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Chapter Text

Great plumes of smoke rose up from the Hogwarts Express, settling over the crowded platform. The tension in the air at Kings Cross Station was palpable . . . a stark reminder, after the calm of summer, that civil war was brewing. 

With this depressing thought, Harry tugged James’s elbow, motioning for his brother to follow him onto the train. 

“Sorry, little brother,” James said, not sounding particularly apologetic. He pointed at the Head Boy badge pinned to his favourite Harpies tee. “I’ve got to find the prefect’s carriage. You spot Remus anywhere?” 

Harry rolled his eyes unhelpfully. “Nope.”

Sirius Black, at James’s other elbow, pointed somewhere off into the distance. “Over there!”

“You’d better get straight on that train, the lot of you,” Euphemia said, consulting her watch. Absently she patted the top of Harry’s head, smoothing his fringe over the peculiar lightning shaped scar that marked his forehead. “I’m sorry that your father couldn’t be here to see you off.” 

Harry exchanged a quick glance with James. “S’alright, Mum.” 

“Be good—” 

“See ya, Mrs Potter!”

“—and stay safe.”

Harry hauled his trunk up onto the train just as the whistle blew overhead. He slammed the door shut, waving as Euphemia beamed and the train took off, moving away from the platform and gathering speed. 

Harry glanced down the corridor to where Sirius was leaning casually against the carriage wall, already surrounded by a throng of admirers. He looked the epitome of cool with his shoulder length hair, black nail polish and worn leather jacket. Dragging his trunk behind him, Harry made his way towards the group and tapped Sirius on the shoulder. 

“Want to get a compartment? It looked empty down that end.” 

Sirius laughed, loud and bark-like. “That’s cute,” he said, reaching forward to pinch Harry’s cheek. “I’ll see you around, little Potter.” 

Harry scowled. He had gotten so used to Sirius’s presence over the summer that he had almost forgotten that he didn’t usually hang around the eldest Black—or any Gryffindors, for that matter—during school term. 

“Whatever,” Harry muttered, already moving away. 

Further down the carriage he spotted a familiar mop of dark, greasy hair. Severus Snape sat alone in a compartment, his large nose buried deep inside a book. 

Harry rapped his knuckles on the door before sliding it open. 

“Snape,” he began cautiously. Snape’s feud with his brother’s group was legendary. “I’ve got a favour to ask.”

Snape didn’t look up from his book. “Get lost, Potter.”

“Come on, Snape. You don’t even—”

“Get out.”

“—but I just—”

But Snape was already reaching a hand into the pocket of his robe, and Harry leapt backwards, slamming the door closed. 

“I’ve been looking for you all over.” 

Harry sighed with relief, turning around to see Regulus Black slinking towards him. 

“Regulus!” Harry grinned. “I didn’t see you on the platform.”

“Let’s find seats.” 

Regulus hooked his arm through Harry’s and together they set off through the train, ignoring the dirty looks that followed them. In the heat of the current political climate, Slytherin had never been less popular. 

At last they reached an empty compartment. Harry sank down onto a seat and pressed his face against the cool glass window, watching with glazed eyes as they passed from Wood Green to Tottenham.

“How was your summer?” Regulus asked. He took a liquorice wand from his pocket and sucked the end between his teeth. 

“Miserable,” Harry lied. He had, in fact, had a marvellous summer, the long days filled easily with two-a-side quidditch, pilfered beers and a muggle boy he’d met at the pool. But there was no reason to rub that in his friend’s face. 

“Mine too,” Regulus sighed. The topic of Sirius and his relocation to the Potter’s sat uncomfortably between them. Just as Harry wondered if he should breach the subject, Regulus said, “You pierced your ear?” 

“I did.” Harry tilted his head to show off the gold hoop. 

Regulus raised both eyebrows. “You reckon Sluggie will allow that?” 

Harry shrugged. “Sluggie can suck a flobberworm.”

The piercing had been a spontaneous act of rebellion against his father, who had accidentally called him James at the dinner table. That he looked so much alike his brother had won Harry no favours amongst his peers, and Harry had gone to great lengths to emphasise their differences. 

Regulus smirked. “What did you want with Snape earlier?” 

Before Harry could respond the compartment door slid open and their dorm-mates ambled in; Balfour Greengrass, Icarus Nott and Enoch Wilkes. 

Hastily Harry changed the topic to their O.W.L results. 

They were not interrupted again until after the lunch trolley had passed and two seventh years, Bartemius Crouch Junior and—Harry’s stomach dropped—Evan Rosier, elbowed their way inside.

Harry’s whirlwind romance with Rosier the previous year had been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster. 

“You’ll have to pass along my sincere congratulations to your brother, Potter,” Barty said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. The colours of his blue and bronze tie stood out against the sea of green and silver. “Who’d have thought James Potter would ever make Head Boy? Dumbledore truly is senile.” 

“He must be, like, four hundred years old,” Harry said carefully. He blinked up at Barty. “Oh—are you jealous?”

“There’s no accounting for good judge of character,” Evan cut in. “And what is Dumbledore, when it comes down to it? Just some irrelevant dinosaur.” 

“We might not even be at Hogwarts after Yule,” Barty added. “What’s it matter who’s Head Boy outside of Hogwarts?”

“What do you mean?” Regulus asked. 

“Well, you never know.” Evan’s dark eyes met Harry’s. “We may have moved on to bigger and better things.” 

An uneasy silence filled the compartment, and Harry felt apprehension twist in his gut. He had heard rumours that the Dark Lord was recruiting amongst the student population . . . but surely that couldn’t be true. 

“You don’t mean,” Icarus whispered, “him?” 

Barty shrugged mysteriously, but the ghost of a smirk lingered on his face as his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. 

“My parents would prefer that I finished the year,” Evan continued. “But I hardly see the point. When the Dark Lord takes over, do you think he’ll give a shit how many O.W.L’s or N.E.W.T’s anyone’s got?”

Harry scoffed. “And what would a Hogwarts dropout be able to offer him exactly?” 

“No need to get your knickers in a knot, Potter,” Barty said in a bored voice. “The Dark Lord hasn’t time for blood traitors.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Piss off.” 

Just then a commotion sounded outside the compartment—the marauder’s annual fireworks display had commenced. Harry let himself be led out into the corridor, willed the multicoloured explosions of light to distract him from the heavy weight pressing down on his conscience.

The war, it seemed, had arrived with them at Hogwarts gates. 

This state of melancholy followed Harry up the steps into the castle, through the huge doors of the Great Hall, the sorting ceremony and the feast.

“—let us therefore say goodnight. Pip pip!”

Behind the drapes of his four poster bed, Harry settled himself underneath the green cotton sheets. He breathed deeply, pushing down the familiar sense of displacement that always left him queasy and unbalanced. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right. That, like a lone star in a constellation of unfamiliar faces, he didn’t quite belong. 

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, stared down at the vial of Dreamless Sleep enclosed between his fingers. 

Lately, his dreams had been—to put it mildly—disturbing. 

He did not want to risk visiting the Dark Lord again before his first class in the morning. 

Chapter Text

The ceiling of the Great Hall hung above the cacophony of breakfast the next morning, wispy grey clouds stretched over a pale, tired blue.

“Pumpkin juice?” Lucinda Flint said from beside Harry. 

Harry pushed his glass towards her. “Who’s that?” Harry asked, tilting his head discreetly towards the staff table.

“New Defence Professor,” Lucinda said. “Weren’t you paying any attention last night? Dumbledore introduced them . . . Corban Yaxley, I think it was.”

“They won’t be causing us any trouble,” Icarus said, making a small gesture with his fork down the Slytherin table.

“How so?” asked Regulus.

“Barty mentioned it,” Icarus replied in a low voice. “Professor Yaxley is, you know . . . one of his. A messenger.”

“Oh.” Regulus looked up from his plate of eggs to meet Harry’s gaze across the table. Harry thought he knew exactly what his friend was thinking: messenger, or spy?

“Good luck to them,” Harry said darkly. “Everyone knows that position’s jinxed.”

Lucinda hummed in agreement. “Let’s just hope Yaxley won’t be hiding his true colours. Sluggie’s never shown enough nepotism . . . we could use the extra points.” 

“I’ve got a good feeling about this year,” Harry said around a yawn. “Can you believe we’re finally getting free periods? Whole blocks of time where we can do whatever the hell we want.” 

Icarus rolled his eyes. “Like you haven’t always done whatever you wanted anyway.”

“That time’s meant for studying, Harry,” Regulus admonished. 

“Potter!” Professor Slughorn, who was handing out the new class schedules along the Slytherin table, called out loudly. “Next time I have to tell you to remove that earring it’ll be over a floo call with your mother.” 

“Suck a fucking toad, Sluggie,” Harry muttered, unclasping the hoop from his earlobe. He would put it back in when they left the Great Hall. 

“Nott, Black, Potter . . . ” said Professor Slughorn, who had come to stand behind the sixth year boys. He consulted his notes briefly, passing schedules to Icarus and Regulus before turning to Harry. “Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Care of Magical Creatures, Transfiguration . . . you’ve scraped through by the skin of your teeth. Now, I understand you wish to continue with Astronomy as well?” 

“Yes, Professor.”

Slughorn levelled Harry a very stern look. “An Acceptable O.W.L isn’t usually enough to continue onto N.E.W.T level. However, I have been able to pull some strings . . . ”

Harry felt his face heat unpleasantly. “You didn’t have to do that, Professor.”

Slughorn tapped his wand to a schedule, passing this to Harry. But when Harry took the parchment, he found that Slughorn had not let go. “I heard that you had a meeting with the Ballycastle Bats last month. Is that right, m’boy?” 

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said stiffly. He noticed that several people were now openly staring at the exchange.

“Good job, Harry,” Slughorn said happily, finally releasing the schedule. “Do try to spend a little less time with your head in the clouds this year . . . figuratively speaking, of course. Are we clear?” 

“Crystal, Professor.”

“You’ll be holding Quidditch trials soon, I expect?” Slughorn continued, stroking his moustache. “I admit I’ve grown rather fond of that trophy on my mantle.”

Harry stared down at his plate, wishing the Professor would move along. Slughorn had a way of grating on Harry’s nerves like a stubborn pebble trapped inside his shoe. 

“Yes, Professor.”

Slughorn’s expression softened into something fond. “Very good, m’boy. Very good.”

When the Professor had finally moved out of earshot, Regulus turned to Lucinda. “What were you just saying about nepotism, Lucinda?”

Harry threw Regulus a filthy look from across the rim of his pumpkin juice. “Oh, shut up. I really wish he wouldn’t.”

“I’m going to miss you in Potions this year,” Regulus sighed. 

“Let’s get going,” Icarus said. “I want to get a good seat for Defence.”

The group were half way towards the North Tower when Harry spotted a line of seventh year’s waiting outside the Transfiguration classroom. 

“I’ll see you there,” Harry said, unlinking his arm from its customary spot around Regulus’. “I need a quick word with James.”

Regulus frowned. “You’ll be late . . . ” 

Harry waved him off. He knew the castle like the back of his hand. “Don’t wait. I know a shortcut.”

James was conversing at the front of the line with a pretty redhead and—seeing Harry approach—didn’t look happy with the prospect of an interruption. 

“Not right now,” James mouthed behind the cover of his hand. “Go away!” 

“I need your sixth year astronomy book,” Harry said without preamble. “Would you bring it to dinner?” 

James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you have your own copy?” 

“Forgot to pack it.”

“Owl mum, then,” James said crossly, looking over Harry’s shoulder just in time to catch a glimpse of Regulus, Icarus and Lucinda disappearing down the corridor. “I wish you’d get some better friends . . . that lot’ll be tripping over each other to lick Voldemort’s boots.”

“James,” the redhead chided softly. “I don’t think—”

“—Piss off,” Harry cut in. “You don’t know anything about it.” 

James crossed his arms over his chest. “Bigots, the lot of them.” 

“Is this how our Head Boy promotes inter-house unity?” Harry said sarcastically. “I’m so glad the student body has you to look up to.”

“Look,” the redhead tried again with a strained smile. “The library may also—”

“—Can I have the textbook, or what?” 

Sirius chose that moment to appear from behind James, adding unhelpfully, “I thought you flunked Astronomy?” 

“Hmm,” James hummed, pretending to think about it. “Seeing as you asked so politely, I think . . . no.”

“Fucking great,” Harry said resentfully as he shoved past James and stormed down the corridor.

“Language!” he heard James call after him. “That’ll be five points from Slytherin, then. Thanks for stopping by!”

Harry was—predictably—late to Defence. 

Yaxley paused as Harry sat down beside Regulus, his dark eyes lingering on Harry’s green and silver tie before he continued, “—or provoke the aggression of the Inferius. Questions?”

Harry stared at Yaxley. He was of average height, with limp hair and sallow skin. Yet contrary to his unassuming appearance, he had the distinct air of someone not to be crossed. 

“Sir,” said a Ravenclaw in a high-pitched voice. “Is it true that the Dark Lord has raised an army of Inferius?” 

Yaxley moved around the edge of the room to settle behind his desk. “Rumours and speculation. However, you would be well advised to assume . . . ”

Harry soon found his attention wavering, drowsy with the lingering effects of too many Dreamless Sleep potions. He yawned, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. His eyelids fluttered closed. He would copy Regulus’s notes during lunch, Harry thought distantly, as Yaxley’s deep baritone lulled him into a light doze. 

Lunchtime trudged into the afternoon in a blur, and the tired sky of that morning was swallowed by the bottomless gloom of night. 

After dinner, Harry retreated to the Slytherin dormitories. He mindlessly thumbed through his record collection, selecting something at random, and lowered it gently onto the turntable. Then he retrieved a joint from the hidden nook inside his trunk and joined Regulus behind the drapes of his four poster bed. 

Harry tapped his wand to the plasterboard by his bedhead, removing the enchantment that hid an imitation window. It was always raining outside—Harry had lost interest in the project quickly—but the cool air that hit his face when he pulled the heavy frame on its sash was a welcome reprieve to the stifling confines of the dungeon.

Regulus uncurled from his position, stretching his limbs like a cat, and settled beside Harry at the window. 

“It’s weird being back, isn’t it?” Regulus said thoughtfully. “Everything has changed. Yet nothing has, too.”

Harry lit the joint. “S’pose so.”

“Still mad at James?” 

“Couldn’t just lend me the fucking book, could he?” Harry said sourly. “He had to cause a spectacle. I don’t think his girlfriend was impressed anyway.”

Regulus plucked the joint from Harry’s fingers. When he spoke, his voice was oddly strained. “Are they an item now?”

“Are who an item?”

“You can be so oblivious sometimes, Harry,” Regulus sighed. “Lily Evans . . . the Head Girl. James has only been in love with her since forever.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry said with disinterest. “They’re just mates I reckon.”

“Yaxley’s getting a study group together,” Regulus said abruptly. “Just the older students. Like-minded people, he said . . . you think you’ll go?” 

Laughing, Harry pulled a face. “Nope. Could Yaxley be more obvious? I bet he’s scoping out new recruits . . . ”

Regulus took a long drag from the joint before passing it back to Harry. “What do you think the Dark Lord is really like?”

Harry reached a hand outside the window. The imitation rain felt cool against his skin as it ran down the length of his arm to his fingertips. He had known Voldemort for as long as he could remember. Had regularly visited the man in his dreams. Whenever Voldemort was struck by a strong emotion, Harry—inexplicably—felt it too. 

He was oddly comforted by the thought that he didn’t think anybody knew the Dark Lord as intimately as he did. 

“Well,” Harry replied slowly, “he’s just misunderstood, isn’t he? All the poor bloke wants is to make the world a better place.” 

Regulus snorted. “But of course.” 

“What most people don’t realise is that he’s actually very sweet natured.” Harry smirked, dragging on the joint. “He collects bits of soft glass from the pebbled beaches in Dorset.”

“Uhuh.”

“Enjoys a ham and cheese sandwich at Marks and Sparks by the tube.”

“Sure.”

“And has three rescue cats named Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail.”

”Don’t you mean rabbits?”

”No,” Harry said firmly, “they’re cats.”

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek as he regarded his friend. He considered, as he had many times, telling Regulus the truth. But when he had tried to explain himself before, the repercussions—the tests, the medication, the counselling—had been dreadful. Nothing had helped anyway, in the end. 

Hearing voices—seeing things, like he did—was not normal. Not even by wizarding standard. 

Yet, if Harry’s suspicions were correct . . . if there was some way that he could prove that Voldemort was his—

—the thought was cut off abruptly as the door slammed open.

Harry stilled, the joint hanging from his lower lip.

Then a voice called out, “It fucking stinks in here. Is that window open?”

Harry sighed with relief. 

“Yeah, it is,” Harry said, throwing open the drapes.

Balfour Greengrass—their dorm-mate—tossed a brown paper package onto the edge of Harry’s bed as he stalked through their dormitory towards the bathroom. 

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

Balfour made a rude gesture behind his back. “I’m not your fucking house elf, Potter!”

Harry sighed, passed the joint to Regulus and moved unsteadily across the bed.

“Who’s it from?” Regulus asked. 

“Doesn’t say.” 

Harry tore off the brown paper to reveal a dog-eared copy of Spherical Astronomy, Third Edition. He turned the textbook over, a spark of affection igniting into a roaring fire in the pit of his stomach as he spotted something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in small, cramped handwriting. 

This book is the property of Sirius Orion Black. 

Chapter Text

For the rest of the week, Harry kept Sirius’s copy of Spherical Astronomy within arms reach. He had found, skimming through the textbook, there was barely a page where Sirius had not made annotations . . . not all of which concerned the celestial sphere. 

“What do you think this is supposed to be?” Harry asked Icarus the following Saturday at breakfast. 

Icarus squinted at the vulgar drawing on the chapter detailing planetary motions. “Erm. Is it a one-eyed witch?”

Harry snapped the textbook shut. He was reminded, suddenly, of a statue he occasionally passed in the third-floor corridor . . . 

“Flitwick’s gotten mean, hasn’t he?” Lucinda said glumly. “Thirteen inches by Tuesday . . . cruel, is what that is.”

“We’ll head back to the common room after tryouts,” said Regulus. “You can copy mine, if you help me with Transfiguration.” 

“The trials might take all morning,” Harry sighed. “I don’t know why everyone wants to join the team all of a sudden.” 

Lucinda snorted. “Come on, Harry . . . it’s not the Quaffle that’s the real catch here.” 

Harry looked up to see his friends exchange a look over his head. “What do you mean by that?” he said irritably. 

“Word spreads quickly,” Regulus explained. “Everyone knows that you’ve been scouted by the Bats. And, when you’re playing for the league, they all want to be able to boast that you picked them for the house team.” 

“Your face doesn’t exactly hurt the appeal either,” Lucinda smirked. 

“Or that you’ve grown about a foot over the summer,” added Icarus. 

Harry felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, and was thankful to avoid drawing the conversation out further by the arrival of the post owls swooping in through the windows. There seemed to be more than usual, Harry thought, as he scoured the Great Hall for his snowy owl . . . he was eager to hear whether his father—who had fallen ill with dragon pox in August—was feeling any better. 

But Hedwig did not appear. 

Harry distracted himself by retrieving the copy of the Daily Prophet which had landed on Regulus’s plate of eggs. 

“Anyone we know?” asked Regulus softly. 

“No,” Harry answered as he brushed crumbs from the front page. “But there was an attack in Horizont Alley . . . three deaths. No arrests.” 

Harry dropped the paper to scrub a hand across his face, folding the images from his dreamscape the headline brought to mind and methodically tucking them away—to be analysed later—to the back shelf of his subconscious.

His Occlumancy was mediocre at best, but it was . . . something. 

Icarus leaned forward on his elbows, saying in a hushed voice, “People are starting to panic . . . did you hear that Alice Fortesque’s family wanted her to go home? And Dirk Cresswell’s already been withdrawn . . . they’ve packed up and moved to Denmark.” 

“Surely Hogwarts must be safer than anybody’s homes,” Harry said, looking up at the staff table. Dumbledore’s seat was empty, and it dawned on Harry that the Headmaster had been absent more often than not throughout the first week of term. 

“What’s the old man up to?” Lucinda wondered, following Harry’s line of sight. “I bet he’s at the Ministry. He’s overcommitted, I reckon.” 

“Sounds about right,” Harry agreed. 

Harry and Regulus left the Slytherin table a few moments later. Just as they were exiting the Great Hall, Harry spotted a mop of greasy hair skulking just in front of them. 

Walking quickly, Harry drew level with Severus as they passed the house hour glasses. 

“G’morning, Snape,” Harry said with false cheer. 

Severus’s dark eyes flashed. “No.”

“What?” Harry spluttered. “But you don’t even—”

“—Whatever it is you want, Potter,” said Severus hatefully, “the answer is no. Always.” 

With his robes fluttering behind him dramatically like the wings of a great bat, Snape swooped down the corridor leading back to the dungeons.

Regulus raised both eyebrows, but Harry subtly shook his head. He didn’t want to risk discussing it in detail anywhere someone may overhear . . . 

Just as they arrived at the Quidditch pitch it began to drizzle. Harry exhaled loudly through his teeth as he gazed about the crowd . . . it seemed as though half of Slytherin house had turned up. In fact, Harry thought with mounting horror, it looked like half the school was slowly filling up the stadium. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry roared at a familiar group of seventh year Gryffindors. 

“Thought you could use some moral support, little brother!” James hollered back from the stands. “Slim pickings this year, innit?”

“Piss off!” 

As Harry had guessed, the trials took up most of the morning. With a sizeable portion of the team having graduated the previous school year, he had five positions to fill . . . and now five new players to train up. It was going to take a lot of work—or a vat of Felix Felicis, Harry thought grimly—to stand a chance of beating his brother’s team of seasoned players.

The drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour by the time Harry tossed the last bag of equipment inside the storeroom and slammed the door closed. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the figure perched beside his beloved Comet 210. 

“How’s it going, little Potter?” 

Harry shook his fringe from where it clung to his forehead. “Wet.”

Sirius dragged on a cigarette. He considered Harry for a moment, observing him through the crescent moon of his long, dark lashes. And then he said, “Come here.”

Harry leant against the wall beside him, catching Sirius’s hand as he passed the cigarette between them. 

“What’s this?” Harry asked, turning Sirius’s hand over to reveal a rune drawn with black ink across the tendons of his wrist. 

“It’s a stick-and-poke,” said Sirius. “Do you like it? I’m getting pretty good . . . I could do one for you sometime, if you want.” 

“It looks cool. What does it mean?” 

“Don’t you know your runes, little Potter?” Sirius teased. “You should have learnt those in Grammar School.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m dyslexic. Ancient Runes are all the fucking same.” 

“Fair enough.” Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind his ear from where it had fallen across his face. Then, in a very light and casual tone, he said, “Hogsmeade weekend’s coming up. If you fancy a pint, come along to the Hog’s Head.” 

Harry was reasonably sure that they wouldn’t serve him—he had only just turned sixteen—but this was not something he wanted to bring to Sirius’s attention.

“Maybe I will,” Harry told him. 

Sirius was about to respond when the sound of an argument cut through the air. Harry dropped the cigarette . . . some kind of altercation was happening on the pitch. Sirius took off, bounding into the rain, and Harry strode after him. 

“Break it up!” Harry yelled, pushing his way through the gathering mob of students. But—over the rain beating down and the raucous crowd—it was impossible to be heard. 

At the centre, four Slytherin’s were facing off against three Gryffindor’s. Harry supposed he didn’t need to know the specifics to understand what was unfolding. Be it blood prejudice or house prejudice, if there was a duel in the stadium during the Slytherin house tryouts then Harry—Slytherin Captain—would be in some way accountable . . . 

Just as Evan Rosier raised his wand towards Lily Evans, Harry stepped in.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Harry hissed. He shoved Evan hard, and the spell—a jet of orange light—shot off course into the mud. 

“Get out of it, Potter,” Evan spat furiously. His handsome features twisted into something ugly as he grabbed hold of Harry’s robe and pushed him violently to the ground.

But before Evan could raise his wand a second time, Harry was back on his feet, blocking the way. 

“She’s Head Girl,” said Harry very quickly, “and there’s a dozen witnesses. Do you want to get expelled so badly?”

For a moment, Harry thought that Evan was going to hit him. Had they not spent literal hours the previous year exchanging saliva, he’s sure he would have tried.

Just behind Rosier, Harry saw the other Slytherin’s—Mulciber, Lestrange, Macnair—fading back into the crowd. A quick glance over his shoulder told Harry the situation had been defused . . . Remus Lupin was walking Lily Evans back towards the castle, their heads bowed together in discussion.

Sirius was nowhere to be seen.

The weight of a hand settled on his shoulder and Harry looked up into Evan’s bright eyes. 

“You won’t be able to stay neutral in this forever,” said Evan coolly. “Eventually—soon—you’re going to have to pick a side. The Dark Lord is reasonable . . . he’ll forgive your hesitation.”

“I don’t answer to anyone,” Harry said stubbornly. “You certainly won’t catch me grovelling on my knees for forgiveness.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed and his hand slipped from Harry’s shoulder to disappear inside the pocket of his robe. “A pity,” he said. “You were always most pleasant on your knees . . . well, I’m just glad we were able to find something you were any good at.”

“Good, was I?” Harry grinned viciously. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

Evan’s lip curled up into a sneer as he turned to leave the pitch. “Don’t let it be said that I didn’t warn you, Potter.” 

“ . . . Well, I’m starving.”

Harry sighed with relief, turning around to see Regulus standing behind him under the cover of an enormous black umbrella. Harry smiled wanly. “Me too.” 

Regulus hooked his arm through Harry’s. “Good,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

But they had barely taken three steps inside the castle before Slughorn—seemingly appearing from thin air—had them cornered.

“Harry, Harry,” Professor Slughorn boomed genially. “What do you say to a spot of supper in my rooms tonight? We’re having a little party, just a few of the rising stars . . . I’ve got Oliver, Narcissa, our charming Head Girl—Lily’s a dab hand at potions, top of the year—and, naturally, I hope very much that you will come too, Regulus.”

Slughorn bent theatrically in a small bow, awaiting their response. 

“Oh,” Harry blinked. “But I thought Snape was best in the school at potions?”

Regulus gave Harry a sharp look before hurrying to say, “We can’t come, Sir. Professor Yaxley is holding a study group tonight and we’d planned to go along.” 

“Oh, but we can’t have that,” said Slughorn. “I’ll just have to have a word with Corban . . . a study group on a Saturday, well I never . . . I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to postpone it . . . yes, I’ll see you both later!”

“Fucking great,” Harry muttered under his breath. 

Slughorn bustled from the Entrance Hall, leaving Harry and Regulus by the house hour glasses. 

“He’s got no chance of persuading Yaxley,” said Regulus. 

Harry peered inside the Great Hall just as a bolt of lightning shot through the dark clouds hanging below the ceiling. Goosebumps rose up over Harry’s skin and he was struck, suddenly, with a terrible sense of foreboding. 

Harry turned back to Regulus, shivering in his damp clothes. “Let’s pick up something from the kitchens,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t know that Yaxley is the better option . . . ”

Regulus shrugged unsympathetically. “Have fun at Sluggie’s, then.”

“Yeah fucking right. Why do you want to go to Yaxley’s anyway?”

“Leverage,” Regulus said mildly as he pulled a liquorish wand from his pocket. “If I tell Mother about Yaxley’s, I think I can get out of the Malfoy’s Winter Solstice.” 

In fresh robes, Harry and Regulus joined the other sixth years at their table. The common was particularly crowded, most students having already finished lunch. 

Harry felt the beginning of a migraine pressing into the back of his temple, and he sank low into his chair. He rested his head in the palm of his hand, watched with glazed eyes as a shoal of trout moved past the circular windows facing out into the vast, equivocal depths of the Black Lake. 

“Anything new?” Icarus asked Regulus, who was scanning a discarded copy of the Afternoon Prophet. 

“Not really,” said Regulus.

Harry closed his eyes as the pain in his temple grew sharp, piercing. Blood roared in his ears. And then an emotion not his own exploded in his consciousness with the intensity of a thousand shooting stars burning through the atmosphere.

Harry opened his eyes and blinked. 

It could only mean one thing, and it didn’t bode well . . . Voldemort was angry.

Chapter Text

The first Hogsmeade weekend for the term landed halfway through October. Harry had to wonder, when war was finally declared the Thursday prior, whether they’d be allowed to continue the outings much longer. 

Harry and Regulus stepped, arm in arm, out of the castle into a bitter wind. Harry shivered, adjusting the woollen scarf around his neck. But it was useless . . . the breeze cut through their clothes with relentless force, stripping away any sense of warmth or comfort. 

“Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks,” said Regulus over the howling wind. “At least it’ll be warm.”

Harry shook his head. “In a bit? I just want to stop in somewhere first . . . ”

Harry pulled Regulus further along the main road, passed boarded up shops and a wall lined with photographs of those recently listed missing. Harry stared down at the canvas of his All Stars, where he’d started drawing tiny constellations in gold ink. And, as his feet carried him over the cobblestoned path, he recited the names under his breath—Orion, Delphinus, Canis Major—so that he wouldn’t catch the eye of anyone on the wall he knew.

“The Hogs Head? Really?” Regulus groaned as they stumbled through the door. They were immediately enveloped by warm air infused with cheap whiskey and stale tobacco. 

Harry grinned unapologetically. 

“Harry, m’boy!” a voice boomed from across the inn. 

“Oh no,” Harry muttered. He hurried to move into the crowd, but it was too late . . . 

“Harry!” called Slughorn jovially as he bustled up behind them. “That’s three of my parties you’ve missed now. It just won’t do, m’boy. I must insist on having you at the next one. And Regulus, the same goes for you as well.” 

“Of course, Sir,” Harry intoned sourly. 

“Why haven’t you been along, Harry?” Slughorn pouted. He shifted his weight, adding in a hushed voice, “Is the workload getting too much for you?”

“I’ve had Quidditch practice, Professor.” 

Harry had indeed scheduled practices to clash with every one of Slughorn’s events. 

“Well now,” said Slughorn. “I can’t fault your dedication to the game, can I? I certainly hope that your efforts will be fruitful. But how about supper Monday evening? We can’t possibly have you practising in this dreadful weather.”

Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to evade the Slytherin Head of House forever, Harry sighed. “Sounds wonderful, Professor.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together. “Wonderful indeed! Consider the table set.” Pulling an enormous fur-lined hat over his head, Slughorn waved goodbye.

“What are we doing here, Harry?” asked Regulus. “It doesn’t look like there’s a free table.”

Regulus was right. 

Harry turned on the spot, his eyes mapping the perimeter of the inn. 

It wasn’t hard to spot the Marauders—their table was the loudest. But they already had company . . . three girls from their year sat with them. Harry squinted, scraping the back of his mind for their names . . . there was Lily Evans, of course . . . and another popular duo from Gryffindor, Mary Macdonald and Marlene McKinnon. 

“Oh,” said Harry, inclining his head. “I suppose we could join them?” 

Regulus levelled Harry a filthy look which told him precisely what his friend thought of the idea. The estranged Black brothers had not spoken all term. 

“Just one drink?” Harry pleaded. “Please?” 

“Alright,” said Regulus through a long exhale. And, with his eyes locked on the back of James’s unruly head, he added sternly, “Just the one.” 

Taking Regulus’s arm again, Harry led the way. 

“The Death Eaters can’t all be purebloods,” Lily Evans was saying, “there aren’t enough of them left. I expect a lot of them are actually halfbloods. It’s only muggleborns which they all seem to despise.” 

“There’s no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” Peter Pettigrew squeaked. “My whole family are blood traitors . . . that’s as bad as muggleborns to the Death Eaters.”

“That’s not true,” Harry interrupted. “Whatever the hell you are is far more annoying than even a muggleborn.” 

“That’s not funny, Harry,” said James sharply. He folded his arms across his chest as Harry leant between him and Lily to swipe James’ glass of ale from underneath his nose. “What are you doing here?” 

“Is this your little brother, James?” asked Marlene McKinnon. “You look so much alike . . . he’s your mini-me. How cute!” 

“He’s a menace,” James sighed. 

“We’re almost the same height,” Harry told Marlene. 

“Just what are you insinuating about muggleborns?” Mary Macdonald said testily. “And so we’re clear, I’m one . . . and proud of it.” 

“Well I haven’t told you what I think of most purebloods yet, have I?” Harry smirked. “They’re even worse.”

“So,” Remus began before lapsing into a stilted pause. Harry could practically see the cogs spinning wildly in Remus’s head as—bless him—he searched for a neutral topic. “First match of the season’s coming up,” he said finally, addressing Regulus. “Slytherin versus Hufflepuff, isn’t it? And you’re the only players from the old lineup. Does that make you nervous?” 

An awkward silence fell across the table. 

Regulus adopted a very bored expression as he answered, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “Of the ‘Puffs? . . . I’m terrified, naturally.” 

Harry had just begun to question whether they should make a quick exit when Sirius’s laugh—loud and bark-like—broke through the tension. 

“You’ll be alright,” James said quietly to Harry. “Just get that Snitch as quick as you can.” 

Harry grimaced . . . the Chasers were undoubtedly the team’s Achilles heel . . . he could only hope that it would be a short match. But that, Harry decided, was a concern for another day. 

“Buy us a jug, won’t you James?” said Harry. “Pleasepleaseplease?” 

James’s hazel eyes danced from Harry to Regulus—who had just pulled up a seat beside Remus—then back to Harry. 

“As Head Boy,” said James with exaggerated superiority, “I probably shouldn’t be seen in public supplying alcohol to minors . . . so you’d better ask Padfoot.” 

Harry met Sirius’s gaze across the table. 

“S’pose it was my turn to get the next round anyway,” said Sirius, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Same again, yeah?” 

Some time later, when the rest of their table had broken off into different conversations, Lily drew Harry aside. 

“I’ve been meaning to say thank you, Harry,” Lily began. “For the other week on the pitch. If you hadn’t stepped in when you did . . . things could have gotten ugly.”

Harry shrugged. “No bother.”

“Let’s just say I owe you one, then.”

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. He’d been hoping for some way to breach the subject with the Head Girl, and this was a better opening than he could have dreamed of. 

“Well,” said Harry slowly, observing Lily over the rim of his glass. “There is something you might be able to help me with . . . I had heard that you’re rather good with potions. Is that true?” 

Lily tilted her head. “It is.”

Harry leant forward, dropped his voice to a whisper. “I need help with a brew. It’s extremely complex—mastery level—and I don’t know who else to ask. I know Snape’s good, but he won’t give me the time of day.”

“Didn’t your dad invent Sleekeazy?” said Lily suspiciously. “He must be one of the most well known Potioneers of the last decade.” 

Harry laughed. “My dad is the last person I want to ask for help with this. Besides, he’s rather unwell.” 

Lily raised both her eyebrows. “Is it something illegal?” 

“Not illegal, exactly,” Harry said nervously. “It’s more . . . controversial. But look, I don’t want to talk about it here. There’s an unused classroom—”

“—No,” Lily cut in, “I’ve got an office . . . well, James and I share one. It’s beside the Prefect’s bathroom. You can pop in after dinner one evening.”

“Thank you, Lily,” Harry sighed. “Truly. I’m grateful.” 

Lily smiled kindly. “I’m not saying that I’ll help. But I’ll hear you out, Harry. And I’m sorry about your dad too.”

“Should we call it a day?” said Marlene McKinnon loudly across the table. “It’s getting dark already.”

Harry tipped his drink back. He caught Regulus’s eye, easily reading his friend’s expression: they would head back to the castle along with the others. 

Harry and Sirius trailed behind the rest of the group, who soon became indistinct, vague shapes. As they trudged back down the main street of the village, Harry felt very aware of Sirius’s presence . . . the faint smell of leather from his jacket . . . the warmth of his fingers as he passed a cigarette between them . . . how, occasionally, their shoulders brushed.

A warm glow settled low in Harry’s stomach, imparting the feeling that for once—like a gravitational force correcting his trajectory—he was not displaced, but where he’s supposed to be . . . or, at the very least, heading in the right direction. 

It was a little while before Harry realised, distracted as he was, that the voices up ahead had become strained . . . somehow panicked. 

“Did you hear that?” said Sirius, grabbing hold of Harry’s arm just as a harrowing scream was carried back towards them on the wind. 

“Quick!” said Harry, and they broke into a sprint.

When they came upon the others, it was clear that they had been arguing. Someone was on the ground . . . and they weren’t getting back up. James and Lily crouched over them, their wands drawn. 

“What’s happening?” asked Harry. 

Regulus turned to face him. “It’s Mary Macdonald . . . she’s been cursed. Or poisoned, perhaps.”

“As if you don’t know exactly what this is!” cried Marlene, her gloved finger pointed straight at Regulus. 

“Now’s not the time,” James intervened. “We need to get her up to the castle.”

Lily was already moving her wand, and in the next moment Mary rose up into the air as if she were lying across an invisible stretcher. “Come on,” said Lily, her voice strained with urgency. “Hurry up!”

“What happened to her?” Harry asked Regulus again. 

“I don’t really know. She was fine, and then she wasn’t . . . ”

By the time they reached Hogwarts, Harry and Regulus had fallen into step with the Marauders, the girls racing ahead to the hospital wing. Professor McGonagall met them on the stone steps leading up into the castle. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” said the stern-faced Professor. Her eyes lingered on Harry and Regulus. “Get upstairs to my office at once!” 

Harry followed the others into McGonagall’s rooms, cramming in beside Lily and Marlene, who had evidently been waiting. He looked over McGonagall’s shoulder to the window, where the glass panes rattled in their frame and the wind threw sleet across the school grounds into the night sky, obscuring the stars beyond.

“Well?” McGonagall said sharply. “Out with it. Someone tell me at once what’s happened.” 

Haltingly, Lily explained how they’d been walking home from an afternoon spent at the Hogs Head. How Mary had told them she felt unwell. How, pale and slick-skinned and trembling, she had all of a sudden collapsed. 

“All right,” said Professor McGonagall. “Does anyone have anything else to add?” 

Marlene cleared her throat. “Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” 

“Marlene,” said Lily despairingly. 

“It was Potter and Black,” said Marlene, gesturing from Harry to Regulus. “The younger brothers. I’m certain they were behind the attack.”

“That is a very serious accusation, Miss McKinnon,” said McGonagall. “I hope that you have some proof?” 

“She doesn’t!” said Harry angrily. 

Regulus scowled at Marlene. “This is ridiculous. We had nothing to do with it.” 

“I’m a muggleborn and proud of it,” Marlene said heatedly. “That’s what Mary told them at the Hogs Head. This was a hate crime . . . an unprovoked attack motivated by blood prejudice.”

All at once, the office broke into discord. 

“Enough!” said McGonagall furiously. “Mr Potter, Mr Black . . . you are not usual additions to this group. What were you doing at the Hogs Head?” 

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Regulus before looking down at his shoes. “It was my idea, Professor . . . I just fancied a pint, is all.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “I see. And are either of you old enough to be ordering pints, Mr Potter?” 

Harry shrugged helplessly. “S’pose not. But we had nothing to do with Mary, I swear—”

“—It’s my fault, Professor,” James piped up. “I know they’re not of age. I shouldn’t have let them—”

“—No,” Sirius interrupted, “they were my responsibility. I asked Harry to come along—” 

“—You what?” A slew of emotion—surprise, confusion, suspicion—washed over James’s face as he rounded on Sirius. “Why?”

“Fucking great,” Harry muttered, burying his face into his hands. What a disaster. He could feel Regulus’s eyes burning into the side of his head, adding two and two together.

“I suppose,” said Regulus icily, “it wasn’t just the pint you fancied, was it Harry?” 

“Enough!” McGonagall thundered again. Harry could tell from the set of her jaw that whatever punishment she was about to deliver would be worse than losing house points, or privileges, or even detention. “Potter, Black,” she said as she marched past them, “I’m going to defer this matter to your Head of House. Please make your way immediately to Professor Slughorn’s office . . . we’re going to have to floo your parents.” 

She held open her office door. 

At the doorway Harry paused. “Is Mary going to be alright?” he asked. 

“I should very much hope so, Potter,” said McGonagall tartly as she snapped the door closed. 

Harry looked at Regulus, whose grey eyes shone with betrayal. Chewing his bottom lip, Harry tried to think of something to say.

“Don’t even start,” said Regulus, as though he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. Regulus threw his hands up into the air. “I can’t even . . . I don’t want to hear it right now, Harry.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Harry softly as they climbed the stairs down to the dungeons. He didn’t dare try to take Regulus’s arm in his. 

As they dragged their heels towards Slughorn’s office, Harry thought longingly of the glow he had felt earlier . . . the sense of rightness, of belonging, which so often alluded him . . . and he wondered, as he stared at the stiff shoulders of Regulus in front of him, how on earth he would make this up to his best friend. 

Chapter Text

Mary Macdonald was transferred to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news she had been poisoned had spread throughout the school like fiendfyre. Although the details were somewhat vague, everybody seemed certain that Slytherin house was somehow involved. 

There was much muttering in the common room about who had been seen with Macdonald at the Hogs Head . . . and very few spoke of the event with any gratitude. Slytherin house was, by majority, not pleased to see their popularity take yet another blow. 

While Harry was not particularly bothered with schoolyard politics, he hoped that when his peers moved on from the incident that Regulus would also be able to put it behind him . . . while they remained on civil terms, a chasm of space now separated them, widening with each passing day and pulling them further apart.

Pressure was also mounting to provide a win in the upcoming Quidditch match. Whether he caught the Snitch or not, Harry thought wryly, it ought—at least—give them something else to talk about. 

On the day of the match, Harry and Regulus entered the Great Hall to an outpour of boos and hisses. 

“Why couldn’t the Dark Lord claim to be the Heir of Hufflepuff?” Harry muttered to Regulus. 

“Please don’t say those things out loud, Harry,” Regulus replied under his breath. 

“Tea?” Lucinda offered as they took their usual seats. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?”

“Cheers, Lucinda,” said Harry as he slid his glass towards her. He looked up at the ceiling and was pleased to see a clear, cheerful blue sky reflected down upon them.

“You’ll be brilliant,” said Icarus as he swallowed a large bite of toast, “ . . . won’t you?”

Harry and Regulus exchanged a look . . . if their last few practices were anything to go by, they had their work cut out for them. 

Harry let his gaze travel the length of the Gryffindor table across the hall, as had lately become his custom. Half way along the table, Lily Evan’s brilliant green eyes caught his own and—very subtly—she touched her earlobe. At the signal, Harry felt his heart leap into his throat . . . the potion was finally ready. 

He could hardly believe it . . .

As they strode towards the stadium an unbridled anticipation crept over him, setting his teeth on edge . . . and it had very little to do with the impending game. 

The Slytherin’s walked out onto the pitch to a fresh onslaught of heckles, jeers and boos. Harry’s eyes danced across the stadium, noting resentfully that many Gryffindors and Ravenclaws had chosen to support Hufflepuff by donning yellow and black stripes. 

“Captains,” said Madam Hootch. “Please shake hands and mount your brooms. On the whistle . . . three . . . two . . . one!”

As the whistle sounded Harry kicked off from the ground on his Comet 210, soaring high above the pitch until the myriad of noise became muffled and indistinct. He flew twice around the perimeter of the stadium, the Hufflepuff Seeker—Benjy Fenwick—at his heels. 

With no sign of the elusive Snitch, Harry lingered around Regulus’s hoops where most of the players had congregated.

Regulus’s lithe form was better suited to a Seeker than a Keeper, Harry thought as he dipped lower, eyes on Regulus as he made a truly spectacular save by the very tips of his gloves. 

“—another impressive block by Black!” yelled the commentator. “The score stands at Hufflepuff 20, Slytherin nil. And Urquhart has the Quaffle again, she’s streaking down the pitch—”

Harry cursed, tracking the Quaffle as it passed smoothly between the nimble hands of the Hufflepuff Chasers.

His Beaters were at the wrong end . . . 

Diving low suddenly, Harry sped right through Hufflepuff’s neat formation, disrupting Uraquhart’s next pass. The Quaffle, spinning uselessly through the air, fell towards the ground. 

“—a dirty play by the Slytherin Captain—”

Harry blew a kiss towards the commentator’s podium and turned, circling back around. 

“Heard you’ll trade a wristy for an essay,” came the snide voice of the Hufflepuff Seeker behind him. “Is that true, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes as he swung his broom around, deliberately crossing into Fenwick’s path so that they almost collided, knocking hard against the other boy’s shoulder. 

“Whoops!” Harry grinned viciously. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“FOUL!” cried Madam Hootch, blowing her whistle. “That’s a foul, Potter!” 

Harry groaned, soaring high above the pitch to watch one of the Hufflepuff Chasers take a free shot at the hoops. Regulus—cursing Harry, no doubt—overshot to the left. 

“And Hufflepuff score! That brings the tally to 30 points for the badgers, and the snakes . . . still slithering in at nil.” 

Harry looked up as Fenwick jeered loudly from above him and—at fucking last—there it was . . . sparkling like a tiny golden sun set against the clear blue sky, just beyond the other boy’s reach . . . Fenwick hadn’t seen it . . . but Harry would never reach it in time. He needed to draw Fenwick away.

There was only one thing for it. 

Harry turned his broom to the ground and accelerated. The wind swept through his hair as he plummeted at breakneck speed, and the commentator’s voice rang through the megaphone, “And it looks like Potter’s diving for the Snitch!”

Five paces before his nose touched grass, Harry turned his broom in a wide arc, doubling back the way he’d come. And, as adrenaline shot through him, he saw that his fein had paid off . . . Fenwick had followed behind him, was still hurtling face-first towards the ground. With his arm outstretched, Harry made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball. 

“About fucking time,” Harry sighed with relief. With the Snitch held high in his hand, he began his descent. A great commotion shifted over the crowd, overwhelming Madam Hooch’s whistle that signaled the conclusion of the game. 

Harry’s feet hit the grass and then Regulus’s arms were embracing him tightly, the sound of laughter filling his ears. 

The atmosphere in the changing room was euphoric.

“Party in the dungeons!” yelled Lucinda, whose head had just appeared from behind the jamb. 

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered. “It’s only half past ten.” 

Harry darted through the crowds of students moving back into the castle. He had just passed the statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor when he stumbled back . . . something had caught the hem of his sleeve. 

Frowning, Harry turned to see Regulus behind him. 

“Harry!” said Regulus. “There’s a party in the common room. Didn’t you hear?” 

Harry hesitated, chewing his lip. “I’ll be along in a bit.” 

“Oh . . . right.” Pink coloured Regulus’s cheeks, and in the moment of silence that followed, Harry knew he’d been forgiven. “Look, Harry,” Regulus tried again. “You’re entitled to your secrets . . . but I’m here, if you ever want to talk about it.”

As Regulus turned to leave, Harry gripped his friend’s arm. He had missed Regulus. A slow smile spread across Harry’s face as he angled his head towards the statue. “D’you know the password?” 

Grinning back like the cat who got the cream, Regulus replied, “Pine fresh.” 

Inside the privacy of the Prefect’s elaborate bathroom, Harry tried to organise his thoughts. He approached the large, arched mirror above the sink, dug his gold hoop earring out from his pocket and fastened it through his ear. In the mirror’s reflection, he caught Regulus’s eye. “Over summer,” Harry began, “I heard something I wasn’t supposed to.” 

Regulus’s eyebrows shot up. “Go on.” 

Harry pushed away from the sink and began to pace around the huge tub. “Dad was . . . delirious, you know? Half mad with fever. And he said . . . it was something really weird, like . . . I’ve always loved you like you were my own.” 

“What?” Regulus blinked.

“And it just got me thinking, you know?” Harry rushed to say, and he found that now he’d gotten started it was hard to stop. “There’s a lot of things that don’t add up. For example, the family picture albums. Dad’s always fancied himself an amateur photographer, hasn’t he? Documents bloody everything. So how come there are no photographs of me as a baby? Before I’m walking, I mean.” 

Harry stopped pacing to face Regulus. “Or,” he continued, “in James’s baby photos—and there’s a lot of those, by the way—there’s none where mum’s showing.” 

“You think you’re adopted,” Regulus concluded. “But why wouldn’t your parents have just said?”

“I went to Gringotts,” Harry went on. “To the family vault. Thought I might find a paper trail in the archives . . . I found my birth certificate . . . ”

“And?” 

“The date of birth—it’s missing. It’s just . . . blank.” 

“How about your appearance, then?” asked Regulus sceptically. “Your hair, for god’s sake.”

Harry waved a hand impatiently. “There are ways to alter a person’s features . . . blood magic, or a bonding ritual . . . and young children are especially mailable.”

Regulus hummed. “Your mum or dad could have had an affair . . . ”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed. “But—”

“—a bastard, for their generation, it would have been a huge scandal—”

“—I know, but—”

“—or they’re all coincidences.” Regulus snapped his fingers. “Your dad was hallucinating. The photo albums have been misplaced. Someone from the Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages made an oversight.” 

“Right. And that’s exactly what mum said when I brought it up.” 

Regulus looked impressed. “How’d that go?”

“As you could imagine,” Harry replied stiffly. “But I don’t believe her. She’s lying, I can tell she is . . . ”

Harry took a deep breath, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He felt convinced that, at the beating heart of this mystery, lay all the answers that he sought . . . the strange, intimate connection which he shared with Voldemort . . . the sense of displacement which haunted him . . . how he’d never felt as though he truly belonged. 

“So what next?” asked Regulus.

“I need actual proof,” Harry stated, his hands falling back to his sides, “that one or neither of them are my parents. There isn’t much to go on in the field of magical genealogy . . . there’s just no easy way to do it. But have you heard how muggles categorise blood groups? Like, genetics or something? There’s a potion . . . invented in one of Grindelwald’s labs . . . he’d planned to use it when integrating his government.”

Regulus inhaled sharply. “Systema trium. ” 

Harry nodded.

“And you’re going to brew it?”

Harry moved around the bathroom towards the door, saying over his shoulder, “It’s already done—c’mon.” 

Lily was waiting in her office across the hall, an eagle feather quill poised in her hand as she leant across a roll of parchment. When she saw them enter, she hurried to cap the inkwell and tuck her belongings away into her satchel. 

“Well done on the match,” Lily said pleasantly. 

Harry perched himself on the edge of her desk, watching as Regulus unceremoniously dumped a pile of junk from James’s chair onto the floor.

“Thank you,” said Harry politely. “How’s Mary doing this week?”

Lily grimaced as she slid open the bottom drawer of her desk, emitting great plumes of purple smoke into the air. Harry coughed, peering inside the drawer where a bubbling cauldron sat atop a camping stove.

“She’s still very unwell,” said Lily. “But she’s in good hands . . . they’re hopeful she’ll make a full recovery in time.”

Regulus crossed his arms over his chest, giving Lily a hard look. “You don’t believe we had anything to do with it?”

“How many vials do you think we’ll need?” Lily asked Harry before turning back to Regulus, adding mildly, “No, I don’t.”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “Make up a few extra, just in case.” 

“Hang on,” said Regulus. “And what makes you so sure we’re innocent?”

“Honestly?” Lily laughed. She rummaged for a moment inside her satchel, pulling out a ladle and a handful of small glass vials pilfered from Slughorn’s storeroom. “James says so, and I trust him.” 

Harry scoffed, muttering, “I wouldn’t believe James if he told me that the moon orbits earth.” 

“I have a sister too,” Lily told them. “I know what it can be like.” 

Using the ladle, Lily carefully poured out equal measures of the potion between the waiting vials. 

“What’s your sister like?” Harry asked conversationally. 

“Petunia?” Lily said with distaste. A look passed over Lily’s face as though she had just caught a whiff of something rather unpleasant. “She’s a cow. But we’ve all got our faults, don’t we?” 

Lily then selected a book from the shelf behind her, revealing the envelope Harry had hidden between its yellowed pages, and passed this back to him. 

“Don’t we,” Harry agreed. He removed a strand of hair from the envelope—Fleamont’s, he could tell from the length—and held it above the first vial. Breathing in, with the final thought that life as he knew it hung in the balance, he let the hair fall . . .

“Pureblood,” said Lily clinically as the hair dissolved on impact and the purple liquid turned a smooth, milky white. “Whose was that?” 

“Dad’s,” answered Harry. “And here goes mum . . . ”

“Pureblood,” said Regulus as, again, the purple liquid turned white. 

“Well, that’s not exactly surprising,” said Harry. As he reached up to pull a hair from his own head, he saw Lily mirror his movements. 

“I’ll go next,” said Lily. “I want to—ouch!—be sure we’re getting accurate results . . . ”

Lily dropped her shiny red hair into another vial which—instantaneously—turned a dark, sludgy brown. 

“Fascinating,” Regulus murmured as he squinted at the vial. “Just like mud . . . ”

“Don’t say it,” Harry said quickly. 

Regulus pursed his lips. “We’re all thinking it, though, aren’t we?”

“Go on, Harry,” Lily urged, ignoring Regulus. She held a fourth vial between her thumb and index, the purple liquid catching the light. “Drop yours in . . . ”

With a dramatic exhale, Harry pulled loose a strand of his own unruly dark hair. He leant forward, let it fall from his fingertips . . . his eyes darted from Regulus to Lily and then back to the vial . . . 

There was a horrible, heavy silence. 

“Well fuck,” said Regulus softly. 

“Halfblood,” Harry whispered. The word felt awkward—wrong—rolling off his tongue. 

Lily reached out to touch his hand. “Are you ok, Harry?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry in a brittle voice. To his own mortification, he thought he might cry. 

It was only what he’d expected, he reminded himself sternly. But that line of thought brought little comfort, as the bitter taste of anger coursed through him like poison. Where did he come from? Who was he, really?

Lily placed the vial of toffee coloured potion gently onto the desktop. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Regulus holding another vial up to the light as the colour changed again to a creamy white. 

“Congratulations,” Lily said dryly as she regarded Regulus. “You’re unsullied.” 

Regulus blinked. “That wasn’t my hair . . . ”

“What?” said Harry and Lily together, and Regulus held up James’s gold and scarlet beanie, taken from the pile of junk he had shifted to the floor. 

“You really shouldn’t have,” Lily chided. “It’s not ethical . . . ”

Regulus shrugged.

Harry slid off the desk. Suddenly wishing that he was alone, he gathered up the vials and threw them, with more force than was strictly necessary, into the rubbish bin. 

“Well,” said Regulus. “You’ve got your proof . . . you can take this up with Euphemia again, get some proper answers. We’ll be heading home soon for Yule.”

Harry tried to swallow the lump that had settled in his throat. He supposed that sounded logical . . . but could he trust anything the woman had to say, when he had been lied to his entire life? 

“There is someone else I can ask,” Harry said just as an idea struck him. The lightning shaped scar on his forehead throbbed and dread filled him even as he set his jaw stubbornly. It was a terrible idea, he knew . . . terrible, but great. 

Chapter Text

Snow danced at the windowsills, dusting the school grounds . . . chestnut, clove and nutmeg wafted up from the kitchens . . . Harry caught glimpses of the Grounds Keeper carrying enormous pines across his back into the Great Hall, weaving garlands of holly between the bannister rails and hanging boughs of mistletoe from fixtures on the ceiling.

To Harry’s great annoyance, a number of students had taken to lingering under the mistletoe every time he passed by.

“I’d just invite someone to go with you,” said Lucinda in the library late one afternoon. “They’re all hoping you’ll invite them along to Sluggie’s stupid party.”

“There isn’t anyone I’d like to ask,” Harry mumbled, staring forlornly at his dog-eared copy of Spherical Astronomy.

“And incidentally,” added Icarus, “you need to be careful. I overheard Lockhart in the bathroom earlier . . . discussing his plans to slip you a potion.”

“Who the hell is that?” Harry demanded.

Icarus drummed his fingers on the table. “Just ask someone. Anyone will do. That’ll stop your little groupies thinking they’ve still got a chance. The party’s tonight . . . they’re getting desperate.”

Harry flipped open his textbook, staring down with glazed eyes at the tiny map Sirius had drawn in the corner of the chapter titled Occulations and Eclipses.

He was just thinking how he might avoid attending the party altogether when a shadow fell across his page, and a shrill voice said from above, “Just what have you been doing to that poor book, you depraved boy?”

Harry snapped the textbook shut, looking up at the vulture-like form of Madam Pince. “It’s not the library’s,” Harry said defensively, his voice rising as Pince made to snatch the book from his grasp. “Anyway, they’re just annotations . . . ”

“Out!” Pince hissed, pointing her bony finger at the door. “Out with you, you horrible child!”

Fuming at the injustice, Harry threw his things hastily inside his bag. “Suck a fucking cockroach, Pince,” he muttered as he waved a hurried farewell to his friends.

Thinking that Regulus would soon be dismissed from his meeting with the other prefects, Harry made his way towards the fifth floor. He’d just climbed to the top of the last staircase when, from the corridor up ahead, a group of Ravenclaw’s erupted into a fit of giggles.

“There he is!” one of them whispered.

“Hi, Harry!” said a boy with wavy blonde hair. “Say . . . d’you fancy a—”

Harry did not wait to find out what.

In three strides he crossed the distance to the first door leading off the stairwell, throwing it wide open.

“D’you mind knocking?” James yelped, haphazardly folding a square of well-worn parchment. “Merlin's fucking beard.”

“Why? Up to no good, are you?” Harry’s bright green eyes danced suspiciously around the office, landing on the form of a huge, shabby dog. Resembling a Grim more than anything, it snored happily on the hearth by the fire.

At once Harry’s expression softened. “Oh!” he breathed excitedly, approaching the dog. “But who’s your friend?”

James blinked slowly. “Just a transfiguration . . . should last another half hour.”

Harry held his hand out for the dog to sniff before gently petting its head. “Really? It’s very good.”

“Thank you.”

Harry set to work scratching behind the dog’s ears, laughing when it sat up to lick his face.

James, who appeared oddly unimpressed with the transfiguration’s behaviour, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “So . . . how’re you?”

Determinedly not thinking about the last time he had visited the Head’s office, Harry said through a long exhale, “Good. And you?”

“Can’t complain.” James yawned, linking his fingers and stretching his arms above his head.

“D’you have a name, you sweet thing?” Harry cooed to the dog. “Think I’ll call you Snuffles.”

“Call it Arse Face for all I care,” James muttered.

“Grumpy today, isn’t he Snuffles? Well never mind him.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually,” said Harry, glancing up. “I need the cloak. When can I get it from you?”

“Why? What do you need it for?”

Harry smirked. “Show me that bit of old parchment hidden in your pocket and I’ll tell you.”

“Fine, whatever,” said James irritably. “I’ll bring it home tomorrow. But I’m not covering for you again while you sneak off with your awful friends—it’s not safe, not now we’re officially at war.”

Harry, who had been planning just that, glared across the room. James always had a way of making things difficult . . . but two could play at that game. Just as Harry was about to respond, the office door swung open.

“Oh hello, Harry,” said Lily. Her smile wavered as she noticed the shaggy dog, which was now attempting to climb into Harry’s lap. “That mutt’s still here, is it?”

“Harry was just about to take it for a walk,” James lied smoothly. “Bye Harry! See ya, Arse Face!”

Harry pressed his lips together as he looked from Lily to James . . . hadn’t Regulus suspected they might have been more than just friends?

With a wicked gleam in his eye, Harry turned to Lily. “Wanna go to Sluggie’s party with me tonight, Evans?”

The words had tumbled out of Harry’s mouth before the idea had fully formed in his brain. Yet one glance back at James told Harry all he needed to know . . . James was livid.

Lily’s eyes widened in surprise. “Slughorn’s party? With you?”

Harry gently nudged the transfigured dog from his lap. “Yeah. Only if you don’t have a better option, of course.”

Lily moved across the room to settle behind her desk as Harry paused at the door. “Alright then,” she grinned. “Why the hell not.”

Harry grinned back. “Meet you in the entrance hall at eight!”

The prefects were still streaming out of the meeting room further down the corridor, and Harry fell into step beside Regulus and Alice Fortesque.

“Hi, Alice,” said Harry. “I heard your parents wanted to take you out of Hogwarts . . . you’ve managed to talk them around?”

“For the time being,” Alice replied. “Although that whole business with Macdonald didn’t help . . . I’m glad there’s been nothing since.”

“Are you going to Sluggie’s tonight?” asked Regulus.

It seemed as though the party was all anyone wanted to talk about, following after Harry as he moved through the castle like a bad smell.

Just past eight o’clock, Harry and Lily waltzed through the dungeons to Slughorn’s office. The room was much larger and grander than any other professor’s, Harry noted, and it had been decorated for the occasion in shimmering gold and silver hangings. Laughter, music and loud conversation filled the crowded room, a dance floor already carved out beside a live band.

“Harry, m’boy!” Slughorn boomed, just as Harry and Lily edged inside. “And Miss Evans! What a charming couple you make.” A frown creased Slughorn’s forehead as he looked back and forth between them. “I’ve never noticed it before, but with you standing side-by-side . . . well, it’s really quite peculiar how—”

“—sorry, Sir,” Harry interrupted. “I’ve just spotted a friend. See you later!”

Harry seized Lily’s hand and pulled her through the room towards the drinks table . . . but, standing right in the way of the alcohol, was yet another obstacle.

“Potter . . . and Evans,” said Severus Snape unpleasantly. “What a pleasure.”

Harry grimaced. “Hullo, Snape.”

“Severus,” said Lily thinly.

Snape looked down his hooked nose at the Head Girl. “I see you’ve swapped the old one in for the newer model. It won’t take you long to realise this Potter’s also defective . . . I suspect his mother must have dropped him on the head.”

“Ha ha,” said Harry dryly, rolling his eyes. “You’re too funny, Snivellus.”

Snape’s eyes bore into Lily for a moment longer before he turned—robes billowing dramatically—and swooped off into the party.

Harry snatched up two champagne flutes and passed one across. “Don’t know why he’s always such a dick.”

Lily looked tense as she stared down into her glass. “We have a history . . . used to be best mates, actually.”

“Did you really? I had no idea.”

“Well . . . we don’t talk anymore,” Lily sighed. “Better not let McGonagall see you drinking that.”

