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Chapter Text

T.M.R.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Half blood?
Lord of the Ancient house of Gaunt. Lord of the Noble and Acient house of Slytherin. Current dark lord. Prime minister. Finished his Hogwarts with the highest records measured in a century. Rumored to be the soulmate of Lord Black
5 currect Wizengamot seats in his possesion. 2 by the house of Gaunt, 3 by the house of Slytherin.

R.A.B.
Regulus Arcturus Black.
Pure blood.
Youngest son and lord of the Noble and the most Ancient house of Black. Award winning zoologist. Rumored to be the soulmate to the dark lord.
7 current Wizengamot seats. 3 by the house of Black, 4 unknown. Whispered to be by conquest.

And then there's me.
H.J.P.
Harry James potter.
Half blood.
Lord of the noble and Ancient house of Potter. Lord of the Ancient house of Peverell. Heir to the house of Gryffindor. The boy-who-lived. The man-who-concured. Future Master Of Death?
14 current Wizengamot seats. 3 by the house of Potter, 2 by the house of Peverell, 1 by the house of Gryffindor, 5 to pay of life-debts, 3 given out of gratitude for defeating Grindelwald.

Harry was nine the first time he saw the initals on his wrist. It was eight in the morning, dark in the cupboard, trying to make himself unheard, unnoticed. The sound of aunt Petunia knocking harshly on the door, Dudly jumping on the stairs above him, uncle Vernon shouting about the mail. His head was still ringing from aunt Petunia's iron skillet, but the stinging on his wrist was so harsh it cut trough everything. It cut trough all the noise, the ringing, the unfocused sight of the wooden shelfs. T.M.R. R.A.B. A soft wince escaped from the back of his throat and he rubbed his thumb over the initial to remove it, his eyebrows slightly pinched as it doesn't get smudged. He sets slightly more pressure but it still doesn't fade. Weird.

He's 11 now, he learned about the soulmate marks trough the books in Diagon Alley. He made a deal with Headmaster Dumbledore to never show them to anyone, he said that it would keep his soulmates safe- which he thinks is odd. There must be more people with the initials.

T.M.R.
R.A.B.

It's glamoured to just look like skin, he learned how to act like everybody else about the marks. They're private, something you never show. Harry thinks that's also odd, the more people that know, the easier it is to find your soulmate, isn't it?

He's 17 now, his hands shaking from adrenaline and fear. In his hand is a wand with the tail hair of a thestral, instead of his own phoenix feather one.

It's the Elder Wand. 

The Death Stick.

The Wand of Destiny.

It feels familiar, strong, alive. The wood is ice cold in his hand, but the magic is burning hot. 

He's standing over Grindlewald, The Dark Lord. He didn't defeat him because he had more spells, or more information, or more smarts. Harry likes to say it was because of pure luck. (like how you defeated hunderds of his folllowers? The Elder Wand won't land in your hands because of luck, silly boy.)

He's 22 now, he has brushed with death a few times. He learned he'll be the master of death, learned that death isn't something to be scared of, but something to embrace. Death, the deity, isn't limited to time. So Harry learned to soak up their information as well as he could and use it whenever it feels alright- like him supposedly going to be the master of death in the future.

Once he defeated Grindlewald, he left 'the boy-who-lived' behind as soon as he could, instead he's 'the man-who-conquered' now. He learned how to use his name to get where and what he wants, instead of shying away from the crowds and avoiding the reporters like dragon pox. Everytime he sees a camera flash, he thinks of Sirius. He thinks about how Sirius would read to whatever article is printed. Even when it's rubbish- something about soulmate marks again. Do wizards ever drop that?- he can rely on Sirius to floo him and to tell him that he's getting more articles about him than he ever did and that he's proud of him, but also to ask him if he's alright and if he'd like a hug.

Remus always says he thinks It's sweet that Harry could never actually seperate 'padfoot' and 'Sirius'. But that he should be harsher whenever Pads steals the bacon.

