Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pain came like fire in his veins.

Tom jerked awake, every muscle seizing, breath caught on a hiss. His dormitory was silent save for the slow drip of water from the stone ceiling and the ragged sound of his own breathing. For one dizzying heartbeat he thought someone had cursed him — but no, this was different. Too deep, too primal.

His vision swam. The lamplight burned too brightly, stabbing into his skull. He shoved himself upright, trembling, and the boy in the bed across from him whimpered in his sleep, curling into a ball.

Interesting.

Tom forced himself to the mirror. What stared back was not the familiar mask of a handsome prefect. His brown eyes blazed crimson, pupils narrowed to vertical slits. The whites of his eyes were drowned in scarlet threads, as if blood itself had filled them. His skin shimmered, scales flickering across his cheekbones and jawline before retreating again.

A lesser boy might have panicked. Tom only leaned closer.

So. This is it. My inheritance.

The world had never given him gifts without cost. He had clawed for every ounce of respect he held, carved his place out of fear and admiration. And now? Now the world itself bent to him.

A sound pulled his attention. One of his roommates was no longer asleep. The boy had slipped from his bed and stood barefoot on the cold flagstones, eyes wide and unseeing. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees at Tom’s feet, head bowed, trembling.

Tom’s lips curved. Not a smile, never that — but something sharper.

So the power leaked even without command. His aura pressed into the room, irresistible, undeniable.

“Sleep,” Tom murmured. His voice was low, sibilant, edged with something that did not sound human. The boy collapsed instantly, boneless, back into slumber.

Tom studied him for a long moment, then turned back to the mirror. His heart was still pounding with fury — at the pain, at the loss of control, at the reminder that magic itself dictated his path — but beneath the anger, calculation was already weaving.

Predator. That was what he had become. And predators did not ask permission. They took.

Tom entered the Great Hall with his mask firmly in place. The pain of the night before had ebbed to a dull thrum, but his skin still hummed with something restless beneath it, scales itching to surface. He pushed the sensation down with sheer force of will. Control was everything.

The doors opened, and the effect was immediate. Conversations dipped, faltered. Students shifted without thought, unconsciously clearing a path. Tom did not hurry; predators never did.

He sat at the Slytherin table, sliding into his usual seat as if nothing had changed, and yet everything had. The air seemed thicker around him, heavy with expectation. The younger years stared openly before dropping their eyes.

Someone — Avery, perhaps — stammered a greeting. Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment. A token. The boy flushed with pride, as though he’d been granted an audience.

Tom buttered his toast with precise, unhurried strokes, savoring the silence that spread around him like ripples in still water. It was almost too easy.

He let his gaze wander across the hall, testing. A group of Ravenclaws were laughing at something until his eyes touched them. One by one their smiles faltered, voices stumbling to silence. The prefect among them shifted uneasily, as though caught doing something wrong.

Tom’s lips curved faintly. Hypnotic, then. Suggestive. With a glance, he could still a room. With focus, he could make it kneel.

A second-year further down the table dropped her goblet. Juice splattered across the wood. She gasped and whispered “my Lord” before clapping a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in terror.

Tom leaned back, expression smooth and mild, but inside, his mind raced. So instinct bleeds into others. Interesting. Dangerous, yes — but exploitable.

He reached for his teacup. His reflection in the dark liquid glimmered crimson for a heartbeat, slit pupils cutting the image in half.

Tom took a sip, as though nothing at all had happened.

Classes were intolerable that day.

Not because of the work — he could brew a perfect potion blindfolded, recite theory better than the professor, and hex faster than anyone in his year. No, it was the stares.

Everywhere he walked, eyes followed. Whispers trailed like shadows. The Slytherins kept a respectful distance, their movements oddly synchronized, as though his presence alone dictated the rhythm of the room. Even the Gryffindors who usually scowled at him kept glancing over — then quickly away, unsettled.

When Professor Slughorn called on him for an answer, Tom rose smoothly, only to feel the air shift. Half the classroom stilled, watching him with parted lips, waiting.

He froze. Not outwardly, of course — he delivered his response with perfect diction — but inside, his mind raced. The aura again. It had leaked without his consent.

He forced it down, grinding his teeth behind a polite smile. The students blinked, frowning as if waking from a dream. Slughorn only beamed, oblivious.

Tom sat, fingers curled tight around his quill. What am I?

When the common room dimmed into hushed laughter and firelight, Tom slipped away, silent as a shadow. The Restricted Section admitted him without protest — wards bent when his will pressed, as they always had. He lit a candle and set to work.

The first stack was useless.

Vampire treatises, half-charred by some overzealous censor: all blood rituals and hunger, nothing of the cold coil of authority now threading through his veins. Tom tossed the book aside with a snap.

Veela studies came next. Pretty words, pretty creatures. Seduction, glamour, soft fire and allure. Pathetic. What he carried was not seduction — it was command.

He worked methodically, discarding possibilities with each turn of the page. Werewolves? Too feral. Dragons? Possible — the scales, the strength, the molten magic. But their fire was wild, destructive. His was coiled, precise, venom waiting behind fangs.

Hours slipped past. His candle guttered low. Still Tom read, chasing fragments, scribbling notes in a neat, relentless hand. He would not leave without answers.

It was near dawn when his fingers stilled on a slim, cracked journal bound in serpent-hide. No title. No catalog mark. Just a sketch on the first page: slit-pupiled eyes, scales rendered in meticulous detail, a mouth of fangs dripping venom.

Tom’s heart gave one hard, triumphant beat.

Basilisk-blooded.

He devoured the text, eyes racing over descriptions that fit too well:

• Eyes that enthrall, paralyze, kill.
• Scales summoned at will, armor against curse and blade.
• Aura heavy with compulsion, bending weaker wills.
• Venom as weapon, resistance to all poison.
• Serpents bowing to their presence, Parseltongue transfigured into command.

Tom exhaled, slow and sharp. At last.

He touched his reflection in the library’s darkened window. For a moment, crimson eyes glowed back, scales shimmering across his cheekbones before fading. A predator. A king among serpents.

The realization steadied him, even as it fanned the fire of ambition higher. He was more than human now. Something rarer, sharper, inevitable.

The world had feared his brilliance before. Let it tremble now at his very presence.

Satisfied for the moment, Tom closed the journal with deliberate care and slid it into his satchel. He would refine this gift, master every edge, every weakness. He would not be ruled by instinct — he would be the one to command it.

And tomorrow, he decided, he would test the truth of it in the Chamber of Secrets itself.

The dormitory wasn’t empty.

Tom knew the moment he stepped through the door — four pairs of eyes cutting toward him, too quickly, too alert. Abraxas Malfoy reclined in his chair by the fire with the indolent grace of someone who had never been denied a thing in his life. Orion Black lounged opposite him, long legs stretched out, smirk already curling his mouth. Nott and Rosier hovered near, pretending at casualness.

Tom shut the door softly behind him. The weight in the air was deliberate. A stage set for him alone.

“Two nights,” Abraxas said at last, in that lazy drawl that always disguised the calculation beneath. “Two nights since your birthday, Riddle.” His pale eyes narrowed faintly. “Seventeen. That’s… a significant age, isn’t it?”

Orion chuckled low in his throat. “Don’t bother with riddles, Malfoy. He knows what we’re asking.” His dark eyes gleamed as they locked onto Tom. “We can feel it on you. Heavy. Sharp. It’s been bleeding into the room since you walked in.”

Nott shifted uncomfortably, muttering, “Feels like pressure in my chest when he looks at me.” Rosier gave a quick nod, lips pressed tight.

Tom paused in the center of the room, letting their words hang. His pulse was steady, though anger simmered beneath his calm. They had sensed it already — his aura leaking without consent. Unacceptable. He would master it.

But denial would serve no purpose now.

“Yes,” he said simply, unhurriedly, as though stating a fact already known. “I came into my inheritance.”

The admission sent a ripple through the group. Orion leaned back with a satisfied smirk. Abraxas’s mouth twitched in something close to approval.

“As did I,” Abraxas said smoothly, hand flicking through his silver hair. “As every Malfoy heir does. Veela, of course. Fire in the blood, irresistible charm — it’s practically a family crest. We host the ceremonies every generation.”

Orion snorted. “Trust a Malfoy to turn even an inheritance into a performance piece.”

Abraxas’s eyes flashed. “Jealous?”

Orion only grinned wider. “Not when mine came with teeth. My blood runs darker. Something older. And far more dangerous.”

Rosier muttered agreement about his own inheritance — something minor, half-blooded. Nott was more evasive, but Tom barely heard them. His mind was turning over their words like puzzle pieces. They had known to expect it. They had been prepared. They had waited for it like a holiday. And he? He had woken in agony, blind. Alone.

He sat on the edge of his bed, slow and deliberate. “And what have you done with it?”

Orion’s smirk sharpened. “What do you think? I’ve already felt the pull. Strong. I know exactly who mine is.”

Tom’s gaze snapped up. “Who?”

Orion only smiled like a wolf. “Not telling. You don’t announce prey before you take it.”

Abraxas laughed softly, almost musical. “I’ll say this much: it’s not who I expected. But I can feel it — like a thread tugging under the skin. Impossible to mistake once it catches. Maddening when you try to ignore it.”

Tom stilled, every nerve on edge. “Thread?”

Orion arched a brow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it. Your mate.”

The word landed with the weight of a curse. Tom forced his expression to remain impassive. “My what?”

The silence that followed was sharp, incredulous. Rosier blinked. Nott looked away, uneasy.

Abraxas tilted his head, searching Tom’s face. “You can’t be serious.”

“I do not jest,” Tom said, voice flat as steel.

For the first time, Abraxas faltered. “Mates, Riddle. The ones bound to you by your inheritance. The other half of it. Didn’t anyone—”

“No,” Tom cut in, soft and cold. “No one did.”

A strange discomfort flickered across Malfoy’s polished face. Orion looked far too entertained. “Oh, this is rich,” he drawled. “Tom Riddle, the genius who knows everything, left in the dark by his own blood. How tragic.”

Tom’s eyes burned crimson for an instant, silencing the laughter.

Orion’s grin faltered, though he covered it with a shrug. “Fine. You want the explanation? Here. Inheritances bind you to others. Mates. Could be one. Could be more. You’ll feel them — the pull. The creature in you demands it. Without them, the magic goes wrong. Twists you up.”

Abraxas nodded reluctantly. “It isn’t… optional. Not if you want to stay sane.”

Tom inclined his head, as though accepting the answer, though his mind raged. He hated them for knowing what he hadn’t. Hated fate for daring to tether him. Hated most of all the sudden, gnawing certainty in his gut that they were telling the truth.

“I see,” he said at last. Smooth. Controlled. Deadly.

And he lay back on his bed with the same composure he wore to every duel, every feast, every manipulation. Curtains drawn, mask unbroken.

But behind his eyes, fury coiled tight as a serpent.

The castle slept. Tom did not.

He moved through the corridors with soundless grace, a candle hidden beneath his cloak. Even the portraits held their tongues when his eyes passed over them, crimson glinting in the dark. Tonight was not for books, nor for posturing before Malfoy and Black. Tonight was for answers.

The sinks in the girl’s lavatory groaned open at his hiss. The Chamber’s entrance yawned wide, the scent of damp stone and ancient air rolling up to meet him. He descended as he had so many times before — but never like this. Never with power coiled so tightly under his skin, scales whispering to emerge.

The Chamber spread before him in vast shadow, carved serpents watching from their pillars. He drew in a slow breath and hissed into the silence, his voice curling like smoke.

“Wake.”

The answering rumble shook the ground. Stone cracked, water shivered in the pools, and the Basilisk slid forth from its nest with the weight of centuries. Its scales gleamed dull emerald in the torchlight, eyes veiled beneath its lids — a courtesy to the only master it had ever known.

But tonight, something changed.

The moment Tom’s aura unfurled, the serpent stilled. Then, with a sound like mountains grinding, it bent its massive head low to the floor.

“Hatchling,” it hissed, the sound vibrating through his bones.

Tom froze. He had expected obedience — always obedience — but not this. “What did you call me?” His voice in Parseltongue was sharper than a blade.

“Hatchling,” the Basilisk repeated, lids half-raising to reveal the faintest glimmer of gold-green light. “I smell my blood in you. You are mine.”

Blood. Tom’s hands curled at his sides. Basilisk-blood. The word struck like a key in a lock, confirming what the books had only hinted.

“You knew,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course. The Chamber was meant for you. I kept it, waiting. You are not merely speaker, hatchling. You are kin.”

For a moment, Tom’s fury cooled into something dangerously close to awe. This creature, this legend whispered in terror for centuries, bowed not to his Parseltongue alone but to his very bloodline.

The Basilisk shifted, scales rasping against stone. “You do not yet understand what you are.”

Tom’s chin lifted. “Then tell me.”

A low hiss, almost amused. “Power, yes. Venom in your veins. Eyes to enthrall, to kill. But you are incomplete. Basilisk-blood is never solitary. You are born to bind — to Circle. Without it, hunger will rot you from within.”

The words sank like hooks. Circle. Bind. The same cursed truth Malfoy and Black had laughed about. Mates.

Tom swallowed his anger, schooling his voice into calm. “And how does one find these bonds?”

“You will feel them.” The Basilisk’s tongue flicked, tasting the air. “Threads tugging at your soul. They will burn until you follow.”

Tom’s skin prickled at the memory of last night — the strange ache in his chest, the restless tug at the edges of his mind. He had dismissed it as exhaustion. Foolish.

“I am no one’s pawn,” he hissed.

The Basilisk’s laugh was a rumble deep in its throat. “You are young. You will learn. Hatchling or not, instinct is older than will. But remember—” The vast head lowered until its breath brushed his face, hot and venom-sweet. “Instinct does not mean weakness. Those bound to you are weapons if you wield them.”

At that, Tom smiled — slow, sharp, full of teeth. The serpent understood.

“Then teach me,” he said.

“Gladly.”

The Basilisk coiled around him, vast body circling in protective arcs, and for the first time since his birthday Tom felt the fury inside him sharpen into purpose. He was not a victim of this inheritance. He was its heir. Its master.

The classroom had long since been abandoned, its chalkboards warped, its windows sealed with grime. Tom had transformed it.

The desks were vanished, replaced by a long stone table he conjured into being with a flick of his wand. Candles floated above, shedding pale light over the faces gathered there. Abraxas Malfoy. Orion Black. Rosier, Nott, Mulciber. His knights.

They took their seats only when Tom did, settling with the solemnity of a court. None spoke until he inclined his head.

“You’ve felt it,” Tom began, voice calm, measured. “The shift in me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas answered smoothly. His eyes gleamed with quiet awe, though pride sharpened every line of his posture. “Your aura nearly sings. There is no mistaking it.”

Orion smirked. “More like roars. Half the common room bows without realizing it.”

Tom allowed the faintest curve of his lips. “Good. Let them. Fear and awe are the foundation of obedience.”

Nott leaned forward, eager. “Then it begins, doesn’t it? You’ll make the move for power?”

Tom’s crimson gaze swept across them, calculating. “Patience. A predator does not strike the instant it scents prey. It waits. It circles. And when it strikes…” His smile sharpened. “It does not miss.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the table.

Rosier spoke hesitantly, “We’ve already seen the others look to you. Even the prefects yield. If you gave the word—”

“I will give the word when the moment is right,” Tom cut in. His tone was not harsh, but final, a blade pressed lightly to the throat. Rosier bowed his head at once.

Tom let silence stretch, savoring how they leaned toward him unconsciously, awaiting his judgment. Then he continued, voice low and certain:

“Our goal remains the same: influence, control, dominance. I will take Hogwarts first — not by force, but by devotion. Then the Ministry, the Wizengamot, the old families. Piece by piece, until no one remembers a time when they did not bend to us.”

“Us?” Orion echoed, grinning like a wolf.

“Me,” Tom corrected softly. “You, as my hands.”

Abraxas inclined his head with reverence. “As it should be.”

Mulciber slammed his fist lightly on the table, fervent. “For you, my Lord. Always.”

Tom leaned back, crimson eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Their devotion pulsed in the air like a second heartbeat. He had them utterly — not as pawns, but as knights sworn by will and instinct both.

The meeting closed with Tom’s final decree: “Sharpen your wands. Sharpen your minds. Our time comes soon. And when it does, the world will kneel.”

They rose as one, heads bowed, voices murmuring assent.

When they filed out, Tom remained seated, fingers steepled. He could still feel the weight of unseen strings tugging faintly at his chest — threads leading not to them, but elsewhere.

The future.

The Chamber was hushed, its carved serpents watching from the walls as if they too were listening. Tom knelt at its center, the stone cold beneath his palms, the shallow pools rippling faintly with each breath. The Basilisk coiled around him like a fortress of living scale, her lids lowered in patience.

“Still yourself,” she hissed. “Not your mind. Your magic. Let it breathe.”

Tom despised the instruction. His mind was his weapon; stillness was weakness. But he obeyed, if only to wring more knowledge from her ancient coils. He let his aura loosen, bleed into the Chamber like smoke.

And then he felt it.

Threads. Invisible strings tugging deep in his chest, pulling, dragging. Not outward to any student or professor. Not here at all. The pull was relentless, stretching forward into the unseen horizon. Into time itself.

His eyes snapped open, crimson gleaming in the torchlight. “What is this?”

The Basilisk lowered her head until the hot, venom-sweet wash of her breath brushed his face. “Your bonds. The threads to those who are yours. The ones who steady your venom, who make you whole.”

Whole. The word lodged like a thorn.

Tom had spent seventeen years carving himself out of nothing. From filth and rejection, he had shaped brilliance. A god from ash. He needed no one. He wanted no one.

And yet… the ache hollowed him. Restless, raw.

He swallowed hard, strangling the flicker before it could take form. For a heartbeat he had imagined what it might mean — someone who would not bow out of fear, but stand beside him. Someone who might see him, not just the mask, not just the aura. The thought burned, and he crushed it ruthlessly.

“I do not need them,” he hissed, each word bitten clean.

The Basilisk laughed, a sound like stone grinding under the weight of mountains. “All blood lies, hatchling. Even yours.”

Tom’s jaw clenched. Fury swirled with something far more dangerous: yearning. He buried it beneath calculation. If these bonds existed, then they were not chains on him. They were chains he would wrap around others. Weapons. Anchors. Servants tied by fate itself.

But the strings thrummed again, steady, warm, unyielding. Not here. Not now. Always pulling forward.

“They are not in this time,” he said, voice low and certain.

“No,” the serpent agreed. “The future waits for you. If you remain here, you will wither. If you follow, you will find your Circle.”

His Circle. His mates. His destiny.

Tom rose slowly, the serpent’s coils sliding back to give him space. The ache gnawed deep, but he forced his smile sharp. “Then I will go to them. If the future dares hide what is mine, I will take it.”