Harry tipped his glass back quickly as an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “When I asked you to come with me tonight,” he said, “I probably should have made it clear . . . ”

As Harry’s voice trailed off, Lily leaned in to touch his arm. “That you’re flying for the other team? Darling, nothing could have been clearer.”

“Ok. Good.” Harry tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. “Why’d you agree to be my date?”

Laughing into her glass, Lily said, “Did you see the look on James’s face? Might have been the highlight of my week . . . serves him right for not asking me out himself. Also, I have it on good authority that you’re the better dancer.”

He knew a hint when he heard one . . . Harry held out his hand. “Wanna dance?”

Lily’s fingers tightened around his own. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Some time later, Harry found Regulus and—with the idea that a spliff would go a long way to improving the party—they locked themselves inside the classroom next door. But no sooner had Regulus pulled a joint from his pocket than voices sounded from the corridor.

“Quick!” whispered Regulus, pulling Harry underneath a large desk just as the doorknob rattled, and then—with a muttered Alohomora—the door swung open.

Very carefully, Harry peered out from underneath the desk as three pairs of shoes hurried into the room and the door snapped closed.

“ . . . if you’re expelled, Rosier . . . ”

Harry looked across at Regulus’s startled expression. It was the same deep baritone they heard at least thrice a week in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“We didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?”

“I hope that you’re telling the truth,” snapped Yaxley, “because it was incredibly daft. Anyone could have seen you. I’m surprised you’ve gotten away with it at all—”

“—Everyone thinks it was Potter and Black,” Evan Rosier interjected. “As if those vapid idiots could have pulled it off . . . Potter’s so doped up on Dreamless Sleep half the time I’m surprised he hasn’t fallen off his broom.”

“Never mind Potter,” said Yaxley. “If you two can’t control yourselves . . . ”

“What’re you going to do?” Evan jeered. “Report us to Dumbledore?”

There was a long pause. Finally Yaxley said, “You know very well that I’ll do no such thing.”

“So why are we even having this conversation? What’s done is done.”

“Listen to me,” Yaxley hissed in a voice so low that it made Harry’s skin crawl. “I’m only trying to caution you. Don’t think for a second that you’ll get away with it a second time.”

“What does it even matter?” said Evan. “This whole school’s a fucking joke . . . ”

Footsteps echoed off the dungeon floor as Evan flung the door open, striding off down the corridor.

Harry hardly dared to breathe.

And then someone sighed, and said, “I’ll talk him around, Professor.”

Yaxley clapped a hand to the other’s back. “See that you do, Crouch.”

A moment later, Yaxley and Crouch followed Rosier out of the room. For a long time Harry and Regulus remained very quiet, still hidden underneath the desk, their minds racing with implications. And then Harry fumbled the joint from Regulus’s fingers, lit the end with his wand, and took a long drag.

“Well,” said Harry, passing the joint to Regulus. “We should—”

“—No,” said Regulus at once. “Sometimes I really wonder why the hat placed you in Slytherin, Harry.”

“We should tell someone,” Harry insisted.

“Tell them what? They didn’t actually admit to anything . . . ”

Harry chewed his lip. “What do you suggest, then?”

“We don’t have any way to prove it was them . . . ” Regulus’s voice trailed off. “But we could use this, to some other end.”

It remained unsaid, but—as usual—Harry thought he knew precisely what Regulus was thinking: blackmail.

Harry mulled this over as they passed the joint back and forth. “Ok,” he said slowly. “But if there’s another attack, then we’ll go to Dumbledore or Sluggie or whoever. Agreed?”

Regulus nodded. “Agreed.”

They rose unsteadily to their feet.

Harry followed Regulus back to the party, made his excuses to his friends, and swiftly departed for bed. He felt as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, one bad decision from something catastrophic. And the weight of it all sat heavy on his mind . . . he had never felt so unsure of his own path, his own sense of self . . . his shoulders slumped under the burden.

Harry was almost at the bare stretch of stone wall which hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room when he heard a voice call after him, “Harry! Wait up.”

Harry pivoted on his heel, a warm glow shining through the dark fog of his melancholy as he saw Sirius approach.

Sirius’s black painted nails stood out in the flickering light as he tucked his hair behind his ear. “Sorry I missed you at the party.”

Harry leant back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. “Are you?”

Sirius laughed, the barking quality to it amplified as it echoed down the empty corridor. “I wanted to tell you that I’ll pick you up from Kings Cross tomorrow . . . if you like.”

“What do you mean? Won’t you be on the train?”

Sirius shook his head. “No. I’m Apparating from Hogsmeade . . . seems like a waste of time getting the train now we’ve got our licences.”

Harry frowned. “I can come side-along?”

Sirius’s eyes glimmered mischievously. “This’ll be more fun, little Potter. Trust me.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. Suddenly, he realised that Sirius was standing very close . . . he could almost feel the heat emanating from his body. “You could have asked me at breakfast.”

A beat passed.

“But then I couldn’t have done this.”

Sirius closed the distance between them, pressing Harry up against the rough stone wall. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he felt the weight of Sirius on his hips, Sirius’s breath beside his cheek, his fingers—feather light—guiding Harry’s chin up until their lips came together.

And Harry leant into it, opened his mouth right up, slid his tongue over Sirius’s teeth. Any inhibition he might have felt had been misplaced somewhere between the third or fourth glass of champagne . . . and it felt so good; visceral . . . to be sure of what he wanted, to take control of his own life.

Sirius moaned softly into his mouth as Harry’s hand drifted over the breadth of his shoulders, down his back, curling under the waistband of his jeans.

“Aha!” yelled a voice from directly overhead, and Harry and Sirius leapt apart. Unnoticed by either of them, Peeves had appeared from behind a hanging candelabra.

Grinning down at them maliciously he sped off, cackling as he sung at full volume, “Potter and Black up against a dungeon wall . . . k - i - s - s - i - n - g . . . ”

“Nice to keep these moments to ourselves, isn’t it?” Harry sighed, and he let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. Then he reached forward, pulling Sirius back towards him . . . he would worry about Peeves—and everything else—in the morning.

Chapter Text

Snow piled up at the windowsills, painting the overgrown yard . . . a medicinal quality—eucalyptus, tea tree oil, lavender—hung in the air . . . Harry caught glimpses of neglect as he crept about the house; dust along the skirting boards, the withered leaves of a house plant, a family of moths that had taken up residence inside the bare walls of the pantry . . . the halls were dark and undecorated, the mood was sombre. 

Avoiding a creaky floorboard, Harry proceeded carefully towards the living room on the soft tread of his All Stars. 

He paused, listening carefully . . . the door stood ajar . . . his fingers found the handle . . . he was almost through . . . 

Harry cursed loudly as a pot of flour, balanced on the top of the door, tumbled down onto his head. 

“I knew it!” James breathed triumphantly, revealing himself from underneath a disillusionment charm. He sat on the sofa by the dregs of a fire, an open book in his lap. “I knew you were going to try and sneak out tonight. Don’t you think mum has enough to worry about?”

Scowling, Harry threw the cloak of invisibility off his shoulders. He shook the material, sending tiny puffs of flour bursting into the air. “Don’t try to tell me what to do, James,” Harry bit out irritably. “You’re not my parent.” 

“You’ve been a right little shit since you arrived on that damn motorbike,” snapped James. “And don’t think you’re going to get away with blowing that conversation off again, by the way.” 

Harry scoffed. “What conversation?” 

James closed his book with a snap and casually propped his socked feet on the coffee table. “The one where I predict how things’ll end between you and Sirius . . . I’m leaning towards badly, just so you know.”  

“Last I recall you’re pants at divination.” 

“If you pulled your tongue out from his throat for more than two seconds you might realise you’ve got absolutely nothing in common.” 

“Piss off!”

Harry’s eyes slid from the clock on the mantle—he hadn’t left a lot of time to reach Grimmauld Place—to the vacant spot usually occupied by a small jar of floo powder. 

James rummaged in the cushions behind him, pulling out the jar. With a swift motion he tossed it into the air, deftly catching it before glancing back towards Harry. “Looking for something?”

Harry’s lips thinned. “Give it here, James.”

“I might,” said James. “But that depends . . . where are you sneaking off to?” 

Harry screwed his eyes shut, searching for a hint of patience. As he reopened them, he couldn't help but feel a surge of empathy for James—an innocent bystander ensnared in the same web Harry struggled to unravel—and with their father now moved to palliative care, and their mother grieving . . . wasn’t James also deserving of the truth? 

A raw, ugly emotion coiled in Harry’s gut. 

“I’m only going to see Regulus,” Harry whispered the half-truth. “I won’t be out late . . . please, James. I need this.” 

James exhaled loudly. “Promise?” 

Harry nodded, reaching forward to accept the jar of powder. 

“If you’re not back by midnight I’m calling the Auror’s.”

Harry drew the cloak back around his shoulders, popped the jar open, and threw a pinch of powder into the fireplace. With a small, wry smile he said, “I’ll be counting on it.” 

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted, “Grimmauld Place!” He had one last fleeting glance of James’s face before the flames engulfed him, and he was spun then spat out into the maudlin gloom of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

Regulus looked up from the kitchen bench as he clambered over the grate. 

“Finally!” said Regulus with a great sigh of relief. “They were ready to leave five minutes ago . . . quick, get behind me. Stay close!” 

Harry hurried to comply just as Regulus’s parents entered the kitchen. 

“Are you sure you won’t wear the brocade, Reggie?” said Walburga critically. “A touch of padding in the shoulders—” 

“—No, mother,” Regulus cut in. “I’m perfectly happy with this.” 

Harry wondered what Walburga would think of his own outfit if she could see him—ripped jeans and a dirty denim jacket—as she continued to fuss over his friend. 

The next moment Harry was reaching around Regulus to touch the portkey, and then they were pulled from the navel through the vortex of time and space, landing on the plush, thick carpet of the Malfoy’s receiving room in Wiltshire. 

The Malfoy’s had spared no expense for their annual winter solstice event, Harry thought as he trailed behind Regulus, dodging animated ice sculptures, floating canapés and a group of high ranking Ministry officials. 

Knowing it was now or never, Harry tapped Regulus’s shoulder. 

“Find me as soon as you’re done,” Regulus murmured under his breath.

Drawing the cloak in tightly, Harry moved in the other direction . . . he knew that he’d have little chance of securing a private audience with the Dark Lord amongst the other party-goers . . . what he really needed was for Voldemort to come to him. 

With some idea of where the guest quarters were located—information he’d tricked from Narcissa—Harry wandered through the gold gilded halls. Before too long he’d found the master suite.

Harry took out a pen knife charmed to open any locked door . . . it would probably trigger other wards Voldemort had added, of course, but that was more to the point . . . the door creaked open . . . Harry stepped inside. 

Taking a seat on the chaise longue, Harry pocketed his cloak, folded one leg over the other, and waited. As his nails dug crescent moons into his palms, a stubborn resolve set within him. He would not give in to his fear. The answers were at his fingertips, within his grasp . . . all he had to do was reach out and take them. 

He felt Voldemort approach . . . the ominous thrum of malevolence reverberated through Harry’s teeth . . . an anger not Harry’s own ebbed into his consciousness . . . and then the door swung open. 

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp as Voldemort’s magic flooded into the room, a tangible thing so immense that it saturated every inch of space. It was a presence—a power—like no other Harry had ever encountered. 

A shiver ran down the length of Harry’s spine as he looked up into the familiar lines of Voldemort’s face. 

Voldemort sipped leisurely from a glass of red wine, observing Harry through narrowed eyes. He had not, Harry noted, drawn his wand. 

“How curious,” said Voldemort, his voice soft and sibilant, a note higher than one might expect. “What exactly are you?”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Don’t you mean who?” 

Voldemort’s long black robe swept the floor as he moved to stand before the fireplace, and the flames licked frightening shadows across his pale, waxen features. He inclined his head, unsmiling. “I mean exactly as I say, and never any different. But I’ll humour you, child . . . now, tell me, who are you that dares to trespass into my quarters?” 

And there was one answer already, freely given . . . the dreams, the foreign emotions detached from his own . . . it had been one sided all along . . . Voldemort did not know him. 

“I don’t know,” Harry answered after a pause. “I was sort of hoping that you might tell me . . . ”

Voldemort was still watching him, twirling his wine glass between his long fingers. 

Harry’s gaze shifted down to the Slytherin crest pinned to Voldemort’s lapel. It had been a long time since he’d last spoken in the tongue of a serpent. Concentrating very carefully, Harry said, “You don’t sense any connection between us?” 

Tension enveloped the room. 

“How curious indeed,” Voldemort hissed as his eyes burned red. He placed his glass onto the mantle. Then, with an elegant flourish, he closed the distance between them. “Look at me, child. Let me see you properly.” 

Harry, suddenly regretting his decision to remain seated, heard his spine pop as he looked up at Voldemort from his imposing height. 

Voldemort reached forward, roughly grabbing Harry’s chin, and the pad of his thumb brushed Harry’s fringe from his forehead, revealing his lightning shaped scar . . . and, as their skin touched, Harry felt the dark form of Voldemort’s feelings—an inherent right of possession, an insatiable hunger, the familial belonging and completeness of two halves merged whole—spill into his own. 

Harry grit his teeth, resisting the urge to look away . . . he did not want to show any weakness . . . but he realised this was yet another mistake as he stared into Voldemort’s eyes, the whites of which now had a permanently bloody look. He felt a pain behind his temple as Voldemort forced entry into his mind, slamming past Harry’s feeble attempt to Occlude as he palmed through Harry’s surface thoughts. 

Voldemort’s mouth twisted. It was a taught leer, a nasty thing. “I’m not your father, idiot child . . . granted, you look something like me at that age . . . first cousins once removed, perhaps . . . it’s not, however unexpected, outside the realms of possibility that Morfin sired a bastard . . . but how did you come by this scar?”

Harry could only gasp as Voldemort, not waiting for him to articulate a response, pulled the answer from his mind. 

Voldemort’s smile broadened. “This is a curse scar, child. There was nothing accidental about it.” 

As abruptly as Voldemort had entered Harry’s mind, he retreated, dropping Harry’s chin. 

Harry leant forward, clutching the edge of the chaise. “Who’s Morfin? My Grandfather, did you say?” 

Having retrieved his glass of wine, Voldemort took a sip. “Why not ask the Potters.”

Harry grimaced. “I can’t . . . I don’t want to upset mum . . . dad’s not got long left.” 

“How very tragic.” A smile curled at the corners of Voldemort’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, idly twirling his glass, and Harry knew that getting any further details on the topic would be as futile as drawing blood from a stone. 

With some effort Harry schooled his features, redirecting the conversation . . . it was clear that Voldemort would not entertain him for long. “Herpo the Foul was a Parseltongue,” he said. “And of no relation to the Slytherin line.” 

“Your research is lacking,” said Voldemort impatiently. “There is a Ministry paper trail disclosing Herpo’s true origins . . . one treads a precarious path, when venturing to alter the grand design of time. No, Harry. Parseltongue is an exclusively hereditary trait. All Parselmouth’s have been descendants from Salazar Slytherin . . . but you know this, cousin . . . I see the darkness within you now . . . I see a reflection of myself, unexpected yet undeniable.”

All the time he spoke, Voldemort’s sharp eyes never left Harry’s face. There was an intensity burning in them which left Harry flustered. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry. His mouth had gone very dry. 

Voldemort laughed. It was a high, cold sound that made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry’s neck. “You have not been attending Professor Yaxley’s study groups . . . see that you do from now on. I will be in touch . . . but I grow bored of you now, cousin. I’m a busy man, and you’ve interrupted my evening. Away with you—shoo!”

Harry got quickly to his feet. He was almost through the door when Voldemort spoke again. “One more thing, Harry . . . ”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder. 

Voldemort’s face contorted into something truly sinister. “Don’t ever let me catch you breaking into my quarters again . . . I will not tolerate disobedience . . . a second transgression will not go unpunished.” 

“I won’t,” said Harry, moving quickly into the corridor. “Let you catch me,” he added under his breath. 

The walls began to close in around him like a fever-dream as Harry stumbled through the motions of getting himself home. 

All the while, a growing sense of unease festered within. 

He should be happy with the outcome, he thought. Voldemort had not learned the extent of their connection. He had been certain that he was not Harry’s father. He had even given Harry a name, a solid lead . . . and so why did Harry feel as though he had made a terrible blunder? Why was it that, though he tried, he could not forget the look of hunger burning in Voldemort’s eyes . . . 

Sirius had fallen asleep in Harry’s bed with the record player still spinning, a pile of spent cigarettes lining the pot of his sad monstera. Harry crawled underneath the duvet beside him. And, for a long time, he stared up at the glowing stickers of stars and moons and planets that decorated the ceiling, and the record spun between tracks. 

Darling, you got to let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?
If you say that you are mine
I'll be here till the end of time

“Are you alright?” Sirius murmured. He squinted at Harry through the soft light filtered through the curtains. Reaching across to press cool fingers against Harry’s forehead, he added, “You don’t look well.”

If I go, there will be trouble
And if I stay, it will be double 

Harry shook his head, rolling onto his side so that Sirius couldn’t see his face. He felt like he might be sick . . . 

The comforting weight of Sirius’s arm crept over his chest, drawing him in close, and Harry felt himself slowly melt against the warmth of the body curled around him. 

“Harry? Is everything ok?” 

“S’fine,” Harry mumbled. His eyelids fluttered closed. 

What would Sirius—or any of them—think of him if they ever learned the truth? 

It was a disturbing thought. 

But it would be fine, Harry repeated to himself as sleep pressed in around him . . . they didn’t need to know . . . it would be fine . . . it did not concern them . . . he didn’t need to tell anyone anything . . . it would be fine . . . it would be . . . 

Chapter Text

A few days into the new year Harry haphazardly packed his things back into his trunk, binned what remained of his potted monstera, and stashed his wand into his back pocket . . . it was time, at last, to return to Hogwarts. 

Euphemia dissolved into tears before Harry had even set off for Kings Cross Station. Admittedly, she had hardly stopped crying throughout the duration of the holidays. “Promise me you’ll look after each other,” she said, enfolding both Harry and James into her arms. “And stay out of trouble.” 

“Trouble?” Harry repeated. “Me? I’d never.”

“If you’re not looking for it,” James intoned dryly, “you’re attracting it.” 

Harry had turned to Sirius for solace and found none. 

“Like a moth to the flame, little Potter.” 

Euphemia gave a watery chuckle as Sirius rubbed circles on her back. “I’ll send for you if there’s any changes.” 

She did not need to elaborate on the kind of changes she meant . . . Fleamont’s condition was quickly deteriorating. 

Harry had never felt more relieved to be back at Hogwarts, removed from the terrible reality of his so-called father’s impending death. He was convinced that the school also held the key to unlocking the mystery surrounding his latest obsession . . . he hoped that it wouldn’t be long before he had a surname for the enigmatic Morfin. 

Harry and Regulus stepped arm-in-arm inside the castle just as the sun sunk low over the grounds, and the soft glow of a waxing crescent moon emerged from the horizon. Deciding to skip dinner in favour of an impromptu gathering in the sixth year girls dormitory, they turned down the passageway leading down into the dungeons. 

“How was Yule?” asked Lucinda when Harry clambered onto a bed beside her. 

Harry shrugged. “Oh, fine. How about yours?”

“Nothing special,” she said. Lucinda sipped from a bottle of firewhisky, shuddered, and passed it across to Harry. “That’s revolting, by the way—you must have some.” 

“Hey!” said Icarus, leaning around Lucinda. “What’s that?” 

“It’s a stick-and-poke,” said Harry, turning his hand over so that his friends could see the small triangle drawn in black ink between the knuckles of his middle finger. “Sirius did it. It means . . . erm . . . balance, I think,” Harry’s voice trailed off as heat bloomed in his cheeks. 

“How’s things with the new beau?” Lucinda asked slyly. “Distracting, I take it.” 

“Well . . . yes,” Harry admitted. 

Icarus leaned back against the pillows, his hands clasped behind his head. “Regulus is taking it all in stride, it seems.” 

Harry followed Icarus’s line of sight to where Regulus was chatting amicably with his cousin Narcissa. Harry tipped the bottle back and the firewhisky seared his throat, burning all the way down to his stomach. Finally Harry replied, “We’ve come to an unspoken agreement not to talk about it.” 

Lucinda raised an eyebrow. “Sounds healthy.”

“Actually,” said Harry, as a thought just occurred to him. It was well known in Slytherin that Icarus’s father had been a forerunner to the Death Eater’s . . . if anyone knew anything about the Dark Lord’s origins, it would surely be him. With barely concealed excitement, Harry continued, “I’ve been meaning to ask you both something. Does the name Morfin mean anything to either of you?”

“In what context?” asked Lucinda, accepting the firewhisky back from Harry. 

“Saw it mentioned in a text,” Harry lied smoothly. “And I’m sure it’s familiar, but I can’t place where.”

Icarus sat in thought for a moment. “Sounds pretentious enough to be pureblood, doesn’t it? I’d ask old Sluggie. If they’re anyone of note, you can always count on Sluggie to know.” 

Harry stared across the room. It had crossed his mind . . . they may be of similar age, might have even attended Hogwarts together . . . but he didn’t want to risk Slughorn drawing the wrong—or, worse still, the right—conclusions. 

The bed dipped as Regulus crept up to sit beside Harry, a copy of the Afternoon Prophet spread across his lap and a liquorish wand hanging from his lip. 

“Anyone we know?” asked Harry softly. 

“Greyback’s on the prowl . . . ”

The new term started the next morning with a pleasant surprise for the upper years . . . Apparition lessons were to commence for eligible students—those who would soon turn seventeen—at the end of the week. 

Harry and Regulus left the throng of students gathered around the noticeboard to head to the Great Hall for breakfast. 

“So,” said Regulus as they traipsed down the corridor arm-in-arm. “Apparition . . . fucking finally.”

“I could take it or leave it,” said Harry. “Maybe it’s better when you do it on purpose. I didn’t enjoy it much when it was accidental.”  

Regulus hummed sympathetically. “I hope I pass first go . . . Sirius and James did.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “‘Course they did.” 

Breaking from the norm, Harry pulled Regulus towards the Gryffindor table. Ignoring the dubious looks cast towards them from the sea of scarlet and gold, they settled down between the Marauders. 

“Nearly all the werewolves are on the Dark Lord’s side,” Lupin was saying quietly as he poured over a newspaper. 

“How come?” Harry asked curiously. 

“They think that, under his rule, they’ll have a better life,” said Lupin. For some unknown reason, there was a bitter edge to his voice. “They live on the margins, shunned by normal society. And it’s hard to argue with Greyback.”

“Everyone’s talking about this Greyback,” said Harry. “What’s his deal?” 

“Are you serious, Harry?” James admonished. “Wouldn’t hurt you to pick up on a bit of politics every now and then.” 

“Piss off!” Harry scowled.

Lupin intervened quickly, “Fenrir Greyback is the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission to bite and contaminate as many people as possible . . . he wants to create more werewolves than there are wixen.” 

“Greyback preys on small children,” Lily added sadly from further down the table. “Bites them young and raises them to oppose the Ministry. And Voldemort has threatened to unleash him . . . it’s a threat that’s going to produce results, I’m afraid.” 

The conversation continued along in this depressing vein as Harry buttered his toast. 

He was quite happy to leave the seventh years to it, turning his mind instead towards the excuse he planned to use to ditch first period . . . he would begin his search for Morfin, he had decided, in the trophy room. 

But by the end of the week, Harry’s mood was dark . . . he had looked not only over every inch of the trophy room, but also amongst the school records, and to no avail . . . the section of the library dedicated to modern wizarding history—the next logical point of reference—was deep, dense and altogether daunting. 

The weekend detentions he’d received for skipping numerous classes felt like salt to the wound. 

Not even the prospect of Apparition lessons—which everyone else seemed to be looking forward to immensely—could lighten Harry’s mood. 

“How cool will it be when we can travel wherever the hell we want—” Icarus snapped his fingers together “—just like that?”

Harry yawned, absentmindedly flicking his wand, which sent a jet of water barrelling into Professor Flitwick with such force that it knocked him clean off his chair.

“Harry’s already Apparated,” said Regulus. 

Icarus looked impressed. “Have you really?” 

“Don’t think it counts when it’s accidental,” Harry muttered. “Happened a few times when I was really young . . . had to call the Obliviators in once, dad was so pissed.”

Regulus eyed Harry. “Where were you trying to go?” 

“Only back inside the house, the time which I recall,” Harry answered sourly. “James had locked me outside in my pants.”

Regulus’s lip quirked upwards. “Must have been chilly.” 

Harry gave Regulus a withering look before sinking low into his chair. Flitwick, having just finished drying himself off, was approaching their table with a dour expression. 

When they arrived in the Great Hall that evening, they found that the four house tables had disappeared. Rain and sleet hit the windows, obscuring the stars beyond, and the enchanted ceiling hung drearily above them, perfectly reflecting Harry’s frame of mind. 

The Heads of Houses stood at the front of the hall beside an instructor sent from the Ministry. 

“Good evening,” the instructor called out loudly, as the Heads of Houses shushed the excited crowd. “For the next twelve weeks, I’ll be your Apparition Instructor . . . ”

Harry sighed, gazing around the room in boredom. He couldn’t help but feel like the lessons were a waste of his time . . . time where he could be searching through the library for any trace of his grandfather. 

Abruptly, the students scrambled to spread out . . . Harry realised that he must have missed some instruction. Thinking that at least if he positioned himself nearest the exit he’d be the first to leave, Harry pushed his way through to the back of the hall. 

The Heads of Houses were moving amongst the students, breaking up arguments and making sure that everyone had enough space around them. 

Harry leaned wearily against the back wall. Suddenly, on instinct, he stood up straight . . . he could hear an argument taking place in the Entrance Hall through the open doorway . . . he thought that he recognised the voices . . . feeling nosy, Harry peered around the jamb. 

“I need more time,” said Evan Rosier. “I botched the first batch. It’s taking longer than I thought.” 

“How much longer?” Barty Crouch spat furiously, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “If it’s too complicated for you, then just say . . . you’re easily replaceable.” 

“I can do it,” Evan growled. 

Barty stepped forward, an ugly expression painted on his face. His hand had disappeared into the pocket of his robe, and Harry was sure that he was reaching for his wand . . . 

“Speak up,” Harry said, just loud enough to catch their attention. “I think some parts of South London couldn’t hear you.”

Evan spun around on the spot, his handsome features pulled tight as he glared at Harry. 

If Harry had thought Barty looked furious before, now he was practically livid . . . crossing the distance in quick strides, Barty snapped the door closed in Harry’s face. 

In the general upheaval, no one had noticed that Harry was not paying any attention. Wooden hoops had appeared on the floor next to every student. The instructor was speaking again, but Harry found it very hard to listen . . . he couldn’t stop thinking about the argument he’d overheard. 

Harry felt torn from the inside out . . . though he doubted Evan deserved it, he couldn’t shake the concern he felt for the other boy. It was a sympathy born from having once been intimately involved . . . Harry could only hope that Evan would be clever enough to pull himself out from whatever hole he’d dug. 

This, combined with the frustration of a week wasted in a fruitless search, left Harry feeling dangerously reckless. 

A Ravenclaw Harry recognised from their joint Defence Against the Dark Arts class was hurtling questions at the instructor without pause for breath, and gentle conversations had broken out across the hall.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Harry waved down Professor Slughorn as he passed by. 

“Sir,” said Harry quietly. “I wanted to ask you something.” 

Slughorn beamed genially. “Ask away then, m’boy, ask away.”

“Well,” Harry began, edging closer. “I just wondered if you knew anyone by the name Morfin?” 

Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers fidgeting with the seam of his sleeve. “For a school project, is it?” 

It was obvious to Harry that Slughorn knew very well it wasn’t. 

“Not exactly, sir,” said Harry. “I came across the name recently, and . . . well . . . I don’t know anything more about them.” 

“No . . . you’d be hard pressed to find anyone that remembers,” said Slughorn vaguely. “These are dangerous times, Harry . . . very dangerous indeed.” 

“But you obviously know of them, sir?” asked Harry lightly. “I mean, a wizard such as yourself—of course, if you really can’t tell me, I do understand—but I was sure that you’d know something.”

Harry commended himself on the delivery; the hesitance, the casualness, the subtle flattery . . . he was positive that Slughorn would bend to his will. 

Slughorn eyed Harry shrewdly for a moment before he stepped back. He looked deeply troubled. “I really can’t say any more on the matter . . . best pay attention now, m’boy.” 

Harry grit his teeth in frustration. 

Slughorn knew . . . he’d been so close to divulging something . . . but what could have made Slughorn so afraid? Did the Professor know—or guess—the connection between Morfin and Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin? 

“—THREE!” 

Harry blinked. All around the hall, students were staggering . . . someone to Harry’s left had fallen flat on their back . . . on his other side, another student had lunged forward into their hoop, skidding across the floor. 

How hard could it be, really? 

Turning quickly on his heel, Harry concentrated on the hoop in front of him, willing himself to be held within its perimeter . . . a great crack resounded in the air.

Harry opened his eyes. He was inside the hoop, but something had gone very wrong. He felt strangely lopsided. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry steeled his nerves and looked down at his right side. Where his arm should have been, there was now a horrible, flesh coloured glove. Harry glanced back over his shoulder just as the bones of his arm clattered to the floor. 

All around the hall, people were turning around to look. The Heads of House were converging on him.

Harry’s stomach plummeted. He felt faint, dizzy . . . unconsciousness would be a blessing to this hellmouth. 

He had splinched. 

Chapter Text

Despite Harry’s best efforts, he found himself no closer to uncovering his true roots in the weeks which followed. He began to make a habit of skipping not only classes but meals as well, all so that he could spend more time thumbing vainly through the dusty library stacks. If his friends thought his behavior odd, he was thankful that they kept it to themselves. 

He felt certain that Slughorn knew of Morfin, that the name had meant something to him. But as time continued to pass without any new leads, Harry came to suspect Voldemort had intentionally led him astray. 

He desperately wanted to speak with the Dark Lord again. 

And so—begrudgingly—Harry turned to the best option left open to him . . . Voldemort had told Harry to attend Yaxley’s study group. Had Voldemort intended to use this as a platform to pass information between them? Or was it simply a bid to exert some level of influence over him?

There was only one way to find out.

As February arrived the snow finally began to melt, to be replaced with a relentless downpour that left the school grounds thick with mud. It came as no great loss to Harry when a notice went up that the impending Hogsmeade weekend had been indefinitely postponed. 

“I was looking forward to getting out,” said Regulus bitterly, his fingers curled around the end of a joint. “I’d take the Hogs Head again over another weekend trapped inside this fucking common room.” 

It was early evening and the sixth-year boy's dormitory was a hive of activity as the Slytherin’s readied for Yaxley’s study group. 

Harry regarded Regulus with concern as he plucked the joint from between his friend’s fingers. Something was clearly troubling Regulus, but Harry was unsure of the cause. 

“I heard Dung has a cauldron of moonshine,” Harry told him. A playful grin stretched across his face. “Might be a laugh?”

“It’s hardly surprising that Dumbledore’s locked the castle gates,” said Icarus from across the room. “Not with all these disappearances. And by the way, Harry, please don’t drink anything of Fletcher’s . . . there’s a lot of bad brews going around.” 

The Daily Prophet had been reporting little else but the steady influx of missing wixen. A significant portion of the student population now had friends or relatives unaccounted for. 

“That's what happens when we've been cooped up for so long,” said Balfour Greengrass. “Every idiot and their kneazle has a go at playing potioneer.” 

Regulus cast a nonverbal tempus. “You sure you want to go to this thing, Harry?” 

“You don’t have to come,” Harry said gently. 

“And miss out on all the fun?”

Harry smirked. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing with my Saturday, honestly.”

“Come on,” said Icarus. “We’re going to be late.”

Harry flicked the end of the joint out the imitation window and squared his shoulders. That it was a distinct possibility James or Sirius would find out he’d attended the study group made Harry feel extremely uneasy . . . it was widely speculated amongst the students that Yaxley was recruiting for Voldemort.

Harry trailed behind the others as they moved through the castle, catching glimpses here and there of a quarter moon rising in the star-strewn sky. 

The lamps were already lit in Yaxley’s office when they entered. Yaxley sat in a winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other combing fingers through his thin, limp hair. 

Harry’s green eyes danced around the room with interest. He saw a dozen students sitting around Yaxley, with each of the four houses represented in their number. All of them were sixth and seventh years, and they all turned to stare as Harry flung himself down into an empty seat beside Regulus. 

Harry crossed one leg casually over the other and tried to melt into the background. Evan Rosier caught his eye from the other side of the room, one eyebrow raised. 

“Sir,” said Barty Crouch, resuming the conversation their arrival had interrupted. “Is it true that Dumbledore will resign from his position at Hogwarts?” 

“Crouch,” said Yaxley in his deep, rasping voice. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information . . . daddy dearest, perhaps?”  

Barty bared his teeth in the facsimile of a smile as the others laughed. “Dumbledore is at the Ministry more often than not,” Barty continued. “You don’t need eyes on the inside to see where his priorities lie.”

A boy with wavy blonde hair appeared in front of Harry, offering bottles of ale. Harry made a gesture to decline just as Regulus leaned around him to grab one in each hand. 

“If you don’t want it, I’ll drink them both,” Regulus muttered. 

A smirk played on Harry’s lips. But before he could form a retort, Yaxley’s voice cut across the room—

“—Potter,” said Yaxley sharply. Harry winced as every head turned again to look in their direction. “I had been wondering whether you would deign us worthy of your presence.” 

“Oh,” said Harry with a wan smile. “Well, here I am.” 

Harry noticed a few students around the room exchanging smug looks. 

“Here you are,” Yaxley repeated, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his winged chair. Harry felt like an insect pinned under Yaxley’s gaze, awaiting dissection. He grit his teeth, resisting the urge to look away. Finally, Yaxley slid open his desk drawer to retrieve a thin paper package. “I suppose that you’ve changed your mind about borrowing this?”

Harry blinked. 

He had no idea what Yaxley was talking about . . . but from the titters of interest around the room, he was not alone. Harry looked from the brown paper package back to Yaxley. 

If Yaxley had been expecting him, Harry could only assume that he was operating under Voldemort’s instruction.

Cautiously, Harry reached forward to take the package. “Thank you, sir.” 

“What is it, Potter?” someone asked. 

Harry paused. He exchanged a quick glance with Regulus, who was looking frightfully pale in the dim, flickering light. 

When it seemed as though Yaxley would make no move to object, Harry slipped a finger underneath the tape and peeled back the brown paper wrapping. 

Anticipation gripped him. 

Inside was a thin, leather-bound notebook. He opened it eagerly, flicking through the pages to find them filled with a flowing, elegant cursive. 

“What language is that?” asked Icarus curiously, leaning forward to get a better look.

Harry turned back to the first page. “What?”

“I don’t recognise it . . . it looks very old.”

Harry frowned at the notebook. The lines of dark, shimmering ink were—to him—perfectly legible. And instinctively, intuitively, Harry knew that the writing was Parseltongue. 

The pad of his thumb traced over the embossed title on the leather cover as the hairs on the back of his neck rose to stand on end. 

The Chamber of Secrets

“It’s for extra credit,” Harry said, inventing wildly. He caught Yaxley’s eye. “I’m writing an essay on the intersection of defence and lost languages—”

“—Extra credit?” Barty interrupted. “Spose it can only improve your grades . . . they can’t exactly get worse.” 

Harry tilted his head. “I don’t suppose there’s anything we could do to improve your face?”

“That’s enough,” Yaxley chided. 

Harry scowled, sinking further into his chair. He pocketed the notebook, putting an end to the conversation, which moved along to the recent death of a five-year-old boy rumored to have been mauled by Fenrir Greyback. 

“He died?” came the shocked voice of a Hufflepuff Harry shared Herbology with. “But I thought, if you were attacked by a werewolf, they’d just turn you into one of them.” 

“They sometimes kill,” Yaxley clarified. “When they get carried away.” 

Harry felt the already frayed edge of his concentration unraveling as the weight of the notebook tugged incessantly at the loose threads.

The Chamber of Secrets . . . 

He knew of the legend, of course. That Slytherin’s Heir would unseal the hidden Chamber, unleash the horror within, and purge the school of all those deemed unworthy. 

But the Chamber did not really exist. It was arrant nonsense; sensationalist crap. 

And yet . . . didn’t all legends have some basis in fact? 

And wasn’t he, according to Voldemort, a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin? That he was a Parselmouth proved as much. If anybody would be able to uncover the hidden Chamber, surely—surely—it would be him . . . a true Heir.

Harry was shaken from these unsettling reflections by Regulus, who was coughing violently into his hands. 

“Regulus?” Harry whispered. 

But Regulus did not appear to have heard . . . Harry felt at once that something was terribly wrong. 

“Regulus, are you alright?” 

Around them the conversation tapered off. 

As Regulus coughed again, blood splurted from his mouth, running through his fingers onto the carpeted floor. Then he slumped forward and fainted, slipping from his chair. 

“Regulus!” Harry cried out.

Harry scrambled from his seat to the floor. He saw that Regulus’s face was deathly pale, and though his eyes were closed there was still blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth, dripping down the crest of his chin. 

Harry looked up, horrified, to see Yaxley had crouched down beside them. His face was unreadable. Pushing Harry roughly aside, Yaxley knelt over Regulus, tracing his wand over Regulus’s body as he muttered an incantation. 

“I don’t—what’s happening?”

Harry did not know what he was saying. He was barely aware of what was happening around them. 

“He’s been poisoned,” Yaxley rasped. “Stand back—I’m going to take him to the hospital wing.” 

He levitated Regulus across the room, but as Harry made to follow them, Yaxley turned to say in a voice that brokered no argument, “Return to your common room, all of you. Immediately.” 

Harry stood up slowly. His knees were damp . . . he looked down to see that Regulus’s blood had soaked right through the fabric of his trousers. 

He felt stunned. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to harm Regulus . . . he was terrified that Regulus would not make a full recovery . . . and it could not, he thought furiously, be a coincidence that Rosier and Crouch had been in the room. Rage and worry warred inside him.

Harry wheeled around, his fingers itching to draw his wand. 

“What did you do?” Harry demanded. He strode across the room to stand in front of Evan. 

Evan’s dark eyes flashed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Get lost, Potter. I had nothing to do with this.” 

“I don’t—”

“—What, understand?” Evan cut in. “If you were any slower, Potter, you’d be going backw—”

—with a great smack, Harry’s knuckles connected with the side of Evan’s face—

“—believe you,” Harry finished.

In the moments which followed, time seemed to stand still. Then, with a low growl, Evan tackled Harry to the floor. He pinned Harry beneath his larger frame, his hands encircling Harry’s throat in a vice-like grip. 

Harry clawed at Evan’s wrists, every breath becoming more desperate. His throat burned with pain, and a rising sense of panic was setting in as he fought for air.  

“I’ll admit it feels good to have you underneath me again, Potter,” Evan leered, rocking his hips into Harry’s pelvis. “Did you miss me?”

Harry grit his teeth. With a burst of effort, he pushed Evan back and rolled to the side, switching their positions. His wand fell from its holster to his hand, the tip of it pressed to Evan’s heart.

Harry’s lip curled, a curse ready at the end of it, but he could not speak—Evan’s fingers tightened, crushing his airway—he felt dizzy, lightheaded, the edges of his vision blurred . . . 

Firm hands gripped Harry’s shoulders as he was suddenly hauled backward and dragged across the room. Harry gasped, his lungs expanding with relief as he struggled to break free from his rescuers. 

“How extraordinarily like your brother you are, Potter,” said Severus coldly in his ear. “He too is prone to violent outbursts.” 

The obvious slur—like a slap to the face—carried it’s desired effect . . . Harry went limp, and finally Severus released him. 

“C’mon, Harry,” said Icarus softly. “Let’s go.” 

Icarus took hold of Harry’s hand, pulling him to his feet. 

Harry allowed himself to be led out of Yaxley’s office. But in the corridor, he tore his hand from Icarus and broke into a sprint, and he kept running until his chest burned and the stone walls blurred into unfamiliarity, and he realised that he no longer had a clear idea of where he was. 

When he eventually found his way to the hospital wing it was well past curfew. The soles of his All Stars padded on the limonium floor as his feet carried him towards the only occupied bed. He was faintly surprised to find another already waiting by Regulus’s side. 

Harry drew up a chair next to Sirius.

“How’s he doing?” Harry asked. His voice was raw, strange to his own ears. It hurt to speak. Self-consciously, Harry pulled at the collar of his denim jacket . . . he had not thought to check whether Evan had left a mark. 

Sirius hadn’t taken his eyes from Regulus’s face. “They reckon he’ll be alright. Madam Pomfrey says he’ll have to stay here for a few days at least.”

Relief washed over Harry. It was a much better prognosis than he’d dared hope for . . . Macdonald had yet to be discharged from St Mungo’s. “Did they let your mum and dad know?”

“They’ve already seen him . . . they’re in Dumbledore’s office now.” 

Harry pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and drew out a long, shaking breath. The adrenaline had left him, leaving in its place an exhaustion so deep that he could feel it in his bones. “How did you know Regulus was here?”

When Sirius finally tore his eyes from his brother, Harry saw that Sirius’s face was tight with anger. “I saw you on the map.”

“The what?”

Sirius shook his head. “Never mind just now. How exactly did it happen, Harry?” 

Harry recounted the story, up to the point of his confrontation with Rosier.

“Why Rosier?” said Sirius irritably. 

Harry knew Sirius would disapprove of how he had handled his suspicions, choosing to keep the information for blackmail. Sirius would have sought direct retribution. That Harry had chosen not to confide in Sirius, who was a friend of Macdonald, would be adding insult to injury.

“It was Evan,” Harry said tiredly. His fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms. “I’m sure of it.” 

“Right. And I suppose you’ll have me believe nothing is going on between you? That it’s normal behavior, jumping your ex on an allegation so flimsy it couldn’t hold up a tissue.” 

Harry scoffed. “What? Piss off!” 

Sirius’s grey eyes narrowed to slits. “What were you doing at Yaxley’s study group in the first place?” 

“Figured it was a good idea to keep my options open,” Harry said sarcastically. “You know what? I’m already feeling more sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause . . . perhaps I’ll ask for a Dark Mark for my birthday. D’you reckon Vee will gift wrap it?” 

There was a pause as Regulus mumbled something in his sleep. 

Sirius looked away from Harry, picking at the chipped nail polish on his thumb. “Is it so difficult to be honest with someone for once, little Potter? I never expected you to be so guarded with the truth.” 

“Well I never expected you to get jealous,” Harry snapped. “I suppose we both fall short in reality.” 

“Aaa-mes,” Regulus murmured suddenly from between them. 

They fell silent, watching as Regulus shifted underneath the sheets. But after a moment he was still again, his breathing evening out in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius whispered. “Rosier had nothing to do with this . . . Regulus drank a love potion, a bad brew . . . Pomfrey could tell right away . . . Lockhart’s already admitted to it.”

His heart beating very fast, Harry tried to process this. “What? Who the hell is Lockhart?” 

But even as he said it, Harry recalled that he had heard the name before . . . had been warned of Lockhart’s plan to slip him a potion sometime before Yule. 

“Just another one of your little groupies . . . only Regulus drank from the bottle Lockhart had intended for you.”

Fists still clenched, Harry bit out, “Why the hell didn’t you just say to begin with?”

Just then the doors to the hospital wing flew open and Madam Pomfrey descended upon them. She took one look at Harry before herding him straight to the door. 

“Out with you!” she said, depositing him in the hallway. “Visiting hours are over—family only.”

Harry tried to catch Sirius’s eye, was sure that he was going to intervene, that he’d vouch for Harry, that he wanted him to stay . . . they’d never fought before . . . but Sirius had his back to the door, was sitting rigidly, his shoulders tense, his hands gripping onto the seat . . . 

The door to the hospital wing snapped closed. 

“Suck a fucking leech, Pomfrey,” Harry muttered. 

When he finally reached the Slytherin common room the fireplace had burned down to embers, glowing incandescently in the ash not unlike the star-strewn sky outside.

Harry threw the drapes closed around his four-poster bed and, eager for any distraction from the many disasters of the evening, took the notebook from his pocket. As he thumbed through the pages his eyes slid from historical references, to detailed architectural plans, to a proposal to modernise the castle’s plumbing network. 

The Chamber of Secrets . . . 

But what secrets, precisely, lay concealed within? 

It didn’t seem so far fetched to imagine a family tapestry like the Black’s, or the Lestrange family elm. If Voldemort thought that he could manipulate Harry into unleashing Salazar’s beast upon the school, then he was in for a big disappointment. 

But—reluctantly—Harry had to admit he was intrigued. He’d never been able to resist the pull of a good mystery. 

Chapter Text

The following Thursday, Fleamont Potter died. 

Excused from classes, Harry and James returned at once to Godric’s Hollow, where they played host as their father's friends poured through the village to pay their last respects. 

Harry had never attended a funeral before . . . he did not know what to expect. How was he supposed to feel about the man who had raised him, had lied to him and loved him in the same breath? He didn’t know that he felt anything at all; he was frozen in a state of apathy, a hollow void rendered numb. He wondered whether Fleamont’s death would seem more real once his father’s body had been lowered into the ground, the coffin covered over with dirt. 

On the day of the funeral, the rain that had tormented them through February finally ceased, and the sun shone brilliantly in a clear, azure sky. 

Harry shrugged into the new dress robes his mother had laid out, his mind slow and sluggish from overindulging with Dreamless Sleep. Leaves crunched underfoot as he followed James and Euphemia to the little cemetery on the corner, where they sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the first row of white wicker chairs. 

Harry was unable to take in a single word throughout the service. He stared blankly ahead, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his mind deliberately clear of any thoughts. Yet, even through the void of emptiness, he could not shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. 

Afterwards the congregation moved down the street to Fleamont’s favourite pub, where Harry made off with a pint and hid in the darkest, most reclusive corner. 

Coins shook the jukebox into action, and songs from a bygone era drifted gently through the air. For a while, Harry was content to sit and sip his drink. Just as he was wondering whether he ought to find Sirius, he felt a familiar presence enter the vicinity of the pub . . . it was a power so potent that it rattled his teeth, so dense it was practically tangible.

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. 

Tall and thin, with his gaunt features hidden underneath a hooded cloak that brushed the floorboards, his red eyes gleaming . . . Lord Voldemort pulled up the chair beside Harry, and sat. 

Harry had to wonder how the man had not drawn the immediate attention of every patron in the pub . . . he could only assume that magic was at work.

“My condolences,” said Voldemort softly, staring at Harry with pitiless red eyes, the whites of which still had that permanently bloody look. He folded his arms across the table, spinning a tumbler between long, spidery fingers. 

Harry exhaled slowly. “Did you even know him?”

“I did not,” said Voldemort. He tilted his head a little to one side. “But you may have my condolences all the same.”

“Well . . . thanks,” said Harry dubiously. Lord Voldemort did not feel sympathy . . . Harry wanted to scoff. The man could not have been more obvious: he wanted something from Harry. But rather than call Voldemort out on this, Harry said instead, “Does it hurt, do you think? To die?” 

Voldemort smirked arrogantly. “Perhaps. I would not know . . . I have never died.” 

“Everybody dies eventually.” 

“Do they, though?” Voldemort’s mouth twisted. “Tell me, cousin . . . have you located the Chamber of Secrets?”

Harry surmised immediately that this was the real reason Voldemort had sought him out.

“I haven’t,” Harry admitted. 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Harry repeated incredulously. “I hardly know where to begin—”

“So you are as stupid as rumour would suggest,” Voldemort said in his quiet, thoughtful tone. “Such a pity.” 

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Was Voldemort truly keeping tabs on him? 

“I’m not stupid,” he said. For reasons he chose not to dwell on, Harry felt a powerful need to defend himself. “But I’m not studious, either. I don’t really see the point . . . I always do well in exams. The practicals, anyway. I can cast most spells on the first try. Besides, I have a position waiting for me with the Ballycastle Bats . . . I’m hardly striving for academia.” 

“Impressive,” Voldemort mocked. 

Harry sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest. “Some might think so. I’ll be the youngest Seeker in a century to play for the British League.”

An indulgent smile curled at the edges of Voldemort’s mouth. “There will be an initiation ceremony at the end of the school term. It is my expectation that you will be there.”

A great lump formed in Harry’s throat. 

He had no intention of joining the Death Eaters . . . but how exactly did one go about declining a direct invitation from the Dark Lord? 

“I believe you’re capable of achieving great things, Harry,” Voldemort continued. He dragged his red eyes across Harry’s face, down the slim column of his neck, resting on the pale stretch of skin exposed between Harry’s elbow and wrist, where his arms crossed over his chest. “I confess, it will please me very much to see my mark on you.”

Harry bit his tongue. 

It was likely a tactic the Dark Lord used to entice all his prospective followers. Still, despite his self-loathing, Harry felt himself preen under Voldemort’s attention. 

“With such flattery, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would have a bad thing to say about you,” Harry said tartly. 

Apprehensively, Harry sipped from his pint. Voldemort, however, appeared oddly amused . . . his gaze had wandered to the jukebox and, for a moment, he seemed to be lost in thought. 

“I’ve given you all the information that you need,” said Voldemort finally. “Connect the dots, Harry. This should not be beyond you. Start with the beast . . . what horror would Salazar Slytherin have trusted to guard his Chamber’s entrance?” 

Harry looked uncertainly around the room. He wished that he shared the Dark Lord’s faith in his own powers of deduction . . . but how was he supposed to form a coherent thought with Voldemort breathing down his neck? To say that the man was overbearing would be putting it mildly. 

Voldemort sighed with impatience. “Speak your thoughts, cousin.”

Heat crawled up the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Alright,” he began slowly. “Well . . . a snake is the obvious choice, isn’t it? Being the Slytherin House emblem, and Salazar a Parselmouth . . . only Salazar or an heir with the inherited trait could control it.”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. “Go on.”

“Something very dangerous . . . and deadly. From there, it’s not too much of a leap to Basilisk, well known for their extended lifespans.” 

“Good. Very good,” said Voldemort, his eyes once more fixed on Harry’s face. “And where within the walls of Hogwarts would you conceal a Basilisk?”

Harry considered this. “Basilisk’s are massive . . . as big as a train. The Slytherin dormitories have always been in the dungeons. A hidden wing, perhaps . . . or underneath the dungeons, buried under the whole school . . . there’s nowhere else with enough room.”

“And how would you reach it, Harry?” 

Harry’s heart began to quicken with excitement as the pieces slid together. “A passageway, extending beneath the castle . . . the pipes, that’s it, isn’t it? The plumbing was mentioned in your notebook.”

“Thus, you would find the entrance to the Chamber . . . ”

“Where the pipe begins,” Harry finished. A broad grin stretched across his face. “Perhaps the kitchens, or a bathroom. So, which is it?” 

Voldemort’s expression contorted into one of disapproval. “It took me many years to discover the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Prove to me that you’re more than just a pretty face, cousin . . . prove to me you’re worthy. Find it yourself.”

Harry raised both eyebrows in disbelief. “You want me to stick my head inside every fucking toilet in the castle? Is that what you did?”

“Mind your place,” Voldemort warned. There was no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort’s tone. “But if you think that’s what you must do, then by all means go right ahead.”

Underneath the table, Harry’s fingernails bit crescent moons into his palms. Why give Harry the key and then refuse to show him the door? It didn’t make any sense . . . he couldn’t discern Voldemort’s angle, and it was beyond frustrating.

“Why do you want me to find the Chamber?” asked Harry. “I hope you know I would never set a Basilisk loose in the school.”

Again, Voldemort looked back to the jukebox. “I would hardly expect a mere child to understand.”

“I understand you a lot better than you think.” 

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before they had fully formed in his brain . . . he realised at once that—this time—he had gone too far. 

There was a horrible, awkward silence. 

And then, to his horror, Harry saw that Sirius was approaching their table from the other side of the pub. 

Voldemort laughed. It was a high, cold sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. Voldemort tipped his glass back, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “If you think you know me, cousin, then answer me this . . . why did I initiate this war?”

Resolution set in Harry like the first star in a night sky, bright and unwavering. 

He pushed his glass aside and stood, moving gracefully around the table to pause in front of Voldemort. The fabric of Harry’s trousers brushed against Voldemort’s knee, barely an inch of space between them as Harry leaned down to whisper into Voldemort’s ear, “A means to an end: pandemonium.”

Just as Harry stepped away, long fingers wrapped around his arm, holding him firmly in place. And again, at their touch, the dark form of Voldemort’s feelings—a brooding fury, a burning curiosity, an intrinsic right of ownership—spilled into Harry’s mind. 

Harry flinched back. The gesture was not missed by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously. 

“Dance with me,” said Voldemort.

Harry’s stomach dropped. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Harry tried to wrench his arm free, but Voldemort’s grip tightened painfully. All the while, Sirius drew closer . . . at any moment, he would be able to overhear them . . . 

“An exchange, then,” Harry whispered furiously. “I’ll dance with you . . . if you tell me about Morfin.”

Voldemort’s red eyes fastened upon Harry’s green ones with such intensity that Harry felt like he’d been cut open and laid bare. He knew the exact moment that it happened, felt Voldemort’s comprehension flood his consciousness as the Dark Lord saw the echo of his own feelings reflected in Harry’s mind.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. And then, as if the contact suddenly burned him, he released Harry’s arm. 

Harry stumbled back, turning directly into Sirius’s path. 

“Harry!” Sirius barked. “Is everything alright?”

Harry took Sirius’s hand in his own, practically dragging Sirius from Voldemort’s table, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Who was that man?” asked Sirius, peering back over his shoulder. 

“Nobody,” said Harry quickly. 

“He was flirting with you.” Sirius’s voice was very carefully light . . . there was nothing bitter in his tone, nothing accusatory, no sharp edge to it.

“I don’t think so. They’re a distant cousin.” 

With his only thought to move as far from Voldemort as possible, Harry led Sirius up a rickety staircase to a row of empty rooms. 

Sirius snorted. “We’re distant cousins too, did you realise? Your grandmother, Dorea, was my great aunt.”

Turning into the last room from the landing, Harry let go of Sirius’s hand and shut the door closed behind them.

Sirius continued towards the fireplace, kneeling down beside a stack of firewood. “Does that bother you?”

Harry leaned back against the door as if he might use his own body to shield Sirius from Voldemort’s wrath. He couldn’t believe it . . . he did not know what Voldemort might do next . . . would he perceive their strange, intimate connection as a point of vulnerability, a threat?

In truth, Harry’s ability to know Voldemort’s feelings was but one of many threads that tethered them, binary stars gravitationally bound to and in orbit of each other. However, just as he was certain of this, Harry knew that Voldemort was no longer downstairs, had left the premises. 

Harry dragged a trembling hand down his face . . . 

Everything seemed to hit him all at once. 

He realised that he no longer felt hollow, disconnected from reality, but rather like he was drunk on it, dizzy with it, stupid with it. He was soaring through the sky at breakneck speed as the wind swept through his hair, not a care in the world. 

Harry blinked. “What?”

Sirius swished his wand, sending another log flying into the fireplace. He looked back over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “Does it bother you that we’re related?” 

Harry smirked. He pushed back from the door, closing the distance between them, and knelt beside Sirius. Then, fingers twisting in the dark material of Sirius’s robes, he pulled Sirius towards him into a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. With bite, with an urgency he couldn’t explain, Harry coaxed Sirius’s mouth open. 

But it wasn’t enough . . . 

Sirius’s elbows hit the floorboards one after the other as Harry pushed him backwards, pressed his spine into the dust. Harry’s knees slotted either side of Sirius’s waist, his mouth working quickly from the crook of Sirius’s neck, along the sharp line of his jaw, back to his swollen lips. 

“Harry,” Sirius gasped. He broke the kiss and turned his head to the side, breathing heavily. 

Harry parted Sirius’s robes, his fingers dancing down a row of buttons, over the ridge of a belt, to the metal tab of a zipper.

Fingers fastened around Harry’s wrist.

“Harry, stop it.”

Harry froze. “Why?”

A firm hand pushed him back and he slipped from Sirius’s lap, heat spreading across his cheeks.

“Why?” Sirius repeated incredulously, both eyebrows raised. “Have you gone completely mad?” 

“Oh, piss off—”

“—I realise that we all process grief differently, little Potter, but seriously? We’re an hour into your father’s wake, we’re in a public space and your brother’s looking for you. Perhaps now’s not the best time?” 

Harry pulled his knees up to his chest, scowling. 

As if on cue, James’s head appeared from around the door. 

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” James chirped. 

Harry glared at James as he settled onto the floor between them. A tray floated behind him, ferrying a jug of dark ale and a stack of frosted glasses. 

“No,” Sirius answered. “Of course not.” 

Harry stared resolutely at the floor. He did not think he could stand to see the told-you-so that was surely painted across Sirius’s face. 

“Your fly is undone, by the way,” James told Sirius as he tipped the jug back to pour the first drink. With an air of mingled suspicion and disapproval, he continued, “Did you two patch things up?” 

James glanced from Harry to Sirius.

A palpable silence hung heavily in the room.

James sighed. “Well, if you ask me, you’d both be better off waiting until after the match to kiss and make up.” Here, James paused to slide a glass across the floorboards towards Harry. “That way, Padfoot, you won’t have to pretend to feel guilty when Slytherin concedes a miserable defeat.”

“Suck a fucking worm, James,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. But his heart wasn’t in it . . . a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

The conversation was reminiscent of one they’d shared a hundred or a thousand times before. Simpler times, Harry thought with longing, where his problems had revolved between boys and broomsticks. 

The firelight glinted off James’s glasses. “Honestly, Harry, unless you think you can strut onto that pitch with three extra sets of arms affixed to your torso, you really don’t stand a chance.”

Harry sighed . . . the truth of it was that he knew James was probably right. His team was woefully unprepared to face the upcoming match. 

Naturally, he would never admit to this. 

Harry’s arm throbbed, finger-shaped bruises blooming like purple flowers beneath his skin. In spite of knowing that in the coming days he would feel the loss of his father like a missing limb, and in spite of the dark and dangerous path he saw stretching ahead, Harry felt his heart lift at the thought that there was still one last game between him and James—Slytherin versus Gryffindor—to look forward to. 

“To dad,” said Harry, raising his ale high into the air. He looked from James to Sirius to the bottom of his glass, and swallowed. 

Chapter Text

By the time Harry had returned to Hogwarts, the news that Lockhart had botched a love potion so badly it left another student hospitalised had been met with general ridicule, folded away and forgotten. 

The Slytherins in particular were much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match. With the war inciting already poor inter-house relations, the Slytherins had been suffering . . . and they all wanted to see Gryffindor pay. Harry felt the pressure to secure a win like a crushing weight, heavy on his mind . . . if he could pull it off, the promised celebration would be one to remember. 

Between Quidditch practice, classes, and that the elusive entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was never far from his thoughts, Harry found that he had little time to continue searching for his grandfather’s name through the library's collection on modern history.

On the morning of the match, the Slytherin team sat anxiously in their changing room, the air thick with anticipation. The sound of the crowd outside seemed to grow impossibly louder with every passing minute. 

“Are you sure this is the right tactic?” Regulus pressed, his eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t know if we can pull it off, Harry.” 

Harry placed a hand gently on Regulus’s shoulder. “You’ve got this, Regulus. I’ve never doubted your ability.” 

Grey eyes met green. 

Regulus sighed. “If you’re certain.”

Without another word, Harry seized his Comet 210 . . . it was time. 

They marched onto the pitch to thunderous boos and hisses. Harry squinted up at the sky . . . there was very little wind . . . every now and then, dazzling flashes of sun peeked through the scattered clouds. 

“Tricky conditions,” James was saying to the Gryffindor team.

“Captains,” called Madam Hooch. “Please shake hands and mount your brooms.”

Harry took a deep breath and turned to face his brother. James grinned crookedly, took Harry’s hand tightly in his own and pumped it up and down. 

“Good luck,” said James, barely audible over the cacophony of sound covering the pitch. “You’re gonna need it, little brother.”

Harry smirked. 

On Madam Hooch’s whistle, the balls were released and the players rose high into the air. From the edge of his vision, Harry saw Regulus flying above the rest of the team, streaking off down the pitch. 

“What’s this?” came the confused voice of the commentator, echoing over the grounds. “It seems there’s been some changes to Slytherin’s usual lineup . . . ”

Harry leaped into action. The Quaffle was spinning mid-air and James was already closing in . . . angling his broom towards his brother’s head, Harry shot after him. 

The other players might as well have been invisible. 

Harry flew over James, spinning upside-down to snatch the Quaffle from James’s fingers, and turned his broom in a wide arc towards the opposite goals. 

“—the Slytherin Captain intercepts—” 

Swearing angrily, James spun around. But before he could gain any ground, the Quaffle had passed from Harry’s hands . . . the Slytherin Chaser behind Harry yelped in surprise, dropping the ball. 

“—and Gryffindor regain possession—” 

It did not matter. All Harry needed was to deny the Gryffindor's a chance to get too many points ahead. It felt strange to be vying for the Quaffle rather than the Snitch, but there was no one better suited to this task . . . Harry knew exactly how to be a pain in the arse; he could predict James’s manoeuvres from the tilt of his broom handle, knew James’s strategies like a well-worn chessboard.

“—a neat pass to Prewitt—no, the Slytherins have taken back the Quaffle—Harry Potter dodges a Bludger, he’s going to sc—no, an excellent save by Gryffindor Keeper Sirius Black—aren't those two dating? Something tells me neither will be scoring tonight.”

Harry had just a moment to make a rude gesture at Sirius before—

“—Quaffle taken by the Gryffindor Captain—that's James Potter speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a Bludger—nice play by Dolohov, anyway, and Harry Potter’s back in possession of the Quaffle—he's really flying—dodges a speeding Bludger—the goal posts are ahead—Keeper Black dives—misses—SLYTHERIN SCORE!”

