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Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t meant to follow him. At least, that’s what he told himself when his feet carried him after Tom Riddle through the winding corridors of the castle. He wasn’t suspicious, not really. Just curious. Tom always had secrets, and Harry wanted to believe he was trusted enough to be let into them.

But when he turned the corner and froze in the shadows of an alcove, that fragile hope splintered.

Tom was kissing Bellatrix Black.

It wasn’t casual, wasn’t meaningless. Tom’s hand gripped her wrist tightly, his lips moving against hers with a hunger that made Harry’s stomach twist. For a moment Harry thought he might be sick. The air left his lungs all at once, and he stood there silently, every nerve screaming that he had just seen the truth of what he was to Tom, nothing.

He didn’t wait for Tom to notice. He turned sharply on his heel, footsteps echoing, too loud to mask his escape.

“Harry- wait.”

The voice came like a spell, sharp and commanding. Tom’s voice.

Harry didn’t stop.

The sound of quickened steps followed him until fingers closed around his wrist, pulling him back. He spun, eyes blazing.

“Let go,” Harry hissed.

Tom’s face was unreadable, carefully composed as always, but there was something brittle in his tone when he said, “You’re overreacting.”

The laugh that broke from Harry’s throat was sharp and hollow. “Overreacting? I just saw you with her Tom! What the hell am I supposed to call that?” His voice cracked, but the anger didn’t soften. “You tell me I’m yours, that you want me, and then you-” He bit the words off, shaking his head. “Was it all just a game to you? Was I just a game?”

The truth of their situation pressed against him like a weight. Tom had never promised him openness. Harry had been dragged into dark corners, empty classrooms, behind locked doors. He had been kissed like a secret, like something Tom wanted to keep hidden. Maybe Tom’s closest friends knew, no they definately knew. Harry had seen the way they looked at him, the smirks, the whispers—but to everyone else at Hogwarts, they were rivals, enemies circling each other with teeth bared. No one would believe Harry had fallen for him. No one would ever know Harry had been fool enough to let it happen.

“You don’t understand,” Tom said, voice low, steady.

Harry’s temper flared. “Then explain it to me!” His chest heaved, words spilling with all the pain he had held back for months. “Explain why I’m good enough for you in shadows, good enough for your little circle to snicker about, but never here, where people could actually see us! Explain why I’m supposed to wait around while you-” His throat closed around the words, choking them into silence.

For the first time, Tom’s composure shaken. He looked at Harry with something almost uncertain in his eyes. His hand twitched, as if he meant to reach for Harry’s cheek, but he stopped himself, letting the gesture die.

Harry’s anger cracked, replaced by something rawer, softer, but no less painful. “Do you even love me?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Tom did not answer. He didn’t deny it, didn’t confirm it. His pride held him silent, iron-willed, as though admitting to love would be weakness, a chain he refused to wear.

Harry’s breath hitched. That silence told him everything.

Slowly, he shook his head, eyes stinging though he refused to let the tears fall. “That’s what I thought.”

He stepped back, away from Tom’s grasp, and this time Tom didn’t stop him. Harry turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing long after his figure had disappeared into the dark.

Tom stood alone in the shadows, Bellatrix’s taste still bitter on his lips. For the first time in his life, he wondered if silence had cost him something he could never win back.

And though he would never admit it, victory had never felt so much like loss.

Tom Riddle stood still. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Harry wasn’t supposed to see. For all his careful planning, all his precision in controlling what people knew and what they didn’t, one slip had undone everything. He had always known Bellatrix was reckless, desperate for his attention, but it hadn’t mattered—until now. Until Harry.

Bellatrix wasn’t anything, just someone Tom used to secure more connections with dark pure-bloods. Pure-bloods who saw the world as he did, who worshipped him for his direct link to Salazar Slytherin, who agreed with his views. Views Harry would never share. Harry was too kind, he saw the world as equal, refusing to believe that pure-bloods were superior and Muggle-borns nothing but mudbloods. 

Tom needed Bellatrix for his future plans, his plans as the Dark Lord. She was useful, nothing more. Harry… Harry was different. He wasn’t a tool or a pawn. He was the light Tom needed in his darkness, the one person who made him feel something beyond hunger for power. But Bellatrix is more useful, for now at least. More useful for the empire Tom was building, for the loyalty and connections he required. If only Harry shared his vision, if only he could see the world as Tom did. But he didn’t. And it didn’t matter. Harry could wait. The future could not.

He just needed to make sure Harry didn’t completely slip away from him, out of his grasp. He needed Harry chained to him, still thinking of him, still unable to let go. If it was the last thing Tom ever did, he would make certain no one else could ever have Harry.

“Tom,” Bellatrix’s voice trailed after him, high and trembling with false sweetness. Her grin was too wide, too eager, like a child clutching at a prize she thought was finally hers, blind to the truth that she was only ever being used.

“What,” Tom answered coldly.

“Let’s continue what that filthy half-blood interrupted,” Bellatrix purred, her grin twitching wider.

“Don’t you dare say anything about him.” Tom’s eyes snapped to hers, his voice a blade.

“But-”

“Silence.”

“I–I apologize, my Lord…” Bellatrix faltered, her arrogance crumbling.

Tom’s expression remained unreadable.

“That’s better. Now get out of my sight. Tell the others there will be a Knights of Walpurgis meeting tomorrow night.”

Ron and Hermione were bent over a wizard’s chessboard in the common room, Ron smirking as one of his knights smashed a bishop to pieces. Hermione rolled her eyes, ready to argue strategy, when the portrait door creaked open.

Harry stumbled inside. His face was stained, his eyes wet, his breath ragged like he’d been running. He didn’t even look at them before collapsing onto the nearest armchair, burying his face in his hands.

The chessboard went silent. Even the enchanted pieces froze.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft, careful.

Ron was already on his feet, frowning. “Mate what happened?”

“Tom…” Harry’s voice cracked, raw with pain.

Ron shot up from the chessboard, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His eyes burned with fury.

“What’s that bastard done to you?” he demanded, voice sharp and protective.

Hermione was already on her feet, rushing to Harry’s side. Her hands hovered uncertainly, afraid to touch in case he broke apart.

“Harry, what happened?” she asked softly, her voice trembling with worry.

“I-I saw him,” Harry choked out, his chest trembling. “I saw him snogging with Bellatrix Black.”

The words tore from him in broken sobs, his face stained and wet.

Ron’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.

“That bloody snake!” he spat, furious.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her hand covering her mouth as if to hold back her own gasp. She stepped closer, lowering her voice, desperate to ground Harry.

“Oh, Harry…”

"I knew you should’ve never trusted him! Him and his stupid ponce snake friends! All they do is slither around, thinking they’re better than everyone else, acting like the world owes them something! Malfoy, Avery, Rosier! Doesn’t matter the name, they’re all the same slimy lot! And Riddle!- he’s the worst of them! He acts all charming and clever, but it’s just poison underneath!" Ron ranted as he paced back and forth, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through Ron’s furious ranting.

Ron halted mid-step, his shoes scuffing against the stone floor. Only then did he really see them. Harry sat slumped in the armchair, shoulders caved in, his eyes dull and red-rimmed, like he’d already given up on something that mattered more than life itself. Beside him, Hermione leaned close, rubbing slow circles on his back, her face tight with worry and her usual cleverness dimmed by helplessness.

“I—I’m sorry mate… I got carried away,” Ron said, his voice thick with guilt.

“No, you’re right… I should’ve never trusted him… I-I thought he was going to be different,” Harry said, his voice breaking, eyes fixed on the floor. His shoulders sagged as though the weight of his own hope was crushing him

“Harry, don’t say that. You trusted him because you saw something different in him and that isn’t weakness. That’s you, Harry. You always believe there’s more to people than what they show the world. That’s not a mistake… it’s what makes you better than him.” Hermione’s hand stilled on his back, her voice soft but steady.

“She’s right, mate… You’re not stupid for wanting to believe in him. If anything, it shows you’ve got more heart than the rest of us. But if he can’t see what he’s got with you, then he’s the stupid one. Not you.” Ron shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ll sneak into the kitchens to get some ice cream,” Ron said, forcing a small grin. “Nothing fixes a broken heart better than a whole tub of chocolate frog ice cream.”

Harry let out a weak chuckle, wiping at his eyes. “Thanks, Ron… you too, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

The doors to the Great Hall opened with the kind of flourish Tom preferred—just enough noise to command attention, not enough to look like effort. He never hurried. He never needed to. Bellatrix’s hand was tucked neatly into his own, her laugh bubbling in her throat like a song of victory, and he allowed it. She was useful for this, a prop draped in black silk and pride.

The hush that spread through the room was almost intoxicating. Eyes followed him from every table, whispers chasing in his wake, and he felt it all, adoration, fear, envy. He didn’t crave their attention. He expected it.

But there was only one gaze he wanted.

He let his eyes wander slowly, dragging out the moment, until they landed on the Gryffindor table. 

The boy froze the second their eyes met. A fork clattered from his hand, echoing sharply against the silver plate, and for the briefest instant Tom saw him laid bare. Not the irritatingly stubborn Gryffindor who fought back at every turn. Not the boy who spoke to him with reckless defiance behind closed doors. No- this was Harry wounded, vulnerable, unable to mask the break in his expression.

It was exquisite.

Tom smirked faintly, just enough for Harry to see it and no one else. He could feel Potter’s fury from across the hall, could almost taste his pain. He wanted Harry to understand—wanted him to know this wasn’t an accident. That Bellatrix on his arm, the timing of his entrance, the deliberate slowness of his steps… every second of it had been crafted for him.

Bellatrix pressed closer against his side, smug, delighted by the display. She thought she mattered in this equation, thought she had been chosen. Tom almost laughed. She was a pawn, and one so eager to play her role that she never noticed her own strings being pulled.

Harry’s stare was unrelenting, his emerald eyes burning with hurt that no one else seemed to notice, but Tom saw it as clear as day. He always did. Every shift, every flicker of emotion. Potter was his mirror in that way, incapable of hiding from him.

And that was why this was necessary.

Because Harry had dared to believe he could walk away. Dared to think he could break what bound them.

So Tom tightened his grip on Bellatrix’s hand, tilted his head toward her as if sharing some private joke, and let the implication burn across the distance. He felt the tension coil in Potter from here, the way his entire body tightened, the way his friends rushed in to cage him, to calm him.

Perfect.

A thousand eyes could be on him, but only one mattered. And as long as Harry Potter’s expression carried that raw, breaking edge, Tom Riddle knew he had him exactly where he wanted.

This wasn’t about Bellatrix. It was never about Bellatrix.

This was about Harry. Always Harry.

Tom guided Bellatrix to the Slytherin table, not rushing, savoring each pair of eyes that followed them. His so-called friends, the ones already circling around his orbit, shifted to make room. Abraxas leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his gaze, while Mulciber smirked knowingly. They all understood what this was, a display of power, dominance, and possession.

Tom released Bellatrix’s arm only once he was certain Harry had seen enough. She slipped in beside him like a loyal shadow, her smile sharp, hungry for approval. He ignored it. Approval was not something he gave; it was something people clawed for.

“Fashionably late, as always,” drawled Abraxas, a trace of amusement in his tone.

Tom allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “Some things,” he said lightly, “are worth waiting for.” His voice carried just enough for Harry, still seated across the hall—to hear, if he was listening. And of course he was.

As the Knights filled his ears with shallow laughter and eager chatter, Tom leaned back in his seat, perfectly at ease. To them, he was their leader, their inevitable future. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He didn’t miss the way Harry had looked at him, hurt, betrayed, but unable to look away. Exactly as Tom intended.

It wasn’t love he wanted from Harry. It was something far sweeter, devotion, obsession… the kind of bond that couldn’t be broken, no matter how deep the wound.

And Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.

Rabastan leaned forward, his smirk sharp as a blade. “So… not with the golden boy anymore, I figure?” he asked, voice deliberately low but edged with amusement. A few of the others chuckled, waiting to see how Tom would respond.

Tom tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. His expression was smooth, composed, though inside, irritation stirred. They thought they understood him. They never did.

He let the silence hang long enough for discomfort to creep in, then spoke with velvet precision. “The golden boy,” Tom said, as if savoring the words, “was a… diversion. Entertaining for a time. But not meant to last.” His gaze flickered toward Harry at the Gryffindor table, lingering just long enough to ensure the cut went deep.

Bellatrix giggled, clutching his arm, as though his cruelty were some kind of private gift to her. The others followed with laughter, but Tom’s mind was elsewhere, tracking every twitch of Harry’s face, every fractured piece of him that was still watching, still tethered.

Tom smiled faintly, a predator’s smile. “Besides,” he added, his tone silk over steel, “the things I want… don’t slip away so easily.”

The Knights of Walpurgis laughed again, mistaking his words for arrogance. But Tom knew better. What he wanted was staring back at him across the hall, broken and furious and still unable to look away.

Harry’s fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate loud enough to make nearby Gryffindors glance over. He didn’t even notice. His entire body went rigid as the doors to the Great Hall creaked open.

Tom walked in. Late. Deliberately late. Bellatrix Black’s hand was curled possessively through his arm, her head tipped toward him as though he were whispering something just for her. She laughed, high and sharp, and it carried across the cavernous hall like a curse.

The Gryffindor bench shifted as Ron muttered something foul under his breath, but Harry didn’t hear. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. Every movement Tom made was precise, deliberate. The slight curve of his mouth, the tilt of his head as he guided Bellatrix down the aisle between the tables. He looked untouchable, immaculate, like the hall belonged to him.