The Basilisk’s tongue flicked, tasting his resolve. “That is why you are mine, little serpent. You do not bow. You strike.”

Tom’s reflection stared back at him from the water’s surface — crimson eyes, faint scales shimmering along his cheekbones, threads humming in his chest. He pressed his hand to the stone, steadying himself against the ache.

If destiny thinks to bind me, he thought, then destiny itself will learn who forges the chains.

And already, the plan began to form.

The Chamber breathed with him.

Candles ringed the floor in careful circles; runes cut with a silver knife darkened as the blood within them dried. Tom stood at the center, bare to the waist, his skin an atlas of sigils painted in his own hand. Each stroke throbbed with the low ache of magic. The sacrifice lay bound on the outer ring, eyes swollen from weeping, chest heaving against the gag.

Above, stone serpents watched. Beside, the Basilisk coiled in a vast, silent loop, her head lowered, lids drawn to a sliver.

Witness, he thought, and the serpent’s tongue tasted the word.

He lifted the dagger.

“Power is not given,” Tom said softly. “It is owed.”

He struck clean. The boy’s body arched, the gag muted the scream, and hot blood spilled into the carved channels. The runes drank. Light crawled through the lines like fire through dry grass. The Chamber trembled.

Tom began to speak.

Latin and Parseltongue braided together, syllables sharper than teeth. The air thickened, copper-sweet, humming with pressure; his ears filled with the roar of an invisible sea. The circles awoke one by one—outer, middle, inner—until the pattern around him shone white-hot and the smallest hairs on his arms lifted of their own accord.

Then the spell reached back.

It hooked into him just beneath the sternum, not at flesh but deeper, in the part of him that remembered orphanage winters and the first taste of victory. The hook twisted. Pulled.

Tom’s breath hitched.

The tearing began—not flesh, not bone, but self. A seam he had never known existed yawned open and he felt the world pour through it, cold as knives. He clamped his teeth together and kept chanting as his vision doubled—no, paired, the Chamber tilting into two perfect copies that slid across one another like mirrored plates.

Pain flooded his nerves in scalding waves. He buckled, dropped to one knee, fingers splayed on stone. Blood dripped from his mouth and steamed where it struck the glowing runes. His magic screamed and bucked like a caught animal until he forced it down with will alone.

“Hold,” hissed the Basilisk—wordless sound, but he felt its meaning as pressure against his spine. Hold, hatchling.

He did. He tore.

The seam widened—and something separated.

A second breath hitched in the Chamber.

Tom lifted his head.

He was standing across from himself.

Not a shade. Not a hollow mask. Him. Identical in height, in the cut of the mouth, in the crimson eyes blown wide from pain. The marks on their skin matched stroke for stroke. The air between them thrummed like a string plucked tight; the circles recognized them both, light flickering and catching as if uncertain which was the original.

For a heartbeat, they stared.

“Tom,” he said.

“Tom,” said the other, hoarse, and it was his voice, his cadence, his disdain for wasted breath.

The pain didn’t end; it changed color, from ripping to raw. He felt less—like a note played an octave too thin. Cold gathered in the hollow under his ribs where warmth had always been rare. He saw the same calculation pass through the other’s eyes.

“Half,” they said together, almost amused through the raggedness.

The Basilisk lowered her head until they both stood in her shadow. “Two coils from one serpent,” she hissed. “Neither whole. Each true.”

They didn’t need to ask which would go and which would anchor. The circles themselves demanded continuity: something to pin the thread of the timeline to this age, or the river would snap its banks and drown everything. Logic was a blade; they both knew how to wield it.

The other Tom glanced toward the outer circles, toward the world above. “Anchor,” he said, as calmly as naming a chess opening. “Build the scaffolding. Hold the narrative in place. Keep them looking at the wrong thing.”

“And you—” he began, and Tom finished for them both, “—walk.”

They stood closer, mirror to mirror. The ache of the halving pulsed in tandem between them, a shared absence beating like a second heart. It would gnaw; the books had warned what absence did. The Basilisk’s lessons had warned what mates would mend. The future tugged at both of them with iron threads.

“Names,” the anchored half said, the faintest curl touching his lip. “A mask to draw every eye.”

Tom’s mouth curved to match. “Lord Voldemort.” The syllables slid like oil. A name to swallow headlines, to stain walls. To keep the Ministry and fools busy while the true work was done elsewhere.

“Then I am Voldemort,” the anchored half agreed, not with triumph but with perfect, surgical acceptance. “I will be the storm they chart.”

“And I,” Tom said, “will be the current they never see.”

For a moment—one thin, private moment—their eyes met without strategy. The ache under Tom’s ribs spiked. He tasted, against his will, the small, bright want he never spoke aloud: someone who would not kneel because of the aura, who would not worship the mask, who would meet the mind and not flinch. The threads inside him thrummed, answering. The other felt it too; he saw the flash of anger at need, the recoil, the refusal—identical to his own.

“Find them,” Voldemort said, voice low. Not an order. A promise he couldn’t keep for himself.

“I will,” Tom answered. An answer he had to make true for them both.

The Basilisk’s tongue flicked. “Time opens.”

The inner circle blazed. Wind without air howled through the Chamber, lifting ashes, rattling scales, making the candle flames lean as if gravity had shifted. The runes seethed with light; the sacrificial pattern hissed like fat in a pan.

They reached for each other in the same instant—palms striking and holding, fingers lacing with a force that ground bone. Magic arced between their hands, equal, opposite, the line of them bright as a brand.

“Remember,” Tom said.

“Return,” Voldemort answered.

They let go.

Tom stepped into the center.

The world tore him again, not apart but through. Fire climbed his nerves in ladders; ice packed itself into his lungs; the circles rose like jaws. He screamed with all his breath and the sound came back to him from angles that didn’t exist. Light crushed him flat, then stretched him like wire. Every memory— orphanage, prefect badge, the first time a room went silent as he entered—flashed white and burned on, as if soldered to the inside of his skull so the transit wouldn’t shear them off.

He thought, distantly, that he could taste the future: ozone and iron and the faintest sweetness like apples gone sharp.

He was aware, even as he dissolved, of lack. Of being exactly half a chord. It would eat him if he let it. It would make him brittle, hungry, thin as a blade honed too far. He bared his teeth at the pain and promised himself he would not break. He would find what mended this.

The light became everything.

The last image stamped into his eyes was his other self—not lesser, not empty—standing straight within the outer ring, eyes the same fierce crimson, already colder for the choice they’d made. The Basilisk curved around him like a crown.

And then the Chamber, the serpent, the name he had worn like a knife—all of it—fell away.

Tom Riddle walked into the future while Voldemort remained in the past.

Chapter Text

The night of his seventeenth birthday, Malfoy Manor held its breath.

Lucius stood in the center of the ancestral hall, marble beneath his bare feet, the air heavy with the perfume of burning cedar. Silver runes carved into the floor thrummed faintly, drinking in his pulse, his magic, his every breath. Above him, chandeliers swayed though no wind touched them.

It began with heat.

A slow coil deep in his chest, rising, blooming. His vision blurred, then sharpened into unbearable clarity. His skin burned as if fire licked beneath it, veins glowing, aura spilling outward in a sudden rush. House-elves lining the walls dropped to their knees with whimpers, their large eyes glazed. Servants bent their heads.

Lucius gasped, gripping at his own arms, though the fire did not burn him. It was inside — light and heat, wild and fierce, clawing for release. His hair shimmered in the candlelight, threads of silver catching like molten strands, and when he staggered forward the world seemed to tilt around him, bending to his presence.

So this is what it means to be Veela.

The thought flickered bright, proud, terrified.

The great doors opened with a hush of magic, and Abraxas Malfoy entered. His father’s silhouette cut sharp against the torchlight, robes flowing, eyes silver-bright with a glow that was older, deeper, steadier than Lucius’s newborn blaze.

Lucius’s aura surged instinctively, like a fire meeting air. For a moment the elves whimpered louder, pressed flat to the ground. But Abraxas did not bow. His aura rolled out to meet Lucius’s — heavier, commanding, like an ocean extinguishing sparks.

Lucius dropped to one knee, trembling, both in instinctive submission and desperate relief. “Father—”

Abraxas’s voice cut smooth, unyielding. “Control it, Lucius. You are not a child. The flame is yours, not the other way around.”

Lucius drew a shuddering breath, forcing the blaze back. It fought him, wild and heady, wanting to seize, to seduce, to dominate. He clenched his teeth, dug his nails into his palms, and pulled, reined, caged it. Slowly, the pressure receded. The elves raised their heads again, trembling.

When Lucius dared to look up, his father was watching him with a faint, proud tilt to his mouth.

“Good,” Abraxas said. “You are a Malfoy. Remember that the world bows because we allow it to. Not because we lose control.”

Lucius stood, smoothing his hair back with a hand that shook only slightly. His mask of elegance fell easily into place, though inside he still burned with awe and terror.

Abraxas’s gaze softened by a fraction, almost indulgent. “You felt the thread, didn’t you?”

Lucius stiffened. His father always saw too much. “Yes.”

“The bond.” Abraxas inclined his head, stepping closer. “It will tug, it will ache, it will burn if ignored. Learn to live with it until the time is right. A Malfoy does not chase. We are pursued.”

Lucius bowed his head in acknowledgement, though inside, the memory of that thread still hummed beneath his ribs — alive, demanding. Someone out there was his. The thought made him dizzy, unsettled, more vulnerable than he liked.

But outwardly he only straightened his spine, adjusted the fall of his silk robe, and smiled with all the effortless poise of a Malfoy heir.

Inside, though, he whispered a silent promise to the unknown presence tugging at him:

When the time comes, I will not let you go.

Hogwarts in September always smelled faintly of rain and ink. The corridors hummed with the voices of hundreds of students, but Lucius Malfoy moved through them as if they parted for him alone. His aura was tucked neatly beneath his skin, leashed by discipline, but it shimmered faintly all the same, drawing eyes and whispers as he passed.

He barely noticed. Since the inheritance, there was a weight under his ribs — the thread his father had named. He could feel it more keenly here, pulled taut in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons, humming with a heat that made his chest ache.

He ignored it for as long as he could. Until the common room.

The firelight painted the stone walls in gold and shadow. Students clustered in groups, gossiping, playing chess, laughing. Lucius entered with his usual grace, silver-blond hair gleaming, every step measured. He let his gaze sweep the room.

And then it caught.

Dark eyes. Pale skin. A boy hunched near the edges of the firelight, shoulders sharp under ill-fitting robes, hair falling into his face. Severus Snape.

The bond slammed into Lucius like a curse. His breath hitched — the thread under his ribs yanked, sparking heat through every nerve. His instincts roared awake: protect, guard, claim. The Veela inside him surged against its leash, demanding he cross the room, demanding he shield this boy from every sneer, every cruelty.

Lucius clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

Severus looked up at that moment, meeting his eyes. There was no recognition in the boy’s gaze. Only weariness, sharp intelligence, and the faint wariness of someone too used to cruelty.

Lucius’s heart twisted.

He forced his face into smooth indifference, tilting his chin just slightly, a gesture of polite acknowledgment. “Snape,” he said, voice cool, aristocratic.

Severus blinked, clearly surprised to be addressed at all by him. “Malfoy.” His voice was rough, uncertain.

The bond burned hotter, instincts howling. Lucius wanted to sit, to speak, to stay. Instead, he stepped past him with a sweep of his cloak, taking a seat nearer the fire with the older Slytherins. He did not look back, though he felt Severus’s eyes linger, confused, faintly hurt.

Inside, Lucius was unraveling. Severus was only Fourteen. Too young. If he lingered, he would give himself away, and the Veela did not forgive what it could not yet have.

So he wore his mask, laughing lightly at someones remark, playing his part as the poised Malfoy heir. All the while, the thread burned under his ribs, and he hated himself for the coldness in his voice when speaking to Severus.

September blurred into October in the same dull rhythm it always did.

Severus Snape knew the pattern of Hogwarts life: wake before the others, pull on robes that still smelled faintly of damp, keep his head down in the corridors. Answer questions in class when no one else dared, and bear the whispers of “teacher’s pet” that followed. Avoid Black and Potter whenever possible, and endure them when avoidance failed.

It wasn’t dramatic, not usually. Most days it was little things: a tripping jinx on the stairs, books “accidentally” knocked from his arms, whispered laughter when his ink bottle smashed on the flagstones. Sometimes worse — a hex that left boils along his wrist, a charm that turned his robes inside out in the middle of the corridor.

Severus never complained. He scrubbed the ink from his fingers, mended the torn seams, limped back to the dungeons when the swelling faded. It was easier that way. Complaints brought attention, and attention meant weakness.

But there was one thing he couldn’t fix.

Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius had always been different. Elegant, polished, the sort of Slytherin who commanded silence just by entering a room. Severus had admired him from the beginning, not that he’d ever said it aloud. Lucius knew how to glide past insults without lowering himself to notice them. He spoke with authority even the professors respected. For a boy like Severus — awkward, raw, always too much or too little — Lucius had been… something like a compass. A reminder of what strength could look like.

And then, that first night back, Lucius had looked at him. Really looked. Silver eyes meeting his across the common room, voice smooth as silk when he spoke: Snape.

For a heartbeat, Severus had felt seen. Not mocked, not dismissed. A Malfoy had spoken his name like it mattered.

But after that, Lucius was gone.

Not literally — he was still there, of course, sweeping into the common room with his friends, reclining by the fire, laughter like glass. But the moment Severus entered, Lucius’s eyes would slide away. If Severus dared approach, Lucius would rise with unhurried grace and drift elsewhere, cloak trailing behind him.

It wasn’t obvious cruelty. Lucius never sneered at him, never hexed him, never said a word against him. But he might as well have turned him invisible.

And somehow, that was worse.

Severus would sit alone in the common room with his books, pretending not to notice when Lucius rose as soon as he arrived. He would linger at the edges of the Great Hall, watching the easy tilt of Lucius’s head as he spoke to Rosier or Mulciber, pretending it didn’t matter that Lucius never spared him a glance. He would catch glimpses of him in the corridor — silver hair catching torchlight, aura like heat under the skin — only to watch him turn smoothly away as though Severus were nothing at all.

The hurt lodged like glass under his ribs.

He told himself he didn’t care. He was used to being alone. But at night, lying stiff in his narrow bed while the other boys snored, Severus would replay that first moment in the common room: Lucius’s eyes on him, the sound of his name in that velvet voice. He would wonder if he’d imagined it. If he’d made himself a fool for believing, even for a breath, that someone like Lucius Malfoy might have seen something worth noticing in him.

And then the next day would come, with more tripping jinxes, more ink-stained sleeves, more silence. And Lucius would pass by him in the corridor without a word, cold and perfect as ever.

Severus dug crescent moons into his palms with his nails and told himself it didn’t matter.

But it did. It mattered more than he would ever admit.

It was not a request.

When Abraxas Malfoy told his son to prepare, Lucius obeyed without question. He dressed in dark silk, combed his hair until it gleamed like quicksilver, and followed his father through the shadowed corridors of Malfoy Manor. No explanation was offered. None was needed. The weight in the air told him enough: this was initiation.

They traveled by portkey, the wrenching pull leaving Lucius unsteady for a moment before the world steadied beneath him. They stood before an ancient manor house, windows dark, torches burning along its path. Robed figures moved in the shadows like a tide.

Lucius lifted his chin and matched his father’s pace. His aura hummed beneath his skin, restless, but he kept it tightly caged.

The gathering hall was vast, lined with fire. Dozens knelt already, the air thick with incense and anticipation. And at the center — upon a dais carved with serpents — stood him.

Lucius had imagined power.

When his father led him to the gathering, he expected elegance, brilliance, the sharp kind of charisma that bent people without them realizing. He had steeled himself to be impressed. Perhaps even to be humbled.

But when the torches flared and the Dark Lord stepped into view, what Lucius felt was not awe.

It was the bond.

It struck like lightning — a thread yanked taut beneath his ribs, heat and certainty that nearly stole his breath. His heart lurched. His Veela instincts surged, wild and unrestrained: mine.

The man standing before him was younger in body than he should have been, handsome in a way sharpened to cruelty. Crimson eyes burned across the hall, and when they locked onto Lucius, the pull became unbearable. Recognition hammered through him. The ache of the inheritance quieted, soothed for a heartbeat.

Mate.

Lucius almost staggered.

But then those crimson eyes slid past him without pause. No spark. No acknowledgment. Nothing but calculation.

The bond seared inside him like a wound.

Lucius’s instincts screamed to move forward, to claim, to beg recognition. But when the Dark Lord approached, it was not as a mate. It was as a master.

A gloved hand tilted his chin up, cold fingers brushing his jaw.

“Malfoy,” the Dark Lord murmured, voice smooth as a serpent’s coil. “A promising heir.”

The bond twisted painfully, trying to bridge itself against a mind too broken to feel it. Lucius’s chest tightened, breath sharp. His instincts sang mine, but the man’s gaze was empty — no warmth, no tether, only a hollow hunger that scraped at his soul.

Terror slid cold down Lucius’s spine.

This was his mate? This mad, fractured creature who didn’t even recognize him? The Veela inside him roared in anguish, desperate to be acknowledged, to be claimed — but the man before him was blind, insane, already lost.

“Serve me well,” Voldemort said, releasing him with a careless flick of his fingers.

Lucius bowed smoothly, hiding the tremor in his hands, his mask polished and perfect. But inside, he was breaking.

He left the gathering with the image burned into his mind: crimson eyes that should have seen him but didn’t. A bond that should have steadied but instead shackled.

Back in the silence of Malfoy Manor, Lucius stood before his mirror, chest aching with the unfulfilled bond, and whispered to his reflection — fierce, desperate, trembling:

No. Not like this. Not him. I will not accept this.

But the thread still throbbed, cruel and undeniable.

On the surface, nothing had changed.

Lucius Malfoy still walked the corridors of Hogwarts with the same polished grace that made younger years part before him. His robes were immaculate, his hair gleamed like spun silver, his words were smooth and measured. If anything, the fire of his inheritance only sharpened the aura he projected. Students whispered about it behind hands — how he seemed brighter, more commanding, more dangerous than before.

And Lucius let them whisper. The mask came easily.

But beneath it, he was breaking.

The mate-bond pulsed under his ribs like a wound. That night in the firelit hall, when crimson eyes had swept over him, he had felt it snap into place: certainty, heat, the raw pull of recognition. His dominant.

The Dominant was everything. In a Circle, the dominant led. They steadied, shielded, protected. They bore the weight of decisions so the Submissive could breathe, so the Support could balance. Without them, there was only chaos.