A roar of outrage echoed around the stadium, drowning out the cheers from the spectators in green.

“—Gryffindor Captain takes the Quaffle, nice dive around his little brother, he’s off up the field, passes to Perkins, back to Potter, he’s heading for the goal—GRYFFINDOR SCORE!”

The wind swept through Harry’s hair as he flew higher, dodging a Bludger, and continued his close pursuit of James. But as the game wore on, Harry could not keep the scores balanced . . . gradually, in increments of ten, the Gryffindors inched further and further ahead. 

Twenty to ten.

Fifty to twenty.

Ninety to thirty.

Harry began to feel faint, a little bit hysterical. He could delay the Gryffindor Chasers, but not forever . . . Regulus would need to catch the Snitch—very soon—for them to win. 

“—Gryffindor back in possession—James Potter with the Quaffle—and OUCH, a dirty play from the Slytherin Captain—”

"FOUL!" screamed the stands. 

Pain laced through Harry’s shoulder and he groaned as Madam Hooch blew her whistle, ordering a free shot at the goals for Gryffindor. 

Harry squinted against the sun, searching the sky for Regulus. 

“—a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by James Potter, who puts it away, no trouble, and it’s Gryffindor still in possession—”

Harry’s stomach dropped . . . Regulus—a green and silver blur—had dived . . . Regulus was ahead, but it was a close call . . . the Gryffindor Seeker, flying just above Harry, had spotted it as well . . . instinctually, Harry angled his broom into their path.

It was over in two breathless, windswept seconds—the Gryffindor Seeker swore, veering to avoid collision—Regulus’s fingers closed around the tiny, fluttering ball—Harry laughed as relief tore through him—

WHAM!

A Bludger hit the back of Harry’s head. There was a blinding, sickening crunch as Harry was propelled forward off his broom . . . distant screams . . . the sensation of plummeting through the boundless, infinite depths of a black hole. 

The next thing Harry knew, he was stretched out on a comfortable mattress, sheets drawn tight over his body and a pillow resting underneath his head. Harry blinked and looked around the hospital wing. The sky outside the window was inky black and speckled with stars . . . the match must have finished hours ago. 

“What happened?” Harry said groggily to the empty room. 

“Head injury,” answered Madam Pomfrey. She appeared from her office wearing a thick dressing gown and bustled up to Harry’s bed. “Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once. Still, you ought to stay overnight. You mustn’t overexert yourself.”

“Stay up here and miss the party?” said Harry, appalled. He sat up quickly and threw back the sheets. “I don’t think so.” 

“I’m afraid that a party would count as overexertion, Potter,” said Pomfrey tartly. She pushed Harry back onto the bed and pointed her wand at his lap, where a pair of pyjamas snapped into existence. “You shall stay here until I discharge you, or I shall call Professor Slughorn.” 

“You won’t get hold of him,” Harry muttered to Pomfrey’s retreating back. “He's hosting the fucking party.” 

Scowling, Harry flung the curtains closed around his bed. It was not long before the lamps dimmed and he heard the soft click of a door shutting, and knew that Pomfrey had made her way to bed. Harry felt restless. He did not want to stay in the hospital wing, with no distraction from his own dark thoughts, and no Dreamless Sleep to keep him from slipping into Voldemort’s mind. 

Why shouldn’t he attend the party? 

Reaching for his wand, Harry cast a silencing charm on himself, pushed his feet into his All Stars, and crept towards the door . . . he would return before Pomfrey ever knew he’d been gone. 

In the corridor, he’d just fastened his gold hoop earring back through his earlobe when a familiar voice called out, “Harry!” 

Harry grinned at the Head Girl as she approached, and made a snap decision . . . Gryffindor Tower was closer than the dungeons, and he’d run less risk of bumping paths with Flinch. 

“You’re out late,” said Harry conversationally, falling into step beside her. 

Lily’s arm wove through his, warm and comforting. “Just finished rounds. How’s the head? I’d say congratulations, but I kind of hate you right now, so.”

Harry laughed. “That’s alright. Have a good sulk . . . always makes me feel better. Gryffindor can still win the house cup, anyway, it all depends on the final matches.”

Lily peered up at Harry’s face and gently squeezed his arm. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Harry, that I was so sorry to hear about your dad.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry with sincerity. “Bit of a relief, in a lot of ways, to be honest. Does that sound awful? Only, I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore.”

“How’s your mum doing?” 

“Alright, I s’pose. She’s staying with friends in Brighton.”

Lily smiled kindly. “I know it’s not my place to ask. But have you told James yet? The results from the Systema Trium?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I meant to . . . I mean, I will. Soon.”

“I think you should,” said Lily softly. “The look on his face when you fell . . . he was so furious. It was James that softened your landing, did you know? I get that he can be difficult sometimes, but he loves you so much.” 

“I know. I’ll tell him, I promise.” 

Their footsteps slowed. They had arrived at the portrait that guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. 

“Can I bring someone out for you?” Lily asked.

A mischievous smile played on Harry’s lips. “What? Oh, no. Actually, I was thinking I might follow you in.”

Lily sighed wearily. “I don’t know, Harry. You’re not the most popular person in Gryffindor right now.”

“Not looking like this . . . ”

Harry turned on the spot, scrubbing both hands through his hair. When he faced Lily again, his very messy fringe hid a considerable portion of his face. “People always tell me how much I look like James . . . what d’you reckon? Could I pass, at a glance?” 

“Maybe,” said Lily critically, her brilliant green eyes narrowed. “I really shouldn’t help you, you know that don’t you? But for some reason, I’ve developed a bit of a soft spot for you.” She tapped her wand to Harry’s shoulder, charming his green robes black. 

Harry’s grin broadened. “I owe you one.”

“Caput Draconis," said Lily to the portrait, before replying to Harry over her shoulder, “Yes, you do.” 

Harry followed Lily into a cozy round room full of squashy armchairs. He looked around with interest, wondering—not for the first time—what life might have been like if he’d chosen Gryffindor, not Slytherin.

There were not many students still up. Harry was relieved to see Sirius sitting by the roaring fire beside Peter Pettigrew. They had evidently been drinking . . . an open bottle sat between them, one-third full. 

Harry waved goodnight to Lily and, mimicking James's confident stride, made his way through the common room towards the fireplace.

“Come to gloat, did you?” said Sirius grimly.

Harry squeezed onto the end of the sofa. “Am I that cruel?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

Harry scoffed, reaching around Sirius for the bottle. “Piss off. Maybe I came to cheer you up?”

Sirius's grey eyes sparkled with amusement as Harry necked the drink, then quickly recoiled with a look of disgust. 

“Is this Dung’s moonshine?” asked Harry, revolted. 

Ignoring this, Sirius said slyly, “I can think of something that’d make me feel better.” He glanced suggestively at his own crotch before returning his gaze to Harry's face.

Peter shifted uncomfortably at the other end of the sofa. “I think I might . . . ”

Sirius moved very slowly, deliberately . . . he swung his leg over Harry’s waist, knees nestled either side of Harry’s hips . . . the pad of his thumb stroked Harry’s cheek . . . he gently tilted Harry’s head back . . . feather-light, barely there, he brushed their lips together. 

He kissed Harry softly, then deeply. 

It was a while before Harry noticed that the room had gone very quiet. Then several people wolf-whistled, and there was an outbreak of giggling. Sirius grinned down at Harry, then gestured wordlessly to the spiral staircase leading up to the dormitories. 

Harry took Sirius’s hand and allowed himself to be led up the staircase into a darkened room. A circle of four-poster beds, each draped in deep red curtains, surrounded the tower wall.

Harry bit his lip, struggling to contain the laughter that threatened to bubble over. He felt giddy, reckless. He leapt onto Sirius’s bed and kicked his shoes off, bent his knees and jumped, reaching for the ceiling. 

“Be quiet!” Sirius whispered. He drew a complicated pattern in the air with his wand, then carefully closed the curtains around his bed. “Stop laughing, Harry. If you wake up James—”

“—You’ll what?” Harry cackled. He raised his chin defiantly in challenge. 

Fingers fastened around Harry’s ankle, pulling his weight out from underneath him. 

“Oof!”

Strong, lean arms pressed Harry back against the pillows, hands framing his face. “Shut up,” Sirius growled, his voice very low, his teeth grazing Harry’s ear.

Harry mumbled something, but quickly lost the thread of what he wanted to say as Sirius’s mouth sucked a bruise on his neck. He felt very aware of Sirius’s body . . . a solid, warm weight resting on his hips, his stomach . . . black painted fingernails crawling down his chest, unfastening the buttons at the front of his robe. 

Harry shrugged his arms free, pulled his t-shirt over his head. When he looked up he saw that Sirius had removed his own top, was pulling down the waistband of his jeans. 

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, and Sirius leaned between his legs, kissed him slow and sloppy. 

Harry moaned, pulled him close. The planes of Sirius’s chest were firm and smooth beneath the tips of his fingers. Emboldened, Harry reached down, down, down to dip beneath an elastic band, his fingers grasping Sirius—heavy, hardening—in the palm of his hand. 

For a fleeting second, Harry wondered if Madam Pomfrey would count this as overexerting himself, and laughter bubbled up in him again. 

Very suddenly, Sirius pulled back. Narrowed grey eyes mapped Harry’s face. “What’re you thinking about?” 

Harry shook his head, schooled his features. “Nothing.”

The warmth of Sirius’s body vanished as he rolled away, settling beside Harry on his back. An inch of space separated their shoulders, yet it felt as vast and cold as a chasm. 

Sirius stared resolutely at the ceiling, avoiding Harry’s gaze. He was breathing very heavily. “What are we doing, Harry? Are we fighting? Are we dating? Are we about to . . . about to have sex? We never talk anything through . . . we hardly talk at all. I’ve got no idea what’s really going on with you.”

Harry shrugged helplessly. 

Sirius let out a deep groan in frustration. “Why do I have to be the responsible one between us? It’s not in my character, little Potter. I hate it.”

“Don’t be responsible, then,” said Harry bitterly. 

Sirius was quiet for a moment. And then, taking a deep breath, he said, “Have you had sex before?” 

Heat crept up the back of Harry's neck, spreading across his cheeks. It was so deeply embarrassing . . . but he knew what Sirius would say if he thought Harry was not mature enough to have this conversation.

“No,” Harry bit out. “Have you?”

Sirius's gaze flicked swiftly to Harry before returning to the ceiling. “I was sure that you and Evan would have . . . ”

“He’d like everyone to think so,” Harry snapped. “Alludes to it often enough. But we never did . . . got pretty close.” 

“And if we . . . hypothetically, if we did . . . how did you imagine . . . what would be your preference, to—”

“—Either,” Harry interrupted sharply. He couldn't bear to hear Sirius fumble through the words, the embarrassment was so horrific. “I don’t fucking care. Both. Either. Whatever.”

This was met with silence, which Harry found incredibly annoying. He had answered all of Sirius’s awful questions, and Sirius had offered no information in return. 

“And you?” asked Harry irritably. 

Finally, Sirius turned to look at him. “Yeah,” he said. “It was with . . . well, that doesn’t really matter. But it—”

Whatever it was, Harry was doomed to never find out.

With a resounding click, the bedroom light abruptly came on. It cast the room in such harsh clarity that bright spots danced in front of Harry’s vision. 

And then Professor McGonagall’s voice—sterner than Harry had ever heard it before—was saying, “I have reason to believe that someone in this room should not be here. You have five seconds to make yourselves presentable and come out. Five . . . ”

Mortification shot through Harry’s veins, freezing him in place. This couldn’t be happening . . . 

“Four,” McGonagall counted. 

Bed-curtains rattled as James and Remus pushed the fabric aside. 

“Three.”

Harry still had not moved . . . his t-shirt was thrust suddenly in his face . . . Sirius was gesticulating wildly, buttoning his jeans one-handed. 

“Two.”

Harry pulled the material over his head. Took a deep breath. 

“One.” 

Chapter Text

After a sleepless night in the hospital wing, Harry skipped breakfast in favour of returning to the dungeons. He’d just finished explaining what had happened to Icarus and Lucinda, not that there seemed to be much need . . . news that Harry had been caught in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory had spread through the school with remarkable speed, even by Hogwarts standards.

Harry had already endured a mortifying lecture from Professor Slughorn, who had stepped inside the common room to inform him he was fortunate to have avoided suspension, and expressed full support for the fifty hard-earned points McGonagall had deducted from the Slytherin house hourglass.

With his morning already off to such a bad start, Harry could have done without the scathing look Regulus leveled him as he curled up on the opposite sofa. 

“You’d think people had better things to talk about,” said Regulus as he scanned the front page of that morning’s Daily Prophet. “Three dementor attacks in a week, and all anyone wants to know is how far you’d gotten before McGonagall busted in.”

Harry sighed heavily. “Not very far, as it happens.”

“That’s a shame,” said Regulus, idly turning a page of the newspaper. “I’ve been telling everyone that McGonagall got an eyeful.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Harry tiredly. 

He chose to ignore the snickering from Icarus and Lucinda’s corner. 

Regulus’s mouth twitched. “You’re welcome.” 

“Anyone we know?” asked Lucinda, peering around Icarus to see the Daily Prophet. 

Harry suddenly felt so exhausted that he was tempted to sink into his armchair for a nap. Instead, he forced himself to his feet, trudged towards the boys’ dormitories, and slipped beneath the sheets of his four-poster bed. He reached inside his bedside table, seized a vial of Dreamless Sleep, and drained it in a single, practised motion. 

He felt certain that his peers would have found something else to gossip about by the time he woke up. With that comforting thought, sleep finally swept over him.

But Harry dreamed . . . 

Voldemort sat at the head of a long, ornate table, flanked by masked figures. The dim room was lit only by the dying embers of a fire set beneath a stone mantle. Harry’s gaze was drawn upward . . . someone was hanging above the table, slowly revolving . . . Harry gasped as the stony features of Edgar Bones, Head of the DMLE, rotated into view. Suddenly, the scene shifted. Turbulent waves crashed over him as Harry fought for breath, his lungs burning as water slowly filled them.

Harry threw back the sheets, soaked through with sweat and gasping for air. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead prickled uncomfortably. 

He did not understand why the Dreamless Sleep potion had not worked . . . he could only hope that it would be an isolated occurrence. 

Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly in the empty dormitory. A wave of his wand confirmed he’d already missed lunch. Throwing on a clean robe, Harry followed the stone passageways out of the dungeons to a broad corridor decorated with cheerful paintings of food.

Harry opened the secret entrance to the kitchens and stepped inside.

Glancing at the tables positioned exactly beneath the ones above in the Great Hall, Harry saw a lone figure hunched over a plate. Severus Snape looked up at Harry, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair. 

Harry bit back a noise of irritation . . . he would not be able to discreetly continue his search for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets with the other boy there. It was just as well that it was Snape . . . Harry thought he knew exactly how to get rid of him. Harry pulled up the chair beside Severus and—grinning sunnily—sat down. 

Instantly, about six house elves descended upon him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, a milk jug and a large plate of sandwiches. 

Harry tilted his head in thanks. 

“Potter,” said Severus, a familiar sneer curling his mouth, “what a pleasant surprise.” 

“Pleasant?” said Harry lazily. “For who, exactly?”

“I imagined you'd be dining with the Gryffindors from now on, considering how thoroughly you've . . . ingratiated yourself with them.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Piss off, Snape. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you gawk at Evans . . . honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing. Hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure she’s got a thing for my brother.”

Cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry, dislike etched in every pore of Snape’s face. “You may have others fooled, Potter, but I see right through you . . . your intentions couldn’t be clearer. You’ll try to play both sides of the coin, and you’ll fail spectacularly.”

Harry instantly understood that Snape was no longer referring to Hogwarts; he was speaking of something much larger, a conflict that bled deeper into their lives with every passing day.

“I don’t want to play at all,” said Harry quite honestly. “I don’t want any part in this stupid, senseless war.” 

Snape’s lip curled. “How noble of you, to let others do the fighting while you stand aside,” he mocked. “I wonder, what does Evans think of this? Or your mongrel of a boyfriend? Do you really believe they’ll praise your neutrality while they don battle robes?”

Harry remained silent as guilt and self-loathing sliced through him, cutting deep. Snape's words had struck a nerve, uncomfortably close to a truth Harry didn’t want to face.

To stand against Voldemort was to accept a death sentence . . . the man was unstoppable. But to fight alongside him? 

No good could come from either outcome. 

Snape picked up his drink, sipped it, and continued, “Do you truly believe you can accept the Dark Lord's favour without swearing allegiance? He is the greatest wizard the world has ever seen . . . what’s your plan, exactly? Bat your lashes and hope for the best? That might have worked for you before, but it won’t carry you far in the real world.” 

Snape set his glass upon the table and stood. Harry watched as he strode towards the door, his dark cloak billowing out behind him. 

The sheer injustice and absurdity pulled Harry in like the gravity of a black hole, swallowing everything else—caution, discretion, common sense—into darkness.

“Wait a moment,” Harry called out recklessly. 

Snape turned back to face him, sneering. “I am in rather a hurry, Potter . . . unlike you, I don’t attend school just to warm other people’s beds . . . I’m actually here to learn something.”

“You think you’re special,” said Harry, warning laced in every word, “but you're not, Snape. He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t respect you, and he definitely doesn’t need you. This is all a game to the Dark Lord, and you're just another pawn on the board.”

Snape’s expression was unfathomable. “As usual,” he replied in a low voice, “you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Their gaze met for a second. And, as the other boy moved away into the corridor, Harry couldn’t help but wish—with vitriol—that Snape was correct. 

But Harry, in this instance, did know . . . he knew Voldemort better than anyone. 

As the weather grew steadily warmer and the Easter holidays passed quietly—along with Regulus's seventeenth birthday—Harry's mood continued to darken. He was faced with an unpleasant truth: he had built up such a tolerance that, no matter how much of it he swallowed, Dreamless Sleep no longer seemed to have any effect. 

Harry could not rely on the potion to keep him from slipping into Voldemort’s mind. 

He had nothing to look forward to but the certainty of another restless, disturbed night ahead. Even when he wasn’t visiting the Dark Lord, he had terrible nightmares filled with crashing waves and a horrible burning sensation in his lungs as he choked on water. Each dream always culminated in his own drowning, which he supposed had something to do with the shortness of breath he had upon waking. 

Harry felt that he had been thwarted, both in his attempt to find the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Secrets and also in discovering where he’d come from. The old scar on his forehead would often prickle and throb, which he took as a persistent reminder of his failings. 

He felt more bitter and resentful towards Voldemort than ever before, convinced that the man had sent him on a fool's errand. 

Harry longed to give the Dark Lord a piece of his mind. 

Blue sky appeared around the castle’s turrets, but the sign of approaching summer did nothing to lift Harry’s mood. 

“I heard you last night,” said Regulus softly as they settled behind a pillar in a secluded nook of the courtyard. Regulus deftly tore a corner from a Ministry of Magic leaflet—Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—and, folding it into a roach, added it to the end of a joint. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry automatically. But there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach . . . he had been with Voldemort the previous night.

“I cast a silencing charm on your bed curtains. Didn’t think you’d want anyone to overhear.”

Harry looked away. “Thanks.” 

“I really think you should go to Madam Pomfrey and ask—”

“—No,” said Harry forcefully. “Just drop it, Regulus, alright?” 

Regulus sighed. He lit the joint and then, reaching into the expandable pocket of his robe, handed Harry a small chocolate easter egg. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Harry?” asked Regulus quietly. “You look bloody awful.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the chocolate egg as, to his dismay, a hard lump began to form in his throat. “Don’t hold back,” he said gruffly, plucking the joint from Regulus’s hand. “Tell me what you really think, why don’t you.” 

“I think you need to get some help,” Regulus persisted. “If not Pomfrey, why not reach out to your mum—”

“—She’s still in Brighton,” said Harry brusquely, “but it’s not her I want to talk to.”

“Who, then?”

Harry glanced around the pillar to scan the courtyard. There were plenty of students milling about in the sun, but none within earshot. “I . . . ” 

Harry hesitated, uncertain how to begin. He had never revealed the true nature of his relationship with Voldemort to Regulus, but he knew his friend was exceptionally sharp. After the Malfoys' Winter Solstice event, Harry suspected that Regulus had drawn his own conclusions about Harry’s attendance. 

“I wish I could talk to the Dark Lord,” Harry muttered. “I know how that must sound. But . . . ” 

More out of a desire for some kind of distraction than because he really wanted any, Harry carefully peeled away the delicate foil wrapping around the chocolate egg.

The joint danced between their fingers in an easy rhythm as Regulus mulled this over. 

“Well,” Regulus said finally, “if you really wanted to, I expect we could find some way to do it.”

Harry scoffed. “Yeah fucking right.”

Regulus smiled thinly. “The thing about growing up with Sirius is that, at some point, you start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.” 

Harry looked up at Regulus as a warmth spread through him, entirely unrelated to the sun's kiss on his skin. 

The bell rang suddenly overhead and Regulus jumped nervously to his feet, squashing the joint beneath his shoe. 

Harry bade farewell to Regulus in the Entrance Hall. Most of the sixth years—those that had already turned seventeen—were to take their Apparition tests that afternoon. With no clear goal in mind, Harry dragged his feet towards the library, which was already crowded with students preparing for their upcoming exams. 

Harry’s gaze fell immediately to the table where the marauders were sitting with Lily and Marlene. He pushed a chair into the small space between Lily and James, and sat down heavily. 

His thoughts, as they often did, drifted to the Chamber of Secrets. He drummed his fingers on the table, watching Madam Pince prowl the shelves behind them.

“There’s no way Edgar’s a Death Eater,” Sirius was saying quietly. “I don’t believe it.” 

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Why else would they fight so hard against Crouch’s bill? The whole thing reeks of You-Know-What.”

“Bones?” said Harry without thinking. He blinked away the image of a figure slowly revolving above him. “They’ll be under the Imperius.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Marlene suspiciously. 

Harry shrugged. Realising his mistake—he was usually more careful in revealing things he shouldn’t know—Harry swiftly changed the subject to the first thing that came to mind. 

“Where do you think,” Harry began, addressing the table at large, “would be the best place to hide something inside the castle?”

Without glancing up from her textbook, Lily replied, “Girls’ toilet on the first floor.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat . . . Voldemort had hinted that the entrance would be somewhere with a connection to the castle’s plumbing network. But a girls' bathroom? The idea was absurd . . . still, he supposed, stranger things had happened. 

“What?” said Harry loudly, much to the annoyance of the surrounding tables. “Why do you say that?”

With her finger marking the page, Lily glanced up from her textbook. “It’s the last place anyone in their right mind would go. Moaning Myrtle haunts the end cubicle . . . she gives me the creeps.”

“Myrtle?” Harry repeated. He had never spoken to the ghost himself, but he had heard plenty of people complain about her.

“Yes, Myrtle’s always there,” said Lily. “The bathroom’s been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never go in there anyway if I can avoid it . . . I hate trying to pee with her hovering just above the door.” 

James snapped his textbook shut, looking at Harry through narrowed eyes. “What’re you trying to hide, anyway?” 

Harry shrugged mysteriously. “Bit of this, bit of that.”

“Really?” said Sirius. His grey eyes glimmered with interest.  “Like what, exactly?”

“Don’t encourage him,” James snapped. Looking over Harry’s head towards Lily, he continued, “If you pretend he’s not there, he’ll usually go away. Just try to avoid eye contact.”

Peter giggled. 

“Come now,” Lily chided, “let's play nicely, children.”

Harry scowled. James had been particularly rude to him ever since the incident in the Gryffindor boy’s dormitory, and Harry’s patience for James had grown thin. Hoping to get a rise out of his brother, Harry turned towards Sirius. In a voice soaked with quiet insinuation, he said, “Wanna go check it out with me?”

Sirius arched one eyebrow. “What? The girls’ bathroom?”

A broad grin stretched across Harry’s face. “I heard it’s usually unoccupied.” 

“You’re utterly shameless,” said James scathingly. “Go on then, give the poor ghost a good show . . . Merlin knows you like an audience, don’t you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “How’d Myrtle die, anyone know?” 

“Happened the year my father graduated,” said Remus softly. “Bit of a scandal, actually—”

“—Don’t you know?” James cut in. “Her brother killed her, and she was such a nuisance that everybody thanked him for it. Can you take a hint? Get lost.” 

Harry glared at James. “What crawled up your arse and died?”

James threw his hands up in the air. His voice rising, he said, “Don’t pretend you’re here to study, Harry . . . nothing could be less believable. You’re in every corner of my life right now, and frankly? I’m getting pretty sick of your face.”

Harry felt an odd, sick, empty feeling in his stomach. “Fine,” he said crossly, rising from his seat, “whatever.” 

“James,” said Lily despairingly. 

Madam Pince had appeared from behind a shelf and was closing in on their table, her shriveled face contorted with outrage. “Out—out—OUT!” she shrieked, whipping her wand from her pocket. 

“I was leaving anyway,” Harry shot over his shoulder, heading for the door. 

Fuming, Harry stalked down the corridor. It did not escape his notice that Sirius had chosen to stay in the library with James. No matter, he thought, as he leapt onto a moving staircase and took the steps two at a time. It was perhaps fortuitous . . . it would be easier to search the girls’ bathroom on the first floor without Sirius looking over his shoulder. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s gaze shifted from the cracked and spotted mirror to a row of chipped stone sinks. The floor lay slick beneath his All Stars, the walls swathed in a dark growth of mould. It was undoubtedly the saddest, dankest, most uninviting bathroom Harry had ever seen. 

He heard the creak of an old hinge and turned to see the last cubicle door swinging open. Moaning Myrtle floated above the cistern, eyeing Harry suspiciously as she picked at her chin.

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” said Myrtle blandly. “And you are not a girl.” 

Harry tilted his head. “What is gender, really, but a limiting social construct?”

Myrtle frowned. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“—How did you die, Myrtle?” 

Abruptly Myrtle’s whole demur relaxed. It was as if no one had ever posed such a flattering question to her. Gazing dreamily at Harry, she replied, “It happened thirty-five years ago . . . oh, but it was dreadful.” 

“Was it really? What happened?” 

“No idea. I just remember seeing a pair of great big yellow eyes—”

“—Whereabouts?” Harry interrupted sharply. 

“Somewhere over there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely towards a sink.

Harry spun around, his heart thumping wildly. Myrtle was still talking, but he was no longer listening to her . . . his eyes were now fixed on the small image of a snake etched onto one of the copper taps.

He could hardly believe it. 

But before Harry could make his next move, he had to deal with Myrtle. He couldn’t afford to leave behind any witnesses, living or otherwise.

“Myrtle?” Harry cut in. 

“ . . . yes?” 

Adopting an expression that danced between contempt and disdain, he said, “Do you really think I care what Olive Hornsby called you? Suck a fucking s-bend.”

Myrtle burst into tears. With a deep, wrenching sob, she slammed the cubicle door closed. There was a splash of water, followed by the flush of a toilet, and Harry knew that she’d followed the water being swept down the drainpipe.

Guiltily, Harry crouched down in front of the sink. He squinted at the tiny snake, and—almost without thinking—words in Parseltongue instinctively slipped from his lips.

“Open up . . . let me in.” 

In the next moment, the sink sank right out of sight, leaving exposed the large mouth of a pipe. 

Harry carefully lowered himself down inside it, and then—before he could overthink it—he let go. Lower and lower he slid, twisting and turning on a steep slope downward. Just as he started to worry about what would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe levelled out, and he eased to a gradual stop at the entrance of a stone tunnel.

Harry stared into the dark void ahead.

Was he walking right into Voldemort's trap? This path had clearly been laid out for him. Harry clenched his teeth . . . if Voldemort sought to play games with him, Harry promised to give as good as he got. 

The tip of his wand cast monstrous shadows on the slimy walls as Harry proceeded down the tunnel. On and on he walked until finally he reached a solid wall, upon which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes glimmering with emeralds. 

A surge of anticipation coursed through him, setting every nerve on edge.

“Open,” Harry commanded in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted to reveal an opening between them, and Harry stepped through into a very long, dimly lit chamber. Small bones crunched underfoot as he moved past towering stone pillars enveloped in a green-tinted gloom. 

Then, standing against the back wall, coiled around the feet of a statue as high as the chamber itself, Harry saw the sleeping basilisk. It was enormous, as thick as an oak trunk, its bright, poisonous green scales shimmering softly in the light cast from Harry’s wand.

Ready to clamp his eyes shut at the faintest sign of movement, Harry continued forward. 

But his anticipation was slowly giving way to a crushing disappointment. By the time he reached the basilisk, he knew that he would not find any family secrets here, no heirlooms, no further clues to his ancestry. Salazar’s fabled chamber was nothing but an elaborate hidey-hole for his overlarge familiar. There was nothing else there. 

Harry craned his neck up to glare at the giant stone face of Salazar Slytherin. 

With a jolt to the stomach, Harry thought he felt the basilisk stir . . . hastily, he backed away. It wouldn’t do to linger and risk accidentally waking the beast. With the frustration bubbling up inside him threatening to boil over, Harry began the very long and tedious journey back towards the first floor girls’ bathroom. 

Dinner was well underway by the time Harry slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table. 

“Harry!” Regulus beamed. “We’ve all passed.”

It took Harry a moment to recall that his friends had been taking their Apparition tests that afternoon. 

“Well done,” said Harry, his voice measured as he deliberately softened his expression, willing the corners of his lips to lift into a smile. Yet, despite his efforts, it felt empty and hollow.

“We’ve got to celebrate,” Lucinda said excitedly. “It’s not every day you get an Apparition license. And it’s Beltane tomorrow . . . we really should appease the Goddess. Avoid getting smited and all that.” 

“I’m not dancing the maypole with you again,” said Icarus. “My ankles have never recovered. Besides, I need to finish that reading for Runes, and I haven’t even started on the fifteen inches from Sluggie. Can’t we celebrate Beltane another time?” 

Lucinda looked appalled. “Beltane’s always kicked off at midnight on the first, you dingbat. If we all chip in a couple of galleons, I’ll get a bottle of something nice from Selwyn.”

“I’ll chip in for that,” said Regulus, before turning towards Harry to ask, “Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“Oh, sure,” Harry replied, stabbing a potato onto his plate with a bit too much force. To avoid elaborating further, he took a large gulp of pumpkin juice. 

“Where have you been?” Regulus asked. After a brief pause, his voice a little pinched, he added, “Sirius was looking for you. He stopped by the common room.”

Harry sighed, feeling an odd weight settle over him . . . the thought of dealing with Sirius right now felt exhausting. He missed the days when their relationship had revolved around the simple exchange of saliva. “Did he really?” 

“He did . . . Narcissa told him you needed rescuing from the Forbidden Forest,” Regulus admitted. “Don’t think he believed her, unfortunately.”

Harry hummed in amusement. He’d taken note of the Marauder’s when he’d entered the Great Hall . . . even in a room filled with students, James and Sirius were impossible to miss. 

“Well?” Regulus pressed. “Where were you?” 

“Exploring the castle,” said Harry honestly. 

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose to stand on end. He had the creeping sensation of being watched . . . his gaze wandered through the Great Hall, from the pale and drawn face of Evan Rosier, who was staring glumly into his goblet, to the Hufflepuff Seeker Benjy Fenwick, who had just wrapped up a filthy joke to a chorus of raucous applause. Finally, Harry’s eyes lifted to the staff table, where the Headmaster’s twinkling gaze met his, blue eyes peering down at him from behind half-moon spectacles.

Harry quickly looked away.  

“The old man’s finally back,” Lucinda murmured, having followed Harry’s line of sight. 

Icarus, who had his back to the staff table, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Barty reckons that Dumbledore’s formed a group of his own, a secret society designed to oppose the Dark Lord’s rise. They’re calling themselves the Order of the Phoenix.”

Harry smirked. “Not a very well kept secret, is it?”

“Who’s in it?” asked Lucinda. 

“Quite a few very powerful wixen. And that’s not all. Apparently, he’s looking to recruit new members . . . amongst the graduating year, no less.”

“What? But they’re only teenagers,” said Harry quietly. “That’s sick. He’s as bad as the Dark Lord.” 

“They’re all as bad as each other,” said Regulus. 

Icarus shrugged. “The seventh-years are all of age now. If they join the DMLE, where do you think they'll end up? Right on the front lines. It’s no different, really . . . all paths lead the same way.” 

“I can’t fathom why the old man hasn’t resigned,” Lucinda muttered. “He’s hardly ever in the castle. I bet he’ll be rushing back to the Ministry for a nine o’clock with that dolt Bagnold.”

Just as Harry was about to comment, a jarring sound cut through the usual din of dinner. It was a voice that chilled him to the bone, a voice laced with a breathtaking, icy venom.

“ . . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . . ”

Harry's fork slipped from his hand with a clatter. “What?” he said loudly.

“I was saying,” Regulus repeated, “Bagnold's chances of reelection are about as likely as the Cannon’s winning this year's league: non-existent.”

“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!”

“What voice?” said Icarus, looking puzzled.

Harry felt his heart slowly sink as a cold wave of dread washed over him. “Didn’t you hear it?”

“What are you talking about, Harry?” said Regulus quietly. 

Harry bit his tongue. Heads from either side along the table were turning towards him curiously. 

Then, growing fainter, he heard the same cold and murderous voice speak again, “ . . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . . ”

Harry pushed his plate aside. He felt like he might be sick. 

Had his presence alone been enough to wake the ancient beast from slumber? Harry hadn’t spoken a word aloud, had not laid a finger on the basilisk. He hadn’t spared a thought to the possibility . . . 

But he needn’t leap to conclusions. Hearing voices no one else could wasn’t so different from the other strange anomalies that plagued his existence. It didn’t necessarily—Harry hoped desperately—have to mean anything at all.

Still . . . 

Harry strained his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no trace of it. 

He felt the beginning of a headache pressing into the back of his temple, and he looked up at the starless black sky that hung above them with foreboding. Blood roared in his ears as the pain intensified. It felt as if someone was slicing right into the top of his head. 

Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands . . . 

He had no idea where he was, whether he was standing or lying down, he didn’t even know his own name  . . . the hem of his long, black cloak swept across a pebbled beach as tumultuous waves crashed against the shore. In the distance a towering bonfire burst to life, its flames reaching high into the moonlit sky . . . dotted around the perimeter, his masked followers awaited his signal . . . a cold and terrifying laughter bubbled up inside him as he drew forth his wand. 

“Harry!” 

Someone’s fingers were digging painfully into his forearm. As Harry pulled his trembling hands away from his face, he became aware that the inane laughter was coming from his own mouth. The moment he realised this, he stopped. 

The scar on his forehead throbbed horribly, and Regulus was still clutching his arm, looking extremely worried. “What the hell’s so funny? You’re acting a bit mad, Harry.”

Heat crawled up the back of Harry’s neck as he noticed that the students all around them were openly staring. 

“I . . . dunno.”

“Let’s go see Madam Pomfrey,” said Regulus gently. “You’re delirious, Harry. You just need a good night's sleep.” 

“No,” Harry whispered, his mind piecing together fragments until, at last, the picture aligned with startling clarity. “Something’s happening . . . a raid.”

“A what?” 

Harry gave Regulus a significant look. The words felt as though a stranger were speaking them through Harry's lips, yet he knew they were true—he had walked that familiar stretch of beach many times with his mother. “Voldemort’s in Brighton.” 

“How d’you—”

“Come with me,” Harry said quickly. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

Harry rose unsteadily from his seat, and by the time he’d reached his full height, he’d made his decision. All half-baked thoughts of checking on the basilisk had slipped from his mind . . . he had to get to Brighton, and fast . . . he’d already lost one parent this year, real or not. He wasn’t prepared to lose another. 

Chapter Text

Harry felt Regulus fall into step behind him as he flew down the Slytherin table, past Ravenclaw, veering straight towards the double doors. But just as he reached the threshold, his steps faltered. There was no time to waste . . . but Euphemia was James’s mother also. Didn’t he owe it to James, to let him know? 

Cursing under his breath, Harry quickly doubled back. 

Beneath the gold and scarlet banner, he leaned into the space between James and Sirius, whispering urgently, “The Dark Lord’s attacking Brighton.”

“What?” said Sirius, throwing down his fork. 

James clumsily placed his goblet onto the table, pumpkin juice spilling over the rim. “You can’t be serious?” 

“I am.”

“How d’you—”

“—I just know, alright?”

Harry moved to step back, but felt Sirius’s hand clasped firmly around his wrist. Grey eyes mapped Harry’s face. “Did you overhear something, or . . . ?”

“Muffliato,” Regulus muttered, glaring down the table of Gryffindors. Several people had turned right around in their seats to watch the exchange. 

“Yeah,” said Harry quietly. “There’s a bonfire, by the waterfront. A lot of people have gathered for Beltane . . . the Death Eaters are hidden all around . . . they’re surrounded . . . no one’s going to get out unscathed.” Harry found that his voice was shaking, and he drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Anyway,” he continued, “I‘m going. I’m leaving right now.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Then James said, “You’re absolutely fucking not.” 

“I’m not asking your permission, Dad,” Harry snarked. “I’m telling you what I’m doing. Mum’ll be there, don’t you realise that? If I leave now, I can get her out.” 

“But—Harry . . . ” said James faintly. 

“What? What?” said Harry. Impatiently, he pulled his arm free from Sirius. 

“Let’s think this through,” said Regulus, his face pale and frightened. “How about we tell Sluggie. He can floo-call the Ministry, get someone—the Aurors—to check it out.”

Harry shook his head. “There’ll be too many questions. Look, I’m not asking anyone to come along—”

“—Of course we’re coming,” said Sirius indignantly.

Understanding slowly dawned on James’s face. “What do you mean, too many questions? How do you know all this, Harry?”

Harry closed his eyes. 

After a moment’s silence, Regulus supplied, “He heard a voice.”

“Harry,” James said weakly, “are you . . . are you seeing things again? Visions? But that was years ago—I thought the Healers said—I thought you’d put that behind you. I thought they’d sorted it out.” 

Harry ground his teeth, his voice rising steadily with his temper. “I know what I saw, James. I don’t have time for this now, I need to find a way out of the castle.” 

“You must have dozed off. It was just a dream, that’s all. None of it’s real—”

“—It’s real to me!”  

Harry felt his face heat unpleasantly. He couldn't understand why the three of them were staring at him, wide-eyed, as if he'd completely lost his mind. And then, from behind the gold and scarlet banner draped above them, Peeves the Poltergeist emerged, cackling as he somersaulted midair.

“What’s this?” Peeves said loudly, shattering the muffliato and catching the immediate attention of half the Gryffindor table. “Wee Potty’s hearing voices? Seeing visions?”

Harry cringed as a fresh wave of embarrassment crashed over him. “Piss off, Peeves.”

“Oooh, Crackpot’s feeling cranky.”

“I said, PISS OFF!!” Harry shouted. 

Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry. Then, leering down at them, he began to sing, “Most think he’s barking, the Potty wee lad. Some are more kindly and think he’s gone bad. Peevesy knows better and says he’s plain mad.” 

“SHUT UP!” 

Harry had failed to notice Professor McGonagall’s slow descent from the staff table. Looking more than a little harassed, she said, “What on earth is going on here, Mr Potter, Mr Black?” 

Peeves cackled gleefully, singing loudly as he zipped through the Great Hall.

“I was just—” Harry began stiffly. 

But Sirius cut him off. 

“—Spherical Astronomy,” he said, giving Harry a pointed look. “The chapter on planetary motions. It’s right there, what you’re looking for.” Then, turning to McGonagall, he continued, “Just helping Harry with some homework, Professor. Nothing wrong with that, is there?” 

Professor McGonagall’s lips were a thin line of disbelief. “Well,” she said, rounding on Harry, “you might want to start tackling that right away, don't you think?”

“Yes, Professor,” muttered Harry, not meeting McGonagall’s eye. 

He turned quickly and strode out of the Great Hall into the deserted corridor outside.

It felt like an age had passed since he’d poured over his dog-eared copy of Spherical Astronomy, the day of the Quidditch team trials. Yet he could vividly recall showing the textbook to Icarus, asking his friend’s opinion about a crude drawing on the chapter detailing planetary motions.

“Where are we going?” Regulus panted, a few paces behind him. 

Harry remained silent. Moments later, he stopped midway down the third-floor corridor, as they came upon a statue. Harry drew his wand from his pocket as he circled the one-eyed witch. 

What was he supposed to do? 

“I think this might be a—”

“—Secret passageway? Five points to Slytherin.” 

Harry peered around the statue just as Sirius came into sight, James following behind him.

“It’ll take us to Honeydukes,” Sirius explained. “We can Apparate as soon as we’re outside the castle’s wards.” 

“Are you actually coming?” asked Harry wearily as his scar throbbed again. Every moment they delayed was precious; he did not have time to argue. “It’ll be dangerous. We’ll probably get in a lot of trouble.” 

They all fell silent.

Then, a crooked smile stretched across James’s face. “Trouble?” he said, dry as bone. “That’ll be a refreshing change, won’t it.” 

Harry couldn’t suppress a grin in response.

“Dissendium!” Sirius whispered, tapping the stone witch with his wand. 

At once, the statue swung open, unveiling the entrance to a hidden tunnel. One by one, they climbed inside, sliding down the long stone passage until they landed on cold, damp earth. Using the light from their wands to guide them, they set off down the twisting passageway. After what felt like an excessively long time, Sirius finally said, “I think we’ve gone far enough, now.”

“Take my hand, Harry,” ordered James. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I know how to do it.”

“Well if you splinch again, it’s your own damn fault.”

“They’ll have anti-apparition wards in place,” said Harry, stubbornly ignoring James’s proffered hand. “Meet at the Ferris wheel, opposite the pier. We can walk from there.” 

Closing his eyes tightly, Harry stepped forward into the suffocating darkness of Apparition. He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes; he could smell the salty air, hear the crashing waves, feel the sea breeze whipping through his hair. 

He looked towards the beach, where an eerie scene was unfolding in the distance. The Beltane festival burned brightly, bathed in a warm, golden light that rippled across the ocean beyond it. Indistinct figures danced around the bonfire, casting monstrous shadows, and streaks of red and green light—spellfire—lit up the night sky like shooting stars.

“S’pose it really wasn’t a dream,” James admitted. Then, so casually he might have been asking Harry’s opinion on a game of quidditch, “What’re you thinking?”

“Not sure,” said Harry. With some effort, he tore his gaze from the sky. “Let’s get a bit closer.” 

He set off across the beach, the others moving closely behind him. Their footsteps crunched and slid against the pebbles. 

“The Muggle Repelling Charms are down,” Sirius noted. 

Harry narrowed his eyes, focusing on the bonfire. Drawn by the noise and the colourful lights, muggles were indeed gravitating toward the festival like moths to a flame, blissfully unaware of the danger.

“What’s that, moving in the water?” said Regulus anxiously.

Harry’s gaze slid towards the ocean, and he jolted in shock. He could see something very pale—alien and grotesque—moving through the water some twenty feet away. Before he could quite make it out, it vanished beneath a wave. 

“Inferi,” Sirius breathed.

“Whatever happens,” said James, “do not get into that water. We’ll find Mum, and we’ll go. Alright?” 

Harry nodded. He was more than a little unnerved, and keener than he was prepared to admit on returning to Hogwarts as swiftly as possible. As they drew closer, their pace quickened. A horrible, gut-wrenching sound drifted back towards them on the breeze. 

“We need a plan,” Regulus began. “Let’s try to—”

But James was off, plunging headfirst into the fray, and Sirius closely followed in his wake.

“—stick together,” Regulus finished irritably. “Those stupid bloody Gryffindors.” 

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp as his gaze was drawn to a tall, thin, hooded figure. A dark and malevolent magic thrummed all around them, so potent that it rattled Harry’s teeth. And, unwanted in a way like never before, an emotion—an euphoria—not Harry’s own ebbed into his consciousness. 

Harry stood in awe. He had never seen anything like it . . .

The Dark Lord moved with an otherworldly grace, beautiful and deadly. None that opposed him stood a chance. His opponents were impossibly outmatched, powerless before him, and Voldemort showed no mercy as he cut them down at his feet.

Harry quickly turned away. He did not want Voldemort to know that he was there. 

Harry trod on something soft and slippery, and he barely managed to catch his balance. He had stepped right onto the body of a muggle, lying motionless in a pool of blood. 

One of the fighters detached themself from the crowd, and they were on top of Harry before he could raise his wand. Harry fell backward, and the stench of blood and sweat filled his nose while hot breath fanned his neck. 

Harry didn’t have time to think. He pressed the tip of his wand between them and cried, “Petrificus Totalus!” 

Harry felt his opponent collapse against him. With tremendous effort, he pushed them away, just as a jet of green light hit the ground an inch from his face. 

He heard someone calling his name, but who it was Harry did not know. The faces of his friends had vanished, swallowed by the crowd—a frenzied, shifting tide of bodies pushing and pulling from every direction.

Before he could rise to his feet, something struck him hard in the small of his back. He fell forward, his face smashing into the ground. Blood gushed out from both his nostrils as he swung his wand over his shoulder, screaming, “Impedimenta!”

Miraculously his jinx hit—the Death Eater buckled and fell to the ground. 

Harry lurched to his feet, his heart thundering. He took off around the bonfire, sure that Regulus could not have gone far . . . 

“Hello, petal,” came a deep, rasping voice.

Pebbles flew as Harry skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding colliding with a man—a werewolf—with matted hair and unkempt whiskers. His Death Eater robes looked uncomfortably tight, stretched across the huge breadth of his chest, and his bloodied hands had long, yellow nails. Harry recognised him at once from his picture in the Daily Prophet. 

“Greyback,” Harry greeted warily. 

The werewolf licked his lips obscenely, his yellow eyes roving over Harry’s body. “Skipping school, are you, petal? Naughty, naughty. Perhaps I should accompany you back . . . I wouldn’t mind a trip to Hogwarts.” Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. “You do smell delicious . . .  I could do you for afters, petal.” 

Terror tore at Harry’s heart, but he held his wand steady. “Doubt you'd like the taste of me,” he said. “I’m not very sweet.”

Greyback raised his wand, and that was all the warning Harry got before curses flew from it. 

“Crucio—Crucio—you’re very pretty, petal—Crucio—but even the loveliest flowers wilt.”

“Confringo!” yelled Harry, dodging the jets of red light. 

His spell struck Greyback square in the chest, yet the werewolf merely chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, shaking the curse off like water from the coat of a wet dog.

“Expelliarmus! Reducto! Bombarda!” Harry cried, growing increasingly desperate. None of the spells were taking; Greyback’s pelt was thick, repellant. 

“Spirited, aren't you, petal?” Greyback leered, moving forward with his hands outstretched, his pointed teeth bared. “I do enjoy it when dinner bites back.” 

It was both a warning and a promise. 

A brilliant flash of light erupted from nowhere, and the werewolf was abruptly thrown aside, as though an invisible force had swept Greyback from his path.

A dark figure appeared right in front of Harry, and a hand tightened around his jaw. He was then maneuvered down until his knees slammed painfully against the ground. With his gaunt features hidden beneath a hooded cloak, Harry could just make out Voldemort’s gleaming red eyes. 

“Hello, cousin,” said Voldemort softly. He brushed his thumb over Harry’s upper lip, wiping the blood that still wept from his nose. “Dare I say, violence suits you.”

Harry’s breath hitched. 

With Voldemort’s long fingers gripping his jaw, he felt the form of the Dark Lord’s feelings—the familial belonging, the inherent right of ownership, a twisted amusement—spill into his own. 

“Oh,” said Harry awkwardly. “Thank you?”

Voldemort’s grip tightened. “We are overdue a conversation . . . but now is not the time. Yet again, you are interrupting my evening. I’m rather busy, you see, and the Ministry’s taskforce is near. I want you gone from here . . . do not test my patience, cousin.” Voldemort dragged his thumb possessively down Harry’s cheek before violently pushing him back towards the ground. “Away with you!”

Catching himself just before his head again hit the pebbles, Harry glared furiously up at Voldemort. “I will not leave without my friends and family.” 

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “If you do not obey me, then I will simply force your hand. Tell me, cousin . . . can you swim?”

A cold dread settled over Harry as he predicated Voldemort’s next move. “What? But the Inferi—”

“—Are practically harmless,” Voldemort tsked.

A moon emerged from behind the veil of clouds, casting light upon Voldemort’s waxen features. He smiled coldly down at Harry. 

“Don’t—” Harry pleaded. 

But it was no use . . . a surge of magic struck him with force, lifting Harry high into the air before casting him down, far into the depths of the ocean.

The water was icy cold. Harry’s waterlogged clothes billowed around him, weighing him down. Spitting salt water from his mouth and cursing the Dark Lord, he struck out for the light of the bonfire on the shore. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw Inferi with sunken, sightless eyes turning towards him from between the waves.

Then something closed tight around his ankle.

Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but the Inferi’s grip tightened, and it pulled him deeper and deeper underneath the water. Thrashing, suffocating, he kicked at the Inferi, his fingers frozen around his wand.

Lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, he had no air left, he did not know what to do. Panicking, Harry tried to remember how to fight an Inferi . . . Yaxley had covered the topic in their very first lesson of the year. But Harry had been groggy, doped up on too much Dreamless Sleep. As usual, he had not been paying any attention . . . 

They’re dark creatures, a familiar voice—a note higher than one might expect—chided in his head. Naturally, they will be repelled by light. 

Harry’s wand was still held tightly in his fist. Concentrating with everything he had, he conjured a fire that erupted in a ring around him. The Inferi holding onto Harry fell back. Relief coursed through him as he swam upward, and finally he broke the surface of the water, breathing in great lungfuls of air. 

Harry did not extinguish the fire from his wand until he’d clambered onto the shore. Water cascaded from his soaking clothes, and he shivered uncontrollably. 

The fight had concluded; the Death Eaters, and Voldemort, had vanished. 

Harry noticed a small crowd gathered at one edge of the bonfire. Moving as if in a dream, he weaved through the crowd until he reached its center, where the fallen had been carefully laid in a uniform line. 

A heavy, crushing weight settled in his chest.

He knelt down beside James, who sat with Euphemia's body, her head cradled in his lap. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful. If not for the pallor of her skin, Harry might have believed she was merely asleep. 

It was too much, unbearable. He couldn’t stand it, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to face it. There was a huge gaping hollow inside him that churned with guilt, with failure, and it writhed and squirmed like a festering wound overrun by parasites. He was sure that he was going to be sick. He did not want to be himself anymore, did not want to be bound to the Dark Lord, did not want to be displaced in this constellation of unfamiliar faces. 

He had never wished so intensely that he could be normal, could be somebody—anybody—else . . . 

“Do you know how it happened?” he asked roughly. “How did she . . . ”

James shook his head. “She was—she was already gone when I found her. There was nothing we could have done.” 

Harry looked down at his hands.

“Go and get some rest, Harry,” said James softly. “I’ll stay with mum. The anti-apparition wards have been lifted . . . go to Godric’s Hollow, floo-call McGonagall or Slughorn—whoever’s awake—let them know where we are, what’s happened.”

Back to Godric’s Hollow, to the family home? He couldn’t . . . 

“I’ll go to Hogwarts,” said Harry, standing on shaking legs. “And meet you in Godric’s Hollow in the morning.” 

Regulus, who had been speaking quietly to Sirius, stepped forward. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

It seemed that hours upon hours had passed since they’d left the school, though Harry knew in reality it couldn’t have been that long ago. He suddenly wished that he’d said a proper goodbye to Icarus and Lucinda, to Lily . . . 

Feeling utterly spent and exhausted, Harry concentrated on his destination: Hogsmeade. He closed his eyes and stepped into tight, compressing darkness.

His All Stars hit the cobblestones, and he knew at once that something was horribly wrong. He stood, still dripping wet, in the middle of Hogsmeade. But up and down the main street, students milled about underneath the street lamps in their pyjamas, looking unmistakably distressed. 

The next moment, with the telltale crack of Apparition, Regulus appeared beside him. 

“Regulus! Harry!”

Icarus, wearing a crown of wilted flowers around his head, was pushing through the other students towards them. 

“What’s going on?” asked Regulus at once.

“Thank goodness. I’m so glad to see you,” said Icarus. “I thought—I thought the worst.” 

Upon closer inspection, Harry noticed that wet tracks of tears were streaming down his friend’s face. Harry’s stomach plummeted. 

“What has happened?” asked Regulus again. “Icarus, what’s wrong?” 

Icarus pointed in the direction of Hogwarts. “Don’t you know? The whole school has been evacuated. They’re saying a monster was let loose inside the castle . . . at least one student has died, and a lot more are missing. And Harry—Harry, I’m so sorry. I know that she was your friend.”

Dread filled Harry at the words. 

He looked over his shoulder towards the moonlit castle. Something told Harry that he would never set foot inside Hogwarts again . . . he felt as though he were spinning through the air in free-fall, unable to process what was going on, unable to grasp anything but the awful, undeniable, inescapable truth that the monster was a basilisk, that this was all his fault, that he was entirely to blame.

Regulus’s hand clenched tightly around his own. 

“Who?” asked Harry. “Who has died?” 

The world seemed to contract, shrink, narrow down to this single moment in time that would always mark before from after. 

Icarus’s voice trembled. “Evans. They're saying it's Lily Evans.”

Chapter Text

As the day drew to an inevitable close, a stillness settled over the sunbaked mudbrick homes of Godric's Hollow, where elongated shadows stretched lazily in the fading light. The shadows slid slowly over Euphemia’s obituary, the smudged pages of the newspaper further obscured by an abandoned cup of tea. Lying flat on his back on the floor, with a pinched and distinctly unhealthy look about him, Harry dropped the end of a cigarette into the cup where it fizzled and bobbed on the surface. 

“That’s disgusting,” James admonished as he strode through the living room. “For goodness sake, would you put some trousers on?”

Harry closed his eyes. If only he had never set foot inside the Chamber of Secrets, none of this would be happening. More to delay the moment when Lily Evans’ face would once again rise to the forefront of his mind than because he actually cared, he asked, “Why should I?” 

“I told you already—I’m expecting a visitor,” said James irritably. “This might come as a surprise, but Albus Dumbledore probably doesn’t want to see you moping about in your pants.” James pulled his wand from his pocket, pointing it with a quiet, unspoken threat. “Well, didn’t you hear me? Why aren’t you moving?” 

Harry’s scowl deepened, and he muttered beneath his breath, “Just trying to decide what I might curse you with.”

“What was that?” 

With a resigned groan, Harry pushed himself off the floor. As he dragged his feet down the hallway, he caught Sirius’s voice drifting from the kitchen. “D’you think Hogwarts will reopen next year?”

“I dunno,” James replied. “Dumbledore’s in consultation with the Board. I reckon the parents will want to keep their kids at home . . . can’t say that I blame them.”

“Personally, I don’t think we were in any more danger at Hogwarts than we are anywhere else right now.”

There was a moment’s pause. 

“If I ever find out who was responsible,” said James darkly, “I swear to God, I’m going to wring their neck.” 

Harry leapt up the stairs two at a time. 

His bedroom was a veritable disaster, and a fitting metaphor for the state of his life. Records were strewn across the floorboards, where he’d tried to distract himself by playing each in turn before casting them aside. His trunk lay open and unpacked, its contents spewing out around it. Harry peered inside his wardrobe, fully aware that it held nothing he wanted to wear . . . most of his clothes lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed. 

Harry selected a pair of shorts he’d long outgrown, pushed his feet into his All Stars, and pulled a dirty denim jacket over his head. He stared at his pale reflection in the wardrobe mirror and let out a long, slow breath. 

Every day since Beltane had been the same; the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again . . . and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of when the Ministry would turn up to snap his wand and throw him into Azkaban.

Deciding to make himself scarce, Harry headed back down the stairs to the front door. 

“I’m going out!” he yelled over his shoulder. 

He opened the door and froze. Standing there, in a shimmering purple cloak with a tall pointed hat and a long crooked nose, was the Headmaster. 

“Ah, good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “I daresay James has told you he is expecting me?” 

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry dully. He stepped back, allowing Dumbledore room to move inside the house.

But just as he turned to slip outside, Dumbledore's calm, kindly voice filled the air, pulling him back. “Horace has informed me that you do not intend to finish the school year.” 

Harry stared resolutely at the fading constellations drawn on his All Stars. He had attended only one class held at a temporary location in North London to break the news to Slughorn.

“There is no shame in taking time away to heal, and to mourn those which you’ve lost, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “As there is no shame in what you’re feeling. On the contrary, that you’re able to feel so much shows a great strength of character.” 

Harry felt a monstrous guilt fill him up until he could no longer contain it. It clawed at his insides, tearing him open in its desperate bid to escape. 

Dumbledore had no idea.  

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry bluntly. He did not care about being rude. Nothing mattered to him anymore. What was the point? “You don’t know how I feel.” 

When Dumbledore did not immediately refute this, Harry's gaze was drawn up. Dumbledore looked sad and tired as he surveyed Harry through his half-moon spectacles. “Remember, Harry, that it is our choices which reveal who we truly are, not the circumstances that surround us.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant—and he didn’t want to, either. He nodded and stepped outside, closing the front door firmly behind him.

Though the day was still very warm, Harry felt numb and cold. 

The orange glow of the setting sun reflected fragments of light from Harry’s golden earring onto the cobblestoned path as he moved down the street, barely conscious of the direction he was following. Lately, he had wandered the streets of Godric’s Hollow so often that his feet instinctively guided him to his favourite haunt: the local pub, the Seven Swans.

With every few steps, he cast a glance over his shoulder, feeling an unsettling, creeping sensation that suggested he was being followed.

When he finally reached his destination, that feeling intensified. A dark and ominous presence enveloped the pub, the air heavy with a magic so potent it felt almost tangible.

Taking a measured breath, Harry approached the bar and settled onto a vacant stool. He propped his elbow on the counter, resting his face in the palm of his hand as he studied the familiar lines of Voldemort’s face. Bathed in the mottled afternoon light, the Dark Lord's hallowed features appeared softened, less gaunt. Harry was struck by the sudden thought that, though no longer classically handsome, Voldemort was somehow even more striking in his new visage. 

Voldemort smirked knowingly, idly sipping from an iced tumbler.

Harry felt his face heat, and his skin clung to the barstool as he shifted his weight, barely resisting the urge to stretch the sparse fabric of his shorts across his exposed thigh. 

“You are upset with me,” said Voldemort quietly. He had not taken his eyes from Harry’s face. 

“Upset with you?” Harry repeated. “I’m a little more than upset, Voldemort. You threw me into an ocean of Inferi! Not to mention the Chamber of Secrets . . . thirteen students. Thirteen. You knew I’d inadvertently wake the basilisk—they’re highly sensitive, I know that now—but that was what you wanted all along, wasn’t it?” 

A smile curled at the edge of Voldemort’s mouth. “Perhaps. I never divulged the location of the Chamber’s entrance, nor did I explicitly tell you to enter it. This is entirely your own making . . . you’ve brought this upon yourself.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. There was no denying the truth in Voldemort’s words. 

“D’you think I don’t know that?” said Harry bitterly. The admission did little to ease the dead weight of guilt inside him. “I’m going to hand myself in . . . it’s the only thing I can do to make this right. Better to fess up now than sit around any longer waiting for the Ministry to break down my bedroom door.”

“You’re almost of age,” said Voldemort, still smiling pleasantly. “You will stand trial as an adult, and you will be condemned to Azkaban. Your friends and family, all of them will turn against you. Is that what you really want?”

“It’s what I deserve!” 

Voldemort was still watching him, spinning his glass tumbler between long, spidery fingers. “Take control of your own future, cousin. There are many roads that lead to redemption. Save thirteen souls from certain death, and you will have atoned your sins.”

Harry’s fingers were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms. “It’s not that simple.”

“I will grant you this opportunity,” Voldemort continued. His red eyes danced across Harry’s face, his expression growing hungrier. “I will keep you from Azkaban, and nobody need ever know the details of what has transpired. But you must pledge your loyalty to me . . . there will be an initiation ceremony tomorrow evening.”

Harry stared at Voldemort. There was something undeniably appealing about the offer. It was a chance, perhaps, to make up for what he’d done. A chance to do some good, to turn things around. 

Suddenly, Harry understood. 

While the Dark Lord had played a role in unleashing the basilisk, it had not been the leading part. He had deliberately left just enough gaps in Harry’s knowledge to ensure that it would be undisputedly Harry’s own hand that was bloodiest. Voldemort knew that Harry would never willingly choose to join his ranks, and had manipulated the events to fall just so. 

Harry saw himself at once for the cornered animal that he was. 

Every path around him was closing off, every door slamming shut. Nobody else would offer any sympathy or forgiveness for what he’d done. Harry was trapped, his options narrowed to two: Voldemort or Azkaban. 

Harry grit his teeth and looked away sullenly. 

He barely stifled a gasp when Voldemort reached across the bar to take Harry’s hand in his own. Just as it had happened the last time they’d sat in the very same pub, Harry felt Voldemort’s stream of emotions spill into and entwine with his own. It was an infinite, confusing loop of Harry feels what Voldemort feels what Harry feels what Voldemort feels. 

Voldemort’s blazing red eyes locked onto Harry’s green ones with such intensity that Harry felt as though he were being incinerated by a supernova’s glare.

“I truly empathise with your struggles, cousin,” said Voldemort smoothly, silkily, with sibilant inflection. The pad of his thumb gently stroked Harry’s hand. “I, too, spent countless years searching for where I belonged. In many ways, we are one and the same.”

If Harry hadn’t been well aware of Voldemort’s constant games and manipulations, he might have believed the man to be genuine. 

“What d’you mean by that?” asked Harry suspiciously. His heart was beating very fast. “What is this connection between us? What does any of it mean?” 

Voldemort’s eyes widened maliciously. “It is astonishing how unaware you are of your own self.”

Harry bit back a noise of irritation as he pulled his hand away, abruptly severing the connection. Leave it to the Dark Lord to respond in a way that raised more questions than it answered. Half of what he said hardly made sense. Yet it brought forth a memory of their very first encounter, rising like mist—visible but indistinct—in Harry’s mind.

