement, Sirius withered under the pressure of it all. He had tried perfection—dutifully amazing his tutors, studiously dressing his body and tongue, and nobly assisting in the rearing of his brother. He had tried havoc—mastering the darkest of spells on the house-elves, bringing every object not spelled to the floor to ruin, and haphazardly raising his brother. And when all that got him was a few healed bones, quickly mended skin, and several silent trips to the Ministry—Sirius tried to simply be.

He tried to be there to catch his mother’s ire if he could not catch his father’s eye. He tried to be there to smile and nod if that was what an heir needed to do. He even tried to be there to never shy away from it all, if only so he could shield his brother. Sirius knew, far too early on, that his parents were unfit. That it was not right to learn your care-elf’s face before your bearer’s. Or to only be able to distinguish your sire from the other guests of your home by the scent of his cologne. Or for your brother to mistakenly, but repeatedly, call you “father.” What he did not know, however, was if he would be any different.

“Marlene didn’t seem to think so,” Sirius bitterly thought as he strolled through the dreary halls. Sometimes, when the house was especially silent, Sirius would close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to live somewhere else—anywhere else. He pictured a small cottage with big windows that let the sunlight in, a place where he could laugh without fear of being silenced, where his mother’s voice wasn’t always echoing in his head, sharp and cold. He imagined running through a field, the grass brushing against his legs, and collapsing under a tree with nothing but the sound of birds to keep him company. But when he opened his eyes, all he saw were the dark, oppressive walls of Grimmauld Place.

“All the magic in the world and not a single window.” He recalled that not even his and Regulus’s nursery had one. “And I’d be a far better parent than them for knowing that’s not how it’s supposed to be.” There were so many instances from his youth that he thought were not supposed to be—so many lonely holidays, smarting bruises, and nights spent with his brother shivering at his side. And mourning his child was now one of them. “My child, what a funny thought. I wonder what they would have become.”

“What?” Marlene’s words still harshly cut through his thoughts. “Dark? Slytherin? All things our child could have been!” Sirius hated that Marlene did not believe him. He hated how he now missed someone he had never known, and how her words had stung, and how long it had taken the redness to finally leave his eyes, and how he struggled even more now to meet Reggie’s eyes.

“It’s different!”

Sirius had said that, and while he still believed it to be true, he knew to her, to Regulus, it must appear all the same. But he loved Marlene, he loved his brother, and it pained him so that love had never been enough to conquer all. Sirius leaned against the worn wallpaper lined wall, between the frames of various fallen stars, as his gaze grew distant. He wandered through memories of his brother, it was hard to pinpoint when exactly the shift had happened. Sirius had to ask himself, “When did I stop being Regulus's protector and become merely a shadow, an echo of failure that haunted his every move?”

In their early years, Sirius had raised his younger brother. Their parents were distant figures, absorbed in their social standing and their obsessive adherence to the pure-blood creed. It was Sirius who had soothed Regulus's cries in the dead of night, who had bandaged his scrapes and bruises after playing a little too hard, and who had shielded him from every volatile thing in their world. Sirius had been the one to tell Regulus bedtime stories, to help him with his lessons when the tutors grew impatient, to hold him close when the darkness of Grimmauld Place became too much for a child to bear.

But as they grew older, things began to change. Sirius started to notice the way his parents looked at Regulus—with a glint of pride that he had never seen before. Regulus was obedient, dutiful, everything their parents wanted in a son. And Sirius? Sirius was the rebel, the stain, the disappointment. It hurt, more than he cared to admit, the way Regulus began to drift away—drawn more and more into the orbit of their parents' influence. It made Sirius furious to see the boy he had once protected, the boy he had tried to steer away from their parents' twisted ideals, now embracing them with a fervor that was both heartbreaking and infuriating.

How many times had he argued with Regulus, trying to break through the shell of obedience that seemed to have hardened around him? How many times had he tried to show his brother that there was more to life than the narrow, suffocating world their parents had built for them? But Regulus, with that same calm, detached demeanor he had learned from their father, had only stared back at him—as if Sirius were the one who had lost his way. And perhaps, in Regulus's eyes, he had. After all, Sirius had defied everything their parents stood for, had turned his back on the Black family legacy. In their world, that was the ultimate betrayal. Sirius clenched his fists, anger bubbling up inside him.

It wasn't fair. He had tried so hard to make sure Regulus turned out alright, to be there for him in ways their parents never had. And yet, all he had become was the standard against which Regulus measured his own success. Every time their mother praised Regulus for some achievement, every time she compared him favorably to Sirius, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He had become the benchmark of failure, the cautionary tale their parents used to keep Regulus in line. What disgusted Sirius most was how easily Regulus seemed to fall into their parents' footsteps. The younger brother he had once held so dear was now a stranger to him, a puppet whose strings were pulled by the very people Sirius despised. It made him sick to watch Regulus carry out their parents' wishes with a zeal that was almost fanatical.

No matter how much Sirius had tried to steer him otherwise, no matter how much he had fought to give Regulus a chance at a different life, it had all been for nothing. And now, as he stood alone in the darkness, Sirius realized something that cut him deeper than anything else: Regulus didn’t need him anymore. The boy who had once clung to him in fear, who had looked up to him with wide, trusting eyes, was gone. In his place was a young man who had chosen his own path, a path that led away from Sirius and everything he stood for. It broke him to know that Regulus had found his place in the world, even if that place was one Sirius despised. It hurt to know that, in the end, all of his efforts, all of his love, had not been enough to save his brother. And it hurt most of all to realize that, for all his rebellion, for all his defiance, he had never truly escaped the shadow of the Black family—because Regulus, his beloved little brother, had chosen to stay within it.

“Would you have been prepared to walk away from your heirship, from your family and its influence, to father that child?”

“Well, I guess we’ll see about that now,” Sirius mumbled smartly under his breath. He had never thought to run away. No matter what he endured, he did so confidently and willingly, for Regulus. But now—“Just a few days,” Sirius thought. “Reggie would be fine for a few days.”

It was a rushed decision, a brash decision—and when he stopped to cast a Tempus, seeing that the entire day had passed him by, it was a hastened decision. He packed light, just an ever-expanding bag, before slipping off a note to Regulus saying he’d gone off to the Potters. He would leave, just for a day or two. He would see how long it took for his father to pen something about his whereabouts or for his mother to start complaining about his lapse in household duties. He would give them a chance to miss him, give his brother an opportunity to notice his absence, and then he would be back as always.

It was too easy, he felt, to sneak out the Muggle way—through his window, just as he heard the Floo begin to announce their first dinner guests. Without ever looking back, Sirius stood on his bed and shimmied out onto the hump in the roof just outside his bedroom window. Clutching his bag to his chest, he smoothly let off a cushioning charm and let himself fall. Then, all it took was to make his way to the alley at the end of his street, and Sirius was gone in a manic bark of laughter—that was promptly cut short when his Apparition deposited him not at the entryway of Potter Manor, but outside its ward system.

He had never in his life been unable to get past the wards. This place was easily more of a “home” to him than Grimmauld Place. He didn’t know what to think, what to do—Sirius began to pace as his thoughts raced. He needed to get inside before his family came looking for him. He needed to get the Potters' attention to let them know something was wrong. He needed to believe this was a mistake, that he was as welcome here now as he had always been. Anxiety, soaring higher than ever before, wracked his frame.

First, he shouted, trying to possibly get the house-elves’ attention. Then, a cluster of spells in quick succession—Periculum, Partis Temporus, and Bombarda Maxima. Then, a flurry of wand movements with the pure intent to get inside somehow, some way. But every spell Sirius knew was either bounced back or absorbed. Everything he could think to do was futile, and he was far past frustrated. Struggling to get enough oxygen to his brain with his shallow, quick breaths, Sirius decided to simply throw his body at the wards to try to brute-force his way through.

Unbeknownst to him, as his wet eyes were far too clouded, he had caused such a racket that the house-elves eventually took notice. When they realized what was going on, he caused such an uproar that they brought it to Lord Potter’s attention. And, in his frightened state, he was such a mess that he took no notice of Lady Potter collecting his repeatedly flailing body—until he realized that he could no longer move. Within the iron grip of the gentlewoman’s arms, Sirius fell apart and cried. He didn’t allow it; he didn’t want it—but the tears came all the same.

That night, when he had exhausted all other emotions and Dorea added a few drops of his blood to the apparently new wards, he lay in bed and regretted not giving Reggie one of their great-grandfather’s mirrors—for he has a sinking feeling that he will be here longer than he first thought. Blood magic was funny that way. 

Chapter Text

July 19, 1975

"Father is always here for dinner," Regulus Arcturus Black thought as he went about his duties. They weren’t truly his duties; they were the "First Heir’s"—something about learning to "provide consistent and healthy nourishment for one’s family" and all that. But when his brother forwent this task, as he often did, it fell to Regulus to plan out the night’s menu. And with the state in which Sirius had just marched out of the Twilight Dining Room, Regulus knew that nothing would get done today unless he did it himself. Stifling a sigh, Regulus finished his light breakfast in silence. The clinking of his spoon against the delicate, century-old china was the only sound in the cavernous dining room. The long, polished table stretched out before him, its emptiness a stark contrast to the scene that had unfolded just moments before.

The remnants of Sirius's presence lingered—an overturned chair, a napkin crumpled on the floor, the echo of his harsh steps still reverberating off the cold walls. Their mother sat beside him, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the untouched plate before her. It was as if the outburst had never happened, as if her firstborn's anger was nothing more than an inconvenience to be quietly ignored. Regulus lowered his gaze, focusing on the last few bites of his meal, each mouthful ever more tasteless in the wake of his brother's departure. The tension in the room pressed down on him, making each breath he took feel heavier than the last. When the silence became too much to bear, he gently placed his napkin beside his plate, the soft fabric brushing against his fingertips.

"If you'll excuse me, Mother," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, not wishing to disturb the fragile calm that had settled. Walburga Black gave a curt nod, her eyes never leaving the table. Regulus stood, holding back a flinch as the legs of his chair scraped against the floor when he pushed it back. Without another word, he slipped out of the dining room, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. As he made his way down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, the atmosphere never shifted. The grandeur of the Black family home was ever-present, with its dark, ornate tapestries hanging from the walls and the gleaming marble floors that reflected the flickering light of the chandeliers. But in Grimmauld Place’s hallways, there was a different kind of stillness. One born of centuries of quiet servitude, where the house-elves’ presence went unseen but was always felt in the polished banisters and spotless floors.

Regulus descended the flight of stairs that separated the first and second floors, the lifeless wood of each step chilling his feet through his thin slippers. As he rounded the banister and went further down the main hall, the scent of fresh bread and simmering sauces greeted him. A warmth that felt almost welcoming compared to the chilly silence of the upper floors surrounded him as he tranced closer. The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar, and through it, he could hear the soft murmurs of the house-elves as they went about their duties, their voices hushed but efficient. Pushing the door open, Regulus stepped into the bustling kitchen. The house-elves paused, their large, round eyes turning toward him in unison, awaiting his command. He gave them a small, reassuring smile, though it felt like a mask, hiding the turmoil that churned within him.

"I’ll be planning tonight’s menu," he said softly, his voice steady despite the tension he felt. The house-elves nodded eagerly, scurrying to gather parchment and quills for him. He moved to sit at the large oak table to the right of the cooking area, the surface worn and notched from many years of use. As he began to jot down the evening’s courses, his mind wandered back to Sirius—his brother’s favorite dishes, the things that used to make him smile. It was an old habit, one Regulus had never been able to break: the need to please his brother, to see even a flicker of the warmth they once shared.

"White wine snails," he decided, pausing for a moment as the thought took shape. Sirius had always loved them, even as a child, delighting in their delicate flavor. Perhaps, Regulus reasoned, it could be a small gesture of peace, a way to reach out beneath their parents’ strict eyes without having to say a word. He added it to the menu, along with a few other dishes he knew Sirius might appreciate. Satisfied with the choices, he handed the paper off to the head elf, who bowed deeply before scurrying off to begin preparations. The kitchen had already returned to its quiet hum of activity, the clattering of pots and the crackling of the fire filling the air.

Regulus lingered for a moment, watching the house-elves at their chaotic work, hoping to avoid his own. Watching them perform their simple, rhythmic tasks became oddly soothing—but the respite was brief. He knew his mother would be waiting for him, her day planned down to the minute, each task a testament to the order and control she demanded in their lives. With a loud sigh, he stood and made his way back through the house. The warmth of the kitchen faded behind him as he went, replaced once more by the dark embrace of the house. Regulus found his mother in the foyer, her expression as composed as ever, her gloved hands resting lightly on the handle of her handbag.

She didn’t speak as he approached, merely began to walk, and he fell into step behind her, his mind drifting as they moved toward the floor room. He could hear his brother pacing the halls of the third floor as they went. Sirius simply did that at times, staring silently off into the ether as he retraced his own steps several times over. Although it was something he had seen his brother do all his life, Regulus was sure that he was the only one who noticed that the behavior had increased since Sirius’s second year at Hogwarts. So it was doubly insulting how his mother too often griped to him about each generation’s quickened onset of madness, as if he too did not constantly check over his shoulder for their family’s ghosts.

The day’s errands were a blur of stale interactions, curt transactions, and bland exchanges. His mother’s presence was a commanding force down the streets of Diagon Alley, brooking no diversion. And as neither she nor anyone else sought him out for conversation, Regulus followed a step behind her dutifully, though his thoughts were miles away. He was lost in the falsified comfort of memories, of recollections from times when things were different—when Sirius’s laughter echoed through these halls along with both of their steps. And he was simply a younger brother, with no more expectations or demands than to trail after someone he adored. Now, he was always so alone, and the silence between them as vast and unyielding as the walls of the house itself. Regulus’s body had perfected the craft of moving on autopilot, following his mother’s lead.

His steps did not stutter even when his mind was elsewhere—caught in the spaces between duty and longing, between what was and what could never be again. From the earliest moments he could remember, his world had been a bubble of warmth and protection, created by his brother’s presence. In a house filled with coldness and cruelty, Sirius had been the one constant source of light, the one person who made Grimmauld Place bearable. When their parents were distant and the house-elves scurried about silently, it was Sirius who filled the void, who played with him, who made him laugh. Regulus had learned what love was by watching his brother and feeling it from him in every small act of kindness. He had never questioned the freedom he enjoyed, never considered that it might come at a cost.

“Why would I?”

To him, life was simple. Sirius was always there to catch him when he stumbled, always there to shield him from their parents’ harsh words. When the other children their age were learning the strict rules of pure-blood society, Regulus was a spare—allowed to jaunt off, play, and explore the world Sirius created for him. He had felt emboldened, invincible, because with Sirius by his side, nothing could hurt him. But then, as he grew older, the illusion began to shatter. He started to notice things—small things at first. The way Sirius’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes after their mother had scolded Regulus for some minor infraction. The way Sirius would stand in front of him during those crippling talks with Father. Sirius was always ahead of him, as if to block their parents’ venom from reaching him. And then there were the bruises. The ones Sirius tried to hide, the ones Regulus would catch glimpses of when Sirius thought no one was looking. Regulus’s world came crashing down the day he realized the truth. The freedom he had enjoyed, the carefree childhood he had taken for granted—it had all been because of Sirius. Every time Regulus had made a mistake, every time he had failed to live up to their parents’ impossible expectations, it was Sirius who bore the brunt of the punishment. Their parents, especially their mother, had never been shy about reminding Sirius of his duty as the heir.

“You should have been a better example,” one of them would say coldly, “and taught your brother better.” The first time Regulus fully grasped what that meant, it nearly broke him. Sirius had been whipped that day, for something erroneous Regulus had done. Their mother’s words still echoed in his ears: “You’re the heir, Sirius. You should have known better.” Regulus had watched from the shadows, horror-stricken, as Sirius silently accepted the punishment meant for him. The guilt had been overwhelming, crashing over him like a wave, suffocating and relentless.

“How many times had this happened? How many times had Sirius suffered because of him?”

That night, he was not barred from their usual closeness when the sounds of thunder through their empty house became too much for his small consciousness to handle, even as Sirius shuddered through the touch of sheets upon his back as he tried to hide the pain. For the first time in his life, he pondered that maybe his big brother was not scared of the dark too. So much had happened during those years, and Regulus could not remember just how old he was that particular day, but he could vividly remember the vow he made to himself on his magic. He would never let Sirius be punished for his actions again. He would do whatever it took to keep their parents’ wrath away from his brother. If that meant becoming the “perfect heir,” so be it.

He would be everything their parents wanted—a dutiful, obedient son who never stepped out of line, who never gave them a reason to look at Sirius with that icy, disappointed stare. It wasn’t easy. Every time he bowed to their parents’ will, every time he mimicked their beliefs and followed their orders, a part of him died inside. He could see the hurt in Sirius’s eyes, the disbelief that his little brother was choosing the very path Sirius had fought so hard to escape. But Regulus steeled himself. This was the only way he knew to protect Sirius. If he could become the model son, if he could take on the mantle of the “Heir to the House of Black,” then maybe, just maybe, their parents would leave Sirius alone.

And so, Regulus began to distance himself. He said the things their parents wanted to hear, made the choices they approved of. He watched as Sirius grew more and more distant, more rebellious, and it broke his heart every time. But Regulus kept going, pushing himself to be the son their parents wanted, even as it tore him apart inside. He knew what it cost him—the bond he had once shared with Sirius, the closeness that had defined his childhood. But if it meant Sirius wouldn’t have to suffer, then it was worth it. It had to be. There were nights when Regulus would lie awake, staring at the ceiling as he forced his body not to go running for his brother, with the weight of his choices crushing him. He missed Sirius something terribly.

He missed the way things had been, missed the warmth and love that had once filled his world. But those days were gone, and Regulus knew that he could never get them back if he truly wanted to protect his brother. But that did not stop his mind from reminding him how Sirius used to make everything feel like an adventure. Whether they were sneaking into their father’s study or hiding from Kreacher after one of their pranks, Sirius had a way of turning the darkest corners of Grimmauld Place into a playground. Regulus had felt invincible with Sirius by his side, protected by his brother’s unwavering confidence and love. Even the house-elves, who were supposed to be beneath them, seemed to adore Sirius, and by extension, Regulus. It was in those early years that Regulus had first known what love felt like—a fierce, protective love that he knew was rare in their family. But things had changed. The warmth that Sirius brought into Regulus’s life had slowly been replaced by a deep, aching loneliness.

Then when Regulus arrived at Hogwarts, the separation from his brother became unbearable. Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor, and though Regulus had known it was coming—Sirius had always been different—it still felt like a betrayal. The distance between them grew with each passing year, and Regulus found himself increasingly alone. Even surrounded by his housemates, he felt isolated, always missing the bond he had shared with Sirius. Today, the loneliness felt sharper than usual. As Regulus trailed behind his mother, he listened to her drone on about the importance of maintaining the family’s reputation. They visited the tailor for fittings, inspected the family vault at Gringotts, and finally returned home to prepare for dinner with the Lestranges. Regulus hated these days, filled with tedious tasks that only served to remind him of the heavy expectations placed upon him. But he endured it all without complaint, playing the role of the dutiful son.

When they returned, Regulus could still hear his brother pacing. He often found himself mentally tracing out the path of Sirius’ aimless wandering. Regulus wondered at his brother’s thoughts, curious as to whether any of them were about him. As he walked through the house, with its reminiscent dark corners and oppressive atmosphere that felt like a tandem casket, he wondered if Sirius was also reminded of hazel eyes peering at him as it was for Regulus. In many ways, this house had become a companion crypt—the resting place of his childhood and the relationship he once shared with Sirius. There was a time when, in every shimmering surface, he saw his brother’s smile; when Sirius would chase him back to his side if Regulus strayed too far. But those days were now buried under layers of expectations and burdens that he had begun to doubt whether either of them were strong enough to live through. Regulus mourned them, their childhood selves, deeply.

He missed the way Sirius used to ruffle his hair, the way he would stay up late with him, the way he told stories of distant lands and daring adventures that made the world outside Grimmauld Place seem vast and full of possibility—the way Sirius would simply look at him. Now that he was the "golden child," the one who had followed the path laid out for him, the one who had done everything right in their parents’ eyes, his hope—his desperate, fragile hope—was that if he could shine brightly enough, if he could embody everything their parents wanted, then maybe, just maybe, Sirius could find refuge in his shadow for once. But he didn’t expect Sirius to completely avert his eyes—to turn away from him too, in his shunning of everything Black.

Regulus tried not to let it bother him, as he knew what Sirius needed. He had watched his brother struggle under the same pressures that now rested on his own shoulders. Sirius had always rebelled against them, had fought against the suffocating expectations with every ounce of his being. But rebellion came with a cost, and Regulus had seen firsthand the toll it had taken on Sirius. That’s why he had stepped into the role with such determination, willingly sacrificing himself so that Sirius could escape into the persona of the castoff Gryffindor miscreant. But now, every time he saw Sirius from across the Great Hall at Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends, laughing and carefree, Regulus felt a pang of longing and sorrow. He wanted to be by his brother’s side, to share in that freedom, to feel the lightness that came with rejecting everything they had been taught. But he knew that one of them had to stay.

One of them had to hold the family together, to keep up the facade, to bear the burden of being the Black heir. So, Regulus would be that person, even if it meant losing himself in the process. There were moments, late at night, when Regulus would lie awake, staring at the ceiling of his dormitory, and contemplate leaving it all behind. He thought nearly constantly of running away, of abandoning the family duties and expectations, and dragging Sirius with him. But Regulus knew that he couldn’t. Sirius needed him to stay. If he left, if he turned his back on their family, Sirius would be pulled back in, and Regulus couldn’t allow that. His brother had already suffered enough. So, Regulus would stay.

He would keep playing the role of the perfect heir, shining brightly enough to keep their parents’ attention focused on him and away from Sirius. He would hold everything together, even if it meant breaking his own heart again and again. He would do it because he loved Sirius, because he wanted to protect him in the only way he knew how. And maybe, one day, when Sirius was ready, when he had found his way back to who he truly was, Regulus could step aside, and they could face their future together. But until that day came, Regulus would carry the weight of the Black family legacy on his shoulders, alone. And today, that meant greeting the dinner guests. He stood beside his mother in the floo room, as his father had yet to make it back from the Ministry and Sirius had not ceased his pacing.

He watched as the hearth roared to life for a moment before bodies came pouring out. When the Lestranges arrived, Regulus greeted them with the politeness that had been drilled into him from birth. He shallowly bowed to Lord Roycephus and was saved from further comment as Bellatrix ruffled his hair in a manner that made his very follicles ache, commenting on how much he had grown, while his mother beamed with pride. He was grateful to remain silent as the woman talked. As expected, he was the last to leave the room and trailed behind them up to the second floor, back toward the family dining room. From his quiet post, he observed how Rodolphus’s steps seemed to lurch with a limp that had not been present the week before, and how Rabastan seemed unable to keep his jerking right limbs still.

He banished all thoughts of lessons on the misuse of the Cruciatus Curse from his mind as he moved to pull out his mother’s chair. Regulus played his part well and refused to let his treacherous mind be a bother. It would do him no good at this time to think of his brother, who had once sat beside him at these same gatherings—making jokes under his breath and rolling his eyes at the pureblood pretensions. But before he could take his own chair beside the vacant head, his mother called out, “Go fetch your brother, Regulus. Dinner will be served soon, and I expect him to be presentable.”

Regulus nodded silently and swiftly made his way upstairs. As he reached Sirius’s door, he felt a strange sense of dread. For some reason, he dared not knock, simply pushed the door aside with softly applied weight. He found the room empty—except for Sirius, who was halfway out of the window. Regulus froze and watched as his brother, with a bag slung over his shoulder, climbed out without a word. He had never been disemboweled before, but he could name the spell to do so. And in this moment, he had to retrace the last few seconds of his memory.

He had to ensure he did not hear it cast, for he was sure that was the feeling destroying his body. His organs must be the pitiful thing squirming on the ground before him, for if not, then it would be his heart. His mind must be delirious with pain, conjuring false images—for if not, then Sirius was leaving. Leaving without telling him, without even a glance back. For a moment, Regulus considered calling out to him, begging him to stay, but the words caught like coagulated blood in his throat. He could only stand there, seeped onto the spot, as Sirius disappeared from view.

Slowly, eventually, Regulus turned and made his way back downstairs. His soul felt like it had been torn in two, but he kept his expression neutral, the perfect mask of composure. When he re-entered the dining room, his mother looked at him expectantly. “Sirius isn’t feeling well,” Regulus lied smoothly. “He asked to be excused from dinner.”

His mother clicked her tongue in disapproval but didn’t press the issue. The Lestranges made some sympathetic noises, and the conversation moved on. Regulus sat through the meal in a daze, mechanically answering questions and smiling at the appropriate moments. Inside, he felt like his soul was breaking apart. He had always thought that if he could be the perfect son, the perfect heir, Sirius would notice him again, would come back to him. But now, as he sat there, pretending everything was fine, Regulus realized just how far Sirius had been slipping further away with each passing day. He was not strong enough to stand beside his brother before, and now he was not enough to make him stay—but Regulus supposed he could be happy that now one of them was truly free.

So, he smiled, nodded—played his part just as he had been taught, and tasted nothing of the white wine snails.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1975

“Color me impressed, Henry—I truly did think you were nothing but hot air,” Thorfinn called out from his admittedly comfortable seat at the desk of one Henry Peverell. The young lord in question sat across from him, scribbling a note about some urgent matter or other that had arisen with his current bill proposal. The gangly horrors that Peverell swore were house-elves had popped in to announce an urgently fluttering owl just as they were about to leave, which left Thorfinn here—drolly taking up space as he sipped some form of spiced chamomile tea. “Truly fearless to be bringing up ‘Muggle-born Rights’ at a time like this.”

“There’s nothing fearless about it, Finn,” Peverell muttered between flicks of his quill. “Our logic is sound, and the evidence is clear.”

Thorfinn gave a caustic laugh, in disbelief. “Yes, I followed your little speech just fine Saturday—but how you roped Lord Selwyn, of all people, into this mess, I’ll never know.”

“The man is in need of an heir but is impotent,” Peverell said matter-of-factly. “It is no secret that he has tried every method his money could buy to rectify the matter. So, without alterations to his view of ‘lineage’ and ‘blood,’ his family will become nothing but a footnote in time. And Lords fear obscurity above all else, so it was as simple as pointing out the possibilities to the man.”

“You do know what they say about the—” Thorfinn paused to gather the right words, “—circles that man runs in, yes?”

“What, that he’s a Death Eater?” Peverell asked. Thorfinn gave a shallow nod behind his raised teacup, which hid his smile. “Who he chooses to get down on his knees for is none of my concern.”

“I know you are far from light, Henry. But with moves like these legislations to divert funding to ‘early Muggle-born interventions’ and ‘optional blood-testing’—well, one might find it hard to know what side you’re truly on.”

“I do believe declaring my votes for the Neutrum ballot put it clearly: I am neutral.” Peverell heaved a heavy sigh before continuing, “Those honored to have been chosen by lady magic are just that. It truly matters not how far back they can track their ancestors’ mating habits if the old families of now show them that all that’s good for is inbred insanity and the squandering of family magic. The magic of our world is imbalanced and unstable. Instead of bemoaning the Muggle-influenced’s lack of knowledge and understanding of our world, I intend to do something about it.”

Thorfinn scoffed. “Starting with getting all the little mudbloods to be adopted into their supposed ‘ancestral lines’?”

Peverell raised a blank stare from the rhetorical papers in front of him. “Starting with the Lords and Ladies of now acknowledging the descendants of the squibs they have been casting out into the muggle world for generations. The evidence that we have found clearly supports that the inclusion of muggle-born and muggle-raised wixen benefits us all.”

Thorfinn cleared his throat in an attempt to rid himself of the bitter taste this conversation left in his mouth. “What you’re asking for is going too far. They could join our world without being so—so—intertwined in the fashion you’re intending. Think of the disproportionately negative effects you’re infringing on those born and raised in our world.”

“Disproportionately ne—?!” Peverell sputtered. “Finn, do you know about family magic?”

Thorfinn could not contain the roll of his eyes as he answered, “Yes, everyone knows—”

“Great,” Peverell cut in, “and do you know why muggle-borns and such are usually more powerful?”

Thorfinn also could not contain his shout. “What lies are you spouting?!”

“Lies?” Peverell scoffed into the air above his desk. “Give me the three greatest wixen you can think of off the top of your head.”

“Merlin, Grindelwald, and—” Thorfinn quickly kept his next thought from leaving his lips and lamely finished with, “I suppose, Dumbledore.”

“Okay—so a suspected muggleborn that was most likely from a squib of the Pwyll or Conaan families. A half-blood with a full-out muggle mother. And a half-blood with a muggle-born mother. Those are the most powerful wixen you can think of? Got it.”

“Now wait a minute, Henry. Those coincidences may stand, but surely there are pureblood wixen just as powerful as the ones I named.”

“Oh, surely!” Peverell parroted back at him before continuing. “But that does not make it any less true that muggle-borns are observably stronger. And it is specifically because their family magic is concentrated on themselves and not spread out through various heirs and branches.”

Thorfinn’s thoughts were reeling. “But then, what of old?”

“Well,” Peverell started, “when families religiously practiced our traditions and honored our rituals, they were more powerful. And it didn’t matter, then, how many people were using the family magic because they were all putting back into it tenfold. But then the inbreeding and the loss of earnestness in the rituals began to render participation in them moot.”

Peverell leaned back in his chair and propped his elbows up on the desk between them, with his fingers laced beneath his chin. “The reason Lord Selwyn and I are so devoted to this is because everyone in wizarding Britain is related to each other. You have to see the issue in that. The lack of magical diversity is choking out our world. If those from the muggle world were viewed as the heads of new magical lines, or accepted as renewed branches of others, our world would flourish. And if we look at the evidence from my paper—”

“Yes, yes,” Thorfinn interjected, growing bored of the conversation. “I read your paper. It was thorough, concise, and downright impressive for you to have worked on this for only a year. But do you not see how random heirs popping up from nowhere destabilizes the very fabric of our world?”

“If you truly read my research paper and my bill,” Peverell snapped, “then you would know that while in the paper I call them ‘heirs,’ in the bill there is an addendum clarifying that, in all legal matters and rights, the found descendants of Squibs could only ever be considered a ‘beneficiary’—unless no other heir is able to come forth and be claimed.”

Thorfinn hummed. “It all just makes everyone uncomfortable, Henry.”

“Their discomfort is none of my concern,” the young lord stated.

Just then, a thought occurred to Thorfinn at Peverell’s flat words. “Speaking of perturbation,” he segued, “there are some interesting things making the circuit this week. Apparently, Yaxley’s third mistress is quite fertile, and there were some strange goings-on at Persei Potter’s funeral.”

Peverell made no move to respond, his attention back on the parchment between them, so Thorfinn went on, absently fluttering his fingers to set his teaspoon to stir. “I’ve heard nothing in detail. No one has—seeing as Hardwin Potter was the paranoid sort and cursed the house. Which makes sense; all that oriental mysticism and whatnot was locked down tight by the Ministry of his time. ‘Far too dark.’”

Barely paying him any mind, Peverell noted, “Hindustan. ‘Oriental’ isn’t the proper term.” He then queried, without looking up from the scattering of documents before him, “Potter Manor is cursed?”

“Oh, yes,” Thorfinn exaggerated, happy to have regained the other’s attention. “It seems that none not claimed of the Potter blood can talk about what’s been seen on Potter property. It’s not that obscure a work, commonly woven into the wards of old houses—I’ve heard that Black Manor has something similar. But I do wonder what the Potters, of all people, got up to that they would have sought to hide it so.”

“Interesting,” was all Peverell said in response, distracted once again.

“That’s not even the best part,” Thorfinn said with an annoyed huff. “While it is quite the basic curse, their ward-maker was grand enough to spell it so that anyone who tries to recount what happened forgets themselves the more they try to speak on the matter. Their ward-stone must be something truly impressive to sustain it all. And whatever happened must have been even more spectacular to make so many people try to talk about it anyway.”

A beat of silence passed, during which Peverell neither noticed that they had lapsed into stilted conversation nor seemed to pick up on Thorfinn’s blatant phishing attempts. So, instead of the prim-and-proper ways in which he had been reared, Thorfinn decided to be more direct. “I noticed,” he challenged, “how even your own delegation shies away from you now on the chamber floor. They’ve been looking at you like they simultaneously want to sacrifice their firstborn to you and bury you under the gilded tiles.”

Thorfinn adjusted his relaxed position, settling his elbows on the desk as he leaned into Peverell’s personal space, and continued, “The only thing those decrepit bog-bodies respect is power. So, I just want you to explain what you have and how you got it.”

He gave a pause for posterity, and then Thorfinn came right out and asked, “Will you seriously not tell me what is going on?”

Peverell blinked rather dumbly. “What?”

“Oh, come off it,” Thorfinn challenged. “It would be social suicide for a side branch not to invite the members of one’s head branch to any ceremonies. You are the sole member of House Peverell, head of House Potter—I know you were at Potter’s funeral. And I want to know what happened.”

“No,” Peverell said lamely as he began to tidy up the scrolls he had been working with.

Taken aback, Thorfinn gasped, “No?!”

With a sly smirk, Peverell asked, “Didn’t you just tell me that I’ve been cursed not to speak of it?”

“But—I—you—you didn’t even try! Besides, I’m sure we could figure out a way around the curse if you’d just—”

“Come on, Finn,” Peverell cut in. “I’ll have an elf take this to the owlery, and we can go.”

Sulking, Thorfinn still hadn’t risen from his chair and snidely asked, “You really won’t tell me what happened?”

“Nope,” Peverell said, popping the last syllable.

Thorfinn grunted as he raised himself out of his chair. “Fine! But can you at least tell me if it was your doing?”

“Yeah,” Peverell hesitantly admitted.

Stressed, Thorfinn asked, “And was it something cool?”

Giving it only a second of thought, Peverell replied with a bit of a manic laugh, “It was bloody wicked. Now come on, I don’t want to miss the trolley.”

“You’re the absolute worst, fouler than Harpo himself,” Thorfinn grumbled as he dutifully trailed behind, determined not to get lost in this madhouse. “First, you withhold the greatest gossip of the year from me—your proclaimed friend. And next, you drag me to ride on Muggle death contraptions.”

“It’s my birthday,” Peverell stated as they made their way to the Floo. “And I do recall you saying that we could do whatever I wanted.”

Truthfully, Thorfinn had been surprised that Peverell had chosen to spend the day with him at all—just the two of them. At first, he thought it might be a misguided attempt at forging a closer bond, as Thorfinn had learned over time that nothing Peverell did was without a reason. He wondered if there was some hidden agenda behind this seemingly innocent day out in Muggle London. “Is Peverell trying to test me somehow? To see how far I can be pushed out of my comfort zone before he feels confident in telling me his secrets?”

Thorfinn couldn't help but feel a hint of suspicion, a lingering doubt that there was more to this day than met the eye. And his surprise did not die a fast death as he was repeatedly shaken by the events that unfolded throughout the day. First, there was the ordeal of navigating the bustling crowds of Muggle London. Thorfinn, who prided himself on his pureblood heritage, felt a deep-seated unease as he was jostled by strangers who didn’t even acknowledge his superior existence.

“They don’t even have the courtesy to apologize,” he muttered under his breath, shooting a glare at a passing woman with a pram. Peverell, however, seemed completely unbothered by the chaos. He wove through the crowds with ease, as if this world were his own, and Thorfinn found himself reluctantly following suit, feeling more like a lost child than a seasoned wizard.

Their first stop was at a quaint little café, tucked away on a side street that Thorfinn never would have found on his own. The place was filled with the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries, and despite being utterly confused by the menu’s offerings, Thorfinn couldn’t help but inhale deeply, savoring the unfamiliar scents.

“Have you ever had a cappuccino?” Peverell asked as they glanced up at the menu board above a small woman in an apron.

Thorfinn frowned. “What’s a cappuccino?”

Instead of immediately answering, Peverell just smiled—a genuine, easy smile that Thorfinn rarely saw. “You’ll see.”

Peverell placed their order, and moments later, they were seated at a small table with steaming mugs and an assortment of unfamiliar pastries. Thorfinn eyed the frothy drink with suspicion before taking a tentative sip. The bitterness of the coffee, tempered by the creamy foam, was an entirely new experience for him, and he found himself surprised by how much he liked it. He tried to hide his approval, but Henry caught the slight raise of his eyebrows and smirked.

Next, they ventured into a Muggle bookshop, the likes of which Thorfinn had never seen. Nothing around them fluttered, flew, or attacked. The colors of the store were muted and drab, and the entire place did nothing to foster an enticement to the page. It was a basic towering labyrinth of shelves, each one packed to the brim with books of every size and color—in desperate need of a few storage enhancement charms.

“Pick something,” Henry said, his voice casual but his eyes glinting with amusement.

Thorfinn scoffed. “I doubt there’s anything here that would interest me.”

Henry simply shrugged. “You never know until you try.”

Reluctantly, and wishing to pass whatever test this was, Thorfinn began to browse, his fingers brushing against the spines of the books. He recognized few, if any, authors and even fewer of the titles—the idea of reading Muggle literature felt absurd. But as he continued down the aisles, a small, quality leather-bound book caught his eye. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped through the pages. The story seemed simple, a plain mystery of sorts, but there was something about the way the author described the characters that drew him in. Before he knew it, he had tucked the book under his arm and was following Henry to the checkout counter.

To top it all off, Peverell insisted that they end the day with a ride on something he called the “London Eye.” It turned out to be a massive moving contraption that loomed over the city under heavy wards and charms, the intensity of which even he was impressed by. But his respect for the spell-craftsmanship did nothing to ease the pang of unease Thorfinn felt gazing upon the glass capsules.

“You’re joking, right?” Thorfinn asked, his voice a mix of incredulity and fear as they began to ascend. They stood in a small queue on a warded-off footpath in the magical district of downtown London, conspicuously established on the riverside. The barrier separating the wizarding world from the Muggle side was barely visible, a subtle shimmer in the air that only those with the right kind of eyes could see.

Peverell shook his head, his face lit up by a smile that Thorfinn had rarely seen—unforced and almost boyish. “It’s wixen-made; it’s fine! Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Be that as it may, I do not wish to fall to my death in front of all these oblivious Muggles before I was ever able to father a child. Perhaps another time?”

“There are charms to keep it upright, wards to keep us in our compartments, and spells to keep it all running smoothly.” Peverell then changed tactics. “Besides, I thought you’d revel in seeing wixen superiority over Mugglekind—the view of which will be far better up there.”

Running out of arguments as their place in the fast-moving queue neared the front, Thorfinn was left with no choice but to board behind Peverell. The wood beneath their feet did not feel solid enough as Thorfinn inched closer to a guardrail to clutch. But seeing as a mother and her cheerful two children entered after them, he felt it was beneath him to show any of the fear he felt in his racing heart. As the wheel lifted them high above the city, Thorfinn’s initial anxiety began to fade. The view was breathtaking; the sprawling city below them looked almost serene from this height. He found himself leaning against the glass, gazing out at the view in silent awe.

The London skyline spread out before them—a mosaic of historic buildings, dense clusters of Victorian-era houses, and the jagged silhouettes of modern skyscrapers. The River Thames snaked through the city, reflecting the afternoon light like a silver ribbon, while the imposing shapes of St. Paul's Cathedral and Big Ben stood proudly amidst the sprawl. Despite his disdain for the Muggle world, Thorfinn couldn't help but be captivated by the sheer scale and diversity of the cityscape.

Peverell stood beside him, his usual reserved demeanor softened by the day’s events. Thorfinn glanced over at him and was struck by how different he seemed. Gone was the distant, almost cold student or the ruthless politician Thorfinn had grown accustomed to. In his place was someone who seemed younger, more carefree—a glimpse, Thorfinn noted, of Peverell’s true self. By the time they stepped off the London Eye, Thorfinn’s initial spite had melted away, replaced by a grudging admiration for the day Peverell had planned.

He had to admit, even if only to himself, that he had enjoyed it—more than he ever thought he would. And as they walked back towards the station, Thorfinn couldn’t help but say, “You’re surprisingly good at this Muggle nonsense.”

Peverell laughed, a sound that was light and unguarded. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it, is it?”

Thorfinn’s smile was stilted. “No, I suppose even the Muggles have their merits. But the best part of the day was arguably the wixen district.”

“Give it a couple of years,” Peverell said with a glint in his eye. “I have a feeling they’ll open it up to the Muggles as well—it would be good money.”

Later in the evening, as they boarded the trolley back to the Leaky Cauldron, Thorfinn found himself looking forward to being a key witness to whatever madness Peverell had planned next—feeling a quiet satisfaction in the progress he had made today in understanding the other.

When they arrived back at Peverell Manor, Thorfinn was ready to press his luck, to test the waters and see if Peverell might be willing to share more of his secrets, perhaps even agree to another outing. The words were on the tip of his tongue, a rare moment of boldness, when a loud crack echoed through the room. The air around them seemed to shift as a figure burst into the floo-room, and Thorfinn's heart skipped a beat at the suddenness of it all.

There stood the half-blood that Peverell had inexplicably taken pity on—the greasy-haired, sharp-eyed one that Peverell was always insisting had potential. For a moment, time seemed to slow. He had just a second to process the half-blood’s presence before the filthy thing dropped the trunk he was carrying, and with a flash, had his wand drawn, its tip aimed squarely at Peverell.

“Who are you, and what the fuck have you done with Henry?” Snape shouted, his voice low and crackling with fury. The words rang out like a challenge, thick with accusation and fear. The raw, unrestrained emotion in Snape's voice sent a ripple of unease through Thorfinn; it was as if the very air had been electrified, humming with tension.

Peverell did not flinch. He stood still, his face suddenly devoid of the easy smiles from earlier, his eyes unreadable. “Thorfinn,” he said, his voice calm but edged with something darker, something dangerous, “I think you should leave. Now.”

The command was soft, but it carried a weight that made the room feel smaller, the air harder to breathe. Thorfinn’s pulse quickened. Every instinct in him screamed to stay, to see how this would unfold—to witness whatever storm was brewing between these two. But there was an unmistakable urgency in Henry’s tone, a warning he dared not ignore.

So no matter how much he wanted to stay and see how this unfolded, Thorfinn reluctantly edged around the room—his steps slow and measured, his eyes never leaving the two wizards locked in their silent stand-off. As he reached the fireplace, he snatched up a fistful of floo-powder, his heart pounding. “Wonderful day, Henry,” he forced out with a grin that felt hollow in his dry mouth. “Let’s talk soon.”

He threw the powder into the flames, the fire flaring green and hot. Just as the flames rose around him, he caught one last glance of Peverell—his expression unreadable, his stance steady, ready for whatever came next. And then Thorfinn was gone, spinning away, the tension of the floo-room still pulsing in his veins—knowing that whatever had just begun, it was far from over.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1975

“Lily, your freak is back.”

With his head tipped backward to stem the blood flow from his nose, Severus could only make out the top of Petunia Evans’ narrow head—specifically, her eyes. They were pale and narrow, like those of a dove plotting an attack on a partially appealing crumb. The broad forehead on her slender face was highlighted by her blond hair, styled in a severe, low-hanging ponytail that made her look older than her age. Petunia was the first child of the Muggles, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, and eventually gained a younger sister—Lily.

Severus knew they had once been close. With their parents having them later in life and their ages so close, the two experienced every stage of life together, growing as intertwined as two ornamental plants in an unmanaged garden. They were each other’s confidant, each other’s role model, and each other’s first friend. Together, they named every flower that bloomed on the road outside their front door. Together, they thrashed in the ever-present rain puddles. Together, they annoyed the ever-loving hell out of each other—as only two under-parented siblings could.

But then Lily branched out independently. The magical core she inherited awoke, and with it, she gained many unusual abilities—such as making a flower’s petals sway without touching them, making the rain dance around them, and getting the book her sister put on top of the refrigerator to leap to her with just a thought—strange abilities that Petunia didn’t have. At first, Petunia viewed magic with a mixture of envy and disapproval. And when she found out that there was nothing she could do to make them the same again, she grew to hate those abilities and everything to do with them.

Which meant Petunia especially hated Severus. Severus, with his ratty clothes and unwashed hair, who ambled up to Lily one summer day and walked her into a world Petunia could not follow. Severus, who could spout explanations for the impossible, give reasons for the improbable, and named them “magic.” Severus, who now stood bloodied and bruised on her family’s doorstep, as he frequently did, for what could possibly be the very last time in his life.

The thought sobered him right out of the snarky comment that was ready to work its way up the back of his throat around the building blood clot. But before his thoughts could spiral too far, the sound of thudding feet matched the pace of his racing heart. The door beside Petunia was pulled further open, and from around it popped the head of his first friend. Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she took him in, then asked, “Severus, did you forget something?”

Still unable to lower his head, Severus allowed his eyes to take in the top of her free-flowing curls for a moment before he spoke. “No,” he swallowed, “my mother has asked if your family would be so kind as to host me for a few hours more. Perhaps through dinner?”

“Again?!” Petunia’s aghast screech was ignored by the both of them as Lily pulled the door closed behind herself and stepped through the doorway. “Come on,” she nudged him down the three little steps, “let’s sit under the tree until dinner is ready.”

Their walk down the little road that led to the stretch of unprocessed land between her side of town and his was quiet, broken only by the occasional rumble of a passing car and the steady crunch of their shoes against the packed dirt. The sky hung low and gray, a blanket of clouds threatening rain, but Lily didn't seem to notice. Her curls bounced with each step, a cascade of red that caught what little light managed to filter through the overcast sky. She sighed, a sound that was more amused than annoyed, and glanced sideways at Severus, whose head was still tilted back slightly, as if he were trying to catch raindrops on his nose.

“Sev,” she said, a hint of a grin pulling at her lips, “you’re going to walk into a tree if you keep looking up like that.”

He grunted in response, too aware of the drying blood still crusting under his nose. He tugged the scrap of fabric his mother had given him, now soaked dark with blood, from his pocket and winced as he gently wiped away what he could. Lily’s eyes flicked down to his hand, her expression somewhere between concern and mockery.

“Honestly, Sev,” she muttered, a sigh escaping her lips, “you’ve got to stop picking fights with people who are bigger than you.” Her voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a thinly veiled concern that she couldn't quite keep out.

Severus shot her a look, his eyes narrow. “I wasn’t picking a fight,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled. “Not this time, anyway.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? So what was it this time?”

Severus hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He wasn’t sure how to say it, how to make it sound like less than it was. “My dad,” he muttered finally, his voice so low it was almost lost in the wind, “didn’t like my tone, I guess.”

Lily’s expression shifted in an instant, her teasing smile falling away. “Oh, Sev,” she sighed, her voice soft but exasperated. “Again?”

He shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her, as he crumpled the stained rag in his hand. He could feel the sting in his nose again, the dull ache that throbbed with every heartbeat.

Lily didn’t respond immediately. She just kept walking, her mouth set in a tight line. Then, with a quick tug on his sleeve, she steered him toward the oak tree up ahead, its branches spreading wide like a sheltering roof. “Come on,” she said, her tone lighter again, though her eyes were still sharp. “Let’s sit down before you keel over from blood loss. I’m not carrying you home if you faint.”

He managed a small, crooked smile and let himself be guided under the low-hanging branches. They settled down against the trunk, Lily crossing her legs beneath her and leaning back with a sigh. She watched him as he tried to discreetly check if his nose was still bleeding, and a grin tugged at her lips.

“You know, you’ve got to work on your reflexes,” she teased. “Next time, duck faster.”

Severus snorted—a mistake, as it sent a sharp pain through his nose. He winced and then chuckled softly, despite himself. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he muttered, rubbing his nose gingerly. “Maybe you could teach me a few moves.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “If I taught you my moves, you’d be unstoppable. Then what would I do for entertainment?”

Severus rolled his eyes, but a smile played on his lips. “Find some other poor soul to pester, I suppose.”

“Maybe,” she replied, leaning closer with a grin. “But they wouldn’t be half as fun as you.”

For a moment, they sat in a companionable silence, the only sound the rustle of leaves above and the distant hum of the town. Severus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, feeling the ache in his nose start to fade, replaced by the familiar warmth of her presence.

Lily sighed dramatically, her expression somewhere between exasperation and affection. “Just—try not to get hit again anytime soon, okay?” she said, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of genuine concern. “I’m running out of creative explanations for why you keep showing up here like this.”

“The situation should be resolving itself soon, I suppose,” Severus murmured, finally letting his head rest against the trunk of the tree, knowing full well it was a promise to himself he planned to keep.

A terse moment of silence encompassed them, along with the wind, before Lily asked, “You truly plan to move forward with this farce then?”

“It is not a—” Severus stopped to curb his frustration, then tried again, “Lily, the man is my grandfather, who—”

Lily cut in with a fire on her tongue that matched her fanning of her firery hair, “Who abandoned your mother and left you and her to deal with your ass of a father!”

“You are twisting things, Lily. My mother was neither abandoned nor disowned. She was not even barred from the family properties,” Severus sighed. “They asked her not to marry a man who even an ailing hag could tell would ruin her, and she chose not to listen.”

Lily simply scoffed in response, her expression a mix of exasperation and something sharper, something Severus recognized all too well. He could feel his temper rising, the familiar prickle of heat at the back of his neck, the tightness in his chest. "Lily," Severus said as he tried to keep his voice steady, though he knew he was failing. "You don't understand—"

“I understand more than you think,” she interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest, her tone clipped. “I understand that you’ve been running around with the likes of Mulciber and Avery, and they’re—”

“What, magical-purists?” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “Is that the worst thing you can think of to call them?”

“It’s not just the label, Sev, it’s what they stand for!” she shot back, her green eyes flashing. “They’re trying to turn you into something you’re not.”

Severus let out a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “Something I’m not?” he echoed bitterly. “Lily, I don’t have to pretend to be anything. You think I don’t belong with them because I’m not a pureblood, but that’s not the point, is it? I may have grown up in filth, in a house falling apart at the seams, but I still come from the Prince family. I have a magical heritage, whether you like it or not.”

Lily flinched, but she quickly recovered, her expression turning colder. “Sev, your mother left that world for a reason. If she was driven far enough away to stoop to marrying your father, she must have had good cause to flee it. And you,” she stressed, “you were never a part of that world until we went to Hogwarts!”

“Because I wasn’t allowed to be!” he shouted, a raw edge of desperation in his voice now. “Because I was stuck in that house with him, with nothing but stories of what could have been! And now that I’m finally finding a place, finding some semblance of pride in where I came from, you just—”

“I just what?” Lily interrupted, her voice rising to match his. “Want better for you? Want you to see that there’s more to life than bloodlines and family names?”

Severus turned away from her, his hands curling into fists. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” he asked quietly, but his voice trembled with the weight of his emotions. “Why can’t you see that this—this is the first time I’ve felt like I belong somewhere? That what my grandfather—no, what Lord Prince is offering me is a world of possibilities beyond anything I could have ever imagined? I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I was at your beck and call, always there whenever you needed me, but you—you never think about what I need!”

Lily’s face softened, just for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed again. “Sev, it’s not about that—”

“No, you don’t get it!” Severus cut her off, his voice breaking. “You think you do, but you don’t. You’ve always had everything—your family, your friends, everything handed to you on a silver platter. But when I finally find something that makes my life a little less unbearable, you’re the first to criticize it! You don’t approve of my friends? You don’t like that I fancy Peverell? You don’t accept my choices? Fine!” His breath came in harsh, uneven gulps. “But I have the right to make them. If it improves my life, even just a bit, then as my friend, you should be happy for me. But you never are. Why can’t you just—be happy for me?”

There was a painful silence, the kind that felt like a chasm opening up between them, growing wider with every second that ticked by. Severus could see the conflict in Lily’s eyes, the way her lips pressed together in a thin line as if she were holding back words she didn’t want to say.

“Sev,” she began slowly, but her voice was tight, strained. “I am happy when you’re happy. But not when you’re being pulled into something—someone—that isn’t really you. You’re so much more than this, Severus. A pureblood's pet project or a boy with a title that—”

“A pet project?” he sneered, feeling the sting of her words like a slap. “You think I’m just some—charity case, someone to save from himself?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she replied, but her frustration was bubbling to the surface now. “I just don’t want to see you become something you’ll regret. Do you even like him, Sev, or do you just like that he’s giving you the attention you’re so desperate for?”

Severus felt his face flush with anger, the accusation burning deep. “You don’t know anything about that,” he spat. “Maybe I like Peverell because he sees me for who I am! Maybe he actually cares about me, unlike—”

“Unlike who, Severus?” she challenged, her voice biting. “Unlike me? You think he cares more about you than I do? You think he sees the real you? The boy who’s trying to bury himself under a title and a name that’s only going to trap him further?”

Severus's fists clenched tighter. "I don’t have to pretend to be anything, not with him, not with anyone! Even though I grew up in filth and destitution, I am still from the Prince family. That is my heritage, and I have every right to embrace it! And if it makes my life better, you, of all people, should be happy for me."

Lily's expression flickered, pain crossing her features, but she didn’t back down. "Happy for you?" she echoed, her voice low and sharp. “How can I be happy when you're throwing yourself into something that isn't real? When you're letting yourself be drawn in by someone who just happens to notice you at the right moment?”

Severus’s voice cracked with a mixture of anger and hurt. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” he asked again, more desperately this time. “Why can’t you see that maybe this is what I need, that maybe this is the first time I’ve had a choice?”

Lily sighed, but there was still a hard edge to it. "I want you to be happy, Sev. Truly, I do. But not like this. Not with people who want you to be something you're not, who are only filling a void because they see an opportunity."

The words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he replied, his voice cold and flat. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Maybe I’m worth Peverell’s attention and my grandfather’s title—but what I don’t deserve is to be dragged through the mud by you!”

Lily blinked, her eyes widening, hurt flashing across her face before her expression hardened. "If that's what you really believe," she said quietly, "then maybe you're right. Maybe I don’t belong in your life anymore."

The words hit Severus like a blow, his throat tightening painfully. He opened his mouth to speak, to take it back, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he managed a whisper, “I just wanted you to be happy for me, Lily—that’s all.”

She sighed, the sound filled with sadness and resignation. “I want you to be happy too, Sev. But not like this.”

With that, she turned away, her curls whipping behind her as she began to walk away, leaving Severus standing under the oak tree, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. He watched her retreating figure, feeling a cold, heavy weight settle deep in his stomach. He had pushed too hard, said too much. But he couldn’t take it back now. The distance between them had never felt so vast, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this time, it would be too much for them to overcome. For now, he pushed those thoughts aside; he was left with nowhere to go and no idea where his next meal would come from.

“Tomorrow, I will be rid of this life,” Severus thought, trying to give himself strength. “Or I could just leave now.” The last thought whispered through his mind, unbidden and untethered. It glided into his consciousness, stopping him short on the dirt path alongside the refuse-strewn riverbank. For the first time in his life, he truly did have somewhere else to go to lick his wounds besides the Evans’ house. For the first time, Severus had options.

As for tonight, he could go back home—face his father’s fury and the inevitable explosion that awaited him. The thought made his skin prickle with fear. Every fiber of his being recoiled at the idea of stepping back into that house, where every breath felt like a gamble, every word a potential spark that could ignite his father’s wrath. Yet, going home meant familiarity, even if it was a familiarity steeped in dread. It was a routine he understood: the slammed doors, the shattered glass, the bruises concealed under long sleeves.

Or he could leave for his grandfather’s a day early. It wouldn’t take much—he had taken to carrying around his shrunken school trunk, packed with the few valuables he held dear, ever since receiving the man’s letter days ago. But he knew that he would be seeking refuge in what would undoubtedly be a cold, austere house where he was barely tolerated, let alone welcomed. He was not the man’s ideal choice for an heir, and that brought its own dangers.

His mind flashed back to the first weekend after he had returned from Hogwarts, the memory vivid and unbidden. He had come downstairs early, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and found his mother in the kitchen, her hands trembled as she poured his father’s morning tea. Her movements had been careful, almost mechanical, as she measured out a few drops from a small vial. The liquid had shimmered for an instant before blending seamlessly with the tea, and Severus realized with a start that it was a potion—a powerful one, by the look of it.

He watched from the doorway, holding his breath, as his father took the cup, muttering under his breath. Within minutes, his father's head had lolled forward, his eyes fluttering shut, and then he slumped onto the kitchen table, unconscious. The snoring that filled the room was loud and harsh, a sound that might have been almost comical if not for the tension that hung heavy in the air.

“Quickly, Severus,” his mother had turned and whispered, her voice taut with urgency. “Go put on your best robes. We don’t have much time.”

Severus had hesitated, confused by her intensity, but her expression left no room for argument. He darted back up to his room, pulling on his best set of robes—the navy blue ones he had secretly noted set Peverell’s gaze alight. When he returned, he saw his mother dressed in elegant robes of deep emerald green, ones he had never seen before. The fabric was rich and finely woven, a stark contrast to the worn clothes she usually wore.

She grabbed his hand with surprising strength, and with a sharp crack, they apparated, landing in a narrow alleyway. Severus stumbled, unsteady on his feet, feeling the cobblestones under his thin shoes. He recognized the place—a town two train stops away, one he had seen on rare trips with his mother but never visited. Without a word, she hustled him out of the alley and into a small, upscale pastry shop, its windows filled with golden tarts and iced cakes that made his stomach twist with a hunger he had grown accustomed to ignoring. Inside, a tall, imposing man stood waiting, his face hard as stone, his eyes dark and calculating.

“Severus, this is your grandfather, Lord Prince,” his mother had said with an uneasy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Severus had stared at the man, feeling a mix of awe and apprehension. His mother had rarely spoken of her family; she had never mentioned that he had a grandfather still alive, much less one who carried such an air of authority.

From the moment they sat down, the man had wasted no time, launching into a discussion of Severus as if he were some object to be bartered over. Severus sat silently, the reality of the situation slowly dawning on him. His mother and Lord Prince had been in contact—despite the years of estrangement, they had planned this meeting in secret. Every detail had been executed with precision, his mother’s deception as meticulous as it was desperate. As the conversation unfolded, Severus realized with a growing sense of dread what was at stake. Lord Prince was maneuvering to claim him as his heir, to erase the shame of his daughter’s marriage to a muggle by molding Severus into something more acceptable—something worthy of the Prince name.

“Properly instated in the wizarding world,” his grandfather had called it, his voice dripping with disdain for the life Severus had known. Severus’s skin had prickled with anger and confusion as he heard the man speak of a marriage contract, a future already planned out, a partner chosen without his knowledge or consent. He turned irate as his mother nodded along, agreeing to everything with a cool, practiced calm. Severus had felt a storm of emotions swirling inside him—betrayal, fear, anger. But what broke Severus’ heart was when she mentioned that she would not be moving with him to Prince Tsaiz. 

“Why won’t you come with me?” Severus cut in before the two could change topics again. “Why won’t you leave him? Why won’t you leave that monster?” He had whispered fiercely, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. And his mother had only shushed him, her hand squeezing his knee under the table, her eyes flickering with a mix of sorrow and resignation.

“This is for you, Severus,” she had murmured, turning back to the papers spread before her, signing them with a flourish as if this were an ordinary transaction.

The rest of the summer after they had returned home, Severus had felt as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet—leaving him standing on a precipice he hadn’t known was there. He was to be his grandfather's pawn, a symbol to restore the family’s status. Even now, he could feel the sting of that realization. His grandfather’s house promised safety, but it came at a price—one he wasn’t sure he was willing to pay. Lord Prince was sharp-eyed, and Severus knew he would not escape scrutiny there. The older man would ask questions—pointed, probing questions that would dig into the dark corners of his life that he preferred to keep hidden. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to lie convincingly tonight, not with the exhaustion settling deep into his bones, not with the memories that clung to him like shadows. But his grandfather’s was not his last option, there was also the portkey.

Severus thought himself to no longer be the same boy who had left for Hogwarts a few years ago. He was no longer the boy who flinched at every sharp word, who sought shelter in the shadows, or who believed that there was no way out of his life except to endure it. He had changed, grown sharper, harder, and more determined to carve out his own place in the world—even if that world seemed determined to break him down. But the idea of the portkey—of using it, of choosing something unknown—still sent a shiver down his spine. He knew that to take this step would mean severing ties, possibly forever. It would mean turning his back not only on his father’s cruelty and his mother’s complicated, fraught loyalty, but also on the life he had known, however bitter. He would be leaving behind all the expectations, all the familiar horrors, for something uncharted and possibly even more dangerous. He had heard rumors about Peverell, whispers of power and darkness in equal measure. And yet, there had also been a strange kindness in the young-man’s eyes, a softness that Severus could not reconcile with the tales.

He ran his fingers over the brooch, feeling its cool, smooth surface beneath his fingertips. He imagined the worst—arriving in a place where he was unwelcomed, facing questions he did not know how to answer, and potentially stepping into another situation he could not control. But a part of him, a small and fierce part, was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, wanting to know, to understand, to take a risk for once that wasn't forced upon him by someone else. If he stayed, he knew exactly what awaited him: the familiar insults, the casual cruelty, the lingering fear of his father's temper, the constant dance of survival. If he left—if he took the portkey and vanished into the unknown—he might find something different. Maybe something worse. But maybe something better.

"Do I dare?" he whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the rushing wind along the riverbank. He closed his eyes, searching within himself for the answer. His heart pounded in his chest, not with fear, but with a strange exhilaration he hadn't felt in years. The thought of choosing his own path, of taking control for once, sent a thrill through his veins.

Maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to be a different Severus—a Severus who could walk away, who could defy expectations, who could make his own fate instead of letting others decide for him. He didn't know if he could trust Peverell, or the portkey, or even his own instincts. But he knew he could not keep living in the same pattern of fear and resentment. With a deep breath, he grasped the brooch, feeling its weight, its promise, and made his decision there amongst the withered grass and murky water.

“Sanctus.”

Severus felt the familiar lurch in his stomach as the Portkey activated, the sensation of being pulled through space squeezing his lungs and twisting his insides. He clenched his teeth against the nausea, his fingers tightening around the small brooch pinned to his waistband. For a moment, the world was nothing but a blur of color and sound, disorienting and dizzying, until his feet slammed onto solid ground and the room around him snapped into focus.

He opened his eyes and froze. Peverell and Rowle, of all people, had just entered from a side door. Their conversation halted abruptly as they noticed him. And while Severus felt a jolt of recognition at the sight of the tall, blond graduate, the figure beside him—the one he knew as Henry Peverell—gave him screeching pause. Because that thing was not Henry Peverell. It was not the boy he had grown accustomed to seeing, with his warm, mischievous smile and eyes that sparkled with a strange, infectious light. No, what Severus saw now made his blood run cold. Where he expected Peverell to stand, there was something—wrong. The figure was distorted, shifting.

For a moment, Severus's eyes refused to focus, as if his mind were trying to protect him from the truth of what he was seeing. The shape of Peverell seemed to bend and stretch, his limbs too long. The shadow beneath him, which spilled across the floor like ink spreading over paper, took on an inhuman mass. His face was still there for the most part, still recognizable in parts—the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his chin—but it flickered against Peverell’s movements like a reflection in a cracked mirror. His eyes—Severus blinked and looked again. The lovely two-toned green eyes that Severus adored weren't there anymore. In their place were black voids that seemed to swallow the light, with tiny pinpoints of silver deep within, like distant stars. And with his next blink, Severus saw vibrant green and tan human skin once again.

But now there was a darkness around them, an aura that seemed to suck the warmth out of the room, the air growing thin and cold. The shadows behind Peverell writhed and curled, moving like something alive and eager, toward him. Severus's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a rush of primal fear—a fear that clawed at his chest and made his skin crawl. A fear that sent his feet scrambling backward and his sweaty palm searching for his wand. He could feel it, deep in his bones, the unnaturalness of what he was looking at, the wrongness that defied all logic, all sense. The very air around Peverell seemed to hum with a low, almost audible frequency—an almost laugh that vibrated through Severus’s teeth and rattled in his skull.

“Who are you, and what the fuck have you done with Henry?” Severus's voice was ragged, half a shout, half a snarl, filled with a fury he hadn’t realized he was capable of. His wand was in his hand before he knew it, aimed directly at the thing wearing Peverell’s face, his grip so tight his knuckles were white.

Peverell—or whatever that thing was—did not move, did not flinch. He simply stood there, his posture impossibly calm, his head tilted just slightly, like a predator considering whether to pounce. A slow smile spread across his lips, a smile that didn’t reach those green, depthless eyes. “Thorfinn,” Peverell said, his voice smooth and soft, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that seemed to fill the room, “I think you should leave. Now.”

The words were a command, simple yet edged with a darkness that made the older boy hesitate. Severus caught a glimpse of Rowle’s face—confused, wary, and a little afraid. “Good,” Severus thought. “Let him be afraid. Let him see what I see.”

Rowle’s pulse quickened; Severus could hear it from across the room, the way the air seemed to vibrate with the other boy's indecision. The command hung there, pressing down like a weight, and Severus realized with a jolt that even Rowle could feel the raw, terrifying power emanating from Peverell. The taller boy edged backward, his eyes darting between Severus and Peverell, torn between curiosity and a primal need to escape. “Wonderful day, Henry,” Thorfinn muttered, his voice forced and thin, trying to sound casual. He snatched a handful of Floo Powder from a small pot on the mantle, his movements quick and jittery. “Let’s talk soon.”

He threw the powder into the fireplace, the flames roaring to life with a bright green flare. For an instant, the room seemed brighter, the shadows danced, and Severus caught another unfiltered glimpse of Peverell's eldritch face—his unholy expression unchanged, black eyes still fixed on Severus with that unreadable intensity. And then, with a whoosh of air and a swirl of green flames, Rowle was gone, leaving Severus alone with the thing that smiled Peverell’s pretty crooked smile with too-sharp teeth.

The room fell into a tense, stifling silence. Severus’s wand didn’t waver. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, every muscle taut, waiting. He could feel the magic thrumming in the air between them, a strange, electric current, crackling with potential. His voice was barely more than a breath, but it carried all the fear and curiosity twisting inside him as he whispered, “What are you?”

Even as he spoke, Severus’s mind raced through spells, defenses, ways to flee if he had to. And as if in response, Peverell smiled. A slow, knowing smile that seemed to see straight through Severus, as if peeling back layers to the very core of his being. The air around him rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond, and for a moment, Severus thought he saw something else—a glimpse of something vast and ancient, something older than magic itself, staring back at him. Severus felt a chill run down his spine, and he gripped his wand tighter, bracing himself for whatever was about to come next.

Peverell's smile widened, a faint flicker of amusement in too-dark-to-tell eyes. He seemed to consider Severus carefully, weighing his words before he spoke. His voice was gentle, almost soothing, yet there was an undercurrent of something far more dangerous, like a velvet glove hiding an iron fist. “How honest do you truly want me to be, Sev?”

Severus felt his lip curl in disdain. "I think you'd better start with the truth," he shot back, his voice biting, every syllable laced with venom. "Or are you planning on trying to distract me with more riddles and enigmatic stares?" He held his wand steady, the tip still aimed at Peverell's chest. "So, what are you? Some Dark Creature playing at being human?"

Peverell chuckled softly, a low, almost melodic sound that seemed to vibrate through space and time. "Very well," he replied, inclining his head slightly as if conceding a point. "But first, won't you sit, Severus?"

His tone was light, almost inviting, as he gestured to one of the dust-covered chairs by the fireplace. Severus's eyes narrowed. He was determined to keep his ground, to not let himself appear weak or compliant. Unwilling to relinquish any semblance of control, he snapped, "I’d rather stand.”

"As you wish," Peverell simply nodded, his expression unfazed as he moved to sit in an armchair himself—his movements fluid and unhurried. He settled into the chair as if it were a throne, then, with a silent flick of his wrist, the fireplace roared to life. Flames crackled and danced up the logs, the sudden warmth flooding the room, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls.

Severus fought the urge to take a step back as the fire flared, feeling the shift in magic—a raw, primal force that seemed to pulse from Peverell, twisting around the air like tendrils of smoke. The boy had done it without a wand, without a word, as easily as breathing.

"We talked about the stories," Peverell began, his voice soft but carrying through the room, almost hypnotic in its cadence. "Of the Deathly Hallows—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility—the artifacts that, together, make one the Master of Death."

Severus scoffed, though a part of him felt a shiver at the way Peverell spoke, the certainty in his voice. "Fairy tales," he sneered. "Children’s stories to scare them into behaving. You expect me to believe you’re some ‘Master of Death’ because of a few tricks?”