Lucius had dreamed of his Circle since childhood. He had known he would not be the Submissive — his fire was too sharp, his instincts too honed — but he had imagined himself as a Support, the one who tempered the extremes, who made a whole stronger than its parts. He had imagined a leader he could trust, a heart he could protect, a bond that would burn steady instead of wild.

And now he knew his Dominant.

Knew him, and recoiled in despair.

The Dark Lord had looked at him and seen nothing. Not a mate. Not an equal. Only a tool, another name in a ledger of loyalty. The bond tugged insistently even now, aching for recognition, for the tether to close — but there was only emptiness. Madness. A leader who could not lead, a protector who protected no one.

Lucius’s chest ached with it, instincts screaming against the void. To be bound to a Dominant who would never claim him was agony.

And as if fate had not been cruel enough, the second thread was no better.

Severus Snape was too young. His inheritance unawakened. He couldn’t feel the tether that throbbed between them, couldn’t understand why Lucius’s gaze lingered or why his steps faltered when Severus entered a room. He only saw the distance Lucius forced between them, and the hurt that shadowed his dark eyes was sharper than any blade.

Lucius wanted to protect him, to help him, to step into the role his instincts demanded. But he could not. To acknowledge the bond now would be ruin. Severus would not understand, could not return it.

So Lucius avoided him. Cloaked his longing in indifference, let cold courtesy serve as armor. And every time Severus looked his way, confused, wounded, Lucius felt the crack widen inside his chest.

Two bonds, both impossible. One mate insane, the other unreachable. The Circle that should have steadied him left him instead unmoored, aching, furious with fate itself.

Lucius pressed his hands to the stone wall of the empty corridor, head bowed. For a breath he let the mask fall, silver hair curtaining his face, despair flooding through him unchecked.

How can I be Support if there is no Circle to balance? How can I be bound to a leader who has already fallen?

The bond pulsed again, cruel and insistent. He bit down on the cry that rose in his throat.

By the time footsteps echoed down the passage, the mask was back in place. Lucius straightened, smoothed his robes, and when a group of fourth-years rounded the corner, they saw only the perfect Malfoy heir: aloof, untouchable, every inch in control.

But beneath the surface, his chest still burned with the weight of two impossible threads.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter, as it always was in November, when autumn rains left the air sharp and damp, and even the enchanted ceiling wore clouds like a crown. Slytherin’s long table gleamed with silver plates, green banners swaying faintly overhead, laughter and gossip carrying easily over the clatter of cutlery.

Lucius Malfoy sat among his Housemates, posture perfect, every gesture measured. He sipped his tea, eyes half-lidded, expression composed. To anyone looking, he was the picture of Slytherin aristocracy: untouchable, refined, his fire carefully leashed.

Inside, the bond still ached.

He had grown used to it, in a way. The constant thrum under his ribs, like a bruise pressed too often. The memory of crimson eyes that should have seen him but hadn’t, the hollow hunger that had left him cold. He carried it as he carried his mask — silently, elegantly. No one saw the weight.

He was thinking of none of this, or so he told himself, when the great oak doors swung open.

The sound silenced the hall more effectively than any spell. Hundreds of heads turned as a figure stepped inside.

Lucius’s breath caught.

The boy — no, the young man — walked with a predator’s grace, every step measured, the sweep of his cloak whispering against the stone. His hair was dark, his face fine-boned and sharp, and his eyes—

Lucius’s heart stuttered.

Crimson. The same impossible, mesmerizing crimson that haunted his nightmares. But these were not hollow, not broken, not empty. These eyes burned alive, sharp with intelligence, gleaming with restrained power.

The bond snapped taut.

Lucius nearly gasped aloud. The thread under his ribs pulled hard, recognition sparking so violently it was almost pain. He felt it coil around him, claiming, steadying, demanding. His instincts surged up in a roar — Dominant. Mate.

No. Impossible. He had already felt this once. He had already been shackled to a madman who hadn’t seen him at all. But this was different. This was undeniable.

Lucius’s fingers clenched against the table. Around him, his Housemates whispered in confusion. Rosier leaned forward, muttering, “Transfer student?” But Lucius barely heard him. His entire world had narrowed to the figure crossing the hall, crimson eyes scanning the room with lazy precision, as though cataloguing every soul within it.

When those eyes passed over him, the bond flared so bright it stole his breath. For a heartbeat, he thought the boy faltered, as if he had felt it too.

The Sorting Hat was not brought out. No stool was set in the center. The staff table was silent, Dumbledore’s gaze unreadable, his usual twinkle shuttered. And yet — the boy simply moved to the Slytherin table, taking his seat among them as though it were his birthright.

The Hall erupted in whispers. How? Who?

Lucius heard none of it. His pulse thundered in his ears. This was not like Voldemort, cold and blind. This bond was alive, raw, and terrifying. His Veela instincts screamed to yield, to trust, to follow. And that terrified him more than anything else.

Because this boy looked young, no older than himself. And yet his presence dwarfed the Hall, sharper and steadier than anyone Lucius had ever seen.

Lucius lowered his gaze to his plate, hiding the turmoil behind lowered lashes. Outwardly, he remained calm, graceful, untouched by the storm that had just ripped through him. But inside, his world had cracked open.

His Dominant was here. Alive. Whole.

And he was not insane!

He woke in darkness.

Stone cold against his cheek, the air damp and ancient. For one disorienting moment, Tom Riddle thought he had failed — that the ritual had devoured him entirely, that there was nothing left but the taste of blood and fire.

Then he felt it.

A hum beneath his palms. Old, steady, alive. The Chamber of Secrets.

He drew a slow breath, forcing his body upright. The ache of the soul-split still lingered, a hollowness gnawing under his ribs, but the stones themselves thrummed reassurance. Hogwarts had caught him. Hogwarts had kept him.

Mine, Tom thought, pressing a hand flat to the serpentine carvings along the wall. The magic coiled back at once, brushing his skin like a mother smoothing a child’s hair.

He was not alone.

When he finally left the Chamber, the castle’s wards rippled around him, recognizing him as its Heir. Doorways opened, staircases shifted in his favor. Every stone bent to his will. For a moment, even the half-soul ache eased, soothed by the unyielding certainty that here, at least, he would always belong.

But not everyone welcomed him.

The Headmaster’s office smelled of lemon drops and old parchment, but the man behind the desk was all steel beneath the twinkle.

“Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore said softly, as though naming him might unmake him. “You cannot be here.”

Tom tilted his head, meeting that piercing gaze with calm amusement. “And yet, here I am.”

The old man’s magic pressed like a wall, bright and heavy. But the wards of the castle wrapped around Tom, serpentine and sure, shielding him from harm. He could feel it: the raw truth of it. Hogwarts had chosen.

“You think yourself clever,” Dumbledore murmured, blue eyes narrowing. “A ghost, a remnant—”

“I am no ghost,” Tom interrupted, voice silken, precise. “I am Heir of Slytherin. This castle is mine by right, and you know it. Try to expel me, try to bind me — you’ll find Hogwarts disagrees.”

As if to answer him, the stones groaned low, a warning rumble. Candles guttered.

Dumbledore’s mouth tightened. For once, he said nothing.

Tom inclined his head in a mockery of politeness. “Then we understand one another.”

And so the doors of the Great Hall opened for him that evening, and he walked in not as an intruder, but as a rightful heir returned.

The Hall stilled.

Hundreds of students turned at once, their chatter dying in a wave of silence. Cloak sweeping at his heels, Tom let his steps echo deliberately, savoring the press of eyes upon him. He did not bare his full aura — not yet — but he let enough spill into the air to command the hush, to hold them spellbound.

It soothed him, in a way. The ache of half a soul gnawed constantly, a hollow space inside him that begged to be filled. But attention — obedience — helped.

Then it happened.

The bond.

It struck so suddenly he faltered mid-step, breath catching. The tether snapped taut beneath his ribs, sparking heat through his veins. His gaze snapped to the Slytherin table, scanning, searching—

And found him.

Silver hair that caught the firelight like spun glass. Pale skin, fine-boned features, a posture so perfect it could only be aristocratic breeding. Even from across the hall, the aura shimmered — smooth, fire-bright, alluring.

Veela, Tom realized instantly. And Malfoy, surely. The resemblance was unmistakable: the tilt of the chin, the effortless poise, the sharp beauty polished to weaponry.

But none of that mattered.

Because the bond sang.

Mate.

Tom’s chest tightened. The ache of his fractured soul eased, soothed by the tether sparking alive between them. His instincts surged up — recognition, possession, delight.

Mine. Handsome. Ethereal.

He allowed himself the faintest smile, private and fleeting, one no one would understand if they saw. He had expected power, perhaps loyalty, from whoever fate gave him. He had not expected beauty so sharp it hurt to look at, or the way his aura tugged at Tom’s with steady fire.

The whispers in the Hall swelled louder. Who is he? How can a transfer walk straight to Slytherin?

Tom ignored them. His gaze lingered on the Malfoy, savoring the sight, the bond. He imagined for one reckless moment what it would mean to have him at his side — Veela fire to sharpen his serpent’s coil, elegance to match his charisma.

Then he resumed his stride, sliding into place at the Slytherin table as though it had always been his. Hogwarts itself had granted him this seat. No Sorting Hat, no permission. He belonged here.

The ache of his half-soul still whispered under his ribs, relentless. But tonight, for the first time, it was not alone.

The bond thrummed, steady and sure. A promise.

And Tom, for all his cold composure, felt something dangerously close to joy.

If anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.

Lucius Malfoy had always kept himself polished, selective, difficult to approach. It was hardly surprising that he showed the same cool reserve toward the mysterious transfer who had waltzed into Slytherin like he owned it. On the surface, his mask was seamless.

But inside, Lucius was unraveling.

The bond burned under his ribs every time Tom entered the room. A constant thrum, demanding recognition, demanding closeness. His instincts surged toward him — Dominant, mine, follow — but Lucius bit them down ruthlessly. He already had a Dominant. Broken, insane, unrecognizing — but bound all the same. This boy could not be real.

So he avoided him.

In the common room, when Tom dropped elegantly into the chair beside his, Lucius excused himself smoothly, rising with a practiced smile and a sweep of his cloak.
In the library, when crimson eyes caught his across the tables, Lucius bent lower over his parchment and stood moments later, murmuring something about Prefect duties.
In the corridors, when their paths converged, Lucius slowed his stride just enough to let Rosier or Mulciber fall between them like a shield.

It might have worked, if not for the dormitory.

Five beds, green curtains drawn against the night. Tom’s trunk at the foot of the one beside his. The faint sound of his breathing in the dark. Sometimes Lucius would lie awake, staring at the canopy above him, and feel the bond hum just meters away, close enough to touch. His Veela instincts roared at him in those moments, demanding he cross the floor, demanding he press close, demanding what he could not allow.

So he stayed still, hands clenched in the sheets, face smooth even when no one could see.

And in the morning, Tom would rise first, calm and unhurried, his crimson gaze flicking to Lucius with that faint, knowing smile. The bond would flare, sharp and insistent. Lucius would look away.

By the third day, his composure was fraying. He caught himself watching Tom too long in class, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless command of his aura. He scolded himself harshly for it, as though shame might silence the pull.

It didn’t.

Every step of avoidance only made the bond burn hotter, his instincts more restless. And every time Lucius turned from him, Tom’s gaze followed with predator’s patience, as though amused by the game.

Lucius smoothed his cuffs, lifted his chin, and told himself he was still in control.

But deep down, he knew he was only prey prolonging the inevitable.

Slytherin had always been a nest of shifting loyalties and sharp smiles, but it had never moved like this.

In the weeks after Tom’s arrival, the pecking order changed with a swiftness that made Lucius’s head spin. It wasn’t announced. It wasn’t debated. It simply… happened.

The first boy to sneer too loudly at the “transfer student” was gone by morning — vanished from their dormitory without a trace. Whispers said he’d been found in the Hospital Wing, broken in ways no one could quite explain. The next week, a girl who muttered a slur behind her hand failed to appear at breakfast; when she reemerged days later, she wouldn’t meet Tom’s eyes, her voice trembling whenever he entered a room.

By the third disappearance, no one questioned it.

Tom never raised his voice. He never flaunted his power. He simply existed — a quiet, coiled presence at the center of the common room, crimson gaze sweeping, and others bent instinctively to his will. People bowed their heads without realizing, conversations silenced when he entered, and space opened at every table as though the air itself demanded it.

Lucius watched it all with calculated composure, but inside, he was unraveling.

He should have been horrified. The cold efficiency with which Tom remade their House into his court should have chilled him. Instead, a strange pride coiled in his chest. That’s my Dominant, his instincts whispered, even as his mind snarled back that it couldn’t be true. He already had a Dominant — one broken, one mad, one who had never seen him.

And yet.

When Tom’s aura flared, pressing the older boys into their seats with nothing more than a glance, Lucius’s pulse quickened. When Rosier fell silent mid-word because Tom simply turned his head, Lucius felt the strange, traitorous surge of satisfaction. When Tom stood in the middle of the common room, posture easy and assured, magic humming like a predator’s purr, Lucius thought he had never seen anyone carry themselves so perfectly.

It was… attractive. Maddeningly so.

Lucius schooled his features into indifference, sipping his tea with aristocratic poise, but he could feel the heat beneath his skin. His instincts recognized dominance, reveled in it, ached for it. And every day it became harder to remind himself that this bond could not be real.

Every day, it became harder not to imagine what it would feel like if Tom turned that same power — that same command — onto him.

It started with the Slytherins, of course.

They walked differently now — heads higher, voices sharper, as though someone had handed them a crown to parade about. And at the center of it all was the transfer.

No one knew his name at first. Just the boy with the dark hair and crimson eyes, who had appeared mid-term without a Sorting, without a word of explanation. He sat among Slytherin as though he’d always belonged, and the House bent around him like iron filings to a magnet.

But it wasn’t only Slytherin.

By the second week, Ravenclaws were whispering in the library about the way he handled his wand in Charms — steady, elegant, every flick precise. He answered questions with a voice low and clear, never rushed, never smug, and even Professor Flitwick had beamed at his poise. “Sharpest student I’ve ever taught,” one girl murmured as she stacked her books, cheeks faintly pink.

By the third week, Hufflepuffs were praising him. “He helped me pick up my parchment,” a boy confessed in the common room, still red about the ears. “Didn’t even laugh when I dropped it all over the stairs. Said something about clumsiness being a sign of eagerness.” The boy grinned. “Smart and kind, that one.”

And then Gryffindor caught on.

“He’s bloody handsome,” one fifth-year whispered at breakfast, stabbing at her porridge. “Like… unfairly handsome. Did you see his hair in the candlelight last night? Looked like he’d stepped out of some painting.”

“I don’t care about his hair,” her friend muttered, though her ears had gone red. “Did you see the way he argued with McGonagall in Transfiguration? Didn’t shout, didn’t stammer — just… spoke, and she let him finish.”

The whispers spread faster than Filch could chase them down.

Handsome. Brilliant. Kind. Dangerous, yes, but in the way fire was dangerous: mesmerizing, impossible to look away from. People craned their necks to watch when he passed through the corridors, shoulders straight, smile small and sharp as a blade.

By the time November tipped into December, the name Tom Riddle was spoken in every House. Some with awe. Some with suspicion. But always with the same refrain —

“He’s not like anyone else here.”

At first, Tom let it happen.

Lucius’s silken excuses, his smooth retreats, the way he slipped away just as the bond flared hottest — it was almost amusing. Cat and mouse. Prey pretending it could evade the predator.

But by the second week, Tom’s patience wore thin.

The bond burned too fiercely. Every time Lucius turned from him, the ache under his ribs sharpened into something close to rage. Mates were not meant to run. They were meant to stay. To steady. To be his.

So Tom sought him out.

In the library, he took the seat beside him without asking, stacking his own pristine parchment on the desk so close their sleeves brushed.
In the corridor, he adjusted his stride until they walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, crimson eyes flicking sideways to catch the faint stiffening of Lucius’s jaw.
In the dormitory, he lingered — sitting on the edge of his bed to polish his wand just long enough for the brush of his knee to touch Lucius’s leg beneath the hang of the curtains.

Lucius never flinched — not visibly. His mask was perfect. But Tom saw the heat flash in silver eyes, the faint hitch of his breath. He felt the bond hum hotter every time they brushed, every time he leaned just a little too close.

The rest of Slytherin noticed. Of course they did. The common room grew quieter when Tom stretched an arm across the back of Lucius’s chair, his fingers ghosting against blond hair. The dorm fell silent when Tom leaned over Lucius’s shoulder, murmuring something low, lips close enough to stir the fine hair at his temple.

No one dared interfere. Not Rosier, not Mulciber, not even the older boys who once thought themselves kings of the House. They watched, helpless, as Tom closed the distance inch by inch, crimson gaze daring anyone to speak.

Lucius endured it with a mask of ice. But Tom could feel it — the bond pulling tighter, the Veela fire inside him answering whether he wanted it to or not. Every brush of touch, every stolen inch, every breath of closeness — it was working.

Lucius could run as much as he liked. It only made the capture sweeter.

And Tom was nothing if not patient. Patient, relentless, inevitable.

Soon, the game would end.

It was late, the corridors hushed, torches guttering low. Lucius had waited until the common room emptied, until even Rosier and Mulciber had drifted to their dorms, before slipping out. His excuse was study, a Prefect’s patrol, anything to justify the restless pacing that drove him from his bed.

He needed distance. Needed air.

Because every day, every hour, Tom drew closer. The casual brush of a sleeve, the arm slung across his chair, the soft murmur against his ear. The crimson eyes that never let him go, even when Lucius turned his head.

The bond burned hotter with each advance. His instincts clamored, demanding he yield, demanding he stop this ridiculous dance. Dominant. Mate. Ours. Lucius bit them down with iron teeth, telling himself it couldn’t be real. It was a trick, a trap. Voldemort was his Dominant — insane, yes, unrecognizing, yes, but the bond had snapped with him first.

And yet.

When Tom looked at him, it felt nothing like madness. It felt like inevitability.

Lucius rounded the corner of an empty classroom, slipping inside to breathe in the silence. The door swung shut behind him.

And locked.

The sound was soft, final.

Lucius spun — and there he was. Tom leaned against the door, crimson eyes glinting in the torchlight, aura uncoiling slow and heavy like a serpent. Predatory. Patient.

“Going somewhere?” Tom’s voice was silk, low and amused.

Lucius forced his mask into place, spine straight, chin high. “It’s late. I was patrolling.”

Tom stepped closer. Not hurried. Not threatening. Just… inevitable. The kind of movement prey recognized in its bones.

Lucius’s breath caught. His instincts surged in wild relief — he’s here, he’s mine, he’s Dominant. He clamped down on it, heart hammering.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Tom said softly. Another step. Another. The air thickened with his magic, pressing against Lucius’s skin until he could hardly breathe.