. . . How curious. What exactly are you? . . . Don’t you mean who? . . . 

“Tell me,” Harry pleaded. “What am I to you?”

Voldemort lifted his tumbler, drained it, then set it down upon the bar. “I have several theories. The simplest being that you show an innate talent as an Empath.”

Harry waited, but Voldemort did not go on. “A what?”

“It is a branch of the mind arts. Like Occlumency or Legilimency, some wixen possess a natural affinity, though it may also be learned. An Empath has the ability to sense the emotions of others.”

Harry considered this briefly. He acknowledged that it offered a partial explanation of his ability to detect Voldemort’s presence, to know what he was feeling when his emotions were roused. Yet, something deeper within Harry resisted the idea . . . it didn't quite add up. He came quickly to the realisation that, if he really wanted Voldemort’s opinion, he would have to part with a truth of his own. 

A dazzling orange light shone through the pub’s grimy windows as the sun sank below the horizon. The light fell upon Voldemort, upon the hollow of his cheek, upon the sharp line of his jaw. 

“But it’s only you, Voldemort,” Harry admitted quietly. “You’re the only one that I can sense. It’s only ever been you.” 

Harry sat, tense, waiting for Voldemort to react. The silence that stretched between them was absolute. But then Voldemort’s mouth twisted again, his smile widening.

“The same blood runs through our veins,” said Voldemort very softly, reverently. “It’s only natural that we’d be drawn to one another, that magic itself would recognize and reward this. I expect you to test this theory . . . see whether you can hone this skill—if you possess it at all. You’ll find everything you need in the Black family library.”

“You mentioned other theories. What are they?”

There was an odd gleam in Voldemort’s hungry red eyes as he stood and loomed above Harry, a terrifying and imposing figure that demanded obedience. “First, we shall determine whether or not you are an Empath. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow evening, cousin . . . eight o’clock.”

Panic licked at Harry’s insides. He had not agreed to this. He had not agreed to anything. 

He heard the faint clink of metal ringing against wood, and glanced down to see a ring spinning on the surface of the sticky counter. It was a delicate thing, two golden bands shaped into the coils of entwined serpents.

“What’s this?” Harry asked. “A portkey?” 

His hand closed around the ring, which felt unnaturally cool against his skin. In that moment, the overwhelming sense of despair that had haunted him since Beltane began to fade. An idea had taken root in Harry's mind—perhaps, he mused, his circumstances were not as hopeless as they appeared.

By the time he looked up, Voldemort had already gone. 

Chapter Text

“Would you quit squirming? I’m almost done.”

Harry clicked his tongue impatiently. “It’s taking forever.” 

Darkness had filled the star-strewn sky outside Harry’s bedroom window. On the windowsill, an alarm clock ticked loudly, its hand poised at one minute to seven. Beside it, resting atop a stack of books borrowed from the Black family library, lay a golden ring.

As the hour hand brushed past the number seven, Sirius finally let the quill fall onto Harry's bedside table and released his grip on Harry’s hand. “It’s done. What d’you think?”

Harry held his hand in front of his face. His finger was smarting and inflamed where the sharp nib had pierced beneath his skin. Thin black lines formed the abstract shape of a flower, mirroring the triangle inked on the finger beside it.

Harry smiled sadly. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Sirius settled comfortably onto the bed beside Harry, legs crossed and hands behind his head. Even in this simple motion, he appeared effortlessly cool.

“James was sleeping with her,” Sirius told him casually. “Did you know that? I think they were in love.”

An image of Lily Evans forced its way into Harry’s mind, and for a moment he could hardly breathe.

“Fucking tragic, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded, his gaze fixed on the window. 

With his heart thundering in his chest, he worked to regain control of his breathing, reciting the names of the constellations in the night sky. Lyra, Leo, Canes Venatici. 

How strange, he mused, that his body would soon bear another bit of ink—a brand, like that of cattle—marking him as property belonging to the Dark Lord. There was a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth. The mark would not only represent his allegiance to Voldemort, but also serve as a permanent reminder of Voldemort’s absolute control. With each passing minute, Harry felt another fragment of his freedom slip away.

His stomach lurched at the thought. 

Sensing the shift in Harry’s mood, Sirius smoothly redirected the conversation. “Are you reading these?” he inquired, tilting his head as his grey eyes skimmed the spines of the books beside the window: Feeling in Colour, The Art of Empathy: Emotional Perception and Response, and A Study of Sensitivity and Social Interaction.

“Been having a go,” Harry replied. With a massive effort, he tore his gaze from the stars.

He had spent most of the day holed up in the library at Grimmauld Place with Regulus, determined to master the skills of an Empath as quickly as humanly possible. He felt certain that if he could fool Voldemort into believing their connection went no deeper, it would work to his advantage. 

A grin flitted across Sirius’s face as he smirked. In a teasing tone, he said, “An Empath, really? No offense, little Potter, but you’re probably the most self-involved person I’ve ever met. Why the sudden interest in what anybody else is feeling?”

“Takes one to know one,” Harry muttered.

He eyed Sirius, considering whether to elaborate. Sirius knew Harry well enough to catch an outright lie . . . but something rooted in the truth ought to do the trick. 

“But I’ve realised,” Harry went on, “that I can’t give up. Mum wouldn’t have wanted that, would she? I want to know how she died. I want to find out who killed her, and I want to take them down. And I think, sensing how someone feels—being able to feel out the truth—is one way I can uncover the answer.”

There was a pause at this, and then Sirius said, “Voldemort killed your mum, Harry.” 

“Inadvertently, maybe.” Harry glanced sideways at Sirius, who wore an expression of bewilderment tinged with irritation. Unconsciously, Harry raised one hand to his forehead and rubbed the lightning shaped scar beneath his fringe. 

“Why are you making excuses for that bastard? If Voldemort hadn’t started this war—hadn’t led the raid on Beltane—Euphemia would still be alive, wouldn’t she?”

“This war has been brewing for a long time. If Voldemort hadn’t stepped up to lead it, someone else would have. A lot of people are going to die, that’s just a fact. It’s not . . . it wasn’t personal, mum’s death. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that fucking sucks, but it doesn’t change the reality of the situation.”

There was another pause in which Sirius looked at Harry, a crease between his eyes. “That’s some fucked up logic, little Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s pragmatic.”

He was not going to change his mind. There was no sense in directing his anger towards Voldemort . . . Harry needed to confront this situation with cunning. What other option did he have, really? Voldemort was right about one thing—he’d never make up for what he’d done confined to Azkaban. 

Besides, it seemed obvious to Harry that Voldemort would ultimately win the war, just as it was obvious that Harry had the Dark Lord’s favor. How far that favor stretched . . . he was curious to see. He would not allow another friend to die if it was in his power to stop it.

Harry felt his fingers trembling, and he made an effort to control them. He was no coward. Yet, to willingly submit to Voldemort . . . the evening ahead would demand a different kind of courage.

“Can you do it, then?” asked Sirius curiously. “Go on. If you're an Empath, tell me what I’m feeling.”

Harry glanced at the clock. Nearly an hour remained before the initiation ceremony. Right now, a distraction was exactly what he needed. And Sirius? He had always been one of Harry’s favourite distractions. 

Harry rolled onto his side. He lifted a hand and rested it gently upon Sirius’s sternum. Then—very carefully, very gradually—his hand inched lower, drifting between the hollow of his ribs, across his stomach, coming down to cup the front of his jeans. 

“I think you feel—” Harry grinned wickedly “—hard?” 

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “Hardly.”

Harry’s fingers fussed with the zipper. “Give me a break,” he said, “I’m working on it.” 

Fingers closed around his wrist, gently pushing him away. 

“Look, Harry,” Sirius began. His voice was strained, and the words came out slowly, with long pauses between, as if he were searching for the right way to soften them. “I think we should cool things down for a bit. Between us, that is. It’s just—I’m not sure that it’s working out, is it?”

Harry felt a dead weight sink right to the bottom of his stomach. 

He had not seen it coming . . . but then, when he thought about it, all the signs had been there. He couldn’t recall the last time they’d been alone together. 

“S’pose not,” Harry agreed. 

Sirius swept his hair out from his eyes. “You could pretend to be a little more upset.” 

“I was really hoping that we were finally going to have sex.” Harry felt his face flush with embarrassment  . . . the words had fallen from his mouth before he could stop them. 

Sirius smiled ruefully. “Me too.” 

A beat passed between them.

“Still could, if you wanted,” Harry offered. 

Sirius arched one brow. “That would be . . . pretty irresponsible.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Harry lifted his chin, a broad grin breaking across his face. 

Without warning, Sirius’s lips were pressed against his. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered the words into Sirius’s mouth as he coaxed it open with a slick slide of tongue. His kisses were hurried and hungry, each one bleeding into the next with a breathless urgency. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. 

Sirius did not know what Harry was apologising for, but he didn’t seem to mind. He shifted, the weight of his body pushing Harry back into the mattress. Black painted fingernails danced around the waistband of Harry’s jeans.

Harry took a handful of Sirius’s hair in his fist and pulled taught, drawing Sirius back. Once more, he found his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry gasped. 

Each item of clothing peeled back and shed was another empty apology. For the relationship that neither of them had fought to salvage. For the Dark Mark that would the very same evening be burned into Harry’s skin, fixing their places on opposing sides of the battlefield. 

These thoughts dissolved like stardust against his unwavering, stubborn resolve; this was the trajectory he had chosen.

He was no coward. 

Harry felt much more aware of his body than usual; the way his heart was pumping fast, the way his fingers trembled as they traced the vertebrae down Sirius’s spine. Yet at the same time he seemed to be outside himself, seeing the familiar clutter of his bedroom as though from very far away. 

Sirius murmured an incantation, then hesitated. 

“C’mon, Sirius,” Harry urged. He crossed his ankles behind Sirius’s back. “Fuck me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care. I want it to hurt.”

Hurt me like I’m going to hurt you.

A chaste kiss brushed his temple. Then he felt Sirius’s breath tickle his neck, heard a voice beside his ear, “You’re really fucked up, d’you know that?” 

Harry grit his teeth. “C’mon. Do it.”

And it did hurt, as Sirius slowly sunk in. Harry’s fists clenched around the sheets and he squeezed his eyes shut. It was almost intolerable. Yet, didn’t he deserve to suffer? Some sick part of him found the pain to be strangely satisfying. 

Would it hurt, Harry wondered, when Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand to Harry’s forearm? Would he cry out, as he did now? Would he feel, afterward, that he had been irrevocably changed—that he had become someone entirely new?

Sirius reached a hand down between them. The burn slowly receded, treading somewhere between pleasure as Sirius gently rocked his hips. Harry forced himself to breathe, to release the sheets, to press his forehead to Sirius’ and hold him close, hold him tight.

For a moment, everything else melted away. There was a sensitivity and care to the way in which Sirius moved inside him that was in no way like their usual roughhousing. Was Sirius . . . making love to him? 

Harry balked at the thought. 

“C’mon,” Harry urged again. “Fuck me, Sirius.”

He was no coward. 

Somehow, Sirius understood that time moved against them, and so he moved to counter its advance. Bore down a little harder and bent Harry’s knees to reach as far as he could go. Could it be that Sirius, too, felt the weight of the hour’s finality? That he understood, as well, that this chance was not likely to come again? 

Harry was breathing very fast, and his mouth and throat were completely dry.

It was as though he were seeing the world before him through the hazy lens of a dream, unfocused and indistinct. Yet he felt more alive, more aware than ever before. How had he never recognised, never appreciated the profound beauty of his own autonomy? It was a remarkable gift, this loyalty that belonged solely to himself and no other.

As their lips came together again, Harry clung to these last moments of his freedom, this last little piece of himself, clung to it and held tight until Sirius cried out and stilled above him. 

“Don’t stop,” Harry pleaded. “Keep going.” 

With a low groan, Sirius slipped free and shimmied down the bed to perch between his legs. 

Ripples of heat undulated over Harry’s skin as his back arched. He felt a release of pressure from somewhere near the base of his spine. His breath caught in his throat, his vision tunneled, and he was pulled through the indistinct haze back to the sharp focus of reality. 

The mattress bounced as Sirius collapsed beside him. 

Still breathing very hard, Harry opened his eyes and looked around. The muted scene had been brought back to life, colours and sounds once more flooding in. He became aware of the alarm clock ticking loudly on the windowsill, and the wireless blasting from James’s bedroom next door. He hoped that James had not heard them. 

Sirius lay on the bed unmoving as Harry got up and hastily retrieved his clothing. 

“Are you going somewhere?” asked Sirius incredulously. 

Harry hesitated. “I’ll be back later, probably.” 

He chanced half a glance at Sirius, who was now staring determinedly at the ceiling. 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

Sirius’s tone left no doubt in Harry’s mind that it was not meant to be taken as a compliment.

Harry slid one leg into his jeans, then followed with the other. “Did you imagine we’d cuddle afterwards?” he teased. “Were you going to be the big or the little spoon?” 

“Oh, piss off, then.”

“You did just break up with me. I hope you don’t regret it already?”

Harry cast a final, lingering glance back at Sirius. Part of him wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and wrap his arms around the other boy . . . but it was only a small part. He had somewhere that he needed to be. 

He was no coward . . . if he repeated it often enough, perhaps he might come to believe it.

“Of course I do,” Sirius replied softly.

Harry picked up the ring and dropped it into his pocket. His heart was leaping against his ribs like a wild creature trapped inside a cage, desperate to break free. Perhaps somehow it understood that soon it would belong to someone else. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again in a flat, distant voice. 

He did not look back as he closed the bedroom door. 

Chapter Text

A group of people appeared out of nowhere, standing a few yards apart in a narrow, moonlit lane. For a moment they froze, wands drawn and raised. Then, recognising each other as what could only be the group of new initiates, they stowed their wands and silently began walking down the path between two dense, overgrown hedges.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Potter,” said Evan Rosier. His handsome features slid in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke through the soft glow of the moon. “Finally come to your senses, have you?”

“More like lost them entirely,” said Harry dryly. 

Evan laughed. “Well, it shouldn’t be a great loss to you . . . I’m doubtful you ever had any to begin with.” 

Begrudgingly, Harry smiled at Evan. Though they had scarcely been on friendly terms at Hogwarts, Harry found himself at once comforted by the other boy’s presence. And Evan wasn’t the only familiar face, Harry realised as his eyes drifted over the group. It was made up mostly of Hogwart's seventh years, including Mulciber, the younger Lestrange, Macnair, Crouch and Snape.

After a pause, Evan said, “I’m still waiting for an apology, by the way.”

Harry glanced at Evan from the corner of his eye. “What? Whatever for?” 

“Don’t you remember? You accused me of poisoning your friend and then punched me in the face.”

Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. Their fight during Yaxley’s study group felt like something from another lifetime . . . Harry had no energy for grudges. In a teasing, taunting tone, he said, “Oh, that. Did I hurt your feelings, Evan?”

“You did, actually,” said Evan waspishly. “Well? Where’s my apology?”

“You’ll get over it. I know you were up to something . . . what were you brewing, anyway?”

Evan laughed humourlessly. “Moonshine.”

“Moonshine?” Harry repeated. It seemed so juvenile, in light of everything else. “I thought that was Dung’s game.”

Harry tried to reconcile this with what he’d overheard. Outside the Great Hall, Crouch and Rosier had been discussing some kind of brew. Then there was Yaxley, accusing them of poisoning Mary MacDonald. But they hadn’t actually admitted to anything . . . had he simply taken from this what he wanted to hear? Perhaps he’d misunderstood from the beginning.

From behind them, Barty Crouch muttered, “Fletcher couldn’t brew a glass of water.”

“We used him as the face of our little operation,” Evan explained, “just in case the old dinosaur caught on to us.”

The overgrown hedge curved sharply as they turned onto a wide gravel driveway. A pair of impressive wrought-iron gates loomed ahead. As the group approached, the gates swung inward with a slow and ominous creak.

A dilapidated castle rose from the shadows at the end of the path, its jagged towers stabbing into the night sky. Diamond-paned windows glinted faintly, their light trembling like distant stars on the horizon.

“Where d’you think we are?” Harry asked quietly.

Evan swore beneath his breath.

“Your idiocy, Potter,” said Snape, the contempt in his voice unmistakable, “never ceases to amaze.”  

“It’s hardly surprising,” Harry shot back viciously, “that you think I’m amazing, Severus. If none of you want to tell me—”

“—Edinburgh,” Evan interrupted. “This is the Dark Lord’s base . . . it’s called Wraithmoor.”

Harry shivered slightly, his gaze fixed on the castle ahead.

“Will it hurt a lot, d’you think?” someone asked. 

“Of course,” said Crouch. Jittery with excitement, he continued, “The Dark Mark will burn like fire spreading through your veins . . . it’s infused with the Dark Lord’s own power.”

“I think it depends,” Rabastan Lestrange countered. “My brother told me the pain is directly tied to how willing the recipient is to submit. The less you want it, the more painful it becomes.”

As they reached the front entrance, a tall and masked figure dressed in the black garb of the Death Eaters appeared. Without a word, they gestured for the group to follow, leading them inside. Lit only by a few flickering sconces mounted on the bare stone walls, the hallway was eerily dark and silent. A long, musty carpet stretched underfoot, and the smell of damp decay hung heavily in the air.

The sense of dread intensified with every step Harry took. 

They were led into an antechamber where another masked figure stood waiting. Silently, they distributed plain black robes and basic novice masks between the new initiates. 

Harry’s fingers lightly brushed the cold, smooth surface of his mask, tracing the serpentine, skull-like engravings. 

He glanced at Evan, who was already pulling on his robe. Their eyes met, and Harry thought he saw a flicker of fear in Evan’s expression. Harry was sure that they were all thinking the same thing . . . this was the point of no return.

“Get on with it, Potter,” Evan muttered.

Harry quickly slipped on his robe, pulled the mask over his face, and drew up the hood. He was thankful, at least, for the anonymity it provided. 

The group formed a line facing toward the towering doors at the mouth of the antechamber. Harry clenched his fists at his sides. The dread was almost suffocating. But whatever came next, Harry wanted to meet it on his own terms . . . he was determined to regain some control, to not let his fear and uncertainly be known.

The towering doors groaned open, revealing a vast chamber. High, arched ceilings stretched endlessly into the darkness. At the far end, a raised dais bore a lone chair. Standing before it, draped in flowing black robes, stood Lord Voldemort.

Harry quickly averted his gaze. 

The air in the chamber grew heavy, like a tangible weight was pressing down on the room. They were led down an aisle, past hundred upon hundreds of Death Eaters, until they stood before the dais. 

Voldemort’s voice—silky smooth and serpentine—filled the chamber, amplified to reach into every dark crevice. But Harry struggled to focus on his words, and his gaze drifted restlessly. He observed that the Death Eaters were organised in tiers, with the elaborately etched masks of higher-ranking members at the front. In a half-circle formation behind Voldemort, skirting the edge of the dais, stood a dozen figures that had to be the Dark Lord’s inner circle. 

Harry’s stomach lurched as, amongst the inner circle, his gaze caught that of Fenrir Greyback. Greyback grinned wolfishly, revealing his sharp, pointed teeth. Then, in a gesture that was both lewd and obscene, the werewolf slowly licked his lips. 

Beside him, Evan stiffened. Harry’s attention was drawn back to the centre of the dais just as the first initiate was called forward. 

The ritual was straightforward. Each initiate bowed and then knelt before Voldemort, presenting their left arm. Voldemort pressed his wand to their skin and murmured an incantation. This was usually followed by a sharp cry of pain, a sob, or a strangled moan as the Dark Mark burned into the initiate’s flesh. Finally, the initiate was led to their place within Voldemort’s ranks.  

Too soon, all of his peers had completed the ritual. Only Harry remained.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort called softly. 

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest. He felt every eye in the chamber follow him as he walked up the steps of the dais, bowed stiffly, and knelt before the Dark Lord. Without allowing himself a moment’s hesitation, Harry raised his left arm. 

But Voldemort did not immediately press his wand to it . . . Harry slowly raised his chin, and his green eyes fastened upon Voldemort’s red ones as he stared calmly into Voldemort’s face. 

Voldemort absently stroked his wand. After a moment or two, his mouth curved into a lecherous smile. 

The room was completely silent. And then—

“Morsmordre.”

Harry gasped, bracing himself for what was to come . . . but he felt, not pain, but only his own morbid fascination as he watched Voldemort’s magic spill from his wand, manifesting on Harry’s pale forearm in the form of the Dark Mark; the skull and serpent emblem. 

Voldemort had spared him from enduring any pain at all. 

Long, spidery fingers enclosed around his hand, and Harry was immediately assaulted with a dark, wanton desire. In a fluid and graceful motion, Voldemort turned Harry’s hand in his grasp before lifting it slowly toward his lips. His touch lingered for a breath, and then he pressed a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand.

Harry’s stomach dropped right to the floor. 

He knelt there, aware that every head in the chamber was watching on tenterhooks. He was stunned. Completely numb. He was surely dreaming . . . the Dark Lord could not have just kissed him. 

A buzzing, like from a nest of bees, was starting to fill the chamber. The Death Eaters were craning their necks to get a better look as Harry remained frozen in place. 

Behind his mask, his face was burning.

Voldemort finally released his hand, and Harry rose unsteadily to his feet. The buzzing was growing louder and louder. A Death Eater stepped forward and guided him to the back of the chamber where his peers were gathered. It felt like an immensely long walk, and he could feel hundreds of eyes upon him, boring into the back of his head. 

Voldemort sat gracefully upon the lone chair, crossed one long leg over the other, and launched into another lengthy speech. Harry didn’t even pretend to listen this time . . . his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Why had Voldemort singled him out like that? What was it supposed to mean? What was everyone going to think? His thoughts spiralled out of control, and he barely noticed when Voldemort’s speech had drawn to a close.  

The meeting dissolved, and the Death Eaters dispensed quickly through the towering doors. 

Harry turned towards the exit, angling for a quick escape, but it was hopeless . . . his peers had closed in around him in an instant.

“What the hell was that?” asked Evan at once. 

“I don’t know,” said Harry miserably. “I . . . ”

“Well?” said Crouch impatiently. “What do you have to say for yourself, Potter?”

Harry didn't know how to explain what had just happened. He just stood there, looking blankly at the others. It struck him how very tall all of them seemed.

“It’s obvious, is it not?” said Snape. His dark eyes glinted through his mask. “Potter has won the Dark Lord’s favour . . . he must have had something to do with letting the basilisk loose at Hogwarts.” 

“What? No!” said Harry, horrified. 

Snape made a soft noise of disbelief.

“What is it, then?” said Crouch. “Spit it out, Potter.”

An extremely tense silence followed. 

Mulciber, with a steely smile in place, said snidely, “Benji Fenwick told everyone last term that Potter sucked him off in exchange for an essay. Looks to me like he’s been up to his old tricks . . . sucking his way to success.” 

Somewhere under Harry’s numbness, he felt a ripple of anger. 

“No,” he said vehemently. “Piss off! It’s not true.” 

Suddenly, a hush enveloped the group. 

Voldemort’s long black robe brushed the bare stone floor, his eyes fixed on Harry. Very softly, he said, “Walk with me.”

Harry blinked at Voldemort’s retreating back. Then, slowly, he turned away from his peers and fell into step behind the Dark Lord. 

The Death Eaters parted like the tide, clearing a path around them.

Harry barely noticed where his feet were carrying him. Would everyone believe he was either a murderer or a whore? No immediate answer came to mind. But he was responsible for the death of thirteen students, and he had intended to push the boundaries of Voldemort’s favour. Really, Harry thought with self-loathing, a murderer and a whore was perfectly befitting. 

Harry wanted more than anything to go home to bed, to speak with Regulus, to find any little bit of sanity left in the world, if there was any that remained to be found.  

Their footsteps rang down the corridor, up a spiral staircase into one of the castle’s stabbing towers. At last, they reached a landing. Voldemort pushed open a heavy door, revealing a circular sitting room. The space was austere but elegant, with dark wood panelling and a fire already lit in the hearth. A decanter of wine sat on a low table, alongside two glasses.  

“Sit,” Voldemort ordered.  

Harry reluctantly obeyed. A flutter of nerves scurried through him as he peeled the mask back from his face and stowed it in his pocket. His gaze danced around the room curiously before settling back on Voldemort, who was distributing wine from the decanter.  

Voldemort's eyes met his as he placed a glass down before Harry. “Do you still have the ring?”

Harry blinked. “The what?”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed. “The portkey.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Good . . . you are to keep it on you at all times. It is motion activated. If you ever find yourself in trouble, turn it thrice upon your finger, and it will bring you here to this room.”  

“Where are we?”  

Voldemort sipped leisurely from his glass of wine, observing Harry through hooded eyes. Finally, with a cruel smile curling his lip, he answered, “My private quarters.”  

Heat crawled up the back of Harry’s neck. “Why give it to me at all? Why go out of your way to protect me?”  

Voldemort’s mouth twisted. “Bound by blood, by name, by time. I am yours, and you are mine. Who am I?”

Harry bit back a noise of irritation. He neither understood nor cared to decipher what Voldemort was trying to say. Few things were more irritating than a grown man speaking in riddles. 

More for something to do with his hands than because he really wanted any, Harry reached for his glass of wine and took a small sip. He regretted it immediately . . . it tasted even more disgusting than it smelt. 

Harry pushed his glass aside. “What happens now?”

“Continue with your daily life as usual. In the evenings, you’ll join the other novices here for lessons. When your skills as a duellist are deemed adequate, you may earn an assignment, or the privilege of participating in the field.”

“Who’s going to be teaching us?”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “I am,” he said. “Along with others.” 

Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were melting. Duelling lessons with the Dark Lord? He looked quickly down at his shoes, then blurted out, “Actually, I meant what am I doing here? Right now?” 

“That,” Voldemort said, swirling his wine lazily, “depends entirely on you.”  

“On what?”  

“What do you think is going to happen?” Voldemort’s eyes glittered. 

It was almost too embarrassing to endure. Harry took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and said, “Why did you have to kiss me? Everyone’s going to think you’ve taken me as a . . . ” 

“A lover?” Voldemort paused for a moment, apparently to savour the pleasure of Harry’s complete mortification, before continuing, “If you think I have any intention of pursuing a romantic relationship with a teenager, then you are mistaken. Regardless of this, I hardly care what anyone else thinks.”  

“Well, I do!” said Harry indignantly. 

He couldn’t understand why Voldemort’s words got under his skin. If anything, he should feel immensely relieved. So why did it sting like a slap in the face?

“That,” said Voldemort coolly, “is your burden to bear, cousin. Do I understand correctly that you are dropping out of Hogwarts?” 

“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, yeah. I am.” 

Voldemort set down his glass with deliberate precision. “And may I inquire what has led you to believe that forsaking your education would be in any way a wise decision?”  

“I’ve got . . . other stuff to do,” Harry mumbled. “I’m going to play Quidditch for the Bats. I think I’ve mentioned that to you before? The new season is about to begin, so . . . ” His voice trailed off under Voldemort’s unblinking stare.  

“Ah, yes,” Voldemort said lightly, though there was a nasty edge to it. “You’ve set aside the pursuit of knowledge. One can only assume you’re beyond the need for it.” He tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, then . . . with nothing left to learn, I trust you’ve already mastered the subtleties of Empathic magic?”

Harry stared. “What? I only started looking into it yesterday!”

Voldemort’s lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. “Thus, you should understand precisely why I’ve brought you here. Tell me, cousin—” his voice dropped to a silken whisper, “—what am I feeling right now?”  

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. He was reminded at once of Sirius, of his own hand travelling slowly down Sirius’s sternum to cup the front of his jeans. 

The moment the memory surfaced, it was as if a switch had been thrown. The temperature plummeted several degrees. The Dark Mark on Harry’s arm seared painfully. And the oppressive weight of the Dark Lord's presence—overbearing at the best of times—became completely suffocating.

Voldemort’s face had contorted into something truly sinister. His red eyes were narrowed, and his teeth bared. 

“Get out,” Voldemort hissed. “You are an imbecilic child, and yet again you are wasting my time. Away with you, cousin. Shoo!” 

As Harry hurtled towards the door, he heard something explode over the top of his head. He wrenched the door open and flew down the spiral stairs, stopping only when he had reached the bottom of the tower. There he leaned against a wall, panting, and clutched the Dark Mark on his arm that still burned furiously with Voldemort’s ire.

Harry’s heart was pumping harder and faster than ever. 

He suddenly had no desire to return home at all. What was making him feel so terrified, so overwhelmed, was not being shouted at or having things thrown at his head. It was that he had been able to identify exactly how Voldemort had felt. And, though the man had denied any romantic intentions towards him, his feelings had plainly said otherwise. 

Chapter Text

He was flying through low-hanging clouds in the cool, pale light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, lay the seamless geometric grid of a new housing development. He heard an engine purr and rumble. And then—slowly, very gently—they began to descend through the clouds. 

“Oi, are you awake?”

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed, the sheet tangled around him. The sun had evidently risen some time ago, and the familiar clutter of his bedroom was now bathed in a soft, diffused light filtered through the curtains. 

James banged loudly on the door before it swung open. “Sorry to interrupt your lie-in, sleeping beauty,” he said, glancing at the mess with a disapproving look, “but you’ve got a guest.”  

Harry pulled the sheet over his face and rolled away from the door. He couldn’t quite grasp the fading image of his dream . . . it felt strangely familiar, as if he’d lived it once before, but the more he tried to hold onto it, the faster the details slipped outside of reach.

Sleepily, he mumbled, “Have we ever been to Surrey?” 

“What? Don’t think so,” said James. “Would you put some clothes on quickly and come downstairs? And happy birthday, by the way.”

Harry groaned. “Who’s downstairs?” 

“Mr Blackthorn, from Blackthorn and Associates. Are you getting up or what?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Revelling in the removal—fucking finally—of his trace, Harry sent his possessions dancing around his bedroom as he hastily tied a long-sleeved dressing gown around his waist. In the weeks following the initiation ceremony, hiding the Dark Mark on his forearm had become second nature. 

Harry could hardly believe it was already the end of July. Having resolved that nothing but action could assuage his feelings of guilt and grief, he had immersed himself in his lessons, driven by a determination he had once reserved solely for the pitch.

When he stepped into the kitchen, a pile of brightly wrapped gifts caught his eye. A pot of tea steeped on the counter in an ugly knitted cosy. Across the room, James was chatting amiably with a burly man in a pinstriped suit.

“Sorry to intrude,” said Blackthorn as Harry settled into a chair, “especially as I can see it’s your birthday.” His eyes drifted from the pile of presents back to Harry, lingering for a long moment atop his unruly head. “Many happy returns.”

Harry nervously patted down his fringe, muttering a halfhearted, “Thanks.”

Blackthorn cleared his throat. “I’m here on a matter regarding your late mother’s will.”  

At the mention of Euphemia, Harry’s chest tightened. He exchanged a quick glance with James, who gave a barely perceptible shrug.  

“Right,” said Harry slowly. “What’s the problem?”  

Blackthorn placed a briefcase upon the kitchen table and opened it with a soft click. From within, he retrieved a stack of parchment on Ministry of Magic letterhead. “Your mother left very clear instructions in her will,” he explained. “She intended for a particular item to be given to you, Harry, upon her passing.”  

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What item?”

“That,” said Blackthorn, “is the complication. When we attempted to retrieve the item from its current location, we were informed by the Department of Mysteries that it is not, in fact, her property to bequeath.”  

“The Department of Mysteries?” said James. “What in Merlin’s name did mum have tied up with them?”  

“What did she say about the item?” asked Harry.

Blackthorn hesitated before glancing down and thumbing through the parchment. Then he read aloud, “The will states: ‘To my son Harry, I leave the item kept in trust, for it belongs to him by right.’”  

A confused silence followed. 

“Well, that’s helpful,” said James sarcastically. 

Harry busied himself pouring tea for everyone as he mulled this over. Something Euphemia claimed was rightfully his, yet was now in the hands of the Department of Mysteries? 

He had no clue what it might be. 

Harry’s pulse quickened as he turned it over in his mind. Euphemia was aware that Harry suspected he had been adopted—he had asked her directly, the previous summer. Could the item be related to his true parentage? Once the idea took hold, it refused to let go.

Carefully masking his excitement, Harry calmly asked, “Did they say why they’re withholding it?” 

“Only that it is classified,” Blackthorn replied. “And that its release would require a direct appeal to the Department.”  

“I’d like to appeal, then,” Harry said firmly. A flutter of anticipation scurried through him . . . he had never been able to resist the lure of a good mystery.

Blackthorn closed his briefcase. “I’ll draft the necessary documentation and send it to you for review. I’ll warn you, Mr Potter, that this may not be resolved quickly.”  

“Not a problem,” said Harry. “Thank you.”

As the lawyer bade them farewell and departed, a contemplative silence settled over the mudbrick cottage. Harry sipped his tea, and then reached for the nearest present. 

Peeling back the wrapping, he wondered whether Voldemort might be persuaded to expedite the appeal process. How far had the Dark Lord’s influence spread through the Ministry? Harry was not sure . . . nor was he convinced that owing Voldemort another favour would be worth the imposition. Regardless, posing the question might prove challenging . . . despite Voldemort’s claim that he would personally instruct the novices, Harry had only caught fleeting glimpses of the man as he came and went from Wraithmoor. 

It was beginning to feel as though Voldemort was intentionally avoiding him. 

“We’ll need to tackle the garden before the party tonight,” said James. “I’m afraid mum really let it get out of hand.” He blew across the surface of his tea, and then continued in a light and casual tone, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited a few people along.”

Harry nodded absently, though his mind was somewhere else. 

The mystery of the item withheld by the Ministry never strayed far from his thoughts as the morning melted into the afternoon, and the afternoon dribbled into the evenings’ celebrations. 

“Who on earth invited all these people?” asked Regulus as, arm-in-arm, they pushed through the living room towards the back garden. Clusters of candles hung in midair above the guests, and fairy lights were draped from overhanging branches of the elder and elm trees.  

Harry’s green eyes glared daggers into the back of James’s head. “I dunno,” he said sourly, “but I’ve got a pretty good guess.” 

As they moved further into the garden, a round-faced witch pulled Harry into a quick embrace. 

“Happy birthday, Harry!” Alice beamed. “I’m missing your dietary requirements for Saturday, by the way.”

“My what?”

“For the wedding,” said Alice. “I have you down as Sirius’s plus one. Allergies? Intolerances?” 

Harry drew in a sharp breath. Clearly, Sirius had RSVP’d some time ago, and forgotten to mention to Alice they had since parted ways. 

But before he could formulate a response, Regulus chimed in. “Harry will eat anything, so long as it doesn’t involve him cooking,” he said smoothly. “Cheers, Alice! I’m really looking forward to it.”

Harry cast a dark look at Regulus, but his friend only smirked as he pulled Harry deeper into the party.

“Suck it up, Harry,” said Regulus lightly. “You can’t mess with the seating chart days before a wedding . . . Alice is going to need all the luck in the world, marrying a Longbottom.”

A wave of suspicion rose at once in Harry. Regulus had to have an ulterior motive for wanting him at the wedding. It struck Harry as ironic . . . Regulus had never been particularly supportive of his relationship with Sirius. 

“Maybe Sirius wants to take somebody else,” Harry muttered. 

Regulus shrugged. “Doubt it.”

They found Icarus and Lucinda beneath an elm. 

“—and the Daily Prophet still hasn’t reported on any of it,” Icarus was saying. “The Ministry doesn’t want to admit that the Dark Lord is as powerful as he is.”

“Why tell the public the truth?” said Lucinda scornfully. 

“Has anyone at the Ministry ever had an ounce of integrity?” asked Regulus. 

“Of course,” said Harry, “but between the disappearances, the raids, the werewolves and now the vampires, people are understandably terrified.” 

There was a pause in which Icarus clumsily refilled their drinks. 

“You really can’t trust anyone these days,” said Regulus. He gave Harry a significant look, and then added very quietly beneath his breath, “You never can tell who’s sporting a Dark Mark beneath the sleeve of their denim jacket.” 

“No,” Harry groused. “S’pose not.” 

Harry found the conversation altogether depressing. Though he couldn’t quite discern the cause, a quiet yet persistent sense of disappointment clouded his thoughts, casting a shadow on the evening and rendering it hollow, pointless. Firewhisky seared his throat as he tipped back his drink and swallowed. It seemed to burn right through him, leaving in its wake a soothing, pleasant numbness.

After a moment or two, Lucinda broke the silence. “At least pretend to look like you’re having a good time,” she said to Harry with a wan smile, “it’s your birthday, after all.” 

“This ought to liven the mood,” said Regulus. “Look who it is . . . ”

Regulus stood on the balls of his feet to wave at someone behind them. 

Harry looked over his shoulder, and saw that it was the Marauders. Remus, looking gaunt and pale, stood slightly detached from the others. Sirius looked haughty and bored, but very handsomely so. Peter chewed his fingernails. In one hand, James played with a cigarette lighter, spinning it idly between his fingers as the flame flickered in and out of life. In the other hand, he held an open bottle of champagne. 

James took a swig from the bottle, and then passed it to Harry. 

“Happy birthday, little Potter,” said Sirius. “I admit, part of me is surprised that you made it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What, to my own party?” 

Sirius gave a short, bark-like laugh. “No,” he said, “I meant to seventeen.” 

“Morbid of you,” Regulus muttered. With a cigarette poised between his lips, he leaned toward James, who wordlessly brought the flame of his lighter to its tip.

It occurred to Harry, suddenly, how at ease the two had grown in each other’s company. 

“I’ve always been convinced Harry would wind up in Azkaban one day,” James remarked thoughtfully. “Trouble, I tell you, since the very day he was born.”

“Well,” Harry mumbled into the bottom of the bottle, “the night is full of possibilities.” 

“First Potter in five generations to fail to graduate from Hogwarts,” James went on, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulder. He grinned crookedly. “I’m proud of you, ickle Harry.”

Harry smiled back, big and fake. “I’m proud of you too, James,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve come a long way . . . used to be that you were a total dick. Now you’re just a bit of a nob.”

Sirius and James roared with laughter, while Peter let out a shrill, high pitched sound that grated on the thin veneer of Harry’s nerves.  

Harry could never fathom how any of them tolerated the greasy little worm . . . Peter Pettigrew gave him the creeps. Though Peter was now gazing up at James with abject adoration, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker, more sinister, brewed beneath the surface. 

Were his efforts to learn empathic magic finally yielding some results? . . . it was something he’d have to explore further.

The group began to discuss, at length, the chances of Bagnold’s re-election, which Harry found rather helpful. All he had to do was look unimpressed and say “yeah” and “I know, right” whenever there was pause, leaving his mind to dwell, ever more miserably, on the bitter disappointment that licked and gnawed at his insides. 

He felt as though it were very gradually eating him alive. But it was so silly . . . he should not have assumed . . . 

At the stroke of midnight, fireworks lit up the star-speckled sky with vibrant neon colours and resounding bursts of sound. True to form, the Marauders had outdone themselves.

Harry used the distraction to slip away to the edge of the yard, where the wild hedgerow gave way to an overgrown clearing. Fumbling with a pouch of tobacco, he sat and clumsily rolled a cigarette. The first drag burned his throat and he scoffed at his own foolishness. 

Frustration and self-disgust welled up inside him. Absently, the pad of his thumb stroked the cool metal ring—the portkey—he had taken to wearing on his finger. 

He had been so certain that he would hear something from Voldemort . . . but what exactly had he been expecting? A token of the Dark Lord’s affection? A bouquet of flowers, perhaps? 

Harry scoffed again. He was being ridiculous. It shouldn’t surprise him . . . he doubted Voldemort even knew it was his birthday. And even if he did, the Dark Lord was hardly one to celebrate such trivialities. 

Nameless footsteps crept up behind him as he sat there in the dark. 

James sat down heavily. After a moment, he said, “I was saving this for last.”

In his outstretched hand, he held a small square package. 

Harry took the package and unwrapped it, revealing the face of a familiar golden watch. Stars circled the circumference instead of hands, and Harry knew that it told not time, but charted instead the movement of the stars through time and space. 

“I was going to get you a new one,” said James, watching Harry anxiously. “But then I found it amongst mum’s things . . . dad wasn’t terribly careful with it, there’s a few nicks and scratches . . . but I thought—”

The rest of his speech was lost as Harry pulled James into a tight embrace. He tried to put a lot of things into the hug—his appreciation, his grief, his guilt, his vow to make it up to them—and perhaps James understood some of it, sensed what remained unsaid, because he squeezed Harry back just as fiercely, held onto him just as tight. 

Chapter Text

Harry glared at the multiple-choice question. He lifted his gaze, quickly sweeping over the other novices before settling back on the problem at hand. He did not want to select the wrong answer . . . the consequences could be devastating. 

He began to work through a process of elimination. It could not be A or D, so that left B or C. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and carefully read the question through again. But, just as he was about to make his final decision—

“Potter!”

“Oh. Hmm?”

Yaxley exhaled slowly through his teeth. “Stand up, Potter. Show me what you’re reading.”

Heat bloomed in Harry’s face. The days that had elapsed since his birthday had dragged on endlessly, and the mandatory lectures the novices’ had been required to attend only made them feel even longer. Though he’d had every intention of being an exemplary pupil, Harry found his attention inevitably waning. 

Yaxley glanced down at the article. “Since you clearly find this material more important than my lecture, Potter,” he said coolly, “perhaps you’d like to share it with your peers.”

Trying to ignore the titters and jeers breaking out around the damp stone chamber, Harry cleared his throat and read aloud, “Is your heart's path already charted in the stars? Answer these questions to find out.”

“And may I ask what this has to do with the material we’re covering, Potter?” Yaxley asked tartly. 

From behind Yaxely’s back, Harry saw Evan Rosier drop his face into his hands. A quick glance around the chamber told Harry all he needed to know . . . he was surely doomed. But, it wasn’t in his character to go down without a fight. 

Harry squared his shoulders. “Well . . . quite a bit, sir. We’ve been discussing—erm—the underlying principles that shape the Dark Arts, haven’t we?”

Yaxley blinked slowly. 

“Well,” Harry went on, “the Dark Arts are supposed to make us more powerful. But if our paths are already set, isn't that a paradox? If our lives are written in the stars, then what are we really changing? True mastery of the Dark Arts isn’t about unlocking some greater potential . . . it’s about tricking you into thinking you have any power at all.”

“That’s quite enough,” Yaxley cut in.

He stared at Harry for a long moment. Harry hesitated, his eyes flicking from Yaxley’s dour expression down to his extended hand. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he placed the magazine into Yaxley’s waiting palm. 

“If you truly believe in horoscopes, Potter,” said Yaxley, “then there’s even less hope for you than I thought. You may retrieve this from the Dark Lord, if you wish to have it back.”

Harry slumped back into his chair. 

Yaxley’s lips twisted unpleasantly. “As I was saying before the interruption, your Ascension Rites are approaching. Do not mistake this for a mere exercise. They are a test—a demonstration of your loyalty, your cunning, your worth. Fail—” he let the word hang in the air ominously “—and you will not be welcomed back.” 

With that, he waved them off. “You are dismissed. Prove yourselves worthy of the Dark Lord’s regard . . . or prove yourselves disposable.”  

The novices rose from their seats, filing out into the damp corridors of Wraithmoor. 

From the moment their training began, they had been constantly reminded of the Ascension Rite’s significance. But as far as Harry was concerned, the rite was amongst the least of his worries.

“Evan,” Harry called out, falling into step beside the other boy. “Can I ask you something?” 

“What?” said Evan irritably. 

“Training starts next week,” Harry explained quickly, “and I don’t know what I’ll do about this fucking tattoo. D’you know how others are hiding it?” 

Evan scoffed, not breaking stride. 

“I’ve tried everything. But there’s got to be some way . . . not everyone can be in a position to flaunt it, can they?”

“You’re asking me for advice on this?” Evan asked incredulously. “Spells and charms aren’t going to cut it, obviously. You’ll have to be more creative than that.”

Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. What he wouldn’t give, to have Regulus beside him instead of Rosier. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a stab of guilt. Regulus would be with him soon enough, whether he wanted to be or not . . . his family’s expectations would make sure of that. The way Harry saw it, Regulus had no real choice in the matter.

They rounded a corner, passing through the mess hall. 

Harry pushed his hands into his pockets. The hour was late, but a number of people were still milling about. Some of them looked up at him as he passed. Several called out, or else waved, but Harry pretended not to have noticed. 

He had to come up with some way to hide the Dark Mark . . . there had to be something, some trick to it. 

For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery moving against plates, and the scrape of a chair sliding back across the cold stone floor. And then, from right behind him, a high and cruel voice said, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the little bitty kitty.” 

Harry spun around. Black shapes had emerged all around him, blocking his way left and right. Harry recognised many of the faces as Slytherin House alumni. 

Beside him, Evan tensed. 

A female voice from the midst of the figures said, “So small, isn’t he? Itty bitty, teeny weeny. But I suppose he is a pretty little kitty.” 

“Don’t engage,” Evan muttered. 

“Piss off, Bellatrix,” Harry said loudly. From inside his pocket, he gripped his wand. 

Bellatrix let out a raucous scream of laughter. “The bitty kitty has claws!” 

Harry had rarely interacted with Regulus’s cousin in the past. He could not think of what to do but to keep talking. “What d’you want?”

“You hear him?” said Bellatrix. “He wants to know what I want. But who’s to say I want anything at all? Perhaps I’m just here to admire the pretty kitty . . . though, between us, I hardly think those claws are worth much more than a scratch.”

More of the older cohort laughed, though Bellatrix laughed loudest of all. 

“Come a little closer,” said Harry, drawing his wand and raising it to chest height, “if you dare to find out.”  

Bellatrix merely stared at him, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “So the little bitty kitty does know how to play,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “But where’s your ball of string?”

“Best leave him be, Bella,” warned the drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy. “We’ve all heard the rumours—difficult to believe, I’ll admit—but they persist nonetheless.”

Harry was almost certain he knew precisely what they referred to, yet he couldn’t help but ask, “What rumours?”

“I refuse to believe it,” said Bellatrix, her grin vanishing instantly. “This bitty kitty, and the Dark Lord Voldemort—the greatest wizard to ever walk this earth?” She scoffed derisively. “It can’t be true.”

Harry clenched his teeth. Bellatrix got under his skin, but he could get under hers as well . . . all he needed was an edge.

Tentatively, as he had practised, Harry reached inward, drawing on a thread of his magic. Carefully he let it unfurl, lightly caressing Bellatrix’s emotions, as though feeling the subtle tremors of her thoughts through the very air around her.

It was Harry’s turn to laugh. Not only had it worked, but he recognized that emotion—that bitter, twisting sensation knotted in her gut.

Harry grinned viciously. “Jealous, Bellatrix?” 

Several of the novices let out low hisses. 

Snape stepped forward, his sallow face framed by two curtains of greasy black hair. “You don’t know Potter as I do,” he said. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss what you’ve heard . . . Potter has a long history, warming other’s beds.” 

“You seem to know everything about me, Severus,” said Harry calmly, though his anger was now causing his chest to constrict in a way that made it difficult to breathe. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

He heard Evan groan softly beside him. 

“Go on,” Harry continued quietly, glaring at Bellatrix, his fingers tight around his wand. “Let’s play, then . . . I dare you.” 

Bellatrix let loose a cackle of mad laughter. “Brave words, bitty kitty. I wonder if you’ll still have that lip, when you’re screaming at my feet.” 

“Funny,” said Harry wryly. “I was just wondering the same thing about you.” 

“FERVENTI—”

Harry was ready for her. He shouted “Protego!” before she had finished her spell, but as the jet of red light had shot from the end of Bellatrix’s wand, Lucius Malfoy had deflected it. His spell caused hers to collide with a table three feet from where Harry stood, and it exploded in a burst of wood and sparks, showering the mess hall with splinters. 

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Malfoy said heatedly. 

Harry did not dwell on why Malfoy had interfered. He wanted to make his feelings known . . . he wanted to teach Bellatrix a lesson—he was not going to be belittled. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Harry, straightening up and twirling his wand between his fingers, “if you want to keep up.” 

Bellatrix looked positively murderous. He felt a kind of detached satisfaction, at the sight of her beautiful face contorted with rage. “Say bye bye, bitty kitty,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You’re dead.” 

Harry raised both eyebrows. “Strange,” he said, “you’d think I’d have stopped breathing.”

He raised his wand, a curse at its tip . . . but he did not strike her down. 

Silence had fallen abruptly over the hall. 

Harry’s heart shot upward into his throat. The oppressive weight of Voldemort’s presence was bearing down on them, as if the very air had thickened, heavy with dark intent. 

Harry’s mind was racing. The fear that had descended upon the others was palpable. Yet, with the weight of everything else dragging at him, with everything that had happened still so raw, Harry found he could not muster any great sense of fear. 

He could not change what was written in the stars, but he could accept it. 

And what use would he be to anyone, if Voldemort continued to avoid him? He had to make amends. 

Harry doubted Voldemort would intervene in such petty internal squabbling. If anything, Harry felt certain the Dark Lord would delight in the discord . . . perhaps, he dared hope, even fan the flames himself.

“Voldemort,” said Harry recklessly. “I’d like a word.”

Several people gasped, undoubtedly appalled by his blatant disregard for decorum, the casualness of his address. 

For a thick and loaded moment, Harry thought that Voldemort might ignore him, or—even worse—deliver some sort of punishment for his impudence. The tension in the room was suffocating, as all eyes fixed on the Dark Lord. 

But then, to Harry’s immense relief, an indulgent smile curled at the edges of Voldemort’s mouth.

“Of course,” Voldemort said silkily, his voice carrying easily through the hall. With an elegant wave of his hand, Voldemort motioned for Harry to follow. “Sit with me.” 

The Death Eaters, still tense, slowly began to settle back into their seats. Though their gazes, Harry noted, remained unwavering.

Harry hesitated for just a second. Then, with a vindictive smirk directed at Bellatrix, he followed Voldemort to the head table, raised slightly above the others on a platform.

Voldemort made a subtle gesture toward the figures who had entered with him as they took their seats, Harry positioned at his right-hand side.

“This is Antonin Dolohov,” Voldemort said, nodding towards a sinister-looking man whose face was drawn tight with malcontent. “Aurelia Avery,” he continued, acknowledging a tall, sharply dressed woman. “Abraxas Malfoy,” he added, gesturing at the pale-haired figure. “Augustus Rookwood,” he nodded to another. “And I believe you already know Silas Nott.” 

Harry gave a tentative smile to Icarus’s father, who responded with a raised brow.

A smile played on Voldemort’s face. “Meet Harry Potter.” 

All of them looked to be in their early to mid-forties. Harry supposed they had probably attended Hogwarts together, and they might have been seated at just another table in the Great Hall as an assortment of refreshments materialised before them. Harry watched as Voldemort filled his own goblet generously with wine, before turning to fill Harry’s.

Harry's eyes swept quickly across the hall. There was no sign of Bellatrix, Lucius, or any of his peers. Yet, he had never been so aware of all the eyes that watched him. Whatever he did, he was certain it would easily find its way back to them.

His attention focused back on the curious faces around him. Speaking with Voldemort in private was one thing, but to engage with him in front of a captive audience? 

Harry’s fists clenched beneath the table. He could not think of a single safe topic of conversation. Every subject that came to mind—the things he had longed to discuss with Voldemort since their last encounter, since they had fought—felt far too personal, too private, too dangerous. The events following the initiation ceremony seemed as good a place to start as any.

“You’re angry with me,” he said boldly. “Why?” 

Voldemort’s face was impassive, but his red eyes glimmered. “I said you could have a word . . . you’ve already taken five.”

A few derisive chuckles echoed around the table. 

“Children,” said Dolohov quietly, “ought to be seen and not heard.”

Harry met Dolohov’s gaze. “I’m hardly a child—I just turned seventeen.” 

“A child,” Avery reiterated, speaking into the depths of her goblet, “and not a wit about him.” 

Harry bit his tongue. He saw no point in arguing. These people were Voldemort’s inner circle, and their respect had to be earned. If they were inclined to like him, his life would be a lot easier.

He took a small sip of wine, and then he turned to his friend’s father—his likeliest ally. “How’s Icarus? It feels strange still, not seeing him every morning.”

Before Nott could respond, Dolohov’s voice cut across the table like a whip, “A Potter, in Slytherin House? But that is unusual . . . the Potter’s are direct descendants of the Gryffindor line, are they not?”

“Unusual, but not unheard of,” said Harry. “My grandmother Dorea was in Slytherin.”

“I knew Dorea Black,” said Abraxas Malfoy. He gave Harry a long, considering look. “You remind me of her, and not just in looks . . . she was also raving mad.” 

Harry laughed. 

Augustus Rockwood leaned towards him across the table. “A word of advice, Potter,” he said. “That appeal you’ve lodged—withdraw it. You are not only wasting your own time, but you are wasting mine as well.”

“Do you work for the Department of Mysteries?” asked Harry. 

Rockwood inclined his head.

Harry’s heart beat fast with excitement. “Can you tell me what the item is?” Rockwood’s expression was unmoving as he stared blankly back at Harry. Harry pressed on, “So, you can’t tell me what it is . . . but could you tell me?”

Rockwood grinned crookedly, revealing yellowed teeth. “A question worthy of a true Slytherin,” he said. “I could tell you, yes. I do know what it is.” 

Harry stole a glance at Voldemort. Though his expression remained impassive, Harry knew he was listening closely. 

“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me either?” Harry groused.

“Where would be the fun in that?” Voldemort tilted his head a little to one side, observing Harry through hooded eyes. “Figure it out yourself. You already know what it is . . . it was once in your possession. Connect the dots. It should not be beyond you.” 

Harry sighed heavily. He did not know whether to be irritated that Voldemort was withholding more information from him, or flattered that he thought Harry capable enough to work it out, to stand on his own two feet. It was not lost on him either that the conversation had become reminiscent of one they’d shared before, when Voldemort had laid out the clues that ultimately led Harry to open the Chamber of Secrets.

“Ha ha,” he said finally. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

A smile curled at the corners of Voldemort’s mouth as he leisurely sipped his wine. 

“You indulge the boy far too much,” Avery said reproachfully. “It does him no favours, as tonight has plainly shown.”

“I know,” said Voldemort softly. There was no mistaking the note of warning in his tone—Avery had overstepped.  

Voldemort’s red eyes fastened upon Harry’s green ones. 

They continued to look at each other. Voldemort was smiling slightly, in that peculiar way of his. Harry did not know what to say, or what to think. Voldemort made him feel so many contradictory things, terrible and wonderful and frightening. But as Voldemort looked into his eyes, as Harry met his gaze, he found that the weight in his stomach seemed to have lessened slightly. 

Harry could not find the words to formulate a response to this. Instead he smiled, sipped his wine, and turned back to the conversation. 

Chapter Text

Three o’clock the following afternoon found Harry and Sirius standing underneath a giant white marquee. Golden vines curled around the supporting structure, catching flecks of light, and several plunks sounded on the canvas above their heads . . . it had started to rain. 

“It was a nice ceremony, wasn’t it?” said Sirius, just as the band struck its first chord. He swiped two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Harry. 

“I s’pose,” said Harry. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck here with me. I wouldn’t have been offended if you wanted to ask someone else, you know.” 

Sirius smiled and, taking hold of Harry’s elbow, guided them through the sea of slowly swaying bodies. “Yeah, well—” Sirius’s grey eyes glimmered as they swept over him, “—it could always be worse, little Potter . . . you scrub up alright, when you put in a bit of effort.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He knew he looked good—he and Regulus had spent hours getting ready. And with a layer of fake skin Regulus had brewed now spelled over his Dark Mark, Harry felt more like himself than he had in a long while. There was a weightlessness to his movements. He felt unencumbered. Free. 

Harry replied, “No need to sound so surprised.” 

By the time they reached the other side of the marquee, the rain was falling harder and heavier as it beat against the roof, and the air had become charged with the kind of tension that often precedes a storm. 

Most of the tables were occupied. Harry was more than a little surprised to find that Regulus was already seated beside James. 

Harry frowned. “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something,” he said, inclining his head towards the pair. “Do they want us to get back together? But when we were an item, they both seemed to hate it.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “You can be so oblivious sometimes.”

“So I’ve been told. How about a clue?”

“I don’t think it’s about us anymore,” Sirius told him, smiling slyly. “We’re more the excuse.”

“What d’you—”

But whatever Sirius was alluding to, Harry was not meant to find out. They had been intercepted by a handsome figure with a shaved head and a golden earring not unlike Harry’s own. 

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” the man said in a deep, smooth voice as he extended his hand towards Harry. “James has told me that you’ll be speaking at the Wands Down for Words event.” 

“Has he now?” said Harry darkly. He’d agreed to no such thing. 

He looked to Sirius for support, only to find that—rather quickly, he noted—he’d been abandoned in favour of Remus Lupin, who was pulling Sirius back towards the dancefloor. 

Shacklebolt seemed to immediately sense the misstep. “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps James has yet to ask you. I apologise . . . but I hope you’ll consider it.”

Harry took a long sip from his drink before looking back at Shacklebolt. “Wands up for what now?”

“Wands Down for Words,” Shacklebolt repeated. “James has produced an incredible lineup of speakers, but out of all of them, I think you’d have the most impact.”  

Harry, who had been taking another sip of champagne while Kingsley spoke, almost choked. When he had cleared his throat, he said, “I really doubt that.”  

Shacklebolt was studying him carefully. “Think about it. A Slytherin, a Pureblood, and the youngest Seeker to play for the British League in a century—you’re in a unique position, Harry. You could reach people no one else on that stage can.”  

Harry was dubious of this. “What people?” 

Shacklebolt hesitated for only a moment. “The ones who might not listen otherwise. Younger audiences, your peers—Purebloods, Slytherins, Ravenclaws. Those who may have grown up with less exposure to non-magical people, who might not have questioned the beliefs they were raised with. You can speak to them in a way that the usual voices in this conversation just . . . can’t.”  

Harry met Kingsley’s earnest gaze, and he felt not gratitude or honour, but only frustration. Like so many others, Kingsley looked at him and saw his brother. But resemblance did not make them the same . . . 

Harry was not James, and he did not share James’s optimism. 

Perhaps Kingsley suspected something of Harry’s feelings, for he hurried on to say, “You’re not another ministry mouthpiece, or a self-serving celebrity, or a so-called expert who thinks they have all the answers. You’re a Quidditch player—and Quidditch is one of the few things that transcends the other bullshit. No matter someone’s background, no matter their politics, they all follow the same sport. And like it or not, if the predictions are right, you’re going to be the most talked about player this season.”  

In a low voice, Harry said, “I really don’t think anybody wants to hear what I’ve got to say, Kingsley. I’m not the person you want.” 

“How so?” 

Kingsley’s words hit like a crack of lightning, illuminating things Harry would rather have kept in the dark. For a split second, everything was too bright. 

Harry felt exposed. 

“Because I think it’s all a bit pointless,” he said. “Because I think I know how it’s going to end. And all of this—peace talks, speeches, protests—it’s not going to make any difference.”  

“You really believe that?”  

Harry swigged yet more champagne, and shrugged. 

Shacklebolt was quiet for a long moment. Finally, with careful deliberation, he said, “You have a voice that carries, Harry.” He allowed the weight of this to settle before adding, “The question is, what do you want to do with it?”

With this, Shacklebolt bid him farewell. 

Harry considered sitting down with Regulus and James, but something in his gut told him to leave them be. He snatched up another glass of champagne and made his way around the edge of the marquee. 

The rain thundered above them, and Harry’s mind drifted far away. He allowed Fabian and Gideon Prewett to pull him onto the dancefloor. And one dance became two, and then three, and then four. As night crept in and the moon hid behind a blanket of clouds, the revelry became increasingly uncontained. 

“We should congratulate them again,” said Regulus, speaking loudly above the reverberating bass and the roil of thunder. He was looking at the spot where Frank and Alice were about to be swallowed by another group of well-wishers. 

“In a bit,” said Harry, meeting Regulus’s gaze. In the space of a heartbeat, a silent conversation passed between them. Then, a smirk. “I could do with some fresh air.” 

Regulus’s arm curled through his. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Arm-in-arm, they spun towards the exit. 

“When I get married,” said Regulus as they stepped outside, a white umbrella held high above their heads, “I won’t bother with any of this. Just a Portkey to Vegas, a floo-through chapel, and Elvis in a sparkling sequined number.”  

Harry laughed. “Walburga will love that,” he said. Taking a joint from his pocket, he added, “I’d rather not get married at all . . . I think it feels like an outdated social construct, setting people up for failure.” 

Regulus snorted. “A born romantic, aren’t you?” 

Harry lit the joint and took a long drag. “It’s a nice idea, I suppose, if you’re able to look beyond the sordid history of it. But people change, don’t they?” From the corner of his eye, Harry saw that James and Sirius had followed them outside. “And nothing lasts forever,” Harry continued. “Nothing good, anyway.”

“Would it kill you,” said James, plucking the joint from Harry’s fingers, “to pretend—just for a moment—that you don’t have a heart carved from stone? We’re at a wedding, after all.” 

“It might,” Harry intoned dryly. “Why risk it?”

They were all standing very close together to fit beneath the cover of the umbrella. 

James took a leisurely drag before passing it along. “Personally, I like to believe that there’s someone out there for everyone. Even bitter, heartless cynics like you, Harry dear.” 

“You sure about that?” Sirius asked sceptically. With a teasing grin, he added, “I think we’d be hard-pressed to find anyone that could put up with Harry for more than a few minutes.” 

James shrugged. “So they’d have to be a masochist. There’s nothing wrong with that . . . Harry’s hardly in a position to be picky, is he?” 

Harry turned to Regulus for solace and found none. 

“Sounds about right,” said Regulus traitorously. 

“Regulus,” Harry admonished. “I never thought you had it in you.”

James slung an arm casually around Regulus’s shoulder. Jovially, he said, “If Lord Voldemort can find someone that’d put up with him, there’s got to be some hope for our Harry.”