Peverell's smile altered but did not falter. "Ah, but Severus," he said quietly, "the line between fairy tales and reality is thinner than you might think. Especially in our world." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving Severus, who felt a strange pull, like being drawn into the depths of some unfathomable fool’s paradise. "You see, the Peverell family has always had—a peculiar connection to Death. My ancestors were the ones the Hallows were created for, and through them, they made a bargain—one that has bound my bloodline ever since."

Severus's mouth felt dry as Peverell’s expression turned grave, almost solemn. "Not quite as you imagine, at least not for the Peverells before me—but what you’re imagining is probably close enough. But with me? Death and I have formed more than a simple pact of sorts. We have a—partnership. For generations, my family has been limited to walking that line, straddling the worlds of the living and the dead—not quite one, not quite the other. But I do not have to choose."

Severus felt the chill of unseen hands creep up his spine, but he forced himself to hold his ground. "You’re mad," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction. His mind raced, cataloging everything he knew about the Deathly Hallows, about the legends. He had read enough to know there were fragments of truth buried in most myths. "You’re saying you're what? Immortal?"

Peverell leaned back, the firelight casting shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable. "Not immortal, Sev," he replied softly. "Everything should eventually come to its end. But neither am I entirely mortal. I am—bound, let’s say—to the Hallows, to the magic that created them, to the ancient laws that govern their power—to Death."

Peverell paused, as if considering whether to say more—as if listening to something unheard. "To wield the Hallows is to understand Death in a way most wizards cannot comprehend. It is to see its inevitability, its impartiality, to know its touch yet not fear it. And, yes, in some ways, to command it."

Severus felt a flicker of something in his chest—fear, curiosity, disbelief, all tangled together. His voice was a little less steady than before as he asked, "And what does that mean for you? For us?"

Peverell smiled again, but this time it was softer, gentler—almost human. "It means, Sev, that you have a choice," he murmured. "You can continue to see me as a boy with ‘a few tricks,’ or you can open your eyes to the possibility that there are truths in this world far stranger and far more terrifying than you’ve ever imagined."

The room seemed to grow colder despite the fire, and Severus felt a strange sense of weight, as if the walls themselves were closing in. He could feel his pulse quicken, the magic in the air pressing against his skin, making it prickle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. But Severus was not a Slytherin for nothing—so he lifted his chin slightly, trying to reclaim a sense of control, and challenged, "And if I choose not to believe you? Perhaps there is a carbon monoxide leak in here—you do know what that is, yes?"

"Then nothing changes, Severus. Nothing at all. I trust you to keep my secrets, even if you don’t believe in them.” Peverell chuckled softly, a sound that sent another shiver down Severus's spine. That shiver turned into a wracking thud of his bones as Peverell stood and made his way over—giving Severus enough time to run for it. And yet, for some reason, his body stayed. When Peverell noticed that Severus was not prepared to move, he stepped right into his reach—pressing his own neck into Severus’s still-raised wand. Peverell’s eyes softened as he said, “But if you do—well, then you might begin to see the world for what it truly is."

Severus’s heart pounded in his chest, his fingers trembled around his wand. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this creature as possible. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel a pull, a gnawing curiosity that kept him rooted in place. He had seen that smile before, the one Peverell wore when he helped Severus with his potions or shared a quiet laugh in the library. Severus questioned himself, “Is there still a part of that boy left, buried beneath whatever monstrous force this is at play? And if there isn’t, could this thing love me too?”

Severus’s arm, and heart, wavered with the words. He swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth at the other’s proximity and asked, “And is there a place for me—in that world?”

“Always,” Peverell promised.

Severus could strike now, could end this uncertainty, this fear. His breath caught, his heart hammered in his ears. But then, in Peverell’s eyes, he saw it—a flicker of something human. A glimmer of fear, or perhaps a plea for understanding. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Severus felt his strained arm lower, his grip relaxed.

“Do not make me regret this,” Severus breathed, his voice low—and he finally sat down.

Chapter Text

July 31 - August 1, 1975

Before Severus could speak, Peverell snapped his fingers, and two gangly creatures materialized silently at his side.

They were some of the strangest beings Severus had ever seen. Their drooping, human-like limbs were held stiffly behind their backs, thrusting forward their narrow chests emblazoned with a familiar crest—the one from the children's book. Severus stared, transfixed. They were the tallest, most vicious-looking house-elves he had ever encountered. Their expressions were unlike anything he had seen before: calm, calculating, and dismissive, as if they barely registered his presence. Their bulbous eyes blinked once at him, then once at Peverell—before one of them spoke in a rasping voice, "Lordy Henry called?"

"Sanguis, Calvaria—I’d like you to meet Severus Altan Prince. If he is willing, you will frequently see him around the house. Treat him as you would treat me," Peverell replied, his tone commanding yet strangely gentle.

"Yes, sir," the two intoned in unison as their overly wet eyes turned towards Severus. He could feel as their gaze bored into him, assessed him. They did not simper or avert their eyes like other elves; they met his gaze head-on, as if deciding whether he was worthy of their master's regard. Severus felt a vein of unease tighten in his stomach. Whatever thoughts ran through their floppy-eared heads seemed to reach a favorable conclusion, because the next moment, their sharp smiles widened, and they began peppering him with questions in rapid succession.

"Is there anything the little Prince does not care for, for dinner?"

"Does the little Prince have any known allergies?"

"Shall we prepare the little Prince a room, perhaps the Ambio Suite beside Lordy Henry's?"

"Would the little Prince prefer neutrals or darks in his room?"

"Could the little Prince use a wake-up call in the morning? If so, what time?"

"Or would the little Prince appreciate a bath before dinner?"

"Yes, the little Prince appears to have some light bruising and a bit of dried blood around his n—"

“Blood?” Peverell cut across the two's banter and silenced even the crackling of the nearby flames. “Are you injured, Sev?”

Severus felt a shiver run down his spine as the weight of Peverell’s eyes—two sets, he felt, distinct and probing—fell upon him. He swallowed, his throat dry, and forced himself to respond. “It’s nothing," he managed, his voice raspy. "And I’m here now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Severus,” Peverell chided softly. There was a flicker of concern in his eyes, but Severus pushed on, unwilling to linger on the topic.

"And how have you come to know that my name has changed?" Severus asked quickly.

Peverell’s reaction was ambiguous; Severus wasn't sure if the sound that reached his ears was a laugh or the wind whipping against the windows. Peverell rose from his chair with an inhuman grace, and with a dismissive wave, he sent the elves away with instructions to prepare a light meal, and then turned back toward Severus, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Severus's eyes darted about Peverell’s face as he unthinkingly pressed his back more surely into the squat, barrel-chair he was in. Peverell’s trip to Severus’s seat, opposite his own of the fireplace, was only a handful of steps. But in them, it was all the time needed for the air to grow thicker, bolder—as though the room itself was holding its breath.

Severus felt every breath drag through him, as though his lungs attempted to pull in air through jellied water. Shadows lengthened and curled along the walls, stretching like skeletal fingers, as they reached toward him with a sinister kind of mirth. He felt his own magic react, it coiled within him like a serpent unsure whether to strike or flee. But amidst the enclosing darkness, he sensed something deeper—a pulse, faint like a heartbeat, which rippled through the magic in the room. A thrumming undercurrent, the echo of something more primal.

It was not scary, no. The room was filled with a calm, almost tranquil warmth that he recognized as Peverell's magic. But it was as overwhelming as it was all-encompassing. Severus felt the magic wrap around him, not with force, but with the gentle yet inexorable pull of a tide, drawing him in. Peverell's voice, low and intimate, cut through his reverie, “There is not a single thing in this world, or the next, that I do not know about you, mine."

Severus's heart raced. A part of him—a voice buried deep within his consciousness—warned him to retreat, to flee. Yet another part was entranced, drawn in by the mystery, by the promise, by the lure of uncovering more of Peverell's secrets. Though his spine refused to unclench, poised and ready, as he thought, “Could the beast beneath Peverell's bones truly care for me, as he had promised?”

Severus was determined to find out. Jutting out his chin, Severus drawled, “That answers nothing.”

This time, there was no mistaking it—a laugh, crisp and sweet, fell from Peverell's lips. "What happened to your nose, darling?"

“Darling.”

The word hung in the air. It sent a burning heat flaring across Severus's cheeks as it echoed in his mind. Peverell’s occasional use of pet names had been hard to adjust to at first, unsettling in its casual intimacy, but it never failed to make his defenses waver. He felt himself soften, a warmth spreading through him despite his efforts to stay aloof. Determined not to let Peverell see the effect his presence had on him, Severus tipped his sore nose higher into the air, a silent dare to see just how far Peverell's attention would go. He waited, sat tight, testing the space between them, his every breath heavy with the unspoken question: “How much do you truly care?”

"My father," Severus stated simply.

Peverell’s smile faded, replaced by a shaded look of concern as he moved a step even closer. The older boy now stood in the partition of Severus’ knees. "Your father did that to you?" Peverell asked softly, his eyes searching Severus' face for answers. "Tell me what happened."

Severus rolled his eyes, his tone dripping with sarcasm to put some between them—even if it was only mental. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a bit of father-son bonding," he replied, feigning indifference. "I spoke when I shouldn't have, and he—corrected me."

Peverell's brow furrowed as he leaned in closer, his voice low and firm, "That's not correction, Severus. That's cruelty."

Severus' lips curled into a bitter smile. "Well, I'm sure he’d be devastated to hear that."

Peverell's gaze intensified, his eyes dark and unreadable. "I want you to be safe, Sev. You deserve better than—"

"Spare me the pity," Severus snapped, a flash of defiance in his eyes. "I’ve had enough of that today to last a lifetime!" For a moment, the room seemed to close in around them, the air thickened with unspoken emotions. Peverell hovered over him, his expression a mixture of concern and something deeper, something Severus couldn’t quite name. The silence stretched, taut and heavy, until it felt like it might snap at any moment.

But, with a soft sigh, Peverell broke the tension. "Come," Peverell murmured, his tone gentle but insistent. "Let's go to the dining room. You should eat something."

Severus hesitated, but the rumble in his stomach betrayed him. Peverell’s mouth twitched with a hint of amusement as he stepped back with an outstretched hand in waiting. And with their fingers still clasped, Peverell led Severus down winding hallways to a small but elegantly furnished dining room. A delicate spread was laid out on the table—light dishes of smoked salmon with dill, warm, crusty bread, and a simple yet fragrant leek soup, the steam curling up in inviting wisps. Peverell, ever watchful, served Severus himself, even going so far as to ladle the soup into a bowl before passing it over.

"Here, try this," he urged, watching closely as Severus took a tentative sip. The warm broth slid down Severus's throat, and he had to admit, it tasted wonderful. Peverell seemed almost pleased by his approval, his eyes lighting up as he watched the spoon pass Severus's lips.

"Good?" Peverell asked, though he seemed to know the answer already. Still, Severus gave a slight nod—not trusting his voice to stay steady. They continued in relative silence, with Peverell occasionally guiding a dish closer to Severus, who sampled each one with cautious bites. It felt almost absurd—this quiet intimacy of sharing a meal, each bite a strange communion between them. When the plates were cleared away, Peverell leaned back in his chair.

"Would you like a tour of the house?" he asked, voice light. "There are a few rooms you might find interesting."

Severus hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Perhaps another time," he replied carefully. "I'm—tired, and I am expected at grandfather’s, the Prince Tsaz, tomorrow."

Peverell nodded, understanding but not pressing further. "Very well," he said softly. "I'll show you to your room."

They rose and Peverell led Severus through the main floor and up two flights of wide stairs, with a careful hand on the small of his back. Their steps creaked slightly beneath their feet. The grand old house was quiet—save for the soft crackling of the occasional candle flame, and the shadows that whispered as they ascended. When they reached the last landing, they quietly made their way to the right and down the hallway until Peverell brought them to a stop before a heavy oak door. Peverell shifted forward then paused, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob.

"This is yours," Peverell murmured as he pushed the door open to reveal a spacious, well-appointed room. The way his voice softened on the last word made Severus feel as if he were being offered more than just a place to sleep for the night—something far more permanent, something Severus wasn’t quite ready to name. So he made a small noise in his throat, neither agreement nor refusal, unwilling to let his thoughts linger there—as he was nowhere near in the right mindset to address the implication.

Instead, he stepped over the threshold and was immediately struck by the sheer elegance of the room, a vision plucked straight from his wildest dreams—the ones he had on repeat the nights he slumped on his lumpy mattress on his father’s floor, wrapped in the last tattered threads of his blanket. He took a tentative step forward, the plush carpet sunk with every step beneath his worn shoes as he let his gaze travel around the room.

A grand four-poster bed dominated the space, its deep mahogany frame polished to a mirror-like sheen. The bedding was draped in dark, sumptuous fabrics—rich emerald and deep charcoal, layered with a heavy quilt and thick, soft pillows that seemed to promise the kind of comfort Severus had only ever read about in books. He hesitated, reaching out to brush his fingertips against the velvet bed-curtain, marveling at the luxurious texture beneath his touch.

A small fireplace crackled warmly in the corner, the flames casting a soft, golden glow across the room. The mantel was adorned with delicate carvings, perhaps of magical creatures or woodland scenes—Severus couldn't quite make them out in the dim light, but they were beautiful, intricate. The warmth from the fire seeped into his bones, thawing the chill that always seemed to cling to him, especially after he spent more than a night at Spinner’s End.

His eyes moved to the side, where a heavy oak wardrobe stood against the wall, its double doors slightly ajar to reveal a glimpse of fine robes hanging within—robes in dark greens and blacks, tailored and of a quality that made his stomach twist with something close to guilt. Beside it was a writing desk, its surface gleaming and free of dust, with parchment, ink, and quills neatly arranged, ready for use. The chair, too, was plush, with a high back and soft cushioning, inviting him to sit and lose himself in study or thought.

“Why?” he wanted to demand. “Why do you keep giving me things I could never have, things that make me feel—” Severus bit down on his tongue and swallowed back the building words, unwilling to expose himself that way. Severus's throat tightened. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. He turned away from Peverell at the door, blinking rapidly, as his emotions threatened to spill over. He couldn’t quite grasp why he felt so overwhelmed.

It was a room—just a room, he told himself, and yet he had never been given anything like this before. Never. Everything he had known was hard edges, cold nights, rough fabric, and the barest minimum to scrape by. And now, here was Peverell, offering him a space filled with comfort and quality, with things that were so clearly chosen for him with care. All year it had felt like too much—like some grand, cruel joke.

“But this?” A hot flush of anger and frustration rose in his chest. Peverell had somehow become more powerful, and even more beautiful. And for some reason, he was still here—offering Severus all that he could ever want. He knew his grandfather’s game, Lily’s game—but for the life of him, he could not pin down Peverell’s motives. Then, unbidden, bile rose in his throat at a stray thought, “Grandfather said he had signed a betrothal contract on my behalf.”

He would have to tell Peverell, he knew he did, but a knot of conflicting emotions tightened in his chest as Severus tried to grapple with what he wanted and what he felt he should want. Part of him thrilled at the thought of being Heir Prince, to finally have the standing and power that his grandfather had promised him. That place in the world had its own allure—a chance to be more than the greasy, half-blood boy that everyone overlooked, to walk the halls with his head held high, to see people defer to him as he had always dreamed.

But another part, a stronger part, ached for something different: Peverell’s attention, his kindness, the way he had created this space for Severus as if he had known every secret desire Severus harbored. It all felt like a balm to wounds he’d carried for so long. There was something addictive in the way Peverell saw him, spoke to him as if he were worthy, not because of his bloodline or his talents, but simply because he existed. And that was something he had never felt before.

Severus bit his lip, his mind swirling with thoughts that refused to settle. “How can I choose? How can I turn my back on the future I’ve been promised, one that might finally offer a measure of security and recognition? But how can I dismiss the pull I feel toward Peverell, a pull that has nothing to do with titles or bloodlines, and everything to do with the way Peverell makes me feel seen, wanted, even cherished?”

His heart pounded in his chest, a rapid, uneven beat that seemed to echo his thoughts. He didn’t know what to do, which path to choose. He wanted it all—wanted to be powerful and respected, and he wanted this. Whatever this was, this feeling that Peverell brought out in him, this warmth that made him feel like he was standing in the light for the first time in his life.

“But there’s not truly a choice here to be made, now, is there?”

A wave of disgust and rage surged through him, mingling with a deep, abiding sorrow. The realization hit him like a blow to the stomach. The documents were all already signed, sealed, and set. He hadn’t seen the bonding contract himself, but he knew his new Lord of House and his mother would have made sure every detail was meticulously accounted for. His fate had been decided in ink long before he’d even known what his options might have been.

Even if he wanted to rebel, to run away with Peverell and ruin both their lives—he couldn't. There was no escaping this. No room for dreams or desires when every path had already been carved out, every choice made without his consent. The sheer unfairness of it sagged his chest, like a ocean of pain pooled beneath his bones. For a moment, the thought of telling Peverell, of watching that kindness in his eyes vanish, felt like a knife twisting deeper into the wound. “What would Peverell say then? Would he still smile? Would he fight for me?”

Severus felt the burn of tears gathering in his eyes, the hot, stinging sensation of helplessness pressing at the back of his throat. He hated it—the feeling of being trapped, of being less than the master of his own destiny. Hated that, even now, with Peverell standing so close, so warm, he was already losing something he had only just started to hope for.

Eventually, Severus decided that tonight, he could allow himself to pretend that the world was made up only of himself, Peverell, and the two ghastly house-elves. Just for tonight, he would let himself enjoy this, let himself feel like he belonged here, like he mattered to someone other than himself. And in the morning, he would face reality. In the morning, he would tell Peverell that he had been promised to another—that his future had already been set, and that Peverell should move on to someone who was actually worthy of him, someone who could match his brilliance, his grace. Someone better than Severus had ever been or could hope to be.

His silence must have stretched too long, for Peverell finally broke it, his voice gently prodding, "If you need anything, just call for Sanguis or Calvaria. They will attend to you." There was a pause, then, almost tentatively, he added, “And perhaps, you’ll decide to stay long enough for us to celebrate Lughnasadh together in the morning.”

Severus blinked, his breath caught in his throat at the offer. He wanted to say yes, wanted to nod and accept the invitation to stay by Peverell’s side, to bask in his presence a little longer. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he nodded stiffly, his jaw tight, not trusting himself to speak. His eyes swept over the room again, trying to find flaws, some reason to scoff and refuse—but he found none. The room was everything he had never had, everything he had always wanted but never dared to hope for. It was an alien feeling, and it made him feel both furious and unbearably fragile at once.

"Thank you," he muttered finally, his voice rough. He felt Peverell’s gaze on him, and it was like a weight, something warm pressing against the coldness that had settled in his chest. “I—I suppose I should get some rest,” he added, more to fill the silence than anything.

Peverell nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Goodnight, Severus," he murmured, before turning and walking back down the corridor, his steps light and unhurried.

Severus closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He waited until Peverell’s footsteps had faded into the distance before he allowed himself to relax. Alone, he let his eyes drift around the room once more, taking in the details—the bed, the fire, the warmth. He felt the lump rise higher in his throat, and for a moment, he had to close his eyes against the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Slowly, he stepped further into the room, allowing himself to feel the space, to feel what it was like to have a place where he could be safe, where he could rest. Just for a moment, he thought, as he reached out to touch the quilt on the bed, feeling the softness beneath his fingers. Just for a moment, he could pretend that this was his, that he belonged somewhere, that someone truly cared enough to give him a gift like this. And while he slipped off to sleep, Severus allowed himself to believe it.

The next thing he knew, Severus awoke with a start—a faintest rustling could be heard in the large, unfamiliar room. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. His mind, fogged by dreams his heart would prefer he did not remember, began to settle into a semblance of clarity. The rustling came closer, accompanied by a plain voice.

“Master Severus, sir,” the voice said, slightly raspy. “Lordy Henry requests you be ready for breakfast. Calvaria has been sent to wake you, sir.”

Severus looked over and came face to face with the elf's sharp eyes—which gleamed in the dim light, full of expectation. As he sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, Calvaria continued to hover. He could see her thin fingers flat against the hem of her tailored tunic as she waited for his response. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. “I’ll be down shortly.”

The house-elf gave a modest nod before slipping away, leaving Severus alone once more. He sighed heavily as he glanced around the room—this room that still felt too large, too opulent, too much like someone else’s dream. Pushing the thoughts aside, he moved to the foot of the bed before he reached into his trouser pocket to bring out his shrunken trunk. With a flick of his wand, it was back to its proper size and Severus pulled out a set of robes Peverell had given him. It was his favorite set—a deep green that seemed to shimmer in the early morning light, and reminded him far too much of the shade of Peverell’s eyes.

He hesitated, running his fingers over the fabric. The robes still felt absurdly luxurious, compared to anything he’d worn before this year. After a moment's pause, he moved towards the en-suite bathroom then shuddered at the sight that met his eyes. Severus refused to look to close at the room as he made his was around to a freestanding shower-head on the rightmost wall—not awake enough for this shit. 

He stepped over a small ledge that kept water to this part of the room and turned the knobs until the water was to his liking. The shower was a swift, almost frantic affair, the hot water hitting his skin like a barrage of tiny needles, waking him fully. He scrubbed quickly, trying to wash away the confusion, the uncertainty, and the sorrow that clung to him like a second skin. He finished up, pulled on the robes, smoothing down the front as he adjusted the collar. The weight of the fabric felt grounding—even if the idea of wearing something from Peverell, in the young-man’s own house, felt unnervingly intimate.

His footsteps echoed through the halls as he made his way to the dining room, guided by the pull of Peverell’s intense magic. His pace was slowed as each step dragged out the inevitable. It helped that the mansion seemed to stretch on forever, an endless series of sharp-eye’d portraits and ornate furniture that all seemed to judge every step he took. By the time he reached the familiar dining room door, he was on edge. Peverell was there, of course, seated at the head of the table, looking as composed and self-assured as ever. His gaze lifted as Severus entered, and there was a moment—a brief, flickering moment—where their eyes met, and Severus felt something tighten in his chest.

“Good morning,” Peverell greeted, his tone warm but guarded. Severus gave a curt nod as he moved to the chair to Peverell’s right and sat down, feeling the tension thrumming between them like a live wire. He tried to focus on the plate before him—simple fare, toast and eggs, but even the food seemed more refined, better prepared than what he was used to. His stomach churned, appetite gone, replaced by the gnawing anxiety that twisted in his gut. He picked at the food for a moment, pushing a bit of toast around the plate before setting his fork down. The words felt heavy in his mouth, like stones, but he knew he needed to say them. Better to rip the bandage off quickly.

“Peverell,” he began, his voice sharper than he intended. “We—we have to stop this nonsense, these shenanigans, whatever you want to call them.” He paused, watching Peverell's expression shift, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I’ve been informed that I am already in a betrothal contract.”

Peverell blinked, a slow, almost languid motion, then leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “Have you now?” he asked, his tone light, almost teasing. “And did you see this contract with your own eyes?”

Severus bristled at the question. “No,” he replied, “but I don’t need to. My mother and my grandfather were there—they spoke over my head, made all the decisions for me, but it was clear enough what they intended.”

Peverell gave a small shake of his head, his smile growing slightly. “Severus, you’re telling me this based on hearsay? You didn’t see the actual contract?”

“I did not need to,” Severus snapped back. “You do not know them like I do. They have surely crossed all their T’s and dotted all their I’s. Whatever’s been signed is final.”

For a moment, there was a tense silence. Peverell studied him, eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, with a soft sigh, he turned his head to one of the house-elves lurking near the doorway. “Sanguis, fetch the folder from my desk drawer, please. The one marked with the Prince crest.”

The house-elf vanished with a faint pop, reappearing moments later with a leather-bound folder clutched tightly in its small hands. Peverell took it and held it out to Severus, his expression now serious, almost solemn. “Read these,” he instructed softly. “Carefully.”

Severus took the folder, his hands trembling slightly as he opened it. Inside, his eyes immediately caught the heading—bold and unmistakable: “Betrothal Contract.” His breath caught in his throat. His stomach turned as he read, his mouth going dry. There, on the first page, were his new name and Peverell’s, written in elegant script, the terms of the betrothal spelled out clearly in ink. He flipped through the pages, heart pounding faster with every line.
Eyes continued to glide over the repeated signatures of his grandfather and his mother.

He flipped to the next document—another, explaining a promise to build an apothecary upon the completion of his Potions Mastery. And another still, detailing a financial settlement—five thousand Galleons—in the event of separation at the end of their courtship period. The room seemed to spin. His hand tightened on the edge of the table, white-knuckled, as he managed to choke out, “What—what is this?”

Peverell leaned forward, his voice calm, almost soothing. “There must have been some sort of confusion, since technically we’ve been courting since late June.” He paused, his gaze softening. “I promised I would court you, Severus. I keep my promises.”

Severus’s heart was in his throat, thudding so loudly he was sure Peverell could hear it. Feeling his world tilt sideways, he stammered, “But I—I didn’t know it was you.”

“You didn’t know,” Peverell agreed, his tone gentle. “But now you do. And now, Severus, you have a choice to make—one that no one else can make for you.”

Severus stared at the contract, his vision blurring around the edges as the implications sank in. The weight of the decision pressed on him, heavy as lead. He felt like the ground was shifting beneath his feet, the certainty he'd clung to crumbling away. This—this was not what he’d expected, not what he’d prepared himself for. His eyes darted up to meet Peverell’s, searching for something—reassurance, understanding, some hint of deceit that he could latch onto and use as an excuse to storm out. But all he saw in Peverell’s gaze was calm determination, a steady, unwavering confidence that only made the emotions swirling within him all the more unbearable.

For a long, tense moment, Severus just sat there, his hands clenched tightly around the edges of the folder. “So, this is real,” he whispered, more to himself than to Peverell, his voice trembling. “You truly meant it.”

Peverell nodded, his expression softening, but he didn’t move, waiting with a patience that only seemed to make Severus’s heart pound faster. “I meant every word, Severus,” he replied quietly. “And the choice is yours—no matter what papers have been signed, whether we move forward or not is solely up to you.”

Severus took a shaky breath, feeling his chest tighten, his throat constricting around the sudden, desperate urge to scream, to laugh, to run away. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere that wouldn’t lead back to this moment, this impossible decision that wasn’t a decision at all. He swallowed hard, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. “Then—I accept.”

The words felt heavy, final, like a door slamming shut in his mind. For a second, he felt a rush of panic, a frantic need to take it back. But then, as if in slow motion, he felt a tear slip down his cheek, hot and unbidden. He tried to swipe it away quickly, but another followed, then another, until they were streaming freely down his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of suppressed sobs. His chest felt tight, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was crying—actually crying in front of Peverell, something he’d sworn he would never do, never allow himself to be so vulnerable, so exposed.

Peverell’s chair scraped back, and before Severus could react, he was there, beside him, reaching out to cup Severus’s face in his hands. “Shh,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that only made Severus’s heart ache more. “It’s all right, Severus. It’s all right.”

And then, without warning, Peverell leaned in and kissed him—soundly, fiercely, his lips capturing Severus’s in a way that was both demanding and tender. For a moment, Severus froze, his breath catching in his throat. Then, slowly, he melted into the kiss, his hands gripping Peverell’s arms as if they were the only things keeping him from collapsing entirely. The world seemed to fall away, the fear, the doubt, the confusion—all of it burned away in the heat of that kiss, leaving only the press of lips, the warmth of Peverell’s body against his, the steady, grounding rhythm of their breaths mingling together.

When Peverell finally pulled back, his forehead resting gently against Severus’s, he was smiling—a soft, knowing smile that made Severus’s heart flip in his chest. “See?” he murmured, his breath warm against Severus’s lips. “This isn’t so terrible, is it?”

Severus managed a thin laugh, a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief. His voice was thick with emotion, as he admitted, “I suppose not.”

He felt raw, exposed, but there was a new warmth spreading through his chest, a quiet sense of rightness that he couldn’t ignore. Peverell pressed another quick kiss to Severus’s forehead before pulling back and offering his hand. “Come,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’s Lughnasadh. There’s much to celebrate.”

Severus hesitated for only a moment before he took Peverell’s hand, allowing himself to be led from the dining room and down the winding halls of the manor. They emerged into a large, sunlit courtyard, where a circle had been laid out in chalk, herbs, and summer flowers. The air was filled with the scent of heather and sage, and a warm breeze whispered through the leaves of the oak trees that surrounded them.

Peverell’s hand tightened around his, a gentle but firm reassurance that steadied Severus as he took in the sight before him. The courtyard seemed to vibrate with life; the flowers around the circle swayed in rhythm with the breeze, as if responding to some unseen force. Magic hummed in the air, a deep, thrumming energy that flowed like a current just beneath the surface, waiting to be tapped into.

As Peverell guided Severus to the edge of the circle, where a table had been set up, laden with offerings—bread, grapes, honey, and a single, white rose, he asked, “Have you celebrated before, perhaps with your mother?”

“No,” Severus murmured, “she told me about it, once, but there was never an opportunity to celebrate it together.”

“Okay then, this,” Peverell began, his voice low and reverent, “is a Lughnasadh altar. Each item here holds significance, a reflection of what we honor today: abundance, gratitude, the cycle of life and death.” He picked up the loaf of bread and held it out to Severus.

“This bread, made from the first grains of the crops here, represents sustenance. It is the sharing of life's bounty, just as we share ourselves with one another.” Severus nodded, his throat tight, captivated by the way Peverell’s voice seemed to echo in the air, resonating with the magic around them. He watched as Peverell set the bread down and lifted a cluster of grapes, their deep purple skins shimmering in the sunlight.

“These have also come from my land and are for sweetness, the pleasures of life. They remind us to savor joy, even in fleeting moments.” Peverell’s lips curved into a faint smile, his thumb brushing over the grapes' skin, and Severus felt a flutter in his stomach.

Peverell moved with deliberate grace, lifting a bowl of honey. “Honey,” he murmured, his tone softening, “is a symbol of hard-won sweetness, the rewards of patience and perseverance. It speaks of the effort we put into our lives, our relationships—and how those efforts yield something precious, something worth savoring.”

Severus swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. There was a hypnotic quality to the way Peverell spoke, a rhythm that drew him in deeper. Peverell’s fingers hovered over a single white rose, fresh and dewy. “This,” he said, “is purity, a blank slate. It symbolizes potential—the possibility of what we could build together if we choose to nurture it.”

Severus's breath caught as warmth spread from his chest, flowing like liquid sunlight through his veins. Peverell’s gaze remained steady as he turned back to Severus. “Would you like to join me in the chant? It’s simple. Just repeat after me.”

Severus nodded, feeling unsteady yet eager. Peverell began in a low, melodic voice, each word spoken with care and purpose: "Sol solis—vita nostra—nos gratia, nos abundantia."

Severus watched Peverell’s lips, his heart racing as he mirrored the sounds. "Sol solis—vita nostra—nos gratia, nos abundantia," he repeated, the words feeling foreign yet powerful on his tongue.

Peverell’s eyes were fixed on his lips, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Again,” he urged, his voice carrying a hint of something deeper, almost like desire. “Feel the meaning in the words, Severus. Let them resonate within you.”

Severus repeated the chant, more confidently this time, and as he did, he felt a stirring inside him—a warmth, a sensation like a current moving through his body, flowing from his fingertips to his toes. His skin tingled, his heartbeat quickening with every syllable. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with magic. The chalk lines of the circle began to glow, faint at first but growing brighter with each repetition of the chant. Peverell’s gaze grew more intense, his eyes dark and focused. “Do you feel it?” he whispered, stepping closer, his breath warm against Severus’s cheek.

Severus nodded, his breath catching. “Yes,” he murmured, feeling the euphoria course through him like liquid fire. “I feel—everything.”

Peverell’s smile widened, his voice barely more than a breath. “Good. Let it in. Let it fill you.”

Severus closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation. The chant seemed to echo all around him, amplified by the magic in the air. The circle’s glow intensified, the lines becoming threads of light that wove themselves into the ground, pulsing with life. The flowers at the circle's edge began to bloom in rapid succession, petals unfurling with vibrant color as if awoken by the magic. The herbs crackled, releasing more of their heady scent, which swirled around them like a tangible mist.

The earth beneath his feet seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and he felt his connection to the world deepen. He could feel the magic spreading, like roots burrowing into the soil, tapping into a wellspring of power that surged up and through him. His fingers tingled with energy, his skin alive with sensation. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of something vast and wondrous, a threshold between worlds.

Peverell’s grip tightened around his hand, grounding him, holding him steady as the magic built to a crescendo, a symphony of sensation that left Severus gasping for breath. The sunlight seemed to intensify, bathing the courtyard in golden light, and the flames over the altar flickered higher, crackling with life. The air itself felt charged, filled with a thousand whispered voices, ancient and powerful, weaving through the chant.

Severus’s senses were ablaze. Every breath, every sound, every flicker of light felt heightened, as if he were seeing the world anew. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, the gentle caress of the wind, the vibrant hum of life all around him. It was intoxicating—a heady, exhilarating rush that left him breathless and dizzy with wonder. Knees going weak. Falling into Peverell.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the magic ebbed, flowing out of him like a river returning to the sea. Severus opened his eyes, his breaths coming in shallow gasps, his body thrumming with the afterglow of the ritual. Peverell was still watching him, his eyes dark and intense, filled with a fierce joy that sent a shiver down Severus’s spine.

Peverell pressed a cup of mead into Severus’s trembling hand. “To new beginnings,” he said softly, lifting his own cup.

Severus hesitated for a moment, his heart still racing, and then lifted his cup to meet Peverell’s. “To new beginnings,” he echoed, his voice steadier, surer.

They drank, and the warmth of the mead spread through him, mingling with the lingering magic, calming his racing heart. The flames of the circle flared once more, as if in celebration, before settling into a soft, steady glow. Severus felt the last of his anxiety slip away, replaced by a new sense of calm, a quiet certainty that he hadn’t felt in years. Peverell’s lips curved into a playful grin, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“You’re flushed, Severus,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly across Severus's cheek. “We can’t have that, can we? How about a bath to wash away all that sweat and tension?” Severus blinked, still trying to steady his breath and gather his scattered thoughts. The air around him felt electrified with the magic of the ritual, the heady sensations still thrumming in his veins. A bath, a simple and grounding bath, did sound like an excellent idea. He nodded, managing a small, tentative smile.

“Yes—I think I’d like that,” he said, his voice a bit uneven.

Before he could process what was happening, Peverell’s arm slid around his waist, drawing him close, his grip firm yet gentle. Peverell practically swept him off his feet as he guided Severus out of the courtyard and through the house with an effortless grace that left him momentarily breathless. Severus could feel the warmth of Peverell’s body through their thin, sweat-dampened clothes, each step a reminder of the closeness that had just bloomed between them. It was all Severus could do to keep his balance, his mind still spinning from the aftereffects of the ritual—of being exposed to so much of Peverell’s unrestrained magic.

They wound through the manor, past the grand staircase and through a series of opulent halls. Severus felt as though they were gliding, the floor beneath him almost buoyant, their path lit by the flickering sconces lining the walls. He caught glimpses of tapestries and artwork, but everything felt dreamlike and out of focus. His skin tingled where Peverell’s arm touched him, a comforting weight that anchored him in the moment.

When they got to his room, Peverell crossed the floor and pushed open the bathroom door with a flourish. Severus found himself ushered into a magnificent bathroom that took his breath away. Now that he looked, Severus saw that the space was more like a private spa—with high, vaulted ceilings painted in deep sapphire hues and inlaid with constellations that twinkled softly in the dim light. Golden sconces hung above, catching the light and scattering it across the room like fragments of stars. The floor was polished marble, cool underfoot, and the walls were lined with shelves filled with potions, oils, and elixirs, each one catching the light in a different hue.

In the center of the room was the raised tub—no, it wasn’t just a tub; it was a small pool, carved from a single block of dark, shimmering stone veined with silver. Its high walls ran into the floor, large enough for two or three people to lounge comfortably. The water inside it was already filling, cascading from a golden faucet shaped like a roaring dragon’s mouth, steam rising in gentle, aromatic swirls that filled the room with the scent of lavender, rosemary, and something deeper, more exotic.

Peverell guided Severus to a cushioned bench at the edge of the tub and settled him down with a gentle push. “Sit,” he instructed softly. “Let me take care of everything.”

Severus sank back, feeling the coolness of the bench beneath him. His pulse quickened as he looked around, fully taking in the lavishness of the space he had been too overwhelmed to notice before. The richness of it—the gleam of the golden fixtures, the plushness of the towels neatly folded beside the tub, the faint glow of enchanted runes etched into the marble—felt like a revelation, as if the very room was designed to cradle him in comfort.

Peverell moved with purposeful grace, his hands deftly turning the faucet, adjusting the temperature with practiced ease. He poured a vial of dark blue liquid into the water, and immediately the surface began to shimmer with a luminous, silver sheen. He hummed as he added another handful of herbs to the water, which hissed and bubbled, releasing even more fragrant steam into the air.

The mist rose in tendrils, swirling like serpents in the air, and the scent grew stronger, more intoxicating. Severus watched, his heart pounding, as Peverell worked, each motion stirring something deep within him—a memory, sharp and vivid, breaking through the fog of his mind. He remembered the first time Peverell had done this. It struck like a lightning bolt, taking him back to that day—the day he had first let Peverell see him, really see him.

He had been so raw, so vulnerable, his emotions raw from a particularly difficult day. And Peverell had taken him by the hand, just like this, and led him to a bath just like this one. Severus felt a rush of heat spread across his cheeks, not from the steam, but from the embarrassment and pleasure that flooded him at the memory. He remembered how he had felt then—nervous, awkward, his hands trembling slightly as Peverell had carefully peeled away the layers of his defenses—much like he was now peeling away the sweat-soaked clothes from Severus’s back.

He had felt exposed, his skin prickling with awareness, but at the same time, he had felt a strange comfort, a reassurance in the tenderness of Peverell’s touch. It had been one of the best days of his life, though he had scarcely admitted it to himself at the time. Severus blinked, feeling the déjà vu settle in his chest like a heavy, comforting weight, while Peverell led him to the lip of the tub. As he sank under the water, his eyes tracked Peverell’s movements.

Peverell collected the bottles and jars he had used, putting them back around the room. He then settled onto the bench Severus had vacated and pulled a book from seemingly nowhere. He began flipping through the pages, but he must have felt Severus’s gaze—for Peverell glanced up and caught his eye. They simply stared at each other for a moment. Then, with his voice teasing and low, Peverell asked, “Thinking of something?”

Severus’s breath hitched. “Perhaps,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady, but there was a tremor there—an echo of the pleasure and embarrassment of that long-ago day.

Peverell’s grin widened, and he leaned onto the rim of the tub. “I remember it too,” he replied softly, his tone suddenly more serious. “I remember you—so tense, so uncertain. And yet, by the end, you were smiling beautifully. Do you recall that?”

Severus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I do,” he whispered. His eyes traced the patterns in the marble, watching the steam rise in soft, spiraling tendrils. A sense of peace settled over him, mingling with a quiet thrill of anticipation. “It was a good day.”

Peverell nodded, his expression softening as he moved toward him, reaching out to gently brush a damp lock of hair away from Severus’s forehead. “Then let’s make this another good day,” he said, his voice warm and inviting. “Let’s wash away all that’s heavy, all that’s uncertain, and start fresh—it is Lughnasadh, after all. Look.”

Severus hesitated, feeling the flutter of nerves return. But he allowed himself to relax—to lean back against the tub’s wall and watch Peverell settle down—feeling a mixture of calm and excitement well up inside him. The water glowed, swirling in iridescent patterns, and Severus felt the tension begin to slip from his shoulders, his body growing lighter, his mind quieter. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant air, and felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward in the faintest hint of a smile. Maybe, just maybe, this could be another one of those days—a day worth remembering.

And it was easy to do so, as this time, Severus stayed awake. This time, Severus passively floated, his head comfortably cocked back on the ledge of the bath. With one hand, Peverell toyed with strands of his hair, and with the other, he busied himself with his book. This time, Severus did not shy away from Peverell’s straying hand and lingering glances. He took it in stride as he sat on the edge of the tub to scrub down his own body. And this time, they made it through the bath without incident. Now, Severus sat bundled up in the fluffy quilt on his bed while Peverell cleaned up himself.

He was lightly nodding off when Peverell reappeared, wearing only a loosely tied bathrobe. Severus buried his nose into the fabric surrounding him, feeling a light embarrassment while he waited to see what Peverell planned to do next. He didn’t have to wait long as Peverell quickly chatted with an elf before making his way over to the standing wardrobe.

Peverell took a moment, shifting through the clothes until he came across some casual loungewear. The air in the magical room was blissfully warm, so it was no surprise when Peverell decided to forgo a top. But Severus couldn’t resist piping up when Peverell turned away without getting him anything to wear. Slightly teasing, Severus asked, “And what am I to wear?”

The infuriating boy simply blinked at him with an unnerving stare and said, “What you have on is fine.”

Severus could feel the furious blush that took over his face at the words, for he was stark naked beneath the quilt. He hadn’t known how long Peverell would take, but he figured he had enough time to sit for a moment before getting dressed. The bathrobe Peverell had wrapped around him before shooing him out of the bathroom had been sweltering. He didn’t bother keeping the sass out of his voice as he hissed, “I am woefully underdressed, Peverell.”

Peverell, the cad, gave a noncommittal hum as he climbed onto the bed. Severus stammered incredulously, clenching the fabric tighter in his hands, his feet uselessly tried to push his body further into the sturdy headboard behind him. He was spared from whatever nonsense Peverell had been about to spew when an elf materialized, levitating a tray piled with colorful fruits and unfamiliar delicacies. The smell was faintly sweet, tinged with exotic spices Severus couldn't place. As Peverell turned to speak with the elf, Severus seized the chance to burrow deeper into the warm, comforting layers of the blanket, retreating like a creature seeking refuge.

“What is this fool playing at?” Severus wondered, irritation laced with curiosity as he listened to the low murmur of their exchange and the soft shuffle of movement. The footsteps grew closer, and then the bed dipped beside him, the mattress shifting under Peverell's weight.

"Sev," Peverell’s voice was soft but insistent, accompanied by a gentle nudge against Severus’s shoulder. He had settled onto the bed with effortless grace, his proximity radiating warmth. "Come on, Sev, you really need to eat before you nap. We expended a lot of magic earlier."

Severus, stubborn as ever, remained motionless, his grip on the quilt tightening. Even through the fabric he could feel the heat of Peverell’s gaze, sharp and assessing. But he could not see the mischievous smile that curled on Peverell’s lips, his eyes gleaming with devilish intent.

"If you don’t eat willingly," Peverell drawled, his voice low, "I’ll just have to hand-feed you." A long pause lingered in the air, heavy with playful menace. After a moment, Severus peeked out from the cocoon of blankets, one eye warily regarding Peverell. His expression was a mix of defiance and reluctant amusement.

“Is that a threat?” he asked, his tone dry but edged with curiosity, wondering just how far Peverell was willing to take this game.

Chapter Text

August 1, 1975

With a shrug of his shoulders, Peverell picked up one of the small cubes of soft yellow cheese from the platter. With his other hand, he reached for the edges of the quilt, parting it just enough to peek at Severus’s flushed face. Severus met Peverell’s gaze steadily, holding it for a moment longer, a faint hint of defiance lingering in his eyes—but then, with a soft sigh, he relented. He tilted his head slightly, allowing Peverell easier access.

Peverell’s grin widened as he eagerly accepted Severus’s silent consent. With deliberate care, he brought the cube of cheese closer to Severus's lips, his touch feather-light as he teased the morsel against them. He felt Severus’s breath hitch slightly, a subtle sign of anticipation.

“Open up, Sev,” Peverell murmured, his voice low and coaxing.

Severus complied, parting his lips to allow Peverell to gently place the cheese on his tongue. The taste lingered, mingling with the warmth of Peverell’s touch. Peverell watched intently, a mixture of amusement and satisfaction dancing in his eyes as Severus savored the bite. After the cheese came a piece of dried fruit. Severus eyed it suspiciously as Peverell held it near his lips, his expression unreadable. Seeing the apprehension on Severus’s face, Peverell offered a soft chuckle, his voice warm with amusement.

“Fig,” he explained, tilting the morsel closer in invitation.

Severus hesitated, but eventually opened his mouth and allowed Peverell to place the fig on his tongue. The taste was rich and earthy, with a subtle sweetness that grew as he chewed. But as he swallowed, a bitter aftertaste crept in, clinging unpleasantly to the back of his throat. His face scrunched in displeasure, his nose wrinkling.

“No more of that,” he muttered with a grimace, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Peverell’s laugh rang out, bright and clear, the sound crackling like static in the air around them. The corners of his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement, and he reached for the next item on the tray, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“Alright, alright,” Peverell said with a grin, his voice warm and teasing. “Let’s see if we can find something more to your liking.”

The next offering was a thin slice of cucumber, cool and crisp. Peverell held it between his fingers, brushing it against Severus’s lips before he bit down. The texture was light and refreshing, the faint taste of fresh greenery coating his palate. It was pleasant, but hardly exciting. Severus gave a small nod of approval, though he said nothing.

Peverell, ever watchful, raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, hm? But let’s see if we can’t do better.”

Next came a small strip of smoked salmon, its delicate pink flesh shimmering with oil. Peverell brought it to Severus’s mouth with a grin that hinted at mischief. As Severus bit into the salmon, its buttery texture melted on his tongue, leaving behind a savory, slightly salty tang that spread warmly across his taste buds. He blinked in mild surprise, the richness of it unexpected.

“Better?” Peverell asked, his voice low and coaxing.

Severus offered a lazy hum, refusing to give Peverell the satisfaction of a compliment, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

They moved on to tiny, bite-sized portions of bread with soft, herb-infused butters. The bread was warm and pillowy, the butter laced with garlic and rosemary, creating a fragrant, savory burst with each bite. Severus chewed thoughtfully, his expression more neutral now, though the richness lingered on his tongue long after he swallowed.

Next, a soft wedge of brie coated in a delicate honey glaze. Peverell’s fingers grazed Severus’s lips as he fed it to him, and Severus could feel the subtle pressure of his breath hitching again. The brie was creamy, almost velvety, the honey adding a touch of sweetness that balanced its smoothness perfectly. He took a moment longer to savor it, letting the flavors settle.

Peverell watched him, his eyes sharp with amusement. As a knowing smile played on his lips, he murmured, “See, you’re warming up to this.”

But before Severus could respond, Peverell reached for something else—a cluster of green grapes, each one plump and glistening. He plucked one from the bunch, gently holding it to Severus’s mouth. Severus parted his lips slightly, feeling the cool skin of the grape before biting down. The burst of tart juice was bright and sharp, cutting through the heavier flavors they’d just sampled. Severus made a soft sound of surprise at the sudden contrast, his lips parting briefly as he swallowed.

They continued like this for some time, a steady rhythm of playful teasing and curious bites. There were slivers of cured meat that added a smoky, peppery kick and small squares of dark chocolate that melted luxuriously, leaving behind a subtle bitterness mingled with hints of cherry. Some things Severus accepted easily, others made him wrinkle his nose or bite back a smirk at Peverell’s insistent grin.

Then came something different—a piece of fruit, bright green with waxy, star-shaped edges. Severus glanced at it curiously, the unfamiliar shape catching his attention.

“Starfruit,” Peverell said, his tone laced with playful mystery. He held it just before Severus’s lips, waiting for him to lean in.

Severus hesitated only a moment before taking the bite. As soon as his teeth sank into the crisp flesh, a burst of tangy sweetness filled his mouth. The flavor was unlike anything he’d tasted before—light and citrusy, yet with an underlying hint of something tropical and cool. His eyes widened in genuine surprise, and before he could stop himself, a small gasp of excitement escaped his lips.

Juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin before he quickly wiped it away, flustered. His cheeks flushed as Peverell’s grin grew wider, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Well, well,” Peverell teased, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Looks like we’ve found something you like.” Severus scowled, trying to mask his embarrassment, though the faint glow of excitement still lingered in his expression.

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though his tone was softened by the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Peverell laughed again, this time softer, more intimate. Emboldened by Severus's response, Peverell reached for another delicacy from the tray, this time a succulent strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. The rich aroma of the cocoa filled the air between them as he held it tantalizingly close to Severus’s lips, his grin playful and teasing.

“Hush, or I’ll eat this myself,” Peverell quipped, his tone a mixture of mock seriousness and gentle encouragement.

Severus’s gaze flickered, hesitating for a beat as he glanced between Peverell’s mischievous eyes and the tempting treat before him. For a moment, he considered simply indulging as he had been, but a sudden idea sparked in his mind. With a subtle, almost wicked smirk curling at the corner of his lips, Severus leaned forward—not toward the strawberry, but toward Peverell.

Instead of taking the offered fruit, Severus deftly plucked the strawberry from Peverell’s fingers and, without a word, pressed it to Peverell’s own lips. The surprise in Peverell’s eyes was immediate, his grin faltering for a second before he leaned into the gesture, his lips parting to accept the strawberry. He bit down slowly, the chocolate cracking beneath his teeth, releasing a burst of sweetness as the juice dribbled down his chin.

“Well played,” Peverell murmured, his voice thick with amusement as he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes glinted with a new kind of appreciation. “I didn’t expect that.”

Severus, satisfied with his victory, offered a small smirk in return but said nothing. The air between them seemed to shift in that moment, a subtle undercurrent of intimacy threading through their playful banter.

Peverell, not one to be outdone, quickly reached for another delicacy—this time, a thin slice of honey-drizzled peach. The golden syrup glistened in the soft light, and he made a show of holding it just out of Severus’s reach, his expression daring.

“Your move, Sev,” Peverell challenged, his tone low and teasing.

Severus gave Peverell a pointed look, his patience clearly wearing thin, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a hint of amusement. There was something disarming about this newfound game between them, something that felt oddly safe despite the undercurrent of tension. He leaned forward just enough to take the peach slice between his lips, the sweet, sticky nectar coating his tongue as he bit into the soft flesh. The honey clung to his lips as he sat back, savoring the flavor with slow, deliberate movements.

Peverell’s gaze never wavered, his dark eyes watching Severus with an intensity that sent a flutter through Severus’s chest. It was as if Peverell was studying him, committing each movement, each reaction, to memory. The look on his face was one of quiet satisfaction, of pride.

"You look so lovely when you eat, Severus," Peverell murmured, his voice dropping low, sending a ripple of warmth through Severus. The words felt heavy, weighted with a meaning that was far from innocent. Peverell’s eyes, black as night, gleamed with something unholy—something that made the hairs on Severus’s arms stand and caused his breath catch in his throat. "It’s like watching a work of art come to life."

The compliment, though unexpected, stirred something inside Severus—something equal parts flattered and unsettled. He shifted under Peverell’s gaze, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks despite himself. But there was also a thrill in it, a small part of him relishing the attention, the way Peverell seemed to hang on his every move. Their back-and-forth continued, each taking turns offering morsels from the tray. The dynamic between them shifted subtly with each exchange, a rhythm forming in the spaces between their words. Severus, emboldened by this, picked up a green apple slice. The coolness of the fruit felt grounding in his hand as he turned it over slowly, contemplating his next move.

Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in, holding the apple slice just inches from Peverell’s lips. There was a flicker of something—anticipation, perhaps—in Peverell’s eyes, but he didn’t move. He waited, allowing Severus to take the lead. With surprising gentleness, Severus placed the apple against Peverell’s opened lips, the cool, crisp edge of the fruit a sharp contrast to the warmth of Peverell’s skin.

Peverell accepted the offering with a soft, satisfied hum as Severus licked his own fingers clean. The sharp tang of the apple sliced through the lingering sweetness of the previous treats, a refreshing change that seemed to please him immensely. He watched Peverell bite into the slice with a quiet crunch, the sound oddly loud in the stillness of the room.

“Mm,” Peverell hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “Tart. Just like you.” His lips quirked into a grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Severus rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Peverell, ever the tease, reached for another slice of peach. This time, as he moved to offer it to Severus, he paused just before Severus could take it, pulling the fruit away at the last second. The movement was subtle, but enough to leave Severus leaning forward, lips just shy of the fruit, blinking in surprise. Severus raised an eyebrow, his amusement fading as a flicker of irritation crossed his face.

“Really?” Severus asked, his voice edged with mild annoyance. Peverell chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound that made Severus’s skin prickle.

“What? Patience is a virtue,” Peverell teased, his grin widening as he held out the peach once more. Severus took it with a deliberate scrape of his teeth against Peverell’s skin. In response, Peverell offered a candied ginger cube, the spicy warmth of it surprised Severus as it melted on his tongue. His eyes widened slightly at the unexpected heat, but he swallowed it down, intrigued by the mix of flavors.

“Too much?” Peverell asked, his voice tinged with concern, though his grin remained.

“No,” Severus replied, his voice steady despite the lingering spice. “Just—different.”

They moved on to roasted nuts, their salty crunch contrasting sharply with the delicate sweetness of sugared almonds that followed. Each bite brought with it a new flavor, a new sensation, and with every passing moment, the space between them grew smaller—not in distance, but in something deeper, more profound.

The playful laughter that had punctuated their earlier exchanges began to fade into something softer, more tender. As Peverell fed Severus a biscuit topped with what he explained to be crème fraîche topped with a sprig of mint, their gazes locked in a moment that felt suspended in time. The air between them was charged with an electric current and a warmth that went beyond mere companionship.

Peverell’s hand lingered near Severus’s lips after the last bite, sticky fingertips brushed against his skin in a touch that felt both deliberate and tentative. Severus did not pull away. Instead, he met Peverell’s eyes with an expression that, while cautious, was undeniably open—more open than it had been in a long time. Peverell leaned back against the pillows, his eyes half-lidded and content. His hand lowered to reach out and lazily pull Severus close. Severus didn’t resist. Instead, he allowed himself to settle into the embrace.

“There you go,” the words spilled over Peverell’s lips in a wave that battered the last of Severus’ reservations. They were nearly chest to chest, with only the quilt between them. So it was easy for Severus to turn his face and drop his head onto Peverell’s shoulder. He figured that Peverell probably couldn’t hear the utterly pathetic whine that sliped through his lips, but Peverell probably felt it.

“You’re doing so good for me, Sev,” Peverell whispers and his lips brushed Severus’ ear. For the first time in a long while, Severus felt truly at peace. He also felt a heat stirring between his thighs, that was unmatched by anything he had ever felt before, as his cheek came in contact with Peverell’s bared skin.

As Peverell reached for another piece of fruit—a plump slice of some melon this time—he held it between his fingers and brought it toward Severus’s lips. The golden flesh shimmered in the soft light, and Severus’s gaze locked onto it, anticipating the sweet, tangy taste. He opened his mouth slightly, expecting the next morsel, but just as he was about to take the bite, Peverell pulled the fruit away at the last second.

A quiet huff of frustration escaped Severus’s lips, his brow knitting together in confusion.

“Patience, Severus,” Peverell murmured, his dark eyes alight with mischief as he twirled the fruit between his fingers, just out of reach.

Severus shot him a sharp look but said nothing. He was determined not to give Peverell the satisfaction of reacting. His eyes tracked the fruit as Peverell brought it back to his lips, but just as before, the moment he moved forward to take a bite, Peverell playfully pulled it away again. This time, Severus’s mouth snapped shut, and he let out a quiet growl of annoyance.

“Are we children now?” Severus muttered, his voice low and biting, though there was an unmistakable flicker of amusement in his tone. Peverell, undeterred, only chuckled in response, holding the fruit teasingly close once more.

“Once more,” Peverell said in a soothing tone, the teasing edge to his voice softening. Slowly, Severus leaned forward again, his patience thinned. And to his honest surprise, Peverell pulled the fruit away for a third time.

The warmth between them intensified as Severus’s frustration built and without thinking, Severus fully lunged forward—his eyes dark with determination. His teeth nipped at Peverell’s fingers as he finally caught the slice of fruit between his lips, pulling it free. A small, satisfied smirk crossed his face as he chewed, savoring both the taste and his victory.

Peverell’s laugh was bright and unrestrained, the sound vibrating between them and caused sparks of pale light to filter through the air.

“Oh, well done,” he said, still grinning, clearly pleased by Severus’s reaction. He gently placed a hand on the back of Severus’s neck, his thumb brushing along the nape in a way that sent a shiver down Severus’s spine and made the error of his last move painfully obvious.

Severus, caught in the heat of the moment, did not calculate where his movement would take him—and thus had to bite his tongue when Peverell’s knee shifted between his thighs. He was effectively straddling the others leg. He quickly turned his face and let his head drop onto Peverell’s shoulder, a quiet, almost involuntary sigh slipping from his lips.

“You’re doing so good for me, Sev,” Peverell whispered, his breath ghosted over Severus’s ear as each word sunk deep into Severus’s chest and ignited something primal and raw. The warmth of Peverell’s voice sent a long shiver coursing down his spine, the low murmur both a reassurance and a command.

Peverell’s fingers combed lazily through Severus’s dark hair, each stroke deliberate, grounding him in the moment. The touch was tender, intimate, as though Peverell was savoring every inch of him. “Your hair’s grown out,” Peverell remarked softly, his voice laced with a casual affection that sent heat pooling in Severus’s gut. “I’d like to cut it again.”

Severus hummed, a low sound of agreement that rumbled in his throat, the idea of Peverell trimming his hair oddly comforting. But before Severus could retreat into his thoughts, Peverell's voice, soft but firm, pulled him back. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” he added, the words gentle but cutting all the same.

Instinctively, Severus opened his mouth to protest, to shoot back with a sharp retort, but the argument died on his lips. The familiar heat of indignation deflated into a reluctant acceptance. Instead of a stinging rebuttal, all he managed was a weak, “Summer is harsher than winter.”

“I know,” Peverell replied, his voice carrying the weight of deep understanding. There was no pity in his tone, just the quiet assurance of someone who had seen it all and knew. “It’s hard to worry about the frills when you’re too busy ducking for cover or worrying about your next meal—but you have us now.”

“Us?” Severus muttered, his face still buried in Peverell’s shoulder, missing the brief flicker of something dark that passed over the other’s eyes.

Peverell’s swallow was palpable, the tension in his throat vibrating through Severus’s body. “Me, the elves, your grandfather,” Peverell answered, his voice measured, but Severus could feel the weight behind it. “It may not be perfect, but you do have a support system now.”

Severus huffed softly, his breath hot against Peverell’s skin. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, huh?”

“You could look at it that way,” Peverell replied, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “or you could see it as me taking my rightful place in your life.”

Severus let out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound low and rough.

“Oh, however will I repay you,” he mocked, his tone laced with biting sarcasm. But before Severus could decide whether to continue being a pain or let the moment die, Peverell’s hand shot up and his fingers curled into the hair at Severus’s nape. In one swift motion, Peverell pulled, forcing Severus’s head up, their eyes locking with an intensity that left Severus breathless. The closeness between them was overwhelming and far too exposing. Severus could feel the heat radiating off Peverell’s skin where the quilt had fallen low.

For a moment, neither spoke, the silence thick with unspoken tension. Severus’s heart pounded in his chest, the pulse in his throat beating so hard he thought it might choke him. Peverell’s fingers tightened in his hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Severus of his hold.

“You don’t have to fight this, darling,” Peverell murmured, his voice a velvet caress against Severus’s ear.

Again the word “darling” slithered through Severus’s defenses and sent an involuntary thrust of his hips forward. He could not tell if it was the possessiveness in Peverell’s tone or the sheer unfamiliarity of the word on his lips, but something about it undid him. Severus felt a tremor run through him, his body betraying him as it leaned ever so slightly into Peverell’s hold. He hated how hapless he felt, hated how the other man could so easily unravel him with a touch, with a word.

“Let me take care of you,” Peverell breathed, the words so soft they were almost lost in the space between them. His lips brushed against Severus’s again, not quite a kiss, but enough to send another jolt through Severus’s lower body.

Severus’s breath hitched, his lips parting ever so slightly. His bared skin felt hot and flushed in the room’s cool air. And the heat that stirred between his thighs was now a wildfire, blazing out of control, driven by the intoxicating nearness of Peverell. And as Peverell’s hand gently coaxed him closer, Severus surrendered to the moment, allowing himself to loosen his hold on his body and give into the warmth—into the quiet promise hidden beneath Peverell’s whispered words.

The walls Severus had so carefully put back into place over the summer were crumbling, brick by brick, and the part of him that had always fought to keep others at bay faltered. He was not ready for what this meant—not yet—but in this moment, with Peverell’s breath mingling with his, Severus allowed himself the rare luxury of not fighting his own good graces. He allowed his hips to undulate without restraint, right there under Peverell’s eyes.

Severus stayed there, his breath coming in slow, measured waves, Peverell’s hand continued its gentle caress, trailing along the nape of his neck undeterred. And the feeling of fingers dipping into his hair made it harder and harder to focus on anything other than the closeness they shared. Peverell, sensing the shift in Severus’s breathing, adjusted his grin to tilt Severus’s head back and whispered, “You deserve this, you know.”

Severus didn’t respond with words, but the way his hips pressed harder into Peverell’s warmth spoke volumes.

Peverell, always the one to push boundaries, picked up a plump, glistening berry from the tray and held it in Severus’ line of sight. The deep red of the fruit contrasted sharply with the pale skin of his fingers, and for a moment, Severus couldn’t tear his gaze away. He didn’t know if it was the berry or Peverell’s lips that he was drawn to. But then, just as Peverell lifted the berry to Severus’s lips, his grip slipped. The berry tumbled through the air in what felt like slow motion, landing squarely on Peverell’s chest with a wet splat.

The vibrant red juice of the berry burst on contact, a small streak of it sliding down Peverell’s chest. Peverell froze, looking down at the mess with a soft chuckle, clearly amused. "Well, that’s unfortunate."

Severus, however, couldn’t look away from the streak of berry juice trailing down Peverell’s skin. Something egregious stirred inside him, a response so instinctual and visceral that it bypassed his usual layers of control. Without thinking, he leaned forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up. The quilt slipped down to his splayed hips, forgotten, as Severus bent down over Peverell’s chest.

His lips met the warm skin just above Peverell’s collarbone, his tongue darting out to lap up the stray juice. The taste of the berry mixed with the faint saltiness of Peverell’s skin was a heady, intoxicating combination that sent Severus’ mouth watering for more. The sensation of Peverell’s body beneath his mouth, firm and yielding at the same time, made his pulse race in his ears as he licked further down. For a split second, the world narrowed down to this—Severus’s mouth on Peverell’s skin, the warmth radiating between them, the faint taste of fruit mingling with the heat of the moment.

Peverell inhaled sharply as his body stiffened in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he tilted his head slightly, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as he watched Severus intently through his lashes. His eyes darkened, the playfulness from moments ago replaced with something deeper, something far more dangerous.

Severus pulled back slightly, his lips lingering just above Peverell’s skin, breath ghosting over the spot where his tongue had been. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his mind reeling from what he’d just done, but the rush of adrenaline kept him grounded in the moment. There was no regret, no hesitation—just the undeniable pull between them.

“Sev,” Peverell breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper, but it was heavy with meaning, with want. His hand came up to cup the back of Severus’s neck, fingers threading through his hair with gentle insistence. Severus didn’t move, but he felt the heat of Peverell’s gaze, the weight of the moment pressing in on all sides. Peverell’s grip on the back of his neck tightened ever so slightly, a subtle encouragement.

“You don’t have to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, as if it took effort to hold back the full force of what he was feeling. Severus hesitated, his mind racing to catch up with the rapid beat of his heart. His instincts warred with his rationality, the two sides of him pulling in different directions. But as he glanced up and met Peverell’s gaze, the choice became clear. The way Peverell looked at him—dark, expectant, open—left no room for doubt.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Severus leaned in again, his lips brushing Peverell’s skin just above his heart. This time, it wasn’t about the berry. It wasn’t about anything but the magnetic pull between them, the undeniable connection that had been building from the moment they’d first started this game.

Peverell exhaled a soft, shuddering breath, as his free hand slid down Severus’s back as if to anchor himself. But when Severus got too bold and his lips made their presence known around Peverell’s nipple, he had only a moment to enjoy the feeling of Peverell in his mouth before he was yanked back.

With a warm palm on Severus’ lower back and nails lightly scraping Severus scalp, Peverell used the leverage of his fingers buried between the strands of dark wavy hair to wretch the Severus’ head back. “Use your words, Sev. Is there something I can give you?”

Severus’s thin lips parted in a moan, the sound raw and needy, as his body trembled under the weight of his desires. His mind, usually so sharp and guarded, felt foggy, consumed by the overwhelming sensations flooding his every nerve. His control, his carefully constructed defenses, were unraveling—shredding into nothing but primal want. His voice, hoarse and unrestrained, cracked through the haze.

“Want you in my mouth!” The words slipped from him before he could think, a desperate plea hanging in the air, echoing louder than anything else. Peverell stilled above him, his eyes darkening with amusement as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Do you now?” His tone was teasing, laced with an edge that made Severus’s pulse quicken. Peverell tightened his hold just enough to remind Severus who held the power, fingers pressing lightly against his skin, drawing a ragged breath from his lungs. "Have I not fed you enough?"

Severus strained against the hold, his throat tightening at the awkward angle, but his need outweighed the discomfort. His mind was too clouded with desire to care, the primal hunger in his chest gnawing at him. His words were rough, ragged, escaping him like a broken prayer. "Never enough!"

Peverell laughed again, soft and wicked, the sound sending a shiver down Severus’s spine.

"Greedy boy." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl, the teasing note curling into something darker, something more dangerous. His fingers skimmed Severus’s throat, tracing the lines of tension beneath his skin. "I’ve spoiled you, haven’t I?"

Severus couldn’t respond, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his mind too consumed by the heat thrumming through his veins. His need, his desperation, was punctuated by each jerky snap of his hips. Every fiber of his being screamed for more—more touch, more sensation, more of Peverell’s presence overwhelming him. Peverell’s grip loosened ever so slightly, and Severus instinctively arched into the space between them, silently begging for contact. His lips parted again, but this time, no sound came out—just a shuddering breath, a wordless plea as his gaze locked with Peverell’s.

“Say it again,” Peverell murmured, his voice velvet and steel. His fingers slid down the side of Severus’s neck, lingering at the base of his throat as if savoring the control he held. “Beg for it properly.”

Severus’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, his throat tight with unspoken need. His voice was barely a whisper, broken by the weight of his desire. "Please-" His thin lips trembled as he forced the words out, his pride crumbling in the face of his yearning. "Please—want you-"

Peverell’s gaze softened, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There it is,” he purred, his touch finally easing, his grip loosening in reward. “There’s my good boy." His fingers slid down Severus’s chest in a slow, deliberate motion, drawing out every ounce of tension in the air. "I’ll give you what you want—but you have to keep asking. Keep begging, Severus."

Severus’s breath hitched, the last of his defenses crumbling completely, leaving him bare before Peverell. His lips parted once more, trembling as he whispered, “Please—please, Henry—don’t stop-”

And, by Godrick, Severus will probably hate himself for this later—but in that moment he was prepared to let himself go right there in Peverell’s lap. Severus teetered on the edge, his body coiled so tightly with need that he could feel the release building, threatening to break him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding in his ears as everything around him blurred into nothing but Peverell—his voice, his touch, the heat of his magic pressing in on all sides. He was so close, right there at the precipice, ready to let go, to give in entirely.

But then, without warning, Peverell unleashed the full force of his magic.

The power surged through Severus like a tidal wave, crashing against his mind, overwhelming every sense. He could feel it in his bones, thrumming beneath his skin, sending shockwaves through his body. His vision flickered, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm, and in an instant, everything went dark. His mind simply—shut down, leaving him suspended in a void of sensation, unable to grasp onto anything but the raw, unrelenting energy coursing through him.

Time ceased to exist. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Severus had no idea how long he drifted in that strange, weightless space, his body unresponsive, his mind lost to the magic that wrapped itself around him like a vice. It could have been an eternity or a mere heartbeat. All he knew was the feel of Peverell’s magic—overwhelming and inescapable, yet strangely protective, as though it cradled him in a cocoon of warmth.

And then, slowly, he became aware again.

It started with the sensation of something solid beneath him. Peverell’s arms, strong and secure, holding him close. He felt the steady rise and fall of Peverell’s chest against his own, heard the low hum of his voice cutting through the fog. It was soft, reassuring, a tether pulling Severus back to reality.

