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Chapter Text

It had been three months since the war ended and Voldemort fell, but Harry still felt like absolute rubbish. The world around him was slowly piecing itself back together—shops reopened, families reunited, and whispers of hope buzzed in the air—but Harry? He could barely muster the strength to leave his tiny apartment most days. Even when Ron and Hermione tried to include him in their plans, he couldn't shake the crushing weight of sadness that clung to him like a second skin.

He had lost so many—friends, mentors, people who felt like family. Each name was a dagger lodged in his chest: Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Snape. Moving on felt like a betrayal, like he was letting their memories slip away into the fog of time. How could he rebuild his life while they were gone? He couldn’t. Not yet.

But Hermione Granger was as stubborn as they came, and her insistence was relentless. That’s how Harry found himself back at Hogwarts, reluctantly agreeing to spend the week helping with the rebuilding efforts. The castle was still wounded from the final battle—collapsed walls, charred stones, and echoes of magic that hadn’t quite settled. It was eerie, but there was something comforting about being back. Hogwarts had always been a home, even in its broken state.

On his first night there, after hours of repairing shattered corridors and banishing debris with his wand, Harry lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of the Gryffindor dormitory. Sleep refused to come, his mind spinning with memories of the war, of faces he’d never see again. Around midnight, he gave up on the futile battle with his thoughts. Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed, grabbed his robes, and stepped into the cool, silent hallway.

The air was brisk, carrying a faint chill that made him shiver as he padded down the corridor. His footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stones, a rhythmic reminder of how empty the castle felt at night. He wasn’t sure where he was going—he simply walked, letting his feet guide him through familiar paths.

Then, as he descended toward the lower levels, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck. A light breeze ruffled his messy hair, though there wasn’t a window or door in sight. Startled, he glanced up from the floor where his gaze had been fixed. His breath caught in his throat.

Ahead of him, where there had only been a solid stone wall moments ago, a door started to appear. At first, it was just a shimmer, like a heatwave in the air, but then the edges became clear. Within seconds, a wooden door had formed right in front of him.

Harry’s heart jumped, but then he relaxed when he realized what it was: the Room of Requirement. He let out a small sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t some new dark magic or another danger threatening Hogwarts.

The door stood there, silent and waiting. Harry hesitated. The Room always showed up for a reason, but what reason could it have now? He hadn’t seen it since that terrible day when Crabbe’s Fiendfyre destroyed everything inside. He thought it was gone forever, just another piece of Hogwarts lost to the fight against Voldemort.

But here it was again.

Swallowing his nerves, Harry grabbed the handle and gave it a push. The door opened easily, creaking as it swung inward, revealing nothing but darkness.

“Lumos,” Harry whispered, and light flared from the tip of his wand.

The small, glowing beam showed a tiny, empty-looking room. It was quiet—too quiet—and the air felt still and heavy. For a moment, Harry thought the Room had brought him here for nothing. But then something caught his eye.

A glimmer of light reflected from the far corner.

Harry’s chest tightened as he slowly stepped toward it, his wand held high. The light bounced off an object—something tall and thin. As he got closer, he saw it clearly: an old mirror, framed in silver that looked worn but beautiful.

It didn’t look like a regular mirror. There was something strange about it—like it was alive somehow. Harry stopped a few feet away, staring at his reflection. He wasn’t sure if he should feel curious or afraid.

Something tugged at him, a soft pull deep inside, urging him to touch it. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the surface. The moment he made contact, the mirror seemed to come alive. Its surface rippled, waves spreading out like water. Harry gasped and stepped back, his heart racing.

It was mesmerizing.

When he dared to look again, his reflection was gone. Instead, the mirror showed a room—a cozy, colorful space. It looked a bit like the living room at Grimmauld Place, but this one felt warmer, more inviting. There were soft, comfy chairs, bright rugs, and pictures hanging on the walls. It looked like someone’s home, a happy one.

Harry moved closer, curiosity pulling him in. Who did this room belong to?

As he studied the scene, something shifted in the corner of his eye. Someone had walked into the room. It was a woman, her silhouette framed by fiery red hair. Harry froze.

She reminded him of his mother, Lily, the woman he’d never really known. The sight of her—or someone like her—made his chest ache.

Regret welled up inside him, sharp and familiar. He thought of everything he’d lost in his life—his parents, the childhood he could have had, the moments he’d never get back. He felt that deep longing again, the one he always tried to push away.

What would his life have been like if they had lived?

The thought lingered in Harry’s mind as he reached out toward the mirror again. But this time, instead of feeling the solid surface, his hand went straight through it.

What the hell? he thought, pulling back instinctively. Only… he couldn’t. His hand was stuck, as if caught in some sort of magical glue.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, grabbing his wand with his free hand. He aimed it at the mirror, his mind racing for the right spell to free himself. Before he could utter a word, the mirror pulsed with magic again. An invisible force yanked him forward, and he had no time to resist.

Harry shut his eyes tight and let his magic flare instinctively, trusting it to shield him. There was a sensation of falling, and then—thud. He landed softly, like he’d fallen onto a plush carpet.

What now? Where did that blasted mirror bring him?

Harry opened his eyes cautiously, bracing himself for whatever twist fate had thrown his way this time. Bright light flooded his vision, making him squint. As his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was the tip of a wand pointed directly at him.

“Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

The voice was firm, calm, and absolutely not messing around.

Just great, Harry thought. Why couldn’t it have dropped me at the edge of the world  instead?

Moving as slowly as possible, he pushed himself upright, careful not to startle the woman holding the wand. As he glanced around, he spotted his glasses lying nearby. He grabbed them and slid them onto his face, blinking to clear his head.

“Answer me before I make you regret it,” the woman said, her voice sharper now.

Harry’s gaze snapped to her face—and he froze. She looked exactly like the woman he’d seen in the mirror…it was uncanny.

He tore his eyes away from her for a moment and took in his surroundings. It was the same cozy, colorful room he’d seen through the mirror. The familiar furniture, the warmth—it was all there.

What in Merlin’s name is going on?

“You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you,” Harry said with a dejected chuckle, trying to mask his unease.

“Well, try me,” the woman shot back, her tone unwavering.

Before Harry could respond, the door burst open. A tall man stormed in, his wand already drawn. He froze when he saw Harry, but only for a moment. Then his expression darkened, and he raised his wand, ready to attack.

Great, Harry thought. Now I’ve got two of them to deal with. He’d faced worse odds, but that didn’t make this any better.

“Who are you, and how did you get into our house?” the man demanded. “You’d better answer quickly, or I’ll hex you!” His eyes narrowed, and the tip of his wand glowed menacingly.

Harry raised his hands in surrender, his wand still at his side. “Alright, alright! Don’t do anything hasty. I’m one of the good guys, I swear!”

The man didn’t lower his wand, and Harry sighed, realizing he needed to explain fast.

“My name is Harry Potter,” he began, speaking quickly. “I was at Hogwarts when this bloody mirror yanked me through, and the next thing I know, I’m here—on your carpet—staring down two wands. I have no clue how or why I’m here. Look, I’ll just go home quietly if you let me.”

Before he could finish, a flash of light streaked toward him. Harry barely had time to react before the hex slammed into his side. He cried out in pain, falling back onto the carpet.

“Ow! What the hell?” Harry groaned, clutching his side where the curse had struck. The pain was sharp and burning, making it hard to focus.

“Stop lying!” the man shouted, his voice filled with anger. “Tell us your real name! Do you think this is funny? Breaking into our home and playing games with us?”

Harry pushed himself up slightly, grimacing as he leaned on one arm. “I am telling the truth!” he said through gritted teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface.

But as he looked up at the pair, something made him pause.

The man’s messy black hair and sharp eyes… the woman’s red hair and green eyes. They looked familiar .

No. It couldn’t be.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at them. His heart pounded, and his mind raced to put the pieces together.

“Wait,” Harry said hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stared at the two people in front of him, dread and hope twisting painfully in his chest.

Back in first year, when he’d looked into the Mirror of Erised, his parents had looked creepily similar to the man and woman standing before him now. And he’d seen their faces in pictures too—the same messy black hair, the same bright green eyes he’d inherited.

But how could that be possible?

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he was still lying in the Room of Requirement, knocked out by some wild magic. Any second now, he’d wake up, sore and frustrated, and go back to his gloomy, ordinary life.

But what if it wasn’t a dream?

What was he supposed to say to these people? Even if— if —they were his parents, it wasn’t like he actually knew them. Sirius had told him stories, little moments that made them feel more real, but those weren’t the same as having actual conversations.

He had no idea how to talk to them—what to say, what not to say.

Harry took a shaky breath and forced himself to start.

“My name is Harry Potter,” he said carefully, his voice steady despite the panic building inside him. “And I’m not playing some sick prank on you guys. I swear I’m telling the truth.”

They didn’t lower their wands.

Harry swallowed and pressed on.

“One moment, I was at Hogwarts. I found this old mirror, and I saw you in it and then I started thinking about my mum, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor here.” He paused, licking his dry lips. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous.”

Still nothing. Their expressions stayed hard, guarded.

Desperate to convince them, Harry added quickly, “I could take Veritaserum if you want. I wouldn’t mind. Anything to prove I’m telling the truth.”

He hunched his shoulders slightly, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw the two of them exchange glances. They didn’t speak, but it was obvious they were communicating—having one of those silent conversations people who know each other really well tend to have.

If Harry weren’t so nervous, he might have found it funny—the way they kept throwing each other looks, silently communicating like a pair of Aurors about to take down a suspect.

“Okay,” the man finally said, stepping closer and snatching Harry’s wand from the floor. “We’ll give you a chance to prove yourself. But don’t try anything funny.” He kept his wand trained on Harry. “I’ll watch you while my wife gets the Veritaserum. Now, get up slowly and sit over there. No sudden moves. Got it?”

Harry nodded quickly. It wasn’t the time to argue, and honestly, he didn’t blame them for being cautious. He rose carefully and moved to the couch, sinking into it while trying not to make any sudden movements.

The woman—Lily?—gave him one last suspicious glance before disappearing through the door. That left Harry alone with the man, who hadn’t taken his eyes—or his wand—off him.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked cautiously. He had to start somewhere. “You remind me of someone…”

The man’s grip on his wand tightened. “James,” he said curtly. “Now shut up and don’t move.”

Harry swallowed hard. James?

His stomach twisted. Could this really be his father? But how? Was this a dream? Or some kind of alternate universe? Or maybe—his thoughts darkened—someone’s idea of a cruel joke? Maybe this was just another way to break him, to shatter whatever scraps of sanity he had left.

He forced himself to stop spiraling. His fingers fiddled nervously in his lap as he tried to focus. After the war, his mind had become too good at going to dark places. Too much time spent second-guessing his decisions and grieving the people he’d lost.

And what if—what if—these were his parents?

If they were, why did they look at him like he was dangerous? Like they hated him? He understood he’d technically broken into their house, but the second he’d said his name, it felt like they wanted to hex him into oblivion.

Did they hate him?

He wouldn’t blame them if they did. Maybe this was his punishment—finally facing the parents he’d always longed for, only for them to despise him.

The door clicked open, pulling Harry out of his spiraling thoughts. The woman—Lily—stepped back inside, but this time, she wasn’t alone.

Someone followed her in.

Harry’s heart nearly stopped.

“Professor Snape?”

Severus Snape looked exactly as Harry remembered him—hooked nose, sharp eyes, and a long, dark robe. But something was…off. His face lacked the deep lines of stress Harry was used to seeing. He didn’t scowl, and he even looked—Merlin help him—brighter.

“That’s what I was talking about,” Lily said nervously, chewing on her bottom lip. “The resemblance is undeniable, isn’t it? And he even knows you. Could he be some kind of creature?”

“Or someone under Polyjuice Potion?” she added, her voice rising slightly.

Snape studied Harry carefully, his black eyes sharp and calculating. “Don’t worry, Lily,” he said coolly. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Without hesitation, Snape strode toward the couch, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small glass vial.

“Now,” he said, his voice smooth but firm, “you’ll take this and answer our questions. Understood?”

Harry stared at the vial in Snape’s outstretched hand. His throat felt dry, and his pulse hammered in his ears.

Snape wouldn’t poison him…would he? Not even in some freaky alternate dimension.

Harry took the vial with trembling fingers. He uncorked it, sniffing cautiously. It had no smell—just like Veritaserum was supposed to.

“Alright,” Harry said, trying to steady his voice. “Here goes nothing.”

Before he could second-guess himself, he tipped the potion back and swallowed. The liquid burned slightly on the way down, but he forced himself to sit still and wait.

“What’s your name?” Snape’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“My name is Harry James Potter.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know me?”

“You taught me Potions at Hogwarts.”

Snape’s brow twitched. “Taught?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “Am I no longer your teacher?”

Damn it. Harry cursed himself for slipping. He should’ve known Snape would catch that.

He hesitated, then forced the truth out. “You died in the war. Fighting Voldemort.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Snape froze, and Lily and James exchanged an uneasy glance.

“War?” James asked carefully.

Harry swallowed. Maybe the war hadn’t happened here. Maybe that’s why they were all still alive.

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “The war against the Dark Lord. Voldemort.”

Lily’s hand flew to her mouth.

Snape’s voice broke the silence again, calm but probing. “How did you get here? Do you have ulterior motives?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No! I swear I don’t. I think I came through a mirror. I touched it, and there was this bright light, and suddenly I was here. I didn’t mean to come, and I definitely didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

His voice wavered at the end, and he cursed himself again. Not now. Not the time to lose it. He bit his lip and blinked hard to stop the tears, but it was no use.

A soft touch on his shoulder made him flinch.

Harry looked up—and froze.

Lily was kneeling in front of him, her green eyes wide and wet with tears. “Lily, don’t touch him!” James snapped, stepping forward. “What if this is some kind of trick?”

“Look at him, James,” Lily said, her voice trembling. “Really look at him.”

James hesitated.

“Do you think he’s capable of hurting anyone? He looks like he’s about to collapse.” Her voice broke. “And I would recognize my son anywhere.”

Harry’s breath caught. ‘My son.’

Before he could even process it, Lily wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

It was magic.

Harry’s shoulders shook as he finally let the tears fall. He didn’t even try to stop them. Was this what it felt like to be hugged by your mum? He couldn’t describe it. Warm, safe—like nothing bad could ever touch him again.

“Mum?” Harry’s voice cracked. “Can I hug you?”

Lily let out a soft, broken laugh against his shoulder. “Of course, sweetheart.” She clutched him even tighter.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding on as if she might disappear if he let go. She felt so small and delicate, but her embrace was the strongest thing he’d ever known.

She smelled like home. Like flowers and cookies and everything Harry had ever longed for but never had. He buried his face in her neck, not even caring that he was probably getting snot and tears all over her.

A hand landed firmly on his back, and Harry jerked, looking up.

James was there now, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t speak—just patted Harry’s back with a hand that was both firm and steady.

After everyone calmed down a bit, they moved to the kitchen. The warm tea in Harry’s hands helped soothe his nerves, but Lily still wouldn’t take her eyes off him. She hovered like she thought he might vanish if she blinked.

Harry felt a little awkward after his emotional breakdown on the couch, but now that his head was clearer, questions started piling up. Where was he? How much time did he have here? And what if this wasn’t real?

He cleared his throat. “So, uhm… you recognized me. And you called me your son.” He hesitated, unsure how to ask. “What happened to… your Harry? Is he not around?”

Lily’s face crumpled, and James put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Our son died when he was little,” James said quietly. “During a fight with Grindelwald. We were ambushed in the middle of the night, and the house collapsed on us. Harry was sleeping in his room alone…”

Lily choked on a sob and squeezed Harry’s hand tightly. “We weren’t there to protect him,” she whispered. “He was crushed under the rubble.”

Harry’s stomach sank. Grindelwald? He hadn’t expected that.

James cleared his throat and continued. “We were both Aurors, so we were high on his hit list. His followers tracked us down.” He paused, looking pained. “Our friend Peter was the Secret Keeper, but he betrayed us. It took us completely by surprise.”

Harry froze. “Peter?” he repeated. Of course. It was just like his world. Only this time, Peter’s betrayal had killed their Harry.

He took a deep breath. “In my world… almost the same thing happened.”

They looked up sharply, and Harry quickly continued. “We were fighting another Dark Lord—Voldemort. There was a prophecy about a child who could stop him. I was one of his targets.” He swallowed, the weight of his past pressing down again. “He came for me one night, but he couldn’t kill me. My mum—you—sacrificed yourself to save me, and his curse backfired. It killed him… but I lost both of you.”

Lily let out a soft gasp and squeezed his hand again.

“I grew up without you,” Harry admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I turned eleven.”

Lily reached across the table, both of her hands wrapping around his now. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, sweetheart.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “But we won’t let anything take you away from us again.”

Harry blinked rapidly. He didn’t deserve this kindness. Not after everything he’d failed to protect in his own world.

“What if I have to go back?” he asked softly. “What if this is temporary?”

Snape, who had been surprisingly quiet until now, finally spoke up. “We need to find that mirror and figure out what it is.” His voice was calm and logical, a sharp contrast to the tension in the room. “I’ll reach out to my contacts at Hogwarts and see if anyone knows anything about it.”

Harry perked up. “Wait, you don’t teach there?”

Snape snorted. “No. I run a potions shop in Diagon Alley. Opened it after graduation—with James’s help, actually.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You don’t hate him?”

James let out a short laugh, and Snape raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” Snape asked. “We were friends growing up. Well, we fought at first, but Lily knocked some sense into us. She’s very persuasive.”

Harry stared. “Wait—friends? Seriously? You mean you don’t hate each other?”

“Hate?” Snape actually laughed. “Did we hate each other in your world? What about me? Did I not raise you after your parents died? Or was it Sirius?”

Harry hesitated, suddenly unsure how much to share. “Uh, no. You and my dad hated each other. You said I reminded you too much of him.”

Lily’s expression darkened. “And who raised you, then?”

Harry winced. “My Aunt Petunia.”

Lily’s jaw dropped. “Petunia? My sister? But she hates magic! She hated me! How could—”

“It was Dumbledore’s idea.” Harry shrugged. “He said blood protection was the safest way to keep me hidden.”

Lily looked devastated. “How did she treat you?”

Harry looked down at his tea. He didn’t want to talk about that. Not now.

Snape cleared his throat. “What about Remus? Or Regulus?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Regulus was dead. And Sirius…” He hesitated again. “He got sent to Azkaban. They blamed him for your deaths.”

James swore under his breath, and Lily looked horrified.

“We’ll fix this,” Lily said fiercely, squeezing Harry’s hand again. “No matter what it takes, we’ll figure this out.”

Harry wanted to believe her. He wanted it more than anything.

But deep down, he was terrified.

Because if this really was temporary, he didn’t think he’d be able to survive losing them all over again.

Chapter Text

They talked late into the night. The serious stuff could wait. For now, they stuck to lighter topics—funny stories, old memories, and little pieces of their lives. Harry soaked it all in, hanging onto every word. For the first time in months, he felt… happy.

Professor Snape had left early, heading to Hogwarts to look into the mirror and hopefully find answers. Harry still couldn’t get over how different Snape was here. Nice Snape. Just thinking about it made him shiver. He hoped his former professor would find something, but part of him didn’t want answers—not if they meant he had to leave.

Staying here sounded nice. Really nice.

Sure, losing Hermione and Ron had been hard, but they’d be okay. They had each other, and they were moving on—building their lives. They didn’t need Harry dragging them down. Not anymore.

But here? Here, his parents were alive, and they were happy to see him. How could he leave them again?

Later, when everyone went to bed, Harry lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His mind wouldn’t stop racing.

What if this didn’t last? What if he woke up tomorrow and it was all gone?

Every time he closed his eyes, the fear crept in. He’d open them again just to make sure he was still here. Still safe.

So instead of sleeping, he thought.

Apparently, in this world, Grindelwald had been the big bad guy. And you wouldn’t believe who defeated him—Tom Marvolo Gaunt. The Minister of Magic.

Harry had nearly fallen off his chair when he heard that one.

He hadn’t told them, of course. Not about Voldemort’s real name. It was better to keep that little detail to himself. No need to make them panic—or worse, get Lily storming into the Ministry to demand that Tom apologize for everything he’d done to Harry.

The thought almost made him laugh.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Harry fell asleep sometime before dawn.

When he woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, and he was still in the guest room.

Not on the cold floor of the Room of Requirement.

He let out a shaky breath and smiled.

Small victories.

Lily had lent Harry some of James’s old clothes, and after changing, he followed the smell of breakfast into the kitchen. His stomach gave an approving growl as he stepped inside.

For a moment, he stopped at the entryway and stared in awe.

Lily stood at the stove, humming softly to herself. It was a tune Harry didn’t recognize, but it was calming—warm, like her hug yesterday. He swallowed hard.

It still felt like a dream.

“Good morning.”

Lily jumped a little, then turned around with a bright smile. “Just in time for breakfast, sweetheart. I hope you slept well.”

“The best I’ve had in ages.” Harry returned her smile, feeling lighter than he had in months. “Can I help?”

“Not a chance.” She waved him toward the table. “You sit that butt down and leave the cooking to me. I hope you like bacon and eggs.”

“I love it.”

As he sank into the chair, Harry couldn’t stop the warmth blooming in his chest. It was so strange—this sense of belonging. He’d never felt it before. Not like this.

“Where’s James?” he asked, glancing around.

“Your father went to visit Sirius—he wanted to tell him the good news.” Lily placed a steaming plate in front of him and sat down beside him. “He thought Sirius might be able to help untangle all of this.”

Harry blinked. Sirius? His heart skipped.

“And don’t worry,” Lily added, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Severus and Sirius both promised to keep this a secret for now.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Harry paused, then smiled shyly. The word felt so foreign—but so right.

“Eat up,” she said, beaming at him.

They ate in comfortable silence, but Harry’s thoughts wouldn’t settle.

What would everyone think if they found out he was from another universe?

More importantly, what would Voldemort do if he ever discovered the truth? The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Before he could dwell on it longer, a loud crack echoed through the house.

James appeared in the doorway with Sirius right behind him. Harry’s eyes widened.

Sirius.

His chest tightened painfully, but before he could even react, Sirius had already crossed the room and swept him into a bone crushing hug.

Harry didn’t fight it.

He buried his face in Sirius’s shoulder, his arms gripping tightly.

Sirius was alive. Alive.

And it was the most magical thing Harry had ever felt.

“It’s so good to see you again, pup,” Sirius whispered, his voice breaking.

Harry couldn’t speak. He just clung tighter to his godfather, afraid that letting go might make this moment disappear.

Eventually, Sirius pulled back, but not before ruffling Harry’s hair like he used to. They settled into their chairs, and Harry knew it was time to finally talk about what came next.

James cleared his throat. “We think the easiest story is that you’re a distant relative—someone who’s come to live with us after losing your parents. It’s common enough, so no one would question it.”

Harry nodded slowly. “And what about… Dumbledore? Maybe he could help us.”

James and Sirius exchanged a look.

“I’m sorry, son,” James said carefully. “But after Grindelwald, Dumbledore stepped back from everything. When word got out about their connection, he was forced out as headmaster. He hasn’t been seen much since.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? Then who’s the headmaster now?”

“Minerva McGonagall,” Sirius answered with a grin. “She took over right after Albus left. No one really argued—come on, it’s Minnie we’re talking about.”

Harry relaxed a little. “She was my Head of House.”

“So you were in Gryffindor? Of course you were!” Sirius beamed. “Takes after us.”

Harry hesitated, then smirked. “Actually, the Hat almost put me in Slytherin.”

Sirius froze mid-laugh. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, enjoying their shocked expressions. “But I convinced it to put me in Gryffindor.”

“A Potter in Slytherin?” James grinned and shook his head. “Now that would’ve made headlines.”

Harry chuckled but then sobered quickly. “Wait—how am I supposed to fit in here? What about papers? Do I have to—” He swallowed nervously. “Do I have to graduate again?”

Lily reached over and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. I know someone who can help with the paperwork.”

“What about my name?” Harry asked. “Harry James Potter is… kind of a giveaway.”

“How about Harrison Potter?” Lily suggested. “You could still go by Harry. It’s similar enough but won’t raise too many eyebrows.”

Harry tilted his head, testing the name. “Harrison Potter.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I like it.”

Lily’s eyes softened. “And you can do whatever you want here, sweetheart. I want you to really think about what makes you happy. If that means staying home and spending time with us doing nothing, that’s more than fine.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Harry grinned. “I appreciate it. But honestly? I think I’d go mad sitting around doing nothing. My life’s never exactly been… calm.”

James ruffled his hair playfully. “No problem, son. But don’t forget it’s okay to take a break now and then. Speaking of which—how about we go out this weekend? A little boys’ night to let loose?”

“James Fleamont Potter!” Lily snapped, crossing her arms. “Don’t even think about giving alcohol to our underage son!”

Harry quickly raised his hands in defense. “It’s fine, Mum! I’m actually twenty-five.”

Lily’s jaw dropped. “What?! But you’re so—” She paused, looking him up and down. “You’re so small...”

Harry’s smile faltered. He didn’t want to talk about his childhood—not in detail, anyway. Growing up with the Dursleys had been… bad. Meals were skipped more often than not, either to avoid Dudley’s fists or his aunt and uncle’s sharp words. He’d managed to put on some weight at Hogwarts, but years on the run and the guilt that followed had stripped it all away.

“Uh…” He shrugged. “I’ve never had a big appetite, that’s all.”

Lily’s eyes filled with determination. “Well, that won’t do. Don’t you worry, darling. My cooking will fix that. I’ll fatten you up in no time.”

Harry laughed, warmth spreading through his chest. He had a mum now. A mum who worried about him. Who wanted him to eat well and be happy.

Harry leaned back in his chair, still trying to process everything. He had a family now—a real family—and he’d do everything in his power to keep it this way.

Lily’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We should go out today and get you some proper robes.” She smiled warmly, brushing invisible lint off his borrowed shirt. “You can’t keep wearing James’ old clothes. We need to find something that actually fits you.”

“Good idea,” Sirius agreed, though his voice carried a more cautious tone. “But before we go parading him around Diagon Alley, we need to make some adjustments.”

Harry frowned. “Adjustments?”

“To your appearance.” Sirius gestured toward him with a flick of his hand. “You look too much like James and Lily. Anyone who knows them would spot the resemblance right away. Besides, Madam Malkin’s shop is practically the gossip capital of Diagon Alley. If we’re going to start planting the story about Harry moving in as a distant relative, she’s the place to start.”

“Sirius!” Lily shot him a disapproving look, though her lips twitched with amusement. 

“I’m just being practical.” Sirius smirked unapologetically. Lily turned to Harry and softened her voice. “What do you think, sweetheart? Do you mind if I make a few changes? Nothing drastic—just enough to keep people from asking too many questions.”

Harry hesitated for a moment but nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table.

Lily drew her wand and pointed it carefully at his face, murmuring a spell Harry didn’t recognize. Warmth rippled across his skin, like a summer breeze. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just strange.

As she worked, Lily spoke softly. “I’m actually a healer at St. Mungo’s, you know.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? That’s amazing.”

Lily gave him a small smile, though her eyes seemed distant. “After our Harry died, I—I couldn’t stop thinking about how helpless I felt. I kept wondering… what if I’d known more? What if I’d been better prepared? Maybe I could’ve saved him.”

“Lils…” James reached over and squeezed her shoulder, his voice low and comforting.

Lily blinked quickly and shook her head. “No. It’s okay. No more what-ifs.” Her lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She gave her wand a final flick and then stepped back.

“All done. Try opening your eyes.”

Harry blinked—and immediately froze. He could see.

No blurriness. No fuzzy edges. Just perfect, crystal-clear vision.

“I fixed your eyesight,” Lily explained, smiling at his stunned expression. “And I changed your eye color to brown. It’s subtle, but it should be enough to stop anyone from recognizing you right away.”

Harry couldn’t stop grinning. “This is… amazing. Thank you! Seriously, you have no idea how much of a pain my glasses were. I kept breaking them—usually in fights—and fixing them got old pretty fast.”

He laughed lightly, but the mood shifted when he noticed the way Lily and James exchanged a glance. Their smiles faltered, and Harry’s stomach twisted.

“I mean, not that I was in a lot of fights or anything,” he added quickly, trying to smooth over the moment. “Just, you know, accidents and stuff.”

Lily reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. “You don’t have to explain, sweetheart.” Her voice was soft, but Harry could hear the sadness buried underneath. “Whatever you’ve been through… you’re safe now.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Mum.”

Her eyes softened even more at the word, and she leaned down to press a quick kiss to the top of his head. “You don’t need to thank me. It’s what mothers do.”

Harry felt his chest tighten—but this time, it wasn’t from sadness. It was warmth. Comfort. Belonging.

Sirius clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Alright, enough of the sappy stuff. Let’s get this kid some robes and make sure no one’s asking too many questions.”

Harry smiled, feeling more hopeful than he had in a long time. For the first time in forever, he wasn’t just surviving.

He was living.

══════════════════

Diagon Alley was as busy as ever. The cobblestone streets buzzed with life as witches and wizards hurried in every direction. It didn’t matter what time of day it was—there were always people around, shopping, chatting, and casting spells. Harry’s eyes darted around, taking it all in. It felt strangely familiar and yet slightly different at the same time.

The shops looked nearly identical to the ones in his world, but a few small details stood out—new signs, different window displays, and faces he didn’t recognize. Despite the differences, Harry immediately spotted Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

James placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s back as they weaved through the crowd. “Stick close, son. It gets pretty packed this time of day.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the steady guidance as James steered him toward the shop, skillfully dodging groups of chatting witches and enchanted shopping carts that zoomed past.

The bells above the door chimed as their little group stepped inside. The shop smelled faintly of fabric and lavender, and bolts of colorful cloth lined the walls. To Harry’s relief, the place wasn’t crowded—just a handful of people browsing racks of robes or chatting quietly with assistants.

He started to relax—until a sharp voice cut through the calm.

“My word! If it isn’t James and Lily Potter—and Sirius Black, too! What a pleasant surprise!”

Harry flinched slightly at the sudden attention and turned to see Madam Malkin bustling toward them. Her sharp eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Harry suddenly felt very exposed.

Before he could even think about panicking, Sirius stepped smoothly in front of him, throwing one arm casually around Harry’s shoulders as if shielding him. The seamstress didn’t miss a beat, her gaze already fixed on Harry.

“And who’s this handsome young man?” Madam Malkin tilted her head, looking him up and down with a keen interest. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him before.”

Several heads turned their way, but Sirius’s sharp glare quickly sent them back to their business.

“Good day, Madam Malkin,” James said with his usual charm. “We’re here to get some new robes for my nephew.”

The seamstress’s eyebrows lifted at that, but before she could ask any prying questions, James smoothly continued.

“He’s just moved in with us this weekend,” he explained. “We thought we’d help him settle in with some new robes—something stylish and comfortable.”

Madam Malkin’s expression softened at once. “Oh, how wonderful! Moving in with family can make all the difference, especially after a big change. I always say there’s nothing like fresh robes to help someone feel at home.”

Harry forced a polite smile, trying to look like he belonged. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Such good manners!” Madam Malkin beamed and gestured toward one of the measuring stands. “Come along, dear. Let’s get you fitted properly. I have some excellent styles this season—just in time for Hogwarts, I suppose?”

Harry froze for a moment, unsure what to say, but Sirius jumped in effortlessly.

“He’s not attending Hogwarts,” Sirius said smoothly. “He’s already finished school. We’re just helping him settle in and figure out what he wants to do next.”

“Ah, of course.” Madam Malkin nodded knowingly. “Taking some time to explore, are we? That’s the way to do it. Now, hop up here, dear.”

Harry stepped onto the platform as Madam Malkin bustled around him. Measuring tapes floated in the air, darting around his arms and legs, taking quick measurements. He stood as still as he could, but it was hard not to fidget with all the activity swirling around him.

“He’ll need robes for every occasion,” Lily said, stepping in smoothly. Her voice was calm and confident, and it helped settle Harry’s nerves. “Casual robes and maybe something formal, just in case. I hope you can speed up the process a little—he couldn’t bring much with him when he moved.”

Madam Malkin’s eyes softened, and she patted Lily’s hand reassuringly. “Of course, dear. I’ll take good care of him. You know my shop has the fastest turnaround in London. I specialize in emergencies.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Lily gave her a kind smile before turning back to Harry with an encouraging nod.

Madam Malkin turned her attention to Harry as she pulled out a few samples of fabric. “So what’s your name, darling? And how are you liking London so far?”

Harry swallowed nervously but managed to smile. “My name’s Harrison, but everyone just calls me Harry.”

He watched her reaction closely, searching for any sign of suspicion, but Madam Malkin simply nodded warmly.

“Nice to meet you, Harry. You’ll love it here, I’m sure. And you’ve got the best people to help you settle in.”

“Thank you, Madam,” Harry replied, feeling more at ease.

Madam Malkin smiled and set to work, chattering cheerfully about the latest robe trends and gossip from around Diagon Alley. Harry let the soothing rhythm of her voice wash over him, thankful she hadn’t pried too much.

Before long, they were finished. Madam Malkin promised to have the robes ready by the next morning and shooed them out with a cheerful wave.

Harry felt a wave of relief as they stepped back onto the busy streets. He kept his head down, trying not to notice the curious glances some people threw their way. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Sirius’s loud laugh or Lily’s bright hair, but they definitely stood out.

They were only a few steps away from the Apparition point when a smooth, familiar voice stopped them in their tracks.

“If it isn’t the Potters—what a lovely surprise.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he turned to see Narcissa Malfoy gliding toward them. She looked as polished and elegant as ever, her hair twisted into a sleek knot and her robes pristine. She held herself with an air of confidence, as though the whole street belonged to her.

“It’s been far too long, Lily,” Narcissa said with a polite smile. “I believe the last time we saw each other was at Sirius’s dinner party. I told you to come by anytime, didn’t I?”

Lily’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “Cissy, it’s wonderful to see you!”

Harry blinked, surprised by how happy Lily sounded.

“I keep meaning to visit,” Lily went on, “but things have been a little hectic lately.”

“You don’t need to explain. I understand how busy family life can be.” Narcissa’s gaze drifted to Harry, and she tilted her head. “And who might this be?”

James stepped forward with a relaxed grin. “This is my nephew, Harrison. He’s just moved in with us, so we’re helping him get settled.”

Narcissa’s sharp gaze softened as she studied Harry. “Harrison, it’s lovely to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying London.”

“Thank you. It’s been great so far,” Harry replied politely, feeling surprisingly at ease under her inspection.

Narcissa’s expression remained polite, but Harry couldn’t help but feel like she was quietly assessing him, filing away details for later.

“Sorry, Cissy, but we’re kind of in a hurry,” Sirius cut in, his tone light but purposeful. “We’d love to chat more, but maybe another time?”

“Of course.” Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You should bring Harrison over soon. Draco would love to meet him.” She gave Harry one last appraising look before nodding her goodbyes.

As she turned and disappeared into the crowd, Harry exhaled softly, only now realizing how tense he’d been.

“Merlin, she still terrifies me,” he muttered under his breath.

James chuckled. “She has that effect on people. But don’t worry—she’s more bark than bite. Most of the time.”

Harry wasn’t so sure. Narcissa had sharp instincts. If they’d managed to fool her today, it gave him hope that they could fool anyone.

══════════════════

They Apparated back home, and Lily busied herself in the kitchen while the boys sprawled out in the living room. The cozy warmth of the house wrapped around Harry like a blanket, though his mind still spun with questions and worries.

Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “James said you knew me before.” His voice was filled with curiosity and just a hint of nervousness. “What was I like there?”

Harry smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were pretty much the same, really. Loyal, protective, and always trying to make me laugh, even when things were bad.”

Sirius grinned but quickly sobered when Harry continued.

“But…” Harry hesitated, unsure how much to say. “You disappeared into your mind a lot. Got really sad sometimes. Azkaban took a toll on you.”

Sirius flinched, his smile faltering.

“You never let it stop you, though,” Harry added quickly. “You always made sure I knew how much you loved me. You were the closest I ever had to a real family.”

Sirius looked away, his jaw tightening. “That rat Peter…” He gritted his teeth. “Somehow, I hate him even more now, can’t believe he got away.”

Harry’s heart stuttered.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You never caught him?”

James shook his head. “Every trace went cold.”

Harry froze, his thoughts racing. Peter Pettigrew had resurrected Voldemort in his world. Could he still be out there, waiting? Plotting? Trying to resurrect another Dark Lord?

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. He didn’t want to sound paranoid, but this wasn’t something he could ignore.

“Maybe it’s worth looking into again,” he said carefully. “Just in case.”

Sirius frowned. “You think he’s still out there?”

Harry forced a shrug. “I don’t know. But it can’t hurt to check, right?”

James nodded. “We’ll ask around. See if anyone’s heard anything.”

Harry relaxed slightly, but the tension didn’t fully leave his chest. If Peter was still out there, Harry needed to be ready. If he wanted to make sure nothing was going on behind the scenes, he would have to look into this by himself. Looks like he already found some stuff to get busy with. 

For now though, he let himself sink into the comfort of the warm living room, listening to Sirius and James debate Quidditch teams. He’d figure out the rest soon enough.

Chapter Text

Harry found himself surprisingly busy for the rest of the week. The Potter library was enormous—shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, packed with books of every size and color. At first, Harry dove into research, scouring every volume he could find about dimension-traveling mirrors. He was determined to figure out how he’d ended up here and, more importantly, how to make sure to stay forever.

But it didn’t take long for him to hit a dead end. The information he needed wasn’t here, and Harry quickly realized he’d have to rely on Snape’s expertise. Not that he doubted Snape—Lily had assured him that the potion master often got lost in research for days on end. Still, the lack of updates made Harry uneasy.

So, when his search turned up nothing, Harry shifted gears. He started devouring every book and article he could find about Grindelwald. History repeating itself was a nightmare Harry couldn’t let happen. He wouldn’t lose this family—not after he’d just found them. Every Dark Lord be damned.

When he wasn’t in research mode, Harry spent time with his parents. James and Lily made him feel so welcome it almost hurt. Sirius often dropped by for dinner or just to hang out, slipping seamlessly into the family dynamic. Watching them laugh and joke together was incredible—and honestly, Harry couldn’t decide which one he wanted to spend time with more.

Still, the research nagged at him, and he was nose-deep in yet another book—this one about magical resurrections—when a knock broke his focus.

“Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal James, wearing a grin that spelled trouble.

“Are you ready for your first night out with the Marauders?”

Harry blinked, glancing at the clock. “Shit, I completely forgot about that!” He jumped up so fast the chair nearly toppled over. “Give me a sec!”

He bolted to his room, yanking on a fresh set of robes and attempting to tame his unruly hair. It didn’t really work, but it was the effort that counted.

By the time he returned, Sirius was already lounging in the living room, looking as effortlessly cool as ever.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No worries, son. We’ve got all the time in the world.” James clapped him on the shoulder, his voice warm.

Harry swallowed thickly. He really hoped so.

“Take care of yourselves, my lovely boys.” Lily poked her head out of the kitchen, her sharp gaze landing on each of them. “And no pranks.” She pointed her finger at James and Sirius in warning before softening as she turned to Harry. “And you—stay safe.”

Harry rolled his eyes, grinning. “Mum, I’m an adult, remember? I even defeated a Dark Lord. I think I can handle myself.”

The words had barely left his mouth before he regretted them. Lily flinched, her smile faltering.

Harry winced. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

Lily took a shaky breath but quickly pulled him into a tight hug. “No, it’s my fault. It just makes me angry sometimes—knowing I wasn’t there when you needed me most.”

Harry opened his mouth to reassure her, but she pressed a kiss to his forehead, cutting him off.

“But I’ve got another chance now,” she said firmly. “And you’ll never get rid of me.”

Harry smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alright, enough sadness!” Lily straightened, waving them toward the fireplace. “Go have fun!”

“We promise to behave, Lils.” James gave her a quick kiss before grabbing a handful of Floo Powder.

“To Hogsmeade!”

Harry hugged Lily one last time before stepping into the fireplace, excitement bubbling in his chest. He couldn’t wait to see Hogsmeade again—this time in her full glory before it got destroyed in the war.

As the green flames roared to life, Harry’s thoughts buzzed with anticipation. 

══════════════════

Hogsmeade was breathtaking. The entire village seemed to hum with magic, alive with energy and charm. Snow-dusted rooftops sparkled under the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, and the streets bustled with witches and wizards chatting, laughing, and weaving between the shops. The air smelled of butterbeer and freshly baked pastries, making Harry’s stomach grumble despite his excitement.

Compared to Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade felt warmer, cozier—like a place where people came not just to shop but to gather and celebrate life. It was exactly how Harry had always imagined a magical village should be. He barely had time to take it all in before James and Sirius guided him through the crowd and towards The Three Broomsticks. 

The moment they stepped inside, Harry felt like he’d been dropped into a whirlwind. The tavern was packed, tables brimming with cheerful groups, laughter echoing off the walls. The air smelled of butterbeer and roasted meat, and enchanted lanterns hovered overhead, bathing the space in soft, flickering light.

Harry barely had time to take it all in before an excited wave caught his attention.

Remus.

His heart leaped. It was so good to see him again, alive and smiling.

Harry followed James and Sirius toward their friend, nerves twisting in his stomach. They had decided not to tell Remus the truth—for now, at least. James and Sirius had agonized over it, but in the end, they all agreed it was safer this way. The fewer people who knew, the better.

Still, it felt strange keeping secrets from someone Harry had always trusted with everything.

Remus greeted him warmly, his hand extended. “Harrison, it’s great to finally meet you.” He had the same calm, steady presence that Harry remembered—the kind that instantly put people at ease.

Harry shook his hand firmly, smiling. “Nice to meet you too.”

Remus gestured toward the table. “Come on, sit. I can’t wait to get to know you. These two won’t stop talking about you.”

Harry chuckled and slid into the seat at the edge of the booth. “I hope I can live up to the expectations.”

“Don’t let Moony fool you,” Sirius cut in with a grin. “He’s just jealous because he was the last one to meet you.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Someone had to work, you know.”

Harry leaned back in his seat, soaking in the easy banter. It felt so normal—so right . He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this kind of camaraderie.

“So, Harrison,” Remus started, leaning forward with genuine interest. “What’s your story? James said you’ve been living far from here?”

Harry hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Yeah, I grew up in a small wizarding community—pretty isolated, honestly. Moving here’s been... an adjustment, but a good one.”

Remus hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds like a big change. But with this lot looking out for you, I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” Harry shot a playful look at James and Sirius. “Though I’m not sure what I’ve signed up for with these two.”

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Harry. We’re the best company.”

“The best at causing trouble,” Remus muttered.

Laughter erupted around the table and Harry let himself relax. He took a sip of his butterbeer, savoring the rich, frothy warmth that settled in his chest—not just from the drink, but from the undeniable comfort of being here, surrounded by people who already felt like family.

The Marauders were in their element, tossing jokes back and forth with reckless abandon. Their laughter echoed off the walls, loud and carefree. Harry couldn’t always keep up with the references—they had years of history he wasn’t a part of—but it didn’t matter. Their joy was contagious, pulling him into the moment until he found himself smiling along.

But then, as his gaze wandered around the busy tavern, something shifted.

A flash of blond hair caught his eye. Harry concentrated better.

The man moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with purposeful strides. He glanced over his shoulder more than once, his movements twitchy and restless. Harry’s instincts flared.

Years of training, battles, and near-death experiences had honed his gut feelings, and this one screamed danger.

He tried to shake it off, to focus on the Marauders’ laughter and the safety of the moment—but he couldn’t. His muscles tensed, his heart picking up speed. Something wasn’t right.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, pushing back his chair before anyone could question him.

He kept his head down as he slipped away, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. The blond man—Lucius Malfoy, if Harry’s eyes weren’t deceiving him—was already at the base of the staircase, disappearing up the steps.

Harry’s pulse quickened.

Lucius Malfoy.

In his experience, that name never spelled anything good. The tension in his shoulders tightened as he shadowed Malfoy from a safe distance, slipping into the flow of the crowd like he’d been trained to do. Without his Invisibility Cloak, - oh, how he missed that precious thing - he had to rely on subtlety, ducking behind groups of wizards and witches whenever Malfoy glanced back. At the top of the stairs, Lucius stopped outside a door, already deep in hushed conversation with another man. Harry slowed, trying to angle for a better view, but the stranger had his back turned.

Harry edged closer, his footsteps light. He couldn’t make out their words, but the sharp gestures and stiff postures spoke volumes. Lucius looked agitated—more agitated than Harry had ever seen him—and the other man wasn’t much better.

Something about it made Harry’s stomach churn.

Then, just as suddenly as the conversation had started, it ended. The stranger ducked inside the room, and Lucius followed, leaving the door slightly ajar behind them.

Harry hesitated.

Everything about this felt wrong, but without more information, he had no idea what he was walking into.

Harry was so focused on trailing Malfoy that he didn’t notice someone descending the stairs—at least, not until he walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.

The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he stumbled back with a sharp wince. Merlin, that hurt. At least he didn’t have to wear glasses anymore—those would’ve been shattered for sure.

Before he could regain his footing, strong hands gripped his arms, steadying him before he could tumble down the stairs entirely.

“Careful there,” a deep voice drawled.

Harry froze.

It couldn’t be.

His stomach plummeted as he looked up—and locked eyes with Tom. Bloody. Riddle. Or, as he was known here, Minister of Magic Tom Marvolo Gaunt.

For a split second, Harry’s brain short-circuited.

How? How had he already managed to bump into the man he’d sworn to avoid? It hadn’t even been a week. Was the universe laughing at him?

Of course it was.

“Uh—sorry,” Harry blurted, scrambling to take a step back, but Tom’s hands didn’t immediately drop.

Instead, Riddle—no, Gaunt—studied him. Intently.

The weight of that gaze sent heat prickling across Harry’s skin. It was sharp, calculating, and far too intense, like the man could peel him apart piece by piece just by looking.

Harry swallowed hard, trying to will away the ridiculous blush creeping up his neck. Stop it. Focus. He’s evil. E-V-I-L. Not someone you admire for being attractive.

But, damn it all, why did the man have to be so… devastatingly handsome?

Dark, neatly styled hair. Sharp cheekbones. An air of effortless authority wrapped in tailored robes that probably cost more than Harry’s entire wardrobe.

Nope. Stop that. Right now.

This wasn’t some flustered teenage crush. Harry was an adult—a twenty-five-year-old adult —who had faced down Dark Lords, dragons, and Death Eaters. He was not going to be undone by a pair of piercing eyes and perfectly sculpted features.

Except his face was still burning.

And Tom was still staring at him.

“Are you alright?” the man finally asked, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah. Fine. Just… wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Tom raised a brow, and Harry suddenly felt like he was being evaluated .

For what, he didn’t know—but it made his pulse jump.

“Be more careful next time,” Tom said, though the slight tilt of his head suggested curiosity more than reprimand. He lingered a second longer than necessary before finally stepping aside, giving Harry room to pass.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

He mumbled another apology, ducked his head, and hurried down the hall, silently cursing himself with every step.

Of all the people he could’ve run into tonight, why— why —did it have to be him ?

Harry felt the weight of those piercing eyes lingering on his back, but he didn’t dare to glance over his shoulder. His heart was still thundering, and the last thing he needed was to give Tom Riddle—or Gaunt, whatever—any reason to keep looking at him.

The door Malfoy had slipped into was closed tight by the time Harry reached the top of the stairs. Damn it. Of course. Just his luck. And naturally, Voldemort—past, present, or alternate universe version—was at the root of his problems again.

He let out a slow, frustrated breath and forced himself to head back downstairs. If he wanted answers, it looked like a visit to Malfoy Manor was in his future. Fantastic.

He avoided James’s questioning gaze and slipped back into the conversation as if he’d never left. Remus tossed a few casual questions his way, nothing too probing, and Harry answered them with practiced ease. It seemed Remus believed the story—or at least wasn’t pressing for more details—which was a small relief.

Still, guilt prickled at the edges of Harry’s thoughts. He hated keeping secrets from him, but now wasn’t the time to come clean. Not until he figured out how he’d ended up here—and whether staying was even an option. The last thing he needed was to give anyone a reason to ship him off to Azkaban before he had a chance to sort things out.

His mind was still churning when Remus’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“Harry, I hope you’ll make it to the annual Yule Ball this year,” Remus said, smiling warmly. “The Malfoys are hosting. It’s bound to be extravagant. Every prominent wizarding family will be there.”

Harry froze mid-sip, his butterbeer suddenly tasting a lot less comforting.

Dancing? In front of the most ancient and noble houses in Britain? No. Absolutely not.

But then something clicked.

The Malfoys?

“It’s at their manor?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, though hope flared in his chest. It might just be the perfect chance to snoop around without raising suspicion.

James nodded. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you, so we hadn’t mentioned it yet. Narcissa extended an invitation. She’ll completely understand if you’d rather skip it though. No pressure.”

Harry hesitated, pretending to mull it over before leaning back in his chair and forcing a grin. “It’s fine. I’ll go. Can’t wait, actually.”

James blinked, clearly surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” Harry said, a little too quickly.

His dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

Harry took another sip of butterbeer, already planning his next move. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to mingling with pure-blood elites—or dancing—but if the Malfoys were hiding something, he was going to find out.

Even if it meant brushing up on his ballroom steps.

══════════════════

Lily practically bounced with excitement when she learned that Harry agreed to attend the Yule Ball. Her eyes sparkled as she rattled off plans, already halfway out the door to start shopping. Harry didn’t have the heart to rain on her parade, so he let himself be swept along for another whirlwind trip through Diagon Alley. Apparently, the brand-new robes he’d gotten earlier in the week weren’t “fancy enough” for the occasion—not that Harry dared argue. He quickly learned it was pointless to debate the finer details of formal wizarding attire with Lily Potter. Instead, he plastered on a brave smile and let her drag him from shop to shop, admiring how much joy it brought her.

When they returned home, Sirius immediately took charge of Harry’s “dance education.” He claimed he was the best dancer in the family—“a natural-born charmer,” as he put it—and decided Harry needed to learn moves that would “drive witches wild.” Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan as Sirius demonstrated dramatic spins and flourishes, pausing only to toss out endless jokes about Harry’s awkward and stiff dancing technique. Sirius’s antics were impossible to ignore, and by the end of the day, Harry was red-faced and laughing so hard his stomach hurt.

Lily stepped in later as his actual dance partner, providing far more practical help. Her patience and encouragement made it easier for Harry to find his rhythm, and after a few attempts, he managed to make it through a full song without tripping over his own feet. The pride in her smile and the warm hug she gave him afterward made all the effort worth it.

Surprisingly, Harry found himself craving moments like these—moments filled with laughter, warmth, and the kind of affection he’d once thought was out of reach. He’d never pegged himself as someone who enjoyed being fussed over, but now? He couldn’t get enough. Cozy movie nights sprawled across the sofa often turned into full-blown cuddle sessions with his parents, and Harry let himself sink into the comfort of it all. It felt so natural, so right —like this was how life was always supposed to be.

Still, a small part of him couldn’t quite relax. Snape was still missing in action, and the longer his absence stretched, the harder it was to ignore the gnawing anxiety in Harry’s gut. Lily, however, remained unfazed. She assured Harry—multiple times—that Severus wouldn’t miss the Yule Ball for anything, and when he finally showed up, Harry could corner him for answers.

It was strange—anticipating an event like this. Balls weren’t exactly Harry’s idea of fun, but the closer the date came, the more he felt like he was waiting for something to happen. He couldn’t shake the sense that Malfoy Manor held more than just pretty decorations and polite conversation. There were secrets there—he knew it.

He was already working on a plan to slip away unnoticed, blending into the crowd when no one was looking. This wasn’t just a party. It was an opportunity, and Harry wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

The Yule Ball couldn’t come soon enough.

══════════════════

Saturday evening arrived in a flurry of nerves and excitement as the Potter family gathered in the sitting room, dressed in elegant robes. Harry adjusted his collar for what felt like the hundredth time while James leaned casually against the mantel, looking far too calm for someone about to attend one of the most extravagant events of the year. Meanwhile, Lily was a flurry of movement, dashing up and down the stairs in search of her favorite earrings.