The first time Harry met Regulus was at Grimmald place. Harry was sitting in the ritual room with the candles lit and his palms slit open, writing runes on the wooden floor with his blood, grimacing at the mess it looked like. It would work of course, he'd done it multiple times before- though, always under the eyes of a master, never alone. The ritual is highly illegal because of how much blood is used in it- though, knowing the new Minister, Lord Gaunt, it will be legal soon enough. Even though it's illegal, it's used for good- great, even. Being him- be it his title, reputation, wizengamot seats.. whatever- is dangerous. This particular ritual is used for keeping the mind clear, free of compulsions, potions, spells.

He wrote the last ruin down with blood stained fingers and shaking hands- itching for a blood replenish potion. Or a muggle cigarette. Both are basically the same, arent they?

He gets snapped out of his thoughts by the wards alarming him of the door being approached and the death stick- didn't he try to burn it this morning? And he reach for the yew one?- is in his hand, pointing at the door, a 'obliviate' laying on the tip on his tongue. What he's doing is illegal, after all. Even for the savior, blood magic is off limits.

Though, he freezes as he's met with a gorgeous man instead of purple auror robes and a stern face.

He's a Black, of course. Otherwise be wouldn't be able to get trough the wards. Sirius is out with Remus and would be less poised if he was under polyjuice or glamours. Draco is too blond, Naricissa would just set up a meeting and Bellatrix is in Azkaban and anyone from Tonks's side is kicked out of the wards- -Which means he's basically fucked. Of course he'd meet regulus- Lord Black, consort of the Dark Lord, without Sirius here and covered in blood.

Instead of going for a handshake, he gives a small bow, hoping Lord Black isn't too distured by the blood- it is quite a lot after all. “Lord Black, well met. I apoligize for the blood. It's needed for a ritual” He settles on a formal greeting as he rises again, instead of screaming about the feeling of little needles going through the skin of his wrist over and over again.

It's not too bad. He had worse when he was 7,

He distracts himself from the pain by trying to read Regulus' face. He has soft, feminine features. Exept for his jaw. But he thought that was a Black feature- everyone on the family tree has the same jaw, after all.

“Lord Potter-Peverell. Well met” 

Chapter Text

I went to Charlie for a month, to help with the dragon in Romania. The rest of the Weasley's said it would be a good idea, ‘to heal’ me. FIx what's wrong with me.

I didn't get fixed, but I have cool scars and stories now. Now, instead of the lightning bolt on my forehead, the scar trough my left eye is what takes everyone's gaze. It was from a newly hatched Antipodean Opaleye. I was keeping an eye on the full grown dragons and forgot about the young ones.

They have surprisingly sharp claws for such young animals.
They are so cute, though. So I couldn't actually blame them.

Luckily for me, Charlie had Murtlap essence on hand, gently spreading it over the cut as he tells me about his own scars.

That's when i realised what i was missing, and that i'd have to stop chasing someone that doesn't want me.

I landed in bed with the red haired man that evening. It was better than i thought it would be, though, something felt missing

I ignored it.

He's 13 year old, almost 14. He's locked in Dudley's old room with bars on the window, locks on the door, whispering a soft, 'happy birthday to me' with a piece of dry bread and a small candle from the ground- found while he was gardening for aunt Petunia. Lit with a very weak, wandless Incendio. It's a small trick he learned from the Weasley twins.

It's quite a pathetic sight, honestly. Seeing a child so soft with a smile too small for their birthday.

"Happy birthday to Harry, happy birthday dear Harry.."

The whisper can be heard faintly as he wishes there would be letters from his friends. He got one so far, from Hermione. It didn't have anything to do with his birthday, though. Just some questions about if he had done the transfiguration homework already.

He learned names of his soulmates a few nights ago, when he was still at Hogwarts from reading the daily prophets. Harry thinks they're Regulus Arcticus Black, and Tom Marvolo Riddle. He recently found out, though, that they're an established power couple already. No one knows for sure if they're if they're actually soulmates, but it's always rumored they are.

