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Chapter Text

 The air cracked with spells as Harry tore through the forest, branches whipping against his face, feet pounding the damp earth. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The shouts behind him were familiar—Aurors. Wizards he’d once fought beside. Friends, some of them.

“Harry Potter! Surrender now!”

A jet of red light narrowly missed his shoulder and splintered a tree beside him. He ducked, rolled, and kept running, wand clutched tightly in his hand. He was bleeding—he couldn’t remember when it started—but the pain barely registered beneath the roar of betrayal.

Surrender? He’d already surrendered everything. His childhood. His peace. His future. All of it had burned in the war—and he had won.

He had killed Voldemort.

So why was he running from the very people he’d saved?

“Stupefy!”

A flash of white.

Then nothing.

When Harry woke, the world was cold iron and magic-reinforced stone.

His wrists were chained. His wand was gone. His name had become a curse.

The trial was a mockery, a carefully choreographed performance. The Wizengamot chambers had once felt noble. Now they were a stage for hypocrisy.

“You used dark magic,” Hermione said from the witness stand, her voice trembling.

“To end the war!” Harry shouted, rising to his feet before two Aurors forced him down.

“You used an Unforgivable,” Percy Weasley added sharply. “That cannot be excused.”

“I had to!” he said, eyes darting to Dumbledore. The old man was there, seated in white robes, grave and composed, as though he hadn’t orchestrated everything from behind the scenes.

“Do you deny that you used the Dark Arts?” Dumbledore asked, and Harry’s heart cracked. Not even Harry , please . Just a cold inquiry.

“I don’t deny it,” Harry spat. “I deny that I’m a threat to anyone but your lies.”

The courtroom gasped.

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. “Then we agree.”

The verdict was swift: life imprisonment. No chance of parole. Treason against the Ministry.

And just like that, Harry Potter—the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived—was shackled and led from the chamber like a common criminal.

The cold stone walls of Azkaban never grew any warmer. Not even for the savior of the wizarding world.

Harry Potter sat in silence, his back hunched and shoulders slumped in the corner of his cell. His once-messy black hair was matted and overgrown, and his green eyes—once so vibrant—had dulled with years of isolation and betrayal. The silence in Azkaban was only ever broken by the howling wind and the screams of the forgotten. But Harry no longer screamed. He hadn't for years.

They had called him a hero. A symbol. The Chosen One.

Until he won.

Until Voldemort lay dead at his feet, his soul ripped apart by the very magic Harry had been forced to learn in the dark: curses not taught at Hogwarts, knowledge Dumbledore had always warned him against. And for what? So they could live.

And once the Dark Lord was gone, so was their gratitude.

He still remembered the shock in Hermione's eyes when she testified against him. The way Ron couldn’t even meet his gaze. Molly's voice, shrill with grief and righteousness, demanding justice for the use of "unforgivable" magic—even though it was that very magic that had kept her children alive.

But the worst betrayal had been Dumbledore.

The man Harry had mourned, the mentor he had trusted above all others, had never died atop the Astronomy Tower. It had all been a ruse—a manipulation designed to deceive both allies and enemies. Dumbledore had returned after the war like a phoenix from ashes, taking up his place as the guiding light of the new Ministry.

And he had let Harry fall.

“He has strayed too far,” Dumbledore had said at the Wizengamot trial, voice grave and filled with false sorrow. “Even the Chosen must answer for their choices.”

Choices. As if he had ever had any.

Years passed. The world forgot him. No one came. No letters, no visits, no whispered prayers through the bars.

And then—nothing.

Harry collapsed one night, the weight of pain and loneliness finally winning. His body, once lean and strong, now frail and wasted, gave out on the damp stone floor. He didn’t feel afraid. Only tired.

For the first time in years, he welcomed the dark.

But he didn’t wake to silence.

Instead, he found himself standing barefoot on a still, endless plain of grey mist. The air was cool and dry, and his prison rags were gone, replaced by simple black robes. He looked around, heart pounding—not with fear, but curiosity. He felt… whole. Strong again.

“Harry Potter.”

The voice echoed around him, soft but absolute.

He turned.

A tall figure stood before him, cloaked in shadow. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but its presence was undeniable. Ancient. Inevitable.

“Who—?” Harry began.

“I am Death.”

Of course.

“I’ve come to offer you a choice,” Death said, its tone unreadable. “You were wronged. You were betrayed. You were cast aside by the very people you saved. Do you wish to pass on? Or…”

Harry’s breath caught. “Or?”

“…Would you like to go back?”

He blinked. “Back?”

“To before your destiny was stolen. To a moment of power. A moment of change. What you do with it is yours to decide.”

A slow, cold fire lit in Harry’s chest. Bitterness. Hurt. Fury. And something sharper than all of them—clarity.

He would never trust them again.

“Yes,” he said. “Send me back.”

Death inclined its head. “So be it.”

The world shattered like glass.

Chapter Text

The world spun.

Harry hit the ground hard, his lungs gasping for air, the cold grass beneath him sharp and wet with dew. A coppery tang filled his mouth as he coughed, blinking up at a sky full of stars. For a second, he lay there, disoriented and numb.

And then—

Pain.

No. Not pain—awareness.

His body felt… wrong. Not broken and aching like it had in Azkaban. No cold seeping into his bones, no trembling in his limbs. He was whole. Strong. His heart beat fast with adrenaline, but it was the heart of a fourteen-year-old boy.

His hands were smooth. His wrists bore no scars from shackles.

He pushed himself up, breaths coming faster as the memory slammed into him: Death. The grey mist. The offer.

This was it.

This was the moment.

The Triwizard Cup gleamed a few feet away, lying on its side in the grass. Cedric stood nearby, confused, wand half-raised. "Where are we? What is this place?"

Before Harry could answer, before he could shout, move , the words that might have saved him—

"Kill the spare."

A flash of green.

Cedric crumpled.

Harry screamed, but the sound felt distant, muffled by the roaring in his ears. He stumbled to Cedric's side, too late. The boy’s eyes stared blankly at the sky. Another death. Another innocent.

But this time, Harry didn’t feel helpless.

Footsteps approached. Peter Pettigrew emerged from the darkness, cradling a bundle— Voldemort , twisted and shrunken, barely more than a thing. The cauldron bubbled beside them, steam curling into the night air.

Wormtail began the ritual.

"Bone of the father…"

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest. This was it. The turning point. The crossroads between destiny and freedom.

“Flesh of the servant…”

Pettigrew’s scream echoed, but Harry didn’t flinch.

Then the rat-faced man turned to him, dagger gleaming in the firelight. “Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken…”

“No.” Harry stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Wormtail blinked. “W-what?”

Harry raised his arm, palm open, daring the blade. “He needs my blood, right? Let me give it.”

Pettigrew hesitated, eyes darting to the bundle in his arms, then nodded slowly. With a sharp breath, Harry took the blade and cut his own palm, letting his blood drip into the cauldron he uttered “Blood of an enemy turned ally, willingly given, you will restore your equal.”

The potion hissed. The steam thickened, turned silver.

The ground shook.

Harry stepped back as magic surged through the clearing like a living thing. The cauldron glowed bright, pulsing. A crack of light burst into the sky—and then silence.

From the smoke, a figure emerged.

He was tall. Elegant. Young.

Dark hair slicked back. Pale, flawless skin. Crimson eyes that glowed like embers. The face was achingly familiar.

Tom Riddle.

Not the monstrous form of Voldemort Harry remembered, but the version from the diary, matured—twenty-five, perhaps. Cold, regal, beautiful.

He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “My wand, Wormtail.” The rat lowered himself to the ground holding his master’s wand up, blood still running from his arm. 

“A thank you wouldn’t kill you…” Instantly crimson eyes met green, a fierce anger clear as his eyes raked up and down Harry’s body. 

“And what would I be thanking you for exactly, you impudent child?” The Dark Lord slowly made his way over to where Harry was leaning against the statue. 

“Giving you a real body. Without me you’d be looking like your mother got knocked up by a snake… not very pretty.” 

A low chuckle escaped him, his hand reaching up to Harry’s mouth, lightly pressing his thumb to his lips. “Quite the mouth on you.”

Feeling Voldemort pushing the barriers in his mind, Harry allowed him to enter his mind.

“You gave your blood freely,” Riddle said softly. “Why?”

Harry’s throat became dry, but he met the red gaze without fear. “Because I’ve seen how this ends. I’ve seen what the world does to people who fight for it. I killed you once. Saved them all. And they thanked me by locking me in Azkaban to rot.”

Riddle tilted his head. “You’re from the future?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. I was 23 when I died.” Harry’s eyes darkened, “I was called the next Dark Lord, hunted down and thrown into a cage. Dumbledore faked his death, ‘died’ in my 6th year, Snape sent the killing curse at him and he fell from the Astronomy tower. They planned it just so I would do his dirty work, like the pawn I was, and the second it was done, I was nothing more than dead weight. ” 

“And now you stand here, helping me return.”

“Yes.”

The Dark Lord studied him for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Fascinating. What of the prophecy?”

“Fake. All fake. Dumbledore made it up to get rid of you.” Harry leaned forward, closer to the Dark Lord. “ You know, you look real good like this,” Harry’s hands made their way up his stomach to his shoulders. “I definitely deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

He turned to Pettirgrew. “You’re arm, Wormtail”.

“Thank you…Oh thank you Master”, Peter raised his injured hand to Voldemort.

“No you imbecile, you’re mark.” Voldemort snarled and the smile on Wormtail’s face vanished instantly. “Now!” The rat quickly replaced his injured arm with his left arm, a cowardly squeak escaping him. The Dark Lord held his wand to the mark, the feeling of magic spun around wrapping itself around Harry. 

A moment later, cracks of Apparition filled the graveyard.

Death Eaters began to appear in their black robes and silver masks. Dozens of them, bowing low when they saw their master reborn.

The Dark Lord stood tall before them. “You see before you a miracle of magic. I have returned—not as a beast, but reborn in strength and purpose. And it is thanks to Harry Potter .”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. 

Riddle’s voice sharpened. “You will not harm him. He is mine now.”

He reached out and took Harry’s left arm. Harry didn’t flinch as the burning pain of the Dark Mark seared into his skin. This was not control. It was a choice.

The serpent coiled around the skull on his arm, and Harry breathed deep. It didn’t feel like corruption.

It felt like freedom .

Riddle stepped close. “Return to Hogwarts. Bring Cedric’s body. Play your part—for now. I will find you when the school year ends.”

Harry nodded. “I'll be waiting.”

Voldemort handed him the Triwizard Cup. The Portkey activated, and the graveyard vanished.

Chapter Text

The moment Harry and Cedric reappeared in the arena, the crowd erupted.

Cheers and applause filled the air, students and spectators rising to their feet in wild celebration—until they saw Cedric's lifeless body crumpled beside Harry.

“Cedric! Wake up—please—Cedric!” Harry was on his knees, shaking him, voice hoarse with desperation.

Then, like a light being snuffed out, the sound vanished.

Gasps replaced cheers. A silence so sharp it hurt. And then—

A scream tore through the quiet.

“My son!”
Amos Diggory surged from the stands, shoving past stunned onlookers. “My boy—my boy!” He collapsed beside Cedric, sobs wracking his body as he clutched his son’s hand.

Harry clung to Cedric’s body, his face twisted in grief—one that almost felt real.

“Cedric! I’m sorry… I—I tried—”

Dumbledore appeared beside him, his expression grim. “Harry, what happened? Tell me!”

Harry flinched at the touch and shoved the old man away.

“I—I can’t remember,” Harry gasped between ragged breaths, burying his face in Cedric’s robes. “We were somewhere dark… he—he just—he was gone!”

Tears streamed down his face, but in the pit of his stomach, a cold satisfaction coiled. His words were lies—but perfect ones.

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked downward—at the faint red line across Harry’s wrist.

A cover spell. The Dark Mark disguised as a simple wound. Clever.

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened. He has returned, the headmaster thought grimly. I must act quickly. Harry must be prepared—sooner than planned.

From the stands, Minister Fudge approached, his face pale. “We—we have to move them, Albus. The crowd—this is a tragedy, yes, but we can’t keep them waiting. There are too many eyes.”

Dumbledore nodded tightly.

Just then, Moody emerged from the shadows, his magical eye whirring.

“Come on, Potter,” he growled, gripping Harry’s sleeve with a rough hand. “You’ve seen enough.”

Harry let himself be dragged away, not resisting.

His eyes lingered on Cedric’s body one last time—then turned cold.

It begins now.

Harry stepped into Moody’s dimly lit office, his shoulders hunched and sobs still shaking his frame. But the moment the door shut behind him, the tremble in his lips gave way to a barely concealed grin.

The man who wasn’t Moody gave him a sidelong glance, one booted foot tapping restlessly beneath the desk.

“You alright, Potter?” the grizzled voice asked—just enough concern laced into the tone to be suspicious.

Harry sniffed and nodded, wiping fake tears from his cheek. “I… I think so…”

“I’m curious,” Moody said, his magical eye whirring as it settled on Harry’s wrist. “Does it hurt?”

The fake tongue flicked out across dry lips.

Harry’s face twitched, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Go on then. Take a look.”

The man seized his arm, yanking up the sleeve roughly.

“What was it like?” he asked, voice low, nearly reverent. “To stand in his presence?”

Harry smiled—cold, deliberate.

“Honestly?” he said. “It was… exhilarating.”

That earned him a stare. For a moment, the fake Moody just blinked.

“You’re mad,” the imposter muttered.

Harry’s smile only widened. “That’s what they all think. Until it’s too late.”

A sudden wheeze escaped Barty’s mouth. He stumbled, reaching for his ever-present flask and frowning when it came up dry. Panic flickered in his eyes as he darted to a small crate in the corner—every bottle inside was empty.

Polyjuice reserves: gone.

Harry chuckled. Then laughed outright.

Barty spun around, baffled at the sound.

Harry wiped a tear—real this time—from his eye and grinned. “Well, this is poetic.”

“Were there others in the graveyard?” Barty barked, suddenly intense. “Were they summoned?”

Harry tilted his head. “Hmm. That’s odd. I don’t remember saying anything about a graveyard.”

Barty froze.

“I believe I was careful not to mention it. Isn’t that right… Barty ?”

The reaction was immediate.

Barty lunged across the room, slamming Harry against the wall with a forearm pressed to his throat. His face twisted into fury. “How do you know that name?” he snarled. “Who told you?”

Harry didn’t flinch. His green eyes gleamed with something colder than fear—certainty.

He slowly raised his arm, pushing back the sleeve.

The Dark Mark shimmered faintly beneath the skin, no longer disguised. Clear. Fresh. Burned into place.

“I didn’t need to be told,” Harry said, voice soft and dangerous. “Because I was there.”

Barty stared at the mark, then at Harry.

“You—he—he marked you?” His voice cracked.

Harry smirked. “Well I did deserve a little reward, don’t you think?.”

“I want the Ministry to believe the Dark Lord hasn’t returned,” Harry said smoothly, brushing past Barty. “Let them laugh at Dumbledore. Let them call him paranoid. By the end of this year, he’ll be gone.”

Barty hesitated, watching him warily. “How do I know this isn’t all a clever lie?”

Without hesitation, Harry raised his wand.

“I, Harry James Potter, swear on my magic that everything I have said is the truth. So mote it be.”

The wand tip lit with a clean white Lumos .

Harry’s magic remained.

Barty gaped at him, stunned into silence. 

“Listen Barty, we can talk more later but you really need to leave. Dumbledore is going to burst in here any minute, so you need to leave.” Harry started gathering a few of Barty’s items, shoving them into a random bag.

Barty started shoving items into the bag too, before swinging it over his shoulder and heading out the office, “We are totally talking about this later!” 

A heartbeat later, the door slammed open. Dumbledore burst in, wand drawn, Snape close behind.

“Harry—where is Moody?” Dumbledore demanded.

Harry looked up, tears brimming in his eyes once again. “He said he was leaving. Packed up everything and left.”

Dumbledore muttered a curse and turned to the large, seven-lock trunk in the corner. Snape narrowed his eyes, watching Harry too closely.

“Step away, Harry,” Dumbledore said sharply, pushing him aside. Harry nearly recoiled at the contact. The revulsion surged under his skin—he wanted to tear the man’s hand off, to scream, How dare you touch me after what you did.

He didn’t. Not yet.

Dumbledore waved his wand over the trunk, and one by one, the locks clicked open. When the final compartment was revealed, there lay the real Alastor Moody—disheveled, bloody, barely conscious.

“Are you alright, Alastor?” Dumbledore asked with manufactured concern.

“I… I think so,” Moody croaked from the bottom.

“If that’s Moody…” Harry said, playing innocent, “…then who was—?”

Dumbledore moved to the shelf and picked up one of the discarded bottles, sniffing it.

“Polyjuice,” Snape said flatly.

“Then we know who’s been stealing from your stores, Severus,” Dumbledore murmured.

Harry, meanwhile, caught Snape’s eyes. Dark. Calculating. Dangerous. He’ll be a problem, Harry thought. I need to know which side he’s truly on.

In the quiet of his mind, a whisper curled around his thoughts like smoke.

I will shield your mind, child.

Harry blinked, startled—but didn’t flinch. He recognized the voice.

Death?

Yes. No mind reader will breach you. Occlumency will come naturally now. You are mine, and I protect what is mine.

Thank you, Harry thought, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Play the game. The board is set.

“I’ll need to question you about what happened, Harry,” Dumbledore said, stepping closer.

Harry schooled his features into something frightened and shaken. “Of course, Professor.”

“You’ll come to my office now.”

He followed obediently. For now.

But the rage boiled beneath his skin like fire sealed behind glass. Dumbledore’s false kindness, his gentle tone, his calculated control—it made Harry want to scream.

In the Headmaster’s office, he sat stiffly as the questions began. Dumbledore’s every word made Harry’s jaw tighten.

He lied smoothly. Told him nothing of the graveyard. Nothing of the ritual. Nothing of Voldemort’s return.

Dumbledore pressed, gently… then harder.

“Harry, are you certain you remember nothing else? No sign… of Voldemort?”

Harry stared at him, letting silence stretch between them before he smiled—tight and tired.

“I told you everything I saw, sir.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed, just for a second. The mask cracked.

Harry stood.

“I’m tired, I’ve had a massive day and watched a fellow student die” he said coldly. “I think we’re done here.”

Dumbledore rose as if to stop him, but Harry was already at the door.

“Good night, Professor.”

And then he was gone, leaving the Headmaster in silence and shadows.

Chapter Text

The mood at Hogwarts had shifted.

The banners that once fluttered with house pride now drooped with the weight of sorrow. Conversations in corridors were hushed and charged, speculation curling through the castle like fog: What had really happened during the Third Task? Who—or what—had killed Cedric Diggory?

The Ministry claimed it was a tragic accident. Dumbledore hinted at something darker. And Harry Potter?

He played his part.

He sat through the memorial service with tear-filled eyes and a blank expression, his fists clenched in silent grief. Students approached him with condolences; he nodded, thanked them softly, and said little. Teachers offered words of support; he offered a hollow smile in return. Not even Ron or Hermione could break through the wall he had so carefully erected.

But behind his green eyes, Harry was watching.

Listening.

Calculating.

Dumbledore’s presence lingered everywhere—at meals, in hallways, watching from shadows like a hawk. He said little to Harry publicly, but when they did speak, the man’s gaze would linger just a second too long. Harry could feel the flick of Legilimency scraping at his mind like cold fingers tapping glass.

Each attempt was met with silence.

“Thank you, Death,” Harry thought, “For shielding me.”

And Dumbledore knew. Harry saw it in the furrow of his brow, the way he pressed his lips thin when Harry held his gaze without flinching. Suspicion. Confusion.

Good.

Let the old man worry.

The summons came after Potions.

“Mr. Potter, stay behind,” Snape said, voice cold as ever. The class filtered out, casting glances back at Harry.

He stood in front of Snape’s desk, posture relaxed, mind coiled.

“You have… changed,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair. “Less volatile. More composed. One would almost say… calculating.”

Harry tilted his head. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“You may take it however you wish,” Snape drawled. “I simply wonder what occurred in that maze to cause such a shift.”

Harry shrugged, feigning exhaustion. “I watched a boy die. That tends to change a person.”

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Of course. And yet… you speak as though you have accepted it.”

“I’ve accepted a lot,” Harry said quietly. “More than you think.”

There was a pause. Tension stretched between them, quiet and electric. Harry chose that moment.

“You’ve walked both sides of this war before, haven’t you, Professor?”

Snape’s face didn’t twitch—but the stillness itself was telling.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Harry smiled softly. “Of course not.”

When Snape dismissed him, Harry left with the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth.

Later that evening, Harry found himself drifting toward the dungeons.

He didn’t make a show of it. Just a quiet walk under the guise of wandering—hands in pockets, expression distant, steps unhurried. The torches on the stone walls cast flickering shadows across his face as he descended deeper into the castle. It was late enough that most students were tucked away in their common rooms, but not so late as to draw suspicion.

He slowed near a corridor just off the main path—close enough to the Slytherin entrance to catch attention, but far enough to seem coincidental.

It worked.

“Well, well,” came a familiar drawl. “Potter’s finally decided to crawl into the snake pit. Looking to get hexed, or just stupid as usual?”

Harry stopped and turned, unsurprised to find Draco Malfoy standing in the corridor like a prince surveying his territory. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott flanked him, arms crossed, faces unreadable.

Harry raised a brow. “Nice to see you too, Malfoy. I was beginning to miss the sound of your voice echoing off the inside of your empty head.”

Draco sneered, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bold, considering you’re alone and clearly lost.”

“Maybe,” Harry said evenly, “or maybe I just needed a change of scenery.”

“Funny place for it,” Theo murmured from behind Draco. “Gryffindors don’t usually stray this far south.”

Harry gave them a tired, almost self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, well… maybe I don’t care much about house lines anymore.”

That earned a beat of silence.

Draco’s expression shifted, just slightly—not softened, but tilted into something more curious. “Since when?”

Harry met his gaze. “Since I realised playing by the rules doesn’t protect anyone. Cedric followed the rules. Look where it got him.”

Blaise’s brow lifted, a flicker of intrigue passing over his face. “Big words, Potter. You sound more like one of us than you ever did.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe I always was. Just didn’t know it.”

Theo studied him closely now, head tilted like he was trying to figure out the angle.

There was a pause, filled only by the crackle of a nearby torch.

Draco didn’t respond right away. His posture was still that of someone expecting a fight, but his eyes had narrowed with calculation instead of contempt.

Finally, he said, “You should be careful throwing talk like that around. Some people might start to think you’re not the hero everyone believes you are.”

Harry’s only response was a small hum as he turned and walked off down the corridor, letting the silence grow thick in his wake.

Just before he turned the corner, he heard Blaise mutter, “What the hell was that?”

And Draco’s answer, thoughtful and quiet. “I have no idea, but there’s something up with him.”

Perfect.

That night, Harry lay in bed beneath the canopy of his four-poster, shadows dancing on the hangings from the flickering candlelight across the room. The dormitory was quiet save for the soft breathing of his roommates, deep in the sleep of the ignorant. His wand rested in his fingers, tracing idle patterns against his palm like a heartbeat he didn’t quite trust.

The trap was set. The lines were blurring.

He didn’t need loyalty yet. Not obedience, not friendship. Just a sliver of uncertainty. The smallest crack in the wall between enemy and ally. Doubt would do the rest. Doubt was a virus, and Hogwarts had no immunity left.

Harry closed his eyes. For a moment, the silence pressed in tight around him—until it wasn’t silence at all.

“You’re enjoying this.”

The voice was soft and ancient, like wind through dry leaves. Death’s presence was subtle but constant, threaded through the air like a whisper in his ear.

“I’m surviving,” Harry thought back, not moving his lips.

“No. You’re beginning to live. Truly live. And that is more dangerous than anything you’ve done before.”

He let the words settle in his chest. “You promised to guard my mind.”

“And I will. As long as your purpose holds true. If it falters…” The presence flickered, amused. “Well. Then the games begin again.”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “I won’t falter.”

Silence answered him this time—but it was a satisfied kind of silence. One that was approved.

His thoughts drifted—slowly, unbidden—back to the graveyard. The cold. The candlelight. The way Voldemort had moved, serpentlike and radiant, with that impossible combination of menace and grace. The way his eyes had burned, the way his voice had curled like silk around every word.

He should have been afraid. Should have trembled like the others did. But instead… he’d felt something else entirely.

It had been power, yes—but more than that. Magnetic. Inevitable. That voice, that presence—those sharp, elegant hands and that cruel, clever mouth…

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He shifted beneath the sheets, trying to shake the heat pooling low in his stomach.

It’s not about that, he told himself. It’s about control. About meaning. About breaking free of people who lie and smile and say it’s for your own good while they lead you to die.

But his thoughts were tangled now—part strategy, part hunger, part something darker.

He turned onto his side and stared at the velvet curtains around his bed.

Let the world sleep.

Let Dumbledore scheme. Let Snape stare. Let the Ministry rot.

Harry Potter was no one’s pawn anymore.

And when the time came… he would burn it all down, and rise from the ashes.

Smiling.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express loomed like a scarlet serpent on the tracks, steam hissing and curling into the gray morning sky. Students gathered in small, tense clumps—some hugging friends goodbye, others whispering rumors and half-truths. Cedric’s death hung over the platform like fog.

Harry stood near the edge, his trunk beside him, Hedwig’s cage clasped in his fingers. His eyes scanned the crowd without really seeing it. The words he overheard— murder, tournament, Dark Lord, Potter —slid past him like water over glass. He let them.

He was too good at this now—wearing the mask of the broken boy, the one who couldn’t speak of what he’d seen. Wide eyes. Silence. A tremor in his hand. They ate it up.

A few feet away, Dumbledore approached with his usual grave air, beard flowing slightly in the breeze. "Harry," he said quietly, coming to a stop beside him.

Harry didn’t look at him right away. When he did, his expression was blank. “Professor.”

“I trust you’ll be alright for the summer?” The question was gentle, but his eyes weren’t. They were sharp, searching—like he was digging for answers beneath Harry’s skin.

Harry gave a stiff nod. “I’ll manage.”

There was a pause, then Dumbledore added, “Remember what we spoke about. The prophecy may yet play a role—”

“I don’t care about any prophecy,” Harry said flatly, then blinked, as if startled by his own words. “I mean… I just want things to go back to normal.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. Harry could feel it— that subtle brush in his mind, like a cold draft slipping through a crack in the door.

Legilimency.

But Death had kept its promise. The presence was blocked, turned aside like a blunt blade. Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. Harry offered nothing but a hollow smile.

“I’ll write if anything happens,” Harry added.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Yes… do.”

The train whistle blew. Without another word, Harry climbed aboard.

He sat alone in the last compartment at the back of the train, where the noise of students shouting their goodbyes and dragging trunks barely reached him. The countryside rolled by in a blur beyond the window, golden fields and patches of trees flickering like memories he didn’t care to hold onto.

Even Ron and Hermione hadn’t come in to sit with him.

They’d stopped at the door once—Hermione with that pinched, uncertain look and Ron trying to meet his gaze but flinching when he did. They’d mumbled something about checking on Ginny and left quickly, almost like they expected him to snap.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear.

He didn’t care.

He welcomed the solitude. 

At one point, Luna Lovegood wandered by, a copy of The Quibbler held upside-down in her hands. She peered into the compartment with her usual wide-eyed calm.

“You look tired,” she said, head tilting. “But not sad. Most people think you should be sad.”

Harry gave a slight shrug. “Maybe I’m too tired to feel anything.”

She studied him a moment longer. “Let me know if you see any wrackspurts. They gather when people lie a lot.”

Then she drifted away like fog, her humming trailing behind her.

The compartment felt heavier afterward. Not quieter—he was used to quiet—but heavier, like the air itself had thickened. Harry leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane, letting the vibrations of the train hum through his bones.

He caught glances through the glass of the door—students passing, double-taking, whispering. Some stared. Others avoided him entirely.

His eyes slid closed as his thoughts started to drift.

A soft knock at the door pulled him back.

It slid open to reveal Draco Malfoy.

Blaise Zabini leaned lazily against the corridor wall, and Theo Nott stood just behind Draco, arms crossed. All three looked out of place here in the rear of the train—but not as out of place as they would’ve a week ago.

“Didn’t think you’d be hiding back here like some brooding prince, Potter,” Draco said, voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

Harry didn’t move. “Didn’t think you’d come looking.”

Draco raised a brow at the retort. “Just passing through.”

“Sure you are.”

Theo gave a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh. “You don’t look broken.”

“I’m not,” Harry replied calmly. “People think I am. It’s easier that way.”

That made Blaise tilt his head, interest sharpening.

“Any reason you’re letting them think that?” Draco asked. “Dumbledore certainly isn’t.”

“Let’s just say,” Harry said slowly, “sometimes it’s useful when people underestimate you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Blaise smiled—just slightly. “You’re not the perfect little hero anymore.”

“I never was,” Harry said.

Theo studied him carefully, then gave the barest nod. Draco opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “See you next year, Potter.”

They left without another word, the compartment door sliding shut behind them.

Harry let out a slow breath and leaned back in the seat. That conversation hadn’t changed everything—not yet—but it had tilted the board just enough.

He didn’t need their trust. Just their curiosity.

Doubt was the first crack. And doubt spread.

He closed his eyes again and let his thoughts drift.

Voldemort's face rose behind his eyelids—not in rage or triumph, but with that knowing look. The eyes had been red once, but no longer. That man had been born again in fire and bone and power. That man had looked at him like he was worth keeping.

Harry's breath caught, chest tight with something sharp and electric.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Tom Riddle.

But he was sure it wasn’t fear.

The Dursleys were exactly as he remembered them. Vernon’s moustache twitched with distaste the moment he saw Harry. Petunia pursed her lips as though Harry had dragged mud into her perfect kitchen. Dudley blinked at him like he expected Harry to explode at any moment.

No one said a word during dinner. Harry didn’t bother unpacking.

That night, he sat at the small desk in his room, staring out the window into the dark. The street was quiet. Peaceful, even. It disgusted him.

“Peace is a lie,” came a voice in his mind. Soft. Familiar.

Death.

Harry didn’t jump. “You always show up when I’m bored.”

Death laughed—a low, silk-lined sound. You’re not bored. You’re restless. You crave something real.

“I’m tired of pretending,” Harry murmured. “Of acting broken for people who only see what they want to see.”

Then stop pretending. He sees you clearly.

Harry’s breath caught. A flash—red eyes gone human again. Pale hands, elegant and cruel. That terrible, terrible grin. Voldemort had touched his mind, once—just briefly. It felt like drowning in fire.

And Harry had wanted more.

“He’s not what I expected,” Harry whispered.

And you’re not what he expected either, Death said. That’s why this game will be beautiful.

Just past midnight, an owl tapped once at the window and dropped a letter onto the desk.

Black parchment. Silver wax. No name.

Harry broke the seal.

Inside, in precise, slanted script, was a single word:

Soon.

Harry smiled.

And the world, unaware, kept sleeping.

Chapter Text

Voldemort / Tom Riddle’s POV

The Dark Lord sat alone in the drawing room of Riddle Manor. Moonlight poured in through the tall, grimy windows, catching on the sharp angles of his new face—a face not coiled and serpentine, but pale, smooth, and undeniably human.

Tom Riddle stared into the mirror above the hearth. A stranger looked back.

Young. Powerful. Beautiful, even.

It had taken him days to grow accustomed to the face. No slitted pupils, no skeletal nose. Just the clear, icy grey-blue eyes of a man reborn, carved from a ritual improved by willing blood and ancient power.

Harry Potter’s blood.

The very thought curled into his mind like smoke, coiling around his every waking thought.

Harry James Potter.

Marked. Claimed.

Mine.

The Dark Mark had burned perfectly onto the boy’s skin, and the circle had seen it—Lucius, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Mulciber, Avery—all had knelt as their Lord had lifted the boy’s wrist and etched the black sigil into pale flesh.

And none had dared question it. Not with the way Potter had looked at him. Not with the way he had spoken.

The Dark Lord exhaled slowly, almost reverently. He could feel the connection now clearer than ever before: a thread between them, woven of power and memory and sin. A twisted echo of a bond that defied explanation.

Potter was his Horcrux.

A living, breathing, thinking Horcrux.

And he loved it.

He relished it.

There was something so unspeakably perfect in the image—Harry, housing his soul, haunted by his thoughts, twisted by his will. A walking monument to his triumph. A secret only they shared, deep inside the marrow of their bones.

And yet… Harry defied him. Not with open rebellion—but with calculated, deliberate choice.

“I give myself willingly,” the boy had said. “I want to change everything.”

Willing. Not broken. Not bound by fear.

That was what made it beautiful.

In all his years, Tom had never loved anything—not truly. But this? This obsession? It could become something like love, if he allowed it.

You know ... you look real good like this…

What child dared say such things to a Dark Lord? And the way he touched him.

No fear.

No hesitation.

And yet—he had allowed it. Encouraged it. Because he wanted to know what would happen if such a creature were nurtured rather than destroyed.

The Order would panic. Dumbledore, no doubt, already suspected something was wrong. But they didn’t know.

Not yet.

Severus would eventually report back to Dumbledore, and Severus would lie—as he always did. But even he did not know of Potter’s defection.

Tom would keep it that way, for now.

A knock broke the stillness.

Lucius entered without waiting. “My Lord,” he bowed low, silken voice reverent. “The Malfoy estate has been secured. The Ministry’s eyes are elsewhere. No word of Potter’s involvement has surfaced.”

“Good,” Riddle said coolly, “And the boy?”

“Returned to his Muggle relatives, as expected. The wards hold.”

Tom’s mouth twisted into something approximating a smile. “Perfect. Let him stew in their hatred a while longer. It sharpens him.”

Lucius hesitated. “He was… remarkable, My Lord. In the graveyard. Even Bellatrix has stopped calling him 'the brat.'”

“She’ll call him Lord someday,” Tom mused aloud, and Lucius flinched.

“Of course, My Lord. Whatever you see fit.”

Tom rose from his chair, robes whispering like smoke over the cold stone floor.

“See to it that the inner circle remains silent,” he said. “Potter’s allegiance is not to be whispered in parlors or passed in letters.”

“As you command.”

When Lucius left, Tom turned back to the mirror.

“Will you destroy me?” he murmured to the reflection. “Or become something greater than either of us could have imagined?”

The boy haunted him.

Not as a threat. Not even as a prophecy.

But as a possibility.

He would not cage it. Not yet.

He would let it grow.

And if, in the end, Harry Potter turned on him?

Then he would meet his equal with open arms… and kill him with love.

Chapter Text

Flashback - Albus Dumbledore’s POV

Albus Dumbledore stood at the highest window of the Minister’s Tower. From here, he could see the spires of the rebuilt Department of Mysteries gleaming like polished bone in the morning sun. Beneath it, the Atrium bustled—robes in greys and blues, no longer the untidy splash of colors he remembered from the war days. Uniformity had returned. Order. A measure of peace.

His reflection in the window wore a smile.

It had not been easy. But it had been necessary.

After Voldemort’s final fall, it had taken only months for the Ministry to beg him for guidance. They had called it a provisional appointment at first, but the Wizengamot—purged of its more stubborn blood purists and political dinosaurs—voted unanimously to instate him as Minister of Magic.

“For the Greater Good,” he had said when they pinned the seal to his cloak. They clapped and cheered. Fools, most of them. But useful.

Albus turned from the window. A stack of memos waited on his desk, and at the top lay the new draft of the Magical Reformation Act, Section VI:

“Henceforth, all magical artifacts deemed Dark, Cursed, or Unethical in nature shall be destroyed or confiscated by the Department of Magical Enforcement.
Possession of such artifacts constitutes a direct violation of peace-time magical law and will be prosecuted accordingly.”

It was elegant. Clean. The sort of moral certainty he had once lacked in his youth. The world had changed, and he had guided it into this new dawn.

His hand curled over the edge of the paper, but his mind wandered—to a courtroom, cold and silent.

To a boy in chains.

He hadn’t expected Harry to resist.
Not truly.