“I’ve been busy,” Lucius lied smoothly, though his voice trembled faintly. He stepped back. And back again. Until the desk hit the back of his thighs.

Tom smiled. Slow. Sharp. “Busy running.”

Lucius’s hands curled against the desk behind him, knuckles white. He tried to turn his face aside, to hold onto the mask, but Tom’s fingers caught his chin, tilting his head up. Firm. Possessive.

The bond flared so hard Lucius gasped. His aura surged wild and bright, answering without his permission, Veela instincts flooding him with heat.

“Look at you,” Tom murmured, eyes gleaming. “Fighting so hard when your magic already knows the truth.”

Lucius hated the shiver that went through him. Hated more that it was pleasure. His body leaned forward instinctively, craving the press of that Dominant aura, the steady force that soothed as much as it commanded.

“Stop,” Lucius whispered, though it came out raw, weak.

Tom’s hand slid from his chin down his throat, resting over the rapid pulse there. Not choking, not cruel. Just claiming. “Why would I stop, when you don’t want me to?”

The words hit like a strike. Because they were true. His instincts screamed to submit, to let the Dominant take, to finally feel the bond close.

And then Tom’s mouth was on his.

Not gentle. Not coaxing. A kiss like domination, sharp and consuming. Tom pressed him back against the desk, hand tight at his throat, teeth catching his lower lip until Lucius gasped into him. The bond roared, fire meeting fire, Veela instincts keening in wild relief.

Lucius kissed back — helplessly, hungrily — fingers fisting in Tom’s cloak, dragging him closer even as his mind whispered he should resist. Every brush of tongue, every bite of teeth, every surge of heat made resistance more impossible.

By the time Tom pulled back, Lucius was trembling, lips swollen, chest heaving.

Crimson eyes burned down at him, victorious, predatory. “Caught you.”

Lucius swallowed hard, silver eyes wide, mask in tatters. He should have spoken, should have denied. Instead, his voice came low, hoarse, traitorous:

“…and you’re not letting go, are you?”

Tom’s smile was sharp as a knife. “Never.”

And the worst — the most terrifying thing — was how much Lucius liked the sound of that.

Lucius fled the moment Tom released him.

His lips were burning, throat raw where fingers had pressed, heart hammering in a rhythm he couldn’t control. He didn’t remember the walk back to the dormitory — only the feel of Tom’s mouth, sharp and consuming, and the humiliating truth that he had kissed back.

He stripped and slid beneath his own sheets, silver hair fanning across the pillow, mask of composure plastered onto his face even though no one was watching. His chest ached. The bond thrummed like a wound, low and relentless, every heartbeat reminding him that he had run.

He closed his eyes. Sleep would not come.

Every time he drifted near it, he saw crimson eyes gleaming, felt the weight of a hand at his throat, heard the low murmur: “Caught you.” His body flushed hot with memory, instincts keening for closeness, for touch, for Dominance.

Lucius turned onto his side, fists tight in the sheets. Pride screamed at him to stay where he was. But his body… his body betrayed him. His Veela blood whispered of bonds, of strength, of safety. Of the Dominant he was denying himself.

Minutes ticked. Then hours.

Finally, silently, Lucius slid from his bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet. His pride burned like ice, but the ache under his ribs hurt more. He crossed the dormitory, breath shallow, and stopped at the bed beside his own.

Tom’s bed.

The curtains were half-drawn, shadows spilling through. For a moment Lucius stood frozen, torn between shame and instinct. Then he pushed the fabric aside.

Tom was awake. Crimson eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, watching him. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just waiting.

Lucius swallowed hard. “I can’t—” he began, voice breaking.

Tom shifted, pulling the blanket back without a word. An invitation.

Lucius’s heart stuttered. Then, with a silent curse at himself, he climbed in.

Tom didn’t move.

Lucius lay stiff beside him at first, every line of his body shouting restraint. The bond, however, sang with triumph, flooding Tom’s senses with heat and relief. His mate had come to him — unchased, unforced. Chosen.

Tom kept his hands still. His instincts clamored to seize, to claim, to mark, but he reined them in with iron control. This time was not for hunting. This time was for proving there was no escape, only inevitability.

The silence stretched.

And then Lucius turned, silver eyes dark in the shadows, lips parted. His hand lifted — elegant, trembling — and brushed against Tom’s jaw.

Tom’s breath hitched, though he did not show it. He let Lucius close the distance.

The kiss was different this time. Not sharp and consuming, but hungry and deliberate. Lucius pressed closer, lips insistent, teeth catching on Tom’s, breath ragged against his cheek. Every movement screamed conflict — pride and fear battling instinct — but instinct was winning.

Tom’s hand finally moved, sliding to Lucius’s waist, steadying him without pressing. Lucius’s body arched into it instantly, as though desperate for the touch.

Heat burned between them. Sheets twisted as they kissed harder, mouths open, gasps muffled. Lucius fisted Tom’s shirt, dragging him closer, setting the pace with fierce, unpracticed need.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

Lucius’s voice was a whisper, raw and reluctant. “I hate this.”

Tom smiled faintly, fangs glinting in the low light. “No. You don’t.”

Lucius shivered. And didn’t pull away.

Warmth.

Lucius woke to it — a weight at his side, an arm draped possessively over his waist, steady breath against his hair. For one wild moment, panic flared. He was not in his own bed. He was not alone.

Memory crashed back: slipping into Tom’s bed, kissing him until his lips were swollen, falling asleep tangled together with the bond humming steady for the first time in weeks.

Lucius’s pride shrieked. His instincts purred.

The silencing wards snapped away with a soft ripple as Tom stirred, crimson eyes opening. He didn’t look surprised. He never did. He simply smiled faintly and pressed a quick kiss to Lucius’s temple, then sat up, stretching like a cat.

The curtains slid open with a flick of Tom’s hand.

The dormitory froze.

Rosier, halfway through buttoning his robes, stared. Mulciber nearly dropped his wand. Black, perched on his trunk, went wide-eyed, mouth working without sound.

Lucius felt heat rise to his cheeks but forced his mask into place — smooth, aristocratic, indifferent. He rose from Tom’s bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, smoothing his hair back into perfect order.

Tom rose beside him, calm as ever, and placed a hand firmly at Lucius’s waist. Claiming. Possessive. No one missed it.

The silence stretched, thick with shock.

Tom’s gaze swept the room once, crimson eyes daring anyone to speak. No one did.

Lucius felt his pulse hammer, but for the first time, he didn’t pull away. The bond hummed low and steady, and his Veela instincts purred at the public declaration. It was terrifying. It was humiliating. It was relief.

By the time they left the dormitory together, Tom’s hand still at his waist.

The Great Hall was already buzzing when the doors opened.

The moment they stepped through, silence spread like a wave. Forks stilled. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned.

Tom walked with easy poise, every line of him deliberate, cloak falling in perfect folds, crimson gaze scanning the room as if daring anyone to question his presence. At his side, Lucius Malfoy — silver hair gleaming in the morning light, mask of aristocratic indifference set firmly in place.

Tom’s hand rested at Lucius’s waist. Not casually. Not fleetingly. Firm. Possessive. His thumb traced idle circles against the fabric of Lucius’s robes as though the contact was his by right.

Lucius did not shake him off.

The whispers started almost instantly.

“Are they—?”
“Since when—?”
“He just… put his arm around Malfoy like—like he owns him—”
“And Malfoy let him!”

From the Gryffindor table, a fifth-year girl hissed to her friend, “Merlin, look at them—he’s beautiful.”
Hufflepuffs leaned close, murmuring, “He carried her books yesterday, did you see? Said please and thank you, and now—this?”
Ravenclaws watched with narrowed eyes, weighing every detail, already revising theories about the mysterious transfer.

At the Slytherin table, however, no one spoke. Rosier slid aside without a word as Tom guided Lucius to sit, hand never leaving him. Mulciber kept his eyes firmly on his plate. Even the older boys, who once ruled with sneers and threats, bowed their heads when crimson eyes passed over them.

Tom served himself calmly, pouring tea into a silver cup, movements precise, regal. Lucius reached for the toast with unhurried grace, mask unbroken, as though he had always belonged at Tom’s side.

The common room was quiet that evening, firelight flickering against the dark stone, shadows dancing across green hangings. Students lounged in clusters — reading, murmuring, polishing wands — all of them stealing glances at the pair by the hearth.

Lucius sat with perfect posture, silver hair gleaming, mask flawless as ever. Beside him, Tom sprawled with effortless elegance, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, crimson gaze burning faintly in the firelight. His presence filled the room — undeniable, commanding — and yet he looked almost lazy, as though he ruled without even trying.

The bond hummed low in Lucius’s chest. For days now, he had endured it — run from it, been caught by it, kissed by it. And yet every moment since had been clearer, sharper, truer. He couldn’t deny it anymore. He didn’t want to.

So he moved.

Lucius set his teacup down with care, turned toward Tom, and in full view of the common room, reached up to cup his jaw. His thumb brushed over sharp cheekbone, silver eyes meeting crimson without fear.

Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Not soft. Not shy. Firm. Certain.

The common room stilled. Gasps cut the air. Rosier’s book slipped from his hands, Mulciber froze mid-breath, even the older boys shifted uneasily. No one spoke.

Lucius deepened the kiss, pressing closer, one elegant hand fisting in Tom’s collar. His Veela fire flared bright, proud and defiant, as if to say: Yes, he is mine. Watch.

For a moment, Tom let him.

And then Tom moved.

The kiss shifted sharp, consuming, Dominant. His hand slid to Lucius’s throat, tilting his head back, taking control with ruthless ease. Lucius gasped, instincts keening with wild relief, body arching into the hold.

Tom broke the kiss just long enough to turn his head toward the room.

“Leave.”

One word. Low, silken, absolute.

No one hesitated. Books were snatched up, chairs scraped back, cloaks snatched from hooks. Within moments, the common room was empty save for the two of them, fire crackling the only witness.

Lucius’s chest rose and fell, lips swollen, mask shattered. He whispered hoarsely, the words torn from pride and instinct alike:

“…My Dominant.”

Tom’s answering smile was sharp as a blade, victorious and hungry. He pressed his mouth back to Lucius’s, claiming him all over again, and the fire roared higher in the grate.

Chapter Text

Severus hated the sound of laughter.

Not the quiet kind — not the laughter he sometimes overheard from the upper years in the Slytherin common room, low and knowing. No, he hated the harsh, echoing kind that chased him down the stone corridors like hounds after prey.

“Snivellus!” James Potter’s voice rang out, sharp with glee. The scrape of shoes followed, and Severus’s stomach plummeted.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look. Just pulled his bag tighter against his shoulder and lengthened his stride.

It didn’t matter. A hex hit his calf, and he stumbled, crashing to the floor. Books spilled across the stones. His knees burned.

“Look at him,” Sirius Black crowed, wand spinning in his fingers. “Doesn’t even fight back.”

Peter Pettigrew sniggered. Remus Lupin stood off to the side, expression unreadable, arms folded tightly as though bracing himself against what he wouldn’t stop.

Severus swallowed, cheeks burning. He wanted to lunge for his books, but James’s boot kicked one further away, pages fluttering. “Pathetic,” James sneered. “Bet you don’t even know a decent hex—”

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first — a heavy silence, a change in the weight of the stones underfoot. Then a voice, calm and low, from just behind them:

“That’s enough.”

The Marauders stiffened.

Tom Riddle stood at the end of the corridor, dark hair immaculate, crimson eyes cool and unreadable. His hands rested loosely at his sides, wand untouched. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The weight of his aura pressed against the air like a storm before lightning.

James tried to sneer. “And who are you supposed to be?”

Tom stepped forward once. Just once. His gaze fixed on James, and the boy froze, breath catching, wand lowering before he could stop himself. Sirius swore under his breath. Peter edged back. Even Remus’s expression tightened, unease flickering across his face.

“I said,” Tom repeated softly, “enough.”

The silence rang louder than a shout.

The Marauders scattered, muttering excuses, Sirius’s bravado cracking into nervous laughter as they fled down the hall.

Severus sat frozen on the floor, heart pounding.

Tom bent gracefully, gathering the scattered books with careful hands, stacking them neatly before holding them out. “You shouldn’t let them touch you,” he said, voice quiet now, almost gentle.

Severus took the books with shaking fingers, too stunned to answer. Tom’s crimson eyes softened as they lingered on him, the weight of his aura easing until Severus could breathe again.

Severus half expected Tom to walk away the moment the Marauders disappeared. That would have been easier — a kindness paid, a debt owed, then silence.

Instead, Tom didn’t leave.

He stood there, tall and perfectly composed, crimson gaze sweeping the corridor as though to ensure no threat remained. Then, without a word, he reached for Severus’s bag and slipped it from his shoulder, carrying it as if it weighed nothing.

“Come,” Tom said. Not an invitation. A command, smooth and low.

Severus blinked, clutching his books tight. “I—I can manage—”

Crimson eyes cut to him, cool and steady. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Severus’s throat closed. He followed.

The walk was unbearable. Students turned to stare as they passed — the younger ones bowing their heads instinctively, the older ones stepping aside with wary glances. And there was Severus, trailing at Tom’s side like a shadow, cheeks burning.

He wanted to pull away. He wanted to demand Tom stop drawing attention to him. But every time he opened his mouth, something inside him pulsed warm and certain. His body knew, even if his mind refused to accept it.

When they reached the classroom door, Tom paused. His hand brushed briefly against Severus’s shoulder — light, but firm enough that Severus felt it all the way down his spine.

“You’re mine to protect,” Tom murmured, just for him. “They won’t touch you again.”

And then he was gone, cloak sweeping, leaving Severus rooted in place with his heart pounding so hard he thought it might split his ribs.

The other Slytherins in the room whispered as he entered — some curious, some envious, some wary. Severus ignored them, sliding into his seat with shaking hands, hiding behind his hair.

But the warmth on his shoulder lingered, and no matter how furiously he told himself he hated it, part of him never wanted it to fade.

Severus had barely slid into his seat when the door banged open behind him.

The Marauders.

James Potter swaggered in first, Sirius Black at his shoulder, Remus following with his usual grim silence, Peter scurrying in their wake. Their laughter was too loud, too sharp, bouncing off the stone walls.

Severus hunched lower over his desk, praying they’d ignore him.

No such luck.

“Well, well,” James said loudly, his voice carrying across the room. “Looks like little Snivellus has a bodyguard now.”

Sirius smirked. “A scary one, too. Did he hold your hand all the way here, Snivellus?”

Laughter rippled through the Gryffindors. A few Slytherins glanced nervously at Severus, but no one spoke.

Severus’s cheeks burned hot. He kept his eyes on his parchment, nails biting into the wood of the desk. Don’t answer. Don’t give them what they want.

James’s voice sharpened. “What did you promise him, Snivellus? Why’s he wasting his time on you?”

The classroom door clicked shut.

Silence fell.

Tom Riddle was standing there.

He hadn’t come in with Severus. He must have doubled back after all — and now he stood framed in the doorway, crimson eyes gleaming in the half-light. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. His presence alone pressed down on the room like a heavy stone.

James faltered, wand twitching in his hand. Sirius’s smirk slipped a fraction.

Tom’s gaze slid past them, settling on Severus. He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, and set Severus’s bag neatly on the desk in front of him, as though returning something precious. Then he turned, placing himself between Severus and the Marauders, every line of him screaming ownership.

“He doesn’t need to promise me anything,” Tom said softly.

The words curled in the air, silken and lethal.

Sirius scoffed, but his voice wavered. “What, you collecting strays now?”

Tom’s head tilted, crimson eyes narrowing. “Careful.” One word, low and cold, enough to make even the Gryffindors shift uncomfortably in their seats.

No one laughed now.

James opened his mouth, but the professor swept into the room, scattering the tension like smoke. Students rushed to sit straighter, quills scratching as parchment rustled.

But the damage was done.

Every eye in the room had seen it. The way Tom stood before Severus like a shield. The way his aura had pressed the very air into silence. The way the Marauders — the untouchable Gryffindor princes — had faltered.

And Severus sat frozen behind him, chest tight, fingers trembling. For once, the humiliation didn’t burn alone. For once, someone had stood there and chosen him.

Tom didn’t remember walking back to the Slytherin common room. He only remembered the taste of fury.

How dare they. How dare Potter, Black, anyone lay a hand on what was his. The bond in his chest pulsed hot and raw, instincts screaming for blood. His vision swam red. Every step felt like it carried him closer to the brink of unleashing something no one in this castle could stand against.

He would hunt them. He would make an example so final no one would ever—

“Tom.”

The voice cut through the haze, smooth and cool. A hand caught his arm, strong fingers tightening just enough to pull him to a stop. Lucius Malfoy, silver hair gleaming in the low torchlight, eyes sharp and steady.

Tom’s chest heaved. He hadn’t realized he was breathing so hard, hadn’t realized his hands were trembling. Crimson eyes burned as he met Lucius’s gaze, and he knew they glowed too bright, scales threatening to rise along his skin.

“He’s ours,” Tom hissed. “They touched him.”

“I know.” Lucius’s voice was low, calm. He didn’t flinch beneath the heat of Tom’s fury, didn’t bow — he anchored. “And you stopped them. Everyone saw. The Marauders won’t dare again.”

“It’s not enough.” Tom’s magic crackled around him, making the wall torches gutter. “They should pay—”

Lucius stepped closer, hand sliding up Tom’s arm to his shoulder, grounding him. The aura between them thrummed, bond pulling taut. “And if you destroy them now, what then? You’ll unravel everything you’ve built here. The House. The order. Severus himself — he’ll think he caused it.”

The words cut through Tom’s rage like a knife.

Severus. Small. Trembling. Looking at him not with fear, but with stunned relief. Trusting him.

Tom’s breath shuddered. His fury cracked, replaced with the ache of his half-soul — hollow, jagged, soothed only by the bonds snapping into place around him.

Lucius’s hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, firm. “He’s safe now. Because of you. Don’t let rage steal that from him.”

Tom closed his eyes. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow easing of magic in the air.

When he opened them again, crimson had dulled back to steady scarlet. His voice was quiet, cold but contained. “He’s mine. No one touches him again.”

Lucius’s lips curved, fierce pride flickering in his silver gaze. “On that, we agree.”

Severus never meant to look.

He had slipped into the library for quiet, parchment clutched under his arm, hair hanging heavy around his face. It should have been safe there, the one place no one bothered with him.

But the moment he turned the corner, he froze.

Tom and Lucius were already there.

They sat close together at one of the central tables, the kind of seat Severus never dared claim. A book lay open between them, though neither seemed interested in the words. Lucius leaned in, elegant hand resting near Tom’s, silver hair falling forward to catch the lamplight. Tom murmured something low, and Lucius’s lips curved in a rare, unguarded smile.

Severus’s chest ached.