The Slytherin table erupted when he finally sat, their little circle, Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier snickering and exchanging pointed glances, nudging one another like it was all a grand joke. And in the center of it all sat Tom. Composed. Regal. Smug. Like he’d orchestrated the entire display from the start.

Harry’s chest ached with every second. His breathing turned shallow, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. He told himself to look away, to focus on anything else, the plate of food in front of him, the golden goblets glinting in the light, even Ron’s red, angry face beside him, but his eyes stayed locked on Tom.

And then it happened.

Tom’s gaze lifted. Brief. Intentional. His eyes found Harry’s across the sea of students, and for that single moment, the rest of the hall disappeared. Harry’s stomach dropped, a nauseating twist tearing through him. He knew that look. He knew the satisfaction flickering at the edges of Tom’s expression, the cruel pride of being seen.

Bellatrix leaned closer to Tom, brushing her lips near his ear, and Tom let out a low chuckle. He didn’t need to kiss her, not yet. Every gesture, every smirk, every languid lean of her head against his shoulder was enough. Enough to twist the knife deeper, to make sure Harry felt it.

Ron slammed his hand against the table, his muttered curses growing louder “bloody snake, pompous git” but Hermione quickly laid a warning hand over his, whispering urgently. Still, her other hand drifted to Harry’s arm, fingers pressing lightly against his sleeve in quiet comfort. He barely registered it. His vision tunneled.

Harry tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He could feel the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked hard, refusing to let them fall here, in front of everyone, in front of him.

The laughter from the Slytherin table grew louder. Malfoy tipped his head back, Rosier whispered something obscene, Bellatrix’s laugh rang out again, and at the center of it all, Tom wore that smile. The one Harry had once known privately, the one that had once been for him alone.

And Harry understood, with bone-deep clarity, that this wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t Tom moving on. This was a performance. A punishment. A message written across the hall in every calculated touch and smirk.

For Harry. Only Harry.

Harry pushed back from the table so abruptly his goblet toppled, spilling pumpkin juice across the wood. He barely noticed. His movements were sharp, rushed, as if he had to get out before the walls themselves closed in.

He didn’t glance at Ron or Hermione. Didn’t glance at anyone. His eyes, though, his eyes snapped to Tom, drawn like a magnet he couldn’t resist. For a single heartbeat, the world shrank to just them: Harry, shaking with betrayal, and Tom, lounging as though nothing in the world could touch him. That smirk—small, cruel, deliberate, was enough to make Harry’s stomach twist.

Without a word, Harry spun on his heel and strode for the doors. His robes whipped against his legs, the hurried rhythm of his boots hitting stone echoing loud enough to draw whispers.

The great oak doors groaned as they swung open, then shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Ron was up instantly, knocking over his own plate in his rush. “Bastard,” he muttered savagely, glaring across the hall before storming after Harry.

Hermione hesitated only long enough to gather her things, her face pinched with worry. She ignored the snickers from the Slytherins and followed close behind.

At the Gryffindor table, whispers broke out like sparks. At the Slytherin table, laughter rippled, smug and knowing. Bellatrix preened at Tom’s side, basking in the chaos, while Rabastan leaned in with a grin.

Tom, however, only sat back, fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze lingered on the doors where Harry had vanished, dark eyes unreadable, lips barely curving at the corners.

Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.

Two weeks had passed since Harry felt Tom’s betrayal. He had been trying his hardest not to cry or break down, but lately everything felt heavier, especially with the Quidditch Cup approaching. This time, however, he couldn’t take it anymore. After practice, he lingered in the locker room, waiting until the chatter of his teammates faded down the corridor and the last footsteps disappeared. The silence closed in around him, and the mask he had been holding together for days shattered. Harry sank onto the nearest bench, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them, the sobs he had fought so hard to contain finally breaking free.

Harry thought he could finally break down in peace, alone in the quiet of the locker room, when a voice cut through his sobs.

“Harry.”

His head snapped up, eyes red and wet, to see Cedric Diggory standing in the doorway. Cedric Diggory—Hufflepuff’s golden boy, their Quidditch captain, and one of the kindest, most genuine people Harry had ever met. He wasn’t just admired for his talent on the pitch, but for his warmth, his easy smile, and, if Harry was being honest, his disarming good looks that had half of Hogwarts swooning.

Cedric took a cautious step forward, concern etched across his face. “Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and careful, as though afraid Harry might shatter completely if pressed too hard.

Almost immediately, Cedric winced at his own words and shook his head. “Wait—sorry. That was a stupid question. Obviously, you’re not okay.” His tone was gentle, threaded with guilt, like he regretted intruding on something so raw.

Cedric hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the bench beside Harry. He didn’t press too close, giving Harry space, but close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his presence. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was Harry’s uneven breathing, broken up by the occasional shaky sniffle.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” Cedric said quietly, his voice steady and kind. “But… you also don’t have to go through it alone.”

Harry stared at the floor, his hands twisting the edge of his robes. He wanted to say it, wanted to pour out everything about Tom, about betrayal, about the way his chest felt like it was caving in every time he remembered. But the words stuck in his throat, heavy and sharp. Instead, he gave a small shake of his head, refusing to look Cedric in the eye.

Cedric didn’t push. He just let the silence linger, then gently rested a hand on Harry’s back. It wasn’t intrusive, just steady, an anchor when Harry felt like he might drift apart completely. “Whatever it is… you’re stronger than you think,” Cedric murmured. “But even strong people need someone sometimes.”

Harry’s breath hitched, another tear slipping free despite his best efforts. He didn’t say anything, but the tiniest part of him felt lighter, just knowing that someone was there, sitting with him, without demanding answers.

“Thank you… Diggory,” Harry said, his voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Cedric gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Call me Cedric.”

Harry managed a weak chuckle despite the heaviness in his chest. “Then call me Harry.”

For a moment, the weight pressing down on him didn’t feel so suffocating.

They stayed in that comfortable silence a little longer, the only sound in the room the faint dripping of water from the showers and the distant echo of voices fading down the corridor. Cedric didn’t push or prod for answers, he simply sat there, his presence steady and grounding.

Harry’s breathing slowly evened out, though his eyes still burned from the tears. Somehow, Cedric’s quiet company made it easier to hold himself together. It wasn’t about words anymore, it was about knowing he wasn’t alone.

Finally, Cedric spoke, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to shatter the fragile calm between them. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong… but if you ever do, I’ll listen.”

Harry hesitated, torn between honesty and self-preservation. His chest ached with the weight of what he couldn’t say, so instead he reached for the safer explanation. “Everything just feels… heavier, I guess,” he muttered, voice rough. “With O.W.L.s coming up, and the Quidditch Cup… I’m worried I won’t be able to balance it all. And I can’t get this stupid Transfiguration thing right no matter how much I practice.”

He tried to make his words sound casual, like it was nothing more than the stress every student faced, but his voice cracked at the end, betraying him.

“Which part of Transfiguration?” Cedric asked gently.

“Vanishing…” Harry admitted with a sigh.

Cedric’s grin was immediate, almost boyish. “Hey! I did great on that!”

Harry let out a small snicker despite himself. “Of course you did.”

“Well, then it’s settled,” Cedric said, leaning forward a little, his tone light but his eyes earnest. “I can help you. Want to meet in the library? I’ll walk you through it.”

Harry blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “Is that… fine? I don’t want to bother you.”

Cedric shook his head firmly, his smile softening. “You could never be a bother, Harry.”

For the first time in days, something inside Harry loosened, just a little.

Ever since that day in the locker room, something shifted between Harry and Cedric. It started small, study sessions in the library where Cedric patiently explained Vanishing Spells until Harry’s frustration gave way to shaky laughter. From there, it grew into late afternoons on the Quidditch pitch, not as rivals but as friends, trading tips, racing through the air, and sometimes just lying on the grass and talking about anything but school.

They began to find each other in the in-between moments too, walking together to class if their routes lined up, stealing time to joke in the Great Hall before practice, or drifting toward each other in the common study spaces, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Their laughter carried down the halls, easy and unforced.

Harry was Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, the Seeker everyone admired, the student people expected to shine. Cedric was Hufflepuff’s pride, steady and admired in his own right. Side by side, they caught attention, but neither seemed to mind. If anything, it only made Harry realize how rare it was to have someone look past the reputation and see him for himself.

And Cedric did. Every time.

Rabastan was feeling unbearably bored. It was that time of the month again the Knights of Walpurgis’ so-called “study meeting.” Nothing exciting ever happened during these, just books, parchment, and the occasional stiff lecture. He couldn’t care less about any of it, but their lord expected attendance. And disappointing him was not an option. So here Rabastan sat, restless, picking at his quill and barely listening.

Finally, unable to take the silence any longer, he leaned back in his chair with a sly smirk. If he had to be here, he might as well stir the pot a little.

“You lot want to hear something amusing?” he drawled. “A Ravenclaw told me she caught Diggory and Potter snogging.”

For a moment, the table went quiet. A few heads turned toward him, quills pausing mid-scratch.

“Potter?” mulled Mulciber, frowning. “As in Gryffindor’s golden boy? The one Slughorn can’t stop bragging about?”

Rabastan smirked, enjoying the ripple of interest. “The very one. Seems Hogwarts’ darling has been keeping himself busy.”

There was a snort from Avery. “Merlin, imagine Diggory of all people. He’s supposed to be squeaky-clean, perfect Hufflepuff material.”

“Perfect until he’s got Potter in his lap, apparently,” Rabastan said lazily, earning a few snickers.

“Are you sure this Ravenclaw wasn’t making it up?” Wilkes cut in, skepticism tinged with amusement. “Everyone at Hogwarts likes to invent stories about Potter. He trips once on the stairs and suddenly he’s been cursed.”

Rabastan twirled his quill between his fingers, eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, maybe. But it’s a rather delicious picture, isn’t it? Gryffindor’s golden boy tangled up with Hufflepuff’s poster child.”

That earned outright laughter, the heavy atmosphere of the study meeting breaking at last.

At the far end of the table, though, Tom Riddle hadn’t laughed. His quill still moved across his parchment with calm precision, but Rabastan noticed the tiniest flicker in those dark eyes.

And that, Rabastan thought with satisfaction, made the gossip worth telling

For a moment, the room practically hummed with the energy shift. A study meeting among the Knights of Walpurgis was usually quiet, dull even, but Rabastan’s words had lit the place on fire.

Mulciber leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Slughorn’s dinner party, Hogsmeade weekends… Next thing you know, they’ll be sneaking into broom cupboards.”

“That would explain why Potter’s been looking… distracted lately,” Rosier said slyly, his grin wicked. “I saw him after practice, hair even more of a mess than usual. Looked like he’d been thoroughly… occupied.”

The table erupted in snickers.

Wilkes tapped his quill against the edge of his parchment, feigning seriousness. “We’re really underestimating Diggory, aren’t we? Everyone thinks he’s the model Hufflepuff, all sunshine and smiles. Maybe he’s been hiding a streak of ambition after all.”

“Or maybe Potter just can’t resist a pretty face,” Abraxas drawled, tilting his head. “It’s very Gryffindor of him, don’t you think? Rushing headlong into a schoolboy romance.”

Rabastan’s grin stretched wider. “Oh, it’s perfect, isn’t it? Two golden boys shining together. The rest of us mere mortals should probably give up now.”

That set off another ripple of laughter, parchment pushed aside as the supposed ‘study session’ collapsed entirely.

Except, at the end of the table, Tom Riddle’s quill had stilled.

It wasn’t obvious at first, his hand rested as though considering the next line of ink, his head bowed just slightly. But the air around him tightened. Abraxas, seated nearest, caught the subtle shift: the curve of Tom’s jaw tightening, the faintest narrowing of his eyes.

Avery, oblivious, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Honestly, if they keep this up, the whole castle will know by Christmas. You can’t hide something like that for long.”

“Good,” Rabastan said lazily, twirling his quill. “Because watching Hogwarts lose its mind over Potter and Diggory holding hands down the corridor? That’s entertainment.”

A few chuckled again, but quieter this time. Something in the room had shifted, like a shadow lengthening.

Then Tom finally spoke. His voice was soft, smooth, but carried a razor’s edge. “Amusing, isn’t it, how easily distracted some of you are.”

The laughter died instantly. Every head turned.

Tom’s eyes lifted at last, dark and sharp as glass. “While the rest of the school wastes its time whispering about teenage infatuations, we have greater things to concern ourselves with. Or have you all forgotten why you are here?”

A flush of embarrassment rippled through the group. Quills were snatched back up, parchments dragged forward as if they’d never been abandoned.

Rabastan ducked his head, still smirking faintly to himself. He had seen it, the flicker in Tom’s eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

He had hit a nerve.

And oh, wasn’t that delicious.

Tom’s chair scraped sharply against the stone floor as he rose, the sudden sound slicing through the forced silence of the room. No one dared to speak. The only noise was the faint rustle of his robes as he gathered them with deliberate precision.

He didn’t look at anyone as he strode to the door, but the pressure of his magic seemed to trail behind him like a stormcloud, thickening the air with every step.

The heavy door slammed shut in his wake.

For a long heartbeat, no one moved. Avery swallowed hard, exchanging a nervous glance with Mulciber. Even Abraxas, usually smug, was staring fixedly at his parchment as though the ink there might save him from the memory of Riddle’s expression.

Rabastan leaned back in his chair, his grin unfading. “Well,” he drawled, breaking the silence, “I suppose Potter’s love life is a touchier subject than I thought.”

His voice dripped with amusement, but there was something sharper in his eyes, a satisfaction that he had been the one to stir the serpent’s nest.