He had underestimated the trauma, perhaps. The boy had always been reckless, emotional, stubborn. But Albus had shaped him. Taught him. Protected him. Prepared him . Everything had been so carefully set in place.

Voldemort would rise. The boy would suffer—but he would prevail. The world would believe in him. He would destroy the last Horcrux— himself —and Albus would ensure it was done cleanly, neatly. A martyr to unite them all.

But the ritual had gone wrong. Or perhaps the boy had known. Either way, he had survived. Changed.

There had been… deaths.

Harry's eyes that day—when he was brought before the court—had been bottomless. Not furious, not broken. Just cold .

Albus had asked the world to trust him. To let justice be done.

And no one had stood for the boy.

Not Weasley. Not Granger. Not the Order.

They had all been afraid. Of the power Harry radiated. Of what he might become. They accepted his imprisonment in Azkaban as necessary , even merciful.

And Harry… he had not begged. Not once.

He had only looked at Albus with that dead, unreadable stare as the verdict was passed.

Albus had ensured that no one would visit. That he would have time to… reflect. To be unmade and reborn. That was mercy, too.

“He was never meant to survive the war,” Albus murmured aloud, eyes flicking again to the gleaming city outside.
“His purpose was to end it. Nothing more.”

The boy had always been a weapon. A living curse made palatable by youth and charm. Albus had wielded him well.

And if Harry had broken instead of vanishing… well, perhaps that was also for the best.

Elsewhere, the fires of confiscation burned.
Aurors moved through homes like shadows, emptying bookshelves, breaking wards, taking family heirlooms wrapped in cursed blood. Whole libraries vanished overnight. The Department of Mysteries swelled with artifacts deemed too dangerous to destroy— for now .

Those who resisted were branded sympathizers. Some were given trials. Most were not.

History, after all, was written by those who survived to dictate its moral arc.

And Albus Dumbledore had survived everything.

He turned away from the desk and the past, robe trailing like stormclouds behind him.

He had built a world of light.

What few remembered—what only he dared admit—was that light, too, could burn.

Chapter Text

Two weeks into the summer holidays, Privet Drive remained the same suffocating suburbia it always had been—blinds drawn sharp as judgment, flowers trimmed like thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. And inside Number Four, the world’s most famous boy lived in deliberate silence.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed and wand spinning lazily between his fingers. The room hadn’t changed from when he’d been dragged back here after Cedric’s death—his trunk was shoved under the bed, Hedwig was gone, and the air stank of musty heat and resentment. The Dursleys had barely acknowledged him since he stepped through the door, save for the occasional snapped order or a suspicious glance. As if they feared he might explode.

And maybe, Harry thought with a smirk, he just might.

That night, he was up late, staring out the window with narrowed eyes. The stars glittered above him like sharp glass. He whispered into the night, voice low and mocking:

“Well? You said you’d see me over the holidays. Unless you’re having second thoughts, my Lord.”

He grinned.

And then he felt it—a sudden chill in the air. The house shivered. The protective wards screamed soundlessly and then… fell.

The shadows moved in the hallway.

Downstairs, something heavy struck the door. It didn't open. It shattered.

“Petunia!” Vernon bellowed from the sitting room. “What the—?!”

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The footsteps coming up the stairs were slow. Measured. Inevitable.

When the door opened, Lord Voldemort stepped into the room like a shadow made flesh—tall, regal, unnaturally graceful in his new form. His dark eyes swept across the room before landing on Harry.

And he smiled.

Harry tilted his head. “Took you long enough.”

“You summoned me,” Voldemort said smoothly. “With a challenge, no less.”

“Was it a challenge? I thought it was more of a flirt.”

A bark of laughter slipped from Voldemort’s mouth—cold, amused, dangerous.

“And what would you call this place?” he asked, eyes flicking across the bare room. “A prison?”

Harry’s voice dropped. “A grave.”

A scream echoed from downstairs.

Voldemort turned his head slightly. “Shall I silence them?”

Harry stood, walking slowly over to him. “You could. Or you could watch me do it.”

Voldemort raised a curious brow. “Do you want to?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked to the door, descended the stairs like a prince born to rule, and stood over the trembling Dursleys who had collapsed into their flowery sofa.

“I told you,” Harry said sweetly. “Someday, someone will come for me one day.”

Vernon opened his mouth to curse him—then froze when Voldemort stepped up behind Harry, fingers brushing over his shoulder in quiet warning. His presence alone seemed to suck the air from the room.

“Harry,” Voldemort murmured, eyes glittering, “show me what they did.”

Harry’s smile faltered just a little. Not because he was ashamed. Because Voldemort cared —or seemed to.

He tugged up the sleeve of his too-short shirt to reveal an old bruise on his forearm. “That’s from the frying pan.”

“And this?” Voldemort asked, gently turning his chin.

“Door frame,” Harry lied with a wink.

Voldemort’s face darkened—not with pity. With fury.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” he murmured, mockingly tender. “They forgot what it meant to raise a snake.”

He turned toward the Dursleys. No wand was raised. He didn’t need to.

“I will not kill you,” Voldemort said calmly. “That would be too kind. But you will remember what you did.”

With a flick of his fingers, the air grew heavy with magic. The Dursleys’ screams turned into animalistic whimpers as visions clawed into their minds—visions of the war to come, of blood and fire and a green-eyed boy standing beside the Dark Lord.

Harry watched, eyes cold, heart racing. And he felt it again—that part of Voldemort inside him stirring, humming like a tuning fork. A matching resonance.

He wasn’t just with Voldemort.

He was part of him.

And Voldemort knew it.

Their eyes met, and something passed between them. Possession. Obsession. Power.

"Shall we go?" Voldemort asked.

Harry smiled, voice velvet-soft. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The two vanished with a whisper of displaced air.

----

The silver alarm shrieked like a banshee, echoing through 12 Grimmauld Place.

Sirius Black jolted awake, wand in hand before he was fully conscious. He knew that sound. Everyone in the Order did. That alarm only meant one thing.

Something had happened at Privet Drive.

He stumbled into the hall, half-dressed and wild-eyed, nearly colliding with Remus Lupin at the top of the stairs.

“Harry?” Sirius asked, voice tight with panic.

Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The drawing room was chaos. Mrs. Figg’s portrait screamed through her frame on the wall, voice shrill and warbling. “He’s gone! They’ve taken him! The wards are gone—broken like twigs! I tried to warn you!”

Molly Weasley was sobbing in a corner, hands clutched over her mouth. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks were pacing furiously. Moody swore loud and long, slamming his walking stick into the floor.

Dumbledore stood still as a statue at the center of it all, pale and grim.

“The wards shouldn’t have failed,” Tonks was saying, panicked. “They were blood-tied. Petunia Dursley is his only living relative!”

“Unless Harry removed himself from them,” Snape cut in coolly from the shadows. “Or someone with extraordinary power overrode them from the outside.”

“He would never leave without telling someone!” Sirius shouted.

Everyone turned.

His face was thunderous—haunted, desperate, burning with something too raw for words.

“You left him there,” he snarled, pointing at Dumbledore. “Like a dog! Locked in that house with people who hate him! You said it was for his own good!”

“It was for his protection,” Dumbledore said softly.

“ Protection?! You call that abuse protection?”

“Sirius,” Remus murmured, trying to calm him, “we don’t know what’s happened yet—”

“Yes. We do,” Sirius interrupted, voice trembling. “He’s gone . And we were fools to think that boy would wait around forever to be told what to do like a good little soldier.”

“Are you suggesting Harry’s done this deliberately?” Molly gasped.

“I’m suggesting we have no idea what Harry’s been through since the graveyard,” Sirius snapped. “None of you saw him. You didn’t hear his voice after Cedric died. You didn’t look at him. ”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Snape’s dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps the boy no longer wishes to be found.”

Sirius surged forward. “You shut your damn mouth, Snivellus, or I’ll—”

“Sirius,” Dumbledore said gently, stepping between them. “We must focus.”

Sirius turned away, running a hand through his hair. He felt like the walls were closing in.

“I should’ve brought him here,” he muttered. “I should’ve protected him myself. I let him down. Just like James.”

The name cracked in the air like lightning.

Remus stepped closer, placing a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, but Sirius barely felt it. His eyes were distant now—lost in memory, in guilt, in love.

“He’s not just the Boy Who Lived to me,” Sirius whispered. “He’s my godson. He’s all I have left.”

Dumbledore said nothing.

Because he couldn’t promise Harry was still theirs anymore.

Because in the pit of his soul, he knew the worst was yet to come.

Chapter Text

Harry woke slowly.

The sheets beneath him were smooth and cool, the bed more luxurious than anything the Dursleys had ever permitted him. For a moment, he simply lay there, blinking up at the ornate ceiling, trying to reconcile the quiet with the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts.

No shouting. No cupboard door slamming. No damn breakfast orders barked through gritted teeth.

Just silence. Heavy and velvet and strange.

Riddle Manor , he thought. So this is home now.

He sat up, shirtless, the silky sheets pooling at his waist, and let his fingers drift to the Dark Mark on his forearm. It pulsed faintly. Not painful. Just… present.

A reminder.

A promise.

With a slow smile curling his lips, Harry rose and dressed. He didn’t bother with robes. He wore a tight black shirt, his wand tucked into the waistband of his dark trousers, hair tousled and wild. Let them see the new Harry. Let them talk.

Let them worry .

—---

He found Voldemort—no, Tom , Harry liked calling him that in his head—waiting in the drawing room with most of the inner circle assembled. The long, polished table gleamed under the candlelight, and cloaked figures straightened as Harry entered, some narrowing their eyes, others simply curious.

Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange. Rabastan. Dolohov. Mulciber. The Carrows. And more.

All of them had seen him kneel in the graveyard. All of them had watched the Dark Mark burn into his skin.

And now they were watching him again.

Harry strolled into the room like it was his own bloody house.

“Morning,” he said sweetly, flashing a smile. “Or evening? You people really need windows.”

A few startled glances. A sharp snort from Rodolphus.

Tom, standing at the head of the room, tilted his head, amused.

“You’re late,” he said.

Harry gave an exaggerated gasp. “Oh no. Is Daddy disappointed?”

Several people inhaled sharply. Bellatrix actually dropped her wand.

Tom’s eyes glinted.

There was a long, dangerous pause.

Then, soft and terrifying, he said, “You are either very brave, or very stupid.”

“I like to think of myself as charmingly unpredictable,” Harry replied, walking right up to him. “But if you’re going to kill me, at least do it shirtless. I like a good view.”

Someone choked. Harry didn’t look to see who.

Tom’s lips curled into something between amusement and threat. “You continue to surprise me, Harry.”

“Good,” Harry purred, voice velvet-wrapped poison. “It would be boring if I didn’t.”

—---

The meeting continued, though it might as well have been background noise to Harry. He noted faces, names, relationships. Alliances. Weaknesses.

He watched how the Death Eaters spoke to Tom—with fear, with reverence—and how Tom responded in turn: indulgent to some, cold to others. When he glanced at Harry, it was always with an edge of curiosity. Hunger.

Like he was a puzzle. A possession. A favorite sin.

Harry played into it shamelessly. Every smirk. Every comment. Every time he leaned just a little too close.

Let them wonder.

Let him wonder.

—---

Later, back in his room, Harry sat cross-legged on the bed, scribbling idly in a worn notebook. Notes, plans, questions. The prophecy was fake. Dumbledore was a liar. Voldemort was… complicated.

He loves that I’m his horcrux, Harry thought, not without a thrill. He sees it as a bond. Ownership. Maybe even something deeper.

He bit the tip of his quill.

That part of Voldemort inside him—Harry could feel it more now, clearer than before. Not an invader. Not a curse. Just… there. Whispering, curling, wanting .

And Harry… liked it.

“Enjoying your new accommodations?” came Death’s voice, silky and amused, in his mind.

Harry smirked. “ More than you could imagine .”

“You play a dangerous game, little serpent.”

“ I always do.”

“You cannot hold both love and hate in your heart forever. One will consume the other.”

Harry closed the notebook.

“I know, ” he whispered. “ But let them try. ”

Chapter Text

The training chamber was cold and shadowed, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long, twisting shapes on the stone walls. Harry’s heart pounded as he stepped forward, wand trembling lightly in his grip. Tom Riddle lounged against a pillar, eyes dark and calculating, watching every move.

“Show me the Cruciatus,” Tom said smoothly, voice like silk hiding steel. “The pain you inflict is your weapon. Control it, control your enemy.”

Harry hesitated, the weight of the prisoner’s shackles and pale face pressing into his mind. The boy was trembling, eyes wide with terror. Harry’s stomach churned with a bitter mix of revulsion and something darker, something thrilling.

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t hold back.”

Taking a breath, Harry forced himself to raise his wand. The word slipped from his lips, “Crucio.”

The prisoner screamed, writhing as an invisible fire tore through him. Harry’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling not from fear but from a shocking surge of power. The rush was intoxicating — raw, unfiltered control.

Tom’s eyes glittered with approval. “Good. Feel it. That is strength. Not a weakness.”

Harry swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Never thought I’d see you like this,” he muttered, voice low.

Tom stepped closer, a slow smile curling his lips. “There is much you have yet to discover about yourself… and me.”

Harry’s grin turned sly. “Careful, Tom. I might surprise you.”

Their eyes locked, a silent challenge sparking between them. The tension was electric, charged with something far beyond mere magic or strategy.

From the shadows, whispers fluttered among the Death Eaters.

“Look at him, wielding the Dark Mark with that reckless fire.”

“Dare we admit it? There’s something… intoxicating about it.”

“Or terrifying.”

The room was thick with unspoken questions. Some regarded Harry with suspicion, others with awe — this boy was no longer just the boy who lived, but something new, unpredictable, and dangerous.

As Harry pushed past the trembling prisoner, he felt the thrill pulse in his veins, dark and alive. The game had only just begun — and neither he nor Tom planned on losing.

Tom stepped closer, the faint scent of his cologne—something woody, dark—drifting around Harry. His smile was slow, deliberate, like he knew exactly what effect he had.

“So, Potter,” Tom purred, voice low enough only Harry could hear, “you wield pain well. But can you handle a little... pleasure?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, flicking his wand lazily. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Tom. But I might just be curious.”

Tom’s eyes darkened, sharp and gleaming. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing. You should be careful who you tease.”

Harry smirked, dropping into a relaxed stance. “I’m a Gryffindor. Dangerous is kind of my specialty.”

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched into a grin, amused and approving.

“Come,” Tom said, turning toward the sparring area, “Let’s see if you can back up that mouth of yours.”

As they moved, Harry kept up his teasing edge, dodging and countering with a flick of his wand or a quick step.

“Not bad,” Tom admitted. “Though your defenses need work. You wear your emotions like a banner.”

Harry shrugged, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Better to be seen than hidden. Besides, can’t have you thinking you’ve got me all figured out.”

Tom chuckled—a sound both chilling and magnetic. “You’re learning fast, Potter. Maybe faster than I expected.”

They paused, breath mingling in the cool air. Harry’s pulse raced; the tension between them was a charged wire humming just beneath the surface.

From the sidelines, the Death Eaters exchanged looks.

Barty’s lips twitching in a rare smile. “The Dark Lord’s obsession with the boy is no secret. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Bellatrix’s eyes glittered dangerously. “It’s... delicious, isn’t it? The way the boy pushes him—how our Lord’s guard drops around him.”

Lucius Malfoy’s expression remained unreadable, but his gaze was sharp. “This is dangerous territory. Obsession clouds judgment.”

Avery whispered to Radulphus, “Do you think Potter knows what he’s doing? Or is he just reckless?”

Radulphus shrugged, eyes never leaving the pair. “Either way, this is only the beginning.”

Harry caught Tom’s gaze again, the playful challenge lingering.

“I’ll admit, you’re a harder opponent than I thought,” Tom said.

Harry flashed a grin. “I plan on keeping it that way.”

They moved closer—two predators circling, neither willing to show weakness.

Then Tom’s tone dropped, a husky edge threading through his words. “Tell me, Potter—do you like the power you feel? The control?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly. “More than I ever expected. It’s... addictive.”

Tom’s smile deepened, almost predatory. “Good. Because power is freedom. And freedom is delicious.”

Harry’s eyes darkened with newfound hunger. “Then let’s not waste it.”

As their training resumed, the chamber echoed with the crackle of magic—and something else, something dangerous, something dangerously close to desire.

—---

The war room was thick with tension, a heavy weight pressing down on everyone gathered there. The wards around Privet Drive had shattered like glass, and Harry Potter was gone. Not missing — gone.

Molly Weasley’s hands trembled as she clutched her shawl tighter, eyes brimming with tears. “How could he just leave? Without a word, without a sign? What if something terrible has happened?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s jaw tightened. “The wards didn’t fail by accident. Someone knew exactly how to break through them. We’re dealing with a calculated move.”

Tonks ran her fingers through her hair, voice low and urgent. “If Voldemort has him now… what are we walking into? What kind of damage could be done?”

The room’s unease was palpable. But Dumbledore remained still, his calm exterior belying the storm brewing inside.

He looked at the others with a cool, almost amused detachment.

He’s gone, yes, the thought twisted in his mind, but he’s still mine to play with. The boy is a puppet dangling on strings I hold tight. Once I get him back—oh, the game will begin anew.

He smiled thinly beneath his silver beard, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Let them fret. Let them whimper. I will bend him back into shape—no matter how broken he is. After all, what’s a little betrayal to the grand design?

Sirius Black’s voice broke through the silence, raw and heartfelt. “Harry’s not lost. He wouldn’t just turn his back on us.”

Remus Lupin nodded, sympathy heavy in his eyes. “We have to believe that. We can’t afford to lose hope now.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to Sirius, sharp and calculating. Hope… such a fragile, foolish thing. It’s what I let them cling to, a leash that keeps them tame.

Mad-Eye Moody growled, slamming a fist down on the table. “We don’t know what’s happened to him, or what he’s been through. But one thing’s clear—he’s out there. We have to find him.”

The others murmured in agreement, determination stirring amidst the fear.

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, thoughts twisting once more. Once back in my grasp, the boy will dance to my tune. I will unravel the threads of this foolish rebellion and reweave them into my masterpiece.

He turned toward the window, gazing out as if seeing a chessboard laid across the horizon, pawns and kings moving just as he willed.

Harry Potter is still mine. And when he falls back into place, the world will kneel before the power I’ve long held hidden.

Sirius’s face was etched with worry, but his voice was steady. “We find him, and we bring him home. No matter what.”

No one noticed the shadow flickering behind Dumbledore’s eyes—an obsession far darker than any of them dared imagine.

Chapter Text

The training chamber was dimly lit, shadows flickering as the torches burned low. Tom Riddle’s voice was calm but commanding as he demonstrated a curse, his eyes never leaving Harry.

“Again,” Tom instructed softly, and Harry raised his wand with a practiced ease. A sudden sharp, searing pain exploded in the air as the Cruciatus Curse landed on a bound prisoner in the corner of the dungeon.

Harry’s breath hitched. The rush was intoxicating — cruel, ruthless, yet deliciously powerful. For a moment, guilt flickered in his chest, but it was quickly swallowed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Tom’s dark eyes gleamed with approval. “Good. You’re learning quickly.”

Harry forced a smile, biting back a sharper retort. He was learning more than curses — the way Tom watched him, the subtle way their gazes locked longer than necessary, the magnetic pull between them.

“Is that all you’ve got, Harry?” Tom teased, stepping closer, voice dropping to a near purr. “Or is there something more you want to show me?”

Harry flushed but met Tom’s challenge, flicking his wand with exaggerated flair. “Oh, I have plenty more to show. Just wait.”

Tom’s lips twitched in what could only be described as a smile, rare and unsettling. “I look forward to it.”

From the shadows, a trio of seasoned Death Eaters observed in silence.

Lucius Malfoy’s expression was tight, his usual cold arrogance tempered by a flicker of unease. “The Dark Lord’s fascination with Potter grows stronger every day,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes sparkled with a dangerous excitement. “Obsession is a double-edged sword, Lucius. It can sharpen the blade or dull it.”

Fenrir Greyback grinned, his wolfish features twisting into something almost amused. “If this is a weapon, it’s a bloody sharp one. But sometimes, the deepest cuts are the ones that bleed the most.”

Their gazes flicked back to Tom and Harry, who stood locked in a quiet battle of wills and whispered flirtations — a dangerous dance that no one dared interrupt.

—---

Harry stepped out of the bathroom, still damp, his skin cool against the chill of the room. His muscles ached from the relentless training, but his mind was already racing ahead. As he rounded the corner, the sight of Tom lounging on his bed stopped him in his tracks.

Tom’s dark eyes lifted, locking onto Harry’s with a sharp, knowing smile. “Already done with the day’s workout?” His voice was smooth, a teasing lilt beneath the surface.

Harry shrugged, meeting that gaze with steady confidence. “For now. What about you? Planning your next move, or just waiting for me to finish?”

Tom’s smile deepened. “A bit of both. The Ministry’s weaknesses are glaring. Their politics, their divisions — it won’t take much to push them over the edge.”

Harry crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We don’t just want to break the Ministry. We want to rebuild it. Something new. Something stronger. A world where neither fools nor cowards hold power.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Exactly. But it has to be subtle. Step by step. We turn the key in the lock, but the door opens slowly. We have to manipulate their fears, their loyalties. Even their hope.”

Harry nodded, fingers tapping the mattress. “And those who resist? We need to show strength. No mercy for traitors. But we keep the masses... hopeful. Promise them security.”

The dark lord’s expression softened for just a moment, a rare glimpse behind the mask. “And you, Harry. You will be the symbol of this new order. Not just my Horcrux, but my consort. The future.”

Harry’s pulse quickened at the weight of those words. “I never wanted to be anyone’s pawn.”

Tom leaned in, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the queen — the only one who can change the board.”

Their eyes locked, the space between them charged with something far more potent than strategy or ambition.

“Plans aside,” Harry murmured, “this — us — it’s unexpected. Dangerous.”

Tom’s smile was slow, predatory. “The most dangerous things are always the most irresistible.”

Without hesitation, Tom rose, closing the distance. Harry’s breath caught, the tension breaking like a dam as desire overtook them.

“Fuck me,” Harry whined, pulling at Tom’s robes.

A knock sounded at the door at that moment. “Harry it’s later now,” the sound of Barty’s teasing voice came through the door. Tom continued kissing up and down Harry’s neck and collar bones. 

“Give me a minute Barty!”

Tom leaned back a sneer on his face. “You little dick, a minute? Do I look like a minute man to you, my soul?”

Harry smirked at the man “Well it’s not so little right now, Tommy. Wanna feel?” Harry’s teasing smile turned into pleasure as Tom rubbed his leg against Harry’s swollen cock. Harry’s hips thrust forward immediately reacting. 

Harry could feel Tom smile into his neck, a low laugh sounding out.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s funny how you're so flirty with me when you’re a virgin.”

The words hit Harry like a slap. He froze, eyes wide in disbelief, “What?”

“You heard me. A virgin. Innocent. Untouched. I bet you’ve never even kissed someone before.”

Harry spluttered, cheeks turning bright red as he shoved Tom away. “Fuck off, I’ve been kissed before, in fact i’ve kissed like loads of people before.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised a teasing smile still on his lips. “Is that so? And who are these lucky people?”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed, Barty still outside his door knocking over and over. “I..I..I don’t remember everyone I've ever kissed. Like there are..are.. Like so many of them.” Harry's cheeks were an impossible crimson colour now. 

Tom let out a laugh, laying once again against Harry's bed frame, face lit up in amusement. “You are such a bad liar my soul, it’s quite endearing. It’s a wonder you’ve hidden so much from everyone. But just admit it - you’re as pure as they come.”

“Go away, you’re so annoying Tom!” Harry pulled some clothes on reaching for the door before Barty breaks it down. Harry shoves Barty out of the doorway and closes the door on Tom’s laughing.

“What Barty?!”

“Well hi there Miss Tomato,” Barty had a teasing smile on his face as Harry started rubbing his cheeks in hopes to make the redness leave.

“Piss off Barty!”

Chapter Text

Barty was lounging across the sofa like he owned the room, his boots kicked up on the armrest and a wicked grin stretching his face.

“You know,” Barty said lazily, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading, “for someone who pretends to hate being touched, you sure let our Dark Lord put his hands all over you.”

Harry, still buttoning up his shirt from where he’d all but ran out of his room earlier, glared at him. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

Barty snorted. “Please. Watching you pretend this is all just a strategic alliance when you're one flirty comment away from pouncing on him? It’s the best entertainment I’ve had all week.”

Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed his wand off the table. “If you want to be hexed into next Tuesday, just say the word.”

“Threats from a love-struck Gryffindor,” Barty said dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart. “So touching. Tell me, do you moan his name in your sleep yet, or are we still at the stage of dreamy sighs and brooding gazes?”

Harry flushed despite himself, and Barty laughed with genuine delight.

“I hate you,” Harry muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Barty said smugly, sitting up. “You’re just embarrassed that someone noticed. It’s not like the rest of us are blind, you know. You two have tension so thick I could cut it with a Severing Charm. The others are placing bets.”

Harry froze halfway through lacing up his boots. “They’re what?”

“Relax, I stopped Bella from starting a pool. Barely. But Lucius is convinced you’ll end up ruling together. He’s terrified and aroused. It’s hilarious.”

“Wonderful,” Harry muttered. “That’s exactly what I wanted—Death Eaters gossiping about my sex life.”

Barty gave him a lopsided grin. “No one thinks it’s just sex, mate.”

Harry didn’t reply to that. Couldn’t. Because there was a truth in Barty’s words that made his chest ache and his throat tighten. He didn’t know what it was between him and Tom yet—but it wasn’t casual. And it was far too late to pretend otherwise.

“Anyway,” Barty said, rising and brushing himself off. “Get your tragic little love story together. There’s a meeting tonight. Tom wants you there.”

Harry blinked. “Why? It’s just the inner circle tonight, isn’t it?”

Barty’s smirk sharpened. “Exactly.”

—---

The meeting chamber at Riddle Manor wasn’t large, but it was cavernous in feeling—dark stone walls, deep green lighting, the air itself seeming to hum with suppressed power. Harry stood beside Tom now, no longer positioned behind him like a subordinate. A deliberate message.

Across the room, Lucius, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and a handful of other senior Death Eaters observed him with mixed expressions—curiosity, skepticism, wariness. Fenrir Greyback leaned against the wall, licking his teeth like he was imagining blood. Typical.

Tom raised a hand, silencing the room.

“The Ministry is weak,” he said. “Fudge is panicking. His cabinet is fractured. Our time grows near.”

Harry stepped forward before anyone else could speak. “We exploit the fractures. Use fear to scatter their resources—and hope to bait their ambition. Offer power to the right people and they’ll tear each other apart for it.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t object. Bellatrix giggled softly, as if delighted.

“And who,” Rodolphus asked, “are these ‘right people’?”

Harry smiled. Cold. Confident. “Let me worry about that.”

Tom looked at him, a spark of pride in his gaze. “Harry will lead the next wave of strategy. He understands our enemies better than any of us.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, Lucius inclined his head.

Harry’s smile widened just a touch.

Let the world sleep.

He was done hiding.

—---

The meeting dispersed slowly, each Death Eater peeling away in silent contemplation or whispered conversation. Tom didn’t speak again. He simply watched them go, watched how they stole glances at Harry with varying degrees of curiosity and apprehension.

Harry stayed rooted beside him, posture casual but every muscle alert. He could feel the weight of being seen differently now. Not a child. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the Dark Lord’s toy. Something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

When the room finally emptied, Tom turned to him, voice low. “They accepted you.”

Harry arched a brow. “Did they have a choice?”

Tom smirked. “No. But it still matters that they’re adjusting. Lucius especially. He’s a creature of politics—he wouldn’t show deference if he didn’t already calculate the benefit.”

Harry folded his arms and leaned back against the stone pillar. “You make it sound like I’m some investment.”

“You are,” Tom said plainly. “But not just for them. For me.”

That earned him a sharp glance. “You do realize I’m not just some useful object, right? I’m not going to let myself be a tool—not yours, not theirs.”

Tom stepped closer, his gaze dark but not cruel. “You’re not a tool, Harry. You’re a storm. And I’d rather stand at the center of it than in its path.”

Harry blinked. The words weren’t exactly a compliment, but they also weren’t the cold manipulation he expected. There was something honest about the way Tom said it, something that reached into the tight place in Harry’s chest where confusion and longing tangled.

“We should talk plans,” Harry said quickly, brushing past the moment. “You mentioned the Department of Magical Transportation. Do you think they’re our best weak point?”

“They control most of the floo access and portkey regulation,” Tom replied, walking slowly toward a low-burning fireplace. “If we disable their infrastructure—or better yet, plant someone sympathetic—we sever the Ministry’s emergency response capability. Imagine the chaos.”

Harry joined him, his mind already racing. “And while they’re stumbling, we frame it as a terrorist act from foreign sympathizers. Get the Prophet spinning stories of foreign infiltration. The public will beg for new security. Something stronger. Something harsher.”

Tom nodded, his voice quiet with approval. “And we will provide it.”

A long pause stretched between them, thick with thought. Then Harry asked, voice softer, “What happens to the people who don’t want us to win?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked to the firelight. “That depends on how loudly they resist. But... I know you, Harry. We’ll build a world that doesn’t need martyrs. Just order.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he believed that. But it was easier to pretend when Tom looked at him like that—like he was something bright and dangerous and necessary.

After a beat, Harry murmured, “I still don’t trust you.”

Tom turned back to him, face unreadable. “Good. You shouldn’t. Trust makes you careless.”

“And yet,” Harry said, “you show me more than you show anyone else.”

“Because you’re the only one clever enough to see behind the curtain,” Tom said, voice dipped in something heavier than pride. “And the only one who makes me want to lower it anyway.”

That silenced Harry.

For a moment, the tension between them wasn’t political. It wasn’t strategic. It was just breath and heat and emotion curling low in Harry’s belly.

Tom stepped closer again. “You’re not mine, Harry. But you could be.”

Harry’s voice caught in his throat. He should have said something sharp, something clever. But all that came out was, “You say that like you already know my answer.”

Tom smirked faintly. “I do.”

Before Harry could argue—or agree—Tom was already moving toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he said without turning around. “Tomorrow, we start shaking the Ministry.”

Then he was gone, and Harry was left staring into the fire, wondering whether he was more afraid of the power he was about to wield… or how much he wanted to wield it with Tom.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered in through the arched windows of Riddle Manor, casting long golden beams across the floor. Harry stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his dark green robes. They were tailored, elegant—Slytherin colors, of course. Tom’s choice.

“You look like you’re about to seduce the entire Wizengamot,” came Barty’s voice from the doorway.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Jealous?”

Barty snorted and flopped onto the nearby settee, twirling his wand between two fingers. “Of the fact that you get to play prince of darkness while the rest of us act like hired thugs? A little.”

Harry turned from the mirror with a grin. “What can I say? I’m charming.”

“Please,” Barty scoffed. “You’re head over heels for Tom and he’s just as whipped for you. If you ever actually admitted it, the manor would combust from sheer tension.”

Harry’s smirk faltered slightly, but he covered it quickly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Barty’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Just don’t be surprised when you start calling him darling in front of the Death Eaters.”

Harry threw a pillow at his head, and Barty dodged, laughing all the way out the door.

—---

Later that afternoon, Tom and Harry stood in front of a sprawling map of the Ministry, enchanted pins marking departments and key figures. The room smelled faintly of parchment and smoke, the weight of revolution in the air.

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is the easiest pressure point,” Harry said, tapping his wand on the map. “Too many of them owe favors to the current administration. Threats, blackmail, bribes… They’ll turn when it counts.”

Tom stood beside him, arms folded, eyes narrowed in thought. “And the Department of International Magical Cooperation?”

Harry tilted his head. “We plant rumors of foreign espionage. Make them paranoid. We want them unstable, not loyal.”

Tom’s lips quirked up. “Your mind, Harry… it’s dangerous.”

“You taught me well,” Harry said lightly, but he could feel the warmth under his skin at the praise. There was power in being seen—not as a pawn, not as a hero, but as an equal.

Tom moved closer, voice lower. “Soon we’ll have control of the Ministry. And then, the real work begins. Reshaping the world.”

“Together?” Harry asked, not quite able to keep the vulnerability from slipping in.

Tom's eyes met his. “Always.”

There was a long pause, full of silent weight and shared understanding. Then Tom turned back to the map, his voice once more sharp and clear. “We start tomorrow. A subtle charm on one of the undersecretaries. An unsigned letter with half-truths and strategic lies. Let’s see what they do when the first thread unravels.”

Harry smiled.

The game had begun.

—---

The air in the kitchen was heavy, thick with something unspoken. Moody paced by the door, boots thudding softly against the worn floorboards. Remus sat hunched over at the table, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like the ache wouldn’t go away. Across from him, Dumbledore stared into the hearth, eyes distant, as though trying to divine answers from the flicker of green flames.

“We need to find him,” Sirius said quietly, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “Now.”

“He is not in immediate danger,” Dumbledore replied, his voice calm but lacking conviction. “The wards broke, yes, but that does not necessarily mean harm has come to him.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “You mean the wards you insisted would protect him. The ones that failed without anyone noticing for hours.”

“He may simply be… taking time.” Dumbledore didn’t look away from the fire. “He’s overwhelmed. Understandable, given everything.”

Molly Weasley fidgeted with a handkerchief, eyes shining. “He hasn’t written. Not to Ron. Not to Hermione. He always writes back, at least a line or two.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know what to say anymore,” Fred murmured, leaning in the doorway.

“Or maybe he thinks no one’s listening,” George added, his voice unusually quiet.

Sirius exhaled slowly. “He ran, and none of you are asking why. You’re only talking about finding him. Dragging him back.” He looked around the room. “He’s not a lost pet. He’s not—” His voice caught. “He’s not some tool you can put back in a box.”

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“He’s my godson,” Sirius continued, softer now, but more resolute. “Not just by name. I know him. He doesn’t vanish without reason. Something pushed him.”

Dumbledore’s expression finally shifted. “He is a child with a destiny. One he cannot afford to walk away from.”

Sirius’s eyes darkened. “You talk like he’s a prophecy with legs.”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly. “For the greater good.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Moody had stopped moving.

Remus glanced up, eyes weary. “Do we even know where to start?”

“We don’t,” Dumbledore answered. “But we will. He will come back. He always does.”

Sirius stood slowly. “I’m not waiting. I’m going to find him. And when I do, I won’t bring him back here.”

“Don’t be foolish, Sirius,” Dumbledore warned.

“No,” Sirius said, voice steady. “I’m being family.”

And as he walked out, the twins quietly followed him with their eyes—because maybe they understood too.

Harry wasn’t just a soldier. Or a savior.

He was theirs .

And he deserved more than to be treated like a means to an end.

Chapter Text

The drawing room at Riddle Manor buzzed with dark purpose. A map of the Ministry of Magic was spread across the long table, enchanted to show real-time activity. Gold and silver pins marked their current allies, black ones their enemies. Red shimmered around key positions still to be subverted.

Tom Riddle stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, wand tapping thoughtfully against his palm. Harry leaned beside him, one hand braced on the table as he studied the map with a furrowed brow.

“Yaxley has secured two new allies in the Department of Magical Transportation,” Tom said. “We’ll use them to reroute the Floo Network surveillance. No one will notice us slipping people into the Ministry when the time comes.”

Harry nodded. “What about Magical Law Enforcement? They’re still a problem.”

“Dawlish is too stupid to be a threat,” Tom murmured. “But Robards... we may need to remove him altogether.”

Harry grinned, tone light. “Shall I seduce him before or after you have him assassinated?”

Tom chuckled, low and fond. “You’re welcome to try, but I doubt he’s your type.”

“True. He lacks your... charm.” Harry’s gaze was sharp, teasing. “And your bone structure.”

Tom’s hand stilled on the table. “Careful, my soul. If you flatter me too much, I may think you’re trying to distract me from the strategy.”