They've never mentioned a third soulmate or have been searching for one. So the knights in shining armour Harry was thinking off in the first year after he first learned about his soulmates. Will never be coming.

Not every story has a happy end, after all.

He's 18 and has become a little taller after years of hunting Dark lords all over the world continent and not getting enough food. Passing out from exhaustion instead of nightmares each night is luxury, just like dreamless sleep potions.

His eyes are unfocused from the exhaustion as he buttons up the frilly blouse from Madam Malkin's Robes, looking like all the other pureblood lords.

Except the bags under his eyes, maybe. But those are easily covered up with a Glamour Charm or two.

Harry gives him a weak smile, turning away so he doesn't start staring at the beatiful man, grabbing a hankerchief- The symbol of the Deathy Hallows stitched into the corner with golden thread, sparkling faintly under the family magicks- to whipe the most blood from his hands so he can pick up his wand and vanish the rest, picking up the blood replenishing potion with shaky hands and downing it quickly, grimacing at the taste.

He'll finish the ritual later.
Regulus- Lord Black, won't hurt him anyway,
He's Sirius' little brother,

And his soulmate, least of all. Even when Harry isn't wanted within the relation.

He turns back to him and slides his wand in his wand holster again, the wounds used for the blood stitching themself up. “What did you need? I'm sorry for using the ritual chamber, I'll be done in a few if you need it” He says, raking a hand trough his hair as soon as his palms are stitched up, his bangs slightly sticking to his forehead.

Regulus is looking at him with an unreadable expression his eyes are less steeled than how he they normally look in the daily prophet photos, but they're not warm.

Harry doubts he can look warm and inviting, actually.
Though, it has a certain charm.

And it makes his heart race.

“I was intrested why there were so many unfamiliar wards in the Grimmauld Place, I thought there was something wrong with Sirus. I apoligise for disturbing your ritual” Regulus says, his eyes trailing over the runes drawn on the floor.

It isn't the full truth, but Harry stops himself from reading too much into it. Slytherins did always hate people medling with their business, didn't they? Especially if it were a Gryffindor.

“Don't worry about it” Harry says politely “The ritual isn't too long, anyway. I'll just start over”

Regulus nods with a hum, expression still guarded.

Harry smiles softly and nod slightly as Regulus turns around, slightly moving his hand so the door closes behind him.

And than he can finally breath easily.

Chapter Text

I hiss under my breath as I feel my tutor's, spell- now slightly powered down because of my protego, but still strong- strike my face like a knife and I feel the blood trickle down my chin.

After I defeated Grindlewald, we all got the choice to come back for our last year of Hogwarts. Most of the children with influential parents didn't come back and just got a job at the ministry by the recommendation of their parents. I, of course, could've gotten a job too here in Britain. But because of my success in dueling the dark lord, every other country with a threat they need silenced has been contacting me.

I've made a deal with them, to give me a year to become even better so I can help more effectively. So now i'm training with the special forces of the aurors every second of my time.

When professor McGonagall asked me what I wanted to do in the future, this wasn't on my list.

He’s fifteen when the headmaster tells him he’ll have to die for the cause. The wands, the Hallows — and he has the Cloak. If he dies without anyone to inherit it from the Peverell line, it’ll be much harder for them, Grindlewald and his followers, to find it.

Harry thinks Dumbledore is, of course, thinks the story is hippogriff dung, but he's tired of fighting, tired enough to let Dumbledore to hit him in the chest with an Avada Kedavra, not bothering to question how Dumbledore can use the spell successfully if he's a light wizard.

Death is as easily as falling asleep.

Then, everything becomes white around him and he's being called ‘little master’

When he wakes up in Dumbledore's office again, staring at the headmaster with tired eyes.

He feels dissapointed.

The crowd of students gathered in front of Hogwarts is silent as he stares at the ruins, Grindlewald's wand- the elder wand- humming lowly in his holster as he scans everyone helping to search for people in the rumble. They won the war, but at what cost? Red is now staining the gorund from all the blood spilled for this-

quickly enough he's gently guided towards the mediwitches on sight by Dumbledore. He's only faintly listening, though. The correct answers spilling from his lips, but his eyes glued on the crying children and parents.

