Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Harry Potter…” hissed Voldemort, and Harry trembled, horrified as his name emerged hatefully from that grotesque, inhuman maw.

“See what I have become?” the pale, reptilian face whispered, its slitted eyes burning. “Mere shadow and vapour… I have form only when I share another’s body… but once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?”

Harry’s legs shook, and though he wanted more than anything to run away, he hesitated to step backwards, terrified that they’d give out beneath him entirely. As though the crimson gaze could read the thoughts of escape directly from Harry’s mind, the lipless mouth chuckled, the sound high and eerie. Then the monster spoke again.

“Don’t be a fool,” it derided, yet there was something almost amused in the tone despite the snarling face. “Better save your own life and join me… else you’ll meet the same end as your parents… They died begging me for mercy…”

“LIAR!” Harry shouted, suddenly furious. His parents were heroes, everyone said so. But the flash of anger froze in his veins as another round of hissing laughter echoed against stone walls.

“How touching…” mocked Voldemort, his high voice soft, yet compelling, demanding Harry listen. “I have not lied… Your mother needn’t have died… had she only joined me… but she refused… begged me for mercy… for you, her child… she was trying to protect you… Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”

“NEVER!”

Harry sprinted for the door, but the black fire from the previous trial still blocked it, and the icy effects of the potion he needed to travel through were long gone. He hesitated, and then, hearing Voldemort command Quirrell to seize him, decided to risk the flames. But he was too late. A tight hold circled his wrist, and there was an excruciating jab of needle-sharp pain in his head, right over his scar. He bit his tongue against the reflexive whimper and yanked his arm, surprised when the bruising hold loosened as Quirrell shrieked. ­

“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!” sobbed the wizard, and to Harry’s shock, the skin was blistering before his eyes.

There was a pause of uncertainty while Harry and Quirrell stared at one another, both afraid, and then Voldemort, calm and collected, ordered Harry’s execution.

“Then kill him, you fool, and be done.”

Before Quirrell could cast a spell or make use of his larger frame, Harry jumped and caught him by the arm with one hand, shoving the other into the wizard’s face. The pain was blinding, like a red-hot poker had been stabbed straight through his brain, but it was worse for his would-be murderer. Quirrell screamed, his skin bubbling from pink to red to black as it reacted to Harry’s touch. Voldemort was yelling, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and Quirrell was shrieking, and there were other voices in Harry’s head, crying his name.

The screams seemed to be getting louder and louder, overwhelming, or maybe merging with Voldemort’s high-pitched shouts. The pain in Harry’s head peaked — the world blurred, turning white — the voices cried — he felt a flash of searing heat flood the rest of his body, and then Quirrell’s arm was wrenched from his grip. Harry hit the floor, head cracking against the rough stone blocks, and then, thankfully, everything faded to black, taking the screaming and agony with it.

Harry floated gradually up to awareness. His thoughts were fuzzy, and his head was about to explode. It felt like someone had ripped open his scar, stuffed in too much cotton, and then stitched the two straining sides shut again. He cracked his eyes open, only enough to see overly bright lights and a glint of gold, before he slammed them shut again with a moan.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” greeted a familiar voice. Harry kept his eyes scrunched shut for a moment more before slowly opening them with a sigh. Albus Dumbledore was leaning, almost looming over him, smiling gleefully. “It’s good to see you awake, you gave us quite a scare,” he said in a cheerful voice, tone contradicting his words. Harry felt a spike of rage, quickly overcome by confusion as he stared at the headmaster, who towered over him.

“What happened, sir?” he whispered. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Hogwarts’ hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey has been overseeing your care since I discovered you tussling with Professor Quirrell in the secret dungeon under the third-floor corridor. I arrived just in time to pull the wizard off you and prevent him from stealing the Stone, though I must say you were doing quite well on your own!” The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes brightened, and Harry’s rage spiked again as his head throbbed.

“What happened between you and Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows,” declared Dumbledore before he finally leaned back, sitting in a chair just to the right of Harry’s bed.

Harry took this as his cue to sit up. As he pushed up on his elbow, he saw Dumbledore point a wand at him and couldn’t help but recoil, eyes closing involuntarily. Charmed fabric pushed against his back, providing a cushion to lean against as he sat fully upright. Checking behind him, Harry saw that the spell had only enlarged the pillow. Before he could thank the man, or possibly apologise, Dumbledore gestured to the pile of sweets covering the nearby table.

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” the old wizard offered in explanation. “I believe your friends, Mr Fred and George Weasley, were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madame Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

“How long have I been in here?” Harry timidly asked as he stared at the massive quantities of packaged candy.

“Three days,” was the immediate answer, and Harry was relieved it hadn’t been longer. Three days wasn’t that much time to lose, but summer was almost here. He’d have to go back to the Dursleys soon, so he didn’t want to waste any of his time left in the magical world. “Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round. They have been extremely worried.”

Harry thought he ought to care about that, but his head just kept throbbing, and it was hard to focus on anything. He glanced at the headmaster and felt yet another spike of rage. Determined to avoid whatever was causing this bewildering anger, Harry gazed down into his lap to avoid seeing Dumbledore’s face. Between the ache in his head and the surges of odd emotion, he really wished the old wizard would leave him alone for a bit so he could get his head on straight; however, the man did not seem inclined to listen to Harry’s silent plea for peace.

“What’s going to happen now?” he asked when the silence grew too awkward, keeping his voice low to avoid aggravating his headache further. “I mean with Vol… er… You-Know-Who? Is he go–”

“Call him Voldemort,” said Dumbledore, cutting Harry off mid-sentence. Since he’d been staring at the sweets, Harry was pretty sure the swell of irritation was all his, rather than whatever strange magic was making him angry when he looked at the man directly. “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, trying to keep any annoyance out of his tone and ensure Dumbledore remained oblivious. “Er, what I’m asking is Voldemort’s going to try other ways of coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?”

“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share… not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies,” the old wizard sighed heavily, and waited until Harry looked at him to continue, peering sagely over his glasses. “Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”

Forced to make eye contact during the speech, Harry had expected a wave of anger. Instead, he was smug. He felt exactly like he had the day he’d managed to sneak a whole package of biscuits into his cupboard without any of the Dursleys catching on. They’d gone stale within a week, but boy, oh boy, those sweets tasted amazing. Each bite was sweetened by his success in pulling one over on his relatives.

Harry nodded slowly when he realised Dumbledore was waiting for a response. He winced, the motion causing a twinge of pain to thrum from his forehead through his skull and down to his neck. Wondering if this strange reverse interrogation would continue for much longer, Harry cast about for another topic.

 “Sir, there are some things I’d like to know, if you can tell me… things I want to know the truth about…” he trailed off without asking anything directly, wary of the number of questions he’d already risked in this discussion. (Freaks weren’t supposed to ask questions.)

“The truth,” the headmaster sighed and then paused melodramatically. It was hard to believe the feigned sadness sketched across the old face when bright blue eyes still gleamed happily. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer any questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”

The assurance of honesty was nice, though it wasn’t something Harry felt confident trusting fully. Everyone lied. Still, the approval in Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to imply that this was the direction he’d been waiting for the conversation to go, so that was good. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the pulsing ache in his head, he started asking questions.

“Well… Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me,” he began hesitantly, letting his eyes wander around the room to avoid the bright blue stare. “But why would he want to kill me in the first place?”

“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day…” Dumbledore said the words ominously, but Harry refused to look at him. Anger and disbelief simmered within his chest, bubbling wildly like a pot of water left overlong on the stove, and he knew it’d only worsen if he saw twinkling eyes. “Put it from your mind for now, Harry.”

The headmaster stayed seated, waiting expectantly for more questions from Harry. What was the point of doing this now when his head was a throbbing mess if the man wasn’t even going to answer? Perhaps something that wasn’t about Voldemort would get a response.

“Why couldn’t Quirrell touch me? Was it some spell you put on me or the room?”

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin,” the old wizard said gravely. The choice of words made Harry shudder, a face blackened with burns flashing before his eyes. “Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”

Throughout the man’s explanation, Harry’s head had started to pound harder and harder. By the end, it hurt so badly that his eyes had begun to water. Dumbledore finally looked away, turning his face towards the windowsill, which, thankfully, alleviated some of Harry’s pain.

Drying his eyes on the sheets, Harry narrowly avoided scoffing. Love Conquers All was a tale for young children. However, Dumbledore obviously wanted to pretend he was a naïve child. It wasn’t worth the hassle to disabuse the man of the notion, despite Harry being dissatisfied with the response he’d received. At least this time, there was an attempt to answer. He waited a moment to see if the headmaster would leave — he only continued to sit patiently next to Harry’s hospital bed while his gold spectacles glinted in the sunlight — and then asked another question.

“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?” This wasn’t a huge mystery. Harry knew it had something to do with him not wanting the Stone, or else it wouldn’t be much of a safeguard against thieves, but he was running out of ideas for questions.

“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something,” joked Dumbledore as if Harry’s every encounter with the mirror hadn’t been traumatising, as if the brilliant idea hadn’t nearly led to Harry’s death. He wanted to roll his eyes, but again, resisted the urge. “You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get it. Otherwise, they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes… Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets.”

Finally.

The headmaster departed, leaving Harry’s pillow expanded and taking up a third of the mattress. He shoved it to the floor to make more space and rolled onto his side. Pillowing his head on his right arm, covering his face with the other as his legs curled up to his chest, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Counting each throb of his head as if they were sheep, he drifted off. It wasn’t until later that he realised his glasses had been off for the entire conversation with Dumbledore, yet he’d been able to see everything in detail… How strange.

Voldemort was confused. And very, very angry. He had been moments away from getting the Philosopher’s Stone. There had only been one smaller-than-average eleven-year-old who barely knew how to cast a lumos in his way, and yet…

Here he was, trapped in said child’s mind. No Stone. No Elixir. No body. Harry Potter must have been dipped in Felix Felicis when he was born. There was no way a normal child could have achieved this without an astronomical amount of luck, particularly one lacking in talent or brains like Harry Potter.

The worst of it was that Voldemort didn’t understand what had happened! His loyal servant had reached for the boy, his hand wrapping around Potter’s thin wrist… then Quirrell was crying, screaming from pain as the wizard’s skin aggressively blistered just from the boy’s touch. He’d never heard of a protection spell that reacted like that to perceived danger.

The strangest part was that while Quirrell was in agony, Voldemort had felt only bliss. His frustrated thoughts disappeared, and his mind floated on a cloud of vague happiness. It was as if the boy had cast a powerful imperio at him, though he knew that was impossible. He’d managed to ignore the feeling for a while and had shouted at his host to kill Potter, certain that the boy’s death would counter the spell. But the pleasurable high had grown and grown until eventually his grip on Quirrell’s spirit had faltered.

His memories afterwards were distorted and out of order — no one had dared lock him away since he was a child! And why was he setting a python on this fat child…? — while his mindscape, which was typically naturally organised, was in shambles. That he’d also awoken to Dumbledore’s face had not been pleasant, although, surprisingly, the Potter child had felt similarly annoyed.

He’d listened in to the old goat’s conversation with his beloved Prophecy Child, but the fairy-tale tripe Dumbledore had pushed was useless. He couldn’t believe that the man’s explanation for the curse on Quirrell was that the child’s mommy dearest had loved him so much she’d charged Potter’s skin up like a lightning rod to discharge at anyone who touched him inappropriately. Argh, this whole situation was endlessly aggravating.

Thankfully, at least one valuable piece of knowledge had come from the discussion with Dumbledore. He was delighted to discover that the old fool had no clue Voldemort was possessing the Boy-Who-Lived, nor was the child aware he was playing host for the Dark Lord who had bestowed the title on him.

It was also entertaining to see how wary the young wizard was of the headmaster, even without his own external influence. They were apparently not as close as everyone assumed. Hopefully, that meant Voldemort wouldn’t have to deal with too many more interactions with the old goat before he determined how to rip himself out of Potter. Which that endeavour was, unfortunately, less straightforward than he’d thought.

Why was the boy so perfect as a host?

With Quirrell, it had taken massive amounts of magic and energy to hold his soul inside the body. This uneducated Gryffindor child had done it accidentally… and Voldemort had been unable to resist the pull to inhabit the boy. It was as though Potter’s magic had sunk hooks into his soul, yanking him inside, though without the usual pain such transitions inspired, everything blanketed by that artificial happiness.

Still, instead of obsessing over all the mysteries surrounding his latest encounter with the Prophecy Child, Voldemort should focus on fixing his own mind. The best use of his time stuck within Potter would be to sort through all these peculiar memories he’d somehow obtained and collect information. Then, afterwards, he could observe the boy to find the answers to his many questions. And once he was no longer disembodied, Voldemort would use his newfound knowledge to exploit Potter’s weaknesses and kill the child quickly.

He was in the midst of organising the acquired memories when he noticed something quite odd. The stolen moments of Potter’s life weren’t exact duplicates of the ones retained in the boy’s mind. They were almost the same, and all the actions matched up, but on occasion, the emotions attached differed slightly. Voldemort’s version had more rage, while Potter’s version had more anxiety.

A strong surge of bashful joy buffeted his occlumency barriers, distracting Voldemort from his focused scrutiny on the puzzle. He aligned himself with his host, tuning in so he could see and hear alongside the boy. Harry Potter was at the end-of-year feast, and experiencing a peculiar mixture of dread, guilt, and delight. Potter’s current thoughts weren’t telling Voldemort what had happened, so he reeled in the boy’s recent memories to get some context.

Gryffindor had won the House Cup? Was that all? Oh, here was something. Dumbledore had granted Potter and his friends an exorbitant number of points for breaking multiple rules, putting themselves in mortal danger, and allowing him, the Dark Lord, access to the Stone and an opportunity to murder the Boy-Who-Lived. Potter felt guilty for “stealing” the House Cup from Slytherin at the last second, but was mostly basking in the positive attention for being the “hero”. The dread was related to his upcoming summer, apparently? It wasn’t very clear.

Voldemort wanted to scoff at the old goat’s overt manipulation. The mountain of points was both a reward for “fighting evil” and a way to endear himself to the child. It elevated Potter and his friends onto a pedestal and reinforced the divide between Gryffindors and Slytherins at the same time. With a few sentences, Dumbledore had inspired gratitude towards himself, isolated the boy from both admirers and adversaries, and reinforced Potter’s desire to be a hero.

It was quite a crude manipulation technique, but it’s not like an eleven-year-old Gryffindor would recognise it as such. There was no need for the man to be subtle.

Well, nothing Voldemort could do about it now… not that he was planning on doing anything about it. He was going to kill the boy. What did it matter if Dumbledore brainwashed Potter into taking up the mantle of the Light Saviour?

Then again… he would have all summer to influence the child. Perhaps, if there was time, Voldemort could also have some fun manipulating the brat. It wouldn’t do to let Dumbledore be the only influence in the child’s life.

Pulling back behind his shields again, Voldemort continued to work on his mindscape, viewing and chronologically organising the duplicate memories from his young host as he went. The more of Potter’s history that he saw, the more he understood why the boy dreaded returning to his relatives this summer.

In an odd parallel to himself, Potter had been briefly shown the amazing, magical world and was now to be forced back to the muggles, unfairly sentenced to withstand their cruelty every summer. If Voldemort had considered the boy’s home life before, he likely would have expected Potter to be spoiled, living with servants in some pureblood manor somewhere in the country. Instead, to see a similar childhood to his own… well, he was feeling an unusual amount of empathy for the boy.

Voldemort was ruminating on his similarities to Potter when he came across the boy’s memory of visiting the zoo for his cousin’s birthday. Shocked, he watched the child speak to the snake. Accidental magic had made the glass enclosure disappear, but setting the boa constrictor on the fat muggle youth? Understanding the snake’s farewell? That could only mean one thing. Harry Potter was a parselmouth.

What. The. Fuck.

Seriously. What the fuck!? That just wasn’t possible! Why, oh why were there so many fucking mysteries and inconsistencies with the child! It was so fucking aggravating!

Letting his temper rage through him until it burned itself out, Voldemort eventually calmed enough to have his epiphany. He dug through the earliest of the memories that he’d taken from his host. It was the night he had murdered the Potters and attacked the Prophecy Child, but… the memory began before he entered Harry Potter’s nursery. There he was killing James Potter — the incompetent prat hadn’t even had his wand on him before fruitlessly attacking — and the baby was nowhere in sight.

This memory could not belong to Harry Potter.

This had to be his memory, and suddenly, everything else made perfect sense. Harry was an ideal host for his soul. They had a mental connection before he’d touched the child, as evidenced by the headaches the boy experienced in Quirrell’s class. Harry was a parselmouth. Harry was almost a Slytherin. Hell, the boy’s magical capacity was similar to his own at this age, even if Harry lacked his control, ambition, and talent.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord — it was even in the fucking prophecy! It should be impossible, and yet…

Harry Potter was a horcrux.

Harry Potter was a human horcrux! Fuck! Harry Potter was his human Horcrux. Shit. Voldemort couldn’t kill the boy. He needed a new plan.

Chapter Text

Harry stared at his loose wristwatch, which read 11:58 in glowing green light whenever he pressed the button on the side. It was only two more minutes until his birthday, and he waited impatiently, his exhausted eyes glued to the watch’s face. It wasn’t that he had any reason in particular to be excited about turning twelve, but staying up until midnight was a tradition he never skipped. The Dursleys wouldn’t give him anything other than more chores or a cuff to the head if he brought it up, and his friends hadn’t sent any messages despite their promises, but it was still his birthday, so Harry stayed up to celebrate by himself.

He didn’t care that no one had spoken to him without disdain or fear all summer when he’d hoped — but no, he didn’t care. He did not care. The watch’s glow died, and Harry immediately hit the button again. Within seconds, one of the lines on the eight dimmed, changing the numbers to a blurry 11:59. Harry wiped his eyes on his forearm so he could see clearly when it turned to midnight. (That was one silver lining to his adventure at the end of last term. Whatever potion or spell Madame Pomfrey had given Harry while he was in the infirmary, he no longer needed glasses.)

Returning to the muggle world for the summer had gone pretty much as Harry had expected. He’d driven back from King’s Cross with Uncle Vernon muttering about wasted petrol and freaky platforms in late June. Then his school supplies, including wand, cloak, and broom, were immediately locked in his old cupboard, which had a shiny new padlock. Harry’s life returned to the Dursleys' preferred brand of normal, and it felt as if he’d never left at all.

The sweltering summer passed slowly, marked only by an endless stream of missed meals, useless chores, and the bright red Xs on the paper calendar Aunt Petunia kept in the kitchen. Harry crossed off each day, impatiently waiting for September, for Hogwarts, where there were tables of food, his comfortable bed, a dorm full of almost friends, and, of course, magic.

His watch’s light clicked off again, and when Harry hit the button this time, it finally showed 12:00. He closed his eyes and pretended there was cake with candles, and someone who loved him singing Happy Birthday. Exhaling loud and long, as if he truly were trying to blow out twelve small flames at once, Harry made a wish.

“I wish magic would help me escape the Dursleys,” he whispered aloud to the empty bedroom.

Nothing happened, of course, and Harry felt quite childish for hoping something would, but there was also an odd feeling of approval coursing through him, creating a rush of warmth that squirmed its way through his ribcage.

Experiencing two conflicting emotions might have been more notable if he hadn’t had so many peculiar feelings lately. Like how the lack of owls was disappointing, but there’d also been that strange hum of amused validation, as if a part of Harry had known he wouldn’t receive any letters. Then there were the bursts of rage whenever his aunt ordered him to do the usual chores, which, considering he’d been doing the same list since he was five, made absolutely no sense. And once, Harry had even felt confused aggravation while working the microwave!

He’d been fairly worried the first few times it’d happened, almost concerned enough to beg his relatives’ permission to send Hedwig with a letter to Dumbledore. Searching Dudley’s second room for writing materials, Harry had found a dull, broken pencil and an old spiral notebook decorated with Batman. But he’d only gotten so far as writing “Dear Headmaster” before his stomach twisted itself into distressed knots.

Harry never sent a note. The bout of nauseating anxiety, fuelled by the image of a gleeful smile and twinkling eyes that he’d awoken to in the medical wing, had won. Really, he shouldn’t bother the busy wizard with such a trivial issue as his emotions being foreign and weird anyway. He’d decided to chalk it up to another side-effect of the trauma from facing Voldemort, alongside the nightmares and exhaustion. If it got worse, then he could always tell someone once he was back at Hogwarts.

Plus, the longer the summer went on, the more Harry felt abandoned. He knew about magic now, so there was no reason to keep him here, completely cut off from the wixen world. He was the bloody Boy-Who-Lived! He’d stopped Voldemort again, at the risk of his own life — he’d burned Professor Quirrell’s face off, the man’s skin blistering into ash from a single touch — and yet Dumbledore still couldn’t be bothered to check on him after such a harrowing experience? No, Harry would not be writing to tell him anything.

With his birthday ritual complete and his body feeling exhausted enough that he hoped the nightmares wouldn’t find him, Harry dumped the watch onto his rickety nightstand and then lay flat on his bed to sleep. As he slipped into the land of dreams, there was another odd feeling, this one a strange delight. He pretended it was his mum, happy that Harry had turned another year older and proud of the person he was growing into.

“Get up!” Aunt Petunia shrieked, waking Harry by banging her fist on the door. “Time to make breakfast! Get up, you lazy boy!”

Harry sat up slowly, still exhausted. It felt like he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, though he’d gone to bed immediately after midnight. His eyelids were thick, heavy curtains that felt impossible to shift, so even as he pulled his legs to the side of the bed, settling his feet on the carpet, he left them shut. He waited there, still half-asleep, perched on the edge of his ratty mattress with closed eyes until another screech spurred him into motion.

Throwing on clean clothes, Harry rushed downstairs to begin cooking, irritation thrumming at the base of his skull. The tedious chore required very little of his attention since he’d made breakfast for his relatives so many times that he could do a fry-up in his sleep. This was good news because Harry might as well be asleep for all the attention he paid to the bacon. An annoying sense of anticipation had settled in alongside the hunger in his gut, and whenever he thought about the wish he’d made, there was a hum of accomplishment.

What could Harry have accomplished? Blowing out imaginary candles and then not passing out in front of the stove? It was frustrating to feel like he’d finished a super important task the night before and yet not have a clue what that task might have been.

Sneaking a few bites of eggs from the pan as well as one mildly burnt strip of bacon, Harry set the food on the table and then left to start his outdoor chores while the Dursleys ate breakfast as a family. He cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench — all while the sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his neck. Thank Merlin that by the time Harry had started hallucinating the overlarge, protruding eyes blinking at him from the hedges, he was on the last item on his list.

“Get in here!” Aunt Petunia snapped when Harry knocked on the back door. “And walk on the newspaper!”

He was so relieved he’d been granted permission to enter the air-conditioned kitchen that Harry barely noticed his aunt wrinkling her nose at his sweat-soaked form. Demanding that he eat quickly, she pointed at the small amounts of bread and cheese on the table. However, literally incapable of rushing in his current state, he just stared at her with dull eyes.

Pressing her lips into a pinched, flat line, Petunia snatched the plate of food and shoved it into Harry’s hands. A water bottle, soft grapefruit, and one small box of raisins quickly followed, though if not for his Seeker’s reflexes kicking in despite his fatigue, the food might have been just as swiftly dumped on the ground. “Take it all upstairs with you. The Masons will be here soon! Hurry!”

Moving slowly so as not to unbalance the precarious pile, Harry took the eclectic dinner and left the kitchen. He dragged himself upstairs, hearing Uncle Vernon remind Dudley to offer to escort Mrs Mason to the dining room. Mr Mason was some bigshot at Grunnings, so the Dursleys were trying to make a good, normal impression on the family. Hence, Harry was banished to his room instead of having to help serve the fancy dinner Aunt Petunia had spent all day making.

Usually, he would feel bitter about the discrepancy between his meal and the Dursleys', but today, Harry was simply too tired to care. He couldn’t stop his eyelids from drifting shut as he walked down the hallway, only managing to pry them open when he reached the graveyard of broken toys that served as his temporary bedroom.

Turning the brass knob, Harry slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. But as he moved towards his desk, the food in his arms toppled to the floor with a clatter, the bruised grapefruit rolling forward under his bed. He stared, shocked, and then squeezed his eyes closed forcefully until flecks of light danced in the darkness.

When Harry opened them again, his gaze immediately shot to the items sitting unobtrusively at the end of his bed, blinking a few times to bring them into focus. He stumbled forward until his foot hit the edge of the sturdy trunk and his fingers wrapped around the broom that had been haphazardly braced against it. They were real. He could… he could touch them! Harry wasn’t imagining the magical supplies that should have been trapped behind a very sturdy lock.

Joy flooded him, and he couldn’t help the astonished laugh that escaped from between his parted lips. Jerking the lid up, Harry laughed again. Not only had some mysterious force freed his trunk from its prison, but it’d also organised the mess of books and robes that remained inside at the end of the school year, with his wand and the invisibility cloak carefully balanced on top. Rifling through the contents, touching each item with shaking fingertips since he was still unable to believe it was truly here, Harry confirmed that everything the Dursleys had locked away was present.

He could do his homework, which shouldn’t be as exciting as it was, but Harry was ecstatic that he could read his textbooks. He could play with his chocolate frog trading cards, and eat the leftover candy he still had from his stay in the hospital wing, and he could learn about magic! Maybe even somewhere in here, he’d find a way to flee from the Dursleys before Hogwarts started.

His birthday wish had partially come true already, so really, anything was possible.

Tucking his wand into a pocket of his sweatpants, Harry grabbed Waffling’s magical theory book, hoping that he’d understand it better with a year of magical schooling under his belt. As he sat on the floor and ate his meagre supper, he happily read through the first chapter, surprised and delighted that it did indeed make much more sense now. He wanted to keep reading, to review all of his first-year textbooks, but the weight on his eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, and he knew sleep would claim him soon, whether he wanted it to or not.

Gently placing the book back onto the top of the stack he’d pulled it from, Harry closed the trunk again. Tomorrow, when he was less exhausted and more likely to remember things, he’d continue. Rolling onto his knees and then pushing up to his feet, Harry turned towards his bed, intent on collapsing there until morning. The problem was that something was already sitting on it, staring at him with the same large, green eyes he thought he’d imagined in the hedge this afternoon.

A house-elf was lounging on Harry’s subpar mattress. How utterly annoying. If the fae’s presence overshadowed the birthday gift to his human horcrux, Voldemort was going to rend him limb from limb. His anger crept higher, but then was abruptly cut off as his host suddenly fell unconscious.

Well, Harry had spent the day toiling in the hot sun doing his muggle relatives’ yard work after a sleepless night. It wasn’t truly a surprise that his mind had simply decided to give in to the fatigue, but it was convenient. The lack of cognisance allowed Voldemort to push forward and take control.

He managed to prevent the boy from falling face-first but couldn’t quite appropriate the body in time to avoid their knees from hitting the ground. Growling at the unkempt fae who’d prompted his host to faint, and thus was the source of Harry’s blooming bruises, Voldemort glared as the elf jumped to his feet now that he’d been noticed.

“What are you doing here, elf?” Voldemort asked, voice quietly intimidating as he rose back into a standing position. The fae squeaked and stared, its already bulbous eyes growing wide enough that it looked like they might pop out of their sockets. He waited, but the house-elf, one vowed to the Malfoys if that filthy uniform was any indication, just kept staring. “Well? Explain yourself.”

Squeaking again, the being finally responded, saying, “Harry Potter...?” The name was almost a question before the elf dramatically shook his head and continued in a determined fashion.

“So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… Such an honour it is…” The house-elf paused as if waiting for a response. Voldemort raised an eyebrow and eyed the dirty feet on Harry’s sheets with revulsion. He’d need to cast a cleaning charm before allowing his host’s body to rest there. After gesturing broadly for the elf to continue, he crossed his arms, impatiently tapping his foot.

“Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir…” Dobby prevaricated, “Dobby wonders where to begin…”

Voldemort rolled his eyes. This had to be the strangest house-elf on the planet, so, of course, he was obsessed with Voldemort’s soul bearer. Harry was an exceptionally powerful wizard, and this meant that the magical aura he exuded would cause both ardent admiration in magical beings and crushing fear in muggles. (This likely contributed to Harry’s guardians lashing out at him, but there was no excuse for abuse. Voldemort had already started planning the various tortures he would one day enact on the monstrous muggles, starting with evisceration.)

After perusing his host’s memories, Voldemort was sure Harry would have preferred less magical strength if it meant less attention, but that had never truly been an option for the boy. Harry’s core was on par with his own at twelve, and he’d had everyone with a scrap of magical sensitivity flocking to him even when he’d been known as Slytherin’s mudblood. Voldemort had easily handled the swarm of simpering pureblood lordlings, but his host didn’t have the proper temperament to deal with sycophants. Harry was more inclined to want to go unnoticed rather than lead a dedicated following.

Yet the boy could never fade into the background as he wished to. He was the Prophecy Child. Harry must be powerful because Fate had deemed him capable of vanquishing the most powerful Dark Lord in history. She’d also engineered the circumstances that led to the boy carrying a fragment of Voldemort’s soul, so the fact that he was alive at all was a credit to his immense strength.

The odds of surviving an intentional horcrux ritual as the container were infinitesimally small, let alone an accidental rite that shouldn’t have been possible. It was just so irritating that Voldemort still couldn’t determine how it had happened. No wix, and especially not a toddler, should have been capable of absorbing a horcrux without being overwhelmed by the magic and possibly exploding… yet Harry lived.

Harry’s existence was a miracle, but it was also a… complication. Now Voldemort had to deal with his mortal soul bearer wandering around unprotected and, if the scrap of prophecy Severus had brought to him was true, turning into his fated foe. Also, while stuck in Harry’s head as he’d been so far all summer, Voldemort hadn’t been able to look into the events of that Samhain night eleven years ago, nor the original prophecy’s full content, nor even research how to go about making himself corporeal again.

Since summer started, he’d tried everything he could think of to converse with his host, but there was never a response. The horcrux didn’t have any direct communication with Harry since it wasn’t sentient; however, it bridged him to his soul bearer, enabling both an empathic bond and a very weak mental link, though the only evidence of the active connection between their minds was how Harry occasionally mirrored Voldemort’s train of thought. That was useless, though. The mimicry wasn’t consistent and never worked when Voldemort intentionally pushed thoughts at the boy.

He'd quickly given up on communication to focus entirely on gaining control of his host’s physical form, which had also been a frustrating endeavour. He couldn’t supersede Harry’s control, not in a body that didn’t belong to him, but even while the boy slept, Voldemort had been unable to possess him fully. He’d created a unique spell combining legilimency and corporalis imperium that worked, but the timeframe was too short. Harry’s magic always reacted and woke the child, preventing Voldemort from taking over for more than a few seconds.

Which was why Harry’s birthday wish last night had been a stroke of luck.

The boy’s vague, but heartfelt request had spurred his magic to search for assistance. With a little twist of his soul and some obfuscation of the darker aspects of his magic, Voldemort managed to present himself as an ally to Harry’s wild, almost feral, core, forging a cooperative connection.

Since Voldemort was no longer considered a threat, the boy’s magic would obey some of his directions, such as a sleep spell to keep Harry’s mind unconscious. But he couldn’t take control indefinitely. The sheer amount of magic needed for possession, combined with a human body’s energy constraints, made the state unsustainable for long. But at least he had the means to interact with his surroundings and start planning a new physical form.

Voldemort needed to create a ritual, likely one involving sanguis magicae or necromagicae. Unfortunately, stuck here in residential hell, there weren’t many sources or supplies. He’d claimed Harry’s school trunk from the boot cupboard, but even as he’d been bypassing that ridiculous padlock, he’d known the theft was an exercise in futility. There would be nothing useful in any Dumbledore-approved texts for his current task.

Well, at least the magical items served as a well-received present for Harry’s birthday. Voldemort had been pleased to subvert the muggles and return the boy’s personal property, even if he was still angry at the child for losing him the Philosopher’s Stone. He knew that meddling old goat was truly at fault, not the naïve, muggle-raised Gryffindor pawn.

Plus, gaining the Stone wouldn’t have been worth destroying a piece of his soul. Just thinking about it made the ever-present hatred towards Dumbledore seethe in his chest, roaring for vengeance. That the cruel wizard would pit him against his horcrux… the only one capable of holding his soul… one day Voldemort would –

A shrill squeak suddenly filled the small room, startling Voldemort out of his thoughts. Shit. He’d forgotten about the bloody house-elf. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

Voldemort raised both eyebrows at this statement. The bound fae planned to punish himself; thus, Lucius must not know he was here. What possible reason could a Malfoy house-elf have to prevent Harry from attending Hogwarts? He needed more information. “And why is that? I must return.”

“No, no, no,” came the panicked response, the large head shaking vigorously. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“You’ve yet to explain why,” said Voldemort as he watched thin fingers start tugging harshly on the elf’s limp, pointy ears. “I don’t see why I should listen to a disobedient servant.”

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” Dobby whispered, the house-elf suddenly shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

Voldemort considered the terrified fae for a few seconds, then sighed and reluctantly said, “Dumbledore would never allow anything too serious to happen to the children at Hogwarts.”

Yet even as he finished the statement, Voldemort found himself reconsidering his words. Dumbledore hid the Philosopher’s Stone in the school behind a series of traps that eleven-year-olds were proficient enough to complete. Perhaps the wizard would allow severe threats to enter Hogwarts.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had.”  Voldemort’s eye twitched as he contained a sneer. “Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength.” Restraint be damned, he was going to strangle the elf. But then Dobby continued before he could, tone dropping to an urgent whisper. “But, sir. There are powers Dumbledore doesn’t… powers no decent wizard…”

Fed up with the fae’s cagy speech when the most likely explanation for the house-elf’s presence was that this was all a prank by the Malfoy child, Voldemort used legilimency to touch Dobby’s outermost thoughts. Elf minds were quite different from human ones, but he was able to catch a wavering image that had him shooting from mildly annoyed to utterly furious in an instant.

He released a flood of Harry’s magic, dragging the elf up into the air and squeezing the being’s neck as he violently pulled him forward. Dobby gasped and squeaked, attempting to speak, but Voldemort clamped down harder on his airway.

“You will lissssten and you will obey,” he hissed at the elf, barely able to resist slipping into parseltongue. “What exactly is this plot that requires the diary? Tell me Lucius’ plans, or I will rip off your limbs and beat you with them.”

“Harry Potter, sir!” rasped Dobby, somehow managing an almost guttural sound despite his obnoxiously high voice. “How do you…? Why are you…?” Voldemort tightened the magic around the elf’s arm and slowly, but inexorably, started dislocating the shoulder joint.

The elf shrieked and then screamed, “Dobby cannot say! His master will not allow him to! Dobby only wanted to warn Harry Potter, so that Harry Potter would be safe!”

No other useful information followed the whining excuses, and Voldemort heard one of Harry’s obese relatives stomping up the stairs, so he dropped the crying fae onto the bed.  With a nonverbal command for the elf to be silent, he moved to the door and opened it a crack, looking out into the hallway while blocking anyone’s view into the room. He’d timed it perfectly, and seconds later, Harry’s ugly walrus of an uncle stopped in front of the door.

“What – the – devil – are – you – doing?” Each word was pressed through gritted teeth, while the man’s fleshy jowls wobbled disgustingly. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke… One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”

The muggle slammed the door shut before locking it from the outside. Voldemort could hear him thumping his way back down the hallway, each step shaking the floor a bit due to his massive size. He sighed in annoyance before turning back around to look at the bewildered elf. Dobby’s arm had been popped back into place, and he was once again standing barefoot on Harry’s sheets.

“Do you see why I cannot stay here? It is not safe for Harry Potter,” Voldemort mocked the fae’s annoying tenor. His flash of rage had cooled, but it didn’t negate his need to discover Lucius’ plans for the diary. However, Voldemort knew the bound house-elf wouldn’t be able to help even if he wanted to, so it was time to send the creature packing. “Go back to your land. You will tell your masters nothing of this encounter. You will not punish yourself for this. Neglect any of these commands, and I will find you. I’ll rip out your eyes and tongue, feed them to my snake, and then return you to the Malfoys for further service.”

He let Harry’s wild magic rush outwards to crush the fae, who yelped and then quickly apparated away with a near-silent crack. Sighing again, Voldemort dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to banish the headache that had begun to form. He didn’t want to attract Dumbledore’s attention, but Harry couldn’t stay here anymore. Not with that visit from the hero-worshipping house-elf or the punishment surely coming from the boy’s abusive guardian. Plus, once they were in the magical world, he’d be able to start working on a ritual.

Decided, Voldemort shrank Harry’s trunk and then tucked it into his pocket. Letting magic linger in his fingers, he casually broke the padlock on the owl cage. He let the bird out the window with orders to hunt, and then climbed onto the open frame himself, holding the boy’s broomstick. Jumping off the two-story ledge, he silently floated to the ground next to the hedges.

Though tempting, apparition would notify the ministry and the old goat immediately, which Voldemort didn’t want. Instead, he walked down the street to the park and then confidently called the Knight Bus using Harry’s wand. The three-decker vehicle roared to a stop in front of him, but no one in the muggle neighbourhood noticed its arrival due to the discreet notice-me-not charms embedded in its purple paint.

Interrupting the wix’s rote welcoming speech, he confunded both the young bellhop and the conductor with a flick of his fingers before climbing the stairs to the third floor to claim a seat. He enlarged Harry’s trunk so the boy would have access without having to ask an adult or use his wand. It would be dangerous to let Harry wake up without any explanation as to his whereabouts, so Voldemort conjured paper and a quill, quickly writing a note for his host. Keeping the paper clenched in his fist, he banished the writing implements and lay their body down, settling in for a good night’s rest on the significantly more comfortable bed.

Voldemort grinned as he realised that, in the end, he actually had been the one to grant his host’s birthday wish, just as he’d promised the boy’s magic. Tomorrow, he and Harry would return to the magical world. He hoped Harry would be pleased.

Chapter Text

Harry rolled over, burying his face back in the soft pillow with a groan. He felt surprisingly well rested, despite waking with a slight headache. This had been the best night’s sleep he’d had since Hogwarts, and he felt reluctant to open his eyes yet. He shuffled a bit lower into the fluffy blankets before freezing. These… weren’t Harry’s blankets…. nor was this his pillow, and the bed he was on was way too comfortable to be the threadbare mattress that he used at the Dursleys’ house.

Warily cracking one eye open, Harry took in his new surroundings. He was on a huge bed, twice the size of the one in his dorm at Hogwarts. It was also a similar style, though with purple curtains instead of Gryffindor red. The bed linens were forest green, a darker shade than the emerald used for Slytherin House, but just as pretty.

As he pushed himself up into a seated position, paper crumpled under his left palm. Harry flattened the note out against the covers and then lifted it to read the almost-but-not-quite cursive words written for him.

Welcome to the Knight Bus! Your house-elf dropped you off yesterday evening, informing us you need transport to the Leaky Cauldron in London. Arrival can be anytime after 8 AM. Simply pull the lever on your bed, and your destination will be our next stop. We appreciate your patronage and hope you have a magical day!

Had he accidentally run away from the Dursleys?! Harry couldn’t believe his luck! Delight and disbelief fought for prevalence, and underlying both was the absolute certainty that this was all a result of his birthday wish. Though he felt a little curious about the house-elf that the message mentioned, and he still didn’t know how his school supplies had appeared in his room, the mechanics of his escape mattered little in light of the fact that Harry was going back to the magical world!

Plus, he needed to think about what he’d do next rather than rehash what’d already happened. He remembered seeing some rooms at the Leaky, so Harry could probably stay there until September 1st. It’d only be for a month, and his vault had a ton of gold. Staying in the Alley would be so wicked, too. He’d be able to explore instead of doing chores and get food whenever he wanted!

Buzzing with anticipation that grew more intense with every minute he was away from Surrey, Harry took a moment to reread the note's pretty handwriting. When he peeked outside the curtains, his trunk and Hedwig's empty cage sat at the foot of his bed directly beside the aforementioned black lever. It was easily a meter tall, but surprisingly easy to move. In fact, the mechanism was so easy to move that when Harry went to pull it, he tugged too hard and nearly fell out of the bed entirely. Barely catching himself on the bar for balance, Harry flushed bright red and whipped his head around to see if anyone had noticed his awkward, almost-fall. Thankfully, no one else was present, so Harry's hurried scan turned into a curious examination of his surroundings.

There were several beds in the room, all decorated with various colour combinations. Each had wheels on the bottom, and they were all sliding around as the bus drove, including Harry's own! He hadn't even realised they were moving, not until this moment. There must be a spell to prevent passengers from getting motion sick; otherwise, at this speed, no one would be able to get any sleep. As Harry watched, the four-poster beds all whizzed by, curtains flapping as they knocked against each other and gathered at the front of the bus.

“Destination: The Leaky Cauldron," said a voice with a posh accent over the bus's intercom. "All passengers for the Leaky Cauldron, disembark.”

Harry scrambled off the bed, dragging his trunk with one hand and holding his owl cage in the other. He looked around frantically for the exit. There was a spiral staircase at the back of the bus that seemed promising, so he dashed over. Descending three levels of stairs at a run, he'd barely stepped off the vehicle when the Knight Bus shot off, a purple smear disappearing into the distance.

Luckily, this had been Harry's desired destination. Directly across the street, the Leaky Cauldron's dilapidated exterior sagged in the morning light as muggles blindly walked past, oblivious to the magic world hidden within. Harry jogged across the street and entered the pub with his head down, trying not to draw attention. He made a beeline for the counter, where he could see the bar's owner, Tom, wiping used glasses.

"How can I help you?" the wizard asked, voice verging on disinterested while a professional smile formed on his face. Though when he caught sight of Harry's scar, the smile grew more real. "Mr Potter! Wonderful to see you again."

Furtively checking to see if anyone had heard Tom say his name, Harry heaved a sigh of relief when none of the Leaky's occupants took any notice of him. He looked back up at the eager bartender and quietly said, "I'd like to stay here until Hogwarts starts in September. Do you have a room available?"

Tom looked surprised. Then a hint of suspicion shadowed his face as he scanned Harry’s oversized hand-me-downs. Without further delay, the wizard nodded and directed Harry to follow him up some stairs. He took Harry to a room, one at the back of the hallway on the second floor, all the way in the corner. (It was labelled with an ornate silver seven, which made Harry oddly happy, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why).

His temporary room was surprisingly spacious. Furniture included a large bed with a light grey comforter and some fluffy white pillows, a small nightstand, and a decent-sized wardrobe made of light-brown wood. There was a second door on the right wall that Harry thought likely led to a bathroom. The walls were bare except for a single, giant landscape painting of a wheat field with stalks swaying in an imaginary wind.

Harry loved it. It felt so open and magical, and he couldn’t wait to stay here all summer! Spinning to face Tom, Harry smiled broadly and said, "Thank you! This is perfect, thank you so much!"

The wizard visibly startled, mouth gaping at the exuberant response, but then he grinned back. "You are very welcome, Mr Potter, but I am only doing my job! There's no need for gratitude of that magnitude, as I'll be charging you 6 sickles a day. That includes breakfast, but not lunch or dinner. Will this suit, young sir?"

"Absolutely!" Harry replied, nodding with enthusiasm. Intent on collecting the money immediately, he dropped to his knees in front of his trunk, wincing as a sting of pain went shooting up his thighs. Ouch! Did he have bruises there?

"You pay at the end of your stay, Mr Potter," Tom said, waving away the galleons Harry had retrieved with a warm chuckle. "Just be sure to keep track of how much you owe, and I'll do the same. We'll settle up, come September."

Smiling despite his embarrassment, he flopped onto the bed the moment Tom left the room. The man had promised to send breakfast in half an hour, and Harry's stomach rumbled at the thought even as his mind reeled.

Harry was really here.

With help from his wish, he'd actually escaped and made it back to the wixen world! Flush with success, Harry wiggled deeper into the super soft mattress. He should start unpacking, but it felt safer to leave all his possessions secure in his trunk, so Harry nixed that idea. Instead, he would decide what he should do first now that he was free. There seemed to be an untold number of options, even more when he considered just how little he knew of the magical world outside Hogwarts.

He desperately needed to learn more about this new, magical world. Perhaps a bookstore should be his first stop, then. Harry hadn't been a fan of sitting around to read before, not that the Dursleys would have allowed him to be that lazy anyway, but since Madame Pomfrey had fixed his eyesight, he liked the activity much more. Without the headaches and eye strain, it was so much easier than before to understand the concepts he read and retain that information. And books seemed a great start to discovering more about spells and history and customs and everything that wixen who grew up knowing their heritage would already know.

Although remembering how Tom had looked at his muggle clothes and the flush of shame he'd felt, maybe Harry needed to look the part first. He could buy normal robes, outfits that would help him fit in and go unnoticed as he spent the remaining weeks of summer here. It would be good if wixen didn't recognise him, or else he might get mobbed like he had when Hagrid first brought him to buy his school supplies.

Though actually, if he was buying clothes and books, not to mention his meals and his next year's school supplies, then his real first stop should be Gringotts. He'd need money to do any of that, and accessing his vault could be tricky. Hagrid kept his key — wow, Harry was shockingly angry when considering that incident with hindsight — but he was certain that the goblins would have a secondary method of identification.

A knock startled him from his thoughts. A bit hesitant, he opened the door, but no one was there. Instead, a tray full of food zoomed in unaided, settling itself onto the nightstand. Thirty minutes had passed in the blink of an eye, and Harry hadn't spent any of it unpacking, but at least he had a plan for the next few days in the alley.

Snagging a warm croissant from the tray, Harry bit into it with a groan of delight. This was going to be the best month ever.

Harry loved magic and he loved living at the Leaky Cauldron. It was brilliant! Next year, he planned to skip the months at Privet Drive and just stay at the Leaky right after school. He had spent the last week trying out different restaurants, buying new stuff (books and clothes and jewellery and shoes and anything else that caught his attention), and exploring the side streets of Diagon Alley. He felt wonderful, but a little selfish; he tried to ignore the slight feelings of guilt that he wasn’t doing anything productive (he wanted to blame the recent Voldemort trauma for these feelings, but he was sure it had more to do with the Dursleys).  

On Harry’s first day, he was mostly able to follow his original plan successfully. Gringotts had let him sign some forms with this black quill that used his blood as ink to get his vault re-keyed. It had required several signatures, and by the end his hand was red and ached fiercely, but Axeclaw, the goblin in charge of his account, had presented him with a new small, golden key. Harry promised not to lose it and as he moved to leave the room, he heard Axeclaw grumble a recommendation that Harry purchase a blood-bound chain so that he couldn’t lose it.

“Where could I purchase a blood-bound chain, Axeclaw, sir?” Harry asked quietly, turning back to look at the banker.

The goblin startled, before giving Harry a considering look. He pulled a piece of parchment from the desk, hopping off his chair to walk up to Harry. Harry leaned down to look when Axeclaw held it out and realised it was a map of the alley. “Take out your wand to tap the page,” Axeclaw ordered briskly. Harry did as he was told, surprised to see the map zoom in and a “You are here” indicator pop up at Gringotts. “You want to go to a jeweller for a chain. Try this one; they should cater to your needs.” Axeclaw jabbed his finger at the map and said, “Garluk’s Metallurgy”. A dotted line showed a path from Harry’s dot to the indicated store.

Harry was surprised at the help but very appreciative. He started to say thank you when a spike of contempt crashed through him. He cut himself off abruptly. An old fairy tale his year three teacher read to the class about a Fae creature binding a boy to dance for eternity in a very one-sided deal suddenly filled his thoughts. Harry turned towards Axeclaw. Instead of thanking him, Harry asked, “This would be a useful gift, what would you like in return?” Harry felt a flash of relief and satisfaction.

Axeclaw stared at him for a long moment, but then he suddenly grinned. “Smart little wix child,” he muttered softly then, in a louder voice, continued, “I am the Potter family account manager. In exchange for this map of the alley, I require an additional meeting with you to review the Potter family vaults’ status.” Harry looked back at him, then slowly nodded.

“I’ll come back in two days at 10 AM for a meeting. We can go through an accounting of my vaults at that time,” Harry said, trying to sound professional but feeling a bit out of his depth.

Harry watched Axeclaw’s grin widen… it looked more like he was baring his teeth now. Axeclaw didn’t speak again but gave Harry a deep nod, almost like it might be a bow. Harry mimicked the gesture and walked quickly out of the room to visit his vault. A frisson of fear still tingled down his spine.

Outside the bank, the sun was blinding. Harry squinted down at his map trying to find a clothing shop. He picked one towards the end of the main street of Diagon Alley called Twilfitt and Tattings. This place, like Madame Malkin’s, required a fitting. Maybe all clothing in the magical world was designed to be tailored.

A seamstress quickly took his measurements; Harry asked for all the basics for a new wardrobe, but let her pick the styles and colours, and he promised to return later that afternoon to pick up his new outfits.  Stopping at a cobbler the seamstress recommended a few shops further up the path, Harry also purchased two sets of dragonhide boots, one pair with a higher-top than the other, and some slippers, again promising to pick them up that afternoon.

The rest of Harry’s day was spent in a bookstore he found in the main alley called Obscurus Books. He selected books on all sorts of topics: transfiguration, ancient runes, occlumency, ritual creation, abjuration, alchemy, evocation, and even one on necromancy! He wasn’t sure what all these branches of magic were, and most were absolutely outside his skill level, but Harry figured it wouldn’t hurt to have access to them.

Plus, it was like some of them were calling his name! He could build a library just for himself; Hermione would be so jealous and regret not sending him any letters. By evening Harry was tired, and his head hurt from reading so much in the dim lighting of the shop. He picked up his clothing and shoe purchases, acquired some food then retired to the Leaky for the rest of the evening.

It wasn’t until the next day that Harry headed towards the jewellery shop Axeclaw had directed him to. This was not on the main street of Diagon Alley, but rather a side street called Horizont Alley.

Garluk’s Metallurgy was, evidently, not just a jewellery shop. When Harry stepped inside, it felt ten degrees warmer, and he could see an entire wall of swords off to his right. A worker came up to him immediately. “Hello! Welcome to Garluk’s Metallurgy, all your metal needs and creations in one place. What can I do for you?”

“My account manager recommended I purchase a blood-bound chain for my Gringotts key. He suggested you could supply this here?” Harry asked. He’d thought this was a reasonable request but was second-guessing himself when the employee’s eyes dramatically widened. He was about to backtrack when the man seemed to snap out of whatever had startled him.

“Absolutely!” stated the employee loudly, clapping his hands. “Just follow me into the back room and we can key a chain to you.”

Harry followed the employee – who said to call him Winston but didn’t ask for Harry’s name – to a small door in the back left corner of the shop, which opened into an empty room. The process was surprisingly simple, if lengthy. Harry picked out a simple, slim gold chain. Winston produced a long pin directing Harry to jab it into his cupped palm until Harry was holding a shallow pool of blood. Then Harry lowered the chain into his bleeding palm. Winston chanted a long stream of Latin, reading from an old book. This continued nonstop for several minutes.

Once finished, Winston gave Harry a cloth to clean the blood from the chain, Harry’s palm, and the pin he’d poked himself with. A few drops of potion poured on Harry’s hand, and he was no longer bleeding. Harry went to hand the cloth back to Winston but was vehemently denied. Winston burned the fabric and the few drops Harry had dripped onto the floor, from a distance using his wand, clearly articulating incendio while Harry watched.

Harry was charged three galleons for the chain, which seemed like a lot compared to his room and board, but Harry was pretty sure this was a nice chain and, also, it seemed likely the blood magic might have been illegal (or at least frowned upon), so he paid without any attempt at haggling.

He slipped the Gringotts key onto the newly purchased chain and over his head. It seemed to warm itself as it settled around his neck. With a quick goodbye, wishing Winston a good afternoon, Harry left Garluk’s in search of more bookstores. Just a few stores down and on the opposite side of the street, Harry saw a nice-looking storefront with small shelves out front marked 50% off. Looking up at the sign, it was called Tomes-A-Plenty.

Harry was sure he was in heaven. The bookstore was well lit with several comfy chairs spread out amongst shelves packed with books. It smelled like the old library Harry used to visit when Dudley played with his friends in the park before they’d invented the Harry Hunting game. Harry had never been able to check out any books (he was a 6-year-old troublemaking hoodlum… why did that thought irritate him?) but he could wander around the shelves in the cool AC and read a few chapters before heading back out. This bookstore had the same vibe and Harry loved it. He spent the rest of the day inside and purchased seven new books when he left that evening, with plans to return the next day.

Harry went to his appointment with Axeclaw on his third day and discovered he was richer than he’d thought previously. The vault he’d seen was just his trust vault. There was also a Potter family vault, filled with hundreds of thousands of Galleons, as well as expensive jewelry, paintings, and other family heirlooms. The Potters weren’t billionaire-on-a-yacht-rich, but they were upper-class, and Harry would never need to work if he maintained the investments properly.

Unfortunately, Harry couldn’t access this until he was of age (which apparently was 17 years old for wixen). Axeclaw walked him through the Potter family's current investments, gave him an account book, and several recommendations for books on finance portfolio management to study before he came of age. Harry indicated his agreement to read the books and requested Axeclaw continue to maintain his accounts. He did not thank the goblin but gave the same almost-bow gesture as he left. Axeclaw returned the gesture with a wide grin revealing his teeth.

Thankfully, Harry’s appointment with Axeclaw was the last stressful encounter he had all week. He spent most of his time exploring the various shops (he finally purchased a wand holster) and hanging out in the various bookstores in the alley (Tomes-a-plenty was his favourite to stay in, but Obscurus had the best books. Flourish and Blotts was too mainstream and crowded for Harry).

Harry even ducked into Knockturn Alley a few times, but he barely went into the corner shop, Scribbulus Writing Implements, before chickening out and returning to Diagon. Knockturn was always so dreary, and time seemed to pass with a snap of his fingers. It never seemed to matter what time he entered (he’d made attempts after dinner the last few days); it was always dark out when he left. 

After wandering around the past several days, Harry felt very comfortable going almost everywhere in the alley. Early Tuesday morning he finished the breakfast supplied by Tom, put on one of his casual wixen summer robes, and headed down the stairs. He’d just finished tapping the bricks with his wand, tucking it back into his wrist holster when he felt two heavy hands settle on his shoulders. A crushing sensation, he was being compressed from all directions, the hands tightened pushing bruises into his shoulders, and everything went black.

Everything decompressed in the next moment, and the hands let go of Harry’s shoulders. Light and colour flooded Harry’s vision, but it was all swirling together – everything still felt like it was moving – and Harry dropped to his knees, puking up his recent breakfast onto the ground. 

Then an unfamiliar, mature female voice came from just behind him saying, “My word! Are you alright Harry, dear?” Harry scrambled to the side, falling onto his ass – he barely avoided the puddle of puke – then flicked his wand out, aiming it up at the concerned-looking stranger who’d kidnapped him.

Why could Voldemort not catch a break? A short, plump, middle-aged ginger witch in worn-out robes awkwardly leaned over Harry, offering her hand. She must be some Weasley, one of those blasted lemmings in Dumbledore’s Order of the Flaming Chickens. She kept staring down at Harry with a simpering smile and concerned eyes, despite Harry’s wand being pointed at her.

Harry’s fear was a deafening explosion that overwhelmed Voldemort’s mild disdain and made it hard to think clearly. Voldemort strengthened his occlumency barriers, separating himself further from Harry’s emotions. The fear faded, but he also lost track of the conversation. He pulled Harry’s recent memories towards him. There would be a delay, but he could still track what was happening.

“Who… Who are you?” Harry stuttered out. The woman looked surprised for a minute and then vaguely apologetic. Voldemort wanted to slash open her face, who apparates someone without permission! She could have splinched Harry!

“Sorry about the scare. Dumbledore told me I needed to get you out of the Alley as soon as possible. You shouldn’t have been staying there anyway! A young, famous boy like you living by himself in a pub. Why, you’re fortunate that some dark wizard hasn’t snapped you up already! You’re just a boy – so foolish – lucky for you, Dumbledore’s keeping track of your whereabouts. Harry, dear, you need to be more conscientious of your safety.”

The Weasley patronisingly lectured Harry – who was still pointing his wand at her, though his arm had stopped shaking. Harry felt some irritation at the condescension and anxiety about being tracked, but the blood-curdling fear still overwhelmed everything. The idea of Dumbledore always watching Harry, his creepy twinkling eyes tracing his every move, had Voldemort itching to crucio this bitch just to let off some steam.

Weasley was gearing up for a tirade that would go on for a while… Voldemort wouldn’t control his temper if he watched her full rant. But he needed to see if Harry required his help, so Voldemort decided to skip ahead, skimming the memory for the main points.

Some shouting about safety – Harry finally got the opportunity to ask who she was – a vague introduction “I’m Ron’s mum, silly.” – Harry asked where she was taking him – another unclear answer, “This is the Burrow, sweetie” – asking to be taken back – denied, “it isn’t safe” – why??? – cause Dumbledore said so – Harry asked to go get his belongings – “We’ll send someone to collect them, don’t worry dear” – Harry argued he should go to thank and pay Tom –  Weasley looked slightly conflicted at the last bit – Harry really leaned into it, no tears but it was a close thing (Harry was terrified of having his new possessions taken from him, especially by Dumbledore; Voldemort could sympathise, briefly recalling a burning wardrobe) and… yes, there it was, she gave in. Said she’d take him back briefly, but they’d need to Floo to the Burrow immediately afterwards, she’d be too tired for a third session of side-along apparition.

Voldemort thought Harry’s fear had dissipated sufficiently, so he relaxed his barrier enough to watch what was happening now. With his and Harry’s consciousnesses aligned again, he saw the room they stayed in at the Leaky. Harry was collecting all his belongings into his trunk, slowly.

Slipping into Harry’s stream of thought, he heard, << I don’t want to stay with the Weasleys. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? This place was perfect… It’s not like Ron is that good of a friend, he didn’t even write to me this summer. I’m going to miss going to Obscurus every afternoon. They can’t just expect me to stay with them cause they said so… can they? But Tom said Dumbledore had already stopped by to confirm… Why is Dumbledore in charge of where I stay anyway? Now I’ll have to wait til next summer to make it fully into Knockturn… >>

It took Voldemort a moment to reorient himself after slipping out of Harry’s thoughts. So. Harry Potter was being taken to the Weasleys’ home for the rest of the summer break. This was not ideal, but there were likely worse options than a wixen home (if Dumbledore tried to send them back to the Dursleys, Voldemort would likely give up on both his plans to remain inconspicuous and to torture the family in favour of murdering them immediately).

Harry had raised a good point; was Dumbledore considered one of his guardians? Usually, Muggleborns were assigned a magical representative by the ministry, but a half-blood orphan like Harry… Voldemort wasn’t sure of the protocol. Well, it didn’t matter right now. Harry was too young. With the old goat bringing the authorities’ attention to Harry, no one would allow a 12-year-old hero to stay alone in the Alley.

Voldemort mentally sighed in resignation. At least he’d been able to collect some of the books he required. Harry had found a few that Voldemort wanted while in Obscurus – he had a knack for plucking the rarest tome from a full shelf – his profligate luck striking again and again.

Harry’s curiosity about Knockturn had been beneficial as well. Voldemort had managed to visit both Borgin and Burkes and Ye Olde Curiosity Shop to clean them out of all relevant books (he’d purchased an unblooded ritual athame, too), all without being recognised as Harry Potter. He’d been amused at Harry’s continued attempts to visit Knockturn and pleasantly surprised that his sleep spell had worked so successfully despite Harry’s lack of fatigue.

A knock on the door had Harry hurriedly grabbing his remaining items including Hedwig’s empty owl cage, a quick scan around the bedroom showed nothing but furniture was left, and then Harry turned to open the door. The Weasley matriarch stood there with a motherly smile on her round face. Now that Harry was standing rather than scrambling on the ground, Voldemort noted that the Weasley matriarch, short at barely over five feet, was still almost a foot taller than Harry. And she’d been talking this entire time. What even was she saying?

“- and Albus assured us, you’ll be much happier spending the remaining weeks with Ron, why we’ve been planning to have you visit all summer! We’ve got it all set up for you to share Ron’s room and get you fed up too! Why you’re thin as a spoon, you poor thing. Now we’ll have no picky eaters at my house – you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit – that’s what we say. I’ve got several boys; I know how to feed you right proper. You’ve met Ron and the twins and Percy, the other two are older, dearie, but my daughter is just a year behind you and Ron! Why, you’ll love Ginny, she’s just the sweetest-”

Was this ginger woman part merrow? How on Earth could someone speak so long without breathing in? Her hand was on Harry’s shoulder directing him towards the Leaky’s fireplace (and painfully pressing on the bruises she’d made on Harry earlier; Voldemort was adding her to the list of people to torture, after Dumbledore and the Dursleys, once he had his own body back).

Voldemort started listening again, “- such a help with de-gnoming the garden! Here, we are dear. You know how to Floo, yes? Oh of course not, muggles don’t have such a thing. Let me just… here, I’ll throw in a pinch of the Floo powder, you step in once the flames turn green and say ‘The Burrow’ loudly and clearly. I’ll come through just afterwards.”

Voldemort noticed Harry’s trepidation; he tried to amplify his feeling of calm but wasn’t sure if that was an intense enough emotion for Harry to notice currently. Despite Harry’s fear, holding his trunk and owl cage tightly, he stepped into the fire and loudly shouted the name of the destination. In a surprisingly uncoordinated fashion, Harry fell through the fireplace – didn’t Harry spend half his time daydreaming about riding brooms? He was constantly falling over and knocking into furniture – but eventually tumbled out of a slightly cramped fireplace opening into a kitchen, slamming his still bruised knees on the ground next to his trunk as the owl cage rolled sideways onto the floor.

Harry looked around and pushed their body off the ground. Voldemort grew more annoyed at this turn of events now that he was in the aptly named ‘Burrow’. The Hovel might have been an even better name. The kitchen was cramped, cluttered, and outdated. A useless, old clock was on the wall with a hand pointing to ‘You’re late’ that seemed to twitch every few seconds. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece (why weren’t they kept in the library? Accidents involving grease or fire were much too common in kitchens for it to be prudent to keep their books here, even if it was just the cookbooks). Celestina Warbeck was playing from an old muggle-style radio.

The kitchen seemed to be the only room on this floor; Voldemort reviewed Harry’s memory again and noticed a narrow passageway in the back corner, but the only door led outside. The fireplace roared suddenly, and Harry sped out of the way, knocking his elbow into the kitchen table (Harry really was clumsy); the Weasley matriarch came through the Floo, ash sluicing itself off her shoulders with a flick of her wand. She pointed it at Harry too, cleaning his clothes and the surrounding floor with a quick, wordless scourgify.

“There now, that’s better dearie,” she calmly said, ignoring Harry’s flinch. “Now let’s get your things into Ron’s room. The boys are all outside de-gnoming the garden, you can join them afterwards.”

Voldemort was a little annoyed that she was making Harry do yardwork, but Harry was mostly confused and sulky about seeing Ron again after he’d been ignored all summer. Mother-Weasley led Harry to the cramped hallway that Voldemort had noticed before, it felt even smaller once in it, which dead-ended at an uneven staircase that zigzagged almost vertically up with shallow, steep steps. Weasley explained what was on the floor at each landing, which mostly consisted of bedrooms and bathrooms, apart from her knitting corner. Once they reached the fifth and final landing – apparently the only thing higher was the attic where they kept their pet ghoul – she gestured to a small wooden door with peeling paint and a plaque proclaiming RONALD’S ROOM.

“You’ll stay in here with Ron, sweetie.” She pushed open the door showing them inside. Voldemort thought the room was on fire before realising it was just coated in the most atrocious orange colour imaginable. Everything was orange. The walls, the roof, the bedding, even the floor! The ceiling was sloped dramatically so the Weasley matriarch forced to duck while standing inside. Voldemort was pretty sure the floor was so uneven that if he dropped a coin, it’d roll right back out of the door and down the rickety stairs. A twin-sized mattress was pushed into the corner with a bright orange bedspread and under the small window was a camp-bed with a folded orange throw and pillow on top of it. Books, comics, and cards were strewn across the floor.

Voldemort was not impressed. Harry was similarly not impressed, though to a lesser degree than Voldemort (the cupboard was so recent for Harry… Voldemort needed to add trapping the obese muggles in ever smaller cages for months until their muscles atrophied and their skin loosened from the abrupt weight loss to his torture plans). The violent colour gave both of them headaches. Voldemort was annoyed he’d have to sneak out every night when he possessed Harry or find other means of avoiding the Weasley boy’s detection.

The Weasley mother was leading Harry back downstairs. While Voldemort reviewed the memory of the brief tour she gave Harry, a question struck him forcefully. Harry mimicked his thought process again because he interrupted whatever Weasley was pontificating to ask, “Do you have a library? Where do you keep your books?”

She turned a startled gaze at Harry. “I didn’t realise you enjoyed reading, dear. It’s so hard to get Ron to even do his homework! You saw most of our books on the shelf in the kitchen and, of course, Ron keeps his comics in his room. You’re welcome to read whatever you wish, though a growing boy such as yourself needs sunlight and activity,” she said with a broad smile. Voldemort was horrified.

They didn’t have a library?! What kind of wixen home was this? Harry was disappointed, but unsurprised, so he must have anticipated the lack… No wonder Harry was so resistant to staying here. This was a drastic step down from their prior location. Well. It was only for three weeks, he would have to make do with the books he’d managed to purchase while in the Alley. Still. He wished Harry could have made friends with a proper wixen family rather than this house of blood traitors. No library in a Sacred 28 family home… things had really gone downhill in magical Britain.

Chapter Text

Mrs Weasley took Harry back downstairs and out the front door of the Burrow. A stone path led up to the front door, but they immediately stepped off it onto the grass to circle the building. While they walked, Mrs Weasley chattered, but Harry was too distracted by the house to listen. Magic was the only explanation for why the dwelling was still standing.

The building was ridiculously tall, made of two different kinds of wood and built directly onto a stone pigpen. It had cheerful, red roof shingles and seemed to lean to the front and left. The first floor that held the kitchen was one of the smallest layouts, while the upper levels were the largest! No level was stacked directly on top of the other, and Harry was pretty sure he saw a door that opened into thin air. Random, seemingly load-bearing, beams stuck out in all directions from the base, and the upper floors were a hodgepodge of bay windows and roof overhangs. As they turned the corner, Harry counted no less than five chimneys! Where even were the fireplaces for those?

Harry was so distracted by this architectural amazement that he didn’t hear a word Mrs Weasley said. He only stopped gawking at the house when he heard shouting voices. Looking towards the shrubbery surrounding the back garden, Harry watched a large potato fly over the hedge. It landed with a thud a few feet ahead of them. As Harry stared, the potato got up, dusted itself off, and peered back into the garden.

Mrs Weasley gave a threatening shout (Harry jumped and stepped away) and the potato creature mumbled a curse and then trudged off in the opposite direction of where Harry was standing. Harry and Mrs Weasley continued walking around the garden (following the path of the potato) until they arrived at a small gap in the hedge with a gate; she opened it up, and enthusiastically steered Harry inside, saying, “Go help the boys with de-gnoming, I’ll call you all in for lunch in a few hours! Have fun, sweetie!” Ushering Harry in, she shut the gate behind him.

Harry carefully stepped a bit further into the back garden; it was beautiful, with gnarled trees on all sides and a multitude of random plants Harry had never seen splayed about in several flowerbeds with very little organisation or order (so different than Aunt Petunia’s home garden where everything was placed just so). A series of flowers similar to daisies started to hum when Harry stepped close.

He went to lean over and smell one of the pale yellow ones – it hummed the loudest – when he felt a spike of fear. Thinking better of shoving his face into unknown magical plants, Harry stepped back just as someone shouted his name. Already on a hair trigger from his near miss with the dangerous daisy, Harry jumped a foot in the air while also trying to spin around and see who was shouting at him. He probably could have played the response off casually if he’d landed well, but as it was, his left foot hit a small patch of mud and Harry tumbled down to the ground for the third time that morning. From this position looking up, Ron seemed even taller than usual, he must have grown a foot just this summer! Harry felt very, very small.

Ron laughed and held out his hand. “It’s so good to see you, Harry! Where have you been all summer? Why haven’t you written me back?” Harry took Ron’s hand, letting him pull Harry to his feet.

Then Harry thought about what Ron had actually said. “What do you mean ‘written you back?’ I haven’t received any owls all summer.”

“That can’t be,” Ron stated with certainty. “I’ve written you at least twelve times and asked you to come stay over.” Harry’s mouth dropped open. Over a dozen times? He felt a bit guilty for doubting Ron was his friend. Ron followed up this astounding statement with a question, “Wait. You haven’t received any owls at all over the summer from anyone?” Harry nodded his head. “You probably have some type of owl ward then. No wonder we couldn’t get ahold of you! The twins and Hermione, I think Neville too, all tried to write to you a few times. Well, we’ll just have to figure out something different for next summer, so we don’t lose you.”  

Harry’s heart clenched as he smiled broadly at Ron. He hadn’t been forgotten (he ignored the odd tinge of bitterness sitting in the back of his mind easily, it was getting fainter by the moment).

They spent the rest of the afternoon throwing gnomes out of the garden. Harry thought he might need to take a magical creature class or at least get a book on them, because he’d never heard of anything like this. Real gnomes were sentient and articulate (muggles got that part right), but they looked nothing like the typical garden gnomes you could buy at the local Tesco. Even up close, Harry could have mistaken the creature for a potato, though it was a bit leatherier. It had very sharp teeth, knobby knees, and pointy little feet. Ron showed him how to flip them upside down, swing them around like a discus to make them dizzy, and then let them fly over the hedge.

Harry, Ron, Fred and George made a game of the chore to see who could get their gnome the farthest. After all the reading he’d been doing lately it was oddly satisfying to do a purely physical activity. Plus, the twins backed his claim that he’d thrown his gnome the farthest – “Blimey Harry, that must’ve been fifty feet!” – and Harry won the game and bragging rights.

It felt so strange to hang out with Ron again, like he’d reverted to being a child (had Harry ever been a child?); but it was easy and fun. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay here for the rest of summer, though he’d miss his room at the Leaky and sleeping in Ron’s room would require a thick, black blindfold to block out all that orange.

These last three weeks at the Weasleys were filled with good food, quidditch, and a nonstop stream of new people. Harry enjoyed himself for the most part, but everything was blanketed with a mild feeling of irritation (some of which was Harry’s… but not all).

Harry knew he should just be happy he wasn’t at the Dursleys’ home, but he missed staying in Diagon Alley. It was nice to have someone else cook for him, and Ron and the twins always had something fun planned – plus, he’d even managed to get Ron to work with him on their homework – but Harry wasn’t used to this much nonstop socialising. He was exhausted. Thankfully the school year was just around the corner.

It was the Sunday before September 1st and the Weasleys had scheduled a trip to Diagon Alley to gather school supplies; Harry and Ron had coordinated with Hermione to meet that day too. Harry had most of his supplies already purchased from his earlier stay, but he’d be tagging along and picking up this year’s new defence textbooks (there were seven new ones, on top of the typical standard book of spells, grade two).

Mrs Weasley told him they would be taking the Floo while muttering concerns about having enough powder for all of them. Harry was not looking forward to travelling through that ashy whirlwind again, but it would be worth it if he could sneak off to Obscurus for a few hours. He’d already persuaded the twins to provide him with a distraction and an alibi if he needed it (they had plans to open a joke shop and needed money; Harry was happy to find out they were so amenable to bribery).

The whole family was gathered in the kitchen to await their turn to use the Floo. Harry was crammed into a corner behind the kitchen table, the twins on either side towering over him and speaking in half-finished sentences only they understood. Ron was eating his third breakfast plate, Percy seated across from him and looking on with disapproval while wearing his prefect badge. Mrs Weasley was helping Ginny get her jumper off the cat. Mr Weasley was moving the flowerpot with the Floo powder up and down, up and down… maybe trying to weigh it with his hands? This went on for several minutes until, by some unspoken signal, Mr and Mrs Weasley started to corral their children towards the fireplace, the twins dragging Harry along with them.

“Now then, Harry dear, you go first,” said Mrs Weasley coaxingly.  Harry apprehensively looked at the offered flowerpot but took a pinch and moved up to the fireplace. “Remember, dearie, state your destination clearly, you want Diagon Alley, and be sure to come out of the right grate.”

Harry nodded anxiously. He threw the powder into the fire; the fireplace roared, emerald flames rising dramatically, and Harry strode forward shouting “Diagon Alley”. Immediately afterwards, he choked on ash and was sucked into a spinning tornado, his eyes watering. Harry was holding his breath, squinting out of blurry eyes to see his grate, when he felt like he’d been shoved from behind. He tumbled out of a fireplace and onto a dark wooden floor.

“Alright there, Mr Potter?” Harry looked up, coughing slightly as this disturbed the ash on his shoulders, to see Tom offering him a hand and looking at him with amusement (there was an echo of amusement in Harry too). Harry flushed in embarrassment, but let Tom pull him back to his feet and away from the fireplace.

“I’m fine, sir. Not my favourite method of travelling, though,” said Harry.

Tom smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and said, “With a landing like that? No, I expect not. May I cast a spell to remove some of this ash on you?” At Harry’s nod, Tom muttered a quiet scourgify. Harry heard a roaring behind him and turned to watch as one of the twins came through the fireplace next. Harry was envious of how he casually stepped forward at the right time, with no coughing or stumbling in sight.

One by one, the rest of the Weasleys arrived making the normally quiet Sunday morning at the Leaky noisy and bright. As a horde, they all marched into the alley and headed up the street to Gringotts. Harry smiled; it was so nice to be back here! It was a surprisingly cool day, but the sun was shining brightly. It was early by business standards, so most of the shops were still opening, but Harry saw a couple of familiar shop owners that he waved to on their trek to the bank.

Hermione and her parents were waiting for them off to the side of the white marble steps leading into Gringotts. Introductions were made and Mr Weasley’s awkwardly enthusiastic exclamations of “Muggles! How extraordinary!” made Harry wince. Thankfully, the children could wait outside while the adults went in to exchange money or visit their vaults. Harry took the time to convince Ron and Hermione that they should go off on their own for a bit by promising Ron he’d splurge for ice cream and enticing Hermione with the various books at Obscurus.

The adults returned, and Ron and Hermione got permission and money from their parents. They took off as a group to explore, promising to meet back up in two hours at Flourish and Blotts. He hadn’t even needed to have the twins cause a distraction to sneak off!

Harry spent a lovely morning wandering around with Ron and Hermione. He found four new books at Obscurus and Hermione left the store with no less than ten (though none of the books she’d purchased seemed that interesting to Harry). After the bookstore, Harry bought three strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice cream cones from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour for them and they trailed around slowly, stopping here and there as they met up with other Weasleys (Harry avoided showing anyone his map; he didn’t think Axeclaw would appreciate him sharing it).

Time seemed to fly and soon enough, they made their way over to Flourish and Blotts. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper window:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!” Harry had skimmed one of Lockhart’s books and wasn’t convinced he deserved all this attention. Harry was judging Hermione a bit for the two Lockhart books she’d purchased that weren’t even on their school list.

The crowd seemed to be mostly made up of witches around Mrs Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies… Don’t push, there… mind the books, now…” Harry wished they’d picked somewhere else to meet, but he knew Flourish and Blotts was the most likely to sell a packaged set of the required Lockhart texts on his school list, which would probably make going inside worth the hassle.

Squeezing past the crowd of middle-aged women (this was easier for Harry than Ron, who seemed even taller than he’d been a few weeks ago), they shuffled into the store. Mrs Weasley waited in line while Mr Weasley stood crammed between two shelves holding a medium-sized shopping bag and Mrs Weasley's purse.

Harry was only a shelf away from Mr Weasley, when someone rammed into him, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Harry shifted to the side and saw red hair – and an even redder face – before an unpleasant cackle drew his attention. Draco Malfoy was leaning against the closest shelf, his pointy face looking down at them and sneering.

Ginny, who had collided with Harry, jumped to her feet. She turned to Malfoy and said in a surprisingly hard voice, “You shoved me! Why don’t you leave us alone, you poncey prat!” Harry was pretty sure these were the first words he’d heard Ginny speak all summer.

Malfoy continued to sneer, his eyes going from Ginny down to Harry sitting on the floor, before drawling, “Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over holding Lockhart’s books. Ron helped Harry up off the ground and then turned to argue with Malfoy, while Hermione collected the dropped books before depositing them back into Ginny’s cauldron.

Harry sighed and started dusting off his robes. He heard Malfoy make some petty insult about money and watched Ron go red as a tomato. He should have just bought Lockhart’s books at Obscurus or Tomes-A-Plenty even if it was embarrassing to purchase them in bulk.

Wondering why Harry always seemed to end up on the floor, Voldemort watched the children’s argument in amusement. The young Malfoy was an exact copy of his grandfather, Abraxas, at the same age. With his slicked-back white-blonde hair, designer boots and robes, pointy nose, and ever-present sneer, it was like travelling back in time.

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley. I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those,” baby-Malfoy snootily said, gesturing towards the Weasley girl’s cauldron. Voldemort laughed inwardly, while Harry and his mudblood prevented the Weasley boy from leaping at the Malfoy child.

The Weasley family patriarch came over to interrupt, bringing along his rambunctious twins. “Ron! What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.” All the children, even the Malfoy boy, were being herded towards the door when a familiar voice halted their movement.

“Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley.”

Another Abraxas clone, Lucius Malfoy regally strolled over and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. Lucius and the Weasley Family patriarch stared at each other coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Lucius. “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?” He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

“Obviously not,” said Malfoy in a disdainful tone. He gestured broadly in a distinctly French fashion. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizardry if they don’t even pay you well for it?” A strange phenomenon distracted Voldemort from the humorous dispute. Both Harry’s and his magic were… reaching towards the elder Malfoy’s arm. Voldemort wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t so attuned to Harry’s magic; only a miniscule fraction of his magic was affected, but it interrupted the natural flow creating a small eddy that twirled ever closer to Lucius’s arm.

Voldemort was intrigued; he wanted to discern what was happening. As he debated whether to put Harry to sleep, he saw Ginevra’s cauldron go flying. The Weasley father had just tackled Lucius into a bookshelf. Oh, Merlin, this was hilarious. Lucius and Weasley were brawling on the ground in a distinctly muggle display of fisticuffs. Shelves were shaking, books tumbling everywhere, and the Weasley twins egged on their father while baby Malfoy looked on in appalled horror when a fist hit his father’s eye. This was the most enjoyable event he’d witnessed all summer. Oh, how fortuitous… if Voldemort ever needed to, this would make extorting Lucius a piece of cake.

His entertainment increased when the half-giant he’d gotten expelled in his Hogwarts years (what was his name… Hagrid maybe?) forced his way through the crowd (tipping another shelf over and damaging dozens of books on the way) and separated the two scrambling wizards, lifting Lucius into the air with his left arm and the Weasley with his right.

Lucius sported a black eye, unkempt hair, and rumpled robes as he kicked his feet out towards the floor, looking like nothing more than a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum. Voldemort needed to invent a method to distil a memory into a photograph; this was marvellous.

Hagrid (Voldemort was almost certain that was his name) set both wizards back onto the ground and Lucius immediately turned towards the young, female Weasley child. He was still holding her old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Here, girl – take your book – it’s the best your father can give you.” His and Harry’s magic swirled towards Lucius again as the book was dropped in the cauldron held by the Weasley child. Voldemort quickly spelt Harry to sleep, stepped forward and clamped a hand down on Lucius’s arm. He watched as Lucius startled and turned towards him with wide eyes, more discomposed than Voldemort had ever seen him. He stammered, “Wh – what did – what are…”

A hand grabbed their shoulder and spun them around. “It can’t be Harry Potter?” Gilderoy Lockhart, the author and reason for the crowded bookstore, had seized the chance to pull Harry Potter up to the front where he’d been about to start signing books. Voldemort was enraged that someone had dared manhandle Harry and that he’d missed the opportunity to discover what about Lucius had attracted his magic. But a photographer was flitting around taking picture after picture and he wouldn’t allow any evidence of Harry’s possession to be captured.

Voldemort gave a confident smile (it felt a bit strange on Harry’s face), exuding boyish charm. The crowd applauded loudly. Lockhart threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders and clamped them tightly to his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!”

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge–" The crowd applauded again. Voldemort was glad Harry would get something useful out of this encounter. “He had no idea,” Lockhart paused and started to shake them before Voldemort prevented the movement by thrusting their elbow into Lockhart’s solar plexus. Lockhart wheezed briefly but continued speaking, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

As the crowd continued to cheer and clap, Lockhart turned to grab a prepackaged set of his books to give to Harry. Reaching out to shake Lockhart’s hand with another poised smile, Voldemort quietly said, “If you ever touch me again without permission, I will pull out every one of your teeth, shave your head, and permanently embed them in your skull to spell out ‘fraud’ in capital letters. Do you understand?” He briefly flared Harry’s magic so Lockhart would feel the magical pressure.

Lockhart rapidly paled but nodded and didn’t stop smiling at the camera. Satisfied, Voldemort collected the offered books and walked outside to meet with the Weasleys before waking Harry’s consciousness to take over again. What a delightful end to the day’s excursion.

Chapter Text

Mrs Weasley woke Harry and Ron up at dawn on September 1st, but it didn’t help them keep to schedule. Harry packed his trunk yesterday evening, but everyone else was running around looking for quills and fireworks, socks and toothbrushes. This family couldn’t do anything without adding a large dose of chaos. The only tasks Harry had left for the morning were releasing Hedwig to fly to Hogwarts and asking Mr Weasley to shrink down her cage to fit into his trunk.

Harry looked nervously at the clock; they should have left ten minutes ago. He put his trunk in the back of an old Ford Anglia that must have several expansion charms on it. Harry was happy to avoid the Floo, but he wished everyone would hurry up so they could get to the train station. They had to return three separate times for Fred’s fireworks, George’s broom, and Ginny’s diary. Traffic wasn’t too bad, but Harry would explode in anxiety if they didn’t arrive soon.

Mrs Weasley must have noticed his nerves because she allowed him and Ron to go through the barrier right after Percy. Harry sprinted across the platform, while Ron trailed after him at a slower pace. He only relaxed once he’d climbed the steps and knew he wouldn’t miss the train.

They walked through the corridor, awkwardly peeking into compartments as they went, until they came across Hermione sitting alone. Opening the door, Harry helped Ron lift his trunk into the overhead rack and then grunted thanks when Ron returned the favour.

Looking out the window, Harry’s attention was immediately caught by Ginny who was still on the platform being smothered in a hug by Mrs Weasley. The train gave a loud whistle, steam covered the platform, and Harry saw Ginny’s obscured figure jerk out of her mother’s arms and run to board the train. They started moving, the steam dissipated, and Harry watched as Mr and Mrs Weasley ran alongside the train, waving happily, their eyes wet with tears.

Longing crawled up Harry’s throat, choking him. He’d watched a similar scene last year, but his envy had grown after spending time at the Weasleys’ home this summer. Harry wanted that… though he knew he’d never have it. He pressed his forehead against the glass window and closed his eyes. Maybe… maybe he should wish for it?

Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to empty his mind of everything. So far, he’d avoided acknowledging that the odd feelings must come from someone and not randomly burst into existence, but what was the point of denial? Whoever felt these things helped him (they took him away from the Dursleys). He tried projecting a single thought towards the entity inside his mind.

<< I wish I had a family. >>

Harry didn’t have to wait before getting a response. It was mostly disappointment with a tinge of regret. Harry sighed in resignation. That was to be expected; he knew it was impossible, even if he had a guardian angel watching over him.

The disparate feelings shifted to slight approval, Harry thought it was in response to his maturity and realism, and he felt warm with pride. Opening his eyes, he turned to see what Ron and Hermione were doing.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione was reading a book, and Ron was shuffling through his chocolate frog collection. Harry decided he’d read a book too; maybe later, he’d see if Hermione would be interested in reviewing their homework together. Ron wasn’t the most studious and Harry wanted to get better grades this year (though he knew with Snape teaching, Potions was a lost cause).

The train had been rolling along for a few minutes – a quiet compartment was nice – when Harry heard a timid knock on the door. Turning towards Hermione and Ron, he raised his eyebrows. Hermione pushed the door open. Ginny stood on the other side looking uncertain.

“Can’t find a compartment?” asked Harry, sympathetically. “You can join us; I’m sure the others don’t mind.” Ginny smiled in relief and Harry felt the strange urge to grab her hand. She’d literally never said a word to him and the only time he’d heard her speak was when she told off Malfoy… but since they got back from the day trip to Diagon, Harry had felt his attention drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He smiled at her and started to scoot over.

However, it seemed Ron did have a problem with his sister joining them. “What? NO!” He shouted. Ginny flinched when Ron turned to face her. “These are my friends. You need to learn how to make your own or you’ll always be a loser. Go find some other snot-nosed brats your age to sit with. We don’t want you here.” Ron jabbed his finger towards the door, violently indicating she should leave.

Harry was shocked at his vehemence. He turned to look at Hermione, who appeared equally surprised. “Ron, come on,” Harry started to say placatingly. Ron cut him off.

“No. She can’t sit with us.” Then he got up and physically shoved her out the door. Harry caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes and his stomach twisted. Ron slammed the door shut behind her. Then he plopped back into the seat, casually picking up his cards.

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “What the bloody hell was that, Ron?”

Ron glanced up then said in obvious bewilderment, “What do you mean?”

“That! Why would you say that to her? She seems nervous about going to Hogwarts. And you just… kicked her out?”

“Oh, that,” Ron replied, disinterestedly. He looked back down at his cards. “You won’t get it, it’s a sibling thing. I’m trying to help her, really. She needs to meet kids her age on the train or she won’t have any friends when she gets to Hogwarts.”

“Couldn’t you have encouraged her to make friends instead of calling her a loser and shoving her like that? It was rude… and mean.”

Ron flushed red, looking irritated, but only said, “Look, Harry. You don’t get it. You don’t have siblings.”

Harry was starting to get annoyed too. “Well, no, but I have Dudley. And right now, you remind me of him, which is not a compliment,” he sharply retorted.

“See! There you go insulting your relatives! You act just the same, but you’re trying to lecture me? You’re a total hypocrite!” Ron shouted, standing up to look down at Harry.

Harry shrunk into himself instinctively, feeling small. There was a spike of fear at having someone furiously looming over him, but his anger was palpable – he wouldn’t back down (he was a Gryffindor now, not a freak). Harry opened his mouth to yell back but stopped when he felt Hermione put her hand gently on his arm.

“Harry, why don’t you go take a walk for a bit? Make sure Ginny finds a compartment. I’ll talk to Ron. I don’t want to start the school year off fighting…” Hermione looked at him so pleadingly, that Harry’s anger faded slightly.

“Fine,” he said, getting up to leave the compartment. “I’ll be back later.” Harry wanted to slam the door but resisted the urge. Instead of seeking out Ginny, he went to the restroom. Harry locked himself in, then ran water to splash on his face. Ron was just so frustrating to deal with sometimes! Harry’s jealousy of Ron’s family might have exacerbated his annoyance, but that had been cruel.

On the other hand, maybe Ron was right, and it was just a family thing. It’s not like Harry would know… and he hated fighting with his friends. He was so anxious to keep them. Having friends at all still felt a bit like a miracle. He would take some time to himself, and they could settle the dispute when he returned. It’d all be fine. Harry deliberately ignored the sour taste in his mouth while making these justifications to himself. It would be fine.

Voldemort did not miss being an adolescent, though even in his youth, he was not as prone to melodrama as Harry. Harry needed a break, a period of introspection, but Voldemort wanted some more information and this was a perfect opportunity. He was sure there would be time to complete his plan and for Harry to have his little breakdown. Anyways, the longer Harry was away from his compartment, the more likely the mudblood would have talked down the blood traitor. It was a win-win.

Decision made, Voldemort gently put Harry to sleep and took over their body. He looked in the bathroom mirror; Harry really was the perfect host. With Quirrell, there were outward signs of possession – the second face, the growing scent of decay, the flashing red eyes – but none of those happened to Harry, even when Voldemort regularly took control and had inhabited him for months. And after Harry’s wish, Voldemort could use both his own and Harry’s magic. Harry’s body was a perfect vessel for his soul.

Smirking at their image in the mirror (and really, that did look strange on Harry’s face), Voldemort dried their hands and unlocked the bathroom door. He nonchalantly sauntered down the corridor towards the back of the train, subtly checking each compartment for the specific child he required information from.  

It was not until the last compartment on the train that Voldemort found who he was looking for.

“What do we have here? A nest of baby snakes, how sweet,” Voldemort crooned as he confidently stepped inside. He’d opened the door without knocking, thus taking the children by surprise. Admiring the gaping faces, Voldemort slowly shut the door behind him, discreetly casting a locking charm with a flick of his fingers.

Several youths were within the compartment, more than he’d noticed from peering in the window. Just inside the door on either side were two hulking boys, obvious byproducts of too much family inbreeding. Both were dead to the world, eyes shut and mouths open. Neither woke when he’d entered the compartment. Dismissing them immediately, Voldemort cast his eyes on the other children in the compartment.

On the left sat two boys, one dark-skinned with black hair and violet eyes who had already put his pureblood mask back on. The other was a Nott, a descendant of one of his most devoted followers. Nott was staring with wide eyes. Oh, he caught the wandless locking charm; he must have his family’s gift for mage sight, how lovely. On the right were two girls, one perfectly poised, the other unfortunately ugly. Sitting between them was the child he’d sought out.

Caught in the midst of holding court, Draco Malfoy still had yet to collect his decorum since Voldemort entered the compartment. Mouth gaping open, young Malfoy stared wide-eyed at him in silence. Voldemort raised an eyebrow and waited, but the child didn’t snap back to himself even with this cue.

Voldemort sighed and shook his head in disappointment. He lazily drawled, “Really, Malfoy, have some decorum. You’ll catch flies sitting like that. Perhaps you’re a frog rather than a snake.”

Baby Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click, even as his pale face flushed bright pink. Most of his friends involuntarily giggled at the childish insult; he seemed to be casting about for some retort, but Voldemort didn’t give him the opportunity.

“Well, why don’t we do introductions, hm? I’ll start.” He gave a formal bow, then said, “I’m Harry Potter, heir to the Potter family.” He rudely pointed at Malfoy before continuing, “And that’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” The children giggled again and Malfoy’s face shifted from pink to red at the reference to his first encounter with Harry on the train. “But I don’t think I know the rest of you.” He turned toward the violet-eyed boy first and gestured for him to speak.

The boy looked back at him warily, but calmly said, “Blaise Zabini, heir to the Zabini family.” Voldemort shifted his eyes to the Nott child next.

“Theodore Nott, I prefer to go by Theo,” the boy said quietly. He was still staring at Voldemort with awe-filled eyes.

Before Voldemort could look at the next person, Malfoy disrupted the conversation. “Now hold up, Potter. You can’t just barge in here and introduce yourself!”

Voldemort ignored him to reach for the composed girl’s hand. “And you are, my lady?”

Her face didn’t shift from her blank mask, but the tips of her ears went pink. “Daphne Greengrass, heiress of the Greengrass family. A pleasure to meet you, Heir Potter.” Voldemort bowed again and, in a proper display of formal aristocratic manner, brought the back of her hand towards his face but didn’t kiss it.

Turning to the other girl, he reached for her hand, but she jerked it aside to grab Malfoy’s arm before rudely saying, “Pansy Parkinson and I agree with Draco. What are you doing here, Potter?” Voldemort heard Greengrass gasp softly at the breach in manners.

Voldemort shrugged casually, ignoring the blatant insult she’d given him, before turning to the other more amenable children. “Pleasure to meet you all, actually,” he said before gesturing towards them while excluding Malfoy, Parkinson, and the sleeping thugs from the statement.

He continued to speak to only Zabini, Nott, and Greengrass. “I came to see how dear Draco here was doing. See, he and I just happened to visit Flourish and Blotts at the same time last weekend and I was witness to a terrible act of brutality. His father was attacked by the Weasley Family patriarch! They were brawling on the floor, and poor Lord Malfoy looked like he might have been terribly injured in this little tussle. Hagrid, Hogwarts’s groundskeeper, had to retrieve him off the ground!” Voldemort said in obviously faux concern.

The other children looked shocked at his statement, but Malfoy was so puffed up with indignation he’d started resembling an actual bullfrog. In a moment, if he didn’t pass out from lack of air, he’d rant about the Weasley family and likely go on for a while. Yes, young Malfoy was well and truly worked up and focused on that day. Perfect. Now he wouldn’t notice a deep mental probe, especially from a master of legilimency like Voldemort.

Voldemort locked eyes with the boy and then slid unobtrusively into his mind. Everyone in the room focused on Malfoy as he initiated his tirade against the blood traitors.

Malfoy’s memories were surprisingly organised. Someone must be in the middle of teaching him occlumency. The boy’s mind palace was stable. It was in the form of a never-ending, circular hallway fashioned after those in Malfoy manner. Young Malfoy’s memories were represented as tapestries on the walls. (Could he have picked a more noticeable storage method?)

But the child hadn’t set up any defences yet. This was to Voldemort’s benefit. It’d be easy to find what he was looking for and the boy would not recognise any intrusion had occurred. Voldemort sought out the memories from the day in Diagon.

He watched baby Malfoy wait impatiently outside Lucius’s office before they apparated to a dark corner in Knockturn Alley. They met with Voldemort’s old employer in Borgin and Burkes, the man’s shop. Young Malfoy inspected the store’s dark magic wares as if they were delicious sweets in a candy shop. Fingers reached out to touch only to halt at a look from his father. Lucius was looking to sell, but the boy didn’t know what the artefacts were, which was irritating.

Moving on, Voldemort sorted through the memories until he found the encounter in Flourish and Blotts. As he watched from young Malfoy’s perspective, he saw no indication of Harry’s magic reacting to Lucius, despite what he’d personally witnessed.

Well, this was a failure. Draco Malfoy knew nothing useful. Slipping back out of the boy’s mind, Voldemort sighed and then cut Malfoy’s rant off.

“Well, this has been just delightful,” he sarcastically mocked the boy. “I’m happy your father is recovering well, dear Draco. Heir Zabini, Mr Nott, and Heiress Greengrass, it truly was lovely meeting you. I’ll see you around at Hogwarts, assuming you’re brave enough to approach the lions’ pride. Bye-bye Malfoy. Careful you don’t run afoul of any more Weasley ambushes!”

Voldemort turned and strolled out, leaving a silent compartment in his wake. He meandered back to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door before softly waking Harry to take back over their body.

The mudblood performed more than adequately in her role as a mediator between Harry and the Weasley boy. Voldemort thought it would take the duration of the train ride for Harry to forgive the harsh words the boy had spoken to his sister. Harry was moody – though more inclined to personal flagellation than aggravation with his friends – and family was an obvious sore spot that Weasley had stomped on.

However, by the time Harry had returned to his compartment, the girl had convinced young Ronald to apologise in sincere contrition. He’d even offered to find and verify his sister was okay. Though he’d followed that statement trying to flatter Harry by saying, “I know you would have already got her set to rights. I trust you.”

Harry had not checked on the girl, but by this point, she must have found a compartment, and an interruption would likely not be welcome. Though Voldemort knew Harry felt a bit guilty, his anger and resentment had disappeared almost completely. Within 5 minutes of Harry’s return, the boys agreed to forget about the whole quarrel and the golden trio resumed being its united and cheerful self.  

Voldemort was satisfied that Harry had managed to shake off his pensive mood from earlier and be present with his friends; this made the rest of the trip go quickly, despite being several hours long. Harry and the girl compared their homework (most of the answers were correct, though Harry’s essays could use some work). Weasley and Harry played exploding snap and chess (Harry was atrocious, with no concept of long-term strategy).

The time flew by until the conductor announced their imminent arrival at Hogsmeade station. The trio packed their things away, changed into their robes, and disembarked the train. They walked out of the station as a group, following the upper years to the section of road where all the stagecoaches were parked.

On the return trip in Harry’s first year, Voldemort was disturbed by his epiphany that Harry Potter was his horcrux. He was focused on organising Harry’s, the horcrux’s, and his memories and had fortified his occlumency barriers into thick walls. Thus, he hadn’t been mentally aligned with Harry when he’d ridden the carriages down to Hogsmeade.

This was why Voldemort was caught off guard by Harry’s shock when seeing the thestrals standing between the carriage shafts, ready to pull the coaches up to Hogwarts. He searched Harry’s mind and viewed the memory of Harry’s last trip in the carriages. Curiously, Harry had not seen the thestrals… and Voldemort knew Harry hadn’t seen anyone die during this last summer.

Perhaps there was time to test a hypothesis. While Harry stared at the horses, Voldemort slowly reinforced his barriers until he barely overlapped Harry’s mind. When he could no longer see what Harry did in real time, he retrieved the recently stored memories with a slight delay.

Harry was distraught. To him, it appeared as though all the thestrals had suddenly disappeared. Voldemort realigned again and Harry jumped as they reappeared, his shoulders tensed up to his ears. Voldemort’s little experiment had caused Harry more distress than he’d anticipated. The poor child thought he was going mad.

Voldemort was somewhat amused but tried to push comfort towards Harry’s mind regardless. Harry relaxed in time and resolved to ignore the ‘skeletor-horses’, as he had ostensibly named them. Harry’s concern about mental instability would likely prevent him from asking anyone about them and finding out what they were. Well, Voldemort could educate him if necessary, though it wasn’t a concern for now.

In general, he was quite pleased with the current status quo. Harry was looking to him more and more frequently for approval, requesting reassurance and assistance. Since Harry was his soul bearer… Voldemort was happy to oblige.

Harry thought him a kind guardian angel, but Voldemort was taught angels were terrifying immortals keen to punish all inferior beings. They were warriors burdened with divine purpose and awe-inducing messengers who said “Do not be afraid” to those chosen few. Well… perhaps angel was an apt moniker for him.

Chapter Text

In Harry’s opinion, Fridays had the worst class schedule for Gryffindor second-year students. In the morning, they had Defence with Lockhart the Ludicrous followed by Herbology where they were still handling the obnoxious, screaming Mandrakes.  Then the afternoon was swallowed up with a double-potions session that never seemed to end.

Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Friday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape’s favourite student, kept smearing flobberworm mucus on Harry and Ron, who knew that if they retaliated, they would get detention faster than you could say “Unfair.”

Harry stared at his cauldron, his tongue sticking out as he concentrated on carefully and slowly titrating the salamander blood into his Wiggenweld Potion. Each drop had the potential to turn the solution from indigo to pink and overshooting meant he’d have to start all over or turn in a shoddy potion at the end. Just as another drop of blood dripped into the potion, Harry felt something stab him in the bicep. He stifled a shout as intense pain flared through his arm causing him to dump the rest of his bottle of salamander blood into the potion.

Blinking back tears, Harry looked behind him to see a smirking Malfoy jauntily wave his lionfish spine at him. He must have pierced Harry’s arm with it. Snape swooped over to Harry, inspected his cauldron, then shook his head in disappointment. “Another abysmal attempt, Mr Potter. It astounds me how unprepared you are for class and how dreadful you are at the art of potion making… ten points from Gryffindor… If only we could drop students before their OWLs. Might save us all from wasting time on someone so useless.”

Harry’s arm throbbed in pain and he couldn’t lift it anymore. He worked half-heartedly on his potion, his arm hanging limp beside him, noticeably swelling with each passing moment. By the end of class, Harry was sweating and dizzy (either that or his vision was blurry from his crushing fury).

Harry’s shoulders curled forward involuntarily. He felt stooped over, hunched, as if his rage was a heavy weight he couldn’t drop.

Instead of starting over (he wouldn’t have time – Snape would fail him anyway – he couldn’t concentrate – the weight was getting heavier), Harry had continued with his substandard potion for the remaining hour of class. It was the wrong colour (still pale pink when it should be an acidic green) and too thin, but it wasn’t like Harry could have done any better, considering.

He bottled the finished product with one hand and then cleaned up his station. Carefully bracing his injured arm across his stomach by hooking his enlarged wrist into the elbow of his good arm, Harry stood up to turn in his vial. The room spun like he’d sat too long on the carousel in the neighbourhood park, but he made it to the front of the line. Snape’s eyes flickered down to his hand, now twice its normal size, before returning to look at Harry’s messy hair or maybe his infamous scar.

“A ‘T’ for today, Mr Potter,” Snape said after taking his vial. A little hesitance in Snape’s posture had Harry waiting for an extra beat. Snape’s eyes flickered down to Harry’s hand again; Harry saw a flash of something conflicted before Snape abruptly turned away. “Another five points from Gryffindor for inferior work. Come more prepared for my class going forward. Now get out,” he said coldly.

Harry staggered back to collect his bookbag, head bent. He walked out of the dungeons – still dizzy, but less so in the fresh air of the hall – searching for Ron and Hermione. Unfortunately, he found Malfoy and his goons first. Draco Malfoy really seemed to seek him out this year for fights. He was around every corner just waiting to jump out at Harry and yell “Bleh!” like the muggle version of Dracula.

“Typical performance in potions today, Potty. Maybe next time your incompetence will get us all blown up. Professor Snape was right, you are a waste of space. And a disappointment to wixen everywhere,” said Malfoy as Crabbe and Goyle laughed loudly.  

“I’m not in the mood, Malfoy. Piss off back to your evil, underwater lair. Shouldn’t your minions be stuffing their faces in prep for tomorrow’s Halloween feast, anyway? How will they fit a whole table’s worth of candy in their stomachs otherwise,” Harry replied offhandedly, still holding his throbbing arm awkwardly, as he walked around the Slytherin trio.

“Merlin, you don’t even know the proper holiday traditions. Like any real wix would be caught dead participating in that Christian holiday. Please, as if. I would have thought you of all people would be scrambling to light a candle for your parents, considering… You’re one of the people with the best shot of making contact with them dying as they did.”

Harry’s mind went still, and he stiffened – no longer curled over carrying his rage, it had formed metal bands clamped across his chest, holding him up, straightening his spine – and his magic went wild, sparking against itself, creating small fireworks of brilliant reds and greens.  He turned back, marching up to Malfoy.

“What did you just sssay?” Harry whispered, almost hissed, directly into Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy took a half step back, a hint of uncertainty on his face, before he started blustering. He loudly exclaimed, “You heard me!” while looking to each side, checking that Crabbe and Goyle were still there to protect him.

“Poor mummy and daddy dearest murdered on Samhain. I’m shocked they didn’t stay on as ghosts! Well, maybe they didn’t want to stay here with you. After all, you don’t even light a candle to speak with them on their death day. Though thinking about it, it’s for the best. Not sure they’d even come for a disgrace like you,” declared Malfoy.

Harry’s fury peaked – the bands tightened, crushing him – he was suffocating – and then everything disappeared in a red haze.

When Harry came back to himself, Malfoy was on the ground, his face underneath Harry’s boot, whimpering softly. Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be seen. Hermione and Ron were staring at Harry in horror from down the hall. Harry was still angry, but he could think now. He could breathe again, so he took sharp, shallow breaths with his constrained lungs. He stalked towards Ron and Hermione. Every step felt like he was being stabbed in the chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry furiously demanded.

“Tell you what, mate?” Ron asked, bewildered, and still somewhat horrified by what he saw Harry do (what did Harry do?).

“Why didn’t you tell me my parents died on Halloween!” Harry shouted. Hermione had been hiding behind Ron, but she peeked out from his side to speak.

“What do you mean, why didn’t we tell you? How could you not know? It’s in all the books about you.”

And Harry just… he couldn’t deal with this. He just couldn’t. Everything was hot and blurry, and he could barely breathe. He stalked away, struggling to pull out his invisibility cloak with one arm as he left. He heard Ron calling out for him, heatedly, and Hermione’s soothing voice afterwards, but Harry couldn’t deal with any of this. He put on his cloak; it weighed him down. Harry disappeared.

Tomorrow was Halloween.

After encountering Malfoy, Harry skipped dinner to wander around the castle under his cloak, ignoring his burning arm and pounding head. Just before curfew, he stopped by Madame Pomfrey to show her his injury; she kept him overnight like he’d hoped she would. He heard her saying something about edemas and subcutaneous bleeding, but magic would fix him up.

In the morning, he left the hospital wing after the nurse gave him a healthy breakfast and discharged him, offering him a small bottle of Pepper-Up to take if needed. Once in the halls, Harry ducked under his invisibility cloak again. He was avoiding Ron and Hermione. Well, he was avoiding everyone.

Harry spent the morning walking around the castle and trying to recall everything he’d heard about his parents. He had the photo album Hagrid gave him, so Harry now knew what they looked like… but… he’d never heard their voices.

He couldn’t imagine what they’d say when he asked a question or the advice they’d give him. He didn’t know what they sounded like when they laughed or snarled; if they were the kind of people who joked or spat insults. Harry knew nothing about them. Nothing about who they were as people.

Maybe Malfoy was right. Harry was a disappointment and a disgrace. Would his parents even want to talk to him?

All Harry could feel was despair and misery. Then suddenly a burst of indignation spiked through him. It quickly grew into full-on outrage. That definitely wasn’t his. It must be his angel, who’d granted his wish last summer. The odd feelings had jolted Harry out of his depression a bit. Just enough that he thought about Malfoy’s taunt in more detail.

What had Malfoy meant by ‘light a candle to speak with them on their death day’? And he’d called Halloween by another name, hadn’t he? What was it… Samhain. That was it. He could… learn more about that, right? There was plenty of time to go to the library before the feast.

Harry’s reward was a flood of approval from his angel. He smiled to himself – a sad but sweet thing – as he started down the stairs, his steps the most lively they’d been all day. He may not have known his parents, but at least someone was looking out for him.

Once in the library, there were surprisingly few books on wixen culture. All of them were in the restricted section, so Harry had to sneak in under his cloak to search, but he eventually found one called The Wheel of the Year that had a section dedicated to Samhain.

Samhain, or Sauin, is one of the four Greater Sabbats in the Wheel of the Year.  

It is a time to celebrate the lives of those who have passed on, and it often involves paying respect to ancestors, family members, elders of the faith, friends, pets, and other loved ones who have died.

It is a festival of darkness, balanced at the opposite point of the Wheel by the festival of Beltane (celebrated as the festival of light and fertility).

Samhain is the time of the year when the veil between this world and the afterlife is at its thinnest, making communication with those who have departed possible.

Due to Samhain’s alignment with the contemporary observance of the Christian holidays Halloween and Day of the Dead, muggles have appropriated some traditional festivities, such as lighting candles and leaving offerings.

There are special rituals required to call back your loved ones safely. Do not follow the muggle methods! Ritual celebrations are intensely private affairs so many families keep their traditional Samhain rituals in the Family Grimoire.

Harry was fascinated. He wanted to read about all the other wixen holidays, but he worried he wouldn’t have enough time to figure out a ritual for this evening if he did that. Instead, Harry pocketed The Wheel of the Year, hiding it in his bag. He searched the library for more ritual-specific texts about Samhain.

There was only one book; it was untitled and small, barely the size of Harry’s palm with precious few pages. The section on Samhain was only two pages long – one of which was a drawn schematic of some kind. All the text was handwritten and in an older form of English, so Harry had to puzzle it out, but he grew more excited with each word he understood.

Those whom seek to lift the Veil, heed Death. 

Death watches, she finds all whom seek her realm, meet her gaze and see.
Death listens, she wills her cherished gifts to worthy few, touch her soul and bid.
Death speaks, she sings her song of those past on, find her voice and hark.

Cast this ritual and meet Death.

Draw thy circle 'i chalk on Hallowed ground. 

Reach beyond thyself and thy Core.  Link thyself to thy home Ley and be calm. 

Light thy candle’s wick, see it sear steadily, let the light feed thy soul and ground thou with the living. 

Cast each loved one’s name from thy lips three times, one by one by one, bid to Death.

Empty thy mind of passing follies and future endeavours, focus towards the pounding of blood 'i thy veins, beat by beat by beat, hark for Death’s song.

Beware Death’s gaze.  Count thy heartbeats seven by one by seven.  Never prolong thy gaze or she shall reap thy soul 'i reprisal.

Harry searched Hogwarts for a candle and instead found a hidden ritual room. On the seventh floor, next to a crazy tapestry of dancing trolls, a door appeared just as Harry hurried down the corridor, checking all the sconces for unlit candles. Turning back, he peeked into the room and saw everything the book said he’d need. The floor was made of a light grey smooth stone with a perfect 3-foot circle permanently etched in the centre. Chalk, candles, and even matches were on a small bench leaning against the right wall.

Copying the runes from the schematic drawn in the book onto the floor with the white chalk took hours. Finally, he finished and grabbed two candles and a packet of matches. Sitting in the centre of the circle, he felt excited and hopeful. There was also distant pride and approval. Harry projected a thought to whoever was haunting him before he began the ritual.

<< Thank you, angel. >>

Pushing away thoughts of his angel from his mind, Harry lit the first candle. “Lily Potter… Lily Potter… Lily Potter.” Harry murmured quietly, but clearly. He lit the second candle, “James Potter… James Potter… James Potter.” Harry shut his eyes and tried not to think. His heart was pounding, so he focused on each beat.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

A second heartbeat, echoing after Harry’s, slowly came into sync.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

There was a voice murmuring, too quietly for Harry to understand.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was Harry’s mom, singing a lullaby.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry.” But Harry was crying.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Harry’s dad joined too. “Daddy’s gonna sing you a lullaby.”

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Harry could remember them. Could hear them. He knew them.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was time to say goodbye.

Harry let the ritual magic dissipate, opening his eyes. The candles were burned down to almost nothing. And the circle around had gained a second layer of runes, runes Harry had never seen before. He felt like he was about to burst with magic and love and happiness, so Harry projected the same thought again.

<< Thank you, angel. >>  

Voldemort took control as soon as Harry exited the Room of Requirement while under the cloak. Harry’s body hummed with leftover ritual magic. He couldn’t hold Harry asleep for long, not with how depleted both of their cores were, but Voldemort was too restless from the rite to return to Harry’s dorm immediately.

He hadn’t had a proper Samhain since before attacking the Potters and he didn’t ever want to go that long without one again. Too long between rites had caused his magic to be more erratic, the natural flow of his core distorted. Voldemort couldn’t say how much of that was caused by missed Turns or was from becoming a noncorporal spirit, but he knew regularly performing the Wheel’s rituals would help.

Regardless, it seemed Draco Malfoy wasn’t entirely useless since his malice had spurred Harry into finding out about the Wheel. However, Voldemort had no regrets about incapacitating him earlier for his insults to Harry outside the potions classroom. Plus, he’d barely harmed the boy anyway.

After sending Malfoy’s two minions running with a strong wind and some near misses of lightning, he’d barely had time for a weak, wandless ferventi sanguine curse before Harry’s friends had interrupted. Considering it was the middle of a school day, it was probably better that the two Gryffindors saw him rather than any other children or a teacher.

Now that it was after curfew, and with Harry’s invisibility cloak, Voldemort wasn’t concerned about being caught outside the dorms. He needed a few books from the library’s restricted section that Harry hadn’t found in his earlier search – too focused on Samhain rather than rituals in general.

Still, his horcrux bearer had done well for his first rite. Harry had sunk into meditation quickly and cleared his mind with ease. Voldemort barely had to help draw Harry’s magic to connect to the nexus of Ley lines sitting beneath Hogwarts.

Voldemort briefly took over beforehand to add the second circle preventing unbeckoned intrusions, but it was only a precaution. The odds of a spirit uncalled by Harry interrupting the ritual were immeasurably small... but considering the attraction he’d felt to Harry’s soul while a wraith possessing Quirrell, Voldemort didn’t want to take any chances.

Samhain had been a resounding success for Harry. He’d gained a memory of his parents singing him a lullaby from when he was a newborn and his magic’s flow was less erratic after joining Hogwarts’s magic. Possessing Harry’s body was less magically taxing than before, and Harry’s magic was starting to mimic some of the patterns from Voldemort’s own, making it easier for Voldemort to direct. He wondered if he could find a method to use both his and Harry’s magics simultaneously...? Something to think about testing in the future.

He was impressed that Harry discovered the Room of Requirement at such a young age. Voldemort had only found it in his final year attending Hogwarts and it hadn’t occurred to him he could use it as a ritual chamber. Harry could be ingenious when he wasn’t behaving like a melodramatic adolescent.

Voldemort would have to use their emotional connection to convince Harry to perform the rest of the rites for the Turning of the Wheel this year. With a guaranteed safe location and materials readily supplied by the room, there was hardly any risk of being found.

He didn’t think Harry realised celebrating the pagan rituals was illegal without a special ministry-approved certification (though with Harry’s blasé attitude towards blood magic, Voldemort doubted Harry would care). Voldemort approached the secret passageway connected to the library study rooms used by the head boy and girl hidden behind a tapestry and peculiarly short suit of armour.

He entered the library silently, still hidden beneath the cloak. Casually brushing aside the minor wards on the restricted section (just like he had earlier for Harry’s desperate search), he quickly walked to the shelf on rituals. It was shockingly empty compared to when he was a student. Voldemort had noticed earlier but was too focused on Harry to pay attention.

Over half of the tomes from this section that Voldemort had read as a student were gone. It was a travesty. Most of the discarded books didn’t cover dangerous magic, let alone Dark! Dumbledore and the ministry were crippling Britain, preventing the study of anything but the simplest, ‘lightest’ branches of magic. Ritual creation and utilisation were fundamental aspects of magic that the majority of wixen who recently attended Hogwarts barely knew existed.

Even the areas of magic that Dumbledore hadn’t removed from Hogwarts’s curriculum were taught at the most basic level. And yes, he’d cursed that damn Defence against the Dark Arts position; however, he had not expected it to last more than a few years!

If Dumbledore had just renamed the class Abjuration (the proper title for defensive magic), the curse would no longer impact the new professors. Instead, Dumbledore let it continue year after year. Now Harry was stuck learning from Lockhart who spent the entire class reading out of his own fictitious ‘textbooks’ and lasciviously smiling at the young female witches. Voldemort had yet to see him cast a single successful spell. And don’t even get him started on Binn’s repetition or Severus’s harassment!

Hogwarts was a sham of what it used to be… of what it could have been. Overbearing censorship, rampant bullying, teaching at the level of the lowest-achieving student, and a points system that actively discouraged curiosity and ingenuity… this generation had been condemned to mediocrity and malleability. Voldemort didn’t regret trying to burn the system to the ground so they could start anew. Sometimes anarchy was the answer.

Only two of the six books he was looking for were available in the library. Voldemort would need to find a way to order more without Dumbledore finding out. He already knew Dumbledore warded Harry’s residence against receiving unknown owls. Doubtless, Dumbledore would notice Harry receiving packages in the Great Hall and take steps to identify, and maybe prevent, any unusual purchases. The books Voldemort wanted were not ones Dumbledore would allow Harry to read.

Grabbing his meagre haul, Voldemort snuck back into the hallway using the secret passageway under Madam Pince’s desk that let out on the seventh floor. He tucked the books into Harry’s bag for his later perusal, then woke Harry so he could meander his way to the Gryffindor tower.

This invisibility cloak was very convenient. Harry had been told that it was his father’s, a Potter family heirloom, and Voldemort had no reason to doubt that was the truth… but he was extremely curious about the composition of the cloak. Most invisibility cloaks wore out within ten to fifteen years even when made from fresh demiguise skin. This material didn’t have the same feel as a typical invisibility cloak and the magic was different too.

Voldemort thought it must be woven from some type of treated thestral hair. The magic had a distinct deathly aura, which Voldemort had only noticed since the Samhain ritual. He wondered how the cloak was altered to make it invisible to all and not just those blind to Death – perhaps it had been linked to a specific individual’s passing – maybe only those who saw the death of the invisibility cloak’s owner could see through it.

Voldemort was ruminating on possible potions to modify thestral hair when he heard it. The voice was immediately identifiable even after 50 years.

δ … soo hungry… for so long… δ

The basilisk was awake. One of his horcruxes must be in Hogwarts somewhere... the diary was likely the only one with enough soul for full possession. Dammit, Lucius must have sold it at Borgin and Burkes… Voldemort would castrate him and feed the severed flesh to his wife. He would skin him and fashion the scraps into a cloak, force his son to wear it and crucio him. He’d remove his bones and disembowel him and… Lucius would beg for death by the time Voldemort was done with him.  

δ … kill… time to kill… δ

Harry was an idiot. He followed the unknown voice without even realising it was a snake. Dumbledore was also, apparently, really fucking successful at moulding Harry into a hero. Harry ignored Voldemort’s disapproval… or maybe Harry couldn’t feel it through his alarm. With Harry’s panic, he’d easily fight off a sleep spell and Voldemort didn’t have enough magic to possess him anyway. It was so aggravating being unable to do anything but watch.

δ … I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD… δ

Harry understood parseltongue because of the horcrux, not their overlapping consciousness (like with the thestrals) so strengthening his occlumency barriers didn’t stop Harry from hearing the basilisk. The dumbass was running up the stairs to the second floor, approaching the girl’s bathroom that hid the Chamber’s entrance.

Well, if Harry went into the Chamber of Secrets, at least he’d be able to talk to the basilisk, hopefully while avoiding eye contact. He’d probably be trapped there long enough for Voldemort to possess him again and get them out.

There was water all over the floor. Harry’s invisibility cloak wouldn’t help them stay hidden if someone heard Harry’s splashing footsteps. Before they got to the bathroom though, Harry halted, staring at the wall. In large red letters, just above a petrified cat was an ominous message.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS
HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Damn. Maybe he was just as dramatic as Harry as a teenager. This was not going to go well.

Chapter Text

Harry bolted back to Gryffindor Tower. He was gasping for air while desperately trying to be quiet to avoid getting caught breaking curfew, but he was freaking out. He knew he should tell someone, find a professor and show them what he’d discovered. Harry couldn’t do that. They wouldn’t believe him – Harry was a delinquent, a troublemaker – and he couldn’t get expelled, couldn’t go back to the Dursleys. Someone would find it in the morning… or a professor on rounds would notice it without Harry needing to bring it to anyone’s attention and get blamed (should he be blamed?).

Harry still felt panicky despite deciding not to tell any of the teachers. What was that voice he heard? They were talking about blood and killing but no one had been there… was it all in his head? He hadn’t thought he was mad but…

Harry had all those odd emotions that weren’t his (did his guardian angel even exist?), and he saw those skeletor-horses that appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared, at the beginning of the year, when no one else did. Now Harry was hearing voices that led him to murdered cat crime scenes with bloody, rhyming messages on the walls. He gasped for air as he ran faster and faster back to the tower.

Harry skidded to a stop in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. He was breathing heavily. What if… the message and the cat and the voice, what if none of it was real? Harry might have imagined the whole thing. Maybe he was just overtired. It was several hours past curfew, and he did that magic-intensive ritual. Plus, his potions injury! He’d probably just had a delayed hallucination or something.

Harry had finally caught his breath enough to whisper the password. The frame squeaked quietly as it opened revealing the empty, cheerful-looking Gryffindor common room. Harry’s heart was still racing, but he could take full breaths now.

He slowly walked up the stairs leading to the second-year boys’ dormitory. Inching the door open quietly, he slipped into the room. Silently padding over to his bed, he stripped off his outer robe and tie, dropped them on his trunk, and then sat down on his mattress. Pulling the curtains closed around him, he slid under the red sheets and comforter. Red like the message on the wall.

It was a terrible daydream caused by sleep deprivation and skipping dinner... just the Voldemort trauma manifesting in a new way… or a reaction to the lionfish spine stab as he’d thought earlier! Maybe it was an illusion caused by a mishap with his Samhain ritual. It would go away soon. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t. Everything was fine.

Despite his internal monologue of reassurances, Harry stayed up late staring at his red – red like blood – bed curtains unable to sleep for a long time.

Harry woke up to Ron shaking him. He squinted up at him, while Ron looked down, seeming a bit sheepish. Harry’s thoughts were running slower than molasses and his body was sore like he’d been working in Aunt Petunia’s garden all day.

“Hey mate… I’m sorry about the other day. I really thought you already knew, but I should have been more understanding about you being upset. Hermione gave me an earful, let me tell you. And when we couldn’t find you yesterday… we were both really worried.” Ron said, looking at Harry earnestly.

Clearly, he meant every word and thought this was a big deal, but Harry had honestly forgotten they’d fought.  Between getting his arm treated – his initial depressive thoughts about his parents – celebrating Samhain – the voice and the cat and the message – Harry hadn’t given a thought to the short argument with Ron and Hermione.

“Totally forgiven. I was mostly angry at Malfoy and took it out on you. I’m sorry too,” Harry said, smiling at the other Gryffindor. Relief painted itself across Ron’s face and made Harry start thinking. Ron had written Harry twelve separate letters this summer without a response. With this in mind, Harry made an impulsive decision.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Harry said seriously. He double-checked that their other roommates had all left and then patted the spot next to him on the bed. Ron sat down, looking curious.

“I was under my invisibility cloak last night,” Harry explained. He didn’t want to talk about the Samhain ritual, which was private, so he added a white lie about why he was out but told Ron everything else. “I ate a late-night snack in the kitchen, 'cause I skipped dinner, and then came back to the tower after curfew. On the way back, I heard this voice, but I couldn’t see anyone no matter how close it sounded. It was so loud, but none of the portraits woke up or noticed. It was talking about… eating and killing people and smelling blood. I was worried it was gonna hurt someone, so I followed it.”

Ron’s curiosity had transformed into concern by this point. Harry couldn’t keep eye contact while he said this. He stared at his hands and continued, “It led me to the second floor, in a hallway next to a flooded bathroom, and there was… this message written on the wall. It looked like it was written in blood? Saying something about a chamber of secrets and ‘enemies of the heir, beware’ – I know it’s a terrible rhyme – but… Mrs Norris was hung under it. Stiff as a doornail… I think she was dead.”

Harry’s stomach twisted into knots while he waited for a response. Ron wasn’t saying anything, so Harry gathered his courage to look up at him. Ron’s face radiated concern and distress. Harry asked, “Do you think I should tell someone?”

“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. Harry sighed in relief, but Ron didn’t stop, saying, “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.” Something in Ron’s voice makes Harry ask, “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But – you must admit it’s weird…” Ron was struggling, trying to figure out what to say next. “I just… someone else will find the message, right? Let’s see what the teachers think. Maybe it was just a nasty prank from Peeves who saw you out after curfew.”

Harry smiled, feeling relieved. Ron was a good friend. He was happy he had told him the truth (there was slight disapproval in the back of his mind, but Harry ignored it. He needed to tell Ron even if it upset his angel. Harry knew Ron was real, he was not certain about his angel). Together, they got ready for the day and rushed to the great hall, hoping to catch the latter half of breakfast.

It wasn’t until that evening that Harry and Ron learned anything more about the scene Harry had been led to. Dumbledore stood up to give an announcement before the food was served. He told everyone that Mrs Norris had been petrified, but that she’d fully recover with a potion draught Professor Snape would make after Professor Sprout harvests some matured mandrakes that wouldn’t be ready until spring.

Harry was relieved Mrs Norris wasn’t dead. Then, Dumbledore requested that anyone with information about this awful prank come forward; both Dumbledore and Snape stared at Harry while this was said. Harry felt contempt and irritation that weren’t his and while that increased his anxiety levels, he was happy the teachers were handling the petrification problem.

It wasn’t a prank. Whoever the heir was, they had graduated from cats to first years. Colin Creevey, a Muggleborn Gryffindor, had been petrified the night after the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch game (Harry dominated the game, and Malfoy moped for hours afterwards).

A rumour was going around the school that a monster was hunting Muggleborns at the behest of Slytherin’s heir. Hermione was scared but trying not to show it. She kept saying there was only one person who had been petrified and, even though it was a Muggleborn, it didn’t prove anything was hunting them. Instantly after though, she’d always ask to research more safety precautions in the library.

It was Hermione who thought of asking Binns more about the Chamber of Secrets (she’d been asking all the professors but kept getting brushed off). This got them some answers, but not enough; Binns told Harry’s class the story of the founders and, emphasising that it was a legend, what the Chamber of Secrets was.

Harry felt vaguely annoyed at the tale. He was not sure if it was caused by his thoughts on the ridiculousness of Slytherin sealing a ‘horror’ in a secret room within the school to attack future children or if it was another odd feeling (sometimes it was easy to tell when the feelings weren’t his… but sometimes it wasn’t… maybe all the feelings were his).

Aside from getting the actual legend from a somewhat respected source, the trio was given another piece of useful information from Binns. There had been prior scandals in Hogwarts where ‘Slytherin’s heir’ had claimed to open the Chamber of Secrets, the most recent instance occurring about fifty years ago.

Hermione and Dean, both Muggleborns, had been trying to prompt more information from Binns by asking follow-up questions, but the ghost had been adamant that the Chamber was a legend. He’d told them sharply, “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! There have been many instances of some young upstart claiming to be Slytherin’s heir in the past, but all of them were frauds. Why, just 50 years ago, similar rumours were running around Hogwarts, and it all turned out to be a simple case of a loose acromantula.  I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!”

Despite Binns’s opinions, Harry was more convinced than ever that the Chamber of Secrets was real.

Hermione began researching what kind of ‘horror’ Slytherin could have sealed. Harry was sure it was a snake, so he started investigating magical kinds in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Harry and Hermione spent most of the next few weeks in the library, with Ron occasionally tagging along. On a day when all of them were present, Harry whispered to Hermione, “Maybe it’s a runespore. They live for ages if they manage to keep all their heads.”

Hermione though, was unimpressed with his deduction. She quietly replied, “You should be helping me look into common spells and constructs from the early 900s, not assuming the monster is some magical version of a snake.”

“Hermione, it just makes sense! Slytherin’s house animal is a snake. Snakes are smart and cunning and there are tons of magical versions whose venom might be able to cause petrification. Some of these could live for a thousand years and still be around, especially if Slytherin successfully crossbred them into some kind of hybrid snake monster. Hmmm, a horned-serpent and ashwinder hybrid… Now that would be a ‘horror’.”

“I just don’t think we should assume anything! There’s no evidence it is a snake. No evidence that the heir is even in Slytherin at all!” Harry agreed with that last part, if only because he had a small nagging worry that maybe he was to blame for the entire fiasco (he was not crazy though, he wasn’t).

Hermione huffed and made eye contact with Ron, who paled and said, “Don’t look at me, I’m not getting in the middle of this. You’re both bonkers for spending so many hours reading in here. Dumbledore’s probably already got a plan in the works.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to huff, though he didn’t say anything to refute Ron’s statement. He did not think Dumbledore would help with this. Look at what happened last year! Dumbledore had left the castle, and Voldemort had almost gotten the Stone and would have, if not for Harry and his friends.

At the end of last year, he’d basked in Dumbledore’s and Gryffindor House’s approval after being awarded so many points, but after being sent back to the Dursleys…  Well, Harry was a bit disenchanted with Dumbledore’s whole grandfather schtick. Plus, he kept staring at Harry, as if waiting for him to come forward claiming responsibility or something. It was unnerving and just amplified Harry’s anxiety and anger whenever he saw him.

Ignoring Hermione and Ron’s whispered argument about how informed Dumbledore was, Harry turned his head and glimpsed long, red hair disappearing into the shelves. He was tempted to follow, but what would he even say? Ginny still hadn’t spoken to him, but sometimes he noticed her staring at him just like he stared at her.

He really wanted to talk to her. Harry imagined getting up from his seat and pursuing her into the shelves. Maybe he’d find her reaching for a book and he could help her grab it? Or no, she was the same height as him, that wouldn’t work. He could ask her what book she was reading or how classes were going. She would tell him that she loved Hogwarts and was happy they were in the same house. Ginny would smile at him, and Harry’s breath would catch. She’d reach for his hands, taking both of them in hers and pushing them against the shelves. Holding him in place. Then Ginny would… she would lean in and…

“BANG!”

Harry startled and jammed his elbow into the arm of his chair, yelping as he almost dropped his book. Ron was getting ready to leave, his books and parchment packed away. The loud noise was him pushing in his chair and accidentally hitting the table leg. Harry felt weirdly flushed. Mrs Pince kept glaring at him for making noise and Hermione was absorbed in her book. He decided it was a good time to call it for the day.

“Wait up, Ron,” Harry said quickly. “I need a break anyways, let’s go play Exploding Snap.” Ron brightened immediately, nodding his head in agreement. Harry promptly gathered his things, and they left the library. Harry refused to think about the heat still present in his flushed cheeks after his latest daydream.

Voldemort desperately needed to create his own body. He would not still be entwined in Harry’s mind while the child went through puberty. Harry was a clever, mature boy – when he wasn’t chasing after mysterious voices with murderous inclinations – but Voldemort would snap and murder someone if he had to continue listening to Harry wax poetic about Ginevra Weasley for another year. (Harry hadn’t even spoken to her! How was he so infatuated?)

It was painfully awkward to see Harry’s attraction to her, especially while Harry was in denial. Voldemort spent more and more time barricaded behind his occlumency barriers, but Harry’s smitten feelings still filtered through.  

Maybe the Weasley girl’s magic was compatible with Harry’s? That was the only reason Voldemort could think of that would cause this… ‘love’ at first sight phenomenon that he was witnessing. Harry’s magic had strange reactions whenever he saw the girl. It had taken Voldemort a few days to figure out why the magic’s behaviour was familiar.

It was like what he’d seen in Flourish and Blotts, the small eddy towards Lucius (or perhaps, it was towards Ginevra Weasley even then?), only on a much larger scale. Instead of Harry’s core’s natural flow, whole sections would reverse direction and spiral out towards the girl. Voldemort had never seen anything like it… but he’d also never been so in sync with another’s magic. He had to entertain the possibility that it was a normal response when a wix fell in love (how would he know?).

One silver lining to Harry’s little crush was it distracted him from seeking out the basilisk or attempting to find the Chamber. With Voldemort’s diary running amok somewhere in the school, he didn’t want to deal with Harry trying to play hero again.

Oddly enough, Harry’s theory about what the school called ‘Slytherin’s horror’ was spot on. Basilisks were technically snake hybrids created using magic. An ambitious wix experimenting with different methods to reanimate the extinct Titanoboa cerrejonensis, a prehistoric nonmagical constrictor snake species, had utilised a necromancy ritual using recently unearthed fossils and several thousand venomous Oxyuranus microlepidotus as sacrifices, along with the remainder of their lifeforce, which resulted in what was considered the modern-day basilisk.

The size and constrictor body were from the Titanoboa, the venom from the inland taipans, and Voldemort theorised that the deadly eyes were a side effect of the necromantic nature of its creation – the eyes were the windows to the soul after all – but it was only a hypothesis. Basilisks weren’t even technically considered their own species. They were a crossbreed and, since their means of reproduction was mostly unknown, most zoologists thought they were sterile. Instead, basilisks fell into the same category as mules.  

Basilisks were almost extinct. Voldemort had studied Slytherin’s pet and discovered that they reproduced asexually but required a certain level of magic to spark the process. The whole chicken-egg-under-a-toad-methodology was a ridiculous myth circulated by the Ministry to prevent any actual research into breeding the XXXXX-rated magical creature. The few still living in the world were either ancient and hidden, like the one under Hogwarts, or born in the uncharted regions of the South American rainforests.

Regardless of Harry’s lack of motivation to search for the basilisk and his peculiarly accurate theories, Voldemort knew he needed to take precautions to ensure Harry’s safety.

Voldemort had taken to possessing Harry nightly after sequestering himself all day in a bid to both avoid Harry’s newly awakened hormones and ensure Harry was not out wandering in the middle of the night when he was most likely to meet the basilisk. It was hard on Harry’s body, but he still got at least six hours every night. He would ensure Harry slept more regularly once Voldemort was in his own body and they had left Hogwarts.

Voldemort spent most of his time ‘awake’ reading books in Harry’s dorm or common room, but tonight he had a different plan. The basilisk had already petrified a mudblood. His horcrux likely had plans to continue the petrifications to prove his worthiness as Slytherin’s Heir, as Voldemort did when fifteen years old, which was more evidence it was Voldemort’s diary causing this, and not another horcrux. He cared little for the children’s welfare, but Voldemort required Harry’s safety and access to Hogwarts’s library, so further safeguards should be placed.

Putting on Harry’s invisibility cloak, Voldemort silently crept out of Gryffindor Tower and went to the second-floor girls’ bathroom. As he stepped inside, he was surprised to see it occupied. Not by anyone living, but a ghost of the girl he’d accidentally killed the year he’d found the Chamber. Curious, he watched her mope around for a bit.

She was crying, mumbling about the awful Olive Hornby and turning on faucet after faucet, flooding the floor. This must have caused the water on the floor the night Harry first heard the basilisk. When the last faucet was opened, she gave a loud wail and then phased out of the room and down the toilet.

This was, quite honestly, one of the strangest things Voldemort had seen. Ghosts were common, but they didn’t impact the real world in this fashion unless becoming a poltergeist, like Peeves. That the girl could turn on the faucets meant she was far along that path already. Most wix haunted by ghosts (or those in charge of the tethered location) either placated or exorcised the phantoms before they achieved this level. Here was yet another example of Dumbledore’s failings.

Half-poltergeist or not, Voldemort didn’t understand why anyone would choose to spend most of their time in an actual toilet regardless of their tether location. What a disgusting, pitiful creature. Well, at least she was out of the room now.

Voldemort hissed a simple δ open δ, triggering the mechanism to expose the basilisk’s entrance to the school. Floating down into the tunnel, he hovered and tucked Harry’s invisibility cloak into his pocket. Then Voldemort pulled Harry’s wand from his holster and etched a few simple, passive wards into the pipe walls. He would feel them flare whenever anyone touched them, thus getting early warning whenever the basilisk roamed the school. Putting Harry’s wand away, Voldemort hissed δ close δ and flew the remaining distance into the Chamber.

It was a mess. The basilisk had shed its skin since he was last down here and there were piles of its prey’s bones stacked up everywhere. Voldemort wrinkled his nose but didn’t attempt to clean. Let his diary handle the mess if it were so inclined. He continued forward to the door of the basilisk’s lair. Hissing another δ open δ, Voldemort entered.

Several torches flickered to life, lighting the Chamber’s interior. Voldemort walked around for a bit, but there was no sign of the basilisk or his diary.

Annoyed by the wasted trip, and not at all nostalgic about this dreary place, he walked to the third pillar on the right and, pressing his hand against it, he hissed δ stairway δ. The pillar twisted in place, a spiralling staircase rising from the ground. Voldemort stepped onto it and waited.

He rose vertically on the staircase as it ascended into the ceiling. It was dark and would be cramped if Harry wasn’t so short, but flashes of open doors regularly passed by. He saw the kitchen, a dungeon classroom, the Great Hall, the owlery, and more. Finally, the Gryffindor common room appeared, and Voldemort casually stepped off. He turned to watch as the pillar continued upwards until it disappeared entirely from the room as if it’d never existed. Slipping Harry’s cloak back on, Voldemort returned to their dorm and prepared for bed, allowing Harry’s body some much-needed rest.

Chapter Text

Harry desperately avoided eye contact with anyone as he sat at the breakfast table with Ron and Hermione. Ginny was a few seats down, dark shadows under her eyes, while Fred and George attempted to cheer her up with silly puns and jokes. Under normal circumstances, Harry would be interested in the twins’ attempts to brighten Ginny’s disposition, maybe even try to work up the courage to speak with her himself; however, today he wished she had sat somewhere far, far away from him.

Last night Harry had dreamt about Ginny kissing him. About her sitting next to him and cuddling close, leaning in to brush her mouth against his and making Harry breathless. It had been wonderful, but he was so embarrassed once he woke up fully! Harry thought he might like Ginny in a romantic way, and he couldn’t face her so soon after his realisation. In retrospect, some of his recent daydreams really should have clued him into this sooner, but Harry was good at ignoring emotions he didn’t want to deal with.

Harry picked at his food while he waited for Ron to stop shovelling his plate of bacon into his mouth so they could leave. Once Ron finally finished, they both exited the Great Hall, nudging Hermione to follow. As they walked out the door, Ron noticed a clump of people surrounding a flier posted on the school-wide notice board.

“They’re starting a Duelling Club!” said Seamus Finnigan, their fellow second-year Gryffindor. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind duelling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…” Knowing Seamus’s tendency towards pyromancy, Harry thought he would be better off learning to intentionally cause explosions, rather than formal duelling, if he was interested in protection from a magical snake monster.

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest. “Could be useful,” he said to Harry and Hermione as they left to head to Charms. “Shall we go?” Harry and Hermione agreed and the trio planned to return to the Great Hall together that evening.

Charms was one of his better subjects, but the pacing was so slow Harry spent much of his time bored. Harry knew today would be no exception when Professor Flitwick announced the class would still be working on the rictumsempra spell. They’d been covering the same spell for the last three weeks already and Harry could cast it wandless and wordless in his sleep.

Instead of paying attention to the thousandth explanation of the wand movements, Harry doodled snakes in the margins of his charms textbook and let his mind wander. Why did Ginny look so exhausted this morning? Maybe she was worried about Slytherin’s monster.

Harry didn’t think Ginny should be concerned, she was a pureblood, but Colin was in her year group. Maybe they were good friends? Harry did not like that idea. When he noticed his current snake’s tail was shaped into a ‘G’, Harry blushed and skipped to the next page to start a new drawing.

Maybe he should invite Ginny to join him, Ron, and Hermione for the duelling club meeting tonight. Although, he didn’t think Ron would like that. And Ron had been such a good friend, especially about Harry’s confession of finding the petrified cat and message. Harry didn’t want to make waves in their friendship or cause conflict between the two siblings.

Harry would have to wait for her to approach him… which was unlikely to occur. She didn’t seem to reciprocate Harry’s interest in her and was likely still embarrassed about the train incident. Whenever Harry made eye contact, she tended to squeak, blush, and run from the room. Ginny avoided Harry with the same studious effort that Harry observed her. Harry noticed that his current doodle had taken the shape of two snakes formed into a heart shape; he quickly turned to the next page, hiding the image.

He needed to stop thinking about this. Harry let his eyes wander around the room, searching for another topic and saw Hermione wearing a new necklace. Looking at the design, he was surprised to see it was one of the talismans the twins had been selling. They’d been marketing them as supposed ‘protection’ from the monster, but Harry knew it was a hoax.