No one laughed this time.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Harry thought he’d managed to shake him. He had stayed in the library late, deliberately walking the long way back to the Gryffindor Tower. Cedric had already left earlier, and for once Harry was glad, he didn’t want anyone else caught in Tom’s orbit.

The corridor was quiet, too quiet, his footsteps echoing. He was halfway down when a voice slid out of the shadows.

“Enjoying yourself with Diggory?”

Harry froze. He didn’t need to look up. He felt the presence before he saw it. Tom stepped from the darkness, every line of him precise, deliberate, as though he’d been waiting. His eyes burned red in the torchlight.

“Don’t start,” Harry muttered, turning to walk past him.

But Tom shifted, blocking the path, the corner of his mouth curving. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you laugh with him. The way you linger.” His voice was silk over steel. “Tell me, Harry, is he comforting you now?”

Harry’s throat tightened. “What I do is none of your business.”

“Everything you do is my business.” Tom leaned closer, the words a hiss meant only for him. “You belong to me. Not to Cedric. Not to anyone.”

Harry forced himself to meet his eyes. “I’m not yours. Not anymore.”

For the first time, Tom’s smile faltered. A shadow crossed his face, and something ugly bled through the mask, jealousy, desperation, hunger. “You think he can protect you from me?” Tom asked softly. “You think anyone can?”

Harry’s hands curled into fists, his heart hammering, but he refused to back away. “Maybe I don’t need protecting. Maybe I just need someone who doesn’t break me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Tom’s expression hardened, the softness gone. He studied Harry as though memorizing every fracture in his armor. Then, almost too gently, he said,

“You’ll see, Harry. No one will ever understand you the way I do. No one will ever love you like I can.”

He brushed past, the air around him sharp as glass, leaving Harry rooted in place with his pulse racing. The echo of his words clung to him long after the corridor was empty.

And Harry hated himself most of all because a part of him believed it.

Bellatrix’s fist curled so tightly her nails bit into her palm as she stormed toward the Slytherin dormitory, every step echoing with fury after what she had just overheard.

Daphne, Pansy, Millicent, and Lucretia were preparing to go to bed, the soft rustle of blankets and whispered conversation filling the Slytherin dormitory, when the door slammed open so hard it rattled against the stone wall.

Bellatrix strode in like a storm, eyes blazing, fists clenched.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Daphne demanded, startled, her voice sharp in the quiet.

“That bitch!” Bellatrix spat, her voice echoing off the walls.

“Who? Millicent?” Pansy drawled with a smirk, her tone cutting, the words dripping with mockery.

Lucretia snorted loudly at that, unable to hold it in, while Millicent rolled her eyes skyward, muttering under her breath.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about!” Bellatrix snapped, pacing the room like a caged animal.

“You literally call everyone a bitch, Bella. We can’t keep up,” Lucretia said dryly, propping her chin in her hand.

“Harry Potter–Black!” Bellatrix practically screeched, eyes wild.

“And what, exactly, did he do this time?” Pansy asked, unimpressed, folding her arms.

Bellatrix launched into her furious explanation, words tumbling over each other as she recounted what she had overheard between Harry and Tom. The more she spoke, the more manic her energy grew, like she could barely contain her glee at the scandal in her hands.

When she finally finished, silence hung for a beat. Then Lucretia arched a brow. “So… where’s Potter-Black’s fault in this? All I’m hearing is our lord being jealous.”

"He was not jealous!" Bellatrix snapped once again.

Pansy gave a sly little smile, her voice dripping with mischief. “If you’re really looking for a way to bring him down, you could just twist it. People are already whispering about him and Cedric. If you tell them he’s pining after Riddle instead, everyone will think he’s, well, I don’t know, a whore.”

Bellatrix’s eyes lit up, her grin sharp and feral.

“No. Absolutely not, Bella,” Lucretia cut in quickly, her tone firm.

“Why not?” Bellatrix snapped, glaring.

“Because!” Lucretia sat up straighter, her voice rising with frustration. “The head of the House of Black isn’t your father—it’s Sirius. And you know how Uncle Sirius is about Harry. The favoritism is obvious. And now Uncle Regulus is his stepfather? If they even suspect you’re behind it, it’ll be over for you and your father both.”

Bellatrix’s smirk only widened. “Who said anything about them finding out it was me?”

Lucretia groaned, rubbing her temples. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when this blows up in your face.”

For the next few days, Harry couldn’t take a single step through the castle without feeling eyes on him. Conversations stuttered the moment he passed, replaced by hurried whispers and muffled laughter. Sometimes he caught his own name, Potter-Black, hissed like a curse. Other times it was fragments that twisted his stomach.

“…Riddle…”
“…can’t believe it…”
“…Cedric one day, Riddle the next…”
“…pathetic.”

He kept his head down, jaw tight, trying to ignore it, but it was impossible. The weight of it followed him from the Great Hall to the library, from the corridors to class. Every giggle, every pointed glance dug deeper.

Hermione noticed first. “They’re talking nonsense, Harry. Don’t let it get to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered, shoving his books into his bag a little too roughly. “It’s not your life they’re dissecting like it’s entertainment.”

Ron was less gentle. “If I hear one more bloody snake hissing about you, I’ll hex their mouths shut.”

But the damage was already done. The rumor spread like wildfire, feeding on itself, mutating into crueler shapes with every retelling. By the third day, people weren’t just whispering about him liking Tom Riddle, they were laughing about how desperate he must be, how he was throwing himself at anyone who glanced his way.

Harry hated how much it hurt. Hated how it almost sounded true.

And through it all, Tom watched. From across classrooms, from the Slytherin table, from the shadows of the corridors, his gaze followed Harry, unreadable, calculating.

It was that look that haunted Harry most of all. Because no matter how many people whispered, Tom wasn’t denying it.

Harry had grown tired of the whispers, the stares, the way students scattered when he entered a corridor. So when he caught Bellatrix waiting for him alone near an empty stretch of the dungeons, leaning against the wall with that wicked smirk, he wasn’t even surprised.

“Well, well,” she drawled, pushing off the wall. “If it isn’t Hogwarts’ golden darling. Must be exhausting, Potter-Black, keeping up with all those rumors.”

Harry’s expression didn’t waver. “I don’t waste my time on children’s gossip.”

That only made her grin wider. “Oh, but this isn’t gossip. It’s truth, isn’t it? The gryffindor's precious Harry Potter, mooning after Tom Riddle. What would everyone think if they knew how pathetically desperate you are?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed calm, almost bored. “Funny. You sound more desperate than me.”

The grin faltered, her face twisting. “Watch your mouth.”

“Why? Did I hit a nerve?” Harry tilted his head, his tone soft and cutting. “You’re angry because Tom used to be with me. Because he doesn’t look at you the way he used to look at me.”

Bellatrix’s fists clenched, her whole body trembling as her composure slipped. “Shut up! You think you’re special? You’re nothing compared to me. Tom is mine now. Mine!” she screamed, her voice cracking with raw fury.

Harry blinked slowly, then gave her a faint, humorless smile. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself? That spreading lies about me will somehow make him yours?”

Bellatrix’s breath came in sharp bursts, her wand twitching in her hand. “You don’t deserve him! You don’t understand him like I do. He’ll never choose you!”

“Then why,” Harry said softly, stepping closer until they were nearly face to face, “are you so terrified of me?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her rage was too consuming, too wild. 

Bellatrix’s chest heaved, her eyes wild with fury as she jabbed her wand toward Harry.

“You smug little brat!” she hissed. “You think Tom looks at you because you matter? He only pities you!”

Harry didn’t move, his calm expression infuriating her further. “Is that what you tell yourself at night? That pity feels like love?”

Her scream echoed through the empty corridor. “Incendio!”

Flames burst from her wand, roaring down the narrow space. Harry flicked his wrist, a shimmering barrier snapping up just in time to scatter the fire, the sparks crackling harmlessly against the stones.

Bellatrix didn’t stop. “Bombarda!” she shrieked, blasting a section of wall near Harry. Stone splinters exploded outward, but Harry deflected them with another sharp motion, dust swirling around him like a storm.

Through it all, he never broke eye contact. “Louder, Bella,” Harry said softly. “Maybe if you scream enough, Tom will hear you.”

Her face twisted, spittle flying as she raised her wand again—

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell struck her wand so hard it clattered to the floor and skidded away. Bellatrix gasped, spinning around to face the new presence.

Tom stood in the corridor, wand still raised, his expression carved from ice.

“Bellatrix.” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut. “What is the meaning of this?”

She faltered, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat and dust streaking her face. “I—I only wanted to teach him his place—”

“His place,” Tom interrupted coldly, stepping closer, “is not yours to dictate. Slytherins are meant to be composed, calculated, precise. And look at you, screaming curses like some unhinged Gryffindor brawler.” His gaze burned into her, merciless. “You disgrace the House. You disgrace me.”

For once, Bellatrix was speechless. Her lip trembled, her eyes darting to Harry, who stood unscathed, still calm, still watching, as though the comparison alone was enough to gut her.

“Go.” Tom’s voice was a command, sharp and absolute.

Bellatrix flinched, her face pale, before turning on her heel and fleeing down the corridor, the echo of her footsteps fading into silence.

Tom lowered his wand, finally turning his full attention to Harry. His dark eyes scanned him, lingering as though searching for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone quieter now, but no less intense.

Harry straightened his shoulders. “I didn’t need your help.” His voice was firm, clipped.

Tom arched a brow. “Not even a thank you, Potter? I expected better manners from you.”

Harry’s temper flared, his eyes flashing. “And I expected you not to cheat on me with my insane cousin!”

“Oh, please,” Tom scoffed, his composure unshaken. “You aren’t even biologically related.”

“Not technically!” Harry snapped. “But Regulus is my dad now, and Sirius is my godfather. I have to see her at family events, Riddle!”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Riddle?”

“Yeah,” Harry shot back, his voice sharp as glass. “That’s right. I don’t know you well enough to call you by your first name anymore.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping lower. “Is that really the direction you want to take this? After I just saved you?”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Saved me? All of this-” he gestured to the scorched walls, to the empty corridor “-was because of you! The rumors, the taunting, the whispers… it all started because you talked to me. And Bellatrix was there to hear it!”

His chest rose sharply as he spat the next words. “Now she’s going to be even angrier and spread more lies about me, so thanks a lot, Riddle.”

“And exactly how was I supposed to know she was eavesdropping?” Tom countered, his voice cool, though his eyes flickered with irritation.

Harry shook his head, his breath sharp. “Just stay away from me, Riddle. You only ever make things worse.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged, Harry’s words hanging between them like a blade.

The morning sun was pale, glinting weakly across the Black Lake. Harry walked the worn path along the shore, hands in his pockets, trying to lose himself in the quiet ripple of water against stone.

“Harry, can we talk? Please?”

Harry froze mid-step. He turned, heart giving a small, traitorous jolt. Cedric Diggory stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, looking uncharacteristically uneasy. His voice was quiet, almost cautious, but it was the most he had said to Harry in days.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Talk?” he echoed flatly. “Funny. You didn’t want to talk before.”

Cedric winced, stepping closer, his expression strained. “I know. And I was wrong. I should’ve trusted you, but I didn’t. The truth is… I didn’t want to associate myself with someone who—well—someone who wanted to have someone else’s partner. That’s what I thought you were doing. And I hated thinking that about you.”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Why are you apologizing now? What changed?”

Cedric hesitated, shame flickering across his face. He swallowed before finally meeting Harry’s gaze. “Because… Bellatrix admitted it. She told some of the others she lied about you—about you and Riddle. None of it was true.”

Harry’s breath caught, shock flashing across his face before it hardened into something colder.

Harry’s breath caught, shock flashing across his face before it softened into something heavier, sadder.

“So you only care now that you know I’m not what you thought?” His voice was quiet, almost hollow. “All this time, Cedric… you didn’t even bother to ask me. You just believed her.”

Cedric flinched, the words hitting harder for how subdued they were. “I know. And you’re right. I should’ve asked you. I should’ve trusted you over her. I was a coward, Harry. I let rumors decide how I treated you, and that’s… that’s not who I want to be.” He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Harry lowered his gaze, fingers curling loosely at his sides. The silence dragged, heavy with unspoken thoughts. “Do you know what that felt like?” he asked softly. “Everyone staring, whispering, treating me like I was something dirty. And you… you just walked away.” His throat tightened, but his eyes stayed dry. “You weren’t just anyone, Cedric. You were-” He stopped himself, shaking his head, a bitter half smile flickering and vanishing. “Doesn’t matter.”

Cedric’s face crumpled slightly. “I do care about you, Harry. I swear I do. And I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me most. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, but… can you at least give me a chance to make it up to you?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, the sadness in his expression deeper than anger ever could be. The lake shimmered quietly at their side, a fragile calm against the ache in his chest.

“Hogsmeade weekend is in two days… do you want to go with me again? I swear I’ll make it up to you,” Cedric said, his voice hopeful, almost pleading.

Harry blinked, the words tugging at something deep inside him. Memories flickered, of their last visit, Cedric’s easy laugh, the way it had felt so natural to walk beside him. And then, just as quickly, the loneliness that followed when Cedric turned his back.

He exhaled slowly. “You really hurt me, Cedric.” His voice was quiet, heavy with truth.

“I know,” Cedric said, earnest and unwavering. “And I’m sorry. I can’t take it back, but I can prove to you that I mean what I say now. Just… give me that chance.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on him, searching his face for even a trace of insincerity. All he found was hope, and regret. After a long pause, Harry gave the smallest of nods. “Fine. Hogsmeade. But if you screw this up again, Cedric… there won’t be another chance.”

