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Chapter Text

There was something satisfying about the quiet after a kill.

Not a murder—not anymore. A kill. Clean. Tactical. Purposeful. There was nothing accidental in Harry Potter’s line of work, nothing accidental in the way he stepped over the limp body of a dark wizard on the outskirts of Marseille, wand still warm from the spell that had snapped the man’s vertebrae clean in two. The body twitched once, twice. Then was still.

Harry didn’t flinch.

Instead, he crouched, fingers brushing against the hilt of the man’s wand. He collected it like one might a dropped coin, eyes scanning it for carvings, marks, identifiers. Then he slipped it into his inner coat pocket and stood, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly with the motion.

“Third one this month,” he muttered to no one, tapping the side of his head where a Disillusionment Charm still shimmered faintly, repelling raindrops as they tried to land on his hair.

Five years after Voldemort’s death, Harry Potter was no longer the Chosen One. He was something else now—something harder to define. A ghost, some said. A vigilante. A sanctioned killer. A weapon shaped by war and turned loose by a world too bureaucratic to do what needed to be done.

He was fine with that.

At twenty-three, Harry looked more like James than he ever had as a boy. His jaw had sharpened, cheekbones higher, eyes sharper and colder than they had any right to be. The war had left marks—ones no glamour could hide. A silver scar slicing diagonally from brow to temple. Scattered runes tattooed down his left wrist—ones he had etched himself for a charm only he could perform. One that exploded on command.

They’d called him a prodigy once. Now, they just called him dangerous.

It had started differently, of course.

The war had ended. The dust had settled. Voldemort was dead, and Harry had stood in the Great Hall surrounded by bodies—Fred’s among them, except he had gasped back to life in the night, heart restarting on a Healer’s table three corridors down. It had been a miracle, one of the few left in a world that had drained itself of them. George had laughed and sobbed and refused to leave his brother’s side for days.

Harry had clung to them like a lifeline. Ron and Hermione had had each other; they were quickly tangled up in rebuilding the Ministry, joining the Auror program, and dating on-and-off in that slow, inevitable way.

Harry had been offered everything—Order of Merlin (which he refused), a place in the Auror Department (which he declined), and his old home at Number 12 Grimmauld Place (which he couldn’t even step into without choking on memory and dust). So he’d moved in with Fred and George above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, hidden away behind false walls and anti-Ministry wards. It was supposed to be temporary.

But time passed, and Harry remained.

He experimented. Not with potions or theory, but with spellwork, bending magic in ways no sane or licensed wizard should. He invented incantations for binding, for immobilizing. A Disarming Curse that turned into a razor-thin wire of light if the opponent refused to let go. A Stunner that rooted a man’s shadow to the floor, forcing him still while his body screamed to run.

They were beautiful spells, in their way. Efficient. Cruel.

The Ministry hadn’t noticed—until they did.

Harry had captured his first mark by accident: a fugitive Death Eater hiding in Birmingham, three months after the war. The man hadn’t stood a chance. The Aurors showed up late, saw the body bound in webbed hexlines, and asked questions. Harry had left before they could finish asking them.

Word spread. Quietly. Whispered names. Rumors. Jobs.

And then someone—Harry never learned who—offered gold for a target in Wales. Harry accepted. He left Fred a note and returned two days later with cracked knuckles and a broken wand, but the man was delivered.

That was how it began.

By the end of that first year, he had a network. He only accepted jobs that involved former Death Eaters or dark magic threats that the Ministry didn’t have the time, will, or permission to pursue. His contacts were all ghosts—Unspeakables, old Order members, even a former Slytherin or two who knew how to keep secrets.

And Ron and Hermione had not taken it well.

“You’re acting like a bloody mercenary!” Ron had snapped over dinner one night, the three of them seated around a crooked kitchen table in the twins’ flat.

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” Harry had replied, voice calm and tired.

Hermione’s mouth had been a thin line. “But at what cost? You’re isolating yourself. This isn’t healthy. And these spells—Harry, they’re dangerous.”

“So was war,” he said. “But we won that, didn’t we?”

The silence had stretched for a long time after that.

They left that night. Hermione cried. Ron slammed the door. Harry didn’t stop them.

He never saw them again.