Severus blinked, his eyelids heavy as he struggled to focus. His body felt limp, boneless, his mind still sluggish from the aftermath of whatever Peverell had done. But the warmth of Peverell’s embrace grounded him, gave him something indomitable to latch onto. He was safe. Peverell was still here, still holding him, his presence steady and unwavering.

“Sev,” Peverell’s voice broke through the haze, gentle but firm, as though calling Severus from the depths. “Sev, can you hear me?”

Severus blinked again, slowly turning his head to find Peverell’s face hovering just above his. His voice felt foreign to him when he finally spoke, rough and barely audible. “Y-Yes.”

Peverell’s eyes softened, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Good,” he murmured, his hand stroking Severus’s hair with a tenderness that made Severus’s heart stutter. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

Severus obeyed without question, his breath coming in slow, shaky inhales as he gradually found his bearings. The remnants of Peverell’s magic still tingled faintly in the air around them, but the intensity had ebbed, leaving only a comforting hum in its wake.

“What—what happened?” Severus asked, his voice hoarse as though he’d been screaming.

Peverell chuckled softly, his hand never stilling as he brushed the hair from Severus’s damp forehead. “You were about end our fun all on your own,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “But I thought I’d remind you what real magic feels like first.”

Severus swallowed hard, still trying to process the experience. His mind was a jumble of sensations, memories flickering in and out of focus. “It felt—overwhelming.”

“Is that so?” Peverell’s voice was soft, but there was a spark of pride in his eyes. “But you handled it beautifully. You’re stronger than you think, Severus.”

Severus didn’t know how to respond to that, his head still spinning. All he knew was the safety of Peverell’s arms, the warmth of his touch, and the slow, steady beat of his own heart beginning to return to normal. He closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath as he relaxed fully into Peverell’s embrace.

“Just rest,” Peverell whispered, his lips brushing against Severus’s temple. “I’ve got you.”

“I want more,” Severus quickly responded without a moments thought.

“Still?” Peverell asked as he peered down at Severus with an unfathomable depth to his eyes. “You haven’t had your fill yet?”

Severus response was barely more than a squeak of breath, but it got his point across all the same, “No.”

Severus almost caught Peverell’s murmured words that followed, but the ringing in his ears was too distracting. He did clearly hear Peverell’s louder gripping of “dangerously enticing little humans,” but he could make no sense of it.

Especially not as Peverell sat-up higher with his back straight and eased Severus panting mouth lower. “Here,” Peverell said, “since you’re still so hungry, I’ll keep feeding you.”

With the hand not holding Severus’ head in place, Peverell reached down and tugged at the waistband of his sleeping trousers. With his head angled up, Severus could not see what all was happening—so he jumped near out of his skin when a hot, spongy, mass smacked against the side of his face.

“Dear Merlin, that’s his cock,” Severus exclaimed to himself as he felt something liquid and warm smear across his cheek. Peverell languidly swiped his cock across Severus’ face as he stared transfixed at the mess he was making.

Eventually, Peverell found it in him to ask, “Will you open up for me, darling?”

Severus would be ashamed of himself, if he had the ability to think past the desperation he felt from his ruined orgasm. Severus took in the sight of the beast that awaited him as Peverell lowered his head down. It jutted out from between Peverell’s legs with his balls pulled out to hang along the banding of his trousers. And with an audible pop of his jawbone, Severus jerked his mouth open in welcome as Peverell began to feed him inch by inch.

He was able to take a little less than half of Peverell’s cock into his mouth. They stayed like that for a while, as Peverell allowed Severus to mouth and droll over what he could reach. But when Severus tried take a little more and had to swallow past the intrusive feeling, Peverell let out a moan that bounced off the walls. His hips stuttered forward and he pushed his cock half way down Severus’ throat. A clicking sound escaped from Severus’ mouth as the muscles in his throat fiercely contracted before he frantically pulled away.

“S—sorry,” Severus got out between coughing breaths.

"Don't apologize, darling,” Peverell soothed, “you’re doing well." When it seemed that Severus could inhale again without coughing, Peverell asked, “Shall we continue?”

It started off slow, as Severus went back to alternating between open-mouth kisses, lavish tongue strokes, and increasingly more confident suckles on the head of Peverell’s cock. But not before long, Severus started to shake from exertion. And Peverell, ever the giving man, decided to help him out. Using his grip on Severus’ hair for control, Peverell took over the work and forced Severus to bob his head.

“Darling, can you look at me—hmm?” Peverell cooed as he attempted to get Severus to make eye contact. Confused, Severus had to flutter his eyelids several times before they decided to work again, as he did not know when his eyes had closed. He squinted past the smooth motion of Peverell methodically working him further down and noticed that his sight was not the only sense that had failed to function properly.

Severus had lost touch with the sounds around them. Somehow, he had managed to tune out the wet slurps that resulted from Peverell’s every flick of wrist. Somehow, he ignored to reedy and high whines that bubbled out around Peverell’s cock. And somehow, he was too zoned out to hear the graveled sighs and teeth-gnashing barks of pleasure that left Peverell’s mouth.

It was his sense of touch too, as he only now took notice of the way Peverell’s hand worked its way over him from hip to ribs, cuff of his ass to shoulder, and back again in a ceaseless pattern. There hadn’t been a single pause in action since Peverell started to take over the task at hand—not with Peverell’s pumping hand or Severus’ humping hips. So now that he was with himself again, Severus felt that he had rubbed himself a bit raw on the damp fabric below him. And with that, Severus felt the pump of his blood as it pushed a steaming blush further down his chest.

Tears sprouted out from the corners of Severus’ eyes at the overstimulation while Peverell’s cock pressed harder against the muscles in his throat. It forced a garbled shout out of Severus, he felt his body pushed to the limit as he swallowed down more of Peverell’s cock until his nose was buried in thick thatch of curls. Once there, Peverell held him still for a bit as the both listened to Severus’ struggled gasps, before he calmly asked, “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”

Severus looked up and past the beads of sweat that clung to Peverell’s belly and biceps. He saw the sheen of sweat on Peverell’s temples and could not understand how the other’s voice came out so unaffected. He blinked what he hoped was a confirming and enticing look—as he could not very well give a verbal response. Chuckling, Peverell slowly took up motion again and pressed deep into Severus’ stuffed mouth.

Severus felt it as his throat bulged. Spit and something salty spilled out from the seam of his lips and coated his chin in filth. Another lengthy dive down and Peverell hit the very back of Severus’ throat. The action pulled a strenuous “fuck” from Peverell’s own mouth that caused his muscles in Severus’ line of sight to twitch. Peverell’s movement had slowed in an attempt, Severus figured, to make this last longer.

But his efforts seemed to be futile, as on Peverell’s next shuddered moan his grip on Severus’ hair tightened. Severus could do nothing as he was repeatedly shoved all the way down as Peverell’s convulsing cock as it sealed off Severus’ throat. Peverell continued to milk himself dry as he ground Severus’ nose into the coarse, thick, hairs surrounding his cock. Peverell did not pull away, and Severus was too weak to make a move to stop him, as an abhorrent amount of come chugged down Severus’ throat.

Severus took it, hips pumping in tune as he gaged wildly. All of a sudden his gut punched—and if the blanket between his legs was not wet before, it was now drenched in his rapidly flowing come. His orgasm came out of nowhere and left him with a shivering body as Peverell finally eased himself out of Severus mouth. Globs of come rushed out in the space that was created, as some of what Severus attempted to swallow now came back up. And it seemed that small spurts of come were still finding their way out of Peverell’s cock. Because while Severus spat, and sputtered, and gasped for as much air as his burning lungs could handle, he felt new wetness collect on his cheek and brow.

“Pretty as a doll,” Peverell noted as he held Severus’ messy face between his gentle hands. He then smiled ever so sweetly, and asked, “Aren’t you happy our contract doesn’t have a purity clause? Now, let’s get you cleaned up to go to your grandfather’s.”

Chapter Text

August 30, 1975

As Regulus sat in the cold, austere chamber of the Wizengamot, he felt the weight of centuries of tradition press onto him. This wasn’t the first meeting he’d attended—as he had been here often enough as an observer, the dutiful second-heir of the House of Black. But this felt different. He was no longer merely here to hold space.

“Siri won’t be waiting for me when I return,” Regulus thought. “He hasn’t come home. My owls return unopened.”

The thought had lingered near constantly at the edge of his mind, pulling him in and out of focus as the voices around him blended into a dull hum. The absence of Sirius gnawed at him, a persistent ache that he hadn’t been able to shake since his brother had run off to Potter Manor. The Black townhome felt suffocating without him.

Regulus blinked his wet eyes clear and tried to ground himself in the present. On the floor, Lord Peverell stood at the podium, flanked by Lord Longbottom and Lord Selwyn. Regulus had not seen them move, but now he watched, transfixed. The three of them had been seen conferring during recent meetings, and now they stepped forward to introduce their new bill. Regulus leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued.

Peverell’s voice cut through the haze of the room, firm and commanding. He began by laying out the details of the bill—a proposal to legalize blood adoptions in conjunction with Magical Child Rights. Regulus had heard whispers of it over the summer, but now it was here, on the floor of the Wizengamot, presented with all the gravitas and power that Peverell could muster. All eyes were drawn to him as though by an invisible force. His presence commanded attention, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ancient history, each word deliberate.

"Blood adoption," Peverell began, his tone steady but filled with purpose, "is an ancient magic. One that many in this room have either forgotten or dismissed as a relic of the past. But its origins were born out of necessity—out of the preservation of our world and our way of life during times of great peril. I speak, of course, of the magical inquisitions, when wixen families were hunted, persecuted, and nearly wiped from existence."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the chamber, ensuring he had the full attention of the Wizengamot. "In those dark days, when bloodlines were severed and families shattered, blood adoption became a means of survival. Children—often orphaned, displaced, or too young to remember their true heritage—were adopted into wizarding families to ensure the continuation of magical bloodlines. Through this ancient rite, they connected to their legacy in a way nothing else could replicate."

Peverell’s voice grew more forceful, carrying the weight of centuries. "It is magic that we, as a society, have relied upon time and time again in secret. During the witch hunts, when the flames of fear and superstition sought to consume us, blood adoption emerged as a tool of preservation—a way to safeguard our magical heritage when traditional bloodlines were threatened."

His eyes gleamed as he addressed the assembly, the power of his words vibrating through the air. "And yet, here we stand, in the midst of a war that some in this very room still refuse to acknowledge—that is being waged under the guise of ‘preservation of our magic heritage.’” Peverell’s tone was as biting as it was mocking, and Regulus watched the way that many a Lord and Lady avoided the young-man’s eyes.

“How, I ask you,” Peverell spoke on, “when this war threatens to sever magical families—when the perpetrators see to it that the blood of wixen is spilled plentiful and frequently in the streets? Are we so arrogant as to believe that our history bears unnecessary repeating? Have we learned nothing?" Peverell let that question linger in the room before continuing, his voice quieter now, more measured.

"Blood adoption, at its core, does more than offer inclusion and protection. It merges the adopted child into the family magic itself, binding them in ways that legal processes cannot. It allows families whose lines are at risk of dying out to preserve and, in some cases, even revive their ancestral magic.” Here Peverell smiled something sharp and chilling, as he stated, “I point to our findings to illustrate that there is a reason your family’s once prominent traits have not been seen in centuries. Where are your born Seers? Vibes? Metamorphmagus? Choranaptyxis? Necromancers? I’ll tell you, they have all gone—choked out of your bloodlines along with your sensibilities.”

Peverell’s eyes flicked over to Lord Longbottom and Lord Selwyn, his allies in this endeavor, before returning to the rest of the Wizengamot. "The time has come for us to stop treating magic as an antiquated practice and recognize it for the living entity it is. Blood adoption is not just a relic of the past—and neither do the blessing that mother magic gave us have to be. It is a vital, for our future, that we expand our understandings. That we accept every magical child into our world, and are allowed to do so—for it is the only way to truly protect our magical heritage. It is the only way to ensure that no child, no family, need be lost to the ravages of conflict and bias."

The chamber was still as each word sunk into the silence. It was blatantly clear that Peverell’s words were a challenge as his voice rung with conviction. "To refuse this magic, to let it fall into disuse when there are new orphans being made by the day, is to ensure our collective defeat. We stand here today because of previously held respect for all magic—through war, famine, and persecution. And if we wish to continue standing, we must pass this bill."

Regulus watched the room react. Some nodded in agreement, while others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The air buzzed with tension, as it always did when contentious matters like this were raised. But Regulus found himself slipping away again, thoughts stretched thin to hold onto. Absently, his eyes drifted over the other heirs present in the room. Their reactions felt more honest to him, as most were still too young to have perfected their mask. He saw Rowle to his left, tall and imposing even while seated.

Rowle seemed untouchable, unbothered by the weight of the moment, but Regulus knew better. His gaze lingered on Rowle’s hands, noticing the way his fingers twitched in his lap as though restraining some invisible impulse. “Was that nervousness?” Regulus wondered, and for a moment, he had felt a fleeting sense of relief, knowing that someone so confident might not be as unaffected as he appeared. But doubt had crept back in almost immediately. Even if Rowle had felt discomfort, he had hidden it behind a facade Regulus struggled to maintain for himself.

Forcing himself to look away, his eyes had landed on Evan a row down. Evan had been mouthing something to Aloysius, and whatever it was caused Aloysius’ scowl to deepen. During the year, there had been a casualness in their interactiona—a familiarity that had made Regulus feel like an outsider to their ease. He couldn’t shake the impression that they had found their place in all of this, while he still wandered through his own uncertainty. When Aloysius had turned away from Evan, Regulus had caught the flash of frustration in his eyes before it was quickly concealed.

“What does he have to be frustrated about? I’ve seen him draw out the Dark Mark on spare parchment, from memory.” Regulus had thought bitterly.

As Regulus turned his head, his eyes met those of his cousin, seated a row ahead. There had been a question in Rabastan’s gaze, one that had mirrored Regulus' own swirling thoughts—seeking approval, reassurance, anything to ease the heavy anxiety gnawing at his insides. Rabastan’s look had seemed to silently ask, “Is this right? Are we doing the right thing?”

But just as quickly as the connection had formed, Rabastan turned away—his gaze shifting back to his brother, as though Rodolphus alone held all the answers. Regulus’ stomach had churned with envy. He no longer had someone like that—someone whose certainty he could anchor himself to when the doubts became too much. It was just him, adrift in a sea of questions. In spite, he looked on.

Then there had been Nott, quiet and reserved, lingering at the back. His thin frame had been stiff, as if held together by sheer will. They had not been close, as Thaddeus had been leaving Hogwarts by the time Regulus had entered. But even without knowing the young man, Regulus had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The fleeting expression of doubt that had passed like a shadow over his face. It had been subtle, quickly masked beneath a neutral facade, but Regulus felt it in his own bones. He recognized the look because he had worn it himself so many times. And yet, unlike Regulus, Nott seemed to recover quickly—his gaze darting around the room before settling on Peverell for just a moment too long.

“What is he weighing?” Regulus wondered. “What questions sit heavy on his mind that he’ll never voice?” The chill of doubt had crept up his spine again. The more he had looked around, the more he had realized how alone he felt among them. “Am I the only one who feels this lost?” The questions gnawed at him, sinking their claws into his already fragile sense of self.

It had been like watching a mirror shatter in slow motion—each reflection, each comparison, revealing something unsettling about his own inadequacies. As he continued to observe the other heirs, his thoughts further began to spiral, unmoored. “Is this what power looks like? Is this how I am supposed to be? Confident? Unshaken?”

He didn’t known if he could ever be like them, and that had scared him more than anything. He had tried to steel himself, sitting up straighter as though posture alone might give him the strength he lacked. But the truth had been undeniable, lingering in the back of his mind no matter how hard he had tried to shake it: he wasn’t sure anymore.

Not of where he stood, not of what he believed, and certainly not of the path ahead. His thoughts swirled, disjointed, the weight of expectation pressing heavily on his chest. As Peverell’s words still echoed through the chamber, he took a step back, nodding toward Lord Selwyn. The room, still tense from Peverell’s impassioned appeal, now turned to the older wizard, whose presence carried a quiet gravity. Lord Selwyn looked about slowly, his movements deliberate, and for a moment, the chamber was silent, hanging on the pause before he began.

“When I was a boy,” Selwyn started, his voice low and tinged with the weariness of years, “I thought my family’s magic would last forever. The Selwyn line has endured for centuries, and it always seemed unbreakable to me—woven into the very fabric of the magical world.” He paused, his eyes scanning the faces of the assembly. “But the older I became, the more I saw how fragile that fabric really is.”

His hand trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the podium, his voice growing softer, more personal. “I am the last of my line. The very last. No one truly prepares you for that kind of weight—for what it feels like to know that with your last breath, centuries of magic and heritage will die with you. No one prepares you for the fear that gnaws at you every day, the fear that everything your ancestors fought to preserve will vanish simply because,” Lord Selwyn stalled, “because Mother Magic has not blessed you with a child.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber. Many knew of Selwyn’s struggles, though he had rarely spoken of them publicly. “I have tried,” he continued, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “Again and again, I have tried to father a child, but no matter how many times I have reached for that hope, it has eluded me.” His eyes, wet with unshed tears, met those of his peers. “Do you know what it feels like to watch your family fade? To feel that you will be the one to break the chain? It is an agony I live with every day.”

Selwyn straightened slightly, as if the act of speaking had given him some renewed resolve. “I want a child, but I will not take shortcuts. I wish to go about it the proper way, the way that respects the ancient traditions of our world. If my struggles had not been so public, if I were not constantly under the scrutiny of the press, I would have already adopted a muggle-born child through blood adoption.”

He shook his head, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. “But instead, I have watched as others—peers who were blessed by Mother Magic with children—squander that gift. I have watched as they mistreated, neglected, even abused the children who could carry on their legacy—children who never asked to be born, never asked to be brought into a world where they are merely tools in some twisted game of power.”

The disdain in his words was palpable, directed at some of the very people sitting in the chamber with him. “Mother Magic,” he continued, his tone softening, “gives us so few gifts. Children are the rarest of all. And it is chance, pure chance, that any of us were born at all. It is our duty to protect that gift, to shepherd it, to ensure that every child with magic in their veins—whether born to ancient families or Muggle-born—has a place in our world.”

Selwyn’s eyes darkened with resolve. “This bill is not just about blood adoption. It is about the preservation of our very future. We cannot afford to let fear, prejudice, or arrogance stand in the way of protecting all our children, because each of them—every single one—is a gift. And that gift must be cherished, not squandered.”

The room remained silent, heavy with the weight of Selwyn’s words. His speech was not one of politics or power, but of deeply personal loss—and the fear of losing something even greater. The silence that followed Selwyn’s words lingered for a moment longer before Lord Longbottom stepped forth, his expression somber yet determined. His presence, while quieter than the previous speakers, carried an unmistakable weight as he prepared to address the chamber.

“I once had a little brother,” Longbottom began, his voice soft, tinged with the sorrow of an old wound. “He was born several years after me, after my parents had suffered through a series of miscarriages. I remember the joy that came with his birth, how my parents, who had nearly given up hope, saw him as a miracle. And then, one day, when I returned home from Hogwarts—he was simply gone.”

The room shifted uneasily, as if the weight of his story pressed down on everyone present. “All my father told me,” Longbottom continued, his voice tightening, “was that ‘the boy is best forgotten.’ Just like that, a life—my brother’s life—was erased from our family history. No one spoke of him again. It was as if he had never existed.”

Longbottom’s eyes scanned the chamber, his gaze lingering on several of the Lords and Ladies seated before him. “I know that my story is not unique. In fact, I know it’s not dissimilar to the stories many of you carry, though few of us ever speak of them. How many of you have aunts, uncles, siblings—perhaps even children—who have been deemed ‘best forgotten’? How many families, even the most powerful among us, have erased the existence of those who did not meet their standards of magical perfection?”

A murmur rippled through the assembly as Longbottom’s words struck a nerve. But what stilled Regulus’ heart was the look the man leveled at his father. The piercing gaze sent a shiver down Regulus’ spine, and his blood ran cold. His thoughts spiraled, racing to tally the names and faces lost to his own family’s ruthless pursuit of purity. How many of the cousins, aunts, uncles—faces that once sat around the dinner table—had simply vanished, “best forgotten”? How many might have been cast aside into the Muggle world, stripped of their magical birthright because they had not lived up to the expectations of the Black legacy?

“Are some of the Muggle-borns at Hogwarts—my kin?” The thought was nauseating. The implications of what Longbottom was saying churned in his stomach, forcing Regulus to confront a reality he had never allowed himself to consider. He could feel the weight of centuries pressing down on him—generations of Blacks who had sacrificed their own children to protect a bloodline that now felt brittle, fraying at the edges.

But as the room continued to buzz around him, Longbottom’s voice cut through Regulus’ chaotic thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Longbottom pressed on, his voice gaining strength. “We like to think of ourselves as different, better, perhaps, than our ancestors who practiced these harsh traditions, but are we? How many of us still carry that same internalized disdain for anything or anyone who is not purely magical? And it is that disdain, that rejection of our own blood, that leads us to the very issue both sides of this chamber refuse to actually confront: the birth of muggle-borns.”

He paused for emphasis, allowing his words to hang in the air. “No matter what side of magic you claim to practice—Light or Dark—the truth is that many of us are complicit in perpetuating this cycle of rejection. On the ‘Light’ side, we cannot claim to be muggle-tolerant and, at the same time, ignore the inherent harm we are doing to the muggle world by abandoning magical children there and leaving their descendants under-educated. Squibs are magical children, whether we acknowledge it or not. They can see, feel, and interact with magic, even if they cannot wield it in the same way. We leave them behind, and we leave behind the part of ourselves that should protect them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, flicking across the more conservative members of the Wizengamot. “And on the ‘Dark’ side, you cannot claim to be fighting for the preservation of magical heritage while ignoring muggle-born heritage in the same breath. If magic manifests in a child, it is ‘magic.’ It doesn’t matter where the child’s parents come from, how pure their bloodlines are. It is Mother Magic that decides who is born magical, not us.”

There was a rustle of discomfort in the room, but Longbottom stood firm, his voice unwavering. “This bill is not about choosing sides. It is not about Light versus Dark. It is about protecting our children—all of them. It is a bipartisan measure that calls upon all of us, regardless of our politics or our personal prejudices, to recognize that no magical child—whether born of pureblood, half-blood, squib, or muggle-born parents—asked for the circumstances of their birth. And yet, they were born, each one of them a gift from Mother Magic.”

His final words rang with conviction. “No sane wixen could argue against the protection of magical children. If we cannot agree on this—if we cannot pass this bill—then what, exactly, are we fighting for?”

As Longbottom’s final words echoed through the chamber, a murmur of unease rippled through the assembled Lords and Ladies. But before anyone could fully digest the weight of his speech, Peverell stood again, his presence immediately commanding the room. His voice cut through the noise that kicked up after Longbottom like a blade, sharp and unyielding. “The elephant in the room,” Peverell began, his tone searing, “is the war. The war you are all trying your damnedest to pretend isn’t happening—as if we can sit here, debate these laws, and go on about our lives as though everything is normal.” His eyes flicked around the room, hardening as he scanned the faces of those who had tried to avoid the subject. “But everything is not normal.”

The chamber fell silent, and every eye was drawn to Peverell, who stood as an immovable force in the center of the room. He continued, his voice unflinching, “There are those in this room, amongst us, who stand on the side of destruction and chaos. You wear masks, not just outside of these walls, but in here—pretending to uphold the pillars of our society while secretly rooting for its downfall.”

Peverell’s words were chilling, but he did not stop. His gaze darkened as it swept over a few specific faces, and Regulus’ pulse quickened, wondering who, exactly, Peverell was targeting. “I, as a Dark Wizard, refuse to stand for the destruction of our world. This segregation, this tearing apart of the magical and muggle-born communities—it serves no one but those who would see us all burn.”

Regulus felt a rush of heat in his chest, his mind reeling. Peverell was calling out everything Voldemort’s movement stood for—segregation, domination, blood purity—and dismantling it with cold, brutal logic. He wasn’t sugarcoating his words, and Regulus could feel the tension crackling in the air as everyone waited for Peverell’s next blow.

“And what of you Light?” Peverell asked, his voice gaining an edge. “Albus Dumbledore has been a guiding figure in our world for decades. But where has that guidance led us? The man preaches tolerance, preaches peace—and yet, for all his rhetoric, he has stood idle for years as the foundations of our society have crumbled. He preaches unity while allowing divisions to fester, hiding behind grand ideals while the world around him tears itself apart.”

The room shifted uneasily, whispers breaking out as Peverell openly criticized both sides of the conflict. But he pressed on, undeterred. “This war isn’t some philosophical debate between Light and Dark. It is real, and it is time we treated it as such. Every day, more magical blood is spilled in the name of ‘purity’ or ‘tolerance.’ More families are broken, more children are abandoned to the muggle world or to their fates.”

Regulus’ heart raced. He had heard whispers of resistance against Voldemort, of course, but no one had ever spoken with such clarity about the flaws on both sides of the conflict. Peverell was not sparing anyone in his indictment. “The truth is,” Peverell continued, his voice rising with intensity, “this war was inevitable. But it is not a fight we have to wage if we choose, collectively, to stop it. If we continue down this path—if we allow ourselves to be divided by bloodlines and old grudges—we will destroy everything we claim to protect.”

He paused, letting his words settle over the assembly, his gaze fierce and unwavering. “We must face the truth: our world is broken. But we have the power to fix it. Not through bloodshed, not through segregation, but through unity. This bill is a start. A way to preserve what is precious—our magic, our families—without sacrificing lives to the fires of war.”

Peverell’s final words landed like a punch. “And if we cannot do that, then perhaps we deserve the destruction that awaits us.”

The room remained still, stunned into silence. Regulus felt the weight of Peverell’s speech pressing down on him. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure where he stood. The lines between Light and Dark had never seemed so blurred, so meaningless. The vote was swift, almost anticlimactic after the force of Peverell’s speech. The “Magical Child Rights” bill passed without further contest.

As the chamber began to empty, Regulus remained in his seat for a moment longer, his mind racing. He watched the other heirs file out—Rowle strutting past as if none of this had affected him. Regulus stared after him, comparing, calculating. “Is this what power looked like?” He wasn’t sure anymore.

“Regulus,” his father’s cold hiss startled him out of his reverie. “Gather yourself. We are returning home.” Regulus blinked, startled out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Yes, Father,” he eventually muttered, rising to follow the elder Black as the chamber emptied. They walked in silence, the tension between them palpable as they made their way to the floo. As they passed the great water fountain in the Ministry’s center, Regulus felt an odd sense of disgust rising in his throat.

The fountain had always stood as a symbol of wizarding superiority, the statues of witches and wizards towering over the mermaids, house-elves, muggles, and other beasts beneath them. It had never bothered him before, but now, for the first time in his life, he found it gross as the water lapped against the stone figures in a gaudy display of dominance. It seemed vulgar, almost shameful. He turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the marble floors beneath his feet, but the unease lingered.

The trip home was a blur, his thoughts too clouded with lingering doubt to focus on the green flames that carried them. As he stepped into the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, the familiar scent of old wood and preserved family heirlooms greeted him. It did nothing to calm him, as he felt like a stranger within in own skin. And to make matters worse, his mother was waiting—her sharp eyes cutting through the air like daggers.

As his father strode ahead, his robes billowed with the careless arrogance of a man too absorbed in his own world, Regulus felt the distance grow between them—not just in steps but in a deeper, unspoken chasm. Orion’s back was always turned to him, offering no guidance, no words of comfort, only a cold shadow to follow. But it was his mother’s eyes that stifled him. Even now, he could feel them like a weight on his back, sharp and unrelenting, as if she expected him to crack under the pressure at any moment. Walburga never missed a thing, her gaze as invasive as it was demanding, searching him for signs of weakness she could correct before they were noticed by anyone else.

“Go with Kreacher,” his mother ordered curtly, her tone brooking no argument. “You need your remaining school things.”

“Yes, Mother,” Regulus hesitated for only a moment before nodding, too exhausted by the day to protest. He had no fight left in him—not today. Turning to Kreacher, he motioned for the house-elf apparate them to Diagon Alley. And just like that, they were gone.

There had once been a time when he would have sent Kreacher to fetch his friends—Evan, Rupert, Aloysius. They would have met him at Fortescue’s or lingered outside Flourish and Blotts. They would have talked about the upcoming school year, about Quidditch, about anything—but now, as Regulus walked in the shadow of Diagon Alley’s towering shops, the thought of seeing them filled him with dread. The cobbled streets felt different to him now, too.

Vulnerability sat like a lead weight in his chest. He couldn’t bear to face them while feeling so lost, so small. How could he keep up the pretense of confidence, of belonging, when all he wanted to do was disappear? He glanced at Kreacher, who waited patiently for instructions, his large eyes full of quiet loyalty. “I’m fine Kreacher,” Regulus muttered, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go alone.”

So, he did. He drifted from shop to shop, picking up the items on his fifth-year list without much care. His mind wandered in a daze, thoughts flitting from Peverell’s speech, to the heirs in the Wizengamot chamber, to they had all seemed untouched. The air felt thick with something unspoken, something weighing him down. Each book, each supply he tucked into his bag felt heavier than the last, as though the very act of preparing for school again was a burden he hadn’t anticipated. He couldn’t even bring himself to linger in the bookshop, a place that once filled him with excitement. Instead, he moved mechanically, gathering his items—his feet carried him absently through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.

The bustling crowd around him only deepened the sense of isolation. People hurried from shop to shop, arms laden with bags, voices murmuring in hushed tones. Yet, despite the press of bodies, Regulus felt entirely alone. He drifted through the sea of strangers, unseen, unnoticed, like a ghost passing through walls. There were no familiar faces to anchor him, no idle conversation to distract him from the gnawing emptiness that curled in his chest. Even when Kreacher tugged at his robes, it felt like a distant echo, as if he were moving through a world that no longer saw him.

“But,” Regulus supposed, “these people may have bigger concerns than a lonely little heir.” It was busy, but eerily quiet. The usual hum of chatter was muffled, as though everyone were speaking in whispers, their voices carried away by the hurried swish of robe. Regulus noticed how people glanced over their shoulders more often, how their eyes darted to shadows, searching for threats. Even the children, normally loud and full of energy, seemed subdued, clinging to their parents with wary eyes. It was as if the whole alley was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that made his skin prickle.

Aurors patrolled the streets in pairs, their eyes scanning the crowds with an intensity that made Regulus’ stomach churn. Their presence was heavy, suffocating, as their crimson robes marked with the Ministry’s crest stood out from the crowd. Above, the faint buzz of newly cast anti-apparition wards hummed in the air, a constant reminder that no place was truly safe anymore. The once bright storefronts of Diagon Alley were dimmed, some with shutters closed, others with signs that read “Out of Stock”—a telltale sign of the shortages caused by the war. Posters with warnings about “Death Eater activity” were plastered on brick walls, curling at the edges but impossible to ignore.

Regulus paused as his eyes fell upon one of the posters, depicting a faceless figure cloaked in darkness, a silver mask reflecting an eerie light. The mask—it was one he had seen before, not just in passing, but in the drawing room of his own home. He had overheard whispers, had caught glimpses at family gatherings. His stomach twisted as he stared at it, the hollow eyes of the mask seeming to accuse him, drag him into a reality he wasn’t sure he wanted. He knew who that mask belonged to—or at least, he was almost certain—but he shoved the thought aside. He had grown tired of pretending, of playing along with the charade that his life was still normal. Every day felt more and more like a lie, but the lies were easier than facing the truth.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the poster, his shopping almost complete, ready to retreat to the familiar, suffocating quiet of Grimmauld Place. But something caught his eye. At first, it was nothing more than a familiar flash of dark hair and a figure in simple, yet finely tailored robes. But then he saw who walked past behind him—Severus Snape, leaning in closely to Henry Peverell.

Regulus slowed his pace, unconsciously following the pair from a distance. There was something intimate about the way they leaned into each other as they walked, heads tilted just slightly together as if sharing a quiet conversation. Their proximity felt deliberate—comforting, even. As they weaved through the crowd, Regulus could see Peverell place a hand lightly on Severus’ back, guiding him through the throngs of people. Severus didn’t resist; if anything, he seemed to welcome the touch.

Regulus’s curiosity got the better of him and, after minutes of deliberation, he followed them discreetly into an upscale robe shop. It was a place he frequented often—his family owned it, after all. The shop was the very image of opulence, draped in deep velvets and silks, with golden sconces lining the walls, casting a warm glow over the meticulously arranged displays of high-quality fabrics and bespoke robes. A faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume hung in the air, adding to the store’s exclusive ambiance. It catered only to those with both the taste and the galleons to afford its luxury, a place where each stitch was crafted to perfection. Regulus slipped inside quietly, positioning himself near a display of fabric bolts just out of view, his heart beating a little faster as he watched them more closely.

Peverell and Severus stood together in front of a full-length mirror, their reflections gleaming in the polished glass as a shopkeeper hovered nearby, draping fabric swatches over Severus’ frame. The shopkeeper, one of the finest tailors in the wizarding world, moved with precision, catering to their every whim with a quiet deference that spoke volumes about their status. Severus, while clearly uncomfortable in such an extravagant setting, deferred to Peverell’s judgment with every option presented. His body language was cautious but not uncertain, as though he trusted Peverell implicitly.

And yet, for every decision Peverell made, he always paused to include Severus, asking his opinion, making sure he was comfortable with the choices. The way Peverell’s eyes lingered on Severus with an almost protective fondness, and the way Severus leaned just slightly into his presence, was unmistakable. They spoke in low tones, too quiet for Regulus to overhear, but the way they moved together felt almost rehearsed—a partnership built on trust and a shared understanding. Peverell would point out a particular fabric, holding it up to the light, and Severus would give a small nod or murmur of agreement. It was seamless, as though they were completely attuned to one another.

The scene stirred something in Regulus, a quiet envy, or perhaps a deeper unease. He had heard the rumors that had crawled their way out of the Records and Contracts department recently—whispers of formal agreements and old family ties being drawn up again. “It seems the rumors were true,” he thought, the realization settling in his mind with a strange weight. “Peverell really is courting Severus. And he’s found a way to elevate his status, to get him welcomed into the Prince family.”

Regulus had heard of the Princes, though Severus had always kept that side of his family distant, never one to indulge in the grandeur that surrounded pure-blood lines. But Peverell had changed that, somehow. “How does he do it?” Regulus wondered, watching as Peverell handed Severus a set of finely cut robes to try on, smiling softly at him in a way that was almost—tender. Severus looked back, not with the harsh scowl he often wore at Hogwarts, but with something almost resembling contentment.

Regulus fiddled with the mushroom brooch pinned to the inside of his robe pocket, his fingers tracing the delicate design absentmindedly as his thoughts spiraled. The power Peverell wielded was almost unnerving. He seemed to move people—entire families—like pieces on a chessboard, orchestrating alliances and relationships with a subtlety that Regulus could hardly fathom. “How does he do it?” Regulus mused again, as if there were a secret he had yet to unlock.

“Is this what power really looks like?” Regulus had only known the power of lineage, of status, of cold manipulation through marriage contracts and political alignments. Yet here was Peverell, a man who moved through the world with a quiet kind of influence, one that seemed almost effortless. Regulus could see how Severus deferred to Peverell, but there was something else—Peverell wasn’t forcing control, wasn’t lording over Severus. He included him in every step, a partner in every decision, elevating him rather than merely using him.

Regulus’s fingers stilled on the brooch as he contemplated the nature of power and the varying ways people attained it. Some, like Rowle, flaunted it in the open, raw and untamed. But others, like Peverell, wielded it with a subtle grace that was all the more dangerous for how quietly it moved beneath the surface. As he watched Peverell and Severus interact, a hollow feeling gnawed at Regulus’s insides.

There was an ease between them, a shared intimacy that he longed for but never seemed able to grasp. The realization tightened the knot of confusion and inadequacy already coiling in his chest. He had never thought of Severus as someone who could wield power—at least, not like this. But under Peverell’s guidance, Severus seemed—more. It was unsettling, this quiet transformation, and yet it spoke to something Regulus couldn’t ignore. “How could someone like Severus, who had always kept his head down, now seem so—elevated?”

Lingering in the shop a moment longer, Regulus took in the sight of Severus in his new robes, the fabric draping elegantly over his frame. He had never seen Severus look so—confident. The contrast was stark, and it left Regulus feeling even more adrift. With a final glance, he turned and slipped out of the shop, his thoughts heavier than ever, the weight of inadequacy and confusion pressing down on him as he left Peverell and Severus to their world—a world that, for now, felt entirely out of reach for him.

Regulus had resolved to go straight home. He did not have everything on his list, but whatever else he missed could be ordered by owl. The thought of lingering in Diagon Alley any longer, surrounded by people, felt exhausting. He turned toward the exit, mentally preparing himself for the walk back to Grimmauld Place, where he could disappear into the shadows of the house and sort through his tangled thoughts.

But as he passed Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, he caught a glimpse of something that made his heart stumble. A dark head of hair, unruly and familiar, sat near the window. His breath hitched as he realized it was Sirius. His brother. Regulus stopped in his tracks, watching Sirius laugh at something James Potter said. For a brief, wild moment, he considered going in—just walking up to him, maybe even saying something, anything. But before he could take a step, Kreacher, who had been trailing behind him quietly, tugged at his sleeve.

"Master Regulus," Kreacher croaked, his voice low but insistent, "it's time to return home."

Regulus hesitated, torn between his instincts and the pull of his duty. He glanced back at the ice cream parlour. Sirius still hadn’t noticed him, too engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with Potter. The temptation to approach lingered, a bitter taste on Regulus’s tongue, but the knot of vulnerability in his chest tightened. He wasn’t ready for this. Not now. Not while he felt so raw and confused. He sighed, giving in.

“Let’s go,” Regulud muttered, turning away from the scene. Kreacher obediently moved toward the nearest alley for them to Disapparate home, but before they could vanish, James Potter’s sharp voice cut through the chatter of the street.

“Oi, isn’t that your brother?”

Sirius’s head snapped up, his expression quickly shifting from surprise to something unreadable as he spotted Regulus. Without thinking, Sirius shot up from his seat, knocking over his chair in the process. “Reggie!” he called, pushing past Potter and heading toward him. There was something almost desperate in the way Sirius moved, his eyes locked on Regulus.

But Regulus, oblivious to the commotion behind him, was already grasping Kreacher at his side. The faint crack of disapparition echoed as they popped away, leaving behind only the shadow of his presence. Sirius froze, watching the spot where his brother had been just seconds before. His outstretched hand fell slowly back to his side, the brief flash of hope that had sparked in his chest fading just as quickly. He swallowed hard, his throat tight with disappointment.

“He didn’t even wait,” Sirius muttered, more to himself than to James. The hurt in his voice was raw, barely masked by the forced nonchalance he wore like armor. “I guess Reggie doesn’t want me around. Not anymore.”

James, standing behind him, placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, his gaze sympathetic but silent. There wasn’t much to say. Sirius’s jaw tightened, and with a rough sigh, he turned back toward the parlour, leaving the missed connection behind him like so many others. As he walked away, the weight of the moment lingered in the air, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

Meanwhile, miles away, Regulus returned to Grimmauld Place just in time for dinner. The heavy atmosphere of the house pressed down on him as soon as he stepped through the door, the familiar scent of dark wood and aging velvet clinging to his senses. It was a cold welcome, as always, and the contrast from Diagon Alley’s busy streets only amplified the isolation he felt. Kreacher scuttled away, leaving Regulus alone to follow the muted sounds clinking silverware into the dining room.

His mother was already seated at the head of the table. Regulus surveyed the spread before them as knew there would be company. Dishes of roasted pheasant, buttered vegetables, and an array of decadent desserts were arranged with immaculate precision. The smell of rich, succulent meats mingled with the sweetness of caramelized fruits, filling the room with an air of indulgence. Everything was perfect, as it always was at the Black family table.

"Sit, Regulus," his mother commanded softly, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. Kreacher scurried about, setting the last of the dishes with painstaking care. Regulus slid into his seat beside her, feeling the tension in his shoulders mount as he waited. His father strolled in not too long after, his presence cold and aloof as he took his seat at the opposite end of the table. Without a word, the dinner began.

Dinner was, as always, a silent affair. His father barely glanced up from his plate, his mind wandering elsewhere, perhaps to the affairs of the Wizengamot, or more likely, to matters he deemed too important for family conversation. His mother, though seated directly across from him, might as well have been miles away. The only time their eyes met was when business needed attending—quick, perfunctory exchanges, like two strangers managing a shared estate. There was no warmth, no touch, not even the semblance of companionship. Regulus had long stopped waiting for any sign of affection between them. His parents’ marriage was like the Black family crest—polished for the public, but inside, brittle and hollow.

But it wasn’t long before the Lestranges arrived—Bellatrix’s voice announcing her presence long before she stepped through the door. Her excitement crackled in the air as she swept into the room, her robes swirling behind her like a dark cloud. Rodolphus and Rabastan followed closely behind her, and Regulus felt his chest tighten as the dynamic shifted.

Dinner got underway in earnest now, and Kreacher busied himself pouring wine and refilling dishes, moving with the silent efficiency expected of a Black family house-elf. Regulus stared down at his plate, forcing himself to take bites of the perfectly cooked pheasant as the conversation shifted. His mother, of course, welcomed Bellatrix and the others with cool approval, nodding along with their every word as though the evening were a normal family gathering.

But it didn’t stay that way for long. Bellatrix dove into the conversation with her usual fervor, her eyes gleaming as she spoke of the latest triumphs in Voldemort’s service. “You wouldn’t believe what we’ve done this week,” she crowed, leaning forward eagerly. “The Dark Lord has seen to it that the resistance is crumbling—piece by piece. Entire families of traitors, wiped out. And it’s only going to get better. There’s so much more to come.”

She paused, flashing a wild grin, as though the prospect of more destruction filled her with uncontainable joy. Rodolphus, sitting beside his wife, nodded proudly. “The results speak for themselves,” he said, his deep voice resonating through the room. “We’ve shown the Ministry and their sympathizers exactly what happens when they stand against us. And the Dark Lord is pleased. Very pleased.”

Regulus shifted in his seat, his fingers brushing against the edge of his goblet. He could feel the weight of their words settling over him, heavy and suffocating. The tension in his chest tightened as he felt Bellatrix’s eyes flickered over him, her smile growing even more sinister. “And you, dear cousin,” she said, her voice dripping with a sweet, almost predatory tone. “You’re about to join us. Won’t that be something? We could use someone like you—someone with real potential. You know, the Dark Lord’s been taking notice of younger talent, but you-” She leaned in, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret. “-you could be something greater. Replace that little upstart. Show him what true loyalty and power look like.”

Regulus felt a wave of nausea rise in his chest. He knew who she was referring to—this mysterious young protege of the Dark Lord, the one Bellatrix seemed to have some disdain for, despite her usual blind loyalty. The thought of stepping into that role, of becoming what Bellatrix envisioned, twisted uncomfortably in his gut. He forced a tight smile, giving a noncommittal nod as he focused on his untouched plate. Rodolphus chuckled at his wife’s words, pride swelling in his face.

“Yes, he’s made his little moves, but he’s just a boy. The Dark Lord is always looking for strength—real strength. And when he sees what we can offer him, how far we’re willing to go.” Rodolphus’s eyes glittered with the same ruthless ambition that seemed to infect the entire family.

Rabastan shifted uncomfortably but nodded, clearly not as eager to share in his brother’s and sister-in-law’s gloating. Still, he echoed their sentiments. “It’s what we’re all working toward, isn’t it? To show that we belong in his inner circle, that we can be trusted.”

His voice lacked the enthusiasm of the others, but the weight of expectation hung over him just as heavily. The words twisted in Regulus’s gut, the pressure of her expectations bearing down on him like a vice. He glanced toward Rabastan, hoping to find some reprieve, but Rabastan merely offered a reluctant nod, his face pale but resolute. “It’s—an honor,” Rabastan said quietly, though the enthusiasm was notably absent from his tone. “We’ve all had to make sacrifices, but it’s what we must do. For the cause.”

Bellatrix’s gaze flickered with excitement as she continued. “Yes, yes. But I have no doubt you’ll outshine him, Regulus. He’s nothing compared to a true Black.”

Regulus’s father, who had been mostly quiet, finally spoke up. His voice was cool and measured, his gaze lingering on his brother-in-law with a critical eye. “Our family has never been followers, Bella. The Blacks have always stood above the rest. But-” Orion’s mouth twitched slightly, as though he were reluctant to admit it, “-the Dark Lord’s aims are necessary. The world is slipping into chaos, and if it takes someone like him to bring order, then so be it.”

There was a tension in his words, a kind of disdain for the Lestranges' fanatical devotion. Regulus recognized it as his father’s way of keeping a distance, of maintaining the idea that the Black family was superior—even in service to a greater cause. But beneath the judgment, Regulus saw the same agreement with Voldemort’s goals, the same approval of their family’s alignment with the Death Eaters.

Bellatrix, ignoring any subtle criticisms, continued with feverish glee. “Oh, Regulus, when you take the Mark, you’ll feel it too. That sense of belonging, of power coursing through your veins. And when the Dark Lord sees what you’re capable of, you’ll rise—higher than any of them. That little upstart won’t stand a chance next to you.”

His mother nodded along with every word Bellatrix said, her posture regal and approving. “It’s a noble cause,” she murmured, her voice carrying a note of reverence. “The Dark Lord is restoring our world to what it was meant to be. You, Regulus, have always known your place in this family—and now it’s time to fulfill that role.”

Regulus, feeling the pressure of their words closing in around him, glanced down at his plate, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the mushroom brooch hidden in his pocket. It was a quiet, grounding gesture, but it offered little comfort as the suffocating weight of his family’s expectations settled over him.

The conversation carried on around him, Bellatrix continuing to revel in tales of destruction and power, while his father remained judicious, his mother ever-approving. But Regulus could only feel the tightening knot in his chest, the creeping realization that the future laid out before him was one he couldn’t escape.

Down the table, Lord Lestrange sat silent, his presence almost ghostly amid the fervent conversation. His expression remained distant, his eyes cold and detached as though he were merely putting on a show of face. He rarely spoke, only nodding when necessary, his disinterest palpable. His silence stood in stark contrast to the feverish energy around him, and Regulus found himself drawn to it, wondering what the older man was truly thinking beneath his stoic exterior. If, perhaps, he was not as alone in his disbelief of this conversation as he felt.

Regulus’s fingers found the mushroom brooch in his robe pocket, his thumb absently traced its edges as he fought to keep his composure. The room felt too hot, the air too thick with ambition and dark promises. He wanted to slip away, to find some corner of the house where he could breathe again.

Bellatrix’s feverish voice continued to ring in his ears as she spoke of death and destruction with gleeful abandon. “You’ll see, Regulus. When you take the Mark, everything will make sense. You’ll feel the power coursing through you. You’ll know what it means to truly belong.”

Regulus swallowed hard, glancing around the room at the faces of his family—their devotion, their pride, their bloodlust. Bellatrix’s voice rang in his ears: “You’ll rise higher than any of them.”

But as he sat there, watching his family fall further into the Dark Lord’s shadow, Regulus couldn’t help but wonder if rising meant losing himself entirely. Regulus lowered his gaze to his plate, his appetite long gone. Bellatrix’s words hung heavy in the air, each one a chain tightening around his chest, pulling him deeper into a future he wasn’t sure he wanted. Yet, as he sat there, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him, he couldn’t escape the question that had plagued him since the meeting at the Wizengamot: “Was this what power looked like?”

“And if it is, do I even want it?”

Chapter Text

September 23, 1975

Henry rose from his seat at the leftmost long, dark table in the Great Hall, nodding at the Slytherins around him as he went. A casual gesture, nothing grandiose—just enough to part ways without drawing attention. His housemates were accustomed to his understated confidence, the way he carried himself with ease through their house’s traditions and routines.

He turned to Severus beside him, catching the slight flicker of expectation in his eyes, though they were masked behind Severus' usual indifference. Henry reached out for Severus' wand hand, as was expected when exiting the presence of one’s intended, and just barely brushed his closed lips against Severus' skin. He had combed through every book in the Peverell library to ensure that he would neither embarrass Severus nor neglect a single step in their public dance. But beyond saving face, Henry did these things because he believed Severus deserved them.

Severus deserved to be secured, shown off, and spoiled. It was with that thought in mind that he ensured he held Severus' gaze, as Stacie G. Yaxley’s “From Dalliance to Dowry” stated that your intended should be the last person you look at as you leave a room. He said, “I’ll meet you in the common room.” His tone was soft but deliberate as he added, “Stopping by the owlery.”

Severus nodded, his face returning to its impassive mask, though Henry could sense the shift in his mood. Severus never liked to linger after meals, preferring the dim solitude of the dungeons, and one could chalk-up Severus’ behavior to that. But there was a silent understanding between them now—something more than the private glances or touches they’d exchanged for months. Henry could easily pick up on Severus’ attempt to downplay his bashfulness.

“Courting, at last.”

He smiled inwardly at the thought, enjoying how the boundaries between their private and public lives had blurred. Henry’s chest swelled with an almost possessive pride as he left the hall, Severus' scent—a mix of old parchment and potion ingredients—lingering on his skin. To anyone watching, their interaction was a calculated display, but beneath the surface, it was a promise—one that Henry fully intended to keep, no matter the cost. In public, their courtship was a game—a subtle, measured exchange of glances and gestures that adhered to the old traditions.

But in private, it was something rawer, more vulnerable. Henry could feel the weight of Severus' eyes on him even when they weren’t together, a quiet gravity that drew them ever closer despite the many layers of masks they wore. His care for Severus wasn’t a secret anymore, and he found himself proudly leaning into that newfound openness. As Henry stepped out of the Great Hall, cool September air that wafted through the castle greeted him—tinged with the scent of the damp stones and earth that surrounded Hogwarts. He let his thoughts drift as he walked, his long strides taking him toward the owlery.

His days had me come an ease of lessons, from Transfiguration to Potions—the latter of which Henry found particularly satisfying this time around. He was excelling in his redo-years, more so than he’d expected. The intricacies of the material felt less like a burden and more like a game he had learned to play well. His roommates, too, had been a welcome sight. They had formed casual friendships over time, mostly through shared classes and mutual respect. Henry found that there was something comforting about the light banter over breakfast or the easy way they worked together during group projects. It was an arrangement he appreciated—no one demanded too much of him, and he gave just enough to remain part of the fold. Henry's thoughts circled back to the night before as he gazed at the moonlight through the hallway’s high windows—the midnight celebration in the Slytherin common room.

“Mabon.” The equinox, a time for balance and reflection, and the Slytherins had honored it in secret. There were a few others from outside their house as well, smuggled in through the shadows of the dungeons, their presence a silent rebellion against the rigid lines drawn between the Hogwarts houses. Candles had flickered low as they gathered around, murmured incantations and offerings filling the space. The glow of enchanted green flames had washed against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows throughout their common room that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of ancient magic. The scent of burning herbs—sage and rosemary—had lingered in the air till morning, mixing with the cool, musty fragrance of the dungeon. For Henry, the ritual was a small tether to something older than the school itself—a reminder of a world far beyond the stone walls, one steeped in magic that transcended bloodlines and allegiances. It was what he wanted for the whole of the wizarding world.

He still felt the warmth of the group ritual lingering in him, the soft hum of magic that had woven through their whispered words. Now, walking alone through the castle’s corridors, Henry allowed himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of the memory. There had been laughter, long tales, and a few tears too—something unexpected but welcome. He remembered Severus’ rare smile as the firelight danced across his sharp features, the way he had softened in the safety of their hidden corner of the room. That, perhaps, had been the greatest gift of last-night. So tonight, he happily allowed the moonlight veiled over the corridor to accompany him on his walk. He watched in delight as it softened and deepened the shadows at the same time. It reminded Henry of Severus—equal parts light and dark, a contradiction he found endlessly fascinating. There was something quietly profound about their connection, as if they, too, were caught in a delicate dance of balance.

As Henry made his way toward the Owlery, his steps slowed in rhythm with his thoughts. He had always appreciated the castle's magic, but tonight it felt more alive than usual. It was as though Hogwarts was thankful for the recharge of their ritual. The subtle hum embedded in the stone, the way the walls seemed to shift and breathe—it all surrounded him like an old, comforting friend. Even after all these years, Hogwarts never lost its ability to captivate him. Every corridor held stories; every hidden corner whispered secrets, if only one stopped long enough to listen.

Upon reaching the Owlery, Henry withdrew the letter he had carefully folded earlier that day, smoothing it between his fingers. It was addressed to Lord Prince, a formal inquiry about Severus being allowed to stay with him over the Yule break. Henry felt a strange sense of responsibility in this. Severus had seemed lighter recently, healthier in both mind and body. Moving in with his grandfather had done wonders for him. The rigid sharpness in Severus' features had softened, his once sallow complexion now showing the faintest hint of color. It was a transformation that had not gone unnoticed among their peers.

And internally, Henry remained blissfully oblivious to the part he had played in Severus' newfound ease. He had assumed it was all the stability his grandfather provided—the better meals, the absence of a looming, violent presence at home. The thought that his care, his companionship, might have had any bearing on Severus' well-being hadn’t even crossed his mind. He tied the letter to a waiting owl’s leg, watching as the bird took off into the evening sky, disappearing into the fading light.

Satisfied, Henry began the familiar route back to the dungeons, his mind still swirling with thoughts of Severus. Their courtship was still new, but Henry found it fulfilling in ways he hadn’t expected. He enjoyed being able to show his affection, even in small gestures—whether it was sitting beside Severus at meals or offering him the last word in their more heated discussions. These little things seemed to make all the difference. Henry smiled to himself as he passed through the quieter halls, the dim light from torches casting long shadows against the walls.

It was as he descended the last staircase that he heard the sound—soft, muffled sobs. His pace slowed with the feeling of deja vu. Henry rounded the corner, the sound of soft sobbing growing louder until he finally saw him—a Ravenclaw boy crouched against the wall, tears streaming down his face. The boy’s slender frame shook with each muffled sob, and his hands were pressed tightly to his eyes, as if trying to block out the world.

Henry’s steps slowed as recognition dawned on him. It was Barty Crouch Jr., the same boy who would one day stand trial as a Death Eater, the same boy who grew up to enter Henry into the Triwizard Tournament—the same boy who would be broken by a system that failed to protect him. But here, now, he was just a child. A scared, fragile third-year, hiding from the world. Henry approached cautiously, lowering himself to his knees beside Barty. “Hey, kid,” Henry said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Barty didn’t look up right away, but his sobs quieted at the sound of Henry’s voice. He sniffled, his shoulders shaking as he tried to get a hold of himself. “I-I didn’t mean to cry,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s no shame in crying,” Henry said, keeping his tone gentle but steady. “I cry too, you know. And I cried even more back when I was your age.”

Barty’s hands slowly lowered from his face, his red-rimmed eyes flickering up toward Henry with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “You?”

Henry gave him a small nod, his expression calm, though inside he felt the weight of his own memories pressing against him. “Yeah, even me. Can I tell you something?” Henry asked as he settled his weight, “When I was your age, I lived with my aunt and uncle—they weren’t the nicest people. They took me in after my parents died, but they didn’t want me. I was, well, I was different from them. And they didn’t like different.”

Barty blinked, his breathing still shaky as he listened. “Did they ever—do anything to you?”

Henry hesitated for a moment, the old pain still raw despite the years that had passed. But he knew that sharing this might help. “They treated me like I was a burden. Made me sleep in a cupboard, hardly fed me—my cousin would beat me up for fun, and they’d just watch. Sometimes they’d join in.”

Barty’s eyes widened, his own tears momentarily forgotten as he listened to Henry’s story. “That’s just like—”

Barty trailed off, so Henry took the opening to softly say, “It was horrible. And for a long time, I thought it was my fault. I thought maybe if I was different—less strange, more like them—they wouldn’t hurt me. But it wasn’t my fault. And it’s not yours, either.”

Barty’s breath hitched, and he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, smudging the tears but not quite stopping them. He looked down, his voice shaking. “My father—he—he doesn’t like it when I mess up, when I don’t do as expected. But this summer, I didn’t listen. I ttried to stop him from hurting Mum. I knew he expected me to sit quietly and allow them to work it out, but I couldn’t!” Barty’s words came out in a wet huff, “I couldn’t let him keep making Mum cry! But then he—he started to hit me!”

Henry’s stomach clenched. He had expected this, but hearing it from Barty’s mouth still made his blood run cold. Henry asked, his voice gentle but firm, “He hurt you too?”

Barty nodded, his hands trembling as they gripped the fabric of his robes. “And then he cursed me. The bruises won’t heal. They hurt so much—I couldn’t even eat. That’s why I’m not in the Great Hall.”

Henry’s heart ached for the boy in front of him. He didn’t know the full extent of what Barty’s father had done to him, but he could see the fear, the confusion, the desperate need to rationalize the abuse. It was all too familiar. “Kid,” Henry said softly, reaching out, “let me see.”

Barty hesitated, fresh tears welling up in his eyes as his grip on his robes tightened. He seemed too overwhelmed to move, the weight of everything he had bottled up crashing down on him all at once. Without a word, Henry gently reached for one of Barty’s shivering arms and rolled its sleeve back as carefully as he could. The bruises were worse than Henry had imagined. Dark, swollen patches of skin marred Barty’s forearm, the magic keeping them from healing radiating a faint, sickly glow. Henry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression calm for Barty’s sake.

“This isn’t right,” Henry said quietly, his voice steady despite his anger bubbling beneath the surface. “What your father did to you—it’s not your fault. None of it.”

Barty looked up at him, his eyes glassy and filled with pain. “But I-,” Barty choked, “I made him angry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Henry interrupted gently but firmly. “This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do. No matter what, no parent should ever hurt their child like this. This is wrong, Barty. And it’s not your fault. You deserve to be safe.”

Barty’s lip quivered, and the sobs came back in full force, spilling down his cheeks as he struggled to speak. “I—I just want it to stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I want to go home and not be scared all the time.”

Henry’s chest tightened, and he placed a hand on Barty’s shoulder, squeezing gently as his mind already came to a resolve. “You will,” Henry said, his voice low and comforting. “You won’t have to live like this forever, I promise. But right now, I can help with this.”

He gestured to the bruises, the cursed marks that throbbed with every breath Barty took. Barty looked at him with a mix of hope and disbelief, as he asked, “You can break it?”

Henry gave him a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I can.”

He wasn’t just any wizard. He had powers that even Barty’s father could never dream of. The power of the Hallows—the Master of Death. He closed his eyes for a moment and reached into that well of magic within him. And he did not have to go far, as Death always lurked just beyond him. The ancient, otherworldly energy thrummed through his veins, eagerly responding to his call.

Slowly, Henry shifted one hand away from the bunched-up fabric at Barty’s elbow to hover over Barty’s bruised forearm—letting his magic flow into the boy’s skin. A faint grey glow emanated from Henry’s fingertips, spreading across Barty’s arm like a gentle wave of warmth as Henry consumed the curse. The dark bruises slowly faded, leaving behind only a faint trace of discoloration, much to Barty’s wide-eyed amazement.

Henry opened his eyes, smiling softly at the astonishment written across Barty’s face, Henry asked, “Better?”

Barty gasped softly, his eyes wide as the pain started to lift, the pressure of the curse easing for the first time in days. When he could get his throat to do more than whimper he said, voice filled with awe and relief, “It’s—it’s going away.”

Henry nodded, though his focus remained on the task at hand. “I’m undoing the curse, and I promise it won’t ever come back.”

After a few moments, the bruises were gone, leaving Barty’s skin smooth and unmarked. Henry pulled his hand back, letting out a quiet breath as he opened his eyes. The magic settled once more, retreating into the depths of his soul. Barty stared at his arm in disbelief, his fingers gingerly touching the now-healed skin. “How—how did you do that?”

Henry smiled faintly, standing up and offering Barty a hand. “Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice with taking care of things like this.”

“Thank you,” Barty whispered, his voice shaky but full of gratitude.

Henry met his gaze, his expression soft but serious. “Remember what I said, kid. None of this is your fault. And if you ever need help, you can come to me.”

Barty mouth seemed to move faster then his thoughts as he asked, incredulously, “Really?”

“I solemnly swear,” Henry said, which brought a smile to them both for different reasons. “Now let’s get you to your common room.”

As they walked through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, the only sounds were the soft echo of their footsteps and the distant crackle of torches. Henry kept his pace slow, matching Barty’s tentative steps. The younger boy walked beside him, still visibly shaken but no longer sobbing. There was a fragile calm about him now, the lingering fear dissipating in the warmth of Henry’s presence.

The castle felt different at night, quieter, more solemn, and Henry couldn’t help but notice how small Barty seemed in comparison to the towering stone walls. The boy’s earlier bravado, the sharp edges of his family name and expectations, had faded away, leaving behind only the vulnerable child that Henry half carried along the corridor.

“You know,” Henry said softly as they turned a corner, “the first time I came to Hogwarts, I got lost in these halls for hours. I didn’t know my way around, and I was too stubborn to ask anyone for help.”

Barty glanced up at him, his expression curious but still wary. “You’re not-,” Barty stopped as he seemed to change his mind on what to say. “I heard that you weren’t at Hogwarts before last year.”

Henry smiled at the question, his voice light as he responded, “No, I wasn’t. I transferred in for my fifth-year. Before that, I lived with my aunt and uncle.”

Barty frowned slightly, as if piecing together fragments of stories he’d heard whispered in the corridors. “The ones that were in the attack?”

“People do like to talk. Yes, the very same.”Henry shrugged, only vaguely recalling own made up backstory, his smile turning a little wry. “I brought this up to say that sometimes, doing the scary thing is worth it. I was scared when I found myself here, terrified even. But without being here, without facing that fear, I would have missed out on so many wonderful things.”

For a few moments, they walked in silence again, the cool night air brushing against them through the open windows. Barty’s hands were still clenched at his sides, but his shoulders were no longer hunched in on themselves, as if some of the tension had bled away. They reached the staircase leading up to the Ravenclaw tower, and Henry gestured for Barty to go ahead. As they began the long ascent, Barty broke the silence, his voice quieter now but with an edge of something like admiration. “I’ve been—following you.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, a small smile forming at the unexpected confession. “Following me?”

Barty’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly clarified, “Not like that. I mean, in the Wizengamot. The legislation you’ve been putting out—I've been keeping track.”

Henry blinked, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “You’ve been watching my proposals?”

Barty nodded, his eyes focused ahead as they continued climbing. “Yeah. I read about the bill you helped with over the summer, the one for better protections for magical orphans. It wasn’t just some charity bill—it actually addressed the way the system treats kids like us. And then there was that one about blood adoption. People say you’ve been stirring things up.”

Henry couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed his face. “It wasn’t unusual for older students or adults to know about his political work, but Barty? A third-year?” He was impressed, but before he could say anything, Barty looked over at him and added, “I know who you are, Henry Peverell.”

Henry opened his mouth to respond, to offer his own introduction out of habit, but Barty cut him off before he could speak. “I don’t need you to tell me. I’ve heard the gossip, sure, but that’s not why I know you. I’ve been watching everything you’ve been doing in the Wizengamot, especially with the new legislation. You're the only one fighting for kids like me.”

Barty slowed his steps a bit as he turned his face to the ground. “I don’t just like politics because of my father,” he quietly started. “I like them because I want to do good like you.”

Henry’s steps faltered for just a second, taken aback by the weight of Barty’s words. There was something raw and honest in the way Barty spoke, a quiet desperation for hope, for change. Henry had expected the boy to still be closed off, wary after their conversation about his father, but here he was, already opening up about something so personal.

“Well,” Henry said, his voice softening, “I’m glad someone’s been paying attention.”

Barty glanced at him, a flicker of something like respect in his gaze. “More than just paying attention. I’ve been trying to understand it all—what you’re really fighting for.”

As their pace picked back up, Henry playfully asked, “And do I finally get to know the name of my most devoted supporter?”

“Oh, I didn’t-,” Barty jumbled over his words as his flush came back in full force. “My name is Bartemius Crouch Jr., well met. But please, just all me Barty.”

“Well,” Henry said with a smile in his voice, “it’s been a pleasure to meet you Barty..”

Henry nodded along slowly as Barty came out of his shell and began to speak more. In the back of his mind, Henry’s thoughts raced with remembrance of all the work he’d put into those proposals, the hours spent debating and drafting, trying to find a way to bring some semblance of justice to a system that had failed so many. He hadn’t expected anyone like Barty to care, let alone follow it so closely. They benignly talked on until they reached the top of the staircase, they stood in front of the large bronze knocker that guarded the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room. Barty turned to face Henry fully, his eyes clearer now, though still shadowed by everything he had gone through.

“I never thought anyone cared about kids like me,” Barty said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “But you do.”

Henry met his gaze, his heart heavy with the weight of Barty’s words. “I do care,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “And I’m going to keep fighting for you—for all of us.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the cool night air drifting around them, before Barty finally turned to face the door. The bronze knocker, sensing his presence, gave its customary riddle, and Barty answered without hesitation, the door swinging open to reveal the dimly lit Ravenclaw common room beyond. But before stepping inside, Barty paused, glancing back at Henry one last time. “Thanks,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less sincere. “For everything.”

Henry smiled, a soft, understanding smile, and gave a small nod. “Goodnight, Barty.”

With that, Barty stepped into the common room, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Henry standing in the quiet corridor once more. As he turned to leave, his mind lingered on Barty’s words, the quiet admiration the boy had shown. Henry hadn’t expected to find someone like Barty Crouch Jr. paying attention to his work, let alone following it so closely.

But now, more than ever, Henry felt the weight of his responsibility—to Barty, to Severus, to all the kids who had been failed by the system. And as he walked back to the Slytherin dungeons, Henry’s resolve strengthened, knowing that the fight was far from over. Henry stood there for a moment, watching the door close behind the other. For all his words about pain and necessity, he was glad he had been able to help Barty tonight. But a sense of unease lingered. With a sigh, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the dungeons.

He needed to see Severus.

The Slytherin common room was buzzing with quiet activity when Henry arrived. A few groups of students were scattered about, some playing chess by the fire, others bent over parchments and textbooks. In the corner, Severus sat with his usual crowd—Black, Rosier, Wilkes, Mulciber, and a few other fifth years. They were all revising their latest Potions assignment, quills scratching over parchment, and the soft murmur of spells being tested under their breath.

Severus glanced up as Henry entered, their eyes meeting across the room. There was a moment of understanding—subtle, but there—before Severus began to pack up his work. Henry crossed the common room, bypassing the usual chatter, and placed a hand on Severus’ shoulder.

“Come with me,” Henry said quietly, though his words held a subtle note of urgency. Severus didn’t hesitate. He gathered his things and followed Henry, leaving his friends exchanging puzzled looks as they watched the pair make their way towards the boys’ dormitory. They wound down the narrow hall to Henry’s room, tucked away at the far end of the Slytherin quarters. Once inside, Henry shut the door behind them, exhaling heavily as the quiet wrapped around them.

Severus leaned against the desk beside Henry’s bed, arms crossed, watching him with sharp, dark eyes. “What’s going on?”

Henry didn’t answer at first, his mind still racing through the night’s events. Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair. “I walked a Ravenclaw back to his common room. He was crying—his father beat him, then cursed his injuries so they wouldn’t heal.”

Severus frowned, his expression hardening. “I’ve heard stories like that before. It’s not uncommon.”

“I know,” Henry said, his voice low. “But—it got me thinking. About our world, this war—am I doing enough?”

Henry looked up, his expression pained. “I’m trying to change things. In the Wizengamot. I’ve been working on legislation—bills that could help bridge the gap and protect people like this boy, and others. It’s slow, and I know it won’t solve everything, but I thought it was the right thing to do for now. The basis of what I’ve been putting together is inspired by someone I once knew, and she—"

“Someone?” Severus tilted his head, his curiosity piqued.

“Someone brilliant. She believed in a world where Muggle-borns and pure-bloods could stand on equal ground, where wizards could protect their own without causing more harm to the world.” Henry stood then, pacing the small room. “But I think the world isn’t ready for that yet—for her well-minded approach. And I don’t know how to reconcile what I feel with the reality of what’s happening around us.”