Relief broke across Cedric’s features, almost a smile, though tempered with the weight of Harry’s warning. “I won’t. I promise.”

Harry looked away toward the lake, his expression unreadable. Agreeing didn’t erase the ache in his chest, but maybe, just maybe, it was a step forward.

The Quidditch Cup final was the kind of match Hogwarts lived for: Gryffindor versus Slytherin, fire against venom, lion against snake. The stands were alive with color and noise, scarlet and green banners whipping in the spring wind. Every seat was filled, every student leaning forward, breathless with anticipation.

Harry mounted his Firebolt, gaze locked on Abraxas Malfoy across the pitch. The Slytherin Seeker sat straight-backed, smirking, silver hair catching the sun as if mocking Harry with every flicker. Harry gripped his broom tighter. He could feel James and Regulus in the stands, their pride as steady as the sun above him. Sirius was already bellowing over the roar of the crowd, Remus sitting beside him, muttering what was surely a futile attempt to calm him down.

The whistle blew.

The game exploded into motion. Quaffles soared between Chasers, Bludgers screamed through the air, and brooms clashed as both teams fought tooth and nail. Ron, manning Gryffindor’s hoops, nearly let the first Quaffle slip through his fingers, but he caught himself at the last second, swatting it back into play with a roar of determination. Gryffindor’s stands went wild, Fred and George nearly falling off their brooms as they howled encouragement.

The score ticked upward, even and brutal. Slytherin gained ground, Gryffindor clawed it back. Ron grew sharper with every save, the tension in his shoulders unwinding as cheers thundered each time he deflected another shot. Sirius’s voice carried across the pitch, loud and clear: “YES, RON, THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!”

Harry, though, barely heard it. He was circling high above, eyes darting for the telltale glimmer. And then, it appeared. The Snitch, golden wings flashing near the Slytherin stands, hovering just long enough to taunt him.

Harry dove instantly, Firebolt slicing through the sky. Abraxas was on his tail, robes snapping in the wind. The crowd screamed as both Seekers plummeted, every eye tracking them. But just as Harry stretched out his hand– 

The Snitch vanished.

Gasps rippled through the stands. Harry swerved hard, pulling up inches from the ground, frustration burning in his chest. Abraxas cursed under his breath, shooting him a venomous look before darting back into the air.

Minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Still no Snitch. Both Seekers circled tirelessly, sweat dripping down their brows as the rest of the match raged below. Slytherin scored, Gryffindor answered, and Ron made another breathtaking block that sent Sirius roaring with laughter.

Finally, the Snitch reappeared. It shimmered near the Gryffindor goalposts, flitting and darting erratically. The crowd erupted, a single wave of noise. Harry and Abraxas moved at the same second, streaks of red and green cutting across the sky.

Harry pushed his Firebolt harder, wind tearing at his face. He could feel Abraxas right beside him, the Slytherin’s hand stretching toward the golden ball. Every muscle screamed, but Harry forced himself lower, faster. The ground rushed up.

He didn’t hesitate. The Wronski Feint.

At the last possible heartbeat, Harry pulled up sharply. His Firebolt obeyed with a lurch, soaring back into the air. Abraxas wasn’t so lucky, he wobbled, his broom scraping the grass as he tried desperately to recover. The crowd roared as Harry shot upward, eyes fixed on the Snitch.

It shimmered in front of him, golden wings beating frantically. Harry lunged, fingers snapping around it. The delicate, frantic flutter stilled in his fist. The whistle shrieked—final, absolute.

For a moment, the stadium held its breath. Then– 

“THAT’S MY GODSON!” Sirius’s voice split the air, triumphant and unrestrained. James whooped and clapped Regulus on the back, Regulus smirking with pride, while Remus laughed helplessly at Sirius’s uncontainable joy.

The stands erupted in scarlet and gold. Gryffindors poured onto the pitch, hoisting Harry high, Ron stumbling into the chaos with a grin so wide it looked like his face might split. Fred and George carried the Cup above their heads, the lion banners flaring as if the castle itself were roaring with them.

Harry lifted the Snitch, golden and glimmering, heart pounding with victory. 

Harry barely made it to the ground before his legs carried him forward, straight toward the stands. His chest was still heaving, the Snitch clenched tightly in his hand, when he spotted them, James leaping down the steps two at a time, Regulus close behind, Sirius practically vaulting the railing, and Remus following with more restraint but unable to hide his grin.

The moment Harry and his father collided, James swept him clean off the ground, arms locking tight around him. He spun Harry once, laughing breathlessly, his glasses crooked from the impact.

“You did it!” James cried, voice shaking with pride. “You actually did it! The Wronski Feint! Merlin’s beard, Harry, that was-” He cut himself off, squeezing tighter. “That was brilliant.”

Harry, dizzy and grinning, hugged back fiercely. For a moment, it was just them, father and son, clinging to each other in the middle of a roaring crowd.

Regulus reached them next, his usually composed face cracked by a rare, genuine smile. “Show off,” he said smoothly, but his hand ruffled Harry’s hair with surprising gentleness. “James hasn’t shut up about teaching you that feint for years. Now he never will.”

Sirius crashed into them a second later, nearly bowling James over in his enthusiasm. “THAT’S MY GODSON!” he bellowed again, clutching Harry by the shoulders before planting a loud, embarrassing kiss on the top of his head. “You bloody legend! I’ve never been prouder in my life, except when I outflew your dad, of course–”

“You’ve never outflown me,” James interrupted hotly, still holding Harry like he’d never let go.

Remus arrived last, calmer, though his smile was no less warm. “Well done, Harry,” he said sincerely, voice carrying over the chaos. “You kept your head and flew smart. That’s what won you the match.” His eyes softened as he added, “You should be proud of yourself.”

Harry’s throat tightened as he looked between them, his dad’s arms locked around him, Regulus’s hand steady on his shoulder, Sirius shouting his triumph to the world, and Remus’s quiet pride anchoring it all. For the first time since the rumors, since Bellatrix’s taunts and Cedric’s coldness, the weight in his chest lifted. Here, in the middle of their messy, noisy love, Harry felt untouchable.

“Lily said she was sorry she couldn’t come, Harry. She really wanted to, but an entire company came down with food poisoning and–” James began.

“And she’s Head Healer, so she has to be there,” Harry finished for him gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine, Dad. I know she’ll make it up to me.”

James blinked at him, a little stunned, then his expression softened into something that almost undid Harry completely. His dad’s grip shifted, one hand cupping the back of Harry’s head as though he couldn’t quite believe his son was so grown up and yet still his little boy.

“You’re too understanding for your own good, you know that?” James murmured, shaking his head with a grin that wobbled on the edges. “But you’re right, your mum will make it up to you. Probably in the form of a whole treacle tart the size of your broom.”

Harry laughed, the tightness in his chest easing. “I’ll hold her to that.”

Sirius leaned in, draping an arm around both James and Harry. “Hold her to it? No, pup, we’ll hold her to it. I’ll personally supervise the tart’s safe arrival in Gryffindor Tower.”

“You mean you’ll eat half of it before it even gets there,” Regulus drawled, crossing his arms, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “Honestly, Harry, don’t let him near it. He’s worse than James when it comes to nicking sweets.”

“Oi!” James shot back indignantly, still keeping Harry tucked close. “That’s slander. You’ve got no proof.”

“I’ve got years of proof,” Regulus returned smoothly. “Boxes of proof. Ask Mum’s biscuit tin.”

Remus chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Don’t fight over Lily’s treacle tart just yet. Let Harry have his moment before you lot turn it into a food war.”

Harry just smiled, soaking it in. The bickering, the warmth, the pride shining in all their eyes, it filled the spot in his chest where he’d thought he might feel emptiness without his mum there. He could almost hear her voice cheering in his head, could almost imagine her arms wrapped around him too. And he knew when she came back, she’d hug him just as fiercely as his dad had, and probably cry a little into his shoulder.

“Also,” James said, his grin widening, “we asked Dumbledore if we could take you out for supper in Hogsmeade, and he agreed!”

Harry’s face lit up, the exhaustion from the match vanishing in an instant. “Really? That’s brilliant!”

Sirius slung an arm around his godson’s shoulders, beaming. “Of course it is! We’re going to celebrate properly, food, butterbeer, the works.”

Regulus gave a small, amused shake of his head. “You mean you’re going to stuff yourself until you can’t move.”

“Exactly!” Sirius shot back, winking at Harry. “And you, champion, get the first choice of everything on the menu.”

Harry laughed, the warmth of their affection wrapping around him like a second victory.

From the Slytherin stands, Tom’s eyes tracked Harry like a hawk. The roar of the crowd, the whistles, the sea of scarlet and green, all of it blurred into meaningless noise. There was only Harry, cutting through the air with dangerous grace.

Every dive and turn had Tom’s grip tightening on the railing. Harry flew like someone with nothing to lose, reckless, brilliant, alive. Abraxas tried to match him, elegant and precise, but Tom could already see how it would end. Abraxas was clever. Harry was unstoppable.

And when the Snitch reappeared, shining near the Slytherin hoops, Tom knew what was coming before it happened. Harry dropped in a death dive that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Abraxas followed, but too late. Harry pulled the Wronski Feint with breathtaking precision, leveled out at the last possible second, and rose with his fist clenched around gold.

The stands erupted. Gryffindor colors flared, their cheers deafening. Tom leaned back slowly, watching as Harry touched down on the pitch, teammates surging toward him.

Weasley was the first, clapping Harry hard on the back, laughing as though they’d won the world. Then came the rest, voices loud and hands everywhere, ruffling his hair, shoving him into a headlock, pulling him close like he was theirs.

Tom’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, unblinking, as Harry disappeared into the crush of scarlet. The image dug under his skin, too many hands on him, too much careless familiarity. Harry didn’t even flinch. He let them touch him, jostle him, claim him in ways they had no right to.

Harry belonged to no one. Certainly not them.

Tom’s lips curved, slow and dangerous, as the stadium thundered with celebration. Let them cheer. Let them have their fleeting moment. He would make sure Harry remembered, no one held him, no one claimed him, except Tom.

The private room at the Three Broomsticks smelled of butterbeer and fresh bread, the air buzzing with quiet chatter from the main tavern just beyond the door. Harry stepped inside, broom still in hand, and was immediately met with the sight of his family waiting for him around a table already filled with food.

James was up in an instant. “Harry!” His eyes shone with pride as he crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling Harry into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of him. “You were brilliant out there. The Wronski Feint! Do you know how few Seekers can pull that off?”

Harry laughed against his father’s shoulder. “Reckless is what it was.”

“Reckless but genius,” James corrected, releasing him only to clap his back with equal force.

Regulus rose next, calmer but no less proud. He placed a hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder, his smile small but genuine. “Your control was extraordinary, Harry. You’ve grown into a flyer any team would envy.” His voice softened, and for just a moment, the stern Black composure slipped. “I’m proud of you.”

Harry ducked his head, warmth rising to his cheeks. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Proud?” Sirius cut in loudly, his chair screeching back as he stood. “That’s not enough! That was the single most nerve-wracking, heart-stopping dive I’ve ever witnessed, and you came out of it with the Snitch in your hand! That’s my godson!” He raised his butterbeer in salute. “Mine!”

Remus chuckled, tugging Sirius gently back into his seat before he could start pacing. “You’ve said that three times already, Pads.”

“And I’ll say it three more before the night is done,” Sirius shot back cheerfully.

Harry slid into the empty chair between James and Regulus, his heart still racing, though now from something other than flying. A plate was pushed toward him, roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables, all steaming and delicious

“Eat,” James urged, still beaming at him. “You must be starving after that match.”

Harry picked up his fork, looking around the table. Sirius and Remus bickered good-naturedly over something small, James was still glowing with pride, and Regulus was watching him with that subtle, steady protectiveness that had become second nature.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Harry let himself breathe. Here, in this room, there were no whispers, no rumors, no taunts. Just family, loud, messy, impossible, but his.

And as James leaned over to ruffle his hair, Sirius raised another toast in his honor, and Remus passed him a slice of treacle tart, Harry couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face.

He was home.

Being a Black meant you were trained to notice everything, the smallest flicker of an expression, the faintest shift in posture, the quietest breath between words. Regulus had lived his life on that sharp edge, and he noticed every single thing now. The way Harry smiled, bright but a little too practiced. The way his laugh rang out with the others, yet never quite reached his eyes. The way he kept glancing down at his plate, as if grounding himself against a weight no one else could see.

Regulus leaned back in his chair, watching his son between the bursts of laughter and clinking of butterbeer mugs. To anyone else, Harry seemed perfectly fine, happy, even. But Regulus knew better. There was something raw beneath the surface, something Harry wasn’t ready to say out loud.

When James rose to settle the bill, Regulus slipped out after him, the door closing softly behind them. The noise of Sirius’s laughter and Remus’s patient responses dimmed, leaving them in the calmer hush of the tavern’s hallway.

“Do you think Harry is… a bit off?” Regulus asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

James didn’t even pause as he fished for his wallet. “You mean the practiced smiles, the way he was actually eating his peas, and how he didn’t touch the treacle tart until Sirius did?”

Regulus blinked, caught off guard. “…I noticed the first two. Not the last.”

“Well, I did,” James replied, finally glancing up with a half-smile.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Because you’ve always got your eye on the treacle tart.”

“Shut up,” James muttered, though his ears tinged pink.

The corner of Regulus’s mouth curved faintly before it flattened again. “But seriously, James… usually Harry comes to us with everything. He vents, he sulks, he broods, but he talks. What’s different about this?”