"I'm so proud of you, my boy."

It registered somewhat as he is guided to sit down, barely noticing the witch rushing towards him, only snapping back into the present because of she touches the barely-healed gash on his side. Without his magic jumping to save him, he could've died from that.

"But you could've done it without killng him, Harry. You could've registered him unconscious and locked him up. Murder is below us, my boy"

That made Harry focus back on his mentor.

"But he could've got out of that, right? He certainly has the magical ability to break trough the wards or tame the dementors at Azkaban-"

He's cut off before he could get the last syllables out, but doesn't try to argue. "He would have been send to nurmengard. He built it himself, so there would be no possibilities of anyone getting out."

Harry sat stunned for a moment, just blinking at him with a small frown.

“But you've killed before, haven't you?”

..

“That's different, Harry."

He doesn't get to time to respond to that statement, Dumbledore just continues, dissmissing himself. “I'm going to go help back to help at the castle, please listen to the healers, my boy”

Then just.. Walks away, salmon colored robes dragging behind him. The color feels wrong at a tragedy like this.

The first time he meets Tom is at the Ministy gala. It's an event where the most rich and important people of England. Or, he thinks, the most stuck up ones. Harry arrives fashionably late, silently grumbling under his breath at the splendor of the event.

The money, he thinks, could've been used for building up the country again after the war.

He’s wearing Potter gold and Peverell black, his family rings adorning his fingers as quiet powet.

Every thread of his robes screams wealth and status, but he still feels out of place. People part around him like he’s contagious, whispering names and titles he no longer recognizes as his own. The Man Who Conquered. The Savior. The Last Duelist against Grindlewald. Each one lands like a curse rather than an honor.

The Ministry Atrium has been transfigured beyond recognition— floating chandeliers, marble floors polished until the reflections look like ghosts. A quartet of bewitched violins plays softly near the fountain.

Harry thinks the music sounds more like mourning than celebration.

He accepts a flute of champagne from a floating tray and sips it just to keep his hands occupied.

“Lord Potter-Peverell,” someone murmurs to his right, too sweetly. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Harry turns. Narcissa Malfoy smiles at him, pale and poised, her arm looped through Lucius’. “I was invited,” he replies, voice dry. “And I was told attendance was mandatory for all Wizengamot Lords.”

Her eyes flicker toward his rings. “Fourteen seats. My, you do keep yourself busy.”

He gives her a polite, meaningless smile, slightly raising his champagne glass towards her in cheers “Occupational hazard.”

Before she can respond, the sound in the room shifts. Conversation quiets, magic seems to hold its breath. The orchestra changes tempo, softer, darker. At the top of the marble staircase stands the new Minister for Magic. Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry’s first thought is that he’s too young to be a Minister. His second is that he looks exactly as dangerous as he should.

Tall, poised and impossibly handsome, descending the stairs like they owe him something, hair perfect, a silver band clasped around his wrist, and his emerald green robes dragging behind him. On his arm, Lord Regulus Black stands, silver mask of composure in place, wearing the same bracelet as the minister.

The two of them are perfect- cold, beautiful, deliberate

His wrist stings as he meets Tom's gaze, but quickly joins the rest of the crowd as he realises he's the only one not bowing. though, Minister Riddle keeps gaze on him. here’s a flicker of interest? Amusement?- in his eyes.

Harry, of course, curses himself for catching Riddle's eyes.

Chapter Text

I went to Paris for a weekend. Supposedly, it was “to relax” and stop thinking about the training for a minute. Everyone thinks that’s a good idea. I wasn’t so sure. 

they put the trail back on my wand, the phoenix core one, because they thought i was “dangerous”. I tried to use Grindlwald's wand. It turns out, just because it's a strong wand and i've has had it for a while, it just didn't become easier. My hand cramped in ways I didn’t know were possible. I swore a lot. Loudly. Mostly at myself. 