Henry stopped abruptly and slumped down onto his bed, his eyes distant as he spoke, his voice softened by old memories. "The legislation I’ve been pushing, the ideas behind it—they’re not entirely mine. Not at first. A lot of it comes from conversations I used to have with two people, years ago. They saw things differently than most wizards I’ve known—especially when it came to bridging the gap between Muggle-borns and pure-bloods. Hermione was brilliant, always thinking of ways to make things better, and Ron—well, he had a way of grounding us both."

Severus glanced at Henry, curiosity flickering behind his reserved expression. “You don’t talk about your past often.”

Henry nodded slowly. “I can’t. It hurts too much sometimes.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “They were my best friends. We went through everything together—fought together, survived things we shouldn’t have.” His voice caught for a moment, but he continued. “She had this way of seeing the big picture, of understanding that the wizarding world couldn’t keep going the way it was. He was always there, loyal to the end, even when things got bad.” Henry’s jaw clenched slightly, the ache of loss heavy in his chest. “I lost them both. And there’s nothing I can do to get them back.”

Severus remained quiet, his dark eyes watching Henry intently but not prying. He understood loss—the kind that settled deep and never fully left. “What happened?”

Henry hesitated, not wanting to reveal the truth about his time travel, but needing to share the weight he carried. “They were taken from me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not by death, but by something worse. Everything we had, everything we fought for—it was ripped away.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration and sorrow mingling. “I couldn’t save them, and I’ve spent every day since trying to do what they would have wanted—trying to create the world I’d want them to live in. That’s why I’m pushing for these changes, Sev. Because she believed—they believed—that things could be different, that Muggle-borns and pure-bloods didn’t have to be at odds."

Flopping onto his back, Henry went on, “And I was so tired of fighting. But now—I’m trying to carry on their work, to honor them in the only way I know how, but I fear it’s too passive.”

The quiet weight of the dormitory pressed in on Henry as he lay back on his bed, staring up at the dark green canopy above. The room was still, but his mind buzzed with a thousand conflicting thoughts. The air was heavy with unspoken tension, thick and suffocating, as Severus stood near the desk, watching him with those sharp, calculating eyes.

“I’m trying, Sev,” Henry muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m pushing for change. Through the Wizengamot, through legislation. But—I don’t know if it’s enough anymore.”

Severus remained silent for a moment, arms crossed, his fingers tapping lightly against his elbow. He didn’t look away from Henry, his gaze unyielding, as if he were dissecting every word, every hesitation. “Legislation,” he finally said, the word dripping with skepticism. “You think laws will change a system built on centuries of blood and magic? You think parchment and ink can topple centuries of beliefs—of power?”

Henry flinched inwardly at Severus’ words, but there was truth in them. He had always admired Severus’ sharp mind, his ability to cut straight to the heart of things. But now, that cold logic was like a dagger twisting in Henry’s chest. “I know it’s slow, but it might not be enough,” Henry admitted, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “But what else am I supposed to do? Fight? More violence, more bloodshed? I’ve already seen where that leads. I’ve already—lost too much.”

“And yet,” Severus said smoothly, stepping closer, “you’re trying to change something more entrenched in our world than even Voldemort himself. The pure-blood system, the very idea of superiority—it’s in our bones, Henry. In our blood. Legislation is nothing without force behind it, and you of all people should know that.”

Henry bristled, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He stood, pacing the small room. “So, what, Sev? You think we should just pick up wands and start hexing people? Is that your solution? More violence, more death?”

Severus tilted his head, watching him. “That’s not what I said. But brute force has its place. You don’t tear down a system like ours without cracking a few skulls. You’ve fought for something before, haven’t you? You should know better than anyone that real change isn’t pretty. It’s not diplomatic. It’s painful, bloody—and it’s necessary.”

Henry stopped, his back to Severus, staring at the door. He could hear the cold logic in Severus’ words, the hard-edged truth that made his insides churn. He had fought in wars. He had seen death—too much of it. And yet, here he was, trying to do things differently. Trying to be the person Ron and Hermione would have wanted him to be.

“Violence won’t fix this, Sev. I’m not Voldemort. I’m not here to destroy everything just to rebuild it in my image. There has to be a better way.”

Severus snorted softly, leaning against the desk. “And yet, you’re still caught up in trying to change the world like some starry-eyed idealist. Legislation, diplomacy—it’s what you think they would do, isn’t it?” His words cut deep, and Henry turned to face him, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest.

“They?” Henry’s voice wavered.

Severus’ eyes gleamed in the low light, and there was something almost cruel in his gaze—something that said he knew exactly what he was doing. “Your friends. The ones you don’t talk about.”

Henry’s throat tightened. He hadn’t spoken about Ron and Hermione in so long, hadn’t let himself think about them—not really. But they were always there, in the back of his mind, guiding his choices like ghostly echoes.

“I’m not only doing this for them,” Henry’s voice was sharp now, the words biting.

Severus raised an eyebrow, not flinching at Henry’s tone. “Aren’t you? You think you’re trying to build a better world, but what are you really doing? You’re following their ideals. You’re not fighting this war, not truly—you’re trying to be the person you think they would have been proud of.”

The truth in Severus’ words hit Henry like a physical blow, and he staggered back, collapsing onto the bed. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the weight of it all crashing down on him. “I—” His voice faltered, raw with emotion. “I’m doing what’s right.”

“You were doing what they would have done,” Severus said quietly, his voice cutting through the thick air like a blade. “But this isn’t their fight, Henry. This is yours. And the fact that you’re feeling lost is a testament to the fact that you’re not doing what is right for you.”

Henry’s heart pounded in his chest as the words sank in. He was lost. He didn’t have a plan. He could see now that he had been stumbling through his days here, trying to live up to the memory of two people who weren’t here—even if not intentionally. Ron and Hermione. They were always there before—driving him, haunting him. Even though he hadn’t spoken about them, hadn’t thought about them directly, their influence had shaped everything he did. His push for legislation, for peaceful reform—it wasn’t him. It was them.

“I thought—” Henry swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “I guess, I thought that if I could honor them, it would be enough.”

Severus’ gaze softened, just a fraction, but his words remained firm. “But it’s not for you, is it?”

Henry exhaled shakily, his hands trembling as he looked up at Severus. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Sev. The world’s on fire—and I feel like I’m sitting here, pushing papers and making kindling.”

Severus pushed off the desk and crossed the room, standing in front of Henry, his voice low but commanding. “Then stop pretending. If you want to change this world, you need to decide how far you’re willing to go. You’re not just fighting Voldemort, Henry—you’re fighting centuries of history, of magic, of belief. You can’t tear that down with parchment and speeches. You need strength. And if you don’t have it, you won’t go far.”

Henry’s mind raced, conflicting emotions warring inside him—the fear of falling back into the violence he had tried to leave behind, the pressure of being someone who could fix things without more bloodshed. But what if Severus was right? What if all of this—the speeches, the laws, the quiet diplomacy—wasn’t enough?

“I don’t want to be like Voldemort,” Henry whispered, his voice raw. “I don’t want to destroy everything and cause more pain.”

“You won’t be like him,” Severus said softly, his dark eyes piercing into Henry’s. “But you need to stop living in the shadow of what others would have done. You need to fight this war—your way. And you need to figure out what that looks like.”

Henry stared at him, the weight of Severus’ words pressing down on him, suffocating him. He had spent so long trying to honor the memories of his friends, so long trying to build a better world through peaceful means. But the truth was, he didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know what he was doing. He had been clinging to the past, to the ideals of people who were no longer there.

The realization hit him hard. He didn’t know how to change the world. He didn’t know how to fix things. All he knew was that what he had been doing wasn’t working. And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Severus was right. He needed to fight this war. His way. And with his thoughts racing, he almost missed Severus’ next words.

“Perhaps a good start would be you dropping your mask and letting me meet that thing behind your eyes.”

Henry’s face faltered for a split second, his gaze distant, as if listening to something Severus couldn’t hear—and he was. In the messy mind-scape of Henry and Death’s intertwined world, Death intentions were clear: “Severus is ready for us to love him wholly.”

Henry’s brow furrowed as he wrestled with himself, his fingers curling into his palm. Severus didn’t move when Henry turned away, his head bowed, as if the weight of the conversation had settled across his shoulders. The air between them was charged, not with tension, but with something far more unsettling—something that had nothing to do with the mundane concerns of war and politics.

“Henry," Severus began, his voice soft but unyielding, "there’s something about you. Something I’ve seen but never quite understood. It’s like I can see—" He stopped, searching for the right words, his eyes narrowing in thought. "It’s wrapped around your magic, a force I can’t place, but I can feel it. And I think you know what I’m talking about."

“I—I don’t want to hurt you,” Henry murmured, the words heavy, almost pained. “But there are things- things I can’t always control.” Severus saw a flicker of pleading in his expression—a desperate hope that Severus would understand.

Severus took a step closer, kneeling onto the mattress, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Henry’s aura. The faint shimmer of something that hovered around him, darker and colder than anything Severus had encountered before. He had seen glimpses of it before, but now it was clearer—something ancient and profound that lingered just behind Henry’s surface, like a shadow too stubborn to fade.

“Henry,” Severus said, his voice low but insistent. “What is this thing inside you? What are you hiding from me?”

Henry’s breath hitched, his shoulders stiffening. “It’s—complicated. I can’t explain everything, Severus. I’m not even sure you’d believe me if I could.”

Severus’ gaze didn’t waver. He could feel it now—the thing, the presence that clung to Henry’s magical core. It wasn’t malevolent, not exactly, but it wasn’t benign either. It was ancient. An energy that shouldn’t have belonged to any living wizard. “You don’t have to explain it,” Severus said slowly, his own magic stirring in response. “But you don’t need to hide it from me either.”

Henry turned to him then, his eyes wide, the flicker of fear evident. “You don’t understand. It’s dangerous.”

“And you think I don’t know how to handle danger?” Severus asked, crawling closer, his magic brushing against the edges of the thing that hovered just beyond Henry’s control. “Whatever it is, I can feel it. I’ve seen it.”

Henry winced, as if Severus had physically touched a wound. “You’ve seen it?”

“Yes,” Severus noted, his voice soft but firm. “In your magic. It’s wrapped around you, like a second skin. I’ve watched it flare in moments when you lose control, and I’ve seen it shine through you even when you’re composed.” He paused, his dark eyes searching Henry’s. “You’re holding back—always holding back. Let it out.”

“I can’t,” Henry said, his voice cracking. “I’m afraid of what it will do to you, to me. It’s not just—magic. It’s something else. Something I don’t always understand.”

Severus’ expression softened, and for a brief moment, the sharpness of his usual demeanor faded. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he said quietly. “Whatever it is, it hasn’t killed me yet. Besides, I think it likes me. I can handle it, Henry.”

Henry’s fingers twitched at his side, and for a moment, Severus saw the struggle—the deep, internal war raging inside him. Then, slowly, Henry released a shaky breath, his eyes locking onto Severus’, filled with unspoken turmoil. “Sev-” His voice was barely above a whisper. “If I do this—if I let go, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it back.”

To himself, and the being eagerly licking against the seems of his soul, Henry said, “I don’t think I could go back to pretending to be human anymore.”

Severus moved even closer, so close now that he could feel the hum of Henry’s magic buzz across his skin. “Then let it go. Stop holding yourself back. Be who you really are.”

Henry hesitated, his eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and longing. He didn’t speak, but Severus saw the shift—the moment Henry made the decision. The room seemed to darken, shadows creeping along the edges of the walls as Henry’s magic began to unfurl. It was like a dam breaking, slow at first, then suddenly rushing forward in a wave of energy. The air grew thick, and Severus could feel it—really feel it now—the weight of something vast and incomprehensible. The other being in the room with them—interested, unyielding, but not cruel.

Severus’ own magic responded instinctively, rising to meet it. He coaxed it closer, letting his power brush against Henry’s, as if guiding it, allowing it to unfurl further, deeper, until the room was saturated with the presence of something far older and more powerful than either of them. Eventually, Henry’s breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxing as the tension in his body eased. For the first time in what seemed like ages, he wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t hiding. He was free.

Severus closed his eyes for a moment too, letting himself sink into the feeling—the gentle pull of dark magic, the strange calm that settled over him like a blanket. It was not the violent, destructive force he had feared. It was—peaceful. Cold, yes, but oddly soothing, like the stillness of a quiet night, or the deep silence before dawn.

“See?” Severus murmured, his voice barely audible in the stillness as he opened his eyes to watch the new world bring birth before him. “It doesn’t have to be a burden. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Henry’s eyes fluttered again, exhaustion finally catching up with him as he sagged against the bed, his magic still pulsing gently around them, but no longer the wild, uncontrollable force it had been. Severus watched as Henry’s breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling steadily as sleep overtook him. He watched still as the thing within Henry looked on at him, even when Henry’s eyes ceased to weakly open.

For a long moment, Severus just sat there, feeling the soft hum of their shared magic fill the air. It was strange, this feeling—being so close to something so powerful, so dangerous, and yet—it wasn’t frightening. Not anymore. Here, in this secluded space, with the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the gentle thrum of their shared presence filling every part of his body, Severus allowed himself to let go.

He felt the weight of his usual defenses slip away, replaced by a warmth that radiated from somewhere deep inside. Without thinking, Severus laid onto the bed beside Henry with a soft sigh. He wasn’t sure how long they lay there, but for the first time in a long while, Severus felt at peace. There was no need for words, no need for explanations. Just the quiet, steady presence of Henry’s magic, mingling with his own, and the soft rhythm of their breathing in the stillness.

And for once, Severus allowed himself to stay.

Chapter Text

September 23, 1975

"Sigrid. I can confide in you, yes?"

The lingering scent of herbs and woodsmoke still clung to the air as Voldemort settled into the heavy, leather-bound chair in Lord Selwyn's office. The Mabon celebration earlier that evening had been a spectacle—a masterclass in subtle displays of power and tradition. They had gathered in the historic Selwyn garden, moved plot-by-plot from France, under the twilight sky. It was only his most faithful, accompanied by the flickering candles that illuminated the ancient stone circle framing the rituals. Magical flames danced over offerings of fruit, grains, and meats—set to honor the turning of the season—as masked guests whispered incantations to the old gods, their voices carrying a reverence that pleased him. He had stood among them, draped in the finest dark robes the Malfoys' money could buy, eyes flickering over each of his followers—wizards and witches drunk on old magic and the pride of their bloodlines.

After the rituals, dinner was served in the grand dining room, a magnificent affair of roasted meats and jeweled goblets filled with the finest Rosier- and Bulstrode-cellar wines. The room had been drenched in the rich, dark hues of the same crest that shone on the man across from him—deep emeralds, blacks, and golds. It had been a temple of their shared ambition. Voldemort had taken his time during the feast, speaking softly, offering simpering fools and sycophants half-smiles. He had asked pointed questions about their families and their thoughts.

He had been a gracious lord, taking his rightful place at the head of the borrowed table. And always the good host, Selwyn had eagerly handed over the reins for the night. He had bowed and scraped, marvelously pacing his steps to Voldemort's tune. But Voldemort could see the flickers of unease behind his polished words. Then, when the plates were cleared and the guests drifted into the drawing room for cigars and brandy, Voldemort had made his move. He had leaned in, just enough for Selwyn to feel the gravity of his words, and asked to discuss matters further in the man’s office. He hadn't asked, of course—he had stated it, leaving no room for refusal. Now, seated in the dimly lit office, Voldemort allowed himself a slow smile as Selwyn fidgeted with a quill on the overgrown desk between them, casting furtive glances his way.

"Mabon is a time for reflection, isn’t it?" Voldemort mused, his voice low and silken. "A time to honor the past and consider the future." His fingers traced the edges of the mahogany desk, admiring its careful craftsmanship.

"Throughout the evening," Voldemort continued, "I have found my thoughts lingering on how much blood we have spilled—how much magical blood. It weighs heavy on my conscience, Sigrid." He didn’t miss the brief, startled look that crossed Selwyn’s face.

"Good," he thought, letting his words hang in the air for a moment longer before continuing, "It is necessary; sacrifices must be made for the world we intend to build, but I do acknowledge that it has been costly. For a world where wizards and witches will reclaim the power that is our birthright, I mourn the lines we have lost and those we will lose."

Selwyn nodded, though his movements were mechanical, uncertain.

"Pathetic," Voldemort spat in his mind. "Even now, the man doesn’t have the nerve to meet my gaze head-on, choosing instead to stare at some fixed point on the desk as though it might save him."

With glee, Voldemort leaned forward slightly, enjoying how Selwyn attempted to subtly move backward. His eyes, gleaming red in the flickering candlelight, darted to Selwyn’s hands, watching as the man’s fingers tightened around the quill, the feather bending under the strain. He could hear the faint creak of leather as Selwyn’s body shifted in the chair, trying to gain a little more distance from him.

"Imagine it, Sigrid," Voldemort prompted, "a world purged of weakness. A world where bloodlines are pure, where our kind no longer hides in the shadows, forced to accommodate the whims of lesser creatures."

"Ah, the sweet stench of fear." It clung to Selwyn like a second skin, visible in every tremor of his hand, every faltering word. It filled Voldemort’s veins with an exhilaration nothing else could match. "This is control, this is power—the power to make even the proudest pure-bloods bend to my will, to break them and remake them in my image." He could see it in Selwyn’s eyes: the desperate hope that he might be spared. “Hope. How quaint. How utterly laughable."

With those thoughts in mind, Voldemort’s voice took on an almost tender note—though there was nothing but coldness beneath it—as he said, "The war, it’s but a means to an end. And when it is won, and it will be won, we shall forge a new order."

He sat back, clasping his hands together as though savoring the thought. "Of course, the war is—unpleasant. I would prefer not to see our kin suffer, but it is unavoidable, isn’t it? The weak will fall, and they should count themselves lucky to cushion the steps of their betters. With my power, the unworthy will be easily swept away, and only those with the vision to grasp true power will rise." He cast a sideways glance at Selwyn, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. "I have fool-proof plans and soldiers to spare, but what must I do with those who do not share this vision?"

Selwyn’s breath hitched ever so slightly, a barely audible stutter in the rhythm of his breathing. Voldemort’s lip curled, a silent acknowledgment of the fear coursing through the man’s veins. He could see it in the way Selwyn’s eyes flickered toward the door, as though contemplating the possibility of escape.

"Foolish," Voldemort silently mused. "There is no escape from me, no reprieve from the inevitable reckoning."

Selwyn swallowed so hard Voldemort could see the man’s larynx convulse as his hands tightened around the poor quill-feather. "Of course, my Lord, I could not fathom the thought—as I proudly stand behind your aims."

His voice wavered, just enough to betray his discomfort, but Voldemort only smiled. "Good," Voldemort said, rising to his feet with fluid grace. "Because there is so much yet to do. So many steps yet to take before our world is as it should be. I will need loyal men to guide the way, Sigrid. Men who understand that sacrifices—blood, magic, lives—are necessary for the betterment of us all."

Voldemort’s robes billowed behind him like vapors of smoke as he moved about the room. "The path ahead will be difficult, but I trust you are prepared to walk it with me." He paused, his hand on the doorframe, before casting one final glance over his shoulder. "For in the world we build, you will be rewarded for your most useful contributions."

Selwyn cleared his throat, attempting to compose himself, before speaking, “My Lord, if I may ask—what are your plans for the coming weeks? I assume, given the—festivities of the season, that something significant is being prepared?”

Voldemort’s eyes glinted dangerously as he looked toward the other side of the room. "Indeed, Sigrid. There is a village—an infestation of sorts, really. A squib enclave hidden among muggles where they make nice and play pretend while they shrink their bloodline’s oaths and vows to magic.”

His fingers glided through the plumage of a taxidermied phoenix resting on the mantle of the fireplace he had come to stand before. “They’ve been growing bolder, you see,” Voldemort continued. “One squib who resides there has even dared to write a petition to the Ministry, claiming that they should be given equal rights under magical law. Can you imagine?" Voldemort sneered, the disgust in his voice palpable to his own ears. "They think they can dilute themselves with muggles and still deserve to live among us? To pollute the world we are creating?"

Selwyn shuddered at the venom in Voldemort’s words but forced himself to nod. "I understand, my Lord. You plan to—"

"Annihilate them," Voldemort interrupted, his tone clipped and cold. "Burn the village to the ground. It will serve as a warning to the rest—squibs, muggles, even those who dare to defend them. No one will question our right to rule when their streets run red with the blood of their defenders."

The candlelight from around the room cast long shadows across Selwyn’s face, exaggerating every twitch of his lips, every blink that came a little too fast. His skin was pale—too pale. Beads of sweat began to form along his hairline, betraying the man’s faltering composure. Voldemort could almost taste the fear in the air now, thick and cloying like smoke.

“Perfect.”

For a brief moment, Voldemort’s face twisted into something resembling joy—a cruel, twisted joy. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a chilling calm. “As with every move I make, it will be swift and decisive. The young ones, those who have shown promise, will lead the attack. I need to see if they are capable of doing what must be done.”

Voldemort slunk across the room until he returned to his seat, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for the tension to settle back into the room. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as he shifted his gaze toward Selwyn, who had not yet dared to relax.

"The squibs there, they linger in the shadows of the Muggle world, trying to blend in. But their blood—it still carries a trace of magic, as tainted as it is. And that is what makes them dangerous. These half-breeds, these abominations—they think they can hide from me."

Selwyn visibly struggled to regain some composure, his stiff nod betraying his discomfort. "Yes, my Lord,” the man tried. “It would be a strong message to strike there, to show—"

"A message?" Voldemort interrupted, his smile flickering, twisting into something sharper, almost unhinged, before vanishing in an instant. His face contorted briefly into a furious scowl. "Yes, messages are important, Sigrid—but this will be a cleansing. The village will burn, and the ashes will fertilize the land. Everyone will know that, no matter how deeply they bury themselves in Muggle filth and squalor, magic will always find them."

His words hung heavy in the air, but Voldemort barely paused before continuing. "I meant to introduce you earlier, but the time simply flies on days like these. He is an exceptional servant who has been feeding me intelligence about this village, gathering the names of families, their habits, their weaknesses." He spoke with an air of vague admiration, his fingers trailing the armrest as if seeking comfort in its smooth surface. "Young, eager. Talented. He understands the importance of devotion. Already, he has uncovered far more than I had anticipated. A promising one, indeed."

Voldemort’s eyes flickered with something dark as he turned his gaze fully toward Selwyn. "But it’s not only the village he has been watching. He has also brought me information on someone we have both heard whispers of—Henry Peverell. Although, I suppose, you’ve heard more than whispers."

The name seemed to sour on Voldemort’s tongue, and his lips curled into a snarl. "Peverell. Peverell!" He spat the name, as though merely speaking it left a bitter taste. "Do you know how much I loathe that name, Sigrid? How it crawls under my skin like poison? A relic—an insult—clinging to myths, and this boy, this child, thinks he can defy me?" His voice wavered, caught between laughter and rage, before he barked a sudden, hollow laugh.

"He fancies himself clever, doesn’t he? Thinks he can hide from me, cloak himself in shadows." His voice dropped to a low, feverish murmur, eyes darting as though he were already seeing Henry lurking in the corners of the room. "But I see him. I see everything! No one hides from me!" His hand clenched the armrest until the wood splintered under his fingers. "It infuriates me, Sigrid."

Selwyn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but Voldemort paid him no mind. His agitation was bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

"And what does he think he’ll accomplish with his games?" Voldemort’s pacing began again, more frantic this time, his steps uneven, restless. "His—his feeble attempts at manipulation? He knows nothing of power! Nothing of the legacy that I am crafting!"

He stood abruptly, his pacing growing more erratic, the fury in his voice rising with each step. "He is a thorn in my side! A distraction! A disease that must be cut out!" He stopped suddenly, laughing—a hollow, joyless sound that echoed in the tense air. "But I will deal with him. Oh yes, my young Death Eater has been thorough. Peverell’s weaknesses, his patterns—they will continue to be exposed, and when the time comes, I will tear him apart, piece by dripping piece."

His steps quickened as his pacing grew more frantic, his movements more erratic. His voice rose with every word, breath coming faster, more uneven, as if barely able to contain his rage. "Who does he think he is, some hero? Some champion of the weak?" His eyes were wild now, burning with an intensity that was almost frenzied. "He disgusts me, hiding behind those ideals, those pretensions of righteousness! He fancies himself a threat to me, but he is nothing!"

Voldemort slammed his fist into the desk, the wood cracking under the force, his face twisted with rage. His breathing had grown heavier, his hands now clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I will destroy him," he hissed, his voice barely more than a whisper, dripping with venom. "I will make an example of him—show the world that no one—no one—can stand in my way."

For a moment, the room was thick with tension, the weight of his fury pressing down on everything. Then, just as suddenly, he exhaled slowly, the storm passing as a mask of cold composure settled over his features once again. His movements became deliberate, controlled.

"The raid," he said calmly, as though nothing had happened, "will go ahead as planned. And Peverell—his time will come soon enough." He cast a cold glance at Selwyn, who had sat frozen in his chair throughout the tirade. "And we all must be ready when it does."

Voldemort’s pacing slowed, then stopped entirely. He turned, his gaze fixing on Selwyn with a new intensity, a calculating sharpness in his red eyes. His movements were smooth, predatory, as he crossed the room, closing the space between them. Selwyn’s eyes flickered with a hint of unease, but he held his ground, though the tension in his posture betrayed his nerves.

"You know," Voldemort began softly, his voice like silk hiding a blade, "I’ve been—surprised by your work with Peverell in the Wizengamot." He paused, letting the words sink in, savoring the way Selwyn shifted slightly in his chair. "Such a clever wizard, aligning yourself with someone so—idealistic, so very young." Voldemort’s lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. "It almost seems as though you’ve forgotten where your true loyalties lie."

"My Lord," Selwyn stammered, "it’s nothing, just politics—"

Voldemort silenced him with a look, his head tilting slightly, almost in amusement. "Politics?" He stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over Selwyn. "You sound like a child caught in a lie. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care?"

Selwyn’s mouth opened, but no words came. Voldemort’s smile widened, but it was cold, void of any mirth. He leaned down, bringing his face closer to Selwyn’s. "You disappoint me," he whispered, his tone dripping with condescension. "Like an unruly child who has wandered too far from home. Do you need to be reminded of who holds the power here, Sigrid?"

Selwyn swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "My Lord, I—" The man’s voice faltered, and he flapped his mouth several times before he was able to continue. "I never meant to—"

"Never meant to?" Voldemort’s voice was soft, dangerous. "You thought you could play both sides, didn’t you? You thought you could hedge your bets, stay in my favor while aligning yourself with Peverell. Clever, but foolish." His fingers brushed Selwyn’s shoulder, the touch light but chilling. "But I’m not an unreasonable man. Everyone makes mistakes, after all. And perhaps," he added, his voice taking on a coaxing, almost paternal tone, "perhaps all can be forgiven. If you don’t stray again."

Selwyn’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope appearing in them as Voldemort’s words settled. "My Lord, I never intended to stray. I’m loyal to you, always have been."

Voldemort hummed softly, circling the man’s chair like a predator around prey. "You say that now, but actions, Sigrid, speak louder than words. Still—" He stopped, placing a hand on the back of Selwyn’s chair, leaning down once more. "I am nothing if not merciful to those who recognize their failings."

Selwyn nodded eagerly, desperate. "Yes, yes, my Lord, I understand. I will never fail you again, I swear it."

Voldemort straightened, allowing a small, almost gentle smile to cross his lips. "Of course you won’t. You’ve always been one of my most trusted supporters." His tone softened, giving Selwyn the illusion of safety. "Just be careful, Sigrid. I wouldn’t want you to—lose your way again."

Selwyn’s relief was almost palpable, his tense shoulders finally relaxing as he nodded fervently. "Thank you, my Lord. Thank you. I will prove myself, I promise."

Voldemort’s smile lingered, but his eyes remained cold. "Good. Very good." He turned slowly, as though the matter had been settled, making his way toward the door.

Selwyn, visibly relieved, let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. "I won’t fail you, my Lord. You’ll see."

Voldemort paused at the threshold of the door, his hand resting lightly on the frame. He turned his head slightly, casting a glance back at Selwyn, and his voice, when he spoke, was almost conversational. "Ah—I nearly forgot, Sigrid. I haven’t given you your Mabon present."

Selwyn blinked, flustered, his expression immediately deferential. "My Lord, you needn’t—your presence and your good health are more than enough for me."

Voldemort’s smile returned, but this time, it was something darker, a hint of malice behind it. "Nonsense." His hand slipped into his robes, drawing out his wand in a slow, deliberate motion. "You’ve earned it."

Before Selwyn could react, before the realization of what was happening even dawned on his face, Voldemort’s wand flicked through the air. "Avada Kedavra."

The green light filled the room, blinding and final. Selwyn didn’t have time to gasp, to plead, or even to understand. One moment he was alive, simpering, groveling—and the next, his body slumped lifeless in the chair, eyes still wide with the shock of it all.

Voldemort watched for a moment, his expression unreadable, before tucking his wand back into his robes. "Happy Mabon," he whispered, more to himself than the corpse, and then turned his wrist and the office door came open.

Standing in the doorway was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face half-obscured by the shadows of the dim corridor. His light hair gleamed faintly in the low light, and his cold, emotionless eyes met Voldemort’s without hesitation before reverently falling away. He had been waiting, silent and still, for his Master’s summons as planned. Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him, taking a moment to admire the raw potential before him.

“Yes, this one is different. Not like the others—weak-willed, uncertain, desperate for favor. No, this young man was a weapon waiting to be honed. Beautiful in his simplicity.” He lacked the fussy introspection of many of the others, had no grand illusions of righteousness or doubt clouding his mind. He understood his place in the grand design, a tool to be used, sharpened, and unleashed at his Master’s will. It made him valuable.

"Come in," Voldemort said softly, his voice a serpentine whisper that slipped through the air, beckoning him forward. The young man stepped into the room with measured precision, his movements careful, almost military, as he came to stand beside Voldemort. His eyes flicked briefly to the corpse of Selwyn slumped in the chair, though his expression did not change.

Voldemort smiled, a thin line of satisfaction. "Efficient," he murmured, more to himself than to the boy. "There is much to be learned from silence and loyalty, is there not?"

The young man remained still, his silence an affirmation. Voldemort’s eyes flicked once more over him, drinking in the sight of strength, of obedience. "You know what to do," Voldemort said smoothly, his gaze returning to the lifeless body. "Dispose of it. Quietly. Without a trace."

Without a word, the young man moved toward Selwyn’s body, his actions smooth and practiced, betraying how accustomed he was to such orders. Voldemort watched him with a sense of dark satisfaction—yes, this one would prove useful in the days to come. So pliant. So willing. So perfect.

And when the time came, he would play his part well.

Chapter Text

September 30, 1975

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the Great Hall, casting warm, golden beams over the long Slytherin table. The usual hum of breakfast conversation filled the air, but it was soon overtaken by the flurry of wings as the morning post arrived. Dozens upon dozens of owls swooped in, their wings stirring the air as they scattered letters and newspapers to waiting students.

One owl, sleek and dark, dropped a folded copy of the Daily Prophet in front of Henry, who paid it little mind at first, reaching for his coffee instead. Another owl, smaller and nimbler, landed gracefully beside him, a letter tied neatly to its leg. Henry took the letter absently, his eyes now skimming the front page of the Prophet. The news was as dreary as ever, filled with the standard fare of the escalating tensions in Wizarding Britain: rumors of dark magic, unrest in the Ministry, and whispered accusations of disappearances.

His attention, however, was briefly caught by a small article tucked away in the back pages. It spoke of a missing Squib, a man who worked as a Muggle lawyer in London, reported missing during the night. Henry’s eyes flicked over the details—his name wasn’t familiar, and the report offered little beyond the usual speculative remarks. It was troubling, but not surprising in the current climate. With a sigh, Henry folded the paper and set it aside, his mind already shifting away from the news.

He then turned his attention to the letter, breaking the wax seal with a flick of his finger. The familiar scrawl of Thorfinn greeted him. As he read, a deep frown settled on Henry’s face.

"Henry,

I find myself in need of a friend more than ever now. It feels strange to say, but even though I am glad to be rid of my father’s shadow, there’s this hollow feeling left behind. I despised the man—he was cruel, monstrous even, but his absence is still there, and it’s harder than I imagined to admit that I miss him. I’m free now, I know that, but the cost has left me lost.

At least there is some relief in it. I’ve managed to rid myself of my betrothed. That’s something worth celebrating, right? Maybe now I’ll actually get the chance to find someone I want, rather than someone who was chosen for me. A small victory, I suppose, in the middle of all this mess.

Write back soon if you can. I could use the distraction.

—Thorfinn"

As Thorfinn’s words settled onto him, the sounds of the Great Hall came filtering back in, the hum of students chatting, forks clinking against plates, and the flutter of owl wings still departing overhead. But Henry only half-listened to the goings-on around him as his eyes shifted to the second letter in his pile. The embossed seal imprinted on the parchment was, by now, a permanent fixture in his mind. Yet still, his brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of its contents. The words seemed to blur together, weighed down by the creeping sense of unease that had settled over him since the letter had arrived.

Lord Selwyn’s death had been expected. Henry had seen the signs in the elder man's demeanor during their summer meetings. Every fire-call, every quiet discussion in the Ministry's reserved rooms had been tinged with an air of finality. Selwyn had spoken with the careful deliberation of a man on borrowed time. He moved with purpose, unwavering in his beliefs despite the knowledge that he would never live long enough to see them realized. Henry had come to respect him for that—there was a certain fearlessness in facing your end head-on, pushing forward regardless. It took courage, something he had come to learn was rare in the political world.

But this letter—it carried a weight Henry hadn’t anticipated. A part of him had assumed that whatever plans Selwyn had in motion would simply fade after his death. The man had allies, sure, but none who shared his full vision. Now, with this missive in his hands, Henry realized he might be wrong. Selwyn had prepared for something, and whatever it was, Henry was now involved. But before Henry could dwell any further on the implications, a voice came from beside him, startling Henry out of his thoughts. His eyes shifted to his left, where his roommate, Leodonis, sat.

“I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Henry wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard him right. Leodonis’s face was turned toward his breakfast, expression unreadable, as if the words had slipped out unbidden. “You’ll have to tell me what you’re apologizing for,” Henry said, folding the letter between his fingers. “As far as I know, you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

Leodonis continued to stare at his half-eaten breakfast, the tines of his fork idly pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. His usual casual arrogance was absent, replaced by something more somber. Finally, he spoke, though his voice was low and hesitant. “That seal on your letter. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately, haven’t you?”

Henry nodded slowly, not interrupting.

“Gringotts,” Leodonis continued. “And the Ministry too. Can’t imagine trying to keep pace with being the head of your family while only in your sixth year.”

Henry let out a dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Not much of a family when it’s just one person.”

Leodonis’s fork hovered above his plate, forgotten, as his eyes shifted to meet Henry’s. His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking near his temple, as if grappling with something unsaid. He shifted slightly, his gaze flicking toward Henry. “Two doesn’t make for much either.”

Henry tilted his head at that, unsure whether it was meant as an agreement or a reflection of something more personal for Leodonis. They weren’t often ones to discuss the intricacies of their families—Leodonis preferred to keep his distance from sentimentality—but this morning felt different. Henry could feel it in the air, in the weight of Leodonis’s words, and the way the sunlight seemed just a little too bright in the Great Hall.

A silence stretched between them as Henry tucked the letter back into his robes, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against his chest. Finally, Leodonis broke the quiet again, his curiosity getting the better of him. “So, what’s in the letter?”

Henry glanced down at the folded parchment in his hands, then back at Leodonis. He considered brushing it off, but something about the gravity in his roommate’s expression made him reconsider. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Apparently, Selwyn left me something.”

The announcement of the man’s death had been splashed across every page a week ago. Henry had only settled into the table when the room became overrun with squawking fowl slinging papers across the dining tables. Selwyn and his three dead house-elves had been found by a Ministry aide who had been sent to discover just why the man had missed several appointments that day.

Leodonis’s brow furrowed. “Left you something? Why?”

“Not sure,” Henry said with a shrug, though the gesture felt hollow. “While we worked together in the Wizengamot, we were not particularly close. I did not always agree with his ideas, and I did not always like his motives, but I respected his desire for our world to instill a system of care for all magical children.”

Leodonis tapped his fork against his plate thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. “Seems odd, though. Those old men aren’t the type to do things without a reason. What do you think he left you?”

Henry shook his head, a knot forming in his stomach. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I doubt it’s something as simple as gold or land.”

Leodonis hummed in agreement, his fork now completely forgotten as he leaned in a little closer. “You planning to go to the reading?”

Henry thought for a moment. “Doubt I’ll be allowed,” he stated. “Dumbledore didn’t even let me leave campus to attend the man’s rites. Since we’re ‘of no close blood relation,’ the headmaster isn’t exactly feeling lenient when I expressed my desire to leave campus.”

Leodonis frowned at that, his gaze turning thoughtul. “But the man’s dead, whatever he gave to the goblins was left behind especially intended for you. That’s important—even Dumbledore has to see that.”

Henry shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grimace. “I don’t think he cares. Not about this—old magic and old ways. And because of that, he won’t see a reason to let me leave the castle. I already exhausted myself on the matter last week.”

Leodonis let out a low sigh, leaning back in his seat. “That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t know what Selwyn might’ve left for you. With all the various family curses and such, it could be dangerous not to claim it.”

“Maybe,” Henry’s voice was heavy, the uncertainty gnawing at him. “But I doubt I’ll have a choice in the matter.”

The two of them fell into another silence, the din of the Great Hall continuing to swirl around them, indifferent to the conversation taking place. Leodonis watched Henry carefully, the weariness in his eyes deepening. “If you’re not allowed to go, what happens then?”

“I don’t know,” Henry replied honestly. “I suppose I’ll have to trust the goblins to keep whatever it is safe until Yule. But it doesn’t sit right with me.”

Leodonis’s expression darkened, and for the first time that morning, there was a real edge of concern in his voice. “Just—” Leodonis trailed off for a moment, “just be careful. If you can’t go, and something happens—well, we both know how these things can end.”

Henry nodded, though his thoughts were far from settled. “I will. Thanks.”

As the conversation drifted away, the heavy presence that had sat on his shoulders shifted once again. Henry suppressed a shiver at the thought of whatever Selwyn had left for him. The man’s motivations had always been layered with ambition and secrecy. “Why now, after his death, do I feel like a pawn in a game I don’t fully understand?”

With a heavy sigh, Henry said his goodbyes to Leodonis and pushed himself away from the Slytherin table, the weight of the letter still hanging over him. He moved with purpose, slipping through the throngs of students milling about the Great Hall. As his eyes scanned the familiar faces, they finally landed on Severus.

Severus sat among his year mates, holding court with a mixture of subtle authority and calculated detachment. His sharp, dark eyes moved from one speaker to the next as he listened, though he occasionally inserted a sarcastic remark that earned smirks from those around him. The conversation flowed like a quiet current through their group, but it was clear that Severus was its center, and he wielded that control with practiced ease.

Henry paused for a moment, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The sight of Severus in his element, commanding attention with his sharp wit and subtle presence, had a way of easing the tension that had been knotting in his chest since the letter arrived. There was something grounding in seeing him like this, as though Severus' firm grasp on his surroundings could somehow extend to Henry's own tangled world.

Approaching the group, Henry’s gaze softened further. As Severus caught sight of him, Henry reached out and lightly touched the side of Severus’ wrist with his fingertips—a gentle, lingering brush that signaled the traditional greeting of a courting couple in old magical families. It was a gesture that conveyed intimacy while remaining subtle enough for public spaces.

Severus stiffened for a second, glancing at his friends, but they were already muttering amongst themselves, trying to hide any sign of interest or amusement. Henry smiled to himself; Severus would never admit it in front of others, but Henry could feel the subtle relaxation in his posture, the way Severus held his head just a little higher.

"Severus," Henry greeted him quietly, releasing his hand. "Shall I walk you to Potions?"

Severus gave a curt nod, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pushed himself away from the table. His gaze flickered to their now-joined hands for a brief moment, his expression momentarily unreadable, before he turned back to his companions and muttered curtly, "Excuse us."

Severus stood and collected his things in a single, fluid motion. Then the two of them fell into step as they exited the hall. The corridors were beginning to empty, and the muted echo of footsteps reverberated off the high stone walls. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. As they walked, the sounds of breakfast faded behind them, replaced by the distant murmurs of students heading to their own classes.

Henry kept his pace leisurely, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough to feel natural before speaking. "Looking forward to Potions?"

"Obviously," Severus replied, his tone clipped, though not unkind. "Although, Professor Slughorn will no doubt spend the first half-hour uselessly prattling on about ‘proper’ stirring techniques. Again."

Henry chuckled, tucking his hands into his robes. "Sounds riveting."

"And you?" Severus glanced sideways at him. "I assume you’ll be off to Herbology? More of Professor Sprout's endless enthusiasm?"

Henry nodded. "Double Herbology, yes. I’ll be wrist-deep in dragon dung by midday."

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Severus' lips. "How fortunate for you."

They continued walking in companionable silence for a few moments longer, the hum of Hogwarts’ morning routine unfolding around them. Henry could feel Severus studying him out of the corner of his eye, though the Slytherin didn’t say anything outright. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner near the dungeons that Severus broke the silence again, his voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and that familiar sharpness.

"Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or do I have to pry it out of you?" Severus asked, his tone feigning disinterest, though his eyes betrayed a deeper concern.

Henry glanced at him, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. "I didn't think you cared about my emotional state."

Severus scoffed, though there was no real venom behind it. "I don't. But you're insufferable when you're brooding. Makes my morning tedious."

"Ah, I see. Wouldn't want to ruin your morning, then," Henry teased. But after a moment, he sighed, glancing away as his expression grew more serious. "It's just—Selwyn. He left me something in his will."

Severus’ brow furrowed, his sharp gaze cutting to Henry. "Lord Selwyn?"

Henry nodded, his steps slowing slightly as they reached the stone stairwell leading down toward the dungeons. "Yeah. I got the letter this morning. But I doubt Dumbledore will let me leave campus to attend the reading of the will, and the letter doesn’t state what it is."

Severus rolled his eyes, his disdain for the headmaster apparent in the tight line of his mouth. "Dumbledore’s always been short-sighted when it comes to anything that doesn’t serve his interests. And yet, here you are, still considering working within the system—just sneak off the grounds."

Henry raised a brow, his voice soft but firm. "I’m not his pawn, Severus. You know that. But there are things I need to navigate carefully. Selwyn’s death—it complicates matters I wasn’t prepared for."

Severus hummed thoughtfully, his expression softening, though his next words were tinged with his usual bite. "I thought we decided that it was about time you stopped letting others dictate what you can and cannot do. You said you wanted to make an impact—well, perhaps this is the moment to start pushing back. With more force."

Henry glanced at him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he chuckled under his breath. "And here I thought you preferred subtlety."

"I do," Severus replied dryly. "But sometimes you need more than that."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, where the cool, damp air of the dungeons greeted them. Professor Slughorn stood outside the Potions classroom, greeting students with his usual jovial smile. His eyes brightened as he spotted Henry, his demeanor shifting into the overly warm, ingratiating manner he often adopted around the more prominent pureblood students.

"Ah, Peverell, my boy!" Slughorn beamed, clasping his hands together. "I was just thinking about you. I trust you’re keeping well? Such a promising young man, always in demand, I see!"

Henry gave him a polite nod, though he could feel Severus stiffening beside him. "Yes, thank you, Professor. Just on my way to Herbology."

"Excellent, excellent!" Slughorn clapped Henry on the shoulder, his attention lingering on him for a moment longer before he turned to usher the rest of the students inside. "Well, do let me know if you ever need anything, Peverell. Anything at all!"

As Slughorn's attention finally drifted away, Severus let out a soft, irritated huff. "That man could drown in his own flattery."

Henry grinned. "It's a talent, really."

Severus gave him a sharp look, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. "Go on, then. Enjoy your plants."

"I’ll try," Henry replied with a wink, stepping back with a formal bow as Severus disappeared into the Potions classroom. The door shut behind him, leaving Henry standing in the cool hallway. He took a breath and turned on his heel, making his way toward the greenhouses. When Heney finally stepped inside of his classroom, he was greeted by the warm, familiar scent of damp soil and the subtle undertone of freshly trimmed herbs. The low hum of student chatter faded into the background as Professor Sprout’s voice, cheerful but firm, announced the day's lesson on Venomous Tentacula and Snargaluff pods.

The twisting vines of the Tentacula writhed restlessly in their pots, the sight tugging Henry's thoughts back to simpler times. There was a point, before the weight of the war and his responsibilities, when learning about magical plants was the highlight of his day—a welcome distraction. Now, the looming future and his precarious place in it clouded even the quiet moments like this. As he worked, his hands moved almost mechanically, clipping and trimming the aggressive vines before they could latch onto any unfortunate fingers. The vibrant green leaves seemed to blur as his mind wandered, lost in thoughts of what awaited him beyond the greenhouse’s glass walls.

“Could Voldemort truly be stopped before everything fell apart? What would that even look like?”

A sharp tug from the Tentacula brought him back to the present. The barbed vine wrapped tightly around his glove, and he swiftly unhooked it with a flick of his wrist, returning it to its pot. The class passed in a haze of actions and instructions, the familiar routine offering little more than a fleeting sense of normalcy. By the time Henry next looked up, the greenhouse had been replaced by the soft glow of the Charms classroom. Without much thought, he had made his way from one class to the next, his feet leading him through the motions while his mind lingered elsewhere. The chatter of his roommates, Leodonis and Bertram, now filled the air, their lighthearted banter like background noise as the day picked up speed.

Charms provided a rare chance to focus, a reprieve from the weight of larger concerns. Professor Flitwick’s lively voice guided them through nonverbal incantations, transitioning from turning vinegar into wine to the more practical Aguamenti Charm. The flicker of blue light danced across the room as streams of water appeared at the tips of wands—well, for most of them. Bertram, seated to Henry’s left, let out an exasperated huff as his wand sparked but failed to produce more than a few feeble droplets.

"Honestly," he muttered under his breath, frustration etched across his face. He tried again, and again, but the spell fizzled out each time.

Suppressing a smile, Henry gave his wand a casual flick, conjuring a crystal-clear stream of water with ease. The sound of the water splashing into the basin in front of him filled the small pocket of silence between them.

Leodonis leaned over with a grin, elbowing Henry in the ribs. “Show-off.”

“Just paying attention,” Henry replied with a shrug, keeping his tone light, though his mind was still half-distracted.

The classroom bustled with the sound of spell practice and soft murmurs, but in the back of Henry's mind, thoughts of the outside world crept in. Even in moments like this—simple, ordinary moments of student life—the undercurrent of his true concerns never fully faded.

“How long before things unravel completely?”

But as the class wore on, a familiar sensation tugged at the edges of his consciousness, one he had been trying to avoid. His heart quickened, a sense of weightlessness pulling at him like a tether. The guilt, the constant gnawing at the back of his mind, threatened to swallow him whole. And a though that, for days, he had been trying his damnedest to shove down wrestled it way to the front of his mind again: “Selwyn’s death was my fault.”

His fingers clenched around his wand, the smooth wood grounding him momentarily. He went through the motions, casting the required spells, but his thoughts were far from the dim classroom and its floating candles. He could hear his roommates talking in low voices. Leodonis cracked a joke, and Bertram's animated gestures filled the space between them, but it all felt like a blur, like he was watching from behind a glass wall.

The day drifted by, and before he knew it, lunchtime came and went. Defense Against the Dark Arts loomed ahead, yet he barely registered the shift in time. Bertram, still buzzing from the excitement of their Charms lesson, launched into a vivid retelling of his summer fling with an Italian witch as they made their way through Hogwarts’ busy halls. His voice brimmed with spark and fondness as waxed poetically about his Italian summer-fling .

“And she had this shine to her,” Bertram said, his hands gesturing enthusiastically. “I swear, Henry, the way she—”

Henry nodded absently, his lips quirking in a polite smile, though his mind had wandered far from the conversation. Bertram's words became little more than background noise, blurring into a distant hum. His feet moved automatically, navigating the familiar corridors until they arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The room was dimly lit by floating candles, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but even the darkened atmosphere couldn’t pull him from his reverie.

He went through the lesson on autopilot, his wand flicking, his lips mouthing spells, but his mind was elsewhere. And as the class wore on, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his consciousness. It had been there since last week—since he’d heard the news about Lord Selwyn. Henry had barely processed it then, but now, in the quiet spaces between spells, the thought clawed its way back to the surface. He tried to shake it off, focusing on the movements of his wand, the incantations filling the room, but the guilt gnawed at him, persistent and unyielding.

“Selwyn's death—”

Henry knew the truth. Voldemort had killed the man, no question. It had been inevitable the moment Selwyn chose to work with him in the Wizengamot, to stand on the same side as him. Voldemort didn’t forgive. He didn’t allow for second chances.

“It was my fault.”

The thought came unbidden, a rush of cold guilt tightening his chest. He had known Selwyn was walking a dangerous line, that associating with him could spell disaster. But he hadn’t stopped it—hadn’t warned the man enough.

“Could I have stopped it?”

The rational part of Henry’s mind argued otherwise. Selwyn was a Death Eater, a willing follower of Voldemort who had made his choices long before Henry entered the picture. Yet, that knowledge didn’t ease the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. Voldemort had killed Selwyn because of him. Because Selwyn dared to support his legislation, dared to offer Henry the political alliance he needed.

His heart quickened as the weight of the realization hit him again. He tried to suppress it, tried to focus on the lesson in front of him, but it was no use. The darkened classroom, the distant murmur of voices, all felt suffocating. A familiar sense of weightlessness pulled at him, like a tether dragging him deeper into his own thoughts, further from the present. He could feel it—the growing disconnect, the detachment. His breaths came faster, and his vision narrowed, the classroom blurring at the edges.

“How many more would die because of me?”

“None of them have to, I suppose. But they all eventually need to.” The words whispered through his mind, breaking through his stuttered thoughts. The voice—calm, certain—sounded in his head as if it had been waiting patiently for the right moment to speak. Henry tried to push the connection aside, focusing on the task in front of him, but it persisted. "You’ve been putting this off."

“Mort.” Henry sighed inwardly, his hand pausing mid-incantation. “The term just started, you know. I’ve been trying to get adjusted—”

"None of this is new for you." There was a pause, the words carrying a weight that felt like a challenge.

“No,” Henry mentally muttered, “but I—”

"You have been avoiding me,” Mort over-spoke.

Henry bit back a retort, as one could not lie to the other half of their soul, and settled on, “I could never.”

"True." Mort’s voice softened, a wry amusement threading through it. "But you have been avoiding our connection."

Henry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his eyes drifting to the window as the outside world blurred. He didn’t have an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one. All he knew was that the familiar, comforting presence of Death was there, waiting.

“You steadily draw our power near to you,” Mort noted, “your fingers grace the edges of our realm with every twitch, and you have become so steeped in it that even those far less sensitive to magic than your dear one have begun to take notice.”

Henry’s grip on his wand tightened, the weight of the words settling over him like a cloak. Death was right. He had been tapping into their shared power, as consciously or not, it brought a deep sense of security. The more he did, the easier it became—but apparently it also became all the more prominent. Still, something inside him recoiled from Mort’s words, some deep unease warning him back from an invisible edge. He tried to ignore the way his heartbeat sped up, thudding in his chest like a prisoner rattling at the bars. His fingers twitched around his wand as if feeling the pull of that same power Mort spoke of.

And in his core, he knew the decision wouldn’t wait much longer. The thought made his stomach tighten, a cold dread creeping through him. He wasn’t ready. As Henry tried to shake off the persistent connection with Mort, focusing back on his wand movements in Defense Against the Dark Arts, the ancient voice tugged at him again, insistent but calm. “Why haven’t you used my power to speak with Selwyn?" Mort’s voice was a whisper threading through his mind. "It would be easy, Henry. Pull him across the Veil and ask him yourself. Then you’ll know what happened."

Henry’s jaw clenched. He gripped his wand a little tighter, the thought of summoning Selwyn’s spirit sending a chill down his spine. “I already know what happened,” he shot back silently, his tone harsher than he intended. “Voldemort happened.”

"That much is clear," Mort replied, unruffled. "But there's always more, Henry. Details, perspectives—lean into your magic, and you could uncover the truth faster than anyone else."

The suggestion coiled around him like a serpent, whispering promises of certainty. Of control. It would be so simple. Henry’s fingers twitched again, and he felt the familiar pull of his magic, the temptation to give in, to take Mort’s offer. The more he resisted, the more he could feel it digging into him, tightening around his chest.

But something in him resisted. “I can’t—no, I shouldn’t.” Henry thought, though the words felt weak even in his own mind. “I shouldn’t rely on this power too heavily. I don’t know what it would change.”

Mort’s presence lingered, a patient and unyielding force. "You’re overwhelmed, Henry. But avoiding your power won’t make it go away." There was no reprimand in Mort’s tone, just a quiet certainty. "What is it that you fear?"

Henry swallowed, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He didn’t want to admit it—not even to himself. “I fear him. I fear what Voldemort’s doing, what he’s becoming. I fear that even if I killed him, there’d still be his followers. The ones who’d carry on his madness. If I start with him, where do I stop? How many of them do I have to kill before it’s over?”

"You already know the answer." Mort’s voice was like silk, slipping into the cracks of his mind. "You think you’re holding on to some sense of morality, but what’s the use of it? How many more people will die while you’re debating right from wrong? If you kill Voldemort, you end his chaos. You could stop it all—just lean into your power, Henry. You know you’re capable of more than this."

Henry’s breath hitched, his pulse racing now, the classroom fading into the background. His grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles turned white. He had the power. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, a dark, enticing current that promised swift solutions, an end to the suffering. But it also promised something else—something dangerous.

“Am I just delaying the inevitable?” Henry knew his power was growing. The more he ignored it, the more it beckoned him. And deep down, he knew that if he unleashed it, there would be no going back. Maybe he was afraid—not of Mort, not of their connection, but of himself.

Around him, students recited incantations, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Henry was part of the scene, but it felt as though he were looking at it from behind glass. The world had grown dim, distant, like he was walking through a dream that blurred at the edges. No one knew what he carried inside. No one felt the weight of death curling around his thoughts, whispering promises of easy solutions to unbearable questions.

“Am I too weak? Too afraid to embrace what I have become?” Henry questioned both sides of himself as his thudding thoughts rang out across his mind, “Is inaction just another form of cruelty?“

Mort didn’t respond. And eventually, Henry allowed his eyes to drift away from the seams of their world and refocused on the classroom, on the newly installed Professor Prudence Dolohov’s droning voice. But everything felt distant, out of reach. He spent the rest of the lesson on autopilot, his mind tugged between Mort’s presence and the mundane reality of his day.

But Mort’s words echoed in his mind, relentless and cold: “You could stop it all. You just have to choose.”

By the time Defense ended, Henry felt drained, his thoughts heavy as he made his way to dinner. When he entered the Great Hall, the usual buzz of conversation seemed muffled, like he was moving through a fog. His eyes landed on Severus, who was already seated with his year mates. The sight of him brought a small wave of relief, and Henry moved toward him without a second thought.

Severus glanced up, his sharp gaze softening when he saw Henry approach. Without a word, Henry slid into the seat beside him. The quiet weight of Severus’ presence helped settle his nerves, and for a while, they ate in companionable silence. The din of the hall faded into the background, and Henry found himself relaxing, his earlier tension slowly ebbing away.

As dinner wore on, Henry pulled out a small piece of parchment and a quill, his mind turning back to Selwyn’s will-reading. He scribbled a quick note to the goblins, asking if they could hold onto whatever Selwyn had left him until he could come in person to retrieve it. He could have simply snuck off the castle grounds to attend—but just like with the funeral, Henry did not know who all would be there or if it would be notated about in the papers. And there would be no way to explain his presence to Dumbledore in a way that did not add more complications to his life. With a sigh, he then took out another piece of parchment to parse out a response to Thorfinn. His hand moved almost mechanically across the page, the simple act of writing a small comfort in the chaos of his thoughts. Once the notes were sealed, he slipped them it into his pocket, glancing at Severus.

"I’ll meet you in the common room after I go to the owlery," he murmured, trying to keep his tone casual.

But Severus would hear none of it. He set down his fork, eyes narrowed. "You think I’m going to let you wander around on your own when you’re like this?"

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Severus raised a hand, cutting him off. "No. We’re going together."

Henry hesitated for a moment, then sighed, realizing there was no point in arguing. "Fine," he conceded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Let’s go, then."

Severus gave him a curt nod, but there was a softness in his gaze as they stood and made their way out of the Great Hall, side by side, heading toward the owlery. The crisp evening air clung to them as Henry and Severus walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly off the stone corridors of Hogwarts. Henry found himself leaning into Severus as they made their way to the owlery, seeking comfort in the other boy’s quiet presence. It wasn’t often that Henry allowed himself to be vulnerable like this, but Severus was different. He wasn’t someone who pressed for answers, who demanded explanations. His silence was steady, grounding, like a pillar that Henry had come to rely on more than he cared to admit.

They moved in sync, neither of them speaking, but the unspoken understanding between them had deepened over time. Severus gave Henry space when he needed it and support when words weren’t enough. And tonight, Henry needed both. As they concluded their business and began the walk away from the owlery, the faint sound of sobbing stopped them in their tracks. Henry glanced at Severus, a furrow forming in his brow. They exchanged a silent look before stepping into the dimly lit room, their eyes scanning the rows of perches and owls.

There, in the corner of an abandoned storage room just off the main hall, sat a small girl. Her back was to them, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs as she muttered to herself again and again. Henry’s heart sank.

“Not again,” he thought.

He could already feel a headache settling on as his frustration and weariness, which had began to wane in Severus’ presence, rode to the surface. “Of course,” Henry thought bitterly. “Because the powers that be have decided that I’m the one who has to stumble upon every hurt child in this bloody castle.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a few choice curses under his breath. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally. “Couldn’t the universe give me a break?”

Once he got himself together, he approached the girl carefully, kneeling beside her as Severus hung back, watching. “Hey,” Henry said softly, his voice forced gentle, “are you alright?”

The girl roughly startled before she looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She sniffled, trying to pull herself together but failing miserably. “Cassie—Cassie-” she simply cried out again in a shaky voice.

“‘Cassie’—?” Henry confusedly asked. “Is someone in the castle hurt?“ when the girl did nothing but cry, Henry tried again. “Is ‘Cassie’ hurt?”

“Cassie didn’t come back to Hogwarts.” The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve, her words faltering between sobs. “Her parents, they’re Muggles. They hate magic—they- they hurt her, and now she’s never coming back—” Her voice broke, and she collapsed into a fresh wave of heavy tears.

“Clarissa Adams,” Mort informed, “once a fourth-year in Hufflepuff and now resting in our realm. She battled the fate of many a magic child—brought up, battered and bruised, in a mundane household. But she was not as strong as you, and I welcomed her in shortly before you, yourself, came to me.”

Henry’s frown deepened as the gravity of the words sunk in. A child abused for magic—it was far too common, but each time felt like hearing it for the first time. The cruelty of the non-magical world always left him raw. As much as he tried to distance himself from it, he could never fully shake the memories of his own childhood.

Before him, the girl sobs on and her words dissolved back into incoherence. In the moments that passed, she tried to speak again, her voice thin and desperate. “It’s so unfair! She didn’t deserve it! I wish I could—I want-“

The girl’s sobs were heart-wrenching, echoing through the owlery as she tried to get the words out. “I want her back,” she choked out, her voice raw. “I wish I could see her again! Just to say goodbye!”

Each word seemed to weigh on Henry’s chest like a physical burden, compiling on top of everything he’d already been carrying. The encounter with Leodonis earlier, the conversation with Mort still echoing in his head, all of it pressing in on him as he watched this young Hufflepuff drown in grief. Her pain, her heartbreak—it was too much. Too much for her, too much for anyone, and suddenly, Henry could feel the pull of his power, unbidden but familiar, rising within him like a tide.

He didn’t mean to lean into it, to press the veil around them thinner, but it was instinctual now. Strength came from that place deep within him, the connection to Mort, the connection to Death itself. As the girl’s sobs intensified, Henry felt something stir in the air between them. The weight of her sorrow was unbearable, and as it pressed down on him, it was as if a door inside him opened, allowing his power to flow freely.

“I don’t understand! How could those muggle filth-“ Her tears fell harder, her words barely coherent. “I just wish—I just want to say goodbye. I’ll never get to say goodbye-“

The ache in her voice sliced through Henry like a knife. Her pain was so familiar. He had felt it, the same hollow emptiness when he’d realized that by coming here he lost Ron, Hermione, and so many others. The desire to say goodbye, to have just one last moment, hung between them, and before he could think better of it, the words escaped him.

“I can help you,” Henry said softly, almost as if the words weren’t his own. The power that hummed through his veins seemed to speak for him. “I can bring her spirit here—just for a moment. Just for a final goodbye.”

The girl blinked at him between huffed breaths, her red eyes widening, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. She whispered, her breath catching, “What?”

Henry’s heart raced. “What am I doing, offering to bring her friend’s spirit across like this?” It wasn’t a decision he should make lightly. But as he watched her struggle with her grief, the overwhelming need to ease her pain—just for a moment—pushed him forward.

“I can bring her across,” he repeated, his voice steadier this time. “But you must promise me something.” His eyes locked with hers, the gravity of the moment sinking in. “You have to keep this secret. You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

The girl swallowed hard, her confusion momentarily cutting through her sorrow, but her desperation was stronger. She jerkily nodded. “I swear—on my magic, I swear on my magic!”

Henry let out a slow breath as the magic of her words took-hold, then closed his eyes, reaching into the depths of his power. He could feel the threads that wove between life and death, that thin, fragile barrier that he drifted towards even outside of ritual. But this was different. This was intimate, intentional, and it called to him. The connection with Mort flickered in his mind, steady and waiting, like a shadow he could always find in his darkest moments.

“Mort—I need you.”

There was no response, not in words. But the air around him shifted, and Henry felt the familiar pull of the veil as it began to part. It wasn’t something that could be seen with the eyes—it was a shift, a ripple in the fabric of existence itself. He held out his hand, focusing on the Hufflepuff’s friend, reaching across that space between life and death.

For a moment, there was nothing—as with there connection there needed no announcement or annotation. They had become two sides of the same soul—where one inhaled the other simply exhaled. And then, slowly, the room seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening. A faint figure emerged, translucent and fragile, but unmistakably there. The girl gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her friend’s spirit flickered into being before her, hovering between this world and the next.

“Sophia?” the spirit whispered, her voice soft, distant, but full of love and recognition. The girl, drifting through the worlds in a simple summer dress and wearing a wide smile—Clarissa—settled down onto her knees, her tears also flowed now, but these were different. These were tears of relief, of bittersweet joy.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophia sobbed, reaching out toward the spirit. “I’m so, so sorry. I left you-”

The spirit smiled faintly, her form shimmering like the light of the moon. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known. But I’m free now. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Henry stayed silent, sitting back as the two girls exchanged quiet words, Sophia’s voice trembling as she poured out her heart, her friend offering the comfort only the dead could. It was a brief reunion, too short for the depth of their love, but enough to give Sophia the closure she so desperately needed. Henry did not rush them. He closed his eyes and drifted on the feeling of his own magic. And when it was time, the spirit’s form began to fade, and she gave Sophia one last, lingering look.

“Goodbye,” Clarissa whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. And then, just like that, she was gone, slipping back beyond the veil. The silence that followed was heavy, but not with sorrow. It was a silence filled with something else—acceptance, perhaps. Peace. Sophia knelt there, staring at the space where her friend had been, her breathing uneven but no longer frantic. Slowly, she turned to Henry, her eyes wide with awe, gratitude, and something that bordered on disbelief.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. “A true necromancer. I’ll never forget this.”

Henry nodded, not fearing the knowledge of his true self spreading. He had just crossed a line, one he couldn’t uncross. “You need to go back to your common room now,” he said quietly, helping her to her feet. “And remember what I said. No one can know about this.”

“I promise,” Sophia nodded fervently, wiping the tears from her face, clutching her robes as if they were the only thing holding her together.

Henry watched as she walked away, her steps lighter but her heart still heavy with the weight of loss. When she finally disappeared from sight, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Severus, who had been silent the entire time, stepped closer as his eyes rapidly searched Henry’s face.

“What did you do?” Severus asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

Henry rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “Something I probably shouldn’t have.”

But as they made their way back to the dungeons, Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just this once, it had been the right thing to do.

The walk back to the dorms felt longer than usual. Henry's exhaustion weighed on him with every step, and though Severus was beside him, his mind was miles away. He could feel Severus watching him, his sharp gaze cutting through the silence, but for once, Henry didn’t have the energy to explain. He was too tired—physically, magically, emotionally. His entire being felt drained, as if he had left a piece of himself behind with Sophia.

When they reached the dormitory, Henry was relieved to find it empty. His roommates must have found better things to do tonight, and he was grateful for the solitude. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing their questions or their presence right now. Not after what he had just done. Severus quietly closed the door behind them and stepped closer, his dark eyes still searching Henry’s face.

"You’re exhausted,” Severus murmured, his voice softer than Henry was used to.

Henry nodded, the weight of the day finally settling into his bones. His shoulders slumped as he sat down on the edge of his bed, his fingers trembling as he tried to undo his robes. But his hands felt heavy, uncooperative. His mind was racing, and yet it was strangely numb.

Without a word, Severus knelt down in front of him, his long fingers deftly working at the clasps of Henry’s robes. There was a gentleness to his touch that Henry hadn’t expected, and for a moment, he just watched in silence as Severus undid the last clasp and helped him shrug off the heavy fabric.

“You didn’t have to—” Henry began, but Severus shook his head, cutting him off.

“I wanted to.” Severus' voice was firm but tinged with something softer, something unspoken that hung in the air between them.

Henry’s heart gave a weak flutter, but before he could respond, the moment was shattered. A sudden coldness washed over him, freezing him in place. His mind seized, and in an instant, he wasn’t in the dormitory anymore—he wasn’t even in the castle. But he could see it in the distance—shimmering over the night sky. Inexplicably, he could still feel the bed beneath him but all he saw was a once-peaceful village nestled at the foothills of Hogwarts, now plunged into chaos.

Flames licked the edges of thatched roofs, turning the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and flesh. Death Eaters stormed the streets, their wands crackling with dark magic as they cut down anyone in their path. People were screaming—mothers pulling their children close, their bodies shielding the young as curses struck them down. Men, brave or desperate, lifted their wands to fight back, but it was hopeless. They fell one by one, their bodies crumpling to the ground like broken dolls.

Blood soaked the cobblestones, running in rivulets toward the town square where a young boy, no older than thirteen, held his own wand with trembling hands, his eyes wide with terror as he stared down the black-cloaked figures closing in on him. He could see it all. And while Henry’s mind was away, in the terror and agony with them, his body froze—stiffening in Severus’ arms.

“Henry?” Severus’ voice was sharp now, the teasing edge gone, replaced by concern. His grip on Henry tightened. “What is it?”

Henry didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. His breath hitched, his eyes wide and unseeing as he watched the boy fall, the scream still etched on his face as his soul was wrenched from his body. But it wasn’t just that boy. The veil—thin and shimmering like a curtain of darkness—stretched over the entire village. It hung there, translucent, barely visible to the naked eye, but Henry could see it clearly.

Souls drifted from one realm to the next, pale and ghostly as they passed into the unknown. They floated, confused and disoriented, some reached out as if to grasp onto life, others moved with resigned acceptance. The town’s dead—men, women, children—all unwillingly released from their lives and carried off on an invisible current.

“I—I see—” Henry whispered, his voice barely audible.

Severus shifted, turning Henry to face him, his eyes searching his face with a growing intensity. “What’s wrong?” Severus asked, his voice low and urgent. “Henry, what do you see?”

Henry’s breath came in ragged gasps, his pulse racing as the scene before him grew more gruesome. The Death Eaters, cackling with a twisted sense of triumph, moved from house to house, leaving nothing but burning bodies and bloodied ruins in their wake. Henry’s mind screamed at him to stop them, to do something—but he couldn’t. He was trapped, an observer in his own nightmare, watching helplessly as they destroyed everything under the Morsmordre sigil—as the veil swallowed soul after soul, dragging them away, never to return.

“I see them dying,” Henry choked out as his voice trembled with horror.