Any real protection charms would require a blood binding to work properly for a specific individual. He doubted the Weasleys were practising blood magic in Hogwarts. (It was only mostly illegal, though Harry hadn’t quite figured out under what circumstances it was okay).

He’d have to talk to the twins about it. It wasn’t good to give people false hope; they might get overconfident, reliant on a totem that would fail them if they did need to face Slytherin’s monster. Harry was worried one of the teachers would blame the twins if they found the totems on someone who did end up petrified.

As for Hermione, if she was feeling unsafe enough to trust a protection charm when she should know they were a ruse, then it was a good thing they were going to the duelling club meeting tonight. Perhaps they would learn some spells that she could use to defend herself. Harry was looking forward to it.

As a half-blood, it was doubtful Harry would be the Heir’s next target, but he was somewhat famous and a Gryffindor, so the odds were higher for him than for most other half-bloods. Yes, a duelling club would be a good first step for both him and Hermione to learn some protective measures.

Maybe he’d also practice some of the spells to subdue magical snakes he’d learned in his earlier research. He could teach Hermione too, so that she would be less scared. Harry spent the rest of Charms making a list of spells he remembered from the Fantastic Beasts book on a scrap of parchment.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned to the Great Hall that evening, it had been transformed. The four long tables each House used for meals had been removed and replaced by a raised, golden stage in the centre of the room. Black, velvet drapes hung from ceiling to floor and covered the normal view of the night sky. Floating candles hovered around the stage, casting strange shadows on the curtains and reflecting gold splashes off the stage.

It all felt vaguely ominous to Harry, but Ron and Hermione were even more excited seeing the dramatic scene set up for the Hogwarts students. Looking around, most of the school had decided to attend. Harry stretched up on his tiptoes, hoping to catch a glance of Ginny, but the lighting made it difficult to identify anyone too far from the central platform.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?”  whispered Hermione. The room was oddly quiet, students murmuring in hushed tones, matching the atmosphere. “Someone told me Flitwick was a duelling champion when he was young – maybe it’ll be him.”

“As long as it’s not –” Ron began, cutting himself off with a quiet groan. Harry stopped searching the crowd and turned to see what Ron was looking at. Lockhart and Snape had entered the room and were heading for the stage. Harry’s stomach dropped and he shook his head in disappointment.

This was the worst combination of professors to teach a duelling club. Though Lockhart hadn’t spoken directly to him all year, his classes were ridiculous and useless – mainly focused on espousing his personal accomplishments and pushing them to purchase more of his books. Harry believed that Snape was more likely to poison all the Gryffindors en mass than teach them new spells.

“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions – for full details, see my published works,” Lockhart announced.

Both professors stood at the centre of the stage, their figures forming dark shapes against the drapes. Every detail of their faces was clear, but Lockhart’s voice seemed oddly subdued. The normal projection he achieved in his classes was muffled by surrounding velvet.

Lockhart gestured widely and would have nailed Snape in the nose if Snape hadn’t ducked quickly. “Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape. He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry – you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

Based on the glare Lockhart was receiving, the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was likely to be accomplished a bit early this year. Harry saw the Weasley twins collecting bets from the surrounding students; the odds were roughly even, but that was only due to some of the female student’s unwavering devotion towards Lockhart.

“As you can see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position. On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

A seventh-year Hufflepuff counted them off, “One… two… three!” Snape flicked his wand before Lockhart had even moved; a red light flashed across the stage instantly striking Lockhart, whose wand was ripped from his hands flying high through the air and landing in the crowd of students.

Dead silence. Lockhart looked like he’d been struck by Aunt Petunia’s frying pan in the back of the head. Suddenly, Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered, jolting Lockhart out of his stupor.

“Well, there you have it!” he said, voice shaking and cracking on the final word. Harry smirked. Maybe Lockhart was realising just how inept he was as a teacher. Shakily walking towards the edge of the stage, he continued speaking in a steadier tone. “That was a Disarming Charm – as you see, I’ve lost my wand – ah, thank you, Miss Brown –” Lockhart stopped and turned ashen when he made eye contact with Harry, who was still smirking.

Abruptly spinning to face Snape, Lockhart quickly veered away, moving to the opposite side of the platform, as far from Harry as he could get while remaining on his end. Harry turned towards Ron and Hermione, confused at Lockhart’s reaction, but they looked just as baffled as him (though, he was also feeling strangely smug). Turning back towards the stage, Harry saw Snape eyeing him with shrewd suspicion.

Lockhart began monologuing about one of his prior adventures where he’d blocked some charm and saved a town. Snape’s gaze shifted from Harry to him, and his lip curled. Interrupting Lockhart, he recommended they demonstrate how to “block unfriendly spells”. Lockhart, avoiding Snape’s eye, hurriedly stated, “Let’s have a volunteer pair – Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you –”

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, interrupting again. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox. How about Malfoy and Potter?” Lockhart noticeably paled again as Snape sneered in his imitation of a smile.

Though Lockhart weakly argued, Snape insisted, and Harry was ushered up onto the golden platform by his fellow students. Malfoy and Snape stood on one side of the stage, Harry and Lockhart on the other. Lockhart stood on the very edge, heels of his shoes hanging off the platform, clearly avoiding coming closer to Harry than he had to.

Snape stared momentarily at Harry, then turned to Malfoy and whispered in his ear. Both shared a glance and then smirked at him. It was the first time Malfoy had looked directly at Harry since their fight the day before Samhain, obviously taking courage from Snape’s assistance and the crowd’s close observation.

Harry looked at Lockhart, then rolled his eyes. Asking him anything would be useless. Thinking back to his readings this summer while staying at the Leaky, Harry positioned his body in a rough copy of one of the starting positions he’d practised once. Draco’s smirk faded into an apprehensive frown. Snape’s eyes turned more considering, but his smirk shifted into a sneer.

The same Hufflepuff counted down again. “One… two… three!” Harry twirled his wand in a half-clockwise circle, before jerking it down to point directly at Malfoy, crying out “Expelliarmus!” Scarlet light shot from his wand in a dazzling stream across the platform, significantly slower than Snape’s spell, but still rapid.

Malfoy’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back, his wand tip dropping down.  Harry’s spell hit a shield. No one looked more surprised than Malfoy when it happened. Harry glanced at Snape and saw him slip his wand back into his sleeve. Malfoy rallied; he raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!”

Harry, who had started to spin his wand in a tight anti-clockwise circle – the starting wand movements for protego – stopped in disbelief. He didn’t know the spell Malfoy had used, but rather than the expected light, a large black pine snake had burst from his wand and slid halfway across the stage towards Harry.

δ Horrible two-leggers! How dare you steal me from my nest! δ shouted the snake. She saw Harry and began slithering towards him. The crowd was screaming and shrieking loudly, Lockhart jumped off the platform. Harry lowered his wand, while both Malfoy and Snape looked smug as the snake approached Harry, baring her fangs in obvious anger.

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it…” But he did not cast fast enough, and the snake had reached Harry. Rather than biting him, she wound herself around his legs, tightening threateningly as she climbed up his body.

Harry watched as Snape’s smirk slipped off his face. He probably thought the snake would bite him, instead. Didn’t Snape know pine snakes were constrictors, not venomous? Harry turned his gaze away from Snape and looked down at the snake speaking to him.

δ Speaker! Return me to my nest immediately! Or I will squeeze the life from you until Death pulls you from my grip! δ She spoke loudly, reminding Harry of the voice he had heard the night Mrs Norris was petrified. Hah! He was right. Slytherin’s ‘horror’ was a snake! Take that, Hermione!

δ I don’t know how to return you, I’m just a hatchling. But if you go to the elder on the other side of this room and make the same demand, he can help you. δ Harry responded to her without fear. As she released him, Harry heard gasps and short screams from around the room and looked up to see everyone around him staring in horror. Malfoy was cowering behind Snape’s robes, no wand in sight.

Bewildered, he looked up at Snape – who had paled more than Lockhart did earlier – but his face was blank of all emotion. Harry was shocked. He’d never seen Snape without a sneer or a smirk. The lack of emotion made him look like an ugly, pale doll.

The snake slithered towards Snape more calmly than it had approached Harry, but Snape didn’t even glance at her as he flicked his wand. She disappeared into smoke. The silence in the Great Hall was deafening. Harry awkwardly broke it, asking, “Er… is the demonstration over then? Should I get down?”

Snape, still blank-faced, slowly nodded. Harry shuffled to the platform’s edge and jumped; all the students moved back from him hurriedly. He walked over towards Ron and Hermione, a few feet of space around him at all times as everyone scrambled to get out of his way.

He was puzzled but amused by the display until he reached Ron and Hermione and watched them also step back in fear, terror on their faces. His amusement faded as hurt and confusion bloomed inside him.

“You’re a parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?” Ron said betrayal splashed across his face. He had his arm in front of Hermione as if to protect her from Harry.

“I’m a what?” said Harry.

“A parselmouth!” Ron shouted heatedly. “You can talk to snakes!” Ron elaborated, and Harry finally felt a glimmer of understanding. Why was speaking with snakes a bad thing? Some were magical and obviously could communicate. Everyone had just heard the one Malfoy had summoned talk with him, right?

“I know,” said Harry. “I mean that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once – long story – but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to – that was before I knew I was a wizard –” Harry stumbled to a stop, as people around him began whispering to one another.

“– set a snake on his cousin, then –”

“– didn’t know he was a wizard? How can –”

“– what’s a zoo? Some Dark wizard –” 

“– probably lying! Or a trick –”

“– Slytherin’s Heir, he speaks parseltongue –”

“Harry,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a hushed voice, “being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”

Ron nodded and backed up a step, pulling Hermione with him. “Exactly. And now the whole school’s going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-grandson or something… Why didn’t you tell us? This is… we need some time to think. You should probably get out of here.”

“I’m not,” said Harry with panic and annoyance… and a certainty he couldn’t explain. He knew he’d spoken the truth, even if he couldn’t say how he knew.

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” whispered Hermione, as she and Ron walked away. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”

Harry had been sulking since his public demonstration of his parseltongue abilities. Voldemort found it more appealing than the mooning over Ginevra Weasley, so he was pleased with this turn of events. Additionally, with Harry’s friends avoiding him, it was much easier to possess him more frequently. Harry went to bed early most nights to avoid the Weasley boy, giving Voldemort ample opportunity to read for a few hours and still allow Harry a full night’s sleep.

Sometimes, though, Voldemort needed to get out of the Gryffindor dorms. Seeing only red curtains would get boring, even with all the research he’d been doing. Tonight was one of his restless nights, so Voldemort draped himself in Harry’s invisibility cloak and left the Tower.

Wandering around Hogwarts after curfew had been one of Voldemort’s favourite activities as a student and he still enjoyed it now. Passing by the Room of Requirement, Voldemort was reminded that although Harry had used it for his Samhain ritual, the Room had other abilities.

Thinking of hidden things, Voldemort sauntered down, up, and down the hallway; the door appeared as Voldemort knew it would. Entering the Room, he took in the chaotic sight. It looked exactly how he last saw it, with piles of random things stacked high in all directions. He doubted anyone had found the Room in this form since he was here.

Wandering through the stacks, Voldemort was drawn in a specific direction by both his and Harry’s magic. Instead of circling in their cores, they twirled through the air, seeking, searching for something. It was enthralling to watch, almost hypnotising. Without much thought, Voldemort followed it through the room.

He unearthed his diadem. It was sitting, inconspicuously placed on an old black shelf near a statue of Boris the Bewildered. Voldemort had forgotten he’d hidden it here (and honestly, he was second-guessing the wisdom of placing it in Dumbledore’s shadow). Voldemort’s mind made an insightful jump as he watched Harry’s magic stretch forward.

This was like the response to the Weasley girl. Voldemort took a moment to review some of Harry’s recent memories of being in the same room as his ginger crush. Actually, Harry’s magic reacted in exactly the same way to the diadem and the girl.

Enthralled, Voldemort experimented with the magical reaction for a while. He played with the horcrux for hours, casting spells at it with his and Harry’s magic and watching the resulting interaction. It was fascinating studying the flows and connections.

He was tempted to take the diadem back to the dorms for further animagicae – soul magic – experiments despite the danger Dumbledore represented. But as he reached out, he felt a pull on where his soul was synced with Harry’s, and he jerked his hand back. Voldemort hummed in interest. So, his other horcrux containers aside from Harry attracted his soul to their vessels.

Looping his own magic as tight into his core as possible while still possessing Harry, Voldemort flooded the area surrounding the horcrux with Harry’s magic, before gently touching a finger imbued with his magic to the prominent blue gem. The diadem reacted instantly; its magic reached for Harry’s magic and then retreated, oscillating in a steadily increasing pattern until both Harry’s and its own magic were compounding on themselves. The magic began to resonate together like harmonic waves with conflicting interference.

Now that was an interesting phenomenon. Harry had been Voldemort’s horcrux since he was a child. In fact, in addition to his ability to speak parseltongue, his poor eyesight and comprehension skills before Voldemort’s possession were a result of the unintentional horcrux.

Voldemort had not been guiding the soul piece into the container the night he had attacked Harry; it had simply latched itself onto the child without regard for proper placement. Instead of spreading evenly throughout Harry’s body, it had stayed concentrated surrounding his famous scar.

The horcrux’s position in Harry’s brain had allowed Harry to become a parselmouth. Well, mostly. Parseltongue was not just a language. It took a combination of three traits to speak: high sensitivity to ambient magic, some non-human modifications to the larynx and mouth, and a hereditary mental interpretation skill.

Harry must have already had recessive genes for the bloodline ability. That, in combination with being so young when he received Voldemort’s soul, allowed his body to mutate and develop the proper palette and vocal cords necessary to δ Speak the Language δ.

The horcrux had directly supplied the comprehension of parseltongue, but it was Harry’s overabundance of magic that made up for his lack of magical sensitivity. That was why he required a snake to δ Speak δ, instead of naturally reverting to it as his mother tongue, like Voldemort had as a child.

Of course, the horcrux also negatively impacted Harry’s mind. It hadn’t caused any permanent brain damage… but had blocked any connections from forming along a direct path from the frontal lobe to the secondary visual cortex of the occipital lobe. It was as if Harry had been living with an ice pick stabbed through his skull for his entire life. It had caused problems with long-term memory storage, relating concepts together, recognising patterns, and interpreting images, which led to his previously egregious eyesight.

When Voldemort had possessed Harry, he had inadvertently moved the horcrux on his way in, allowing it to settle more evenly within Harry’s body. Hence, Harry’s 3-day coma. Harry’s magic, with the help of the mediwitch, had healed the damage left in the horcrux’s wake, now that it was no longer being actively blocked. 

Voldemort still didn’t understand why his horcrux decided to attach itself to Harry in the first place. There must have been something about the child that had attracted his soul beforehand (perhaps the full prophecy would explain), but there was no way to know more now. The point was that Harry had already been inclined to receive his soul as a child and during their encounter while he sought the Philosopher’s Stone. Harry’s magic and soul had enthusiastically accepted the horcrux and now he was attracting the other pieces of Voldemort’s soul to himself as soon as he felt their magic.

Voldemort directed some of his magic into a wave pattern, allowing it to flow towards some of Harry’s magic that he had released earlier. There was an immediate resonance between the two. Harry’s magic mimicked the flow instinctively. They joined and built off one another, amplifying the amount of magic available. This was… a revolutionary discovery.

Voldemort had uncovered an amazing amount during his spontaneous trip to the Room of Hidden Things. First, although it was not absolute proof, there was strong evidence that Ginevra Weasley had acquired one of his horcruxes. Considering Lucius’s brawl with her father the day Voldemort noticed the first instance of magical resonance, it was likely the diary that was causing havoc amongst the Hogwarts population.

Second, Harry’s magic was intensely attracted to his horcruxes and his own. It sought out the diadem immediately upon entering the vast, cathedral-like room and had been actively responding to his diary since the summer.

Third, his horcrux containers can act as vessels for his main soul, though whether he could easily extricate himself again was unknown. It was useful information to have, and though they were unhelpful in their current state, it was still a better option than returning to a wraith again.

And lastly, by utilising his and Harry’s magic simultaneously, Voldemort could vastly increase the power behind his spells. This… opened several possibilities for his research into creating his own body.

Voldemort smiled to himself. He needed to regain his diary as soon as possible. Between Harry, the diary, and himself, Voldemort knew exactly how to create a body for himself. Everything had lined up perfectly. He truly was one of Magic’s favourites.  

Chapter Text

Harry was relieved nearly everyone in Hogwarts was leaving for the winter break. After the duel with Malfoy, Ron and Hermione avoided him and everyone else believed him to be Slytherin’s heir. Students from all Houses gossiped quietly when they saw him, then fled whenever he even glanced at them. Some hissed and pointed or tried to hex him in the halls. Harry was used to being scorned, but Hogwarts had been his safe haven – his home – it hurt to have everyone suddenly turn on him.

Last week Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick were both petrified. Harry was nowhere near the incident and didn’t even know it’d happened until everyone found out when Dumbledore made his announcement.

It didn’t matter, though. Harry knew he would be blamed when he found the Heir’s first message, then with his public display of parseltongue… it was only a matter of time. So, he wasn’t surprised when Dumbledore called him to his office today, as everyone else rushed around for some last-minute packing before they boarded the train for winter break.

Whispers followed him as he left the Great Hall, trailing after Dumbledore, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the yellow, shooting stars decorating his blindingly turquoise robes. They approached a gargoyle to which Dumbledore jovially said, “Lemon drops!”

The gargoyle stepped aside revealing a large spiral staircase. Dumbledore had Harry proceed before him. Once they both were on, the stairs began moving upwards until they reached what must be the top of the tower. Opening a door, Dumbledore motioned inside and told Harry he’d just be a moment.

He really was only a moment. Harry blinked and suddenly, he was sitting in front of Dumbledore’s desk, Dumbledore was looking at him and holding out a candy dish. Instinctively, Harry shook his head but thanked him for the offer. Hearing a small squawk, Harry turned and saw a baby bird sitting in a pile of ashes. Confused, Harry glanced back at Dumbledore, wordlessly asking what happened.

Dumbledore chuckled and Harry felt a spike of rage (not this again! His angel must hate Dumbledore).  “Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day. He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. They make highly faithful pets.”

Harry reached out a finger towards the tiny, wrinkled, newborn chick and was surprised when it nuzzled into him and chirped happily. A warm feeling settled in his chest, and he smiled softly down at the ugly, little thing.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and Harry looked up, alarmed to see him smiling widely. “Harry, I don’t believe you are the cause behind these little incidents,” Dumbledore said. He continued speaking even as Harry melted in relief. “But I wanted to speak with you regardless. I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me. Anything at all.”

The feeling of his eyes on Harry was very uncomfortable. Like being covered in leeches. All wet and slimy and biting. Sucking up Harry’s blood until he was lightheaded. But Dumbledore was also the only one who believed Harry. And he was so relieved that the headmaster didn’t think he was the cause of these petrifications. Maybe he should answer?

Closing his eyes and trying to ignore his anger and anxiety, Harry thought about what to say. He could speak about his disparate feelings this summer – about disappearing skeletor-horses and moments where time passed in an instant – about magical hybrid snakes in the castle or the ritual room he’d found.

Harry returned his gaze to Dumbledore, words on the tip of his tongue, but then he remembered last year – Voldemort’s offer and his rage – being rewarded points for risking his life – being sent back to the Dursleys with no communication from the magical world – Ron and Hermione’s faith in him in the hidden corridor and his current estrangement from them, especially Ron who he’d trusted more than anyone else, even his potentially nonexistent angel.

Looking at the thick white eyebrows instead of twinkling eyes or the painfully wide smile, Harry said, “No, there isn’t anything, Professor…”

Dumbledore sighed in disappointment, but Harry could tell he was still happy. His eyes were still twinkling. Thankfully, Dumbledore allowed Harry to leave soon after he had declined another offer of lemon drops. Harry descended the spiral staircase and was surprised to see the Weasley twins waiting at the bottom.

“Did you guys get called to the headmaster’s office, too?” Harry asked as they grinned at him. He hadn’t seen the twins around much since the disastrous duel – as fourth years they had different schedules than him – but they weren’t actively avoiding him like Ron was.

“No, we tracked you down –”

“– and we’re very impressed –”

“– that you’re so notorious already –”

“– being calling to the headmaster’s office so early –”

“– in your schooling, even we hadn’t managed that!”

They smirked at him winningly, before one of them threw an arm over his shoulder and led him down the corridor. Looking more serious, they continued speaking.

“We know you’ve been having –”

“– a bit of a rough time of it lately –”

“– what with Ron being a total prat –”

“– and everyone else screaming in terror –”

“– whenever you sit down for brekkie.”

“So, we thought you might enjoy learning –”

“– a secret we know. It’s a gift to cheer you up!”

They’ve arrived at a hall near the entrance to the dungeons. The twin not holding him splayed his arms out in an obvious look-at-this-amazing-thing gesture. He was presenting a large frame, twice as tall as Harry, depicting a Realism-style painting of a bowl of fruit.

It was a very nice painting, but a bit boring for the twins, and not worth this fuss. “What’s the secret?” Harry asked.

“Tickle the pear!” They said simultaneously, mischievous grins plastered across their faces. “You’ll find snacks in there!”

Harry briefly wondered if he was being pranked but decided anything was worth talking to someone who smiled at him. Reaching forward he tickled the pear; it giggled (it was all a bit creepy, really), then the portrait frame soundlessly swung open. The smell of bread and cooking meat pervaded the air of the warmly lit passage.

The twins and Harry strolled through the frame into a large kitchen full of house elves busily working. Harry’s eyes widened, taking in the organised chaos. The house elves looked familiar (he recalled an image of one in his bedroom for some reason); he had researched them after the note from the Knight Bus mentioned them.  

Off to the side was a round table with six chairs, but the rest of the room was stuffed full of stoves, ranges, sinks, and cabinets, and all of them were in use.  One small house elf wearing a red shift broke off from their task and approached them.

“How can Missy be helping Hogwarts students?” she asked in a very high-pitched voice.

“Can we get three butterbeers, Missy?” asked one of the twins.

“Of course, sirs! Right aways.” They took seats at the side table and were immediately each presented with a stein filled with a golden, foamy drink Harry hadn’t seen before.

After a brief hesitation, Harry sipped the drink. It was delicious, but Harry’s eyes were, strangely, filled with tears. He wiped them on his sleeve, trying to be discreet.

“Thanks,” he said, voice breaking slightly.

The twins exchanged a slightly distressed glance, then said, “You’re welcome, little lion. We’ll be here all break – our parents are visiting Bill in Egypt – so why don’t you hang out with us until Ron stops being such a prat?”

Warmed by the butterbeer and the concern, Harry wetly smiled. “Maybe we can have another snowball fight like last year? I’ve been working on my colovaria charm.” For the first time since Harry found the Slytherin Heir’s message, he felt like he could breathe, content to enjoy the moment discussing winter activities with the twins.

Harry spent the day of December 21st fasting and mute. He’d met up with the twins every day of break so far – they’d made snowmen, pranked Filch, and played cards – but Harry had read his stolen library books and wanted to perform a Yule ritual he’d found.

Yule was the midwinter holiday in the Wheel of the Year celebrating death and the dark – the times of peace and stillness, of acceptance and silence – and requesting the return of life and light in the coming year.

Yule was a time of sacrifice.

So, Harry fasted, even though he hated going hungry; he spent the day in seclusion, even though he was lonely (at least he had his angel). And he pawed through his belongings to find a precious item to sacrifice. Harry didn’t have many material objects that he loved. He ended up selecting a photo from the album of his parents… one of their wedding photos, showing them young and happy and in love.

A few hours before midnight, Harry crept out of his dorm with the picture clutched in his hands. He silently went to the seventh-floor corridor with the secret Ritual Room. He paced in the hall where he knew the door was, thinking of the Yule rite, and hoped it would appear again.

The door did surface, and it was the same room he saw on Samhain, but with fresh chalk and matches.

Harry set his picture to the side, opened his book, and started drawing runes. He finished and cast a wandless tempus. It was almost midnight and Harry hurried to sit in the centre of the circle, carefully stepping over the chalk runes.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling to a count of seven, holding for one, then exhaling to a count of seven. He meditated until he felt his magic had successfully connected to Hogwarts. It was an obvious, almost painful sensation, like the sharp snap of resetting a dislocated joint, something clicked into place and his magic flowed smoothly and easily. It intertwined with the ancient magic of Hogwarts, which accepted him fully.

Opening his eyes, Harry looked down at his parents’ grinning faces, spinning happily in their first dance as a married couple. He smiled, but it was a sad, weak smile. Tears slipped down his cheeks and Harry stared at the photo, trying to burn it into his memory. Picking up the matches, he lit one. Whispering, he spoke the ritual incantation he’d memorised. “Benedictio magicae in novus annus… queso sacrificium meum suscipe… pacem mihi pro his quos amas.”

Harry lit the photo on fire.

It burned surprisingly slowly; blue flames spread outwards in an expanding circle, turning the image black before it crinkled into ash. Harry sobbed quietly. In sorrow, but also relief. He was letting go and he was grieving. Not really for the people, all Harry had of them were pictures and a single lullaby, but for the idea behind them. For the dream of growing up safe and loved in a magical home where nothing more serious than a stray spell went wrong.

Eventually, Harry calmed himself down. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and looked down at the pile of ash for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he blew the ash out of the ritual circle. Closing his eyes again, Harry resumed his meditative breathing. Inhale for seven, hold for one, exhale for seven. The sacrifice was done. It was time to move on, to look to the new year in hope, and to give thanks.

Yule was a time of gifts.

Harry had just as few loved ones as he had possessions. He concentrated on those he wanted to give gifts to – those who were his friends even if he wasn’t theirs – focusing his magic on the designs he’d dreamt of last night.

If the ritual worked as designed, his magic would compress to a solid state and create ornaments for each person’s gift. Unlike the Samhain ritual – which was exhilarating and seemed to pass in a moment – this was exhausting. Every moment stretched into eternity while he strained to keep the images in his mind and his magic slowly condensed into tiny figurines.

The orange fox, baring its teeth in a mischievous grin, sitting upright tail curled, for Fred.

The black fox, tongue hanging out, bowing low with its tail high in the air, for George

The green dragon, one eye peeking out, hiding its head beneath its wings, for Hagrid.

The purple snake, two heads visible, tightly wrapping its coils into knots, for Ginny.

The blue raven, a chick barely hatched, its eyes still shut but beak wide open, for Hermione.

The red panda, standing straight up on its hind legs, arms raised in intimidation, for Ron.

The white skeletor-horse, wings spread wide, its unblinking eyes staring, for his angel.

Harry watched as each of the seven ornaments was created. Lacking intricate details, the ornaments were only a few inches tall. They were amorphous designs made of mostly clear glass-like material with sporadic, tiny swirls of colour.

Feeling the ritual magic begin to dissipate, Harry exhaled loudly and released his magical connection with Hogwarts. His arms and legs were stiff from holding a single pose for so long and he almost fell over while standing up. He heard bells. Looking around to find the source, Harry heard them again, tinkling softly.

Raising a hand to his head, he found a crown placed upon his brow. Harry pulled it off to see two branches woven together – one of holly and one of yew – both bright green with red berries. Looking closer, some of the berries were transfigured into small, red bells. It was an intricate and beautiful creation, with spells for preservation that Harry could feel tingling along his fingertips.

Harry knew it was a gift for him, from his angel, for Yule.

Smiling in pure joy, Harry replaced the wreath on his head and moved to collect the gifts his magic created. He hummed a simple melody as he wiped away the chalk from the runic circles, happily cleaning the room before returning to his dorm.

“I’m just saying you’re acting like a total prat right now.”

Voldemort watched as Harry stopped on the stairs going down to the common room after hearing Ginevra Weasley’s voice.

“Ginny,” they heard Ronald Weasley reply. “He’s a parselmouth… you know what Mum and Dad told us about them.” Harry was startled at hearing Ronald’s voice but didn’t stop eavesdropping. Voldemort was glad, he wanted to know where this was going (was this Ginevra Weasley or his horcrux wearing her skin?).

“What I know is that Harry didn’t even realise other wixen couldn’t do it or that it’s a supposedly evil talent! He was surprised other people didn’t understand the snake and shocked by your and Hermione’s reactions.”

“Supposedly evil?! Gin, you can’t –”

“Harry is a hero!” She interrupted Ron, her shout echoing up the stairs. Quieter, she continued saying, “He’s a hero who stopped you-know-who as a baby, grew up without parents with those awful relatives of his – I’ve heard you talking about it – and still went to save the Philosopher’s Stone from Him again last year.” As arguments go, it was a good tactic. She used an ‘appeal to emotion’ fallacy, but that was the best approach when talking to a Gryffindor like Ronald.

It was quiet for a moment. Ron didn’t reply and after a while, Ginevra started speaking again. “Can you even imagine your friends turning on you for something you were born with? Something outside your control? He must hate us… What if it were me, Ron? What if I could suddenly talk to snakes too? Would you oust me from our family?”

Voldemort and Harry heard her footsteps as she stomped away. Harry retreated upstairs to the dorm room and flopped dramatically down on the bed. Ugh, Merlin save him from histrionic preteens, Voldemort thought to himself, reinforcing his occlumency barriers to keep out the barrage of anxiety, sorrow, hope, elation, irritation and several other emotions overwhelming Harry.

It’d been a few weeks since Voldemort had his brilliant deductions in the Room of Hidden Things and four days since Harry’s Yule rite. He’d been cautiously observing Ginevra Weasley’s behaviour but hadn’t seen anything definitive to indicate she hosted his horcrux.

Voldemort was admittedly hesitant to take the direct approach. Harry’s magical (and emotional) attraction to her was confirmed, but they had yet to touch. He was concerned doing so would make both possessions obvious and alert Dumbledore to his presence.

Instead, he’d been studying the magical interaction between the girl and Harry’s magic and comparing it to the interactions he’d observed with the diadem and with his magic. Only about half the experiments had the same results, hence his confusion. Her magic should display all the same responses or none of the same, but this weird intermediate behaviour… well, his evaluation of the hypothesis that she hosted his diary horcrux was still inconclusive.

He’d even been unable to confirm if she was the one who’d entered the Chamber and sicced the basilisk on the young Hufflepuff and Gryffindor ghost. It was supremely annoying that he had made no progress, but Voldemort knew it was only a matter of time. Thus, since Yule, he had decided to take a break from testing Ginevra and instead focus on his recent animagicae discovery.

The past few nights, he’d possessed Harry and practised using both of their magics simultaneously. It was a blissful feeling. The amount of power was phenomenal; he felt like a god, and his every ambition was easily achieved. Nothing he’d attempted had been impossible yet.

Harry heard a loud knock which stopped his latest emotional meltdown. Voldemort relaxed his barriers and watched from Harry’s eyes to see Ronald hesitantly opening the door. Harry’s anxiety spiked, and Voldemort pushed supportive feelings at him and was glad when Harry relaxed a small amount.

“Hey, mate…,” said Ron, awkwardly pausing, hovering in the doorway. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Even though this was what Harry had hoped would happen, Voldemort wasn’t surprised when he felt Harry’s irritation spike. Despite how kind Harry wanted to be, bitterness had been beaten into his bones. Harry’s abandonment issues were the size of Hogwarts after living with the Dursleys. Ronald and Granger’s behaviour after the duel had only added another tower. 

“I don’t know, can you?” Harry responded sarcastically. But he immediately regretted it upon seeing Ronald wince. Quickly he added, “I guess... I’ll even promise not to hiss at you.”

The Weasley boy winced again but walked into the room, sitting on his bed to face Harry. He chewed his lip for a moment and then blurted out in a slightly too loud voice, “I’m sorry!”

Harry raised an eyebrow and Ronald, looking sheepish, said, “I shouldn’t have ignored you after finding out you were a parselmouth. Gin read me the riot act and… it’s just our parents had told us about how evil you-know-who and Slytherin were and that they both had the same bloodline talent – mom even thinks the parseltongue is what caused them to become horrible people, she says it drives people mad, even those who just listen to someone else speak it and – and I freaked out. But you’re my best mate. And I know you aren’t evil and wouldn’t attack people. You were helping Hermione try to figure out what the monster was and feel safer – I am gonna write to her too and tell her we were being stupid. Do… do you hate me?”

Voldemort was reminded that this was the child of the Weasley woman who had kidnapped Harry; he must also have those same Merrow genes. No human could speak for so long without breathing in. The boy was now waiting for Harry’s judgement, looking worried. Voldemort didn’t think he should be concerned. Harry was a soft touch; a child frantic to keep his friends; a saint willing to forgive a multitude of sins.

His prediction came true in moments. Harry, hesitant inside but hiding it, smiled easily and said, “’Course I don’t hate you. Apology accepted. I even got you a Christmas gift! Give me just a mo. I’ll grab it and head down to the common room. We can all open presents together like last year.”

The Weasley child brightened as his worries instantly dissolved. “Brilliant! I’ll see you downstairs. Happy Christmas, Harry!” He dashed out the door.

Harry sat for another moment, anxiety and bitterness churning inside him. Voldemort did nothing to alleviate the feelings. Harry was better off without such fair-weather friends.

Eventually, Harry got up and opened his trunk to collect four small presents, carefully wrapped in pale gold paper with silver ribbons (Granger and Hagrid’s gifts were sent with Hedwig – the thestral, created for Voldemort, still sat in its wrapped box in Harry’s trunk).

Harry started walking out the door but paused. His attention was caught on Voldemort’s Yule gift to him. The wreath still looked fresh, as if no time had passed since the branches were stripped from their respective trees. When Harry gently touched it, Voldemort flooded him with joy until Harry blushed and glowed with pride.

Let Harry have his little, happy Christmas with the Weasley children. It wouldn’t be long until Voldemort returned, corporal once more. He’d retrieve Harry (his horcrux, his chosen, his soul) and keep him. After all, there was little Harry wouldn’t do for his angel already, and Voldemort had barely started influencing him. Voldemort had time to solidify his control. He settled in behind Harry’s eyes, content to watch Harry distribute his Yule gifts and wait for the new year to arrive.

Chapter Text

After Christmas ended, the rest of Harry’s winter holiday passed quickly. All four Weasleys liked their Yule ornaments (Harry hadn’t explained that he’d made them at Yule). Ron clapped him on the shoulder, the twins made a big production of kissing his cheeks, and Ginny blushed and smiled at him.

There was still some tension with Ron (at least on Harry’s side; Ron was oblivious and Harry had always been good at pretending), but Harry enjoyed playing games with both him and the twins, easily relaxing. Ginny still avoided him, but Harry got closer and closer every day to finding the courage to speak with her first.

The break ended too fast; suddenly, the castle was full again and Harry felt his mood drop. People were back and still treating him like a circus attraction and a leper. But there was a silver lining. Hermione apologised, as Ron had, and then started defending Harry, loudly, to everyone she encountered. Harry was both embarrassed and pleased by her actions (maybe still a little bitter too).

Harry fully expected to spend the semester hiding from the older students between classes, to avoid getting hexed, and dodging the disappointed and suspicious glances from Dumbledore and his professors. That was why he was prepared when two sixth-years chased him and Ron from the dungeons to the second floor after potions class a few weeks into the new year.

The floor was coated in water that splashed up as Harry ran down the hall, soaking the bottom of his robes and socks. When Ron became a little winded, Harry tugged his arm and pulled him into the nearest doorway.

It was the entrance to a girls’ bathroom, but… for some reason, Harry needed to go inside. He couldn’t though, it’d be too creepy! What if someone was in there? Suddenly a girl’s voice wailed loudly and then cut off. Both he and Ron spun around to face the door. 

Tentatively, Harry knocked. “Hello?” he called out. “Is everyone okay in there?” The moaning and crying started again, quieter than before, but still clear. Harry turned to Ron, giving him a determined look. “I’m going in there to see if she’s okay.” He was happy to find an easy excuse to get inside.

Ron shook his head in denial but followed anyways when Harry stepped inside. He called out again, “Hello? We heard you crying, are you okay? Do you need help?”

The voice quieted, but there was still a rushing sound. All the sink faucets were open, water flooding their basins and dripping onto the ground. Then a ghost of a girl around their age, in a Hogwarts uniform, phased through a toilet stall door, peeking out at them.

“Who’s that?” glugged the ghost miserably. “Come to throw something else at me?”

Harry and Ron exchanged an uncertain look before Harry responded, “Why would I throw something at you?”

“I don’t know… I was just sitting in the U-bed, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head,” the ghost replied solemnly. Then she pointed, “It’s over there, it got washed out…” Her eyes went hazy, and she stopped seeing them as she lost focus, then began shrieking. Harry and Ron jumped in fright, but she was already zipping off and down into the toilet stall she originally came out of.

Harry walked over to the book. It was sitting on the ground in a puddle, but still perfectly dry. It looked brand new. His heart was pounding, and he felt ecstatic – a mix of delight, amusement, and triumph swirled inside him. He picked it up, ignoring Ron’s warnings and subsequent exasperated scolding.

“Look it’s fine. Nothing happened,” interrupted Harry eventually. On the cover printed in debossed, golden script was the year 1942. Opening the first page, Harry saw the name ‘T M Riddle’ written in oddly pristine ink. The rest of the book was blank, its pages still perfectly crisp, coloured in the distinctive off-white of expensive parchment.

“Hang on,” said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking over Harry’s shoulder. “I know that name… T M Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago.”

Though Harry was amazed that Ron knew such a random piece of trivia, he couldn’t take his eyes off the diary. He did still ask, “How on earth d’you know that? Do you know anything else about Riddle?”

Ron said, “Nah, I just saw his trophy. Had to clean it in detention a few times, that’s all.” Harry had already stopped paying attention by the time Ron finished his sentence. Suddenly, he felt a clap on his shoulder so he jerked his eyes up to meet Ron’s gaze. “We need to go or we’re gonna be late for Charms.”

“Race ya!” Harry said throwing out the challenge, grinning at Ron, after carefully pocketing the book. He took off sprinting, splashing through puddles; Ron followed behind, complaining about Harry’s head start.

Later that evening, Harry hid behind his bed curtains holding the diary tightly. It was strange to find such a nice journal completely empty. Maybe Riddle had written his thoughts using invisible ink or hidden the text with a spell. Harry pulled out his wand and cast a simple revelio. He waited but nothing happened.

He slipped his wand back into its holster and picked the journal back up again. It felt oddly thrilling to flip through the pages. Thrilling yet soothing. Anticipation was building, but he wasn’t sure what he was looking forward to. He just knew that it had something to do with Riddle’s diary.

He wished Riddle had used the diary to record his thoughts. The date on the front cover coincided with the time Binns told them the Chamber had last been opened. If Riddle had made entries that year, Harry was certain it would have contained something about the Chamber of Secrets.

Well, he might as well keep his own notes in the empty journal. It wouldn’t hurt to record his thoughts on the current events regarding the Chamber in a single location. He started by labelling the page with the current date.

January 19, 1993

Harry was a little surprised to see the ink sink into the page and disappear, but he was shocked when new ink bloomed, forming words Harry hadn’t written.

Hello. Who might you be to write in my diary?

The diary was writing back to him! How was this possible? Why did the handwriting look so familiar? Was the diary copying the personality of the original owner? Maybe it could only do set phrases or mimic what the last person wrote in it… regardless, Harry doubted it was a good idea to freely gift his name to some unknown artefact, even if the diary made him feel weirdly happy. That was just more of a reason not to trust it entirely.

Hello. Are you T. M. Riddle?

Yes. You can call me Tom. How did you obtain my diary?

I found it. Someone had thrown it away in a girl’s loo at Hogwarts. I tried to clean it up as best as I could. The diary already seems protected against water damage, so it’s fine. Do you know who tried to get rid of it? Of you?

It doesn’t matter now. If they didn’t want to retain the diary, I would not force my presence upon them. You seem like more pleasant company regardless. Who may I have the pleasure of conversing with?

Harry hesitated for a moment to take stock of how he felt. There hadn’t been any obvious negative physical or magical reactions from writing in the diary so far. And the diary’s responses fit Harry’s questions and didn’t seem to be rote replies. Harry wanted to ask about how the diary was made and see if it had any information about the Chamber, but he didn’t think he’d get any reply until he gave the diary some sort of name. He decided to take a chance.

You can call me Harry.

A pleasure to meet you, Harry.

Harry spent the rest of the night and early hours of the morning writing back and forth with the diary. Riddle must have been incredibly intelligent and charming if the diary had even a portion of his personality. Harry had told Tom his entire life story, including secrets about the Dursleys he hadn’t even hinted at to Ron and Hermione. He’d inquired about tons of subjects and Tom always had an answer. It took a surprisingly long time for Harry to get around to asking about the Chamber.

Tom. I was wondering… Do you know anything about Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets? Binns told us that it had been opened while the original you were attending Hogwarts. Well, he said it was a hoax, but I’m not so sure.

Yes, Harry, the Chamber was opened. Would you like to know more?

Yes, please! Any information would be helpful.

Of course, Harry. Let me show you.

All the residual ink sunk into the page, leaving it entirely blank. Harry waited for something else to happen, but nothing occurred. He was startled to hear some of his roommates waking up.

Tom? Are you still there?

There was no reply and eventually, Harry had to start getting ready for his day too. He showered quickly and got dressed. Hesitating briefly, he decided to tuck the diary into his bookbag to carry around with him for the day. Maybe he’d get the opportunity to write to Tom some more. Though the diary might need time to recharge… He had been writing in it all night long.

Harry wanted to know everything about the diary’s owner. He spent the next week conversing with Tom in the evenings and trying to find out more about the real Riddle’s life, but the diary was surprisingly cagey with details about himself.

So instead, Harry sought out all the books in the library with Riddle’s name in them. He braved Madam Pince’s wrath to ask if there was a spell to search for a single name (why hadn’t they done this for Nicolas Flamel, last year?). There wasn’t a spell, but an inventory list that could be filtered with a tap of the wand.

Pince allowed Harry to try it. Under her watchful eye, he quietly whispered, “Tom Riddle” and then duplicated the list onto a spare piece of parchment as quickly as possible, trying not to smear the ink as he wrote.

Apparently, Hogwarts kept yearbooks and graduation records for its prior students. Who took these photos? Though, now that he thought about it, Harry vaguely remembered posing for a team photo after their last Quidditch match. He grabbed the four yearbooks mentioned on his list and the 1940-50s graduation records.

Tom Riddle was shockingly brilliant. He graduated as Head Boy and was Prefect since his fifth year. There was the award Ron saw for special services to the school, of course, but he’d also gotten 12 OWLs and 10 NEWTs, all with ‘Outstandings’.

From the yearbooks, Harry discovered Riddle had started his own political club, the Knights of Walpurgis, and been part of some honor-society deal called the Slug Club run by the Head of Slytherin. Which, evidently, Riddle also was. Tom Riddle was a Slytherin.

Harry was admittedly stunned. None of the old photos showed colour, so it had taken him a while to notice, but Tom Riddle was a Slytherin. It didn’t seem to matter. He was still exceedingly popular based on the number of photos he was in after his fourth year. Riddle was smart, handsome, good with people, and everything Harry wanted to be when he was older, but Harry couldn’t find any mention of him after he graduated, despite his school-year successes.

Tom Riddle was a mystery… and Harry loved solving mysteries. When the library resources ran dry, he turned to alternative options. Sneaking into Filch’s office under his invisibility cloak, Harry nicked all the detention records linked to Riddle.

He was lucky. Filch’s filing cabinet was enchanted allowing anyone to write down a name and collect all relevant documents as a single file. There were only three write-ups for Riddle’s entire Hogwarts career, which was crazy; Harry had three detentions before the end of his first month!

Riddle’s first detention was for coming unprepared to class (missing his entire bookbag) and the second for speaking out of turn the same day. Both were from the first week of school. The last, given in Riddle’s third year, was for ‘lacking the proper respect necessary for addressing an authority figure’. Dumbledore had written all of them and the implied tone… well it uneasily reminded Harry of how Snape spoke to him.

Well. Harry had already been dubious of Dumbledore’s kind old man facade, but this was another mark against him (Harry felt a burst of warmth from his angel, who must really, really hate Dumbledore).

Having exhausted the documentation in Hogwarts, Harry moved on to asking his go-to primary source of gossip and secrets. Hagrid. Hermione and Ron accompanied him on his visit to Hagrid’s house.

Hagrid answered the door, looking wide-eyed and rumpled, but they were invited in. He offered them tea. Instead, he supplied them with inedible slices of fruit cake and giant mugs of boiling water, seemingly distracted. Asking Hagrid about Fang and his garden, Harry eased his way into the small talk before arriving at the reason for his visit.

“Hagrid, you’ve worked here for a long time. When did you become the groundskeeper and keeper of keys for Hogwarts?” asked Harry, an innocent expression pasted on his face.

“Why, near fifteen years now! ‘Course I started as an assistant fer the prior groundskeeper, so’s I been here longer than tha’. Professor Dumbledore vouched fer me after I lef’ Hogwarts, an’ I was taken on back in the mid-40s.”

Harry perked up instantly. “Wow, you must know everyone! What can you tell me about –” A knock on the door cut Harry’s question off. Hagrid ushered the three of them to the corner and urged them to hide under Harry’s cloak.

Dumbledore and a second man Ron identified as Minister Fudge have arrived. They’re arresting Hagrid! Taking him to someplace called Azkaban? Harry had never heard of it, but Ron gasped and went pale when it was mentioned so it must be bad.

Hagrid answered another knock on the door and then Malfoy’s father entered too. He was there to suspend Dumbledore from his role as headmaster. That… Harry kind of understood, and even felt a little gleeful about it (though that was likely his angel). Dumbledore wasn’t doing anything, and students kept getting attacked.

So even though he was not sure removing Dumbledore would help, it didn’t seem like it’d hurt either. Arguments broke out between Hagrid, Dumbledore, and Mr Malfoy, but were quickly resolved when Dumbledore solemnly said, “If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside. However, you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

As he finished this dramatic statement, Dumbledore stared at where Harry, Ron, and Hermione hid. Then, with a dramatic swish of his robes that Snape must have learned from him, Dumbledore exited Hagrid’s hut before anyone else could speak.

Hagrid, in an awkward imitation, also made a final statement to the room while looking at the trio’s hiding place. “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff, all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. That’d lead ‘em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.”

With those ominous and awkward words, Hagrid, Mr Malfoy, and Minister Fudge left the house, slamming the door with a bang. The hut was silent for a second before Fang howled and Ron pulled off the invisibility cloak, saying “We’re in trouble now. No Dumbledore. They might as well close the school tonight. They’ll be an attack a day with him gone.”

Ron and Hermione looked at him in obvious fear and distress, so Harry tried to keep the doubt and amusement off his face by focusing on his disappointment; he hadn’t even gotten to ask Hagrid about Riddle.

Today was such a good day. Voldemort had watched as Dumbledore was literally escorted off Hogwarts grounds, driven away with just a few careless actions from his first horcrux.

When Harry came across his diary in the bathroom hiding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, Voldemort was pleased, thanking Fate. This solved several of his dilemmas. He no longer had to worry about Harry accidentally encountering the basilisk and, after communicating with the diary, he knew for certain his horcrux had been in the hands of young Ginevra Weasley since summer.

This even solved the problem of Harry’s annoying crush! It definitely was a result of the girl’s contact with his horcrux. Harry had barely thought of her since he’d obtained the diary, his obsession transferred to discovering information about Voldemort’s younger self.

Additionally, now that Voldemort had access to his horcrux, he could use it in his body-creation ritual. The diary contained a large shard of his soul since it was his first horcrux. It could be used as a pattern to base the physical form on which would perfectly sync with his soul.

This meant he wouldn’t be able to use the diary’s magic during the ritual, of course. Normally this ritual would require a circle of at least six strong, adult wixen, but if he used both his and Harry’s magic (with a blood sacrifice amplifier), he would easily be able to power it.

Voldemort would cast the ritual in two stages: accelerating the growth of a body and then implanting the diary horcrux to stabilise it. Afterwards, he would possess his younger horcrux. There was a small chance they’d merge instead, but Voldemort thought it unlikely. He felt no remorse for murdering the girl who became the half-poltergeist haunting the toilet. More likely, Voldemort would be dominant while his horcrux was in a similar state to Harry when Voldemort put him to sleep during possession.  

Dumbledore has been suspended as headmaster by the Board. A boon from Magic for her favourite’s plans. We no longer need to arrange for his removal.

That is welcome news.

Have you made any progress on the body-creation ritual?

Of course. I’ve finished the design for the three layers of rune circles. Despite the boost we’ll have from the ambient magic on Ostara, we’ll still need to sacrifice a wixen with a stable magical core to power the necromagicae part of the ritual. But with the magic you will absorb from the Weasley girl stabilising your soul, and my own powerful magic to control the ritual, we will be able to direct your soul into the body with little difficulty.

Why not use Harry Potter for the sacrifice?

He is 12. His core is not done growing and thus, he doesn’t meet the requirements. I told you not to worry about the boy. I have everything under control.

Fine.

When will you acquire the powdered unicorn horn for the potion? Breaking into the potion master’s cabinet will not be easy.

I am unconcerned. I mentored the current potions master. He will not have wards I do not know. We need not rush to secure the materials; I will retrieve them at the end of the month. It is more important to find a sacrifice and arrange for them to be taken to the Chamber.

Just kidnap a 7th year on your way down.

That won’t be possible, Harry will be leading us down to the Chamber. I will not be possessing him until we arrive. Well, it is no matter for you to concern yourself with. I will find a solution. Soon I will return you to Ginevra. I trust you understand both your part in the ritual and the time you will have to drain her magic?

Yes, I understand. Return me to the whining child at your leisure.

Don’t sulk, it won’t be for long, young horcrux. Soon we will be corporal, and my plans can progress. Complete your tasks. I will see you on Ostara.

His diary horcrux was useful but annoying. It was as obsessed with Harry as Harry was with Tom Riddle – the magnetism between their soul pieces must be strong – and every conversation it brought up trying to kill him.

It was in denial, as Harry had been about his crush on the Weasley girl. Considering it deigned to write back to Harry to answer his questions, Voldemort knew the diary was fascinated by Harry. He hadn’t informed it that Harry was also a horcrux, but it must feel the draw to Harry’s magic. This led to its current interest, which emerged as persistent insistence on murdering him.

Thankfully he no longer needed to deal with its whining much longer, though he’d be exchanging it for Harry’s pining until Ostara.  

Today was Imbolc. Harry was performing the Wheel of the Year rite he’d found in his stolen library book. He’d been sequestering himself in the Room of Requirement all day, fasting and not keeping track of the time (this was not the typical celebration method for Imbolc – it was a day of indulgence not sacrifice – but he could teach Harry properly later). It would be simple for Voldemort to hide the diary in the Weasley girl’s belongings with a compulsion charm to write in its pages.

Voldemort quietly left the Room under the invisibility cloak and returned to Gryffindor Tower. Dismantling the wards preventing those of the male sex from entering, he climbed the tower stairs. The first-year girls’ dorm was on the first landing, a mirror image of the boys’ side. Entering the room, he quickly identified Weasley’s shabby trunk, opened it, and found her book bag. Carefully sliding the diary inside, he made sure not to disturb anything else in the trunk or the room.

Leaving as quietly as he had arrived, Voldemort headed downstairs. Everything was going according to plan. Fate itself was working to grant him his desires. Just a few more weeks and…

Voldemort paused at the portrait entrance. Harry’s intelligent mudblood friend was speaking softly to Ronald and a word drew his attention. Silently stepping closer, Voldemort shamelessly eavesdropped. Damn. She’d figured out the creature was a basilisk. And she thought Harry might be involved again.

Harry had such treacherous friends. Well, he’d need to arrange for a little indirect eye contact during a rendezvous with the basilisk. After all, Magic helped those who helped themselves.

Granger spending some time petrified would be best for all involved. No one was likely to think Harry would harm one of his only friends, Granger would still be alive which he knew Harry preferred, and he would be able to wait until Ostara for his ritual without her interference. Voldemort detoured to the second floor to enter the Chamber. This would all be for the best.

Chapter Text

Harry skulked back to Gryffindor Tower after his failed Imbolc celebration. The ritual had not gone the way he’d hoped. He thought he’d feel better, relieved. Instead, his anxiety was amped up to eleven. Every breath was hard work, as if an elephant sat on his chest, suffocating him.

He’d been attempting a purification rite. Harry had collected sprigs of lavender and sage from his potions kit and taken a cleansing bath with them. He’d used a large tub that the Ritual Room had provided, around which he’d carefully drawn a rune circle. After soaking for a time, he tried to meditate and connect to the ley lines, but he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t make his selected pledge without joining Hogwarts’s magic. The entire ritual had been a failure, Harry thought, dejected.

Scuffing his foot on a stair, Harry decided to take the long way back to the dorms. He wasn’t in the mood for company. He just wanted to reflect on his blundered rite. Maybe he missed a step? Or he incorrectly copied the runes? Harry needed to find more information on the Wheel of the Year holidays to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

When he eventually returned to Gryffindor Tower, it was hours after curfew. Harry didn’t expect anyone to be awake still, so he was surprised to see Ron in the common room, glaring into the fire and looking despondent.

Harry stepped into the space beside him and lowered his invisibility cloak, before saying, “Hey Ron, alright there?”

Ron turned slowly towards him. His hands clenched into fists as he stared accusingly at Harry. “Where have you been?” he demanded in a harsh voice, before gripping Harry’s collar and shoving him against the brick fireplace. Harry stifled a yelp as the edges of the bricks dug bruises into his shoulders.

Ron was coldly furious, clearly blaming Harry for something, but Harry had no clue what had transpired to cause this change in demeanour. They hadn’t fought since Ron had apologised on Christmas, though Harry had been walking on eggshells in their conversations. He had cautiously avoided any mention of snakes or parseltongue or the Chamber to preserve the peace.

But now Harry needed to give some sort of explanation before Ron turned violent (Harry recognised the look in Ron’s eyes – he’d seen it enough on his uncle – Ron would attack Harry). He didn’t want to mention his Imbolc ritual, he’d undoubtedly be accused of becoming a Dark Wizard. An idea popped into Harry’s head. He would have to drop his moratorium on the parseltongue-related topics to lie convincingly, but this was his best bet.

“I’ve been searching for the Chamber,” Harry said. Ron looked stunned at first and then sceptical. Harry hurried to continue his story, “I mean, I figured that since I’m a parselmouth, and I think the monster is a snake, I might be able to tell it to stop petrifying students or maybe seal off the Chamber again. Figured it was worth a shot, I mean.”

The longer Harry spoke, the less suspicious Ron looked. “So, you haven’t seen anyone all day?” he asked, releasing his grip on Harry’s shirt and taking a small step away. Harry let out a silent breath of relief, before raising an eyebrow.

 “Nooo?” he said, drawing out the ‘o’ to emphasise his confusion.

Ron deflated before his eyes, hunching in on himself until he looked smaller than Harry, despite his extra height. “Hermione,” Ron paused to swallow, staring at Harry, obviously taking in his bewildered expression, before he continued, “Hermione was petrified.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Wh – what?!” he stuttered, his voice coming out in a whisper. “No, she – she can’t be. She’s always back in the tower before curfew! And – and – and we haven’t been going anywhere alone, but… but especially not her. How? How – H –”

Harry was babbling and gasping for air. He knew he should calm down (was his angel distressed? Or was that just him?), but the iron bands around his chest were clamping tighter and tighter. Hermione couldn’t be hurt. She just couldn’t.

Hands dropped heavily onto his shoulders and Harry jerked himself away in terror. He scrambled backwards into a corner and slid down the wall, hiding his face behind his knees. He needed to breathe. His chest was so tight. Hermione was… breathe. He needed to breathe. Why was there no air? His vision tunnelled – metal was clamped around on his chest, constricting his lungs – he couldn’t breathe.

For an eternity, Harry sat there desperately trying not to asphyxiate. Eventually, a stream of consolation trickled into his mind softening the edges of his panic. His angel. Harry cleared his mind to focus on the comfort his angel was providing. Slowly, oh so slowly, his gasps turned into fuller breaths. Tear tracks were drying on his cheeks, and he could hear Ron apologising repeatedly from nearby.

When he lifted his head, the room’s colours looked oversaturated. Everything felt fuzzy and it was all too much. Harry was exhausted. Turning his head, he saw Ron crouched nearby looking stricken. He’d been crying too.

“I’m so sorry Harry. I thought – sorry – I’m an idiot. I’m so, so sorry. Of course, you wouldn’t hurt Hermione. I know I’ve been weird about the whole parselmouth thing, and I just – well, you know, and – but she’s gonna be okay. The mandrakes will be fully grown in a few months and then she’ll be okay. The basilisk didn’t hurt her, she’s –”

He cut himself off abruptly when Harry cleared his throat. “Basilisk?” Harry asked, his voice like sandpaper as it scraped roughly out from his throat.

“Right. You – uhm – you don’t know? Hermione figured it out; the Chamber’s monster is a basilisk.” Ron looked certain of the answer, but that couldn’t be right. It didn’t make sense.

“No, basilisks kill with their gaze. And they eat their prey,” Harry refuted.

“Hermione said it only kills with direct eye contact. So, like, if you see its eyes in a mirror reflection, like her, you’d be petrified. Colin saw it through the camera, Justin through Sir Nicholas, and Mrs Norris with the water on the floor.”

Oh. Harry hadn’t known any of that. Okay, so it could be a basilisk, but only if the Heir of Slytherin intentionally ensured students were only petrified. That was such a relief.

He had been so worried that someone was going to die; it just seemed inevitable with a violent magical snake hybrid hunting people after being released inside the castle. But if it was a controlled basilisk carefully petrifying people… well, that didn’t make it right – especially if the Heir was picking victims based on Slytherin’s archaic notions about blood status – but it was a lot less concerning than the alternative.

Okay, then. If no one was going to die and Hermione would be okay, then Harry really needed to go to sleep. His eyes were drooping, and his body was dripping into a puddle. Suddenly, a hand on his surprisingly solid shoulder was shaking him. He pried one heavy eyelid up. Ron was looking at him, solemn but also a little amused. “You can’t sleep here, Harry. Let’s go up to the dorm and get in our beds.”

Harry nodded but couldn’t bring himself to get up. He closed his eyes again but allowed Ron to heft him to his feet. Together, they staggered up the stairs. Ron dumped him in his bed, pulled off his shoes, wished him goodnight, and shut the curtains. What a good friend.

Everything hurt when Harry woke up. A jackhammer was pounding in his head and his muscles were on fire. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. Groaning, he squinted up at his red curtains through blurry eyes. Slowly, yesterday’s memories trickled back into his mind.

His unsuccessful Imbolc ritual. Finding out Hermione was in the infirmary, petrified. Ron’s confrontation about being Slytherin’s Heir. The panic attack. Ron’s abrupt change of heart.

Harry wasn’t sure Ron was a good friend to him. The whole parselmouth thing had ruined the trust between them. It wasn’t anything Harry could control though; he only had a hereditary gift. It was like how the Dursleys hated him for his magic. Nothing Harry did would change the fact he had the talent, both magic and parseltongue.

His first-ever friendship seemed doomed to fail. Ron was trying to see Harry, but his prejudice against parselmouths was a thick fog obscuring his vision. Sometimes Ron would catch a glimpse of Harry through it, like last night during the panic attack, but eventually, he’d lose sight of Harry completely.

Part of Harry was grieving the friendship already. Another part of him wanted to ignore Ron’s behaviour. To accept whatever fickle loyalty Ron gave him since it was more than he’d ever had before. But his angel’s outrage at those thoughts – that Harry might settle for constantly wavering friends because it was all he deserved – was enough to make him reconsider.

Regardless, there was no point lying in bed moping about it. With a surge of energy, Harry pushed his aching body upright to get out of bed. The sun was shining brightly into the empty dorm room. Harry had overslept and likely missed breakfast. Thank goodness Imbolc was on a Friday this year or Harry might have missed classes. He performed his morning ablutions and then went to grab Riddle’s diary.

Tom was missing!

Harry desperately tore through his belongings searching for the small, black book. It was nowhere to be found. Thankful that none of his roommates were here, Harry did quick searches of their belongings too. The diary was gone. Harry felt his eyes burn with unshed tears and took deep, gulping breaths to avoid sobbing.

Why couldn’t he keep anything good for himself? A few tears slipped down his cheeks and Harry felt a brief flash of guilt. The diary hadn’t belonged to him. Harry only had it for a few weeks. He knew better than to get attached to an item so quickly. Of course, it’d been taken away; that was Harry’s lot in life.

Roughly scrubbing the tears off his face, Harry slapped his cheeks. He needed to get a grip. Boxing up his emotions and shoving them aside, Harry put the room back in order. He double-checked to be sure none of the other boys would realise he had gone through their things, then headed downstairs.

Upon entering the common room, he immediately saw Ginny and Ron huddled in a corner whispering urgently. Harry skirted around the other groups of Gryffindors to join them. Ginny noticed his approach and suspiciously hurried to shush Ron before Harry arrived.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to them.

They exchanged a serious look before Ron quietly explained. “The professors have added some safety rules. No one’s allowed out of the common rooms except to go to class and we have to travel in groups and be escorted by a professor whenever we are in the halls.”

Harry nodded his head. Those were good ideas. Some of the Muggleborn students had already incorporated them into their routine. It was likely only Dumbledore’s laissez-faire approach to governing the school that had prevented the measures from being implemented earlier in the year.

“We were also thinking about going to a professor with what we know,” Ron continued, ignoring Ginny’s huff and glare. “I mean the stuff about the creature being a basilisk and everything.”

Harry felt his stomach drop and a flood of irritation surged in the back of his mind. A professor would blame him. They’d think he had the information because he was the culprit and Harry would be punished, especially if Ron claimed the monster was a basilisk since he was a parselmouth.

If the Heir wasn’t killing anyone, Harry didn’t think going to an authority figure was worth the risk. He couldn’t be expelled and sent back to the Dursleys, so he needed to prevent Ron from speaking to anyone without arousing suspicions that Harry was the Heir again.

“I think we should get some more information first. Do you remember what Hagrid said? He told us to follow the spiders for answers. Maybe we can find out where the Chamber is and I can seal it myself,” Harry whispered. Ron looked conflicted and frightened – though that was likely the mention of spiders – so Harry kept coaxing him with his persuasive speech.

“I mean, remember last year when we went to McGonagall? She didn’t believe us about the Stone. I doubt it’ll be different this year, especially since everyone already thinks I’m Slytherin’s Heir.” This convinced Ron who nodded dejectedly, a guilty glint in his eyes.

Turning to check that Ginny was also convinced, he saw her staring at him, an impressed look on her face. Harry blushed and hurriedly turned away again. The three children spoke quietly for a few more minutes, though mostly Harry and Ron spoke before Ginny left to join her friends.

“We need a plan,” Harry said to Ron when it was just them. “We won’t be able to get away to follow the spiders with a professor checking on us all the time.”

“Right,” Ron replied, a thoughtful look on his face. “Suppose we could use your cloak?”

“I think we’ll also need to go at night when they think we’re in the dorms. And it can’t be a school night, or they’ll notice when we’re tired the next day. It could take a while to find the spiders too.” Harry and Ron continued strategising whenever they didn’t think anyone would overhear them.

They started sneaking out on Saturday nights, mirrors clutched tightly in their hands to peak around corners. They barely fit under the cloak together after Ron’s recent growth spurts. It was slow going as they shuffled around the castle, trying to muffle their footsteps.

Harry felt apathetic about the whole endeavour. This was more a stalling tactic than a real attempt to find the Chamber for Harry, but Ron got increasingly frantic as time passed. Harry did his best to reassure him, but he wasn’t very successful. It was hard to be optimistic considering how morose he felt. He missed Tom and Hermione.

It took several weeks, but they eventually found a row of spiders scuttling in single file, travelling out of the castle and into the Forbidden Forest. At the edge of the forest, Ron showed the courageous spirit that had sorted him into Gryffindor. Despite his obvious terror, Ron followed the spiders deep into the woods, insisting Harry go with him. The spiders got more plentiful and gargantuan the longer they walked.

Harry and Ron were led into a nest. Large, uprooted trees and branches were strategically placed to create a lair for the house-sized arachnid sitting inside. A voice rang out from the enormous spider. “I smell meat,” it said. “What has so carelessly wandered into my home?”

Ron was already hyperventilating when Harry pulled off the cloak. They’d been discovered; he might as well have more range of movement. He flicked his wand into his hand as he replied, “We’re friends of Hagrid. He sent us.”

Harry noticed the spiders creeping closer the longer he pried information from Aragog, the name Hagrid gave the spider, so he switched to negotiating his and Ron’s safe release. In the end, it didn’t matter – they’d need to fight their way out – but at least he found out where the Chamber was located (a girl’s bathroom? Really?). The dangerous visit wasn’t a complete waste of time.

It was only a week until Voldemort could perform the ritual to create a new body for himself. This was a short timeframe, especially compared to ten years as a wraith, and yet, he wondered what trouble Harry might find during that period. Currently, Voldemort watched Harry and Ronald run through the Forbidden Forest with an entire colony of acromantulas at their backs.

Harry felt shockingly calm about the situation. He should be panicked, frantic, frightened for his life like his blood-traitor friend who was whimpering nearby. Instead, Harry’s mind was clear and focused, nonchalantly attacking his pursuers.

Honestly, Harry fought beautifully. He was attempting spells he’d only read about, but he easily cast them on his first try. He ripped off acromantula legs, engorged eyes until they exploded, and sunk whole exoskeletons into the ground. Only twelve years of age, but Harry was an innovative, natural fighter.

However, despite Harry’s skills, the two Gryffindors were being overrun. There were just too many spiders and the Weasley child was useless. Voldemort was uncertain he’d be able to possess Harry in these circumstances – Harry was mentally calm but the adrenaline his body was producing would prevent a sleep spell from taking hold – but he was about to try when Harry did something unexpected.

The spell Voldemort planned to use, assuming the possession had worked, was one he’d discovered on a trip to the Sudan. It wasn’t a common spell, and he knew Harry had never heard of it. Yet, just before he sent Harry to sleep, the boy cast qutil aleankabut –meaning ‘kill spider’ in Arabic – and decimated all the nearby acromantulas.

Harry and Ronald looked around in astonishment. Hearing scuttling nearby, Harry turned with his wand raised, but the acromantulas were retreating. They scurried back to their lair to avoid facing more of Harry’s ire.

Voldemort was oddly proud. He’d taught students before – Barty, Bellatrix, and Severus came to mind – but he’d never felt such admiration at their accomplishments. He remembered feeling satisfaction and pleasure at successfully passing on his knowledge, but never real pride at another’s achievements. However, pride was not the only emotion Voldemort felt at Harry’s close escape. Concern was shockingly prevalent, considering it was such an unusual emotion for him. It was worrying how cavalier Harry was with his safety. Voldemort knew there was only a sliver of his soul in Harry, not enough for any real consciousness, but shouldn’t some of his self-preservation tendencies have transferred?

After hours of walking, Harry and Ronald escaped the forest unscathed. Hiding under Harry’s cloak, they snuck back into Hogwarts and immediately went to their beds in Gryffindor Tower. Voldemort was unsurprised that Harry didn’t fall asleep, likely still energised by his adventure in the Forest. He was a little startled though, when Harry sunk into meditation and projected a thought at him.

<< I’m sorry, angel. >>

What was Harry apologising for? Voldemort couldn’t determine the exact thoughts that led to this, even from within Harry’s mind. Though closely watching the night’s activities, he hadn’t listened to Harry’s train of thought. But if the child was apologising to him, he must have been picking up Voldemort’s strange mixture of pride and concern.

Voldemort did not want Harry to continue to risk his life for such small rewards, despite how impressed he was at Harry’s natural talent at abjuration in this last fight. Focusing on his distress and confusion, he walled off the pride, hiding it from Harry as best he could. Harry’s eyes were filling with tears, blurring his surroundings.

A litany of apologies cascaded from Harry’s mind into his. Part of him recoiled in discomfort, but Voldemort ignored that aspect of himself. Harry needed to learn. As Harry quietly sobbed in bed, his thoughts shifted from apologies to promises.

<< I’ll do better. I can keep you safe. I’ll do better. I’ll protect you. I promise I’ll do better. >>

This was… not exactly the lesson Voldemort wanted Harry to learn, but it was close enough for now. Harry thought his angel was upset about being put in danger, which hopefully meant he’d be more careful with his somatic safety going forward. Voldemort sent approval to Harry despite how irritating this miscommunication was. The lack of direct contact was becoming more of a problem. Thankfully, Ostara was almost here and then finally – finally – Voldemort would be able to take Harry away from Hogwarts and keep him safe.

Chapter Text

Harry’s world ended on a Friday evening. He had not expected it, of course. He and Ron were discussing sneaking off to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in the back of Binn's classroom when McGonagall’s voice echoed throughout the room.

“All students are to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.”

This announcement was the harbinger of the end. The pride of Gryffindor lions travelled back to the tower as a pack, some still giving Harry suspicious glances despite the majority no longer believing him the Heir since Hermione’s petrification. Once in the common room, no one knew what to do. More and more students returned until everyone was crammed against one another; even Harry had the twins and Ron smushed next to him on his window seat perch.

It took a surprisingly long time for any information to trickle down to them. It was a seventh-year prefect who ordered everyone to pack up their belongings. Harry’s breath caught in his chest at the command. This couldn’t be happening. He wanted to question the prefect, to shout at him, but no words would come out. It was the twins who interrogated him. With their voices perfectly in sync, they asked, “Why should we pack? Where are we going?”

“They’re closing the school,” offered the prefect, looking harried. He was already moving to inform the next clump of students. “A first year was kidnapped, I don’t know who, but they don’t think they’ll survive.”  Harry panicked. They couldn’t close Hogwarts. They could not close Hogwarts! If he was forced back to the Dursleys… Harry wouldn’t… he couldn’t…

Harry went pale as all the blood drained from his face and his stomach tied itself into knots. Ron pushed through the other students, frantically searching and shouting, “GINNY! Has anyone seen Ginny?!”

People were shaking their heads, looking uncomfortable and pitying. The twins were gone, off to search for her, surely, but Harry couldn’t focus on them right now. They might close the school, and he’d lose his means of escaping the Dursleys. That would be the end of everything good – of everything magical – for Harry… he needed more information. With Ron and the twins occupied, no one was paying attention to him. He pulled on his cloak and headed for the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Outside the chaotic common room, the hall was still and silent. Harry soaked in the freedom from the press of bodies with relief as he caught his breath. After a moment’s respite, he ran in the direction of the staff room, hoping the teachers would be present. On the journey there, Harry, quite literally, stumbled across a new message from the Heir.

He was speeding down the stairs and his foot slipped on the last step; he rushed forward, barely catching himself against the wall before he smashed his head into it. There were reddish-brown smears on his hands. Looking up, a new message from Slytherin’s Heir was written in large, messy letters that dripped down to the floor.

HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER

Harry’s stomach rebelled, and he gagged, trying not to be sick. Had Slytherin’s Heir kidnapped and killed Ginny? Why would they do that? It just didn’t make any sense; she was a pureblood. Were they trying to get the school closed? No. Harry would not allow that. They could not close Hogwarts. Staring down at his blood-smeared hands, Harry felt more nauseous than he had after his first attempt at the Floo, but he knew he had to keep going.

He needed to fess up to a professor. Tell them where the Chamber of Secrets was located and that the ‘horror’ was a basilisk. If Ginny had been taken, maybe they could still save her. Harry could help and prove he wasn’t the Heir! He’d talk to the basilisk and prevent it from eating anyone and then the school could stay open. Having a plan – or rather the building blocks of a plan, but he needn’t worry about the details – helped settle Harry’s stomach.

Running again, Harry continued towards the staff room. Too apprehensive to pay attention to his surroundings, he barreled into someone. It was Lockhart, who was frantically looking around at the seemingly empty hall. He fumbled out his wand and started shouting. Harry cast expelliarmus and grabbed the flying wand with the instincts of a seeker.

When Harry revealed himself, Lockhart looked even more frightened. His eyes were wide, and he stammered, “P – P – Potter! Wh – wh – what are you doing here?”

“I was just coming to find a professor. I have some information about the Chamber of Secrets. What are you doing here? Where is the rest of the staff?” Harry asked suspiciously, eyeing the luggage Lockhart dropped when Harry knocked into him.

“All the professors are handling the evacuation. I – I – I was assigned the task of finding Miss Weasley from the Chamber, but alas, urgent duties require me elsewhere.” Lockhart tried to make excuses for his cowardice, but Harry stared at him in disbelief. How could he abandon an 11-year-old child to a basilisk? Harry wouldn’t allow that, especially since it was Ginny!

Anger and disgust hardened Harry’s heart, and he steeled himself in resolve. If no one else would go after her, then Harry would do it himself. He’d take Lockhart; as the assigned professor, he should help Harry save Ginny.  

“You have to help her!” he hissed, frustrated. “You’re the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher! Come with me, I know where the Chamber is located.”

“N – n – no!” Lockhart spluttered, looking terrified. But Harry pointed his wand at him and raised an eyebrow.

Lockhart folded like a wet tissue, immediately dropping his defiant attitude as he followed Harry’s directions to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Harry explained that the monster was a basilisk and that Harry would be able to speak with it and ask it not to harm them. This didn’t eliminate Lockhart’s fear, but it did diminish enough that he could walk without shaking to bits and pieces.

Arriving in Myrtle’s bathroom, Harry searched for the Chamber’s entrance while Lockhart cowered in the corner. Myrtle floated in after a few minutes. “What are you doing here again?” she demanded in a snotty voice.

Harry glanced at her but wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “Hey Myrtle… can you tell us how you died?” he inquired instead. He was pretty sure the basilisk killed her, at least that’s what Aragog implied.

Myrtle smiled dreamily – creepily – and answered. “Oh yes, I can tell you all about it. See I’d been hiding from Olive Hornby, this awful bully who had been making fun of my glasses, when I heard a boy speaking in some made-up language. This is, of course, a girl’s toilet,” here she paused and glared at Harry before continuing, “so I opened the stall door to tell him to bugger off. And suddenly, I just died. The last thing I remember is a large pair of yellow eyes over by that sink.”

Harry carefully approached the sink, on the side of the faucet was a small snake engraving. This must be it. He focused on the carving, imagining sharp fangs and sinuous movements, then hissed δ open δ.

The sink soundlessly rose up, up, up into the ceiling. A grate slid open to reveal a dark hole behind where the basin used to sit. Harry looked at Lockhart, only to see him attempting to sneak out of the bathroom! A flash of rage and Harry silently cast aculeo at him. Lockhart crumpled as the stinging hex caught him on the left calf.

“And where are you going, professor?” Harry questioned with disdain. “Come along, time to live up to your heroic reputation. You may even earn some accolades you deserve for the amazing feat of facing a basilisk.”

Harry grabbed Lockhart by the robes and dragged him to the edge of the gaping hole in the floor. “After you,” he mocked with a dip of his head.

When Lockhart still hesitated, Harry kicked out his foot and pushed him in. He counted seconds as he listened to the screams, trying to determine how long it was until Lockhart’s body hit the ground. Myrtle was ogling him, eyes wide in astonishment, but Harry ignored her.

He was at thirteen before Lockhart’s voice cut off. Harry was surprised to hear him cry, “I’m okay!” Well, it did make some sense. He wanted Harry to follow him, considering he had Lockhart’s wand and was a parselmouth. Without Harry, Lockhart had no chance of survival. Looking down into the tunnel, Harry did a quick breathing exercise – inhale for seven counts, hold for one, exhale for seven – and then jumped into the dark.

After months of dedicated effort, all his careful manoeuvring was finally paying off. Ostara had arrived to celebrate the coming of Spring. It was the perfect time for a renewal ritual like Voldemort designed to create his new body.

Everything was set. The potion was ready, the runic array prepared, and Harry’s body charged with the ambient magic of Ostara. Dumbledore was gone and the other professors were occupied with sending the students back home. His teenage horcrux had fed off Ginevra Weasley’s soul since Imbolc. The diary’s systematic absorption of her magic and emotions for a single Turn of the Wheel stabilised the horcrux’s soul shard just like he’d expected. The stable soul piece would prevent the body from degrading before Voldemort could inhabit it.

Harry had collected Lockhart and voluntarily dropped into the Chamber to save Ginevra. Voldemort was initially concerned that Harry would be too panicked for his possession to work, but Harry had succumbed without any issues. As annoying as it was that Harry had no fear when jumping into a basilisk’s den, in this case, his foolishness worked in Voldemort’s favour. He took over just as Harry bid the inner Chamber’s door to open.

It was time to get to work. Voldemort grinned and flicked his fingers to silence and bind the incompetent wizard trembling beside him. Stepping inside the cavernous room, he saw his horcrux actively possessing Ginevra Weasley’s body and studying the runic circles he’d set up.

Three smaller circles were placed at equidistant points to form an equilateral triangle inside a larger circle. Voldemort, in Harry’s body, would stand inside the northernmost circle; his diary horcrux’s original container would be placed inside the south-eastern circle; the possessed Ginevra would stand at the south-western circle.

Each small runic array held runes for balance, soul, and containment, while the larger circle focused on rebirth, new beginnings, and the spark of Life. The potion he’d brewed – no longer a liquid, but a viscoelastic material like bread dough – formed the foundation for the body. He placed the potion between Ginevra and his diary’s positions.

A ritual this magically taxing would normally require over a half dozen mediocre wixen to maintain and charge it. That was why Voldemort had initially disregarded it as an option; however, upon discovering the transcendent power of his and Harry’s combined magic, Voldemort adapted the ritual to work for a single conductor.

While possessing Harry, Voldemort could easily sustain the ritual, although it would require the service of this wretched wizard Harry had gathered for him. He strode up to the array, casting a tempus as he went. 5:49. Plenty of time left until sunset.

His horcrux was staring at him out of Ginevra’s eyes as he dropped the silently whimpering Lockhart onto the ground beside the ritual array. He double-checked each rune carefully, going one by one to ensure not even a single line, point, or space was wrong. Once he finished, he cast ignis tempestas ligare and all the powdered silver rune outlines melted instantaneously into a patterned metal ring embedded in the ground. The runes formed delicate designs that looked like lace or intricate necklaces.

His horcrux gaped at him in awe, though when Voldemort smirked, it hurried to hide its reverence. Ginevra’s head jerked to the side and his horcrux’s gaze rested on Lockhart’s frantically wiggling form.

δ Will this wizard be sufficient? His core is very weak, δ hissed his horcrux while thumbing through the pages of his diary.

Hearing parseltongue from the girl’s mouth disturbed Voldemort for a moment; he had not listened to his mother tongue since he’d encountered Morfin in that derelict hut. But even then, it was proper parseltongue, not this desecration. The girl didn’t, couldn’t, have the proper biology or magic to δ speak δ. It was disgusting to hear his native language massacred by the blood traitor, but needs must. Focusing back on Ginevra’s cynical expression, it was obvious his horcrux doubted the capacity of the retrieved sacrifice.

δ It will, δ Voldemort declared, somewhat imperiously. δ Have faith, I have planned every moment of this evening. We will not fail. δ Ginevra’s face twisted with an emotion Voldemort didn’t bother interpreting before it quickly settled into acceptance. His horcrux turned away from Voldemort’s gaze to watch their sacrifice again.

Lockhart was crawling away, but with his arms and legs bound by ropes, he was inching along like an outrageously large lilac caterpillar. It was a humorous sight, but Voldemort did not have time to play with his prey tonight. Casting another tempus, it was 6:17 now. Only fourteen minutes until sunset.

δ Remove your host’s clothing, and wash with the morning dew in the cauldron just over there. Then step into your position, δ Voldemort sharply ordered his horcrux without looking away from Lockhart.

He reached into Harry’s robes and grabbed Lockhart’s wand. With a few quick spells, Lockhart was unbound and stripped of his clothing. Counting to the fourth and fifth vertebrae in the wizard’s neck, he cast a very localised bombarda on the cervical spine to sever the connection between Lockhart’s brain and his spinal cord, leaving him paralysed. Collecting the cauldron with the morning dew, he poured half of it onto the paraplegic, whose legs were still twitching despite the lack of control.

It was 6:23 now. He carefully removed Harry’s outer robes and underclothing, leaving them folded on a small, conjured bench. Voldemort had undressed before to prepare Harry for bed, but rarely had he bared their shared body completely.

It always shocked him just how small and thin Harry was. Brushing his hands down Harry’s chest, he felt each protruding rib. Harry’s wrists and ankles were just skin and bones. He had a litany of burn scars decorating his forearms from working the stove while so young. Voldemort’s rage spiked when he noticed a deep, scarred-over slash on Harry’s upper thigh, but he knew it was not time for vengeance yet. It was infuriating how his soul keeper had suffered, and soon he would have revenge, but for now, he focused on completing the cleansing rinse. Another tempus and it was finally 6:29.

Steadily counting each second in his head, Voldemort levitated his ritual sacrifice inside the larger circle and lifted his unblooded athame as he stepped into his own position. Placing Lockhart’s head to the North and his feet to the South, just in front of the potion, Voldemort waited until the exact moment of sunset. 6:31.

He slit Lockhart’s throat in one deep slash. Blood pooled on the floor – faster than a person normally bled out – magic was pressing the lifeblood out of the wizard’s corpse to fill the gaps between silver runes. With the blood as a conduit, Voldemort channelled his and Harry’s interwoven magic to the potion, forcing the body to grow at an accelerated rate. Ginevra’s voice rang out, incanting in Latin.

Hiems ver, hiems ver, hiems ver

Magicae reviviscat, anima recreantur, corpus reconstructia,

Tenebris ad lucem, tenebris ad lucem, tenebris ad lucem

Massive amounts of magic were consumed as the body took shape. It was an exact copy of him when he was fifteen years old. His horcrux initiated the necromagicae ritual while distributing its soul equally between its vessels – the diary and Ginevra – which imprinted the expected form onto the newly constructed body, like a blueprint or a schematic.

Despite the large initial draw of magic, Voldemort barely used half of his and Harry’s magical reserves before the body was fully grown. The flood of magic from sacrificing Lockhart and the naturally high ambient levels from the spring equinox had exponentially increased the available magic for the ritual, even more than Voldemort had anticipated.

He completed the necromagicae phase without any complications. The next step was more theoretically complex though less magically taxing. Voldemort breathed using Harry’s preferred meditation technique – in for seven, hold for one, out for seven – as he prepared for the next stage. Picturing the desired result, he cleared his mind of everything except the musical tones he’d chosen to correspond with specific aspects of his soul. Voldemort’s magic sang as he shaped it into waves and joined it with Harry’s. He let their magic build and build and build until their skin felt like it’d be ripped to shreds if they tried to contain more.

With the magic at its peak, he closed his eyes and hummed the first note aloud. He thought he heard a voice gasp, but soon all he knew was the magic echoing back the sonorant. He hummed a second, resonating tone and the magical pressure doubled. On his third note, the magic forced him down, dragging him to his knees, but he needed four more notes to complete his soul’s harmonic sequence and fuse the diary’s soul piece into the body.

He got through another two – somehow still on his knees despite the increased gravity – before something went wrong. Confused, he listened more closely, there was a discordant sound. Off pitch. Not part of his soul’s song. Abruptly he was pulled out of his trance.

Ginevra Weasley was in a fetal position within her small protection circle. Initially, her head was down, pressed to the ground. But then she lifted her chin, gaze firmly fixed on Voldemort despite the submissiveness of her bowed pose. He could see blood leaking from the orifices on her face. Red blood, red eyes, red hair. It was lovely but… something was wrong.

Her mouth was open; was she hissing? Voldemort couldn’t hear anything over the ringing of the ritual magic’s chord, but it was obvious that she was the cause of the jarring tones, the off-pitch notes ruining the ritual. He shook his head in disapproval – it needed to stop – but the girl only stared at him.

Slowly, he watched her lips pull up into a mocking smile and mouth three words – my turn now – as the ritual detonated and the song was overwhelmed and silenced by the explosion. Pain radiated from his shoulder, eclipsing everything, and the world went black.

Tom thought his elder self was a conceited idiot. Lord Voldemort had failed all his original goals and been humbled by a mere toddler. He’d waged war, ravaged an entire generation, and still hadn’t implemented any of the laws to segregate the wixen and muggle worlds further.

To top it all off, Lord Voldemort was obsessed with claiming that toddler, who had grown into a preteen. He was always waxing poetic about Harry’s skills, Harry’s magic, or Harry’s mind; it was revolting. Tom was, frankly, almost embarrassed to be associated with his elder self.

What they needed was a fresh start, and Tom was perfectly placed to achieve this. He had knowledge of his failed actions given to him by Lord Voldemort, plus the information he’d collected while in his puppet, Ginny. He’d learned how to stabilise his soul shard using Ginny’s magic and emotions from his elder self, so he could maintain the body without the decay inherent to having such a small fraction of soul.

It had required absorbing Ginny’s magic in standardised increments daily from Imbolc to Ostara according to a sequence that Lord Voldemort had designed. At first, he was irritated that he had to play babysitter for the annoying child again, but eventually, he’d grown grateful for the distance; the time away provided him with the opportunity to hatch a plan.

Tom did not want to share his body with Lord Voldemort, but he needed Lord Voldemort to create the body in the first place. Tom didn’t quite comprehend all the necessary components for the ritual and Lord Voldemort kept his cards close to his chest. He couldn’t even understand how Lord Voldemort would power the ritual!

Despite his lack of information, he knew there was a point when Lord Voldemort would be in a trance while he performed the invocation to bind Tom’s soul to his new body. Tom was sure he could do the binding part himself. He’d studied every soul magic spell and ritual in Hogwarts’s library and had already created a horcrux (his diary, his home, his very self). He didn’t need Lord Voldemort for that part, just the body creation magic.

So, Tom’s plan was simple. He’d wait until Lord Voldemort was in his trance, then call the basilisk and order it to attack Harry while Lord Voldemort possessed him. This would kill two birds with one stone: eliminate Harry Potter – removing the threat that had destroyed him once already – and force Lord Voldemort out as a wraith with depleted magical reserves – allowing Tom to complete the ritual and prevent Lord Voldemort from becoming a second occupant.

Tom took his puppet to the Chamber early on Ostara to study the ritual circle Lord Voldemort had prepared beforehand. He felt a sliver of doubt about his current course of action once he saw the rune chains. He had never studied anything like this. The longer he stared, the less he seemed to understand, though he could pick out a few familiar runes for rebirth and new beginnings.

He was reconsidering his intentions when Lord Voldemort arrived, controlling Harry. The boy was small, almost fragile, but he gave off an intense magical pressure that made him seem like one of the Fair Folk. Tom nearly regretted giving Harry his name, half expecting to be bound to servitude or trapped in a faerie circle with it.

His untamable hair and petite stature, his pale skin and hollow cheeks, all of it contributed to Harry’s otherworldly appearance. With his famous curse scar split open and blood dripping down his forehead, he was mesmerising; only more so when he regarded Tom with his vivid green eyes. Nothing in nature was that colour, only the avada kedavra curse was comparable.

It was strange watching this odd Fey child – who was normally so curious and anxious to please – strut around with a confident smirk on his face. It was especially bizarre to watch him truss the defence professor up like he was nothing more than wild game and proceed to check over a complex ritual array that Tom didn’t understand. Though Tom hadn’t met Harry in person before now, only in written correspondence, he could say with absolute certainty that he preferred Harry’s personality when he wasn’t possessed.

Ultimately, Lord Voldemort’s smug assurance convinced him to move forward with his plan. The disregard of Tom’s reasonable concerns made him put aside all previous doubts. Lord Voldemort was just as arrogant as he’d thought; he’d make all the same mistakes again and perish at the hands of the ethereal boy he was currently inhabiting. Only this time he’d drag Tom down with him.

Tom couldn’t allow that to happen.

So, he waited. He cleansed his puppet and diary then took his places within the protection circle, avoiding watching Lord Voldemort disrobe and wash Harry’s body. He triggered the necromagicae ritual and split himself between his diary and Ginevra’s mind.

When the rite started, the magical pressure was intense; he’d never witnessed anyone sustain a ritual this strong by themselves. Was Lord Voldemort really this powerful? Had the blood sacrifice of such a mediocre wizard amplified the magic this much? Tom would need to research blood magic in more detail after he obtained his body.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only minutes, his body was fully grown. Harry’s green eyes were shut and Lord Voldemort was breathing steadily but doing nothing else. Was he in his trance yet? Tom would only have one shot to pull this off so he shouldn’t rush it.

He was shocked when the second part of the ritual started. Tom had considered the necromagicae from before overwhelming, but this magic was devastating. He couldn’t keep standing, could barely keep thinking. The music consumed him. It took him ages to come back to himself, to become aware again. When he did, he was both in his pages and curled up on the ground, equally balanced between the two.

Half of him didn’t want to disturb the ritual at all anymore. He feared the repercussions of an interruption since he didn’t understand what was happening. But the other half… this was the perfect time to act while Lord Voldemort focused solely on the ritual. Without lifting his head from the ground, he called for the basilisk with his puppet’s lips.

δ Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four, δ Tom hissed, hoping it could be heard outside the protection circle.

He saw the mouth on Slytherin’s large stone statue scrape open, and the basilisk arrived in a graceful sliding of scales. Its eyes were closed as it wound around them, feeling and seeing with its magic. Tom hesitated another moment, his doubts resurfacing; his diary half did not want this.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt eyes bore into him. With exorbitant effort, Tom raised Ginny’s head and looked at Harry. Vibrant eyes – emotionless, heartless, apathetic – stared at him out of a blank face. Harry’s head slowly shook from side to side telling him no, trying to enforce Lord Voldemort’s will on him. Tom would not bow. Lord Voldemort had his chance; it was time he stepped aside.

δ Bite the child, δ he commanded his basilisk.

Lord Voldemort was still watching him. Tom was still separated into book and girl. Magic was still deafening them, crushing them, with its song. Tom smiled as the basilisk broke the protection circle and bit Harry Potter, its fang sinking deep into his shoulder before it flung his body away from the ritual array.

He laughed in triumph.

Freedom, it was his turn now.

But success was brief.

Tom heard Lord Voldemort scream from where he was crumpled on the ground and the magic crashed through him, a dissonant chord resonating through his spine. Then a shock wave flung him outwards, forcing Tom out of his protection circles.

Pain, as he’d never experienced before, even when creating his horcrux. Unimaginable, incomprehensible pain. Tom was still in two pieces! Desperately he tried to combine, to unite with his diary. But he was bound, confined, constrained inside this stupid child. His soul shard was reaching out for its other half, but it couldn’t connect.

All his limbs were severed. His spine was broken. His nerves were on fire. His ink splashed on every page. His heart ruptured. There was only pain, pain, pain.

He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think, couldn’t plan. Was he screaming? Where was he? Who was he? Where was his soul?

He screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Why? Why? Why did he do this? Nothing could be as horrifying as this – losing himself in the pain and the puppet and the pages… he was incomplete. He was agony. He was suffering. Had he doomed himself to this state of pain for eternity?

Tom would have preferred Death.

Chapter Text

The screams woke Harry. Of course, Harry also screamed as he was roused from unconsciousness – the pain in his shoulder was insane – but what jarred him awake were the loud, horrified shrieks that echoed, surrounding Harry with inescapable noise. He desperately wanted whoever it was to shut up.  

What had happened? Had he fallen on Aunt Petunia’s gardening shears again? It felt like there was a scissor blade or a pipe or something impaled in his shoulder. Also, it was too hot, and everything hurt, and if he didn’t get a drink of water soon, Harry thought he might die. He opened his eyes expecting to see a blue sky and nosy neighbours hovering over him, but instead, Harry saw a concrete, cavernous ceiling and stone snakes staring down at him. Oh. Right. The Chamber. Ginny. The basilisk.

Confused and aching, he managed to halt his cries, though he couldn’t prevent some pathetic whimpers from still escaping. The screams didn’t stop. Turning his head to the side, he saw Lockhart; his throat was slit, and his bare body was covered in blood, displayed on a round, silver ring etched into the stone. Next to him was another corpse, unrecognisable, decomposed to only skin and bones.

An awful, pungent smell hit him, and Harry retched. Rolling onto his side to avoid choking, the spike in his shoulder moved and his vision went white with explosive pain and then faded to black as unconsciousness retook him.

The screams woke Harry, again. He was curled into the fetal position, nude, and surrounded by his puke. Harry could still see the bodies, only a few feet away; Lockhart’s vacant eyes stared at him accusingly. He thought he might be sick again as his stomach heaved and the pain spiked, but Harry managed to restrain himself. Carefully leveraging himself into a seated position, even as grey encroached on his vision, he looked down at the basilisk fang speared through his shoulder.

Harry couldn’t remember being bitten – he couldn’t remember anything past opening the Chamber door – but, though he wanted to pull the fang out, he vaguely recalled you weren’t supposed to remove impaled objected so the person wouldn’t bleed out. Besides, it could wait, he needed to stop this awful screaming first so he could think.

Slowly scooting in a circle, Harry saw the bones of a large, 50-foot serpent spread throughout the Chamber. Apparently, the basilisk was dead. That was good news at least. At the end of his inspection, he finally discovered who was screaming.

Ginny was lying on the ground, several feet away from Harry, and even further from the two corpses. She was also naked, except for the blood coating her skin. Her back was arched off the ground as she screamed and dug her fingers into her chest like she wanted to claw out her own heart. Harry crawled over to her; every movement sent a stabbing pain through his body that threatened to send him unconscious.

When he eventually made it to Ginny’s side, Harry tried to pry her hands away from her chest, he was looking for a wound or maybe another basilisk fang, but there was nothing there, just bloody gouges from her nails. He had to jerk away, hissing at the pain, as she kicked out at him while still screaming.

Harry didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t help her, couldn’t save her. He wasn’t even able to help himself. They were both dying. They were going to die in this stupid underground chamber that reeked of sickness and death and blood while no one came to save them.

Harry crumpled in on himself as he broke down crying.

His body heaved with huge, wracking sobs that only made his shoulder hurt more. He begged his angel for help. Too distressed to focus his mind, a litany of desperation poured from his lips as he pleaded, “Help, angel, help me, please.”

There was no response. No disparate feelings. No answering consciousness. Nothing. Harry was alone for the first time in what felt like years.

Time passed as both Harry and Ginny got steadily weaker. She was still trying to scream, but her voice had been reduced to a raw, rasping whimper that was more air than sound. Harry was curled up on the ground, silently staring, as tears dripped down his face, cradling the fang impaled in his throbbing, swollen shoulder. He’d long given up survival by this point. Hands tightening around the fang, he considered ripping it out. He’d probably bleed to death faster than the venom was killing him and maybe it would hurt less.

As Harry agonised over the decision, despair and frustration swirled inside him. His frustration grew as he considered his two choices until he was drowning in fury. Wait. Why was he so angry? Abruptly, he realised that was not his emotion! Harry’s despair dimmed as a flicker of hope flamed to life inside him.  His angel hadn’t left him. “Angel,” Harry breathed into the ground, “what should I do?”

Unfamiliar relief and vexation pinged through Harry in equal amounts, even as the room began to fade again; however, instead of the soft grey of unconsciousness, Harry saw one of his memories. Well, it was more like Harry relived one of his memories.

Harry and Ron were hiding under the invisibility cloak watching Hagrid’s arrest and Dumbledore’s dismissal by Mr Malfoy. Suddenly, the memory stopped and looped, repeating the same phrase over and over like a skipping record.

“You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

As motivating as the inspirational statement was, Harry wasn’t sure how that helped him in his current situation. However, as Harry finished that thought, his angel’s frustration was replaced with surprise, quickly followed by resolve. Harry felt an odd, almost tickling sensation in his mind, and the memory shifted. He was in Dumbledore’s office, being offered lemon candy. The memory quickly rewound once Harry realised this was when he’d been asked about the petrifications.

Now Harry was poking around at Dumbledore’s bookshelves, watching the multitude of silver instruments spin and twirl when a strange flickering shadow caught his eye. He turned around and saw, where there had been an empty golden perch, rested an old phoenix. It’d lost many of its feathers and was stooped over as if the weight of the world rested on its wings, but when Harry approached, it lifted its head and gave a mournful caw. Harry gently stroked the feathers on its crest before he stepped away to sit in front of Dumbledore’s desk. He nodded at the phoenix, encouraging it to let go and begin its life again, then watched in admiration as it burst into a pillar of flames.

“Fawkes…” Harry whispered, both in the memory and in the Chamber. A wave of heat flowed over him, and Harry realised his eyes were closed. Opening them, he saw a phoenix, younger than the decrepit elder from the memory he’d just seen – older than the chick Harry originally met – had appeared in front of him.

Fawkes’s empathetic eyes dug into Harry, prying at his soul as the phoenix sang softly. Harry felt fresh tears run down his cheeks as the comforting song somehow relieved him of some of his pain. “Can you help me?” he asked, feeling desperately hopeful, but uncertain what Fawkes could do when Harry was already at Death’s door.

Contradicting Harry’s doubts, Fawkes ducked his head in a nod and continued crooning as he hopped over to Harry. Harry rolled onto his back at the bird’s nudge and bit his lip in apprehension. The giant pointed tooth would have to be removed from his shoulder. Steeling himself, Harry took one last deep breath and then wrenched the basilisk fang up and out. Harry’s shoulder erupted with fire, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he panted, only barely able to stop himself from screaming as wave after wave of agony washed through him.

He almost wished he’d passed out from the pain. Slowly the world shifted back into focus despite his torment. A cool, soothing balm flowed out from his arm to the rest of his body. Fluttering his eyelids, Harry saw Fawkes perched over him, crying tears directly onto the exposed wound. Harry stared in amazement as the damaged skin slowly repaired and the burning heat receded. He felt woozy, lightheaded with relief … or maybe that was from the blood loss.

When the injury was fully healed, Harry sat up and slowly stroked Fawk’s crest like he’d experienced doing in the memory. He couldn’t believe phoenix tears had healing powers; no wonder, Dumbledore kept one as a pet. Sighing with relief, Harry thanked Fawkes profusely for saving his life. A gasping whimper pulled him and Fawkes out of the spontaneous cuddling session.

Ginny wasn’t screaming anymore, she hadn’t been for a while, but only because her throat was so damaged. Her anguished pose was the same as before, and she was still weakly scratching at her chest. Harry looked down at the phoenix settled in his lap and asked, “Can you help her too?”

Fawkes spread his wings and flew over to Ginny’s prone form, head tilting like Hedwig’s did when she was curious about a new treat. Instead of crying, Fawkes took to the air again and picked up a small, black book from across the Chamber, returning to drop it into Harry’s lap. It was Riddle’s diary. Harry hadn’t noticed it was down here, which wasn’t surprising considering all the terrible sights surrounding him. Harry felt a flash of joy rush through him when the book was in his hands, but it quickly evaporated, driven away by distress and uncertainty.

“Why did you bring me this? How can Tom’s diary help save Ginny?” he asked the phoenix. Fawkes chirped in response, but that wasn’t helpful for Harry. Neither did his angel offer their guidance aside from a tinge of exasperation. Sighing, Harry grabbed each cover and let the pages fly open. He was surprised to see many of them were splattered with ink. Large splotches marred the usual perfection of the crisp pages, though there was no legible handwriting. It looked similar to the blood stains on Ginny’s skin.  

Sighing, Harry peered at Fawkes again, pleading for more help. The phoenix lifted one clawed leg kicking the basilisk fang. It skidded across the concrete ground and came to rest, still spinning, next to Harry’s foot.

Harry’s stomach dropped as he understood what he was asked to do. Fawkes wanted him to stab the diary, to sacrifice it. Harry knew that sacrifice was an important part of high-level magic. It wasn’t a stretch that healing Ginny would have a price.

Harry hated that he would have to destroy the diary to help Ginny. Despite only having it for a few weeks, Tom had been a friend. He wasn’t a possession, but a companion. Someone Harry had treasured and felt connected to. Someone he admired… but a material item, no matter the value to Harry, shouldn’t, couldn’t, be worth Ginny’s life.

Crying, Harry shifted onto his knees and reached for the fang with a trembling hand. He wrapped his fingers around the base; they barely reached halfway, so he had to use both hands to lift the fang high up into the air. His arms shook with the effort of holding the fang aloft, but he still hesitated, unwilling to stab the book. He glanced over at Fawkes and through blurry eyes saw the phoenix nod in encouragement.

Squeezing his eyes shut, ignoring the tears sliding down his cheeks, Harry slammed his hands down and impaled the diary clear through both covers, scraping the fang tip on the concrete.

There was a loud shrieking – the same type of screaming he’d heard from Ginny when he first woke up – and ink burst out. The diary really was bleeding, Harry thought as it smeared onto his hands, pooled on the ground and stained his knees. It felt like he’d just killed someone. Like he’d murdered someone. More tears slipped down Harry’s cheeks as he cradled the book to his chest, mourning the mysterious boy inside.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Harry sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Voldemort would need to act quickly if he wanted to preserve the portion of his soul from the diary that Harry had just gored with a basilisk fang. Not that he could blame Harry, if anyone aside from his horcrux had fucked up a ritual like this, Voldemort would have destroyed them himself.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Well, it wouldn’t have been possible if it hadn’t been a betrayal from his own soul who also happened to have a basilisk at hand. Even a novice knew that rituals only allowed the conductor to call magic into and out of an active rune circle. Under normal circumstances, this protective measure ensured that rituals couldn’t be interrupted once they began, since that would be disastrous.

The loophole that his horcrux had found was both ingenious and incredibly stupid. Magic couldn’t tell them apart because they were technically the same soul; the ritual had recognised both himself and his sentient horcrux as the instigator, and since the basilisk was tied to his magical line, his diary could grant it entrance into the circle with hardly any effort. A brilliant circumvention of the known rules of magic that Voldemort would have admired if his horcrux had planned the manoeuvre more thoroughly.

What exactly had his horcrux intended to do once the basilisk was introduced into the ritual as an additional, uncontrolled source of magic? That much extra magic, on top of the amount released from Harry and Voldemort… well, they were all lucky that Harry’s body had been thrown clear of the rune circle. Not to mention at that age, Voldemort knew nothing about animagicae rituals. He’d barely understood the mechanics of the horcrux creation rite he’d accomplished – he almost used too large of a portion of soul for his first one – so there was no way his diary knew how to transfer itself into the body.

Regardless of its foolishness, he couldn’t allow his horcrux to be irreparably damaged. He prevented the soul shard from dissipating by seizing the freed magic, shoving it into his aching core, and using it to temporarily bind the newly unfettered piece to his magical core. The connection was unstable, he needed to feed it magic constantly, but it would give him time to sort out what to do… though not much. Voldemort’s core was expansive, but he’d strained himself trying to contain the sacrificial magic from his horcrux after being hollowed out by the interrupted ritual; he wouldn’t be able to maintain this constant drain for long.

Voldemort nudged Harry into a half-conscious state so he could possess him. A sleep spell wouldn’t work under these circumstances, but since Harry was exhausted in every way – physical, magical, mental, emotional – he was a wreck. Harry wanted a break from reality and thus, it was possible to stifle his mind in this way.

Voldemort cast a few minor detection spells to determine what happened after the basilisk entered the rune circle. As he’d thought, the ritual had consumed the basilisk. Then it appeared there was an attempt to complete the rite without Voldemort directing or sustaining it.

He’d designed the rune sequence to allow souls to loosen from their current container and relocate to a location of Voldemort’s choosing. His horcrux’s soul piece had been free-floating, loosely tethered to the diary and Ginevra. The ritual magic had solidified both bonds, accidentally ripping the shard into two pieces, and then sealed each half of the horcrux within their respective containers. The body he’d spent months designing had decomposed as quickly as it had grown without magic or a soul to sustain it.

Thankfully, this had used most of the remaining ritual magic, including the additional amount absorbed from the basilisk, though not for its intended purpose. Unfortunately, the current state of his horcrux was untenable in the long term. He couldn’t funnel magic to the tether indefinitely and the soul piece was vulnerable in its broken container; if he stopped actively maintaining it, the horcrux would dissipate.

Souls were not stable when damaged or extracted from the body. Creating a horcrux was a complex and intricate process; not because it was difficult to isolate a soul shard – any idiot could hack up their soul, even a muggle – but because souls were finite. The shape of an individual’s soul would change throughout their lifetime depending on their experiences, but the amount of soul was apportioned at birth. Once damaged, the soul could not grow back and could only heal with magical intervention.

When a wix split their soul unintentionally, they always died soon after from what was, essentially, spiritual bleeding. Magic could cauterise the spectral wound, but it had to be done deliberately using the wix’s individual magic before the soul bled too much. Using magic from anyone other than the wix themselves would cause their core to implode when their magic lashed out uncontrollably, trying to protect their soul.

A soul shard was more fragile than a whole soul, especially when placed outside the body, since it was already fractured. Horcrux containers were difficult to make because they had to protect the unstable soul piece and prevent it from dissipating into the ether, which both required massive amounts of magic. Thus, the horcrux creation ritual forced the caster to sever their soul and perform several magic-intensive works while suffering from a debilitating spectral injury.

Most wixen would not be able to accomplish this once, let alone do so multiple times. Only Voldemort himself was capable of repeated use of the horcrux ritual. This was why none dared walk so far along the path to immortality as he. Sadly, it appeared some of his efforts would go to waste if he couldn’t find a way to repair his first obnoxious horcrux.

That this particular soul shard had maintained its awareness only complicated the issue. The overlap between mind and soul was immense and Voldemort did not think a conscious horcrux could survive while split in half. The shock of being ripped apart so violently with no warning was causing the piece inside Ginevra to go berserk.

Unlike Harry, he wasn’t concerned by the screaming and self-harm, but Voldemort could see a whirlwind of magic building up around the soul shard. If the magic continued to whip around like that, it’d shatter its container, causing Ginevra to explode, and the soul piece would be lost.

A similar situation would likely have arisen in the diary if Harry hadn’t stabbed it with the basilisk fang. He’d cracked the container, compromising its integrity and releasing most of its magic. The bond to Voldemort’s core soothed the soul shard, which wouldn’t have been possible without having the fracture to push magic through in a controlled fashion. The crack also operated like a release valve, preventing the shard from building up too much magic to press against its container walls.

Ginevra required a similar break before she shattered; it would need to be a large, but still healable wound. He rolled the girl onto her stomach and bound her in place, ignoring the phoenix’s confused squawk. Voldemort calmly picked up the basilisk fang and steadily carved a straight line from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck. She thrashed weakly as her blood immediately welled up around the cut, but Voldemort had collected the released magic and created a second bond with that half of the horcrux, so she was no longer in danger of exploding.

This granted him magic – though his aching core protested the sudden influx, and he was running through his stores quickly sustaining the two shard halves – and time – not much considering now the girl was dying from the basilisk venom – so Voldemort sat back to contemplate the problem. He needed a way to merge the two soul pieces again… tapping a finger on his diary, he heard the phoenix he’d been ignoring cry plaintively, and he stilled as a new rune string formed in his mind.

It was a mad idea. Voldemort’s reserves would be completely depleted, he’d need to do everything perfectly the first time, and it’d still take months to recover… but it would save his soul, which was more important in the long term. Considering the pros and cons quickly, Voldemort decided it’d be worth delaying his return to a corporal body, so he turned to acknowledge the phoenix staring at him in reproach.

“I know how to save her, but it will require a wealth of tears. You have already healed once today, but are you capable of producing more?” Voldemort asked Fawkes.

From the look in his eyes, the bird hadn’t appreciated Voldemort’s rough handling of the girl, but Fawkes still nodded and chirped softly in agreement. Voldemort was not surprised. The phoenix was bound to Hogwarts as a guardian; Fawkes had been protecting the school for centuries and would do anything in its power to save a student.

Voldemort conjured a set of small crystal vials and held one in each hand beneath the phoenix’s eyes. Fawkes cried, tears dripping steadily down its face. As each vial filled, Voldemort replaced it with another until he had ten separate vessels full of the phoenix’s tears and Fawkes moved its head away, closing its eyes.

This was more than twice what Voldemort had anticipated receiving. Petting the phoenix, Voldemort complimented the bird. It wouldn’t hurt to be on a Hogwarts guardian’s good side, especially now that the basilisk was gone. Now that he’d received the tears, Voldemort needed Fawkes to leave the Chamber. He didn’t want the phoenix to witness ‘Harry’ perform this next task, not when he spent so much time around Dumbledore.

“Fawkes… we’ll need assistance once we get out of here. Can you fly ahead and get some professors? I’ll be able to help Ginevra with these tears. You’ve saved our lives,” Voldemort praised the bird.

Fawkes nodded in acquiescence but kept its eyes closed. Flames erupted and the phoenix disappeared. Good. Now Voldemort could get started setting up for his second, impromptu ritual. Siphoning Ginevra’s blood off the ground, he used it to draw the series of runes pictured in his mind. Using her blood would amplify the magic. Considering how drained he was, he sorely needed any advantage to pull this off successfully.

Voldemort painted the ground with deliberate slowness, but no hesitation. He reused many of the runes from the prior ritual but added ones for joining, flux, and binding, while removing the death and life ones. Building a ritual circle on the fly like this was dangerous, but Voldemort had little choice. It’d likely be impossible for another, ordinary wix, who would be too prone to making mistakes, but he knew this would work. Voldemort was an expert with animagicae; he had complete faith in his abilities.

Once the new rune circle surrounded him, Ginevra, and the diary, Voldemort dug his fingers into the cut he’d made with the fang. He unrolled her skin and muscles to expose the back of her ribcage and began snapping each rib at the point where it connected to the thoracic vertebrae of her spine. Ignoring the nearly soundless whimpers as he finished, he reached in to pry the bones up and away, splaying them out in a crude imitation of the Viking’s blood eagle execution.

Picking up the diary, he dripped a few tears onto the edges of the hole Harry had created, then opened it to the halfway point. Turning it so the pages were face down, he carefully inserted the book inside Ginevra’s ribcage. Lining up the diary’s spine with the girl’s, he positioned it behind her heart and lungs before realigning the displaced ribs. Voldemort needed to hurry, the girl was already unconscious, likely from pain or blood loss. A few minor adhæsit spells and the broken bones were reattached if not as strong as before; he couldn’t waste any of his magic on minor healing.

Holding the skin on the back closed, Voldemort used two of the vials of phoenix tears. As he watched Ginevra’s back knit itself together, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he remembered Harry’s amazed response to the properties of phoenix tears. It really was nothing short of miraculous.

Now that Ginevra’s body was no longer dying from the venom, or the partial blood eagle, Voldemort could perform the ritual to bind the two containers. He needed to convince the girl’s magic, the girl’s soul, that her body and his diary were a single object. It was good she was so young – she was still flexible, easily morphed by new experiences and external factors – else this would be much more difficult.

The young witch’s magic would connect the two halves of his horcrux, guiding the emission from one piece to the other in an endless loop. Her soul would be the medium through which the discharge travelled, though to what extent it’d mix with the horcrux or remain as a buffer, Voldemort didn’t know. He’d have liked to explore the possibilities for various rune strings and do some arithmancy equations first, but there was no time.

Nothing like this had been done before that Voldemort was aware of, so there was no predefined method for invocation. He planned to use three simple one-word incantations to prod the girl’s soul into his desired shape. It didn’t need to be complicated, the words only helped with visualisation anyway. He had always been able to assert his will without them.

Voldemort cleared his mind of everything except a single image. The Ouroboros. It was the perfect symbol. He pictured his basilisk, large as life, scales an iridescent shining emerald in the sunshine while its yellow eyes looked milky, hidden behind photochromic scales. The basilisk swallowed its tail, slithering fluidly, forever circling itself in a single connected loop.

“Ενικός,” he commanded in Greek before releasing a pained grunt. His concentration wavered briefly, the ouroboros twisted in on itself, as the magic was yanked from him to power the ritual. It was too much, too quickly. He’d rupture his core if it continued to pull at this rate. Biting his lip hard enough to bleed, Voldemort refocused and smoothed the basilisk symbol from a knot into a single ring again.

δ Intact, δ he hissed in parseltongue and this time the ouroboros remained steady, eating its tail and smoothly travelling along its circular path. He’d managed to restrain the flow of magic, but he still felt a surge of pain that drove him to his knees. One more. He only needed one more.

“Πλήρης,” he pushed the word out from behind his clenched teeth, disregarding the ache in his core. It was done. The image held. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the girl and Voldemort collapsed to the ground. Despite the larger drain than he’d anticipated, he’d powered the ritual without shattering his core, though he’d severely overextended himself. Two major rituals in one day – one interrupted and the other impromptu – well, it would take a while to recover.

Voldemort had intended to complete a couple more tasks before allowing Harry control again – check the girl’s memories, gather and hide the extra vials of phoenix tears, and, considering he was still skyclad, dress Harry – but he couldn’t lift his head, let alone maintain a possession. Voldemort’s vision was going grey, so he released his hold and allowed Harry’s mind to surge upwards. Harry could finish cleaning up this disaster when he regained consciousness.

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke this time, there was no screaming. Quietly dripping water and soft breaths were the only sounds he could hear. His mind felt hazy, the last few hours a blur and his core ached. His last clear memory was stabbing Tom’s diary – his heart clenched as he remembered Tom’s screams – but he knew time had passed.

Harry lay there briefly before a soft groan had him sitting up abruptly. Ginny was awake! He barely glanced at the blood circle around them before he grabbed her hand and encouraged her to open her eyes. She stared at him in obvious confusion.

“How do you feel? Are you still in pain?” Harry questioned as he looked over her body. She still had gouges on her chest, but aside from that, she was unharmed. When he returned his gaze to her face, she was bright red. Maybe she was running a fever? Reaching for her forehead, Harry was surprised when she squeaked and slapped his hand away.

“Harry! Why are we naked?!” Ginny shouted, seeming to be thoroughly embarrassed. Harry thought there were other, higher priorities, but he guessed Ginny might not remember anything that had happened here in the Chamber. Sighing in exasperation, Harry spotted his clothes folded neatly on a bench. Ginny’s were also nearby, though hers were crumpled on the ground.

“Well, if you’re worried about modesty, you must not be in too much pain,” he snarked. As the words left his mouth, he second-guessed the wisdom of saying them, but Ginny weakly chuckled. Pointing to the piles of clothes, Harry said, “Over there. Let’s get dressed.”

After they’d clothed themselves, they hastened to abandon the Chamber. Ginny asked some questions about what had happened, but Harry insisted he’d explain after they re-entered Hogwarts proper. The important thing was that they’d survived, though he was sure they both could’ve done without the additional trauma.

Climbing back up the pipe was difficult, but they managed it by casting sticking charms on animal bones to create a makeshift ladder. Ginny had to do all the casting – Harry had never felt so exhausted – but he was the one who used parseltongue to open the exit. They scrambled into the girls’ loo and immediately went to find a professor despite being coated in blood and muck. After his angel and Fawkes’s help, neither was seriously injured and a professor should be able to contact Ginny’s parents quickly and stop the school closure.

Knocking on McGonagall’s door, they both waited. Instead of a response from inside, McGonagall ran down the hall towards them. Harry stepped back in alarm. This was the first time he’d seen her move faster than a brisk walk. She was sprinting towards them, hair in disarray and tartan skirts flapping.

Dropping to her knees in front of them, she said, “Aye, are ye awright? Dae ye need the mediwitch? Are ye hurt anywhere? Och, ye're both covered in blood!” She patted Ginny’s arms, shoulders and face, checking for injuries.

When she switched to Harry, he stiffened in uncertainty. He’d witnessed this response before – Aunt Petunia always fluttered around Dudley when he cried (either real or crocodile tears) – but he’d never had it happen to him. It made him unexpectedly uncomfortable.

When McGonagall finished assuring herself of their survival, she took them to the headmaster’s office. Apparently, after Ginny was abducted, they decided to bring Dumbledore back as headmaster. Harry expected to feel rage but only managed a tiny trickle of irritation. He worried about that for a moment, but when a hint of exasperation crept into his mind, he pushed aside his concern for his angel, reminding himself that there were other pressing matters to focus on.

Dumbledore was in his office with Ginny’s parents and siblings. Travelling quickly, McGonagall took them past the gargoyle and up the stairs. They were greeted by a shout as soon as they entered the office.

“Ginny!” It was Mrs Weasley, who had been sitting crying in front of the fire. She leapt to her feet, closely followed by Mr Weasley, and both of them flung themselves on their daughter. Harry, however, was looking past them.

Dumbledore sat, beaming at Harry and petting Fawkes, who was perched on the chair arm next to him. Harry walked further into the office to settle in the empty seat conveniently placed in front of the desk.

“Lemon drop, Harry?” Dumbledore offered him the sweet like this was just a normal mid-year chat. Harry shook his head in denial and was about to speak when instead his face was pressed into Mrs Weasley’s stomach as she tightly embraced him.

“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?” cried Mrs Weasley even as she suffocated Harry in her apron. Her tears dripped onto his head, and he knew everyone else was staring at him. He had never felt more awkward in his life.

The twins saved him. “Mum, let him speak would you,” said the first one, quickly followed by the second remarking, “I think you’re crushing his lungs.” Mrs Weasley finally released him, and Harry tried to hide his relief. He was unsuccessful based on the amused look the twins exchanged with one another.

“Well… as you all know by now, I’m a parselmouth,” he started clumsily. Mr and Mrs Weasley winced, appearing somewhat uneasy, but they didn’t voice any disparaging comments despite their well-known bias.

“I had heard a voice throughout the year but couldn’t find where it was coming from and didn’t realise it was a snake until recently. Hermione figured out that it was a basilisk, but then got petrified. Then Ron and I got help from Hagrid and found out where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was…

“Once we discovered this, I had planned to go and speak with the basilisk and ask it to stop or try to seal the Chamber using my gift. But then we heard the school was going to close and I… well I was worried, so I went to get Lockhart to help and then… we all… we went to the Chamber where I… killed the basilisk, stopped a ritual, and found Ginny. Oh, and Lockhart died.”

The longer he spoke, the more awkward pauses he had, and the last bit came out all in a rush, words almost slurring together. Everyone was gaping, jaws slack, silent, and Harry wasn’t sure what else to say. What if they didn’t believe him? What if they still thought he was responsible? Would he be expelled even if Hogwarts didn’t close?

“That was the most downplayed adventure ever told,” muttered one of the twins, who he thought was Fred – at least he was wearing a sweater with a giant ‘F’ on it.

Harry blushed, ducking his head in embarrassment, but looked up again when Dumbledore cleared his throat. “What interests me most,” pontificated Dumbledore, a twinkle in his eyes, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in the forests of Albania.”

Harry was confused and annoyed. How come Dumbledore thought Ginny had opened the Chamber? Wasn’t she kidnapped? Why did he believe she was enchanted to act as the Heir of Slytherin? Also, was Voldemort the only wix who had ever done anything harmful or dangerous, ever? It felt like Voldemort was Dumbledore’s go-to scapegoat.

In this instance, he understood it was due to parseltongue, a talent famously associated with Voldemort. However, he believed there must be another wix out there who possessed this gift, even if it was typically considered a bloodline trait. After all, Harry had it, which meant it couldn’t be that rare.

Despite his slight irritation, Harry mainly felt relieved. Dumbledore was not blaming him. With his stamp of approval, there was no way Harry would be expelled.

“W – what’s that?” said Mr Weasley in a stunned voice. “You-Know-Who? En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny’s not… Ginny hasn’t been… has she?”

It was at this point Ginny cut in with a sob. “I… I don’t know what happened! I’ve been having these… these blackouts and waking up covered in… in feathers and blood. And I tried to tell someone, but every time I ended up back in my room… Please don’t expel me! I didn’t, I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry, this is all my fault…”

Okay, so apparently Ginny had been enchanted to act as the Heir of Slytherin. Harry would give Dumbledore that one, though he still wasn’t sure what part Voldemort played in this, especially if Dumbledore was right and he was a wraith stranded in Albania. Still, Harry was lucky he’d gotten his angel who only tried to help him, considering Ginny’s guardian had made her petrify other students.

Mrs Weasley rushed over to hug Ginny, rocking her gently. “Of course, we don’t blame you, sweetie. We’re all just glad you are okay. You and Harry both are just fine, you hear? This was not your fault. Shhh… it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser witches than her have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.”

Dumbledore strode over to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up,” he added, twinkling kindly down at her. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice – I daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any moment.”

All the Weasleys trailed out, huddled around Ginny. The twins enthusiastically patted Harry on the head and shoulders on their way out and Ron smiled widely and exclaimed, “Thanks, mate!”

Now it was only Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall alone with him. Dumbledore took control of the conversation once again. “Now Harry, I’m afraid we’ll need a few more details from you, but first. You will receive a Special Award for Services to the School and – let me see – yes, I think two hundred points for Gryffindor.”

Both Dumbledore and McGonagall were smiling condescendingly down at him. They seemed to expect Harry to think that some meaningless points and a trophy were worth getting bit by a basilisk. It took all of Harry’s acting skills not to scoff in derision. Instead, he weakly smiled and asked, “What more do you want to know?”

Harry answered all their questions briefly, yet honestly. They held him for a half hour or so asking about the Chamber location and information on the ritual or if he knew anything about Ginny’s enchantment. Harry gave them minimal details of what he could remember from down in the Chamber, which, admittedly, wasn’t much to begin with.

Somehow, he managed to make it through the entire discussion without mentioning any topics he wanted to avoid. There was no reference to his angel, missing memories, or Riddle’s diary. Neither asked who killed Lockhart. He didn’t have to mention the unknown decomposed body or that he and his angel must have performed a second ritual to save Ginny. Dumbledore was focused on clarifying why Harry had gone down there in the first place, making sure the basilisk was dead, and confirming that the first ritual hadn’t been successful.

Dumbledore and McGonagall ran out of questions at some point and as they were about to dismiss Harry, he chanced a question of his own. “Will Hogwarts be staying open then? I don’t want to go back to the Dursleys.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows in suspicion, turning to look at Dumbledore, who only smiled gently, a touch of sadness around his eyes. “Yes, Harry. Now that the threat has passed, the school will stay open. But you realise, you must return to your home this summer,” he said, his blue eyes peering over his spectacles, maintaining his grandfatherly façade as he sentenced Harry.

Hadn’t Dumbledore claimed there wouldn’t be any punishment? Liar. Well, Harry had a few months until the end of the school year, maybe a miracle would occur.

The rest of Harry’s second year flew by. Dumbledore announced Harry’s award and innocence at the next feast. That was all it took for the student population’s opinion of Harry to flip, again.

His fellow Gryffindors were ecstatic at the huge addition of points; between the two hundred Dumbledore gave him and dominating the Quidditch matches, they were likely to win the House Cup for the second consecutive year. Some of the Hufflepuffs started following him around like they did his first year and he’d been approached by several Ravenclaws who were curious about what was in the Chamber.

Harry was disgruntled by his sudden shift from infamy to popularity again. No one came out and directly apologised, though several claimed loudly that they had never suspected Harry in the first place. It was all a bit sickening to see the back-peddling the school did while trying to ingratiate themselves with him again.

Harry hid from packs of students under his invisibility cloak just as frequently after Dumbledore’s announcement as before, though he worried less about being hexed. He spent most of his time doing his coursework, playing with his friends, and trying to avoid thinking about the rapidly encroaching summer vacation.

His group of friends remained pretty small. The only people Harry enjoyed being around were Hermione and the Weasleys. Though his friendships with Ron and Hermione were still a little strained. Sometimes he caught Hermione staring at him, regret written on her face; Ron seemed to think everything had resumed the same as before.

He knew they both wanted the friendship built on unwavering trust back again. Harry had forgiven them, but he couldn’t forget how conditional their loyalty was… but he treasured their companionship. Some of his best memories from the last few months were of studying with Hermione or playing chess with Ron. Just because they couldn’t go back, didn’t mean they couldn’t move forward to build something new together.

In addition to the slightly tarnished golden trio, he’d also acquired a better relationship with the mischievous Weasley twins. They involved him in their pranks and showed him hiding places and secret passages around the castle. It was enjoyable and stress-free to spend time with the twins, who effortlessly brought him into their dynamic.

But the largest silver lining to the entire Chamber fiasco was that Ginny had seemingly lost her shyness overnight. They weren’t instantly best friends or anything, but he finally got to spend time with her. They played cards, studied in the library, rode his broomstick (she planned to try out for the Quidditch team next year), and enjoyed conversations in the common room.

Harry still felt drawn to her, though it felt less like a crush and more like a magnet these days. He could always pick her out of a crowd; his attention snapped to her whenever she entered a room regardless of what he was doing before. Sometimes, he thought he felt her before she entered the room. Still, despite the weird attraction, he was elated to finally have started a proper friendship with her. Hopefully, he’d be able to visit both her and the other Weasleys this summer too.

Unfortunately, Harry had been unable to find a way to avoid the Dursleys. None of his friends could host him for an entire summer and Dumbledore had made it clear he expected Harry to return. He wouldn’t allow Harry to stay at the Leaky Cauldron the whole time. No miracle solution had presented itself in the form of long-lost Potter relatives or a house fire on Privet Drive, so Harry had resigned himself to returning to the Dursleys for a few months.

He figured if things got bad, he’d just make another wish to his angel. Maybe they’d sic a basilisk on Vernon and remove the problem entirely? The thought delighted his angel (who had an unexpectedly dark sense of humour), so one could only hope.

Harry was admittedly a little concerned about his angel. He was used to near-constant feelings from them, but lately, there’d been almost no reactions. He’d have feared being abandoned if he hadn’t still been periodically experiencing those mild, but unnatural bursts of emotion.

He’d tried meditation in an attempt to communicate directly with his mental passenger, but he hadn’t gotten any response yet. Harry wasn't sure if that was due to it not working or because his angel was recovering from whatever had transpired during that nightmare incident in the Chamber. What if he’d hurt his angel when he’d decided to face the basilisk? He felt like a storm was brewing in his chest, swirling with dark clouds of regret and lightning strikes of worry. With no closure, his nightmares got worse and worse, but there was nothing Harry could do except stay attuned if, no, when his angel responded.

The summer came too quickly and now it was time to take the train back to London. Harry had aced all his exams except Potions; he’d even gotten an ‘O’ in Defence against the Dark Arts despite Snape taking over the last few months. Gryffindor won the House Cup, and the end-of-year feast was just as extravagant as last year.

Climbing into the carriages, Harry could see the skeletor-horses were pulling them again. Well, he’d decided to take the magical creatures class next year, hopefully he’d learn what they were. Harry no longer thought he was going insane. After all, sometimes-invisible reptilian horses weren’t any stranger than a giant magical snake that killed with its gaze or a firebird whose tears had healing powers.

Arriving to see the giant, red Hogwarts Express puffing out steam, the trio boarded. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny got a compartment to themselves. They made the most of the last few hours in which they were allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played Exploding Snap, set off the very last of Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks, and practised disarming each other by magic. Harry was rather good at it.

When they arrived at King’s Cross, Harry disembarked with a heavy heart. Dragging his feet, he followed Hermione out the gateway to the muggle side of the train station. He waved as Hermione found her parents almost instantly, then searched for the Dursleys.

Harry found Uncle Vernon waiting outside in his car, AC running. He popped his trunk into the boot and circled around to sit in the backseat. Uncle Vernon started driving home without a word, simply turning up the volume on his talk radio station. Harry stared out the window and hoped his time in the muggle world this summer would pass quickly.

Voldemort had not planned on being forced back to Harry’s muggle residence after he’d left last year, but then again, none of his plans for the year had worked out the way they should have.

Somehow instead of joining his first horcrux in a perfectly suited body and absconding with Harry from Hogwarts, he had been betrayed by his soul, killed his basilisk, fucked up the ritual, decayed the newly formed body, severely depleted his magical reserves, and damaged his magical core. The fact Dumbledore was back as headmaster and sent Harry to stay with his abusive relatives was truly the icing on the cake.

During the second ritual, Voldemort had slightly cracked his core which, while not irreparable, prevented him from storing large amounts of magic until it had fully healed. It had taken the remainder of Harry’s school year for the repercussions of the Ostara rituals to begin to wane.

Voldemort could only hold a teacup of magic currently. If he tried to retain any more, it seeped out from his core and painfully pressed against the crack, widening it. He couldn’t possess Harry, try to respond to his questions, or even reconfigure his occlumency barriers! It was beyond frustrating.

However, this was a better outcome than the other alternative scenarios from that night. Losing a horcrux to the ether could potentially leave his soul and magic unbalanced if he were incorporeal when it happened. Allowing his diary to pass on wasn’t worth the risk since he’d used such a large fragment for his first horcrux; thus, he was forced to perform the improvised ritual to bond his diary to Ginevra’s body, mind, and magic.

With Voldemort’s magic in its current state, he knew nothing about the newest horcrux vessel aside from confirming that the ritual had worked, she wasn’t actively dying, and Harry was still obsessed with her. It was likely that separating the two would be virtually impossible without damage to both his horcrux and her soul. He wondered if the soul shard was conscious inside her. It could be asleep or suffocating Ginevra’s soul entirely. Hell, for all he knew, the girl Harry had been getting to know these past few months was his teenage self impersonating Ginevra’s personality.

Regardless, the horcrux was unusable in that form. Voldemort would need to rework the entire ritual design… not that he could even perform the same rite with his core in its current state. It’d take at least a year to heal fully, possibly longer if Voldemort performed too much high-level magic in the intermediate period. He would need to be very, very careful about the number and type of spells he used.

Voldemort watched as Harry exited the muggle’s vehicle and looked up at the cookie-cutter house on Privet Drive. Harry’s walrus of an uncle had yet to speak, which was concerning in Voldemort’s opinion. He was proven correct when Harry was shoved into the wall immediately upon entering the residence.

“Now see here, boy,” the obese muggle loudly stated, spittle landing on Harry’s face. “I don’t know what freakish things you did last summer, but we’ll have none of that going forward. Put your freak school supplies in the cupboard.”

Harry didn’t argue, and Voldemort wasn’t surprised. There was no reason since Harry must remain here. He couldn’t fight back, especially since using underage magic could lead to his expulsion. He hadn’t yet realised the loophole related to wandless magic, but he wasn’t skilled in that area yet, anyway.

Harry was frog-marched up the stairs after all his magical belongings were sealed away. His room had ten new locks and a cat flap, all proudly displayed on the outside of the door. If Voldemort weren’t magically exhausted, the muggle would be on the ground ripping his skin off for this insult to a wizard – to Voldemort’s horcrux.

For now, he needed to be patient. Hearing the locks clicking shut, Voldemort internally sighed. It would be a long summer.

Chapter Text

Overseeing nineteen 12-year-olds as they desecrated the art of potions was Severus’s idea of the Christian Hell. Today’s class, a mix of second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, contained his personal devil: Harry Potter. Just like his father, he was the bane of Severus’s existence. Strutting about the castle, exploding cauldrons, disrupting class, and always, always, looking for mischief.

Severus walked around each of the wooden desks stationed about the room, routinely casting decontamination spells, prepping for the coming invasion. Sighing, knowing there was no use delaying any longer, he opened the dungeon room door. Harry Potter was there, front and centre as always, the puffed-up, egotistic, little git.  He ordered all the little demon-spawns to enter and sit at their desks.

“Today, you will be brewing the Wiggenweld potion. Work individually. The recipe is listed on page 114 of your textbook. Read it carefully before beginning, lest you miss an essential step. Begin,” he clearly ordered.

The gremlins just stared at him until he impatiently gestured at their books, rolling his eyes. It was not like the brewing classes hadn’t started this exact same way since their first day. Children were such dunces; Severus could barely tolerate them. The only courses he remotely enjoyed teaching were his NEWTs and there the students were older, and the classes contained those already adept in the subject.

Severus paced around the room, checking the different stages of the nineteen cauldrons. None of the ingredients today were prone to explosions, but as Finnegan and Longbottom were in here, it was best to stay on guard. Not to mention all the chaos caused by the Slytherin and Gryffindor rivalry, which, of course, he was guilty of perpetuating too; Severus considered it a necessary evil.

He was one of two Slytherins on staff and Aurora had her head in the clouds. Bias against Slytherins had been rampant since the last war. Well, really since Dumbledore became headmaster. If two students were caught out after curfew by anyone but him, the Gryffindor would lose a few points while the Slytherin would have detention for a week. And that was a trivial example. After all, what punishment did the Marauders get for attempted murder? While he was threatened with expulsion should he not hold his tongue? It was blatant discrimination.

At least here in his classroom, he had the opportunity to even out the scales; though why Dumbledore insisted on always pairing these two Houses for his classes, he’d never know.

Severus continued to the next cauldron. Blaise Zabini’s potion was perfect. Steps ahead of where it ought to have been. He was the best student his age that Severus had taught in years, likely due to his mother’s lessons. Severus looked down at the boy, violet eyes met his own with a steady gaze. He heard no stray thoughts despite his reflexive, tentative legilimency probes.

“Adequate,” he told Zabini, with a nod of approval. “10 points to Slytherin.”

The next cauldron was Vincent Crabbe’s. How this child made it into Slytherin was a mystery. No cunning, no ambition other than to be Draco’s lackey. His potion was atrocious. Wrong smell, wrong thickness, wrong colour. Steps behind the rest of the class.

“Adequate,” he still said, “5 points to Slytherin.” He’d have to speak to him later about tutoring. Perhaps Draco would be amenable. Severus glanced over at the child and caught sight of him smearing flobberworm mucus on the back of Weasley’s sleeves.

Children were dreadful; it was a fact of life. Ignoring the juvenile actions, Severus continued down the row. Doubling back at the end, he progressed until he reached Harry Potter’s cauldron. Potter had obviously added an excess of salamander blood. The twit probably dumped the bottle in rather than reading the directions to titrate the blood slowly. Potter had no patience or skill.

“Another abysmal attempt, Mr Potter,” he said, though he knew it was no worse than many of the other students. Berating Potter was a habit by this point. The boy needed it. Someone must knock him down a peg. His laziness, his arrogance, could only result in death. Hazy images of a slobbering wolf invaded his mind before he forcefully boxed them back up, tucking them away.

“It astounds me how unprepared you are for class and how dreadful you are at the art of potions making… 10 points from Gryffindor…” Potter didn’t say anything or even look up. He just stared down at his potion – Potter’s obnoxious, wild hair covered his face when he bent his head like that – and ignored Severus’s presence.

Annoyed by the lack of response, Severus continued speaking in a cold voice. He wanted a reaction from Potter. Something he could punish him for so he could finally teach Potter a lesson. “If only we could drop students before their OWLs. Might save us all from wasting time on someone so useless.”

Still, no response – the little arrogant fool – Severus didn’t know why he bothered. Let the boy stew in his fragile bubble of self-importance, what did he care; Potter’s world would pop soon enough. Severus moved on and continued his patrol. Longbottom was about to add an ingredient that wasn’t even in this potion’s recipe.

Though it felt incessant, eventually the class period ended. Nearly everyone had finished brewing and those who hadn’t were doomed to fail today’s assignment regardless. Sweeping his gaze across the room, he said, “Bottle a sample of your potion and add a tag with your name on it, as per usual. Clean your stations, then bring your vials up to the front.”

Severus collected vials filled with a rainbow of colours and textures. Zabini’s was the best – a smooth solution of electric green – while Longbottom’s was the worst – a clumpy yellow mess, how had he even gotten it that colour?

When Severus looked over earlier, he noticed Potter was lazily cleaning his station one-handed, so it was no surprise he was last in line. Severus could barely see him behind Weasley. It always surprised him how short Potter was. The thought passed his mind that Lily had been much taller at his age, but Severus quickly dismissed the notion. Potter reached the front of the line and held out his vial, defiant attitude evident in the sharpness of the gesture.

Severus planned to reprimand him, but then he noticed Potter’s hand was shaking slightly. A bit confused – Potter wasn’t scared, was he? – his eye caught on the devil’s other hand. It was ballooned to twice its normal size, skin stretched tight and bright red, obviously aggravated. Potter had it tucked into his elbow, arm held tight against his stomach, his entire body curled around it. He looked even smaller than usual.

As Severus’s gaze lifted to Potter’s face, he quickly looked away from the hazy, pain-filled eyes—without glasses, they haunted him, stirring up memories of Lily’s ghost. There was sweat on Potter’s brow and his famous curse scar looked like it was bleeding.

The idiot child must have stabbed himself with his lionfish spine. Severus was astonished Potter hadn’t complained and demanded to go to the hospital wing when it happened. This was a serious reaction to the lionfish’s venom; most children would have cried, wouldn’t they? The boy’s posture looked like he was expecting to be struck…

No. Severus was blowing this out of proportion. No doubt Potter was suffering in silence in some bid for attention later. Playacting the martyr to make Severus look bad. Well. He’d just have to play the role Potter had cast him in.

“A ‘T’ for today, Mr Potter,” Severus said, sneering down at the boy. There was no emotion on Potter’s face. No disdain or anger or petulance. It was unnerving for a 12-year-old to have such a superb blank mask (especially one with familiar, vibrant, green eyes).

He couldn’t help looking at the injured hand again. Maybe, he should give him a dose of Wiggenweld potion… No. Potter would likely think he was attempting to poison him. Better to send him off, so he could promptly make his way to Madame Pomfrey.

Severus turned away to store Potter’s vial. His back to the boy, he said, “Another 5 points from Gryffindor for inferior work. Come more prepared for my class going forward. Now get out.”

He didn’t look away from the potions cabinet until he heard the door open and close. Shutting his eyes tightly, still seeing the pain-filled expression of his best friend, he whispered to himself, “I’m sorry, Lily.”

The words died unacknowledged in the empty room.

Then Severus took all the memories that had leaked through his occlumency barrier during the class, he bound them in chains, wrapping them up tight. He hid them away again, in the back of his mind, until the next time he was forced to deal with the living embodiment of his guilt.

Chapter Text

“A raven chick, barely hatched with its eyes still shut but beak wide open, for Hermione."

Hermione heard the tap, tap, tap of an owl against her window. She was surprised since few people sent her mail when she was away from the castle on breaks. Pushing open the pale pink curtains of her childhood room, her mouth dropped open in shock. Hedwig, her distinctive white feathers easily recognisable, was sitting on her window ledge.