“Found it!” she finally declared, triumphantly pulling it out from under the couch cushions. Her victory was slightly overshadowed by her disheveled hair, which earned a few chuckles from James and Harry. Determined not to leave in chaos, she spent another ten minutes fixing it, brushing off their teasing with a pointed look.

When they were finally ready, Lily held out the invitation—a shimmering silver card embedded with swirling emerald designs. It doubled as a portkey, and the three of them linked arms before touching it together. A sharp tug behind Harry’s navel later, they landed in the courtyard of Malfoy Manor.

The sight took Harry’s breath away. He’d caught glimpses of the manor before, but never like this. The massive estate stood tall and elegant, its light gray stone exterior glowing softly under the floating lights that lined the courtyard. The decorations were tasteful—subtle streams of enchanted silver and green ribbon spiraled around columns, and floating orbs of light hovered above, casting the space in a soft, ethereal glow. It was almost… welcoming. Not at all the dark and imposing fortress he’d pictured.

Harry couldn’t help but glance around, half-expecting shadows to jump out at him. But there were no signs of hidden threats or ominous corners. Just polished marble paths, immaculate flowerbeds, and the soft hum of conversation drifting from the open doors. It felt strange to see the Malfoys' home looking so—normal.

When they stepped into the hall, Harry’s jaw nearly hit the floor. The Malfoys didn’t just know luxury—they embodied it. The entire place looked like something out of a fairy tale. If the outside of the manor was elegant and restrained, the inside was its flamboyant, show-stopping counterpart.

The high ceilings sparkled with enchanted chandeliers, their crystals refracting light in every direction, while the marble floors gleamed so brightly that Harry could see his reflection staring back at him. Delicate silver and emerald draperies cascaded down the walls, complementing the floating lanterns that bathed the hall in a warm, golden glow. Soft, orchestral music drifted through the air, blending seamlessly with the hum of conversation as finely dressed witches and wizards milled about, sipping champagne and exchanging pleasantries.

Despite the dazzling spectacle, Harry couldn’t shake his unease. He could already feel curious eyes lingering on them, whispers brushing the edges of his hearing like ghostly fingers. For now, no one dared to approach, but Harry knew it was only a matter of time before someone’s curiosity overrode their manners.

And sure enough, it didn’t take long.

Narcissa Malfoy spotted them almost immediately. She glided across the floor with practiced grace, the train of her silver gown trailing behind her like liquid moonlight. Her sharp, pale features were perfectly composed, but her eyes lit up with interest the moment they settled on Harry.

Harry stiffened slightly under her gaze, but Narcissa’s smile softened just enough to disarm him. 

“I’m so glad you could make it. I was beginning to worry you might not come after all,” Narcissa said, her voice dripping with elegance and charm.

“Apologies for our delay,” Lily cut in smoothly before any of the boys could blurt out the real reason they’d been scrambling to leave. “A slight mishap before our departure, but nothing too serious.”

Narcissa’s eyes glimmered with amusement, as though she had a pretty good idea what had caused their tardiness. Still, she didn’t press. Instead, she turned her attention back to Harry, her sharp gaze assessing him like a jeweler inspecting a rare gem.

“Harrison,” she said, her tone warm yet precise, “I can’t wait to introduce you to my son. Draco’s been eager to meet you ever since I told him about our encounter.”

Harry mustered his most polite smile, forcing himself to nod. “Of course. I’m looking forward to meeting him,” he replied, his voice steady even as his stomach churned.

He could already feel the weight of what was coming. How was he supposed to act like Draco Malfoy was a total stranger when he’d spent his entire childhood clashing with him? It wasn’t just the rivalry—Draco had been a defining part of his past, for better or worse.

And yet, this Draco was someone completely new. For all Harry knew, they were worlds apart—literally and figuratively. He couldn’t let himself make assumptions, no matter how familiar the name felt on his tongue.

He stole a quick glance at Narcissa, noting how much softer she seemed compared to the woman he remembered. Maybe this world’s Malfoys weren’t as cold and calculating. Then again, Harry had already learned that appearances could be deceiving.

And don’t even get me started on Snape, Harry thought to himself. That man was practically an entirely new person—a version he never imagined existed. If Snape could be different, who’s to say Draco couldn’t be too?

After Narcissa’s warm welcome, it was as if a floodgate had burst open. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the mysterious new ward of the Potters. Harry quickly found himself surrounded by curious faces, their questions piling up faster than he could process. He tried to keep track of names and match them to faces, but it was a losing battle.

Some were vaguely familiar—people he recognized from old newspaper clippings or portraits in Hogwarts—but most were complete strangers. Strangers who, unfortunately, had no problem prying into his personal life.

Luckily, his parents were master conversationalists. James deflected pointed questions with charm and humor, while Lily expertly steered conversations toward safer topics. They rescued Harry time and time again, cutting off nosy inquiries before they could veer too close to dangerous truths.

Still, it was exhausting. His cheeks ached from plastering on polite smiles, and by the hundredth question about his lineage, he couldn’t take it anymore. Harry muttered a quick excuse about needing fresh air and slipped away before anyone could stop him.

The cool evening breeze hit him the moment he stepped onto the balcony. He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp night air calm his nerves and loosen the tension in his shoulders. The crowd’s chatter faded into background noise, and for the first time all evening, he felt like he could think.

Now for the real challenge. How was he supposed to sneak around unnoticed in a place crawling with people who wouldn’t hesitate to corner him for a chat? Maybe he hadn’t thought this plan through well enough.

Harry was so lost in thought, already plotting ways to slip past the guests, that he didn’t notice someone stepping onto the balcony until it was too late.

The slight shift in movement at his left sent his instincts into overdrive. Without hesitation, he spun, wand raised and ready to cast. Years of battle and survival had honed his reflexes to the point where his body moved faster than his mind.

It wasn’t until the tip of his wand was aimed squarely at the stranger’s chest that realization slammed into him like a brick wall.

Standing before him, as calm as ever, was none other than the Minister of Magic.

Just his bloody luck.

Chapter Text

Harry’s heart sank. Of course. Of course it’s him.

His pulse quickened, but he schooled his expression into something neutral, lowering his wand as casually as he could manage.

“Apologies,” Harry said, though his voice was tight. “Old habits.”

Tom’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. It felt more like a predator amused by its prey.

“No need to apologize,” Tom replied smoothly, his gaze never wavering. “Caution is admirable.”

First, he’d nearly flattened the man in the Three Broomsticks, and now he’d almost hexed him at a formal event. If Harry kept this up, he wouldn’t even need to reveal he was from another dimension—he’d land himself in Azkaban purely on bad manners.

Swallowing his nerves, Harry forced his hand to drop to his side, trying not to look like he’d just had a near-panic attack. Meanwhile, the Minister—impeccably dressed and effortlessly composed—tilted his head, studying Harry with sharp, calculating eyes.

“I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” Tom said smoothly, his voice like velvet but with an undertone that sent a chill down Harry’s spine. “I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to make your acquaintance. The Potters are truly remarkable people. I couldn’t help but wonder—how is their newest addition settling in?”

Harry swallowed and plastered on a polite smile, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt. “They’re… great. Honestly, they’ve been helping me a lot.”

It wasn’t a lie. But as Gaunt’s gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being studied—examined like a puzzle the Minister was already halfway to solving.

“You have quite the resemblance to them,” Tom remarked, his piercing gaze never wavering. “But then again, you are a Potter, after all.”

Harry swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. It really wasn’t fair. How could someone be this intimidating and ridiculously good-looking at the same time? Worse, the man was sharp—too sharp. One glance, and he already seemed to be peeling back the layers, searching for cracks in Harry’s story.

Harry forced a smile. “Uh—yeah. It was a bit of a surprise for everyone at first,” he said, trying to sound casual but feeling anything but.

The Minister hummed softly, as though considering Harry’s words, and the sound sent another ripple of anxiety through him. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, injecting just the right amount of politeness into his tone. “They’re probably looking for me already. I only stepped out for a moment, and I promised I wouldn’t be long. If you’ll excuse me…”

Tom’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile but felt dangerously close to one. “Of course,” he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with an elegance “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you away. Until next time.”

Harry gave a stiff nod and turned on his heel, resisting the urge to sprint back inside. The weight of Tom’s words lingered behind him, far heavier than they should have been, and Harry couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that “next time” might come far sooner than he’d like.

Harry slipped back inside the ballroom, smoothing down his robes and trying to shake off the lingering tension from his run-in with Tom. The room was even more crowded now, buzzing with conversation and laughter, but Harry couldn’t seem to focus on any of it. His eyes scanned the crowd automatically, searching for something—anything—to distract him from the unsettling encounter. That’s when he saw him.

Lucius Malfoy.

The man stood near the edge of the room, partially obscured by the massive ice sculpture centerpiece. His polished appearance blended seamlessly with the other guests, but Harry noticed the way his eyes kept flicking toward the far corner of the hall, like he was waiting for someone. His fingers twitched against the stem of his wine glass, and Harry knew that look. Nervous. On edge. Hiding something.

Harry’s instincts flared. Lucius wasn’t just here to sip champagne and show off his wealth—he was up to something.

Harry made his way toward the refreshment table, pretending to be interested in the pastries while keeping Lucius in his peripheral vision. It didn’t take long before the blond slipped through a side door, glancing over his shoulder as he went.

Bingo.

Harry abandoned his untouched pastry and casually weaved through the crowd. Once near the door, he glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention before slipping through it. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with elegant sconces and polished wood floors that made every step echo. He moved carefully, keeping his steps light as he followed the faint sound of footsteps ahead.

Lucius disappeared around a corner, and Harry quickened his pace, pausing just before reaching the bend. Peering around the edge, he saw the older man vanish into a room at the end of the hall. Harry hesitated, pressing himself against the wall and straining to hear through the heavy wooden door.

Voices.

The muffled voices inside grew clearer as he strained to listen, heart pounding so loud he worried they might hear it through the wood.

“…secured the artifact. But it wasn’t easy,” Lucius said, his voice low and sharp. “If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t,” the other voice interrupted. It was smooth, calm, and unfamiliar. Harry frowned, trying to place it, but nothing came to mind. Whoever it was, they sounded important—dangerous even. “It’s in safe hands now. The plan is already in motion.”

Harry’s stomach churned. Artifact? Plan? He leaned in closer.

“Do you have any idea what this could mean? The power we’re holding?” Lucius’s voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. “The Resurrection Stone, it’s—”

Harry’s breath hitched. The Resurrection Stone?

Memories flashed through his mind—the Deathly Hallows, the ring, the stone that had let him see his parents for a fleeting moment. 

“I know exactly what it is,” the stranger cut him off, voice cold and final. “That’s why we can’t afford any mistakes. We’re this close—don’t ruin it.”

Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. He needed to hear more—he had to hear more. But before he could lean in any closer, the voices stopped.

His pulse spiked, but his instincts kicked in before panic could root him to the spot. He spun on his heel and darted down the hallway.

He barely made it around the corner when Lucius stepped out, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. Harry flattened himself against the wall, pressing into the shadows as he listened.

“Keep moving,” the stranger’s voice murmured, low and sharp. “We don’t have time for distractions.”

Lucius muttered something in response, but Harry didn’t wait to hear it. He crept further down the hall, heart pounding in his chest as he slipped through an open door and ducked inside. He shut it carefully behind him, barely daring to breathe as he listened for footsteps.

They passed by moments later—slow, deliberate steps that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise. He stayed perfectly still, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The footsteps faded, swallowed by the hum of the ballroom.

Harry let out a shaky breath, his heart still racing. He leaned against the door, his mind spinning.

The Resurrection Stone.

He had no idea how they’d found about it—or what they were planning—but one thing was clear. He needed answers, and he needed them fast.

For now, though, he needed to act normal. Steeling himself, Harry straightened his robes and slipped back into the crowd, forcing his breathing to steady as he rejoined the ball. No one batted an eye as he returned, but Harry couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

The last time it had been Dumbledore who had found the stone and entrusted it to Harry. Could they already have it? And what were they planning to do with it? Harry’s mind spiraled with questions. Could it be something like what happened in his universe? Were they trying to bring back Grindelwald? The possibilities gnawed at him, one darker than the next.

Should he try to find his old headmaster? But then, maybe Dumbledore wasn’t as involved here. After all, in this reality, Tom Gaunt had destroyed the Dark Lord alone. Maybe he wasn’t the key to this. Or maybe—no, that was crazy. He shouldn’t trust the Minister. Tom Riddle’s charm and polished persona were too perfect. Harry wasn’t sure whether the man was truly good or simply playing the part. He needed more information, and fast.

“Harry, dear, come meet the rest of the Malfoys,” Lily’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. He quickly schooled his expression, hiding the tension that still coiled in his stomach.

His parents were standing with none other than Draco and Lucius Malfoy. Harry’s throat went dry, and a sense of dread settled over him. Why did he always end up in these situations? He had hoped for a quiet evening—maybe a chance to figure things out. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Malfoy. Draco.” Harry offered a firm handshake, his smile polite but guarded as he exchanged greetings with the pair. Draco’s expression was carefully neutral, though Harry caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. Lucius, on the other hand, barely hid the disdain curling at the edges of his mouth as he gave Harry a once-over.

“I understand you’ve recently come from the countryside,” Lucius said, his tone dripping with condescension. “It must be quite an adjustment, stepping into proper wizarding society. Tell me, did your family relocate before the war? I can’t seem to recall hearing much about them.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, but he smoothed his features before Lucius could notice. This was a test—he could feel it—and there was no way he’d let Malfoy see him flinch.

“Well, Lord Malfoy,” Harry began, his voice calm but carrying a hint of sharpness, “I suppose the city does take some getting used to, but I find adapting comes naturally. It’s something I’ve always excelled at—especially in unfamiliar territory.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing Harry’s words, but Harry didn’t look away. He held the older man’s gaze with a quiet confidence, refusing to be intimidated.

“Adaptation can be useful, I suppose,” Lucius finally said, his tone clipped. “Though, in my experience, strong roots tend to matter far more.”

Harry’s smile didn’t waver. “Good thing I have both, then.”

Beside him, Draco looked mildly impressed, though he quickly schooled his features back into indifference. Harry, however, didn’t miss the way Lucius’s lips pressed together in faint irritation. Score one for him.

Lily coughed lightly, breaking the tension with a gentle nudge to Harry’s arm. “Why don’t we let the boys talk for a moment?” she suggested, shooting her son a look that said behave.

As the adults stepped aside, Harry felt Draco’s curious gaze linger on him. “You’re not what I expected,” Draco said at last.

Harry smirked. “Yeah? What were you expecting?”

Draco shrugged, trying to play it cool, but Harry caught the flicker of intrigue in his eyes. “Someone… quieter.”

Harry let out a short laugh. “Guess I like to surprise people.”

Draco’s eyes glinted with something unreadable.“Well looks like you will do just fine here.” 

Harry arched a brow, studying Draco carefully. “Do just fine?” he echoed, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “You make it sound like I’m starting a new job.”

Draco smirked, leaning casually against one of the marble pillars. “You kind of are. Being a Potter comes with expectations, you know.”

Harry tilted his head. “Oh? And you’d know all about expectations, wouldn’t you?”

Draco’s smirk faltered for just a second, but he recovered quickly, straightening his shoulders. “Touché.” He crossed his arms, but the sharp edge in his eyes softened. “You’re different, though. 

Harry tried not to stiffen at that, masking his unease with a casual shrug. “Guess I didn’t have much time to be molded.”

Draco studied him for a beat longer, like he was weighing Harry’s words. Finally, he said, “People talk, you know. About where you came from. About why the Potters suddenly have a long-lost heir no one’s heard of.”

Harry’s stomach flipped, but he kept his expression neutral. “People like to talk,” he said lightly, then added, “But I’ve learned not to care much about gossip.”

Draco’s lips twitched, almost like he was impressed. “Careful, Harrison. That kind of attitude might make people think you belong here.”

Harry chuckled, though his thoughts were far from lighthearted. Draco was sharp—too sharp—and Harry needed to tread carefully. He couldn’t afford to draw too much attention, not when he’d just overheard Lucius talking about the Resurrection Stone.

“What about you?” Harry asked, steering the conversation away from himself. “Don’t tell me being a Malfoy doesn’t come with any expectations.”

Draco’s eyes darkened, but he brushed off the question with a practiced ease that reminded Harry too much of Lucius. “Of course it does. But expectations aren’t so bad when you’re born to meet them.”

The words were confident, but Harry caught the slight tightness in Draco’s jaw. Something about it nagged at him.

“Still sounds exhausting,” Harry said, testing the waters. “Having to always measure up to someone else’s idea of who you should be.”

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting that. He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, his expression flickering with something Harry couldn’t quite place—uncertainty? Doubt?

Before Draco could respond, the music shifted, and Narcissa’s voice rang out across the hall, calling the guests toward the center of the ballroom for the first dance.

Draco straightened, smoothing down the front of his robes. “Looks like we’re being summoned.”

══════════════════

Harry leaned against the wall, a glass of pumpkin fizz in hand as he watched the couples sweep across the dance floor. The orchestra played a lilting waltz, the music echoing softly in the grand hall. Sirius stood beside him, arms crossed and an expression that teetered between amusement and boredom.

"Can you believe this?" Sirius muttered, nodding toward the center of the dance floor where Lucius Malfoy twirled Narcissa with practiced elegance. "The man looks like he’s choreographed this moment his entire life."

Harry snorted. "Pretty sure he has. I bet he practiced in front of a mirror."

Sirius let out a bark of laughter that earned them a few raised eyebrows, but neither cared. They both took a sip of their drinks and resumed their people-watching. Couples swirled past them, the jewels on their robes catching the light and making the room sparkle.

"No date tonight, Sirius?" Harry teased, glancing at his godfather’s empty arm.

"Not for lack of trying," Sirius said with a grin. "But I figured I’d spare the ladies the heartbreak of sharing me with everyone else tonight."

Harry rolled his eyes but felt his grin widen. Being around Sirius always made things lighter, easier.

The music slowed, and applause rippled through the room as the first dance ended. Harry set his glass down and felt someone tug his arm. He turned to find Lily smiling at him, her green eyes bright with mischief.

"Come on, Harry," she said, pulling him toward the floor. "One dance won’t kill you."

Harry groaned dramatically, but Sirius gave him a playful shove toward her. "Go on, kid. Show ‘em how it’s done."

Lily laughed, and Harry couldn’t help but smile as he let her lead him into the open space. The music shifted to something slower, and Harry swallowed the nervous flutter in his chest. His mother moved effortlessly, guiding him through the steps.

"Relax," she said, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "You’re doing great."

Harry managed to look up and meet her eyes instead of staring at his feet. "I’m pretty sure you’re carrying this whole dance."

"You’re keeping up just fine," she teased. "Though maybe we should practice more often."

They spun gently, the world narrowing to just the two of them for a moment. 

“I’m so glad I got you back” Lily said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes shimmered, threatening tears she refused to let fall.

Harry’s chest tightened, but he managed a small, sincere smile. “Me too. This... this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They kept moving, but the words lingered, heavy in the space between them.

After a beat, Harry’s voice dropped. “Do you think I can keep this?” He hesitated, as if saying it aloud might make it all come crashing down. “I mean... I don’t think I deserve this much happiness. It doesn’t feel fair.”

Lily slowed their steps, her gaze locking onto his. “Harry...”

He pressed on before she could interrupt. “I’ve lost so many people—people who’ll never get to dance like this, or laugh, or feel safe. And yet, here I am, like it’s all normal.” His throat tightened. “It’s not fair to them.”

Lily reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek in a gesture so gentle it nearly broke him.

“It’s okay to feel that way,” she said softly. “But you can’t punish yourself for being happy.”

Harry swallowed hard, unsure if he could believe her.

“You’re not taking this from anyone, Harry,” she continued, her voice firm but kind. “You’re living—for yourself, and maybe even for them, too. And I think... I think that’s what they would’ve wanted.”

Harry’s chest ached, but he nodded, holding onto her words like a lifeline.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music.

After the song ended, Harry and Lily returned to their small group, where Sirius and James were already deep in conversation—though from the way Sirius was grinning, it was less about serious matters and more about whatever ridiculous joke he had just told.

“And then—then he hexed him so badly he couldn’t walk straight for a week,” Sirius said, nearly doubling over with laughter.

James shook his head, trying to suppress a chuckle. “Serves him right. No one insults a Black and gets away unscathed.”

“Especially not Regulus.” Sirius smirked before noticing Harry and Lily rejoining them. “Ah, there they are! And still in one piece. How’d the dancing go?”

“Not as bad as I expected,” Harry admitted, earning a playful nudge from Lily.

“He did great,” she said proudly. “Maybe even better than you, Sirius.”

Sirius feigned a gasp. “Impossible! Clearly, we need to have a dance-off to settle this.”

“Please don’t,” James groaned. “I’m still recovering from the last time you tried to prove you had rhythm.”

The group dissolved into laughter, and the same light atmosphere stayed for the rest of the evening. 

But as the night stretched on and the crowd began to thin, Harry’s thoughts started to wander again. The overheard conversation, the whispers of the stone—it lingered in the back of his mind.

James seemed to notice Harry’s shift in mood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ready to call it a night, kiddo?”

Harry blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. “Yeah. Definitely. I haven't seen Severus around though. Shouldn't we wait a little more for him?”

Lily leaned in with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll owl him tomorrow.”

Harry nodded, managing a small smile as they gathered their things and left through the flow.

The moment they landed back at home, the cozy familiarity of the Potter household settled around Harry like a warm blanket.

“Hot chocolate, anyone?” Lily asked, already heading toward the kitchen.

“I’ll take two cups,” Sirius called after her before flopping onto the couch.

James chuckled and turned to Harry. “You did well tonight. I’m proud of you.”

Harry’s chest swelled at the words, and he smiled despite himself. “Thanks, Dad.”

And as he sat down, surrounded by laughter and warmth, Harry let himself believe—just for tonight—that maybe this happiness wasn’t so temporary after all.

Chapter Text

Harry stood in the rattling elevator of the Ministry of Magic, the soft hum of its descent doing little to calm the nerves twisting in his stomach. How had he ended up here of all places you ask? Well, that was a story that started over dinner.

“Harry, you’ve been distracted all day—and making all kinds of frustrated noises,” James said, raising an eyebrow as he set down his fork. “Care to share what’s eating at you?”

Harry sighed, shoving a book aside with more force than necessary. “Sorry, I just can’t find any useful information about this artifact I’m looking into.” His voice carried a sharp edge of frustration, and he raked a hand through his hair.

“An artifact?” Lily asked, setting a fresh helping of vegetables onto his plate. “What’s so important about it?”

Harry hesitated, his fork pausing mid-air before he carefully set it down. “It was... really close to me in my world,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “And I want to find it again.”

She seemed to accept the explanation and leaned back in her chair. “Well, there are a lot of ancient texts in the Ministry Archives,” she said thoughtfully. “But you’d need proper authorization to access them.”

Harry’s head snapped up, hope flaring in his chest. The Ministry Archives. How could he not have thought of that sooner? If there was any place in this world that might hold answers about the stone, it was there.

“It’s too bad, though,” Lily added with a sigh. “Only officials and researchers with clearance can get in.”

Harry’s mind was already spinning with possibilities. Getting access wouldn’t be easy, but he wasn’t completely without options. He just needed a believable excuse—and a little luck.

And that’s how Harry found himself riding a rickety Ministry elevator the very next morning, the golden grilles clinking shut behind him as the lift shuddered downward.

The official story, if anyone asked? He was visiting his dad at work. After all, James Potter wasn’t just any Ministry employee—he was one of the top Aurors in the department, famous for solving high-profile cases and catching dark wizards like no one else. That reputation alone gave Harry enough leeway to wander a little without raising too many eyebrows.

Still, as the lift jolted to a stop, Harry tugged at the collar of his robes, trying to look more confident than he felt.

Thankfully, no one spared him more than a passing glance. The Ministry was a maze of bustling witches and wizards, all too absorbed in their own tasks to notice one more person navigating the hallways. Harry kept his head down, blending in with the sea of overworked employees, and adjusted his tie to look like he belonged.

His footsteps echoed faintly as he moved deeper into the building. He had a vague idea of where the archive room was—at least, he hoped he did. 

The plan wasn’t foolproof—far from it. He was banking on the idea that most people wouldn’t question him. After all, he was a Potter now, one of the most preeminent wizarding houses. People would assume he had permission to be there, wouldn’t they?

But the real challenge wasn’t dodging strangers. It was avoiding James. His dad had a sharp eye and a knack for spotting trouble—traits Harry had admired, except for moments like this. If James saw him, there’d be questions—questions Harry wasn’t ready to answer.

His fingers brushed the wand tucked safely inside his sleeve, drawing a little courage from its presence. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not really. He just needed answers, and this was the only way to get them.

When Harry finally reached the archives, he was surprised to find it almost bizarrely quiet. Rows of towering shelves stretched endlessly, packed with scrolls, books, and files that smelled faintly of parchment and ink. The soft hum of magic lingered in the air, making the space feel both ancient and alive.

At the far end of the room, a lone witch sat behind a polished oak desk, her quill scratching against parchment in rhythmic strokes. She barely glanced up as Harry entered, flipping papers with the kind of practiced ease that suggested she’d been doing this job for years.

Harry adjusted his stance, straightening his shoulders to appear more confident than he felt. He caught her eye briefly, offering a polite nod, which she returned with the faintest flicker of acknowledgement before going right back to her work.

Good. He was in.

 He trailed his fingers lightly along the edge of the nearest shelf as he moved deeper into the archives, his eyes scanning the faded labels and categories etched into the wood. Most of them were numbered codes and Ministry jargon—nothing that immediately stood out as helpful.

“Come on,” Harry muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “Where would they hide something about the Deathly Hallows?”

He paused at a junction where the shelves split into three different rows, each one stretching so far back it made his stomach sink. This was going to take forever.

Harry pulled out his wand, giving it a subtle flick. “Point me,” he whispered, focusing intently on the resurrection stone.

His wand trembled slightly before jerking to the left. Harry’s heart leaped. At least it was something.

He followed the direction carefully, weaving between shelves as he tried to lay low. The deeper he went, the dimmer the lights became, leaving shadows stretching long across the floor. It was colder back here too, like the air hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Finally, his wand slowed, pointing directly at a section marked ‘Ancient Relics and Magical Artifacts—Restricted.’

Of course. Locked.

The door pulsed faintly with magic—layers of protective wards so thick he could almost taste them. Whoever had locked this down didn’t want anyone snooping around.

Harry knelt in front of the bolt, his wand steady as he whispered, “Revelio.”

Golden light swept over the surface, revealing intricate patterns of magical defenses—hexes, curses, even alarm spells woven so tightly together that breaking one would set off the others. It was like a magical minefield.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered.

Harry flicked his wand in a sharp arc and whispered, “Imperturbatio.”

A soft shimmer expanded outward, sealing the space in a bubble of silence. Whatever chaos he might unleash in the next few minutes would stay contained—no echoes, no alerts, no curious ears catching the sound of spells firing.

That should buy him time.

He took a steadying breath. He didn’t have Hermione’s encyclopedic knowledge of ancient wards, but he’d faced worse. He knew enough.

He pointed his wand at the first layer and whispered, “Diffindo Arcanum.”

The spell cut through the outer barrier like a knife, unraveling the shimmering web of runes. But the moment it collapsed, the second layer flared to life—a fiery red shield that hissed as it expanded outward.

Harry gritted his teeth. “Protego Maxima!”

A shimmering dome flared around him just in time to block the explosion that blasted outward. Sparks rained down, but his shield held—barely. The impact left his wand buzzing in his hand.

He didn’t stop to catch his breath. The third ward was already crackling to life, tendrils of magic slithering across the glass like serpents.

“Not today,” Harry muttered, raising his wand again.

“Finite Incantatem!”

The serpents recoiled but didn’t disappear entirely. They twisted angrily, lashing out in defense.

“Incarcerous Vinctura!”

Thick cords of golden light shot from his wand, binding the magical tendrils like ropes and dragging them back into the lock. With one final flick, Harry sealed them in place.

The door gave a low hum before settling. The wards were down.

Harry let out a shaky breath and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The door gave a soft click, and Harry didn’t waste a second. He shoved it open just wide enough to slip through, closing it carefully behind him.

The restricted section was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and magic that buzzed faintly against his skin. Towering shelves loomed in every direction, packed tight with ancient tomes and scrolls bound in leather, silk, and even what looked unsettlingly like human skin.

Harry suppressed a shiver.

He raised his wand. “ Lumos. ”

A soft light bloomed at the tip, casting long shadows across the room. He didn’t have time to linger or admire the eerie grandeur of the place—he needed to move quickly.

Books hovered in midair, some humming softly, others vibrating as if they had a pulse. Harry scanned their spines, searching for any clue that might point him in the right direction.

Death. Soul magic. Necromancy.

His stomach twisted. So many of these books could be dangerous, but he didn’t have the luxury of being cautious.

One shelf caught his eye—polished ebony wood with shimmering runes carved into the edges. Harry stepped closer, his wandlight dancing over the letters burned into the spines.

“The Hallows and Their Keepers.”

His breath hitched.

Harry reached for the book, his fingers brushing against the worn leather cover. The moment he touched it, a faint pulse of magic shot up his arm, making his wand flicker.

“Found you,” he whispered.

He carefully lifted the book and flipped it open, his eyes scanning the yellowed pages. Illustrations of three objects—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak—filled the first chapter.

The Deathly Hallows.

Harry’s breath caught as his eyes roamed over the familiar triangular symbol etched onto the page—the circle, the line, the triangle. The Deathly Hallows.

He flipped the page carefully, scanning the ancient text. Most of it was legend—rumors passed down through generations, but there were traces of truth buried between the lines.

His gaze snagged on a name.

The Gaunt Family.

Harry froze. He read the passage again, slower this time.

“Descendants of Salazar Slytherin, the Gaunt family was rumored to be the keepers of ancient magical artifacts. Among these, the Resurrection Stone—believed to grant the power to summon spirits from the veil—was said to have been passed down through their bloodline.”

Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Of course. The Gaunts. It all made sense now.

The stone belonged to them.

He skimmed further, eyes darting over faded ink and curling letters until he reached the most chilling part:

“After the fall of the Gaunt line, the stone’s whereabouts were lost to history. Its fate remains unknown, buried beneath rumors and forgotten bloodlines.”

The words blurred as Harry read them again, but they didn’t change. No clues, no leads—just another dead end.

Still, a sick, twisting sensation coiled in his stomach. Tom Gaunt.

It had to be him.

Harry’s thoughts raced. Tom was the last Gaunt—the only one who could have inherited it. If the stone was out there, who else would know where to look? Who else would have the resources and cunning to find it?

His chest tightened. Tom’s influence, his power, the effortless way he’d dismantled Grindelwald’s forces—it all fit. Too perfectly.

Harry shut the book with trembling fingers. He had hoped he was wrong, but now?

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

A creak at the door jolted Harry out of his spiraling thoughts.

Not again.

He ducked low, clutching the book as he slid behind a shelf. Shadows stretched across the floor, growing closer.

The door closed with a soft click, and footsteps echoed through the room.

“Who's there?”

Harry’s blood ran cold. That voice—he knew it. Smooth, confident, and unnervingly calm.

Tom Gaunt.

Harry bit back a curse and pressed himself tighter against the shelves. He could barely breathe as the footsteps paused just meters away.

“You can come out now.”

Harry’s heart pounded so hard he was sure Tom could hear it.

“Or you can keep hiding,” The Minister continued, his voice almost amused. “But I’ll find you eventually.”

Harry gripped his wand tighter, every instinct screaming at him to fight—or run.

He chose the latter.

Before Tom could move closer, Harry slipped toward the far end of the room. The moment he cleared the shelves, he sprinted for the door, slamming it open with a burst of magic and bolting down the hall.

“Stop!” Tom’s voice echoed behind him, but Harry didn’t dare slow down.

The elevator wasn’t an option—too slow—so he veered toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could hear footsteps behind him, steady and unhurried.

By the time Harry burst into the Atrium, his chest was heaving, but he didn’t stop.

He slammed into the nearest fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and yelled, “Potter Manor!”

Green flames swallowed him whole just as a shadow stepped into view.

Tom Gaunt’s eyes locked with his for a brief, heart-stopping moment—cool, calculating, and far too curious.

Then the world spun, and Harry was gone.

Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and into the sitting room at Potter Manor, landing hard on his knees. Ash clung to his robes, and his breaths came in sharp, shallow bursts. He pressed his palms against the cool floor, trying to steady himself.

“Harry?”

Lily’s voice rang out from somewhere down the hall, growing louder as she approached. Harry barely had time to stand before she appeared, her face etched with worry.

“What happened?” she demanded, eyes scanning him for injuries.

“Nothing—just… long day,” Harry managed, forcing his voice to sound normal. He straightened his robes and brushed the ash off, avoiding her gaze.

Lily didn’t look convinced.

“Long day?” she echoed, folding her arms. “You look like you ran from a pack of wild Hippogriffs.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, James and Sirius came barreling in.

“Harry?” James frowned, taking in his disheveled appearance. “What’s going on?”

“Seriously, mate.” Sirius smirked, though his tone carried a trace of concern. “You look like you’ve been in a duel.”

Harry forced a shaky laugh. “Not quite.”

He needed to play this off. They couldn’t know—not yet. Not until he had a plan.

“I just—uh—got lost on the way to find Dad’s office in the Ministry,” Harry said quickly, flashing an apologetic smile at James. “Thought I’d visit you, but apparently the Ministry’s layout hates me.”

Sirius raised a brow. “You got lost?”

Harry shrugged. “What can I say? It’s like a maze down there.”

Lily sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “You should’ve just waited here. Honestly, Harry, you didn’t have to go wandering around by yourself.”

James grinned and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Next time, I’ll give you a proper tour instead of letting you fend for yourself.”

Harry smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He could feel the weight of the book hidden under his cloak—he hadn’t had time to put it away yet—and every second it stayed there felt heavier.

“I think I just need to sit down for a bit,” he said, moving toward the staircase. “All that running around wore me out.”

Lily gave him one last searching look before nodding. “All right. But come back down for dinner later, okay? No skipping meals.”

“Got it,” Harry called over his shoulder, already heading up the stairs.

══════════════════

Once he reached his room, Harry locked the door behind him and threw up every warding spell he could think of. Only then did he collapse onto the bed, the book clutched tightly in his hands.

He let out a long breath, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

Tom Gaunt knew.

He didn’t know what Harry had been looking for specifically, but he’d seen him. Remembered him. And Harry knew that wasn’t something the Minister would forget.

Harry unfolded the book and flipped back to the section on the Gaunt family. His fingers skimmed the faded text, lingering over every word as if the answers might suddenly leap off the page. But no matter how many times he read it, the passage gave him nothing new—just whispers of bloodlines, heirlooms, and ancient magic.

He shut the book with a soft thud, exhaling sharply. His thoughts spun in a tangled mess. Was the Minister working with Lucius Malfoy and that shady man? Or did he have his own agenda? And if everyone else believed Tom Gaunt was a hero, was Harry just being paranoid?

His gaze drifted toward the window, where faint moonlight streamed through the glass, casting long shadows across his room. The wards guarding the archives had been no joke—layered with serpentine defenses and magic that practically hummed with danger. That wasn’t something Tom had put in place just to look impressive. It was protection.

Protection for what exactly?

He needed to figure this out—and fast. Because whatever Tom and Lucious was up to, Harry had a sinking feeling it was only just beginning.

══════════════════

Harry woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the faint clatter of dishes downstairs. For a moment, he let himself enjoy the warmth of his bed and the illusion of normalcy. But then his eyes landed on the book from the archives, still resting on his desk, and reality came rushing back.

Harry sat up, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. Sleep had been a losing battle, his thoughts looping endlessly as he tried to figure out his next move. He was no closer to answers than he’d been the night before, and the weight of that fact pressed heavily on his chest.

A sudden tap at the window grabbed his attention.

Harry turned, already halfway out of bed. Perched on the sill was a sleek black owl—elegant, sharp-eyed, and definitely not one of the family’s.

His stomach twisted. That wasn’t good.

Crossing the room, Harry unlatched the window, and the bird wasted no time hopping inside. It dropped a letter onto his desk, ruffled its feathers as if impatient, and took off again without waiting for a response.

He stared at the envelope, dread coiling in his gut. The parchment was thick and smooth, sealed with dark green wax pressed into the shape of a serpent.

Harry didn’t need to open it to know who it was from.

With shaky fingers, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Mr. Harrison Potter,

I trust you found what you were looking for in the archives—or at least enough to pique your curiosity.

I’d like to extend an invitation to meet in person. I believe we have much to discuss, particularly regarding your interest in certain… subjects.

Come by my office tomorrow evening at seven. I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.

Sincerely,
Tom Gaunt

Harry dropped the letter, his pulse thundering in his ears.

He paced the room, resisting the urge to set the damn thing on fire. 

Harry shoved the letter into his desk drawer just as someone knocked on his door.

“Harry?” Lily called. “Breakfast, honey. You coming, or should we send an owl up with toast?”

Harry cracked the door open. “I’ll be down in a second.”

Lily gave him a once-over and frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Harry forced a grin. “Just tired.”

His mom didn’t look convinced, but she let it drop. “All right. But hurry up before James eats all the bacon.”

When Lily left, Harry leaned back against the door, his thoughts racing.

He couldn’t tell them—not yet. Not until he knew more.

But that didn’t stop the knot in his stomach from tightening as he pocketed his wand and headed downstairs.

Tomorrow, he'll face Tom Gaunt.

And this time, he wouldn’t be caught off guard.

══════════════════

Harry shifted uncomfortably outside the Minister’s office, his palms damp despite the cool air circulating through the hall. The serpent-sealed letter burned in his pocket, its words practically etched into his mind.

Tom’s handwriting had been sharp and deliberate, just like the man himself. It hadn’t been a request—it was a command.

Now, as the tall double doors loomed in front of him, Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was walking straight into a trap. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. He needed to keep it together.

The receptionist—an older witch with sharp eyes and an even sharper quill—peeked at him over her half-moon spectacles. “You can go in now, dear,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Harry swallowed and stepped forward. The heavy doors creaked as they swung inward, revealing the Minister’s office in all its grandeur. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, and the towering bookshelves were filled with ancient tomes and artifacts. A massive desk sat in the center, pristine and organized, with a few flickering candles casting golden light over its surface.

Tom Gaunt stood by the window, his back to Harry, gazing out over the Ministry’s courtyard. 

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry stiffened at the sound of Tom’s voice. Calm, smooth, yet carrying the weight of authority.

“Minister,” Harry greeted carefully, stepping further inside. The door shut behind him with a dull thud , and it took everything in him not to flinch at the sound.

Tom finally turned, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the candles. His eyes—dark and unreadable—studied Harry with an intensity that made his skin prickle with heat.

“You’re early,” Tom said, his lips curling slightly, though whether it was amusement or something darker, Harry couldn’t tell.

Harry forced himself to hold the man’s gaze. “Figured it’d be better than being late.”

“Smart.” Tom gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, though he couldn’t help but feel nervous.

Tom leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “Tell me, Harry… how much do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

Harry’s breath caught, but he quickly masked it. He couldn’t let Tom see just how much the question rattled him.

“Not much,” Harry said carefully, keeping his voice steady. “Just rumors and legends.”

Tom didn’t blink. Instead, he sat down in his chair, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Did you know,” he began, voice calm but laced with an edge that sent a chill down Harry’s spine, “that I designed those wards myself?”

Harry stiffened.

“They alerted me the moment you touched them.” Tom’s tone was almost casual, but the weight behind his words made it clear he wasn’t playing around. “And I know every book in that section. Which means I know exactly which one you took.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Harry’s nerves fray. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked, “Now let’s try this again, shall we? Why are you searching for the Deathly Hallows?”

The flickering candlelight caught in Tom’s eyes, making them gleam with something Harry couldn’t quite place. Power? Curiosity? Amusement? It was hard to tell, but whatever it was, it felt dangerously alluring—like staring into the eyes of a predator that hadn’t decided whether to attack or let you walk away.

Harry’s pulse quickened. He was cornered, and he knew it.

He glanced at Tom, studying him. Was this man truly the same person as Voldemort? Or had this world shaped him into something different? Something better? Tom didn’t radiate malice or that suffocating sense of doom Harry had come to associate with his Voldemort. Instead, he seemed… controlled. Calculating. The kind of man who always had a plan but didn’t need to flaunt it.

And he was a politician—charismatic and dangerously persuasive. Harry had done his research, asking around after the Yule Ball. Sirius had praised the Minister’s policies, and his parents had agreed. Even James, who was suspicious of everyone, admitted that Tom Gaunt’s laws were progressive and protective of wizarding families. And he wasn’t in league with the Malfoys, which said a lot already.

Trust wasn’t something Harry handed out easily. Not after everything he’d been through. And as much as he wanted answers, he wasn’t sure handing them over to Tom Gaunt was the smartest move. Not yet.

He was still wrestling with that thought when a sudden, thunderous boom rattled the walls.

Harry’s head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs. Judging by the flicker of surprise that crossed Tom’s sharp features, he hadn’t been expecting it either.

A second explosion followed—closer this time. The windows rattled in their frames, and a faint tremor vibrated beneath Harry’s feet.

They were under attack.

Tom was already on his feet, wand drawn and eyes sharp as steel. He moved toward the window in quick, deliberate strides, his expression calm but calculating—too calm for Harry’s liking.

Harry pulled out his own wand, adrenaline spiking as he followed Tom’s lead. Whatever was happening, he couldn’t afford to be caught off guard.

“Stay behind me,” Tom ordered, his voice low but steady.

Harry bristled at the command. Yeah, right. Like he was going to sit this out.

Chapter Text

The window shattered before either of them could move. Glass rained down in sharp, glittering shards, and Harry barely had time to raise his arm to shield his face before three figures in dark, hooded robes leapt through the opening. Their masks were smooth and featureless, except for slits where their eyes should have been—cold, empty slits that sent chills down Harry’s spine.

“Get down!” Tom barked, stepping in front of Harry before he could react.

A jet of red light erupted from one of the masked men’s wands, hurtling straight for Harry’s chest.

No.

Before Harry could move, Tom shoved him out of the way, the curse missing by inches—but at a cost. Tom hissed in pain as the curse grazed his arm, the sleeve of his robe catching fire. He stumbled back, clutching his arm, but his wand never wavered.

“Protego!” Tom snarled, conjuring a shimmering barrier just in time to deflect another blast.

Harry scrambled to his feet, panic and fury rising in equal measure. “You’re hurt!”

“Focus, Potter!” Tom snapped, voice tight with pain but sharp as ever. “You can worry about me later!”

Harry didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward, planting himself at Tom’s side. The masked figures fanned out, circling them.

“Stupefy!” Harry bellowed, sending a streak of red light at the nearest attacker. The man dodged, but not fast enough—Harry’s spell caught him in the leg, and he crumpled to the floor with a grunt.

Another attacker lunged forward, wand raised.

“Expelliarmus!” Tom roared, his injured arm trembling as he disarmed the man, sending his wand flying across the room.

“Behind you!” Harry shouted, but it was too late.

A third attacker aimed his wand directly at Tom’s exposed back.

No. Not again.

Harry’s heart roared in his ears. He didn’t think—he just moved.

“Protego!”

The shield snapped into place just as the curse hit, the impact sending Harry stumbling backward, but he held firm. “Expulso!” he yelled, blasting the attacker into the far wall.

“Harry!” Tom’s voice broke through the chaos. He looked pale, blood seeping through his sleeve, but his sharp eyes were locked on Harry—full of something raw and unguarded. Relief? Admiration?

Harry’s chest tightened.

“We need to end this now,” Tom said, his voice low but steady.

The room was a whirlwind of spells and smoke. Harry’s wand snapped upward, deflecting a curse that splintered the wooden desk behind him. Tom was at his side, his movements sharp and precise despite the blood dripping from his arm.

Harry dodged another flash of green light, his heart slamming against his ribs. Killing curses. 

They’re trying to kill us .

He gritted his teeth and aimed again. “Expulso!”

The blast hit one of the masked attackers square in the chest, sending him flying back into a shelf. Books and scrolls crashed down around him, burying him in an avalanche of paper.

“Two down!” Harry shouted, but there was no time to celebrate. Another attacker lunged toward him, wand raised and eyes burning behind the mask.

“Not happening,” Harry growled.

Before the attacker could cast, Harry slashed his wand through the air. “Diffindo!”

The spell sliced through the attacker’s mask, cutting a deep gash across it. The mask cracked and fell away in pieces, revealing a flash of pale, blond hair.

Harry froze for half a second, recognition sparking at the edge of his mind. Malfoy?

But the attacker—whoever he was—recoiled, raising his hand to shield his face. His wand jerked upward, releasing a blinding burst of light. Harry staggered back, blinking spots out of his vision.

When he recovered, the attackers were already retreating. They backed toward the broken window, casting defensive spells as they moved.

“Cowards,” Tom hissed, his voice sharp despite the pain in his arm. He flicked his wand, sending one last hex after them, but they slipped through the shattered glass and vanished into the night.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing.

Harry lowered his wand slowly, his pulse still racing. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Tom said quickly, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. He pressed a hand to the wound on his arm, dark blood seeping between his fingers. His eyes scanned the wreckage, calculating and restless, but there was no disguising the tension in his frame. “I know why they were here.”

Harry’s stomach tightened. He didn’t need to ask—he already knew. The Resurrection Stone.

The attack had confirmed his worst suspicions. Whoever those masked men were, they weren’t just trying to steal it. They were willing to kill for it. And yet… the way Tom had stepped in front of him, taking a hit to protect him, told Harry more than words ever could.

Tom wasn’t working with them.

Harry swallowed hard and took a steadying breath. He had made up his mind. He was going to trust Tom.

“They’re after the Resurrection Stone,” Harry said, his voice low but steady. “I read in the archives that your family had it.” He licked his lips nervously and kept his gaze locked on Tom’s face, searching for any flicker of dishonesty.

But Tom didn’t flinch. He just sighed, looking almost… defeated. “You’re right.”

Harry blinked, not expecting such an honest answer.

Tom’s eyes darkened as he shifted his grip on his injured arm. “You realize the risk I’m taking by trusting you, don’t you?” His voice was quieter now, but there was a sharp edge beneath the words. “I wasn’t sure about you, Harrison—not until tonight. For all I knew, you could have been working with them. Or worse, this could have been some elaborate trick to gain my trust.”

Harry exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Funny,” he said, his lips curling into a sheepish smile. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

The tension in the room eased—just barely—but Harry’s thoughts lingered on the fight. His mind replayed the flash of blond hair beneath the broken mask, quick but undeniable.

“Did you catch the one whose mask cracked?” Harry asked cautiously, his voice quieter now. “I swear it looked like Lucius Malfoy.”

Tom’s brows drew together, his expression unreadable as his eyes flicked toward the shattered window and the jagged shards glinting in the moonlight. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get a clear look.” His voice was measured, but there was an edge to it, a flicker of unease that didn’t go unnoticed.

He paused, fingers brushing against the torn fabric at his sleeve. “But if it was Lucius…” Tom’s words trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line as if considering the implications.

Harry didn’t wait for him to finish. “At the Yule Ball, I overheard Malfoy talking about the stone,” he said, his voice gaining strength as the pieces began to fit together. “He was speaking to someone—I couldn’t see who—and it wasn’t a voice I recognized.” Harry swallowed, his pulse quickening. “That’s why I started looking into it. That’s why I was in the archives.” His gaze flicked to Tom’s, searching for a reaction. “I wanted to find the stone before it got into the wrong hands.”

Tom’s expression shifted—subtle, but enough for Harry to notice. It wasn’t suspicion this time, but interest.

A faint smile tugged at Tom’s lips. “You’re the first person who managed to break through my wards,” he said, his voice carrying an almost lazy curiosity. “They’ve withstood more break-in attempts than I can count.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. “How is it that I’ve never heard of someone this powerful before?”

Harry felt heat creep up his neck but quickly squared his shoulders, determined not to let Tom’s words rattle him. “Maybe I just got lucky,” he replied, aiming for casual but falling just short.

Before Tom could offer a rebuttal, the door burst open with a loud bang, and a flurry of Aurors flooded into the room, wands drawn and alert. Harry’s stomach dropped the second he spotted his father leading the group.

Great. His mum will tear him a new one.

“Harry!” James’s voice cut through the chaos, equal parts panic and relief as he pushed past the others to reach his son. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders, looking him over for injuries. “What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

“It’s, uh… a funny story, actually.” Harry laughed awkwardly, but the sound fell flat under his father’s sharp stare.

“Minister, what happened?” one of the Aurors asked, already scanning the room while others secured the windows and inspected the shattered glass on the ground.

Harry’s eyes darted to the crimson stain darkening the carpet. “He’s hurt!” Harry said quickly, guilt stabbing at him as he turned toward Tom. “We need a healer—”

“It’s just a scratch,” Tom interrupted smoothly, though his pale complexion and the blood seeping through his sleeve told another story. He straightened despite the pain, his voice calm and commanding. “I’ll be fine.” Then his gaze flicked back to James. “But I think it’s time to take him home James. He’s had a long night.”

James didn’t hesitate. “Of course, sir.”

“But—” Harry started to protest, but one stern look from his father had him shutting his mouth.

“No buts, young man,” James said firmly. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Tom’s lips twitched faintly, almost as if he found the whole situation amusing. “Goodbye, Harry,” he said softly, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

══════════════════

Harry barely had time to kick off his shoes before his mum descended on him like a storm.

“Harry James Potter!” Lily’s voice echoed through the living room as she marched in, her green eyes blazing in that way only a mother’s could. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? What were you thinking—sneaking off to the Ministry, getting caught up in an attack? And with the Minister no less?”

“I—”

“And injured!” She threw her hands in the air. “Your father told me there was blood everywhere! Are you hurt? Let me see.”

“I’m fine, Mum.” Harry backed up half a step, holding up his hands. “I swear. Not a scratch.”

James stepped into the room, looking far less panicked than Lily but no less stern. “Not the point, Harry.” His arms were crossed, and his sharp gaze pinned Harry in place. “You were in the middle of an attack, and no one knew where you were.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to sound calm even though his nerves were frayed. “I had a meeting with the Minister.”

Lily froze. “You what?”

Harry hesitated for half a second before committing to the lie. “It wasn’t… exactly planned.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual. “We ran into each other at the Yule Ball, on the balcony. We ended up talking and—well, he liked my perspective on a few things. Invited me to meet up again.”

James raised a skeptical brow. “The Minister of Magic invited you for a casual chat?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s unconventional. You know that. He wanted to pick my brain about a few theories—magic, politics, that sort of thing.”

Lily still looked wary, but her eyes softened slightly. “He does have a reputation for being… different.”

“Exactly.” Harry latched onto the opening. “But the attack wasn’t his fault. He actually protected me.”

That got their attention. Lily’s lips parted slightly, and James straightened, his eyes piercing.

“He got hurt?” Lily’s voice had dropped, concern creeping back in.

“Yeah.” Harry’s tone softened. “And I helped him too. We had to work together to get out of it.”

James looked him over, as though reassessing. “You protected the Minister?”

Harry hesitated. “Well… yeah. We had to watch each other’s backs.”

For the first time, James looked less angry and more… conflicted. “We’ll investigate the attack, but this isn’t over, Harry.”

“Not even close,” Lily added, stepping forward to pull him into a tight hug. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Harry let himself sink into the hug for just a second before she stepped back and fixed him with a pointed look.

“And don’t think you’re off the hook for explaining everything—properly—tomorrow.”

James nodded in agreement, though his expression had softened slightly. “You’re lucky the Minister seems to think highly of you. This could’ve ended very differently.”

Harry barely managed a nod before excusing himself and heading upstairs. Once he was finally alone in his room, he leaned back against the door and let out a long breath.

His thoughts immediately drifted back to Tom—the way he’d stepped in front of Harry without hesitation, the intense look in his eyes during the fight, and the way he’d lingered just a moment longer before saying goodbye.

What did he get himself into this time?

══════════════════

By the time the following afternoon rolled around, Harry felt like he’d been through one of Moody’s old obstacle courses—minus the bruises, but with all the exhaustion. His parents had spent the entire morning hovering, his mum alternating between fretting over his disheveled hair and robes, and his dad pacing the room while firing off stern lectures about recklessness and responsibility.