Chapter Text

October 1 - October 30, 1975

The first light of morning crept through the gaps in the heavy curtains on the east side of the castle, casting a soft glow over the room inhabited by three sixth-year Slytherins and one stowaway. Henry stirred beneath the covers, blinking away the haze of sleep. His body ached from the strain of yesterday—physically, emotionally—but there was something steady beside him beneath the weight of his exhaustion, something warm.

“Severus.”

Henry shifted slightly until his gaze landed on the dark head of hair resting beside him on his spare pillow. Severus was still fast asleep, his face relaxed in a way Henry seldom saw when he was awake. His breathing was steady, rhythmic, and Henry could feel the subtle rise and fall of Severus' chest where their bodies were pressed together beneath the blankets.

For a moment, Henry just lay there, watching him as the previous night rushed back—each piece of memory fitting together like a terrible puzzle: the overwhelming surge of death, the images of the attack on the village, the thinning of the veil. He could still hear the screams, still see the flames licking the rooftops and the blood staining the streets.

He had tried to get out of bed the moment he realized. When he’d left the owlery earlier that night, he had noticed the position of the moon—waxing gibbous, hanging low in the sky. It was the same moon he’d seen in his mind during the attack. That was when it clicked, when he knew it wasn’t just some haunting vision but a real, immediate slaughter. Panic had surged in his chest, and without thinking, he’d started to rush out of bed, driven by the need to do something.

But Severus had stopped him. In the heat of the moment, Henry had been frantic, his mind screaming that he had to help, to intervene somehow. But Severus—despite the fear in his own eyes—had remained calm, steady. Henry could still feel the weight of Severus' hands gripping his arms, holding him in place as he sputtered out what he saw miles away.

“You can’t go running into that,” Severus had said, his voice low but firm, his fingers digging slightly into Henry’s shoulders to ground him. “By the time you get there, they’ll already be gone. His minions are nothing if not efficient.”

Henry had tried to argue, the images of the massacre steadily flashing behind his eyes, but Severus had held him steady, his voice unwavering. “You’re in no state to fight right now. You’ve barely slept. You’re exhausted, and you have no plan. Running into this would be suicide. You know that, Henry.”

There had been a flicker of fear in Severus’ eyes—fear for the people being slaughtered, but also for Henry. Severus had understood the weight of what was happening, perhaps even more than Henry had in that moment. He hadn’t dismissed the gravity of the situation; if anything, he had acknowledged it fully. But Severus had also seen the bigger picture, the cold pragmatism of it all, in a way Henry hadn’t been able to at the time.

“I know it hurts,” Severus had said, his voice softening but still firm as he crowded Henry onto the bed. “I know you want to stop it. But rushing into a fight you’re not prepared for—it won’t help anyone. You have to be smarter than that.”

Henry had resisted, his heart racing and his skin feeling ready to peel away as his mind was caught between the desire to act and the crushing truth of Severus’ words. But eventually, Severus had pulled him back into bed, his grip gentle but unyielding. “Stay with me,” Severus had whispered. “Please.”

And Henry had stayed. He hadn’t had the strength to resist Severus’ quiet, rational plea, nor the energy to fight the sense of helplessness that washed over him. Severus had held him through it, had rocked him until the last ember ceased to smolder and his ears stopped ringing with the voices of the dead. Now, in the quiet of the morning, Henry’s chest tightened with a mix of emotions.

He owed Severus more than he could express. Not just for stopping him from running headlong into disaster, but for the care he had shown afterward. Severus had been calm when Henry couldn’t be. He had seen through the panic, the horror, and offered Henry something he hadn’t even known he needed: a reminder that he did not have to harbor every failure in this fight, that there was still a reason to stop and think.

Henry reached out, his fingers lightly brushing through the hair overhanging Severus’ upturned cheek. The strands were soft, slightly tangled from sleep, and Henry absently twirled a lock around his finger. He watched Severus sleep, marveling at the quiet strength that had anchored him last night. Severus had stayed with him—not out of obligation, but because he cared. Because he chose to be at the center of it all when Henry was unraveling.

Henry let out a quiet breath as he rested his hand lightly on Severus’ head, his thumb brushing softly against the other’s temple. For the first time in a long while, Henry didn’t feel the weight of everything crushing him. Not completely. Because Severus was still here, and somehow, that made all the difference.

As Henry continued to toy gently with Severus’ hair, he felt a soft shift beneath the blankets. Severus stirred, blinking his dark eyes open. For a moment, they were quiet, Severus’ gaze heavy with sleep, but quickly it sharpened as he turned his attention to Henry.

"How are you?" Severus asked, his voice still rough from sleep. His eyes scanned Henry's face, clearly gauging his state after the intensity of the previous night.

Henry forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Better. Thanks to you."

Severus frowned slightly, not entirely convinced, but didn’t push. And to help move the moment along, Henry pulled himself up from the bed.

"We should get ready," he said quietly, though his hand lingered on Severus’ cheek for just a moment longer before he stood. Stepping out from behind the bed-curtain, the two of them dressed in silence. Henry moved more slowly than usual to collect his robe. He could feel Severus watching him as he put on his robe from the previous day, occasionally glancing over with that same worried look. But Severus didn’t pry, perhaps sensing that Henry wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Or perhaps it was due to the shadows moving on the other beds.

Henry noticed as his roommates stirred awake, the soft rustle of sheets and the creak of bed frames signaling the start of their morning. They moved with a deliberate quietness, their footsteps light as they slipped from their beds, but the tension in the room was palpable. Each boy seemed determined to avoid drawing attention to themselves, heads ducked down as they reached for their robes and slippers.

Yet, despite their efforts, their awkward discomfort was clear. From the corner of his eye, Henry watched as Bertram fumbled with the ties of his cloak, glancing sideways at them before quickly averting his eyes—his face flushed with unease. Leodonis pretended to be absorbed in gathering his things, but his movements were jerky, as if he were afraid of disturbing the fragile peace. There was a stiffness in their postures, a sense of awkwardness that filled the room as they tried to act like they weren’t noticing Henry and Severus lying so close together.

It wasn’t just that they were trying to avoid eye contact—it was the way their gazes kept flickering back despite themselves, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than they should before they hurriedly looked away. Their attempts at nonchalance only emphasized the awkwardness, making the air feel thicker as they shuffled out of the room, eager to escape the tension that hung between them.

Once dressed, Henry and Severus left the dorm together but parted ways in the hallway. While Severus headed to his own room, Henry headed toward the male showers. The hustle and bustle of the Slytherin students had already picked up. He could hear several bodies milling about, already filling the common room. Henry weaved his way through the scattering crowd lining the long hall, his body tense as he tried to ignore the overwhelming flood of sensations around him.

The clatter of footsteps, the chatter of voices, and the strong scent of soap and cologne all blended together and overwhelmed his senses as he made his way to the showers. When he entered the shower room, the heat and steam hit him immediately, making it harder to breathe. Students were rushing in and out, the sound of water spraying against tiles and laughter echoing off the walls. Henry could feel his heart rate picking up, his chest tightening. He wanted to block it all out—the sounds, the smells, the chaos—but it felt impossible.

As he stepped into the shower stall and let the hot water cascade over him, the physical sensations helped a little, grounding him in the present. But something else lingered beneath the surface—something far more disorienting. It wasn’t just the noise, or the crowd, or the intensity of the morning routine. No, there was something more. As Henry closed his eyes and tried to focus on calming himself, he realized that it wasn’t just the students’ presence that was overwhelming him. It was their souls.

He could see them—feel them, even—flickering at the edge of his awareness. Every person in the room had their soul bared before him, an intense swirl of emotions and energy that Henry couldn’t block out. It was like being bombarded by hundreds of different lights, each one pulling at him, overwhelming him.

His breathing quickened, his hands braced against the wall as the panic surged.

"Mort!" he called out, his voice shaking as he felt the pressure closing in on him. His connection to Death was the one thing that might make sense of this—if anyone could explain what was happening, it would be him. The water kept running, but the sounds around him began to dull, as if the world was fading into the background. A familiar presence brushed against the edges of his mind, a cold, calm whisper in the chaos.

"You're seeing more than you should."

Henry could almost taste Mort’s voice against his own, soft but unwavering. He clung to that voice, to the familiar comfort it brought. "What is this and why?!" Henry asked, his voice barely a whisper as the panic clawed at him. "I’ve never seen them like this before. They all still alive, right?!."

"It’s the result of your blurring the bounds of your connection with me. You are becoming more attuned to the souls around you—more sensitive to their presence."

“But this isn’t like a handful of ghosts!” Henry squeezed his eyes shut, but could swill see, his heart racing. "I can’t handle this—it’s too much!"

"It is overwhelming because you are fighting it," Mort replied calmly, though there was an edge of warning in his tone. “The more you resist, the more chaotic it will become. You have to learn to control it, to quiet the noise, or it will continue to haunt you."

Henry gripped the edge of the shower stall, his knuckles turning white. The sensation of the souls, their flickering energy, was unbearable. He could feel them swirling around him, pressing in on him from all sides. "How? How do I control it?"

Mort’s voice was softer now, but still firm. "You must stop fearing it. The souls you see are not a threat. They are merely—there, as they always have been. Learn to accept their presence, and it will no longer feel like a burden. But first, you must calm yourself."

Henry took a deep breath, trying to still his mind, to push away the rising tide of panic. It wasn’t easy, but Mort’s presence was like an anchor, grounding him in the here and now.

“Breathe," Mort instructed. "Let the noise pass through you. Do not hold onto it."

Henry tried again, focusing on the steady stream of water against his skin, the solid feel of the tiles beneath his hands—but it wasn’t enough. As Henry stood in the shower, the water pounding rhythmically against his skin, Mort’s calm voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the lingering panic.

"Henry, you cannot allow yourself to be overwhelmed by every soul you encounter," Mort began, his voice measured, steady. "You are different from them now. You have a connection to me, to the life and death of all. That makes you see the world in ways they cannot even imagine. But if you let every soul, every life, weigh on you, you will drown under their weight."

Henry swallowed hard, his hands still braced against the cool tiles. "I don’t want to be disconnected and disinterested in them, Mort. These are people—lives. How am I supposed to just—ignore that?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Mort’s voice returned, quieter but carrying a depth of understanding. "I am not asking you to ignore them, Henry. I am asking you to rise above. To understand the difference between being aware and being consumed."

Henry frowned, his mind trying to grasp the distinction. He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "What’s the difference?"

"You are letting yourself be pulled into their emotions, their struggles," Mort explained. "Their lives—while important in their own right—are not your burden to bear. If you carry every soul you encounter, every pain and joy, you will be torn apart. You must learn to observe, not absorb."

Henry’s breath hitched. It felt cold, harsh even, to think of it that way. But deep down, he understood the truth in Mort’s words. He was different now, whether he liked it or not. His connection to Death had changed him, made him more aware of the fragile threads that connected every life. But being so attuned to it all was suffocating.

"I don’t know if I can just watch," Henry admitted, his voice strained. "I’ve always—tried to help. How do I just stand back when I know what’s happening?"

"Help, yes," Mort said, his tone softening. "Shepard the souls, intervén when necessary —but not at the cost of your own sanity. You are not a savior, Henry. You are not here to save every soul. You must accept that suffering exists in this world, and you cannot stop it all, least you destabilize the continuum."

There was a heavy pause, and Mort’s next words came more slowly, as if choosing them carefully. "You must begin to see the world as I do. Not as a collection of individual struggles, but as a cycle—a balance. Life, death, suffering, joy—they are all part of that balance. If you attach yourself too deeply to any one part of that, you will lose sight of the whole."

Henry’s mind raced, trying to take it all in. The flickering souls around him still buzzed at the edge of his awareness, but now, instead of feeling pulled into them, he began to sense the distance Mort was speaking of. He was connected to them, yes, but that didn’t mean he had to be entangled with every emotion, every life.

"It feels cold," Henry murmured, his voice heavy. "To think like that."

"It is not cold," Mort countered gently. "It is clarity. Think of it as rising above the storm. You can see the chaos below, but from where you stand, you understand that it is only a part of something larger. The storm will pass, the cycle will continue. You, Henry, are now part of something greater. You must remain above, or the storm will consume you."

The water continued to stream over Henry’s body, but his mind began to clear as Mort’s words settled in. He wasn’t being asked to stop caring. He was being asked to change his perspective—to see the world not through the lens of constant, individual pain, but through the broader picture of life and death, and his place in it.

"Rise above," Henry repeated quietly, trying the words out.

"Yes," Mort affirmed. "You are still human, but you are not just human anymore. You are connected to something beyond that, and with it comes the need for a greater understanding, a greater distance. It is not detachment—it is wisdom. You cannot help others if you are constantly drowning in their lives."

Henry closed his eyes, letting Mort’s message sink in fully. He had been so caught up in every life, every soul he encountered, that he had been losing himself in the process. What Mort was offering was a way to maintain his humanity, without being consumed by the weight of it.

"I’ll try," he whispered, feeling a strange sort of calm settle over him.

"Good," Mort replied. "You will learn. In time, you will see that this is the only way to survive what is coming."

Henry didn’t ask what Mort meant by that. He didn’t need to. He knew the path ahead would be fraught with difficulty, but at least now he had a glimmer of understanding—a way to manage the overwhelming pressure that had been suffocating him.

Henry breathed deeply, his mind still reeling but calmer. He wasn’t sure how to live with this new awareness, this connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. But for now, he had to trust Mort’s words. He had to find a way to accept it.

By the time he felt steady enough to step out of the shower, his mind was quieter. Mort's words lingered in the corners of his thoughts, offering a fragile sense of control. Henry dressed slowly, the sensation of fabric against his skin felt wrong—too tight, too constricting. It was as if his flesh was no longer his own.

It gave him an itch—an overwhelming need to peel the skin back, to let whatever he was spill out into the world. Absentmindedly scratched a bit too roughly at his arm, the sensation of skin beneath his nails strange—as though it were merely a thin barrier containing something far more monstrous beneath. His soul felt like it was tearing itself apart, living and dying in tandem, straining against the fragile, human body confining it.

When Henry returned to his room, he was not too in his head to notice that the atmosphere had changed. His roommates were already dressed for the day and preparing their bags, earlier tension replaced by a more relaxed energy. The usual morning chatter had resumed, though it seemed to take on a different tone as they noticed Henry walk in and began riffling through his robes.

“Morning, Henry,” Bertram called out, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Looks like Snape stayed the night. Again. You two really are hitting it off, huh?”

Leodonis snickered, his eyes darting between Henry and Bertram from where he collected his things near his bed. Henry’s mind, still tired from the overwhelming experience in the shower, barely registered the teasing. He glanced at his now empty bed and then back to his roommates, offering a distracted response as he continued toward his own bed.

"Yeah—there’s no purity clause in the contract, so-,” Henry trailed off absentmindedly, running a hand through his damp hair, if only to check that the strands were still attached at the roots. For a moment, there was silence behind him, and then the room erupted in laughter. Henry blinked and then looked over his shoulder in mild confusion as his roommates burst into raucous laughter, exchanging wide-eyed glances as if he’d just confessed to something scandalous.

“No purity clause?” Leodonis echoed, howling with laughter. “Merlin, Henry, didn’t know you were that salacious!”

“Blimey, Snape’s a lucky one then,” Bertram chimed in, grinning from ear to ear. “You planning on tying the knot soon, or just skipping to the good parts?”

Henry frowned slightly, trying to process their words. His vision flickered, and even as he faced into his wardrobe, the room momentarily altered focus as the souls of his friends glowed faintly at the edges of his awareness. Their laughter seemed to blur, their faces distorting for a second before snapping back into focus. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. But the motion felt disjointed as the bones in his neck were grinding against each other out of sync.

His body felt foreign, as though he was shifting between forms—one moment solid, human, and whole, the next like his skin was melting off, exposing the raw thing underneath. His fingers twitched, absently picking at the skin around his wrist. He didn't know how long he'd been doing it until the sharp sting of his nail digging too deep brought him back to the present.

"I—what?" he mumbled, still half-distracted by the lingering presence of the souls around him. “What are you talking about?” Henry blinked again, the realization dawning slowly. He flushed as it finally clicked what his roommates had been teasing about. “Oh,” he said, the color rising in his cheeks. “That’s not what I meant to say!"

But his roommates were too caught up in their amusement to care. The teasing continued, and though Henry tried to focus on their words, his mind kept drifting. The room, the souls, Mort’s warning—it all blurred together, making it hard to stay grounded. Henry rubbed a hand across his face, trying to suppress a sigh. The world felt off-balance, like he was straddling two realities at once—one filled with life and laughter, and the other with the flickering lights of the souls that danced at the edge of his vision.

“Yeah, well," he mumbled, trying to play along despite the exhaustion that tugged at him. "You lot are just jealous."

His roommates roared with laughter again, and Henry offered a faint smile, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. No matter how much he tried to focus on the here and now, the weight of his connection to Death still lingered in the back of his mind, reminding him that he could never fully escape it—not even in moments like this.

In the days that followed, the hours stretched endlessly, and sleep remained elusive. When he finally did find the ability to drift off, it was to restless dreams that left him more exhausted by morning. It went on like this for weeks and by the time he felt adjusted-enough, human-enough, again to be able to perceive normal things, like the dim light that filtered through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, it was sometime later and the familiar setting offered no comfort.

It had been weeks since the raid, but the images lingered—always just at the edge of his vision. And now Henry stared blankly at his half-eaten breakfast, his fingers absently picked at the rim of his goblet. His nails dug into the unyielding metal as if trying to test whether it’s form or his own would break first. The skin on his hands itched—too tight, too suffocating. He resisted the urge to tear at wear his nail beds parted.

Again.

He had already done that—had laid in bed as sleep fled from him and pinched strips away like a shedding snake—and it had offended little relief. All too quickly, his body felt wrong again—too small, too weak for the thing he could feel growing inside him, an eldritch beast pushing against the confines of his humanity. And with each pulse of his heartbeat, he swore he could feel his bones shifting, cracking under the pressure.

Around him, students laughed and chattered, the normal hum of Hogwarts life moving on. But for Henry, time seemed frozen. His pulse throbbed in his temples, a constant reminder of the tension coiled in his body, his vision still not quite returning to normal. Everything appeared muted, almost as if a translucent veil hung between him and the rest of the world.

He had moments of reprieve. Minutes, sometimes hours, where he could look at others and not see flashes of translucent, ghostly figures—their souls twisted in agony, pulled from their bodies with a sudden wrenching motion, their faces contorted in a final, silent scream. But then the scenes would return, a nauseating replay of the raid etched into his mind, the images blurring with reality.

Since he had witnessed the raid, Henry had withdrawn. It wasn’t intentional, not at first, but every time he tried to talk, the words stuck in his throat as his eyes shifted between the living world and the half-seen realm of Death. Faces would fade in and out, distorting as if his vision couldn’t fully process the living anymore. His skin crawled again—no, not just his skin. His entire being felt as though it were unraveling.

As if reality itself was pulling him apart thread by thread. Every sensation heightened—his nerves burned as if his flesh were rotting away, leaving the raw, pulsating mass of his true form beneath. The weight of the raid clung to him, a reminder that whatever he was becoming could no longer exist fully in the human world. And yet, he was trapped here, in this mortal shell that no longer fit. “How can I explain the horrors of watching life snuffed out in the blink of an eye? Of feeling every death filter through his very being in real-time, as though their final moments were stitched into his soul? How can I tell anyone, even Severus, that he wasn’t sure he could bear the weight of it all anymore?”

And on top of that, this time of year—it gnawed at him. Samhain was nearing, Halloween just days away. It was as if the universe had decided that autumn was the season for disaster. Every year, something always went wrong. It was the time of the veil thinning, of magic intensifying, and for Henry, it was the season of loss. He couldn’t shake the sense that history was repeating itself, and that something terrible was coming—again. He was destined for a mental breakdown at this rate.

And Henry had hoped Severus wouldn’t notice, but of course, he had. Several times, Henry caught Severus staring—sometimes with curiosity, other times with something darker that Henry couldn’t interpret. “Was it concern? Fascination? Fear?” Henry couldn’t tell, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. “Did Severus see it, too? The way his body felt like it was decaying around him, yet somehow still alive, writhing with something else beneath the surface?”

The times when Henry absentmindedly scratched at his skin, he felt Severus’s eyes following the motion. Henry tried to dismiss it, but part of him feared Severus saw the radge that was growing inside him. Severus knew something was wrong, that much was clear. But Henry didn’t want to add to Severus’s burdens. Not now. Not when Severus had his own problems to deal with—the weight of Potions classes, the lingering tensions between the Slytherins, his personal struggles with the world outside Hogwarts. Henry couldn’t bear the thought of making it worse by dragging Severus into his mess.

It was the last Wednesday in October when Severus finally pulled him into an unused classroom in the dark of the dungeons. Henry had barely registered Severus’s arm tugging him away until the door clicked shut, the cool dungeon air pressing in around them. Severus crossed his arms and leaned against a desk, his black eyes scanning Henry’s face with unnerving precision.

“Would you like me to tell you what I see?”

Henry’s throat constricted. He wanted to answer no. He wanted to scream, to stomp his foot like a child, to rail against the world for putting this weight on his shoulders. He wanted to lash out, to shout at Severus to leave him alone, that he didn’t need pity or concern or another person staring at him like he was fragile. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, his fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms, and his voice trembled as he muttered, “I’m fine.”

Severus wasn’t fooled. His gaze didn’t waver, and after a long, tense silence, he stepped forward. “Henry, you’re not fine. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re pulling away. I can see it. You’re somewhere else, all the time. You hardly speak anymore, you barely sleep—”

“I said I’m fine!” Henry’s voice cracked, louder than he intended, the walls of the classroom seeming to press in on him.

And Severus didn’t flinch. Instead, he took another step closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Then tell me. Tell me what’s really going on.”

Henry stood there, every fiber of his being trembling, not with fear but with the oppressive weight of everything he’d kept bottled inside. The dim light from the single candle flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe along the dungeon walls. His breath caught in his throat as he began to speak, his voice low and ragged, like something scraping against stone.

"I don’t know how to explain it," Henry began, the words spilling out in uneven bursts, "but every day—every day, I feel myself slipping further from who I was. It’s li—like my humanity is rotting away—peeling off of me like the flesh of a decaying corpse. I can feel it, Severus. Every time I look at someone, I can s—" Henry hurried to cut himself off and corrected, "feel how fragile they are."

Henry laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed through the room. "I’m—I’m becoming something else. It’s like Death is consuming me, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but this—thing. This mashed-up thing that I can only barely see myself in."

He sighed as he looked about the room, searching for anything that could take his attention away from the feeling of emotions and energy pooling beneath his skin. Finding nothing, Henry resigned himself to continue speaking. "There was a part of me that once recoiled at the sight of blood or pain—that part is gone now. I don’t even flinch. I’m becoming something other, and I don’t know how to stop it."

Henry’s eyes were wild, his voice trembling with a mix of despair and something darker, something lurking just beneath the surface. "Do you understand? My humanity is dying inside of me, falling away like putrid, festering meat, and I don’t know what’s going to be left once it’s gone."

Severus, standing just a few feet away, was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes never leaving Henry’s face. There was no fear there, no revulsion—only a quiet, almost clinical curiosity. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice calm, measured.

“If you cease to be human, then what are you?”

Henry’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that response. Not pity, not dismissal, but a genuine question. His mind raced, trying to form an answer, but Severus continued before he could speak.

"I’ve been watching you, Henry. Every day, I see the change in you—the shift. You wonder if it’s subtle? Well, to someone like me, it’s not. I can see it in your magic. It moves differently now, more—primal, more raw. And yes, I see that unexplainable thing in you."

Severus took a step closer, his gaze intense but devoid of judgment. "But it doesn’t scare me. I’ve seen darkness, Henry—real, true darkness. And whatever this is inside of you, it’s not something to fear. You think you’re losing yourself, but I think you’re evolving, becoming something more."

Severus’s voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not human anymore—not entirely. But that doesn’t mean you’re less. It just means you’re different. And I-" He paused, his hand barely brushing Henry’s arm, the faintest contact still sending a shiver through him. "I’m not afraid of different. I’m not afraid of you."

Henry stared at him, his heart pounding in his chest, the weight of his fears clashing with Severus’s unflinching gaze. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was drowning under the weight of his own transformation. Instead, there was something grounding in Severus’s words. Something that told him he wasn’t alone in this—whatever this was.

Severus stepped back, his hand lingering for just a moment longer before letting go. "So tell me," he said quietly, "what are you becoming?”

“What are you becoming?”

The question echoed on repeat through his mangled soul. Later that evening, Henry sat hunched over the Peverell grimoire at his desk in the dorms, his eyes scanning the faded ink with frantic intensity. Around him was a mountain of borrowed books he had already discarded as useless—“The History of Samhain,” “Rituals to Appease the Malevolent and Maleficent,” “Ancient Works to Reinforce the Boundaries Between the Living and the Dead.”

It was all here, but none of it felt like enough. His mind raced, searching for answers that seemed just out of reach. There had to be something more—something he could do to protect himself—and he only had a day to find it. The raid had been horrific, but Halloween—Halloween was different. He knew it in his bones. The veil between worlds was thinning, and that meant danger, danger he wasn’t prepared for.

Henry’s hands trembled as he turned another page. His vision blurred, and a sharp pain stabbed through his head, a splitting migraine that had become a frequent companion. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. The room felt like it was spinning, the sounds around him muffled, distant. The remnants of his human body screamed for rest, but his mind refused to let go.

His stomach churned with nausea, and his muscles ached as if he had been carrying a heavy weight for too long. His hands shook when he reached for his quill, and more than once he found himself compulsively tapping his foot or fidgeting with his wand. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping—every night, when he finally drifted off, he was haunted by nightmares of the raid, of blood-streaked cobblestones and the screams of the dying.

"Henry, you’re late."

Henry blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. His heart lurched. “Late,” he thought, but drew a blank. “For what?”

"Severus," Mort reminded him, with a touch of bemusement in its tone.

Henry’s stomach dropped. The weight of the forgotten promise crashed down on him. Severus had astronomy tonight, and Henry was supposed to meet him afterward. They’d made a joke of it earlier in the week—Severus had half-sarcastically warned that if Henry was late, he’d grovel before the entire common room.

Henry groaned, throwing a glance at the scattered books and notes around him. He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaustion clawing at him.

Henry muttered, a wave of guilt crashing over him as realization hit. He cast a quick tempus and cursed at the time. Hoping that he could at least catch up to Severus on his walk back to the castle, Henry said, “I’ll head out now.”

“Yes,” Mort said, a touch of amusement in its voice, though its hollow gaze never wavered. “That would be best.”

Henry scrambled to close the grimoire—shoving it, the rest of his books, and his scribbled notes into his trunk in a frenzy of parchment and ink. The weight of responsibility dragged at his heels, but the panic rising in his chest was more personal. Severus—he had promised to be there for him as the other had been for him. And somehow, he’d let his obsession with fruitless research and the looming terror of tomorrow overtake everything else.

“I’m going,” he muttered, more to himself, as he grabbed his wand and shoved on his shoes. “It’ll be alright.”

Mort presence eased forward, filling the small space with an eerie stillness. “Is that what you think, Henry? That you can make everything right by running after him?” As Henry stilled in shoving on his outer robe, Mort spoke again, this time with an almost thoughtful edge. "You’ve still been fighting it. What are you afraid of, Henry? Is it truly our power—or is it something else?"

Henry had no answer, or perhaps too many. But his silence only gave way for Mort to answer his own question. Henry’s hand tightened around his upheald wand before lifting it toward his arm holster. “I’m not ready to lose myself.”

“Lose yourself? Perhaps,” Mort mused. “But what is it you think you’re losing, Henry? What part of yourself do you fear won’t survive this transformation?”

Henry was silent for a moment, staring down at the scattered papers and books before him. He thought of Severus, of the way he had looked at him earlier—unflinching, unafraid of the darkness Henry had shown him. And for the first time, Henry didn’t feel like a monster in his presence. He felt seen.

“I’m afraid I’ll lose everything that makes me care,” Henry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “That I’ll stop caring about the people who walk this world and the people I love. That I’ll stop caring about Severus. That I’ll stop trying to make this world a better place for a future Ron and Hermione.”

Mort was silent for a moment before speaking again, its voice softer now. “That is the paradox, isn’t it? You fear losing your humanity, but we are already one. And it is what has lingered—your fear, your love, your need to protect—that continues to make you most human.”

Henry’s chest tightened. He hadn’t considered that before, that the only distinction between “Mort” and “Henry,” “human” and “other,” resided in his mind. Maybe he wasn’t becoming some baseless monster that viewed all human souls as just one of many specks in the cosmos. Maybe, even if he stopped trying to suffocate this gargantuan power and this endless depth inside of a human constraint, he could hold onto what mattered. But Severus—Severus was waiting, and that mattered too. So Henry attempted to put this conversation away for now, compartmentalize it, just as he had so many times before.

“I have to go,” Henry said aloud, more to himself than to Mort. He gathered the rest of his things, moving quickly toward the common room. His head was still spinning with the weight of Mort’s words, but there was no time to unpack them now. He could only hope Severus would forgive him for being late.

"You’re running from what you already know," Mort murmured. "The answer has always been with you."

Henry’s jaw clenched. And when he next spoke, his voice was low, strained. “What if I want a different answer?”

Mort was silent for a moment, as if considering. Then it spoke, "Does your desire change the truth? You fear becoming something other, but you already are. You feel your humanity slipping, so you dangerously cling to it. Have you considered the possibility of you straining yourself so much that you completely lose control? That our power slips away from your feeble understanding of grasp and it’s free-run destroys everything you cherish?”

At the pained whine that worked its way out of Henry’s throat, Mort’s words softened. “Release it, and you may find you become something more—but you may also find yourself being more solid, more whole.”

Henry pressed his palms against his desk, the nausea returning in full force. With a broken laugh, he sighed, "I should have asked more questions when you asked to hold me close."

Mort’s voice was calm, his simple laugh unhurried. "Perhaps, but humanity is a transient state. One you have already neared too close to relinquishing more than once—thus was always your ultimate fate.” The world shifted, and Henry felt a swell within himself of protecting, compassion, and care. “If you continue to resist the transformation, my soul, it will consume us."

Henry swallowed hard. He knew his heart should be pounding, but his pulse slowed to a near standstill as his thoughts battered the inside of his mind like a changing tide.

“You are caught between worlds,” Mort murmured. “Between life and death, humanity and something far older—between us in fragments or whole.”

A performative breath caught in his throat. Henry wanted to argue, to fight back against that hollow certainty. But a deep part of him knew Mort was right. Just as he always had a tendency to do, as “Harry Potter” always attempted, he had been trying to control the uncontrollable—trying to hold on to the pieces of his old self when he should have been embracing what lay ahead.

"I don’t want to lose them," Henry whispered, but it was not too quiet for his unnecessary ears. "Not my memories. Not Severus. Not anyone else."

A long pause, before Mort spoke again. "You will not lose anything that cannot be regained, if you trust in what you are becoming."

Henry stared at the door ahead for a long moment. He could feel the weight of that truth pressing down on him, the inevitability of it. He swallowed down a throat that no longer needed to work, and blinking back the stinging in his now wholly omnipotent eyes, he finally pushed open the door.

“Goodbye, Mort,” wetly choked out as he truly understood what had been happening now.

“Welcome to the world, Henry,” Mort soothed. “And if I may give a bit of parting advice? Keep our little body warm and circulating for as long as you have use for it.”

Chapter Text

October 30, 1975

“Henry!”

The thud of a satchel hitting their library table jarred Severus from his thoughts. He tightened his grip on his quill just as the inkwell in front of him tipped, sending a splash of wet-blackness across his parchment.

“Good thing I had only gotten out ‘Greetings Grandfather,’” Severus thought with a suppressed a sigh, his jaw tightening as Bartemius Crouch Jr. bounded up to their table, breathless with excitement.

“Are happy children always this loud?” Severus muttered, barely able to hide his irritation. His eyes flickered sideways to Henry, who had already turned to greet Barty with that soft, inviting smile—like the boy’s intrusion was a welcome distraction. Henry had taken to doing that more often lately—smiling at Barty like he was some lost puppy in need of care. And Severus, despite himself, found that it grated on him more than he cared to admit. “Patience,” Severus thought, forcing his lips into a thin line. “You are above this.”

Yet he couldn’t ignore the way Barty latched onto Henry, his eyes wide with admiration, practically glowing in the presence of his new mentor. It wasn’t the first time Severus had noticed it—how easily Barty had insinuated himself into Henry’s, and therefore his, life. And Severus tried to ignore him—those wide-eyed, hopeful glances at him be damned. But Henry, infuriatingly, indulged the boy’s every word, every question, every petulant demand for attention. He hadn’t noticed when it first began—when Barty had wormed his way into their quiet moments, when Henry’s attention had split between the two of them. At first, it was harmless, even amusing, to see Henry humoring the boy’s eager chatter. But now? Now it felt like something else.

“Childish,” Severus reminded himself. Barty was just that—a child. He carried himself with all the enthusiasm and recklessness of youth, clinging to Henry’s every word as though they held the key to the universe. Henry, for his part, entertained the boy’s endless prattling with the patience of a doting father. It was enough to make Severus feel—displaced. The boy was practically worshipping Henry, and while Severus found it irksome, he couldn’t deny the strange twinge in his chest—jealousy, perhaps. But not quite. Envy, maybe, for the ease with which Henry handled the boy, as though it were second nature to him.

It wasn’t as if Severus were insecure. No, his relationship with Henry was vastly different. Deeper and more intimate in ways no one else could fathom. No one, especially not this child, could come close to what he shared with Henry. Yet there was an undeniable shift when Barty entered the equation—a shifting of roles. If Henry took on the role of adoring father, then Severus felt bereft to admit, even in the sanctity of his own mind, that he had taken to caring for the boy in his own methods—revising the boy’s work, straightening his uniform, ensuring he planned to eat balanced meals and not just whatever sweets he could get his hands on. Severus could admit that Barty’s constitution made him easy to accept, and that his own interactions with the boy had taken on a note of tender interest that someone more foolish than himself could call fond, nurturing.

“Maternal, even,” Severus thought with a grimace as the realization hit him. Henry doted on Barty like a father, but Severus? Unwittingly, he had been settling into the role of caretaker, ensuring the boy’s antics didn’t disrupt their studies, reprimanding him with a biting edge in his voice that sounded far too much like his own mother for his liking.

“Bartemius, have I not told you before—” Severus began, his sneer cutting the air, but Barty cut him off with a petulant whine.

But Barty’s enthusiasm was only momentarily snuffed out by Severus’s sharp tone before he yowled, “Sev, it’s Barty!”

The mimicking of Henry’s affectionate bastardization of his name, as though it would soften the reprimand, made his lip twitch toward a smile. But Severus was still able to fix him with a cold stare, undeterred by the interruption. “Be happy I did not call you ‘Beastly,’ with the way you trounce about like a hippogriff on stilts,” he snapped, taking some satisfaction in the brief flicker of embarrassment that crossed the boy’s face. “Good. Let him feel it, so that he may learn.”

Before Barty could reply, Henry chuckled, a sound that caused an involuntary warmth to spread through Severus’ chest, cutting through his irritation. Henry said, his tone gentle, as though offering advice to an exasperated parent, “Severus, don’t be so harsh on him. He’s young, after all.”

“Why must you be so soft with the boy?” Severus snipped as he rolled his eyes, the momentary warmth replaced with a simmering annoyance. He was getting better at keeping himself present in the face of Henry’s whole, four-eyed attention—at not drifting off into his own head at the first brush of Henry’s inhuman magic. So he was able to keep to the matter at hand, and in a voice low and clipped, directed his attention back to Barty. “You did come to study, did you not?” Severus asked. “Or are you here simply to be a nuisance?”

Barty puffed out his chest in defiance but quickly deflated under Severus’s glare. “I—I’m here to study,” he muttered, taking a seat opposite them. “I just wanted to show Henry something first.”

“Of course, you do,” Severus thought dryly. “Everything revolves around Henry.” But the real frustration came not from Barty’s obsession with Henry, but from Severus’ own conflicted feelings.

“Why don’t you show me those notes you were supposed to take first?” Henry asked with a warm smile, gesturing for Barty to sit beside them. “We’ll go over them together, and then you can show me what you want.”

And there it was again—the dynamic that gave Severus pause. Barty, nestled in close beside Henry, soaking up the young man’s attention and affection like it was his right. Severus couldn’t help but feel like the outsider, the nagging mother standing on the sidelines while the father and child played happily together. It was maddening.

Barty went through his bag and unrolled his parchment with enthusiasm, but Severus caught the slight tremble in the boy’s hand. He was nervous. Nervous about pleasing Henry. Nervous about being useful. Severus’s heart twisted despite his frustration. He recognized that feeling all too well. The need to prove oneself. To be seen. To be valued.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Severus said, his tone softer now, though still edged with impatience. “We haven’t got all day.”

Barty shot him a hesitant smile before launching into an explanation of his notes, his voice bright with youthful excitement. Severus listened half-heartedly, his eyes occasionally flickering to Henry. Henry, who was watching Barty with that same gentle, careful expression. Henry, who had no idea just how much that look was starting to grate on Severus.

Or perhaps he did, if the subtle wink Henry threw his way was any indication.

Either way, Severus couldn’t shake the growing sensation that, somewhere along the line, he had fallen into a role he never intended to play. And worse still, he wasn’t entirely sure he hated it. There was no denying the pull between him and Henry—something deeper, darker. The handful of nights he sporadically spent in Henry’s bed, waking up with his body betraying him, the intimate looks they exchanged when no one else was watching, the way Henry’s eyes gleamed when he offered… things Severus wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge.

“Perhaps I should keep to sleeping in my own bed at night,” Severus muttered under his breath, casting a sideways glance at Henry.

Henry’s eyes glinted with mischief as he leaned closer to Severus’ side of the table, having picked up the words with inhuman ears. In a low murmur, Henry countered, “Perhaps, but where would the fun be in that?”

His words sent a shiver down Severus’ spine, even as he tried to maintain his composure. That shaded gleam in Henry’s eyes had become more frequent, more intense. And despite everything, Severus couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

Barty, oblivious to the near-silent exchange above him, finished the end of his monologue and pulled out another stack of parchment with a grin. “Look, Henry, I found this old book in the restricted section! I thought you’d like to see it.”

Henry turned his attention back to Barty, and Severus felt a flicker of something—“Relief, perhaps? Or was it disappointment?”

He couldn’t quite tell anymore. The lines between what he wanted and what he feared were becoming blurred. Severus huffed, leaning back in his chair. No, truly, Severus did not mind the child’s offending presence. Not when it was one of the few times he could visibly watch Henry force himself to take stock of the world around him.

“Whatever keeps him from listlessly staring off into the shadows again,” Severus thought.

Ever since the Daily Prophet reported Lord Selwyn’s death, Henry had changed. The vibrant, driven man Severus knew had withdrawn into himself, his expressions often distant, as though the world had grown dimmer. Severus knew Henry blamed himself, though he had yet to say it aloud. There were moments when Severus caught Henry staring blankly into space, his fingers gripping his wand too tightly, a storm brewing behind his otherwise calm exterior.

Severus understood loss, but he had never seen it tear at someone quite like this. There were no savage tears or overt mourning, only a quiet unsettlement. It was as though Henry carried the weight of the war—of every death, every betrayal—on his shoulders alone, and expected to. No matter how much Henry insisted he was fine, Severus knew better. The silent self-blame, the guilt that gnawed at him, always simmered beneath the surface. Severus wanted to reach out, to offer more than the practical comfort of their quiet study sessions, but Henry kept his pain locked away, behind a wall Severus couldn’t seem to penetrate.

They finished studying not long after Barty had shown Henry the book—and evaded all questions as to how he weaseled his way into getting a pass to the Restricted Section in the first place. Severus rose first, gathering his books and carefully stowing his notes in his satchel. Henry moved more slowly, with a lethargy that had become all too common in the past few days. He placed a hand on Barty’s shoulder as he stood, offering a faint smile, though his eyes didn’t quite meet Severus’s.

“You should head to class,” Henry said, his voice soft, almost distracted. “Don’t be late.”

Severus watched them for a moment longer, searching for something—anything—that would indicate Henry was coming back to himself. But Henry’s expression remained neutral, distant.

“Yes, we’re off,” Severus replied. He glanced at Barty, who was still beaming at Henry, his youthful energy undeterred by the undercurrent of tension in the air. “Come, Barty.”

Barty lingered for just a moment longer, his eyes wide with something akin to hero worship as he looked at Henry. Severus turned and started toward the exit. Henry headed in one direction, disappearing down the corridor toward Divination, while Severus and Barty turned toward the Defense classroom. Like a duckling, Barty trailed after him. It was becoming more obvious with each passing day that Barty was just as enamored with Severus as he was with Henry. There was a subtle, yet unmistakable tenderness in the way Barty looked at him—a quiet care for Severus’s admittedly prickly mood that made him uneasy. “Idiots, both of them,” Severus thought, “with no sense of self-preservation.”

As they made their way out of the library and into the corridor, Severus remained lost in thought. He could hear Barty prattling on about something or other, but the words barely registered. He had grown used to Barty’s constant chatter, and though he found it trying at times, there was something almost comforting about it. Barty’s presence had become another constant in the whirlwind of his life, and despite himself, Severus couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of fondness toward the boy.

If anyone else had been watching, they would have seen it—the way Barty clung to Severus’s side, his blue-trimmed sleeves fluttering as he eagerly gestured and exclaimed about the wonders of Spagyrics. His eyes darted up at every pause, gauging Severus's reactions, hoping for some spark of interest in return. It was telling, the way every flicker of emotion on the younger boy's face seemed to be aimed solely at Severus.

Several times, Severus had to gently steer Barty, keeping him from bumping headfirst into banisters, walls, or other students. The boy’s open admiration bordered on comical, though Severus thought it best to appear oblivious. By the time they reached the Transfiguration Courtyard, Severus patients had worn thin as Barty chattered on about the uses of plant ash until they finally parted ways—Barty heading to Charms, while Severus prepared himself for another Defense lesson shared with Gryffindors.

Non-surprisingly, the class passed in a blur of spells and taunts. Defense Against the Dark Arts this year had taken on a grim new tone, focused almost entirely on preparing them for their O.W.L.s, though it felt more like preparing them for war. The classroom was dimly lit, casting shadows across rows of students hunched over their desks, their faces tense as Professor Dolohov went on about hexes and counter-jinxes in his thick, unyielding accent. Severus sat tucked among his fellow Slytherins, though even their presence didn’t put him at ease.

The Marauders were only a few rows back, and he could feel their eyes on him every now and then. Though he avoided looking, Severus knew they were there: Potter with his trademark smirk and Black with that glint of reckless defiance. He had become skilled at ignoring them, yet he couldn’t entirely banish the discomfort that coiled in his gut whenever their voices carried over the classroom, taunting, laughing, throwing whispered insults his way whenever Dolohov's back was turned.

Today’s lesson required them to pair off and practice basic dueling spells: Disarming Charms, Shield Charms, and minor hexes meant to be harmless but precise. Severus grimaced as Dolohov called out the pairings, his stomach sinking when his name was followed by “Lupin.” He could feel Black’s eyes burning into him from across the room, a warning of the torment to come. As Severus made his way to the dueling area, Black loudly suggested that Lupin “show him a real curse, something Snivellus will feel all the way back to his slimy common room.”

“Come on, Remus,” Black jeered, elbowing his friend as if daring him. “Let’s see if you can make it memorable for the git.”

Lupin looked uncomfortable, and Severus could tell he was trying to tune out Black’s taunts, though his loyalty to his friends kept him from outright rejecting them. Severus hated how he could see the wariness in Lupin’s eyes, the guilt and uncertainty that rarely crept up when the others bullied him. Severus sneered, more irritated by Lupin’s hesitation than the threat from Black.

“Spineless, like all Gryffindors,” he thought, his hand gripping his wand tightly.

When Dolohov signaled them to begin, Severus forced himself to focus, slipping into the precise concentration that had served him well so many times before. He raised his wand, steady and calm, and waited for Lupin to make the first move. Lupin’s stance was cautious, his spells carefully calculated, as if he were afraid to overstep. But Severus could still hear Black's voice in the background, encouraging Lupin to “stop playing nice.”

“Expelliarmus!” Lupin called, sending a careful Disarming Charm his way. Severus countered easily, then launched a mild Stinging Hex, aiming for Lupin’s shoulder. The Gryffindor deflected it, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. They went back and forth, the tension building as Severus tightened his jaw, pretending not to hear Black muttering that Lupin should use something darker.

“Pathetic,” Severus sneered, his voice low enough for only Lupin to hear. “You’re just as spineless as your little friends.”

Lupin flinched, his face tightening as he fought to keep his focus. But before either could cast another spell, Dolohov called time, instructing them to return to their seats.

By the time the last defensive spell had left his wand, Severus was itching to leave. As soon as Dolohov dismissed them, he packed his bag and slipped out, intent on heading to the Owlery. He had written his response to his grandfather earlier in the library—a strange new habit. The novelty of writing to someone expecting to hear from him hadn’t worn off. He knew his grandfather’s inquiries were driven by a desire for status updates rather than genuine concern, yet the entire act felt oddly comforting. For five years, he hadn’t once owled home; now, the experience lingered in his thoughts, stirring emotions he was unused to.

Lost in thought, and perhaps a bit softened by Henry’s recent presence in his life, Severus found himself intercepted en route to the Owlery. A tripping jinx hit him before he registered what was happening, and he stumbled, his heart sinking as he recognized the approaching Marauders. Black, as usual, led the group, his eyes gleaming with mischief, with Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew trailing behind, smirking in unison.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Black sneered, sauntering closer.

Severus scrambled back up to his feet, his hand slipping to his wand as he shot Black a glare. “Out of my way, Black.”

But Black sidestepped, blocking his path with a smirk. “What’s the rush, Snivellus? Off to send a love letter? I see you’ve scrubbed up a bit this year. Slagging for more than just the Slytherins?”

The others chuckled, and Severus’s stomach churned with rage and disgust.

“Leave him alone, Siri,” Lupin murmured, though without much conviction.

“Why, you jealous?” Severus spat with his jaw clenched, glaring at Black. “I can’t fathom too many women wanting anything to do with you, money or not. And the name is Prince. Maybe that’s difficult for you to understand, given how little care about your own name.”

Black’s face twisted with fury, his cocky facade slipping. “You can call yourself whatever you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing. You’re still Snivellus. No name, no bloodline, no one you crawl into bed with will ever make you enough.”

Severus’s hand twitched toward his wand, his voice lowering to an icy whisper. “I said, move.”

“Or what?” Black folded his arms, sneering. “Planning to hex me, Snivellus? Go on, I’d love to see you try.”

Before Severus could reply, Lily’s voice rang out sharply. “Sirius!” She stormed over, her eyes blazing. “Can’t you go a single day without tormenting someone?”

Black’s grin faltered, and he turned to her, annoyed. “Just having a bit of fun, Evans. Don’t tell me you’re getting all sanctimonious on me.”

“Fun?” Lily scoffed, crossing her arms. “If that’s your idea of fun, I’m not sure you’ve ever grown up.” She turned to Potter, raising an eyebrow. “And you just let this happen?”

Potter looked uncomfortable, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Come on, Lily, it’s harmless. Just a bit of banter.”

“Banter?” Lily repeated, exasperated. “It’s only ‘banter’ when both sides are laughing, James. Look at him!” She gestured at Severus, who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

But before Severus could feel a shred of gratitude, Lily’s gaze turned on him, her expression cooling. “And you—don’t think I didn’t hear you. You’re no better, Severus. Throwing around names like that? It’s pathetic.”

Severus bristled, feeling the sting of her words. “So you’re taking their side now?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. But maybe you should learn to walk away instead of making it worse.”

“Exactly,” Potter chimed in, trying to smooth things over. “No one needs a big row here, right?”

Black rolled his eyes. “Oh, Evans, always swooping in to play hero for lost causes.” He sneered at Severus. “Guess you’ve got yourself a fan, Snivellus. For now.”

“Maybe if you acted less like a bully and more like a decent person, Sirius, you’d have fewer ‘lost causes’ around here,” Lily shot back, grabbing Severus’s arm and tugging him along as she turned to leave.

Severus clenched his fist around his wand, letting her pull him away, hating the sting of her criticism but recognizing she’d offered him an out. Lily didn’t look back, and Severus kept his gaze firmly forward, ignoring the twisted mix of gratitude and resentment that simmered beneath his relief as they left the Marauders behind.

Lily’s grip on Severus’s arm didn’t loosen as they rounded the corner, her steps purposeful and her face set in a stern expression. She barely glanced at the passing students, her attention entirely focused on him.

“You have to start handling these things better, Severus,” she huffed, frustration clear in her voice. “Picking a fight with Sirius of all people? He knows exactly how to get under your skin, and you just let him.”

“I didn’t ‘let him’ do anything,” Severus muttered, rolling his eyes.

Lily shot him a withering look. “You certainly didn’t stop him, either.”

Severus clenched his jaw, determined not to show how much her words bit into him. As they neared the staircase leading up to the Owlery, he managed to pull his arm free. “I need to send a letter.”

He’d hoped that would end their conversation, a signal for her to leave him to his thoughts, but Lily simply shrugged and followed, her footsteps echoing his up the narrow, winding stairs. When they reached the Owlery, Severus took a steadying breath, trying to refocus on his task. But Lily wasn’t about to drop it.

“Honestly, Severus,” she began, folding her arms as she watched him choose an owl, “insisting on being called Prince now? It’s childish. Just days ago, you were Severus Snape.”

He stilled, feeling the weight of her words hang in the cold, drafty air of the Owlery. For a moment, he said nothing, his hand resting on the owl’s soft feathers as he tried to gather his thoughts. “That’s the thing about putting a part of you to rest,” he replied quietly, finally meeting her gaze. “Sometimes, for your own sake, you have to hope it stays dead.” He paused, the words coming slowly, each one laced with old, buried hurt. “That name is dead to me, Lily. And you may never understand the freedom of finally being allowed to stop flinching at a part of yourself.”

Lily’s expression softened slightly, but he pressed on, his voice hardening. “Or of putting all possible barriers between you and your abuser calling you theirs. Because what I experienced in that house was abuse, Lily—and I pray to all the old gods that you never experience it too.”

A quiet hung between them, and for a moment, Severus thought he saw something shift in her eyes, a flicker of understanding that went beyond her usual, well-meaning concern. A quiet hung between them, and for a moment, Severus thought he saw something shift in her eyes, a flicker of understanding that went beyond her usual, well-meaning concern. But he put it out of mind, done with spending unnecessary thought on unnecessary things.

Silently, they reached the owlery. And Severus, non bothered by the awkward silence that had descended, released his chosen owl and watched for a moment as it took off with a strong beat of its wings. If he were to be honest with himself, the exchange with Lily had left him raw—his mind swirling with anger, hurt, and that mounting resentment that seemed to shadow their every interaction these days. Despite his longing for the sense of freedom he’d tried to explain, her judgment lingered, gnawing at him.

With a sigh, Severus turned to her, “Shall we walk to class together?”

The rest of his day stretched before him, heavy with annoyance and simmering frustration. In Care of Magical Creatures, Lily’s presence beside him was an exercise in patience. Her comments were short, laced with subtle rebukes, and the quiet criticism etched across her face every time she glanced at him wore on him like sandpaper. The creature they were studying, a skittish Bowtruckle, darted around its branch as he handled it with more force than he should’ve, its small claws scratching at his fingers. He barely noticed the sting.

Dinner was equally unremarkable. It came with the quiet murmur of the Great Hall, students chattering over plates of roast and potatoes. The mingling scents of roast and gravy, warm and familiar, wafted around him, but tonight they felt cloying, the noise almost too much. A blur of idle chatter wrapped him like wool until Henry’s familiar gaze cut through the din, drawing him in with a quiet, reassuring pull. And Severus, feeling as though he endured enough for one day, walked down the long table past his year-mates and went to plop down beside Henry without hesitation.

But Henry stopped him, standing up as Severus approached. His face light up in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down Severus’s spine. Setting down his fork, Henry stood beside their seats with an extended hand, palm facing upward in a subtle, ceremonial gesture. 

Severus paused, his heart stuttering before he reciprocated, reaching out to place his hand atop Henry's. He was still getting used to this courting debacle—the blatant attention, the consistent devotion, and the way it made his stomach hunger. Their fingers brushed, a brief touch like a whispered promise, and Severus felt his cheeks warm as he took his seat beside him.

With a faint huff, Severus shifted about. And as he settled into his seat, Henry offered a gentle nudge with his shoulder, his eyes twinkling with familiar mischief. A knowing smile tugged at his lips, as he asked, “Rough day?”

“Rough is an understatement,” Severus muttered, though a smirk slipped through as Henry leaned in again, their shoulders nearly touching. They exchanged quiet remarks and Severus’ mood lifting a little as Henry teased him in a low voice, weaving their familiar banter into the conversation.

But as the hour wore on, Severus couldn’t ignore the distant look in Henry’s eyes, the way he occasionally went silent mid-sentence, staring off toward nothing. By the time his last few potatoes went cold, Severus felt his own enthusiasm waver—sensing a gap between them even as they sat side by side. He gave Henry a sidelong glance, and simply said, “You’re a million miles away.”

Henry blinked, looking over at Severus with a softened expression. “Sorry. Just—a lot on my mind, is all.” He placed a hand on Severus’s arm, squeezing gently. “I’ll walk you to Astronomy after dinner, alright? I’ll be there when you’re done, too.”

The words were meant to comfort, and Severus nodded as they did warm him at the thought of Henry being there to walk him through the cold night, as tonight his class would be in the forest. So he let the faint promise carry him through the evening. And after they wiped their mouths and said their goodbyes, Henry led him to the Astronomy classroom to depart with the rest of his class. And in no time at all, Severus was out with them in the carefully warded field in the eastern edge of the Forbidden Forest—where the trees gave way to a small clearing that offered an unobstructed view.

Tired from the day, Severus adjusted his telescope, carefully aligning it with the stars his professor pointed out in the night sky. The sounds of the forest hummed around him, almost hypnotic, yet he felt strangely detached, his thoughts drifting as Professor Sinistra’s voice filled the crisp air.

“Tonight, we’re focusing on Serpens, the serpent constellation,” she announced, sweeping her wand through the air to draw a faint outline of the constellation’s stars. “It’s unique, as it’s split into two parts: Serpens Caput, the head, and Serpens Cauda, the tail, held together by the constellation Ophiuchus, the serpent-bearer. A mysterious constellation, symbolizing wisdom and guardianship, yet rarely is it spoken about as much as Orion or Ursa Major.”

A soft smile crept onto Severus’s face. Serpens. His mother had shown him Serpens before, on a rare clear night back in Cokewort as she guided his finger through the mottled sky. They had no magical telescope, only an old pair of binoculars she’d managed to save from a yard sale. But for him, it was enough. Few and far between moments had been a bridge to something greater, something that didn’t require money or status—just a bit of knowledge and a sense of wonder. In those moments, she’d been more than his cowering mother; she’d been his teacher, his guide, the one who’d opened the door to magic.

“See, Severus,” she’d whispered, her arm wrapped around his shoulders as they sat on the damp grass, her voice softer than the hum of distant cars. “Serpens guards wisdom, and only those who approach with patience and reverence will understand it.” She’d squeezed his shoulder and murmured, “Remember, you don’t need much to be great, my love. Sometimes, you just need to know where to look.”

A flicker of longing stirred in his chest. His mother’s lessons had been some of the only magic they’d shared back then, weaving something remarkable into their world of thin blankets and drafty windows. The weight of her arm around his shoulders had been a rare warmth, grounding him against the cool night air as she’d guided his hand. The scent of her faded perfume and the soft rustle of her coat had clung to him, lingering long after they returned indoors. He wondered now if she’d recognize him, this version of himself who had grown taller and sharper, both for and despite her.

He wondered, as he adjusted his telescope and squinted through the lens, if she’d be proud of him now. “Would she think I had the patience and strength of Serpens? Or would she feel I’d already let too much slip through my fingers?”

Professor Sinistra moved on, guiding the class to the next constellation, but Severus found his mind lingering on the stars, tracing Serpens in his mind even as her voice faded to the background. When class ended, Severus slipped into the tree-line to wait. Slytherin’s and Ravenclaw’s petered out around him until he found himself alone under the cold, dark sky.

He gave it some time—sulking seconds and metering minutes. Each one stripped away a thin layer of trust. He knew Henry was burdened, pulled into one shadow after another, yet a bitter edge of betrayal curled in his chest. He was there, always there, and yet it seemed that Henry—just tonight, just this once—was not. And when then wind changed it’s direction and blew into him with a ferocity that started his steps, a sigh escaped him as he scanned the empty space. An unmistakable pang of disappointment pierced through him at the realization that Henry had forgotten him.

Even as his steps brought him closer to the castle he mentally waited—clinging to Henry’s promise. The walk felt longer than usual, the looming castle walls cold and uninviting as they came into view. The night air clawed at his cheeks, the bite of it echoing the tightness in his chest. Each step was another count of how much Henry had kept him waiting, a slow burn fueling his annoyance. With every clack of his heels on rocks and then stone he attempted to give Henry the benefit of the doubt.

That lasted until he was bathed by the light of the main hall’s sconces and his patience frayed, replaced by the slow-burning warmth of anger. With a huff, he set off through the castle, mentally rehearsing all the ways he’d make Henry regret his absence, picturing every scornful word he’d deliver. It was only as he rounded a dim corner that he felt the air shift—and there, standing in the shadows, was Dumbledore, watching him with his usual, unreadable gaze.

“Out rather late tonight, Mr. Snape?”

Dumbledore’s silhouette seemed to meld with the darkness, an almost spectral figure whose gaze held Severus like a quiet warning. His blue eyes gleamed, both inscrutable and knowing, and Severus felt a flicker of guilt before he could catch it, as if the Headmaster had pulled it to the surface unbidden.

Looking away, Severus replied, “I do believe my grandfather updated my documentation to reflect that it is Prince now, headmaster. Please excuse me, as I am trying to return to my-“

“Ah,” Dumbledore interrupted, “Do forgive an old man for his folly. Now, I had actually wished to speak with you and was headed down to the dungeons myself.

“Oh?” Severus asked as he contemplated the merits of simply walking past the man.

Severus’s heart lurched, then skidded into a quiet, tense rhythm. “An emergency owl?”

“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore said softly, stepping aside as if to invite Severus down the corridor. “A rather stately bird, if I might add. Majestic in its own peculiar way.” His voice drifted with vague admiration, as though they were discussing a painting rather than the purpose of a late-night message. “Its feathers—a deep slate, streaked with silver—quite unlike the tawny tones we usually see from the school owls.”

Dumbledore paused, waiting as if Severus might marvel alongside him. But when Severus simply stared, Dumbledore nodded, resuming his slow, meandering gait. “It reminded me, actually, of the owls kept by a man I once knew, though his were a breed even rarer than those owned by the Black family. Did you know Grindelwald favored Norwegian Spotted Owls? Marvelous creatures, known for their intelligence and—”

“Headmaster,” Severus interjected, his voice clipped and his frustration coiling tighter. “The owl,” he pressed, pulse drumming impatiently, “what did it say?”

“Oh,” Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with something close to sympathy, yet his tone remained infuriatingly casual. “Quite right, of course. We must get to the matter, yes. You see, Severus, I often wonder if the importance of owls is overstated—messages borne on wings feel somehow—fragile, as if their meaning might dissipate in the breeze. Don’t you think?”

Severus barely kept himself from screaming. Every nerve felt taut, strained by the slow drag of Dumbledore’s words. He forced himself to breathe, the cold air filling his lungs. “What was the message, Headmaster?” His voice was tight, barely masking the crack of desperation.

Dumbledore finally stopped, his gaze settling on Severus with an intensity that suddenly felt as cold as the stone walls around them. “Ah, Severus,” he murmured. “Your grandfather has informed us that-” His voice dipped, quiet yet unyielding, each word cutting through the stillness. “Well, your parents have passed. A month ago, it seems. But your grandfather’s elves only noticed her name fade from your family’s tree while doing a bit of dusting this evening.”

For a moment, Severus heard nothing, felt nothing, as though his senses had dropped into a cold, dark void. The words seemed suspended in the air, unreal, faint as distant thunder. His parents. Gone. Just like that. The thought flitted through him like a cruel, insistent whisper, but the weight of it pressed, heavy and relentless, sinking deep into his chest until it seemed he could scarcely breathe. Dimly, he felt Dumbledore’s hand resting on his shoulder, steering him, but it was a hollow comfort, something peripheral and barely noticed. Numbness was all that remained, dulling the cold stone walls, the flicker of torchlight, and the faint rustling of Dumbledore’s robes as he guided him back through the silent halls.

They walked together, Dumbledore murmuring words of condolence Severus barely registered, his mind lost in a hollow, echoing silence. By the time they reached the familiar warmth of Dumbledore’s office, he could scarcely remember the journey. He sank into the chair across from the Headmaster’s desk, feeling as if he were nothing more than a shadow, his skin drawn tight over emptiness. The office was dimly lit, golden light casting soft, dappled shadows, but tonight it felt oppressive, as if the walls themselves leaned in, listening.

Dumbledore sat down across from him, hands clasped, his gaze gentler now, almost pitying. “I know this is difficult, Severus,” he said, voice a practiced, soothing murmur. “If there is anything you need, any questions you might have, I am here for you.”

Severus nodded, but the motion felt strange, like a puppet’s jerk. What did he need? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know what he should be feeling. It was as though his heart were locked in ice, numb and unmoving.

“Your grandfather will be here to collect you in the morning, as in times like these we need the strong bonds of familiarity to help us get by.” Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. “I know, too, that you have—strong bonds here. With friends, with those who care for you. It can be a comfort in times like these to hold close to such connections.”

A strange prickling tension crept along Severus’s skin. He glanced at Dumbledore, trying to read the Headmaster’s expression, but his gaze was soft, kind, and unyielding. “You mean Henry.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore replied with a nod, his eyes glimmering with a faint interest. “Young Mr. Peverell. A fascinating young man, wouldn’t you agree? Strong-willed, dedicated—loyal, too, I’ve noticed.”

Severus swallowed, throat feeling raw. “Yes.”

“Curious, really,” Dumbledore continued, as though speaking to himself. “A pure-blood, yet with such progressive ideas. He seems drawn to you, Severus, in a way I would be remiss not to point out as rather—intense.”

Severus’s numbness began to crack, small fractures appearing as Dumbledore’s words cut deeper. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I suppose.”

Dumbledore nodded, the movement slow, deliberate. “And you are drawn to him as well, I presume? After all, bonds are forged from shared beliefs, shared dreams. What sort of things does Mr. Peverell share with you, if I may ask?”

Severus hesitated, defensiveness sparking within him. It felt wrong—cruel, even—to discuss Henry under such circumstances. But Dumbledore’s gaze held him captive, as if peeling back each layer with a gentle yet relentless touch. Severus managed, his voice low and wary as though admitting a secret in a room full of whispers, to bite out, “We talk.”

“Talk, yes,” Dumbledore murmured, sounding approving, though something flickered in his eyes that made Severus uneasy. “Words are a powerful thing, you know. Ideas even more so. Henry seems to have a very—particular view of the world.”

“Yes, he does,” Severus answered, finding a flicker of warmth, a small ember of loyalty, in the otherwise hollow room.

Dumbledore tilted his head, fingers steepled. “But do you believe, Severus, that he always acts in your best interest?”

Severus’s chest tightened, confusion cutting through the numbness, blooming into anger. “He’s always been there for me,” he replied, sharper than he intended. “I trust him.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, but his voice remained steady, unwavering. “Trust is a rare gift, Severus. Not everyone is worthy of it. There are those who may seem to care for you, yet harbor ambitions that may not align with your own.”

“That’s not Henry,” he whispered, though even as he spoke, he felt a seed of doubt, small and poisonous, settle within him. The words slithered through Severus’s mind, winding through his thoughts with an insidious hiss.

Dumbledore’s expression softened, but he did not relent. “I understand this is difficult to hear. Yet, I worry for you, Severus. There is the matter of your backgrounds and differences in age. I see great potential in you, potential that must not be overshadowed or led astray by another’s ambitions. You deserve to forge your own path.”

“Henry isn’t like that,” he said, but his voice was fragile, brittle, as though it might shatter with the weight of his own uncertainty. Severus’s hands clenched, nails biting into his palms. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in.

Dumbledore’s gaze held him, patient, unyielding. “Perhaps not. But remember, Severus, that true strength lies in independence, in standing alone when needed. Lean on those you trust, but be careful where you place your faith. For faith, once broken, is not easily mended.”

Severus sat in silence, feeling the ice around his heart crack further, each word seeping into him, coiling like smoke through his veins. Dumbledore’s voice was calm, reassuring, yet something in the depths of his eyes spoke of a knowledge Severus wasn’t ready to face, an unseen warning lurking in his gaze.

At last, Dumbledore leaned back, his expression settling into something kinder, almost fatherly. “I’m always here for you, Severus. My door is open, should you ever need guidance—or simply someone to listen.”

Severus could barely muster a nod, the numbness seeping over him like a heavy blanket, cloaking him in silence. His chest felt hollow, as if all the air had been leeched from his lungs, leaving him unable to even voice a simple acknowledgment. The walls of the office seemed to peer down at him, pressing inward, casting distorted shadows in the low light that mirrored the labyrinth of thoughts tangled in his mind. Numbness dulled his senses, smothering the agony churning beneath the surface.

For a fleeting moment, Severus entertained the thought of speaking—of challenging Dumbledore, demanding clarity or reassurance, anything that might make sense of this quiet, unfeeling despair. But as he glanced at the Headmaster’s calm, impenetrable gaze, he felt his resolve falter, as though the words would vanish on his tongue, useless and weak. A flicker of resentment simmered, quick and bitter. He saw through Dumbledore’s mask—knew that the Headmaster’s “concern” was more than just concern. It was the calculated interest of a man probing for secrets, digging into his pain with deft, almost clinical precision.

Yet even that realization could not break him from his numbness. His limbs felt weighted, as though he were sinking deeper and deeper into a cold, indifferent sea. Dumbledore’s office, with its bookshelves, curios, and carefully placed trinkets, felt less like a place of sanctuary and more like a cage. And, within its walls, the only constant was the low, rhythmic hum of the Headmaster’s voice, filling the air with reassurances that Severus could barely hear, much less believe.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke once more, his voice reaching Severus through the fog. “It’s late, Severus. I know this is much to carry, especially at an hour like this. Perhaps—it might help to rest on it.” His words were gentle, almost fatherly, but there was an unmistakable firmness to them, a nudge urging Severus to leave, to go and process alone—where his thoughts would be left vulnerable, open to doubt, to all that Dumbledore had so carefully sown. “And who knows, a night’s rest might help you process what you believe you know about the boy and shed new light in the morning rays.”

Severus swallowed, the effort painful, as if his throat had closed. He wanted to rise, to leave, to escape the room and the watchful gaze that lingered even as Dumbledore’s expression softened with what could almost be mistaken for pity. Yet his legs refused to cooperate, his muscles locked with the weight of grief he barely understood. It was as though his own mind betrayed him, caught in the throes of sorrow, exhaustion, and the faint, insidious unease that Dumbledore’s words had stirred.

Severus’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow and rapid. His mind struggled to focus, but his body betrayed him—a trembling started in his hands, and his heart pounded as if something monstrous lurked just out of sight. Panic, dark and overwhelming, surged up inside him, clawing through the numbness with sudden ferocity. He could feel sweat slicking his skin, could hear the sharp breaths escaping his own lips, as if his lungs themselves were trying to wrest free from his body.

Then, the wave of raw energy surged beyond himself and through the room—prickling along his skin like static electricity. It was subtle at first—a mere flicker of tension that made the hair on his arms stand up. But it intensified quickly, a mounting magical pressure that felt as if the very walls of the castle had come alive, pulsing with a dark, chaotic life of their own. And in a moment Severus realized that the shuddering of his blood had nothing to do with himself.

As the pressure built, the delicate trinkets on Dumbledore’s desk began to shiver and clatter, rattling like a warning. The silver instruments, usually so controlled, spun wildly, releasing sparks that illuminated the room in unsettling flashes. A glass paperweight shattered with a sharp crack, and the hum of energy grew louder, as though the castle itself was holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable.