“Who says I’m not?” Harry purred, stepping closer, shoulder brushing Tom’s. “Multitasking is a skill I’ve picked up.”

From the doorway, Barty Crouch Jr. let out a mock gagging noise. “Merlin’s saggy left—can the two of you stop eye-fucking for five minutes? Some of us are still digesting breakfast.”

Harry turned with a devilish grin. “Jealous, Barty?”

“Disgusted,” Barty said, though the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re halfway in love with him, My Lord.”

“Who says he’s only halfway?” Harry quipped.

Tom raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re on thin ice, Barty.”

Barty snorted. “What, are you going to hex me for pointing out the obvious?”

A nonverbal flick of Tom’s wand sent a silent stinger curse at Barty’s shoulder. Barty yelped and jumped back, rubbing at the now-sore spot.

“Alright, alright!” he laughed. “Touchy.”

“Out,” Tom said mildly, not looking at him.

Still grinning, Barty threw Harry a wink and backed out of the room, muttering, “I’ll leave you two to your planning. Or flirting. Or whatever weird foreplay this is.”

As the door shut behind him, Harry shook his head. “He’s insufferable.”

“You love it,” Tom said, stepping close again, voice quieter now. “You like having someone to bicker with.”

Harry looked up at him, the tension crackling between them again. “I like having someone who gets it.”

They lingered in silence, gazes locked. Then Harry looked back down at the map, fingers tracing a route. “We hit them in two waves. First the bureaucracy, then the public face. We make it look like reform. Let them believe we’re saving them.”

Tom nodded. “And you’ll be at the center of it all. A war hero turned liberator. The golden boy returned to fix the mess.”

Harry scoffed. “They wouldn’t believe it. Not after what I’ve done.”

Tom’s expression darkened in a strangely soft way. “They will believe what we tell them to.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, this time gentle. A house-elf entered and handed Harry a letter, sealed with wax. Harry frowned at the familiar script before the elf vanished again.

He broke the seal.

Harry,

I don’t know if this will even reach you, but I have to try.

They won’t tell me where you are. Dumbledore says it’s for your protection. The Order is restless—people are scared, suspicious. They think something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong.

I don’t believe for a second you’d disappear without a reason.

If you’re out there, if you’re safe, please write back. Tell me what’s happened. I don’t care what they say—you’re still my godson, my family.

I love you, Harry. No matter what.

—Sirius x

Harry folded the letter slowly, the words digging into the edges of his heart like splinters.

Tom watched him carefully. “From Black?”

Harry nodded.

“Will you answer?”

Harry looked up, jaw tight, eyes clouded. “I don’t know. I want to. But if I do... he’ll never look at me the same again.”

Tom stepped closer, hand brushing Harry’s arm. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he’ll surprise you.”

Harry leaned into the touch just a little. “I’ve stopped hoping people will surprise me.”

“You surprised me,” Tom said softly.

Harry laughed under his breath, tired and warm all at once. “Yeah? What, did you think I’d be easier to break?”

Tom’s hand curled around his wrist. “No. I thought you’d be easier to forget.”

They stood in silence, the letter between them, the map glowing behind them like a promise.

The world was waiting to burn.

And they would be the ones to light the match.

—---

After the letter was folded and tucked away, a weight settled over Harry’s shoulders. The laughter from earlier, the teasing and tension—it hadn’t vanished, but it dulled in the face of Sirius’s words. Tom watched him in silence, perceptive and calculating. He didn’t press, didn’t offer comfort, only observed.

And that, strangely, was what Harry needed.

Tom turned back to the map, voice returning to a low cadence. “There’s something poetic in letting them believe you’re their savior.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up. “You mean lying to them?”

“I mean giving them what they want,” Tom replied. “You think it’s lies that hold a system together? It’s belief. Control the belief, and you control everything.”

Harry joined him again at the table, staring down at the spinning Ministry seal. “And when they realize what we’ve done?”

Tom’s smile was cold. “By the time they realize, they’ll thank us for it.”

Harry tilted his head, watching him. “You know, when you say things like that, it’s almost easy to forget how terrifying you are.”

“And yet,” Tom said smoothly, “you still stand beside me.”

Harry gave a crooked smile. “You’re lucky I have a thing for tyrants.”

Tom leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “No, my soul. You have a thing for me .”

Heat flushed across Harry’s skin. He turned away quickly under the pretense of adjusting one of the pins. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing,” Tom purred.

Before Harry could formulate a retort, the door creaked open again.

Lucius Malfoy entered with a respectful nod. “My Lord. Potter.”

Tom arched a brow. “You have something to report?”

Lucius stepped forward with a measured grace. “We’ve begun the slow bleed within the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Fudge is... blissfully unaware. He believes his control is absolute.”

Harry snorted. “That man couldn’t control his own shoelaces.”

“Agreed,” Lucius said, dry. “And that blindness works to our advantage.”

Tom waved a hand. “Continue the pressure. But keep Fudge upright—for now. When he falls, I want it to look like a mercy, not a coup.”

Lucius bowed slightly and swept back out of the room.

As the door shut again, Tom stepped behind Harry, sliding his arms around his waist. “It’s happening, Harry. They won’t even see it until it’s done.”

Harry leaned into the embrace before he could stop himself. “Is it strange that I don’t feel guilty anymore?”

“No,” Tom said against his neck. “It means you’re beginning to understand.”

They stood there, quiet, the weight of their ambition filling the space between them. The room smelled of old parchment and burning wax, magic lingering thick in the air.

Then Harry said, “I want to write him back.”

Tom tensed slightly. “Sirius?”

Harry nodded. “Not the truth. Not everything. But something. I just... I can’t let him think I’m gone forever.”

Tom didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was unreadable. “Very well. But be careful what you offer him. He may come looking.”

Harry smirked faintly. “Then we’ll just have to be ready for him, won’t we?”

Tom’s hand slid down his arm. “You’re mine now. He’ll see that soon enough.”

“I was never anyone else’s,” Harry murmured.

Behind them, the enchanted map shimmered again—this time marking a new location: the Office of Magical Records. Another key department now under quiet Death Eater control.

Harry watched the red glow spread across the map like wildfire.

The game was shifting.

And they were no longer pawns.

They were the kings on the board.

Chapter Text

The air inside Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was close and heavy, thick with the kind of silence that only follows bad news. It wasn't the silence of peace—it was waiting. Watching. Breathing down everyone’s neck.

The Order sat clustered around the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, tea gone cold in their mugs. No one spoke at first. Even Moody's usual grumbling had gone still.

“We've received no trace,” Dumbledore said finally, folding his hands atop the table. “The wards at Privet Drive are fully collapsed. Wherever Harry is now, he is entirely unprotected.”

Sirius didn’t look up. He sat at the far end of the table, fingers loosely curled around a chipped teacup he hadn’t touched. His expression was unreadable, eyes shadowed beneath his hair.

“We don’t even know how he got past the wards,” Arthur said, frowning. “They were old magic—tied to blood.”

“They were tied to control,” Sirius muttered, still not looking up. “And he was tired of being caged.”

Molly pursed her lips. “He’s still a child, Sirius. He doesn’t understand the danger.”

“I think he understands it better than any of us ever did,” Sirius said quietly. “He’s lived with it his whole life.”

“Regardless,” Dumbledore interjected, voice mild, “Harry is vulnerable. Isolated. We must retrieve him before someone else does. If Voldemort finds him first—”

“He won’t,” Sirius said, just loud enough to cut through the room. “And even if he does… I don’t think Harry would let himself be used again. Not by anyone.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance from their spot by the door. George tilted his head slightly. “Not to sound too grim, but maybe that’s exactly why he left.”

Fred nodded. “People only run when they stop believing they’re safe.”

Molly turned toward them. “Boys, that’s enough—”

“No, it’s not,” Sirius said, and finally looked up. “Because they’re right. Harry ran because he stopped believing in us. And can you blame him?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Dumbledore, unbothered, steepled his fingers. “He is still important. Still necessary. Whether or not he believes in our methods, we must ensure he remains aligned with our cause.”

“Aligned,” Sirius repeated hollowly. “You make it sound like he’s a chess piece.”

Dumbledore met his gaze. “He is a key player in a war we cannot afford to lose.”

Sirius’s throat tightened. He said nothing more.

Remus, seated beside him, cast a sidelong glance his way. He didn’t ask about the letter again. He didn’t need to. They both knew what it said—and what it didn’t.

Fred spoke again, voice low. “So what happens when we find him?”

“We bring him back,” Molly said gently, as if the words weren’t a threat. “We make him understand.”

“Make him,” George echoed, softer.

“Rebuilding trust,” Dumbledore said, “can come later. Right now, we must act.”

But Sirius wasn’t listening anymore. His hand rested on the folded edge of parchment tucked into his coat pocket. Harry’s words still echoed like heartbeat against his ribs.

I’m not your golden boy anymore. But I’m still your boy.

—---

That night, Sirius didn’t sleep.

He sat in the cold dark of the drawing room, a glass of firewhisky untouched at his side, listening to the house groan with age and secrets. Remus had left a blanket nearby, but hadn’t spoken. He understood.

A crumpled letter has been in his hands for hours now. After keeping it hidden from everyone, Sirius finally got the chance to read it. Over and over and over. The parchment was soft from being read too many times. The words still cut the same.

Sirius-snuffles-padfoot,

I’m ok, I’m safe.

I’m so sorry for leaving without saying anything, but you would’ve stopped me. 

Made me go there. 

I’m happy where I am.

Love Prongslet xx

Upstairs, Fred and George were still awake too. They were whispering in the dark, planning something they hadn’t told anyone yet.

Something about finding Harry.

Not to bring him back.

Just… to see if he was okay.

Chapter Text

The door to the twins’ shared bedroom clicked shut behind them, muffling the rest of Grimmauld Place like it was a separate world. The air inside was thick with dust and secrets. Fred sat cross-legged on the old four-poster bed, a bit of string dangling from his fingers. George stood by the window, wand in hand, muttering a quiet Revealing Charm over a crumpled bit of parchment that had once been a joke prototype. The words flickered but held.

No one spoke for a few moments. Then:

“We're really doing this,” George murmured.

Fred nodded. “Of course we are.”

It hadn’t been a decision, really. Just a slow, sinking truth that settled in both their bones the night Harry vanished. The truth that no one else was looking for him— really looking. Not to understand. Not to ask why. Only to retrieve, contain, and use.

And that wasn’t good enough.

George dropped onto the bed beside his twin. “You think he meant to vanish without a trace? Harry, of all people?”

Fred tilted his head. “I think he meant to vanish from them. Doesn’t mean he wanted to vanish from us. ”

They both sat in silence, heads almost touching, watching the rune-shifted parchment spark faintly in George’s hand.

“You still have it?” Fred asked after a while.

George nodded, producing a small scrap of enchanted paper from under his pillow. It shimmered faintly with gold thread—the tail end of a failed two-way communication charm they’d been tinkering with last year. It had been Harry’s idea to modify it so the sender’s emotions would imprint faintly on the parchment. It had never worked quite right—until the day he’d left.

The message was faint now, faded from time and distance, but still visible:

Don’t follow me unless you really mean it. But I’d never stop you, not if it’s you two.

Fred reached out, tracing the edge of the ink with a finger. “He trusted us.”

“Still does,” George said quietly. “That means something.”

They worked in silence for a while, pulling old prototypes from their enchanted trunk—tracking spells, detection charms, and fragments of things too experimental to name. It wasn’t about finding Harry through the Order’s network. That would tip Dumbledore off, and worse, tip Tom off too if he was watching.

This had to be done the Weasley way— quietly, with ingenuity and a little rebellion.

“Once we narrow the range,” Fred said, tapping the golden parchment, “we can see if he’s in Britain at all. After that…”

“Letters. Disguised ones. From a contact he’d trust.”

“Safehouses too,” Fred added. “Spots to leave things. In case he’s watching.”

They fell silent again, not needing to say the rest aloud:

In case he's alone.

—---

Downstairs, the house slept—or pretended to.

Dumbledore had returned to Hogwarts hours ago, leaving behind silence and careful control. Remus paced in the library. Sirius sat by the cold hearth again, reading Harry’s letter for the tenth time.

And above them all, two boys plotted in candlelight. Not because they were told to. Not because they were soldiers in someone else’s war.

But because family wasn’t a thing you abandoned when it got complicated.

Chapter Text

The candlelight flickered across Tom’s sharp features, casting long shadows on the cold stone walls of the manor. Outside, the night was thick and still — a perfect cloak for secrets and schemes.

But inside, his mind churned with a turmoil he refused to name.

He paced the length of the chamber, fingers brushing against the polished surface of his wand case. The weight of his own obsession pressed on him like an iron chain — possessiveness gnawing at the edges of his control.

Harry. 

The boy was more than a tool, more than a Horcrux, more than a symbol of his dark resurrection. He was the axis around which Tom’s world spun, the fire that both warmed and burned him.

A knock at the door pulled him back.

“My Lord,” Barty Crouch Jr. announced, stepping inside with a bow. Behind him trailed the rest of the Death Eaters, faces grim and eager.

Tom nodded, motioning them forward.

“The Ministry,” Tom began, voice smooth and authoritative, “has grown complacent. We strike where their foundation is weakest—their alliances, their secrets, their pride.”

He spread a series of documents on the table—leaked memos, scandalous reports, and undeniable evidence that painted Albus Dumbledore not as a wise protector, but a paranoid manipulator whose influence had warped the Ministry and Hogwarts alike.

“The public is beginning to question their once untouchable leader,” Tom said, eyes gleaming. “The press has started to turn. Our whispers become roars.”

Harry stood beside him, calm and steady, the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips as he watched the Death Eaters digest the plan.

“This is just the beginning,” Harry said, voice low but clear. “Once they see the truth, fear will follow. And fear can be molded.”

Lucius Malfoy smirked. “With you two at the helm, the Ministry doesn’t stand a chance.”

The meeting stretched into the night, each detail sharpened and refined. Tom’s mind, however, was only half on the political chessboard. The other half was consumed by the quiet moments stolen with Harry—the way his dark eyes caught the candlelight, the soft curve of his smile after a well-delivered taunt, the thrill of the unspoken tension that crackled whenever they were alone.

—---

When the Death Eaters finally dispersed, the manor fell into a hush, broken only by the distant crackle of the fireplace.

Tom found Harry in the library, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by books and parchments, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Without hesitation, Tom closed the distance, his voice a low murmur. “The world outside can wait.”

Harry looked up, lips curving into a mischievous grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Show me,” Tom stalked closer to Harry, an evil glimmer in his eyes.

“Show you? I can show you alot, my dear.” Harry smirked, mischief in his eyes.

“What those filthy muggles did to you. I saw you wince before. You're still in pain from something.”

“Oh…It’s nothing Tommy,” Harry quietened instantly, turning back to the books scattered around him.

“Lay on the couch.” Tom started digging through one of the draws in the desk.

Harry made his way over to the couch knowing no matter what he said or did he would end up there anyway.

“Put your hands above your head.” He ordered, Harry jumped at the sudden demand and without thinking, putting his arms above his head, his eyes turned soft instantly, and realised what he had just done. Fucking Uncle. I hate how submissive my subconscious is because of him. 

Harry turned his face away, jaw tight, refusing to meet Tom’s eyes. His pride was already in tatters — bruised and bare in every sense of the word — and the weight of being seen like this threatened to crush him.

Then a warm hand gently cupped his cheek, coaxing his face back. The touch was deliberate but soft, and the moment Harry’s gaze lifted, he froze. Tom was close. Too close. Barely a foot away, close enough to count his lashes, to feel the heat of his breath.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Tom murmured, his voice low and steady. “What was done to you — that’s not your shame. That’s theirs. And they’ll answer for it.”

Harry didn’t respond. His throat felt blocked, thick with something he couldn’t name. Tom didn’t push, didn’t pry. He simply held his gaze for a beat longer before turning to the jar of bruise balm beside them.

He opened the lid, dipped three long fingers into the thick salve, and pulled out a generous amount.

Harry resolutely did not let his mind wander to those kinds of thoughts. Not when he was shirtless, lying back with his arms tucked above his head, trying not to squirm under the weight of Tom’s presence. Not when the Dark Lord himself was kneeling beside him, eyes dark and unreadable, fingers slick with ointment.

The contrast hit first — Tom’s warm touch and the balm’s icy chill. Harry’s stomach twitched instinctively. His breath hitched, and he clenched his jaw to stay still. He thought he saw a faint smirk flicker across Tom’s mouth.

He pressed his hand gently to the bruise above Harry’s ribs, rubbing in slow, precise strokes. Harry tried not to react, but every nerve in his body seemed to respond of its own accord. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this — carefully, gently.

“You’re quiet,” Tom said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Those filthy Muggles… They don’t deserve breath.”

Harry looked away again, flushed and tense. Tom’s anger simmered under the surface, but his touch never changed — still controlled, still patient.

Then his hand moved to Harry’s hip.

Harry flinched before he could stop himself — muscle memory firing off warning bells in his head.

Tom didn’t retreat.

Instead, he slowed his movements, thumb making small circles along the bruise. “You’re safe here,” he said gently. “I won’t hurt you. Let me take the pain away.”

He returned to his work, rubbing balm over the handprint-shaped mark on Harry’s left hip. The touch was steady, methodical — and maddening. Harry closed his eyes and focused on breathing, repeating the truth to himself like a mantra: This is not Vernon. This is not the same. You’re safe.

Tom’s fingers drifted to Harry’s thigh, and when they brushed just under the waistband of his briefs, Harry gasped, eyes flying open.

Tom was looking directly at him — with amusement, of course. Wicked, knowing amusement.

Heat rushed to Harry’s face, and he immediately looked away, cheeks burning.

Then Tom laughed — low, pleased, far too entertained by Harry’s suffering.

A second hand joined the first, this time on Harry’s opposite hip. The pressure was firmer, working deeper into the more severe bruising. Harry bit his lip, knowing exactly why that side hurt more — and hating that Tom’s touch was helping.

The strokes widened in slow circles, and Harry tensed as Tom’s thumb slid just under the band of his underwear again. An involuntary sound left his lips. Bloody hell, this was very clearly intentional now.

“You’re blushing,” Tom said smugly.

Harry wanted to hex him. Or punch him. Or maybe beg him to keep going — Merlin forbid.

“You’re infuriating ,” Harry muttered, eyes locked on the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m thorough ,” Tom corrected, voice silken and slow. “And attentive.”

Another gasp escaped Harry as the thumb made another pass under the waistband. His hips lifted slightly before he caught himself.

Tom chuckled again — that same low, sinful sound that curled heat deep in Harry’s stomach. “Told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“You’re killing me, Tommy,” Harry groaned, throwing an arm over his face.

He felt Tom lean in, lips grazing just below his ear. The voice that followed was rougher, darker.

“That,” Tom whispered, “is entirely the point.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely broken through the grey clouds above when the latest issue of the Daily Prophet hit the streets.

SHOCKING TRUTHS: DUMBLEDORE UNFIT TO LEAD HOGWARTS?

By Rita Skeeter

For decades, Albus Dumbledore has been hailed as the beacon of morality, the defender of our youth, and the greatest wizard of our time. But what if that image is nothing more than an illusion carefully crafted by the man himself?

Several anonymous sources, including former students, current Ministry officials, and long-silenced victims, have come forward with shocking claims that raise serious questions about Dumbledore’s leadership at Hogwarts and beyond.

Among the allegations are:

• Repeated failure to protect students, including covering up abuse, attacks, and even deaths that occurred under his watch.
  
  

• The manipulation of young children for "greater good" agendas, with Harry Potter being a central figure in this web of exploitation.
  
  

• His refusal to allow Ministry oversight at Hogwarts despite numerous incidents that warranted intervention.
  
  

• A concerning pattern of allowing dangerous creatures and individuals onto school grounds, including werewolves, giants, and known Death Eaters, without disclosure or consent from parents.
  
  

Perhaps most disturbingly, new records suggest Dumbledore may have known the prophecy surrounding Harry Potter was fabricated and still encouraged the boy to walk willingly toward death.

What else has the old man been hiding behind those half-moon glasses?

The Ministry has refused to comment as of this writing, but the public outcry is rising. Is it time to reconsider who we allow to shape the minds of our children?

The article spread like fiendfyre.

At Riddle Manor, Tom Riddle sat with his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he scanned the paper. The headline was bold, damning. Everything they’d worked for in the past month—leaks, quiet bribes, favors called in from old contacts—had led to this.

Behind him, the drawing room hummed with energy. Several Death Eaters stood in small groups discussing the article, snickering and gloating. Lucius Malfoy was nearly purring with satisfaction. Bellatrix was ranting gleefully about how she couldn’t wait to see Dumbledore’s “followers” squirm.

Harry entered barefoot, dressed in a loose black robe, hair still damp from a shower. Tom’s eyes tracked him immediately, the way he always did now, as if it were second nature. Harry leaned casually against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow at the paper in Tom’s hand.

“That the Prophet?”

Tom gave a slight smirk. “Would you like to read about how your mentor’s reputation has shattered into dust?”

“I already lived it,” Harry said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t mind watching it burn again.”

Tom handed over the paper and watched Harry read, his eyes dancing over each line. His expression shifted slowly—satisfaction first, then something deeper. Vindication.

“You were right,” Harry murmured after a long pause. “They believe it. They’re starting to see him for what he really is.”

Tom rose from his chair, closing the distance between them. “We’ve only just begun, little serpent.”

From across the room, Barty caught sight of the way Tom’s hand brushed lightly against Harry’s waist as he passed him the second section of the paper. His brows arched as a slow, knowing grin curled his lips.

“Could you two be more obvious?” Barty called, causing the room to go briefly silent.

Harry froze mid-step. Tom stilled, his head turning slightly with a glare that could wither flowers.

Barty was undeterred.

“I mean, if we’re trying to inspire fear and authority, maybe don’t eye-fuck each other in the war room?”

Bellatrix cackled. Mulciber choked on his tea. Even Lucius snorted, though he covered it quickly with a cough.

Tom didn’t speak. He raised one pale hand, a flash of red light erupting from his wand. Barty barely dodged it—just enough for the spell to graze the wall behind him, leaving a scorch mark where his head had just been.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Barty said brightly, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. “Love you too, my Lord.”

Harry tried and failed to suppress the pink tint in his cheeks as Tom turned back to him with a barely-restrained smirk.

“Perhaps we should finish this meeting before I hex someone unconscious,” Tom said, sweeping past Harry, his hand brushing deliberately against Harry’s lower back.

And Harry—Harry followed him, already imagining how that smirk would look later, when it was just the two of them.

Once the laughter and jabs had faded, Tom flicked his wand and conjured a large map of Britain on the far wall. Pins, enchanted to glow, marked strategic targets—key Ministry offices, Wizengamot members, Hogwarts governors, and influential journalists.

“Now that Dumbledore’s pedestal is cracking,” Tom began coolly, “we press the advantage. We won’t stop until he falls.”

He waved a hand, and the map zoomed in on the south—on a large estate near Wiltshire.

“Next, we target Madam Bones. She’s already privately expressed concerns about Dumbledore’s overreach, and her niece’s safety at Hogwarts. If she sways, others will follow.”

Lucius stepped forward. “I can arrange a meeting. Subtle, of course. No cloaks, no masks.”

Tom gave a slight nod of approval. “Do so. And bring Draco. Let him see how politics truly works.”

From the corner, Harry watched closely, leaning one hip against the wall, arms folded. He said nothing, but his presence alone seemed to tether Tom—ground him even when his voice was wrapped in cold authority. Their eyes met briefly, and something passed between them. Private. Charged. Familiar.

Harry turned to the board, pointing toward a Ministry building in Kent.

“And what about Undersecretary Gibbons? She’s been on the fence, but she’s got a brother in St. Mungo’s because of the war. If we nudge her—say, arrange for her brother’s healing to accelerate—she might see us more favorably.”

Tom tilted his head, intrigued. “Clever. Subtle coercion wrapped as goodwill. I approve.”

“Of course you do,” Harry said with a small, crooked smile. “I’m learning from the best.”

Tom didn’t smile, but his eyes flashed with something dangerous and fond all at once.

The meeting wound down slowly. One by one, the Death Eaters left, each given discreet assignments. Bellatrix lingered, as always, her eyes flitting between Harry and Tom with a look that was half awe, half hunger. But even she could sense the mood.

“Go,” Tom said, sharp and soft all at once.

She obeyed, slinking out with a grin that made Harry’s skin crawl.

Only when the last of them had gone did silence settle again over the drawing room. The fire crackled. The map faded from the wall.

Harry turned to speak but found Tom already watching him.

“You were brilliant tonight,” Tom said simply.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Brilliant, huh? Should I be insulted? You sound surprised?”

Tom stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against Harry’s shoulder, then gliding down his arm. “Never surprised,” he said in that low voice, “only impressed.”

Harry’s breath caught as fingers ghosted over his wrist, then intertwined with his own.

“You handle power well, Harry,” Tom murmured. “You wear it like it belongs to you.”

“Maybe it does,” Harry whispered, stepping closer.

Tom’s other hand came up to cradle the side of Harry’s face, thumb brushing under his jaw. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Harry’s laugh was breathless, teasing. “You mean besides driving you mad?”

Tom smirked, eyes flashing red for a heartbeat. “Mad… and completely yours.”

Before Harry could answer, Tom’s mouth was on his—hungry, claiming, but careful. He tasted like heat and danger and promises. Harry melted into it, fingers tightening in Tom’s robes as the tension that had simmered all evening finally broke like a wave.

The kiss deepened, slow and possessive, as Tom backed him toward the nearest wall.

And Harry let him—because here, in the quiet aftermath of war planning and whispered truths, he was no longer the Boy Who Lived, no longer the weapon or the puppet.

He was Harry. And this was his choice.

—---

The firelight danced across silk and skin.

It cast flickers of gold and shadow along the stone walls, spilling warmth over Tom’s pale features as he leaned over Harry, gaze dark and consuming. His eyes no longer glowed red—but they burned. Burned with hunger, with obsession, with something deeper than either of them could name.

Harry didn’t look away.

He couldn’t.

Their lips met again—hot, urgent, and laced with all the tension they’d been swallowing for days. This kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming , a demand dressed up in silk and teeth. Tom’s fingers twisted in the back of Harry’s robes, tugging him forward until their bodies were flush, until Harry could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every ounce of need pressed against him.

Magic curled around them like heat lightning—buttons unfastening with a whispered flick of Tom’s hand, fabric slipping away with the reverence of ritual. Skin met skin, and Harry gasped at the first cold drag of fingers down his spine.

Tom’s mouth tore away from Harry’s lips, only to find the soft, vulnerable skin beneath his jaw. He bit—not hard enough to mark, but with enough pressure to make Harry’s knees go weak.

“You’re mine,” Tom murmured, voice low and dangerous against his throat. “Say it.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, breath hitching as his hands clutched at the back of Tom’s shirt. “I’m yours.”

The words weren’t just spoken—they were offered , like an incantation laced with surrender.

Tom smiled against his skin.

He guided Harry backwards, slow and deliberate, until the backs of Harry’s knees met the edge of the bed—high and heavy with dark velvet sheets, already rumpled from that morning. Tom coaxed him down, and Harry didn’t resist. He lay back, heart hammering, as Tom settled above him like a storm held barely in check.

“You look,” Tom whispered as his lips skimmed down Harry’s neck, collarbone, chest, “like something sacred. Like something men would bleed for.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “And you…” His voice faltered as Tom’s mouth found a sensitive spot just above his hip. “You look like sin.”

Tom chuckled, low and unrepentant. “Good.”

His hands roamed with maddening care—tracing every scar, every bruise, every inch of skin like he was memorizing it. Like he owned it.

Harry arched into his touch without meaning to, the friction unbearable, every nerve alight with fire. Their legs tangled, clothes half-shed and forgotten as the heat between them built, slow and simmering. Tom moved like smoke, like power barely leashed—his mouth dragging across Harry’s ribs, his hands mapping out every shiver with the kind of focus most reserved for spellwork.

“Look at me,” Tom breathed, brushing his nose against Harry’s cheek.

Harry forced his eyes open.

The intensity in Tom’s gaze stole the breath from his lungs. There was no cruelty in it—only obsession. Devotion. Possession.

“You’ll fall apart for me,” he whispered, reverent and terrifying. “Only me.”

Harry did.

The world splintered—his breath caught in his throat, his body trembling, a sound escaping him that wasn’t quite a cry but something deeper. Something undone. Tom held him through it, lips pressed to Harry’s throat, fingers digging into his hips as he followed after, a low groan breaking free like it had been dragged from somewhere dark and hidden.

They collapsed together, tangled in heat and sweat and the remnants of magic humming in the air. The fire had burned down low, casting lazy shadows along the canopy above them.

Tom didn’t pull away.

He stayed, his forehead resting against Harry’s chest, one hand still loosely curled around Harry’s fingers like he couldn’t bear to let go.

For a while, they said nothing. The quiet was comfortable. Intimate. Like the storm had passed but left something behind—something fragile and fiercely alive.

Then Harry ran a hand through Tom’s hair, slow and soft. “You okay?”

Tom let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No. You’ve ruined me.”

Harry smiled, sleepy and fond. “Good.”

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight slanted in through the tall windows of Riddle Manor, casting golden warmth across rumpled sheets and tangled limbs. Harry stirred first, blinking blearily as the events of the night before came rushing back in heated fragments—touch, breath, whispered words, and the searing intimacy that had changed something fundamental between them.

Tom lay beside him, unnaturally still but very much awake, eyes already on Harry like he’d been watching for hours. His gaze wasn’t just possessive—it was something deeper now. Something burning.

“You didn’t run,” Tom said softly, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Harry shifted, drawing the sheets up a bit and propping his chin on his arm to face him. “Would you have let me?”

A lazy smirk curled on Tom’s lips. “No.”

A beat passed. The air between them wasn’t charged—it was heavy with something more complex than desire. Trust, perhaps. Obsession, definitely. Love? Harry wasn’t sure, but something in him softened at the thought.

“Are you always like this after sex?” Harry murmured. “Staring like you’ve claimed a kingdom.”

Tom’s smirk deepened. “I have .”

Harry rolled his eyes and reached out, fingers brushing along Tom’s jaw. “You’re intolerable.”

“And you’re mine,” Tom said without flinching. There was no jest in his voice now. “This world, this war, this throne—we’ll burn it down and rebuild it as we see fit. Together.”

Harry let the silence stretch. His fingers lingered on the sharp line of Tom’s cheekbone.

“Good,” he whispered.

—---

Breakfast at Riddle Manor was an oddly quiet affair. Only a few Death Eaters were present—Avery, Mulciber, and Bellatrix, who looked far too smug for Harry’s comfort. Barty had mercifully not appeared yet.

A soft pop broke the calm, and a House Elf handed Harry a folded letter bearing the unmistakable scrawl of Sirius Black.

He froze. Tom noticed immediately and leaned closer. “Who’s it from?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He unfolded the parchment, his heart tightening as he read:

My Prongslet,

I read your letter so many times, the parchment has gone soft at the edges.

You're right. I would’ve tried to stop you.

Not because I don’t trust you—not because I think you’re incapable—but because I remember what it’s like to run, and how easy it is to mistake escape for safety. I just wanted you to have someone at your back this time. Someone who wouldn’t make decisions for you. Someone who sees you, not the Boy Who—whatever the hell they’re calling you now.

But you say you’re safe. You say you’re happy.

And I believe you.

That doesn’t mean I’m not worried. That doesn’t mean I’m not pacing holes into the floor of this bloody house, staring at the map, at the fire, at your name etched into my bones like a second heartbeat.

But I believe you.

So I won’t come chasing.

Not yet.

I’ll wait—until you’re ready, until you want to come back, or until you need me. And then I’ll be there before the ink dries.

Still… if you can, if you want—just meet me. Somewhere safe. Just to see you with my own eyes. I won’t ask questions. I won’t make demands. I just… miss you.

You are not alone, Harry. You never were. And no matter where you are or who you’re with… you’re still mine.

Love you always,
Snuffles

P.S. Don’t think the ‘xx’ got past me. You’re still a sap. You get that from your dad.

—Sirius x

Tom had taken the letter from Harry’s hands before he even finished reading it. His eyes flicked across the parchment, jaw clenched, expression unreadable.

“You’re not going,” he said flatly.

Harry exhaled slowly. “He’s not calling me back for Dumbledore. He’s asking as my godfather.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “He was Dumbledore’s creature once. Don’t rewrite the past just because the ink’s dry and the words are sweet.”

Harry stepped back, folding the letter with careful hands. “People change.”

“Not that much,” Tom snapped. “And certainly not fast enough to be trusted with you .”

Harry looked up, steady and quiet. “I’m still going.”

Tom stood then, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze locked on Harry like a chain, voice low and sharp. “Don’t let sentiment cloud your judgment. It’s the fastest way to die. And I won’t forgive you for it.”

Something flickered between them—something old and aching and still too raw.

Harry swallowed. “I’m not choosing him over you.”

“But you are choosing to walk into risk for him.” Tom’s voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Just remember who it is you come home to.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “I always do.”

—---

DUMBLEDORE: SAVIOR OR SHADOW?
Ex-Students Speak Out, Ministry Launches Inquiry

By Rita Skeeter

Once lauded as the hero of the wizarding world, Albus Dumbledore now finds himself at the heart of a growing storm. Former students, including several current Ministry employees, have come forward anonymously to describe troubling behaviors during their time at Hogwarts.

Among the claims are:

• The manipulation of vulnerable students into dangerous tasks for the so-called “greater good.”
  
  

• The concealment of vital information during both Voldemort uprisings.
  
  

• Alleged interference in Ministry investigations to protect personal assets and allies.
  
  

The most damning accusation, however, comes from recently surfaced sealed documents suggesting that Dumbledore knew about Harry Potter’s abusive Muggle guardians and left him there deliberately, despite alternatives.

Minister Fudge has issued a statement promising “full transparency and accountability.” The Hogwarts Board of Governors is now discussing a vote of no confidence in Headmaster Dumbledore.

Dumbledore has refused to comment.

—---

The room was heavy with silence, as if the walls themselves were listening.

The Prophet lay in the center of the table, its headline screaming what many had long whispered. Fred tapped it with a long finger, expression unreadable.

“Well,” he said dryly, “That’s going to make brunch awkward.”

“Lies,” Arthur muttered, face blotchy with rage. “Absolute rubbish. They’ll print anything to sell papers—”

“Not this time,” said Moody, eye swiveling between the gathered members. “Skeeter’s a vulture, but she didn’t make this up. Those sealed records… someone with clearance gave them to her.”

“Harry,” Hermione said tightly. Her arms were folded, her eyes bright with fury. “It has to be.”

“He’s a traitor,” Ginny hissed. “He’s tearing the world apart.”

“Or maybe,” said Fred, voice suddenly sharp, “he’s just showing us what’s already been broken.”

George nodded. “You’d be surprised how fast a truth becomes treason when it threatens someone’s control.”

Hermione turned on them, eyes narrowed. “So you’re defending him now?”

“We’re listening ,” George said. “Something you lot haven’t done in years.”

Molly rose from her chair, face pale with disbelief. “You’ve both lost your minds.”

“No, Mum,” Fred said calmly. “We’re finally using them.”

Across the room, Sirius sat slouched in his chair, shadows under his eyes, jaw tight. He hadn’t spoken yet. But now, all eyes turned to him.

“Sirius?” Arthur said, hesitant. “You knew. Didn’t you? You’ve heard from him.”

Sirius didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not after reading Harry’s letter so many times the parchment felt like silk.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. “He wrote to me. And I wrote back.”

Molly gasped. “You what ? Without telling the Order?”

“He didn’t want the Order involved,” Sirius snapped. “And after everything we’ve done to him—after what we let happen—I respected that.”

“He’s gone dark ,” Ron said, standing abruptly. “You’re helping him betray us.”

“No,” Sirius said. “I’m helping him survive . Something no one in this room seemed interested in until he slipped through your fingers.”

“Stop pretending he’s a victim,” Hermione said coldly. “He’s dangerous. He’s aligning with Voldemort.”