For a moment, the world tilted on its axis. 

Harry’s mouth fell open in horror. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He looked at Regulus, who was gaping back at him. 

Regulus shrugged free from James’s arm. “What’s this?” 

A chill that had nothing to do with the cool, damp air was quickly stealing through Harry’s chest. 

“Haven’t you heard?” said James cheerfully. He was entirely unaware of the shift around him. “Everyone’s talking about it. Rumour has it, the Dark Lord’s taken one of his new recruits to bed. Can you believe it?” 

Harry felt heat rushing up to his face. His heart was hammering very fast. 

“I wonder who it could be,” Sirius mused. 

A sudden wave of self-disgust washed over Harry, leaving him feeling very dirty. It was as though his skin was slick with grease, like something disgusting secreted from his pores. He felt unworthy to be standing there amongst nice, normal people.

“We might have all been at school together,” James went on obliviously. “I wonder what’d have to be going through their head, to put themself through it.”

Sirius smirked. “I’m sure they just close their eyes and think of England.” 

They both roared with laughter.

Harry’s temper rose to the surface. How on earth could word have spread so fast? That it was not even true—that Voldemort had not even really kissed him, not even laid a finger on him—seemed a terrible injustice. 

And then a truly disturbing thought occurred to him, one that made his insides writhe and squirm. If word had spread this quickly, how long could he possibly have left before they all knew it was him? 

“You don’t look very well, Harry,” said Sirius. “Are you feeling alright?”

They were all watching him. 

Harry shook his head violently and looked over his shoulder, up at the sky. Glaring at the endless expanse of rain, he spoke through grit teeth, “I think you don’t know anything about it, and you should shut your big mouths.”

The joy that had filled the space between them vanished, deflating like a punctured balloon.

“Do you know who it is?” asked Sirius quietly. 

“If you know something, Harry,” said James, “then you should tell me—I’m your brother. You can trust me with these things . . . the Order could really use information like this. I don’t have to let anyone know where it’s come from.”

The feeling of being unclean intensified. 

With some effort, Harry tore his gaze from the sky. He couldn’t bear for the conversation to continue. Desperate to change the subject, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You’re not, though. You’re not really my brother.”

There was a horrible, heavy silence. 

“What?” said James. He looked completely stunned. Dumbfounded. 

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I don’t know who my parents are, but they weren’t Fleamont and Euphemia. Not both of them, anyway . . . I’m a halfblood.”

James was shaking his head. “Why are you saying this?”

“I should have told you last year,” said Harry. “I found out just before Christmas.”

“What? How do you even know?”

“Lily Evans brewed a potion for me. The Systema Trium.”

“It’s true,” said Regulus quietly. “I was there.” 

Harry took a deep breath and began to tell them the full story. 

As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw Fleamont, delirious with fever, telling Harry that he’d always loved him as if he were his own; he saw his birth certificate in Gringotts with no date of birth, and the family photo albums with the blank spot in time; he saw Euphemia claiming these things as coincidence, and then Lily Evans at the Hogs Head, agreeing to meet with him. 

Once or twice, James made a noise as though he wanted to interrupt, but Sirius shook his head, and James had remained quiet. Harry was thankful for this, as once he’d gotten started, it was hard to stop. It was a relief to get it off his chest, to make good on his promise to Lily that he would tell James. 

When he had finished speaking, they were all very quiet. 

James lit another joint. “Why would mum and dad have hidden something like that? Why keep it a secret? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I—I don’t know.”

“I wish you’d told me,” said James. “But besides that, what does it really change?”

Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. He couldn’t think of a response. What did it change, at the end of the day? 

The rain that beat down around them was almost deafening. But there, in that moment, it seemed very quiet. A fragile kind of peace. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” said Harry, and he meant it. 

A crooked smile stretched across James’s face. “Weren’t you just saying people always change? Well, Harry dear, some things never do. I’ll always be your big brother . . . just as I’ll always be the better dancer.”

Harry felt his heart lightening almost in spite of itself. “Are you kidding me?” 

“You think you’re better, do you?”

A peculiar sense of unreality was upon him, but Harry did not care . . . he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to think about the conversation he had derailed. He didn’t want to examine the awful, greasy feeling that it left on his skin. 

Harry scoffed. “Of course I am.”

James flicked the end of the joint into the mud and angled his head back towards the wet, white walls of the marquee. His hazel eyes were lit with challenge. “Prove it.”

Harry felt a rush of gratitude. And then he hooked his arm through James’s, and pulled him back inside. 

Chapter Text

“When I pictured us living together,” said James, abruptly dialling down the wireless, “I never imagined I’d be seeing quite so much of you.”

Harry, dressed in nothing but his pants and an oversized t-shirt, did not deem this comment worthy of reply. After six years of sharing a dormitory, and countless hours spent in Quidditch locker rooms, he had long ago lost any sense of modesty. 

“Have you been out with the Order again?” he asked instead, glancing at the clock above the kitchen window. The sun was slowly creeping over the horizon, but James’s clothes were rumpled; whatever he had been doing, he’d been out all night. Harry picked up his mug of tea, sipped it, and continued pleasantly, “You’re always in a crap mood after.”

Although Harry was aware that James had joined the Order of the Phoenix some weeks prior, it was a topic they usually avoided. It had not escaped Harry’s notice that James had not asked him along to a meeting . . . he wondered whether he should pretend that it bothered him. 

James stomped towards the kettle, refilled it with a tap of his wand, and leaned back against the counter. “What’s this I hear about you and Evan Rosier drinking down Knockturn Alley? You’d better not be dating that asshole again.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Alastor Moody saw you. I wish you’d be nicer to him, Harry. He’s been very kind to me.” 

“I wonder why,” said Harry sarcastically. It was common knowledge that Alastor Moody was scouting for recruits to join the DMLE. “I suppose that head of yours is exactly what the Aurors need to turn things around on the battlefield . . . it’s so big it could shield you and three others.” 

“Hilarious,” James deadpanned. “Could you tidy up a bit in here? This mess is impressive, even for you.” 

Harry scowled at his cereal. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” 

“Clearly,” said James scathingly. “I’m so sorry for interrupting your very important schedule. I hope that you have a lovely time at practice today . . . do enjoy yourself, won’t you, and don’t think too much about the world that’s literally crumbling around you. I know that thinking doesn’t come easily to you—I’d hate for you to pull a muscle.” 

“Piss off,” Harry snapped. “Don’t trivialise my life. Do you think that the war doesn’t affect me? That I don’t care about what’s going on?” 

“Sometimes I do wonder!”

Harry drew in a slow and measured breath, steadying himself against the unravelling threads of his patience. He reminded himself that James was exhausted—that he’d likely been out all night, risking his life, witnessing some unspeakable atrocity, or facing yet another horror of war. Finally, he said, “There’s no point in talking to you when you’re like this.”  

They finished breakfast in silence, but James’s words replayed in Harry’s mind, over and over. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some truth to what James had insinuated, that he was doing too little, too late. Once the idea had gotten into Harry’s system, it spread through a gruelling day of practice and festered into the evening lessons at Wraithmoor.

“Rabastan Lestrange received his Ascension Rite yesterday,” Evan remarked as they strode from the damp lecture hall toward the Mirror Room, where the duelling rings awaited.

Harry glanced sideways, holding a textbook Yaxley had leant him—The Astral Roots of the Dark Arts—against his chest. “Really? What does he have to do?” 

“Three trials,” Evan replied. “First, a test of loyalty. Then, a test of cunning. And last, a test of nerve. He’s already passed the first one . . . just barely, though.”

“What was it?” 

“They entrusted him with something very important—and very dangerous—and ordered him to keep it hidden at all costs. No magic, no help. Meanwhile, someone else was given a different task . . . to make him talk, by any means necessary.”

Harry grimaced. “That sounds awful.”

Evan shrugged. “The second test was more of a puzzle. They took his wand, locked him inside a chamber, and told him to get himself out.” 

“How’d he do it?” 

A shadow of a grin spread across Evan’s face. “He’s still in there, as far as I know.” 

Harry heard a derisive snort from somewhere just ahead of them. He had never imagined that he could truly despise someone with every fibre of his being . . . but that was before he’d met Bellatrix Black. 

Bellatrix, flanked by Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange, had paused at the threshold of an open doorway. 

Bellatrix tilted her head a little to one side as she looked Harry over. Her dark eyes were alight with malice. “Well, well, well,” she cooed, “Isn’t this nice . . . the pretty kitty’s come out to play.” 

Rodolphus gave a low chuckle.  

Harry smiled blandly. “Hello, Bellatrix. Have you missed me?”

Bellatrix took a step towards him. “Thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he? Talks a lot, for an itty bitty kitty . . . perhaps it’s time someone taught him when to stop yowling.”

“Leave it,” Evan muttered, taking Harry by the arm. 

Lucius made a soft noise of amusement, but it was Rodolphus who spoke next. 

“At least Rabastan’s earning his Ascension on his own merit,” he said, looking coldly from Harry to Evan and back again. He had evidently overheard them. “No help, no handouts . . . unlike what I imagine certain others may depend on.”

Harry gave a lazy smile. “Oh, I’m sure Rabastan’s doing wonderfully . . . the Lestranges never can pass up an opportunity to prove exactly how useless and incompetent they can be.”

A small crowd had gathered to watch, some of them letting out low hisses. 

“There you are,” Bellatrix crooned. “There’s my naughty kitty. Must be nice, hmm? Being the Dark Lord’s pampered little pet. Do you purr when he strokes your head, or just whine when you want a treat?”

The insult barely had time to register before Harry moved.  

He was unaware of pushing Evan back. All he knew was that one moment the textbook was clutched to his chest. The next, he’d lobbed it at Bellatrix’s face. 

Bellatrix staggered back with a snarl, her hands flying to her face as blood gushed out from her nose. Lucius and Rodolphus both jerked forward, but Bellatrix let out a delighted cackle. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry realised he’d fallen right into her trap. 

She wiped at the blood, angling her head towards the Mirror Room. “We’re going to duel now,” she said, “and I’m going to teach you a lesson. This time, kitty, you won’t be landing on your feet.”

Harry quickly weighed his options. Bellatrix was older, outranked him, and was more than likely a formidable opponent . . . but Harry had always been pretty good in a fight. 

Harry smirked. Before he could respond, however, Yaxley shouted, “What’s the hold up?”

Belatedly, Harry realised they were blocking the corridor. 

Yaxley pushed through the crowd of onlookers behind them, and Harry would not have been surprised to see sparks fly from his nostrils—he was livid. His gaze moved swiftly from Bellatrix’s bloodied nose to the book dangling from Harry’s hand. 

“Knowing you as I do, Potter,” said Yaxley snidely, “I can understand why this might be confusing. You will find that books are actually meant for reading—not hitting people with.”

There was a good deal of appreciative murmuring and laughter at this. 

Harry pretended to look appropriately chastised. “I’ll try to remember that, sir.” 

“Hmm,” said Yaxley. “See that you do. Move along, now—you’re in the way.” 

Harry and Bellatrix marched down the corridor, neither saying a word to each other. The jeers of the crowd were swallowed by the scream of spellfire as they pushed open the heavy doors at the end, entering into the Mirror Room. 

The room was already filled with Death Eaters locked in practice within circles marked out on the floor. Glass panels lined the walls, capturing every little bit of motion, every little burst of magic, multiplying it in an endless cascade of reflections that stretched on into infinity. 

As Harry moved further into the room, his attention was drawn towards a familiar, overbearing presence. 

Voldemort stood at the far end, casually observing a duel. His red eyes danced between the pair, long arms folded across his chest. With a single soft and sibilant word he interrupted, pointing out a flaw in a parry, a fault in a shield. The duellists nodded, correcting their stances.  

Harry slowly dragged his gaze away. It was the first time he had seen the Dark Lord inside the Mirror Room. 

As he turned toward an unoccupied circle, something caught his eye . . . it was Voldemort’s reflection. Watching him.  

Harry traced the sharp line of Voldemort’s jaw, the hollow of his cheeks, the way the edges of his mouth curled in that cruel way which Harry had come to associate with imminent trouble. 

Harry swallowed. Heat crept up the back of his neck, and he quickly looked away. 

Bellatrix, unaware of the exchange, had stepped inside the circle. 

“Have you ever used an Unforgivable curse, bitty kitty?” she asked him. Her nose had stopped bleeding, but blood was still smeared across her chin. “You need to really mean it—to want to cause pain, to enjoy it even. I’ll show you how it’s done, shall I?”

Harry did not answer. He removed his outer robe and dropped it just outside the perimeter of the circle, then placed the textbook down upon it. 

But before he could draw his wand from his pocket, a silky smooth voice sliced through the air.  

“That won’t be necessary.”  

Voldemort’s long, dark robe brushed the polished floor as he approached them. “I’ll be training with Harry now,” said Voldemort. His gaze slid to Bellatrix. “You may find another partner.”  

Bellatrix gaped. “My Lord—”  

“—Did I mis-speak, Bella?” 

For a loaded moment, it looked as though Bellatrix might argue. She hesitated just a fraction longer before bowing her head. “Of course not, my Lord.”  

Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, his expression rapt and exultant. 

Time stretched between them, and neither of them moved. The rest of the room was very quiet. Harry kept his eyes off the mirrored walls, where their reflections surrounded them from all sides, where he was certain nearly every person in the room was watching. 

Then Voldemort said softly, “You have been taught how to duel, haven’t you, Harry?” 

Harry doubted he had ever learned anything that could help him in a duel against the most powerful wizard alive. Yet he inclined his head, drew his wand, and bowed gracefully before taking his position with his head held high.

Voldemort’s gaze had drifted down to study Harry’s wand. “I’ve never seen your wand before,” he said. “What is it made from?”  

“Holly,” Harry told him. “Eleven inches, with a phoenix feather core.”  

Something indecipherable flickered across Voldemort’s face, gone as quickly as it had come. “How interesting.”

“How so?”

Voldemort only smiled. “Mine’s bigger.”  

Against his better judgement, Harry’s gaze slid down to Voldemort’s crotch, then crawled back up to his face. Harry knew that he was blushing furiously. But he smiled, and he kept his voice steady as he said in a teasing tone, “Impressive.” 

Voldemort’s smile broadened. 

The Dark Lord bowed elegantly, keeping his face upturned towards Harry. He slipped one of his long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out his own wand. He caressed it gently, and then he raised it, pointing it towards Harry. 

“Attack,” said Voldemort lazily. 

Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. He flicked his wrist sharply, hearing the incantation in his mind. 

Expelliarmus!

Voldemort deflected it with a small exhale of breath. “Predictable,” he chided. “Try again.”  

Harry's mind raced, grasping for something, anything that might help him. Then, a memory surfaced . . . an afternoon with Regulus in the Black family library, a dusty old tome between them, its pages thrumming with dark, malevolent magic. 

Harry grit his teeth, and then unleashed a volley of curses. 

Voldemort effortlessly brushed each aside. “Better,” he said, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon Harry. “There is power in your casting, but you lack creativity.” 

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. 

Harry barely had time to throw up a shield, the force of it sending him back a step.

Voldemort slowly inched forward. “Your instincts are quite good. But you’re holding back . . . it’s as if you’re waiting for my permission.” 

Harry scowled. “I’m not—”  

“—You are.” Voldemort smiled that terrible smile, red eyes blazing as he idly twirled his wand between his long, elegant fingers. “Again.”

They traded spells, each faster and more aggressive than the last. Harry tried not to think too hard about the way Voldemort watched him, how his gaze had turned hungry. Tried to ignore the way it made his stomach clench. 

Suddenly, Voldemort vanished in a swirl of black smoke. Harry sensed the Dark Lord reappear behind him—the warmth of his body pressed to Harry’s back, the faint smell of his cologne. 

Harry’s heart was beating impossibly fast. 

Breath fanned his neck. Then cold fingers ghosted Harry’s wrist, gently adjusting the angle of his wand. 

The touch sent a shiver shooting down Harry’s spine like a bolt of lightning, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose to stand on end. His skin tingled pleasantly. And he told himself it was just the excess magic saturating the air between them, that it was a natural reaction. 

. . . but it felt dangerously like something else.

He knew that Voldemort felt it too—as good as saw it, as Voldemort’s feelings spilled into his own. 

A firm hand gripped his hip, shifting the distribution of his weight.

Voldemort leaned in, his voice a soft murmur against the shell of Harry’s ear, the words slipping into Parseltongue. “You must do better, cousin. You must try harder. You must be able to defend yourself . . . you cannot be vulnerable . . . I will not allow it.” 

The words slithered through him, insidious and intimate, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was a demand, a test, or something else entirely.

Voldemort’s hand lingered for what felt like an eternity before he withdrew it. 

As Voldemort moved around to face him again, Harry loosened a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“Why?” Harry whispered, his mouth slightly drier than usual with all the eyes upon him. 

But Voldemort, still smiling broadly, only said, “Again.” 

And just in time, Harry raised his wand.

Chapter Text

As August wore on, the unkempt grounds around Wraithmoor withered under the blazing summer sun until even the undergrowth had turned brown and brittle. 

The first day of September arrived with an unexpected chill and a gust of rain. As Harry’s breath fogged up the diamond-paned window inside Voldemort’s private tower, he imagined the plumes of steam billowing out from the Hogwarts Express.

In his mind’s eye, Harry saw the scarlet train winding its way through fields and hills, like a rippling red caterpillar. But this year, the train had never left King’s Cross Station, and the students had not returned to the castle. The basilisk still roamed free, and the school had resumed classes from the temporary location in North London, with students free to come and go as their timetables demanded.

Although Harry still felt dreadful about what had happened with the basilisk, he was relieved that he would be able to see Regulus throughout the school term. 

It was as if Voldemort had read his mind. “You did something to your friend at the initiation ceremony,” Voldemort hissed with quiet menace as he struck Harry with the accusation. The wind howled outside, rattling the diamond panes. “You took away his fear.”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet several degrees.

Harry’s stomach twisted. 

So this was why Voldemort had summoned him . . . he should have known. Yet, up until this moment, he had fooled himself into thinking it was something else entirely—had been planning on it, even. The realisation left him feeling extremely foolish. He had grown too accustomed to the Dark Lord’s presence, to the measured cadence of his praise as their duels stretched long into the evening, as Harry’s skill bloomed beneath Voldemort’s guiding hand. 

Still, perhaps it was worth trying . . . just to see where it might lead. 

Slowly, Harry turned from the window to face the Dark Lord. Voldemort was already seated, one long leg casually crossed over the other, leisurely sipping from his usual glass of red wine. The relaxed ease of his posture was in stark contrast to the dark and malevolent magic that oozed from him like an open wound, setting Harry’s teeth on edge. 

Harry’s unease deepened as he realised that Voldemort had not offered him a drink, nor invited him to sit. 

“I didn’t want to see Regulus suffer,” Harry began apprehensively. “I really didn’t think you’d mind . . . or notice, if I’m honest. What gave it away?” 

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling. “Explain to me how you did it, and then I will decide whether or not you should be punished.” 

Harry felt every nerve in his body tighten. “You wouldn’t really hurt me,” he said boldly. 

But when Voldemort remained unsmiling, Harry began to doubt the truth of his own words. He gave a shaky laugh, and said, “I didn’t know if it’d work. But I’d heard that the less you want it—to take the Dark Mark—the more painful it is. And I knew that Regulus was nervous, and . . . I was also curious, to see if I could do it.”

Harry shifted his gaze from Voldemort, letting his attention drift across the room. Through the diamond-paned window, he saw that a waxing crescent moon had risen in the sky. Very casually, so as not to arouse suspicion, Harry stepped towards a bookcase that housed an old-fashioned radio. It was a relic from the 1940s, with heavy brass dials and a polished mahogany finish. 

“I reached inward,” Harry continued, “I felt out the edges of Regulus’s doubt. And then I took it—pulled it away, like a thread unravelling, until there was nothing of it left.” 

Harry reached forward, carefully turning one of the little brass dials, and then shot a brief, furtive glance back at Voldemort.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” Harry admitted, his finger idly shifting the dial between stations. “If I could master this ability—if I really am an Empath, if I can read someone’s emotions . . . could I rewrite them? Erase what’s there and replace it with something new.”

A long moment stretched between them, the only sound a crackle and pop of static.

And then Voldemort asked, “And how would you put such an ability to use?” 

“Well,” Harry began hesitantly. “Say that someone overheard something . . . that they began to suspect I was hiding something from them. Could I diminish that suspicion? Perhaps even remove it entirely? Regulus had been open to letting me try—he let me in, made it easy. But it proves, I think, that it could be done.” 

The radio popped once more before finally landing upon a station. 

“You worry needlessly,” said Voldemort softly. Harry felt a wave of relief crash over him as he saw that Voldemort seemed satisfied with his explanation. A faint smile curved Voldemort’s lips as he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Your brother will not find out.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know that.”  

“I do,” Voldemort countered. “No one will utter your name where it doesn't serve my purpose . . . I've ensured as much. It would not benefit me for you to be exposed . . . not yet.”

Dread flooded Harry at the words. “What do you mean? What have you done, Voldemort?” 

Voldemort swirled the wine inside his glass, watching the dark liquid catch the light before taking an unhurried sip. “It so happened to be a branch of magic I had already taken some interest in. The enchantment itself is straightforward . . . a web of magic woven into the syllables of your name, lying in wait to ensure the fool who dares speak it.”

Harry was gazing at Voldemort, hardly breathing, hardly daring to believe that it was real. With mounting horror, he exclaimed, “You’ve made my name a taboo!”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed. “This is more refined—”

“—You might as well have cursed me,” Harry interrupted. “I can’t believe you!”

“You’re being dramatic,” Voldemort’s voice lowered to a menacing whisper, “it’s a selective condition—”

“—if someone says my name aloud—”

“—in the specific context of our relationship,” Voldemort continued, his voice now dangerously low, “they will simply find themselves unable to speak.” His face contorted into something truly sinister before he added, “It’s difficult to enunciate articulately, you see, when choking on one’s own tongue.”

“It would have been polite to discuss it with me first,” said Harry bitterly. 

Voldemort sighed with impatience. “Does it not serve your best interests? Are you not pleased with this outcome?”

“That’s beside the point,” Harry retorted. The window trembled slightly as the wind whipped through the tower. “You should have told me. I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a child.”

Voldemort’s mouth twisted. “Then don’t behave like one.”

The Dark Mark on Harry’s forearm had begun to throb and pulse, and pain was steadily building behind his temple. Voldemort’s tone had been calm, but Harry could feel that controlled sense of fury simmering inside him. He knew that it would not be wise not to push the man any further. 

A familiar tune filled the room, reminding Harry of his purpose. 

He drew a deep breath, and said, “You asked me to dance once. Did you want to dance now?”

A beat passed between them. 

Harry held his breath . . . and then Voldemort’s lips curled in an indulgent smile. 

Without a word, Voldemort set his glass down upon the low table beside him and stood. His long black robe swept the floor as he swiftly closed the distance between them.

Red eyes fixed on green. And the melody drifted through the air like a whispered caress, like hot breath against tender skin: 

I don’t hardly know her
But I think I could love her

Harry felt long, cool fingers brush lightly against his hand before interlacing with his own. Felt another hand press to the small of his back, drawing him in closely. 

Crimson and clover

At Voldemort’s touch, Harry felt the all-too-familiar rush of the Dark Lord’s emotions bleeding into his own. Emboldened by what he saw, he placed his own hand upon Voldemort’s chest. His heart lurched, and with a sudden burst of confidence Harry took the lead, spinning Voldemort slowly around the room’s circumference.

He was acutely aware of every little bit of space that separated them, every place their bodies brushed, of the chill that came from being so near. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck rose to stand on end, and it was an effort not to shiver as Voldemort’s long fingers drew a pattern up his spine, as they moved synchronously, two halves merged whole. 

Staring resolutely at the sharp line of Voldemort’s jaw, Harry willed his heart to stop thundering. Forced himself to plunder on, “I received my Ascension Rite last night.”

The cold hand at his back crept slowly to his hip, tightening its grip. An icy chill sank through the fabric of his clothes, settling like frost against his skin.

He felt Voldemort smiling, but did not dare look at his face. 

“Did you now? And?”

Harry swallowed. “It was blank—it was a blank sheet of paper inside the envelope.”

All the time he spoke, he felt Voldemort’s gaze upon his face. 

“A clerical error, perhaps,” Voldemort mused. 

Harry barely suppressed a scoff. It was clear to him that Voldemort was toying with him, treating it as yet another game. But Harry had seen this coming—had planned for it. 

“And what did you imagine you would find inside?” Voldemort asked slyly, in his smooth, silky voice. “How would you prove your loyalty to me, given the choice?”

Harry laughed. 

He could not have hoped for a better opening. And he thought about how little he had achieved so far, the positive change he could inspire through his influence . . . and how, in the end, this was only what everyone thought was already happening anyway. 

And he said, “I suppose I’d do something very dangerous, or very daring.”

Voldemort let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and exasperation. “It’d be boring otherwise.” 

What a beautiful feeling
Crimson and clover, over and over

Harry steeled his nerves. “Perhaps I’d do something like this . . . ”

Without pausing to think, he rose up onto the tips of his toes and kissed him. 

It was hardly more than a soft press of lips against lips. Feather-light, barely there. 

Voldemort lifted the hand not entwined with his own to gently cup his cheek, tilting his head upward. Then, Voldemort was kissing him back. 

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed as Voldemort’s tongue slipped between his teeth to sweep the inside of his mouth. The hand that was holding his slowly released its grip, and long arms looped behind Harry’s back, bringing their bodies flush together. 

One kiss melted into another.

The arms which encompassed him tightened . . . and just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Immediately the Dark Lord stepped back, as if distancing himself to resist temptation.

Hungry red eyes drank in Harry’s flushed face. 

Voldemort spoke softly, but firmly. “You’re not ready for this.”

A shard of ice seemed to pierce Harry’s heart. He felt his face drain of all colour. He thought he must have misheard . . . knowing Voldemort’s feelings as he did, he had not anticipated that the Dark Lord would deny himself what he clearly wanted.

“Perhaps in a decade,” Voldemort continued, “or—”

“—A decade?” Harry repeated incredulously. 

Voldemort observed Harry through hooded eyes. “I have told you before, cousin, that I am not interested in having a romantic relationship with a child. There is eternity ahead of us . . . I will not repeat myself again: you are not ready for this.” 

Harry’s mind spun as he grappled to make sense of it. “If the age gap truly bothers you, then why let everyone believe that we’re already sleeping together?”

Voldemort gave him a bemused look. “I care not for their opinions. But you'll find that it serves my purpose perfectly . . . everyone knows you’re spoken for, do they not? It keeps them well away from what is mine.”

It was exactly the sort of toxic, manipulative behaviour that he should have expected. 

Harry fought to control the anger building inside him. Precious time was slipping through his fingers, and he couldn’t afford to waste any of it on Voldemort’s twisted games.

Harry’s green eyes narrowed. Defiantly, he raised his chin.

“I am ready.”

There was a long pause—a silent impasse. A cold draft swept through the room, stirring the curtains. 

And then Voldemort was upon him. 

Harry gasped as Voldemort claimed his mouth with a searing kiss. Long, cold fingers snaked down Harry’s abdomen, venturing to his pelvis before coming to rest at the back of his thighs. With surprising strength, Harry was lifted into the air. He clutched at Voldemort’s robes as his legs folded instinctually around Voldemort’s waist, and he was spun around until his back collided painfully with the bookcase.

He shivered as Voldemort’s tongue traced an ice-cold path from the edge of his mouth, along his jaw, to his throat. Tried to calm his racing heart as sharp teeth grazed his neck, as warmth pooled low in the pit of his stomach.  

His hands were still fisted in Voldemort’s robes. 

Harry moaned as Voldemort assertively pressed his weight against him, as Voldemort forced his legs further apart, as Voldemort rocked into him.

Involuntarily, Harry’s back arched. 

A loud clatter sounded as something toppled down from the bookshelf and crashed onto the floor.

Harry’s vision was spinning. Distantly he was aware of the way his heart pumped very fast, of his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

Voldemort continued to grind their pelvises together, pressing the hard evidence of his arousal against Harry’s stomach. He paused from the siege he was laying upon Harry’s neck to return his lips to Harry’s mouth, and his tongue lapped at Harry’s lower lip, coaxing his mouth open, and their teeth clashed as Voldemort kissed him deeply, hungrily, impatiently. 

A wave of molten panic flooded Harry’s senses. 

It was too much, too soon, too fast. 

And though he had prepared himself for this, though he had imagined how it might feel, how it might happen, that Voldemort might be intense, dominating, controlling . . . he hadn’t ever imagined he’d feel so utterly overwhelmed. 

He didn’t feel like he had any control in the situation, and he didn’t like that, and didn’t know how to fix it. He felt like a trapped animal with no room to breathe. 

Gasping for air, he broke the kiss and turned his face to the side. 

He could not keep the plea from his voice as, breathlessly, he heard himself say, “I—I’m not ready.” 

Red eyes danced across his face. 

Voldemort smiled in that cruel and wicked way of his, but didn’t hesitate before releasing him. Harry slumped back against the shelf. Voldemort reached forward, brushing his fringe from his forehead. And it was in the way that his voice went hoarse, the way his eyes guttered, that Harry knew he understood when he said, “I know.” 

Chapter Text

Harry awoke early the next morning, tangled in his sheets. A sliver of purple sky peeked through his curtains, indicating that it was somewhere between night and dawn. Faint sounds drifted up from the level below . . . it was someone treading carefully, mindful of the early hour. Harry supposed that it was probably James, returning home from an evening with friends, or another meeting with the Order. 

The idea made Harry feel strangely hollow. 

He blinked up at the light fixture on the ceiling. Less than twelve hours previous, he had decided that he would kiss Voldemort. It seemed like a lifetime ago. What was he going to do, now that Voldemort had turned down his advances, had made him face his own hesitation?

Harry lay in bed, turning over what had happened—the weight of it, the implications—and the dark, daunting path ahead.

The grief that had haunted him since his parent’s death felt different, now that he had so deeply betrayed their memory. It didn’t matter that he had the best intentions—his parents would never have approved. The sense of uncleanliness he’d felt since Alice and Frank’s wedding had soaked into his skin like a layer of grease that was impossible to wash away. What would Euphemia think, if she knew what he’d just done?

Harry thought of the Department of Mysteries, of the object that Euphemia had wanted him to have, and couldn’t help the resentment that clouded his mind. Why had she waited to give it to him? Why hadn’t she been honest with him, when he’d asked her if he’d been adopted? Could it be that, even back then, she had known he wasn’t trustworthy . . . 

Harry supposed that anything would be better than lying there with only his own miserable thoughts for company. He sighed heavily, untangled his limbs from the sheet, and rolled out of bed. He dressed methodically and reapplied the fake skin on his forearm which concealed the Dark Mark beneath it.

The portrait of his great-grandmother snored in her frame as Harry crept down the corridor, slipping past the room Sirius had claimed as his own, before quietly descending the stairs to the kitchen.

“Good morning, sunshine,” said James dryly. “What are you doing up so goddamn early?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Harry mumbled, stepping towards the kettle. “Isn’t this the best part of the day?” 

There was a little too much understanding in the smile James gave him for Harry’s liking. He tapped his wand to the kettle, then carefully measured two spoonfuls of ground coffee into the French press, so as not to have to look at James and give himself away.

Very gently, James said, “I have trouble sleeping sometimes as well. Have you tried Dreamless Sleep?” Harry did not answer—didn’t have the heart to tell James that he’d tried it a little too often, that he’d built up a tolerance—and James went on, “It can make me a bit groggy the next day . . . I suppose that’s not ideal, when you’ve got to get on a broomstick.”

“It’s not that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at him. The strange hollow sensation had moved to the pit of his stomach. 

“Are you hungry?” James asked after a pause. “I’ll make you something to eat.” 

Harry poured the coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. He gazed out the window, his face cradled in the palm of his hand. Silhouetted against the purple sky outside, he saw that a small black cat was perched atop their fence. The cat met his gaze, blinked once, and then leapt from the fence into their overgrown yard. 

“That cat’s back again,” said James. He slid a plate of toast and scrambled eggs across the table. 

“You don’t think it’s a—”

“—not an animagus, no.” James grinned crookedly. “I already checked . . . besides, an animagus couldn’t get past the wards. It’s probably just a stray.”

Harry poked at his eggs. “D’you think it’s hungry?”

“Well,” James reasoned, “if its owner is waiting for it to come home, then they won’t be thanking us for feeding it—what’s up, Harry?”

Harry had winced in pain. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead burned ferociously, and he felt a fury that was not his own pounding through his body. For a moment, his vision filled with constellations, pinpricks of light in the darkness of his thoughts. 

“What is it?” James asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn’t have another vision, did you?” 

“No,” said Harry at once. “I—it’s just a headache, that’s all.” 

After a minute or two, James said, “If you were having visions again, Harry, I hope that you’d speak to someone about it. If not a Healer, then at least Regulus.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry, more tersely than he meant to. Pain still pulsed from his scar, and he was struggling to keep his expression impassive. “I’m fine.” 

For a long moment, they stared at one another. Harry felt certain that James was going to argue with him, call him out on it, tell him exactly how far from fine any of them truly were. But then the moment passed, and James looked away, picked up his fork, and applied himself to his breakfast. 

They lapsed into an uneasy silence. 

Whatever had upset Voldemort that morning continued to incite his wrath throughout the day. Harry could only ponder what the cause might be as he flew around Ballycastle stadium in a state of encroaching anxiety. 

Regulus was waiting outside the stadium when practice concluded. He held a liquorice wand between his teeth, and a takeaway coffee in either hand. 

“Have fun in there?” he said. The words came out slightly garbled. 

“Depends on your definition of fun,” Harry replied, accepting one of the paper cups. “I spent most of the afternoon getting pelted with bludgers.”

Regulus smirked. “Beats double History with Binns,” he said, pulling the liquorice wand from his mouth. “Fancy a walk?”

Harry threaded his arm through Regulus’s, and they turned together into compressing darkness. Seconds later, Harry’s lungs expanded gratefully and he opened his eyes. 

They were standing arm-in-arm beneath the overhanging branches of an evergreen tree in Greenwich Park. The fading light filtered through the trees, casting long, slanted shadows across the path. A breeze ruffled the leaves above them, and Harry pulled his jacket in tightly against the cool evening air as they strode across the sloping lawns.

“This doesn’t smell like coffee,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he peered down at the cup.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Doesn’t it? How strange.”

“It’s not warm, either.”

Regulus’s smile widened. “Something told me that you might need cheering up.”

Firewhisky seared Harry’s throat as he took a small sip. And it was like a picture he hadn't even noticed was hanging right before him suddenly snapped into sharp relief. Harry’s green eyes narrowed. “Something,” he said scathingly, “or perhaps someone?”

Regulus faltered under the look Harry gave him. 

“What’s going on there, exactly?” Harry went on. “Between you and James.”

Regulus looked away. “Nothing . . . I suppose we’re friends.”

“Just friends, is it?” 

The path they were following curved gently downward, leading them to a small wooden bench. It creaked underneath their weight as they sat down, knee-to-knee.

“James is still grieving for Lily Evans,” muttered Regulus. He was clearly quite embarrassed. “There’s absolutely nothing going on between us.”

“Right,” said Harry in disbelief. “If you say so.” 

There was a long and awkward pause. 

Regulus sighed heavily, gave a pained smile that was more like a grimace, then asked, “Would you hate me, if something did happen? I know that I wasn’t particularly supportive when you dated Sirius.”

Harry scoffed . . . that was putting it mildly. But when he reached for the anger inside him, he found that he couldn’t quite grasp hold of it. Who was he to pass judgment upon anyone else’s choices? He realised that he would be glad if either of them could find even a sliver of happiness in the world in which they lived.

“Well,” said Harry slowly, “I think I could probably forgive you.” 

Simultaneously, they leaned forward and embraced. 

“You’re a much better person than I am,” Regulus said into Harry’s shoulder. 

“I know,” said Harry, grinning as they broke apart. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”

Harry watched as the last traces of sunlight bled into the horizon. He thought about that hollow feeling inside him, about James’s advice to confide in someone. He took a deep breath, and then he explained what had happened the previous evening. When he had finished, Regulus asked, “Are you sure that’s what he said: there is eternity ahead of us. Those were the Dark Lord’s exact words?” 

“Yes, I think so,” said Harry, surprised. “Why? It’s just a figure of speech, isn’t it?”

Regulus appeared to be thinking very hard. After a moment or two, he admitted, “I’m not sure. But Harry, I don’t see why you’re upset. This is perfect. You don’t need to sleep with Voldemort . . . because you already have him.”

“Do I?” said Harry dubiously. “Or does he have me? Because, if I’m honest, I think Bellatrix might be onto something—a lot of the time I do feel like Voldemort’s favourite pet.”

“You know that he cares for you,” said Regulus, sipping from his paper cup. “As far as I’ve seen, he favours you above anybody else. You have his ears, his eyes. You wanted influence, right? Well, you’ve got it. What you need to do now is figure out how to wield it.”  

Harry looked down at the faded constellations on his All Stars. “Voldemort decides everything in my life. From the spells I’m learning, to which of my friends might be dead tomorrow. I feel like I don’t have any power at all. And I thought—I thought that . . . ” Harry’s voice trailed off. 

Regulus stretched out a consoling hand, but Harry shrugged it off. 

“I thought,” Harry forced himself to go on, “if we had sex, it’d put us on equal footing—that we would be equals, in that aspect. And I’d have something that was mine, that I took from him. But that’s not how it felt at all . . . I was completely overwhelmed by him.”

There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, in which Harry knew his cheeks had turned very pink. 

“You’re using sex as a vehicle for power,” Regulus said finally. “I know you’re trying to find some control in the situation, but I don’t think this is the way to go about it.”  

Harry looked around the park, as if hoping the answer might swoop down upon him. 

“How did it make you feel,” Regulus asked curiously, “when Voldemort kissed you?”

Harry laughed. “Terrible . . . but great.” 

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Regulus’s face had gone pale. 

“Harry,” said Regulus quietly. “Are you—are you actually . . . ” 

Harry turned away, tipped back his cup and drank deeply. The firewhisky seemed to burn some sense back into him, filling the hollow in his chest with the bitter taste of self-loathing. 

He knew exactly what Regulus had meant to say.

“No,” he said. “Of course I’m not.”

Harry’s scar was starting to prickle again. He felt hot all over, and he drank some more firewhisky for something to do. As he drank, he thought about Voldemort’s lips moving against his own, the weight of Voldemort’s body, the warmth that had trickled and pooled somewhere near the base of his spine. 

“You know, Harry,” Regulus continued carefully, “it’s not unusual to be drawn to power . . . especially when you feel powerless. But just because you’re drawn to it, doesn’t mean you have to give in. You can fight that pull—fight the attraction.”

Harry felt a mixture of denial and panic. He didn’t want to think about it—wasn’t ready to face it. Desperate to move the conversation along, he asked, “Did anything happen today? I haven’t seen the Prophet.” 

Regulus tensed. “You haven’t heard?”

“No. What is it?”

“What did you decide, in the end, about WDFW?”

“About what?”

Regulus sighed. “Wands Down for Words.”

“Regulus,” Harry said, reaching into his pocket for a packet of tobacco. “WDFW is the fifth circle of hell. It goes Professor Binns, black pudding, disco, Azkaban, and sit-ins.”

Regulus gave him a knowing look. “You’re a good public speaker, Harry. You shouldn’t worry about that. But listen—Avery has been apprehended by the Ministry. Icarus thinks that they mean to use her, and any information they can acquire from her, to negotiate a peace treaty.”

Harry’s scar was burning now. “You’re kidding. But that’s never going to work . . . Voldemort’s not going to compromise. He doesn’t negotiate.” 

Even as the words left his mouth, as he felt the weight of their truth, he hoped—childishly—that he might be wrong. 

“I know,” said Regulus, in a tone that made him uneasy. “Apparently, the Inner Circle are furious . . . and they’re planning to retaliate.”

Trepidation spider-walked down his spine. “Retaliate how?” 

They sat quite still, holding each other’s gaze. 

“They intend to show the Ministry just how far its lofty ideas of peace will get it. There’s going to be a raid . . . ”

Harry thought he already knew the answer, but still asked, "When? Where?"

Regulus’s expression darkened. “Wands Down for Words.” 

Chapter Text

McGonagall’s lips were a tight, thin line. “What time did I request that you arrive, Mr Potter?”

“Nine o’clock, Professor.”

“And what time is it?”

Harry exhaled slowly. If he had thought that McGonagall might be any less terrifying now that he was no longer her pupil, then he was greatly mistaken. Reluctantly, he admitted, “Half past ten, Professor.”

McGonagall’s nostrils flared. 

“Professor,” Harry tried again, “I’m so sorry. I—”

“—I don’t want to hear it,” McGonagall interrupted. “Now come along, Potter. And, for goodness sake, you might want to rethink that ridiculous earring.”

The end of the week had brought with it the Wands Up for Words rally, which was taking place in the atrium of the Ministry for Magic. A podium had been set up beneath the golden fountain in the centre of the hall, and the water inside it had been charmed a deep, dark red that cast shimmering pools of light upon the polished wooden floor. 

Under McGonagall’s direction, Harry took a seat towards the back of the podium. A few people glanced his way, but for the most part, no one paid him any mind—Elphias Doge was midway through an impassioned speech on the bureaucratic failings to curb the growing threat. His voice carried easily above the cacophony—the buzz of voices, the scattered applause, the shuffle of hundreds upon hundreds of restless feet—as he slammed a fist against the lectern.

Harry’s gaze swept over the crowd. Many held handmade signs with painted slogans like ‘Stop the Bloodshed, Start the Change’ and ‘Magic Is a Gift, Not a Birthright.’ Amongst them was a smattering of press. A few Ministry workers had paused to watch, but most moved briskly between the fireplaces and elevators, indifferent or apathetic to the demonstration unfolding in their midst.  

Harry’s gaze lingered on Regulus, who was stationed by the fireplaces. An orange-coloured lanyard marking him as a volunteer dangled from his neck, contrasting sharply against his pristine dark robes. With each burst of emerald green flame, Regulus pulled a flyer from the stack clutched to his chest and thrust it toward the passing wixen. 

Even from a distance, Harry could tell that Regulus was tense, nervous . . . Harry was not feeling particularly confident himself, and yet he was sure that they had done all they could to prepare for whatever was going to happen. 

“Bless him,” came a familiar voice, tickling the shell of Harry’s ear. “And to think I used to fantasise about murdering him in his sleep.” 

Harry snorted. This was not missed by James, who spun right around to fix them both a reproachful look. 

From the seat behind him, Sirius continued in a whisper, “Why were you so late, little Potter? I thought you were ready to leave two hours ago.”

Harry flicked a stray cat hair from his t-shirt. “Costume change,” he lied, glancing back at Sirius over his shoulder. “Took me ages to find something to wear.”

Sirius’s lip quirked. “Really? Looks like you just rolled out of bed.”

Harry bit back a smile. “Don’t you know? It takes a lot of effort to look like you’ve put in no effort at all. What did I miss, anyway?”  

“Nothing. It was a late start . . . something about securing the perimeter. The speeches have only just begun.”

Harry glanced at the crowd, which had erupted in applause, cheers, and whistles as Kingsley Shacklebolt took the stage.

He turned his attention back to the fireplaces, where Regulus caught his eye. They had spent much of the week leading up to the rally inconspicuously gathering any information they could. Every detail had been analysed, every angle considered. Now, their plan was set. 

Oblivious to the approaching danger, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Harry looked down at his father’s old wristwatch. Though the watch could not tell time, he knew that right about now the Dementors—along with half of Voldemort’s force—would be swarming Upper Flagley . . . it was a diversion, of course, to draw the DMLE away from the Ministry.

Harry’s gaze wandered, snagging on the small and mousy form of Peter Pettigrew. He couldn’t help but notice that the boy looked exceptionally anxious. But what did Peter have to be nervous about? Unless, somehow, he knew of the impending raid . . . 

Harry drew a thread of magic from his core and let it gently caress Peter’s thoughts. Peter was not just nervous, Harry realised—he was terrified. 

Harry considered Peter in a new light. He had never seen him at Wraithmoor before. The last time they had spoken had been at the Hog’s Head—just before Mary MacDonald was poisoned. But hadn’t Peter been sitting beside her for most of the afternoon? And was it not always the most unassuming people who made the best spies?

Harry felt his insides squirm. 

“What are you going to talk about?” Sirius whispered. “Did you figure something out?” 

Harry shook his head. He had not planned anything . . . he did not anticipate that they would reach his turn. 

Sirius had caught the eye of the woman beside Harry. “What’re you speaking about, Goldstein?” he asked. 

Goldstein glanced back at Sirius. “The ecological consequences of magical warfare, particularly the disruption of habitats and ecosystems crucial to magical creatures.”

Harry looked at Goldstein. Her bold and striking features gave her the fierce appearance of a lion. She was vaguely familiar . . . he was certain he’d seen her in the Daily Prophet. Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realised that Goldstein was the magizoologist tasked with safely relocating the basilisk from Hogwarts.

Harry leaned in slightly and asked, “How’s the basilisk doing?”

Goldstein raised both eyebrows. “As well as can be expected, for a thousand-year-old serpent soon to be evicted from her home. Which is to say, she’s not particularly thrilled. Honestly, I don’t blame her . . . Hogwarts has been hers for centuries. I’m hoping that the board reconsiders.”  

Harry smiled wryly. “I can’t imagine the Board of Governors being very sympathetic to her plight.”  

Goldstein sighed. “I’m working on it,” she said. “I carved a runic containment circle around the southern wing of the castle—it keeps her in a set area, and lets her stay in familiar territory. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out.”  

Harry tilted his head. “Including inquisitive students?”  

“Reasonably sure she won’t eat any more of them, should the board allow them back in.”  

“Just reasonably?” 

“Well,” Goldstein said airily, “no system is perfect.”  

Harry wondered whether Goldstein had been joking, and was glad for an excuse to end the conversation when the next speaker stood up. 

Time crawled at a torturous pace as the morning stretched on. The words of the speakers washed over Harry like a river flowing past a stone—present, but never leaving an impression. 

And then—at long last—he saw a flicker of bright, dazzling robes. The atrium fell quiet, the weight in the air shifting ever so slightly as Albus Dumbledore stepped up to the lectern, his presence alone commanding the hall in a way no one else had come close to.

Harry felt like he might be sick . . . that was the signal.  

Black shapes were emerging out of thin air all around the atrium, eyes glinted through slits in hoods, wands poised at the ready. Out of nowhere, out of nothing, the protest was surrounded. And then screams rent the air, and green light blazed from every side.

The atrium erupted into pandemonium. 

Harry lurched to his feet. “Sirius,” he cried urgently, spinning around to grab a hold of Sirius’s jacket. “Listen to me—the flyers are portkeys. Scrunch them up, and they’ll transport people to Diagon Alley.” 

Sirius’s grey eyes blew wide. “What? How d’you—”

“—No time to explain,” Harry interrupted. He ducked, pulling Sirius down with him, as a jet of green light soared above their heads. “Tell everyone you can.”

Sirius hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he pulled free from Harry’s grip. Harry heard him passing the message along to James before they leapt together from the podium straight into the fray. 

Spellfire streaked through the air as people scrambled for safety. Only, there was nowhere for anybody to go . . . people were moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off, and the golden gates that led to the line of elevators had slammed closed. It was no use apparating—no one had ever managed to apparate in or out through the Ministry’s wards. 

Harry heard Dumbledore shouting at someone to reopen the Floos, urging them to get people out. Why was the Ministry closing the exits, trapping everyone inside?

Two streaks of light shot past Harry’s left ear, so close he felt the heat of their passage. Heart pounding, he drew his wand, circled around Dumbledore, and jumped from the podium.

Four Death Eaters had broken from the perimeter and were pushing towards him. 

Harry spun around, searching for Regulus. He saw James turn and raise his wand, saw Sirius duelling a Death Eater ten feet away, saw Kingsley Shacklebolt fighting two at once, saw Evan Rosier, with his mask askew, brought down to his knees, saw the blood spurt from Evan’s handsome face as the boot of an Auror connecting with it.

Harry stood frozen, torn between the need to act and the risk of exposure. 

He plunged his hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out one of Regulus’s Critter Crackers, and set it down upon the floor. The device scuttled off, weaving through the crowd. A moment later, a deafening bang shattered the air, followed by a thick cloud of black acrid smoke.

He had to believe that the distraction would be enough to buy Evan time to get away. 

Springing to his feet, Harry resumed his search for Regulus. 

From within the crowd of civilians, Aurors were suddenly revealing themselves . . . a feeling of horror rose like bile in Harry’s throat. He realised they had been concealed there all along, which could only mean they had known that Voldemort would be launching an attack.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath . . . it was a trap, it had to be.

More curses flew past Harry’s head. A glance over his shoulder confirmed the target—Dumbledore, standing just a few feet behind him. And moving with an otherworldly grace, both beautiful and deadly, with his long black robe brushing the bloodied floor and his red eyes blazing, Voldemort stepped onto the podium to face him. 

Harry did not know what to do . . . he had to warn Voldemort. 

It’s a trap, he thought desperately, pressing his thoughts through the shared stream of consciousness that bound them. It’s a trap—get out! 

Fleetingly, red eyes fixed to green. 

Well aware, cousin, said Voldemort’s soft, silky voice in his mind. And then Voldemort's scarlet eyes narrowed, and he breathed, “Hello, Dumbledore!” 

Voldemort raised his wand, unleashing a flash of green light that hurtled toward Dumbledore. With a swift dip of his head Dumbledore avoided the curse, then took a deliberate step forward, narrowing the distance between them.

“It was foolish to come here, Tom,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

Voldemort’s expression remained impassive as he said, “They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore. You know this, Dumbledore.”

Voldemort sent another Killing Curse streaking toward the Headmaster. But before it could strike, Dumbledore had flicked his wand, sending a spell of his own to meet it. The two spells collided in midair with a blinding flash, shockwaves rattling the walls as magic crackled between them.

“You are outnumbered and surrounded,” said Dumbledore lightly. “There will be no way out from this.” 

Voldemort’s lip curled in a cruel, mocking smile. It was an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage. 

“Outnumbered,” Voldemort crooned, “perhaps. Surrounded . . . maybe. But you only see what you choose to, Dumbledore . . . as you always have. I am precisely where I want to be, and nowhere else.”

Dread flooded Harry at the words. 

He realised that, as arrogant and selfish as Voldemort was, he was willing to take his chances. Harry had no doubt that the Dark Lord could hold his own . . . but the others? Harry did not think that the Death Eaters would last long, outnumbered as they were. 

And what had Dumbledore meant, that there was no way out?

Harry’s mind raced to piece it all together. 

The Death Eaters had materialised from nowhere. It wasn’t apparition, but something akin to it, a magic drawn from the Dark Mark that obeyed Voldemort’s will. Had the Ministry known Voldemort was coming, had they prepared for it, they might have taken steps to prevent him from transporting the Death Eaters back to Wraithmoor, to safety.

What had Sirius said about the event starting late? Something about securing the perimeter . . . and then, with a sudden jolt, Harry remembered Goldstein’s words, and everything fell into place.

I carved a runic containment circle . . . nothing gets in, nothing gets out.

Harry groaned. He hated ancient runes. 

In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift. If there was a way to find the circle—and somehow dismantle it—he was willing to try. The only problem was, he couldn’t afford to be seen doing it . . . slowly, the beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind.

Harry released a second Critter Cracker at his feet. Under cover of the thick black smoke that billowed from it, he quickly pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his pocket, draped it over his shoulders, and drew the hood tightly around his face.

He waded through the smoke, heading straight for the nearest wall.

Then, from somewhere ahead, a familiar, raucous laugh pierced the air.

What Harry beheld made white-hot anger leap inside him. 

A large Auror had seized Bellatrix around the throat and lifted her up so that her toes barely skimmed the floor. She clawed at her captor, cackling madly as she kicked and spat. Several of the Aurors around them were laughing. 

He had been frozen by indecision, unable to do much for Evan. But perhaps he could make up for it . . . perhaps he could help Bellatrix. 

Under cover of invisibility, Harry stalked forward. He felt the white-hot anger lick his insides as he came up behind the Auror holding Bellatrix, pressed his wand to their spine, and let a cutting curse blast from its tip. 

He aimed to incapacitate—brutally—but not kill. 

The Aurors shouted as the first fell, but Harry was already dancing to the next. One, then two—a second cutting curse ripped from his wand. 

Before the third could attack, Harry had already danced away. 

Dance, strike. Dance, strike.

Bellatrix’s chest was rising and falling rapidly as she spun around, her wild eyes trying to pinpoint the source of her unexpected help. She started as Harry brushed up behind her, leaning in to whisper into her ear, “You can thank me later, Bellatrix.”

They both ducked as a jet of red light flew over their heads. Then, finally, Harry spotted Regulus—and took off after him. 

“Regulus!” Harry cried out. 

It was the only warning Regulus had before Harry barrelled into him. 

“Harry!” said Regulus, looking worried. “Where are you?” 

Harry glanced around before pulling the Invisibility Cloak over Regulus as well. They stood nose-to-nose, both of them breathing heavily. 

“Well this is a disaster, isn’t it?” said Regulus. “D’you think James knew it was a set-up?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so. I overheard Dumbledore arguing about reopening the Floo. He seemed just as surprised—this is the Ministry’s doing.”

“Nice of them,” said Regulus sarcastically, “to trap the civilians in the middle of it. At least most have taken the portkeys . . . I tried giving Snape a flyer, but he said he’d rather drop dead than be seen holding it. Why hasn’t Voldemort retreated?”

“I don’t think he can,” said Harry quickly, and he explained his theory of the runic circle. “We need to find and destroy it.”

“It’ll be in this room,” Regulus said. “A series of runes, likely on the walls or floor. We just need to find a marker to break the circle. The problem is, if it were me, I’d have used invisible ink.”

“How will we find a marker, then?”

Regulus seemed to be thinking very hard. After a long pause, he said, “Can you try and sense it?” 

Harry raised both his eyebrows. “What? Piss off.”

“It shouldn’t be too different from empathic magic,” said Regulus. “Reach out, sense what is around you . . . you might be able to see a marker. Your ability to feel, Harry, is a powerful gift—use it.”

Harry glanced toward the podium, where Voldemort and Dumbledore were trading spells so rapidly they blurred together, too fast for him to follow. As Harry looked at Dumbledore, he was reminded of the last time they’d spoken, on the porch of his home in Godric’s Hollow shortly after his mother had died.

. . . there is no shame in what you’re feeling. On the contrary, that you’re able to feel so much shows a great strength . . . 

“You can do it,” Regulus coaxed gently. “Give it a go—open up your mind. Please just try, Harry.”

The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. 

Harry drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. He let the noise of the battle fade away, retreating to a place that was still and quiet. He cast aside his inhibitions. He reached into the pool of his magic, gathering its power around him, then extending it outward to sense the subtle tremors of magic in the air. 

The moment he did, his vision changed. 

Even with his eyes closed, he saw it—a shimmering net stretched across the top of the atrium, latching onto the walls. It pulsed gently like the heartbeat of a living, breathing organism. 

Harry's eyes snapped open, fixing on the nearest point where the net connected to the stone wall. 

“Over here,” he said, pulling Regulus along. 

“We don’t have time to dismantle the bindings,” Regulus explained. “But . . . we might be able to brute-force it.” 

Harry nodded. 

There was a pause, in which they both looked at one another. 

“Tell me when,” said Regulus. He slipped his arm through Harry’s and gently pulled him back a few steps.

“On three,” said Harry, pointing his wand at the wall. “One . . . two . . . Confringo!”

The air exploded. 

They had been standing side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. And in that fragment of a moment—when the only thing that seemed to matter was destroying the marker, breaking the circle—the world was rent apart. Harry felt himself flying through the air, and all he could do was hold tightly to his wand, and shield his head with his arms. 

The next moment, the world resolved itself into pain and semidarkness. 

He was half buried in rubble—not from the wall, as he first thought, but from a second explosion that had erupted simultaneously, at the centre of the atrium. The air that kissed his skin told him that he was no longer wearing the Invisibility Cloak, and the hot trickle down his face told him that he was bleeding copiously. He heard screams and shouts all around him, but they were distant, drowned out by the loud ringing in his eardrums.

He stood, swaying, and saw that others were struggling to their feet amid the terrible wreckage. 

Voldemort was crouched on the podium, not a fleck of dust on him. 

The golden fountain that had stood behind him was gone, shattered beyond recognition. A severed head—the last remnant of the statue—bounced down the podium steps, rolling across the ruined wooden floor before coming to a halt at Dumbledore’s feet. 

Dumbledore stood tall, but his dazzling robes were darkened by the blood seeping into their folds.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Go! Harry pleaded through the bond. The way is clear. Get out of here, Voldemort! Shoo!

Voldemort stilled. 

And Harry could understand his temptation to stay—to finish what he had started, to end Dumbledore once and for all. Damn the consequences, and damn the casualties. But then something in Voldemort’s expression softened. From across the atrium, he caught Harry’s eye. 

Harry could have sworn he felt a mental finger caress the bond between them. 

The next moment, in a whirl of his long dark robes, Voldemort—and the Death Eaters he’d brought with him—were gone. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s feet hit solid ground. His knees buckled slightly, and the large black cat he’d been holding to his chest let out a yowl of protest before leaping to the floor. He adjusted the silver ring on his finger—the Portkey—until it sat just right, then lifted his gaze to the circular, wood panelled room.

Upon his sudden appearance, candles around the room had flared to life. Harry noted that everything appeared exactly as it had the week before. Dark, arcane objects sat on display across several shelves, books crammed between. A painting of a dreary, barren landscape hung above the antique radio.

With a flick of his wand, Harry lit the fire in the grate and wandered to the window, where diamond panes framed a sky stitched with glittering stars. He had thought that he would feel elated that the rally was behind them, but somehow he did not. All Harry felt as he stared out the window was worry about what would happen next. 

The fireplace burst suddenly into emerald green flames, making Harry’s heart leap. A tall figure stepped out, unfolding itself from the fire. 

Voldemort didn’t look at Harry at first. He swept across the room in silence, heading straight for the drinks cabinet. He poured out a measure of amber coloured liquor and drank it in a single, smooth motion. Then he poured another, and turned to face Harry.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” said Harry, biting his lip.

There was a short pause broken only by the crackle of the fire. 

“You’re always welcome, cousin,” said Voldemort in a low voice. “Unless you’re not . . . but I suspect you’d know, if that were the case. Would you not?” 

“I s’pose so,” said Harry, thinking back on the occasion when Voldemort had thrown something at his head with a wry smile. 

Voldemort crossed the room in a few long strides, then stopped short. “What is that?”

The large black cat had emerged from beneath the bookshelf it had been exploring. It wound itself around Voldemort’s legs, purring, and then pawed at his hand.

Harry laughed softly. “It’s a cat. Her name’s Flopsy . . . she’s yours.”

Ignoring the cat’s plea for attention, Voldemort settled himself upon the sofa. He rested his elbow on the armrest, chin nestled in his palm, and offered Harry a benign smile. “I don’t want a cat.”

“Well, too bad,” said Harry. He glanced at the seating options, of which there were several, before sitting down on the sofa beside Voldemort. “Sirius is allergic,” he explained, “and I don’t know what else to do with her. She doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. Besides, it’s symbolic.”

“Oh?”

Heat crept up the back of Harry’s neck. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But the more he had thought about the idea, the more it appealed to him. 

Giving Flopsy to Voldemort was symbolic. 

Harry had felt overwhelmed and powerless when he had kissed Voldemort before. But he had proven to himself at the Ministry that he did have a special kind of power. Not only in his ability to feel, but also over Voldemort, who had retreated when Harry had asked. Flopsy could take the place that Harry didn’t want—that of the soft, devoted pet. Because Harry was ready to admit that he wanted something much more dangerous . . . he was attracted to Voldemort, perhaps even cared for him a little. 

The idea was ridiculous, far-fetched . . . what kind of relationship could he ever hope to have with the Dark Lord? Voldemort was cruel, possessive, manipulative. He would never respect a partner who bowed to him. And what hope did Harry have of standing at his side, of belonging on his own terms, as an equal?

A hard lump rose in Harry’s throat, and he forced himself to swallow it down.

“Yes,” he replied simply. 

Harry slid his hand into the pocket of his robe, and his fingers brushed the cold, smooth surface of his mask. Overnight the serpentine, skull-like engravings had transformed, recast in the intricate design reserved for Voldemort’s highest ranking Death Eaters.

“I take it I’ve passed the Ascension Rite,” Harry said conversationally, catching Voldemort’s gaze upon his face. “Some might say I didn’t climb the ranks so much as fly straight through them. I can only assume I’ve got you to thank for that.”

Voldemort took a sip from his drink, then set it down upon the table. An indulgent smile played on his lips. “You don’t believe you’ve proven your worth, your loyalty? I know what you did in the atrium.” 

“From novice to inner circle? I think it’s a bit overkill, yeah.”

“My baby cousin,” Voldemort crooned, and Harry knew just from the tone of his voice that Voldemort was mocking him, “All grown up and playing with the adults.”

Harry’s heart shot upward into his throat. “D’you mean that?”

Voldemort’s red eyes fastened upon Harry’s green ones.

Harry’s mind was racing. Voldemort had insisted that he wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship until Harry was older. But wasn’t Harry’s ascent through the ranks proof that Voldemort recognised and acknowledged his skill, his growth, his maturity?

Voldemort laughed, as though he had followed Harry’s precise train of thought. And Harry had to wonder, not for the first time, whether the man had gotten inside his head. 

“Absolutely nothing has changed,” said Voldemort. 

Harry lifted his chin. “I have changed. And I’ve changed my mind—I’ve decided that I am ready after all.”

“It’s only been a week.”

“It was a rather big week.” 

Voldemort sighed with impatience. “You would put a stop to it within five minutes.” Smirking arrogantly, he went on, “I know that I am right . . . I always am.”