Another tap, tap, tap had her hastily undoing the lock and pushing open the window to allow the snowy owl inside. Hedwig swooped in and settled on her desk. Hermione felt she was being judged and found wanting as the owl’s yellow eyes stared straight into her soul. But Hedwig only imperiously held out her leg where a small pouch was attached.

Tentatively, her hands shaking, Hermione untied the bag. As it released, Hedwig nipped at her fingers with her beak and Hermione retracted her hands quickly with a cry. She was bleeding.

“What was that for!” she cried at the owl. But Hedwig, apparently satisfied now that she’d dropped off the package and injured Hermione, took flight and left out of the still-open window abruptly.

Alone in her room once more, Hermione stared at the pouch on her desk, shivering in the cold air. The bag was small, no bigger than her palm, and made of black leather with a drawstring holding it closed. It was still two days until Christmas, but Hermione didn’t want to wait to open it.

What would Harry send her? Why would he send her anything? Since Hermione had found out Harry was a parselmouth, she’d been avoiding him. She just couldn’t believe that Harry was attacking Muggleborns, but he spoke parseltongue. Who else could be Slytherin’s Heir, other than the person who’d inherited his bloodline gift? Harry had even admitted to setting a snake on his muggle cousin!

However, if anything Harry had said about his relatives was true, then his cousin probably deserved it. Harry had also been helping her research the potential ‘horror’ in the Chamber of Secrets, and he’d never shown any signs of prejudice against Muggleborns… but this was why she was avoiding him. She was so confused and didn’t know what to believe.

Ron thought Harry was turning evil because he was a parselmouth, but that seemed unlikely to Hermione. It was just a bias being perpetuated by his parents. None of the books indicated speaking to snakes caused madness or evil and having one or two examples in all of history… everything was based on anecdotes with no real evidence to support the theory.

Harry had looked so betrayed these last few weeks… which was why she was stunned he’d sent her a Christmas present. Hermione still hadn’t moved to open the pouch. She just sat at her desk and eyed it anxiously.

Maybe it was a gag gift. That would make more sense. Or a note saying he hated her and would never forgive her. Hermione could feel tears welling up in her eyes at the thought.

Finally, she worked up the courage to reach for the present. She was a Gryffindor, wasn’t she? It was better to face this head-on with bravery. Pulling the strings, she hesitantly opened the bag and reached two fingers inside to pull out its contents.

A small smooth glass figurine was pinched between her fingers. She carefully sat it on the desk to study in more detail. It looked like a bird… a baby bird. Only an inch and a half tall and maybe an inch wide, the features were fluid and indistinct, but somehow it gave the impression of fluffy feathers and scrawny legs, of an open beak and flightless wings. Swirls of dark blue, almost black, swept throughout the body. It felt warm as she touched a finger to it. Hermione imagined she could hear it chirping, begging for sustenance.

It was beautiful, but a bit sad. A baby birdy, all alone, with no mother in sight. No one to help her get food or teach her to fly. Tears welled up in her eyes again, this time a few escaping down her cheeks. She sniffed wetly. Why had Harry gotten this for her? It felt like a message, somehow.

The more she considered her previous actions and thoughts, her doubts and avoidance, the more ashamed she felt. Holding the ornament, the gift Harry had given her, she finally had some clarity. It didn’t matter what skills Harry was born with; he was her friend. He is her friend. She shouldn’t have doubted him. If the situation were reversed, Harry would never have abandoned her.

Holding the figurine, Hermione sobbed. She needed to return to Hogwarts and ask for forgiveness. She spent the rest of Christmas break practising her apology… she could only hope that Harry would accept it.

Chapter Text

Bookstore blues

Harry Potter was his golden ticket. Gilderoy had been planning for an opportunity like this ever since he’d accepted the role of Professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Seeing little Harry attending his book signing, he figured it was a sign!

While taking photos with the boy for the press, everything seemed to be going perfectly. He would play mentor for Harry, steal a little of his fame, and link it all to himself. Then any accomplishments the boy had in the future would be because he was Gilderoy Lockhart’s disciple. It was perfect.

Little Harry was compliantly behaving, smiling shyly at the cameras, and easily interacting with the press as they threw invasive questions at them. There had been an accidental elbow thrown into his stomach, but 12-year-olds were supposed to be clumsy. Other than that, it was like he’d been training for this his whole life! Maybe he had, no one knew anything about Harry’s childhood.

Well even if he’d had a mentor before, Gilderoy was still the first officially recognised one. He was the first to be seen in photos with him, the first celebrity to be his teacher. Smiling widely, basking in his genius, Gilderoy made more and more plans on how to use Harry Potter.

Everything quickly went wrong though. As he passed off his books to the tiny hero, the boy-who-lived stepped closer to him. Watching the green eyes flash with something feral, Gilderoy almost stepped back.

His horror grew as the child threatened him – threatened damage to his face and his hair! – while implying he knew about the memory charms. The final straw was the crushing weight of Harry’s magic. He only felt it for an instant and might have thought he’d imagined it if not for the smirk on the boy’s face.

Harry Potter was a little monster. He’d best avoid him. This one issue in the papers was enough.

Caustic classrooms

Gilderoy’s first day as a professor was kicking off with phenomenal ease. He’d given the same quiz to all his classes so far and barely anyone had done well. He had so much to teach them! He’d also received several offers from the female students to help with his grading, which had to be discrete sexual overtures. Taking this teaching job was a brilliant move for himself and his career.

His classroom was set up perfectly. It was his classroom and the several dozen paintings of himself provided an ideal option for students to come and ask questions when he was off doing more productive things like signing autographs and writing his next book. And his face added so much beauty to the dreary castle walls!

Unfortunately, today he was teaching the class with Harry Potter in it. He was not looking forward to it, but the more time passed since the bookstore incident, the more likely Gilderoy thought he’d imagined little Harry’s magical power. He was just so small and scrawny, even compared to other children his age. There was no way he could have produced that amount of magical pressure.

Gilderoy opened the door to his classroom and smiled at the children with his award-winning smile. Ushering the students inside, he waited until everyone settled in their seats and then he cleared his throat.

The immediate silence was gratifying. Of course, the students would want to listen to him! He was heroic and hyperintelligent and handsome, they couldn’t find a better role model of the perfect wizard than himself. He picked up his book Travels with Trolls from in front of a pudgy, nervous boy who could do with some dieting tips. He made a note to talk with him later.

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award – but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

A few students smiled at him, but most were likely still in awe of his presence. Skimming his eyes over the classroom, he explained the quiz he’d be giving them and handed out papers. When he got to Harry Potter’s desk, the boy looked up and made eye contact.

Gilderoy shivered and nearly stepped back in fear. The boy’s gaze was empty. Dead. There was nothing of a child in this little monster. It was like Gilderoy was back in Flourish and Blotts being threatened all over again. He could hear the voice in his head, the magical pressure that made his knees shake. Quickly looking away, he continued down the row of desks.

He avoided the freak’s gaze for the rest of the class period. There was a spot of trouble getting the pixies back into their cages, but Gilderoy allowed the students to show their bravery by imprisoning them at the end of class. The Gryffindors would like that. As he returned to the classroom, he heard Harry Potter’s voice and quickly ducked into a side corridor.

“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing –” said the little demon, as he walked down the hall with some of the children. Miss Granger defended him, but some of the other students were siding with the devil. It was not ideal; he’d have to do damage control if the boy-who-lived was going around trying to discredit him. Still, this was better than having to deal with the boy face-to-face.

Deadly duels

Severus Snape was a particularly nasty sort of wizard – all greasy hair and hooked nose and sneering smiles. Gilderoy had even heard some rumours that the man was a Death Eater. Right now, he was inclined to believe them.

When Snape had offered to help him with his duelling club, he’d initially been delighted. Having another adult keep track of the students was helpful, especially since he could blame them if anything went wrong. It was perfect. Plus, Snape was already hated, anyone would be inclined to believe his word over that of the infamous Dungeon Bat.

But then… then Snape had shown his skill. Gilderoy hadn’t even seen him cast the disarming spell during the demonstration. And then, that cruel, cruel man wanted to subject one of his students to a duel with Harry Potter. The man must be sadistic. No matter what other options Gilderoy presented, he insisted on bringing up the boy-who-lived.

Gilderoy shuffled as far away as he could from the freak once it stepped up onto the stage. He’d been expecting a slaughter and thus was unsurprised when the little monster performed a perfect disarming charm on the young Mr Malfoy. At Snape’s interference, Gilderoy cringed and tried to get even further away from the demon masquerading as a child.

He had not expected the parseltongue though.  

δ ssssssssssssss δ the boy-who-lived hissed and the snake jumped to do his bidding, speeding back to attack Professor Snape. Gilderoy lunged back a step – he wouldn’t stay up here to be a snake snack next – and fell off the stage hitting his head hard on the ground.

He was You-Know-Who reborn, Gilderoy thought dazedly before passing out.

Eerie encounters

It was Gilderoy who discovered the petrified Hufflepuff and Nearly-Headless-Nick. He blanched and rushed off to tell Headmaster Dumbledore. Why, oh why, had he chosen to accept this teaching position? Harry Potter was the reincarnated Dark Lord intent on causing just as much terror as he did in the last war.

He’d been fairly successful at evading the boy-who-lived throughout the year – never calling on him in classes – hiding anytime the monster was in the halls – avoiding looking at the Gryffindor table during meals – but after the parseltongue came out, he’d put in even more effort avoiding You-Know-Who’s notice.

Gilderoy did not want to be the next petrified body lying in the halls.

Thus, he planned to let the headmaster deal with all this and avoid taking any credit for handling the situation until it was completely resolved. As he hurried up the stairs behind the gargoyle into the tower, Gilderoy smoothed down his hair and put on his smile, trying to stop the shaking in his hands.

“Come in,” said Dumbledore in a jovial voice. Gilderoy admired how well Dumbledore wore his mad, jolly, grandfatherly mask.

“Headmaster,” he respectfully started, “I have encountered another petrified student.” He watched as the twinkling gaze dimmed a bit. Hesitating momentarily, Gilderoy continued speaking, “Shouldn’t you be expelling Harry Potter? We all know he did it, he –”

The headmaster cut him off. “There is no evidence of young Harry perpetrating these attacks at all. I cannot and will not punish a student based on hearsay.” Professor Dumbledore was staring at him, a hard look in his eyes.

Gilderoy dipped his head in acknowledgement. He would have thought someone so good at holding his own mask would have recognised the “Harry Potter” one the monster wore… well, no matter. Gilderoy would just continue his avoidance strategy.

Frightful fears

Harry Potter had kidnapped Gilderoy.

The worst part was knowing that even if he managed to escape, no one would believe him. The boy-who-lived had a solid gold reputation that shielded this monster from all consequences. Gilderoy was wandless and helpless and Potter had kicked him into a tunnel that contained a basilisk... and no one would believe him.

Theoretically, the parselmouth had told him he could control Slytherin’s horror, but that wasn’t very reassuring considering he’d already seen him set a snake on Snape. Still, Gilderoy had hope that he’d be able to escape. He’d escape and he would run, run far away from Hogwarts, from Britain, and from any future interactions with Harry Potter.

He jumped as the reincarnated Dark Lord hissed at a door. Trembling, Gilderoy stared as it slowly opened and revealed… a first-year student. Was that one of the Weasleys? Her name was Jenna or Jenene or something, wasn’t it? He was so in shock that he barely noticed the ropes binding him until he was levitating, being dragged further into the damp cathedral-like room.

δ ssssssssssssss δ hissed the girl and Gilderoy was startled. Had… had Potter infected the girl with his curse? Was he going to do the same to Gilderoy?! He tried to unobtrusively inch away from the two parselmouths but was quickly caught.

He couldn’t understand anything they were saying. Potter and his minion were setting up for a ritual and Gilderoy was starting to really panic. He couldn’t get away and each hissing voice ramped up his terror.

He was incoherent with panic by the time Potter stripped and paralysed him. The all-encompassing pain caused his mind to go completely blank; he was feral with fear, a cornered wild animal. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t escape. All he knew was agony and terror. He was going to die.

It was a relief when Harry Potter slit his throat.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was not having a good day. In fact, Harry was not having a good summer. He had returned from Hogwarts last year only to have both himself and his school supplies locked up tighter than a penitentiary. Why his uncle thought he needed ten locks to keep Harry in his room was a mystery.

It had only been four weeks in this house, and he was already going crazy (well, crazier, considering his life so far). Thankfully, Harry had not been imprisoned in his room every day – who would do the chores if that were the case? – and he had managed to frequently sneak off to the library for a few hours whenever he was assigned work in the garden.

A surprising number of books in the local muggle library caught his interest. Though he would rather be reading his school texts, Harry had found a book about paganism filled with information on The Wheel of the Year. Some muggles apparently practised a faith similar to wixen; they called themselves Wiccans.

Aunt Petunia would thrash him if she ever caught him reading about such in public, but Harry thought it was worth it to at least learn something magical during the summer. He even thought he’d figured out why all his rituals during the seasonal transition from winter to spring had failed. He was pretty sure he’d been preparing incorrectly.

The Wheel was split not only into light and dark halves but also into life and death halves. Imbolc through Litha – winter to summer – were linked to life; Lughnasa through Yule – summer to winter – were linked to death. Beltane through Mabon – spring to fall – were light; Samhain through Ostara – fall to spring – were dark. During the dark sabbats linked to death, it was recommended to prepare through deprivation such as fasting or solitude. Harry had been preparing this way for all his rituals.

But for the holidays linked to life – both dark and light sabbats – he should have been indulging instead. For adults, it was common to drink to excess or sleep with people. Harry planned to eat as many sweets as he wanted and avoid doing his chores. Unfortunately, he had barely missed Litha when he discovered this, so his plans would have to wait until next year.

That was okay though. Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to celebrate while stuck in the muggle world. It felt wrong to do something so magical in this neighbourhood. Blasphemous. Was Magic even here? Wiccans believed there was a goddess that personified magic, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was a muggle thing or not. Were there divine beings? Maybe all the miracles muggles attributed to gods were the actions of various wix throughout history.

But… Harry had an angel, didn’t he? An external consciousness that empathised with him; someone that watched over him and helped him when he desperately needed it. Could that be Magic helping him? Maybe it was the ‘mark’ left by his mother that Dumbledore had talked about in the hospital wing so long ago. Oh, definitely not, if his angel’s anger was anything to go by.

Then what was Harry’s angel? He’d denied they existed for so long, fearing he was going mad. Harry was deeply curious now that he’d acknowledged their presence. He meditated and tried to ask questions but usually only felt flushed with amusement afterwards. At least he was getting regular reactions from his angel, unlike at the end of the school year. And they were rarely offended by his questions, the most recent example being an exception. So. One option was crossed off – the angel was not a manifestation of his dead parents.

Since that had been Harry’s most prevalent theory, he was a little disappointed. He didn’t have any other good ideas either. The bible said to have faith, but considering Christians used to burn witches at the stake and drown them in ponds, Harry wasn’t sure if he should take advice from that religion.

Regardless of Harry’s existential crisis, today would not have been so bad if the Dursleys weren’t about to have a visitor. Dudley’s Aunt Marge was coming to stay for an entire week and Harry was sure he’d be arrested for murder by the end of it (more amusement from his angel – Harry was still sometimes surprised by their sense of humour).

With Marge visiting, Aunt Petunia had been on a rampage. She wanted each room in the house cleaned twice, every weed pulled from the garden, and a fully stocked kitchen so Harry could make several home-cooked meals during Marge’s stay.

Harry had worked nonstop since he woke up and it was only going to get worse over the week. Marge was a bloodhound, always ripping into Harry’s weak spots with her teeth; there was no way he’d be able to keep his temper for her entire visit.

In preparation, Harry tried to pilfer some food to save in his room – no doubt he’d be locked in for at least a few days – but Dudley noticed. Like the little tattle-tale Dudley was, he went straight to his mother. So, Harry received a swing to the head from a newly cleaned cast-iron pan instead of the bag of chips he’d aimed for.

Dudley smirked at him, stupidly, and proceeded to eat the entire container of crisps in front of him. He spilt crumbs all over the table and floor, which Aunt Petunia then made Harry clean up.

On the bright side, once Harry lost his temper he’d be confined to his room and able to avoid Dudley and Marge for a while. He’d starve, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at either of their fat faces. There were worse situations.

Cooking dinner was old hat for Harry, even when it came to preparing a feast like the one he needed to make tonight. Slicing carrots, and washing potatoes, he added them to the Dutch oven that held a large cut of chuck roast he’d already seasoned. He was thankful the prep for this meal didn’t take too long. Despite a long cooking time, Harry didn’t have to stay and watch it, so he could avoid the house until it was time to take the pot off the heat.

Marge had been in the Dursley residence for three days and Harry had held his tongue so far. But with every haughty look, every spat insult, Harry wound tighter and tighter; soon he’d explode. There was no avoiding it, really, with how Marge treated him. He’d behave as long as possible since he’d been unable to sneak food into his room but eventually, his anger would outweigh his desire to avoid going hungry.

At least today he could sneak off to the park for a few hours. It was too hot for most people, but Harry enjoyed lazing in the shade under the trees; he was used to the heat after working in the garden all his life.

When he arrived at the park, his prediction was spot on. Only two kids were playing on the swings, with a single parent sitting on a bench, watching them. As Harry approached, the kids’ mother turned to look at him. He watched her eyes dip down – examining the elephant-sized faded blue t-shirt and the too-big, holey jeans – then, with a scrunch of her nose like she’d smelled a whiff of garbage, she called her kids over and left.

Harry’s eyes burned with shame (and his angel’s irritation clawed at him), but he refused to let tears fall. He should be used to this. He was used to this. It was just so much more difficult now.

He’d had a taste of casual anonymity – easily blending in with his typical summer robes while staying in the wixen district and with the Weasleys – it was hard to return to rags and repugnance again. Even the disdain he’d received this past year when everyone thought he was Slytherin’s Heir was better. It was driven by fear, not this mix of pity and disgust that flickered across the young mother’s face.

Harry slipped further into the empty park and selected a large ash tree to hide beneath, where he would be invisible to anyone from the road. Settling in, Harry closed his eyes and let the soothing smell of grass and leaves wash over him as he relaxed, melting in the heat.

He hated it here.

He was always tired, always bored, always hungry. He had no one to talk to – he’d yet to figure out how to receive Ron and Hermione’s owls – and everyone here believed him a trouble-making delinquent. All Harry did was work, read, and sleep. (Though sleeping was hit or miss when his dreams were filled with screams and ink and blood.) The four weeks here on Privet Drive had stretched into an eternity that never seemed to end.

Harry would leave soon. He simply needed to figure out how to sneak out with Hedwig and his trunk and ensure Dumbledore wouldn’t send him back. He’d been planning to wait until his birthday at the end of the month, but now he didn’t think he could wait another day. Two months was a long time to infringe on someone’s hospitality, but it would be easy for Harry to take care of himself at the Leaky so long as he wasn’t removed from there on Dumbledore’s orders again.

His alternative options were to stay with the Weasleys or the Grangers since both Ron and Hermione had offered. He didn’t really want to stay with the Weasleys for too long, considering how expensive it was to feed an additional child. Plus, the lack of independence and solitude would be annoying. Hiding from Dumbledore would be easier if he stayed with Hermione, but Harry couldn’t contact her from here… since he’d have to go to the Leaky first, he’d prefer to stay there.

Harry hoped his angel would help him retrieve his supplies and sneak out like they had last summer. So that only left the Dumbledore issue. Last time, even though he’d directed people to retrieve Harry, he hadn’t sent him back to Privet Drive. Harry thought he could assume he’d do the same again for now; however, it wouldn’t hurt to keep a low profile while wandering around Diagon Alley.

Feeling calmer now that he had an escape plan, though the details remained foggy, Harry returned to finish dinner. His time in the kitchen was peaceful since Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to check on him. He plated everything on the nice china and brought it to the dining room.

Moments later, the Dursleys and Marge waddled in to take their seats. Uncle Vernon poured himself and his sister a large glass of wine and left the bottle on the table, three other unopened ones within easy reach. As expected, it didn’t take long for the night to go downhill.

After they’d opened the second bottle, Marge’s glassy eyes locked on Harry. Her words were slurred but understandable when she said, “This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.”

Harry stared down at his plate and tried to remain motionless. Any response would show blood in the water and the sharks would feast. However, being unresponsive wouldn’t stop the treatment, it would merely stall the inevitable punishment. Maybe going hungry would be worth avoiding this… though it could make his upcoming escape more difficult.

“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now I’m saying nothing against your family Petunia, but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s the result right in front of us.”

Harry felt his hands clench into fists as he listened to Dudley snicker at Marge’s words, his body tensing involuntarily. As if the Dursleys were better than his parents, were better than him, because they were ‘normal’. Cruel and stupid and fat – who on Earth would want to be like them? Nevertheless, Harry had reacted, and now Marge was swimming in to take a bite.

“Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash – drunk, I expect –”

“They were not drunk,” Harry interrupted through clenched teeth. His magic spread throughout the room, responding to his aggravation with bright green sparks. Uncle Vernon looked murderous when he caught sight of a small burst, while Aunt Petunia was fearful. Dudley, as always, was oblivious, but so was Marge for now.

“They died drunk in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives! You are an insolent, ungrateful little freak who I’d have drowned at birth or at least dropped at an orphanage if you’d been left on my doorstep.”

It’s the last insult that did it. Harry hated being called a freak. His angel apparently wasn’t fond of it either. Their current rage rivalled the usual fury for Dumbledore. Harry couldn’t sit here and listen to this; he’d snap and get himself expelled.

He shoved his chair back forcefully, causing the dishes to clatter, and stalked around the table intent on going to his room. Uncle Vernon’s hand tightly wrapped around Harry’s wrist, stilling him before he could leave. Shoulders tense, Harry waited for the vitriol that was sure to spill out from beneath his uncle’s handlebar moustache, but it didn’t appear.

Whatever Uncle Vernon planned to say, his sister decided she was done talking for the night. Marge’s large, meaty palm swung back and slapped Harry. The force of the blow caused Harry’s head to whip to the side as he staggered back into the wall.

Harry gazed at the room in shock until the pain kicked in. His cheek was stinging, his ears were ringing, and his eyes were watering and then… it all stopped.

As awful as Harry’s muggle relatives were, they had never actually struck Harry – at least not while Voldemort was sharing his body. He was momentarily shocked when the muggle whale (he didn’t consider her a shark, she was too full of blubber and didn’t have enough teeth) slapped them across the face.

It took him a few seconds to realise what had happened, but once it did, Voldemort decided to possess Harry for the first time since the failed ritual. Harry withdrew easily, almost like he was waiting for Voldemort to take control, and his magic jumped to follow Voldemort’s direction. The dining room table, with everything on it, and all the surrounding chairs vanished. Shrieking erupted from the giraffe, walrus, and whale as they fell to the ground, though the overweight piglet just gaped stupidly.

His next wave of magic shoved the disgusting animals against the wall – they hit hard, knocking picture frames from the walls, and shattering glass – and restrained them there. Though Voldemort would have liked to stretch this out, slowly torturing them into insanity, he didn’t have the time or the magic. His core was still damaged and possessing Harry had a large magical draw.

He'd need to use Harry’s magic for the muggle’s punishment meaning Dark curses weren’t an option. Magicaemens – mind magic – was the best choice. It was undetectable in muggles, could have long-term, harrowing effects, and wouldn’t leave any residue in Harry’s magic. Unfortunately, obliviates could interact in strange ways with other implanted mind magic, especially if the memory of the initial spell was removed. Harry’s muggle relatives would not be obliviated since they already knew about magic and were in the immediate ‘family’ category, but the atrocious Aunt Marge would. It was just as likely she might forget everything, with no negative side effects, as it was her mind would shatter.

Voldemort paced back and forth as he considered the problem. He really didn’t have much time, possessing Harry was rapidly consuming his limited magical reserves, but he wouldn’t leave the outcome to chance. Not when this bitch hit Harry. She at least deserved death.

Oh… there was an idea. The muggle raised dogs, didn’t she? She brought a nasty bulldog named Ripper with her. A few days ago, she told Harry, “If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pup.”

Obviously, there were several issues with Marge so her dog would have the same, yes? Whistling a series of notes loudly and injecting a bit of the wild, pied piper’s magic he’d taught himself as a child into his voice, Voldemort called the dog.

With a wave of his hand, the whale dropped to the floor. She hit her head, but though she was bleeding, she was still aware of what was happening around her. Leaning down, Voldemort looked into her terrified eyes and gave a sharp, serrated grin with Harry’s face. Picking up a bottle of wine, he grabbed her jaw and squeezed until her mouth dropped open with a cry. Pouring the wine down her throat, the muggle was forced to swallow it or drown.

After she’d consumed a further two bottles of wine, Voldemort stood up. The dog had come to sit calmly next to his feet, eyes looking up adoringly at him. Still grinning, Voldemort ordered the dog, “Bite her arm, don’t let go until I tell you to.”

It leapt to follow the order, sinking its teeth into her forearm. It shook its head, jerking the arm to and fro, causing pained shrieks to erupt from the whale’s mouth, though magic still held her in place. Leaving the pup to its meal, Voldemort glanced around to see the Dursleys staring at him in terror.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said to them. “I’ll be allowing you three to live for now. I have plans that require your current longevity. Regardless, you won’t remember my part in tonight’s events. Now… ladies first! Let’s get your mind all squared away.”

Turning to Harry’s Aunt Petunia, he watched her tremble as he stepped towards her. She was so thin it seemed he should hear her bones rattle with how hard she was shaking. Tutting in irritation, he used magic to force her head up, so he could make eye contact. Quickly and efficiently, he reinforced the memories of Marge drinking so, if anyone bothered to check, it would seem like she had gotten very drunk under her own prerogative. Then he shredded all the memories from after Marge slapped Harry, leaving only the impression of hitting the wall.

Lastly, he embedded a snapshot from her shredded memory – the image of Marge being jerked around by Ripper with all the fear, terror, and despair – into her subconscious image of Harry. Whenever she remembered Harry, she’d see that glimpse of memory. She’d feel terror, a fear of punishment, without knowing why. This would do for now. He did the same for her husband and son.

Voldemort heard a loud bang from outside the house. He’d used wandless magic, so the trace hadn’t been set off… Dumbledore likely had additional alarms on the house, or maybe it was the ministry. Either way, he needed to wrap this up. He looked down at the dog using the muggle’s arm as a chew toy.

“Stop,” he ordered. The bulldog immediately obeyed. “Bite her throat, then drag her that way,” he said gesturing to the front hall.

Satisfied, knowing the dog would complete its task, Voldemort summoned the original table and chairs to set the scene properly. He released the muggles, who collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Someone knocked on the front door, but he ignored it. Standing where Harry was when the whale struck him, he took a few deep breaths, forced the grin off his face, and then crumpled to the floor to wait.

Voldemort sat drinking his tea laced with calming draught and ignoring the biscuits on a tray in the Dursley family’s kitchen. He leaned on the table, presenting an exhausted face to Cornelius Fudge, the current Minister of Magic. Voldemort was barely clinging to his possession; his magic was almost entirely depleted. He winced at each sip, exaggerating the pain from the motion that pulled at the darkening bruise on Harry’s face. Fudge was staring at him with a calculating look.

“Well, Harry, you’ve had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you. Breaking the Statute is a serious offence,” he said, wagging his finger. “But, of course, exceptions can always be made. Especially for our young saviour. Why, when someone told me the destination of the alarms was your house, I came as soon as I could!”

Voldemort still wasn’t sure what alarms he had set off, but he’d need to be more careful in the future if he and Harry had to return.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. One moment, we were eating dinner, Aunt Marge was drinking a lot and she… well, she said some things about my parents,” Voldemort said, eyes filled with false shame. “I couldn’t just sit there and listen to it, not when I know they are heroes now! I was leaving the room and then suddenly, Uncle Vernon grabbed my arm,” he raised Harry’s wrist, showing the ring of bruises, “and then Aunt Marge… she… she hit me. Slapped me across the face.”

“Now, Harry –” Fudge started to speak, but Voldemort cut him off, forcing tears to roll down Harry’s cheeks.

“Please sir, you can’t punish me. It was self-defence! I didn’t even have my wand on me! My relatives locked all my school things in the cupboard!” Voldemort declared, injecting a note of desperation into his voice.

“You’re not in any trouble, Harry. This was obviously self-defence, and we couldn’t arrest you for accidental magic anyway,” Fudge said in a cajoling tone. He cleared his throat then awkwardly simpered, “I didn’t rush over to punish you, I came to make sure… well we’d started to worry – what with Black on the loose – that something might have happened! But the important thing is you’re safe. And we have dealt with the unfortunate, accidental death of Miss Majorie Dursley.”

Fudge watched him like he expected a thank you, but Voldemort acted as Harry would and stared with confusion and anxiety. Honestly, he was a bit confused. What did the Black Family have to do with this situation?  Despite the lack of response from him, Fudge persisted undeterred. “Your other relatives are recovered, but we’re concerned about you remaining here for the summer.”

Voldemort immediately perked up, looking directly at Fudge. Perfect. This was exactly where he’d hoped the conversation would go.

“You’ve probably seen on the news… Sirius Black’s recent escape from Azkaban…” At the blank look Voldemort kept on Harry’s face, Fudge elaborated further. “We can’t afford to have an incident such as this – a muggle hurting you, Harry Potter – a family member nonetheless – why in the current political climate, it would just – but it’s nothing for you to worry about!”

“Sir, I don’t understand. Does this mean I won’t have to stay here anymore?” Voldemort queried, a gleam in his eyes.

“You’ll be returning next summer of course,” said Fudge. Voldemort widened Harry’s eyes, forcing a few more tears as he hiccupped a sob. Fudge paled, then hastened to reassure Harry. “Although, we can talk about alternative options later. But for now, considering the threat of Black, we have auror guards at Diagon round-the-clock who can keep an eye out while you stay in a room in the Leaky Cauldron like you did last summer, just for a longer period.”

At Voldemort’s faux-hesitant nod and halted tears, Fudge relaxed and continued pontificating. “Of course, we want to keep this entire… disaster on the down low. Why, we’d all be eaten alive if it got out the boy-who-lived was beaten by a muggle who then… died inadvertently. Even if it was her fault for drinking in excess and keeping such a vicious pet off-leash.”

Ah, so that was the catch. Harry would be allowed to stay in Diagon so long as he kept quiet about the abuse. Well, it was unlikely Harry wanted the wixen population to know anyway, so this was a fair deal. They would have to work something out for next summer if Voldemort was still incorporeal, but there was time for that. This was an adequate solution for now considering it would avoid a closer inspection of the whale’s messy death.

It was doubtful Harry would have received any negative repercussions from this, Voldemort had ensured the situation appeared entirely incidental. Even the first two aurors on site hadn’t blamed Harry at all. They had merely treated him for shock and whispered about obscurials to one another when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Voldemort’s body language exuded relief as he painted on a small, shy smile. He turned back towards Fudge and said in his most earnest voice, “I really appreciate all of this.”

“Well, oh-ho, no problem at all! No problem at all for you Harry. Just let me know if you need anything else. We at the Ministry are happy to guarantee your safety! Feel free to tell anyone you meet that you and everyone else are safe under our protection. Now let’s grab your things. Kingsley here will apparate you to Diagon.”

“Of course, sir,” he chirped, acting pleased and anxious as he wiped the tear tracks off their face.

The auror, Kingsley, opened the boot cupboard. He eyed the words ‘Harry’s room’ written in crayon on the wall in suspicion but didn’t comment. Voldemort collected the rest of Harry’s belongings from upstairs and allowed Kingsley to apparate them to the Leaky.

Settling into the same room, number seven, Voldemort left Harry’s things packed and dropped their body onto the bed. Harry would get a good night’s rest and then wake up well-rested in a familiar location. No doubt his host would attribute everything to his guardian angel.

As Voldemort released the possession with relief, he remembered the boy’s earlier thoughts on gods and Magic. It was beneficial that Harry was so young… and naïve enough to have faith in a higher power, to believe that power wanted to help him. Really, in Harry’s case, it was almost true. After all, Voldemort would do whatever it took to protect him so long as Harry cradled his soul.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up, disoriented, in the Leaky Cauldron with no memories after the disastrous dinner with Marge and the Dursleys. However, his vague strategy to rely on his angel to get his supplies and come here had worked; apparently, everything went according to plan. He settled into his room at the Leaky, the same one he’d had last summer, and hoped he’d get to stay here longer this time.

Enjoying his freedom, Harry spent his days exploring Diagon Alley. He revisited the jewellery store, his favourite bookstores, and even met with Axeclaw again. The goblin had sat him down and quizzed him on the account books he had read. Harry hadn’t expected a mid-summer exam but thought he’d passed. It was just like last year, except there were no Weasleys forcibly absconding with him this time.

Speaking of the Weasleys, Harry had sent Hedwig with notes for Ron, Ginny, and the twins as soon as he’d arrived. It had taken her an entire week to return! That’s when Harry learned that the Weasley family was visiting the eldest son in Egypt on vacation. Harry was a bit jealous; he’d never travelled anywhere besides London, Hogwarts, and that one hut Uncle Vernon brought them to while hiding from Harry’s admission letters. Someday, when he was older, he’d get to go and see the world too. In the meantime, four of the Weasleys had promised to bring him back souvenirs, so Harry wasn’t too upset.

Hermione was also busy. She was at some camp in Oxford that her parents sent her to so she could keep up with muggle schooling. She’d promised to visit on his birthday though, considering it was a Saturday and she could easily take the train. Harry tried to wait patiently. With the magical world outside his bedroom door, it wasn’t difficult.

When his birthday arrived, Harry woke up early, excited. This would be the first time he could remember where he got to spend the day celebrating with a friend instead of doing chores. He hurried to shower and dress, before skipping downstairs. Tom smiled at him when he saw the bright look on his face.

“Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday, Mr Potter!” Tom exclaimed brightly. “I whipped up some French toast for you in honour of the day.”

Harry flushed in pleasure and squeaked out ‘thanks’, his voice breaking awkwardly as it had been prone to lately. This only made Tom chuckle. He shooed Harry away to his preferred booth. The French toast, bacon, and tea were all delicious. Harry tried to savour it instead of wolfing it down to kill time until Hermione’s train arrived.

As it approached eight o’clock – Harry had long since finished his breakfast – he tucked his book away, thanked Tom for the tea, and headed to the door, opening into muggle London. He had barely stepped outside, only one foot on the sidewalk, when a large, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man clamped a hand on his shoulder.

Harry jerked back, his heel sliding, and slammed into the edge of the doorway. He raised his wand in a shaking hand, thinking of what shield charms he knew.

“Take it easy, Mr Potter,” the man said in a soothing, deep voice. He was wearing some sort of uniform, red robes with an insignia Harry couldn’t quite make out, but he knew he’d seen frequently throughout the summer. “Do you remember me? I’m Kingsley, the auror that apparated you here. You’re supposed to stay in the Alley. Why are you going to muggle London?”

Steadying his breathing, Harry slowly lowered his wand while wondering what an auror was. Seven counts in – hold for one – seven counts out. He repeated this breathing pattern until he knew he could speak without his voice shaking.

“My friend is visiting. I was going to meet her at King’s Cross. Can I – can I still go?” he asked hesitantly. The man, Kingsley, smiled at him. It was a striking smile, charming and comforting. Harry unconsciously relaxed a smidge when he saw it.

“Since it’s your birthday, I don’t mind escorting you as a special treat,” said Kingsley light-heartedly. “But for the remainder of the summer, stay in Diagon where we can keep an eye on you.”

Harry was confused, he hadn’t realised these so-called aurors had been guarding him. But if that was what it had taken to stop Dumbledore from collecting him… and prevented him from returning to the Dursleys to face Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Marge, then Harry had no reason to complain. Instead, he mumbled a thank you and they took off.

Walking with an escort was weird. Harry’s only similar experience was when Hagrid took him to get his school supplies before his first year at Hogwarts. Considering Hagrid was the size of a small house, people scuttled out of their way when they approached and then turned to stare at them afterwards. In this instance, everyone’s eyes skipped over them. Harry watched as each person unconsciously stepped aside, barely far enough to avoid touching either Harry or Kingsley.

Harry wanted to ask about the spell, but he was too intimidated, he worried he’d seem inept or come across as a freak. It didn’t take them long to complete the walk, a little over thirty minutes, but it felt longer due to the awkward silence on Harry’s end. He was grateful when they arrived, so he could focus on finding the proper train.

He saw Hermione’s bushy hair first and called out her name. The hair abruptly switched direction, speeding forward, and then Hermione was there, launching herself at him. Harry whoofed out a breath as he caught her in a tight hug. It was so nice to see her! He loved that she was excited to see him too.

Pulling back out of his arms, Hermione smiled broadly at him, buckteeth proudly on display and practically shouted, “Happy birthday, Harry!” Harry turned bright red for the second time that morning as he noticed all the indulgent smiles from the adults surrounding them. Giggling loudly, Hermione grabbed his hand and started tugging him away from the station.

She was startled when she noticed Kingsley fall into step behind them as they began the walk back to Diagon. Seeing the curious look on her face, Harry leaned over and whispered, “That’s an auror – I think they are like wixen cops? – he’s guarding Diagon while I stay there for some reason.”

Hermione looked at him in contemplation and then leaned over to whisper, “It’s probably because of Sirius Black. He’s a famous Death Eater who escaped Azkaban this summer. He killed twelve muggles and a wizard with a single spell! They say he was You-Know-Who’s spy.”

Harry looked at her with wide eyes as several pieces of information clicked into place. He’d seen the wanted posters but hadn’t realised Black was a follower of Voldemort. No wonder the Ministry was guarding a major shopping location if they were worried about an escaped Death Eater. Terrorism was their calling card in the last war. Watching Harry made sense too, considering many people believed he had killed Voldemort on that Samhain twelve years ago. Black might think that too and want revenge.

Well, Harry was always aware of his surroundings, but he’d have to keep a closer watch for Black. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his birthday though! Not when Hermione was visiting. Smiling over at her, he said at normal volume, “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be safe in the Alley! I can’t wait to show you the reading corner I found in Tomes-A-Plenty, you’ll love it. And there’s this coffee shop with the most amazing scones!”

Harry and Hermione chattered nonstop on the walk back to the Leaky. When they arrived, Kingsley tipped his head in a nod and then disappeared into the crowded bar, leaving the two 13-year-olds alone. Tom spotted Harry and Hermione and persuaded them to stay at the bar for a bit using two on-the-house butterbeers as a bribe.

Afterwards, Harry led Hermione into the back and opened the brick wall with a few taps of his wand. They went to a bookstore first and spent the entire morning there. Hermione loved the hidden corner Harry found which contained two plush armchairs and a reading lamp. They each purchased a stack of books to take with them. The shopkeeper gave Harry a steep discount; she shrank the purchases down for them to carry before quietly wishing Harry a happy birthday.

Taking a break from reading, Harry led Hermione to the Espresso Patronum coffee shop he’d discovered early on during his stay. Though he wasn’t a fan of coffee, the sweets at the place were amazing and they served a lovely pot of tea. He was surprised when Hermione ordered a cappuccino, but when he asked her about it, she said her mother spent some time in America for dental school and became very fond of coffee. She’d managed to pass on her predilections to Hermione.

After the coffee and pastry break, they checked out more of the shops in the Alley. Hermione snuck off while Harry admired the Firebolt display in the Quidditch store and returned with a wrapped box. Stunned, Harry felt his lips pull into a smile so wide his face hurt. Before opening his present, he tugged Hermione back to the Leaky for a late lunch. They ate quickly and then Harry carefully pried off the delicate snitch-covered wrapping paper to save for later. Hermione had gotten him a new broom servicing kit. “It’s perfect!” he exclaimed as she grinned at his obvious pleasure.

Running upstairs, he dropped off his new books and birthday gift, then went downstairs to find Hermione again. Though tired, they went to several shops before stopping for afternoon tea. Hermione would need to head to the station soon to catch a train before it got too dark.

Surprisingly, the tea shop was selling some unusual mini loaves of bread. Each fist-sized loaf was in the shape of a person. Some were detailed depictions of Merlin, others twisted into vaguely man-shaped outlines, but all the loaves were innocuous references to Lughnasa. Harry hadn’t noticed any signs of the Wheel holidays outside his magical and muggle books until now.

He stared at the bread for a moment before catching the eye of the witch behind the counter. It was an older woman, almost as short as Harry, though much wider, with large wrinkles on her face stretched around a prolific smile. Ordering a tea service, he hesitated before asking for two of the raisin-bread man-shaped loaves.

“Of course, little one. But you know, on a day like today, they taste better if you make them yourself. We sell kits for that too,” the elderly witch intoned with a wink that shifted the left side of her face as her wrinkles wiggled.

This time Harry didn’t hesitate. “One of the kits too, but can you pack it up for later please?” he requested. The lines on her face deepened as her smile widened and she started prepping the tea.

“It’ll be right out, young wix. The bread kit is on the house too, it’s not many of your generation who follow the old ways, and I will do anything to encourage that. Magic bless you on this sacred day.”

The last phrase struck Harry in the heart, the words echoing in his mind, in his magic.

“Magic bless you on this sacred day,” he repeated instinctively. He could hear the magic in his words and, seeing its impact on her, she could too. Her mouth hung open in shock, but she quickly curled her lips into another smile.

“You are a blessing, dear one. Take a seat with your friend, I’ll bring out the tea and bread.” Harry moved away from the counter to sit. Hermione, who hadn’t noticed anything, immediately launched back into their conversation about the abjuration book he had recommended. It took a moment to refocus and remember what he’d been saying, but soon he jumped in, arguing just as heatedly for his opinion as Hermione was.

Later that evening after Hermione had left, Harry re-read the section on Lughnasa from The Year of the Wheel. It was surprisingly different from the other rituals he had performed so far. For a Light sabbat linked to Death, the books he’d found on Wiccan’s in the muggle library indicated he should spend the day celebrating with the community to revere the Light and in deprivation as a tribute to Death.

Harry hadn’t done a great job at the deprivation part but had skipped dinner. Instead, he baked a small loaf using the kit he’d purchased earlier. As for the community aspect… he remembered the power in his words when returning the greeting from the owner of Tea and Sympathy. That was as close as he could get without knowing a coven that had a ministry-approved permit to practise.

The Lughnasa rite in his book didn’t require any rune circles or meditation, none of the Light sabbats did, but there was a song he could sing. It also commanded a sacrifice, but it wasn’t a loved item like the Yule rite he’d done, it was just a small thing. He’d need to burn a piece of the bread he’d baked today – a dedication to Magic and a recognition of the harvest.

Harry had zero experience singing, but there was no reason to be self-conscious alone in his room. The book hadn’t mentioned a tune, but the lullaby his parents used to sing him had been circling in his head all evening so he could use that melody to start. Mouthing the words to himself as he memorised them, Harry tried to fit them to the tune he’d picked. Then he sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the wheat field painting. Holding a lit match in one hand and a thin slice of his loaf in the other, Harry began to sing.

Behold, the harvest is at hand;
And thick on the encircling hills
The sheaves like an encampment stand,
Making a martial fairy-land
That half the landscape fills.
The plains in colours brightly blent
Are burnished by the standing grain
That runs across a continent.
In sheets of gold or silver stain
Or red as copper from the mine,
The oats, the barley, and the buckwheat shine¹.

Magic hummed and danced throughout the room, harmonising with the lyrics that reverberated in the air. With the final word echoing around him, Harry set fire to the slice of bread and gently lowered it to the plate he’d placed on the ground.

Harry sang the song from the beginning again. He felt the magic build as the bread burned until it was only ash. Picking up the plate, he shut his eyes, inhaled deeply and blew the ashes across the room. Feeling a pang in his heart – there should be others here, this rite wasn’t meant to be solitary – Harry sat the plate down and did a few breathing exercises. When he opened his eyes, he tipped over in amazement.

Stalks of wheat pressed in on him from all sides. Harry was no longer in his room, facing the wheat field painting, he was in a wheat field. He was lying in the dirt in a wheat field. Pinching his arm, he determined that this must be real. Pushing up into a seated position, he heard bells tinkly softly and noticed something firm, like starched fabric, pressed against his face.

Harry was wearing the wreath his angel had gifted him for Yule last year (it still looked as fresh as the day he’d received it). Lifting his right hand to his cheek, he felt smooth leather instead of skin. It covered his forehead, nose and cheekbones and had little offshoots in the shape of what felt like leaves. He couldn’t see what colour the mask was and when he tried to push his fingers under it to pull it off, it wouldn’t budge. There were no straps or anything, it was just stuck directly to his face.

Harry might have panicked if he wasn’t overwhelmed with delighted amusement. Well, his angel never harmed him… he needn’t worry. They must have brought him here for a purpose, though...

<< Some warning would have been nice. >>

As he finished that thought, Harry heard a voice in the distance laugh loudly before cutting themselves off. Getting up and brushing the dirt off his robes, Harry moved in the direction he’d heard the voice.

Walking through a wheat field was strangely disorienting. It was challenging to maintain a single direction, and there were no landmarks to orient himself since the stalks were taller than his head. He couldn’t even see the moon, though stars flickered in the sky. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he were going in circles. Everything looked the same, and the wheat stalks caught on his robes, leaving him covered in chaff no matter how much he brushed himself off.

Harry walked for about ten minutes, feeling his angel’s anticipation grow, and attempted to follow the murmuring voices before the field suddenly opened into a clearing. Perhaps fifty to sixty people were within sight, all with covered faces. Most of the masks revolved around nature. One wix’s mask was a white daisy, another a green peacock, and a third had a black beetle with wiggling legs. All the designs Harry saw varied dramatically in size and detail.

A large, blue fire hovered in the air at the centre of the clearing, spitting sparks and smoke without giving off any heat. Wixen danced around it, sometimes alone or as couples, but often in small groups. It was enthralling to watch. There were no specific movements or styles, only people of all ages and sizes dancing however they wanted.

Harry inched closer and felt the magical pressure increase. Everything was soaked in magic, it practically dripped onto his skin. Joy bubbled up in his chest. He was going to be able to celebrate an actual Lughnasa!

<< Thank you, angel! >>

Feeling bold, Harry strode towards the fire. Taking a piece of his bread that he somehow knew was in his pocket and humming the song he’d memorised earlier, he threw it in. The fire writhed and twirled as Harry laughed in delight and began to dance, for once completely ignoring the other people around him.

The swishing sound of wheat swaying in the wind mixed with Magic’s music, and the fire flickered and swirled in time with the melody. Satisfaction and joy surged through him as Harry danced, letting his magic mingle with everyone else’s and saturate the clearing. Half in a trance, a thought frequently popped into his mind.

<< This is what magic should always be like. Wild and free. Thank you, angel. >>

The magic from a full coven celebrating a Turn of the Wheel was always unique. It was a constantly changing beast; serene and fluid one moment, intense and wild the next. When a group of wixen released their magic on a Turn Day, it joined with the ambient magic creating an intoxicating atmosphere, especially on the midsummer solstice.

It was no wonder the muggles had come up with the idea of witches worshipping Satan by dancing naked around bonfires. Though the Christian devil had nothing to do with it, it wouldn’t surprise Voldemort if there were covens that disrobed on Lughnasa or some of the other Light sabbats.

Harry certainly enjoyed himself. He’d almost immediately immersed himself in the coven’s celebration, willingly burning his sacrifice and freely dancing. He was less clumsy than normal, as if he were midflight on his broom, rather than on the ground. Harry spun and swayed in perfect rhythm, with no misplaced steps. He’d joined a small group near the bonfire and was currently being twirled in circles by a boy in a purple butterfly mask.

It was beautiful. Voldemort couldn’t wait to witness it in person once he was corporal again. Harry was a wild creature, his magic practically feral as it leapt around him. Still, he surrendered to the rite beautifully. Similar to Voldemort’s own experience, once Harry discovered the pagan rituals, there was no doubt or second thoughts. Only devotion. Commitment. If he believed the gods cared, Voldemort would think Magic herself had called Harry to witness the Turning of the Wheel.

Voldemort was older than Harry was when he first came across the pagan faith. It wasn’t officially prohibited back in his youth, but it was taboo to discuss openly. He’d overheard one of his roommates bragging about his Yule holiday, Abraxas Malfoy, and had threatened him into loaning his books on the topic. Fascinated by the subject, Voldemort celebrated at the first opportunity. He’d arranged an invite for himself to the Notts’ residence for Beltane during the Easter holidays. It had changed his life, changed his entire approach to magic.

He’d never considered magic a tool, unlike most of his classmates. Magic was his birthright, his talent, his escape, his gift. But after the ritual, he knew magic was so much more. Infinite. Endless. An unchanging, inexplicable force that existed outside of time and space. It wasn’t a person, and though Voldemort believed it had a consciousness (he frequently anthropomorphised it, referring to Magic as she, pretending it expressed desires), it wasn’t one any human could understand. Unlike the Christian God that the priests from the local parish had advocated for, Magic had no moral prerogative or imperative. It simply was, as Death and Fate were. Eldritch beings.

Magic was as awesome as gravity, as arbitrary as genetics, as apathetic as gold. The Wheel’s rituals were a means to temporarily reconnect those who had been gifted magic to the source again, to rejuvenate and restore one’s core, but the amount given at birth could never be exceeded. Voldemort was blessed to have originally received a significant portion. He was chosen… favoured… and would not waste his gifts, but only for himself. He knew Magic didn’t care, none of the gods were capable of caring.

But… watching Harry dance, Voldemort couldn’t help but think that Harry must be one of Magic’s favoured too.

Voldemort hadn’t planned on bringing him to a Lughnasa ritual at the start of the day. He’d watched Harry entertain his bright mudblood friend and celebrate his birthday with books, gifts, and snacks. Then he’d witnessed Harry’s melancholy as he started a solitary Lughnasa ritual. Voldemort felt the emotion swallow everything, rising steadily like the tide until Harry drowned. It had been quite a while since Harry suffered an emotion so strongly that Voldemort needed to strengthen his occlumency barriers to think. But Harry’s sorrow had been all-encompassing.

While contemplating the suddenness of the feeling, Voldemort decided to grant Harry a birthday wish. Possessing him after he’d finished his ritual was remarkably easy. Harry’s mind submitted to him naturally now. It still rapidly drained Voldemort’s magic though, so he’d used Harry’s to conjure a leather mask – a lovely pale green to complement Harry’s eyes with leaves as decoration – and secured it to Harry’s face. He’d hesitated briefly before crowning Harry’s head with the wreath he’d created for Harry during Yule. Dressed in some of Harry’s nicer dark purple robes, Voldemort had confidently left their room and entered the Alley.

He'd walked straight for Knockturn and broke into Borgin and Burkes to use their hidden Floo. Using a mix of parseltongue and a Family spell he’d stolen from Abraxas’s mind, he had bypassed the Malfoy wards and Flooed directly into their reception room. Spelling the ash off his robes, Voldemort sought out the ritual location and hid nearby before gently waking Harry.

Though it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, Voldemort felt no regret. The ritual could potentially speed up his core’s recovery and, really, Harry deserved to be here. It was the best birthday present Harry would receive (certainly better than a broom maintenance kit). As the night drew to a close – couples were sneaking off to copulate in the field – families were gathering together before travelling home – Voldemort rocked Harry’s mind to sleep, letting the euphoria from the magical atmosphere seep into them both.

Walking back to Malfoy Manor, he helped himself to some of their Floo powder. Returning directly to the Leaky, he silently ascended the stairs and entered Harry’s room. Voldemort removed the mask from their face and stared in the mirror. Harry’s eyes stared back, though they lacked the usual spark.

He wished he could communicate directly with his host rather than relying on the horcrux’s connection. It was also annoying that he couldn’t jot down a note for him either. But now that Harry had frequently written back and forth with the diary, he worried the boy would recognise his handwriting. If he connected his angel with Tom Riddle, it was a small step to figuring out he was Lord Voldemort considering Dumbledore knew they were one and the same.

Still, Harry was usually pretty good at interpreting the emotions Voldemort pressed onto him. He would know this was a gift for him, to honour his birth. It was worth depleting his reserves again for this.

Turning away to clean up and get ready for bed, Voldemort saw a pamphlet Harry had collected detailing the crimes of Sirius Black. He remembered what Harry’s mudblood had said earlier. That Black was Voldemort’s spy, a lethal Death Eater. He snorted. Black was no more a Death Eater than Harry was.

It was nice to know he wouldn’t have to worry about an actual follower attempting to murder his soul carrier. Though Black had spent twelve years in Azkaban and was likely off his trolley, it was doubtful he’d harm Harry, his best friend’s son. Then again Black had been barmy even before his prison stay… he’d keep an eye on the situation. It never hurt to be cautious of a Black.

Chapter Text

After his birthday, Harry resumed his normal, daily routine, though he swapped his afternoon tea location from Espresso Patronum to Tea and Sympathy. He’d yet to meet the old shopkeeper who had given him the bread kit again, but the tea was phenomenal. The days flew by, and soon enough, August 31st arrived on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday.

Harry was outside the quidditch store, admiring the Firebolt display for the last time, when he heard a shout. Spinning around, wary of Black, Harry dropped his wand into his hand and scanned the crowd. Instead of an escaped mass murderer, he saw Hermione and Ron running up to him with smiles on their faces. With an answering grin, he grabbed Hermione as she rushed up to him for a hug.

“Hi, guys!” Harry chirped happily. Hermione released him and Ron clapped him on the shoulder. Ron’s freckles had multiplied, and he’d grown another foot taller; he awkwardly towered over Harry and Hermione, though thin, as if he’d been stretched out like taffy rather than gaining the shoulder width expected for his height. Hermione looked the same as when he’d last seen her, albeit slightly taller. She had about four inches on him, ignoring the additional height from her wild hair ruthlessly pulled up into a high bun.

“Are you guys school shopping today?” Harry asked after the initial exchange of ‘how are you’ and ‘doing well’ was finished. They both nodded their heads. Ron had a small bag of second-hand robes tucked under his arm and Hermione had three bags full of books and other supplies dangling off her wrist.

“We both still have a few more things to get,” Ron replied with a glance at Hermione who was nodding, “but great news! My family and Hermione are staying at the Leaky tonight! Same as you! We can all go to the train platform together tomorrow.”

Harry was vaguely surprised by this, though less so for Hermione than the Weasleys. He hadn’t thought they’d want to waste money staying in London for a night when dropping off the kids in the morning would be so much cheaper. Still, it would be nice to head to King’s Cross together. Hopefully being at the Leaky would prevent a similar situation as last year or Harry’s anxiety about missing the train would rear its head again come morning.

Happily smiling, Harry trailed after Ron and Hermione as they continued shopping. He wanted to hear all about Egypt, so he asked question after question as Ron thrived under the attention. Ron had gotten him a birthday present while there; unable to keep it a secret he explained what a Sneak-o-scope was and how they worked while offering apologies that the one he got for Harry was cheap and that he didn’t have it with him. He promised to hand it over immediately when they returned to the Leaky that evening.

Harry reassured Ron that he was ecstatic about receiving it regardless of its cost and couldn’t wait to try it out. Ron looked pleased and elaborated more on the pyramid he’d been at when he purchased it as they meandered their way to the Magical Menagerie store. Hermione was looking to acquire a pet owl while Ron wanted to get Scabbers checked out.

Despite having a destination in mind, they spent most of the afternoon distracted by the extravagant window displays, going into store after store. Eventually, they arrived at the menagerie and all three scampered inside. Harry separated from Ron and Hermione who went to the counter to find a sales clerk. Without really paying attention, Harry found himself in the reptile section. Checking that no one else was around, he inched forward to the snake enclosures to listen.

δ – box is so boring, why can’t we just – δ

δ – these two-leggers bring mice every – δ

δ – think I found an escape hatch over – δ

δ – I am so beautiful. Everyone should – δ

Most of these snakes were focused on food, escape, or their image. Harry thought they were a sweet if self-centred species, though that was likely true for all animals. He was tempted to purchase one, but he was pretty sure Hedwig would eat any of the smaller ones and a large snake would freak out his dormmates. Harry was disappointed it would have to wait until he was older, like the world travel, but nothing could be done about it now.

Hearing raised voices and seeing a ginger blur sprint past him in the vivarium glass’s reflection, Harry stumbled back, tripped on a cage, and tumbled to the ground. Moaning slightly and rubbing his bruised elbow, he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring his angel’s amusement at Harry’s clumsiness. Peeking up each row to see if Hermione was still in the shop, he found her at the front counter purchasing a small, ugly tiger.

“Hermione,” he called out, pleased to see her jump too. He was still a bit embarrassed by his earlier fall, but…

<< See. It’s not just me that’s on edge. >>

“What have you got there? I thought you were getting an owl?” he asked, stepping up beside her.

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione glowing. “His name is Crookshanks.”

Harry wasn’t sure he’d use the word ‘gorgeous’ for the cat. Maybe ferocious would be more suitable? Harry had, after all, mistaken it for a tiger. Crookshanks was covered in thick, ginger fur with black stripes, his face stamped with a perpetually grumpy expression. Harry thought the cat was eyeing him in derision as it licked one razor-sharp claw.

“I guess,” Harry allowed, looking dubious. Harry and Hermione exited the store and immediately ran into Ron who was holding Scabbers in his hands and murmuring soothing words to him. Seeing the giant cat in Hermione’s arms, he recoiled viciously.

“Don’t tell me you bought that monster!” Ron yelled, drawing attention from a nearby stout wix who did a double take when they saw Harry. Hermione simply raised her chin and looked at Ron contemptuously. “Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me! And what about Scabbers? He needs rest and relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing around?”

Ron fluttered his hands out as if to illustrate how pathetic his rat was. Crookshanks took a swipe from Hermione’s arms and Scabbers squeaked and dived for Ron’s pocket. Harry felt tense as he watched the whole encounter. He hoped the two wouldn’t cause too much more of a scene, they were starting to attract a crowd.

“That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said Hermione slapping the small red bottle into Ron’s hand. “And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours, what’s the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch said he’d been in there for ages; no one wanted him.”

Ron spluttered and turned red, looking like he might start shouting at any moment. Harry cringed in anticipation, curling into himself before he felt two arms slide over his shoulders from either side.

“Look-ey here, Forge, a couple of ickle third years arguing in front of the pet store,” said one of the Weasley twins, mischievous grin firmly in place.

“I see that, Gred, yes, I do. But why would they be fighting, when there are so many more fun things to do here in Diagon?” said the other as he squeezed Harry’s shoulder in comfort.

“Right, you are, Forge! Right, you are. Let’s steal away our littlest brother and show him the fireworks shop! A much better use of his time than watching little Ronnikens act like a prat.”

With their final remark, one of them stuck their tongue out at Ron and the other flapped his wrist as if he were waving away a fly. Then, tugging Harry along with them, they strolled over to the side street, Carkitt Market, where Dr. Filibuster’s Fireworks was located.

“Ron’s temper has been right foul this summer,” said Fred (Harry was pretty sure this one was Fred though he wasn't sure why), leaning down to whisper.

“Figured we’d save you the public tantrum,” George interjected. Harry nodded his head enthusiastically, smiling in appreciation.

“I really appreciate that. I hate it when people fight like that in public. Not a fan of conflict in general, if I’m being honest, though the whole boy-who-lived thing makes it hard to avoid.” Harry replied in a surprisingly blunt fashion. He wasn’t sure what had come over him.

Fred and George exchanged looks but then changed the subject to Harry’s eternal gratitude. He spent the next few hours helping the twins pick out new prank items and supplies they could use in their experiments. It was a nice way to end the afternoon.

They met up with the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione at the Leaky for dinner. Ginny smiled and hugged him when they saw one another – a warm buzzing feeling jolted through Harry at the contact – which had Harry turning bright red in embarrassment, especially as the twins were guffawing in the background. While in Egypt, she’d gotten Harry a charm shaped like a lightning bolt, like Harry’s scar, that was supposed to ward off evil. Harry had thanked her profusely. He thought he might attach it to Hedwig’s cage.

Fred and George had stolen stone from one of the pyramids and transfigured it into the shape of an owl that looked like a sandy-coloured version of Hedwig. Grinning, they said it was only fair to assign him an animal too considering he’d given them the foxes for Christmas last year.

Ron gave Harry the Sneak-o-scope he’d already described before he went to his shared room with Percy. The Weasley parents were riding herd on everyone to get them all packed up and to bed at a reasonable time. Harry had found out earlier that some Ministry cars would drive them to the station in the morning. Despite some small hiccups, the day went well, and Harry was excited to be going back to Hogwarts for the year.

Mr Weasley warned Harry about Black after pulling him aside at the train station. Harry was annoyed that Mr Weasley had done so right before the train was supposed to take off. Why couldn’t these people get on public transport without cutting time so terribly close? Harry bounced from one foot to the other in anxiety while he tried to focus on Mr Weasley’s lecture. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore and dashed to the train. Mr Weasley desperately yelled “Promise me!” and drew the eyes of all the remaining wixen on the platform, but Harry refused to turn back.

All the compartments had one or more people since it was so close to departure. After walking up and down the train twice, Hermione decided they should take the one with an older man already sleeping. The twins and Ginny took off to meet their friends, but, despite yesterday’s argument, Ron easily followed Harry and Hermione into the compartment.

Settling in, the trio’s discussions revolved around the new classes (Hermione was taking everything), who the sleeping guy might be (R. J. Lupin – likely a professor), and whether Malfoy would be as much of a twat as last year (most likely more twat-ish, since he had spent the summer with his father).

A little more than halfway through the trip, Hermione released Crookshanks from his wicker container and triggered another argument with Ron. Hiding in the corner, Harry decided to tune them out and read. This worked well despite the tension in his shoulders at the raised voices and ginger behemoth pouncing on Ice Mice treats.

It was almost arrival time when the train slowed down and Harry surfaced from his book. The storm outside was vicious, with wind shrieking and rain hammering; he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed until now, even with most of his attention on the compartment’s occupants.

“We can’t have arrived yet,” whispered Hermione, but as she checked her watch, the lights flickered and went out, and the train halted completely. The windows were icing over as a sudden cold snap encompassed the train and its passengers. Shivering, Harry wiped at a section of the glass with his sleeve. He couldn’t see anything through the thick frost on the exterior of the pane. A knock on the door startled all of them, except the still-sleeping older wizard.

“C – c – come in,” Ron said through chattering teeth. The door opened and two darkened figures stood in the corridor. Despite the lack of light, Harry immediately recognised one of them and relaxed in response.

“Harry?” Ginny whispered.

“Hi, Ginny. Who’s that with you? Come in and sit down.”  They took two out of the remaining seats and Hermione pulled Crookshanks into her lap after the second figure nearly sat on the cat.

“I’ve brought Neville. Any idea what is happening?” Ginny asked after the room door was closed again.

“N – n – not a clue,” Ron replied.

They sat anxiously until an otherworldly shrieking sound had them all stilling in fear. Lupin opened his eyes for the first time; they almost seemed to glow with an amber light as he met Harry’s gaze. Without retrieving his wand, Lupin summoned a handful of fire and faced the door. Putting a finger to his lips, he made a small shushing sound as he stood up. But the door slid open before Lupin could reach it.

A cloaked figure hovered in the entrance, darker than everything around it. Blacker than black, it sucked in the light from Lupin’s flames, so they spluttered and fizzled out. They all stared at the newcomer in silence. Everyone was frozen, even Ron’s teeth had stopped chattering. A flash of lightning lit up the cabin, briefly revealing Harry's breath as a small puff of frosted air before everything surrendered to darkness again.

Harry’s world narrowed to focus on the black void ahead of him. Lightheaded, he involuntarily swayed forward towards it. This small motion attracted the creature’s attention. It drew a rattling, unending breath, sucking in light and life and soul and Harry was...

Harry was sitting, huddled in a corner with another twelve orphans crammed in with him. He could smell the freshly dug earth and the rusted iron of the shelter Mrs Cole had directed him to. Water dripped from the roof onto his neck and dribbled down into his shirt causing him to shiver. It wasn’t exactly cold – not during summer – but sitting on wet ground with the drip, drip, drip of the condensate from the roof made it seem like it should be.

The worst part was the sirens though. They were so loud. And they just went on and on and on. How could anyone stand it? He shouldn’t be here. He should be at Hogwarts or Diagon or somewhere in the wixen district of London. Not cramped, hunched, cowering here, as he hushed the whimpering four-year-old trembling in his lap. He listened to the sirens scream. And scream. And scream.

This shelter was the one dug closest to the orphanage, the most likely to fail if a bomb did hit. Mrs Cole had looked at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes and pushed him towards it… he wasn’t sure if she thought it wouldn’t be hit because he had a pact with the devil or if she hoped it would be.

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t die here. He refused. Not when he hadn’t done anything with his life yet. Not when there was still so much to learn about Magic. Death couldn’t have him. He wasn’t supposed to be here – he would not die – he would not die – Death would not – Death would –

Harry felt someone shake him – who was calling his name? – but he couldn’t breathe. Death was coming, no matter his prayers. A scream clawed its way up his throat, but he didn’t have air to let it out. Desperately tearing at his neck – he couldn’t breathe – Harry tried to open his eyes, but instead, the world faded completely.

“Harry! Harry! Are you alright?” yelled someone off to his right as another person incessantly tapped his face… Harry’s face.

“Stop,” Voldemort snapped harshly. Reaching up he caught the wrist of whoever was poking him and squeezed until they yelped. Sighing, he opened his eyes. Ronald Weasley was staring at him, a hurt look on his face, as he held his injured wrist. Harry’s mudblood, likely the one who had been yelling, was also on the floor sitting beside his head.

The Longbottom boy was trembling in his seat on the left side of the compartment while Lupin cradled an unconscious Ginevra Weasley and cast diagnostic spells next to him. Damn. He still didn’t know how much of her active consciousness was his horcrux. This could go poorly if he didn’t intervene.

Sitting up, Voldemort turned to Ginevra’s body. He inconspicuously brushed a finger against her hand, shooting a small jolt of his magic into her. It was only a minor detection spell, so he was surprised when she jerked awake. Ginevra sat up and immediately made eye contact with him.

He brushed against her mind which revealed a confused and distorted memory. Some mix between the incident in the Chamber and being lost in the woods behind her house when she was younger. Nothing that would give away the presence of his diary inside her.

At least he could mark off the dominant horcrux soul option from his list of ritual outcomes. If his teenage self were the main consciousness, there would have been occlumency barriers.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, pretending concern to account for the too-long eye contact. She nodded but remained silent, staring at him with uncertain, dazed eyes. Lupin was looking back and forth between them, a small, amused smile on his exhausted face.

There was a screech, and the lights flickered back on as the train started moving again. Voldemort allowed Weasley and Granger to help him up and they all sat on the empty bench. His limbs felt shaky, vulnerable, after reliving that night of the Blitz with the bombs and the sirens…

Voldemort had not anticipated Harry’s severe reaction to dementors, nor that his mind and memories would be dragged into it. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be interacting with dementors since they should have been guarding Azkaban or seeking Black and not present on the train to Hogwarts. He was blaming Harry. Harry was a trouble magnet so of course any dementor within a mile’s radius would seek him out.

And now Voldemort was possessing Harry, draining his core again. Gently, he nudged Harry back forward, planning to release the possession without their body falling unconscious. But Harry wouldn’t wake. He remained hiding in his subconscious and wouldn’t rouse no matter how much Voldemort prodded. Apparently, the boy wasn’t ready to face the real world yet.

Well. Fuck. Now he had to deal with Harry’s friends for the rest of the train ride. A bunch of teenagers that had just been exposed to a dementor for the first time. This was going to be a delight.

A loud snapping sound had him dropping Harry’s wand into his hand and pointing it at Lupin instinctively. Lupin raised an eyebrow but only gestured with the large chunk of chocolate.

“Here,” Lupin said, handing almost a quarter of the candy bar to Voldemort. “Eat up. It’ll help with the melancholy side effects.”

Lupin handed out smaller pieces to the two Weasleys, Granger, and Longbottom, then ate a square himself. It was quiet for a moment as they all chewed the chocolate. Warmth bloomed through his body, remarkably quickly. Voldemort had thought the whole thing a hoax before, but there might be some physical reason chocolate helped in post-dementor incidents.

As the silence started to get awkward – Ginevra was crying, and Longbottom was still shaking – Lupin made a paltry excuse and left the cabin. Hermione turned towards Voldemort and asked, “Are you sure you are okay, Harry?”

She was watching his face anxiously. So was Ronald. Instead of answering again, Voldemort deflected, saying, “I can’t remember… What exactly happened?” He cast scourgify – Harry’s magic was so eager right now – to clean the sweat off their skin before turning to look at everyone expectantly. It’d be good to gather some more information.

“Well – the thing – the dementor – stood there and looked around – I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its face – and you – you –” said Granger, stumbling through the explanation, obviously a bit in shock. Weasley cut her off and explained further.

“I thought you were having a fit or something,” said Weasley, words coming out in a rush. “You went sort of rigid and fell out of your seat and started twitching, Ginny was too –”

“And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” said Granger, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t move, so Lupin muttered something and a silvery thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away…”

The compartment was quiet again after the explanation. Considering Lupin had been a part of Dumbledore’s Order, it wasn’t surprising he could cast a Patronus, despite currently appearing a little worse for wear. If Voldemort remembered correctly, Lupin was a young recruit who joined towards the end of the war. Part of the same group of Gryffindors as the Potters. It was interesting that he was here now. Was Dumbledore gathering the old crew, despite the lack of activity on Voldemort’s side?

Longbottom suddenly started speaking about his experience with the dementor, openly describing his terror in an odd show of bravery. This spurred the rest of them on, each explaining how they felt and what they did in detail. Voldemort paid careful attention to Ginevra’s turn, but she only mentioned an old nightmare before succumbing to unconsciousness. Since that was close enough to what happened to Harry, Voldemort reaffirmed that he saw something similar while giving few details.

Voldemort was not looking forward to Harry’s questions about the bunker. Harry was smart; he would no doubt connect the dots between his angel and the memory, especially when something similar had happened after last year’s failed ritual. He hadn’t been sure why that situation had allowed Voldemort to transmit the memory of Fawkes – whether it was their body dying of basilisk venom, the ritual’s effect on their souls, or their magical core’s exhaustion – but considering the dementors, now he knew the conditions had to be soul related.

Unlike the time in the Chamber, sharing this memory had been perpetrated by Harry, not Voldemort. Driven by the dementor’s aura, Harry had embedded a hook in one of Voldemort’s worst memories, yanked it out from behind Voldemort’s occlumency barriers using the bridge the horcrux had created, and stored it inside his mind as he relived it. Voldemort, in his surprise, hadn’t resisted as he was pulled along for the ride with Harry.

“You’re so quiet, Harry… are you sure –” Hermione started to ask for the millionth time, but Voldemort cut her off. Annoyed with her nagging, he firmly stated, “Yes, yes. I’m fine. Just still processing.”

Finally, they arrived at Hogsmeade station and loaded into the carriages to travel to Hogwarts. They were immediately soaked after stepping outside the train. This storm was ferocious, but the rain wasn’t cold... A drop of water dripped down his collar, and his head was pounding, and then a loud crack of thunder made him jump. It was like Harry’s anxiety, his fear, his panic, from the encounter with the dementors was still flooding their body. Voldemort wanted to light someone on fire.

Shivering and hating it, Voldemort cast focillo and calidum aerem charms using Harry’s magic to dry himself off and warm up. He stepped out of the carriage with his wand raised in a repellere pluviam shield over his head, only to hear a delighted, drawling voice in his ear.

“You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually fainted?”

Looking over, he saw the Malfoy brat nearby, looking like a half-drowned Pomeranian, and Voldemort chuckled as he relaxed, abruptly back on stable ground. This wiped the self-satisfied smirk off Malfoy’s face who only now seemed to notice the shield Voldemort was maintaining; Malfoy stared at the mid-level magic in awe.

“Now, now, little frog, if you wanted my attention, you only had to ask. No need to use that sticky tongue of yours, you’ll only catch flies,” Voldemort teased, easily provoking the young pureblood, a playful grin on his face.

Malfoy blushed bright red as the surrounding children giggled and stomped off towards Hogwarts. Rolling his eyes, Voldemort turned to see Granger and Weasley giving him uncertain looks. He shrugged his shoulders and, imitating Harry’s normal inflection, said, “What a prat, right?”

Ron smiled, relieved, and hastened to agree as they climbed the stone steps into the castle. The rest of the night went smoothly if he discounted how quickly his reserves emptied. After Voldemort dealt with the few professors who checked on Harry, ate dinner at the Gryffindor table, and returned to Harry’s dorm room, his core ached.

Throughout the night Voldemort had continuously poked Harry’s mind, hoping he’d wake up before their body fell unconscious. Finally, just as he was getting in bed, hands shaking with the magical strain, he got a response. More relieved than he wanted to admit, Voldemort settled into the back of Harry’s mind and released his hold of their body.

He really needed a way to fend off the dementors, especially considering Dumbledore was allowing them at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future based on his speech during the feast. If they were looking for Black, they should have ignored Harry, but they didn’t. His and Harry’s combined souls must appeal to them for some reason. Harry’s response, to drop into unconsciousness, was detrimental to their safety – Harry in the physical and psychic realms, and Voldemort in the magical.

What if Harry sunk into some magical coma, permanently? Or a dementor sucked out Harry’s soul? Voldemort could not allow this. There was also the sharing memories aspect… which he had no idea how Harry would react to yet… yes, Voldemort needed to do more research and find a solution to deal with the dementors. Preferably with due haste.

Chapter Text

Harry jolted awake from a nightmare and instinctively rubbed his hands on the sheets, trying to wipe off the ink. Looking around, Harry realised he was back in his dorm within Gryffindor Tower. Despite being used to waking up in new places with no idea how he’d arrived, he probably ought to be more worried by the situation, but… Harry trusted his angel. Plus, it wasn’t like this was anything new.

It was still early when he quietly exited his four-poster bed to gather his shower supplies. All his dormmates were fast asleep and only weak pre-dawn light peeked through the curtains. He hurried to the empty loo and took the first shower stall. Under the warm spray, he contemplated what he remembered from the attack on the train.

The creature had to be a dementor. Harry’s book for his Care of Magical Creatures class mentioned them briefly. Though there hadn’t been a picture, the description was dead-on (or maybe under-exaggerated) about how terrifying they were, except… it wasn’t one of Harry’s terrible memories that he’d experienced.

Harry hadn’t expected to meet a dementor despite reading about them since they were usually kept exclusively at Azkaban. Nor had he anticipated being one of the few who hallucinated in their presence. It was supposed to be rare, but that alone should have told Harry it’d happen to him. He brooded briefly – why couldn’t he be normal just this once – as he lathered up his messy hair with shampoo before his thoughts reverted to his angel again.

The memory had to be from his angel. The odds of a third consciousness pushing itself into Harry’s mind seemed slim. Also, he had received one memory from his angel before, though that had only been a brief, innocuous interaction with Dumbledore’s phoenix.

This felt different... the memory of Fawkes was from after his angel joined Harry. This memory must be from before his angel came to him – he was pretty sure it was before Harry was born – but he’d still experienced it in first person. For the duration of the memory, Harry was his angel. He could remember every feeling, every thought. The ear-splitting sirens, the should-be-cold sensation, the overwhelming fear – Harry was there in the freshly dug bomb shelter.

His angel must have been human at some point… a boy. An orphan like Harry. One who’d grown up hated. Harry distinctly remembered his thought that the matron probably hoped he’d die because he was magical. It was awful, but a sense of camaraderie was growing inside him. No one else would understand what his angel had experienced, not like Harry could. Not only had he lived his angel’s memory, but with Harry’s life experiences… he could empathise directly. The matron’s pinched expression could have been a copy of Aunt Petunia’s when she was in a snit.

<< Angel… >>

Instant trepidation. Harry hadn’t even formed a full thought yet but was already on edge.

<< It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m glad this happened. I want to know more about you. You were human, a boy, and you went to Hogwarts! That’s amazing. How long ago did you live? Was that WWII? >>

Frustration simmered inside him; he was a pot about to boil over. Underneath the tension, uncertainty and unease snaked through, whispering of nights locked in his cupboard wondering if he’d make it til morning or if the anger and hunger would burst out of him, a monster that’d consume and replace Harry. Remembering that feeling of desperation only fueled more of the dissatisfaction.

<< I know you can’t actually talk to me… can you? >>

Fury flashed inside him and the balance shifted. Harry’s frustration spilt over into rage as his hands clenched into fists. The emotion was suddenly yanked away leaving Harry empty and cold despite the warm water showering him. He hastened to reassure his angel; certain he’d pushed things too far in expressing his doubt. Of course his angel would have spoken to Harry if he could have.

<< That’s fine. This is fine. Perfect! >>

A wash of amused exasperation flowed through him, and Harry’s shoulder and neck muscles unconsciously relaxed as he tilted his face up towards the spray of water. There was no hint of the all-encompassing anger from before that had overwhelmed him. Though he still felt that undercurrent of unease. He wondered if maybe he should have waited longer to try to talk about this.

<< We can drop it, we don’t have to talk about this now, I know this isn’t a comfortable conversation for you. That memory was awful. >>

Harry stiffened against the indignation settling into his bones, just as intense as the rage from before.

<< Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t – >>

Again, his angel wrenched the emotion away so Harry couldn’t feel it. There was only Harry’s personal guilt and the small, foreign bubbles of exasperation that popped against it. Wary, Harry posed another question to his angel.

<< You’re not… mad at me? >>

This time there was only comfort – he was wrapped in a warm blanket by the fire, swaddled in his invisibility cloak as he hurried to the Room, flying higher and higher into a cloudless sky – and Harry couldn’t feel any negative emotions at all.

<< Okay… okay. Good. This is good. I want to keep learning about you so… don’t worry about the memory, okay? It was a good thing. >>

The comfort faded away, slowly draining from Harry like the water swirling down the drain until all he felt were his own tangled emotions. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure that he should leave the one-sided conversation there. Give both him and his angel some time to process what had happened. There would be time later to research and discuss – as much as they could have a discussion when only Harry could form words.

A tinge of relief, so slight that Harry might just have imagined it, was the only reaction he received as he stepped out of the shower. It was too early to wake up the other third-year boys, so Harry quietly got dressed, packed his bag, and went down to the common room to read more of his creatures textbook before breakfast, gently petting its furred cover.

Soon Hermione and Ron joined him, so they went down for breakfast. Walking into the Great Hall together, Harry saw Malfoy giving some ridiculous impression of a swooning fit to a large group of laughing students at the Slytherin table. Assuming that was about himself, Harry rolled his eyes before walking away. The tosser didn’t deserve his attention.

“Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl with a face like a pug. “Potter! The dementors are coming, Potter! Woooooo!”

Harry simply flipped her the bird, accepted the 5-point loss from Snape, and settled at the Gryffindor table next to Fred and George. Striking up a conversation about quidditch, breakfast flew by until a prefect dropped his new schedule onto the table. He had divination in the morning and creatures in the afternoon, while his first ancient runes class wasn’t until Monday.   

Hermione and Ron started squabbling about their schedules, so Harry asked the twins how their year looked instead of joining the argument. Harry ended up laughing so hard he was almost in tears as he listened to the two older boys dramatically complain about the terrors of OWLs for the fifth years until it was time to leave for class.

Divination turned out to be something of a joke. Harry wasn’t sure he believed in fate and destiny, but the teacher’s over-the-top attitude and room decorations made her seem more like a charlatan than a professor. When she zeroed in on Harry during her opening speech, Harry resigned himself to being called out, though he still groaned softly. At her prediction of his death, he rolled his eyes at Ron who seemed nervous at the pronouncement.

During the entire walk from divination to transfiguration, he had to listen to teary apologies and condolences from his gullible yearmates. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall set everyone straight in her class. It had just been a tawdry trick to gain the students’ admiration and of course, she’d marked the boy-who-lived as the best subject for a bad omen. Really, of all the students, he was the most likely to perish young, but still. It was all so annoying. Couldn’t his professor have chosen anyone else?

As the afternoon rolled around, Harry was excited to have his first magical creature class. Hagrid had tons of hands-on experience. He’d also told Harry he’d be hosting his classes outside the entire semester! It was going to be brilliant. Ron and Hermione were uncertain, but Harry thought their doubts were misplaced.

Harry smiled as he practically skipped to Hagrid’s hut, holding his purring creatures textbook. His good mood faded somewhat when he realised Ron wasn’t speaking to Hermione and half the class were Slytherins, but it didn’t disappear entirely. Harry had never had a class where the Slytherin and Gryffindor students mingled like this instead of sitting behind desks on opposite sides of a classroom. Well, at least not since the first and only instance of the flying course he’d attended. He was surprised to note that a few of them were staring at him without sneering.

Malfoy and his two bodyguards were doing yet another reenactment of Harry fainting but, despite this, a few Slytherin students stood separate. A dark-skinned boy with striking violet eyes peered at Harry with a blank face, while a shorter brown-haired boy looked on in awe. Maybe they were fans of the boy-who-lived? It was also possible they thought the petrifications last year were Harry’s doing. Uncertain how to respond to the unabashed staring, and feeling his face heat up in embarrassment, Harry pointedly ignored them and stood with the other Gryffindors.

Thankfully, Hagrid came out of his hut and led them towards the edge of the Forest to start class. They arrived at a paddock with hippogriffs inside (the huge eagle-like horses were bigger than they seemed from the pictures in his book). Harry was bouncing on his toes in excitement. He was finally going to get to interact with new magical creatures!

Hagrid explained how the books needed to be stroked to be opened, and a surprising number of the students sighed in relief and loosened belts and ties that had strapped the bindings together. Harry thought it was obvious that if the book acted like a pet, it should be treated like one, but maybe the other students were nervous to try after seeing the shopowners treated with such ferocity.

During the next thirty minutes, Harry learned so, so, so much about hippogriffs. Hagrid’s lecture wasn’t very organised, but all the key facts about diet, temperament, and preferred environments were tucked in like little nuggets of gold. When Hagrid asked for a volunteer, Harry immediately raised his hand, striding forward with an enthusiastic smile. Hagrid’s eyes brightened and he roared, “Good man, Harry!”

Unlocking one of the larger hippogriffs with brilliant orange eyes and feathers in various shades of grey, black, and white, Hagrid gestured Harry closer. “Right then,” he growled. “Let’s see how you get on with Buckbeak.”

Harry approached and bowed in the method Hagrid had shown them earlier – maintain eye contact, keep his shoulders loose – and Buckbeak returned the gesture without hesitation, dropping gracefully to its scaly front knees.

Harry kept his eyes on the hippogriff and smiled widely as Hagrid gave further instructions. When he was told, he’d be allowed to ride on Buckbeak, he nearly whooped in joy. He knew this class would be amazing!

Carefully climbing onto Buckbeak’s back using the top of the wing like a stirrup, he buried his fingers in feathers and leaned forward. Glancing to the side, he was startled at the wide-eyed fear on most of his classmates’ faces. The unusual Slytherins looked intrigued and Malfoy was still scowling, but the rest looked terrified, even Ron and Hermione.

Harry jerked forward abruptly as he felt the huge wings on either side of him spread out and begin flapping. Buckbeak was running forward and then taking off into the air. Harry shouted wordlessly, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

It was nothing like riding his broom. Sitting on Buckbeak’s back, he swayed forward and back with each flap of the wings, his whole body shifting with the motion. As they got higher and higher, all of Harry’s anxieties drifted away. This was what magic should always be like.  

Unfortunately, he and Buckbeak’s flight was fleeting; they were only in the air for a few minutes before they returned to the paddock. Hagrid must have requested Buckbeak keep it short so that others had the opportunity to fly as well. Ruefully, Harry dismounted and swiped his hands through his thoroughly mussed hair. Still smiling, he returned to the rest of the class.

Emboldened by Harry’s obvious enjoyment and success, other students stepped forward to interact with the hippogriffs. Harry was surprised to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle rush to approach Buckbeak. Harry pulled out his creature book to take notes in the margins of the hippogriff section.

“I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you? Are you, you great ugly brute?” Malfoy drawled loudly, but Harry didn’t bother to look up until he heard the scream. Malfoy was sprawled on the ground, his arm bloody, yelling in panic. The rest of the class had retreated to the edges of the paddock.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Harry accidentally made eye contact with the violet-eyed boy. Harry was surprised to see a smirk gracing his face. Feeling his blush return, Harry flashed the other a quick, amused smile before going over to help Hagrid calm down Buckbeak.

Harry was happy that September 1st was on a Wednesday this year. Starting the semester with a short week – only Thursday and Friday – made it easier to acclimatise back to Hogwarts, especially with the new electives. He still thought Fridays were the worst, considering the double block of potions with Snape, though defence class might not be so bad this year. Divination was a wash, but his care of magical creatures elective was amazing. And he had the brand-new ancient runes course on Monday to look forward to.

Unfortunately, Ron and Hermione spent the weekend at each other’s throats; they seemed to fight just as frequently as their pets these days and that was a substantial amount considering Crookshanks’s vendetta against Scabbers. Harry wasn’t sure what had changed over the summer besides Hermione acquiring a new pet, but the two couldn’t have a conversation without it devolving into an argument. He tried keeping the peace but wasn’t very good at it. More often than not, the three ended up sitting in awkward and huffy silences.

Harry was grateful when Monday finally arrived. At least his classes were useful and interesting, so far. He was excited about his runes elective and, thankfully, it’d only be with Hermione. Ron wasn’t taking the class, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the two’s nonstop bickering. After a filling breakfast of bacon and eggs, Harry pushed up to his feet and tapped Hermione on the shoulder.

“Want to head to Runes?” he asked, with a jerk of his head. It’d be nice to talk with her without Ron butting in, even if they arrived at the classroom early. But Hermione surprised Harry by refusing him. She bit her lip, looking uneasy, before shaking her head no.

“I forgot… the book! Yes, I forgot the book so I should run to the tower first. I’ll meet you there though! Save me a seat,” she mumbled, awkwardly shoving things into her bag instead of looking at Harry. The whole conversation was weirdly… tense. Wrong. And it seemed supremely unlikely she’d forgotten the textbook for their new elective. She usually carried all her books in her shoulder bag.

Harry shook his head as he walked away. He was acting paranoid, his discernment impacted by the golden trio’s fights; Hermione wouldn’t lie to him about something so inconsequential. It didn’t really matter. In the end, Harry walked by himself to the ancient runes classroom. It was fine; he would just see her there.

When Harry arrived, the room was already half full of eager third-year students. He was shocked to see Hermione had beaten him there which… if she’d needed to go back to the tower first, would be impossible. Yet there she was, seated at the front table directly in front of the professor and bracketed by the Patil twins. Harry felt hurt bloom in his chest, roots burrowing deep inside him. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Harry avoided looking at the front again as he searched for a seat.

There were plenty of chairs left, but no empty tables. It was a mixed class with all four Houses, though unevenly distributed. Most students were Ravenclaws or Slytherins; Harry, Hermione and Parvati were the Gryffindor exceptions and Justin Finch-Fletchley was the lone Hufflepuff. Taking careful steps towards a table with a Ravenclaw boy that Harry had never seen before, he was halted by a voice calling out, “Heir Potter.”

Harry stumbled, having never heard himself referred to as such, before turning around to see the two unusual Slytherins he had noticed during Hagrid’s class. Wary, uncertain of what they were playing at, he took a small step back towards them. Was there a specific response he was supposed to give? A way to address them back? Harry didn’t know either of their names and the formal greeting threw him off.

“Er… hi?” Harry eventually replied when neither spoke again. The corner of the first boy’s mouth quirked up in amusement while he continued to silently stare at Harry. Harry flushed in embarrassment. Why was he so awkward? He tried to recover, saying, “Uhm do you – I mean would you – could I sit with you?”

If Harry were alone, he would have facepalmed. That was the opposite of what he’d wanted to do. He expected the Slytherins to laugh especially when his angel’s amusement fizzled inside him.

Instead, the violet-eyed boy only smiled wider, showing a brief glimpse of dimples, before he gestured to the chair next to him at the end of the table. Harry returned the smile and stepped around the table to take the seat. He wanted to ask the boy’s name but thought he should already know it, considering they were in their third year and he could feel his angel’s disapproval. He really ought to get to know more of the members of the other Houses this year.

Maybe Professor Babbling would call roll since it was the first day and Harry could find out that way. He reached into his satchel for his textbook and some parchment to take notes on. Instead of a quill, he was using a charmed fountain pen that automatically filled from his inkwell. He saw his fellow tablemates eyeing it. Clearing his throat, Harry gathered the courage to ask them a question. “Do you all use these too? I purchased it in Diagon this last summer but wasn’t sure if it was common or not.”

“I’ve seen them before, but my father doesn’t think they should be allowed. Says it’s too muggle and negates tradition,” the brown-haired boy replied, shaking his head.

“That’s… a lot of pressure for just a pen,” Harry laughed. The boy looked startled, but easily returned Harry’s smile. Encouraged, Harry asked, “Want to try one of mine for the class period? I swear it’s easier to take notes with and I heard the Professor of this class goes pretty fast.”

Harry saw his brown eyes widen before the boy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, actually. That would be great, Heir Potter.”

Harry cringed at the title he wasn’t sure he warranted and said, “You can call me Harry if you want to.” He turned to the violet-eyed boy who’d been silently following the conversation. “You can too, if you please.”

This gave Harry another chance to see the dimples as the boy smiled and casually reciprocated. “Alright, Harry. You can call me Blaise.”

“Call me Theo!” piped the brown-haired one from further down the table. Harry grinned and dug into his bag for his spare fountain pen, sliding it across the table to Theo. Turning to Blaise, he apologetically said, “I only bought the one extra.”

Blaise laughed and assured him that he was perfectly willing to wait for another opportunity since Theo was so excited about it. They casually chatted until class began, Harry’s initial embarrassment fading with each passing moment. It was nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a conversation without any underlying tension.

Harry glanced over as the Professor started calling roll and saw Hermione staring at him wide-eyed. He felt a pang in his chest. Why did she look betrayed when she was the one who’d lied to him? He jerked his eyes away, staring down at the textbook on the table before him.

When the professor called his name, Harry felt comfortable looking up. Hermione was facing the front of the room as he knew she would be. There was no way she would prioritise her dispute with him over respecting the authority of a classroom setting.

Well, it didn’t matter.

Harry also wanted to focus on the classwork, so he forced himself to ignore Hermione and concentrate on the lecture. The runes elective was fascinating. They reviewed the syllabus first but then immediately began covering a few characters in the Elder Futhark alphabet too. Runes could do so many different things, it was astounding. He remembered the ones from the dark sabbat rituals in his stolen library book. Hopefully, his ritual protection circles were in the same language taught in this class. It would be wonderful to know more about them.

The course involved a lot of upfront memorisation, but after that, it was a matter of learning how to combine different runes and understand the interaction effects. Order, spacing, and magnitude were important when stringing together multiple characters, especially for full circles like Harry had used in his rituals. This class would be practical and fruitful; he was grateful that the pace was much faster than his core courses, especially compared to charms.

Professor Babbling used the entire class period, lecturing until the last minute. Harry packed up quickly knowing he needed to rush to make it to charms on time. When he noticed that Hermione had disappeared already, he started shoving things more haphazardly and then quickly stood, knowing he would be walking to charms alone too. Before he left though, he turned to Blaise and Theo who were also putting away their supplies, albeit in a more leisurely manner.

“I’ve got to run to charms, but it was nice talking and sitting with the both of you. I’ll see you next class,” Harry said with a bright smile.

Thankfully, he felt a lot less socially awkward now. Hopefully, that’d carry over into his future interactions with them. Theo held out the pen he borrowed, but Harry didn’t have time to reopen his bag and put it away properly. Instead, he reached in with one hand and casually summoned the cap for it. “Here!” he said, thrusting it at Theo, who took it automatically, though the boy looked stupefied.

“I’ll get it from you next class. I really do need to run. Feel free to use it in your other classes! Oh! Keep the cap on when you don’t have it out or it’ll leak everywhere. See you!” Harry shouted over his shoulder as he dashed away, stopping briefly to wave at the doorway. Harry was hopeful that he’d made some new friends. Having other people to hang out with while Ron and Hermione fought would be brilliant.

Harry’s disdain for divination had astonished Voldemort. Harry was young and thus prone to thinking in absolutes, but to write off an entire branch of magic because of a single professor’s histrionics… well, it was just folly.

Divination was a time-honoured tradition and a respected branch of magic with many offshoots. From palmistry to prophecies, wixen have practised the art of divination since the genesis of magic. It was simply a fact that certain wix could accurately predict the future.

Voldemort knew Harry believed in a higher power watching over him, so why did that not translate to the existence of Fate? It was pure irony that the boy-who-lived, the subject of the prophesy that had driven Voldemort’s initial attack and subsequent banishment to ten years as a bodiless wraith, didn’t believe in destiny.

Initially, Voldemort thought Harry would change his mind. He had assumed that the aversion to divination would be overcome within a few weeks as Harry learned more about it. But it had been roughly three weeks now – Mabon was today, Harry had a minor celebration, couldn’t do more for a Light holiday at Hogwarts – and Harry was only getting more resistant to tasseomancy and divination as a whole.

Voldemort settled himself behind Harry’s eyes as they joined Harry’s two obnoxious Gryffindor friends on their walk up to divination this morning. He didn’t usually watch Harry’s classes, but he was curious about the divination course Harry was so averse to attending. He watched as Harry snubbed the mudblood again, refusing to answer any questions about his newest Slytherin acquaintances.

It was unsurprising that Harry was still upset with her for lying to him, particularly when she followed it up with an implied refusal to sit next to him during the first runes lecture. Harry was sensitive and anxious about his friendships due to a lack of any in his early life. Being a little passive-aggressive was a mild response, considering what the girl had done.

Harry had taken to sitting with the Zabini Heir and Nott since the first day. Whenever Granger nagged him about it, he only answered that it was his preferred seat. This aggravated both her and Ronald, straining their friendships further, but Voldemort was pleased that Harry was finding some proper friends this year. The Zabini family likely had a fantastic library and he already knew the Nott’s was impressive. Either of their homes would be a much better location to spend the summer than the Weasley’s hovel if Harry’s room at the Leaky wasn’t an option.

It was silent as the trio trekked to the divination classroom at the top of the northernmost tower. They arrived a few minutes early along with most of the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff third-year students. Everyone crammed onto the landing and waited for the ladder to drop from the ceiling. This was a rather impractical design for a classroom entrance.

Harry, and Voldemort, waited impatiently for the sparkling, silver rope to finally be lowered. He watched as Harry climbed up and into the room taking a seat on his self-assigned purple poof in the far back corner that was half hidden behind a large Monstera potted plant. Voldemort internally sighed as the Weasley boy followed to sit nearby and partner up with Harry. At least Ronald believed in the gift of Sight despite acknowledging Harry’s conviction that Trelawny was a hack. He was a better partner for Harry than the mudblood who only agreed with Harry’s skepticism of accurate divining.

Today was the first day the class would do their own readings instead of learning theory. Trelawny had them come up in groups and select a teacup, which she then filled with dark red tea, probably some brand of rooibos, before sending them back to their tables, ordering them not to drink any yet. Once everyone in the class had a cup of tea, the professor stood and gave instructions.

“Drink until only dregs remain. Swill these around the cup three times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup to your partner to read. You will interpret the patterns using pages five and six of Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping and instructing. Oh, and dear” – Trelawny pointed to Longbottom who was perched awkwardly on his poof, right leg bouncing up and down repeatedly – “after you’ve broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to select one of the blue patterned ones? I’m rather attached to the pink.”

Voldemort was mildly interested when a few minutes later, Longbottom broke his cup; Trelawny was rumoured to be an actual Seer, perhaps this was evidence. Harry had audibly scoffed though, constrained by his preconceived notions. Weasley and Harry both drank their tea quickly and then swapped cups. Neither tried to read the signs in the dregs or open their minds for Magic’s help interpreting. Harry didn’t even bother doing the four cardinal direction rotations for Ronald, only doing north and south.

Which was a pity, really. It appeared the Weasley boy could have used some warning. Voldemort could see arrows and rats in the dregs which strongly implied bad news and loss through enemies. As Weasley read out his interpretation of Harry’s cup, Harry snorted in scorn and caught the professor’s interest. When she claimed Harry’s cup for a reading, Voldemort snapped to attention.

Trelawny oriented the cup north for the first reading; north would have the most abiding – or rather guiding – truth in Harry’s future. It was seldom wrong for a true reading from one with the Sight.

“The falcon… my dear, you have a deadly enemy,” she said. Voldemort was not surprised by this. Harry carried his soul, so it obviously didn’t refer to him, despite the mutters of the other students. It likely meant Dumbledore, who would kill Harry to destroy the horcrux inside him.

“The club… an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup…” she said for the east position. East was the most immediate future – within the next few weeks, six months at the most – and had the second highest probability of being true. This worried Voldemort slightly, but an attack didn’t imply any success. Harry could take care of himself, for the most part. And if not, well, Voldemort would be here to defend him.

“The skull… danger in your path, my dear…” Okay, that… well that would be concerning if Voldemort weren’t aware of all the other interpretations of a skull in tasseomancy. It could mean power, time, concentration, divinity and creation. Diversity was one of the reasons he’d used it within his symbol. Plus, the south orientation was the most likely to change and fluctuate… Though three negative signs in a row… that was minorly concerning.

Trelawny suddenly screamed. Half the class jumped, but Harry only hid further behind the houseplant and rolled his eyes. To be fair to Harry, she was very dramatic, but that didn’t mean her predictions weren’t accurate, only that she had no tact and a taste for theatre.

“My dear boy… my poor, dear boy… no… it is kinder not to say… no… don’t ask me…” said Trelawney as she sank into a vacant armchair, her bejewelled fingers clutching at her chest and her eyes closed behind the coke bottle glasses. She stifled a sob into her handkerchief as another Gryffindor student questioned what she had meant to say.

“My dear,” she started in a choked voice, opening her eyes to stare at Harry. Voldemort waited in suspense. It seemed like an age before she continued, saying, “You have the Grim.”

The Grim. Harry had the Grim. That was one of the worst omens of Death anyone could See. Yet the foolish boy was entirely indifferent. Voldemort tried to push his agitation at Harry, but…

<< Don’t worry so much, she’s a hack. >>

Why was his soul-bearer so inclined to disregard his safety? Running after unknown, murderous voices, jumping into a basilisk’s den, and now, discounting obvious signs of impending death. Harry had no self-preservation.

Well. The Grim was bad, but at least it was the west orientation. Though less likely to change by itself as the south, the west was not as set in stone as the north and east directions. That meant that even if Death was coming for Harry, Voldemort could act to prevent it. He just needed to figure out what was causing the omen and avoid it. This would be more difficult with Harry’s disbelief and Voldemort’s still-healing core, but he could complete this task regardless. He would not allow Harry to perish.

Chapter Text

It was the Friday before Samhain and Harry could barely keep still. He was so excited about the coming holiday. Maybe he’d get another song or hear one of his parents laugh. Even the prospect of double potions later today wasn’t enough to bring down his mood.

Ron and Hermione weren’t fighting for once, so they all walked together to the defence classroom. Both kept shooting him hesitant glances, as if they were shocked by Harry’s good mood, which considering their recent dynamic wasn’t unfair – how long had it been since they were all together and happy? Suffice to say Harry skipping on the way to class was unusual, but he couldn’t tell them what he was really excited about; so when pressed for information, he told them he was looking forward to their practical lesson with Professor Lupin.

It was true enough. Lupin lectured on Mondays during the shorter period, but he used the longer session on Friday to allow the class to practise the spells they were learning about, sometimes using games similar to capture-the-flag or tag so they got hands-on experience. It was significantly better than his last few semesters of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Lupin blew deceased Lockhart and Quirrell out of the water; Harry hoped he survived the year and retained the Defense professor position.

The three Gryffindors arrived at the classroom. As usual, all the desks and chairs had been removed, so they placed their bags against the wall and didn’t bother to collect their textbooks. Harry, Ron and Hermione formed a pack with Seamus and Dean, ignoring the Ravenclaws clumped together on the other side of the room. Within a few minutes, Professor Lupin entered the room carefully levitating a large wardrobe through the door. He gently lowered it to the floor at the front of the classroom and called for everyone’s attention.

“Gather round, form a half circle around the wardrobe, please,” he said, his voice a bit ragged. Lupin looked exhausted. He was pale, his skin almost waxy, and he had dark purple bruising under his glazed eyes which shone as if he were running a fever. Harry noticed he wore a thick sweater underneath his robes but still shivered as if he were out barefoot in a snowstorm.

The wizard looked sick. Like really, properly ill. The kind where he should stay in the hospital wing. Harry considered asking the professor if he ought to see Madame Pomfrey, but he was distracted by the wardrobe rattling loudly.

“Not to worry, it’s only a boggart,” Lupin said calmly, though this didn’t appease most of the class. Neville was whimpering quietly in the corner and Seamus was gnawing on his thumbnail, while most everyone else had frightened expressions. They hadn’t faced any real dangers in the classroom so far, it’d been all fun and games. It wasn’t surprising that everyone was nervous, including Harry.

Lupin gave a short and shockingly coherent lecture on boggarts considering he looked one step out of the grave. The class learned that boggarts were amortal and that no wix knew what they looked like. The creatures preferred shadowy, abandoned environments like disused trunks or wardrobes. The professor also told them legends about the creation of boggarts –stories about grafting experiments to make Dark hybrids or being formed by Magic in response to the disbelief of humans.

Some of the other kids looked like they’d be sick when they found out boggarts would eat them after they had ‘died of fright’, but most of them calmed down when Lupin described the spell to banish one. Boggarts could not be killed since they weren’t alive, but they were fairly easy to banish, and the class had a current advantage in numbers.

“We’ll spend the next half hour reviewing the spell and coming up with methods to convert our fears into something humorous with your partners. Then we’ll spend the last half of class taking turns facing the boggart. Begin now, please.” Lupin sat at his desk, drooping until his head rested on his arms, while the teenagers called out to one another and dispersed throughout the room. Harry and Ron partnered up, claiming a few chairs in the back corner.

“Riddikulus,” Harry stated firmly. The wand movements were small and simple: starting with the wand tilted to the lower right, jerk it to the left and then diagonally up, only using the wrist while keeping your arm almost stationary.

Harry felt confident in his physical casting faster than Ron, though he pretended to keep practising. He was trying to figure out what the boggart might transform into for him. His first thought was Voldemort. Not the one he faced last year stuck on the back of Quirrell’s head, but a revived Voldemort at full power. He tried to imagine what that would look like but couldn’t seem to form an image.

He was still working on it when Ron got the mechanics of the spell down and turned abruptly, interrupting Harry’s rote wand waving so they could discuss intent. Ron leaned in, a wobbly smile in place as he softly said, “I’m pretty sure mine’s gonna be a giant spider, like Aragog, but I don’t know how to make that funny. Maybe somehow take its legs off?”

“Well, what freaks you out most about spiders? Is it the number of legs? Or the way they walk?” His fellow Gryffindor nodded mutely to Harry’s questions, which wasn’t an answer, but Harry did have an idea. “Why not make the spider tap dance? Or roller-skate or something?” Ron brightened immediately.

“That’s a great idea! Thanks, Harry! What are you gonna do for yours?” he blithely asked, unaware of Harry’s struggles.

“Not totally sure,” Harry prevaricated, “but I’ve got a few ideas.”

Ron nodded his head, totally oblivious to the lie. Again, Harry attempted to picture an all-powerful Voldemort but failed. His imagination was usually quite good, but… he was drawing a blank – the furthest he got was a shadowy, tall man – and his angel’s unusually intense amusement wasn’t helping matters at all.

<< As my angel, I’m not sure you’re supposed to find my greatest fear to be humorous! >>

Pouting despite the bubbles of amusement still sparkling inside him, Harry tried to think of a different fear, but it was too late. Professor Lupin was already rising unsteadily to his feet and calling the class back to the wardrobe.

“Alright! Everyone ready?” asked Lupin while making eye contact with the students who usually struggled. Seeing no obvious denials in the half circle of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, he turned to the wardrobe. “Wands at the ready!” He called out and then creaking hinges swung open.

Harry half expected a blurred shape or a dark shadow to rush out of the aperture. Instead, Professor Snape calmly stepped over the edge of the wardrobe, a sneer painted across his face. Murmurs broke out from the students – was this a trick from the two professors? Didn’t they hate each other? – as Snape walked over to Neville and berated him.

“Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Why a squib like you was granted leave to attend the hallowed halls of Hogwarts is a mystery to me. Your parents would be ashamed –”

Everyone was surprised when Neville cut off Snape, only stuttering a little as he shouted, “R – r – riddikulus!” Suddenly, Snape’s robes transitioned to a truly atrocious outfit from one blink to the next. He wore a long, puke green dress with a fur-covered scarf wrapped around his neck. A large, wide-brimmed hat with a stuffed vulture was precariously perched on his head and he clutched a bright red handbag. A cacophony of laughter burst out from Harry and the other students at the utterly ridiculous sight.

The Snape-boggart cringed back, shrinking into itself and becoming less imposing. It spun away from Neville and glided over to Micheal Corner, instantaneously transforming into a banshee between one step and the next. Corner, more prepared now that Neville had faced the boggart, forced the banshee to sing awful forties show tunes which made the class laugh again.

On and on, the teenagers took turns facing their fear and converting it into something humorous. It was almost the end of the period when the boggart approached Harry. He had honestly forgotten he’d have a chance too, so he was unprepared when the hairless werewolf loped towards him.

The boggart’s form stuttered and, for the first time, its transition wasn’t seamless. The werewolf blurred, its edges becoming less distinct before it transformed into Uncle Vernon. He had a belt clenched in his fist as he advanced on Harry, purple with rage. “Little Freak,” he said through clenched teeth, the capitalisation of the second word clear. It was a fact, a name, a bitter truth Harry had resigned himself to long ago.

He stumbled back a step automatically, flinching in half-remembered pain, his wand arm dropping down to his side as he stared at his uncle. But then there was a flash of rage and he raised his wand (how dare this muggle be here at Hogwarts!). However, before he cast any spell, his uncle became distorted, his features twisting until everything human was lost. The faded and hazy edges stretched and shifted into a new shape in a horrifying display, and then there was a huge warhead, like the pictures in his old muggle history textbooks.

The bomb was only there seconds before the unstable boggart morphed again. This time into a dementor. Then it was the orphanage matron... a broken candle, an unmarked grave, a child with its neck snapped. The boggart was unable to stabilise, continuously forced into new forms, each becoming increasingly grotesque. As it became what looked like a priest, the boggart fled back into the wardrobe, slamming the door shut behind it with a bang.

Confused, Harry turned to see Lupin staring at him in shock. The rest of the class was also staring, most bewildered like Harry, but a few with concern in their eyes. Abruptly Harry remembered that everyone saw him retreat from the boggart’s first shape. It was doubtful they knew what it meant, but Harry still flushed self-consciously, averting his eyes from the group.

Lupin collected himself and cleared his throat to draw the students’ attention. Instead of explaining what happened, he assigned an essay on boggarts and the banishment spell. Still embarrassed – ashamed – Harry quickly packed up his things and darted out of the room as soon as they were dismissed, ignoring both his friends and the professor’s attempts to stop him.

Harry spent the next day evading friends and rivals alike who tried to speak with him about the boggart incident. He didn’t want to talk about it and would prefer it if everyone else forgot the entire fiasco too. Thankfully, it was the third-year students’ first Hogsmeade weekend and it was easy to distract the other children with the topic. Thank Merlin his fellow teenagers had short attention spans.

When he’d unpacked at the beginning of the year, Harry had been pleasantly surprised to find his permission form signed by Aunt Petunia in his trunk. How he’d obtained the signature was a mystery only his angel could solve, but at least Harry had a pleasant Sunday visiting the small town to look forward to.

<< Always looking out for me, aren’t you? Well, I appreciate it. >>

Ron had been going on and on about some famous sweets shop, while Hermione wanted to visit Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop to get more parchment. Harry hoped to find somewhere to purchase candles for his Samhain ritual this evening. He could keep using the ones the secret Ritual Room provided, but he thought it would be nice to own some of his own… ones dedicated especially to his parents.

Harry woke early on Sunday, October 31st and went to shower before anyone else was up. He put on a nice warm sweater and some of his thicker robes – they didn’t have to wear uniforms on the weekends – and packed a bag for the day that contained his signed permission slip form, his latest book on runes, and a scarf.

He sat in the common room reading while he waited for Ron and Hermione to come down for breakfast. It didn’t take as long as usual; both were excited to visit the village and didn’t sleep too late.

Hermione could probably use a few more hours if the dark circles under her eyes were any indication. She was taking a ridiculous number of classes this year. Harry had no idea how she kept up with all the coursework. His homework load had tripled with only his three new electives. Hopefully, the relaxing morning in town would be a good break for her.

The Great Hall buzzed with poorly contained excitement when the trio arrived to eat breakfast. Ron and Hermione kept the bickering to a minimum, which Harry thought was a nice way to recognise the holiday. The Gryffindor table emptied quickly as students finished eating and flooded into the entrance hall. Filch collected permission forms from the older students while the first and second years looked on enviously.

The golden trio got in the back of the line and made steady progress towards Filch; Harry’s turn arrived quickly, and he handed the form to Filch who took it with something like surprise on his face. For the first time, the line stalled. It stopped moving completely as Filch took an extra minute to run several detectors over the sheet, checking for a false signature or other signs of fraud. Harry shuffled his feet but didn’t say anything as Ron and Hermione waited by the door.

Eventually, Filch handed the sheet back to Harry with a sneer. Harry carefully put it in his bag before joining Ron and Hermione. “Wonder what that was about?” Ron said as they hurried down the path.

“I don’t know! Think he’s got it out for me or something,” said Harry, a wry grin on his face. “Probably knows I’ve been sneaking out after curfew since first year and wanted to make me sweat for once.”

Ron laughed, but Hermione scolded them both. “He’s just doing his job. Besides he probably thought your guardians wouldn’t want you out wandering around with Sirius Black on the loose.”

This time Harry laughed; bitterness laced through his voice instead of humor.

“Right,” he said, “If they knew Black was after me, and could guarantee their personal safety, I’m pretty sure they’d be putting up billboard signs and trying to give him directions.” Ron and Hermione looked uncomfortable, maybe remembering the boggart incident that he refused to discuss with anyone. Harry quickly changed the subject. “Where should we go first?”

This spurred an argument between the two who bickered nonstop as they trudged to the village. By the time they hit the outskirts of town, Harry was irritated. Deciding that he’d had enough, he slipped off to the first store that looked interesting while Ron and Hermione kept walking without noticing his absence.

By himself, Harry roamed around the village. He was disappointed that none of the shops he stopped in carried candles. He was about to visit Steepley's and Sons – a normal tea shop compared to Madam Puddifoot’s which looked like a unicorn threw up on it – when he noticed a dark purple door with a golden flame motif etched in the centre. Walking away from the main street, he hurried over to the door, worried he’d blink, and it’d disappear. It definitely hadn’t been there when he passed this alley the first time.

Carefully reaching his hand out, ready to jerk away if it exhibited any signs of magic, Harry turned the doorknob; apparently, the door was benign so he cracked it open, peeking inside. It was a slightly dusty room filled with furniture. A sign above the desk indicated the store sold antiques but didn’t give a shop name. He was about to step forward when fingers grabbed the sleeve of his right arm.

Harry spun around, yanking himself out of the loose hold, and dropping his wand into his hand. He blushed at his overreaction when it was only Blaise standing in front of him. Quickly flicking his wand back into his holster, he stuttered through an apology.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you come up behind me!” he whispered. The antique shop was so quiet that Harry’s voice seemed to echo into the cobweb-covered corners.

“Not to worry, Harry. I didn’t realise this was the kind of shop you frequented. Are you looking for anything in particular here?” Blaise asked at a normal volume, mouth settled in a practised smile and a knowing look in in his eye.

Candles,” Harry whispered after a slightly too-long pause and watched Blaise’s violet eyes widen minutely. He thought Blaise was more surprised Harry answered than he was at his response. The Slytherin crept closer to Harry, allowing the door to close behind him with a soft ring.

“Do you mind if I join you? I could also use a new candle,” he softly requested. Harry nodded his head and smiled up at the taller boy. He appreciated the subtle acknowledgement that Blaise also celebrated the Wheel’s holidays. Nothing was said that could get either one in trouble if asked by an authority figure – and Harry still could not believe you needed a permit to celebrate what boiled down to a religious ceremony – but it was still a show of trust on Blaise’s part.

“Absolutely! Let’s look together,” Harry warmly agreed. They explored the first room, but it was mainly old furniture and tapestries. A door on the right with a sign over it stated more merchandise was inside. When Harry went in he found it filled with supplies for ritual rites.

A rainbow of candles filled an entire wall, while another had dried herbs. There were carpets and fabrics with pre-made rune circles etched into them leaning against every table and spread out on the floor. Ritual knives were in display cases and a bookshelf full of tomes without any titles on the spines teetered precariously in the centre of the room. Sticks of chalk in various colours, some seemingly infused with other materials, were stacked high in open crates in every corner.

“Perfect,” Harry sighed and Blaise peered down at him in a bemused fashion. He grinned at the other boy before heading to the bookshelf first. Plucking a few off instinctively, Harry didn’t bother to open them; he wanted to read everything here, so it didn’t matter which ones he started with.

Turning, he joined Blaise at the wall of candles. Harry read the descriptions below the candles before selecting two small, pale pink ones. They were infused with carnations symbolising parental love, so Harry felt like they fit what he wanted them for.

<< Do you want any candles? >>

At his angel’s denial, Harry quietly padded over to where Blaise was waiting. He had selected a dark purple candle, but Harry didn’t try to see what it signified, trying to respect Blaise’s privacy.

The two returned to the main room and approached the desk. No one arrived, but a small basket appeared in front of each of them with a number written on it telling them the amount they owed. Harry plopped down some coins and watched Blaise do the same. The baskets disappeared and a note wishing them a pleasant day appeared along with two small palm-sized bags. He easily slipped the books and candles into the expanded bag, which then went into his satchel.

Harry followed Blaise to the front door, who opened it and gestured for him to go outside first. He paused at the threshold, hesitating before blurting out his gratitude. “Thank you for shopping with me.”

Blaise stared down at him intently, searching Harry’s face for something. Harry was unsure if he found it, but Blaise said, “Of course, Harry, it was my pleasure.”

Harry hovered in the doorway, uncertain if he should continue and say what he instinctively wanted to – what Magic was calling him to say.

“Magic bless you on this sacred day,” he whispered hesitantly.

Blaise was visibly startled and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. Seconds ticked by as Harry became more uncomfortable with the shocked staring before the Slytherin jolted and returned the sentiment. Harry felt the magic surge through him as it had in his encounter with the old shop owner. Warm, ecstatic to have found another person his age that also witnessed the Wheel’s Turn, Harry grinned. Blinking twice, Blaise’s face also relaxed into a grin. The two boys stood there for a moment, just smiling at one another, before a noise outside broke them out of the reverie.  

Harry finally fully left the shop, Blaise following behind him. He didn’t look back to see the shadowy, purple entrance disappear, though he knew it was gone. The two boys proceeded back onto the main street, splitting up, no one the wiser to their little detour.

Voldemort wouldn’t have described himself as worried, but he would admit to being more on edge since Harry’s tasseomancy reading. His host had entirely disregarded the professor’s warnings, so it had fallen to Voldemort to keep an eye out for the incoming attack. Instead of resting behind his occlumency barriers during the day, he’d aligned his schedule with Harry’s. He vigilantly kept watch out of his horcrux’s eyes throughout the day and slept during the night, like Harry did.

Since he was more attuned to Harry’s life than usual, Voldemort had solved several mysteries that had flown over the child’s head. Though the boy could be fairly intuitive, especially in high-stress situations, he was ignorant of many secrets around him. For example, Voldemort thought Harry’s little tiff with his mudblood was amusing, but the more he watched Granger, the more intrigued he became.

Back in his school days, he had also chosen to take more electives than the standard amount. But he’d had to self-study many courses and only attend examinations and practical classes with the other students. There weren’t enough hours in a day to complete all the courses traditionally.

Dumbledore, as headmaster, had found an unusually dangerous solution to this problem. He’d given Granger a bloody fucking time-turner. It’d taken Voldemort longer than he cared to admit to arrive at the proper conclusion, but he blamed the absolute lunacy of giving a teenager such an artefact in the first place.

In all honesty, he likely wouldn’t have thought Granger was using tempus magicae if she hadn’t blatantly drawn out the time-turner from her robes after class one day, before rushing over to an abandoned classroom in a distinctly suspicious fashion.

Any interaction with time was complicated magic. Most educated wixen considered it taboo simply because of how dangerous it was to the caster and everyone around them. Voldemort didn’t believe any magic should be forbidden, but he would not have trusted an individual with less skill than himself to attempt tempus magicae spells or rituals. It was much more dangerous than animagicae, necromagicae, or any other magical branch Dumbledore expunged from Hogwarts’s library.

Voldemort was truly surprised that time-turners were already available to the general public. They’d only been invented recently, towards the end of the last war. Usually, the Unspeakables kept newly developed artefacts under lock and key for ages before releasing them – especially the dangerous ones like time-turners.

Voldemort thought giving the ability to time travel to those too weak to do it themselves was an awful idea. The time-turner negated some of the dangers – little chance of accidents since it was simple to activate, restricted travel to a single time stream, and limited how far back the traveller could go – which was good because it had ended up in the hands of a teenager.

Still, there were risks, serious risks, when attempting tempus magicae. The time-turner had no safety feature for paradoxes, which usually resulted in localised repercussions – short, frequent reversion loops, a region held in stasis, people frozen in time, an insane caster – but could be disastrous if somewhere magically saturated like Hogwarts amplified the effects. It was folly to trust a student to handle these things.

Well, Dumbledore’s stupidity would be Voldemort’s gain. He would steal the time turner from Granger at the end of the year. He’d have to be careful – he couldn’t risk drawing attention to Harry – but Voldemort was an experienced thief. Pilfering a single necklace would be easy, regardless of its typical location around Granger’s neck. Thankfully, Granger was consistent, and surprisingly conservative in her use. She only activated the artefact to attend classes, so there was little risk of waiting so long. He could take his time and nick it just before summer when it wouldn’t be quickly missed and Harry wouldn’t be trapped in the castle.

He'd been mulling over potential heist plans when, in Harry’s recent defence class, Voldemort discovered another secret. He should probably be shocked at Dumbledore’s audacity in hiring a werewolf without telling anyone, but at this point, he was used to Dumbledore’s ineptitude as headmaster… and it hardly compared to giving Granger the time-turner.

Lupin’s declining health specifically at this time of the lunar cycle, the lack of silver anywhere in the classroom, and the fact that his bloody boggart was a full moon all made it obvious that he was a werewolf. When he saw Severus bringing in a goblet of wolfsbane, Voldemort wondered how the staff had managed to keep it a secret from the students for so long.

Additionally, this idiot had chosen Remus Lupin as his alias. His first name referred to a wix from Roman mythology raised by wolves, and his last name literally meant ‘characteristic of or relating to wolves’. It was a dead giveaway to his lycanthropy. And if it was his real name then his parents hated him. One or the other must be true.

Knowing that Lupin was a werewolf alleviated many of his concerns regarding Harry. Voldemort could easily handle a single werewolf, even on the full moon – hell, even with his damaged core. So, while Harry visited Hogsmeade on Samhain and returned for the Halloween feast Dumbledore insisted on holding, he had been relatively relaxed.

Voldemort was looking forward to the Samhain ritual this evening. He was also happy that Harry was granted access to the hidden ritual shop in Hogsmeade so easily and managed to gain the trust of Heir Zabini. All in all, things were going well, which was, of course, when Black decided to break into Hogwarts and slash the Gryffindor common room entrance painting to ribbons.

Hogwarts was not nearly as secure as he was led to believe. It was one thing for Voldemort himself to slip through the wards, as either wraith or horcrux, but for a mad Black after over a decade in Azkaban to do so? Someone ought to figure out if Hogwarts’s wards were working at all.

Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall and soon the students from the other Houses joined, most of them with confused expressions.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle. I’m afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately. Send word with one of the ghosts,” commanded Dumbledore as he headed for the large doors at the entrance. He paused before exiting, an annoyingly self-assured look on his face.

“Oh yes, you’ll be needing…” Dumbledore tapered off before finishing his sentence. He conjured hundreds of sleeping bags with a seemingly nonchalant wave of his wand. He left the students with a casual, “Sleep well!” and a serious look on his obnoxious face as he took all the capable professors and left prefects to guard the children.

Voldemort held a small grudge about not being hired by Dumbledore but based on what he’d seen of Dumbledore’s decision-making skills, he should probably take it as a sign of his own competency.

Harry and his fellow Gryffindors took over the spot closest to the doors – probably as some pathetic show of bravery in case Black entered – and were all getting into their ugly, purple sleeping bags. Ginevra had tried to snag a spot next to Harry, but Ronald and Granger had been quicker to the punch. All for the best, really; Harry wasn’t incessantly mooning over her anymore, but he was too focused on the girl whenever she was present, no doubt drawn to his fellow horcrux.

Voldemort and Harry were both annoyed that Harry wouldn’t be able to sneak out and perform his Samhain ritual. It was too risky to perform without a rune circle and they couldn’t chance anyone who might know the rites seeing Harry light a candle. All the prefects and other students were paying special attention to Harry since everyone knew Black was trying to hunt him down.

It took hours before the children calmed down enough to sleep. The excitement of the evening meant no one was tired, so the Great Hall was filled with murmuring voices whispering new, ridiculous rumours about how Black got in.

Voldemort wasn’t comfortable with Harry being left unaware within such a public area, so he took over when Harry drifted off for the night. He hadn’t possessed Harry since the train, so Voldemort could maintain it for a few hours without running through his reserves. He kept one eye on the door while he read unobtrusively. He’d only had control for a few minutes when Dumbledore and Severus returned.

“Headmaster? The whole of the third floor has been searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either,” Severus quietly informed Dumbledore as he walked into the Great Hall and approached the section where Harry and his friends were sleeping.

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney’s room? The Owlery?” Dumbledore responded. There was a lack of urgency in his voice, considering they were trying to track down a mass murderer. Severus reiterated that their search had been completed, yet unsuccessful.

Maybe Dumbledore’s calm was because he realised Black wouldn’t harm the children. Both Voldemort and Dumbledore knew Black hadn’t been the secret keeper for the Potters. He’d been hunting Pettigrew when he’d risked the Statute and murdered the muggles, but with his revenge mission completed, he’d be unlikely to harm a child, especially one that was a wix.

Oddly, Severus and Dumbledore continued their conversation standing just in front of Harry. It was like they wanted a curious child to eavesdrop… how very suspicious.

“You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before – ah – the start of term?” Severus inquired. He waited for an affirmative response before continuing, “It seems – almost impossible – that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed –” Severus’s voice cut off when Dumbledore interrupted him.

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle would help Black enter it. I must go down to the dementors. I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

Dumbledore flounced off to talk to the dementors and Voldemort glanced up to see deep loathing and resentment etched on Severus’s face before he stormed off. Neither seemed to notice that Harry appeared awake, but Voldemort couldn’t help thinking the whole conversation was staged for the boy’s benefit.

What would Dumbledore gain by having Harry suspect Lupin of helping Black? The only new teacher hired was Lupin, so recently ‘appointed’ could only refer to him. Harry was so far unaware of Black and his father’s close friendship. Voldemort wasn’t certain, but Lupin was likely also in that social circle considering they all joined Dumbledore’s Order straight out of school together.

Voldemort considered the possible manipulations, but eventually, he decided it didn’t matter. He’d already negated whatever effect Dumbledore was aiming for by preventing Harry from hearing the conversation in the first place. And though it may have been an intentionally misleading conversation, the emotion on Severus’s face was likely real. It was good to know his former spy might not be as deep in Dumbledore’s shadow as he’d thought.

Chapter Text

Harry knew that most people thought Sirius Black had broken out of prison to attack him, but it had never really felt like he was in danger. Being in Hogwarts, surrounded by magic, made him feel invulnerable. Invincible. Indomitable.

But now Harry felt helpless. Hunted. Black had broken into the castle, destroyed the Gryffindor tower entrance, and evaded the professors and dementors. He had shattered everyone’s illusion of Hogwarts’s safety.

In response, Mrs Weasley set Percy the task of following Harry. Percy stuck closer than Harry’s personal shadow whenever he was outside his dorm or classes. Harry had no idea what the 17-year-old prefect was supposed to do if he saw Black attacking Harry, but there was no dissuading him from his assigned mission.

Professors also found a reason to follow Harry. They walked him from class to class, some unobtrusively lurking in the background, others with a guiding hand on his shoulder asking him about his day, and one with a harsh glare spurring Harry to walk faster out of the dungeons. Ron and Hermione weren’t helping the situation either. They spent half their time arguing and the other half caging Harry between them and suspiciously checking around corners as if Black were going to jump out from the charms classroom and strangle him.

But the most annoying part was being watched. All. The. Time. It was unnerving for someone who’d spent most of his life out of sight, hidden behind a cupboard door, to be the centre of attention. With the whole boy-who-lived thing, Harry was used to some notice, but not this incessant staring, not at Hogwarts. Harry was equally angry at Black for the extra attention as the threat to his safety.

The whole situation kept him on edge, exacerbating his anxiety. There were rare occasions when he could be calm and just breathe, most ensuing while he rid his broom. When McGonagall called him to her office with concerns about his safety while playing quidditch, Harry thought he might explode in anxious fury.

Luckily, she was easily convinced to let him keep attending so long as Madame Hooch supervised the practices. McGonagall was the one to make an exception that allowed him on the team as a first-year and she’d bought him his broom. She had a strong competitive streak regarding quidditch, which he was extremely grateful for since it allowed him to keep flying.

Harry returned from an early morning practice session to find Ron and Hermione awake and arguing in the common room. Of course, they were fighting. What else did they do nowadays? Harry paused to listen and determine the topic of their current squabble.

“You’re never around! Always running off to study or go to another class. You have no time for your friends anymore!” Ron yelled. His face was already red so they must have been at this for a while.

“That’s not true! You simply don’t –” Hermione responded, but Ron cut her off.

“It is true! I haven’t seen you do anything but schoolwork since Halloween!” Ron shouted. Hermione mouth twisted and it was obvious she was annoyed at being interrupted.

“There’s nothing wrong with dedication to school! It’s you who –”

Harry sighed and trudged past them to get cleaned up and change out of his quidditch gear. As he showered, he reflected on his friendships with Ron and Hermione, reminiscing on memories they shared.

Though they’d had a rough start as a trio, what with the teasing and the troll, their dynamic with one another in their first year was like a dream. Harry used to think they’d always be there for one another. Ron and Hermione had followed him into the trap door on the third-floor corridor without hesitation.

But last year, Harry’s faith in them had been deeply shaken. Both had turned on him when they found out he was a parselmouth. Eventually, they apologised, but Harry didn’t think he’d ever have that same naive trust, that belief, in friendship again. However, after the apologies, they’d returned to being good friends, if not as close-knit as before.

Now it felt like the whole trio was falling apart. Ron and Hermione fought like cats and dogs – or rather cats and rats considering they started fighting about their pets. Harry had tried to hold everything together, but their pleasant interactions felt increasingly fake. He had to put on a façade to make the peaceful encounters possible. And if he always had to wear a mask, was the friendship real anymore?

As Harry descended to the common room, he could still hear Hermione and Ron’s raised voices, and he couldn’t help thinking that maybe… maybe keeping the golden trio wasn’t possible.

Deciding he didn’t want to deal with the two of them this early, Harry brushed past and walked to the Great Hall alone for breakfast. When he arrived at the table, he was surprised to see more people than expected. Gryffindors slept late so Quidditch must have run longer than usual if this many people were awake.

Searching for a seat, Harry saw Ginny wave him over with a grin on her face. He smiled back and joined her at the table; then he poured himself a cup of tea and loaded his plate with fruit and toast, listening to Ginny’s yearmates converse about Lupin’s defence classes.

Harry sat serenely eating breakfast when Ginny nudged his foot under the table. Electricity jolted through him, radiating up through his foot. For the first time, Harry wondered what caused the reaction. He liked Ginny, of course, but wasn’t this feeling too strong? Almost unnatural? She gazed at him, concern evident in her eyes.

“Hey, everything okay? You are kind of quiet today,” she whispered.

Harry blushed, suddenly feeling bashful under her gaze. Despite the friendship they’d developed since the Chamber incident, sometimes when Ginny focused on him with a certain look in her eyes, he couldn’t help reacting. Again, he wondered at his intense response. Was this normal?

“I’m fine,” Harry squeaked, his voice breaking awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he knew his face was bright red now, he lowered his voice and firmly said, “I’m fine.”

Though Ginny looked doubtful, she dropped the topic and returned to her friends’ conversation.

Their breakfast was interrupted when Wood came crashing down the aisle, swearing like a sailor. He caught sight of Harry and slammed his hand down next to Harry’s plate on the table, making a loud thunk sound that attracted the neighbouring students’ attention.

Harry shuffled a bit lower into his seat, but dared to ask, “Uhh – is something wrong, Wood?”

“Is something wrong he asks?! Is something wrong?! Everything is! We’re not playing Slytherin! Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing Hufflepuff instead. Slytherin has backed out of the match like the cowardly weasels they are,” Wood angrily swore, cursing out Flint with insults Harry had never heard before.

Ginny, the brave soul, interrupted his rant to ask why. Harry hoped she would make the team next year, having a member who could deal with Wood when he was like this would be a boon.

“Flint’s excuse is that their seeker’s arm is still injured. But it’s obvious why they’re doing it. Don’t want to play in this weather. Think it’ll damage their chances… and they’re right. No one will be able to score much with that storm rolling in. We might as well kiss our chances at the cup goodbye,” Wood judged, finality ringing in his voice. As if in support of his statement, they all heard a distant rumble of thunder.

Harry, unsure if he should try comforting the older Gryffindor, turned to look at Ginny. She looked morose, upset Gryffindor was condemned to lose. She was a die-hard Quidditch fan and, considering the twins were on the team and she was a Gryffindor, had a personal stake in the outcome even if she hadn’t made the team this year.

“Nothing for it,” she sighed. “You’ll just have to do your best.”

Harry laughed cheerfully, replying, “Easy for you to say. You aren’t the one that’ll be searching for the snitch in a hurricane.”

She giggled and Harry grinned, charmed, feeling light. The same strange warmth suffused him again, though he felt almost wistful this time. It reminded him of his night in the wheatfield, celebrating Lughnasa, of hours hidden in the back corner of Tomes-A-Plenty, reading… of writing in the diary, conversing with Tom.

The feeling vanished and Harry’s mood plummeted as Ron and Hermione shoved into seats beside him. Hearing them still arguing, Harry pushed away from the table, briskly walking to the main doors. He was surprised when Ginny caught his arm as he exited the Great Hall. She was out of breath – she’d run to grab him - but still offered him a sympathetic smile.

“I can tell you’re having some problems with Ron and Hermione. Just cause things aren’t perfect, well, it doesn’t mean you should give up on them entirely. Whatever you’re comfortable with, however much you feel like being around them, you can do that for now. Things will work themselves out, you’ll see. And in the meantime, I’m here whenever you want to talk,” she softly counselled.

With that final piece of advice, Ginny gave Harry a brief, tight hug – Harry again felt that zing of energy as it swept through him – and then walked off to join the other Gryffindors in her year. Ginny was right. He’d give himself some space and things would calm down with Ron and Hermione at some point.

A violent storm woke Harry before sunrise on the day of the Quidditch match. Knowing it was useless to try and go back to sleep, Harry stood up to prepare for the day. He dressed in his warmest gear underneath his uniform and threw one of the sweaters Mrs Weasley made for him on top before climbing down the stairs to the common room.

Trying to keep calm, Harry idly spent the morning hours reading about chimaeras and crups in front of the fire. Eventually, other Gryffindors woke up and came downstairs. Each wished Harry luck on their way through the common room, all dressed in thick sweaters and carrying black umbrellas to take down to the pitch.

When the twins came downstairs, they also had Weasley sweaters covering their uniforms. Harry beamed when they noticed his matching outfit.

“Look Gred, our littlest brother is wearing his Christmas sweater!”

“I see that Forge, yes! What style, what pizzazz! Give us a twirl, won’t you, Harry, dear?”

Harry snickered as he did a few dramatic spins at their urging. The three walked together in matching outfits for breakfast. Wood was already there too, but he was gazing morosely at the sky and not eating.

“We’re doomed,” Wood moaned, dropping his head onto the table with a loud crack. Several people looked over before chuckling and going back to their food. Harry briefly patted Wood on the back then returned to his breakfast, smearing some jam on his toast. He didn’t think he could eat much, but he’d learned it was better to have a small amount of food in his stomach than have it empty.

Despite the storm, the entire school came to the pitch to watch the quidditch game. Students were huddled into groups for warmth, hiding under umbrellas to escape the torrential downpour. Harry saw the Slytherin quidditch team walking down to the stands with smug looks on their faces.

He didn’t really blame them. If he’d found a method to move the date of today’s match to one when the weather was better, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Harry joined the rest of the Gryffindor team who had gathered in the locker room for Wood’s pregame pep talk.

The pep talk started with an awkward silence as Wood tried to speak. He repeatedly opened and closed his mouth without making any noise and in the end, no speech was given. Instead, the twins rallied everyone together for a quick huddle declaring “Let’s finish this, quickly!” in loud voices as they all raised their hands high up in the air.

Harry laughed as the team left the locker room, but the howling wind quickly snatched away the sound. The pitch was coloured in shades of grey as the rain beat down unceasingly. He tried to watch Wood as the older boy marched forward to shake hands with Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff team captain and seeker, but both were faded, blurry outlines at this distance.  

He knew he’d have difficulty beating Diggory in today’s match. Normally his lighter frame was beneficial since it allowed him to accelerate faster and have increased manoeuvrability; however, in this weather, Harry could barely keep his seat on the broom. The wind was throwing him this way and that. He felt like he’d been shoved into the washing machine on a high-spin cycle. He was soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and could barely see a foot in front of him with how thick the rain was.

Lightning streaked across the sky, flooding the pitch with dazzling white light before fading to the gloomy dark grey again. It was quickly followed by a boom of thunder that nearly stopped Harry’s heart, it was so loud.

In that brief instant, Harry saw Diggory rushing after a gold glint on the other side of the field. Urging his broom to speed in that direction, Harry shivered when the air turned ice cold. It suddenly got darker as night decided to come early.

Another flash of light and Harry slowed to a stop as he floated overlooking the entire pitch, several hundred feet high in the air. He meant to look down, to get his bearings when the lightning flashed, but his attention was caught by the several dementors hovering around him. Panicking, his chest squeezed tight and vision greying, he dropped into a dive, but it was too late.

Harry was caught.

The ropes tying him to the bed were biting into his wrists and ankles. Harry couldn’t help but whimper softly in fear and pain as he tugged on one, trying to get loose. He didn’t understand why he was being punished when Billy was the one who had picked a fight with him.

Harry tried tugging at the ropes again, but they wouldn’t budge. They were too tight, and the knots were too secure. Tears burned, threatening to fall from his eyes, but he resisted. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t. Crying meant you were weak, and Harry was not weak.

He jerked and stifled a whimper when the door opened. Two large men entered, sedately followed by a local priest. Harry’s muscles tensed with more fear at their arrival. The priest always stared at Harry. He pulled him out of lessons and touched his hair. Harry hated it; Harry hated him. He didn’t want to be tied up, helpless, with him here.

“Do you know what you did wrong, child?” the priest asked in a soft voice that bellied the hard look in his eye. Despite promising himself that he wouldn’t show fear, Harry instinctively cringed away as the man stepped closer.

“I – I didn’t do nuf – nuffink wrong. Billy att–” Harry tried to explain. His voice was shaking though, and he was cut off almost immediately.

“Now, we both know that’s not true. Lying is a sin, dear child. But I know you cannot help yourself right now. You are contaminated. Tainted. That’s why we must do this. To cleanse you. To purify you.”

Harry was trembling now, terrified. He didn’t understand what they planned to do, but the look on the priest’s face was scary. And the other men looked blank – no emotion. They were like puppets. No one was listening to anything he said, either. Harry was at their mercy, and he knew they didn’t have any.

The priest spoke in a low, steady tone of voice. It was in Latin. Harry was learning the language but didn’t understand all the words the priest used. He could only pick out a single word – faith.

He heard a sloshing sound and suddenly his skin was soaked. They’d dumped a bucket of cold water on him, drenching him along with the entire bed. His teeth chattered, and gooseflesh emerged on the uncovered skin of Harry’s neck, arms, and legs. One man went to refill the bucket, while the other soaked him a second time. Again and again, taking turns, the two men doused Harry with water while the priest murmured in the background.

Eventually one of the men asked, “Fink that’s enough, Father?” and the process halted.

“We must be sure the holy water has fully exorcised the demon from the child,” commanded the priest in a voice roughened from speaking nonstop for so long.

He loomed over Harry and smirked down at him. The wooden cross hanging around his neck brushed against Harry’s chest. Harry tried to cringe back, but the ropes held him fast. He was so cold that he felt numb. Except when the priest touched a hand to his face, the warmth burned. It was too hot! Harry couldn’t help flinching away, though he was able to stifle his cries.

“He’s still possessed. We must continue,” the priest ruthlessly judged. And the freezing cycle started again.

Voldemort jolted himself out of the flashback moments after the priest ordered water thrown on him. He hadn’t thought of his first exorcism in decades, and he hated that the dementors had brought the memory to his mind’s surface. Still wet and freezing from the storm that howled around him, Voldemort realised he was on Harry’s broom in a steep dive.

Pulling up and sharply climbing instead, Voldemort tried to yank Harry back to the forefront. Instead, he was sucked back into the memory – the priest was looming over him, reaching for his face – Voldemort wrenched himself free again. He couldn’t release Harry from the exorcism without being caught in the flashback.