A battered grandfather clock by the door shuddered, its ancient gears grinding against each other in protest. Severus’s gaze was drawn to it just as the glass face splintered outward in an explosion of jagged shards, the hands frozen in an eerie, unnatural stillness. Dumbledore’s expression, usually so composed, twisted into one of unguarded alarm as he rushed to the clock, muttering frantically under his breath, phrases like “Dark Lord” and “unholy disturbances” slipping out with fearful reverence.

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Severus’s mind leapt to the worst—thinking that Lord Voldemort had come to assail the castle in one final, devastating blow. His heart raced faster, terror mingling with the oppressive weight of the magical force that pressed down on him, pushing him closer and closer to the brink. But then, through the chaos, Severus felt something—an echo, faint yet unmistakable. It was a magical signature, familiar and potent, threading through the haze like a single, steady heartbeat.

”Henry.” Recognition dawned, cutting through his fear and grounding him, reminding him of who he was, of the task that lay ahead as he began to mentally chant, “I need to get away from here. I need to get-”

It was not an enemy; it was something else altogether, something he could understand and face. With that realization, strength returned to his shaking limbs. Somehow, Severus forced himself to stand, the motion wooden, like a puppet pulled upright by invisible strings. Without another thought, he fled the room, his mind focusing to a singular, resolute command: “Find Henry.”

Chapter Text

October 30 - October 31, 1975

Severus left Dumbledore’s office like a shadow fleeing the light. The echo of the headmaster’s voice still lingered cold on his skin as the sound of the grandfather clock’s distorted chimes grew softer the further he ran. The thud of the office’s heavy oak door closing behind him as he stumbled down the narrow stairs offered him no comfort. Everything—the walls, the moonlight, his next breath—felt too close and too far in tandem. As his steps quickened, unbidden by the invisible threads of Henry’s magic, the dizziness of losing consciousness threatened his every step.

The closer he got to the spot of darkness that stood just on the edge of his vision, the thicker the air seemed to grow, and each step carried him into an even denser silence. His mind raced, images of Henry flashing in his thoughts with the intensity of a fever. Henry’s gaze, fierce and unwavering. Henry’s laughter, sharp and bright as broken glass. Every memory felt like a tether binding him closer, pulling him down and down, as if something terrible and irreversible lay at the end of this journey.

Severus’ heart hammered, matching the tremor of magic that thrummed overbearingly in the air—and grew shaky the deeper into the castle he went. Hogwarts was unnaturally silent, its long, torch-lit corridors stretching ahead in an unbroken line of dim stone and flickering shadows. The familiar shapes felt foreign, changed under the cold touch of smothering magic and his own invisible panic. The once proud, indifferent statues now seemed to cower in the all-consuming atmosphere. The gilded frames of all absent portraits felt like an omen urging him in the opposite direction.

He moved as if in a dream, footsteps sloppy and uneven until he nearly threw himself headfirst down the stone stairs. He was driven by the unmistakable feeling that something awful and resplendent awaited him far below, something urgent and dark, calling out from the dungeons like a silent scream. He knew that something was Henry’s magic—but as he watched it braid itself into the wards throughout the castle and weave itself into the natural elements of the very air before his eyes, Severus’ mind could not come to terms with the idea that this all stemmed from one human.

An unsettling murmur hummed at the edge of his hearing, too faint to pinpoint but too distinct to ignore. It rose and fell like distant whispers, dragging his gaze to every shadow, every creak of stone. He could almost hear the echo of breaths he didn’t take, an invisible presence pacing him step for step. At intervals, strange distortions of penumbra warped the windows, casting odd, twisting shadows that stretched and thinned across the stone walls like grasping fingers. The castle felt as if it were holding its breath, the heavy stones pressing inward, oppressive and watchful, as if its very structure leaned in to follow the magic’s progress.

Even the torches, Severus noticed as his mind took more in, were missing their flicker. Sconce after sconce, each held a candle with a sole flame that did not dance, did not waver—as though light itself stood dormant in the force of this magic. Then, as he neared the dungeons, the magic blinked out. The stillness that replaced it was absolute, swallowing the faint echoes of his footsteps as his ears popped to adjust to the pressure.

Severus tripped to a stop, confusion and dread twisting together in his gut. He caught himself on the wall beside him and asudden, searing warmth spread under his hand where it touched the stone, making him jerk back. He stared at the wall as it cooled again, his pulse pounding faster, sure that something within the castle was holding its breath in wait with him.

Shaking himself, Severus strained to sense the magic again—to feel even the faintest pulse of that pall of energy that had filled the castle only moments before, but there was nothing. The quiet felt wrong. The lingering static in the air, wispy now, was an affront to what the magic had been before—as though the magic had every right to drown them this evening, and to go without it clotting the lungs was the mistake.

“What has Henry done?!”

Severus forced himself onward, now feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the castle’s drafts. The air was thick, damp, and smelled faintly of iron as he jogged through the underground. The silence seemed to grow sharper, cutting into him with every step until he found himself at the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Here, finally, a sound broke through the oppressive quiet—the murmur of voices, low and uneasy, that had to be unfathomably loud to slip through the walls like water through cracks.

On the other side of the sliding stone, students packed themselves so tightly into the common room that there was a crowd around the entrance. He saw that some still wore their daywear, but most were wrapped in their dressing gowns and blankets, their faces pale and eyes wide with confusion. A roar of questions, comments, and complaints rippled through the crowd, anxious and accusatory, as he pushed his way forward. Words floated past him—words like “Dark Arts,” “Sacrifice,” and “Dark Lord,” each one digging deeper into his skin, sending his heart racing faster.

Further inside, Severus saw that the common room was in chaos. The usually austere, dignified space now felt ravaged, as though a storm had torn through, leaving the remnants of order and civility in tatters. The neatly ordered shelves had been knocked askew, and books lay scattered across the floor in careless disarray, pages torn and fluttering like the broken wings of moths. Lamps and candlesticks lay toppled, their flames extinguished, leaving the room cast in eerie, distorted shadows from the glow of the lake. Several wands were aloft, casting enough lumos that he was able to shoulder his way onward.

Severus’s gaze swept the room, searching, desperate for a single face amid the frenzy. But Henry was nowhere to be seen, and a knot of cold, unyielding dread twisted tighter in his stomach. Then, from his left, he could feel the weight of eyes upon him—their gaze sharp, expectant, as a prefect stepped forward.

Severus’ mind was too jumbled to attempt proper greetings, but they were not needed as the girl’s expression hardened and she began to make demands of him, her voice cutting through the yelling. “Snape!” the girl barked as she flanked him. “Where have you been? It’s nearly 1 a.m., and you haven’t been in your room!”

Severus recoiled from the volume of her voice as though struck. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat, tangled with the frantic pulse of his thoughts. “Dumbledore—I was—”

“You were what? What have you done?!” another prefect demanded, stepping closer, accusation foaming in his eyes. “You’re always up to something, Snape. We felt that backlash. What did you do?”

The tide of the room changed as it began to buzz with speculation, whispers flitting through the air like moths to flame. Severus felt all of their eyes bore into him, sharp and unyielding, as if he were the only source of the furor unfolding around them. Anger flared within him, a quicksilver response to their insinuations.

“I didn’t do anything!” he spat, desperation creeping into his voice, a plea that fell flat against their skepticism. How could he explain? How could he articulate the storm brewing inside him when the world around him felt like it was coming apart and he still had not found Henry?

As Severus’ denial rang out, the two prefects glared at him, their expressions a mix of frustration and distrust. “You expect us to believe that?” The older girl chewed through her words, her voice dripping with contempt. “Something powerful just swept through the castle, and now here you are, looking half-crazed, stumbling into the common room like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Severus clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm even as anger surged within him. He shot back, his voice cold, each word a shield against their accusations, “If you’re so sure you know what’s going on, then maybe you should be the ones explaining it to me!”

The second prefect scoffed, before his tirade began, “How dare you act innocent! We know you, disgusting little mudblood! Sniffing around after your betters, begging after Heir Black’s scraps—you probably have Heir Peverell enchanted! What was it tonight, Snape—soul magic gone wrong?!”

The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers flaring back to life like embers reigniting. The prefects' glares sharpened, their eyes narrowing with skepticism. The girl leaned in, her voice low and taunting. "Just tell us what you’ve done, so that you don’t bring the whole House into the gutter with you. What secrets are you hiding?"

Severus felt his control slipping, anger threatening to boil over. "Secrets?" he scoffed, defiant. "You think I owe you any explanation? I was with Dumbledore when we both sensed the same disturbance!"

The two looked at each other, as though to deliberate, before the boy turned and sneered, “I don’t believe you!”

Severus folded his arms across his chest to keep from swinging, his nails digging into his forearms as he forced himself to hold their gaze. "Believe whatever you want," he shot back, his voice as cold as the dungeon stone. "But if I were responsible, you wouldn't be left standing here to accuse me."

The male prefect gripped the front on Severus’ robes and hoisted him up until only the tips of his loafers scratched the ground. “You’ve been tinkering with dark magic, haven’t you? Trying to show off? You can barely handle the basics, but you think you’re some kind of—”

But before the prefect could finish, the room’s attention suddenly shifted. A door slammed open and then loud, hurried sound of footsteps echoed from a hallway above. The crowd’s gaze snapped toward the opening at the top of the stairs to the boy’s corridor, where Henry appeared, his face shadowed and breath labored. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in all the Slytherin’s gathered in the common room—the crowd of anxious, curious, and fearful faces fixed on him. The air went still, thick with a palpable, electric tension. For a single, suspended moment, no one moved.

Then, it happened.

A ripple of awareness washed through the room, a collective gasp of realization as they looked at Henry and Henry looked at them. It was as if someone had thrown a switch—the atmosphere shifted, rippling with an energy only mildly less potent than before. The clock had long ago struck midnight and it was well into the witching hour. It was now Samhain, the veil was too thin, Henry’s magic was too unstable—raw, unbridled as it coursed through the room, sending shivers up Severus’s spine. It felt ancient, dark, like a whisper from another realm, slipping past the would-be barrier that separated their world from the next.

And unbeknownst to Severus, Henry’s spells woven between Imbolc and now melted away. Every Slytherin in the room stilled, faces going blank as though gripped by sudden clarity. The spell that had cloaked their minds lifted, releasing them from the fog they hadn’t known they were under, and realization dawned like a slow-blooming horror.

"Henry-" someone gasped, their voice tremulous with awe.

"He’s the one," murmured another, their words heavy with a reverent fear. "He’s- he’s been using Dark Magic."

A few others looked on him with admiration, their expressions starstruck. Another breathed, their voice filled with wonder, almost a prayer, "Peverell could rival even Him!”

A group of younger students inched closer to Henry, their eyes wide with awe. "A Dark Lord-" one of them whispered reverently, barely daring to speak the words aloud. "Our own Dark Lord."

But admiration was not the only response. Others began to back away, fear contorting their features, as though Henry had become a monster before their very eyes. One girl, pale and trembling, clutched her wand and took several shaky steps toward the door. "He’s a danger!" she cried. "He could kill us all with a flick of his wand!"

Another boy shoved past her, desperately making for the door, only for his voice to rise up in panic when the stones did not budge, "We’re trapped! There’s no way out!"

From the distance of his mind, Severus heard them all—though his eyes did not stray from Henry. In that suspended, dreadful moment, Severus looked at Henry and felt his gift of Sight open up in a way it never had before—as if a curtain had been torn down, revealing not just the meager glimpses of before but a full, unfiltered view of Henry’s magic. And what he saw was a nightmare made flesh, a spiraling horror lurking beneath the surface of Henry’s form, vast and incomprehensible.

Henry’s magic was an endless, shifting mass of tentacled shadows in a well of calamity-bringing ink. Its shape never quite settled, as though it existed in a reality separate from the room around them. Tendrils like ghostly, skeletal fingers extended outward, caressing the edges of the room in a hungry, restless motion, dark and sinuous. Tiny, glistening eyes—hundreds, no, thousands—blinked open along the being's surface, each one swirling with colors that defied description. Each eye seemed to watch Severus with a deep, unsettling awareness, seeing through him as if he were nothing more than mist.

As Severus watched the being back, he felt the magic pulse, breathing with a rhythm heavy and slow that mirrored his own heartbeat. At its core, Severus could make out a shape that defied all logic, twisting and folding into itself like an impossible labyrinth. The sight brought a shudder to his bones, a whisper of fear that settled somewhere in the deepest part of his soul. It was as though the being before him stretched beyond time and space, reaching into realms no human mind was meant to grasp.

And yet, as terrifying as this apparition was, Severus felt no urge to turn away. He saw, in the depths of that eldritch nightmare, a flickering warmth, a glint of humanity, a familiar presence that had always been Henry. Somewhere beneath the horror, there was still the young man he knew, fierce and bright and loyal in ways few understood. This was Henry, in all his contradictions—both monstrous and magnificent.

With a strange calm, Severus felt himself accept this truth, his fear melting away like frost under sunlight. Whatever Henry was, whatever dark power lay within him, it did not change the fact that Severus knew and loved him. This was a part of him, just as much as his laughter, his quiet loyalty, his sharp mind. Severus hesitantly reached out with his own magic in reckless acceptance and unguarded understanding. But his mind and heart were nonetheless resolute, rising above the judgments and accusations of those around them.

Severus did not know when his robes were released—but by the time he was able to take in more than that monstrous, fathomless gaze, the only thing keeping him from hitting the ground was a tendril of Henry’s magic wrapped around him from chest to thighs. The living darkness that cradled his body was so cold it burned—setting fire to his already racing mind. It seeped beyond flesh and blood, down past the marrow of his bones—it awakening a primal fear in the depths of his core.

He should have been shivering, trembling, but the raw fear that coursed through his heart had nothing on the touch of the ether that penetrated his soul. There was something beautiful, almost sacred, in the pain of Henry’s embrace. It was a feeling akin to death, yet not an end—something darker, deeper, as if he were plunging into the void only to be reborn within it.

He’d never known anything as wonderful and as appalling as the beast of Henry’s attention that he now fell prey to. As Severus hung there, suspended by the dark force that pulsed from Henry, he felt as though he were drifting between worlds—caught in a silent storm of power and despair. He sensed Henry's presence growing closer, his face emerging from the shadows, and in his gaze, Severus saw the war of emotion—a soul fragmented by forces far beyond mortal grasp.

When he did not struggle against the protective and claiming hold, the whip of pure power coiled tighter. He felt the length of it brush against his sternum, tip coiling into the hollow of his throat before moving on. It cupped his jaw, stroked his cheek, and grazed his lower lip in its retreat as the tentacle unraveled to settle against his throat. A thicker section of the magic squirmed against his stomach, like the raw touch of the night itself, and each caress tore away a part of him—stripping back the familiar layers of his mind and soul until his own consciousness became a stranger. All his secrets, his fears, every part of himself he had hidden away were laid bare, exposed to the magic that pulsed around him. It did not ask for permission; it consumed, devoured, and yet there was no cruelty in its touch, only inevitability.

It felt predestined that its was he who fed Henry as time ceased to matter—as he felt himself descending, deeper into the dark, an endless fall through layers of his own existence. Memories flickered and vanished like dying embers, dissolving into nothingness—his hopes, his regrets, every shard of pride and shame. He felt hollowed, as though the magic had reached in and scooped him empty, leaving him as an echo of his once known reality suspended between ruin and revelation.

For what else could the shift of magic, that parted his clothed thighs to get a better hold, be but ruin? What could the jolt of incomprehensible endurance of being gorged be but a revelation? In the heart of that devastation, that deliverance, Severus felt something shift. A shattering wave of feeling surged through him, breaking him and binding him anew, filling the hollowness with something vast and unknown. It was as if he were being forged, hammered out on the anvil of Henry’s soul, his edges burned away until only the raw, unyielding essence of himself remained.

Distantly, as one would notice the pass of an abstract cloud, Severus thought that he would be panting—should he feel his lungs. He would be drenched in fever and freedom, should he still be in contact with his own skin. And he would be rendered undone, several times over, should he even begin to locate where in space and time lay his cock. He belatedly mourned the opportunity to writhe and payne under the feel of Henry’s magic.

The agony of that thought, of this magic not rendering him to scant sense and sinew but pumping through his mortal body, was breathtaking. A conflagration that devoured every fragment of his human weaknesses, leaving only steel in its wake. Severus wanted it all. He wanted to feel the fire of rebirth burn through him, both searing and sweet—a purging of his soul that left him raw, unguarded, and achingly alive. He wanted to feel the numb sensation of his own release dripping down his spine. He wanted Henry—and his overbearing magic, and his wire-weary thoughts, and his kissingly kind words, and his bitingly given cock, and his-

"Severus," Henry whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with both terror and apology. "You shouldn’t—have seen this."

If Severus could determine his own eyes, he would have held Henry’s gaze. Instead, in his own steady heart, he hoped Henry could hear his what he wished for, "Henry, I would rather see all of you than turn away from even a part."

Something in Henry's expanse softened, a flicker of humanity breaking through the nightmare as if Severus’s words were a lifeline to a part of himself he thought long buried. The shadows that had coalesced around him recoiled slightly, loosening their grip as though touched by the warmth Severus offered. In that instant, Severus felt a deep swell of resolve rise within him, a determination to hold Henry steady in this fragile moment. He managed a small, weary, "Henry, I could never turn away from you. Not now, not ever."

Henry’s form wavered, the tendrils of magic receding further, as though afraid of overwhelming the fragile bond between them. Severus could feel the strain within Henry, the desperate struggle to hold himself together against the grisly tide that surged inside. With every ounce of resolve he possessed, Severus reached out—with magic, with the quiet strength of his presence, to ground Henry in this moment.

"We’ll face this together," Severus said as he regained the feeling of his own breath as it passed his parted lips, his voice steady. "Whatever it takes." The darkness around them shuddered, and for a fleeting second, Severus thought he saw the nightmare recede just enough to reveal Henry’s true face, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

When the last of the shadows fully released him, he felt as though he had crossed through death itself. Severus hovered on the precipice between worlds, no longer the man he had been but something altered, irrevocably changed. His heartbeat was no longer his own, his breath intertwined with the pulse of that dark, boundless magic. And he knew, with a certainty deeper than words, that he had become a part of Henry—woven into his darkness, his power, his love.

It was a love that had shattered him and remade him, a love that was both curse and benediction, binding him beyond flesh, beyond time, in a bond that nothing could sever. Severus felt the weight of it, the terrible beauty of being remade in the heart of Henry’s magic. And as he stood in the aftermath, whole yet forever changed, he knew that he would carry this truth, this exquisite burden, to the end of all things.

"Henry-"

Severus called out as though speaking directly to the essence before him, magic chasing after the other’s retreat. Henry’s many eyes darkened, and the magic lingering in the outer banks of Severus’ own pulsed in response to the sound of his voice—as if it wasn’t being drowned out but the sound of screams, begging, and spell-fire at the entrance.

And in that moment, Severus knew with absolute certainty that he would accept Henry, mangled amalgamation of grotesque shadows and incomprehensible-all, no matter what it might mean for the future.

Chapter Text

October 31 - November 21, 1975

The Slytherin common room was a storm of chaos. Shouts and shrieks ricocheted off the cold dungeon walls as students thrashed about in all directions. Some clawed desperately at the sealed stone door, their nails scraping uselessly against the unyielding surface when their spells failed to work. Others snatched uselessly at their wands, unleashing spells in frantic, uncontrolled bursts as their efforts dissolved into erratic flashes of light that fizzled before they could take form. The remaining lot clashed with their peers in a desperate bid to seize control of the situation—or, more foolishly, to curry favor with the impossible force that stood at its center.

At the center of it all stood Severus, unmoving, a figure wreathed in shadow and crackling with an energy that defied explanation. The dim orange light of the dungeon torches only served to deepen the dark aura surrounding him and turned his silhouette into something more than human. But his mere human limbs lay leaden at his sides, as if the very air had thickened around him. His vision swam, and his body hummed with the residual touch of Henry’s magic, the aftershocks making his fingers tremble. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something older, darker—a raw power that prickled at the edges of perception.

“Enough.”

Henry’s voice cut through the pandemonium, soft but imbued with a force that silenced every sound. The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They thrummed with command, each syllable sinking into the very marrow of those who heard them. They struck like a thunderclap, reverberating through the room with an almost physical force of magical intent. Shadows writhed at Henry’s feet like whipping vines, stretching and curling outward as if testing the boundaries of the space. The energy in the room shifted, growing heavy and electric.

The chaos around the room stilled as though the very air they breathed had been frozen in place. A crackling tension hung in the air, tangible and electric, as the shadows around Henry pulsed and stretched, forming long tendrils that licked at the edges of the room. The students who had dared to draw wands dropped them immediately, their faces pale with fear. Even the most ambitious among them—the ones who had always believed themselves above reproach—fell back, their bravado crumbling under the weight of Henry’s gaze.

“I don’t care what you think you saw,” Henry said, stepping forward against the guardrail. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, more golden than green, more abyss than anything mortal. “You will speak of it to no one. Not to professors. Not to friends. Not even to each other.”

The torches sputtered and dimmed, their light shrinking into tiny, fearful embers that dared not compete with the abyssal glow radiating from Henry’s form. The shadows he birthed didn’t just move—they lived. The very foundation of the room seemed to groan under the pressure of Henry’s unleashed magic, as if the dungeon walls were being forced to bear a weight beyond comprehension. For, long ago—in the era when Hogwarts’ stones were still fresh with mortar, who could have predicted this monstrosity darkening her precious halls?

Henry’s magic writhed with an alien sentience, pooling and folding before everyone’s eyes in impossible ways, forcing their eyes to trace the path of shapes that the human mind couldn’t fully comprehend. And lacking any grain of self preservation, an older boy in the back opened his mouth as if to argue. Familiar in only that Severus could not place him in any of his classes, the boy had deep lines around his tight lips which professed a sneer permanently etched into his features.

Severus feared for the boy—for the heartache which would soon befall whoever raised the fool. But his voice never came. Severus flicked his gaze back up the staircase and watched as Henry tilted his head. And, all at once, the shadows coiled possessively at Severus’s feet surged forward—reaching greedy, clawing, toward the boy. They encircled him in a suffocating grip, and the sneer vanished to be replaced by wide-eyed terror.

“You’ll find,” Henry continued, his voice soft but unwavering, “that disobedience will cost more than you’re willing to pay.”

The boy nodded frantically, as much as he could in his position, and the shadows receded—leaving him gasping for breath. Seemingly satisfied, Henry turned to Severus. His expression softened in an instant, the cold detachment melting into something far more human. Without a word, he reached out, his magic brushing against Severus’s arm—a grounding touch in the aftermath of the storm.

“Let’s go,” Henry whispered, his voice just for Severus now.

And Severus did not resist. He let himself be led by the tug of Henry’s magic out of the common room, his legs moving up the staircase on autopilot. The silence in their wake felt oppressive, broken only by the faint echo of their footsteps. His thoughts churned, chaotic and unformed, as he struggled to process what he had just witnessed—and what it meant.

When they finally reached the sanctuary of Henry’s dormitory, the click of the door sealing shut was a jarring contrast to the chaos they had just escaped. Henry moved swiftly to draw the curtains around his bed, blocking out the world beyond. And Henry’s voice, when it addressed Severus, was a balm after the pain of fear—the absolute care in his voice a sharp contrast to the impenetrable abyss he had just become.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Henry asked softly, his golden-green eyes searching Severus’s face for an answer. His hand—warm, grounding, and human—rested on Severus’s arm.

The tension in Severus’s chest loosened slightly, though his mind rebelled against the absurdity of finding comfort in the same person who had moments ago wielded fear like a weapon. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand answers, but all he managed was a halting, “What—are you?”

“Same thing, I guess, that I’ve always been. Something I can’t undo.” Henry smiled faintly, a hint of sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth as he guided Severus to sit on the edge of the bed. “But you’re safe now.”

Severus had always defined himself by his control—his mind, his ambitions, and his emotions. Henry’s display of power shattered that control as Severus’s voice caught in his throat.

“Safe?” he whispered, the word hollow and foreign in his mouth. Safe felt like a lie. Safe had always been something fragile, fleeting, and just out of reach. He had spent years fortifying himself against a world that had never cared for him, constructing walls so high even he couldn’t see over them anymore. But Henry—Henry had torn them down with a look, a word, a force so monumental that Severus hadn’t just felt small; he had felt meaningless.

“What was the point of ambition when a power like that existed?” He asked himself, “What was the use of cunning, of strategy, of patience, when it could all be swept away with the flick of a hand?” Severus was not safe. In the face of all he now knew, he was not sure he was anything. He had always believed he could shape his future. Potions mastery, power, respect—it had all seemed within his grasp if only he worked hard enough, fought hard enough. But now-

Henry’s voice, gentle yet impossibly strong, echoed in his mind: “You’re safe now.”

“From what? From who? Himself?” Severus thought bitterly, “The world?” Severus’s dreams, the ones that had carried him through years of scorn and cruelty, suddenly felt fragile, insignificant. “What was the point of plotting on a future built on struggle, when Henry could simply take what he wanted in the blink of an eye?” To Severus, it was maddening. Enraging. But more than anything else, it was hollowing.

“Safe.”

The word echoed clumsily, knocking around in Severus’s mind. His body might be safe, cocooned in Henry’s attention and power as they lay together beneath crisp sheets. But his thoughts—his thoughts were anything but as he stared at the curtains surrounding Henry’s bed, the world beyond them impossibly distant.

In the days that followed, his thoughts continued to pass in a surreal haze. Severus wandered the castle between classes and avoided meals, lost in thought—unable to focus on anything for long. Each morning bled into the next, marked by the same meaningless rituals: slipping into robes that felt heavier than they should, trudging through lectures he barely heard, and returning to the library only to waste his own time. Even the familiar comfort of overhanging bookshelves offered little reprieve.

He sat for hours with books open in front of him, staring blankly at their pages as his mind looped endlessly over the same questions. A week after Samhain, Severus could still only listlessly occupy their table in the bustling library. His finger traced absently down the spine of a book. The weight of the unopened Charms tome pressed against his hands, grounding him momentarily. He used to find clarity here, in these pages filled with spells, potions, and answers. But now the words of the study-table that Evan had kindly offered him blurred, their meanings slipping through his fingers like water.

“What was the point of answers when the questions had no end?”

Around him, the library hummed with the soft rustling of pages and the faint murmurs of students deep in their studies. Their lives continued with reassuring normalcy, as if the world had not shifted beneath his feet. He wanted to scream at them, to shake them out of their oblivion—but instead, he sat, silent and unwatched, his hand trembling faintly as it bit into the edges of the aged leather.

There were some who noticed his descent into madness. Severus thought back to his roommate’s softly muffled, “You look like hell, Snape.”

Evan had broken up the quiet of one morning, his tone half-amused, half-concerned, and never mentioned it since. Severus had not bothered responding then. The mirror in the dormitory had already betrayed the truth: hollow cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and a pallor that even the dungeons couldn’t justify. And neither of them were brazen enough to attempt to broach the matter further. No one in Slytherin was, as they donned their chipped masks of indifference and held their fear behind clattering teeth.

“Cowards. All of them to pretend life can simply go on with Death living among them,” Severus thought as frustration bubbled to the surface. He ignored the voice in his head that whispered “You are too.”

He did not know the reaction he wanted from them, as he knew their hands and lives were tied tight to their words. But Severus had built a life of masking behind the expectations and feedback of others. And his “acceptance” had proved to be harder than he expected as the days passed on and his insecurities grew new heads. He did not know how to come up with the proper response without weighing in against the revanchisms of others. He pushed the book away abruptly, the thud reverberating through the table and drawing a few glares from nearby students. Heat prickled up the back of his neck. His breath came too quickly, shallow and uneven. The air around him felt thick, oppressive, as if the library itself were conspiring to box him in.

“What does it matter,” he murmured under his breath, “if I brew the perfect potion, learn every wand movement, or master every spell in the curriculum? None of it could touch the power I saw that night.” His mind tumbled over itself, spinning in chaotic loops. “None of it could bring me closer to understanding what Henry was—or why I, of all people, had been drawn into this impossible orbit.”

The memory of that night in the common room haunted him through the days and lured him in through the nights. Henry had stood at the eye of the storm, wielding power that felt ancient and infinite. He wasn’t human, Severus knew that now. “What did I see? What had I felt? And what did that make Henry—a monster? A god?”

The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him restless and raw. There were moments, coated with the budding November frost, when he could not bear to look at Henry. When the glint of a sparkling goblet in the Great Hall showed off far too sharp teeth. When the shift of a shadow swayed so beautifully it could only be orchestration. Or when he could feel Henry’s presence press against him, but knew the other’s class would place him on the complete other side of the castle. Henry’s presence was too overwhelming, too vast. No matter how far Severus walked or how many doors he closed, it was always there, an anchor and a shackle, inescapable.

And yet, Severus found himself seeking Henry out. His footsteps unconsciously carried him to wherever Henry lingered. The same magic that had crushed the common room into submission now made Severus feel smaller, weaker—but also held dear. As though Henry’s mere being shielded him from something worse. He hated himself for it—for needing Henry. For craving the warmth of his hand, even if it came with claws. And for chasing after the gentleness of his voice when it softened just for Severus.

After mid-November, the snowflakes crept along the edges of the castle’s windows, their delicate patterns mocked Severus’s unraveling thoughts. The dungeons grew colder each day, and no matter how many fires roared, the chill in Severus’s chest remained. “It is pathetic,” he thought on repeat through meaningless classes and crowded nights, “to depend on someone who could crush you with a thought.”

Yet in his dreams, Severus frequently found himself back in the common room. The shadows that had slithered at his feet were alive again, their tendrils endlessly reaching for him as they curled around his ankles and lapped at his wrists. They grew ineffably bolder with each passing night—winding tighter around his body, dragging him deeper into the abyss. And Henry was always there, waiting, his wide smile and open face both a promise and a threat.

But the Severus of his dreams never flinched back from Henry’s eyes—the endless pits of black, staring through him as though he were nothing. And the Severus of his nightmares never shied away from Henry’s touch—the inhumanly cold, begging thing that it was. No. That Severus was far more the fool, and far better for it, than he allowed himself to be in the daylight hour.

“You’re safe,” Henry’s voice would sigh across his steeped eyelids. It was distant, cold. Unyielding. And Severus had now come to memorize the sound of his own gasp, seeing how frequently he threw it after the chaste words.

After nearly a full month of sleepless nights, the weight of it all was unbearable—with last night passing no differently. Come morning, he untangled himself from Henry’s limp limbs with only moderately estranged shame. Severus reached for the curtains around the bed, needing air, needing escape—but the darkness in the room seemed to press against him, alive in a way it hadn’t been before Samhain.

Severus drifted through his day much the same as he had the past month, shrouded in a fog of fatigue and fractured thoughts. Breakfast was a fleeting tableau of clinking goblets and murmured conversations he didn’t join. His presence at the Slytherin table was brief, more to avoid scrutiny than out of hunger. A piece of toast crumbled in his hands, untouched, as his gaze fixed blankly on the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall.

In Potions, he went through the motions, his precision dulled by the ceaseless ache behind his eyes. A cauldron bubbled ominously as Professor Slughorn droned on about volatile mixtures. The scalding heat of the potion stung his face, snapping him briefly to reality.

“Careful, Mr. Snape,” Slughorn called, his tone light but tinged with concern. “You’ve been sharper than this before. Don’t want to startle that Draught of Living Death into an explosion, eh?”

Murmured laughter, awkward and subdued from the Slytherins, merged with the ruckus that rippled through the Gryffindor side of the classroom. And Severus flushed, his hands tightening around his ladle. He wanted to snap back, to remind Slughorn that he’d probably brewed this potion better than anyone else in the room despite his state. But the effort wasn’t worth it. The class ended with a half-hearted cleanup, the acrid smell of potions clinging to his robes as he shuffled to his next lecture.

Lunch passed him by in similar detachment. He didn’t sit with anyone, opting instead to retreat to the castle’s empty halls. The thought of retreating to the library again turned his stomach. He could not stand another reminder of “before,” when his greatest worries were deciphering Henry’s enigmatic glances and wondering if he was plotting to kiss him. Instead, Severus trudged back to the dungeons between his classes and dragged himself into the Slytherin dormitory. The cool, dim light of the empty common room greeted him, snd he ignored the shadows pooling in the corners.

By the time dinner rolled around, Severus had resolved to skip it altogether. The idea of sitting in the Great Hall, surrounded by chattering students and Henry’s expectant gaze, was unbearable. He claimed the sanctuary of his dormitory instead, shedding his bag onto the floor and collapsing onto the edge of his bed. The heavy velvet curtains felt suffocating, but he did not draw them closed. Without bothering to remove his robes, he threw himself face-first onto his bed, the mattress absorbing the full weight of his body and his exhaustion. He pressed his face into the pillow, willing himself to disappear into the sheets. For the first time that day, the silence was absolute.

Or so he thought. The creak of the door opening shattered the stillness. Severus tensed, his breath catching. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Severus’s heart leapt into his throat. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“You’ve been avoiding me, whenever we’re not in bed together,” Henry’s voice filled the room, soft and steady, but laced with irritation. The door clicked shut behind him.

Severus stiffened. He couldn’t decide if it was from anger, guilt, or something more volatile. He muttered, his tone clipped., “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy.” Henry’s footsteps were unhurried as he approached, his presence radiating a quiet intensity that set Severus’s nerves alight. “Is that what you call this?”

Severus’s shoulders stiffened, but he still didn’t turn around. The mattress dipped as Henry sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough that the faint chill of his presence seeped through the fabric and into Severus’s skin.

“I do not owe you an explanation of my actions,” Severus snapped, finally turning to face him. The sight of Henry—his striking features illuminated by the faint moonlight spilling through the window—made Severus’s breath hitch. His anger faltered, but only for a moment.

Henry’s expression was unreadable, his sharp, green eyes scanned Severus with a mix of concern and exasperation. “You don’t,” he agreed, his voice calm and even. “But you’re unraveling, Severus. And I can’t stand by while you tear yourself apart.”

“Don’t,” Severus spat, his voice a whipcrack of raw emotion. His cheeks were flushed, his dark eyes filled with a wild, unpredictable light. He averted his gaze quickly, his hands clutching the pillow beneath him like a lifeline. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Henry leaned down, close enough that Severus could feel the faint chill of his presence, that same cold thread he couldn’t help but follow no matter how deeply it terrified him. “Then make me understand,” Henry murmured, his tone quieter now, an invitation rather than a demand. “What’s eating at you? Is it—me?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively soft but unyielding. Severus’s fingers curled tighter into the pillow, his knuckles white. “Of course it’s you,” he hissed, the words spilling out with venom. “How could it not be? Ever since that night in the common room, you’ve been—everywhere. In my thoughts, in my dreams, like some- some infection I can’t get rid of.”

Henry flinched, the movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible, but Severus caught it and felt a perverse satisfaction.

Henry was silent for a long moment. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Severus’s trembling arm. The touch sent a jolt through Severus, but he didn’t pull away. Henry’s expression softened, though his gaze remained sharp. “I didn’t ask for this any more than you did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself over it.”

Severus turned away, back into the pillow and allowed it to muffle his next words. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice trembling. “I don’t even know what you are, Henry. And yet you’ve made yourself—indispensable to me. It’s infuriating.”

Henry’s hand traveled upward until it rested lightly on Severus’s shoulder. The touch was surprisingly warm, grounding in a way that made Severus’s breath hitch and his anger hard to hold onto. Henry’s voice was still calm, though his jaw tightened, when he said, “I never meant to burden you like this.”

“Burden me?” Severus let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his tone laced with malice. “You’ve destroyed any semblance of normalcy I had left. I can’t think. I can’t sleep. Every moment of my life is tied up in you—and not just you, but what you are. You’ve made yourself an inescapable part of my existence, Henry, and I want you to fix this!”

“Fix it?” Henry repeated, his brow furrowing.

“Yes, fix it!” Severus’s voice rose, cracking slightly under the weight of his emotion. He pushed himself upright on the bed, his body trembling with rage and something deeper—something fragile and desperate. “I want you to make it all go away. The stress. The guilt. The nightmares. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live this way?”

“Severus,” Henry began, but Severus cut him off, the words pouring out now, a torrent of anger and anguish.

“No, you don’t know, because you’re you. You have power, you have control—and I have nothing!” Severus’s voice broke on the last word, and he surged forward, pointing an accusing finger at Henry. “It’s O.W.L.s year, and I can’t even focus long enough to read a single paragraph! My mother’s gone, my father’s dead, and all I have is this-” He gestured wildly between the two of them, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Henry’s eyes softened, but Severus didn’t let him speak.

“And what’s worse,” Severus continued, his voice trembling with raw, unfiltered emotion, “is that even though you terrify me—you terrify me—I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting you. You’ve made me dependent on you, like you’re some- some curse I’ve willingly accepted. And I hate you for it. I hate myself for it!”

Severus’s chest heaved with the effort of his confession, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing.

Henry’s voice, when it came, was impossibly soft but firm. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Severus. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Then stop,” Severus said, his voice breaking. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles white. “If you care about me at all, stop being this- this thing that’s taken over my life. Fix it, Henry. Fix all of it!”

Henry regarded him quietly, his gaze steady but filled with a sorrow that made Severus’s anger falter.

“I can’t undo what’s happened to you, Severus,” Henry said softly. “I can’t make your O.W.L.s disappear, or bring your parents back to life. But-” He hesitated, his eyes searching Severus’s face. “I could thin the veil.”

Severus froze, his breath catching. “What?”

“I could thin the veil,” Henry repeated, his voice calm and measured. “Between life and death. I can give you a chance to say goodbye to them—your parents.” The room fell into a heavy silence, the words lingering like smoke.

Severus stared at Henry, his mind reeling as whet he knew should be warred with what he knew was possible. He had tried to put so many memories of his time with Henry out of mind this past month. Anytime he remembered the other preforming strange, awful, or law breaking feats of magic. Including that night with the little Hufflepuff girl. He knew what Henry was capable of, and still- 

“You can’t-” His voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief etched into every syllable.

“I can, you’ve seen me do it before,” Henry said simply. “But it won’t change anything else. It won’t make the rest of your life easier, and it won’t erase the pain you’re carrying.”

Severus’s hands shook, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. The idea was intoxicating, terrifying, impossible. He wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at Henry and demand answers he didn’t have. Instead, he looked down, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because I care about you,” Henry said, his voice unwavering. “Even if you hate me for it, even if you think I’m a monster, I care. And I want to help you, Severus, if you’ll let me.” The vulnerability in Henry’s voice cut through Severus’s anger like a blade. He swallowed hard, his mind racing.

He didn’t know what to say—what to feel. All he knew was that the weight on his chest didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. And for now, that was enough. Severus’s next words lingered in the air like an unspoken challenge. His voice was low, shaky, but resolute: “Then do it.”

Henry studied him, his golden eyes flickered with something indecipherable. “Are you sure?”

Severus opened his mouth to reply but faltered. The enormity of the decision settled on his chest like a heavy weight. He turned away, his hands twisting together nervously. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean—I’d want to speak to her, my mother. But my father, I’m unsure.”

Severus’ words trailed off, thick with unspoken bitterness. And Henry simply tilted his head slightly, and said, “You don’t have to decide everything now. We don’t even have to do it today.”

“We do.” Severus wanted to cry now, but his tears had all ran dry. “We do, before I loose my nerve.”

“Alright,” Henry soothed, “but it’s not all or nothing, Severus. If you want to speak only to your mother, that’s what we’ll do.”

The gentleness in Henry’s voice undid something fragile inside Severus. He nodded, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “Just her, then. My mother.”

Henry stepped closer, and Severus felt the faint chill of his presence, comforting in its own strange way. “This may feel—unnatural,” Henry said softly. “But I’ll guide you through it. Trust me, Severus.”

Severus looked at him, his dark eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I’m not sure I know how to trust anyone right now.”

“Then don’t,” Henry replied, his tone patient. “Just follow my lead.”

Severus nodded reluctantly. “What do I do?”

Henry moved to kneel up by the head of the bed, his movements fluid and deliberate. He gestured for Severus to sit up beside him, and once he complied, Henry reached out, his hand hovering above Severus’s chest.

“Close your eyes,” Henry instructed, his voice low and resonant. “Breathe deeply. Let the edges of this world blur, and focus on the memories of your mother—the sound of her voice, the way she looked at you, the warmth she gave you. Draw on those feelings.”

Severus obeyed, his breath shuddering as he closed his eyes. The memory of his mother’s laughter, soft and melodic, filled his mind. He pictured her hands brushing through his hair, her comforting presence after his father’s angry outbursts. His chest tightened, the ache of longing almost unbearable.

“I feel it,” Severus whispered.

Henry’s voice dipped lower, almost hypnotic. “Good. Hold onto that connection. Now, listen for her voice—it will sound distant at first, but as I thin the veil, it will grow clearer.”

The air around them seemed to shift, growing colder and heavier. Severus’s pulse quickened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He swore he could hear faint whispers, like the rustling of leaves. “Stay calm,” Henry murmured, his hand resting lightly on Severus’s shoulder. “The veil is thinning. Feel for her magical signature and let her come to you.”

The whispers grew louder, more distinct. And then, amidst the cacophony, a single voice emerged.

“Severus?”

His eyes snapped open, and there she was—a faint, faded figure standing before him. Eileen Prince, her features softened by the hazy barrier between life and death. Her eyes were filled with an aching tenderness that made Severus’s throat tighten.

“Mum,” he breathed, his voice trembling.

“Oh, my boy,” Eileen said, her voice thick with emotion. She stepped closer, her translucent form flickering slightly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Severus’s tears fell freely now, his anger and bitterness forgotten in the face of his mother’s presence. “I’ve missed you too,” he choked out. “It’s been so hard without you.”

Eileen reached out as if to touch him, her hand passing through his cheek like a whisper of air. “I’m so sorry, Severus. For everything—for leaving you. If I’d known what would happen-”

Her voice broke, and Severus frowned, his confusion cutting through the haze of emotion. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Eileen hesitated, her form flickering again. “Severus, your father-”

Severus’s heart pounded. “What about him?”

Her gaze dropped, a mixture of sorrow and guilt darkening her expression. “He killed me, Severus. And then he-” Her voice faltered, the words barely audible. “He took his own life.”

The room seemed to tilt, the weight of her confession crashing down on Severus like a tidal wave. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, that can’t be true. He- he was cruel, but he wouldn’t-”

“He did,” Eileen interjected—no emotion, simply the fact. “He did and I knew it was coming. I tried to do so many things for you, but I wasn’t strong enough for it all. I’m so sorry, my darling boy.”

“Sorry for what, mum?” Severus felt himself ask as his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. He felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs, his world crumbling beneath him.

“For staying longer than I ever should. For accepting, for the both of us, less than we ever deserved.” His mother paused, and uttered, “For allowing you to be born into our wretched world.”

Severus felt as though his mother said the words as though this was not the first time they had left her mouth. Her lips worked too surely for something that made Severus feel as though he had never known true heartbreak before this moment.

“I tried to protect you till the end,” Eileen interjected, her voice breaking. “I knew your grandfather could give you far more of the world than I ever could. I knew you’d outgrown our little shack ages ago. But I also knew that your father would never allow it, and when I refused to bring you back—well, we both made a choice that day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I didn’t want you to carry this burden,” Eileen said softly. “You are just a boy, Severus. You deserved to be free of it once and for all.”

Severus shook his head, his hands trembling. “I’m not free of it! I’ve never been free!”

“You could be now,” Eileen said as her gaze traveled beside Severus. “Know this, I love you—above all else. And I am proud of whatever path you choose. Good bye, my joy. Be free.”

Severus did not return her salutation, he could not. And she left anyway—fragile form dispersed back into the shadows she had emerged from. He did not turn to take in what she saw in her final moments. Not even when Henry’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder, grounding him. “Severus, breathe.”

He did just that. Together they sat with their backs pressed against the headboard and breathed until far past the first rays of morning shone through the canopy. Eventually, Severus turned to look at Henry—his vision blurred with tears. For the first time in a while, he didn’t have the energy to push Henry away. “What am I supposed to do with this? Knowing he-, knowing they’re both gone because of him?”

“You grieve,” Henry said simply. “You feel it all—the anger, the pain, the sadness. And when you’re ready, you let it go.”

“I don’t know how,” Severus admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to do it alone. I’m here, Severus.” Henry’s eyes softened, his presence steady and unwavering. “I never meant to overwhelm you. And I can’t change what I am. What I am, though, is someone who cares about you. Even when you’re like this.”

Severus’s lip curled on self-loathing huff, “You shouldn’t.”

“And yet I do,” Henry countered, his voice steady. “You’re stubborn and infuriating, Severus, but you’re also brilliant and brave. And I’m not going to let you push me away just because you’re scared.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Severus closed his eyes, the fight draining out of him. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them filled only with the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of voices floating up from the common room. Finally, Henry gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “You’ve got two choices,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “You can keep running from this, from me, and let it eat you alive. Or you can let me help you.”

Severus opened his eyes. The words were simple, but they carried a weight that Severus had not realized he needed. He looked back at where his mother once stood and came to a decision. There was no malice there, no smugness—only an unwavering resolve that both infuriated and comforted him.

“Fine,” Severus muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not eating dinner.”

”It’s more so breakfast now.” Henry’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “But not even if I feed it to you?”

Severus wanted to protest, to lash out, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded, a small, reluctant gesture.

Henry’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good,” he said, his hand still resting on Severus’s. “Now, you’re going to eat something, and then you’re going to tell me what else has been keeping you up at night. No more running, Severus.”

The firmness in Henry’s voice left no room for argument. For the first time in weeks, Severus felt the crushing weight in his chest ease—just a little. But he would not be himself if he simply let the moment lay undisturbed. Severus muttered, his voice barely audible. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Henry asked softly, crouching so they were eye level.

“Like you-” Severus trailed off, his face heating. He turned away, shielding his expression. He muttered, his voice muffled by his emotions, “There’s nothing to see.”

“There’s everything to see,” Henry countered, settling against his side. “And I love all of it.”

“Stop saying that,” Severus griped, his anxiety giving over. “Stop acting like it’s that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Henry assured. “Now tell me how I look at you.”

To which Severus could only whisper, “Like I’m something precious.”

Henry leaned over, his hand cupping Severus’s cheek to turn him back. “Because you are.”

“Don’t say that.” Severus’s voice wavered, and he pulled back, his dark eyes filled with something that looked too much like pain.

“Sev,” Henry said, the name a gentle plea. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. You are everything to me. I’d tear the world apart before I’d let anything hurt you.”

“Don’t,” Severus whispered, his voice cracking. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never have,” Henry replied, his tone steady.

Severus stared at him, his expression caught between disbelief and longing. “Then promise me you’ll wait,” he quietly begged. “Until summer, until I’ve passed my O.W.L.s., till you decide to do something with all your—everything. Just- just wait.”

Henry nodded, his eyes soft. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Chapter Text

November 21 - November 22, 1975

Lucius Malfoy hesitated for a fraction of a moment on the threshold of the Amber Room, adjusting his cravat with a flick of pale fingers before stepping forward. The heavy oak doors of the study creaked as they swung open, their groan swallowed by the oppressive business of the room beyond.

To him, the room was unrecognizable. Once an elegant sanctuary lined with ancient tomes, it now bore the unmistakable stamp of its new master. The bookshelves were stripped of their heirloom volumes—replaced by rolled maps, parchments scrawled with dark incantations, and shimmering models of wizarding strongholds that rotated ominously in the dim light of the enchanted chandelier. The air was thick with the scent of burning wax and something sharper—ozone, perhaps, from the dark spells that radiated through the chamber.

At the center of the room, Lord Voldemort stood before a massive table strewn with maps and tokens, his long, pale fingers tracing the contours of England's southern coast. The Dark Lord spoke in low, commanding tones, directing a cluster of Death Eaters gathered around him. And Lucius lingered by the door, letting his gaze drift over the room. This was his home—or it had been, once. Imported brick by brick from France generations ago, every inch of it was a testament to the Malfoy family's power, wealth, and taste.

And yet, here he was—standing on the periphery of his own legacy, a mere spectator to the man who had commandeered it without a second thought. Lucius suppressed the flicker of resentment that threatened to rise through his soul. It would not do to dwell on such thoughts, not when Voldemort had sent a house-elf—a house-elf—to summon him. Not when his father, Abraxas, stood at Voldemort’s right hand, nodding solemnly at each instruction as though their family had been born to serve.

Lucius adjusted his stance, keeping his back straight, his expression neutral. Despite his own lack of wanting to, he could not help but feel awed as he watched the Dark Lord work. Voldemort wielded power with an ease that bordered on artistry, orchestrating his forces with a precision that made the Malfoy family’s intricate social manipulations seem almost quaint. His voice, soft yet commanding, drew his followers in like moths to flame. Even the sharp-eyed Bellatrix Lestrange hung on his every word, her hands twitching at her sides as though desperate to act on whatever orders he might deign to give.

Lucius's gaze lingered on the map sprawled across the table, its surface littered with moving figurines—wizards, creatures, and Dark Marks that slithered across the parchment like snakes. He recognized the names of villages marked in red, places that had been attacked in recent weeks. Arrows pointed to key locations: the Ministry, Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s. Voldemort’s plans were audacious. His forces moved like a shadow, engulfing families tied to the Order of the Phoenix—isolating them, breaking them down piece by piece.

A calculated assault not just on their lives, but on their morale. It was a kind of genius, Lucius had to admit. Still, the sight of his father’s bent posture—a man who had once commanded respect and deference from every corner of wizarding Britain—gnawed at him. Abraxas Malfoy had always seemed untouchable to his son, a master of the old ways. But now, under Voldemort’s sway, he was just another follower, obedient and deferential. It was unsettling.

"Lucius," came the voice of his nightmares, sharp and sibilant as it cut through his thoughts like a blade.

Lucius stiffened, his heart quickening as every head in the room turned toward him. Voldemort’s crimson eyes fixed on him with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to his soul.

"You linger in the shadows like a thief,” the Dark Lord murmured. “Come closer."

Lucius stepped forward, his polished boots silent against the flagstone floor. He inclined his head slightly in deference but held his posture firm. He intoned, his voice calm, though his chest felt tight, "Yes, my lord?”

Voldemort tilted his head, his thin lips curving into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You are young," Voldemort murmured, his voice almost a purr. "Ambitious. Cautious. I see much of your father in you—and yet, not enough."

The words hung in the air, their meaning ambiguous. Lucius’s pulse quickened, but he forced himself to hold still beneath Voldemort’s gaze. To break the oppressive silence that had surrounded the room, Lucius asked, "You have summoned me, my lord. How may I serve?"

A flicker of amusement danced across Voldemort’s expression, gone as quickly as it came. "Observe," he said, gesturing to the table. "You are here to learn. Soon, you will be called upon to act. Your name carries weight, Lucius. It must mean more than mere bloodlines. Do you understand?"

Lucius nodded slowly, though the weight of the words pressed heavily upon him. "Yes, my lord."

Voldemort’s attention returned to the map, dismissing Lucius without another glance. The younger Malfoy did not back to resume his place at the edge of the room. Instead, as the Dark Lord resumed his commands, Lucius watched—a mixture of awe and unease churning within him. The line between power and servitude, he realized, was far thinner than he had ever imagined.

After some time like that, the room emptied slowly—Death Eaters filing out in deferential silence as Voldemort dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Each took care not to look directly at him, their heads bowed as though even their shadows feared his wrath. Lucius stayed his position at the edge of the table, stiff and silent, his arms clasped behind his back.

The study felt colder as the crowd thinned, the fire in the hearth sputtering faintly against the oppressive air. Then only he and his father remained, Abraxas too stood like a marble statue by Voldemort’s right hand. His expression was inscrutable but for the faint tension around his mouth.

"Sit, Abraxas," Voldemort said at last, his voice silken as he circled the room to settle into the wide desk at its head.

Lucius stiffened as his father moved to obey, taking the high-backed chair opposite the Dark Lord’s place. Voldemort did not extend the same courtesy to him. Instead, Lucius was forced to remain where he was. His heels dug into the rug carpet beneath the table—an heirloom woven from the enchanted hair of a Quilin, soft and shimmering beneath the muted light.

The rug had graced the study for decades, unharmed. But now it bore the weight of his discomfort, the pressure of his Italian shoes pressing harsh indentations into its surface. He forced his hands to remain steady as he clasped at his own wrist, the fingers of his right hand curling slightly to hide his frustration. To show it would be folly.

Especially as Voldemort steepled his fingers, his crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable before he turned his attention from Lucius to Abraxas. “Your son has maintained connections with the—promising youth of Hogwarts, yes?”

“Yes, my lord,” Abraxas answered without so much as a backward glance at his son. “I have ensured that my son has stayed abreast of anything of interest in the castle.”

Seemingly satisfied with the response, Voldemort turned and asked, his tone casual, "Tomorrow is a Hogsmeade weekend, is it not?"

Lucius inclined his head, thinking quickly while his expression remained carefully neutral. "It is, my lord,” he put together smoothly. “The students should be permitted to visit the village this weekend.”

Voldemort’s lips curled faintly as his gaze returned briefly towards the map. "Ah, Hogsmeade," he mused, his tone laced with an edge of nostalgia. "I remember those weekends well—fondly, even. Such a quaint tradition for students. But even the familiar can be turned to serve our purposes."

His father remained silent. And Lucius kept his posture as still as the ancestral portraits that still lined the study walls. However, that did not stop him from feeling the weight of Voldemort’s attention shifting back to him.

"You will find yourself in Hogsmeade tomorrow," Voldemort said, his tone leaving no room for question. "I have a task for you."

Lucius’s stomach tightened, but he inclined his head again. "Of course, my lord. What do you require?"

"Severus Snape," he said softly, savoring the name. Voldemort leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers tracing the edge of the claimed desk.

The air seemed to leave Lucius’s lungs. He forced his expression to remain still, but his mind was in chaos. “Voldemort knew,” he dizzily thought. “He must know. He had to know.”

That name—Severus Snape—dragged memories from the shadows of Lucius’s past: whispered conversations, stolen moments, and fleeting dalliances that, at the time, had seemed insignificant. A foolish indulgence. A mistake, perhaps, but one that had been one of the few in his short lifetime that were his to make. Then a thought came. His father was in the room. “Does he know too?”

Lucius felt heat rising to his alabaster face, a mixture of shame and fear that Voldemort might be throwing his indiscretion back in his face—here, in front of Abraxas.

"You recall him," Voldemort said, his tone sly, almost amused.

Lucius forced himself to breathe, locking his expression into a mask of careful neutrality. He nodded, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "Yes, my lord. A half-blood from Cokeworth. Talented in potions."

Voldemort’s thin smile widened, though it remained cold. "He has a—connection to someone of interest to me. He is a weakness that I intend to exploit."

Relief washed over Lucius as realization dawned: this was not a trap or a punishment. This was an assignment. A mission. He could use this. Lucius asked, his voice steady once more, "What would you have me do, my lord?"

"Charm him," Voldemort said, his voice soft yet commanding. "Lure him, guide him, bind him to our cause—do what you must to curry his favor. Note that he is clever, yes. But cleverness can be turned. And you are well-practiced in persuasion, Lucius. Use whatever—history you may share with him to your advantage."

Lucius nodded mechanically, calculating even as he hollowly spoke. "Of course, my lord. I will not fail."

Voldemort’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, their crimson depths unreadable. "Do not mistake this for a trivial task. Severus Snape’s loyalty will serve me well in time. Should you fail-" He paused, his lips curving into a cruel smile. "-you will be acquainted with the cost of my disappointment."

Despite the healthy fire, the room seemed to grow colder. And Lucius could do nothing further than incline his head as he suppressed a shiver. "I understand, my lord. It will be done."

Voldemort held his gaze for a moment longer before dismissing him with a flick of his hand. Lucius turned on his heels and left the study with measured steps. As the doors closed behind him, his relief gave way to a sharper determination. Severus Snape had been a mistake once, but now he was an opportunity. Lucius smirked faintly to himself even as the study's oppressive air clung to him long after he left, trailing him like a second skin as he returned to his chambers. The Dark Lord's orders played on an endless loop in his mind, interwoven with fragments of memories he had worked hard to forget.

Severus Snape.

His fingers tightened around the polished banister of the grand staircase as he ascended, jaw clenched. “What a tangled web this is to unravel,” he mused as he clacked down white-trimmed halls, pausing briefly to gather himself. “I must tread carefully.”

The moment he stepped into his private quarters, Lucius cast a quick silencing charm over the room. This was a task he needed to think through—alone, without interruption. He paced the length of his grand bedroom, his steps muffled by the plush silver carpet beneath his feet. Severus had been little more than a distraction in his younger years, a shadow of a boy whose sharp wit and brooding intensity had once intrigued him. It had been nothing more than an experiment.

“A mistake,” Lucius had told himself in the years that followed, though the memory of Severus's dark eyes and biting tongue sent an unwelcome shiver through him. But Severus had changed, of course. The boy Lucius remembered had grown into a young man with a razor-sharp mind, formidable talent, and an icy demeanor that belied his half-blood heritage. Lucius knew well that Severus was not easily manipulated—he required subtlety, precision.

And from what else had filtered down to him from Hogwarts’ halls, he did not think the same tricks would work twice. Gone was the dirty little thing in need of someone to dry his tears and line his pockets with just enough to purchase new books. No, Lucius knew that Severus had wormed his way into becoming a more permanent fixture on someone else’s arm. And if the Dark Lord believed that Severus was the key to someone’s weakness, then Voldemort's true orders were clear: bind Henry Peverell to the cause.

He paused his pacing at the window, his pale fingers brushing the frosted glass as he gazed into the dark expanse of the estate grounds. The world outside was silent, untouched by the turmoil that churned within him. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he thought of his father, still likely lingering in Voldemort’s presence, nodding dutifully as he absorbed every word.

Lucius allowed himself a moment of amusement at his father’s expense before returning to the matter at hand. Voldemort’s command had been clear, and it left no room for failure. The easiest way, of course, would be to appeal to their shared history—but not without caution. He could not afford for Severus to see him as weak or sentimental. No, he would frame it as a calculated reunion, a reestablishment of trust between two men who understood the necessity of alliances.

“Trust,” Lucius mused aloud, letting the word hang in the air. It was a fragile thing, easily shattered, but even more easily manipulated. Severus would need to believe that Lucius sought him out for mutual benefit. There could be no hint of desperation, no suggestion of ulterior motives. The approach had to be seamless, natural, as if the idea of a partnership had sprouted from Severus’s own mind.

Lucius continued pacing, the low crackle of the enchanted hearth against the far wall offering the only other sound in the room. He felt as though Voldemort had plucked Severus’s name from obscurity and thrust it into the forefront of his mind, reshaping it into a tool of power, leverage, and—potentially—danger.

“What made Severus so special?”

For years, that question had gnawed at him like a dog at a bone. Lucius had been reckless in the days of his youth, his ambition occasionally clouded by indulgence. And Severus had been interesting, and different, and so very easy once he put in a little effort. Now, with his given goal in mind, Lucius wondered, “Does Severus see me as nothing more than an opportunist who had played on his vulnerabilities? Or worse—does he hold a grudge, lying dormant and ready to rear its head when the opportunity arose?”

“No,” Lucius muttered to himself, shaking the thought away. Severus was pragmatic, not emotional. Like himself, the boy he knew would not waste his energy on grievances when there were greater prizes to pursue. It was one of the reasons they had worked so well. But Lucius knew he could not risk underestimating Severus. His mind was sharp—ruthless, even—and Lucius would have to tread carefully.

Lucius moved to the ornate mirror above the hearth, studying his reflection as he smoothed the front of his robes. His reflection stared back at him, pale and immaculate as ever, but the faintest flicker of unease danced in his eyes. He frowned, banishing it with a curl of his lip as he turned away.

“Charm him. Guide him.”

Voldemort’s words echoed in his mind, and Lucius found his smirk returning as an idea began to form. “Yes, Severus,” he murmured, his voice a silky drawl. “You’ll remember the connection between us—and you’ll come to see its value.”

The rest of the evening passed in quiet preparation. Lucius seated himself at his desk, quill in hand, as he drafted hypothetical dialogues in his mind. He rehearsed the cadence of his words, the subtle tilts of his head, the lingering pauses that would suggest power without arrogance. Every detail mattered—the way his fingers would brush against his chin as if in thought, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he made a particularly salient point. By the time he extinguished the lights and slid between the emerald-green silk sheets of his bed, his plan was well-formed.

When the morning arrived shrouded in a pale winter mist, the light from the enchanted windows cast a faint silver glow over Lucius’s chambers. He rose early, his mind clear and focused as he prepared for the day ahead. His attire was chosen with care, as much a weapon as the words he had practiced the night before. Dark, tailored robes that hinted at his status without screaming it. A high collar that framed his pale neck and angular jaw. He dressed to intimidate, yes—but also to allure.

Severus, for all his intelligence, had always been drawn to elegance, to refinement. And as Lucius examined himself in the mirror once more, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve with a deft flick of his wrist, he could not help but be satisfied with the way he looked. Stifling a small smirk, he strode from the room, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor as he descended the staircase to floo to the Hog’s Head Inn.

His stalking trek throughout Hogsmeade was largely uneventful, the air biting against his skin as he apparated to the outskirts of the village. It was as quaint as he remembered, its cobblestone streets lined with shops that seemed perpetually shrouded in the scent of butterbeer and freshly baked pastries. Lucius lingered near the Three Broomsticks, his sharp eyes scanning the throng of students who wandered in clusters, their laughter carrying on the cold wind.

It had not taken long to find the pair. Not with the way that Severus Snape moved like a shadow, his heavy black robes blending into the gray of the overcast sky. Lucius wondered at their crafter as the fabric looked lush and well-made even from his distance. Beside him was Henry Peverell, a striking figure in sweeping velvet, who carried himself with an easy confidence that set him apart from the rest. Among the bumbling bodies of children and drab shopfronts, the two stuck out like polished obsidian in a field of common pebbles.

The first thing Lucius noticed was the contrast. Hogsmeade, with its dreary cobblestone streets and buildings half-shrouded in mist, seemed to pale in comparison to the figures walking through it. The boy—Peverell—moved with an infuriating ease, his cloak billowing behind him as though even the wind sought to complement his theatrics. His tied-off dark hair caught the faint light of the streetlamps, gleaming like polished emerald, while his easy laughter carried on the brisk evening air, sharp and melodic. And then there was Severus, trailing half a step behind. His little toy had outgrown hunched shoulders and swallowed posture.

Now the boy had a budding strut to his grown stature that caught the eye, even as his black robes blended almost seamlessly with the darkened surroundings. But Lucius noticed other flickers of things as well—blush peaking above the scarf tied at Severus’ neck, a pale-tan hand against the canvas of Severus’ body as Peverell’s hand brushed against Severus’s arm, the faintest glance exchanged between them splashed in the light of whatever store they wondered into. Lucius also noted how Severus’s usual scowl seemed softened. How his sharp features were framed by strands of dark hair that artfully curled over his high cheekbones. Or how everything of him seemed to finally catch up to the unnatural grace the boy had always possessed.

It was disgusting.

“How nauseatingly quaint,” he thought, his cold eyes narrowing. Lucius’s lip curled faintly as he leaned against the shadowed wall of Scrivenshaft's as Peverell’s affection was palpable—radiating like a warm ember that burned against the stark chill of Severus’s reserved responses. But what truly grated on Lucius was Severus’s subtle compliance. The way he allowed it, tolerated it, even seemed to—enjoy in its presence.

“So, this is his weakness.”

He watched them for a while, careful to keep his distance as the two went through the motions of their day out. Casually blending into the background with a few flicks of his wand, he bided his time and observed. To the casual observer, one might believe that Severus’s expression had been neutral all morning, but Lucius recognized the slight tension in his spine—the way his eyes darted to Henry every so often as if gauging his reaction to something unspoken. He watched the young Lord Peverell as well, noting how he commanded the space around him effortlessly, his charm seemingly second nature as he spoke to a shopkeeper with an almost regal air.

As Lucius followed at a careful distance, he studied them with sharp eyes, every detail feeding the growing disdain in his chest. “Peverell, the gallant suitor,” he thought, sneering inwardly. “And Severus, the ever-grateful recipient. How had Severus fallen so far?”

Lucius couldn’t fathom it. The Severus he remembered was sharp, calculating, a young man who carried his bitterness like armor. But now, under Peverell’s influence, that armor seemed to crack, revealing something fragile beneath. Lucius loathed it. He loathed the idea that someone—anyone—could inspire such a change in Severus. “It’s pathetic,” he thought, his lip curling faintly. “Peverell isn’t saving him. He’s ruining him. Making him soft, pliable.”

The scene the two made throughout the late morning was almost laughable. And from his his current vantage point near the apothecary, Lucius watched as Peverell leaned casually against the Honeydukes counter, gesturing animatedly to the selection of chocolates displayed in neat little rows. The shopkeeper handed him a small box, tied with a green ribbon, which Peverell inspected with a critical eye before nodding approvingly.

Moments later, Peverell turned to Severus, his face alight with an easy smile, and pressed the box into his hands with a theatrical flourish. Lucius saw the faintest flicker of surprise cross Severus’s face—so brief it might have been imagined—before he quickly schooled his features into their usual stoic mask.

Lucius’s sneer deepened, his pale fingers curling. “A grand romantic gesture—‘sweets for the sweet.’ How dreadfully saccharine.” His mind twisted with scornful thoughts. “Does Peverell imagine Severus will melt into his arms like one of those chocolates? Or is this simply a game for him, a distraction from the tedium of his life?”

The thought sickened him: Severus, allowing himself to be courted—toted about like some cherished trinket. Lucius’s gaze darkened. “He’s ruining you, Severus. And you’re too foolish to see it.”

Eventually, Lucius’ opportunity came when Peverell excused himself. Lucius watched from the shadows as Peverell stepped ahead of Severus, his hand moving to hold open the door to Honeydukes with a practiced grace. Severus hesitated, his sharp features flickering with something unreadable—annoyance? appreciation?—before he stepped outside without a word.

Lucius sneered, his pale eyes narrowing. How quaint. “Does he think chivalry will make Severus shine any brighter?”

Lucius shifted slightly from where he leaned against the corner of a stone archway as he watched the pair. He could hear them now, their voices low but unmistakable. Severus stood just off to the side of Honeydukes’ entrance, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of carefully feigned disinterest. Beside him, Peverell practically radiated charm, his dark cloak fluttered in the breeze as he leaned toward Severus with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to command his intended’s attention.

“You should come with me,” Peverell was saying, his voice warm and teasing. “I would hate to mess up your refined taste. You could lend me your sharp tongue, should the shopkeeper try to upsell me on something gaudy.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “I highly doubt my presence will deter you from purchasing whatever ridiculous trinket catches your eye. No, thank you. I have my own shopping to attend to.”

Peverell tilted his head, a roguish smile spreading across his face. “Shopping for me, I assume? How thoughtful. Come along, then—I’ll keep my eyes closed while you make your selections. It’ll be romantic.”

Severus scoffed, though the faintest flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “Romantic? You’ve been reading too many empty novels, Henry. And I don’t trust you to keep your eyes closed for more than a heartbeat. Now, go—your theatrics are drawing attention.”

Peverell placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Severus. My intentions are nothing but honorable.” He took a step closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “But if you must insist on secrecy, I’ll leave you to your mysterious errands. I’ll even resist the urge to follow you. For now.”

“See that you do,” Severus replied, shooing him away with an elegant flick of his wrist. “And do try to remember that we are courting. Subtlety and decorum are not optional.”

Lucius’ sharp gaze caught the moment Peverell leaned further toward Severus, how his hands deftly adjusted the younger man’s scarf. It was an unassuming gesture, done without fanfare, but the intimacy of it made Lucius’s skin crawl.
Peverell’s gloved fingers brushed Severus’s neck briefly, a touch so light it was almost imperceptible. Severus flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood still, his dark eyes flicking to the horizon as though pretending the moment wasn’t happening.

Lucius’s lips curled into a sneer, his thoughts dripping with disdain. “Does he fancy himself a sculptor now? Molding Severus into his little masterpiece, polishing every edge, fixing every flaw?” He scoffed internally, disgust curling in his chest. “No amount of preening will make him anything more than what he is—a piece of coal wrapped in fine silks.”

Peverell grinned unabashedly as he retreated. “Subtlety is overrated. But for you, I’ll behave—until i am graced by your presence again,” Peverell said before he casually reached for Severus’s hand, bowing slightly as he brushed his lips over Severus’s knuckles in a gesture that managed to be both playful and sincere. “Farewell, love. I’ll see you soon.”