Now, five years after the war, Harry was untethered. He operated under no name, no title. Only a few knew how to contact him, and fewer knew where to find him. He moved through Europe like smoke, drifting wherever darkness took root.

He liked it that way.

Until the job in Albania.

It was supposed to be simple: retrieve a rogue necromancer, disarmed and cornered in an abandoned fortress near the mountains. The man had been performing rituals with human bones and weather magic—rumors said he had reanimated a basilisk skull and controlled it with blood spells. Harry didn’t care. The job was clean: neutralize the target, bring him in alive.

But the necromancer had a wand carved from nightshade root, infused with something else—something older. It wasn’t supposed to function anymore. According to magical law, it shouldn’t even respond to human magic.

It responded.

Harry had been in the middle of casting a binding spell, his wand glowing with that pale gold light he’d invented years ago, when the necromancer countered—no word, no movement, just raw intention. The spells collided mid-air, twisted, and ruptured.

The magic snapped.

Harry’s wand exploded in his hand.

The blast flung him backward against a wall, bones cracking. He felt it—the way the backlash of unstable magic slammed into his core like a second heartbeat, flaring outward like wildfire.

And then, everything was black.

When Harry woke, he was not alone.

The necromancer was gone—dead or fled, he couldn’t say—but another presence loomed in the shadows of the ancient fortress chamber. Tall. Silent. Watching.

Harry’s hand twitched toward his backup wand, but it wasn’t there.

The figure stepped closer. Pale wandlight reflected against a sharp jaw, dark eyes glittering with restrained amusement.

“Potter,” the man said, voice like silk through broken glass. “Fancy meeting you here.”

And Harry, blinking through pain and dizziness, whispered the name like it was a curse, like it was an answer:

“Rodolphus Lestrange.”

Pain came before sound.

Sound came before light.

And light—unforgiving and sharp—stabbed into the back of Harry’s skull like an auger trying to burrow through his brain.

His first instinct was to cast. Anything. He didn’t know where he was, who was watching, or what was wrong. But his magic fizzled before it could rise—like lightning trying to spark underwater—and then the pain crested like a wave, crashing through him in full.

He groaned and sat up.

Big mistake.

The room tilted. Then rotated. Then simply ceased to exist.

The last thing Harry remembered was his name, spoken low and tight between teeth.

“Potter!”

Darkness closed in again.

The second time he woke, it was quieter.

The pain was still there, but it had dulled—less like glass and more like a throb behind the eyes, in his ribs, his wand hand. He lay still for a long while, cataloguing. No cuffs. No restraints. Sheets. Not dungeon stone but mattress under his back, firm but not cruel. A ceiling painted soft grey. Sunlight slipping in through thick curtains.

He was… not in Albania.

Harry frowned. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.

There were books on a shelf, meticulously arranged. A window cracked just enough to let in fresh air, the sound of birdsong, and something that smelled like tea and roasted potatoes. The walls were bare. The nightstand held nothing but a pitcher of water and an empty glass.

It was almost ordinary. Too ordinary.

Which made it wrong.

Harry sat up, slower this time, teeth clenched against the ache in his chest. His magic skittered like an animal beneath his skin—lethargic, heavy, but not gone. Wounded. Like him.

He flinched when the door opened.

Rodolphus Lestrange walked in with a tray of food.

The silence between them lasted three full seconds.

“You,” Harry said, his voice hoarse.

Rodolphus blinked. “Yes. Me. Glad to see you still know how to form complete sentences.”

Harry’s wandless hand twitched toward his boot. Nothing there.

“No point trying,” Rodolphus added, crossing the room and setting the tray down on the table by the bed. “You’re in no shape to duel, and your wand was destroyed. Remember?”

“You were supposed to be in Azkaban.”

“I was. Got out.”

“That’s not how that works.”

Rodolphus raised a single brow. “Clearly, it is.”

Harry reached for the tray without taking his eyes off him. Eggs. Toast. Stewed tomatoes. Tea. Nothing looked drugged, but then again, the man was a Death Eater. Or had been. “What the hell is going on?”

Rodolphus sighed and sat in the armchair by the window like he owned it—and maybe he did. “You’ll want the full story, I assume?”

“That would be helpful.”

“Then eat first. You’ve been out for eight days.”

Harry froze. “Eight days?”

“Yes.”