Harry endured it all with as much patience as he could manage—which, honestly, wasn’t much. He couldn’t exactly blame them, though. Nearly dying—again—tended to make people a little overprotective.  

It wasn’t until they finally left for work, after extracting yet another promise that he’d stay home and rest, that Harry felt like he could actually breathe.  

But the moment the green flames roared to life in the fireplace and Severus Snape stepped through, Harry’s brief sense of calm vanished. Relief and anxiety tangled in his chest, leaving him unsure which feeling would win.  

Snape looked exactly the same as always—robes pristine, expression sharp enough to cut glass. His dark eyes swept over Harry in one quick motion before his lips curled into something that might have been amusement if it wasn’t so condescending.

“I heard you managed to get yourself into trouble. How very... Potter of you.”

Harry crossed his arms but couldn’t quite stop himself from flushing. “Nice to see you too, Snape.”

Snape arched an eyebrow, but Harry pressed on before he could make another snide remark.

"Well? Did you find anything? Was it there?"

Harry’s words came out rushed, almost tripping over themselves in his eagerness.

Snape didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he fixed Harry with a flat, measuring look before sweeping deeper into the room. The hem of his robes trailed behind him like a shadow, dark and deliberate.

“One question at a time, boy,” he said coolly, and Harry bit back the sharp retort forming on his tongue. He needed answers, and snapping at Snape wasn’t going to get them any faster.

Snape stopped in front of the coffee table, pulling a folded letter from the depths of his robes. He placed it down with precise care, his long fingers smoothing out the creases before speaking.

“Hogwarts turned up nothing useful,” he began, his voice sharp and businesslike, “so I broadened the search. I reached out to a contact in Ireland who’s well-versed in ancient magical artifacts.”

Harry leaned in, his pulse quickening. “And?”

Snape glanced at him before continuing, his tone measured. “He believes the Sayre family may possesses something like the mirror.”

Harry blinked. “The Sayre family?” He rifled through his mental catalog of wizarding names, but it didn’t ring a bell. “Never heard of them.”

Snape’s lips twitched in what might’ve been amusement—or irritation. It was always hard to tell.

“Not surprising,” he said. “They’ve kept themselves out of the spotlight for centuries. But they’re connected to older lines—like the Peverells—through marriage. They were highly influential once, though they eventually migrated to America.”

“America?” Harry repeated, caught off guard. He’d expected another ancient castle or forgotten tomb somewhere in Europe, not halfway across the world.

Snape nodded. “They opened a school there after they left. Ilvermorny.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—the Ilvermorny?”

“The very same.” Snape’s tone was dry, but his eyes gleamed with something sharp and calculating. “The Sayres helped establish it, but they left behind more than a legacy. They kept their original vault here in Britain.”

“And you think the vault might have the mirror?” Harry’s voice dropped slightly, like speaking the words too loudly might somehow make them less real.

Snape’s expression remained unreadable, but his tone carried its usual weight. “I think it’s worth investigating. Especially since the Sayres were known to collect artifacts tied to old magic.”

Harry swallowed, a mix of excitement and unease swirling in his chest. He already knew what had to come next.

“When do we leave?”

Snape shot him a look, as though Harry had missed something obvious. “Calm down, Potter. This isn’t some field trip.” He crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “I still have to figure out how we’re getting inside. The goblins don’t exactly roll out the red carpet for unannounced visitors. Their security is… formidable.”

Harry frowned. “We can figure something out together—”

“No.” Snape cut him off, already turning toward the fireplace. “I work better without distractions.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Snape wasn’t done.

“I’ll be back in two days. In the meantime, try not to do anything reckless.” Snape shot him a pointed look, brushing soot off his sleeve as he stepped toward the Floo. “I heard about your little adventure at the Ministry, Potter. Try not to draw more attention to yourself. The last thing we need is more eyes on you.”

Before Harry could defend himself, Snape threw down the Floo powder and vanished in a swirl of green flames.

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, Harry. You can figure this out.”

The room felt too quiet once Snape was gone, his words still lingering like the smoke in the hearth. Harry paced the sitting room, replaying every detail about Gringotts and how to get inside. Goblins were attentive, suspicious, and practically impossible to fool. Breaking in without raising alarms would be like navigating a cursed labyrinth blindfolded.

And then it hit him.

The Cloak.

Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? The Potters’ Invisibility Cloak—an heirloom steeped in ancient magic, older than most spells Harry could name. It was perfect. With it, he could slip past the goblins unseen like last time while Snape kept them distracted. The idea was so simple, so brilliant, that he nearly laughed out loud.  

Until it wasn’t.  

“Sorry, son.”  

James’s voice sliced through Harry’s excitement like an icy wind. Harry had cornered him the second he arrived home, brimming with urgency. But this—this was the worst possible answer.  

“The cloak was stolen a few months ago.”  

Harry froze. “What?”

James’s expression softened, but the regret in his eyes was impossible to miss. “I kept it in my office upstairs, securely locked away. But when I went to check on it one morning, it was gone. No signs of forced entry. No clues. Just... gone.”

“Gone?” Harry repeated, his voice tight. He sank into the nearest chair, his mind racing. “How is that even possible? It was hidden. Who could’ve—”

“We don’t know.” James leaned against the doorframe, his jaw tight. “I looked everywhere. We even had Aurors comb through the house. Whoever took it knew exactly what they were after—and where to find it.”

Harry’s stomach churned. The cloak wasn’t just rare—it was one of the Deathly Hallows. And now it was missing?

His mind reeled, piecing together fragments of information. The attack at the Ministry. Lucius Malfoy’s possible involvement. The Resurrection Stone. And now the cloak.

Someone was collecting Hallows.

Harry stood, his pulse quickening. “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

James shook his head. “Just your mum and Sirius. We thought it was safer that way. No point in letting anyone know we had it in the first place.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. Safe? No, it wasn’t safe—it was already gone. And whoever had it wasn’t going to stop until they had the rest.

Harry pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to think. The Hallows weren’t just powerful—they were dangerous. 

The pieces were falling into place too quickly, and he didn’t like the picture they painted. If the thief already had the cloak—and possibly the Elder Wand—then the last thing standing between them and total power was Tom Gaunt.

And if they got their hands on the stone?

It would be over.

Harry needed answers, and he needed them now. Tom hadn’t told him everything. Not about the attack, not about the Hallows—and definitely not about what he might be hiding.

But there wasn’t time for solo missions anymore.

Harry grabbed his jacket, determination flaring in his chest. He was going to the Minister. And this time, he wasn’t leaving without the truth.

Chapter Text

James looked up sharply as Harry grabbed his jacket and moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?” James asked, his voice edged with concern.

Harry paused, his hand tightening briefly on the doorknob before he forced himself to relax. He couldn’t let his dad see how rattled he was. 

“Just out for a walk,” Harry said, keeping his tone light. “I need some air—to clear my head.”

James didn’t look convinced. His brow furrowed, and he folded his arms. “Harry, this isn’t the time to be wandering around alone. Not after—”

“I’ll be fine, Dad.” Harry turned back and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I won’t go far. Promise.”

James hesitated, clearly torn between pushing the issue and giving Harry the space he’d asked for. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair—the same habit Harry had inherited.

“Alright. But keep your wand out and check in when you get back,” James said, though his voice was tinged with reluctant acceptance. “And no more surprises, okay?”

“No more surprises,” Harry lied easily, already halfway out the door.

The second the cool air hit his face, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His dad meant well, but there was no time to sit around talking this out.

He pulled his jacket tighter against the breeze and started walking—straight toward the Ministry. His thoughts swirled like a storm he couldn’t quiet.

Tom had risked himself to save Harry during the attack. That wasn’t the act of someone willing to betray him—or was it? Could it have been calculated? A way to earn Harry’s trust?

Doubt clawed at him again, but this time Harry shoved it down. He needed answers, and there was only one way to get them. He’d look Tom in the eye and figure out the truth for himself.

If Tom was innocent, he deserved to know what Harry had pieced together. But if he wasn’t...

Harry didn’t let himself finish the thought. Instead, he squared his shoulders as the looming Ministry building came into view. One way or another, he was going to find out exactly what Tom Gaunt was hiding.

══════════════════

By the time he reached the Minister’s office, his nerves were stretched thin. He approached the secretary’s desk, clearing his throat to get her attention.

“I need to speak with Minister Gaunt,” Harry said, leaning slightly forward.

The woman looked up, arching a sharp brow, her hair pulled into a tight bun that made her stern expression even more severe.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked briskly, already flipping through her notes as if the question were more of a formality than genuine interest.

“No, but it’s important,” Harry replied, trying to sound authoritative without being pushy.

Her lips pursed. “The Minister is in a meeting, and I’m afraid he doesn’t take unannounced visitors—no matter how important they think their business is.”

Harry resisted the urge to groan. “Can you at least let him know I’m here? Tell him it’s Harry Potter.”

“I’m sure the Minister is aware of who you are, Mr. Potter.” The secretary’s tone sharpened. “But unless it’s a matter of immediate life or death—”

“It might be,” Harry interrupted, but she didn’t budge.

The secretary gave Harry a tight-lipped smile that barely qualified as polite before turning back to her stack of papers. “You can leave a message if you like.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, to insist this couldn’t wait, but before he could get a word out, the heavy doors to the Minister’s office creaked open.

Harry froze.

Lucius Malfoy stepped out, his polished cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. Their eyes met for the briefest second, and Harry felt his stomach drop. The disdain in Lucius’s gaze was sharp, cutting through the air between them like a knife.

What the hell was he doing here?

Panic twisted in Harry’s chest. Were they working together after all? Had he been wrong about Tom this entire time?

Questions pounded against his skull, but before his thoughts could spiral any further, a smooth, velvety voice broke through the tension.

“Mr. Potter, what a surprise.”

Harry snapped his head toward the sound, startled to see Tom standing in the doorway, his sharp features calm but his dark eyes unreadable.

“Please, come in.”

Harry hesitated. “Sorry for showing up uninvited. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He took a step back, already angling toward the exit. “I’ll just—”

Tom’s voice halted him mid-step.

“We were finished.” The words were clipped, leaving no room for argument. Tom stepped aside, gesturing toward his office. “Come.”

Lucius turned back to face Tom and inclined his head with a shallow, practiced bow. “Good day, Minister.”

And then his cold gaze flickered toward Harry.

“Potter,” Lucius sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Harry clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to snap something sharp in return. But before he could take even half a step toward Malfoy, Tom’s hand closed firmly around his wrist.

“Let him go.” Tom’s voice was low but commanding, enough to keep Harry rooted in place as Lucius disappeared through the doors.

Only when the echo of footsteps faded did Tom release Harry’s wrist, his expression softening—just slightly.

“Now,” Tom said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the office. “Why don’t you tell me what’s got you storming in here like the building’s on fire?”

Harry was still fuming when the heavy doors clicked shut behind them.

“Why don’t you calm down and take a seat before you wear a hole in my carpet with all that pacing?” Tom’s voice was calm—too calm—which only made Harry’s frustration bubble hotter.

“What the hell was Malfoy doing here?” Harry snapped, whirling to face him. “I told you I saw him under the mask! What if he tries to finish the job?”

Tom raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by the outburst. “You know,” he said, lips twitching with the faintest trace of amusement, “no one’s ever worried about me this much before. It’s... nice.”

Harry’s face heated, but he stubbornly ignored it. “Don’t change the subject,” he said, crossing his arms. “You promised an explanation—so start talking.”

Tom gestured toward the chair across from his desk, and when Harry didn’t move, he added, “Sit, and I’ll explain.”

Reluctantly, Harry dropped into the chair, fixing him with an expectant look that said he wasn’t leaving without answers.

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’?”

Harry scowled. “We don’t have time for wordplay, Tom. He tried to kill you not even twenty-four hours ago!”

His voice rose before he could stop it, and suddenly, the anger gave way to something sharper—concern. His eyes flickered to Tom’s arm, remembering the blood from the night before.

“How’s your arm?” Harry asked, his voice softer now. “Did you even see a healer?”

Tom blinked, clearly caught off guard by the shift, but the corners of his mouth curved into a smile. “It’s fine,” he said, brushing off the concern with a wave of his hand. “I’ve survived worse.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief, but the faint glint of amusement in Tom’s expression made his cheeks burn hotter.

“Good,” Harry muttered, quickly crossing his arms to look more composed than he felt. “Because we still have a lot to talk about.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “So... Tom, is it? Whatever happened to Minister Gaunt ?”

Harry froze. “Uh... I was just— I didn’t mean—” He groaned inwardly. Brilliant, Harry. Real smooth. “I’m sorry, Minister. Sir.”

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched, and then—to Harry’s complete horror—he laughed.

Harry blinked, momentarily stunned. It wasn’t the cold, calculated smirk he’d grown used to seeing. No, this was an actual laugh—warm, unguarded—and it made something in Harry’s chest lurch sideways. For a split second, he forgot to be mortified. Instead, all he could think was how unfairly good-looking Tom was when he smiled like that.

“Sorry,” Tom said, still grinning. “But you should’ve seen your face.”

Harry scowled, though it lacked any real heat. “Glad I could entertain you.”

Tom’s grin softened into something closer to a smile “You can call me Tom if you’d like,” he said easily. “Looks like we’re in this together now.”  He tilted his head, studying Harry with curiosity. “Who knows?” Tom added, voice quieter but no less steady. “This could even be the start of a friendship.”

Friendship? With Tom Gaunt?

Harry’s brain stalled. Was this really happening? A day ago, he’d been convinced Tom was the enemy. Now, here they were—making plans, sharing secrets, and apparently joking around like they were on the same side.

His life had officially gone off the rails.

“Well then… Tom.” Harry tried—and mostly failed—to say the name without sounding awkward. “I guess you can start by telling me what Malfoy was doing here.”

Tom’s expression shifted, amusement fading into focus. “I called him in,” he said plainly. “I tasked him with looking into the attacks. I’m curious to see what he’ll report back.” He paused, a hint of something darker flickering in his eyes. “And I might have him followed.”

Harry blinked. “You—what? Does he know?”

Tom’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Of course not. That would ruin the point, wouldn’t it?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Tom cut him off. “Now, my turn,” he said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “What brought you here in such a rush?”

Harry hesitated, his stomach twisting. He hadn’t planned this far ahead, but there was no turning back now. He’d made the decision to trust Tom, and he had to follow through.

“The last time we talked, you mentioned the Resurrection Stone have been in your family’s possession,” Harry began carefully. “Well… the Potters had a Hallow too. The cloak.” He exhaled slowly, the weight of the words sinking in as he said them aloud. “It was stolen a few months ago.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “Stolen?”

Harry nodded. “I think someone’s collecting the Hallows.”

Tom looked surprised, but not nearly as shocked as Harry had expected. Suspiciously not shocked.

“You knew,” Harry accused, his voice edged with frustration.

Tom didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned back further, studying Harry with an unreadable expression. “I had my suspicions,” he admitted.

“Suspicions?” Harry snapped. “And you didn’t think to share that?”

“I was waiting for confirmation.” Tom’s voice was calm, steady—like he hadn’t just dropped another bombshell. “And now, thanks to you, I have it.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “This goes both ways, Tom. If we’re in this together, you have to tell me what you know too.”

“Agreed.” Tom’s tone was infuriatingly casual, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “After Grindelwald fell, we were never able to recover the Elder Wand. I suspect he still has it—or, at the very least, his followers. And after I heard about your cloak…” He trailed off, his expression darkening.

Harry swallowed. “You think someone’s trying to finish what Grindelwald started?”

Tom’s expression darkened as he nodded. “I just haven’t figured out who’s pulling the strings yet.”

Harry leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. “Then we can’t let them get their hands on the Stone. If they do…” He trailed off, the weight of his words hanging between them. “It could be the last thing standing in their way.”

Tom gave a short nod. “I agree, but we can’t just play defense, Harry. We need to stay ahead of them.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I have a plan.”

That got Harry’s attention. He leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “I need you to get closer to Draco Malfoy.”

Harry blinked. “What? Draco?” He couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice. “Why him?”

Tom leaned back slightly, his gaze steady. “Because I think he knows more than he’s letting on. And whether he’s involved or just a pawn, we need answers.”

“Draco and I barely talked before.” Harry frowned. “What makes you think he’d open up to me?”

“You’re the same age,” Tom said simply, as if that explained everything. “And right now, Draco’s feeling vulnerable. Isolated. He’ll be looking for someone he can trust—or at least someone who isn’t watching him like a hawk.”

Harry hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. “And what if he won’t talk?”

“Then you figure out how to make him.” Tom’s voice was even, but there was a sharpness beneath it—like a blade wrapped in silk. “You’re resourceful, Harry. Use that charm of yours.”

Harry blinked, thrown for just a second before he covered it with a scoff. “I’ll try, but we need a backup plan in case this doesn’t work.”

Tom leaned back, studying him. “I have a lead that might turn out to be useful, but it’ll take me away for a couple of days.”

Harry sat up straighter. “Where? Should I come with you?”

Tom shook his head. “No. We can cover more ground apart. You stay here and focus on Draco. I’ll contact you as soon as I return.”

Harry wasn’t entirely convinced but nodded anyway. “Fine. But you need to be careful. If they get the Resurrection Stone—”

“They won’t,” Tom cut in smoothly, but his voice softened.“And I can’t have you worrying about me all the time, can I?”

Harry rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

Tom’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to come back in one piece.”

“See that you do.” Harry stood, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans to keep his hands busy. “I’ll handle Draco.”

Tom’s eyes lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Good. Don’t let me down, Harry.”

Harry turned toward the door, but as he stepped out, he couldn’t shake the heat lingering in the room—or the weight of Tom’s words echoing in his ears.

══════════════════

Getting to Draco was proving harder than Harry had expected. It was almost like the guy had a sixth sense for ulterior motives, dodging him at every turn. After a few carefully worded questions to his mum—nothing too obvious, of course—Harry finally learned that Draco usually spent Friday nights hanging out with his friends at the Leaky Cauldron.

Perfect. A “chance” meeting wouldn’t seem too suspicious there. At least, that’s what Harry was counting on. He just hoped Draco actually showed up.

But until then, Harry had bigger problems. He still needed to figure out a way into Gringotts—and fast. Snape was coming over tomorrow as planned, and Harry wasn’t even close to cracking it. The last thing he wanted was to see Snape smirking like he’d already solved the whole thing.

Harry paced his room, running through every plan he could think of, but nothing felt solid. He needed something clever, something Snape wouldn’t see coming. Because if there was one thing Harry couldn’t stand, it was letting Snape be the first to solve this.

Harry flopped onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling as ideas spun through his head. Most of them were bad—too risky, too obvious, or downright impossible. But then, somewhere between frustration and exhaustion, it hit him.

The tunnels.

Gringotts had layers of security—enchanted doors, curses, and who knew what else—but the underground tunnels that stretched for miles beneath the bank? Those were designed for vault transport, not people. Still, people had used them before.

Griphook had mentioned it once—a shortcut used during emergencies. A tunnel that connected to the oldest vaults, built before the goblins upgraded their defenses. If Harry could find a way in through those passages, he might be able to slip past the guards entirely.

It wasn’t a perfect plan. Not even close. He’d need help—a distraction up top, a map of the tunnels, and probably some information on the vault’s defences. But it was better than nothing.

══════════════════

The Potter family and Snape sat around the kitchen table, tension thick enough to cut with a wand. Lily and James were not thrilled when they first heard about the plan to break into Gringotts—something about it being “illegal” and “wildly dangerous”—but after several rounds of arguing (and some very selective omission of details), they reluctantly came around.

Harry laid out his plan, explaining the secret tunnel with what he thought was impressive detail. To his utter shock, Snape actually looked... impressed.

“Not bad, Potter,” Snape said, though his voice was so dry it was practically sandpaper. “For once, you might not bumble your way into disaster.”

Harry smirked, unable to help himself. “You almost sound proud.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Snape rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Before Harry could bask in the moment, Snape sobered. “Now, about the vault. I managed to uncover a few details, and unfortunately, it’s highly protected.” He paused dramatically. “There are rumors of a dragon guarding it.”

“What?” Lily’s voice shot up an octave, her protective-mother instincts flaring. “Absolutely not. That’s too dangerous—”

“I fought a dragon before,” Harry interrupted, leaning back in his chair like it was no big deal.

James groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why am I not even surprised? Honestly, it’s like you go out of your way to find trouble.”

Harry shrugged, his grin a little sheepish. “Okay, fair point. But this isn’t about me looking for trouble. It’s about finding the mirror and making sure it lets me stay here, remember?”

Lily looked like she wanted to argue, but James held up a hand. “Let’s not turn this into another ‘Harry gets himself killed’ intervention. We all know how that goes.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, flashing his dad a grateful look before turning back to Snape. “We’ll figure out the dragon later. First, we need to get through the tunnels.”

“We could pay off one of the goblins,” Lily suggested, sounding hopeful. “They’re rumored to be... easily motivated by gold.”

Harry perked up. “That could work—”

“What’s the guarantee he won’t take our money and then rat us out the moment we’re out of sight?” James cut in, crossing his arms.

“Maybe we could... ensure his cooperation,” Snape said smoothly.

Lily froze. “ Ensure his cooperation?” Her voice rose dangerously. “Are you actually suggesting we kidnap a goblin?”

Snape didn’t even flinch. “I’m suggesting we detain him temporarily. For his own safety.”

“For his safety?” Lily’s eyes narrowed, and Harry braced himself. “James, you’re an Auror! Say something!”

James cleared his throat. “Severus has a point.”

“What?”

“But!” James quickly added, holding up both hands as Lily’s glare intensified. “We’ll make sure he’s... very comfortable. Pillows. Tea. Biscuits. The works.”

“Unbelievable,” Lily muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I married into a family of criminals.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. “To be fair, Mum, you knew what you were getting into.”

“And yet I somehow thought I could fix it,” Lily shot back, earning a round of snickers from the table.

“Alright,” Snape interrupted, clearly done with the banter. “So we have a plan—sort of. Bribe a goblin, keep him comfortable, and hope we don’t end up in Azkaban.”

“Perfect,” Harry said, smirking. “Let’s do this.”

══════════════════

Breaking into Gringotts was one thing, but talking to Draco Malfoy? That felt almost worse. Goblins were tricky, sure, but at least they weren’t blond, sneering, and annoyingly perceptive. Still, Harry was grateful Snape had volunteered to handle the vault situation because it gave him time to figure out how to handle Malfoy—or at least pretend he had a plan.

Wrapped up in his warmest cloak, Harry apparated to Charing cross Road. The Leaky Cauldron loomed ahead, its crooked sign swaying ominously in the wind. The chill made him shudder, but he wasn’t sure if it was the weather or nerves. He shook it off.

“Alright, Potter,” he muttered under his breath, pulling open the door. “Confidence. Or at least fake it.”

Inside, the pub buzzed with life—laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional outburst of drunken singing. Harry scanned the room quickly, hoping Malfoy would be there and that he wouldn’t look completely out of place. With no actual plan in mind, he decided to do what he did best—wing it and hope for the best.

Harry leaned casually against the bar, ordering a Butterbeer to keep up appearances—because nothing screamed “totally normal and not spying” like nursing a drink while awkwardly scanning the room. He took a slow sip, pretending he wasn’t actively searching for a certain blond headache. And then he spotted him. He was sitting with Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, their expressions shifting between serious and smug as they leaned in close, clearly deep in conversation. Some things never changed—same crowd, same air of superiority. It was almost comforting in a weird way. Almost.

Great. Now all Harry had to do was wait for Draco to step away from his entourage. Easy, right? He took another sip of Butterbeer, trying not to overthink the fact that this entire plan hinged on catching Malfoy alone—something that seemed about as likely as Snape complimenting his hair.

Harry was about to call it a night when Draco finally stood, excusing himself from the table and heading toward the toilets. Perfect. Ambushing Malfoy in the restroom wasn’t exactly how Harry had envisioned this going, but desperate times called for desperate measures. At least he didn’t have to face Pansy’s death glare or Blaise’s smug smirk—small mercies.

He downed the rest of his drink and casually followed, keeping one eye on Draco’s friends to make sure neither of them suddenly decided they needed a bathroom break too.

Leaning against the wall outside the restroom, Harry tried to look casual—like he totally just happened to be standing there and wasn’t, you know, stalking someone.

When Draco finally emerged, Harry straightened and timed his move perfectly, “accidentally” bumping into him.

“Draco! What a surprise!” Harry said, plastering on the most cheerful voice he could manage. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Out for a bit of fun, are you?”

Draco blinked, clearly thrown off. “Potter?” He frowned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What the hell are you doing here?”

So much for a warm reception.

Harry shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Rough week. Thought I’d unwind a bit.”

Draco’s eyes flickered with something—curiosity, maybe—but his expression stayed guarded. “Unwind? Here?”

Harry smirked. “Not all of us have grand estates to sulk around in.”

That earned a twitch of Draco’s lips, but the moment was fleeting. “I heard about the Ministry attack,” Draco said, lowering his voice.

“Brilliant.” Harry sighed. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know about it?”

Draco gave a humorless chuckle. “You’ll find out soon enough—nothing stays a secret around here.”

Harry hesitated. There was something almost sad in the way Draco said it, but before he could think too much about it, Draco added, “Wanna join us?”

Harry blinked, momentarily thrown. That was unexpected. “Tempting, but I was actually just leaving.” He hesitated, then added, “Although... since we ran into each other, I was hoping I could ask you for a favor.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “A favor? From me?” He crossed his arms. “This ought to be good.”

Harry tried not to squirm under the sudden scrutiny. “Look, it’s... complicated. But I think you might be able to help.”

Draco leaned back slightly, clearly intrigued but doing his best not to show it. “I’m listening.” 

Harry hesitated for a moment, then took a breath. “I need some insight into pureblood customs—politics, alliances, the works. It’s complicated, and honestly, you’re the only one I can think of who might actually know this stuff.”

Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow, arms crossing as he leaned against the wall. “Why would you care about any of that?”  

Harry straightened up, trying to look as earnest as possible. “I don’t want to embarrass my family,” he said, injecting just the right amount of sincerity into his voice. “They were kind enough to take me in—I don’t want to make them regret it.”  

Draco’s expression shifted slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s… surprisingly noble of you, Potter.”  

Harry let out a nervous laugh, relieved that Draco seemed to be buying it. “Thanks, I guess?” He scratched the back of his neck, playing up the awkwardness. “So... does that mean I can count on you?”  

Draco gave him a once-over, clearly enjoying making him sweat before answering. “If—and I mean if—you’re prepared to be a good student,” he drawled, “then I suppose I can offer my services.”  

Harry grinned, ignoring the tiny flare of panic in his chest. What had he just signed up for?

Chapter Text

The plan was simple—corner a goblin, dangle the promise of a treasure supposedly linked to an ancient goblin hoard, and hope greed trumped suspicion. Sirius had offered up Grimmauld Place as a temporary holding cell, with Regulus “volunteering” to babysit the goblin until they returned. Easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

Goblins weren’t exactly the trusting type. They had sharp eyes, sharper instincts, and an unhealthy obsession with gold, which made isolating one about as easy as sneaking an ogre past the Ministry. After plenty of brainstorming (and bickering), James finally came up with a plan. He’d use his Auror status to summon one for questioning under the guise of official Ministry business. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was better than hanging around Knockturn Alley with a fishing net.

Later that day, Harry stepped into 12 Grimmauld Place for the first time since landing in this world. It was like walking into a memory—familiar, yet slightly off, like someone had rearranged the furniture while he wasn’t looking. The faint smell of parchment, polish, and something vaguely burnt lingered in the air. Comforting, in a weird way.

Kreacher appeared with his usual hunched posture and a muttered complaint about “filthy blood traitors.” Harry couldn’t help but grin. Good to know some things never changed.

“Harry!” Sirius’s voice boomed as he strode in, practically radiating excitement. “You’ve got to meet my little brother. I can’t believe I haven’t introduced you two yet!”

Before Harry could protest, Sirius grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the sitting room.

“Sirius, I don’t think—”

“Oh, stop looking like I’m feeding you to a dragon,” Sirius said, grinning like this was the best idea he’d ever had.

Harry let himself be pulled along, equal parts nervous and curious. Meeting Regulus felt… important somehow. And honestly? He was kind of glad Sirius still had family here. Not that they weren’t family already, but it was different.

And then Harry saw him.

Regulus Black stood by the fireplace, and if Sirius was all reckless charm and mischievous smiles, Regulus was the exact opposite. He had the same sharp Black features, but everything about him screamed polished and composed. Where Sirius was like a firework, Regulus was more like a dagger—sleek, sharp, and definitely dangerous if handled wrong. His hair was perfectly in place, and his posture was straight enough to make McGonagall proud. He wasn’t unapproachable, but he definitely had an aura—the kind that said he knew the exact value of every person in the room.

“Potter,” Regulus greeted with a nod, his tone polite but guarded.

Harry couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Black,” he replied, matching the formal tone.

Sirius groaned. “Oh, Merlin, don’t start with that. Reg, he’s not as insufferable as he looks. And Harry, he’s not as stuck-up as he pretends to be.”

Regulus shot his brother a pointed look, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He crossed his arms, his sharp gaze sweeping over Harry like he was trying to assess him. “So, you’re the famous Harry Potter. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Harry tilted his head, already bracing himself. “Good things, I hope?”

Regulus smirked “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’ Sirius can’t seem to decide whether you’re his protégé or his second coming.”

“Oh, definitely the second coming,” Sirius interrupted, flopping onto the couch with all the grace of a collapsing star. “He’s already inherited my gift for driving authority figures absolutely mad.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he caught the faintest hint of amusement tugging at Regulus’s lips.

“So,” Regulus said, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, “when’s this goblin of yours showing up? Another stroke of Marauder genius, I assume?”

“Actually, this one’s a Lily and Severus special,” Sirius said, casually throwing them under the Knight Bus. “They’re en route now. Should be dragging him through the door any second.”

As if on cue, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house. Heavy footsteps followed, and a voice full of irritation cut through the room.

“Get your hands off me, you oafs!”

“Relax,” James said, stepping into the room with Snape close behind him, both steering a squirming goblin through the doorway. “This is just a friendly chat, no need to start cursing anyone.”

The goblin—short, sharp-featured, and looking more annoyed than terrified—glared up at them with a scowl that could curdle milk.

“Friendly chat? That’s what you call this?” He adjusted his wrinkled waistcoat, eyes darting suspiciously around the room. “I demand an explanation!”

“Gladly,” Sirius said, throwing his arms wide like a host welcoming guests to a party no one wanted to attend. “But first, let’s all sit down, have some tea, and maybe not make death threats. Sound good?”

The goblin crossed his arms. “Tea won’t make me talk.”

“Good,” Regulus said dryly, eyeing him with an appraising look. “Because I was planning on bringing out the firewhiskey.”

The goblin’s scowl didn’t budge, but he didn’t say no, either.

By the time they were all settled—Sirius taking up the whole couch, Regulus perched on the edge of an armchair like he was already regretting his life choices, and the goblin nursing a firewhiskey while muttering insults under his breath—Snape finally took the floor.

“Now that we’ve all calmed down—”

“Oh, I’m definitely not calm,” the goblin interrupted, his glare practically drilling holes into Snape’s head.

Snape ignored him, naturally. “As I was saying, let’s get to the point.”

“I’ve got a point,” the goblin snapped. “And it involves reporting you lot to the Ministry.”

“I bet I have something that might change your mind,” Snape said smoothly, gesturing toward Regulus.

Regulus took the cue, standing and disappearing into the kitchen like this was all part of some overly dramatic performance. When he returned, he carried a sleek black box. With deliberate care, he opened it and placed a beautiful, shimmering necklace on the table. The kind of jewelry that practically screamed ancient and probably cursed .

The goblin’s eyes snapped to it instantly, the firewhiskey momentarily forgotten.

“If you cooperate,” Snape said, voice sharp but calm, “this little treasure could be yours. Word has it it once belonged to the Goblin King’s wife. Very rare. Very valuable.”

The goblin’s greedy gaze didn’t waver. He tried—and failed—to hide how much he wanted it.

“Is that so?” he said, feigning disinterest as he leaned back in his seat. “And what exactly do you need from me?”

Sirius grinned. “Oh, just a teeny, tiny favor.”

The goblin snorted, unimpressed. “Funny. It never is.”

Harry shot Sirius a look, but Snape took over, his voice smooth and businesslike. “We’ve been informed there’s an underground tunnel beneath Gringotts,” he began, briefly glancing at Harry. “It was originally built as an escape route, now repurposed for vault transport.”

The goblin’s sharp eyes flicked between them. “And?”

“We need a layout of it,” Snape said, cutting straight to the point.

The goblin’s already-sour expression deepened. “And what, exactly, do you plan on doing with it?” His tone practically screamed criminal activity .

“Nothing bad,” Harry jumped in quickly, plastering on what he hoped was a disarming smile. “We just need to—uh—take a look inside one of the vaults.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed. “Which vault?”

TThe room immediately dipped into an awkward silence. Harry resisted the urge to tug at his collar.

Finally, Sirius broke the silence. “The Sayre vault.”

The goblin blinked. Then blinked again. “The Sayre vault?” He let out a low whistle. “You’re not aiming low, I’ll give you that.”

“So... what can you tell us about it?” Harry asked, trying not to sound desperate.

The goblin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicked to the necklace sitting on the table. “First,” he said, reaching for it, “I’ll need to inspect this so-called ‘treasure.’ How do I know it’s not a cheap knockoff?”

Snape gestured like it was no big deal. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

The goblin picked up the necklace, turning it over carefully in his hands, and Harry couldn’t help but hold his breath.

“Well,” Sirius muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Harry to catch, “let’s hope that thing’s shiny enough to distract him from the part where we’re blatantly bribing him.”

Regulus shot Sirius a pointed look, the kind that said please stop talking, but thankfully didn’t add to the commentary.

The goblin took his time inspecting the necklace, turning it over like he was evaluating their collective worth instead of just the jewelry. After what felt like an eternity, he finally leaned back in his seat.

“Well,” he said, and everyone leaned in slightly. “Let’s say I can help.”

A collective breath of relief swept through the room, but it was short-lived.

“There’s one condition.” The goblin’s sharp gaze swept across the group. “You’ll need to make an Unbreakable Vow that you won’t breathe a word of this transaction to anyone. ”

“Done,” Harry said immediately.

Severus snapped his head toward him so fast it was a miracle his neck didn’t crack. “ Potter— ”

Harry held up his hands, flashing his best innocent smile. “What? We need his help, don’t we?”

The goblin smirked, clearly enjoying the tension. “Good. Now that we’ve got that sorted...” His expression darkened slightly. “Let me make one thing very clear—if you steal something that causes so much as a ripple in Gringotts, I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.”

“Don’t worry.” Sirius clapped a hand over his heart like he was making a solemn vow. “We’re planning a smooth operation. In and out. No ripples.”

The goblin didn’t look convinced, but his eyes flicked back to the necklace. “Hmm.”

Harry exchanged a nervous glance with Snape, who looked like he was mentally calculating the odds of this plan going up in flames.

“Right,” the goblin said finally, snapping his fingers. “I’ll need ink, quill, and—” he paused, eyeing the half-empty bottle on the table, “—more of that firewhisky.”

“Anything else?” Sirius drawled, leaning back. “A foot massage, maybe?”

The goblin grinned, sharp and predatory. “Careful, Black. I might take you up on that.”

══════════════════

The goblin’s name was Nagnok, and he was an absolute menace. If there was an award for being the most infuriating creature alive, he’d have won it—and probably demanded a bigger trophy.

By hour two, Snape looked ready to hex him straight into another dimension, and Regulus was sharpening his wand like he actually could. Meanwhile, Harry played the role of reluctant peacekeeper, stepping in every time voices got too sharp or wands twitched just a little too threateningly.

It took Nagnok six agonizing hours to draw the map—six hours filled with grumbled complaints, exaggerated sighs, and enough snide comments about their inevitable failure to make even James look restrained.

But, small mercies—they actually learned something useful.

For one, the dragon guarding the vault? Totally not a myth. Nagnok confirmed it with the kind of glee only someone who wasn’t going to face said dragon could muster.

The good news? A coordinated Stunning Spell might knock it out for a couple of minutes—just enough time to sneak past it, provided they didn’t panic and forget basic spellwork.

Harry called it a win. Sirius called it suicide. And Nagnok? He called it entertainment.

“Hope you’ve got backup plans,” the goblin had sneered as he packed up his parchment. “Not that it’ll help when you’re dragon chow.”

Harry ignored him, focusing instead on the map in his hands. Small victories, right?

The plan was set—three nights from now. Enough time to prepare, not enough time to panic and back out. That was the hope, anyway.

In the meantime, Harry sent an owl to Malfoy about meeting up for that so-called etiquette practice. To his surprise, Malfoy actually responded. They arranged to have tea at the Potters’ the next afternoon.

Harry was already thinking ahead. If he played his cards right, maybe he could push the next meeting to Malfoy Manor. A little harmless snooping wouldn’t hurt, right? Although, he doubted Lucius Malfoy would be thrilled to see him poking around the place. Probably best to ease into that one.

His mom, on the other hand, was thrilled that he was finally “making friends his own age.” She was practically beaming when he told her, which thankfully meant zero suspicion about the visit.

His parents were out working when Draco apparated into the house the next day.

“Well,” Draco said, smoothing down  invisible wrinkles on his perfectly tailored robes as he surveyed the room like he was already planning a remodel. “I’m here. Try not to make me regret this.”

“I’ll be the best student you’ve ever had. Promise.” Harry grinned as he poured the tea, trying—and failing—not to let Malfoy’s judgy once-over get to him. “You’ll be bragging about me in no time.”

Draco arched a skeptical eyebrow but sat down anyway, folding his hands in that ridiculously posh, aristocratic way that made Harry feel like he’d been raised in a barn.

“We’ll see about that.” Draco took a sip of tea, pausing to assess it as if he were critiquing a fine wine. “First lesson—never grin like that in polite company. You look like you’re about to rob someone.”

“Noted.” Harry rolled his eyes but made a mental note to tone it down. He wasn’t above taking tips if it meant pulling this off. “What else?”

Draco leaned back, clearly in his element now. “Posture. Stop slouching. Sit like you belong here, not like you snuck in and hoping no one notices.”

Harry straightened up immediately, then froze when Draco smirked.

“Better. But now you look like you’ve got a broomstick shoved up—”

“Alright, alright!” Harry cut him off, fighting a laugh. “This is serious practice, remember?”

“If I didn’t know better,” Draco said, leaning in with a sly smirk, “I’d say you’re trying to impress someone. You’re not planning to charm your way into some witch’s heart, are you?”

Harry nearly choked on his tea, sputtering as he grabbed a napkin. “What? No! Of course not!”

Draco didn’t look convinced. In fact, his smirk only deepened. “You’re a terrible liar, Potter.”

“I’m not lying,” Harry shot back, crossing his arms and trying to look offended instead of panicked. “And I’m deeply insulted you’d even suggest that.”

“Right. Because you’re the picture of honesty.” Draco tilted his head, studying him like he was some kind of puzzle. “Let me guess. It’s not a witch, then? A wizard, maybe?”

Harry spluttered again. “What? No!” And why did Tom’s face flashed in his mind? Gosh .

Draco leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “Relax, Potter. It’s not a crime to have a crush. Though, honestly, if it’s that obvious, you might need more help than just etiquette lessons.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This isn’t about impressing anyone, alright? I’m just trying to fit in.”

“Let’s say I believe you, but I still think you are hiding something. Well, I will find out about it soon enough.” 

“If you say so.” Harry rolled his eyes.”So who should I be friends with and who should I avoid?” 

Draco smirked, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Well, first of all, avoid Pansy Parkinson unless you enjoy being interrogated about your bloodline and your wardrobe choices. She’s basically a Howler in human form.”

Harry snorted. “Noted. And who’s on the ‘potential friend’ list?”

Draco tapped his chin, looking mock-thoughtful. “Theodore Nott—quiet, but sharp. Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, people listen. Blaise Zabini—charming, but don’t let that fool you. He’s calculating, always thinking three moves ahead. And Daphne Greengrass—she’s a bit icy at first, but once you get past that, she’s loyal. Just don’t ask her about fashion unless you’re prepared to listen for hours.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re describing a pack of wolves.”

“That’s Slytherin for you.” Draco smirked. “We’re not big on blind loyalty and singing kumbaya but we take care of our own.”

Harry leaned back, pretending to consider this. “Alright. I can work with that. And what about you? Where do you fit in?”

Draco’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. “I’m the one who decides whether you survive the initiation or not.”

Harry blinked. “Initiation?”

Draco just grinned. “Relax, Potter. It’s not like we sacrifice goats or anything. Well—not anymore.”

Harry choked on his tea. “Not funny, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to fit in. Consider this your crash course.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. But if I end up hexed, cursed, or turned into a ferret, I’m blaming you.”

Draco grinned, raising his cup. “Deal. Now drink your tea, Potter. You’re going to need all the energy you can get.”

══════════════════

Meeting with Draco turned out to be surprisingly... tolerable. Sure, he was still posh—Harry was fairly certain Draco could make sipping tea look like a royal ceremony—but he also had this almost infuriatingly cheerful attitude now. It was disarming, honestly. Joking around, relaxed, and weirdly supportive—it was a version of Draco Malfoy that Harry had never thought he’d see.

In his world, Draco hadn’t been like this. War had hollowed him out, left him brittle and haunted. But this Draco? He was sharp, witty, and, dare Harry say it, kind. He’d accepted Harry into his orbit without hesitation and even offered to help. It was so far from the Draco he’d grown up with—the one who’d made snide remarks and hurled insults at every opportunity—that Harry occasionally had to remind himself this wasn’t the same person. Then again, neither of them were kids anymore.

Still, Harry couldn’t relax.

He sat hunched over a book in the Potter library, but reading was proving impossible. His eyes kept flicking across the same paragraph without taking in a single word. His mind was elsewhere—stuck on tomorrow night.

Breaking into Gringotts.

The words alone made his stomach twist. The plan was shaky at best. Relying on a goblin’s greed and questionable loyalty was risky—okay, flat-out reckless—and the list of things that could go wrong was long enough to give him a headache. What if Nagnok double-crossed them? What if the map was inaccurate? What if they tripped some ancient security measure and ended up locked in a vault forever?

Harry let out a heavy sigh and closed the book with a soft thud. He hadn’t even realized how tense he was until Sirius’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts.

“If you keep glaring at that book any harder, it might burst into flames.”

Harry jumped, looking up to find his godfather leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed and an amused smirk firmly in place.

“Not glaring,” Harry muttered. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.” Sirius strolled in and dropped into the chair across from him. “You’re overthinking this Gringotts thing, aren’t you?”

Harry blinked. “How do you—?”

“You were muttering about dragons earlier,” Sirius interrupted, smirking. “And you looked about two seconds away from having a panic attack when that house elf dropped that silver platter.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Brilliant. I’m officially losing it.”

His godfather leaned back, looking far too relaxed for someone who knew they were about to rob a bank. “Relax, Harry. The plan isn’t perfect—I’ll give you that—but we’ve faced worse odds.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Worse than robbing a dragon-guarded vault under the nose of an entire army of goblins?”

“Absolutely.” Sirius grinned. “There was this one time James and I—”

“Not the point,” Harry interrupted quickly. “This isn’t a prank, Sirius. If something goes wrong, it’s not just detention—we could all end up in Azkaban. Or worse.”

Sirius sobered slightly but still looked annoyingly confident. “Harry, listen. I know you’re worried, but this isn’t just your problem to fix. We’re in this together. And believe it or not, James and I weren’t just troublemakers back in the day.”

Harry snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m serious!” Sirius shot back, grinning before adding, “And yes, I know, I’m always Sirius.”

Harry groaned. “I can’t believe you’re making puns right now.”

“My point is,” Sirius continued, ignoring him, “we know how to handle ourselves. We may have been reckless idiots in school, but we got out of sticky situations more times than I can count.” He leaned forward, dropping the humor for once. “We’ve got each other’s backs, Harry. Always.”

“Thanks—for helping me with all this. I know I’m technically a stranger, what with the whole ‘other dimension’ thing, but you guys welcomed me like I’ve always been part of the family.”

“That’s because you are part of the family, pup.” Sirius gave Harry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “And there’s no escaping it now. You’re stuck with us.”

Harry tried to smile, but the weight of what they were about to do still lingered in his chest. “I mean it, though. You didn’t have to help, and—”

“Enough of the mushy feelings.” Sirius cut him off, standing up and stretching like they weren’t about to rob a bank guarded by dragons. “You’re going to make me cry, and that’s just embarrassing for everyone. We’re going to pull this off, Harry. No question.”

Chapter Text

The sharp crack of Apparition shattered the stillness of the alley, the sound echoing off grimy brick walls like a gunshot. Diagon Alley was deserted—exactly the way they wanted it.

No bustling crowds. No curious eyes. Just shadows, damp stone, and the faint, lingering smell of something that probably belonged in a potion gone horribly wrong.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius muttered, brushing soot off his robes, “if this is a setup, I’m hexing that goblin so hard his ears will straighten out.”

“You and me both,” James muttered, peering down the alley.

Harry wasn’t laughing. His knuckles were white where they gripped his wand, and the tension in his shoulders felt like it had been hexed into place.

Nagnok had sworn there was a secret entrance to the Gringotts tunnels through the sewers nearby. Harry really hoped the goblin wasn’t leading them into a literal dump—or worse, a trap. Trusting Nagnok was like trusting a Blast-Ended Skrewt not to explode in your face.

The Syre vault wasn’t just old—it was ancient, the kind of ancient that practically had cobwebs older than Hogwarts itself. Hidden somewhere in the labyrinth of Gringotts’ underground vaults, it was the magical equivalent of “good luck, you’re doomed.” And relying on directions from a goblin whose main personality trait was being sarcastic wasn’t exactly boosting morale.

The entrance loomed ahead, rusted and foul-smelling. It was tucked into the shadows of a narrow street where the buildings seemed to lean in, conspiring. Harry tried not to make eye contact with the hooded figures who shuffled past them. Whoever they were, they clearly didn’t want to be seen—and Harry felt the same.

“Charming place,” Sirius muttered, eyeing the grime-covered walls like they might come to life and start hissing.

“Focus,” Snape snapped, his gaze slicing through the shadows like he fully expected a horde of Dementors—or possibly rats with knives—to leap out at any moment.

James stepped forward, pulling out his wand. “Relax, Severus,” he said, far too casually for someone about to commit a felony. With a quick flick and a whispered spell, the rusted railing snapped apart. “See? Easy.”

“Until we’re caught,” Snape muttered darkly.

Ignoring him, James gestured for everyone to move. They slipped through the gap one by one, Sirius muttering something about how bad this idea was while Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and forced his legs to keep moving. James brought up the rear, sealing the broken railing with another spell.

“Too late to back out now,” Sirius said, his voice echoing faintly off the damp walls.

Harry didn’t need the reminder. The air was thick, musty, and heavy enough to make his stomach twist. The glow of their wands—Lumos charms lighting the way—cast long, flickering shadows against the narrow tunnel walls. It was unsettling.

Snape led the way, the map Nagnok had drawn clutched in one hand like it might spontaneously combust if he loosened his grip. They moved carefully, crouching as the tunnel ceiling dipped lower and lower. Harry tried not to focus on the occasional drip of something wet—or the squeaking of rats skittering past their boots.

“Remind me again why we didn’t make Nagnok come down here with us?” Sirius whispered, stepping over what Harry really hoped was just a puddle.

“Because he’s a coward,” Snape snapped without looking back.

“Or smart,” Sirius muttered.

Harry bit back a nervous laugh. The smell of the sewers burned his nose, and his legs already ached from crouching, but he kept pushing forward. They didn’t come this far just to turn back now.

“Almost there,” Snape said, his voice quieter now.

Harry really, really hoped he was right.

The tunnel finally sloped upward, and Harry almost sighed in relief when the ceiling stopped threatening to cave in on his head. The air was still damp, but at least it wasn’t as rancid as the sewer.

“Watch your step,” Snape muttered, glancing back as Sirius nearly slipped on a slick patch of stone.

“Thanks for the warning,” Sirius shot back, righting himself with an exaggerated flourish. “Would’ve been nice five seconds ago.”

Harry ignored their bickering and focused on the faint glow ahead—a soft, bluish light filtering through what looked like a jagged crack in the rock.

“That’s it,” Snape said, nodding toward the opening. “The map says this leads to the lower chambers of Gringotts.”

“Or a dragon’s den,” Sirius muttered under his breath.

James clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s try not to jinx it, yeah?”

They reached the cave entrance, crouching as they squeezed through the narrow opening. Harry blinked against the sudden shift in light. The cave was massive—vaulted ceilings and jagged rock formations loomed above them, making it feel more like the inside of a monster’s ribcage than a tunnel.

“Wow,” Harry muttered.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Sirius grinned, but even he looked a little uneasy.

“More like impressive,” James said, stepping forward and lighting the space with his wand. “And hopefully unoccupied.”

Snape shot him a sharp look. “Don’t count on it. Keep your wands ready.”

The echo of dripping water filled the space as they crept deeper inside. 

“Are we sure this is the right way?” Harry whispered, his voice barely louder than the soft scrape of their footsteps.

Snape didn’t even glance up from the map. “If it’s not, we’re all doomed anyway. So keep walking.”

“Comforting,” Sirius said, but he pressed on, following Snape’s lead.

The deeper they went, the colder it became. Harry’s breath puffed out in small, misty clouds, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. The rough, natural rock walls gradually gave way to smooth, chiseled surfaces—definitely man-made. Or goblin-made, which wasn’t exactly comforting. His pulse quickened. This was it. They were getting close. Probably. Hopefully.

Harry had long since lost track of how many twists and turns they’d taken through the maze-like tunnels. His sense of direction had given up somewhere around the third fork in the path, and he was now operating purely on faith.

Then, finally, something changed.

“Rails,” he said, pointing down at the rusted tracks embedded in the cavern floor. Relief flooded through him. “This has to be the transport route.”

“Or the world’s most depressing underground theme park,” Sirius muttered, stepping closer to inspect the tracks.

“Either way, we follow it,” Snape said briskly, already moving forward.

Harry trailed after him, carefully stepping over loose stones. The rails twisted and dipped, weaving through the tunnels like veins. The air grew heavier, tinged with a metallic tang, and the silence felt almost too loud.

“Are we going in the right direction?” James asked, his voice echoing faintly in the cavern.

Before anyone could answer, the faint murmur of voices drifted toward them.

“Duck!” Snape hissed, already extinguishing his wand. Everyone followed suit, pressing themselves against the cold, damp walls just as three goblins came into view, their lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the gloom.

Harry held his breath. The goblins’ sharp, clipped voices carried easily through the tunnel, their argument bouncing off the stone.

“I told you we should’ve taken the west tunnel!” one snapped, waving his lantern dangerously close to the others. “It’s faster!”

“And risk running into that cursed slime pit again?” the second shot back, his nose wrinkling. “I’d rather be late than spend another week getting mucus out of my robes!”

“If you two don’t shut up,” growled the third, who was shorter but somehow managed to look more dangerous than the other two combined, “I’m going to report both of you to Overseer Grimpock and let him deal with your whining.”

The first goblin huffed but fell silent, muttering under his breath as they marched past.

Harry didn’t dare breathe until the glow of their lanterns faded completely.

“Well, that was close,” Sirius muttered, lighting his wand again. 

“This means we’re in,” James said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear goblins arguing about mucus.”

“Let’s not celebrate yet,” Snape cut in, “We still need to find the vault without getting roasted, cursed, or turned into goblin stew.”

Harry tried not to think about any of those options as they crept forward, following the faint tracks along the ground. The tunnel sloped downward, the walls narrowing as the path twisted deeper into the earth.

They rounded another bend, and Harry’s wand light hit something that made his stomach flip—the faint shimmer of ancient runes carved into a massive stone archway just ahead.

“That’s it,” Snape said, stopping short. He pointed toward the arch. “Past there should be the vaults.”

James stepped closer, squinting at the carvings. “What do these mean?”