“You might be right,” said Harry slyly, “but I’m stubborn. I’ve never been one to give up easily.” 

“When you are as old as I am, you may understand how very young and annoying you are.” 

Harry scoffed. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” 

Voldemort huffed a laugh. “I’ve been called much worse.” 

Despite his words, Harry could sense that Voldemort was at least a little bit amused . . . it was all the motivation that Harry needed. 

Shifting his weight on the sofa, he swung one leg over Voldemort’s lap. His knees slotted either side of Voldemort’s waist, straddling him, and his hands slid up the smooth planes of Voldemort’s chest. 

At his touch, Voldemort’s feelings coalesced with his own, flowing together into a single current. He couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. But instead of pulling away from what moved between them—instead of fearing it—Harry let it in. 

He had accepted his feelings, and now he embraced them.

Voldemort stared up at him, his expression impassive, though Harry noticed that Voldemort’s breathing was as uneven as his own. 

It was in these rare moments, where the world was narrowed to just the two of them, that everything felt so simple, so easy. Harry knew exactly what to do, how to prove to Voldemort that he was ready. 

He wet his lips. He lowered his head, and he kissed him. 

His lips brushed tentatively against Voldemort’s. Harry withdrew a little, giving Voldemort space to pull away. When he did not, Harry kissed him again—this time, harder. 

Voldemort held his gaze through the kiss, even as Harry brought their bodies close together, as the coldness that always emanated from Voldemort seeped through the fabric of his clothes and Harry shivered. 

Long fingers danced across Harry’s back to his hips, pulling Harry in so tightly that he could feel the hard length of Voldemort pressing against his stomach. Holding Harry there, Voldemort seized control of the kiss. His tongue slipped between Harry’s teeth, sweeping the inside of his mouth in a slow, possessive claim. 

Harry moaned softly through the kiss. He drew his arms around Voldemort’s shoulders, his fingers weaving through the fine strands of hair. And when Voldemort rolled his pelvis, Harry responded without thought, intuitively moving against him. 

Voldemort kissed him deeply and thoroughly, from his mouth, to his cheek, to his neck. 

Harry felt very aware of every brush of Voldemort’s lips, every slide of his tongue. But it still took him by surprise when Voldemort’s teeth bit down on the tender stretch of skin between his neck and shoulder. 

Harry cried out. 

He could hardly think, hardly breathe as he danced the line between pain and pleasure. Very quickly, it became too much. His fingers curled in Voldemort’s hair, and he gave a sharp, deliberate tug.

Heeding the warning, Voldemort eased off. His tongue caressed the spot where his teeth had broken through Harry’s skin. 

Though Voldemort’s touch was cool, heat pounded inside Harry’s veins. He untangled his fingers from Voldemort’s hair, trailing them over Voldemort’s torso, and then lower. His fingers slipped between a fold of fabric to grapple with the buckle of a belt. 

Harry looked down at Voldemort through the curve of his lashes, enjoying the rare advantage of height. Their eyes met, pale faces lit by the orange glow of the firelight. 

The buckle clicked open and Harry grinned triumphantly. Then, he froze. 

There had been a sudden, sharp knock upon the door. 

They were both very still, breathing fast and shallow. For a few seconds they stared at each other. 

“Who is that?” Harry whispered. 

Voldemort heaved a sigh and then said, “My next meeting . . . I did warn you that you wouldn’t get far. Unless—” Voldemort’s red eyes glimmered, and he smirked, “—you don’t mind an audience?” 

Harry was gazing down at Voldemort, still breathing hard, listening yet barely understanding what he was hearing. 

“What?” he said bitterly. “You weren’t letting me prove anything at all. You never take me seriously.” 

The knock came again, louder. 

Harry was still in Voldemort’s lap. 

“I’d suggest that you compose yourself, cousin,” said Voldemort. He had said it quite calmly, and yet Harry knew at once that he had gone too far, that he’d finally crossed some invisible line. 

Harry glared at Voldemort for a moment, then flung himself onto the sofa beside him. He lightly pressed his fingers to the spot on his neck where he was certain a bruise was now forming, shot Voldemort another dark look, and then waited. 

Some vindictive part of him was glad to see that the Dark Lord did not look entirely unaffected himself. He ran his long fingers through his hair, smoothing what Harry had disrupted. Despite this, a very faint flush still lingered upon his otherwise pale skin.

At Voldemort’s signal the door opened, and several Death Eaters filed into the room. It was his inner circle—Antonin Dolohov, Abraxas Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood and Silas Nott—followed by a few of the younger, higher ranking members, amongst them Bellatrix Black, Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange.

Each of them bowed respectfully to Voldemort, then glanced at Harry—some with surprise, others with curiosity, but all with a discernible air of disapproval—before proceeding to their allotted places around the room.

Harry felt both embarrassed and uncomfortable. Self consciously he smoothed the collar of his robes, uneasy at the thought that the mark Voldemort had left might be visible.

He looked towards Voldemort, seeking permission to take his leave. As their eyes met, Harry felt that mental caress down the bond between them, and he heard Voldemort’s voice inside his mind: Stay.

Harry bit his lip.

He didn’t want to stay. But if he wanted Voldemort to see him as capable and mature, to take him seriously, he would have to do away with such childish things, rise above them. 

And so he took a deep breath, and he smiled. 

To Harry’s surprise, the atmosphere seemed more like a gathering of old friends than a formal meeting. Chairs were drawn closer to the hearth, and a variety of spirits and refreshments were brought out. The Death Eaters conversed quietly, their familiarity with one another evident in the ease of their interactions.

“Hello, Potter,” said Bellatrix from across the room, her dark eyes alight with mischief. She leaned forward, letting her robe fall open just enough to expose the ample swell of her bosom. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the mutterings of the other Death Eaters. 

“Hullo, Bellatrix,” he said blandly. “Feeling better? Last I saw, an Auror had you by the throat.” 

“I suppose that you think we’re friends now, hmm?” said Bellatrix. “That I’ll be your bosom buddy. Is that what you think?”

“Oh,” said Harry, surprised. “I suppose that sounds . . . reasonable.”

“Don’t be insane, Potter.”

Harry laughed. 

He felt something brushing against his knees and started, but it was only Flopsy. She wound herself once more around Harry’s legs, purring, and then jumped onto Voldemort’s lap, where she curled up for a nap. 

Absently Voldemort scratched her behind the ears. And then, with his elbow propped back on the armrest, and his chin nestled in the palm of his hand, he began the meeting with, “So?” 

Chapter Text

Harry stared at his reflection in the glass pane, the outline of his face mostly obscured in the autumn light that slanted over the door. The light fell upon an arch of gold embossed letters, spelling out Roots and Relics. Below this, fluttering in the breeze, hung a note: Closed for Reparations.  

Frustration and disappointment welled up inside him.

Overhead, a silver raven let out a soft caw. Glimmering like starlight, it circled Harry twice before swooping down to land upon his shoulder. With trembling fingers, Harry reached out and gave the Patronus a grateful pat. 

It was a wonder he’d managed the charm at all, with the wave of icy cold mist that had engulfed him the moment he stepped through the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. But the Patronus was part of the fifth-year curriculum, drilled into muscle memory, and second nature by now. When he’d called for it, the raven had come. 

Dementors, Harry thought with loathing.

It wasn’t as if he hadn't faced them before. But never like this . . . never so many, never so near. Always at a distance, always with Fleamont or Euphemia protecting him from the worst of it.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. 

Rallying himself once more, Harry turned away from the shopfront, pausing briefly to take in his surroundings. Diagon Alley had changed significantly since his last visit. Many shops stood boarded up, the windows dark and vacant. The few wixen still passing through moved with a sense of urgency, their faces drawn and wary. 

None paused to speak or greet one another. 

And who would, with those vile creatures gliding up and down the cobblestones, tall and hooded, emitting a coldness that reached right down into your throat and tore at your lungs. 

Even with the Patronus on his shoulder, Harry could still feel their effects—the slow, cold creep of despair, the hopelessness that spread like frost through his veins. 

“Not Harry, not Harry, please . . . ”

Harry shook his head, clearing it. 

A seedy-looking wizard was rattling a box of amulets at passersby. “One for you, pretty?” the wizard called at Harry as he passed, leering. “Be a shame to see damage done to something so fine, so lovely.”

Harry didn’t break stride. 

A narrow laneway opened ahead, half hidden by shadow. He turned into it and stopped at a chipped black door. Lowering his head to the raven, he whispered, “Wait for me.” 

The raven bowed and let out another soft caw before again taking flight, leaving a trail of starlight as it vanished into the darkening sky.

Harry opened the door and stepped inside. 

“Evening,” the bartender greeted without glancing up.

In some kind of daze, Harry ordered a drink and made his way to the furthest, darkest corner of the establishment. He felt numb all over, like the icy mist of the Dementors had seeped beneath his skin, freezing his thoughts before they could fully form in his brain. He moved without thinking, barely aware of his own limbs, and startled when a familiar voice crooned into his ear, “Well, well, well. Look who’s early . . . bitty kitty couldn’t stay away.”

“I always forget how annoying you are,” Harry said by way of greeting. “That is, until you open your big mouth.”

Bellatrix’s smile curved with amusement as she slipped into the seat beside him, a decanter of wine and two glasses balanced easily in her hands. She leaned in, and in a gesture that had grown as familiar as the change in season, they kissed each other’s cheeks. 

“You look terrible,” she said. 

Harry grimaced. “Why are there so many Dementors about? I thought most of them had defected.”

“They have,” said Bellatrix. She smiled, took a sip from her drink, and continued, “The Dark Lord has been quiet . . . not a single raid for weeks, and it’s driving the Ministry mad. If they’re relying on the Dementors, they must really be running on fumes. And when we strike—” Bellatrix grinned viciously “—they'll fold like wet parchment.”

She tilted her head, her smile widening. “Now, how was training?”

“Fine,” Harry said curtly. 

“What does he have you working on?”

“You’re so nosy.”

“I’m not nosy,” said Bellatrix in a clipped voice. “But if you want my opinion—”

“—I really don’t, though—”

“—you need to ditch the dance routine and concentrate on your casting. Get your feet underneath you, keep them there, and cut out the theatrics.”

Harry scoffed at the hypocrisy. If either of them favoured theatrics, it was surely Bellatrix. “Did Lucius Malfoy tell you that? He can suck a blast-ended skrewt.”

“It’s duelling, not interpretive dance,” said Bellatrix. 

She raised her glass and drained it. Harry copied her, and then refilled their glasses from the decanter. As Harry took a sip, Bellatrix asked, “Has he fucked you yet?”

Harry choked. 

Bellatrix smacked him on the back as Harry coughed, glaring at her through streaming eyes. Once he had control of his voice again, he said, “Piss off, Bellatrix. You’re so nosy.”

“Well, when is it going to happen?”

Harry set his glass down upon the table and leaned back, fingers steepled as he met the glittering demand in Bellatrix’s eyes with a slow, knowing smile.

In hindsight, confiding the Dark Lord’s reservations to Bellatrix had been a terrible mistake. She had seized upon the confession with glee, recounting—often in excessive detail—the extensive list of past lovers who had occupied Voldemort’s bed, herself included. Worse still, she now seemed to be personally invested in pushing Harry across that line. The result was not the comfort he had initially sought, but rather a quiet, deepening ache. 

Voldemort continued to turn down Harry’s advances. And Harry, for all his composure, couldn’t help but feel very small in comparison to those who had come before him. All of them a lot older, a lot more experienced, and evidently a lot more desirable.

Voldemort claimed that Harry was too young, too childish, and Harry had no choice but to respect this. Nonetheless, it stung—Voldemort didn’t want him, yet still made sure no one else could have him either. 

“Can we talk about something else?” Harry groused. 

From somewhere deep within, Harry had the sense to realise that he was probably in shock. But he didn’t want to think about the Dementors, whatever the hell they’d done to him, just as he didn’t want to think about the Dark Lord’s games. He really didn’t want to think at all . . . 

He lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, letting the numbness flood in—a rush of blissful nothingness he welcomed like an old friend.

Then, grasping the first thought that came along, he said, “Have you ever been inside Roots and Relics? Icarus told me about it, that they can trace your whole family tree. I wanted to have a look, but they’re closed for renovations.”

“That’s what they’re calling it, are they?” Bellatrix laughed.  “No, darling, the owner has found themselves in a spot of trouble . . . I believe they’re taking an extended vacation abroad.”

“Oh? What kind of trouble?”

“Why do you want to know, hmm?” said Bellatrix, settling her glass down upon the table. “I wouldn’t think the Potters had any need to prove their blood status.”

Harry smiled faintly. “It’s not that. I’m more interested in the spellwork . . . the theory behind it. I didn’t think there was a reliable method for tracing bloodlines. Is it even possible?”

“They were using blood magic, darling. Clever, if unconventional . . . it’s very dark magic. The Ministry, as ever, was content to look the other way—until seizing the opportunity to exploit it for political gain.”

Blood magic . . . Harry turned this over, then tucked it away for later consideration. “And so now they’ve shut it down,” he prompted. 

“Yes,” said Bellatrix. She reached for her wine again and swirled it lazily as she spoke. “Publicly, it’s about integrity. Privately? It’s all for show. The Ministry wants to look clean, untouchable—reasonable, even. Anything to convince the public that their talks of peace might actually lead somewhere. As if that has the slightest chance in hell.”

“That again,” said Harry tiredly. 

“Can you smell it, darling?” Bellatrix paused, leaned towards him across the table, and wet her lips. “The fear? That’s not the Dementors patrolling outside—that’s the sweet scent of the Ministry’s desperation. They still think they can entice the Dark Lord into negotiations . . . as if he were interested in compromise.”

At the mention again of the Dementors, Harry’s stomach twisted painfully. Now was not the time nor the place. He wasn’t ready to examine the effect they’d had on him, the woman’s voice—

“I don’t know how the Ministry thinks they have any goodwill after the WDFW event,” he said dully. “Anyway, speaking of impossible feats—” he inclined his head towards Bellatrix, toasting her, “—how’s the wedding plans coming along?”

Bellatrix told him. 

And it was so easy to lose himself in the rising cadence of Bellatrix’s voice, each syllable pulling him further from his thoughts, further from the mist.

So easy to order a third decanter, to slide Roots and Relics to the back of his mind, to pretend he hadn’t glimpsed a door closing before he even knew it was open to him, just another dead end in the search for whatever truth lay in his blood, in his ancestry.

So very easy, to roll a cigarette slowly between his fingers, to spin Bellatrix in his arms, to flirt with the night manager just for the sick thrill of it, to be reckless, rebellious, begging for a bit of trouble. 

“Come along, Potter. Time to go home.”

So easy, so very easy, to distract himself from those screams, from that laugher. 

Fingers curled around his arm. Who was that? Rockwood? 

“Play with fire, Potter, and sooner or later you’re going to get burnt.” 

Harry swayed on his feet. He heard his own voice, slurred, “You can deny my appeals all you like, Rockwood, but you cannot deny me another drink.” 

Rockwood grinned, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Come along, Potter, and I’ll tell you everything I know about the item your mother bequeathed to you.” 

A hand pressed to the small of his back, guiding him out, up, away. 

Rockwood had lied. 

“Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside, now.”

He stumbled through the front door, certain that he was going to be sick. James and Sirius were awake, lounging in the kitchen, a record blasting from another room. A pair of clippers rested on the table, and they were passing a joint back and forth between them.

The raven nibbled affectionately at his ear as Harry stroked its feathers, then gently lifted it from his shoulder to the windowsill.

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead!”

“You really don't look well, you know,” said James, peering anxiously into his face.

Harry passed the joint to Sirius, mumbling, “Do me as well, would you? I want it gone—all of it. Just get it out of my head.” 

His face fell with a thump onto the kitchen table. 

“You’re so wasted, Harry,” said James. “You’ll regret it tomorrow.” 

Harry exhaled slowly. “It’ll grow back.” 

He heard Sirius’s barking laughter, and he closed his eyes, waiting. 

Black painted fingernails scraped against his scalp, dividing his hair into sections. Then Sirius said, very gently, tenderly, “Just do the bottom half. Give him an undercut.” 

He had no idea how he made it upstairs or when he’d crawled beneath the sheets. He lay awake for a long time, shaking uncontrollably, staring up at the ceiling and wondering whether he was finally losing his mind. 

“Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy.”

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling his vision . . . what was he doing? What did it mean? He needed to help her . . . she was going to die . . . she was going to be murdered . . . 

Who was she? 

It was as though freezing water were rising in his chest, flooding his lungs and numbing everything it touched. He was falling, falling through the icy mist. 

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead.”

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Harry—

Harry rolled onto his side and retched. 

Nameless faces pushed their way back into his thoughts. 

“Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy . . . ”

He yearned not to feel, to think. He wished that he could rip out his heart, destroy everything that was screaming inside him to look, to understand—that Dementors drew out a person’s worst memories, forced them to relive their darkest moments, that this was his memory, that this had happened to him. 

His thoughts spiralled back to that desperate, pleading voice, replaying it again and again in his mind . . . he thought he knew who the voice belonged to . . . it was familiar . . . but of course it would be, wouldn’t it? When the Dementors were near, he heard the last moments of her life, her attempts to protect him . . . and the cold, cruel laughter of the man who had murdered her. 

And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that the woman was his mother, that she had loved him, that she had died for him, and that she had left the world . . . had left Harry.

He couldn’t explain how he knew it. He just did. As if the truth had been there all along, waiting to be remembered.

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke the following morning, it was several moments before he remembered what had happened. He hoped—childishly—that it had been an awful dream. Yet, turning his head on his pillow, he saw his Patronus perched on an empty pot that had, a long time ago, housed a sad monstera. 

The raven blinked slowly. Harry averted his gaze and rolled out of bed.

His mother had died a long time ago, Harry told himself. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that she was dead, not really. He had to keep reminding himself of this as he washed and dressed, as though the familiar repetition might somehow dull the pain. 

She had been murdered, and she was not coming back . . . he would never have the chance to get to know her. That was the simple and unavoidable truth of it. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” James greeted as Harry entered the kitchen. 

James slid a plate of eggs across the table, and Harry sat down heavily. After a long pause, James said, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Nope,” Harry said automatically. 

He picked up his knife and fork, and then laid them back down beside his plate. His heart was beating rather fast considering that all he was doing was staring at his breakfast. 

He had to tell somebody, to get it off his chest . . . 

And why not James? James had as much right as he did to know where Harry had come from, why Fleamont and Euphemia had kept it a secret, had hidden it from them. He fixed his eyes upon his fork, which glinting in the morning sunlight streaming into the kitchen, and said, “Actually, there is something that I want to tell you.”

James did not speak—Harry had the impression that he had frozen in shock. Harry continued, still speaking to his fork, “About what happened yesterday.” 

“Other than you getting a terrible haircut?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, looking up at James with great effort. 

He explained how he’d gone to Diagon Alley, how the Dementors had a terrible effect on him. Haltingly, stumbling over the words, he told James about the woman’s screams, about the answering laughter. But when he tried to tell James that he knew the woman had been his mother, he found that his throat was obstructed. He tried to keep talking, but could not.  

He was glad when James broke the silence. 

“But Harry,” James breathed. “It’s a solid lead, isn’t it?”

Harry looked up at James again, whose face was ablaze with excitement. His hazel eyes gazed into Harry’s, and it was almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them. Harry knew that James understood, that James had guessed who the woman had to be. 

“A murder like that,” said James quickly. “It would have been in the newspapers.”

A beat passed.

“Which means,” Harry said slowly, his gaze fixed on James’s face, “there’ll be a record of it. Probably in the archives, at the library in London. I bet they keep copies of all the old Daily Prophets.”

“It might explain something else, too,” said James. “Why Mum and Dad kept it from us. Not just because it would’ve been painful—knowing your mother was murdered like that—but maybe it was part of the terms of adoption. If the man who killed her was after you as well, you might’ve been placed in some kind of witness protection.”

“But who on earth would want to kill a baby?” asked Harry, his throat still constricted. 

They gazed at one another in silence for a moment. 

“We’ll search for any suspicious deaths from 1962 or 63,” said James. “I’ll help you. We can go together as soon as they open.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

James had put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and he squeezed it gently before letting go. “I promise, Harry, that I’m going to help you figure this out. Besides, it’ll be twice as fast with an extra set of eyes.”

Harry smiled. “Haven’t you got better things to do? Important Order business, or whatever.” 

James grinned crookedly. “Not really . . . ”

Harry had stopped listening . . . a warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight outside. The tight obstruction in his throat seemed to be dissolving. He knew that James was probably more concerned than he was letting on, but the mere fact that he was speaking words of comfort, that he wanted to help Harry work through this, was worth more than he could ever tell him. 

Harry knew that he had to be close—very close, now, to finding out the truth. 

“. . . I probably shouldn't be telling you this,” James continued obliviously, “but since we’re sharing—things are really looking up.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Well . . . look, you didn’t hear it from me, alright?”

Harry stared at James, open-mouthed. “What?”

“Kingsley told me the Ministry’s found a way out,” said James happily. “Avery broke, finally. She’s spilled everything. And now they’ve got some kind of weapon, something they know Voldemort wants. Badly. They think he’ll do anything to get it back. I don’t know what it is, but the Ministry is hoping they can use it to force some kind of deal.”

Harry’s eyes had widened in shock. “What?” he said faintly. “What is it?” 

James shook his head. “I really don’t know, Harry. I wish I could tell you.”

Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest and lodged in his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d let himself consider the possibility that Voldemort might not win the war.

The idea made him sick. 

Because if Voldemort lost, what had it all been for? 

He had taken Voldemort’s mark, participated in meetings, listened to lectures, had been trained by the Dark Lord himself. He had immersed himself completely, carved out a place inside the very heart of Voldemort’s army. There was no going back, not when he was the one who had opened the Chamber of Secrets, not when thirteen students had died, not when it had all been his fault.

If the truth ever came out, he’d be sent to Azkaban . . . and he wouldn’t protest it—he deserved it.

But if Voldemort won, if he succeeded, then maybe there would be a future where Harry could atone. Maybe his betrayal could mean something. Maybe James could forgive him, if he knew that Harry had done it with the best intentions.

Except it wasn’t even that simple anymore. 

Somewhere along the way, Harry had stopped pretending this was just a strategy. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had happened. But he had accepted it . . . he was attracted to Voldemort, he cared about him. And that made everything so much worse.

If the Dark Lord did not succeed, Harry wouldn't just lose his only chance at redemption . . . he’d lose Voldemort, and James as well. 

And if that happened, then what was left? Harry would be nothing more than a traitor, a murderer and an utter fool. 

They finished breakfast in silence. 

Half an hour later, they disapparated. The usual tightness engulfed them before Harry’s feet parted company with the kitchen floor, and then slammed hard onto concrete. 

“Where are we?” he asked, peering around. 

“Just behind Grimmauld Place,” said James. “We can walk from here.” 

The pavement was slick with the previous night’s rain. Neither of them spoke much as they made their way towards the hidden entrance to the British Library of Magic, tucked behind a grimy newsagent in Islington.

The library itself was a towering building with high vaulted ceilings. Harry could feel his own pulse beating in his ears as they approached the archives desk. 

James explained their purpose in a low voice, and a clerk pointed them in the right direction. 

He sat with James as the sun crept through the sky, tearing feverishly through page after page of yellowed newspapers. Harry’s heart gave a leap every time he saw the words ‘death’ or ‘murder’, which occurred with depressing regularity. 

By lunchtime, Harry’s excitement was ebbing. “I’m not sure we’re going to find anything at all,” he told James from across the table. More than six hundred copies of the Daily Prophet were spread out between them. 

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” said James cheerfully. “What’s that you’re reading now?” 

It was an article about a magical hailstorm in Surrey. He couldn’t explain why he’d been drawn to it, why the article seemed to speak to him . . . but then he remembered that he’d dreamed of Surrey recently, the morning of his seventeenth birthday—low hanging clouds, the purr of an engine, and a new housing development. 

“Nothing,” said Harry. He closed the newspaper he’d been holding and reached for another. 

By eight o’clock that evening the lamps had been extinguished, and the library staff gently ushered Harry and James out through the front doors.

Bracingly, James said, “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Harry yawned, feeling tired down to the marrow of his bones. “I’ve got practice tomorrow,” he said. “But maybe I can get out of it.” 

James smiled. “We’ll find something . . . it’s just a matter of time.”

They walked back to the alleyway behind Grimmauld Place, and there they parted ways. After the usual spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found himself outside the huge double doors of Wraithmoor. 

He entered the dilapidated castle, finding it to be mostly deserted. He checked his watch before remembering that it did not tell time. Certain he had already missed that evening’s lecture, he walked through the damp and empty halls towards the Mirror Room. 

He arrived to find it teeming with Death Eaters, most of them partnered off in the circles marked out on the floor. He saw Carrow fall with a scream at Dolohov’s feet, saw Macnair thrown across the room by Fenrir Greyback. He saw Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix, Barty and Evan. 

Voldemort was at the centre of the room, duelling Rockwood, Nott and Yaxley all at once. Jets of light flew from their wands, and the floor around their feet rippled and cracked. 

Harry felt as though he were moving through the room in slow motion. He saw Rockwood, Nott and Yaxley blasted backwards through the air as Voldemort’s spell exploded. And then Voldemort raised his wand again . . . but this time, it was directed at Harry. 

“You’re late,” said Voldemort softly. 

Harry did not need to be an empath to sense that Voldemort was in a particularly foul mood . . . it did not bode well for him. 

Reluctantly, he stepped inside the duelling ring. Red eyes bore into green, and as they looked at one another, they began to move slowly around the circle’s circumference. 

“Sorry,” Harry said calmly, though he really didn’t feel very sorry at all . . . he wouldn’t have needed to waste an entire day in the archives if Voldemort could only be bothered to tell him his grandfather’s name. Swallowing his irritation, Harry went on, “It won’t happen again . . .”

“No,” said Voldemort coolly, “it will not.” 

There was no mistaking the contempt in Voldemort’s tone. But then Harry felt that mental finger caress the bond between them, and it only served to annoy him further.

Unless, Harry added spitefully, speaking now directly into Voldemort’s mind, I’ve got better things to do.

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed dangerously. 

You overstep, cousin. 

A jet of light exploded at Harry’s feet, and he quickly danced backwards. 

“Slow,” Voldemort reprimanded, deflecting the curse that Harry hurled his way with a lazy flick of his wrist, “and predictable.” 

Another jet of light slashed across the floor as their duel found its usual rhythm—attack, parry, feint, strike.

Harry knew that he had improved significantly under Voldemort’s instruction . . . he was good . . . but Voldemort, as ever, was far better. Always a step ahead, always impossibly fast, always more creative in his casting. It was a beautiful thing to behold . . . beautiful and deadly. 

“You’re distracted tonight,” said Voldemort, disapproving. “You need to concentrate.”

Harry caught a glimpse of their reflections in the mirrored walls and hated how seamlessly they moved, almost as one, two halves merged whole. They looked natural together, familiar, intimate. But they weren’t intimate at all, not really . . . not in any of the ways which counted. 

Harry’s mind spun as he moved. 

He thought that he should probably tell Voldemort about Avery and the Ministry’s so-called weapon. But then he saw James’s face in his mind’s eye, and self-loathing bubbled like acid in his stomach. James had told Harry this information in confidence, had trusted him with it.  

Voldemort had his own spies. He probably already knew about it. And if he didn’t? Well . . . perhaps it would serve Voldemort right. Let him feel, for once, what it was like to be the one left in the dark. Voldemort was always withholding things from Harry—things that Harry had a right to know, like the truth of their connection, or the item the Department of Mysteries was keeping from him.

The sheer unfairness of it made his blood boil.

Why should Harry be the one to give up everything, when Voldemort gave so little in return? 

Harry’s wand was suddenly wrenched from his grip.

Cold fingers tightened around his jaw, and he was then manoeuvred down until his knees slammed painfully against the hard surface of the floor. 

Voldemort’s red eyes gleamed dangerously. “Pay attention,” he said. The grip upon Harry’s jaw tightened. “Where are you tonight? You’re a thousand miles away.” 

Harry’s breath hitched as Voldemort dragged his thumb possessively over Harry’s lower lip. 

Voldemort’s red eyes fastened upon Harry’s green ones. And as Voldemort looked into his eyes, as Harry met his gaze, he felt the decision settle in his chest, heavy but firm . . . he would keep the information to himself. 

The grip on Harry’s jaw tightened imperceptibly before he was violently pushed back towards the ground. 

He caught himself just in time to see Voldemort raise his wand once more. And then—like fingernails trailing down his spine, like cool breath against his ear—he heard Voldemort’s voice speak into his mind. 

Again. 

Chapter Text

They found nothing of any interest in the archives over the next week. By day, Harry returned to Ballycastle stadium. By night, he attended lessons and meetings at Wraithmoor. 

As October drew on, Harry’s dreams had became increasingly confused and disturbed. In his dreams, he saw himself standing in a large, circular room painted entirely black. Doors were interspersed along the wall, but each one he opened led back to the circular room where he’d begun . . . there was no way out. He woke repeatedly, panicking and convinced that someone had been calling out to him from very far away. 

Worse still, Voldemort had ordered an attack on the muggle village of Devon for Halloween night . . . and Harry was not only expected to participate, but also to set an example. It would be his first real engagement as a Death Eater. And while he felt no particular fondness towards muggles, he felt no malice for them either. He didn’t want to hurt anybody, not if he could help it.

He had no choice but to go. But perhaps if he was very careful—very subtle—he could influence things just enough to change the outcome of events. 

It was the best that he could do. No one could know . . . least of all Voldemort.

On Halloween, Harry woke late in the afternoon weighed down by a sadness he couldn’t quite explain. Feeling thoroughly depressed, he went downstairs to find James and Sirius carving gruesome faces onto a number of large pumpkins they’d liberated from Bathilda Bagshot’s vegetable patch. 

The state of melancholy followed Harry as he brooded and moped through the afternoon well into the evening. 

“Harry?”

Harry was pulled from his thoughts as Sirius stepped onto the porch beside him. The movement jostled the cup-turned-ashtray at his elbow, and soggy, tea-stained cigarette ends fell out, spilling across the cover of the book he had been pretending to read. 

Cursing beneath his breath, Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and began moving it over the mess. “Hmm?” he said, distracted. 

When Harry looked up, the light from the moon had lit Sirius’s handsome features, his grey eyes, his leather jacket. Loping with an easy grace, Sirius slid down the wall to sit beside him. 

They sat in silence for a minute, Sirius picking at the chipped nail polish on his thumb, Harry staring moodily at his All Stars. 

“You sure you don’t want to come along tonight?” Sirius asked. 

“To the Prewitt’s? No, thanks . . . I’ve got plans with Regulus.”

It was partially true. Regulus—who had recently undergone a mysterious Ascension Rite he wasn’t permitted to speak of, not even to Harry—would also be somewhere in Devon.

“It’s not fair, you know,” Sirius went on. 

“What’s not fair?” said Harry, whose thoughts were back on Devon. 

Sirius let out a heavy sigh, plucked a cigarette from the packet at Harry’s feet, and lit it with his wand. He inhaled deeply, and then spoke around an exhale of smoke, “You look far too good for someone so clearly miserable.” 

“Oh,” said Harry, brought up short. He forced a smile onto his face and bumped their shoulders together. Then, in a teasing voice, he said, “You sound jealous.” 

There was a little silence. 

“Should I be?” said Sirius eventually, his grey eyes fixed on Harry with a look that seemed to see more than it should. “I didn’t know that you were seeing anyone.”

“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. A hot, prickly feeling of shame was spreading all the way from the top of Harry’s head down his body. “I’m not, not really . . . it’s a bit complicated.”

Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable one Harry had ever felt with Sirius, and it seemed to go on and on. When Harry could not stand it any longer, he blurted out, “I like them, and I think they like me too. Only, they’re not interested in—aagh.”

Harry stopped speaking abruptly. James had appeared around the front door, a large bag of pumpkins slung over one shoulder. 

“Not interested in what, Harry dear?” said James with a saccharine grin. 

He was beaming down at Harry, big and fake, and Harry knew James was well aware of what he’d been about to say. Of all the people Harry could be having this conversation with, James and Sirius were at the very bottom of the list.

Harry breathed deeply, willing some of the heat to fade from his face. Sex was a topic that, as siblings, they usually avoided getting into. But Harry refused to let James get the better of him. Grumpily, he said, “They don’t want to have sex with me. And I just wish—I wish that they’d give me a chance.” 

James was looking from Harry to Sirius, astonished. 

“Do you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth sometimes?” he said to Harry. “I can’t believe you’re having this conversation with Sirius. No wonder this other bloke’s staying away—you have the emotional intelligence of a noodle.” 

Harry didn’t have time to analyse what James meant. A little desperately, he said, “So what? Sirius doesn’t mind, do you?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” said Sirius in a slightly exasperated voice. “If they don’t want to have sex with you, I think you should probably respect their wishes.”

“Of course,” Harry said quickly, “I’d never—I know that. The thing is, I think they do want to, really. Only, they’re a little older than I am, and they’re hung up about it.”

Harry saw James and Sirius exchange a look. 

“An honest conversation wouldn’t work, I suppose?” said James dryly. 

Harry grimaced. “They’re not a very good listener.”

There was a pause in which Sirius seemed to rally himself, and then he laughed. “Pick your moment, I reckon,” he said. “Get them alone, somewhere comfortable. Make sure they’re in a particularly good mood. Then, get down onto your knees, and—”

“—I think I’ve heard enough, thank you both very much,” James cut in loudly. “It’s been enlightening, truly. Shall we get out of here, Padfoot?”

Turning to Harry, Sirius said, “You sure you don’t want to come?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Another night, perhaps.” 

Time behaved in a most peculiar way, after that. One moment, he was watching Sirius and James amble down the path and out through the gate. The next, he was drawing the hood of his cloak over his masked face, and stepping into suffocating darkness.

Heart beating in his throat, Harry opened his eyes. 

He was standing on a narrow road below the star speckled sky. Rows of cottages stood on either side. A short way ahead, the orange glow of streetlamps illuminated a path leading into the centre of the village. 

There was an eerie silence. It was too dark to see very far ahead, but Harry could just make out the outline of other cloaked figures along the road that encircled the village. 

And then, through the silence, Harry heard the soft, serpentine hiss of a spell slither through the air.

“MORSMORDRE!”

Something vast, green and glittering burst from the darkness and soared into the sky. It climbed higher and higher, blazing through a haze of emerald smoke, etched against the night sky like some ghastly constellation.

It was the signal they’d been waiting for. 

Harry grit his teeth. “Come on,” he called into the darkness. “Let’s go!” 

He needn’t have wasted his breath—the dark figures around him were already racing eagerly ahead, wands drawn and raised. 

Harry’s fingers curled tightly around his own wand. 

Cool autumn air whipped through his robes as, very slowly, he walked past the cottages. Any one of the homes could be a target, Harry thought as he gazed at the brightly painted doors, at the sloping rooftops, wondering how many of the muggles asleep inside would survive the night. 

Dimly, Harry became aware that the noises coming from the village had changed. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. 

The road Harry walked along curved to reveal a small square. 

It was pandemonium. 

By the orange glow of the streetlamps, Harry could see people running in every direction, fleeing from the masked figures that chased them. Spellfire shot like shooting stars through the sky, and over the rising cacophony of screams came the sound of jeering, laughter, and shouted curses. 

His heart was beating very fast now, his breath coming quick and sharp. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing . . . 

Harry heard a snatch of music as the pub door opened and closed, momentarily framing a tall silhouette against a wall of flames. Long, dark robes brushed the cobblestones as Voldemort left the burning building behind him, moving leisurely into the square. 

A thrill of panic leapt inside Harry as he watched Voldemort follow a group of villagers inside the little church. 

Leaves crunched underfoot as Harry crossed the square. 

By the time he had reached the church, his breathing had evened out. He had a plan . . . though, admittedly, not a particularly good one. Nonetheless, his hand found the handle, and he pushed the doors open.

Inside the church, Harry happened upon the most bizarre scene. Three women sat huddled on the front pew, their heads bowed in prayer. And standing before the altar as though presiding over some unholy communion, with one hand curled around the lectern and the other twirling his wand, was Lord Voldemort. 

The Dark Lord wore no mask, and Harry quickly saw that the women hadn’t yet grasped the terrible danger they were in—cloaked in his long, dark robes, Voldemort had been mistaken for a priest.

Harry pocketed his wand as he walked the length of the aisle. Casually, he said, “I hope I’m not too late for the service.”

A slow smile spread across Voldemort’s face, the satisfied look of a cat who hadn’t just stolen the cream, but licked the bowl clean. “You’re right on time,” he purred. 

Alerted to Harry’s approach, one of the women dropped from the pew to the floor. “My Lord,” she cried, her hands clasped together, her body violently shaking. “Have mercy, my Lord. Save us from these monsters.” 

“The Lord hears your prayers,” said Voldemort, his red eyes blazing, “and shall answer them . . . but you may not like what he has to say.” 

Harry had reached the altar. Turning to the woman who knelt before Voldemort, he said, “Your God is not listening tonight. Get away from here—go home and hide.”

The woman baulked, and Harry took this moment to strike.

He reached inward, fingers curling at his sides. With a shiver of intent, he drew upon that thread of his magic—his empathy—and took hold of the women’s fear. Then, like a soft caress, like the whisper of time unfolding, he turned their fear into an exhaustion that was bone-deep and absolute.

Their strength bled out in an instant, and all three women fell like severed marionettes.

Voldemort had gone very still. He inclined his head, unsmiling. “Cousin,” he said coldly. “You have spoiled my fun.”

Harry smiled coyly. He had suspected that Voldemort would lose interest in the muggles the moment they slipped into unconsciousness. 

“Didn’t you know,” said Harry, “it’s impolite to play with your food before you eat it.”

“Impressive,” Voldemort mocked. “I wasn’t aware that you knew any manners at all.”

Harry took the first step onto the altar, and then the next. “Just because I know about manners doesn’t mean I have to use them, does it?”

Voldemort was still behind the lectern, twirling his wand between his long fingers. “And why are you not outside, enjoying yourself with the others?”

Harry scoffed. “You mean tormenting the helpless? I’d rather fight something that can fight back, to be honest.” 

Voldemort’s mouth twisted. “You should do as you’re told.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Harry had reached the top of the altar. He watched as Voldemort’s gaze danced around the church. For a moment, he seemed to be lost in thought. 

“Are you religious?” asked Harry. He was standing very close now. 

Voldemort laughed. “Are you?”

“Would you be jealous, if I worshipped someone else?”

Finally, Voldemort’s red eyes fastened upon Harry’s green ones. “Do you mean to say that you worship me, cousin? I had no idea I inspired such devotion.” 

Harry held Voldemort’s gaze for a moment. 

And then, gracefully, he dropped down onto his knees beside the lectern. His face was level with the Dark Lord’s crotch. “I could,” he whispered, looking up at Voldemort through the curve of his lashes, “if you wanted me to.” 

Voldemort whipped his head down as Harry’s fingers parted his robes to begin a dangerous exploration of the Dark Lord’s thighs. His fingers grazed higher, higher, sliding right between Voldemort’s legs to cup the bulge at the front of his trousers. 

Voldemort reached out and roughly seized Harry’s chin, peeling the mask from underneath it halfway up his face. His thumb slid over Harry’s exposed cheek, between his lips, inside his mouth. In a low voice, he said, “Your motives are as transparent as ever . . . you’re trying to distract me.” 

Harry wet his lips and dropped his gaze back to Voldemort’s crotch. “Yes,” he breathed. His own voice sounded a little ragged. “Is it working?” 

There was a pause, in which neither of them moved. 

And then Harry’s hands slid slowly back down Voldemort’s thighs, giving Voldemort space to pull away. When he did not, Harry leaned in to unzip Voldemort’s trousers with his teeth. 

Still, Voldemort did not stop him. Even as he grappled with a button. Even as he loosened a belt. 

Voldemort did not touch Harry. He slid his wand into its holster, and planted both hands upon the lectern. 

Harry took a deep, calming breath. Feeling emboldened by the growing evidence of the Dark Lord’s arousal, he pulled the considerable length of Voldemort free, feeling the weight harden further in his grasp. Absently, Harry noted that Voldemort felt cold even in this most intimate part of his body. 

He took another deep breath, and then took Voldemort into his mouth. 

There were several inches Harry could not take comfortably, and he covered this with his hand, stroking the length as he held Voldemort inside his mouth and sucked. 

Voldemort hissed, thrusting into him, and any remaining inhibitions Harry might have had promptly evaporated. 

Resurfaced for air, Harry replaced his mouth with his other hand. “Who’d have thought,” he said, grinning wickedly, “that a little blood and torture was all I needed to have my way with you? I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed. “The problem isn’t that I haven’t been in the mood. It is that you are too young for me.” 

“I’ve had sex before,” said Harry, omitting that it had only been the once. 

“Congratulations,” Voldemort mocked. 

“I suppose when you were my age, everybody saved themselves for marriage.”

“I’m not that old,” said Voldemort, his voice dangerously low. He rolled his hips, angling his cock back into Harry’s mouth. 

Harry gripped tightly to Voldemort’s robes, lending himself better access as he sucked and licked, teasing and taunting. As Voldemort tried to thrust into his mouth again, Harry’s grip tightened, holding Voldemort still through his ministrations. 

Gradually, Harry took Voldemort deeper into his throat. 

Tears smarted in his eyes, and Harry felt his own arousal straining against his trousers, rendering him lightheaded. He’d almost forgotten where they were—the pandemonium raging beyond the walls of the church, the unconscious women pooled at the bottom of the altar—so set on the task before him. 

He worked on Voldemort for some minutes before, rather abruptly, Voldemort pulled right back. Voldemort was already adjusting his robes before Harry could bite out, breathless, “What is it now?”

Voldemort was not looking at him. 

Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw, quite clearly, what it was. He was sure that he was going to die of embarrassment. He hoped that he would, just so that he wouldn’t have to keep on living with the knowledge that Lucius Malfoy—easily identifiable by his silver hair—was standing in the open doorway. 

Lucius cleared his throat and said, “My Lord, the Auror’s have arrived.”

To his credit, Lucius’s voice did not falter. His gaze, Harry noted, was deliberately lowered to the floor. 

Although the lectern had likely concealed the worst of it, there was little doubt in Harry’s mind that Lucius had gotten an eyeful. As he pictured it, Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were melting. 

“Very well,” said Voldemort lazily. “We shall retreat.”  

A hand had extended into Harry’s line of vision.

Come along, cousin.

Harry stared at Voldemort’s hand for a moment. Then he took it in his own, allowing Voldemort to pull him to his feet. 

The Dark Lord treated him to a disarming smile. And in Voldemort’s eyes, Harry saw a desire—a hunger—that terrified him. It was timeless and soul-deep, and it shook him to his very core.

Voldemort had not released Harry’s hand. Rather, he drew Harry closer towards him, tucking Harry’s head beneath his chin as his arm snaked around Harry’s waist. 

“Where are we going?” asked Harry.

“Somewhere more comfortable.”

Harry bit his lip. “Would you say that you’re in a particularly good mood?” 

“Perhaps. Why?” 

A flutter of nerves scurried through him. “No reason,” he said, from the fold of Voldemort’s arms. 

And as darkness closed around them, as the world was swallowed in a heady rush of Voldemort’s dark and malevolent magic, doubt sunk through the heart of Harry’s resolve. He thought that he might be about to get exactly what he’d wished for, what he’d chased with reckless abandon. And maybe it was what he wanted . . . but, as they spun through the suffocating darkness of apparition, he couldn’t shake the idea that he was in far over his head.

Chapter Text

Seconds later, Harry’s lungs expanded gratefully and he opened his eyes. A room swam into focus, and he knew from the interior that they had to be in Voldemort’s tower at Wraithmoor. The room was austere but elegant, with dark wood panelling and a fire already lit in the hearth. 

Harry stepped away from Voldemort, removed his mask, and slipped it into his pocket. He felt incredibly nervous, all of a sudden. Avoiding Voldemort’s unwavering gaze, he let his eyes and feet wander the room—from the firelit shelves to the four-poster bed, where Flopsy slept curled at the centre—pausing finally at a tall dresser.

Several pieces of jewellery were arranged atop a square of black velvet, each one gleaming in the firelight. One piece in particular caught his eye . . . it was a heavy golden locket, its surface etched with a serpentine ‘S’ set in dark green stone.

“I never would have guessed that you owned jewellery,” said Harry lightly. 

It was as if his arms had grown a mind of their own. One moment, they were resting innocuously by his side. The next, he was reaching for the locket, lifting it up to let it rest against his chest. Holding it there, Harry turned back to Voldemort and struck a pose. 

“Well, what do you think?” he said playfully. “I’ve been told that green is my colour.”

Harry’s stomach turned over as he saw the flames lick frightening shadows across the Dark Lord’s pale, waxen face. 

Voldemort had gone very still. 

He stared at Harry for a long moment before crossing the distance between them, his long cloak brushing the floorboards, his face unsmiling, his red eyes fixed upon the locket that dangled from Harry’s throat. 

“Why that one?” Voldemort asked quietly. “Why not pick something else?”

Harry’s mouth had gone very dry. 

He realised his misstep. He should not have acted so familiar, so casual in handling one of Voldemort’s personal possessions. The locket still rested against his chest, cool and heavy. And he knew that he should hasten to return it to the dresser . . . yet, he found himself strangely reluctant to do so. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It called to me.” 

Voldemort’s red eyes rose slowly to meet Harry’s green ones. There was a brief pause, during which Harry noticed an indeciferable look of pass over Voldemort’s face. Then, to Harry’s surprise, Voldemort reached out and turned him gently by the shoulder. His breath hitched as cool fingers closed over his own, fastening the locket around his neck.

“It’s curious,” said Voldemort softly, “how like calls to like.” An oval mirror hung above the dresser, and in its reflection, their eyes met once more. “Tell me, cousin . . . are you drawn to anything else in this room?”

This comment made Harry feel deeply uneasy. It made no sense . . . yet, somehow, it felt like it should.

For the first time in a long while, Harry questioned the nature of their connection. He was certain Voldemort knew more than he admitted . . . but he did not know everything. Voldemort didn’t know Harry sometimes slipped into his dreams, or that he could feel Voldemort’s emotions even across a great distance. Harry had no desire to find out how Voldemort would react to such revelations.

Why, then, did Voldemort allow him to pretend their bond was nothing more than Harry’s innate talent for empathic magic? What did Voldemort truly know? And why did he seem just as invested in maintaining the lie as Harry was?

Harry blinked, setting the questions aside for later. 

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. Harry turned his head, glancing back at Voldemort over his shoulder. 

“I’m drawn to you, Voldemort,” Harry breathed. “Always to you.” 

He shivered when he felt the chill of Voldemort’s body pressing firmly against his back, pinning him to the dresser. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck rose to stand on end as the dark form of Voldemort’s feelings—that familial belonging, that inherent right of ownership, that insatiable hunger—spilt into his own, flowing together into a single current. 

Voldemort lowered his head, and then he kissed him. 

Harry moaned as Voldemort’s tongue slipped between his teeth, sweeping the inside of his mouth in a slow, possessive claim. Butterflies flew in Harry’s stomach, his hands braced against the dresser in anticipation. 

Voldemort kissed him deeply and thoroughly. 

Long, cold fingers slipped beneath his belt, skimming over soft, sensitive skin. Reflexively, Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Voldemort hesitated, then pulled back slightly. 

In the mirror’s reflection, Harry locked eyes with the Dark Lord. 

“If I’m old enough to be sent into battle,” Harry said firmly, albeit breathlessly, “I’m old enough for this. I’m ready, Voldemort.” 

Fingers crept back to his waist, teasing and taunting. The next moment, fabric slid from his body to pool on the floor. 

“I won’t be gentle with you,” Voldemort warned him. “I won’t hold back.” 

The words sent a rush of molten heat sinking deep into the pit of Harry’s stomach. 

“Shut up and kiss me,” he whispered.

Voldemort lowered his head and licked his way up Harry’s throat. He kissed his jaw, his chin, his lips. A murmured incantation. 

Then a hand pressed against his back, guiding him down until his chest was lowered over the dresser. Slick fingers slid possessively down his spine, and then lower, lower. Harry shuddered as those clever fingers breached him, as they reached for a bundle of nerves deep inside. 

Almost as quickly as they’d come, Voldemort’s fingers retreated. 

Harry stared into the mirror. They were both still almost fully clothed, yet Harry felt utterly exposed beneath the intensity of Voldemort’s gaze. 

It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. 

He felt Voldemort’s breath ghost his skin, the thrum of ozone—of magic—in the air. He felt Voldemort brush against his entrance, a mounting pressure. And slowly, so slowly, Voldemort eased inside him. 

The burn—the stretch—was almost unbearable. Harry grit his teeth, breathing hard. Inch by inch, Voldemort worked his way in. With a final, powerful thrust, he was fully seated. There Voldemort paused, allowing Harry a moment to adjust, to feel every part of him, every place where they were joined, one and whole. 

“Voldemort,” Harry pleaded, tilting his head back. 

Understanding what Harry wanted, Voldemort’s lips found his neck, his jaw. Hands clasped onto Harry’s hips in a bruising grip. And when Voldemort’s tongue claimed his mouth again, he began to move. 

“Voldemort,” Harry moaned against his lips.

Voldemort withdrew a little and then drove back in—hard. The dresser shook, and Harry’s grip upon it tightened.

He trembled as the Dark Lord settled above him, as Voldemort’s immense magic—dark, seductive, intoxicating—coalesced with his own, merging to form a stormcloud. Harry felt his teeth ache, but he didn’t shy away from the sensations, he didn’t flinch back . . . somewhere along the way, he had come to trust Voldemort. The man was no stranger, but a constant thread woven through his life.

More surprising still was the realisation that he trusted himself to withstand the storm, to meet its force with his own, to temper it when needed.

The dresser shook again as objects flew from it. Voldemort had set a pace that was unrelenting and unrestrained. 

“Voldemort,” Harry panted. 

Pain blended into pleasure as Voldemort moved inside him, over and over, and that single current—that strange and unexplainable link between them—wavered, its edges dissolving into an indistinct haze. 

Harry stared into the mirror, stared at their reflection—his, theirs, the thing in the glass. 

He was lightheaded, dizzy.

He felt Voldemort’s heart beating in time with his own. He was not beneath Voldemort, nor above him, but within and without, folded into a singular entity. He saw through both their eyes, a doubled, dissonant vision. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Then, the question shifted . . . what was he?

. . . How curious. What exactly are you? . . . 

The connection had taken possession of him, and he could not think of anything else while agitating thoughts whirled through his mind. Why did this bond between them exist? What did it mean? How had it happened? 

Bound by blood, by name, by time.
I am yours, and you are mine. Who am I?

Harry could have sworn he felt Voldemort caress the bond between them in a soothing, placating gesture. 

Look at you, Voldemort crooned, speaking directly into his mind. Do you see how perfectly we fit? You were made for this, cousin . . . you were made for me. 

Harry was barely listening, barely holding on. 

Release began to build at the base of his spine. His vision fractured. And when he fell through the haze into the bliss of oblivion, he pulled Voldemort along with him. 

His body shook as he sank onto the dresser. With surprising strength, Voldemort gathered Harry into his arms and carried him across the room. Flopsy leapt from the bed a moment before Harry was cast onto it. There, Voldemort undressed him properly. 

Harry touched the locket at his neck, surprised it hadn’t absorbed any of his warmth. Its chill was as unyielding as Voldemort’s own. 

When he went to unclasp it, Voldemort said, “Keep it on.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Voldemort smiled in that peculiar way that made Harry’s heart beat a little faster. 

“Indulge me.” 

Naked but for the locket at his throat, they made love again. Not the storm of before, but the soft, soaking rain that follows. Slowly, carefully, tenderly. As if nothing else existed, as if time had been forgotten, the world reduced to the slide of skin, the clash of teeth, to the liminal space between them. 

For a while, the only sound in the room was their heavy breathing. 

Harry turned onto his side, and the long, cold fingers that had been idly combing through his hair slipped away, leaving a chill behind.

“Everybody is wondering whether you’ll negotiate a deal with the Ministry,” said Harry conversationally. He propped himself up on one elbow, casting a sidelong glance at Voldemort.

Wholly naked beside him, Voldemort scoffed. 

When it became clear that the Dark Lord would not deign to reply, Harry went on, “You’re not even a little bit curious to hear what they have to say? They’re desperate to meet with you.”

Harry paused, biting his lip, and looked into Voldemort’s face. He recalled James’s words about something the Ministry had discovered, something they planned to use against Voldemort. As far as Harry was concerned, Voldemort’s ignorance of this was a ticking bomb. Whatever it was, it gave the Ministry an edge.

Voldemort’s mouth twisted derisively. “I have no interest in your counsel, cousin. Your complete naïveté has never been more transparent . . . or more tiresome.”

For a moment, Harry felt as though he’d been slapped. The words struck deeper than he cared to admit . . . Voldemort always knew where to aim, how to twist the knife—how to turn Harry’s own insecurities into weapons against him.

Harry scowled. He slipped the locket from his neck and tossed it toward Voldemort without care for where it landed.

“You think that you know everything, Voldemort,” said Harry scathingly. “But I’ve got news for you—you don’t. Send a group of representatives if you don’t want to go yourself. Hear the Ministry out.”

It was as if a switch had been thrown; the temperature in the room plummeted several degrees, the Dark Mark on Harry’s arm seared painfully, and the oppressive weight of the Dark Lord’s presence—overbearing at the best of times—became completely suffocating.

Voldemort’s voice was low and dripped with venom. “Know your place, cousin. You are nothing but a petulant child, and I have no patience for your tantrums. Must I teach you a lesson? Do not think that I will go easy on you . . . I quite enjoyed the sight of you in a bit of pain.”

The empty threat only served to fuel Harry’s anger. 

Voldemort’s cruelty and sadism were well known . . . yet he had never truly hurt Harry. On the contrary, he had stepped in to shield him more than once. Even during the initiation ceremony, when Harry had braced himself for agony, Voldemort had intervened to take the pain away.

“I’d go in your place,” said Harry defiantly. “If you’re too much of a coward to show your own face.” 

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed to slits. “I forbid you to even entertain the thought.”

“You forbid me?” Harry repeated indignantly. “You don’t get to make all of my decisions, Voldemort. Do not tell me what I can and cannot think.”

There was a long and uncomfortable pause—a silent impasse. 

Finally, Voldemort said, “I tire of this, as I tire of you. If you can’t hold your tongue, be gone. Shoo!” 

“Gladly,” said Harry bitterly. His voice shook, and he could feel the colour in his face, but he did not care. He rose quickly to his feet and picked up his discarded clothing from the floor. He was almost through the door when Voldemort spoke again. 

“One more thing, Harry . . . ”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder. 

Voldemort’s face had contorted into something truly sinister. “Do not let me catch you speaking of this again . . . I will not tolerate disobedience.” 

It was strangely reminiscent of their very first meeting, when Harry had broken into Voldemort’s chambers during the Malfoys’ Yule party. It was as if nothing had passed between them since, as if they hardly knew one another, as if they hadn’t just joined in the most intimate of ways.

“I won’t,” Harry replied, moving quickly into the corridor. Out of Voldemort’s sight, a mischievous smile spread across his face. “Let you catch me,” he added beneath his breath. 

Chapter Text

“I don’t know about this, Regulus,” Harry muttered. “I don’t like the idea of getting too many people involved . . . it could be dangerous.” 

“It’ll just be one or two others,” said Regulus, checking his watch before looking anxiously towards the door. “Unless you’d prefer to contact the Ministry yourself—and no offence, Harry, but I doubt they’d take you very seriously—we’ll need Malfoy’s help, at the very least. This might be them now.” 

The door of the sitting room they occupied in Grimmauld Place had swung open. Sunlight briefly lit the room before vanishing, eclipsed by a group of people being ushered inside by a gnarled old house-elf. First came Lucius Malfoy, closely followed by Evan Rosier and Severus Snape.

“This had better be good, Potter,” said Evan gruffly. 

It was the first time Harry had seen Evan up close in weeks. He couldn’t help but notice the other boy was looking rather worse for wear since having been exposed as a Death Eater. Dark shadows hung beneath Evan’s eyes, and there was a distinctly greyish tinge to his skin. 

Harry did not respond, but watched as the group accepted drinks from Regulus and settled into seats around the room. Nobody made any attempt at small talk. Apprehensively, Harry realised that every eye was now fixed upon him.

“Thank you all for coming,” Regulus began amiably. As he spoke, the group focused its attention on Regulus instead, though eyes continued to regularly drift back towards Harry. 

“I think you all know why we’re here,” Regulus went on. “The war is drawing to a close. One final battle seems inevitable—a last stand before the Dark Lord seizes control. Still, before it comes to that, we believe it’s worth hearing the Ministry’s terms for peace.”

There was a moment of silence as these words sank in. 

“You want to set up a meeting with the Ministry,” Lucius drawled. “Behind the Dark Lord’s back.”

The reaction to this was immediate and predictable. Evan, who had been taking a healthy swig from his drink, gagged and sprayed liquid down his front. A sickly pale hue had suffused Snape’s already pallid face, while Lucius had curled his lip in that familiar, contemptuous sneer. All of them looked eagerly towards Harry to confirm or deny this claim. 

Harry smiled impishly. 

“You’ve lost your mind, Potter,” said Evan, brushing the spilt drink from his robes. “Nobody goes behind the Dark Lord’s back and gets away with it, not even you. And why should we hear the Ministry out, when victory is within our grasp?”

“I have my reasons . . . and I won’t be sharing them with you,” said Harry carefully. “But surely it’s no surprise that I’m not eager to face my brother across a battlefield. If there’s anything—anything within my power—that might prevent that outcome, I intend to give it a go. All I’m asking for is to hear the Ministry’s terms, so that I may relay that information to the Dark Lord. Nothing more.”

“It would be treason to act without the Dark Lord’s sanction,” Lucius sneered.

Harry shrugged, thinking about the Ministry’s so-called weapon. “I’m prepared to take full responsibility. I have reason to believe the Dark Lord might even thank me for it . . . eventually, anyway. Still, I think Voldemort will be glad to see the Ministry’s full hand before the end.”

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair. “You’ve always believed that you were special, Potter. That the rules did not apply to you. One day, that arrogance is going to get someone killed . . . I do hope that it’ll be your dear brother.” 

“Here’s an idea,” said Harry loudly, “why don’t you shut your mouth?” 

“Look,” said Regulus, intervening swiftly, “the point is—”

“—and what delusion,” Severus interrupted, sneering, “led you to believe we’d ever help you?” 

“I can’t know how any of you are feeling,” said Harry, looking Snape straight in the face. “Perhaps the prospect of less bloodshed appeals to you. Perhaps you like the idea of me owing you a favour, or you see a chance to rise within the Dark Lord’s esteem. Maybe you want leverage with the Ministry or the Order, in the unlikely event that we don’t win.”

Harry paused, looking down at the small flower inked on his finger, and went on, “Perhaps you might do it for someone you’ve already lost, or someone you’re terrified of losing. Perhaps just for you, a way to remind yourself you still have a choice in all this. Whatever the reason, I don’t need to hear it. I just need your help, to do this one small thing.”

The room seemed to have held its breath while he spoke, leaving Harry feeling slightly hot around the collar.

“We’ll choose the time and place,” Regulus added nervously. “It must be on neutral ground, with firm assurances that no harm will come to anyone present. I also believe Dumbledore and representatives of the Order should attend. If nothing else, Dumbledore’s presence should keep the Ministry in line.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the room. 

“Who’s to say the Ministry will agree to it?” asked Evan. “They’re expecting Voldemort himself, not one of his lowly followers.”

“They must know by now that’s never going to happen,” Harry replied. Heat rose in his cheeks as he forced himself to plunder on, “We’ll tell them it’s the Dark Lord’s lover who wishes to meet them.”

Harry cringed inwardly at the term. Lover was certainly a stretch to define whatever existed between him and Voldemort. They had shared only a single night together, and—just as when they’d quarreled after his initiation—Voldemort had spent the days since in steadfast denial of Harry’s existence. 

This was perfectly fine with Harry . . . he was determined that, next time they were alone, he would make the Dark Lord eat his words.

Harry continued, “That ought to be assurance enough, that their message will get back to Voldemort.”

Evan looked from Harry to Regulus with disbelief, and then sighed heavily. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. 

“I suppose,” Evan drawled, “I could assist with warding the meeting site.”

“I have contacts at the Ministry,” said Lucius, after a little pause. 

They all turned to look at Severus, whose sneer had become even more pronounced. 

For a moment, Harry was certain he’d refuse. But then he said, grudgingly, “I have some goodwill with Dumbledore. I’ll deliver your invitation . . . but that is as far as my assistance will go.” 

Harry was trying to arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased with himself. He hardly dared to believe that it had been that easy. 

“Alright,” he said, and everyone fell silent once more. “Let’s do it.” 

Harry felt happier the rest of the week than he had in a long time. The knowledge that he was finally doing something, that he was taking initiative, and that he was defying Voldemort’s explicit orders in doing so, was immensely satisfying. 

With so much on his mind and even more to do—endless Quidditch practice, advanced spellwork at Wraithmoor, and preparations for the upcoming meeting—November was slipping by alarmingly fast. Almost before he realised it, the day of the meeting had arrived.

That morning, Harry took particular care getting dressed. 

As he sat down to breakfast, James was tugging a letter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl. He tore open the envelope and unfolded a slip of parchment. His hazel eyes sped from left to right as he read through the message, and a look of shock slowly spread across his face. 

“Listen, Harry,” said James, looking up at him. “This is really important. Can we have dinner tonight, just the two of us? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Well, alright. What is it?” 

“I haven’t got time to tell you now,” said James hurriedly. He was already stepping out of the kitchen, the letter clutched in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “See you tonight!”

Harry had a strong suspicion he knew what had pulled James away. That morning, Lucius and Severus were to deliver the letters they’d carefully prepared—one to the Ministry, the other to the Order. They’d held off until the last moment to do this, giving each side only one hour to assemble a group of representatives. It was a calculated move, to minimise the risk of Voldemort catching wind of their plans before they were already in motion.