Panic crawled up his spine. “No—no, that’s not—no. That’s not possible. I was due back five days ago. Fred and George—they—”

His breath hitched. Something tight coiled in his chest, rising fast. His hands were shaking. He gripped the edge of the tray like it might anchor him.

“They think I’m dead.”

Rodolphus didn’t move. “They think you’re missing. At worst.”

“I always owl. Always.” Harry’s voice had gone thin, like air sucked through a straw. “Four-day rule. Always. If I can’t check in, I send something. Anything.”

“I’m aware,” Rodolphus said softly.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you were splinched across two countries, half your magical core shattered, and you accidentally bound your soul to me, Potter. Forgive me for prioritizing keeping you alive.”

That silenced him.

The room swam again, but this time Harry forced himself to breathe through it. Deep. Slow. In. Out. Panic wouldn’t help him. He needed information. Facts. Not fear.

He swallowed. “What did you say?”

“The necromancer was dead,” Rodolphus said, folding his arms. “Splinched to pieces during your… explosive side-apparition. When the magic snapped—whatever binding spell you were casting ricocheted. With no living anchor left in range, it latched to the next one.”

Harry blinked. “You.”

“I was pulled. Apparated here—instinctively, it felt like. There was a… call. Not words. But something deep in the gut. A tether.”

Harry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. “That’s not… that’s not how magic works.”

“It’s how your magic works.”

Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to deny it. But Rodolphus wasn’t wrong. His spellwork had always been volatile, unique. Built from scratch, unregulated, and barely tested. Sometimes he barely understood the consequences himself. That was the point—no one else could use them against him.

Until now.

“I need a healer,” he said. “I need a ward-breaker. A ritualist. I need to undo this.”

“No. What you need is to rest.”

Harry met his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

“Too bad.”

There was a pause. Neither flinched.

“You think I trust you?” Harry said coldly.

Rodolphus shrugged. “Not asking you to. But I’m not your enemy, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “You were one of his. That makes you mine.”

“Do I look like a Death Eater to you?” Rodolphus gestured at himself—his black jumper, worn jeans, scuffed boots. “I haven’t worn a mask in years. I left the war behind.”

“Right. Just out here in the woods, rescuing unconscious hit wizards like some kind of misunderstood anti-hero.”

Something in Rodolphus’s jaw ticked. “Do you want to know what I saw when I found you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“You were on your knees in the clearing. Magic leaking from every pore. You were bleeding light, Potter. I couldn’t even touch you at first. It was like lightning—untamed, raw. You would’ve burned a lesser man alive.”

“Then you should’ve left me.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

That shut Harry up.

“I didn’t because I felt it. The tether. The bond. Whatever this is. And you needed help.”

Harry rubbed his forehead with a groan. “Merlin’s balls. This is a nightmare.”

Rodolphus didn’t disagree.

The silence stretched between them again, taut and bristling. Eventually, Rodolphus stood. “Eat. Sleep. Don’t try anything foolish. I’ve warded the house, and I’m the only reason you’re not dead.”

Harry didn’t move.

Before he left, Rodolphus added, almost as an afterthought, “And your friends are fine. I sent an anonymous owl to the Weasley twins. Said you were recovering from a magical incident. They won’t come looking yet.”

The door shut softly behind him.

Harry sat in bed, staring at the untouched food, the tremble still in his limbs, the burning exhaustion in his core.

He had bound himself to Rodolphus Lestrange.

Brilliant.

Chapter Text

The days passed like smoke—slow, formless, and easily lost.

Harry drifted in and out of sleep more often than he liked. His limbs refused to cooperate beyond shuffling across the bed or lifting a spoon to his mouth. Magic stirred faintly beneath his skin, like a weak heartbeat, but it wasn’t strong enough to call upon—not without pain sharpening behind his eyes like glass.

He barely spoke.

Rodolphus didn’t seem to mind. The older man appeared at regular intervals—mid-morning, midday, evening—always with food, sometimes with tea or broth. Their conversations were brief, if they could even be called that.

“Eat.”

“Thanks.”

Or:

“You slept all day.”

“Mm.”

On the third day, Rodolphus lingered longer than usual. He glanced at Harry’s wrists—still faintly bruised—and offered, “You should try sitting up longer. Get your blood moving.”