I met a man in a small café one rainy evening. Dark hair, too sharp a jaw, smile that should have been illegal. He was charming and infuriating in equal measure. We ended up walking until the city lights blurred around us — I think it's because he resembled one of my soulmates in looks.

I, of course, ignored that part.

He insisted on cooking me dinner in his flat. It was… edible, I suppose. Better than I expected, better than the food Sirius’ house elf makes, at least. 

We laughed too hard, talked too little and kissed too much.

I landed in bed with him that night. It was better than I thought it would be, though something felt missing. 

I ignored it, because ignoring things is what I do best.

Next morning, he made me coffee and I left without any fanfare after that. 

I forgot his name while I was on the way to get my portkey.


...


Just a little fun, nothing more

Harry woke before the sun, the way he always did.

Dudley's birthday.

Fun.

The cupboard was colder than usual; the thin blanket had slipped to the floor sometime in the night, and he didn’t dare shift too loudly to reach for it. The house above him creaked—Dudley rolling over in his sleep, Aunt Petunia padding toward the bathroom, Vernon snoring like a defective lawnmower. Harry listened to the sounds like one listens for danger.

He curled tighter around himself, careful to be silent.

He lifted his hand and stared at the skin, pale in the thin strip of light slipping through the cupboard vent. The initials were still there. Two sets.

T.M.R.
R.A.B.

He rubbed at them with his thumb, hard enough that the friction stung, but they didn’t fade. They never faded.

He didn’t know why.

He didn’t know what it meant.

A sharp rap hit the cupboard door. “Up!” Petunia’s voice clipped through the wood like a knife— Harry almost flinches. “And don’t dawdle. Breakfast won’t make itself and my Ickle Diddykins needs the best for his birthday."

“Coming,” he said, already pushing himself upright, already reaching for the too-big shirt he slept in.

She yanked the door open, didn’t look at him. She never did. “Diddykins wants a full english breakfast for his birthday. And don’t you burn the bacon this time.”

When the door is slammed close again, he rolls his eyes slightly and reaches for his glasses.

The war ended. Everyone says that like it’s a clean line in a book. One day you’re ducking curses and screaming over corpses, and the next, you’re supposed to eat breakfast and smile at people who survived too.

But Harry moved like someone who wasn’t used to freedom yet.

In the early days after the war, he kept to the edges of Hogsmeade, walking the same shattered streets every morning. The village was still half rubble—broken chimneys, crushed rooftops, cracked cobblestone—but he walked it like a ritual, hands in his pockets, head bowed against the wind. It wasn’t mourning, exactly. More like taking inventory of the pieces left behind.

He didn't have people to really mourn for.

Sure, he knew people that didn't make it past the war, but he wasn't close to anyone, really.

He was mostly a loner.

"He the one that was going to defeat him some day- surely he must be dangerous." Was commonly heard in the corridors of Hogwarts as he walked past groups of people, and was commonly ignored.

He stopped often, crouching to pick up bits of things. A shard of stained glass from the leaky cauldron. A metal hinge melted from Fiendfyre. A burnt toy broom. He’d turn them over in his hands, as if he could figure out how they once fit into a life. Then he’d tuck them away in a satchel he never let out of his sight.

When he wasn’t wandering, he tried to train.

He preferred doing it where no one could see him, far behind the Shrieking Shack, where the grass grew tall and the wind drowned out most sound. He lifted his wand— not the phoenix feather one, but the one taken from Grindlewald—and tried a spell, only to hiss as his hand cramped violently.

“Brilliant,” he muttered to no one but himself. “the deathstick, greatest wand in centuries, and I can’t even manage a bloody Shield Charm without looking like I’ve sprained something.”

He swore under his breath—loudly—and shook his hand out like someone trying to fling water off their fingers. It didn’t help. His wand flared in irritation. Harry glared at it.

“Don’t start with me.”

The wand hummed back, unimpressed.

"bloody naff" He murmered at the 'wand of'- fucking-'destiny' with a grumble, lifting the wand to try again.