Severus rolled his eyes, though there was a faint ruddying on his pale cheeks as he tugged his hand back. “Go, before I change my mind.”

With a wink, Peverell straightened and strode away, his cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared into the crowd. Lucius watched it all with sharp eyes, his lip curling faintly. The exchange was an interesting mix of calculated restraint and obvious affection. Peverell’s appeal was palpable, but it was Severus’s reactions that intrigued Lucius most—the subtle shifts in his expression, the way he allowed the flirtation and struggled to maintain control. Even now, as the young lord disappeared down the street, Severus lingered outside Honeydukes, his side gaze fixed on the horizon as though lost in thought.

“Perfect,” Lucius thought, his lips curling into a smile. He adjusted his robes and stepped forward, his strides long and deliberate as he called out, “Severus.”

Severus stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing as he turned toward the voice. When he saw Lucius, his expression flickered—surprise, wariness, and something unnameable flashed across his face before his features settled into their usual guarded mask. “Lucius,” Severus replied evenly, though his voice carried an edge. “I was not expecting to see you here.”

Lucius stopped a few feet away, his stance casual yet commanding. “No, I imagine you weren’t,” he said with a faint smirk. “But then, life has a way of bringing old friends back together, doesn’t it?”

Severus’s eyes narrowed further, but he didn’t respond.

Lucius took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve been on my mind, Severus. It’s been far too long since we last spoke. I thought it might be—pleasant to catch up.”

“Pleasant?” Severus repeated, his tone dry. “You have never sought me out for anything ‘pleasant’ before, Lucius. Why now?”

Lucius chuckled softly, the sound low and condescending. “Ah, straight to the point. I’ve always admired your efficiency, Severus. Very well. Walk with me. I’ve no intention of airing sensitive matters in the middle of the street.”

Severus hesitated, his brow furrowing. Then, with a resigned sigh, he fell into step beside Lucius, though his posture remained rigid, defensive. Lucius strode through the quiet streets of Hogsmeade, his pace deliberate as Severus trailed slightly behind him. The early evening shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, the distant hum of student chatter from the Three Broomsticks fading with every step. Lucius’s sharp gaze flicked toward Severus, taking in the younger man’s closed-off posture, the way his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his robes as though to shield himself.

“Good. Keep him on edge.”

Lucius led them away from the bustling village center, weaving through narrow alleys until they emerged in a quieter part of Hogsmeade, where the cobblestones were slick with frost and the chatter of students was but a minor hum. He came to a halt beneath a wrought-iron streetlamp, the golden glow casting long shadows over the icy ground.

“So,” Lucius began smoothly, breaking the silence as he cast a few charms to give them privacy, “shall we begin? ”

Severus’s eyes narrowed as he watched Lucius toy with his still present wand, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Let me guess,” Severus said, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is about Him, isn’t it?”

Lucius’s smile widened, though his eyes remained cold. “So perceptive. One of the many things I’ve always admired about you.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “The Dark Lord has taken notice of you, Severus. He sees great potential in you—potential I’ve always known was there.”

Severus lazily drawled, “Has he now?”

Lucius hummed in confirmation, letting his voice drip with lazy indulgence. “Of course. You’ve always had a certain flair, Severus. Your mastery of potions is unparalleled for someone your age, not to mention your—shall we say, creative ingenuity. It would be a waste for your abilities to go unnoticed.”

Severus snorted softly, his skepticism evident. “You mean it would be a waste if I did not align myself with your master.”

Lucius laughed with effortless grace as his pale hair caught the faint light of the streetlamps. “Our master,” he corrected, his tone gentle but firm. “This isn’t just about allegiance, Severus. It’s about survival. Advancement. Power. Everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Lucius noted that Severus’s expression didn’t change, but his hands tightened into fists—which brought them closer to the wand holster he knew was on the boy’s forearm. “If this is about recruiting me to his cause, save your breath. My answer is no.”

Lucius chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “Oh, Severus. You wound me. I’m not here to recruit you—I’m here to guide you. To help you see reason.”

“Reason?” Severus repeated, his tone sharp.

Lucius stepped closer, his pale features glowing faintly in the sunlight. “Do you think that little upstart Peverell will keep you safe forever? That his wealth, his name, will shield you from the realities of our world?” He tilted his head, his voice softening to a silky purr. “You’re smarter than that, Severus. You know how precarious your position truly is.”

Severus’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Lucius pressed on, his tone shifting to one of feigned warmth. “I care for you, Severus. I always have. When we were—close, I saw the fire in you, the ambition. I nurtured it. Do you think anyone else will do the same? Do you think Peverell sees you as anything more than a novelty?”

The mention of Peverell’s name made Severus flinch, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he quickly masked it. “Leave him out of this,” Severus said sharply, his voice low and dangerous. “Or else.”

Lucius’s smirk widened. “Oh, I intend to. Unless, of course, you force my hand.”

Severus took a step back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?”

Lucius tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Merely pointing out that—relationships can be fragile. Even the most devoted lovers don’t always know the full extent of each other’s pasts, do they?”

When Severus didn’t respond, Lucius pressed on, his tone turning razor-sharp. “Evan tells me you’ve taken to kicking him and the others out of their own dormitory to play house with your little upstart. Really, Severus, at least when I had you warming my bed, I had the decency to allow my roommates their rest. Has the little cretin not heard of silencing charms?”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Severus spat as he turned sharply, his voice cold. But Lucius’s hand darted out, gripping his arm with a viper’s swiftness.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Lucius hissed, his nails digging into the fabric of Severus’s sleeve.

Severus roared in a terror filed response, “Then release me!”

“What has got my little Severus acting like this?” Lucius asked in delight at the other’s distress. “Is it because some nobody told you you’re special? Because he’s thrown you a few galleons to dress up for him? Because he’s happy with a bit of petting and parading you around like a trophy?” His voice dropped, venom dripping from every word. “Though I suppose you’ve moved on from our bit of oral fumbling by now, haven’t you, Sev?”

Severus wrenched at Lucius’s grip, his face a mixture of fury and humiliation. “Let. Go.”

But Lucius only tightened his hold, leaning in until his mulled-wine tinted breath ghosted against Severus’s ear. “I am trying to help you, Severus,” he murmured, his voice low and menacing. “Our world doesn’t care for dirty little mudflowers, no matter how pretty they may be. And despite the Prince’s using you to keep their name alive, at best, you’ll only ever be dolled-up river trash.”

Lucius felt Severus stiffen and he went in for the kill. His breath kissed Severus frost bitten cheeks as he went on, his tone turning cold and cutting. “Others will not care for you as thoroughly as I have. And it is pathetic to see you cling to someone who could discard you without a second thought.”

Severus’s dark eyes snapped to his, blazing with anger and hurt.

“But you’ve learned that by now, haven’t you?” Lucius pressed, his nails biting harder into Severus’s arm. “People like us, Severus—we don’t rely on the kindness of others. We take what we want. What we deserve. That is what I am offering you. Power of your own. Independence.”

Severus harshly breathed, ragged and tight, as he strained to stagger back a step.

Watching him despair, Lucius could not help but ask, “Your farce of a courting has an expiration date. Do you really think Peverell will keep you when he tires of playing with you?”

Severus glared at him, his dark eyes burning with barely contained wet fury. But Lucius wasn’t finished.

“And when he discards you, what will you have left?” Lucius sneered. “Nothing—barely a name, little wealth, no power. But what I am offering you, Severus, is power of your own. Independence. Strength. The kind of strength that demands respect, not pity.”

Severus’s voice was low and trembling with rage that shook tears from his tight eyes as he replied, “And at what cost? My soul? My integrity? I’d rather be nothing than what you’ve become, Lucius.”

“Ah,” Lucius murmured, his voice mockingly soft, “there it is. My fragile little mudflower, wilting under the weight of the truth.”

The words hit like a slap, but Severus’s head still snapped up, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Say what you want, Lucius,” he said, his voice low and trembling with rage. “But I would rather be nothing than become the hollow shell of a man you’ve made yourself into.”

Lucius’s face darkened, his grip tightening further as his voice dropped to an icy whisper. “You forget yourself, Severus. Do not think for a moment that I won’t tell Peverell exactly what you are. Or better yet, what we were. Do you think he’ll look at you the same way once he knows how easy you were for me? How thoroughly I had you?”

The color drained from Severus’s face, but he quickly masked it with a defiant glare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Lucius smirked, leaning in until their faces were mere inches apart. “Wouldn’t I?”

They stood like that for a long moment, the air between them crackling with tension. Then, with a sharp motion, Severus wrenched free of Lucius’s grip, stepping back and drawing his wand in a single fluid motion.

“You think this is power?” Severus spat. “Manipulating people? Threatening them? Using their pasts against them? You’re a coward, Lucius. And if you think I would ever lower myself to follow someone like Him, you’re even more deluded than I thought.”

Lucius’s mask of composure cracked, his pale face twisting with fury. “Careful, Severus,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “It would be a shame if your little Peverell were to discover the—depths of our previous acquaintance.”

“You do what you have to, Malfoy,” Severus said while purple sparks danced at the end of his wand. “But if you so much as breathe a word of this to Henry, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Lucius raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never faltering. “As you wish, Severus. But remember this: neither the Dark Lord nor I takes rejection lightly. When the time comes—and it will—you’ll regret not taking my offer.”

Severus didn’t respond. He turned sharply and strode away, his robes billowing behind him.

Lucius watched him go, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he straightened his robes and turned back toward the village, his mind already working on his next move.

Chapter Text

November 22, 1975

Bertram Aubrey’s boots crunched against the frosted streets of Hogsmeade. His winter cloak lay taut and heavily charmed against his body, and his fingers fiddled around with the loose galleons in his pocket, well out of the astute gaze of Leodonis Avery at his side. The village around them was alive in its usual way—warm golden lights spilled from shop windows, chatter floated up and down the path from the Three Broomsticks, and the faint chiming of one or another of Zonko’s wares rang out whenever the door swung open. It had all the markings of a comforting winter day, this familiar bustle.

But it wasn’t. The cold air felt sharper in the late afternoon, the wind keener against Bertram’s cheeks as it cut through his scarf. And as the two aimlessly trudged along the frostbitten cobblestones, the chill seemed to seep through his boots despite their thick soles. He knew it was just a trick of his mind. Beside him, his notoriously fussy friend walked in composed silence—his hands gloved in dragonhide, his collar pulled high against the chill.

A door to their side, from some noisy shop he couldn’t care to name, opened to allow the egress of a spattering of Hufflepuffs, casting long, racing shadows over the cobblestone. Bertram flinched, and he couldn’t tell if the impulse came from the biting wind or his memories of the dark. He stifled the noise that threatened to startle out of his throat with a humorless chuckle.

Bertram had grown accustomed to the act over the past few weeks. Every fear he wanted to voice seemed to fight against the heaviness of his own tongue. The phantom weight of the curse Henry had laid over them only further burdened him, binding his thoughts like iron chains. No matter how he turned his head, the memory of Henry’s voice lingered against the wind—cold and undeniable: “You will speak of it to no one.”

If his mind quieted for too long, Bertram found himself back in that night. His lungs still stammered over the breath he had caught in his throat. The tension in the Slytherin common room was still palpable, the almost electric hum never leaving the air. He remembered that a prefect had been speaking, trying to settle the riled crowd, but his words fell away as a door slammed open. Footsteps echoed from the stairway above, loud and hurried, drawing every eye toward the boy’s dormitory entrance. Henry appeared at the top of the stairs, his face shadowed, his breath labored. He froze as he took in the crowd gathered below—anxious, curious, and fearful faces all fixed on him. For a single, suspended moment, no one moved.

Then, it happened.

A ripple of awareness swept through the room, a collective gasp as realization dawned. The air shifted, crackling with a raw, untamed energy that felt ancient and dangerous. Bertram’s lips parted before he could stop himself.

“Henry,” he had gasped, his voice trembling. Others followed.

“He’s been using Dark Magic,” someone whispered, their voice filled with awe and fear.

“He could rival even Him,” murmured another.

Bertram had barely heard the murmurs. His gaze was fixed on Henry, and he saw what others could not: the magic roiling beneath his skin, a dark, twisting mass of shadows that felt alive. It writhed, sending tendrils of invisible energy rippling through the room, brushing against each Slytherin with a restless, searching hunger.

And then, it felt as though a spell had unraveled. As though an enchantment Henry had woven over months—secrets buried, whispers silenced—shattered in an instant. Bertram could feel the shift, a sudden clarity piercing his thoughts like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It was then he realized the true extent of Henry’s power. Not just a talented wizard, but something more—something monstrous.

The chaos of the common room, the thrumming force of Henry’s magic, the writhing shadows that had licked at his trembling feet—all of it had burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. And Henry, standing at the center of it all with eyes glowing and voice ringing with power that wasn’t entirely human, haunted him most of all. The memory was more than a recollection—it thrummed like a living pulse, a pressure against his temples that threatened to splinter if he pushed too far.

It routinely set his body to restlessly twitching until Leodonis all but dragged him from the castle to get some fresh air. Last night, he’d lain in bed, shaking so violently he thought his bones might splinter. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and the memory of Henry’s glowing eyes burned behind his eyelids every time he closed them. It was Leodonis who found him come morning light, pale and trembling, clutching the edge of his bed as though to anchor himself.

“You look like a banshee’s about to wail at you,” Leodonis had said, leaning against the doorframe with his usual nonchalance. “Merlin’s beard, Aubrey, you’ve got to get out of this room before you implode.”

“I’m fine,” Bertram muttered, though his shaking hands betrayed him.

“No, you’re not,” Leodonis replied sharply. “Come on. Coat, boots, scarf. We’re going out.”

And so they were here, walking through Hogsmeade, the cold air biting at what little of Bertram’s exposed skin was present. He didn’t mind it, for it offered him the feeling of something other than his own fear. His thoughts still churned as they trudged along the town, his mind warring with itself. “Should he talk to Leodonis? Could he?”

The silence stretched, and Bertram’s nerves frayed further with every passing second. Suddenly, the tip of his boots caught on an uneven stone and jolted Bertram back to the present. Beside him, Leodonis lightly laughed at his tumble but overall seemed at ease, his head tilted slightly as if listening for something distant. The ease was a facade, Bertram was certain of it—no one, he felt, who had been in the common room that night could truly be at ease.

“Jumpier than usual, Berty,” Leodonis drawled, pulling Bertram’s attention back to him. His smirk was light, teasing, but there was an edge of curiosity in his tone. “What’s gotten into you?”

Bertram hesitated, the words sticking in his throat, then carefully chose his words. “I just—I’ve been thinking. About the other night.”

Leodonis raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached up to adjust his scarf, his gloved fingers deliberately slow. “Thinking,” he repeated, the word laced with faint amusement. “That sounds dangerous for you.”

Miffed, Bertram held his tongue, and they continued their aimless walk. Eventually, Leodonis broke the regrown quiet. “You know, I don’t think your brain’s used to working this hard. You’re going to overheat if you’re not careful.”

Bertram glanced at him, startled. Leodonis’s mood was infuriatingly casual, but his eyes were sharp with something like understanding. Bertram asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “How can you be so calm?”

Leodonis shrugged. “Perspective. You lot forget that not every so-called ‘all-powerful being’ is worth losing sleep over.”

Bertram frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leodonis slid his hands into his pockets, his expression turning thoughtful. “It means you should remember your history. I don’t know what he is, but do you know how many of the most notable wizarding families have creature blood in them? It’s not exactly rare. Families need fresh blood—or, occasionally, Muggle blood—to keep their magic alive. Without it, they became—well, like the Blacks.”

“The Blacks?”

“Yeah,” Leodonis said. “Once upon a time, they had Metamorphmagi in their line. Powerful magic. But generations of inbreeding snuffed that out.”

Bertram raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

Leodonis’s smirk returned. “The Averys were tied to High Elves once, before the realms were closed off. Our name—‘Elf-Counsel’—comes from that. My grandfather used to tell me stories about it. Said the Averys were taught early on not to fear power, even the kind that could destroy you, more than necessary.”

Bertram shivered, unsure if it was the wind or Leodonis’s words. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Leodonis chuckled. “I’m just saying you need to calm down, Bertram. Henry’s powerful, sure, but he’s still human. I suppose.” He shrugged. “And if he’s not? Well, history’s full of monsters. We’re still here, aren’t we?”

Bertram wasn’t sure if that was comforting—or terrifying. Glancing sideways at his companion, his stomach twisted with indecision. He had to say something—he had to—if only to lighten the weight pressing against his chest.

“But how?” He wanted to ask. How could he breach the subject without tempting the curse to lash back? 

After a bit of walking in more silence, where Bertram uselessly attempted to steady his heart, he pressed, “So you aren’t still—thinking about it?” Frustration crept into his voice. “Everything that happened in the common room? The-” He broke off, biting down on the words before they could betray him. “The magic. The shadows. The cur-.”

Leodonis’s smirk widened as he turned to Bertram, before his tongue could slip too far. “Oh, I’ve been thinking, all right,” he said, his voice light but pointed. “I’ve been thinking about how you’ve been skulking around like a ghost for days, looking like you’ve seen Merlin himself rise from the dead. Honestly, I thought maybe you’d developed a little—fascination.”

Bertram blinked, caught off guard. He repeated, “Fascination?”

“You know.” Leodonis waved a hand vaguely. “The brooding, the stammering, the guilty looks—textbook symptoms of an unhealthy attraction. Tell me, Berty, is it a power kink? Some deep, buried desire to bow to the nearest glowing-eyed demigod?”

Bertram flushed, his cheeks burning hotter than the winter wind could explain. “I—what—no!” he sputtered. “That’s not—it’s not like that!”

Leodonis let out a low chuckle, the sound curling like smoke in the cold air. “Relax, I’m teasing,” he said, though his grin suggested he wasn’t entirely joking. “But you can’t deny it, can you? There’s something about him. Something that makes people stop and stare. Makes them—reconsider.”

Bertram’s stride stiffened, the weight of Henry’s command bearing down on him again. “I wasn’t staring,” he muttered, more to himself than to Leodonis. “I was-” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought without giving too much away.

“You’re terrified,” Leodonis supplied smoothly, his tone now more serious. He glanced at Bertram, his sharp eyes gleaming in the dim light. “And so is everyone else. Even the ones who wanted to fall at his feet are afraid. That’s what makes all this-,” he figuratively waved about, “-so dangerous.”

Bertram shivered. He couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen the fear in their classmates’ eyes—the awe, yes, but the fear most of all. The kind of fear that lingered, gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, made you see shadows where there were none. He recognized it too well. He’d felt it when he was younger, watching his father kneel before Voldemort, his voice unwavering as he swore loyalty to the Dark Lord. Back then, Bertram had thought it was inevitable that he’d follow in those footsteps. But that certainty had begun to crumble the moment he met Henry—someone who stood, unyielding, against everything his father believed in. The idea of bowing down no longer held any appeal; it repulsed him. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence filled only with the distant hum of voices from the village and the occasional rush of wind through the bare trees. Then Bertram swallowed hard, his voice low.

“Do you think-” He hesitated, his words heavy with the weight of Henry’s command. “Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”

Leodonis stopped walking and turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Bertram thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, Leodonis sighed, a small, humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Who knows?” he said. “But, you don’t stumble into that type of power on accident.”

The words settled over Bertram like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. He didn’t respond, his mind too busy turning over the implications.

“You’d better get used to it,” Leodonis added, his voice quieter now. “Because if he, or the other guy for that matter, decides to burn this world down, there’s not a damn thing you or I can do to stop him.”

Bertram’s mouth went dry, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. He whispered, “Then what are we supposed to do?”

Leodonis started walking again, his boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate precision. “We cast our lot smartly. We survive,” he said simply. “And we stay out of the way.”

As they neared the edge of the village, the lights of the castle glimmering faintly in the distance, Bertram couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t alone. The shadows seemed darker than usual, the air heavier. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see golden eyes watching from the dark. If they were, he didn’t want to know—so he did what he does best.

“Perhaps,” Bertram’s joke began, “we should start a fan club.”

Leodonis added, “Lovers of the Tentacle?”

“No, no,” Bertram chided in his poshest accent. “Only his dear ‘Sev’ gets to truly love the tentacle.”

“Too true, my good lad,” Leodonis replied equally. “Henry shall only bless his followers with the sight of his noodley appendage.”

A beat passed, and then Bertram laughed for the first time in nearly a month. Leodonis was no better at his side, clutching a lamppost to stay upright. Bertram was so caught up in the way that joy warmed his soul that he barely noticed the figure briskly walking perpendicular to their path, in the direction of the Apparition point, until they were nearly upon him.

The man, tall and pale-haired, casually passed them a yard away, his movements so fluid they seemed almost unnatural, like an arctic predator gliding along the edge of the snow covered forest. The sight of him made Bertram’s heart stutter for a moment. The posture, the tilt of his head, the cold precision of his gaze as he observed passersby—the man was far away, but he was eerily like Lucius Malfoy.

“Bloody hell,” Bertram muttered under his breath, casting a furtive glance toward the man as they passed. “Do you think that’s-”

“It’s not.” Leodonis didn’t even look. “Lucius doesn’t loiter like a commoner. Besides, he’s far too self-important to skulk around Hogsmeade.”

Bertram frowned, though he didn’t argue. The resemblance still unsettled him. For a fleeting moment, he remembered a time in his third year when that man’s gaze flickered toward him, icy and probing. He was surprised when his own mind supplied, “I’ve faced scarier.”

With a self-deprecating smile, he glanced back, but the figure was already striding away into the shadows.

“Come on,” Leodonis said, his voice softer now. “Let’s get back before your toes freeze off. I’m not carrying you to the castle.”

Bertram managed a smile, though the unease in his chest hadn’t completely dissipated. “But we didn’t even stop at Honeydukes! I haven’t gotten my Fizzing Whizbees fix yet!”

Leodonis didn’t slow his stride. “You’ll survive. Besides, I know for a fact that you have enough sugar in your trunk to rot your teeth for three lifetimes.”

“Leo—!” Bertram whined, hurrying to keep up, but his companion didn’t spare him a glance.

As their voices faded into the distance, another pair of footsteps echoed through Hogsmeade’s winding streets, accompanied by a familiar, exaggerated groan.

“James—!” Sirius Black whined, dragging out his best impression of a spoiled child. “You promised we’d make a detour!”

James Potter sighed, running a hand through his windswept hair. “Padfoot, I don’t recall saying when we’d make a detour. And I definitely don’t recall saying it’d be right now, as I’m trying to find a present for Lily.”

“But Prongs,” Sirius said, his voice thick with mock devastation, “it’s a matter of life or death! If I don’t get my hands on a box of Fizzing Whizbees right now, I might actually perish.”

“You’ll be fine,” James said dryly. “You’re already more sugar than man anyway.”

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically, stumbling as if he’d been gravely injured. “How could you say such a thing? After everything we’ve been through?”

James rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at his lips. “Keep it up, and I’ll leave you for the shopkeepers to deal with. Let them charge you double for being an idiot.”

Sirius straightened, tossing his hair over his shoulder as though shaking off the insult. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m this close to finding new friends. Friends who appreciate the finer things in life.”

“Like Fizzing Whizbees?” James quipped.

“Exactly,” Sirius replied, without a trace of irony.

The two wandered through the shops, their banter ebbing and flowing as they weaved through clusters of students and villagers alike. They headed down the cobblestoned road, the glow of shop windows reflecting in the light snow scattered across the ground. They even stopped at Zonko’s briefly, Sirius inspecting the new stock of joke products while James tried—and failed—to find something he thought would make Lily laugh.

“Maybe she’d like this?” Sirius said, holding up a Nose-Biting Teacup.

James didn’t even look up. “She’s not you, Sirius. She doesn’t think nearly losing her nose is funny.”

“Well, that’s her loss, really.” Sirius smirked and replaced the teacup. “Besides, I thought girls loved dangerous men. You know, mysterious types with a penchant for chaos?”

James said absently, “She also has a brain. Now help me find something decent, or at least stop distracting me.”

The comment landed harder than Sirius expected, but he brushed it off with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right, of course,” Sirius muttered. “Because a self-knitting scarf screams ‘romance.’”

He followed James out of the shop, trailing a few steps behind now, his boots crunching loudly against the thin layer of snow. By the time they reached the fourth shop, Sirius had had enough. He leaned against the doorframe while James browsed, arms crossed and jaw tight. “This is boring,” he announced, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. “We’re wasting prime prank-planning time, and you’re too busy pining over Evans to see it.”

James sighed but didn’t bite, rummaging through a display of enchanted hand-mirrors instead.

“You know,” Sirius said, crossing his arms as James studied yet another shelf, “for someone who claims to be my best mate, you’re doing a remarkable job of ignoring me. What’s next? A gift-wrapping seminar?” His voice was lighter than he felt, the sarcasm covering the sting of being brushed aside. James didn’t even glance up. Sirius’s chest tightened, an old, familiar ache stirring in his gut.

“First my parents, then Regulus—and now James?” He clenched his fists. “No, James isn’t abandoning me. Not really.” But the silence felt too much like the whispers at Grimmauld Place. “Do you know what we could be doing right now?” Sirius continued, louder. “We could be sneaking into the Three Broomsticks under the cloak and charming everyone’s butterbeer to smell like rotten fish.”

James didn’t respond.

“We could be charming the suits of armor to walk into random shops and sing ‘God Save the Queen.’”

Nothing.

“Or,” Sirius added with a wicked grin, “we could slip an Ever-Expanding Dungbomb under Slughorn’s desk and see if he ever notices-”

“I don’t have the cloak anymore, Sirius,” James interrupted flatly, finally turning to face him.

Sirius froze. “What?”

“My dad took it. Said it’s punishment for-” James hesitated, his voice quieter now. “For the stuff with Snape. And Peverell.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “That’s ridiculous. You’re practically an adult—what right does he have to confiscate your things like you’re a first-year?”

“It’s his cloak, Sirius,” James said, his voice low. He didn’t look up, couldn’t look up, because he knew what Sirius would see: shame. His father’s words echoed in his head—“You’ve disgraced the family name, James. Actions have consequences.” James swallowed hard, refusing to let Sirius see how deeply it cut. “And maybe I deserve it,” he added quickly, his tone brittle, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Sirius.

Sirius scoffed. “Deserve it? For what? For teaching that greasy git a lesson? Honestly, Prongs, you’re too soft sometimes. If anyone deserves punishment, it’s Snape—him and his shiny new friend.”

James stiffened. “Don’t.”

But Sirius ignored him, his frustration bubbling over. “Oh, come on, James. Don’t tell me you’re scared of Henry bloody Peverell. So he’s powerful—big deal. You think I lose sleep over powerful people? My family’s full of them, and look how pathetic they are.”

James’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond, turning back to the display instead.

Sirius snorted, the sound sharp and derisive. “Henry Peverell,” he repeated, spitting the name like it was poison. “What’s he got, really? A shiny wand and a family crest? Bloody pathetic, if you ask me.” His lip curled as he imagined Henry, striding through Hogwarts like he owned the place. “You think he’s better than us? Better than you? I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by Peverells, Blacks, and Malfoys, and do you know what they are? Parasites. Leeching off the past because they’re too weak to do anything real in the present.”

James, continued to poke around the shop, despite the visible tightness of his hands, “Not everything’s about rebellion, Sirius. Some of us want to build something worth having, not destroy everything in sight.”

Willfully ignoring James, Sirius pressed on. “Honestly, all this nonsense about Peverell—disowning you like it’s the end of the world—it’s pathetic. Who cares about bloodlines or legacies? You’re better off without them.”

James’s voice was steady, but his hands were clenched into fists. “You hate your family—I know that. But not everyone feels the same way. Not everyone wants to burn their history to the ground just to prove a point.”

Sirius blinked, momentarily stunned by the intensity of James’s tone. “I wasn’t-”

“You don’t get it, Sirius. You’ve never cared about any of this,” James figuratively waived his empty hand around, “family, legacy, responsibility. You don’t know what it’s like to lose something you actually care about.”

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp. Sirius blinked, his face carefully blank, but something inside him cracked. He wasn’t about to let James see it, though. So Sirius asked coolly, blood boiling in his veins, “What would you know?”

He was gearing up for a fight, with his best mate—right here in the showroom of some frilly shop he could not name at wand-point. But as he opened his mouth to spit fire and foul, James cut him off.

“I’m done talking about this,” James huffed. “If you’re so bored, maybe we should split up. Finish the shopping on our own.”

“What?” Sirius blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re just going to ditch me?”

“I’m not ditching you,” James said evenly. “I’m just tired of this.” Without waiting for a response, he strode off down the street, disappearing into the crowd.

Sirius stared at him, his stomach twisting with something he couldn’t quite name. Abandonment? Frustration? A mix of both? He shoved his hands into his pockets, masking his hurt with a glare. “Fine,” he snapped. “Go be boring on your own. I’ll find something actually fun to do.”

James didn’t respond, turning on his heel and disappearing out of the next shop. Sirius stood there for a moment, his anger simmering under the surface. “How dare James dismiss me like that?”

As he too moved to leave, movement caught his eye through the shop’s front glass: Severus Snape was hurrying down the road.

Sirius’s lip curled, a slow grin spreading across his face as a plan began to form. Snape was alone, looked distracted, and was generally vulnerable. It was the perfect opportunity to work off a little frustration from dealing with James.

James always did this lately—pulled away the moment things got real, the moment Sirius tried to make him see the world the way it was. It wasn’t fair. They were supposed to be a team, always on the same side. A bitter thought crept into Sirius’s mind. “He’s choosing her. He’s choosing this ridiculous, boring future over us.”

The words felt ugly, but he didn’t push them away. It wasn’t as if they weren’t true. And as Sirius watched James disappear into the next shop alone, his mind fanned the flames that simmered beneath his carefully composed smirk. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers clenched into fists. As he stepped into the late afternoon, Sirius kicked at a patch of snow on the street, scattering it across the cobblestones trailing behind Snape.

Snape’s head was down, and his strides were quick and purposeful. His dark robes trailed behind him like some overgrown bat. He looked more hunched than usual, as though more than the cold was pressing down on him. Bits of his hair clung to his face, and he clutched his arms tightly to his chest. Sirius could tell that Snape’s other hand was gripping his wand, tucked half-concealed in his sleeve. Sirius’s lip curled into a sneer. He hadn’t seen Snivellus out and about all day, but it seemed the boy knew to be alert. And the sight of him now—it was perfect.

There was a time when just the mere mention of Snape would have been enough to set James off, to spark one of their impromptu duels or send them running through the castle cackling with victory after a well-executed prank. But James wouldn’t go for it now, not with his head so full of Lily and her doe-eyed disapproval. Sirius smirked to himself, the idea unfurling like smoke in his mind. Maybe he didn’t need James. Maybe this could be the perfect way to remind his best mate who they were.

“James won’t stay mad once the adrenaline hits,” Sirius muttered under his breath, trailing a few steps behind Snape. “Prongs loves a good laugh—especially at Snape’s expense. He just needs to see it, that’s all.”

He followed silently, boots crunching against the snow. Snape turned onto a narrower street, heading toward the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Sirius slowed his pace, keeping his steps light. His heart was already beating faster, a giddy, reckless rhythm that drowned out the sensible voice in his head. He didn’t need sensible right now. Sensible was what James was doing, fussing over scarves and mirrors and what Lily Evans would think.

No, Sirius needed action. Something brilliant, something memorable. Something that would remind James what real fun looked like. He ducked into the shadow of a shopfront as Snape paused at the end of the street, glancing around before continuing down the path that led toward the Shrieking Shack.

Sirius stifled a laugh. “Perfect.”

The wand in Sirius’s pocket felt hot, almost humming with energy as ideas sparked in his mind. Sirius slipped his wand from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers as a grin spread across his face. He could almost hear James’s laugh already, the way it would burst out despite himself, no matter how mad he might be. Sirius would remind him what they were really about: chaos, loyalty, fun.

He could charm Snape’s robes to stiffen like boards, locking his arms to his sides so he flailed like an oversized penguin. Or maybe he’d cast a mild sticking charm on the bottom of his shoes—something harmless but infuriating. But not right now, Sirius realized. To do it now wouldn’t be enough. This needed to be big. Something that would bring James running, something that would force him to stop thinking about silk scarves and mediocre-looking girls, and start thinking about them—what the Marauders used to be. The plan wasn’t fully formed yet, but Sirius didn’t care.

The wind was biting now, cutting through the narrow street like a whispered warning. Dead leaves gave way beneath his boots, sharp and hollow in the stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its call harsh and broken, like laughter warped and twisted out of shape. He followed Snape no farther down the path, after the boy ducked past the shabby fence surrounding the shack—he didn’t need to. Sirius’ steps felt lighter, faster, and were fueled by a thrill that only grew as the distance between him and what he wanted closed.

It wasn’t Snape’s fault that James didn’t get it anymore. That James didn’t see how the world was closing in, forcing them all into these neat little boxes: prefect, Head Boy, boyfriend, future husband. James was letting himself be swallowed by it, letting Lily rewrite him into someone Sirius barely recognized. And worse, he seemed to want it. The thought made Sirius’s chest burn. He’d been the one constant in James’s life, his partner in crime, the one who knew him best. But now? Now, Sirius felt like an afterthought.

And Snape was just a convenient way to get back to the forefront of James’s mind.

“Perfect,” Sirius whispered to himself. “This will be absolutely perfect.”

Chapter Text

November 22 - November 25, 1975

The streets of Hogsmeade blurred around him as willfully stagnant tears clouded his black eyes. The chatter of students and villagers reduced to a dull hum that rang in his ears as noisily stormed down the icy streets. His heeled-boots pounded against the cobblestones as he weaved through the crowds, his head down, hair obscuring his face. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tight and aching, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The air was sharp and bitter, but he barely noticed the cold. His mind was a maelstrom of anger, humiliation, and a venomous sort of determination that burned brighter with every step he took. The cold bit at his cheeks, reddening them against the pale glow of the sinking sun, but he barely registered the sting. His thoughts were fixed, relentless in their torment, as Lucius’s words echoed like a powerful mind-charm.

They stuck like a thorn in his throat and, after forcing his body to move a few more paces, the struggle to breathe properly brought him up short for a moment right in the middle of the street. He wanted nothing more than to turn back, to find Lucius, and make him regret every sneering word. Yet, even as his fury rose, the rational part of him held him in check. While he had faith in his dulling ability, he could not afford a public spectacle. Lucius wasn’t worth the shame, embarrassment, and possible involvement with the Aurors for attacking a member of high-society.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself to make his feet move forward again.

Still, the venom in Lucius’s voice had sunk deep, embedding itself alongside the self-doubt that splintered his bone. His fingers clenched tightly around his wand, half-concealed in the sleeve of his robes—just in case. He flexed them to keep the blood flowing, the motion a faint distraction from the colorful rage coursing through him. Severus aimlessly pushed through the village square, taking the next empty back-street after another, until the air grew quieter—the cheerful noise of holiday shoppers fading behind him. But with the quiet came other problems.

“But he’s right about Peverell, isn’t he?" a bitter voice in his mind whispered. "You’ve been thinking the same thing all along."

Severus’ jaw clenched as the unwelcome mental-noise curled through his mind. Lucius’s accusations had felt too pointed, too knowing. The relationship Severus shared with Henry—if it could even be called something as simple as that—had been the first thing in years that brought him anything resembling peace. And yet-

"What if it’s all just an illusion?"

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head as if the motion could scatter the doubts. He didn’t need Lucius to plant seeds of suspicion; they had been there all along, waiting like dormant weeds to sprout at the slightest provocation. Severus forcefully shoved the thought aside, grinding his teeth as he walked faster, his boots crunching against the frost-laden leaves and mud.

He didn’t have time for doubt. Not now. Not when the streets were still spattered with moving bodies as he moved away from the bustling heart of the village. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, the cold air stinging his lungs. He tugged his cloak tighter around himself, though the gesture was more about shielding himself from the world than the weather.

He glanced over his shoulder, more out of habit than suspicion. The side-street behind him was empty, save for a faint wisp of smoke curling out from the back entrance of a distant shop. Yet, despite the stillness, the back of his neck prickled with unease. He shook his head and turned his gaze forward again. Paranoia. That’s all it was.

Severus’s thoughts churned as he hurried along the narrow streets, his mind replaying the encounter with Lucius like a broken record. The man’s smug expression, his condescending tone, the way he’d spoken of Henry—of their relationship—as though it were some fleeting indulgence, a game to be mocked and discarded.

"He doesn’t know anything," Severus told himself fiercely. "Henry isn’t like him. He isn’t like any of them. He sees me."

But even as he clung to that thought, doubt nipped at the edges of his resolve. Lucius’s taunts had struck too close to home, dredging up every insecurity Severus had tried to bury since the start of their courtship. Was Henry simply tolerating him? Was it pity that kept him coming back? Or worse—curiosity?

Severus’ hands shook where they clenched the fabric of his robes, his fingers curling into fists. “Focus,” he told himself. “Just get somewhere quiet, to think.”

But as he hurried down the path ahead of him, the unease didn’t fade. It clung to him like a second skin, a nagging sense of wrongness that refused to be ignored. Wind howled through alleys and alcoves, carrying with it the faint scent of snow and damp earth. Severus kept his head down, his strides purposeful as he tried to shake the feeling of being watched. But no matter how far he walked, the sensation persisted.

The streets narrowed as he reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Soiled puddles of melted snow pooled in the cracks of the uneven cobblestones, stretching long and dark as the sun lazed to dip below the horizon. The buildings thinned as he walked on, giving way to open fields dusted with snow. Ahead, the jagged silhouette of the Shrieking Shack rose against the bruised sky, its crooked frame wrapped in sagging wood.

The sight of it brought a strange kind of solace, its isolation mirroring the solitude he felt within himself. Severus did not pause at the rickety fence to stare and gawk at the rundown structure like his peers were known to. He heard all of the stories—the whispers of hauntings, of curses, of unearthly wails that carried on the wind. It was all rubbish, of course. A convenient myth, he figured, to keep curious students away. From what, he did not care—because he could now use the hesitance of others to his advantage. No one would bother him here.

The air grew heavier near the shack, the silence oppressive, broken only by the crunch of frost under his boots. His eyes flicked downward after a snagged step, catching the jagged shapes of dead foliage clinging stubbornly to life in the frozen earth. The skeletal remains of twisted vines reached skyward, their brittle tips snapping under the faintest breeze.
In the hollow of a snow-dusted tree stump, he noticed the grim sight of a small, broken sparrow, its feathers stiff and crusted with frost.

“A fitting place for an end,” Severus thought bitterly. He knew that no matter what came of today, it would be the end of his peace. Perhaps, even the death of the future he craved. He shuffled forward with that thought and the shack’s door gave way under his angry touch with a creak so loud it echoed like a scream in the silence. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, his hands pressed against the frost-riddled wood. Sweat from his palms mingled with the chill of the door, leaving a clammy, frozen smear that he had to yank his skin away from.

The slight spilling of his blood felt almost like a warning.

The interior was as decrepit as the exterior, with warped beams and shattered windows, but it felt safe in a way the bustling streets of Hogsmeade never could. Inside, the air was damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of rot. As Severus stepped further inside, his boots stirring the dust that blanketed the floor. He almost didn’t notice of it though, as he barely made it into the first room before he sank to the ground. His knees buckled under the weight of exhaustion—both physical and emotional. For a moment, he simply sat there, knees against the splintered floor, staring blankly at the discolored wood.

Then the dam broke.

His chest heaved as he pressed his sticky hands to his face, his fingers dug uncontrollably into his cheeks. The tears came in a flood—hot and unrelenting against his chilled skin. Every sob that tore from his throat felt like it would break him in two, leaving him raw and emptied. His damp, dirtied robes pooled around him like a shroud as he fell forward, the sight only deepening the shame that churned in his stomach. Henry had gifted him this cloak, the stitches fine and precise, the fabric chosen with a careful charm.

“How dare I sully it, dragging it through the grime?“

"It’s because you don’t deserve the things he does for you." The voice, though in his mind, was not his own. Loud and cruel, echoing from the depths of his memory. "You’ve never deserved anything nice. Ungrateful, little fuck-up." The voice was unmistakable—sharp and cutting, with a cruelty that had haunted Severus’s childhood. Tobias Snape’s words echoed in his mind, dredged up from the depths of his overwhelmed psyche.

The words opened floodgates to a torrent of mental images: his father’s fists slamming onto the table, his mother cowering in a corner, the accusations flung at her like curses. "Use your bloody magic to make this place decent, or are you too useless for even that?"

Severus pressed his hands to his ears, but it was no use. The voice wasn’t coming from outside. His breath hitched hard as the memories came rushing in—his father’s rage, the slamming of doors, the sting of a hand against his cheek. And always, the crushing sense of inadequacy, of being a disappointment to everyone around him.

Even at Hogwarts.

The mocking laughter of his peers rang in his ears, the cruel nicknames and whispered rumors that followed him through the corridors. Even now, years later, the humiliation still burned. The memories of his first home shifted, flowing seamlessly into another. The cruel laughter of students echoed off the warped walls, the whispers that followed him everywhere crawled out of the rafters.

"Snivellus."

"Half-blood coward."

“Whore.”

He thought of his first year at Hogwarts—the way the older Slytherin’s had sneered and mocked his blood and lack of name, their words striking like hexes that no spell could block. He had learned quickly that no one would intervene. Not the professors, who turned a blind eye, nor his peers, who saw him as easy prey.

“Severus Snape, the half-blood freak.”

”The greasy-haired boy even the muggles didn’t want.”

They whispered stories about him—vile, cruel lies that spread like Fiendfyre. That he brewed illegal potions in the dungeons, simply because he was good at it. That he was a Dark wizard in training, simply because his wand was quicker than theirs. That he would curse anyone who crossed him, simply because he eventually grew a backbone. The rumors only grew worse with time, feeding on the scraps of truth that Severus wished he could bury—and created the very insecurities that Lucius had seized upon.

Lucius.

Severus thought he had trained himself away from all thoughts of Lucius—of the way he used to drape an arm around Severus’s shoulders, whispering promises that felt like salvation. Of how Lucius had been everything Severus thought he wanted: confident, charismatic, untouchable. Or how the price of Lucius’s approval had been steep.

Lucius, with his aristocratic charm and piercing silver eyes—with his ever flowing pockets and ever astute stare. The older boy had been a beacon of power and poise, of protection and pillory. Severus had gravitated toward him like a moth to flame, desperate for validation, for belonging. And Lucius had offered it—at a price. The memory of Lucius’s hands on him, of whispered venom disguised as affection, made Severus’s stomach twist.

"Do you think anyone else will care for you the way I do?"

"Shall I cleanse you, my little mudflower?"

"You’re nothing without this—without me."

The words coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing the air from his lungs. He hated how easily Lucius could reduce him back to this—a trembling, broken thing. Severus shuddered as fresh memories surfaced, vivid and agonizing. The things he had done to keep Lucius’s attention—the favors, the obedience, the pieces of himself that had been carved away and never grew back. And when Lucius had tired of him, when he had discarded Severus like a broken toy, the pain had been unbearable.

Time had slipped away from him as he sat crumpled and trembling, a prisoner of his own memories. The air hung heavy, the smell of damp rot and faint traces of old blood pressing against his senses. Broken shards of light that filtered through the warped wood of the shack grew dimmer as the sun began to set, sending long shadows creeping across the splintered floor. They hungrily stretched toward him, pooling around his knees like a dark tide. They remind him of Henry. Henry, who smiled at him without malice. Henry, who had taken the time to learn about him in ways no one else had. Henry, who treated him as though he mattered—as though he deserved to be cared for, to be loved.

"Does he know what you are? Does he care? Or is he just playing with his food?" The imagined Lucius’ voice hissed, but it no longer rang as clear.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Severus let out a shaky breath. He forced himself to sit up, his breathing steadying as resolve began to harden in his chest. His shame, his doubt, his reluctance—none of it mattered because Henry deserved the truth. All of it. And for once, Severus would not let fear stop him. The thought warmed him, a flicker of light in the suffocating darkness of his mind. It was enough to steady his breathing, enough to let his fingers release the death grip they’d held on his now matted curls.

"You’ve always been a glutton for punishment, haven’t you, Severus?” He could not tell which of his demons stoked his wounds now. “Pathetic little thing, throwing yourself at anyone who’ll have you."

Bile rose in his throat, his vision swam, and Severus pushed his body to stand regardless. With trembling hands, he straightened his robes and brushed the dust from his trousers before fumbling with his wand to spell the rest of himself clean. The warmth of his righted cloak—Henry’s gift—seeped into his skin, a small comfort against the cold as Severus turned and stepped toward the door.

Because Henry was not Lucius.

And Severus had to let himself believe that. But that singular belief did not make figuring out his next steps any easier. He didn’t know how to bring up his past to Henry. Severus held his tongue through meeting back up with Henry, making excuses for his changed mood, enduring a terse walk back to the castle, and spending a few days in awkward, mental fumbling for the right words.

Yet the desire to rely on Henry—to believe that his mere human problems mattered—persisted. He scripted and revised hypothetical scenarios in his head for hours on end without delivering anything of adequate substance. His mind picked flaws out of every conceivable discussion. Even now, as he sat in the library days later, attempting to salvage some semblance of study time, the weight of his unspoken words pressed on his chest. The books in front of him blurred into illegible blocks of text as the same train of thought circled endlessly in his mind.

“What if Henry underestimated the danger of Lucius’s connections?”

“What if Lucius exposed Henry for what he truly is?”

“What if the Unspeakables get involved?”

“And what if—“

“Severus.”

The sound of Lily’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. The library was quiet—the kind of silence that swallowed even the faintest rustle of parchment or scratch of quill—so her voice carried clearly as she slid into the chair across from him without invitation, her arms crossed and her gaze sharp. Her sudden presence startled him enough that his quill jerked, leaving an ugly blot of ink on the parchment containing his Charms notes.

“Lily,” he said flatly, not looking up.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said without preamble. Her voice was firm, almost accusatory. “And don’t even think about lying, because I’ve been watching.”

“There’s no lie to be told,” Severus sighed, setting his quill down with deliberate care. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” she demanded. “I barely see you anymore. You’re practically glued to that Peverell boy one minute, and the next you’re skulking around like the world’s about to collapse on you.” She leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing. “Is this about Lucius Malfoy?”

His stomach churned at the name, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the table. He asked tersely, “What about him?”

“I saw you,” Lily said, her voice dripping with disapproval. “In Hogsmeade. With him. Talking to him. What were you thinking?”

Severus didn’t answer right away. He stared at the blot of ink on his parchment, his chest tightening as memories of that day clawed at him. Finally, he muttered, “It wasn’t by choice.”

“You didn’t have to stand there and talk to him,” Lily countered, her tone sharp and unrelenting. “You could’ve walked away! But no, you stood there and let him—what? Manipulate you? Humiliate you? Again?! God, Severus, do you like making this difficult for yourself?”

Severus’s head snapped up, and for a moment, Lily faltered under the raw anger in his dark eyes. “Is that what you think this is? Some sick game I’m playing for—what? Attention? Come now. I know you’ve dropped in standing this year, but surely you’re smarter than this.”

“Well, isn’t it?” Lily shot back, her cheeks flushing. “You always let him crawl back into your life as it suits him, even after everything he’s done to you. I thought this mess would be over with, what with him being married now,” Lily stressed, words dripping with judgment and disdain. “I don’t understand it. How can you be so weak? Why can’t you just—cut him off?”

Severus laughed, a hollow, joyless sound. “Cut him off,” he echoed lowly, shaking his head. “Like it’s that simple. You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me!” Lily snapped. “Because all I see is you letting him control you again. You’re not some helpless little first-year anymore, Severus. You’re smarter than him. Stronger. You don’t have to let him use you like that.”

“Stronger?” His voice cracked on the word, and he leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of anger and despair. “Do you think I possess any form of strength that would matter to someone like Lucius Malfoy? Do you think it mattered when I was a first-year—when he owned me before I even knew what was happening?”

Lily flinched at the word “owned,” but her expression quickly hardened. “That was years ago,” she said, her tone cold. “You’re not a scared little kid anymore. If you keep letting him drag you back into his mess, that’s on you.”

Severus’s hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms. “I cannot tell if you’re choosing to be grossly obtuse or willfully pedantic,” he said, his voice low and trembling with suppressed emotion. “Either way, it’s pathetic.”

“Then make me understand!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Because right now, it just looks like you’re too afraid to stand up for yourself. And honestly? That’s what’s pathetic.”

Lily’s words hit Severus like a slap, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. His chest ached with the effort of holding back the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him—shame, anger, helplessness. He wanted to scream at her, to hit her—to tell her how wrong she was, but the words caught in his throat like shards of glass.

“Truly?” Severus finally asked, his voice soft and bitter. He looked down at the table, his shoulders slumping under the weight of her judgment. “You think I haven’t tried, Lily? You think I haven’t done everything I can to get away from him? But he always finds a way to get what he wants. Always. There was no ending things with him.” With a self-deprecating smile, he continued, “He graduated, and I simply appreciated that his interests migrated elsewhere.”

Lily’s lips parted to speak, but Severus was on a roll now. “And you,” he spat, “you sit there on your high horse, acting like you know what it’s like—what any of it is like. But you don’t. You have no idea what it’s like to be collected, to be used, to be trapped by someone like him.”

“Oh, come off it!” Lily’s voice rose to a level that garnered attention from the nearby tables. “I was the one who dried your eyes and held your hand! I was the one who snuck you around the castle when he came looking! I was the one who took you to Madame Pomfrey!” Her breath heaved with her heavy words. “And even now, I’m trying to help you,” Lily added, her nose upturned, though her voice wavered. “If you’d simply listen to me—”

“No,” Severus said sharply, his head snapping up. “You’re not trying to help me. You’re trying to make yourself feel better—for abandoning me in first year once you got better wixen friends? For not noticing how bad things were second year until it was too late? I don’t know. But you walk around like if you can ‘fix’ me, it’ll somehow make up for everything else you’ve failed at in our friendship. But you’re not helping, Lily. You’re just making it worse!”

“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice rising defensively. “Severus, you’re my friend, I just—”

“No!” Severus cut her off, his voice harsh. “You just want to lecture me. You think you’re so bloody wise, don’t you? But you’re not. You’re a hypocrite.”

Lily’s mouth fell open, her expression wounded. “Excuse me?”

“You want to judge my choices?” Severus hissed, leaning forward, his voice low and venomous. “Let’s talk about yours. You hate James Potter, don’t you? Or at least, that’s what you say. But somehow, every time he throws a bit of gold your way—buys you a new quill, some sweets, maybe a fancy potion—you’re suddenly all smiles.”

Lily’s face flushed red. “That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” Severus shot back. “You hate everything about him, but you can’t seem to hate the fact that he’s got money. That he’s obsessed with you. Admit it, Lily. You like it when he fawns over you, when he showers you in attention, when he makes you feel special. But when someone shows me the smallest bit of attention, it’s all, ‘Oh, Severus, you’re so blind! You’re so weak!’”

“That’s different!” Lily snapped, though her voice wavered. “James is—”

“Classist? A bully? A spoiled little brat who’s never worked for anything in his life?” Severus said bitterly. “You don’t care about any of that as long as he keeps showering you with gifts and attention. I know it was wrong, I know allowing him free rein over me wasn’t right. But when Lucius treated me like I was worth something, it felt good—a kind of good that was foreign to 11-year-old, neglected me. But you’re years older and just as silly. Can’t you understand how that kind of attention would make me ‘weak’ and slow to act?”

Lily’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands trembling slightly as she clenched them into fists. “Henry’s using you,” she said finally, her voice tight. “He doesn’t care about you, not really. He just likes the idea of having you on his arm. You’re a novelty to him, just like you were with Malfoy.”

“And what am I to you, Lily?” Severus spat, ignoring her change of tactic as his voice cracked with raw emotion. “A project? Someone you can fix to make yourself feel better? At least Henry doesn’t make me feel like I’m broken. At least he doesn’t look at me like I’m some pitiful thing that needs saving. Henry gave me a home, unlimited resources, and the promise of his name—something neither you nor Lucius ever offered to do.”

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Lily protested, but her voice was weak, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him.

“Isn’t it?” Severus stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He shoved his books and notes into his bag with jerky, angry movements.

“Severus, wait—” Lily reached out as if to stop him, but he pulled back before she could touch him.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and trembling. “Just—don’t.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the silent library as Lily sat alone at the table, magic bubbling wildly about her and her hand still outstretched—her face pale with shock.

Severus’s heart pounded as he stormed down the stairs and across the floor out of the library. The heavy oak door groaned as it swung shut behind him, swallowing the library’s charged silence and Lily’s sharp magical signature. Her words clung to him like nettles, prickling under his skin and fueling the restless energy propelling him down the stone corridor.

“Pathetic.”

The word looped in his mind, louder with each repetition. But not from Lily, his father, or Lucius this time—it was his own voice, self-recriminating, picking away at the edges of his resolve. Severus clenched his fists and exhaled through his nose. The sharp chill of the hallway air licked at his gnashing teeth as he stalked through the hallways. He hadn’t meant to lash out at Lily, not like that. But the pressure of her judgment, the dismissal of his pain, had been unbearable. She had no idea what she was talking about. None of them did.

No one but Henry.

The thought slowed his stride, his boots scuffing against the stones as he came to a halt near an empty alcove. His breathing steadied as he leaned against the cold wall, letting the stillness sink into his bones. Henry was different. He had to believe that. He’d begun to build his life around that idea, hadn’t he?

Severus felt the reformation of his resolution settle over him like a weighted blanket. He would tell Henry everything. About Lucius. About the manipulation, the abuse, the way it had all twisted him into something small and desperate. He would explain it all, and if words weren’t enough—if he stumbled, as he so often did—then he’d offer the only alternative he had.

“Legilimency.”

The thought of allowing someone, anyone, free rein of his mind made his stomach twist, but he pressed the acid climbing up his throat down. If it meant this turmoil would be over, he could let Henry see the memories. Let him feel them. At least then, there’d be no misunderstanding. No judgment. Just truth.

Severus straightened, his fingers grazing the edge of his wand tucked into his pocket. He couldn’t let this fester any longer. He’d find Henry—now, classes be damned—and let him see everything. No matter what came of it, it would be better than the haunted silence.

With his resolve set, Severus continued down the corridor. He turned a corner sharply, his mind already rehearsing the new words he might say, when—

“Oi, Snivellus!”

The sudden voice startled him, and before he could react, a shoulder barreled into his chest, sending him stumbling backward into the wall.

“Watch where you’re going, you greasy—” Sirius Black stopped mid-taunt, his smirk freezing as he took in Severus’s expression. “Well, well. Someone looks like they’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter, Snape? Something follow you out of the Shrieking Shack?”

“Get out of my—” Severus started off with a growl, his voice low and venomous, which shattered once Black’s words filtered through his mind. “What?!”

“Easy there, Shiterin,” Black drawled, though his eyes were sharper than usual, scanning Severus’s face. “What’s got you in such a hurry? Off to plot another dark ritual? Or maybe you’re just running away. Again.”

“I don’t have time for your nonsense,” Severus snapped. He tried to sidestep, but Sirius moved to block him, leaning casually against the wall with an air of practiced arrogance.

“Good,” Black said, his voice suddenly serious. “Because this isn’t nonsense.”

Severus hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “What are you playing at, Black?”

“Oh, nothing. It would just be a shame if ‘such a promising young potioneer,’” Black mocked, “got expelled for performing XXX-class Dark Rituals on Hogwarts grounds.”

“What—?!” Severus’s words stalled out in a gasp. “But I haven’t—”

“No?” Black interjected with faux confusion. “Well, the last person seen going out of the Shack was identified as you, and I hear the Aurors are coming to do a sweep for traces of dark magic tonight after curfew.”

“And let me guess,” Severus said through teeth so tight they audibly squeaked as they ground against each other, “the person to ‘identify’ me was you, Black?”

“Come now, Snape,” Black simpered. “Did you expect me to not voice my concern when I observed a dodgy little creep slinking around the same place that the headmaster expressed concern about being used for illicit activities only hours later?”

“That—you—I—” Severus was so mad that words dared not form sentences within his hot mouth.

Black crossed his arms, his smirk growing. “Look, if you don’t believe me, you could always sneak out and take a look at what’s going on at the Shack tonight. It’ll be a full moon, so you should be able to clearly see who comes and goes.”

Severus hesitated, his mind racing. This had to be a trap. Sirius Black didn’t approach him for anything that wasn’t a joke or a humiliation waiting to happen. But Black knowing he was in the Shrieking Shack days ago was more than a coincidence.

“Here, I can see you don’t trust me,” Black began, “so I’ll even let you in on a secret. It’s a foolproof way to get down to the Shack unseen.”

Severus folded his arms, skepticism clouding his expression. “And why, exactly, would you do that, Black?”

Balck grinned, his teeth flashing like a predator who had cornered its prey. “Maybe my days would be a lot more boring without you here to torment? Maybe I’m just feeling generous? Either way, pay attention.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a hidden passage beneath the Whomping Willow. You know, the tree that doesn’t take kindly to people getting close? There’s a knot at the base of its trunk that’ll freeze it if it’s struck, but you’ve got to be quick. Get in, freeze it, and the opening to the passage is right there. It leads directly to the Shack.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “And you expect me to believe you’re just handing this over for free?”

“Think what you want,” Black said with a shrug. “Maybe I’m lying. Maybe I’m not. But if you’re so certain I’m setting you up, I’d say don’t go near the Shack at all. Stay in the castle. Stick to your safe little routine. But—” he smirked, taking a step back, “—who knows if you’ll still be a student here come morning?”

Severus’s mind raced. He knew Black was baiting him, but the mention of the Whomping Willow caught his attention. If Sirius was telling the truth, if there were passages throughout the castle, it would explain how Black and his cronies always seemed to vanish without a trace.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Severus asked, his voice as sharp as a blade.

Black raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “You don’t. But if you don’t take the risk, you’ll never know what’s really going on, will you?”

Before Severus could respond, Black gave a mock salute and sauntered away, his laughter echoing down the corridor.

Severus stood frozen, the echo of Sirius Black’s footsteps fading into the distance. Every instinct told him to ignore the invitation, to stay focused on finding Henry and sticking to his plan. But—

“What if this is part of Lucius’s plan? He did threaten revenge—could he be attempting to get me thrown out of Hogwarts?”

Severus cursed under his breath, his resolve faltering. He couldn’t ignore the possibility, however slim, that Black had valuable information. But the timing—Merlin, the timing was abysmal. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he made his decision. He’d just take a look. Just this once. Just to see.

Then he’d find Henry and finally tell him everything.

He turned toward the staircase leading to the castle’s upper floors and his next class, his steps heavy with frustration and dread. Tonight would be a long night.

Chapter Text

November 25, 1975

Severus Snape had spent the rest of the day in a haze, his mind replaying Sirius Black's words over and over again. By dinner, he'd come to a decision. It wasn’t difficult to feign an upset stomach; he muttered something to Slughorn about “questionable potions fumes,” and his Head of House waved him off with a concerned pat on the shoulder.

Henry had been harder to fool; his sharp intuition and persistent concern made deception a challenge—though the loving attention warmed the back of Severus’s throat, even as guilt soured it. When Severus muttered something about “feeling off” and needing to rest, Henry raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“You’re sick?” Henry asked, his tone laden with disbelief even as he peppered Severus’s face with kisses in the doorway to his room. “Did you catch something from dragging your nose through all those books?”

“Ha, ha,” Severus replied dryly, gently pushing the other away with a bump of their foreheads.

“Seriously,” Henry murmured against the side of Severus’s face. “You do realize I’m not exactly in a position to catch anything anymore.” There was a faint bitterness in his words, a reminder of the gulf between them, but Severus had anticipated this reaction.

“True,” Severus stated tersely, pinching the bridge of his nose in mock exhaustion. “But I still am, and I’ll recover faster if I’m left alone for the evening.” He leaned back against his doorframe with a pointed glare, daring Henry to argue.

Henry hesitated, his gaze flickering with a mix of frustration and reluctant understanding. “Fine,” he relented at last, lingering only for a moment to rub his hands up and down Severus’s sides. “But don’t push yourself. You’re no good to yourself if you make it worse.”

Severus gave a curt nod, hiding the flicker of uncertainty that surfaced. As the other boy left, muttering something under his breath about Severus being “as stubborn as he is cute.”

Severus steeled himself, even as heat climbed up his cheeks. Once in the solitude of his dormitory, with his roommates preoccupied elsewhere, Severus retrieved his wand and adjusted his cloak, his resolve hardening. The thought of Henry joining him, even as backup, crosses his mind, but he immediately quashes it. He did not want to waive an unnecessary flag. But he also wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—stand in the way of his happiness anymore. He wouldn’t let Lucius Malfoy or the Ministry destroy him and what he’d worked hard to build—not now.

He needed to gather all the facts so that when he went to Henry—and this time he would—he could give him an undeniable account, evidence strong enough to expose Black’s schemes and prove that together they were stronger than anything Lucius, Black, or the Ministry could throw at them. And if Black’s words about the Ministry’s investigation were true, then he needed to see what they were up against at the Shrieking Shack for himself. “And if they aren’t?” Severus thought to himself. “Well, I’ll make Black regret ever trying to humiliate me.”

The castle was silent when he slipped out. His footfalls were muffled on the cold stone floors, and the occasional flicker of torchlight cast long, shifting shadows. A quick glance down a side corridor confirmed that Filch was busy elsewhere, likely harassing some unfortunate first-year. The air was thick with the thrill of danger, but Severus moved swiftly, years of skulking through Hogwarts at night serving him well.

The Whomping Willow’s looming silhouette rose against the moonlit sky as he emerged onto the grounds. Its massive branches twisted in the breeze like gnarled fingers, their movements slow but menacing, even from a distance. The moon hung high and bright, illuminating the frost-glittered grass underfoot.

Severus paused, his breath misting in the crisp air. He glanced up at the full moon, its stark glow sharpening his unease into something heavier.

“Werewolves.”

The word was a silent scream in his mind. The timing of Sirius’s smug suggestion collided with this fact like a puzzle snapping into place. “A full moon, Black’s sudden generosity, and that smell in the tunnel—“ A chill crawled down his spine. He swallowed hard. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “I need all the facts.”

Severus’s brow furrowed as he weighed his options. If he went back now, he’d never find out what Black was hiding—or if Lucius was tied to it. And if he told Henry without evidence, he risked sounding paranoid. He exhaled sharply, pulling his wand free.

“I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now.”

The frost-crusted ground crunched softly beneath Severus’s boots, another thing that simply appeared in his closet from Henry, as he crossed the grounds. The late night chill attempted to bite through his cloak. So he shuffled down further into the collar as his eyes scanned the expanse—alert for anything out of place.

Then he saw them: faint impressions in the thin layer of snow leading toward the Whomping Willow. He crouched to examine them, his breath misting in the cold air. The footprints were uneven, as if their maker had been running or stumbling. But the size was unmistakable, and relievingly, human. Severus's lips pressed into a thin line as his mind raced.

“Black,” he thought with growing certainty. He traced the trail with his eyes; the snow was disturbed just enough to suggest a hurried retreat toward the castle.

“Coward,” he muttered under his breath. Yet, a shiver ran down his spine. The marks were fresh—someone had been here, and not long ago.

Glancing around to confirm he was alone, Severus straightened and tightened his grip on his wand. His suspicions thickened like the frost in the air. The Whomping Willow loomed closer, its branches rustling with a dangerous rhythm, waiting for an intruder foolish enough to approach. Severus circled it slowly, his wand hand steady despite the sweat slicking his palm.

“‘Prod the knot at the base with a stick,’ Black had said.” Severus scoffed. “Idiot. As if I’d come unarmed.” 

He aimed his wand and whispered, “Immobulus.”

The spell struck true, freezing the tree’s violent thrashing in an instant. Its branches hung limp, lifeless against the moonlit backdrop. Severus approached cautiously, his gaze darting between the shadowed roots, searching for the hollow Black had described. The opening was narrow, almost hidden beneath a tangle of gnarled roots. He crouched low, the icy ground soaking into his knees, and peered into the darkness.

Severus paused at the mouth of the tunnel, the moon casting a pale glow over the jagged entrance. The icy wind tugged at his cloak, but it wasn’t the chill that made him hesitate. For a fleeting moment, Henry’s face filled his mind—his sharp eyes narrowed in frustration, his lips pressed into a firm line.

“He’d call me a fool for this,” Severus thought bitterly, the imagined words as clear as if Henry were standing beside him. The memory of Henry’s earlier concern, the gentle way he’d tried to coax him into resting, twisted like a knot in Severus’s chest. He clenched his jaw.

“Oh, he’ll be peeved,” he admitted silently, guilt prickling at the edges of his resolve. But then he shook the thought away, steeling himself against the weight of it. “But if it’s for us, it’s worth it.”

With a sharp inhale, he gripped his wand tighter and inched into the darkness. A faint, musky odor wafted out—a smell of earth, decay, and something sharp and animalistic. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to climb inside, whispering a faint "Lumos" to light his way.

The tunnel twisted ahead, narrowing as the air turned damp and rank. Severus’s wand light flickered weakly, illuminating jagged walls and scattered debris. He slowed his steps, his senses prickling with unease. Each step echoed faintly as his feet moved across the soft squelch of his boots against the dirt.

The tunnel twisted and turned, the light from his wand flickering as he brushed his fingers against the damp walls for balance. Above him, a bit of ways away, he felt another’s signature present—but only one. Not the flock of Aurors or the horde of Ministry drones he had been expecting, tearing apart the Shack to investigate the presence of Dark Magic. No, this was a singular signature—wild, listless, pacing.

He slowed his steps, muttering a soft “Homenum Revelio” under his breath.

“Nothing. Nobody’s nearby.” His brow furrowed. That should have revealed any nearby human presence. ”Unless—It’s not human.”

Severus froze, the implications snapping into place. His chest tightened, but he forced himself to move forward, the wild magical signature growing stronger with each step. His natural ability to read magical signatures honed in on it, the fragmented, feral energy unmistakable. And then, he recognized it—this specific magical imprint belonged to Remus Lupin.

Severus inhaled sharply, his wand hand tightening instinctively. His mind raced. “Black sent me here, knowing Lupin would be in this form.” The implications stacked in his mind, each more damning than the last. “I didn’t think Black would send me to my death outright; he’d want me to suffer first. But he had to know about Lupin, about this werewolf. He wants me dead, and he’s willing to use his own ‘friend’ to do it. That changes everything.”

The faintest echo of a growl reverberated through the tunnel, and his stomach clenched. He muttered quickly, his voice sharp in the suffocating air: “Protego Totalum.”

The faint shimmer of the protective charm flickered around him, a fragile barrier against what he knew was coming. It wouldn’t hold against a full werewolf attack, but it was better than nothing. He planned to retreat, make his way to the castle, and report this cur at once—but then he heard it.

A low, guttural growl reverberated through the tunnel, sending vibrations skittering up Severus's spine. He froze, his wandlight flickering as his grip faltered. The growl deepened—a wet, primal sound that seemed to rattle the very walls of the tunnel.

“Calm. Stay calm. Think.” Severus's mind raced. With a whispered “Nox,” he extinguished the light and pressed himself against the rough wall. His breath came shallow and quick, every instinct screaming at him to run, but he forced himself to remain silent as he began to inch backward.

Above him, the sound of claws scraping against wood grew louder. The werewolf was moving closer, its heavy, wet snorts echoing as it sniffed the air.

“If it can smell me-“ He raised his wand, his voice barely audible as he muttered, “Odoriphus Evanesco.” A faint shimmer of magic swept over him, masking his scent. The beast hesitated, the clicking of jagged nails ceasing as its growl tapered into a questioning rumble. Severus took the chance to retreat, every muscle taut with tension.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he peered into the gloom ahead. The tunnel walls seemed to press in tighter as he quickened his pace, the oppressive damp air clinging to his skin. His faint wandlight illuminated jagged shadows along the uneven path. A thousand questions churned in his mind, but all his thoughts funneled into one singular fear: “the werewolf.”

He had barely moved twenty paces when a violent crack tore through the stillness, followed by a shuddering roar that echoed down the tunnel. Severus froze mid-step, his back pressed against the damp wall as his breath clung to his throat. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and a rain of loose gravel pattered from above as something massive slammed into the floor of the Shrieking Shack. He held his breath, praying the charm masking his scent would hold.