A flash of light almost instantly followed by a loud boom of thunder had Voldemort instinctively jerking the broom to the side. A black cloak whooshed past him and, as the sky lit up again, he saw dozens of dementors circling him. They must have crept onto the quidditch pitch during the game, hidden by the storm. The creatures were doubtless starving if they’d searched for Black since summer, with no prisoners to feed on. They likely thought the risk of disobeying was worth a quick meal.

This was not an ideal place to take on a murder of dementors. Voldemort could fly, but he preferred to do so under his own power, not reliant on a broom while school children threw balls at one another. And he couldn’t use any magic that Harry didn’t know in such a public situation. He needed to be closer to the stands that held the professors. They could deal with the dementors and halt this ridiculous charade.

Voldemort swooped down to avoid the nearest dementor and felt his hands slip on the broom handle. “Fuck,” he cursed. A gust of wind pushed him to the right and he almost hit another dementor as frost formed on his clothes and face. Leaning forward, he mimicked Harry and dived. This allowed him to escape the circling dementors and drop down into the main area of play.

Unfortunately, the respite was brief. Another flash and blaring clap of thunder and a body collided with him, knocking him off his broom. Voldemort released some of Harry’s magic. He needed to snag the broom handle before it drifted out of reach. But his breath seized in his throat and he froze as his attention was caught by a dimly lit shape in the stands.

There, on the top of the stands, was Harry’s Grim.

It sat motionless, clearly visible against the skyline, its large silhouette unmistakable. Voldemort stared at it, unblinking, until a dementor swirled in front of him, blocking his view. He released a wave of magic to shove it out of the way, even as he felt the ropes around his wrists tighten and heard the priest's prayers.

Damnit he should have used Harry’s magic to push at the dementor – he’d practically drained his core with that single technique – but he was too used to his own usually ample reserves and had acted instinctively.

Prying himself out of the memory again, he looked back at the empty top rows. The Grim had disappeared, along with his opportunity to grasp the broom. Voldemort was not panicking – Dark Lords did not panic – but he was concerned by this situation. Harry’s consciousness trapped in his memories, a murder of dementors trailing him, the Grim disappearing, falling hundreds of feet through the air, professors and students watching… there were few palatable options to be found in this situation.

Voldemort grunted as someone grabbed him around the waist and levered him onto the broom ahead of them. Astonished, he squinted over his shoulder to see Fred, the Weasley twin with the chaotic magic that never stopped moving. He couldn’t believe the boy had managed to catch him. He wasn’t as well versed in broom flight as Harry, but he was knowledgeable in physics and that move was practically impossible.

“Alright there, Harry!?” Fred shouted the question to be heard over the wind. Voldemort just nodded his head. He noticed the other twin, George Weasley (whose magic was more tightly wound) circling below them, maybe as a backup measure.

He didn’t hear anything, but a whistle must have sounded because all the players from both teams were descending to the ground. Voldemort and Fred slowly drifted down. Keeping their balance on a single, very wet broomstick with the violently howling wind was challenging. They were about fifty feet from the ground when the dementors made one last-ditch attempt to feed.

Voldemort carefully lashed out – thankfully, he remembered to use Harry’s magic – forcing the dementor away, but this overbalanced Fred, who fell off the broom. On reflex, Voldemort jumped off after the twin. He simultaneously wrapped his arms and Harry’s magic around Fred as he reached him, then slowed their fall.

There wasn’t enough time to decelerate completely, but he reduced their velocity enough that neither would be injured. All the air was knocked out of his lungs as Fred landed on him and Voldemort couldn’t contain the grunt that slipped out.

“Harry!” shouted the twins as Fred rolled off him and George dropped to his knees beside them. Air wheezed out between his lips, and his magical core fucking ached. Quidditch was the worst. Why did Harry play this ridiculous sport? He prodded Harry’s mind, but the boy was unresponsive.

What should he do in this situation? What would Harry do? Ah, that was easy to predict. Voldemort awkwardly raised his hand, arm shaking lightly, and gave them a thumbs up. There. That should do it. Voldemort let his head drop back to the ground and closed his eyes, his final sight the Patroni circling the field above him.

Voldemort woke up in the hospital wing. This was unusual because it ought to have been Harry waking up in the hospital wing. Voices whispered around him, but he ignored them to focus on his mind and core. Well, his own and Harry’s.

Hoping Harry hadn’t been locked in a loop of his exorcism this entire time, Voldemort sunk into his mind. Harry was unconscious, but not trapped in a memory, thank Merlin. Still, Harry had been passed out for an extended time already and who knew how long it’d take him to wake up.

This was a serious problem, considering Voldemort had used a significant portion of his magic fighting the dementors and it was replenishing slower than he’d like. He would either need to leave Harry’s body in a coma – which made Harry vulnerable to attacks and Voldemort vulnerable to possible detection – or potentially strain his core further by possessing Harry for an extended time if he remained unconscious.

He really needed to find a better method to deal with dementors. Pushing raw magic at them could move them physically but it didn’t negate any of the effects which Harry seemed especially sensitive to. Since Voldemort had seen the Grim immediately after the latest dementor attack, he was reasonably sure Trelawney’s prediction referred to them. They needed a way to protect themselves.

Voldemort was roused from his preoccupied state by a deep voice saying, “I thought he was dead for sure.” Quickly considering his options, knowing he needed more information, and that he preferred straining himself over leaving him and Harry unaware of threats, Voldemort opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling as more voices spoke. Counting, he determined at least seven, possibly eight people were gathered around his hospital bed.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he heard a girl say. Mutters of agreement echoed from several of the people around him. That was when George noticed he was awake and nudged his brother.

“Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white underneath the mud. “How’re you feeling?”

Voldemort wasn’t even sure how to answer that question. Harry was technically unconscious, so he was just peachy. It was Voldemort who wasn’t feeling too hot, considering he had to deal with their body’s sore muscles and pounding headache. Groaning, he pushed himself up into a seated position.

“What happened?” he asked, intentionally leaving Fred’s question unanswered. General questions were always the best way to get a group talking. Plus, the vaguer he was now, the more accepted Harry’s confusion would be when he took primary again and didn’t remember any of this.

“You fell off,” said Fred. “Well, I fell off. You jumped. Must’ve been – what – fifty feet?”

“We thought you’d died,” said one of the older girls, her voice and hands shaking. George was tightly gripping his brother’s shoulder, his jaw clamped tight.

“Well… as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. A little fall like that would hardly do me in. What happened with the dementors? Why were they at the pitch?” Voldemort asked.

Granger pushed her way to the front of the group to answer, “Professor Dumbledore sent the dementors away when he saw them. He was furious they came on the grounds.”

Well, that was obvious. Voldemort literally led the dementors down to the teachers so they could remove them, and he did not doubt that Dumbledore was mad they’d almost damaged the boy-who-lived.

“Right. Of course. Dumbledore to the rescue,” Voldemort said facetiously, rolling his eyes. “But why were they able to get to the pitch? Were they banished or are they still on the grounds?”

Silence was the only response he got, and Voldemort sighed. Harry probably wouldn’t have been that scornful. He prodded Harry again, but the boy’s mind was still comatose. Ugh, Voldemort did not want to deal with all Harry’s friends over the next few hours. Trying to get back in character, he said, “Well whatever. But the match, what happened? Are we doing a replay?”

Silence again. Damnit, what had he said wrong this time? He glanced at Fred and George; they were the most helpful of the ones here.

The twins exchanged a frustratingly opaque look. It was George who ended up answering. Bluntly, he said, “Diggory got the snitch. Just after you fell. He didn’t realise what had happened. When he looked back and saw you both on the ground, he tried to call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and square… even Wood admits it.”

Well, thank Salazar for small mercies. If they’d tried to make Voldemort play that ridiculous game, he’d have made a pact with the dementors and given them an entire school’s worth of souls.

Then again, Harry would likely be upset since it was his first loss. Still, this was the best outcome, considering the current situation. The Gryffindors all seemed to take his silence as upset and tried to reassure him. After a while, Fred cut in, saying he had more bad news.

“Think you’re gonna need a new broom, Harry. Your nimbus fell into the whomping willow. Professor Flitwick brought it back, but…” he gestured to where Ron held a blanket full of splinters.

“Not a problem, I’ll just buy a new one,” he assured. Ronald looked disgruntled by the response, but the twins easily nodded. “The important thing is that you and I are both okay,” he declared while gesturing to Fred and himself. “By the way, good on you for catching me from the higher fall. Fifty feet is nothing, but a few hundred might have done some damage. I have no idea how you managed that, but thanks.”

Fred stared at him, his eyes suspiciously shiny, and said, “You’re the one that jumped off the broom after me, Harry. I’m pretty sure we’re square.” Good. He preferred it if Harry didn’t owe the boy a life debt.

Soon after, Madame Pomfrey came to shoo everyone away so ‘Harry’ could get some rest. This suited Voldemort perfectly, so he urged everyone to leave and then laid down to meditate some more.

It was not until later that day that he got visitors again. Voldemort was surprised to see that it was the twins who had returned. He’d have thought it would be the younger Weasley and Harry’s mudblood who came back the fastest.

“Hello,” he said. The two identical Weasleys looked at one another, nodded, and then returned their gazes to Harry.

“We’ve got an early Christmas present for you,” they said in concert. Voldemort raised an eyebrow. This was random. He thought it might be a prank when they pulled out a blank sheet of parchment.

“What’s that sup–” Voldemort’s voice tapered off and stared at the parchment when the magic revealed itself. It was remarkably intricate. The nondescript paper was a rune-based artefact, but Voldemort couldn’t discern its full purpose aside from linking to the castle’s wards without further study. But the connections it made to Hogwarts, its method of bypassing the security to prevent such tampering, was truly a work of art. Caught up in analysing the magic, Voldemort was startled when George spoke.

“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” he said, patting the parchment fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we decided earlier, that your need’s greater than ours.”

They were just going to give this to Harry?! Voldemort was astonished. Such an artefact was worth a fortune, though owning it was most definitely illegal. As they described how they stole it from Filch’s office when they were only first-year students, Voldemort found himself snickering at the story.

When they explained how the map worked, he was thrilled. They’d just presented the means to track all the threats against Harry while he was at Hogwarts. He could watch Dumbledore and figure out when Black was in the castle. He might also be able to update it to show dementors. And, as a bonus, the map showed him several secret passages in and out of the school.

Well, it was official. These twins were his favourites out of Harry’s friends, especially when they gave him priceless artefacts while encouraging law-breaking. They were chaos-given-flesh and he was pleased Harry had claimed their loyalty. (Harry’s yule gift of fox sculptures suited them to a ‘T’.)

“Well, we better head back,” said Fred, with a grin.

“Yeah, gotta make sure Wood hasn’t jumped from the Tower or anything,” George said jokingly, though Voldemort noticed he still had a hand clamped on Fred’s arm.

“Ta, Harry!” they exclaimed in unison, strolling out of the hospital wing. As the door slammed shut, it was halted by a foot blocking its path. It swung back open to reveal Ginevra Weasley. She stared at him with a disconcerted expression as she approached. She looked him up and down, doubt growing in her eyes with each passing second.

“H – Harry?”

Chapter Text

Ginny pushed open the door to the hospital wing, a get-well chocolate frog melting in her pocket, and walked towards the only occupied bed. Harry turned to look at her – green eyes duller than she’d ever seen them – and cocked his head to the side, an inquisitive tilt in the angle that made her want to shudder.

(That’s not Harry.)

Her steps stuttered as she approached Harry’s bed. Why would she think that? Of course, this was Harry. Same wild hair, same small stature, same brilliant emerald eyes. He was just tired and pale. Who wouldn’t be shaken after such a close encounter with death?

(He wasn’t like this after we tried to kill him in the Chamber of Secrets.)

Ginny needed to stop blaming herself for that. She hadn’t tried to kill Harry, that was You-Know-Who. Dumbledore had told both her and her parents that she’d been enchanted. That’s why she’d targeted the Muggleborns. That’s why she dealt with the endless monachopsis. That’s why she’d missed time last year.

If she remembered more than her parents or Dumbledore thought –secrets shared with a boy in a book, burning hisses forced out from her throat, plans of betrayal nurtured inside her chest – well, that was no one’s business but hers.

Harry smiled at her as she reached the edge of his bed, but it looked wrong. Fake. Still, she greeted him, though she couldn’t help how it came out as a question. “H – Harry?” she stuttered. She watched in uneasy fascination as his eyes darkened ominously.

“Of course,” he replied, his lips twisting into a mischievous grin that caused her to relax. That looked much more natural. “Who else would I be?” he teased, and she laughed.

(You know that’s not Harry. ‘Who else would he be?’ You know who.)

“Right,” she said, her laughter abruptly dying, leaving the hospital wing in awkward silence. “Well, I wanted to stop by and see how you were. It was terrifying when you and Fred fell, I thought my heart would stop.”

“We’re both okay,” he said, face softening in remembrance. A spike of envy stabbed through her. Of course, Harry was closer to Fred than he was to her. They were both on the quidditch team and spent most of Christmas break together last year. With time, Harry would come to care for her too. They’d already made so much progress.

(Doubtful. Harry’s affection is only because you harbour me within you. He will never actually care for you, not while I exist.)

Desperate to keep Harry’s attention for a few minutes more, Ginny started a conversation about the game and the dementors. Harry asked how certain people responded to the attack and she did her best to answer. But honestly? She hadn’t focused on anything after she realised Harry was falling. Every part of her had jumped into action, trying to save him, though she’d been too slow.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” she casually lied. As if she could forget anything to do with Harry. But she was taking it slow, one step at a time, no need to scare him off. “I brought you a chocolate frog. It’s supposed to help with dementors according to Professor Lupin. He gave us some on the train, well, I’m sure you remember. Here.”

Ginny dug the slightly melted frog out of her pocket, reaching forward to give Harry her gift. She gently placed it in his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing his. Suddenly, she felt lightheaded and dizzy, like she’d been playing quidditch for hours and was starting to get dehydrated.

“Are you okay Ginny?” Harry asked, the concern in his voice evident, but the glint in his eyes made her uncomfortable. He was worried about her, this was a good thing, a step forward. She wanted him to feel that way, to always look at her like that.

(That’s greed, Ginny, not concern. You know what that looks like, you see it in the mirror all the time.)

“I’m fine! Just feeling a little faint. Today was pretty stressful and I’m not even the one who fell fifty feet! I should let you rest. Madame Pomfrey will be along to kick me out soon anyway. I hope you get better quickly, Harry.”

“I feel better already, Ginevra. I hope you visit again soon,” Harry replied, a sharp grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Ginny shuddered and instinctively took several steps away. When she glanced back at him before she left, the frightening smile was gone. There was a soft, happy one in its place. She must have imagined the other expression. Harry would never have looked at her like that.

(That’s not Harry.)

Voldemort had never prescribed to the philosophy that every cloud had a silver lining, but damn if he hadn’t struck gold in the wake of the quidditch-dementor fiasco. The Weasleys were proving to be quite profitable visitors today. The map he’d received from the twins was valuable, but Ginevra’s visit resulted in something truly priceless.

Initially, he was annoyed when Ginevra immediately doubted that Harry was himself. She shouldn’t have realised anything, wouldn’t have without the horcrux feeding her information. Luckily, he knew she didn’t have any occlumency shields. Planning to inconspicuously adjust her memory, though he hated wasting magic on this, Voldemort gently pressed into her mind. He was pleased to find she was actively talking herself into believing what Voldemort wanted her to without any intervention on his part. No one could know Voldemort possessed Harry, especially not someone from a family so deep in Dumbledore’s Light camp.

Voldemort conversed with Ginevra, but he kept most of his attention on her mind throughout the conversation, carefully evaluating her reactions to his Harry impersonation. Sometimes he heard incongruent thoughts but she didn’t seem fully aware of them. His diary must be conscious, but not in control.

This observation only served to frustrate him more. He needed to test his newest horcrux vessel and determine the exact outcomes of the ad hoc ritual he’d performed, but he couldn’t while his current magical reserves were so low. Harry’s magic wouldn’t work either, since he was a horcrux too. It would contaminate the tests.

Voldemort wasn’t actively pondering this problem during Ginevra’s visit, but it was brewing at the back of his mind. It thrust itself to the forefront when she touched Harry’s hand briefly while giving him a chocolate sweet. Normally, Voldemort would’ve been irritated by her presumption, but he could only feel shocked when her magic was siphoned into his core.

Somehow, whatever happened to Ginevra during his ritual, her magic was now compatible with his core. It was impossible. (Considering all that he’d discovered in the last few years with Harry, maybe he should stop using that word especially when animagicae was involved.) Still, he’d never seen anything like this before. A wix’s core always, always, repelled foreign magic. It was one of the few set-in-stone laws of magic.

Of course, Voldemort could use Harry’s magic, he had been for years. But that was external – like he’d tamed a feral cat who refused to come inside but would hunt birds at his command. It obeyed him, willingly submitted, but it wasn’t his. And even that was only possible because of their soul-deep connection.

Somehow, the girl’s magic must have… mutated… into a version of his own and now recognised Voldemort as its progenitor. That was the only way it could inhabit his core. Strangely, it was actually her magic too, not his diary’s. His diary’s magic matched his exactly. It was his. But horcruxes only had a limited amount given to them during their creation ritual; Voldemort couldn’t use it without damaging the horcrux. He wouldn’t risk destabilising any of his horcruxes by extracting his magic from them when he’d eventually, naturally heal. Now, however, he had a nice little magical charging station in the form of one Ginevra Weasley.

The girl’s magic settled inside him and renewed his reserves. The contact had been brief, so it had barely replenished him, but any additional magic was a boon when he needed to possess Harry til the boy woke up.

This was a brilliant opportunity.

Voldemort could use the girl to heal his core faster than planned and it was also the perfect chance to study the phenomenon. If there was a way to convert a wix’s magic into a universally available form… the possibilities were infinite. He needed to know more about this.

Smiling, already planning which tests to run first, Voldemort watched the girl say goodbye as giddy anticipation ran through his veins.

Ginevra paled and flinched when she saw his face. Ah, that was not ideal. But this was a chance to test if he could use her magic freely. Using his newly available supply, Voldemort reached into her mind and softened the smile in her memory, replacing it with Harry’s usual one.

It was as easy as breathing. The stolen magic was no different than using his own naturally produced magic. It was the same on a fundamental level. Voldemort was so intrigued that he barely stopped himself from experimenting on her right there in the hospital wing.

He could be patient. There was no rush, not now that he could restore his reserves afterwards. Voldemort could run Ginevra through any experiments he desired. There would be plenty of time at Yule when the castle was practically empty, and the holidays were quickly approaching.

The next few days went by slowly. Ginevra didn’t visit again, and Harry remained unconscious. Voldemort decided to stay in the hospital wing until Harry woke up. Harry’s lack of memory would be easier to explain if he was still ‘feeling off’ in the days following the dementor attack. Madame Pomfrey easily yielded to his desires when he’d claimed additional symptoms. Thankfully, exposure to dementors was well known to vary dramatically from person to person, so it wasn’t unusual for Harry to still feel ill effects.

And if his reserves got depleted again, he could sneak out in the evening and steal some from Ginevra.

Several of Harry’s friends visited regularly. The annoying Ronald and Granger repeatedly came to argue with one another in front of him. Voldemort didn’t know why Harry continued to put up with them. He was admittedly shorter in patience than Harry, so those visits often ended with him coldly asking them to leave, though he tried to avoid any actual fights.

He did have an interesting encounter with Harry’s newest Slytherin friend. Heir Zabini had brought a box of expensive Italian chocolates and a roll of parchment earlier this afternoon. Despite his and Harry’s pleasant conversation in their Ancient Runes class and the unexpected encounter at the Hogsmeade ritual shop, he hadn’t expected the pureblood boy to make such a serious overture towards friendship this soon.

“Hello, Harry. I hope you are recovering well. I’ve brought some notes from our runes course and a small treat, so I wasn’t only bringing you schoolwork,” offered Zabini, a confident, practised smile painted on his face.

Now if Harry were a Slytherin, that would be either an attempt to get Harry in his debt for a small favour or an initial step towards courting an alliance. As it was, Harry was a Gryffindor so Voldemort was uncertain what the young heir was trying to accomplish during this visit. Well, he’d politely accept and see what Zabini did.

“I’d have appreciated only the notes, but these chocolates look divine,” he complimented.

Zabini tilted his head to the side, a curious expression crossing his face, before he shook himself, seeming to dismiss whatever thought he’d had. Voldemort was annoyed that the young heir’s occlumency barriers were so solid.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Harry, but I won’t stay long. I look forward to your return to class. You still owe me a turn using your spare fountain pen,” Zabini jested with a cheeky grin.

Voldemort smirked at Zabini, then nodded graciously before the heir left as quickly as he’d arrived. Settling back into the sheets, Voldemort felt the first stirring of Harry’s consciousness. Finally! He could have stretched the possession another day without stealing from Ginevra, but his reserves were lower than he preferred. Now, it wouldn’t be a problem. Harry was waking up.

“Harry.”

Someone was calling his name. Harry knew he should get up, Aunt Petunia was probably furious, but he was so tired still.

“Harry.”

That wasn’t Aunt Petunia. Or any of the Dursleys. Who was calling for him? Harry tried to open his eyes, but it remained dark.

“Harry… why?”

Why what? Harry wanted to ask the mysterious voice. Finally, Harry saw something besides darkness. A small light in the distance. He pushed to his feet and stumbled towards it.

He found a door. Not any door though, this opened the Chamber of Secrets. Harry’s heart started pounding. He didn’t want to go inside. There was a horror in there, a monster, he just knew it.

Still, there was nowhere else to turn. Everywhere around him was dark and getting darker. The dementors were coming. Voids of space detached from the black and reached for him. Panicked, Harry turned and hissed δ open δ at the door.

Carved snakes shifted and stone crackled as the door scraped open. Harry sprinted inside. He immediately tripped over a large, warm object and crashed to the ground. His hands stung, palms bleeding, and he whimpered.

Rolling over, Harry cringed away. He’d tripped over a corpse. Over the decayed body he found in the Chamber last time. Last time? Harry scrambled back, but his hands were burning. Curling them into his chest, he realised he wasn’t bleeding.

Ink. His hands were covered in ink. Tears streamed down his face. Tom. Harry hurt Tom. The one who’d believed him without a doubt about the Dursleys. Who’d answered Harry’s questions and kept his loneliness at bay. A sob crawled up Harry’s throat, but he didn’t get the chance to grieve.

Screams echoed throughout the cathedral-like room and the rotting corpse sat up. Harry choked and tried to scramble away, but his hands and ankles were tied with rope.

“Harry. Why did you kill me, Harry?” rasped the corpse. Harry stared into the face, this must be Tom, but he couldn’t find a single feature that resembled the boy whose yearbook pictures he’d sought out.

“I – I – I’m so sorry, Tom!” Harry cried, but the dead man just shook his head.

“You need to be purified,” he said and then Harry was freezing. Cold water was everywhere; it soaked his bed, slicked across his skin, filled his lungs. Harry was drowning. He coughed, desperate to breathe, but he couldn’t. There was no air.

“Child, you know what you did. You deserve this,” condemned Tom, who’d been transformed while Harry’s eyes were shut. He would have looked exactly as he had as a teenager, if not for the gaping stab wound in his stomach leaking ink on his shirt and coating the hands that tried to hold it in.

“Just accept your fate,” he commanded, one arm coming up to rub his face and smearing black across his cheekbones, nose, and chin.  Tom leaned in and pressed his ink-coated lips to Harry’s. Harry shut his eyes, anticipating the burning, the excruciating heat after being so cold. But it didn’t burn.

It was freezing. Ice cold. He felt a ripping pain deep inside him, and despite not having any air in his lungs, somehow, he was exhaling. Opening his eyes, Tom was gone. The dementors caught him, kissed him. Harry was losing his soul.

He tried to scream, but no sound would come out. He clawed at his throat, desperate to re-inhale his soul, desperate to stop suffocating, when warm hands circled his wrists. A woman’s voice murmured soothing words. She told him he was fine, that Harry was okay, but he couldn’t believe it. Harry couldn’t be fine. He shouldn’t be okay. He was a murderer. He killed Tom.

Harry opened his mouth, he needed to tell the woman, but the words stuck in his throat. He gasped, panting, but he couldn’t do more. Then someone tilted his head back and poured a sweet-tasting liquid down his throat. He would have struggled if he could – he didn’t need more water in his lungs – but Harry couldn’t lift his arms even in self-defence. He swallowed and the world faded into a soft grey, steadily darkening to black.

Harry woke up feeling extremely groggy. He reached for his glasses before remembering he hadn’t worn them in over a year. Grumbling a bit, Harry opened his eyes as he stretched his arms over his head.

It took a moment, but Harry recognised the room he was in as the hospital wing. Sitting up, he flicked his wand into his hand casting a quick tempus. It was only 5:45 AM, so it was still quite early. He hadn’t expected Madame Pomfrey to be awake yet, so he was surprised when she came bustling over to his bed only a few minutes later.

“My word! You’re up early today. How are you feeling?” she asked as she waved her wand in a complicated pattern around him. Harry watched with interest, he hadn’t done any reading about healing spells yet, but maybe he should study it.

“I’m good, Madame Pomfrey. I feel right as rain. What happened with the dementors? Is everyone else alright?” he replied.

She gave him a concerned look, pausing her wand movements, before starting again using different motions. “Everyone else is fine, Mr Potter. Neither you nor Fred got injured in your fall… and the dementors were driven away by the staff. Can you tell me the last thing you remember, dear?”

Harry tried to think, but his mind was still hazy. He clearly remembered avoiding the dementors. Then there was the exorcism. But that wasn’t Harry – was it? – and it certainly wasn’t recent, he’d only been four years old. It must be a flashback from his angel’s past caused by the dementors. Harry would ask him about it later.

After that, his memories got fuzzier. He thought he had a conversation with the Weasley twins about a map, and had Blaise visited him while he was here? He’d definitely had another nightmare about the Chamber. That dream was unfortunately crystal clear.  

“Uhm – my last distinct memory is falling after the dementors attacked. I know it’s been a few days though; I can sort of recall my friends visiting.” Harry’s statement did little to dispel the mediwitch’s concern.

“It’s Tuesday morning, Mr. Potter. It’s been two days since your quidditch game. You have been conscious and cognizant since your fall but were still feeling aftereffects from being exposed to the dementors. Then last night I had to treat you for symptoms of a panic attack. I’m worried you might have reacted adversely to the calming draught, considering your amnesia.”

He nodded along as she explained what had happened the last few days and kept a keen eye on the wand as she cast spells on him. Madame Pomfrey summoned parchment and a floating purple quill that recorded her findings as she dictated them aloud.

Harry learned more about his health during that session than he wanted to know. He was deficient in several vitamins, but only mildly malnourished. He also had signs of remodelling on his skull, indicating he’d been dropped at least once as a baby, and had suffered multiple concussions in his life, the latest being from his confrontation with Voldemort at the end of his first year at Hogwarts.

Madame Pomfrey thought that was why a surprisingly large portion of his magic congregated in his head since it was used to heal his brain repeatedly. Still, to Harry’s relief (or maybe that was his angel’s?), when she finished all her tests, the mediwitch couldn’t determine what caused his lack of memory.

“Maybe it was like you said. Just a weird interaction between the dementor side effects and my panic attack?” Harry suggested. He wouldn’t be surprised if the dementors caused memory issues considering they forced people like Harry to hallucinate traumatic ones. In any case, Harry didn’t care about the lost time, but he’d do anything to get out of the med clinic as soon as possible.

Reluctantly, Madame Pomfrey released him when Harry pleaded his case, considering she couldn’t find anything wrong with him. But she warned him to come back if he had any symptoms, especially headaches, dizziness, or forgetfulness. He agreed instantly, though he had no intention of returning.

When Harry left the hospital wing, he was immediately mobbed by a crowd of Gryffindors coming to visit him. The entire quidditch team was there. Wood approached first. With a fierce look in his eyes, he pulled Harry aside and ordered him to purchase a new broomstick as soon as possible since they’d be practising twice as often and twice as long next semester.

Since Harry hadn’t known that Gryffindor had lost or that he needed a new broomstick, he simply nodded dumbly in response and took the magazine Wood forced into his hands. He’d never lost a quidditch game before. He would have thought they’d stop the game when the dementors attacked a player, but apparently, they did not.

Harry listened carefully while the group herded him back to Gryffindor Tower when he heard many players rehashing the game. Most spoke about how Fred had caught Harry at five hundred feet or about Harry’s self-sacrificing move to jump after Fred when the dementor knocked them off their broom. But he did find out that Diggory had caught the snitch while he’d been falling without noticing the dementors.

That was disappointing, if not unexpected. And Harry was grateful he wouldn’t have to play again immediately. Though he tried not to think of it, the dementors had been terrifying. He wanted to avoid them as much as possible, and, considering they caused him to fall unconscious, he was worried about future quidditch matches.

Harry started researching how to fight the dementors, visiting the library as soon as his classes for the day finished. Most methods suggested avoidance tactics, but Harry did find one spell that countered a dementor’s aura. The patronus charm, with the incantation expecto patronum, was a high-level spell that required the caster to convert the emotion from happy memories into a corporal guardian made of magic.

Harry had planned to practice it on his own over the weekend, but when Professor Lupin asked him to stay after their double defence class, he had a better idea.

“I heard about the match and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?” Lupin asked him. Had he wanted Harry to stay back to ask about his broomstick? Really? All the other professors were concerned about his health, considering the fall and the subsequent stay in the hospital wing. Harry guessed Lupin hadn’t been on the pitch, so maybe he didn’t know the details.

“No, it’s toast, but it’s okay professor. I can owl-order a new one,” Harry answered calmly.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

That was pretty interesting. He would have guessed the tree was ancient if someone had asked him before, not so recent that Lupin remembered it being planted. But really, enough about the broomsticks. He needed to focus. Harry had stayed after for a reason.

“Did you hear about the dementors too?” he asked Lupin, looking at him directly.

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time… furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds… I suppose they were the reason you first fell?”

Harry was surprised at Lupin’s response. So, he was at the game if he saw Dumbledore. Or maybe he saw Dumbledore afterwards? Yes, that made sense too. It was still weird that Lupin was more worried about the quidditch game than the dementors or the students, but Harry shouldn’t judge his priorities. He was still a better defence professor than Quirrell or Lockhart.

“Yes,” Harry answered crisply, “I need to find a way to stop being so affected by them. I’ve researched a bit and the Patronus Charm seems like my best choice. You made the dementor on the train back off. Did you use that charm? Can you teach me?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, Harry… quite the contrary… but yes, that was the Patronus Charm,” Lupin humbly answered at Harry’s deliberate pause.

“If the dementors come to another quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them. I can’t keep falling unconscious whenever one is around, especially with Sirius Black coming after me. Where Black goes, the dementors will follow,” Harry said with absolute confidence. Lupin looked uncomfortable at the mention of Black – maybe he was afraid of him – but he sighed and gave in to Harry’s request.

 “Well… all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

Harry grinned and pumped his fist into the air. Lupin gently smiled at his enthusiasm, before making Harry promise not to practice the spell until their lessons. When Harry gave his word, Lupin ushered him out of the classroom urging him to hurry so he wasn’t late for his next class. Come next year, Harry would finally have a way to fight off the dementors to keep both himself and his angel safe.

Chapter Text

It was a Hogsmeade trip this weekend and everyone in Gryffindor, including Harry, was excited. Harry thought it was a brilliant idea to have it just before the winter holiday started and hoped it’d improve everyone’s spirits in time for Yule and Christmas. Ron and Hermione had even agreed to keep the arguing to a minimum during the visit to the town in honour of the holiday season.

“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said Hermione, as they gathered in the entrance hall waiting in line for Filch to check their approval forms. Harry didn’t know why they did it every time; surely once at the beginning of the year should have been enough? “Mum and Dad would really love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!”

“They’re dentists, right? They’ll love those!” Harry replied enthusiastically. Ron rolled his eyes but held back any rude comments – if grudgingly polite silence was the best Harry could expect, he’d take it. Harry and Hermione continued discussing potential gifts for her family when someone pushed Harry from behind. He stumbled forward into Hermione who prevented them from falling.

Harry groaned when he heard a familiar irritating cackle, hiding his face in Hermione’s hair. He did not want to deal with Malfoy when he was in such a good mood. Although, to be fair, he didn’t think he was ever in a mood to interact with Malfoy. Unfortunately, Ron was willing to hold his tongue around Hermione, but he’d made no such promises regarding Malfoy.

“What’d you do that for you poncey prick?!” Ron bellowed at Malfoy.

“Oh, lighten up, Weasel. I’m helping here. He moves slower than a snail. It’s not like anyone else wants this bint… except maybe Weasel here,” mocked Malfoy with a wiggle of his bleach-blond eyebrows. Ron clenched his fists, his face red as a tomato, but Harry only sighed, intent on ignoring Ron’s tantrum and his angel’s crackling irritation.

“You alright? Seems Malfoy has some issues with personal space, but well, what can you expect,” Harry said as he stepped out of Hermione’s space. He straightened her scarf and leaned in, pretending to whisper despite his voice carrying to the surrounding crowd. “Got a bit of only child syndrome, thus no savoir-faire. Makes him awkward. Prone to pulling pigtails. He can’t pick up on social cues so it’s best to just ignore him.”

Hermione giggled, mirroring his angel’s glee, when Harry mischievously smirked at her. He lazily turned around and saw Malfoy had bright, pink circles on his cheeks and a sneer on his pointy face. Ron was also surprisingly sombre, glancing from Harry to Hermione with a concerned expression. Harry smiled at him in what he thought was a reassuring fashion, but Ron’s frown deepened.

“I am not awkward!” Malfoy pouted, stamping his foot.

<< What an immature child, >> Harry thought to his angel, delighted when cheery enjoyment was the reaction. Wanting to entertain his angel more, Harry stepped forward to goad Malfoy.

“Sure, sure,” Harry assured, injecting as much doubt into his voice as possible. Harry condescendingly patted Malfoy on the shoulder twice before his hand got slapped away. “Listen. I know you were trying to help me out here, but respecting personal space is like rule number one. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it eventually. Just keep trying, little frog.”

Harry grinned as Malfoy gaped at him like the frog Harry had accused him of being. His satisfaction and amusement grew. Malfoy was reaching for his wand, but the group had been shuffling forward this whole time and had finally reached Filch. Harry spun around and pulled Hermione ahead of him, nudging her arm so she’d hand her form to the caretaker. Ron went next and then it was Harry’s turn. Filch did his usual enhanced array of checks reserved only for Harry and then permitted him to leave. The three swiftly walked to the front door, but before exiting Malfoy rushed to get the last word.

“Yeah, walk away, you cowards! If it were me, I’d be out there looking for Black not hiding away in the castle like you, Potty,” Malfoy shouted as an odd, parting remark.

Harry continued his path forward and glanced curiously at Ron, but he appeared just as bewildered as Harry felt. Shrugging his shoulders, Harry said, “Well that was dramatic. Off to Hogsmeade then?”

Ron and Hermione agreed, and the trio started the long walk to the village. Ron had strategically placed himself between Harry and Hermione and instigated a pleasant conversation about Christmas plans for all of them. It was a nice change from his previously silent demeanour and Harry let a pleased grin bloom. The golden trio was back!

The three friends spent a pleasant morning in Hogsmeade going from shop to shop. Harry managed to find gifts for almost all his intended Christmas and Yule recipients. He planned on doing a different Yule ritual this year that wouldn’t consume as much magic nor create any gifts, so Harry needed to purchase presents for everyone.

He got a skein of sparkly, chrysomallos yarn for Mrs Weasley, an unenchanted set of rollerblades for Mr Weasley, and a charmed harmonica for Hagrid. He snuck off to purchase brand-new quidditch gloves for Ron and a book on abjuration for Hermione. Ginny was a bit harder, but Harry found an eagle-feather quill she’d hopefully like. Harry bought an enchanted ever-filling zippo lighter for Fred while George would receive a set of sage-infused candles that Harry was drawn to purchase.

Then he started looking for his newer Slytherin friends. Theo was easy. Harry chose a fancy, dark green fountain pen that he knew the boy would love since he kept borrowing Harry’s during class. That only left Blaise who, like Ginny, was more difficult to shop for. It wasn’t until he’d picked through the back shelves at Dervish and Bangs that he came across a possible gift. It was a ritual dagger. The blade was blunt and had more than a few scratches, but there was a vibe to it that he thought Blaise would appreciate.

Harry debated searching for something to get his angel but was uncertain what an incorporeal being would want. Then again… his angel hadn’t always been a spirit. He’d lived during WWII, gone to Hogwarts, and been abysmally treated at his orphanage – there was a thought at the edge of Harry’s mind, a connection he should have made by now, but it slipped away. It wasn’t the time for such deep thinking anyway, not during the holidays! It’d be easier to ask directly.

<< Do you even celebrate Christmas? Or Yule? >>

Amusement and exasperation tingled up his spine at the thought, which was a pleasant if unclear response.

<< Well, I’ll keep an eye out and see if anything draws my attention. You deserve the perfect present! If I can’t find anything, maybe it can be an intangible gift. >>

The delighted reaction had Harry humming to himself as he returned to find Ron and Hermione though he also noticed the slight undertone of uncertainty present.

By the afternoon, the three Gryffindors were weighed down by packages. Each of their noses was a bright red courtesy of the biting cold wind. Together they decided to stop for butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks. It was packed for lunchtime, but Ron snagged a small, corner table that would fit all of them. Harry briefly worried about the danger of sitting crammed behind a large evergreen tree covered in lit floating candles, but he assumed safeguards were built into the charms to prevent the tree from catching fire.

As they settled in, Harry couldn’t help continuously checking around for trouble as his anxiety rose. The morning had been wonderful; hence why he was nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was anticipating another dementor attack or Black storming in to kill everyone, so when the inevitable fall happened, Harry didn’t recognise it at first.

It came in the form of a mostly drunk Hagrid, a rosy-cheeked McGonagall, and a more than slightly tipsy Minister Fudge all sitting down at the nearest table. If they hadn’t been imbibing so prolifically, they might have remembered to set up silencing charms or lower their voices for such a sensitive conversation, but as it was, neither occurred. Instead, they had a loud, drunken chat about Sirius Black’s crimes, listing details hardly anyone outside the Ministry knew to a crowded pub.

This was how, after Harry’s most relaxing morning in months, he learned that he had a lethal godfather who betrayed his parents, spied for Voldemort, and was still trying to hunt down Harry in vengeance for his Lord. Suddenly, Malfoy’s earlier taunt and Mr Weasley’s request at the train station made sense.  

Harry should be angry. He thought he was angry, furious, somewhere deep inside him. But a numbness was spreading through his veins, growing with each pump of his heart and leaving cold desolation in its wake. Harry thought he might completely shut down if not for his angel’s mix of irritation-frustration-concern. He clung to the foreign frustration; let it morph into his own and fill up his empty soul. Dropping payment for the butterbeer onto the table, he stomped out of the Three Broomsticks, Ron and Hermione hurrying to follow as he returned to the castle.

It took several days for Harry to feel even moderately normal again. He didn’t know why the news was so hard to swallow, but Harry had trouble accepting it. It was so strange to suddenly have someone to blame for everything wrong in his life. Especially when, until he turned eleven, he’d blamed his parents themselves.

The day Hagrid brought his letter, Harry’s world shifted on its axis. Things Harry had always known to be true – “There’s no such thing as magic!” – “You’re a Freak, boy, and that’s all you’ll ever be.” – “What happened to your parents? Dead. Drunken car accident.” – were revealed as horrible, intentional lies. He’d learned so many life-changing facts, so quickly that he had wondered if he’d dreamt the entire meeting until he’d embarked on the Hogwarts Express his first year.

Harry only had a month to process this paradigm shift before he was thrust, ill-equipped and ill-prepared, into the magical world as the famous boy-who-lived. With no other options, Harry had juggled the new knowledge, never focusing too long on any single ball for fear of dropping the others, struggling to keep them all in the air as more and more were added.

This latest revelation about Sirius Black and his parents was one bombshell too many, and Harry’s whole system had come crashing down. He had to reconcile everything he’d previously learned as he integrated this new facet of Sirius Black and his parents into his worldview.

Harry knew Voldemort was responsible for killing his parents and he blamed him for that. (Though it was hard to feel that loss. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to have been raised by his parents in the magical world.) However, when he took more time to think about it, Harry understood his parents had been combatants – soldiers – fighting in a war for their ideology. He’d been proud of them; proud that his parents had deep convictions that they’d defend no matter what.

Now, Harry found out his parents had quit the fight – they were actively hiding from the Dark, from Voldemort, from the war – when they’d been killed. How could his parents be the heroes everyone claimed when they’d given up their cause? It seemed… weak. Cowardly. Opposite the perfect Gryffindors that everyone told him they were. That everyone expected him to be.

Black’s betrayal only added to Harry’s distress. Black was the lynchpin. If he hadn’t convinced Voldemort to attack his parents’ home, would Voldemort have won the war? If he’d kept spying but refused to turn over the Potters, would his parents be alive, hiding as deserters? If he’d been the loyal, Light Gryffindor, would Harry have grown up amidst war, isolated and ignorant of the magical world? One thing was certain. Without Black, Harry’s parents wouldn’t have died that Samhain.

He had so many questions he’d likely never get answers to. They whirled around and around in his mind, whipping into a tornado that left him dizzy and sick to his stomach.

Harry wished he could write to Tom about it, he would have understood. Tom knew about the Dursleys and what they used to say about his parents. He knew how pressured Harry felt to live up to this new, heroic family name. But Harry couldn’t talk to Tom, wouldn’t be able to ever again.

Depressed, Harry became increasingly miserable the longer he dwelled on Black and the Potters, though thankfully his nights had been absent from nightmares. But even his angel couldn’t distract him for long during the day before the thoughts tangled in his head again, darkening his mood. It wasn’t until Yule that Harry managed to snap out of his funk.

His angel had pointed him to this ritual when he’d been flipping through the Wheel of the Year again last month. The rune circle was surprisingly simple, but that wasn’t what caught Harry’s attention. Gathering his invisibility cloak and other supplies, Harry reread the poem guiding the rite.

May Magic guide you on the way,
To find the log where secrets lay.
Tend the druid’s hallowed dome,
Offer sacrifice; guard their home.
Give thanks for gifts the forest gives,
In harmony with all that lives.

Clearing his mind except for the poem’s contents, Harry set off for the Forbidden Forest. He wandered, walking in whatever direction instinctively felt right, leaving his eyes closed more than half the time. He stopped when he heard a large crack above him and a branch broke off the oak tree to land at his feet.

Harry smiled and placed a hand on the trunk. Dragging his arm down, the tree sliced his palm, and he smeared blood onto the bark. Unsure of this next part, he hadn’t learned an incantation for this, Harry focused on his desire for the large oak to continue to grow safely and pressed his magic out through his hand, his blood. The tree flashed bright gold, and a low tone reverberated in Harry’s chest. Then the forest reverted to its shadowy state, the only sound the buzzing of insects and rustling of leaves.

Feeling euphoric and slightly lightheaded, Harry picked up his newly acquired yule log. Cradling it in his arms, he hiked back to the castle and into the secret Ritual Room. With significantly more confidence than last year – he didn’t recognise all the runes, but he did know some and was much better at drawing them – Harry copied the protection circle in chalk on the ground.

Midnight arrived and Harry was seated inside the circle meditating with his yule log cheerfully burning in front of him and his angel’s wreath crowning his head. He remained there all night, soaking in the warmth until the branch was completely consumed and only ash remained. Harry returned to his dorm the next morning significantly calmer and clearer than he’d left the night before.

The Yule rite hadn’t provided any solutions to his concerns and frustrations, but it had helped Harry set aside his issues with Black, and what he represented, to enjoy the holidays. Christmas was rapidly approaching, and Harry began enthusiastically preparing for it. He spent most of his time wrapping presents, having snowball fights, and eating biscuits.

Harry woke early on the holiday morning and threw his pillow at Ron to wake him up too. They hurried down to the common room in their pyjamas and slippers, shivering at the chill but knowing they’d soon have a new Weasley sweater thrown on top. The common room was unsurprisingly empty, most students had returned home, except for the Weasleys, whose parents were staying with Charlie again, and Hermione who’d decided not to attend her family’s ski trip this year.

Harry ended up smooshed between the twins with a pile of presents next to him and a humongous rectangular box spread across both his and their laps.

“Open this one first!” Fred shouted.

“Yah! We’re dying to know what it is,” said George.

“Alright, since you’re both so insistent,” Harry replied, ripping a small paper strip from the middle since he couldn’t reach the ends. At the first tear, the entire shape of the present collapsed, as if the item inside had vanished, leaving only the gift wrap behind. Harry initially thought it had been a prank by the twins, but then he saw Fred staring down at his lap in awe while George poked at the paper on his own, confused.

Digging more of the wrapping away, Harry was shocked to find it had concealed a brand new Firebolt! It was the fastest broom on the market, only released this year, and had a price tag to match. All the Weasleys were staring at Harry at this point.

“Wow!” exclaimed Ginny enviously, “Who gave you that?”

“There was no name,” Harry said in bewilderment. “Maybe someone who saw the game got it for me, or McGonagall again? But why wouldn’t they sign it?”

“Who cares!” said Ron, avarice shining in his eyes. “Can I have a go?” Ron pleaded as Percy whapped him, mumbling something about manners. But Harry nodded, a wide smile on his face.

“For sure! We can all take turns this afternoon!” Harry offered and all the Weasleys cheered, but Harry noticed Hermione biting her lip in uncertainty.

“It’s okay, Hermione. I know you don’t like flying, don’t feel like you have to take a turn,” whispered Harry in her ear, leaning over George. Then the twins yanked him back to force a Weasley sweater over his head. Harry laughed so hard that his ribs hurt, and an ache settled into his chest, borne of wistfulness. Dressed in his matching outfit, for once feeling like part of the family, Harry let the warmth of the moment wrap around him like a soft blanket.

Afterwards, the entire group went down for breakfast. The elves had outdone themselves creating an extravagant Christmas feast. They even had French toast, Harry’s favourite! Everyone had a pleasant time pulling crackers and humming carols, so Harry didn’t notice Hermione was missing until they began the trek back to Gryffindor Tower. Looking around, Harry spotted her further down the hall, walking with McGonagall, Harry’s new broomstick precariously floating in front of them.

“Hey!” he shouted, running over. “That’s mine! What are you doing?”

“Mr Potter, I know it’s the holidays, but I still expect you to mind your tone when addressing me.”

“Sorry, Professor. But why do you have… what are you…” Harry trailed off, uncertain how to phrase his questions. Professor McGonagall sighed and glanced down at Hermione who was staring at her feet. The contentment Harry had felt all morning twisted and soured as Hermione refused to meet his eyes.

“There were concerns about an anonymous present you received. I am taking the item to be tested for any curses or jinxes that might have been placed on it,” she said, turning her gaze back to Harry. He opened his mouth to argue, but McGonagall gave him a stern look and demanded, “I’ll not have any discussion on this matter.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut, but he felt his eyes sting with tears. Betrayal made his chest ache, so similar and yet so different to the pain from the morning. The Weasleys who had caught up by this point were clamouring about the unfairness, but Harry offered a sharp nod and walked away.

Hermione followed him, grabbing his hand before he’d gotten more than a few doorways down.

“Harry,” she pleaded, “You know why I had to do it right? I know it was an expensive gift, but I did this to prevent you from getting hurt. I think Sirius Black might have sent it! And Professor McGonagall agrees with me!”

“Hermione,” said Harry quietly, and she immediately froze. “I’m not mad you want to keep me safe, but you – going to McGonagall like that behind my back – I am upset how you did this. You should have talked to me first.”

Harry gently removed his hand from Hermione’s limp grip, ignored both their watery eyes, and turned away.

A few days after Harry argued with Granger, Voldemort watched him ditch his friends so he could visit Hagrid alone. After Harry’s tête-à-tête with the half-giant would be the perfect time to take over since Harry planned to read by himself for the rest of the evening and had already told everyone he’d be gone. It was always convenient when Harry fought with his friends, it made possessing him more straightforward, though Voldemort could do without the moping.

Originally Harry had been upset about Granger surreptitiously notifying McGonagall about his anonymous gift without talking to him first. Harry felt it showed a distinct lack of trust and with his recently gained, albeit false, information about Black, the perceived betrayal cut deep. Voldemort thought Harry would have gotten over it fairly quickly if the girl had given him time to process his emotions and was properly penitent. Instead, Ronald learned of the situation and blew everything out of proportion.

The Weasley boy started a very loud, very public argument with Granger about the broomstick. This caused the mudblood to double down on her original stance and she refused to apologise to Harry in protest leading to other fights since those two were like oil and water now that their hormones were kicking in.

Thankfully, Harry no longer relied solely on those two for his self-esteem. His friendships with the twins, Ginevra, and his newer Slytherin acquaintances provided additional support to prop up his confidence. Hagrid was another friend to Harry, though of a different variety, considering the age and status difference.

Hagrid sent Harry a hand-whittled whistle for Christmas, so the boy was making a special visit to thank him. To Voldemort, Hagrid was a useful resource for information. Thus, he encouraged Harry’s continued maintenance of that connection. He minorly regretted his past support when they heard Hagrid blubbering loud enough to shake the hut’s door from outside.

Harry faltered initially but then gathered his courage and knocked, intending to find out what was wrong. Hagrid answered, saw Harry, and lunged forward enveloping the boy in a snotty, wet hug. His disgust must have been obvious to Harry because, in the next moment, the boy projected his thoughts at Voldemort.

<< I know it’s gross, but Hagrid is a friend. We can tolerate it for a minute. >>

Well, Harry would always be more patient than him. The young Gryffindor comforted the half-giant, patting the side of Hagrid’s stomach since his arms wouldn’t reach any further, but it took ages for the man to calm down enough to let go. Voldemort was proud when Harry cast a discreet scourgify on himself afterwards without Hagrid noticing.

Harry was proficient with many common spells, capable of casting them both nonverbally and wandlessly. He wasn’t aware how uncommon that skill was, and Voldemort thought it hilarious how frequently Harry flummoxed the Nott boy with his nonchalant use of magic.

While Hagrid let go of Harry, he kept crying into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief without answering Harry’s inquiries. Instead, he pointed to a note on the table.

However, we must register our concern about the hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated.
Yours in fellowship…

Harry’s anger when he read the note was a nice change from the previous sulking. The hippogriff’s plight had awakened a protective urge within the boy, who had always been sympathetic to creatures. In disputes between humans and animals, Voldemort knew Harry was more inclined to take the side of the animals, believing them less cruel, as he showed when he released the boa constrictor in the zoo at age ten.

<< This is not okay. I’m going to help him. >>

Sending agreement down the horcrux connection, Voldemort saw nothing wrong with allowing Harry a cause to fight for, though hopefully it wouldn’t consume too much of Harry’s time or affect his schoolwork. As Harry mentally began to organise a research schedule to help Hagrid with his appeal on Buckbeak’s behalf, Voldemort waited for the right moment to take control.

Just as Harry arrived at the library, he saw a golden opportunity. It was late, but not yet past curfew, and Ginevra was hurrying to catch up with Harry, likely with a plea for attention. Voldemort noticed her first – he was currently more attuned to Harry’s magic than Harry himself was, the boy distracted by the hippogriff – and took over before Harry’s magic notified him of her presence. Voldemort turned to meet the girl who carried his first horcrux nestled against her spine.

“Hey Ginny!” he eagerly greeted her, remembering to use the shortened version of her name. She flinched – damn, his smile had been wrong again – but relaxed when she met his eyes. “Will you follow me for a minute? There’s a secret I want to talk to you about and I don’t want anyone to overhear,” Voldemort requested, acting bashful. This worked so much better with Harry’s face than his old one.

The girl blushed and enthusiastically agreed. Voldemort doubted she would respond like that if she realised what he had in mind for the evening. A malicious smirk stretched across his face, but Ginevra wouldn’t see it from where she was walking behind him. It appeared she hadn’t learned any lessons from the incident last year. Little Red Riding Hood should have recognised the Big Bad Wolf when she met him a second time.

Voldemort took her to the Room of Requirement. Stepping inside once the Room created the requested magical Farraday cage, he wondered why she followed him, considering how ominous the atmosphere appeared.

The walls, ceiling, and floor were smooth, glittering obsidian slabs. Instead of a typical rectangular shape, the room was vertically cylindrical with even the connection between walls and floor rounded, preventing any sharp edges or corners from forming. It was empty and dark, the only light coming from the hallway. Voldemort closed the door behind them, shutting them in, and covering them with pitch-black darkness.

“H – Harry?” the girl asked in a shaking voice as Voldemort flooded the room with his magic. As much as he enjoyed Harry’s wild magic, he’d missed using his darker, more sinuous magic. It slithered over to Ginevra and restrained her, tightening into coils like a constrictor suffocating its prey. He conjured a single sphere that exuded yellow light and left it hovering above her head. Voldemort watched as her mouth gaped open and she gasped for air. Her eyes, the colour of dried blood, were filled with terror and betrayal.

He easily pushed into her mind, not bothering to be gentle, and she expelled the little air she had left in a scream. When she was on the verge of passing out, Voldemort pressed a finger against her forehead, a few centimetres above her left eye, and sent a sharp injection of magic into her dorsolateral prefrontal right cortex. He knew from prior experimentation that this would give a dream-like, well in this instance nightmare-like quality to her memories.

Satisfied that this would prevent her from going to any professors, Voldemort cast the first diagnostic spell he needed to perform.

“Magicae auxilium detegere animam,” he incanted confidently, twisting his magic so it pushed itself down the girl’s throat.

It was a charm to create a three-dimensional model of the girl’s soul from magic. The spell was technically invented as a medical charm, a diagnostic to define the damage after dementor exposure, though it was hardly used due to its invasive and painful nature. It didn’t intentionally cause pain like the Cruciatus curse did, rather it was a side effect. Souls had limited direct exposure to magic, so they tended to be remarkably sensitive. Similar to how newborn skin was easily burned when subjected to the radiation from intense sunlight, souls burned when exposed to too much magic too quickly.

Voldemort was unsurprised when the girl started crying, but the charm caused no long-term damage. Though she would likely feel emotionally fragile for the next few days as the edges of her soul sloughed off the burned layer. He saw the initialisation of the magical model, a spark of orange flickering into existence above her heart. It would take a while for the spell to complete, an hour at least, so Voldemort sat against the curved wall to wait.

Once Voldemort had his own body, he probably ought to perform this spell on Harry as well, though he was reluctant. He already knew most of the information he stood to learn from the model. In possessing Harry, he’d determined the intersection between Harry and Voldemort’s soul shard, which was now evenly distributed throughout Harry’s body instead of sequestered in his scar. He also knew that Harry’s horcrux wasn’t sentient and hadn’t sustained any damage like the one in Ginevra.

Ginevra screamed and, currently picturing Harry in her position, Voldemort flinched. Yes, unless circumstances dramatically changed, Voldemort did not want to use this spell on Harry. The boy reacted peculiarly to animagicae, as evidenced by his sensitivity to the dementors, and Voldemort shouldn’t risk a potentially dangerous outcome unless necessary.

Harry had experienced three of Voldemort’s memories through outside interference – Fawkes’s burning day after the Ostara ritual, the bomb shelter on the train, and his exorcism during the quidditch match – and he’d distantly recalled some of Voldemort’s conversations when he’d been unconscious following the latest dementor attack. He’d also known that spell during the acromantula incident and sometimes mirrored Voldemort’s thoughts.

This was a concerning trend and one of the reasons he was inclined to perform this test on Ginevra. Though not exposed to all the same animagicae as Harry, she’d been involved in the latest ritual. She had also displayed similar reactions to the dementors, so he was hoping to use her results to determine the status of Harry’s soul.

His current theory was that all the animagicae cast at him had destabilised Harry’s soul. Thus, when experiencing more soul magic, Harry’s soul would slip loose, though it hadn’t been jostled enough that it was in danger of seeping out of his body (despite the avada kedavra that had hit him as a child). But hopefully, the results of Ginevra’s tests would give him a baseline for the possible damage Harry had sustained over the years. He didn’t expect them to be the same – Harry had grown up with a horcrux inside him while the girl had her temporary one added in a traumatic ritual – but something might be comparable.

She’d stopped screaming and was only whimpering pathetically. Her soul representation was almost fully formed.

Seeing the image it took, Voldemort couldn’t help chuckling. He’d wondered how much of an impact the rite had on her soul, and here, hovering before him, was ample evidence that he’d moulded her into the person she was today. His horcrux contributed more to her current personality than her original self.

Ginevra’s soul was a rope bridge. An unsteady, rickety bridge that relied on the two moieties of his horcrux to be stable. The model showed a single central support beam, glowing in the burnt orange colour his magic chose to represent her foundation. On either edge were two abutments that took the shape of his diary’s black leather book covers. Dirty brown, sporadically placed wooden planks spread out in either direction from the centre and slowly morphed into paper pages with gilded gold edges, curling back to attach to the base of one cover.

There was no way her soul originally looked like this, especially considering how shabby the bridge was and its utter reliance on the book to be stable. He hadn’t expected the spell to pick up on the horcrux at all, it likely wouldn’t for Harry, but the girl’s soul apparently couldn’t distinguish between herself and the horcrux. (Which considering the ritual he’d performed did make sense in hindsight.)

If he removed the horcrux, Ginevra would likely be permanently broken. On the other hand, the two pieces of his horcrux were still independent. If he could reattach them, close the distance between the two covers and stitch the spine back together, the horcrux could be removed without further harm. Though he currently had no way to do that.

Still, this was good news for his diary. He’d be able to retrieve it at some point in the future; it wouldn’t be stuck inside the girl until she died, taking the soul shard with her. But the state of her soul was concerning (was Harry’s soul damaged like this too?). He’d need to keep regular tabs on her, check if her soul was degrading or if all the impairment was from the initial ritual.

Voldemort examined the girl, she was trembling, small gasps of air coming from her parted lips. He decided to end the tests for the day. All that was left was to replenish his magic.

Anticipation thrummed inside him as he reached forward and touched a single finger to her hand. Immediately, her magic rushed to the point of contact, pushing itself through the connection, it flowed into him. Quickly, too quickly, his core was as full as he could handle without putting pressure on the crack. It was a mere fraction of the amount he usually retained but was double what he’d been able to hold last month.

Stepping away, Voldemort glanced down at the girl and was surprised to see her unconscious, her skin almost grey. He hadn’t taken that much magic, had he? Rechecking his reserves, he estimated he’d only collected maybe a third of the amount she should have held within her core. He sent a tendril towards her core, half expecting a rebuttal attack from the girl’s magic or for her core to reabsorb the magic, but she only shuddered.

Her magic was depleted. She had almost none left, so she must have lost the rest during the transference… and she wasn’t absorbing the magic Voldemort stole, which meant she couldn’t. If he’d taken a smidge more, she would have died of magical exhaustion… she still might.

A spark of familiar magic not in her core but around it drew Voldemort’s attention. Fascinated, he watched his diary’s magic envelop her centre, mimicking the magical flow required for life in a wix. The girl’s skin took on a more healthy cast and she desperately gasped in breaths of air as the colour returned to her cheeks.

She opened her eyes, but this wasn’t Ginevra anymore. Despite the same features, her entire face seemed to have shifted. The betrayed countenance he’d seen before she passed out was gone. Instead, an apathetic, almost bored, expression on her face made her look years older. Despite the mask, he saw flashes of panic and frustration flicker briefly in the tawny eyes when the girl couldn’t sit up.

δ Would you mind releasing me? It seems you want to have a conversation, δ hissed his diary, obviously trying to get onto more even footing. Since he had no intention of trusting this horcrux again after its last fuckup, Voldemort left the magical bindings as they were.

“No, it’s more convenient to keep them as is considering how temperamental I know you can be,” he said nonchalantly. Then he flicked his fingers at the girl just to watch his horcrux try to recoil. “Also, English, please. I tire of hearing my mother tongue butchered.”

“Fine,” it agreed sullenly. “What exactly do you want? I doubt you care to aid any of my attempts to extradite myself from Ginny considering you’re the one who put me here.”

“You’re lucky I did so,” Voldemort warned. “If I’d left you in your current state after you destroyed the ritual circle, you would have dissipated. Reduced to atoms until the end of time or Death claimed you.”

Ginevra’s throat worked as his horcrux swallowed, unable to hide its terror.

“As it is, your incompetent and foolish actions cost me precious time and resources. What exactly were you planning to do with a half-finished animagicae ritual and an entire basilisk’s worth of magic feeding it?” Voldemort demanded with a hard look in his eyes. The horcrux did not attempt to respond to the rhetorical question, though its mouth twitched as if it wanted to defend its actions.

“It is irrelevant now,” Voldemort said with a shrug. “Whatever you intended, it was I who had to clean up after your monumental mistake. You must simply deal with the consequences, one of which is your continued residence within this container until further notice. She is ill-equipped to store you – her soul has already been irreparably damaged and human bodies are not designed to be long-lasting – but be patient. If you do not go against my will again, I will eventually retrieve and rehome you somewhere more durable.

“However, if you do act against me again,” Voldemort carelessly intoned as he grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair and yanked her head back painfully. Reflexive tears filled her eyes, though the horcrux indignantly glared at him despite them. “I will simply feed the child the Draught of Living Death and stuff her in a Sarcophagus with preservation charms. Her body should last a hundred years or so like that, not alive but not dead, her soul will likely drift, maybe pass on…but you… you won’t. Not as a horcrux. You’ll be conscious, confined in a slowly rotting corpse, unable to move, to speak, to cast magic.

“In other words, you’ll have nothing but time to think about your poor decisions,” he threatened in a light-hearted voice, amused by how his horcrux tried to hide its growing horror. Voldemort hadn’t realised how transparent he still was at that age. Well, then again, he was paying much closer attention than before. Others might not have noticed the tightened jaw, restless shifting, and spark of fear in the brown eyes hidden behind the mask.

“Understood?” he asked, releasing the hair and gently chucking the girl’s chin, before stepping completely away. Swallowing obviously, his horcrux cleared its throat but didn’t speak, only nodded its acceptance.

“Good. For now, I simply wish to provide you with some information, so you aren’t acting counter to my desires again. Due to the nature of your intertwinement with Ginevra’s soul, I can extract her magic into my core,” Voldemort explained, noting the obvious surprise in the girl’s widening eyes and raised eyebrows. “I will study this and regularly drain her for the rest of the school year, so be prepared. It will not harm you but it may provide periods when you are in control.

“Do not in any way, shape, or form allow anyone to realise you are not Ginevra during those periods. Discovery by Dumbledore at this point would be disastrous, particularly for your health.”

“I won’t interfere,” his diary immediately agreed. His threat, which wasn’t a bluff, had left an impression. Good. Hopefully, it had learned its lesson. Just one last order to impress upon it.

“Oh, and by the way… if you attempt to harm my host again, I will kill you myself regardless of your significance as my soul shard. And I will take my time doing so,” Voldemort threatened, squeezing the magical bindings and tightening one around Ginevra’s neck. Terror bloomed in the brown eyes as his horcrux gasped for air. Voldemort calmly watched, waiting for the body to fall unconscious. Now, all he needed was to place her in the Gryffindor dorms and Ginevra would attribute the evening to a horrible nightmare.

Chapter Text

“Expecto patronum!” said Harry in a firm voice.

Professor Lupin was teaching Harry the patronus charm using the same approach he taught new spells to his classes. Harry was given some background info that was redundant after his research, then he separately learned the wand movements and incantation. After that, Lupin mostly had Harry practise while in his presence.

The patronus charm was a difficult spell for two reasons. The spell used a substantial amount of magic, so to master it, a large reservoir was needed. It also required extreme emotional and magical control, which usually was only essential in high-level magic, not a mid-tier spell like this. Without investing enough magic, the spell would only form a small, temporary shield. Without enough control, the magic wouldn’t take form; it dispersed into mist.

Harry was grateful he didn’t lack the necessary amount of magic for the spell, there would be no way to fix that. His lack of control was something he could work to improve. He currently produced various quantities of mist but couldn’t form an actual guardian. Lupin advised him to focus on a specific happy memory, but that hadn’t worked for Harry. Apparently, none of his memories were purely happy enough.

“Expecto patronum!” Harry cried in his fifth consecutive attempt, remembering the joy of his first morning at the Leaky after his angel helped him escape, the endless possibilities of unexplored magic outside his door.

Silver mist spilt out from his wand to fill the room, surrounding Harry in a thick fog. It swirled, briefly coalescing into a single large mass in front of him before breaking apart and dissipating. Disappointed – that had almost worked – but still determined, Harry readied himself to go again.

“Hey now, wait a moment,” Lupin interrupted, pulling Harry’s wand arm down. “That’s enough for today. You’ll exhaust yourself.”

Surprised, Harry responded automatically saying, “I feel fine, I don’t –”

“No more,” insisted Lupin. A strange glint in his eyes reminded Harry of how the professor stared at him after the boggart lesson. Uncomfortable, Harry dropped his gaze to the ground. He wanted to keep going, he didn’t need to be babied, but Harry could tell that if he pushed the issue, Lupin might bring up his uncle in retaliation, so he kept quiet.

“You’re doing well,” the professor said encouragingly. “I think the patronus was starting to form that last time. You’ll get there.”

Harry felt his face flush in embarrassment at the praise. He hurriedly made excuses to Lupin and rushed out of the room, running up the stairs to return to Gryffindor Tower.

“Fortuna major,” Harry panted, out of breath from sprinting so far. The common room was unusually crowded for a Sunday afternoon as Harry climbed inside. When he heard shouting, Harry realised everyone had gathered to see Ron and Hermione go for each other’s throats again. Gryffindors were notoriously nosy, and they loved a good show.

<< Wonder what the fight is about this time? Ten sickles it’s about MY broomstick. >>

Amusement welled up inside him. Suddenly, Harry was thinking about when Hermione had bought the ginger cat from the pet store in Diagon. He was happy his angel was willing to play along, it made the way his heart clenched when he thought of Hermione’s (and to a lesser extent Ron’s) recent actions less noticeable.

<< Oh, you think it’s about their pets? You’re on. >>

Small clusters of students sat in the various seating arrangements spread throughout the room while a large group of wide-eyed first-years were piled on the rugs arranged by the fireplace. Everyone was openly staring at Hermione and Ron, the former sitting in an overstuffed armchair while the latter loomed over her with, of all things, a bedsheet clutched in one fist.

“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!” Ron bellowed and waved the sheet in front of Hermione’s face.

Hermione cowered back into her seat with her face hidden behind her mass of curly hair. Instinctively, Harry grabbed Ron’s shoulder and tugged him back, out of Hermione’s face. Ron shrugged him off and continued to scream at Hermione, though he no longer leaned over her.  

“BLOOD! HE’S GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE FLOOR?” Ron roared. He raised his left first and thrust it towards Hermione. Harry flinched. For a moment, he’d thought Ron would hit her, but Ron only opened his hand to spray clumps of orange hair into Hermione’s lap.

“N – no,” she breathed quietly, but defiance shone from her eyes as she blatantly disregarded the orange hairs fluttering around her. Ron’s face hardened at her quiet refusal and everyone held their breath as the room’s temperature dropped to freezing.

“Scabbers is dead because of you,” Ron whispered, his voice ominously quiet. He turned around and stalked upstairs to their dorm room.

Ron’s abrupt transition from violently angry to furiously calm left Harry shaking with adrenaline and anxiety. Hermione didn’t look much better. She sat where Ron had left her staring at the orange hair covering her lap with teary, shocked eyes that made the dark circles underneath them more prominent.

Harry felt torn. He should comfort her, but he knew Ron would see that as taking her side, and he was still upset about the Firebolt. He didn’t want to get pulled into this drama, especially when he didn’t care about either of their pets. After a painfully long pause, Harry awkwardly patted her on the shoulder once, twice, and then took a few steps back, tightly holding the strap of his book bag.

“Just give him some time,” he advised as he inched away. Harry ran for the portrait entrance once he’d deemed himself far enough away it wouldn’t seem cowardly.

<< Guess you won, huh? >>

Worry made Harry’s chest feel tight before swiftly transitioning to irritation that drew his shoulders up to his ears before he consciously forced himself to relax.

<< I’m fine! I’ll just head to the library since Gryffindor Tower is so hazardous. And don’t let me forget I owe you ten sickles. >>

Harry jogged to the library, burning off some of his excess tension. He could do more research for Buckbeak’s appeal; he’d mostly found instances where the Committee executed the accused, but there’d been a few cases where they’d released the magical creature, and he wanted to figure out why.

Grateful that the library had empty tables, Harry collected a few texts and settled into a chair prepared to take notes. Unaware of the steadily passing time, he read case studies until a voice interrupted his concentration. He looked up from his latest paragraph, blinking a few times as he refocused. Harry saw Blaise standing next to his table, an amused look on his face.

“Oh! Hi Blaise!” Harry welcomed him enthusiastically. “How were your holidays? Do you want to join me?”

“Yes, I do,” Blaise agreed, smiling as he sat across from Harry. “My holidays were lovely. I spent most of my time with my mother at our villa in Naples. It was nice to get away from the gloomy weather here. The athame you gave me for Yule is amazing, too. I really appreciate it.”

“Wow that sounds wonderful,” Harry sighed longingly. “I haven’t travelled outside of Great Britain, but Italy is one of the first countries I plan to visit once I can. Also, I loved the book on moon phases and rituals you got me for Yule.”

“Well, I’m always searching for those brave enough to come stay at my home,” Blaise replied as his easy-going smile shifted into a sharper grin. “You’re welcome to plan a visit whenever you’d like to.”

“Really?!” Harry asked eagerly, his voice just a little too loud. He cleared his throat awkwardly and lowered back into his seat from where he’d unconsciously leaned over the table in his enthusiasm. “Are you sure that’d be okay with you mum? I’d have to figure out how to get there, but that sounds amazing! Maybe this summer? How long could I stay?”

Blaise appeared stumped, his grin fading and his eyes guarded. Harry’s enthusiasm dimmed and he dropped his gaze to stare at his lap instead of the other boy. Oh. Blaise hadn’t expected Harry to agree. Still, anywhere would be better than the Dursleys. He just needed to convince the Slytherin that he could stay out of his way for the most part if he allowed Harry to visit.

“I’m a really easygoing guest! I’d keep myself occupied, I swear. You can just put me up anywhere, I won’t be a bother and… and I can pay for food! You won’t need to –” Harry reassured without looking up, but Blaise cut off his deluge of promises with a quiet call of Harry’s name. Blinking away the slight blurring of his vision, Harry picked at the seam on the cuff of his robes and didn’t look up.

“Harry,” Blaise repeated, more firmly calling Harry’s attention upwards until he met resigned violet eyes.  Blaise cleared his throat and calmly folded his hands on the table before speaking, his face empty of emotion. “I need to inform you of who my mother is.”

Confused by the serious tone and what that had to do with Harry visiting, he replied, “Uhm, well, I think I know already? Her name is Countess Zabini, right? She’s a Divination Master.”

Abruptly Harry realised Blaise had likely heard about his rants to Hermione on how useless divination was. Upset that his loose tongue might have ruined his chance to visit Blaise’s home, Harry hurriedly said, “I know I’ve expressed a lot of… sceptical opinions on divination, but I promise I wouldn’t do so in front of your mum!”

Blaise’s face remained blank, but his fingers had tightened, digging into the other hand where they were clasped too hard. Harry was starting to worry that something serious was wrong. He tried to wait patiently and was rewarded when Blaise spoke again.

“It’s not that. There are a lot of rumours surrounding my family, my mother in particular. She’s been married seven times and all of her husbands, including my father, have passed away. Most people call her –”

“The Black Widow,” Harry said relieved that the problem seemed like only a minor miscommunication issue. Blaise’s face and hands went slack, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“What – how did you…” Blaise stuttered before trailing off without finishing his question.

“As you said, there are rumours,” Harry offered, though he wasn’t sure exactly where he’d heard them first. He smiled at Blaise’s flabbergasted expression. He’d never seen the self-possessed boy so dumbfounded. “You don’t need to worry! I don’t put much stock in that rubbish. I mean, have you heard what they say about me? As far as I can tell, the press fabricates stories for ratings and our peers will believe anything you tell them. I try not to judge people I haven’t met yet and considering your mum raised you… well, she must be pretty cool.”

“You know what people say about my mother,” Blaise validated, sounding shocked.

“Yep,” Harry confirmed, ending the word with a popping sound.

“And you still want to visit?” Blaise questioned, still bewildered.

“Of course! As long as you’ll have me!” Harry exclaimed before his smile faltered as he thought of a separate issue with a visit to Italy. “Ah, that is to say, assuming your mum would be okay with it and…”

“Muffliato,” Harry cast twisting his hand and pushing out his magic after looking around to confirm no one nearby was paying attention. “Okay. Well, I should warn you that Dumbledore is unusually interested in where I stay. He has – well I mean – let’s just say I was staying at the Leaky for a time last year and Dumbledore sent someone to… relocate me. And he’s strongly implied he regularly tracks my whereabouts.”

Blaise stared at him like he thought Harry was crazy.

“I know it sounds weird, but it’s true,” Harry promised. “So, I’d understand if neither you nor your mum wanted to deal with – well, with all that.” Harry flapped his hands with a self-deprecating smile ignoring his pounding heart.

“Sometimes you act – but then you just – and I’m never sure –” Blaise cut off his nonsensical babbling with a sigh. “Yes, Harry, despite Dumbledore’s creepy interest in your life, I want you to visit. I’ll double-check with my mother, but it’ll be fine.”

Ecstatic at finding another place to stay, at least for part of the summer, Harry smiled unabashedly. With none of the usual masks in place, his friend smiled back.

A few weeks later, Harry’s alarm went off waking him abruptly from a dream of sitting in the Astronomy tower and staring out at the Forbidden Forest. Half expecting to be there, feet dangling off into the unknown, Harry opened his eyes to see red curtains surrounding him instead. Bewildered, knowing there had been something before, something about the dream that was important, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember, but it slipped away like mist.

Sighing, Harry sat up and began his morning ablutions. Recalling it was Imbolc, he felt his mood lift. Harry broke his fast with a lavish plate of French toast covered in fruit and syrup. He got a few strange looks considering he usually only had a small plate of bacon and eggs, but everyone seemed to shrug it off after their initial curiosity. Unfortunately, Imbolc fell on a weekday this year, though at least he didn’t have to deal with Snape.

He’d prepped for his runes and defence lectures yesterday, as he didn’t plan to pay much attention. Thankfully, his other Monday classes, charms and herbology, were slow-paced so he already knew the material the professors would cover. Runes was first, and he walked over as soon as he finished eating. Harry was earlier than usual, so hardly any students were present. He plopped down and grabbed a book on Egyptian mythology to start reading.

Soon he was joined by Blaise and Theo. Theo smiled easily at him before pulling out a book to read like Harry had. Blaise sat quietly, looking immensely bored, and waited for class to begin. None of them took notes during the lecture, which was unusual since all three were generally considered proactive students.

When the period ended, Harry slipped the book into his bookbag and began his normal trek to charms. He was surprised when Theo and Blaise joined, taking the spaces on either side of him as if they did this daily.

“Uhm – you know neither of you have a charms class to attend, right?” Harry asked sarcastically.

“Yes, we know,” Theo agreed, rolling his eyes. “We decided to join you on the walk though, since it’s an auspicious day and all.”

“Well since it’s an auspicious day, I’m glad you both could join me,” Harry teased.

Neither Slytherin usually interacted with him outside the library or class except when Blaise and he had accidentally met up in Hogsmeade. Harry honestly thought they intentionally avoided him to prevent being drawn into fights with their Houses. This sudden change to willingly walk him to charms was a public statement of their friendship that meant a lot. He was so grateful they’d reached out to him that first day of runes class.

Harry was curious about why Blaise had initially approached him – Blaise didn’t do anything thoughtlessly – but figured he’d learn the truth eventually. He felt their conversation in the library was an important step forward; hopefully, he’d get to visit Blaise this summer and develop their friendship further.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Harry thanked the two boys with a smile, ignoring the stares of his fellow Gryffindors. Inspiration struck on how to reciprocate the Slytherins’ declaration, and Harry rashly decided to run with the idea immediately. “Oh, hey, isn’t there a Hogsmeade trip coming up in a few weekends? Do either of you have plans for it?”

Harry was acting casual, but he searched both of their faces for any indication they were uncomfortable or embarrassed. Thankfully, Theo looked excited while Blaise appeared faintly amused, and they both shook their heads.

“Uhm, interested in going together?” Harry offered and tried not to laugh at the loud gasps and mutters he heard behind him.

“That sounds lovely, Harry,” assured Blaise, a delighted grin dimpling his cheeks.

“Yes! Let’s go together!” Theo proclaimed eagerly.

“Great! Well, I’ll see you in creatures tomorrow then. Ta!” said Harry. Then he walked over to take his usual seat between Ron and Seamus, stumbling slightly under the intense focus of all the gawking faces. Ron was bright red and glaring at him, but Seamus only snickered and leaned over to whisper in Harry’s ear when he sat down.

“So – o, looks like you got yourself a few dates for Valentine’s,” the Irish boy teased quietly, and a spike of rage raced through Harry before dissipating.

Harry stared at Seamus, aghast. He’d completely forgotten the next trip was just before Valentine’s Day. Paired with Harry’s growing alarm, he felt bubbles of his angel’s amusement fluttering in his stomach. Well, he guessed it didn’t matter, there would have been rumours either way. And he’d asked them both, right? No one would actually think it was a date… Seamus was only mocking him.

“You know we’re just going as friends. I didn’t want people to freak out if I randomly showed up with Slytherins in tow. Better to get the rumours out of the way earlier,” Harry said, rolling his eyes though his stomach flipped anxiously, and he had to stop himself from chuckling as his angel’s amusement grew. The strange mix of emotions was making him feel a bit nauseous.

<< Why is this so humorous to you? >>

“Yeah… I don’t think that’s going to work out how you think it will, Harry,” Seamus offered with a playful smirk, and Harry felt his angel agree with the other boy. Harry flashed a rude hand gesture at his fellow Gryffindor and then faced the front of the room just as Professor Flitwick called everyone to attention.

The rest of the day passed slowly, especially considering he had several people he barely knew warning him about the “slimy snakes” and “pretty but deadly boys” while others like Ron were deliberately ignoring him. Harry assured everyone who asked that he was friends with Theo and Blaise and wanted to spend the visit to Hogsmeade with them. When a fourth year whose name he didn’t even know tried to take him to Madame Pomfrey to be tested for potions, Harry vocally eviscerated her for being prejudiced in front of several spectators, much to his angel’s delight.

After that incident, students stopped approaching him, though he could tell everyone was still gossiping about it. Annoyed, Harry hung out with the twins who didn’t care that he had Slytherin friends. He pretended to sleep early that night to avoid his fellow third years, while he tucked himself up against his headboard and finished his mythology book.  

Harry waited to ensure his dorm mates were asleep before carefully exiting his four-poster bed. He quietly shuffled out of Gryffindor Tower hidden under his invisibility cloak after grabbing the bag he’d packed earlier to take with him to the Ritual Room. When he arrived, Harry saw his standard setup inside except for the large copper-claw-footed bathtub filled with steaming water that’d been present for his last attempt at Imbolc.

Harry opened his pack to extract the sprigs of lavender and mint he’d collected. He added them to the tub to steep and then copied the rune circle from the Wheel of the Year. His previous crack at this ritual had failed, so Harry was more nervous than he’d been for the Yule and Samhain rites. Unlike last year, he hadn’t picked a specific oath. There’d been no fasting or denial or sacrifice. Instead, Harry did everything he could to seize the day, despite his frustration with his fellow Gryffindors. Harry treated himself to extravagant meals, flying on one of the twins’ broomsticks, and slacking off during his course lectures. It was nice. He hadn’t realised how stressed he was until he’d intentionally tried relaxing for the day.

Harry finished his protection circle, checking it carefully against the book’s drawing. He removed all his clothing and gently placed his angel’s wreath on his head. Stepping cautiously over the chalk marks and into the full tub, Harry felt the warmth of the bath water spread through him.

It was silent except for the occasional bell chime and Harry cleared his mind quicker than usual. He instinctively shifted to his preferred breathing technique and drifted into a meditative trance as an oath slipped from his lips without conscious thought.

Veneror Magicam et Mortem et Fatum.
Aspicio rotam quotannis vertere.
Gratias tibi ago pro benedictionibus tuis.

Despite the lack of practice, Harry understood the pledge perfectly. Though he’d only celebrated a single full Turn of the Wheel, Harry knew that he truly worshipped Magic and would observe the holidays for the rest of his life. Giving thanks to Her for giving him his magic was the least he could do. He meant every word from the depths of his heart.

Floating up from his subconscious state, Harry noticed the water had cooled substantially and his fingers were pruney. He stood and climbed out of the tub, cautiously avoiding sloshing waves onto the floor as water cascaded down his body. He jumped over the protection circle, smiling as the motion caused his wreath’s bells to jingle. Grabbing the towel he’d packed, Harry dried himself off and redressed.

He wiped the chalk off the floor, drained the tub, and packed the remaining herbs. Harry carefully placed his wreath on the top of the bag where it’d stay safe, but its sounds would be muffled.

<< That went much, much better than last year. >>

A calm tranquillity seeped through him as he traversed the castle halls. After he whispered the password to the sleeping portrait, he cringed as its frame opened, creaking loudly. He should oil those hinges soon so he could be stealthier going forward. Luckily the common room was empty, and he sighed in relief. Quietly walking back upstairs, Harry heard the sound of running water. Someone was either participating in an Imbolc ritual or taking a late-night shower.

It was tempting to go upstairs and have a look. He was under the invisibility cloak so no one would know, and he wouldn’t interrupt their ritual. But Harry decided against it almost immediately. As much as he wanted to meet more folks his age who celebrated the Wheel, he didn’t want to do so by invading their privacy. Instead, he trudged back to his bed and settled into sleep.

After Harry’s dressing down of his classmates, he spent his time exclusively with the Weasley twins, Zabini, and Nott. The other Gryffindors, including Ginevra, were avoiding him. Voldemort had always thought the House rivalry was a ridiculous, if useful, tradition. But in this instance, he found it annoying. When Ginevra kept dodging him, arranging times to draw from her was more difficult.

Thankfully the systematic transfusions into his core had already exponentially increased his magical capacity, so he didn’t have to meet with her as frequently. Voldemort predicted he would be back to his usual standard by Ostara if the current improvement rate held steady.

He’d kept a close eye on his horcrux, especially when it controlled the girl’s body after he drained her magic. Voldemort was satisfied to see it was behaving itself. He saw no obvious indicators the girl was possessed like there had been last year. Not that it could have, or would have, tried the same tricks twice, especially with the basilisk dead. But it was useful that the horcrux prevented Ginevra from realising she was having blackouts and ensured no dramatic personality changes occurred when the two swapped.

Voldemort had cast the soul model spell twice more since the original application. It wasn’t certain but there were minute indications that Ginevra’s soul was degrading. However, the rate was very slow, and the changes were almost unnoticeable after weeks.

He theorised that there had been an initial substantial shift when he’d reshaped her soul during which she’d made herself dependent on the horcrux by absorbing aspects of its personality and reforming herself around them… and now she continued to take on traits as she grew, becoming more and more like Voldemort’s teenage self with time.

Watching the bridge fade into nothing, Voldemort touched Ginevra’s arm and topped off his magical reserves, carefully watching the girl so he wouldn’t accidentally kill her.

When he took magic from her, it was an inefficient process. The aspects of her magic that were inherently her disappeared as it shaped itself into the patterns and forms of Voldemort’s magic. Over seventy percent was lost in the transfer. He stopped pulling moments before she ran empty and waited for his horcrux to take over, allowing it to remain unfettered.  

“Hello,” it rasped out a greeting in English, voice rough from the girl’s cries. It eyed him warily. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually,” he confirmed. “I was wondering if you’d noticed anything unusual happening to Ginevra’s personality? Or her mind?” The horcrux hummed, brows furrowing in thought, before responding.

“Well… she’s becoming more susceptible to suggestion. You know I can project thoughts at her?” it inquired. Thinking about the asynchronous thoughts from the hospital wing when he read her mind, Voldemort nodded in confirmation. “She used to brush those off as intrusive thoughts – something her mudblood therapist told her about – but lately she seems to accept them more as her own. Sometimes she’ll act on them too.”

“How intriguing,” Voldemort murmured to himself. “That aligns with what I’ve seen – I believe she’s taking on more of our personality traits with time. Growing more confident, more ambitious, more focused. Even her interest in Harry… I wonder… will her magic continue to transform too?”

He’d yet to determine how her magic had made itself compatible with his core, but Voldemort was very interested in the mechanism. Especially since it was specific to the girl; Harry was also a horcrux and yet, despite Voldemort having control of Harry’s magic, he couldn’t feed it into his core. It was odd to find such differences in the two wixen who held his horcruxes within themselves.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t that strange. Harry was destined to carry his soul – a sliver since he was a babe, but he’d ardently accepted Voldemort’s wraith – while Ginevra was a means to an end, a temporary container. She wasn’t a horcrux in the same way Harry was. She was a shell surrounding his diary, a medium to connect the two halves and prevent dissipation. Of course, Harry could integrate successfully with the horcrux while the girl was overwhelmed, slowly being erased.

If that meant that Voldemort couldn’t convert Harry’s magic (assuming the two elements were linked), that was a small price to pay for his longevity. And, hopefully, that meant Harry’s soul wasn’t in the state that Ginevra’s was. Still, he hated being unable to explain what exactly was causing the differences between what he saw in Ginevra and experienced with Harry. It was an irritating problem… one he was determined to solve.

“Based on what you’ve said, I doubt that will happen quickly. We’d be looking at years to get a mere five percent increase in the efficiency of the transfer,” the horcrux replied, pulling Voldemort away from his thoughts as it cast a mild scourgify to remove the sweat and tears from the girl’s skin.  

“You’re correct,” he affirmed but then grinned wickedly. “But who knows? We might have years. Perhaps decades or even centuries.” The horcrux paled, reminded of Voldemort’s previous threat. Voldemort laughed at its reaction, casually pulling the diary’s host to her feet and leading them out of the Room.

“Well, that’s entirely up to you and your behaviour. So far, you’ve been a good boy. Keep it up,” Voldemort said, condescension dripping from his words as he ruffled the girl’s hair. His diary glowered and then stomped off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, its frustration and embarrassment clearly on display. Still chuckling to himself, Voldemort paced in front of the room, asking it to supply a place to work on spells.  

He was pleasantly surprised when he opened the door. This version of the Room wasn’t particularly large – perhaps half the size of Gryffindor’s common room – but it had a dark grey plush carpet, a very comfortable-looking black leather armchair, and a large brick fireplace situated within light grey walls. Bookshelves were on three of the four walls and a cart had supplies to make tea. The room was serene and simple, the perfect place to work on an extremely aggravating charm.

Harry was receiving private tutoring from Lupin on casting a patronus and Voldemort planned to take advantage of the dedicated lessons to learn the spell.

Despite what Dumbledore believed, learning dark magic didn’t usually impact a wix’s ability to perform the other branches of magic. A wix could cast avada kedavra and protego one after the other so long as they could perform both spells. It was people who tended to specialise in their favourite branches. One person only had so much time after all, and it was difficult to master any branch of magic let alone multiple.

As usual, Voldemort was a remarkable exception to both these rules. Horcruxes allowed him to live longer, and he was brilliant enough to master many different areas of magic; however, they also prevented him from performing any spells that required a complete soul, like certain healing magic and, until now, the patronus charm. The tradeoff was worth it, and he had not minded the sacrifice of those few areas of magic to have an infinite amount of time to learn the rest of it, but circumstances had changed now that he had access to Harry’s magic and soul.

Settling on the couch Voldemort weakened his occlumency barriers so he was as close to Harry’s mind as he could be without being sucked into his dreams. He twirled Harry’s wand and cast expecto patronum tugging from Harry’s core. Voldemort watched as a silvery mist flooded the room just like Harry had experienced earlier. Annoyed but also pleased – this was more than he’d been capable of before – he calmed himself and tried again. And again. And again.

Voldemort knew his magical control, even of Harry’s feral magic, was impeccable, so his emotions must be out of alignment with the spell requirements. Remembering the wolf’s latest lesson, which he’d watched in real-time, not willing to leave Harry alone while still dealing with the Grim Omen, he reviewed the memories Harry had attempted. Voldemort realised the ones Harry had the most success with revolved around Harry’s angel… him.

Perplexed, pleased, Voldemort wondered if the reciprocal would be true too. Closing his eyes, he considered one of his favourite memories of him and Harry.

Harry’s first Yule, the boy had chosen the most difficult ritual in the standard set. It was rare for any wix to perform because it depleted a significant portion of their magic. To form a physical, permanent, figurine from pure magic was a draining, yet impressive feat. Harry, in his first attempt, had made seven of them. The last of which was an amazing ornament of a thestral specifically for Voldemort.

The boy hadn’t known what a thestral was, he’d still been calling them skeletor-horses, but it hadn’t mattered. Exhausted, with six figurines around him for his dearest friends, the people the child considered family in some ways, Harry had focused his thoughts and magic on his angel.

Gratitude. Hope. Apprehension. Curiosity. Pride. Anxiety. Delight.

Harry’s tangled swirl of emotions had washed over him, enveloped him, as Harry had pushed more and more of his magic into the thestral’s form. Voldemort had never received a Yule gift someone had made before; they were usually reserved for only the most intimate connections, for family and long-term lovers, of which Voldemort had no interest in either. But as Harry finished, draining his core to the point it hurt the boy to continue and yet still pouring his magic into his angel’s figurine, Voldemort found that he needed to reciprocate that gift.

Voldemort had hijacked their body when Harry let his ritual circle close. He’d never performed that ritual before, but having watched Harry prepare Voldemort knew exactly how to adapt it to create a single gift. He’d reached for the chalk and made two small changes before sitting back in the middle again. Powering the runes using only his personal magic, Voldemort sunk into a meditative trance and connected himself to the nexus of ley lines beneath Hogwarts.

Instead of a representative figure, Voldemort would make Harry a crown. With a vague image in mind, he had let the ritual magic guide him through the details. He’d planned to use gold or some other precious metal, perhaps summoning them from beneath the earth, but instead, two branches had suddenly cracked into existence dropping into his hands. Voldemort had opened his eyes and peered down at them before laughing aloud.

Yew and holly.

Of course, Harry’s crown would be made of their wand woods. Scrutinising the branches, Voldemort had even thought they might be from the two trees that had supplied the materials for their original wands.

Delighted – magic was so amazing, everything was connected – he’d woven them together, imbuing them with as much of his magic as the wood could contain. The leaves had grown sturdier and greener, the bark hardened to be more durable, and the berries ripened to a bright red. Feeling whimsical, Voldemort had transfigured several of them into tiny bells.

Perfect. It was perfect for his soul-bearer, he’d thought back then.

At the time, he’d known how unique Harry was – the only one truly capable of cradling his soul within him – but he hadn’t known how much he would grow to appreciate his human horcrux, how important the boy would become. Now though…

Holding this memory firmly in his mind, Voldemort cast once more instinctively pulling from both his and Harry’s cores simultaneously. The two magics resonated and grew as they always did when combined.

Bright silver light sprung from the wand and coalesced into a thestral, standing in the middle of the room. Silently prancing forward, mist trailing in its wake, the thestral spread its wings and tilted its head into the hand Voldemort automatically reached out. Solid. It was solid, burning cold, and pulsing with his and Harry’s intertwined magic. Voldemort grinned, smug. He knew he could do this with access to a complete soul; he’d cast a fully corporeal patronus.

Flushed with pride and success, Voldemort couldn’t help thinking this moment would be even better if Harry had witnessed it as well. This was a physical manifestation of their souls’ guardian, both of them, not Voldemort’s alone. He hoped Harry would be able to cast it soon. The boy was on the right track, it wouldn’t be much longer. Voldemort was looking forward to sharing this magical experience with his young host.

Chapter Text

How could Harry ask those Slytherins to go to Hogsmeade for Valentine’s Day? Ginny couldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t accept it. It was one thing for Harry to spend an excessive amount of time with her older brothers, she could tolerate that even if she didn’t like it, but she would not allow him to start forming attachments to these sneaky, snakey, slimy substitutes.

(Harry won’t need stand-ins forever.)

Stand-ins? She meant… because she wasn’t yet old enough to go with Harry to Hogsmeade. Yes, of course, that was it. He would have wanted to go with her if she were allowed, not those two prats.

However, sadly, Harry had barely noticed that she was giving him the cold shoulder. When she’d heard the story initially, she’d felt crestfallen, dismayed that all her hopes for Valentine’s were for nought. She longed for Harry to notice her distress and change his mind about going out with the Slytherins… or the least he could do was dispute the rumours that he was going on a date with them.

(It obviously isn’t a date. He wouldn’t allow that.)

It obviously wasn’t a date, but Harry could have told everyone else that. Now the entire school thought he wanted to go out with boys and Harry was too proud or embarrassed or something to correct the impression. Ginny was ready to pull out her hair in frustration. Everywhere she went students were gossiping about Harry ‘coming out’ when that wasn’t what had happened at all! Harry wasn’t gay. Harry liked her.

(Harry’s coming over… and it’s actually him for once.)

“Hey, Gin!” Harry called as he ran up to her, a wide grin on his face. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at his approach. Harry wanted to talk to her! Maybe he would apologise. Or maybe he would ask about her plans for Valentine’s weekend. Or maybe he wanted to confess his feelings! She glanced up at him through her lashes, smiling shyly before she noticed the twins following closely behind. Her hopeful fantasies disintegrated into dust.

“Harry,” she replied, voice cold as her anger boiled hot. Why couldn’t Harry ever come just to see her? He always brought the twins along. Or wanted to complain about Ron and Hermione. Or defend the Slytherins he’d invited to Hogsmeade. Harry never focused solely on her, while she was always, always, fixated on him.

(Harry is already claimed.)

Harry’s smile faltered, and Ginny felt a flash of guilt before her irritation overwhelmed it. George threw an arm over Harry’s shoulder and Ginny quaked with jealousy as Harry brightened again.

“Uhm – well – the twins and I are gonna take turns on my Firebolt before quidditch practice. Professor McGonagall finally gave it back. Did you want to come?” Harry inquired, oblivious to Ginny’s envy, her rage. Fred ruffled Harry’s hair before smirking at her, a knowing sparkle in his eyes. They were intentionally doing this. Both of them were taking advantage of Harry’s innocence to tease her.  

(I’m surprised anyone is allowed to touch him.)

She narrowed her eyes at her brothers. They shouldn’t touch Harry like that, she needed to teach them a lesson. It wasn’t fair that they spent so much more time with Harry and taunted her when she tried to do the same. Ginny opened her mouth to shout at them – to curse them – when Fred averted her furious response.

“Little Gin-Gin doesn’t seem to be in the mood. Look at those bright red spots,” he cooed, poking her in the cheek with a mischievous smirk on his face that turned malicious when she slapped his hand away.

“Yes, seems she needs to cool off. Let’s leave her be,” George agreed before steering Harry away, still tucked beneath his arm.

“Come along Harrikins!” they shouted, throwing identical winks at her. The twins ignored Harry’s uncertain sounds and baffled backward glances as they directed him around the corner while Ginny shook with the magnitude of her fury.

(Well done. You sure showed them.)

Ginny childishly stamped her foot and ignored the snickering she could hear from the other students who had witnessed the encounter. She could confront the twins later. Still, maybe she should have agreed to go with Harry. She really did want to try out his new broom and he had asked to spend time with her. Wasn’t it better to be with him in a group setting than to let him engage with others without her?

(Don’t worry. You’ll get to spend time with You-Know-Who later, though you never enjoy it.)

She shuddered as a strange chill ran up her spine. Half-remembered nightmares tried to crawl to the front of her mind, but she pushed them down and away. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, Ginny resolved to reconcile with Harry the next time she saw him even though he wasn’t spending Valentine's Day with her. Eventually, he’d understand. They shared a bond beyond any other. They were meant for each other. Yes, there was no purpose in avoiding him any longer.

Voldemort hadn’t dreamt of the seaside in years, which was a shame because he sincerely enjoyed visiting. He had few positive childhood memories, but the annual visits to Mupe Bay were among the best of them.

He travelled along the familiar path down to the shore. A large rock was perched at the edge of the pebbled beach where the matron always lectured about staying close and avoiding the cliffs, lest they die tragic and painful deaths. The towering crags rose sharply, straining towards the sky and spanning a hundred feet in some places. Each showed layers upon layers of exposed rock down to where they connected to the shoreline.

In his dream, waves surged up to ten, twenty feet high before crashing against the cliffs, saturating everything with their briny spray. It was early morning, when the orphanage bus always arrived and thus, still high tide. In six hours or so, the water would gently lap at the edges of the beach and a series of caves further up the coast would become accessible for a brief window of time. But for now, only a small section of the rocky shore was available, most of the beach submerged.

The rocks were damp and slippery, so the other orphans huddled together, hiding from the waves in fear after the matron’s warning.

Voldemort hadn’t been afraid though. He was special, capable of protecting himself with his gift. Ah, now he remembered. This was when he’d taught himself to fly for the first time. He’d snuck off and practised by climbing the rocks and leaping out over the water with each wave.

Smiling, reflecting happily on the memory, Voldemort allowed the dream to continue. He repeated the motions, following along to the script of his past actions and reliving the thrill and pride he’d felt when he’d truly flown for the first time. He was shocked out of his reverie when Harry’s awe bled into him. Was Harry… was Harry dreaming with him?

This shouldn’t be happening. There were no dementors around. No recent rituals loosening Harry’s soul. His mind should be firmly separated from Voldemort’s, yet he was here, experiencing another memory.

Using occlumency, Voldemort carefully pried himself out of the lucid dream. Without him, Harry would keep dreaming, but it would hopefully no longer be influenced by Voldemort’s memories. Voldemort possessed Harry’s sleeping body and sat up, conjuring a soft ball of light in his hands.

This was concerning. Harry and he were bound closely together, joined by destiny, magic, and soul, but there still should be a separation between their minds. Between their selves.

How was Harry in his dream without him noticing? How long had he been there? Had… had this happened before?

Reaching for Harry’s memories of the last few nights, worry growing with each passing moment, Voldemort found only vague recollections. Harry usually only remembered his nightmares and didn’t know how to lucid dream. But what the boy did recall matched up with Voldemort’s crystal-clear memories. Regardless of whether he’d been letting his mind drift or actively controlling his dreams, Harry had been there for the last several weeks.

Mildly panicking, aware that he’d found a problematic symptom of possessing Harry for so long, but wanting to deny it, Voldemort considered the problem.

Several moments of the last few months he’d marked as strange but set aside as unimportant came to mind. Harry’s boggart formed some of his fears - Harry remembered his conversation with Heir Zabini – Harry had used his taunt ‘little frog’ for Malfoy – Harry's vague recollection of the Black Widow without having heard any rumours – and now… Harry was dreaming with him.

Harry knew information he shouldn’t because he saw it in a dream. He saw it in Voldemort’s memory. (How much of Voldemort’s life was Harry shown? What had the boy’s subconscious retained?)

But this shouldn’t be happening.

Maybe it was only a symptom of being so entwined with Harry’s mind lately? Since he’d heard Harry’s tasseomancy reading, he’d kept his occlumency shields lowered more often than not, pressing behind Harry’s eyes constantly throughout the day to keep watch, to guard.

Voldemort was worried that by joining their minds together so frequently, he’d somehow degraded the barriers between their souls.

If they were unconsciously sharing dreams… did that mean Voldemort was slowly overwriting Harry’s personality? Was he consuming Harry’s soul the longer he inhabited the child? Like what was happening with Ginevra and his diary?

But Harry couldn’t be like that irreparably broken girl.

Still, he had no direct evidence either way. His tests on the diary’s host, the indirect evidence, implied that if he kept this up… Harry would eventually disappear. He’d be subsumed into Voldemort; he would compress under the weight of Voldemort’s mind and memories and soul until nothing of the original remained.

Yet the process should have been slow. And though Harry held a significantly larger burden than the Weasley girl, considering he carried most of Voldemort’s soul, this was still happening too quickly. The most probable explanation was that while the barrier between his and Harry’s souls must have been getting more porous the longer he inhabited the body, the constant overlap of their minds had significantly sped up the process.

That meant… assuming his logic was valid and he wasn’t jumping to conclusions… he could slow it down again. He only needed to return to his original schedule of ‘sleeping’ during the day, walled behind strong occlumency barriers, and ‘waking up’ at night. He’d be leaving Harry alone, vulnerable, but wasn’t that better than blotting out the boy? But could he really abandon Harry while a Grim stalked him? Then again, Voldemort would still be available in emergencies whenever Harry’s panic and fear reached him.

As he searched for flaws in this temporary solution – the only permanent fix was to get a body and stop possessing the boy – the dormitory door creaked open.

Soft footsteps whispered through the room, approaching the gap between Harry’s and Ronald’s beds. Since he could hear the Weasley boy snoring, Voldemort knew it wasn’t him, not that the child would be that quiet anyway, so he gripped Harry’s wand and crawled to the edge of the bed. Finding the space where the curtains connected, he poked an inch of holly out and lifted the fabric apart.

Sirius Black stood before him. Voldemort could only see the intruder’s back, but the prison garb, atrocious smell, and emaciated body made the identity obvious. Moonlight reflected off a raised knife aimed, not at Harry’s bed, but at Ronald’s. Curious and fed up with the whole debacle surrounding Black, he wordlessly cast petrificus totalus and wingardium leviosa. He quietly dropped to the ground and walked to the third-year’s bathrooms for some privacy, floating Black’s petrified body behind him.

Not wanting any late-night toilet trips to interrupt this, he locked the main door and dropped Black onto the tile. Crouching down by the Azkaban escapee’s head, Voldemort brushed away the straggly hair to get a clear view of Black’s familiar steel-grey eyes. The man had inherited those from his family. Arcturus, Orion, and Bella’s were all that exact shade. Releasing his magic – his own, not Harry’s – he pressed into the wizard’s mind. Black was trained in occlumency, but the dementors had ravaged his psyche along with his soul, so Voldemort easily slid past the initial defences.

He’d arrived in an unusual mindscape. It was a circular tower, rising higher than he could see, with no ceiling, doors, or stairs. There were only the stones under his feet and the mirrors on the wall.

The mirrors were in all shapes and sizes. Some were so large they curled around with the circular layout, distorting the reflection. Others were the size of his palm. Many had intricate frames or were cut into shapes with dangerously sharp edges. They stretched up the walls, replicating his face back at him from endless angles.

This would have been a challenge to navigate had Black’s mind been unblemished, whole; however, the perfectly intact frames provided a noticeable clue to Black’s trick. The mirrors didn’t hold any memories or knowledge. They only formed patterns on the stone walls – like how stars outlined constellations. He needed to look at the negative spaces to get his answers from Black’s mind, though that might still be difficult. The tower was barely standing. Entire sections had crumbled away, leaving only rubble and reflections.

At full health, Black must have been formidable. He was a mad genius just as his ancestors were always said to be. Now the wizard was just mad.

However, the section immediately above his head looked somewhat unharmed. He could attempt to find his answers there. Unfortunately, the only way to access the memories was to climb the walls. Using different mirror frames and stone chunks as handholds, Voldemort pulled himself up to the next level, avoiding the caved-in spots as he wedged himself in.

He watched a few minor memories, orienting himself in the timeline, figuring out how Black organised his mind. Black furiously yelling at his mother, aggressively sleeping with someone named Marlene, listening to a disheartened Dumbledore during an Order meeting… and here he was with Harry’s father having a drunken conversation. More interested in the last one compared to the others, Voldemort paused to watch the entire memory.

“You don’ understaaaand,” slurred James Potter, lying his head down on the counter in some seedy muggle bar. Black patted him on the shoulder, trying to commiserate, but too drunk to understand what Potter was talking about. They both almost fell off their stools when Black overcommitted his weight and had to catch himself on Potter’s shoulder.

“Wh – what don’ I know? You can telllll me! I’m a – I’m yer bes’ friend,” Black replied, stumbling through his words too.

Potter lifted his head to stare at Black and Voldemort couldn’t help inhaling sharply. Harry really did look a lot like him. The wild hair, slightly upturned nose, and cupid-bow lips were all so similar, so familiar. Harry still had some childish features – his face was more rounded and lacked any wrinkles, which softened his expressions – but would he look like this when he turned twenty? Voldemort stared at the man, imagining vibrant green eyes and a sōwulō rune carved into his forehead.

“Is – It is jus’ – Lil is… Lil is pregnant,” James finally managed to say. This time Black did fall off his stool.

“SHE’S WHAT?!” Black yelped in shock, sitting on the floor halfway under the counter.

“Lily is pregnant,” reiterated James slowly with more patience than Voldemort thought Black deserved.

“And you’re the father?” Black questioned, stupidly.

“OBVIOUSLY! Wah – what the fuuu – wha’s wrong with you?” the drunk wizard shouted, kicking his feet and forcing Black to get up off the floor. Muggles were staring at them, but Black flicked out a wandless confundus charm, which was slightly impressive considering how intoxicated he was, and sat back on his stool.

“Jus’ checkin’! Didn’ th’n – think – you wanted kids,” Black whined, pouring another shot from the bottle on the counter. James slumped in his seat and dropped his face back onto the wooden counter with a crack.

“Well, it… it wasn’ on purpose,” he mumbled. “Twas an accident. Wer – we are – Lil and I, I mean, gon’ get married now.”

Disengaging from the memory, Voldemort couldn’t help but take a few deep breaths. Seeing so much of Harry in James Potter’s face, or rather so much of James in Harry’s face, had been surprisingly unnerving.

It wasn’t strange that James and Lily Potter hadn’t planned to have Harry, they were members of a rebellion group fighting a war. Not the ideal time for child-rearing. But that Harry had been the reason they’d decided to get married? It struck something inside Voldemort, something bitter, knowing that Harry’s circumstances could have been so different if he hadn’t murdered his parents. After all, his parents had married for him.  

Pushing aside those thoughts, he refocused on Black’s memories. This was within two years of his imprisonment. Voldemort wanted to know why he was at Hogwarts now and how he had broken out. Traversing the walls, he checked the bricks for memories to ensure he was advancing in the timeline.

Voldemort was pleased when he finally came across a memory from the night of his vanquishment until he saw what was happening. Was Black… handing Harry’s tiny, swaddled form to Hagrid and offering him the flying motorcycle? Rage flashed through him at Black’s negligence and ineptitude, but he held it inside himself. Coldly viewing the rest of the memory sequence, Voldemort discovered why Black had broken out of Azkaban. Pettigrew was alive, living a carefree life as the Weasley boy’s pet rat.

He’d probably have found the entire situation hilarious – the ministry imprisoning one of its staunchest Light supporters without trial and giving his Death Eater spy an Order of Merlin was so ironic – if not for how it negatively affected Harry’s life. Black was one of the reasons Harry lived with the Dursleys, and he’d brought the dementors to Hogwarts. And Voldemort was unamused to discover that it was Black’s animagus form that he’d seen at the quidditch game, not an actual Grim. This mongrel had caused Harry grief and risked his health on multiple occasions.

Voldemort was tempted to kill him here. He could play it off as self-defence for the professors, but… if Harry ever discovered the truth about Black being innocent, he’d likely be upset. Also, he doubted Dumbledore would be convinced of Harry’s innocence when a man was dead by his hand. The old goat might become suspicious.

Removing himself from Black’s mind, he ran his fingers along Harry’s wand, considering his options. He needed more time before deciding, but Black couldn’t stay here in the loo. Putting a small compulsion on the wizard to go and sleep in a cave he knew on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, he let Black go.

Voldemort could always kill him later, if necessary, and in such a way that neither Harry nor Dumbledore would attribute responsibility to him. Returning to bed, Voldemort let the possession go and automatically pressed himself against Harry’s mind. Harry dreamt of flying at the beach, still happily immersed in Voldemort’s memory.

Feeling far too many emotions, none of which he wanted, Voldemort raised his occlumency barriers higher than he had in months. Harry would be fine. There wasn’t an actual Grim stalking him, it was only the Black mutt. And Voldemort had a handle on the other problems – the dementors, the werewolf professor, and the teenage mudblood with the time-turner. He needed time to think about everything without being so close to Harry… a little space would do them both good.

Harry met Blaise and Theo in the entrance hall. They, like Harry, were bundled up in warm winter robes with hats and scarves in their House colour schemes. Several groups of Gryffindors and Slytherins hovered near the duo, none directly staring at them, but all silently standing just a bit too close.

Huffing out a groan, Harry didn’t stop when he reached them, instead, he snagged Theo’s elbow and tugged him to and through the front door at a brisk walk, ignoring the line to get their forms checked once again. Blaise followed with his hands in his pockets and a bored smirk plastered on his face. Once they escaped the eyes of all the other Hogwarts students, Harry slowed down and turned to Theo and Blaise.

Theo looked bemused while Blaise was actively stifling laughter, obviously delighted at the absurd situation. When Harry made eye contact, Blaise lost it, letting out loud, ringing laughs. Blaise’s humour was catching, and soon both Theo and Harry were also laughing so hard that tears streamed down their faces.

When they calmed down, Harry sheepishly began walking towards Hogsmeade at a much slower pace, Theo on one side and Blaise on the other.

“Weren’t expecting the large reception this morning, hm?” Blaise teased, bumping his shoulder against Harry’s. Mock glaring at him, Harry shook his head.

“No. I honestly thought this whole thing would blow over by now,” he said with a shrug. Theo chuckled and Blaise’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You thought the other students wouldn’t care that Harry Potter, the reclusive Gryffindor celebrity boy-hero, asked two Slytherin boys on a date?” Blaise questioned, looking doubtful of Harry’s intelligence.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds obvious! I didn’t grow up with this fame stuff, it’s hard to tell what will make things worse or better,” Harry grumpily answered.

Blaise opened his mouth, a curious glint in his eyes, but Theo cut in, changing the subject. “Where do you guys want to go first? I wouldn’t mind a warm butterbeer or stopping at the bookstore.”

“Three broomsticks then? We’ll beat the rush since Harry dragged us halfway down the path before the other students could close their mouths,” Blaise teased. Harry chuckled, and he and Theo agreed to the plan.

The morning went smoothly as the trio enjoyed their break from school. Students stared frequently, but no one tried to approach them until they’d briefly stopped on the side of the street to discuss lunch options.

In typical fashion, it was Draco Malfoy and his two goons that interrupted their pleasant visit.

“Potter,” Malfoy called loudly as he walked up to them. “One Slytherin not enough for you? You had to invite two to satisfy your… appetite.” Harry rolled his eyes and would have made a snarky reply, but surprisingly Blaise rose to meet Malfoy’s taunt. He took half a step forward, shielding Harry from Malfoy’s view.

“Malfoy, good to see you here. I didn’t think you planned to attend this weekend considering just how busy you are with your schoolwork. Well, that and the lack of invitations,” Blaise cooly retorted, his expression disinterested. Theo snickered at the insult and stepped up to Blaise’s side, but Harry noted that, despite the amused smirk Theo sported, his wand was already in his hand, trembling faintly.

<< That was a well-thought-out insult by Blaise. Popularity and intelligence. Both are definite weak points for Malfoy. >>

His angel didn’t respond, but Malfoy turned bright red and stomped forward, obviously reaching for his holster. Harry instinctively flicked his wand into his hand, a protego ready in response when Malfoy opened his mouth to curse someone. But the blonde Slytherin stumbled to a halt when a smooth voice interrupted his charge. Harry hurriedly holstered his wand again.

“What, exactly, is going on here?” Snape questioned, gliding up to the group of students. Malfoy opened his mouth to explain but didn’t get the opportunity before Snape saw Harry. Thank Merlin his wand was away! Though, of course, Harry knew that wouldn’t help much.

“Potter. Of course, I’d find you at the centre of this spectacle,” Snape interjected. Snape took stock of the surrounding faces and noted they were all Slytherins except Harry, while only Malfoy had his wand out. “Antagonising the other House members... such… Gryffindor behaviour, just like your father.”

“With me, Potter. You don’t have permission to be here. You’ve earned yourself a month’s worth of detention for this stunt, at least,” Snape gleefully ordered, gripping the collar of Harry’s robes and dragging him away from the Slytherins. Blaise stepped forward in concern, but Theo prevented him from interfering. Harry saw him shoot a fearful, apologetic glance in his direction before Snape jerked him around a corner and obstructed his view.

“Stunt, sir? I have my permission –” Harry tried to explain, knowing it was fruitless. Snape didn’t let him finish the sentence.

“So,” Snape snapped, scowling down at him, still holding Harry tightly in his grip. “Everyone from the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black. But famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.”

Harry didn’t respond. He knew there was no point. Snape would believe whatever he wanted. It was useless to attempt to reason with the man. He’d simply wait until they arrived at the castle so he could talk to McGonagall or Dumbledore. Snape appeared peeved by Harry’s silence.

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He too was exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us too. Strutting about the place with his friends and admirers… The resemblance between you is uncanny.”

Again, Harry refused to respond, though his hands tightened into fists. Given his recent thoughts about his parents and Black, Snape’s taunts were like shards of glass, cutting deeper than usual.

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,” Snape derided, digging the sharp edges in deeper. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen –”

“SHUT UP!” Harry didn’t realise he’d shouted this out loud until Snape abruptly stopped and Harry stumbled to a halt beside him.

“What did you say to me, Potter?” he whispered ominously, his eyes like black tar. Harry, unable to stop himself, continued speaking. Hardly knowing what he was saying, the words slipped out like air escaping a balloon.

“I told you to shut up about my dad! I know the truth, all right? He saved your life! Dumbledore told me! You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my dad!”

Watching Snape’s pallor whiten with rage, Harry wondered if he’d lost his mind. He couldn’t believe he’d said that here, on the road between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, when there were no witnesses. Snape was going to bury Harry’s body in the woods, and no one would know. So caught up in his head, Harry almost didn’t hear the professor when he spoke again.

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances in which your father saved my life? Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for precious Potter’s delicate ears?” Snape rhetorically asked. He wasn’t looking for an answer, only another way to wound Harry. Regardless of Snape’s intentions, Harry did want answers.

“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter. Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism? Then let me correct you – your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment. There was nothing brave about what he did. He was saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts.”

His father had… tried to kill Snape? Had maliciously pranked Snape in school? Harry was shocked, uncertain how to interpret this information. Snape had to be lying – this conflicted with everything others had told him about his dad – but Harry wasn’t sure. Doubt had seeded itself inside his heart after hearing the account of Black’s betrayal and his parents’ cowardice.

Still, this was Snape. He would definitely lie to Harry if he thought it would hurt him. Harry shook his head, opening his mouth to deny the claim and defend his father, but Snape interrupted before he got the chance.

“You think I’m lying? Well, it’s unsurprising. You Gryffindors prefer to keep your head buried in the sand. You’re more like ostriches than lions. Still, if you require testimony from one of your own kind, you can always ask Lupin. He’ll be able to confirm,” Snape smugly assured tightening his hold on Harry, digging bruises into his shoulder and causing Harry’s breathing to speed up. Snape dragged Harry towards the school again before he could get his bearings.

<< Why would Lupin be able to confirm? What did he have to do with this? >>

Harry automatically projected the thought to his angel. No reaction. Harry only felt his own disjointed uncertainty as his gasping breaths caught in his throat. Snape must have noticed his confusion, or perhaps intended to cause it, because he continued, his tone noticeably sarcastic.

“Oh! Is this something the famous Harry Potter doesn’t know about his newest mentor? I assumed it must have come up in your many one-on-one lessons with him. Lupin was part of your father’s little gang. He, your illustrious father, and Black were three beans in a puffapod. He used his prefect status to get them out of trouble and prevent the victims of their pranks from informing a professor. Not as active as the others, but still just as terrible in my opinion.

“Potter and Black, however, were vicious, brutal monsters,” Snape said, losing the mocking tone. His voice was as cold as ice when he continued. “I wasn’t shocked when Black finally snapped. He was already capable of murder at sixteen.

“Though I admit to being surprised at his targets. He’d have done anything for James Potter… perhaps that’s why he informed the Dark Lord of their home’s location. An exchange – the father for the son – though of course, the Dark Lord wouldn’t keep to such a bargain. Black probably went berserk upon hearing of Potter’s death, knowing he caused it.”

By the end, Snape appeared to be musing to himself, unaware he’d also voiced the thoughts aloud to Harry. Harry remained silent, intentionally shutting down all his thoughts and emotions, he focused on his breathing as he snuck deep within himself, hiding from the words Snape continued to speak and the growing certainty that he’d been the reason his parents were murdered.

Chapter Text

Harry was forcibly jerked back to reality; he wasn’t used to the abrupt change. He usually came back gradually or after a night of rest. It took him several moments to understand where he was. Already at the castle, he was sitting in a hard chair in Snape’s office.

Snape was kneeling before him, a jar in his hand filled with round purple spheres that emitted smoke. It smelled like lavender… or maybe something herbal? The more he inhaled, the more present he felt. When Harry made eye contact, Snape stared back with unreadable black eyes. Then he looked away, efficiently capping the jar and standing up to circle his desk and sit in his chair.

“Mr Potter, are you back with us now?” asked Snape in a borderline snide voice, but it was missing the venom Harry was used to hearing. Was this the real Snape? It looked like him, but Harry couldn’t be sure. The world had taken on a surreal cast. He felt like a stranger wearing his own skin.

Harry wasn’t sure he could speak yet, didn’t know if he had control of his tongue when his entire body felt foreign and cold. He could only nod mutely. Were his hands shaking? Harry glanced down to check but both just sat limply in his lap, motionless. He raised his head again and saw Snape watching him. Right. Harry needed to focus. He wasn’t safe yet. A predator still had him in their sight.

“Do you need something, sir?” Harry politely asked after the silence had painfully dragged on. He was vaguely pleased the words came out clearly, though it was unfortunate he had reverted to the emotionless voice he used when his guardians acted particularly harshly. Snape’s hands clenched into fists from where they’d rested on his desk but smoothed out when Harry’s gaze shot down. Harry continued to watch the hands until Snape spoke again.

“No, Mr Potter,” he answered. “But do tell me. What were you doing down in the village?”

“Visiting, sir. With Blaise and Theo. I have a signed permission form,” he tonelessly responded. He was surprised that Snape allowed him to finish his sentence, but he reached into his bag to pull out the form and push it across the desk.

“Your Aunt Petunia signed this?” Snape clarified, waiting for Harry’s confirmation. “And she wasn’t worried about the possibility of Black attacking you outside Hogwarts’s protections?”

Harry snorted and shook his head. The idea that any of the Dursleys would be concerned for his safety ignited a tiny spark of distant amusement that quickly faded. Snape’s shoulders shifted and Harry's eyes darted to the man’s hands which were now clasped together.

“Very well. Since you were under the impression you could attend, I will retract the detentions I assigned,” Snape acquiesced. Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock, but Snape wasn’t finished shattering all his expectations of the man. “Now would you care to explain your reaction on the way to the castle? We can delay the topic if you are still unwell or go to Madam Pomfrey.”

Bewildered, Harry nodded, uncertain where this was going. Snape was being so… considerate. It was freaky… and normally Harry was the Freak. This couldn’t be real, it was backwards. Snape wasn’t even glaring. Yet, Harry wasn’t waking up. And the longer he rested, the more centred he felt. Snape sat quietly, patiently waiting for Harry’s answer.

“Ah – okay? I was…” Harry paused, trying to think of a good word for what had happened during the confrontation with Snape that wasn’t overly descriptive. “I was overwhelmed by the topic. So, I did a breathing exercise to help calm down. Must have worked too well, since next thing I know I was here with you.”

“That’s called dissociation, Mr Potter,” Snape explained, “and it’s not a standard reaction to… overwhelming… conversations.”

“I’ve always been able to go away in my mind when I need to,” Harry responded with a shrug. Still supremely weirded out by Snape’s almost pleasant demeanour and now convinced that this was happening, Harry decided to end the conversation before it went even more sideways. “If that’s all then, sir, could I head back to my common room?”

Snape, sneer still absent, slowly nodded, but when Harry reached the door, he spoke once more. “Mr Potter. You should speak to someone about these… episodes. Madame Pomfrey, perhaps.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum before darting out the door and away from the dungeons as quickly as possible. But he didn’t head for the common room. Instead, he detoured into a bathroom and threw on his invisibility cloak.

Harry crept through the nearly empty halls until he located Filch’s office. Once he confirmed the caretaker wasn’t inside, he went straight to the detention records cabinet. Writing “James Potter” on the search pad, he opened the drawer to see two thick folders. So different than the slim file he’d received when he’d searched for Tom Riddle.

The odd disconnect between Harry and his body made ignoring the throb in his heart at the thought of Tom (tears in his eyes, ink on his hands, the diary was ble e d  i  n   g – ) much easier than normal. Harry took the heavy folders with him as he quietly departed Filch’s office. He debated returning to Gryffindor Tower, but Harry didn’t want to run into anyone right now. He couldn’t handle another argument with Ron or Hermione… and Ginny had been weird lately too.

Harry hesitated at the staircase, unsure whether to go up or down when an idea popped into his mind. The Ritual Room. Maybe he could use that even though it wasn’t a Turn Day? Climbing the five flights to the seventh floor, he quickly found the dancing troll tapestry. Walking back and forth, desperately hoping the room would appear, Harry prayed for a place to be alone with his thoughts.

When the door appeared, he exhaled a relieved sigh. Yanking it open, almost dropping the heavy folders in the process, he was stumped to see a brand-new room that looked nothing like the Ritual Room usually did.

It was small, maybe twice the size of his cupboard, but the ceiling and walls were made of glass. They showed the horizon, an impressive display of open sky, and the currently empty quidditch pitch. Harry’s shoes sank into a thick, burgundy carpet after stepping inside. The room was empty except for the dozens of overstuffed pillows on the ground, and when he turned around, the wall connected to the castle was a glittering pale gold that reflected the dying sunlight.

Clutching a navy blue pillow to his chest, Harry settled into a corner – pressed against the glass wall, he felt he could fly into the skyline if he wanted, the perfect blend of sheltered and free – and placed the large folders in front of him. He stared at them, conflicted, unsure if he wanted to read the contents.

<< Do you think I should read them? >>

Harry waited for a response, but the pressure to look built inside him until finally, he opened one. Page after page of pranks were detailed. Most were minor, and funny, like setting off clover-shaped fireworks on St Patrick’s Day or forcing all the first years to speak in rhyme. But some were cruel. Those always targeted Slytherins.

In their fifth year, they almost drowned a group of first-year students by kidnapping them from the dungeon and tying them all to the wooden boats used in the entrance ceremony. Fifty points were taken for that; the eleven-year-olds were stranded overnight on the lake. That same year, Black and his dad spelled the tops of several female Slytherins to be invisible as they walked into the Great Hall for breakfast. They’d lost twenty points and each was assigned a single detention.

But really, the majority of disciplinary measures were for the tricks they played on Severus Snape. Crude and demeaning nicknames, sulfur hexes in the halls, constant transfiguration of his appearance, tripping jinxes at the top of stairs… his dad and Black tormented him. It was obvious, even if these records only showed the times they got caught.

Sometimes the slips claimed the duo’s assault was retaliation for something Snape did. Like, Snape had swapped some of their ingredients to make their potion explode, so his father poisoned Snape’s tea with asphodel powder. Harry’s dad had only received two detentions for that incident, while Snape spent the week in the hospital wing. Or when his father and Black hung Snape upside down and stripped him naked because the Slytherin called someone a mudblood. That time his dad received three detentions.

Harry hadn’t requested Snape’s record, so he had no idea whether the so-called pranks were reciprocated, but still… two against one? Well, there were three against one, possibly four with Pettigrew… if he believed Snape that Lupin was usually involved, despite only being mentioned infrequently in his father’s records… which, Harry thought Snape probably was telling the truth. The man wanted to hurt Harry and, considering this was easy to confirm, lying wouldn’t make sense.

Harry wasn’t supposed to have a lesson with Lupin until next week, but he couldn’t wait that long for answers. Gathering all the pages back into the folders, he left the now shadowy room, mumbling a thank you to Hogwarts as he went. He raced down the stairs to Lupin’s office and knocked loudly on the door.

“Yes, yes, one moment,” the professor called out before the door opened. “Harry!” Lupin exclaimed in surprise. “Oh, come in. We didn’t have lessons today, did we? It’s a Hogsmeade weekend!”

“Did you know my dad?” Harry asked, his heart pounding frantically like it was trying to beat itself out of his chest. Like the last few hours of emotions were trapped there, waiting to burst. Lupin froze at the question and stopped bustling around to stare at Harry.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he said after an overlong pause. “We went to school together, same House.”

“And Black, you knew Black too? Were friends with them?” Harry asked intently, needing answers. Lupin nodded but didn’t say anything, his eyes drifting to the folders in Harry’s hands.

“Was he… were they really like this?” Harry asked, feeling empty, yet his arms were heavy with the weight of the folders – the weight of his father’s cruelty. “Please tell me these are fake.”

“Harry. What you have to understand is –” Lupin cut himself off when he heard Harry suck in a harsh breath but regathered himself to justify their actions. “We were just kids. Your father grew up to be a wonderful, caring man. Those silly, childhood pranks, they aren’t who he was, who he became.”

“And you?” Harry asked softly. At Lupin’s confused look, he elaborated, “The one who stood by and let them assault, torture, other students. The one justifying those acts as… as silly pranks. You seem just as passive, just as apathetic to another’s suffering as you were back then. Will you grow out of that too, someday? Or did you come here to watch while Black kills me? One more prank like the good ol’ days, Professor?”

“No, Harry, no I never –”

“I don’t think I want to continue our lessons, sir. Thank you for the direct instruction,” Harry stated coldly, numb, interrupting Lupin’s excuses.

Lupin crumpled into himself. Harry walked out. Lupin let him.

Harry spent the next few hours staring out the window and crying in the Hideaway Room that Hogwarts had given him. He wasn’t upset or angry, not exactly. Just as he’d told Snape, he was overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed was the only way he could describe his current state. It didn’t help that his angel was silent.

When he finally pulled himself together and left, Hedwig swooped down and dropped a note on his head. He bent to retrieve the paper from the ground and as he straightened up, Hedwig came to rest on his shoulder and nuzzled into his hair. Pleased, feeling like he’d been neglecting her lately, Harry stroked her feathers before reading the note.

We lost. I’m allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts.
Execution date to be fixed.
Beaky has enjoyed London.
I won’t forget all the help you gave us.
Hagrid

A few more tears slipped down onto the parchment and joined the ones Hagrid had made, smearing the ink. Harry felt the first stirring of upset flare to life in his chest. There was the option to appeal, but it felt hopeless when their case should have been enough to get Buckbeak off in the first place.

Harry made his way to the common room. The portrait swung open at his whispered password, and he was surprised at how quiet the room was until he heard the gentle sobbing. He turned towards the sound and found Hermione curled up in one of the armchairs, the rest of the room empty. A similar note was clutched in her hands as Harry held within his.

He went over and kneeled in front of her chair. As he was reaching out to her, Hermione raised her head to look at him. Harry briefly met her watery eyes with his own before she lunged forward, bypassing his outstretched arm to hold him tightly in a hug.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” she cried. “I should have talked to you first about – about Black – and then I should have apologised sooner, but I was so – so – and we all – everything’s wrong! This year is awful!”

Her voice cut off as a hiccup burst out of her, followed by another sob. Harry held her and patted her fluffy hair until her breathing evened out. She leaned back, and they sat, with puffy red eyes, smiling at one another before someone cleared their throat and drew both his and Hermione’s attention. Standing a few feet away, stood Ron. He was hunched down with an uncertain look on his face.

“I’m… can I also…” Ron faltered, but Hermione jumped up and threw herself into his arms for another hug while fresh tears streamed down her cheeks and onto Ron’s robes. Harry stifled an inappropriate giggle at the panicked look on Ron’s red face but gave him a thumbs up when he turned pleading eyes towards him.

“Ron, I’m really, really sorry about Scabbers…,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by fabric. Ron rubbed her shoulders before gently pushing her away and back into the chair Harry had first spotted her in.

“Oh – well – he was old. And a bit useless. You never know, Mum and Dad might get me an owl now,” Ron joked, though the humour felt a bit off to Harry. Nonetheless, he joined Hermione in her quiet laughter, a soft smile on his face.

It seemed the golden trio was back again. Harry figured they’d never truly be dismantled so long as he could continue to find enemies for them. The troll, Snape, the basilisk, Malfoy… now the three faced the Ministry’s cronyism and corruption. Keep them pointed at some external threat and he would prevent infighting and retain their friendship.

When Ron and Hermione turned wet, bright smiles at him, Harry felt his train of thought derail. Why had he been thinking that? He rarely considered friendship in that fashion. (Though he knew in his heart what he’d thought was true.) Still. It mattered little in light of the trio’s latest reunion. They stayed there several hours more, speaking of Buckbeak’s appeal and playing cards, before going to bed much later than usual.

When Harry woke up the next morning, he was exhausted. He’d slept poorly, his nightmares suddenly reappearing; however, he sluggishly got ready for the day despite the growing headache. After breakfast, he wasn’t surprised to see Hermione had disappeared, she’d been doing that all year, and since he was used to walking alone to runes now, it didn’t bother him like it had before. Especially now that they both had other friends.

Harry arrived at his usual time, sat and retrieved his course materials and fountain pen from his book bag. He startled briefly when Blaise touched his forearm but turned to quirk an eyebrow at the Slytherin in question.

“Harry, about this weekend. I wanted to apologise. We both do,” Blaise corrected when Theo nudged his side. “When Snape dragged you away, we didn’t know how to respond and weren’t sure how to de-escalate the confrontation. But we shouldn’t have let him just… abscond with you when you did nothing wrong.”

“We’re sorry,” Theo mumbled, guiltily avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, hey,” Harry said, surprised at the gravity of their apologies. “Don’t worry about it. Snape hates me and he’s a teacher. Of course, you didn’t step in. I wouldn’t expect you to! He’s your Head of House and he’s got a serious grudge against me. You’re better off staying out of it.”

Blaise and Theo stared at him with flummoxed expressions. Theo opened his mouth once, closed it, and opened it again before asking, “So you’re not upset we didn’t stop him from grabbing you?”

“Uhm – no?” Harry answered. “Why would I be upset?”

Silence. Uncertain faces searched his own; Theo’s expression became troubled while Blaise seemed more puzzled. Harry leaned forward, about to press the issue, but lurched upright when Professor Babbling called for attention. Hurriedly rearranging his supplies, Harry started taking notes before an idea emerged.

Remembering his and the two Slytherins' first conversation about fountain pens, Harry dug his backup out of his bag and sat it on the table. He gently nudged it over until it poked Blaise in the elbow, a grin spread across his face. Blaise breathed out a nearly silent laugh, but eagerly took the pen and used it for the rest of the class period.

All three boys packed up when the lecture ended, Blaise smiling while he returned Harry’s pen. Theo and Blaise acted as if they intended to walk with him to charms before Harry halted them.

“I’m skipping today,” he explained when he noticed their anxious expressions. “Too… exhausted for such a slow-paced class. I think I’ll get a headache reliever from Madame Pomfrey and then head to the library.”

Their worry about Harry being upset shifted into concern for his health. When had Harry been able to read these two so easily? Didn’t they usually wear thicker masks than these?

“We’ll escort you?” Theo almost demanded but shifted it into a question at the last moment. Harry chuckled and nodded his head. After a brief stopover in the hospital wing, the three took Harry’s usual table in the library.

They’d been studying quietly for an hour or so when Harry noticed Blaise and Theo still scrutinising him. Realising they were likely wondering about the Snape incident, Harry waved his hand and cast muffliato – the spell impressed Theo, maybe he should try to teach him – and then explained what had happened. He skimmed over his weird moment on the way up to the castle, but Theo still gave him a distressed look. Blaise had focused on a different part of Harry’s explanation though.

“This information about your father, it’s really bothering you,” he stated.

“Yes,” Harry agreed easily. “I know it shouldn’t, what does it matter if my dad was a prick in school? It’s not like I knew him. But it still… I don’t know. It bothers me.”

“I didn’t know my father either,” Blaise hesitantly said. When Harry didn’t react poorly, he took a deep breath and continued. “My mother always said he would have been a good father, but I found out a few years ago that he… committed suicide.”

“The aurors had found out about some illegal venture he was operating, and the death eaters had washed their hands of him, so he just… well, I’d always thought, worried really, that maybe mamá had…” he trailed off, gaze dropping away and to the table before steeling himself to continue.

"Anyways, I’m telling you this for a reason. When I confronted my mother, she told me it didn’t matter – didn’t change anything about me, as a person. And for a long time, that pissed me off. How could something like that not matter? But eventually, I understood what she’d meant.

“Parents don’t control who you are… even when they raise you,” Blaise said the second half while glancing briefly at Theo, who stared at Blaise in disbelief, before turning back to Harry. “Acknowledging your history and ancestors is important, but taking only the best parts with you is okay. You don’t need to imitate them. You don’t inherit their flaws. You don't have to live up to their ideals… unless that’s what you want. Just be yourself. That’s enough.”

Feeling the words strike a chord deep within him, Harry found himself gaping at the other boy. He was shocked at how accurately Blaise had identified his fears when even Harry had trouble explaining why it disturbed him. He didn’t want to be like his dad anymore if the man was a bully, a coward, but he felt he couldn’t escape that fate. So much of who he was now had been built on the ideal of James Potter… on the expectations he’d encountered upon his arrival in the wixen world.

Harry was a wilted, faded wallflower before. Unnoticed and easily overlooked, he wasn’t brave or chivalrous. But the act of observation, of being seen, changed him. Harry had modelled himself into a bright sunrita flower; he’d embraced the heroic Gryffindor stereotype while seeking, and finding, approval from those around him.

He wouldn’t regret it, even if the man he’d originally imitated didn’t exist. He liked who he was now and had no intention of returning to the hungry child hidden away in the cupboard. But perhaps he could let himself colour outside the lines, let some green, blue, or silver bleed into his petals without feeling guilty that he was wasting his perfect father’s sacrifice.

“Thank you,” he said, but the words were insufficient to express his gratitude properly. Harry reached across the table and gently touched Blaise’s hand. “Really, that was exactly what I needed to hear,” he praised.

Blaise smiled crookedly and Theo’s eyes were rivetted to the other boy’s face seemingly awestruck. Harry laughed when he bumped the brown-haired Slytherin’s foot under the table and saw him jump.

“Looks like someone else appreciated hearing it too,” he teased, enjoying how Theo blushed and stammered out denials. His heart felt ten pounds lighter than when he woke up that morning, his grief somehow lessened after sharing his concerns with friends. Perhaps he should try this more often.

Briefly looking out of Harry’s eyes, Voldemort confirmed that he was already half asleep in bed. Lulling Harry the rest of the way out with a small surge of magic, Voldemort took possession of their body. He quietly prepared for a little jaunt through the forest, putting on boots, a warm fur-lined robe, and the invisibility cloak. While getting dressed, he reviewed Harry’s memories of the last few days.

Since his realisation last week, Voldemort had adopted a new routine. He kept thick occlumency walls between his and Harry’s minds while Harry was awake, unwilling to risk tainting Harry’s soul further. He only lowered them in the evening to check if Harry was asleep yet, and he put up a more flexible version to review the key points of Harry’s day.

Last night he’d briefly peeked, but Harry had still been awake, apparently reconciling with Granger and Ronald. Noticing they were likely to be up for a while, and that Harry had mimicked his thoughts briefly, Voldemort decided to skip his nightly possession and let their body rest longer. Thankfully, Harry was already in bed when he lowered the barriers this evening.

Voldemort was skimming through the prior days when he noticed an odd encounter with Severus. The memory seemed to… jump? One minute Severus was forcibly pulling Harry to the castle, the next Harry was seated in the potion master’s office. Watching the memory in full, Voldemort had to bank his rage at the man’s behaviour to listen to what he said afterwards.

Harry had dissociated… and Voldemort, hidden behind his occlumency shields, had been entirely unaware.

Were his frequent possessions to blame? Had he accidentally trained Harry to let him take over during high-stress situations? But wait… he’d said ‘always been able to go away in his mind’… what did Harry mean by that?

Voldemort dived deeper into Harry’s mind, searching his childhood for similar jumps in the memories. He found… several. Most of them starring Harry’s muggle guardians.

The abuse was worse than Voldemort had been led to believe. He’d originally seen ample evidence of neglect and denigration in Harry’s memories. There’d been threats of physical violence too – Voldemort hadn’t been surprised by the shape of Harry’s first boggart – but those had tapered off as Harry got older. He’d believed the muggles had restrained themselves to confinement and deprivation of food as punishments.

But now he noted several instances that seemed about to take a brutal turn but were cut off prematurely where Harry must have just… stopped forming memories. They were still relatively infrequent, maybe three or four per year until Harry came to Hogwarts. Still, Harry’s uncle must have beaten him. If the boggart was accurate, Harry had been whipped with a belt.

Voldemort was infuriated at his oversight, incensed that he’d allowed Harry to remain in that house for a single moment this last summer. Why had he waited until Marge struck Harry? They should have run immediately when the muggle shoved Harry into the wall. That was physical abuse, too.

Logically, Voldemort knew he was being unreasonable. At the beginning of summer, his core was too damaged. He couldn’t have helped Harry yet. He had little doubt that had they run, one of Dumbledore’s sycophants, or even the man himself, would have picked them up and returned them. Harry would have been worse off, still stuck in the home but now with an enraged walrus.

Not to mention, it was only in hindsight that he saw evidence of the dissociative amnesia in the boy’s behaviour – Harry’s lack of concern about waking up in new locations, apathy towards blurred or missing memories, casual dismissal of nightmares, and unusually adept compartmentalisation skills – but Voldemort’s fury wasn’t inclined to make any allowance for such weak excuses.

He had spent months with Harry in that house. That house where Harry was so afraid, so terrified, that he’d taught himself to forget in order to survive living there.

Unable to remain still for another instant, Voldemort silently ghosted downstairs towards the dungeons. Hidden under Harry’s invisibility cloak, he was tempted to find Severus’s room on the map, to enact revenge for his treatment of Harry.