Eventually he gave up, collapsing onto the grass to stare at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. Harry let himself breathe, really breathe, for the first time that day. It felt strange. Too open. Too quiet.

Later that evening, he went to help rebuilt Leaky Cauldron to avoid eating alone. A young witch approached him—dark hair, bright smile. She introduced herself, offered him a drink, laughed at one of his painfully awkward jokes. She touched his wrist lightly when she leaned in to hear him better.

He didn’t flinch.

A few moments later, the music swells again, and Harry straightens up, letting Narcissa whisk him away into another conversation. He smiles politely, nods along, but all the while, the minister’s eyes press on the back of his head, and his wrist burns faintly under the glamour. He prays no one notices the subtle twitch. 

The ballroom seems to stretch, glittering chandeliers casting shards of light across polished marble. Couples spin and sway, murmuring greetings and laughter, the air thick with perfume and the faint tang of champagne. Every so often, someone glances toward him and quickly looks away. Titles are whispered, rumors pass like sparks: The Man Who Conquered… the boy who survived… fourteen seats… 

Harry tilts his chin politely, letting the conversation flow around him. He knows he looks composed, but his heart is kicking in time with the orchestra, and he hates it. 

After a while, a sharp clearing of a throat cuts through the hum of music and murmurs. Harry turns. 

“Lord Potter-Peverell, our savior.” Tom’s voice rises just above polite conversation, smooth, deep, deliberate. Every syllable measured, weighted. “An honor at last.” 

Harry feels the air tighten around him. He forces his shoulders not to tense, giving a shallow bow. “Minister Riddle-Gaunt, Lord Black.” 

Tom tilts his head, eyes glinting with dangerous curiosity that makes Harry’s throat dry. “You arrived without your usual escorts. Refreshing.” 

Harry bites back the instinctive retort, rising, keeping his gaze deliberately elsewhere, expression neutral. He knows Tom’s right. Normally, he’d be whisked across the ballroom by one of the most admired lords or ladies, swept into a dance, floating along in their gossip and smiles. But here? Standing alone makes him both visible and vulnerable, and he hates the feeling. 

“The night is still young, Minister,” Harry answers after a beat, letting the words sound casual. 

Regulus, still on Tom’s arm, watches with sharp, unreadable eyes, every subtle movement calculated. The tilt of his shoulder, the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his hand brushes lightly against Tom’s—Harry notices all of it. 
 
He's not jealous at the touches, not at all. 

He squares his shoulders, trying to force a shiver from his spine. His wrist flares again under the glamour. He shifts it subtly under his sleeve, breathing slowly to calm the heat. 

“Is there something you require, Minister?” he asks evenly, voice carefully controlled. 

Tom’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly, like a predator amused by the game. “How about we speak in private, lord Potter?” he asks, his voice smooth. His green robes catch the light just so, glimmering faintly, perfectly tailored.  
 
Harry only reacts at the title with a few blinks — trying to ignore the subtle show of disrespect. 
 
It's Potter-Peverell. 
 
Regulus shifts subtly, stepping just enough to block the line of anyone else noticing the exchange. His expression never changes, but Harry feels it — protective. Assessing. 
 
Vigilant. 
 
“Of course, minister. Lead the way” 

Chapter Text

I spent the past three days pretending I wasn’t exhausted.

It didn’t work.

Everyone could tell—Hermione with her concerned frown, Ron with his awkward shoulder pats, Kingsley with that skeptical little hum he does when he thinks I’m hiding something. I kept telling them I was fine. That the training schedule wasn’t too much. That the wand burn on my palm wasn’t from overchanneling, just a “mishap.”

They didn’t believe me.
Fair. I didn’t believe myself either.

Last night I tried practicing again, alone, out behind Grimmauld Place where no one would hear me swear. I lifted the wand, focused, breathed—

And my hand cramped so violently I nearly launched the bloody thing across the garden.

Very dignified.