“Maybe because Voldemort gave him something you never did,” George said. “A choice .”

“He’s a murderer,” Ron hissed. “Cedric—”

“—Was killed on Dumbledore’s orders as much as Voldemort’s,” Fred cut in. “You think Harry planned that? Wake up.”

Remus entered the room quietly, letter in hand. He didn’t show it, but the look in his eyes was enough for Sirius to rise to his feet.

“I’ll keep it to myself,” Remus murmured. “Just like I said I would.”

Ron turned on him. “You’re hiding correspondence with a known threat ?”

Remus met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m protecting someone you all failed.”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Molly said to Sirius. “Going after him. Meeting with him. He’s not your godson anymore.”

“He’s still mine,” Sirius growled. “And I will always be his.”

The room fractured then. Ginny shouting. Molly crying. Hermione trying to regain control. Ron spewing hatred behind clenched teeth.

And through it all, Fred and George stood silently beside Sirius and Remus.

“If he wants to meet,” Remus asked quietly, “will you go?”

Sirius’s voice was low, resolute. “I’ll be there before the ink dries.”

Fred nodded slowly. “You won’t be alone.”

George added, “We’re done playing heroes in a rigged game.”

Behind them, the Prophet headline still blazed, the image of Albus Dumbledore staring blankly out of the front page like a fading god.

The Order was cracking.

And something older, darker, truer —was beginning to rise.

Chapter Text

The manor felt colder after Harry left the room, though the hearth still burned brightly. Tom stood by the window, eyes tracing the distant horizon where Harry’s small figure had disappeared beyond the gates. His jaw was tight, muscles tense, but inside, a storm raged fiercer than any winter wind.

He hated the idea of Harry venturing out alone, even with Barty at his side. The thought of another’s hands brushing Harry’s—another’s voice whispering in his ear—was enough to ignite a dark fire in Tom’s veins. That boy wasn’t just his prize; he was the beating heart of Tom’s ambitions, his whispered obsession, his future.

When Barty appeared, summoned by a single word, Tom’s gaze was like a whip cracking the air.

“You will accompany him,” Tom said low and sharp. “Every step. Every breath. Do not falter, do not stray.”

Barty inclined his head, his own expression unreadable, but Tom caught the flicker of approval.

From his desk, Tom took a fresh parchment and began writing, every stroke deliberate, every word a warning cloaked in cold elegance.

To Sirius Black,
Know this: Harry is mine. If harm should come to him under your watch, you will answer to me. The meeting is to be on neutral ground — no Order sanctuaries, no hiding behind old alliances. Step outside these bounds, and you will regret it. I promise you that.

Sealing the letter with a heavy crimson wax pressed with the Riddle family crest, Tom handed it to Barty.

“Deliver this personally. Let him know I am watching.” His voice dropped to a softer tone as his eyes flicked to the closed door behind him, where Harry’s footsteps had vanished only moments before.

“You may go,” Tom said, but his words were thick with something else — a warning, a plea, a claim.

Barty left without a word, the letter heavy in his hand, the weight of Tom’s gaze still clinging like a shadow.

Tom paced the room after the door clicked shut, fingers curling into fists, heart pounding—not from fear, but from an ache that was part longing, part possessiveness. Harry was so far away now, but every inch of him belonged to Tom. And yet, he would shape him further. Make him perfect. His wife, his partner, his throne’s queen.

The thought sent a dark thrill coursing through Tom’s veins.

Later, when Harry returned, quiet footsteps slipping back into the manor, Tom was waiting. Not angry, not cold — but with that look in his eyes that always made Harry’s breath hitch: the dangerous smile of a man who claimed and coveted with equal hunger.

“You left without a kiss,” Tom murmured, stepping close enough for Harry to feel the heat radiating from him. “Did you think I would let you go without reminding you?”

Harry’s cheeks warmed, but his grin was teasing. “I was in a hurry. Didn’t want to be late for my secret meeting with my godfather.”

Tom’s hand slid to Harry’s waist, fingers curling possessively beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “You always have secrets with others. But you belong here. With me.”

Harry leaned into the touch, a flicker of fire sparking behind his eyes. “And what if I want to belong somewhere else for a moment?”

“Then you’d be lying,” Tom said, voice low and dangerous, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “Because you come back. Every time. And I’m the only one who gets to hold you like this.”

The tension between them was electric—raw, unspoken, a promise and a threat all at once.

Harry traced a finger down Tom’s chest. “You sound like you’re claiming a throne, not a person.”

Tom chuckled, dark and velvet-smooth. “I’m claiming both.”

His hand tightened slightly at Harry’s waist, pulling him closer until their breaths mingled. “And when I’m done, you won’t want anyone else. You’ll be mine in every way.”

Harry swallowed hard but smiled, voice soft and teasing. “That sounds... dangerously tempting.”

Tom’s grin deepened, eyes gleaming with a heat that wasn’t just physical.

“Danger is my specialty. And you, Harry... are my greatest conquest.”

Harry’s heart thundered, caught in the pull of desire and dominance swirling between them.

“Just remember,” Tom whispered, fingers threading through Harry’s hair, “I’m not just protecting you from the world. I’m preparing you—for us.”

A low hum of need vibrated between them, thickening the air with promises of power, possession, and passion yet to come.

Chapter Text

Heyyy Beautiful Readers!!!

I would like to let everyone know, just before we go any further with this fic, that there will be consensual underage sex scenes in this fic. Harry is only 15 / 16 in this story. It is stated in the tags, but just in case anyone missed it this is just a little warning. If this makes anyone uncomfortable or is just not your thing then I wouldn’t recommend reading further. 

However, for those who want to continue but don’t want to read those scenes, then I will start adding warning before those chapters and before those scenes. This way you can keep reading and just skip those scenes. 

Hope you are all enjoying this fic so far. I love reading all your lovely comments and try my best to respond as much as I can. :)) 

💖 STAR033 

Chapter Text

The night was cool but alive—alive with the whisper of leaves, the faint rustle of wings from distant owls, and the low murmur of shadows moving through the garden at Riddle Manor. Harry’s heart pounded as he followed Barty Crouch, who moved with an unyielding, watchful presence behind him. Each step was measured, every breath deliberate, as if the air itself held secrets waiting to ignite.

Barty’s sharp eyes scanned the darkness like a hawk’s, but he never looked directly at Harry. That, perhaps, was a gift—an unspoken understanding that Harry was more than a charge, that he was something precious and perilous.

They reached the wrought-iron gate where Sirius Black waited—lean, tense, a ghost of the man Harry once knew. The moonlight tangled in Sirius’s dark hair, casting silvery shadows across his sharp features. His eyes—wild, haunted—locked on Harry with a fierce intensity.

Harry’s throat tightened. “Sirius.”

Sirius’s lips twitched, a smile flickering through the storm in his gaze. “Harry. You look different. Stronger.” His voice was low, rough with something like relief, but also warning.

Barty’s hand rested casually near his wand, his stance rigid. Harry’s pulse quickened. He wasn’t just a visitor tonight—he was a prize under watch.

Sirius glanced sideways at Barty, a flicker of disdain passing over his face. “This one’s keeping close watch.”

Harry’s gaze flicked between the two men, feeling the sharp edges of their unspoken war pressing in. Between loyalty and freedom, possession and trust.

“You came anyway,” Sirius said softly, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Harry shrugged, heart thrumming with heat he didn’t quite understand. “You asked to see me. I came.”

Sirius’s smile deepened, but there was no softness behind it. “And Voldemort—seems…”

Harry’s throat tightened again. “He... He’s… protective.” He bit his lip, unsure how much to reveal.

Sirius’s eyes darkened. “Protective. Or possessive?”

The word hung between them, sharp as a knife.

Harry felt heat bloom beneath Sirius’s gaze—and then, suddenly, a flicker of longing, a promise of something unsaid. “Maybe both,” Harry murmured.

There was a beat of silence, sharp and painful. Barty tilted his head lazily against the tree trunk, but his eyes never left Harry.

Sirius sat on a weather-worn bench and gestured beside him. “Sit. Please.”

Harry glanced at Barty. “You can relax. He won’t bite unless I ask him to.”

Barty gave a mock bow. “I serve at the pleasure of our Lord’s—beloved.”

Sirius glared. “Do you trust him that much?” Sirius asked, voice low. “Lord Voldemort?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He watched the way the breeze ruffled Sirius’s overgrown hair, the way guilt clung to him like a second skin. “Yes.”

Sirius looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened—then shut. “You didn’t come here to be convinced to leave him, did you?”

“No. I came for the truth.” Harry turned his body slightly. “Did you know what they were doing to me? What Dumbledore allowed?”

Sirius’s eyes filled with pain. “I… I knew he was strict. But you were strong. You survived.”

“Don’t.” Harry’s voice dropped an octave, soft and dangerous. “Don’t romanticize my suffering to make yourself feel better. I didn’t survive. I was broken.”

Sirius flinched. “I didn’t know how bad it was. I swear it.”

“You could’ve known. If you’d looked. If you’d asked.” Harry leaned in, his magic crackling around him, subtle but potent. “But you wanted to believe Dumbledore knew best.”

“I made a mistake,” Sirius said, raw. “I’m trying to fix it now.”

Harry tilted his head. “By what? Apologizing in a park while Barty crouches like a bored hound in the corner?”

“You used to want to be free,” Sirius whispered. “Now you’re bound to him.”

Harry smiled coldly. “I’m not bound. I choose him. Every day.”

“And does he let you choose?” Sirius challenged. “Or does he just wrap you up in silk and call it devotion while you forget what you were fighting for?”

Harry’s eyes glinted. “He wraps me in silk and then uses his mouth until I forget my name. But that’s between us.”

Sirius’s face turned scarlet. “I—Harry—!”

Barty let out a bark of laughter.

Harry stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “Thank you for confirming what I needed. For being honest. That’s all I wanted.”

Sirius looked stricken. “You’re leaving?”

“I have somewhere to be,” Harry said, stepping away. Then, softer, “Tell Remus I said goodbye. And thank you—for the good memories. Even if they weren’t many.”

“You don’t belong there, Harry,” Sirius had said, eyes wild with worry, with that old cracked loyalty. “You’re not like him. You’re not—meant for this.”

Barty straightened, moving into step beside Harry as they vanished from sight.

—---

Tom traced the shape of Harry’s signature over and over with one long, ink-stained finger. He sat in his private study, the letter from Sirius folded neatly beside a red wax seal bearing his crest.

The shadows danced around him — charmed to move even when no light flickered. He could feel the mark in his magic that told him Harry was safe, still tethered to him through old rituals and secret protections he’d etched into Harry’s skin with spell-laced kisses.

He wanted to be calm.

He was not calm.

The thought of Harry sitting on a bench across from Sirius Black—whose blood was tied to the mutts who helped ruin Harry’s youth—gnawed at him.

“Still breathing,” Tom murmured to himself. “Still unbetrayed. But for how long?”

He hated this part. The waiting. The letting go.

His hand curled into a fist. His magic surged, whispering through the walls of the manor, making the flames in the hearth flare higher.

“My wife plays too close to fire,” he said aloud, voice low. “He likes the burn.”

A voice from the corner spoke. “Do you not trust him, my Lord?”

It was Lucius, eyes cool and arms folded behind his back.

Tom didn’t look up. “I trust Harry’s instincts. I do not trust the people who try to manipulate them.”

Lucius stepped forward. “Do you wish me to intervene?”

“No.” Tom stood. “Let the dog bark. Let Harry see the Order’s decay with his own eyes. When he returns, he will be mine in truth.”

“And what of his will?” Barty asked, very softly.

Tom smiled, something feral and fond. “Oh, I have no need to break Harry’s will. I simply mold the world so that his will aligns with mine.”

He walked toward the enchanted mirror on the wall. A soft shimmer. His own reflection blinked away—replaced by Harry, standing with the wind tugging at his hair as he and Barty stepped through the wards.

“See?” Tom whispered. “He returns to me.”

He lifted his hand and touched the mirror as if it were Harry’s skin.

“My soul,” he murmured. “You can play. But you will always be mine.”

Chapter Text

The door to the manor opened with a slow creak, just as dusk slipped through the tall windows like spilled ink. Harry stepped over the threshold without a word, the weight of the day dragging behind him like a shadow too wide to fold away. His boots were scuffed from pacing. His shoulders ached from restraint. His mouth still tasted like half-said things.

The meeting with Sirius hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to. It hadn’t been violent, or cruel, or loud — not in the way that hurt immediately. But it was the kind of pain that lingered in silence, burrowed beneath skin and memory. Sirius had meant well. That had made it worse.

“You don’t belong there, Harry,” Sirius had said, eyes wild with worry, with that old cracked loyalty. “You’re not like him. You’re not—meant for this.”

But Sirius hadn’t been here. Hadn’t seen who Harry had become. Hadn’t wanted to.

Barty had said nothing on the way back. Just shadowed him like a hound on a leash — by Tom’s command, surely — until the wards opened and let Harry through, like a son returning to a kingdom he hadn’t meant to love.

He closed the door behind him softly. The manor was quiet. Too quiet.

And then he felt it — that familiar pull in his ribs, like thread tightening around bone. Tom was near.

Harry found him in the library, standing with his back to the fire. He didn’t speak when Harry entered, didn’t rush to greet him, only watched — and waited.

Harry stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he tried to hold it all together — the grief, the disappointment, the way Sirius had looked at him like a stranger. Then the tension in his chest broke like a dam.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides and pressed himself into Tom’s chest without a word.

Tom’s arms came around him instantly, iron and silk, possessive and tender. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to.

Harry pressed his forehead into the crook of Tom’s neck and breathed in the scent of dark magic and expensive cologne. “He doesn’t see me,” he murmured.

Tom’s fingers slid into his hair, slow and sure. “Of course he doesn’t. He’s still looking for the boy who needed saving.”

“I don’t need saving,” Harry said, voice tight.

“No,” Tom whispered into his temple. “You need someone who sees you. All of you. That’s what I am, isn’t it? My soul. ”

Harry’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected to be soothed so easily. But then, Tom had always known how to untangle his wires and wind him around sharp edges. It was dangerous, how good it felt to be seen this clearly.

“I’m tired of explaining who I am to people who already decided what I should be,” Harry said, quieter now.

“You don’t have to explain yourself here,” Tom said, and turned Harry’s chin up with two fingers. “Not to me. You’re mine.”

Harry didn’t flinch at the possessive word. He leaned into it. Craved it.

***Smut

Tom’s lips brushed over his — slow, deliberate. Not a kiss meant to soothe, but to claim. Harry melted into it like he was falling, and maybe he was.

They didn’t speak as Tom led him upstairs, their fingers laced tight. The bedroom was warm, a hearth already lit. Tom’s wards flickered in the corners of the room, pulsing with quiet magic like a heartbeat.

Clothes fell away between kisses. Slow at first, then hurried — fingers greedy, touches lingering just a second too long.

Tom moved over him with reverence and hunger, every touch a whisper of worship and control. “Let me remind you,” he said, breath ghosting over Harry’s neck, “who you belong to.”

Harry shuddered, nails digging into Tom’s shoulders as their bodies pressed flush. “I already know,” he whispered.

The heat between them built in waves — not just lust, but something older, deeper. Tom didn’t just want to possess him. He wanted to mark him, to make Harry’s soul remember who had held it in his palm and never let go.

Their bodies moved in a rhythm they’d long since memorized, and when Harry came undone beneath him, it wasn’t with a cry — but with a sigh of surrender.

***End Smut

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets. Tom’s hand curled around Harry’s hip. Protective. Still wanting.

“I’m not letting them take you from me,” Tom murmured against his skin. “No matter how many letters your godfather writes. No matter how many pleas he makes.”

Harry turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “He can’t take me. I chose you.”

Tom smiled — sharp, satisfied, but laced with something softer. “You’ll always choose me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Harry closed his eyes and pressed closer to him, letting the quiet settle between them like a vow.

He didn’t want to think about Sirius anymore. Not tonight. Not here, wrapped in the arms of the man the world said he shouldn’t love — but who had never, ever , let him feel alone.

Chapter Text

The room was dimly lit, the candlelight enchanted to flicker like starlight—faintly silver, like soft moonbeams against the deep mahogany walls. Harry stared into the tall mirror framed in dragonbone, letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Do I look like a sacrificial virgin?” he asked, examining the ritual robes draped over his shoulders—deep emerald green trimmed in silver thread, open at the chest and cinched at the waist. “Because that’s the vibe I’m getting, and I’m not entirely against it.”

Behind him, Narcissa—who had appointed herself as ritual supervisor—arched a brow from where she stood smoothing out runes on a length of binding silk. “You’re supposed to look symbolic,” she said. “Pure intent. Vulnerable. Trusting. The binding magic reacts to honesty.”

“Well, I’ve always been good at pretending,” Harry muttered, then smirked at his reflection. “But don’t I look gorgeous doing it?”

He didn’t say it aloud, but inside, his stomach twisted like a snitch in flight. This was happening. A binding—an oath before Lady Magic herself. It wasn’t just a magical contract; it was a merging of souls. A sacred, almost forgotten rite. And he was doing it with Tom.

He shouldn’t feel light-headed with excitement. He should be afraid. Rational. But after the way Sirius had looked at him—like he was some poor lost cause—Harry was done second-guessing the way he found meaning. The only person who had never flinched at what he was becoming was Tom. Terrifying, yes. Twisted, maybe. But consistent. Obsessive. And in his own way… worshipful.

If I’m going to belong to someone, Harry thought, touching the rune Narcissa had inked into the hollow of his throat, at least he’s the one who wants every part of me.

He grinned lazily, twirling a small feathered quill between his fingers. “I bet he’s obsessing over every last word of the vow script right now.”

—---

He was. Of course he was.

The ritual tome lay open on a carved obsidian stand in front of him, its pages humming with old power. Tom stood motionless, robes blacker than void, trimmed in threads of ruby and gold. The silver circlet on his brow was unnecessary, but symbolic—‘sacred’ in its shape, mirroring the cycles of binding and rebirth.

“Fifty-seven layers of protective magic will activate once the ritual seals,” Barty intoned, reading the matrix notations aloud beside him. “No one will be able to sever it without one of your deaths. You’ll feel his every emotional state. Including… well. All of it.”

Tom gave him a flat look. “Yes, Barty. I’m familiar with the concept of feelings.”

Barty, unperturbed, smirked. “I just hope you’re ready for a lifetime of being mentally slapped every time he’s annoyed.”

Tom exhaled slowly. He hadn’t told Harry the full depth of what this meant—hadn’t said that once the bond solidified, there would be no hiding anymore. No walls. His possessiveness, his hunger, his need to be everything—protector, god, prison and paradise—it would all pour through the connection like blood through veins.

But Harry wanted this. Tom had seen it in his eyes, raw and unguarded after that wretched meeting with Black. Harry was running from doubt straight into something irreversible—and Tom, ever the opportunist, would welcome him with open arms.

“Have the inner sanctum prepared. Circle drawn. Anchors blessed,” Tom said, voice cool.

Barty gave a half-bow. “Already done, my Lord.”

Tom traced the final sigil onto the binding scroll. His eyes glinted crimson at the edges. He’s choosing this. Choosing me. The obsessive heat simmered in his chest, tempered only by the sliver of something gentler, dangerous—love, or whatever dark, demanding thing lived where love should have been.

The inner sanctum was drenched in magic. The air shimmered with suspended spells, runes glowing faintly in a language long lost. Petals of moonlilies floated across a basin of clear water at the center, where the final vows would be spoken.

The air inside the manor shimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly—like the walls were holding their breath.

Tom stood in the center of the ritual chamber, a vast space carved from dark stone and hung with silver-lined velvet drapes. The floor had been scrubbed, polished, and inscribed with ancient runes in starlight ink. A low hum of magic pulsed beneath his boots. The binding circle was nearly complete—ten feet wide, made of silver dust mixed with bloodroot and powdered moonstone. At each corner, obsidian candles flickered with violet flame.

His hands, usually so steady, lingered on the final glyph.

This is power, he told himself, smoothing the curl of his lip. Control.

But beneath that sharp certainty, something foreign stirred. A strange flutter in his chest, almost like anticipation. Or hope.

He hated that word.

He turned at the soft creak of the door.

Harry stood at the threshold, draped in midnight-blue robes, skin glowing in the candlelight, eyes lined in kohl that made the green burn. He’d braided a single charm into his hair—an old Gryffindor habit, perhaps—and wore a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well, darling,” Harry drawled, his voice sweet with sugar and thorns, “is this the part where you sacrifice a goat or seduce me into swearing away my soul?”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “We’ve never needed a ritual for that.”

Harry laughed—a brittle sound—but he stepped forward, skirts whispering across the stone.

“Looks intense,” he said, more softly now, tracing one of the symbols with a toe. “So this is it, huh? Magic’s version of marriage.”

Tom’s voice was low, reverent. “Not marriage. A vow. Sacred. Eternal. No witnesses. No priests. Just us and the magic.”

Harry’s smile faded. “What does it bind exactly?”

“Our magic. Our souls.” Tom watched him carefully. “It allows for empathy—emotional tethering. It lets you feel what I feel. Distress, pain, longing. Ecstasy.” He stepped closer. “And you’ll always be able to find me, even across worlds, if you want to. If you need to.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Sounds... intense.”

“Only if you doubt me.”

That made Harry blink. He met Tom’s gaze, and for a moment, all the games fell away. No smirks. No flirtation. Just raw, almost aching vulnerability. He licked his lips.

“I don’t doubt you,” Harry whispered. “Not where it matters.”

Tom stepped forward again, hand raised—but hovering, not touching. “Then say yes.”

“I already did.”

A flick of Tom’s hand closed the ritual circle with a shimmer of magic. The runes lit with violet light, swirling up like steam.

Both of them stepped inside.

Tom cut his palm first, offering blood onto the circle. “I give my magic willingly, that it might intertwine with yours,” he said in the old tongue.

Harry mirrored him, slicing his hand with practiced grace. “And I give mine, freely, that it might meet yours in truth.”

The air grew heavy, like water. The lines of the circle rose around them in threads of silver light, wrapping around their ankles, their torsos, their throats. Binding them. Layering their magic together strand by strand.

A rune pulsed in the air between them.

Tom reached forward, brushing blood-stained fingers down Harry’s cheek, smearing red across pale skin.

“You’re mine, now,” he said softly.

Harry leaned into the touch. “I always was.”

The magic exploded outward—not violently, but with a shiver like silk catching in the wind. The silver threads vanished into their skin.

And then it was done.

The candles went out.

Silence fell.

Except now—now they could feel it.

Harry gasped. “Oh.”

Emotions flooded in like a second heartbeat. Tom’s restrained desire. His hungry, coiled possessiveness. That fierce, ugly need to never be left behind again. Harry clutched his chest, overwhelmed, but not frightened.

It wasn’t painful. It was heavy.

And it was real.

Tom’s expression faltered for just a moment. “You felt it?”

Harry nodded, stepping into his arms. “You’re terrified I’ll leave.”

“You won’t.”

“No,” Harry whispered. “I won’t.”

He tipped his face up, lips brushing Tom’s jaw, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Don’t ever hide from me again,” Tom murmured.

“I wasn’t hiding. I was scared,” Harry admitted, curling against him like something long-tamed. “But I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

Tom rested his cheek atop Harry’s head.

They stood there in the fading glow of the ritual, magic settling into their bones like wine into cloth—permanent, staining.

Forever.

Chapter Text

The grand chamber of Grimmauld Place felt colder than usual, the flickering candlelight casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to mock the fragile unity of the Order gathered within. The air was thick with suppressed tension, eyes darting, fingers twitching, but voices carefully measured.

Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his gaze sharp and unforgiving beneath his silver brows. His calm exterior concealed a ruthless resolve—Harry was a problem to be controlled, not coddled.

“Molly, report,” Dumbledore’s voice was clipped, formal.

Molly Weasley stepped forward, her face tight with thinly veiled frustration. “Harry’s recklessness grows. His alliance with Voldemort undermines everything we’ve worked for. He walks willingly into danger. This... obsession threatens the stability of the Order.”

Ron’s expression was hard, eyes narrowed with disdain. “He’s been spoiled by Riddle’s lies. That boy—Harry—is blinded by sentiment, refusing to see the truth. If we don’t act decisively, he’ll be lost.”

Hermione’s voice cut in with icy precision. “We must not forget the dangers that Voldemort himself poses. That boy is a conduit of dark power—power that Harry is dangerously close to embracing. The magical binding between them is unacceptable. It defies all reason, all safety.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Their concern was a mask—fear twisted into cold strategy. Harry’s freedom was a threat to their control.

Sirius shifted uneasily in his seat, exchanging a wary glance with Remus. They had not voiced their doubts—yet—but their loyalty to Harry gnawed at them like a silent rebellion. Fred and George sat quietly, tension visible in their clenched jaws.

Dumbledore’s eyes swept over them. “We cannot afford to indulge this fantasy of ‘love’ or ‘choice.’ Harry must be brought back into the fold, by whatever means necessary.”

Molly’s hands clenched into fists. “He must be severed from Voldemort’s influence. That bond is unnatural, a violation of everything we stand for. It is our duty to protect Harry from himself.”

Ron leaned forward, voice low but venomous. “If it means breaking him, so be it.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We must prepare for all contingencies. Harry’s defiance is dangerous. We cannot allow the Order to fracture further.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Remus’s eyes darkened with worry.

Fred whispered to George, “We can’t let them win. Harry’s not a pawn to be sacrificed.”

George nodded grimly. “But we need to be careful. They have power, and they’re not afraid to use it.”

Dumbledore’s gaze locked onto Sirius. “I trust you and Remus will keep a closer watch on Harry. Report anything unusual. The boy’s fate—and ours—depends on it.”

As the meeting dispersed, the weight of betrayal settled heavy on those who secretly stood with Harry. The war was no longer just against Voldemort—it was against those who claimed to protect Harry but sought to control him.

Outside, the night pressed in like a suffocating shroud, and the fragile threads holding their world together began to unravel.

—---

The low crackle of enchanted wards hummed faintly through the private wing of Riddle Manor, a distant sound beneath the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing. Rain whispered against the stained glass, dimly filtering the moonlight into fractured shades across the stone floor.

Harry sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise near the hearth, wrapped in a deep green robe—Tom’s, oversized and heavy with warmth. A rare moment of peace rested on his shoulders, but it was laced with tension he couldn’t shake.

Tom stood nearby, elegant and composed as always, reading a missive from one of their spies—Lucius, probably, or someone embedded deeper. His fingers curled around the parchment with slow, surgical precision, his dark eyes glinting like steel.

“They’ve moved the timetable forward,” Tom said without looking up. “The Order plans to isolate you.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The confirmation of what he already suspected burned like frost.

Tom looked up finally, his gaze sharp. “Dumbledore intends to ‘extract’ you. Subdue, contain—perhaps erase. Their trust is a leash. Their loyalty is to a version of you that no longer exists.”

Harry’s voice came out low, flat. “Because I chose you.”

A pause. The tension between them wasn’t dangerous—just dense. Alive with things not said.

Tom crossed the room slowly, kneeling before Harry like he might before a volatile relic—not out of reverence, but measured respect. “Because you chose yourself .”

Harry’s breath caught.

Tom’s hands brushed Harry’s knees, firm and grounding. “You stopped being their weapon the moment you thought to ask why they placed one hand on your shoulder and the other around your throat.”

Harry looked down, and for the briefest second, something fragile crossed his face. “They’ll never stop. Even if I tell them no. Even if I fight.”

“I know.” Tom’s voice was low, velvet and venom. “That’s why we don’t give them the choice.”

There was no mistaking the promise there. No longer the calculated chess game of survival—it was war. The kind made in secret hallways, between heartbeats, in the quiet loyalty between two people the world expected to kill each other.

Harry exhaled slowly. “They’ll come for me soon.”

Tom didn’t flinch. “Let them. I’ve already laid the wards. They’ll enter this house and never leave it the same.”

The firelight danced across his face—sharp cheekbones, glinting eyes, the barest hint of something dangerous blooming behind his calm.

Harry tilted his head. “You don’t think I’m soft for still caring about them, do you?”

Tom’s expression darkened slightly—not with anger, but with a quiet, brutal kind of protectiveness. “No. I think you’re better than them because you care. But if they use that against you…” He leaned closer, breath warm against Harry’s cheek. “I’ll ruin them.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his forehead to Tom’s. “Just… don’t let me lose myself.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

They sat like that for a while—forehead to forehead, battle-ready but tangled up in something gentler than either had expected to find in the other.

Outside, the storm gathered.

Inside, their plans sharpened.

They were no longer prey.

They were not pawns.

They were the rebellion in the marrow of the war.

And they would burn the world before letting anyone else decide their fates.

Chapter Text

The air inside Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was tense, even by it’s usual standards. Maps of known Death Eater hideouts, surveillance reports, and outdated portraits glared down at the gathered Order members, as if silently judging. 

Dumbledore stood at the head of the table, his eyes far colder than most remembered, despite their usual twinkle.

“He’s under Voldemort’s influence. We must accept that,” he said, voice clipped , “and act accordingly. Harry Potter is not lost to us - but we cannot sit idly and hope he will return of his own free will. We have allowed sentiment to cloud our judgment for too long.”

Hermione sat to his left, lips pursed, nodding gravely. “He’s already showing signs of corruption. That ritual he underwent - it wasn’t symbolic. Their magic is now entwined. Emotionally and physically. If we don’t sever the bond soon, we may never get him back.”

Fred looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. “He’s still Harry. He has to be. Maybe…”

Molly Weasley cut in sharply. “He’s been taken, Fred. That thing - You-Know-Who- has sunk his claws deep. We do what we must to protect him, even if it means going against his will.”

Across the room, Sirius, Remus, Fred, and George exchanged silent glances. The twins looked grim, unusually quiet. Sirius gripped the edge of the table, visibly holding back.

Dumbledore continued, gesturing to parchment laid out before them. “We’ve tracked Barty Crouch Jr. shadowing Harry. That means we know where they plan to meet in two nights. Our best chance is then. We’ll intercept the boy, isolate him, and contain the Dark Lord’s influence long enough to break the connection.”

“And if he resists?” Molly asked.

Dumbledore didn’t blink. “Then we make the choice he’s too young to make for himself.”

George’s hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. Fred put a calming hand over it. “And what if you’re wrong?” George finally asked, softly.

Dumbledore’s voice hardened. “Then we all pay the price. Now, to strategy…”

—---

Harry paced the length of the ceremonial hall, flaring his magic absently as strands of silk floated behind him. He wore dark enchanted robes that hugged him like shadows, stitched with silver runes glowing softly in the candlelight.

“I’m not saying I regret it,” he said, “but I do think I should’ve hexed Sirius just a little bit. Maybe a fingernail off. For dramatic effect.”

Barty let out a bark of laughter from where he lounged nearby, flipping a dagger between his fingers. “You and theatrics. You’ve been spending too much time with the Dark Lord. You’re practically married now.”

Harry paused mid-step, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Practically? I’ve seen the way he stares. You’d think he wanted to eat me.”

Barty smirked. “Oh, he wants to eat something all right.”

“Barty!” Harry said, scandalized and delighted. “You're vile. I love it.”

“You’re glowing, pet. That bond really agrees with you.”

Harry’s expression softened slightly, a rare flash of vulnerability showing beneath the sass. “It does. It’s... strange. I can feel him even when he’s not here. His emotions ripple through me like magic in water. When he’s pleased, it’s like warmth in my chest. When he’s angry... well. It’s electrifying.”

At that moment, Tom entered the chamber. The effect was immediate—Harry’s posture straightened, his energy shifting with subconscious magnetism. Tom crossed the space in silence, his gaze drinking Harry in.

“My wife,” he murmured, voice thick with possessive affection. “Plotting chaos again with Barty?”

“Who, me?” Harry fluttered his lashes dramatically. “Never.”

Tom’s hand found Harry’s waist, tugging him close. “I felt your irritation spike earlier. What happened?”

“Order nonsense. But don’t worry—I have you.”

Tom’s expression darkened briefly. “They’re preparing a move. I can feel it. But let them try. They don’t realize how untouchable you’ve become.”

Harry curled into him, cheek against Tom’s chest. “You sound like you’d destroy the world for me.”

“I already have,” Tom said, deadly serious.

—---

Tom stood in the solarium, alone now save for a flickering map glowing above the table. Red markers denoted Order agents. Their network was active again.

He flicked a hand and summoned his inner circle, whispering instructions through enchanted parchment. But his mind wasn’t entirely on the strategy. It was on the way Harry had clung to him. Soft, pliant, emotionally raw from his meeting with Sirius.

He liked that. He liked being Harry’s center, his anchor. The bond amplified it, let him feel Harry's longing, his desire, even his momentary fears.

It would soon be time to anchor that bond further.

Chapter Text

The manor was unusually still.

Not quiet—Tom never allowed for silence, not truly. The walls breathed with enchantment, the floors buzzed with hidden wards, and the chandeliers pulsed faintly like stars. But today, it all bent toward a different frequency, tuned not to his will, but to Harry’s magic—which now saturated the place like perfumed smoke.

Tom stood at the top of the grand staircase, his fingers resting on the curve of the banister. Below, he could see Harry in the drawing room, barefoot on the rug, wandless, lazily flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading.

Not that Tom minded. He wasn’t watching Harry to see what he did. He was watching him exist .

Ever since the ritual—the binding , as Lady Magic had whispered it to him—things had changed. Their connection had grown into a thrumming undercurrent in his chest. Emotions flickered across the bond like shadows through candlelight. When Harry was annoyed, Tom’s jaw would ache with tension. When Harry was flirty and smug, Tom’s skin would hum like livewire. And when Harry dreamt—chaotic, sweet, and volatile—Tom woke up with a whisper of those dreams still in his mouth.

Today? Today was complicated. Harry had been disturbed since the Order’s move.

The binding hadn’t made them telepathic, but it made them something dangerously close. A shared rhythm. A mirrored pulse. And when Harry’s breath caught—

Tom inhaled for him.

He descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, letting his presence press into the room like gravity. Harry didn't look up.

"You’ve been pretending to read that same page for nine minutes."

“I’m bonding with the paper,” Harry replied sweetly, looking up finally. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re more of a ‘tear the page out of the book and force it to talk’ kind of wizard.”

A sharp smile curved Tom’s lips. “And you like that about me.”

Harry tilted his head, curls brushing his cheek. “Maybe.”

The bond between them buzzed—playful, curious, and with a faint curl of longing. Tom crossed the space slowly and sat on the low table in front of Harry, placing himself squarely in the boy’s gaze.

“You’re worried,” Tom said, quiet. “The Order has moved. Dumbledore’s pawns are stirring. And your godfather—” he said the word like it was a fragile bone to snap, “—still wants you to run.”

Harry’s jaw twitched.

“He does love me,” Harry murmured. “But he’s clinging to the version of me that wore secondhand sweaters and broke rules to make Gryffindor proud.”

“You did look ridiculous in red and gold.”

“Shut up.”

Tom’s hand lifted, thumb brushing lightly under Harry’s chin.

“I don’t want to run,” Harry whispered. “I want to be where I choose. I want to burn them when they think they can still define me.”

Tom felt it through the bond like a spark in the ribs—fury, wrapped in grief.

“You are my match, my soul,” Tom murmured. “Let them try. I have you now.”

Harry blinked at that. His voice was soft. “You called me that again.”

Tom’s smile turned inward. “My soul. My wife, if you’d rather.”

“I do rather,” Harry said, lifting an eyebrow.

A beat of silence stretched between them, charged and aching.

Then Harry leaned forward, resting his forehead to Tom’s chest. “I’m scared,” he said quietly. “They won’t come gently. Dumbledore won’t stop until I’m back in chains, polished for the public.”

“Then we’ll break him,” Tom replied. “Together.”

A moment passed. Harry straightened, then said brightly, “Now, where’s your little goblin friend? I want to sass someone before dinner.”

As if summoned, the door opened and in walked Barty Crouch Jr., smirking like a cat that had done more than eat the canary.