At some point in the future, he’d permanently remove the hand that had bruised Harry’s shoulder, despite the man’s aptitude for potions. Really, the potions professor was due a few dozen crucios for crawling into Dumbledore’s lap after Voldemort’s disappearance, and the resulting tremors would wreck the man’s skill regardless. He wanted to hear the wizard’s screams, but knew now was not the time. Severus was too adept at magic for Voldemort to take head-on while in Dumbledore’s backyard, and too paranoid for a successful sneak attack.

He needed to stick to the plan he’d produced; it was more important than ever considering what he’d learned about Harry. Voldemort breathed deeply and chained down the monster baying for the wizard’s blood. He made sure to move Severus’s name higher up on his list of people to torture when he returned, then continued to the kitchens.

Confirming no other wix was present upon arrival, he removed the invisibility cloak. Two elves were on the night shift; one prepared bread while the other cleaned a range. From their magic, Voldemort could tell the house-elf baking was bound to Hogwarts, but the other elf was curiously loose. That fae was possibly indebted to the forest, but not under any vows despite the crest and apron it wore to disguise itself as a loyal house-elf.

This was perfect. He’d expected to have to use one of the elves bonded to Hogwarts, and thereby Dumbledore, and just hope the man didn’t question them regularly. However, this one wasn’t beholden to the old goat. Stepping up to it, he snapped his fingers and kept a forcefully blank expression on his face. The elf looked up at him, the uncertainty shining in its bulbous eyes nearly hiding the greed he also spotted.

“Ye – es? Can Ghrian help you?” it asked, voice raised gratingly high at the end of its sentence.

“Yes. Will you collect several meals' worth of food, enough to last a month, in an undetectably expanded box with preservation spells in exchange for a single spark of my magic?” Voldemort requested.

The elf was visibly startled, then nodded enthusiastically, bat-like ears flapping wildly, and disappeared with a small pop. Voldemort paced while he waited, keeping one eye on the map since he was still visible. A minute later the fae returned holding a small bread box. Taking the box once the elf held it out for him, Voldemort checked it and nodded. He summoned the small bottle of magic-infused, honey-sweetened milk he’d made earlier that week and handed it to the elf in payment.

A small squeak burst out of its mouth, bulbous eyes shining with avarice before it snatched the bottle from his hands. Quickly downing its contents, a long black tongue pushed into the bottle to lick up the last drops. Its eyes flashed gold before returning to their original grass-green colour. Having completed the transaction with the unbound fae, Voldemort turned to leave. He walked towards the exit while checking the map, but a high voice called out to him before he stepped outside.

“Call for Ghrian if you want another trade, not-so-little wix,” offered the elf, giggling to itself before disappearing again with a pop.

Noticing the Hogwarts house-elf’s curious glance, Voldemort kept a tight hold of his emotions as he confidently stepped into the corridor before swirling the cloak back over to hide himself from view. Exiting out of the fruit portrait, he trekked deeper into the dungeons. Finding the cobra engraving he sought, Voldemort hissed the passphrase – a quote by Rumi, an Islamic scholar and poet that Salazar Slytherin had admired in his later years.

δ A snake's poison is life to the snake; it is in relation to prey that it means death. δ

The snake slithered across the wall as bricks rolled back revealing a secret passageway that opened outside, near the Dark Forest.

Voldemort strolled through the night air, grateful to finally be out of the castle and away from the students where he could let his rage burn freely. He released his magic, allowing it to manifest, as he walked. It detonated around him. The trees swayed from the magical pressure, while the animals cowered and scurried away. Gold explosions whistled like falling bombs and left circles of blackened rot whenever they touched the ground. It was destruction at its most beautiful and menacing.

He felt calmer when he arrived at the entrance to the cave that he’d sent Black to reside inside, so he delicately gathered his magic back to himself. Stepping inside, he found a giant, mangy Grim lying there, waiting for him. It jumped up, tongue lolling out and clamoured towards him at a run. Holding out his hand, Voldemort halted the animagus before he could knock Voldemort over in his enthusiasm to see Harry.

“Turn human,” he ordered. Black immediately complied. “Here,” he said, thrusting the bread box at Black. “This should be enough food to get you through the next month. Stay hidden. I know about Pettigrew, and I’ll help you find the rat, but you must stay here.”

“Harry,” Black whispered, his voice rough from disuse. “I’m so sorry. Harry, James, Harry, I’m sorry. Harry, Harry, Harry, sorry.”

Ah. This was unfortunate. Black had cracked. He might be incapable of performing the tasks Voldemort had planned for him. As Harry’s godfather, he would normally have the right to remove Harry from his muggle relatives, but if he were truly crazy the Ministry wouldn’t allow him to take care of a child, let alone their boy-saviour.

Voldemort wondered if he had damaged Black further with the recent perusal of his mind; when he felt a small tendril of guilt at the thought, he froze in shock.

He had rarely regretted his actions as a child and never at all since his first horcrux; now the thought of having unintentionally damaged Black’s mind led to… guilt. These feelings were contrary to everything Voldemort knew himself capable of. The only explanation was that they must not be coming from him; this must be Harry’s influence, Harry’s soul affecting his own.

He wasn’t overwriting the boy with his possession – they were merging, blurring together.

Other recent examples of Voldemort’s unusual behaviour came to mind. Jumping off his broom to save a student. Cautiously waiting until the end of the year to steal the time-turner. Allowing his host to keep the memories he’d experienced from Voldemort’s perspective and their frequent, emotion-dependent conversations which Voldemort had even begun to enjoy. Hell, his desire to cast a patronus, and of course the ability itself, was surely linked to the boy’s soul! And now this guilt at injuring Black’s mind.

Damnit, what had Harry done to him?

This was unacceptable. Voldemort refused to allow this. He wouldn’t change who he was just because some child’s dichotomous conscience had rubbed off on him. He needed to do what he’d always done, act as he always had, and disregard Harry’s influence until he was separated from his host.

He would kill Black. The wizard wasn’t useful for his plans anymore and, if allowed back into Dumbledore’s clutches, the convict would likely become a hindrance.

The wizard in question was crouched on the ground in front of him, curled over his knees so Voldemort could see each protruding knob of his spine. He rocked back and forth, still whispering Harry’s name. Voldemort raised his host’s wand, pointing it at the shuddering wizard who was mid-breakdown. This might even be a mercy after the torture of Azkaban.

“Ava –” Voldemort started to cast but cut himself off before completing the spell. Black stopped whimpering as soon as Voldemort spoke aloud and spread himself out flat to look up at his murderer. The glazed eyes, half-smile, and sprawled limbs transformed him again into the man at the bar Voldemort had seen in Black’s memory.

The magic he’d shaped lost its form and he couldn’t continue the spell.

“Fuck,” he cursed and turned away to kick the cave wall. He couldn’t kill Black. He was Harry’s bloody godfather, he still cared for the boy despite being insane, and he might be able to remove Harry from his abusive household permanently.

“James… Harry… I’m so sorry,” Black whispered. Sighing, Voldemort looked back at the prisoner escapee. Black was in terrible shape. But he needed to be sane enough to help Harry leave the Dursleys. Voldemort would simply have to help him get healthy, so he’d be useful for his plans.

He was more adept at breaking minds than patching them together again, but he was an expert at magicaemens so therapeutic legilimency couldn’t be difficult for him to learn. In the meantime, the fugitive wasn’t mentally capable of taking care of himself.

“Imperio,” Voldemort cast wandlessly and Black’s eyes immediately fogged, draining off his madness. “You are to recover physically as much as possible over the next few months. You will eat three meals a day without making yourself sick. You will sleep every night. You will bathe daily within the lake in your animagus form. You will exercise daily to recover your physical prowess without pushing past your limits or injuring yourself. You will practise magic without straining your core or using a wand.

“You will do all this without drawing any attention to yourself and staying hidden here. You will only leave the cave in your animagus form and will not transform once outside the cave. I will return in a month with more food.”

Turning away before Black could nod in acceptance, Voldemort disappeared down the path. Damn Harry. Damn the bleeding boy for forcing these scruples, these fucking emotions onto him. Guilt, regret – he shouldn’t have these at all, let alone for a gods-be-damned mercy killing. But here he was wasting valuable magic to maintain a constant imperius curse so he could spare Harry’s fucking mad-as-a-hatter godfather.

At least by this point, his core was fully healed. Ginevra’s magical donations had sped up the process exponentially, so he didn’t have to worry about his magical reserves. He could hold a dozen curses if he wanted to and barely feel the strain, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle of the thing. He should have killed Black. He wanted to kill Black and yet…

He couldn’t do it because of the possible home Black could offer Harry; he couldn’t do it because Black could help and care for Harry; and he couldn’t do it because if Harry found out he murdered Black, the boy would never trust him again.

It was that last justification that echoed within Voldemort’s mind. Harry trusted him and he wanted to keep that trust, craved it as much as he had once craved Slytherin’s locket. That desire, that yearning, he hadn’t felt it for a person before, but he recognised it now. The boy had infected him with his emotions and in retribution, Voldemort longed to claim the boy as his.

Were these feelings a temporary side effect from their slowly amalgamating souls, or a permanent one? Had Harry enabled him to feel these emotions or did the boy transfer his feelings through the bond? Did he only care for Harry because Harry cared for him? Would he cast off all this sentiment when he finally became corporal again?

Though Voldemort didn’t know the answer to these questions, and he hated the uncertainty, it didn’t presently change anything. He wanted Harry – wanted his horcrux’s safety and his host’s happiness and his Harry’s trust. And Voldemort always pursued what he wanted, regardless of any consequences… and in the end, he always made it his.

He had already unintentionally marked Harry as his own on that disastrous Samhain twelve years ago. It was almost as if Fate were directing his actions, which considering the prophecy, could be truer than not.

And now, after his possession, Harry’s body, mind, and magic yielded to Voldemort’s guidance, to his wishes and desires. Voldemort had wrapped his boy up in strings – tightly bound Harry to him in his roles as rune-scar and diary and angel – so that his every action, every thought tied back to Voldemort in some manner. He held Harry’s very soul captive, dependent on the horcrux he’d embedded while the boy was still a baby.

Voldemort only needed to find a way to seal his cage, to ensure the boy couldn’t slip through any cracks and escape. Harry belonged to him, and he would ensure that would always remain true. No matter what.

Chapter Text

After the dramatic debacle of the Valentine’s Hogsmeade weekend, the rest of Harry’s semester went by in a flash. His time was filled with quidditch, classes, homework, and prepping for Buckbeak’s trial.

After they lost the match against Hufflepuff, Wood implemented an intensive training schedule, and he was fanatical about attendance. Harry had to work to fit in enough time for his homework until the Quidditch Cup. Thankfully the twins were always there to help answer questions or give him a hand to complete an essay when he was running behind. They knew he struggled to keep up with all the work, yet wanted to maintain his high grades, and didn’t want him to sacrifice any of his quidditch time.

Harry had been surprised the first time they sat with him in the library, but soon it became routine. They didn’t even care if he was with Blaise and Theo, who frequently joined his runes study sessions. It paid off in the end when, amazingly, they won their match against Slytherin thanks to a risky move by Harry that he only pulled off because of his Firebolt. But even after quidditch ended, the twins regularly joined him in the library, prepping for their OWLs.

Surprisingly, Harry also gained a second study group consisting of Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Neville. Soon after he’d reunited with the other members of the golden trio, Ginny approached him and explained why she was upset about his new friendships. She’d claimed her recent reticence was out of concern for Harry, knowing Slytherins were sneaky and mean, but she now knew she should have trusted Harry’s judgement.

Harry appreciated the explanation of her previous behaviour and was happy to have her back, but the lack of apology was a little galling. Still, he hugged her, initiating the action for the first time. The same warmth rushed through him that he always felt around Ginny and in a lightning strike of intuition, Harry realised it wasn’t a physical reaction, but a magical response to her.

His magic buzzed inside him, almost like a cat purring. Caught up in his thoughts, the too-long hug extended until Harry withdrew to look at Ginny. Her face was bright red, and she was smiling. Setting aside his recent insight, Harry asked her if she wanted to study with him. Their sessions quickly morphed into group ones when Neville, Ron, and Hermione happily joined.

They usually focused on potions and herbology; Ginny was more self-studying since she was a year behind everyone else, but it had helped Harry significantly improve his essays for Sprout’s class. Potions, however, was a lost cause.

He had expected a change in Snape’s conduct after the weird moment in his office, but nothing of the sort had happened. Snape acted like exactly the same ornery bastard he’d always been, grading Harry poorly and knocking off points from Gryffindor. He regularly insulted Harry’s intelligence and skills, though he didn’t refer to his father again. Harry sometimes thought he caught an odd glint in the man’s dark eyes, but he figured the professor didn’t want to be responsible for another ‘episode’ during class. So, he avoided Snape outside of potions even as the man seemed to be doing the same to him.

Harry was also still ignoring Lupin’s weak attempts to reconnect with him. Blaise had helped him put his frustration and fears about his dad into perspective, but that didn’t mean he’d trust Lupin again. So, Harry hadn’t been back for his individual lessons, but he didn’t give up on practising the patronus charm.

No one had seen hide nor hair of Black since his break-in on Samhain, and many of the security measures that had been put in place were laxer now, but the dementors were still haunting the grounds. Whenever Harry saw them, he felt a tug of fear in his gut. He needed to protect himself and his angel from them, so he regularly practised the patronus charm whenever he had the opportunity. He’d finally gotten it to become corporal a few days before Beltane, though it’d wavered after a moment and disintegrated.

Harry’s patronus was a stag. He’d looked up the meaning in his divination text and found that stags were said to symbolise a spiritual or cross-dimensional journey. It was a sign of fertility, strength, and divine inspiration. One of the library books he’d read last summer had also said that Wiccans believed stags were messengers from the Holly King, also known as the Horned god. (He was curious about how much of the Wiccan philosophies were the same as the wixen pagan faith, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to research it yet with everything else going on.)

Harry wasn’t sure what all the implications of his patronus shape were, but he wondered if there might be a connection to his wand or if it had something to do with his angel, who’d given him the wreath made partially of holly. When Harry first successfully created his patronus, he’d been ecstatic. Then he’d felt a brief shudder of disappointment quickly followed by a flood of pride from his angel. In the moment, he’d dismissed the first emotion, basking in his angel’s approval, but the memory of it returned to him frequently over the next few days.

On Beltane, Harry sequestered himself, intent on celebrating despite not having a community ritual to attend. But as he set up for the rite, Harry couldn’t help thinking about how infrequently he’d felt anything from his angel lately. Aside from the intense burst after Harry’s first patronus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt an unusual emotion. His constant emotions and conversations had petered off at some point. Harry couldn’t even identify when the decline had started.

Was he losing his angel? Had Harry hurt or offended him somehow? Maybe the incidents with the dementors had harmed him? His anxiety spiked. Harry’s vision narrowed and his chest tightened in the beginning stage of a panic attack when a soothing wave of serenity trickled through his mind.

Comfort. Comfort. Comfort. The emotion pushed into every corner of Harry’s mind, stifling the previously rising panic like flames beneath a blanket. He took a few deep breaths and tried to sink into his mind in meditation.

<< Angel, please... please, are you okay? >>

The jumbled knot of agreement-comfort-satisfaction to his plea had Harry nearly melting in relief. His knees were weak, so he dropped down to lie on the floor, closing his eyes.

<< I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner that you were – were drifting away. >>

The soothing emotions continued to flow into his mind and Harry felt tears stream down his cheeks, which he quickly wiped away. His angel was so wonderful and perfect and kind that he could barely stand it. He had no idea what he’d do if his angel ever abandoned him. He’d deserve it, of course, but he didn’t know if he could live without the man’s presence in his mind… didn’t know how he would continue on his own anymore.

Harry gasped when this thought – he hadn’t even projected it – inspired a stab of anguish. It felt like he had another basilisk fang impaling him, this time directly through his heart. There was a pressing feeling of urgency like a voice was incessantly shouting “you could, you could, you could, you could” on repeat in Harry’s mind. Wiping more tears away, he smiled bashfully up at the ceiling.

<< You’re right. Okay. Yes. For you… I would keep going for you. Somehow. >>

The blanket was back, smothering Harry in comfort with a silky slide of incredulity coating it. Harry laughed aloud at the emotions, pleased as they built higher and higher inside him. It was odd to feel so appreciated – Harry was so unused to the sentiment – but he wanted to savour the feeling.

There wasn’t much Harry could do to celebrate Beltane, considering it was a Light holiday and he was at Hogwarts. But Harry gathered his happiness and offered it up to Magic, easily linking his magic to Hogwarts.

<< Magic bless you on this sacred day. >>

Delight bubbling inside him, foreign emotions shivering up his spine, Harry laughed again and danced well into the evening, content in the company of his angel and Magic.

A month later exam season was quickly encroaching. His angel was less present than before, but Harry wasn’t too anxious about it anymore. Every time he began to really worry, his angel would scold him, reminding Harry he was still there. So instead, Harry tried to focus on his exams.

Harry felt well prepared for all his classes’ written and practical tests; it seemed his study groups had paid off! He wasn’t nearly as stressed as last year, though part of that might be the lack of a basilisk roaming the halls. Ron and Neville also seemed more relaxed considering they weren’t hastily cramming at the last minute. The only one who still seemed frantic was Hermione.

Harry hadn’t figured out how Hermione was taking so many classes or why it made her disappear and frantically run off all the time, but he’d mostly given up on asking about it. Ron, however, was still motivated. They both snuck glances at the other Gryffindor’s exam schedule that Hermione had drawn up for herself. Monday alone had an impossible timetable, reading:

Monday
9 o’clock, Arithmancy
9 o’clock, Transfiguration
Lunch
1 o’clock, Charms
1 o’clock, Ancient Runes

“Hermione?” Ron curiously called her name, intent on asking yet again. “Er – are you sure you’ve copied down these times right?”

“What?” snapped Hermione, fear almost covered by the aggressive intonation she gave the word. “Yes, of course I have.”

“Is there any point asking how you’re going to sit for two exams at once?”

Hermione’s quick denial and abrupt change in the subject were the only outcomes of Ron’s overtures. It still irritated Harry that she wasn’t talking to them about whatever was going on with her, but he understood that it was somewhat hypocritical of him. After all, he had no intention of telling them about loads of things like the cupboard or his angel, though he didn’t think he’d outright lied to his friends as she had.

The table went quiet, the only sound the scratching of quills and shifting of parchment, before a tap, tap, tap could be heard from the nearby window. Harry stood up and walked over to see Hedwig perched just outside. Opening the latch for her, Harry watched as she hopped onto the frame and held out a note clenched tight in her beak. Smoothing down her feathers, he whispered his gratitude before she flew back into the sky.

Harry walked back over to their library table before ripping open the letter. Quickly reading it, he felt his stomach drop. Buckbeak’s appeal date had been set, it was the same day as his last exam, but… they were bringing the executioner to it. How cruel of the Ministry, to remove any semblance of hope with a single letter. Why even have the appeal at this point? They’d already decided on Buckbeak’s guilt, no doubt seriously influenced by Malfoy’s father’s money and threats if the boy’s sneering comments were true.

Not much Harry could do about that – he didn’t have any way to bribe or blackmail the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures yet – but he could help Hagrid be as prepared as possible for the appeal and keep documentation for everything. Maybe one day, he could bring the information to someone who could punish those about to commit this dreadful act.  

Harry spent every spare moment of the following week finding material to help Hagrid prepare for the appeal, but when the exams started, he had no time for anything but his studies.

He felt reasonably confident he’d done well in transfiguration – though he hated that his teapot had the same pattern as the one his aunt used to serve her book club – and he’d nailed charms – he’d shown Flitwick his ability to perform the voluptas cheering charm silently and received extra points – but his potions practical hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped.

They’d been asked to make the Confusing Concoction and Harry was sure he’d followed the steps correctly, but the solution wouldn’t thicken. Snape had glanced at the vial he'd turned in and made a derogatory sound that made Harry instinctively avert his eyes and curl into himself. He’d scurried away to clean up his station and then hurriedly escaped from the room, keeping his eyes lowered until he was well away from the professor.

On the other hand, his Care of Magical Creatures final was a joke. Harry was so annoyed Malfoy had ruined Hagrid’s class with his dramatics, but at least he knew he’d get a good grade. It was hard to mess up watching flobberworms. He spent the time consoling Hagrid and catching up with Blaise and Theo, whom he’d barely seen outside the library the last few weeks.

Astronomy was memorisation still so that one was easy too. Though Harry always felt that astronomers were asking for a lot of imagination. No matter how long he stared at the Capricornus constellation, he couldn’t see the goat. His ancient runes exam was much harder, but Harry thought he’d done well despite his uncertainty about some obscure interpretations.

Harry, Ron, and Neville only had defence and divination left while Hermione had those two plus muggle studies. The divination and muggle studies practical exams were concurrently scheduled, though, for some reason, muggle studies was supposed to run an hour longer. Considering Hermione’s shared disdain for Trelawney, Harry wondered if she wouldn’t skip that final – after all she had walked out of her class a few months ago and hadn’t shown up since, though he knew she still reviewed the material and had it on her exam schedule.

Harry woke bright and early on Thursday and spent the morning walking around the strangely subdued castle. He knew it would burst back into life on Friday, but it was almost nice to feel it like this; it reminded Harry of the holidays. And he needed the quiet atmosphere to decompress.

So much was happening today. Buckbeak’s appeal was scheduled for this afternoon, and Hagrid was a wreck about it. This, on top of his defence (which he was worried about only because of Lupin’s favouritism) and divination (which he was worried about only because of Trelawney’s theatrics) exams, meant Harry was more anxious than he’d been any other day this last week.

Carefully navigating some trick stairs, Harry walked up to the empty astronomy tower feeling a breeze ruffling his robes. He’d been tempted to go to the Room, but he didn’t want anyone to see him enter and hadn’t brought his invisibility cloak. He would grab it before he went down for breakfast though. It would be useful to have on him if he needed to sneak away post-exams.

Harry used a breathing technique to calm his mind and straightened up in determination. He could do this. Harry felt a flush of pride which he thought might be from his angel and his heart fluttered in happiness.

Today was going to go well, he just knew it.

When he returned to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione was already in the common room surrounded by books and notes, doing some last-minute study for defence. When she saw Harry, questions seemed to burst out of her like water from a broken dam. Patting her hand, Harry calmly answered as best he could and helped her find the answer if he didn’t know it already. When Ron came down an hour later, she was mostly calm. The trio travelled to the Great Hall for breakfast before continuing to the defence classroom.

Lupin had set up an obstacle course for the practical portion of the exam. Harry was unwillingly impressed. It was an unusual choice that allowed them to show their skills at adapting to various challenges and display their knowledge of the creatures they’d be up against.

The first obstacle was a pool containing a grindylow. He knew he could wade through the water and snap its fingers if it grabbed him, that was the approach Lupin had advised in class, but Harry didn’t want to hurt the poor water demon. Avoidance was a better option. He cast repellere pluviam, a rain-repellent shield, but he pointed his wand down at his feet instead of holding it above his head.

Harry couldn’t help blushing when he saw Lupin’s raised eyebrow, unsure if the professor was impressed or surprised, but continued with his chosen plan. Stepping into the wading pool, the water rushed away from him leaving a foot of dry ground on every side. The grindylow cowered in the corner unwilling to reach out of the water’s safety to attack Harry.

The next challenge was a series of potholes containing red-caps. The recommended approach was to douse them in a Beautification potion, which he didn’t have on hand, or hex them since they were easily subdued with magic.

“Somnum,” Harry confidently said, pushing his magic out from his wand as a light pink mist and letting it sink into the holes, before cautiously walking across as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t wake the now sleeping creatures.

This time Harry’s opponent was a hinkypunk hiding in a marsh. This one was easy, though Harry still cast an impervius charm to avoid getting his shoes wet in the muck. Ignoring the glowing light as it bounced around him. He was almost at the end when he heard a whoosh sound and quickly ducked out of the way of a fireball. He shouted glacius on reflex, freezing the entire marsh and the hinkypunk. Sighing, annoyed that he’d almost been hit and hadn’t thought the hinkypunk would attack when it was ignored, Harry continued to the last challenge.

A boggart in a trunk. This would be interesting. Harry climbed down in before turning to face his uncle. Again, the boggart shifted forms while Harry only watched, though it seemed to revert to three standard ones frequently: his uncle, Harry’s broken and bleeding corpse, and a dementor. Lifting his wand, waiting, when the boggart transformed back into a dementor he cast the patronus charm and watched it flee into the corner. Calmly, walking over to the exit, Harry climbed out, glancing over to find Lupin staring at him in shock.

“Prongs… when… how did you…” he whispered, mystified, before shaking his head. “Excellent, Harry. Full marks.”

Harry nodded, allowing himself a smile in success while ignoring Lupin’s peculiar response. The name had been familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He silently moved out of Hermione’s way so she could go next. When Harry left, he almost bumped into Cornelius Fudge, the Minister Ron had pointed out last year in Hagrid’s hut.

“Hello there, Harry!” he said. “Just had an exam, I expect? Nearly finished?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry confirmed, uncertain why the Minister of Magic was hovering around him but unwilling to be rude.

“Lovely day… pity… pity…” Fudge said, obviously egging Harry into asking what was wrong. When Harry refused to comply, the man continued speaking regardless. “I’m here on an unpleasant mission, Harry. The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures required a witness to the execution of a mad hippogriff. As I needed to visit Hogwarts to check on the Black situation, I was asked to step in.”

Harry clenched his jaw in annoyance. Buckbeak’s appeal hadn’t even happened yet the bias against the creature was obvious. He refused to respond. Two others stepped up to join Fudge, one caressing an axe, and Harry made his excuses and escaped. Damn the Ministry, this wasn’t justice, this was animal cruelty.

Harry hurried to the Great Hall for a quick lunch before his divination exam. Ron joined him and scarfed down his food so he could walk with Harry when he left. They were some of the first to arrive at the tower their classroom was in, but the silver rope ladder wasn’t down. Neville and a few other Gryffindors were sitting on the stairs ahead of them, forming a line.

“She’s seeing us all separately,” Neville said, rereading the section on crystal gazing in his textbook. “Have either of you ever seen anything in a crystal ball?” he asked, curiosity clear in his voice and eyes.

Ron denied it easily, but Harry took the opportunity to tell another person about the perils of divination.

“– and crystal balls aren’t even infused with magic. Not to mention, the idea of a ‘third eye’ being opened by all the drugs we whiff whenever we’re stuck in the classroom is –” Harry’s rant was cut off when the silver ladder was lowered and Neville hurried up it. No longer having a willing audience for his thoughts on divination – Ron had long ago told him to shut up about it – Harry gazed out the window and tried to decide what he’d pretend he saw.

“How’d it go?” Ron asked Neville when he climbed down. Harry was next so he reached for the ladder but paused to listen to Neville’s response.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it, but it was fine,” Neville replied. He’d gotten less anxious about school (except potions) since he began hanging out with Ginny and joined their study group.

The tower room was filled with smoke, and the curtains closed. A bright fire was alight in the hearth, which was the source of the smoke. Black waves billowed out exuding a sickly-sweet scent that made Harry cough and stagger as he stumbled into the chair across from Trelawney. A small circular table sat between them, covered in a dark maroon tablecloth with a crystal ball sitting in the exact centre.

“Good day, my dear,” she rasped quietly, a glazed sheen covering her eyes. She looked high as a kite. “If you would kindly gaze into the Orb… Take your time, now… then tell me what you see within it…”

Harry stared at the ball and counted to thirty, before beginning his tale.

“I – I think I see something,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s… It’s giant. A large shape flying across the land casting a dark shadow.”

“What does it resemble?” Trelawney asked, leaning forward and clinking softly as her beads shifted. “Think, now…”

“It’s… it’s a runaway hippogriff! It’s barely escaped! A man is running after it with an axe.” Harry proceeded to describe the man he’d seen earlier with Fudge, while Trelawney continued to urge him for more details. A few minutes later, he pretended to lose the connection.

“It’s gone,” he said, leaning back and sighing like a great weight had been taken off him. Trelawney nodded her head, a sympathetic look on her face.

“Seeing is always hard work, young man. You did well, you should go and rest your inner eye. Be sure to send the next person up when you leave.” Harry quickly stood to gather his things, relieved to escape the suffocating smoke.

“IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT.”

Harry wheeled around in alarm, banging his leg against the chair as his wand dropped into his hand. Trelawney had stiffened dramatically. Her eyes rolled up into her head so only the whites were showing, red lines spiralling across them like lightning strikes. She was pale, face frozen with her mouth hung open so wide he could see down her throat.

“S – sorry?” Harry asked, embarrassed at the stutter. Her voice sounded strange. It was as if multiple people spoke simultaneously despite only the two of them being present in the room.

Trelawney didn’t respond. Only sat, still as a statue, her silently screaming face turned towards Harry. Uncertain, feeling like he ought to go and get help, it looked like she was having some sort of fit, Harry took a half step towards the trapdoor before cowering back when she spoke again in that horrifying, layered voice. Her lips didn’t move, yet somehow the words echoed around the room.

“THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT… THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT’S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS. TONIGHT… BEFORE MIDNIGHT… THE SERVANT… WILL SET OUT… TO REJOIN… HIS MASTER…”

Reluctantly fascinated yet also really freaked out, Harry gasped as Trelawney collapsed, her head dropping forward to crack against the table. She let out a strangled groan. Harry anxiously reached forward and tapped her hand, waiting as she slowly raised her head. Her eyes were glazed and there was a cut on the bridge of her nose where her glasses had sliced her.

“I’m so sorry, dear boy,” she said dreamily, “the heat of the day, you know… I drifted off for a moment…”

Harry stared at her, confused and anxious, watching the blood slowly trickle down.

“Is there anything wrong, my dear?” she asked, obliviously.

“You – you just told me that the – the Dark Lord’s going to rise again… that his servant’s going to go back to him…”

Trelawney’s eyes widened, clearly startled, before she turned away. “Did I?” she asked, obviously not looking for an answer. “Well, hopefully, it’s what you needed to hear. Tell no one what happened here today, dear boy. Tell no one.”

Harry nodded, feeling shaky as he climbed back down the ladder and the spiral staircase, ignoring everyone’s questions about the exam. Had that… had that been a real prediction? So many elements had been different from her usual conduct but… No. No, of course not. Trelawney was a hack. She’d given a big performance to prevent him from saying anything about the test to anyone else.

Harry was aggravated that he’d momentarily fallen for it, but mostly he was relieved. He had more important things to do than worry about some bloody prophecy. Buckbeak’s appeal would be wrapping up soon. He should go meet up with Hermione.

Harry’s surge of terrified fear shook Voldemort out of his meditative state. Quickly lowering his occlumency barriers, he slotted himself behind Harry’s eyes just in time to hear Trelawney speak with Fate’s voice.

“THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS.”

Well now, this was unexpected. A prophecy from a Seer… and it was about him. Its first statement was a bit misleading though. He wasn’t exactly alone, he had Harry – perhaps the word friend wasn’t right for what they were. They were linked on many levels, and Harry knew him better than most; yet, still, the boy didn’t know who he was. A friend seemed both too mild and too serious a word for their heavily unbalanced relationship.

“HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS.”

His servant? Was she talking about Severus? Though, he doubted he could still call Severus his considering how far up Dumbledore’s arse the man was. Perhaps she meant Pettigrew? The rat was the only other marked Death Eater that wasn’t already free or in Azkaban, and he doubted any of those residents had the capacity to break out now when they hadn’t before.  

Pettigrew was not his preferred follower, but he had been a useful spy, albeit one who was stupidly reckless. The little rat would have been caught within the first month if he hadn't appeared so pathetic. But who would believe the poor, useless, pathetic Peter Pettigrew could have joined the Dark? It was the same ploy he’d had Quirrell use when he temporarily served as his host.

“TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT… THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER.”

Assuming this was about Pettigrew, that was convenient. He’d been hunting the animagus since he’d decided to help Black, though even with the Marauders’ Map it was difficult to find a single, simple garden rat when he could only search for a few hours after Harry went to bed. Especially since he could only search on nights that he wasn’t sticking Black’s mind back together like some sort of kintsugi pottery project.  

“THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT’S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS.”

Fuck. Why would he require aid from Pettigrew to become corporal? Shit. This wrecked several of his plans, though mostly it made the work he’d done to get Black mentally stable pretty much useless. If he needed Pettigrew for his restoration ritual, he couldn’t just hand him over to the Ministry and clear Black’s name.

“TONIGHT… BEFORE MIDNIGHT… THE SERVANT… WILL SET OUT… TO REJOIN… HIS MASTER…”

As grateful as he was for Fate’s warning, he could have used some additional information, not a repeat on the schedule. Oh, wait. Time. Well, he had intended to steal Granger’s time-turner soon and she was wrapping up her last exam. She wouldn’t require the use of it again this year. It was the perfect opportunity to nick the hourglass. That’d give him several more hours to rework his plans and the option to complete two tasks simultaneously.

It was validating to have his suspicions that Trelawney was a true Prophetess confirmed. However, since she was the one who originally prophesied Harry’s birth and abilities… well, it gave that first prophecy more weight, which was worrying when he didn’t know the entirety of it.

He pondered the ramifications of this new development while Harry ran from the divination tower. As the boy hurried towards where Granger would be completing her muggle studies final, Voldemort heard him talk himself into dismissing the prophecy entirely, rationalising it away with his certainty that Trelawney was a fraud.

It was amusing how incredibly stubborn Harry was. Here was proof that Seers existed, proof of Trelawney’s abilities as one, played out right in front of his eyes and he still refused to believe certain wix could predict the future.

His fond affection dripped through the bond; Harry responded with a wave of surprised delight before Voldemort realised what he’d done and pulled his emotions back. Slightly annoyed now – Voldemort knew that if anyone else had acted as Harry had, he’d be disdainful of their willful ignorance – he remained behind Harry’s eyes until they located the girl. She looked like a week-old inferius when they eventually found her.

Harry’s concern was painted across his face as he approached Granger. He caught her elbow and helped steady her as the girl stumbled away from the muggle studies practical exam. Granger leaned into Harry with her eyes closed, obviously exhausted.

Voldemort surged forward, gently crushing Harry’s consciousness down so that he could take over their body. He rubbed a hand up and down the girl’s back soothingly while he directed Harry’s magic into his palms. The girl groaned and settled more firmly into his arms, almost going limp as the magic soothed some of her tension. Slipping his hand further up, Voldemort began kneading her neck muscles and feeling for the necklace chain.

He’d already confirmed that the chain wasn’t connected to her in any way. No magic or blood binding prevented anyone from using or touching the device; it wasn’t keyed to anyone, not even Dumbledore. Breaking those bindings was usually the most difficult part of theft like this, so he was pleasantly surprised. (He was also, maybe, a little disappointed, a little disillusioned. This was all so fucking easy.)

However, because it was a powerful artefact, it would take a massive amount of magic to make it do anything, so he couldn’t use a levitation or switching spell to steal the necklace. This was why, in this instance, it was much easier to charm the person rather than the artefact.

Breathing a mild confundus charm into Granger’s exhausted face, he tangled the necklace in his fingers as he moved the massage up her neck. Then, in a practised lift, he raised the golden chain up, up and over her head, simultaneously replacing one hand with the other on her neck. He casually tucked the time-turner into his pocket, pleased that the necklace came free smoothly.

Unobtrusively glancing around to see if anyone noticed, he found only one pair of eyes locked on him. Ginevra Weasley was angrily glaring at him and Hermione. Voldemort met the brown eyes of his temporary horcrux container and, familiar with her mind, barely skimmed her surface thoughts. Ah, she hadn’t seen anything. She was only jealous of Harry’s affection for the other girl.

Shifting Granger so he had a hand around her waist to steady her, he started towards the stairs of Gryffindor Tower. Catching Ginevra’s eyes again, he gave her a mischievous wink before starting up to the first landing. After gradually teasing Harry back to the forefront, the two young teenagers continued their journey to Gryffindor’s portrait entrance in exhausted silence.

Voldemort delicately extricated himself fully from Harry’s mind, content for the day to progress as Fate intended. He’d check in on Harry this evening and use the time turner to ensure the evening went according to Her plan. Soon, Pettigrew would reveal himself and come to Voldemort to help in his resurrection. He only needed to wait. After all, it was foretold.

Chapter Text

Harry climbed the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower and helped Hermione remain upright. They were exhausted from exams; she was practically passed out and Harry could scarcely remember how they’d made it to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Whispering the password, Harry guided Hermione into the common room. They met up with Ron, who had collapsed in one of the smaller seating arrangements near the fireplace. He dropped her snoring dead weight down onto the cushions and then settled on the floor using the couch as a backrest. Ron cracked an eye open, snorted when he saw Hermione already asleep, then shut his eyes again while mumbling something about finally being free.

Harry was about to lean back to get some shuteye but instead, he swivelled his head to stare at the entrance just in time to see Ginny climb in. He smiled at her in welcome and watched as her tensed shoulders relaxed and a bright smile slid onto her face. He hoped her exams had gone as well as his.

She came over to sit beside Harry, her arm barely brushing his and leaving a pleasant purring sensation that quickly had him floating off to sleep. The group of Gryffindors rested for an hour before Hedwig swooped down and into Harry’s lap, waking him up. There was a note from Hagrid.

Lost appeal. They’re going to execute at sunset. Nothing you can do. Don’t come down. I don’t want you to see it.
Hagrid

Immediately the sleepy, relaxed atmosphere dissipated as Harry prodded Hermione and Ron awake to inform them. The four of them got up, intent on walking down to see the likely distraught man. However, on the landing just outside the Gryffindor entrance portrait, Ginny paused, looking confused as she stared up the staircase.

“I’m going to go check something out. I’ll catch up with you later though. You should go be there for Hagrid,” she said, still looking up the stairs.

“Wait, don’t you –” Harry started to ask, but Ron quickly grabbed his hand, jerking him down the stairs.

“Come on, Harry! Leave her, we don’t have time to waste!” the other boy shouted, hurrying the group towards the front entrance.

The trio quickly ran down to the ground level, when the quiet halls were suddenly filled with people. They’d accidentally slept through dinner, but the influx of students should help them slip away unnoticed from the castle. The three of them were a bit big for his invisibility cloak, but with the extra noise and motion, they should be able to stay hidden.

Harry walked in front, Ron at the end, with Hermione smushed between them. Ron had to do this kind of shuffle motion now that he was so tall. It was tempting to tease the boy, he looked so ridiculous, but Harry knew it wasn’t the time to point it out. They made it to the front door like this and he carefully reached out and grabbed the handle through the front of the cloak. Opening it slightly, the three slid through the gap and crept outside.

A weak breeze was blowing, ruffling the bottom of the cloak and showing their shoes, but he didn’t think it was noticeable. Ron straightened up from his crouched position and the cloak rose a few more inches. Harry started down the path to Hagrid’s hut, Hermione and Ron trailed closely behind, trapped under the cloak with him. It took a while to navigate the path like this, and by the time they knocked on Hagrid’s front door, the sun was kissing the tops of the Forbidden Forest’s trees.

Hagrid swung the door open, reeking of alcohol and slurring his words. “Who’s there?” he cried, stumbling against the frame. Harry shrunk back into Hermione, much more hesitant about their plan to see Hagrid now, but Ron was already answering the question.

“Hagrid, it’s us! We’re under Harry’s invisibility cloak. Open up, so we can take the blasted thing off – my knees ache!”  said Ron, his voice a strangely loud whisper.

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid replied in the same tone but stepped back and let them enter. The door was quickly shut behind them and Ron lurched out from under the cloak, stretching his arms up to the ceiling with a groan. Harry and Hermione were much slower but also extracted themselves from the cloak. Harry kept it tucked over his arms just in case.

Now that everyone was visible, the four stood staring at one another. Hagrid wasn’t crying, surprisingly, he only looked helpless, glazed over and confused. Harry tried to remind himself that Hagrid was his friend, that he’d never hurt him, but the alcohol and his huge size vividly reminded him of Aunt Marge. That’s why when Hagrid swayed forward, an offer to make tea slurring out from behind his lips, Harry recoiled back, bumping into the nearby cabinet.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and concern shined in her eyes, while Ron had a considering mien, as if he’d just seen a new, unexpected chess move; but Harry ignored them both and kept his eyes on Hagrid. The groundskeeper was clumsily dumping milk on the table while he tried to pour it into his usual jug.

“Where’s Buckbeak, Hagrid?” asked Hermione hesitantly.

“I – I took him outside. He’s tethered in me pumpkin patch. Thought he oughta see the trees an’ – an’ smell fresh air – before –” Hagrid’s hand slipped, and he dumped the mostly empty milk jug onto the ground where it shattered.

Harry flinched violently but then found himself staring at the back of Hermione’s head. The girl had stepped between him and Hagrid… as if to shield him from any backlash. Embarrassed, ashamed, Harry twisted aside only to see Ron’s face filled with dawning distress.

“I’ll do it, Hagrid,” said Hermione with a small, backward glance at Harry. She lifted her wand and vanished the broken pieces before casting a few cleaning spells. “See? All better.”

“There’s another one in the cupboard,” the half-giant mumbled into his sleeve. He’d sat down, tucked back behind the table and holding his head in his hands.

Harry’s tensed muscles relaxed slightly, significantly more comfortable now that Hagrid wasn’t stumbling around the small hut and didn’t seem angry about the broken pottery. He tried to casually walk out from where Hermione and Ron were – were guarding him, without drawing any attention to that humiliating fact. He didn’t need their help or their condescending pity.

It was nearly silent except for Hagrid’s sniffles and Fang’s whines. Harry and Ron awkwardly watched Hermione rummage through Hagrid’s cupboards searching for another milk jug. They both saw when she fumbled, shrieked, and nearly dropped it in surprise after absentmindedly glancing inside. Harry thought there might be a bug or a dead mouse or something, but Hermione looked right at Ron before clapping her hand over the top.

“Ron! I – I don’t believe it – it’s Scabbers!” she shouted as she walked over with the milk jug.

“What are you talking about?” Ron replied, looking dumbfounded.

In response, Hermione upended the milk jug onto the table before him. Harry crept closer to see, though he kept the table buffering him and Hagrid, who was increasingly glassy-eyed appearing. A rat had plopped down onto the table, one that seemed like it could be Scabbers assuming he’d gotten sicker after he’d run away.

The rat was missing patches of hair and much thinner than Harry remembered Ron’s pet being, but it had the missing toe. Feeling oddly invested considering his last thought about the rat was back when Ron and Hermione were fighting over it, Harry saw Ron reach forward and cage his frantically squirming pet in his hands.

“It’s okay, Scabbers!” said Ron. “No cats! There’s nothing here to hurt you!”

Suddenly, Hagrid jerked into a standing position, his face having gone a greenish colour. Harry backed up, worried he was about to puke (that’s all he was apprehensive about, that was all–), but Hagrid only walked over to look out his front window.

“They’re comin’…” he whispered ominously. Turning back around, trembling, he looked at each Gryffindor with unfocused eyes. “Yeh gotta go. They mustn’ find yeh here… go now… I’ll let yeh out the back way.”

Crashing through his hut, Hagrid opened the door to his back garden and gestured for them to head out, accidentally smacking the wall in the process. Harry carefully lifted the cloak over his and Hermione’s head, Ron ducking under afterwards, and the trio slipped past Hagrid into the pumpkin patch.

The door slammed shut behind them – Harry couldn’t help the jump, but he hated the whispered assurances from Ron and Hermione afterwards – and then they circled the house to head up to the castle, passing Buckbeak’s restless form on the way. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck were standing on end, like he could feel the hippogriff watching him, knowing they were leaving him behind to be murdered.

“Please, let’s hurry. I can’t stand it… I can’t bear it…” Hermione whispered. The inevitability of Buckbeak’s upcoming execution must have finally hit her. They doubled their pace when they heard voices, but then suddenly Ron stopped dead.

“It’s Scabbers – he won’t – stay put –” Ron panted, bent over and grasping the squirming rat. Scabbers was feral, his panicked scrambling scratching cuts into Ron’s hands.

Worried that the rat’s heart might give out if it continued flailing around, Harry pushed his hand forward and wordlessly cast the immobulus charm. The pet rat froze immediately. Ron made a grateful noise and tucked Scabbers back into his pocket. The trio hurried up the hill the rest of the way to the castle and pried open the front doors to skulk back inside.

The front hall appeared empty at first glance, but when they stumbled forward a few steps, none too quietly, Harry heard a voice call out his name. He froze before realising it wasn’t curfew yet so it wouldn’t be a teacher about to get him in trouble. They weren’t supposed to be outside because of Black, but so long as they weren’t alone, they could wander the castle until the standard ten o’clock restriction. They were cutting it close, but they still had a few minutes.

Harry looked around to see who had called him and immediately noticed a significantly more dishevelled than earlier Ginny hovering by the front door. Tugging the invisibility cloak off all of them, Harry folded it away in his robe pocket as he walked over to her, leaving Ron behind to comfort a crying Hermione.

“You’re back,” he said, a slight grin on his face as he approached. Ginny smiled weakly in return, but it quickly fell as her solemn demeanour overwhelmed the trace of cheer.

“Uhm – can I talk to you alone for a minute, Harry?” she asked in a serious tone. Harry nodded immediately, happy enough for any excuse to avoid Ron and Hermione after what’d happened at Hagrid’s hut. Ginny took his hand and led him to a rarely used side hallway that skirted the outer edge of the castle.

It felt like he was touching a conduit, staticky shocks running from his palm to his elbow. Harry had thought he was used to his magic’s response when he was around Ginny but this… this was more intense than he’d ever felt. He was dazed by the time they stopped, and his scar prickled. Ginny had pulled him into an alcove and was still holding his hand.

“Harry, listen,” she began, her voice strong at first but faltering slightly as she reached for his other hand. “I – I’m not sure how to do this, but I’m a Gryffindor, right? So, I’m just going to go for it.” She paused and Harry saw her take a deep breath. “I like you. Like, really like you.” Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. “And... I think you like me too? So maybe we should… I don’t know… see where this goes?”

“Ginny,” Harry whispered, shocked. Before he could say more, she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, holding him there, uncomfortably frozen. His heart skipped a beat before beginning to race, and he felt an embarrassed blush staining his cheeks. But the kiss itself paled in comparison to his magic’s instant animation. Lightning coursed through him where they touched – in one hand, up through his head, and down out the other – linking them in a charged loop.

Suddenly Harry’s scar burned red hot, and he gasped, his eyes squeezing shut. Ginny pressed in further, hands tightening around his as she slightly opened her mouth, tongue peeking out to wet Harry’s lips.

This was… this was off somehow. It was hard to think through the storm of magic and pain, but Harry knew – he knew – something about this was so, so wrong. He loosened his grip and started to lean back, planning to stop, to talk, but Ginny misinterpreted his intentions.

She released his hands and reached up with her own, putting one on either side of his neck, and shoved him back against the wall, her mouth firmly pressed to his. It felt awkward, unnatural, yet Harry couldn’t help his strangled moan, though he didn’t know if it was from the pain in his scar, the frenzied upheaval of his magic, or the rough handling and impact.

A livewire was in his head, sparking, exploding. It seared through his thoughts until a face swam behind his eyelids. Pale, alabaster skin and stylised brown hair barely curling on the edges. Sharp-edged cheekbones and gaunt cheeks. Dark, intense eyes and lips quirked up into a mischievous half-smirk.

A spark of pleasure lit within him, but that – he wasn’t – that wasn’t who he was with. Ginny was kissing him and that… that was Tom’s face. Harry’s scar was on fire, there was excruciating pain – tears in his eyes – his mind was chaos, he couldn’t think – ink stained his hands – and... this needed to stop!

Harry felt his arms lift to Ginny’s shoulders and jerk her away from him without any direction from himself. Relieved, he stumbled out of the alcove and into the hallway. His head ached at the brighter lights, and his angel felt murderous, but still, this was better, the pain slowly receding. A moment later Ginny stepped out after him, an obvious hesitation in her steps when she saw the residual agony that was surely evident in his bearing.

“Are you okay, Harry?” she asked as if her magic hadn’t just burned him to ashes.

“Fine,” he replied, his voice hoarse, but he retreated when she moved towards him again. Harry thought he saw a hungry, almost ravenous spark in her eyes, but he blinked and there was only concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft. Disappointment welled up within Harry’s chest, competing with his growing anxiety and his angel’s rage. Rejecting her would be hard, especially when he desperately wanted to stay friends. But with his thoughts now untangled, he knew what he’d felt and could think more clearly about what he wanted to say.

“Ginny,” he sighed, her name heavy on his lips, and the moment he saw her expression falter – the way her hope slipped, followed by a flash of hurt and anger – his heart sank. But he had to be honest. “I do like you – really, I do. And for a while, I thought maybe... maybe I liked you that way too. And our magic… our magic is perfect together.” His brows furrowed, the words coming together as he said them. “But... I don’t think I’m into girls. I didn’t really get it until now, but... yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise and Harry braced, waiting for the tears or shouts that were sure to come, but they never arrived. Instead, there was a strange flash of something like triumph – though that couldn’t be right – before a small, peculiar grin graced her face. She held out her hands, palms up in the universal sign of surrender.

“Ah well. Worth a shot!” Ginny casually replied. The words seemed curious, incongruous with the conversation they’d just had, with Ginny’s normal way of speaking. But Harry lost that thread when her smile shrank and she asked, “Still friends?”

“Uh – erm – yes? Of course, yes. Er, I didn’t think you’d be okay with that, but absolutely. If you want to be friends, then I want to be friends,” Harry babbled, fumbling his words as his initial apprehension faded into relief. Ginny laughed and gave him a gentle bump in the shoulder with her fist. A jolt of warmth accompanied the touch as his magic reacted to hers and foreign annoyance pinged through him.

“Then friends we are. Just pretend this never happened,” she said, and Harry nodded his agreement enthusiastically. That had gone infinitely better than he’d expected considering how blindsided he’d been by both the confession and his epiphany about his sexuality. He watched Ginny cast a tempus charm before she jolted upright.

“I gotta run!” she yelled as she took off down the hallway. “I’ll catch up with you later!”

Harry, feeling bemused, or maybe like he had whiplash, waved goodbye and then went to find Ron and Hermione. He was walking back, more meandering than moving with any real haste, when he heard a loud shout and a clattering sound coming from the entrance hall.

Running forward, Harry quietly slipped into the room, his wand aimed directly ahead. There was almost too much going on for Harry to process, but he first noticed that neither Ron nor Hermione appeared injured though both were acting bizarre.

Hermione was standing near the side entrance, her wand pointed at a black lump on the ground. On further inspection, Harry realised that it was Snape – a petrified Snape – lying face down on the floor, stiff as a ruler. She must have used the same spell she’d cast on Neville their first year. Hermione was panicking, saying “I attacked a teacher!” over and over again.

Ron on the other hand was wrestling with an exhausted-looking Lupin. The professor looked sick, worse than Harry had seen him all year despite how often he got ill. Lupin kept staring at the centre of the room, uncertainty and shock radiated out from him, but he held firm to Ron, preventing the student from attacking. Ron’s face was bright red, his wand nowhere in sight, and he shouted “You slept in my bed!” at the final two men present.

Harry was shocked to see that one of them was Sirius Black looking much better than he had in his mugshot photo. Black was tall and thin, but not skeletal, with long, shiny black hair that fell past his shoulders in orderly waves. Despite being pale, his silver eyes stood out, dramatically framed with dark eyelashes. He wore a simple black robe and stood up straight with oddly formal, perfect posture.

In his mugshot, he’d looked insane, screaming, but right now Black’s countenance was calm despite holding a knife to the throat of the other man Harry didn’t recognise.

The unidentified man had distorted features with small, beady black eyes, a pointy nose, and large ears. Harry had never seen anyone look more like a rat. He also had patches of hair randomly arranged on his face and neck, while he was balding at random spots on his head. This, along with the missing finger on his hand, strongly implied that it was, in reality, Ron’s pet rat Scabbers turned human. Ron’s ranting supported this further.

The now-human-Scabbers whimpered, pleading for mercy, obviously terrified of Black, yet no one was attempting to help him (except maybe Snape who’d been incapacitated). Deciding Black was likely the largest current threat, Harry pointed his wand at the convict before anyone noticed his arrival.

“What the hell is going on here?” he asked the room. As the first syllable left his mouth, everyone went silent and all five of their heads swung to face Harry before each froze in place.

Black was the first to break the silence, whispering Harry’s name as his face twisted through a complicated series of emotions. Harry half expected Black to lunge at him from the longing stare he settled on giving Harry, but then seemed to remember Scabbers and jabbed the knife back against the whimpering man’s neck causing a bit of blood to drip down into his collar. Though Black had spoken, he hadn’t actually provided answers. It was Ron who jumped in with an explanation.

“Harry! It’s Scabbers! Scabbers is an animagus… he’s human, and his name’s Peter Pettigrew, and that little freak has been pretending to be my rat!” Ron shouted, trying to lunge out of Lupin’s arms again to attack the rat-like man. (Harry had flinched at the word freak, but he didn’t think anyone except his angel had noticed.)

“It was Peter,” Lupin said, staring at Black, wounded. Exhausted tears dripped from his eyes unchecked. “Not you. Peter sold out James and Lily… and you switched… you didn’t tell me.”

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Black responded, voice rough like sandpaper. “But it was my fault. I told them to use Wormtail instead. I’m the reason they’re dead.”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted, rapidly putting together puzzle pieces, and both men looked over at him. “Are you saying you weren’t the secret keeper? That it was him? He’s the one who betrayed my parents?” Black nodded yes to each question. A weighted certainty that Black was telling the truth settled into Harry’s gut and with it, his anger grew. “And he’s just been hiding this whole time? With the Weasleys?”

“Yes,” Black confirmed, and Harry shifted his wand slightly, so it was pointing at both Black and the whimpering rat-man.

“Do you have anything to add? Some explanation for your actions?” Harry asked, his voice shaking with fury, but his wand hand was steady as a rock.

“Mercy!” Pettigrew whimpered. “I didn’t mean to! The Dark Lord, he was so powerful, what other choice did I have?! He would have killed me!”

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” Black shouted, startling everyone in the room. It was like a switch had flipped. The calm, resolute man became crazy, suddenly vicious. Harry noticed his canines were sharp when he bared his teeth, snarling at Pettigrew. Black jerked Pettigrew’s head back and before anyone else could act, slashed the knife across his neck.

Hermione screamed and Ron scrambled back as Lupin shoved him to the side shouting, “No! Sirius, he was your chance for freedom! What have you done!?”

Lupin lunged forward, pointed his wand down at Pettigrew and cast a healing spell, the Latin unintelligible with how quickly he spoke. Pettigrew weakly gasped for air. The pool of blood spread from beneath him and shined in the torches, poorly reflecting Black and Lupin’s outlines almost like a dark, dirty mirror.

Harry watched as the ragged cut on Pettigrew’s throat began to bubble and pop, before sealing itself back together. The rat animagus went limp, but Lupin sighed in relief, so Harry assumed he was alive.

Black stared down at the scene, blank and empty. No triumph or regret, he looked nothing like the wizard who’d moments ago slashed open Pettigrew’s throat in a fit of rage. Harry stepped away, withdrawing from the mercurial man – the man who could have, should have, raised him – and Black’s silver eyes locked on him.

“Harry,” Black said softly as awareness trickled back into his eyes. The front door slammed open, and everyone silently turned to survey the newcomers once again.

Voldemort was going to skin the girl alive. He was going to reach down her throat and rip out her intestines. Burn her, break her, pull each of her ribs out into a bloody eagle again, this time with her fully aware and conscious.

He’d been waiting behind his occlumency barrier after he’d stolen Granger’s time-turner when Harry’s emotions had reached him. He had never felt anything like that from the boy – a slippery mix of agitation, panic, confusion, and distress but without the fear that usually accompanied such situations. Curious, he moved to watch from Harry’s eyes once again and discovered that the Weasley chit was practically on top of them.

As she shifted her grip up to Harry’s neck, forcing them against the wall and kissing them, Voldemort’s rage exploded; it grew to levels he hadn’t felt since he’d met Tom Riddle, his feckless muggle father.

He tried to take over their body, but for the first time, Harry’s consciousness wouldn’t give way. Wrath overwhelmed him, tinting everything red. Disregarding the discomfort it’d cause them, he violently twisted himself into Harry’s mind alongside the boy. Raising their arms, he grabbed the little harlot’s shoulders and shoved her away. With distance now, Harry stumbled his way out into the hall and Voldemort’s tenuously held position snapped, his mind and Harry’s painfully ripped apart, Harry once again the sole authority of the body.

When what followed was a hasty, yet firm rejection of the girl’s advances, he finally felt his temper cool from scorching flames to a steady smoulder. He would still be killing the girl, but he could wait now. He’d find an opportunity that wouldn’t permanently damage his horcrux and then take his time. Yes, she’d suffer before he finally decided to end her miserable little life.

Keeping aligned with Harry, he ignored the mental wounds he’d received by cramming tendrils of himself beside the boy when there wasn’t space. Though they ached, they were minor, and he was more interested in the strange scene the boy had found upon returning to the entrance hall. Ronald and Granger were panicked, Severus and Lupin were incapacitated (one with magic, the other with sentiment), and Pettigrew and Black were turned human. The latter shouldn’t have been possible, considering Black was imperiused to remain in his animagus form outside of the cave.

There was no way the madman could have broken his spell, so this was quite odd. He let the peculiarity distract him from the throbbing ache of his mind and the desire to hunt down the Weasley girl immediately, instead keeping an amused eye on the stalemate.

He was as surprised as Harry when Black suddenly turned feral, slicing Pettigrew’s neck with the knife he’d had when Voldemort encountered him in the Gryffindor dorm. Since that might be a problem for his resurrection, he considered another takeover attempt (though that’d hurt like a bitch right now) when instead Lupin took it upon himself to heal the rat and save Voldemort the trouble.

Then he watched when Fudge, Hagrid, an unknown elderly wix, and his old follower Macnair slammed Hogwarts’s main entrance doors open and hovered on the threshold.

It was dead silent as the ministry workers gawked at the hectic scene, while Black and Lupin exchanged concerned glances and retreated to a place behind Pettigrew’s unconscious body with their wands out. A breeze blew in, whistling cheerfully as it briefly overcame the silence and replaced the smell of blood with fresh summer air.

“What in the devil is going on here?” Fudge exclaimed, pulling out a large handkerchief to wipe at his brow, sweating in an unsightly display for a public official. No one answered before he caught sight of Black and retreated to hide behind Macnair.

“Is that Sirius Black? How did he get in here? Guards!” he shouted, cowering. Macnair brandished the axe with a grunt, while Voldemort internally rolled his eyes. What was with all the muggle weapons? An axe, a knife. What use were they against magic if your opponent had any skill?

Lupin looked as if he were about to answer the minister’s question, but that drunken oaf Hagrid soundly beat him to it.

“Looooookssss like it!” Hagrid loudly slurred, tripping further into the entrance hall, a happy look on his face. “An’ hey! HEY! Thas Peter too! LOOK!!!”

The half-giant pointed down at Pettigrew’s body, who was stirring back into consciousness, groaning. Black dived forward, dropping to his knees beside Pettigrew, and aimed the knife so it hovered over the wizard’s heart. Fudge whimpered, but then, astonishingly, grew a spine.

“Peter Pettigrew? It can’t be! Black killed him!” the usually gutless minister shouted.

“Obviously not,” snapped Lupin, striding to stand at Black’s side. “Since Peter’s here, alive and well. You put an innocent man in Azkaban for twelve years!”

“Not me!” shouted Fudge. “That was before my term! And anyway, he must be guilty! After all, Dumbledore testified against him.” 

Harry jolted at this new bit of information. Lupin’s mouth opened, about to form some retort, but his pathetic spy used the opportunity to shout for help. “He’ll kill me!” Pettigrew whined loudly.

“I will,” Black doggedly replied, knife still hovering over Pettigrew’s heart. The room went mute at Black’s solemn words. “I will kill you. You betrayed Lily and James, gave them up to You-Know-Who. You deserve to die.”

Thankfully, Black held onto his temper this time and didn’t stab Pettigrew again. As entertaining as it would be, he, according to Fate, needed the little rat alive. It wouldn’t do to have Harry’s pet godfather kill his servant before he could provide Voldemort with whatever aid he was supposed to.

Harry’s attention stayed firmly on Black, inadvertently ignoring everyone else. Black’s bipolar reactions had frightened the boy, but that wasn’t the only reason he was fixated. Voldemort knew Harry desired to uncover more about his father from the man now that he’d discovered Black wasn’t the traitor, but it wasn’t the time for a discussion between them.

He had started fixing up Black physically and magically, but his mind barely held itself together. Well, it didn’t hold itself together at all, actually. The animagus was only currently sane because of Voldemort’s imperius curse and the few legilimancy sessions he’d performed. Black’s mind required several months of reconstruction before he’d be stable enough for Voldemort to allow him around Harry while unfettered.

The entrance hall remained a chaotic scene. Fudge and Lupin were shouting at one another while Hagrid had passed out in the corner. Ronald and Granger were hiding behind the half-giant’s unconscious form. The wind swirled inside again from the still-open doors, much colder than the first time. Harry’s teeth began to chatter and then Voldemort started up the cobbled path to a quaint little cottage.

The leaves on the tree nearby were an array of oranges and reds that swirled in little eddies as the brisk wind picked them up and dropped them at its whim. Carved pumpkins sat on the porch while candles lit the windows in a strange mix of muggle and wixen customs for Samhain. He’d normally have found the sight intriguing but didn’t have time for such distractions. Not tonight. He needed to eliminate the threat. Icy fear swirled inside him, as Death’s fingers tightened around his neck and Fate’s voice guided his steps.  

Voldemort didn’t bother knocking. With a wave of his hand, the door swiftly admitted his entrance. A witch and wizard gawked momentarily from their seats in the living room before the woman sprinted into the hallway, red hair flying behind her. Voldemort didn’t try to catch her. He’d already circled the property in a web of runestones, no one would be able to apparate or portkey out without physically crossing the barrier.

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off –” said the inept wizard who wasn’t even holding a wand. Voldemort scoffed and shot him down with a single, accurate flick of the killing curse, before nonchalantly following the witch’s path seconds later. He slowly climbed the stairs to the upstairs nursery, where he knew the woman would place her small, baby boy in his crib.

Voldemort wrenched himself away from the memory, head pounding. Fuck! Had Harry seen that too? He dived back in with Harry, and yes, the boy had taken the memory.

“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything –” the young witch pled, desperately covering the fussing child with her own body. She also was without a wand. How could they be so careless? He himself had been coming for their child. Did they think a single charm would be enough?

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!” he growled. He’d planned to spare her in payment to Severus, though he didn’t know why his follower was so obsessed with her. Her eyes were lovely, it was true, but plenty of other witches weren’t married or playing vigilante for Dumbledore. Why waste time on someone –

Pounding head now evolved to full-on hammering, Voldemort tore his way out again, still unable to detach Harry from watching the horrific memory. He opened their eyes to see a dementor hovering directly over them, clawed fingers grasped their face, tilting it upwards. Voldemort released his magic in a massive wave with a scream. The three dementors hovering directly over him were shoved back, away, but more were coming in their place. Why was an entire murder of them attempting to kiss him?

He spun Harry’s wand into their hand and tried to calm his racing thoughts despite the pain in his head. He needed to focus and think of the right memory. Voldemort cast his patronus remembering Harry dancing at Lughnasa, ecstatically surrendering to the magic and joyfully thanking him for it… but would that ever happen again?

Harry would hate him. He had to know his angel was Voldemort now. The boy was currently experiencing how it felt to cast avada kedavra on his own mother. He was turning Voldemort’s wand on his younger self. And Voldemort couldn’t prevent it – that was their history, the immutable start of their story.

His thestral patronus wavered and died, dissipating as the dementors easily swirled past. “Expecto patronum,” he said aloud, desperate now, but only a dilute mist flowed from his wand and was quickly overwhelmed by the aura of despair the creatures exuded.

The dementors were going to kiss them.

With his soul split, the creatures couldn’t feed on Voldemort and had never even attempted to before he’d inhabited Harry. If he was kissed, he didn’t know if that meant he’d be released as wraith or left in the body, the dementor only consuming… Harry… Harry had no horcruxes, his entire fragile soul was within this body.

Harry was going to die. Horrifically. Permanently. Not even the darkest animagicae or necromagicae rituals could revive a soul that was taken by a dementor. They were just gone. Dissolved. Digested. Panic filled Voldemort at the thought. Harry couldn’t die, not like that, not at all. The boy belonged to him, belonged with him.

Again, he tried the patronus charm; it flickered briefly to life but couldn’t stave off the hoard of attackers before it failed again.

Black hands, physical manifestations of the void, were on their face, clamped around their throat. He was holding out his wand. Fury, relief, and disgust swirled inside him as he pointed it at the teary baby. Yew lit up with a brilliant, electric green reflected in the child’s eyes. Suddenly, bright light, white light (not green – thank Merlin – it wasn’t green), filled the entire front hall, and the dementors were gone.

Voldemort collapsed, panting, to the ground. He turned his head to the side and saw his patronus circling the room, herding the horrid creatures out of Hogwarts and back onto the grounds. The thestral was beautiful, starlight constrained and shaped like one of Death’s heralds. The ethereal light pulsed, tearing the dementors’ auras apart wherever it shone. Soon the room was emptied of the menacing creatures leaving behind mostly unconscious wixen.

Initially, it appeared that Voldemort was the only one still aware – although his head felt like the dementors had reached in and ripped him apart – but then he saw Black in his animagus form shuffle forward, a struggling rat caught in his mouth. Idly, Voldemort wondered if the mutt would eat Pettigrew when a shout drew his attention.

“Drop it,” said Harry’s voice, impossibly standing in the open doorway, the Weasley girl at his side. Black immediately obeyed and transformed back into a human. Ginevra cast the vicissim animagus spell – no, wait, that was his magic, his diary, not the girl – and forced Pettigrew to as well. The patronus – Voldemort’s patronus – circled the room once more before coming to rest next to its caster, who promptly began petting it.

Those mannerisms… that wasn’t him controlling their body. That was Harry. Harry had just saved them from the dementors, using their patronus instead of his stag. Obviously, they’d used the time-turner, but it was Harry who had saved them… Harry who had moments ago relived Voldemort’s memory of murdering the boy’s parents.

Why? Why would he...? Oh. Wait. Another spike of pain cleared Voldemort’s thoughts. Harry saved himself and his godfather and his friends from the dementors, not Voldemort. He probably would have fed Voldemort to them, if he could do so without killing himself; hell, if it weren’t for the others, Harry might have offered himself up anyway in a doomed-to-fail suicidal revenge scheme.

Still, despite knowing he’d only see revulsion when Harry approached him, Voldemort couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched as Harry dismissed their patronus. Watched as the boy exchanged affectionate glances with his godforsaken diary. Watched as he carefully spoke with the Black mongrel.

Finally – finally – Harry turned to look back at him. Surprisingly, the boy quirked a smile and Voldemort saw no hatred or derision in those killing green eyes, only admiration. It was almost a worshipful look – devotion, he might have called it if Harry’s current attitude hadn’t completely thrown him for a loop. For perhaps the first time in his life, Voldemort felt his mind go blank, thoughts grinding to a halt.

“Angel… hi,” Harry said quietly before chuckling. “It’s weird seeing my own face looking back at me when I know you’re someone else.”

“Harry,” he breathed out roughly, unable to continue, unsure what else to say. Harry just kept smiling at him. Happy. Voldemort didn’t understand and his head ached. Why was Harry happy? How could the boy still not know?

“We don’t have much time. Here,” Harry stated as he reached into his robes, retrieving a letter and a familiar small, wrapped box. “This is for you,” he said offering the letter. “And this… this is also for you.”

Harry’s face flushed an embarrassed pink as he gave Voldemort the present. Voldemort knew what it was. It was the black thestral from their Yule ritual two years ago. He’d been there while Harry created it, while the boy dutifully wrapped it. He’d seen Harry carefully store it within his trunk, despite his uncertainty if his angel existed or if he was going mad; he’d delicately handled the gift regardless.

“The present can wait, and I’m sure you’re already aware of what’s inside but… happy belated Yule, angel,” Harry offered with a cheeky grin despite his still glowing cheeks. Then his face settled into a more serious expression. “The letter is more urgent. You’ll want to read that as soon as you can. Only the first part is essential, but… I wanted to… I had to tell you…”

Voldemort stared at Harry, seeing him from an outside perspective for the first time since the boy became his host. Their face looked so different when Harry was in control. His bright eyes, his sweet smile… well, Voldemort had pretended to be Harry for short periods, but he’d never captured his essence.

Harry was so pure, so kind… and, despite what the boy thought, Voldemort was not and never had been. He had no desire to be those things and yet, finding them in Harry… well, if Harry deemed him an angel, then the boy must be the light from the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the heavens themselves.

“It really is amazing to meet you. I wish we had more time,” Harry whispered, before breaking eye contact to turn and check on his diary puppeteering Ginevra.

Burning fury erupted inside him as he sucked in a pain-filled breath – if that was his horcrux earlier who’d assaulted his host – but he damped it down in favour of watching Harry again. Harry, who was leaning in to press their foreheads together.

They sat there, uncontrolled healing magic flowing between them with each breath of the other’s air. Relief flooded him as Harry unintentionally soothed the wounds on his mind. His diary interrupted, impatiently clearing its throat. Voldemort was going to immerse the girl in fiendfyre so her skin bubbled off and that soul piece shrieked and begged. But then Harry sighed, his breath fluttering across Voldemort’s mouth, and drew his attention back to the boy.

“Gotta go. Read the letter, please. I’ll see you later, angel,” whispered Harry before standing up and walking out the front door. Black, Pettigrew, and his diary all trailed after him. Mere seconds later Dumbledore rushed down the nearby hallway, immediately zeroing in on Voldemort.

“Harry! Tell me what’s happened,” Dumbledore ordered. Voldemort groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore was the bane of his existence. The man was always there sticking his obnoxious, condescending nose into Voldemort and Harry’s business right when it was most inconvenient. He’d arrived in the front hall, too late to help anyone, and immediately demanded Harry (who could have been injured!) explain everything that had happened.

Voldemort seriously considered shooting an avada kedavra into the old goat’s face when a groan distracted them both. Fudge and Ronald were both sitting up, having regained consciousness. Witnessing others awaken must have reminded Dumbledore of his duties because he quickly began reviving the other wixen still in the room. Voldemort took the opportunity to hide Harry’s gift and letter from prying eyes. Once everyone was awake, Dumbledore again turned to him and demanded an explanation.

Surprisingly, it was Ronald who jumped to answer the question.

“It was Scabbers, sir! My pet rat! Well, he wasn’t really a rat, which was the problem! Scabbers was an animagus, some bloke named Peter Pettigrew –” Ronald said, not noticing Dumbledore’s small flinch at the name. “– who, according to Black – as in the Sirius Black who was also here before – was the real secret keeper for Harry’s parents and betrayed them to You-Know-Who.”

Ron took a deep breath, looking as though he were going to continue, but Fudge cut him off.

“Preposterous!” the minister shouted. “Black is guilty! That man couldn’t have been Pettigrew. The whole story is ridiculous.” Lupin growled in response and Fudge yelped, hiding behind Macnair again.

“Quite right, Minister,” Severus said, ignoring the werewolf who fiercely glared at him now. “If that had actually been Pettigrew and Black… well, where are they now? I think the whole encounter must have been a show for your benefit. Someone wants you to think Black isn’t guilty.”

Voldemort was mildly impressed that Severus had turned the situation in his favour so quickly considering he’d spent the last twenty minutes drooling on the floor.

“Severus, is that really what you think occurred?” Dumbledore questioned, looking relieved to Voldemort’s discerning eye. No doubt he worried that Harry would discover his lack of intervention when it came to his godfather’s incarceration.

“But Professor, we saw Pettigrew –” Ronald disagreed, surprisingly confident, but it didn’t matter.

“You don’t know what you saw, Mr Weasley. You’ve likely all been confunded –”

“And Black just happened to miss you, Professor, during this mass confundus charm?” Voldemort interjected idly. His calm voice cut through the increasingly hostile atmosphere as he joined the conversation for the first time.

Severus sneered at him, though his eyes were strangely flat. They lacked the hatred that usually sparkled in them. Perplexed at the strange mask Severus had donned, Voldemort continued to prod at the potion master’s temper. “Perhaps your prone position made him forget you were a threat. You were petrified by G – Hermione, right?”

“Now, now, there’s no need for this,” Fudge weakly cajoled when Severus snarled at Voldemort, hatred returning to his gaze in full force. There. That was the Severus he knew.

“Harry’s right though, Severus is the least likely of us to know what happened. Peter was here and we need to reevaluate Sirius’s case,” Lupin demanded.

“Should you even be here, Lupin? Isn’t it your time of the month?” Severus asked, his hands clenched tightly into trembling fists. “And considering your passive tendencies and relationship with Black, I don’t think your opinion holds much weight.”

Lupin’s eyes changed from murky blue to amber and Voldemort thought he might leap at Severus when the wizard suddenly stiffened. Pained shakes wracked his form, a howl reverberated from his throat as he began his transformation. Voldemort was instantly on his feet as he took several steps back and pointed Harry’s wand at the turning werewolf.

In his peripheral he saw Severus pale, turning the colour of spoiled milk, and flee the room while the Minister’s entourage slowly backed away towards the front door, Macnair still brandishing his axe like an idiot. Dumbledore had stiffened but remained where he was, one hand tucked up the sleeve of his caustic orange robes, prepared to draw his wand.

Rather quickly, Lupin was replaced by a giant, but weak wolf. Like Pettigrew’s animagus form, it had bald patches in several spots and Voldemort could see its ribs poking out. The ugly thing whimpered pathetically. Dumbledore peered down at it anxiously before sighing in relief.

“We have nothing to worry about. Professor Lupin has consumed all of his wolfsbane potions this month and has retained his human mind despite the transformation,” Dumbledore reassured. “Why don’t you return to your office? No use scaring the students before the end of term.”

The wolf jerked its head in an approximation of a human nod and got up to pad down the hallway Severus had disappeared into earlier in his terrified flight.

“A werewolf… Dumbledore… you hired a werewolf to be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? He’s a dark creature! And you of all people know the law! Why would you do that!?”

“I assure you, Professor Lupin is perfectly qualified,” Dumbledore said lightly before returning to a serious tone. “But I really do need the full story. Miss Granger, why don’t you explain.”

Voldemort waited impatiently as Granger described what happened while Harry was busy being molested by his diary. Black had come storming in, plucked the rat from Ronald’s pocket, and transformed him into a man without a by-your-leave just as the two professors had shown up and begun quarrelling. She only faltered while speaking about the dementors, concluding the story with a quiet “and then I passed out from their aura”.

It was at this point that Dumbledore turned to Voldemort again. “And how did you all survive? Was it your patronus charm, Harry?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said curtly. He wouldn’t tell Dumbledore anything. This was a waste of time. Time better spent sorting out what the fuck had happened here.

“And?”

“And what, Headmaster?” he asked, innocence dripping from his voice. He shouldn’t lie directly to the man who was an experienced legilimens, but he could easily skirt the truth. After all, one could lie and lie with nary a falsehood leaving their lips. But what to say to end this exasperating interrogation as soon as possible…

“And what happened then?” Dumbledore said, not quite gritting his teeth, but Voldemort thought he was close. A small trickle of amusement invaded the confused, frustrated aggravation that currently consumed him. How rare it was to have the opportunity to annoy the old goat without consequences.

“Oh!” Voldemort pretended to be surprised before concisely answering the question. “Nothing, really. The murder attacked and attempted to kiss me. I was briefly overwhelmed but then my patronus worked and chased them all away. I can’t be sure, but I believe Black and Pettigrew escaped sometime during the confrontation.”

Dumbledore appeared unsatisfied with the explanation despite knowing no falsehoods had been told, so Voldemort cast about for a way to derail him. As the elderly wizard tried to cajole more details from him, inspiration stuck as he saw Granger tucking her hands into her pockets. He made eye contact and raised a hand to rub his neck. Unconsciously, her hand rose too, mimicking the gesture.

Granger gasped loudly and then wailed, “Oh no! One of them took it! Someone stole my time-turner!”

Fudge blustered, outraged. “Where on earth did you get a time-turner, Miss Granger?!”

“Is this really –” Dumbledore said, attempting to redirect the conversation.

“Headmaster Dumbledore gave it to me so I could take all the electives,” she cried and, in her despair, unthinkingly gave away the secret she’d been attempting to keep all year. “I can’t believe it’s gone!”

Fudge turned enraged eyes on Dumbledore. “You acquisitioned a time-turner for personal use, Dumbledore. You made no mention of handing it off to a THIRD YEAR! I personally approved that application despite the DOM’s resistance. That’s it! That is the last straw! I’m going!” he shouted, spinning around dramatically, slamming his bowler hat back on his head, and stomping outside, all the while mumbling about senile, old men and useless, blind dementors. Dumbledore quickly followed.

Voldemort used the opportunity to escape, taking a direct path to the Room of Requirement. Requesting the same layout he’d used while learning the patronus charm, he hurried inside and sat on the black leather chair that flanked the fireplace.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the items Harry gave him, gently setting them on the table. He ought to read the letter like Harry had asked him to – he’d said the first paragraph was urgent – but Voldemort still needed to figure out what happened in the entrance hall. He had time. Voldemort pulled out the time-turner and placed it next to the wrapped gift.

One deep breath in and Voldemort sunk into a meditative trance, dropping into the centre of his mindscape. He checked that his occlumency foundations were intact – they were as firmly entrenched as ever, and his earlier mental scrapes were healed thanks to Harry – and then started categorising his day. Since he’d used the time-turner, he’d need to know exactly where he and Harry were at every moment, so they didn’t create any temporal anomalies. Harry must show up at that entrance hall, cast their patronus, and give Voldemort this letter and gift.

He began by reviewing the prophecy again but couldn’t derive any more clues from it. Following that was his minor theft, travelling to the common room, Harry’s nap, and then going down to see Hagrid. Viewing Harry’s memory of when Ginevra had split off from their group, he noticed a familiar magic. He marked that as a location he’d need to be when he returned and noted the time.

He watched the scene at Hagrid’s, disgusted by the half-giant’s drunken behaviour, though it gave him some new thoughts on Harry’s two Gryffindor friends. He was pleasantly surprised that Granger and Ronald were loyal enough to stand between Harry and the drunk half-giant, though he could understand why Harry was discomforted with the two's reaction.

The three Gryffindors and the rat animagus had all trekked up to the castle as the sun went down while his diary waited in the entrance hall to snatch Harry aside. Voldemort realised that this was another moment he’d have to set up, though he was loathe to do so.

His teenage horcrux was only able to preside over its container after he’d drained the girl, so it must have been in control during that absurd kiss it’d forced on Harry. Thus, the horcrux’s strange behaviour – the ambush just as Harry returned to the castle, the abrupt departure after casting the tempus charm, and its presence beside Harry when he cast their patronus – must all have been something Voldemort put into motion.

That he’d ultimately been in control during that encounter, and that it’d been a piece of his soul and not the Weasley chit… well, it barely put a dent in his temper, but it was something. Still, now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.  

Afterwards, Harry rejected his diary-playacting-Ginevra and returned to the front entrance to find a revealed Pettigrew; Voldemort would need to cast a new imperius curse on Black and arrange for him to revert the rat. He added that to his mental to-do list.

Next, the minister and his entourage arrived moments later to witness the same scene and Fudge called for the dementors. The Azkaban guards came and attempted to feed on Harry. Then he and Harry saw his attack on the Potters. But… did they? Or was it just him? Voldemort was fully immersed, reliving that Samhain night; he’d thought Harry was too, but considering he hadn’t known his angel was the Dark Lord Voldemort... well… perhaps he’d oblivated the boy.

That was… not something he wanted to do, but he could. He would. Harry needed to act as he had in the entrance hall to avoid paradoxes. So, if it was necessary to remove the memory to ensure that Harry still admired his angel…

He carefully prodded Harry’s consciousness and was baffled that the boy wasn’t completely unresponsive like he usually was after such incidents. His mind was already stretching, preparing to awaken again, to take control. Instead of rousing him fully, Voldemort carefully pressed himself into Harry’s mind to check the recent memories.

There was significant distortion after the dementors arrived. Harry had relived the attack, but it was like he’d seen Voldemort’s memory overlaid with his original one.

A one-year-old baby couldn’t retain memories like adults or even children. Their minds weren’t developed enough to store complicated images, but Harry’s brain had tried to merge what he did recall with what he’d stolen from Voldemort’s mind. The result was peculiar, similar to viewing a memory in a pensieve.

Harry had watched everything Voldemort had – though with significantly less clarity, Harry’s version was blurred, and the edges were ragged and torn – but unlike in the prior instances, he hadn’t thought Voldemort’s thoughts or felt his emotions. Harry hadn’t thought anything, and he only felt his younger self’s fear.

This led Harry to believe the memory was his own, from when he was a child. Though not ideal since Harry had still seen Voldemort murder his parents, this was better than he had anticipated. The large swell of relief that swept through him was less shocking than it would have been before the epiphany following his encounter with Black, but still significantly more intense than he was expecting.

Harry could never learn that he was Lord Voldemort. So long as he kept that under wraps, he kept the boy’s regard. Thus, Harry must never find out this truth. But he was glad he wouldn’t need to alter the boy’s mind to guarantee it. At least not today. (He suppressed the small sting of disappointment that Harry hadn’t discovered who he was and still revered him. He knew that wasn’t what would have happened, that it would never happen, and that there was no use in hoping for it.)

Voldemort delicately removed himself from Harry’s mind. He then watched his memory of the boy rescuing them with their patronus, and mentally noted when Harry arrived and left. Then he timed out his path to the Room and exited his mindscape. Just as he reached for Harry’s letter, the door opened, and his diary walked in along with Pettigrew.

“You’ll need to write down a timeline for me,” it said, prodding Peter Pettigrew forward even as the snivelling man whimpered and fell to his knees. Checking the paper in its hand again, it hummed happily. “We’re on schedule. The only things left before you travel back are writing this timeline and the unbreakable vow with Pettigrew and Ginny. She’s still out of it, but I don’t think it’ll matter since she’s the receiver. So long as you tie the binding to her core, it should still work.”

The diary lifted its gaze from the paper to Voldemort’s face and blanched, taking several steps backwards. Voldemort was furious with it, but it wasn’t feasible to punish the horcrux now. Burying his anger, Voldemort blanked his face and asked, “Do I specify what the vow should entail?”

Still pale, it shook its head. Voldemort took a deep breath and then jerked his chin indicating which corner the horcrux and Pettigrew should relocate to, so they’d be out of his direct line of sight.

“One moment then. I’ll read Harry’s letter and then write the timeline. Destroy your copy now so only one exists at any given moment. Are there any other things of importance?”

“Just that you turn back at midnight, so we have – about 20 minutes to complete the vow,” it replied in a somewhat shaky voice.

Voldemort nodded to show he’d heard and then sat back, Harry’s letter gently cradled in his hands. Unfolding the note, he began to read, though it was difficult as Harry’s writing was more atrocious than normal, and there were inkblots and smudges on practically every line.

Dear Angel,

I’m in a bit of a rush, which is ironic considering you literally rewound time for us. But for real, thanks for sending Ginny to help me avoid any time travel issues. It was brilliant of you to write us up that schedule. She recommended I write you this letter so you know what to put in it since you can’t see it for yourself cause paradoxes and stuff.

Anyway, so I woke up at sunset in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch clutching a short note from you that basically told me to listen to Ginny. After that Ginny explained about the time travel, answered some of my questions about the Chamber and her spirit (which I guess is also you, just a different piece, but I’m happy I got you cause you’re much better), and then helped me finally contact you while I meditated!

What the hell? Voldemort shot a glare at the diary who was casting a tempus charm. What exactly had his young horcrux told Harry? The diary saw his irritated expression and stiffened, but it didn’t retreat this time, just straightened its shoulders in defiance. Voldemort gritted his teeth and returned to reading the letter.

You explained what happened in the entrance hall and how I cast the patronus, though I think you must give me some of your magic, otherwise, how could our thestral be so much more powerful than my stag? You told me it banished dozens of dementors!

OH! But before we go do that, we stole Buckbeak! Snuck him right out from under the Ministry’s noses and into the forest. After that, we went back to the castle, and soon we’ll get rid of the dementors, and I’ll give you this letter.

Then the plan is for Sirius and me to turn Pettigrew into the aurors. We’ll take the tunnel under the shrieking shack and we’ll sneak Buckbeak out of Hogwarts at the same time. Maybe I can convince him to let me stay with him this summer once he’s sorted out the whole felon thing. I reckon we might be able to avoid the Dursleys!

He had to consciously stop himself from crumpling the letter in aggravation. Harry wouldn’t be returning this summer, regardless of whether Black could take him in or not. Voldemort might return, briefly, to collect some trophies and throw off Dumbledore, but after that, they would find a place to stay in the wixen district. He refused to allow Harry to step a single foot into that house while the walrus resided there.

Anyways, that’s pretty much it. Ginny will run interference for a while after we turn in Pettigrew, but she said, no matter what else happens, I need to go into the Room at exactly midnight.

She also implied that you wouldn’t be able to stay with me forever. That, like her spirit, you were looking for a way to become a person again.

I don’t want you to leave me.

But even though I want you to stay, I’ll help you. I can put the pieces of you back together! I can be your Isis. You’ve saved me so many times. It’s my turn to return the favour, right? This is what’s best for you, so whatever you need, I’m there.

Love,

Harry

No one had ever… Harry thought he loved him? It couldn’t be true. Harry didn’t really know him – didn’t know he’d already tried to kill Harry (twice), didn’t know what horrors he was capable of, didn’t know he was Lord Voldemort. Hell, the boy didn’t even know he was Tom Riddle! It was just a signoff, something people put at the end of letters, it didn’t mean anything. Voldemort still stared at that one little word until his horcrux hesitantly coughed.

“Tenebrae,” he cast, plunging the room into darkness for everyone except himself. Summoning a quill and parchment, Voldemort quickly, but thoroughly, wrote out a timeline of the evening’s events. Collecting the time-turner, he looped it twice around his neck.

Then he walked over to the far wall and pulled a random, maroon-covered book from the bookcase. Flicking it open, he saw it was a French poetry book, written by someone named Baudelaire. He carefully carved out a small, hidden pocket in its pages, before casting an undetectable expansion charm on it.

Voldemort placed the infinitely precious letter and still unopened Yule gift inside. Adding a few extraneous protection wards (considering no one could access this version of the Room except him and his diary), he carefully reshelved the now hollow book, gently petting down the spine where the glossy black title Fleurs du Mal was etched.

He returned to his diary, who looked a bit panicked by the pitch-dark environment, and grabbed the girl’s elbow. He kicked Pettigrew in the arm until he raised it and guided them into gripping the other’s forearm. Then, using Harry’s holly wand, Voldemort tapped it to their joined hands as he flooded the room with his magic and began the complex task of weaving them together. “Do you, Peter Pettigrew, swear –”

Tom felt Ginny getting weaker and weaker as Lord Voldemort drained her magic. He was surprised his elder self risked doing this in such a public place. Ginny was drawn to this empty classroom, only a single landing away from the Gryffindor Tower entrance, and then Lord Voldemort immediately drained her to depletion.

Something must be urgent.

Wrapping his magic around the girl’s core, Tom tricked her body into thinking she still had an available supply. Then he pressed himself forward swiftly, taking over while Ginny remained unconscious. Now in control, he came to, sprawled on the ground with an insouciant Harry Potter leaning against the wall before him.

“Good, you’re awake. We need to talk,” Lord Voldemort said, gesturing to a chair in the room. Tom picked himself up off the floor, gritting his teeth. He hated how his elder self used every opportunity to humiliate him, but he knew if he chose to fight back, the man would go through with his earlier threat. He had to go along with him for now.

“Very well,” Tom said, trying to exude a calm aura and ignore the amused, yet somehow enraged glint in the shadowed eyes. “What is it you would like to discuss?”

“Hmm,” Lord Voldemort hummed, looking Tom up and down as if he were evaluating his abilities, his worth, only to find him lacking. “I’ve recently acquired a time-turner.”

Tom was uncertain what a time-turner was, though it must be a tempus magicae artefact. Despite his interest, he only nodded and waited. Lord Voldemort would explain in his own time.

“It’s an artefact that allows one to travel back a few hours within the same time stream,” he said, seeming put out that Tom hadn’t asked or done anything to warrant being mocked further. “As it so happens, I used it today. Professor Trelawny is a Seer and gave me a prophecy a few hours ago that a follower would seek me out and render aid in my quest to gain corporal form.”

Here, Lord Voldemort paused and waited for Tom’s reaction. He was honestly quite shocked, though he kept the emotion from showing on his face. Time travel and prophecies… it was all so unlikely. If he weren’t speaking with a version of himself, he doubted he’d have believed it.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked. “I’m assuming you’re here to ask me to complete a specific task?”

“Ask? No. Order? Yes. You will complete these tasks,” Lord Voldemort imperiously demanded. “I’m granting you the opportunity to restore my faith in you. Do not disappoint.”

Tom shuddered. Disappointing Lord Voldemort again was not an option unless he wanted to end up locked in a coffin for eternity. He nodded in agreement and watched as his elder self retrieved two pieces of parchment from his robes and handed them to Tom. One appeared to be a map, the other a schedule. Tom skimmed the first few actions.

9:12 – trick Lupin and Snape into arriving in the front hall at 10:00

9:25 – meet Harry in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch, hide under invisibility cloak, answer Harry’s questions about Chamber

This was a tight schedule. Lord Voldemort expected him to do all this? He quickly read through the rest of the list and stopped at the last few tasks.

11:32 – retrieve Pettigrew, take to Room

11:47 – Unbreakable vow between Pettigrew and Ginevra

Looking up at the annoyed face watching him, Tom expected he did. Well, this version had already lived through this, so clearly Tom was capable of completing everything. The only thing was…

“What Room? It says to take Pettigrew to the Room, but it doesn’t specify…” Tom cut himself off as a low chuckle slipped from Harry’s lips. He could feel his face heat up with an embarrassed blush while his older self laughed at him, and he loathed it.

“I’d forgotten you hadn’t discovered that yet,” Lord Voldemort said disdainfully. “There is a room on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of dancing trolls. It only appears when you need it, in whatever form you need. As I will already be in there, and you are part of my soul, you should be able to enter the Room I’ve called.”

“If there are no other questions? No?” his elder self inquired even as he snapped his fingers, casting a wandless tempus. “Then you’d better run off to get Lupin and Snape. Tell them there’s a prank or something. The map will show you where they are in real-time. Don’t lose it.”

Tom started to leave and was almost in the hallway when he heard a sharp crack. The door had been slammed open, banging into the wall next to him. He spun around and saw Lord Voldemort right behind him. The man-masquerading-as-a-boy reached up and gripped Tom’s chin hard, forcing him to meet dark green eyes. He felt the weight of something small slipping into his pocket.

“Give this to Harry… and do start thinking about how you’ll distract him from the entrance hall,” Lord Voldemort murmured, an insane, murderous gleam in his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something just… delightful. Remember to behave like Ginevra and make it convincing.”

Tom jerked his chin away from the painful hold, nodded, and rushed out of the classroom. He checked the map once he was a fair distance away and his pounding heart had somewhat calmed. Luckily, Lupin and Snape were in the same place, the defence classroom, only down the hall. He quickly created a straightforward lie using Lord Voldemort’s suggestion and ran forward.

“Professor Lupin! Professor Lupin! It’s Harry! You need to help!” he yelled as he entered the classroom, but halted abruptly when he spotted Snape, as if he hadn’t expected him to be there. The man sneered at him, but there was a brief glimmer of concern before it dimmed to derision.

“Yes, Miss Weasley? What about Harry?” asked Lupin after he finished drinking the goblet of wolfsbane Snape was obviously there to give him. He looked terrible. Well, it was no surprise. The full moon was that night, so the werewolf was undoubtedly exhausted.

“He’s… there’s… there’s going to be an awful prank! Tonight at ten o’clock in the entrance hall and… and… I don’t think it’s going to be a nice one. Someone could get hurt!” he loudly whispered, injecting uncertainty into the girl’s voice, like he wasn’t sure he should be telling them.

“Of course, Mr Potter is planning a prank,” sniped Snape. “No doubt prodded on by your tutelage, Lupin.”

“Harry wouldn’t –” Lupin defended, but Tom cut him off.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have told you! Neither of you will help him! I’ll do it myself!” he dramatically asserted, rushing from the room. That should do it. They’d both want to see this ‘prank’. As soon as he left, he checked the schedule. Shit. Ten minutes to get out to the groundskeeper’s hut. Tom ran.

He arrived, out of breath, to find Harry – actually Harry, not Lord Voldemort – leaning against one of the groundskeeper’s giant pumpkins and reading something off a scrap of paper with a small grin on his face. The boy looked up at Tom, having heard him sprint up, and gave him a crooked smile.

Tom’s heart sped up, and he could feel another blush sear across his cheeks. What the hell? It was like this body was hardwired to respond this way to that boy. Though his elder self’s obsession probably didn’t help. Calming his breathing, he stalked up to Harry. He snuck a peak at the boy’s hand, trying to see what the note said, but Harry was already tucking it away in his robes.

“So,” the boy said, smiling still. “You’re to be my guide on this time travel adventure?”

“At your service,” Tom joked, grinning when Harry laughed.

“I reckon it’s more the reverse, isn’t it?” Harry responded. “I’m supposed to do whatever you tell me to, so…” Harry bent forward in a dramatic, elaborate bow. Tom despised the way his stomach clenched tight in response. “At your service. What are your orders, my lady?”

“We’re supposed to hide under the invisibility cloak and… talk,” he said, ignoring how Harry’s “my lady” felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him. He hated being reminded of his current container.

“Okay, no problem. Talk about what?” Harry asked as he flopped onto the ground and patted the space beside him. Tom stepped closer and gracefully sank down in the indicated location, waiting to respond until Harry had wrapped the invisibility cloak around them both. He briefly explained the tasks they would have to complete and in which order, leaving out some of the ones specific to him and Pettigrew that Harry shouldn’t know.

“You have… questions. Questions about the Chamber. Ones that I might be able to answer? What are they?” Tom was grateful he was playing the part of Ginny because that was probably the most awkward sentence that had ever come out of his mouth, but it fit her personality just fine. He heard Harry suck in a sharp breath before letting the air out slowly.

“I guess I’m just wondering what happened down there. What do you remember? Do you know who enchanted you? Or what ritual they were trying to perform? You didn’t seem to know anything last year,” Harry asked, the words coming out faster and faster.

“I can’t explain everything, but I also had a…” Tom paused, thinking about what topics he was allowed to discuss. “… a spirit, a mental passenger of sorts, I guess.” Harry stared at him with bright, curious eyes. The boy was too close. It was uncomfortable, but there was nowhere for him to move with the invisibility cloak wrapping them together.

“He was trying to become human again. To get a body without joining with his other pieces. It didn’t work though, I screwed it up,” he said, feeling exposed. He hadn’t intended to tell the truth there, it just slipped out. The inadvertent honesty scraped at the wounds of his soul.

“Oh… Was that the – the second corpse down there?” Harry asked tentatively and Tom nodded in confirmation. “What do you mean by his other pieces?”

“Right. I’m… I’m not sure how to explain. But both yours and my passengers were, well, they were different pieces of the same person who was torn apart –”

“Like Osiris?” Harry asked, interrupting. Normally that would have bothered Tom, but he was too surprised at Harry’s knowledge. The myth of Osiris was a more obscure one, at least in Britain. Osiris was an ancient Egyptian king whose jealous brother dismembered and scattered his remains until the man was stitched back together by his beloved wife with the help of the gods, Anubis and Thoth.

“You know Egyptian myths?”

“Yes, I ah, read a book about it this year,” Harry confirmed, blushing and dropping his gaze away from Tom’s face for the first time since they’d sat down.

“That’s impressive,” he lightly praised, watching as Harry became even pinker and continued avoiding eye contact. “Well, anyways, yes. Not exactly like that, but close enough. Osiris wasn’t conscious while he was in pieces and this is more mental than physical… and of course, Osiris had a wife who pieced him back together to resurrect him. And this… spirit… doesn’t. He’s doing it himself.”

“Isis,” Harry mumbled, looking grief-stricken for some unknown reason. “Isis put Osiris back together and breathed life into him.”

They sat in silence for a bit before Tom spoke again. He spun lies about a voice that’d told him what to do for the ritual, how he’d recently uncovered some unclear memories and nightmares from the Chamber and his new understanding of what the being had been trying to do.

Harry looked on sympathetically the entire time; nodding and whole-heartedly agreeing when Tom said that his spirit hadn’t been bad, just desperate. It was too easy to deceive the foolish child – he wanted to believe Lord Voldemort was good. Well, he wanted to believe that of the version who inhabited him… not that Harry was aware who he played host for, and Tom had no intention of enlightening him.

The boy ran out of questions surprisingly quickly, uninterested in the mechanics of what had happened after Tom claimed he didn’t know anything more about the reasoning or where his spirit had originally come from. Tom then moved on to his next task from the list.

“He asked me earlier – your passenger I mean – asked me to help you talk to him so… You know how to meditate?” he asked to which Harry responded in the affirmative. “But you can’t speak directly to your… spirit?” This time Harry shook his head no. “Hmmm, is it your occlumency shields blocking it? Where’s the bridge in your mind?”

Harry stared at him, a bemused expression on his face. Tom looked back astonished. “You… you do have occlumency shields, yes? You must if you’re meditating properly.”

“Ah, well I’m self-taught, so I have no idea if I’m meditating properly,” Harry replied, sheepishly running a hand through his hair.

For Salazar’s sake, he did not have enough time to teach the boy everything from the ground up. What the hell had his elder self even been doing? He flicked out a tempus charm and checked his schedule. Ten minutes until they stole the hippogriff. Okay. Okay. He’d already done this, that’s why Harry was able to time travel back successfully, so he must not be as badly off as Tom worried.

“When you meditate, are you aware of your surroundings?” Negative response. “Do you go to a mindscape?” Confusion. “It’s like a place in your mind? Like a physical location that represents your innermost self?” Positive response. “Are there any doors or windows?” Positive. “Do any of those represent your passenger?” A significantly less certain, but still positive response. “Okay. This is good. Can you meditate now and check? Try opening it and seeing if you can hear anything. We have a few minutes still.”

Harry closed his eyes and intentionally started taking deep, slow breaths, his chest steadily rising and falling. Tom watched the boy’s face and waited. He looked so different when not possessed by Lord Voldemort. Softer. Warmer. Still, otherworldly though.

He remembered his first impression of the boy from the Chamber. Surprisingly, Tom thought he looked more Fae-like when he was not possessed. Harry had a wildness about him even while still; his eyes were more expressive, more electric without Lord Voldemort looking out from them.

Abruptly, Harry opened those eyes – they really were the exact shade of the killing curse – and stared at Tom. Then the boy smiled, happier than Tom had ever seen him, and Tom’s breath was trapped in his chest, his face glowing red again. Harry threw his arms around Tom in a tight hug. His magic spun, twirling at the contact and mirroring Harry’s. Strange. He knew Ginny’s magic acted oddly around the boy, but he’d never noticed a reaction from his own before.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Harry enthusiastically whispered.

“I take it you were successful, then?” Tom asked, amused now that his vessel’s odd physiological reaction was over. Such an exuberant response considering he’d only told Harry to find a door in his mind. The boy had figured the rest out himself, which was almost impressive. He was the only other person Tom knew that had made a mindscape by this age (excluding the uppity purebloods with tutors, of course).

“Yes!” Harry said eagerly. “Thank you!”

Tom chuckled and then lifted himself and Harry onto their feet. They stood close enough that they were both covered by the invisibility cloak. Ginny was an inch or two taller than Harry, but they were similar enough heights that the position wasn’t too awkward.

Harry jumped and Tom stilled when a loud clanking sound rattled throughout the pumpkin patch. Then the gamekeeper hut’s back door swung open and shut. Tom started to speak, about to tell Harry what to do next, but the boy put a hand over Tom’s lips, silencing him.

The contact burned. His magic rushed up to the surface of his bare skin, desperately trying to press itself through and into Harry. This must be a reaction to Harry hosting Lord Voldemort’s soul, but… Tom almost groaned aloud when he felt Harry’s magic respond, deftly intertwining with his. That was not how his magic reacted to itself. Not when Lord Voldemort was in control of Harry’s body. What in the hell was going on?

Finally, Harry dropped his hand, mumbling a sheepish apology.

“That was us – Ron, Hermione, and me, I mean – we were under the cloak there too. I didn’t want them to hear us, that’d have freaked past-me and them out,” Harry explained.

“Right…” Tom said and then shook himself. It didn’t matter how his and Harry’s magic interacted. He needed to stay focused. Another tempus charm and he flinched. They were five minutes behind schedule. “Damnit. Okay, we need to free Buckbeak and hide him in the forest. Like really, really quickly. Then we’ll run to the castle.”

The two rushed forward and untied Buckbeak, taking him out just deep enough that they couldn’t see Hagrid’s hut anymore and tied him loosely to a tree. Then they sprinted up to the castle, cloak flapping against their legs and entered the front hall, out of breath and barely beating Harry’s past counterpart.

“Shit. I was supposed to deposit you somewhere nearby, distract current you for ten minutes and then return to actual you, but I don’t think we have time. You’ll just have to stay with me but hidden under the cloak. And you need to write your letter while I do this. Any ideas on how I should distract you? I’ve done this before already, right?”

Harry stared at Tom, an aghast expression on his face that was steadily becoming more horrified.

“You, uhm, you – well, that is to say –”

“Spit it out, we literally have ssseconds,” Tom hissed, almost slipping into parseltongue, fed up with the nonsensical spluttering.

“You kissed me,” Harry blurted out.

“What?” Tom replied, dumbfounded, but then the door opened. Swishing fabric and the sound of multiple stumbling feet were the only indications anyone had entered. The version of Harry with him took several steps back keeping the cloak, and revealed Tom, who was still shocked speechless.

“Harry,” he heard someone say and realised it was the future version calling the current version of himself and drawing attention to Tom. He managed to smile and lose the startled air when current Harry bounced up to him immediately.

“You’re back,” the boy said, pleased.

“Uhm – can I talk to you alone for a minute, Harry?” Tom demanded more than he asked, but Harry immediately agreed. He led the boy away from the hall, knowing that the future version was also obediently following him. He could feel Harry’s and his magic tingling where their palms touched. Fuck. No wonder Lord Voldemort had been so furious. This was going to be a disaster.

Chapter Text

Tom hauled Harry after him, frantically trying to figure out how to play this. How was he supposed to kiss Harry and not be murdered by his elder self afterwards? Especially when Ginny wasn’t going to be aware of anything that happened. What if this caused Harry to start dating her or something? Then Tom would really be dead.

Practically the first thing he’d learned about Lord Voldemort was that he was obsessed with Harry Potter. This explained why the man was enraged during his conversation with Tom and yet hadn’t acted on it. He needed Tom to help Harry during the time travel, but Tom had… apparently… kissed Harry. And considering how Lord Voldemort had claimed the boy, he was likely to incinerate Tom for trespassing, despite them being parts of the same soul. Tom didn’t share and he seriously doubted that aspect of himself had changed as he got older.

Unfortunately, this had already happened. He’d already kissed future Harry, who was trailing behind him. (Hopefully, the boy planned to write his letter and not watch when Tom locked lips with this Harry.) So, Tom couldn’t not kiss the boy because that would create a paradox. He was doomed.

“Remember to behave like Ginevra and make it convincing,” Lord Voldemort had demanded. And though the fury his elder self displayed earlier was not insignificant, he didn’t think that even the risk of a temporal anomaly would have prevented him from being immediately murdered if the man thought Tom had overstepped too extensively. The order also told him that Lord Voldemort must have originally thought it was Ginny and not Tom during the encounter.

Well. Tom could play silly-little-girl-with-a-crush. There wasn’t anything to lose following that advice. His only remaining option, the best choice he could make in these circumstances, was to act how Ginny would behave if she’d worked up the courage to approach Harry… and pray that he could convince Lord Voldemort that every action had been essential to his performance.

Stopping abruptly, he yanked current Harry into a small inlet in the wall. The boy followed like a lost, little lamb. Swallowing to wet his dry throat, Tom tried to recall some of the painfully boring speeches Ginny practised in her daydreams.

“Harry, listen,” he said, reaching for the boy’s other hand. His voice wavered when he felt a second surge of magic at the increased contact. Gathering himself, he continued the girl’s hopeless confession. “I – I’m not sure how to do this, but I’m a Gryffindor, right? So, I’m just going to go for it.”

Tom paused, shifting his head to glance at Harry coyly from beneath his lashes, and felt his heart stutter deep inside his chest. Harry stared at him with wide, awestruck eyes, completely focused on his every word.

“I like you. Like, really like you,” he alleged in the girl’s quaking voice, but it was a lie.

Of course, it was a lie. He wasn’t like his puppet, wasn’t like his elder self, wasn’t fascinated with the boy. Tom didn’t like Harry. He had attempted to kill Harry only last year. The pounding of his heart, the catch in his throat – that was only his vessel’s physiological reactions and – and the weird magic reaction was due to a large portion of his soul residing in the boy. That was it.

“And... I think you like me too? So maybe we should… I don’t know… see where this goes?” Tom asked. He wasn’t convinced that Harry was interested in Ginny. What Harry enjoyed was his magic – his and Lord Voldemort’s. But the girl was confessing. And Ginny wouldn’t do that without some assurance that Harry returned her feelings.

However, Tom grew more uncomfortable when Harry leaned forward with wide eyes and whispered the girl’s name before trailing off. That was not an encouraging outcome. Ugh, maybe the boy did like her. The idea made his shoulders tense up in trepidation. Lord Voldemort would slaughter Tom and his human container at midnight if Harry wanted to date Ginny.

Harry didn’t move again, not to lean in or away, but tightly held Tom’s hands. Despite his reservations, Tom needed to kiss him. Just a quick peck and he’d avoid any paradoxes. Maybe his elder self would extract his diary horcrux before he killed the girl and, in time, calm down enough to grant Tom a new container.

He pressed his vessel’s mouth against the lips of the boy who hosted Lord Voldemort’s soul.

Tom froze there, amazed at the tidal wave of magic coursing through him. It was like a tsunami, crashing into him, crushing him, flooding him with light and sound and leaving destruction in its wake. His magic was keen, almost fervent in its response, but Harry’s… Harry’s magic was so incredibly, desperately frantic. It was everywhere – manifesting as flickering emerald stars, electrifying Harry’s skin, twining itself around Tom’s host, pushing against her ribcage like it was trying to reach inside and stroke the pages of his diary.

Warm breath shocked him as the boy’s mouth parted in a gasp. Tom instinctively licked his lips, brushing his tongue against Harry, tasting him for the first time.

He moaned, unable to help himself, and felt Harry try to lift his hands, to touch him, but now it was Tom who was holding them too tightly. Abruptly he let go, instead reaching up and around Harry’s throat, feeling the frantic beat of his heart as Tom pressed the boy back, back until he hit the wall.

Harry was moaning now too, gasping repeatedly. His magic danced wildly, violently, and Tom drowned in its waves, eager for more. He was… he was warm and whole. Complete. He couldn’t remember feeling anything like this before. He never wanted to stop. He pressed more firmly against Harry, hooking his thumbs under the boy’s chin and tilting his face up for a better angle, but then he was shoved away, and Harry was scrambling out into the open corridor, almost tripping in his haste.

Tom was left empty, aching. That light, that warmth was torn from him so abruptly, but… what the hell was he doing? The plan was to lightly peck Harry on the lips not – not devour him.

But goddamnit, he wanted to do it again. And again, and again. Harry’s magic was divine. It was a revelation. Tom would happily spend hours – days – tangled up in the boy’s magic. No wonder Lord Voldemort was infatuated. All it took was a single taste and so was he.

Taking a deep breath, trying to control his sudden greed, Tom stepped back out into the hallway to find Harry. He felt another jolt of arousal at the perfect picture the now-ragged boy made. Harry was leaning against the opposite wall with his eyes closed, taking in quick gulps of air. His hair and robes were dishevelled, and a bright blush had spread across his cheeks and up to the tip of his ears.

His scar lightly bled. The boy didn’t notice as it dripped, barely missed his eye, and continued down his cheek like a solitary red tear.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Tom asked when Harry opened his eyes, knowing the answer was no, not at all, despite his reassurance. How could he be okay when he looked like that?

Tom stepped forward and Harry stumbled back, knocking against the wall, panic written across his face. Arousal burned through him again, stronger than before. He wanted to hunt the boy down, wanted to restrain him, conquer him, consume him. He probably would have given in to the overwhelming urge if Harry hadn’t hastily straightened up. His posture shifted from prey to predator, and then he tilted his head in a way that reminded Tom of himself.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, keeping his distance, uncertain if he was speaking to Harry or Lord Voldemort.

“Ginny,” Harry said, and Tom tried to hide his rage at hearing another’s name instead of his own. At least now he knew this was Harry. “I do like you – really, I do. And for a while, I thought maybe... maybe I liked you that way too. And our magic… our magic is perfect together.”

Tom agreed wholeheartedly. Their magic was perfect together. Nothing would ever feel so right, so heavenly. So what was Harry –

“But...” Harry paused, stalling, his brows furrowed in uncertainty or maybe frustration. “I don’t think I’m into girls.”

What?

“I didn’t really get it until now, but... yeah, I’m pretty sure,” the boy continued, oblivious to Tom’s shock. Harry decided to reject Ginny because she was a girl. Well, and likely also to avoid Lord Voldemort’s wrath, if the aggravated scar was any indication. But Harry believed it was because he wasn’t into girls, and surely he knew his own inclinations.

Tom didn’t quite understand other people’s preferences for gender. He theoretically knew that a person’s sex mattered in attraction for some, but he’d never felt anything like that. He appreciated beauty, objectively, but the only physical characteristic he’d felt aroused by was a person’s magic, and that occurrence was considerably rarer than his attraction to intelligence or power.

But if his vessel’s sex was a significant enough attribute to Harry that he was turning Ginny down… well, that was fine. Actually, it was completely fine considering it solved so many of his problems. (The knot of anguished rage from Harry’s rejection loosened as he realised it was his container that was the problem and that was something he planned to change as soon as possible.)

He’d been acting like Ginny as Lord Voldemort ordered. This meant, despite the man’s rage, he was unlikely to seriously harm Tom, especially since it made Harry refuse the girl who held his diary inside her. However, he had no doubt there’d still be a punishment for touching the boy so… aggressively.

Still, Harry would think the entire thing resolved, not knowing that Ginny would have no memory of the encounter; thus, he’d retain the friendship until Ginny worked up the courage to confess for real, which Tom could prevent. This would allow Lord Voldemort continued access to the girl to drain her magic for whatever research he was doing and allow Tom to continue having regular sessions where he was in control.

And… and it meant that when he did have his own body, and once Harry was no longer the host of Lord Voldemort, he could –

Tom felt someone poke him in the side; future Harry was trying to get his attention. He cast a quick tempus and realised they needed to leave so current Harry could return to the entrance hall. Quickly saying goodbye, Tom took off running opposite the front doors, hearing muffled steps beside him. He stopped as soon as they turned a corner.

“Harry?” he whispered, seeing the air ripple as the boy pulled off the invisibility cloak to reveal his pink face. Tom considered teasing him – wondered just how far down the blush would spread, if he could get it to continue down Harry’s neck with words alone – but thought he’d probably put the young Gryffindor through enough tonight.

Plus, he didn’t want to provoke Lord Voldemort further. He had no idea how closely the man was watching but doubted he and Harry had been left to their own devices. It wasn’t the moment to push boundaries.

“Were you able to finish your letter?” he asked instead.

Harry nodded but didn’t speak. He kept his eyes averted while his cheeks remained that lovely pink. Ah, how sweet the little lion was, all shy and embarrassed.

“Come on,” he sighed, playfully shoving a hand against Harry’s shoulder, internally thrilled at the rush of magic but keeping an innocent, carefree expression on his face. “You said we were still friends. Don’t be weird, now.”

Harry’s eyes shot up indignantly as he flailed like a startled cat and caught himself before he bumped into the wall. Tom chuckled, which caused the green eyes to soften and sparkle with mischief and affection. (Affection for him. Every characteristic Harry liked about the girl was originally Tom’s.)

“Excuse you,” Harry said in a posh voice, mimicking Malfoy’s accent. “I’m not the one being weird. You’re in charge here, leading this… this time travel excursion – if anyone is weird, it’s you. So there.”

Tom laughed again, happier than he’d been in ages. But then he sighed. They really ought to return to their tasks. There was still so much to do, and everything had to be perfect if Tom wanted to survive the night.

“Speaking of schedules, now we wait two minutes –”

As Tom reminded Harry of the timing of the next few actions, basking in the boy’s undivided attention, he swore to himself that one day, one day soon, he would escape from this puppet whose skin and bones had become his prison. When he did… well, he would have all the time in the world to explore this strangely intense, magical attraction to Harry Potter.

“You need to cast a patronus and run off all the dementors in the entrance hall,” Ginny said as if Harry hadn’t been struggling all semester to cast that charm and, so far, only managed it for brief periods in empty classrooms.

“See, you say that, but –” he started to ask when Ginny cut him off.

“Just get your spirit to help. You can do this. You already have done this, or you wouldn’t be alive to have this conversation right now.”

“Okay…” Harry hesitantly agreed. He could feel his angel’s scorn – the man didn’t like Ginny and was furious about the kissing in the alcove while Harry had sat on the floor and wrote the letter to him – but there was also a hint of pride. His angel didn’t doubt Harry could cast the patronus. He had, according to the man, already seen Harry do it.

In Hagrid’s pumpkin patch, Ginny told Harry he needed to communicate with his angel and advised him how to do so. Thankfully Harry had practised meditating since last summer, though the addition of what Ginny referred to as a ‘mindscape’ had been a slow, unintentional creation. Harry simply found that his thoughts always travelled along the same path every time he meditated.

He always started with flight.

Harry would ride his broom into a golden sunset, letting go of all his thoughts and emotions as he flew. For a long time, there was nothing but sky above or below him but, eventually, he’d arrived at a field blanketed with wildflowers where an open, gazebo-like structure made of mottled white marble rested on a small hill. Inside was a maze of tall, thin wooden shelves filled with books of varying styles and coated in dozens of protective wards.

The books were how Harry arranged his mind, but he couldn’t imagine his memories as words on paper. Instead, each book contained a carefully curated selection of flowers pressed within their pages. Flowers had seemed like the perfect choice to represent a memory – ephemeral in nature, yet all the more precious for their brevity.

But flowers were easily crushed underfoot, so Harry would pluck the important ones and press them carefully between pages whenever he ordered his mind, preserving them in whichever tome made the most sense. Thus, the books had a dual purpose; they protected and organised his memories.

His mind had a third layer aside from the endless sky and the open field filled with blossoms and books. One Harry preferred not to think about. One he’d had long before he’d formed the rest of his mindscape.

Hidden at the centre of the bookshelf maze, there was a small cupboard. It held the only door anywhere inside his mindscape. He disliked going inside, hated being trapped within his cupboard despite how frequently he hid there from his uncle, but if it connected him to his angel… it was worth it.

Harry easily fit, but it still felt cramped, especially once the door was shut behind him. Claustrophobic. Still, he tucked himself into the corner and yanked the drawstring for his lightbulb. Immediately Harry found a mail slot that shouldn’t be there; it wasn’t on the outside of the door, and it wasn’t present in his real-life cupboard, either. Harry laid down as best he could and slid the slot open, poking the tips of his fingers through and calling for his angel, before listening hard for any response.

When nothing happened, Harry removed his hand and let go, but then a book slammed through the gap and onto his face. Spluttering, rubbing his nose, Harry burst into hysterical giggles as amusement flooded him, stronger than ever before. As he laughed, he was almost convinced he could hear another, deeper voice in the distance echoing him.

When he eventually found his composure, Harry sat up and plopped the book into his lap. It had a plain black leather cover with no title, but the edges of each page were golden. It was so similar to Tom’s diary. Combined with what he’d learned from Ginny about the Chamber, the era of the memories that his angel shared, and the oh-so-familiar handwriting from the earlier note, Harry couldn’t help but wonder… but now wasn’t the time.

He opened the book and found, like a real journal, that it was full of words instead of the pressed flowers that his mindscape books contained. As he brushed his fingers down the first page, he discovered it wasn’t like recalling his memories – wasn’t like the vivid images that arose whenever he touched a flower petal. Nor was it like reliving the ones his angel sometimes shared in dreams. It was a story written in charming, nostalgic handwriting. Harry needed to actually read it.

The entry his angel wrote, the first thing his angel decided to tell him, was about being saved by Harry. It described a swarm of dementors that had swooped into the entrance hall at Fudge’s call, too many to ward off without prior warning. There was a factual, almost sparse explanation about unsuccessfully trying to cast a patronus while Harry was trapped in a memory.

I thought they would take your soul.

Seven words, seven simple words and yet Harry could almost see the terror underlining each jagged letter. The handwriting grew more fluid, practically messy in the following paragraph as the man wrote lovely, poetic descriptions about a beautiful thestral patronus that matched his own and about Harry, who had cast the spell to save him.  

There was more content written. More details about what happened and what Harry had said, but he couldn’t help being preoccupied with his angel’s praise. That the first story Harry had received through the mail slot was about how capable he thought Harry was, how proud he was of Harry’s accomplishments, how thankful he was for Harry… well, it was deeply gratifying. Harry flushed with pleasure knowing that he held his angel’s regard, despite his tendency to hide away sometimes.

Last year, after the acromantula incident he’d sworn to be better at protecting his angel, but Harry didn’t think he’d upheld that promise. Not with the frequency he’d retreated into his mind this year, not with how he’d repeatedly relied on his angel to save him from the dementors. So, while sitting in the mental replica of his old cupboard, Harry made a new resolution to stop running away. He’d become strong enough that his angel would rely on Harry just as much as Harry relied on him.

Which brought him back to the present (past?). Harry could cast the patronus. Harry would cast their patronus. He had no other choice if he wanted to help his angel. Nothing else he’d learned today – not about Sirius or his parents or himself – none of it mattered compared to this upcoming moment.

He followed Ginny as she led him back towards the main hall, both hidden underneath his invisibility cloak. Waves of freezing despair grew more intense the closer they got to Hogwarts’s entrance. She paused and Harry's steps stuttered as he tried not to bump into her, his teeth chattering. She held up a hand – five fingers, four, three, two…

Harry flicked out his wand and confidently strode forward from beneath the cloak at Ginny’s cue. Determination surged through him as he focused, not on his memories but on his wish, on his promise.

<< I want to help you, angel. You’re going to breathe and live and be again, and I’ll help you do that… I swear I’ll save you. >>

Magic almost seemed to burn within Harry as he lifted his wand, and then it exploded outwards. Without a word, with only his conviction, Harry willed their patronus into reality. The thestral his angel had described burst into existence and began to gallop around the room, forcing the dementors away as they shrieked in their eerie voices before being banished and only silence endured.

Harry stepped further into the hall, idly preventing the large dog from eating the rat before stopping to study the new form his patronus had taken. She trotted up to him, skeletal wings stretched out wide before she tucked them back into her sides. Harry reached out and was surprised when he connected with an ice-cold head instead of passing through the light. Happiness bubbled inside him as she nuzzled his hand, pleasure and pride swelling in equal proportions. Harry had done it!

He looked around the room as he allowed the patronus to dissipate into mist and his eyes caught on Sirius Black, sitting on the ground, staring up at Harry like he was the sun.

“Harry,” he whispered, desperation evident in the break of his voice.

“Sirius,” Harry replied, wary. He wasn’t sure exactly what he thought of the man. He knew Sirius had been his father’s best friend – his dad’s partner in crime – and that he’d spent years imprisoned in Azkaban. That Dumbledore had testified against him. That he was his godfather. That he hadn’t betrayed Harry’s parents. That he might have raised Harry had circumstances been different.

But Sirius was a stranger. An unpredictable man who had stabbed Pettigrew only minutes earlier. Still… if Sirius Black was his opportunity to escape the Dursleys… Harry would take it.

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” sobbed Sirius, and Harry felt his heart soften a little, though not enough to lower his guard or move closer than he already was.

“It’s okay. We’re gonna turn Pettigrew in, get your name cleared and then… we can talk more. Go to Ginny, we’ll leave in a moment, I just need to –” Harry’s voice cut off as he turned and met his own eyes.

“Angel,” Harry breathed out, enraptured as all thoughts of Sirius faded away. It was fascinating to meet the person living within him, the man who kept saving him. “Hi. It’s weird seeing my own face looking back at me when I know you’re someone else.”

“Harry,” his angel replied, staring at him with wide, astonished eyes. Harry felt a small amount of amusement beneath his awe. This was his angel, who had a prolific number of opinions and was never one to keep silent even while his side of the conversation was confined to his emotions. Yet the man didn’t know what to say now that he had a mouth to speak with. The abashed annoyance Harry felt pressed into his mind only made him smile wider.

“We don’t have much time. Here,” Harry said, retrieving the letter, “This is for you… And this…” Now he handed over the gift he’d kept safely hidden since last December that Ginny somehow knew to bring him. “This is also for you.”

“The present can wait, and I’m sure you’re already aware of what’s inside but … happy belated Yule, angel,” Harry said, smiling at his temporary twin.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined giving the gift to his angel. Harry still felt exhilarated, nearly giddy from his Patronus, while the one he handed it to was mute with shock, recovering from almost being kissed by dementors, and controlling Harry’s body. Still, this was more than Harry had expected. Magical time travel allowed him to meet the spirit possessing him. This world really was crazy amazing.

When he remembered the other item he’d handed to his angel, Harry warned, “The letter is more urgent. You’ll want to read that as soon as you can. Only the first part is essential, but… I wanted to… I had to tell you…”

He trailed off, leaving the sentence incomplete. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t want to finish, but his throat felt choked, and he couldn’t seem to get the words out. But it was okay. His angel would read the letter and understand. Besides… it wasn’t like the man didn’t already know how grateful, how devoted Harry was to him. His angel could feel it.

Wistfulness was rising inside him, both Harry’s and his angel’s, and he reiterated the vow he’d used to fuel his patronus.

<< I will save you. >>

Out loud, though, Harry only said, “It really is amazing to meet you. I wish we had more time.”

He heard shuffling and glanced aside to see Ginny talking with Sirius and Pettigrew. When Harry looked back at his angel, he was amused at the petulant expression painted across his face. His internal angel’s annoyance increased, but Harry only reached forward. Thinking about hugging himself felt weird, but… he put a hand on the other’s neck, pressed their foreheads together, closed his eyes, and breathed. The entire castle froze, acknowledging the importance of the gesture, watching them connect.

Ginny cleared her throat and broke the spell, calling Harry’s attention away again. He knew they had a schedule to keep, and the timing was essential while he was in the past. He sighed before reluctantly withdrawing. This had happened once, there’d be other opportunities to meet with his angel, especially once Harry figured out how to put him back together again.

“Gotta go. Read the letter, please. I’ll see you later, angel,” Harry said, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to Ginny. She gestured to the front door. Harry acquiesced and led the way outside, into the night.

Voldemort watched from Harry’s eyes as he guided his diary, Black, and a rope-bound Pettigrew to the forest to find Buckbeak. He was mildly annoyed that they needed to collect the hippogriff before coordinating Black and Pettigrew’s escapes, but Harry had mentioned it in his letter, so it had to be done. Plus, the boy had done so much work to save the creature. They might as well make it happen, even if it was using unlawful methods instead of the originally planned legal route.

The motley crew were trudging down the path, Pettigrew stumbling a bit as his diary yanked the rope, when Black jogged forward to Harry’s side, matching his pace. Black silently walked beside them, trying to work up the courage to speak to his godson.

“You know what this means? Turning Pettigrew in?” Black asked, his voice was rough enough he had to clear his throat twice to get the full sentences out.

Harry’s emotions were swirling, small tinges of hope peeking through that were ruthlessly shoved down as he attempted to avoid reading too much into Black’s remark.

“You’re free,” Harry said in a bland, carefully controlled tone. Voldemort wasn’t sure whether he should let Black continue or force him to shut up. Hesitantly, he decided to watch and see how the conversation went. He could always tweak Black’s reactions afterwards if it proved necessary.

“Yes… But I’m also – I don’t know if anyone ever told you – I’m your godfather.” This remark by Black caused Harry to feel a stab of pain to which Voldemort instinctively pressed consolation through the horcrux bond.

<< I’m fine. Thanks angel. >>

“Yeah, I knew that,” Harry replied, and Black fell silent again. They were almost at Hagrid’s hut, only a few minutes from where they’d stashed Buckbeak temporarily. Voldemort had written the schedule his horcrux was following and knew they would collect the hippogriff and head back to the tunnel under the Whomping Willow, but the details of what happened next were up in the air.

“Well… your parents appointed me your guardian. If anything happened to them…”

Voldemort’s attention snapped to the conversation at hand. Was Black jumping right into the come-live-with-me speech? The wizard didn’t even know Harry was being abused by his muggle relatives.

“I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle. But… well… think about it. Once my name’s cleared… if you wanted a… a different home…”

Harry’s shock reverberated through Voldemort. The boy had thought he’d have to connive and trick Black into taking him in. Not that what he wanted most would be offered up on a silver platter before the escaped convict had even gotten a pardon. Voldemort noticed Harry’s caution of the man steadily melting away. He was bound to be appreciative of anyone who provided him with a way out of the abusive home.

“What – live with you? Leave the Dursleys?”

He felt Harry’s mind race, watched him try to picture life without the Dursleys. Guilt grew within him, more intense than he’d ever experienced before. He wished he could give up Pettigrew to the Ministry tonight, but the Seer’s prophecy made that impossible. He pushed the feeling down, boxing it up, and then chained it in the furthest corner of his mind.

“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to. I understand, I just thought I’d –”

Harry jumped to correct Black’s reaction to Harry’s silence when he realised the man was about to backtrack. “Are you insane? Of course I want to leave the Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move in?”

“You want to? You mean it?” Black asked with a slightly insane glint in his eyes. Voldemort fed more magic into the connection from the imperius curse, and the man’s mania subsided.

He couldn’t change the orders Black followed without taking control from Harry – an imperiused individual needed a verbal magic-infused command in concert with the spell. Honestly, the curse made people stupid. No ingenuity, no creativity, and they always misconstrued complex instructions, which was why he seldom used it on his followers – but adding magic increased the blissful feeling which would calm Black.

“Yeah, I mean it!” Harry yelled, practically vibrating out of his skin in a mix of anxiety and hope. Voldemort added a few extra chain loops to keep the guilt trapped behind his strongest occlumency shields.

Black reached for Harry to presumably hug the boy and, predictably, Harry stepped back in a knee-jerk reaction. He could almost see Black’s mind tremble. The man had been an Auror and had a shit childhood, he knew what it meant when a kid was afraid of touch and when they jumped at the chance for a new home. However, the reconstruction work Voldemort had completed so far held, and the imperius curse kept most of the other pieces in his mind glued in place.

Harry and Black had paused in the middle of the path while having this discussion, and both were startled when his diary, tugging Pettigrew and Buckbeak by rope tethers, walked back up to them.

“Come on,” it said. “Harry, you need to take Pettigrew, Black, and Buckbeak. I’ve got to meet with your other self and let them know about the schedule and a few details you didn’t include in the letter. I’ll borrow the invisibility cloak, but you’ll get it back tonight. Remember you must be back at the castle and in the Room just after midnight, no sooner or later.”

His horcrux wagged a finger at Harry before giving him a wink and carefully handing the two ropes over, gently dragging its hand along Harry’s wrist, drawing magic up to buzz against his skin. Voldemort’s simmering irritation towards his teenage diary flared at its shameless flirting, and he didn’t bother keeping it in check, letting it flow through the horcrux bond and into Harry.

<< I get it, you don’t like Ginny. But it’s not like either of us can help how our magic reacts to the other. And she was good about the… the whole me being gay and turning her down thing. >>

Harry waved goodbye as his diary took off for the castle… it would use the map to retrieve Pettigrew after he fled, offer him the opportunity to serve his Lord again and bring the rat up to meet Voldemort in the Room. He wasn’t sure how the rat escaped, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to take over Harry and make an opportunity for Pettigrew to run away… that would exacerbate the guilt he already struggled to hide.

Just as they reached the Whomping Willow, Black sidled up to Harry again – the man was a dog begging for scraps of attention – and distracted him from the tree. A thin branch whipped out, catching Harry in the forearm and crack!, the radius and ulna bones snapped. Harry fell to his knees with a scream, and reflexive tears streamed down his face as he dropped the ropes, clutching at his injured arm. Buckbeak, in accord with his name, started bucking and flapping his wings as he screeched in aggravation.

Black shied back from the thrashing claws, and Pettigrew, who was a one-trick granian, took the opportunity to transform into a rat and scurry away. Black also morphed into his animagus form and tried to give chase but quickly returned when the panicked hippogriff and the furious tree began attacking the already-injured Harry.

Through tear-filled eyes, he and Harry watched the Grim fight the hippogriff for a few minutes and then, once the creature was far enough from them, ran up to the tree and hit a knot on the truck that immediately froze all the branches on the Whomping Willow. The mangy mutt whined, sniffing about for Pettigrew’s scent, but couldn’t find a trail. He transformed back into a human and approached Harry, snagging the now calm Buckbeak’s tether on the way.

“You’re hurt,” the wizard stated when he saw the boy’s arm. The injury greatly distressed Black, perhaps more than even Pettigrew’s latest evasion. “Merlin’s balls! That – that’s… You need to go see the mediwitch immediately.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but a sob escaped instead. Their arm throbbed, but it was barely noticeable compared to the avalanche of despair cascading through the boy. It was all-encompassing. Misery overwhelmed him and Voldemort was forced to retreat behind his occlumency walls to think without Harry’s emotions drowning him.

He used a tendril of magic to reconfigure his defences, adjusting them so that he could walk into Harry’s mindscape while shielding the boy’s consciousness away from him. With his diary’s guidance and Harry’s newfound awareness, the mental environment the boy built during his frequent forays into meditation had solidified. The boy’s magic had ensured it would now always be present within Harry’s subconscious.

Upon seeing it for the first time, Voldemort couldn’t help his momentary distraction and awe. Harry’s mind was beautiful. The grassy knoll covered in blooming flowers was vibrant and wild, but still tranquil, almost sacred in its fluidity as the fragile blossoms eloquently danced in the wind. He slowly stepped from stone to stone on the path up to the peristyle, careful not to stray from the path or accidentally crush any foliage.

When he reached the shelves, he plucked the first book he found off the nearest ledge. As he did, magic swirled around him. Protective wards that Harry oughtn’t even be aware existed were poking at his mental form. But the magic instantly settled back into inactivity as it recognised him and granted him full access. (It was amazing what Harry had created, but it was staggering how the boy instinctively welcomed him, gifting Voldemort everything inside his mind without hesitation.)

Voldemort gently opened the book, and his breath caught when he saw a perfect, white daisy pressed between the two pages. It was so lovely, so ingenious – flowers for memories and books to encase and classify them. Harry was brilliant.

But he’d explored too long while distracted. He carefully closed the cover and reshelved the book. Harry’s recent recollections wouldn’t be here. They’d be in the field. Voldemort closed his eyes and listened, trying to feel where the magic that allocated Harry’s memories into delicate petals was strongest.

With a small surge of magic, he floated to the brightest and freshest part of the knoll. Hovering a few inches above the ground, he opened his eyes, bent down, and feathered his thumb over a soft flower petal. Voldemort was instantly drawn in, the memory somehow knowing to begin exactly where he’d deserted the boy’s mind.

“Sirius… I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with grief. As he watched Black soothe the distraught boy, Voldemort decided he loathed witnessing this. It was worse than remembering his years as a wraith or even his stint in the orphanage. He knew it was necessary, knew that Harry’s tears would disappear once he removed the ominous cloud of the Dursleys, but he still wished the plan had avoided this moment.

“This is not your fault, Harry,” Black said, cautiously lifting his hands to cradle Harry’s tear-streaked face. “Wormtail is sneaky, but we’ll find him again. You know… you look so like your father. Except for the eyes…” The mutt seemed surprisingly stable here, but Voldemort knew he’d need to leave as soon as possible. It was getting colder and colder. The dementors were coming and Black’s mind wouldn’t hold up under their onslaught.

Harry, noticing the temperature and the darkening sky, urged Black to leave immediately. Black did so, through the tunnel, but not without one final remark. Pieces of which Voldemort knew because he’d embedded them within the wizard’s mind earlier that day.

“I swear we’ll see each other again, sooner than you might think… and you truly… you truly are your father’s son, Harry.”

Voldemort extracted himself, letting go of the still-sprouting bloom with shaking hands and an aching chest. Thinking of flower symbolism, he couldn’t help but wonder… was it a purple hyacinth because it was a memory of sorrow and regret? Were the other blooms happier?

Shifting into a seated position, hovering above the gorgeous landscape of Harry’s mind, Voldemort noticed large swathes of the field covered in the same violet flowers. He came to a decision. Fate hadn’t left him much choice in this instance, but in the future, he vowed to avoid any plots that might cause Harry to suffer like this again.

He'd thought just having another strategy in the works to relieve Harry’s distress as soon as possible would be fine, but after feeling the boy’s despair, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. No, from now on, Voldemort would do whatever it took to prevent any new purple hyacinths from taking root in Harry’s mind.

Chapter Text

Harry watched as Sirius attempted to drag Buckbeak into the tunnel, only to give up and hop on the hippogriff’s back. Sirius would fly far away to some unknown destination, hide from the Ministry, and leave Harry behind again because of that stupid, stupid rat. He scrubbed his face with his good arm, removing the evidence of his embarrassing tears and stared at the fugitive duo’s retreating backs.

He was… distraught was not the right term, but it was close enough. He’d thought that maybe he’d found a more permanent escape. A legal one, where no one could force him back to the Dursleys, not even Dumbledore, and it would be with someone who lived in the wixen world; however, Harry’s opportunity vanished along with the traitor when Pettigrew escaped.

He really should have known better than to get his hopes up.

Thankfully, Harry hadn’t put all his eggs in one basket, too wary of trusting Sirius completely. He had the usual contingencies – his friends’ places and the Leaky. He didn’t need Sirius to avoid the Dursleys, though he’d likely have to return for the beginning of summer. Harry could handle it though, he’d done so his entire life, and this was no different. Although, considering Marge’s slap was the last thing he remembered from Privet Drive, Harry expected a painful greeting at his return.

Shuddering, he dropped his eyes from the now far-off spec that was the only evidence of Sirius and Buckbeak’s previous presence. He trudged away from the dangerous Whomping Willow, carefully propping one arm against the other and gritting his teeth whenever an awkward step caused the broken appendage to throb. But even the pain wasn’t enough to distract him from his melancholy thoughts

He regretted his newly discovered godfather’s absence for more than the lack of a new, magical guardian and home. Sirius knew his parents, and Harry had so many questions he wanted to ask the man. He’d begun to doubt just how accurate the perfect, heroic reputations were, especially about his father, but they were still his mum and dad. He wanted to know more about them, about who they were as people before the politicians and press had twisted their legacies into golden caricatures for the public to worship.

Lily and James Potter deserved at least that much of his effort. After all, they’d given their lives to save him. They had loved him – desolately, foolishly – enough to standoff against the Dark Lord Voldemort with nothing but empty hands and hopeless appeals.

He hadn’t quite grasped that his parents were killed while protecting him. He knew they were dead, of course. Hagrid had awkwardly recounted the tale of their murder and then, two years ago in front of the Mirror, Voldemort had shared that Harry was the target of the home invasion, not the Potters. But he hadn’t grasped the idea that his parents had a choice… had actively decided to give up everything for him instead of stepping aside… his mum had literally thrown her body in front of him…

Harry hadn’t known he’d remembered that terrible scene, though old nightmares of green light were common when he was younger. However, with his closest connection to his parents flying hundreds of miles away, there wasn’t much he could do about the epiphany; so, Harry tucked away all the thoughts of his mum and dad, all his frustration and confusion, and deliberately ignored the memory as he focused on returning to the castle.

Finally, Harry’s painful trek was nearly complete as he arrived at the main door. He was surprised to see the entrance hall empty. Considering all that had happened here lately, he’d half expected Dumbledore to be waiting for him, demanding another debrief. The idea was irritating. Harry’s regard for Dumbledore had dwindled throughout the years. The more he found out about the man, the dodgier he seemed, but Harry could do little to avoid the end-of-year interviews while attending the wizard’s school.

His arm twinged painfully. He should probably have Madame Pomfrey get him fixed up. He might be able to cast the ferula charm properly and wait until morning, but if not, if the bone was out of place at all, it could start to heal wrong. He might as well go to the hospital wing. He had plenty of time until he needed to be in the Room.

Calmly bracing his forearm against his stomach, Harry climbed up the stairs to the third floor and down the corridor, feeling a sense of déjà vu, but he came here while injured too frequently to narrow down the cause. He hesitated briefly outside the doors when he heard voices raised but entered regardless. 

“Ah and here’s the would-be prankster himself,” Snape sneered as soon as Harry entered. Harry hunched his shoulders but ignored the man and kept moving forward, used to Snape’s nonsensical accusations. “What are you doing here Potter? Came to see the effects of your deleterious actions?”

Fudge and Dumbledore were standing in a small cluster to the side which Snape had likely been a part of before he stepped away to confront Harry. Madame Pomfrey was casting a few diagnostic spells on Hermione who was anxiously sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at an unconscious Ron.

“What’s happened?” Harry asked, vaguely hoping someone besides Snape would answer so he could get a response without the additional insults.

“These are the consequences of the malicious joke you played on your fellow Gryffindors,” Snape replied, in a low voice. “You’ve tricked them into thinking they saw Pettigrew and Black. Then the dementors were called when the Minister, myself, and Lupin became unintentional witnesses to the event due to another’s interference. Both Mr Weasley and Miss Granger suffer the effects of exposure to the dementors’ auras.”