At almost half-past eight, Harry turned on the spot. Sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him. 

“There you are,” said Regulus’s voice. 

Harry opened his eyes as his feet met with a thick carpet of leaves. They stood in a small clearing deep within an old-growth forest, tall trees encircling a large white tent at its centre.

Regulus lowered the Invisibility Cloak from his face so that Harry saw his head floating midair. “The others are already inside,” he said. “I’m just triple-checking the ward stones.”

“Alright,” said Harry, and their eyes met for a second. 

Regulus had drawn the short straw—he’d be discreetly listening outside the tent, ready to summon help should the need arise. But Harry doubted it would come to that . . . the wards would put a stop to any foul play before it got far.

A nervous smile played on Harry’s lips. “Stay out of sight, Regulus.”

Regulus nodded. “Good luck.” 

A colourless sky stretched over the clearing as Harry crossed through it. At the entrance to the tent, he placed his wand on the table alongside the others. The absence of it from his palm or pocket felt strange—distinctly uncomfortable—but there was nothing to be done about it . . . weapons were not permitted inside the tent. If he did not surrender it, he would not be able to cross the threshold. 

The tent was and was not what one might expect. 

A large, circular table sat in the heart of the room, with enough chairs to accommodate all three delegations. There were no refreshments or decorations. 

Evan and Lucius sat at the table facing the entrance. If Harry hadn’t known already it was them, he never would have guessed. Their faces were hidden behind the usual masks they wore to denote their position as Death Eaters, the hoods of their dark cloaks drawn low to obscure any hint of familiarity. Even their eyes had been charmed unnatural colours, and when they spoke, Harry knew that their voices would emerge distorted, manipulated by magic to make them unrecognisable.

Harry blinked his own charmed eyes and settled into the vacant seat between them. 

There was a long and tense pause. 

And then—

“Ow,” said Harry, biting hard onto his lower lip. 

He closed his eyes, the searing pain in his temple nearing its peak. Blood roared in his ears. And then an emotion not his own exploded in his consciousness with the intensity of a thousand shooting stars burning through the atmosphere.

Harry opened his eyes and pressed a gloved hand to his temple. 

It could only mean one thing . . . Voldemort was livid.

“What is it?” asked Evan. 

Harry took a deep, calming breath. He sat quite still, eyes fixed on his gloved hand. Speaking in his strange and distorted voice, he said, “Voldemort knows.” 

“How do you know that?” asked Lucius curiously. 

He was spared the need to answer by movement at the tent’s entrance. 

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, his silver hair and beard falling to his waist. Half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose, and he wore a travelling cloak and a pointed hat. He paused briefly, taking in the three masked figures, before moving further inside the tent. Following closely behind him were Alastor Moody, Frank Longbottom, Edgar Bones, Fabian and Gideon Prewett.

Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him at the absence of James or Sirius. He had been dreading either of them being asked to come along, sensing they might see right through his disguise. 

“Welcome,” said Harry graciously. He gestured toward the empty seats around the table. “Please do make yourselves comfortable.”

From his place behind Dumbledore, Harry saw that Moody’s magical eye was spinning wildly in its socket. He had little doubt that the wizened Auror was tracking their every breath. 

“So,” Moody growled, as the Order settled in around the table. “Which of you is the Dark Lord’s young lover?” 

Harry lifted his chin. “I am.” 

Every head had whipped towards him. 

“And does your master know what you’re up to, child?” asked Dumbledore calmly. 

From beneath the cover of his mask, Harry’s mouth tightened. “Voldemort does not dictate my every move,” he said. “And I’m no child, either.”

“No,” said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Harry. “I suppose not.” 

Frank Longbottom leaned across the table. “They say your name is cursed. So what are we to call you?”

“Whatever you like,” Harry answered shortly. “We are not here to discuss me.” 

An uneasy silence crept through the tent, with nothing but long, accusatory glances to pass the time.

The Ministry was late.

At last, the telltale cracks of apparition split the air, followed by the rustle of fabric at the tent’s entrance.

Then Millicent Bagnold—the Minister for Magic—stepped inside, flanked by six stony-faced officials. Broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with cropped grey hair and a severe expression, Bagnold appeared both stern and foreboding. Harry didn’t recognise everyone in the group, but he spotted Barty’s father, Head of the DMLE, and beside him James’s friend Kingsley Shacklebolt.

When they had all found seats, Bagnold said in a ringing voice, “You have called this meeting—so begin. What is it that you have to say?” 

“Was my letter unclear?” asked Harry, in a tone of great surprise. “I am willing to hear your terms and to relay them to the Dark Lord.” 

The Ministry officials around Bagnold had started muttering amongst themselves. Some of them were frowning and shaking their heads.

“Do you speak for him, then?” asked Crouch, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the others, as though inviting them to share in a joke. “For Lord Voldemort?”

“I expect you’d know it if I did,” said Harry mildly. “You’d already be bleeding.” 

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.

“Ah,” said Crouch, still smirking. “And you thought that we would speak with you instead, did you? . . . the Dark Lord’s whore.”

Anger and indignation bubbled like acid in his stomach. But Harry reclined in his chair, the picture of composed indifference. “I think you’d speak to a brick wall if you thought it might help get you out of this,” he said, over another outbreak of muttering. 

Bagnold looked across at him, her eyebrows raised. “You hold yourself in high regard, for someone fighting this war on their back.”

Harry laughed. “You’ll find that I don’t favour any one position . . . I’m quite open-minded. After all, I’ve made this possible so that your terms could be discussed. This opportunity will not come again . . . I suggest you don’t squander it.”

“The Ministry does not negotiate with terrorists,” said Bagnold, narrowing her eyes while Crouch snorted derisively. “This war will end, one way or another.”

“Then make your offer,” said Harry coolly. “Before my patience expires.”

Bagnold gave a low laugh that made Harry’s stomach churn unpleasantly. A few other members of the Ministry delegation laughed along with her . . . Kingsley Shacklebolt, Harry noted, was looking rather grim. 

“You speak as though the balance tips in your favour,” said Bagnold. “But it does not. Soon, we will have something your master holds very dear . . . something we are told he would do anything to reclaim.”

“Enough,” said Dumbledore, surveying the Minister over the top of his interlocked fingers. “Do not do this, Bagnold . . . you are crossing a line.” 

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry felt a horrible plummeting sensation in his stomach. Beside him, Evan cast a frightened look from Lucius back to Harry.

“Oh?” said Harry, staring at Bagnold. “And what might that be?”

Bagnold’s smile sharpened. “You.”

Complete silence greeted this. 

Harry’s stomach squirmed. He thought that he was going to be sick. Was it really possible—had he been the Ministry’s weapon all along, the very secret they’d extracted from Avery?

With forced calm, Harry said, “You cannot remove me from this site. By attending, you acknowledged its neutrality. The wards ensure safety for all parties.”

“I believe you’ll come quite willingly,” said Bagnold pleasantly. “How are you feeling, by the way? A little queasy, perhaps? Nauseous? Roughly five minutes ago, everyone inside this tent was exposed to an airborne toxin. A bezoar will not help you. Without the specific antidote we’ve prepared, you won’t survive the next five.” 

People all around the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats. 

Bagnold continued, “Voldemort’s lover . . .  you have no idea how delighted we were to hear from the very person we’ve been trying to draw out. We expected you’d be a pureblood, of course. And you were careful with the wards. But purebloods always underestimate non-magical methods . . . you never planned for muggle science.”

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, seeking some kind of reassurance . . . a cold sweat had broken over his skin . . . surely the Order wouldn’t stand for this, wouldn’t endorse this kind of behaviour . . . but Dumbledore’s eyes were fixed on Bagnold, and his expression was unreadable.

One of the Ministry delegates had gotten up and was distributing vials amongst the Order. 

“Well,” said Crouch, glancing at his watch. “I address you alone now, Voldemort’s lover . . . remove your mask, surrender peacefully, and you and your companions will receive the antidote.”

“I had trusted the Ministry to hold itself above tactics such as coercion and bribery,” said Dumbledore, and for the first time, he looked angry. “You are making a grave mistake. These people are young, and they have come to you in good faith, believing they would be treated with fairness and integrity.”

“Tell me, Dumbledore,” said Bagnold calmly, “do you truly believe Lord Voldemort would show us the same courtesy, were the roles reversed? That he would act with fairness or integrity? This is a man who recruits through fear, who tortures without hesitation and kills without remorse. Do not speak to me of good faith—we are at war. And I would rather bend the rules than bury more innocents because we insisted on playing fair with a man who never has.”

Harry’s heart, which seemed to have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping loudly underneath his ribs. 

He looked to Lucius, who was clutching his stomach, then to Evan—who had been in poor health before the meeting—now doubled over in pain. 

They could apparate to Wraithmoor, seek medical aid . . . but if what Bagnold said about bezoars was true, if there was no other antidote . . . his gaze crawled back to Bagnold, and he opened his mouth to speak, but his swollen heart was now constricting his airway . . . he did not know what to do, what to say . . . he merely took a deep breath, and looked away again. 

“Your friend does not have long,” said Bagnold, with a twisted smile. “Remove your mask, surrender, and they will be saved. The choice is yours.”

Crouch gave a harsh laugh. 

“I don’t like this, Bagnold,” said Gideon Prewitt. He had uncorked his vial, but was yet to drink from it. “This is not how we do things.” 

Harry’s chest felt tight, and his vision tunnelled. He thought about Regulus, no doubt panicking outside the tent. About James, who was expecting him home for dinner. Then of Voldemort, and how right he’d been to call Harry naïve. His whole life seemed to be unravelling right before him . . . 

“Do it,” said Lucius through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Harry’s insides plummeted sickeningly. 

Death might be a blessing, to the awful reality of everybody knowing who he was, what he’d done. But he could not consign Evan and Lucius to that fate. He would not let their lives be the cost of his pride. 

There was no choice, not really. 

Harry took another deep breath. Then he lowered his hood, and raised a gloved hand to his mask, lifting it carefully up and over his head. 

Chapter Text

It was like sinking into a nightmare. 

He was aware that it was happening—the way his heart was pumping hard and fast, how his palms sweated—yet at the same time he felt strangely detached from it, seeing the canvas walls of the tent and hearing the shouts of the others as though from very far away. 

Rough hands dragged him from his seat. His wrists were bound behind his back. His jaw was pried open, the contents of a vial—the antidote—forced past his lips and down his throat. 

The next moment, he was thrown violently to the floor. 

Amid the pandemonium that had erupted around him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of knuckles meeting flesh, of Lucius grunting in pain, and Evan screaming. He heard Dumbledore’s furious voice rising above the cacophony. And then he heard two thuds, as Lucius and Evan were cast upon the floor either side of him. 

Someone seized a fistful of his hair, and they used this to drag him around the table and outside the tent. Underneath the colourless sky, he was shunted into another set of waiting arms. 

Breath fled his lungs as they spun through the suffocating darkness of apparition into the unknown. 

They landed in an unfamiliar field. 

It took Harry a moment to adjust to the light before his eyes settled on a pair of wrought iron gates, a long and winding drive, and half a dozen stiff-backed Aurors.

The prisoners were hauled to their feet. 

Harry could hear Evan behind him, his breath coming in quick, sharp bursts. And then Lucius’s drawling voice, asking, “Where have you taken us?” 

The question had scarcely left Lucius’s lips before one of the officials drove an elbow to his gut. Lucius doubled over, wheezing.

“No!” Harry yelled. “Leave him alone!” 

Another blow struck Harry across the face, splitting his lip open.

“Easy, Dawlish,” came the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, over the jeering of the others. 

The gates creaked open. 

“Move it!” someone barked. 

A hand twisted in the back of Harry’s cloak, propelling him forward as the prisoners were herded through the gates, flanked on all sides by the Aurors. At the end of the drive, Harry saw a vast fortress begin to take shape. 

“We don’t hold political prisoners at the Ministry,” one of the officials explained as they walked. “You boys have been deemed high risk. We’ve got a special place waiting for you . . . somewhere no one will ever think to look.”

Harry’s mind spun as they were pushed and pulled over gravel. 

The antidote was in their systems. Now was the moment to act . . . once they entered the fortress, escape would be exponentially more difficult. But they were outnumbered three to one, bound and wandless, and he could already feel the portkey ring hidden beneath his glove rendered useless inside the fortress’s wards.

Still, if he could create a distraction—replace the guards’ feelings with fear, exhaustion, even pain—maybe they could make it back to the gates, outside the wards. 

Reading emotions had become second nature . . . rewriting them, however, was another matter. Magical minds resisted empathic magic in ways muggles didn’t. He’d done it once—eased Regulus’s pain—but only because Regulus had let him. Influencing how even one wixen felt would be a strain . . . to attempt several at once bordered on madness. 

But he had to try. He had to do something.

Harry reached inward, searching for that familiar thread of magic . . . only to slam into something cold and impenetrable. 

A wall of steel.

Harry thought he knew what it was. The restraints that bound his wrists were suppressing his magic.

He was panicking now. He could see no way out. 

Harry bit down on his split lip without realising it. He had never known what it truly meant to be without magic. Never, in all his life, had he felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable.

They had reached the entrance to the fortress.

Harry cast a final glance at the rolling fields behind them, at the autumn sun—at the precious freedom slipping through his fingers—before rough hands forced them up broad stone steps and into the shadowed hall beyond.

The fortress was very dark after being outside in the sunlight. 

“Follow me,” one of the Aurors barked, leading the way down the hall. “Hurry up—this way.”

They walked for a long time before finally coming to a steep flight of stairs. At the bottom was a heavy door. The Auror leading them unlocked it with a tap of their wand, then forced them into a dank and musty dungeon. 

“Bit of a downgrade from your usual accommodations, isn’t it, Malfoy?” one of the officials sneered. Their voice dripped with resentment and contempt. “Still, you’d be amazed how quickly one adapts.” 

Near-darkness filled the space. 

The prisoners were driven towards the back wall, kicked and shoved until they met with stone. A single chain ran its length. Their restraints were fastened to it, spaced at even intervals. 

With no space to move and nowhere to go, they were soundly beaten. 

Harry bit right through his lip to keep from crying out. The pain was unlike anything he’d known before, and the injustice of it hit like a spike to the heart. All he could do was grit his teeth and endure it. 

Minutes bled together, and so did the prisoners. 

Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, Harry noticed that the Aurors were slipping out through the heavy door. He couldn’t move an inch from his position on the floor. But as the door began to swing shut, Harry saw another door—a metaphorical one, a chance that might not come again—closing with it.

Spitting blood from his mouth, Harry cried out, “Kingsley, wait!” 

There was a brief pause before someone crouched down beside him. Through a rapidly swelling eye, Harry caught the glint of a golden earring.

“What is it, Potter?” 

Harry could hear the tiniest note of remorse in his voice, and knew then that Kingsley hadn’t approved of the beating, that he felt bad about it, and that he would listen now.

“Will you pass along a message for me?” Harry whispered. “To James?”

There was a long pause. 

“I can’t make any promises.”

With a huge effort of will, Harry fought to stay conscious. “Just tell him,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of blood, “tell him that I’m sorry—that I can explain everything. Can I see him?”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Harry. Do you understand that? You won't be allowed any visitors down here.”

It was a supreme effort to stay awake. “You’ll tell James I’m sorry, though?”

A stillness had settled over the dungeon, and Harry knew they were now alone. 

“I’ll tell him. Take care, Harry . . . keep your head down.”

Fragmented images were breaking across the surface of his thoughts.

He was standing in a large, circular room. Everything was black, including the floor and ceiling.  

No, he wasn’t. He was locked up in a dungeon, and he was in terrible danger—

A low rumble filled the room, and the branches of candles interspersed along the wall swayed sideways. The wall had begun to spin.

He was Harry, and a beating wasn’t the worst they could do to him. He needed to wake up. He needed to find a way out—

The blue flames blurred into streaks of neon light as the wall spun faster. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it eased to a stop. This wasn’t a dream, Harry realised . . . 

“ . . . I’ve been there before.”

“What are you saying, Harry? Speak up.”

Harry wrenched his mind back to the dungeon, fighting to remain present. “I can’t remember,” he mumbled. It took him a moment to push himself upright, hindered by the chains that fixed his bound hands to the wall. “How long was I out for?”

It was very dark inside the dungeon, and every part of him ached. He felt as though someone had been beating his brain against the inside of his skull. 

“Forever,” said Evan miserably. He writhed and struggled against the metal restraints. 

“Cut that out,” Lucius snapped, watching his fruitless efforts. “You will do more harm than good.” 

Evan was half sobbing as he threw his weight against the chains. 

Forgetting the pain in his body, Harry too began to test the strength of the restraints, knowing in his heart that it was useless.

“What are we going to do?” Evan sobbed. “We’re done for. There’s no way out of this.” 

“There’s always a way,” said Harry, with more conviction than he felt. “First, we’ve got to get out of these fucking chains . . . and to do that, we’ll need a wand or a key.”

As Harry spoke, he felt Voldemort’s fury surge through his veins, but he pushed it back, grounding himself in the horror of his own reality.

“And how do you propose that we acquire either of those things?” Lucius asked with a sneer.

“From whoever's guarding us,” Harry retorted. “Who else? We can either bribe them, trick them, or take one down.”

“Forgive me if I’m not dying to star in another one of your brilliant plans,” said Lucius, sneering. “Someone will come for us. We need only wait it out.”

“Will they?” said Harry dubiously. 

The idea of waiting idly for Voldemort to come to their rescue was thoroughly unappealing. Harry had no interest in playing the part of a damsel in distress. This predicament was entirely of his own making . . . it was only fair that he be the one to set it right. 

“Has anyone been down to bring us food or water?” he asked. 

Evan shook his head. “Not yet.”  

Harry experienced the tiniest trickle of relief. Surely someone would come down soon to check on them . . . not even the Ministry could be so inhumane as to leave them without water. After all, the prisoners would need to be kept alive if they were to be used as leverage in any attempt to negotiate with the Dark Lord.

“Good,” he said, settling back against the stone wall. 

Nameless forebodings crept upon him as he sat there in the dark. He tried to push them aside, but they came at him relentlessly, insistent and unwelcome. Had James already learned of his imprisonment? He wondered who had been the one to break the news to him, and how he’d taken it. 

Badly, Harry expected. 

Evan and Lucius, now speaking softly between themselves, could still return to their families when this was over. He could not. And as Harry sat there, struggling to master his own fear and exhaustion, it seemed to him that his life was not merely changed, but prematurely ended. He would not be returning to Godric’s Hollow or to Ballycastle stadium. He would never again be the person he had been when he awoke that morning.

His scar had begun to prickle, and he wondered if he was bringing it on himself by thinking this way. Voldemort had once told him that it was a curse scar, though he had no memory of how it came to be. Had it happened, he wondered, on the same night his mother had stood between him and her killer?

Harry’s scar was burning now. 

There was so much he did not know. Why hadn’t Fleamont and Euphemia told him the truth? Had they delayed, thinking there would be time? If so, they had been wrong. What would they think, if they could see him now? He was certain they would be cringing in their graves.

Abruptly, Harry lost the thread of his thoughts. He thought he’d heard footsteps descending the steps into the dungeon. 

“Shut up,” Harry whispered, looking from Evan to Lucius. Every nerve in his body seemed to tighten with anticipation. “Someone’s coming.”

The heavy door creaked open. 

He saw a glimpse of the steps outside. Then two hooded figures edged inside the dungeon, closing the door behind them. 

One of the figures lowered their hood, revealing themself to be the Auror Dawlish. The other turned away, lighting a few sconces on the wall with a prod of their wand, not looking at any of them. 

“I thought he was supposed to be pretty,” said Dawlish. “Not much to look at now, are you Potter?”

Harry threw Dawlish the filthiest look he could muster. 

Adopting a mask of cool indifference, he said, “Perhaps I’m not your type . . . I was told once that violence quite suited me.”

“Who told you that?” A positively dangerous look crept over Dawlish’s face. “The Dark Lord?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I think it was.”

In a low voice, Dawlish said, “Proud of it, are you? That he chose you to take to bed.” Dawlish was standing right in front of him now. “D’you know what this war has cost me? I’ve lost my entire family, Potter. My wife and kids.”

Harry felt a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion. He did not want to hear any more, but Dawlish kept talking, and he had no choice but to listen. 

“They were burnt alive,” Dawlish went on, “inside our family home. While you were spreading your legs for the Dark Lord, I was burying my children.” 

Harry’s mouth had gone very dry. “You’re angry because your family died, Dawlish. I get that. But let’s not pretend they died because I had sex with Voldemort.”

Dawlish gave a rather grim laugh. He turned to the other hooded figure and said, “Stand guard, would you? Your turn will come once I’ve had mine. I’d prefer not to be disturbed.”

Harry felt a sick, swooping sensation in his stomach. He looked to Evan, whose eyes were wide in the flickering light, then to Lucius, who had gone very pale. Sensing a fight, Harry hauled himself to his feet. 

There was a pause, as Harry and Dawlish stared hatefully at one another. 

And then Dawlish lunged.

Harry barely had time to brace before the impact drove them both to the ground. With his hands bound behind his back, he stood little chance. Dawlish easily overpowered him.

“Get off me!” Harry gasped, pinned to the floor. 

Calloused hands grazed his hips, his waist, holding him down as he kicked and thrashed. His knees were forced apart, and Dawlish settled between them. 

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” Dawlish murmured, hot breath fanning Harry’s face. “Have you figured it out yet?” 

Revulsion and horror paralysed him. 

Unwanted hands travelled over his chest, slipping around cloth to stroke his stomach, his abdomen, slowly—so very slowly—heading downward. 

“Get away from me—don’t touch me!”

Dawlish laughed, pushing harder against him. The calloused hands did not pause in their roaming. 

“Relax, Potter,” said Dawlish, his voice guttural. “I think you’ll enjoy this.” 

In utter desperation, Harry used his gloved thumb to rotate the portkey ring around his finger. As expected, nothing happened . . . the portkey was useless inside the fortress’s wards. 

“Stop it!” Harry cried out. “Don’t do this.” 

In his mind’s eye, he saw the image of the ring on his finger, two golden bands shaped into the coils of entwined serpents. He didn’t notice the shift, didn’t feel the language slip as it slithered from his mouth. But when he cried out again, it came out in Parseltongue. 

“Please—please help me! ”

The ring flared with sudden heat. 

Dawlish had stilled above him. “What’s that, Potter? What did you just say?” 

Something squirmed beneath the leather of his glove. 

Harry could not believe he’d made such a stupid mistake . . . they’d all heard him speak Parseltongue . . . what were they going to think? Dawlish was still motionless above him, expectant, waiting for an answer.

Gathering saliva into his mouth, Harry lifted his head and spat. The glob struck Dawlish squarely on the forehead before dripping down onto Harry’s chest. 

Dawlish’s expression contorted with rage. 

Harry saw a hand disappear between them, followed by the sound of a zipper pulled undone. He turned his head to the side, unable to watch. From the corner of his eye, something golden caught the light as it emerged from underneath him. 

It was two tiny serpents, about an inch in length. 

Harry watched as one of them snaked up Dawlish’s leg, journeying over his robes before coming to rest on his shoulder. In the instant Harry met Dawlish’s gaze, the snake reared its tiny head and then plunged straight into the Auror’s ear.

Dawlish shook his head, trying to clear it. 

Harry stared, open-mouthed, horrified by the transformation taking place on Dawlish’s face. His features twisted in agony, his skin drained of colour. Something dark trickled from the edge of his mouth, where a bubble of blood formed before popping. 

The next moment, Dawlish collapsed on top of him. 

It felt like the air had been punched from Harry’s lungs as he took Dawlish’s considerable weight. For a few moments he lay there, immobile, unable to grasp what had just happened, unable to bear it. 

“No,” he moaned. 

Panic fogged his mind. He was shaking violently. 

“Harry, it’s okay,” Evan said gently. “You’re alright.”

The body was a horrible, dead weight against him. He could not think. A vile sensation was spreading throughout him, poisoning his arms, his legs, his brain. 

“Snap out of it, Potter,” said Lucius urgently. “I can see his wand. I think that you could reach it.”

At the words, Harry’s temporarily stupefied brain seemed to grind into action. 

“Do as I say,” Lucius went on. “You need to shift the body to your right. Slowly roll onto your side . . . that’s it. Good.” 

Harry could not see what he was doing, but he followed Lucius’s instructions. 

His hand found wood, and the chains found stone. 

He moved as if through a fevered dream, dislodged from time and self, just as he had in the tent. Neither here nor there, only adrift. Later, he would remember nothing of stepping over the second body at the door, nor of how they navigated their way back through the fortress.

“Look!” shouted Evan, as the wind whipped through their hair and clothes. 

Evan was pointing at the end of the drive, where the wrought iron gates rose vertically against a star-strewn sky. Harry saw a great number of people waiting there for them, illuminated beneath the moon. 

The Dark Lord had his wand in hand, and seemed to be in the process of dismantling the fortress’s wards. 

“You took your time, Voldemort,” Harry said as they approached. 

“Curiously enough,” Voldemort murmured, his red eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of his hood, “I could say the same of you.” Voldemort tilted his head a little to one side, his gaze unscrupulous and unblinking. “Nevertheless, I’m here now. What is it you’d have me do?”

All of their faces were turned toward him. 

The phantom touch of unwanted hands ghosted over his skin, and Harry heard himself speak through the fever-dream, as though from very far away. 

“Oh,” he said, gesturing towards the fortress. “Burn it to the ground.” 

Chapter Text

“Harry?”

Regulus looked very anxious as he sat on the edge of the bed, two cups of tea in his hands and a seventh-year textbook tucked beneath an arm.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled.  

He took one of the cups and glanced around for a place to set it down. His gaze snagged on his own face, staring back at him from the cover of that morning’s Daily Prophet, the large reward for his capture written in a bold sans-serif across his chest. He placed the cup on top of the newspaper, still unread on the bedside table, and tried to push back the sudden upsurge of feelings—the horror, the anger, the regret—that threatened to overwhelm him. 

When he looked back on the days which had followed his escape, Harry found that he remembered very little. That could be because each day passed much like the one before it. The thought of having to explain to anybody else what had happened—of reliving it—was more than he could bear. It was far easier, far safer and infinitely more comfortable to stay in Voldemort’s bed where no one dared disturb him.

Regulus, as ever, proved to be an exception to the rule. 

“Do you mind if I talk to you, Harry?”

Flopsy curled around Regulus’s legs, purring loudly, and then leapt into Harry’s lap and settled down.

“No,” Harry replied, mostly because he didn’t want to hurt Regulus’s feelings. He carefully lowered his gaze to the cat and dutifully scratched behind their ears. 

“I brought you this.”

There was a gentle knock of wood against wood as Regulus placed Harry’s wand beside the cup of tea. 

“I grabbed it from the tent after they took you away,” Regulus explained. “You should have seen Bellatrix’s face when I told her what had happened.”

When Harry did not respond, Regulus reached out and gently touched his arm. “Is there anything I can get for you? Clothes, records, smokes . . . whatever you need.”

Harry shook his head. 

It was a simple enough question. Yet, he could not find the words to articulate a response. What was it that he needed? A toothbrush wouldn’t go amiss, or clothing that wasn’t borrowed. But naming those things meant accepting that this was really happening, that this was now his life. 

Neither of them spoke for a little while. 

“Have you been to see James?” Harry asked finally, in a voice devoid of any expression. 

“I have.”

“And?”

Regulus took a deep breath before setting the tea and textbook carefully on the floor. Then he swung his legs onto the bed, and curled into the space beside Harry. 

“It’s pretty bad, Harry,” said Regulus quietly. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s holding onto the hope that you were coerced, or under the Imperius. That you’ll soon come back to your senses and return home. I’m not sure that James is ready to believe anything else.”

“If only it were that simple,” Harry sighed. 

“He was so worried about you, when you were taken prisoner. We all were. Everybody knows how you were mistreated, Harry. If you ever—”

“—I really don’t want to talk about it.” 

Harry could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, okay,” Regulus whispered. “But if you change your mind, I’m always here for you.”

The burning feeling was now in his throat. And he felt the armour he had been carefully building around himself since returning to Wraithmoor begin to fracture, then crack.

Harry tried to return Regulus’s watery smile, then quickly moved his attention back to the ceiling. 

He was not ready to think about what had happened to him while he’d been held prisoner. But there were other things to discuss, things that were marginally easier to say.  

“I knew the truth would come out eventually,” Harry began. “That people would learn I’d taken Voldemort’s mark, or that we were . . . somehow involved.”

It was an effort to keep his voice steady, but Harry forced himself to go on, “But I thought it’d happen on my own terms—that I’d be the one to reveal it, after Voldemort had already won. I wanted to use my position to do something meaningful, to make it clear where I stood. I never meant to hurt anyone, but I know I have. I betrayed them—James most of all—and I don’t know how to make that right.”

Regulus hesitated, looking upset. “There is something, Harry. Something you could do.”

“What?” said Harry, after a shocked pause. He looked away from the ceiling, turning towards Regulus. “Piss off. What d’you mean?”

“Do you remember at the Wands Down For Words rally, when you were able to sense the runes even though they were invisible?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Regulus considered him for a moment. “There are certain objects, created by the Dark Lord and tethered to him. If you could find one of these objects . . . if you were able to sense them, to track one down . . . if you brought it to Dumbledore . . .”

Harry saw, in his mind’s eye, an image of a heavy golden locket, its surface etched with a serpentine ‘S’ set in dark green stone. He waited, but Regulus did not go on. “I don’t understand.”

Regulus sighed heavily. “Do you remember my Ascension Rite?”

“The one you couldn’t talk about?”

“Yes. Voldemort had created a potion, something of his own invention. He needed a test subject.”

“What? Not—”

“—not me, no,” Regulus clarified, and such a powerful wave of relief swept over Harry that for a moment he felt lightheaded. 

“He used my house-elf,” said Regulus warily. “I can’t tell you the details—I’ve sworn an oath—but I have a theory . . . I think he means to use the potion to protect one of these objects. And I think that he’s planning to hide it under this protection very soon. If we moved before then . . . if you could find the object before he seals it away behind whatever other enchantments he’s preparing . . .”

There seemed to be very little air in Harry’s lungs, all of a sudden. His breathing was coming quick and shallow. “I still don’t understand. What kind of objects are we talking about here?” 

“They could be anything, really,” said Regulus. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then added, “Though I imagine they’d be unusual, and with powerful magical properties.”

“And what does Dumbledore want with them?” asked Harry, though he thought he knew the answer already. 

“It would take uncommon skill and power to defeat the Dark Lord,” said Regulus carefully. “But his defeat would be possible, should these objects be destroyed.” 

Harry was speechless. He did not know what to say, nor what to think. 

Regulus gave him a long and searching look, and then smiled a little sadly. “In Greenwich Park, you told me that you felt powerless, that you wanted agency. Well, I want to give that to you now. You can act on what I’ve told you, or we can pretend this conversation never happened. I won’t bring it up again. I imagine your heart’s pulling one way and your head another, but I have faith you’ll figure it out. You usually do . . . eventually.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. He was finding it quite difficult to breathe. “Though I’m not sure I’ve done anything to earn that kind of faith.”

“You know,” Regulus continued, “a lot of people thought that Voldemort had the right idea in the beginning. But now they’re getting cold feet, seeing what he’s prepared to do to get to power. Voldemort is showing his true colours, and people are beginning to question whether his aims were ever aligned with their own . . . or whether they’ve simply been pawns in his ascent to power.”

“He takes pleasure in watching the purebloods submit to him,” Harry admitted. He’d witnessed it more than once. “I’m not convinced the so-called purification of the wizarding race has ever truly mattered to him.”

Regulus took a deep breath. “I know that the Ministry isn’t exactly a shining alternative, especially in light of recent events. I get that. But say that Voldemort does win . . . what kind of world will it be, under his rule?”

Harry held Regulus’s gaze. 

“I don’t think Voldemort wants to rule the world,” Harry whispered. As he said the words, he felt them to be true. If ruling had been the goal, Voldemort never needed a coup; with the Wizengamot in his pocket, he could have claimed the position of Minister years ago. “He wants to destroy it.” 

They stared at each other, and there was something more than shock in Regulus’s expression. All of the colour had drained from his face. 

After a prolonged pause Regulus looked away, reaching down to retrieve the textbook from the floor. When he opened the book, it became immediately apparent that the cover had been a decoy. For inside the Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven lay an entirely different text, belonging to an early edition of Magick Moste Evile.

“I want you to read this chapter, Harry,” said Regulus in a low voice. He tapped his finger on the index page, closed the book and set it down upon the bed. “Whatever choice you make, let it be an informed one.” 

Harry sank back against the covers, disturbing Flopsy’s nap in the process, and returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Thanks for the tea, Regulus . . . I’ll read the chapter. You should go home, though . . . it’s already quite late.” 

Regulus hesitated, but recognised the dismissal. He swung his legs off the bed, but before he left the room, he brushed the top of Harry’s head with the tips of his fingers. 

Flopsy uncoiled themself from Harry’s lap and trotted after him, purring loudly. 

Alone in the darkness, with only his wretched thoughts for company, memories from the fortress returned to him slowly, seeping through the cracks in his armour.

Desperate for any distraction, his fingers found the book Regulus had left behind, and he opened it to the chapter indicated.

. . . a Horcrux is created by the act of committing murder . . . the ritual will encase the fragment of soul inside of an object, anchoring the creator to the mortal realm . . . 

With every sentence he read, Harry’s breath grew more uneven. He understood, yet did not understand what to do. His heart was telling him one thing, his head quite another. 

Was the destruction of a Horcrux the meaningful act he’d been looking for, the chance to make amends for the Chamber of Secrets, to avoid prosecution, and to get his life back? 

He had to admit that it was very tempting.

Here was a new narrative, one that might justify his relationship with Voldemort. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself explaining it to Dumbledore, and he saw Dumbledore believing him. He’d gotten close to Voldemort in order to understand him. And he’d needed to understand him to learn of the objects Voldemort had chosen as vessels.

Voldemort had tricked him into opening the chamber and releasing the basilisk, had pushed Harry into a place where joining his ranks had felt like the only way forward. Wasn’t it fitting that Voldemort should pay for that, in some way?

It wasn’t as if Voldemort was a good person—far from it. And while Harry had no love for the Ministry, nor any faction that stood with it, that did not change the fact that Voldemort should be stopped. 

And yet . . . 

He trusted Voldemort, even cared for him. He’d imagined the meaningful act would be a compromise reached between them, not a second act of betrayal. 

And if it was the right thing to do, then why did it feel so horribly wrong? 

In some kind of daze, Harry got up and hid the book amongst other volumes on one of Voldemort’s shelves. He wandered over to the dresser, where the locket lay upon its black-velvet setting. He gazed down at it, feeling confused and conflicted. 

Had Regulus realised how agonising the decision would be? How deeply it would hurt, wanting two things that could not coexist?

He climbed back into the bed and closed his eyes, his scar prickling a little, wondering at the ideas taking shape in the darkness, ideas both terrible and great.

Harry lost all sense of time as he stared at the ceiling. He knew only that the sky beyond the diamond-paned glass had lightened several degrees when, at last, Voldemort swept into the room. 

Harry lifted his head from the pillow, reaching instinctively for his wand, but stilled as that dark, malevolent magic filled the space between them. The fire had burned low, a bed of embers in the grate, and by their dull light he recognised the familiar planes of Voldemort’s waxen face, and allowed himself to relax.

“You’re still awake,” Voldemort murmured. Harry felt a note of concern in his voice. 

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Sinking back against the pillows, Harry listened to the sounds of Voldemort moving about the room. He closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, Voldemort was at the foot of the bed, his long fingers moving deftly as he unfastened the final button of his shirt.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Harry watched as the remaining fabric slipped away from Voldemort’s long, lean frame. 

The red eyes which fastened upon Harry’s green ones were dark with hunger. It brought to mind another occasion, when those same hooded eyes were fixed to his, and the words Voldemort had spoken then returned to him with clarity.

“There is eternity ahead of us . . .”

Harry pushed back the covers to reveal his own naked body. He held Voldemort’s gaze as he crawled across the bed. He rose to his knees, looped his arms around Voldemort’s neck, and brought their lips together. 

He kissed Voldemort softly, tenderly. 

After several moments, Voldemort pulled back. “Are you certain?”

The answer was a mental caress down the bond between them, a breath spoken into Voldemort’s mouth, “Yes.” 

Though the horror of what had taken place in the dungeon haunted him, Harry pulled Voldemort onto the bed and straddled him. 

He did not want those unwanted hands to be the last to have touched him. And so he took Voldemort’s hands in his own, and he guided them over his body as if their touch might somehow overwrite the memory.

“Come here,” Voldemort murmured. 

Harry lowered himself into Voldemort’s cold embrace. 

Sharp teeth grazed the junction of neck and shoulder, where the Dark Lord had once broken skin. Then came a slow and lazy ascent, as Voldemort’s tongue licked a path up his throat, along his jaw, to his lips.

Voldemort’s tongue slipped between Harry’s teeth, laying claim to his mouth. And with a desperation that words could not reach, as if the force of it might speak what he could not say, Harry surrendered to it.  

Though Voldemort’s touch was cool, heat pounded inside Harry’s veins. 

Forehead to forehead, they shared the same air. 

“How do you want it?” Voldemort asked. 

Harry didn’t have to think. “Don’t hold me down,” he said, firm. “I want to be in control.” 

Heavy breathing filled the room. A murmured incantation. Then the world constricted to the stretch and slide of skin, to that mounting pressure, to the periphery between pain and pleasure as slowly—so very slowly—they joined as one, whole. 

“Voldemort,” Harry gasped. 

His hands were fisted in the sheets on either side of Voldemort’s face. 

Long fingers traced soothing patterns up and down his spine. When Harry began to move on Voldemort, the Dark Lord kissed him over and over, deeply and thoroughly. This was the distraction he’d needed, he’d craved. The only thing powerful enough to dull everything else. And as the bliss of blessed oblivion blurred the edges of his thoughts, Harry sank into it with relief. 

Chapter Text

It was with a heavy heart that Harry returned to Godric’s Hollow the following evening. Though he dreaded the confrontation that awaited him there, Harry knew he could not delay any longer. If his plans were to move forward, he needed the Cloak of Invisibility—and getting it meant facing James.

Harry hesitated at the front door, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Several fat drops of rain hit the awning above his head. Steeling his nerves, Harry pushed the door open, feeling quite surprised to find the wards on the mudbrick cottage still welcomed him inside. 

Voices drifted down the hallway, and Harry followed them towards the kitchen. As he walked, he slipped a hand inside the pocket of his robe, where his fingers curled around the comforting shape of his wand. 

The voices stopped abruptly the moment he stepped from the hall. He paused at the doorway, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame. 

Four people were seated around the kitchen table. Scattered between them were an array of greasy takeout containers, plates laden with food, and cans of dark lager. All four faces looked up at him, frozen in stunned disbelief. 

Remus Lupin sat nearest the doorway, looking tired and rather ill. James was beside Remus, a fork suspended halfway to his mouth. Sirius sat next to James, one elbow propped on the table, his carelessly handsome face resting in a hand adorned with black-painted nails. Furthest along was Peter Pettigrew, watery-eyed, trembling, and hopelessly out of place beside his cooler friends.

“H—Harry?” said James. 

Harry’s heart leapt at the sound of James’s voice. 

“Hi,” he began uncertainly. “I’m just here to pick up a few things, and then I’ll be on my way. It won’t take long . . . I hope that’s alright.” 

A very uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. The rain was falling harder now, running in little streams down the sash windows and obscuring the view of the overgrown garden outside.

Slowly, Harry loosened his grip on his wand and edged back into the hallway, acutely aware of every pair of eyes still fixed on him.

He took the stairs two at a time and threw open his bedroom door. 

The room was just as he’d left it; possessions strewn across every surface, rubbish littering the floor, with the lingering scent of stale tobacco woven through it all. A large trunk stood open and empty at the foot of the bed. 

Harry started snatching anything and everything within arm’s reach and throwing it haphazardly inside the trunk.

A moment later, he heard the sound of a chair scraping over floorboards, followed by the quick tread of footsteps bounding up the stairs.

“That’s it?” said James, his voice cracking. 

Harry was grateful to see the others hadn’t followed.

James stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression drawn. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? You’re just grabbing your things and going? I’ve been worried sick, Harry.”

Harry’s heart shot upward into his throat, where it remained uncomfortably lodged. In a strangled kind of whisper, he said, “I’m so sorry.” He could not bear to hold James’s gaze for long. “I am, truly.”

“Are they holding you against your will?”

“James,” Harry said, but in such a quiet voice that James might have pretended not to have heard over the rain beating loudly against the roof. 

“Is—is Voldemort forcing you to have sex with him?”

Harry quickly shook his head. He held a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of dragon-hide boots in the other. “No. It’s not like that at all.”

“Then what?” said James, his voice rising angrily. “What the hell are you doing, Harry?”

Quite calmly, despite the words feeling hollow and inadequate, Harry said, “If I thought there was another way, I would have taken it.”

“THAT MAKES NO SENSE!” James roared. He was shaking from head to foot. “What planet are you living on, that you think Voldemort is ever the best option? You’re out of your fucking mind.” 

They gazed at each other for several long moments.

Harry knew that he owed an explanation to James, who was the last of the family that had raised him, and who deserved to hear some truths. Painstakingly, Harry looked away. His mind reached back through everything that had passed, back to the moment it had all gone wrong.

“I was the one who woke the basilisk, James. It was an accident . . . a terrible accident.”

James looked as though the ground had dropped out from beneath him.

“Lily Evans is dead because of me,” Harry continued. “And everything I’ve done since has been an effort to make that right.” He dropped the telescope and the boots into his trunk, reached for more miscellaneous items, and plunged on, “I suspected, even back then, that Voldemort saw something in me . . . and I saw an opportunity in that.”

There was a pause, in which the ramifications of this statement seemed to rise like a wall between them.

“You’re going to have to walk me through how someone accidentally sets a basilisk on the loose,” said James, his face filled with anguish. 

Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. 

James didn’t know Harry was a Parselmouth. He didn’t know Harry suspected himself to be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. And he had no idea that the voices Harry had spoken of as a child—the visions he’d once described—had, all along, been of Voldemort.

Intuitively, Harry sensed that he should keep these things to himself. 

“I found the basilisk in the castle,” Harry said vaguely. “It seemed to be asleep, before we took the tunnel from Hogwarts to Brighton.”

“You ought to have come straight to me. We might have found a way forward, together.”

Harry shook his head. “If anyone had found out the truth, I’d have been sent to Azkaban. And—”

“—THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE TO AZKABAN!” James shouted, and his words landed like a slap to the face, “RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FAMILY!”

“AND WHAT THEN?” Harry shouted back. His heart was now thumping uncontrollably. “I rot in Azkaban while people keep dying? That doesn’t help anyone. I can save lives—I’ve already done so, at Devon and at the rally.” 

“I have half a mind to inform the Ministry that you’re here right now,” James said furiously. He took several steps towards Harry, who did not back away from him. 

“Don’t threaten me, James,” said Harry warily. He knew that James would not report him to the DMLE. He grabbed a handful of books and threw them angrily into the trunk. “You have no idea what the Ministry is capable of.”

“I know that they knocked you around—”

“—they tried to do a lot worse than that!” Harry shouted.

The silence seemed to stretch on and on. 

He saw James’s hands clench and unclench, and as the colour gradually drained from his face, he knew he had understood.

“What happens now?” James asked. “Am I supposed to just let you go back to him? Is that what you really want, to be with Voldemort?” 

“I know you don’t like it,” Harry said thickly. “But it’s my life . . . I’ll decide what to do with it.” He breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. “I don’t expect your forgiveness . . . I know that I’ve let you down . . . but I need you to know that I’m sorry. That I love you. And that I will do whatever it takes to make this right.”

Harry stood quite still and silent as the rain beat down against the roof.

Finally, in a gravelly voice that was most unlike his own, James said, “I think that you’d better leave.” 

James had withdrawn his wand from his pocket. But he did not direct it towards Harry . . . he waved it in a long, sweeping movement over the floorboards. Books, clothes, records, and even a small cauldron were lifted into the air before landing neatly inside the trunk.

Harry grabbed his broomstick from where it rested against the windowsill, walked over to the trunk, and forced the lid shut on his cauldron.

“There’s one more thing,” said Harry, straightening up. He looked into James’s face and took another deep breath. “I need the Invisibility Cloak, just for the weekend . . . Regulus told me that he returned it to you, after I was captured. I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done.”

James frowned. “What do you want it for?” 

Harry tried to order his thoughts. 

“I’ve been dreaming about this room,” he explained, raising his voice to be heard above the thundering rain, “a chamber with doors on every side. I believe it’s inside the Department of Mysteries . . . I want to go there, and find the item they’ve been keeping from me.” 

“What you mean to say, is that you plan to break inside the Ministry of Magic and steal it?” 

Beneath the disbelief and anger, Harry heard the faintest note of approval in his voice, and affection for James gushed up inside him. Neither of them had ever been much for abiding by rules and regulations.

“Well, yeah.” 

“And I suppose it doesn’t matter that this could get you into serious trouble?”

Harry scoffed. “Trouble?” he said dryly. “I can’t imagine what that’d be like, being in trouble with the law.” 

They stared at each other. Suddenly, Harry remembered Euphemia’s words a few days into the new year, asking them to promise they’d look after each other, that they’d stay out of trouble. He was sure that James was remembering it as well.  

James looked as though he were struggling to make up his mind. After another moment or two, he said, “Fine. Whatever . . . I’ll get the cloak for you.” 

James wheeled around and strode from the room. 

Heaving his trunk in one hand and his Comet 210 in the other, Harry made his way back downstairs. He walked past the kitchen, where the others spoke in hushed voices, and waited by the front door.

James appeared a moment later, the Invisibility Cloak gathered in his arms. 

There was a strained silence, broken only by the rain still pouring down outside.

Harry glanced back toward the kitchen, wondering what James would tell his friends after he’d gone, what Sirius would make of it all. And he thought of Peter Pettigrew, the fear he’d sensed in the other boy at the rally, the suspicion it had sparked, and the way Peter had visibly trembled at the sight of him.

Something settled into place, the vague outlines sharpening in clarity.

And it was not nearly enough, a single hand extended across the wreckage of what they’d once had, over the wall that now stood between them. 

But it was something. It was a start, a way forward. 

“You think that Lupin has been feeding information to the Dark Lord, don’t you?” Harry said quietly. “You’ve got it all wrong. Pettigrew is the rat, James.”

Harry knew from James’s expression that his words had hit a mark. 

“Are you certain?” James asked. 

“I’d be prepared to bet on it,” Harry replied. “Perhaps not on my reputation, as that’s been through enough. But a couple of galleons, sure.” 

James was looking at him, but his eyes were unfocused. Harry was certain he was turning the information over in his mind, measuring it against his doubts, trying to make sense of it.

Then James nodded and held out the cloak. Harry pocketed it, tucked the broomstick back beneath an arm, and pulled open the front door.

“Wait,” said James sharply. 

Harry paused, holding his breath, one foot on the doormat. 

“What time are you going?” asked James. “To the Ministry, I mean.” 

“Oh,” said Harry. “Sunday afternoon.”

James gave him a long and searching look. “I’ll meet you at the telephone box at four o’clock.”

“What?” said Harry, with a start. 

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you, or that I fully understand your reasons,” said James. “But I promised to help you find your parents, and I intend to keep that promise. We’ll both fit underneath the cloak.”

For the first time in what felt like months, a small smile touched Harry’s lips. The muscles in his face felt oddly stiff as he turned into the rain, hauling his trunk behind him. 

“Alright,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “See you then.” 

Chapter Text

Bolstered by his conversation with James, Harry spent the rest of the week feeling unusually optimistic. He had not expected things to go over as well as they had, and he was certain that more good luck would follow. Not even Voldemort’s mercurial moods could break his buyout spirits. To finally have confided in somebody else, and to have the promise of James accompany him to the Department of Mysteries, made Harry feel so happy that it was hard at times to maintain a straight face. 

Wrapped in the covers on Voldemort’s bed, he awoke late on Saturday morning. 

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp . . . a long shadow had fallen over him. 

Voldemort stood beside the bed. The sunlight leeched what little colour remained from his waxen face, and his red eyes—the whites of which had that permanently bloody look—fastened upon Harry without blinking. 

“G’morning,” Harry mumbled. 

He heard the clink of metal ringing against wood, and turned his head to see a ring spinning on the surface of the bedside table. The design was similar but not identical to the last Voldemort had gifted him.

“To replace the one which was lost,” said Voldemort softly.  

“Thank you,” said Harry, a little disoriented. 

He reached towards the ring, but then hesitated as sick images swarmed his mind. His empty hand fell back against the rumpled sheets. 

“I can’t make sense of it,” Harry admitted, after explaining what had happened to the previous portkey ring. “I spoke in Parseltongue, and the ring reacted to it. But how could that be, if my magic was suppressed?”

Voldemort’s long, black travelling cloak brushed the floor as he crossed the room to the window. After a pause, he said, “You are still very young—”

“—Don’t tell me it was accidental magic,” Harry cut in. He sank back against the covers, feeling slightly exasperated, and rubbed at his eyes. “It wasn’t like that.” 

Voldemort looked murderous. “Do not interrupt me when I am speaking,” he said in a low voice. “There is much you do not understand. In extreme conditions, magic may react paroxysmally—not born of will, but of need.”

“If you say so.” 

There was a short silence. 

Voldemort seemed to be preoccupied, and was staring out the window at the sky. The sun would soon begin sliding into the afternoon. Flopsy wandered over to the bed, leapt into the space beside Harry, and stared inscrutably into his eyes. 

“There is business I must attend to abroad,” said Voldemort, still peering through the window. “I shall return tomorrow evening. I know that you are planning something, cousin . . . tell me, can I trust you to behave in my absence?” 

Harry opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again. 

Uncertain how Voldemort might respond to his plans to infiltrate the Ministry, he had thought it prudent to keep them to himself. Harry quickly busied himself with scratching Flopsy behind the ears. 

“Maybe I am,” he said evasively. “But you needn’t worry . . . James will be with me.”

Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change immediately.

An emotion not his own had flooded Harry’s senses. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out all else until only a savage, irrational jealousy remained. It was so fierce Harry felt certain that, had James been in the room with them, he’d have burst into flames.

Wrestling with this sudden madness, he heard Voldemort’s voice as though from a great distance away.

“It seems you’ve learned nothing from your past mistakes,” Voldemort said coldly. He turned away from the window, and his gaze fell upon Harry. 

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

It was not his first brush with Voldemort’s jealousy, nor did he expect it would be his last. Even so, he refused to let it sour their time together . . . his good spirits had been hard won, and he meant to keep them.

Harry opened his eyes and looked up at Voldemort from beneath the curve of his lashes. “Perhaps I ought to be taught a lesson,” he suggested, a coy tilt to his lips. He shifted his legs beneath the covers and inclined his head in invitation. “Did you ever fancy yourself a teacher?”

Voldemort’s expression remained cold and impassive as he said, “I did.” 

“A demonstration, then?” 

Red eyes danced upward, from the space between his legs, along the length of his throat, brushing his jaw before finally settling on his lips.

“I have a meeting shortly.”

Harry grinned wickedly. “Make them wait,” he whispered. 

He opened up the covers to welcome the Dark Lord beneath them. Flopsy, quite affronted, leapt down to the floor. 

Sometime in the afternoon, Harry descended Voldemort’s tower in search of company. He had a vague idea that Regulus would be attending Yaxley’s scheduled lecture. But luck, at last inclined in his favour, placed his friend conveniently in the corridor just outside.

“Harry!”

Harry grinned, turning around to see Regulus slinking towards him. 

“Regulus! I was looking for you.”

“Yaxley finished early,” said Regulus. “Come with me . . . I want to show you something.” 

Regulus hooked his arm through Harry’s and together they set off through the dilapidated castle.

“Where are we going?” asked Harry. 

Regulus grinned back at him. “You’ll see.” 

A winding staircase led them to a portrait concealing a hidden passage. Regulus pushed it aside and climbed through. As Harry followed, he heard Regulus call out to the unseen room. 

“Look who I found!”

Harry emerged into the room beyond the passage to several yells and screams of delight. 

“HARRY!”

He had the confused impression of green-coloured lighting, of loud music and indistinct faces. The next moment he was being engulfed in a hug from Lucinda, and then Bellatrix was kissing his cheeks, and then Evan was ruffling his hair. 

It might have been just another day in the Slytherin common room, celebrating after an easy win at the Quidditch finals. 

As the crowd backed away, Harry saw that twenty or so people were gathered in the room, a party underway. Coloured lanterns were hung along the walls, casting a green-tinted glow over old leather seating and a table crammed with bottles and goblets.

“What’s the occasion?” Harry asked. “It’s just gone midday.”

“Let’s not pretend propriety has ever stood in your way before, Potter,” Severus Snape said with a sneer.

There was a ripple of muttering and snickering at this. 

Harry sneered back. 

“Cassandra Trelawny has foretold that the end of the world is upon us,” Bellatrix said with a cackle. “It’s all over the Daily Prophet. Surely that’s reason enough to drink, darling?”

Harry accepted a fizzing goblet from Icarus with thanks. Looking around, he said, “Are you kidding?” 

“Seers have been known to be wrong before,” said Balfour Greengrass, whom Harry had not noticed up until that point. Now that he looked around properly, he recognised many familiar faces from Hogwarts. There was Enoch Wilkes, another of his dorm-mates. Both Lestranges were there, as was Barty Crouch and even Lucius Malfoy. 

“Over here, Harry,” said Lucinda, beckoning him further into the room. “I’d like a word, if that’s alright.” 

Harry, Regulus and Icarus followed Lucinda through the party, settling in a secluded corner where they took seats around one of the low tables.

There was a slightly awkward pause. 

Guiltily, Harry tried to recall the last time the four of them had been together. It was likely his seventeenth birthday, nearly six months prior.

Icarus took a deep breath, as though bracing himself, and said, “How are you, Harry?” 

“Oh,” said Harry, a little apprehensive. “Better, I suppose. Yourselves?”

“Can’t complain, can we?” said Lucinda, rummaging through a satchel. “I’ve been hoping to run into you, Harry. Do you remember that name you were searching for last year? You brought it up after Yule.”

Harry stared at her. “Sorry?” 

Lucinda withdrew a long scroll of parchment from her satchel and unfurled it beneath Harry’s nose. It was so long that the end of it grazed the floor. 

“The bottom,” Lucinda said excitedly. “Look at the name at the very bottom.” 

He obeyed. For a moment, Harry had no idea what she was talking about. But as he gathered the scroll in his hands and fed it upward through his fingers, as name after name passed before his eyes, he understood. 

“Morfin Gaunt,” Harry whispered. “I can’t fucking believe it.” 

“What’s this, Lucinda?” asked Regulus, peering over Harry’s shoulder. 

“It’s a genealogical study of the Slytherin bloodline,” Lucinda explained in a low voice. “My Aunt Belinda showed it to me, and I made a copy when I saw Morfin’s name. Is this who you were looking for, Harry?”

Harry did not answer immediately. He looked up at Lucinda’s smiling face, and then into the party around them, thinking. “Morfin didn’t have any children?” Harry asked, his mind working very fast. “A daughter, perhaps?”

“No,” said Lucinda. “They would be named here otherwise. Were you looking into the Dark Lord’s origins, Harry?”

When Harry did not respond, Lucinda went on, “Voldemort claims to be Slytherin’s Heir . . . if that’s true, he must be a Gaunt—they’re the last known descendants. But I think it’s more likely Voldemort is Merope’s son than Morfin’s. Because, if he’d gone by the surname Gaunt at Hogwarts—and he clearly attended Hogwarts, based on the circles he moves in—then there would be a record of it here. It stands to reason, then, that he used his father’s surname, as is customary.”

“What’s your aunt doing with this information, Lucinda?” asked Regulus curiously. 

“Belinda’s been helping her sister Bathilda with some research for a book on the history of Hogwarts,” said Lucinda. 

There was a pause. 

“I asked Belinda what she knew of Morfin,” Lucinda added. “She told me that he died in Azkaban a long time ago. Apparently, he’d murdered an entire family of muggles.”

“On brand, isn’t it?” said Icarus darkly. He stretched out, resting his arms behind his head. “And you can see why the Dark Lord would want to keep this quiet.” 

“What d’you mean?” asked Harry and Regulus together. 

Icarus raised his eyebrows. “The Gaunts were completely mad . . . generations of inbreeding will do that. By the end, most of them could barely string a coherent sentence together, let alone cast a spell. Hardly the sort of lineage you’d be proud to claim . . . more embarrassing than impressive, really.”

The four of them looked at each other, half intrigued and half appalled. 

“What happened to Merope?” Harry asked, thinking about Voldemort. For all the time he had known the man—shared in his highs and lows, even visiting him in his dreams—Harry had never once seen Voldemort with anything resembling a family. 

And suddenly, Voldemort’s earlier jealousy made perfect sense . . . Harry was the only family he had ever known, and he wanted to be the only family Harry had in return.

“Belinda didn’t know anything about her at all,” Lucinda replied sadly. 

Harry felt a little dazed.

Everything Voldemort had told him seemed to line up—there was a family descended from Salazar Slytherin, which would account for his ability to speak Parseltongue. It wasn’t hard to imagine Morfin fathering a bastard child, or that this child might have gone on to have Harry.

He’d invested so much time, so much effort, in uncovering Morfin’s surname, convinced it would unlock some profound revelation. But now that he finally had it, all he felt was doubt . . . and a creeping sense that he’d been chasing the wrong answer all along.

“Look at this,” said Regulus slowly. He was holding the other end of the scroll, and his grey eyes were lit with mischief. “The Slytherin line traces all the way back to the Peverells . . . that’s the same family the Potters descend from, isn’t it?”

“So what?” said Harry, sipping from his goblet. Bubbles of champagne popped against his tongue. “All the pureblood families are interconnected.”

“But doesn’t that make you cousins?” Regulus teased.  

“I knew the Dark Lord had more than one reason for going after Harry,” said Icarus quickly, before Harry could retort. “It’s as I said, isn’t it? The Slytherins are nothing if not on-brand.” 

“Suck a fucking toadstool, Nott,” said Harry before he could stop himself. 

Icarus laughed, and Harry smiled despite himself. 

It was a turn of phrase that he hadn’t used in a long while, something that he’d nearly forgotten. Yet in that moment—surrounded by old friends, in a room that so closely resembled their former common room—it was surprisingly easy to set recent history aside and feel, if only a little, like the person he used to be.

He returned to Voldemort’s tower long after darkness had fallen. 

Harry rolled a cigarette, lit it, and cracked open the window. Looking out at the fathomless night sky beyond—at the twinkling stars, at the haze of the moon—he thought about the long day that lay ahead, of the promise that it held. 

In less than twenty-four hours, he would be standing in the sunlit atrium of the Ministry for Magic. He wondered what he might find inside the Department of Mysteries, whether it would offer him the answers that he yearned for, an understanding of who he was, where he had come from, how he had gotten there. 

He inhaled deeply on the cigarette with that familiar sense of displacement, that feeling that he didn’t quite belong, a lone star in a constellation of unfamiliar faces. 

Whatever the day ahead had in store for him, he felt sure that it would be important, that it would be meaningful. That it would, if nothing else, be real.  

At long last—finally—the truth. 

Chapter Text

“Fancy seeing you here,” said Harry brightly. 

A plume of smoke briefly obscured James’s face as he exhaled. He flicked the cigarette into the gutter at his feet. As the smoke thinned, Harry saw his hazel eyes fixed unerringly on the spot where Harry stood, invisible beneath the cloak.

“What are the odds,” James muttered. A crooked grin split across his face. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Peeling himself away from the heavily graffitied wall, James opened the door of the telephone box. Without another word, they stepped inside.

The door swung shut behind them, and Harry carefully adjusted the Invisibility Cloak to fall over James’s shoulders. Shielded by the Notice-Me-Not spelled onto the panels around them, James’s sudden disappearance went entirely unnoticed by the passers-by outside.

Harry reached around James to lift the receiver, then dialled the numbers he’d committed to memory.

A cool female voice said, “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and—”

Harry slammed the receiver down on the last word. He looked uncertainly at James, who shrugged in response. 

The cool voice continued, “Thank you. Please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something expelled from the metal chute. Harry took the badge, scrunched it up and shoved it into his pocket. 

“Visitors are required to submit to a search and present wands for registration at the security desk,” said the woman’s voice.

“If anyone’s at security, an empty telephone box is bound to raise suspicion,” James whispered. 

“I’ve got it covered,” Harry whispered back. Inside the pocket of his jacket, his fingers curled around his wand. 

Darkness closed in around them as the telephone box began its slow descent underground. For nearly a minute, they travelled steadily through the earth. Then, at last, golden light flooded in from the floor to the ceiling as they came to a shuddering halt.

“Avis,” Harry murmured, moving his wand just as the cool, automated voice chimed, “The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant afternoon.”

The door of the telephone box sprang open at the same moment that Harry’s wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end into the sunlight atrium. 

“Come on,” Harry whispered.

They stepped out of the telephone box, slipping past the distracted guard who had abandoned their post to gaze up at the birds. The atrium beyond was otherwise empty.

Harry was surprised to see the fountain had not yet been repaired. A cordon of tape encircled the sad remains. As he looked upon the headless wizard, a surge of triumph swelled within him. It took a moment to recognise the feeling as not entirely his own. Fleetingly, Harry wondered what business Voldemort was conducting abroad . . . he supposed that whatever it was, it must be going well. 

James grabbed hold of his hand, pulling Harry through the gilded gates toward the lifts. 

Harry pressed the nearest button and a lift slid into sight almost immediately. James whipped out his wand, silencing the lift as the golden grills opened.