Harry grunted something vaguely affirmative. He didn’t miss the tension in Rodolphus’s shoulders as he left.

On the fourth day, Harry managed to get out of bed.

The world didn’t spin. Much.

He dressed slowly, still aching, and padded barefoot through the thick carpets of the hallway beyond his room. The manor—because it was a manor, all dark wood, towering ceilings, and enough history in the wallpaper to make Hermione weep—was far bigger than it first appeared.

It wasn’t what he expected of a Lestrange residence.

No torture instruments. No skull decor. No overtly dark magic vibrating through the walls.

Instead, the space felt… quiet. Lived-in, somehow. There were books everywhere. Shelves and shelves of them. Some lined with magical theory, others full of poetry and Muggle classics, some old enough to crumble at the edges. Tapestries hung in corners. Paintings dotted the walls—landscapes, magical creatures, portraits. Nothing moved unless he looked long enough.

Then, turning a corner off a narrow side corridor, Harry found the library.

He also found the portrait.

An older man, seated in a high-backed chair, regarded him with curiosity. His beard was dark grey, his eyes a familiar slate blue. He looked strict, but not cruel.

Harry paused, one hand on the doorframe. “Er… sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You must be the Potter boy,” the portrait interrupted with a surprisingly warm smile. “Been wondering when you’d show your face outside that room.”

Harry blinked. “That obvious?”

The portrait chuckled. “My son doesn’t tend to fuss over just anyone.”

Harry stepped inside warily. “You’re… his father?”

“I was, in life. Callidus Lestrange.” He dipped his head politely. “And you’re Harry Potter. Living legend. What a pleasure.”

“Can’t say I expected pleasantries from a Lestrange.”

Callidus raised a brow. “Because of my younger son, no doubt. Rabastan was always brash. Took to the Dark Lord with the zeal of a convert. Rodolphus… less so.”

Harry frowned. “He joined him.”

“Yes,” the portrait said quietly. “But not of his own will.”

Harry leaned against a nearby armchair, arms crossed. “I find that hard to believe.”

Callidus looked off into the painted distance. “I imagine you do. But it’s true. Rodolphus was promised to Bellatrix in a contract sealed before he turned fourteen. The joining of two noble houses—typical pure-blood rot. He didn’t love her. I doubt he even liked her. But he was obedient. Dutiful.”

“Didn’t stop him from torturing people.”

“No. It didn’t.” Callidus’s voice turned bitter. “But I ask you this—what choice does a boy have when every path he takes leads through fire?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Bellatrix brought him into the fold. Rabastan was already enthralled. I wasn’t there to stop it—dead before the worst came. And when the war turned… well. You know the rest.”

They sat in silence. For a while, Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The painting had an odd effect—like falling into conversation with someone who lived outside the rhythm of the world. He asked questions. Callidus answered them with sharp insight and unexpected honesty.

He learned that Rodolphus once played cello. That he had tried to run away at seventeen. That he’d failed. That Bellatrix had broken his wand once during a duel because he’d hesitated.

“He wasn’t weak,” Callidus said, eyes narrowing. “He was just tired.”

And that… that hit a little too close to home.

By the time Harry glanced at the tall clock in the corner, he realized the shadows had shifted across the library floor.

He frowned.

Something pressed against his chest—tight and sudden.

A sharp panic, cold and raw, burst behind his ribs.

But it wasn’t his.

Harry froze. His eyes darted to the door. It wasn’t like before, when emotions sat loosely around him, unable to break through the fatigue. This was close. Fast. Uncontrolled.

A spike of fear that wasn’t his own.

The bond.

He inhaled sharply, focusing. Let it in. Let it pull.

And like tugging on a string he hadn’t realized was knotted into his soul, Harry followed it.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway.

Moments later, Rodolphus rounded the corner and burst into the room, hair loose, expression drawn and utterly—human.

His eyes locked onto Harry. “There you are.”

Harry blinked. “I didn’t—”

“I looked everywhere—”

“I just—”

“You vanished—!”

Harry held up his hands, flustered. “I’m fine. I was just talking.”

“To me,” came the smug voice of Callidus from the wall. “Good lad, that one. We’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

Harry turned red.

Rodolphus shot the portrait a murderous glare. “You couldn’t have told me?”