“This wasn’t an accident,” Severus thought again as his retreating steps resumed. “Black wanted me here. He wanted me to find this.” His hand tightened on his wand as the implications began to truly sink in. “Well, if he thinks I’ll die cowering, he doesn’t know me at all.”

A second crash split the silence, this one closer, the sound of splintering wood mingling with an ear-splitting snarl. His mind pieced it together in an instant: the werewolf had burst through the floor of the Shack, descending into the tunnel.

“Damn it!” Severus hissed, breaking into a run. His boots skidded over the gravel, his wandlight bouncing wildly as he sprinted. The sound of claws on stone grew deafening—a relentless scrape, scrape, scrape that drew nearer with every step.

He risked a glance over his shoulder and felt his blood turn to ice. A massive shape emerged from the darkness, its eyes glowing faintly. The werewolf was enormous, its fur matted and bristling, its elongated snout twitching as it sniffed the air. For a brief moment, the creature’s growl faltered, and its massive head tilted to the side, as if trying to remember something. The sight made Severus’s stomach churn.

But whether this was a beast or Lupin, he did not care. He refused for his life to end here today. Severus's mouth went dry. He gripped his wand tighter, his mind scrambling for a plan. “If it still can’t smell me, then maybe it’s trying to sense me some other way. I should-“

Suddenly, the werewolf’s ears perked up, and it turned toward the noise of shifting dirt and gravel beneath Severus's quick steps. Its growl deepened, a thunderous rumble that reverberated through the tunnel.

Severus sagged under the force of the sound and the weight of his fear, but self-preservation did not allow him to falter for long. Straightening, he felt his resolve harden, the faint glimmer of defiance flickering behind his wide eyes.

His mind churned with possibilities as he hastily retraced his steps. “There’s been a werewolf at Hogwarts. A werewolf hiding in the Shrieking Shack every month—that’s where the rumor started. And Dumbledore knew.” His lungs burned as he rounded a sharp corner, nearly losing his balance on the uneven ground. Panic clawed at his composure, but he forced himself to think. “I need distance. I need time.”

Raising his wand mid-stride, he barked, “Obex Lapidibus!”

The tunnel behind him rumbled, and a cascade of rocks tumbled from the ceiling, collapsing into a temporary wall. The snarling stopped momentarily, replaced by a low, frustrated growl. The reprieve was brief. Heavy blows soon followed as the werewolf began smashing its way through.

“Not enough.” He gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to pump faster. His wand glowed faintly as he cast another spell, muttering under his breath, “Oculorum Revelio.”

The tunnel lit up before him, glowing threads of magical residue weaving through the air like shimmering smoke. The spell revealed traces of past enchantments—wards, lingering charms, and, most importantly, the specific distance of a glowing outline behind him. The werewolf’s aura was a hulking mass of crimson and black, streaked with volatile, bestial magic. It was closer than he’d thought, the brightness of its magical presence pulsing with its frenzied pursuit.

Severus’s heart pounded. He couldn’t outrun Lupin forever.

The tunnel sloped downward, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Another corner loomed, and he nearly slipped as he turned sharply. He pointed his wand over his shoulder, shouting,“Confringo!”

A blast of fire erupted behind him, illuminating the tunnel in a violent flash. The werewolf’s growl turned into an enraged howl, but Severus didn’t stop to look. He could feel the heat on his back as he kept running, his legs trembling from the effort. The ground beneath him shifted treacherously, the gravel loose and uneven. His spells had bought him seconds, but the snarls behind him grew louder.

And then it happened.

A heavy thud reverberated behind him as the werewolf leapt forward, its claws scraping dangerously close. Severus ducked instinctively, the beast’s massive paw swiping over his head. The momentum of his movement sent him tumbling forward, his foot skidding on the gravel. His knees buckled, and he fell hard, the jagged stones tearing at his hands as he scrambled to regain his footing. But it was too late.

The werewolf’s shadow loomed over him, its growl rattling his very bones.

Severus twisted onto his back, his wand shaking in his grip as he pointed it at the beast. Its yellow eyes gleamed with feral hunger, its lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp, glistening teeth. Its matted fur bristling as it stalked forward. Its claws scraped random stones imbedded in the floor with echoing clicks.

“Stupefy!” Severus roared, the red bolt of magic striking the werewolf square in the chest. The creature staggered, snarling as it shook off the spell like water. Panic surged through him. “A full-grown werewolf—immune to basic Stunning Spells!”

“Impedimenta!” he shouted, the jet of blue light striking its legs. The beast faltered, its momentum disrupted for a heartbeat. Severus scrambled backward, his mind racing. “Think, Severus. You’re smarter than this thing. Use your surroundings.”

The tunnel curved sharply to his left, narrowing further. The werewolf lunged again, its claws raking the ground where he had been moments before. Severus rolled to the side, sweat pouring down his face, and aimed another spell at the ceiling above the creature.

“Reducto!”

The ceiling cracked and crumbled, a rain of rocks and debris crashing down onto the werewolf. The beast howled in frustration, shaking its head as it emerged from the rubble. Severus used the distraction to scramble to his feet, his chest heaving. He could see the faint glow of the tunnel’s exit in the distance—his one chance of survival.

“Come on, come on!” he muttered to himself, sprinting forward. The werewolf’s snarls echoed down the tunnel, each guttural sound gnawing at Severus’s composure. The light of the exit felt impossibly far, and with every step, the beast closed the gap. He could feel its presence—its raw, animalistic hunger—like a weight pressing against his chest.

Severus’s wand trembled in his grip as his mind raced. He’d spent countless hours perfecting hexes, curses, and counter-curses, but the weight of the situation made him hesitate. The risk of being caught using dark magic was monumental—expulsion, imprisonment, disgrace. But then another growl, louder and closer than before, cut through his thoughts. He stumbled, and the image of jagged claws tearing through flesh flashed in his mind. The beast was going to kill him.

The realization settled in his chest like cold steel. The rules didn’t matter anymore. Survival did.

Severus’s lip curled in grim resolve as he turned to face the advancing werewolf. “Fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with fear and anger. “Let’s see how you handle this.”

The werewolf leapt, and Severus slashed his wand downward with a sharp, deliberate motion.

“Lacero!” A whip of crimson magic lashed through the air, striking the creature across its side. The werewolf yelped, its charge faltering as the spell left a shallow wound on its flank. The injury wasn’t deep, but it bled freely, and the beast’s snarls grew even more enraged.

Severus backed up, his wand weaving intricate patterns as he shouted, “Obscuro!”

A jet of black mist shot from his wand, enveloping the werewolf’s head. The creature thrashed wildly, its vision obscured by the conjured darkness. For a moment, Severus thought he had the upper hand. But the werewolf’s powerful instincts kicked in, and it lunged blindly, its claws raking the wall mere inches from his face.

“Flagrante Caelo!” he cried, aiming his wand above the beast’s head. The air crackled as searing-hot sparks rained down, forcing the creature to rear back with a howl.

Severus stumbled again, his back hitting the sharp ridges of the tunnel wall. He had bought himself seconds, but the werewolf was already shaking off the effects of the spell, its head snapping toward him with uncanny precision.

“You’re not the only predator down here,” Severus hissed, more to himself than the beast. But it didn’t matter. He raised his wand high, channeling every ounce of his fear, anger, and desperation into his next spell. The tip of his wand glowed a sickly green as he growled, “Morsus Umbrae!”

A swarm of shadowy, serpent-like tendrils erupted from the wand’s tip, coiling toward the werewolf like living chains. The tendrils latched onto the creature, tightening around its limbs and muzzle, restricting its movement. The werewolf thrashed violently, snapping and clawing at the spectral restraints, but the spell held firm.

Severus knew it wouldn’t last long. He could feel the strain of maintaining the dark magic, his wand vibrating in his hand as the werewolf’s raw strength fought against the binding. “Darker creature, I need darker spells,” he thought in a last-ditch effort. “But this was why I learned these spells.”

His grip tightened on his wand as memories of the dungeon surfaced—cold, damp, and suffocating. He’d hidden there for hours, hunched in the shadows of stone pillars, his only companions the books he clutched like lifelines. Some he had scrounged for, scraping together sickles to buy secondhand tomes from Knockturn Alley’s back corners. Others he had stolen—furtive glances, quick hands, and the searing guilt that had long since faded into necessity.

Slytherin had been a battlefield, more treacherous than any duel or hex. He’d walked its corridors feeling like prey, the smell of mildew mingling with the sickly-sweet perfume of ambition. The whispers had followed him like ghosts—“half-blood,” “pauper,” “filthy little rat.” And then there were the bullies, lords of that stone kingdom, who lived for the sport of breaking the weak.

The books had been his armor, the dark spells his weapons. They whispered to him in a language sharper than taunts, colder than fists. Survival wasn’t just a matter of pride—it was his only option. He remembered nights hunched over candlelight, his quill scratching feverishly as he memorized incantations meant to maim and terrify. Each syllable was a promise: “You won’t break me.”

Even then, he had known what it would cost him. Those spells were not meant for honor or glory. They were the tools of the desperate, the outcasts. But Severus had been both, and so he’d wielded them, even as they chipped away at the boy he might have been.

He stumbled on the loose gravel of the tunnel floor, barely catching himself before falling. The faint light of the exit was closer now, but the werewolf’s snarls were closing in faster. He could feel its hunger, its raw, primal force.

“You’ll die,” a shadow of his younger self whispered. “Unless you fight.”

“Ignis Infernum!” Severus roared, his voice cutting through the chaotic snarls of the werewolf.

From his wand burst a torrent of enchanted flame—not ordinary fire, but a raging inferno laced with writhing, serpentine shapes that seemed alive. The cursed flames surged forward, consuming the narrow tunnel in a tide of unrelenting destruction. The cursed flames hissed and popped, the acrid stench of burning stone filling Severus’s lungs. The oppressive heat pressed against his skin like molten chains, and every groan of the weakening tunnel felt like a death knell.

The werewolf halted mid-charge, its instincts screaming at the danger as the flames took on monstrous forms—a wolf’s head, a coiled serpent, a ravenous beast. It lunged wildly, but the fire moved faster, snapping at its limbs with feral intent.

The tunnel began to reshape itself as the cursed fire licked at its walls, the heat suffocating. Severus staggered back as the dirt beneath his feet turned to ash, his wand hand shaking violently as he tried to rein in the spell. It was more than he’d ever handled before—wild, powerful, and merciless.

“Stop, stop!” he pleaded hoarsely to himself, panic setting in as the fire threatened to consume everything, including him. With a desperate flick of his wand, he cut the connection, the flames receding as quickly as they’d appeared.

The tunnel was left in smoldering ruin. The werewolf was nowhere to be seen, though Severus could still hear its panting breath. He longed to collapse, the weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. With the last of his strength, Severus turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest. The spells had bought him enough time to reach the exit. His body ached from the effort, his breath ragged as he stumbled toward the faint light ahead.

Behind him, the werewolf roared, the sound laced with both fury and pain. Severus didn’t look back. His feet hit the gravel at a breakneck pace, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand. With one final burst of effort, he dove through the narrow opening, twisting mid-air to point his wand back into the tunnel.

“Collapso!”

The entrance caved in with a deafening crash, sealing the werewolf inside—or so he thought. Dust and debris filled the air as Severus collapsed onto the grass outside, his chest heaving, his body trembling with physical and magical exhaustion. But he did not stop. The moonlight bathed him in its cold glow, and the sound of the beast’s enraged howls was muffled by the smoke it inhaled.

Severus began to drag himself away, his mind a whirlwind of fear, rage, and grim determination. Blood seeped from a long gash on his leg, leaving a dark trail in the moonlit grass. His arms trembled as he pulled his bruised and battered body forward, his nails clawing at the ground for purchase. Each breath was a ragged gasp, but he pressed on, the pain driving home one undeniable truth: he had survived.

Whatever game Black was playing, it had nearly cost him his life. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot—not as the beast charged toward him.

Severus turned at the rapid approach of another magical signature to see a supposed deer charging toward them. The signature felt familiar, but he was in no mind to try to place it. He knew this was not a real deer, though he did not know whether it was friend or foe. But he surmised that the wolf was the bigger threat and turned back to level his wand, ready to cast whatever it took to save his life—law be damned. But his moment of distraction was all the beast needed to be upon him.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the world vanished into a cold, consuming void, and Severus knew nothing but silence.

———

The first thing that let Severus know he wasn’t dead was a voice, low and rich, curling around his mind like smoke.  

“Little darling, I think I’ve allowed you off a leash for far too long.” 

His body jolted instinctively, a gasp tearing from his throat as consciousness clawed its way back to him. Awareness was sluggish, each sensation filtering in one at a time: the faint ache in his limbs, the oppressive weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, and something warm and solid beneath him—a lap, he realized, with a dawning mixture of confusion and mortification.  

His eyes blinked open slowly, and he found himself bathed in the flickering glow of a fireplace. The room was warm, its gentle hum of magic pressing against his senses like a blanket. A sickening wave of familiarity hit him as he took in the ornate desk, the eccentric instruments scattered on shelves, and the ever-watchful gaze of a slumbering phoenix. Dumbledore’s office.  

But it wasn’t the headmaster who commanded his attention.  

“Finally awake,” Henry murmured, his voice smooth and steady. Severus flinched as Henry’s hand tightened slightly on his wrist, the grip grounding but impossible to ignore.  

The room tilted for a moment, disorienting, and then Severus realized why. He was seated in Henry’s lap, cradled like something fragile, Henry’s arms bracketing him protectively.  

“Put me down,” Severus croaked, his throat dry, his pride scraping against the indignity of his position.  

“Not yet,” Henry replied, unruffled. “You’re trembling.”  

“I’m fine.”  

“No, you’re not,” Henry said, his tone soft but brooking no argument. His gaze bore into Severus, sharp as a blade. “Do you know how close you came to dying, Severus? Again?”  

Severus opened his mouth to retort, but the words faltered as Henry’s hand shifted, fingers brushing against the inside of his wrist. The touch was light, almost reverent, but the look in Henry’s eyes betrayed something much darker—something possessive, dangerous.  

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Henry said, his voice echoing softly in the silence. “You don’t have to prove anything to me—I already know you’re brilliant.”  

The words hit Severus harder than any curse, the quiet insistence in them digging past his defenses. He looked away, his chest tightening. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow even as he said them.  

Henry hummed, unconvinced. “You always are. To someone—if not me, then the world, or yourself. It’s exhausting to watch, little darling.”  

The familiar endearment made Severus bristle, but the sharpness of his retort withered before it could form. He was too tired, too raw, and there was something disarmingly safe about the warmth of Henry’s arms around him, the steady cadence of his voice.  

“I wanted to be sure—before I stooped to ask for your help,” Severus muttered, his pride struggling to reassert itself.  

“You never have to,” Henry said simply, leaning in just enough that Severus could feel the faint press of his breath against his temple. “You were mine to protect the moment you decided to put that brilliant mind of yours in my path. Don’t forget that.”  

Severus’s throat tightened, his words caught somewhere between defiance and something he couldn’t name. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all. He simply sat there, the crackling of the fire filling the silence, the weight of Henry’s presence impossibly heavy yet strangely comforting.  

“Are you going to let me go now?” he asked at last, his voice quieter, stripped of its usual venom.  

Henry’s lips curved into a faint smile, though there was something predatory lingering beneath it. Words tainted with a promise that made Severus’s pulse quicken, he whispered,“When I’m ready.”

The fire flickered, casting shadows over them both, but Severus didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Chapter Text

November 25, 1975

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, the fire in the hearth burning low, casting flickering shadows on the walls adorned with enchanted portraits. The former headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts dozed quietly in their frames, their usual chatter subdued in the stillness of the night. Fawkes perched silently nearby, his head tucked under a fiery wing, and the faint scent of lemon drops lingered in the air.

But Albus was far from at ease. His mind churned over a matter that had consumed him for weeks now: Henry Peverell.

Peverell. The name alone carried weight, steeped in legend and mystery. But the boy’s actions carried more—so much more. Peverell was a storm of magic, raw and unbridled. For months not Albus had watched as the boy’s  very presence unsettled the carefully woven fabric of Hogwarts. And Albus could no longer ignore the boy’s growing influence. In the Ministy, the boy was a force to be reckoned with. And the subtle yet deliberate ripples Peverell created within the school were impossible to miss.

But most egregious was the favor the boy curried with those Albus saw potential in. He had somehow managed to mold the Potter’s into the support center of his eager voting base. And he had pulled Severus Snape, budding potions prodigy—invaluable in a time of war, from the edge of isolation and made him unshakable and fiercely loyal in ways that Albus had never managed.

The boy inspired others to follow him, not through fear or force, but with something infinitely more dangerous: belief. Severus wasn’t the only one. Peverell had gathered an array of supporters—students from every house, even some of the staff had begun to speak of him with admiration. Admiration turned to loyalty, and loyalty bred power.

“Neutrality,” Albus muttered aloud as he struck through revisions to a bill he was working on, his voice cutting through the silence. That word had become a shadow that hung off the boy’s image, a defiant rejection of the Light and the Dark. The boy’s conviction in his so-called “Grey” philosophy was unnervingly steadfast. Peverell believed he could forge a path that stood apart from the coming war, untethered by the ideologies that had consumed the wizarding world for decades.

But Albus knew better, he knew from experience. Neutrality was a fantasy, a dangerous delusion that only the young and foolish troubled themselves with. And in his many regrettable years, Albus had learned that inaction, when the world was on the brink of ruin, was nothing less than complicity. To not oppose Voldemort was to embolden him, and Peverell’s refusal to choose a side left him vulnerable to manipulation—or worse, corruption.

Albus’s fingers drummed against the parchment on his desk as his mind flicked through the observations he had meticulously cataloged. Students had begun to decisively shy away from or flock to the boy. And there was a precision to the boy’s movements, a deliberateness that spoke of someone always thinking several steps ahead. He’d seen that before.

In Grindelwald.

In Tom Riddle.

Both of them had been young once. Charismatic. Brilliant. Believing themselves capable of shaping the world according to their own vision. Peverell wasn’t there yet—not fully—but the similarities were undeniable. The charm, the intellect, the defiance. The boy wielded those traits with an ease that set Albus’s teeth on edge.

And then there was the boy’s magic. Albus attempted to gather remnants of it to study however he could. And though his attempts thus far had failed, Albus knew Peverell’s magic felt old—skillfully wielded in a way that made even Albus, with his vast experience, uneasy. Peverell’s power did not feel learned—it was instinctual, something intrinsic and unyielding.

Fawkes stirred at the feel of it’s masters unease, his golden eyes meeting Albus’ for a fleeting moment. The phoenix paused before it offered a low, melodic trill that filled the air.

“I underestimated Gellert. I downplayed Tom,” Albus said quietly, gazing at his familiar. “I won’t make the same mistakes a third time.”

Still, a small seed of doubt burrowed into his thoughts. “Is Peverell truly dangerous? Or was it my own fear of repeating past mistakes clouding my judgment?”

The boy’s intentions remained frustratingly opaque. Peverell didn’t outwardly crave domination like Tom, nor did he boastfully dream of conquest like Gellert. No, Peverell was different. His ambition was quiet and pointed. It wasn’t about taking power; it was about wielding it on his own terms, answering to no one.

That was what made him unpredictable.

Albus’ mind circled back to Severus. The boy had been his most promising piece in the game, a malleable mind perfectly suited for quiet influence. But Peverell had taken that from him. Severus no longer hungered for acknowledgement and approval. No, he had found something stronger in the Peverell’s unwavering presence.

Albus exhaled sharply as he leaned back in his chair. “If I can’t control the boy,” Albus thought to himself, “I have to contain him.”

Bring him into the fold, use what he could and then trim the boy down to manageable size before the boy’s growing influence spiraled out of reach. The alternative—the possibility of Peverell aligning with Voldemort or, worse, becoming something entirely his own—was unthinkable.

Albus’ thoughts were interrupted by a soft, deliberate knock echoed through the room. His gaze flicked to the clock in the back of his office. Midnight had long passed, and he was certain no meetings had been scheduled.

“Enter,” Albus called, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority.

The door creaked open to reveal Madame Hooch, her sharp yellow eyes flashing with irritation as she strode into the room, broomstick slung over her shoulder. She wore her flying attire, leather gloves tucked into her belt, and her silver hair slightly windblown.

“Ah, Rolanda,” Albus said lightly as he resettled in his seat. He clasped his hands together, a veneer of cordiality masking his irritation at the intrusion. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her jaw tightened at the deliberate use of her first name. Taking a measured breath, she steadied herself before speaking. “You were late,” she said bluntly, her tone clipped. “We had an appointment to discuss a disciplinary matter. I trust it hasn’t slipped your mind?”

Albus blinked, a flicker of mild surprise crossing his face. “Ah, yes, of course. Do forgive me, Rolanda. My mind has been preoccupied with—larger matters.”

Hooch’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, I’ll now inform you that while you’ve been attending to those larger matters,” she said sharply, “one of the Slytherins was caught using Dark Magic on one of my Gryffindors.”

Albus’s relaxed posture shifted ever so slightly, though his expression remained composed. “Dark Magic? That is a serious claim. Please, elaborate.”

Hooch stepped forward, dropping her broomstick against the wall with a deliberately obnoxious clatter. Crossing her arms, she locked her piercing gaze onto him. “Aloysius Mulciber, fifth-year Slytherin,” she began. “Caught by a Gryffindor prefect in a secluded corridor near the Trophy Room. He had the young Mary Macdonald pinned against the wall, attempting to use the Imperius Curse on her.”

Albus’ brow furrowed. The Imperius Curse was no trivial offense. “And the prefect? They intervened?”

“They did,” Hooch replied, her voice tight. “And it is only thanks to that prefect, Mary wasn’t entirely at his mercy. But she’s shaken, Albus. Madam Pomfrey had to give her calming draughts just to help her sleep. And she hasn’t spoken a word in the hours since it happened.”

Albus leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. “Has Mulciber confessed to this?”

Hooch let out a bitter laugh. “Hardly. He’s claiming it was a misunderstanding, that Mary overreacted. But I checked the bastards wand myself. And this isn’t the first time he’s been caught dabbling in Dark Arts. Mary—” Her voice faltered, a crack of anger and sadness slipping through. “She’s Half-blood. And he has made no secret of his continued source of entertainment in her—but this? It’s despicable.”

Albus sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Indeed, this is troubling. It would seem that Slughorn shall have a hard time keeping in the running with his house’s loss of points—“

”House points?! Fucking house points, Albus?!” The Gryffindor Head of House screech over the Headmaster.

Albus sighed as the ringing in hai ears died out. “What would you suggest, Rolanda?” He asked, “Expulsion?”

Hooch’s eyes blazed. “I’d suggest you stop  treating this like a minor inconvenience,” she snapped. “Mary Macdonald was nearly violated under your watch. And you’re asking me what to do?”

The room plunged into tense silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Albus’ gaze shifted momentarily to the portraits, where several former headmasters were now keenly leaning forward in their frames as they observed the exchange.

“Rolanda,” he began with deliberate calm, “I understand your anger. But we must consider the broader consequences of our actions. Aloysius Mulciber’s family wields significant influence. An expulsion could ignite political repercussions—ones that may distract us from the greater battle ahead.”

Hooch’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Political repercussions?” she repeated, her voice still ring high. “You’re concerned about politics while a Half-blood girl was nearly—” She stopped, shaking her head in disgust.

Albus raised a hand to pacify her. “Please, Rolanda, lower your voice. I am not minimizing the gravity of this incident. But I must weigh the welfare of all our students, not just Mary Macdonald’s.”

Hooch stepped closer to the desk, her fists clenched. “Mary Macdonald doesn’t have welfare right now. She has fear. She has trauma. And all you seem concerned with is potentially placating Mulciber’s family. All to attempt to sway their political favor?.”

Albus’ stare remained steady, but his silence was telling.

“Oh, and there’s more,” Hooch pressed bitterly. “While you were here, slagging off to your own faux righteousness, I’ve just come from the Macdonalds to return their daughter. They’re requesting your presence over Yule as they’re pressing for restitution—through marriage.”

Albus’ composure slipped. “Marriage?”

“Yes,” Hooch spat. “To preserve Mary’s ‘modesty.’ Her family thinks marrying her to her attacker will save her reputation. It’s vile.”

Albus frowned, the unexpected twist complicating matters further. “And Mary? Has she agreed to this?”

“Did you not hear that she hasn’t spoken a word?” Hooch questioned, her tone simmering with fury. “Her family is forcing her hand, and she doesn’t have the power to fight back. She’s a child, Albus. A child who’s been abandoned by everyone who should be protecting her. That is where you should be concerned with politics—use your damn power to help her.”

Albus looked down at his desk, fingers tapping lightly on the polished wood. “This—is regrettable,” he murmured.

“Regrettable?” Hooch’s voice trembled with frustration. “You’re the headmaster. If you won’t fight for her, who will? If you don’t- If you don’t-,“ the woman stalled as she attempted to catch her breath and thoughts. “If you don’t, I will quit! I will not stay here, in a position of duty to care, and watch you ruin these children’s lives for your own gain!”

“Rolanda,” he began, his voice as smooth as honey, “I understand how deeply this situation has affected you. Your passion for your students’ welfare is what makes you such an invaluable part of this school. Gryffindor House has flourished under your care, and I cannot overstate how much I appreciate your dedication.”

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

“I know,” Albus continued, “that tonight has been particularly difficult, and that I may not have handled this matter with the urgency it deserved. But you must understand that my vision for Hogwarts—and for the wizarding world—requires me to look beyond the immediate. There are forces at play that require careful maneuvering.”

Hooch raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Careful maneuvering?” she repeated. “Albus, a girl was nearly assaulted. If that doesn’t warrant your immediate attention, then I don’t know what does.”

Albus sighed, tilting his head in what seemed like understanding. “You’re right to feel this way,” he said gently. “But please, trust that I see the bigger picture. I must ensure that our actions here at Hogwarts do not inadvertently weaken our position in the larger fight against You-Know-Who. If I am to protect all of our students, I must be strategic. You understand that, don’t you?”

His tone was almost hypnotic, the cadence of his words carefully chosen to lull her into agreement. He leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him, the image of calm authority.

But Hooch wasn’t swayed. “What I understand, Albus, is that you’re deflecting,” she said sharply. “You’re trying to convince me that the ‘bigger picture’ is more important than the immediate safety of a girl who trusted us to protect her. And I’m not buying it.”

Albus’ face remained placid, though a flicker of irritation passed behind his eyes. “Rolanda,” he said, his voice a touch firmer now, “I hope you realize how critical your role is in this school. The students, especially the Gryffindors, look to you for guidance. You are their champion, their protector. If you were to step away-” He let the sentence hang, the implication heavy in the air.

Hooch narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me, Albus?”

“Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “I’m simply reminding you of the influence you wield. Your absence would leave a void, one that might be difficult to fill. For the students’ sake, I urge you to reconsider your earlier—outburst.”

Hooch laughed bitterly. “Outburst?” she said, her voice rising. “You’re unbelievable. A girl’s life is being derailed, and you’re trying to manipulate me into staying in a job that you’ve made impossible.” She took a step closer to his desk, her glare unwavering. “You don’t get to guilt me into fixing problems that you refuse to address.”

Albus’ expression didn’t falter, but his voice grew quieter, more intimate. “This is simply a gentle reminder of your responsibilities—and of the trust I place in you.”

“Trust?” she snapped. “You don’t trust me, Albus. If you did, you’d listen when I tell you that this school is failing the very people it’s supposed to protect. Instead, you deflect, you rationalize, and you expect the rest of us to clean up the mess.”

Albus rose from his chair slowly, his movements deliberate. Even standing, he seemed less imposing than he should have, his aura more about presence than physicality. “Rolanda,” he said softly, “I know you’re tired. I know this weighs on you heavily. But if you abandon your position now, think of what might happen to the students. Think of Mary. Think of the Gryffindors who rely on you.”

She shook her head, her voice low and trembling with anger. “Don’t you dare try to put that on me. Mary Macdonald isn’t suffering because of me. She’s suffering because of Mulciber. Because of this school’s unwillingness to take a stand. And because of you.”

Albus’ calm façade cracked ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. “If you truly care about Mary,” he said, his voice cold now, “then you will stay. You will fight for her, and for every other student who needs you. Leaving now would only serve your pride, not their wellbeing.”

Hooch’s breath caught at the sheer audacity of his words, but before she could respond, the office was filled with a sudden, shimmering light. A silvery patronus—a lynx—bounded into the room, its voice ringing out clearly.

“Albus, come quickly,” said Madam Pomfrey’s voice. “It’s Remus Lupin—he’s in the hospital wing, injured.”

Albus turned toward the shimmering lynx patronus, his expression sharpening. Before he could fully process the message, two more patroni burst into the room from other members of the staff, their glowing forms rippling with urgency. Each bore similar messages, spoken in calm yet urgent tones: the Shrieking Shack had been destroyed, and the Whomping Willow was ablaze, its enchanted branches lashing out in a fiery frenzy.

Hooch stared at Albus, her anger momentarily eclipsed by the weight of this new crisis. His eyes flicked toward her, their blue depths calculating, priorities already shifting with the precision of a chess master rearranging his pieces.

“We will continue this discussion later,” he said, his tone clipped, dismissive. “I shall handle your Gryffindor, as I was remiss to do so earlier. You will return to your corridors and take this time to reflect on your position.” Grasping his cloak from the back of his wingback chair, Albus swept from the room without another word, leaving Hooch standing in the glow of the fading patroni, her fury simmering once more beneath her skin.

The stone corridors of Hogwarts stretched endlessly before Albus as he moved with a measured yet commanding pace, his cloak swirling like liquid shadows. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the lingering tang of magic—dark, volatile, and chaotic. He could feel it in his bones, a cold ache that spoke of something far more sinister than student mischief. Whatever had unfolded tonight was neither petty nor accidental; it bore the taste of deliberate force.

When Albus reached the heavy oak doors of the hospital wing, he pushed them open with a quiet authority that sent a soft creak echoing through the corridor. But as he stepped inside, he halted abruptly, the sight before him anchoring him in place.

Poppy Pomfrey was a flurry of motion at the far end of the ward, her usual briskness undercut by the tight lines of worry etched into her face. Her aide was no better, as Student-Healer Coast sat at Pomfrey’s side spelling and respelling bandages. The senior healer’s hands moved with practiced precision, yet the tremor in them betrayed the gravity of the situation. As on the narrow bed before them lay Remus Lupin, his body a pale and fragile outline against the stark white linens.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, each movement a painful reminder of his fragility. His exposed torso was a grotesque mosaic of unhealing, raw, blistered flesh. Angry welts spiraled up his right arm and shoulder, the skin charred as though scorched by flames too intense for mortal endurance. The burns shimmered faintly at their edges, as though imbued with lingering magic, their cruel beauty a testament to something ancient and sinister.

Albus’ expression darkened, his calm demeanor giving way to a shadow of unease. He strode across the room, his pace swift and deliberate, his gaze fixed on the battered figure. He called out, voice low and commanding, “Poppy?”

Pomfrey didn’t look up, her focus locked on the task before her. She spread a shimmering salve across the worst of the burns, her hands gentle yet methodical. “He’s alive,” she said curtly, her tone clipped, “but just barely.”

Albus urges her to speak more, despite her clear desire for concentration, “Yes?”

Pomfrey straightened slightly, her shoulders stiff with the weight of the moment. “I’ve stabilized him for now, but the burns-” She shook her head, frustration briefly flickering in her eyes. “Albus, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. These aren’t ordinary wounds.”

She dabbed the salve onto his arm with painstaking care, the substance catching the dim light and casting a faint, golden glow. Despite her steadiness, her hands trembled ever so slightly, the only outward sign of her disquiet.

“Ms. Coats, if you’d give us the room please. I shall take over in your stead.” Albus’ gaze sharpened as he spoke while he studied the boy’s injuries. The burns were unnatural, their edges pulsing faintly, as if whatever magic had caused them still lingered like a malevolent whisper. His voice hardened, slicing through the charged air.

The young women unwaveringly met his gaze with a sour expression before she turned to Pomfrey in question. Hogwarts's mediwitch gave her a jerking nod in response and the young-woman made her way to the private office a few steps away.

Once the door settled, Albus cast an offhand silencing spell and asked, “How did this happen?”

Pomfrey exhaled, her movements pausing for a moment. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” She turned to face him, her tone firm but laced with unease. “We found him collapsed just outside the castle grounds. Someone sent a patronus for me—specifically. But whoever it was disappeared before I arrived. Remus was conscious for only a moment—long enough to mumble something about fire. And a fight. Then he passed out from the pain.”

Albus’ piercing blue eyes flicked toward the window, where the silvery light of the full moon spilled across the grounds like liquid silver. The ethereal glow painted the scene in a surreal light, casting long shadows that seemed to breathe with the tension in the room. His brow furrowed, his mind racing through possibilities.

Pomfrey followed his gaze, her own expression tightening as she understood his unspoken concern. “That’s the other thing,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The moon is still high, and by all accounts, he should still be transformed. But he’s not.” She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s as if-” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “As if something forced the transformation back. Something powerful. And unnatural.”

Abus’ face remained impassive, but his eyes darkened, his thoughts veiled behind their azure depths. He stepped closer to the bed, leaning over the boy with a rare intensity that seemed to draw the very air from the room.

Remus’s face was slack, his features pale and waxen, his skin ashen save for the livid burns that marred it. Yet there was something else—something intangible yet unmistakable. The very air around him felt charged, humming with a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. It wasn’t just the residue of the magic that had burned him; it was something deeper, more primal, as if the magic had left a mark not only on his body but on his soul.

“Magic leaves traces,” Albus murmured to himself as a thought formed, his wand slipping into his hand with practiced ease. He waved it in a slow, deliberate arc over Remus’s body, muttering a near-forgotten incantation under his breath. The air above the boy shimmered, revealing faint tendrils of black, swirling energy intertwined with a silvery residue that pulsed faintly, like moonlight come alive.

Pomfrey gasped, stepping closer. “What is that?”

Albus didn’t answer immediately, his piercing gaze fixed on the remnants of magic. The dark energy was vaguely familiar—ancient, deep, and unsettling. But the silvery light was something else entirely. It resonated with a wild, untamed force, primal in its intensity.

“This was no ordinary spell,” he said at last, his voice heavy with gravity. “Something—someone—intervened tonight. Something far beyond what Remus—or any student—could manage.”

Pomfrey’s face paled. “You believe someone else, like the Death Eaters, was involved?”

Albus gave a slow nod. “Without question. The cursed-burns alone speak of magic well beyond Hogwarts’ standard curriculum. And this-” He gestured toward the black residue. “This suggests an external force—one powerful enough to override the natural laws of lycanthropy.”

Pomfrey frowned deeply as she stuttered out, “But who—what—could do that?”

“That is the question,” Albus replied quietly. His eyes lingered on Remus’s pale, still form. The boy had always been an enigma: resilient, introspective, and burdened with a curse he bore with quiet strength. Now, however, he seemed like a pawn caught in a far greater game.

Albus’ thoughts turned to the messages of the fire. The Shrieking Shack and the Whomping Willow had burned to ash, their destruction deliberate and devastating—but the implications gnawed at him.

“Rest assured, Poppy,” he said, his voice firm but distant, “I will get to the bottom of this.”

Pomfrey hesitated, glancing at the faint magical traces still shimmering in the air. “Albus, these traces, I’m not sure I can heal them—they’re not just powerful. Whoever cast this curse knew what they were doing—and they meant to leave a mark.”

“I know, do what you can to ensure he survives the night and I shall return once the grounds are secured,” he murmured, the weight of her words settling on him like a stone. Albus’ gaze darkened where it settled on the high windows. After a pause, he turned back to her. “You mentioned a patronus summoned you to Remus’s side. What form did it take?”

Pomfrey’s hands stilled as she finished securing a fresh bandage over one of Remus’s burns. She looked up with a mix of curiosity and unease. At last she said, “A thestral.”

Albus’ eyebrows rose, his composure breaking for a fraction of a second. “A thestral,” he repeated softly. “Are you certain?”

Pomfrey nodded briskly. “It was unmistakable. A skeletal horse with wings, moving with that eerie grace they have. I’ve seen enough of them in the forest to recognize it immediately.”

Albus traced the edge of his wand with his fingers, his thoughts racing. “A thestral as a patronus is exceedingly rare,” he murmured. “Few wizards could conjure such a form, let alone would choose it.”

Pomfrey frowned. “And what does it mean? Who could summon something like that? Surely not a student?”

“It is unlikely,” Albus said, his tone measured. “A thestral symbolizes an intimate understanding of death—not merely witnessing it, but an almost visceral connection. Whoever sent it is no ordinary caster.”

Pomfrey’s voice softened. “It didn’t feel hostile, Albus. Whoever sent it wanted me to find Remus—and quickly. But why didn’t they stay? Why vanish before I arrived?”

“That,” Albus said with a faint sigh, “is a question only they can answer. Still, their actions suggest intent, precision—and secrecy.”

Pomfrey pressed her lips into a thin line. “They saved him. And I am sure that someone else cast this curse. And someone who wields magic this powerful shouldn’t be skulking around Hogwarts unnoticed. Perhaps the patroni came from someone fearing to admit what they saw? 

“Perhaps,” Albus replied, though his gaze had drifted again to Remus. The faint shimmer of magical residue still hung in the air, pulsing faintly. A patronus as rare as a thestral—tied to death and mystery—was no coincidence.

Before he could delve further into the mystery, a soft hum reverberated through the air. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to him. Albus’ eyes narrowed, and he straightened abruptly. “Someone has entered my office.”

Pomfrey looked up, startled. “Who could—?”

“I do not yet know,” Albus said sharply, his tone brisk. He turned toward the door, his blue eyes still shadowed with thought. “Poppy, continue your work. Keep him stable, and notify me the moment he stirs. Whatever he remembers may prove vital.”

Pomfrey nodded, though unease lingered in her expression. “I’ll do what I can, but, Albus-” She hesitated. “Whatever did this wasn’t just trying to hurt him. It was making a statement. Thai may not be finished. Be careful.”

Albus didn’t respond, but her words weighed heavily as he stepped out of the hospital wing. His robes billowed behind him, his thoughts sharp and focused. The castle felt colder, as if the walls themselves held their breath, waiting for what was to come.

Whoever had entered his office had not done so by chance. And Albus was in no mood for surprises. The moment Albus stepped out of the hospital wing, he moved with purpose, shedding the calm facade he so often wore. His boots struck the stone floor with an urgency that echoed through the castle halls. The faint hum of his breached wards lingered in his thoughts, a vibration that urged haste and precision.

His mind churned with possibilities. Few wizards, if any, possessed the knowledge—or arrogance—to bypass the protections layered over his office. He had crafted those wards himself, embedding secrets older than Hogwarts itself. Whoever was waiting for him was either foolishly reckless or terrifyingly skilled.

He reached a tapestry woven centuries ago, depicting an ancient battle between witches and wizards. With a flick of his wand, the image shifted, the warriors stepping aside to reveal a hidden staircase. The narrow passage descended into darkness, but Albus didn’t hesitate, his wand illuminating his way as he moved swiftly, the scent of damp stone and old magic filling the air.

The castle responded to his urgency. Portraits whispered in agitation as he passed, their painted faces pressed close to their frames.

“Headmaster?” came a timid voice from a young knight in one of the frames. Albus didn’t pause to answer, his focus razor-sharp.

The secret passage deposited him near the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office. Even from a distance, something felt off. The air around the statue was heavy, charged with residual magic. The gargoyle stood frozen, its usual animation conspicuously absent. He approached cautiously, his grip on his wand tightening.

“Lemon sherbet,” he murmured, though he knew it was unnecessary. The gargoyle remained still, as though waiting. The spiral staircase behind it was already exposed, winding upward like a silent sentinel. Albus ascended quickly, his robes billowing around him. With each step, the peculiar sense of foreboding grew stronger. When he reached the heavy wooden door to his office, it opened before he could touch it, swinging inward with an eerie smoothness.

The room was a storm of chaotic energy. Silver instruments on his desk whirred and sparked erratically, their delicate mechanisms disrupted by foreign magic. A few bookshelves had been upended, their contents scattered across the floor. But amidst the disarray, it was the scene at the center of the room that held his attention.

Henry Peverell lounged in one of the guest chairs as if he owned the place, his dark robes immaculate and his posture radiating an air of controlled dominance. His face was calm, even pleasant, but his eyes glimmered with something sharp—something dangerous.

At Peverell’s feet lay Sirius Black, James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew, bound in skin-bitting, shimmering ropes that glowed faintly with enchantments far beyond simple binding spells. Their struggles were futile, and their muffled protests barely registered over the quiet hum of the disrupted magical instruments.

But it was Severus Snape who commanded Albus’ attention next. The boy lay draped across Peverell’s lap with unsettling ease, his head tilted against Peverell’s shoulder as Peverell’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of defiance and amusement as he glanced lazily at Albus—as though daring him to speak.

Peverell’s fingers moved idly through Severus’ hair, a gesture that seemed equal parts possessive and calculated. His other hand rested on the armrest of his chair, his wand nowhere in sight, as though to imply he needed no such tools.

“Good evening, Albus,” Peverell said, his voice smooth and casual, as if he were greeting an old friend over tea. “I hope you don’t mind—I let myself in.”

Albus froze for the briefest of moments before stepping fully into the room, his wand slipping into his hand with practiced ease. His voice was steady, though his expression had hardened. “Henry, my boy. An unannounced visit at such an hour. And quite the entrance, I must say.”

Peverell tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I thought it was time we spoke. Don’t worry—I’ve made myself comfortable while I waited.”

Chapter Text

November 25 - November 26, 1975

Albus’ gaze shifted to three the bound young men, then back to Peverell. He noted the state of the boys on the floor—their torn clothes, disheveled bodies, and rapidly bruised faces hinted at a struggle. His stomach churned as he imagined the violence that must have unfolded. Yet when he spoke next, his tone was cold but measured, “Comfort, it seems, is not something you extend to all.”

Peverell chuckled softly, his hand pausing briefly in Severus’s hair before he resumed its motion. “Ah, but comfort is earned, Albus. And tonight, these three—,” he gestured lazily toward the frantically wiggling, tangled pile at his feet, —have proven themselves to be beyond reckless and outright dangerous.”

There was no denying the truth in his words, but Albuse wondered: “Was this calm demeanor a mask for fear, or was Peverell genuinely convinced of his righteousness? Did the boy’s morality bend to necessity, or was it simply convenient for him to wield such cold pragmatism?”

Without giving up his position blocking the only entrance to the stairs, Albus’ gaze flicked again between the boys on the floor and Severus in Peverell’s lap as he gathered his thoughts. Peter’s squat body was being smothered beneath Sirius’ thrashing torso and James’ jerking legs. In contrast, Severus, for all his usual sharpness, looked startlingly small and calm in the other boy’s grasp.

The visual set is mind running. “Had the boy sought comfort there willingly, or was this merely a response to shock?” Albus asked himself, “What had this boy endured tonight to find solace in such proximity to someone so dangerous?”

One of the reasons Albus had sought to collect the young Severus Snape was due to his inherited magical-sensitivity. So he knew the boy could feel, just as well if not better than he could, that there was something eerie about the Peverell boy. He did not know what Severus stood to gain by their continued exchange but, seeking to find out, Albus didn’t directly respond to Peverell’s goading. Instead, he turned his focused on Severus, whose posture betrayed a deep exhaustion. "Are you hurt, Severus?"

The boy hesitated for only a moment before he and released a thin, "No, sir."

Albus nodded, his expression softening slightly even as he calculated how best for this situation to proceed in his favor. "Then I suggest you return to your dormitory. We will speak further in the morning."

Severus hesitated again, this time his gaze went between the two men, before Peverell spoke up on his behalf—his voice soft but laced with finality, “Severus stays.”

Albus’ eyes narrowed slightly at the boys supposed control, though his expression remained calm. “It is not your place to dictate where he goes, Henry, my boy. Severus is a student of this school, and I am responsible for his well-being.”

“And yet,” Peverell countered smoothly, “his well-being seems to have been rather neglected tonight, don’t you think? Or perhaps we should ask him directly if he feels safer with you, or with me?”

Severus’ head dipped lower against Peverell’s throat, his hands tightening in Peverell’s robes as though he were trying to make himself smaller. Albus’ gaze shifted to follow the movement for a fraction of a second, but his tone remained firm. “Severus, I trust you know that your safety, as with all my precious students, is my utmost priority. If you wish to leave with me now, you may do so.”

There was a long pause, the tension in the room palpable. Finally, Severus murmured, “I’d rather stay here—for now.”

“There you have it,” Peverell said with a slight smirk playing at his lips.

Stifling his mounting irritation, Albus attempted to take the conversation in a different direction to regain control, and lightly asked, “You’ve chosen a peculiar way to start a conversation, Henry, don’t you think?”

Peverell chuckled softly, leaning back in the chair, entirely at ease. “Oh, Albus. You know as well as I do that pleasantries are a waste of time.”

“Very well then,” Albus said as his wand remained as steady as his pressing words. “Release them.” Although even as he spoke, he did not trust Peverell to yield so easily. The young man had the air of someone who had already decided where the night would lead.

“Now, why would I do that? They’ve been terribly rude this evening,” Peverell questioned with a single raised brow. “If I hadn’t intervened, I dare say Severus wouldn’t be breathing right now. Therefore, I am well within my rights to capture my betrothed’s attackers.”

The weight of Peverell’s words settled over the room, but Albus didn’t flinch, even as they landed heavily enough to stir his own doubts. “How many times has this school failed to protect its students? How many more will slip through the cracks? How many won’t even make it past these walls to worry about the war?”

“And how, precisely, did you intervene?” Shaking the clutter of thoughts away, Albus found it in himself to stiltedly ask. The question came out steadier than he felt. This confrontation, this chaos—it was his responsibility to resolve, but the path forward felt as treacherous as Peverell himself.

“I simply did what needed to be done.” Peverell’s gaze sharpened, though his smile didn’t falter as he spoke. “But enough about that.” He gestured vaguely toward the bound boys. “I’m not here to argue about heroes and villains. I’m here to talk about the balance of things—and the price of my interference.”

Albus’ unease deepened. Peverell’s vision of balance sounded less like harmony and more like a ledger, where debts were settled in blood. Albus didn’t lower his wand as he took a slow step forward, his piercing blue eyes locked on Peverell. Albus could not ignore the full implications of the younger man’s “interference” as he sat central in the once warded office. Few individuals had the skill or knowledge to bypass Hogwarts’ protections so effortlessly—and all of them Albus counted as his enemies.

“You leave the castle under cover of secrecy, subdue three students, and breach wards you should not have known existed,” the Headmaster started on a haughty note. “I am well within my rights to expel you from my school immediately. You will explain yourself, or I shall consider your presence here an act of hostility.”

Peverell tilted his head, seemingly unbothered. “Act of hostility?” His voice carried a faint edge of mockery. “Come now, Albus, don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t intend to get involved in anything tonight. But when I noticed Severus was missing from the dorms after curfew, I thought it prudent to find him before something—unfortunate happened. And luckily so.”

Albus’ eyes shifted again to Severus in thought, who silently watched the exchange with sharp interest from his tucked-away position. Albus’ piercing gaze sought any hint of vulnerability in Severus to lean into. But as Peverell spoke while clutching the other so close, Albus couldn’t help but question the younger man’s motivations. “Is Peverell truly protecting Severus, or was this all part of some calculated game?”

When the younger boy noticed the shifted attention in the growing silence, Severus stiffened slightly in Peverell’s lap. But his gaze remained steady, defiant even, as though daring Albus to question the arrangement. Peverell, feeling the change in Severus’s posture, clicked his tongue as though addressing an unruly dog to regain the Headmaster’s gaze.

The exchange took mere seconds before Albus spoke on, “And how, precisely, did you come by this knowledge of Severus’ whereabouts?”

Peverell’s smile widened sharply. “A helpful portrait I passed in my search mentioned it. I believe they were stationed near the Astronomy Tower. They seemed concerned about him wandering the grounds.”

Albus frowned, damn near tasting the lie on Peverell’s tongue. “The portraits have their limits. And it is unlike them to relay such information to anyone but myself or the Heads of House.”

“Well,” Peverell said coolly, “perhaps I simply have a way with souls.”

Albus stayed his response, as the explanation did not sit right with him. Still, he let the silence hang, waiting for Peverell to continue with a pointed look at the boy.

“As I left the castle to look for him,” Peverell said, his voice casual, as though recounting a mundane story, “I happened upon Sirius Black and James Potter not far off the groundskeeper’s hut. I could hear them long before I saw them—arguing so loudly, it’s a wonder Hagrid didn’t come storming out to silence them. Pettigrew I collected on my way back into the castle.”

Anger flickered beneath Albus’ calm façade. “How often must these boys mistake recklessness for bravery? And how often must I clean up the wreckage of their so-called fun and games?” Albus’s eyes narrowed. “And what were they arguing about?”

“Oh, the ‘prank,’ of course,” Peverell replied, his tone darkening slightly. “It seems Black thought it would be amusing to send Severus toward the Shrieking Shack tonight, knowing full well what lay inside. James, to his credit, was less entertained. Black was trying to stop James from following Severus, though his methods left much to be desired. They were well into trading blows when I intervened.”

“And by intervened, you mean subdued them,” Albus stated sharply.

“Would you have preferred I let them continue their little brawl?” Peverell asked, his smile fading. “Time was of the essence. Severus was already inside the passage beneath the Whomping Willow by the time I reached them.”

Albus’ grip on his wand tightened. “And what did you find there?”

Peverell’s gaze deepened, the playful edge of his expression giving way to something colder. “Severus beautifully held his own, but I found him seconds away from death. The werewolf— Lupin—was mid-strike when I arrived. Were it not for my intervention-” His hand paused in Severus’s hair, and for the first time, his voice softened. “Well, let’s just say two of your students now owe me a life debt.”

The thought of Remus Lupin, so painfully young and vulnerable in this moment, twisted something deep in Albus. The boy had placed his trust in him to keep his secret and his life safe. The Headmaster emptily asked, “Two?”

Peverell’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of grim amusement lighting his expression. “Yes, two,” he said softly, his tone measured. “You see, had I not arrived when I did, my beloved would have been torn apart or worse, bitten. And young Lupin—,” Peverell’s lips curled into a faint smirk, “—would have been put down like a rabid dog by the Ministry before dawn.”

“Remus Lupin is an unregistered werewolf, yes, but for years now he has been surely under my protection. Had he not been provoked by Severus’ presence tonight, nothing would be remiss. I do the best I can for my students, as the Ministry’s reach within these walls is limited.” Albus’ knuckles whitened against his wand, though his expression remained carefully neutral. But even as he spoke, Albus knew the fragility of that statement. All it would take was a whisper of scandal within the castle and the Minister of Magic would simply use this to propel his next campaign trail.

Peverell tilted his head, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. “Limited? Albus, you’re smarter than that. You know better than anyone that the Ministry wouldn’t hesitate. The moment word spread that a werewolf, one you had masquerading as a student, attacked and killed someone within Hogwarts—your precocious authority would crumble. Lupin’s name would be on their execution orders before the ink dried on the report. They wouldn’t care about the circumstances. They wouldn’t care that he’s a child. They’d see a beast and a threat. That is all.”

Darkness crossed Albus’ face as his blood pressure rose, but he didn’t argue. He knew Peverell was right. The Ministry’s fear and prejudice toward magical creatures were deeply ingrained, and Remus’ survival would hinge on factors far beyond his control.

Peverell continued, his voice a low murmur, deceptively calm. “And Sirius Black? Well, let’s not forget the Ministry’s penchant for swift, public justice when the mood suits them—we’re at war, after all.” Peverell gave a humorless chuckle as he continued on, “And given a chance to humiliate old-blood? If Severus had died tonight—if word got out that Black lured him to his death—do you think they’d pause for trial? No, they’d send him straight to Azkaban and line up the Dementors for a Kiss before the week was out.”

Albus’ lips thinned. “Sirius Black is no murderer. He acted recklessly, yes, but he—”

“Intended for Severus to die,” Peverell interrupted, his voice sharp, the veneer of calm momentarily fracturing. “Do not sugarcoat this, Albus. Sending someone to a werewolf’s den on a full moon is not a harmless prank. It’s an execution. And your golden boy, James Potter, may have had a change of heart, but his conscience only awoke after years of damage had been done.”

Peverell’s words hung heavy in the air, the truth of them undeniable. Albus’ silence was telling, though his eyes never wavered from Peverell’s.

“This is what happens,” Peverell said, his voice softening, though the weight of his words pressed harder with each syllable, “when children and childish men play games they don’t understand. Lives are ruined, futures are destroyed. And tonight, the only reason this school isn’t mourning several students—or facing the fallout of a werewolf attack—is because I intervened.”

To this, Severus softly intoned.

Albus’ watched the two in contemplative silence. Peverell, pompous and arrogant in his insistence. Severus, still sat upon Peverell—silent but no longer trembling. The young Slytherin’s expression was carefully guarded, but his pale hands still gripped the edge of Peverell’s chair, his knuckles stark against his lightly-tanned skin.

Albus’ huffed, a rare crack in his composure. He was not above fear and he had more than once stared down his own death. He knew that what Severus faced tonight, no-one so young should. So while he weighted the merits of his carefully laid plans, Peverell’s justification gnawed at him. “How could I punish this young-man for saving lives, even if his methods undermined the rules? Where is the line between justice and defiance?”

Stalling to think of a response as his mind raced, Albus delayed his response. Peverell’s account was plausible enough, but there were gaps—gaps that spoke to a deeper truth he wasn’t revealing. “You said you encountered Peter on your way back into the castle,” Albus pressed. “What was he doing out of bed?”

Peverell’s smile returned, though it was sharper now, more calculated. “Skulking, I suppose. I imagine he intended to meet up with his friends.”

Albus’ gaze bore into him. “Peter Pettigrew does not strike me as the sort to wander the castle alone at night.”

“Perhaps not,” Peverell said lightly. “But you’d be surprised what fear and entrapment can drive a rat to do.”

Albus’ jaw tightened at the slight. Clearly Peverell was well informed and that was a dangerous thing. He didn’t trust the explanation, not entirely, and he trusted the boy’s motives even less. Albus adjusted his stance as the shadows around the room seemed heavier now, more oppressive, and Peverell’s presence felt like a storm barely contained. He asked, to gain footing, “And what would you like me to do with these—revelations?” 

Peverell’s expression turned serious, his mismatched dark eyes locking with Albus’. “I expect you to keep your school in order, Albus. This could have been far worse. If I hadn’t acted, Hogwarts’ grounds would be covered in more than scorched wood and singed fur.”

The implications of Henry’s words—and his actions—were vast and unsettling. But for now, Albus had no choice but to play along. “I won’t deny that your actions have saved lives tonight,” Albus said at last, his tone heavy with resignation. “But you cannot operate above the rules of this institution, my boy. You’ve taken justice into your own hands, and that is a dangerous precedent.”

Albus felt as though no matter how much he empathized with the young man, he had to make his move here and now. The ease with which Peverell subdued three students, bypassed the castle’s wards, and calmly confronted him alarmed Albus were jarring. Add to that the spell-work suppressing Remus’ affliction and the implications of the boy’s patronus—this level of skill was rare and minacious.

Peverell laughed softly, the sound sharp and mirthless in Albus’ silence. “Dangerous? Perhaps. But necessary. The rules of this institution failed tonight, Albus. They failed Severus. They failed Lupin. And they continue to fail others too. Or was I mistaken in hearing that Aloysius Mulciber has started his Yule break early? This environment that you cultivate is what’s dangerous.”

Albus stiffened at the mention of Mulciber, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something—regret? Frustration?—prickled behind his eyes. Many had failed Mulciber long before the boy's cruelty had become evident. But silently, he pondered, “How many warning signs had I ignored, dismissing them as typical adolescent posturing?” Clearing his throat, Albus spoke-up firmly, though the words rang in his own ears, "Aloysius Mulciber's disciplinary matters are not yours to address.”

Peverell leaned back slightly, the motion deceptively relaxed, though the fire in his eyes burned brighter. "That’s rich, coming from the man who ignored every ill action the boy took until Mulciber’s cruelty finally spilled into the open." He tilted his head, his tone sharpening like a blade. "Tell me, Albus—how many more children will you sacrifice to the notion that anyone can be redeemed?"

Albus’ felt the dryness of his own lips as they pressed into a thin line. “This boy understands nothing,” he angrily thought. To him, Peverell was simply a child with far too much coin and far too few oversight. The boy knew nothing of the seeds Albus must sowed to grow victory. Peverell knew nothing of how moves, such as ensuring the Mulciber family was indebted to him, were what changed tides. But Albus knew. Just as he knew where this conversation was going, and he didn’t like it. For how many times had his faith in redemption been tested—and how often had it fallen short? “Yet, what was the alternative?” He thought to himself, “A world devoid of second chances?”

His next words felt hollow even as he spoke them. Aloud, with a heavy mind, Albus addressed, "Redemption is not a sacrifice; it is a belief in the potential for change. Every child in this school is just that. And children deserve the chance to choose a better path for themselves."

"And how many have taken that chance?" Peverell countered, his voice low but biting. "How many have turned towards the darkness you so kindly shielded them from safely learning? Tell me, Albus, does your faith in redemption extend to the victims who have no choice? The ones who endure because you chose to believe in a one-note world?"

The room seemed to grow colder as Peverell’s words lingered, cutting through the space between them. Castoff from the light in the hearth seemed to dance to his discomfort as the flames themselves cracked and cackled. He was not sure of how he knew it, but he just knew that Peverell’s magic was fueling the awful aura of the room. Sirius and James’ struggles renewed atop Peter’s seemingly unconscious body. Even Severus shifted slightly, the boy’s eyes darting to Albus as he felt his own magic rise is response to the threat before him, though his expression remained impassive. The tension was suffocating, a weight pressing down on Albus’ chest.

Peverell’s words burrowed deeper than he cared to admit, dredging up doubts he had long buried. No, Albus could not ignore the conviction in Peverell’s voice, the fire that made him both dangerous and persuasive. And he knew from painful, young-lust tinted, experience how easy it could be to yield to that fire, to let it consume the careful balance one had worked so hard to maintain. Peverell’s defiance was both admirable and infuriating. He spoke of accountability as though it were a simple matter, oblivious to the delicate threads holding the school—and the world—together.

"You think me blind to the pain some students have caused or faced?" Albus said at last, his voice quieter but no less firm. "I have seen more suffering than you can imagine, Henry. I have made decisions no one should ever have to make. Do not presume to understand the weight of what it means to lead this school, to protect every child within its walls."

Peverell smiled faintly, though it was far from kind. "Protect? Is that what you call it?" He gestured to Severus, who had gone still again, his hands gripping the edge of the chair with white-knuckled tension. "You’ve seen the damage, Albus. You’ve seen the scars—both the ones visible to the eye and the ones that aren’t. And yet you stand there, spouting platitudes about redemption while the likes of Mulciber and Black continually roam free, doing as they please. How many warnings did you ignore before someone else had to intervene? Before someone like me had to do what you refused to?"

The words hit their mark, and Albus’ face hardened, his calm demeanor cracking just slightly. He felt the exhaustion of having his choices questioned, his motives dissected by someone too young to understand the complexities of leadership. "You presume much, Henry. You presume to judge decisions you do not fully understand, to act as though you are above the very laws that keep this school from descending into chaos. There is a war beyond these walls that I am attempting to keep the children from both sides from falling into."

"And you presume to think those laws matter when lives are at stake," Peverell retorted, leaning forward now, his eyes blazing. "Laws didn’t save Severus tonight. Rules didn’t stop Black setting his trap. Your protections didn’t keep a werewolf from nearly killing one of your students. As you’ve said, there is a war—and your beliefs won’t undo the damage done when the next Black or Mulciber takes it a step too far.” Peverell’s wire smile stretched sharply across his scared face, “And, I ask you—what is there stopping some young, impressionable, student from casting their lot in with whoever is promising them the attention and support they aren’t receiving here—even if that person is You-Know-Who?"

Albus’ silence was heavy, his gaze fixed on Peverell, who sat unwavering, his every word a challenge. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackling of the fire, its warmth at odds with the tension between them. When Albus finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost weary. "And what would you have me do, my boy? What would you have me change, if you were in my place, Henry?"

Peverell’s answer came swiftly, as though he had been waiting for the question. "I would stop pretending that rules and forgiveness are enough to shield these children from the world’s true darkness. I would act. I would hold people accountable for their choices—all of their choices—before those choices destroy someone else."

"And where would that path end?" Albus asked softly, his gaze piercing. "With you as judge, jury, and executioner? With justice that looks more like vengeance?"

Peverell’s smile returned, sharp and unyielding. "Perhaps. Or perhaps with fewer children left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives because someone finally decided to stop the harm at its source."

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of Peverell’s words hanging in the air like a storm about to break. For a moment, neither man spoke, their gazes locked in an unspoken battle of wills.

And then Albus, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, lowered his wand—not in defeat, but in acknowledgment. "You’ve made your point, Henry," he said quietly. "But this is not your school, and these are not your decisions to make."

"Then make better ones," Peverell replied, his voice calm but unrelenting.

For a moment, the two stared at each other’s in tense silence backdropped by sluggishly shifting fabric and the crackling of the logs in the hearth.

Then Peverell breathed out a put upon sigh, and continued, “But you are right in that the decision about this school are not mine to make. But would you like to know which are? The decisions about ‘punishment for actions again and harm done unto ones contractual betrothed, as a Lord of House,’ under Ministry article no. 728-B, subsection 14.”

Albus moved to speak but Peverell was not finished, his voice cold and precise as he spoke over that start of the Headmaster’s words. “And the protections afforded to a betrothed of a Lord under magical contract law are not subject to the whims of a Headmaster, no matter how benevolent he believes himself to be.”

Albus’ face tightened at the mention of the obscure legal statute. “An arcane and vague law seldom invoked, my boy. Surely you don’t mean to—”

“Oh, but I do,” Peverell interrupted smoothly, his tone like ice cracking underfoot. He turned his gaze to Severus, who stiffened under the sudden attention. Peverell softly tilted the boy’s head backward with a gently grip of his chin, uncaring for the display they made, and said, “Severus was targeted, his life put at risk in a manner that falls squarely within the boundaries of magical contract law. And though I acknowledge the laws sexist and classist in their underpinnings—as Severus’ betrothed, I am well within my rights to demand retribution or restitution. It is the least he deserves.”

“Henry, you don’t have to—” Severus began to speak as he shifted uncomfortably, his hands gripping the Peverell’s robes tighter. But Peverell silenced him with a chaste kiss.

“Severus, you have been forced to accept scraps of fairness for far too long. That ends tonight.” Peverell’s voice softened briefly, though the steel beneath it was unyielding. “You are owed more than excuses and empty promises of reform.”

Albus’ eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained measured. It was astonishing, really, how effortlessly Peverell could command loyalty. The boy who trusted no one seemed to find safety in Peverell’s presence, a bond Albus could neither ignore nor fully understand. “You tread dangerous ground, Henry. Invoking such laws in this context risks undermining the trust and cooperation required for this school to function. You speak of accountability, yet you wield this as a weapon, not a shield.”

Peverell released Severus and turned back to the Headmaster. When their eyes met again, Albus found the young-man’s gaze to be inhumanly cold.

“A weapon, Albus?” Peverell asked as an unnatural darkness descended upon the room. “No, I believe my actions to be a shield for my beloved. And a shield is only as effective as the will of the one holding it. The law is a means to an end—to ensure those who think themselves untouchable learn otherwise. I have no interest in undermining your school’s trust, but I will not stand by while Severus is treated as disposable, merely collateral damage in your experiment of forgiveness.”

Albus’ tone was quieter now, almost pleading as he attempted to alter the situation to his advantage. “Henry, think carefully. Severus has endured enough without you turning this into a battle he didn’t ask to fight. If you care for him as you claim, you’ll understand the harm your actions might cause—to him, and to the precarious balance we maintain here.”

Peverell tilted his hand at an unnatural angle, the shadows of the firelight that casted his tall frame in sharp relief seemed to edge closer. “The balance you speak of has already been tipped, Albus. Severus’s silence may have spared you confrontation before, but I assure you, I will not be so accommodating. Mulciber’s actions, Black’s reckless endangerment—they require more than hushed reprimands and second chances. They require consequences. And if you will not deliver them, then I will.”

Albus drew closer, his voice softening but no less firm. “I am telling you, you foolish boy, that mercy and understanding are the foundation of change. That justice is not the same as vengeance.”

“And I am telling you,” Peverell said, unheeded by the shadows that lurched forward to close the distance between them, “that mercy without accountability is complicity. You may believe in Sirius Black’s redemption, but what of Severus’s right to feel safe within these walls? What of his right to justice?”

Severus spoke up, his voice quiet but steady, “He’s right.”

Both men turned to look at him and Albus could feel the surprise dance across his own face.

“I’ve—done my share of terrible things,” Severus continued, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve paid for them. But if I’d done what Black did tonight—if I’d set a trap like that—I wouldn’t still be here. And we all know it.”

“I think,” Peverell said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper though the smile he graced the younger-man in his lap with was bright, “that you are so consumed by your ideal of redemption, Albus, that you have forgotten the cost of inaction. Your inaction.”

The fire crackled louder in the silence that followed, its light clawing across the room like a living thing, casting long shadows over the feet of both men.

Albus’ shoulders slumped ever so slightly, though the weariness in his eyes did nothing to diminish their intensity. “What is it that you think is right to do here, Henry?”

Peverell eyes rose his lover, the movement as deliberate as the words that followed. “A public acknowledgement of Black’s actions. Expulsion. A clear message sent that this school does not tolerate attempted murder, no matter the pedigree or family name of the perpetrator.”

“That would destroy Sirius Black’s future,” Albus said, his voice measured but firm. “A child’s mistake, however grave, should not condemn them for life.”

“A mistake?” Peverell’s voice rose slightly, a sharp contrast to Albus’ forced internal calm. “You call luring someone to their death a mistake? Spare me your justifications, Albus. You’re not protecting a child—you’re protecting your legacy, your reputation for fairness, and your access to pawns. And in doing so, you’re telling every student here that their safety is worth less than cannon-fodder for your precious idealism.

Albus’ silence stretched before he finally spoke, his voice resolute. “If expulsion is your demand, Henry, I cannot agree to it. Sirius Black acted recklessly, yes, but his intent was not murder. It was a foolish, thoughtless act of rivalry, not malice.”

“Intent?” Peverell scoffed, his voice sharp. “He lured Severus to a werewolf, Albus. A werewolf. You don’t need intent for murder when the weapon is uncontrollable.”

Albus raised a hand, as if to placate him. “What he did was dangerous, and I do not excuse it. But expulsion would ruin his future, condemn him to a life where he is far more likely to fall into the darkness you claim to want to prevent. There must be a better way forward.”

Peverell leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he fixed Albus with a piercing stare. “So your solution is to coddle him? To give him a slap on the wrist and hope he learns his lesson? You’re not protecting his future—you’re enabling him. What’s to stop him from thinking he can get away with worse?”

“Suspension,” Albus said after a moment, his voice firm. “A month away from Hogwarts, with conditions for his return. That, combined with community service within the school, would send a clear message that his actions have consequences.”

Peverell tilted his head, his expression unimpressed. “A month? So he takes a holiday while Severus is left to deal with the aftermath of nearly dying? Tell me, Albus, what exactly does that teach him? That endangering a life earns him some time off?”

Albus’ jaw tightened, but he pressed on. “Then what do you propose, Henry? If not expulsion, if not suspension—”

“Suspension and consequences that matter,” Peverell interrupted, his voice cold. “You want to talk about teaching lessons? Strip Gryffindor of their chance at the House Cup this year. Make it clear that Black’s actions cost not just him, but his entire House. Let him face his peers and answer for what he’s done.”

Albus hesitated, the suggestion clearly unsettling him. “That would punish many for the actions of one. It is unfair to those who have done nothing wrong.”

“Welcome to the real world, Albus,” Peverell said, his tone biting. “Where the actions of a single person can destroy everything for those around them. Gryffindor prides itself on loyalty, doesn’t it? Let them hold their precious Black accountable.”

Albus’ eyes darkened, but he gave a slight nod. “If it serves to reinforce the seriousness of his actions, I will consider it.”