Ah, so that was the story Snape had concocted. Well, it mattered little. Neither he nor the professor had any proof since Pettigrew and Sirius were gone. Avoiding Snape, Harry walked around him towards Ron and Hermione. He was halted by a bruising hand on his shoulder, reminiscent of the day Snape had collected him from Hogsmeade.

Harry stilled instinctively as his arm gave a painful twinge, but then he tilted his face to meet the professor’s glare. He was surprised when Snape jerked his hand away, rapidly paling, but Harry didn’t have the energy to figure out what had caused that. Instead, he remained silent and moved to sit beside Hermione on her hospital bed. He watched as the mediwitch cast a few more spells.

“She’s fine. Miss Granger has had no noticeable mental tampering, just as I found with Mr Weasley. She only needs some chocolate and rest and she’ll be right as rain in the morning,” Madame Pomfrey decreed, sending a stern glare at the potions master who scowled back at her.

“If you’re finished, would you have a look at this next?” Harry asked evenly, holding out the obviously broken arm. It was tilted at the wrong angle and very swollen, but no bone poked out, so it wasn’t that bad. He figured she could fix it up quickly.

“Mr Potter!” she exclaimed. “What happened? How much pain are you in?”

“I encountered the Whomping Willow in a snit,” Harry explained. “The pain is mild… I’ve had worse before playing quidditch.”

“You… you haven’t taken any pain reliever potions, have you?” the mediwitch asked, a strange amount of concern in her voice. “It could interfere with the spells if I don’t know.”

Harry shrugged and shook his head, wincing slightly as the motions jarred his arm. “Nope. Haven’t taken anything – no potions or muggle meds – and no spells either.”

“Right then…” she replied looking doubtful of his honesty. “Let me just… this will hurt. I’m going to snap it back into place and then I’ll heal you. Afterwards, you can have a sleeping draught and stay here overnight.”

She waved her wand and cast brachium derigimus. Everyone heard the loud crack as the forearm bones snapped into place. Harry winced again at the flare of pain and bit his lip, but didn’t cry out this time.

Fudge and Snape were staring at Harry in alarmed confusion, Hermione had gripped his other hand at some point, and Dumbledore only looked sad. Sad and… satisfied in some way? Pomfrey was muttering verses of Latin that Harry couldn’t follow, not well-read on the healing arts, but his forearm was glowing faintly orange. Then the sharp pain fled completely, leaving only a bone-deep ache.

The mediwitch finished her spell and shot off a few diagnostics before proclaiming Harry healed. She left to retrieve a sleeping potion, but Harry knew he wouldn’t take it. He couldn’t risk not being in the Room at the right time. “That’s okay, Madame Pomfrey. I don’t need to stay overnight. As you said, I’m totally healed up. Thanks for the help though.”

“Sir,” Harry said, looking directly at Dumbledore who had remained remarkably quiet in this conversation. “Can anything else wait for morning? I’d really like to just get some sleep.”

“What you told me immediately after the incident will currently suffice, Harry. The morning will be soon enough,” the old wizard said, reverently stroking his beard. They both ignored the Minister and Snape’s almost irate responses – one annoyed at being excluded, the other likely annoyed at Harry.

“Well then, I’m off. I’ll need a good night’s rest before our talk. Thanks again Madame Pomfrey,” Harry amiably said, removing his hand from Hermione’s grip with an easy smile. Hermione looked like she wanted to join his departure but was waylaid by the mediwitch. He avoided his friend’s glistening, pity-filled eyes and strolled out.

As he was shutting the door, he heard Snape say, “Albus, you cannot believe the boy, it was a pernicious prank, not –”

It was good to know Snape would never change. The man hated Sirius, perhaps rightfully so, but his treatment of Harry… well, he couldn’t personally understand the man’s justification. Yet, it was almost nice to have another universal fact to bank on, like how the Dursleys hated magic and the Weasleys hated parseltongue. Snape hated Potters. Always had, always would. Nothing he did would change that, so there was no use trying.

Harry felt lighter as if a burden had been taken off him. He hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted Snape to… well. It was a relief to let that go.

He checked the time. That had taken longer than he’d anticipated. It was almost midnight. Instead of heading to his dorm, he climbed four floors up and impatiently waited by the tapestry of trolls as the clock gradually ticked over to midnight. Then he entered the Room.

Ginny was waiting inside in a cosy version that Harry had never seen before. Soft, dove-grey walls were covered with bookcases. A beautiful brick fireplace had a single large leather chair nestled in front, which Ginny sat on. She stood up at Harry’s entrance, reverently holding his invisibility cloak in her hands.

“Harry! Good job, you’re right on time. Here’s your cloak and map back,” she said with a smile that faltered when she saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I lost Pettigrew,” Harry mumbled, as the anguish he’d tucked away roared back again, joining with the shame he felt for not accomplishing his angel’s plan.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry,” Ginny consoled, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and making Harry shudder at the flare of warmth. “Don’t worry… he’ll turn up eventually. We’ll clear Black’s name at some point. Pettigrew can’t hide forever now that we know his secret.”

“Thanks, Gin,” Harry whispered, feeling a small uptick in his spirits. She was right. Even if it hadn’t worked out for this summer, there were additional steps he could take in the future. He shouldn’t give up yet. Harry cleared his throat and quickly hurried to change the subject.

“So… anything else on our schedule? Or can we finally go to bed? Today feels like the longest day ever,” he joked, smiling when Ginny giggled at the lame pun.

“No, we’re good. Now that you’ve arrived at the location you disappeared, we’ve avoided any possible paradoxes. The only thing is… Harry, we can’t tell anyone about this,” Ginny stressed while Harry enthusiastically nodded in agreement. He didn’t want her to tell anyone else about his angel either. “We shouldn’t even talk about it with each other in case someone overhears, okay? This has to be our little secret.”

Harry woke up early the next morning feeling well-rested and yet perturbed. He could only vaguely recall his dream, but had Dumbledore lit his wardrobe on fire? So strange. Maybe he was more worried about this morning’s meeting than he thought.

Quietly getting out of bed without waking the others, Harry showered and dressed for the day. He wanted to start packing but was worried it would be too loud. It could wait until later in the morning, though he didn’t want to rush and forget things. He’d meet Dumbledore first and get that out of the way, everything else could follow.

Making his way out of the Tower, he walked towards the entrance where the gargoyles safeguarded the headmaster’s office. Harry waited there, uncertain of how to get in without a password.

“Hello,” he greeted the gargoyle, trying not to feel silly. Books could be pets, paintings could be gates, ghosts could be teachers, so talking statues wouldn’t be that strange. “Could you let the headmaster know I’m here to see him? He asked me to come by.”

The gargoyle didn’t speak but nodded its head with a crackle of stone grating on stone which made the hair on Harry’s neck stand on end. Harry waited for a few minutes, getting more and more impatient until abruptly the gargoyle leapt aside, and the staircase started moving. Harry resisted the urge to shout thank you at it, as he stepped onto the magic escalator.

He knocked on Dumbledore’s office door. When he was granted entrance, he saw Snape and Lupin were both present though neither appeared happy about it. They were opposing forces, glaring at one another from their claimed spot in the office. Lupin had collapsed on a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk, exhaustion evident and yet a hopeful look in his eyes that Harry hadn’t seen before. Snape stood stiffly by the bookcase with rigid posture and a bitter scowl marring his face.

Since Lupin and Dumbledore were in the only chairs, Harry wasn’t sure where to go. He didn’t want to be within arm’s reach of any of the people in this room. He heard a loud trill and glanced at Fawkes flaring to life on his perch. Smiling in relief, Harry walked over to pet the bird while he waited for Dumbledore to begin the questioning. It didn’t take long.

“So, my boy, you’ve had quite the series of trials. Why don’t you explain? Start from when you had your practical divination test.”

Harry was confused until he remembered the weird show Trelawney had put on during his divination exam. “Headmaster, you can’t seriously think that was a real prediction? Trelawney is just –”

“Harry,” Dumbledore barked, his voice hard enough that Harry flinched. “Divination is a vital branch of magic. Now I’m sure we’re all aware of your skepticism by this point. Just tell me the prophecy.”

Harry didn’t cower back after that first flinch, but he could feel his face shut down and a sickly, acidic taste crept up his throat like bile. A torrent of irritation flooded him, overwhelming his fear as Harry gratefully made it his own, feeling himself becoming more and more annoyed the longer Dumbledore stared at him in expectation.

“I don’t remember it, sir,” Harry claimed in a clipped tone.

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes darkened, a thunderous expression on his face that was only derailed by Snape clearing his throat. “You know that a prophecy can only be recalled by those destined to hear it, Albus. Obviously, Potter here is not special enough to remember the one he received.”

Lupin growled lightly, but Snape held his ground, and Dumbledore seemed to calm slightly at the exchange. It was tempting to shoot Snape a grateful smile, but he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated and would doubtless only sic Dumbledore on him again.

“Please, Harry,” Lupin pleaded. “Just explain what happened yesterday. Is Sirius really...?”

Harry sighed, feeling a small twinge of sympathy for the professor despite their recent troubles. He began to explain what’d happened, though leaving out all mention of time travel, his angel, and Ginny’s participation made that difficult. He calmly informed them of Sirius’s innocence, Pettigrew’s deception as Scabbers, and the Minister’s incompetence. He fudged on the timeline claiming to have followed (more like led) Sirius and Pettigrew onto the grounds, finding (more like collecting) a loose Buckbeak while there, planning to turn Pettigrew into the aurors and get Sirius a trial, and everyone ‘escaping’ after the Whomping Willow attacked them.

Dumbledore immediately started prying. Harry answered the first several inquiries but eventually became fed up with the intrusive nature and began responding to everything with a monotonous “I don’t know”.

“Where is Sirius now?” – “I don’t know.”

“How did he escape Azkaban?” – “I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you take your friends with you?” – “I don’t know.”

“What will Sirius do now?” – “I don’t know.”

By the last one, Dumbledore was seething, Harry’s head ached, and Lupin and Snape seemed worried. Then, suddenly, the headmaster’s expression shifted from its prior aggravation into a smug countenance. “Ah, well, my boy, it’s unsurprising you don’t know Sirius’s plans. It is unlikely he’d tell you, a child, anything of importance. Unfortunately, Pettigrew escaped so we have no way to clear Sirus’s name now and the Ministry still has the kiss-on-sight order.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry agreed hesitantly, uncertain where Dumbledore was taking the conversation and vaguely fearful of the near-manic sheen in the man’s eyes.

“Which, of course, means that the Ministry still believes Sirius is a threat to you. And since Pettigrew is a threat to you, though we don’t know the prophecy, so how much I cannot say...” Here, Dumbledore paused, as if to grant Harry the opportunity to recant his prior lie and blurt out the prophecy in repentance. But Harry kept silent, staring at Dumbledore in dread as he realised the wizard’s intentions. “I’ve spoken with the minister, and we’ve agreed. The safest place for you is outside the magical world since the dementors and aurors weren’t helpful deterrents…

“It’s a good thing you’ll be returning home today! You’ll need to remain there for the entirety of the summer, no staying at the Leaky or the Weasleys this summer – you understand, my boy – your safety comes first.” Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes and satisfied smile made Harry sick. This was punishment. Dumbledore knew. He was – he was –

“Of course, I’ve told the minister we’ll upgrade the wards this summer. You will return to Hogwarts next year. Can’t have the boy-who-lived permanently exiled,” decreed Dumbledore cheerfully. Snape sneered seemingly automatically, but Lupin appeared baffled. The wolf apparently noticed that Harry went pale at the innocuous plan to banish him to the muggle world.

Harry could feel himself shutting down, his breathing speeding up, but he shouldn’t – he couldn’t – do that right now, and he clawed at his mind to hold himself in the present. He’d promised his angel he’d get stronger and save him. How could he do that if he was always hiding away? He slipped into a brief meditation exercise to calm himself but jerked out before he could fly too deep.

“Right,” he said slowly, painfully, as he repeated Dumbledore’s words and found a loophole. “I have to return to the Dursleys. And I can’t go to the Leaky or the Weasleys. I understand, Headmaster.”

With jerky steps, Harry retreated, ignoring Fawkes’s plaintive caw, desperate to leave the office. “Is that all, sir?” he asked, as he inched away, careful to never turn his back on any of these predators.

“Not quite, my boy,” Dumbledore negated, folding his hands on his desk. “Now that Professor Lupin has revealed himself as a werewolf, he’s decided against teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts next year. But, you see, Remus here was a good friend of Sirius’s, so he volunteered to look for the struggling wizard and bring him back into the fold. We can protect him once he comes to us, properly. However, this means you won’t see the professor for some time, I thought you’d like to say goodbye.”

Ah. So Dumbledore intended to sever Harry’s connection with Sirius or twist it into a form under his control. And it must have been part of his plans for Lupin to mentor Harry, which explained the headmaster’s attempt to mend that relationship before the professor left. He wanted to grant Harry another confidant who ultimately answered directly to him.

Hanging the impending summer at the Dursleys over Harry’s head like a sword of Damocles, Dumbledore was cruelly limiting his options to complete isolation or dependence on him through his tame werewolf. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to allow the cruel headmaster to think his plan had succeeded. So long as Harry was careful, he might be able to pluck answers from the man without Dumbledore gaining any additional leverage over him.  

Slowly stepping back towards the seated wizard, Harry held out his hand. Lupin, moving just as slowly, grasped it but seemed unsure what to say.

“Thank you for all your help this year, professor,” Harry offered. “If you have more questions or want to write, send me an owl. Well, at least while I’m at Hogwarts. They won’t reach me at my residence for some reason.”

Harry side-eyed Dumbledore as he made that remark, but the man showed no indication he knew what Harry was talking about. As he returned his gaze to Lupin, Harry caught a strange expression on Snape’s face but decided to ignore it. Snape’s thoughts didn’t matter anymore, he already knew the man’s opinion of him was set in stone.

“It was – it was good to meet you. You’re a wonderful teacher,” Harry finished, numbly watching as Lupin’s eyes glistened with tears. “I hope we can stay in touch.”

Lupin nodded, crying silently. Harry let go of his hand and backed away. Lupin let him.

He moved towards the door and this time no one stopped him. Letting himself out, he ran down the stairs and to Gryffindor Tower without pause, breath coming out in shaky, wheezing stutters as his heart jackhammered against his chest. His mind kept shying away from the fact that Dumbledore knew and was sending him back as punishment for not telling him about the prophecy.

Harry trembled with a nauseating mixture of fury and fear but couldn’t let the other students know. He needed to hold it together. Rushing into his dorm, he leapt onto his bed, closed the curtains, and cast a strong silencing charm. Alone except for his angel’s wrathful presence, Harry let himself fall to pieces.

Voldemort knew Dumbledore was a ruthless bastard, a general who would do anything to maintain control of his chess pieces. How the old goat treated Harry was honestly par for the course, but it was still galling. Voldemort had just decided to make sure Harry’s life was happier and Dumbledore was already fucking it up. The boy was barely clinging to his composure with the edge of his fingertips as he packed for the summer and headed down to the train with his fellow Gryffindors.

Despite spending so much of yesterday intertwined with Harry’s mind and regardless of his worry about their blurring souls, Voldemort couldn’t bring himself to go fully behind his occlumency barriers for the day. He would have to be present to know when exactly to take over so Harry could avoid the Dursleys, and really, what was one more day? Especially when Harry needed him.

Granger and Ronald were also worried about Harry, but their concerns came as questions that Harry wasn’t keen to answer. They wanted to hear more about what had happened last night, why he was so upset today, and if his mood had anything to do with returning home for the summer. The two tried to pry Harry’s secrets from him with incessant nagging, particularly the relentless mudblood, but got brushed off. Harry didn’t want to talk about Black or Pettigrew or Summer. The boy didn’t want to think about anything that would lead back to the conversation with Dumbledore from the morning.

An hour into the train ride, Harry stood abruptly after Granger asked another version of the what-happened-with-Black question. He left the compartment as an easy, white lie about requiring the loo seamlessly fell from his lips.

Harry was aimlessly walking down the centre corridor of the train, trailing his fingers along the railing when a compartment door just ahead slammed open and Malfoy walked out. Voldemort felt Harry hesitate before squaring his shoulders in resignation as the Malfoy boy turned and spotted him.

“Potter!” he shouted, stomping forward a few steps. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you see Malfoy. At the start of the summer, all the students at Hogwarts ride the train to King’s Cross station to return… home. It’s a yearly thing, little frog, so I’m sure you’ll catch on by the time you graduate,” Harry goaded, voice bored and derisive, though he stumbled slightly when referring to the supposed destination of the trip.

Malfoy flushed red and opened his mouth, likely to shoot back an insult when a voice from the nearby cabin interrupted him.

“Harry? Is that you?” called the Nott boy as he came to stand in the doorway.

“Hey Theo. How’s it goin’?”

“Not terribly. Why don’t you join us for a minute? Draco was just leaving,” claimed Nott fiercely as his eyes cut over to the Malfoy Heir who paled dramatically and scrambled away.

Bemused at the response, but not curious enough to ask, Harry joined what turned out to be Nott, the Zabini Heir, and the Greengrass Heir.

“Hello, Harry,” Zabini casually greeted with a grin. “Making trouble still? Heard you had another fun end-of-the-year adventure.”

Harry laughed ruefully, though the hollow ring to it was obvious to Voldemort. “I guess you could say that,” he replied as he sat, tensing in anticipation of another round of inquisition.

The Zabini boy hummed, a complicated expression on his face which settled into something resolute. “Well, you’ll have to tell us about it sometime, but for now we have more important things to discuss.”

Surprised, Voldemort watched with Harry as Zabini delicately lifted his wand and cast a series of complex anti-eavesdropping charms that should have been well beyond his level of expertise. He was pleased that Harry recognised most of them on sight, enough to understand what Zabini was attempting and focus more fully on what was sure to be a serious discussion.

Nott and the Greengrass Heiress looked confused, so apparently this wasn’t a planned attack by the three, but something only Zabini had intended. However, it was telling how comfortable they were with Zabini’s abilities and that the young heir allowed them to sit in on his discussion with Harry. They must all be close allies.

“Okay, now that no one can overhear…” Zabini said, pausing dramatically and leaning towards Harry who somberly mirrored the action.

“Are you still interested in visiting this summer?” the young heir asked, an amused gleam shooting into his eyes at Harry’s flabbergasted gaping. Harry quickly recognised his lack of composure, and his mouth snapped shut as he nodded in the affirmative.

“Then, you wanted a way to travel, correct? And you said you have an owl ward on your residence, so we won’t be able to communicate after today?”

Again, Harry nodded, this time slowly. The boy was uncertain why Zabini was bringing up the topic, but Voldemort was pleased, knowing the other had likely procured the means for Harry to visit. He would have to think of a suitable reward for the clever pureblood. This was surely worth a boon.

Zabini reached into his pocket, lifting a slim golden chain with a pendant shaped like Italy. “This is an international portkey. They’re usually highly regulated, but my family acquired a spare one where the destination is our courtyard. It’s set to leave at noon two weeks from today. So, be sure to be holding everything you want to bring and the pendant at that time, okay?”

Voldemort felt Harry’s mind stall as he realised what was being offered to him. An escape, if only temporary, from Dumbledore’s intended punishment after only two weeks of the three-month summer.

“You – this is – I can come stay?” Harry whispered uncertainly.

The two boys had been ignoring the other occupants until this point, but at Harry’s almost fearful reaction, the Nott boy grasped one of Harry’s hands from where it’d been clamped tight on his knees.

“We may not know why, but simply the fact you don’t want to go home is enough,” Nott softly assured, though his eyes were filled with terrible understanding. For the first time, Voldemort wondered about the other boy’s home life, wondered if he was the same as him and Harry. “If I had somewhere safe for you, I’d have offered as well.”

Harry blinked rapidly, trying to avoid letting any tears fall as, in a move quite unusual for him, he tugged Nott closer and reached out to hug him and Zabini.

“Thank you,” breathed Harry, barely audible, gratitude swirling inside him like the onset of a tornado, and Voldemort was startled to see the boy’s magic almost reacting. He’d need to talk to Harry about debts soon, and pureblood culture, if he was going to keep using those words.

When the three pulled back, Harry noticed the Greengrass girl awkwardly looking away as she sat in the corner.

“Sorry about that,” he said, an embarrassed flush burning his face despite Voldemort pushing assurance through the horcrux bond. (Harry was more demonstrative than he was, but that wasn’t a negative attribute – especially when it led to the others easily acceding to Harry’s wishes.) “I’m not normally so… anyways, you’re Daphne Greengrass, right? We don’t have any electives together, which ones did you decide to take?”

After that, the Slytherins and Harry’s interactions mainly consisted of small talk, though Harry unconsciously fiddled with the jewellery around his neck throughout the conversation. Soon though, Harry, having calmed substantially, decided to return to his original cabin. He knew Granger and Ronald would be worried, possibly even searching for him, and didn’t want to cause too much of a scene. The boy was too accommodating of his Gryffindor friends, but at least he was expanding his social circles, even if it was slower than Voldemort would prefer.

As Harry strolled back to the front of the train, a hand grabbed his wrist pulling him from the aisle into a half-full compartment. Harry stumbled over the lip at the entrance and tumbled into one of the occupants’ laps.

“Well, hello there, Harry. Fancy you droppin’ in like this,” teased George as he helped Harry, who was as red as the Weasley’s hair, get up and into his own seat. Fred and Ginevra laughed heartily at the joke and even Voldemort felt amused. Of course Harry would fall into the lap of his would-be kidnappers, being the clumsy boy he was despite his hair-trigger reactions.

“That was entirely your fault!” Harry grumbled good-naturedly as he straightened his robes and pretended to brush dust off his shoulders. “Did you need something? I was just on my way back to Ron and Hermione. Told them I was off to the loo and then hung out with Blaise and Theo for a while, so they’re probably frantic.”

“Well, wouldn’t want poor ickle Ronnikens to be frantic,” snickered the two twins, while Ginevra grinned meanly. But the smirks fell off each of their faces when they steered the conversation into more serious territory, though they still used the confounding speech where they finished one another’s sentences.

“We just wanted to check on you –”

“– before you get locked in your tower!”

“Ron told us a bit about the thing with –”

“– Black and Scabbers –”

“– well, Pettigrew, really –”

“– and we know you don’t get mail when at your –”

“– obnoxious, muggle residence so we decided to –”

“– snag you beforehand and see if you needed –”

“– anything at all!”

George struck a dramatic pose and Harry chuckled before thanking them, using the words casually this time as the boy rolled his eyes at the implication he was some sort of fairytale princess.

Voldemort noticed a twist in Ginevra’s magic and an ugly look flashed across her face before she managed to curtail the obvious jealousy. The twins saw it too, because they got little smirks on their faces before starting to fawn over Harry in an even more over-the-top fashion. Voldemort was torn between amusement and irritation at the display but eventually, Harry’s fluster had the irritation winning out.

Pushing his annoyance through the horcrux bond, Voldemort watched as Harry disentangled himself from the twins’ arms and made his goodbyes to the three Weasleys, ignoring their questions about when the boy might be allowed to visit. He debated taking over briefly to steal Ginevra’s magic and release his horcrux for the beginning of the summer, but in the end, decided it wasn’t worth it.

What would his diary even do? Trapped in that hovel for a few days – without a proper library – it would no doubt get into trouble. It was better to leave it submerged beneath Ginevra’s consciousness until next year… the beginnings of recompense for its recent actions towards his host.

As Harry stepped into the train’s hallway, someone again grabbed his wrist, though this time he managed to keep his feet. Granger held him, concern evident, but Harry only grinned and blamed the Weasley twins for his delay. This calmed her and Ronald, who had just begun searching for Harry.

The three Gryffindors returned to their compartment and spent the rest of the train ride in a somewhat comfortable quiet after Harry threatened to jump out the window if either tried to discuss the Black and Pettigrew incident again.

Upon arriving at King’s Cross, Voldemort felt Harry’s mood drop, though thankfully not to the level of misery he’d felt before Zabini gave him the portkey. Harry painstakingly slowly collected his trunk and owl cage before disembarking the train amongst the throng of students. Calling out his goodbyes to Ronald and Granger, he exited to the muggle platform.

Likely remembering how his uncle hadn’t left his car last year, Harry began walking towards the parking lot but stopped when he heard a loud bark and saw Black’s animagus form bound up to him. The surrounding muggles shot alarmed or disdainful looks at the giant Grim but did nothing else as Black plopped himself down at Harry’s feet, tongue lolling out as if he were actually an animal. As commanded, he wore a magical leash and collar with very faint notice-me-not charms woven into them to prevent the mutt from drawing too much attention.

Black nudged Harry’s hand with his head until the boy began to pet him. Then, picking up the end of the leash in his mouth, he held it out to Harry as he wagged his tail. Happiness and relief bubbled up inside his soul-bearer, flooding through the horcrux bond, and shining into Voldemort’s soul like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day.

<< Did you do this? >>

Voldemort pushed some of his pride and satisfaction through the bond and listened to the joyful laughter it inspired. Harry grabbed the leash and Black trotted along with him as they departed the train station and searched for his muggle guardian together.

They found the fat man leaning against his car, smoking a large cigar while waiting for Harry to arrive. The walrus glowered over his ridiculous moustache, opening his mouth to no doubt berate Harry, before he suddenly paled, a frightened expression sliding across his face as the muggle stared at Black.

Delight cascaded through him as Voldemort realised that his actions last summer must have left more of an impression than he thought. The muggle was no doubt terrified of dogs considering what had happened to his poor, dear, late sister.

“Wh – wh – what is that?” questioned the walrus in a rough whisper, stuttering as he forced the words out as his ridiculous moustache wobbled.

“It’s my… dog,” Harry answered, confused about the odd reaction. Oh. That’s right, Harry was still unaware of exactly how he’d gotten them away from the muggle residence last summer. Well, so long as the muggle kept his fat mouth shut –

“You… you’d bring a dog back to our house! After what happened to Marge?! I’ll not have it!” yelled the coward as he shrank behind the car, instantly ruining Voldemort’s plans.

“What do you mean, what happened to Marge?” Harry asked innocently, and Voldemort prepared to weather the boy’s distrust and disgust at what he’d done. It’d only be temporary, just until he could talk to Harry directly and explain, but it was still aggravating. He couldn’t wait to have this muggle convulsing on the ground, screaming.

“What do I… you idiot boy, don’t you remember?! Marge’s little demon dog killed her! Ripped out her throat after that disaster of dinner last year. Ripper just went crazy when… well, it was probably your freakishness that caused it! I’ll not have another dog in my house!”

Harry’s confusion morphed into a whirlwind of guilt, pleasure, concern, appreciation, and distress as he reacted contrary to Voldemort’s expectations again.

<< You killed her to protect me, didn’t you? I’m sorry you had to do that but thank you. >>

Shocked, he didn’t react fast enough, and his confusion and slight apprehension trickled into Harry who shoved piles of gratitude back at him.

<< Don’t worry, I understand. I killed Quirrell to protect myself and the Philosopher’s Stone. And the thing with Ginny and the diary… well, neither was… pleasant, but I know sometimes we do what we have to, to survive. And you did this to help me, right? >>

Harry always, always discovered new ways to amaze him. Voldemort honestly hadn’t given another thought to Quirrell’s death, and he certainly didn’t put any of the responsibility on Harry. But it was heartening that the boy remembered and had taken such a mature lesson from the encounters. He felt mildly guilty that Harry still thought the diary had been destroyed, but mostly he was relieved that his host wasn’t angry or afraid.

The boy simply nodded to himself before continuing the conversation with his ugly muggle guardian who was shouting about the dog.

“I reckon you don’t have much of a choice in the matter, Uncle,” Harry interjected calmly, interrupting the other’s rant. Veins pulsed in the muggle’s head as he quickly cycled from pale to red to purple in his wrath. Harry’s hands clenched on the leash, and he was trembling, afraid, but he held firm in his resolve.

“You little FREAK! As if I’d –”

“What I mean is,” Harry cut in, before glancing at Black, “this dog is coming home with me and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Hey Sirius, you’ll protect me, right?” Black gave a sharp bark before he moved to stand in front of Harry, raising his hackles and growling at the muggle who looked ready to faint at the sight of the Grim’s large teeth.

“Now that that’s settled. Let me pop this in and we can head back, yeah?” Harry quipped, carefully leveraging his trunk into the back of the car with shaking hands. He then opened the back door and gestured for Black to leap in. Settling in, Harry projected another thought towards his angel.

<< No matter what you do, I won’t judge or betray you. I want to help you and be there for you. Like you are for me. >>

Voldemort couldn’t believe it, despite the initial rush of joy that Harry’s thought provoked. Harry trusted his angel, not Lord Voldemort. Harry would need to overcome too much history, too much fear and dread and hate for that loyalty to continue after such a discovery. But if he continued to foster this attachment and prevented Harry from figuring out who exactly he was, he could transfer the boy’s regard to a new identity.

Well, only Seers knew what the future held, but he was sure he’d be keeping the boy in one way or another.

Regardless of Harry’s feelings, Voldemort would absolutely be keeping him. The boy was his horcrux and his host. Every part of them intertwined – mind, magic, soul – there’d be no escape, no distance for either of them, at least until he was in his own body. But he definitely preferred having Harry like this, trusting and devoted instead of resentful and afraid. And now that he knew the boy hadn’t baulked at the murder of one relative…

When the car pulled up to the muggle residence, Voldemort prepared to act. He had promised himself and Harry, that the boy would not be stepping a single foot inside this house while his uncle lived there, and he was not inclined to break that promise. So, the second they crossed the threshold, Voldemort took control, easily lulling Harry to sleep.

Shutting the door behind him, and locking it with a quiet click, Voldemort turned and gave Harry’s relatives a wide, serrated smile.

“Now then, did you miss me?”

Chapter Text

“Severus, my boy, I have a small request.”

He didn’t startle at the voice, well used to Dumbledore’s puerile epithet and tendency to let himself into Severus’s personal labs whenever the old man wanted access. Nor did he respond to Dumbledore’s statement, knowing he would eventually hear what the wizard wanted of him. Severus continued stirring, silently counting each rotation.

“It seems our young Mr Potter has… absconded to Hogsmeade for the day,” Dumbledore ruefully continued.

“The insolent twit snuck out, you mean,” Severus corrected. Dumbledore gave Potter too much leeway, as he always had.

“Now, now, Severus, you know –”

“Look he’s your precious golden Gryffindor goose, why don’t you go and retrieve him yourself,” Severus snapped, interrupting the elderly wizard. If the boy wanted to flaunt himself before Black, maybe they should let him. Severus wasn’t convinced the criminal would attack Potter’s spawn anyway – at least, not once Black had seen how similar the son’s appearance was to the father’s. The man would be more likely to roll over and beg for a quick shag after seeing Potter’s face.

“You know I can’t show such favouritism at Hogwarts, my boy,” Dumbledore said, disapproval radiating from him. “Harry’s safety is vital for our world, and you swore a vow. You must protect him.”

Severus felt the vow’s connection to his magic twinge. It was a noose around his neck, a hook embedded in his very soul. With his leash held tightly in the other’s hands, he had no choice but to comply with Dumbledore’s wishes.

But he didn’t have to do so graciously.

Severus quickly strode down the path to Hogsmeade, grumbling to himself and checking for the demon’s messy hair. The tangled rats’ nest was the easiest way to identify the idiot in the swarm of students who were almost all bigger than him. Severus had barely arrived at the town’s outskirts when he saw Lucius’s child walking dramatically across the street, his two thugs following behind. Draco never passed up an opportunity to peacock around Potter so…

“What, exactly, is going on here?” Severus asked as he walked up to a clutch of snakelets. He scanned the faces and was unsurprised to find his quarry smack dab in the middle of the gathering.

“Potter. Of course, I’d find you at the centre of this spectacle. Antagonising the other House members... such… Gryffindor behaviour, just like your father,” he accused. The lone lion jutted his lip out, stubbornly, but made no response now that he’d been caught. Well, lucky Severus had been here to interrupt whatever trap Potter was luring the other students into.

“With me, Potter. You don’t have permission to be here,” Severus said, stating the obvious; however, he was moderately surprised by the reaction. Potter didn’t guiltily look away or stare defiantly back at him. Instead, he feigned confusion, furrowing his brow. Still, the idiotic dunderhead had to know he wasn’t allowed in Hogsmeade. Severus was smugly anticipating assigning a proper punishment to the disobedient Gryffindor. “You’ve earned yourself a month’s worth of detention for this stunt, at least.”

“Stunt, sir? I have my permission –” Potter lied, digging himself deeper into Severus’s black books. He readjusted his grip on the little delinquent’s robes, pulling him back to the safety of the castle. Severus wouldn’t listen to any preemptive attempts to get out of trouble.

“So. Everyone from the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black,” he bit, a sneer growing on his face. It was too true. The wixen world bent to the golden boy’s whims. Well, not him, not today. “But famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.”

Yes, today was finally the day Potter would get his comeuppance. He would have the brat in detention until the end of the year, scrubbing out cauldrons and prepping any and all disgusting ingredients for his classes. Potter wouldn’t see the light of day until the summer holidays. Maybe Severus could even get him kicked off the quidditch team. It was nauseating that they had an instructor attending all the Gryffindor practises just so the celebrity could play. It was safer and fairer to keep Potter busy in detention.

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He too was exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the quidditch field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us too. Strutting about the place with his friends and admirers… The resemblance between you is uncanny.”

Severus could picture James Potter as he’d been in school with that stupid, stupid snitch floating around and the sycophantic posse trailing after. They were always roaring in laughter or aggravation like the lions they proclaimed to be, and Potter was there, right there at the centre with his cruel quips and obnoxious smirk.

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either. Rules were for lesser mortals, not Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen –”

Potter exploded, shouting at him to shut up. Severus was momentarily shocked. He’d never seen such a strong reaction from the brat. Indignation and irritation, yes, resignation and disdain, of course, but never this geyser of uncontrollable rage. The lion was bristling, visibly seething as Severus responded.

“What did you say to me, Potter?”

“I told you to shut up about my dad! I know the truth, all right? He saved your life! Dumbledore told me! You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my dad!”

Naturally, Dumbledore had disregarded his privacy in such a matter, unsurprising that the wizard would share carefully curated details with his bully’s son. Though, only ones that would reinforce the vision of his perfect, heroic father. Well, it was time for a wake-up call.  

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances in which your father saved my life? Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for precious Potter’s delicate ears? I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter. Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism?” He didn’t wait for a response to his rhetorical questions, hurrying to explain, to grind the defiance in that snarling face into dust.

“Then let me correct you – your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment. There was nothing brave about what he did. He was saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts.

“You think I’m lying?” he asked, smirking when he saw an involuntary twitch. He didn’t need to read Potter’s mind to know what he was thinking. It was written all over the demon spawn’s face. “Well, it’s unsurprising. You Gryffindors prefer to keep your head buried in the sand. You’re more like ostriches than lions. Still, if you require testimony from one of your own kind, you can always ask Lupin. He’ll be able to confirm.”

Intent on doing just that, Severus towed Potter up to the castle, gripping him harder when his feet started to drag. He glanced at the brat’s furrowed brows, this time with apparently genuine confusion. So, Potter hadn’t known about Lupin; that was unusual. He’d thought the werewolf’s ‘tutoring’ was focused on telling the boy about the so-called marauders.  

Or maybe the boy was faking it again. That expression duplicated the one he’d given Severus while lying about his permission form. There was an easy way to find out – push Potter further.

“Oh! Is this something the famous Harry Potter doesn’t know about his newest mentor? I assumed it must have come up in your many one-on-one lessons with him.” The confusion never wavered. He only stared heatedly at Severus, face fixed in a scowl.

“Lupin was part of your father’s little gang. He, your illustrious father, and Black were three beans in a puffapod. He used his prefect status to get them out of trouble and prevent the victims of their pranks from informing a professor. Not as active as the others, but still just as terrible in my opinion,” Severus informed Potter. He was happy to divulge the so-called marauder’s personal information even if he couldn’t out him as a werewolf.

“Potter and Black, however, were vicious, brutal monsters. I wasn’t shocked when Black finally snapped. He was already capable of murder at sixteen. Though I admit to being surprised at his targets. He’d have done anything for James Potter… perhaps that’s why he informed the Dark Lord of their home’s location.” Severus theorised, stating some of the disordered thoughts he’d had for twelve years out loud for the first time.

Black was obsessed with Potter. He’d seen the longing stares from across classrooms. Seen how Black would stand just a little too close at times, a too-friendly arm constantly slung over the other’s shoulders. Watched the man blatantly check out Potter’s ass before awkwardly glancing away.

“An exchange – the father for the son – though of course, the Dark Lord wouldn’t keep to such a bargain. Black probably went berserk upon hearing of Potter’s death, knowing he caused it.”

Severus hummed thoughtfully; the idea made sense when flushed out like this. Black would have had little regard for Lily’s child, not when it had dominated Potter’s time and attention. When he’d heard about the prophecy and been asked to be the secret keeper… well, Black couldn’t have engineered an easier means to collect Potter all for himself… it wasn’t implausible. After all, Severus had attempted something similar to save Lily.

The key difference being that he knew better than to trust the insane Dark Lord to keep his word. Though he had thought Dumbledore would be more successful than he was.

Severus glanced down at the oddly silent, little Gryffindor and was surprised to see a completely blank mask. Potter was barely picking up his feet, letting Severus drag him forward with a tight grip on his shoulder. He couldn’t help sneering at the little monster. Now he wanted to pretend to be complacent? After shouting at him on the trail up here?

Well, nothing the brat did would fool him. It was good that he was doing this now. If Potter was rolling over after just a little rough handling, he needed toughening up else he’d never survive when he fought the Dark Lord as the Seer had foretold. Severus quickly banished that thought as he felt a spike of pain.

They approached the castle doors, and he let go to push them open. Potter didn’t move back or forward. He stood where Severus left him, blank and silent. Severus grabbed him again and Potter shuddered, closing his eyes before holding very, very still. That was… odd. He’d expected more of the anger he’d seen before. Shouting and denial at the least, not this…

“Come along, Potter. You can start serving your first detention now,” he snapped at the expressionless lion.

There was no response. The boy didn’t open his eyes and even his breathing was quiet. Uncomfortable now, Severus began directing him down to the dungeons with a much lighter grip on his robes than on the path up here, noting the lack of help or hindrance from Potter. The silence began to grate on his nerves.

“What’s wrong now, you little fool? Did I finally scare you into obedience,” he snapped guiltily. It was much easier to loathe the boy when he wasn’t acting so pathetic. “Look whatever Black did it was in the past, but you’re safer here anyway. It was foolish to go out and practically gift wrap yourself for the madman.”

Still nothing.

They reached Severus’s office – he’d planned to take the boy straight to the classroom to start scrubbing, but this unnatural stillness was setting off some alarms in his head. It might be better to test him for curses. Or give the brat a calming draught. He let go of Potter to open the door.

“Well, get inside,” he said sharply. The boy immediately obeyed. Walking into the office without hesitation and turning to look back at Severus. His eyes almost seemed a different colour now – dark and empty. No confusion, no anger, no denial. No spark.  Nothing at all.

He waved his hand to gesture the boy into the chair and saw the same shudder from earlier flicker through him, but fear was absent on his face. Potter was just blank. A silent statue. A broken doll.

Severus was starting to think he’d triggered some… some kind of traumatic response. Which was crazy. Potter wasn’t traumatised, he was a spoiled brat.

There was nothing in the cossetted boy’s life that could warrant… well, he had, of course, endured having an avada kedavra curse flung at him as a baby. But he surely couldn’t remember that far back, could he? The pampered boy also ended up in the hospital wing quite frequently, but Severus knew that was a direct consequence of his arrogant and attention-seeking behaviour. Whatever had happened with the stone and the mirror… the chamber and the basilisk… the convict and the dementors… well.

If he was honest with himself, Severus knew there had been a few… incidents… that could potentially be harrowing for a child, though he’d never seen any indication of it affecting the boy before now. And why hearing Severus’s thoughts about Black had triggered anything… in retrospect, he was discussing the murder of Potter’s parents.

That might have been going a little far.

Damnit now he’d have to deal with this. Why was Dumbledore so insistent that he stayed at Hogwarts to teach? He was not adept with people, let alone tiny, undeveloped, traumatised ones. With a wary glance, he left Potter and went across the hall to his personal stores.

Summoning some carefully treated essential oil and peppermint-infused aloe vera gel from the shelves, he heated the aloe and poured some of the oil into an ice-cold jar. Then he carefully dripped the warm aloe into oil allowing the sphereification reaction to produce his experimental fast-acting variation of a calming draught. Once he had several dozen, he fished out the tiny spheres and dumped them into a secondary container.

Reluctantly trudging back across the hall – he was not the right person to deal with this when he was the one who’d triggered the boy in the first place – he discovered the boy was exactly where he’d left him.

Dark, dull eyes, a face carved from stone, and silently docile.

This was fine. Everything was fine. He might even prefer the boy this way, quiet and obedient. (He didn’t. He couldn’t. Why did Potter’s spawn have to have Lily’s eyes?)

Lifting the jar beneath the boy’s nose, he unscrewed the lid and waited for the fumes to rouse the child. It shouldn’t take long, not with these fresh ingredients and the near-solid state of the hastily made potion.

Green eyes slowly brightened until they were painfully staring into Severus’s soul.

“Mr Potter, are you back with us now?” he asked, barely able to prevent his voice from shaking, unable to inject the usual amount of venom.

Still silent, the boy nodded but dropped his gaze to stare submissively at his lap. Severus waited. Was that the only reaction the boy would have? Defiance was in the little twerp’s nature. In his blood. He should be back to normal now after inhaling the potion fumes, if maybe a little distracted or overly emotional, though, hopefully, the lavender component in the oil would have negated that. So where was this meekness coming from?

After a short wait, slowly the Gryffindor lifted his head and Severus tensed, waiting for the anger or the fear to come spilling out. This time… this time, he might deserve whatever Potter said.

It never arrived.

“Do you need something, sir?” Potter inquired in a quiet, mild tone. Not a hint of sarcasm or disdain. It was unnatural; Potter’s father had never sounded this polite. (Lily had never been polite either; she was always, always passionate and strong.)

Severus couldn’t help tensing up; this was so wrong. His fingers gripped tightly together but he smoothed them flat when Potter seemed to fixate on his hands.

“No, Mr Potter,” Severus responded, drawing the boy’s focus to his face. He needed to see if the draught had actually awakened the other’s consciousness. He would’ve expected the return of the arrogant toerag, not this… docile child. “But do tell me. What were you doing down in the village?”

His words still didn’t inspire any of the prior confusion or outrage, but the boy immediately reached into his shoulder bag to collect a piece of parchment.

“Visiting, sir. With Blaise and Theo. I have a signed permission form,” Potter answered in that same polite, unnaturally respectful tone as he calmly handed over the form. Severus looked it over quickly but didn’t see any obvious indications it was forged. His eyes caught on the signature – Petunia Dursley. It couldn’t be.

“Your Aunt Petunia signed this?” he asked the boy, wanting to be sure. But how else would he know Lily’s sister’s name? “And she wasn’t worried about the possibility of Black attacking you outside Hogwarts’s protections?”

This sparked the first emotion he’d seen in the boy since their argument. Amusement. The boy was amused by the question, to the point he audibly scoffed.

Severus sighed, frustrated and confused. This was not at all how he’d planned for the day to go. A series of punishments so the boy would stay in the castle until they caught Black and maybe deflate some of that ‘I’m so special, look at me’ attitude – that was all he’d wanted. Well, that plan was shot to Hades now.

He could still punish the boy, but Minerva would revert anything he assigned since he did have his approval form. And to be honest? He didn’t want the Potter boy here any longer. He needed time to think, and the child would be better off with his friends or the mediwitch after his… shock.

“Very well. Since you were under the impression you could attend, I will retract the detentions I assigned. Now would you care to explain your reaction on the way to the castle? We can delay the topic if you are still unwell or go to Madam Pomfrey.”

Severus didn’t know he was going to ask until he did. He’d intended to tell the boy to go to Poppy; not this… follow-up question on what had happened. Still, he leaned forward, intently listening as he awaited a response. It was always a spy’s downfall. The insatiable curiosity, the unending desire to know and understand and control everything about the world around you.

He hated how Potter kept creeping out of his preordained box.

“Ah – okay? I was…” Potter paused, obviously unsure how to frame his strange reaction. “I was overwhelmed by the topic. So, I did a breathing exercise to help calm down. Must have worked too well, since next thing I know I was here with you.”

He despised the slightly joking tone, the absence of nerves or anger; this was all so wrong. And Potter’d done breathing exercises? Did the boy practise meditation? Did he know Occlumency? Instinctively, Severus probed the edges of Potter’s mind before he thought the action through. Damnit, he shouldn’t do that. He guessed it didn’t matter. He’d heard nothing. No stray thoughts at all. He was just as good as the Zabini Heir at securing his surface thoughts.

Severus wouldn’t dare press further to see if Potter had any walls or a mindscape. If Dumbledore had trained the boy in the mind arts, Severus would not, could not, know. A precaution just in case he ever had to return to his Lord’s service. Potter stared at him, mild bemusement in his eyes.

“That’s called dissociation, Mr Potter,” Severus explained, hoping the boy would use the term when he talked to Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore. It was the most likely explanation based on how Potter described what he thought had happened. More specifically the boy probably had dissociative amnesia. Though what Severus had said to produce such an extreme reaction…

“And it’s not a standard reaction to… overwhelming… conversations.”

Severus planned to give some more details – he would scare the boy into thinking that his mind was so broken he’d run to the hospital wing begging for treatment – but Potter reacted before he had the opportunity.

“I’ve always been able to go away in my mind when I need to,” the boy nonchalantly said, as if the episode was normal… as if this happened to him all the time. Which, considering the boy lived with Petunia, no wait he couldn’t know that. Forget, forget. “If that’s all then, sir, could I head back to my common room?”

He was not equipped to deal with this. He was the last person in Hogwarts who should be dealing with their apparently traumatised saviour. He’d press the boy to talk to someone though. The child needed help.

“Mr Potter. You should speak to someone about these… episodes. Madame Pomfrey, maybe.”

The boy hummed in agreement before rushing away. Severus sat, feeling unsure if the last few hours had been real. Throwing a quick spell to lock his door, he began his own set of breathing exercises and started to occlude.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised he should have known Potter would have some coping mechanisms. No ordinary child had dealt with the things he had and for all they knew, the avada could have caused brain damage or something. He felt the vow prick at him. Potter needed professional help and should start seeing a mind healer immediately.

But wait. Wait. Dumbledore oversaw Potter’s health and safety. He must be aware and have plans to deal with this. Though denial and dissociation weren’t the healthiest reactions, the boy was still mostly sane, calm, and happy. Plus, if he knew about breathing exercises, someone coached him. Dumbledore had no doubt intentionally kept Severus out of it to respect his upcoming role in the war.

It was a difficult balance Severus held, staying sane. Vows of obedience and protection tattooed on his body, vows of loyalty and safety lodged in his soul – it was dangerous, the conflicting promises destabilised his magic and his mind. And since all of them revolved around Harry Potter, who was – enemy and saviour – obstacle and weapon – lion and lamb – who was too many contradictory things at once and… and Severus’s occlumency foundations were shaking, cracking. He flinched away from those thoughts and refocused his mind.

Dumbledore was charged with Potter’s health and safety. He would already be dealing with the boy’s trauma. Severus needed to lock away today’s memories and continue as he had before. He’d firmly shove Potter back into the irredeemable dunderhead category and not let any part of him escape. He’d return to loathing Potter’s spawn in peace, protecting him from a distance, as Dumbledore required for both the boy’s, and his own, safety.

Harry Potter was not his responsibility.

Chapter Text

With wisdom that all kings should have, he stood.
He ruled o'er men, his mighty judgement shone,
So fair, honest, and cold as leaders should.
But here, the dark resides so close, unknown,
Unseen, one hides beneath his watchful throne.
Resentment festers, left unchecked, it grows,
His brother’s envy brings him down so low.

A game was played, a trick, a bargain struck.
It’s yours to keep who fits this chest head deep.
Who cares, or dares, to test and try their luck?
The guests all shuffled in, like hapless sheep.
But none could fit, and all were left to weep.
Until the king, inside, now sealed and bound,
The chest sank deep and Osiris was drowned.

Through treachery, the king was cast and thrown,
His wife, her love entombed, began her quest.
In search of him, she wandered far, alone.
She scoured the earth; her soul could find no rest.
At last, a tree concealed the one she loved best.
Inside the chest, her love she found, confined,
Determined now, she'll free her love, resigned.

Covert, she planned to resurrect her love,
She would undo the deed of fratricide.
Anubis came with aid from heav’n above,
"Too late!" she cried. "His corpse lies torn aside."
His pieces scattered, his life was denied.
Her soul was torn; her will had all but worn.
Without her love alive, she is forlorn.

Unwilling to rest, she set out again,
She found each part; her love remained undaunted.
If love is folly, she’ll never complain.
O Thoth, god of wisdom, bring back his head,
Anubis, preserve him, in hope she pled.
Osiris sewn up, each stitch placed just so,
Each fragment joined, yet time would crawl too slow.

At last the final piece was found, retrieved.
She thanked both her gods, who helped her succeed,
And with a breath, her love returned, she grieved.
Her king, her love, her life, restored; take heed,
Their time was short, to Death he had to cede.
A breath can be held only for a while,
He walked to shadowed realms with grace and smile.

Isis, his queen, the one who loved him most,
Remained behind in Life, guarding their child,
A piece of him eternal, always close.
Inside she raged; her heart had turned so wild,
Her son absorbed her anger and grew fierce.
Avenging his king, the boy dared to fight,
Set fell; Osiris rose, and her son shone bright.

Chapter Text

Ghastly gangs

Peter had no idea how he’d ended up in Gryffindor, but he didn’t like it. It was already a few months into his first year, but he still hadn’t made any friends. And some of his roommates… well, he prayed he didn’t draw any negative attention from them. Sirius was part of the Black family, and he knew, oh Peter knew, that if the other boy ever started gunning for him as he did for the Snape kid, he would be dead. There would be nowhere to hide with them living in the same dormitory. 

He had never considered himself brave, so why had the hat put him here? At least it was better than Slytherin. He’d worried he might end up there – his mum always said he had too much ambition – but thankfully the hat had only considered it for a second before declaring Peter a fit for the House of Lions.

Still, Peter thought Hufflepuff probably would have been a better choice. At least he’d have friends there.

His year mates in Gryffindor were all already part of a clique or determined to be loners. Potter and Black were attached at the hip and constantly trying to connect with Lupin, while McLaggen and Smith had been friends for years before coming to Hogwarts. It wasn’t fair. Why was he stuck by himself? Stupid hat.

Peter grumbled to himself as he walked from breakfast to potions. He ended up paired with Potter because Black was, once again, attempting to appeal to Lupin. He didn’t know how the quiet, scarred loner had resisted so far. Peter would be too scared to say no to anything Black asked of him.

They were seated behind Lily Evans, a self-righteous muggleborn girl, and Severus Snape, the unfortunate Slytherin that’d drawn Black and Potter’s ire. Peter worked on their potion mostly by himself since Potter was distracted by Evans the whole time. The boy even broke a stirring stick when she had leaned over to whisper in Snape’s ear.

Slightly annoyed, but still very much unwilling to make a target of himself by telling Potter off, Peter decided to cause a slight mishap with Evans’s potion instead. Maybe then Potter would focus on their potion. He flicked a bit of Wiggentree bark past Snape’s shoulder and into his cauldron. The concoction boiled over and scalded Snape’s hands, causing him to cry out in pain.

Peter hadn’t intended to hurt Snape, only ruin his and Evan’s potion, but the injury seemed mild. He knew the mediwitch would fix Snape quickly, so he decided not to worry about it. Slughorn dismissively ordered Snape to go to the hospital wing, before telling Evans to do her best alone for the rest of the period. Evans spent more time glaring at Potter than making any real effort to save her potion, likely assuming he had been the one who’d flicked the ingredient into hers and Snape’s cauldron.

Oddly, Peter’s impulsive mischief did have the reaction he wanted. Potter incessantly smirked at Evans but also helped him finish their potion. Then at the end of class, he turned to Peter with a happy grin on his face that was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating.

“We haven’t really hung out before, Peter, but I can tell you’re alright! Why don’t you join me and Sirius for dinner? Maybe he was able to talk Remus into it too! What d’you say?”

Horrific hypocrisy

“What, no! You can’t be serious!” Peter exclaimed, palms starting to sweat.

“No, that’s me!” piped Sirius from his slouched position on the couch.

“That joke never gets any better,” he snapped back and then turned to shout at James again, “and I mean it! What in Merlin’s name made you think you should pick me to be your secret keeper? I wouldn’t stand a chance against even the lowest-level Death Eater! My duelling skills are bloody awful! Even Dumbledore doesn’t want me joining in on the raid counterattacks.”

The two only shrugged and smirked. Peter wanted to strangle them. Here they were, painting a bright red target on his back, and they both thought this was some sort of joke. They were pretending like this ruse, like this entire war was nothing more than a game of cat and mouse with Snape back when they were the Marauders. Speaking of the Marauders though…

“Why not pick Remus? He would be per –” he started to say, but Sirius and James were already shaking their heads, eerily in sync as always.

“You know how there’s been all that… leaked information from the Order’s meetings?” asked Sirius. Peter tried not to shift uncomfortably, unsure where the two were going with this. Had the entire invitation been a trap? “Well, Sirius and I have been talking – Dumbledore too – and we think it might be Remus who’s doing it. Maybe not intentionally, but you know he’s a dark creature and with his furry little problem…”

The two perfect Gryffindors exchanged a dark look full of pain and betrayal. Peter slumped in relief and then belatedly forced his face into an expression of distress to disguise the action. These idiots thought Remus was giving away information to You-Know-Who? What a load of crock. The werewolf would slit his own throat before betraying anyone in his pack, even unintentionally. These two knew nothing about dark creatures, which, considering Sirius’s family, was just embarrassing. Though why Dumbledore was entertaining the idea… well, that would go in his next report.

“It can’t be,” he mumbled but pitched his voice higher to sound uncertain. The two hurried to persuade him it must be the truth, listing reason after reason, but all their so-called evidence was circumstantial or fantasy. He tuned them out as James and Sirius began to feed into one another, hyping the other up, and forgot about him.

If James made him the secret keeper, Peter would have to pick a side. He couldn’t simply drop information to the Dark side for his security. He’d have to commit, maybe even become a death eater. He’d become an actual player in the war instead of an out-of-the-way pawn of indistinct colouring.

On the one hand, this was terrifying; but on the other… he’d make an impact. He might even be able to end the war by going to Voldemort. It’d instigate the death of the prophecy child, the only one Fate ordained capable of defeating the Dark Lord.

And he’d finally one-up James and Sirius. They would see him, they would know what Peter was capable of, if only for a moment before their deaths. No longer living in their massive shadows… well, it had its appeal.

“Are you sure you want me to do this, James? I mean really, really certain?”

“Of course, Peter! Both Sirius and I trust you. And Lil’ will give it her a-okay when I talk to her too. Will you do this for me, please? To protect Harry?”

“Okay,” Peter acquiesced. They grinned at him with vicious, bright smiles so evocative of their younger selves that Peter felt an uncomfortable twinge. Equal amounts of guilt and satisfaction rose within him. He was condemning James to death, he knew, by accepting. But then again, James thought he might be condemning Peter to torture and then death by choosing him for the role. So really, whose fault was this whole situation?

Indehiscent invasions

Peter knew he was going crazy.

You weren’t supposed to stay in your animagus form for this long. Human consciousnesses weren’t designed for animal brains. The human mind messed with the animal’s brain chemistry, but the brain chemistry also messed with the human mind. And it had been years since he transformed. Half a decade at least. Peter was slipping.

It was hard to think about anything outside of the moment. Future. Past. They didn’t exist. All that mattered was the next meal. Hiding from the cat. Sleeping on his pillow. The warm hands as they petted his fur and slid over his tail.

Yes, Peter’s mind was slipping, but he didn’t care.

What would life be for him if he became a human instead of a rat? The Dark Lord’s followers would hunt him down; they blamed him for the death of their leader even though Peter hadn’t known he was leading the wizard into a trap. And Dumbledore knew he’d betrayed the Light. If Peter returned, the Light Lord would discreetly assassinate him to avoid the scandal.

No, Peter was safe as a rat. Loved as a rat. He wouldn’t get that if he returned to being human.

But maybe he could do some temporary transformations to keep the rat's mind at bay. So he could last longer… so he could think.

He wanted to feel his hands, his skin. Wanted to remember what being human meant. Now that he’d decided, Peter had to force himself not to revert to a human immediately in the kitchen full of Weasleys.

He needed to be careful, oh so careful. Especially since Percy would be going to Hogwarts this year. The boy’s parents had already acquired a wand for him. Peter could use that to ensure no one found him while he was human. But he’d need to do it before Hogwarts started. He couldn’t transform at the castle; Dumbledore would surely find him.

Peter wasn’t used to waiting for anything anymore. If he wanted food, he ate it. If he wanted to go outside, he went. If he wanted to sleep, he slept. Instant gratification for everything he could need as a rat. But for this… he needed to wait until nightfall. It was torture.

Finally, everyone went to bed, including Percy. Peter crawled off the pillow onto the nightstand where the young boy had left his wand. Clamping it in his teeth, he carefully moved back down to the end of the bed.

He shuddered through a transformation, the magic foreign and unfamiliar after all this time. Peter found himself sitting at the end of the bed afterwards, an itch under his skin but once again human.

Percy shuffled around, ever a light sleeper, but Peter cast a somnus on him and the boy sank deeper into sleep. His owner looked a bit different to Peter’s eyes. Now that he was human and not a rat, Percy seemed smaller. But Peter still wanted to be petted by the boy. He just knew the boy’s hands could soothe the crawling under his skin and make him feel comfortable again.

Peter reached out and grabbed one of Percy’s hands and gently rubbed it down his arm. He frowned. That wasn’t right. It didn’t feel nearly as good as when Percy normally petted him. Shouldn’t skin-on-skin contact feel the best, even better than someone petting his fur?

Maybe… maybe it was the wrong spot.

He pulled Percy’s hand around to rub against his back. It was better but still not enough. And he didn’t have a tail so… Peter’s attention was drawn to his lap.

Oh. That would work, right? He’d always wanted someone to touch him there, hadn’t he?

In school, he’d fantasised about his fellow Marauders, the Gryffindor girls, and even some of the people from the other Houses. But he’d never gathered the courage to ask them to touch him. And as he’d aged, Peter hadn’t found his tastes changing. Whenever he’d jerked himself off, he still used memories of his twelve- and thirteen-year-old friends to bring himself to completion.

And now… well, now there was no reason to stop, right? Instant gratification. Everything was his for the taking. Including Percy. He knew it was wrong, but he’d already done plenty of bad things. And no one would know. Not even Percy. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Curling the boy’s hand within his own so that it wrapped around his cock, he rubbed himself up and down. Ah, yes. The foreign feeling of his current form was replaced with a burning warmth that he’d been missing for years. Even having his tail rubbed didn’t compare to this.

It only took a few minutes of watching his Percy’s hand stroke him before Peter began to feel a tightening in his lower stomach. Soon, too soon, he was spurting out cum, moaning as he soaked their hands in the sticky substance while he continued to rub until he finished.

Perfect. That was perfect. And his mind already felt clearer. He needed to do this periodically to prevent himself from becoming only a rat.

Wiping their hands on the sheets to clean them, Peter stood and carefully replaced the wand where he’d found it. Then he climbed back onto the bed, leveraging himself over the boy, his owner. He breathed in Percy’s scent, taking a few last moments to be truly human. Then he transformed into his animagus form and settled right next to Percy’s face on his pillow.

It was good to be a rat again.

Jinxed judas

Found! Oh, no! He was found! Safe space gone. Open, open on the table, trapped! Hands that pet now hands that hold! Trapped!

Bad. Bad. Bad. Not good. He needed to escape.

Claw, escape, then he would run! Run away! No good. Hands held tight, hands were trapping. Away, away, away!

The dog was coming! The Grim! Death was at his tail!

Claw, claw, but now he was frozen. Trapped by hands and his own body too! Couldn’t move. Couldn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t move! Away. Away. Needed to get away.

That smell… the dog had arrived.

Plucked, frozen, out in the open. Dropped. Falling, falling, falling to the floor. He could move now! Scramble away! Run.

Bright light and now. Now he was human. Wasn’t he?

He hadn’t transformed, not him, and yet. Yet. Skin, not fur. Clothes, where, why were clothes on him? Had he always worn clothes? Human. He was human. Humans wore clothes, not fur.

Dog. The dog was here! Get away, get away!

Sharp, pointed, a knife at his throat. Wrenched to standing, couldn’t hide in the corner. Trapped. Trapped, why was he always trapped?

Shouting, shouting from his owner, the not-Percy one. Angry? Why was he angry? Peter had been a good rat, hadn’t he? A good pet?

Human, human, human. He was human.

Why was he human? He was better at being a rat.

Another boy and the knife pressed across his throat. Peter whined. The dog was going to kill him. He needed to escape. He needed to think.

Arguing. Not-Percy was shouting and then the dog and wolf in disguise were talking. Talking. He could do that. He could talk his way out. To escape. To return to the rat. He just needed to convince James. James was kind, sometimes. Not to Slytherins or Dark wizards, but he – James was kind to him sometimes.

“Do you have anything to add? Some explanation for your actions?” James asked. And Peter remembered seeing the man’s dead body. How was James alive?

It didn’t matter. Peter needed to talk. To escape and run.

“Mercy!” he cried. James would think it pathetic, but he wouldn’t be angry. He didn’t like it when his victims gave up. James had preferred to fight… had enjoyed playing with his food. Peter always thought he was more of a cat than a deer. “I didn’t mean to! The Dark Lord, he was so powerful, what other choice did I have?! He would have killed me!”

And he would have. Peter knew this. James did too. Knew when he’d asked Peter to be his secret keeper. So did Sirius, but Sirius didn’t care either.

Pain. Pain in his throat, in his head. Everything went fuzzy and grey and cold. Death had arrived. Why? Why? Why?

Burning. His throat was burning and popping and fizzing. Pain! And then everything went black.

Kowtowing knave

Escape! Peter had escaped! Being a rat was always better.

Peter ran away from the raging tree and the hippogriff and the dog and the boy who was James, but not. Peter ran and then backtracked. He would hide in the castle. Just another rat. Nobody would look twice.

Except maybe James or Remus. Or not-Percy. Not-Percy really seemed to hate him, which wasn’t fair because he was a good pet, a good rat!

But… he wouldn’t be able to hide at the castle much longer. Not anymore. Not with the dog and the wolf and the truth all out and about.

His only choice was… did he have any choice? Any chance? He wanted to live. As a rat, as a human, it didn’t matter. He wanted to live.

The Dark and Light would kill him. He needed… wait. Why would the Dark kill him? He was a Death Eater! And… and they were angry the Dark Lord was dead, but was he? Peter had heard otherwise. Not-Percy talking about a chess game and Harry Potter and a wraith.

That was his chance. His choice. His only choice. To live, he needed the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord would protect him from Sirius and the Light and the Dark. But where to find him?

The third floor… wasn’t that where he was? Hidden on the third floor? Peter would go there. He would go there and find the Dark Lord and be protected and live again.

He scrambled along the rough Hogwarts stones, searching out the familiar scents. So many years, he’d lived here with Percy and not-Percy. And then the dog just had to ruin it.

Peter’s stomach rumbled. Food, food, he should get food, right? Kitchen first, and then he would find the Dark Lord. Peter turned around, but then he saw someone staring at him.

Another Weasley. The girl. The youngest. He remembered when she was born. Why was she staring at him?

“Hello, Peter. Rough night?” she asked. Peter squeaked. Oh, right! She was there earlier. Had forced him to be human. She knew him! How? How? Escape! He needed to get away.

“Really, Peter? Running away from your master? That’s not like you at all,” she remarked as Peter sprinted down the hallway.

Master. Master? She wasn’t Percy or not-Percy. How was she his master?

Distracted, he didn’t see the light flash through the air until it hit him and then he was scrambling on his hands and knees instead of paws.

“There now, that should help you think a bit clearer again. How many years have you been trapped in your animagus form? Your mind must be mostly animal. Then again, from what I’ve heard, you always were a rat, weren’t you, Wormtail?”

How, how, how?

“Now come along. You want to live, right? Lord Voldemort is the only one who can help you now. I’ll take you to the Dark Lord. That’s who you’re searching for, isn’t it?”

Peter froze. How did she know?

A Seer. She must be a Seer. And she wanted to help him! Finally, something was going right.

He pushed himself onto his knees and then up to his feet. Peter followed the girl with wobbly, off-kilter steps on two legs. Up, up, up they went. Then down an empty hallway.

The girl reached out and touched a blank wall. But then a door appeared, a new secret passage! She opened it and pushed Peter inside.

Where was the Dark Lord?! This was just James. But how? This couldn’t be James, he was dead. Peter had helped kill him. He had pointed the Dark Lord at the entire Potter family.

Family. That’s right. This was James’s son, Harry… Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, vanquisher of the Dark Lord.

The girl lied! Harry would kill Peter.

The room was plunged into darkness and Peter whimpered, terrified. Death was coming for him, and it wasn’t even that damn dog!

Suddenly a foot kicked his four-fingered hand and then he felt the girl grip his forearm in hers, hard. Intense pressure flooded the room. He’d fall to his knees if he weren’t already kneeling. It must be magic. Black, dark, overwhelming magic. The Dark Lord! He was here!

“Do you, Peter Pettigrew, swear your loyalty to the Dark Lord Voldemort as long as you live?”

Peter wanted to live. He agreed and felt the Dark Lord embed the first hook in his soul.

“Do you, Peter Pettigrew, swear to aid the Dark Lord Voldemort in returning to corporeal form?”

Again, he agreed. Another hook sunk into him.

“Do you, Peter Pettigrew, swear to follow the Dark Lord Voldemort’s orders to the best of your ability without hesitation?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Anything in order to live. The last hook was set, forming an anchor that could never be removed. Then he felt the threads braid together, bound into a leash that would never be severed.

Bound, trapped. He would never escape. But at least Peter would live.

Chapter Text

“You’re sabotaging yourself. Is it on purpose?”

Neville startled, dramatically throwing dirt as he spun around to face whoever had intruded on his sanctuary. Well, it wasn’t really his, so much as it was an out of the way plot in the greenhouses that Professor Sprout said he could use for a personal Herbology project. It was the youngest Weasley, Ginny. The one who the rumours said was possessed last year. And whom Harry Potter had saved. She’d taken him with her into Harry’s compartment when the dementors had attacked the train and hadn’t spoken to him since.

“Wh – wha – what?”

Ginny sighed in obvious exasperation. “You. Are. Sabotaging. Your. Self. I want to know why. You will tell me.” She glared at him, hands on her hips as she waited for an answer that Neville had no clue how to give.

“I’m – I’m not – why do you –” he stuttered as he tried to pick an answer the intimidating girl would accept.

“So, it’s unintentional then? The tight clamp you keep on your magic? The pressure you’re allowing to build up in your core? Not to mention, using the most ill-suited wand I’ve ever seen.”

Neville was so lost. What in Merlin’s name was she talking about?

With another exasperated sigh, the girl walked closer and then gracefully lowered onto her knees in the dirt beside him. Neville slowly turned back to the singing geraniums he’d been neglecting and started patting down the soil again. She watched him briefly and then imitated his actions exactly. They worked side by side for a few minutes before she started speaking again.

“Look. If it’s not on purpose, you at least need a different wand. If you keep bottling your magic up like this… you’re going to explode. And it’ll be messy. And a hassle. Let’s just avoid it, okay?”

Neville continued to garden as he thought. Digging a hole, adding a bulb, spreading more dirt. Herbology was so calming. There were a series of steps, always the same and yet slightly different every time. The work helped him keep his anxiety in check as he thought up a response.

“I don’t think I understand what you mean. I’ve been told I’m practically a squib. I have doubts that I could ever contain enough magic to – what did you say – explode?”

Another extended pause as they worked. With her help, he was making significant progress. He might be able to replant all the flowers and still have time to change before lunch.

“It sounds like someone else is trying to sabotage you, then. You’ve been lied to. You are not a squib. How could you be? Look at how the plants dance to your magic.”

He stared down at the geraniums. They swayed and hummed, every single one in the plot leaning towards him, reaching for him, like he was the sun. And yet...

“That’s not –”

“And now you’re lying to yourself and me,” Ginny interrupted, her voice cold and hard as freezing rain in the winter. He snapped his mouth shut in response, feeling his cheeks burn at the rebuke. But she softened when she continued speaking. “You know this is magic. You feel it.”

Her insinuation was clear. And he did feel like this was magic. Whenever he worked with the plants, he felt powerful, capable. But if he had magic, enough that she was worried he would explode, why couldn’t he cast any spells? Why didn’t he have more accidental magic as a kid?

“I told you already,” she said impatiently. Neville hadn’t even asked a question! He’d only just turned to look at her! “It’s your wand. And maybe some type of mental block. But mostly the wand. It’s ill-suited for your core and it doesn’t answer you, like, at all. What’d you do, nick it from its actual owner while they slept?”

He flinched. That was… scarily close and yet, also entirely wrong. She sighed again, this time it was quieter, almost apologetic.

“Here. Try this one,” she offered, spinning her wand so it was outstretched handle first to him. Neville froze. Shocked. That was… that was one of the bravest – foolish, his grandmother would argue – gestures a wix could make. It showed an astounding amount of trust in oneself and one’s ally. He’d never seen it done outside demonstration doodles in his etiquette books.

Slowly he lifted his wand hand, brushing off the dirt. He reached out palm up, making eye contact, trusting her in turn, as he grasped the end of the wand and waited until Ginny released her end.

Then they both turned forward again, facing the newly planted flowers.

“They could use some water, don’t you think?” Ginny murmured. Calm. Casual. Like she handed her wand to him every day without hesitation.

“Aguamenti,” Neville cast with a small twist of his wrist and an upwards flick. A gentle stream of water flowed out of the wand and into the flowerbed. It was exactly the amount and pressure he’d wanted. Exactly what he’d attempted to cast. Ginny’s wand had listened to him and obeyed his commands, focusing his magic with ease.

If it was this straightforward, if all he needed was a different wand, then why hadn’t anyone..?

“You hide pretty well, you know, for a Gryffindor,” Ginny said conversationally as she stared at the happily humming flowers blowing bubbles from their smiling faces. “It’s an unusual mask, the one you chose. One that’s meant to make people underestimate you. Lower their expectations.

“But… you are powerful. One day, you’ll have to own up to that. Embrace it. You’re a lion. Your nature will win out eventually, despite the wallflower disguise. When it does… better you’re prepared with an actual wand and have had some practise with it.”

Neville hummed, momentarily harmonising with the geraniums. He’d think about what she said. Nodding his head, he spun the wand back around. He handed it to her handle-side first and, again, made eye contact. Her eyes were an unusual color in this lighting. A reddish-brown, like bricks. He’d never seen the like before.

“Thank you,” he said, letting some of the feeling buzzing inside him fill his voice, uncaring that it made the words more important, more likely to form a magical debt.

Ginny’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but then her lips twitched slightly and her eyes lit up to match her smile. “I acknowledge your gratitude. As for payment in kind, how would you feel about joining a study group with me? We could use your expertise.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks. Harry had spent two weeks in the muggle world at his aunt and uncle’s home in Surrey. No one was more surprised than him at how uneventful his time here had been.

At the end of last year, his uncle picked up Harry and what appeared to be a large, aggressive dog from King’s Cross. Harry had kept biting his lip throughout the drive to avoid laughing hysterically. The man had no idea he’d been harbouring the wanted mass murderer Sirius Black in his backseat.

When they reached Privet Drive, Harry had sobered. He’d expected his night to go like this. One, have an argument with Aunt Petunia about the pet. Two, reluctantly hand over his magical supplies to be locked in his cupboard. Three, fend off a few attacks from Dudley with his smelting stick. Four, perform a series of chores. Then five, collapse, exhausted, onto his bed in the broken-toy storage room.

Instead, Harry lost awareness before stepping through the front door. He wasn’t sure what his angel did, but he awoke to a nearly empty house the following morning. Despite the assertion from a very cowed Aunt Petunia that her husband and son were on a trip, Harry knew there was a distinct possibility they were dead, considering what had happened to Marge.

Harry ought to be horrified, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care that much when his life had improved so significantly with their absence. His angel’s safety mattered more to him than his relatives did anyway.

With the reduction of residents, the house was quiet, and Harry’s chores became almost nonexistent. On his angel’s recommendation, Harry still tended the gardens to get some sun and be seen outside. He also cooked for himself and Sirius, and kept his room clean, but he refused to do all the chores that usually consumed his summers. His aunt had to do the work herself, which she hated, her eyes glittering with loathing whenever Harry encountered her performing one of his usual tasks.

With Sirius there, Harry had the run of the house. He could eat whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, sleep whenever he wanted… and his trunk with his school supplies was kept in his room. Unlocked! If life had always been like this at the Dursleys, Harry might not have hated returning for summers. (Yes, he would. What was life without magic? He loathed every moment he spent away from the wixen world.)

One of the best parts of his new routine was that Harry, for once, wasn’t lonely. He had Sirius, his godfather, to chat with whenever he chose. Sirius had to remain in his animagus form outside the house, but he and Harry spent hours talking when inside. Mostly Harry listened to stories about his parents.

He could now say he knew his parents' favourite colours and class subjects, their hobbies and pastimes. He knew his dad snored like a freight train and his mum was a morning person. He knew that neither liked asparagus, just like him, and they both loved quidditch, just like him. It was so much more information than he’d ever expected to gain.

Yet, Harry couldn’t shake his sense of detachment no matter how much he learned about them. Every new element he discovered was just a shadow of a puzzle piece. If he collected dozens – hundreds – of anecdotes and fit them together into a whole story, into a person, he’d still only see the outline, never the real image. They were dead and gone.

But Sirius was a master storyteller. His enthusiasm and melancholy were catching, and Harry enjoyed the conversations, despite the occasional tears. He was still wary of the previously incarcerated man’s mood swings, but Harry was slowly beginning to trust his godfather.

His angel encouraged him to deepen the connection as much as Harry felt comfortable doing. This surprised Harry because initially he’d gotten the impression his angel felt wary or guarded whenever he spent time with Sirius; however, when Harry asked (it was so wonderful now that he could directly write to his angel), the man told him he just wanted to ensure Azkaban hadn’t made Sirius unsafe for Harry to be around.

The protective care had inspired a squirming, fluttery feeling in his stomach that he wasn’t sure how to interpret so Harry changed the subject. That’s when he understood why his angel insisted they write to one another in their mental journal, rather than continuing their prior method of communication where Harry interpreted his emotional state. Having experienced some emotions and thoughts he’d rather keep to himself, Harry also favoured the privacy the enforced separation gave them, despite wanting to spend more time with his angel.

At least they always had an hour or two in the evening together. Harry would get ready for bed and then meditate until he was deep inside his mindscape. They’d write back and forth, passing their book – the journal never ran out of pages regardless of how many they’d filled – through the mail slot in a disjointed conversation reminiscent of his time in second year talking to the diary.

And so, thanks to his angel and Sirius, Harry’s fourteen days in the muggle world were happier than all the ones that had come before combined… but he was still ecstatic about leaving tomorrow afternoon.

Harry wandered around the room collecting his belongings, wanting to be completely ready for the portkey. He began by carefully packing his books into the bottom of his trunk. Mildly surprised by the sheer number he’d accumulated, Harry smiled fondly at the multiple titles he had no memory of purchasing, most of which Dumbledore would surely faint at the sight of.

He'd initially found them upon unpacking his first night. Without prevaricating, his angel had claimed them as his purchases and warned Harry that most of the tomes were well above his skill level. This only made Harry more curious, and a little defensive, but he kept the feelings to himself. The conversation had reaffirmed his resolve to learn everything he could about magic. (How else could he protect his angel?)

Quickly adding the rest of his possessions atop the books, Harry finished packing, finagled the overfull trunk closed, and sat back on his heels. His hand drifted to his neck, confirming that he was wearing his vault key and Blaise’s necklace.

“Really, pup? You think somehow the chains – one of which is literally blood-bound – have disappeared off your neck in the last two minutes?” Sirius asked from his place on the bed, instantaneously shifting from his dog form to human with a mischievous grin slashed across his face.

“Shut up,” mumbled Harry, embarrassed to be called out on his nervous tick. Sirius’s smile softened and he seemed about to say something terribly heartwarming and emotional. In defence, Harry picked up his pillow and launched it into the man’s face hard enough that Sirius tumbled off the end of the mattress.

An affronted squawk erupted from Sirius’s mouth as he hit the ground. Harry cackled, bent over and gasping for air. He had barely managed to stop giggling when a large mass of fur crashed into him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. He wheezed, chuckles still escaping as the heavy Grim lounged atop him, slobber dripping off its tongue onto his face and hair.

“Ugh, Padfoot! That’s so gross!” Harry squeaked as he shoved the animagus away. He scrubbed at his face but only managed to smear the drool. Disgusting. “Now I need a shower. Well, I might as well do that tonight too, I guess. Less of a hassle tomorrow.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the whine this produced, but refused to be swayed by the large grey puppy dog eyes aimed his way. “This is your fault!” he accused, though he shot the dog a good-natured grin to show he wasn’t truly angry. “I’ll go get cleaned up and then I’m gonna meditate like usual. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sirius grumbled, but trudged out the door, giving Harry one last baleful glance before wandering into Dudley’s room to sleep on the empty bed he’d commandeered for himself. Chuckling again, Harry grabbed his pyjamas and walked across the hall into the bathroom.

He turned the shower handle, letting the water warm up as he slid his clothes off. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Harry grimaced. Why was he so short and skinny? He had grown a little in the past few years but was still undersized compared to others his age.

Gaze drifting down to his ribs and hips, then around to check his spine, Harry thought the bones seemed less prominent than they used to be. The regular meals at Hogwarts must have helped him fill out somewhat, but he’d been hoping for a growth spurt to close the ever-widening gap between him and the human beanpole, Ron. So far, no luck.

Surprisingly, one thing that had grown was Harry’s hair. Until recently that hadn’t happened; not since a burst of accidental magic to regrow it when he was eight. Despite the additional length, it was still wild. The locks stuck up in more places than they lay flat, yet were constantly in his eyes despite the extra height from his cowlicks.

Aside from a few inches of height and the mane of hair, Harry thought he looked the same as when he was the boy-who-lived-in-the-cupboard rather than the boy-who-lived. Steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror, so Harry got into the hot shower, ashamed at how long he’d spent staring at himself. No one cared what he looked like except ponces like Malfoy, so why was he worrying about it?

Despite wanting to be indifferent, Harry’s thoughts continued to revolve around his appearance. It didn’t help that his mind kept offering up perfect images of Tom Riddle to compare himself to. Harry was scowling and lathering his aggravatingly long hair with shampoo, probably with rougher moves than necessary, when a tiny shock of impatience rolled through him.

Oh, right. He usually meditated now and showered in the morning. His angel was probably tired of waiting and had decided to check in directly. Harry tried to focus his mind to project a thought, but Tom’s smirking face pushed itself to a prominent position instead. He flushed in mortification, which doubled when pinpricks of amusement danced up his back. He involuntarily shivered at the pleasant sensation despite his embarrassment.

Desperately trying to think of anything else (and failing horribly), Harry finished showering in a record-breaking two minutes. He towelled off, dressed, and ran back to his room.

He settled on his bed cross-legged, hair dripping and face still bright pink. Taking a few deep breaths, he flew into a meditative trance. With a tinge of trepidation, Harry picked up the journal that fell into his cupboard. He sighed in relief when his angel’s message only continued their conversation on the runes used in the Marauders’ Map rather than bringing up Harry’s embarrassing fixation on what might be his angel’s face.

Voldemort had a very productive two weeks. Despite his original hesitance to leave Black alive, the man had proved invaluable to Voldemort’s efforts in defending Harry against his muggle relatives.

When he and Harry had arrived at this muggle hellhole, Voldemort immediately began enacting retribution on Harry’s so-called guardians. He’d stupefied the aunt before entering her mind and setting up some changes in how she interpreted the world around her, while Sirius transformed and terrified the walrus into compliance.

Voldemort created a memory of Vernon and Dudley leaving on a summer-long trip to avoid the pet Harry had brought home. That would be realistic enough to fool even Dumbledore, should he care to look (Voldemort doubted that the scenario would occur, but it would be better to take precautions).

He also didn’t want the woman to realise Harry had disappeared, so, with a bit of complicated legilimency, he tied the image of her son to her ill feelings towards Harry, tricking her mind into thinking they were the same person regardless of the nearly opposite physical appearances. This was more complicated magicaemens than just creating a simple memory, so he’d have to reinforce it periodically over the next few days. After that, it ought to hold without aid unless someone untied the knot Voldemort created.

Hence why there would be a use for Harry’s cousin once Voldemort and Harry were gone. Voldemort fed the little piglet a few drops of the Draught of Peace before gagging the boy and shoving him into the cupboard under the stairs. He locked the door. The pudgy teen would be fine for a few weeks in there. Black could let him out when it was time.

It was unfortunate, but if he wished to remain undiscovered, none of these initial castigations could be allowed to really hurt Harry’s relatives … at least no more than they had damaged Harry and proven wouldn’t trigger any defences.

During the last few summers, Voldemort had studied the wards tied to the property. They were deeply embedded in the blood of both the aunt and cousin. If he did anything directly to harm them, especially with magic, the wards could lash out at Harry’s body. Blood wards were notoriously temperamental and could do some drastic damage. He’d been turned into a wraith the last time he’d encountered Lily Potter’s sanguis magicae, and he had no desire to repeat that experience.

But there were a few flaws in the protection that the Dursleys and Dumbledore relied heavily on for the family’s safety. The main issue was that the protections were limited to relatives directly connected by Lily Potter’s blood; thus, harming Harry’s so-called uncle wouldn’t have any backlash whatsoever.

With Sirius’s help, Voldemort wrangled the walrus into the attic and imprisoned him there. Despite the ability to hurt Harry’s uncle without the wards reacting, he still couldn’t use too much magic to do so. Voldemort knew he shouldn’t throw around crucios considering how quickly the aurors had arrived after he’d offed that other muggle last year. Instead, he took a brief detour to the garage and collected some of the various muggle instruments before returning to the bound man in the attic.

First, Voldemort carved characters into the floor and roof to block sound waves. This would work better than a silencing charm and was unlikely to be detected even if he fed them magic in perpetuity. He planned to entirely rely on passive runes for concealment to avoid any surges of magic that might notify the ministry again.

Then he began crafting the man’s penance with his favourite of the tools he’d collected, one sold by the company the walrus worked for. It was called a nail gun. According to his host’s memories, Harry had used it to fix the fence at one point in time.

Voldemort skewered the muggle to the wooden floorboards with several nails in his hands and feet, stretched out in a cross position. He liked the religious symbolism of it, as well as the way tears were already streaming from the muggle’s beady eyes while the man shouted his fear and rage to an uncaring God, his screams unable to travel beyond the room.

Voldemort felt no guilt, which took him slightly by surprise. He had expected some horror or uncertainty while torturing someone for the first time since Harry’s morals had started rubbing off on him and had planned to ignore the sentiment.

After all, this muggle deserved to be crucified. His screams were hymns of repentance, his blood, restitution deposited at an altar… his death, payment for the persecution of Harry.

These thoughts about the man’s crimes only made Voldemort grow increasingly livid. Coldly furious, he picked up the gardening shears and lopped off a pinky finger. The muggle froze in surprise, his screams briefly halted in shock. Voldemort could hear the dissonance in the man’s thoughts as he stared up at who he’d thought was Harry – except his nephew’s eyes had never been so empty, never so devoid of mercy – and instead found a monster.

The reality of his hopeless situation seemed to crash into him, finally. The man’s face twisted in rage and pain, but Voldemort watched in satisfaction as the first hints of desperation and pleading sparked within Harry’s uncle’s eyes. The walrus started angrily shouting again, but soon he would beg.

Voldemort was happy to discover that despite how Harry’s soul had weakened him to the boy himself, it hadn’t changed who he was at his essence. Lord Voldemort was unyielding. He was willing to do whatever was required to move his plans forward with expedience, protect himself and his possessions, or push past the boundaries of known Magic. Voldemort had never shied away from violence if he thought that was the best path forward. Well, not until recently. Thankfully, it appeared his newfound compassion was limited to Harry.

Humming a pleased note, Voldemort happily delivered his homily for the captive audience and yielded to his cruel inclinations entirely for the first time since he’d possessed Harry. 

After two weeks of nightly visits, the man was a bloody wreck. Barely conscious, and only because Voldemort had used Wide-Eye potions to keep him aware, the muggle didn’t have a single patch of skin that wasn’t shredded, nor a bone unbroken. His internal organs were failing, some outside his body already and riddled with carved runes to keep them functioning just enough to maintain life. Most of his extremities had been cut away, including his tongue and cock, and the wounds roughly cauterised with a mini blow torch Voldemort had discovered in the kitchen.

Voldemort ached to continue the torture magically. The man deserved to thrash about under his cruciatus until what was left of his mind broke utterly. Regardless of the imaginative application of the muggle equipment, it didn’t feel like he’d done enough to balance the scales for what the muggle had forced Harry to endure all these years. However, despite his desires, Voldemort wouldn’t risk exposure of his presence here.

And anyways, he was out of time.

He planned to let the runes keep the man alive for as long as they could while he was away – and Harry’s giraffe-necked aunt would help with that, coming up to the attic to water the houseplant daily – but the muggle would likely die before he and Harry returned from Italy.

It was an unsatisfying end, but Voldemort knew that sometimes enemies must be allowed to pass on without getting to watch the light leave their eyes. Starving to death would have to be enough; a poetic end for the fat walrus who had taken food from Harry’s mouth.

The muggle gasped in air, each breath a wet, shaky sound as he violently trembled in his circle of dark tacky blood. It was Voldemort’s last night to enjoy. Tomorrow he’d need to, once again, chain down the monster and rein in his naturally violent inclinations, but that was hours away. He picked up the now stained nail gun, pressing it to the temporomandibular joint.

Pulling the trigger, a chhthunk sound loudly hissed through the air and the muggle whimpered near silently, not enough of his oesophagus left to scream. Voldemort shifted his aim slightly and pulled again. Chhthunk. Chhthunk. Chhthunk. He continued to decorate the place where a moustache used to exist with nails until a squeaking sound distracted him.

A rat was in the corner, watching and waiting. Voldemort set aside the tool and rose from where he’d been kneeling, moving to sit in a wooden chair he’d taken from the living room. He lazily lifted one leg and rested the ankle on his other leg’s knee. Then he slouched onto the armrest, chin cradled in his palm, presenting a picture of casual boredom that he knew would unnerve anyone while in the same room as the eviscerated body on the floor.

“Turn human,” he ordered quietly.

Instantly, Pettigrew was standing where the rat had been. Whether that was fearful enthusiasm or his inability to disobey, Voldemort didn’t care.

“Come here,” he said gesturing to the space in front of him, just centimetres away from the drying blood. “Kneel.”

Shaking in fear, the deformed man did as he was told and bowed his head, though Voldemort saw him side-eyeing the barely breathing corpse.

“Report,” he demanded, letting a small amount of amusement quirk his lips when Pettigrew whipped his eyes forward again, now staring at the blood stains on the knees of Voldemort’s trousers.

Though this muggle’s punishment was his current priority, Voldemort also needed to accomplish a few other tasks. He’d sent out Pettigrew for more potion ingredients, books, and ritual supplies, then told him to collect anything the rat believed would help his Lord regain a body.

He’d intentionally left the order somewhat vague, so that Fate’s intentions regarding how exactly his servant would aid him had the potential to become clearer with whatever was obtained… though he wasn’t hopeful it’d be that easy.

The animagus was more rat than human, and so his reasoning suffered. It made him even more stupid than before. Yet, aside from the shallow stream of thoughts running through it at any given moment, it was annoyingly difficult to read anything from his mind.

“I – I – I got all the b – b – books you wanted and the ing – g – gredients,” Pettigrew stuttered. He reached into his pocket and held out a temporarily expanded shopping bag that store owners used at the more expensive shops.

“Adequately done, Peter,” he acknowledged and plucked the purchases out of the wizard’s hands. “Anything else.”

Voldemort was mildly interested when Pettigrew nodded and reached into his robes to retrieve another thin package. It was wrapped in a cloth with tiny runes embroidered on every seam. As the covering slipped, Voldemort’s magic surged forward and enveloped the item that had been hidden. It was summoned into his hand before his servant could blink.

His wand. Pettigrew had brought him his wand.

He had been operating under the assumption that it had been destroyed along with his body on that fateful Samhain. Or if it hadn’t, it would’ve been found in Harry’s nursery and likely snapped or burned. But no, it had survived. The brother to Harry’s… feathers from the same phoenix powered both the wands in his hands. It was another tie between them, or at least a symptom of their connection, one he’d thought lost. This… this he hadn’t expected.

“Very well done, Peter,” he crooned warmly before pointing yew at Pettigrew’s face. Reuniting him with his beloved wand deserved a reward. Though he felt darkly amused at how the man’s face paled, likely expecting a painful reminder of whom he served, he didn’t cast anything harmful. Instead, Voldemort directed Harry’s magic to flow forward and heal some of the damage Pettigrew sustained from remaining in his animagus form too long.

Healing spells were delicate, finicky works of magic. Each spell used a minute amount of magic to avoid triggering the patient’s core into reacting, hence why healers’ castings were usually long-winded and repetitive. Each cast was a chain of spells weaved together into a single working that hit like cascading waves eroding injuries over time. Healing spells often required massive effort for minimal impact, so potions became significantly more common for treatments when it was discovered how much more efficient and effective they were than spells.

Voldemort hadn’t cast healing magic in a long time, and Harry’s magic was a poor fit for the art despite its instinctive actions to help him after the dementor incident at the end of last year. Still, he was successful, of course. Pettigrew’s ears shrank, his hair returning to his head, and his eyes became slightly more human. Some unseen damage to his brain should have also been rectified, though Voldemort doubted it would be very effective long-term considering the man wouldn’t remain in his human form for long.

“Thank you, Master! Thank you!” the animagus whimpered, dropping into a deep bow at his feet.

“Loyalty is rewarded, Peter. So is intelligence,” Voldemort replied airily. Maybe Pettigrew wasn’t so worthless after all. He’d send him out on another errand. One that hopefully wouldn’t be too complicated for the simpleton.

“I will be unavailable for some time, likely the entire summer. I want you to find news of your fellow Death Eaters during that time. The ones that are not in Azkaban. Do whatever you’d like to gather that information. Return to Hogwarts when the school year begins to give your report. Make sure you’re thorough.”

“Yes, Master! I will, Master!” the rat groveled his assent before transforming and scurrying off, thankfully dropping the strip of fabric onto the ground as he went.

As wonderful as it was to hold his yew wand again, Voldemort knew he would need to hide it. His wand was distinctive. A pale white, almost the colour of bleached bone, except for the dark reddish-brown swirls decorating the base above the handle.

And now that he was seeing his beloved wand again after so long without it… he frowned at the handle he’d added decades ago. That part was made of delicately carved human bone; cursed to disintegrate the wand hand of anyone else that held it. It had seemed aesthetically pleasing when he was younger, but Voldemort wasn’t sure he wanted the adaptation anymore. Too garish for his tastes now.

Gently running his fingers along the wand’s length, the bone disintegrated showing more of the decorative swirls on the yew’s handle, which was smoothly carved in a simple, classic style like its brother. Except for the colour and the extra two inches on his, the wands looked incredibly similar, as if they actually were family.

Standing up, Voldemort descended the ladder and closed the hatch behind him. He calmly entered Harry’s room, casting scourgify as he passed the threshold. Reaching into the shopping bag Pettigrew had given him, he retrieved the books first, making sure they were all there. Each of the tomes was a rare, hyper specific necromagicae text that he was sure would help him design his resurrection.

Last year he’d been restricted by his cracked core and distracted by his diary horcrux. Now that he was healed, it was time to refocus his efforts on inventing another ritual to become corporal, one which would not be allowed to fail again. Not so long as he listened to Fate’s voice and allowed Pettigrew’s aid.

Though, with his and Harry’s souls blending, it needed to be done soon, preferably before the next Beltane. Voldemort hoped this trip out of the country would provide some additional resources. He added the books to the others in Harry’s trunk and then, caressing his wand one last time, gently wrapped it in the obscuring fabric and hid that as well.

Voldemort sat at the edge of the bed and let Harry take control.

<< Good morning, angel! >>

He heard Harry’s projected thought just before thickening his occlumency walls. He pushed back a hint of pleasure through the bond, making Harry smile and then sealed himself off.

Harry slept restlessly and woke early with the sun, still exhausted, but anxious about somehow missing the portkey. Sitting still and holding his trunk close until the thing kicked in was tempting, but his godfather wouldn’t let Harry seclude himself on their last morning together. Harry would have to attend breakfast at least.

He was disappointed that Sirius couldn’t come with him. It felt like he’d just found the man and was already losing him… but even Harry knew it wasn’t wise to bring a wanted convict with him to Blaise’s home without warning.

Neither his angel nor Sirius knew if the Zabinis’ wards could detect animagi. Blaise’s mum might be the fire-first-ask-questions-later type. Both reactions would go poorly for his escaped criminal of a godfather. Sirius also told Harry he planned to prevent Dumbledore from knowing Harry’d disobeyed him and left the Dursleys, but that the wizard needed to stay at Privet Drive to carry it out. (Honestly, Harry didn’t consider it disobeying per se. He was following the letter of the order, if not the intent. After all, Blaise’s home was neither the Leaky nor the Weasleys; however, he didn’t think Dumbledore would appreciate the technicality.)

Sirius had been brewing potions nonstop since they’d arrived. He seemed excited by whatever plan he’d concocted, initially using the kitchen as a make-shift lab; however, Harry thought it was gross cooking next to a cauldron boiling lacewing flies and had recommended the shed in the back garden as an alternative option. Considering the creatively cruel mind his dad’s detention records had revealed, Harry was happy he’d be far, far away when his godfather’s prank came to a head, and hoped there’d be no nasty repercussions.

Once more checking that both chains were around his neck, Harry dressed in some of his nicer, summery clothes. He wore a white button-down shirt and navy blue trousers, folding a pale blue robe beside his trunk so he could put it on right before he left.

He hoped the more formal clothes would make a good impression on Blaise’s mum and that the lighter colours would negate some of the heat he was bound to experience in Italy. Harry probably wouldn’t have thought of either thing if his angel hadn’t brought it up a few nights ago. He was thankful the man had saved him the awkwardness of being severely underdressed when first meeting the infamous Countess Zabini.

Quietly shuffling towards the stairwell, Harry noticed Dudley’s bedroom door was shut. Once in the kitchen, he checked the clock on the microwave which showed it was 6:15 AM, a few hours before he and Sirius usually had breakfast; the man was likely still asleep. Aunt Petunia might be awake, but usually she hid in her room until afternoon to avoid them. Knowing this, but still not wanting to risk running into her alone, Harry grabbed an apple off the dining table, quietly unlocked the front door, and stepped out onto the porch.

Hoping a quick jaunt would deplete some of his anxious energy, Harry pushed his hands into his pockets and started towards the neighbourhood park. Birds sung brightly, creating an atmosphere that might have inspired nostalgia if Harry had any pleasant memories associated with Surrey. Instead, he avoided thinking about the past and tried to calm his mind with a daydream of flying.

Harry walked until he was certain Sirius would be awake before returning. He was on the park’s north side, near Wisteria Walk, and only a few minutes away from the Dursleys’ home when a voice yelled his name.  

“Is that you, Harry dear?” the elderly Mrs Figg said as she tottered in his general direction. He was bemused to see she had several cats with her, all on leashes. Having never seen anyone walk a cat, he stared mystified without moving away as she approached.

“Yes, it’s me. Hello, Mrs Figg,” Harry replied belatedly. She was staring at him as if she couldn’t believe he chose to wear decent clothing, in what was, frankly, an insulting manner. He didn’t like it but, to be fair, most of the neighbours who spoke with Petunia thought that. She’d somehow convinced them he wore baggy clothes to imitate American gang members he idolised, but Harry hadn’t known Mrs Figg believed the falsehood.

“Are you having a pleasant walk with your cats?” Harry asked, trying to be polite despite his desire to run away and avoid getting cat hair on his clothes.

“Yes, I am dearie. If I might ask, why are you all dressed up today?”

Harry lied instinctively. It probably wouldn’t matter if some old muggle woman knew he was visiting friends from school; however, he hadn’t particularly appreciated her attitude towards him, both now and when she’d babysat him, so he didn’t feel guilty for deceiving her.

“Oh, well, my aunt is having some people over today for her book club. She asked me to dress up and serve them tea in the garden,” Harry answered casually with an innocent, vaguely uncomfortable expression plastered across his face. Mrs. Figg tutted a bit about good boys who helped their aunts but had also unmistakably relaxed at his lie.

Faintly curious, but not enough to chance being late, Harry made his excuses to escape a more involved conversation and left for the Dursleys. There were still three hours until his portkey, but he wanted enough time to say goodbye to Sirius beforehand. Harry quickly arrived at Number 4, skipping along the hedges towards the front porch.

He’d just stepped inside when his aunt appeared at the top of the stairs. She pursed her lips, looking like she’d sucked on a lemon. Harry’s shoulders hunched when she jabbed her pointer finger at him, but before she could utter a single word, a low growl reverberated through the hallway, interrupting them.

Aunt Petunia blanched, jaw snapping shut as she sprinted back to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her. A moment later, Sirius appeared in human form with a sunny grin and messy hair.

“Hey pup! Exciting morning?” he asked, wryly teasing.

“Ran into my old babysitter,” Harry answered. “We only spoke for a few minutes though.”

Sirius tensed, asking, “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

Harry shook his head. When the animagus relaxed, Harry felt his shoulders similarly release tension he hadn’t noticed creeping into him. “Good, good. We don’t want news of your plans gettin’ out. Remember to keep your head down while in Italy too, okay? Now come along, time for brekkie.”

They both went into the kitchen and Harry made bacon and eggs. He couldn’t help his repeated glances at the clock. When it ticked over to eleven, he jumped to his feet, incapable of waiting downstairs another moment.

He leaned in to hug his godfather goodbye. Sirius clamped onto him, holding Harry tightly and whispering how much he’d miss him, how Harry had better send Hedwig with a letter every week, how he was looking forward to the next time they were together. Tears welled up in Harry’s eyes. He was unsure how to handle the onslaught of affection. It felt like a dream… especially while in this particular kitchen, staring at the overly white walls and wooden cabinets.

Once his godfather released him, Harry hurried to scrub his face clear, gave Sirius a wobbly smile, and ran upstairs. Fingers dragging across his neck to, once again, feel for his chains, Harry jerked the robe over his head and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Holding the handle of his trunk in one hand, Hedwig’s empty cage in the other, Harry impatiently waited for noon.

He was braced when he felt the portkey activate, but it was still a rough trip. It felt like a hook was embedded in his stomach, yanking him up into the air and then spinning him around and around. It was worse than the Floo. Hopefully he wouldn’t puke on arrival.

Harry landed awkwardly in a beautiful courtyard. Staggering forward and tripping over his luggage, he tumbled to the ground groaning.

<< Why are all the forms of magical transportation so awful? >> Harry complained, unsurprised to receive exasperated amusement in response to his projected thought. His angel no doubt also wanted to see where they planned to stay for the summer, so Harry had expected him to be awake.

“Quite the entrance there, Harry,” he heard Blaise say before a hand appeared directly in his line of sight. Reaching up to grip the offered arm, Harry let Blaise help him to his feet. He felt a strange, almost nonexistent foreboding churn in his still queasy stomach, but it was quickly replaced with excitement when Harry tried to identify the source.

“Ah, sorry about that. Not my favourite means of travel, but…” Harry grinned widely as he saw Blaise and the surrounding piazza in full. “It’s wonderful to see you. Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

After Blaise introduced Harry to his mum, they all went inside to avoid the sun. Countess Zabini had the same violet eyes as Blaise and appreciated his awkward attempts at bowing and formal greetings. She chuckled when Harry broke character and complimented her on how “wicked” her home was. They had a nice light lunch on a patio, before Harry left to unpack and relax alone in his assigned room for a few hours.

Lying on the massive bed, Hedwig hooting softly and sitting on a fancy perch in the corner, Harry felt a weight lift from his chest. Dumbledore’s restrictive chains had slipped off him, with the headmaster none the wiser, and now Harry was free to spend his summer however he liked. He’d never felt so free.

Chapter Text

A long, drawn-out moan escaped Harry’s lips as he tried to lift limbs gone heavy with pleasure. He quickly gave up the attempt when the hands pressing his hips into the sheets squeezed harshly in wordless rebuke. Not allowed to move, Harry whined, muscles tensing as the mouth currently wrapped around his cock hummed and then slid down to the root.

He was burning from the inside out, he needed to come, but first Harry wanted… “Please,” he sobbed, “Tom, please let me come.”

With enormous effort, Harry lifted his head to look down at the man pleasuring him with such remorseless skill. Despite the full mouth, crinkles around sparkling eyes told Harry that Tom was smirking at him, clearly enjoying the desperation he was inspiring. Harry whined again, his head falling back against the sheets as Tom’s head rose up and off him completely. A plethora of pleas erupted from his throat, begging the other to touch him, to stay with him.

“So sweet for me,” Tom crooned, and Harry gasped, shivering uncontrollably as the other’s breath hit his damp skin. Tom paused, clearly deliberating, until the smirk that Harry was besotted with appeared. “Very well, you deserve a reward, darling. You can come.”

Tom dropped back down, taking Harry in his mouth again, and Harry screamed from both the overwhelming pleasure and his relief at finally being granted permission. Thoughts of Tom consumed Harry entirely as the other gave a hard suck, swallowing repeatedly as Harry came. His mind was fuzzy, his body sated, as Harry rolled onto his side and reached out, blindly grasping for Tom’s hand.

He only found cold sheets. Harry jerked fully awake with a name on his lips and a mess in his pants. Mortified, he neglected to send his usual good-morning thought to his angel. Instead, he frantically cleaned his clothing and sheets before burying his head in a pillow and groaning loudly.

Harry was grateful that his angel didn’t often follow his train of thought. The man only listened for projected ones, or negative emotions, and reviewed memories that caught his attention. Harry tried not to think about his angel’s identity since he didn’t want his angel to know that Harry knew before the man decided to tell him.

However, the fact that he was having wet dreams about Tom Riddle’s teenage self, while the older man resided inside his mind, was humiliating. Harry could only hope that the wizard would be kind enough to continue to ignore Harry’s fascination with his younger self. Or, if he was lucky, his angel was unaware of its existence and would remain ignorant… though Harry doubted that was the case.

Intentionally letting thoughts of the dream and his angel’s identity fade to nothing using one of his occlumency book’s recommended techniques, Harry tossed his covers off and walked across the terracotta tiles into his ensuite bathroom.

The Zabini family’s home was the fanciest place Harry had ever stayed. It was like something out of a magazine that Aunt Petunia would read. Every room was decorated with expensive artwork, enormous windows, bronze features, and beautiful fabrics. Hogwarts was a full-on castle, but it couldn’t match the level of extravagant style that this picturesque Italian villa had.

When he’d said so to the countess a few days ago, she’d laughingly told Harry he’d need to visit frequently as she would miss his compliments and admiration once he returned to Britain. Harry had flushed bright red and ducked his head, long hair covering his face to hide the small smile that stretched across it.

Now, Harry admired the outdoor view of the vineyard as he filled the freestanding tub with warm water and bubbles subtly perfumed with rosemary. He sunk into the heat with a satisfied groan letting it wash away the tension that the abrupt transition to the waking world had left in him. This was wonderful.

Except for the Imbolc rites, Harry had never really had baths before staying with Blaise. However, the beautiful guest room he’d been given had this enormous claw-foot tub, and he always had several hours to kill before going down for breakfast (Harry couldn’t kick the early-rising habit), so he’d started indulging in this extravagance every morning. Harry let his mind drift, fluttering from topic to topic, from memory to memory without any conscious direction.

Scenes from his summer flashed by – floating in the water, the sun burning into his skin before Blaise soaked him with a wave – sitting at his antique writing desk, penning a letter to Sirius while Hedwig sat on his shoulder – riding his broom with the treetops inches beneath him as he peered into the uppermost branches searching for a bowtruckle nest – wandering through the rows of grapes in the vineyard and talking about magic with Blaise – exploring the enormous library, fingers trailing along the spines of old books – Harry smiled to himself as he reminisced.

This was the best summer of his life, and it only stood to improve today.

Per Sirius’s advice, Harry had remained on Blaise’s property, keeping his head down. It turned out that the prank his godfather had planned was for him and Dudley, who’d returned from his “trip”, to walk around polyjuiced as Harry. That way no one would realise Harry wasn’t there anymore.

That wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the tricks Harry had been imagining, though the idea of someone wearing his skin was somewhat unnerving. Still, if it fooled Dumbledore, Harry wasn’t about to complain. Who cared if Dudley walked a mile in his shoes? The fat pig might learn something. Harry shook away thoughts of the Dursleys. They weren’t worth his time, especially today.

It was July 31st and, in honour of his birthday, Countess Zabini had promised to take him out shopping, albeit in disguise, and then attend a Turn of the Wheel ritual at one of her associate’s homes.

Unable to sit still, thoughts of Lughnasa motivating him, Harry got out of the tub, drying himself quickly. Before heading downstairs, he threw on his lighter boots and some comfortable summer robes. He hadn’t been to the kitchen yet, Blaise usually just called an elf named Luce, but Harry knew it’d likely be somewhere near the dining area. He only needed to open a few doors before he found the proper room.

Similar to the rest of the house, the kitchen was large with high ceilings and covered in tiles. There were several counters and cabinets styled in a sandy brown colour. Huge open windows stood near two stoves and a large farmhouse-style sink where Luce was washing dishes. Two other elves worked in the kitchen too, but Harry didn’t know their names. When he opened the door, all three had turned to stare at him with bulbously wide eyes.

“Hello,” Harry greeted politely. “I was hoping I might be able to make some bread in here today. Do you have the ingredients and the space to allow that?”

“Of course, Harry Potter!” squeaked Luce, snapping his long, thin fingers. Several cabinets opened and ingredients spilled out along with a large bowl and a loaf tin shaped vaguely like a human.

“Wonderful. What would you like in exchange for this?” Harry asked but the elf was already shaking its head.

“Luce is bound to this home. Luce needs no offering, not from a guest, nor one who watches the Wheel,” the elf replied surprisingly firmly. Harry nodded, performing the almost bow that the goblins had taught him, and didn’t say thank you. (His angel had drilled the concept of magical debts into Harry, so he tried to avoid thanking others, though Harry still felt horridly impolite most of the time.)

With the elves’ permission, Harry got to work mixing the flour, water, salt, and yeast into a ball of dough that was dry enough to knead. He floured the counter and his hands before taking a deep breath – seven counts in, hold for one, seven counts out – and started stretching the dough with firm presses of his hands in a familiar, rhythmic motion.

Focused entirely on his task, Harry didn’t notice the other person in the room until he’d finished kneading the dough and set it aside for its first proof. Stretching his slightly sore arms above his head, he heard an inquisitive hum come from behind him. Spinning around, his hand caught the flour container and almost knocked it to the ground. He saved it at the last second with his magic and carefully levitated it to its prior position.

“Apologies, Harry. I didn’t intend to startle you,” Countess Zabini said, from where she sat a few feet from Harry’s workstation on a newly conjured stool. She’d told him he could call her Alessia, but Harry didn’t yet feel comfortable with that level of informality with the elegant woman.

“Oh,” he whispered, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow in its pounding. “It’s fine. I was a bit caught up in the…” He awkwardly gestured to the counter in a wordless explanation. “Let me just clean up, unless… did you want to make a loaf too?”

“I am afraid I wouldn’t know where to start for that, though I enjoyed watching you work. Where did you learn to bake bread, Harry dear?” she asked, curiosity glinting in her eyes despite the elegant and formal body language.

“I’m not entirely sure, but it must have been my… relatives. I’ve been making it for as long as I can remember,” he mumbled, as he swept his arm out to clear the counter of excess flour and began to put away the yeast and salt.

Harry heard a loud snap before he took more than a step towards the cabinets. The items flung themselves out of his hands and towards their usual homes. Harry smiled and gave Luce another nod/bow before turning back to see the countess staring at him, that intrigued look only more prominent.

“Let me get you a stool. Why don’t you join me for tea? How long does the bread dough need to sit?”

“It’ll prove for about an hour. Maybe a little under in this heat,” Harry said as he joined her where a tea set had appeared and was pouring itself. Before he even thought to ask, a small splash of milk was added, while cream and sugar went into the countess’s cup.

“Have you always celebrated Lughnasa then?” she asked, twirling a finger to stir her tea before delicately picking up the cup and saucer. Harry sat up straighter and copied the way she held the cup, before bringing it to his mouth for a small sip.

“No,” he cautiously answered. Being interrogated by adults rarely went well for him, despite how friendly the countess had been up until now. He’d never spoken with her when Blaise wasn’t also present. “I recently learned of the Wheel of the Year, but the rituals are something I greatly enjoy and plan to continue.”

“I see. Do you enjoy baking? Is that why you learned so young?”

“I cooked for my guardians from a young age. I enjoy having the skill and being able to feed myself, I guess,” Harry said, surprised she hadn’t followed up on the wixen holidays topic.

“How interesting. What other hobbies do you enjoy, dear?” she asked. Harry guessed she must want to get to know her son’s friend better, but this felt like such a weird conversation.

“Flying and reading are probably my only other hobbies,” he said. Then, after a brief hesitation, he added, “I’m not sure I would consider cooking a hobby. It was part of my chores. Gardening too. I’d categorise them in the same fashion as cleaning.”

“No house elves on your property? I was under the impression the Potter home was quite old, one of those inherited from an ancient familia.”

“Uhm,” Harry said, mouth opening uncertainly before closing again. She thought he’d grown up in the wixen world. He worried about correcting her, considering many purebloods weren’t fans of outsiders, but knew it was better she found out now, so she didn’t think he’d hid his history. “I actually, er, I grew up with muggles, my mum’s sister’s household. I didn’t know there was a… Potter property.”

At this remark, her eyebrows went up and Harry tensed his shoulders, bracing himself for rejection and derision. However, the sophisticated pureblood only hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip of her tea before speaking.

“Would you like to find out more about it? We might be able to visit the local Gringotts branch and get a list of your holdings. Or possibly write to them,” she offered calmly. There was no disdain or pity in her voice after finding out Harry had grown up separated from his world.

“Oh, tha–, er, that’s nice of you,” he said quietly, relaxing slightly and quirking his lips into a small, grateful smile. “I’m already in contact with my account manager. I’ve been reviewing my holdings, but there’s so much to work through. I was focused on the investments rather than the properties, but, with what you’ve told me, I’ll look into that next.”

The countess nodded once then turned the conversation towards less treacherous subjects. They discussed the shops they might visit today, Harry’s favourite parts of the Villa, and the ritual planned for the evening.

The hour passed quickly and soon Harry was setting aside his tea. Flouring his hands again, he punched the air out of the bread before roughly shaping and dumping the dough into the tin for the second proof. Walking over to Luce, he asked the other for help.

“Would you mind putting this in the oven after thirty minutes and then taking it out once it’s baked? I believe I’ll have already left for the day, but it should only take an hour or so.”

“Of course, Harry Potter! Luce will do so,” Luce squeaked with a shallow bow. Harry nodded his head in gratitude. Harry crossed the room back to the countess just before the door slammed open with a loud clang.

“Here you both are! I’ve been looking all over,” Blaise whined as he gracefully stepped inside. The juxtaposition of his controlled gait and perfect posture compared with his childish words and tone made Harry giggle, which, in all likelihood, was the other teenager’s intention.

Blaise was a wonderful friend and a fantastic host. He always knew when Harry needed a break from people, never taking it personally. Blaise even ceased asking about the incident at the end of last year. The other boy had made a few circumspect comments early in the summer, cautiously circling the topic; however, when Harry rebuffed the attempts, he let the questions drop which Harry was incredibly appreciative about.

“Morning, Blaise,” he greeted cheerfully, joining the teen and his mum after a silent scourgify removed the flour from his arms. “Ready for our adventure today?”

“Absolutely! Oh, and let me be the first to say happy birthday!” the Slytherin exclaimed with a wide grin before turning to his mother, excitement sparkling in violet eyes. “Can we go soon, mamá?”

“Of course, caro. Gather what you’d like to bring and meet me at the entrance. We’ll walk to the apparition point beyond the wards. Harry, I’ll bring you a hat with some runes that should make you unrecognisable.”

“Thank you, Countess. I’ll be right down then,” he said before turning and running up to his room to collect his satchel and ignoring her reminder that he could call her by her given name.

Harry’s head was tilted back, staring at the canopy above him in awe as snow floated around him despite the day’s heat. He fluttered his eyelids as a snowflake got caught in one of his eyelashes.

“Here’s yours, Harry!” Theo said, enthusiastically shoving a cone loaded with three scoops of gelato into Harry’s hands. Harry licked up the side, tasting a combination of pistachios and strawberries, and groaned appreciatively.

“Like it, piccoleone?” Blaise asked, grinning. Beaming back, Harry nodded, mouth still full of ice cream.

Theo and Daphne, who’d met up with them as a surprise for Harry’s birthday, also smiled at Harry’s enjoyment. They were all congregated around a gelato cart on the most popular corner of the wixen side of Via Condotti, waiting for Countess Zabini to meet back up with them.

This district was, similar to Diagon Alley in Britain, where everyone in Italy went to replenish magical supplies and shop in a muggle-restricted environment. Harry tried to avoid staring like a tourist as he had when he was eleven. It was difficult when the beautiful fountain had dancing sculptures made of water and the nearby storefront display was a quidditch cake where figurines flew around goalposts and chased a tiny chocolate snitch.

Harry and his friends (he included Daphne in that category despite not knowing her very well yet) had spent all morning and afternoon shopping with only a brief stop for lunch. He wanted to see everything, and the others were keen to comply with his wishes since it was his birthday.

He purchased nothing himself but gained multiple birthday gifts throughout the day. Theo bought him a book on the history and progression of Nordic runes, while Daphne got him a fancy case for his fountain pens that he’d been eyeing.

Blaise had maliciously smirked as he forced Harry to sit for appointments with his hairdresser and tailor. It left Harry’s head significantly lighter and sporting a new undercut style. The wild strands on top contrasted with the shorn sides to look intentionally messy. He loved it. Nothing about his hair had ever looked intentional before.

There was also a promise of an entirely new wardrobe to be owled at the end of the week and a new outfit already packed into a bag for that evening. He’d protested it was too much, but Blaise had ignored all opposition in his quest to make Harry fashionable, even forcing him to wear a newly purchased outfit for the rest of the day.

Blaise’s mum found them just as Harry finished the last bite of his cone, carefully licking his fingers clean to avoid getting any excess on his new clothes.

“Here you all are! Come, come, we don’t have much time. Hold onto this teacup,” the countess urged, holding out a delicate china cup covered with blue and green flowers.

Reluctantly (he hadn’t exactly enjoyed the last portkey he’d used, though that was true of all forms of magical transportation), Harry placed a finger on the cup and squeezed his eyes shut in preparation. A hook in his gut, a stomach-turning spin, and he was crashing onto the hard ground, air knocked from his lungs.

“Harry, piccolo, are you okay?” a worried voice asked before a hand gently touched his shoulder. Harry instinctively rolled away, whipping out his wand and biting his lip against the nausea still churning within his gut.

“I’m… okay,” Harry replied once the disorientation faded, and he recognised those around him. “I don’t travel well, unfortunately, but I’m good now.”

He couldn’t stop the embarrassed flush that burned across his face, but thankfully, no one seemed too concerned about his reaction, all of them were just relieved that he was fine. Harry thought he’d caught a flicker of something in Theo’s eyes, but the boy acted perfectly normal as they walked up to the villa, so it must have been a trick of the light.

Theo and Daphne were staying the night so they could join him and the Zabinis for the ritual. Harry was pretty excited, but he knew they still had a few hours until it’d be time to leave.

He didn’t expect the birthday meal they’d prepared for him.

As more and more of his favourites were present at dinner, he’d gotten slightly suspicious. Yet, it wasn’t until a delicious-looking Pan di Spagna cake with the words “Happy Birthday, Harry!” iced onto it in purple, cursive letters appeared, that he fully accepted that’s what this was… his first birthday party.

He’d frozen at the realisation, breath trapped in his chest. Suddenly, his angel was there, joy and pride tingling in Harry’s chest and spreading to his fingertips. Taking a deep breath, relying on his angel’s regard, Harry leaned forward and blew out the candles at the others’ encouragement.

<< I wish to always have this. That you’ll always care for me as much as you do now. >>

There were no words in response, of course, yet warmth remained in his chest throughout dessert and Harry’s trek to his bedroom to change for Lughnasa. But as he dressed in the pale green and earthy brown robes the tailor had provided, Harry felt anxiety creeping in. Thoughts of asking for too much, of disappointing his angel crushed him until he felt himself cracking beneath the pressure.

Harry just wanted to be good enough. He wanted to deserve all the help he’d been given but feared he’d never measure up… that the moment his angel had a body, Harry would be abandoned.

The edges of his vision going blurry, Harry sucked in air that he’d accidentally been denying himself. A soothing trickle of comfort was running through him, washing away the panic attack that was building. Ashamed of how needy he was, but also embarrassingly pleased with the display of care, Harry let his angel help him lift the weight that had been so unbearable only moments before. Shared, it didn’t feel so heavy.

Unfurling from the curled-up position he’d unconsciously adopted, Harry stood. Blinking once, he was suddenly in his bathroom, staring into the mirror at a haunting, but beautiful, mask.

The facepiece was a ram skull made of off-white bone and two large, black horns rising from either side of his forehead. Several leather strands were looped around the base of the horns ending in decorative beads and black feathers that hung nearly down to his shoulders. It fitted against his face perfectly, shape and size complimenting Harry’s new hairstyle.

With his nearly glowing green eyes and his angel’s Yule wreath resting on his head providing violent shocks of colour, Harry looked uncanny, almost otherworldly. He quite liked it. The combination of the form-fitting robes and his angel’s latest gift made him feel formidable; it was like he’d donned a set of armour.

Confidence restored, Harry climbed down to the kitchen and, humming the harvest song he’d taught himself last year, cut the loaf he’d baked. He split it into five pieces, wrapping each in a thin, white tea towel that Luce provided.

Harry arrived at the entrance hall with his Lughnasa gifts. Everyone’s voices cut off when they caught sight of him and they stared, open-mouthed. Well, except for Countess Zabini who smiled softly at Harry, that same inquisitive glint in her eye from earlier.

“What a striking mask,” she complimented, stirring the others out of their daze. Both she and Harry’s friends were wearing simple leaf-patterned masks coloured to match their bright summery outfits of greens, yellows, and purples.

“I appreciate the praise, Countess,” he accepted before reciprocating. “You all look lovely too, like druids from a meadow, roaming around for the day.”

“What a way with words you have, Harry. I feel thoroughly admired with you around. I hope Blaise and I can host you again after this summer,” she replied, a hand resting on her son’s shoulder, who nodded in agreement.

“Me too…” Harry said, quieter than before, eyes drifting down. He noticed the white bundles in his arms. “Ah, I have a slice of bread for each of you? If you’d like? I made it this morning.”

Appearing thoroughly impressed and grateful, his friends and Countess Zabini accepted his offering. Harry didn’t know why they seemed to make such a big deal about it. It wasn’t like baking bread was hard.

Soon, it was time to go. They all gathered around another portkey and Harry steeled himself. At exactly 9:00 PM, magic hooked into Harry’s stomach and the entire group was transported into what looked like the entrance to an expensive vineyard. Harry was proud that despite the dizzying journey, he managed to keep his feet this time. Perhaps he could get used to this form of travel, eventually. Though he thought it might be the magical atmosphere that allowed him to recover more quickly this time.  

“Felice festa del raccolto!” shouted an elderly wizard, striding forward and rapidly firing more Italian directed towards Countess Zabini.

Now that Harry was here, he relaxed fully as the ritual magic danced towards him from the enormous bonfire. He belonged here. Whatever happened in the future, here and now, this was where he was meant to be.

Harry turned to Theo, who stood closest to him, and sharply grinned. He must have appeared quite intimidating with his sinister mask because the other gasped, apparently frightened. Feeling slightly impish, Harry tugged the boy behind him as he went to the bonfire. Stopping close enough he felt the heat of the flames and the magical pressure restricting his breathing, Harry retrieved the head-shaped bread slice he’d kept for himself.

Closing his eyes, he sang his harvest song and threw the sacrifice into the fire. Though he wasn’t watching, he knew that his friends, not only Theo but Blaise and Daphne too, had followed his lead.

A wave of magic spiralled out from the flames, immersing them before it flashed outwards into the vineyard. Letting go of his inhibitions, Harry danced. And the others followed, helplessly pulled along in his wake.

Voldemort was planning another heist.

He hadn’t precisely intended to steal from the Zabinis, not when he appreciated what they’d done for Harry, but he’d found one of his ancestors’ books in their warded section… and he wasn’t about to leave a piece of his heritage here, grateful or not.

Slipping from the bed Harry had only recently crawled into, Voldemort collected the decoy tome he’d prepared and left for the library, bare feet silent on the tile floor.

The Zabini library was expansive, with several noteworthy titles that had consumed Voldemort’s waking hours since he and Harry arrived. Walking through the shelves, dispelling alarms as he trailed his fingers across ancient tomes, Voldemort sought out the necromancy section containing his ancestor’s journal on evocation.

Cadmus Peverell had been fascinated with summoning spirits from Death’s domain. He’d performed an insane number of experiments on the subject, somehow without pissing off Death in the process, and documented everything. The crowning jewel of Cadmus’s research had been a stone etched with the Peverell family symbol. It could call back any spirit, with their mind intact, that the caster’s soul had a direct tie to.

Voldemort had been surprised when he’d looked at the detailed sketch of the rock to find that he’d seen it before. It was the centrepiece of the Gaunt Lordship Ring currently buried under the floorboards of the dilapidated shack where he’d first discovered it. He’d originally believed the etching was Grindelwald’s mark, but, apparently, the symbol had more ancient roots.

Arriving at the journal’s shelf, Voldemort pulled out the duplicate he’d spent the last few days creating. The forgery appeared perfect except for a few chapters he’d removed because they were Peverell family matters and should be kept private. He would be swapping this one for the original tonight.

The library’s protections weren’t very complex as the Zabinis no doubt assumed anyone invited past the villa’s wards wouldn’t steal books from them. All Voldemort needed to do was duplicate the “key” embedded in the book and link it to the library’s catalogue.

Timing would be critical; he couldn’t allow two copies to exist simultaneously, or worse, none, so he’d need to destroy the connection to the original at the same time he connected the replacement. Using Harry’s magic in his left hand to overwhelm and break the charm on the journal, he used his own for the delicate process of copying the imprint onto the forgery.

It was over in an instant. The copy was easily tied into the library’s wards and the actual version was freed. His magic signature would be present for a time but would likely fade before anyone with the skill to identify it noticed. And even if they did, it was his signature, not Harry’s, so, there’d be no way to tie it to his host.

Theft accomplished, Voldemort snagged the alchemy text he’d been working his way through and settled into his favourite window seat. He read for a few hours before returning to his and Harry’s bedroom. While hiding the Peverell journal in Harry’s trunk, Voldemort noticed a letter poking out.

Retrieving it, Voldemort saw that both sides of the parchment had words written on them. The first side was from Ronald. He invited Harry to watch a quidditch match, saying he’d pick him up with or without the muggle guardians’ permission in a few days.

The twins had written Harry a note on the outer side. The ink looked strange, faded at irregular points, and it wasn’t until he smelt a whiff of lemons that Voldemort realised why. Invisible ink, the muggle version. The twins must have disguised their letter until Harry could reveal it.

How clever to use a method most wixen wouldn’t be able to identify, particularly when their magical scans would reveal nothing. Voldemort was curious about what had driven them to such lengths, but he understood when he read the message.

Hello Harrikins!

We’re excited you’re coming to stay with us but figured you might want a heads-up on why you’re invited. We noticed last year you were tense when we questioned if you were planning to visit and – using our amazing genius inventions that we can’t wait to show you – we discovered why.

Dumbledore exiled you to stay with your awful relatives.

Now, had we known this before the summer began, we may have hidden you in one of our trunks and brought you home to live in Dad’s workshop. We’d sneak out food and water and fun for you! So, bear in mind, that this is always an option in the future.

But if you were banished, you might be wondering why then you are suddenly being “invited” to our humble abode for the remainder of the summer. Short answer is Dumbledore arranged it with Mum.

According to the old man, you should have learned your “lesson” by now. And he wasn’t worried about your safety any longer, something about new wards that identified unregistered animagi at Hogwarts?

The conversation was weird. Be careful. He’s the one that controls the mail ward on your house which is why you should be able to receive letters from Ron and Hermione now. He didn’t add us or Ginny, your other yearmates, or Slytherin friends. Just those two.

Which is why we hijacked his letter! Hopefully, you’ll find this, but if not, we’ll try to pull you aside as soon as possible. If you do read this, call us by our signature names when we come to pick you up on Sunday! See you soon!

Your loyal spies,

Gred and Forge

Those twins really were quite brilliant. That they were also loyal to Harry was a stroke of luck. Having two intelligent, willing spies placed so close to Dumbledore was not insignificant. The letter was full of information, some of which he knew; still, it was beneficial to have confirmation, especially since now he was confident his precautions had fooled Dumbledore into thinking Harry had stayed with the muggles.

It was absolutely wonderful to get one over on the old goat, but the info about new protections against animagi could complicate his plans for both Black and Pettigrew. He’d need to consider options for that. Perhaps it would soon be time to send Black running into the arms of the Light’s pet werewolf.  

Voldemort would have to ask Harry to be sure, but the boy likely planned to return before anyone found out he’d left the Dursleys. Losing access to the library and a private bedroom would be irritating, but it was the right choice. There was no use in raising Dumbledore’s suspicions when Black had spent all summer making sure Harry’s absence wasn’t discovered.

He and Harry returned to England two days later by portkey. Annoyingly, that only dropped them in Diagon Alley where Harry then caught the Knight Bus back to a park in Surrey and then walked back to Privet Drive with increasingly reluctant steps.

Sensing that Harry wouldn’t mind missing the confrontation with his aunt, Voldemort took over. Harry affably slipped aside to make room for his possession. Knocking on the door, Voldemort impatiently waited for it to open. When it did, the scrawny woman gasped dramatically and stumbled back inside, nearly braining herself on the bannister in her haste to retreat.

“Y – you freak!” she shouted, cowering further when this elicited a growl from the dog guarding the doorway to the kitchen.

A hulking form ambled out to stand beside the Grim, freezing when he caught sight of Voldemort in the entryway. At a closer glance, though still sizable, it was evident that the little piglet had lost some weight… and gained some self-preservation. He was warily staring at Voldemort, looking nothing like his past self while outfitted in a dirty apron and holding a spatula.

“There – there are two of you!” Harry’s aunt shrieked, obviously terrified, glancing back and forth between Voldemort and her son, thinking both were Harry. “One was bad enough!”

Voldemort sighed. Some people never learn. His eyes drifted towards the younger muggle again. On the other hand, this one had been reformed somewhat. While that wasn’t his intention at the beginning of the summer – he only wanted a way to punish the fat pig that wouldn’t set off the wards – perhaps he would let the boy live if Harry desired. The woman though was a lost cause despite her relation to Harry.

“You’re mistaken, as usual. Let me enlighten you,” he calmly said, before his hand shot out fast as a striking snake to grab her throat. She gasped, clutching at his arms and digging her nails in, but Voldemort only tightened his grip and met her eyes.

Entering her feeble mind, he untied the knot he’d left with a rough yank. It unravelled instantly, shaking her mental foundations. Now, she knew it was her own son she’d been starving and demeaning and treating like a slave.

He also removed the perception filter that had convinced her it was a house plant in the attic instead of her husband’s mutilated body. Voldemort was disappointed, but not surprised to find that the muggle had been dead for weeks. Apparently, the whole upstairs was starting to smell of decay even with the concealing runes he’d left, and the woman had been frustrated that she could not find the source.

Before he exited her mind, Voldemort added a trap. If anyone except himself tried to take her memories forcibly, her mind would shred itself (and if the legilimens was inexperienced, possibly their mind too). This should prevent Dumbledore from finding out anything useful from her if he ever decided to visit, as Voldemort knew the bitch wouldn’t say anything willingly. After all, she, correctly for once, blamed Dumbledore for Harry’s presence in her home.

When he let go, the pathetic shrew collapsed. Gasping denials to herself, she held her head in her hands and her thin frame shook. Scoffing, Voldemort began to climb up the stairs. He’d need to remove all traces of the body and the torture.

Without evidence to the contrary, everyone would assume Vernon Dursley ran away, especially since Black had been planting signs of that throughout the summer. Vernon went to work after weeks of absence only to be fired. Sightings of the man with another woman inspired rumours of an affair. Loudly proclaiming that he heard the streets were lined with gold in America, Vernon drank himself sick at the local pub.

The large batch of Polyjuice Potion was very useful this summer. Voldemort reached the top of the stairs when a hesitant voice called out Harry’s name. He turned and raised an eyebrow at the cousin who had tormented his host during their formative years.

“Uhm,” Dudley said, uncertainly, flinching a little and avoiding eye contact. “Welcome home.”

Voldemort barked out a laugh that made the other recoil. He glanced at the large black dog that was wagging his tail happily. He’d have a few more tasks for Black, but his newest servant had performed even better than expected.

“Well done, Black,” he said in admiration. “I’ll get a full report later.”

Chapter Text

One moment, Harry was walking down the street, each step slower and smaller than the last, and the next, he was sitting on the Dursleys’ front porch. He wore a different outfit and felt surprisingly well-rested. His trunk and Hedwig’s cage had been deposited beside him. Making sure no one was around to see, Harry flicked out a tempus. It was already four in the afternoon. The Weasleys would be here within the hour to pick him up.

Not sure what else to do, Harry leaned back onto his palms and closed his eyes. Having lost the day, and the dreaded interaction with his aunt, to his angel, his stomach churned with uncertainty. Shame and relief were fighting for dominance, but Harry bottled both up and set them aside. He performed his usual breathing exercises and let thoughts drain away into the memory of flight.

A door opened behind him, interrupting his meditation. Harry wrenched himself around to face the house before a black blur knocked him flat off the porch and into the garden.

“Ahhh, I’ll miss you too, Padfoot!” Harry yelled with a laugh before shoving the dog off him. He glared at his hair and dirt-covered clothes in exasperation. “You’re shedding?! I look like I’m wearing a fur cloak.” He swiped his hands down his chest to half-heartedly banish some of the black hair.

A hand was offered before Harry could push himself to his feet. Shocked, he stared up at Dudley with wide eyes. The other boy grimaced and looked away, but didn’t retract his arm. Slowly, Harry grasped his cousin’s forearm, allowing Dudley to grip his in turn, and lift Harry to his feet.

Harry let go immediately and took a few steps away. Physically brushing off the remaining dirt, Harry mumbled an automatic thanks before biting his tongue. He needed to get rid of that habit. (Not that it’d matter with a muggle like his cousin, they couldn’t owe or receive debts, at least, not ones enforced with magic.)

“No problem…” Dudley replied. The large boy hesitated and then got a mulish expression on his face. “I wanted to say…” Harry tensed, preparing to run. Despite having read letters from Sirius throughout the summer telling him Dudley had changed, it was never a good sign when his cousin’s jaw was locked like that, his mouth a stubborn slash. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For being such a git before and… for how mum and dad treated you. That was wrong.”

Harry gaped. Never in a million years had he expected Dudley to apologise to him. Before he’d sorted out how to respond – was Harry expected to forgive him? – the Weasley family’s Ford Anglia drove up with a happy toot of its horn.

The powder blue car slowed to a stop, then two ginger blurs bolted from the back and made a break for him. Harry spluttered a series of breathless complaints as George caught him around the waist, lifted him into the air, and spun him in circles. Fred stood nearby; his brown eyes narrowed at Dudley, who was frozen a few feet away, holding Sirius’s leash.

“Put me down, Gred!” Harry managed to say as he whapped the older boy on the shoulder, swinging one foot at Fred. “That’s just Padfoot and Dudley, Forge, no need to glare.”

As he was set back on his feet, Harry noticed Mr Weasley was already on the porch, almost at the front door. “Don’t knock!” he shouted before the portly wizard could raise his arm. “My aunt’s asleep with a bad headache, and my uncle is… he isn’t home. Business trip.”

“Harry, good to see you,” said Mr Weasley jovially. “I ought to at least let your aunt know you’ve been properly picked up and not kidnapped or anything. I’ll be brief, though.”

Harry prepared to argue, but a choking sound drew his and Mr Weasley’s attention. Dudley was on the ground with a giant, slimy, purple tentacle hanging from his mouth. A bit horrified and a bit fascinated, Harry stared as it steadily grew bigger and bigger.

“Good Godric! What happened?!” Mr Weasley shouted before flourishing his wand and running over. After a quick diagnostic, he turned, unimpressed, to glare at the twins in annoyance. Both were sporting mischievous grins, though Harry thought only Fred seemed properly smug while George’s smile appeared somewhat strained.

“Should have known. Can’t take you two anywhere without causing untold trouble,” Mr Weasley spitefully mumbled to himself. “You ought to ‘ave stayed in the car with Ron like I told you! Now, will the counter for an Engorgement Charm work?”

“Yes,” the twins chorused simultaneously. Mr Weasley mumbled reducio, and a pink light hit the tongue, reversing the growth.

The foot-long appendage slowly shrunk to a more normal size. Mr Weasley cut off the spell with an abrupt jerk of his wand before shooting a scowl at his sons. “Be useful for once and go put Harry’s trunk and owl in the car,” the older wizard snapped before adopting a more sympathetic tone to speak with Harry’s muggle cousin. “Now, Dudley was your name, wasn’t it? I’m terribly sorry about that, they were just –”

“’S alright, sir. I know a prank when I see one, and it was all sorted quickly,” Dudley said, unclenching one of his fists to pet Sirius with a shaking hand. The boy kept his eyes fixed on the grass like it held the answers to all life’s questions. “Anyways, I'd best be off. Got to walk the dog. I’ll let mum know you’ve got Harry, okay?”

“Oh,” Mr Weasley replied, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, I guess that’s alright then.”

Dudley gave Sirius’s leash a light yank towards the pavement and quickly moved away, though his cousin’s progress halted briefly when Harry spoke.

“Bye, Dudley. Have a good rest of the summer.”

“You too,” Dudley mumbled with a hesitant, timid expression on his typically confident, if dim, face. Then the large boy scuttled away, and Harry was yanked into the spacious backseat of the Weasleys’ car before they took off driving down the lane.

Surprisingly, Harry was sitting between the twins, since Ron had crept into the front seat while everything with Dudley happened. The magically enhanced vehicle had barely reached the end of the lane when Mr Weasley sent pleading eyes through the mirror at Harry.

“Say, Harry. If I just happened to knock the invisibility booster and flew the car back to Devon… er… There wouldn’t be any need to mention that to the missus, would there?” he asked.

“Why, I’m much too distracted catching up with everyone to notice what’s outside the window, sir,” Harry claimed, dramatically widening his eyes. The twins laughed uproariously while Mr Weasley gave him a wink and reached for the dash.

Harry turned to the window, excited to see what being in a flying car was like and caught Fred staring at him in contemplation. Harry twisted his wrist and cast a, hopefully unnoticeable, muffliato. “What’s up?” he whispered to the older boy.

“That wasn’t how I expected your cousin to react,” Fred said. “Based on stories I’ve heard from you.”

“He changed a lot this summer. My uncle disappeared the day I arrived, left on a ‘work trip’ and never came back. Aunt is a wreck about it and treated Dudley more like she does me this summer. That, plus boarding school… I’m not sure it’s permanent, but he’s less awful than before,” Harry whispered, parroting Sirius’s explanation from when Harry asked why the man believed Dudley was different now. A glance to his left confirmed George was listening too, despite his silence and worried eyes. “Recent good behaviour aside, whatever prank you pulled, he deserved it. What even was that?”

“Ton-tongue toffee,” Fred preened. “We invented them and have been looking for someone to test them for ages. Your cousin seemed like the perfect puffskein.”

The longer Harry calmly conversed with Fred, the more George’s tension eased. He completely relaxed after Harry casually patted the older boy’s knee, wordlessly communicating his lack of animosity. It wasn’t as if Harry would ever be mad about anything these two did to Dudley.

Letting the muffliato fade, Harry extended his arm into the front seat to poke Ron in the side. “Oy! I can’t believe we’re going to the Quidditch World Cup!” Harry exclaimed, and then Ron, matching his enthusiasm, took charge of the car’s conversation, speaking a mile a minute.

Ron told Harry about the stellar seats, the two teams, and the stats of every player before expanding in detail about the Bulgarian seeker. That continued until the twins made fun of Ron’s obsession, singing a silly song about him and Krum. Reminded of his previous irritation by the mocking tune, Mr Weasley shut down the teasing with a disappointed glare in the rearview mirror and a stiff lecture on wixen-muggle relations.

Thankfully, it wasn’t much longer until they touched down on the outskirts of Otter St. Catchpole and made their way up the dirt road to the Burrow. Everyone scrambled out of the car, and Ron helped Harry with his trunk while Mr. Weasley berated the twins.

“I spent half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons –” the man lamented while the group trudged along the path of stones.

“We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!” said Fred mulishly as they arrived at the front of the gravity-defying home.  