Callidus only smirked. “And ruin the surprise? I’ve never seen you this flustered. Merlin, if your mother were here—”

“Enough,” Rodolphus snapped, but his ears were burning crimson.

Harry coughed into his fist. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Rodolphus muttered.

“You did,” Callidus said gleefully. “Positively stormed the west wing like a knight chasing a damsel. Except the damsel’s got messy hair and a wand up his sleeve.”

Harry groaned.

“I’m going to burn this painting,” Rodolphus growled.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Callidus sniffed.

“Watch me.”

But Harry was already laughing—weakly, yes, and slightly embarrassed—but the first real laugh since before the necromancer, before the binding, before waking in a stranger’s home with a stranger’s soul pressed to his own.

And when Rodolphus met his eyes again, it was with something tired… and warm.

A fragile truce, maybe.

Or the start of something else entirely.

Time, Harry had come to learn, moved differently inside Lestrange Manor.

Five weeks passed, soft and slow, and yet each day felt like a stone dropped in a still pond—creating ripples, small and impossible to ignore.

He sent letters to Fred and George every four days like clockwork. A habit built from years of survival—checking in, proving he was still breathing. He didn’t say much. Just enough to keep them from worrying. He didn’t say where he was, or with whom.

He doubted they’d believe him even if he did.

Rodolphus remained… present. Not constantly, not in a way that smothered, but enough. They shared quiet dinners. Talked sometimes, usually in the garden or the long corridors of the manor where their voices got swallowed by ancient stone. The bond between them had steadied, no longer crashing through their nerves with the chaos of its creation.

At first.

The third week changed everything.

It started slowly—slipping wands through their fingers mid-casting, charms failing unexpectedly, transfigurations unraveling. Spells that should’ve been second nature took twice as much effort and left their limbs aching.

They didn’t speak about it at first. Just exchanged glances across the dining table, wary, both too proud to admit it.

But by the end of the week, even lighting the fireplace became a two-person job.

“Ask my father,” Rodolphus finally said one evening, when Harry tried and failed to conjure a basic Protego and had to lean on the wall to catch his breath.

So they did.

Callidus Lestrange, who had once studied magical theory in Paris and had a fondness for obscure binding rituals, listened with the amusement of someone both very old and deeply entertained.

“You’re soul-bound,” he said, as if explaining tea.

“We know,” Harry groaned, rubbing his temples.

“Do you?” Callidus said dryly. “Because you seem surprised it’s behaving like one.”

The portrait waved a hand, as if this were obvious. “Your bond is incomplete. Your magic is compensating, which is why you’re burning through it like candle wax. Either you stabilize it, or it continues bleeding both of you dry.”

Harry flinched. “Stabilize?”

Callidus tilted his head. “Accept the bond. Nurture it. Anchor it with intention. Emotion. Trust. The soul responds to what the heart denies.”

Harry stared at the frame. “Is that a riddle?”

“No, Potter. That’s magic.”

Rodolphus hadn’t said anything for most of the conversation. His eyes were unreadable, mouth set in a line of restraint.

When they left the room, Harry didn’t speak either. He didn’t trust himself to.

Because the problem wasn’t understanding the bond. Not anymore.

The problem was feeling it.

He felt everything.

The echo of Rodolphus’s magic brushing against his skin like wind in a hallway. The way his heartbeat faltered when they accidentally touched hands. The quiet sadness tucked in the corners of his eyes when he thought Harry wasn’t looking.

And worse—Harry’s own responses. The way his body relaxed in Rodolphus’s presence before his mind could catch up. The warmth he felt at his voice, his laugh. The way it hurt to be apart for too long, even when it didn’t make sense.

So he didn’t speak of it.

He couldn’t.

Not when everything still felt so… fragile.

Five weeks came and went.

One evening, as they stood side by side in the kitchen with a storm raging outside the windows, Harry finally said, “I’ll be leaving in a few days.”

The silence that followed stretched like a curse.

Rodolphus didn’t answer. He nodded once, stiffly. Turned. Left the room without a word.

Harry blinked at the door for a long time.

He hadn’t meant it like that. He just—

He needed time. Space. Clarity.

Didn’t he?

The next two days were… hollow.

Rodolphus vanished into the far side of the manor. Harry didn’t see him at meals, didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway. Even the bond—distant and frayed—shrank in on itself, barely a thread.