“You rang?” Barty asked, tossing a tiny vial of something volatile between his fingers.

“You’re late,” Harry said, examining his nails. “I needed someone to insult twenty minutes ago. Now the moment’s ruined.”

“I’ll give you a fresh one,” Barty offered. “Did you hear the Order’s first plan? It’s tragic. Some nonsense about intercepting your owl communications. As if you don’t use spell-masked familiars.”

“They still think I’m stupid,” Harry purred. “Or maybe they think Tom is.”

Tom raised a brow. “Let them underestimate me. It worked for decades.”

Harry rose, flicked his wand, and conjured two cushions that popped Barty and Tom onto the floor.

Barty cackled. “Wife privileges.”

“I love being magic married,” Harry said, spinning lightly on his heel. “Next time I’ll conjure a throne.”

Tom watched him like a man starved.

But beneath the banter, the bond pulsed. There were darker waters ahead—he could feel it. The Order’s first move was only the beginning. Harry was growing more powerful by the day, emotions sharper, magic more reactive. And somewhere deep within their connection, Lady Magic stirred—watching.

—---

The heavy wooden table in the Order’s war room bore the weight of more than just parchment and ink—it carried the crushing burden of expectation and desperation. Dumbledore sat at the head, his silver hair catching the flicker of candlelight, his eyes sharp beneath his spectacles. Around him, the familiar faces of Molly Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and others clustered close, their voices hushed but urgent.

“The bond between Potter and Riddle grows,” Dumbledore said quietly, steepling his fingers. “It threatens everything we have fought for.”

Hermione’s eyes gleamed with cold certainty. “We cannot allow it to deepen. We strike tonight.”

Ron’s mouth twisted into a grim line. “No more delays. We bring Harry back, and we end this... aberration.”

Molly’s hands trembled slightly as she clutched her knitting, her voice tight. “That boy, that Riddle—he’s poison. Potter’s playing with fire.”

Kingsley’s deep tone cut through the tension. “We need precision. If we fail now, we lose any chance of control.”

Dumbledore nodded. “The Order will move swiftly. Harry will be caught off-guard.”

But not everyone shared this conviction.

In the dim corridor beyond the war room, Fred and George Weasley exchanged a wary glance. Sirius Black paced nearby, his jaw clenched, eyes dark with conflict. Remus Lupin stood quietly, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him.

“This is reckless,” Fred muttered, voice low. “We don’t truly know where Harry’s heart lies.”

George’s brow furrowed. “Dumbledore’s plans always feel so... perfect, but what if he’s wrong?”

Sirius’s voice was barely above a growl. “I don’t trust Dumbledore on this. Harry’s not the enemy.”

Remus sighed, rubbing his temples. “We owe him our caution, at least. If we push too hard, we might lose him forever.”

Their dissent remained unspoken at the meeting, but they moved to shadow the operation, prepared to intervene if necessary.

—---

The night was thick with cold and shadow as the Order’s strike team approached the manor. Magic pulsed faintly in the air, a heartbeat in the darkness—Tom and Harry’s bond alive and thrumming, as if warning them.

Barty Crouch Jr., standing sentinel near the manor’s edge, whispered sharply, “They’re coming.”

Tom’s eyes darkened. “Good. Let them test me.”

Harry’s fingers twined through Tom’s, calm but fierce. “We’ll be ready.”

The attack was sudden and chaotic.

Silencing curses blasted through the night; a spray of hexes and jinxes erupted in sharp bursts. Ron’s curse careened wildly, catching Hermione in the shoulder and drawing a startled cry. Molly’s hexes shattered uselessly against shimmering wards Tom had conjured in moments.

Dumbledore’s frustration simmered beneath his calm mask. “Contain them!”

But Harry and Tom moved as one, their magical bond weaving defense and counter strike with unnerving ease. Their movements were fluid, instinctual—each sensing the other’s thoughts, their power a singular force that no single Order member could pierce.

Fred and George, cloaked and hidden, subtly shielded Harry and Tom, their loyalty quiet but undeniable.

Sirius snarled from a distance, “Pull back. This is not a fight we can win tonight.”

Remus hesitated, caught between loyalty and doubt, watching as the plan unraveled.

Retreat was swift and bitter.

Dumbledore’s voice was cold and clipped as the Order regrouped. “This was only the first move. We will tighten the noose.”

But even he could not conceal the flicker of unease shadowing his eyes.

—---

Back inside the manor, warmth and adrenaline mingled in the air.

Harry grinned, breath quickened. “Did you see Ron’s face?”

Barty snorted softly nearby.

Tom’s hand curved possessively around Harry’s waist. “Let them fight. My soul, they will learn exactly who you belong to.”

Harry’s smile was wicked and fierce. “They already know.”

Between them, the magical bond hummed—an unbreakable promise of power, passion, and a war yet to come.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept cautiously through the heavy velvet curtains, casting muted gold streaks across the room. Harry lay curled against Tom’s side, the steady rise and fall of Tom’s chest grounding him in a way nothing else could. Outside, the world was waking, but inside this sanctuary, time felt suspended—fragile, intimate, and fiercely guarded.

Harry’s fingers traced lazy circles on Tom’s arm, still feeling the echo of adrenaline and magic thrumming beneath their skin. His heart was pounding—not just from the fight, but from the raw intensity of the night’s close call.

Tom shifted, eyes dark and unreadable as they opened to catch Harry’s gaze. “They came,” he murmured, voice low and possessive, “and they failed. Because you are mine.”

Harry smirked, sass threading through his breathless words. “That’s quite the claim, my dark lord. You sure you’re not just jealous?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Tom’s lips. “Jealous? Perhaps. But protective first and foremost. No one touches my wife.”

Harry laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet crackle of the dying fire. “You do like that title, don’t you? ‘Wife.’ Sounds... cozy.”

Tom’s hand slid from Harry’s waist to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing over flushed skin. “It suits you. You are mine in every way that matters.”

A charged silence stretched between them, electric and fraught with all the unsaid promises and dangers looming beyond the manor walls.

Tom’s hand tightened slightly on Harry’s cheek, his gaze darkening with hunger. “Enough words,” he murmured, voice thick with need. “Show me.”

Harry’s breath caught, heart hammering wildly. He arched into Tom’s touch, craving the fierce possessiveness radiating from him. Slowly, reverently, Tom lowered his mouth to Harry’s throat, lips brushing and biting, marking him as his in the only language they both understood.

Hands explored with a mix of tenderness and urgency, sliding beneath soft fabric until skin met skin, warm and trembling. Harry’s fingers tangled in Tom’s dark hair, pulling him closer as their bodies pressed together, heat radiating in a private fire.

Tom’s hands roamed over Harry’s curves, mapping every inch, his touch both demanding and worshipful. Harry shivered under the intensity, surrendering completely, trust wrapping around them like a shield.

With deliberate care, Tom shifted so they were fully aligned, lips trailing hot kisses along Harry’s jaw and down his collarbone, his breath warm and ragged. When he finally entered Harry, slow and sure, the world narrowed to the exquisite sensation of their bodies moving as one—raw, fierce, and utterly intimate.

Harry gasped, clinging to Tom as they found a rhythm, every movement speaking volumes—possession, protection, desire, and love all entwined. Tom’s voice was a low growl in his ear, full of promises and dark devotion.

“You are mine,” Tom whispered between breaths, “and I will never let you go.”

Harry’s answer was a shuddered moan, a fierce smile curving his lips even as waves of pleasure tore through him. They moved together, lost in each other, until the edges of the night blurred into dawn’s soft light—still bound, still burning with a fire that neither time nor fate could extinguish.

—---

The quiet warmth of the morning was soon filled with the soft scrape of footsteps as Barty Crouch Jr. entered the room, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Well, my soul,” Barty greeted, voice dripping with amusement as he caught sight of Harry lounging against Tom’s side, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming with that mischievous light. “Looks like someone had a rather productive morning.”

Harry shot him a wicked grin, fingers twining in Tom’s dark curls. “Oh, Barty, you wound me. Like I’d share such details.”

Barty laughed, stepping closer, eyes flickering with teasing curiosity. “You can try to keep secrets, but Tom’s possessiveness is hard to miss. He practically glows when he looks at you.”

Tom’s gaze darkened, lips quirking into a warning smile. “Careful, Barty. I might decide you’re next to be claimed.”

Barty raised his hands mockingly. “I’m a lucky man, then. But truly, Harry, it’s good to see you so… alive. The Order’s blundering attempts only made you stronger.”

Harry’s fingers brushed teasingly along Tom’s jaw. “Stronger, and a bit more insatiable, I suspect.”

Barty’s laugh echoed softly in the room. “You do wear that title well, my wife.”

“I’ll kill him one day,” Tom dags Harry closer to his side. 

“No you won’t,” Harry smiled leaning into him.

—---

Later that day, deep within the shadowed recesses of an ancient manor, Voldemort’s cold voice cut through the stillness as his closest Death Eaters gathered in a concealed chamber.

“The Order’s failures are no cause for complacency,” Voldemort began, eyes like dark embers scanning the room. “They grow reckless, but their reach remains dangerous. We will not falter as they stumble.”

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. “The Ministry’s defenses are vulnerable, my Lord. Our agents have secured critical positions. The final phase of infiltration is underway.”

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed with fervor. “Soon, the Ministry will crumble from within. The Order will be fractured beyond repair.”

Voldemort’s voice dropped to a whisper thick with menace. “Prepare your minds and magic. The Ministry’s heart will be ours, and no charm or shield will stand against our will.”

The Death Eaters exchanged grim nods, wands raised in silent vow.

Outside, the sun set quietly over a world on the brink of upheaval, the shadows growing deeper with every heartbeat.

Chapter Text

“I still don’t understand why I’m the one shimmying through dusty archives when you have magic hands and a boyfriend who can vaporize walls,” Barty grumbled, crouched behind an aging file cabinet labeled Experimental Magic—Confiscated.

Harry gave a wicked smile, leaning casually against the wall. “Because, darling, I’m the face. You’re the feral rodent who’s immune to tetanus.”

“You flatter me,” Barty muttered, reaching deeper into the cluttered drawer. “One day I’ll break out in boils doing your dirty work, and then where will you be?”

“Less entertained,” Harry quipped, twirling his wand with a grin.

They were here to retrieve a forbidden magical ledger buried in the Ministry’s underbelly—something to bolster Tom’s slow, calculated takeover. Barty had suggested explosions. Harry had suggested seduction. They’d met somewhere in the middle: breaking and entering with flare.

“Found it,” Barty said at last, pulling out a book that hummed with latent magic. “Oh, look, it bites. How charming.”

“Give it here before you start tongue-kissing it,” Harry drawled, taking the book and slipping it into a satchel warded by Tom himself. “Let’s go. I want to get back before the Dark Lord starts pacing again. It’s like watching a predatory cat wearing a silk robe.”

Barty let out a laugh. “Oh, so that’s what you call him now?”

“What? It’s true. He broods. You should see him when I take too long in the bath.”

“Does he hover?”

“Worse,” Harry said solemnly. “He polishes his wand and glares at the door.”

Barty barked a laugh. “You’re so far gone.”

“I know,” Harry said with a wicked smile. “Isn’t it glorious?”

The bond flared before Harry even reached the study.

It wasn’t pain—but pressure. Something inside him reacted to Tom’s presence now, to his mood. The closer he got, the heavier the pull. It wasn’t unpleasant—more like being reeled in by invisible silk threads.

Tom stood by the fire, one hand resting on the mantel. His robes were unbuttoned, shirt open at the collar. Not quite brooding, but close.

“You took longer than expected,” he murmured.

Harry sauntered forward, tossing the satchel to a table. “Had to stop Barty from French-kissing a cursed ledger.”

Tom didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

The tension shifted as Harry neared. Magic prickled between them—warm, almost heady.

Tom reached out instinctively, fingers brushing Harry’s jaw. “You’re flushed.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the softness. “Running from Ministry wards. You know, cardio.”

But Tom didn’t respond with a smirk. Instead, his thumb lingered against Harry’s skin.

The air crackled. The bond flared—not painful, but overwhelming. Their magics touched like magnets trying to collide and repel at once. Harry’s pulse jumped.

Tom stepped back first. “It’s… stronger today.”

“I noticed,” Harry said quietly. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“No. But it’s changing us.”

Harry hesitated, then—almost a whisper—“Would it be so bad?”

Tom said nothing. But his eyes were thunder.

—---

Later that night, the inner circle gathered in a cavern carved beneath the Wiltshire estate. A cold obsidian table stretched before them, torches casting eerie shadows.

Tom was all steel again—measured and distant.

“The Ministry is fraying,” he said, voice echoing. “Their reliance on internal protocols leaves them blind to subtle sabotage. Tonight’s acquisition is only the beginning.”

Bellatrix leaned forward eagerly. “And the Minister?”

“In time. Publicly, he must fall by his own hubris. Quietly, we erode the foundation.”

Barty yawned loudly. “So, still no dramatic assassination? Shame.”

Harry smacked his arm.

Lucius coughed. “What of the Order?”

A flicker of amusement passed through Tom. “They made their first move. It failed.”

Everyone murmured—except Severus, who looked sourly amused. “They underestimate Potter.”

Harry smiled sweetly. “Everyone does.”

Tom’s gaze flicked to him—possessive and unreadable. “They won’t again.”

—---

“They’re slipping away,” Dumbledore muttered, his eyes hard. “We must retrieve Harry before it’s too late.”

Molly wrung her hands, glancing at Ron and Hermione. “He’s still our boy. He can be fixed.”

“Fixed?” Sirius snarled from the corner. “He’s not a broken toy, Molly. He made a choice.”

“Under duress!” Hermione snapped. “He’s confused!”

“You’re all confused if you think attacking his home will bring him back,” Fred muttered, voice dangerously low.

George nodded. “You break in, you break his trust. There’s no ‘fixing’ that.”

Remus stood by the door, arms crossed. “Perhaps we should rethink—”

“We do not rethink,” Dumbledore interrupted coldly. “We act. Tonight.”

Fred and George exchanged a look—unspoken, sharp.

Later that evening, a single owl soared from the forest’s edge. Its destination: Riddle Manor.

The message?

“We’re in. The Order is a joke. Let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

It was well past midnight when the wards rippled.

Not violently—no alarms or explosive breaches. Just a subtle shift in the ancient magic threaded through the manor walls, a brush of unfamiliar presence against protections older than most wizarding bloodlines.

Harry was already awake, draped over an armchair in silk and shadows. Tom stood at the window, half-lit by moonlight, his wand held loosely in one hand.

“They’re here,” Harry said, not looking up.

Tom’s eyes didn’t move from the glass. “You sound certain.”

Harry smiled faintly. “You forget I know how Fred and George smell.”

A pause. Then a look, darkly amused. “Disgusting.”

“I thought you liked disgusting.”

“I make exceptions,” Tom murmured, and vanished with a twist of his cloak.

—---

The twins stood shoulder to shoulder as the double doors creaked open.

Fred’s grin was wide, casual. George’s eyes were sharper—watchful. Both wore dragonhide jackets under their robes, wand-holsters at their wrists, and matching expressions that said: We’re not afraid, but we know we should be.

Tom appeared at the top of the staircase like a summoned god—silent, poised, and deadly.

“Fred. George,” he said coolly. “I do hope this isn’t a prank.”

Fred bowed low. “Only the serious sort, my Lord.”

George followed. “We brought a gift. Truth.”

Tom raised one elegant brow. “Did you now.”

There was a whisper of movement behind him as Harry appeared, barefoot, robe half-buttoned, dark curls tousled from sleep.

Fred grinned wider. “There he is. The prodigal boyfriend.”

Harry didn’t smile back. “This is either the smartest or stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

George tilted his head. “We’re about to find out.”

Tom descended the stairs like a shadow gliding over stone. He stopped just before them, gaze unreadable.

“You left the Order.”

Fred shrugged. “They were trying to break into your house and ‘rescue’ someone who didn’t ask to be rescued.”

George added, “And they kept calling Harry ‘a lost cause.’ That never ends well.”

“Sentiment,” Tom said, but his voice was quiet. Dangerous. “Is not loyalty.”

“Neither is blind obedience,” George returned. “We’re not fools. We know what you are.”

“And we’re here anyway,” Fred finished.

A pause stretched.

Then Tom waved a hand. “Follow me.”

The twins were brought to a dim chamber in the manor’s eastern wing—a place lined with enchanted mirrors and blood-scribed runes. Magic thrummed in the walls, thick and ancient.

Tom stood by the ritual circle. “There are oaths. Not Unbreakable—but binding. Fail them, and the manor will reject you.”

“Like a bad joke?” Fred quipped.

“Like an organ transplant,” Harry murmured from behind, eyes serious now.

George stepped forward first. “What’s the test?”

Tom gestured. “A truth-binding. One question. One answer. Spoken freely. If you lie, the circle will burn you from the inside.”

Fred glanced at George. “You or me?”

“I’ll go,” George said.

The circle pulsed as he stepped inside. Tom’s magic wound around him like smoke.

“Do you intend to betray us?” Tom asked softly.

George didn’t hesitate. “No.”

The room held its breath.

Then the runes glowed green—and faded.

Fred stepped in next.

“Would you kill a friend to protect your brother?” Tom asked.

Harry’s eyes flickered—he hadn’t expected that one.

Fred blinked, then said, “Yes.”

The runes flared—green again.

Tom looked almost… intrigued.

—---

The fire crackled low. The twins had been sent to guest rooms, and the manor adjusted to accommodate them—as it did for anyone Tom didn’t plan to kill immediately.

Harry leaned on the edge of Tom’s desk. “You scared them.”

“I offered them truth,” Tom said, pouring himself a drink. “Truth is terrifying.”

“You liked their answers.”

“I liked that they answered.”

A pause. Harry watched him carefully. “You know they still love the Order.”

“Yes,” Tom said simply. “But they’ve chosen you. That is far more useful to me.”

Harry didn’t answer, but the bond pulsed—deep and warm, threading between them like a living tether.

Tom met his gaze. “And what would you say, if I asked you the same question?”

Harry tilted his head. “You’d never ask.”

“But if I did?”

A pause. Then Harry smiled—slow and wicked.

“I’d say: Show me the friend. I’ll choose the blade. ”

And Tom—dark lord, heir of Slytherin, laughed.

Chapter Text

The sun never really shone on Riddle Manor. The windows were too tall, the trees too thick, and the wards too old to allow anything as soft as natural warmth. Still, Fred and George had woken to magically pressed robes, polished boots, and a hovering tea tray that judged them silently for asking for sugar.

Harry greeted them in the hall with a grin that was far too smug for someone not yet fully dressed.

“Well, look who survived the night.”

Fred stretched. “Place hasn’t tried to eat us yet.”

George peered at a tapestry depicting a basilisk eating a screaming centaur. “Not for lack of effort.”

“Come on,” Harry said. “Tour time.”

“First rule,” Harry said as they descended into the lower levels, “if something hisses at you in Parseltongue, don’t hiss back. That’s like replying to a death threat with a marriage proposal.”

Fred eyed a carved snake curling along the bannister. “What if we wink at it?”

Harry didn’t laugh. “Then I get to tell Tom how I lost a twin to ornamental homicide.”

The manor was an elegant nightmare—gothic corridors, cursed paintings, rooms that rearranged if you insulted them. Harry introduced them to the kitchens (the house-elves were disturbingly loyal to Voldemort), the dueling hall (George made eye contact with Bellatrix there and swore he aged a year), and finally, the library.

Bellatrix Lestrange lounged in one of the armchairs, reading Moste Potente Potions like it was a romance novel.

“Oh,” she purred. “New toys.”

Fred gave a perfect bow. “Good morning, ma’am.”

George added, “We’re not edible.”

“Pity.” She smiled with all teeth. “You smell like Dumbledore’s guilt.”

Harry stepped in before things got bloody. “They’re under protection. Touch them and I tell Tom you interrupted our late-night bonding ritual.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes but left them alone.

“Late-night bonding?” George muttered.

Fred elbowed him. “We’re not judging, we’re surviving.”

—---

They were gone.

Fred and George’s shared bedroom was stripped clean—warded, emptied, not even a loose sock left behind. Only a single note sat on the desk, charmed with their messy, identical scrawl:

He chose his side. So have we.

The meeting had dissolved into yelling.

Molly was screaming. Arthur had aged five years overnight. Tonks was pacing like she wanted to hex the walls down. Moody was furious—talking about infiltration, brainwashing, betrayal.

But Sirius was quiet.

Later, when most of the house had gone still, he found Remus in the study.

The fire was low. A bottle of firewhisky was half-empty on the table. Sirius didn’t speak at first. He just sat, picked up a glass, and filled it.

Remus didn’t look up. “You think they made the wrong choice?”

Sirius sipped. “I think they made the brave one.”

That made Remus glance at him, sharply.

Sirius shrugged. “Everyone talks about Harry like he’s gone dark. Like he’s possessed or cursed or broken. But not one of them ever asked him if he’s safe . The twins did.”

Remus’s mouth twisted. “You think Voldemort’s going to keep him safe?”

“I think Harry already is dangerous,” Sirius said quietly. “He doesn’t need protecting from Tom. He needs people who aren’t trying to pull him back into chains.”

“And you think the twins understood that.”

“They’ve always understood him better than anyone.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re going to leave, too, aren’t you?” Remus asked.

Sirius didn’t answer directly.

Instead, he murmured, “If I were seventeen again, and James was where Harry is now—I wouldn’t let a war get between us. Not even a side.”

Remus swallowed hard. “We’re losing him.”

“No,” Sirius said, softly but fiercely. “You lot already lost him. The question is whether we’re brave enough to find him again.”

—---

George sat beside Fred on a velvet sofa, both nursing drinks Nagini had nearly knocked over when she slithered past earlier. Harry had disappeared to Tom’s study.

“You think we did the right thing?” George asked, finally.

Fred leaned back, eyes serious for once.

“We didn’t pick a side, Georgie,” he said. “We picked Harry. That’s always been the right thing.”

Chapter Text

Sirius had stopped attending meetings.

It was subtle at first. A missed evening here, a forgotten summons there. When questioned, he blamed headaches, grief, or just said, “I’m not needed.”

But the truth scratched under his ribs like a splinter.

Fred and George were gone. They hadn’t returned—not for socks, not for answers. No word. No sign. Not even from Harry.

Which meant Harry didn’t trust them anymore.

Sirius knew exactly what that felt like.

He sat at the Black family desk, quill trembling in his fingers. Before him lay parchment, blank and damning.

What do you say to a godson you’re not allowed to love out loud?

He wrote anyway.

Harry,

I see you. Not the boy they think you are. Not the weapon they tried to make you. Just you.

I won't ask where you are. I won't ask what you're doing. Just know: not everyone left you.

Some of us are just waiting for the right moment to follow.

Yours,
Snuffles

He folded the letter carefully, charmed it to travel through fire unseen — old Black family magic no one in the Order had ever dared touch. If it worked, it would land in the manor’s hearth. If not… the wards would burn it and his secret with it.

He threw it into the flames and didn’t watch it go.

—---

The first lesson was brutal.

Harry didn’t hold back. He couldn’t afford to.

“You’re used to stunners, shields, maybe a disarming charm,” he said, circling Fred and George like a predator. “That won’t save your life.”

He raised his wand. “Crucio.”

The blast of pain sent George to his knees. Fred moved to shield him, teeth bared, but Harry cancelled the spell before either could recover.

“Lesson one,” he said coldly. “Never assume I’m your friend in the field.”

“You’re a right bastard now,” George growled, voice shaking.

“Exactly,” Harry snapped. “So imagine what our enemies are like.”

They didn’t walk away that day. They limped.

But they came back the next morning.

And the next.

By the end of the week, they could dodge a cutting curse blindfolded. By the second, they could cast one. Their eyes stopped holding jokes. Their laughter grew sharper, edged in steel.

It was meant to be simple.

A Ministry informant, half-turned, needed removal before he exposed one of Tom’s inner circle. Quick. Silent. Clean.

Harry led. The twins followed. No masks, no glamour.

Just wands.

The man was younger than expected. Late twenties, frightened, pathetic. He begged in a whisper.

“I didn’t tell them anything—please—I swear—”

Fred hesitated.

George didn’t.

The curse left his lips almost gently.

The body slumped.

No one said anything for a long moment.

Then Fred turned, threw up behind a tree, and wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.

Harry didn’t offer comfort. Just a nod.

“Now you know,” he said. “This isn’t about winning. It’s about surviving what it costs you to stay alive.”

George said nothing. His hand still shook.

Fred whispered, “What if it was the wrong man?”

Harry’s eyes were calm. Cold.

“Then he should have run faster.”

—---

The letter arrived in the fire.

Only Harry noticed the flicker. The slight ripple in the flames. He reached in without hesitation.

He read the letter. Twice.

Then, slowly, he folded it, and slid it into the inner pocket of his robe.

“Snuffles,” he murmured. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t smile.

But for a moment, the firelight caught something softer in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Sirius had started hiding things. Books, mostly. Letters. The odd bottle of firewhisky tucked in strange places, but that wasn’t new.

What was new was the map he'd redrawn by hand: secret routes through the Floo system, hidden magical alleys, the wards around Riddle Manor—what little he’d guessed or gleaned from years of pureblood secrets and a gut feeling.

Remus was the only one who noticed the shift. Always had.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said quietly, leaning in the doorway.

Sirius didn’t look up from the parchment. “Neither are you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Sirius set his quill down and met his friend’s eyes. “You think they’re wrong. The twins.”

Remus paused, and Sirius smiled bitterly. “That’s not a no.”

“I think they’re scared,” Remus said. “And that they picked the first place that didn’t feel like a cage.”

Sirius’s expression hardened. “So did I.”

There was silence between them. Heavy. Honest.

“When I go,” Sirius said finally, “I won’t ask you to come with me.”

Remus didn’t answer for a long time.

“When you go,” he said softly, “just be careful who else follows.”

—---

Fred was muttering. George was snickering.

“Honestly, all I said was he seemed fond of Riddle. Didn’t expect Harry to hex me into next Tuesday.”

“You also said they were ‘probably exchanging brooding looks and magical orgasms.’”

Fred grinned. “True. But it was accurate. ”

They turned the corner—and stopped dead.

The door to the west drawing room was cracked open.

They hadn’t meant to spy. Truly. But the sound of laughter— Harry’s laughter—was so rare, so startling, they froze without thinking.

Inside, Harry was half in Tom’s lap, the older man looking alarmingly relaxed. One of his hands trailed up Harry’s back—slow, intimate. Harry had a teasing grin as he whispered something, and Tom murmured back, brushing lips along the curve of his jaw.

Then Harry bit him.

Softly. But with intention.

Fred made a sound that could only be described as “death by toad.”

George tried to backpedal. Loudly. Into a suit of armor.

The crash was deafening.

Inside the room, two wands snapped up immediately. Then—

“Oh god,” Harry groaned. “You did not just—”

Fred held up both hands. “WE WERE LOST. WE DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING.”

George, pale, nodded furiously. “Except your tongue, and also his neck, and—okay, maybe a bit much—”

Tom arched a brow. “Shall I Obliviate them?”

Fred whimpered.

Harry sighed. “No, they’ll just remember the worst bits anyway. It’s how their brains work.”

“We’re scarred, mate,” Fred managed. “I may never flirt again.”

“That’s a win for society,” Harry deadpanned. “Get out before I make you clean the basilisk tank.”

—---

Sirius had one more thing to send.

A box. Slim. Sealed with the Black crest.

Inside: A letter. A ring. And a knife.

The note read:

In case you ever doubt who still chooses you, even in the dark.

He sealed it and whispered the old fire charm again. If Harry was still alive, still listening , he’d know what it meant.

—---

Harry threw a knife at the map.

It embedded in the wooden table between George’s fingers. The twin didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

“This,” Harry said coolly, “is what we’ll be walking into.”

The mission was a raid. A smaller Ministry office that still funneled information to the aurors. Supposedly innocuous. But Harry had heard whispers of traps, and more concerning, rumors of Dumbledore visiting that site just a week prior.

“You don’t freeze, you don’t hesitate, and you don’t act like you’re still playing at war,” Harry said. “You’re not.”

Fred’s eyes were shadowed. “We’re not scared.”

Harry nodded. “You should be. That’s what keeps you alive.”

…

Tom watched as Harry came in from the mission, bloody but breathing. The twins followed close behind—pale, shaken, and silent.

Tom barely looked at them.

He only walked up to Harry, fingers brushing over a cut on his cheek.

“You did well.”

Harry smirked, exhausted. “They didn’t die.”

Tom leaned in, his voice silk-wrapped steel. “You keep bringing me soldiers, Harry. But I wonder how long it’ll take before you start building generals. ”

Harry looked over at the twins.

Fred was washing blood off his hands like it might not stain. George sat in silence, staring at nothing.

“I guess we’ll see,” Harry murmured.

Chapter Text

The wind carried mist and secrets.

Harry sat on the edge of the balustrade, feet dangling into the predawn air, wand loose in his hand. He’d been expecting Sirius’s message to mean something —but not this. Not the man himself.

A shimmer in the air, a pop of displaced magic, and there he was.

Sirius Black.

Older. Wearier. Cloaked in a ragged glamour that flickered at the edges. His eyes scanned the shadows before locking onto Harry’s.

They said nothing at first.

Then Harry whispered, “You’re either very stupid or very desperate.”

Sirius smiled grimly. “Both. But mostly desperate.”

He passed him the box—a different one this time. Inside: photographs. Of Grimmauld, of Remus. A child’s drawing from long ago, labeled Harry’s first broom ride! in clumsy handwriting.

“I don’t know where the lines are anymore,” Sirius said quietly. “But I know where you are. And that’s enough.”

Harry’s breath hitched. He closed the box. “Then come in.”

Sirius gave a half-laugh. “You think your Dark Lord will just let me walk into his snakepit?”

Harry slid off the railing. “No. But I will.”

—---

George was punching a dummy. Hard. Over and over.

Blood had started to seep through the wraps around his knuckles. Fred watched from the corner, silent.

Finally, George muttered, “He looked like Dad.”

Fred didn’t respond.

The auror they’d killed had fallen hard. Blonde hair. Brown robes. Muggle-born. Young.

The report had said he’d been part of a surveillance ring. But none of that mattered when his face had gone still.

“We don’t even know if he did anything,” George whispered. “He was running.”

Fred closed his eyes.

Harry had said hesitation gets you killed. Fred believed him. But he also remembered the way George had stared at his bloodied hands after it was over.

“Want to go prank Barty?” Fred offered, a thin smile creeping in.

George snorted. “Only if we don’t get cursed into oblivion.”

—---

“Potter,” Barty sing-songed, sliding up beside him with a feline smirk. “Looking delightfully homicidal this morning.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Define sleep.” Barty leaned in, inspecting him far too closely. “You’ve got a hickey under your collar, by the way. Unless Tom’s taken up strangling for fun again.”

Harry shoved him lightly. “Jealous?”

“Oh, wildly,” Barty said brightly. “I dream of being pinned to antique wood by a sociopathic warlord with necromancer eyes.”

“You have issues.”

Barty grinned. “And a very healthy imagination.”

Harry tried not to laugh. It didn’t work.

“You know,” Barty added, more quietly, “you’re smiling more lately. He must be making you very happy or very stupid.”

Harry’s grin faded just slightly. “Maybe both.”

There was a beat of silence as they walked down the hall, the air oddly warm between them. Then Barty nudged him with a shoulder, casual but sharp-eyed.

“You’re changing,” he said. “In the good way. Less self-righteous savior complex. More delicious moral ambiguity.”

Harry scoffed. “That’s your idea of a compliment?”

Barty looked thoughtful. “I mean it. You’re not just surviving here, Potter. You’re thriving. And I know it’s not just because of him.” He paused. “You’ve got teeth now. I like it.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. Then, with a crooked smirk: “Careful, Crouch. Compliments make you sound almost tolerable.”

Barty gave a mock gasp. “Merlin forbid.”

They rounded a corner—and promptly ran straight into Fred and George, both of whom paused and stared with identical expressions of barely contained mischief.

“Oh good,” George said, eyes flicking to Harry’s collar and back up again. “We’re interrupting something.”

“Do continue,” Fred added. “Maybe we’ll take notes.”

Harry groaned, shoving his hands through his hair. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be? Training? Exploding cauldrons?”

Barty blinked slowly. “These are the twins? The ones with the delightful disregard for adult supervision?”

“That’s us,” George said proudly. “Just moved in and already caught the Chosen One flirting with his dark wizard boyfriend and his… what are you, exactly?” He looked Barty up and down.

“Unapologetically charming?” Barty offered.

“Disturbingly unhinged,” Fred corrected.

Barty grinned. “Tom said you two were entertaining. I can see why.”

The twins exchanged a look, some private twin language passing silently between them. Then Fred stepped forward and clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Come on, Chosen One. We’ve got cursed blades to learn how to parry and apparently a snake that watches people sleep. It’s all very Hogwarts meets Hellraiser.”

Harry sighed. “You’ll get used to it.”

George threw an arm around Barty with alarming confidence. “And you’ll help us train, yeah? Show us what dark lunacy really looks like?”

Barty beamed. “Oh, it’s like Christmas.”

—---

Tom sat at the edge of the bed, robes off, shirt undone at the collar. There was an open book beside him, but he hadn’t touched it in ages. He was watching Harry.

“You’re distracted,” he said.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He came to him instead, fingers ghosting over Tom’s wrist, guiding it gently to his waist as he straddled his lap.

“I let Sirius in,” Harry said.

Tom’s jaw tensed. But his hands didn’t pull away.

“You trust him?”

“No. But I trust he loves me enough to stay.”

Tom was quiet. Then he leaned in, forehead resting against Harry’s. “You surprise me.”

Harry smirked. “That’s your favorite thing about me.”

Tom’s lips brushed his. “One of them.”

They didn’t kiss like teenagers anymore. Not even like lovers in a rush. It was quiet. Measured. The kind of intimacy that had no audience.

When Tom’s hands slid up Harry’s back and Harry let his weight rest fully against him, it wasn’t about power or dominance or control.

It was peace —temporary, fragile, and entirely theirs.

“You let them see,” Tom said, voice soft but sharp. “The mark. Your neck.”

Harry tilted his head. “You jealous or just paranoid?”

Tom’s eyes flashed. “Both.”

He stood, crossing the space with silent grace, and reached for Harry, fingers brushing over the fading bite-shaped bruise beneath his collarbone. His thumb lingered there.

“I don’t like being careless,” Tom murmured.

Harry looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “And I don’t like hiding. You said they were allies now.”

“They are,” Tom said. “But the Order was once their family. I’m not foolish enough to trust loyalty bought in a fortnight.”

Harry leaned closer, hand brushing Tom’s waist. “Then you’d better keep me close.”

A beat passed, heavy with tension. Tom’s hand cupped Harry’s jaw, tilting his face up, the bond between them thrumming in the space where skin met skin. The room pulsed once—magic reacting before either of them consciously reached for it.

Tom breathed in through his nose, restraint visible in every line of his body. “You’re dangerous.”

Harry smiled faintly. “So are you.”

“No.” Tom leaned down, whispering against his lips. “You are dangerous to me.”

—---

Sirius sat in the dark, eyes on the door.

He knew the walls whispered. He knew there were eyes behind mirrors and spells in the bricks.

But when Harry came in—quiet, tired, still in yesterday’s shirt—he looked like a boy again.

“Thank you,” Harry said softly.

“For what?”

“For still choosing me.”

Sirius stood. “Always.”

They didn’t hug. It wasn’t that kind of trust yet. But Harry reached out, fingers briefly closing around his wrist.

“We’ll talk soon,” he said.

Sirius nodded. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

Harry’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I haven’t,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

Chapter Text

Sirius didn’t sleep.

He’d spent too many nights like this in Grimmauld Place—ears trained for footsteps, back pressed against cold walls, wand beneath his pillow. Azkaban had stolen his years, but not his instincts. They whispered now, coiled tight inside him.

When the knock came—soft, deliberate, threaded with magic—he was already standing.

A house-elf waited. Its eyes were too wide. “The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you,” it said. “He says bring your wand.”