James’s expression softened as he set the coins on the counter. “Reggie… he’s growing up. Maybe he wants to deal with this one on his own. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“I know that,” Regulus admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “But–”

James stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. “But you can’t stand still while he’s hurting. I get it. I feel the same. But we can’t fix everything for him, Regulus. We need to let him learn how to process his own emotions, his own choices, without us steering the wheel.”

Regulus’s gaze wavered, flicking back toward the door that led to the private room. “…And what if his choices just hurt him more?”

James reached out, resting a steady hand against Regulus’s arm. “Then we trust him. He’s fifteen now, Reg. He’s not our little boy who clung to us after a nightmare anymore. And even if he stumbles, even if it hurts, we’ll be there to pick him up. Always. That’s our job now, not to shield him from everything, but to remind him we’ll always be here when he needs us.”

Regulus’s throat tightened, but he nodded slowly, his dark eyes softening. “You make it sound so easy.”

James gave him a crooked smile. “It’s not. But he’s ours, Reg. And that’s enough.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, full of unspoken fears and quiet devotion. Then Regulus exhaled, shoulders easing slightly, and James gave his arm a squeeze before turning back toward the door.

“Come on,” James said. “If we take too long, Sirius will start telling Harry stories we really don’t want him to hear.”

A small huff of laughter escaped Regulus as they pushed back into the warmth of the private room. His eyes immediately sought Harry, who was laughing at something Sirius had said, and though the practiced edge of it still lingered, Regulus vowed to hold James’s words close.

They couldn’t carry every burden for Harry. But they would never let him carry them alone.

They were walking back toward the castle, the evening air cool against their cheeks, when Regulus slowed his steps and gently caught Harry’s hand. James, Sirius, and Remus carried on ahead, their voices carrying faintly down the path, leaving father and son in their own small pocket of quiet.

Regulus turned to him, dark eyes soft in the lantern light. He reached up, cupping Harry’s cheeks with both hands. “Harry, I need you to know… whatever it is, whenever it is, whatever problems you’re facing, you can always come to us. To me. To any of us. You know that, don’t you?”

Harry’s throat tightened, but he managed a small smile. “I know, père.”

Regulus searched his face for a long moment, then exhaled quietly, brushing his thumbs across Harry’s cheekbones. “Good. That’s good to know.”

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead, lingering just long enough for Harry to feel the steady warmth of it. “You were extraordinary today,” Regulus said softly. “I’m so proud of you, mon fils. I always have been. And I always will be.”

Harry’s chest swelled, the words grounding him in a way little else could. “Thank you, père.”

He wrapped his arms tightly around Regulus, and his father’s embrace closed around him just as firmly, protective and sure.

“I love you so much, mon fils,” Regulus whispered into his hair.

Harry’s voice was quiet but steady. “I love you too, père.”

After taking Harry back to the castle, Sirius stretched and cracked his neck.
“Well, lads, I don’t know about you, but I could use something stronger than butterbeer. It’s Friday, and The Three Broomsticks has that floo straight home. Convenient, isn’t it?”

The others agreed, and the four of them began strolling back through the cobblestoned street. They hadn’t gone far before footsteps sounded behind them.

“Mr. and Mr. Potter-Black. Mr. Black. Mr. Lupin.”

The group turned in unison, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. Approaching them with perfect composure was Tom Riddle, his school robes immaculate despite the crisp evening wind.

“Tom!” Sirius broke into a grin. “Merlin, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you! And blimey, have you gotten tall.”

A small smile tugged at Tom’s lips. “Well, never taller than Mr. Lupin, as it seems.”

Remus rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Tom, please. We’ve told you countless times to just call us by our first names.”

Regulus stepped forward, hands tucked neatly behind his back. “How have you been, Tom? Will you be staying over at our manor again for the summer holidays?”

Tom chuckled, a sound soft but controlled. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be with the Malfoys this summer.”

Sirius’ expression twisted as though he’d bitten into something sour. “Ugh. I’ll never understand how you put up with them and their dramatics.”

“Pretty sure you’re more dramatic than all the Malfoys combined, Pads,” James shot back, smirking.

“Well,” Tom said smoothly, his voice carrying an ease that almost masked the steel beneath it, “the Malfoys have always been like family to me.”

Regulus inclined his head politely. “Well, you know our manor is always open to you, Tom. You’ve always been welcome. And besides, you’re a close friend of Harry’s.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Close friend? More like best friends! I remember when you two were practically attached at the hip. Merlin, Harry couldn’t go a day without you in second year, and you in third.”

Something flickered in Tom’s dark eyes, fleeting and possessive, before his lips curved into a sharp smile. “Yes,” he said softly. “Harry and I have always been close.”

For a moment, silence hummed between the adults, as if each of them registered the weight behind his words. Sirius, ever oblivious, just clapped Tom on the shoulder, while Regulus and James exchanged a quick glance. Remus, however, didn’t miss the subtle edge in Tom’s tone.

“Still,” Remus said mildly, his eyes searching Tom’s, “it’s good to see you doing well. I’m sure Harry enjoys your company.”

“Oh, he does,” Tom answered easily, though his gaze drifted briefly in the direction of the castle, where Harry had disappeared minutes ago. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ll have to go now,” Tom said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “My prefect duties will be due in a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Regulus nodded, polite as ever. “Duty calls.”

“Prefect duties on a Friday night?” Sirius scoffed. “What a dreadful way to spend your time. When I was your age–”

“You nearly got expelled for turning the Slytherin common room into a swamp,” Remus cut in dryly.

Sirius grinned. “Worth it.”

Tom chuckled softly, though his eyes never left James and Regulus. “Not everyone spends their time in mischief, Mr. Black. Some of us prefer… more productive pursuits.”

“Merlin, you sound like McGonagall,” James teased, though there was a faint edge to his tone.

Tom inclined his head, ever composed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do enjoy your evening at The Three Broomsticks. And… goodnight.”

The way he lingered on the word, slow, deliberate, almost predatory, made Regulus stiffen. Sirius, oblivious, waved him off cheerfully. “Will do, Tom! Go be a perfect prefect.”

Tom offered a polite nod before turning on his heel, robes swishing as he disappeared into the lantern lit street.
.
.
.
.
As the four men resumed walking, Remus broke the silence. “Was it just me, or was he acting a little strange?”

Sirius shrugged. “He’s always been strange. Never could figure him out, not even when he was younger.”

They walked on in silence for a beat.
.
.
.
.

“Was it just me,” Sirius murmured more quietly, “or did that sound less like a goodnight and more like a warning?”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “No. It wasn’t just you.”

James sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“I have a feeling,” Regulus said darkly, “that whatever Harry’s struggling with… Tom is definitely part of it.”

“Maybe,” Sirius said with forced ease. “But he’s just a kid. I don’t think we need to worry too much.”

The others eased slightly at his words, but James didn’t. His eyes remained distant, clouded with unease.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered.

Tom Riddle strode into the Room of Requirement, the flickering torchlight casting long, angular shadows on the walls. The space had shifted to accommodate the Knights of Walpurgis, filled with Slytherins gathered for their meeting. His eyes swept over them, cold and unforgiving.

“You failed,” Tom said sharply, his voice slicing through the murmur of the room. “Not only did Slytherin fail to secure the Quidditch Cup, but you also played dirty tricks, you got caught! You are supposed to be Slytherins! Act like it!”

A young Slytherin from the team, pale and fidgeting, stammered, “M-my lord… we didn’t expect Potter to pull off a Wronski Feint! Who… who even taught him that?!”

Abraxas, the Slytherin Seeker, smirked, a dangerous glint in his eye. “James Potter. He’s the Montrose Magpies’ best Chaser. Who else do you think taught him, really?”

Tom’s gaze snapped to Abraxas, piercing. “Do you understand that I do not care who taught him? You were the team! You are the ones representing Slytherin! You allowed a child Seeker to outmaneuver you. Every pass you missed, every block you failed, it is on you! This is not a game you can afford to lose!”

He paused, letting his words sink in, eyes scanning the room with icy precision. “Weakness is unacceptable. Hesitation is a flaw. Sloppiness, carelessness, incompetence, these are what caused your loss. Slytherin does not lose, and yet you have disgraced our house. Disgraced it!”

Another Slytherin muttered, “But… Potter– he–”

“Silence!” Tom’s command cut through the room like a whip. “Harry Potter, yes, he is talented. His father, James Potter, may have taught him tricks, but that is irrelevant. You failed. Your strategy failed. Your execution failed. And you, Abraxas, as Seeker, you allowed him to snatch victory from your grasp! How does that reflect on Slytherin? On the Knights of Walpurgis?”

The room fell into tense silence. Marcus Flint shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard under Tom’s unwavering stare.

Tom’s voice dropped, measured and dangerous. “I expect perfection next time. Every single one of you will train harder, act smarter, and ensure that no Gryffindor, or anyone else, ever outshines you again. Failure is a luxury Slytherin cannot afford, and yet you squandered it. Remember today. Remember this humiliation. And remember who holds you accountable.”

A chorus of muttered “Yes, my lord” filled the room, but the weight of Tom’s words lingered, heavy and suffocating.

“Now, onto another matter. Alphard.” Tom’s voice was sharp, commanding attention even in the tense silence of the room.

“Yes, my lord?” Alphard’s tone was deferential, careful.

“How did the poisoning plan go for the company of Muggle-born sympathizers?” Tom asked, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“Extremely well, my lord,” Alphard replied, bowing slightly. “The majority of them were taken to St. Mungo’s. It seems Muggle-born sympathizers cannot resist Muggle desserts. The plan proceeded exactly as intended.”

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Efficiency, precision, and discretion, these are qualities I expect in all my followers. You handled this task with… competence. But remember, Alphard, this is only the beginning. The seeds we plant now must grow, and any sign of weakness, hesitation, or failure will not be tolerated.”

“Yes, my lord,” Alphard said, swallowing, the weight of Tom’s gaze heavy on him.

Tom turned back to the rest of the room, his presence filling the space like a shadow. “As for the rest of you,” he continued, voice sharp and icy, “you will not forget today’s Quidditch failure. Let it be a reminder that mediocrity has no place among the Knights of Walpurgis. Every action you take, every decision you make, will reflect upon Slytherin, and upon me.”

The room was silent, the Slytherins’ expressions a mix of fear and reluctant determination. Tom’s eyes flicked back to Abraxas, lingering just long enough to remind him that the next failure would be personal.

“Dismissed,” Tom said finally, his voice smooth and final. The Slytherins filed out, whispers of unease trailing in their wake, leaving only Alphard behind for a final, private word.

“Alphard, there will be a Black family gathering during the summer holidays, correct?” Tom asked, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.

“Yes, my lord,” Alphard replied promptly.

“I want a full report,” Tom continued, his dark eyes narrowing. “Everything Harry does, who he dances with, every interaction… I want to know it all.”

“I–” Alphard began, opening his mouth to question the request, but thought better of it. Silence seemed the wiser choice.

“Of course, my lord,” Alphard said finally, swallowing the unease in his throat.

“Good. You may be dismissed,” Tom said smoothly, waving a hand.

Alphard began to rise, but Tom’s voice stopped him. “Oh, and Alphard… let this remain between us.”

“Yes, my lord,” Alphard replied, bowing slightly before exiting, the weight of the secret pressing down on him.

Chapter Text

The dungeons were cool and dim, shadows stretching long across the flagstone floor as Harry hesitated outside the Potions Master’s office. The oak door loomed before him, lit by the soft flicker of a single torch. He raised his hand to knock, but the familiar silken drawl reached him first.

“Enter, Potter.”

Harry pushed the door open. The office smelled faintly of asphodel and parchment, the shelves lined with vials that glowed faintly in the gloom. Severus sat behind his desk, still, his dark eyes fixed on Harry as if he had been expecting him all along.

“You… wanted to see me, Professor Snape?” Harry asked carefully, stepping inside.

Snape gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, clutching the strap of his bag. He half-expected a lecture about misstepped brewing or house points. Instead, Severus folded his hands and regarded him in silence for a long moment.

“I know I am not the head of your house,” Snape said at last, his voice quieter, less cutting than usual. “So right now, I do not want you to see me as your professor, but as your uncle.”

Harry blinked at him. “…Okay?”

Snape inclined his head, studying him. “I am aware of the rumors currently circulating, the ones your dear cousin Bellatrix Black has been spreading.” His mouth curled in distaste at the name. “I wish to know how you are… coping. Mentally.”

Harry shifted in his chair, staring down at his hands. “Oh… I mean… everything’s fine now. No one looks at me in disgust or whispers about me anymore. But still- you know, the way everyone just believed it so easily… it’s- ” He broke off, his voice thick. “It stings.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, letting the silence press Harry forward.

“And the thing is…” Harry hesitated, then forced the words out in a rush. “It wasn’t even wrong.”

Snape’s gaze sharpened. “…Oh?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Before Tom dated Bellatrix… me and Tom were together. No one knew. We kept it secret. But he- ” Harry’s breath caught, his jaw tightening. “He cheated on me. With her.”

For the first time, Snape’s composure faltered. His brows drew together, a flicker of something- anger, perhaps even pity, crossed his features. “I see.” His tone was low, dangerous, but not directed at Harry.

Harry hunched his shoulders. “It’s pathetic, right? That I even cared? That I still care.”

“Do not mistake betrayal for weakness,” Snape said sharply, his voice cutting through Harry’s self-loathing. “If anything, it reveals the cowardice of the betrayer, not the betrayed.”

Harry looked up, startled.