“Danger. Death. Turn back. The usual warm goblin welcome,” Snape replied dryly, already pulling out a small pouch from his robes. He sprinkled a silvery powder over the threshold, muttering a spell under his breath.

The runes flared briefly and then dimmed.

“That should suppress most of the detection charms,” Snape said, stepping through carefully. “But keep moving. It won’t last forever.”

They followed him, wands raised, as the tunnel opened into a larger chamber. Rows of vault doors lined the walls, some covered in dust, others gleaming as if freshly polished.

“Okay,” Sirius said, glancing around. “Now all we have to do is find the right one.”

They moved forward cautiously, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the cold stone walls. Harry’s gaze flickered over the engraved names as they passed—Lestrange, Dumbledore, and others that sent shivers down his spine. He nearly tripped when his eyes snagged on one in particular—Gaunt.

He froze.

“Harry, let’s go,” James whispered sharply. “Unless you want to start renting space here permanently.”

Harry didn’t budge. His thoughts raced. What if something important was inside? What if skipping it was a mistake? Tom’s face flickered in his memory, and suddenly Harry felt like he was tiptoeing through a minefield labeled DO NOT BETRAY.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, though the uncomfortable weight in his gut stayed put. Maybe—just maybe—if the Sayre Vault turned up empty, they could double back. But not now.

The vaults seemed endless, each one pressing in closer as they walked. Harry was beginning to think he’d age into retirement before they found it when Snape’s voice sliced through the tension.

“There.” He pointed down the hall. “The Peverell Vault. We’re close.”

Relief barely had time to settle before the ground gave a low, menacing rumble.

“Oh, brilliant,” Sirius muttered, his wand already raised. “Tell me that’s someone’s stomach.

“Ready your wands!” Snape shouted and everyone took a battle stance.

From the shadows, a hulking figure began to take shape—massive, serpentine, and radiating an ancient menace that made the air feel heavier. The dragon stepped forward, its scales as dark as obsidian and glinting faintly in the dim light, as though each one had been polished to a razor edge. Its eyes, twin orbs of molten gold, flickered with intelligence—and hunger.

Smoke curled lazily from its nostrils, carrying the faint, acrid scent of brimstone. Spiked ridges ran down its spine, sharp and jagged like a row of black daggers, while its wings, partially unfurled, cast enormous, bat-like shadows that danced across the stone walls.

Its claws scraped against the floor with a sound like nails on glass, and when it opened its mouth, rows of jagged teeth gleamed, sharp enough to cut through steel. A low growl rumbled from its throat, vibrating through the floor and rattling their bones.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. This was no ordinary dragon. This was a guardian—ancient, relentless, and far too big for comfort.

“Any chance it just wants a chat?” Sirius whispered, his voice unsteady.

The dragon’s tail lashed against the ground, sending sparks flying.

“I’m guessing no,” Harry muttered, raising his wand higher.

The dragon lunged.

Its massive wings snapped open, stirring up a whirlwind of dust and ash. With a deafening roar, it released a jet of emerald-green flames that scorched the floor where the group had stood moments earlier. They dove out of the way, scrambling behind pillars and vault doors for cover.

“Protego Maxima!” Snape bellowed, conjuring a shimmering barrier just in time to deflect another blast of fire. The heat rippled through the air, but cracks spiderwebbed across the shield.

“That’s not going to hold!” Sirius shouted, blasting a Stunner at the dragon’s head. It fizzled harmlessly against its armored scales.

“We need to hit it in the eyes!” James yelled, but the dragon turned too quickly, its golden gaze blazing with fury.

Harry’s heart pounded as he ducked behind a crumbling column, sweat slicking his palms. He had seconds to act—or they’d all be roasted.

Raising his wand, Harry stepped into the open.

“Confringo!” he roared, sending a fiery explosion at the ceiling above the dragon’s head. The rock shattered, raining debris onto the beast and forcing it to recoil with an enraged screech.

“Nice shot!” Sirius called, but the dragon wasn’t down. It unfurled its wings and charged, claws scraping and tail lashing like a whip.

Harry didn’t flinch. He raised his wand higher.

“Obscuro!” A black veil snapped over the dragon’s eyes, blinding it. The beast thrashed, roaring in fury, slamming its tail against the walls as it tried to shake off the spell.

“Harry, MOVE!” Snape barked, but Harry was already three steps ahead.

“Glacius Maxima!” Harry shouted, and a surge of icy mist exploded from his wand. The frost crept up the dragon’s legs, pinning it in place as ice crystals spread across the stone floor.

The dragon roared, cracks forming in the ice, but Harry wasn’t done.

“Incarcerous!” Thick, glowing ropes shot from his wand, wrapping around the beast’s limbs, binding its wings to its sides.

“Now! Everyone, stun it!” Harry yelled.

“Stupefy!” The combined force of their spells slammed into the dragon’s head, and with a final roar, it crashed to the ground, sending tremors through the chamber.

Breathless, Harry lowered his wand.

“Well,” Sirius panted, brushing ash off his robes. “That was easy.”

Harry shot him a look, but before he could respond, James clapped him on the back.

“Nice work, Harry. Brilliant magic.”

“Save the compliments,” Snape snapped, his sharp eyes darting to the cracks in the ice. “That thing won’t stay down for long. Move!”

No one needed telling twice. They bolted past the stunned dragon and Harry tried not to look at its eyes—blindfolded but still burning with fury—as they sped down the corridor.

“You think the goblins heard that?” Sirius panted, glancing over his shoulder.

“Heard it? They probably felt it shake Gringotts down to the lobby,” James muttered. “Let’s just hope they’re not in a hurry to investigate.”

They rounded a corner, their footsteps echoing. Vaults blurred past in a dizzying haze of gold and iron. Harry’s pulse pounded in his ears, but his wand stayed raised, ready for the next threat.

“There!” Snape hissed, pointing to an ominous, blackened door covered in swirling runes. “The Sayre Vault.”

Harry skidded to a stop, his stomach flipping. The door seemed to hum with energy—old, dangerous magic that made the hair on his arms rise.

“It’s locked,” James said, pressing his hands against it. “What now?”

Harry stepped forward, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ll handle it.”

“Harry—” Sirius began, but Harry ignored him.

He raised his wand and examined the runes. They twisted and pulsed, shifting as though alive, and for a moment, Harry felt like they were watching him. His scar throbbed faintly, and he resisted the urge to rub it.

“Alohomora won’t cut it,” Snape warned. “This lock’s warded.”

“I know.” Harry steadied his grip. “But this isn’t just a lock. It’s a puzzle.”

He took a breath and focused, tracing the patterns of the runes in his mind. Symbols shifted, rearranging themselves into fragments of words he almost recognized. Parseltongue.

“Open,” Harry hissed softly in the serpent tongue. The runes glowed green but didn’t break.

“Not enough,” Snape said through gritted teeth. “Try again.”

Harry’s eyes darted across the symbols, sweat trickling down his temple. “Reveal your secrets.”

The runes flared brighter, but the door didn’t budge.

“Hurry up!” Sirius hissed. “That dragon’s not staying put much longer!”

Harry’s mind raced. He felt the magic pulsing in the air—layers of protection woven together like threads in a tapestry. And suddenly, it clicked.

“It’s blood magic.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt and pressed the tip into his palm, ignoring the hiss of pain as he drew a thin line of crimson. Holding his hand against the door, he whispered, “By right of blood, I command you to open.”

The runes flared blindingly bright, and with a deep, grinding sound, the door shuddered and began to part.

No sooner had they stepped inside than the door slammed shut behind them with a sound so final it made Harry flinch. Dust danced in the beam of his wandlight, and the echo seemed to ring in his ears longer than it should have.

“Alright, Potter,” Snape said sharply, rounding on Harry before he could take another step. “Care to explain what just happened back there?”

Harry turned, startled by the sudden hostility. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Snape snapped, his black eyes boring into Harry’s. “You spoke Parseltongue. I heard it. We all heard it.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t thought about the way the words had slithered out of his mouth like a hiss. But now Sirius and James were staring too, their wands lowered but their eyes sharp with questions.

“I didn’t mean to—” Harry started, but Snape cut him off.

“You didn’t mean to?!” His voice echoed harshly off the stone walls. “You don’t just accidentally speak Parseltongue, Potter. Either you can, or you can’t.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, heat creeping up his neck. “I can,” he admitted. “But it’s not what you think.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not what I think? Oh, please enlighten us, then.”

“It’s not Dark Magic.” Harry’s voice hardened as he looked Snape in the eye. “It’s just a language. And right now, it’s the reason we’re inside this vault instead of still stuck outside with that dragon.”

“Convenient,” Snape muttered, clearly unconvinced. “How exactly did you learn it?”

Harry hesitated. “It’s… complicated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now,” Harry snapped, feeling his patience fray. “Unless you’d rather argue about this while that dragon claws its way in here?”

Jmes stepped between them. “Enough. Both of you.” He turned to Snape. “We’re in, and we’re alive. If Harry speaking Parseltongue helped, then great. Let’s move on before we lose that advantage.”

Snape glared at Harry for another beat before turning away with a sharp flick of his robes. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“It never is,” Harry muttered under his breath as they spread out to search the vault.

They spread out, their wandlight sweeping over piles of gold, rusted armor, and shelves stacked with ancient tomes and artifacts. Dust coated everything, glittering faintly in the air as they disturbed it.

“If I were a magical mirror, where would I hide?” Sirius muttered, kicking aside a broken goblet.

“Somewhere dramatic,” James said, stepping over a toppled suit of armor. “Mirrors like to be admired.”

Harry wandered toward the back of the vault, drawn to the faint glimmer of light reflecting off something half-buried under a pile of coins. He knelt and began brushing the gold aside, expecting glass—but instead, his fingers closed around a small, velvet-lined box. Unlike everything else in the room, it wasn’t covered in dust or dulled by age. It looked pristine—as though it had been waiting for them.

“Over here!” Harry called.

“Is that—?” James started, stepping closer.

Harry didn’t wait. He flipped the lid open—and his breath caught in his throat.

Nestled inside the box was a blood-red stone, smooth and polished, glowing faintly in the light.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

The group stared in stunned silence.

“You’re joking,” Sirius said, but no one laughed. “That can’t be—can it?”

“It is,” Harry said darkly. “I’d recognize that magic anywhere. It’s the Stone.”

He reached out and hovered his hand over it, feeling the faint hum of power radiating from it.

“I thought this was destroyed,” Harry said, his voice barely steady. “In my world after first year—Dumbledore said—”

“Dumbledore said a lot of things,” Snape interrupted. “Clearly, he lied. Or someone else found a way to recreate it.”

“But why is it here?” James asked, his brow furrowed. “This vault belonged to Sayre, didn’t it? What does the Stone have to do with them?”

Snape didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on the Stone, calculating.

“We don’t have time for theories,” Harry said, snapping the box shut. “We’ll figure it out later. Let’s just—”

A deafening crash from outside cut him off.

The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the walls groaned as if something massive had slammed into them. Dust rained down from the ceiling.

“The dragon,” Sirius said, spinning toward the door. “It’s loose.”

“And we’re trapped,” James added, his voice grim.

Harry shoved the box into his bag. “Not yet, we’re not.”

“We can’t just leave with it!” Snape hissed. “Do you have any idea what you’re carrying? That thing is dangerous—more dangerous than the mirror ever was!”

“I know exactly what it is,” Harry shot back. “And it’s not staying here for someone worse to find it.”

Snape opened his mouth to argue, but another crash from outside sent tremors through the vault.

“We need a way out,” James said, his wandlight darting across the walls. “Now.”

Harry’s mind raced as he scanned the vault. His eyes landed on a narrow archway carved into the far wall—barely noticeable, half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf.

“There!” he shouted.

They ran for it, Snape bringing up the rear, casting defensive spells as the sounds of the dragon’s rage grew louder. The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of burning stone.

Harry clutched his bag tighter, feeling the faint hum of the Stone’s magic even through the fabric. He knew Snape was right—this wasn’t just a treasure. It was a weapon, and one that couldn’t be left behind.

They stumbled into the narrow tunnel, its jagged stone walls forcing them to move single file. The air inside was damp and stale, but Harry didn’t care—it was better than being roasted alive.

“Keep moving!” Snape hissed from the rear, casting a quick sealing charm on the entrance. A loud boom echoed behind them as the spell settled, muffling the dragon’s furious roars.

The ground trembled, and small rocks rained down from the ceiling as the dragon slammed into the sealed door.

“That’s not going to hold for long,” Snape warned, his voice tight.

“Good thing this tunnel’s too small for it to follow us,” Sirius muttered, squeezing past a sharp outcrop of stone. “Unless it suddenly learns how to shrink itself.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” James said, ducking his head as the ceiling dipped lower. “We’ve had enough surprises for one day.”

Harry led the way, his wandlight illuminating the twisting path ahead. The tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly, winding deeper into the rock.

“Are you sure this leads somewhere?” Sirius asked. “Because if this is a dead end—”

“It’s not,” Harry said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. “It can’t be.”

“Comforting,” Sirius muttered.

The tunnel suddenly narrowed further, forcing them to turn sideways to squeeze through. Harry’s bag caught on a jagged edge, and for a moment, panic shot through him as he struggled to free it. The faint hum of the Stone’s magic seemed to vibrate against his hip, reminding him of the risk they were taking.

“Careful,” Snape barked from behind. “One wrong move and this whole passage could collapse.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Harry muttered, finally pulling free and pressing forward.

After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel began to widen. Harry’s heart leapt when he saw the faint glow of torchlight up ahead.

“I see something!” he called back.

The others hurried forward, emerging into a larger chamber carved from the stone. Unlike the vault, this room was bare except for a single, circular stone platform in the center. Strange symbols lined the edges, faintly glowing as if waiting to be activated.

“What is this?” James asked, stepping cautiously onto the platform.

“A transport circle,” Snape said, eyeing the runes warily. “Portkey magic—old and unstable by the looks of it.”

“Unstable?” Sirius repeated. “Define unstable.”

Snape shot him a glare. “I’d rather not. But if this is our only way out, we’ll have to risk it.”

Harry swallowed hard and stepped onto the platform. The moment his foot touched the center, the runes flared brighter, and the air around them began to hum.

“Everyone get on!” Harry shouted.

The others hurried onto the platform, and as soon as Snape stepped into place, the magic surged. The runes pulsed, and the chamber filled with a blinding light.

“Hold on!” Harry yelled.

The light swallowed them whole.

Chapter Text

They landed hard.

Harry’s knees buckled, and his palms scraped against damp, rocky ground as he steadied himself. The faint hum of magic still vibrated in the air, but the portal was gone.

“Everyone in one piece?” James asked, brushing dirt off his robes and helping Sirius to his feet.

“Barely,” Sirius grumbled. “Next time, remind me to let Snape test the ancient death trap.”

Snape shot him a glare but said nothing. Instead, he swept his wandlight across the cavern walls. “This isn’t the vault anymore. The magic’s weaker here.”

Harry lit his wand and pointed it toward the exit—a narrow slit of light spilling in through jagged rock.

“Let’s see where we ended up.”

They climbed through the tunnel, squeezing past rough stone until they emerged into the open air.

The light hit them like a slap, bright and cold against the mist curling low over the ground. Harry stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into soft, damp earth.

And then he stopped.

The land stretched out before them like a graveyard. Charred foundations jutted out of the ground—blackened stones and half-buried ruins that looked as though they’d been swallowed by fire and forgotten by time. 

“What is this place?” Sirius asked, stepping forward cautiously.

Harry’s eyes swept the scene—the scorched stone, the overgrown edges of what might’ve once been gardens, and the remnants of broken walls scattered like bones.

“Whatever it was,” James said, nudging a burnt statue with his boot, “it didn’t end well.”

Snape crouched near a cracked pillar, running his fingers lightly over the stone. “This wasn’t just burned,” he said quietly. “It was destroyed by magic.”

Harry knelt beside him, brushing away dirt to reveal faint, almost faded carvings etched into the rock—symbols he didn’t recognize but that pulsed faintly under his fingertips.

The wind picked up, carrying a distant sound—waves. Harry turned toward the horizon and caught a glimpse of dark cliffs and the rolling expanse of a gray sea.

“We’re near the coast,” he said, frowning. “But this doesn’t look like anywhere near London.”

Snape’s gaze flicked up sharply. “Because it’s not. Look at the architecture—the stonework. We’re in Ireland.”

“Ireland?” James repeated, spinning around. “How far did that portal throw us?”

“Far enough,” Snape said grimly. “This isn’t just some burned-down ruin. I think it’s the Sayre estate.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“The Sayre estate?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Snape’s expression was unreadable as he nodded. “The ancestral home of Isolt Sayre. One of the oldest wizarding bloodlines, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, the faint hum of the Philosopher’s Stone thrumming against his side like a second heartbeat.

“The estate was destroyed in the 17th century,” Snape continued, his voice low and steady. “Burned to the ground, taking nearly the entire family with it.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the scorched ruins around them suddenly feeling far more oppressive.

“Almost everyone?” Sirius asked, his tone cautious.

Snape gave a curt nod. “Only one witch survived: Isolt Sayre. She fled to America and founded Ilvermorny, the wizarding school.” He gestured to the ruins around them. “But this—this was her home. And her family’s graveyard.”

Harry glanced around again, the blackened remains of stone walls and charred beams taking on a new, darker meaning.

“I’ve never heard of a vault in Gringotts with a magic portal inside,” Harry said, his voice echoing faintly in the eerie silence. “I didn’t even know something like that was allowed.”

“It’s not,” Snape replied sharply, scanning the ruins with narrowed eyes. “Portals tied to vaults haven’t been used for centuries. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. And no goblin in their right mind would allow it now. That one must have been hidden—forgotten even by them.”

“Makes you wonder how long it’s been sitting there,” James added, stepping carefully over a collapsed beam. “And how long it’s been since anyone used it.”

Sirius snorted. “Let’s just be glad it worked—and didn’t splinch us into tiny pieces in the process.”

James winced at the thought. “Don’t give it ideas.”

“The real question is,” Harry said, turning back to them, “how are we supposed to get back?”

The group fell silent, the reality of their situation settling heavily in the damp air.

“We can’t go back the way we came,” Snape said after a moment. “The portal was one-way. It was designed as an escape, not an entrance.”

“So we’re stuck in Ireland,” Sirius said, throwing up his arms. “Fantastic.”

“No,” Snape snapped, his sharp tone cutting through Sirius’s sarcasm. “We’re not stuck. We’ll find another way. But first—”

He turned toward Harry, his dark eyes fixed on him.

“Care to explain what just happened back there?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “And while we’re at it, whose brilliant idea was it to bring that cursed rock with us?”

Harry straightened, tightening his grip on the bag slung over his shoulder. “We couldn’t just leave it there, could we?” he shot back. “The goblins and Aurors will tear that vault apart the second they realize we were there. What if they find it? What if it ends up in the wrong hands?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “And whose hands would those be? Yours?” He gestured sharply to the bag. “Or perhaps you thought we could stash it under your bed next to your broomstick and an old sock collection?”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said, throwing up his hands. “What was I supposed to do? Leave it for someone else to stumble on? Maybe let Malfoy’s dad add it to his creepy artifact shelf?”

“And what exactly is your plan now, genius?” Snape snapped. “We don’t exactly have a dragon-guarded vault in the backyard—or anywhere else, for that matter!”

Before Harry could fire back, Sirius stepped between them, raising his hands.

“Alright, everyone take a breath before someone gets hexed,” Sirius said. “Harry’s right—we couldn’t leave it there. And Snape’s right—we have no idea what to do with it now.” He turned to Harry. “But maybe let’s figure that out after we make it back to London alive, yeah?”

James stepped in, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Exactly. Let’s focus on not getting eaten, arrested, or cursed into oblivion before we start making long-term storage plans for magical objects of unlimited power.”

Sirius grinned. “See? Calm, rational thinking. Maybe you lot should try it sometime.”

Snape’s glare could’ve curdled milk, but he said nothing.

Harry exhaled and nodded. “Fine. Let’s keep moving.”

“What about Apparition?” Sirius asked. “We could just—”

“Not an option,” Snape interrupted. “The residual magic here will interfere. Even if we could break through it, we’d risk splinching—or worse.”

Harry’s stomach sank.

“So we walk?” James asked, glancing out over the mist-covered fields stretching beyond the ruins.

Snape’s jaw tightened. “For now. But we’ll need to find a safer point to Apparate—and soon.”

The group trudged through the damp field, the fog clinging to their clothes like cold fingers. The burned ruins of the Sayre estate had disappeared into the mist behind them, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed.

“Still no sign of civilization,” Sirius grumbled, waving his wand to clear a patch of overgrown weeds in their path. “Remind me to lodge a formal complaint with whoever invented magical portals.”

“We’re in Ireland,” Snape said tersely, scanning the horizon. “You can walk in any direction, and eventually, you’ll hit a pub.”

“Unless we’re walking straight into the ocean,” James muttered.

Harry stayed quiet, but the weight of the Stone pressed against his side, its faint hum almost comforting—until the fog thickened.

“Does it feel colder to anyone else?” Harry asked, slowing down.

Sirius stopped mid-step and looked around. “I thought that was just me trying to ignore how soaked my socks are.”

“No,” Snape said sharply, his wand snapping up. “Something’s wrong.”

They crested a small hill, and the mist thinned slightly, revealing an expanse of uneven ground dotted with crooked, moss-covered stones.

“Gravestones,” James said, his voice low. “It’s a cemetery.”

Harry swallowed. The stones stretched far into the fog, rows upon rows of weathered markers jutting from the earth like jagged teeth.

“What’s a graveyard doing out here?” Sirius asked.

“Old estates had private burial grounds,” Snape said. “This could’ve belonged to the Sayres—or someone even older.”

“I don’t like it,” Sirius muttered, stepping around a cracked headstone.

“You don’t have to like it,” Snape said sharply. “You just have to keep moving.”

They moved carefully, wands raised, their footsteps muffled by the thick fog. But Harry couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched—like unseen eyes followed them from the shadows.

And then he felt it.

A shift in the air.

Cold.

“Stop,” Snape ordered suddenly, his wand snapping up. “Do you feel that?”

The others froze. Harry’s breath fogged in the air as the temperature plummeted.

“What is that?” Sirius asked, his voice tight.

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and then—

A hand shot up from the earth.

Harry jumped back as fingers, thin and bone-white, clawed through the dirt. Another hand followed, and then another.

“Inferi!” Snape barked. “Get back!”

The ground split open as skeletal figures began to rise, their hollow eyes glowing faintly. Dirt and moss clung to their bones, and scraps of rotted cloth hung from their frames.

“Move!” James shouted, blasting one apart with a spell. “Don’t let them surround us!”

“Incendio!” Sirius roared, sending a wall of fire into the nearest cluster. The flames licked at the Inferi, but they kept coming, pushing through as if they didn’t feel the heat.

“Fire slows them down,” Snape snapped, “but it won’t stop them. Aim for the joints—break them apart!”

Harry sent a Blasting Curse at one’s legs, shattering its bones, but more were already crawling out of the graves.

“There are too many!” James yelled, throwing up a shield charm as several Inferi lunged. “We can’t fight them all!”

Harry’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape.

“There!” he shouted, spotting an old, crumbling mausoleum at the edge of the graveyard. “Get to that building!”

They sprinted, dodging grasping hands. Snape brought up the rear, flinging curses to hold the Inferi back.

They reached the mausoleum, its heavy stone door hanging crooked on rusted hinges. Harry shoved it open, and they stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind them.

“Seal it!” Snape barked.

“Colloportus!” Harry shouted, locking the door.

The pounding began immediately. The Inferi threw themselves against the stone, their inhuman groans echoing through the cracks.

“This isn’t going to hold,” James said, his eyes darting around the dark interior.

The mausoleum was cramped and filled with crumbling stone coffins, their lids shifted or broken. Dust coated every surface, but Harry’s wandlight caught something carved into the far wall—runes.

“Snape—look.”

Snape hurried over, tracing the carvings with his fingers. “Warding spells. Old ones. We might be able to reactivate them.”

“How long?” Sirius demanded.

“Do I look like I have a stopwatch?” Snape snapped. “I’ll need time.”

The door shuddered as another impact cracked the stone frame.

“Time’s not on our side!” James yelled.

Harry raised his wand. “Then we hold them off.”

“Hold them off?” Sirius gaped at him. “There’s an army out there, Harry!”

“We don’t have a choice!” Harry said, stepping toward the door. “Buy Snape the time he needs!”

“You better make this quick,” Sirius muttered, aiming his wand at the door as the cracks deepened.

Snape’s muttering grew more frantic as he traced the runes, light beginning to pulse faintly in the carvings.

The first crack split wide, and bony fingers pushed through.

“Here they come,” Sirius growled.

Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his heart hammering in his chest.

“We’re not dying here,” he said. “Not today.”

The stone door exploded inward, shards flying as the Inferi swarmed through the opening.

“Reducto!” Harry roared, blasting the first skeleton apart. Its bones shattered, clattering against the floor, but more poured in behind it.

The room erupted into chaos. Spells flew in every direction—blinding flashes of light, explosions, and the crackling hum of magic filled the air. Sirius and James fought side by side, their wands moving so fast they were blurs. Snape didn’t even look up, still hunched over the runes, his muttering now bordering on shouting as the carvings flared brighter.

“Incarcerous!” Sirius bellowed, ropes snapping out to ensnare one of the Inferi, but it just tore through them like paper.

“Confringo!” James yelled, blowing apart another group, but for every skeleton that fell, three more seemed to claw their way in.

“Snape, any time now would be great!” Harry shouted, dodging a skeletal hand that barely missed his shoulder.

“Do you want this done quickly or correctly, Potter?” Snape snapped without looking up, though his usually calm voice wavered.

Harry felt the walls closing in, the sheer number of Inferi pressing forward like an unstoppable wave. This wasn’t going to work—they weren’t going to make it.

And then—

The air shifted. It was subtle at first, like the drop in pressure before a storm, but it hit Harry all the same—a chill that crawled down his spine. The runes flared brighter, but this time, it wasn’t Snape’s work.

“Get back!” Harry shouted, instinctively stepping back

Before anyone could react, the air crackled, and dark tendrils of shadow burst through the doorway, slamming into the Inferi like whips. The skeletons shrieked—a horrible, unnatural sound—as they were torn apart or flung back.

And then he stepped through.

Tom Gaunt.

Harry’s breath hitched. He looked completely unfazed—like obliterating an army of Inferi was no more difficult than flicking lint off his robes. Not a hair out of place, not a bead of sweat.

“Well,” Tom said, his voice as sharp and polished as the wand in his hand. “I’d ask what exactly you all think you’re doing here, but I already have a fairly good idea.”

“Minister?” James blurted, nearly dropping his wand. “What—how—?”

“Later, Potter,” Tom interrupted smoothly, flicking his wand and sending another blast of magic that shredded a cluster of advancing Inferi. “Right now, I’d suggest you focus on not dying. Unless, of course, you’re in a rush to join them.”

“Wait a minute!” Sirius snapped, stepping forward even as shadows writhed in the corners. “How did you find us?”

Tom didn’t even flinch. “I was nearby,” he said simply, his voice as dry as old parchment. “Heard the commotion. Decided to save your necks. You’re welcome, by the way.”

His gaze shifted to Snape, who was still crouched by the runes, magic pulsing under his hands.

“I assume you’re almost done?” Tom asked, his tone casual but edged with impatience.

Harry’s mind raced. What was Tom doing here?

The last time they’d spoken, the Minister had mentioned chasing down a lead—something secretive that required him to leave town for a few days. But Ireland? And now, here he was, saving them from certain death? The timing was too perfect. Too convenient.

“What are the odds?” Harry muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on his wand.

As if hearing him, Tom turned and locked eyes with Harry.

His gaze was steady—calculated—and it lingered just long enough to send an unspoken message: Later.

Harry swallowed hard, but the questions burned in his mind. Was Tom following him? Watching him? Or was this really just an impossible coincidence?

Whatever the answer, Harry knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Move!” Tom barked, snapping Harry out of his spiraling thoughts. “Unless you’d like to give these things a second chance at dinner.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He fell into step behind Tom, though the uneasy knot in his stomach only tightened.

The group formed a protective circle around Snape as he finished weaving the warding spell. His low incantations filled the tense silence, and with a final flourish of his wand, the air shimmered. A burst of light surged outward, bright and blinding, forcing the Inferi to halt mid-step before retreating back into the shadows—and into their graves.

For a moment, all they could hear was their own heavy breathing.

“Did it work?” Sirius asked cautiously, lowering his wand just a fraction.

The absence of shambling skeletons suggested it did.

“Finally,” James muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think my life just flashed before my eyes—twice.”

“Collective near-death experiences build character,” Tom said dryly, his wand lowering as his composure snapped back into place, as though this was just another day at the office.

“You saved our asses, Minister,” James said. “Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure,” Tom replied smoothly, though his gaze lingered on Harry.

“That was…convenient,” Snape cut in, his tone as sharp as the glittering runes now etched into the walls. He folded his arms and fixed Tom with a piercing look. “A little too convenient, don’t you think? What are the odds that you just happened to be here?”

Tom’s expression didn’t falter. “Luck,” he said with a faint smile. “Pure, unadulterated luck.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose, clearly unconvinced.

“Right,” Snape said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Because Minister of Magic or not, I’m sure you always stroll into cursed graveyards in the middle of nowhere for a bit of light exercise.”

Sirius snorted, clearly entertained by the exchange.

“Can we save the interrogation for later?” Harry interjected, his voice tense. “Unless you want to keep hanging around and see if that ward holds.”

The reminder snapped everyone back to the present.

“Agreed,” Tom said crisply. “We should move. Now.”

As the group gathered themselves, Harry shot Tom a quick glance. The man’s expression was unreadable, but the slight tilt of his head told Harry everything he needed to know.

We’ll talk later.

The cool night air was a welcome relief as they finally emerged from the mausoleum.

Tom brushed the dust off his cloak with practiced ease, glancing at the exhausted faces around him. “There’s a tavern not far from here,” he said, his tone businesslike. “Quiet, discreet, and unlikely to ask too many questions.”

“A tavern?” Sirius repeated, perking up. “Finally, a good idea! Do they have Firewhisky?”

“They serve drinks, Black,” Tom replied flatly. “Though I suggest water and maybe a meal before you start drowning yourself in spirits.”

“Buzzkill,” Sirius muttered, but James shot him a warning look that shut him up—for the moment.

“Lead the way, Minister,” Snape said, his voice still edged with suspicion.

Tom smirked faintly and motioned for the group to follow him.

The walk was mercifully short, and soon they stood in front of a weathered building tucked into the shadows of a cobblestone alley. The faded sign hanging above the door read The Rusty Wand, swinging gently in the breeze.

“This doesn’t look suspicious at all,” James quipped.

“Exactly,” Tom replied, pushing open the door.

Inside, the tavern was dimly lit and smelled faintly of damp wood and roasted meat. A few cloaked figures hunched over their drinks at scattered tables, and the bartender, a burly wizard with a missing tooth, gave a slight nod at Tom before returning to polishing a glass.

Tom led them to a table in the far corner, where the flickering light from a nearby lantern cast long shadows.

As he walked away, Sirius leaned over the table. “Alright, is anyone else wondering why the Minister of Magic knows a place like this?”

“Probably the same reason he just casually annihilated an army of Inferi,” James replied, lowering his voice. “I mean, not to sound ungrateful, but that was… intense.”

Harry stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on Tom as he spoke to the bartender. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom was not here by accident.

When Tom returned, he carried a tray laden with bowls of steaming stew and mugs of what looked like butterbeer but smelled faintly spiced. He set it down with practiced ease and slid into the seat opposite of Harry.

As they began eating, Snape finally broke the silence. “Minister, you’ve yet to explain how you conveniently ended up at that graveyard.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And you’ve yet to explain why you were in the graveyard in the first place.”

Harry tensed, but Tom continued smoothly, his tone light. “Let’s just say my sources hinted at… peculiar activity in the area. I followed up, and, well, here we are.”

“And your sources told you to stroll into a cursed tomb without backup?” Snape pressed, his dark eyes narrowing.

Tom took a slow sip of his drink. “Some risks are worth taking.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Tom’s gaze, the unspoken words heavy in the air.

James, sensing the growing tension, clapped his hands together. “Well, whatever the reason, you saved our hides, so cheers to that.” He raised his mug.

“Cheers,” Sirius echoed, though his eyes flicked between Tom and Harry with thinly veiled curiosity.

 As the others settled into their drinks and banter, Tom’s gaze flicked to Harry. A small, almost imperceptible nod was all it took for Harry to understand.

“I’ll, uh, get some air,” Harry said, pushing his chair back.

“Good idea,” Tom added smoothly. “I’ll join him. It’s stifling in here.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but Sirius and James were too engrossed in comparing near-death anecdotes to notice the exchange.

Outside, the crisp night air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the tavern. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or distant murmur of voices.

Tom led Harry a few steps away from the tavern, his stride purposeful but unhurried. When they stopped in the shadow of an old stone archway, he turned to face Harry, his expression unreadable.

“When I told you I’d be out of town,” Tom began, his voice low but deliberate, “this is where my lead brought me.”

Harry leaned against the cold stone of the archway, crossing his arms as he watched Tom closely. “And your lead was about Inferi?”

Tom nodded, his sharp gaze fixed on Harry. “Grindelwald may be gone, but his influence isn’t. Before his defeat, he attempted to build an army of Inferi—thousands of them. After his fall, most of the corpses were either destroyed or left to rot, but there are whispers that not all of them were accounted for.”

Harry frowned. “You think someone’s trying to finish what Grindelwald started?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Tom said, his voice tight. “The signs are there. Unexplained sightings, bodies vanishing from graves, and now this—a stronghold like this one, with magic powerful enough to keep Inferi dormant until they’re called to action. It’s no coincidence, Harry.”

“Do you know who’s behind it?” Harry asked, his stomach twisting at the thought of someone reviving Grindelwald’s twisted legacy.

“Not yet,” Tom admitted, his tone edged with frustration. “But whoever it is, they’re organized, resourceful, and dangerous. This isn’t some rogue necromancer playing around with forbidden magic. This is calculated.”

Harry looked down, his mind racing. “If they’re rebuilding an army of Inferi...”

“Then they’re preparing for war,” Tom finished grimly. “And it’s only a matter of time before they make their move.”

The weight of Tom’s words hung between them like a storm cloud. Harry clenched his fists, feeling the familiar mix of fear and determination stirring inside him. But before he could speak, Tom’s piercing gaze pinned him in place.

“And now it’s your turn, Harry,” Tom said, his voice cutting through the quiet night like a whip. “What, exactly, were you searching for in that graveyard?”

Harry hesitated, his eyes darting to the darkened streets, the flicker of torchlight in the distance offering little solace. “We were looking for something,” he said carefully, his tone guarded.

Tom raised an eyebrow, his expression hardening. “How wonderfully vague. Care to elaborate?”

Harry shook his head slightly, sidestepping the question. “I didn’t find it. Whatever I thought would be there—it wasn’t.”

Tom’s lips curved downward in a thin, unimpressed line. The silence that followed felt as sharp as his gaze. “And what, exactly, were you expecting to find?” His tone was calm but carried a dangerous undercurrent, making it clear he wasn’t about to let the topic drop.

“It’s... complicated,” Harry admitted, shifting uncomfortably under Tom’s scrutiny. His eyes focused on a crack in the cobblestones as if the ground might somehow offer an escape. “It’s personal. It’s not directly tied to—well, not to what’s happening right now.”

“Not directly tied,” Tom echoed, his voice laced with quiet skepticism. His intense gaze bore into Harry, unrelenting. “You’re running in circles, chasing shadows, without a plan—without a clue—”

“I had a clue!” Harry snapped, his frustration spilling over. “I just... it didn’t lead me where I thought it would, alright?” His voice echoed briefly against the stone walls, and he immediately regretted the outburst, exhaling sharply to steady himself.

Tom’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, the tension between them seemed to grow. He took a step closer, his presence towering and commanding. “And what exactly would you have done if it had? What’s the endgame here, Harry? What are you really after?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t tell Tom—not now. How could he explain the doubts that gnawed at him or confess the truth about how he’d ended up in this dimension? Tom wouldn’t believe him—or worse, he’d demand details about Voldemort and the war in Harry’s own world. That wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said finally, his voice steady but quieter. “We didn’t find what we were looking for. That’s the end of it.”

Tom studied him, his expression an unsettling mix of frustration, calculation, and—beneath it all—concern. “You’re hiding something,” he said at last, his tone quieter but no less cutting. “I’ve seen that look before, Harry. And I’m telling you now—I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Harry countered, lifting his gaze to meet Tom’s. His voice was firm, his resolve unwavering despite the weight of Tom’s scrutiny. “But I need you to trust me that I will handle it.”

The tension between them was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Tom’s lips quirked into a faint, humorless smile. “You’d better. Because if you don’t, I’ll find out anyway. And trust me—you won’t enjoy it.”

Harry snorted, though it lacked any real humor. “Noted.”

For a long moment, Tom didn’t move. His sharp gaze cut through the shadows, dissecting Harry as if he were a puzzle missing a critical piece. Finally, he straightened, his expression hardening back into its familiar mask of authority. “You’re playing with fire, Harry. And games like this?” His voice dropped to a low warning, each word deliberate. “They don’t end well.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry replied, his tone measured, though the knot in his stomach tightened.

Tom stepped back, his presence retreating into the shadows, but his power lingered like a chill in the air. “Your friends are waiting for you. Go join them. I have other matters to attend to.”

Harry hesitated, part of him wanting to press, to ask what Tom wasn’t saying. But the look in Tom’s eyes—the guarded tension—warned him to let it lie. “Right,” he said, nodding. “I’ll catch up with them.”

Tom stopped him mid-turn. “Harry.” His voice was low, but it carried. “Whatever it is you’re chasing... make sure it’s worth it. Because if it isn’t, there will be consequences. For all of us.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade into silence. The unspoken tension hung heavy, each of them daring the other to make the next move. Then, with a sharp turn, Tom melted into the shadows, his departure as swift and seamless as his arrival. It was as if he’d never been there, leaving only his words lingering like the ghost of a warning.

Harry stood frozen in place, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His thoughts swirled, a chaotic mix of frustration, guilt, and determination. Tom’s sharp words echoed in his mind, each one a reminder of how fragile their uneasy alliance had become.

Shaking his head, Harry turned back toward the tavern, his steps slow and heavy. He knew he’d set back the progress he’d made with Tom—knew he’d risked losing a potential ally in someone as powerful and resourceful as the Minister of Magic. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell Tom the truth. Not yet.

The stakes were too high, and the secrets he carried were too dangerous. To reveal everything now—to trust Tom with the truth about where he’d come from, about Voldemort and the war in his own dimension—would be to gamble with lives, including his own. Harry wasn’t ready to take that risk.

But he couldn’t afford to lose Tom, either. The man was too valuable, too connected, and—despite his sharp edges—perhaps the only one who could help Harry unravel the threads of the mystery he was chasing. He just had to find a way to regain Tom’s trust, to convince him to stay on his side without revealing too much.

The faint hum of voices from the tavern grew louder as Harry approached the door. He paused for a moment, letting the cool night air fill his lungs. Whatever happened next, he’d have to tread carefully. The line between ally and enemy was razor-thin, and if he wasn’t careful, he could lose far more than Tom’s support.

With a steadying breath, Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, bracing himself for what lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The group decided to call it a night in the rundown tavern, their exhaustion—both magical and physical—leaving them with little choice. The flickering lanterns cast long, tired shadows across their faces as they trudged upstairs. Even James, usually the loudest voice in the room, was subdued. He borrowed an owl from the innkeeper, scribbling a quick note to Lily with words of reassurance before sending it off into the night.

Mercifully, no one had the energy to question Harry about his conversation with the Minister. The topic hung unspoken between them, but their fatigue won out. One by one, they retreated to their respective quarters, doors creaking shut behind them.

Harry collapsed onto the creaky bed in his room, his body screaming for rest, but his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts of Tom’s warnings and the storm of secrets he carried churned relentlessly. He stared at the cracked ceiling, willing sleep to come, but it eluded him.

Hours later, or what felt like hours, Harry was finally teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when a faint noise snapped him back to full alertness. He froze, his pulse quickening as the sound repeated—a soft rustling, faint but unmistakable, coming from outside.

Groaning, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, his entire body protesting the movement. Every limb felt like lead, his muscles sore and stiff from the day's events. He forced himself to his feet, dragging his aching body toward the window. The old floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he crossed the room, his wand already in hand.

Peering through the grimy glass, Harry squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the source of the disturbance. The street below was shrouded in shadows, the faint glow of the tavern’s lanterns barely illuminating the cobblestones. But something—someone—was moving out there.

As Harry focused harder, his breath hitched. That mask. The same unsettling white mask he’d spotted in Tom’s office. It covered the face of a hooded figure lurking in the street below. Harry’s stomach dropped. Someone knew the Minister was here—and they weren’t stopping by for a friendly chat.

His instincts kicked in before his brain fully caught up. Grabbing his cloak, he bolted from his room, ignoring the way his limbs screamed in protest. If anyone had been in the hall, they’d have thought he was auditioning for the Hogwarts track team with how fast he hurtled down the stairs. Thankfully, the inn was empty, the patrons long gone, leaving only an eerie silence behind.

Harry paused at the bottom of the stairs, his hand hovering over the doorknob. A rush of cold air slipped through the cracks, raising goosebumps on his arms. He steeled himself, carefully opened the door, and slipped into the night.

The crisp air bit at his face, but Harry stayed focused, his steps silent as he melted into the shadows. He was getting better at this sneaking-around thing—probably not something he should be proud of, but hey, a skill’s a skill. Cloak drawn tight, he kept to the edges of the street, scanning for movement.

As he rounded a corner into a narrow alley, he froze. Two figures stood hunched together, their voices low but sharp in the quiet night.

“He has to be here,” one of them hissed, their tone dripping with frustration.

“I checked all the rooms,” the other replied, clearly panicking. “He’s nowhere to be found!”

Harry pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. If these masked figures were here for Tom, there was no way he was letting them slip away without figuring out what they were up to. Tightening his grip on his wand, he took a silent step forward, keeping low and moving with deliberate caution.

The taller of the two figures muttered something unintelligible before turning sharply, heading toward the end of the alley. The shorter one hesitated, looking around nervously before scurrying after him. Harry waited until they were a few paces ahead, then slipped out of his hiding spot and followed, careful to stay just out of sight.

The streets were chillingly quiet, the occasional flicker of a lantern casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. The figures moved quickly but not quietly—Harry could hear their boots clicking against the stones, their whispered bickering carrying through the still night air.

“Are you sure he’s still here?” the shorter one asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry pressed himself against a wall, holding his breath as they passed a particularly well-lit stretch of road.

“Yes,” the taller one snapped. “The master’s intel is never wrong. Stop questioning everything, or I’ll silence you myself.”

Harry’s mind raced as he trailed them. Master’s intel? Who’s pulling their strings? The mention of a “master” sent a chill down his spine.

The pair turned a corner and disappeared down a set of stone steps leading into what looked like an abandoned cellar door. Harry paused, squinting to make out the faded writing on the door’s frame: “O’Connor’s Warehouse—Est. 1812.”

Subtle, Harry thought, rolling his eyes. Still, his curiosity—and concern—overrode his hesitation. He crept closer, careful not to disturb the loose pebbles scattered along the path.

The shorter one pulled out a wand, tapping a specific sequence on the door. With a low groan, it creaked open, revealing a dark passageway that smelled faintly of damp stone and mildew. The two figures slipped inside without another word.

Harry waited until the door swung shut, then darted forward, crouching beside it. His hand hovered over his wand, heart pounding. Should I go in now? Or wait and see if they come out?

Before he could decide, a presence loomed behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He started to turn, but a calloused hand clamped firmly over his mouth, muffling the startled gasp that escaped him.

“Shh, it’s just me,” a familiar voice murmured, low and steady.

Tom.

The hand slipped away, and Harry spun around to face him, his pulse still pounding in his ears. Tom stood there, his expression calm but sharp, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

“Sorry for startling you,” Tom said, his tone unapologetic but deliberate. “It was the quickest way to avoid drawing attention.”

Harry let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “It’s fine,” he whispered back, though his voice was tinged with irritation. “You just caught me off guard.” He nodded toward the door. “Did you see them? They’re wearing the same masks, and they’re looking for you.”

Tom smirked faintly, the kind of self-assured grin that made Harry’s fingers itch to wipe it off his face. “Oh, I noticed. I’ve been keeping an eye on them for a while now.”

Harry crossed his arms, his eyebrows shooting up. “So that’s where you’ve been. I was starting to think you’d gone back to London without so much as a goodbye.”

Tom’s smirk softened, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me gone. But no, Harry, I wouldn’t leave without a word.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of guilt in his expression. “Look, about earlier—I’m sorry. I know I came off... shady. But I swear, I’ve got my reasons. I’m not working against you, Tom. I’d never go behind your back.”

Tom’s expression shifted, the teasing edge fading into something more thoughtful. He studied Harry for a moment, his dark eyes searching, as if he were weighing the truth in Harry’s words. Finally, he nodded, his voice low but steady. “Apology accepted—for now. But if there’s a ‘good reason,’ I’d suggest you figure out when you’re going to share it.”

Harry exhaled, relieved but still wary. “I will. Just... not tonight.”

“Fair enough,” Tom said, the sharpness in his gaze softening slightly. “But don’t wait too long, Harry. Secrets have a way of unraveling when you least expect it.”

Harry nodded, his grip tightening on his wand as he gestured toward the door. “Let’s deal with these guys first. Then we’ll talk.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You seem confident. Let’s hope your wand-work matches your bravado.”

Harry shot him a look but didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped toward the door, carefully tapping the same sequence the masked figures had used. The door gave a low, eerie groan as it creaked open, revealing a dark passage.

He glanced at Tom, who gave a slight nod, his wand already in hand. “After you, Potter. Let’s see what’s hiding in the shadows.”

The corridor beyond was narrow, the air thick and musty. The dim light of Harry’s wand cast long, flickering shadows on the rough stone walls as he led the way. Each step seemed to echo endlessly, and Harry found himself holding his breath, straining to pick up any sound of the figures.

The corridor stretched ahead, the faint sound of footsteps and murmured voices growing louder with each step. Harry kept close to the wall, his breathing steady but shallow as he strained to listen.

“Master’s orders were clear,” one of the voices hissed. “We find him, or we don’t bother coming back.”

“And if he’s not here?” another voice asked, trembling.

“Then we keep looking until we do,” the first voice snapped. “You want to tell the master we failed? Be my guest.”

Tom leaned in close to Harry, his breath barely audible. “They’re definitely here for me,” he whispered, his tone dark.

Harry nodded, his pulse quickening. “What’s the plan?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and calculation. “We let them lead us to whatever they’re hiding. And if they try anything...” He flicked his wand with a sharp, fluid motion, the tip sparking briefly.

Harry suppressed a grin. “Subtle as always.”

“Subtlety’s overrated,” Tom replied, gesturing for Harry to follow.

They moved forward, keeping to the shadows. The corridor widened into a larger chamber, where the two masked figures stood near a glowing circle of runes etched into the floor.

“What is that?” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Trouble,” Tom replied, his expression darkening.

One of the figures raised their wand, muttering an incantation that made the runes flare brighter, the glow taking on a sinister red hue. Harry tensed, his instincts screaming at him to act, but Tom placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Tom murmured. “Let’s see what they’re playing at first.”

Harry nodded reluctantly, though his wand hand trembled with barely contained tension.

As the runes continued to pulse, the air in the chamber grew heavy, almost suffocating. Harry’s heart thudded against his ribs, and he stole another glance at Tom. The Minister’s jaw was set, his dark eyes locked on the scene with the precision of a hawk about to strike.

One of the figures stepped forward, pulling something from their cloak—a small, blackened orb, etched with markings similar to those on the floor. The object seemed to absorb the light around it, radiating an ominous energy.

“By the master’s will,” the figure intoned, raising the orb above their head, “we summon the fallen to rise again.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He leaned closer to Tom, his voice barely a whisper. “Are they trying to raise Inferi? Here?”

“Looks like it,” Tom replied, his tone dangerously calm. “They’re not exactly subtle about it, are they?”

The second figure moved closer to the glowing circle, holding out a small vial of dark liquid. The moment they poured it over the runes, the chamber seemed to shudder, a low vibration resonating through the stone walls.

“We can’t let this happen,” Harry hissed, his wand hand twitching.

“Patience,” Tom said, though his wand was now out and ready. “If we strike too soon, we risk them finishing whatever this is by accident.”

The runes flared brighter, the red light intensifying until it was almost blinding. A deep, guttural sound echoed from the circle, like the rumble of something massive stirring from a long slumber. Harry’s breath caught as shadows began to coalesce above the markings, taking on faintly humanoid shapes.

That was it—he couldn’t wait any longer. But just as Harry was about to move, Tom acted first. With a flick of his wand, a bolt of blue light shot across the room, striking the orb in the figure’s hands. It shattered with a deafening crack, sending shards scattering across the chamber.

The figures spun around, their masks gleaming in the light. “It’s him!” one of them snarled, raising their wand. “The Minister!”

Tom stepped forward, his presence radiating authority and control. “That’s right. And you’ve just made a very big mistake.”

Before the figures could react, Harry leaped into action, sending a Stupefy at the second figure. The spell hit them squarely, and they crumpled to the ground with a thud.

The first figure, now alone and panicked, shot a wild curse toward Tom, who deflected it with ease, his countercurse sending their wand flying across the chamber. Tom closed the distance between them in two strides, his wand leveled at the figure’s chest.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” Tom said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Who sent you, what your orders were, and what this little ritual was supposed to accomplish.”

The figure stumbled back, their mask tilting slightly as they tried to retreat. “You’ll get nothing from me,” they spat, their voice shaking.

Harry, still clutching his wand, stepped up beside Tom. “We’ll see about that.”

As Tom cast a binding spell on the figure, the shadows above the runes began to dissipate, the unnatural glow fading. But the tension in the air remained, heavy and foreboding.

The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the distant dripping of water from the damp stone walls. The figure, now bound tightly by Tom’s spell, struggled against the magical restraints, their masked face tilted downward. 

Tom crouched slightly, bringing himself to the figure's eye level. “You can make this easy,” he said, his voice calm but laced with an edge sharp enough to cut steel. “Tell me who sent you, and maybe I won’t haul you straight to the Ministry’s deepest cell.”

The figure’s silence was defiant, but their shallow breathing betrayed their fear. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his wand still raised, the adrenaline pumping through him refusing to let him relax.

“Who are you working for?” Tom pressed, his tone colder now. “You were trying to summon something—or someone. Why? And for what purpose?”

The figure let out a low, bitter laugh. “You think you’ve stopped something big,” they sneered, their voice distorted slightly by the mask. “But this... this was just a taste. You can’t stop what’s coming.”

Harry stepped forward, his grip tightening on his wand. “What’s coming? Don’t play cryptic; we don’t have the patience for it.”

The bound figure turned their masked face toward him, tilting their head. “You’ll find out soon enough, boy. The master’s plans are already in motion. You can delay, but you can’t stop it.”

Tom straightened, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing with intent. “Master,” he repeated softly, as though tasting the word. “Let me guess—your ‘master’ thinks they can outdo Grindelwald, take his scraps and build something better?”

The figure stiffened, just enough for Tom to notice. His lips curved into a faint smirk. “I thought so.”

Harry glanced at Tom. “Do you think this has something to do with the graveyard before?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Tom replied. “And I’d bet this ritual was just a precursor to something bigger—testing the waters, so to speak.”

Before Harry could respond, the bound figure let out a guttural laugh. “You’re too late. Even now, others are preparing. When the master rises, there will be no stopping—”

Tom flicked his wand, silencing them with a nonverbal spell. “Enough. You’re not going to talk in riddles and waste our time.”

Harry frowned. “Should we take them to the Ministry? Maybe Veritaserum—”

“No,” Tom interrupted, his tone firm. “This one stays with me. The Ministry has leaks, and we can’t risk word of this getting out too soon.”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t fully trust Tom’s methods, but he couldn’t deny the logic. “Fine. But what now? We’ve stopped this ritual, but if they’re planning more, we’re going to need more than just this one to go on.”