It was irrational. He had no claim, no right. But still, the sight twisted in his ribs like a knife. Tom, who had shielded him from the Marauders, who had spoken to him softly as though he mattered. Lucius, who Severus had once admired, who now couldn’t meet his eyes. Together, their bond was undeniable. Perfect. And Severus was nowhere in it.

He turned sharply, heading for the back shelves, willing himself to disappear before either of them noticed. His cheeks burned. His throat was tight.

But something thrummed under his skin — hot, insistent, like it wanted to drag him back toward them. Toward what he could never have.

Behind him, Lucius laughed softly at something Tom said. The sound made Severus’s stomach clench.

He fled the library altogether, books forgotten, shame and jealousy burning like fire in his veins.

Severus kept his head down at supper, pushing potatoes around his plate until they were nothing but mash.

Tom and Lucius sat together, as always. Their shoulders brushed when they leaned in over some quiet conversation, Tom’s hand resting loosely at Lucius’s knee as if the touch was habit. No one in the Hall questioned it anymore. The Slytherins had accepted it as law. Even the Gryffindors watched with grudging awe, whispers rippling down the tables whenever crimson eyes swept the room.

And then there was Severus.

He ate in silence, pretending not to notice the way the distance between them carved him in half. His chest still throbbed with the echo of Tom’s hand steadying him in the classroom, the words murmured low: “You’re mine to protect.”

But Lucius hadn’t looked at him once.

That cut deeper than the Marauders’ hexes, deeper than any bruise waiting on his arms beneath his sleeves. Once, Lucius had been a kind of model — elegant, composed, the very image of what Severus thought a Slytherin should be. Now he couldn’t even hold his gaze. It was as if Severus didn’t exist at all.

Jealousy burned hot and bitter in his throat. He hated himself for it, hated the weakness of wanting, hated the sick twist of envy when Lucius’s hand brushed against Tom’s and Tom smiled.

Why did it matter? Why did it hurt so much?

The scrape of a bench startled him. Tom had risen, slow and unhurried, crimson eyes finding Severus across the table. For one terrifying moment Severus thought he’d been caught staring.

But Tom only inclined his head, voice smooth and commanding. “Come.”

Severus blinked. “…Me?”

“Yes. You.” Tom’s gaze didn’t waver.

Whispers rippled instantly down the table. Students glanced at one another, curiosity burning in their faces. No one disobeyed Tom Riddle — not anymore.

Severus’s heart hammered. His first instinct was to refuse, to sink lower into his seat, to vanish. But his legs betrayed him, carrying him after Tom, away from the whispers, away from the Hall, out into the corridor where the torches hissed and shadows stretched.

He walked at Tom’s side, small and awkward beside his poise, the heat of the bond thrumming under his skin. He didn’t dare ask why.

And Tom didn’t explain.

Tom didn’t stop walking until they reached the library. Not the crowded front tables where Ravenclaws chattered and quills scratched — the far corner, tucked between high shelves and quiet shadows.

“Sit,” Tom said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Severus sat. He wasn’t sure what else to do.

Tom studied him for a long moment, crimson eyes unreadable, fingers steepled under his chin. Then he said, quite flatly, “You’re too thin.”

Severus blinked. Heat rose in his cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t eat enough,” Tom clarified. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as though announcing a fact about potion ingredients. “You pick at your food, then you hide in corners. That will stop.”

Severus’s mouth fell open. He had no idea how to respond to that — whether to be offended, or horrified, or… touched. No one had noticed before. No one had cared enough to say it.

Tom leaned forward, gaze narrowing. “And you let them hurt you. You shouldn’t. Next time, hex back.”

“I can’t hex James Potter,” Severus muttered, bitterness leaking out despite himself. “He’s—”

“You can,” Tom interrupted. “And if you won’t, then I’ll do it for you. Either way, it ends.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no mocking superiority. Just absolute certainty, as though he were describing the inevitability of the sunrise.

Severus’s chest felt too tight. His throat ached. He wanted to sneer, to argue, but instead the words slipped out quieter than he intended: “Why are you even… why do you care?”

Tom stilled.

For a heartbeat, the mask cracked. His gaze softened, crimson dimming to something almost warm. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned, and his voice was cool again. “Because you’re mine.”

Severus’s heart lurched.

The silence stretched, filled only by the faint scratch of quills from the front of the library. Severus stared at the table, face burning, unable to look up. He hated the way those words made him feel — hated it and wanted more all at once.

Tom leaned back, folding his arms, tone once again even and commanding. “You’ll sit here tomorrow. And the day after. You’ll study with me, and you’ll eat properly, and you won’t let them touch you again. Understood?”

Severus nodded, pulse racing. He didn’t understand — not really — but he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

The next evening, Severus arrived early. He told himself it was to claim the quiet table before anyone else, but the truth twisted lower in his chest. He wanted to know if Tom would keep his word.

He did.

Tom strode in minutes later, cloak neat, books under one arm. In his other hand, he carried a plate. He set it down firmly in front of Severus before even taking his seat.

“Eat,” Tom said.

Severus stared at the plate. Bread rolls, slices of roast, a few pieces of fruit. Food from the Hall, stolen out like contraband. His stomach knotted in embarrassment. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Tom interrupted. He sat across from him, crimson gaze steady. “And you will.”

Severus swallowed, hands twitching in his lap. Heat crawled up his neck. “You sound like my—” He cut himself off before the word father could escape. Tom was nothing like Tobias Snape.

Tom arched a brow. “Like someone who gives orders? Yes. That’s because you need them.”

Severus’s pride bristled, but the quiet certainty in Tom’s tone left no room for argument. Slowly, awkwardly, he picked up a roll and bit into it. The bread was still warm. His throat tightened around the taste. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

Tom watched until Severus finished half the plate. Then, as if the matter were settled, he pushed aside the books he’d brought. “Now. When Potter hexes you again, you won’t cower. You’ll counter.”

Severus blinked. “What?”

Tom drew his wand, motioning to the empty space between them. “Show me what you know.”

It was humiliating. His first attempt fizzled, his second went wide, his third was barely passable. Each failure burned hot in his cheeks. But Tom didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He corrected. Precise, exacting, but never cruel.

“Your stance is sloppy. Again.”
“Don’t close your eyes, Severus.”
“Faster.”

Severus’s arm ached, his wand hand shook, but by the end of an hour he could counter a basic jinx cleanly, his spell biting the air with sharp, sure light.

Tom lowered his wand at last, lips curving faintly. “Better. They won’t touch you again.”

Severus panted, chest heaving, sweat dampening his fringe. He hated how much he wanted to bask in that rare flicker of approval. Hated how his insides warmed at the word better.

Lucius hadn’t meant to linger.

He had intended only to pass through the library, retrieve a reference text, and leave. But when he rounded the far shelf, the sight froze him in place.

Tom sat across from Severus at the hidden table in the back, a plate of food between them. Bread torn, fruit cores discarded — evidence of a meal Lucius knew Severus would never have touched on his own.

And Tom watched him eat.

Not with the indulgent smirk he often wore when commanding lesser Slytherins, not with the sharp edge he used in House meetings. This was different. Quiet. Focused. Crimson eyes softened, gaze steady as though the boy across from him was the only thing in the room.

Severus fidgeted under it, awkward and pale, but he ate. And Lucius felt something twist in his chest.

It should have been him.

He was the one who had recognized Severus first. The one whose instincts had snapped tight and sharp the moment the boy’s eyes had met his in the common room months ago. He had felt the bond, knew it for what it was — Support, destined to stand between Submissive and Dominant, to steady and balance. He had known, and he had fled.

And Tom — brilliant, ruthless Tom — had stepped in where Lucius had faltered. Claimed Severus openly. Protected him from Gryffindor bullies, fed him when he would have starved, taught him to fight back.

Lucius’s pride bristled. His chest ached. His instincts screamed at him to step forward, to take his place at their side, to stop watching from shadows.

But fear rooted him still.

He couldn’t look at Severus without remembering that he was too young, that acknowledging the bond now would mark him before he was ready. He couldn’t look at Tom without feeling the weight of his Dominant power pressing down, terrifying and irresistible all at once.

And yet —

The way Tom leaned closer, correcting Severus’s wand grip with the lightest touch of his fingers. The way crimson eyes softened when the boy managed a clean counter-hex. The way Tom’s mouth curved faintly in approval.

Lucius’s breath caught.

A caring Dominant was a dangerous thing. They were rarer than gold — and infinitely more alluring.

Lucius tore his gaze away, cloak whispering as he turned sharply down another aisle. He could not watch any longer. He could not bear the guilt clawing through him, or the traitorous warmth in his chest at the sight.

But the image lingered anyway, haunting him long after he left the library.

Lucius lasted until evening. Barely.

The sight of Tom’s hand over Severus’s, guiding his wand, had replayed in his mind all through dinner, all through his Prefect rounds, all through every empty conversation. By the time he stepped into the common room, he was burning.

Tom was there, of course. Seated by the fire, a book open in one hand, the other draped lazily over the armrest of his chair. Crimson eyes flicked up as Lucius entered, sharp and knowing, as though he could read every thought clawing through his skull.

Lucius’s throat went dry. His pulse roared in his ears.

He crossed the room in long, steady strides, every inch the polished Malfoy heir — until he reached Tom, until the scent of him hit like smoke and storm, until instinct drowned out reason.

Lucius didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He slid onto Tom’s lap in one smooth motion, straddling him, hands curling into the front of his robes.

Gasps rippled from the other Slytherins still scattered around the common room. No one moved. No one dared.

Tom’s book slid closed with a soft snap. His crimson gaze locked onto Lucius, heat sparking, aura flaring in dark, delicious waves. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move — letting Lucius writhe on the knife’s edge of his own hunger.

Then Tom’s hands closed around his waist. Firm. Claiming.

“Bold,” Tom murmured, voice low enough that only Lucius could hear. “What changed?”

Lucius’s breath caught. He hated himself for how desperate it sounded when he whispered, “You. With him.”

Understanding flickered in Tom’s eyes. Then his mouth curved, slow and predatory.

Lucius surged forward, lips crashing against Tom’s. The kiss was fierce, hungry, their teeth clashing, Tom’s hand sliding up into his hair to hold him still. Lucius moaned into it, heat pooling low in his stomach, every nerve alive with fire.

The common room watched, silent and transfixed, as Tom Riddle let Lucius Malfoy unravel on his lap, their kiss deepening, growing filthier by the second.

Severus woke to fire.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare he could claw his way out of. It was inside him — blistering, consuming, burning through marrow and blood. His lungs seized with every gasp, his magic thrashing against its cage like a wounded beast.

He curled on his narrow bed in the fourth-year dorm, arms wrapped around himself, teeth digging into his sleeve to stifle the sounds tearing at his throat. He couldn’t wake the others. He couldn’t let them see.

But the fire only grew.

It ripped through him in waves, searing nerves, snapping muscles taut. The glass on his nightstand rattled, cracked, then shattered. His wand sparked and rolled away. He choked back another cry, tears stinging his eyes.

And beneath the agony, something else stirred. A pulse. A tether.

The bond.

It tugged sharp and insistent at his chest, pulling in one direction with the weight of inevitability. His body jerked upright, legs buckling as he stumbled from the bed. His vision blurred, red-black at the edges, but his feet carried him anyway.

Find them. You must.

He half-stumbled, half-crawled through the corridors, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutched over his heart. Every step sent another wave of fire lancing through him. He thought he might die before he reached them.

But the bond dragged him forward.

Down the twisting dungeons, up a hidden stair, through a heavy oak door he had never dared to touch before. His fingers knew the way even when his mind didn’t. Instinct drove him where reason could not.

And then — he was there.

The dormitory for the older boys.

The door loomed before him. His hand fumbled against the wood, pushing it open with a creak that seemed deafening in the silence. He staggered inside, trembling, sweat soaking his shirt, breath ragged.

The scent hit him instantly.

Smoke and storm and iron: Tom.
Firelight and polish and sweet steel: Lucius.
Home.

He reeled toward it like a drowning man to shore. His hands tore at the heavy green curtains around the bed that hummed with their presence. His knees gave out as he tumbled inside.

Two figures stirred.

Tom’s crimson eyes glowed in the dark, sharp and alert in an instant. Lucius sat upright beside him, pale hair falling loose, expression a mix of alarm and instinctive recognition.

“Severus?” Lucius breathed.

But Severus couldn’t answer. His throat burned too raw. A sob wrenched free instead, and he collapsed forward into the heat of them both, clutching at their sheets, their bodies, anything to ground him.

The fire inside dimmed, just a fraction, drowned by their scent.

Tom’s hands caught his shoulders, firm but steady. “It’s begun,” he murmured, understanding threading through his voice. He pulled Severus back against his chest, holding him upright as tremors shook through his frame.

Lucius hesitated only a heartbeat before instincts took over. His arms wrapped around Severus’s smaller frame, pulling him close, his chin tucking against the boy’s sweat-damp hair. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re not alone.”

The next wave hit.

Severus screamed this time, unable to bite it back. His body arched, nails clawing at Tom’s robes. Lucius held tighter, murmuring nonsense, grounding him in sheer presence. Tom’s voice was lower, steady against his ear, cutting through the pain like steel through smoke.

“Breathe. Let it take you. We have you.”

The fire seared deeper, tearing at his skin, splitting his veins. His eyes blurred, and for a moment he thought he saw scales ripple across his own arms, black and gleaming in the half-light. His teeth ached, sharp against his tongue. Water surged in his veins, dark and cold, crashing against the fire like a storm against stone.

He thought he would shatter.

But every time he broke, they were there. Tom’s arms caging him safe, Lucius’s voice steadying him, their scents wrapping around him until the agony dulled into something survivable.

Minutes — hours — he didn’t know how long it lasted. He only knew that when the fire finally ebbed, leaving him trembling and raw, he was lying between them, head pillowed against Lucius’s chest, Tom’s heartbeat steady against his back.

For the first time in his life, Severus let himself sob without shame. His mates didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock. They held him through it, silent and unyielding.

When exhaustion finally dragged him under, the last thing he felt was warmth.

And safety.

Severus woke to warmth.

For one delirious heartbeat, he thought he was still dreaming — because he had never woken like this before. Never cushioned by heat on both sides, never safe between steady heartbeats.

Lucius lay curled on one side, silver hair spilling across the pillow, pale features softened in sleep. Tom was on the other, already awake, crimson eyes half-lidded but alert, one arm draped over Severus’s waist as if he had no intention of moving.

The memory of the night struck him in a rush — fire, agony, his body torn apart from the inside, and then arms holding him, voices grounding him, scent and bond soothing until he could breathe again. He had screamed, sobbed, clung to them like a child. And they had not let him go.

Now he lay in their bed, sweat-damp shirt clinging to his skin, throat raw, every muscle aching as if he’d fought a war.

“You’re awake.” Tom’s voice was low, soft enough that it felt almost foreign.

Severus swallowed. His lips parted, but no words came.

Lucius stirred then, eyes fluttering open. His gaze landed on Severus, and for once, he didn’t look away. His hand lifted hesitantly, brushing damp hair back from Severus’s forehead. “Better?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.

Severus’s throat worked. “…Yes.”

It wasn’t true. He still felt shattered, raw. But compared to the firestorm of last night, he was whole again. And he couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that — with genuine concern, not mockery.

Tom pushed himself upright, arm steadying Severus as he sat up too. “You need food,” he said, the same way he might say you need air.

Lucius smirked faintly. “You and your feeding, Tom.”

Tom didn’t rise to the tease. His gaze was fixed on Severus, unblinking. “Your body has changed. It burned through everything you had. You’ll eat.”

Severus wanted to argue. Instead, his stomach betrayed him with a low growl. Heat rushed to his cheeks. Lucius chuckled, elegant even when rumpled from sleep.

Within the hour, Tom had fetched a tray from the kitchens. They sat together in the curtained bed, Severus propped between them, Lucius cutting fruit into neat slices, Tom watching intently until every bite was swallowed. It was suffocating and embarrassing and strangely… comforting.

When the tray was empty, Tom finally leaned back, satisfaction gleaming in his crimson eyes. “Good. Now you’ll stand.”

Severus scowled. “I can stand.”

Tom arched a brow. “Prove it.”

He did — wobbling at first, but steadied by Lucius’s hand at his elbow. Both older boys rose with him, flanking him instinctively. Severus’s protest died in his throat. He felt ridiculous… but also safe.

The day passed in a haze. They didn’t let him out of sight. Tom shadowed him to classes he would normally endure alone. Lucius lingered near, intercepting questions with smooth lies when Severus’s voice caught. More than once, Severus found himself pressed between them at meal times, their presence a barrier against the world.

And as the sun set, Tom said simply: “There are answers we need. Both of you will come.”

Lucius didn’t ask where. Severus didn’t dare.

Tom led them through winding corridors deep into the dungeons, farther than Severus had ever ventured. At an abandoned wall, he hissed in Parseltongue, and the stones shivered aside.

The air that spilled out was ancient and damp, heavy with secrets.

Severus froze. “What—”

“Hogwarts bends to its Heirs,” Tom said without looking back. “And I am Slytherin’s.”

He guided them into the Chamber of Secrets.

The Chamber’s library smelled of dust and salt. Tom’s hand trailed along the cracked spines as he hunted, crimson eyes sharp and hungry.

“We need more than speculation,” he said, pulling a tome free. Its cover was bound in black leather, etched with curling silver glyphs. On the Binding of Circles. He set it on the table with a weighty thud. “There should be a ritual to confirm roles.”

Lucius leaned gracefully against the table, arms crossed, silver hair gleaming in the green torchlight. “There is,” he said. “My father spoke of it, though I never saw it performed. An inheritance may suggest a role, but only a Circle ritual can prove it. Without it, balance can never be certain.”

Severus sat stiffly in the chair across from them, hands curled tight in his lap. His body still ached from the awakening, and his chest burned every time the word Circle was spoken. He had grown up believing he was nothing — half-blood, unwanted, overlooked. And now they spoke of him as if he were part of something inevitable, something larger than himself.

Tom flipped through the tome until his finger landed on an illustration: a circle drawn on the floor, runes etched into the outer ring, three figures kneeling within. “Here. A role-binding.” His gaze flicked up, sharp and certain. “We’ll do it now.”

Lucius’s lips curved faintly. “Impatient as always.” But he bent anyway, drawing his wand to trace the runes across the stone floor. The lines glowed faintly green in the Chamber’s eerie light.

Tom turned to Severus, who had gone pale. “This will not harm you,” he said, voice softer than usual, though still edged with command. “It will reveal what you already are.”

Severus swallowed hard. His throat was raw, his body exhausted, but something in Tom’s gaze steadied him. He nodded.