Snape’s expression was unreadable again, though his eyes glimmered with a dark, protective fire. “Black flaunts her cruelty. Riddle is another matter. Whatever his reasons, he has wounded you. And that, Harry, is not something you need to carry in silence.”

Harry exhaled shakily, some of the weight in his chest loosening. “So… you don’t think I’m stupid?”

Snape’s lip curled faintly. “You are a Potter. Of course you are reckless. But in this- no. You are not stupid. You were… human.”

For a moment, Harry just stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “…Thanks, Uncle Sev.”

Snape leaned back, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Do your parents know about this?”

Harry shook his head. “No…”

“And will you be telling them?”

“I plan to, I swear,” Harry said quickly. “I just… need the right time.”

“I see.” Snape’s tone was neutral, but his eyes betrayed thoughtfulness. “Do not wait too long. Secrets, Potter, fester like wounds left untended. Better they hear it from you than from the mouths of others.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I know. I’ll… I’ll tell them.”

Snape studied him for another long moment, then inclined his head. “Very well. Until then, this remains between us. But remember, should Black attempt further damage, you will inform me immediately. Do not make me drag it out of you.”

Despite himself, Harry gave a small, wry smile. “You’d do it, too.”

“Without hesitation,” Snape said smoothly, a shadow of dry humor threading through the words.

Harry rose, the heavy weight in his chest eased just a little. “Thanks, Uncle Sev.”

“Go,” Snape said, picking up his quill again. “And Potter–”

Harry turned at the door.

“Do not confuse the silence of others for indifference. Your parents, foolish as they are, love you fiercely. Do not rob them of the chance to stand with you.”

Harry swallowed, nodding. “I’ll remember that.”

He stepped into the corridor, the chill of the dungeon air sharper now, but less lonely than before.

Summer holiday had finally arrived. As Harry stepped off the train at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the warm rush of freedom washed over him. The chatter of students, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of trunks filled the air.

The moment his feet touched the platform, his gaze immediately caught two familiar figures waiting just beyond the crowd, his mom and mama, Lily Evans and Mary Macdonald.

“Harry!” Lily’s voice rang out, bright with excitement as she waved.

Harry’s face lit up as he hurried toward them, dragging his trunk behind him. Mary was already reaching for him, arms open wide.

“There’s our boy,” Mary said warmly as she wrapped him in a tight embrace, Lily joining in so he was completely sandwiched between them. Harry laughed, muffled by their affection.

“Mama, Mum- you’re embarrassing me,” he muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed how much he loved it.

“Oh, let us embarrass you,” Lily teased, kissing the top of his messy hair. “You’ve been gone far too long.”

Mary brushed his cheek gently, her eyes soft. “We’ve missed you so much, darling. Did the term go well?”

Harry nodded, though he hesitated slightly. “It… had its ups and downs. But I managed.”

Lily arched a brow knowingly but didn’t press. Instead, she glanced at Mary, and together they each took one of Harry’s hands, guiding him through the bustling platform.

“Come on, love,” Lily said with a smile. “Let’s get you home. Everyone’s waiting for you in Grimmauld Place.”

Harry’s heart swelled, the worries of school and the shadows of certain secrets fading, if only for a little while, in the warmth of home.

The Floo flames roared green as Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and into the familiar hall of Grimmauld Place. The scent of polished wood and faint traces of Mrs. Black’s ever-present scolding portrait filled the air.

Before he could dust the soot off his robes, there was a loud cheer.

“Harry!” Sirius’s voice boomed as he swooped in, pulling his godson into a bone-crushing hug. Remus followed close behind, offering a gentler embrace and a proud smile.

“You’ve grown again,” Remus said warmly, ruffling Harry’s hair.

“Pretty sure it’s impossible to grow after a few weeks” Harry giggled.

Sirius snorted. “He’s still too scrawny. We’ll fix that with proper food and firewhisky, well, butterbeer for you, pup.”

“Pads,” Regulus’s voice cut in sharply from the side. He stepped forward, elegant as ever, though his eyes softened when they landed on Harry. “Don’t you dare.”

Sirius only grinned wider.

James appeared next, looking every bit the proud father, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he studied Harry. “There you are, son. About time. You’ve got half the house waiting.”

“Half the house?” Harry blinked in confusion.

“Yes,” Lily called from behind as she stepped gracefully into the room, still holding Mary’s hand. “Barty and Evan are upstairs, and Marlene and Dorcas are out back. We set up the grill for you.”

Harry blinked. “A grill? In Grimmauld Place?”

Mary laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. Even old houses can handle a bit of summer fun. We thought you’d enjoy something casual after a long term.”

Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder, steering him toward the backyard. “You should’ve seen me and James wrestling with the damn thing. Nearly set the garden on fire.”

“That was you,” James said dryly, following after them. “I was the one putting the flames out.”

As the group made their way through the corridor, the air grew lighter, warmer. The usual gloom of Grimmauld Place had been chased away by charms, glowing fairy lights drifted lazily along the ceiling, and laughter from the garden spilled through the open doors.

The moment Harry stepped outside, he was hit with the scent of charmed coals, grilled meat, and freshly baked bread. Marlene waved from the garden table, Dorcas beside her holding two bottles of butterbeer.

“There’s the guest of honor!” Marlene called. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence, Potter?”

Harry grinned, some of the anxiousness from term melting away as he was pulled further into the warmth of family and friends.

“Auntie Marlene! Auntie Dorcas!” Harry beamed as he ran over, throwing his arms around them both.

Marlene laughed, squeezing him tight. “There’s our star Seeker.”

Dorcas kissed the top of his messy hair. “We missed you, sweetheart.”

Marlene pulled back just enough to cup his face, eyes sparkling. “We’re sorry we couldn’t make it to the Quidditch match, but Remus gave us a Pensieve of it and- Merlin’s beard- oh my god, you were brilliant! You know, Harry, James only managed the Wronski Feint when he was in sixth year, but you? You pulled it off in fourth! It’s only a matter of time before a professional team scouts you, you know.”

Harry flushed pink, ducking his head. “I don’t know about that…”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Dorcas said, tugging him down onto the bench between her and Marlene. “You’ve got the instincts. That’s not something you can just teach.”

Across the table, James puffed up proudly, grinning ear to ear. “See? Told you it was in his blood. Potters and Quidditch, we’re a legacy.”

“More like an obsession,” Lily teased as she and Mary took their seats, plates of food floating down onto the table by wand.

“An obsession that wins Cups,” Sirius cut in, clapping Harry’s shoulder so hard he nearly spilled his butterbeer. “You were bloody brilliant, pup. I almost cried.”

Harry grinned at him. “I know, Sirius.”

Lily leaned in with a fond smile. “I made your favorite treacle tart to make up for missing the game, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Mum. You really didn’t have to, you must’ve been so busy at St. Mungo’s.”

“Still, sweetheart,” Lily murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, “I should’ve at least been there for you.”

Harry squeezed her hand gently. “I know you would’ve, if you could.”

“Barty! Evan!” Marlene suddenly called toward the house. “Harry’s here!”

Two figures stepped into the backyard, grins breaking over their faces.

“Harry!” Barty Crouch Jr. exclaimed, heading forward.

“Uncle Barty!” Harry bolted from the bench, colliding with him in a tight hug.

“I haven’t seen you for a year!” Harry said breathlessly.

Barty chuckled, squeezing him back. “Yeah, well, the Ministry sent me to America for Auror work. Tracking smugglers who thought hopping the ocean would save them. It didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “America? That’s– that’s incredible. Was it dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough,” Barty said lightly, though the shadow in his eyes told a different story. “But nothing I couldn’t handle. You know me, Harry, I always come back.”

Evan Rosier stepped up beside him, his expression softer than usual. He clapped Harry’s shoulder and said, “You’ve been through a lot this year, haven’t you? It shows. Not just in how you play, but in how you carry yourself.”

Harry blinked at him, surprised by the earnestness. “…Thanks, Uncle Evan.”

Evan smirked faintly, ruffling his hair. “Don’t thank me yet. Just tell us when you’re ready alright?. No excuses.”

Harry chuckled, relaxing a little as the warmth of family surrounded him once more.

“Enough about us,” Dorcas cut in with a teasing smile, leaning her chin on her hand. “How was this term, Harry? Was Severus strict?”

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Of course he was. But I do well in Potions, so I never got one of his yelling lectures.”

“That’s because you’ve inherited your mother’s brain,” Evan said dryly, raising his butterbeer. “Not your father’s disastrous attempt at brewing.”

James gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. “Oi! I wasn’t that bad!”

“James, you melted a cauldron in fifth year,” Lily reminded him, smirking.

“And nearly poisoned half the class in sixth,” Regulus added smoothly, his lips twitching.

Sirius threw his head back and cackled. “Merlin, I can still see Slughorn’s face when the cauldron went up like a bonfire! He nearly retired that day.”

Harry laughed so hard his butterbeer almost came out of his nose. “Dad, seriously?”

James gave him a sheepish grin. “Let’s just say… Thank Merlin, your mum was around to keep me alive. And maybe, just maybe, I’m glad you take after her in Potions.”

Harry shook his head, still chuckling. “Uncle Severus is always strict, but I think he secretly likes it when someone gets it right the first time. He gave me this tiny little nod once when I brewed the Draught of Peace properly. It was like… the highest honor.”

The garden was alive with the smell of charmed coals and laughter drifting through the warm evening air. Harry sat between Lily and Remus, his plate already stacked high thanks to Sirius’s enthusiastic serving.

“So,” Remus said, leaning an elbow on the table, “how are classes treating you? Anything giving you trouble?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “Not really. Charms has been my favorite lately. I feel like I finally understand everything Professor Flitwick says.”

“Of course you do,” James said, puffing his chest out proudly. “You’re a Potter. We’re brilliant at Charms.”

“Brilliant at causing mayhem, you mean,” Sirius cut in, grinning. “Charms were just a tool.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, spearing a roasted potato. “Hardly surprising. Subtlety has never been your strength.”

“You wound me, Reggie,” Sirius shot back.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head at their bickering. Marlene, across the table, leaned in with a sly grin. “So, Harry—do you think you’ll be prefect next year?”

He blinked at the question, caught off guard. “I… don’t know. Maybe? I mean, I’ve kept my grades up, and I don’t really get in trouble much.”

“That’s more than I could say about your dad at your age,” Dorcas teased, smirking at James.

James threw a piece of bread in protest. “Oi! I was perfectly capable of responsibility—when I wanted to be.”

Lily rolled her eyes fondly. “I think you’d make an excellent prefect, Harry,” she said softly. “But don’t measure yourself against badges. You’re doing wonderfully just as you are.”

Harry felt warmth rise to his face, both embarrassed and proud.

“Well, if he does get the badge,” Sirius said lazily, stretching his arms behind his head, “I expect he’ll sneak me into the common room with it. Strict rules, yes—but loopholes too.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Regulus muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement.

The familiar whoosh of the Floo echoed from inside the house. A moment later, voices carried through the open door.

“Uncle Peter! Uncle Severus!” Harry shouted, dashing forward.

Severus emerged first, robes sweeping like shadows, Peter trailing behind him. Harry grinned wide, tugging Severus straight into the garden.

“I saved you both a seat!” Harry announced proudly.

“Merlin help us,” Sirius muttered, lifting his butterbeer. “Now the dungeon’s officially invaded the backyard.”

“Oh, do shut it, Black,” Severus replied without missing a beat as he sat down, his lip twitching just enough to show he wasn’t serious. “You only dislike dungeons because you can’t get a tan in them.”

James barked a laugh. “He’s got you there, Pads.”

“Oi! Don’t side with him!” Sirius shot back, jabbing a finger at James.

Regulus arched a brow, sipping his wine. “For once, Severus is right. You’d combust if you spent more than an hour underground.”

Sirius gasped in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Reg?”

The table broke into laughter, Harry’s most of all.

Peter slid into his chair, shaking his head with a smile. “Every time we get together it’s like this.”

“That’s because Snape finally learned how to banter instead of brood,” James teased, reaching for the breadbasket.

Severus tilted his head, voice silky. “And you, Potter, finally learned how to keep your cauldrons from exploding. Miracles do happen.”

“Oh, that one’s never getting old,” Sirius cackled, nearly spilling his drink.

Harry buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’re all impossible.”

Peter cleared his throat then, smiling at Harry. “Oh, Harry! I’ve got you a gift.”

Harry perked up immediately. “What is it?”

Peter reached into his pocket and slid a small, wrapped parcel across the table. “Open it.”

Harry tore away the paper eagerly, revealing a gleaming silver pocket watch.

“A pocket watch?” he asked curiously, running his thumb over the smooth surface.

Peter leaned forward, eyes glinting with pride. “Not just any pocket watch. This one’s charmed. If you press the crown– here” he pointed to the top, “it will send out an alert to all of us. No matter where you are, we’ll know if you’re in danger.”

Harry’s breath caught. He turned it over in his hand, the faint etchings of runes shimmering under the fairy lights. “You—really? That’s brilliant.”

“Prongs and I tested it,” Sirius chimed in with a grin. “He pressed it from Hogsmeade and within seconds I was running down the High Street like a madman.”

“You were always a madman,” Regulus muttered.

Sirius winked at him. “A useful one.”

Harry’s chest warmed as he looked at the watch again. “Thanks, Uncle Peter. Really. I… I love it.”

Peter smiled softly. “Good. Just promise me one thing, Harry, don’t be afraid to use it.”

James leaned over, clapping his son on the back. “You’ve got a whole army behind you, son. Never forget that.”