Of course he does, Sirius thought.

The walk through the manor was long and quiet. Velvet curtains, snake carvings in the stone. Everything here looked expensive enough to hurt.

The door the elf led him to pulsed with warmth and something older—magic that recognized its own. When it opened, Sirius knew instinctively that this was no study. No war room.

This was a throne room in disguise.

Tom Riddle sat at the hearth, legs crossed like a king in exile. His tea steamed gently. Harry lounged beside him on the edge of the sofa, still damp from a recent shower, skin flushed and glowing with leftover heat.

It was disturbingly domestic. A lover’s hour.

“Sirius,” Tom said smoothly. “Come in.”

He obeyed. Not because of fear. Because of Harry.

Tom didn’t rise. He didn’t need to.

“We want clarity,” he began. “You’re here, eating our food. Sleeping in our house. Protected by our spells. But you still belong to them, don’t you?”

“No,” Sirius answered flatly.

“Not yet,” Harry said, more gently. “But you’re not fully with us either.”

Sirius looked between them. One the devil in the chair. The other, his godson—scar faded, jaw sharpened, gaze impossibly old.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

Tom’s smile was polite and surgical. “Information. Discretion. Obedience.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m going to spy for you?”

“I think,” Tom said softly, “that if you don’t, your usefulness vanishes very quickly.”

Harry spoke before Sirius could. “Not like that. Not just like that.”

Tom didn’t look at him. He simply sipped his tea. But Sirius could feel it—the conversation had already been had. This was the compromise.

“You know Dumbledore isn’t what he pretends to be,” Tom said. “You know the Order won’t protect Harry. Not truly. So I offer you something else. Access. Power. A role that isn’t pitiful or ornamental.”

“What's the catch?”

“There’s always a catch,” Tom said. “This one is simple: don’t lie to me. Ever.”

Silence stretched.

Then Sirius laughed—a quiet thing, bitter at the edges. “You want me to play the Order’s loyal dog, then come back here and bare my teeth for you.”

Tom stood. Slow, graceful, calculating. “No, Sirius. I want you to be the blade they forgot they gave you.”

He stopped just in front of him, voice low.

“You’ve been used before. By Dumbledore. By the Ministry. Even by Harry, a little.”

“I’ve never used him,” Harry said immediately, sharp.

Tom raised a brow, but didn’t argue. That was new. Respect, Sirius realized. Mutual.

“I’m not a killer,” Sirius muttered.

“You were,” Tom said. “And you can be again. Just… smarter this time.”

Harry crossed the room and came to Sirius's side, not touching but close.

“I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t,” he said.

“Exactly,” Tom murmured.

Sirius looked down at his hands.

He hadn’t meant to be here. Not in this room. Not in this war.

But here he was.

And Harry was looking at him like he still mattered.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Tom smiled like someone who had expected nothing less.

“But I’m not one of your Death Eaters,” Sirius added, steel creeping into his voice.

“No,” Tom said. “You’re our knife.”

Harry gave Sirius a look—warm, sad, a little proud. “Thank you.”

Sirius nodded, then turned for the door.

Just before he left, Tom said quietly, “Your first report is due in three days.”

He didn’t say don’t fail me.

He didn’t have to.

The door shut behind him.

And Sirius kept walking, until the hallway felt like it belonged to him again.

—---

The door closed with a soft click.

Tom remained still, facing the empty air Sirius had occupied only moments before. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows against the stone.

Harry didn’t move either.

“You pushed him,” he said finally, voice low and edged.

Tom turned. “He needed pushing.”

“He needed space.”

“He needed orders.” Tom poured more tea, calm as a priest. “He’s dangerous. Lost. Angry. All useful things, if guided properly.”

Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. “You say guided , I say controlled .”

“You should know by now,” Tom said without looking at him, “that I don’t control people. I simply offer them clarity.”

Harry moved, quick and sharp, standing across from him with a glare that could cut. “You’re not the only one who gets to decide what clarity looks like.”

Tom's eyes flicked up to meet his. “Then what would you have done, Harry? Pat his head? Bake him a cake?”

“Maybe I would’ve treated him like a person, not a pawn.”

Tom's jaw tightened—just barely, but Harry saw it.

“And you think I treat you like a pawn?”

Silence. The air between them vibrated.

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved like he’d swallowed something bitter.

“No,” he said eventually. “But sometimes you forget I’m not yours to move around either.”

Tom’s eyes darkened. “You came to me. You chose this. Don’t act like you didn’t know what it would cost.”

Harry stepped back, just once. Like distance might keep the heat from consuming him.

“I did know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you get to stop seeing me.”

He turned before Tom could respond.

And he left.

—---

Barty Crouch Jr. was draped across an armchair like a spoiled cat. A book lay half-open on his chest. He didn’t look up when Harry entered—just gave a slow, knowing smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Storming off already? What was it this time—philosophical differences or romantic jealousy?”

Harry gave him a look that could’ve cracked marble. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, come on,” Barty said, sitting up and stretching. “Lover’s quarrel in the drawing room, all that intensity… You two do know there’s an entire west wing for dramatic arguments, yes? No need to clutter up the war room.”

Harry flopped onto the sofa, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “He’s impossible.”

“Yes,” Barty said. “And so are you. That’s why it’s fun to watch.”

Harry glared at the ceiling. “He treats everyone like they’re weapons.”

“He treats everyone like they could be weapons,” Barty corrected. “There’s a difference. It’s called optimism.”

“I’m not a weapon.”

“Of course not.” Barty leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You’re the bomb. ”

Harry threw a pillow at him.

Barty caught it with a grin, then let the silence settle a bit, more companionable now.

“Still,” he said after a moment, “he doesn’t get angry like that for just anyone. You rattle him.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“He’s scared of losing you,” Barty added. “Not scared like Tom Riddle is afraid of the dark —more like... like a god realizing the altar might go empty.”

Harry closed his eyes.

Then: “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Barty’s voice turned uncharacteristically soft. “Doesn’t mean you can’t use it.”

They sat in silence.

Somewhere down the corridor, the manor exhaled—walls shifting, wind threading through old stone.

War was coming.

But for now, they were just two boys in a quiet room.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

The manor was silent in the hours before sunbreak, the kind of silence that didn’t feel restful—more like the hush before a storm, or the breath held just before a scream.

Harry hadn’t slept.

He sat on the stone balcony outside his room, legs drawn up, the old stone cold beneath him. The forest below stretched out like a dark sea, mist curling in the trees. He could still feel Tom’s voice in his chest—tight, like a hand pressed against the inside of his ribs.

You chose this.

Yeah, well. He hadn’t chosen that argument.

The door behind him creaked open softly.

He didn’t turn.

“I was wondering,” Tom’s voice came, quiet and careful, “if I’d find you here.”

Harry shrugged without looking. “Didn’t feel like pretending to sleep.”

Footsteps, measured. Then the warmth of Tom lowering himself beside him.

They sat in silence for a while.

The birds hadn’t started yet. Just the wind, soft and skeptical.

“I overstepped,” Tom said finally. “With Sirius.”

Harry didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either. Which, for Tom, was permission enough.

“I keep thinking if I move the right pieces,” he said slowly, “I can keep everything from falling apart. But you’re not a piece on a board. You’re not mine to command.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “No,” he agreed. “But I am with you. That should be enough.”

Tom looked at him, shadows under his eyes softening. “It is. I forget, sometimes. What it means to have... someone.”

Harry turned then, meeting his gaze. “We both forget.”

There was a long pause.

Then Tom leaned in, slow and hesitant, as if asking rather than assuming. Their foreheads touched first. Then their lips.

It wasn’t a kiss full of fire or urgency. It was quiet. Steady. Like an apology being folded into a promise.

When they pulled back, Harry didn’t move far.

“I still think you’re a bastard,” he muttered.

Tom smiled, the curve of his mouth small and real. “I know.”

Harry didn’t pull away. He let the silence stretch between them, no longer uncomfortable—just full. Charged. Like a wire humming with tension neither of them wanted to cut.

Tom's hand rose, fingers brushing against Harry’s jaw, then drifting down to his throat, featherlight. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

Harry didn’t. He tilted his head instead, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck, and that was all the answer Tom needed.

Their next kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Not frantic, but with the deliberate intensity of something long denied. Tom’s hands curled around Harry’s waist, drawing him closer, and Harry let himself be gathered in, straddling Tom’s lap on the cold stone without care.

The wind whispered around them, unseen and envious.

“Inside,” Tom said against his mouth, voice rough. “You’ll freeze.”

Harry laughed, breathless. “I’ll burn first.”

But he followed Tom back into the bedroom, their hands finding each other again in the half-light. The room was still and dim, silvered by moonlight, their shadows stretched across the floor.

Tom kissed him again, slowly now, like he was memorizing the shape of Harry’s mouth, the hitch in his breath when their bodies pressed close. He undressed Harry without ceremony—no fumbling, no hurry—just a steady peeling away of layers until there was nothing between them but skin and heat and trust.

The bed creaked beneath them, quiet and old, as Tom laid Harry down and followed after. Fingers trailed over ribs, hipbones, thighs—learning, mapping, worshipping. Harry trembled under the touch, not from fear, but anticipation. Want. He reached up, threading his fingers through Tom’s hair, dragging him down into another kiss.

“Look at me,” Tom whispered when they finally sank together, bodies sliding into place like two halves of a lock. Harry did. Their eyes didn’t break apart.

And for once, there were no games. No plans. Just this—just them —flesh and breath and something wordless between their hearts, blooming wild and irrevocable.

Tom moved slowly, reverently, as if proving something to both of them—that he could give, not just take. That he could be soft. Harry clung to him, gasping, aching, whole. It was not perfect, but it was real.

And when it was over, they stayed tangled together, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“I still think you’re dangerous,” Harry said into the curve of Tom’s throat.

Tom huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

But Harry didn’t let go.

He didn’t have to.

Not anymore.

—---

They were just sitting down to breakfast—Harry in one of Tom’s oversized black dress shirts, Tom still shirtless and impossibly elegant—when the manor’s wards screamed.

Literally.

A piercing, magical shriek shattered the glass on the chandelier.

Barty came flying into the dining room with his wand half-out and hair sticking in every direction. “Was that—?”

“Wards,” Tom said, already rising.

Before anyone could say another word, a swirling charm activated on the mantel. The fire burned green—and then Sirius’s head appeared in the flames, eyes wild.

“Harry.”

Harry knelt fast, ignoring the glass on the floor. “What is it?”

“They moved.” Sirius’s voice shook. “They’ve taken a Ministry archive. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but they’re pulling records—sealed stuff. Old trials. Bloodline documents. And they had Aurors helping them. ”

Harry's stomach dropped. “The Order?”

“No. Not our people.” Sirius’s jaw clenched. “We have a leak. Someone high-level . And they’re looking for something. Or someone.”

Behind him, the room came alive—Tom summoning a map with a flick of his fingers, Barty swearing under his breath, doors unlocking themselves and letting in a cold morning wind.

Harry stood, already reaching for his wand.

“Send me the coordinates,” he said.

Sirius nodded once—and vanished.

The green fire died.

Tom looked at Harry, already reading the resolve in his face.

“You’re not going alone.”

Harry nodded. “Good.”

He turned to Barty. “Get the twins.”

Barty gave a wicked grin. “We bringing the whole circus?”

“Maybe just the lions.”

Chapter Text

Fred had never seen a building bleed magic before.

The Ministry’s lower archives—old, secretive, off the books—felt like they were holding their breath. The lights flickered unnaturally, shadows leaking from the corners of the stone walls. They'd been silent since arrival, moving in under a Disillusionment web spun by Tom himself. Fred itched to say something funny, but George’s hand on his shoulder warned him not to.

This wasn’t a prank run. This was war.

Barty led them through the twisting corridor like he’d grown up here. He probably had. He was humming under his breath—something bright and wrong.

“Room 9-C,” Harry whispered, wand at the ready. “Bloodline records. Burn anything with the mark of the Inquisition.”

Fred exchanged a look with his brother. The mark meant purity trials. The kind of trials that had put half the old families in control—and others, like the Prewetts and Tonkses, on lists for extermination.

As they crept closer, a harsh voice echoed down the corridor—too close.

“Shit,” George breathed.

Tom raised a hand—frozen silence.

Voices passed. Two Aurors. Loyalist dogs. One of them mentioned Travers.

Fred felt his jaw tighten. That name had come up on the documents Sirius sent. The ones with his mum’s name burned right through them.

They reached the vault.

Harry tapped his wand twice against the lock. “We’ve got five minutes before this charm starts screaming.”

“Four,” Tom corrected grimly. “The wards are older than you.”

Inside, the room was stacked with scrolls bound in human hair. Blood-slick seals. Parchment that bled when touched.

Fred barely noticed the smell as he and George began to torch the piles, fast and silent. No dramatic explosions. Just clean destruction.

Harry moved like he’d done this a hundred times.

He had.

—---

Sirius sipped cold tea from a cracked mug and watched the fire burn low. Remus sat across from him, same old jumper, same tired eyes.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Sirius was still waiting for Remus to say it.

“You’re in too deep.”

There it was.

Sirius sighed. “Maybe.”

Remus didn’t look away. “And what happens when they find out?”

“They won’t. Not unless you tell them.”

“I’m not going to tell them.” His voice was sharp. “But you think I’m just going to sit here while you play double agent and hope you don’t die?”

“I’m doing this for Harry.”

Remus scoffed. “That’s what worries me.”

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on knees. “He’s not what they think he is. He’s not what I thought he was. But he’s still—him. Somewhere under the weight of all this shit, he’s still the boy who used to ride that stupid broom through the house and knock over every priceless heirloom I had.”

Remus looked down. “And if he isn’t anymore?”

Sirius hesitated. “Then I’ll go with him anyway.”

Remus’s hands curled around his mug like it might anchor him. “Then don’t lie to yourself about the cost.”

“I stopped lying when James died,” Sirius said. “The world hasn’t given us room for pretty truths since.”

The fire popped. Remus’s expression softened just a little.

“I’ll cover for you,” he said.

Sirius blinked. “What?”

“I’ll cover for you. With the Order. I’ll give you time to see this through.” He stood, slowly. “But you’re going to owe me more than one explanation when it all crashes down.”

Sirius gave a breath that might have been a laugh. “Deal.”

—---

Smoke curled from the broken vault.

Barty dusted soot from his coat, grinning. “Nothing like the smell of old corruption going up in flames.”

Fred’s hands were shaking. George gave him a look and bumped their shoulders together. They wouldn’t talk about what he’d found in the files—his mother’s name, marked “unfit.” But they’d remember.

Harry stood at the edge of the broken room, looking down at the half-burned scroll in his hands. He didn’t speak until Tom stepped beside him.

“Anything useful?” Tom asked.

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Finally, he handed over the scroll. The edges were still smoking.

Tom read the name. His brow furrowed.

“Lycoris Black,” he said slowly. “She was meant to be dead.”

“She disappeared,” Harry said. “Trial held off-record. Her name came up in Travers’ files.”

Tom frowned. “We’ll need to dig deeper.”

But Harry’s mind was elsewhere.

He glanced at the twins. They were both pale. Bloody.

He turned to Barty. “Get them out of here.”

Barty saluted, a little too cheerfully.

When they were alone, Tom stepped closer.

“You okay?”

Harry’s jaw was tight. “Fine.”

Tom reached for his hand, and Harry didn’t pull away—but his body was tense.

“I didn’t ask you to protect them,” he said. “You just assumed I’d fail.”

Tom’s voice was careful. “I don’t think you’ll fail. But I will always make a contingency. For anyone.”

Harry pulled his hand free. “Next time, trust me. Or don’t send me at all.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off down the corridor.

Barty caught up with him outside, whistling a tune.

“Lovers’ quarrel again?” he asked with a grin.

Harry didn’t answer.

Barty clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, darling. He’ll be brooding in some window seat waiting for you to forgive him before nightfall.”

Harry finally gave a grim smile. “And you’ll still be insufferable.”

“Someone’s got to be.”

They stepped into the floo together—smoke, green fire, and the scent of old blood fading behind them.

Chapter Text

Sirius stood in a place he never thought he’d return to.

The western wilds beyond Argyll, just north of the old coast, where the trees were twisted with age and the wind spoke like ghosts.

The ruins of Blackmoor Keep lay before him—once a country seat, now half-consumed by vines and wards that shimmered like oil in the dying light.

He held the scroll in his hand, the seal cracked but still glowing faintly.

“This is madness,” he muttered. “You’re following a breadcrumb from a ghost.”

But his feet moved forward anyway.

There was a name under the enchantments. Not Lycoris. But her sister’s.

Cassiopeia Black.

The door creaked open with a sigh of old magic. Not locked—warded to blood. His blood.

Inside, the air tasted like forgotten things. Preserved.

Books in stasis fields. A table set for one. A cloak draped over a chair that hadn’t moved in half a century.

Sirius moved slowly, reverently. Something told him this wasn’t just another hideout. This had been a sanctuary. Maybe a prison.

He followed the enchantments into the study. There, locked in glass, was a second scroll.

The name stamped into the wax seal made his blood run cold.

“Project Thanatos.”

—---

The manor had quieted in the hours since the raid, but the tension in its bones hadn’t left. It was the kind of silence that pressed, like fog clinging to your skin long after the storm.

Tom stood over the charred scroll Harry had handed him earlier, now unrolled and pinned flat on the map table. A few residual embers flickered like dying stars along the edges, whispering magic too old to extinguish easily.

“Lycoris Black,” Tom murmured again, tracing the elegant, looping script with a gloved finger. “She shouldn’t exist anymore. She was buried in scandal before even the first war began. Records sealed. Bloodline ties expunged.”

Barty leaned over his shoulder, expression uncharacteristically grim. “I’ve seen her name before. She had something to do with the Unspeakables. No one says how or why.”

Fred, who had a split lip and dried blood on his temple, exchanged a look with George, who was cradling a broken wand. “This smells like Ministry cover-up,” Fred said. “Big, greasy, ‘we’ll-kill-you-if-you-ask’ kind of secret.”

Harry didn’t look up from the fireplace, where he sat with his legs folded beneath him, silent. Tom watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Where did you get this?” Tom asked.

Harry’s gaze flicked to him. “Travers’ vault. He had records he shouldn’t have had. Someone fed him names from the inside. Trials that were never made public. People disappeared. They called it ‘re-classification.’ But you know what that really means.”

Tom nodded once. “Erasure.”

They all knew the Ministry had its own brand of Obliviate. The kind that didn’t stop at memory.

Barty rolled his neck. “So what’s the plan? Find Lycoris’ grave? Dig up her bones and ask politely for answers?”

“No grave,” Tom said. “She vanished.”

Harry stirred finally, voice quiet. “If she’s alive, she’s hiding for a reason. But if she’s dead, she left that scroll for someone to find.”

“She left it for Sirius,” Tom said, eyes narrowing.

Fred raised a brow. “Why him?”

“Because she was a Black,” Harry answered. “And that makes this personal.”

—---

Harry was in the greenhouse.

It was quieter here. He could breathe.

He crouched beside the glowing night orchids, fingers absently brushing the petals. He didn’t hear Tom until the other boy’s shadow crossed the garden path.

Tom sat beside him without a word, knees brushing Harry’s.

“You were right,” Harry said after a beat. “I don’t want to play chess anymore.”

Tom didn’t ask what he meant. He understood.

“No one wins when the board’s bloodstained.”

They sat in the growing dark, the plants pulsing gently around them.

“I’m tired,” Harry whispered.

Tom turned to look at him, expression softening. “Then rest. Just for tonight. Let me carry it.”

Harry leaned against him. “We’re both carrying it. That’s the problem.”

Tom exhaled. Then, quietly: “I’m not afraid of breaking anymore.”

Harry glanced up. “Why?”

Tom gave a faint smile. “Because if I do, I know you’ll help me put the pieces back.”

They kissed again—slow and steady, like a heartbeat after a panic. Not to claim or consume, but to remind.

They were still here.

Together.

—---

Sirius unfolded the scroll with trembling fingers.

The ink shimmered black-red in the candlelight, bleeding through strange runes and Ministry sigils.

“Experimental record, classified Level X. Subject: Lycoris Black. Alias: Subject Thanatos. Status: Unknown. Power source: Ritual-augmented Animus Core. Prognosis: Unstable. Potential: Apocalyptic.”

Sirius’s heart pounded.

“This wasn’t exile,” he whispered. “This was containment.”

A final note was scrawled at the bottom in furious, frantic ink:

If she ever wakes up, it’s already too late.

Chapter Text

Sirius moved like a shadow.

A few hours ago, he’d been deep in the bowels of Gringotts’ sub-vaults, slipping past bored goblins and enchantments laced with centuries-old paranoia. He hadn't expected to find what he did: not gold, not artifacts, but a sealed black casket lined with wards written in a dead language. He’d copied the inscriptions as best he could and, more importantly, pried loose a file tucked beneath the lid—its seal matching the old sigil of the Black family, but twisted, corrupted.

PROJECT THANATOS
PROPERTY OF LY. BLACK
RESTRICTED: LEVEL 9 CLEARANCE REQUIRED

Sirius hadn't slept in days. His thoughts spun with names from the file—names erased from history, experiments sanctioned by the Unspeakables under the veil of wartime secrecy. Necromantic theory. Soul tethering. Ritual transference. There were notes in Lycoris Black’s handwriting, scrawled in a slanted hand disturbingly like his mother’s. And one page marked only with a name in blood-red ink:

Harry Potter.

That had been the last straw.

He’d gone straight to Riddle Manor.

The wards recognized him, barely. He was considered guest-adjacent—thanks to Harry, he suspected—and the manor let him slip inside just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. His boots were dusty, shoulders tense, coat hanging heavy with hidden files. He needed to find Tom. Or Harry. Preferably both.

But the air inside felt wrong—electric, heavy with something ancient. The main corridor was too quiet. Then he heard them: voices echoing low from the drawing room. Latin. Formal. Controlled. The cadence of command and subservience.

A meeting.

A Death Eater meeting.

He backed up quickly, but the shadows shifted and peeled, and someone stepped out.

“Black,” came a silken voice. “I’d say this is an unexpected pleasure… if it were, in fact, a pleasure.”

Severus Snape.

Sirius froze.

Snape’s wand was out, though not raised. His eyes narrowed.

There was a beat of silence. Then Sirius said, coolly, “Snivellus.”

More figures turned. A few masks came off. The tension shifted. Thickened.

Sirius cursed under his breath.

Tom was there.

Not seated, not lounging— standing . Every bit the warlord now. Cloak black as a thunderhead, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“Everyone out,” Tom said quietly.

Nobody argued.

The Death Eaters cleared the room with a mixture of curiosity and reluctance, casting Sirius wary, speculative glances. Snape hesitated.

Tom didn’t repeat himself. He simply turned his gaze on Snape. “Not a word to anyone.”

Snape bowed stiffly and swept out.

Tom waited until the door clicked shut.

Then: “You’ve been careful until now. What happened?”

Sirius looked at him, jaw tight. “I came to give you this.” He handed over the files, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “It’s bigger than we thought. Than Lycoris. This isn’t about bloodlines. It’s about resurrection. Transference. Thanatos wasn’t just a codename—it’s a ritual. And Harry’s name is all over it.”

Tom took the folder. Flipped through it. His face went still.

“Some of this,” he murmured, “is pre-Roman.”

Sirius nodded. “And there’s more. I couldn’t carry it all. But I can get back in. If we—”

The door burst open.

Snape was back.

And Harry was behind him.

Both froze at the sight of each other.

Tom didn’t move.

Harry’s expression was unreadable. “What’s going on?”

Sirius looked at Snape first. “You didn’t.”

Snape sneered. “Your little masquerade is over, Black. The Order will know by midnight. You’ve been feeding the Dark Lord intel for months.”

Tom turned his head, slowly, toward Snape. “That wasn’t your call.”

Snape stiffened. “I serve the cause. Not the traitors.”

“You serve me ,” Tom said, voice quiet. Dangerous. “And I told you to say nothing.”

There was a heartbeat of raw, charged silence.

Then Snape bowed again—stiff, furious—and left without another word.

Harry shut the door behind him.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “That’s it. I’m burned.”

“You’re not,” Tom said, scanning the last page of the file. “Not yet. The Order won’t want to believe him. They’ll think he’s trying to divide loyalties.”

Harry finally spoke. “He’s not wrong, though. You’ve been on both sides.”

“I’ve been on your side,” Sirius said, locking eyes with Harry. “That’s what this was always about.”

Tom closed the file and stepped back. “Then we need to act fast. If this Thanatos ritual is real, and if the Ministry had any part in it—”

“They did,” Sirius said grimly. “There’s evidence buried in the Department of Mysteries. I can get us in.”

Harry blinked. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve got a contact. A goblin who hates the Ministry more than we do.”

Tom looked to Harry. “Your call.”

Harry looked at Sirius, searching his face.

Finally: “We move tomorrow.”

—---

The manor was quiet again, though the calm felt like a knife’s edge.

Harry sat in Tom’s room, staring into the fire. The file sat between them like a ghost.

“Do you think it’s true?” he asked finally. “That they were trying to… use me. For some resurrection thing?”

Tom didn’t answer right away. He moved to sit beside Harry, shoulder brushing his.

“I think,” Tom said quietly, “that they saw power and wanted to chain it. And I think you’re the last person who should ever be made a tool.”

Harry looked at him. “And you’re not doing the same?”

Tom met his gaze. “I’m trying not to.”

There was a pause.

Then Harry leaned his head against Tom’s shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “I just… forget, sometimes. When everything’s blood and fire.”

Tom’s voice softened. “So do I.”

They sat like that for a long time. Quiet. Close.

Somewhere outside, an owl called once and went silent.

But inside, the war waited—breathing slow and steady beneath the floorboards.

—---

Sirius had gone. Tom let him leave without argument—just a nod and a final, unreadable look.

Harry watched the manor door close behind his godfather, unsure if they’d just sent him back into danger or bought themselves a sliver of time.

“He’s not going to rest,” Harry murmured, pacing slowly near the hearth. “He’s going to push harder now.”

Tom leaned back in the tall velvet chair, steepling his fingers. “He’s always been reckless when it comes to protecting you.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.”

Tom’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “It is. For someone like Sirius, loyalty is indistinguishable from self-destruction.”

Harry turned, challenging. “And for someone like you?”

A faint smile. “A weapon. When wielded properly.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stood there, framed by the flickering fire, his silhouette sharp against the manor’s cold, gothic interior. The documents Sirius had brought still lay spread out on the nearby table. Tom had already begun cross-referencing the glyphs with his own grimoires—many of which hadn’t been opened in years. Even he looked unsettled.

“This… Thanatos ritual,” Harry said quietly, walking over to the table. “It says here the subject had to be ‘soul-linked’—that’s me, isn’t it?”

Tom looked up sharply.

“You read that.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Harry snapped, though there was no real venom behind it. “You keep looking at me like I’ll break. I won’t.”

Tom stood, slowly. “No one thinks you’ll break, Harry. But if this is what I think it is…”

He picked up the oldest page—the one scrawled with runes that bled through the parchment like oil. His hand hovered just above it.

“I believe Lycoris was trying to create something beyond resurrection,” he said, voice low. “Not just the return of the dead. The redirection of power. The theft of immortality. A kind of possession, through legacy and blood.”

“And I was supposed to be the—what? Vessel?”

Tom nodded once. “Or worse. A conduit. An unwilling door.”

A long, tense pause.

Then Harry said, “Why do I feel like this is connected to the prophecy Dumbledore never let me hear?”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “You still haven’t heard it?”

Harry shook his head. “Only fragments. Everyone’s always so careful about what I know. Even now.”

Tom exhaled. “That ends soon.”

He turned toward the fire again, face thoughtful. “We’ll go into the Department of Mysteries. Not just for the Thanatos files. But for the Hall of Prophecies. I want to hear the full record.”

“You think it’s stored there?”

“I know it is.”

Harry considered him in silence, then finally asked, voice quieter, “And after that?”

Tom walked back to him. Their distance closed, slowly, deliberately. His hand came up and brushed against Harry’s knuckles, and when Harry didn’t move away, he let their fingers tangle together.

“After that,” Tom said, “we burn down what’s left of the old order. We end what they started with you.”

Harry looked at their joined hands.

“And what do we build after?”

Tom tilted his head. “Whatever you want.”

It was too warm in the room all of a sudden, and Harry’s throat felt tight. But he didn’t pull away.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, “I’m scared I don’t want anything good anymore. Just revenge. Just power.”

Tom smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. “Then you’re finally seeing the world clearly.”

“No,” Harry said, voice almost a whisper. “I think I’m just starting to see you clearly.”

Tom’s breath caught—so subtle Harry almost missed it.

Then: “That’s dangerous.”

Harry stepped a little closer. “I’ve lived in danger since I was eleven.”

They stood in silence, the heat between them almost unbearable, the air pulsing with something sharp and unfinished. Then Tom raised a hand to Harry’s cheek, slowly, reverently—as if he didn’t trust himself to touch too hard.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured. “This part. You—”

“Then let’s figure it out,” Harry whispered, leaning into the touch. “Together.”

—---

The garden looked different in the pre-dawn gloom. Silver dew clung to the grass, and everything felt muted—like the world was holding its breath.

Harry stood alone beneath the marble gazebo, the folder in his hand. He’d barely slept. His conversation with Tom lingered in his mind like smoke. He didn’t know what any of it meant yet, but it had happened. That meant something.

Behind him, soft footsteps approached.

Tom again, wearing no robes now—just black slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked, for once, young. Real. Not a dark lord, not a weapon. Just… a boy forged from trauma and brilliance, standing too close to the edge of something monstrous.

“Do you still want to go through with this?” Tom asked, gently.

Harry looked at him.

“I want the truth,” he said. “Even if it ruins everything.”

Tom nodded once. “Then we go tonight.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of parchment, folded tightly and bound with blood-sealed wax.

“A new wardkey. Made this morning.”

Harry took it, hand brushing against Tom’s again.

Their eyes met.

“Whatever happens in the Department of Mysteries,” Tom said, “you do not leave my side.”

Harry’s mouth quirked. “You say that like I ever do.”

For the first time in a long time, Tom smiled. A real one.

They stood there a little longer, watching the sunrise stain the fogged horizon with gold.

Neither of them spoke again, but it didn’t matter.

The war would begin again soon—but for now, in that moment, they weren’t soldiers or weapons or sacrifices.

They were just two boys on the edge of a secret.

And together, they would break the world open.

Chapter Text

The London sky hung low and heavy, the clouds churned with a weight that mirrored the mood inside Riddle Manor. Magic, raw and coiled, buzzed like electricity in the walls. It had been hours since Snape disappeared from the drawing room, his expression unreadable, and Sirius had said nothing as he paced the corridor just outside Tom’s study.

Harry stood at the edge of the long table, his hand clenched around the faded parchment Sirius had brought—another fragment of Project Thanatos, more questions than answers. Lycoris Black had written in layers, masking truth beneath ciphers and blood wards, but it was unmistakable: something had been hidden beneath the Department of Mysteries, something powerful enough that the Ministry had buried it under threats and secrecy.

Across from him, Tom traced a finger along a rune etched into the margin of the page, his eyes narrowed. “They weren’t experimenting with death,” he murmured. “They were trying to master it.”

Harry’s breath caught. “You think they found a way?”

“I think they failed,” Tom replied. “But not before they unleashed something they couldn’t control.”

A knock at the study door snapped them out of it. Barty poked his head in, looking unusually grave. “Your mutt’s getting antsy.”

“I can hear you,” Sirius called from outside.

Harry moved first. “We need to move. If Snape told the Order—”

“He told them,” Sirius said flatly as Harry stepped out. “I saw the flare in the sky an hour ago. They’ll be watching the Ministry’s lower entrances.”

Tom joined them, already in motion. “We go in through the river then. You and I, Harry. Sirius, you’re not going anywhere near the Department. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Sirius snapped.

But Tom didn’t flinch. “No. But if they see you, this whole mission collapses. They’ll think it’s a trap.”

Sirius hesitated, teeth grinding. “Fine. But I want you both out of there in one piece.”

Harry gripped his godfather’s arm. “We will.”

—---

The descent into the Ministry’s forgotten levels required magic that hadn’t been used in decades. Blood wards keyed to ancestral lines, curses written in pre-Druidic script. Tom handled them like a pianist, precise and unfaltering. By the time they breached the final stone arch beneath the riverbed, the air tasted wrong—like memory gone rotten.

The Department of Mysteries was cold. Not physically, but in a way that sank under the skin. Magic had no rhythm here, no pulse—it had been carved out, twisted, reformed. And beneath the great round atrium of spinning black doors, something ancient hummed in the dark.

“They moved the Hall of Prophecy,” Tom murmured, scanning the walls. “But not the Chamber of Death.”

They passed through corridors that seemed to shift behind them. One hall stretched too long, another bent at impossible angles. At last, they reached a sealed obsidian door—one neither of them had seen before.

It opened at Tom’s touch.

Inside was a narrow stairwell spiraling down, so tight they could only move single-file. Tom led. Harry followed, wand drawn. At the bottom, a room opened like a throat—a great amphitheater lined with shadowed alcoves, stone seats rising in a wide circle, and in the center…

A pool of ink-black water.

Not the Veil. Not quite.

But whatever it was, it whispered.

Tom stiffened beside him. “There was a second gate,” he said quietly. “One they never spoke of.”

Harry stepped closer. The water rippled without touch. In its surface, reflections flickered—not their own. A woman, tall and dark-haired. A silver pendant. A wand broken in half. And then—

“Harry,” Tom snapped. “Don’t look into it—”

But it was too late.

The moment Harry’s eyes locked onto the vision in the water, pain lanced through his skull. Flashes—Lycoris screaming, a ritual half-finished, magic erupting out of control. A baby crying. Then silence. Crushing, absolute.

Tom grabbed him and yanked him back.

Harry gasped, blinking hard. “She tried to seal something in there. Something alive.”

Tom’s expression was pale. “Or something that refuses to die.”

—---

They returned soaked, breathless, and more rattled than either would admit.

The house was quiet—too quiet.

Sirius was gone.

Barty met them at the door, eyes sharp. “He left ten minutes ago. Said he had to ‘warn someone.’”

Tom cursed under his breath and turned to Harry. “We have to assume the Order knows what we found.”

Harry exhaled. “So what do we do?”

Tom looked at him—really looked. Not like a weapon. Not like a threat. Just a boy who had stood beside him in a cursed room, whose mind had nearly been torn apart by the past.

He reached out and touched Harry’s jaw, gently. “We finish what Lycoris started.”

Harry leaned into the touch. “Together.”

Their foreheads pressed together, breath shared in the dim light of the corridor. For a moment, there was no war. No prophecy. Just them.

But then a message burned itself into the air above them, crimson and crackling:

“The Order moves at dawn. Do not return to the Manor.”

And just like that, the quiet was gone again.

Chapter Text

Remus sat at the long kitchen table, his tea gone cold hours ago. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was expectant, waiting to shatter. He kept his hands clasped in front of him like that would stop them from shaking.

He wasn’t sure how to explain it to the others—how he had known, somehow, that Sirius’s choices were diverging from the Order’s long before Snape had brought word.

"He's compromised," Snape had said, with the careful cruelty only he could perfect. "You may want to reconsider the loyalty you place in Black."

And maybe they should’ve. Maybe Remus should’ve. But he didn’t.

Now the rest of them were gathering—half in sleepwear, half already armed—crowding the entryway and stairwell, news spreading like blood in water.

“He’s been passing information to them,” Kingsley said grimly. “To Riddle.”

“No.” Remus stood. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean. “You don’t understand. He’s not betraying us. He’s playing both sides.”

Mad-Eye snorted. “That’s how spies die.”

“He trusted me,” Remus snapped. “And I believe him. He said he was getting close to something—something big. This isn’t about Harry anymore. It’s about how the war started in the first place.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Snape said, arms folded tightly. “He’s been at Riddle’s table. You think he hasn't made himself comfortable?”