Tom looked at him, a flicker of approval crossing his face. “We’ll start by dismantling their network. This masked fool will give us names, locations, and plans. Then we cut them off before they have a chance to regroup.”

“And if they don’t talk?” Harry asked, his voice low.

Tom’s smirk returned, colder this time. “They’ll talk.”

The room felt heavier as those words hung in the air. Harry glanced at the runes, now completely dark, and the shattered remains of the orb. This might have been a victory, but it felt hollow—like the calm before an even greater storm.

“Let’s move,” Tom said briskly, his wand flicking to levitate the bound figures effortlessly. The eerie quiet of the chamber only heightened the urgency in his tone. “The longer we stay here, the better chance their friends have of catching up.”

Harry nodded, keeping his wand at the ready as they navigated back through the cellar’s damp, winding passageways. The dim light from the torches cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and every creak of the old wooden beams above set Harry’s nerves on edge. They hauled the two unconscious henchmen out of the cellar and into the crisp night air.

Once they were clear of the building, Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out an ordinary-looking brass coin—a portkey. He held it between two fingers as he turned to Harry, his expression calm but resolute.

“I’ll take these two to a secure location,” Tom said, nodding toward the bound figures. “You should head back to the inn and get some rest. You look like you’ve been through a brawl.”

Harry frowned, his grip tightening on his wand. “Are you sure you don’t need help? I can come with you.”

Tom’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “I can handle it, Potter. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Harry wasn’t convinced. “Still, if something goes wrong—”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Tom interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’ve got it covered. You, on the other hand, need to keep your wits sharp, and that won’t happen if you’re half-asleep and stumbling around like a first-year after their first Quidditch match.”

Harry sighed, reluctantly nodding. “Fine. But if I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m tracking you down.”

“Duly noted,” Tom said with a hint of amusement. “When you’re back in London, expect an owl. I’ll send you the location for our next meeting.”

Harry nodded, his grip on his wand easing. “Alright. Until then.”

Tom gave him a final, measured look before activating the portkey. In a whirl of wind and shimmering magic, he and the bound figures vanished, leaving Harry alone in the quiet, shadowy street. The stillness settled heavily around him, broken only by the distant chirping of early birds greeting the dawn.

Harry exhaled slowly, the weight of the night’s events pressing on him like a boulder. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the faint glow of sunrise was spreading, soft and golden. It felt surreal—this quiet moment after everything that had happened.

“So much for a good night’s sleep,” Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. His body felt like it was made of lead, and his mind buzzed with thoughts he couldn’t quite sort out.

Yawning, he turned back toward the inn, the idea of even a couple of hours of rest now feeling like a distant luxury. Still, he needed to try. If he didn’t, there was no way he’d survive the trip back to London in one piece—let alone without splinching himself.

He dragged himself up the steps of the inn and slipped quietly inside, his footsteps barely audible against the creaking wooden floor. Upstairs, he eased into his room, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed with a groan.

“Just a few hours,” he mumbled, eyes already closing as sleep tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

══════════════════

They safely apparated back to London the next morning, exhaustion clinging to them like a second skin. After some discussion, they decided to keep the Philosopher’s Stone at Potter Manor, even with the memory of the previous break-in still fresh. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but with nowhere safer in mind, they settled on doubling down on its defenses.

With the reluctant help of a grumbling Snape, they worked through the day, reinforcing the manor’s wards with layer upon layer of protection. Snape muttered incessantly about “wasting valuable time,” but his wand movements were precise, and the results were solid. Finally, they added a cloaking spell over the stone, ensuring it would be nearly impossible to detect.

“We’ve done everything we can,” James said as they stepped back, surveying their work. His voice was steady, but Harry could see the tension in his shoulders.

For now, the Philosopher’s Stone was secure.

The group decided to pause the search for the Mirror, at least temporarily. As much as it gnawed at Harry to admit it, every lead they’d pursued had led to a dead end. Weeks had turned into months since he’d arrived in this world, and there was no sign he was going to be taken back—or any idea how he got here. The anxiety lingered at the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest, but he knew they weren’t getting anywhere. So, he turned his attention to the rising tensions and the Deathly Hallows.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the Resurrection Stone was the key to why the other side hadn’t attacked yet. The thought gnawed at him, making him restless. If they got their hands on the stone it could tip the balance in ways he didn’t even want to imagine.

And then there was Tom.

It was nearly nighttime, and still no word. Harry had been pretending not to care—leaning into the whole “I’m chill and not worried at all” vibe—but it wasn’t working. Not even a little. Sure, he’d dodged some of Tom’s questions last time, and sure, maybe Tom had been less than thrilled about it, but still. It wasn’t like Harry didn’t have reasons to be worried.

What if the bad guys had overwhelmed him? What if they’d managed to corner him? What if—Harry cut himself off. No, this was Tom. Tom, who could probably take down an entire army with a flick of his wand and a smirk. Tom, who somehow always looked like he had everything under control, even when chaos was erupting around him. Tom didn’t get overwhelmed… right?

When Harry finally heard the unmistakable tapping on the window, he practically vaulted over the furniture to get to it. His heart was racing, relief surging through him so fast it felt like it might knock him over. He fumbled with the latch, swinging the window open to reveal the same owl as last time. It ruffled its feathers indignantly, as if offended by Harry’s lack of decorum.

"Yeah, yeah, thanks for the delivery," Harry muttered, snatching the letter from the bird’s leg. The owl gave a haughty hoot before fluttering away into the night.

The letter felt heavier than last time, and Harry wasted no time ripping it open. Inside was the same neat handwriting, direct and to the point:

Tomorrow. Noon.

Beneath the words lay a small coin, polished and gleaming faintly in the dim light. Harry recognized it immediately—it was a portkey.

“Typical,” he muttered to himself, turning the coin over in his fingers. Tom, as always, didn’t waste time on unnecessary details. No “here’s the plan” or “watch your back.” Just a time, a magical transportation device, and the unspoken expectation that Harry would show up.

He tossed the letter onto the table and flopped into the nearest chair, the coin still clutched in his hand. Tomorrow noon. Great. That gave him less than twelve hours to try and figure out what kind of mess Tom was dragging him into this time.

"Well," he said to the empty room, a hint of humor creeping into his voice despite the unease bubbling in his chest. "At least he’s consistent."

With that, he leaned back, the coin clinking softly in his palm, and tried to decide whether to spend the rest of the night worrying—or get at least a few hours of sleep before tomorrow’s inevitable chaos.

Chapter Text

When the appointed time finally rolled around, Harry was more prepared than he’d been in weeks. For once, he’d managed a solid night’s sleep—not the restless, toss-and-turn variety he usually got—and he’d even remembered to let his parents know he’d be out for the day. Thankfully, they didn’t press him with any follow-up questions. Either they trusted him, or they were just too distracted to notice the faint aura of up-to-something that clung to him like a cloak.

"Be back by dinner!" his dad had called after him, sounding more amused than concerned.

“Sure thing!” Harry replied, not entirely sure if that was a promise he could keep.

Now, standing with the portkey clutched in his hand, Harry couldn’t help but feel a flicker of doubt. What if this was a trap? He shook the thought off quickly. It wasn’t Tom’s style—not that Harry claimed to fully understand Tom’s style, but betrayal didn’t seem to fit.

And if it was a trap? Well, Harry thought with a small, determined smirk, he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

With a deep breath, he focused on the coin, the world around him starting to spin and blur. “Alright, Tom,” he muttered as the pull of the portkey yanked him forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got planned this time.”

══════════════════

The dizzying whirl of the portkey finally stopped, leaving Harry stumbling slightly as his feet hit solid ground. He blinked, the world coming back into focus, and immediately took in his surroundings.

A dense forest stretched in every direction, the tall, ancient trees standing like silent sentinels. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in patches of golden light. The air was thick with the earthy scent of moss and pine, and the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.

In front of him, nestled among the trees, stood a small wooden cabin. It looked like it had been plucked straight out of an old wizarding fairy tale, with ivy creeping up the sides and a slightly crooked chimney puffing out a faint trail of smoke.

Harry frowned, tightening his grip on his wand. This didn’t exactly scream safe meeting place.

He approached cautiously, his boots crunching against the forest floor. As he neared the cabin, the door creaked open on its own.

“Come in, Harry,” came Tom’s familiar voice, smooth and calm but with an edge of impatience.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his instincts screaming at him to be on guard. He glanced over his shoulder at the woods behind him, half expecting a pack of masked henchmen to jump out. But the forest remained still and silent.

With a resigned sigh, he stepped inside the cabin.

The cabin’s interior was a mix of cozy and chaotic. A small fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting a warm glow over the wooden walls, but the table in the center was a mess of maps, scrolls, and strange magical trinkets. Tom stood by it, arms crossed, looking as sharp and composed as ever.

“Took you long enough,” Tom said, smirking. “What, did you stop to count the trees?”

Harry rolled his eyes, letting the door close behind him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d need a compass and a map to find your secret hideout.”

Tom chuckled, a low, almost genuine sound, before his expression turned serious. He gestured toward the table. “Come here. We’ve got work to do.”

Harry moved to the chair Tom had pulled out, settling in and leaning over the table. The map spread out before him was intricate, crisscrossed with lines, runes, and faintly glowing marks that pulsed like they had a heartbeat of their own. He was so caught up in examining it that he didn’t notice the subtle sound of something sliding across the floor.

The realization hit him when he felt a cool, smooth weight coil around his leg. He looked down, startled, to see an enormous albino snake winding its way up toward him. Its scales shimmered in the dim light, reflecting the glow of the fire and the faint golden markings on the map.

“Wow,” Harry breathed, unable to hide his awe. “She’s gorgeous.”

The snake turned her head to look at him, her tongue flicking out delicately. “ I like this one, Master,” she said in a silky, approving tone. “You may caress me.”

Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the snake’s regal tone, but a grin quickly spread across his face. He reached out, his fingers brushing gently over the snake’s smooth, cool scales. She tilted her head slightly, clearly satisfied with the attention.

“It’s almost like you understand her,” Tom remarked, his tone hovering between wonder and suspicion. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed as his sharp eyes studied Harry. “Most people either freeze or run screaming the moment they see her.”

Harry snapped his gaze to Tom, their eyes locking in a moment of silent tension. He scrambled for a casual response, hoping his face didn’t betray anything. “Ah, no,” he said quickly, his tone light but steady. “I just, uh... read her body language. She’s got that, you know, ‘friendly snake’ vibe going on.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Friendly snake vibe?”

Harry shrugged, his grin turning sheepish. “Yeah, you know, like when a dog wags its tail, or a cat... doesn’t claw your face off. Same energy.”

The snake, still coiled elegantly nearby, flicked her tongue and let out a sound that could only be described as a snake’s version of a chuckle. “This one is amusing, Master,” she said with a certain smugness. “I approve of his presence.”

“See?” Harry said, gesturing toward the snake with exaggerated confidence. “She likes me. Clearly, I’m doing something right.”

Tom’s lips twitched, as though suppressing a smile, but his eyes remained sharp. “Maybe,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity. “Or maybe you’re just better at this than you let on.”

Harry forced a laugh, his heart thudding a little faster. “Or maybe I’m just lucky. Snakes are easier to deal with than people sometimes.”

Tom hummed noncommittally, his gaze lingering on Harry for a beat too long before shifting back to the map. “Well, lucky or not, we’ve got more important things to focus on. Let’s get to work.”

Harry exhaled softly, grateful for the change in focus, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom’s suspicions had only deepened.

══════════════════

“So, our two new friends were surprisingly talkative,” Tom began, his tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of tension. “They spilled that there’s going to be a huge gathering of the inner circle in a week’s time.”

Harry leaned forward, his eyes darting to the map spread across the table. “Is it here?” he asked, pointing to a secluded area marked with a faint red circle.

Tom nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. I scouted the place earlier. It’s well-guarded, and approaching it undetected won’t be easy—but it’s not impossible.”

Harry tapped his fingers against the table, already running through potential strategies in his head. “Alright, then. We’ve got a week. We’ll come up with a plan and make sure we’re ready.”

Tom’s head snapped up, his expression darkening. “You’re not coming with me.”

“What?” Harry blinked, thrown off by the sudden declaration.

“I said,” Tom repeated firmly, his voice carrying an edge of finality, “you’re not coming. It’s too dangerous.”

Harry frowned, straightening in his chair. “Tom, come on. I’ve faced danger before. You know I can handle myself.”

Tom shook his head, his jaw tightening. “It’s not about your abilities, Harry. If something happens to you, how am I supposed to face your family? Or anyone, for that matter?”

Harry let out an incredulous laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Really? That’s your excuse? My family trusts me to make my own decisions—and so should you.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, his voice lowering. “This isn’t a game. The people at this gathering won’t hesitate to kill anyone who stands in their way. I can’t let you walk into that.”

“And I can’t let you walk in alone!” Harry shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think I’m just going to sit back while you take on an entire inner circle by yourself?”

Tom stared at him for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Alright,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “We’ll practice until I’m convinced you’re ready. If you can prove that, I’ll consider letting you come.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. He’d been bracing for another round of stubborn arguments, not... agreement. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Tom replied with a faint smirk. “This isn’t a free pass. You’ll need to prove you’re capable of handling yourself in a situation like this.”

Harry straightened, trying to hide his excitement under a mask of calm. “Alright, I can agree to that. When do we start?”

Tom’s smirk widened slightly, like he could see right through Harry’s attempt to sound composed. “Tomorrow morning. Early. Don’t make me drag you out of bed.”

“I’ll be here bright and early.”

“You should just stay here,” Tom said, his tone casual but with a hint of finality. “There’s plenty of space, and no one will disturb you.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. “Will you be here too?”

Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry’s reaction, clearly amused. “Yes, I’ll be here. This is my base, after all.”

Harry blinked, processing the offer. “Oh... well, yeah, that makes sense,” he said quickly, trying to play it cool. “I mean, it’s probably more practical, right? No wasted time traveling back and forth.”

“Practical,” Tom echoed with a faint smirk. “That’s one way to put it.”

Harry cleared his throat, feeling an awkward warmth creeping up his neck. “Right. So, uh, where would I—?”

“There’s a spare room down the hall,” Tom interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward a shadowed corridor. “It’s nothing fancy, but it has a bed, and it’s quiet. Should suit your needs.”

“Sounds perfect,” Harry said, perhaps a little too eagerly. He tried to recover by adding, “You know, for resting up. For the training. And the whole ‘saving the world’ thing.”

Tom shook his head, the faintest trace of a chuckle escaping him. “You really do have a way with words, don’t you?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

Tom’s smile lingered as he tilted his head slightly. “How about starting now?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Why not?” He glanced down at the albino snake still coiled around his arm. Gently, he nudged her. “By the way, what’s her name?”

“Nami,” Tom replied, his voice softening slightly as he turned his attention to the snake. In a fluid stream of Parseltongue, he added, “Let him go, Nami. That’s enough for now.”

The snake flicked her tongue, seemingly reluctant but compliant . “Fine, but he better bring me something shiny next time,” she hissed back, slithering off Harry’s arm with a languid grace.

Tom led the way to the door, his long strides purposeful but unhurried. Harry followed, adjusting his grip on his wand as they stepped outside into the cool forest air. The clearing in front of the cabin had a natural openness to it, perfect for dueling. 

Tom stopped in the center of the clearing and turned to face Harry, his expression calm but focused. “We’ll start with the basics. Show me your form, your stance.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re making it sound like we’re at some sort of fencing lesson.”

Tom smirked. “If you don’t master the basics, you’ll be easy to disarm. Or worse.” He gestured for Harry to take his position. “Now, let’s see it.”

Harry rolled his eyes but complied, planting his feet shoulder-width apart and raising his wand. Tom circled him slowly, observing with a critical eye.

“Not terrible,” Tom commented, stopping in front of Harry. “But your weight’s too far back. You’ll lose your balance in a real duel.” He nudged Harry’s shoulder lightly, and Harry stumbled.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Harry grumbled, readjusting his stance.

“Better,” Tom said with a nod. Then, with no warning, he raised his wand and fired a nonverbal Expelliarmus.

Harry barely had time to react, instinctively raising a shield spell that shimmered into existence just in time to deflect the attack.

“Not bad,” Tom admitted, lowering his wand slightly. “But you’re too reactive. If I’d gone for something stronger, you’d be flat on the ground.”

Harry shot him a wry grin. “You’re just mad I blocked it.”

“Hardly,” Tom retorted, his wand flicking upward. Without warning, he sent another spell hurtling toward Harry, a streak of golden light aimed at his feet.

Harry jumped, barely dodging the spell as it scorched a patch of moss where he’d been standing. “Hey! A little warning would be nice!”

“In a real duel, you won’t get any,” Tom said, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Now, stop complaining and fight back.”

Harry gritted his teeth and fired back with a stunning spell, which Tom effortlessly sidestepped. The clearing came alive with flashes of light and the sharp cracks of spells as the two of them sparred.

Though Harry was holding his own, Tom’s movements were fluid and precise, his spells coming faster and with more complexity. Harry’s forehead was damp with sweat, but he refused to back down.

He needed a move that Tom wouldn’t see coming, something bold, maybe even a little reckless. As they dueled, the distance between them shrank with each dodge and counter. Suddenly, Tom was close—just an arm’s length away.

A wild idea sparked in Harry’s mind. It was risky, but it might just work.

As Tom flicked his wand to cast another hex, Harry lunged forward with all his weight, tackling Tom to the ground in one swift, chaotic motion.

They hit the damp earth in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring enough to send Tom’s wand skittering a foot away. For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of leaves and their ragged breathing.

Harry pushed himself up on his arms, bracketing Tom’s face as he grinned triumphantly. “Got you,” he said, unable to keep the glee out of his voice.

But the moment he looked into Tom’s eyes, the grin froze and then he faltered.

Tom wasn’t scowling or looking annoyed like Harry had expected. Instead, his gaze was intense—sharp, calculating, but also layered with something that made Harry’s heart stutter. The weight of it pinned him more effectively than any spell could have.

Heat rushed to Harry’s face, a blush blooming from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. He became painfully aware of how close they were—his knees on either side of Tom, their faces mere inches apart.

“Well,” Tom said finally, his voice low and edged with dry amusement, “that’s one way to disarm an opponent.”

Harry scrambled back as if burned, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to put space between them. “Uh—yeah! Thought I’d... try something different,” he mumbled, his voice cracking slightly.

Tom sat up slowly, brushing dirt off his robes with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. “Unorthodox,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “But effective.”

Harry coughed, desperate to fill the silence. “So, uh... round two?”

Tom’s smirk widened. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But next time, try not to make it so easy for your opponent to turn the tables.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Turn the—”

Before he could finish, Tom’s wand snapped back into his hand with a casual flick, and Harry found himself hit with a nonverbal spell that sent him tumbling back into the dirt.

“Lesson one,” Tom said, rising smoothly to his feet. “Never assume the fight’s over just because you’ve got the upper hand.”

Harry groaned from the ground, a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration coursing through him. “Yeah, yeah, noted,” he muttered, reaching for his wand as he prepared to get back up.

Tom offered him a hand, his smirk still firmly in place. “Come on, Potter. Let’s see what other reckless ideas you’ve got up your sleeve.”

══════════════════

By the time they wrapped up sparring, the horizon had begun to blush with the fading light of sunset. The air was cooler now, the forest humming softly with the sounds of evening. Harry didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed himself this much during a duel—or, well, a “training session,” as Tom kept calling it.

Every move felt like a challenge, every spell a puzzle to solve. Tom kept him on his toes, pulling out obscure, clever spells that Harry had never even heard of, let alone seen in action. And when Harry managed to catch Tom off guard—whether by quick thinking or sheer luck—the brief flicker of approval in Tom’s gaze was enough to make Harry’s chest swell with pride.

It was addictive, that look, like he’d earned some secret, unspoken acknowledgment from someone who didn’t give those out lightly.

Harry shook his head, letting out a tired laugh as he leaned against a tree to catch his breath. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t going to try tackling Tom again. That had been enough humiliation for one day. Every time the memory crept up on him—the solid feel of Tom beneath his hands, all lean strength and effortless control—Harry’s cheeks turned a warm shade of pink.

And then there was Tom’s face, impossibly close in that fleeting moment. His sharp features, the almost regal set of his jaw, the way his eyes held a thousand unreadable thoughts. Harry couldn’t deny it—Tom was ridiculously handsome, a fact that only became more distracting up close.

Not that the man made it any easier. Tom’s smirk had been in full force since the tackle incident, his teasing comments landing like perfectly aimed hexes. Harry could practically hear his heart pounding every time Tom so much as raised an eyebrow in that knowing, infuriatingly smug way.

Harry scuffed his shoe against the dirt, trying to will the blush away. "Get a grip," he muttered to himself under his breath.

“What was that, Potter?” Tom’s voice interrupted, smooth and slightly amused as he handed Harry a flask of water.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, taking the flask and gulping down the cool water to distract himself.

Tom raised a brow but didn’t push. Instead, he glanced up at the darkening sky. “We should head back before it’s pitch black out here. No point in letting you trip over tree roots on top of everything else.”

Harry shot him a mock glare. “I’m not that clumsy.”

Tom smirked, already turning toward the cabin. “Sure you’re not.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry trudged after Tom, but despite himself, a small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips. The day had left him drained, and he was certain he’d wake up tomorrow covered in bruises. Yet, for all the exhaustion, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this... connected to someone.

Tom had a way of keeping up with Harry’s chaotic energy and impulsive decisions, meeting him head-on without hesitation. It was rare to find someone who didn’t try to rein Harry in or lecture him for being reckless. With Tom, it was like they’d been doing this dance forever, as though they’d known each other for years rather than weeks.

As they stepped back into the cabin, the warmth of the space wrapped around Harry like a comforting blanket. He immediately made a beeline for the couch, collapsing onto it with an exaggerated groan. “I think my legs have officially declared war on me,” he muttered, throwing an arm over his face.

Before he could drift into the sweet embrace of laziness, a familiar weight slithered onto him. He peeked out from under his arm to see Nami curling herself across his chest and shoulders, her pale scales catching the soft glow of the cabin’s lights.

“She’s really growing on me,” Harry said with a laugh, gently scratching under Nami’s jaw as her tongue flicked out, almost as if she were agreeing with him.

From the kitchen, Tom’s voice cut through the comfortable silence. “Looks like you’ve got dinner duty.”

Harry shot him a mock glare, his free hand resting on Nami’s coils. “Oh, I see how it is. You two are teaming up against me now, huh?”

Tom smirked, not bothering to look up from the pots and plates he was preparing. “Nami’s got good instincts. She knows how to pick her allies.”

Harry sighed dramatically, shifting to sit up, Nami still draped lazily around his shoulders like a living scarf. “Betrayed by a snake and a self-proclaimed mastermind. The odds really aren’t in my favor, are they?”

Tom finally glanced over, one brow arched. “Not when you’re this easy to manipulate.”

Harry groaned, but the faint smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Fine, but only because Nami’s adorable. You, however,” he pointed at Tom, “are on dish duty. No negotiations.”

Tom’s smirk widened, placing the knife on the counter “Deal.”

As Harry reluctantly got up, he shuffled toward the kitchen, Nami following him closely. He scanned the counter, spotting a few ingredients Tom had already set out.

“Alright,” Harry said, cracking his knuckles in an overly dramatic fashion. “Prepare to be amazed. Tonight’s menu: Harry’s Famous... something.”

Tom leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, watching with a bemused expression. “You don’t even know what you’re making, do you?”

“Details,” Harry said, waving a hand dismissively. He grabbed some eggs and a loaf of bread. “I’ll whip up something edible. Probably.”

Tom chuckled, a low, warm sound that made Harry’s cheeks heat up for no reason he’d care to admit. “Do you want me to step in before you set the cabin on fire?”

“Not a chance,” Harry shot back, cracking an egg into a bowl with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I’ve got this under control.”

Nami slithered up Harry’s leg with effortless grace, coiling her way onto the counter. She settled herself beside him, her sleek form glinting faintly in the light as she watched intently while Harry whisked the eggs and reached for a pan.

As the butter sizzled in the pan, Harry glanced over at Tom. “So,” he said, trying to sound casual, “what’s the story with this place? It’s nice, but... kind of feels like you’re hiding out.”

Tom’s expression shifted, just slightly, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “You could say that. It’s... a retreat, of sorts. A place to regroup.”

Harry nodded, flipping a piece of bread into the egg mixture. “Guess we all need somewhere to escape to.”

“True,” Tom replied quietly, his gaze lingering on Harry. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Though I didn’t expect to have to share it with someone who burns toast.”

“Hey!” Harry protested, glaring at the slightly singed edges of the bread. “This is artisanal toast. You wouldn’t understand.”

Tom let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he took another bite of the “artisanal toast.” Despite Harry’s protest, it wasn’t half bad, even with its slightly charred edges. The rest of the meal went by in a surprisingly comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sarcastic comment from Tom or a sassy flick of Nami’s tongue.

When the plates were cleared and the kitchen somewhat tidied—Harry insisted it was “organized chaos,” much to Tom’s dismay—Tom reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky.

“Figured we earned this after today’s sparring session,” Tom said, setting the bottle on the table with a pair of glasses.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Firewhisky? Are you trying to get me drunk, or is this another one of your bonding rituals?”

Tom smirked, pouring them each a modest amount. “Think of it as both. Besides, it might help numb the bruises you’ll be feeling tomorrow.”

Harry accepted the glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a cautious sip. The Firewhisky burned on the way down, but it left a pleasant warmth in its wake. “Not bad,” he said, setting his glass down, straightening slightly. “I should send an owl to Lily and James, let them know I’ll be out for a couple of days.”

Tom gestured toward the corner, where a small but sleek owl was perched, observing them with sharp, curious eyes. “Feel free to borrow my owl. She’s quick and precise.”

“Perfect,” Harry said, grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill from a nearby desk. As he dipped the quill in ink, he added, “I’ll keep it vague—something like, ‘Don’t wait up, staying somewhere safe.’ That should keep them from freaking out.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, smirking as he watched Harry scribble furiously on the parchment. “I’m sure they won’t have any follow-up questions.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips. “It’s not like I’m giving them much to work with. The less they know, the better.”

He folded the note with practiced efficiency and tied it to the owl’s leg. “Alright, girl,” he said softly, stroking her feathers. “Make sure this gets to the Potters.”

With a quick flap of her wings, the owl soared into the night, her silhouette vanishing against the dark canopy. 

He turned back to Tom, who was nursing his drink with an amused expression. “Well,” Harry said, plopping back down in his chair, “that’s one thing off my mind. Now what?”

Tom raised his glass, the firelight glinting in his eyes. “Now, we finish the Firewhisky and figure out how to survive the next week without getting killed. Sound like a plan?”

Harry picked up his own glass, grinning. “Sounds like the best plan I’ve heard all day.”

Chapter Text

The next day, they turned their focus to brewing the potions they’d need for the upcoming heist. First on the list was a Night Vision Potion, essential for navigating in darkness without alerting anyone with light.

Tom scanned the shelves of his potion stores, his sharp gaze narrowing as he muttered under his breath. “Of course, the one ingredient we actually need is the one we’re out of.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, leaning against the doorframe, clearly ready to volunteer himself for some kind of mission.

“Nocturnal creature extract,” Tom replied, his tone clipped. “Specifically from a Shadowmoth. It’s rare, but there’s a glade nearby where they gather after dusk. Convenient, though not without its risks.”

Harry perked up, intrigued. “A glade full of magical creatures? Sounds exciting. What’s the catch?”

Tom gave him a flat look. “The catch is that magical creatures don’t tend to hand over pieces of themselves willingly. And some of them bite.”

Harry grinned, grabbing his wand. “Good thing I’m decent at dodging, then.”

══════════════════

They spent the afternoon relaxing and tossing around ideas for their plan. The cabin was filled with the sound of low laughter and the occasional clatter of parchment or quills. Tom was a force to be reckoned with, his cunning mind working through strategies with an almost surgical precision. Harry had always thought of himself as quick on his feet, but Tom was operating on an entirely different level—always three steps ahead, prepared for every possible scenario.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, the easy banter laced with wit and the occasional sharp retort. The more they talked, the more Harry realized how much closer they’d grown in such a short time.

Of course, it didn’t help that Tom was annoyingly, infuriatingly, devilishly handsome. Every teasing remark carried a weight that lingered, every flicker of his smirk felt like a challenge, and the way his gaze locked onto Harry’s—intense and unyielding, holding for just a beat too long—was enough to make Harry’s cheeks flare up like a bonfire.

And the worst part? Tom absolutely knew it. The smug look on his face every time Harry stumbled over his words or glanced away in embarrassment was evidence enough. It was like Tom had turned it into a game, dialling up the charm just to see how flustered Harry could get before he exploded.

It felt almost unreal, the idea that someone like Tom—confident to the point of arrogance, endlessly clever, and, let’s face it, maddeningly perfect—could be showing interest in him . Harry wasn’t a stranger to admirers, sure, but this? This was a whole other level. Having Tom’s attention felt exhilarating and overwhelming all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea if you were about to fall or fly.

But there was a shadow of doubt creeping in, one Harry couldn’t entirely ignore. How much of this was genuine? Was it interest, or was Tom—always the master manipulator—playing some deeper game? Harry couldn’t shake the nagging thought that he might just be another piece on Tom’s chessboard, carefully positioned but ultimately disposable. The uncertainty made his chest tighten, even as part of him didn’t want to pull away.

By the time dusk settled over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep purple and amber, they were out the door and on their way. The path stretched ahead of them, cloaked in the soft, eerie quiet of the approaching night. The crisp evening air carried the faint scent of pine and damp earth, rustling Harry’s hair with a cool, refreshing touch.

The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the stillness broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the soft scurry of a rabbit darting across their path. Shadows danced between the trees as the last light faded, creating a magical atmosphere.

“We’re almost there. Get ready,” Tom whispered, his voice steady but edged with tension. He pulled out his wand, the tip already glowing faintly in the darkness. “The moths are territorial. They’ll attack as soon as they sense us.”

Harry nodded, gripping his wand tightly. This was supposed to be a simple potion ingredient run, but nothing with Tom ever stayed simple. The forest ahead was unnervingly quiet, the dense canopy blocking most of the moonlight.

They walked cautiously, every crunch of leaves beneath their feet echoing in the stillness. A faint shimmer ahead caught Harry’s attention—a glimmering cloud of soft golden light.

“There,” Tom murmured, gesturing toward the glowing swarm of magical moths perched on a patch of luminous mushrooms. Their wings sparkled like stardust, beautiful yet menacing.

“Right,” Harry whispered. “How do we get the extract without—”

The moths answered for him, their glittering wings fluttering as the swarm took to the air, heading straight for them.

“Move!” Tom barked, flicking his wand. A shimmering barrier appeared in front of them, deflecting the first wave of moths.

“They’re fast!” Harry shouted, firing a gentle stunning charm at the approaching swarm. The spell caught a few moths, sending them spiraling to the ground, but the rest darted around the barrier, their tiny wings slicing through the air with eerie precision.

Tom ducked and countered with a precise freezing charm, which slowed a section of the swarm, encasing the moths in a shimmering block of ice. “We need to extract the powder from their wings before they thaw,” he said quickly. “Can you handle the rest?”

Harry nodded, gripping his wand. “Yeah, no pressure or anything.”

As Tom knelt to gather the frozen moths, Harry cast a series of spells to keep the remaining swarm at bay. His shield charm deflected a swooping cluster, but a stray moth slipped past and slashed his arm with its razor-sharp wing. He winced, firing back with a stunning spell.

“Got it!” Tom called, holding up a vial filled with the faintly glowing powder. “Let’s get out of here before—”

A guttural growl interrupted him, low and menacing, coming from the shadows behind them. Harry turned, his heart dropping as six hulking silhouettes emerged from the darkness.

“Moonfanged wolves,” Tom muttered, his jaw tightening. The creatures were enormous, their silver fur glowing faintly under the moonlight, and their eyes gleamed with predatory intent.

“Any chance they’re friendly?” Harry asked, his voice rising slightly.

“They’re not,” Tom replied grimly.

The wolves moved as one, circling them, their growls vibrating through the air. One lunged, faster than Harry expected, its massive jaws snapping just inches from his arm.

“Protego!” Harry shouted, his shield charm flaring to life and hurling the wolf backward with a forceful shimmer.

Tom moved with sharp precision, his wand carving through the air as he cast a stunning spell at the second wolf. The creature stumbled, snarling but staying upright, its glowing silver eyes locked on him.

But the third wolf, faster and more aggressive, lunged straight for Tom. He didn’t see it, his attention fixed on the staggering beast in front of him.

“Tom, look out!” Harry yelled, his heart hammering. Without thinking, he raised his wand, summoning all his focus.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A radiant burst of silver erupted from Harry’s wand, the spell surging to life in a dazzling display. The entire forest was bathed in light as a magnificent stag materialized, its antlers gleaming like polished silver. The wolves faltered, growling uncertainly before retreating as the stag charged, its hooves thundering against the forest floor. One by one, the wolves vanished into the darkness, their glowing eyes fading into the shadows.

Breathing hard, Harry watched his Patronus dissolve into silvery mist.

Tom turned, his voice carrying a quiet gratitude. “Thanks for having my back again.”

He stepped closer, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Your eyes…” Tom said softly, his tone tinged with curiosity. “They’re green.”

Harry blinked, startled. He raised trembling hands to his face, brushing his fingers near his eyes like he could feel the sudden revelation.

“Why did you hide them?” Tom asked, his voice more pointed now. His gaze didn’t waver, scrutinizing every inch of Harry’s face. “They’re almost identical to Lily Potter’s. And the rest of you…” He trailed off, his smirk absent for once. “You’re the spitting image of James and Lily.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, the forest air suddenly feeling suffocating. His mind raced, a thousand explanations colliding in his head, but all he managed was a shaky, “I—I can explain.”

Tom’s piercing gaze lingered for a moment, searching Harry’s face like he could extract the truth by sheer willpower. Then, after a tense silence, he spoke. “Let’s get back to the cabin before we attract more unwelcome company.” His tone was calm, but the underlying edge was unmistakable. “But don’t think for a second you’re avoiding this conversation.”

The tension between them was almost unbearable as they trudged through the dark forest. Every step seemed heavier than the last, the crisp air doing nothing to ease the heat of Harry’s nerves. He could feel Tom’s presence beside him, quiet but commanding, a reminder that this wasn’t something Harry could just talk his way out of.

Harry’s mind spun, grasping at straws for how to tell the truth. Tom had always been perceptive, seeing through every stumble and contradiction. And now? Now Harry could practically feel the weight of Tom’s suspicion.

Harry swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling. How was he supposed to tell Tom he wasn’t from this world? That he came from a dimension where the man walking beside him was a very different person? His parents had accepted him easily, driven by unconditional love and the bond they shared. But Tom? Tom was a strategist, a skeptic, someone who dissected every word and motive. Sure, they’d grown closer, but was that bond strong enough to survive a revelation like this?

Before Harry could settle on an approach, the outline of the cabin came into view, its warm lights glowing faintly through the trees. Harry’s heart thudded against his ribs as they approached, knowing that whatever happened next would define everything between them.

══════════════════

Tom moved with quiet precision, methodically organizing the ingredients they had gathered as if nothing monumental had just occurred. Harry, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. He sank into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, his leg bouncing uncontrollably beneath the table. Every tick of the clock seemed louder than the last, each second stretching into an eternity.

Finally, Tom finished and joined him, lowering himself into the chair across from Harry with an almost deliberate calm. His piercing eyes locked onto Harry’s, now unmistakably green. There was no judgment yet, just expectation—and an unnerving intensity that made Harry’s stomach twist.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Harry admitted, his laugh shaky and humorless. His hands gripped the edge of the table as though it might anchor him. “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy.”

Tom’s expression didn’t shift, his voice level but insistent. “Then start at the beginning.”

Harry exhaled slowly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He knew there was no sugarcoating this, no clever spin to make it sound less absurd. “Alright,” he began, forcing himself to meet Tom’s gaze. “I came here… from a different dimension.”

Tom’s brow arched slightly, skepticism flickering across his face, but he didn’t interrupt.

“There’s this magical mirror,” Harry continued, his voice steadying as he found the words. “I found it in the Room of Requirement back at Hogwarts. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. It—well, it transported me here.”

“Here?” Tom pressed, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table.

“To my parents’ living room,” Harry said, his throat tightening at the memory. “And they were alive. Not just alive—they were happy, together. It completely threw me off because in my world…” He hesitated, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. “They’re dead.”

“So, you came from another reality,” he said slowly, his tone carrying an edge of suspicion, “where your parents are dead?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. “A lot of things are different here, actually.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but his curiosity evident. “Such as?”

Harry hesitated, searching for the right words. There wasn’t any sugarcoating this, not with Tom. “For starters… you being the Minister of Magic,” he finally said, his voice uneven but steady enough.

Tom’s lips curled into a faint smirk, a glint of pride or humor dancing in his dark eyes. “I take it that’s not my role in your world?”

Harry snorted softly, shaking his head. “Not even close.”

Tom leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table. “Did you know me there? Because when we first met, you looked at me like you’d seen a ghost—or worse.”

Harry swallowed, his heart thudding as he tried to figure out how to explain. “Yeah… we knew each other,” he admitted, his voice tight. “Very well, actually.”

Tom arched an eyebrow, his curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous. “Go on.”

Harry inhaled deeply, willing himself to stay calm. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it,” he said, bracing himself. “In my world, you… you were the next Dark Lord after Grindelwald.”

For a moment, the room felt utterly still. The smirk faded from Tom’s face, replaced by something cold and calculating. His shock was visible, but there was a dangerous edge to it—a warning that Harry had just stepped onto treacherous ground.

“You’re saying,” Tom began slowly, his voice quiet but laced with steel, “that in your world, I became a Dark Lord?”

Harry nodded, his palms sweating. “Yeah. And you weren’t exactly subtle about it.”

“And how, exactly,” Tom began, his voice calm but laced with a chilling curiosity, “did I achieve such a title?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Tom’s scrutiny. He’d expected this question, but answering it was no easier for that. “You… you started with charisma,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “You were smart, powerful, persuasive. You had people eating out of your hand. But then, you started gaining followers—people who would do anything for you. You called them Death Eaters.”

Tom’s lips twitched at the name, but his face remained unreadable. “Death Eaters,” he echoed softly, as if tasting the words. “Charming.”

Harry pushed on, feeling like he needed to get it all out before Tom could interrupt. “You wanted power, control, domination—everything. It started with ideals, but then it spiraled into fear and destruction. And me? I—I was the one who was supposed to stop you.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through Tom’s eyes. “Stop me?” he repeated, his tone deceptively light. “How exactly did that play out?”

Harry hesitated, his throat tightening as he searched for the right words. “There was… a prophecy,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “It said that someone would be born with the power to defeat you.” He glanced at Tom, gauging his reaction, but Tom’s face remained stoic, his gaze unrelenting.

“You made it your mission to kill every wizarding child born in July,” Harry continued, his stomach churning at the memory. “Eventually, you got to me. My parents tried to protect me. They… sacrificed themselves, and when you cast the Killing Curse on me, it backfired.” He swallowed hard, the weight of the story sitting heavy in the air between them. “You died.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his silence spoke volumes. Harry pressed on, the words spilling out now as though he couldn’t hold them back. “But that wasn’t the end. You had horcruxes—pieces of your soul hidden away. You came back. There was a huge war, so many lives lost… but in the end, we destroyed every last piece of your soul. We defeated you.”

For a moment, the room was so quiet that Harry could hear his own heartbeat. Tom’s face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, disbelief, perhaps even a hint of anger.

“Horcruxes,” Tom said finally, his voice soft but cold, like the edge of a blade. “Pieces of my soul, scattered like breadcrumbs to ensure my survival. Fascinating.”

Harry winced. “It wasn’t fascinating. It was horrific. People died because of them. Because of you.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze fixed on Harry. “And yet, here I sit,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Not a Dark Lord, not a warlord… but a Minister of Magic. A far cry from the monster you described.”

Harry nodded slowly. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you at first. You’re different here. You’ve done good things. I didn’t want to… I don’t know… ruin that by dredging up a past you didn’t even live.”

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “And yet, you’ve told me now. So, Harry, the question remains… do you think I’m still capable of becoming him?”

Harry swallowed hard, willing his nerves to settle. He met Tom’s piercing gaze, the intensity in those eyes making it difficult to think straight. “No,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You’re not the same as the person I knew. You never could be.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Bold statement. And how can you be so sure?”

Harry leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together on the table. “Because you’ve already made choices he never would have. You’ve built something here. You’re not consumed by hatred or… or this need to control everyone. You’re cunning, yeah, but you use it to help people.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “And because I’ve seen the kind of man you are. You’re better than him.”

Tom’s smirk deepened, though something softer flickered in his expression, a glimmer of intrigue. “Careful, Harry,” he said, his tone light but laced with amusement. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to charm me.”

Harry’s face heated further at the way Tom said his name, his tone low and deliberate. “I’m just being honest,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands as they fidgeted on the table.

“Honest, hm?” Tom drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “And yet you can’t seem to look at me when you say it. What’s wrong, Harry? Am I making you nervous?”

Harry’s head snapped up, his blush deepening as he tried—and failed—to muster a confident reply. “I’m not nervous,” he protested, though his voice betrayed him with a slight tremor.

Tom chuckled, a rich sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Liar,” he said softly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something else—something darker, more intense. “You wear your emotions on your sleeve. It’s endearing.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words, his thoughts scattered by the weight of Tom’s gaze. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a mix of embarrassment and an inexplicable thrill coursing through him.

“Relax, Harry,” Tom said, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes locked on Harry. “I’m not going to bite. Not unless you ask me to.”

Harry’s breath hitched, and he looked away quickly, his ears burning. “You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real heat in his words.

Tom chuckled again, clearly enjoying Harry’s flustered state. “And yet, here you are,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing. “You must like impossible things.”

Harry couldn’t help the small, sheepish smile that tugged at his lips. “Maybe I do,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

══════════════════

“So you were searching for the mirror when we met in the graveyard?” Tom asked, his tone even, though his sharp gaze missed nothing.

Harry nodded, leaning back against the couch. The cabin was quiet except for the faint crackling of the fire. It was late into the night, but neither of them seemed willing to break the spell of their conversation. For the first time, Harry felt like he could let his guard down completely, the weight of his secrets finally lifted.

“Are you trying to go back to your own world?” Tom pressed, his voice softer now, almost curious.

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands as he twisted his fingers together. “No,” he admitted after a moment, his voice tinged with sadness. “Even though I miss my friends, I don’t have anything to go back to.” He paused, the words heavy on his tongue. “A lot of people died for me—for the war. I’ll always be grateful for their sacrifices, but... it’s hard to carry that with me all the time.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, or perhaps empathy—that caught Harry off guard.

Harry sighed, staring into the fire as he continued, his voice quieter now. “I’m happy here, though. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. But that makes me feel... guilty. Like I’m betraying everyone who gave up so much for me.”

Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re allowed to be happy, Harry,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You don’t owe the dead your misery. They made their choices, and you’ve made yours. You’re here now, and it’s your life to live.”

Harry looked up, startled by the certainty in Tom’s voice. “Do you really believe that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, almost sardonic smile. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Guilt is a useless emotion if it keeps you stuck in the past. It won’t bring them back, and it won’t change what happened. All you can do is move forward.”

Harry let Tom’s words sink in, his chest tightening with a mixture of relief and something else—something warm and unfamiliar. “Thanks,” he said softly, meeting Tom’s gaze. “I just hope we can stop this threat before it gets worse. I don’t want anyone else dying for another person’s crazy ideal.”

Tom’s expression softened, and he gave a slight nod. “We’ll catch them,” he said with quiet confidence. “Don’t worry about that.”

Harry relaxed a little, but Tom’s next words caught him off guard. “It’s strange having an ally,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “The last time I fought someone like this, I was almost entirely on my own. When I went up against Grindelwald…” He trailed off, a faint, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “Let’s just say I barely walked away.”

Harry sat up straighter, his eyes wide with shock. “What?” he blurted out. “You almost didn’t make it?”

Tom’s gaze flickered toward the fire, the light casting shadows across his sharp features. For a moment, he seemed lost in the memory, his usual composed demeanor slipping just enough for Harry to glimpse the weight he carried. “Grindelwald wasn’t just powerful,” Tom began, his tone measured but tinged with something raw. “He was clever. Always one step ahead, always pulling strings you didn’t even know existed. By the time I confronted him, I’d already lost so many people who stood against him.”

Harry leaned forward, his heart pounding. “But you beat him,” he said, his voice firm. “You stopped him.”

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile. “Barely. I underestimated him in the beginning. Paid for it in blood and scars.” He tapped his wand against the table absently, the rhythm steady and deliberate. “But I learned. The hard way.”

Harry felt a pang of empathy, his admiration for Tom deepening with every word. He had always seen Tom as untouchable—someone who thrived on control and unshakable strength. But hearing this vulnerable side of him, the cracks in the armor, made Tom seem startlingly human. It was a side Harry hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but respect.

“We’re not alone this time,” Harry said softly, his voice steady with conviction. “We’ll stop these people. Together. And we’ll make sure no one else has to die for someone else’s twisted cause.”

Tom’s gaze snapped to Harry, his intense eyes locking onto him. For a moment, something flickered there—something unreadable but undeniably powerful. His expression shifted subtly, the sharp edges of his usual smirk softened by a rare and fleeting sincerity.

“Together,” Tom echoed, his voice quiet yet weighted, as though the word carried more meaning than Harry could fully grasp. The simplicity of it made Harry’s chest tighten, a warmth spreading through him that he wasn’t entirely ready to face.

Chapter Text

As the sun rose the next day, Harry and Tom decided to scout a nearby wizarding market rumored to be frequented by the group they’re hunting. 

Tom was meticulously checking his wand and a small enchanted pouch strapped to his belt. Harry, still groggy, struggled to tame his perpetually messy hair while attempting to look alert.

“Do you always look like you’ve rolled out of bed during a mission?” Tom teased, his lips quirking up in amusement.

Harry shot him a glare, though it lacked any real venom. “Not all of us wake up looking like we stepped out of a magazine.”

Tom chuckled, an infuriatingly charming sound. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Harry. Shall we?” He gestured toward the path leading out of the forest.

Once they stepped beyond the protective wards, the sharp crack of Apparition carried them to their destination.

The wizarding market unfurled before them like a living tapestry, vibrant and chaotic. Brightly colored stalls clustered along winding cobblestone streets, their goods spilling out in a riot of magical wonder: shimmering potions that pulsed like liquid light, enchanted trinkets that hummed with faint energy, and cages holding creatures that glowed, chirped, or hissed softly. The air was alive with the symphony of laughter, bartering, and the occasional pop of spells being demonstrated for curious onlookers.

Harry’s breath hitched as he took it all in. He tried to temper his amazement, but his wide eyes gave him away, the emerald green practically gleaming as he darted quick glances at every fascinating stall.

Tom noticed immediately, his smirk growing as he leaned in close. “Careful, Harry. You’ll attract attention with that ‘lost tourist’ look.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Harry muttered defensively, though his gaze was still locked on a nearby stall showcasing ancient, leather-bound books with magical auras swirling faintly around them.

Tom let out a soft chuckle, one that carried an irritating amount of charm. “Of course not. Just stay close. This isn’t Diagon Alley, and not everyone here is interested in fair trade.”

As they wandered deeper into the market, the stalls became less vibrant and more eclectic. Vendors hawked rare magical ingredients, some of which Harry could barely recognize. The aroma of exotic spices mixed with the sharp tang of brewing potions wafted through the air. Harry’s gaze darted to a table displaying shimmering crystals that pulsed faintly, as if alive.

Tom’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Tempted to buy one, or just trying to figure out if they’ll explode?”

Harry rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched into a smile. “Not everything’s a trap, you know.”

Tom arched a brow, stepping closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the crowded space. “In a place like this? Always assume it’s a trap.” His gaze flickered briefly to the crystals. “Especially when the vendor refuses to look you in the eye.”

Harry blinked, glancing at the stall owner, who was indeed avoiding their gaze. “Oh.”

With a faint smirk, Tom placed a guiding hand on Harry’s shoulder, steering him away. “Stick with me, Potter. I’d hate to lose you to some cursed trinket.”

Harry flushed under the weight of Tom’s touch and tone, but he couldn’t stop the warm flutter in his chest. “You’re acting like I can’t handle myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Tom replied smoothly, his hand lingering just a moment longer before letting go. “But watching you handle yourself is far too entertaining to risk cutting it short.”

Before Harry could fire back a retort, the sound of hushed angry voices caught his attention. Tom noticed it too, his sharp eyes narrowing as he subtly inclined his head toward the source.

They moved closer, weaving through the throng of market-goers. Near a shadowy alcove between two stalls, two robed figures stood with their heads bent, their voices low but urgent.

“...delivery’s late. If it doesn’t arrive by tomorrow, the boss will have our heads.”

“It’s not my fault. Security’s tighter now. The Aurors have been sniffing around, and I had to change the route.”

Tom’s expression darkened, his calculating gaze fixed on the figures. Harry felt a flicker of unease as he watched the man’s entire demeanor shift into something sharper, more dangerous.

“Stay close,” Tom murmured. “We’ll follow him.”

Harry nodded and they trailed the man as he wove through the market, slipping into a narrow alley that reeked of damp stone and something metallic.

The man ahead moved with purpose, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. Harry ducked instinctively, keeping close to Tom’s side. The faint metallic scent grew stronger, setting Harry’s nerves on edge.

“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” Harry whispered.

“Possibly,” Tom replied, his tone laced with quiet amusement. “But if he does, he’s not very good at hiding it. Keep your wand ready.”

Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his palms slightly sweaty. They rounded a corner, the alley opening up into a secluded courtyard cluttered with crates and barrels. The man they’d been trailing stood near a stack of boxes, speaking to a figure cloaked in heavy black robes.

“We’re cutting it close,” the first man hissed. “If they find out about the shipment—”

“They won’t,” the cloaked figure interrupted, their voice cold and sharp. “Just make sure it’s ready for transport tonight. We’re too close to risk failure now.”

Tom’s hand shot out, pulling Harry behind a stack of barrels. They crouched low, peering through a gap between the crates.

“Transport? Shipment?” Harry mouthed, his brows furrowing.

Tom’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but his eyes remained sharp and calculating. “Sounds like they’re planning something big,” he whispered. “Let’s see if we can find out more.”

The first man shuffled nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “And if the Aurors show up?”

The cloaked figure’s laughter was low and chilling. “Let them come. By the time they figure it out, it’ll already be too late.”

As Tom and Harry strained to catch every word of the suspicious conversation, the sound of approaching footsteps made Harry’s heart lurch. Another man, tall and broad-shouldered, emerged from the shadows. His eyes scanned the courtyard before narrowing in their direction.

“We’re not alone,” the man growled, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable threat.

The cloaked figure snapped their head toward him, their tone icy. “Find them. Now.”

Before Harry could process what was happening, Tom grabbed his wrist. “Run,” he ordered, his voice calm but urgent.

They bolted, darting back the way they’d come, the shouts of their pursuers echoing behind them. Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears as they twisted and turned through the labyrinthine market, dodging startled vendors and stumbling over uneven cobblestones.

“This way!” Tom yanked Harry into a narrow passage between two towering buildings. The space was barely wide enough for them to squeeze through, the air damp and heavy.

“Where are we going?” Harry panted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Anywhere but here,” Tom muttered. His free hand traced the wall, searching for something. Then, with a triumphant gleam in his eyes, he whispered an incantation. The stone wall shimmered, revealing a hidden alcove lined with glowing runes.

“Inside. Quickly.”

They ducked into the alcove just as the pursuing footsteps grew louder. The space was cramped, forcing Harry and Tom to stand pressed close together, their breaths mingling in the confined air. The wall sealed behind them, the runes pulsing faintly as they muffled the noise outside.

Harry shifted awkwardly in the tight space, his back pressed against the cold stone wall as Tom’s presence loomed close—too close. He glanced up, only to meet Tom’s piercing gaze, and his heart did a nervous flip.

“This is… a little cramped,” Harry muttered, trying to focus on anything other than the way their breaths seemed to mingle in the confined space.