But the ache didn’t.

It started as a dull tightness in Harry’s chest. Then it worsened. A constant pressure, like a weight on his ribs. Every spell stung. Every breath was a little harder. He felt pulled, as if his magic were trying to leave his body entirely and follow someone else’s footsteps.

He didn’t understand—until he remembered something Callidus had said, days ago.

“Your magic is compensating.”

“The soul responds to what the heart denies.”

The bond wasn’t fading. It was breaking.

Or maybe he was.

On the second night, the pain was sharp enough to steal his breath.

He doubled over in the hallway, hand on the wall, gasping as a spike of grief and loneliness—deep, raw, not his own—punched through the connection like a dagger.

“Rodolphus,” Harry choked, eyes wide.

He didn’t think.

He just moved.

With a crack of Apparition, he followed the pull.

The air snapped around him, and the manor’s wardstone dropped him inside a bedroom darker than the rest—warm, cloaked in velvet shadows. The bond pulled tight and screamed inside his chest as he turned and saw—

Rodolphus.

Curled on the bed, shoulders shaking, hair tangled and half-obscuring his face, eyes swollen and red. He didn’t even flinch when Harry appeared. Didn’t seem to see him at all.

Harry’s breath caught.

He moved before he could doubt himself. Crossed the room in three long strides, kicked off his boots, and climbed into the bed behind Rodolphus like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He reached out, gently, slowly, sliding an arm around the man’s waist. Pressed his face to his back, letting the warmth of their bond seep back through the crack in the walls they’d both built.

Only then did Rodolphus stir.

A choked noise escaped his throat. His hand came up, grabbed blindly at Harry’s wrist, as if to confirm he was real.

“You’re here,” he whispered, broken.

Harry’s voice trembled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “But you did.”

“I know.”

Rodolphus turned, slowly, carefully, until their foreheads touched. Harry could feel the tears, not just on Rodolphus’s face, but in the raw, aching magic pulsing between them.

“I wasn’t ready,” Harry admitted. “I still don’t think I am. But—”

“But?”

“I feel you,” he whispered. “Even when I try not to.”

Rodolphus didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

They stayed there like that for a long time. Breathing. Trembling. Letting the magic settle into something quieter. Less sharp. More real.

The bond pulsed once, warm and steady.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry let himself feel it.

Not as a threat.

But as a promise.

Chapter Text

There was something different in the air.

Harry could feel it every morning now—soft hums of magic at his fingertips, the lingering warmth in the manor’s corridors, the subtle absence of pain. The bond that had once throbbed like an open wound had turned into a steady thread, pulling gently, reassuring. He no longer woke up feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

He and Rodolphus had settled into something close to peace.

Not perfect.

Not defined.

But comfortable.

They moved around each other with quiet ease—sharing books, spells, meals. Sometimes words, sometimes just space. The bond stretched between them like a silver line of thread, and every day Harry felt himself inching closer to acceptance.

Acceptance that this bond wasn’t a trap. That Rodolphus wasn’t an enemy. That maybe, just maybe, this connection was a kind of safety he hadn’t known he needed.

But the next step wasn’t magical.

It was mundane.

Which, for Harry, made it much scarier.

The twins had invited him over for dinner—again. They’d stopped asking where he was weeks ago, too loyal to push past the vague “I’m safe” replies. But he knew they were wondering. He could feel their concern between the lines of every owl.

This time, Harry said yes.

And for the first time, he added, “I’m bringing someone. The person who saved my life.”

He didn’t say the name.

Just him.

Dinner at Fred and George’s flat was chaos. Of the best kind.

It was bright, warm, and smelled like cinnamon and mischief. They’d turned their flat into a place of color—walls painted in enchanted shades that shifted with mood, a kitchen that sang while it cooked, a living room full of magical plants that whispered insults when overwatered.

There was a table set for four.

Rodolphus stood beside Harry at the door, in dark robes and deep discomfort, eyes darting like a soldier walking into enemy territory.

“They’re going to hate me,” he muttered under his breath.

“They won’t,” Harry lied, then winced. “Okay—they probably will. At first. But they’ll come around. Just… don’t hex anything. Or anyone.”

“Noted,” Rodolphus said dryly, but Harry caught the way he smoothed down his sleeves nervously.