Remus stepped toward him, eyes burning. “He’s not you, Snape.”

“Unfortunately,” Snape replied coolly, “he’s worse.”

But no one responded. Because the front door creaked open—and Sirius stepped inside.

His cloak was torn at the shoulder. Blood at his temple. Dust from some long-abandoned archive still clinging to his sleeves. And his eyes—

His eyes didn’t look defeated. They looked like someone who’d finally found the edge of the map.

Everyone moved at once—wands out, questions flung like knives—but Remus stepped in first.

“Sirius,” he said, quiet. “Tell them.”

Sirius looked around at them, each familiar face now drawn tight with suspicion. Molly, hurt and confused. Kingsley, already running risk assessments in his head. Tonks, who looked like she might cry. And Snape, of course, with a smirk he didn’t even try to hide.

Sirius reached into his coat and pulled out a thick, weathered folder. The black seal across the front had nearly disintegrated.

“Project Thanatos,” he said. “Initiated in 1955. Experimental magical weaponization. Funded by the Ministry. Directed by Lycoris Black.”

No one spoke.

He tossed the file onto the kitchen table with a dull thud .

“They buried it under sixteen layers of restricted clearance. The only reason they could was because she disappeared—‘died,’ officially. But she didn’t die. She vanished. And not by accident.”

Remus stepped forward, his voice low. “You walked into a Death Eater meeting.”

Sirius nodded once. “Didn’t mean to. But I heard enough to know they’re chasing the same thing we are. Tom’s been trying to resurrect Thanatos. He thinks Harry is the key.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” Kingsley said sharply.

“I couldn’t,” Sirius said. “Not without blowing it. I was close—closer than any of us have ever been.”

Snape sneered. “Closer to your true loyalties, you mean.”

Sirius didn’t rise to it. “I made my choice. I made it when I stayed with Harry that first night. I’m not proud of the way I did it, but I did it for the right reason.”

Silence again.

Then Remus picked up the file.

“Let’s read it,” he said. “All of it.”

The Order didn’t sleep.

By the time the sun pushed over the horizon, they were already moving.

Kingsley was assembling contact lists. Moody was preparing to check in with his Auror contacts. Molly packed a bag for Ginny without saying much, just a flick of her wand and a long sigh.

But Remus and Sirius didn’t join them immediately. They stood on the front step of Grimmauld Place, the quiet moment between them heavy with things unsaid.

“You lied to me,” Remus said.

Sirius nodded. “I know.”

“But you came back.”

“I always would.”

Remus looked at him for a long time. Then reached for his hand.

“I hope that’s still true,” he said.

Behind them, the Order was waking up for war.

—---

The air inside was thick with incense and the faint trace of scorched magic. The Death Eaters were gone, dismissed with a wave of Tom’s hand after Sirius’s identity had been unmasked.

Snape had lingered longer. Long enough to make eye contact with Tom across the table and smile faintly.

Tom knew.

He knew Snape would tell them.

But he let him go.

In the aftermath, the manor was quiet again. Harry was in the library, sifting through the remnants of Lycoris’s scrolls and everything Sirius had passed on.

When Tom entered, Harry looked up and didn’t speak.

Tom sat beside him, close but not touching.

“They won’t trust him anymore,” Harry said after a moment.

“They don’t need to,” Tom replied. “You do.”

“I do.”

They sat in silence for a long while.

Then Tom reached over, fingers brushing against Harry’s in a rare, unguarded gesture.

“We’ll finish this,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

Harry leaned into him, just slightly.

“We will.”

The silence between them stretched, charged now with something heavier — not tension, exactly, but gravity. Something inevitable.

Tom’s hand didn’t move away.

Harry’s fingers curled into his, tentative at first, then more sure. He leaned in again, this time letting his head rest lightly against Tom’s shoulder.

Tom tilted his head slightly, enough that his mouth brushed the top of Harry’s hair.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, and it was hard to tell if he sounded amused or concerned.

Harry breathed in. The incense, the parchment dust, and underneath it — him . “It’s not fear.”

“No,” Tom said. His voice was velvet and fire. “It’s not.”

Harry turned toward him slowly. Tom didn’t move, only watched — the way a serpent watches a rabbit that steps willingly into its coils. But there was no cruelty in his eyes now. Only hunger.

Harry’s mouth parted. His hand reached up, slow and uncertain, to Tom’s jaw.

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t soft.

It was consuming.

Tom pulled him in like gravity, like a storm. One hand tangled in Harry’s hair, the other gripped his waist, dragging him into his lap. Harry gasped into his mouth — surprised, breathless, but not resisting. He pressed closer, thighs straddling Tom’s, robes bunched between them, the scrolls forgotten on the floor.

Magic cracked faintly in the air, laced between their fingers and mouths, heated and pulsing.

Tom broke the kiss just enough to speak against Harry’s mouth. “Mine,” he whispered.

Harry nodded, already breathless. “Yours.”

Tom’s hands moved — deliberate, possessive — undoing the buttons of Harry’s shirt like he had all the time in the world, even though the air around them thrummed with urgency.

Harry’s fingers trembled as he slipped his hands beneath Tom’s robes, dragging them over his shoulders, trying to get closer. Skin touched skin. Fire to fire.

They kissed again, deeper this time — a promise sealed between their mouths. There was no space left between them.

The library, once quiet, held the echo of breathless gasps and the soft sound of silk shifting over marble.

And when Tom laid him down between the forgotten scrolls and whispered his name like a vow, Harry didn’t hesitate.

He pulled him closer and whispered back, “I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

Sirius Black moved through the corridors like a shadow in his own skin.

He had spent the night in hiding, poring through the scraps he had smuggled out of an old vault beneath the Ministry. More pieces of Project Thanatos. Names. Trials. Records buried in blackout ink. One page had held the name Lycoris Black paired with phrases like “Arcane Reclamation” and “Soul Vitrification.”

It made his blood run cold.

He carried it all now—tucked inside a warded leather case—toward the drawing room where Harry and Tom would be soon.

He didn’t make it.

The doors were open. Voices carried.

Sirius stepped into the shadows just in time to realize it wasn’t just Harry and Tom in the room.

A dozen Death Eaters sat around the massive table, masks off, eyes watchful. The meeting had already begun.

And standing to the right of the throne-like chair at the head of the table was Severus Snape.

Their eyes met.

Sirius froze.

For one single second, no one moved.

Then Tom’s voice cut through the silence, deceptively smooth.

“Well, this is interesting.”

All eyes turned to Sirius.

He took a breath and stepped out fully. No point hiding now.

“I have information,” Sirius said simply. “You’ll want to hear it.”

Snape’s jaw worked, unreadable.

Tom stared at him for a long moment, then waved a hand.

“Everyone out. Now.”

No one hesitated. Even Snape obeyed, though his eyes lingered on Sirius until the door shut behind him.

Sirius waited.

Tom stepped down from the raised dais and approached him, silent as a shadow. Harry appeared from the far hall, eyes widening slightly.

“You could have used the back entrance,” Tom said, almost conversational.

“I didn’t expect your entire inner circle to be having brunch,” Sirius muttered.

Tom quirked a brow. “And what exactly do you have for us?”

Sirius handed over the case. “Project Thanatos. The rest of it. Lycoris wasn’t just an exile—she was a keystone. They didn’t kill her. They buried her.”

Harry took the case, flipping it open. His eyes widened.

Tom didn’t look at the papers.

He looked at Sirius.

“You understand what this means,” Tom said quietly. “Snape knows. He will go to Dumbledore.”

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “He already has. They’ll think I’m gone. Lost.”

Harry stepped closer. “Are you?”

Sirius looked at him—his godson, blood of his blood, who had survived horrors, who now stood beside the darkest wizard in a century with fire in his eyes and an old soul behind his scars.

“No,” Sirius said. “But I can’t go back.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change. “Good. Because there’s no going back from here.”

The fog rose like smoke over the hills. It blanketed the Order’s boots in ghostly silence as they moved in formation—tight and efficient—through heather and ash.

Moody led the strike team. Lupin flanked him, face drawn and pale in the half-light. Kingsley held the backline, wand held low and ready.

They had received intelligence hours ago—Snape’s report, terse and grim. An outpost. A ritual in motion. Tom Riddle’s people weren’t often caught unaware.

But they were about to be.

Or so the Order thought.

They reached the small stone ruin tucked in a dip of the land—marked in old records as a shepherd's shed, long burned out and forgotten.

Moody gave the signal. Wands raised. No sound but their breathing.

Remus flicked his wand. “Aper—”

The door gave way too easily. No traps. No curses. Nothing.

The inside was empty. The hearth cold. The floor swept clean.

Something was wrong.

“They were here,” Kingsley said after a moment, crouching near the ashes. “Days ago, maybe. But they cleared out. Fast.”

“Or were told to,” Moody growled, eye whirling. “We’ve been fed misinformation.”

“No,” Snape muttered. He stood at the center of the room, brows drawn. “This was deliberate. He wanted us to come here. He expected it.”

Remus stepped closer to him, careful. “You’re saying Tom set you up?”

Snape didn’t respond right away. His eyes drifted to the corner of the room where faint scorch marks formed an old runic seal—one used to trigger a silent message spell. A message, perhaps, that someone had just delivered. A warning.

“Yes,” Snape said finally, voice low. “And I think he knows exactly what the Order intends to do next.”

Remus tensed. “Then Sirius—”

Snape cut him off. “Is already in more danger than he realizes.”

The name dropped like a stone in the room.

No one said it, but they all thought the same thing.

He’s not ours anymore.

—---

Snape stood in the center of the war room, robes damp from the moor’s morning mist.

Dumbledore looked tired.

“He was there,” Snape said. “In the Manor. The meeting.”

Murmurs broke around the room.

McGonagall stiffened. “Sirius?”

“He’s working with them,” Snape confirmed.

“No.” Remus stood, arms crossed. “He’s still one of us.”

Snape’s smile was cold. “Then he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen. He was a double agent.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long time.

Then he turned to the map, where magical pins marked various locations across Britain. One pulsed faintly red.

“Then we adjust our plans,” the old wizard said at last. “And we don’t hesitate.”

Remus's voice was low. “And if we’re wrong?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer.

The war was no longer just strategy and prophecy.

It was personal now.

Chapter Text

Harry sat alone in the circular study, the window cracked open to the night. Wind brushed past the curtains, cool and sharp with the scent of rain. Before him, the parchments from Sirius’s case were spread across the desk like bones picked clean.

Thanatos. Soul Vitrification. Lycoris Black.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in curls. The more they uncovered, the less any of it made sense. Lycoris hadn't just been exiled—she had been erased. As if her existence was a threat too dangerous to risk even being remembered.

And now Sirius had found the last remnants of her story—pieces the Ministry had buried deep enough to make even Unspeakables forget.

But what disturbed Harry more was the way Sirius had spoken in the drawing room earlier.

Not like a man infiltrating the enemy.

Like someone home.

Footsteps approached behind him—bare, quiet. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You’re not sleeping,” came Tom’s voice, smooth and low.

“Neither are you,” Harry replied, eyes still on the parchment.

Tom stepped into the candlelight, his silhouette casting long shadows across the walls.

“Did you know about Lycoris?” Harry asked, not accusing. Just tired.

“I suspected,” Tom answered. “But even I thought the records were destroyed. That Sirius found them... is useful.”

Harry turned to look at him. “You let him find them.”

Tom smiled faintly. “Not entirely. But I gave him the opportunity.”

“And the Order?”

“They played their part.”

Harry felt a cold coil settle in his chest. “You used them.”

“I used their expectations,” Tom corrected. “They believe themselves righteous. Predictable. Easy to provoke.”

Harry looked back down. “And Sirius?”

Tom stepped closer, voice dipping just above a whisper. “Sirius is a question. One we must be careful not to answer too soon.”

—---

The mood was brittle.

The failed raid had cracked more than just their momentum—it had shaken trust.

“Someone tipped them off,” Moody said flatly. “There’s no way they cleared out by coincidence.”

“All eyes turned to Snape. He stared back, impassive.

“I’m not the only one with access,” he said.

“But you were the one who suggested the outpost,” Kingsley pointed out. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

Remus rubbed at his eyes. “Sirius could’ve—if he’s working with them—”

The truth sat in the room like a closed door. And behind it, a question none of them wanted to ask.

What if Sirius had chosen the other side?

Dumbledore, until now silent, finally spoke.

“We proceed with care,” he said. “And we prepare for escalation.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You’re planning an assault.”

“I’m planning for war,” Dumbledore corrected softly. “If we delay, we give them time to recover. Time to strike first.”

“Then we need allies,” Remus said. “We need the werewolf packs, the giants, the goblins.”

“They won’t come easily,” McGonagall said.

“They will if they believe Riddle wants more than just domination,” Dumbledore replied. “And that... is where Lycoris Black comes in.”

Snape turned sharply. “You’re using the Thanatos project?”

“I’m using the truth,” Dumbledore said. “Whatever Tom wants with the legacy of Lycoris Black—it must be worse than we feared. We show the world that. And we let it choose.”

—---

Sirius walked alone, the dirt path crunching underfoot. The manor loomed in the distance behind him, dark and still, though he knew eyes were always watching.

He didn’t care.

Not tonight.

He pulled a flask from his coat—half firewhisky, half calming draught—and took a slow sip.

He hadn’t told Harry the whole truth.

What he had found in the vaults wasn’t just Lycoris’s notes. It was a key. A ritual design. Something ancient and unfinished.

It wasn’t just about death and resurrection. It was about the soul itself. About control. Anchoring a soul without fragmenting it.

It was what Riddle had wanted all along—but Lycoris had built it to stop people like him.

That was the irony.

Sirius sat on a stone at the edge of a stream and stared at his reflection.

Who was he playing anymore?

The spy?

The godfather?

The heir to a cursed house?

He had left the Order behind, yes. But he hadn’t knelt to Tom either. Not really.

He was still somewhere in the quiet between.

He wondered how long he could stay there.

—---

It had started with an argument about socks.

“I’m just saying,” Fred declared, pacing across the low garden wall with far too much balance for someone holding a goblet of something suspiciously green, “that knee-high dragonhide is fashion and function.”

George nodded solemnly. “Excellent for dramatic leg reveals. Very Circe-chic.”

“Merlin save me,” Harry muttered, flopping into the nearest garden chair. “You two need a hobby.”

“We have one,” they chorused. “It’s bothering you.”

Barty Crouch Jr. sauntered in from the side path, tossing an apple in one hand, a dagger in the other. “What’s this then? A Weasley Fashion Summit?”

“Oh good,” George said. “Murder Barbie’s here.”

Barty took a dramatic bow. “You know how I love being appreciated.”

Fred turned to Harry. “Anyway, back to the important part: if we outfit the entire Inner Circle in coordinated battlewear—”

“We’ll die,” Harry said flatly.

“Gloriously,” George added.

“With sequins,” Fred finished.

Barty leaned against the stone pillar, biting into his apple with an exaggerated crunch. “You two are absolutely insufferable.”

Fred beamed. “We try.”

Barty flicked his dagger, catching it by the hilt. “And yet, you somehow haven’t been hexed into garden gnomes yet. Tragic.”

“Please,” George sniffed. “If you turned us into gnomes, we’d unionize.”

“And redecorate the hedges,” Fred added.

Harry groaned into his hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” Fred said, draping an arm dramatically around Harry’s shoulders, “if we weren’t here, you’d be brooding somewhere dark and emotionally stunted.”

“You say that,” George said, plopping down on Harry’s other side, “as if he’s not still doing that.”

“I don’t brood,” Harry muttered.

“You radiate brood,” Barty said from the shadows. “It’s practically an aura.”

“Broodcore,” George added. “Very vintage Voldy.”

Harry threw a pebble at him. It missed.

Fred took a sip from his goblet, frowned, and sniffed it suspiciously. “Did Snape poison the drinks again?”

Barty grinned. “Only the ones labeled ‘Reserved for Gryffindors.’”

Fred and George looked at each other.

“...We’re taking his lab rat again,” Fred declared.

“Oh definitely,” George agreed. “It deserves better.”

Harry exhaled a long breath, laughter finally bubbling out despite himself. “You’re all nightmares.”

“And you love us,” Fred said cheerfully.

“Terrifyingly accurate,” Harry admitted.

“Group hug?” George offered.

“Touch me and die,” Barty said without looking up.

“Next time,” Fred said sweetly. “We’ll get him.”

They didn’t, but they did replace Barty’s cloak with one covered in self-replicating glitter the next morning.

Chapter Text

The maps on the central table still smelled faintly of smoke, ink, and enchantment — the residue of planning spells that hadn’t quite settled. Red and blue markers floated midair above enemy outposts, shifting as new intelligence poured in. The Order’s failed strike hours earlier had already reshaped the board.

Barty was upside down in a chair, legs hooked over the backrest, humming tunelessly while spinning a knife between his fingers. He’d named the knife. No one had dared ask what.

Tom stood at the far end of the room, hunched over a ledger with one hand resting on the table and the other tapping impatiently against the wood. He was not in a good mood — which made Harry, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and a smirk on his face, all the more annoying.

“I’m just saying,” Harry said, voice maddeningly casual, “you could wear something less ‘conqueror chic.’ Maybe something that doesn’t scream ‘I have a dungeon fetish.’”

Tom didn’t look up. “If you’re done evaluating my wardrobe, Potter—”

“Never done,” Harry said, pushing off the door with the lazy grace of someone who knew full well he was being watched. “You’re basically begging for a fashion intervention. Or a date.”

Tom finally looked up at that, expression unreadable. “You wouldn’t survive either.”

Harry grinned. “That’s the point.”

Barty let out a long, suffering sigh from the corner. “If you two start flirting again while I’m in the room, I will hex myself unconscious just to escape the tension.”

“You could leave,” Tom said coolly.

“Could,” Barty agreed. “But then I wouldn’t be here for this delightful trainwreck of romantic dysfunction . Honestly, it’s my second favorite bloodsport after dueling.”

Tom’s glare sharpened, but Harry only looked amused.

“You’re awfully invested, Barty,” Harry said.

“I’m invested in chaos,” Barty corrected, flipping the knife once more before catching it. “And in watching Riddle blush like a schoolgirl every time you tease him.”

“I do not blush,” Tom said icily.

“Darling,” Barty said, dragging out the word like a blade, “you go pinker than a poisoned peony. It’s tragic.”

Tom ignored him. His gaze lingered on Harry instead — a colder kind of warmth brewing there, something calculating and curious. “You’re deflecting.”

“From what?” Harry asked.

“From the fact that the Order attacked a site we had already cleared,” Tom said. “Meaning someone fed them bad intelligence.”

“Snape?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Or Sirius,” Barty added, flipping himself upright at last. “Though that would make his idiotic reveal at the meeting even more idiotic. Which is impressive, considering.”

Tom turned back to the map, tapping one long finger beside a marker near the eastern coast.

“They hit a shell site,” he murmured. “Something we emptied three weeks ago. Left just enough behind to make it look real. I wanted them to think they’d won something.”

Harry folded his arms. “Why?”

“Because they’re desperate,” Tom said. “And desperate people take risks.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Harry asked. “Playing bait?”

Tom’s eyes flicked to him again — this time softer, more amused. “You like the game more than you pretend.”

Harry smiled. “And you like when I play dirty.”

Barty gagged loudly. “ I’m right here .”

“You’re still here?” Harry teased.

“I live in your walls,” Barty replied solemnly.

“I believe that,” Harry said.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Enough.”

Barty grinned. “Of your love story or the sniping?”

Tom didn’t answer. He straightened instead, gaze flicking toward the window where the clouds were turning a dusky gray. “There’s another site near Cardiff. I want to see if they’ll take the bait again.”

Harry stepped closer to the table, deliberately brushing past Tom’s arm. “You could let me lead the strike.”

“No,” Tom said. “You’re too valuable.”

Harry blinked. “Since when do you sound like you care?”

Tom’s voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “Since I realized what losing you would do to morale.”

Harry laughed, soft and breathless. “You’re terrible at affection.”

“You like it,” Tom said.

“I like winning ,” Harry shot back.

“That’s the same thing,” Tom murmured.

And suddenly it was quiet again — the kind of quiet that meant nothing was resolved, and everything was about to go sideways.

Barty stood, stretching with a cracking of joints and a dramatic yawn. “Well. This has been nauseating. I’m going to go interrogate that prisoner in the lower vaults. Unless you two would prefer to glare at each other some more while pretending it’s flirting.”

“I am flirting,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Barty said brightly. “Then I take it back. That’s worse.”

As Barty left the room in a flourish of menace and sarcasm, Tom and Harry were left in the tensioned quiet once more.

“So,” Harry said slowly, “Cardiff?”

“Pack light,” Tom said. “And don’t get cocky.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry said with a smirk. “It’s your fault.”

Tom’s smile was faint — but it was real.

—---

The air hung thick with mist and the smell of damp earth. The ruins of an old manor stood half-swallowed by overgrown vines and shadow. It looked abandoned—perfect for a trap.

Harry crouched behind a fallen stone wall, his wand clenched tight. Beside him, Fred and George exchanged grins that were both eager and deadly serious. Barty checked his wand’s tip and gave a short nod, the corner of his mouth twitching in something like amusement.

Tom’s voice crackled in Harry’s earpiece, calm and commanding. “Remember, stealth first. We take what we can, and get out. No unnecessary risks.”

Harry swallowed and pushed off the wall. His boots made almost no sound as he led the group toward the manor’s broken gate.

Inside, the silence was suffocating. They moved through the rooms like shadows, scanning for traps or sentries. Barty’s sharp eyes caught a faint glimmer near the floor — a cleverly disguised rune. He pointed it out, and Harry carefully dispelled it with a quick flick.

Fred whispered, “Snape’s touch.”

“Yeah, he’s got a flair for dramatic little annoyances,” Barty muttered.

They reached the cellar stairs — the suspected location of the archive.

As Harry stepped down, the faint glow of enchanted wards pulsed in the darkness. His pulse quickened. The wards were old but still potent.

“Let me,” Harry said, reaching out his wand. He muttered a counter-charm and the wards shimmered before fading away.

“Smooth,” Fred whispered, eyes gleaming.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed above.

“Time to move,” Harry hissed.

Inside the cellar was a small room, walls lined with ancient shelves crammed with dusty scrolls and brittle books. Harry scanned quickly until his gaze landed on a heavily sealed chest at the center.

“This is it,” he said, moving forward.

George knelt, examining the lock. “Complex magic. Probably not the kind you can just unlock .”

“No,” Harry agreed. “We’re going to have to break it.”

Barty smirked, wand at the ready. “Let me try something.”

A blast of precise magic shattered the lock’s seals in a shower of sparks and smoke.

The chest creaked open, revealing a collection of old files and scrolls. Harry’s fingers brushed over them, eyes searching for anything related to Project Thanatos.

“Here,” he said, holding up a thick folder. “More on Thanatos. Looks like detailed plans... names, dates, methods.”

Fred leaned in, grinning. “Looks like we just got ourselves a smoking gun.”

Suddenly, the door slammed open.

“Trap,” Barty growled, raising his wand.

A group of cloaked figures poured in, spells flying immediately.

Harry dodged a curse, firing back with a precise disarming spell. Fred and George worked in tandem, their magic a chaotic dance of sparks and hexes that left enemies staggered and retreating.

Barty’s smirk was gone, replaced by razor-sharp focus.

The battle was fierce but brief. With a final roar of magic, the attackers were pushed back out the door — and Harry’s team sealed the entrance behind them.

Breathing hard, Harry looked around at his teammates — bruised but unbroken.

“Let’s get out of here before the cavalry arrives,” he said.

Outside, the first light of dawn bled through the clouds.

Tom’s voice buzzed in Harry’s ear again.

“Well done,” Tom said. “Bring whatever you found back to the Manor. We’ll plan our next move.”

Harry glanced down at the folder in his hand — weighty with the future.

He allowed himself a brief smile, thinking of the next confrontation waiting in the shadows.

—---

The fire in the hearth hissed and popped, casting flickering shadows across the map-strewn table. Harry dropped the folder onto the oak surface with a satisfying thud .

Tom glanced up from his notes, his gaze flicking to Harry—taking in the scuffed coat, the soot on his cheek, the unmistakable glint in his eyes. “You’re late.”

“We brought you a present,” Harry said, smirking, sliding the folder closer.

Tom arched a brow. “If it’s another folder full of Ministry nonsense, I may scream.”

Barty, lounging against the far wall, chimed in, “Oh, do scream. It’d make this place feel positively festive.”

Tom ignored him, flipping the folder open. As his eyes scanned the contents, the levity drained from the room.

“Is that…?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Thanatos Phase II. Fully detailed. It’s worse than we thought.”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Necromantic tethering, possession-grade transference, controlled anchor points. They weren’t just trying to cheat death. They were trying to weaponize it.”

George leaned over, frowning. “And not just for one person.”

“There are multiple names listed,” Harry added. “Potential vessels. Hosts. It wasn’t just about Lycoris. They were building a framework—something that could survive collapse and be... reborn.”

Fred gave a low whistle. “Creepy resurrection cult vibes.”

Tom didn’t answer, flipping to the last page—where an old symbol was scrawled in red ink. Not the Dark Mark. Something older.

He tapped it. “This wasn’t Ministry-born. This is older magic. Cultic. Possibly even pre-Goblin Rebellion era.”

Harry folded his arms. “And they were hiding it in outposts with Snape’s wards.”

“Speaking of Snape,” Barty said, smiling like a cat full of cream, “I assume we’re still pretending he didn’t warn the Order.”

Tom’s voice cooled by several degrees. “He disobeyed a direct order.”

Barty stretched. “Awful habit of his. Shame if he tripped down a staircase, really.”

Harry shot him a look. “Barty.”

“I’m just saying! Slippery surfaces. Cloak accidents. Happens to the best of us.”

Tom shut the folder and stood, brushing soot from Harry’s sleeve with deliberately slow fingers. “You’re singed.”

Harry didn’t move. “You’re smug.”

“Only when I’m right.”

Harry’s mouth tilted up. “So always?”

Barty made a gagging sound in the corner.

George elbowed Fred. “They’re flirting again .”

Fred mock-whispered, “It’s like watching two very attractive dementors kiss.”

Tom finally turned away. “This changes our timeline. If the Order gets their hands on anything similar—”

“They won’t,” Harry cut in. “They’re already reacting. Not planning.”

“And if Snape tries to intervene again—” Tom started.

“I’ll handle him,” Harry said. “He may hate me, but he still doesn’t know where I fall. I can work that.”

A moment of silence passed between them — heavy with shared understanding.

Then Tom nodded. “Good. Rest. All of you. We move again at midnight.”

As the others filed out, Harry lingered.

“You’re worried,” he said quietly.

Tom didn’t deny it. “This project… it was never about surviving. It was about control after death . Dominance that couldn't be undone.”

Harry stepped closer, voice low. “Then we undo it.”

Their eyes met. Tom’s hand brushed his.

And for a heartbeat, the war fell away.

Chapter Text

The war room was thick with tension, heavy with the scent of damp stone and frustration. The flickering candlelight threw long shadows across the faces gathered around the ancient oak table. Maps lay scattered, magical parchments half-unrolled, while a low murmur filled the air like distant thunder.

Dumbledore stood at the head of the table, his face grave beneath the sharp gleam of his silver beard. Around him, the Order’s core gathered: Molly Weasley, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, and others whose eyes carried exhaustion and dread.

“Another outpost gone,” Kingsley reported grimly, voice low but steady. “Riddle’s men had already fled. No prisoners, no trace.”

Molly’s hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “They’re slipping through our fingers.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “And the wards were strong. How did they know?”

Hermione’s sharp gaze flicked toward Snape, who stood near the fireplace, his cloak wrapped tightly around him like a shadow. “Severus, the wards were dismantled from the inside.”

Snape’s eyes didn’t waver. “The Dark Lord is playing us. I suspect he wanted us to attack, to reveal our hand.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Indeed. This is no simple retreat. It is a trap within a trap. He manipulates our moves like pieces on a chessboard.”

Molly shook her head, despair bleeding through her usually fierce determination. “We can’t keep losing like this. We need a plan that’s more than reaction.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We need to find his true base. Strike where it hurts.”

Ron’s gaze flickered to the map, then hardened. “Then we’re going to need better intelligence.”

Alastor Moody’s eye glimmered beneath his brow. “And we’ll get it. One way or another.”

The room was thick with plotting. Dumbledore’s fingers steepled as he outlined the next phase.

“We strike again at dawn,” he said. “But this time, we move differently. No more running headlong into traps.”

Hermione exchanged a look with Ron, both of them steeling themselves. The stakes were rising, and failure was not an option.

—---

Sirius Black paced his quarters, fingers running through his dark curls. The echo of Snape’s betrayal still stung bitterly. How could Severus choose the Order over Tom’s explicit command? How could he risk unraveling everything?

Remus sat quietly in the corner, watching Sirius with steady, empathetic eyes. “It’s not over. Not yet.”

Sirius ran a hand down his face. “They’ll be coming for me now, and for you. They don’t trust me anymore. How can I keep spying if my cover’s blown?”

Remus sighed. “You’re the best we have. We’ll find a way. But you need to be more careful.”

Sirius smiled wryly. “Since when has careful ever been my style?”

Remus’s smile was soft. “Then we’ll have to be the cautious ones.”

—---

Tom stood by the window, the heavy storm clouds gathering outside mirroring the turmoil he always seemed to carry within. The sky darkened, thunder rumbling faintly in the distance, but his eyes were fixed on something far more complex than weather—on the swirling emotions and strategies that occupied his mind. Beside him, Harry’s presence was a quiet anchor. His hand slid effortlessly into Tom’s, small but warm, a steady pulse against the chaos.

“You think they’ll try again?” Harry’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if testing the calm beneath Tom’s surface.

Tom turned his gaze to Harry then, those penetrating eyes unwavering and cold in their usual precision, yet softened by something almost tender. “They will,” he said simply, “but we will be ready.”

Harry’s lips lifted in a sly, mischievous curve. “Good. I’m bored waiting.” There was a playful spark in his eyes that lightened the weight of the coming battle.

Tom’s laugh, rare and genuine, broke the tension—deep and low, like a secret shared only between them. “Then let’s give them a reason to fear us,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Their fingers twined tighter, the simple touch speaking volumes. In that moment, the rest of the world—the war, the danger, the endless schemes—fell away, leaving only the steady beat of two hearts daring to hope amidst the darkness.

Harry leaned into Tom, his forehead resting lightly against the cold glass of the window before turning back to meet Tom’s gaze. “You always sound like you’re plotting something,” he teased softly.

Tom smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from Harry’s face. “Maybe I am. But this time, it’s not just about power or control.”

Harry’s breath hitched slightly, sensing the rare vulnerability beneath Tom’s facade. “What is it then?”

Tom’s eyes softened imperceptibly, those icy depths flickering with something almost like warmth. “It’s about protecting what I won’t let go of. You.”

Harry’s smile faltered, heart caught between affection and the sharp edge of reality. “I’m not easy to protect.”

“No,” Tom agreed, voice low, “but I’m not good at giving up.”

The thunder rolled again, louder this time, as if the storm outside echoed the fierce promise binding them. They stayed there a moment longer—two silhouettes framed by darkness and lightning, hands clasped, hearts aligned in a fragile but unbreakable alliance.

“We should prepare,” Tom said, voice steady but carrying the weight of command.

Harry nodded, the playful light in his eyes now replaced by sharp focus. “Let’s remind them why they should fear us.”

Together, they turned away from the window, the quiet intimacy folding into a shared resolve. The manor’s shadows seemed to shift with their steps, readying themselves for the coming night.

Outside, the storm raged on—wild, untamed, much like the war that was about to spill into the world once more.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen like a velvet curtain, thick and suffocating. Under the cover of darkness, Harry’s team moved with silent precision—shadows slipping through the dense forest toward the outpost. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, each drop a cold whisper against their cloaks.

Tom walked beside Harry, eyes sharp, wand at the ready. The twins, Barty, and a handful of Death Eaters trailed behind, their breaths steady despite the tension.

“Remember,” Tom’s voice was low but clear, “this is a warning. We take what they have, and we leave no trace.”

Harry grinned, a spark lighting behind his eyes. “Warning delivered, and maybe a little fun thrown in.”

Barty snorted softly. “Only you would make a raid sound like a party.”

Harry shot him a look, sass already humming in his tone. “Well, someone’s got to keep it interesting.”

Ahead, the outpost’s outline appeared—a jagged silhouette against the night sky, lights flickering inside like wary eyes. The war was no longer just words; it was here, and it was roaring.

The team split smoothly at Tom’s subtle command, slipping into positions like parts of a well-oiled machine. Harry felt the familiar surge of adrenaline — the sharpness in his senses, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat syncing with the magic humming beneath his skin.

“Barty, twins — with me,” Tom whispered. “Harry, take the west entrance. Silent and fast.”

Harry nodded, fingers curling around his wand. The rain slicked the ground, muffling footsteps as he crouched low and moved toward the shadowed side of the outpost.

Inside, dim lanterns cast flickering pools of light, revealing crates stacked high, parchments scattered on tables, and faint murmurs that betrayed the presence of guards.

Harry’s breath caught. This was no empty fort.

He raised his wand — Silencio! — and the closest guard froze, lips sealed tight.

A flick of his wrist, and the man slipped to the floor, unconscious but unharmed.

Meanwhile, Tom and the others engaged with the outpost’s defenders in the courtyard — a dazzling display of spells lighting up the night sky. Fireballs erupted and twisted into serpentine shapes, hexes and jinxes flying like deadly whispers.

“Keep it clean!” Tom ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. “No unnecessary casualties.”

Fred grinned as he cast a stunning charm, “When have we ever been clean?”

George shot back, “Since never, apparently!”

Barty leaned over to Harry, smirking, “You two look like you’re having a lovers’ spat again. Should I call a timeout?”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Tell Tom he’s not getting off that easily.”

The magical duel raged, the air thick with tension and charged power. Harry slipped inside the main building, eyes scanning for the hidden vault rumored to hold the Order’s stolen secrets.

His fingers traced the ancient runes guarding the door.

“Let’s see if you like my touch,” he muttered, weaving a counter-curse with deft precision.

The lock clicked open.

Inside, scrolls and tomes glimmered with protective enchantments — the fruits of countless secret investigations.

Harry’s heart pounded. This was the prize.

“Got it,” he whispered into the comm-link.

Outside, the battle was winding down. Tom’s voice cut through softly, “Status?”

“Vault secured,” Harry replied, carefully closing the chest behind him. “Time to vanish.”

He slipped out the back way just as Barty’s voice crackled, “Retreat in five.”

The group melted into the shadows, weaving through rain-slick streets as alarms blared behind them. Harry felt the adrenaline fade into a sharp focus, the weight of what they’d taken settling in his chest.

Once back at the manor, Tom met Harry at the entrance, eyes gleaming in the firelight. He took the parchments with reverence, fingers tracing the writing.

“Every piece of this,” Tom murmured, “is another step closer to unmasking them.”

Harry leaned into him, breath warm against his neck. “We make a good team.”

Tom’s smile was slow, dangerous, and full of something Harry hadn’t dared hope for.

“Better than good,” he said softly.

—---

The dimly lit war room felt heavier than usual. Maps lay scattered on the large oak table, flickering candlelight casting long shadows over weary faces.

Molly paced restlessly, hands clenched tight. “They were waiting for us. Our plan was compromised.”

Hermione stood by the hearth, flipping through a report with sharp eyes. “Someone betrayed us. Our timing, our approach—it all leaked.”

Ron slammed his fist on the table, sending a pile of parchments fluttering. “And now we’ve lost the Ministry documents. Information we can’t afford to lose.”

Dumbledore sat quietly, fingers steepled, his gaze distant but sharp. “Riddle anticipated this move. The failed raid was a calculated ploy—a trap to draw us out and gauge our strength.”

Molly’s eyes burned with frustration. “So what? We keep falling into his games? How long before we change tactics?”

Hermione’s voice was firm. “We can’t afford to hesitate. We must strike harder, smarter.”