Tom arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a faint smirk. “You say that like it’s a complaint.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, his face heating as he struggled to find a coherent response. “That’s not what I meant!” he blurted out, his voice higher than he intended.

Tom chuckled, low and rich, the sound sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Relax, Harry. You look like you’re ready to bolt, and we’ve only just caught our breath.”

Harry forced himself to look anywhere but at Tom, but the closeness made it impossible to ignore the way Tom’s confidence seemed to fill the space. “I’m perfectly relaxed,” he mumbled, though the rapid beat of his heart betrayed him.

Tom leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “If this is you relaxed, I’d love to see you flustered.”

Harry groaned softly, burying his face in his hands. “I think they are gone now” he muttered, his cheeks burning.

“It sounds like you are trying to run away.” Tom quipped, his smirk widening as he pulled back just enough to give Harry a fraction more space—but not enough to let him fully escape. 

Harry peeked through his fingers, his face still flushed. “I’m not running away,” he muttered, though the unevenness in his voice betrayed him.

Tom arched a brow, leaning casually against the alcove wall. “Good. Because if you were, I’d have to remind you that we’re in this together.”

Harry rolled his eyes, willing his heart to calm down. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly, though the intensity of Tom’s gaze made him feel like his resolve might falter.

“Good,” Tom repeated, his tone softer this time, almost… sincere. “Because you’re proving to be far more interesting than I expected, Harry.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Tom’s demeanor. “Interesting how?” he asked cautiously.

Tom’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Let’s just say you have a knack for making things… unpredictable. And I do enjoy a good challenge.”

Harry’s cheeks warmed even more, and he quickly cleared his throat, stepping out of the alcove. “They probably gave up chasing us. We should check on the shipment. That’s why we’re here, remember?”

“Of course,” Tom said smoothly, following him out. “Wouldn’t want to get distracted, would we?”

Harry shot him a sidelong glance, but Tom’s expression was all smug amusement, like he knew exactly what effect he had. Harry shook his head and focused on navigating the twisting paths of the market.

The crowds had thinned slightly, though the energy of the place was still electric. Harry kept his wand tucked discreetly under his cloak, his senses on high alert as they retraced their steps to the storage area where the shipment was supposed to be delivered.

When they arrived, the small, tucked-away courtyard was quiet. Too quiet. Harry glanced at Tom, who was already scanning the area, his wand subtly drawn.

“Looks like they haven't made it back yet.” Tom murmured, his voice low. “We should do this quickly, I don’t want them to know that we are onto them.

Harry nodded, his grip tightening on his wand. They approached the storage area cautiously, Tom leading the way with a confidence that Harry envied. The wooden crates that were supposed to hold the shipment were stacked neatly against the wall—but something wasn’t right.

Tom stepped closer to the crates, his wand held at the ready. He muttered a detection spell under his breath, his movements fluid and precise. A faint shimmer of light rippled over the crates before fading.

“Wards,” Tom said grimly. “Someone didn’t want us tampering with this.”

Harry frowned, moving to stand beside him. “What do you think is inside?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he aimed his wand at the nearest crate and muttered, “Finite Incantatem.” The shimmer dissipated with a faint hiss, and the air around them felt heavier. Tom glanced at Harry. “Ready?”

Harry nodded, his heart pounding as he watched Tom flick his wand to unlock the crate. The lid creaked open, revealing rows of vials filled with a dark, swirling liquid. The substance seemed almost alive, pulsing faintly as if in response to their presence.

“What is that?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Darkfire potion,” he said, his voice cold. “Highly unstable and nearly impossible to extinguish once ignited. It can level entire buildings, burn through wards, even resist most counter-spells.”

Harry’s stomach churned. “They were planning to use this?”

Tom nodded, his gaze locked on the vials. “In the wrong hands, this could cause catastrophic damage. They’re preparing for something big—an attack designed to cause mass chaos.”

Harry’s breath quickened. “We can’t let them get away with this. We have to get rid of it somehow.”

“Destroying it here would be too dangerous,” Tom said, his voice clipped. “One wrong move and we’d set off the whole stockpile. We have to carefully neutralize it.”

Before Harry could respond, a faint sound caught his attention—a shuffle of feet, just beyond the courtyard. He tensed, his wand snapping up as he turned toward the noise.

Looks like we’re not alone,” Tom said, his voice low and deadly calm, his eyes narrowing as he caught movement at the edge of the courtyard.

A figure emerged from the shadows, their robes dark and flowing, a wand held loosely at their side. Behind them, more robed figures stepped into view, faces obscured by white masks that gleamed faintly in the dim light.

One of them spoke, their voice distorted by magic. “Step away from the crates. Now.”

Tom’s smirk was sharp and dangerous. “I don’t take orders from cowards who hide behind masks.”

The leading figure chuckled darkly, lowering their hood to reveal a striking woman with sharp features and piercing eyes. Tom’s jaw tightened. “Vinda Rosier,” he said, his tone cold. “I should’ve known you’d be crawling out of the woodwork.”

Her piercing gaze landed on him, lips curling into a venomous smile. “Gaunt,” she replied smoothly. “Still meddling in matters you don’t understand. You’re out of your depth.”

Tom’s wand rose slightly, his posture relaxed but deadly. “And you’re still clinging to a dead man’s dream. You won’t win this, Rosier.”

Her smile widened, sharp and condescending. “This isn’t about winning—it’s about reclaiming what’s rightfully ours. Grindelwald’s vision will rise again, with or without you standing in our way.”

Before she could respond, Tom struck, his wand moving with lightning speed. A jet of white light shot toward Rosier, who deflected it with a sharp flick of her own wand. The spell ricocheted, exploding against the crates, sending shards of wood flying.

The courtyard erupted into chaos.

Harry sprang into action, dodging a curse that whizzed past his shoulder. He countered with a Stupefy, knocking one of Rosier’s masked accomplices to the ground. His heart thundered in his chest as the attackers swarmed, their spells lighting up the night like fireworks.

Rosier barked orders, her voice cutting through the din. “Secure the potions! Take them now!”

Harry’s eyes widened as one of the masked figures broke for the nearest crate, their wand raised. He acted on instinct, casting a nonverbal Expelliarmus. The wand flew from the figure’s hand, clattering uselessly to the ground.

“Tom!” Harry shouted, his voice strained with urgency. “We can’t let them take the Darkfire potions. They’ll wipe out half the city!”

“I’m on it.” Tom’s reply was calm but firm, his wand flicking sharply as another opponent crumpled under a Stunning Spell. “Don’t hold back, Harry. We don’t have the luxury.”

Harry nodded, the weight of Tom’s words igniting a spark of determination in his chest. Dodging a bolt of green light, Harry sent a Stunning Spell hurtling toward another enemy, dropping them mid-stride. His mind raced as he deflected curse after curse, his magic fueled by adrenaline and desperation.

Rosier, meanwhile, was relentless, her dueling style as vicious as her words. She seemed to revel in the chaos, her spells powerful and precise. “You should’ve stayed out of this, Gaunt!” she called, her voice cutting through the fray. “You’ve only delayed the inevitable!”

“Delay?” Tom retorted, his voice dripping with scorn. “I’m here to end it.”

Harry spotted Rosier out of the corner of his eye, her wand aimed at another crate. Without thinking, he lunged, casting Protego. The shield erupted just in time to block the blast, though the force sent him stumbling backward.

“Enough games,” Rosier snarled, raising her wand again, but Tom was faster.

The air was thick with the hum of magic and the shouts of their opponents. Every second felt like a countdown to disaster. Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears as he darted to the side, narrowly avoiding a jet of green light.

Tom moved like a force of nature, his wand an extension of his will. His spells struck with surgical precision, his movements fluid. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he fought—unrelenting and fiercely focused. It wasn’t just skill; it was command.

Harry couldn’t help but glance at him in fleeting moments, both awed and bolstered by his presence. But there was no time to admire—another curse shot past Harry’s head, and he responded with an Expelliarmus. The attacker’s wand flew from their hand, clattering against the stone floor.

“We need to stop her!” Harry said, his voice strained.

Tom nodded, his wand snapping toward Rosier. “Then let’s finish this.”

Their combined efforts pushed Rosier back, her followers dropping one by one under their spells. But she was cunning, her movements calculated as she evaded their attacks. With a sudden flick of her wand, she conjured a blinding flash of light that disoriented Harry and Tom just long enough for her to retreat.

When the light cleared, Rosier was gone, her allies vanishing with her.

Tom swore under his breath, his wand still raised as he scanned the courtyard. “She escaped,” he said, his voice tight with frustration.

Harry caught his breath, his grip on his wand still firm. “But we stopped them from taking the potions,” he said, glancing at the scattered crates. “They didn’t get what they came for.”

Tom’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t over,” he said, his tone grim. “Rosier’s dangerous, and she’ll be back. Next time, we won’t let her slip away.”

══════════════════

Tom approached the crate of Darkfire potion, his sharp eyes scanning the vials stacked neatly inside. The liquid within glowed ominously, pulsating with a dark, malevolent energy that made Harry’s stomach churn.

“This stuff is nasty,” Tom muttered, crouching to inspect the potion more closely. “We can’t just take it with us—it’s too volatile, and transporting it would draw too much attention. But we’re not leaving it intact.”

Harry knelt beside him, his wand at the ready. “What do we do? Destroying it outright might trigger an explosion, right?”

Tom nodded. “Exactly. But we can tamper with it. Alter the composition just enough to render it useless without setting it off. When they try to use it, it’ll either fail entirely or backfire on them.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he watched Tom work, his movements careful and deliberate. “You’re sure you know how to do this? I mean, this stuff doesn’t exactly come with instructions.”

Tom shot him a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Harry, I didn’t become Minister by guessing my way through dangerous situations. Trust me on this.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Alright, genius. Show me what to do.”

Tom reached into his cloak and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. “This is a neutralizing agent. It won’t destroy the potion, but it’ll destabilize the core properties. Add three drops to each vial—no more, no less. Too much, and we’ll be cleaning bits of ourselves off the walls.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of the task settling on him. “Got it.”

They worked in tandem, carefully uncorking each vial of Darkfire potion and adding the neutralizing agent. Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he counted out the drops, his breath hitching every time the liquid hissed and shimmered upon contact.

“You’re doing fine,” Tom said, his voice calm and reassuring.

Harry glanced at him, finding an unexpected steadiness in Tom’s gaze. As they moved to the final row of vials, Harry’s curiosity got the better of him. “How do you even know about this stuff? Darkfire potion isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

Tom smirked, not taking his eyes off the potion he was neutralizing. “Let’s just say I’ve had a thorough education in the darker corners of magic. Knowledge is power, Harry. The more you understand your enemy, the better equipped you are to outsmart them.”

Harry nodded slowly, filing that thought away. “Well, let’s hope this is enough to throw them off.”

“It will be,” Tom said confidently, corking the last vial. He stood and stepped back, surveying their work with a critical eye. “When they come for this, they’ll think they’ve got a powerful weapon in their hands. But the moment they try to use it…” He smiled, sharp and satisfied. “They’ll find out the hard way that they’ve got nothing.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Smart choice,” Tom said, his tone light but with an edge of truth.

With the crate rendered useless, they secured it back in place, ensuring it looked untouched.

“Let’s get out of here before someone else shows up,” Tom said, leading the way out of the courtyard.

══════════════════

As they apparated back to the safety of the cabin, the tension of the day began to settle, leaving an almost oppressive silence between them. The familiar warmth of the fireplace and the comforting scent of wood smoke did little to ease Harry’s racing thoughts.

Tom tossed his cloak over a chair and turned to Harry, his expression unreadable. “Well, that was… eventful.”

Harry let out a dry laugh, dropping onto the couch with a groan. “Eventful? That’s one way to put it. A market ambush, tampering with Darkfire potion, and another attempt on our life. Yeah, just your average day.”

Tom smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the mantle. “You held your own. Even with the Inferi. Not many can keep their cool against them.”

Harry shrugged, though the praise sent a flicker of warmth through him. “I’ve had experience with them before. Still, it’s not exactly a walk in the park.”

“Experience or not, it was impressive,” Tom admitted, his tone softening slightly. “You’re more capable than I gave you credit for.”

Harry flushed, fiddling with a loose thread on the couch. “Thanks, I guess. But I’m more worried about what all of this means. Rosier showing up like that—it wasn’t random. She’s not just some low-level follower. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

Tom’s expression darkened, and he leaned against the table, his arms crossed. “Vinda Rosier isn’t just a follower—she’s one of Grindelwald’s most devoted. Even back then, she was relentless. Always carrying out his orders with ruthless efficiency. If she’s involved, it means something big is in motion.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And the theft of the Deathly Hallows? That’s no coincidence. Whoever’s orchestrating this has a vision, and it’s bigger than we think.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Hallows are powerful, sure, but don’t they need all three for... well, anything world-ending?” He frowned. 

Tom’s eyes darkened as he began to pace. “Normally, yes. But even individually, they’re weapons of immense power. The Elder Wand alone could decide any battle. In the hands of a skilled wizard, it could topple entire regimes.”

Harry watched him intently, his unease growing. He hesitated, then asked, “What about the Resurrection Stone? Have they tried to steal it from you again since the last attempt?”

Tom’s steps stilled, and his gaze snapped to Harry, sharp and unyielding. “No,” he said after a moment, his voice clipped. “And that’s what bothers me most. If they’ve already gone after the other Hallows, why stop short of a second attempt on the Stone? It’s either arrogance—or they’re waiting for something.”

Harry’s fingers tightened against the couch, the unease bubbling into full-blown anxiety. “We can’t let them get near it,” he said, his voice quieter but no less urgent. “If they complete the set...” His words faltered, the weight of the thought pressing down on him.

“They won’t,” Tom interrupted, his tone resolute and steely. He turned to Harry, his expression as unyielding as iron. “I’ve safeguarded the Stone for years, and it’s not about to fall into the hands of fanatics chasing some deranged dream of power. I’ve fortified its protections—layers upon layers that they won’t even begin to comprehend.”

Harry nodded, the conviction in Tom’s voice steadying him, though his mind still raced. “But what if they’re not aiming to steal it outright?” he asked hesitantly. “What if their plan is to draw you out instead? Make you vulnerable?”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing as he considered the possibility. “Then they’ll find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew,” he said, his voice quiet but brimming with quiet menace. “I’ve faced worse threats before and come out standing.”

Despite the tension, Harry felt a flicker of admiration. Tom’s unshakable confidence was a grounding force amidst the chaos. “I’m with you,” he said, his voice firm. “Whatever it takes to stop them.”

Tom’s gaze softened, just slightly, as he looked at Harry. “Good,” he said simply, but the weight of the word carried more than just acknowledgment—it was trust, given and earned.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the cabin, mingling with the soft golden light streaming through the windows. Harry sat at the small kitchen table, his hair an untamed mess and his mug clasped between his hands, savoring the warmth against his fingers. Tom stood by the stove, his sleeves rolled up, casually flipping pancakes with an ease that made Harry wonder if he’d ever seen Tom this… domestic.

“Didn’t peg you as the cooking type,” Harry said, trying to sound casual, though the sight of Tom in the kitchen—relaxed and competent—made his heart skip a beat.

Tom smirked without turning around. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of, Harry,” he replied smoothly. “I find it’s best not to rely on others for life’s necessities. Besides…” He flipped a pancake with an effortless flick of his wrist. “It’s an excellent way to start the day on my terms.”

Harry snorted softly, taking a sip of his coffee to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, I’m just glad you didn’t make me cook. You’d be eating burnt toast and slightly undercooked eggs right about now.”

Tom chuckled, carrying a plate of perfectly golden pancakes to the table and setting it down in front of Harry. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I feel like being adventurous.”

As they dug into breakfast, the soft clink of cutlery filled the quiet cabin, but the air between them hummed with unspoken tension—a mix of lingering adrenaline and something warmer, unnameable.

Tom leaned back in his chair, his movements relaxed yet calculated, the way they always were. “So,” he began, his tone light but his gaze sharp, “how did your meeting with Draco Malfoy go?”

Harry glanced up, his fork pausing midair. “We’ve only met once,” he admitted, but his expression softened as he set his fork down. “It was... strange. He’s different. Polite. Almost like he’s eager to help. I didn’t expect that from him.”

Tom arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting upward in mild amusement. “Eager? Draco Malfoy? Now, that’s a twist. He’s not exactly famous for his selflessness. What did you do to win him over, Potter? Flash those big, innocent eyes of yours?”

Harry rolled his eyes, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “Very funny. I didn’t do anything—at least not on purpose. Maybe he’s trying to prove something, or maybe he’s just… different now. I think he’s under a lot of pressure, especially with Lucius in the picture.”

Tom tilted his head, considering this. “Perhaps. Draco’s always been a product of his environment, bending to the strongest force in the room. But if he’s playing nice, there’s an opportunity there.”

Harry frowned, his fingers drumming softly against the edge of his plate. “An opportunity for what?”

“To dig deeper,” Tom said matter-of-factly, leaning forward slightly. “You should meet with him again, see if you can steer the conversation toward Vinda Rosier. If she’s truly working with Lucius, it’s not impossible that she’s been to Malfoy Manor. Draco might know more than he realizes.”

Harry hesitated, his mind flicking back to Draco’s carefully controlled demeanor during their last meeting. “You think he’d actually tell me something like that? I’m not sure he’d trust me enough.”

Tom’s smirk turned sharp, his confidence unshaken. “Then make him trust you. Draco’s not as complicated as he likes to think. Play into his pride, his need to feel important. If Rosier has been in contact with his father, he’ll know something—and he won’t be able to resist showing off that knowledge.”

Harry sighed, toying with a piece of toast. “Right. Just charm it out of him. Sounds easy.”

Tom chuckled, his gaze lingering on Harry in a way that made the room feel smaller, the air thicker. “If anyone can do it, it’s you. You have a way of making people... open up.”

Harry tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped at Tom’s words, focusing instead on the task ahead. “Alright. I’ll set up another meeting. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair enough,” Tom said smoothly, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. “But it won’t. I’ve seen how determined you can be, Harry. Draco won’t stand a chance.”

══════════════════

After breakfast, Harry returned to Potter Manor, the house’s quiet warmth a stark contrast to the intensity of the past few days. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows painted golden patches across the polished wood floors, and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was the only sound. His parents were still at work, leaving the manor silent and still—perfect for the thinking he needed to do.

He made his way up to his room, the familiar space feeling like a refuge as he closed the door behind him. Tossing his cloak onto the bed, Harry sat at his desk, staring at the blank parchment before him.

Draco Malfoy. Just the thought of him brought a flurry of conflicting emotions, their last meeting, under the guise of etiquette training, had been... not unpleasant, almost bordering on friendly. And that was what made this so tricky. He didn’t know what to expect anymore.

Harry picked up his quill, tapping it lightly against his chin as he tried to find the right words. How did you casually invite Draco Malfoy into your home without it sounding suspicious? Or worse, like a desperate plea for help?

Finally, he began to write:

Draco,

I trust this note finds you in good health and high spirits. I’ve been reflecting on our last meeting—it was surprisingly productive, wasn’t it? I believe there’s more we could discuss.

If you’re open to it, I’d like to invite you to another friendly chat.

Let me know what works for you.
Regards,
Harrison Potter

Harry read over the letter, his lips quirking into a small grin. The formality was ridiculous, but he figured Draco would appreciate—or at least smirk at—the effort. He folded the parchment neatly and sealed it with wax, the Potter crest pressed firmly into the crimson blob.

With a flick of his wand, he summoned Ember, the family’s sleek tawny owl, who swooped down from her perch by the window with all the grace of a particularly irritated cat. She landed on his desk and fixed him with a glare that seemed to say, This had better be important.

“Sorry, girl. Need you to deliver this to Malfoy Manor,” Harry said, tying the letter to her leg. “And no detours, alright?”

Ember gave him a look that could only be described as mildly offended before taking off into the crisp afternoon sky.

As he watched her disappear into the horizon, Harry leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. Setting up this meeting felt like the easy part; the hard part would be making it through the conversation without blowing their cover—or Draco realizing just how much Harry needed him to talk.

As he waited for a reply—or for his parents to return from work—his mind began to wander. Lately, his thoughts seemed to circle back to one person with unsettling frequency: Tom Marvolo Gaunt. It wasn’t just the excitement of their missions or Tom’s quick wit that kept replaying in Harry’s head. No, it was something more… distracting.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. He had to admit it. He liked Tom. And liking Tom wasn’t exactly hard. He had that magnetic charm, the kind that drew people in effortlessly. Add to that his sharp intellect, infuriating confidence, and, well… ridiculously good looks. It was a recipe for trouble.

And Merlin help him, Harry was embarrassingly weak when it came to Tom’s relentless flirting. The teasing smirks, the offhanded compliments, the way Tom seemed to find opportunities to stand just a little too close—it was all maddeningly effective.

But then reality would creep in, and Harry’s stomach would twist with unease. What would his family say if he told them he was interested in Tom Gaunt, the Minister of Magic? And not just any Minister—one with a reputation for being enigmatic, cunning, and tied to a web of pureblood politics.

And speaking of purebloods, Harry could already picture the inevitable whispers slithering through their circles—the hushed speculation, the thinly veiled disapproval. He’d overheard murmurs before, conversations laced with curiosity and concern over the fact that the Minister remained unmarried, still without an heir.

It made him wonder just how much of Tom’s life was still shrouded in mystery, even to those who thought they knew him best. And more than that, it made Harry wonder if he would ever be the one to piece together the fragments—if he’d ever get to see the whole picture of the enigma that was Tom Gaunt.

For now, though, it didn’t matter. Tom had an uncanny ability to make Harry’s carefully guarded walls crumble, and that alone was enough to keep Harry’s thoughts hopelessly tangled.

The sound of the front door opening and closing pulled Harry out of his spiraling thoughts. He straightened in his chair just as his parents’ voices echoed through the hall.

“Harry? You home?” Lily Potter called, her voice warm but edged with curiosity.

“In here!” Harry replied, quickly stashing away the parchment he’d been doodling on absentmindedly.

Lily and James appeared in the doorway moments later, their expressions lighting up at the sight of him. Lily was still wearing her Healer robes, and James looked slightly windswept, as though he’d just stepped off his broomstick.

“Well, this is a surprise,” James said, crossing his arms with a teasing smile. “Thought we’d never see you again.”

Harry grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

Lily’s gaze lingered on Harry’s face, her expression shifting from casual warmth to something sharper, more focused. She tilted her head, taking a small step closer, her green eyes narrowing.

“Harry,” she began, her voice soft but edged with curiosity. “Your eyes...”

Harry blinked, confused by her sudden scrutiny. “What about them?”

“They’re green again,” she said, her tone caught somewhere between surprise and concern. “And your features... they’re sharper, back to how they were before.”

“The glamour,” he muttered, his stomach twisting. He hesitated before adding, “It disappeared when I cast a Patronus earlier.”

Lily’s brow furrowed, her sharp gaze scanning his face as if piecing together a puzzle. “Of course it did,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “The Patronus Charm is incredibly strong magic. It must’ve overwhelmed the spell holding the glamour in place.”

Harry shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you, uh, fix it?”

Lily’s features softened, and she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You don’t need me to,” she said reassuringly. “You can learn to cast it yourself. That way, you’ll have it whenever you need it, without relying on anyone else.”

“Really?” Harry asked, his curiosity flickering to life despite his lingering unease.

“Of course,” Lily replied with a small, encouraging smile. “It’s a straightforward charm. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll be able to use it as easily as you cast Lumos. I’ll help you practice until you’re confident.”

Harry nodded, feeling a small sense of relief creep in. But before he could respond, Lily’s gaze grew sharper again, like she wasn’t entirely ready to let him off the hook.

“Before we dive into spellwork,” she said, crossing her arms lightly, “what have you been up to? You’ve been scarce these past few days.”

Harry froze for half a beat, then quickly masked his hesitation by running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Just... following a lead,” he said vaguely, his voice careful but nonchalant.

James raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A lead? Care to elaborate on that, or are we supposed to guess?”

“Dad, it’s nothing dangerous,” Harry said quickly, though his voice wavered just enough to be unconvincing. He avoided their gazes, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt. “I just... can’t go into detail right now.”

Lily exchanged a look with James, worry flickering across her face. “Harry, we trust you, but you know we’d rather you didn’t keep us in the dark. Especially with everything going on lately.”

“I know,” Harry said, his tone softening. “And I promise I’ll tell you more when I can. Right now, I just need you to trust me.”

James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We do trust you, kid. But you’re our son, and we’re allowed to worry. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Harry said earnestly, meeting his father’s gaze this time. “I’ll be careful. Really.”

Lily stepped forward, resting a hand on his arm. “Just don’t forget you have us, alright? If things get too heavy, you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I won’t forget,” Harry said, his chest tightening with a mix of guilt and gratitude.

══════════════════

It felt strange to go an entire day without Tom’s constant presence—no sharp quips, no knowing smirks—but it was nice to spend time with his parents for a change. Harry hadn’t realized how much he missed them until he had the entire day to catch up, sharing stories, helping Lily with small chores, and even letting James rope him into a quick game of backyard Quidditch.

After dinner, as the evening settled into a quiet calm, the arrival of an owl disrupted the stillness. Harry’s heart leapt when he recognized Ember, her sharp talons clicking against the windowsill as she waited for him to retrieve her cargo.

Draco’s reply was short and to the point: Tomorrow works. Come to the Manor.

Harry almost fist-pumped the air right there in the living room. Meeting at Draco’s place was a stroke of luck he hadn’t expected—it would give him access to a treasure trove of potential information without risking suspicion.

The next day and a half passed in a blur. Between spending moments with his parents and preparing for the inner circle meeting, Harry’s mind was constantly whirring. He drafted and discarded strategies, thought through possible outcomes for their upcoming infiltration. 

Despite his determination, a knot of nerves twisted in his stomach whenever he thought about the task ahead. He wasn’t just walking into a meeting; he was potentially waltzing into the orbit of the Dark forces he and Tom were trying to dismantle.

Tom’s words echoed in his mind: We can’t trust anyone but ourselves. Harry had tried to counter, but Tom had been resolute, his piercing gaze leaving no room for argument.

Their mission was simple on paper: get in, gather information, and get out before anyone caught wind of their intentions. With any luck, they’d leave without raising suspicions. But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that luck, when it came to missions like this, was often in short supply.

══════════════════

Harry stepped into the green flames of the Floo Network, clutching a small pouch of Floo Powder in his hand. “Malfoy Manor,” he said clearly, tossing the powder into the fire. The flames roared to life, and before he could second-guess himself, he stepped into the swirling warmth, feeling the familiar tug that carried him to his destination.

The Manor’s grand fireplace was as imposing as ever, its ornate carvings illuminated by the flickering light. Harry brushed off the soot as he stepped out, but his attempt to look composed was immediately thwarted by the sharp, amused voice that greeted him.

“Well, well. Potter in my fireplace. Aren’t I the lucky host?” Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his lips.

Harry straightened his posture, rolling his eyes. “Lucky isn’t the word I’d use, Malfoy.”

Draco’s smirk widened as he stepped closer. “Then what word would you use? Honored? Privileged?” His silver eyes sparkled with mischief.

“More like inconvenienced,” Harry shot back, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a smile.

Draco gestured dramatically toward the room. “Inconvenienced, yet here you are. Shall we?”

Harry followed Draco down the hallways, the Manor’s opulence just as overwhelming as he remembered. They entered a sunlit sitting room, where Draco waved Harry toward a plush armchair before settling into one across from him.

Draco tilted his head, his gaze sharp but not unfriendly. “Alright, Potter. What’s the excuse this time? Don’t tell me you need another lesson in proper etiquette. I thought I covered all the basics last time. Or did you forget everything already?”

Harry chuckled, sinking into the armchair. “Oh, I remember just fine. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to brush up. You never know when you might need to impress someone.”

Draco arched a brow, his smirk returning. “Impress someone? Or impress me?”

Harry fought the warmth rising to his cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

“Now you’re really starting to worry me,” Draco quipped, but there was an underlying lightness to his tone that Harry hadn’t expected.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation toward safer—and more purposeful—territory. “Speaking of company… how’s your family been? Your father, especially? I imagine he’s been busy these days.”

Draco’s smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a more guarded expression. “Father’s always busy. You know how he is—scheming, managing his connections, doing his part to maintain the family’s reputation.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, feigning casual interest. “Have you had many visitors at the Manor lately?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Harry realized he’d struck a nerve—or at least a chord worth pursuing. “We’ve had a few. Father’s always entertaining someone or another. Why do you ask?”

Harry hesitated, searching for the right way to broach the topic without raising suspicion. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, a faint rhythm that betrayed his nerves. He locked eyes with Draco, keeping his tone casual but pointed. “Just curious. There’s been… talk about certain people stirring things up in the wizarding world. Thought you might have some insight, given your family’s connections.”

Draco tilted his head, studying Harry with a sharp, appraising look. “And how exactly did you come to hear about that? I wasn’t aware you kept your ear to the ground in pureblood circles.”

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair as if the question didn’t make his pulse quicken. “You’d be surprised. Sirius has a lot more connections than people give him credit for. He might play the rebel, but he’s neck-deep in politics.”

“Sirius Black?” Draco raised an eyebrow, his expression equal parts skeptical and intrigued. “I never pegged him for the type. Thought he left all that behind when he burned his bridges with his parents.”

“He did, but it doesn’t mean he stopped paying attention,” Harry replied smoothly, then leaned forward, his tone growing more deliberate. “He mentioned someone recently. A name that stuck out. Ever heard of Vinda Rosier?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, and Harry’s heart beat a little faster as he watched Draco’s reaction. There was a flicker of recognition in the blond’s eyes—subtle but unmistakable. Draco’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more cautious.

“Rosier,” Draco repeated, his voice measured. “That’s not a name you bring up lightly. Why are you asking?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of raised voices outside interrupted him. He turned his head toward the door, his senses instantly sharpening. The muffled tones carried through the grand hallways of the manor—sharp, clipped, and undeniably tense.

Draco’s expression darkened, his brows furrowing. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said briskly, standing from his chair. His usual calm demeanor was replaced with a flicker of irritation as he straightened his robes and strode toward the door. “We were supposed to be alone today.”

Harry watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and was left alone in the elegantly furnished room. For a few moments, he stayed put, listening intently as the distant voices grew louder, then softer, until they disappeared entirely.

He drummed his fingers against the armrest, glancing around the room. “Well, this is convenient,” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing.

The opportunity was too good to pass up. If Draco was distracted, this could be the perfect moment to dig around for clues. He could always feign ignorance later—claim he got lost looking for the bathroom or needed a drink of water. Draco wouldn’t like it, but it wasn’t as though Harry trusted him completely.

Still, part of him hesitated. The budding friendship they’d been building felt fragile, and snooping around Draco’s home would feel like betraying that trust. But then he thought about the bigger picture—the stakes, the unanswered questions, and Vinda Rosier.

“Right,” Harry murmured to himself, standing up and smoothing his shirt. “Sometimes the greater good means bending the rules a little.”

He made his way to the door, carefully easing it open just wide enough to slip out. The hallway beyond was quiet. If Draco caught him, he’d figure out an excuse. After all, how hard could it be to sell the idea of needing to find the bathroom in a house this size?

Harry moved carefully through the vast corridors of Malfoy Manor, his footsteps muffled by the thick, ornate rugs that lined the stone floors. The house was eerily quiet apart from the occasional creak of old wood and the faint echo of his own breathing. For a few moments, he doubted his decision. What if Draco returned before he found anything useful? What if he got caught in a part of the house he clearly wasn’t supposed to be in?

But then he heard it—the faint murmur of voices. His pulse quickened as he stopped to listen, tilting his head toward the sound. The conversation was muffled by the heavy walls, but there was no mistaking the tension in the tone.

Following the sound, Harry moved through the hallway, his steps growing lighter as he approached a partially open door. The voices became clearer, and he caught snippets of Draco’s unmistakable drawl filled with irritation.

“Why are you here?” Draco demanded, his voice carrying a harsh edge. “I specifically told everyone to stay away today. Do you have any idea what this could ruin?”

Another voice responded, lower and raspier, with a whine to it that immediately made Harry’s stomach twist. “We didn’t have a choice, Draco. Things are escalating—faster than we anticipated.”

Harry froze mid-step, his heart dropping to his stomach. He knew that voice. It had been years since he’d heard it, but it was burned into his memory as clearly as the scar on his forehead.

Peter Pettigrew.

The name hit him like a physical blow, his mind racing. What was Wormtail doing here? Of all places, why Malfoy Manor?

His grip on his wand tightened as he crept closer, his every sense on high alert. He stopped just short of the doorway, staying out of sight while angling himself to catch a better listen.

Draco’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “I don’t care about your excuses, Pettigrew! Do you have any idea how suspicious this will look if anyone finds out? If you’re trying to get us all killed, you’re doing a spectacular job!”

“Do you think I wanted to come here?” Pettigrew shot back, his tone defensive, almost groveling. “This wasn’t my decision. Rosier sent me. She said it couldn’t wait.”

Harry felt a jolt at the mention of Vinda Rosier. His suspicions had been right—she was deeply involved in whatever was happening, and now she’d sent Pettigrew to the Malfoys?

Draco let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course she did. She’s pushing too far, too fast, and dragging the rest of us into her mess.”

“She says it’s necessary,” Pettigrew replied, his voice trembling slightly. “She said the meeting is compromised. And if we don’t act now—”

“Don’t you dare lecture me,” Draco snapped, his voice icy. “I know what’s at stake better than you ever will.”

Harry’s mind reeled. The meeting? Rosier? Pettigrew’s groveling only made it worse, and Draco’s pointed response sent an unsettling chill down his spine. What exactly had he walked into?

His thoughts raced. Were they talking about the inner circle meeting he and Tom had planned to infiltrate? If Rosier and her group knew the Minister was aware of it, then it could only mean one thing—a trap. The kind of trap they might not walk out of. Harry’s grip on his wand tightened as panic began to edge its way into his chest. He needed to warn Tom, and fast.

And then there was Draco. Tom and Harry had always suspected he knew more than he let on, but this conversation changed everything. Draco wasn’t just aware—he was deeply involved, connected in ways neither of them had fully realized. That thought twisted uncomfortably in Harry’s gut. Was Draco playing him?

Peering carefully around the edge of the doorway, Harry caught sight of them. The contrast between the two figures was stark. Draco stood tall, his posture rigid and authoritative, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as though he were holding himself back from launching into a tirade. His pale blond hair caught the light of the chandelier above, making him look more like a prince than ever—except for the hard set of his jaw and the frustration blazing in his silver eyes.

Pettigrew, on the other hand, was a picture of weakness. Hunched and fidgety, he seemed incapable of staying still, his small, watery eyes darting around the room as though danger might leap out of the shadows. His shoulders sagged under the weight of whatever task Rosier had sent him to carry out, and his hands wrung together like a nervous child caught in a lie.

Harry’s stomach churned as he took it all in. The scene felt surreal, like a puzzle that refused to come together. Pettigrew’s presence at the Manor was bad enough—evidence of Rosier’s influence stretching deeper than he’d imagined. But Draco’s role in this mess, his composure and command in the situation, painted him in a light Harry hadn’t anticipated.

Draco’s expression froze at Peter’s next words. “Rosier told me to deliver a message,” Peter said, his voice quivering. “She found out Harrison Potter is working with the Minister.”

Draco’s eyes widened, a rare crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. “What?” he hissed, stepping closer to Peter, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “That’s impossible. How could he—”

“She had an encounter with them,” Peter interrupted, his tone rising slightly in panic. “She said they were there together, snooping around.”

Draco’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And you’re only telling me this now?” he snapped, his voice a mix of anger and disbelief. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”

“She thinks the Minister knows everything,” Peter interjected, his voice trembling. “She’s certain they’re planning something, Draco. That’s why she sent me here. To warn you. She said you’d better decide whose side you’re on.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face as the words hit him like thunder. Rosier knew. She pieced everything together. 

I need to get out of here, Harry thought, panic bubbling in his chest. His pulse roared in his ears as he tried to steady his breathing. If Draco and Rosier knew he was working with Tom, there was no telling how much danger he was in right now. He couldn’t afford to wait and find out.

Carefully, Harry began to back away from the doorway, his mind racing. He would have to make his escape subtle, quick, and convincing. 

But before he could take another step, a faint creak from the floorboards beneath his feet betrayed him. Draco’s sharp gaze snapped toward the doorway, his expression turning cold and calculating in an instant.

Harry froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Move, Potter. Now.

He turned to make a break for it, but before he could take more than two steps, something heavy and blunt struck the back of his head. The pain was blinding, a searing burst of white-hot agony that exploded behind his eyes.

The world tilted, spinning violently as Harry stumbled forward. His vision blurred, dark tendrils creeping in from the edges. He tried to reach for his wand, but his fingers felt clumsy and unresponsive.

Draco’s voice rang out behind him, sharp and urgent, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, the cold stone pressing against his cheek.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the faint outline of Draco’s shoes stepping into view, his voice echoing faintly in the void.

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, a sharp, throbbing pain radiating from the back of his head. For a moment, all he could see was darkness, the kind that made it impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or shut. A cold, damp chill seeped into his skin, and he realized he was sitting on something hard and uncomfortable. His wrists were bound tightly behind him, and his ankles were lashed to the legs of a chair.

Panic surged through him like a lightning bolt. He tugged at his restraints, the rough rope digging into his skin. The more he struggled, the more his wrists ached, but he couldn’t stop himself. His breath came in shallow gasps as the reality of his situation hit him.

Not again. Merlin, not again.

The memory of the last time he’d been in a holding cell at Malfoy Manor came rushing back—a dungeon just like this one, the same cold, suffocating darkness. But that time, he hadn’t been alone. He’d had Ron and Hermione with him, and Dobby had saved them at the last second. Now, he was utterly alone.

The ache in his head made it difficult to think clearly, but Harry forced himself to take a deep breath, willing his racing heart to slow. He needed to assess his situation before his panic swallowed him whole.

Alright, Potter. Focus. Where am I?

He squinted, trying to make out his surroundings. The faint, flickering light of a single torch illuminated the room, casting long, eerie shadows on the damp stone walls. It looked like some kind of basement or dungeon. The air smelled of mildew and earth, and water dripped somewhere in the distance, each drop echoing in the stillness.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the realization that Draco—or someone working with him—had dragged him here.

Tom.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. Tom knew Harry had gone to meet Draco, but would he realize something was wrong? And even if he did, how long would it take for him to find Harry?

We don’t have time for this.

Harry clenched his jaw, a mix of frustration and fear bubbling inside him. The inner circle meeting was in two days, and if Rosier had tipped off the rest of the group, their entire plan could fall apart. Worse, they could walk straight into a trap.

I can’t just sit here and wait. I need to get out of this. Think.

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. His wand was gone—that much was obvious. He couldn’t feel it in his pocket, and a quick glance at the ground confirmed it wasn’t within reach.

But this wasn’t the first time he’d been in a situation like this. Harry had been captured, restrained, and left to rot before. Every time, he’d managed to escape. He had to believe he could do it again.

First things first—how do I get out of these ropes?

He tested the bindings around his wrists again, twisting his hands carefully to avoid making too much noise. A faint, pulsing resistance met his movements, sending a sharp tingling sensation up his arms—the unmistakable sign of magical restraints. Great. That complicated things.

His eyes swept the dimly lit room, searching for anything that could help. There—a jagged piece of stone sticking out from the wall, just a few feet away. If he could maneuver his chair closer, maybe he could weaken the spellwork or at least create enough friction to loosen the ropes. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Alright, Potter. Time to work some magic without a wand.

Harry braced his feet against the floor, pushing the chair backward with small, careful movements. The chair legs scraped against the stone, the sound painfully loud in the silence. He froze, listening for any sign that someone had heard, but the only response was the distant drip of water.

Just a little more.

It felt like an eternity, but finally, the sharp edge of the stone was within reach. He twisted his hands, angling the ropes toward the jagged surface. The rough stone bit into the fibers, and Harry began sawing, his movements slow and careful.

Sweat trickled down his temple as he worked, his heart hammering in his chest. Every second felt like an hour, and the fear of someone walking in at any moment gnawed at him.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder with every second. Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stopped sawing at the ropes around his wrists, letting them stay just loose enough to maneuver but tight enough to appear secure.

Stay calm. Just stay calm.

He let his head loll forward, his body going limp as he forced his breathing to slow. The heavy creak of the door opening sent a jolt through his body, but he stayed perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness.

“Well, well,” came a cold, drawling voice, laced with mockery. “No need for theatrics, Mr. Potter. I know you’re awake.”

Harry cracked one eye open, and his stomach churned as he confirmed the source of the voice. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, his icy blue eyes glinting with disdain. He stepped into the room, the soft rustle of his expensive robes at odds with the damp, grimy surroundings.

“Comfortable?” Lucius sneered, his lips curling into a smirk.

Harry straightened slightly, his expression carefully neutral despite the unease swirling inside him. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, his tone sharp. “I didn’t realize the Malfoy family treated their guests like this. I’m sure my parents will be thrilled to hear about it.”

Lucius chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “Guests, Mr. Potter? Is that what you fancy yourself?” He took a step closer, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor. “Snooping around in my home, spying, eavesdropping—hardly behavior befitting a guest.”

Harry glared at him, his jaw tightening. “I wasn’t spying. I was looking for the loo.”

“The loo,” Lucius repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “How original. Do you take me for a fool, Potter?” He leaned down slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I know what you’re up to. You’ve been far too… chummy with the Minister of Magic. And don’t insult my intelligence by pretending it’s all innocent.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t let it show. He raised an eyebrow, forcing a smirk onto his face. “You mean Tom Gaunt? We’ve been getting to know each other. It’s called diplomacy. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Lucius’s expression darkened, and he straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t play coy with me, boy. I know you’ve been working with him. The question is, what exactly does the Minister have planned? And don’t bother denying it—I have my sources.”

Harry tilted his head, pretending to look thoughtful. “Sources? You mean that rat Pettigrew? He’s not exactly reliable, you know. He’s been caught groveling so many times I’m surprised you trust him to fetch your tea.”

Lucius’s lips thinned, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “You can make all the witty remarks you like, but they won’t save you. The Minister’s plans are of great interest to certain… parties. And I’m quite certain you have answers.”

Harry’s mind raced, searching for a way to deflect without giving anything away. “What makes you so sure I know anything? Maybe the Minister just likes me for my sparkling personality.”

Lucius let out a derisive snort. “You think this is a game, but you’re playing with forces far beyond your comprehension. Whatever the Minister is plotting, I assure you, we will find out. And if you think you can protect him…” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “You’ll find out just how far the Malfoy family is willing to go.”

Harry swallowed hard, his bravado faltering for a split second before he forced himself to hold Lucius’s gaze. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Lucius studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before straightening and stepping back. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Potter. I suspect it won’t be as long as you’d like.”

With that, he turned on his heel and swept out of the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

As the sound of Lucius’s footsteps faded, Harry exhaled shakily, his earlier panic clawing its way back to the surface. His heart pounded as he resumed sawing at the ropes, his mind racing

Tom, wherever you are, you’d better hurry. Because I don’t think I’m getting out of here without a fight.

══════════════════

The heavy silence of the dungeon stretched after Lucius’s departure, leaving Harry with only his pounding heart and the chill of the stone walls for company. He continued working at the ropes around his wrists, his mind racing through potential escape plans. But before he could loosen them enough to act, the door creaked open again.

Harry’s head snapped up as Draco stepped into the room. Unlike his father’s predatory grace, Draco’s entrance was quieter, almost hesitant. He looked as polished as ever—his platinum hair perfectly combed, his robes pristine—but there was a faint flicker in his silver eyes that betrayed unease.

“Really, Potter?” Draco drawled, leaning casually against the doorframe, though the slight tension in his posture gave him away. “Getting caught snooping.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to relax against the chair. “Good to see you too, Malfoy. Came to gloat?”

Draco stepped further into the room, crossing his arms. “More like to figure out what idiocy possessed you to wander around my house like that. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Or were you just hoping to charm your way out of trouble?”

Despite the situation, Harry smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable, you know that? And incredibly reckless.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it that Harry didn’t miss.

“Reckless? Maybe,” Harry shot back, sitting up straighter. “But at least I’m not blindly following orders from someone who’s plotting Merlin knows what.”

Draco stiffened slightly, his casual facade cracking for just a moment. “Careful, Potter. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Harry pressed, his gaze locking onto Draco’s. “Your dad—Lucius—he’s up to no good, and you know it. Do you really think whatever he’s planning is about protecting your family? Because it’s not. It’s about power. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to get dragged down with him.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. Harry latched onto the hesitation.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice steady but laced with quiet intensity. “Draco, I get it. You’re trying to keep it together, hold the line for your family. But think about your mum for a second.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked toward the door, as though he could escape the weight of the conversation.

“She’s everything to you, isn’t she?” Harry pressed gently. “You’d do anything to keep her safe.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, warning tone. “Leave her out of this, Potter.”

Harry didn’t back down, but he softened his tone, careful not to push too hard. “I’m not dragging her into anything. You know I’m not. I’m just asking you to think about what this path could mean for her. Not just you—her. Do you really think she’d be okay, knowing the risks you’re taking? The ones your father is dragging you into?”

Draco’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, a flicker of doubt breaking through his carefully composed exterior.

“You love her. I know you do,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m guessing she loves you enough to want you safe more than anything else. But this… this isn’t safe. Not for either of you.”

The room was silent for a moment, Draco’s gaze locked on the stone floor as if it held all the answers he couldn’t find..

“And let’s be honest,” Harry went on, his voice sharpening just slightly. “Do you really trust Lucius? Do you really think he’s doing all this for you and your mum? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s just dragging you into something you might not come out of.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darting to the floor. The cracks in his confidence were starting to show, and Harry pressed harder.

“You don’t have to go along with this,” Harry said, his voice urgent. “There’s still time to choose a different side. The winning side.” He leaned forward as much as his restraints would allow, meeting Draco’s eyes. “If you really want to protect your family, then work with us. Work with me. We can keep them safe—your mum safe. But not if you keep letting Lucius call the shots.”

For a long moment, Draco said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his arms. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“You really think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Draco muttered, though his voice lacked its usual venom.

Harry smirked faintly. “I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”

Draco shook his head, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re insufferable, Potter.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry replied, his smirk widening. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Draco didn’t respond, his gaze flickering toward the door. For the first time, he looked truly conflicted, but after a while he left without a word.

Time stretched endlessly as Harry sat in the dim, cold dungeon. His wrists ached from the ropes binding him to the chair, and every now and then, he twisted them subtly, testing for any give. His head throbbed with a dull ache from where he’d been knocked out, but his thoughts were louder than any physical pain.

Had he gotten through to Draco? It was impossible to tell. That flash of doubt in Draco’s eyes had been real, but would it be enough to push him to action? Harry didn’t know. Without Draco’s help, any chance of escape was slim.

His mind circled back to Tom. By now, Tom must have realized something was wrong. Would he think Harry had betrayed him? No. Tom wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that—not after everything they’d been through. Harry had proven himself trustworthy, hadn’t he?

But even as he reassured himself, another fear crept in. What if Tom assumed the worst—not about Harry’s loyalty, but about his safety? Tom wasn’t exactly the type to sit back and wait. He’d charge in headfirst, reckless and brilliant, but without knowing the traps that had surely been set for him, he’d be walking into a disaster.

Harry’s chest tightened at the thought. Their plans were worthless now. The enemy knew about them, and any advantage they had was gone. The inner circle meeting was so close, and here he was, tied up and powerless, unable to warn Tom of the danger.

He let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes and trying to will away the panic bubbling in his chest. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get out. Tom needed him, and the mission couldn’t wait.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, jolting Harry from his thoughts. His heart rate spiked as he strained to listen. The steps were quicker than before, lighter, almost hesitant. Not Lucius.

A familiar figure emerged from the shadows, and Harry’s breath caught. Draco.

His usually sharp, collected demeanor was gone. His pale face was flushed, and his gray eyes darted nervously around the room. He looked like he’d been arguing with himself the entire way here.

“You’re back,” Harry said, his voice low, masking his surprise.

Draco huffed, running a hand through his neatly styled hair, messing it up for once. “Don’t read into it,” he muttered, his tone sharp but lacking its usual bite.

Harry’s lips twitched into a small smirk despite everything. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to the ropes binding Harry, and he let out a frustrated breath. “You’re a complete idiot, you know that? What kind of logic made you think snooping around my house was a good idea?”

“Hey, I had it under control,” Harry shot back, though the sarcastic edge was dulled by the situation.

“Clearly.” Draco’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was no hiding the way his hands shook slightly as he pulled out his wand. “If my father knew I was here…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

Harry seized the opening, his voice softening. “But you’re here anyway.”

Draco hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “You’re right about one thing, Potter. My father… he’s up to something. And it’s bigger than anything he’s told me.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for my mother. If he’s leading her into danger, I won’t stand by and watch.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the confession. Draco had made his choice, at least for now. “We’ll protect her,” Harry promised.

Draco didn’t reply, but his expression wavered. With a flick of his wand, the ropes binding Harry fell away, and the relief was instantaneous.

“You’ve got one chance to get out of here,” Draco said, his tone firm but his eyes betraying his fear. “Don’t mess it up.”

Harry rubbed his wrists, standing cautiously. “You don’t have to do this alone, Draco.”

Draco shot him a look, his walls snapping back into place, handing back Harry’s wand “Just go, Potter. Before I change my mind.”

Without another word, Harry slipped out of the chair, his mind already racing with how to warn Tom and salvage what was left of their plan. He paused at the door, glancing back at Draco. “Thank you.”

Draco didn’t respond, but the slight dip of his head was enough.

Harry moved quickly but cautiously through the dim corridors of Malfoy Manor, his heart pounding in his chest. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of torchlight against the cold stone walls, sent his nerves alight. He could almost feel the weight of the Manor pressing down on him, the threat of discovery at every turn.

Draco had given him directions—a pathway through the less-used corridors that would lead to a servants' entrance. But this was still Malfoy Manor, and Harry knew better than to trust anything in this house not to turn on him.

He reached the first set of stairs, carefully placing his feet on the edges of each step to muffle the sound. His breath came in shallow puffs, his ears straining for any sign of pursuit. For now, the house seemed quiet, but that didn’t mean it was safe.

Halfway down the staircase, the sound of footsteps echoed from the main hall below. Harry froze, pressing himself into the shadows. Lucius’s clipped voice carried up the stairs, barking orders to a house-elf.

“Ensure the prisoner remains where he is. I won’t tolerate incompetence.”

Harry let out a shaky exhale. Lucius thought he was still tied up. That meant he still had a slim window to escape—if he could avoid being spotted.

The footsteps faded, and Harry resumed his descent, moving faster now but still as silently as possible. At the bottom, he took a sharp turn into a narrow corridor, just as Draco had instructed.

The air grew colder, the torches spaced farther apart. Harry’s pulse quickened as he spotted a door at the end of the hallway. The servants' exit. Almost there.

He pushed forward, but as his hand brushed the door handle, a sudden voice cut through the silence.

“Going somewhere, Potter?”

Harry spun around, his wand already in his hand. Lucius Malfoy stood at the other end of the corridor, his expression icy and triumphant. Behind him, two other figures emerged—masked figures, wands drawn.

For a split second, Harry’s instincts screamed at him to fight, but logic overrode them. Three against one in a confined space was suicide.

Lucius’s lips curled into a sneer. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? Draco’s soft spot for you has been noted. A shame he won’t see how this ends.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he spun back to the door, yanked it open, and bolted into the freezing night air.

Shouts erupted behind him as curses flew. Harry ducked, a flash of green light zipping over his head, and sprinted toward the tree line. His lungs burned with the effort, his legs screaming for him to stop, but he pushed on.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense—a perfect cover if he could reach it. Another curse shot past him, exploding into the ground just to his left and showering him with dirt.

He didn’t dare look back. He could hear them gaining on him, Lucius’s voice roaring over the chaos.

“Don’t let him get away!”

The first trees rushed past him, their bare branches snagging at his robes like grasping hands. He darted deeper into the forest, zigzagging between the trunks to make himself a harder target.