The door opened.

“Harry!” Fred grinned wide, then stopped dead. “Oh. You brought… him.”

George was right behind. His wand wasn’t drawn, but it was visible.

Harry sighed. “Twins, this is Rodolphus. Rodolphus, Fred and George.”

Rodolphus gave a sharp, almost regal nod. “It’s an honor.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Well. Let’s see if we survive dinner before we go tossing words like that around.”

Harry elbowed him. “Play nice.”

George’s eyes didn’t leave Rodolphus as he gestured them in. “We’re always nice, Harry. Especially when dangerous, magically bonded ex-Death Eaters show up for lasagna.”

Rodolphus whispered, “Lasagna?”

Harry leaned closer. “It’s a Muggle dish. You’ll love it.”

To everyone’s shock—including Harry’s—the dinner didn’t end in a duel.

It started stiffly. Rodolphus sat with military posture, eating carefully, answering the twins’ suspicious questions with clipped, respectful replies. He looked like he’d rather face a dementor than the Weasley twins’ scrutiny.

But something shifted when Fred cracked a joke about Percy’s disastrous romantic life, and Rodolphus, unexpectedly, laughed.

A real laugh.

Deep and startled and undeniably human.

George blinked. “Wait. He has a sense of humor?”

“I try to keep it buried,” Rodolphus said wryly, eyes meeting Harry’s for a heartbeat too long.

Fred leaned forward. “So. Saved his life, huh?”

“Yes,” Rodolphus said simply.

Harry added, “More than once.”

The twins exchanged a look. One of their silent twin-talks, Harry could tell.

George nodded slowly. “Well, we still think you’re a threat.”

Fred grinned. “But we’re fair about it.”

“So we made dessert.”

Harry stared. “What does that have to do with fairness?”

Fred stood and returned with a pie that was glowing ominously.

“Your trial by fire,” George said solemnly. “We call it: Pie of Judgment.”

Rodolphus blinked. “What’s in it?”

Fred and George grinned in stereo. “Magic.”

Harry covered his face. “I hate you both.”

But Rodolphus surprised them all again—he took a bite. And smiled.

“… Lemon. With a hint of ginger?”

Fred blinked.

George blinked harder.

“You were not supposed to like that,” Fred muttered.

Rodolphus smirked, then turned to Harry. “I think I passed.”

Harry, stunned and warm and trying very hard not to smile like an idiot, just nodded.

Later, as they left, the bond quiet and full between them, Fred caught Harry by the sleeve.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked into his eyes.

“Are you happy?” he asked, soft and serious.

Harry hesitated. Then nodded. “I think I could be.”

George appeared behind Fred, arms crossed. “If he hurts you—”

“I’ll set you on fire,” Fred finished cheerfully.

Rodolphus, waiting at the end of the hallway, raised an eyebrow. “Duly noted.”

As they walked away, Harry felt something loosen in his chest.

They hadn’t approved exactly.

But they’d seen. And that was more than enough.

Rodolphus offered him his arm, quietly, as they prepared to Apparate back.

Harry took it.

No hesitation.

And the bond pulsed—steady, sure, and almost whole.

The moment the bond completed was… quiet.

No thunder, no sparks, no earth-shaking magic. Just a slow, spreading warmth that settled in Harry’s bones like a long-lost melody finally finding its end. It hummed beneath his skin, soft and sure, a connection no spell could break, no time could wear down.

Rodolphus had taken his hand, thumb brushing over the scarred knuckles, and said simply, “There. It’s done.”

Harry had nodded, unable to speak for a moment. And then they’d both just… breathed.

That night, they fell asleep tangled in each other, in body and soul, and the house itself seemed to exhale with them. The manor’s old magic embraced them like it had simply been waiting for them to stop fighting what was always meant to be.

And then, just like that, life continued.

Well. Almost like that.

Harry returned to work not long after, but with new rules—self-imposed. No international missions, no months away, no near-death scenarios without at least a full supply of Blood-Replenishing potions and someone to owl Rodolphus if things went south.

The Ministry grumbled at first, but when the man who had personally tracked down thirty-seven Dark wizards says he’s changing his contract, you let him.

He didn’t say it was for Rodolphus.

But everyone knew.

As for Rodolphus, he returned to his quiet job in the magical village of Fawley Hollow, where the only things more ancient than the books were the gossips.