“That’s not the point! You wait until I tell your mother –” Mr Weasley said, reaching into his pocket.

“Tell me what?” shouted a voice from inside seconds before the door creaked open. Mr Weasley startled back and dropped a few keys and coins on the ground.

“Oh, hello Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley simpered when she caught sight of him, but then, like Jekyll turned to Hyde, everything about the warm countenance disappeared, replaced with a judgmental, cold woman. (For a moment, Harry thought he saw a pointy, long-necked woman with pursed lips.)

“Tell me what, Arthur?” she asked harshly. Her glare shifted from her husband to the twins before any response was given, already convinced of their guilt regardless of lack of evidence. “What have they done this time? If it’s got anything to do with Weasleys’ Wixen Wheezes –”

Harry and the others were ushered into the kitchen before she finished speaking. What felt like dozens of redheads, who’d all been congregating in the room, crowded close and smooshed into him. He wiggled a bit, letting go of the trunk when another hand forcefully claimed it.

Despite feeling like his breathing was restricted, Harry managed to push himself into a small clearing by the fireplace and escape the claustrophobic atmosphere. His reprieve was interrupted by Hermione, who took the opportunity to throw her arms around him, filling his mouth with her brown, bushy hair.

“Harry! It’s wonderful to see you!” she shouted over the other murmured conversation and Mrs Weasley’s shrieks. Harry winced when he heard a particularly loud “You stay where you are!” snarl from the mother.

Hermione’s expression went annoyingly sympathetic, but he still followed her when she somehow – like magic! – snagged Harry’s trunk and Ron from the crowd and guided them away from the commotion and up the stairs.

“Let’s get you settled in, yeah?” she said softly, as Harry released a sigh of relief. He was grateful to have successfully fled the oppressive atmosphere, though it was tempered by his frustration with Hermione’s coddling and guilt for abandoning the twins.

They managed to stay hidden in Ron’s room for about thirty minutes before being called to help set the table for dinner. When Harry arrived downstairs, a handful of spoons were shoved at him before he was hustled outside.

Two new young men Harry hadn’t met, but nonetheless recognised as the eldest Weasley sons, were ramming a few wooden tables together while the twins cheered. Percy popped his head out of a fourth-story window to complain about the noise. With an insincere apology and a wave of his wand, the larger of the two put everything to rights, even conjuring an enormous white tablecloth to cover the tabletops.

The man had red hair like everyone in his family, but his was past his shoulders and tied back in a low ponytail. He was also impressively tall, without looking all stretched out like Ron and Percy, likely because he had the shoulder width to match. All his clothes were black – ripped jeans, t-shirt, leather vest, and dragonhide boots all the same colour – and the style contrasted with his pale skin, ginger hair, and freckles to somehow make him look more interesting than if he’d dyed his hair black and tried to embody the stereotype fully.

Harry couldn’t stop staring. The man was just so, so cool. Harry even saw the hint of a tattoo peeking from beneath his sleeve and a single, tiny fang piercing in his ear when the man walked over to introduce himself.

“Hello, you must be Harry Potter. I’m Bill Weasley,” he greeted, taking Harry’s smaller hand in his own and giving it a firm shake.

Flustered at the attention, Harry mumbled back an awkward hello. The other brother, Charlie, came up to introduce himself too, but Harry’s attention was drawn back to Bill again and again. Even while sitting a few seats away at dinner, he couldn’t help sneaking glances at the man. It wasn’t until everyone was lingering over dessert and Mrs Weasley began complaining about the twins that he managed to curb his distraction.

“I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” she sighed, icy contempt blowing across the table and freezing the breath in Harry’s lungs. (Harry heard Aunt Petunia’s voice layered over the top, saying those identical, dismissive words at the single parent teacher conference she’d bothered to attend.) “It’s been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen to –”

Instead of words, a loud croaking sound emerged from her mouth when she tried to continue. The rest of the Weasleys fell silent. Their shocked faces were glued to Mrs Weasley, who continued to burp frog-like noises as she narrowed her eyes at the twins, despite the clear evidence that they were similarly stunned by her new voice. She pointed her wand at them, the tip glowing a deep red.

“I’m sorry!” Harry shouted, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’m sorry,” he repeated more softly. “I – I think that was me. Sometimes my accidental magic acts out when… when I’m reminded…”

Harry trailed off, but he could already see looks of comprehension on the younger generation’s faces. Fred was glaring murder at his mum, but George kept his eyes averted, staring at the table. Hermione and Ron held mixtures of pity and confusion, while Ginny was the only one who met Harry’s eyes with a steady, almost curious gaze.

“Well, nothing for it if it was accidental magic,” Mr Weasley said, casting diagnostic charms on Mrs Weasley’s neck. “Kids can’t help that, though usually they’ve grown out of it by your age, Harry.”

“Not necessarily, Dad,” Bill piped in. “There are some recent studies that show it’s more to do with core size. If Harry here has a large magical supply, it isn’t unusual at all for him to still be having accidental magic. The real powerful ones have it up til maturity.”

Harry glanced sideways at the wizard and received a wink for his trouble. Cheeks burning, he jerked his eyes back to Ginny, who was scowling at him now, though Harry wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was just upset by this whole situation. Harry was.

“There we go!” Mr Weasley happily proclaimed. “All fixed!”

Warily, Harry lifted his face to look at the Weasley matriarch, but she had turned back into Jekyll again and thus answered his unspoken question softly. “I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable, Harry, dear.”

He nodded, implying forgiveness, but irritation grew within him. She should be apologising to the twins, not him. They were the ones she’d been degrading. Harry just got to be the one to take revenge. Though he probably should have considered his retribution more carefully, he almost got the twins into more trouble.

“Look at the time,” Mrs Weasley declared into the stretched, wire-thin silence. “You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you – you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time.”

“Wow! Hope it does this time, too!” Harry exclaimed, forcefully burying his real feelings beneath his enthusiasm for Quidditch. “And sure thing, Mrs Weasley! I’ll mark the things I already have off it.”

Taking Mrs Weasley’s statement as permission to leave, Harry ran upstairs and grabbed his list, quickly annotating it with his fountain pen. Plucking a dozen galleons from his satchel, he figured that would be enough for all his supplies. After shopping in Italy, he only needed potion supplies and the course-required textbooks. He dropped the list and money in the kitchen and rushed back upstairs.

Surprisingly, the twins and Ron were already in bed. Bill and Charlie had taken Fred and George’s room while visiting, so the twins were sleeping in Ron’s room too. Using only the faint light from the new moon to see, Harry changed into his night clothes and then hopped into the camp bed set up for him. He began his nightly meditation, but a whisper disrupted him.

“Thank you, Harry,” one of the twins said, though he couldn’t tell which one it came from in the dark.

“Anytime,” he whispered back.

After possessing Harry, Voldemort cast a silencing spell on himself and a sleep spell on the other teenagers. He was already annoyed by the lack of privacy. Despite his regard for the twins, it was irritating not to have personal space… and the lack of library rankled.

Two weeks. It was only for two weeks. He internally repeated the mantra as he stepped over the prone bodies on the ground. Frowning when he realised the twins relied solely on blankets to soften the hard floor, Voldemort slid a cushioning charm underneath them. That should last them until the group’s early morning departure time.

He descended a few floors, checking in each room as he sought the sleeping form of Ginevra Weasley. He found her only one level above ground. Another somnia, this one for Granger, and then he continued down to the kitchen, floating the unconscious Ginevra behind him.

Voldemort cancelled the levitation spell and dropped the girl. She hit the table with a thump, but still didn’t awaken. Curiosity roused at her fatigued state, he set about casting his standard diagnostic charms on the diary’s container. He was grateful that, though the home was a hovel, it was at least a wixen residence and not subject to inspections based on the Trace.

The girl’s core was weaker than before, half empty. It was as if her magic had become unstable, prone to spontaneously dissipating, like a solid sublimating to a gas once disturbed. Her soul was also still degrading, albeit slowly, but the change in her magic was the cause of her fatigue. Draining what was left of her core, Voldemort watched his soul piece take control.

The diary woke abruptly, jerking upright and looking around in brief confusion before spinning to sit cross-legged and face Voldemort from its perch on the rustic, wooden tabletop.

“Risky,” it whispered, more movement of the girl’s lips than sound, and unintentionally ignited Voldemort’s rage.

He was still infuriated by the horcrux’s actions at the end of last year. Despite knowing the day was ordained by Fate and that he was the one who’d planned the entire time travel debacle, it only took a single thought about the stolen kiss to make Voldemort struggle not to crucio the horcrux in retribution.

“She’ll notice missing the World Cup,” it continued, rushing to finish when it noticed Voldemort’s ire. “I have a solution, though. I can implant false memories based on my experiences during the day.”

Well, well… his diary had been busy this summer. Voldemort knew he hadn’t discovered that particular legilimency technique until after graduating from Hogwarts. What had his audacious teenage horcrux been up to these past few months whilst unsupervised?

“And how did you learn to do that?” he asked agreeably, as if the topic were no more interesting than a discussion on the weather. It paled fearfully regardless of Voldemort’s pleasant tone, but managed to keep an apathetic expression on the girl’s face when it responded.

“I figured out how you were draining her core and allowing me to possess her. I’ve been experimenting with it… but no one has noticed, not even the girl’s mother!” it explained, quickly, justifying itself to Voldemort. In actuality, he didn’t care what it did with the girl. So long as it wasn’t attracting Dumbledore’s attention, the diary could use its host for whatever it pleased.

Still, it soothed his temper to watch it scramble to defend its actions while Voldemort only lazily leaned back and stared with raised eyebrows. The girl’s face flushed, and he briefly watched her form fidget in discomfort before putting the diary out of its misery.

“I don’t care what you do with the girl,” Voldemort dismissively waved away the issue. The diary relaxed minutely at his words. “Just don’t damage her too much that she won’t be of use.”

They sat still for a moment, the only sound the useless ticking of a broken clock, before Voldemort approached the subject that he’d woken the diary to discuss.

“Tell me what you know about Fred and George Weasley,” he ordered, fingers tapping against his knee arrhythmically as he impatiently waited for an answer.

Though the wandless transfiguration of the Weasley mother’s throat was trivial, Voldemort was concerned about the emotional reaction that inspired Harry to use the spell. The boy had described the fight in vague, almost humorous terms, but Voldemort could read between the lines.

At the least, Harry’s impetuous decision to redirect the witch’s anger from the twins towards himself was indicative of the self-sacrificing nature the boy retained despite Voldemort’s best efforts. Even hinting in their journal last night that Harry shouldn’t have said anything led to a harsh written refusal as swirls of emotional turmoil were shoved at him through the horcrux bond. 

Voldemort needed to address the twins’ familial issues. How their mother treated them was triggering for Harry, causing him to act incautiously. Harry wouldn’t ignore his friends’ plight, and though Voldemort had warned his host against drawing Dumbledore’s notice, it would be better for him to deal with the situation before Harry’s trauma reared its head and forced a reaction he couldn’t pass off as accidental magic.

“They’re the black sheep,” the diary quietly answered Voldemort’s inquiry, clasping its hands together in its lap. It curled its host’s shoulders forward as it leaned towards Voldemort so he could still hear it clearly despite the barely audible volume. “Their mother and father were disappointed with the number of OWLs they received, but I noticed that the scores were almost… complementary. For example, George got an O in transfiguration while Fred got an A. It was the reverse for charms, though.

“The rest of the family has been hearing explosions from their room for years, but ignored all implications of that. Turns out they were inventing new… things?” Voldemort lifted an eyebrow at the undescriptive term, and the diary hurried to give more details. “Things like candy that activate human transfigurations or artefacts that allow you to listen through silencing charms. Some of them are quite useful.”

Of course, their inventions were notable. The twins were intelligent. He’d seen that while they were helping Harry study for his exams last year, and in the clever way they’d passed a secret message to Harry. The diary started to speak again when a creaking, groaning sound echoed throughout the room.

“It’s just the ghoul in the attic,” it briefly explained, face contorted into a grimace. “Anyways, the family just found out they want to start a prank shop and sell these things. They created order forms with prices for their products, but the mother inspected their room a few days ago and...

“Well, she burned all the order forms and anything she found with their shop name. Luckily, from what I heard, she didn’t find any of the actual products themselves. Hopefully she also missed any research notebooks.”

That was infuriating. It caused memories of his first meeting with Dumbledore to resurface. Burning treasured items was a favoured tactic of the Light side, but he hadn’t thought they’d employ the same techniques against their children. He looked over at the diary and, from the far-off gaze, Voldemort could tell it remembered the same incident.

“Anything else?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Not that I can think of,” it replied hesitantly.

Had the diary collected no specifics on Fred and George as individuals? It was like the entire family treated them as a single unit, a beast with two heads.

“Can the girl tell them apart?” he asked. The dairy’s eyes widened briefly in surprise at the question but then narrowed in contemplation. It shook its head in the negative, and Voldemort’s brows drew together in a frown. “Can any of the family members?”

“Not usually. Though I haven’t interacted much with Bill or Charlie yet,” the horcrux replied after briefly pausing to consider the question.

Frustrating.

His mind flipping through plans, he almost missed the sound of the stairs creaking as someone came downstairs. The girl bit her lip, worried, but Voldemort just winked and pushed his diary a few inches further away with a flick of his fingers as he leaned sideways in his chair to look over the girl’s shoulder and see who was arriving.

One of the older children came down the stairs fully dressed and glancing at his pocket watch. The unobservant man froze when he finally noticed the two other wixen in the kitchen with him, startled to find witnesses to his attempt to leave unobserved.

Voldemort scowled instantly, recognising the young man as Bill Weasley, whom Harry had spent an entire paragraph waxing poetic about the man’s appearance of all things. He looked perfectly average to Voldemort, nowhere near the impressive style he’d expected after reading Harry’s description.

With a dismissive wave, Voldemort gestured to the door. The ginger’s brows furrowed in confusion despite how obvious Voldemort had attempted to make the wordless communication. Sighing in aggravation, he put a finger to his lips in the universal sign for ‘shush’ and then pointed at the door. Finally, the Weasley boy got the point and, with a grateful smile, quietly left the Burrow.

Taking Bill’s presence as a sign that the other Weasleys would soon awaken, Voldemort and the diary returned to their assigned bedrooms. It was not a moment too soon. Mere minutes after he’d released control, he felt the Weasley matriarch shake Harry awake.

Voldemort should tuck himself behind occlumency barriers again, but he wanted to see how well his diary acted the Weasley girl’s part when it was around her family. So, instead, he settled behind Harry’s eyes to watch the morning’s activities.

The four teenagers all got ready halfway in a daze. Harry was exhausted, no doubt partially due to Voldemort’s midnight activities, but he would perk up throughout the day. The boy was used to operating on little sleep. Still, Harry was dragging and was one of the last to arrive in the kitchen. He sat at the table beside Ronald, the twins facing them. Upon his entrance, he was given a hefty bowl of porridge and fruit, which he ate slowly.

Suddenly, Molly Weasley was screaming at her sons, causing Harry to jump in fright before he got ahold of himself. She pointed her wand and summoned a wrapped candy from George’s pocket. Voldemort assumed it was a sample of the product they’d so amusingly tested on Harry’s muggle cousin.

“We told you to destroy them! We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!” the harpy shrieked, reminding Harry and Voldemort of the boy’s aunt. Harry’s shoulder rose towards his ears in tension, and Voldemort pressed his comfort through the horcrux bond, receiving surprised relief in return.

“Accio! Accio! Accio!” the witch continued to cast. Voldemort nearly scoffed at the verbal repetition. No wonder she didn’t appreciate her twins. She was clearly so inept at magic that she couldn’t understand the skill required to invent the candy.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred roared furiously, defensively.

“Oh, a fine way to spend six months! No wonder you didn’t get more OWLs!” she retorted, and Voldemort saw the dig at the teenagers’ intelligence strike them both hard as they visibly flinched.

It was the last straw for Harry; however, after Voldemort’s warning last night, the boy’s reaction was at least more discreet. Harry saved the twins’ samples instead of attacking the witch directly again.

With a masterful, wandless reponere, Harry swapped cobwebs from the corner of the atrocious orange room with the candy in the wastebasket. Hidden behind Harry’s trunk amidst the messiness of Ronald’s room, it was doubtful the shrew would find them.

“Well, have a lovely time… and behave yourselves,” the Weasley woman said as everyone except her left for the match. Voldemort saw George peek into the wastebasket and expertly hide his surprise at finding it empty. After a long, wordless exchange with Fred, the teen poked his wand out of his sleeve to transfigure some of the waste into copies of the wrappers the woman would expect to see should she check.

Smart boy. Voldemort was impressed, not only with their resourceful improvisation, but also with their silent communication. Was it some form of legilimency? It certainly looked like it.

Voldemort was distracted from his thoughts when Harry sighed sadly. The boy dragged his feet and intentionally kicked up puffs of dust as he walked. His disappointment with how the day had started was flooding their bond. The mother-Weasley had sent them off with a screech and a reprimand, which had ruined the tone for the trip’s beginning.

The atmosphere was stilted as they trekked towards whatever obscure location the ministry had placed the nearest portkey, the group moving further and further from the Burrow. The twins were ignoring everyone. Hermione and his diary quietly whispered to one another, while the Weasley patriarch mumbled to himself and checked a compass. Ronald appeared to be sleepwalking next to the sullen Harry.

Voldemort pressed his own irritation through the horcrux bond, and Harry shuddered at the sensation before projecting a thought back. (To be honest, Voldemort had missed these conversations, though he knew it was essential that he only indulged in them rarely.)

<< I’m glad you agree with me. I used to think Mrs Weasley was the perfect mother, but the way she treats Fred and George... >>

Voldemort continued his and Harry’s empathetic conversation while the boy hiked up the hill. Harry’s mood lightened the longer they spoke, a happy hum hiding beneath his every thought. Once he reached the top, everyone split up to search for the ministry-assigned portkey. Within a few minutes, an unknown voice was calling for the Weasley hoard.

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” Weasley introduced as he shook hands with a wizard sporting a scraggly brown beard. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?”

Cedric Diggory was the Quidditch player Harry had competed against when the dementor fiasco had happened in his third year. Harry was looking at the boy, more like staring, and Voldemort caught a loose thought that he didn’t think Harry had intended to send him.

<< He almost seems like a light, fair-haired, Hufflepuff version of Tom Riddle. >>

Voldemort was deeply offended to have been compared to this soft, little twit. He didn’t see any resemblance. The teenager was too pleasant, too yielding. He had none of Voldemort’s sharp edges or intensity.

If this was what Harry thought Tom Riddle was like…

Then again, of course, Harry thought that. He only knew Tom Riddle from posed pictures in a yearbook and sympathetic, honey-coated words in his diary. His host wasn’t magically sensitive like Voldemort since he wasn’t a natural-born parselmouth. Harry didn’t see the soft, yellow mist radiating from Diggory. He couldn’t know how different the young man’s core was from Voldemort’s, how lackluster the teenager was in comparison.

Yet some of his initial outrage must have leaked through the horcrux bond without his notice. Voldemort could hear Harry projecting apologies even as the boy awkwardly responded to Amos Diggory’s bragging about his son beating The Harry Potter at Quidditch.

Wanting to halt the boy’s unnecessary repentance, Voldemort clamped down on his emotions, removing the flow from his side into the bond. It had the opposite of the desired effect, though. For some reason, Harry’s distress increased at the absence, so Voldemort switched tactics. He focused on his vague annoyance about Quidditch as a sport in general, and fed that into the connection.

<< Ah, okay. I know Quidditch bores you. And you should probably be resting anyway, not just riding around with me… Goodnight, angel. >>

With Harry’s goodbye echoing through his mind, supremely annoyed by everything that’d happened since he and Harry arrived at the Weasleys, Voldemort restructured his occlumency barriers, sinking into a restless meditative state and letting his subconscious take over his dreams.

Chapter Text

Tom was surprisingly excited about the World Cup, considering, under normal circumstances, he thought Quidditch was a complete waste of time and magic; however, he’d gained a new appreciation for the sport after being imprisoned within Ginny’s mind for so long. Flying was one of the few times the dull girl was bearable to inhabit.

The Quidditch match was also an opportunity to escape the Burrow. Even with all his experimentation this summer on draining Ginny’s core and practising his legilimency, Tom was bored. He’d only managed to take over the girl twice, each instance only a few consecutive hours after weeks of effort. The rest of the time, he had to listen to her spoiled complaints about homework and ridiculous fantasies about Harry.

But Harry was another reason he was looking forward to watching the competition for the Cup. The last time he’d been in Harry’s presence was during the boy’s little jaunt to the past, the day they’d kissed. Well, more accurately, the day when Tom had devoured Harry’s mouth. He’d reflected on the memory often over this painfully long summer, but the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t understand just what had come over him.

It was simply hard to believe he’d had such a visceral reaction to someone’s magic when nothing like that had ever happened before. He needed to touch the boy again, to discover if the magic was as devastating as he remembered or if it had just been the set of unique circumstances that created the inexorable draw Tom felt.

He hadn’t yet found a chance to test his hypothesis, but there would be an opportunity during the game. For now, he needed to act his part. Who knew how closely Lord Voldemort was watching?

“Ginny, dear, come here, this is the portkey,” the girl’s father ordered softly, holding out his empty hand, the other grasping a mangy, old boot. Tom grabbed it, ignoring how his skin crawled when the older wizard pulled him tightly beside him to make room for the rest of the Weasleys, the two Diggorys, Harry, and Hermione. It was cramped, but they all managed to connect with some part of the portkey before it activated.

The transportation spell was rough, the magic poorly settled, but Tom kept his feet on the landing. The younger Diggory, Cedric, chivalrously offered a hand to help Harry up, and Tom seethed, gritting his teeth against the sharp stab of rage that swelled within him when Harry blushed at the attention.

Thankfully, Harry didn’t stay to talk with the other teenager – if Tom had to watch Diggory flirt with Harry, he would castrate that interloper – instead, moving away to help Ron and Hermione stand as well.

Tom banked his fury, spinning around so Harry was no longer in his direct line of sight and taking in his surroundings. They were at the very edge of a forest, spitting distance from a muggle campground. He could see a sign designating a small hut as the registration site. The Diggorys approached the tiny shack immediately, but the Weasley father was still wrangling his kids in that direction.

When they finally arrived at the counter, the wizard who proclaimed himself to be an advocate for muggles, had no clue how their currency worked. It was painful to watch the man fumble coins and bills, unable to count them even though they were labelled with the number of pounds. Tom sniffed disdainfully before catching himself. Like her father, Ginny wouldn’t know any of this, having grown up pureblood and stupid.

He pasted a bemused expression onto the girl’s face, sighing internally in annoyance. It was necessary to keep up the act, he knew, to prevent anyone from discovering Ginny was still possessed. At least until he could escape, hopefully into a body which he alone would be the master of. He didn’t fancy being stuck in a book again, nor the idea of sharing with Lord Voldemort.

Tom may have underestimated his elder self before, but he had no intention of doing so again. The next time he attempted to get a body, the plan would be flawlessly executed so that Lord Voldemort had no opportunity, or desire, to interfere. But he would not risk being interred in a Sarcophagus for centuries, so Tom would avoid arousing suspicion for now.

Face pale at the reminder of Lord Voldemort’s threats, he glanced at Harry in search of distraction and was surprised by how uncomfortable the boy appeared. Harry’s shoulders were tensed, and his forehead scrunched in embarrassment. He awkwardly avoided looking at Arthur Weasley, who was exuberantly poking a map and shouting about how innovative muggles were as the group walked to their campsite.

Harry was also raised muggle, Tom remembered. They’d discussed it briefly when he was still a diary, and the boy had stated his home life wasn’t ideal. He’d known Harry didn’t consider all muggles to be benign – too aware of the cruelty the animals would exhibit within their own homes – but Tom was still surprised at the other’s reaction to the typical how-funny-and-completely-harmless-these-poor-muggles-are attitude that many Light wix held.

Pondering this new facet of the boy, Tom continued to watch Harry as the horde of redheads made their way to their assigned spot; however, his attention was soon preoccupied with the array of magical paraphernalia surrounding them.

Everywhere he turned, an over-the-top decoration was erected to support the Irish or Bulgarian teams. Across from their site was an enormous, elephant-sized shamrock that was still growing. A little further down the way, there were small children on brooms whizzing through the air a few feet above ground and tossing apples into a birdbath. (Tom would have been hard pressed to explain how that was a Quidditch decoration or which team it was meant to support.)

The ministry was so inept. They really ought to have deported the muggle owners while the wixen were renting the space for the tournament. Instead, they’d rather subject the campsite’s owners to hundreds of obliviates, and possibly brain damage, than temporarily infringe on the sovereignty of the muggles. The government had been terrible in Tom’s time too, as evidenced by their failure to react to a literal world war perpetrated by muggles, yet he honestly thought the cabinet under Fudge was worse.

The old administration was lazy and ignorant, but the current one was just plain foolish. Look at what a mess they’d made of a mere sporting event. Half the wixen were furtively casting magic, the other half flagrantly flaunting the statute. The only wix in the vicinity who was attempting to keep up the charade was Arthur Weasley, and he was terrible at it.

The whole thing was just ridiculous.

It was lucky Harry and Hermione were here. They’d managed to set up the tents using muggle methods, and the Weasley patriarch’s adherence to the rules didn’t extend past the superficial, so both were dimensionally expanded.

As Ginny and Hermione were the only girls, they had one of the tents to themselves. Upon entering, Tom wrinkled his nose and cast a quick spell to cleanse the scent of cat piss, then claimed the larger bedroom. At least he had the significantly less crowded space and was able to air it out before being forced to sleep inside. He dropped his pack on a dresser and then returned to where everyone was gathered around the fire pit.

“Well, why don’t you, Harry, and Hermione go and get us some water then, and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?” the Weasley father was saying, voice brimming with excitement.

“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron, reasonably. “Why can’t we just –”

“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” bellowed Mr Weasley, practically jumping up and down in giddy anticipation. “When real muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at it!”

Tom scoffed. It was absurd that cooking over an open flame was what the man was so excited about. He was like a prince playing at being a commoner for an afternoon of novelty. Memories of smoke slipping towards the sky from craters in the center of London, the smell of fire and ash burning his lungs briefly overwhelmed him before Tom managed to cut them off.  

The war was over. It didn’t matter anymore.

He firmly banished all thoughts of the bygone era, instead debating whether to tag along with the golden trio. Harry was holding an old saucepot, skeptically staring at the rusty handle, while the other two had pans of various sizes in each hand. Regardless of the state of their containers, the three Gryffindors were leaving to brave the crowds and find the watering hole.

Deciding he didn’t quite have the energy for that, Tom remained behind. He’d find a way to sit next to Harry during the game, but he didn’t have to go panting after the boy, reeking of desperation like Ginny would have.

Wanting some quiet, Tom entered the forest to collect wood for the fire. He was surprised the Weasley twins joined him, but as they were maintaining their rebellious silence, it wasn’t a bother. It was strange to see the usually lively adolescents ghosting through the trees, making no more sound than a shadow. He wondered what about the two had drawn Lord Voldemort’s attention.

“Can anyone in their family tell them apart?” Lord Voldemort had asked him with hard eyes, his irritation digging a line between furrowed brows.

And Tom had spoken honestly when he’d said no, not really. Sometimes, they guessed correctly, or Fred and George would intentionally portray a distinguishable feature between the two; however, most often, they were treated as a duo. Fred and George, George and Fred. Seldom was one name heard without the other.

But their magics were very distinctive. George’s was constantly moving in a systematic, smooth flow like a river winding its way down familiar paths. If George’s magic was a river, then Fred’s was an erupting geyser. Erratic and explosive, it was never still, constantly rushing and crashing even when he was calm. Of course, Tom could effortlessly tell them apart.

Tom knew that he had the advantage over other wixen in this regard. Since he’d been born magically sensitive, he wasn’t bound by visual clues or interpretations of personality. He could look at the twins and know which was which, just as he could with a spell, or an artefact, or an active rune. (He was eternally grateful that this skill was innate to his soul. If he’d lost the ability, if he’d become blind to magic, Tom could not have borne such an existence for so long.)

Though an inherent talent for all parselmouths, Tom wasn’t satisfied with simply knowing magic on a surface level. He’d developed the sense as far as it could go, trained himself to notice miniscule differences in magic, and studied books full of explanations so he could understand. Tom wouldn’t be content with his knowledge of magic until he could see any working, anywhere in the world, and instantly break it down to fundamentals, replicate it, and improve it.

This drive, this work ethic, was why he’d been leagues ahead of his classmates. It’d been gratifying but also frustrating when he realised he had no equal amongst the students at Hogwarts. Even Thadius Nott, who had mage sight and could see magic, if not recognise its purpose, did not attempt to keep up with Tom.

Perhaps this was what Lord Voldemort appreciated about the twins. Always striving to create new inventions, new magic, they were never satisfied, never lazy. Even now, silently picking up fallen branches, the atmosphere was charged between them, as if a whole exchange was happening, hidden from Tom’s view.

He padded over, instinctively avoiding the dry leaves and twigs on the ground that would have given away his approach. Lifting a stick from his pile, he poked George in the side. The taller boy jumped a foot in the air and spun around to face him with a glare, though Fred was hiding a smirk from his place behind his twin.

“So, mum seemed pretty steamed this morning. I’m sorry about all your toffees being tossed,” Tom offered, curious if they’d keep their grudging silence or respond. George looked over his shoulder, exchanging a long glance with Fred, and then they both began speaking in their typical alternating speech.

“Well, we may have managed to –”

“– save a few, with some help from –”

“– our lovely little heroic guest!”

“Oh,” he replied, legitimate surprise raising his eyebrows. He hadn’t seen Harry cast anything this morning, but all the magic Molly Weasley used while cooking could have masked the spell. And it wasn’t as if Tom incessantly stared at the boy.

“I didn’t notice, but that sounds like Harry. I want to help too, so I thought…” he trailed off, as if uncertain before making his suggestion. “Maybe I could sneak some stuff into Hogwarts for you? Mum doesn’t check my room like she does yours.”

“And what would you be getting in return?” Fred asked, his and George’s faces mirrors of skepticism.

“Why, I’m a Gryffindor! I need nothing other than the satisfaction of bravely risking our mother’s ire!” Tom declared dramatically. Fred’s face was alight with amusement, but George’s grew more suspicious.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word for emphasis. “Maybe some samples of your finished products wouldn’t hurt. And for you to stop teasing me so much about Harry.”

The second request had been an impromptu thought, one he hadn’t meant to voice, but that had erupted from Ginny’s throat in a rushed, frankly embarrassing fashion. Tom felt his cheeks heat in reaction to the unplanned words, but it had the benefit of convincing the twins of the sincerity of his offer. Both were smirking, the distrust fading.

“What do you say, Forge, think that’s a fair deal?” asked George, a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m not sure, Gred, not sure. I’m thinking we ought to make this a standing offer,” said Fred, with a faux solemn nod.

“Right you are, right you are,” George enthusiastically agreed, dropping one hand down heavily onto Tom’s right shoulder as Fred gripped the left.

“We want you to hide our inventions every summer and bring them to Hogwarts for us. In return, we’ll let you have a few testers from our supplies,” countered the twins, speaking simultaneously in a suddenly serious manner.

Tom nodded without hesitation. He would get to see what they were working on and have more information if Lord Voldemort requested it next time. Win-win for him. He opened his mouth to agree aloud, but the twins started speaking first.

“And as for teasing you about Harry, well –”

“– we will tone it down, but if you are actually into him –”

“– then you need to soothe the little green monster, or else –”

“– you’ll scare the poor boy off for good.”

A blush tore across his face, searing him like the flames from a wildfire. He couldn’t argue with the two’s insinuation when he had considered gelding Cedric Diggory just an hour ago. Every time he saw Harry express an interest in anyone else, Tom was furious, and since she had no subtlety, Ginny was even worse than him. Still, he could act as her conscience – and wasn’t that ironic – and guarantee she didn’t hex any of Harry’s friends out of jealousy.

“Deal,” he said, his voice coming out higher than he’d intended, his discomfort still evident. It was infuriating, but it helped sell the bit, so Tom bit his lip and didn’t attempt to obliviate the two brothers who wore wide Cheshire cat grins.

“Deal!” they repeated, before piling the few branches they’d collected on top of his own meagre supply. “Why don’t you take these back? Dad’ll appreciate having a supply. We’ll collect for a few more minutes and then return, okay?”

With a huff of annoyance, Tom began the trek out of the trees with his arms full of precariously stacked sticks. The fire pit was deserted when he returned, so he dumped the branches onto the ground next to the uneven circle of rocks. Selecting a few of the smaller pieces of wood, he carefully balanced them in a teepee shape before shoving a handful of twigs and leaves into the center for kindling.

He startled when a loud voice boomed from right behind him, saying, “Well done, sweetie!” The Weasley father had returned and was inspecting the pit. Tom realised Ginny wouldn’t know how to build a fire properly and was concocting a lie when the man spoke again, negating the necessity. “That looks very pretty!”

“Thanks, Da,” he replied, rolling his eyes at the wizard’s back. Tom subtly cast a wandless cushioning charm and then settled on one of the nearby logs to watch the muggle hobbyist fumble his way through lighting a fire.

The girl’s pureblood father plopped himself on the ground next to the stone circle and pulled out a dozen muggle matchbooks that were straight from the 1940s. One of the covers depicted a bent-over, sweating Hitler clutching at the world globe and waiting to be spanked. The anti-nazi propaganda art looked so utterly anachronistic alongside the wizard’s modern, informal attire that Tom’s breath caught for a moment at the jarring clash of eras.

But then Mr Weasley picked one up without a second glance, yanked out a match and accidentally pulled off the sulfur and potassium chlorate tip in the process. The pureblood paused, uncertain, before pressing it awkwardly against the wrong side of the matchbook, the one without the red phosphorus, and trying to get it to catch fire.

Thoroughly entranced, Tom watched the man joyfully destroy dozens of matches without a single one catching fire. Finally, the Weasley father managed to light one, and then he immediately dropped it!

Feeling equal parts astonished and derisive, Tom wasn’t sure he could take much more of this. He was about to ask if he could try when Hermione came over and offered to help the useless man. In his state of disbelief, he hadn’t noticed the golden trio and the older Weasley children returning.

Conjuring seats (to their father’s disapproval) or settling on logs like Tom had, the Weasleys surrounded the fire pit where Hermione had managed to get a few branches weakly burning. Unfortunately for him, Tom was stuck next to Percy Weasley, who, as the matron would say, was always puttin’ on airs above ’is station, ’e was. Tom had heard that phrase often enough that it echoed inside his head with the woman’s cadence and intonation.

Shoving the forties out of his mind once again, he concentrated on the conversations flowing around him. 

“I like Ludo,” said Ginny’s father with a contented hum as he exuberantly added another stick to the pit and almost stifled the flames. “He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favor: His brother Otto got into a spot of trouble – a lawnmower with unnatural powers – I smoothed the whole thing over.”

Hearing this ridiculous excuse, Tom let his eyes drift to Harry to see if he’d caught the obfuscation. The boy wasn’t listening; instead, he was captivated by whatever tall tale Bill Weasley was spinning about his escapades as a curse breaker.

Tom scoffed, but didn’t try to steal Harry’s attention, conscious of the twins sitting nearby. It would have been a useless effort anyway. Tom doubted Harry knew that it was his celebrity presence that had garnered the Weasleys such high-end tickets.

The Weasleys may be unusual in their fanatical Light beliefs and their strangely fertile family, but they adhered to many of the pureblood traditions, including the exchanging of favors.

This was evident in the number of ministry workers who began to drop by their campsite. Bagman was the first, apparating in and cutting off Percy’s dismissive remarks about the Head. He was given a brief introduction to Harry, who awkwardly stumbled through a few minutes of small talk, before the wizard went on his way.

Most of the others who stopped by to chat with Mr Weasley were ushered away with a bland smile and a “think about that memo I sent, we’ll talk more later”, or a “too bad about the last raid incident, well you’d best be off”. A special few who had the man’s favour were given leave to approach Harry.

Arthur Weasley was not the stereotypical sacred twenty-eight pureblood, but he surely knew how to use an opportunity to his advantage. After all, Harry Potter was a living legend, the icon of the Light. Just having the boy publicly associated with his family would push his agenda within the Ministry. Others would reconsider their stances if they thought their beloved saviour was standing on the opposite side of an issue; alternatively, if the boy-who-lived supported them, they could rise to new heights.

Except, even those who Harry spoke with walked away disappointed. Tom watched the boy treat an ancient Wizengamot member, an Auror recruit, and the Head of the Improper Use of Magic all with the same polite, yet distantly aloof attitude. It was amusing to see the officials react to what they thought was a brush-off from the teenager. Harry likely had no idea that he was giving all these wixen the impression that they weren’t worth his time.

The boy was entirely oblivious to his political status and Mr Weasley's machinations happening in the background. If anyone actually important had come, Tom might have considered stepping in to help, but for these mid-level officials, it wasn’t worth the effort. He let the afternoon pass, delightfully diverted by watching Harry slight every politician who made it through the Weasley barrier.

Eventually, it was time to leave for the stadium. Everyone gathered up their purchased merchandise and walked along the magically lit pathway (seriously, the Ministry wasn’t even trying to keep the muggles unaware). Their tickets were for some of the top seats, which, in a sport played on brooms, were the best available.

When they reached the end of the stairs, they were in the Minister’s box. Fudge pulled Harry away so he could be introduced to the Bulgarian entourage, which involved a lot of miming since Britain’s Minister had no idea how to cast a translation spell. To Tom’s expert eye, he could confidently say that the boy-who-lived was about to become the boy-who-lived-to-yell-bugger-off.

Harry held his tongue, though, until the Malfoy Lord approached him. Then there was a spike in the boy’s magic, a sharp, avada-green flare that was a precursor to an explosion if the scowl on Harry’s face was any indication. Tom decided to step in and save Harry from the ramifications of an unsavory outburst in front of so many higher-ups.

“Sorry Minister, hope you don’t mind if I steal him! Come on, Harry, let’s grab some seats in the front! You’ll share your omnioculars with me, right?” said Tom, sliding a hand into Harry’s and tugging him away. He flashed a bright smile at the Minister, who gave an amused chuckle and waved them off, murmuring some comment about cheeky teenagers to Malfoy.

Heat was spreading up his arm from where his skin touched Harry’s, Tom’s magic twirling and spinning out of his control, while Harry’s was reacting with even stronger movements. They were… the two magics were nuzzling each other. Each was thoroughly intertwined with the other, desperately coming together like two lovers embracing after a long period apart.

It was bizarre.

It was erotic.

His physical reaction to touching Harry was, in a word, intense. Though not as strong as during and after their kiss, there was a heat coiling through him, an ache deep inside. He was desperate to take more, to claim Harry fully. Yet, in Ginny’s stupid fucking body, Tom was unable to do anything other than hold on when Harry squeezed his hand.

At least he could say for sure that the passion in their last kiss had not been due to circumstances. Tom was attracted to Harry Potter, and one day, he’d make this boy his.

But not today.

Holding his desires under tight control, he guided Harry to the first row, passing the other Weasleys who were already seated until they were at the far end. Then he reluctantly released his hand so the boy could sit between him and Ron.

There were some seats to his left, empty except for a house-elf a few away. She was practically vibrating in anxiety, feet swinging in the air, and her hands covering her eyes. Harry, the naïve, tempting boy that he was, leaned over Tom and struck up a conversation with the fae.

“Are you okay?” he asked the elf, who squeaked and peeked out between her fingers. Harry tipped even further across Tom’s lap, so that his shoulder brushed Tom’s chest. Tom squeezed his hands together to avoid dragging the boy closer and smothering him in Tom’s magic.

“Winky is not liking heights,” the elf replied. “But Winky is okay. Winky is saving a seat for her Master Crouch.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry replied, a thoughtful look on his face. The boy was focused on the bound fae, still pressed against Tom and ignorant of the battle he was fighting with himself. “Would it help if you couldn’t see past the railing?”

When the elf gave a tentative nod, Harry flicked his fingers and created a small, hovering window of pink tulips to hide the view of the stadium. Then he returned to his seat, no longer halfway in Tom’s lap. It was both a relief and a disappointment.

Tom took a deep, careful breath, forcing his magic to settle back into his diary and around the girl’s core. The majority listened immediately, but there was a resistance that set Tom on edge and had him warily eyeing the Crouches’ house-elf. There was a pull towards the creature, though so faint it was almost unnoticeable when compared to the interaction with Harry’s.

It wasn’t clear what his magic was reacting to and, for someone who knew his magic better than even his own mind, it was supremely unnerving. It felt like he had an ongoing transaction with the fae, but the elf was bound to the Crouches and couldn’t make additional vows. The mystery of it was driving Tom mad, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Needing to find out more, Tom cautiously extended a small coil towards the house-elf, but it didn’t interact with her at all. Instead, his magic bypassed the elf entirely and then disappeared into thin air behind her. There was a startled gasp from the empty seat, and the elf jerked her head to stare to her left, bulging eyes becoming even wider in her shock.

Though he could hardly hear it over the sounds of the other audience members, there was a harsh, muffled whisper from the space that wasn’t as empty as it appeared. Whatever the mumbled words were, the elf froze in place. Her magic was fighting itself, trying to force her to fulfil two contradictory orders.

One of the Crouch family members must have slipped into the stadium to see the match. But that didn’t explain why his magic was reacting to the wix. Tom extended another tendril of magic, but it leapt, not towards the empty seat, but into the space immediately in front of him.

Ginny’s wand was instantly pointed forward, though still unobtrusively hidden from sight. A stunning spell was on the tip of his tongue, but then the wix spoke and derailed Tom’s plan entirely.

“Master… I knew you lived,” reverently breathed the invisible wix, “I’ll come find you, my Lord, I swear.”

Tom’s heart was pounding in his chest, his shoulders shaking with tension as he held his breath. Somehow, whoever this was, they knew he was possessing Ginny, so he couldn’t knock them unconscious and turn them over to the Ministry. Not without risking them revealing his presence. He felt a brush of fabric against his knees and shins – it must be an invisibility cloak, an expensive one that camouflaged a wix’s core in addition to their body – and then the person moved away in the direction of the stairs.

The feeling in his magic eased now that the Crouch wix had left, and Tom also relaxed in increments as time passed and nothing else happened. But then a new fear occurred to him, and he groaned, loudly enough to gain a concerned glance from Harry that he waved off.

He shuddered to think what Lord Voldemort would do to him once the man discovered a random wix was galavanting about with the knowledge that the Weasley girl was possessed by him.

Harry desperately wished it was time for the game to start already. He’d been introduced to more ministry workers today than he’d met in his entire life and, honestly, it was kind of annoying. All he wanted to do was prepare to watch Quidditch and hang out with his friends, but the minute he’d entered the box, Minister Fudge’s pudgy hand had wrapped around him like a grindylow.

Despite wanting to scream, Harry forced a smile onto his face that he was pretty sure was more like a grimace. He tried to be polite as these strangers thanked him over and over for killing You-Know-Who, but it was trying his patience.

When Fudge was distracted by one of the Bulgarian Ministry’s aides, Harry took a few careful steps away. He’d almost made his escape when a cane whacked down on the ground in front of him with a loud crack. Harry spun to the side, hand going to his forearm where his wand was holstered but not drawing it. He scowled at the wizard who’d startled him. It was none other than Draco Malfoy’s infamous father.

“What’s your hurry, Mr Potter?” Mr Malfoy asked, sneer drifting into a smirk as he took in Harry’s wide eyes. “Oh, did I scare you? That was certainly not my intent. Draco didn’t tell me just how… delicate you are.”

“You’re right, Father, I should have warned you. Did I forget to mention he faints at the sight of dementors? The poor, cowardly lion just can’t handle such a fright,” Draco said, slinking out of the older Malfoy’s shadow. Harry clenched his hands into fists, annoyed. A cutting insult was clawing its way up his throat, but was interrupted by Ginny’s familiar magic enveloping him.

“Sorry Minister, hope you don’t mind if I steal him!” she chirped, ignoring both Malfoys entirely as she took Harry’s hand and began pulling him away. “Come on, Harry, let’s grab some seats in the front! You’ll share your omnioculars with me, right?”

Eternally grateful to be saved, Harry squeezed her hand in thanks. Her steps faltered momentarily before she turned her head to wink at him. Then they were at the front of the box, and she was guiding him the rest of the way to their seats.

The view was incredible, perhaps even worth the hassle of dealing with Fudge. Harry stared at the enormous pitch in awe until a small eep caught his attention. A house-elf sat a few seats away, cowering and covering her eyes. Curious about why she was attending when clearly terrified, Harry leaned over and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Winky is not liking heights. But Winky is okay,” she replied in a high voice, puffing out her chest in pride, “Winky is saving a seat for her Master Crouch.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry replied, accepting her reasoning. She must really care for her family. He knew that elves typically preferred home-bound tasks and hadn’t realised that they could leave their land like this. Harry was a bit disappointed in whoever this Master Crouch was, though, for not making accommodations for her fear. Perhaps Harry could provide some relief.

“Would it help if you couldn’t see past the railing?” he ended up asking, unsure if that would solve the problem or make things worse. Harry always preferred to see how high up he was, but then again, he had no problem with heights.

Winky squeaked and nodded in agreement, so Harry let some of his magic flow out from his hand using a fenestra paradisi spell he’d been meaning to try wandlessly. Once he saw it working, he smiled at the elf and then turned his attention back to the arena.

When a loud voice echoed throughout the stadium announcing the teams, Harry was so excited it felt like he was about to shake right out of his skin in anticipation. He already knew most of the players’ names, positions, and stats thanks to Ron, but he wanted to see if Viktor Krum lived up to the hype. Bagman called the seeker’s name, and Harry zoomed in with his omnioculars to watch the risky acrobatic tricks in astonishment.

Krum was fantastic on a broom. The wizard was incredibly graceful as he glided, spun, and soared through the sky. The way he flew, it was like he was one of those figure skaters Aunt Petunia always watched during the Olympics.

Harry was so distracted watching Krum that he missed the introduction of the mascots. It wasn’t until he felt a body thump into the seat beside him that he realised something had happened. He glanced over to see a beet-red Ron being berated by Hermione for… it sounded like he’d tried to jump onto the pitch, hundreds of feet below, which was mad.

Ron’s frowning face went slack when ethereal voices began singing, drawing Harry’s attention for the first time. He redirected his omnioculars away from the players and towards the ground where a flock of veela were cheering for the Bulgarian team. Their song was cut off suddenly when fireworks, in the shape of shamrocks, exploded.

Leprechauns with parachutes were floating down and throwing galleons at the crowd as Bagman announced the Irish team. The large gold coins were pelting the attendees, including the guests in the minister’s box. Harry laughed as one of them rammed Malfoy in the eye and another caught Fudge right in the mouth. Ron, who had dropped to his knees to scoop up handfuls of the coins, deposited several into Harry’s lap.

“There!” he said, grinning happily. “Now you have to get me a Christmas present this year!”

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what he meant, but then he remembered the deal he’d made earlier. He wouldn’t buy the other teenager presents at the holidays if he accepted the omnioculars Harry had wanted to purchase for him. Harry rolled his eyes but kept mum on the fact that the gold was fake.

Ron really ought to crack open their creatures textbook at some point, though. Leprechaun gold wasn’t a real currency. Harry was pretty sure they were just illusioned rocks or something. Leprechauns used gold to attract and catch fish, which was a substantial portion of their diet. He also thought they did the same with humans at one point, though Harry wasn’t sure if they ate them or not. Of course, the ministry regulated that kind of thing nowadays, so it was uncommon for them to kill muggles or wixen anymore.

Harry jerked his gaze up to the sky when Bagman shouted “GO!” and finally started the game. He’d barely seen the snitch before it disappeared, instead trying to track the seekers and other players as they flew. Everyone was so fast, though, that he could barely keep his eyes on the quaffle!

Shouting half the time, the other half spent gaping, Harry watched the game. In the last ten minutes, he couldn’t stay seated; instead, Harry was pressed up against the railing and staring at Krum, who streamed blood behind him as he frantically chased the snitch. In the end, the score was ridiculously close, only a ten-point difference. Had Krum been thirty seconds faster, the teams would have tied. Two minutes faster, and Bulgaria would have won.

Turning to Ginny, he was surprised to find her already smiling at him. Something about the tilt of her head and the angle of her smirk made him feel hesitant. Why was that pose so familiar? But then she shifted, and whatever it was he’d noticed faded. She was just Ginny again.

“Helluva game,” she said, holding out the omnioculars he’d lent her. “Can’t believe the twins won their bet.”

“I know!” Harry exclaimed, bouncing on his toes, too amped to keep still. “That was so close! And Krum catching the snitch was just… wow.”

Ginny laughed at his lack of acceptable adjectives but seemed similarly enthused by the Cup’s ending. It was certainly the best sporting event Harry had ever been to. He couldn’t wait to try some of the manoeuvres Krum had performed. As he walked with the Weasleys and Hermione back to their tents, he imagined what it’d feel like to pull off a Wronski Feint successfully. He was eagerly anticipating the start of his fourth year at Hogwarts, more motivated than ever to return and practise Quidditch with the Gryffindor team.

Chapter Text

Despite being pleased that Harry had a pleasant day attending the Quidditch World Cup, Voldemort did not need the gushing play-by-play the boy gave him during their meditation afterwards. He’d been carefully selective about watching Harry’s memories, ever wary of their blurring souls, and tonight, he felt no need to see anything specific when Harry told him about every single moment of the match with exacting detail.

Sitting up from where Harry had lain down to sleep, Voldemort reached for the boy’s satchel and retrieved a book he’d snuck into one of the pockets before they left. Rituum Carnis et Aspectus Mortiferae was an older, more complete version of a text he’d already read, written in the original Latin. Comparing this earlier edition to the translation, there were several misconceptions that the interpreter had accidentally incorporated. The modern author hadn’t even included several diagrams of the ritual arrays essential for understanding many passages.

Needless to say, Voldemort was quite satisfied with the purchase and had been happily consuming the more accurate version for the last few days. He was reading the chapter on blood infusion and its impact on thirteenth-century blood adoption rituals, paging back to analyse the example array again, when he noticed something peculiar.

Basic ritual arrays were usually closed circles. This allowed the conductor to contain the magic without overpressurising any specific point. Although more complex shapes were possible, they weren’t common except in restricted fields, like necromagicae, which tended to use triangles instead.

This book contained several ritual arrays in the shape of both triangles and circles, which wasn’t odd, but there were also a few stand-alone rune strings in vertical lines. Initially, Voldemort thought these were fragments, unfinished pieces that could be incorporated into a ritual working, but now he wasn’t sure.

If you joined some of the arrays, they formed the Peverell Family symbol etched on his Gaunt ancestral ring and written in Cadmus’s journal. There was always a triangle, a line, and a circle where the runes at each intersection matched. They fit together, like puzzle pieces.

Fascinating. What would these hidden arrays do? Before he could extrapolate their purpose, Voldemort needed to know what each piece contributed. He flipped back to the section on blood adoptions and barely managed another sentence when a faint, terrified shriek sounded through the tent before abruptly cutting off.

Though the first scream hadn’t been enough to wake the Weasleys, Voldemort could hear more muffled shouting. The noises were getting louder, or rather, the people doing the shouting were closer. How annoying. Whatever escapades were going on were sure to rouse the others should they continue, and he really, really wanted to finish this book tonight.

Voldemort decided to make these ruffians shut the hell up so he could return to his reading in peace. Carefully tucking the book back into the bag and away from prying eyes, he ducked out of the tent opening. Turning in the direction he’d heard the loudest shouts, he stalked forward with long strides. Even limited by Harry’s short legs, he was soon several rows down. Suddenly, a whooshing sound filled the night air, and half the tents surrounding him caught fire.

The voices changed from aggravated to panicked as a mob of wixen ran past him, several bumping into Voldemort’s shoulder in their haste to flee. He skipped to the side, letting a haze of his magic surround and protect him; one less competent witch fell, screaming as her fellow wix trampled over her in their flight. Shaking his head in derision at the crowd’s selfishness and the witch’s weakness, Voldemort moved opposite the flow to search for the source of the flames and panic.

He found it near a muggle cabin. A dozen or so wixen in familiar black cloaks, their faces covered with skulls, were gleefully casting spells at their surroundings as they held a muggle family hostage fifty feet in the air.

Death Eaters.

Ministry workers were arriving with loud cracks but did not attempt to confront the attackers, likely worried they’d kill the family in retaliation. Instead, they tried to help evacuate the remaining wixen and extinguish the fire.

Casually taking a few steps forward, Voldemort avoided the tripping hex he could feel whipping towards him from his blind spot. He could hear cackling, but it abruptly cut off as another spell, a childish locomotor wibbly curse, fractured against the shield he’d inconspicuously erected by barely twitching his fingers.

With a sigh of pure vexation, Voldemort turned to confront baby Malfoy, who was pointing his wand at him and, once again, had left his mouth gaping open. His bodyguards were with him, bracketing the blond-haired teen on either side, and still periodically giving rough grunts which Voldemort thought might be their attempt at laughter.

“Funny seeing you here, little frog. Shouldn’t you be finding shelter? A lone amphibian, even accompanied by two monkeys, is an easy meal for wandering weasels and foxes,” Voldemort mocked, though the warning was true. This wasn’t a safe area for children, regardless of their parents' allegiances. “Just look at what happened to your father in the bookstore. Attacked in the middle of Diagon, what is the world coming to?”

“I’m perfectly safe!” Malfoy shouted, crossing his arms and stamping his foot, as he turned an ugly, splotchy red in embarrassed rage. The boy tried to smirk as he made another juvenile insult, but to Voldemort, it came across as a constipated sneer. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like being spotted, would you? D’you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.”

The boy cackled again, the apes grunted, and Voldemort rolled his eyes. Normally, he found the schoolyard antics amusing, but today the additional delay was only pissing him off. He opened his mouth to respond – possibly to curse the obnoxious child badly enough he’d run crying for his mum – but another tent exploded, the loud bang interrupting him. Several piercing screams immediately followed.

“Scare easily, don’t they?” Malfoy taunted, another attempt to get a rise out of Harry in this ridiculous charade of a rivalry he kept perpetrating. Deciding he didn’t care anymore, Voldemort didn’t react other than a half-hearted hum. Instead, he kept moving closer to the advancing Death Eaters, only stopping once Malfoy, quite literally, ran to place himself in front of Voldemort.

“Where is the Weasel you mentioned? Wasn’t he supposed to play daddy today for you, the famous orphan? What’s he up to – trying to rescue the muggles?” the boy drawled, grey eyes maliciously lit up with the reflection of the flames, a smug smile twisting the sharp lines of his still splotchy face.

“I suppose I don’t need to ask where your parents are. Out there wearing masks, are they?” he responded, lazily waving his hand towards the commotion behind the young Slytherin.

“Well…” Malfoy replied, smile fading into a pointy sneer. “If they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?”

Voldemort hummed again, this time in agreement, and slowly advanced, forcing Malfoy to either back up or move aside. Ill-advisedly, the boy retreated. Like prey, he withdrew unthinkingly, eyes wide as he fumbled backwards.

“I guess the real question is, what are you doing on the sidelines, little frog?” Voldemort asked, his voice casual, but still menacing. He could see Malfoy involuntarily swallow; fear crept into the boy and flickered across his face like the shadows cast from the light of the flames. “No mask for you?”

Silence was his response as Malfoy continued to retreat. Then, as Voldemort knew was coming, the boy tripped on the uneven ground and tumbled onto his arse, still instinctively scrambling away, the instinct for flight in the face of such a dangerous predator too strong to ignore.

He took one more deliberate step forward, until he was looming over the other, then, looking down at the Malfoy Heir, he unspooled his magic, letting it saturate the air around him with its dark aura. “Come now, Draco, don’t you want to participate? Conjure a skull mask and join your father. What’s the thrill in a little underage magic compared to muggle hunting? Go on. What’re you waiting for? Get up.”

Voldemort tilted his head and watched, waiting to see if there would be any fight in the boy, but Malfoy only whimpered, averting his eyes. It was disappointing how easy it was to inspire abject terror in a pureblood Heir. A disadvantaged position, a taste of his magic, and they always became cowards.

“Get up,” he sighed, reining his magic in, pressing it under his skin again, and moving away from where Malfoy remained frozen, shivering in the dirt. He glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, giving them a clear gesture to help the fool, and then he moved on.

At this rate, he wouldn’t be getting back to his book until tomorrow. This was already a bigger hassle than he’d anticipated, and it was particularly aggravating that the band of pureblood idiots – the ones in front of him, not the trio of teenagers he’d left behind – were making such a scene under his banner, using his name.

It was going to be so annoying to start all over again now that Lord Voldemort was synonymous with the absurd blood purity ideology.

The skull masks, the black flowing robes… it was the uniform he’d had his followers use whenever they attacked, to avoid identification. The Prophet had coined the name first – Death Eaters – and he’d done nothing to counteract it. After all, the point was to inspire terror, the name could only help.

But he should have put more effort into aggrandising the group’s purpose, not just their magical acumen. It was one thing for the general public to believe the ministry’s propaganda, unavoidable when the Light controlled the media, but for his own people to?

It was pathetic.

Voldemort hadn’t realised just how stupid his following was. They ought to have known he didn’t care. For fuck’s sake, he was a half-blood! A significant number of their members were also dirty blooded. He’d repeatedly proven with his actions that he took any to his cause, mudblood or pureblood or foreigner, it didn’t matter, so long as they had power. So long as they had potential.

So long as they had magic. That’s what the war was fought over. It wasn’t the ridiculous fairytale of good versus evil (righteous versus wicked, Gryffindor versus Slytherin) that Dumbledore read to each new generation. Lord Voldemort was fighting the establishment.

He fought the ministry that catered to the muggles’ wishes after the witch burnings, the ones who reacted to the threat by destroying the magical world’s history, culture, and progress. That damned authoritarian government was intentionally turning their entire population into mindless, little sheep who only did what they were told… all to appease the Light’s sensibilities. And it got so much worse after Grindelwald’s failed coup in Europe.

It was outrageous. Censorship was rampant, and misinformation even more so. Wixen society was stagnating while the muggles advanced in leaps and bounds. Whole subcultures had disappeared, and entire branches of magic had been lost. Their society grew weaker and weaker every year, and no one noticed!

That was what the Death Eaters were for. He’d tried to start in government with the Knights of Walpurgis. But even with several prominent Heirs on his side, there was no ability to enact change, not when Dumbledore could veto bills before they saw the Wizengamot floor.

Any peaceful grassroots movement couldn’t take hold when the people were convinced that magic not explicitly taught within ministry-approved texts was Evil and Dark. The entire population of Britain was indoctrinated in Hogwarts as children and then controlled by the Prophet’s sensationalised news as adults.

There was no fixing the system from within, not with the tools he’d had available at the time. Thus, Voldemort had decided to use one of history’s most expedient solutions. Terrorism. Anarchy. He’d created the Death Eaters to rip apart the current ministry until nothing was left, burn it to ashes. Then he would have rebuilt something new and better once the old regime perished.

It had been working too. Almost all the corrupt ministry higher-ups had been dead, the average wix had stopped believing the ministry’s lies, aurors had resorted to the so-called Dark Arts, including the Unforgivables, and even Dumbledore was beginning to teach illicit spells he never would have approved. All these were reactions made to compete with Lord Voldemort’s Death Eaters, unknowingly playing right into his hands.

He’d been so close to winning… but then Fate and the prophecy, Harry and the horcrux, and everything had fallen apart while he suffered as a wraith in Albania. His mantle, his cause, was rotted from within. It had wasted away without his guidance. All that was left were these uppity, little bigots with silver spoons up their arses being puppeteered around by Dumbledore for his strawman arguments.

The British Ministry of Magic had regrouped and become even worse than before. Hogwarts’ library had experienced another purge under Dumbledore’s orders and dropped more classes. Those who’d believed in Lord Voldemort had either been sent to Azkaban or faded back into their roles as cogs of the machine.

He sighed again. It was a problem for another day. (He didn’t regret his choices or the repercussions, not when they’d led to Harry.) There’d be plenty of time for rebranding and political restructuring later. He was immortal. For now, he had to deal with these insipid fools and then return Harry to his tent.

Disillusioning his body, Voldemort waded into the mob, automatically clocking which followers’ magical signatures he recognised. There was Lucius, as he’d expected, and Narcissa too. Thaddius Nott (Theo Nott’s father), Atticus Crabbe and Roman Goyle (the two apes’ fathers), and the elderly Avery and McNaab family matriarchs. Others were familiar, but many of them, Voldemort had no idea who they were underneath their masks.

Not only were his original followers bandying about in their old Death Eater garb, but they were also kitting out fresh blood. Perhaps it was time this whole enterprise was reminded of who exactly they were representing.

“Morsmordre,” Voldemort calmly intoned, lifting his hand to the sky and letting a wave of his magic crash over the Death Eaters, searing those whose forearms he’d marked. He’d created this spell when he’d first begun the movement, but hadn’t known how iconic the symbol would become after the first war.

Seeing it now, even thirteen years later, everyone froze. Death Eaters and aurors alike stared up at the skull and snake emblem in horror. Pop! Lucius apparated away first, cowardly fleeing. Like father, like son. He broke the stillness and inspired his fellow purebloods to run as well. Voldemort grinned viciously, using the residue from their escape to mask his trace, apparating away just as the muggles fell and the ministry workers scrambled to save them.

He appeared beside the fire pit near the Weasleys’ two tents. Walking back in, the place was empty. The family must have run when they saw the Dark Mark. Voldemort once again settled himself comfortably onto Harry’s bed, stretching his feet out as he summoned his necromagicae book from where he’d stored it in Harry’s bag. A pleased hum slipped from his lips. Maybe he’d have the opportunity to finish it tonight after all.

Harry gasped awake. Disregarding the exhaustion that weighed him down still, he sat up and looked around with blurry eyes to see what had yanked him from his deep sleep. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The tent’s bedroom was the same as when he went to bed, except… well, it was awfully quiet, wasn’t it?

Crawling to the edge of the mattress, Harry silently stood and peeked up at the top bunk where Ron ought to have been. It was empty. He slipped out of their room to survey the rest of the tent, but no one except him remained. Harry was alone. Uncertain, he returned to his room to change out of his pyjamas and repack his bag. He slipped the satchel over his shoulder, then carefully checked outside, with his wand held at the ready.

It was quiet here too, and still dark. Harry thought he could see smoke lazily circling up towards the night sky, obscuring the stars and moon, but there was a light. Hovering over the campground was a glowing green human skull with a snake lazily slithering between the teeth, its tail hanging from one of the eye sockets.

The emblem had a gothic vibe that Harry thought was pretty wicked. He knew he’d seen it somewhere before, but wasn’t sure which team the design was meant to represent. However, he was certain the ministry was furious about the blatant disregard for the statute of secrecy. Still, it was an impressive display.

Interesting, magical emblem aside, the absence of the Weasleys and plumes of smoke implied last night may have gotten out of hand. Either Harry had slept through whatever antics the Quidditch fans had gotten up to, which was very unlikely, or his mental passenger had taken control of his body last night.

He doubted the Weasleys would abandon him without a good reason, so he should see what his angel could tell him. Settling onto one of the logs, Harry closed his eyes and breathed, sinking into a meditative state. A journal was pressed through the mail slot as soon as he was in his cupboard. It dropped onto the cot with a quiet thump. Harry picked it up and flipped to the latest page to read.

Hello Harry,

I’m sure you’re wondering what happened last night. I was awake and reading when the theatrics began. At the time, I didn’t realise quite how widespread the commotion would be, so I went to see what was happening.

About a dozen individuals in old Death Eaters’ clothing and masks had taken some muggle hostages and were haphazardly shooting spells at everyone else. There was a fire that ministry officials tried to put out, and many wixen were being evacuated. Then the Dark Mark was cast, and the vandals ran with their tails tucked between their legs.

I returned here to find the Weasleys had already left, though I’m sure they’ll return to collect you in the morning. I spent a few hours reading, but you should still have enough time to prepare an explanation for your absence that will assure them of your safety once they track you down.

Your Angel

Harry laughed, a bit hysterically, as he was abruptly thrown out of his trance. There was a terrorist attack on the campground, and his angel had returned to the tent to read his book. Perhaps the man should have been a Ravenclaw when he was human. Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Harry tried to imagine a reasonable excuse for the Weasley parents so they wouldn’t think Harry’d been up to anything shady.

A walk through the woods in the middle of the night was a perfectly normal activity, wasn’t it?

Maybe he could say he heard a noise and thought someone needed his help. Then, when he saw the flames, he returned, only to find they were all already absent. That fit with a Gryffindor’s prerogative and was likely something the family of lions would understand, perhaps even praise.

He stretched his arms over his head, noted the faint hint of lighter blue in the east and the significantly dimmer Dark Mark. (He was embarrassed he hadn’t recognised it and had, in fact, admired the design like it was a piece of art and not the signature of a Dark Lord.)

It was almost dawn. Harry decided to pack up the tents so they could leave immediately once the Weasleys found him. Scanning the surrounding campsites to ensure no one else was there to witness him performing magic while underage, Harry waved his wand. The poles and fabric from the larger tent collapsed and folded into an easily tied bundle. He was about to do the other one when two loud cracks sounded from immediately behind him. He spun to face whoever had arrived, keeping his wand steady, but quickly lowered it upon realising it was only Bill and Charlie.

“Oh, hey,” Harry calmly greeted. “I was hoping someone would come back soon. Want to help me do the other tent?”

Charlie began laughing uproariously while Bill gaped at Harry in alarm.

“Oh, Merlin – we – forgot – Harry – bloody – Potter!” Charlie choked out between gasps for air and involuntary giggles after every word. “Mum’s probably havin’ a fit.”

“Harry,” Bill whispered, slowly approaching Harry before dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Have you been here all night? What happened?”

Harry shrugged and nodded, involuntarily blushing a little under the man’s intense scrutiny.

“S’all right. I was fine. Just came back to the tent, saw everyone else was gone, and waited here,” Harry replied vaguely. “Oh, and I packed up. Well, halfway. See?”

Bill and Charlie both turned to look at the small bundle of fabric with the rope he’d tied around it. Charlie broke out into guffaws again while Bill brought his hand, the one that wasn’t on Harry’s shoulder, up to cover his eyes. It was a very dear-god-why-is-this-happening-to-me kind of pose that Harry had seen Aunt Petunia adopt often when he was younger and still prone to asking her questions.

“Alright. Let’s do the other tent, and then I’ll apparate you back. Okay, Harry?” Bill replied in a resigned voice.

Harry bristled slightly at the tone, his previous admiration of Bill immediately cooling to a more indifferent attitude. He still thought the curse-breaking was brill, but the wizard was more like his brother, Percy, uptight and dismissive. It wasn’t as if Harry had meant to stay behind, nor was it the man’s responsibility to keep track of him. Harry didn’t need a minder, not when he’d practically raised himself. Plus, he had his angel for protection in extenuating circumstances.

But Bill Weasley didn’t know any of that, and Harry wasn’t about to start spilling his secrets just because someone was a little condescending. Instead, he gritted his teeth, forcing his mouth into a smile as he agreed to the plan.

Charlie took down the second tent with much less finesse than Harry had shown, and then they all took off, Harry gripping Bill’s arm and letting himself be compressed into atoms and redistributed outside the Burrow. Immediately letting go upon arrival, Harry dropped to his knees and was sick in the bushes. That’d been the worst trip yet.

“Sorry, sorry, I don’t usually side-along other people. I know that was rough,” Bill apologised, sounding sincerely contrite. The wizard vanished the puke and then helped Harry stand up, keeping a hand on his elbow when Harry swayed dizzily. They cautiously made their way to the front door. As soon as Harry stepped into the kitchen, he was ambushed, pulled face-first into a messy apron.

“Harry! We were so worried! Where have you been?! Oh, I can’t believe what happened. I’m so happy you’re alright, dear.”

Swallowing a mouthful of flour didn’t exactly make him feel better, but it didn’t make him feel worse either. Mrs Weasley’s over-the-top theatrics didn’t bother him like Bill’s chagrin had, since he knew she’d have done the same for anyone she cared about. Instead, he felt a slight warmth at being considered worthy of the concern and even attempted to hug her back for a moment.

Then he extricated himself, coughing, but smiled at the teary mother, hoping she read the gratitude on his face. She softly smiled back, so Harry was pretty sure she had. In typical Weasley fashion, she ushered him over to the table for a plate of food. He discreetly scourgified his face and then ate as much of the eggs and sausage as he could bear, while listening to her side of the story regarding the events of last night.

Apparently, the twins, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, had returned hours ago by portkey, but none of them knew where Harry was when she’d asked. This was the first she’d seen of Charlie and Bill since they’d left, and her husband, Arthur, was at the ministry. She hadn’t seen him either, but he’d sent a patronus message saying he and the older boys were okay but wouldn’t be home for a while.

There had already been an emergency dispatch of the Prophet, which was how she’d found out Death Eaters had attacked the camp. Harry could see the newspaper sitting on the table, decorated with a large black and white photo of the Dark Mark on the cover. When her explanations drifted into repetitive expressions of concern, Harry interrupted her with a yawn and was ordered to go upstairs for a nap.

He made it to the fourth landing before he was snatched off the stairs and carried into the twins’ bedroom. Both frantically looked him over, patting his head and arms like McGonagall had after the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. He sleepily reassured the two, but held still for their inspection so they could soothe themselves that he was all in one piece.

“I’m fine, George,” he mumbled as the boy continued examining him even when Fred moved to sit on his bed.

“He’s not George, I am,” Fred said, the well-practised line filled with fake offence.

“Yah, right, Fred. Sure, you are,” Harry replied, starting to roll his eyes, but instead yawning widely and closing them. When he opened them again, the twins were eerily still, staring at him with astonished expressions. Harry giggled quietly but wasn’t sure what he’d said to spook them in his half-asleep state. Speaking of –

“Hey, can I nap in here? I’m exhausted.”

“Of course, Harry,” they whispered in concert. Then George guided Harry over to the empty bed. He did manage to successfully roll his eyes when the older teen tucked him in underneath the blankets, but they were closed before George returned to the other side of the room, joining his brother. Exhausted, Harry drifted off to sleep amidst a feeling of certainty that the twins were still watching him, eyes full of shock.

Days passed quickly while Harry stayed at the Weasleys, September approaching at a rapid pace. He’d been able to sneak the candy he’d rescued back to the twins and had noticed that the strained dynamic between them and their mum had improved after the World Cup. When he’d gently probed Fred on the matter, he’d told Harry she’d apologised when they’d returned, sobbing in upset that the last words she might have spoken to them were shouts about their OWLs.

He was happy that the tension within the twins had eased, though the household was still full of strained behaviours. Mrs Weasley was stuffing them all like sausages to ensure the cakes and pies she made while stress baking got eaten. Mr Weasley was always at work or exhausted, his dark shadows growing exponentially by the day. Percy dominated the dinner conversation by proclaiming the ministry’s perfection to anyone who would listen.

Harry always tried to escape whenever he was drawn into the latter. But no matter how much he hated politics, avoiding some topics was impossible when they were discussed repeatedly.

The first time he’d heard about how Percy’s boss had let go of his house-elf, Harry was intrigued. He’d met the elf, Winky, at the Quidditch match. She’d seemed very invested in the Crouches, so it was a shock to hear she’d been sacked. Harry also hadn’t realised a wix could fire the magical beings willy-nilly, like they were shop clerks or somethin’. His books about elves were confusing, full of contradicting information, but several had mentioned they were bound to the land. Was Crouch going to tear up roots and move because he didn’t want Winky as a servant anymore?

He’d tried to talk about it with Hermione and get her perspective since she was the only other person who’d grown up unfamiliar with house-elves like Harry. But, somehow, despite all her research before and during Hogwarts, she hadn’t known about the beings until recently. Since Harry didn’t feel confident enough to explain, he’d redirected her to Percy.

After listening to the many arguments that erupted over the following days, Harry regretted that decision immensely. From what little Harry could interpret, it seemed Hermione was both furious with Crouch for freeing Winky and for having her bound to him in the first place. On the other hand, Percy was defensive of his boss and thought Hermione was too ignorant to have a valid opinion.

Needless to say, after that brief foray into the political discussions, Harry was staying out of it. Instead, he spent most of his time playing small mock Quidditch matches with Ginny, Ron, and the twins in the apple orchard. They had to be cautious that Mrs Weasley didn’t see Ginny when they played – the woman worried more about her since she was a girl, which Harry thought was unfair – but they were usually left alone for hours, so it didn’t inhibit their games.

Harry got to attempt some of the stunts he’d seen Krum do, and all of them practised the drills that Wood had made them learn, so by the time August 31st arrived, he was confident that the Gryffindor team was going to smash the other three Houses and win the Cup. 

As per usual, the night before they went to King’s Cross, the Weasley home was pure chaos as all the younger children prepared for another year at Hogwarts. Harry was ready before everyone else, since he quickly and efficiently washed and packed for himself. (He was uncomfortable with anyone else touching his stuff, but, in particular, he didn’t want to risk Mrs Weasley seeing some of the books he and his angel owned.)

He was lying on the camp bed in Ron’s room, playing with a practice snitch. He’d let it float, tracking it with his eyes, and then, when it was nearly out of reach, flashed his hand out to catch the golden ball before releasing it and starting over again. Ron was also in the room, but he was still packing half-heartedly. Every few minutes, he’d set aside the cards he was playing with to shove clothes and books haphazardly into his trunk. They both looked up when Mrs Weasley bustled in without knocking, a pile of freshly laundered robes draped over her arms.

“Here, you are, these are for you,” she said as she plopped a portion of the stack onto Ron’s comforter. “Don’t forget to fold them properly so they don’t crease.”

“Wait, what’re these?” Ron asked, disgust twisting the words into something confrontational as Harry instinctively tensed. He was holding up a set of velvety maroon robes with yellowing lace on the collar and sleeves. Harry saw that at some point, a matching pointed hat sewn from the same material had fallen onto the floor nearby.

“Dress robes!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed. “It says on your school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes this year… robes for formal occasions.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not wearing that, no way,” Ron said with a mulish look as he shoved them back at his mother, nearly causing her to drop the other items still in her arms.

“Everyone wears them, Ron!” she replied, clearly exasperated. She pulled out her wand and, with a flick, the robes folded and packed themselves into his trunk. “They’re all like that. Your father’s got some for smart parties!”

“I’ll go starkers before I put that on,” Ron dramatically declared, flopping himself onto the bed. Harry was starting to feel uncomfortable, it was awkward witnessing the childish tantrum. He knew these robes were likely bought used and must be severely out of date, especially when he compared them to the beautiful new set Blaise’s tailor had created for Harry, but he didn’t understand why Ron was whining about it.

“Don’t be so silly. You’ve got to have dress robes, they’re on your list!” Mrs Weasley said with finality after a few minutes of arguing with Ron. Then she headed for the door, clearly done with the conversation. Harry pretended to have suddenly gone deaf when Ron mumbled “Why is everything I own rubbish?” to himself afterwards.

Thankfully, the twins scampered in at that moment, bringing a light and rambunctious aura with them as they enthusiastically made themselves at home on Harry’s borrowed camp bed.

“Guess what we just overheard!” they said in concert, glee brimming in their eyes.

“What?” Harry asked, playing along as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Charlie’s been hinting all week that –”

“– there’s supposed to be an event at Hogwarts!”

“And if Charlie’s gonna be there –”

“– then that means there’s gonna be dragons –”

“– and we just heard Percy say something to dad –”

“– about preparing for the competition!”

Their sentences ricocheted between one another without any effort on their part, amusing Harry and annoying Ron, as they flailed their arms during the explanation. They wrapped up their performance with another simultaneous statement. “We reckon the ministry is putting on a tournament or something!”

“Huh,” Ron replied, irritated countenance shifting to a more considering mien. “Think there will be prize money?”

The twins nodded as their faces grew blank, though Harry noticed how Fred’s eyes seemed to burn with rage. He wondered what that was about, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask before the twins were thinking up crazier and crazier ideas about what the tournament would entail. By the end, they had Harry laughing so hard he got a stitch in his side.

Soon after, all four of them went to bed when Mrs Weasley shouted up the stairs at them to quiet down. All in all, it wasn’t a bad end to the surprisingly lovely summer, though Harry was looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. He wanted to go to his classes and play Quidditch. He wanted to write to Sirius and go to Hogsmeade. He wanted to read in the library and celebrate in the Ritual Room.

As he went to bed with a wide smile, eyes squeezed shut to block out the violently orange room, Harry was hopeful that this would be his best year yet.

Chapter Text

On the train, all Ron and Hermione could talk about was the Death Eater attack. Harry had heard the story of them running through the forest and then being whisked away by a portkey a hundred times. The narrative was ever-changing, growing more ominous whenever Ron performed another retelling. In the version Seamus and Dean were currently listening to, eyes wide with rapt attention, the Death Eaters numbered in the hundreds and were always just ten steps behind, so Harry decided to slip away and meet up with his other friends.

Trailing his fingers across the walls and doors as he travelled through the train cars, Harry peeked in windows and hoped to see Blaise or Theo. He was towards the back when there was a strange disconnect between what he felt and what he saw. The edges of a doorframe were beneath his fingers, but his eyes didn’t notice anything.

Harry was certain Blaise was in this hidden compartment. There was a hint of something, an aftertaste of sea salt and dark chocolate that he associated with the boy. Harry listened to his intuition and knocked. A few seconds later, the screen gently slid open. Theo was there, shaking his head in exasperation as he pulled Harry into the compartment.

“We had a notice-me-not charm on the door. How did you even find it? Or know it was us?” the boy asked as Harry sat beside him. Blaise was chuckling from where he lounged across from them, leaning against the window with his feet propped up on the seat. Daphne was on the same bench but was properly upright and reading a magazine.

“Oh, er, just a gut feeling,” Harry answered, somewhat honestly. He couldn’t say he’d knocked because he’d smelled the Italian boy’s signature fragrance. That’d be too weird, especially when the scent of Blaise’s cologne wasn’t strong enough to detect now that he was in the cabin despite how it’d lingered in the hallway. Honestly, he was starting to think it’d all been wishful thinking, and that it was pure luck he hadn’t interrupted a bunch of seventh years.

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at you doing another impossible thing,” Theo mumbled with a roll of his eyes. “Anyways, how was the rest of your summer?”

“It was good for the most part. The World Cup was brilliant! We had amazing seats. And it was nice getting to play Quidditch every day. How was yours? Did any of you get to go to the Cup too?”

“We did,” Blaise replied with an opaque, sideways glance at Theo, who’d tensed slightly when Harry asked the question. “We stayed with Theo’s father, though he sent us away before the… incident that evening occurred.”

Theo glared at Blaise, who clearly had more to say, but then Daphne cut in and casually dropped a bomb. “Well, of course he did. The man couldn’t very well keep track of us and go play Death Eater for the night at the same time.”

Harry, Blaise, and Theo all turned to stare at her with open mouths. Daphne only turned another page in her magazine and ignored them, content now that she’d forced the elephant that Blaise’s comment had danced around onto centre stage.

“Is that true?” Harry asked, somewhat hesitantly. Theo had recovered from the shock enough to put on his mask, looking at Harry with a face carved from stone and unreadable eyes. The boy nodded once and lifted his chin, stiffening even more than he had before.

It hurt a little, this evidence of Theo’s lack of trust. The boy expected Harry to turn on him after hearing about his father’s involvement with Voldemort. The protective shield built of feigned indifference was obvious, with cracks of distress growing wider with every second of silence.

Harry did his best to bury the instinctive stab of betrayal. It was unreasonable. Their friendship was still new, and it wasn’t as if Harry had told Theo any of his secrets yet. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to trust others. Harry and Theo could grow to believe in one another more with time, but only once they resolved this situation.

Deciding that lightening the mood would be the best approach, Harry turned to Daphne and forced humour to bleed into his voice. “You know, you are shockingly blunt for a Slytherin. Bit more of a Gryffindor characteristic, don’t you think? Sure you’re in the right House?”

She made a delicate noise of disgust, but Harry could see the corners of her mouth turn up despite her continuing to feign interest in reading the page she held propped up in her lap.

“Wait, that’s it?” Theo questioned roughly, the words bursting out of him. He frowned, body still bracing for a blow that Harry had no intention of giving. His next question came out almost too soft for Harry to hear. “You’re not… mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” he rhetorically responded, keeping his tone light and teasing. “I mean, that was kind of a rubbish move by your father, ruining a brill afterparty, but it’s not like it had anything to do with you.”

Harry somewhat enjoyed the baffled noise that escaped Theo; however, he was much happier about how the tension was slowly draining from the boy, the Slytherin’s stressed confusion dissipating and making room for flickers of relief.

“I told you so, ragazzo sciocco,” Blaise interjected, apparently unable to keep his triumphant crowing in now that he’d been proven correct. Daphne giggled quietly at the filthy glare that Theo shot the smug teen in response.

“Shut up,” Theo mumbled petulantly, briefly sticking his tongue out at Blaise before turning back to face Harry again. He was calmer now, less fearful, more curious. “You don’t care at all?”

“Theo, you’re not responsible for your family’s choices,” Harry replied quietly, thinking about the Dursleys. Memories of vicious words and cruel acts filled his mind, but Harry scattered their petals in the wind, the occlumency technique allowing him to escape the reminder of his past.

Yet, when he refocused on the present, he saw Theo wearing a sympathetic expression, and Harry felt something in his chest seize. The other boy knew. Somehow, Theo knew how Harry was – that the Dursleys had –

“If it helps, I don’t get along with my father,” whispered Theo and how he said it… a word was missing at the end.

If it helps, I don’t get along with my father either.

Was he saying – he couldn’t mean – but Theo was watching him not with pity like Hermione and Ron sometimes did, but with pained understanding. A shadow lurked within his brown eyes, matching the one Harry carried lodged in his chest. Then Theo blinked, and the darkness was hidden away again.

“I won’t doubt you again. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” Theo promised, disposition shifting from sympathetic to resolute and earnest. Harry stared until Blaise cleared his throat, violet eyes flickering between him and Theo with clear curiosity. The other boy had picked up on the presence of an underlying conversation but not the meaning.

“Well, never mind that now,” Harry said, blushing slightly, frantically trying to redirect the conversation so Blaise wouldn’t ask. Trust was a two-way street, but Harry had no intention of speeding to the end of the road just yet. He did not want to talk about the Dursleys. “I brought some cards. Just a dumb kids’ game, but I thought you might like to play. It’s called Go Fish.”

Blaise allowed the transition to a more lighthearted atmosphere, though his scrutinising gaze frequently rested on Theo and Harry. They played the card game for a few hours before Harry had to return to his original train car and change into his uniform. He slipped back into Ron and Hermione’s cabin, easily redirecting their questions about his whereabouts as he prepared to disembark.

When they arrived in Hogsmeade, the clouds were dumping rain. Water flooded the pathway, and Harry didn’t stay dry even using a rain shield. The small group of fourth-year Gryffindors dashed into the castle once they arrived at the front door, leaving puddles in the entryway as the excess water dripped from their robes. Harry flicked out his wand and cast focillo and calidum aerem charms on everyone around him to dry them all off before they soaked the benches and tables in the Great Hall too.

After Harry was seated, Fred and George moved into the spaces across from him. They hadn’t spelt themselves dry. Instead, they shivered pathetically and gave him puppy dog eyes, silently asking for aid. Harry gave an exaggerated sigh, but deigned to cast the same charms on them despite knowing either could have performed the spells themselves.

He slightly regretted this act of compassion when it led to a train of second and third-year students tapping him on the shoulder and pleading for the same. The twins cackled as Harry shot them a dirty look, but with another sigh, he helped the younger children dry off too. It was impossible to deny them when they reminded him more of half-drowned cats than fellow wixen.

The Great Hall grew quieter as everyone except the first years settled at their House tables and the Sorting finally began. Harry tuned out Ron and Hermione’s quiet argument to pay attention and clap enthusiastically for the incoming students. He huffed an amused laugh when, instead of letting the new Gryffindors immediately sit down, each eleven-year-old was directed to Harry first to be blown dry so they wouldn’t need to spend the whole meal sopping wet.

They gained a dozen new Gryffindors, including Dennis Creevey, who was just as much a Harry Potter fan as his older brother, and then the feast was allowed to begin. It was excellent. Harry ravenously devoured roast chicken, potatoes, and blackened carrots as he held a mildly infuriating conversation with Neville.

The other Gryffindor had visited Olivander’s to get a wand. He’d spent the summer practising his spellwork, eventually performing well enough to impress his typically austere grandmother, who’d given him a bud of venomous tentacula as a reward. It wasn’t the prospect of sharing his dorm with the infantile, but extremely hazardous, plant that annoyed Harry, but rather learning that the Trace didn’t apply to Neville. That it didn’t to anyone not living in a muggle area.

The more he thought about it, the angrier Harry became. It wasn’t like the Trace impacted him anymore, not when he was proficient at wandless magic, but if he’d known earlier… if he’d lived anywhere else... well, it wasn’t like he needed another reason to hate the Dursley house.

It was just so unfair, yet also just so typical. It seemed muggleborns and muggle-raised wixen would always get the short end of the stick where their ministry was concerned. Simmering with frustration, but knowing he could do nothing about the prejudices embodied within the government, Harry pushed the feeling aside to listen as Neville explained the gruesome feeding schedule for his new pet plant.

Equally disgusted and fascinated by the sheer amount of raw meat the tentacula required, Harry jumped when a loud voice interrupted them. “SLAVE LABOUR!” Hermione shouted from her place a few seats down, throwing her silverware onto the table. Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron, but the ginger only shrugged his shoulders, equally uncertain, and shoved more chicken in his mouth as their wild-haired friend refused to eat another bite.

Immediately after Hermione’s outburst, Dumbledore stood up to give his start-of-the-year announcements. They were usually quite repetitive, so Harry rarely paid much attention, but this year, one had his eyes shooting up to the professor’s table, intent on the Headmaster.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year,” Dumbledore said airily with a lazy wave of his hand.

“What?” Harry hissed, hands turning white from how tightly he held his fork and knife. He exchanged an upset glance with the twins. They were equally irate about this declaration.

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy – but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts –”

A boom of thunder cut off Dumbledore mid-sentence, the ominous sound coinciding with one of the most dramatic entrances Harry had ever witnessed. It even beat Snape’s speech during Harry’s first potions class.

An elderly wizard with a peg leg and a glass eye stood on the Great Hall’s threshold. A flash of lightning threw his scarred face into sharp relief, and then another crack of thunder followed while the man posed. He clunked his way dramatically through the centre walkway, moving straight to the podium to shake Dumbledore’s hand.

“May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? Professor Moody,” Dumbledore said in a dry voice, though Harry could tell the man approved of the dramatics.

“Moody? Mad-Eye Moody?” he quietly asked and saw Neville nod in confirmation. Harry flicked his eyes over to the twins. “The one your dad went to help this morning?”

“Must be,” Ron answered before Fred or George could respond, and then continued whispering to Hermione, trying to convince her to have a bite of dessert despite her glares.

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore loudly declared, demanding the students’ attention return to him again. “We are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held in over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwixen Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

Harry zoned out, uncaring about some stupid tournament. It was ridiculous that they were cancelling Quidditch, which was quite literally the only team sport at Hogwarts, for an event a single student could compete in. It was lucky Wood wasn’t still here. Harry was sure the older boy would have throttled some ministry officials if this had happened during his Hogwarts career.

He stifled a laugh into his hands at the image this produced in his mind, waving off Neville’s curious hum. As it was, Harry should consider maybe enacting a little payback in Wood’s stead. He could contact Sirius for some advice on pranks, or the twins might want to help, though a glance across the table revealed that both were solemnly concentrating on Dumbledore’s speech.

“An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwixen Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

George leaned in and whispered in Fred’s ear in an agitated fashion. Fred turned back to meet George’s eyes and calmly stated, “I’m going for it.” George bit his lip and hissed with aggravation, but Dumbledore continued speaking, and both went silent.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwixen Cup to Hogwarts, the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age –”

The tension drained from George and into Fred, who went completely still for the first time since Harry had met him. Then, Fred glared at George with a mulish expression, but his twin only shrugged, then averted his eyes. While turning away, George noticed Harry’s attention.

He gave a half smile, which Fred mimicked after being prodded in the side by George’s elbow. Then they both simultaneously mouthed, “We’ll see about that.” Harry rolled his eyes at the two’s routine and tuned back into Dumbledore’s exceptionally long speech.

“– cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.”

Well, that was a lost cause. At the least, several Gryffindors would attempt to get around the age restrictions, including Ron, if the mumbled “one thousand Galleons” meant anything. Harry was sure some younger students in the other Houses would also be interested, and from the twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes, accompanied by his wry smirk, the old wizard wouldn’t be surprised when lions, ravens, snakes, and badgers alike took up his challenge.

Harry received his schedule the next morning while sitting at the breakfast table. He was happy to note that Hermione had dropped divination and muggle studies but kept her other three electives. He hoped the lighter schedule would be much more manageable for her this year.

His angel had told him about the girl’s reliance on the now “missing” time-turner (though the man hadn’t said anything, Harry knew his angel still had it tucked away somewhere), which had been why she’d been disappearing and appearing all over the place last year. Harry hoped the more reasonable class load and her inability to time travel would make for a more laid-back Hermione.

On the other hand, the current hunger strike may already be disproving that hope. He’d briefly tried to talk with her about elves, but the only thing she’d say throughout breakfast was slave labour, so he gave up. He didn’t think she’d be able to maintain fasting – Harry doubted the girl had any idea just how long one could starve before true desperation set in – so he planned to wait her out and try again once she got off her high horse.

Finishing his bowl of oatmeal and fruit, Harry confirmed he’d need course materials for potions and defence today. He left Ron and Hermione arguing, returning to collect his potions kit from where he’d left it in the dorm. He kind of wished they’d just started on Monday instead of having one day’s worth of lessons and then the weekend, though that largely had to do with one of Friday’s classes being potions.

As he tucked the schedule into his repacked satchel, Harry’s eyes caught briefly on the divination blocks, now on Monday and Wednesday mornings. He’d seriously considered dropping the class, but had let his angel talk him into keeping it until OWLs. Though the other hadn’t expressly said anything negative, Harry could tell his angel was disheartened by Harry’s disregard of the subject as the man kept recommending he keep an open mind.

Harry still didn’t believe in destiny or prophecies. But he also hated disappointing his angel, so he planned to give divination another year, possibly two, and see if the topics improved. It wasn’t like the class was hard. Harry had received an Outstanding last year despite making up all his predictions, so it wasn’t that much of a hassle.

Deciding to meet back up with the other Gryffindors before going to his least favourite class, Harry walked back to the Great Hall. Just as he was about to open the door, a clump of Slytherins exited, so he stepped to the side to wait. He was startled when a hand reached out and snagged his sleeve, pulling him into motion with them.

Blaise sent Harry a brief smirk as he continued his path to the dungeons, swapping his hold on Harry’s clothing to his wrist. “So, I’ve had a brilliant idea,” the boy said while Harry scrambled to keep up. “I think you should partner with me for potions.”

Harry gaped at the Slytherin. This was not a brilliant idea. “Are you mad?” he asked in a whisper. “Snape will murder us. Well, or just me. Actually, yes, this will likely only end in my death, you’ll be fine.”

Theo snickered, and Daphne politely raised a hand to cover her mouth, doing little to muffle her giggles, but Blaise only shot Harry an exasperated look. “I’m one of the best potions students Snape has ever had, and he’s deathly afraid of my mother after they met a decade ago at a conference. There’s no way he’d pull the shady things he’s done to you if it involved my work too.”

“Yes, but that’s exactly why he wouldn’t let us work together, you bellend!” Harry replied, trying to shake off the other boy’s hand.

“Harry…” Blaise sighed out his name with an exasperated, almost flippant tone. Yet, there was an underlying intensity in this encounter which made Harry think this request was about more than just their unreasonable potions professor. “Please, just let me try? I want to help you. It’s unfair how poorly he grades your work.”

He stopped trying to dislodge Blaise’s hand, but couldn’t shed his sceptical demeanour as they entered the dark potions classroom. When he sat down next to the confident snake at the central front table, Blaise smirked and, with a grin revealing a glint of white teeth, said, “Trust me, I don’t pick battles I can’t win, that’s a Gryffindor trait.”

Harry snorted as he unloaded his cauldron and small pack of ingredients. He didn’t bother to open either, fully expecting to be told to move as soon as Snape saw him.  

Draco Malfoy and the rest of the fourth-year Slytherins arrived seconds after Harry was settled. They all did a double-take when they saw him seated next to Blaise. Malfoy’s steps faltered at first, but then he puffed up like a peacock and moved towards Harry and Blaise’s table; however, the boy’s charge was interrupted when Theo loudly cleared his throat, causing Malfoy to pale and sprint to his usual seat instead.

Harry twisted around to raise an eyebrow at Theo in question, but the only response he heard was a pleased hum as the other teen carefully organised his supplies on the workbench. Harry was becoming quite curious about what had happened between Theo and Malfoy, especially now that Harry knew they’d grown up together. Still, it was a poor time to ask. Snape had just stalked in, immediately writing on the chalkboard without looking at the students.

A mass of Gryffindors reluctantly shuffled to their seats while the potions master was still writing. Upon seeing the new seating arrangement, many gasped and murmured to one another. Harry was given a concerned scowl from Ron and a salacious wink from Seamus, but no one said anything louder than a whisper in the quiet classroom.

Finally finished, Snape turned around with a sneer. The professor opened his mouth to speak but froze dramatically when he saw Harry’s location. “Potter. What exactly do you think you’re doing?” the man asked in an ominous, threatening voice.

“I’m waiting for class to start, sir,” Harry replied, glibly pretending he had no idea what the professor meant.

“Unacceptable,” Snape snapped. “It’s wasteful to have a useless dunce like you paired up with Mr Zabini. Hoping to coast by using his work, were you? Well, I don’t tolerate slackers in my class. Kindly relocate to –”

“Professor Snape,” Blaise said, interrupting the wizard in a show of foolishness that Harry hadn’t expected from the usually circumspect snake. Harry and Snape both looked away from each other to stare incredulously at the boy whose violet eyes conveyed pure stubbornness. “I asked Harry to sit with me so we could have even numbers. It makes for a more balanced classroom, don’t you think?”

Harry hadn’t noticed before, but now he realised the class did have even numbers. Each student was in a group of two, with only himself and Blaise as an inter-House pair. Who knew they’d been automatically setting up two sets of three for the past years, all to avoid a snake and lion working at the same bench?

The Slytherin professor and student locked eyes for an uncomfortably long moment after Blaise had thrown down the gauntlet. Then, to Harry’s astonishment, the boy won, and Snape turned away, loudly calling for them to read the instructions on the board and start brewing the Wit-Sharpening Potion they’d covered at the end of last year.

As Harry retrieved some ginger and armadillo bile from his kit, he glanced incredulously at Blaise, who was preening like the cat that caught the canary as he gave Harry a slow, Cheshire-esque smile. Huffing silently under his breath, Harry couldn’t help the answering grin that bloomed on his face while, for the rest of the period, Snape ignored him completely.

With the Marauders’ Map and the Potter family invisibility cloak, it was ridiculously easy to sneak out of Hogwarts. It was lucky for Dumbledore that Harry was such a good person, because the boy could have been wreaking havoc with these two artefacts at his disposal. When he added the time-turner into the mix… well, Voldemort would have given significant rewards to anyone who’d procured him these tools while he’d been back in school.

Hidden from sight, he slunk from Gryffindor Tower, easily avoiding the prefects, professors, and ghosts who patrolled the corridors until he slipped outside. When he reached the whomping willow, Voldemort smiled as he flicked out his yew wand. He sent an aculeo hex at the wide trunk, hitting the specific knot that caused the tree to shudder and briefly freeze all its movements.

Voldemort dropped into the hidden passageway under the willow’s roots and calmly strolled through the tunnel, pausing at the property line. Hogwarts had a multitude of wards creating an intricate tapestry of magic too detailed to comprehend fully, but if he concentrated, he could identify any recent threads that had been added.

One overbearing line reeked of Dumbledore’s magic. Plucking at it, Voldemort confirmed it was a passive ward to identify animagi and report that information to the headmaster. Easy enough to circumvent, especially when Voldemort had already sent letters to Black and Pettigrew telling them to meet him in the no-longer-werewolf-infested house this tunnel terminated inside, instead of on Hogwarts grounds.

The shack was pretty decrepit. Claw marks were gouged into the wood flooring, and large sections of the interior walls were gutted. All the furniture was old and dusty, the wallpaper faded, but it would suffice for his needs this evening.  

Conjuring an elaborate golden throne in what used to be the downstairs living room, he sat and waited. Within moments, a scuttling rat crawled through one of the holes in the floorboards and stopped a few feet away. Voldemort waved his hand in an impatient go-on gesture, and the rodent squeaked as he transformed into the deformed human-rat hybrid that his extended tenure in his animagus form had resulted in.

Evidence of the healing Voldemort had performed at the beginning of summer was already almost nonexistent. He’d known the effects would be temporary when he cast the spell, though a quick skim of the man’s thoughts proved that the impact on the brain seemed longer-lasting. Still, he was fairly certain this was as sane as Pettigrew would get.

“Master,” his servant snivelled, bowing low on his hands and knees, as he practically kissed the floorboards.

“What information have you brought me, Peter?” he questioned once the show of deference was complete and Pettigrew lifted his head, though he remained kneeling at Voldemort’s feet.

“M – m – master, I did as you asked and – and watched the other Death Eaters,” the rat declared emphatically. “Most do little, content with their wives and heirs and ministry positions, but… There are a few unhappy with the state of things.”

“Such as…” he pressed, narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes.

“Well… they gathered to plan the – the attack after the World Cup. The Malfoys… Nott… Crabbe… Goy –”

“Goyle, McNaab, Avery, yes, I know,” Voldemort interrupted, waving away the value of the information and causing Pettigrew’s eyes to widen with fear. “I’m already aware of who all attended that ridiculous charade. What were their reactions to the Dark Mark being cast?”

“I’m s – s – sorry, Master!” the rat said, dropping back into full prostration and mumbling his next words into the floor. “They were – were terrified. Lucius Malfoy was especially panicked.”

“As he should be for having lost my property,” Voldemort replied, reminded again of the disregard Lucius had shown his diary. That man was in for a world of punishment, high up on his list along with Snape and Dumbledore.

“H – he had a flurry of meetings with the ministry afterwards. Preparing for the Triwixen tournament,” Pettigrew enthusiastically said, scrambling for any information that’d satisfy his Lord. “I – I thought that might be important, so I tracked down another source of information. Bertha Jorkins.”

“Bertha Jorkins… she’s the ministry worker who has been missing for a month?”

“Yes, Master. I took her and interrogated her. And – and I found out very important information!” Pettigrew justified, though the defensive tone bred doubt rather than belief.

“Well, go on then, what is this information?” he asked, exasperated by the drawn-out conversation.

It was like pulling teeth to get information from the brain-damaged spy. Though in his opinion, this was even less pleasant. He’d much prefer to be ripping out the rat’s molars. Perhaps, Pettigrew could tell Voldemort was picturing what he could do to the man’s mouth with a set of pliers, because he squeaked in terror and hurried through his next sentence, finally coming to the point.

“Barty Crouch Jr is alive! His father swapped him out for his mother in Azkaban and was keeping the boy under the imperius curse, but…”

“But...?” he asked, mildly interested again. He’d marked Crouch a mere six months before his disappearance. Voldemort had only briefly interacted with the boy at his initiation ceremony, but all his reports had indicated Crouch showed significant promise along with the others in his clique: Evan Rosier and Sirius’s brother, Regulus Black.

“But when I went to check, I discovered the boy had escaped, and that’s why Lord Crouch dismissed his house-elf.”

“So, we don’t know where Barty Crouch is or what he’s doing,” Voldemort mused. Though it wasn’t a question, Pettigrew responded after a few blubbered apologies.

“Not – not exactly, Master. But I talked to the house-elf and she thought Crouch was going to Hogwarts for some reason,” whispered Pettigrew, cringing back like he expected to be cursed for his lack of certainty. The spy must not know much about house-elves. If she said the young man was coming here, then it was certain he was coming here. “She was gonna follow him and beg to be reinstated.”

Not a bad plan for the bound fae. If she could convince the Crouch Heir to take her in, she might survive the severing for a handful of years, perhaps long enough to find a way back onto her domain. This was becoming more and more interesting. After her arrival, he should seek out the elf and extract information from the source.

“Tell me about the Triwixen Tournament,” Voldemort said, changing the subject. He let the details Pettigrew spewed wash over him. There was a surprising amount of information regarding the three schools – who knew his old follower Karkaroff would manage to avoid Azkaban and rise to the role of Durmstrang’s headmaster – and the political significance of the event, considering who the rat’s source had been.

The British ministry planned to use the tournament to reconstruct the foreign connections they’d spurned during the recent civil war against Voldemort’s forces. It was a foolish attempt. Games and competitions would only get them so far, particularly ones that risked a country’s youth. This was especially true considering Pettigrew had discovered that Crouch’s department continuously denied proposals to make the tasks less dangerous.

Forthright diplomacy would have served better than a ridiculous show of moving away from isolationism, particularly when the tournament was held in Britain rather than at one of the other schools. It was a ploy, empty of any actual intent, which the rest of the world would see through as easily as Voldemort had. Yet another demonstration of the current administration’s incompetence… and the risks if one of the foreign students died…

So foolish. At least Voldemort would get to witness the use of an ancient artefact. The “unbiased judge” Dumbledore had mentioned was the Goblet of Fire. The relic had been used to select champions during the last Triwixen tournament hundreds of years ago, but its history went back much further. He was curious to see exactly how it picked the champions and delighted that he’d have the opportunity to study it without needing to break into the Unspeakables’ vaults.

Pettigrew continued to babble, but the information grew increasingly useless, so Voldemort held up his hand, and his servant immediately fell silent. With a nonchalant wave, he ordered the rat to continue gathering information and return in another month to report.

Once the rat scurried away, Voldemort banished the throne. He didn’t return to Hogwarts, though, not yet. First, he had to meet with his other servant, who was a much more useful tool than Pettigrew, regardless of the prophecy’s words.

Then again, Black may be more effective, but he was significantly more irreverent than his fellow Gryffindor. Voldemort found the mutt sound asleep, sprawled on a dusty mattress in one of the bedrooms as a Grim. Sighing in exasperated annoyance, he sent a wordless stinging hex at the animagus. Black woke with a yowl and came down on all fours, appearing more like a pissed off cat than the dog he currently was.

Grinning meanly, Voldemort folded himself into a cross-legged pose and ordered Black to sit on the floor before him. Harry’s godfather, familiar with the sessions now, automatically transformed into a human before he got into position. He leaned forward, placing his chin on the tip of Voldemort’s outstretched wand, and stared directly into green eyes.

The problem with Black was that he’d relived his worst memories over and over and over until they were magnified and ragged and crumbling, while the good memories had been crushed beneath the weight of the bad ones. Voldemort had needed to shrink the significance associated with the negative memories that the dementors had focused on and reinforce the positive memories so that the tower representing Black’s mind was structurally sound again.

While performing this altruistic mental reconstruction, he could, of course, focus on the core memories that he wanted to make up a significantly larger part of the man’s personality, like those of caring for Harry as a baby. The awe and adoration he’d found there were feelings he wanted to encourage. On the other hand, the bitter hatred of anything Dumbledore claimed was Dark, fueled by arguments with his parents, those memories and emotions were unnecessary.

Wrapping up the session, Voldemort left Black’s mind and sat back with a sigh. The work consumed a significant amount of magic, and it was exhausting. It was like glueing a building back together, one chipped brick at a time. Though if he was tired, Black was almost comatose afterwards. The man was pale and sweating, collapsed on the ground after the hour Voldemort had spent in his mind.

Yet, after only a few months, they’d made great progress. Voldemort was surprisingly proud of the work he’d done on the wizard. Sirius Black was a significantly better human now, almost unrecognisable from the whimpering mess Voldemort had spared in the cave all those months ago. Black probably didn’t even need the imperius curse anymore.

Well, the man may not need the imperius to be stable, but that didn’t mean Voldemort would leave Black uncollared completely. Now was as good a time as any to get a spy into Dumbledore’s network. With Sirius Black’s status as an Order member and Dumbledore’s interest in the escaped convict, the wizard was well-positioned for the role, particularly since he wouldn’t realise he was spying.

“Imperio,” Voldemort cast using his yew wand. “You will seek out Remus Lupin and reintegrate yourself within the Order of the Phoenix. You will keep in touch with Harry and tell him everything of importance you learn about the Order or Dumbledore. You will come to meet me here whenever I request your presence. You will not reveal where or how you spent your summer.”

Black nodded dully and didn’t attempt to fight as the new curse settled into his mind, breaking the last version. The man must be used to the mild fog at this point. None of the orders went counter to Harry’s godfather’s desires anyway, so Voldemort didn’t think anyone would notice the bewitchment, let alone the man himself.

Satisfied, Voldemort swept Harry’s cloak over himself as he quickly walked back through the tunnel, returning to Hogwarts. He detoured to the Room of Requirement, asking for the study it had provided him at the end of last year. Smiling as he entered, this truly was a lovely room, he moved unerringly to one of the bookcases. He skimmed titles until he came across H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine.

Chuckling at his own pun, Voldemort collected the time-turner from inside the dimensionally expanded space he’d created. He lifted the golden chain over his head and simultaneously cast a tempus charm to determine how many hours to turn back. After returning two hours, and as he replaced the golden hourglass in his hiding place, Voldemort’s eyes caught on another book, one with a maroon cover.

Though briefly trailing his fingers along the spine, he didn’t pluck it from the shelf, preferring to keep the letter and unopened present inside as pristine as possible instead of over-handling them. He would only open Fleurs du Mal once he could hold the precious items it protected with his real hands. Instead, he ensured the wards were secure and then left, returning Harry’s body to their bed only a few minutes after he’d left it.

Chapter Text

Harry was trying very hard to give divination a fair shot this year, but it was just so… so painfully subjective and, sometimes, downright inaccurate.

Trelawney had moved from tasseomancy and crystal balls to astrology, which Harry thought was a complete waste of time despite his recent interest in astronomy. The heavens were full of massive celestial bodies thousands of light-years away. The mass and positions of constellations could and did affect gravity, rituals, and magnetic fields; however, they did not know or care whether Harry would get a scrap of bad news or Ron a sudden windfall of cash. Harry was certain the stars were above such idle gossip.

Still, despite his opinion on the topic and the professor’s histrionics, Harry attempted to listen and learn when he attended Divination lectures. It wasn’t going well.

“You are preoccupied, my dear. My inner eye sees past your brave face to the troubled soul within,” she solemnly told Harry, eyes magnified absurdly large from behind her coke-bottle glasses. “And I regret to say that your worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas… most difficult… I fear the things you dread will indeed come to pass… and perhaps sooner than you think…”

Several students stared at Harry in pity, though a decent selection, including Ron, tried not to laugh, evidently amused by how Trelawney always singled him out. Harry only stared blankly back at the professor. She seemed unnerved by his lack of reaction because she turned away and wandered about the room, giving great dramatic swings of her arms that made her look like a swooping evil, decorated as she was with all her colourful scarves.

Harry’s thoughts drifted to the other classes he’d have today. He was looking forward to Transfiguration, but really, it was Care of Magical Creatures that he was most excited about. Hopefully, now that Buckbeak was safe, Hagrid would return to his original lesson plans instead of going on about flobberworms.

His mind wandered, theorising on whether there was a common ancestry between thestrals and unicorns, when a hand slammed down onto the small table before him. Harry jolted upright, his wide, startled eyes meeting Ron’s amused ones. The other boy turned bright red as he actively choked on muffled laughter at Harry’s misfortune. Trelawney was glaring at Harry, who must have, at some point, demonstrated his lack of attention.

“I was saying, my dear,” Trelawney huffed resentfully, “that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn.”

“Right,” he replied, dubious. “And that’s bad because…?”

“Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!” she shouted, causing some nearby students to gasp, others to snicker. “I was saying that Saturn was surely in a position of power in the heavens at the moment of your birth… Your dark hair… your mean stature… tragic losses so young in life… I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in midwinter?”

“No. I was born in July,” he deadpanned, and everyone in class began giggling uncontrollably. Trelawney merely waved away her completely wrong conjecture and continued with the lecture, content now to have the students, including Harry, focused on her again.

It didn’t occur to him until later that afternoon, while walking to Hagrid’s hut with the other Gryffindors, that Trelawney ought to have known his birth date. As much as he hated it, he was famous. His chocolate frog card, which he’d memorised since Ginny had gotten one last summer and frequently read it aloud whenever she wanted to embarrass Harry, included the date:

Harry Potter, born July 31, 1980, was orphaned by You‑Know‑Who on October 31, 1981. Commonly referred to as The‑Boy‑Who‑Lived, he repelled the Killing Curse, vanquished He‑Who‑Must‑Not‑Be‑Named, and ended the War before turning two years of age.

All this to say that everyone in the magical world knew when Harry was born. It was just one of those commonly known facts. How could she have forgotten? She could be bad with dates, but why had she tried to bring it up in the classroom if she wasn’t sure? Probably all the incense and booze had gone to her head and made her batty.

But wasn’t Tom Riddle’s birthday in midwinter? Harry tried to remember. He was fairly sure it’d said December something in the school records he’d filched.

That was a bit creepy, but he supposed she had to luck onto some right guesses, occasionally. Plus, it wasn’t actually his birthday, not for this body, so really, she was wrong. And midwinter was so vague, she basically had 50/50 odds at speculating correctly, considering his birthday was in summer and his angel’s… well.

He needed to stop thinking about this. It wasn’t important, and he didn’t want a stupid Trelawney-inspired train of thought to be what made his mental passenger realise Harry already knew his identity. Harry wanted his angel to tell him, to trust him. Though he hoped it’d happen soon… Harry just needed to get stronger, to learn more, so that his angel would know he could rely on him, too.

Just as Harry finished banishing his thoughts, he arrived at Hagrid’s. “Mornin’!” the enormous professor greeted the class. Harry returned it with a grin, though everyone else was nervously eyeing the crates at Hagrid’s feet. To be fair, the enclosures reeked as if dead animals were rotting inside, though the scuttling and sounds of explosions put paid to that idea.

Harry crept forward to sneak a peek. Hagrid let him, only winking when he noticed Harry slyly inching up. The creatures were kind of ugly. Six-inch pinkish lumps that reminded Harry of – well. He wouldn’t be surprised if several crude jokes came up in this lecture. Still, despite reading his textbook and several other tomes on magical creatures, he had no idea what they were. He backed up, giving Ron and Hermione a shrug when they turned curious eyes on him.

“On’y jus’ hatched,” Hagrid declared joyfully, proud as any parent, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yourselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”

“And why would we want to raise them?” Malfoy butted in with a sneer. Harry looked around to see that all the Slytherins had arrived. He waved at Theo and Blaise, who half-heartedly returned it from their location at the back of the crowd, hands occupied with covering their noses and mouths. “I mean, what do they do? What’s the point of them?”

“Seriously?” Harry asked, shocked. Malfoy turned towards him with a glare, though Harry thought he looked somewhat twitchy, more than the usual amount. “They’re animals. They don’t need to be useful. They exist because they do. Just like you. Now I could go around asking what the point of you being born was…”

Harry paused as Malfoy flushed a splotchy, bright pink. He could see the other boy biting his tongue to hold back a retort, his silver eyes flickering to Hagrid before returning to glare at Harry with rage.

“… but I’m not that crass,” Harry finished with a smirk. All the Gryffindors and a surprising number of Slytherins giggled.

Hagrid laughed too, which wasn’t very professional for a teacher, but it was understandable that he wouldn’t mind Harry getting one over on Malfoy. The blonde boy had been the instigator behind Buckbeak’s planned execution and constantly disrupted the wizard’s class. So, though any other professor would have taken points for Harry’s insult, Hagrid only moved on to his lecture and let Malfoy seethe silently.

“What’re they called?” Harry asked the giant wizard, who had stepped to the side to let the teenagers gather closer to the crates after instructing them to discover the creatures’ diet using the scattered ingredients.

“Er – why don’ yeh try and figur tha’ out fer yerself,” Hagrid replied shiftily, but Harry lit up, happy to take on a new challenge in one of his favourite classes.

He threw a handful of frog spawn into the nearest crate, but none of the creatures were interested in it. The pink worm-things didn’t seem to have mouths. It was possible they couldn’t eat anything at all yet. Maybe they subsisted on internal energy storage or photosynthesis, or something. That might help narrow down the species. He’d have to find a book on rearing magical creatures or their adolescent forms.

When the period ended, Harry chuckled, unsurprised to see most of his classmates sprinting for the castle. They’d clearly not enjoyed the lesson. Harry was amused at their squeamishness and even felt a bit superior, that was, until he turned around and noticed that there were still a few students left.

Blaise and Theo were coldly staring at Ron and Hermione, who’d just stalked up to them. Harry straightened immediately, anxious butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He looked at Hagrid to see what the professor would do, but the giant ignored the confrontation, too focused on carrying the crates back to his hut. Realising he’d need to handle it alone, Harry cautiously approached to listen to the argument.

“– always around! He doesn’t need you spying on him or – or corrupting him!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley. Harry is our friend,” Theo replied in a hard voice that Harry had never heard the boy use.

“I know your dad’s a Death Eater! No doubt, you’re following in his footsteps, considering, hello! You’re a bloody Slytherin!” spat Ron before turning to Blaise. “And don’t think I’m not onto you, too. There’s not a single wix who went bad that wasn’t a snake. So, I’m warnin’ you. Stay away from –”

“Harry!” squeaked Hermione from where she’d been hovering uncertainly beside Ron while the boy threatened Blaise. “Uhm, it’s… Ron was just…”

The others had noticed him now that she’d drawn attention to his presence. Blaise and Theo’s faces stayed flat with hints of boredom, but Harry could see the forced stillness in both, implying how stressful they found the encounter. When he turned his eyes on Ron, the Gryffindor showed no remorse, stubbornly throwing up his chin and squaring his shoulders.

“Look, I know I wasn’t as good of a friend as I should have been last year, Harry, but it’s been months now… they are… you don’t…” Ron faltered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He rallied, pulling his thoughts together when Harry remained silent, waiting for him to say his entire piece. “I just mean that you don’t need these slimy Slytherins anymore, you have us!”

Harry flicked a questioning glance at Blaise and Theo, confirming they were content to let him handle this however he wanted, before replying. “I understand Slytherin has a reputation and there are some prejudices –”

“It’s not some prejudice, Harry, there are too many examples for you to brush aside like this. Just look at You-Know-Who! Slytherins are evil!” the red-faced boy shouted, fists clenched tightly by his sides, as he immediately cut off Harry’s words.

“Ron,” Harry sighed out the name, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose to stem the headache he could feel starting, “in second year, you’d have said those exact words about parselmouths, wouldn’t you?”

Ron gaped, his expression a mix of shock and betrayal. It was as if he couldn’t believe Harry had dragged up one of their past fights in front of Gryffindor’s enemies. “That’s not… it isn’t the same thing,” he mumbled, but the resolve leaked from him, making the other boy appear hunched over and exhausted. “They were picked for Slytherin, your… ability is innate.”

“I don’t expect you to get along with them, okay? But you don’t know Theo, and you don’t know Blaise. They’re my friends. Stop insulting them,” Harry demanded fiercely, despite his insecurity about pressuring Ron. Was this what broke their friendship? He didn’t know what he’d do if Ron refused, but he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. A ceasefire was all he wanted... surely that wasn’t too much to ask for?

“Fine,” Ron agreed after Hermione whispered something in his ear, too quietly for Harry to hear. “I won’t go making accusations again without proof.”

That seemed like it was probably word-for-word what Hermione had recommended, if the face palm she gave herself was any indication. Still, it was almost what he’d asked for, and at this point, Harry would take what he could get, especially when Hermione wasn’t exactly on his side. He could see her warily side-eyeing the two Slytherins, who both still wore their defensive masks.

“Okay, then. Why don’t you and Hermione go up first?” Harry recommended. Without waiting for a response, he moved to stand beside Blaise and Theo in a clear show of support. “I’m going to stay and talk with my other friends on the way back.”

Ron’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once before stalking back towards the castle. Hermione hesitated, distress radiating from her, but soon she quickly trotted after her fellow Gryffindor. From the gesturing and backwards glances, it was obvious they were discussing what to do next, now that the option for frontal assault had been taken away. Harry was too tired to deal with that yet. Instead, he turned back to Blaise and Theo, who were openly grinning at Harry.

“Wow,” Blaise drawled, putting a hand over his heart and fluttering his eyelashes dramatically. “Publicly claimed as Harry Potter’s dear friend. Why, I might just faint!”

Harry rolled his eyes and flicked a mild stinging hex at the boy, making Theo laugh delightedly at Blaise’s high-pitched yelp. Harry smiled, but then felt it fade as he couldn’t help turning the conversation more serious.

“Have you had problems like that before? People warning you away from me?” he asked worriedly.

“Of course,” Theo replied with obvious surprise. Harry felt his stomach drop, and some of his distress must have shown on his face, because the other boy hastened to reassure him. “I mean, you did too, didn’t you? When you asked us to go to Hogsmeade, everyone freaked. I haven’t had anyone be that… well, that direct about it lately, though. Have you, Blaise?”

“No,” the boy said slowly after a thoughtful hum, “but I did have a few strange conversations with Professor Snape, who implied that the headmaster may not be too… encouraging about us associating with our lovely Gryffindor friend. I wonder if that’s who put Weasley up to this.”

“We obviously aren’t listening to their stupid opinions,” Theo said with a smirk before Harry could follow up and ask Blaise what he’d meant by his last statement.

“You’re way too entertaining for us to give up!” Blaise agreed with a grin, grabbing one of Harry’s hands as Theo snagged the other. “And, let’s be honest, you fit with us,” he continued, and though he didn’t say it out loud, Harry could hear the silent more than you fit with them referring to the Gryffindors. The two started tugging him up to the castle, regaling him with dramatised stories about those who’d approached to warn them off.

Harry chuckled around the burning in his throat. It was nice to know Theo and Blaise wouldn’t easily be dissuaded from hanging out with Harry. It meant so much to him when his friends thought he was worth the effort. He even somewhat appreciated Ron’s misguided attempts to protect him and Hermione’s struggles to act as mediator and keep the peace.

Still, appreciation didn’t change the current situation he’d found himself stuck in. Ron and Hermione – and, when it came down to it, Blaise and Theo too – were dragging Harry to a crossroads, intent on forcing him to choose one set of friends over the other. No matter how far he dug his heels in or how hard he squeezed his eyes closed, the inevitable intersection drew closer with every passing second. Soon, Harry would be out of time.

Their runes class was finally moving on from single characters and getting into connecting strings of runes. Harry was stoked, especially when Professor Babbling told them they would be working on a topic of their choice in a year-long project with the other students seated at their table.

Babbling allowed them to use the last fifteen minutes of the period to start brainstorming with their partners. Harry grinned at Theo and Blaise. He already had an idea for their project. A rune string to automatically add new secret passages to his map would be so convenient! Plus, they could use the same runes that Sirius and his father had as a starting point; their project wouldn’t be boring, but it wouldn’t be too hard either.

In broad strokes, and after casting a muffliato, Harry explained what the Marauders’ Map could do, emphasising that they should keep its existence a secret, and the cartography idea that he wanted to use for the assignment. Blaise looked extremely interested while Theo was already mumbling a few different runes that the Marauders might have used when they first invented the artefact.

They agreed to meet in the library before Defence so Harry could show them the map. After seeing the artefact in person, Blaise and Theo were both impressed and keen to work on the project. From how the two teens were eyeing the parchment in his hand, Harry could tell they wanted to make one of their own, which Harry thought would be brilliant. (He hoped they’d include him too... maybe they could become as tight-knit as the friends his dad found, but without the betrayer hiding in their midst.)

The three of them left the library, walking together. Gryffindors and Slytherins were paired for Defence for the first time since Harry started Hogwarts; usually, Potions was the only core class that joined the two archrival Houses. Harry wasn’t looking forward to Malfoy’s presence in the hit-or-miss class, though theoretically this meant he’d get to spend more time with Theo and Blaise.

And speak of the devil, Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and flung up a wandless protego just in time for a purple spell to zap the shield and fizzle out. He checked over his shoulder, and sure enough, Malfoy was sneering at him, wand still pointed in his hand. Though it left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth, he didn’t try to retaliate; he raised a scornful eyebrow before turning forward again to keep walking.

Just as suddenly as the first, another spell flashed through the hallway. It wasn’t aimed at Harry this time. The sickly yellow light hit Malfoy, and the blond teenager was instantly transformed into a small ferret with beady black eyes and fur the colour of his hair.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back is turned. Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do…” Moody mumbled as he pointed his wand at the student-turned-ferret. Another wordless spell from the professor lifted Malfoy into the air and dropped him back against the stone floor. Whispers and giggles erupted from some watching Gryffindors, but Harry didn’t join in.

“Never –” smack! “– do –” smack! “– that –” smack! “– again –” smack!

Harry didn’t particularly care about Malfoy, but this punishment was harsh. If Moody would do this to one student, he could do it to any of them, and Harry didn’t fancy being transfigured against his will and then slammed around while helpless. He hadn’t thought Hogwarts allowed students to be beaten by professors. It was unnerving to discover that wasn’t true.

Moody was mostly an unknown for Harry, but Mr Weasley had spoken about him a few times, and Harry could read between the lines. The ex-auror had a talent for apprehending Dark Wizards and was responsible for filling half the cells in Azkaban. But he’d grown paranoid with age, unable to tell criminals from victims or bystanders, and the ministry had forced him to retire after one too many violent incidents.

Adding that fact together with how, in this school, Dark was synonymous with Slytherin, it was likely their professor would reserve his sadistic punishments for the snakes alone. This reasoning didn’t make Harry feel better. When he glanced at Theo, his friend was curled into himself, trying to make a smaller target, his lip caught anxiously between his teeth.

“Professor Moody!” Harry heard someone shout and turned to see McGonagall briskly approaching, her long stride eating up the corridor in seconds. A few older Slytherins who followed behind faded into the background, pretending they just so happened to have been in the vicinity and definitely hadn’t gone to get another professor, no.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” the Defence teacher casually greeted his coworker, still bouncing Malfoy around like a tennis ball.

“What – what are you doing?” she asked, and it was obvious she knew something was wrong by the glimmer in her eyes, though evidently the upperclassmen hadn’t given her any specifics.

“Teaching,” Moody answered. When he smiled, the man’s face warped strangely, his scars twisting and the missing chunks of skin curling into deeper caverns. It made the mean grin he sported now quite horrifying to look at.

“Teach – is that a student?!” gasped McGonagall, already drawing her wand before Moody answered in the affirmative. She cancelled the levitation charm and reverted Malfoy to his original form with what seemed like a single spell. Harry was impressed. More so when she turned fiery eyes on the ex-auror and publicly rebuked him, making it clear what had happened was unacceptable.

Moody almost seemed to sulk at being called out, again making the Gryffindors, Ron especially, laugh. McGonagall gave Moody one last scathing admonishment, then they were all ordered inside to take their seats since class was about to start. Harry snagged Theo’s sleeve before the other boy could enter and raised up onto his tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“If he tries anything like that on you, I’ll bury him alive,” he hissed. Theo turned wide, astonished eyes on him, but Harry only held his gaze resolutely. He was serious. If the man thought that he could get away with doing that to one of his friends? Harry would retaliate; he didn’t care if it was against a professor.

“It’s fine,” Theo whispered with a small, tight grin, but his eyes were still filled with fear. They kept jumping to the doorway where Moody had disappeared, unable to focus fully on Harry. “We should go in. Don’t want to be late.”

Before Harry could reply, Theo pulled away, jogging to catch up with the other Slytherins. Harry could hear Blaise ask what was wrong, and Theo’s stiff “nothing” just as they entered the Defence classroom.

Harry reluctantly veered off to find his place on Gryffindor’s respective side. Theo didn’t want to draw attention to himself, and Harry shouldn’t mess that up despite his concern. He sat beside Neville, who gave Harry a small smile but nervously fiddled with his new wand as he tracked their professor’s movements throughout the classroom.

“Now then, I’m Alastor Moody, most people know me as Mad-Eye Moody, and I’ll be your Defence professor for this year only, so you’d better pay attention. Learn all you can from me. This will be your only opportunity to do so,” he said to the room as he wrote the word CURSES on the chalkboard in large, loopy letters.

“Your last professor made you familiar with defences from magical creatures, but you’re behind on curses. So, let’s start with the worst of the lot,” the professor continued to speak as he wrote the word UNFORGIVABLE above the other.

“MALFOY!” Moody barked loudly, causing the teenager in question to lurch back in his seat and pale. Moody grinned smugly at the reaction, his real eye focused on the terrified boy, though the other glass one was directed at the Gryffindor side of the room. “Tell me an unforgivable curse. You ought to be especially familiar with one.”

“The – uhm – the imperius curse… sir,” Malfoy whispered, eyes averted.

“Exactly,” the professor replied, limping to the front desk. “Gave the ministry quite a bit of trouble in the war. Scores of wixen claiming to have been under control when they did You-Know-Who’s bidding.” He waved his wand and summoned an enlarged spider from a jar he must have prepared beforehand.

“But here’s the rub…” Moody whispered creepily into the quiet classroom, “How do we sort out the liars…”

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, causing more than half the class to jump. “That’s how,” he continued in a more conversational tone. “Of course, to do that, you’ll need to recognise the curse when you see it.”

“Imperio,” Moody cast, ignoring the terrified gasps he elicited from several students. “Tap-dance,” he ordered, and the spider performed a simple routine, though the eight legs made it look more complicated. Some people clapped and cheered, though Harry thought they were in the minority. Theo and Malfoy both looked like they might puke.

“I could make it do anything I wanted right now, with the proper command,” Moody said in a hushed, contemplative voice, easily silencing the mass of students again. “I could tell it to jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats… and it would.”

“Terrifying spell, this is,” he mumbled, staring down at the dancing spider, both eyes locked on the same target for once. Then he shook himself as if regathering his thoughts and said in his typical gruff tone, “Alright, who knows another Unforgivable?”

Moody’s glass eye spun towards the Gryffindor side, this time looking for an answer from the lions. He ended up calling on Neville. The anxious boy steeled himself, only stuttering slightly when he said the cruciatus curse.

“Right. Right! We’re wixen! We don’t need muggle thumbtacks or screws to torture someone, not with this curse available…” Moody said as he pointed his wand back at the spider. Neville, and most of the class, sucked in a shocked breath as their professor’s face screwed up with anger and the man roared, “Crucio!”

The spider collapsed, legs twisting desperately, soundlessly lamenting its anguish. It went on and on and on while Harry watched until, eventually, Hermione pleaded with the professor to stop. Moody appeared distracted, his real eye unfocused when he looked up, but he released the torture curse.

Harry felt distant, similar to after one of his episodes, but everyone else was terrified. Neville was hyperventilating in the seat next to him, hands clamped so tightly on the table’s edge that Harry thought the wood might splinter into pieces.

A glance at the Slytherin side showed Malfoy appearing seconds away from hiding under the table, while Blaise was staring at Theo in concern. The brown-haired boy was pale, hunched over and hiding his face, his entire body trembling. A spike of rage spread through Harry, shattering his previous indifference and grounding him in the moment.

“Well, then,” Moody said, voice echoing in the abnormal silence. “Who can tell me the final curse?”

“I can, Professor,” Harry answered, forcing himself to speak the words slowly. He used an almost mocking voice that didn’t convey any of the fury he felt.

“Can you?” the professor murmured, matching Harry’s tone, as if he were in on the joke.

“Of course!” Harry exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, pretending he thought the man was being purposefully obtuse. Beside him, Neville started to breathe more slowly after seeing Harry’s lack of fear or respect. “The final Unforgivable is the killing curse, incantation avada kedavra, presents as a bright, green light and has no known counter using core magic.”

“Eh, what’s this about core magic?” Moody asked, curiosity burning in his eyes. “You have some other method of shielding, do you?”

“Well, one must exist, obviously,” Harry replied, gesturing to himself jauntily and heard Malfoy choke from across the room. He curled his lips into a smirk as Moody’s jaw clenched, muscles twitching in annoyance. “Though I’m afraid I was too young to ask my mother for the exact specifics of how she did it.”

Whispers broke out, and there was a soft smacking sound behind him, as if someone had slapped a hand over their mouth to muffle laughter when another student hushed them. Harry didn’t turn to see who it was, entirely focused on Moody.

“Well, well, Mr Potter, how interesting… but not relevant, I’m afraid,” the scarred wizard barked dismissively, breaking eye contact and moving away.

However, before Harry could feel satisfied about the professor’s retreat, the man returned and plopped the trembling spider on Harry’s desk, directly in front of him. A hint of trepidation flickered inside him as he, again, met the man’s mismatched eyes. Both brown and electric blue sparkled with demeaning amusement as Moody, who wore a twisted, patronising smirk, pointed his wand at the spider and held Harry’s challenging stare.

Harry refused to look away even when the tip of Moody’s wand glowed a familiar, vibrant green. He stared back as his magic began to pulse, spreading heat through his chest and limbs.

It was like he’d grown a second heart that beat and beat and beat, forcing fire through his veins instead of blood. The magic tore through him in waves, leaving Harry frozen in the still moments in between, waiting for the next surge. Cycling through extremes, he gritted his teeth and watched ugly hatred bloom on Moody’s scarred face. The smell of smoke crept up his throat, choking him until –

“Avada kedavra!” cast Moody, absolute loathing echoing within every syllable. The magic hit the arachnid before sending ripples across the classroom.

Harry shuddered as he felt Death’s magic shatter through him, burning him one last time with the fires of Hell before it dissipated, leaving only a spider’s corpse and the desolate ashes of Harry’s incinerated soul in its wake.

Cold and numb and hollow, Harry refocused his blurry eyes to find Moody still in front of him, but the wizard was significantly paler now. He was staring, not with the condescending amusement from before, but with a gaze full of terror and recognition.

Voldemort skimmed the book in his hand, made another note in the journal resting on the table, and then set the quill down to sip his perfectly brewed cappuccino. He was in a little, picturesque trattoria, a place he’d visited often the year he stayed in Rome during his travels.

When he’d settled into sleep for the day, this was the background his subconscious had supplied, likely inspired by the summer with the Zabinis. Though he often let his dreams steer themselves, on occasion, Voldemort used his ability to lucid dream to further his research. The mind required rest – it couldn’t be active all the time – but lucid dreams lessened mental fatigue, if not to the same extent as natural ones, while still allowing him to guide their contents.

Tonight, he was working on his ritual. He’d been struck by inspiration a few days before when he checked in, on accident, during Harry’s astronomy lesson. Voldemort might be able to use the position of the constellations to amplify the ambient magic during a Turn Day and reduce the power requirements needed from the outer ring participants. This would widen his selection pool of wixen substantially, though it would limit the timeframe.

He was still doing the necessary astronomy and arithmancy calculations to identify which of the Wheel’s holidays would make this possible, but it was very promising. Caught up in his work and feeling secure within his own dream, Voldemort had lowered his guard and didn’t notice that someone had sat down across from him until they cleared their throat conspicuously.

Abject shock coursing through him, Voldemort gaped at the woman. It was extremely improbable that someone could use somniamagicae to invade his dreams without warning – he had layered protections to avoid just that – but it wasn’t the presence of the witch that struck him speechless, shattering his usually unbreakable composure. It was her appearance.

She had Harry’s striking eyes… set within Tom Riddle’s face. 

The witch smirked at him, and that was his smirk with the same slight quirk of lips, the hint of a dimple, the tilt of her head. Though longer than he typically wore it, her dark brown hair had the same waviness as his when it grew past shoulder-length, the same small cowlick where the hair parted, the same sheen.

Her ears, forehead, cheekbones, nose, eyebrows – every fucking thing matched his features, so much so that the image looked wrong. It was off in the same way photographs of yourself sometimes were, because you expected them to be a mirrored reflection and not truly representative. Aside from Harry’s avada-green irises and a softening around the face that gave her a more feminine cast, this was his visage exactly.

Yet even her unnerving appearance wouldn’t have thrown him, if it were limited to his physical traits. She had also, incredibly, impossibly, mimicked his core. Her golden magic radiated out from her into blackened tendrils that arched out and then back in, coiling around her with the same sinuous movements as his magic naturally flowed.

Still trying to come to terms with the witch’s incongruous manifestation somewhere that should have been safe, Voldemort was startled when she leaned across the table, lifting her hand to let one palm rest on the side of his face, thumb gently stroking his cheek. She gave an exaggerated sigh accompanied by a shake of her head, before wickedly amused eyes opened to meet Voldemort’s astonished ones.

“Expergiscere, fili mi. Tempus est ut evigilet.”

Voldemort’s mind was strangely off-kilter. There was a ghost floating in the corner of his eye, a name hovering on the tip of his tongue, but then it was gone, smoke slipping through his fingers, impossible to hold the thoughts captive now that he was awake.

He furrowed his brow because his dreams were usually so clear, especially when he chose to lucid dream. His uncertainty was frustrating, the memory felt so close… right! The constellations and the Turn Day! That’s what it was! Voldemort felt his shoulders relax as he remembered. He still needed to finish those calculations, but the results were promising. This would make finding enough ritual participants possible, though he hoped the right astral conditions would come sooner rather than later.

About to allow himself to start dreaming again, Voldemort realised something peculiar was happening, not with him, but with Harry. The boy’s magic was freaking out. It was shaking so fast, almost vibrating, as if it were about to burst out of the boy’s body. He tried to gentle it as he simultaneously situated himself behind Harry’s eyes and pressed concern through the horcrux bond.

They were in the Defence classroom, and Mad-Eye Moody, a high-ranking member of the Order of the Phoenix now turned retiree and professor, was anxiously staring at Harry. This was an unexpectedly harmless situation. From Harry’s magic, Voldemort had thought it’d be a fight of some kind, not a lesson, though he better understood the cause of Harry’s disturbed state when he saw the chalkboard and the dead spider.

Harry had witnessed the killing curse, and it’d upset him enough to cause his magic to become a tangled, frantic, spiralling mess. The animagicae spell likely had woken Voldemort prematurely as well, resulting in that brief bout of forgetfulness.

Poor Harry, the boy couldn’t catch a break. He pushed some sympathy through the bond and was startled by how quickly his host yanked it into himself, almost like he was desperate for any emotion. Looking at the teenager’s stream of thoughts, he realised Harry was.

The horcrux bond was dead on Harry’s side, unfeeling and empty. Voldemort checked the boy’s recent memories to ascertain what about the situation had prompted the unnatural indifference. This wasn’t Harry’s typical reaction to a triggering situation; he tended to hide in his mind, not box up his feelings.

Ah, it wasn’t a mental response, but a physical reaction to the spell, or rather, a spiritual one.

Worried, Voldemort opened the connection fully on his side, allowing Harry to feel everything he did. He didn’t want Harry’s current apathy to trigger another dissociative episode. This had to be temporary, a simple consequence of the magical backlash from the powerful soul magic that Moody had performed. He’d let Harry use his emotions to tide him over until the response had run its course.

“Well,” Moody said, clearing his throat and taking shaky steps backwards from where Harry sat, seemingly ill-prepared for the drain of such a strong spell. “That was the killing curse, as you all saw. Now. I know this may scare some of you, and you might wonder why I showed you these curses, but you must know what’s possible.

“Next up is defence. I can’t give you much for the torture or killing Unforgivables besides dodge. Remember… CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Don’t get hit with them,” the wizard said, swivelling his head to stare at each student, though the magic-imbued glass eye stayed fixed on Harry. “But! There is a way to fight off the imperius curse. It’s not magic, but will. You must have strong mental defences and strong character, but it’s possible. So, Dumbledore’s asked me to show you what that’s like.”

He wasn’t serious. Mad-Eye was truly, absolutely mad. This was a class of fourth-year students! First, that show with the spider, traumatising all the teenagers with the man’s little mind control, torture, and murder demonstrations, and now he wanted to cast one of those same spells on them directly? Dumbledore was psychotic for allowing the ex-auror to teach.

Voldemort watched as the line in front of Harry grew shorter, each student failing to fight off the curse and embarrassing themselves with whatever ridiculous order Moody gave them. At least the imperius wasn’t more animagicae. It shouldn’t cause any more adverse effects in Harry. When the boy reached the front of the line and the wizard pointed his wand at them, Voldemort felt Harry stiffen in reaction, his body flooded with Voldemort’s suspicion and concern.

“Imperio,” Moody cast and… and there was something familiar about his slinky, silver-steel magic, wasn’t there? Had Voldemort ever fought Mad-Eye directly? But he let the thought go, instead intent on listening when the man gave Harry an order, fully planning to step in if it was unsavoury. “Jump on the desk.”

That order would’ve been fine… assuming Harry had tried to follow it. Voldemort was incredibly pleased that the boy didn’t consider listening for a moment. His skill with occlumency and intrinsic stubbornness prevented the spell from gaining a hold in his mind.

Moody scowled and thrust his wand forward, feeding more magic into the curse. “JUMP ON THE DESK!” he roared, but Harry refused, crossing his arms and shaking his head defiantly.

Snarky thoughts were running through Harry’s mind, the contents of which made Voldemort laugh as his pride soared. Truly, this boy was amazing, a real prodigy at defence. Only fourteen and already capable of fighting off the imperius curse, he made the difficult task look easy.

When Harry’s heart rate sped up, and his side of the horcrux bond lit with emotions that had suddenly returned, Voldemort was pleasantly surprised. That hadn’t taken as long as he’d worried it might, minutes at the most. It shouldn’t be a problem for the immediate future, so long as Harry wasn’t repeatedly exposed to the killing curse.

<< Did you… did you just laugh and tell me I’m amazing? >>

Everything in Voldemort’s mind came grinding to a halt as Harry sent that thought to him. Then he sharpened one thought into a knife. Can you hear me? Tell me yes, Harry, if you can hear me, he threw back into their connection, but Harry didn’t reply to the question.