The shouting grew fainter, but he knew better than to slow down. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Finally, when he could no longer hear the pursuit, Harry slowed to a stop, leaning heavily against a tree. His whole body trembled with adrenaline, and his head throbbed from the effort.

He finally broke free of the oppressive wards surrounding Malfoy Manor, and as soon as he was sure he was clear, Harry clutched his wand tightly and turned on the spot. Apparition tore through him like a violent gale, the world spinning and smearing into a disorienting blur of color. When he landed, it wasn’t graceful.

Harry hit the wooden floor of Tom’s cabin with a heavy thud, his knees buckling beneath him. The impact jarred his already aching body, and he groaned softly, bracing himself on his hands as he fought to steady his breathing.

“Harry?”

The voice was sharp, low, and laced with both relief and restrained anger. Harry looked up to see Tom standing near the table, his piercing gaze fixed on him. Tom’s usual composure faltered for just a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“You’re here,” Harry gasped, his voice shaky but full of relief. “Thank Merlin... I didn’t know how much time had passed.”

Tom was already striding over, his movements purposeful and efficient. He crouched beside Harry, one hand gripping his arm as he helped him up and guided him to a chair. “What happened?” Tom demanded, his tone clipped, concern simmering just beneath the surface.

Harry sank into the chair, his head spinning slightly. As Harry recounted everything, he watched Tom’s expression shift and flicker with emotion. At the mention of Pettigrew, Tom’s eyes narrowed sharply, his lips pressing into a grim line. When Harry described his capture and the role Draco had played in his escape, a spark of worry crossed Tom’s features, softening the usual sharpness in his gaze.

When Harry finished, Tom stood still for a moment, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair opposite him. His brow furrowed, not with anger but with concern. “You’ve been through a lot,” Tom said, his voice low and even. He walked around the table, crouching slightly so he was at eye level with Harry. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

Harry blinked at the unexpected gentleness, the concern that softened Tom’s usually commanding tone. “I’m fine,” Harry assured him, though the ache in his wrists and the lingering pain in his head begged to differ. “Just… rattled.”

Tom’s sharp gaze swept over him. Without a word he took Harry’s wrist in his hand, inspecting the bruises that dotted his skin. Red and purple splotches marred the pale flesh, a stark reminder of his capture. Tom’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with something dark—anger, yes, but there was something protective there too.

“Who did this?” Tom’s voice was low, dangerous.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Tom’s gaze, his cheeks warming despite the situation. “It’s not important right now,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away. “There’s more, Tom. We have to help Draco. He’s in trouble because of me.”

Tom’s brow arched, but his expression remained thoughtful rather than skeptical. “He doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to take risks for others. Why would he help you?”

“Because he’s scared,” Harry replied firmly, leaning forward. “I saw it in his eyes. He didn’t want to be part of this mess, but he’s trapped in it because of his family. He helped me because he knows what his father is doing is wrong. And now, he’s in danger because of it.”

Tom was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the arm of the chair. “Helping him could complicate things,” he said finally, though his voice lacked the edge it usually carried when discussing risks. “You know that.”

“I do,” Harry said, his tone resolute. “But it’s the right thing to do. Draco knows things—important things. He could give us an edge. And if we abandon him now, not only do we lose a potential ally, but we might also push him back into his father’s grasp.”

Tom sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’re too trusting sometimes, Harry,” he said, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I can see you’ve made up your mind about this.”

Harry met his gaze, a glimmer of hope sparking in his chest. “We can’t leave him to fend for himself, Tom. If we do, we’re no better than the people we’re fighting against. And... I made him a promise.”

Tom’s expression softened further, and he nodded, his voice quieter now. “Alright. We’ll help him. But we have to be careful. If this goes wrong—”

“It won’t,” Harry interrupted, his determination clear.

Tom shook his head, though there was a small, fond smile on his face. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you,” he said, the words carrying an unspoken weight.

Chapter Text

Harry had passed out on the couch, exhaustion dragging him under before he could even argue. He was distantly aware of Tom casting healing charms over his injuries, the warmth of the magic dulling the lingering aches. He had tried—really tried—to protest, mumbling something about not having time to rest, but Tom had shut him down with a sharp look and a pointed remark about how he’d be useless if a strong breeze could knock him over. Harry hadn’t had the energy to argue after that.

Nami had coiled herself around him, the heavy weight of her body pressing comfortingly against his chest. With her warmth and the quiet hum of magic in the air, Harry was comfortable—too comfortable. He didn't want to open his eyes just yet.

But something felt... off. The room was silent. Too silent. Where was Tom?

Frowning, he strained his ears for any sign of movement, but nothing reached him. Wariness prickled at the edges of his consciousness, and with a groggy sigh, he forced his eyes open, his vision sluggishly coming into focus.

And then he promptly forgot how to breathe.

Tom was right there. Close—so close that Harry could see every detail of his face, from the faint crease between his brows to the almost imperceptible softness in his expression.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

Tom didn’t move away. Instead, his deep brown eyes lingered on Harry’s face with an intensity. “Your eyes are brown again,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever moment was hanging between them.

Harry blinked, momentarily confused. Oh. The glamour. He’d put it up before going to the Malfoy’s. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on his magic. When he opened them again, his irises shimmered back to their natural green.

Tom’s gaze darkened, and before Harry could question it, Tom reached out, his fingers brushing aside a stray lock of hair.

Harry didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.

“I was worried about you,” Tom said, his voice quieter than usual, like the words carried more weight than he was willing to admit.

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “I’m sorry I got caught,” he murmured.

Tom’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” He pulled his hand back, and Harry immediately missed the warmth of it. “I shouldn’t have sent you there.”

Harry shook his head, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His body still ached, but after the short rest, the pain had dulled into something manageable. “I’m glad I went,” he said, his voice firmer now. “If I hadn’t, we’d be walking straight into a trap.” His eyes met Tom’s, the reality of the situation settling between them. “You could have been hurt too.”

Tom exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not the point, Harry.”

“Then what is?” Harry challenged, tilting his head.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Harry’s, something flickering in his expression. Then, without another word, he stood and strode toward the table, effectively shutting down the conversation.

Harry sighed but let it go—for now. They had more pressing matters to deal with.

“I came up with a solution while you were resting,” Tom said, shifting through a stack of parchment. His tone was measured, calculated—clearly avoiding the question. “Instead of infiltrating the inner circle meeting as we originally planned, we should use that time to get Draco and his mother out. They haven’t been seen leaving the Manor, which means they’re still inside. With everyone at the meeting, security will be weaker.”

Harry frowned, considering the idea. “I hope they’re still there,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours.” Tom glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the papers. “The meeting is tomorrow.”

Harry sat up straighter, his exhaustion pushed aside by the weight of what was coming. “Then we still have time to prepare.”

══════════════════

The morning air in the cabin was thick with tension, the weight of their impending mission looming over them. Tom had cleared the table of its usual clutter, spreading out a parchment with a rough sketch of Malfoy Manor and its surrounding grounds. A few books lay open beside it—old, weathered texts on ward-breaking, defensive enchantments, and dueling strategies.

Harry stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes scanning the makeshift blueprint. He’d only been inside the Manor a few times, and never under good circumstances. The place had always felt suffocating, its very foundation steeped in secrets.

Tom tapped his wand against the parchment, and glowing red markings appeared over different parts of the estate. “These are the key security points still in place even when Lucius is away.” His voice was calm, measured, but Harry could sense the underlying sharpness—the precision of a strategist at work. “We should assume anti-Apparition wards are active around the house itself, but there will be gaps in the outer perimeter where we can slip through.”

Harry nodded, leaning over the table. “If Lucius and most of his allies are at the meeting, that means only a handful of people will be left behind. Likely house-elves and whatever guards he still trusts.” He frowned. “I doubt he’d leave Narcissa completely unguarded. He knows she doesn’t agree with him.”

Tom hummed in agreement. “Which means she and Draco might be confined to their wing of the house. That limits their ability to move—but also gives us a more focused entry point.” He flicked his wand again, and the map adjusted, zooming in on the east wing. “This is where Narcissa’s quarters are. Draco will either be here or in his own rooms nearby.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “If we can get in without raising the alarm, we have a chance at getting them out before anyone notices.”

Tom smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Stealth? From you?”

Harry scowled. “I can be stealthy.”

“You rely too much on luck.” Tom countered smoothly, but there was no real bite to his words. “Which means I’ll need to handle the wards personally.”

Harry huffed but didn’t argue. “Fine. We get in quietly. But what if they don’t want to leave?”

Tom’s expression darkened slightly. “Draco made his choice when he helped you escape. Narcissa, however, is another matter. She’s been loyal to Lucius for years—convincing her to abandon him won’t be easy.”

Harry thought back to the last time he had seen her. She wasn’t like her husband. There was a quiet strength to her, a kind of sharpness that wasn’t cruel but calculating. She had always prioritized her family above all else.

“She cares about Draco,” he said finally. “If he wants to leave, she might follow.”

Tom considered this, then nodded. “We’ll give them the option. But if they refuse—”

“We don’t force them,” Harry finished firmly.

Tom arched a brow but didn’t argue. Instead, he returned his attention to the map, pointing at a hidden entrance at the back of the manor. “This will be our best entry point. It’s rarely used, and it connects directly to the east wing corridors. If I dismantle the wards here, we should be able to slip inside unnoticed.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “And if we get caught?”

Tom’s smirk was sharp, dangerous. “Then we make sure they regret it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Let’s try to avoid setting the house on fire, yeah?”

Tom chuckled but didn’t promise anything.

They spent the next hour going over contingencies—what spells to use to incapacitate guards without alerting the others, how to create distractions if necessary, and the fastest way out if things went wrong.

Finally, Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. His head still ached from the events of the previous night, but at least now they had a plan. “Alright,” he said. “That should cover everything.”

Tom nodded, but his gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer. “Rest while you can. Tonight, we put this plan into motion.”

Harry exhaled, the weight of what was coming settling in his chest.

They had one shot at this. And failure wasn’t an option.

══════════════════

The world was silent as Tom and Harry materialized just beyond the tree line that bordered Malfoy Manor’s estate. The crack of their Apparition had been muffled by a silencing charm, leaving only the whisper of wind through the leaves. A cold, misty fog clung to the ground, twisting between the gnarled roots of the old yew trees, giving the night an eerie stillness.

Harry pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath visible in the frigid air. The manor loomed ahead—its pale stone reflecting the sliver of moonlight that managed to pierce through the overcast sky. Even from this distance, the oppressive weight of magic in the air was unmistakable. The wards buzzed faintly at the edges of his senses, like an unseen current vibrating just beneath the surface.

Tom stood beside him, unnervingly composed. His gaze was fixed on the grand estate, taking in every detail with sharp precision. “The wards are complex,” he murmured. “Layered. But they weren’t expecting someone like me to break through them.”

Harry shot him a glance. “What do you need?”

Tom reached into his robes, withdrawing a small vial filled with dark, shimmering liquid. “A few minutes of uninterrupted concentration.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Think you can manage that?”

Harry huffed. “Just work your magic, genius. I’ll handle any surprises.”

Tom gave a small, amused hum before stepping forward.

They moved carefully through the outer grounds, keeping to the shadows. The back of the manor was less guarded than the front entrance—just as they had anticipated. No wandering sentries, no visible patrols. Most of Lucius’s trusted men had followed him to the meeting, leaving only a skeleton crew behind.

As they neared the concealed entrance, Harry kept his wand at the ready, scanning for any unexpected movement. The doorway was partially hidden beneath ivy and weathered stone, a relic of the manor’s old construction. It was barely used anymore, but that didn’t mean it was unguarded.

Tom knelt beside the entrance, his fingers brushing the air just above the threshold. A faint shimmer rippled in response—the invisible magic woven into the wards reacting to his presence. He exhaled sharply, pulling out his wand. “Whoever layered these had an obsession with redundancy,” he muttered. “Breaking one part would trigger the others. Sloppy, but irritatingly effective.”

“Can you get through it?” Harry whispered.

Tom shot him a withering look. “Of course I can.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned back toward the grounds, keeping watch as Tom got to work.

Tom flicked his wand, murmuring under his breath. The magic around the door pulsed—defensive enchantments twisting and unraveling under his control. A thin, silver thread of energy surfaced along the frame, curling like smoke before dissipating. Harry felt the air shift, the weight of the wards slowly lifting.

A faint crackling sound filled the air as the magic resisted, but Tom remained unfazed. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the vial of shimmering liquid and letting a single drop fall onto the threshold. The wards let out a strained hum—before flickering out entirely.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tom exhaled, standing smoothly. “There. One less obstacle.”

Harry smirked. “Not bad.”

Tom arched a brow. “Not bad?”

Before Harry could retort, a distant rustling in the garden made him freeze. Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Someone was coming.

Without hesitation, Tom grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the door. “Inside. Now.”

Harry didn’t argue. They slipped through the entrance just as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in darkness.

They were in.

The air inside the manor was thick with the scent of polished wood and aged stone, mingling with the faint, lingering trace of burnt incense. 

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Harry and Tom moved swiftly through the corridors, keeping to the edges where the darkness was deepest. Their footsteps were muffled by a soft silencing charm, but even without it, the silence felt unnatural.

No guards. No wards beyond the entrance. No sign of any traps.

Harry exchanged a glance with Tom, who was frowning slightly, his sharp eyes scanning every detail of their surroundings.

“This is wrong,” Tom murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Lucius isn’t a fool. He wouldn’t leave his home so... unprotected.”

Harry nodded, gripping his wand tighter. “Maybe he was in a hurry to get to the meeting?” he suggested, though even he didn’t believe it. The Malfoys were paranoid by nature—this level of negligence didn’t make sense.

“Or maybe he wanted us to think that,” Tom countered. His tone was calm, but Harry could tell he was just as wary.

The corridor stretched ahead of them, the path leading toward the east wing—where Narcissa and Draco were most likely being kept. According to what they had gathered, the Malfoys rarely entertained guests in that part of the house. It was private, personal, a space meant for family. If Lucius had left anyone behind, they would be there.

Still, the deeper they moved into the manor, the stronger Harry’s unease grew.

A heavy suit of armor stood at the next junction, its empty helm tilted slightly downward as if watching them. The eyes of a nearby portrait—a stern-looking ancestor in dark green robes—seemed to follow their every move. Harry forced himself to keep walking, ignoring the prickle of something crawling up his spine.

Tom, however, abruptly halted.

Harry turned sharply. “What?”

Tom held up a hand for silence, tilting his head slightly as if listening for something.

Then he took a single step back.

Harry barely had time to react before a sudden, sharp click echoed through the hall.

Instantly, the floor beneath them gave a low, ominous groan.

A trap.

Harry’s instincts kicked in just as the ground started to give way beneath them. He grabbed onto Tom’s sleeve, yanking them both backward just as the stone tiles collapsed, revealing a dark, gaping pit lined with jagged spikes at the bottom.

They landed in a crouch just inches from the edge, dust rising from the disturbed stone.

Harry let out a breathless curse. “Yeah, I knew that was too easy.”

Tom shot him a look but didn’t argue. Instead, he stood, brushing off his robes with deliberate movements. His expression was unreadable, but Harry could see the flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“They knew we were coming,” Tom muttered, scanning the trap with a critical gaze. “Or, at the very least, they suspected someone would attempt a rescue.”

Harry pushed himself to his feet, his heart still racing. “So what now? If they have more of these things, getting to Draco and Narcissa won’t be as simple as sneaking in.”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It doesn’t change our objective. It just means we’ll have to be more careful.”

His wand flicked, and with a murmured spell, the illusion of solid floor reformed over the pit, concealing it once again.

Harry exhaled. “Great. That’s reassuring.”

Tom smirked slightly. “Would you rather I leave a neon sign that says ‘Trap Here’?”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, alright. Lead the way, oh wise one.”

Tom gave a mock bow before moving forward, this time even more cautious than before.

As they continued toward the east wing, the tension in the air thickened. They were walking into something. The question was, had Lucius set this up as a test to catch them off guard?

Or was something even worse waiting for them ahead?

The second trap was trickier.

As they reached the last corridor leading to Narcissa and Draco’s rooms, Harry stepped forward—and instantly felt the shift in the magic around him.

Before he could react, the air crackled with energy. A thick, invisible force yanked at him, pulling him upward as if gravity had suddenly reversed.

“Tom—!”

But he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

In a blur of movement, Tom grabbed him, his arm snapping around Harry’s waist as he yanked him back with surprising strength. They tumbled backward, but instead of hitting the cold stone floor, Harry found himself pressed against something solid.

Tom.

His back collided with Tom’s chest, and for a split second, all Harry could register was the warmth of the body behind him and the way Tom’s arm was still firmly wrapped around his waist, holding him close.

His brain short-circuited.

Tom exhaled against his ear, voice low and amused. “Really, Harry. Do you enjoy throwing yourself into traps?”

Harry tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped at the teasing tone—or the fact that he could feel the very defined muscles beneath Tom’s robes. He swallowed hard. “N-No. Just keeping things exciting.”

Tom chuckled, the vibrations of it making Harry’s skin prickle.

“Exciting?” Tom murmured, and Harry could hear the smirk in his voice. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Harry huffed, trying to wiggle out of Tom’s hold, but the arm around his waist didn’t loosen immediately. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or if Tom was just making sure the trap was actually deactivated before letting him go. Either way, it wasn’t doing wonders for Harry’s ability to think clearly.

“Are you planning to let me go anytime soon?” Harry asked, forcing himself to sound unimpressed instead of embarrassingly flustered .

Tom made a thoughtful hum. “I could. But then I wouldn’t get to enjoy how red your ears are right now.”

Harry groaned, tilting his head back against Tom’s shoulder dramatically. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Tom finally, mercifully, released him. Harry quickly stepped away, schooling his expression into something neutral as he turned to glare at Tom—who, of course, looked smug as ever.

“Come on, your highness ,” Harry muttered, turning back toward the hall. “Let’s go rescue your loyal subject before I throw myself into another trap just to avoid this conversation.”

Tom smirked but followed without protest.

The entrance to Draco and Narcissa’s quarters was just ahead now.

The heavy oak doors leading to Narcissa Malfoy’s chambers loomed before them, their ornate silver handles glinting in the dim torchlight. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, exchanging a quick glance with Tom. The traps they had encountered so far only confirmed their suspicions—getting into the manor had been too easy.

Tom reached out, magic coiling around his fingers as he ran them along the frame, searching for any last-minute surprises. After a brief pause, he gave Harry a nod.

“All clear,” he murmured.

Harry exhaled and pressed his palm against the door. It swung open with an eerie smoothness, revealing the elegantly furnished room beyond.

But it wasn’t Narcissa Malfoy waiting for them inside.

At the small tea table near the grand fireplace, Albus Dumbledore sat, sipping from a delicate porcelain cup as if he had all the time in the world. His half-moon glasses glinted in the firelight, and his robes, though as extravagant as ever, looked slightly travel-worn. He lifted his gaze, blue eyes twinkling with something as he regarded them.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, setting his teacup down with a soft clink . “I was wondering when you two would arrive.”

Harry froze. His heart slammed against his ribs as every single instinct in his body screamed that something was very, very wrong.

Tom, beside him, went completely still, his entire demeanor shifting into something lethal.

“Dumbledore,” Tom said smoothly, but Harry could hear the sharp edge beneath the calm. “I wasn’t aware you were back in London.”

Dumbledore smiled, utterly unfazed. “Yes, well, I must say, the accommodations here at Malfoy Manor are quite excellent. Narcissa was kind enough to lend me her sitting room for a short while.”

Harry stared at him, completely thrown. What the hell was he doing here?

Dumbledore gestured toward the two chairs across from him. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Tom didn’t move.

Harry didn’t either.

“Where is Narcissa?” Tom asked coolly.

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. “Safe.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Safe ? What did that even mean? Was she being held somewhere? 

Dumbledore sighed as if sensing the direction of their thoughts. “She is not in danger, I assure you. I would never harm her.” He paused, letting his gaze settle fully on Harry. “But we are not here to talk about Narcissa, are we?”

Harry felt a prickle of unease run down his spine as Dumbledore made eye contact with him.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Tom tensed beside him, his fingers twitching slightly, a telltale sign that he was restraining himself from lashing out.

Harry, on the other hand, had no idea what Dumbledore was talking about. His mouth felt dry as he forced out, “What?”

Dumbledore merely smiled, eyes twinkling in that infuriating way.

Harry had the sinking feeling that they had walked straight into his trap.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore sat with the ease of a man who owned the room, his fingers curled around his teacup as though he had all the time in the world. His usual grandfatherly warmth was a mere facade—his smile never quite reached his eyes, and there was a quiet, unsettling certainty in his posture, as if nothing in this moment could surprise him.

The sheer arrogance of it sent a chill down Harry’s spine.

Tom, however, remained unreadable, his expression carefully schooled into something almost polite. But Harry could feel the tension radiating off him, a storm just barely restrained.

“I never expected to see you in Britain again,” Tom said, his voice smooth but devoid of any real pleasantries. He made no move toward the table, keeping his distance as his gaze measured every inch of the man before them. “We don’t have time for idle chatter, so if you’d be so kind, get to the point. ”

Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head as though disappointed by a particularly unruly student. “Tom, my boy, always in such a rush.” He took a slow sip of his tea, completely unfazed. “Though I imagine Lucius wouldn’t be too pleased to find you wandering his halls, so I understand your eagerness to be on your way.”

Tom’s expression darkened, a flicker of barely restrained fury crossing his face. “I never thought you would stoop so low as to entangle yourself in this filth,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp.

The air in the room seemed to shift.

Dumbledore’s smile vanished in an instant, his pleasant mask slipping like shattered glass. His eyes, once twinkling with amusement, turned hard—unforgiving.

“You,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, “have no right to judge me. Not after what you did to me. ”

A heavy silence followed, thick with something unsaid.

Harry barely dared to breathe. He had known there was history between them—of course, he had—but he hadn’t expected this. This wasn’t the cool indifference Tom usually reserved for his enemies, nor was it the calculated patience Dumbledore wielded like a weapon.

No, this was something else entirely.

It was like watching two venomous creatures sizing each other up, coiling for the strike.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Tom said coolly. “Your downfall was your own foolishness.”

“We are not here to discuss the past,” he said, voice edged with fury. Dumbledore’s expression twisted, his usual mask of benevolence nowhere to be seen. His gaze snapped to Harry.

“ You took something from me, boy, and it’s in your best interest to return it.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift. The man who once offered him lemon drops and gentle wisdom now looked at him like he was nothing more than a troublesome thief.

Confusion swirled in his mind, but he refused to show it. His heart pounded as he scrambled to make sense of what Dumbledore meant. What could he possibly be talking about?

Dumbledore let out a sharp exhale, his patience thinning. “Let me refresh your memory,” he said, voice laced with biting condescension. “A few days ago, you and your family broke into my vault and stole something that belongs to me.”

Tom shot Harry a curious glance, his brows lifting ever so slightly.

Harry’s stomach dropped. Oh.

Right. He may have forgotten to mention that to Tom.

His face paled, and he braced himself for the inevitable reckoning.

Dumbledore continued, his tone smooth but dripping with venom. “Imagine my annoyance when I had to return to this miserable city—one that discarded me like nothing more than a speck of dust—just to reclaim what is mine .”

Harry swallowed hard. Well. This just got a whole lot worse.

In the chaos of the past few weeks, he had completely forgotten about the Philosopher’s Stone. But Dumbledore’s words sparked another, even more pressing question—what did he mean by his vault? The Sayre vault had been abandoned for centuries. What did Dumbledore have to do with it?

Harry took a slow breath, forcing his expression into something resembling calm. “I wasn’t aware the Dumbledores had any connection to the Sayre family.” His voice was even, but his mind was racing.

He could feel Tom’s gaze burning into him. Yeah… this was definitely going to come back to bite him later.

Dumbledore merely smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone gifted it to me a long time ago,” he said smoothly, taking another sip of tea. “But I don’t believe I owe you an explanation.”

Harry clenched his jaw. Oh, this was definitely going to be a problem.

Dumbledore set his teacup down with an infuriatingly calm clink and folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Now, let’s not waste time dancing around the inevitable, Harry. You know why I’m here.”

Harry’s grip tightened around his wand. “You want the Stone.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, as if they were discussing something as simple as the weather. “Indeed.”

Tom stepped forward slightly, his posture deceptively relaxed, but Harry could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. “And you expect him to just hand it over?” Tom’s tone was light, almost amused, but there was something cold beneath it. “That’s bold of you.”

Dumbledore smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t call it expectation , merely a strong… incentive .” He turned his piercing gaze back to Harry, the warmth in his expression nothing more than a well-worn mask. “You care about people, Harry. It’s an admirable quality. And, unfortunately, a great weakness.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Tom tensed beside him, and in that moment, Harry knew they were both thinking the same thing.

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice soft, almost pitying. “If you want Narcissa and Draco to live, you will meet me tomorrow at the agreed-upon location.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “And if I don’t?”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes gleamed with something darker. “Then I suppose their fate will be left to the hands of those far less merciful than I.”

Harry’s fingers twitched at his side. He hated this—hated the way this Dumbledore wielded people’s lives like bargaining chips, how he acted as if he were entitled to the Stone, as if he got to decide who lived and who suffered.

Tom, however, didn’t so much as flinch. His gaze was sharp, calculating. “How do we know you even have them?”

Dumbledore merely chuckled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something small. He flicked it toward Harry, and it landed at his feet with a soft clink .

Harry stared.

A familiar silver snake ring lay on the ground.

Draco’s.

A rush of cold swept through him. His heart pounded against his ribs, but he schooled his features into something neutral before glancing back up.

Dumbledore was watching him closely, like a chess player waiting for his opponent’s next move. “Tomorrow, at sundown,” he said lightly. “Come alone, Harry. And bring the Stone.” His voice turned sharper. “If you do not, there will be consequences.”

A quiet, heavy beat followed.

Then, just as smoothly as he had arrived, Dumbledore rose to his feet, adjusting the sleeves of his robe. He looked at Tom, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Always a pleasure, Tom.”

Tom’s expression was unreadable, but Harry could see the muscle in his jaw twitch.

And then, with a twist of magic, Dumbledore was gone.

Tom stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Dumbledore had just been. His expression was eerily blank, but Harry could practically feel the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Then, finally, Tom exhaled sharply, pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned to face him.

“So,” he said, voice deceptively calm. “Would you like to explain why exactly Albus Dumbledore just blackmailed you over a Philosopher’s Stone that you failed to mention ?”

Harry winced. Oh boy.

“Uh… surprise?” he tried weakly.

Tom’s expression did not change.

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I meant to tell you, but things got really chaotic, and—”

“You meant to tell me,” Tom repeated flatly. “You meant to tell me that you, what? Just happened to stumble across one of the most powerful alchemical artifacts in existence and forgot ?”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, when you say it like that , it sounds bad.”

“It is bad, Harry!” Tom threw his hands up in exasperation. “For Merlin’s sake , do you have any idea what people would do for that kind of power? What Dumbledore would do? He just played his hand, and now he knows you have it! This is exactly why—” Tom stopped mid-sentence, exhaled sharply through his nose, and ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that Harry was fairly certain wasn’t polite.

Harry frowned. “I know it’s bad. But it wasn’t like I was looking for the Stone—I was trying to find the mirror.”

Tom’s irritation didn’t waver. “What mirror?”

Harry hesitated, then sighed, realizing he really should have led with that. “The mirror that brought me here. We had a solid lead that it was in the Sayre Vault, but when I got there, I stumbled upon the Stone.”

Tom blinked. “Hold on. The Sayre Vault? As in, the one that’s been abandoned for centuries? That vault ?”

Harry nodded.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “And you just waltzed in ?”

“Well, it wasn’t that easy, I had to face a few obstacles, but—”

“ A few obstacles?” Tom’s voice was climbing in pitch. “Harry, that vault was supposed to be locked permanently . No one has been able to access it for generations, and you—” He gestured vaguely at him, “—just broke in, took an artifact, and forgot about it ?”

Harry cringed. “I was looking for the mirror , okay? And then all hell broke loose, and I got distracted.”

Tom stared at him for a long moment, then dragged a hand down his face like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. “You’re actually going to kill me one day,” he muttered. “I’m going to drop dead because of you.”

Harry snorted despite himself. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad.”

Tom shot him a dry look. “ That bad ? Harry, you’re like some chaos magnet the universe decided to drop in my lap. Every time I turn my back for one second, you’re either picking fights with criminals, getting kidnapped, or, apparently, breaking into high-security vaults and accidentally stealing priceless magical objects .”

Harry huffed. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t even locked that well . If they didn’t want me to get in, they should’ve warded it better.”

Tom just stared at him. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m just saying, maybe they should have invested in better security.”

Tom groaned loudly and turned away for a second, probably so he wouldn’t be tempted to strangle him. When he turned back, he exhaled deeply and fixed Harry with a long, measured look.

“Alright,” he said, his voice calmer now, though still threaded with exasperation. “Let’s just… set aside the fact that you somehow broke into a vault that no one else could access and completely forgot about the thing you stole. What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

Harry hesitated, his stomach twisting. “I have to go to that meeting tomorrow.”

Tom’s jaw clenched. “Like hell you do.”

“If I don’t, he’ll kill them,” Harry said, voice tight. “I can’t let that happen.”

Tom didn’t respond right away. His expression was carefully neutral, but Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side.

Finally, Tom exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temples. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Harry grinned weakly. “So I’ve been told.”

Tom shook his head but—finally—some of the anger bled out of his expression. He leveled Harry with a look that was more fondly irritated than outright furious now. “You owe me for this, Potter.”

Harry smirked. “Is this your way of saying you forgive me?”

Tom scowled. “No, this is my way of saying that you are a disaster and I’m only tolerating you because, for some godforsaken reason, I actually care whether or not you get yourself killed.”

Harry’s smirk widened. “Aww, you care .”

Tom pointed a finger at him. “ Don’t push it.”

Harry just grinned. “Too late.”

Moving with practiced silence, they retraced their path through Malfoy Manor, slipping through shadowed corridors and avoiding detection with careful precision. The wards Tom had dismantled earlier remained inactive, but the unease of their all-too-easy entry still lingered as they finally made it outside, disappearing into the cover of night before apparating back to the cabin.

══════════════════

Back at the cabin, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with worries as they threw around ideas on how to handle the situation.

Harry sat at the wooden table, arms crossed, trying to think through the best course of action. "I should go alone."

Tom, standing by the fireplace with his arms folded tightly across his chest, shot him a sharp glare. "Absolutely not."

Harry sighed. "Tom—"

"No," Tom said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That is not an option. You just heard Dumbledore. He has the upper hand. He dictated the terms. Do you think he's just going to let you stroll in, hand over the Stone, and walk away unharmed?"

Harry frowned. "I can handle myself."

Tom let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh yes, because your track record of not getting captured, injured, or dragged into absolute disaster is so reassuring."

Harry scowled. "You’re being dramatic."

Tom narrowed his eyes. " Dramatic ? Harry, you forgot you were carrying around the most powerful alchemical artifact in existence! Forgive me if I don't have faith in your ability to negotiate alone with one of the most manipulative men alive."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Then what do you suggest, Tom? He said I have to come alone —if he even suspects you're with me, he could hurt Draco and Narcissa."

Tom's jaw tightened. "And you think trusting him at his word is a good idea?"

Harry exhaled, rubbing his temple. " No , I don't. But what other choice do we have?"

Tom paced for a moment, his mind clearly running through every possibility, before stopping abruptly. "Where's the Stone?"

Harry blinked at the sudden shift. "What?"

"The Stone," Tom repeated, his gaze sharp. "Where is it?"

Harry hesitated for a second before answering. " Potter Manor ," he admitted. "We hid it there under multiple layers of wards. It would take someone really determined to get through them."

Tom studied him for a long moment. "How many wards?"

Harry smirked slightly. "Enough that you wouldn’t get through them easily."

Tom gave him an unimpressed look. "Flattering, but I need specifics."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Blood wards, intent-based barriers, a couple of nasty hexes, and a misdirection charm that would send anyone who tries to break in on a very confusing journey through the Scottish highlands."

Tom blinked. " You set that up?"

Harry shrugged. “I did it with Snape."

Tom tilted his head, studying him like he was seeing him in a different light. Then, after a beat, he huffed a quiet laugh. "Maybe you're not completely reckless, after all."

Harry smirked. "High praise coming from you."

Tom sighed, rubbing his temple. "Alright. We have the advantage of time. Dumbledore gave us until tomorrow, which means we need a plan —one that doesn’t involve you walking into a trap alone like an idiot."

Harry crossed his arms. "You really need to work on your faith in me."

Tom smirked. "And you need to work on not making it so difficult."

Harry snorted, but the moment of levity passed quickly. Because no matter how much they danced around it, they both knew one thing: Tomorrow, everything could change.

══════════════════

At least his parents weren’t home. That would have been difficult to explain.

They’d agreed—Harry had to do this alone. Bringing Tom? To Potter Manor? Yeah, that would’ve gone brilliantly.

"Mum, Dad, this is Tom Gaunt, the Minister of Magic. Yes, that one. No, we’re not dating—bloody hell, Dad, stop looking at me like that!"

Yeah, no. That conversation was never happening.

Moving quickly, he approached the grand front doors, pressing his palm against the handle. The cool silver warmed beneath his touch, scanning for his magic before the locks unlatched with a quiet click . The heavy door swung open, revealing the dimly lit halls beyond. The house-elves kept the place spotless even in his family's absence, and yet, there was something unsettling about how quiet it was.

Harry swallowed down the feeling and stepped inside. 

The vault was hidden beneath the west wing of the manor, buried under layers of enchantments. It had taken them hours to weave all the protections around it, ensuring that no one could steal the Stone. And now, as he made his way down the grand staircase and through the twisting corridors, the weight of what he was about to do settled heavily on his shoulders.

Draco and Narcissa’s lives depended on this.

And the person threatening them?

Dumbledore.

Harry still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

It wasn’t just that the old man had changed—it was that he was unrecognizable .

He remembered the Dumbledore from his world: wise, eccentric, frustratingly cryptic, but ultimately good . Someone who carried the weight of too many burdens but still cared . This Dumbledore? The one who sat in Malfoy Manor, sipping tea like he owned the place? This Dumbledore had sharp edges and venom in his voice. He spoke like a man who had been wronged —who wanted the world to pay for it.

And Draco had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Harry’s chest tightened.

Draco had been taken because of him . Because he’d broken into that vault. Because he’d taken the Stone.

And now he had to fix it.

Reaching the west wing, Harry stopped in front of an ornate door, pressing his palm against the center of the wood. The wards immediately responded, flickering to life like invisible threads of magic wrapping around his skin, testing, confirming his identity.

"Blood confirmed. Access granted."

The door shimmered out of existence, revealing a stone passageway leading underground.

Harry stepped through, and the door sealed behind him.

The air was cool, thick with old magic, the walls lined with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. He passed through each protective barrier methodically, undoing them one by one—dispersing the illusion spells, breaking the intent-based hexes, whispering the counter-curses for the layered wards. When he reached the final threshold, he stopped in front of a stone pedestal.

And there it was.

The Philosopher’s Stone .

It gleamed under the soft light, an unnatural red, like crystallized fire.

For a moment, Harry just stared at it.

This tiny thing—this small, unassuming stone—held power . Not just the kind that granted immortality, but something older , something he could feel humming in his bones.

He reached out, fingers brushing the surface—

And instantly, warmth spread through his palm, a pulse of magic that sent a shiver up his spine.

Harry exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

It didn’t matter what this thing was or what kind of power it held.

Right now, it was a bargaining chip.

And if all went according to plan, it would be the key to saving Draco and Narcissa.

As Harry stepped out of the underground vault, sealing the protective wards behind him, he barely had time to take a steadying breath before the sharp tap, tap, tap of a beak against glass made him freeze.

His heart lurched.

He turned slowly, gaze snapping to the window at the end of the corridor.

A sleek, dark-feathered owl perched on the sill, staring at him with piercing amber eyes. A letter, sealed with red wax, was clutched in its beak.

Harry didn’t need to see the crest stamped into the wax to know who it was from.

His blood ran cold.

Keeping his movements steady, he walked toward the window, flicking it open. The owl hopped onto the ledge inside, extending its leg in an impatient, almost mocking manner. Harry hesitated only a second before untying the parchment.

The owl gave a sharp hoot —almost like a laugh—before launching back into the night.

Harry’s stomach twisted as he broke the wax seal, his fingers tightening around the parchment as he unfolded it.

His breath caught in his throat as he read.

Mr. Potter,

You are quite the stubborn child, aren’t you? Meddling in things beyond your comprehension. Playing hero in battles you are unequipped to fight.

But this is not a game, dear boy.

I assume, by now, you have retrieved the Stone. Good. You will bring it to me. Alone.

And if you are considering otherwise—if you are foolish enough to attempt some noble, reckless scheme—allow me to make something very clear.

You are not the only one I have my eyes on.

Your parents, for example. A respectable pair, truly. So devoted to their cause. So oblivious to how vulnerable they are. Tell me, how do you think they would fare if misfortune were to suddenly befall them? Perhaps an accident while traveling? A spell gone awry? A tragedy no one could quite explain?

And Minister Gaunt—such an interesting ally you have found. I wonder, Mr. Potter, how long will he stand beside you once he realizes the extent of the damage you’ve caused? Once he realizes just how much of this was your doing?

Bring the Stone. Come alone.

Or there will be consequences.

With fond regards,
A.P.W.B. Dumbledore

Harry’s fingers dug into the parchment, knuckles going white.

His vision blurred for a moment—not from tears, but from sheer, overwhelming fury.

Dumbledore wasn’t just threatening him now.

He was threatening his parents .

He was threatening Tom .

A cold, suffocating weight settled in Harry’s chest. His parents had nothing to do with this. This was his mess. He was the one who took the Stone. He was the one Dumbledore wanted.

And if Harry didn’t show up…

He didn’t doubt for a second that Dumbledore would follow through on his threats.

He could already hear Tom’s voice in his head, low and sharp with warning: "This is a trap, Harry. You can't go alone."

But what choice did he have?

If Tom came with him, if anyone tried to intervene, Dumbledore would take it as a provocation. He would retaliate.

Harry couldn’t risk that.

His decision settled like a weight in his stomach.

He was going alone .

Shoving the letter deep into his cloak, Harry turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, jaw set, determination hardening in his veins.

Chapter Text

The moment Harry’s fingers closed around the Portkey, a familiar, nauseating pull wrenched at his navel.

He barely had time to brace himself before the world twisted and yanked him forward, his surroundings blurring into a swirl of dark colors. His feet hit solid ground a second later, but the momentum sent him stumbling a step before he caught himself.

The air was sharp and salty, the distant roar of crashing waves filling his ears.

Harry knew this place.

He had stood here before, amid the ruins of the Sayre estate, where crumbling stone walls stretched toward the sky like skeletal remains of a lost era. The ground beneath him was uneven, littered with debris, long abandoned by time. The ocean stretched endlessly before him, the horizon painted in shades of stormy gray.

Then, almost as if he had felt Harry’s arrival, the figure standing near the cliff’s edge turned.

Dumbledore.

His back had been to Harry, his hands clasped neatly behind him, his posture regal and untouched by age despite the years he carried. The wind caught the edges of his deep blue robes, making them billow ever so slightly as he finally turned his gaze toward Harry.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” Dumbledore mused, his voice light, conversational. He tilted his head, studying Harry like he was something curious beneath a magnifying glass. “But I suppose I should have known better. You are, after all, your mother’s son.”

Harry ignored the bait. His wand was already in his hand, gripped tightly at his side. He didn’t bother raising it—what was the point? He could feel the anti-apparition wards humming in the air, locking him in place. Even if he wanted to run, there was nowhere to go.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in a way that sent a chill down Harry’s spine. He turned back toward the ocean, sighing deeply.

“Do you know what I see when I stand here, Mr. Potter?” His voice was softer now, almost wistful. “Not just ruins. Not just broken stone and lost history.” He glanced over his shoulder at Harry. “I see a story. A tragedy, if you will. One of love, of ambition, of choices that could not be undone.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “If you’re trying to distract me—”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Oh, my dear boy, I am distracting you. But that does not mean my words are without truth.” He took a slow step forward. “Tell me, have you ever heard the full story of Gellert Grindelwald?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “He was a Dark Lord. Tom defeated him. End of story.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “How simple history becomes when told by those who did not live it.” He studied Harry carefully. “Gellert was not just a Dark Lord to me, Harry. He was my greatest friend. My closest confidant. He was… more.” His expression softened, but there was something sharp beneath it. A sorrow untouched by time.

Harry’s fingers twitched around his wand, his mind racing. 

“We were young when we met. Full of dreams, full of fire. The world was small to us, nothing more than a puzzle waiting to be solved.” Dumbledore’s voice was quiet, distant. “But Gellert had… ideas. Ideas that were grand, intoxicating in their brilliance.” He paused, as if weighing his next words. “He believed that the world could be reshaped, that power— true power—belonged only to those with the vision to wield it.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over his lips.

“And I, foolish boy that I was, believed him.”

Harry swallowed, unsure whether he should speak or just let Dumbledore continue.

“I was drawn to him. Not just his mind, but him . His intensity, his certainty. He made me feel as though we were destined for something greater .” Dumbledore exhaled slowly. “But there is a fine line between ambition and obsession, and Gellert crossed it. He burned too brightly, too quickly. He became something I could no longer follow.”

Something in Dumbledore’s face hardened.

“I tried to stop him. But I loved him too much.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, laced with something raw, something Harry had never heard from him before. “And in the end, that love cost me more than I could have ever imagined.”

The wind howled between them, filling the silence that followed.

Harry’s mind spun, trying to piece together where this was going—why Dumbledore was telling him this now, of all times.

But before he could ask, Dumbledore turned to him fully, his eyes sharp, calculating.

“I tell you this, Harry, because love is the most dangerous force in the world. It is what makes us weak, what makes us hesitate. It is what led to my greatest failure.” His gaze was piercing now. “And I wonder… have you learned that lesson yet?”

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. He knew exactly what Dumbledore was implying.

Tom.

The way Harry had trusted him. The way he had let himself rely on him. The way he had allowed himself to care .

Dumbledore took a slow step closer, lowering his voice.

“You are far more like me than you realize.” His lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And I wonder… when the time comes, will you make the same mistake?”

Dumbledore stood at the edge of the ruins, his posture deceptively relaxed. But Harry could feel it—an undercurrent of something dark, something heavy. It pressed against the air between them, suffocating in its quiet intensity.

“When Gellert fell,” Dumbledore murmured, his voice barely rising above the crashing waves, “the world called it a victory.”

A bitter smile played at his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“They celebrated in the streets. Wizards and witches toasted to the end of an era, to the fall of a tyrant. And yet—” He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening behind his back. “And yet, I was the only one who mourned.”

Harry’s brows furrowed.

He had heard the stories. The war. The bloodshed. How Tom had been the one to finally strike Grindelwald down, ending the reign of one of history’s most feared dark lords. But he had never heard it from this side before.

“I loved him, you know.” Dumbledore’s voice was distant now, lost in a memory only he could see. “More than anything. More than reason, more than caution. I loved him when we were just boys, dreaming of a world that only we could see.”

Harry didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he even could.

“But love,” Dumbledore continued, the word tasting bitter on his tongue, “does not make a man good. It does not stop him from wanting power.” His jaw tightened. “I thought I could guide him. That I could temper his hunger. That he would listen to me because he loved me.” He let out a slow, shuddering breath. “But I was wrong.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“I thought—I hoped —that I could be enough. That I could reach him.” He shook his head. “But Gellert’s hunger was greater than my love.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze back to the sea, eyes distant. “I told myself I would stop him before it was too late. That when the time came, I would stand in his way.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “But by the time I found my courage, the world was already bleeding.”

The wind howled around them, cold and biting, but Dumbledore stood motionless.

“And then there was Tom.”

A shadow crossed his face.

Harry felt his entire body go rigid.

Dumbledore’s fingers twitched at his sides, curling and uncurling like they ached to be wrapped around something—someone. “He didn’t hesitate. Not for a moment. He saw the threat, and he removed it.” He let out a breathy, humorless chuckle. 

Harry remained silent.

“He made it look easy.” Dumbledore let out a bitter laugh. “And perhaps it was.”

The weight of his words settled over them.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, as if steadying himself. “I thought I had lost everything that day,” he admitted. “But I was wrong.” A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression. “I still had Hogwarts. I still had my students. I still had a place.”

His voice darkened.

“Until Tom took that from me, too.”

Harry stiffened, his breath caught in his throat.

“I begged ,” Dumbledore whispered, and for the first time, his voice cracked. “I stood before the Wizengamot, before the Ministry itself, and pleaded for mercy.” His lips twisted into something ugly. “Imagine it. The great Albus Dumbledore, on his knees, asking for forgiveness.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

“They called me weak.” His expression hardened, blue eyes burning like ice. “A fool. A traitor.” He exhaled sharply. “They stripped me of everything. My titles. My position. My home .”

Hogwarts.

Harry could see it—the towering castle, warm and grand, standing against the test of time. He had always thought of it as a sanctuary. A place that would never turn away those who needed it.

But it had turned away him .

“They left me with nothing,” Dumbledore said at last. “Not even the dignity of exile. No, they chased me out of London like a dog, ridiculed and discarded.” His voice dropped lower, quieter. “The man who had once been hailed as the greatest wizard of his age—reduced to a ghost, a name people barely whispered anymore.”

The weight of his words settled heavily in the space between them.

Harry had no response. What could he possibly say?

Dumbledore turned then, his piercing gaze locking onto Harry’s.

“I tell you this, Harry, because love is the most dangerous force in the world.” His voice was steady, laced with quiet conviction. “It makes us weak. It makes us hesitate. It blinds us to the truth we do not want to see.”

His gaze sharpened.

“It is what led to my greatest failure.”

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

He knew where this was going.

Dumbledore took a slow step closer, lowering his voice.

“But I have learned from my mistakes.” His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something final.

“Tell me, Harry,” he murmured.

“Have you ?”

Dumbledore watched him carefully, his piercing blue eyes glinting with something sharp. The weight of his words still lingered between them, heavy and suffocating, but Harry had no time to process the sorrow in them—the loss that threaded through his voice—because Dumbledore wasn’t finished.

He straightened slightly, adjusting the hem of his robe, his expression smoothing into something eerily calm.

“You think I called you here for the Stone,” he said, almost conversationally. “But that was never my true goal.”

A chill ran through Harry’s spine. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, as if weighing how much he should say, as if savoring the revelation that was about to unfold. Then, with deliberate slowness, he smiled.

“I have decided,” he murmured, “that it is time to return to happier days. To a time before everything was taken from me.”

His gaze darkened, something old and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“To Gellert .”

Harry’s breath hitched.

His mind barely had time to grasp what had just been said before Dumbledore continued, his voice unshaken, absolute.

“Yes, he is dead.” His tone remained maddeningly calm, as if he were discussing something inevitable, something already set in motion. “But death is merely a barrier, not a finality.”

Harry felt something cold twist deep in his gut.

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back, exhaling as if this was nothing more than an academic discussion over tea. “There are ways to bring him back, of course. But, as with all things, magic demands a price.”

The air shifted. Thickened.

Harry could feel it curling at the edges, something heavy, something wrong .

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed in the pale moonlight, alight with something akin to satisfaction.

“There is an ingredient required,” he continued smoothly. “One that is exceedingly rare.”

He let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his words to settle before he spoke again.

“The blood of someone who has survived the Killing Curse.”

Harry’s entire body locked up.

A sharp, cold weight settled in his stomach, dragging him down with it.

Dumbledore tilted his head, watching him with quiet amusement, like a teacher waiting for a student to finally piece together the answer.

“There was no one—no one in this world who fit the description,” he mused. “So I performed a ritual.”

The wind howled between them. The ruins stood silent, empty, crumbling around them like ghosts of a forgotten past.

Harry’s breath quickened.

“I cast a summoning,” Dumbledore admitted, his voice almost gentle, almost soothing, as if it could dull the jagged edges of what he was saying. “To pull someone who met the requirement.”

No.

No, no, no.

Harry’s heart pounded, a dizzying thrum in his ears. The world around him tilted, warped, and yet Dumbledore stood as steady as ever, as if this was all going exactly as he had planned.

“I didn’t know who it would be,” Dumbledore continued, unbothered by the panic in Harry’s expression. “I only knew that somewhere, someone existed with the blood I needed.” His lips pursed. “Imagine my frustration when I lost track of where the ritual had delivered my… guest.”

Harry felt himself sway.

It was him.

It had been him all along.

Dumbledore had brought him here.

This world—the one where his parents were alive, where Tom Riddle was something entirely different, where everything felt like an impossible dream—had never been a miracle.

It had never been fate.

It had been Dumbledore .

Dumbledore, who had ripped him from his own world.

Dumbledore, who had torn him away from everything .

His breath came short and uneven, a rising panic swelling in his chest.

“I only discovered where you had landed when Lucius mentioned the Potters’ new ward,” Dumbledore continued, as if he hadn’t just shattered the fragile foundation of Harry’s reality. “The moment I heard it, I knew. Harry Potter was not from this world.”

Harry could hardly hear him past the roaring in his ears.

All this time.

All this time, he had thought maybe—just maybe—this was some cosmic accident. Some cruel joke of the universe. But at least, in some twisted way, it had given him something . A chance. A second life.

A chance to see his parents again.

A chance to live again.

And all along, it had been nothing but a side effect. A mistake.

He had never been meant to be here.

Dumbledore had never intended to bring him to this world.

He had only ever wanted his blood.

Harry felt like he was going to be sick.

“But when I finally had the chance to approach you,” Dumbledore said, something like irritation slipped into his voice, “you had already gotten too close to him .”

Harry barely registered the words. His mind was still reeling.

Tom.

Dumbledore had been watching him. Waiting.

And Harry had unknowingly ruined whatever plans he had by aligning himself with the Minister.

“I had to wait,” Dumbledore went on, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I had to be careful. I was furious when I learned that you had gone under his wing. That you had been taken in by him .”

Something in Harry snapped.

His hands clenched at his sides, fingers trembling, knuckles white.

This was too much.

His breath came sharp and ragged, his chest tightening until it ached.

“You brought me here,” he whispered, the words tasting foreign and bitter on his tongue.

Dumbledore’s piercing gaze landed on him, and for the first time, he didn’t bother to deny it.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Harry felt something crack deep inside him.

He clenched his jaw, a sharp sting burning at the back of his throat.

His entire life in this world—

His parents.

Sirius. Remus.

Even Tom .

Everything had been built on a lie.

He had never belonged here.

And he had never been meant to.

The moment the first crack of Apparition echoed through the ruins, Harry knew.

It was a trap.

A second later, more sharp cracks followed—one, two, five, ten —until the once-empty clearing was filled with hooded figures in white masks, their wands already drawn, moving like a silent tide around him.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched toward his wand, but before he could so much as shift, he felt it— wards snapping into place.

Anti-Apparition. Anti-Portkey.

Dumbledore had made sure he had no way out.

"Finally," came a smooth, drawling voice. Lucius Malfoy stepped forward from the growing circle of white-masked figures, his gloved fingers flexing over his cane. His silvery-blond hair gleamed in the moonlight, his expression one of cold satisfaction.

Beside him, Vinda Rosier stood tall, regal, her dark eyes glittering with something dangerously close to reverence as she turned her gaze to Dumbledore.

"We came as you requested," she murmured, inclining her head slightly. "It is an honor to aid you, Master."

Harry's stomach twisted.

The Rosier family had been among Grindelwald’s most devoted followers. That much was history. But this —this was something else. These people weren’t just helping Dumbledore. They believed in him. They believed in what he was trying to do.

And worse— they believed in bringing Grindelwald back.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

A rustling sound swept through the group as the masked figures moved into formation, silent, methodical. Some of them were adjusting the edges of an intricately carved stone circle in the ruins, others were already murmuring incantations under their breath.

They were preparing the ritual.

He had walked right into it.

"You should feel honored, Mr. Potter," Lucius continued, tilting his head slightly, his lips curling into a smile. "Few have ever been chosen for something as monumental as this. Your blood will change the course of history."

Harry’s chest heaved as he forced himself to stay still, his mind racing.

He was outnumbered . Overwhelmed.