They knelt within the circle: Tom at the head, Lucius to his left, Severus trembling on his right. Tom’s aura filled the air, heavy and commanding, pressing down like a stormcloud. Lucius’s presence shimmered smooth and steady, like firelight through glass. Severus’s heart raced, the pulse of the bond thrumming under his skin until he could hardly breathe.

Tom placed his hand flat on the stone. Lucius mirrored the gesture. Severus followed, hesitant.

The circle flared.

Green light shot up from the runes, wrapping around their hands, their wrists, their chests. The air thickened until it vibrated with power. Severus gasped as the magic pulled at him, stripping away all pretense, laying his soul bare.

The first verdict came with ease. The light wrapped Tom in coils of black and silver, pressing heavy against his shoulders, marking him with undeniable gravity. Dominant.

Tom exhaled slowly, as though it were no more than confirmation of what he already knew. His crimson gaze gleamed, satisfied.

The second wave swept to Lucius. Flames flickered in the light, gold and pale blue, dancing across his arms before sinking into his skin. Support.

Lucius inclined his head, elegant even under the weight of magic. His aura steadied, shining with quiet authority. He turned his eyes toward Severus, as though waiting for the truth they both suspected.

The third pulse struck Severus like lightning. He cried out, clutching his chest as the circle’s glow surged brighter, burning against his skin. Cold water surged through his veins, black scales rippling faintly across his forearms. The light bound him, pressed against him, marked him.

Submissive Support.

He collapsed forward onto his hands, trembling. The glow dimmed slowly, fading back into the runes. Silence rang in the Chamber, broken only by Severus’s harsh breaths.

Lucius reached for him first, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Submissive Support,” he murmured. “Of course. It fits.”

Severus shook his head, voice hoarse. “Submissive?” The word felt alien on his tongue. Weak. Vulnerable.

“No.” Tom’s voice cut sharp, cold, commanding. He leaned forward, hand gripping Severus’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Not weakness. Balance. You steady us. You will steady me.”

His crimson eyes glowed in the green torchlight, and Severus felt the truth of it resonate through his bones.

Lucius’s hand tightened briefly in silent agreement. “The Submissive Support stands between. They guard the heart as much as they guard the Dominant. Without them, a Circle fractures.”

Severus’s chest ached. The words should have humiliated him, but instead — instead they soothed. For once in his life, he wasn’t nothing. He was needed.

Tom released him at last, leaning back with a faint smirk. “It means we are still missing one. The Submissive. The heart.”

Silence stretched. They all felt it then, the tug of something beyond, a thread leading out into the unknown.

Severus’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Tom’s gaze burned scarlet in the shadows. “We’ll find him.”

The glow of the ritual faded slowly, leaving the three of them breathless within the circle. Tom stood first, smooth and composed despite the sweat dampening his collar. Lucius rose with a flick of his hair, offering a hand to Severus.

Severus hesitated only a moment before taking it. His legs still trembled, but Lucius’s grip was steady, unyielding.

“Two years early,” Lucius murmured, more to himself than the others. His gaze swept over Severus, thoughtful. “That’s unusual. Dangerous, even. It must be tied to the bonds.”

Tom’s crimson eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “Then we’ll confirm it.” He turned sharply, striding toward the shelves, pulling volumes free without hesitation. “Come.”

The library swallowed them again, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. Lucius read with elegant ease, lips moving silently as he deciphered archaic passages. Severus hunched over his book, hair falling forward to hide the lingering flush in his cheeks, his fingers clutching at the parchment as if to anchor himself.

Tom prowled, restless, pulling tome after tome until the table was stacked high. His aura thrummed, sharp with focus.

It was Severus who found the first hint.

“Here,” he rasped, tapping the page with trembling fingers. “‘When mates are within close proximity prior to maturity, their magic intertwines. A Support role, in particular, may trigger prematurely, as its function is to stabilize and bridge bonds already formed.’”

Lucius leaned in, silver eyes skimming the text. “Yes. It fits. The Submissive Support is not meant to stand alone. He exists to temper Dominant and Submissive both. Surrounded by two strong bonds before his inheritance, the magic forced his awakening early.”

Severus’s stomach lurched. “So it’s your fault.”

Lucius stiffened — but Tom spoke first, tone flat and sharp. “No. It is balance. You awoke early because we needed you.”

Crimson eyes caught his, unblinking. “Do not mistake necessity for misfortune, Severus. If anything, it proves what I already knew.”

Severus dropped his gaze, cheeks burning. The words should have been cold. Instead, they settled deep in his chest like a brand. Needed.

Lucius’s voice was quieter when he added, “He’s right. Many Supports never awaken at all unless their Circle demands it. Your inheritance came because we’re incomplete without you. That’s not a curse. It’s proof.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Severus pressed his palm against the table, grounding himself against the strange swell in his chest.

For once, being needed didn’t feel like a chain. It felt like belonging.

At first, Tom told himself it was nothing.

A slip of the tongue, a word misplaced. A quill he didn’t remember setting down. A silence too long between one sentence and the next. He was sharper than any boy alive — sharper than any professor, sharper than any wizard outside these walls. Perfection incarnate. He could not falter.

But the gaps grew.

One moment he was pacing the library, lips moving silently over the translation of an ancient ritual. The next, he stood already halfway through the Chamber’s passage, dust streaking his sleeves, the book nowhere in sight. He blinked, furious, unable to recall if he had set it down or dropped it somewhere behind him.

In Potions, his wand sparked before he knew he had lifted it, black smoke curling up from the cauldron while Severus gaped at him, wide-eyed. Tom smiled thinly, as though he had meant to demonstrate, as though he had meant for the mixture to fail in that precise way.

Once, he returned to the dormitory only to find Lucius already inside — and to Lucius’s quiet, sharp voice asking why he had left his cloak in the library. Tom’s hands tightened until his knuckles whitened. He hadn’t realized he’d gone there at all.

The horror was private. And it stayed private.

He was the Dominant. The leader. The one who steadied, protected, commanded. He could not appear weak, not here, not now. Severus was fragile yet, still trembling from an inheritance that had nearly killed him. Lucius wore his polish like armor, but Tom could feel the guilt and uncertainty under it. They needed a pillar. They needed him unshakable.

And so he was.

When his tongue stilled, he let the pause stretch, crimson eyes narrowing as though weighing his words. When his hand trembled, he laced his fingers together behind his back, posture marble-smooth. When he lost a step, he pivoted, redirecting the moment into a purposeful detour that left no room for questions.

He would not show them the cracks.

But in the dark, alone with himself, fury boiled. The ritual had taken half his soul — of course it had left scars. But what kind of Dominant forgot his own steps, forgot his own spells? What kind of leader lost himself in shadows?

He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, staring into the Chamber’s black waters. Was this how madness began? Not in screams or flame, but in memory trickling away, drop by drop, until only hollow fury remained?

And yet—

When Lucius brushed against his shoulder, smoothing Tom’s sleeve with careless elegance, the fog receded. When Severus muttered something bitter under his breath and Tom leaned down to catch it, the static in his mind eased. When both of them pressed close in bed at night, bond-threads humming steady and warm, Tom’s thoughts stilled entirely.

The fractures knit. The silence inside was no longer terrifying, but quiet, whole.

They made him stronger.

He could not tell them that. He could not admit, even to himself, that the boy who would one day be called Dark Lord might unravel without them. That his brilliance, his control, his power — all of it was steadier when they were near.

So he said nothing. He lay awake in the small hours, crimson eyes open in the dark, watching the rise and fall of their breathing. He felt their warmth pressed against him, their bond tugging steady in his chest.

And he promised himself that no matter how wide the cracks spread, they would never see them.

He was the Dominant. He was the leader. He would be strong — for them.

At first, Lucius thought it was his imagination.

Tom never faltered in public. In the Great Hall, in the common room, in front of professors, he was flawless — poised, brilliant, crimson gaze holding the entire school in thrall. But in the quiet moments, when no one else watched, Lucius began to see it.

The flicker of confusion in Tom’s eyes when he lost the thread of a sentence. The way his hand sometimes lingered on the same page of a book too long, as though he’d forgotten what he was reading. The sharp, unnecessary pivots in conversation, smoothing over something he didn’t want noticed.

Lucius said nothing. Not at first. He told himself Dominants had moods, tempers, hungers — it was not his place to question. But the guilt in his chest twisted tighter each day. Because Tom was his Dominant. His mate. And if Tom cracked, Lucius was bound to steady him.

And Severus — Severus saw more.

Severus noticed the silences.

Tom would be speaking to him, voice low, explaining the nuances of a counter-hex, and then — nothing. His lips stilled, crimson eyes unfocused for the space of a breath too long. By the time he spoke again, the mask was back, the sentence smoothed as though it had never faltered.

But Severus saw.

He had lived in shadows all his life. He knew what it was to hide weakness. And he knew, with a hollow certainty, that Tom was hiding his.

It terrified him. Because Tom was not supposed to falter. Tom was Dominant, leader, shield. Tom was the one who had protected him when no one else had. If Tom was breaking, what would be left to hold them together?

Severus bit his tongue until it bled. But when the weeks stretched and the cracks deepened, he couldn’t hold it anymore.

It was evening in the Chamber’s library. The three of them sat around the heavy table, tomes scattered, green firelight flickering across their faces.

Tom was reading aloud from a text on inheritance lore when he stopped midsentence. His eyes glazed for a fraction of a heartbeat — crimson gone blank — before he blinked and continued smoothly, as though nothing had happened.

But Severus had seen it. And this time, so had Lucius. Their gazes met across the table, unspoken agreement flashing between them.

“Tom,” Lucius said carefully, voice smooth but firm, “what is happening to you?”

Tom looked up, expression sharpening. “Explain yourself.”

“You vanish,” Severus blurted. His hands fisted in his lap. “Mid-sentence, mid-step. Like you aren’t here at all. And then you cover it, but—” His voice cracked. “I notice. We notice.”

Tom’s lips curved faintly, but it was not a smile. “You imagine things.”

“No.” Lucius’s silver eyes gleamed, unflinching. “We’re your mates. Do you think we cannot see you cracking?”

The silence pressed heavy. Tom’s hands tightened on the book until the leather creaked.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and controlled. “You want to know who I am. How I stand here with you, when by all reason I should not exist.”

Crimson eyes burned in the green firelight. “Then listen.”

“I am Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he said softly. “But not the one you know. Not the boy who should have grown here, in this time. That Tom… I left behind.”

Lucius’s brows knit. “Left behind?”

Tom’s gaze cut to the floor. “On my seventeenth birthday, I received my inheritance. Basilisk-blood, serpentine power. With it came knowledge — and bonds that stretched forward, beyond my time. My mates. You.” His eyes flicked between them, sharp and certain. “But I could not reach you here. So I tore the fabric of time itself.”

Severus’s breath caught.

“The ritual required a price. I paid it in blood. In soul.” Tom’s voice was steady, but his hand trembled once against the book before he forced it still. “Half of me was left behind, to anchor the past. Half of me came forward.”

Lucius inhaled sharply, horror flickering across his polished mask. Severus paled, eyes wide.

Tom met their gazes unflinching. “The one left behind… is Voldemort. A husk. Soul without anchor. Mind decayed by instincts with no mates to ground them. He became the monster you fear.”

“And you?” Lucius whispered.

Tom’s jaw tightened. “I am what remains. Half a soul. Stronger in some ways — whole in purpose, in bond — but fractured. The gaps you see are the cost. I hide them because I am Dominant. Because I must be strong. If I falter, our Circle falters with me.”

The words rang heavy in the chamber’s silence.

For a long moment, neither Lucius nor Severus spoke. Their bond pulsed warm and steady in Tom’s chest, anchoring him, softening the jagged edges.

And when Lucius finally reached across the table, laying a pale hand over his, Tom let it linger.

The silence after Tom’s confession was thick enough to choke on.

Lucius’s hand lingered over Tom’s, steady and firm. Severus sat taut with worry, black eyes burning. Finally, he whispered the question they had both been circling:

“How do we make you whole again?”

Tom’s crimson gaze flickered, unreadable. “I don’t know.” The admission tasted like ash on his tongue. Dominants did not say I don’t know.

But his mates did not flinch.

“Then we’ll find out,” Lucius said smoothly, as if it were already decided. His hand slipped away only to rest lightly against Severus’s shoulder, drawing the three of them into a closed knot. “You are not alone in this.”

Severus swallowed hard. “The… the Basilisk. She might know.”

Tom blinked at him, then nodded once. “You’re right.”

The Chamber’s great statue loomed as they entered, the stone face impassive, the air damp and cold. Tom hissed low in Parseltongue, the syllables echoing sharp against the walls.

“Mother. Hatchling calls.”

The stone grated. Scales scraped. The air grew heavy as she emerged — vast and terrible, eyes shielded but presence overwhelming. Her head lowered, tongue flickering as she tasted the air.

“Hatchling,” she hissed, voice a low rumble that reverberated in their bones. “And not alone. Your Circle grows.”

Lucius and Severus froze at her enormity, but Tom stepped forward, unafraid, crimson eyes burning. “Mother,” he said in Parseltongue, “I am cracked. My soul is halved. Tell me how to be whole again.”

The great serpent’s head tilted. Her tongue flickered again, tasting the truth in his words.

“Half a soul cannot mend itself,” she hissed. “Only a Circle may bind it. Hatchling will heal when the bonds are complete — when Dominant and Submissive are joined. Without the heart, the Circle is broken, and so are you.”

Tom’s chest tightened. “The Submissive. The heart.”

Lucius’s breath caught. Severus paled, but his voice was steady. “Then we find him.”

The Basilisk hissed low, scales rippling. “Draw the Circle. Call the bonds. The heart will answer, no matter the distance.”

The ritual was older than Hogwarts itself. They found it carved deep in the Chamber’s stone, hidden beneath centuries of dust.

Tom took the lead, his voice steady as he hissed the invocation. Lucius and Severus knelt with him, their hands linked, the runes flaring to life in searing green light.

Magic thrummed, thick and electric. Threads of light lanced outward from their chests, weaving together into a glowing sigil suspended in the air. Three points burned bright — crimson, silver, black-green — but a fourth remained faint, pulsing weakly.

The missing Submissive. The heart.

The threads stretched, pulling outward, straining across unseen distance. The glow twisted, warped — and then the vision surged forward, past walls, past stone, past time itself.

Severus gasped. Lucius’s grip tightened.

And Tom — Tom’s crimson eyes widened as the light sharpened into clarity.

Not here. Not now. The pull strained beyond their reach, forward, tangled in a time not yet lived.

The sigil burned a single truth into their minds: the heart of their Circle lived in the future.

The light snapped, leaving them gasping in the Chamber’s shadows, the runes fading to embers.

Tom’s chest heaved. His half-soul ached, but the bond pulsed steady, promising.

Lucius whispered it first, voice raw. “He’s out there.”

Severus swallowed, black eyes wide. “We have to find him.”

Tom straightened slowly, crimson gaze hardening to steel. His voice was low, certain, unyielding.

“We will.”

The weeks that followed their revelation were sharper, brighter, heavier.

Every whispered conversation circled back to the same truth: their Circle was incomplete. The Submissive heart waited somewhere beyond their reach, and Tom’s half-soul would never mend without him. The pull was constant, thrumming at the edge of their bonds like a string drawn too tight.

But Tom was nothing if not disciplined. He would not tear them forward without preparation.

“First,” he said one evening in the Chamber’s library, crimson eyes glinting in the green torchlight, “we finish our NEWTs. We will not step into the future as children. We will go as equals, whole in power, recognized by law.”

Severus shifted uneasily. “But I’m not of age. I can’t sit them yet.”

Tom smiled thinly, predator-sharp. “That’s where they underestimate us.”

Three nights later, parchment scattered across the table, Tom presented the proof.

“Wizarding law,” he murmured, tapping the clause with one elegant finger, “states that a witch or wizard whose inheritance has manifested is considered magically mature, regardless of biological age. They may petition to sit any examination at the level their inheritance deems them fit for.”

Severus blinked. “You mean—”

“You,” Tom cut in smoothly, “are legally permitted to sit the NEWTs alongside us. No one can stop you.”

Lucius’s lips curved, faint pride softening his polished mask. “Brilliant.”

Tom’s smile sharpened. “Naturally.”

The petition had to go through the Head of House and the Headmaster. Slughorn had approved with oily delight — the prestige of a fourth-year Slytherin sitting NEWTs was too rich a prize for him to resist.

Dumbledore, however, was another matter.

They stood before his desk, the three of them united, bond threads humming steady between them. Sunlight slanted across the office, dust motes catching in the air. Fawkes stirred on his perch, golden eyes watchful.

Dumbledore’s own eyes were sharp, fixed on Tom with wary intensity. “I do not believe this is wise,” he said softly. “Mr. Snape is too young. These examinations are not simply academic hurdles — they demand discipline, maturity—”

“My mate is mature,” Tom interrupted, voice smooth but unyielding. “Magically, he is as bound to us as Lucius and I. By law, he has the right. And by bond, he has the strength.”

Lucius inclined his head in agreement, every inch the perfect heir lending quiet weight to Tom’s words. Severus stood taut, fists clenched at his sides, but he did not falter beneath the scrutiny.

Dumbledore’s mouth tightened. “You twist the law to suit yourself, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom’s smile curved, cold and perfect. “I use the law as it was written. If that frightens you, perhaps the fault lies not in me, but in your precious system.”

The air between them sharpened. For a moment, Severus thought Dumbledore would refuse outright. But Hogwarts herself stirred, ancient wards thrumming, siding with the Heir who commanded her. The parchment on the desk glowed faintly in confirmation.

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened. He leaned back slowly, folding his hands. “Very well. But do not mistake permission for approval.”

Tom inclined his head as though in victory. “Approval is irrelevant.”

They left the office together, the doors closing hard behind them.

In the corridor, Severus exhaled shakily. “I thought he’d—”

“He couldn’t,” Tom said simply, crimson eyes gleaming. “Hogwarts is mine. And magic itself bends toward necessity.”

Lucius’s lips curved faintly, pride shining clear. “Then it’s settled. We finish our NEWTs. And then…”

Tom’s gaze burned ahead, past stone walls and candlelight, past time itself. “Then we claim what is ours.”

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had always prided himself on foresight. It was the one virtue he clung to above all else. Where others stumbled blind into fate’s snares, Albus wove patterns from smoke and shadow. He saw the world in threads, and he knew how to pull them.

And yet, the day Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts, he found himself undone.

Not Voldemort — not the mad tyrant who scarred Britain with blood and terror. No, this was a boy. Seventeen, polished, serpentine, charismatic. A student who should have been decades gone.

He had felt it the instant the wards flared. Hogwarts had not merely permitted the boy; she had welcomed him. Claimed him. Albus had invoked every Headmaster’s authority, pushed every ancient key of power at his disposal. The wards bent, quivered, but in the end they had knelt — not to him, but to the Heir of Slytherin.