The evening drifted into soft laughter and glowing lights. The grill sizzled well past sunset, fairy lights dancing over plates stacked with charmed kebabs and empty butterbeer bottles. Marlene had somehow started a singing contest, and Sirius and Dorcas were both howling out off-key lyrics while Regulus pretended to die of secondhand embarrassment beside them.

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed this hard. He leaned back against his dad’s shoulder, the smell of grilled steak and treacle tart still hanging sweet in the air. Even Severus cracked a rare smile when Peter tried to charm the fire to dance in the shape of a snitch.

By the time the stars had begun to fade into the first hint of dawn, Harry’s eyelids were drooping.

“Looks like someone’s had his fill,” Lily said softly, brushing her fingers through his hair.

Harry mumbled sleepily, “I’m not tired…” before letting out a long yawn that proved otherwise.

“Come on, kiddo,” James chuckled, standing and scooping him up with practiced ease. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on the table again.”

Harry was too drowsy to protest, his head falling against his father’s shoulder as James carried him inside. The faint hum of voices and laughter followed them down the hall.

Once Harry was tucked beneath his blankets, glasses placed neatly on the bedside table and his new pocket watch glinting faintly in the moonlight, James stood for a moment, just watching him breathe. Then he smiled and turned off the lamp.

James walked back downstairs, towel slung over his shoulder, the soft hum of the evening still drifting in from the open window. The air smelled faintly of smoke and grilled food, the kind that lingered long after everyone had eaten their fill.

Mary sat on the floor, her legs folded neatly beneath her, a glass of wine beside her. Lily lay with her head in Mary’s lap, eyes closed, a faint smile curving her lips as Mary lazily ran her fingers through her hair.

Regulus sat on the couch, one leg tucked under him, a book open but forgotten in his lap. Sirius was stretched out beside him, his head resting against the armrest and one arm flung dramatically over the back of the couch.

At the coffee table, Severus and Peter sat facing each other. Peter was stacking bottle caps into a wobbling tower while Severus watched, lips twitching each time it nearly fell.

James paused at the doorway, taking in the scene.

“You lot look comfortable,” he said with a grin.

Lily cracked one eye open and smiled. “You say that like you’re not about to join us.”

Regulus turned a page that he clearly wasn’t reading. “He’s been standing there for half a minute, trying to look like he’s not sentimental.”

James laughed. “I was deciding if there’s room for me. Sitting next to Sirius always ends with bruises.”

Sirius looked up with mock offense. “I’m delightful company, thank you very much.”

“Delightful in small doses,” Severus said without looking up.

Mary gestured toward an empty spot beside her. “Sit down, James. You’re ruining the cozy vibe.”

“Alright, alright,” James said, settling beside her. “Harry’s already asleep. Didn’t even finish brushing his teeth.”

“He had a good day,” Lily murmured, her voice drowsy.

Regulus leaned back against the couch cushion. “He should. It’s not every day the entire family gathers without hexing each other.”

Peter chuckled. “Or arguing about Quidditch teams.”

“Don’t start,” Sirius warned, pointing at him. “We’ve finally achieved peace.”

The laughter that followed was quiet and easy, filling the room like a low hum.

Lily opened her eyes fully this time, her voice soft but clear in the warm quiet of the room. “You know what Harry’s dealing with, don’t you?”

The question drew everyone’s attention toward Severus. He met her gaze calmly, fingers still resting on the table.

“Yes,” Severus said after a moment. “He’s spoken to me about it before coming home. He promised he would tell the rest of you when he’s ready. He just needs the right time.”

Lily’s hand paused in Mary’s hair. “He shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”

“He won’t,” Severus replied, his tone measured. “But pressing him will only drive him further inward. Let him speak when he feels safe.”

James leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s always been like that. Holds everything in until it bursts.”

“Like his father,” Regulus muttered without looking up, earning a soft snort from Sirius.

“Hey, I’ve gotten better at talking about things,” James protested, and then quickly added, “sometimes.”

Mary smiled faintly, glancing at Lily. “He will tell you, Lils. You’ve raised him to be honest. Just… give him space.”

Lily sighed, nodding slowly. “I know. It just hurts, knowing he’s hurting.”

The room fell quiet again, the soft ticking of Peter’s pocket watch filling the silence. Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever it is, he’s got all of us now. That’s what matters.”

Severus inclined his head slightly. “Indeed. He will not face it alone.”

James looked toward the stairs, where faint light still glowed under Harry’s door. “He’s tougher than any of us give him credit for.”

Lily smiled faintly at that. “He really is.”

And for a moment, the room felt still again, peaceful, anchored by the quiet understanding that whatever storm Harry faced, he had a family strong enough to weather it with him.

Two days passed in quiet warmth at Grimmauld Place. The lingering smell of grilled food had faded, replaced by the comforting scent of tea and parchment. The house felt alive in a way it hadn’t for years, full of laughter, footsteps, and the soft hum of conversation echoing through the halls.

Harry had spent most of the time drifting between everyone. One morning he played wizard chess with Regulus, who pretended to be disinterested but still smirked when Harry made a clever move. In the afternoon, he helped Lily and Mary in the kitchen, sneaking bites of treacle tart while they pretended not to notice. Evenings were spent in the garden, where James tried to teach him a new Quidditch trick while Sirius cheered from the sidelines with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Now, on the second night, the house had settled into a calm rhythm again. Rain pattered gently against the windows, soft and steady. The living room glowed with the light of floating candles, and everyone had gathered once more.

James sat cross legged on the rug, flipping through an old photo album filled with Quidditch shots and awkward school pictures. Sirius leaned over his shoulder, laughing loudly whenever he spotted one of his own.

Regulus was curled up at the end of the couch, reading but clearly listening to every word. Peter sat near the hearth, polishing his wand, while Severus and Mary discussed potion ingredients with half-serious intensity.

Lily entered with a tray of steaming mugs, her red hair catching the light. “Hot chocolate for everyone,” she announced.

Harry followed behind her, balancing a plate of biscuits. He set it down on the table and dropped onto the rug beside James.

“Perfect timing,” Sirius said, snagging a biscuit. “We were just telling your mum about the time your dad tried to impress her with a love potion.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “What?”

James groaned. “Padfoot–”

“It wasn’t a love potion,” Sirius continued dramatically. “It was supposed to be a scented charm, but he misread the instructions and ended up making everyone in the room smell like wet roses for three days.”

The room burst into laughter. Lily leaned against Mary’s shoulder, smiling. “I remember that. He spent an entire week trying to pretend it was cologne.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” James said, grinning. “You married me eventually.”

“Then divorced you,” Lily teased, raising her mug.

Regulus smirked. “And I got the upgrade.”

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. “This family is chaos.”

Harry laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re all impossible.”

The laughter lingered until the rain grew heavier, drumming softly against the roof. One by one, voices quieted, the warmth settling deeper into the room.

The laughter faded slowly, like the last notes of a song. The only sound left was the rain, tapping gently against the window.

Harry’s voice was soft, almost lost beneath it. “Me and Tom were dating.”

Every head turned toward him. The warmth that had filled the room just moments ago shifted– not cold, not hostile, but careful. James set the photo album aside, his brow furrowing. Lily straightened slightly, her hand still resting in Mary’s. Regulus closed his book, and even Severus’s usual composed expression softened into quiet understanding.

Sirius blinked first, his tone gentle but surprised. “Tom? As in… Riddle?”

Harry nodded, staring down at the rim of his mug. “Yeah. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It just… did.”

The words fell heavy into the room, dulling even the sound of the rain.

Harry’s grip on his mug tightened, knuckles whitening. “But then he cheated on me with Bellatrix.”

No one spoke for a moment. The fire popped softly in the hearth, a faint, almost cruel reminder that life went on even when everything else seemed to stop.

Lily’s face fell, her voice barely above a whisper. “Oh, sweetheart…” She reached over, her hand brushing his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Sirius’s eyes darkened, the easy mischief gone. “That bastard.”

“Language,” Mary murmured automatically, but her voice was just as sharp.

Sirius leaned forward, jaw tight. “No, seriously, who does that? Bellatrix of all people? She’s—” He cut himself off with a growl, looking away before he said something worse.

Regulus set his book aside completely, his voice calm but firm. “Bellatrix thrives on destruction. Hurting people is how she entertains herself. You were just her next target.”

“She’s not the only one at fault,” Severus said quietly, his gaze steady on Harry. “Tom made his choice.”

Harry’s voice broke, the words tumbling out in a rush, raw and shaking. “And then Tom confronted me about Cedric, like that ass had any right to be jealous. Me and Cedric were just friends. But Bellatrix overheard us arguing and twisted everything, told everyone I’d been going after both of them at the same time.” His breathing hitched, and his eyes glistened with anger and shame. “It was horrible. One day I was well liked, and the next, everyone was calling me a whore.”

The silence that followed was thick and furious.

James’s hands curled into fists on his knees, his jaw tight enough to crack. “She what?”

Lily’s expression hardened, her usual softness sharpening into steel. “That girl has always been poison. You didn’t deserve that, Harry.”

Mary’s voice trembled with anger. “Spreading lies about your own cousin, who is younger than her! That’s immature.”

“Typical Bellatrix,” Regulus muttered darkly, his tone edged with disdain. “She’s always needed someone else’s pain to feel powerful. You were just convenient.”

“She’s lucky I wasn’t there,” Sirius growled. “Because I swear, I would’ve hexed her.”

“Padfoot,” Remus warned gently, though even he looked furious.

Harry shook his head quickly. “It’s fine now. Everyone’s kind of forgotten about it. I just…” His voice dropped, small and uneven. “It still hurts. How fast they believed her. No one even asked me what really happened.”

Severus leaned forward slightly, his voice low but steady. “People are quick to believe scandal over truth. It makes them feel better about their own mediocrity. But remember this, Harry, rumors burn out. Character does not.”

Harry blinked, his throat tightening. “Uncle Sev.”

Lily rubbed his back softly. “He’s right, sweetheart. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You just keep being you.”

James nodded, the firelight catching the anger in his eyes. “And if anyone so much as breathes that nonsense again, they’ll deal with me.”

That earned him a weak laugh from Harry. “You’d get detention for life, Dad.”

“Worth it,” James said without hesitation.

The tension eased just a little, replaced by a quiet, protective warmth that filled the room like a shield.

Harry looked around at them all, his family in all their chaotic, imperfect love, and exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. “Thanks… for believing me.”

“Always,” Lily said softly. “Always, Harry.”

The door slammed open, breaking the fragile calm.

Evan and Barty stepped in, both dripping from the rain, grocery bags in hand. Barty’s voice rang through the room, loud and oblivious. “Eyyo, we’re back! And we got snacks–” He stopped mid-sentence, his grin fading as his eyes swept over the tense faces and the heavy silence that hung in the air. “What… happened?”

Evan glanced between them, frowning. “Did we interrupt something?”

Sirius let out a low breath, leaning back against the couch. “You could say that.”

James rubbed a hand over his face, trying to collect himself. “Harry was just telling us about… some things that happened. With Tom.”

Barty’s brows shot up. “Oh. Oh.” He looked at Harry, guilt flashing in his eyes as if he’d just walked in on something sacred. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to barge in.”

Harry shook his head quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

Evan set the bags down carefully, his usual easy expression softening. “You alright, kid? What happened? what did he do?”

Harry stared into his mug for a long moment before answering, his voice low. “He cheated on me with Bellatrix. Then he had the nerve to act jealous when he thought I was close with Cedric.”

Barty winced. “Bloody hell.”

“He confronted me about it,” Harry went on, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Like he had any right to be angry. And Bellatrix overheard everything. She spread rumors that I was seeing both of them at once. Everyone believed her.”

Evan’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. “That’s vile.”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “One day I was just… me. The next, I was a joke. A liar. A–” He cut himself off, swallowing hard.

Lily’s hand found his shoulder again, steady and warm. “You’re none of those things, sweetheart.”

James nodded, his voice firm. “Anyone who believes Bellatrix over you doesn’t deserve to be in your life.”

Sirius leaned forward, glaring at the fire. “If I ever see that Riddle bastard again–”

“Language,” Mary murmured, though her tone was far too gentle to be a real scolding.

Evan’s frown deepened. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, kid. That’s cruel.”

Barty crossed his arms, voice softer than usual. “You did nothing wrong, Harry. Tom’s the one who messed everything up.”

Harry gave a small, grateful nod. “Thanks. I just… needed to say it out loud, I guess.”

The rain continued its quiet rhythm against the windows, the tension melting slowly into something softer– sad, but safe.

Harry decided to spend the evening at the Burrow. The Weasleys had insisted he come over, and he needed a bit of normalcy. The smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking filled the air, and Ron and Ginny immediately pulled him into a game of Exploding Snap. For a while, surrounded by laughter and noise, Harry almost forgot everything, the whispers, the stares, and the name he couldn’t quite escape.

Back at Grimmauld Place, the atmosphere was heavier. Rain drummed against the windows, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. Most of the family had gathered in the living room, though no one spoke much. The only sound was the occasional clink of a teacup or the low crackle of the fire.

Sirius paced in front of the hearth, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “I am going to ruin Cygnus and his family at the Black dinner,” he said suddenly, his voice sharp and final.

James looked up from the couch, where he sat beside Regulus. “Pads…”

“No, James,” Sirius snapped, turning to face him. “You saw his face. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too. The way his voice broke when he said it– Bellatrix spread those lies about him and Tom like it was nothing. She humiliated him.”

James’s jaw clenched. “I know. I was sitting right there, remember?” He took a breath, steadying himself. “But starting something at the dinner isn’t going to help him.”