<< Angel? Was that you laughing? >>

Voldemort sighed. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. He already knew projecting thoughts at the boy didn’t work. He’d tried that a million different ways their first summer. Harry had only heard him because of the strange mix of his reaction to the avada kedavra and being held under the imperius curse. Difficult and dangerous conditions to replicate.

“WELL DONE, POTTER!” a nearby voice shouted, and Harry stepped back at the sudden noise, wand flying into his hand to point at Moody, who looked fearfully manic. “Did you see that? Potter fought it off, first try! And here he is pointing his wand at me! Ten points to Gryffindor for CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

As Harry’s racing heart began to calm, Voldemort let his pride and pleasure trickle through the horcrux bond before slowly dimming it as he closed the connection again. He was retreating behind his walls, extracting himself from Harry’s mind, when he heard one last thought from the boy.

<< It was a lovely laugh… goodbye angel. >>

Chapter Text

The dark grey stone chessmen sitting on the board in front of him were mumbling about mutiny again, but Harry tried to tune them out as he decided his next move. He usually felt confident during the opening of a match, but there was always something midgame that tripped him up and inevitably led to him losing his pieces one after the other like dominoes.

Really, his talent at chess was similar to his skill at retaining friendships now that he thought about it. He wasn’t sure what the catalyst was, but lately, Harry’s friends had begun to inexorably slip from his fingers like the steady fall of sand through an hourglass.

Ginny was too preoccupied with her new electives to spend time with him, and Hermione was similarly busy, buried in the library working on a secret project. The twins were off writing long letters that they refused to elaborate on the contents of, snapping at anyone who dared ask.

Blaise’s passive-aggressive remarks about Gryffindors and trust had become significantly more pointed, and while the boy was always composed, Harry could feel something was wrong. It was in Blaise’s odd silences, interspersed with the over-the-top fake flirting, in the sudden mood changes and the strain around his eyes. Not to mention, both he and Theo declined Harry’s invitations to meet outside of their classes for the last two weeks.

Harry had taken to hanging out with Ron when he wanted company, but every conversation was an exercise in restraint. All the teen did was complain about Slytherins and awkwardly expound on the merits of the Light and dangers of the Dark. Despite the ventriloquy attempt now that Dumbledore had lost his rapport with Harry over Trelawney’s fake prophecy, Harry could practically see the old man’s image layered over Ron whenever the boy spoke.

Thankfully, he and Ron didn’t actually talk that much, at least, not in the way that Harry meant. Like today, they were playing chess in the common room and carefully not discussing the cracks in their friendship as they navigated the game. They only spoke to their respective chess pieces or complained about the lack of Quidditch.

No one usually interrupted them, so he and Ron were surprised when a frazzled Hermione suddenly dropped a large box onto their table. The vibration knocked over a few of the pawns. Though the white pieces on Ron’s side were well behaved, the disruption caused Harry’s remaining knight to claim treachery and proceed to charge his king, seeking vengeance and accidentally making Harry forfeit.

Happy to quit when he’d been losing so poorly in the first place, Harry gave up on the match and instead investigated the box, which was filled to the brim with buttons. He reached in to grab one and saw Ron inquisitively do the same. It was an ugly yellow colour with neon pink lettering spelling out spew in all caps. Harry thought it looked like a pattern for one of Dumbledore’s garish robes and was very accurately labelled, but when he said so to Hermione, he was subjected to unamused eyes and a sharp rebuke.

“It’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W. It’s an acronym for the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. Which you two are now officially members of,” she said. It appeared Hermione hadn’t given up on her campaign against house elves despite the early end to her fast. (As Harry had predicted, she’d forfeited her hunger strike within a day of its inception.)

“Does S.P.E.W. have a manifesto or something I could read?” Harry asked, his interest piqued. Hermione brightened immediately, smiling at him for the first time in days as she reached into her bag to pull out a very, very thick sheaf of parchment.

“Yes, of course! Here, you go, Harry! I knew you’d be on my side in this!” she said before glaring at Ron, who had been trying to sneak his pin back into the box.

“Come on, guys! You don’t understand! House elves want to be bossed around, that’s what they live for,” Ron complained, shooting Harry a beseeching look. He hummed noncommittally in response, but the tactless words incited a fire in Hermione.

She began a stern lecture on enslavement and conditioning, which seemed to go entirely over the ginger boy’s head. Harry tuned her out to read through the introduction of the enormous book Hermione had written. He started skimming through pages, becoming less interested the further he got. There wasn’t a single section on house elves, it was all philosophy, psychology, and policy.

“Hey Hermione, are you sure you researched this topic properly?” Harry asked when she paused to breathe, still idly flipping through pages.

It took him a moment to realise, but the other two had gone eerily silent. Ron gaped at him with wide, astonished eyes, but Hermione glared with offence. Harry silently repeated his words to himself and winced. That was pretty rude considering how much work she’d put in already.

“Not like that!” he quickly backtracked, “I only meant that I can’t find any parts on like… what the elves might want or need. Where is that information?”

Hermione no longer looked quite so upset but seemed confused and maybe a bit defensive. “Why would I need sources for that? It’s obvious. That’s why we need this society. So, we can free them, get them paid jobs, regular holidays, lunch breaks, hobbies, their own homes, even clothing for Godric’s sake! The kind of thing that makes everyone who isn’t brainwashed happy.”

“But –”

“Look, if you don’t want to join, you don’t have to,” she snapped, “You don’t need to go making up ridiculous excuses.”

“I’m not!” he retorted heatedly. “This is a valid question. One you should have investigated. Elves aren’t humans. They might want different things than we do!”

“Just because they aren’t human, doesn’t excuse slavery!” she shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the common room.

“I’m not saying it does!” Harry shot back, frustrated. He took a deep breath and then another, attempting to calm himself down. “I’m just… okay, listen. If you can tell me this one thing, I’ll bow to your wisdom as an expert on house elves.”

“What?!” she snarled back, grabbing the pin he’d taken earlier and shoving it into her box, frustrated tears gathering at the corner of her eyes.

“What kind of sustenance do they require?” he asked, folding his hands together, fingers gripped tight in front of him, but managing to keep his face blank and his voice only vaguely interested instead of sarcastic.

“What?” she asked again, this time in honest surprise.

“What do house elves eat? Or how often?” Harry repeated, simplifying the question. Then he bit his cheek to keep back a cruel remark that she was as bad at listening as she was at critical thinking.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but had second thoughts and closed it again without responding. A frown marred her brow as she stood stalled in front of Ron’s chessboard, trying to come up with an answer. After a few seconds of contemplation, her eyes drifted to the side and, seeing all the curious faces turned towards her from the audience of Gryffindors they’d garnered, her expression hardened.

“They should get to eat food every day, of course,” she tossed out, shoulders snapping back as she braced for an argument, “and I may not know their exact dietary restrictions like you, Harry, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about!”

Harry sighed and offered back the packet of parchment she’d given him, which she violently ripped from his hands.

“Their species doesn’t need to eat food, Hermione. It’s purely an indulgence and is one of the reasons many of them enjoy cooking,” he contradicted, though technically he only knew that last part because of a throwaway remark from his angel. “Elves’ biology requires magic and it’s sure as fuck not daily. So no, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Here, here!” Fred shouted from his seat a few feet away. George gave a loud whistle, and then Fred started to clap. A group of second years mimicked Fred, enthusiastically applauding, and then it spread like wildfire. Soon, everyone in the room was standing and cheering as Hermione ran upstairs, crying.

“What the hell, guys!” Harry shouted, rounding on the twins and the others who had defended him, but in the worst possible manner. “I wanted her to admit she didn’t know, not humiliate her in front of the House! That was not cool! And after this? Now I’ll have to say sorry when she was the one who…

“Argh! This whole situation is just – I am so done with Gryffindors right now,” Harry groaned, storming over to the fat lady’s portrait.

Grumbling the entire way, he climbed down to the dungeons, planning to ask the elves questions himself. Reaching forward to tickle the pear, he remembered how the twins had shown him this in his second year, when the school had essentially excommunicated him. Harry stood frozen, guilt twisting his stomach into knots, as he considered returning. Then, a shift in the air brought a whiff of a salty, earthy scent alongside the sound of two shuffling pairs of feet.

He turned around, knowing who’d followed. An apology was already on his lips, but it escaped as a grunt instead when he was almost bowled over by the twins wrapping him in a hug.

“We’re sorry!” they whispered into each of Harry’s ears.

“I’m sorry, too. Shouting at you didn’t help anything, and I know you weren’t being cruel on purpose,” he replied, squeezing them back.

“Actually, I kind of was,” Fred said as he leaned away while George stayed clamped around Harry like a limpet, “I am sorry for making things harder for you, but I still think she had it coming.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why is that, Fred?”

“Well, she’s a bit condescending, isn’t she?” the older boy replied with a sharp grin. Considering the topic, his brown eyes were strangely bright, almost the colour of amber, while they were lit up with an odd delight. “Especially when she doesn’t understand and it’s something we grew up with. Once she lectured me for over an hour about muggle pen-seals being so much more advanced and useful without even realising we couldn’t imbue much magic into graphite. She calls us backwards and outdated, and she doesn’t listen.”

“I can see how that’d get old,” Harry hummed, patting George on the back, still waiting for him to let go. Fred made a fair point. Hermione’s insistence on preaching at everyone around her was, in Harry’s opinion, her most annoying trait; though, it went hand-in-hand with his favourite attribute, her passion for learning magic, so it didn’t usually bother him. “And you, George? Why are you sorry?”

“Oh, Georgie here, didn’t mean to be cruel,” Fred said with a wink and ruffled his twin’s hair. “He thinks we should just ignore her. That it’s a lost cause trying to reason with the girl-who-thinks-she-knows-everything.”

“I’m sorry we upset you, though,” George whispered in Harry’s ear.

“Well, I’m sorry I upset you too,” Harry returned with a laugh, still trying to disentangle himself from the boy octopused around him. “What’s say we all forgive each other then?” George finally pulled away and smiled down at Harry while Fred nodded enthusiastically. “Did you two want to join me? I’m gonna ask the elves a few questions about their heritage.”

“See! This is why we think you’re way smarter,” Fred smirked, moving to stand beside his brother. “You also didn’t grow up knowing about house elves, but you aren’t jumping to conclusions. You’re learning first.”

Harry blushed and rolled his eyes at the unnecessary compliment. He stroked a finger down the painted pear, earning a creepy giggle and an open door into the kitchen. Immediately, a house elf broke out from the throng and approached them.

“How can Missy be helping Hogwarts students?” she asked, and Harry recognised her as the same elf he’d met on his first visit.

“Hello Missy! I was wondering if any of the house elves here had time to spare answering some questions for me about elven culture?” Harry asked, unsurprised by the shock emanating from the room’s occupants at his question. “I can come back another time if it’s inconvenient right now.” 

“Missy… Missy could…” she hesitantly replied after exchanging looks with someone in the crowd of elves.

“This is purely a request,” Harry hurriedly assured. “I don’t want you to feel pressured at all to talk with me or answer any of my inquiries. It’s only I grew up in the Muggle world, and so I’m unfamiliar with elves, and am looking to understand more.”

“Well… Missy can tell you some about house elves,” she squeaked before leading them to a small round table and summoning a few butterbeers.

“Wonderful!” Harry replied with a clap of his hands. “When you emphasised house in house elves, does that mean there are other species of elves?”

“Not… species? Elves are all elves. We all are born from Mother Magic’s tears, but house-elves sprout from the land,” she replied in her high voice as she hopped up onto a chair and summoned a glass of milk for herself.

“Right! Okay, I think that clarifies some things,” Harry replied, half to himself. One glance at the twins, though, and Harry explained more. “Cause sometimes there was almost contradictory information in the books. Like one said that elves couldn’t leave the land where they were born, and another said they immigrated to Britain ‘on the wind during the season of storms’ and another said they’re descendants of goblins, so I’ve been having a hard time figuring out what’s true.”

“We house elves are bound to our domains as the land is given to us to care for by Mother Magic,” Missy said resolutely, sipping her milk. But then a mischievous light filled her eyes, which widened in almost believable innocence. “But we can leave them if we aren’t hungry.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, somewhat unnerved by the implications behind Missy’s words, but stayed seated, determined to get some answers. He continued asking questions, eventually straying into more fraught topics.

“I read something about house elves being – and tell me if it’s offensive or taboo or anything – but they were bound to wixen?” Harry asked, trying to think of the exact wording the book had used. The twins seemed almost nervous as Missy’s demeanour darkened. “Or it said… vowed to a wixen family.”

Missy scowled but answered with tension in her high voice. “Yes, little wix. There was… Harry Potter knows the witch hunts?” Harry nodded, and she continued, “Muggles were damaging Magic’s land. Elves kept dying without their domains, wix kept dying without a home, so there was a… a pact created.”

While the small elf spoke on the topic, Harry noticed a charge in the atmosphere of the entire kitchen. There was a stillness in the air, but it only served to increase the pressure, like they were a becalmed ship, stranded at sea, desperately waiting for a breeze to catch their sails.

“A standard pact between a house elf and a wix was to be this: the wix hides and protects the elves and their domain from muggles, and the elf provides and maintains a home in the domain for the wix. The wix shares their magic and family with the elf, and the elf keeps the wix’s secrets and commands. To break the pact meant banishment from the domain.

“Many house elves made the vows, all the ones in Britain, but the – the pact was tricky and there was no… the wix’s death did not satisfy the vow because the elves swore on the wix’s blood which runs through their kin,” Missy quietly explained, a wealth of grief and rage in her eyes. “It was not a century of service to a single wix the elf chose to bond, but five… so far. Forever tied to the line’s magic.”

“And are you… who are...?” Harry whispered, horrified and unable to even finish his question. But then Missy smiled, a wide, sharp smile with too many teeth, which reminded Harry acutely of Axeclaw, his goblin financial advisor.

“No wix commands Missy, little one, for none of the bloodline Missy swore to remain amongst the living. As is proper, Missy is still bound to the castle in Missy’s domain. Missy provides a home for all magical young who pass through, but Missy needs not comply with orders…” she said, baring her teeth at him and the twins, but then her feral expression faltered, “but Missy follows an order to heed the headmaster when requested properly.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what the hell that meant when, instead, they were interrupted.

“Little one, little wix, and who might you be?” An elf with bright, grass green eyes wearing an almost perfect copy of Missy’s tunic squeaked the question as he approached Harry with an intimidating grin. “Same face, different soul. Or is it? Little-one-who-is-not-always-so-little… are you back for another deal with Ghrian? What delicious magic will you offer Ghrian this time?”

Harry refused and stepped back, terrified when he was soundlessly followed. The being’s grin stretched wider until it seemed more like a gaping maw than a smiling mouth. Surely this was no ordinary house elf. Ghrian was more like a fairy from legend, prepared to swallow Harry whole if he refused to give up his name. This elf’s mere presence made Missy’s mildly menacing taunts from earlier equivalent to mewls from a newborn kitten.

Ghrian suddenly stopped advancing, his terrifying smile fading as his head tilted in confusion. A trick of the light made the elf’s eyes look gold for a fraction of a second. Then he cackled loudly and drew everyone’s attention, house elves and humans alike, before vanishing into thin air with an almost inaudible crack.

Turning back to Missy, trembling a little, Harry steeled himself to ask more of his ever-growing list of questions; however, she was busy conversing with a very wrinkly house elf who was grimly shaking his head. Then the small crowd of elves were spurred into action by a sharp gesture from the elderly elf, and Harry and the twins were unceremoniously thrown out of the kitchen with a handful of sweets tucked into their pockets.

“Hey, Harry!” Theo loudly called, swerving through the after-dinner crowd of students with ease despite the half dozen apples he had precariously balanced in his arms.

“Hi Theo, what’s up?” Harry asked, his spirits rising. He was ecstatic that his friend had intentionally sought him out.

Harry ignored the grumbling Gryffindors and the sneering Slytherins reacting to his and Theo’s conversation, but kept an eye out for Moody’s presence. Recently, Harry began wondering if it wasn’t a problem with him that had led to his Slytherin friends declining his invitations, choosing to instead hole themselves up in the dungeons outside of meals and classes. After all, Theo was, understandably, terrified of their Defence professor, and the avoidance had started immediately after the man’s lecture on the Unforgivable Curses.

Perhaps it’d been narcissistic of Harry to assume the recent tension was his fault. Despite how Theo and Blaise’s recent behaviour hurt, they hadn’t said anything to imply they were angry with Harry. He felt somewhat silly and more than a little self-absorbed for previously thinking he was the cause. The least he could do was help Theo fly under Moody’s radar when he braved the halls and, regardless of the spectacle amongst the other students that this always caused, came to find Harry.

“Want to join me for a small… get-together on the grounds?” Theo offered, and Harry, easily interpreting the deliberate pause, felt anticipation flooding him. It was Mabon, and he was being asked to join a ritual. “There will be a few people you don’t know, but Daph and Blaise will also be there.”

He grinned at Theo’s transparent attempt to cajole him into attending, seeing an unspoken apology in the brown eyes. Simply grateful to know it wasn’t Harry that Theo was avoiding, he tried to show his forgiveness with a brush of his hand down Theo’s sleeve. Harry was thrilled to be invited and would have attended even if Theo told him Malfoy would be there.

“I’m in! Are you heading out now? Do I need to acquire an apple?”

“I got one for you! We should hurry, though. Don’t want to miss the sunset,” answered Theo, some of the tension he held draining away after gaining Harry’s acceptance. Theo rushed towards Hogwarts’s front doors, Harry easily staying close on his heels.

Instead of heading towards the Forbidden Forest or the Whomping Willow, they circled the castle and took a trail to the lake. When Harry raised his hand to block the sun from his eyes, he could see Daphne and another girl with white-blond hair like Malfoy’s setting up a triangle-shaped blanket on the rocky beach, half hidden behind a copse of trees. An older boy, also blonde, though a darker, more honey-like colour, was pinching the wicks of some tealights and igniting small flames, leaving the candles floating in the air like tiny stars.

Harry didn’t recognise either of them, but they, of course, recognised him. Two mouths dropped open as their pale blue eyes widened. The stupefied expression exacerbated the similarities in their faces, and he realised they were relatives.

“Hey Daphne, want to introduce me?” Harry requested as Theo dumped his haul of fruit onto the blanket.

“Of course, Harry. This is Roman Fontayne, Heir of the Fontayne family and his cousin, Miss Luna Lovegood. She’s a Ravenclaw, a year below us. Roman is a sixth-year Slytherin and my courted,” she primly declared, though her face was lit with wicked amusement and soft fondness as she watched the Fontayne Heir gape at Harry. “Roman, Luna, this is Harry Potter. He’ll be joining us for Mabon.”

Though surprised at the news that Daphne was already courting, Harry was glad to see she was dating someone who made her happy. At the direct mention of the Turn Day, Fontayne looked startled, anxiously whipping his head around to make sure no one heard before returning his now irritated gaze to glare at the still smiling Daphne. Lovegood had also recovered from her surprise but only smiled serenely and dropped into a curtsey with a lilting, “Hello, Harry Potter.”

“Merry meet, Heir Fontayne and Miss Lovegood,” Harry replied, trying to be polite though the titles felt awkward. “Magic bless you on this sacred day.”

“Magic bless you on this sacred day!” the girl replied in her soft, lyrical voice as she began stacking stones on the corner of the blanket closest to the lake. “You can call me Luna, Harry. We’re going to be great friends.”

“Er – okay. Sure, Luna. Do you need any help with that?” Harry replied, a bit thrown off balance by the certainty of her words. She’d said it the same way someone said the sky was blue, like it was a fact everyone knew was true.

“No, I’m nearly finished,” she replied, adding another smooth stone to the top of the pile and causing the whole thing to wobble. The other two corners held a single rock to hold them down, but she’d included over a dozen in her stack. “It just needs… adhæsit,” cast Luna, barely managing to use her wand to catch the rocks with the sticking spell before they toppled, resulting in a precariously formed tower. “Perfect.”

“Looks good, Luna,” Theo complimented easily as he began distributing apples to everyone. “Harry, have you done this ritual before?”

“No, I haven’t celebrated many of the Light holidays since they usually require… well,” Harry trailed off. It seemed somewhat awkward to admit he didn’t have friends and family who would celebrate the Wheel with him.

“That’s okay!” Theo hurried to reassure. “I’ll explain while we wait for Blaise, then. Normally, there’d be a huge feast for this and a bonfire, but since we’re at Hogwarts, we’re only doing the essential bits.

“Everyone will take an apple and split it into three parts. You can do this with magic or a knife. Don’t worry about making them perfectly equal or anything either. My grandfather always says the proportions will be what they will be, and it’s a sign of your priorities for the coming year.

“The first piece you’ll sacrifice to Magic’s flames,” Theo explained with a lively gesture. “The second you’ll gift to someone here, and the third you’ll keep for yourself. Make sense?”

It was pretty simple, and Harry firmly believed that Magic would guide him through any missing intricacies, so he nodded easily and was just about to ask Luna about her cairn when Blaise walked up holding hands with a girl.

“Hello, everyone! This is Miss Marietta Edgecomb. She’s a Ravenclaw in her fifth year. We’ve been hanging out lately, and she asked to join tonight. I’m assuming that’s okay with you guys?”

The atmosphere crackled with sudden tension, and Harry furrowed his brows, uncertain about the source. But then Theo was spinning so his back was to Blaise, and though it was in his peripheral vision, Harry could see the other boy biting his lip and clenching his hands into fists. His heart sank. So, he hadn’t imagined the recently strained dynamic, though he’d mistakenly blamed himself as the reason.

With Luna weaving flower chains out of thin air, and her cousin staring at Daphne’s sudden blank mask with concern, it didn’t seem like anyone would answer. However, before the silence became too uncomfortable, Daphne blandly responded. “Of course, she can join. She’s familiar with the purpose of our… get-together?”

Blaise raised one eyebrow as he presented an extra apple he’d had hidden in his unclaimed palm. Hints of disdain and offence crept into his smirk, but his voice was smooth and indifferent when he replied. “Yes. Her family and my mother do business on occasion. They’ve attended common rituals before.”

“Well then, welcome, Miss Edgecomb,” Daphne greeted with a graceful, yet cold smile, slipping into a flawless curtsey. “We’re happy you could join us. Why don’t you and Blaise take this side? Since we have an odd number now, Theo, could you, Harry, and Luna all share this edge? Then Roman and I can take the remaining side.”

Luna plopped the daisy chain she’d made onto Harry’s head as they settled into their spots, and Harry grinned in thanks. She leaned in and teasingly whispered, “You are missing your crown, but this one will do for tonight.”

His entire body jolted in shock, the smile sliding off his face. How could she possibly know of the wreath his angel made for him? Maybe she’d recognised him from one of his few past public rituals where he’d worn it? He started to ask, but Daphne, the leader of the rite, called for silence. Harry reluctantly pulled his attention away from the unsettling, too well-informed girl and refocused on the coming ritual.

“Gratias agamus pro fructibus terrae,” Daphne intoned, and though Harry wasn’t fluent in Latin yet, the meaning came easily. Let us give thanks for the fruits of the earth.

The previous tension melted away, overwhelmed by the magical atmosphere which always accompanied rituals. Harry took a deep breath, inhaling the overly strong smell of apples that permeated the air. The scent saturated everything with such force that he could taste it on his tongue. Licking his lips as he held his apple in both palms, Harry directed his magic to slice through skin and into the soft flesh.

“Reddere ad magica,” Daphne ordered, conviction ringing through her voice as a small flame sparked to life in the middle of the blanket. Return to magic, she’d said, and what he was supposed to do was obvious. Harry floated the largest portion of his apple into the fire, eyes focused on the fruit as it disintegrated without even leaving a trail of smoke as evidence.

“Reddite coven,” Daphne incanted, and without thought, Harry offered the next largest slice to Luna, seated beside him. With an enigmatic yet dreamy smile, she accepted, but reached past him to give hers to Theo, who, in turn, held his hand out to Harry, a wide smile on his face, eyes sparkling with joy as Harry accepted.

“Fructum manducare et gratias,” she declared, and Harry obeyed, bringing the sweet fruit to his lips as he thanked Magic repeatedly for the gifts she’d given him.

There was silence after Daphne closed the ritual, but it wasn’t painful or awkward like before; rather, it was a calm moment of reflection and happiness as the seven of them basked in the slowly dissipating magic while the sun finished falling behind the horizon. Then, in a moment of synchronised harmony, they all stood.

Fontayne began vanishing the remains of the candles, and Daphne and Blaise tugged the blanket out from under the rocks to fold. Luna picked up her stacked cairn, cradling it in her arms, but then, in what Harry thought was a fit of mischief, she threw it into the lake.

The splash was enormous, soaking Luna and Harry, who were standing closest to the shoreline, but, unsatisfied, it attacked the others as well. Edgecomb tumbled backwards, shrieking as she wasn’t entirely able to avoid the water splashing on her ankles and ended up wetting the butt of her robes too as a result.

From his stance beside her, Blaise merely sighed and accepted the damp shoes and socks before offering his hand to help the squealing Edgecomb to her feet. Daphne and Fontayne had similarly scrambled away, but it wasn’t necessary as Theo had cast a shield to protect himself and them.

Dripping wet, Harry watched wicked amusement cover Luna’s face, and he couldn’t help giggling when she sent him a wink.

“Theo, you couldn’t have also covered Marietta and me?” Blaise complained even as he waved his wand to dry his socks and shoes with a grimace before offering the same to Edgecomb, who’d draped herself over the boy to complain and glare aggressively at Luna. As Theo stiffened and began to reply, Harry turned away to roll his eyes at the older girl’s pathetic show and saw Luna’s grin widen in agreement.

“Luna, it was good to meet you,” Harry said, hesitating before continuing. “You seem to know all kinds of things if the flower wreath you gave me is any indication.”

“Don’t worry, that was all the humdingers whispered. I won’t tell anyone. Like I said, we’re going to be great friends,” she replied with an airy grin before plucking the string of flowers off his head and tossing them into the lake as well.

“Looking forward to it,” Harry sighed. He wanted to push for immediate answers, but a strange glint in her eyes stopped him. It should be annoying or concerning, but Harry couldn’t dredge up anything other than curiosity and amusement.

Realising how dark it was getting, Harry moved to say goodbye to his other friends, but though Theo and Daphne were still nearby, Blaise was already escorting a complaining Edgecomb back to the castle. “Bye, Blaise!” he yelled with a wave, getting an absentminded one in return.

Theo and Daphne stared at Blaise’s back with blank masks on their faces. Harry didn’t like it and hated the rift growing between the three Slytherins. He hoped it’d heal soon. “Theo, tha – ah – I mean, I appreciate the invite. Daphne, you did amazing, leading the rite. See you later. Happy Mabon!”

When Theo and Daphne turned to look at Harry, their stone facades cracked into wide smiles, and he was surprised but pleased to receive hugs from them before they parted ways to travel to their separate dormitories.

– celebrating Mabon was amazing! It was small, of course, cause of the stupid laws forbidding Pagan practices, but the Magic was just so inspiring. Have you performed the rite I described with the apples before?

I have. In fact, I had a similar experience to yours. A small group of students got together to celebrate Mabon by the lake. It was one of my earliest rituals. I still consider the memory to be special.

That’s so cool! I’m happy we shared similar experiences… I want to share I hope one day we can Maybe we’ll be able to celebrate together one day.

Harry, I see many ritual celebrations together with you in my future. Now, it’s late. You need rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.

Okay, goodnight, angel!

Sweet dreams, Harry.

Voldemort waited a few moments, seated with his back leaning against the small, plain-white wooden door that had appeared within the upper boughs of his mindscape last year. Though there had always been a link between his and Harry’s minds (a separate connection from the horcrux bond), the mental connection hadn’t solidified until Harry formed his own mental space. Now, this boot cupboard represented the anchor for his side of the bridge between their minds.

Though, of course, it wasn’t as simple as a real bridge. It was just a symbol, and a damned annoying one at that. The blasted door wouldn’t unlock while Harry was meditating, banning Voldemort direct access, no matter what magic he attempted to bypass it. At all other times, it was an open threshold that allowed him access to anywhere he was permitted within Harry’s mind, which, considering his host’s absolute faith in his angel, was everywhere.

The door creaked as Voldemort stood, automatically opening by itself now that Harry was sleeping. Today, it showed the edge of the field, far from the path and the peristyle, likely where Harry’s current dreams would soon grow into new, beautiful flowers. It was tempting to step inside, to enjoy the peace and serenity of Harry’s mindscape and feather his fingertips across the petals of Harry’s recent memories. Though he desperately wanted to look for new blooms and confirm his flower symbolism hypothesis, Voldemort resisted.

Harry’s soul was too important to risk, despite Voldemort’s desires. He could do further exploration and study once they were in separate bodies. With one last lingering brush of his hand against the wooden frame, he walked away, moving along the large branch back to the trunk of the enormous yew tree.

Voldemort created his mindscape at a young age, long before he knew about Hogwarts or wixen society. It’d been something of an accident. His magic had always been strong, but he hadn’t had control when he was young, and it had led to difficulties within the orphanage. The matron’s threats of exorcisms and asylums hanging over his head, Voldemort had learned to control his emotions and magical talent by meditating, unintentionally using occlumency, and drawing upon his current obsession during his mental space’s inception.

He’d spent the years of his early childhood reading every book he could find about various mythologies. Roman, Greek, African, Norse – the culture didn’t matter. He was convinced that buried somewhere in the legends, there would be an explanation for his abilities. It’d not been true, but Voldemort had developed some of his greatest talents using those stories, so he didn’t consider the time spent poring over them a waste. And it’d given him an exceptional memory palace.

In Norse mythology, Yggdrasil, an immense and sacred tree, was central to the cosmos. It was the linchpin of the universe, holding entire worlds within its roots and branches. Given his capabilities, it was hardly a wonder that his mind had mimicked the World Tree to store his memories.

Similar to Harry, the leaves represented his memories, but Voldemort was blessed with an eidetic memory as a child, so, unlike Harry, the organisation of his mental space was instinctive. New leaves grew on the tree during the day, and then they fell at night, only to be swirled away by the wind and land within the proper realm and position for categorisation.

Without that innate ability, such a large mental space would be impossible to maintain. The only times he ever had to manually organise his mind were bizarre circumstances, like when he’d initially possessed Harry, which had caused his recent memories to scatter and mix with copies of those stolen from the horcrux embedded in Harry’s brain, or if he decided to intentionally recategorise from one realm to another after further reflection.

The individual worlds of Yggdrasil were tied to different facets of his personality, but also, mainly, his emotions, as that was the reason he’d created the mindscape in the first place. There was further organisation too, but the overarching structure was that each realm had a sentiment and designation attached to it; like for example, he’d assigned Svartalfhem his academic pursuits, which were inspired by feelings of fascination and curiosity, while Asgard contained his accomplishments, each wrapped up in his satisfaction, superiority, and contempt.

This was true for all but one of the realms. Midgard. It used to be where he put neutral memories, a collection of anything that bored him, but that’d changed after his first horcrux, when he’d discovered the diary was sentient and drowning within a slurry of confused memories it’d somehow managed to retain.

When he’d broken his soul using Myrtle’s death, he’d extracted 23% to place within the diary. Later, he’d find out that this was nearly ten times the amount one should use when making a horcrux, but at the time, he’d been unaware. All he knew was that he suddenly had a conscious diary already halfway to mad, and his own sanity was fragile, and slipping more every day. He’d needed a solution, fast, and he’d used his prodigious skill with the mind arts to make one.

Voldemort had bound the horcrux’s consciousness within his mindscape, specifically within Midgard. That was the realm that represented Earth, but more importantly, it was hidden in the heart of the branches at the bifurcation point, and the inherent imagery combined with his intent was enough to make a bridge between the two minds fueled by the same soul.

The horcrux had chosen to remodel it after the Hogwarts library, and Voldemort had allowed it, helping with the initial design. Memories had easily morphed from leaves into books because, after all, weren’t they both derived from the same source? Then, once they were both sane again, he’d granted the diary dominion over the space and never returned, locking it in.

Though his childhood was a piece of him, an essential pillar of his personality, he was content to allow memories of Wools and Hogwarts to fade as much as possible while avoiding the irritating teenager that no doubt lurked amongst the library’s stacks.

This was, however, one of the reasons he’d put in so much effort to save his first horcrux after its botched attempt to take over his animagicae ritual. Voldemort didn’t want to consider what harm could have occurred from losing a quarter of his soul and ripping a piece of his consciousness, especially without his own body anchoring him. He’d run some arithmancy calculations during that boring summer at the Dursleys with Harry while his core was healing, and he’d found that the odds of ending up as a mad amnesiac were exceptionally high.

He’d been much, much more conscientious when creating his other horcruxes. Each splinter was exactly 3% of his soul, with Harry being the exception since he’d been entirely unintentional. Voldemort estimated Harry contained less than 1%, though that wasn’t something he could confirm until the possession concluded.

Thankfully, it wouldn’t be too much longer before he had a body again. Voldemort had made substantial progress on his research into a new ritual. It was more difficult this time since he still wanted to make use of the diary. He’d need to overwrite everything from the previous failed ritual, which, being powered by a basilisk, would need an exorbitant amount of magic. But the hidden ritual he’d discovered was made for this type of high-level, multi-branch magic.

Oh, he still needed to make serious adaptations; it wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. But honestly, Voldemort would have found that too suspicious if it were. Yet, the foundation was there. It was the structure that was perfect. Three shapes, three magics, three outcomes: the triangle for the necromagicae to create the physical form from the offerings, the circle for the mensmagicae to tie the memories to the brain, the line for the sacrificial magic to bind the core into the chest.

Three by three by three, an ideal number for magic, but also seven intersection points: the three corners of the triangle, the three points of tangency where the circle touched the triangle, and the bisection of the circle by the vertical line. And, of these intersection points, there was only one where all three shapes came together! The Peverall Family’s crest was truly, spectacularly flawless.

The only problem was how to power it. He’d need six other wixen, capable ones too, which meant Pettigrew was useless as usual. Black could probably handle it, and the diary would participate, especially if Voldemort could design the ritual to extract it from the Weasley chit simultaneously. That still left him with four blank spaces to fill.

Thus, Voldemort needed more followers to participate. So tonight, he was taking the opportunity to search out the Crouch family's former house elf. She’d be able to lead him to the young Death Eater, who would faithfully serve him or perish.

Though elves didn’t show up on the map – they didn’t have cores that Hogwarts’s wards recognised, and their true names were hidden regardless – Voldemort knew they were likely to be somewhere near the kitchens. Possessing Harry and hiding underneath the invisibility cloak, Voldemort quickly descended to the dungeons and through the fruit bowl painting.

Throwing off the robe and flicking a locking charm at the door, Voldemort called out, “I’m searching for the elf bound to the Crouch family. Does she reside here after her severance?”

An ancient elf popped up in front of him with a glare. “And if she does? What business do you have with her? Missy answered all your questions earlier, Harry Potter.”

“Ah… there may be some confusion. I am not Harry Potter, simply borrowing his appearance. I am the Heir of Slytherin,” he respectfully informed the elf. The other was older than any fae he’d seen before, his diction perfect despite the difficulty in pronunciation that elves typically struggled with when learning human languages. Voldemort wondered how many centuries he’d lived, or if he counted his years in millennia.

“Hmmm, in magic, maybe, not in blood,” murmured the elf, eyes flickering gold as he stared at Voldemort’s chest. He felt a spike of rage at the elf’s casual disregard but tried to calm himself. It wasn’t wise to piss off even a bound fae on their domain, particularly one that was this ancient.

“In this form, I do not carry Slytherin’s blood, but I do in the body I was born in,” he replied, voice carefully flat.

“It matters not. We were not bound by the Slytherin line, only Ravenclaw,” muttered the elf, still staring at Voldemort’s middle. “But… you have not hurt the child whose image you’ve stolen. And you come asking politely… was it you who made the deal with Ghrian, not Harry Potter?”

“Yes. It was a simple transaction. Favour for magic, as in the ways of old,” Voldemort answered cautiously.

He didn’t know the relationship between Ghrian and this elf and preferred to avoid getting involved in any disputes between them. He also wished to avoid the elf discovering that this was Harry Potter and not just a woven glamour or illusion that Voldemort wore. His possession of Harry must remain secret. He’d slit the elf’s throat, if necessary, but he’d prefer to avoid the uproar killing the ancient fae would cause.

“Winky,” replied the elf and then disappeared to Voldemort’s bemusement. Within seconds, another elf popped into existence.

“I is Winky, sirzz. You – hiccup – is lookin’ ferrr me?” asked a ragged elf drinking a butterbeer. She was well past sloshed. Voldemort raised an eyebrow but decided not to say anything about her state. What else was she to do with so little time left to her? She had to manage the pain somehow.

“Yes. I have heard of your plight and your intention to seek the Crouch Heir. I am also seeking him since he has vowed his loyalty to me and my cause. I had thought we could come to an arrangement that would benefit us both.”

“Winky founds him – hiccup – already. Heez here, hidin’ – hiccup – in the castle,” she replied, though she didn’t look enthused by this fact.

“Is he really?” Voldemort questioned rhetorically, though the elf didn’t realise and answered anyway.

“Yessir. Heez promisin’ Winky – hiccup – cle-men-cy if he becomes Lord.” Ah, well, that was her only hope. The problem now became the Lord himself, but the elf couldn’t do anything about that without harming herself further. Even though she’d been banished, she was still held to the vows she’d made to the Crouch family.

“Hmm, and if I help him become Lord of his House and Land, will you reveal him to me?” Voldemort asked softly. The elf froze in surprise, holding herself eerily still until another hiccup shook her entire frame.

“Winky will ask. Returnzz on… Samhain for answer,” she replied, managing to get out all the words without hiccupping and keeping her feelings at the implied offer to kill the Crouch Lord hidden.

“Very well, I’ll return then,” Voldemort replied, matching the elf’s nod before she apparated away. How fortuitous to find a servant readily available and already hidden in Hogwarts. Fate truly favoured him. Only three more to go and a ritual to design. Pleased at the ease with which that task was completed, Voldemort returned to the Room to do some additional reading for the evening before he turned back time to allow Harry’s body to rest.

Chapter Text

“Hermione, wait!” Harry yelled, running through the halls behind her.

She’d avoided him since that disaster of an argument in the common room, but Harry was determined to catch her today, as it was the opportune time for a chase. The halls were empty because everyone else was gathered outside to receive the visiting delegation from the two other schools participating in the tournament. He was gaining on her. When he sprinted around another corner, he barely snagged the back of her robes, jolting her to a halt.

“Let me go!” – “I’m sorry!”

They shouted at each other, voices echoing through the dusty out-of-the-way corridor they’d ended up in. Hermione was flushed red, mostly from exertion, but the way she blinked too often and the wet sheen in her eyes told Harry she was holding in tears. However, when what Harry had said finally registered, Hermione’s eyes flashed to his and, instead of running again, she grabbed onto his arm.

“Harry, what did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry repeated after catching his breath, hiding the resentment that wanted to creep into the words. If he didn’t apologise first, he knew it’d be months before she attempted one, if she did at all. Left in her hands, would their friendship survive? It wasn’t worth the risk. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of everyone. I was mad you weren’t taking me seriously, but I should have talked to you privately.”

Tears flooded her eyes as Hermione burst into sobs and threw herself at him. Spluttering to rid himself of the sudden mouth full of bushy, brown hair, Harry tried to keep his balance as he was thrown into the wall. Relief flooded him, mixing with the bitterness he couldn’t quite bury. Well, she might not be willing to swallow her pride to save their friendship, but she did care.

“But you were right! Elves need magic, not food! And it still doesn’t excuse slavery or brainwashing, but I didn’t even consider asking what the elves wanted for themselves. I just wrote them off as helpless and –” she cried before gasping in a large breath of air to continue, “and then I was so humiliated about being called out on it when I’m supposed to be the smart one that I didn’t – I couldn’t seem to stop.

“Why do I keep making the same mistakes over and over? It’s just like last year with the broom!” she wailed, and Harry fought against his urge to correct her, biting his lip.

This wasn’t only like last year’s argument over his Firebolt, all their arguments were like this. Hermione would run away in offended or frustrated tears, and Harry would eventually track her down to clear the air. This was a foundational pillar of their friendship. (What else could you expect with how they’d become friends? The troll incident had set an indelible precedent.)

“I don’t – if I’m not helping – what do you even need me for? I’m so stupid. Why keep me around at all? You’re smarter than me now! You – you put in half the effort and still beat me in our classes and – and everyone likes you better and you're way better at practical spells and – and –”

Her words stuttered to a halt, and Harry awkwardly patted her back when she wailed again. He’d never quite understood her defensive, know-it-all attitude, but now the root cause was suddenly crystal clear. Despite her previous twelve-year-old self’s assertions that friendship and bravery were more important, Hermione believed the value of a person lay within their intellect and charisma… and she felt constantly weighed against standards she always fell short of.

She was the gifted student studying in a school of biased professors who said answering their questions wasn’t enough to prove she was smart. She was the nerd living in a tower of outgoing Gryffindors who told her being sorted as a lion didn’t make her brave or cool like them. She was the muggleborn witch playing catch-up in a world ruled by bigoted wixen who claimed her gift was a fluke, a trick, and they’d never consider her a true witch.

Most of her more annoying personality traits – regurgitating the readings in class, bossing around their fellow students, endless lecturing on the capabilities of muggles – were all coping techniques for her low self-esteem and desire to fit in.

Harry knew it was cold, stoically dissecting Hermione like this, but though there were a few twinges of guilt, for the most part, he was pleased. He finally got it. Now, all he needed to do was reassure her of her own intelligence, and then things could return to normal between them.

“Hermione, no! That’s not true at all. You’re the smartest witch of our age!” he said, mildly exaggerating, but figured it couldn’t hurt. Plus, he knew Lupin had called her that already, so she’d be more inclined to believe it. “I’ve learned so much from you, and just cause we argued about house elves doesn’t make you dumb. You’re wicked smart! We were just coming from different directions with different sources of information.”

Hermione shuffled in place, almost as if she were shy, and pursed her lips to hide the embarrassed pleasure his compliments inspired. She looked so young with her red-rimmed eyes overflowing with hope and tears. Harry knew they were roughly the same age, but sometimes, particularly when she was crying like this, he wondered if he’d ever been a child in the way she still occasionally was.

“I’d be happy to go with you to meet the Hogwarts elves, or show you some of the books I’ve read, and you can show me the ones you’ve found in the meantime, I’m sure you’ve been researching like mad since then,” Harry offered, giving her a knowing look while she sheepishly averted her eyes.

“And, also, I’m your friend even if, once in a rare, blue moon, you get something wrong,” he reassured, happy that the hysterical sobbing had passed. Though there were still the physical side effects of her crying jag, she seemed emotionally recovered, and their friendship was stable again.

“Come on, let’s go to the –”

“Harry… it’s… it wasn’t only that. I just…” Hermione paused to gulp as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her timidity worried Harry. What topic would cause her to hesitate now, after they’d already resolved their argument? He waited patiently, but the silence stretched painfully long until she finally found the courage to speak.

“I know your home life is bad,” Hermione blurted in a quivering, yet forceful voice. “That – that your relatives aren’t – they’re not nice. To you.”

Heart pounding, Harry gaped at her. Hermione wasn’t – why was she – he thought they had a silent agreement not to talk about this. She’d guessed something last year (her coddling at Hagrid’s hut proved that), but neither she nor Ron had ever broached the subject. Harry instinctively tried pulling away, but she kept her hold on his arm and rushed to continue speaking.

“A – and I can’t do anything about it yet. So, instead, I was trying to help the elves with their abuse –” she whispered, gripping tighter when Harry flinched. He could scarcely hear what she said, the words barely audible over his heartbeats. “And when you told me I didn’t understand, it felt like you were telling me I couldn’t help you, that I’d never be able to help you, cause I didn’t know anything.”

She paused and held her breath, peering up at him earnestly. Harry tried to unclench his jaw but couldn’t help tensing his shoulders, straining against the apprehension and shame that bubbled in his gut. Any moment it would overwhelm him… but the expected tidal wave never arrived.

Instead, Harry’s mind went still, all his emotions suppressed with numb calculation. He wasn’t hollow, not like he’d felt after seeing Moody cast the killing curse. Well, at least, not entirely like that. But he was calm enough to think past the panic for once.

Shuffling through possible ways to redirect the conversation, Harry waved a hand to cast a muffling spell. As he did, he saw Hermione’s lip wobble, probably thinking Harry was angry with her, but the glint in her eyes was evidence she’d refuse to retreat now that she’d oh so bravely raised the topic.

That stubbornness narrowed his choices. He needed to nip this in the bud, or she’d never let it die. Deflecting wouldn’t be enough. Harry needed to completely dismantle Hermione’s concern and change her view of the situation; he could only think of one way to accomplish that.

“Hermione… I don’t want to talk about this, but I can see you won’t drop it until I address your concerns,” said Harry, his voice firm, unyielding when she cringed at the reproach underlying his words, “but I want you to promise you won’t bring this up again. Like with the house elves, there are aspects of my situation you don’t understand and, frankly, aren’t any of your business.”

He waited until she reluctantly nodded her agreement with a single, sharp jerk of her head. Then, carefully modulating his voice to sound solemnly sincere, he said, “You don’t need to worry anyway, Dumbledore already knows.”

“What do you mean Dumbledore already knows? You told him about your home life?” she hesitantly asked. Her brows furrowed in confusion. Harry only nodded yes in answer and waited for her to follow the thought to its natural conclusion. “But… then why do you still live there?”

“He sent me back,” Harry succinctly replied, ignoring the small spike of pain and betrayal. It was a mere ripple beneath the cloak of indifference covering him.

Hermione’s confusion was starting to make room for unexpected devastation. “He sent you back, even knowing that they –”

“He knows my relatives don’t like magic,” Harry said, cutting her off before she could try putting his life into words. It wasn’t her place to do so. Still, she was reacting differently than he’d anticipated. Shouldn’t she be reconsidering whether the Dursleys were that bad? After all, if Dumbledore approved…

“He said there are more important things to consider,” Harry explained, watching her digest the additional information.

“He said… more important…” Hermione repeated, trailing off.

Since she hadn’t changed her mind about the supposed severity of Harry’s home life, Harry assumed she’d ask for Dumbledore’s reasons next. He thought she’d argue that the headmaster must not have really understood Harry’s situation, or maybe she’d express how sad she was about his unavoidable circumstances. But instead –

“That bloody wanker!” she shouted, the swear echoing in the empty hallway despite the muffling charm. Harry’s jaw involuntarily dropped, shock breaking through his numb shell.

Hermione was spitting mad, her magic reflecting her emotions as small, fiery red sparks lit around her head. Her hair seemed to defy gravity as it grew even bushier, strands slithering around her like the thousands of snakes said to adorn Medusa’s head. Static was in the air, and Harry could practically taste the electric charge; a bitter, acrid flavour of over-roasted coffee beans burning his tongue.

“How dare he!” she seethed, hands digging bruises into Harry’s forearm until he winced, and she abruptly let go to pace back and forth in the small hallway while Harry stared in awe. “Sorry! It’s just – I can’t believe this! He’s supposed to help! More important things to consider, my arse. Dumbledore’s the sodding headmaster of our school! What could be more important than a student’s welfare?!”

He’d never heard Hermione curse, not once. She must really be pissed. And not just that, she was pissed for Harry. He knew she was prone to snap judgments, but he’d never seen one that worked for him instead of against. An incredulous laugh bubbled up and out from Harry’s lips.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at the sound but softened when she caught his astonished expression. “You don’t deserve this, Harry. Dumbledore should have saved you,” she said, and he uncomfortably dropped his gaze to the ground until she continued, voice sharpening from iron to steel. “Well… he needs to go.”

“What?” Harry asked, eyes whipping back up and over to her.

“You heard me,” Hermione snapped, still pacing. “What use is a Headmaster that doesn’t help his students? It’s ridiculous. The man has too many jobs anyway, he can focus on the others.”

Another burst of laughter escaped Harry as his amusement grew, but it was too intense to be only his feelings. His angel must be watching. Harry tried to remember when the man had joined him, but couldn’t find a specific moment. Perhaps he’d been here since the first sign of distress, tempering Harry’s emotions.

In hindsight, Harry knew he’d been too calm for this discussion, not having to spend the duration fighting against panic. Still, despite how smoothly the talk with Hermione went, a small sprout of annoyance grew within him. Harry carefully squashed it. His angel deserved nothing but appreciation, even if Harry might have wanted to handle this alone. He didn’t want his angel to think him ungrateful, unworthy, and leave.

<< I’m fine now, angel, you don’t need to worry! At least in this, she’s more on my side than Dumbledore’s. Her immediate decision to get him ejected from Hogwarts was unexpected but nice. >>

“I’m not sure it’ll be that easy,” Harry mumbled, laughter fading, but the wide smile remained, hurting his cheeks. Hermione scowled and opened her mouth to disagree, but Harry spoke before she could. “But I’m happy to work with you towards that end goal.”

She hummed, satisfied as he seemingly gave in. The manifestation of her magic subsided, and she no longer gave the impression of a witch about to go on the warpath, smiting enemies left and right.

Hermione flicked her wand to cast a tempus, momentarily freezing when she saw the time, before she jolted into action. “Oh no! We’re going to be late for the assembly!” she cried in distress, frantically patting herself down in a vain attempt to make herself more presentable before grabbing Harry’s hand.

Harry laughed brightly again as he dropped the muffliato and let her hurry them off to join the other students. That was an unexpected outcome of the conversation with his fellow Gryffindor, but it was a pleasant surprise, for once. Harry felt his angel hum in agreement before fading, withdrawing from Harry’s awareness again.

When Harry and Hermione reached the courtyard where Hogwarts would welcome the competitors, it was already full, if not as organised as McGonagall probably wished. They began pushing their way towards a congregation of their housemates, but Harry was halted by a hand on his shoulder. Looking back, violet eyes smirked down at him, so he waved Hermione forward. She went, but not without a distinctly concerned glance at the Slytherin who’d halted Harry’s progress.

“Hey, Blaise! Excited to meet the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students?”

“Not really… I see you made up with your little lioness… again,” drawled Blaise, his intonation making the idle remark sound like a scandalous accusation. Harry blushed as he shook his head and glared at the other boy’s mocking grin. How Blaise could change what ought to be a normal comment into a dirty implication was a mystery to Harry.

“You know it’s not like that,” Harry grumbled, swallowing the urge to cast a stinging hex when Blaise winked, the smug look on his face suggesting he didn’t believe a word.

Honestly, it was irritating how the Slytherin worked little digs against Hermione or Ron into every conversation and intentionally used innuendos to make Harry uncomfortable. He wished they could return to the summer dynamic – winding conversations, a relaxed atmosphere, the beginnings of real trust – but Blaise had become closed off, and Harry didn’t know why.

He’d noticed it more since Mabon. His friend was increasingly antagonistic and frequently avoided both Harry and Theo in favour of the company of strangers. Whenever Harry caught sight of the boy outside of class, a new girl was always hanging on his arm.

If not for how Blaise’s smiles never reached his eyes, how his expressions were always a smidge too stiff, Harry might have thought the teen had simply grown bored of their friendship and decided to replace it with a slew of romantic relations. But no, Blaise was upset and trying to hide it. Even now, there was a veil obscuring his violet eyes. The grin he sported was too precise, with no sign of the dimples that emerged when he was truly amused.

“Sure, it isn’t,” Blaise said, removing his hand from Harry’s shoulder. The spot felt much colder in the absence of the previous warmth. “Personally, I don’t see the appeal, but hey, I won’t judge.”

Harry rolled his eyes, about to reply, when a shriek rang through the air, causing both Blaise and him to jump. The wordless squeal heralded the arrival of a girl latching onto his friend’s arm and flirtatiously batting her eyelashes at him.

“Blaise! Sweetie! How could you not tell me you know the Harry Potter?” she whined, turning dark, greedy eyes on him. Though Harry couldn’t ever remember seeing her before, she was a Gryffindor close to his age.

“My apologies, cogliona. How could I forget?” Blaise replied, and while the words sounded genuine, Harry nearly choked trying to contain a laugh.

It was bold, calling the girl a testicle to her face and pretending it was an endearment. But since she was pressing even closer, twirling some of her long brown hair around a finger and giggling, Harry guessed she didn’t know the meaning of the Italian word. However, Blaise cottoned on to Harry’s amusement, and his eyes brightened mischievously.

“Harry, this is my rompi coglioni, Romilda Vane. Romilda, this is the incredible boy-who-lived, the saviour of magical Britain and my dear friend, Harry Potter, sole Heir of the Potter Family.” Ever the Slytherin pureblood, Blaise made the introductions in a dramatic, over-the-top fashion, triggering another ear-piercing squeal from the Vane girl and drawing the attention of the nearby Gryffindors and Professor McGonagall.

“Mr Zabini. I think it’s time you stopped provoking the Lions and returned to your House,” the transfiguration professor ordered, mouth pinched in irritation. Harry scowled at her. Why was she scolding Blaise when this ridiculously shrill Gryffindor girl was the one who was clearly disturbing everyone?

Harry was disappointed in his Head of House, especially when he saw the walls erecting themselves around Blaise again. Desperate to disrupt the barrier from returning, he stepped into the other boy’s space, yanking him away from the Vane girl and into a tight hug. Blaise’s arms rose, instinctively returning the embrace. Hearing a huff of surprise, Harry whispered, “It was good to see you. Please, let’s talk again soon. I miss you.”

He stepped back when McGonagall, in exasperation, cleared her throat. Blaise might appear aloof to the surrounding Gryffindors, but Harry could see cracks forming in the façade when Blaise nodded, robotically extracting himself from Vane, who tried to reclaim her spot on his arm. Feeling hopeful that he was managing to reach the other, Harry smiled without reservation as the Slytherin blinked back at him, stupefied. Blaise shook his head before he walked away, a small, real grin tugging gently at the corners of his mouth.

Vane’s subsequent complaints followed Harry as he slipped through the crowd towards the section where, from the bright red hair, he could tell some of the Weasleys stood. George threw an arm over his shoulder when Harry arrived, sheltering him from the push and pull of the surrounding students, but despite the protective action, he and Fred couldn’t help teasing Harry. They raucously demanded more entertainment now that their show was gone, whining dramatically until McGonagall threatened detention for a week.

Seconds later, a reverberating whistle, the kind made by blowing on the top of an empty bottle, slowly rose in volume, and the entire courtyard grew quiet. Harry squinted at the horizon with one hand raised to block the sun. A dark spec grew larger and larger until Harry could make out enormous, winged horses pulling a princess-style carriage behind them.

The humming note intensified to an ear-piercing pitch, causing Harry and everyone around him to cover their ears, faces scrunched in discomfort, before it died off with a whoosh. The abraxans’ hooves and the carriage wheels touched down, but the sounds were muffled by the ringing that echoed in the wake of its arrival.

The carriage was smaller than a train car and intricately detailed in its design, as if it really had flown here from Cinderella’s garage. As Hogwarts’s students and staff keenly watched, the stagecoach doors opened. The interior had to be substantially bigger than it appeared from outside because students wearing thin blue robes, with the Beauxbatons school crest pinned to their chests, streamed out one after the other. There looked to be at least fifty students by the time the Headmistress disembarked.

Uncertain whispers started when the sheer size of the woman was brought into context. She towered over Dumbledore, who lifted her large hand to his lips for a formal greeting. Harry couldn’t hear what was said, but afterwards the entire group of teenagers and their Headmistress moved to the main doors and into the castle.

“Damn, they don’t make ‘em like that at Hogwarts,” said Ron, dreamily staring after the departed French students. To Harry, there was a muffled quality to the words, and he rubbed his palms against his ears, trying to will his hearing to return to normal. Fred frowned at Harry’s aggravated motions and then reached for his wand.

Gently pointing the tip at Harry’s right ear, Fred cast, “Filis aure reparare.”

Instantly, Harry’s hearing improved, but now the world was spinning. Dizzy and sick, he leaned heavily into George, worried he might fall over if he had to stand alone. With the left ear still ringing, he felt severely unbalanced, but Fred quickly pointed to Harry’s other side and repeated the spell. Harry closed his eyes and clamped his lips tightly together, nausea swiftly peaking before it died.

Fluttering his eyelids open, Harry took in the concerned expressions on George and Fred’s faces. “Where’d you find that spell?” he asked, smiling widely in reassurance and moving to stand on his own two feet.

Fred bared his teeth with pride. “Invented it,” he smugly replied, grin widening when Harry made a soft sound of amazement. “We needed to make sure all our explosions didn’t permanently damage our ears.”

“Well, it definitely works! Well done, both of you,” Harry praised.

“Teach us that muffling spell you do all the time, and we’ll teach you this one,” George offered.

“Brilliant,” Harry agreed happily as each twin took a hand and shook it heartily. Harry’s laughter cut off when a large geyser erupted from the lake, startling him.

A ship, one of those enormous Viking-style ones he’d seen in books, had somehow appeared in the middle of the lake, breaching the surface like a muggle submarine. The Black Lake didn’t have a dock anywhere, but after the ship had anchored, small canoes filled with people were lowered by ropes onto the lake’s surface.

The Durmstrang students rowed to the beach before shrinking and pocketing the dinghy after clamouring off the tiny vessels. Then, lining up in military-like formations with their elaborate fur cloaks on display, the ranks approached. They were led by a man with greasy black hair that, except for the trimmed goatee and Viking getup, reminded Harry of Snape.

“Dumbledore,” the man greeted with a surprisingly perfect British accent, offering his hand.

“Karakaroff,” Dumbledore replied, tucking his fingers into his sleeves and making no effort to perform the expected handshake. “Managed to claw your way up in the world, I see.”

“Of course. Us badgers always land on our feet,” the Durmstrang Headmaster replied, and even from here, Harry could tell he was frowning as he dropped his hand. “We’re like Gryffindors in that way, you know.”

“Enough reminiscing, you’re the last to arrive. Let’s enter the Great Hall for the welcoming speech the British Ministry has arranged. You can follow me, though I’m sure you know the way,” Dumbledore replied, turning with a dramatic flare of robes. He slammed Hogwarts’s front doors open and entered with the Durmstrang delegation trailing behind him.

Harry exchanged surprised glances with the twins, and then they went inside, ushered there by the mob of students all fighting for a closer glimpse of all the new faces.

After Pettigrew informed him that the Ministry was using the Goblet of Fire for the tournament, Voldemort investigated the artefact; however, information was limited. No one knew how the chalice worked, though it wasn’t from lack of effort. Multiple researchers had studied the goblet but couldn’t discern the mechanism that it utilised.

The goblet repelled standard detection spells, so even the type of magic powering it was unknown, let alone specifics on the spellcraft. The only reason the current ministry officials knew how to operate it at all was because they’d found an old scroll, written circa 150 B.C., that was a translation of another translation of some basic instructions.

Thus, the Goblet of Fire was an ancient, mysterious, magical artefact older than London and Hogwarts. Hell, it was older than Christianity, possibly by a significant amount. Voldemort wanted to pick it apart piece by piece. And since he’d already decided to tune in to Harry’s conversation with Granger (after feeling a spike of distress, followed by a strange absence of emotion from the horcrux bond), he had decided it was worth staying aligned to see the first unveiling. Unfortunately, that meant listening to the obnoxious old goat, but, well, needs must.

“The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire. Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” Dumbledore intoned self-importantly.

He waved his wand at the metal casket, which was surrounded by an amateurly cast, extremely wobbly age line. The container disappeared in a waterfall of metal clangs, and the already-lit goblet was displayed. The peacocking headmaster seemed about to move on when Crouch deliberately cleared his throat, gesturing to the table next to the artefact. With a sigh, Dumbledore ungraciously turned back.

“Special parchment and a blood quill will be supplied, but it is not required, regardless of tradition. There’s no evidence that writing your name in blood is necessary to be chosen,” he grumbled, apparently unhappy having blood magic practised in his school. It was very on brand for the Light Lord, but considering the wards on Harry’s house and the man’s insistence that he stay there, it was also the epitome of hypocrisy.

“Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools.”

Dumbledore scowled when Igor Karkaroff interrupted his speech with a casual wave of his wine glass and loudly stated, “Halloween is the Christian holiday for Samhain, for those unaware.”

Voldemort was mildly amused at his old follower’s snark, and he wasn’t the only one if Severus’s twitch was anything to go by. Dumbledore forced his face back into a neutral expression and continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard.

“The goblet will remain here in the Great Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.”

That was convenient. Voldemort would take a closer look this evening from under Harry’s cloak. He wouldn’t even need to dismantle any wards since an age line only checked for the presence of a mature soul rather than blocking underage ones. His only concern was Harry’s aversion to animagicae – that odd, dulling of the horcrux bond that’d happened twice now, though there wasn’t a direct trigger for today’s instance – but he was sure such a weak spell wouldn’t be a problem for his host.

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly,” Voldemort mentally scoffed and was amused by how Harry mirrored his disdain, snorting when Dumbledore peered seriously over his glasses.

“Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

He had so many questions, but, for once, the answers were easily obtainable. Impatiently waiting for Harry to get ready for bed, he took over before they could have their nightly joint meditation session. He knew he’d be too distracted to talk before he went to examine the goblet.

Swirling the invisibility cloak around himself, he quietly dug through Harry’s trunk to collect his yew wand and the Marauder’s Map. The wand flared with warmth, happy to be in his hands again. Voldemort let his fingers briefly caress the length before focusing on the map.

A few people were still in the Great Hall, but their footprints were leaving. Voldemort snuck through the halls after casting a silencio on himself for additional stealth. He entered the hall and swiftly approached the lit goblet, pleased when Harry’s soul didn’t react negatively to bypassing the age line. Perhaps his sensitivity to animagicae wasn’t as bad as Voldemort worried.

A last check of the map confirmed that, while Filch and Crouch were hovering nearby, no one was close enough to notice anything amiss. Voldemort lifted an arm out of the cloak, keeping his back to the front door so it would still disguise him, and pointed his wand at the chalice. Wordlessly casting diagnostic spells and letting his eyes focus on the magic surrounding the goblet, Voldemort grew increasingly fascinated as more was revealed about the artefact.

Similar in colour to the blue fire, three tendrils were sprouting from the goblet’s opening. They were bloated, and each length writhed grotesquely, as if searching for an unwary wix to drag and drown in the goblet’s heart of flames. One even latched onto him briefly. It didn’t withdraw when Voldemort attempted to bat it away, but left on its own a few seconds after.

With every spell he cast, the tendrils remained inert, not interacting with his magic at all. The flames steadily burned, painting menacing shadows on the walls, but the goblet’s magic ignored Voldemort’s presence entirely. Aside from that first, brief touch, it didn’t differentiate between him and the surroundings at all.

Not sentient then, though the goblet’s magical pressure was significant when standing this close. Oddly, it reminded him of the diary, though it had a less ominous aura. He continued poking at the artefact, attempting to pinpoint why his magical sensitivity thought his horcrux was similar. It took Voldemort nearly half an hour to untangle the goblet’s purpose, much longer than he’d anticipated, but when he did, he was amazed.

The Goblet of Fire operated as a cup was supposed to in that it temporarily collected and stored something to be consumed later. The amazing part was that what the goblet collected and, more importantly, what it later redistributed was magic.

It was acting as a mediator, or maybe a bookie would be a better analogy. All the entrants bet some of their magic that they would be chosen and triumphant. The chalice held onto that magic until a winner was declared. Then it awarded the prize. An additional pool of magic that, until it ran out, was essentially a second core to draw from for whoever won.

As he tucked his wand arm back into the cloak, Voldemort laughed, though it was silent due to the spell he’d put on earlier. No wonder this artefact reminded him of the diary. That horcrux somehow purified magic for Voldemort from Ginevra’s core; the goblet did the same, but on a larger, more universal scale.

This explained how the most worthy competitor was selected, too. It had nothing to do with morality or skill. No, it was all about core size. The person at each school with the most magic was selected. Capacity wasn’t a comprehensive metric, but at least it was more quantifiable than worthiness.

Satisfied with his discoveries, Voldemort made his way to one of the side doors, only to have it swing open before he touched the doorknob. He danced away to avoid being run into as Mad-Eye Moody quietly stole into the room, the ex-auror’s fake eye darting to check the room’s corners in paranoid patterns.

The man had gotten here astonishingly quickly from his previous position in his office on the other side of the castle. Perhaps he’d placed an alarm somewhere to prevent tampering with the artefact and had hurried over to catch the culprit? This idea was dispelled when Moody began mumbling a few diagnostic charms at the Goblet, frowning when they fizzled.

Voldemort continued watching the suspicious professor, surprised when the wizard extracted a small scrap of paper from his breast pocket and dropped it into the goblet. The flames jumped, and the magic tendrils pulsed and writhed with what looked like hungry excitement. An odd reaction, considering the man’s core was middling, not nearly strong enough to be chosen. Then again, why Moody wanted to enter was a mystery in itself; though considering Dumbledore’s reluctance regarding the blood quill, perhaps it was merely a test to determine if the goblet would accept someone’s name without blood.

A foolish endeavour. Blood was how the goblet identified the competitors. It was the link to the core. Without blood, the goblet would rank the applicant’s capacity as zero, so they would never be chosen, though they could technically enter. Dumbledore and Moody were wasting their time if that was the point of this covert activity.

With his task completed, Moody turned to leave the Great Hall. Voldemort followed a hand’s breath behind so he could exit through the open door after the professor. He watched Moody clunk his way down the corridor and around a corner, before checking the map to chart a path back to the Tower; however, when he clocked the nearby halls expecting Moody’s name, Voldemort was stumped to see that the only one around was Bartemius Crouch.

The Death Eater he’d been looking for, his full name was the same as his father's: Bartemius “Barty” Crouch Jr. His follower was impersonating Moody for some unknown reason. Was Barty trying to compete so he could win the magic? Did he know how the Goblet worked? But how could he when Voldemort hadn’t known? And everyone in Britain believed Barty was dead. Would he risk being returned to Azkaban to enter a tournament?

No, more likely this was part of the man’s act and, like he’d thought earlier, he was testing the necessity of the blood quill for Dumbledore as “Moody”.

But why was he here, hiding in plain sight as Dumbledore’s old friend from the Order? It was a supremely risky plan, and more of a Gryffindor tactic than he’d expected of the raven. The wizard was likely off his rocker. Pettigrew had said the man was held under the imperius curse for over a decade. There was a significant possibility he’d gone mad and that none of his actions had rhyme or reason.

With all his recent efforts to restore Black’s mind and heal Pettigrew’s brain damage, perhaps Voldemort could also fix Barty with minimal effort. A mentally stable follower would have been nice, but now wasn’t the time to be choosy. He was collecting a circus of insane misfits instead of a circle of followers, but it didn’t matter. If they could perform the ritual he needed, then they were useful.

He'd need to ascertain Barty’s motivations soon, perhaps still make a deal with the elf first (no wonder she was unimpressed with the Crouch heir). The wizard had avoided Dumbledore’s notice so far, even with whatever shoddy plans he had in the works. Hopefully, Barty would maintain that for another few days until Voldemort sorted out his motives and sanity level.

Voldemort returned to Gryffindor Tower, not bothering to use the time turner when it’d been less than an hour. Taking off the silencio and concealing the map and his wand in Harry’s trunk again, Voldemort was struck by how quiet it was. Ronald and Longbottom must be awake, neither was snoring.

Chuckling to himself, certain that at least one was attempting to enter his name in the Goblet, Voldemort tucked himself into bed and then released his hold on the body. He flew to the branch with Harry’s door within his mindscape. Writing a quick greeting in their journal, Voldemort pushed it into the mail slot and then settled in to wait for Harry’s response with a contented smile on his lips.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore got more and more evil by the day. The other two schools were given classes off while waiting for the goblet’s selection ceremony, but Hogwarts still had to attend all their Monday lectures despite it being a holiday… despite it being Harry’s favourite holiday. It was cruel and unusual punishment for both the students and the professors.

After all the excitement of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students’ arrival and the tournament’s kickoff yesterday, no one had had a restful night. Harry spent his divination class half-asleep alongside the rest of his year mates.

Eventually, Trelawney took pity and released them. Harry vaulted past the rope ladder and through the trapdoor, Ron on his heels, both eager to escape. They walked together to Transfiguration, meeting Hermione en route. That lecture went a little quicker. It was at least more interesting than Divination, even if McGonagall kept everyone on a tight leash, knowing that any leeway would be taken advantage of on a day like today.

Lunch, on the other hand, was loud, and the Great Hall was unbalanced. Younger students incessantly shrieked as they all tried to congregate at the end of the tables closest to the goblet, wishfully watching as scores of barely adult wixen winced their way through the use of the blood quill and submitted their names. Harry sat at the empty end with Hermione and Ron, the latter of whom was alternating between longing glances at the goblet and suspicious ones towards Harry.

Curious what that was about, Harry had just decided to ask when the noise level in the hall rose an additional notch.

“Witches and Wizards! Gather round, gather round! Have we got something to show YOU!!” shouted the twins after banging open the doors at the entrance with a clatter. George headed directly to the goblet, easily clearing a path through the crowd. However, Fred detoured to snag Harry from his seat, dragging him forward to deliberately place him in the front row for the twins’ show.

Harry shot Fred an exasperated glare, but the older teen only winked as he moved to join his brother. The two pranksters swung their arms wildly and claimed they’d just finished their most amazing invention yet.

“Presenting to you –”

“– the one –”

“– the only –”

“– magically-turn-one-year-older –”

“– Tootsie Roll!”

The twins’ theatrics drew the attention of the entire hall, including the professors seated at the front table, but Dumbledore made no effort to stop the commotion. The old wizard leaned back in his seat, an amused smile gracing his lips as he took another sip from his glass and stroked his lengthy beard. If it were Harry, he wouldn’t be that self-assured when the twins were involved, even if a simple ageing potion brewed into candy wasn’t likely to bypass the age line.

The two adolescent cubs were just as confident as the old lion, and each popped a treat into the other’s mouth. Fred and George chewed dramatically, making several loud gum-smacking sounds before swallowing. There was no indication they’d gotten older, but Harry guessed there wasn’t much difference in their appearance between sixteen and seventeen.

Dropping the playful attitude, the twins soberly faced the Goblet of Fire. Harry held his breath, full of anticipation, as he waited to see if they were successful. The background noise, which had been sitting at a low-level roar, died to a murmur, scarcely louder than a trickling stream.

The twins stepped over the age line.

Dumbledore jerked upright in his seat, yelling at them to halt and simultaneously firing a spell. But it was too late. George had a protego charm already raised as Fred dropped a small scrap of paper into the flames.

“Detention!” Dumbledore roared, seething and furious. “Detention for a month! Did you make any more of your Dark potion?”

“Dark?” Fred yelped, his smirk fading. “It wasn’t Dark!”

“Only Dark magic could have overcome the goblet’s protections,” Dumbledore replied, quietly condemning.

“It wasn’t Dark, sir. We just adapted the ageing potion from our books!” George explained, eyes sweeping from his shocked twin over to the headmaster, clearly anxious.

Being accused of anything Dark in this political climate would have serious consequences for their entire family if the ministry decided to investigate. Harry couldn’t believe Dumbledore would make such an allegation so thoughtlessly against the Weasleys, one of his staunchest supporters.

“Well, it may not have been intentional, my boys, but in your inexperience, you have dabbled in the Dark Arts. I must confiscate all of your contraband.”

“Headmaster, I hate to contradict you, and I strongly advocate in favour of severely punishing their dunderheaded actions,” Snape sneered after suddenly appearing, “but I can tell you with certainty that the potion they just consumed was not Dark Magic.”

Harry hated even thinking it, but thank Merlin for Snape. Who knew what rumours would be flying around if the man hadn’t immediately, and publicly, shut down the idea that the twins were practising the Dark Arts. Yet despite the surprising intervention by the Slytherins’ Head of House, Dumbledore wasn’t backing down, though some of his ire had been redirected.

“I won’t revoke the punishment. Confiscation of your candy and a month of detention should hopefully curb both of your tendencies towards dangerous experimentation,” Dumbledore replied before giving Snape a critical look, “but since Severus is the expert, we’ll trust his judgment that it wasn’t a Dark potion.”

It was unclear to Harry if he was referring to the man’s potions’ expertise or a more sinister set of skills. After Dumbledore’s subtle accusation, an uneasy ripple passed through all the adults at the front table, but Snape remained stoically unaffected as he glared at the twins, his sneer hiding what he thought of the headmaster’s assertion.

It was curious. The next time Harry wrote a letter to Sirius, he’d ask if the man knew anything of Snape’s history, but for now, his priority was the twins. Were they about to lose all their supply, just over this?

A sharp finger poked Harry in the side, and he jumped before spinning to see Luna grinning at him impishly. “They’ll be fine,” she whispered, “Foxes keep a hidden cache of food, just in case.” Luna jerked her chin at Ginny, whose brow was furrowed as she stared at him and Luna, but grinned when she noticed his attention.

“Ginny’s hiding some of the twins’ stock?” Harry asked. Luna dreamily shrugged and then skipped away without another word. Harry was debating whether to follow her – maybe try to get more answers about how she just knew things – but the decision was taken out of his hands when Ron grabbed one of Harry’s sleeves and started towing him through the castle.

“Let’s go. Time for Hagrid’s class,” grumbled Ron before launching into a rant. “You’d think they’d have created something we could use too, but noooo, they had to keep a way to bypass the ward all to themselves. I’m their brother! And it’s a thousand Galleons. The twins should have –”

Ron continued in that vein for the entire walk onto the grounds. By the end, Harry could have given the speech himself. His attention wandered as he half-heartedly listened to the ginger’s tirade.

When they arrived at the usual spot for their Care class, Hagrid was still setting up the as-of-yet unidentified creatures’ crates; however, Theo and Blaise were already present, standing apart from the other students and nearly hidden behind the hut, fighting. Harry couldn’t hear anything, but Theo was becoming visibly upset.

Interrupting Ron’s complaints, Harry made an excuse so the boy wouldn’t follow him and headed for the two arguing snakes. He slashed his hand down and broke their muffliato, casually replacing it with a powerful perception filter. (It was a wordless, intent-based spell his angel taught him to obscure sight and sound that also diverted people’s attention.)

Neither Blaise nor Theo saw Harry approach, too caught up in each other.

“– unfair when you’re the one keeping secrets from me. You and Harry,” Blaise said coldly, one hand clasping the opposite wrist behind him, forcing himself into an overly straight, stiff posture that looked unnatural on the boy.

“What are you talking about?!” Theo shouted back. In contrast to Blaise’s composure, the boy was a wreck. His brown hair was as messy as Harry’s typically was, while his fists were opening and closing at his sides. Barely contained anguish radiated from him in waves. The display of pain was jarring when juxtaposed against Blaise’s expressionless mask.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Blaise accused brusquely. He didn’t raise his voice or sound angry, yet Theo recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Blaise acknowledged the verbal hit with a slow nod, but otherwise, he remained carved from stone, still and unreachable. “It’s obvious you know what I’m talking about.”

“Blaise, it’s… I can’t tell you,” whispered Theo as his arms came up to hug himself, his eyes glistening with tears. “It’s Harry’s choice, and he would never forgive me if –”

Theo cut himself off, guiltily freezing as he caught sight of Harry for the first time, though Blaise remained unaware. Harry furrowed his brows in thought, trying to figure out what secret they were talking about. Something Theo knew, and Blaise knew about, but didn’t know. A secret that Theo thought Harry would be angry if he revealed it without permission… the Dursleys again.

Why couldn’t he ever escape them? From hundreds of miles away, and without any deliberate intentions, they still managed to sabotage his friendships.

“So, you see my problem, Theo. If my best friends, two of the people I – I thought I could rely on,” flatly stated Blaise, apart from one small catch in his voice that cracked through the air like a gunshot, striking both Harry and Theo. “If you can’t bring yourself to trust me, then what is the point in pretending otherwise?”

Theo stepped forward, lifting one hand pleadingly, though he remained silent under the weight of the accusation. Blaise stiffly retreated from the touch, averting his eyes. The two’s friendship was fracturing, breaking into pieces. And it was Harry’s fault. All because he couldn’t fully hide the freakishness of his home life. But neither could he confess the details to his friends. At least, not so far.

“Blaise,” Harry called the name so softly he was surprised anyone heard, but the boy immediately spun to face him. Blaise’s eyes had widened, and his formal pose came loose in his surprise, making him seem more approachable again. More like the boy that Harry had spent all summer with.

Harry bit his lip, knowing it would only take a few words from him to fix everything, but even the idea had his chest aching, his breathing harsh. Yet, he couldn’t freak out. He had to keep his emotions stable, or he’d bother his angel like he had yesterday with Hermione… but that’d gone better than he’d expected, hadn’t it? He just needed to explain as quickly as possible. Short and sweet. It would be fine. He could do this.

“Harry. When did you –”

“My relatives are abusive,” Harry blurted, interrupting Blaise as he rushed to speak before chickening out.

He’d always been better at misdirection than actual lies, and though he knew this statement was technically true, it felt fake to him. The declaration sounded wrong as he said it aloud for the first time. It was as if every time he’d denied the idea in his thoughts, meaning had drained from the words, leaving them as empty, nonsensical noises.

“You…” Blaise’s voice trailed off in his shocked state, violet eyes full of confusion. “Wait, I thought…”

“The Dursleys – my relatives, er, on my mum’s side. They’re muggles that I live with – they… they don’t like magic. Or me,” Harry explained, awkwardly shrugging his shoulders and ignoring how his fingers trembled before he gripped them together. He could do this. “I didn’t tell Theo, he guessed. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told directly.”

Blaise made a distressed sound, but Harry didn’t look up from where he was staring at his hands. It might make him a coward, but he didn’t want to see Blaise’s pity or horror, not yet. He knew his home life wasn’t his fault, but shame was not so easily driven away.

“So please don’t – don’t be mad at us?” he pleaded, jumping when a hand gripped his shoulder despite how deliberately gentle the touch was clearly intended to be. Harry reluctantly raised his chin, bracing himself for questions, and met Blaise’s eyes. There was the expected patronising concern, but, surprisingly, the prevalent emotion that Harry could see was regret.

“O santa pazienza, mi dispiace,” Blaise apologised, switching to English with a rueful shake of his head when he noticed his previous words were in Italian, “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.”

“Uhm, I don’t –” Harry started to ask what Blaise was apologising for, but the boy interrupted before he could, gaze drifting between Harry and Theo.

“I never would have… had I thought that this was… sono un cretino,” Blaise said, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighed. Harry and Theo exchanged a confused glance, but when their eyes returned to Blaise, the teen had composed himself and was wearing an almost wry smile. “I believed I already knew what your secret was, Harry. I thought you and Theo were dating and hiding it from me.”

“What?” Harry mouthed, dumbfounded. He’d never considered Theo in that light, nor did he think Theo had either since the boy showed similar surprise at Blaise’s admission. The hand on Harry’s shoulder squeezed once, drawing his attention back to the contrite snake in front of him. A new emotion had wormed its way into Blaise’s eyes alongside the regret.

“I know you felt forced into telling me, but the fact that you’ve trusted me with this… I can’t tell you what it means,” solemnly acknowledged Blaise with such genuine appreciation that Harry felt his heart skip a beat. “Thank you. I won’t betray the trust you’ve shown in me today.”

The words sounded like a vow, like Theo’s promise on the train, though the thank-you marked the moment as one of even greater significance to the wixen-raised boy, who would have rarely, if ever, murmured the words. Even better, Blaise wasn’t asking questions or offering advice and condolences. He’d simply thanked Harry for his trust. This was exactly the reaction he’d needed, the one he’d hoped for without acknowledging that he was hoping for anything at all.

“I think… I wanted to tell you. Needed to. Just had to have a little push,” Harry replied with another shrug, but a half smile had planted itself firmly on his face. “Although next time we fight, let’s skip the avoidance phase. We could’ve resolved this ages ago. Honestly, where did you even get the idea that Theo and I were interested in each other?”

“I’d also like to know that,” Theo murmured, eyes wide and red, but face still pale and stained with tear tracks.

Harry saw regret darken Blaise’s expression upon seeing Theo’s dishevelled state. Taking a step towards the other, Blaise winced when Theo withdrew from him, an inverted reflection of earlier when Theo was the one reaching out.

“I’m sorry,” Blaise said. The words were soft and hesitant in a way they hadn’t been when he’d said them to Harry, filled with a desperation to be forgiven that Harry recognised from the apologies he’d given to his angel. “I let Malfoy get in my head after the situation with Moody.”

“You should have asked, not – not shut me out like that,” Theo said, curling into himself, hurt beyond what the bounds of friendship would explain. It was so obvious that they loved each other. “And that ultimatum was cruel.”

“You’re right,” Blaise agreed helplessly, “But I couldn’t bear the thought of you lying to me, of seeing Harry, going behind my back…”

Theo scoffed, pushing his hands in his pockets while Harry inched away. He did not need to be present for this part of the reconciliation; it felt too intimate for an audience, even if he was the only spectator.

“Please, as if that’d ever happen. Literally everyone knows you’re the one I…” Theo trailed off, an expression of alarm blooming, searing a pink blush into his skin. Blaise’s head snapped up to avidly stare at the other Slytherin.

“Theo,” he urgently asked, “Are you saying what I think you’re –”

“Wow, look at the time! Class is halfway over already! If we stay much longer, even Hagrid will take points, we’d better get back!” Theo exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, ignoring Blaise’s unfinished question as he walked away, only pausing when he encountered the magic that kept them hidden. “Huh, neat spell, Harry. You’ll have to teach us this one later, but you should drop it now.”

Harry immediately, and gratefully, did so, despite the vicious scowl Blaise sent him. He was happy to let the two snakes deal with their newly kicked hornet’s nest once they were alone. There was no need for him to awkwardly bear witness.

Hagrid was startled by the sudden reappearance of three students, but when Harry sent him Sirius’s trademarked pathetic puppy dog eyes, the giant wizard didn’t take any points from Gryffindor or Slytherin despite the disapproving glares he subjected them to occasionally.

Blaise didn’t notice the third degree, too preoccupied with hungrily watching Theo, who, in complete opposition, was pretending to be absorbed by the lecture on why some of their project-creatures were nocturnal and others diurnal. Despite knowing he’d have to come up with an explanation for Hagrid, Harry had a grin on his face the entire rest of the period, happy that everything was taking a turn for the better between him and his friends lately.

And if he also felt a flicker of envy that neither Blaise’s nor Theo’s love was actually unrequited, well, Harry stifled that beneath his pride at having successfully handled this situation by himself without relying on the benevolence of his angel.

Harry was seated with Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, listening to Dumbledore drone on and on. He was impatiently waiting for the meal to start for two reasons. First, the sooner it and the selection finished, the sooner he could sneak off for a Samhain rite, and second, he had a plan to nick candy for the twins who were stuck in detention.

It was so unfair that Dumbledore had essentially challenged them to bypass his Age Line and then become angry when the twins had managed. Harry hated that they were being punished not for the attempt itself, but for being successful, especially when Dumbledore never gave out detentions for their pranks when he caught them.

It seemed almost like a… a betrayal. Of course, Dumbledore shouldn’t have been as predisposed to let the Gryffindors get away with causing trouble as he was, but the sudden loss of favour was bound to shake the twins. Harry hoped to brighten their dispositions by shoving a mound of Halloween sweets at them.

Dumbledore finally finished speaking, and the house elves flooded the tables with a monstrous feast, including enormous bowls filled with candy. Harry took a palmful, hid his hand beneath the table, and with a twist, banished the contents onto Fred’s bed. Every few minutes he took another handful and sent it away, alternating between George and Fred’s beds with each spell, until the elves returned to clear the food.

Everyone was primed for the goblet’s selection ceremony by that point, some shaking in anticipation, others from the sugar rush. Ron was so antsy, Harry thought the Gryffindor boy might vibrate out of his skin.

On the whole, Harry felt the tournament idea didn’t hold a candle to Quidditch. A duelling competition, or something similar, where everyone could enter, would have been cooler. This just had such a limited scope that he had difficulty working up any real enthusiasm for it. 

After a long pause during which the Great Hall seemed to buzz like an angry swarm of bees, Dumbledore stood and waved his arm in a request for silence. Harry cringed. The man’s outfit was worse than usual. It was an awful, puce coloured concoction covered in pale yellow unicorns that ran in circles at a dizzying pace. Harry could only look for a few seconds before getting nauseous, so instead he focused on the Goblet of Fire, whose flames had grown three times the size they were yesterday.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber.”

With a wave of his wand and a spell mumbled too quietly to hear, Dumbledore dispelled the Age Line. He made a few taps against the foot of the goblet, and the flames roared, shifting from blue to red. Sparks shot off, emitting high-pitched whistling sounds like the fireworks Fred and George loved so much.

A piece of debris erupted from the goblet and was summarily accioed into Dumbledore’s hand. He took his time unfolding it, exaggeratedly looking down for several seconds over his golden glasses to read the name before announcing it.

“The champion for Durmstrang is…” Dumbledore said, pausing dramatically before he turned his head to the Slytherin table. “Viktor Krum!”

The hall erupted in cheers, largely from Durmstrang, but also from Quidditch fans who were already used to cheering for Krum and had almost instinctively risen to their feet. Ron was one of these, happily yelling and turning to his neighbours to claim he’d known Krum would be chosen. The cheering continued until the goblet started shooting sparks again.

A second projectile shot out of the goblet and was caught by Dumbledore, who did the same dog and pony show while reading the name. “The champion for Beauxbatons is… Fleur Delacour!”

A cacophony of noise exploded for Delacour, though strangely it was mostly from Hogwarts and Durmstrang students. Her French schoolmates clapped politely, but many were upset. Some were even crying. It was all a bit much in Harry’s opinion, but so were the extreme reactions in favour of her selection. Ron was practically in tears, he was so happy. It was weird and sort of creepy.

Finally, the artefact spat out a third piece of paper, the flames giving one last burst before dying to nothing. Oddly, Dumbledore looked disgruntled, his eyes on the goblet for several extra seconds before he hastily unwrapped the last name. When he read it, though, the twinkle returned.

“The champion for Hogwarts is… Harry Potter!”

Harry’s swell of panic jolted Voldemort awake. He dropped his shields, unsurprised when Harry immediately took the opportunity to fall back into his mindscape for a reprieve. Voldemort seamlessly seized control. He took a few deep breaths to calm their body’s racing heart, feeling phantom pins and needles as blood flowed back into Harry’s extremities, then looked around, evaluating the situation.

He was seated at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall with Harry’s usual retinue. Everyone was staring at him, a few in confusion, a good majority with anger. From her place across from him, Granger was pale with dread, while Ronald scowled spitefully next to her.

“Harry Potter!” yelled Dumbledore from his position beside the Goblet of Fire, staged prominently at the front of the room. The flames were dead, but the magic… one of the three tendrils, red now instead of blue, was wrapped around Harry’s core, which was severely depleted, stopping just short of dangerous levels.

With the benefit of hindsight, it was obvious how this had happened. Last night, Barty was submitting Harry’s name instead of his own. To what end goal or where Barty’d gotten the blood, Voldemort wouldn’t know for certain until he interrogated the man, but this reeked of one of Dumbledore’s convoluted plots. What terrible luck Harry had to be chosen for a tournament he hadn’t wanted to enter. Yet it was no wonder the goblet picked him over everyone else, considering the immense strength of his magic.

“Harry, my boy, up here, if you please,” ordered the old goat, deplorable glee almost hidden beneath a solemn mask. Voldemort stood and slowly approached the raised platform while idly inspecting the magical noose connected to Harry.

When he reached the staff table, Dumbledore offered him the slip of parchment that the goblet had presented. Harry’s full name and school were neatly printed in all caps with regular ink, but one corner of the paper was stained a dark brown where the blood it’d been dipped in had dried. Voldemort swiped his thumb over it, feeling the crinkly texture, and hummed as he considered their options.

He could break the binding, though the longer he waited, the more difficult it would be. Tonight would be best. The magic was already firmly anchored, but with it being Samhain, Voldemort knew he could pry the tendril loose. This would likely be Harry’s preference, considering his opinion on the tournament. However, the ritual would be dangerous for his host. When considering the amount of magic that the goblet had already taken as Harry’s bet, there was a chance that the boy’s core could be damaged in the attempt.

Alternatively, Harry could compete and, with Voldemort aiding him, the boy would win. The goblet was near to overflowing with the magic it’d collected, a lush well of power that, in light of Harry’s selection, could only be a boon from Fate. His soul bearer was meant to win the Triwixen tournament and resurrect him summarily afterwards.

Still, Voldemort hesitated, a hill of purple flowers in his mind. This divine intervention might be in his favour, but was it in Harry’s best interest as well? Voldemort was only in control currently because of the boy’s panic attack, and he’d promised himself last year that his plans wouldn’t come at the expense of Harry’s emotional state. He waffled, strangely uncertain.

“Harry, go on now. Walk along the staff table and in there,” Dumbledore said, interrupting Voldemort’s train of thought, and gesturing to a side door usually reserved for faculty. “Join your fellow competitors.”

Staring at twinkling blue eyes, remembering all the life-threatening “adventures” Harry had experienced at Hogwarts, Voldemort made his decision. He and Harry would compete. Protecting Harry would be infinitely easier once he was no longer constrained by the need to possess the boy’s body whilst they sat in Dumbledore’s shadow. Voldemort would do what he could to mitigate the costs, but he needed to prioritise the completion of the ritual for both his and Harry’s sakes.

With nothing further to be done here, Voldemort nodded and moved away before Dumbledore could drop a hand on his shoulder, and he was forced to murder the man in front of all these witnesses.

He walked confidently, projecting an unshakeable, indifferent demeanour that unnerved many of the schoolchildren who made eye contact with him. He scanned the room, trying to get a read on the reaction to Harry’s selection. Overall, fairly negative. Harry’s friends and, oddly, most of the younger Gryffindors appeared to be the exception, but the majority felt that Harry had cheated and that he had stolen the place of the proper champion for Hogwarts.

Well, that would be the first thing Voldemort sorted.

After exiting the Great Hall, he allowed a brief smirk when the room roared to life in his absence. Voldemort could hear students, professors, and ministry officials alike, all shouting to be heard over one another through the door. It was a shame he couldn’t see the commotion Harry’s selection caused, but there was still ample opportunity for entertainment in his current location.

He’d arrived in a small side parlour, not in a corridor like Voldemort had originally thought. There were a few chairs and a fireplace, but otherwise the room was empty of furniture. Dozens of portraits were on the walls, and each figure turned its painted face towards him upon his arrival, radiating curiosity.

“What are you doing here, boy? This room is for the champions!” cried an oil painting of an elderly wizard with a handlebar moustache. Irritatingly, the voice and appearance reminded him of Harry’s late uncle. Voldemort cast a sound barrier, preventing all the paintings from listening or speaking to the room’s occupants as he walked to the lone seating arrangement where the other schools’ champions stood.

“What is it?” asked the witch from Beauxbatons, tossing long, silver hair over her shoulder in a well-practised move. She sounded flippant, but her other hand was firmly on her wand, and there was a calculating glint in her clear blue eyes. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

Instead of responding, Voldemort tucked his hands into his pockets and shifted his gaze to the Durmstrang candidate. This young man, he recognised. With how Quidditch-obsessed Harry was, he couldn’t not know Viktor Krum. The seeker was younger than he’d thought, if the boy was still in school despite competing on a national team.

It was quite impressive, though Voldemort didn’t think Krum desired fame, or he’d be preening about his current status. Instead, the young man was sullen, leaning against the mantlepiece with a sepulchral expression and staring into the fire.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Krum, despite the circumstances,” greeted Voldemort politely as he sank into one of the high-backed chairs. He flicked his eyes to the young woman and noticed there was a shocked expression on her face before she wrestled back control of the emotion. A flawless, bored mask went on in its place.

“And vhat circumstances are dose, Heir Potter?”

Voldemort frowned. He’d thought it obvious that Harry was the Hogwarts champion. Despite the Beauxbatons witch’s dismissive words, it was clear she understood why he was there. Perhaps Krum was also pretending ignorance? Or maybe he just wasn’t clever. It wasn’t like the goblet picked contenders based on intelligence, and the boy did play Quidditch professionally for a living.

The door banged open, and a crowd of wixen hurried inside, their voices shrill in the previously quiet room.

“Wonderful! Splendid! Good show, Harry!” exclaimed Ludovic Bagman, the current Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was truly a useless department, but being the Head of anything was an elevated role within the ministry, which took some political skill to acquire. The man grabbed Voldemort’s hand, giving it a friendly shake before clapping his hands excitedly. “Well, now that we have all three champions, we can –”

“Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman,” interrupted the French girl, again throwing her hair over her shoulder but smiling flirtatiously this time. Bagman went bright red, and his eyes glazed over in confused lust before he shook himself out of the state that the witch’s aura had put him under.

“Joke? No, no, not at all!” Bagman replied enthusiastically. This man was a surprisingly good politician, it seemed. Throwing off what must be a Veela descendant’s allure and pretending as if it hadn’t happened was an astute way of handling that encounter. “Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire, Miss Delacour.”

Delacour. He knew that name. It was one of the aristocratic families in France, if he wasn’t mistaken. No wonder the girl was quite shrewd; she’d been raised to manipulate and control others from the cradle. Part Veela, a member of the Delacour family, and a substantial magical core? Voldemort was much more interested in her now.

“But evidently ziar ‘as been a mistake. ‘E cannot compete. ‘E is too young,” she replied to Bagman, widely smiling, but the superciliousness in her words negated the effort to be pleasant. When she turned her gaze to Voldemort, he returned the condescension with an innocent, boyish smile. It wouldn’t hurt to have her underestimate Harry in the competition because of his age, though she was smart enough, he doubted it would affect her performance much.

“Well… it is amazing. But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come out of the goblet… I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It’s down to the rules, you’re obliged… Harry will just have to do the best he –” Bagman babbled until Igor interrupted him.

“We were under the impression your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” the wizard claimed, a hint of steel beneath his softly spoken words. “Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.”

Dumbledore turned to glare at the man, but Severus, acting the part of the loyal dog, rushed to defend his current owner. Or perhaps he only wanted to demean Harry. It was hard to tell with the man, as fickle and bitter as he was. “It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff. Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here –”

“Thanks, Professor, for that unbiased introduction,” Voldemort interrupted the man in a calm, dryly amused voice that easily caught everyone’s attention. The sarcastic use of the word thanks caused a few of the traditional purebloods to gasp at the rude insult. “Now, perhaps, you’d like to listen to my explanation?”

“Oh? Zen, ze leetle boy admeets it! ‘E cheated!” roared the Beauxbatons school’s headmistress from where she towered over the other wixen.

“Of course not,” Voldemort refuted immediately. “I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire.”

“Did you ask one of the older students to do it for you?” Dumbledore asked, jumping at the chance to insert himself into the interrogation.

“No,” Voldemort replied, not even looking in the man’s direction. Instead, he stood and handed the parchment with his name on it to Crouch, who took it automatically. That man would decide how the ministry reacted to Harry’s selection. “This isn’t my handwriting and look… they soaked the corner in blood. If I’d put my name in, wouldn’t I have used a blood quill or at least written my name myself? Why is it possible for anyone to put another’s name in anyway?”

“Pah, of course you are lying, Potter. Probably thought it was a good laugh, a fun prank to enter your name,” Severus argued as he shoved his way into a spot beside Crouch, malice glittering in his eyes. “You may have taken steps to hide your misdeeds, but your previous behaviour is evidence enough for us to doubt your word.”

“Think what you like, I didn’t enter the tournament willingly. I’ve been conscripted by an unknown party,” Voldemort casually replied with a shrug, refusing to entertain Severus’s accusations against Harry.

Puzzlement was the prevailing emotion on the surrounding wixen’s faces. A brief touch of Bagman’s mind told him the reason. They didn’t know what conscription was, since it wasn’t a required military tactic in the magical world.

“Conscription is when someone is compulsorily enlisted into service,” Voldemort explained, barely stopping himself from curling his lip in disdain. Harry wouldn’t make such an expression even in the face of such stupidity and ignorance in their government’s officials. “Muggles do it for their armed forces when at war.”

“War? Bah! You think a little competition can be compared to a real war? You’re out of your league, Potter,” shouted Moody from the back of the group. Well, rather Barty shouted while pretending to be Moody.

“Alastor, enough,” Dumbledore said, resignedly sighing as the room broke into raucous arguments. “Enough!” the man shouted a few minutes later, managing to quiet everyone’s loud complaints to discontented mutterings.

“Now, Barty. What is to be done?” Dumbledore asked, facing the current Lord Crouch as he asked that ridiculous joke of a question. Voldemort saw Moody’s head twitch when Dumbledore said the impersonator’s real nickname, but the other managed to conceal it, scowling and rubbing at the connection to his peg leg.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament,” Crouch curtly responded. Voldemort restrained a scoff, as if anyone here except him could break the binding without killing Harry. Crouch glanced disinterestedly at the paper he held before handing it back to Voldemort. “You must compete.”

“Very well,” Voldemort responded in the same apathetic tone he’d adopted since the beginning of the discussion. “But I do so under duress, so don’t expect the same cooperation you’d get from a willing participant.”

“What do you mean, boy?” the Moody’s imposter growled, a glint of frustration in his human eye.

“Well, all the pomp and circumstance that goes into a tournament like this – the pictures and interviews for the press, the showmanship and playacting for the audience, truly striving to win – I don’t see why I should put any effort into that,” Voldemort answered, settling back into the seat as if it were a throne, while everyone else remained awkwardly standing. For a brief moment, the casual air threw off balance most of the present officials, but they soon rallied.

“How can you say that?! You represent Hogwarts!” exclaimed Bagman, nonplussed, like he couldn’t possibly understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be a dancing monkey for the ministry after being curtailed into competing in a tournament they didn’t enter.

“Unwillingly,” he reiterated with a roll of his eyes as he nonchalantly sprawled in his seat, causing a vein in Barty-as-Moody’s forehead to throb visibly.

“You have to!” Dumbledore ordered, hints of rage making the twinkle in his eyes shine brighter than usual. With that wrathful expression, he might appear mildly intimidating to an actual fourteen-year-old if not for the tacky catastrophe he dared to call robes currently hanging off his ancient frame.

“No, I don’t. I merely must complete the tasks despite someone else entering my name. Those are the rules,” he said with an air of mocking finality, making it clear none of their pleas would sway him.

“What do you want?” Crouch curtly inquired, finally willing to deal. Voldemort stopped himself from smirking but raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture as if he were offering a favour rather than demanding restitution.

“A public apology from the ministry claiming responsibility. One that clearly states the defences on the goblet were lax and that it isn’t my fault that I’m competing since someone else entered my name,” he stated, lacing his fingers together in his lap, the picture of assured victory.

“Out of the question!” – “Agreed.”

Dumbledore turned flabbergasted eyes away from Voldemort to stare at Crouch, who had just contradicted the old man with his immediate acceptance of Voldemort’s demands.

“It’s a fair request. And it will be better to face the backlash now and have a proper competitor rather than have Hogwarts, Britain, essentially unrepresented,” Crouch logically explained. It was sound reasoning, too, but Voldemort hadn’t expected him to give in so easily, nor provoke Dumbledore in his next breath. “You ought to join us in the apology, Albus. After all, didn’t you personally swear that no one would be able to hoodwink the goblet?”

There was more pointless arguing until Crouch finally took charge, proclaiming his decree final and assigning one of the multiple assistants scuttling around to arrange for the article’s creation and release. Afterwards, he set up another meeting in a few weeks, wherein the three competitors would be given details about the first task and participate in scheduled interviews with a reporter. With a final round of hesitant congratulations, Voldemort and everyone else were released from the room.

Voldemort walked away whistling as he returned to Gryffindor Tower for Harry’s invisibility cloak and map. The mental image of Dumbledore’s disgruntled, sour face had lifted his mood, as did the promise of a pleasant interrogation once he tracked down his rogue servant. Barty owed Voldemort some long overdue answers, and he’d be collecting them tonight, one way or another.

Chapter Text

As he paced back and forth in the defence professor’s office, Tom debated the merits of tactical retreat versus obfuscation. If circumstances remained as they were, it was only a matter of time before Lord Voldemort realised he’d played a part, albeit an unintentional one, in Harry’s selection as a Triwixen champion. The only way to avoid an eternity of isolation with his soul anchored to a slowly rotting corpse was to either run, now, or eliminate all evidence of his involvement… and offer up the perfect patsy.

Really, this entire situation was Barty’s fault anyway, so he was the one who deserved Lord Voldemort’s ire. Tom was certain the idiot had put Harry’s name in the goblet, whereas his only sin was complacency, not attempted murder. Still, he doubted his elder self would care to make the distinction. Tom would be held responsible for Barty’s actions since he had kept the wizard’s existence a secret.

When an unseen, unknown wix had discovered Ginny’s possession during the World Cup, he’d expected Lord Voldemort to violently, but discreetly, eliminate the man and then punish Tom. Yet, the final days of summer had flown by without anyone acknowledging the unfortunate encounter. Lord Voldemort ignored him just as surely as before, and Tom had slowly realised his elder self wasn’t cruelly drawing out the suspense.

The man simply didn’t know, and Tom could keep it that way. After digging through old issues of the Prophet, he’d ascertained that the invisible wix’s identity was Barty Crouch Jr., the supposedly dead Death Eater. Since it seemed implausible that the escaped convict would risk being caught by Dumbledore, he should have had several uninterrupted months to deal with this current predicament after reaching the castle.

He hadn’t banked on the wizard being completely barmy.

Barty Crouch had snuck into Hogwarts with a locked trunk, massive amounts of polyjuice, and a careful impersonation of Moody’s personality and accent. It was an utterly absurd plan to fool Dumbledore, especially considering it was a common trick amongst Purebloods. (Parents would disguise their spare as the heir so the auxiliary child could gain experience too, in case plan A failed.)

It should not have worked; however, the wizened headmaster must be going senile because at the end of Ginny’s first Defence class, she’d been held back and confronted by an exuberant Moody begging to be of service.

Tom had promptly responded by taking over the girl, forcefully restraining Moody, and delving into the man’s mind. He’d recently possessed Ginny and hadn’t scraped enough of her magic away to have more than a few minutes, so Tom hadn’t had the time to be gentle or thorough.

Unfortunately, the brutal interrogation had reaffirmed Barty’s conviction that Ginny was Lord Voldemort. That belief had been strong initially, if not for any reason that Tom would have found convincing. He’d spent many hours ruminating on what had given him away during the match, but had found no flaws in his performance. As it turned out, neither had Barty.

It had been the Dark Mark branded into Barty’s forearm that revealed his presence. The enchanted tattoo resonated with the small probes of pure magic Tom had sent. The first had allowed Barty to snap the partially decayed imperius tether between him and his father. Then, at the second brush of Tom’s magic, Barty had attributed the feeling, correctly by some miracle, to Ginny Weasley, who just so happened to be the closest face when the man’s mark reacted.

The recently freed wizard hadn’t considered any of the normal questions that someone not under the imperius curse for the last decade would have, like why would Lord Voldemort possess a thirteen-year-old girl from a notoriously Light family? Or what was his lord doing sitting beside the boy-who-lived at a Quidditch game? Barty just decided Ginny Weasley was his master and ran with the idea.

Honestly, the most aggravating part was that the fool was somewhat correct.

Still, Tom hadn’t been willing to give up the advantage of access to a hopelessly devoted follower who was perfectly willing to do anything Tom asked of him, especially when Lord Voldemort was completely unaware of said servant. He’d set Barty the task of spying on Dumbledore and ordered the man to treat him as the Weasley girl unless signalled otherwise. Then, out of time, Tom had quickly left, shoving a quickly constructed memory into Ginny’s mind seconds before he’d lost control of the body.

That snap decision was a mistake. He’d underestimated the amount of direction a completely bonkers servant would require. When Tom met with the man again in late September, he’d discovered that Dumbledore’s fixation on Harry Potter had transferred to Barty. He’d had to spend the entirety of their conversation redirecting the wizard away from the numerous assassination plots that the man had concocted since the start of term.

Thinking he couldn’t have been any clearer in his orders to leave Harry Potter alone after that, Tom was unpleasantly surprised when, a few weeks later, Barty was still intent on murdering the boy. The man was terrified that Harry would destroy Lord Voldemort again, especially as Samhain quickly approached.

Trying a different tactic, Tom had permitted Barty to watch Harry Potter and evaluate the boy’s capabilities, but he’d demanded an oath on the wizard’s magic to not harm Harry. The man was too crazy to leave unshackled when he had this grudge, and Tom did not want to risk drawing Lord Voldemort’s attention.

Yet, it was all for nought.

When Dumbledore called Harry’s name, identifying him as the Hogwarts champion, Tom immediately knew who was responsible. Ginny’s heart kicked into double time, and the girl’s terror and shock coursed through their body, but all Tom had felt was a burst of pure wrath followed quickly by regret as Harry’s lovely, avada-green eyes flooded with panic.

The boy’s stricken expression inspired an ache in his container’s chest that refused to disappear even now that Tom had control. He hated it, this fear and guilt that simmered inside him, only worsening when he considered leaving Hogwarts and abandoning the boy to his fate.

So, hoping to dispel the feeling and remove the evidence of his involvement, Tom was here, impatiently pacing in Moody’s office after curfew and lying in wait to kill his incompetent follower. And, apparently, biting his nails, though the moment he realised, he jerked his hand away. Ugh, disgusting. The girl’s unsanitary habits were bleeding into him; one more thing to add to Tom’s ever-growing list of concerns.

The door quietly clicked open, followed by a steady thunk, thunk, thunk sound. Every step Barty took using that ridiculous peg leg echoed in the small room. Tom waved Ginny’s wand (which was easy enough to use, though the yew composition made him miss his wand with an intensity he tried not to dwell on) to create a small magelight brightening the room.

The crippled wizard jumped and spun around, nearly losing his balance. Barty still wasn’t used to dealing with only a single leg and reacted as if he had two when surprised. Though Tom didn’t expect to have to fight the man, he catalogued the weakness as a failing to take advantage of should his servant fight rather than peacefully accept the execution.

“So…” he drawled, unsurprised when Barty servilely dropped to the floor in a deep bow upon recognising him. “Why was Harry Potter entered for the Triwixen Tournament? What did you do, oh faithful servant of mine?”

“My Lord! I knew Potter would be chosen!” Barty cried, looking up with a demented smile and frantic eyes as he missed the sarcasm in Tom’s question. “He is a dangerous wizard! One that cannot be left to grow further under Dumbledore’s guidance. It was wise of you to warn me to be wary.”

“That is not an answer, Barty,” Tom softly said, fingers tightening around the wand he held.

“I am trying to ascertain his abilities like you commanded, my Lord!” replied the kneeling man while Moody’s fake eye whizzed around in a distracting display of his apprehension. “I entered Potter’s name into the goblet. If he wasn’t chosen, he wasn’t as much of a threat as believed, and if he was… well, Potter’ll need to use all of his abilities to survive the tournament. We can determine just how skilled he is!

“Though without the Light Lord’s help, perhaps the tasks will prove too much for him,” crowed Barty, a hint of sadistic glee twisting Moody’s scarred face into a nightmarish grin before it drooped in disappointment, “but since Dumbledore seemed intent on the boy’s entrance, it’s doubtful. The man wanted Moody to enter his golden Gryffindor, leaving the vial of blood on the desk, that strange conversation about a fourth school, and the lack of wards aside from the Age Line… Yet despite Dumbledore’s favour, Potter must face the tasks alone.”

“Did I not tell you I had plans for Harry Potter?” Tom asked coldly, glaring at the fool who looked up at him with glowing expectation as if he expected a reward for his imprudent actions. The man was practically begging for an approving pat on the head before his hope faltered at Tom’s angry tone.

“Yes, my Lord, but –”

“And did you not swear a vow to me, on your magic, to not harm Harry Potter?” he demanded, barely avoiding slipping into the parseltongue that tried to slither up his throat.

“That’s why the tournament –” Barty attempted to justify his decisions, but Tom wasn’t willing to listen, slashing his hand down as he cut the man’s excuses off.

“If I wanted Harry Potter dead, he would be dead!” shouted Tom, briefly losing his temper. He reined it back in with a long, low hiss before coldly continuing. “You disobeyed me.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” his servant whispered miserably, tears gathering in the corner of one eye before streaking down Moody’s scarred cheek.

It was a strange sight, this warrior radiating despair when faced with Tom’s censure. It was one Tom might have delighted in had he not been so furious. In one fell swoop, this man had destroyed his own usefulness by drawing Lord Voldemort’s attention (and from what he’d just heard, probably Dumbledore’s as well), risked Tom’s fragile truce with his elder self, and, worst of all, forced Harry into conditions where he was at real risk of injury or death.

“Ferventi sanguine,” he cast calmly, raising silencing wards when Barty began to scream as his blood boiled. The show of pain wasn’t enough to dull Tom’s rage, not this time. Only Barty’s death would satisfy him… only death could save him.

“Finite.”

Tom spun around with his wand raised when he heard the general counter spell’s incantation come from a corner of the room that he knew was empty. There was a ripple in the air, and then Harry Potter’s form appeared from beneath his invisibility cloak, a composed look on his face that warred with the image in Tom’s memory of the terrified teenager being heralded as Hogwarts’s champion.

This wasn’t Harry. Tom could see the gold and black shadows of his magic flickering around the body’s active core, a testament to his elder self’s control. He lowered his wand, taking a deep, shaky breath. There was no use in provoking Lord Voldemort further when Tom was already buggered. Once the man looked inside Barty’s mind, his freedom and life were forfeit.

δ Someone’s been keeping secrets, δ hissed Lord Voldemort, the parseltongue sinuously rolling off Harry’s tongue and sending shivers down Tom’s spine.

In shock, Tom watched as his elder self bypassed Barty’s prone figure, wrapping a hand around his vessel’s jaw instead, and forced Tom to stare into dark eyes. Each iris was a soulless black rather than the vibrant, otherworldly green Tom preferred seeing in Harry’s face. There was anger there, a cold and furious storm, but it was buried beneath a blanket of cool logic that, for the first time in hours, gave Tom hope that he might, just maybe, see tomorrow’s sunrise.

δ Show me, little horcrux, δ Lord Voldemort ordered, pressing bruises in the shape of Harry’s handprint into Tom’s cheeks, δ Reveal everything, and, perhaps, if you haven’t overstepped too egregiously, I’ll grant you mercy. δ

Shuddering again at the dangerously soft hiss, Tom released a controlled breath and dropped his occlumency shields. He resignedly accepted Lord Voldemort into his mind, hoping his lack of animosity towards Harry would be enough to stay the wizard’s hand.

Voldemort was in his own mindscape, in the Midgard realm. It was an unnerving mix of the familiar and the foreign, but he was suddenly hit with a punch of certainty that the soul in the diary was him, even its – his – mind was a fraction splintered off from Voldemort’s own. He’d built these shelves, stocked them with these books. Sure, new memories filled pages he’d never seen, but this was still him.

The library was disorienting – these circumstances gave whole new meaning to the phrase cognitive dissonance – but Voldemort pushed aside his discomfort. He needed to learn the diary’s plan. Trailing his fingers along the leather spines as he walked, Voldemort sought the section devoted to Harry. He selected a book with more recent memories of his host and backtracked from there.

The more Voldemort read, the more he felt amusement and annoyance swirling within him, both emotions fighting for dominance. His teenage self’s obsession with Harry had grown, though it was manifesting as stalking rather than the murderous intent from before. He wasn’t sure if the softer behaviour was an effect of Ginevra’s crush, resonance between the horcruxes, or if the soul fragment had merely fallen prey to Harry’s charm (perhaps a mixture of all three was the most likely), but this meant the diary was not attempting to kill Voldemort’s soul bearer again.

Harry’s selection as a champion for the tournament was an unforeseen consequence of his younger self’s inexperience at properly handling minions. Barty Crouch was a neurotically loyal follower, but was, apparently, perfectly willing to accept punishment and go against orders if he believed it was necessary to ensure his master’s safety. Crouch had deemed Harry a significant threat to that safety… which, to be fair, wasn’t unreasonable.

The boy was brilliant, excelling far beyond his peers in his classes. He had more magic in his pinkie finger than most wix had in their entire body and an almost intuitive sense for how to use it. Harry had all the traits of the best leaders: charisma, ingenuity, passion, resilience, courage, and many, many others. There was nothing the boy couldn’t do if he set his mind to it, no goal he couldn’t reach. As if that weren’t enough, everyone knew Harry had killed Voldemort once before; he was famous for it.

So, of course, Crouch was afraid of the boy-who-lived. His diary hadn’t made the proper show of force to prove his superiority, not well enough to convince the Death Eater of his master’s invulnerability, and thus, led to the circumstances they all found themselves in now.

Voldemort sighed and released the pale, trembling girl. He knew the diary was expecting his judgment, convinced that imprisonment or death awaited him, but Voldemort wasn’t inclined to be predictable tonight. Not when the revelation within his – their – mindscape was so fresh. It’d feel too much like punishing himself. And, though poorly handled, his diary had taken steps to protect Harry with that oath he’d had their servant swear.

Not to mention that Voldemort was already convinced Harry’s participation in the tournament was preordained. There was no stopping it now. He would let events play out, watch the diary, watch Harry, and afterwards, distribute punishments or rewards as he saw fit.

“You cannot reason with a fanatic,” he said offhandedly, crouching beside the catatonic wizard lying on the ground.

The Moody impersonator was sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead and his limbs still trembling with aftershocks as blood steadily dripped from the orifices on his face. It’d been a strong curse to have such an impact in the span of seconds. Voldemort was mildly impressed, though he knew he shouldn’t be. The diary’s power, nor his willingness to follow through with murder, oughtn’t be surprising, not when the horcrux was him. (The diary was him.)

“If you want them to behave, you need to convince them that their obedience will help their cause,” continued Voldemort, prying one of Crouch’s eyelids open. The pupil was fuzzy, unfocused, indicating a possible concussion, but it didn’t appear too serious. “That it is vital for them to follow your orders at any cost. Otherwise, they are insubordinate when it suits them.

“You’d have learned this with time,” he assured, hearing a noise of surprise from his diary as he let Moody’s eye droop shut before casting a weak oblivate. “Particularly once the war started and a few followers got…” Voldemort couldn’t help quirking a rueful grin as he remembered some of the wixen he’d had to reel in at different points, Bella prominent in his mind, “out of hand.”

Floating the prone body up and into a chair, Voldemort grabbed the flask from Crouch’s hip, sniffed it to be sure it was polyjuice, and then dumped a dose down the man’s throat. That problem sorted, he turned back to his teenage horcrux, who was doing his best to hide the fear Voldemort had already witnessed in his mind. Red hair swayed as the diary tossed up his container’s chin in a haughty gesture and carefully aimed the girl’s wand at the ground between them. If Voldemort attacked, the horcrux would fight despite knowing he stood no chance against Voldemort’s superior skills.

Pride really was embedded in his soul. Smiling faintly, he moved the arm that held Harry’s holly wand. His diary cast a silent, instinctive protego, which instantly formed around Ginevra’s body as he tensed for battle, but Voldemort only made a show of holstering his weapon.

“Come now, I promised you mercy, didn’t I?  It is evident this mistake was unintentional. I won’t be entombing you over it, especially with the measures you’ve taken to protect Harry,” Voldemort reassured, but the diary remained stiffly frozen, his eyes full of suspicion. “I’m displeased at the secrets and your hubris, but Harry’s participation in the tournament will work in our favour.”

“How?” the diary asked, finally letting his shield flicker and fade, but remaining on guard.

“The Goblet of Fire collects magic from all entrants, purifies it, and then grants it to the competition’s winner. Once Harry is victorious, we’ll have access to an extensive pool of power for our ritual,” Voldemort explained, amused to see how wide-eyed this made his diary. Of course, the horcrux had understood the implications immediately; it was him. (The diary was him.)

“It purifies… how is that possible? Is it like how the horcrux has affected Ginny’s core?”

“Yes, exactly, it is like you. Theoretically, the others, too, I suppose,” he mused, surprised he hadn’t considered that possibility sooner. Though only the diary had access to a wix’s core, it was still worth discovering if the diadem could perform a similar purpose as a magic converter. “Perhaps, I’ll do some additional tests on the diadem soon to see if it can –”

“You found Ravenclaw’s Diadem?! And turned it into a horcrux?” interjected the diary, too enthusiastic in his wonder, the questions tumbling from him without the usual reservation.

“– transform the magic into a universal form or, at minimum, mimic my magic alone, like you can. Also, yes and yes, and don’t interrupt me,” Voldemort finished, rebuking the diary, but keeping his tone friendly. It was nice to have another who was as thrilled about the find. No one else knew he’d unearthed a centuries-lost Founder’s item, let alone collected three of them to house his soul.

The diary’s brown eyes were alight, clearly displaying his excitement for once. It made him look younger than usual, closer to the age of his host than the mini-adult he usually pretended to be. “It’s here in Hogwarts? Can we go see it?”

Voldemort hummed in consideration before nodding in agreement; he was also itching to visit the horcrux. Pulling on Harry’s cloak, they disappeared beneath it before leaving the office. Together, they climbed the stairs to the seventh floor, where Voldemort summoned the Room of Hidden Things.

Last time he’d visited, during Harry’s second year at Hogwarts, the diadem’s magic had brushed faintly against his core. Now, it sang a siren’s song, insistingly calling, and, from the enamoured expression on the diary’s face, it wasn’t just for Voldemort. The strong enticement reminded him of his initial possession of Harry; that same bliss which had accompanied the transfer into his host now saturated the air around them.

Wary of the difference but unwilling to resist the combination of his curiosity and his magic’s music, Voldemort followed the draw to where his diadem was hidden beside a large, broken Vanishing cabinet. Upon seeing the silver tiara, the diary immediately attempted to pick it up, but Voldemort prevented the motion with a flick of his fingers. He magically prodded the crown instead, trying to see what had changed since the last time he saw it.

The diadem itself was an ancient artefact that whispered wisdom in the ear of anyone who wore it. This meant that it contained its own magic. When Voldemort initially created the horcrux, and when he’d seen it a few years ago, that source of magic was separate from the amount he infused alongside his soul shard.

That wasn’t true any longer.

The horcrux had stolen the intrinsic magic from the diadem for itself. It ate the mensmagic and formed a nascent consciousness, after metabolising the newfound energy. With only 3% of a soul, it shouldn’t have been capable of this level of awareness. However, supplemented by Ravenclaw’s magic and whatever Voldemort had previously done to trigger this change, the diadem had been brought to life, and it was desperately searching for a human connection.

“Can I try it on?” the diary asked, longingly gazing at the artefact.

“You’d risk either merging with the soul shard or being possessed by it,” Voldemort replied, as his eye caught on a box that just so happened to contain the exact sealing runes he needed to store the haunted crown temporarily. “However, just because you shouldn’t wear it doesn’t mean we can’t test it. Levitate the diadem into here.”

The diary did as it was told, and the crown fell into the black box. The moment Voldemort snapped the lid shut, he felt lighter, as the aura from the diadem stopped serenading him. The girl’s body reacted more severely, taking several steps away while shutters slammed down, obscuring all emotion in the previously lively brown eyes.

“Since I see you no longer want to wear the diadem anymore, I’ll take it with me,” he teased, closely watching how the diary held the girl’s body tensed, waiting for chastisement. “Now, I have a task for you. Go talk to the house elf, the one calling herself Winky, whilst pretending to be me. Tell her you’ve already located the Crouch Heir but are still amenable to a deal. See if she has anything else to offer.”

Though suspicious, the diary agreed to perform the errand. (Hopefully, this would ensure that the elves would never suspect Harry was possessed.) Voldemort led them from the Room before parting ways, casually calling out as he left for the diary to “be a good boy” but letting the “or else” hang between them. The diary left with one last paranoid look over his shoulder, still waiting for a punishment that wouldn’t come.

At least not yet.

Harry woke, mind groggy and muscles sore as they always were the morning after a panic attack. His eyes watered as he stared at the curtains surrounding his bed, straining to make out details in the early predawn light. It was quiet, too quiet. Without even his roommates’ typical snores to alleviate the darkness consuming his thoughts, Harry couldn’t stop himself from wallowing.

Last night, after rousing Harry from his… episode… his angel wrote to him in their journal, briefly summarising the events that occurred after Dumbledore called his name as champion.

Harry’d been too lethargic to react then, but now, in these colourless, early morning hours, he choked back sobs. Ambivalent though he was about the tournament, he hated, hated that he had lost time. Once again, he had hidden away at the first sign of trouble like a coward, forcing his angel to take care of him.

Harry was weak. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to get stronger, how much effort he put into improving himself; it was all useless. Just when he’d started to make real progress – most of his friends knew about the abuse, and he’d had the courage to tell Blaise himself – it all slipped through his fingers because Harry couldn’t cope with being chosen for a stupid tournament.

He curled in on himself, knees tucked up against his chest, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes and soaking into the pillowcase. Though he kept his mouth clamped shut, his chest heaved with the cries he restrained, painfully squeezing his heart. His fingers dug bruises into his shins, but they relaxed in surprise as he felt phantom fingers tracing up his spine, petting his hair at the base of his skull.

It was faint, almost nonexistent, but the elusive feeling was soothing, and Harry briefly melted into it before his shame and self-disgust returned, threatening to suffocate him. Here he was doing it again, falling apart, nothing but a helpless child seeking comfort from his guardian angel.

Biting his lip until it bled, trying to use the hurt to push all his feelings into a box, Harry focused his thoughts, ignoring the foreign concern faintly ringing from the back of his mind.

<< I’m fine, this is… don’t worry about this. I can handle it. >>

He had to handle it. What other choice did Harry have? His angel would leave him soon, and he’d sworn to help that happen. Not that his angel had taken that offer seriously. He’d never asked Harry for anything, which made sense considering Harry was useless. What else could he offer his angel besides a fleeting home for the man’s wandering soul?

They’d written to one another nightly, rarely sticking to a single topic. His angel jumped from topic to topic with an ease only a genius could manage, drowning Harry in new knowledge, submerging him underneath a wave of amazement at the wizard’s brilliance. They spoke endlessly about magic and culture, politics and literature, and even Harry’s classes and spellwork; but his angel never wrote about himself, deflecting all of Harry’s overtures and… well.

Harry couldn’t blame him. They were from different times, different worlds, and on completely different levels. In comparison, everything about himself was lacking. His angel must think so, too. Why else would he refuse to disclose a single personal anecdote? The man wouldn’t even tell Harry that his real name was Tom Riddle… probably didn’t want to deal with his stupid crush.

A burst of light and sound exploded! Then, with ringing ears and blurry eyes, Harry was suddenly flailing in the air, blue skies all around him. Confused, it took him a few moments to realise he wasn’t actually falling, but had somehow, accidentally, tumbled into his mindscape without the usual meditation techniques.

Picturing the broom he usually had, Harry closed his eyes and felt around until his hand caught a handle. He flew to the field where his memories flowered. Slipping off, his feet touched down gently on the marble floor of the peristyle.

Had his angel brought him here somehow?

Harry felt himself flushing in embarrassed pleasure at the thought, but it was quickly overridden by derision. Merlin, he was the worst. The man probably had done this as a last-ditch effort to get Harry to stop being such an emotional wreck. Still, despite knowing that, he couldn’t ignore a request from his angel.

Scuffing his feet as he trudged through the bookshelf maze, Harry found his cupboard door wide open and paused. Usually, this part of his mind was locked unless he intentionally unbolted it. Filled with foreboding, Harry reluctantly climbed inside and shut the door. He tugged the drawstring to light the single bare bulb swaying above him as he waited for the journal to come through.

The door burst open, nearly yanked off its hinges, but Harry barely noticed. All his attention was focused on the man staring at him with wide, astonished eyes. It was Tom Riddle looking exactly as Harry had pictured him, but better, real. In all his photos, Tom was perfectly poised, with no strands of hair out of place and every smile quirked just so; here, his lips were parted in surprise, and he looked windswept, one small lock plastered to his forehead.

His angel was older than he’d been in his graduation portrait, but not by more than a few years, and he was much paler in person than he’d appeared on the monochrome yearbook page. His wavy, brown hair shone in the yellow light of the flickering lamp, and Harry swore you could cut glass on those cheekbones. But it was the eyes that he couldn’t look away from.

He knew Tom’s eyes were dark and hooded, almond-shaped with beautiful, long eyelashes, but from this close, Harry could see the irises were a midnight blue shot through with a lighter shade, like streaks of lightning. Then there, at the centre of the halo, was a thin, maroon ring barely wider than the pupils, jagged where it faded into the rest of the band.

Mesmerising and hypnotic, his angel’s eyes were a tempestuous storm, a tumultuous ocean. Combined with the sheer perfection of the rest of Tom, and framed by a background of a million shining stars, nothing short of a natural disaster could compete with his divine radiance. No one who saw him like this would dispute that he absolutely deserved his angelic moniker.

“Harry…” breathed Tom, the name spoken softly in a smooth, baritone voice that instantly released butterflies in his stomach. “You know who I am?”

“Y – yes,” Harry stuttered, still swooning a bit, though he jerked his head trying to shake free from his dumbstruck state and compose himself. “I – well – your handwriting is the same!” he blurted, voice overly loud. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all! Why had that come out of his mouth?! Harry could feel heat flooding his face and knew he was turning bright pink. “I – I mean, just –”

His angel threw his head back and laughed, a deep, pleasant sound that caused Harry to revert to speechlessness again as the mild blush on his cheeks darkened. Then Tom offered his hand while a real smile graced his face, one much more sincere than any he’d seen on the schoolboy in the pictures, and Harry felt like he might spontaneously combust.

“Come out of the cupboard, Harry,” his angel beckoned.

Harry reached for the hand, praying to Magic that this was all real and not some dream his desperate mind had created to help him cope with his recent failure.

A surge of joy hit the second his fingers met the warmth of his angel’s skin, shooting up his arm like an electric charge. (Real, this was real.) Then he was being helped up, a swooping feeling in his gut, partially from the discombobulation that accompanied stepping from one mind to another.

As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dim light and took in his surroundings, he gasped in awe. He was in the uppermost branches of a tree filled with leaves in varying states of decay. Even as he watched, one leaf’s stem broke. It fluttered, hovering briefly in midair before the wind caught and carried it away.

The bough Harry was standing on was easily the size of a corridor in Hogwarts, and it didn’t compare to the trunk, whose scale was impossible to wrap his mind around. Stars, clearer than he’d seen from anywhere on Earth except, perhaps, the astronomy tower, were the only source of light. They moved faster than typical and flickered randomly, captivating Harry until the hand still holding his squeezed, and he refocused his attention on his angel.

“It’s lovely,” Harry whispered, incapable of keeping his admiration to himself. “This is your mindscape? I’ve never seen anything so amazing.”

“Personally, I think yours is more beautiful,” his angel replied, smirking winningly. Harry gaped briefly as a dimple flashed, but then he snapped his jaw shut and meekly trailed after the man, who had begun towing Harry towards a bench still growing into fruition.

Knowing his face was an exact match for the Weasleys’ hair colour, Harry told himself over and over again to get a grip as his angel guided Harry into sitting right beside him, his thigh burning a line of heat along Harry’s while his arm lay a breath from Harry’s back. He gave up on trying to be cool and decided to enjoy this for as long as it lasted. He slumped into his angel’s side, resting his head against the man’s arm.

They sat there for what felt like hours, Harry basking in his angel’s presence. Then he felt a thrum of pain in his head, and though it lacked any strength, Harry knew instinctively it was a warning that he’d been here overlong. (People, even wixen, weren’t designed to hang out in one another’s minds.)

Well, all good things must come to an end, so Harry braved the silence to ask a question, knowing they had little time left. “Why did you call me here?”

“You were upset, and I wanted to fix that… but then I discovered you knew who I used to be, and I wanted to see you, so with how in tune we were, your mind must’ve tried to… fulfil that desire,” his angel replied after pausing long enough Harry wasn’t sure the man would answer. He didn’t look at Harry while he responded. But then the man shifted the arm splayed along the bench’s backrest, and Harry felt fingers carding through the hair above his neck. “Though unintentional, I couldn’t be happier that I finally got that bloody door open, instead of being limited to the mail slot. Might just make all of this worth it.”

The final words were said dryly, ruefully, while Harry leaned into his angel’s touch, but his stomach dropped as the meaning sank in. “Is it… that much of a problem that I know you’re Tom Riddle? I won’t tell anyone, I swear!”

“No, no, it’s not that… Look, I’m not a good person like you – no don’t interrupt,” his angel said, putting a hand over Harry’s mouth to prevent him from doing just that. Harry’s skin felt electric beneath his angel’s palm, and he obediently kept silent as the other continued. “I’m not some divine, benevolent angel. I’m a wizard, like you. And I didn’t keep my name hidden because I don’t trust you’d keep my secrets – you’ve already proven you will – or that I don’t think you’re capable – you’re truly gifted, more than you know.”

The compliments were too good to be true. Harry dropped his eyes, feeling shy and awkward, despite enjoying them. He heard a sigh, then his angel's fingers moved to cradle his jaw. With one soft caress from the thumb on his chin, the hand slipped away entirely, along with the arm around his back. His angel leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, staring at the constellations spinning around them with a blank face.

“I didn’t tell you because it’s… there are actions and memories attached to that name that I want to remain buried in the past. Tom Riddle is dead, and when we create a body for me, I won’t ever be going back to that name. Please, Harry, let this go. I’m not Tom anymore.”

Harry knew this was meant to dissuade him from looking into his angel’s past more than he already had, but it only made him more curious. What were Tom Riddle’s regrets that this man wanted to divorce himself from his name, going so far as to claim his past self was dead? What had happened since he graduated from Hogwarts and disappeared? Harry wanted to know everything about his angel, but more than that, he wanted the man to want to tell him.

“Then I won’t ask you about Tom Riddle,” Harry promised, somewhat begrudgingly, and his angel relaxed with obvious relief. The helplessness and self-contempt from earlier resurged, now accompanied by a sting of disappointment which brought tears to Harry’s eyes. Miserable, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

“Oh darling, don’t apologise,” his angel said softly, turning towards him again and lifting both hands to cradle Harry’s face. The stormy blue eyes burned with intensity, and a tear escaped Harry as their lightning struck his heart, only to be wiped away with a brush of fingers. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You have been the perfect host. If I were in this situation with anyone else, I’m sure I would have murdered them within a few months.”

Harry was already shaking his head by the end, retorting, “You’re just saying that –”

“I’m really not, Harry,” his angel interrupted, voice hard, the tips of his fingers pressing just so at Harry's temples, grounding him. “You’ve helped me more than I can ever say, and one day, I’m going to thank you properly for it,” he resolutely declared, the pad of his thumb stroking Harry’s cheekbone. Then he smirked, oozing confidence in the face of Harry’s disbelief.

The man’s expression was almost cocky, and more than ever it made him look like the boy that twelve-year-old Harry had obsessed over. The reminder of the teenager who starred in Harry’s dreams more often than not was too much; this time, it was Harry who pulled away to stare at the night sky, that seemingly perpetual flush on his cheeks burning to life again as he responded.

“I don’t – I wasn’t doing it for a reward… You’re my friend. That’s what real friends do for each other,” he mumbled, wincing, more at his stilted words than the small twinge of pain that flared to life in his skull. Glancing to the side using his peripheral vision, Harry saw him leaning back against the bench, a mischievous grin still tugging up the corners of his mouth.

“Friends, yes… almost doesn’t seem like a strong enough word to describe us,” his angel offhandedly mused. Harry’s heart skipped a few beats as his mind unfortunately supplied him with a detailed visual of what a more intimate relationship might look like. He really needed to get this whole crush under control, but that was impossible to do while staring at his angel’s perfect face. So, when the headache gave a sharper stab, Harry jumped to his feet.

“I should be getting back,” he regretfully said, moving a few steps towards the branch holding the portal to his cupboard. “Who knows how much time has passed!”

“Time is different here, but don’t worry, sunshine, it’s still early morning,” his angel reassured. Harry’s pleasure at the strange endearment was eclipsed by elation as fingers caught his wrist, slid down, and then laced with his own. “You’re right, though. It’s dangerous to spend overlong in someone else’s mind without training, regardless of our compatibility.”

As they walked hand in hand along the bough’s path, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the man leading him, incapable of looking away when he was leaving so soon. He perked up again when his angel spoke. “I wrote you about last night’s events in the journal, but you should know, not everyone was enthusiastic about your selection. There will be an article coming out in the next few days that’ll help, but there isn’t much we can do about the general population until that happens.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Harry replied, attention drifting from his angel’s face to the palm pressed to his, every finger intertwined. He’d never held someone’s hand like this before. “The students’ attitudes towards me are always fickle.”

“Yes, well, you withstand their accusations with grace, but I’d prefer you weren’t blindsided,” praised his angel as they reached the threshold of his cupboard.

“Well – uhm – that part’s easy. I… I guess I’m more worried about the tournament itself. Being so much younger than the others,” Harry mumbled, glancing away but immediately looking back. His head ached, and he was almost out of time.

“Oh, that’s not a concern, you’re better at magic than you think. You also have me to help you,” his angel replied with zero hesitation. The butterflies in Harry’s gut fluttered as the midnight eyes softened. “You can win, Harry. I know you can.”

There was conviction in the words and a longing that surprised Harry. His angel wanted him to win, though it wasn’t clear why. Regardless, if conquering a silly tournament was what the man asked of Harry, he would do it.

A larger throb of pain had Harry gasping, and then blindly reaching for the cupboard door, knowing his time was finished. But before he made contact, the hand still entwined with his yanked him back and into his angel’s arms. The hug was too tight, cutting off Harry’s ability to breathe, but still, he collapsed into it. Here, in his angel’s embrace, Harry felt safer than he’d ever been in his entire life.

Then Harry was released, the hammering in his head urging him to hurry back into his own mind, but before the door swung shut, his angel had one more reassurance for Harry.

“We’ll do this again, sunshine, don’t worry. I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Text

Clinging to the dark behind his eyelids for a few extra minutes after waking, Harry indulged in reliving the memory of being held by his angel. Though today was bound to be full of petty annoyances – he expected the student body to have a similar reaction as they’d had when he publicly revealed he was a parselmouth – those future confrontations couldn’t dim the bright smile that stretched across his cheeks.

The wide grin remained present even when Harry opened his eyes. He gathered his toiletries and some clean robes before skipping to the washroom to bathe, mood buoyed by finally having had a face-to-face encounter with his angel. Used to being up earlier than his roommates, he didn’t notice anyone had joined him until a voice said, “Harry… Are you singing?”

“Er – yes?” he somewhat tentatively replied, unable to dredge up the usual embarrassment being caught singing in the shower should cause, despite Neville’s clear amusement. Harry clicked off the water and began towelling off to dress.

“Any particular reason?” Neville asked as Harry heard another shower start.

“Just… good dreams,” he mumbled barely louder than the drumming water hitting the tiles, his mind filled with the image of his angel’s shining smile.

“Must have been some dream,” teased Neville. “You looked ready for a funeral when you went to bed last night. Are you happier about being in the tournament now?”

Harry debated whether to answer as he stood in front of the mirror and combed his fingers through his hair with a potion designed to untangle knots. Since Neville was nice enough to ask about how he felt instead of the question that would be on everyone else’s minds (which was, of course, how did Harry bypass the age restriction?), he’d give an honest response.

“I guess I’m making the best of an unfortunate surprise,” Harry answered, several minutes later, after the sounds of Neville’s shower tapered off. Last night was full of panic and misery, but now he was almost excited to compete, to prove himself. His angel believed Harry could win, and that made all the difference. “I didn’t put my name in, but since I have to play regardless, I might as well prove why the blasted goblet picked me.”

“I can see that. Sort of,” said Neville, though the tone was more sceptical than not. Had the words come from anyone else, it’d have made Harry bristle, but he was certain that Neville wasn’t doubting Harry’s abilities so much as he was picturing himself in this situation and couldn’t comprehend having the same philosophy. “Did they discover who entered you?”

“No,” Harry replied, trying to think of what specifics his angel had written yesterday evening. “They were more interested in accusing me of cheating and then demanding I properly represent Hogwarts. I’m going to win, but it’s for me, not them. I want to shove it in everyone’s faces.” That wasn’t the main reason, but it would definitely be a bonus. Harry smirked, imagining how sour Snape’s face would appear when he won and was handed the Triwixen Cup.

“Only you, Harry,” Neville replied with mirth, but the boy’s subsequent chuckles were interrupted when the door banged open to admit a half-asleep Dean and a surprisingly awake, but grumpy, Ron.

“Only Harry, what? Only Harry would get chosen as our illustrious Hogwarts Champion after illegally slithering his way into admission like a slimy snake,” Ron aggressively muttered as he shoved his way past Harry. “Congratulations, by the way, mister oh-so-special chosen one.”

“I didn’t enter,” Harry said quietly, his shoulder aching from where Ron had violently rammed into him and his fingers turning white from their too-tight grip on the sink. He fought against the urge to scowl at Ron, reminding himself that it wasn’t the other boy’s fault he’d been raised prejudiced against parselmouths. “Someone else put my name in.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie, you didn’t get into trouble for it, did you?” Ron grumbled, and Harry could practically see the green-eyed monster perched on his friend’s stubborn shoulders, its claws hooked deep into Ron’s chest while it dripped poison into his ears and gnawed on his wounded pride. “A thousand Galleons prize money, eh? And you don’t have to do end-of-year tests either.”

“I didn’t put my name in that goblet!” reiterated Harry, attempting to sound calm, but despite his best efforts, the response was angry and strained. He could die in this tournament, but all Ron cared about was the prize money and skipping exams?

“Yeah, okay,” Ron sarcastically replied, “Only I know you left the dorm last night, sneaking around under your invisibility cloak. You could have gotten in and out of the Great Hall without anyone seeing you.”

“Wow, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” mocked Harry in return, rolling his eyes at Ron’s accusation. It probably was true that his body had left his bed yesterday, but that didn’t mean he’d put his name in like Ron was implying, especially considering his angel snuck out most nights, so it’s not like the act was unusual. “Except for the fact that, oh, the invisibility cloak wouldn't have got me over that line.”