The door opened abruptly and Snape entered, his usual mask of composure slightly cracked. “The outpost was empty. No enemies captured, no materials seized. It’s clear now—they wanted us to come.”

Ron looked incredulous. “They played us?”

Snape’s gaze was cold. “Yes. And worse—they’re using this to flush out our methods. We’re being studied, probed for weaknesses.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Indeed. This is a test, a chess move. We must recalibrate our approach and anticipate their countermove.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “But every failed strike costs us. Time, resources, morale.”

Molly’s voice was steady, unwavering. “Then we show them the true cost of crossing us. No more mistakes.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, each member wrestling with the weight of their failures—and the resolve to keep fighting.

—---

Tom’s fingers lingered over the fragile parchments, their edges smoldering faintly in the low firelight. His eyes never left the text, but Harry felt the tension in his body—the quiet storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“You’re holding it like it’s a relic,” Harry teased softly, stepping closer.

Tom’s gaze flicked up, a slow smile curling the corner of his lips. “It is.”

Harry pressed his palm to Tom’s chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath the black fabric. “Then we should celebrate.”

Tom’s smile deepened, shadows flickering across his sharp features. “Celebrate… or prepare?”

Harry chuckled, brushing his fingers through Tom’s dark hair. “Both.”

They moved together toward the sitting room, the parchment carefully laid on the table, forgotten for the moment. Outside, the rain drummed steadily against the windows, a soft percussion that matched the quiet rhythm between them.

Tom’s hand found Harry’s, fingers curling possessively. “You did well today.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a mix of exhaustion and pride. “We did. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Nor I without you,” Tom murmured, pulling Harry closer until their foreheads touched. The world outside—the war, the Order, the secrets—faded for just a moment.

Harry smiled against Tom’s lips. “Better than good, indeed.”

The firelight cast flickering shadows across Tom’s face as his fingers trailed slowly down Harry’s spine, igniting a trail of heat that spread through him like wildfire. Harry’s breath caught, his pulse quickening as Tom’s hands pressed firmly against his bare skin beneath the thin fabric.

Tom’s voice dropped to a low, possessive growl. “You’re mine, Harry. Always.”

Harry’s hands trembled as they slid under Tom’s shirt, fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest. “And I’m yours,” he whispered, lips parting in anticipation.

Their mouths met in a fierce kiss, teeth occasionally grazing, tongues dancing—a collision of hunger and longing. Tom’s hands slipped beneath Harry’s shirt, palms pressing against warm skin, sliding down to cup his hips with firm, deliberate strength. Harry shivered, arching into the touch, craving more.

Slowly, methodically, they shed their clothes, the cool air brushing against heated flesh, intensifying every nerve ending. Tom’s fingers found the waistband of Harry’s trousers, easing them down inch by inch, revealing the smooth skin beneath.

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears as Tom’s lips traced a fiery path from his collarbone down over his chest, lingering at the sharp swell of his ribs. His hands moved lower, cupping, teasing, stroking with an intimacy that left Harry breathless.

Tom’s voice was a harsh whisper against his skin. “You feel so good—so perfect for me.”

With a steady hand, Tom positioned himself, warm and hard, pressing against Harry’s entrance. A sharp gasp escaped Harry’s lips as he felt the first delicious stretch, the exquisite burn of something new and intimate. Tom’s eyes locked with his—dark, intense, filled with hunger and adoration.

“Tell me when,” Tom murmured, his breath hot against Harry’s ear.

Harry nodded, biting his lip as Tom slowly pushed deeper, inch by agonizing inch, until they were joined fully. A low groan rumbled in Tom’s chest as he began to move, slow and steady at first, building a rhythm that matched the pounding of the rain outside.

Harry’s hands gripped Tom’s shoulders, nails digging in as waves of pleasure and vulnerability crashed through him. Each thrust was a promise, a claim, a sacred binding between them. Their breaths mingled, ragged and desperate, voices breaking into whispered names and soft moans.

Tom’s pace quickened, fingers threading through Harry’s hair, tugging gently as he leaned down to capture Harry’s lips again—hungry, demanding, yet filled with tenderness.

The world narrowed until there was nothing but the heat between them, the slick friction of skin, the shared gasp of release. Tom shuddered, holding Harry tightly as they both tumbled over the edge, caught in the raw, unyielding tide of their connection.

Afterwards, they lay tangled and spent, hearts pounding in unison, the storm outside fading into a gentle drizzle. Tom pressed a lingering kiss to Harry’s temple, whispering, “Mine, always.”

Harry smiled softly, breathless and sated. “Yours.”

Chapter Text

The manor felt impossibly quiet, the kind of quiet that presses on the skin and makes the blood hum in your ears. Outside, the night thickened—heavy clouds rolling like dark waves, occasionally lit by flashes of distant lightning. Inside, the flickering fire threw long, restless shadows across the grand hall.

Tom stood near the hearth, his expression unreadable, fingers absently tracing the rim of a goblet filled with dark wine. Harry approached quietly, the soft click of his footsteps swallowed by the heavy drapes. When Harry’s hand slipped into Tom’s, the tension around the room seemed to ease — if only for a moment.

“I keep thinking,” Harry murmured, voice low, “about how close we came. How close they were.”

Tom’s eyes darkened with that familiar intensity, the calculating gleam that always made Harry’s pulse quicken. “They always come close. But not close enough.”

Harry smiled, a teasing curl of his lips. “And yet, I’m bored waiting.”

Tom’s rare laugh, low and genuine, echoed in the stillness. “Then perhaps we should remind them why they fear us.”

Their fingers intertwined, fingers strong and sure, as if to anchor one another in a storm of uncertainties.

—---

Barty leaned back against the polished table, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “You’re really going to drag the twins into this next mess, aren’t you?”

Harry grinned, undeterred. “They’re not exactly ‘mess’ material. More like… chaos incarnate. And we need that.”

Fred and George lounged nearby, trading smirks and whispers. George caught Harry’s eye and raised a brow.

Barty smirked, eyes gleaming. “Chaos and destruction. Sounds like a business plan.”

Fred gave a mock salute. “Well, if you’re handing out titles, I want ‘Chief Mischief Officer.’”

George laughed, nudging Harry. “We’ll be great at sneaking in, raising hell, and disappearing before anyone notices.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Just try not to get blood on your robes this time.”

Fred held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, a little blood is practically a badge of honor.”

Barty rolled his eyes, but the smile on his lips betrayed his amusement. “And if you both survive, I might actually stop calling you reckless.”

Harry chuckled. “That’s not a compliment coming from you.”

Barty winked. “It’s the best I can do.”

The door clicked softly shut, shutting out the world beyond.

Tom’s hand found Harry’s waist, pulling him close until their breaths mingled.

“You’re reckless,” Tom murmured, voice husky.

Harry laughed softly. “I learned from the best.”

Tom’s fingers trailed up Harry’s side, a slow, deliberate touch that sent a shiver through him.

“I can’t lose you,” Tom said fiercely. “Not to this war, not to anyone.”

Harry’s smile softened, vulnerability threading through the warmth in his gaze. “Then don’t. Stay with me.”

Tom’s lips brushed over Harry’s temple, a tender promise in that small kiss. “Always.”

—---

Fred and George exchanged quiet glances, the weight of what lay ahead settling between them.

Fred broke the silence, voice low. “Do you think they really trust us?”

George shrugged. “Trust is complicated. But if we’re in this, we’re all they’ve got.”

Barty joined them, crossing his arms. “No matter what happens, remember — chaos is the one thing they can never predict.”

The three shared a grin, an unspoken pact forged in laughter and firelight.

Chapter Text

The first light crept hesitantly through the heavy curtains, casting pale stripes across the floor. Harry lay tangled in the sheets, Tom’s steady breathing a soothing rhythm beside him. For a moment, everything felt fragile and perfect—like the calm before the inevitable storm.

Tom shifted, his hand finding Harry’s in the dimness. “You’re thinking about the raid.”

Harry nodded slowly, eyes still closed. “We can’t afford mistakes. Not now.”

Tom’s fingers tightened around his. “And we won’t make them. Not with you.”

The warmth of his words seeped into Harry’s skin, a shield against the doubts that gnawed at him. But even as the words settled, the shadow of what was to come loomed large.

Barty was already there, scrolling through the reports with a sharp frown. Fred and George hovered near the map table, restless energy barely contained.

Harry entered, feeling the weight of expectation settle over him. “Status?”

Barty looked up, eyes sharp. “Outpost defenses have been reinforced. They expect another strike.”

Fred cracked his knuckles. “Good. Means they’re scared.”

George nodded, grinning. “Let’s make sure they have something to fear.”

Harry caught the glint in their eyes and allowed himself a brief smile. “Ready when you are.”

Tom approached quietly, his presence magnetic. He caught Harry’s wrist, pulling him close for a brief, fierce kiss.

“Come back to me,” Tom whispered.

Harry met his gaze, determination burning bright. “Always.”

—---

The night swallowed them whole, a velvet cloak of darkness that seemed to absorb even their breaths. The cold pressed against their skin as they slipped past enchanted wards and silent patrols, moving like ghosts through enemy territory.

Fred and George were a perfect contrast to the shadows—light on their feet, grinning beneath their serious expressions. Their footsteps made no sound, but their eyes sparkled with that trademark mischief, always scanning, always two steps ahead. They whispered to each other in quick, clipped tones, weaving through spells and traps like dancers, a practiced choreography honed from years of rebellion and daring.

Barty trailed close behind, his wand at the ready. His usual biting sarcasm was gone, replaced by a tight focus that made his sharp eyes gleam in the dark. Every flick of his wand was precise—silent but deadly, a subtle web of protective magic covering their backs, ready to snap at any threat.

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears, every nerve alive as they approached the outpost. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone and old magic. Ahead loomed the vault they needed—a forbidding door etched with runes that whispered warnings in a language only the truly dark could understand.

With a whispered incantation from George, the wards flickered and fell. Fred slipped a tiny enchanted device into the lock, and the heavy door creaked open just enough for them to slip inside.

The vault’s interior was colder, the air heavy with secrets. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with parchment, magical artifacts, and locked chests. They had to move fast.

Harry’s fingers closed tightly around his wand. “Find what we came for.”

Barty scanned the room, muttering counter-curses under his breath to keep any hidden traps at bay. Fred and George split up, their eyes gleaming as they hunted for anything valuable—or deadly.

Suddenly, a shrill, magical alarm shattered the silence, ripping through the quiet like a scream.

“Move!” Harry barked, adrenaline flooding his veins.

Panic threatened to claw at their minds, but they fought it down. Spells flashed through the air—Barty’s precise shield magic deflecting a curse that streaked too close. Fred ducked, but a dark blade grazed his arm, warm blood blossoming on his sleeve.

“Fred!” George hissed, covering him as Harry surged forward, pushing past the chaos to lead their retreat.

They twisted through the corridors, shadows turning into enemies that melted back into darkness under their combined magic. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and iron.

Fred’s limp grew heavier, but his grin was fierce. “Not bad for a first real taste of chaos.”

George smirked despite the tension, “Welcome to the family business.”

Behind them, the echoes of their footsteps were swallowed by the night as they vanished into the safety of the dark woods, hearts still pounding, the weight of what they’d taken settling heavily in their chests.

—---

Breathing hard, the team gathered in the shadow of the ruins, adrenaline still raw and sparking between them like static.

Fred flexed his fingers, wincing as he rotated his shoulder. Blood still soaked his sleeve, but his grin was wide and defiant. “Not bad for a first real taste of chaos.”

George clapped him on the back, earning a hiss and a laugh. “Welcome to the family business. We bleed, we banter, we blow things up.”

Barty wiped a smear of soot from his jaw, smirking as he leaned against the scorched wall. “Honestly, it was kind of adorable watching you two scramble through that last ward. Like watching kittens try to murder each other.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Says the man who tripped over his own dramatic cloak entrance.”

“I meant to do that,” Barty retorted, flicking imaginary dust from his collar. “It was a distraction. Very effective. You’re welcome.”

Harry was only half-listening, eyes scanning the perimeter one last time before letting himself breathe. The vault’s contents—secured in the enchanted satchel at his side—felt heavier than it should have, like carrying a prophecy on his shoulder.

He looked at them—Fred with bloodied knuckles, George adjusting his cracked glasses, Barty casually leaning with that usual glint of madness in his eyes—and felt a sharp, grounding sense of loyalty. Not just comrades. This was his crew. His family, in a way the word had never quite meant before.

“See?” Barty added, tone mockingly sweet. “Told you reckless was an asset.”

George snorted. “You also told us you could pick a ward blindfolded, and then set off half the perimeter traps.”

Barty gave an unrepentant shrug. “Collateral brilliance.”

Harry smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You’re all insane.”

Fred grinned. “Yeah, but we’re your kind of insane.”

And in that moment—bruised, breathless, and half-laughing in the aftermath of danger—Harry knew one thing with razor clarity:

The real war hadn’t even started yet.

But they’d be ready for it.

Together.

Chapter Text

The map spread across the long table in Riddle Manor's war room shimmered with enchantments, glowing with runes and pulsing warnings. Rain tapped against the high windows, a distant storm mirroring the unease in the room.

Harry stood at one end, damp curls plastered to his forehead, cloak still streaked with ash. Tom sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, his eyes like cut obsidian as he surveyed the report Fred had just dropped.

"They moved the entire vault two days before the raid," Harry said, voice tight. "Clean sweep. As if they knew we were coming."

Tom's gaze flicked to Barty, who lounged in his chair with forced ease. “Any thoughts, Crouch?”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Either we have a leak, or the Order’s incompetence is catching. My vote’s on the former.”

Fred winced as George adjusted the bandage on his shoulder. “We got what we could. Partial files, half a ledger. Not useless.”

“Not useless,” Tom echoed thoughtfully, fingers brushing over a page. “But not the real prize, either. They’re hiding the source.”

Harry leaned closer. “We need to strike again. And this time—”

“This time,” Tom interrupted, calm and cold, “we let them think they’re winning.”

Silence fell.

Barty whistled low. “That look in your eye, Riddle. Either we’re going to get answers… or we’re going to get very dead.”

Tom gave a razor smile.

“I intend to do both. Strategically.”

Tom stood slowly, each movement deliberate. “We’ll feed them false intel,” he said, tapping the edge of the recovered ledger. “Let them think they’ve intercepted a lead on a surviving Horcrux.”

Harry blinked. “There aren’t any left.”

Tom’s smirk was faint but sharp. “Exactly. But they don’t know that.”

Fred, still cradling his wounded arm, glanced between them. “You want to bait the Order?”

Barty grinned. “Oh, finally , something fun.”

Tom ignored him. “We’ll scatter just enough breadcrumbs to draw them somewhere I want them—somewhere they’ll walk in confident and come out broken.”

George leaned forward. “And while they’re distracted?”

“We move for the heart,” Tom said softly. “The documents we recovered—” he laid a delicate finger on the corner of one charred scroll, “—point to a central archive deep inside the Ministry. Enchanted, off-record, locked to bloodlines. Whoever’s funding and protecting the Order from the inside is hiding their name there.”

Harry felt the tension ripple through his spine. “So we flush the Order into a trap, and while they’re scrambling…”

“We expose the traitor who’s been two steps ahead of us,” Tom finished. “And we end this.”

The others absorbed the plan in a charged silence.

Fred finally muttered, “Well. That sounds moderately suicidal.”

George nodded solemnly. “More than moderately.”

Barty stretched lazily. “Better than hiding in broom closets. I say we start forging false logs tonight.”

Tom turned to Harry then, and the room’s current shifted. “I’ll need you with me, when we go for the Ministry archive.”

Harry’s brows lifted. “You trust me not to get caught?”

“I trust you,” Tom said simply, “to burn the place to the ground if you are.”

Something cold and thrilling stirred in Harry’s chest. “You always know how to sweet-talk me.”

“I’m nothing if not consistent,” Tom replied, eyes gleaming.

George coughed. “Not to interrupt whatever this dark-married thing is, but can we get a list of bait targets? I’ve got some ideas involving fake prophecies and a very loud decoy duck.”

Fred smirked. “I miss the duck.”

“Everyone misses the duck,” Barty said wistfully.

Tom sighed like a man surrounded by idiots. Dangerous, capable idiots—his idiots.

He gestured toward the map. “Get to work. We move in forty-eight hours.”

Harry stayed behind as the others trickled out, dragging notes and sarcasm behind them. The fire crackled low. Tom stepped close, one hand reaching to undo the clasp of Harry’s damp cloak.

“You’re reckless,” he murmured. “You came back bleeding.”

Harry’s lip quirked. “You came back smirking. We all have our vices.”

Tom’s fingers stilled against his chest. “Don’t get killed before I win.”

Harry leaned in, brushing a kiss to the corner of Tom’s mouth. “Not planning to die. I’m planning to finish this. With you.”

For a rare moment, Tom looked like he believed it.

—---

The storm rolled in at midnight, lightning splitting the sky as if in warning.

Under cover of wind and rain, Barty and George made their way toward Diagon Alley’s fringes, hoods pulled low and footsteps soundless on the slick cobblestones. They paused near a boarded-up side entrance to what had once been Flourish and Blotts—now a decoy safehouse for scattered Order sympathizers.

“This is the spot?” George whispered.

Barty nodded, pulling out a small scroll from the oilskin pouch at his hip. The parchment was aged to perfection, a mix of false handwriting and ancient ink charmed to pass even moderate scrutiny.

George flicked his wand. “Warding check—clear. You sure the blood markers will hold?”

“They’ll hold just long enough to be dangerous,” Barty replied, placing the scroll inside a cracked floorboard. He added a small shimmer ward around it—subtle, just enough to make a passing Seeker curious.

“Think they’ll fall for it?” George asked as they stepped away.

“Oh,” Barty said, grinning sharply, “they’re desperate . They’ll take anything that smells like victory.”

—---

Elsewhere, Fred and Harry broke into a secondary Floo relay hidden beneath the abandoned Leaky Cauldron. The place reeked of mildew and old smoke, but the connection crystal still flickered, barely hanging on.

“Planting time,” Fred muttered, placing a small enchanted bundle into the relay crystal’s seam. “This’ll bounce to any tapped Order channels—coded to sound like a stolen Auror transmission.”

Harry adjusted the tone filter. “Make it shaky. Like the source didn’t mean to send it.”

Fred smirked. “Nothing screams believable like a panicked whisper and half a map.”

“Just don’t put too much in. They need to think they’re winning.”

Fred nodded. “Don’t worry. It ends right before the trap begins.”

They stepped back. The enchantment activated with a soft pulse—false coordinates, references to a "preserved Horcrux location" buried beneath the Highlands, locked behind blood rituals and Ministry-level concealment.

It was bait, wrapped in grief and hope.

Harry watched the glow fade. “They’ll send a team.”

Fred’s smile was tight. “Then they’ll wish they hadn’t.”

By dawn, three more “leaks” had made their way into the Order’s shadow network—one in Knockturn Alley’s lower trading circles, one “overheard” in a captured Death Eater interrogation note, and the last scribbled onto a cursed artifact deliberately abandoned where a known sympathizer would find it.

Tom reviewed the flow of intel with calm satisfaction.

“They’ll chase it,” he said, tracing a finger over the map, “because they have to believe there’s still something left to save.”

Harry folded his arms, gaze cold. “And when they arrive?”

Tom looked up, eyes glittering. “We bury them in the truth.”

Chapter Text

The war room was humming with tension.

Maps littered the long table, corners curled from overuse. Candles burned low, their flickering light casting deep shadows across furrowed brows and clenched jaws. A heavy rain drummed on the windows of the safehouse buried beneath the old church in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Remus Lupin stood near the hearth, rereading the latest transmission for the third time. “Three sources,” he said slowly, “all disconnected, but they all point to the same location.”

“The Highlands,” Kingsley confirmed, tapping a point on the map with the butt of his wand. “Just north of the Glen. Supposedly protected by blood magic and something older. Horcrux signs. Heavy shielding. One source said it requires ancestral lineage to enter.”

Murmurs rippled around the room.

Tonks folded her arms. “It’s too convenient. We’ve been chasing shadows for months. Now suddenly three leads show up, all screaming ‘This is it’?”

Kingsley glanced at her. “I don’t like it either. But if they’ve got a Horcrux hidden up there—”

“We can’t afford to ignore it,” Remus finished grimly.

Across the room, Molly Weasley handed out tea with shaking hands. Her boys were already out there more than she could stand. Every mention of “Highlands” twisted something deep in her chest. “And you’re sure about the blood trace? That it’s his ?”

“Confirmed in two of the reports,” said Arthur, squinting at the blurred runes inked onto the copied parchment. “His signature is buried in the magic. That’s not something easily faked.”

“No,” said Moody from the corner, where he’d been silent too long. His magical eye spun once, then fixed forward. “But it is something he would let us find.”

The room quieted.

“He wants us to come,” Moody said. “And we’re going anyway.”

Tonk’s mouth tightened. “So we prepare for a trap.”

Moody nodded once. “And spring it on our terms.”

—---

Later that evening, as the final pieces of the plan came together, the Order’s strike team gathered in the hidden grove behind the church. The storm had passed, but the ground was still slick, and the air buzzed with charged magic. Tension and determination shimmered between them like wards.

Kingsley ran through the final markers. “We go in quiet. No large spells unless we’re cornered. The secondary team will circle wide, scout the perimeter. If it’s real—we secure it. If it’s a trap—we make them regret baiting it.”

Remus stepped forward, wand in hand, face hard. “We do this for the ones we’ve lost. And for the ones still counting on us.”

Heads bowed. A moment of silence passed.

Then the Order vanished into the dark, chasing the lie they had to believe.

The Highlands were colder than they had any right to be in June.

Mist clung to the jagged hills like a living thing, swallowing sound and light as the Order advanced. Even Apparating within range had cost them — their magic wavered, unstable, like something in the air itself resisted.

Tonks cast a detection charm. It fizzled halfway through. “Something’s wrong. It’s not just wards—this whole area’s been soaked in layered concealment.”

“Keep close,” Kingsley said, his voice low. “No solo movement.”

They pressed on.

The supposed vault was nestled in a ravine between two stone spines. Ruins stood like broken teeth around it, ancient and half-buried, runes faintly pulsing beneath centuries of moss. It felt wrong —like a place the world had tried to forget.

And yet the door was open.

Remus slowed. “No guards?”

“No noise,” Ron whispered. “No resistance. That’s—”

“—a bad sign,” Moody growled, sweeping his wand in a tight circle. “Too quiet. Too easy.”

Still, they entered.

The passage dipped underground, torch sconces lighting one by one as if in welcome. The magic here was old, sure. Familiar in a way that made the hairs rise on their arms.

They reached the heart chamber in formation.

At its center sat a stone pedestal. Upon it: a small obsidian box, sealed with wax and a symbol none of them immediately recognized — a jagged star split down the center.

“No defensive enchantments,” Tonks murmured, scanning.

“Just sitting here, waiting to be taken,” Kingsley said grimly.

Ron touched the box—lightly, wand-first.

No explosion. No curse.

Just a click .

A sound echoed behind them, faint and final: the vault door closing .

Moody spun. “We’re not alone.”

The illusion fell like shattered glass.

The chamber twisted, dimensions skewing into angles that didn’t obey physics or sanity. Shadows peeled from the walls and grinned .

They’d been watched since the moment they stepped in.

From the far end, a flicker of movement—a person, no, two , watching from a high alcove that hadn’t existed seconds ago.

Tom Riddle’s silhouette stepped into view, high above, calm and unreadable. And beside him, bathed in flickering shadow and soft green light—Harry Potter.

Kingsley’s breath caught. “Potter?”

Harry didn’t speak. He only watched, gaze sharp, distant, untouched by the trap below.

Tom raised one elegant hand.

The runes along the walls ignited in a sudden spiral of light.

A pulse of magic slammed into the chamber—warding them in , sealing their Apparition anchors, stripping their comms and scrambling every prepared enchantment.

“Tell them,” Tom said softly, voice carrying across the chamber like velvet steel, “thank you for chasing ghosts.”

The illusion collapsed entirely.

There was no Horcrux.

Only a prison of their own making.

And the trap had already closed.

—---

From the upper alcove, hidden by veils of folded magic, Harry stood beside Tom, watching as the Order scrambled to adjust. The runes they’d so carefully layered pulsed with steady containment magic—unbreakable, at least for now.

Below, Moody barked orders, his magical eye spinning wildly. Marlene attempted to pry open a shimmer of space with a displacement spell, but the magic turned inward, looping back on itself.

“They’re panicking,” Harry said softly, almost clinically. “Trying everything but trusting nothing.”

Tom’s fingers flexed against the stone railing. “Fear eats logic. You knew they'd take the bait.”

“We gave them exactly what they wanted to see,” Harry replied, eyes narrowing. “And no one questions a gift if it confirms what they already believe.”

Their deception had been layered — a conjured vault, a false lead planted weeks earlier, whispered through channels they’d let the Order think were secure. The forged box, the runes, even the faint scent of magic long faded — all designed to mirror what a Horcrux site should look like.

Let them believe they’d stumbled onto something rare. Something real.

And now?

The Order was trapped in a false vault that drained magic slowly, subtly — just enough to weaken their reserves while leaving them lucid enough to feel the walls closing in.

“Kingsley’s already counting escape routes,” Harry murmured, watching the way the Auror’s head turned. “They’ll think this is a test. A challenge. But not the truth.”

“They’re still clinging to hope,” Tom said, tone dry. “Admirable. If futile.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “They’ll figure out it was us.”

Tom smiled faintly, dark and proud. “Let them. That’s the point.”

Below, Remus caught sight of something—someone—just beyond the edge of the chamber. A flicker of movement that wasn’t really there.

Phantoms Harry had placed personally.

Projections from old battles. Echoes of the past. James Potter’s voice, caught in static. Lily’s laughter, twisted backward into something hollow and haunting. All of it calculated to destabilize, emotionally and magically.

He felt Tom glance at him.

“You could have made it cleaner,” Tom murmured. “You wanted to wound them.”

Harry didn’t deny it. “They keep thinking they’re saving me from something. Like I didn’t choose this.”

He looked up, eyes catching Tom’s in the half-light.

“I want them to understand .”

Tom leaned closer, breath soft against his cheek. “They will. One crack at a time.”

The vault pulsed again — this time a warning surge. The threshold Harry had set for release, in case things escalated beyond control.

“I’ll give them ten more minutes,” Harry said. “Enough to think they might escape on their own.”

Tom’s smile deepened. “Merciful.”

“Strategic.”

They stood in silence, watching as the Order flailed deeper into the illusion — still trying to win a battle that had already been lost.

—---

The walls were closing in.

Not physically - yet - but with a sense of creepy inevitability, like air thickening with smoke before a blaze. 

Tonks gritted her teeth and tried again, wand pointed at the sealed exit. “ Aperio et fractum! ”

Nothing.

The spell rebounded, harmlessly absorbed into the shimmering wards lining the threshold.

“That's the fifth time,” Kingsley said grimly. “We’re draining magic and making no progress.”

“There’s something off about this place,” Remus muttered, eyes sweeping the room. “The air feels... wrong.”

“It’s psychological,” Moody snapped. “Illusions. Parlor tricks. We push through. Get the objective. Regroup.”

“But there is no objective,” Remus said sharply, stepping forward. “Don’t you get it? This isn’t a vault. It’s a story someone wants us to believe.”

Molly had gone pale. “Are you saying it’s a fake?”

“I’m saying it’s a message ,” Remus said. His voice cracked on the last word. “They knew we’d come. They wanted us to.”

Beside him, Alastor’s magical eye twitched furiously. “It’s a setup.”

“You’re just now realizing that?” Tonks bit out, then regretted the harshness immediately.

Fred and George weren’t with them. That fact echoed louder than any alarm. The twins had been conspicuously absent from the assignment—sent elsewhere, supposedly. Tonks had believed that lie, and now she wondered if they’d been told to stay out of the trap because they were no longer on the Order’s side.

Remus stepped toward the wall and pressed his palm against a set of flickering runes. He didn’t cast anything—just stood, breathing in the magic. Then he recoiled, stumbling.

“What is it?” Tonks asked.

“They’re not siphoning just our magic,” he said. “They’re pulling emotion. Thought. This place is... feeding on us.”

Kingsley swore under his breath. “Time to improvise.”

He motioned to Moody, who began tearing strips of spell-thread from his coat and weaving a rupture ward.

“Five seconds,” Moody warned. “It won’t break the room, but it’ll make a crack.”

They braced.

A sharp explosion rang out like a gunshot, a ripple of gold energy shivering through the space—and for a moment, a sliver of the real world broke through the veil. Fresh air, dull light, freedom—

“Go!” Kingsley roared.

Tonks and Molly shoved through first, followed by Remus. Moody and Kingsley brought up the rear. The moment they crossed the threshold, the shimmer behind them sealed up like water swallowing a stone.

They collapsed onto the muddy stone floor outside. Breathless. Drained. Covered in sweat.

But alive.

Remus sat up first, blinking against the mist.

“What the hell was that?”

Kingsley didn't answer. His attention was fixed on a mark scorched into the outer wall of the vault entrance. One none of them had seen before.

A black serpent, curled around a star.

It wasn’t Dark Mark magic.

It was older. Stranger.

“Tom Riddle,” he said slowly. “But not just him. This wasn’t his alone.”

Moody grunted. “No. That was Harry.”

They all turned.

Remus looked sick. “Are you sure?”

Moody's magical eye spun once, and he nodded. “He was there. Not in body. But his magic was. His will . He wanted us to see this.”

Kingsley stood, wiping grime from his hands. “Then the message is clear.”

“What?” Molly asked bitterly.

“They’re ahead of us,” Kingsley said. “And they’re not hiding anymore.”

Chapter Text

From the highest tower, the world looked like a chessboard—fog-laced and trembling beneath moonlight. Tom stood with his arms folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the faint glow rising from the ruins of the false vault site. Fires still burned, weak and frustrated. The trap had snapped shut. The bait had been taken.

But it was never the fire Tom watched.

It was the retreat.

Harry leaned against the window ledge beside him, fingers stained with ink and dust from the ancient documents they'd been cataloguing. His expression was unreadable, but his magic—ever a hum beneath the skin—was coiled and alert.

“They made it out,” Harry said after a moment. “Mostly.”

Tom's mouth curved faintly. “Enough to spread the story.”

“You think they’ll figure it out?” Harry asked, brow raised.

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “They’ll think they have. That’s the point.”

Outside, shadows slithered over stone. A Death Eater patrol was returning—silent, efficient, almost invisible in the night.

“Snape hasn’t said much yet,” Harry added, almost lazily. “About Sirius. But he will.”

Tom nodded. “Let him.”

Harry turned. “Really?”

Tom looked at him then, properly, his expression sharpened by moonlight. “We need them to panic, Harry. To flinch. A known spy is far more dangerous when exposed. They’ll waste time scrambling to lock everything down. And Sirius? He’s already brought us what we need.”

Harry watched him for a beat. “So this is it, then. The first real blow.”

Tom’s smile was slow, satisfied. “No. This was only a whisper.”

He stepped forward, hand brushing lightly down Harry’s arm. “When the time comes, they won’t just fear us.”

Harry tilted his head. “What then?”

“They’ll follow.”

Their eyes locked—something dark and sacred passing between them.

And Harry smiled.

—---

The room smelled of damp stone and failure.

Molly paced the length of the war table, her boots echoing like gunshots. Kingsley sat stiff-backed in one corner, a half-healed burn across his jaw. Tonks nursed a twisted ankle. Moody glared holes through the wall.

“Where is he?” Molly snapped.

“Remus is getting him,” Kingsley muttered. “He needed... a moment.”

“A moment? We were trapped , Kingsley. Lied to. Harry knew. That was his magic in there—I’d bet my wand on it.”

“I think we’ve all accepted that now,” Tonks said, voice quieter than usual. “We just haven’t figured out what it means .”

“It means we’re losing,” Moody growled. “And we’ve been losing for a while now.”

The door opened before anyone could respond. Remus stepped inside, pale and drawn. Behind him, Dumbledore.

Silence fell.

Albus looked worse than usual—tired, thinned, worn hollow at the edges. “I assume you’ve all seen the mark?”

Kingsley nodded. “Serpent and star.”

“A symbol that hasn't been used since before Grindelwald’s fall,” Dumbledore murmured. “A mark of rebirth, in some darker circles.”

“You mean prophecy,” Remus said. “The Black Star. Lycoris again.”

“That’s what they want us to think,” Albus said. “And Sirius—”

“Is compromised,” Molly snapped.

“No,” Remus said firmly, stepping forward. “He’s changed . But he’s not against us.”

“That’s not the same as being with us,” Moody said grimly.

“We need to look forward,” Kingsley said. “If Riddle and Harry are turning this war into a myth—then we can’t fight it with facts and politics anymore.”

Albus hesitated. “I fear you’re right. They’re playing a longer game than we realized.”

“And they just sacrificed a vault,” Tonks said, “to show us how far ahead they are.”

“They want us scrambling,” Kingsley added. “That’s why they let us go.”

No one denied it.

The war table, once filled with strategy and hope, now held only maps burned at the edges and a single, magical brand scorched into parchment: the serpent and the star.

—---

The war room had emptied hours ago, leaving behind only the echo of what had been said—and what hadn’t.

Sirius stood alone in one of the narrow tunnels beneath the Order’s current hideout, his back pressed against cold stone. The corridor was damp and poorly lit, more a forgotten drainage passage than a hallway. It smelled of mildew and ash.

He could still hear the distant murmurs of the meeting. They hadn’t said his name aloud. Not yet. But they would. Someone always did, eventually.

Footsteps approached. Light ones. Familiar.

Remus.

Sirius didn’t move when he stepped into view. “Come to report me, Moony?”

Remus didn’t smile. “Should I?”

Sirius gave a short laugh, tired and bitter. “Maybe. It’d be cleaner that way.”

Remus looked at him, brow furrowed, the lines around his eyes deeper than Sirius remembered. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

“I had to.” Sirius’s voice was low, urgent. “Tom needed me to see how far they’d fall into the trap. He wanted a gauge. And Harry—Harry needs someone here. Someone who remembers who he is.”

Remus folded his arms, leaning against the opposite wall. “And who’s that, then? The boy who nearly died under our watch? Or the one orchestrating military-grade strikes with the Dark Lord?”

Sirius flinched. “Don’t call him that. He’s still Harry . And he’s not the monster they think he is.”

Remus was quiet a long moment. “No. He’s something worse.”

Sirius frowned. “What does that mean?”

Remus pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “It means I’m not sure who’s in control anymore. Him, or Riddle. Or you.”

“I’m not controlled,” Sirius snapped. “I’m choosing this.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did!” Sirius shoved a hand through his hair, voice cracking with frustration. “I told you . You’re the only one I told, and you’re still acting like I betrayed you.”

“Because you did,” Remus said softly. “Not by switching sides. But by disappearing . By leaving me to explain your silence while the Order spun lies and panicked. You could’ve trusted me sooner.”

Sirius looked away.

Remus sighed, softer now. “You think I don’t understand what it’s like to stand between two worlds? You think I don’t see both sides too clearly for comfort?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

“You didn’t,” Remus murmured. “I walked willingly.”

Silence stretched between them like a frayed wire. Then, Sirius stepped closer, his voice low.

“I’ve seen things, Moony. Stuff the Order won’t even consider. Harry’s not just fighting a war. He’s trying to end it. Properly. Cleanly. No more cover-ups. No more bloodlines being twisted behind locked doors.”

Remus studied him. “And what if he becomes what he’s fighting?”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll stop him.”

A pause. Then, faintly, Remus offered, “That’s a lie.”

“Maybe,” Sirius whispered. “But I’ll try.”

They stood in quiet for a moment longer, old shadows flickering in torchlight.

Finally, Remus looked down. “I’ll cover for you, if I can. But you should go. Before Snape says something that can’t be taken back.”

Sirius nodded. “Already has.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time.”

Sirius lingered at the tunnel mouth. “If you ever want to see it— really see what he’s building—there’s a place for you.”

Remus didn’t respond.

Sirius left without another word.