Sirius’s fists tightened at his sides. “You think I’m just going to sit there while she smirks across the table like she’s done nothing wrong? She made him believe everyone thought he was–” He cut himself off, swallowing the rest.

Mary set her teacup down. “Sirius, you’ll only give her what she wants. Bellatrix feeds on attention. The louder you get, the more satisfaction she’ll take from it.”

“That’s why I won’t yell,” Sirius said, his tone dark but deliberate. “I’m going to destroy her reputation. Calmly. Publicly. And with style.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. “You always did love dramatics.”

James ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward. “Pads, I want her to pay as much as you do. But think of Harry. He doesn’t need you fighting his battles. He just needs to know we’re behind him.”

Sirius stopped pacing, his expression softening just enough. “I just hate that he looked like that. Like he was ashamed of something he didn’t even do.”

Lily spoke from her spot by the armchair, her voice calm but firm. “Then show him that he doesn’t have to be. Don’t let Bellatrix take another inch from him. The best revenge you can give Harry is letting him heal without more chaos.”

Sirius sighed heavily, running both hands through his hair. “You’re right. You’re all right.” His lips curled in a grim smile. “But if she so much as breathes his name at that dinner, I’m hexing her wine glass to explode.”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “At least make it subtle. We do have standards.”

The laughter faded into a calmer quiet, the tension from earlier easing just a little. Sirius had slumped dramatically onto the couch beside Regulus, muttering under his breath about “classy revenge plans” and “poetic justice.”

Evan, who had been lounging in an armchair with his legs crossed, took a sip of tea and said dryly, “Maybe we should stay at Potter Manor for a while. Something dark is clearly affecting Sirius.”

Barty snorted, nearly choking on his biscuit. “Dark magic, or just an overinflated sense of drama?”

“Both,” Regulus replied without missing a beat.

“Oi,” Sirius said, pointing a lazy finger at all three of them. “You lot are lucky I’m too emotionally drained to hex anyone.”

James grinned from his spot on the rug. “So you admit you’re dramatic?”

“I admit nothing,” Sirius said solemnly, sinking deeper into the cushions.

That finally drew a round of laughter, real this time, lighter than before. Even Severus’s lips twitched, and Lily shook her head with a fond smile.

Mary reached over to refill Evan’s cup. “If we’re staying anywhere, it’ll be here. At least Grimmauld Place has better lighting now that I’ve banned half the cursed portraits.”

“And a proper grill,” James added.

Remus leaned into Sirius’s shoulder, smirking. “And apparently, the best entertainment.”

Sirius grinned, eyes glinting. “You know it.”

The Black Manor dining hall gleamed like it always did. Crystal chandeliers catching candlelight, silverware polished to the point of vanity. The table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, set with far too many forks for any sane person to need.

Sirius sat at the head, posture sharp and princely, his expression carrying the kind of smug calm that usually came right before chaos. Remus sat to his right, trying to look neutral and failing every time Sirius muttered something under his breath.

Regulus and James sat a few seats down, whispering quietly. Regulus looked perfectly composed, as if this were just another business dinner, while James already looked two seconds away from laughter.

Lucius and Narcissa sat elegantly opposite them, looking like they’d just stepped out of a portrait. Their eldest, Abraxas, sat between them, shoulders stiff, clearly aware of how many eyes were on him. Little Draco was in a high chair beside Narcissa, blissfully unaware of the generational tension building like storm clouds.

And at the far end, Bellatrix twirled her wine glass between her fingers, her smirk sharp and poisonous.

“Lovely turnout this year,” Sirius said pleasantly, raising his glass. “Almost everyone managed to show up without threatening murder beforehand. I call that progress.”

Cygnus’s mustache twitched. “This is not a circus, Sirius. We are here to maintain family unity.”

“Of course,” Sirius said, voice smooth as silk. “And nothing says unity like pretending we don’t all hate each other.”

Remus hid a cough behind his hand. Regulus didn’t even bother hiding his grin.

Bellatrix leaned forward, lips curling. “Careful, cousin. People might start to think you actually take your role seriously.”

Sirius’s eyes glinted. “Oh, I do. Especially when certain members of the family decide to spread lies about people who’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

The air shifted, quietly, but sharply. Bellatrix’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before she set her wine glass down. “If this is about that little rumor–”

“Oh, it’s about that little rumor,” Sirius said, cutting her off. “And about the fact that you thought you could drag my godson’s name through the dirt without consequence.”

Narcissa sighed, already looking weary. “Sirius, perhaps this isn’t–”

“No, let him speak,” Andromeda interjected smoothly, chin tilted up. “I’d rather like to hear what our Lord Black intends to do about his unhinged cousin’s behavior.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Unhinged? I’m the only one here who hasn’t sold out our family name.”

James leaned toward Regulus, muttering under his breath, “You’d think she’d realize that’s not the compliment she thinks it is.”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “Careful, she bites.”

Across the table, Remus whispered, “Sirius, please, remember– politics, not pyromania.”

Sirius’s smile was all teeth. “Don’t worry, love. I’m just talking.”

He raised his glass again, eyes locked on Bellatrix. “To family. May we continue to prove that shared blood doesn’t always guarantee shared brains.”

Remus groaned quietly. Narcissa hid a laugh behind her napkin. Cygnus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lucius muttered to no one in particular, “Every year, I tell myself it can’t get worse. Every year, I’m wrong.”

And somewhere between the clinking of glasses and Bellatrix’s murderous glare, Regulus leaned toward James and whispered, “This is going better than I expected.”

James grinned. “Give it ten minutes.”

“How do you feel about starting fifth year, Harry?” Arcturus asked.

“Excited, but also nervous about OWLs and balancing everything else,” Harry admitted.

“Balancing what else?” Melania asked, her tone curious but gentle.

“Oh, it’s nothing…” Harry said quickly.

“Harry here got chosen as Quidditch captain and prefect,” Regulus said proudly.

“You did!?” Nymphadora exclaimed, eyes wide.

Arcturus’s brows lifted, impressed. “Both? That’s quite the accomplishment.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it. It’s… a lot of responsibility.”

Melania smiled warmly. “That just means they see potential in you, dear. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Harry said, glancing toward his fathers with a small grin. “Mostly just trying not to let it get to my head.”

Bellatrix let out a condescending snort. “Surely you wouldn’t be able to balance all that.”

Abraxas leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Says the one who got a P in Potions for her OWLs and didn’t make prefect or play Quidditch.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Arcturus turned sharply toward her, his voice cutting but calm. “A P in Potions? Since when do Blacks get a P in Potions? Even Sirius did better than that.”

The table went quiet for half a heartbeat before Sirius lifted his glass with a grin. “Cheers to that.”

“You need to get your grades in check, Bella,” Arcturus said firmly, giving her a pointed look.

Bellatrix crossed her arms, muttering something under her breath, but didn’t dare respond.

Nymphadora, sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject. “Oh, Harry! I’ve been meaning to ask, what electives did you pick?”

Harry perked up a little. “Well, at first I had Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures, but I dropped Magical Creatures and picked Ancient Runes instead.”

“They let you pick electives a year before OWLs now?” Arcturus asked, sounding mildly curious.

“Well, no,” Harry explained. “To take OWLs, you need at least three years of study experience in the subject. But they tested me in Ancient Runes, and I passed, so they let me switch electives.”

Arcturus looked impressed, nodding slowly. “Resourceful. I like that.”

Melania smiled fondly. “You’ve always been a clever one, Harry.”

Regulus reached over to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Told you he gets it from me.”

Sirius snorted into his drink. “Please. The only thing he gets from you is your dramatic flair.”

Regulus smirked. “Hm, no– that’s from you.”

James laughed, clinking his glass lightly against Regulus’s. “He’s got a point, Pads.”

“Traitor,” Sirius said, glaring at James but unable to hide his grin.

Even Lucius cracked a faint smile, muttering quietly, “At least someone else sees it.”

Cygnus cleared his throat lightly, the sound cutting through the laughter without fully dampening it. “It’s good to see everyone in such high spirits,” he said, folding his napkin neatly beside his plate. “But perhaps we could return to the purpose of this dinner. The Black family has always valued strength and unity above all else.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. “Ah yes, the annual reminder that we’re all supposed to pretend we like each other.”

“Be nice, love,” Remus murmured beside him, nudging his arm with a small smile.

“I am being nice,” Sirius said innocently. “If I weren’t, I’d have brought up the last time Bellatrix tried to hex me under the table.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You deserved it.”

“Because I called you a menace?”

“Because you are one.”

“Now, now,” Lucius interjected smoothly, though his smirk betrayed amusement. “Let’s not turn the dinner into a duel. The carpet’s far too expensive.”

Regulus sighed, taking a sip of his drink. “You’d think we’d get through one family gathering without threats of bodily harm.”

Andromeda chuckled softly. “You forget which family you’re in.”

That earned a few laughs, even from Melania and Arcturus, who exchanged fond, resigned looks.

“Speaking of family,” Narcissa said lightly, turning toward Harry, “I heard from Abraxas that you’ve been helping the younger Slytherins with their Potions essays?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Oh– uh, yeah. A bit. Some of them struggle with ingredient theory, and Professor Snape said I could offer tutoring sessions.”

“That’s commendable,” Melania said warmly. “A Black should always have a reputation.”

Bellatrix gave a low scoff. “If he’s helping the weak, he’s not looking after the strong.”

Sirius’s smile faded. “You really don’t know the difference between cruelty and strength, do you, Bella?”

Bellatrix’s lips curled. “And you really don’t know when to stop talking, Lord Black.”

The table went still again. The title hung heavy between them.

Sirius didn’t flinch. He set down his glass, his tone deceptively calm. “Careful, Bella. You’re at my table.”

The tension was thick enough to cut.

Then Abraxas, bless him, broke it with a nervous laugh. “So… dessert, anyone?”

“Yes please,” Harry said quietly, trying to ease the tension.

Bellatrix’s lips curled into a sneer. “You don’t deserve dessert.”

“Bella, enough!” Cygnus snapped, his voice sharp.

But Bellatrix only raised her chin higher, eyes burning with disdain. “No! Potter is nothing but a filthy half-blood!”

The room went still. The fire crackled softly in the corner, its light casting sharp shadows across the table.

Sirius’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, his expression darkening. “Careful, Bellatrix.”

Regulus’s voice was cold and measured. “You forget yourself.”

Arcturus set his wine glass down with a quiet clink. “You forget who you’re speaking to, child.”

But Bellatrix only laughed, the sound brittle and wild. “What? Are we all pretending now? Pretending that our precious family hasn’t been tainted? That we should just smile and play house with the half-blood boy and the mudblood who–”

“Enough,” Sirius said again, his voice like steel.

The words hung heavy in the air, daring anyone else to move.

“Unless you have forgotten, Bella,” Melania said sharply, setting her glass down, “we agreed ever since Orion’s death, bless his heart– that we would put an end to this blood purity nonsense.”

Bellatrix turned toward her aunt, eyes flashing. “You might have agreed, but I never did.”

Melania’s expression hardened. “Then perhaps it’s time you learned that clinging to outdated pride will only rot you from the inside.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “You sound just like him,” she spat, jerking her chin toward Sirius. “Always preaching, always pretending you’re better than the rest of us while sitting high on your throne of hypocrisy.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “At least I don’t hide behind family traditions to excuse cruelty.”

“Cruelty?” Bellatrix hissed. “I’m telling the truth! That boy–”

“Say one more word about Harry,” James cut in, his voice low and dangerous, “and I don’t care if this is a Black dinner. You’ll be leaving through the wall, not the door.”

The tension in the room thickened, crackling like static.

Arcturus’s voice finally broke through, calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority. “Enough. This is not the place for your tantrums, Bellatrix. You will hold your tongue, or you will not be welcome at this table.”

For a moment, Bellatrix looked as if she might argue, but then she caught Arcturus’s eyes and faltered. She slumped back in her seat, lips pressed tight, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“Can I have treacle tart, Abraxas?” Harry asked hopefully, trying to lighten the heavy mood that lingered in the room.

“Absolutely not,” Regulus said before Abraxas could even respond. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t have treacle tart for a week.”

Harry turned toward him with wide, pleading eyes. “But Dad–”

“No, Harry,” Regulus interrupted firmly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You’ve been eating treacle tart for four consecutive days.”

Melania hid a smile behind her napkin. “Let the boy have a slice, Regulus. It’s been a long evening, and he’s handled himself with far more grace than some adults here.”

Regulus gave her a look that said you’re not helping, but after a beat, he sighed. “Fine. One slice.”

Harry grinned triumphantly. “Thanks, Dad.”

As Abraxas called for dessert to be served, the tension finally began to ease, the faint hum of laughter and clinking cutlery replacing the earlier storm in the room.

Two-year-old Draco Malfoy started to wriggle in his high chair, tiny hands reaching out as he chirped, “Hawwy!”

Harry turned to look at him, a smile instantly breaking across his face. “Hey there, Draco.”

Draco giggled, kicking his legs excitedly. “Hawwy!” he repeated, as if saying the name alone was the funniest thing in the world.

Lucius, seated beside him, looked both mildly proud and slightly mortified. “He’s been saying that all morning,” he admitted with a sigh. “Refuses to say Father properly, but Harry rolls right off the tongue.”

“Can you blame him?” Sirius said with a grin. “Clearly, the kid has excellent taste.”

Regulus chuckled, shaking his head. “At this rate, Lucius, Harry might be your son’s first hero.”

Harry laughed softly, leaning forward to gently tap Draco’s tiny hand. “That’s okay, Draco. I’ll teach you how to say treacle tart next.”

“Twikkle tatt!” Draco tried, beaming proudly as the table burst into laughter.