It was an old law of the castle, older than Dumbledore, older than his predecessors: the true Heirs could not be denied.

So Albus had smiled, soft and false, and welcomed Tom back into the fold.

In private, he raged.

He knew this boy. He remembered the orphan child in Wool’s, too clever, too hungry, too cruel. He remembered the glint in the boy’s eye when trophies were handed, the way his voice wrapped around teachers and prefects alike. He remembered the darkness coiled deep in Tom Marvolo Riddle — a darkness that would one day call itself Voldemort.

And now fate had spat him back into Albus’s hands, younger, unbroken, perfect.

It was a trick. A ploy. The Dark Lord must have found some way to twist time, to claw back a fragment of himself. Why else would a boy who should not exist stand so confidently in the Great Hall, crimson eyes gleaming, as if the world belonged to him?

The danger was clear.

And so Albus began his work.

The library yielded little. Time magic was forbidden for good reason; the Department of Mysteries hoarded what scraps survived. But Albus knew how to pry loose secrets. Disguised letters, old contacts, whispers in the Floo — he wove them all together into a picture.

It should have been impossible. But Albus had learned long ago that magic did not bend to should. It bent to will.

And then he saw the bonds.

Lucius Malfoy, newly inherited, bending too easily toward the boy. Severus Snape, young and brittle, but orbiting closer with each day. And the way Tom’s aura thickened around them — not the simple pull of charisma, but something older. Something Circle-deep.

Albus’s gut twisted cold.

A Circle forming around Tom Riddle was disaster incarnate. Circles were stabilizers, amplifiers, forces of nature unto themselves. With one the boy could reshape nations.

No, worse. With one, he might heal.

The world could not survive a sane Tom Riddle.

So Albus prepared.

He strengthened Hogwarts’s private wards, laying contingencies beneath contingencies. He charmed Fawkes to fly at the first sign of betrayal. He wrote lists: students he could sway, professors who would stand firm, allies abroad who could be summoned if the castle fell.

And in the quietest hours of the night, Albus admitted the thought he would never speak aloud:

If opportunity came, he would kill the boy.

Better a child die than a tyrant rise. Better a few bonds broken than a world enslaved.

It was not cruelty. It was necessity.

The greater good demanded it.

And yet — Hogwarts thwarted him at every turn. Subtle hexes bled harmless in his hands when aimed toward the boy. A chalice laced with toxin soured into clean water before it touched Tom’s lips. A ward trap woven beneath the dungeons collapsed the instant Tom stepped close, leaving only smoke and silence.

The castle had chosen.

Every failure made Albus more certain: the boy was dangerous. He inspired devotion too easily. Students whispered not only of his brilliance but of his kindness, his charm. Professors praised his wit. Even Slughorn glowed with satisfaction, speaking of him as a treasure.

But Albus remembered Grindelwald. He remembered the way laughter and brilliance could mask tyranny.

Tom Riddle was no different.

And if none would stand against him, Albus Dumbledore would.

He straightened his robes, eyes catching on the twinkling instruments across his office. Each one hummed with possibility, with futures half-written.

The boy’s mates might see a leader. Hogwarts might see an Heir.

But Albus saw only a shadow.

And if he had to snuff it out before it grew teeth, he would do so with steady hands and a clear conscience.

For the greater good.

The Great Hall had never felt so heavy.

Long tables were stripped bare, replaced with neat rows of desks. Quills lay waiting, enchanted to catch even the smallest mistake. Professors lined the walls like watchful judges. Above, the enchanted ceiling burned with noon light, cloudless and merciless.

At the very front of Slytherin’s row sat Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy, and Severus Snape.

They did not belong among the seventh-years. Not as students, not anymore. They carried themselves like something older, sharper — and the eyes of the Hall followed them with a mix of awe and unease.

Tom’s quill cut across parchment with ruthless precision, answers flowing smooth as silk. He did not hesitate, not once, not even when questions pressed into obscure corners of magical theory few had studied in decades. To Tom, it was all obvious, inevitable, the way stars followed their courses.

Lucius’s script was elegant, a perfect hand that looked like it belonged in Ministry archives already. His answers were subtle, layered with wit and political instinct. Even dry history questions gleamed under his pen, reframed to reveal foresight and strategy.

Severus hunched over his parchment, fingers ink-stained, but his eyes burned. At fourteen, he should not have been here. Yet his knowledge outstripped half the room. Brewing ratios, counter-hex sequences, rune alignments — his quill danced, feverish and hungry. A professor coughed in surprise when he cited a text from the Restricted Section.

Around them, whispers rose and fell. “Snape? He’s only—” “Merlin’s beard, look at Riddle—” “Malfoy heir, of course—”

The three ignored it all.

Charms was first. Tom flicked his wand, and the examiners’ obstacles bent like reeds before a storm. A levitation charm became effortless flight; a ward dispel cracked apart with a hiss of satisfaction. His crimson gaze lingered on the examiner until the man faltered, quill shaking as he scribbled perfect marks.

Lucius moved like water, each spell cast with elegance and flourish. His disarming charm disarmed three opponents at once. His conjured shield gleamed like glass, flawless and unbreakable. He bowed after each demonstration, polished as a prince.

Severus trembled — until his wand moved. Then he was fire and venom, hexes snapping sharp and fast, counters landing true. When cornered, he snarled and spat incantations so precise they tore through obstacles meant for seventh-years twice his size. The examiners exchanged startled looks, but they could not deny the results.

By the end, Severus stood pale and sweating, but victorious. Tom’s hand brushed his shoulder briefly, anchoring him. Lucius’s faint smile was pride itself.

The dungeon steamed with heat, cauldrons bubbling.

Tom worked with ruthless efficiency, measuring ingredients without pause, his potion gleaming jewel-bright before any other cauldron finished changing color.

Lucius brewed with precision, movements smooth as a dancer, every slice exact. His potion shimmered clear, flawless enough to be bottled for sale.

And Severus — Severus was a storm. He muttered under his breath as he brewed, eyes sharp, hands moving faster than most examiners could track. His cauldron hissed, then settled, and when the steam cleared, the potion was perfect. More than perfect — improved. The examiner sniffed, blinked, and bent lower to confirm the subtle adjustment Severus had made to stabilize the base.

A hush spread. Whispers raced through the room.

“Snape—?”
“At fourteen?”
“Impossible.”

But the potion gleamed undeniable, and the marks were inked in awe.

When the last quills were dropped, the three mates rose together. Tom at the front, crimson eyes gleaming with quiet triumph; Lucius at his side, silver hair gleaming like fire; Severus between them, pale but steady, their presence anchoring him.

Students parted instinctively, bowing without knowing why. Professors murmured behind their hands, some in admiration, others in fear. Dumbledore’s blue gaze followed them from the staff table, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Tom felt it — the shift. This was no longer school. This was no longer testing. They had proven themselves, outstripped the system meant to contain them. Hogwarts could no longer hold them.

In the privacy of the Chamber that night, they sat together, bond threads humming, parchment of results glowing with highest marks.

Tom’s lips curved, cruel and triumphant. “Then the future awaits.”

The last week of term brought a strange, heavy stillness to Hogwarts. Corridors echoed with laughter, voices carried promises of summer, and trunks were already half-packed. But for the three bound together by instinct and inheritance, the days felt different. Final.

In the Slytherin dormitories, a new hierarchy had settled beyond dispute. No one challenged Tom anymore — not openly, not even in whispers. When he entered the common room, conversation dimmed, eyes lowered. Some students felt relief, others awe, but all obeyed. Slytherin House had crowned its ruler, and the House Cup hanging heavy in green-and-silver banners above them was almost incidental proof.

But it wasn’t the triumph of Slytherin that consumed Severus.

It was Lucius.

At night, when the common room thinned to only a handful of stragglers and the fire burned low, Severus found himself nearer to the blond than he had ever dared before. The bond tugged insistently, pulling him close, and Lucius did not push him away. Quite the opposite.

The first time, it was an accident — their knees brushed under the library table, and Severus drew back, face burning. But Lucius’s pale hand caught his wrist, thumb stroking once across his pulse.

“Don’t,” Lucius murmured, so soft only Severus could hear. “You don’t have to hide.”

Severus swallowed, throat tight. And he didn’t.

That night, in the shadows of the common room, Lucius drew him into a corner chair, silver hair catching the firelight. He leaned close, lips brushing against Severus’s temple first, then his cheek, then finally, inevitably, his mouth.

Severus froze — and then melted, trembling under the weight of the kiss. It was nothing like he had imagined; Lucius kissed like he did everything else: with elegance, with precision, with control. Severus responded awkwardly, hungrily, but Lucius coaxed him into rhythm, teaching with each brush of lips, each gentle tug of his lower lip between his teeth.

When they parted, Severus’s chest heaved. Lucius only smiled faintly, thumb brushing his jaw. “Better.”

It happened again the next night. And the next.

Sometimes gentle — Lucius’s hand cradling the back of Severus’s neck, lips moving slow and sure. Sometimes fiercer — Severus pressed against the wall, Lucius’s breath hot against his ear, kisses deep and consuming until Severus clung to him just to stay upright.

Each time, Severus’s confidence grew. He began to touch back — fingers trembling over Lucius’s cheek, daring to tangle in his silver hair. And each time, Lucius allowed it, encouraged it, but always remained in control.

And always, Tom watched.

He never interrupted. He never joined. He sat in the high-backed chair by the fire, a book open on his knee, crimson eyes gleaming in the low light.

When Lucius deepened a kiss and Severus whimpered softly, Tom’s gaze flicked up, sharp and hungry. When Lucius’s hand slid beneath Severus’s jaw, tilting his head back, Tom’s lips curved faintly in satisfaction.

He didn’t touch but his aura filled the room, heavy and commanding, wrapping around them like invisible coils. Every gasp Severus made, every small surrender Lucius coaxed — all of it was under Tom’s eyes. Allowed because Tom allowed it.

And Severus knew it. Lucius knew it.

The awareness made every touch sharper, every kiss heavier with unspoken promise.

Severus hated the train.

He always had.

It was noisy — full of shrieking owls, clattering trunks, and the endless chatter of students who had homes worth going to. It smelled of steam and grease, heavy with sugar from the trolley. It carried him from the one place that mattered back to the house he dreaded most.

Even now, with the bond threads humming steady in his chest, the thought of Spinner’s End made his stomach clench. The dingy walls, the sour stench of alcohol, his father’s hand raised quick as a whip—

He shut his eyes.

The train jolted forward, wheels grinding against the tracks. Severus swallowed bile, curling deeper into his corner of the compartment. His cloak wrapped tight, knees pulled up, he tried to make himself small. He had thought being bonded might ease the return journey. It didn’t.

“Severus.”

Lucius’s voice was smooth, a balm against the rattle of the train. The blond sat poised across from him, every inch the heir — perfect posture, long legs crossed, silver hair falling like silk. His eyes, though, were soft when they turned to Severus.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Severus lifted his gaze.

Lucius’s lips curved. He leaned forward, pale hand brushing Severus’s knee. The touch was casual on the surface, but Severus felt the bond thread pulse at the contact, soothing some of the churn in his stomach.

“You’re too tense,” Lucius murmured, voice pitched low. His hand slid higher, fingers ghosting up Severus’s thigh. “You’ll make yourself ill before we even reach the city.”

Severus’s breath caught. Heat rushed to his face. “Lucius—”

The blond only smiled faintly, thumb pressing just enough to make Severus twitch. “Better to be distracted, don’t you think?”

Severus’s heart pounded. His throat was dry. The noise of the train blurred, the weight of dread replaced with something sharper, needier. Lucius leaned closer, lips brushing Severus’s ear before trailing lower.

And across from them, Tom scoffed.

The rustle of parchment punctuated his words, calm and cutting. “You two can’t keep your hands off each other for a single journey.”

Lucius didn’t even glance his way. “Would you rather he sat here brooding until he vomits?”

Tom made a noncommittal sound, crimson eyes glinting over the top of his book. “I would rather you had some restraint. But then, I suppose asking a Malfoy not to indulge himself is asking the tide not to rise.”

Severus wanted to sink into the seat. His face burned, his body ached with tension — and yet, when Lucius’s hand tightened on his thigh and his lips brushed Severus’s jaw, he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

Tom’s gaze lingered on them for a long moment before he turned back to his reading, lips twitching faintly. Amusement. Approval. Possession.

The train rattled on, fields streaming past the window. Severus focused on the press of Lucius’s hand, the warmth of his breath, the way Tom’s aura curled around them both even as he pretended disinterest.

For the first time on the ride home, Severus didn’t hate it quite so much.

The train screamed into the station with a shrill whistle, brakes grinding sparks. Steam hissed across the platform, swallowing the view in white clouds. Students spilled out in noisy clusters — chattering, laughing, trunks banging against their knees. Parents called from the edges, waving hands, voices raised over the din.

Severus hated this part almost as much as the ride itself. The noise pressed in from every direction, the steam burned his throat, and the sight of happy reunions — mothers pulling children into arms, fathers clapping shoulders — made something in his chest twist sharp and bitter.

Normally, this was when he braced himself. When he ducked his head, tightened his grip on his trunk, and slunk toward the narrow exit that led back to Spinner’s End. Normally, he counted every step like a march to execution.

Not this time.

Because this time, he wasn’t walking alone.

Lucius led the way, silver hair gleaming even in the dim haze of steam, posture perfect, polished cane tapping against the ground. Tom walked at his side, crimson gaze cutting through the chaos, every student who looked their way shrinking back. Severus trailed half a step behind, cloak still wrapped tight, but the tug of the bond threads steadied his breathing.

They reached the edge of the platform — and there they were.

Abraxas Malfoy stood tall, silver eyes sharp as cut glass, his robes immaculate. Beside him, Selene Malfoy was pale and graceful, her smile poised, her gaze warm on her son. They looked as though they owned the platform, as though the chaos of parents and students parted around them by instinct alone.

Lucius’s spine straightened further, if that were even possible. “Father. Mother.”

Abraxas inclined his head. “Lucius.” His gaze swept over Tom and Severus, assessing, weighing. “And these must be your companions.”

Tom inclined his head faintly, unbothered by the scrutiny. “Tom Riddle.”

Severus hesitated, throat dry, but forced the words out. “Severus Snape.”

Selene’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Welcome.”

That single word wrapped around Severus like a spell. He hadn’t realized until that moment how tightly he had braced for rejection — for a sneer, a dismissal, a muttered insult about his name or his blood. Instead, the lady of Malfoy Manor welcomed him as if he belonged.

His chest ached with the shock of it.

“Come,” Abraxas said briskly, with the authority of one who expected to be obeyed. “The carriage waits.”

Lucius didn’t look back as they followed his parents through the crowd, but his hand brushed Severus’s briefly, fingers grazing his wrist — reassurance, possession, promise. Tom walked on the other side, aura heavy and unyielding, crimson gaze daring anyone to block their path.

No one did.

For the first time in his life, Severus Snape did not leave King’s Cross alone. He did not turn toward Spinner’s End, shoulders hunched against the weight of dread.

He walked between his mates, toward a future that was not his father’s.

Toward Malfoy Manor.

The carriage that bore them from King’s Cross to Wiltshire moved like a shadow, warded against sight and sound. It rattled smooth along cobbled streets, then country lanes, until the city gave way to rolling fields and the sharp, green scent of summer hedgerows.

Severus pressed against the corner of the seat, cloak wrapped close, wide-eyed despite himself.

He had never ridden in anything like this. Spinner’s End had no carriages, no house-elves to drive them, no velvet cushions or gilded lanterns swinging overhead. The air smelled of lavender and clean polish, not coal smoke or mildew. Every detail whispered wealth so old and secure it no longer needed to boast.

Lucius, across from him, looked utterly at ease. This was his world. Pale hair gleamed as he leaned one hand lightly on his polished cane, silver eyes half-lidded as if he had been born to command not just this carriage, but the road itself. Tom sat beside him, scarlet gaze flicking now and then toward the window, unbothered, as though he had expected nothing less.

Severus folded tighter into himself. He should not be here. He should not belong.

And yet — the bond threads tugged steady in his chest, warm, undeniable.

The gates of Malfoy Manor rose high and wrought-iron, opening silently as they approached. Beyond stretched manicured grounds, hedges clipped into perfect shapes, peacocks strutting along gravel walks. The manor itself gleamed pale and proud at the end of the lane, white stone catching the sun until Severus had to squint.

It was too much. Too large, too clean, too bright. He half-wanted to turn back, to vanish into the shadows he knew. But Tom’s aura pressed warm at his side, anchoring him, and Lucius’s faint smirk as he watched Severus’s awe held no mockery — only pride.

The carriage rolled to a halt. Doors swung wide.

House-elves bowed so low their noses brushed the gravel. “Welcome home, young master,” they squeaked, voices in eerie unison.

Lucius inclined his head, not unkindly. “Take our trunks.”

Severus followed stiffly as they entered.

The hall of Malfoy Manor stole his breath.

Marble floors gleamed beneath their feet, veined with silver. Chandeliers hung like frozen rain, their crystals catching candlelight in a thousand prisms. Portraits lined the walls, Malfoy ancestors in centuries of finery, their eyes sharp and appraising.

Severus’s boots squeaked against the polished floor. He wanted to apologize for scuffing it.

They were shown through salons and corridors, every room richer than the last. Severus trailed, silent, trying not to gape at velvet drapes and gilded mirrors. His father had called wizards like the Malfoys parasites, flaunting wealth while others starved. But Severus had never seen luxury like this before. He couldn’t help staring.

A boy lingered near the stairwell as they passed. Two years younger than Lucius, with pale blond hair cropped shorter and wide, curious eyes. His features were unmistakably Malfoy, though still softened by youth.

Severus slowed, startled — but Lucius did not pause. His steps never faltered, his gaze never strayed.

The younger boy’s mouth opened as if to speak, but Abraxas’s sharp look silenced him. He vanished into the shadows of the corridor without a word.

Tom noticed. His crimson gaze flicked briefly between Lucius and the boy, but he said nothing.

Dinner was a thing of ceremony.

The long table gleamed with polished silver, crystal goblets filled with deep red wine. Platters of roast game, bowls of steaming vegetables, dishes Severus had never seen before were laid out with precision.

He barely touched his plate at first, too stiff, too conscious of Abraxas’s sharp gaze and Selene’s serene smile. But Lucius poured him wine with unruffled ease, and Tom murmured quiet encouragement, and little by little Severus forced himself to eat.

Tom handled the evening like a prince. He spoke when addressed, every answer poised and intelligent. He met Abraxas’s scrutiny without flinching, spoke with confidence about magic, law, inheritance. Selene’s lips curved as she listened, faint approval in her eyes.

Lucius was elegance incarnate — guiding conversation smoothly, deflecting sharp edges, presenting himself not only as their heir but as the mate of two brilliant young men. Pride threaded through every word he spoke.