Even if he fired off a spell, there were too many of them—he wouldn’t even last ten seconds before he was restrained.

Dumbledore had planned everything perfectly.

As if sensing his thoughts, Dumbledore sighed and stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

"Don’t struggle, Harry," he said softly. "This does not need to be painful."

Harry flinched, instinct screaming at him to fight , but before he could react, Lucius flicked his wand.

" Expelliarmus. "

The force of the spell nearly tore Harry’s wand from his fingers, but he tightened his grip, barely managing to hold onto it—only for another masked figure to fire a Stupefy at his side.

He twisted, trying to dodge, but it was impossible—there were too many spells, too many wands trained on him. A curse slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs, and his knees hit the cold stone floor of the ruins.

Pain flared sharp and hot, but he barely had time to recover before two sets of hands seized his arms, wrenched them back.

No.

NO.

He thrashed , kicking out, twisting, trying to break free—but they held him firm, dragging him toward the center of the circle.

Lucius stepped forward, peering down at him with something almost like disappointment.

"Still fighting?" he mused.

Harry clenched his teeth, his muscles burning with the effort of struggling, but it was useless. He was trapped . He could already see the ritual forming around him—the flickering runes coming to life in glowing golden arcs.

This was it .

There was nothing he could do.

A sharp, cold weight settled in his chest.

Dumbledore crouched beside him, his expression solemn.

"This is necessary, Harry," he said, quiet, firm. "One day, you’ll understand."

Harry's heart pounded. He was running out of time.

The masked figures took their places. The ritual was starting .

He could feel it in the air—the slow, steady pull of magic, the way the runes around him pulsed with unnatural energy.

Lucius lifted a small, ceremonial dagger, the silver edge gleaming.

"Let’s begin."

The knife lowered—

And then—

A thunderous explosion rocked the ruins.

The force of it sent half the masked figures sprawling, dust and debris cascading through the air as a wave of raw magic crashed over them.

Harry barely had time to process what was happening before the sound of spells—bright, fast, furious —began ricocheting through the ruins.

Figures stepped through the dust and smoke, wands raised, spells flashing like lightning—

" Get your hands off my son! "

Harry’s head snapped up.

His father .

James Potter stood at the edge of the ritual circle, fury blazing in his hazel eyes. His wand was already aimed at Lucius, magic crackling at his fingertips.

And he wasn’t alone.

Beside him, Lily moved with sharp, deadly precision, already sending a Stupefy at one of the white-masked men trying to recover.

Behind them, Sirius and Regulus were a blur of motion—one casting precise, controlled strikes, the other laughing darkly as he obliterated everything in his path.

And right at the front—his robes billowing, his expression a mask of cold, lethal fury—

Tom.

The moment Harry saw him, something inside him unclenched .

Dumbledore had been so careful. So meticulous. So sure that this was the moment he would win.

And yet—he had underestimated the one thing he had feared the most.

Tom Gaunt did not share .

Lucius barely had time to react before a wave of raw magic slammed into him, sending him flying backward into the crumbling ruins.

Vinda let out a snarl, already lifting her wand—

Only for Lily to disarm her in a single, vicious flick of her wrist.

"Not today, you bitch ," she hissed.

Harry felt the hands gripping him loosen as his captors turned, trying to fight—

He didn’t waste a second.

He lunged , wrenching free, grabbing his wand from where it had fallen.

And then—

Then everything was chaos.

Dumbledore's forces scrambled, caught between the onslaught of spells and the sheer force of the Potters and the Minister.

Tom moved with terrifying precision, every spell deliberate, final . He was going for kills , and the white-masked men knew it .

Harry barely had time to catch his breath before Tom reached him, his magic a searing, burning force in the air.

His hands were steady as he grabbed Harry’s wrist. His eyes swept over him once, sharp, searching.

"Are you hurt?"

Harry swallowed hard.

He was still shaking.

But he was alive .

He exhaled shakily.

" No. "

Tom’s eyes darkened.

"Good," he murmured, voice like ice.

He turned back to Dumbledore, his grip tightening on his wand.

"Then let’s finish this."

Chapter Text

The ruins trembled with the force of the spells flying back and forth, streaks of red, green, and gold illuminating the night sky. The air smelled of smoke and burning stone, the scent of magic thick and electric, clashing violently between the combatants.

Dumbledore’s lips curled, his posture eerily calm despite the battle raging around him. The golden light of the ritual circle beneath his feet pulsed in slow, measured beats, like a heartbeat waiting to awaken.

His piercing blue eyes locked onto Tom.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “I knew you would come. And I knew you would bring it.”

Tom’s expression remained unreadable, but Harry could feel the tension ripple through him.

Dumbledore tilted his head ever so slightly, his voice smooth, patient. Expectant.

“The Resurrection Stone, Tom.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“The ritual requires more than just blood,” Dumbledore continued. “To reach beyond death itself—to pull him back—I need the Deathly Hallows.”

Tom’s fingers twitched, just barely.

And Dumbledore smiled.

“That’s why I lured you here.” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You brought me the final piece of the puzzle.”

A sudden pulse of magic rippled outward from Dumbledore’s body, shattering the air with an invisible force. The ritual circle beneath him flared brighter, stronger, faster.

And then—

The dead began to rise.

The ground beneath them split, cracked open like brittle bone as the first Inferius crawled free, its rotting fingers clawing at the stone. Its sunken, milky-white eyes lifted—empty, watching, waiting.

Then another.

And another.

They came from the ruins, from the depths of the earth, from the remnants of graves long forgotten.

Harry’s breath hitched.

James swore under his breath.

Regulus took a sharp step forward, wand raised.

Sirius let out a sharp exhale. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “We’re in a bloody horror story now.”

“We need fire,” Lily said, already raising her wand. “Incendio!”

The flames erupted from her wand, curling toward the nearest Inferius—

But—

The flames did nothing.

The fire licked across their rotting flesh—and simply died.

Lily’s eyes widened. “No—”

“Protego!” Tom snarled, throwing up a shield as two Inferius lunged toward him.

Harry’s stomach twisted. No. This wasn’t normal.

These were made of something else.

Something stronger.

Dumbledore’s voice rang out through the chaos, cold, sharp, unwavering.

“Did you truly think I would rely on ordinary necromancy?”

His eyes burned as the Inferi surged forward, immune to fire, immune to destruction, bound by magic older than the ruins themselves.

They could not be burned.

They could not be stopped.

“Bombarda!” James roared, blasting one apart. But another kept coming.

“Reducto!” Regulus’s spell ripped through another, but more took their place.

They weren’t slowing down.

They weren’t weakening.

Harry’s heart pounded.

Think.

Think, damn it—

Fire wouldn’t work. Physical damage wasn’t enough.

They had to dispel the magic itself.

And then—

A realization slammed into him.

The ritual.

The magic controlling them was coming from the ritual.

If he could disrupt it—

“Get clear!” Harry shouted.

Lily and James turned toward him, alarm flashing in their eyes.

“Harry—?”

“Get back!” he repeated, throwing out his hands. Magic surged under his skin, pulling, twisting, calling.

The Inferi lurched toward him—too many.

Too close.

But he wasn’t afraid.

He could feel it—the raw, crackling energy beneath his fingertips, rising in his chest, a spell half-formed before he even spoke.

Harry took one step forward.

And then—

He slammed his hands down onto the ground.

The impact sent a shockwave through the ruins, a pulse of blinding magic ripping outward from his body. The air crackled.

The Inferi froze.

The golden ritual circle shuddered.

Dumbledore’s head snapped toward him, his expression finally—finally—breaking.

Harry’s teeth clenched.

And then he whispered:

“Finite Incantatem.”

A thunderous boom echoed across the battlefield.

The ritual shattered.

The golden light flickered—cracked—collapsed.

And then—

The Inferi let out a hollow, broken screech as their bodies crumpled into dust.

The earth swallowed them whole.

The battlefield fell silent.

Harry panted, his hands still pressed against the ground, magic still humming in his bones, his body thrumming with the force of what he’d just done.

Dumbledore staggered slightly, his robes flickering at the edges where the ritual had once glowed.

And then—he lifted his head.

His blue eyes burned.

His face twisted into something dark.

Something furious.

His hand shot forward—straight toward Harry.

Harry barely had time to react before Dumbledore lunged, his wand gleaming, sharp, cutting—

But—

Tom moved first.

He was faster than lightning, faster than breath.

A curse lashed out—a silent, deadly arc of green.

Dumbledore barely twisted away in time, the spell slicing across his robes, drawing blood.

The old man gasped, staggering back.

His face paled.

Tom strode forward, his presence a storm, his magic suffocating.

Dumbledore’s lips parted slightly, his breath hitching. For the first time—he looked afraid.

“You’ve lost,” Tom said, his voice a low, lethal whisper.

Dumbledore swayed, his magic faltering, his ritual broken.

And Harry—

Harry barely had time to breathe before another spell came hurtling toward him— "Diffindo!" —a slicing hex aimed straight for his chest.

He twisted, ducking just in time as Regulus intercepted it with a quick, precise shield charm.

"Stay on your feet, Potter!" Regulus barked before flicking his wand toward a masked figure, sending them crashing against a broken pillar with a well-placed Bombarda .

Harry had no time to reply before another masked man lunged at him. He barely managed to raise his wand—

" Protego! "

The shield deflected the attack, sending sparks flying, but the force of it pushed him backward, nearly toppling him over.

Lily was there in an instant.

" Stupefy! "

The white-masked attacker crumpled, and she turned sharply to Harry, her green eyes blazing. "Harry, are you—"

But before she could finish, another explosion rocked the ruins.

At the center of the battle, Dumbledore was still standing.

His robes billowed in the wind, his eyes no longer twinkling, no longer kind. The blue depths were burning with fury, with desperation. His wand moved in sharp, furious motions as he cast magic stronger than Harry had ever felt , forcing back Sirius and James as they tried to close in on him.

"This is not over!" Dumbledore's voice boomed across the battlefield, echoing with raw, untamed magic. "I have come too far—sacrificed too much! You will not take this from me!"

The stone circle at his feet pulsed with golden light.

He was still trying to finish the ritual.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Dumbledore’s forces were already crumbling—Lucius had barely risen to his feet before Sirius slammed him back down with a Confringo that sent him sprawling into the dirt. Vinda Rosier was barely holding her own against Lily and Regulus, her face twisted in a snarl as she sent desperate curses their way.

The masked figures were retreating, realizing they were outmatched. But Dumbledore wasn’t retreating.

He wasn’t running .

He was doubling down .

"I will not let you stop this!" he bellowed, slamming his wand into the ground.

The earth beneath them shook . A wave of pure force blasted outward, sending everyone stumbling back—Harry barely managed to stay on his feet as ancient stones cracked, as the runes surrounding the ritual circle blazed brighter.

The ritual wasn’t finished.

Dumbledore still needed blood.

And he only had one option left.

His gaze snapped to Harry, and in that instant, Harry knew.

Dumbledore was going to take it himself .

Harry barely had time to react before Dumbledore moved.

He wasn’t an old man anymore.

Not a frail professor.

He was fast.

Faster than Harry had ever seen, faster than anyone could have anticipated. His wand flicked, and the dagger Lucius had been holding soared into his waiting hand.

"NO—"

Harry scrambled back, raising his wand, but Dumbledore was already upon him—

A flash of silver—

A sharp, burning sting —

And then, before the blade could drive deeper—

A dark blur collided with Dumbledore.

It was Tom.

Harry barely had time to process what had happened before he heard the sickening crack of bones breaking.

Dumbledore was hurled back with terrifying force, his body slamming into a broken column so hard the stone shattered around him.

The dagger clattered to the ground, slick with Harry’s blood—but it was only a shallow cut.

Tom had stopped him before he could take what he needed.

The moment Dumbledore hit the ground, the air rippled with magic.

A dark, oppressive force crushed the battlefield, thick as smoke, suffocating in its intensity.

Tom stood tall, his face a mask of pure, lethal rage.

His wand was pointed directly at Dumbledore, his grip so tight his knuckles had turned white.

"You," he said, his voice deathly soft.

Harry had never seen him this furious before.

Not even when someone had dared to threaten him.

Not even when he was in battle.

No, this was different.

This was personal.

"You dared," Tom continued, his voice low, vicious . "You dared to lay a hand on him?"

Dumbledore coughed, struggling to rise. He was injured, but not defeated. Not yet.

He glared at Tom with a look of burning hatred, of barely restrained fury.

"You do not understand what you are preventing," he spat. "You do not know—"

" Avada Kedavra. "

The words were spoken so calmly.

So casually.

And yet, the spell ripped through the battlefield like a thunderbolt.

A jet of green light exploded from Tom’s wand, hurtling toward Dumbledore with terrifying speed.

Dumbledore barely had time to throw himself aside. The spell grazed him, but it was enough—the force of it sent him tumbling, barely managing to avoid instant death.

"Minister!" James shouted. "We need him alive!"

Tom ignored him.

He stalked forward, his expression utterly unreadable, his wand crackling with more power than Harry had ever felt from him before.

Dumbledore raised his own wand, gritting his teeth.

"You fool," he hissed. "You think you can stop me? You think you can—"

But Tom wasn’t listening.

He flicked his wand—

And chains of pure, molten magic erupted from the ground, twisting around Dumbledore’s wrists, his ankles, slamming him down into the broken stone circle.

Dumbledore struggled , roaring in defiance, but it was useless.

Tom's magic was stronger.

He was stronger .

Harry could only stare, breathless, watching as Dumbledore—the great Albus Dumbledore—was finally trapped.

Defeated.

Overpowered.

This fight was over.

The white-masked figures had already fled. Vinda was unconscious, Lucius was nowhere to be seen, and the ritual was collapsing without its final component.

Sirius and Regulus moved swiftly, binding the remaining survivors, ensuring none of them escaped.

Lily rushed to Harry’s side, her hands hovering over the cut on his arm already casting healing spells. "Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice tight with worry.

Harry let out a shaky breath.

"I’m fine," he muttered. And for the first time that night, he meant it.

Dumbledore was defeated.

He had failed.

Even though the battle was over, Harry couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

Dumbledore was bound, his magic restrained, but something in his expression—something cold, unreadable—sent a chill through Harry’s veins.

This wasn’t just any man.

This was the man who had pulled him into this world.

The man who had ripped him away from his home—who had the knowledge, the power to send him back just as easily.

Harry clenched his fists, his breath unsteady.

Would he wake up tomorrow only to find himself back in the world he had left behind? Back in a place where his parents were still dead, where Tom was dead, where everything he had found here was nothing more than a cruel, fleeting illusion?

The thought made his stomach churn.

The sound of heavy footsteps cut through his spiraling thoughts.

Before Harry could react, Tom was in front of him.

His long fingers caught Harry’s chin, tilting his face up, and Harry barely had a second to register what was happening before Tom’s eyes were scanning him, searching.

Checking him over.

For injuries, for wounds—for anything Dumbledore might have done to him.

His hands were firm but careful, tilting Harry’s face this way and that, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone, his sharp eyes narrowing at the shallow cut Dumbledore’s dagger had left on his arm.

The furious look from earlier was still there, lingering in the sharp set of his jaw, but when Tom finally exhaled, it came out shaky.

Like he had been holding his breath.

Like he hadn’t let himself feel relief until this very moment.

Harry huffed a soft laugh, still catching up to what was happening. Tom Gaunt was fussing over him.

“Tom,” he murmured, amused, his lips quirking up.

Tom ignored him.

His fingers brushed over the torn fabric of Harry’s sleeve, pressing lightly around the wound, his expression darkening like he was personally offended by its existence.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said, exasperated. “It’s barely a scratch.”

Tom’s gaze snapped to his.

Harry immediately regretted saying anything.

"Fine?" Tom echoed, his voice dangerously soft.

Harry knew that tone.

That was the tone Tom used right before someone died.

“Harry.” Tom leaned in, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as deceptive. “Tell me, how exactly is it that, despite all your supposed intelligence, you continue to walk directly into every single trap set for you?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Tom wasn’t finished.

“Did it not occur to you that Dumbledore might have had another plan?” Tom went on, his sharp, aristocratic features twisting into a mocking frown. “That maybe, just maybe, following an old, scheming, banished lunatic to an isolated ruin in the middle of the night was a bad idea?”

Harry groaned.

“Oh, come on —”

“I mean, really, Harry.” Tom tilted his head, his fingers still resting on Harry’s chin, preventing him from looking away. “You do have a talent for this. Walking into traps. Getting kidnapped.” His lips curled in a mocking smile. “It’s almost impressive, if you think about it.”

Harry scowled.

“Are you going to help me or just stand here and mock me?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Tom sighed dramatically.

“Oh, love,” he said, shaking his head with an exaggerated, put-upon expression. “I am perfectly capable of doing both .”

Harry snorted.

He didn’t mean to.

But the way Tom said it—so serious, so deadpan—sent a helpless, amused huff of laughter bubbling up before he could stop it.

Tom froze.

His fingers against Harry’s chin twitched slightly, his piercing blue eyes softening in a way that made something warm spread through Harry’s chest.

And then, before Harry could react—

Tom smiled.

A real one.

Not a smirk, not a knowing, calculating expression.

But something small. Something genuine. Something just for him.

Harry’s breath caught.

He stared.

Tom never smiled like that.

Not in public.

Not around others.

But here, in the aftermath of battle, with the wind in his dark curls and the ruins crumbling around them, he looked at Harry like he was the only thing that mattered.

A sudden warmth settled in Harry’s chest.

He let out a slow, steady breath and leaned into Tom’s touch.

For a moment, they just stood there.

Tom’s hand was still on his face, his fingers light against Harry’s skin. Harry felt the tension ease from his shoulders, the weight of everything that had happened fading just a little.

It was… nice.

Safe.

For the first time tonight, he felt safe.

And then—

Someone cleared their throat.

Loudly.

Harry jumped, heat flooding his face as he turned to see his mother standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

Lily Potter looked between him and Tom, unimpressed.

Sirius was behind her, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh, while Remus covered his mouth, pretending to cough.

Regulus, naturally, looked completely disinterested, as if this was beneath his concern.

James, on the other hand, looked like he had just swallowed a lemon.

Lily cleared her throat again, even louder.

Harry’s face burned.

Tom, of course, looked completely unbothered.

If anything, he looked amused .

He tilted Harry’s chin up again, just a little, just enough to make Harry’s heart trip over itself—

And then, with obnoxious slowness, he smirked and dropped his hand.

Harry wanted to die.

Lily narrowed her eyes.

“We will discuss this later,” she said, her tone perfectly polite, yet somehow more terrifying than Dumbledore’s entire monologue earlier.

Sirius let out a loud, barking laugh.

James, who had been trying to compose himself, suddenly exploded—

“OH, COME ON—"

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands.

This night was never going to end.

The battlefield was still.

The masked men—Dumbledore’s followers—lay bound across the ruined stone, unconscious or groaning as they struggled against the magic restraining them. Dumbledore himself knelt in the center, hands locked behind his back, his expression blank, but his eyes—his sharp, calculating blue eyes—still burned.

Tom had taken away his wand, stripping him of magic as thoroughly as the Ministry once had. And yet, even in defeat, Dumbledore did not look resigned.

Harry suppressed a shiver.

Tom, standing tall beside him, exhaled slowly and pulled out his wand.

With a flick of his wrist, he cast a silent summons.

Not a moment later, a crack echoed through the air, followed by another.

Aurors.

They arrived in sharp bursts of magic, surrounding the ruins, their robes billowing in the night wind. Some took in the scene with quiet awe, others with immediate recognition—Dumbledore’s face was impossible not to know.

Their leader, a man with sharp features and a hard-set jaw, stepped forward.

“Lord Gaunt,” he greeted smoothly, his voice only just betraying his surprise. “You’ve certainly made our job easier tonight.”

Tom didn’t so much as blink.

“Take them,” he ordered coolly, nodding toward the restrained prisoners. “Make sure they’re properly secured. I don’t want any unfortunate mishaps.”

The Auror inclined his head.

One by one, the prisoners were lifted, bound even further with more wards.

Then—Dumbledore.

Harry turned, expecting Tom to watch with satisfaction as they dragged him away.

But instead, Tom remained still.

Watching.

Waiting.

And he didn’t give the order.

Frowning slightly, Harry leaned closer. “I thought you’d want to personally escort Dumbledore yourself,” he murmured.

Tom’s lips curled slightly. “Oh, I will,” he murmured back. “But we have a few things to discuss first.”

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine at his tone.

Dumbledore was silent, his face giving nothing away. But when he met Tom’s gaze, there was something unreadable in his expression. A tension between them that went deeper than words.

Harry let out a slow breath, deciding not to push.

Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, immediately regretting it.

James was still standing there, his face frozen in the same expression of utter shock from earlier.

Like he was still processing what he had just witnessed between him and Tom.

Harry groaned internally.

His mother, naturally, looked completely unimpressed. Arms crossed, one brow arched, a long-suffering look that said quite plainly: we will be talking about this later.

Sirius, on the other hand, had completely lost it.

He had to brace himself on Remus’ shoulder, laughing far too hard to be reasonable.

Remus sighed, long-suffering as ever. Regulus, beside him, looked completely unbothered, as though he had expected nothing less from this entire situation.

Harry sighed.

This was going to be hell later.

Pushing aside his own embarrassment, he focused on something far more important.

“Narcissa and Draco,” he said quickly, turning to Sirius. “Are they safe?”

Sirius, who was still chuckling, straightened at the seriousness in his voice.

“Relax, kid,” he said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We found them before we came charging in to save your reckless ass.”

Harry exhaled sharply, relief washing over him.

“They’re fine,” Sirius assured him. “Shaken, but fine. Narcissa’s with Draco right now. She’ll meet us at Potter Manor.”

Harry nodded, shoulders relaxing.

Potter Manor.

That was where they were heading next. Where they would regroup, figure out what came next.

His mother had already decided it—there was no question.

“Let’s go, then,” James finally said, shaking himself from his daze. He sent Harry a lingering look before sighing heavily, raking a hand through his messy hair. “Before I lose my mind.”

There was a chorus of nods, and one by one, they disapparated.

Sirius first, then Remus and Regulus. James and Lily next.

Until only Harry and Tom were left.

The ruins around them were silent, save for the distant sounds of Aurors finishing their work.

Harry hesitated, his eyes flickering back to Dumbledore’s bound form.

Then—he turned to Tom.

There was something he had to say.

Something that had been twisting inside him since Dumbledore had first spoken those cursed words.

He swallowed hard.

“I need to tell you something,” he said softly.

Tom, who had been watching the Aurors work with disinterest, turned fully to him. His sharp gaze flickered over Harry’s face, immediately catching onto the shift in his expression.

Harry exhaled.

“Dumbledore brought me here,” he admitted. “For my blood.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened instantly.

Harry forced himself to continue.

“To bring back Grindelwald.” His throat felt dry, but he pushed on. “That’s why I’m here. It wasn’t fate or chance—it was him.”

Tom remained silent.

Harry hesitated.

“I just…” He looked away, the unease curling in his stomach. “If he could pull me into this world—what if he could just as easily send me back?”

His hands clenched at his sides.

“What if I wake up tomorrow and—”

Tom moved.

Before Harry could finish, before he could spiral further into the fears clawing at his mind, Tom closed the space between them.

His hands grasped Harry’s face, tilting it up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

And what Harry saw there—

Oh.

The raw intensity in Tom’s eyes, the way they darkened with something furious, possessive, unyielding—it stole the breath from Harry’s lungs.

“I won’t let that happen,” Tom said, voice low and unshakable.

Harry swallowed. “But if he—”

“He won’t.”

There was finality in his voice, an absolute certainty.

As if the very thought of losing Harry was unacceptable, something Tom would not allow to exist.

A shuddering breath escaped Harry’s lips.

The tension in his body eased. Just a little.

And then, Tom’s gaze softened, just a fraction.

His thumb brushed lightly over Harry’s cheekbone.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Something flickered in Tom’s eyes—something warm, something consuming.

And then, he kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

But undeniably claiming.

Harry melted into it, into him, his hands instinctively grasping at Tom’s robes, holding him closer.

The world around them faded.

For a moment, it was just them.

Just Tom, pressing his lips to Harry’s, anchoring him, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

When they finally pulled apart, Harry was breathless.

Tom’s forehead rested against his, his breath warm against Harry’s lips.

“You are mine, Harry Potter,” he murmured, his voice velvet soft, laced with something dangerous, something worshipful. “And no one—not even Dumbledore—will take you from me.”

Harry closed his eyes.

And for the first time since the battle, he let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

The battle was over.

The ruins stood silent, charred and broken beneath the silver light of the moon, still crackling faintly with residual magic. Dust floated lazily through the air, settling like snow over shattered stone and fallen pillars. The energy, so thick moments ago, had dissipated into a quiet hum—an echo of violence now passed.

Dumbledore had been restrained with the strongest magical bonds the Aurors possessed, his face blank, unreadable, but his eyes still seething with hate beneath the surface.

Tom’s eyes remained locked on him, sharp and calculating.

“He won’t get another chance,” Tom said quietly, voice dark and certain. “I’ll personally see to it.”

Harry turned to look at him, his chest tightening slightly. “You’re going with them?”

Tom nodded. “Yes. I need to make sure the prison is reinforced and the security enchantments are layered with my own magic. I won’t rely on others.” He paused, gaze flicking over to where the captured loyalists were being subdued, their masks removed one by one. “And I have to weed out those who stood by him. I can’t trust anyone—not yet.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Right. Of course.”

Tom’s gaze softened when he looked at him again. He stepped forward, brushing dust from Harry’s shoulder, his fingers lingering.

“I wanted to take you home myself,” he murmured, “but I can’t risk leaving this unfinished.”

“I understand,” Harry said, though he hated the thought of parting from him—especially now. Especially after everything.

Tom leaned in, brushing a kiss to Harry’s temple. “They’ll be waiting for you. Go on.”

Harry’s cheeks warmed instantly. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Okay.”

Tom’s smirk was faint but pleased. “Try not to let them overwhelm you.”

Harry snorted despite himself. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s about to walk into an ambush of family members.”

“I have complete faith in you,” Tom said, pulling back, but his expression lingered just a little longer, serious now. “And Harry—this isn’t over. Dumbledore won’t touch you again. I swear it.”

Harry nodded. “I believe you.”

Then, with one last brush of his fingers along Harry’s hand, Tom turned and walked away toward the Aurors, his dark coat billowing behind him, his presence already commanding the entire scene.

And Harry—

He was left alone with his thoughts.

══════════════════

He didn’t apparate right away.

For a moment, he just stood there, inhaling the crisp night air, trying to calm the strange fluttering in his chest.

He’d kissed Tom.

Tom had kissed him.

He still wasn’t over it. Probably wouldn’t be for a long while.

Falling in love with him had felt less like a fall and more like a quiet surrender. Like slipping into something he hadn’t even realized he needed until it was already wrapped around him.

And now, standing here, flushed and scattered and still reeling from battle, Harry had to face the next impossible task—his family.

His sweet, concerned, overbearing family who had noticed everything except what was most obvious.

He’d neglected them over the past few days. Slipping away with vague excuses. Missing dinners. Barely replying to Lily’s notes or Sirius’s messages. Avoiding Remus’s worried glances. And not once had he mentioned Tom.

Beautiful, brilliant, infuriating Tom.

Who kissed him like he’d waited a lifetime to do it.

Just thinking about it made heat rise into Harry’s cheeks again.

His family would understand. Eventually.

He hoped.

He steeled himself. Took a deep breath. And with a crack—he apparated.

The moment his feet touched the marble floor of Potter Manor’s front hall, it was over.

He didn’t even get a full breath in before—

“Harry James Potter!”

Lily’s voice cut through the air like a whip, and before he could even blink, she was in front of him, hands grabbing his shoulders, eyes roving over him frantically.

“You are not injured anywhere else, are you? Tell me you’re not injured—Merlin, I will hex you if you say yes—”

“Mum, I’m fine—”

She slapped a hand against his chest—not gently. “You could have written! Or called! Or sent a bloody owl—anything! Do you know how worried we’ve been?!”

Sirius materialized behind her, arms crossed. “I told you we’d find him in the middle of some grand mess.”

“I was not in the middle of anything!” Harry protested.

Harry’s mouth opened. Then closed. “...Okay, that part is fair.”

They’d barely made it past the sitting room threshold before Lily pounced again—this time with considerably less concern and considerably more glee.

“So,” she said sweetly, sitting beside Harry on the tufted couch, “the Minister, hmm?”

Harry tensed like a cornered fox. “Mum—”

Sirius flopped down into the armchair across from them with a smirk. “No use trying to deflect, pup. The look on your face when he touched you was downright scandalous.”

Regulus leaned against the mantel with a wine glass in hand, watching him with a knowing arch of his brow. “Really quite cinematic, actually. The dark, brooding savior holding his battle-worn beloved by the face…”

“I’m going to throw myself into the fireplace,” Harry muttered, face flaming.

“You two almost kissed in front of us,” James said, voice half-incredulous, half-bewildered. “The Minister.” He looked like he was still trying to wrap his head around it. “You do know he’s my boss, right?”

Harry groaned and covered his face with both hands. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t some grand plan or seduction or—Merlin’s sake—some kind of coup. It just… happened. Kind of.”

“You looked like you were seconds away from pulling each other into a broom cupboard,” Sirius added helpfully.

Harry dropped his head into his hands and mumbled, “We didn’t even talk about anything real until tonight. It’s not serious—we’ve barely had the chance to figure anything out, between all the attacks and rituals and, you know… nearly dying.”

Lily patted his knee sympathetically. “But you like him.”

Harry looked up, cheeks red but honest. “Yeah. I do.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “It’s been… easy. Being with him. Natural. Like we just—fit.”

There was a brief silence, filled with a mix of surprise and something warmer—understanding.

Lily’s expression turned luminous. “Oh, sweetheart.” She hugged him, arms wrapping around him tightly. “I’m so happy for you.”

James, meanwhile, still looked mildly horrified. “The man terrifies my entire department, and you’re telling me you’re dating him.”

Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “...Surprise?”

“You’re grounded.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“You’re still grounded.”

Sirius snorted, laughing openly now. “Honestly, I should’ve said something the moment I saw you two at that inn.”

Harry blinked. “What inn?”

“After the inferi attack,” Sirius said with a wag of his finger. “You remember—Tom strolled in like a bloody warlock prince, and you looked like a maiden in a fairytale who just got rescued from a tower. I knew something was going on.”

“You did not,” Harry huffed.

“I absolutely did. There was tension. The charged kind. I was going to bet Remus five galleons you two would kiss by the end of the month.”

Harry groaned. “This is so mortifying.”

Regulus smirked. “I, for one, am enjoying this immensely.”

Remus, ever the voice of moderation, said gently, “All teasing aside, Harry… he does seem to care about you. Deeply.”

Harry’s flush deepened, but he nodded. “He does. And I—I trust him.” Then, after a beat: “I really do.”

James gave him a long, measured look, then sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Well. If he breaks your heart, I will arrest him. Minister or not.”

“Noted,” Harry said, managing a small grin.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching. “All right, now that the romance novel chapter is over, can we talk about the part where you were almost sacrificed in some ancient resurrection ritual?”

Harry’s mood sobered at once. “Yeah. Actually… how did you guys even know where I was?”

Lily perked up at that. “Oh—Tom came to us.”

Harry’s brows lifted in surprise. “He did?”

Sirius nodded, expression turning serious. “Just showed up at the manor. No warning. Scared the house elves half to death.”

“He didn’t say much,” James added. “But he told us you were in danger. That Dumbledore was making a move and he needed backup.”

Lily smiled faintly. “He said, and I quote, ‘If you want your son to live, come now.’”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That sounds... about right.”

“He wasn’t exactly warm,” Remus said with a dry chuckle. “But he looked worried. I think he didn’t know how to say it, but he was scared for you.”

Regulus hummed. “He nearly hexed an Auror when they tried to delay him.”

“That sounds about right, too,” Harry murmured, trying to imagine Tom pacing, desperate, brimming with fury and fear—for him.

Warmth curled in his chest, chasing away some of the lingering dread. That kiss, that look in Tom’s eyes—it hadn’t been for show. Tom wasn’t the kind of man who wasted his affection. And he’d chosen him.

Harry looked around at his family, who despite their shock and teasing, had dropped everything to come to his side. Even Regulus, who always pretended not to care.

For the first time since arriving in this world, Harry felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for.

He belonged.

To his family.

To Tom.

To this life.

The sound of soft footsteps on the grand staircase drew everyone’s attention.

Harry’s head whipped around just as Draco and Narcissa Malfoy descended into view, illuminated by the warm glow of the chandelier. Draco’s hair was a little tousled, and there was a shallow cut on his cheek that had already been healed, leaving only faint redness behind. Narcissa looked more tired than Harry had ever seen her—her usually immaculate robes were smudged with dust, her elegant composure tinged by something more fragile—but they were both alive. Whole.

Harry surged to his feet.

“Draco!” he blurted, eyes wide as he practically leapt across the room.

Draco raised both eyebrows, but before he could say anything, Harry had already reached him and was checking him over—hands fluttering like a nervous mother hen, eyes scanning for injuries.

“Are you hurt? Did they touch you? Did they cast anything on you? Are you sure you’re not cursed—”

“Potter,” Draco interrupted, voice dry, “I’m fine.”

Harry frowned at the reddish smear near Draco’s collar. “That’s blood.”

“It’s not mine.”

Harry scowled. “That’s not comforting!”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Narcissa’s quiet laugh softened the tension in the room. “We’re alright, Harry,” she said, reaching over to brush some dust from his shoulder. “Sirius and Regulus found us before anything could escalate. They got us out in time.”

“I still should’ve—” Harry bit his lip, looking guilt-ridden. “I should’ve come for you. I didn’t know—”

“You were a little busy being the centerpiece of a necromantic ritual,” Draco deadpanned, folding his arms. “Excuse us for not demanding more from your rescue schedule.”

Harry huffed. “Still.”

“You’re lucky I’m such a forgiving friend.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t punch you the moment I saw you,” Harry countered, finally relaxing a little.

Draco grinned. “Aww. So you were worried.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “I was. Of course I was.”

“Well,” Draco drawled dramatically, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings. Imagine if someone misinterpreted that. Thought you were harboring some grand affection for me.”

Regulus, who had just sipped his wine, choked slightly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Harry replied with a snort. “We both know I have excellent taste.”

“You say that, but you’re dating the Minister of Magic. Who, by the way, wears more black than a widow in mourning.”

“He pulls it off!” Harry said defensively, and everyone laughed.

Narcissa gave her son a gentle look before turning to Harry. “We’re just glad you’re safe. That all of you are.”

Sirius nodded solemnly. “But it’s far from over.”

Everyone’s expressions sobered at once.

James leaned forward. “Lucius?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “We don’t know. He vanished after Dumbledore’s spell failed. Probably ran off the moment the tide turned.”

“Coward,” Regulus muttered.

“I wouldn’t count him out yet,” Narcissa said quietly. “He always knows how to land on his feet.”

“Which makes him dangerous,” Remus added. “Especially now that we know Dumbledore wasn’t working alone.”

Harry’s brows knit together. “Even with Dumbledore gone… this isn’t over, is it?”

“No,” James said grimly. “It’s not.”

“Grindelwald may be dead,” Sirius added, “but his cause isn’t. And if Dumbledore was willing to tear the world open to bring him back…”

“There are others out there who still believe in that vision,” Narcissa finished. “And they won’t go quietly.”

A silence fell over the room. Heavy. Knowing. But not hopeless.

“We’ll fight them,” Lily said softly but fiercely. “We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again.”

“Together,” Remus added.

Draco nudged Harry’s side, disrupting the seriousness of the moment. “Besides, now that you’re practically royalty, I imagine you’ll have a whole army at your beck and call.”

“Royalty?”

“The Minister’s consort?” Draco teased with a mock flourish. “We’ll all have to curtsy.”

“Don’t you dare curtsy at me,” Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Regulus smirked. “Too late. I already planned your title: His Magical Majesty, Harry the Bashful.”

“I hate all of you.”

Sirius grinned. “You love us.”

Before Harry could respond with more mock outrage, a sharp crack split the air—apparition—followed by a rush of magic, crisp and commanding.

The room shifted with the energy, like it instinctively made space for power.

And there he was.

Tom.

Tall, commanding.

His black robes fluttered slightly around his boots as he stepped into the room, his eyes scanning everyone quickly before zeroing in on Harry.

Harry’s heart did that stupid fluttery thing again.

“Evening,” Tom said, voice low, smooth, but laced with exhaustion. He looked freshly cleaned up, but Harry could see the tightness in his jaw, the heaviness in his shoulders.

Everyone else instinctively took a step back, giving them space.

Tom didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just in front of Harry, lifting his hand like he might reach for him—but didn’t, not with everyone watching.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, and Harry smiled because that question had never meant more than when it came from Tom’s lips.

“I am now,” Harry said softly.

Their gazes locked, and for a heartbeat, nothing else existed.

Just them.

Together.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Sirius—thank Merlin for Sirius—cleared his throat dramatically and said, “Well, on that note… I think it’s time we gave the lovebirds some privacy.”

Harry immediately turned scarlet.

“Sirius!” he hissed, mortified.

But Sirius was already grabbing Remus’s hand and herding Regulus toward the hallway. “Come on, boys. Let’s let the Minister whisper sweet political nothings into our Harry’s ear.”

“I hate you,” Harry muttered, covering his face with both hands.

Regulus, ever the menace, smirked as he passed. “Call us if he proposes.”

Lily swatted James lightly on the arm as he hesitated by the stairs, clearly torn between staying to supervise and giving his son space. “Let them talk,” she said with a fond smile. “And don’t hover.”

James sighed dramatically. “But it’s my son.”

“It’s our son, and he’s capable of having one adult conversation without us looming like overprotective hippogriffs.”

“Speak for yourself,” James grumbled, but he followed her upstairs with one last suspicious glance at Tom. As if daring him to break Harry’s heart.

Narcissa and Draco lingered the longest, but even they relented when Harry gave them a pleading look.

Finally, the room was empty save for the two of them.

The sudden quiet felt loud after the chaos of the day. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The scents of ash, potion smoke, and old wood lingered in the air.

Tom turned to him fully now, his posture a little less formal, a little more human than the Minister of Magic usually allowed himself to be.

Harry was still pink in the face, though he tried to act like he wasn’t.

Tom watched him, something gentle flickering in his dark eyes. “They love you.”

Harry shrugged, scuffing the toe of his boot against the carpet. “They’re overbearing and nosy.”

“They’re protective,” Tom corrected. “And very good at reading between the lines.”

He paused. “That’s why they left us alone.”

Harry met his gaze finally, breath catching at the intensity he found there. Not demanding, not overwhelming—just... seeing him.

“You really scared me tonight,” Tom said softly, stepping closer. “When you didn’t come back… I thought I was too late. I—”

“I’m okay,” Harry said quickly. “I promise.”

Tom looked at him like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “You’re brave, you’re reckless, and you seem to have an infuriating habit of walking directly into magical death traps.”

Harry grinned despite himself. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

There was silence again, but it was the kind of silence that felt full. Heavy with unspoken things. With things they both wanted to say, but hadn’t yet found the time or the safety to.

Tom shifted a little, his voice lower now, almost tentative. “Harry… I think you should come to my manor.”

Harry blinked. “You—you want me to come over?”

Tom’s lips twitched at Harry’s surprise. “Yes. My home is protected, secure, and the wards will respond to you. I can explain everything there—about what’s next, about Dumbledore’s remaining allies, about…” He hesitated, just briefly. “About us.”

Something fluttered deep in Harry’s chest. A hesitant hope.

He tried to keep his tone light. “Is this your way of asking me out?”

Tom’s smile deepened, the sharpness of it softened into something far more dangerous—affection. “If I were asking you out, you’d know. There’d be wine. And dinner. And I’d have to pretend I didn’t almost disintegrate a man for touching you.”

“Romantic,” Harry murmured, fighting a grin.

“I like to think so.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “And what would I be coming to the manor as? A guest? A prisoner? The boy who keeps getting kidnapped?”

Tom took a deliberate step closer, closing the final distance between them. His hand rose slowly and cupped Harry’s jaw, fingers brushing lightly over his cheek.

“You’d be coming as mine,” he said softly. “If you want to.”

That stupid flutter again—no, soaring this time. Like every part of him had just lifted from the ground.

Harry nodded, his voice quiet. “I want to.”

Tom studied him for a moment longer, thumb stroking his cheek once, and then he straightened just a little. More himself again.

“Not tonight,” he said. “You need rest. So do I. But tomorrow—we’ll talk. About everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Harry could barely stand how much he wanted that. Not just the explanations, not just the safety of being near him again—but the possibility. The idea that maybe, just maybe, this thing between them wasn’t a fleeting spark born of danger and adrenaline.

That maybe it was something real. Something worth building.

He smiled. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

Tom inclined his head once, then stepped back, as if tearing himself away cost him something.

With one last look—one that Harry would absolutely be thinking about for the rest of the night—Tom turned and Disapparated, leaving the air humming faintly with his departure.

Harry stood in the silence for a long moment, heart still thudding somewhere near his throat.

Then, finally, he let himself smile.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’d see Tom again.

And maybe, just maybe, everything was about to change.

The house had finally quieted.

After dinner and gentle insistence from Sirius that Harry looked “two hexes away from passing out,” everyone had retired to their rooms. The flickering fire in the hearth had long since burned to embers, the hallways lit only by the faint golden glow of old sconces.

Harry should have been asleep by now.

He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled web of spells, blood, stone circles, kisses, and Tom. Especially Tom.

He turned onto his side with a groan, burying his face into the pillow. It smelled like home—lavender and safety and that soft citrus scent his mum always charmed into the sheets. Comforting. But not enough to calm his racing mind.

He knew someone would find him eventually. And sure enough, a soft knock came at his door.

He sat up. “Yeah?”

The door creaked open and Lily peeked in. Her eyes were gentle, full of concern, her red hair tucked into a long braid that had started to come loose. “Can I come in?”

Harry nodded, already scooting over to make space on the bed. “Yeah, of course.”

She stepped inside quietly, James right behind her, holding two mugs. “We thought you might be awake.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That obvious, huh?”

“Like you ever could sleep after a night like this,” James muttered, handing him a mug. It was hot cocoa. With cinnamon. Just the way he liked it. Harry’s heart twinged. “You alright, kiddo?”

Harry hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

James sat down beside him, and Lily curled up on his other side, sandwiching him in the kind of warmth only parents could give.

“I think I’m still wrapping my head around everything,” Harry said eventually. “Dumbledore… the ritual… Grindelwald—”

“And Tom,” Lily added gently.

Harry went bright red. “Mum!”

“I’m not teasing,” she said with a little laugh. “I just… I saw the way you looked at him.”

James made a strangled noise. “Don’t remind me.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, alright? I didn’t plan it. We didn’t even talk about… us. Not properly. It’s just—it’s been one thing after another and I—he kissed me.”

Lily’s expression turned tender. “And?”

Harry peeked up at her, cheeks glowing. “And it was amazing.”

James made a face like he’d been personally betrayed.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Harry protested, swatting at him. “It’s not like I set out to fall for the bloody Minister of Magic.”

“Could’ve fallen for literally anyone else,” James muttered. “But no, it had to be my boss. The Minister. The most intense, overpowered man in the entire country.”

Harry huffed a laugh, hiding his smile behind the rim of his cocoa. “It just… happened. And I didn’t mean to keep it from you guys. Everything’s been so… much.”

Lily brushed a curl back from his forehead, her eyes warm. “You don’t have to explain yourself, sweetheart. Not to us.”

Harry leaned into her touch, soaking it in.

“I think I love him,” he said quietly.

James froze mid-sip. “Bloody hell.”

Lily blinked, but she didn’t look surprised. “I wondered.”

“It’s not—it’s not just the kiss. It’s the way he looks at me. Like he sees everything. Like I’m… safe.” He swallowed thickly. “He came for me tonight. Risked everything. And when I told him about Dumbledore—about how I’m scared he might send me back—Tom just… held me.”

“You think he could really do that?” James asked, concern darkening his eyes. “Send you back?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “But I can’t shake the feeling. I want to stay. I need to stay. Here. With all of you. With him.”

James stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Look,” he said finally, “I may not be thrilled that my son is—apparently—involved with Gaunt, of all people. But I saw his face tonight. When he looked at you. He was terrified. Not of dying. Not of the fight. But of losing you.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the admission.

“And as much as I hate to say it,” James went on, “I trust a man who looks like that when you’re in danger.”

Lily smiled, leaning her head against Harry’s. “So do I.”

Harry’s chest felt tight and full at the same time. Like maybe—for the first time in ages—things were starting to feel real.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

James patted his shoulder. “Just remember, if he breaks your heart, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

Harry snorted. “He’s the most powerful wizard in the country.”

“I’m very sneaky,” James replied solemnly.

Lily just laughed.

And for the first time all night, Harry did too.

Nestled between his parents, with warm cocoa in his hands and the firelight flickering low, Harry finally let himself relax.

Tomorrow, he’d go to Tom’s manor.

Tomorrow, there’d be more answers. More questions. More of them.

But tonight—tonight he was home.

And he was safe.

══════════════════

The morning sun filtered softly through the enchanted windows of Potter Manor, golden light spilling across Harry’s bed like a gentle nudge. He’d barely slept.

Not because of nightmares, or fear, or even leftover adrenaline from the fight—though all of that lingered somewhere in the back of his mind—but because his thoughts had been full of him.

Tom.

Tom, with his sharp eyes and beautiful hands. Tom, who had kissed him like Harry was something precious. Who had held him like he was afraid to let go.

Harry sat up, rubbing at his hair. He felt… fluttery. Like his stomach had transformed into a kaleidoscope of Fwoopers. He was nervous.

It wasn’t just that he’d be seeing Tom again—it was where he’d be seeing him. At the Minister’s own manor. Tom’s personal space. Private, intimate. Which meant he’d be crossing a threshold of sorts. Invited in.

Harry stood and padded barefoot across his room, flicking his wand to pull clothes toward him. He debated for an embarrassing amount of time over what to wear before finally settling on a deep green shirt—subtle, soft. Tom had said once that green looked good on him. He’d remembered that.

Merlin, he was in trouble.

The wards around the manor shimmered as he approached, layers of ancient enchantments folding aside at his presence like silk parting for a favored guest.

The Gaunt estate was nothing short of stunning.

Set deep in the countryside, it rose from the mist like something out of a dream: all dark stone and towering windows, framed by winding ivy and blooming night roses. The manor didn’t shout wealth—it whispered it. With poise, with restraint. With that same quiet intensity that defined Tom himself.

The main doors creaked open before he even reached them, and a small figure popped into existence with a loud crack.

“Master Harry!” the elf squeaked, eyes enormous and bright as silver galleons. “Oh, oh, the Master said you would come! Please, come in, sir, right this way!”

Harry blinked. “Um. Hello?”

The elf beamed, so delighted he looked like he might start vibrating. “I is called Lint. Master Tom’s personal elf. He doesn’t let anyone else near the private wing, but Master told Lint you were special. Lint has been preparing tea and biscuits and putting fresh flowers in the drawing room!”

Harry flushed. “That’s… very nice of you. Thank you, Lint.”

Lint made a squeaky noise that might’ve been a sob of joy. “Master Harry is kind! Polite! Lint shall prepare the good china! Please come in!”

Harry followed the elf through the grand front hall, his boots muffled by an elegant runner of enchanted silk that shimmered faintly beneath his feet. The manor was cool and still, but not cold—it felt lived in. Personal. Not like a showplace, but a home.

Paintings lined the walls, most of them magical in subtle ways—landscapes that shifted gently with time of day, portraits of long-gone ancestors that only occasionally blinked or sighed in disapproval. A vase of white lilies sat by the entrance to a private study. The scent made Harry pause.

“He charmed those to stay fresh until you arrived,” Lint whispered, noticing his gaze. “Said you liked the scent of lilies.”

Harry’s chest clenched, fondness curling low in his stomach.

He remembered that too.

“Is he in?” Harry asked, his voice suddenly quiet.

Lint nodded furiously. “He is waiting in the sunroom, sir. Said he did not wish to start the day until he saw you. Would you like Lint to announce you?”

Harry shook his head, smiling. “No. Thank you, Lint. I’ll find him.”

He walked the rest of the way alone, his pulse kicking up as he neared a set of tall glass doors that opened into the east-facing sunroom.

Tom was standing at the far end, bathed in morning light.

He’d removed his robes, wearing only a dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves and neatly pressed trousers. A book hung forgotten in one hand. His other rested loosely in his pocket. He looked like some timeless sculpture—handsome, composed, devastating.

But when he turned and saw Harry, his whole face softened.

“You came,” he said simply.

Harry stepped in, closing the door behind him. “Of course I did.”

Tom crossed the room in three long strides, pausing only when they were close enough to breathe the same air. His gaze swept over Harry like he was searching for injuries all over again, then drifted to his eyes.

“Did you sleep?” Tom asked softly.

Harry nodded. “Not much.”

“Same.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m a little nervous.”

Tom tilted his head. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You live in a castle. You have terrifyingly efficient house-elves. I feel like I should’ve brought you a gift or… something.”

Tom smiled—really smiled—and reached up to brush a stray curl off Harry’s forehead.

“You’re already the only thing I want in this house,” he said quietly.

Harry’s face caught fire. “Merlin, you’re unfair.”

“Very,” Tom agreed, but his thumb brushed lightly against Harry’s cheek in a way that was careful. Gentle. “You don’t have to be nervous. This is just… time. For us.”

Harry’s chest felt warm and full again. He nodded, leaning a little into the touch.

“I want that.”

Tom stepped back, offering his hand. “Then come. We’ll have tea. And talk.”

Harry took his hand, letting Tom lead him toward the small table set by the window, already laid out with Lint’s “good china,” a teapot steaming gently in the center, flanked by warm scones and preserved fruits. A single lily floated in a crystal vase between them.

Harry sat, letting his fingers brush the rim of the cup before glancing up again.

Tom was watching him with a softness that made his heart ache.

There would be time for war councils. For dark legacies and lingering fears.

But right now?

There was only this morning. This quiet.

The tea had gone half-cold between them.

Not that either of them noticed.

They sat across from each other in the sunlit alcove, the soft murmur of birdsong drifting in from the open garden doors. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt like something settled. Like a blanket pulled over old bones, or the weightless calm before a storm that wasn’t coming after all.

Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, legs crossed lazily under the table, watching Tom with a gaze far too open for someone who claimed he was “not good at this.” He hadn’t said that aloud—but Tom had heard it anyway, in the way Harry fidgeted with the handle of his cup, the way his lashes fluttered whenever Tom got too close.

Tom wasn’t much better.

He wasn’t fidgeting. That would be too undignified. But his fingers had curled tighter around the arm of his chair the moment Harry had laughed at one of his dry remarks—really laughed, the kind that curled at the edges and lit up his face like stained glass catching the sun.

Tom was not used to being looked at like this. Like he was something warm.

He’d told himself, before Harry arrived, that they would discuss things rationally. Strategically. That emotions would come later—if at all.

But then Harry had stepped into the sunroom in that green shirt and looked at him like he wanted to be here, like he wasn’t afraid… and everything else had melted away.

“I’ve never had anyone brought to me by fate before,” Tom said, quiet but wry, swirling the last of his tea.

Harry blinked at him. “You think this was fate?”

“I don’t usually believe in it,” Tom replied smoothly. “But then, I don’t usually find myself nearly killing a man to protect someone I’ve known for… how long has it been?”

Harry snorted. “Long enough to make a mess of things, clearly.”

“Long enough,” Tom echoed, more softly. He set the cup down. “You’ve managed to disrupt my entire world, you realize.”

Harry tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

Tom gave him a very dry look. “If I told you the ways I like you, Harry, we’d need a full afternoon.”

Harry choked on his tea.

When he stopped coughing, he was blushing—furiously so—and trying to pretend he wasn’t smiling so hard it hurt.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” he murmured after a moment. “You. Us. I thought I was walking into a fever dream when I came to this world.”

“And now?”

Harry glanced up, meeting Tom’s eyes. “Now I’m scared I’ll wake up.”

Tom was still. So still. And then he rose from his seat—slow, deliberate—and came to stand in front of Harry.