They dashed inside, and Harry jabbed the button for Level Nine. As the grilles slid closed behind them, they caught one last glimpse of the security guard, now trying to round up the twittering birds, before the lift lurched into motion. Harry felt his heart hammering fast as they descended downward. 

“The Department of Mysteries,” said the cool female voice as the grilles slid open again. 

They stepped out of the lift into a corridor. 

Harry turned towards a plain black door. After dreaming of this place for so long, it was almost hard to believe that he was really there . . . 

“This way,” Harry whispered, and he led the way down the corridor. 

Just as it had happened in his dreams, the door swung open as they approached. Harry and James crossed over the threshold into a large, circular chamber painted entirely black. A dozen identical doors were interspersed along the wall at even intervals. 

The door they had entered from clicked shut behind them, and then the room spun. 

When it had eased to a stop, Harry led James purposefully across the chamber to the door immediately opposite. A faint ticking sound emanated from the other side. 

“This is it,” Harry said in a hushed voice.

“How can you be certain?” asked James, his eyebrows raised. “All these doors look the same to me.” 

“I think that I’ve been here before,” Harry answered. It was only in that moment that he recalled the endless tests, the medications, the counselling. “Mum used to bring me here, when I had one of those strange visions.” 

Harry checked that the cloak still concealed their shoes and tightened his grip on his wand. Though it was outside regular office hours, they might still run into the occasional Ministry employee.

“That can’t be right,” said James. “She took you to St Mungo’s, Harry.”  

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. “I think that’s what mum and dad led us to believe. I never realised until now. It was so long ago . . .”

“You must be misremembering. Why would mum have brought you here?” 

Harry had no answer to this. He pushed the door, and it swung open easily. 

It took Harry’s eyes a moment to adjust to the brilliant, sparkling light. 

He was relieved to find the room empty of any occupants. Clocks of every shape and size gleamed from each available surface, arranged across long desks that stretched the length of the room. A constant ticking filled the air, like the buzz of countless insects. At the far end stood a crystal bell jar, casting fractured reflections across the polished floor.

“This way!” 

Harry’s heart beat furiously in his chest as he led the way through the passage between the desks, heading for the next door. 

“What’s the plan, Harry?” James whispered. “This place is massive. We don’t even really know what we’re looking for.” 

“I doubt we’ll find it sitting on someone’s desk,” Harry replied calmly. “Whatever it is, it’s been here for a long time . . . I’m betting it’ll be in a storage area.”

They moved silently past an office where one Unspeakable was meticulously transferring grains of sand between several glass jars, then continued along a corridor lined with meeting rooms and a small break area, where another Unspeakable was preparing a cup of tea.

At the end of a narrow corridor, Harry paused. A plaque on the very last door read clearly: Archives. 

“What d’you think?” Harry whispered, squeezing James’s hand. 

James nodded. 

They slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind them. It was very dark inside. In the dim light, Harry saw that the room was packed with rows of tall metal shelves. Stacked neatly along them were cardboard boxes of various sizes, each marked with a small, yellowed label affixed to its front.

They edged forward, peering down one of the rows.

“Sirius is going to be so jealous when he hears about this,” whispered James. 

“Yeah?” breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the first row. A single blue-glowing candle illuminated the letters beneath: A-C. 

“How is Sirius?” Harry asked softly. “D’you think he’ll ever speak to me again?”

“What do you think?” whispered James. He nudged Harry gently towards the next row. “You broke up with him so that you could date the Dark Lord . . . I think he’s probably wondering what on earth he might have done to make himself the less desirable option.” 

“That’s not fair—it was Sirius that ended things between us.” 

“Right,” James scoffed as they crept forward. “And you were devastated, weren’t you?”

“I was a little,” Harry whispered, peering down another row. 

They passed the row marked K-L . . . M-O . . . Harry was listening hard for any sound. Though he sensed that they were quite alone inside the Archives, he didn’t dare suggest that they remove the cloak. 

Finally, they reached the row P-R. 

“What do you and Voldemort even talk about?” asked James. “You can’t possibly have anything in common.”

Harry’s heart was now hammering inside his throat. He led them forward down the row, his eyes dancing over the yellowed labels. With a salacious grin, he said, “Whatever gave you the impression that we spoke?”

James scowled. “You’re utterly shameless, d’you know that?” 

“You might have mentioned it once or twice before.”

“Harry?” 

James had frozen. 

“What?” Harry whispered. 

“Look at this . . .”

James was pointing at one of the boxes high above their heads. Harry moved a little closer. 

“It’s got your name on it,” said James eagerly. 

Harry had to crane his neck to read the yellow label affixed to the cardboard box. Written across the label was a date of some fifteen years previous, and beneath it, in bold black ink: Harry Potter.

Harry stared at it. 

“Let’s get it down,” said James, flicking his wand. 

The box slid from the shelf, hovered briefly in the air, then descended gracefully to settle at their feet. It was approximately the size of a shoebox, its surface coated in a fine layer of dust.

They crouched down beside it, carefully arranging the cloak to cover them. 

“Go on,” James urged. “Open it.”

Harry pocketed his wand. He felt almost giddy with excitement . . . his fingers closed around the lid . . . very slowly, he lifted it up and peered inside. 

After a moment or two, James broke the silence. “What is it?” 

Harry reached into the box, his fingers brushing against the edge of a soft, woollen blanket. Folded neatly atop it lay an outfit that had once belonged to a very small child; corduroy overalls, a cardigan, and a single tiny sock. Though the garments appeared to be of good quality, they bore obvious signs of neglect. Harry noted more than one missing button, unravelling seam, and smear of dirt. 

He felt stunned. Setting the clothing to one side, Harry picked up the woollen blanket and spread it out across his lap. Breathing fast and hard, he stared down at it.

“It’s just a fucking blanket,” Harry whispered. 

Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him. He had been so confident, so sure that the item would offer him the answers that he yearned for. Why had the Department of Mysteries withheld this from him? And why had Euphemia wanted him to have it? 

“I suppose it’s not what you were expecting,” said James. He sounded perplexed. 

“No,” Harry agreed. “I suppose not.” 

They lapsed into silence. 

Mechanically, Harry folded the blanket and placed it back inside the cardboard box. He found that he had little desire to take it with him. Sitting there, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it belonged to someone else—one whose life had taken a different path, who might have carried it into a gentler future. That boy was not here now. 

He would never come to be.

James reached out to touch his arm. “What are you thinking, Harry?” 

He looked up into James’s hazel eyes, wondering at the undeniable similarities in their appearance, at their differing blood status, and the missing date on his certificate of birth. He thought back to the room filled with clocks of every shape and size, and realised what the Unspeakables working there must be studying: time.

Finally, he understood. 

Crouched on the floor in the Department of Mysteries, that constant, lingering sense of displacement at last made sense to him. He should not be there . . . he did not belong in this time. He had been adopted by Fleamont and Euphemia, likely because they were his closest living relatives. But they had kept the truth from him . . . he was not supposed to know. 

Harry felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. 

Like gravity reaching for a mass that wasn’t there, these thoughts strained toward meaning only to be drawn back into silence. No one could tell him where he had come from, or why he was there. No one could tell him, because it had not yet come to pass.

How far through time had he travelled? Whatever distance it had been, there was no going back now. He would never find his family. And if he were to change even the slightest detail of the world he’d left behind . . .

Those who sought to alter time rarely escaped unscathed. It was more than superstition—it was historical fact. Hadn’t Voldemort said as much, the very first time they had met? 

. . . one treads a precarious path, when venturing to alter the grand design of time.

They had been speaking of Herpo the Foul, the Parselmouth unaffiliated with the Slytherin bloodline. Voldemort had alluded to the possibility that Herpo had tampered with time, and that he had paid dearly for it. The nature of that cost was no mystery . . . it was widely known that Herpo had been raving mad. 

The implications could only be theoretical. Some believed time was fixed, that any interference would inevitably be absorbed into the course of events already set to occur. But others theorised that paradoxes could tear reality apart, that timelines might collapse or merge into something unstable, something unknown. 

Panic washed over him as he crouched on the floor, staring into James’s face. 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Harry, his mouth bone dry. “It’s been bloody obvious all along.” 

The horrible unfairness of the situation smothered him for a moment, made it impossible for him to go on. But he had to pull himself together . . . he had to remain calm . . . now was not the time to lose his head. The Unspeakables had allowed him into society; it followed, then, that they at least believed he posed no threat to bringing the world undone. 

Had the Unspeakable’s been monitoring him all his life? Were they aware of how he had already sought to shape the course of events? And did that unsettle them, as it unsettled him now?

“What’re you talking about, Harry?” 

Very slowly, Harry stood up. His body and mind felt oddly disconnected.

James rose onto the tips of his toes and slid the cardboard box back into the empty space it had come from.

“I shouldn’t be here, James. I’m not . . .”

A suffocating feeling extinguished the end of his sentence. He couldn’t speak. But James did not seem to find this strange . . . he patted Harry on the shoulder, and then he seized his wrist and pulled him back along the row. 

“Let’s go, then,” whispered James. 

They crept along the corridor, past quiet offices and meeting rooms, through the room of ticking clocks, and into the black-painted chamber lined with doors. Harry’s heart beat frantically against his ribs as the room spun. When it had at last eased to a stop, Harry led James purposefully across the chamber to the door that would take them back to the lifts and away from the Department of Mysteries.

He did not look back. 

Chapter Text

Harry left James with the Invisibility Cloak on the street outside the Ministry, and stepped into the suffocating darkness of apparition. Wraithmoor was very quiet as he strode through it. The whole castle seemed to be eerily still, as if it too were braced upon a cliff’s edge, uncertain which way the next gust of wind might carry it. 

Drawing his dirty denim jacket in around his shoulders, Harry passed through the dank, musty halls and climbed the spiral tower that led to Voldemort’s rooms.

He hesitated outside the sitting room door. From within came the steady rise and fall of voices, the clink of glassware. Though the thought of alcohol was appealing to him, Harry found that he could not bring himself to step inside. He did not know what he was supposed to say or do, could not quite recall how to behave like a normal person. 

He continued up the steps to the room he shared with the Dark Lord. 

It was early still, yet darkness already painted the sky outside the diamond-paned glass. Harry gazed out at the surrounding grounds. He felt that stillness in the air again, like the evening might have been holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Harry.”

Harry spun around. 

Voldemort was crossing the room toward him, a glass of wine held in one hand. His long, dark robes brushed the floorboards as he closed the distance between them. 

“You’re in a good mood,” said Harry, matter-of-fact.  

He didn’t question how Voldemort had known he’d returned, nor how he had come to read the Dark Lord so instinctively. In a time full of unknowns, that familiarity offered a strange, steady comfort.

“And you are not,” Voldemort countered. “Come, sit. Tell me what has happened.” 

Reluctantly, Harry let Voldemort lead him away from the window to the hearth and the low sofa before it. Voldemort sat at one end and Harry fell into the space beside him, staring at the sharp, striking planes of Voldemort’s waxen face. 

They sat in silence for a few moments. 

Finally, Harry took a deep breath and blurted out, “I know, Voldemort. I figured it out—that I’m from the future. You knew that already, didn’t you?” 

They held each other’s gaze as Voldemort took a sip of his wine, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next day’s weather. 

“Ah,” said Voldemort, smirking arrogantly. “I did.”

“And that doesn’t worry you at all? What my presence here could do?” 

Voldemort smiled. “Nothing will happen to you—I’ve made sure of it.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Harry retorted. “Did you know Trelawnly has predicted that the end of the world is upon us? But I suppose that’d please you, wouldn’t it—to see the world rent apart. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Voldemort, smiling still more broadly. “What of it?” 

Smug satisfaction seemed to radiate from Voldemort like the heat from the fire before them. Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.

“You’re a bloody bastard,” said Harry, seething. “You really couldn’t care less what happens to anybody else . . . but that’s not entirely true anymore, is it?”

Voldemort did not respond, but merely sipped his wine. 

Harry continued, “For whatever reason, you care about me too. So let me put it this way . . . say that James is my father, or my grandfather. Say that he dies tomorrow, and with him the chance of my birth. What do you suppose will happen then? Will I slowly descend into madness, as Herpo the Foul did before me? Or will I be struck from reality entirely, as though I never existed?”

After a short pause, Voldemort said, “The future may be written in the stars, but they shine according to my design. You are, and will continue to be, precisely where you were meant to stand: beside me.”

Harry scoffed. “I cannot stand by while you bring the world to ruin, Voldemort.”

“But I’m not going to destroy the world . . . you are.” 

Voldemort smiled at Harry, and Harry stared at him.

“That’s your plan? A paradox?” 

The scale of Voldemort’s manipulations was almost overwhelming. 

Of course there had been a bigger plan, a greater scheme in the works . . . Harry had simply been too foolish to see it, he realised that now. He had never questioned the assumption that Voldemort sought to destroy all that had wronged him—only failed to imagine that he might use Harry as the means to do it.

How neat, how very elegant, that the one person best placed to stand in Voldemort’s path was the very one who ought to have been stopped.

Regulus had overestimated him. It had never been a matter of choosing between head and heart—he was hardly in a position to help anyone. On the contrary, the magical world would be far safer if he simply removed himself from it altogether.

Terrible images of a world torn asunder forced their way into his mind, and for a moment, he could hardly breathe. 

Voldemort smiled at Harry. His tone was unbearably smug as he said softly, “It is why I made you. Why I, in the future, sent you here to me now.”

“I’m continually astonished by the depth of your arrogance,” Harry said bitterly, and he was glad to see that the words wiped the smile from Voldemort’s face. “You can’t possibly know that’s how it happened, Voldemort. The world does not revolve around you. Not everything bends to your will—not the stars, and certainly not me.”

“Directly or indirectly, I made you what you are. There is nothing uncertain about it.” Voldemort stated it coldly. He was looking now over the top of Harry’s head, into the fire.

There was a pause in which Harry drew a steadying breath, forcing his thoughts into order. 

Panic and anger would serve no purpose now. He needed to be pragmatic. What was done could not be undone, but he could still affect what was yet to come. It would be senseless to antagonise Voldemort any further. Whatever grievances he had with the man would have to be set aside.

Grasping for a fault in Voldemort’s plan, he said, “I find it hard to believe the Unspeakables would simply grant me unchecked freedom, risking the collapse of time itself.”

He waited, but when Voldemort did not speak, he went on, “They must know something that we do not . . . they must be of the opinion that time is fixed, that any changes I could have made were already set to happen.”

Voldemort took another sip of wine, then looked directly into Harry’s eyes. “The Unspeakables might have acted against you, had I not intervened. Did it truly never occur to you that you were being monitored? Did Rockwood never once reveal himself?”

Harry thought as his gaze drifted over his surroundings. 

With a sinking feeling in his chest, he remembered the creeping sensation of being followed in the days after Beltane, and how Rockwood had helped him home after his encounter with the Dementors. 

“You’re saying that the Ministry was watching me,” said Harry, “that they might have stopped me, if my presence appeared to be altering significant events. But you infiltrated the Ministry long ago, and Rockwood’s been acting on your orders.”

Voldemort inclined his head, and Harry continued, “Let’s say that you do succeed—that there is a paradox. What makes you think this world would remain habitable enough for you to survive it?”

“We will survive,” said Voldemort impatiently, “because I have taken measures to ensure it.”

“I’m not like you, Voldemort,” said Harry, and Voldemort laughed. Harry’s bright green eyes were slits. “I’m not immortal.”

Voldemort’s expression twisted. 

Harry didn’t suppose the Dark Lord much liked the idea that anybody had figured him out. 

“So, you can understand something, cousin,” Voldemort drawled, his honeyed voice steeped with malice. A cruel smile curved his lips as he added, mockingly, “How impressive.”

“I don’t understand anything at all,” said Harry, startled by Voldemort’s tone. “But you can stop pretending that I’m your cousin. I know about the Gaunts, and I don’t believe I’m one of them. So what am I to you, Voldemort? You say that you made me. What do you mean by that?”

Voldemort considered Harry over the top of his glass for a while before speaking. “I’ve known since the very first evening I laid eyes upon you. I told you then that I saw a darkness within you—an unexpected yet undeniable reflection of myself. Connect the dots, Harry . . . it would seem that you have all the information . . . this should not be beyond you. Tell me, why would I have led you to believe you might have been a Gaunt?” 

“To hide something from me,” Harry answered quickly. “To hide the real reason I can speak Parseltongue.”

Voldemort inclined his head and took another sip of wine. “Yes. Now answer me this: why do you suppose that I chose to personally oversee your training?”

Harry could not tear his gaze from Voldemort’s face.

The answer rose to his lips easily, without any effort. “Because you wanted to be sure that I was capable of protecting myself.” 

“Yes. And tell me, why do you think that I’ve never hurt you? Not even when it would have given me great pleasure to hear you scream. Why have I tolerated your insolence, your disobedience?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, frowning. Voldemort’s sadism was infamous. “I suppose that it served your best interests, that no harm came to me.” 

“Very good,” Voldemort said softly. “Do you begin to understand, Harry? Why it would be folly to harm that which is, in essence, a part of oneself? Why it serves my interests that you survive—that you possess the strength and skill to overcome any adversary?”

Harry felt his insides plummet sickeningly. 

“Tell me,” Voldemort continued, “what object do you suppose I, an immortal being as I am, would go to such lengths to protect?”

The room seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backwards from his train of thought. An awful and disturbing idea had taken root inside him. He did not want to know if it was true, and even less did he want Voldemort to tell him. 

Voldemort smiled cruelly. “Yes, cousin . . . that’s right. Show me how clever you are, how cunning. Tell me what you are.”

Was it even possible? 

Could a fragment of Voldemort’s soul be living inside him? Could that be what gave him the power to speak with snakes? Could it explain the connection between their minds, a connection he had never fully understood? Could it even account for Voldemort’s behaviour toward him?

A dead weight was sinking right through Harry’s chest down to the bottom of his stomach. 

“A Horcrux,” said Harry, looking down at the faded constellations drawn on his All Stars. “I’m a Horcrux.” 

Voldemort finished his wine and set the glass down upon the floor. 

They sat without talking for some time. The implications of this revelation settled gradually over Harry in the long intervening minutes, like the pale face of the moon emerging through a break in the clouds.

At last Voldemort said, “Do not be upset. Nothing between us has changed. You are still you, and you are, as ever, mine.”

“You made a child the vessel for your soul, and then displaced them in time. Explain the logic behind that, Voldemort.”

A smile curled at the edge of Voldemort’s mouth.“The seed knows the soil from which it came. Cast it far, bury it deep, and still it grows from its origin. You were made to return to me, to serve me. That is your nature and your purpose.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

He couldn’t help but feel this explanation was significantly lacking. It seemed obvious to him that Voldemort had arrived at the conclusion most convenient to his own self-serving agenda.

Casting Voldemort a dark look, he said, “I hope that wasn’t supposed to sound romantic.” 

Long, cold fingers curled around Harry’s hand, pressing something into his palm. Harry glanced down and saw that Voldemort had placed a small stone there. He admired the weight of it, its smooth surface and rich red hue.

“What’s this? he asked. 

“The fruit of my travels,” said Voldemort in his soft, silky voice. “A Philosopher’s Stone. I went to considerable effort to obtain it for you. Be gracious, now, and take it.”

“But I don’t want to be immortal,” said Harry uneasily.

Voldemort tsked. “I will not permit you to set foot on a battlefield while you remain vulnerable to mortal wounds and disease. Nor would I see you descend any further into madness than you already have. You will take the stone, and you will drink the elixir I prepare from it.”

Harry rolled the stone thoughtfully between his fingers. 

“A little bit of gratitude wouldn’t kill you,” said Voldemort coolly. 

Harry knew that Voldemort was angling for a thank you. 

“Nor would it kill you, apparently.” Suspiciously, Harry added, “Who did you steal this from?” 

Voldemort waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. They’re hardly going to miss it now—they’re already dead.” 

Harry looked down at the stone, and suddenly he felt a great wave of guilt roll over him. 

“Enough of that,” Voldemort chided. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. 

Harry closed his eyes as Voldemort pulled him into his arms and kissed him deeply. Harry's lips parted obediently and he leaned into Voldemort, returning the kiss. 

The realisation that Voldemort had been using him all this time settled uncomfortably in his mind. Yet such calculated manipulation was entirely in keeping with the Dark Lord’s character. Harry felt doubly the fool for not having seen it sooner. Voldemort might have won this round, but the game was not yet over—and Harry had no intention of losing the next.

Voldemort’s mouth tasted cool and wine-sweet.

Speaking against the Dark Lord’s lips, Harry whispered, “If I didn’t know any better, I might think that you were trying to distract me, Voldemort.” 

His voice came out a little ragged. He ran his hands up Voldemort’s arms to loop around the Dark Lord’s neck. Heat bled gently from the stone still enclosed in the palm of his hand. 

Voldemort kissed his cheek, his jaw. 

Long, cool fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers and squeezed. 

“Is it working?” Voldemort murmured. 

Harry met Voldemort’s gaze and smiled. He could not help himself. It was difficult, he realised in that moment, to be angry with someone for something they had not yet done. 

“Maybe,” Harry whispered. “Do that again.” 

Chapter Text

Last episode: “Maybe,” Harry whispered. “Do that again.”

***

Voldemort smiled indulgently, and then he kissed Harry without mercy. And there was something in the way that Voldemort laid claim to every inch of his mouth, something in the intensity that momentarily blinded him, which called to mind the very first kiss which they had shared.

Gradually Harry surrendered to it, losing himself further with each brush of Voldemort’s lips, each slow sweep of his tongue. He was so lost in the moment that when the Dark Lord slipped the stone from his fingers and rose to his feet, Harry barely caught himself from falling into the empty space beside him.

“Where are you going?” he demanded. 

“Get undressed,” said Voldemort, already crossing to the desk in the corner. He pulled open a drawer and rifled through its contents. “I’ll be finished by the time that you are done.”

A beat passed before Harry realised that Voldemort planned to brew the elixir right then and there. 

Flopsy leapt into the space Voldemort had so abruptly vacated, and Harry shared with the cat a look that spoke of mutual commiseration between long-suffering friends. 

With a noise which he hoped conveyed some of his displeasure, Harry made his way toward the bed. As he undressed, his thoughts drifted back to that first kiss, and to the conversation with Regulus afterwards about Harry using sex as a vehicle for power, as a means to gain control. 

He wanted to believe that he did hold some measure of power over the Dark Lord . . . but would it ever be enough? What did the future hold for them? What kind of relationship could he realistically hope to have with Voldemort? 

Even without the war, what they had could never be normal, would never be a relationship built on trust and respect. Voldemort was not going to change; he was cruel, controlling and pathologically manipulative. Harry doubted whether the man was even capable of a feeling that was not—at its core—irrevocably toxic.

Harry had never thought himself particularly romantic. And yet . . .

It was as though a strange dark matter was expanding in his stomach, spreading through his insides and weighing him down. It fastened itself around his heart, constricting until his chest ached with the pressure. 

Harry startled as Voldemort slipped beneath the covers beside him, wholly naked. 

He took the proffered vial, tipped it back and swallowed. It tasted of nothing, like water. 

“How do you feel?” Voldemort asked. His mouth curved in that peculiar smile, his red eyes half-lidded as he studied Harry’s face.

Harry considered the question. 

How did it feel, to be immortal? 

He tilted his head to the side, intrigued by the direction in which his debaucherous thoughts were taking him. Overconfident, he decided. 

Perhaps even a little reckless.

“Dangerous,” Harry answered finally. He smiled slyly at Voldemort before flicking the vial onto the floor. 

He used one hand to press Voldemort’s back to the mattress. And then he crawled over Voldemort’s body, pushed his knees apart, and settled into the space between them. 

Voldemort propped himself up on his elbows. 

Harry lowered his head. And though Voldemort’s face remained impassive as Harry ran his tongue up the underside of his cock, Harry saw in the rise and fall of his chest that his breathing was as affected as Harry’s own. 

Infinitesimally, Voldemort’s hips arched upward. With a knowing smirk, Harry took Voldemort fully into his mouth. 

The relationship was not without its positives. Harry pondered this, as he circled Voldemort with his tongue and lips. 

Voldemort may be a narcissist, but wasn’t Harry, in essence, part of him? And if so, did that love-of-self extend to include Harry within its bounds? Harry pondered this, as he opened his mouth wide and slid down on Voldemort until he met with his own hand. 

Voldemort had offered him a home and placed in his keeping the secret of his immortality. Did this not demonstrate some level of trust, of respect? Harry pondered this, as he took his hand away to allow the last few inches of Voldemort’s cock to slide into his throat. 

How deep did Voldemort’s love-of-self run? How far did his trust extend?

Voldemort made a low noise, and Harry eased back. He pressed a kiss to Voldemort’s hip, to his inner thigh. He looked up, admiring the long, lean lines of Voldemort’s body, the hard evidence of his arousal. 

“Voldemort,” Harry whispered the name like a prayer. “Can I fuck you?”

Long fingers gripped his chin, tilting his head so that he was forced to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. 

Harry held his breath. 

Perhaps Voldemort would not see those twin pleasures of giving and receiving as he did, as interchangeable and equal. Perhaps he would not put himself in a position without absolute control. If so, that would be fine. 

But the thought of Voldemort finding it beneath him was harder to swallow. Such misogynistic views belonged to another time, not with the Dark Lord who had not only defied convention but actively sought to destroy it. 

No . . . Voldemort was bound by no such constructs.

As if following his train of thought, Voldemort’s lips curled in a bemused smile. After a pause, he said, “Of course.”

Harry felt a flutter of nerves scurry through him. 

He shimmied up Voldemort’s body, shivering at the unnatural coolness that emanated from Voldemort’s skin. Voldemort’s arms slid down his back. He placed a kiss upon Voldemort’s forehead, upon his brow, upon the tip of his nose. 

There was nothing submissive about the way Voldemort lay sprawled beneath him. Nothing that might suggest the Dark Lord was anything less than fully in control of the situation.

Harry’s voice came out a little ragged as he admitted, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“Really,” said Voldemort with mock sincerity. “I never would have suspected.” 

The intensity of Voldemort’s gaze made Harry blush. 

“Let me show you,” said Voldemort in his silkiest voice. His touch followed the curve of Harry’s back before finding his hand and threading their fingers.

A murmured incantation. 

“Does that—?”

“You’re not going to hurt me.” 

Harry pressed his lips to Voldemort’s and whispered, “Do you really trust me?” 

Voldemort did not respond. 

“You probably shouldn’t, you know,” Harry went on, grinning. “I do rather enjoy having you at my mercy.”

“Do you now?” Voldemort crooned. “Best enjoy it while it lasts . . . I do not imagine that you will last long.” 

Harry laughed. “I’d be a little nicer to the person about to stick their dick up your arse, if I were—ouch.”

Voldemort had bitten down hard on Harry’s lip. 

He pushed in slowly. 

There was a different sort of vulnerability, Harry realised, in this act of giving. Such greater scope for disappointing another, for failing to meet their needs. 

It was his last coherent thought. 

He felt the connection take possession of him, felt the dark form of Voldemort’s feelings—that inherent right of possession, that familial belonging and completeness of two halves merged whole—coalescence with his own. And he understood without having to think that this was the Horcrux connection, the truth of what he was. 

He started to wonder how he had not seen it before. But then he looked down at the place where their bodies met, and Voldemort’s mouth closed over his own, and all that remained was the unexpected heat inside Voldemort’s body, the taste of wine on his tongue, the diffused glow of the moon through the diamond-paned glass as it spilt across the sheets. 

Thought and feeling bled between them as they moved as one.

Heat pooled low in the pit of his stomach. But as the room dissolved into an indistinct haze, as he reached towards the stars, the world shifted violently beneath him.

Voldemort had rolled sideways, reversing their positions. 

And just like that, Harry knew the Dark Lord’s patience had come to an end. 

Harry felt the loss of Voldemort’s body like a missing limb as he was flipped onto his stomach. Long, cold fingers snaked around his hips, pulling his trembling legs onto his knees before venturing down to exert pressure between his shoulder blades. 

Assertively, Voldemort bore down on him. 

He shivered as Voldemort’s tongue traced an ice-cold path over the back of his shoulder, along his neck. Gasped, as sharp teeth nipped at the golden hoop in his earlobe. Moaned, as Voldemort drew back just a bit, mouthing an incantation before pressing in. 

“Voldemort,” Harry cried out. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his hands fisted in the sheets. 

He lifted his hips, allowing Voldemort a little deeper. 

They moved in a familiar rhythm. And if Voldemort was less composed than usual, if he seemed more possessive in his touch, more thorough or more forceful, then Harry hardly noticed. 

For a while, the only sound in the room was their lovemaking. 

When they fell apart, Voldemort folded Harry carefully into his arms. Harry pressed his ear to the drum of Voldemort’s heart, enjoying the way Voldemort’s natural temperature cooled his overheated skin. Voldemort was always so cold. But Harry understood that beneath the surface, his body was as warm—as human, as vulnerable—as anybody else. 

“Do you love me, Voldemort?” 

The words were out of his mouth before the thought had fully formed in his brain. Immediately, Harry regretted them. 

That dark matter reared inside him again, and he carefully squashed it down until he had contained it. 

After a considerable stretch of silence, Voldemort said, “Why does it matter?” 

Heat bloomed across Harry’s face, and that dark matter in his chest pushed against its containment. 

Part of him wanted to tell Voldemort that it mattered to him. That perhaps he could love Voldemort, and maybe he already did. Even though Voldemort was a bloody bastard. Even though he thought that it might be easier to kill the man than to love him. 

Doubt and insecurity warred within him. 

And he heard himself say instead, “It doesn’t.” 

Long fingers stroked his back, drawing idle patterns on his spine. As Voldemort spoke, his chin tickled the hair on the top of Harry’s head. “You would not believe—” Voldemort’s fingers drifted lower, to the base of his spine, “—the things which I have dreamed of doing to you.” 

It was a deflection, if ever there was one. 

“Were they really filthy, your dreams?” Harry asked. He closed his eyes. Goosebumps rose on his skin as Voldemort’s clever fingers ventured even lower before continuing their calculated ministrations. “I should expect so—hmn—if the contents of your bedside drawer is anything to go by.” 

There was a short pause. 

“What?” Harry buried his face further into Voldemort’s chest to hide his grin. “Did you think I wouldn’t look?” 

Voldemort’s answering smile, the smell of sweat and sex on his skin, the comfort and protection of those lean arms which held him close, were all at once extinguished. 

Displacement stole over him, like waking suddenly in someone else’s skin—

He was in a sitting room. A girl with bushy hair and a redheaded boy sat beside him at a table. Opposite them was an elderly man with long, stringy hair and piercing blue eyes. Something about the man felt familiar to him. 

Had he fallen asleep? 

“What you’ve got to do,” said the man, leaning forward, “is to get as far from here as you can.”

There was silence in the room. Harry and the man looked at each other. Another beat passed, and belatedly Harry realised they were all waiting for him to respond. 

“Tempting,” said Harry, grinning. “Perhaps I will . . . after I finish this wine.” 

Lifting his goblet, he toasted the man before drinking deeply. The flavour of the wine surprised him. Dreams were not usually so visceral, so full of detail and clarity.

The redheaded boy gave a rather grim laugh.

“Are you feeling alright, Harry?” said the girl. Her expression was strained. 

“Hold on a second,” said Harry, staring at the man. “Aren’t you the bartender from the Hogs Head?” 

The man pulled a jug across the table and glanced inside. Frowning slightly, he remarked, “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink already, Potter.”

—Harry’s eyes flew open as he was wrenched back to the present. He was vaguely surprised to find that he was naked, that he still lay in Voldemort’s arms. But everything about the scene had changed . . . a tension hung in the air between them, and Voldemort was holding him in a painful grip, as if to restrain him.

“You’re hurting me,” said Harry. He tried unsuccessfully to shake free of Voldemort’s hold. “Has something happened, Voldemort? Let me go.”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed. But before he could respond, there was a sharp knock upon the door. 

They both went very still.  

“Who is it?” Harry whispered. 

Slowly, Voldemort loosened his grip and said, “It’s Lucius Malfoy.” 

“Why is it always Lucius bloody Malfoy?” Harry groaned, melting back against Voldemort’s chest. Absently, he rubbed at his arms. “Tell him to piss off.” 

The knock came again, louder. 

Voldemort sat up, and Harry rolled away from him, grumbling. He had just burrowed beneath the sheets when Voldemort said, “Enter.”

Harry heard the door creak open. 

And then, stumbling through it, he heard Lucius Malfoy’s frightened voice saying, “My Lord. I apologise—”

“—What is it, Malfoy?” said Voldemort impatiently. 

Harry peeked around the covers to see that Lucius had drawn himself up to his fullest height. “It’s the wards, my Lord . . . we are under attack.”

Chapter Text

The Dark Mark on Harry’s forearm seared painfully as the Dark Lord summoned his Death Eaters to Wraithmoor. And then Voldemort was striding towards the door, pulling on items of clothing as he went, and Harry flew after him. 

He was still buckling the belt of his trousers as they raced from the tower. Voldemort’s long, dark robe swept down the steps as Harry and Lucius hurried along behind him. 

They had descended two more flights of stairs when another set of footsteps joined theirs, and Harry heard Bellatrix and Lucius begin an urgent exchange of information. 

“Wards?” asked Bellatrix. 

“The outer layer is down,” Lucius replied. “I expect the second will hold for another hour at best.” 

“How many?”

“Two divisions, maybe three. Curse breakers, Aurors and Hit Wizards amongst them.” 

“Where have they assembled?” 

Lucius hesitated. “They’re awaiting us at the front gates.”  

Voldemort glanced back at them, his face lit with that cold, cruel purpose that so often preceded murder.

“The front gates, you say?” said Voldemort quietly. “Then we mustn’t keep them standing in the cold . . . we ought to invite them in, should we not?” 

“You mean to fight them?” Harry asked.

Voldemort gave no response, nor was one needed. Harry knew that Voldemort’s pride would never allow him to evacuate his base, not without at least a little bloodshed first. 

They had almost reached the large hall where meetings took place. A number of Death Eaters were already hurrying inside, and Harry slowed his pace to let them pass ahead of him. He paused beside a wall, panic and fear beginning to cloud his mind. 

He tried to calm himself, to think clearly. 

He could not. 

Harry stepped away from the wall and slipped into the antechamber adjoining the hall. He had been in the room only once before, on the night of his initiation. A cobweb trailed from the chandelier to a small desk, where a self-inking quill sat atop a haphazard pile of robes.

Harry pressed his hands over his face and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. 

Yesterday, he’d have known exactly what to do; distract, deflect, divert. Play both sides while keeping the body count from climbing. And if the Ministry was taken down a notch in the process, then it would hardly be the worst thing to happen—he had no love for the Ministry. 

But yesterday, he hadn’t known that he was from the future. Nor had he understood that every change he made might only tighten the snare of the greater threat looming over them: the paradox.

The war had never felt so senseless, so small. 

If they had any hope of surviving what lay ahead, they would have to stop tearing at each other’s throats and turn their combined efforts towards the same goal.

The problem was Voldemort. This was exactly what Voldemort had wanted. How could Harry persuade him to change his mind? 

Beneath his fingers, Harry’s eyes flew open again. 

He slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers, and his fingers closed around the badge that had been spat out of the red telephone booth only hours before. 

Harry picked up the self-inking quill, he put nib to paper, and he wrote. 

Moments later, as he threw himself from the antechamber towards the hall, Harry cried out with relief . . . Regulus had been waiting for him. 

“Regulus!” 

Harry peeked inside the hall. It was already packed, crowded with sleepy and dishevelled Death Eaters, some of them straightening their robes over their dressing gowns. They did not have much time before the meeting commenced.

Without another word, Harry caught Regulus’s hand and drew him a few paces back from the doorway.

“Harry, what’s happening?” asked Regulus.

“The Ministry is here,” Harry explained. “We’re going to fight them.” 

Between them passed a look of grim understanding. 

“Listen,” said Harry, talking fast, “do you remember our conversation in the tower? Of heads and hearts?”

Regulus nodded. 

“Would you do me a favour? When the fighting begins, can you get this note to James? I’d do it myself, but there’s something I must do first.”

Regulus’s grey eyes dropped to the folded badge which Harry was pressing into his hand. 

“Of course,” Regulus whispered. He took a shaky breath. “I doubt that you want to hear this, but I think that you’re doing the right thing.” 

As Regulus spoke, a sense of displacement had seized him. For a second, Harry had been standing beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

“Harry, are you all right?” said a voice, and Harry came back to himself. He was clutching Regulus’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Yes,” said Harry uncertainly. “Did you—did something just happen?” 

Regulus was frowning. “It was like I’d stepped out of myself, and was watching the world through fogged glass.” 

Harry stared. That was not what he had felt at all . . . what was happening? But then the Dark Mark on his forearm seared again, and Harry knew that they were out of time. 

He squeezed Regulus’s shoulder. “Be careful, Regulus.”

“You too,” said Regulus, already hurrying towards the hall. 

They were amongst the last to arrive. 

Harry felt the weight of many gazes tracking his progress as he hastened to the raised platform, where Voldemort’s inner circle stood in a crescent moon behind the Dark Lord. Harry drew his mask from his pocket and pulled it over his face. From his vantage upon the platform, he saw that every gaze was now fixed unwaveringly upon Voldemort.

There was utter silence.

And then Voldemort’s soft, sibilant voice slithered through the hall. “The Ministry has discovered us,” he began. “Fight for me, and tonight we shall see them brought to their knees. Fight for me, and you should be rewarded. Fight for me, and victory will be ours.”

Silence swallowed them all again, and then Voldemort began to explain to them his plan for the battle. The largest group, led by Voldemort, would greet the Ministry on the grounds. Another group, including Harry, was to take to the sky from the tallest tower, launching an attack from above. A third group was to set traps inside the castle before regrouping in the field behind the Ministry, caging them in. 

Harry felt his attention drift as Voldemort went into more detail. 

His mind kept leaping back to the paradox. He could not seem to marshal his ideas. He did not really understand what they were up against . . . he was hardly an expert on the subject . . . he was not an Unspeakable . . . 

Discreetly, Harry leaned forward. His gaze swept down the line of Voldemort’s inner circle. Even masked, they were easy enough to identify. There was Dolohov, and Nott beside them. And next in line stood Augustus Rookwood.

Applause thundered in the hall as Voldemort concluded his speech. Harry felt a mental caress down the bond between them, a farewell kiss. And then Voldemort was leading the way from the hall, and in the surge of Death Eaters flowing after him, Harry lost sight of the Unspeakable. 

Masked faces turned towards him as he pushed through the tide of bodies.

“Rockwood!” Harry yelled. “Rockwood, I need to speak with you!” 

He forced his way through the crowd, finally exiting the hall, where Rockwood stood waiting.

As he came to stand before Rockwood, that sense of displacement stole over him once more. He was standing in a corridor at Hogwarts, and the girl with the bushy hair was embracing the red-headed boy. Harry smiled weakly as they kissed, and he knew without knowing how or why that he loved them both dearly. 

“Something isn’t right,” said Harry, coming back to himself. “What is happening, Rockwood?” 

Harry knew that beneath Rockwood’s mask, the man had bared his crooked, yellow teeth. “You’re too late, Potter. The paradox was set in motion many months ago. It is almost upon us now.”

Figures continued to stream past, but Harry paid them no mind. They might as well have been alone.

“What is a paradox, exactly?” Harry asked. “What’s going to happen?”

“There are now two versions of events,” Rockwood explained. “Two versions of you. In this version—the one in which I’m speaking to you now—you were sent back in time as an infant. But in the alternate version, the one we’ve been experiencing in fragments, your counterpart lives in the future. You, Potter, are the point of divergence.”

There was a short pause before Rockwood continued, “The timelines will either merge or co-exist. Ideally they will remain separate, co-existing as distinct entities while occupying the same moment. That would be the more stable outcome.”

“And if they merge?”

“You would retain both sets of memories, both lived experiences. You would become one being, shaped by two lives. In both timelines, you are seventeen. But as for everybody else—” Rockwood’s composure was slipping, “—for others, the transition may be less kind.”

“What d’you mean?”

With an obvious effort to pull himself together, Rockwood said, “Take, for example, those yet to be born. Or consider those that are alive in one timeline but dead in the other. What happens to them? In a merge, their souls may be forced into something unnatural . . . half alive and half dead . . . a half-life.” 

It was like I’d stepped out of myself, and was watching the world through fogged glass.

“You’re saying that we can’t stop the paradox,” said Harry, talking very fast. Saying it out loud helped him to make sense of it all. “That a lot of people will be lost if the timelines merge, that we must find a way for them to coexist instead.”  

“Yes,” said Rockwood in a whisper. 

“And how the hell do we do that?”

“I do not know, Potter. The divergence began with you . . . you are the fixed point they share . . . it may be that only you can maintain the separation.”

Rockwood was staring down at him, and a sense of hopelessness engulfed Harry.

“But I don’t—I’ve no idea how to do that.”

“Do not underestimate yourself,” said Rockwood. “I’ve been told that you’re an empath. You must have a good sense of things. How well do you know yourself, I wonder?" 

“I don’t know,” said Harry miserably. “I’ve been told that I have the emotional intelligence of a noodle.”

Rockwood gave a short, mirthless laugh. “This is the best advice which I can give to you, Potter. There is true power in emotion, in your ability to feel. Know your feelings, and you will know yourself. Know your feelings, and you will find your way back.” 

Harry gave Rockwood a scathing look. “You knew that I’d ask,” he muttered. “You’ve already had this conversation with someone else, haven’t you?” 

Rockwood inclined his head. “Yes.”

As he said it, there was a great explosion overhead. Both of them looked up as a crack split across one wall, and dust began to rain down from the ceiling. Harry understood it to mean that the wards were falling. 

He had already lost too much time. 

Harry left Rockwood there, running fast. He sped down the corridor, passing the group of Death Eaters setting up traps, and mounted the staircase of the tallest tower. Up and up he climbed, losing himself in his thoughts. The dilapidated castle shook again as he neared the top. 

Harry hurtled himself around the last bend and came to an unsteady halt. Evan Rosier stood with a group of Death Eaters on the open-air landing. Each of them held a broomstick, their eyes fixed on the grounds below.

“About time, Potter,” said Evan. Wind whipped through his robes as he thrust a broomstick into Harry’s arms. “I was beginning to think you’d defected.” 

“Not yet,” said Harry breathlessly. 

Evan’s dark eyes narrowed to slits behind his mask. “Hilarious.”

The castle quaked again, and Harry moved right up to the ledge which skirted the landing. 

He felt a moment of desperate panic. 

Were James and Sirius somewhere below, preparing to fight? Had Regulus already reached them?

Harry glanced at his father’s wristwatch before remembering that it did not tell time. He lowered his gaze to the grounds, where streaks of multicoloured light shot across the star-strewn sky, and a strange, keening scream rose on the wind.

The battle had begun.

Chapter Text

“What’s the plan, Potter?” 

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Harry realised that he outranked the other flyers. He drew a steadying breath. Then, as if this were just another locker room and he the Quidditch captain delivering a pre-match speech, he said calmly, “They won’t be expecting us . . . let’s press that advantage. We’ll spread out, eliminate the strongest fighters first. Wait for my signal to strike.” 

Harry mounted his broom and drew his wand. Around him, the other Death Eaters moved into position along the ledge. Harry squinted down at the grounds below. 

“On the count of three,” he said. “One . . . two . . . THREE.” 

Harry kicked off hard, rising fast. The wind stung his eyes and lashed at his robes. Together, the group soared upward, climbing higher and higher as they flew towards the wrought-iron gates, right above the crossfire. 

Screams, streaks of light shooting off in every direction. Two jets of green zipped past his left ear.

Harry studied the ground beneath him, where the battle was in motion. He needed time to think, to focus on the paradox, to consider Rockwood’s advice. He longed to speak with Regulus, to tell him everything. But for now, all he could do was focus on getting through the next five minutes.

He could see that the Ministry had advanced through the gates and were now engaging the Death Eaters on the muddy path. He glimpsed the dark, malevolent form of Voldemort at the heart of it. The Dark Lord moved with an otherworldly grace, both beautiful and deadly, striking and smiting all within reach.

Beneath the glow of the moon, Harry watched as the shape of the battle changed. One group of red-robed fighters had gotten past the Death Eaters at Voldemort’s back and were heading for the castle. 

Aiming to incapacitate—brutally—but not to kill, Harry took aim and shouted, “Confringo!”

The ground exploded. 

Taking this as their signal, the flyers around him launched into action. Harry dipped and rolled, throwing down curses as he circled the battlefield. 

A series of cracks rang in quick succession, and out of nowhere, thirty red-robed figures had joined them in the air. 

Scarlet light shot past Harry’s nose, missing by scarcely a hair’s breadth. He veered towards his nearest opponent, a spell on the tip of his tongue—

Displacement wrenched through him once more, and he barely kept his grip upon the broom. The cool night air had been replaced with a suffocating heat. He could hardly see through the smoke, could hardly breathe. And separated by mere inches, flames of Fiendfyre reached up towards him. 

This time, Harry understood. He was in his counterpart’s body, in his counterpart’s time. The paradox was attempting to merge them. Harry grit his teeth . . . he had to fight it . . . but how? 

The person clinging to him gripped so tightly that it was painful. They shouted into his ear, “The door! Get to the door!”

Through the haze of smoke, Harry caught sight of another flyer up ahead. He angled his broom towards them. 

—with a gasp, Harry came back to himself. 

He was falling, falling fast through the star-strewn sky, and the ground was rushing up to meet him. 

Pain cleaved him like the stroke of a sword as he hit the ground hard. 

Dazed and confused, Harry gazed up at the stars. Had his counterpart made it to the door? And what had happened to his counterpart here, to dislodge them from his broom? The empty sky told him that none of the flyers had fared well. 

Something hot and sticky was dripping down his face. He tried to move his legs, but found that he could not feel them. 

There was movement around him, flashes of light, screams of terror. Spells streaked through the sky like shooting stars. And still, Harry could not get up . . . he could not move his broken body . . . 

A horrible, wrenching sob was drawn out from his lungs. His vision swam in and out of focus. 

If this was what it felt like to die, Harry thought, if this was his death, then it was not so bad, not really. Even the pain seemed to be slowly leaving him. But that could not be right . . . he could not be dying . . . 

Harry was immortal. 

The elixir coursed through his veins, bringing life into the dead nerves of his spine and stemming the flow of blood from the wound on his head.

Everything was coming slowly back into focus. 

Harry’s fingers twitched, and his wand leapt obediently back into his palm. He turned his head a little to one side. From the edge of his vision, he saw a familiar figure bounding across the grounds. 

Harry forgot everything else. 

“SIRIUS!”

He was on his knees, crawling through the mud, crawling towards the deathtrap which was the castle. Then he was on his feet, sprinting. 

“SIRIUS, COME BACK!”

Harry heard someone calling his name, but he did not stop, and neither did Sirius, who had not turned back, had not seen him. 

Harry leapt up the steps into the castle. He pulled the mask away from his face and threw it to the floor. 

“SIRIUS, NO!”

Huge, monstrous spiders were swarming down the staircase, flooding into the entrance hall. Harry fired spell after spell, blasting them aside, but Sirius had already disappeared ahead of him.

Someone rushed past, and Harry saw that it was Regulus. Panic flared within him. They should not be inside the castle . . . 

Harry grit his teeth and reached inward, drawing upon that thread of his empathic magic. Like turning the dial on his wireless, he seized the spiders around him and amplified every emotion to extremity. In grotesque spluttering bursts, the spiders exploded. 

Slipping and skidding through the mess, he chased after Regulus.

The castle was unnaturally silent as they raced through it. Here and there, Harry saw signs that fighters had already been through; pools of blood and entrails soaked into the musty carpet, a stairwell had been blasted to splinters, and a stone wall was crumbling where spells had struck. 

Harry briefly thought of Flopsy, and prayed that the cat would be safe in Voldemort’s tower. 

“Sirius!” cried Regulus, pushing open the heavy doors that led into the Mirror Room. 

Sirius was breathing hard with exertion. Glass panels lined every wall, and in them Harry saw an endless cascade of Sirius’s grey eyes, of his smiling face, as they met in the centre of the room. 

“Nice night for it,” said Sirius breathlessly. 

“What the hell are you doing?” cried Harry. “This place is full of—”

“—Been looking for you, little Potter,” Sirius interrupted. He smiled handsomely and leaned in to ruffle Harry’s hair. “I heard that you were up to no good . . . and I could hardly let you have all the fun.” 

“Does this look like fun to you?” said Harry darkly, flicking a speck of spider brains from his robes. Sirius gave a short, bark-like laugh. “Where is James?” 

“He’s speaking with Dumbledore,” said Regulus. He made a gesture towards the heavy door, and began to lead them back through the room. 

“What is this place?” asked Sirius.

“A trap,” Harry answered shortly. He glanced back to see a look of mingled curiosity and surprise on Sirius’s face as he experimentally scuffed one of the circles on the floor with his boot. 

The next moment, the world was ripped in two.

Sirius had been right behind him. Then sight and sound were extinguished, and the ceiling was caving in, and Harry was violently thrown backwards. All he could do was hold tightly to his wand as the dust choked his lungs, as shards of broken stone and mirror cut through his body and his vision darkened. 

Every nerve screamed with pain. 

“Lumos,” Harry gasped. He pulled a fragment of mirror from his neck, stemming the flow of blood with his fingers while the elixir worked through his system. 

Slowly, the world crept back into focus. 

He heard a terrible, awful sound that pulled at his insides, that expressed a kind of agony which was beyond words. And he stood up, swaying, and he struggled through the wreckage, stumbling over it, feeling more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life, dreading what he was going to find beneath the broken glass and debris. 

Through the particles of dust which hung suspended in the air, his wand illuminated Regulus, whose shield still held in a dome around him. And he saw that Regulus was kneeling over a body, and tears streaked down his cheeks, and Fred’s eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last smile still stretched upon his lips. 

Harry frowned, and the blue eyes became grey, and the red hair deepened to an inky brown. 

He sank down to his knees. His mind was in free fall, spinning away from him. He felt completely out of control, out of his depth. He could not grasp the horrible reality, the unbearable truth that Sirius was not going to get up, that his body had been impaled by the glass, his wounds fatal. 

He would not, could not believe it. 

The castle shook again, and more plaster fell from the ceiling. 

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” said Regulus. 

Harry wiped Sirius’s blood-smeared face with his filthy sleeve as he fought to control his breathing. “Give me a hand,” he said. “Let’s take him back outside.” 

Time seemed to slow right down as they lifted Sirius by the shoulders and carried him back through the castle, setting him down at last upon the grass beneath the stars.

Harry gazed down at Sirius’s handsome face, so still and so pale. He looked at peace, like he was sleeping. 

He felt his fingers trembling slightly, and made an effort to control them. He was still finding it very difficult to breathe. 

He could hardly bear to look Regulus in the eye, not when Sirius had been searching for him, not when he might still be alive if only Harry had reached him sooner. He could not bring himself to tell Regulus how hopeless their situation really was, what he feared would become of his friend if he failed, what little chance remained for a happy ending.

Rockwood had told him to trust in his feelings, yet Harry longed to feel nothing at all. 

He wanted to scream, to rip out his broken heart. He wished that he could be anything, anybody else. To step into another’s life—his counterpart’s—would have been a mercy, a blessing. He could think of nothing worse than spending another moment inside his own head. 

“What now?” asked Regulus miserably. He was looking back towards the battle, his grey eyes lit with the promise of retribution. 

Harry thought he knew how Regulus felt. Every instinct urged him to throw himself into the fight, yet he forced himself to think beyond the moment . . . he knew what he had to do . . . the question was how. If only he had more information, if only he were smarter. But there was one person always a step ahead, the person who had spoken to Rockwood before him, the cleverest mind Harry had ever known.

He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. In a distant part of his brain, that part which connected him to the Dark Lord, Harry knew that Voldemort was fighting at the edge of the battle, moving towards the forest. 

“I want to speak with Voldemort,” he said. 

Regulus nodded. “Let’s go, then.” 

They sprinted across the dark grounds, past the bodies that littered the mud, past more of the monstrous spiders which had found their way out of the castle. Multicoloured light flew through the midst, screams tore through the air. There were duelers everywhere that Harry looked. 

It was pandemonium. 

Displacement fell over the scene, and the world dissolved before reforming instantly.

He lurched to a stop, Ron and Hermione beside him. The battle around them had fallen abruptly quiet, smothered in that dreadful despair only Dementors brought, and Sirius was gone, he had failed him, he had failed everyone—

The scene reformed again, and Harry was already moving, shouting curses as he danced between the duels. Bodies sank into the mud in his wake, never knowing what had hit them. 

Dance, strike. 

He was searching for Voldemort, and saw a glimpse of him up ahead. There was cold hatred on Voldemort’s face as spells flew from his wand left and right. Harry pressed forward, carving a path through the battle, a path lined with blood-soaked robes. 

Dance, strike.

Displacement tore through him, and the grounds became the Headmaster’s office. He was lying with his face pressed into the carpet—

A whorl of colour, and then everything darkened. 

Dance, strike. 

He slid and skidded through the mud, running towards the forest, towards Voldemort. On and on he ran, further into the darkness, through the trees. 

But where was Voldemort? 

Terror washed over him as he spun around in the empty clearing, breathing hard and fast, screaming with frustration at the impossibility of the task set before him, at the awful injustice of it all. 

Voldemort, Harry screamed through the bond. Where are you hiding, Voldemort? 

He closed his eyes and caressed that bond between them. The connection stirred, and that sense of displacement rose up inside him. When Harry opened his eyes again, he was standing in a different forest, in another clearing. 

A fire burned at its centre, and its flickering light fell over a crowd of Death Eaters. Some of them were masked and hooded, others showed their faces. Every single eye was fixed upon the Dark Lord, who stood with his head bowed, his long fingers curled around an unfamiliar wand. 

Someone said, “No sign of him, my Lord.” 

Voldemort’s red eyes burned like the flames that lit the clearing.

“My Lord—”

“I thought that he would come,” said Voldemort softly. “I expected him to come.”

Nobody spoke.

And in the silence, though he did not understand it, Harry knew that they were speaking about him. He pulled the invisibility cloak from his shoulders and he stepped into the firelight. 

His sudden appearance caused a great commotion; many of the Death Eaters cried out, gasped, or roared with delight. There were cheers of triumph and jubilation. But none of this mattered to Harry. Nothing mattered but Voldemort . . . it might as well have been just the two of them. 

Voldemort stood frozen in place, but his red eyes were immediately drawn towards Harry, and he stared in wonder as Harry strode towards him, until only the fire was between them. 

For a long moment, they simply stared at one another. 

“Harry Potter,” said Voldemort. He spoke so softly that his voice was almost lost in the noise of the spitting fire. “The Boy Who Lived.” 

Nobody moved. They all seemed to be waiting for something. But what?

Voldemort tilted his head a little to one side, considering the boy standing before him. He smiled in that peculiar way of his. And then he raised his wand . . . 

Harry gazed at Voldemort in horror. 

Voldemort’s mouth was moving, and Harry knew somehow that Voldemort was about to kill him, that he was out of time, out of luck, that he was going to die.

But this was not right . . . this was not who he was. He had to find the way back to himself, find a way to stop the merge. But how was he meant to do it? He could not think properly. Everything was a blur of panic and fear. 

Was this really their fate, that of the star-crossed lovers, one destined to die by the other’s own hand? Was this what had always been written in the stars? 

Harry could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the wand pointed at his face, and the green light which blossomed from the end reflected onto the face of Harry’s watch . . . he looked down at the stars which circled its circumference, at Sagitta, the arrow constellation . . . Harry followed the direction it pointed towards, at the stars that shone above them. 

And in those stars, he saw his destination.

“Voldemort!” Harry screamed, and the dark matter in his chest sang with triumph. 

Voldemort’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his lips curled on the last syllable of the curse. 

You’re not going to kill me, Voldemort, Harry spoke through the bond. He felt an awful kind of desperation. You’re not going to kill me, because I love you . . . and I think that, maybe, you might love me too.  

Blank shock showed on Voldemort’s face. 

Slowly, so very slowly, he lowered his wand. 

“Away with you!” Voldemort’s voice shook. “Get away from here—shoo!”

—With a gasp, Harry pulled back and opened his eyes. 

It was James’s arms which held him, James who knelt at his side, smiling down as a familiar voice carried across the clearing. Harry blinked slowly. He seemed to be watching the scene unfold from the end of a very long tunnel, the voices soft and far away.

Voldemort and Dumbledore stood opposite one another. Their wands were drawn, yet angled toward the ground, and from Dumbledore’s clenched fist hung a long, white flag.

Dumbledore sighed, looking wearily across at Voldemort’s mutinous expression. 

There was a long pause. For a moment, Harry wasn’t sure if Voldemort would go along with it, if he’d agree to a ceasefire, give them the time needed to sort out the paradox and make sense of the new world which they—and their counterparts—now found themselves in together. 

Perhaps he had misjudged his own importance, overestimated how far Voldemort would go to reclaim his other half, his human Horcrux turned hostage.

Voldemort’s gaze found Harry, who was still lying in the mud somewhere behind Dumbledore, with James’s hand clasped in his own. Slowly Voldemort regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, “Very well.” 

Dumbledore smiled. 

A great tumult rose around the clearing as the watching crowd erupted, cheers mingling with cries of relief in an outpouring of grief and happiness, of celebration and mourning. 

They had paid dearly for this little bit of peace, this temporary reprieve. 

Harry looked at Voldemort, and they stared into each other’s eyes, green into red. He did not need to be an empath to sense the cold fury in that gaze, the hurt of betrayal. Still, he had to believe that, in time, Voldemort would understand. That the love which had revealed itself in the stars, the love which had led him back to his other half, to Voldemort, would once more show the way ahead. 

Chapter Text

One month later 

***

“I thought the weather would be better in Las Vegas,” Harry muttered, shivering in the icy winter air. 

“Would you shut up?” said James. He looked up at his brother with a crooked grin. “I’m trying to get married here.”

“It’d be warmer indoors,” Harry went on, but then he caught Regulus’s eye, and he fell silent. 

Passersby cast curious glances at the small gathering outside the drive-through chapel. Their attention skimmed past the sky-blue MG Midget, past the two grooms seated within it, and past the pair of witnesses standing alongside, before finally settling on the man officiating the wedding, who was dressed as Elvis Presley in a sparkling, sequinned number. 

Harry refocused his attention on the officiate, whose eyes darted between the grooms with the vacant look of one who had been confounded.

The ceremony drew towards its inevitable close. 

A warm, gushy feeling spread through his chest as James and Regulus exchanged the wedding rings they’d purchased earlier from a vending machine. Then they leaned in and kissed, and it was not a chaste thing by any means, but one that involved a lot more tongue than Harry thought was strictly necessary.

When he could not suffer through another moment of it, Harry brought his hand down hard on the car’s bonnet.

James turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered to life, and as the car pulled away from the curb Harry smiled and waved and cheered. Finally, the car rounded a corner and disappeared from view. 

Harry’s breath escaped in a cloud of mist before dissolving into the freezing air. He turned to the figure beside him. 

“As far as shotgun weddings go,” said Harry, grinning, “at least that was quick.”

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling. 

“Thank you for agreeing to be my date,” Harry forged on. “I know you’ve been busy . . . it’s nice to see you again.”

Voldemort’s long, dark cloak swept the sidewalk as they left the drive-through chapel and made their way toward the boulevard. As they walked, Harry reached for Voldemort’s hand. But, before he could take it in his grasp, Voldemort had moved just outside of reach. 

“I’m surprised Dumbledore has let you off the leash,” said Voldemort coldly. “I assume that conditions have improved since the last time you were taken hostage?”

“I’m well looked after,” Harry told him, cringing a little at Voldemort’s tone. 

And they had looked after him, while he worked alongside the Unspeakables to stabilise the coexistence of the timelines. 

The paradox had introduced all sorts of complications to the world. Many found themselves without work, wealth or accommodation. All war efforts had been suspended. New laws were being written and positions reallocated, necessitating a complete overhaul at the Ministry of Magic. It had been, in a very bureaucratic sense, nothing short of pandemonium. With so much going on, Harry sometimes forgot that he was a political prisoner, held as leverage to keep Voldemort in check. 

He did not mind the work. Welcomed it, even, when the pain of so many losses throbbed like a wound that never fully healed, partially scabbed over yet still bleeding a little each day.

“I’d sort of been hoping that you might have stolen me back, now that most of the work has been done,” said Harry. “Why haven’t you, by the way?”

“I’ve got better things to do than go chasing after you, cousin.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes . . . just barely. 

He suspected that Voldemort had allowed the time apart so that Harry could work with the Unspeakables, knowing that it was a necessity. But Voldemort was never going to admit that . . . doing so was a little too close to admitting that he’d been wrong to instigate the paradox in the first place.

They crossed the road at a set of traffic lights and proceeded along another street. People spilled from neon-lit venues, laughing loudly as they lit cigarettes. 

“Why do you think it is that our counterparts can’t just get along?” Harry asked. 

A reluctant smile curled at the edge of Voldemort’s mouth. “I imagine that your counterpart is incredibly annoying.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Harry under his breath. Unable to help himself, he added, “Have you even met yours? I dunno if one world will be big enough for both your egos.”

Voldemort’s blazing red eyes were narrowed as they locked onto Harry’s green ones. 

Grudgingly, Harry admitted, “I know that I should have contacted you sooner. D’you think that I could make it up to you, somehow?” 

“Perhaps,” Voldemort murmured. After a moment, he added, “Where do you plan to begin?”

That dark matter in Harry’s stomach expanded, warming his insides, sending tingles right down to the tips of his toes. Harry couldn’t help but smile. And he thought that perhaps it could work out after all, and maybe it would, or maybe it wouldn’t. But whatever happened, whatever the future held for them, this feeling between them might just be enough for now. 

Harry looked at Voldemort, and he made a swipe for his hand again. This time, Voldemort allowed him to take it.  

“I have a few ideas,” said Harry, with a salacious grin. He angled his head towards one of the venues. “First things first, though. How about a dance?”