Severus said little. He was not sure he belonged at the table at all. But Selene asked him one gentle question about Potions, and before he realized it, he was explaining. His hands moved as he spoke, his words quickened, and when he faltered, embarrassed, Selene smiled again.

“You have talent,” she said.

Heat flushed Severus’s face. He ducked his head, but his chest ached with something dangerously like hope.

When the meal ended, Abraxas dismissed them briskly. “You will have rooms prepared. The house is open to you.”

As they walked past the nursery wing, Severus caught the flicker in Lucius’s eyes. The door to his younger brother’s room stood ajar, light spilling out. Lucius didn’t look at it. He didn’t slow. He passed it as if it weren’t there.

And Severus, who had long ago learned how to see what wasn’t said, felt the silence like a weight.

That night, Severus lay in a guest chamber finer than anything he had ever imagined. The sheets were silk. The air smelled of lavender. A house-elf had left pastries on the table. He lay stiff and sleepless for hours, mind whirling.

He had been meant to return to Spinner’s End. To the sour stench of his father’s rage, the cracked walls and broken furniture. Instead, he was here. In Malfoy Manor. With Tom and Lucius just down the hall.

The west salon smelled faintly of sandalwood and old parchment, the air heavy with the weight of generations. Abraxas stood by the hearth, cane in hand, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Selene reclined on the settee, pale fingers folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm but watchful.

Lucius entered with the bearing of a man already older than his years, cloak flowing about him, mask smooth and cold. But the bond threads tugged warm in his chest, Tom’s dominance thrumming steady, Severus’s hesitance softening at its edges — and for once, Lucius let his mask slip a fraction.

“Father. Mother.” He bowed with precision, silver hair catching the firelight. “I must speak with you of a matter most urgent.”

Selene tilted her head, voice soft. “You have your mates now, Lucius. Of course it is urgent.”

Abraxas’s lips thinned. “Say what you came to say.”

Lucius drew a breath. “The truth is this — our Circle is not complete. Tom, Severus, and I are bound, but the Submissive, the heart, lies not in our time. He is… ahead of us. The magic pulls us toward him, relentless. If we do not follow, Tom will collapse under the strain of being half a soul.”

Selene’s brows knit faintly, but she did not speak.

Abraxas’s eyes narrowed. “Time travel.”

“Yes.” Lucius’s voice did not waver. “But all my research, all Tom’s, says the same thing — continuity demands an anchor. A soul left behind, so that the world does not unravel. Tom split himself once already, and it nearly destroyed him. I will not allow him to do it again.”

The words rang sharp in the chamber, echoing against the stone.

For a moment, silence stretched. Only the fire cracked.

Then Abraxas’s expression shifted, just slightly — something like dry amusement. “You are clever, Lucius. But not clever enough to know your own inheritance.”

Lucius blinked. “What?”

Abraxas tapped his cane once against the hearth. “You carry Veela blood. Do you even understand what that means? Beyond fluttering hearts and pretty faces?”

Lucius stiffened, bristling. “Of course I—”

“You don’t,” Abraxas cut him off, sharp as a whip. “Or you would not be here fretting about soul anchors.”

Selene’s lips twitched faintly, though her eyes were kind. “Abraxas. Do not flay the boy. Tell him.”

Abraxas exhaled once, slow, then leveled his gaze on his son. “When a Veela bonds, Lucius, it is not mere sentiment. It is magic. Raw, multiplying, binding magic. A Veela who fulfills his bonds doubles the strength of his Circle. That power is anchor enough to tear through time without cost.”

Lucius stilled. The fire popped. “Fulfilled?”

His father arched a brow. “Don’t play coy. You are not a child.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “… I’m not certain I take your meaning.”

Abraxas gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Merlin save us. I must explain this like it is a lesson in sums.” He leaned forward, voice clipped. “Fulfillment, Lucius, is not a kiss in a corridor. It is the bed. Flesh to flesh. Sex.”

Lucius froze. For all his polish, his cheeks heated, pale skin betraying him. Selene raised her hand to her mouth, politely hiding a smile.

“Father,” Lucius said tightly.

“What? You expect me to mince words?” Abraxas snapped. “You are seventeen, bonded to two mates, and still pretending ignorance? Foolishness. Once you lie with them both, fully, your bond will be fulfilled. Your Circle will stand strong enough to defy the laws of time. No soul split. No anchor.”

Lucius swallowed hard, throat dry. He had known, in vague theory, that Veela bonds ran deeper than others. But he had not realized—

Selene’s voice broke gently into his thoughts. “Your father is blunt, but he is right. Do not mistake hesitation for courtesy, my son. Protecting your mates does not mean denying them. Trust them with your strength. Trust yourself with theirs.”

Lucius’s chest ached, pride and embarrassment tangling. He bowed his head, voice low. “Then I must… fulfill it.”

Abraxas grunted. “Yes. And sooner rather than later, if you intend to keep your Circle from fraying.” He paused, then — surprisingly — laid a firm hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “Do not starve yourself through false restraint. A Circle that hesitates is a Circle that fails.”

Selene rose, brushing her cool fingers across her son’s cheek. “We raised you to be strong, Lucius. But strength is not pride. It is knowing when to give, and when to hold. Remember that.”

Lucius bowed deeply, silver hair spilling forward. “I will. Both of you… thank you.”

Abraxas inclined his head, curt but not unkind. Selene kissed his brow lightly.

“When the time comes,” Lucius said, voice steadier now, “I will say goodbye properly. But not yet. We do not know when we will go.”

Selene smiled. “Then until then, you are still here. And always our son.”

Lucius’s throat tightened. He turned, cloak whispering, and left the salon.

The night pressed quiet over Malfoy Manor, the kind of hush that settled only when all the elves had retired and the wards themselves seemed to hum with sleep. Lucius sat on the edge of his bed, silk sheets smooth beneath his hand, heart pounding faster than he would admit.

He had faced Voldemort without flinching. He had kissed Severus in full view of Slytherin House. He had watched Tom Riddle’s crimson eyes glow with enough power to make grown men tremble. Yet here he was, seventeen years old, bracing himself to explain to his mates the most undignified conversation of his life.

The door creaked open.

Tom entered first, as he always did, aura heavy enough that the room seemed to bow around him. He took the far side of the bed without asking, lounging back against the headboard as though the silk sheets belonged to him. His crimson eyes gleamed with faint curiosity.

Severus followed, slower, shoulders hunched in his too-thin robes. He looked younger than ever in this house of marble and gold, hair falling into his eyes as he slid gingerly onto the other side of the bed.

And so Lucius found himself in the middle, between the gravity of his Dominant and the hesitance of his Support.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“I have news,” Lucius began, smoothing invisible creases from his sleeve. He pitched his voice low, calm, precise — as if he were addressing the Wizengamot instead of his own mates. “I spoke with my parents tonight. About the… difficulty of time travel.”

Tom arched a brow. “Ah. The soul anchor problem.”

“Exactly.” Lucius inclined his head, pleased that Tom followed. “My father explained that in the case of Veela inheritance, a bond can provide its own anchor, if fulfilled.”

Severus tilted his head. “Fulfilled?”

Lucius cleared his throat. This was the part he had been dreading. “Yes. Fulfilled. That is to say…” He forced the words out, each syllable heavy. “… not merely affection. Not even kissing. Fulfillment means—”

Tom’s smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “He means sex, Severus.”

Lucius shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Must you be so vulgar?”

“I must,” Tom drawled, crimson eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Because you’re dancing around the word like it’s a curse. Do continue, Lucius. Enlighten us about the noble art of bedding one’s mates.”

Heat climbed Lucius’s neck, but he held his composure. “My father explained,” he said tightly, “that when a Veela consummates with his mates, their magic doubles. It becomes strong enough to tear through time without any soul left behind. That is the solution. No splitting. No anchor.”

Severus’s cheeks had gone scarlet. His hands twisted in his lap, thin fingers tangling in the fabric of his robes. But his voice, when it came, was quiet and earnest. “If… if that’s what it takes. Then… I don’t mind.”

Lucius turned sharply toward him, caught between pride and tenderness. “Severus, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The words tumbled out, rushed, but steady. Severus swallowed hard, dark eyes darting up to meet his. “I… I want to be strong. For you. For Tom. If this is how… then yes.”

The bond threads thrummed hot, tugging, as if eager for the promise.

Lucius’s chest ached. He wanted to gather Severus in his arms then and there, kiss the shy determination from his mouth. But before he could, Tom’s laugh broke across the tension like a whip crack.

“Finally,” Tom said, swinging his legs off the bed. He rose with smooth grace, crimson eyes glinting. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you two to stop tiptoeing around each other?”

Lucius’s ears burned. “Tom—”

“I’ll give you privacy.” Tom smirked, moving toward the door. “Do try not to break the bed. My patience only extends so far.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

And Lucius, left alone with Severus on the silk sheets, turned to his younger mate. Severus’s face was still flushed, his breath quick, but when their eyes met, the bond threads thrummed steady, certain.

Lucius let out a slow breath, his lips curving faintly. “Then it seems we have work to do.”

The door clicked shut behind Tom, leaving the chamber steeped in silence.

Lucius sat very still, hands folded on his lap, though his pulse thundered. He could feel Severus beside him — every uneven breath, every twitch of his nervous fingers against the silk sheets. The bond threads hummed warm between them, vibrating with expectation.

Lucius turned slowly. Severus sat stiff-backed against the headboard, knees drawn close, cloak sliding from his narrow shoulders. His dark hair curtained his face, but Lucius caught the flash of wide eyes beneath it.

“Severus,” Lucius said softly. He reached out, pale fingers hovering just short of the boy’s jaw. “We don’t have to do this tonight. Not if you’re uncertain.”

For a heartbeat, Severus was silent. His chest rose and fell too quickly, lips parted, and Lucius almost pulled his hand back. Then Severus shook his head, sharply. “I said I wanted to,” he whispered. “I do.”

Lucius’s chest eased, just slightly. He cupped Severus’s face at last, thumb brushing across his cheekbone, cool and steady. “Then we will. Slowly. With your consent every step.”

Severus swallowed hard — and nodded.

The first kiss was cautious. Lucius leaned in, brushed his lips over Severus’s temple, then the corner of his mouth, before finally capturing his lips. Severus froze, then melted, a tremor running through him as his fingers tangled in Lucius’s shirt.

Lucius deepened the kiss with care, coaxing, testing. He stroked down Severus’s arm, pausing at his wrist. Severus shivered — and guided the hand lower himself, cheeks blazing, eyes bright with need.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, voice breaking.

Lucius’s control wavered. Heat flared through him, Veela instincts purring at the permission. He angled the kiss deeper, lips demanding now, tasting every gasp, every shiver.

But before he could take more, Severus surged up suddenly, pressing him back against the mattress.

Lucius’s breath caught — then broke into a startled groan as Severus straddled his waist, kissing him fiercely. The boy’s hair fell forward, tickling his face, his hands fisting in Lucius’s hair as if to anchor himself.

“Severus—” Lucius managed, voice ragged. “Slow—”

But Severus cut him off with another kiss, teeth grazing his lower lip, a low sound tearing from his throat. His body trembled, but his will was iron, his hunger fierce.

Lucius shuddered, surrendering. He let his hands slide down, gripping Severus’s waist, guiding but no longer restraining. Every movement sparked bond-magic, heat curling in his veins, the air itself thick with it.

Severus’s kisses turned frantic, needy, dragging heat from him with every brush of lips, every desperate touch. Lucius could only cling back, groaning against his mouth, half in awe, half undone.

When the magic finally broke, it was unmistakable.

A golden wave surged through them both, blinding, burning, knitting bond to bond. Lucius cried out against Severus’s mouth, clutching him tight as raw power flooded his veins. Severus gasped, shaking, clutching him just as fiercely, as if the magic might tear them apart if he let go.

And then it settled — into warmth, into steadiness. The bond thrummed whole, sealed, humming with doubled strength.

Severus sagged against him, flushed and panting, face buried in his chest. His hair was damp, sticking to his temple, his shoulders trembling with aftershocks.

Lucius stroked a hand down his back, tender now, protective. He pressed a kiss to his temple, lips lingering.

“Well,” he murmured, voice rough but amused. “So much for going slowly.”

Severus gave a shaky laugh, muffled against his chest. “Sorry. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to wait.”

Lucius tightened his hold, pride and heat burning together. “Don’t be sorry. You were magnificent.”

He tilted Severus’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. Silver eyes locked with dark, and for once Severus didn’t flinch away. He looked back, steady, bond threads singing strong between them.

Lucius smiled faintly, almost reverently. “Mine.”

Severus blushed scarlet — but he didn’t deny it.

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor, painting Severus in soft gold where he lay curled against Lucius’s chest. His hair was a tangle, his lips swollen, his cheeks faintly pink even in sleep.

Lucius stroked a hand down his back, possessive warmth coiling in his chest. The bond threads thrummed steady, stronger than ever, humming with doubled power. For the first time since their inheritance, he felt… whole. Anchored.

The door creaked open.

Tom entered like a shadow, crimson eyes gleaming in the morning light. He crossed the chamber with his usual effortless grace, stopping at the side of the bed to look down at them.

“Severus,” Tom murmured, voice smooth, amused. His hand lifted — to brush dark hair from Severus’s face.

A snarl tore from Lucius’s throat before he even thought about it. He clutched Severus tighter, silver eyes flashing.

Tom froze, one brow arching. “… Did you just hiss at me?”

Lucius’s lip curled. “Don’t touch him.”

Tom blinked, then laughed — low and delighted. “Oh, this is rich. The great Lucius Malfoy, reduced to a jealous snake over his own mate.”

Lucius’s grip only tightened. “He’s mine.”

Tom tilted his head, smirk widening. “He’s ours.”

“Mine,” Lucius snapped, sharp as a whip.

The argument might have escalated if not for the dry chuckle that drifted from the doorway.

Abraxas Malfoy leaned against the frame, cane in hand, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Ah. So it’s begun.”

Both boys turned, startled.

Abraxas stepped into the room, gaze sweeping over the scene with cutting precision. Severus, blinking awake and flushing scarlet; Lucius, snarling like a beast; Tom, smirking as if he owned the room.

“Veela possessiveness,” Abraxas announced, voice dry. “Completely normal after first fulfillment. The instinct to guard your mate from even the brush of a hand.” His lips twitched. “It’ll wear off in a few hours.”

Lucius flushed, but his arms didn’t loosen.

Tom crossed his arms, smirk unfading. “Then riddle me this, Lord Malfoy — why didn’t Lucius react this way after our fulfillment?”

Abraxas’s smirk widened. He tapped his cane once against the floor. “Because you were the Dominant, boy. You were the one on top, as you can delicately put it. The Veela instinct doesn’t flare when they are the one being taken. Only when they take.”

For once, Tom faltered. His smirk slipped, crimson eyes narrowing as Lucius went scarlet from ears to throat.

Selene’s voice drifted from the hall, lilting with laughter. “Do stop tormenting them, Abraxas.”

Abraxas chuckled outright. “Where would be the fun in that?” He turned back toward the corridor. “Enjoy your morning, children. Try not to bite each other.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lucius buried his face in Severus’s hair, ears burning, while Tom leaned against the wall, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.

“Oh,” Tom said between chuckles, “I am never letting either of you live this down.”

Lucius growled low, but the bond threads hummed too warm for him to be truly angry. Severus, mortified and bright red, muttered into Lucius’s chest: “Kill me now.”

Lucius tightened his arms around him, voice possessive but fond. “Not a chance. Mine.”

Tom smirked, eyes gleaming. “Ours.”

Lucius hissed again.

Severus groaned.

The Malfoy gardens had never held such a gathering. The marble walkways were swept clean, hedges cut to sharp perfection, fountains stilled with a silencing charm so that no drop of water would disturb the circle.

At its heart, three boys knelt. No — not boys. Mates. A Circle. Magic coiled thick around them, tugging at the very air, humming with the kind of inevitability Abraxas had only ever read of in the oldest books.

He stood beside Selene, his cane digging into the soil, his silver eyes sharp and unblinking. He had faced Ministers, Death Eaters, and worse, but never this: the sight of his heir preparing to step out of his reach forever.

Lucius was calm, outwardly as polished as ever, his pale hair gleaming like quicksilver in the late sun. But Abraxas knew his son — knew the way his fingers lingered a heartbeat too long on the chalk, the way his throat worked as he gave final instructions to his mates.

The half-blood, Severus, crouched with careful precision, pouring dragonbone dust along the outer edge. His hands shook, but his jaw was set with quiet determination. He looked more a Malfoy in that moment than half the bloodline did.

And then there was Riddle. That boy. Those crimson eyes. Too sharp for seventeen, too old in the way he carried himself. Dangerous — yes. But he was the kind of danger Lucius had always been drawn to. Abraxas had once thought he would fight it. Now, watching the aura curl around them all, he knew better.

The ritual circle flared to life, silver runes sparking against the earth.

Lucius straightened, dust streaking his pale fingers, and turned toward them. For a long moment, he only looked. His face was still, mask smooth, but his eyes… those betrayed him.

“Father. Mother,” he said quietly. His voice did not falter, but it thickened, weight heavy beneath it. “You know I must go.”

Selene stepped forward, skirts brushing the grass, and cupped his face in both hands. Her voice was steady, even as her lips trembled. “You are our son. Always. No time, no bond, no magic will change that.”

Abraxas cleared his throat, forcing iron into his voice. “The Malfoy name is yours, Lucius. Your inheritance, your legacy, your place. You will always be our heir, whether you stand in this century or another.”

Lucius bowed his head, and for once it was not performance but surrender. “Thank you. Both of you. For trusting me. For letting me go.”

Selene kissed his brow. Abraxas laid his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder. It was all he could give.

Lucius stepped back, rejoined his mates, and together the three knelt in the circle.

The runes blazed. Wind tore through the garden, whipping at cloaks, bending the hedges. Magic screamed, raw and wild, tugging at the earth.

Abraxas gripped his cane harder, jaw set, refusing to show weakness as the storm of power rose. His wife’s hand found his arm, anchoring him.

At the circle’s heart, the three clasped hands. Their voices rose in unison, a chant Abraxas did not recognize but felt in his bones. The garden glowed with impossible light.

And then—

They were gone.

The runes burned out, the air stilled, the silence crashed heavy. Only the imprint of their presence remained, a warmth that sank into the soil itself.

Abraxas exhaled slowly.

“They are gone,” Selene whispered, tears in her voice but not her eyes.

Abraxas tightened his grip on his cane, silver gaze fixed on the empty circle. “No. They are not gone. They are Malfoys. Wherever time carries them, they remain ours.”

He stood tall, even as his chest ached, and let the garden fall quiet again.