The Magical Histories & Lore Library was tucked between a potion ingredients shop and a teahouse with gnomes in its garden, and Rodolphus—stern posture, ink-stained fingers, elegant robes—became an odd sort of fixture.

At first, the stares were frequent. The whispers, too. But then Harry showed up.

Once.

Then again.

Then regularly, often dragging Rodolphus out for lunch, or arriving with a paper bag full of sweets and a scarred smile that made the teenagers giggle and the older witches sigh.

And, after that, no one questioned anything.

If Harry Potter was hanging off Rodolphus Lestrange’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world, then, well… the village had other things to worry about. Like whether the pixies in the teahouse were stealing socks again.

Dinner at the twins’ flat became an ironclad tradition.

Twice a week. No exceptions.

Sometimes Rodolphus would arrive early and be handed a spatula with little warning. Sometimes Harry would Apparate in with takeout and a bottle of elf wine. Occasionally, they all just ended up on the couch, tipsy and full, arguing about Quidditch.

Three months in, it was Christmas dinner.

The flat was strung with enchanted lights, carols played from a wireless in the corner, and the air smelled of cinnamon, pine, and slightly burnt pudding.

That’s when they met Olivia.

George’s girlfriend was tall, fierce, and cursed in four languages. She had a sword tattoo on her bicep and worked in magical forensics, which meant she knew exactly who Rodolphus was.

And she wanted to fight him.

No, really. She said it out loud.

“I just feel like I need to get at least one hit in,” Olivia said, sipping her wine and eyeing Rodolphus. “For my cousin. He was at the Battle of Hogwarts. Slytherin, too. Poor sod still flinches when someone says ‘crucio.’”

“Olivia,” George said, horrified. “You promised!”

“I said I’d be civil. Didn’t say I wouldn’t challenge him to a duel.”

Harry blinked. Rodolphus just leaned back, sipping his tea with an impressively neutral expression.

“I accept,” he said, deadpan.

Harry choked.

Olivia blinked.

Then she grinned. “I like you.”

Somehow, it worked out. Fred’s boyfriend, Lee Jordan, helped break the tension by dragging everyone into a magical game of charades that ended with George falling over the couch, Rodolphus smirking into his wine, and Harry being declared the undefeated champion of impersonating Rita Skeeter.

That night, they left with full bellies, aching cheeks, and something that felt suspiciously like family.

Two years later, George had a son.

They named him Aurelian—after a golden sunrise and an old Roman wizard who once tamed lightning with his bare hands.

He had red hair, a stubborn jaw, and a laugh that could shake windows.

Fred, never one to be left behind, adopted a little girl with Lee. They named her Evadne, after a water witch who once healed entire armies.

She was mischievous, clever, and had a habit of biting ankles. Rodolphus was slightly terrified of her. She adored him.

Harry loved them both.

Uncle Harry. Uncle Dolf. It became the norm.

The bond didn’t fade. It didn’t demand anymore, either. It simply… existed. A quiet hum between them, strengthening and softening in equal measure.

They were settled.

Together.

Happy.

And then, four years after it all began, Harry came home with a baby.

Rodolphus was reading in the sunroom, a half-empty teacup beside him, when he felt it—that sharp, aching pull in his chest. Not pain. Something else. Something bigger.

He rose, moving quickly, and stepped into the front room just as Harry stepped through the door, cradling a bundle of soft blue fabric in his arms.

Their eyes met.

Rodolphus didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

“This is Altair,” Harry said softly. “He’s mine. Ours. I—found him. It’s a long story. But… I didn’t want to do this without you.”

Rodolphus’s knees almost gave out.

He stepped forward, hands shaking, and touched the edge of the blanket.

Inside, a tiny boy blinked up at him with wide green eyes and a shock of dark hair that refused to lie flat.

Rodolphus smiled.

The kind of smile Harry had never seen before.

Soft. Disbelieving. Radiant.

Altair cooed, waving a tiny fist. Rodolphus made a choked sound and picked him up with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts.

And in that moment, Harry knew:

This was home.

A house filled with books and soft light.

A family cobbled together through battle, accident, choice, and love.

A bond, old magic, unbreakable.

A second chance neither of them ever expected—

—and everything they needed.