I sat on the back steps for a long time after, wand across my knees, staring at the stars like they owed me answers. They didn’t give any, obviously. The universe rarely cooperates.

This morning, I did the sensible thing. I left London.

Just hopped the earliest international Floo I could get away with. No destination in mind at first, just the desperate need to be somewhere that wasn’t filled with expectations and paperwork and reminders that I survived when others didn’t.

I ended up in a seaside town in Greece.

Warm breeze. White stone buildings. People who didn’t look twice at me.

It was the first time in weeks that my wrist didn’t burn.

I walked along the cliffs until the sun dipped low and the shadows got longer. Someone sold me roasted figs. Someone else tried to convince me to buy a cursed bracelet “for passion.” I declined.

Later, in a cramped little taverna with creaky tables and terrible wine, I met a girl with a crooked smile and enough confidence to flirt with a stranger who looked half-asleep. We talked. We laughed. She touched my hand and leaned in—

And the warmth didn’t reach wherever I needed it to.

I kissed her anyway.

Smiling, trailing my hand to the back of her head to tangle in her hair.

We ended up in my hotel room, sheets tangled and rough against soft, gripping, biting, kissing, rough lips trailing against the column of her throat, thesoft laughs ringing trough the room transitioning into breathless gasps and soft moans.

It was just… a morning. A normal one. The kind that should’ve been forgettable, but somehow wasn’t.

He woke to the rattling of pipes overhead, Vernon grumbling on his way to the bathroom. The cupboard air was thin and stale. Harry blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and reached for his glasses by touch alone.

Outside, Petunia’s voice carried—thin, irritated, slicing through the silence like she resented the sound of her own family existing.

“Vernon, there’s dust on the stairs. I told the boy to handle it last night.”

Harry stayed still a moment longer, breathing slowly, willing himself not to make the floorboards creak. Dudley was sleeping two rooms away, and waking him early usually ended with Harry being blamed.

The cupboard door swung open without warning.

No greeting. No glance. Just a brisk, pointed, “Up.”

Harry nodded quickly and pushed himself upright, stepping out onto the cold hallway floor as she turned away. He didn’t need instructions; the list was always the same. Sweep the hallway. Clean the kitchen. Stay quiet.

He moved like a shadow, broom in hand, careful not to scrape too loudly. Vernon hated noise in the mornings. Harry’s stomach growled once—loudly enough that he winced—but no one seemed to hear.

The kitchen was already a mess. Tea leaves scattered across the counter. Burnt egg streaks on the pan. Someone had spilled sugar and walked straight through it, leaving sticky footprints.

Harry rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He didn’t complain. He never did. Not because he thought it would help, but because it simply didn’t occur to him that complaining was an option.

As he scrubbed the stove, he caught sight of himself in the faint reflection of the microwave door—small, hunched, hair sticking up every which way. His oversized shirt hung off his shoulders. His wrists were thin. Too thin.

He wondered vaguely if other children looked like this when they were ten.

He doubted it.

Aunt Petunia swept into the kitchen then, eyes narrowing immediately at the sight of him.

“You missed a spot,” she said, tapping the counter with a manicured nail.

Harry opened his mouth to point out that she had just walked through the sugar herself, but thought better of it.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Shes stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed.

Than she cleared her throat and her shrill voice sounds again, making his head hurt slightly—or maybe it's still from last night, when uncle Vernon got a bit rougher than normal and he dropped, blacking out, the back of his head roughly hitting the floor.

He doesn't remember much after that.

No matter.

“No breakfast for that disrecpectful tone.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Then, she turned and walked away without acknowledging the answer.

Harry rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and started again. Slow. Careful. Quiet.

He knew better than to hope for more.

Though, he was quite hungry..

Smoke choked the streets of London. Rubble lined the avenues like teeth broken from a jaw. Harry moved through it all with a careful, measured step, wand in hand, senses screaming. Every shadow could be a threat. Every flicker of light, a curse ready to strike.

He didn’t need to see them to react.

A curse screamed past his ear, green and jagged. His body moved before thought caught up. Shield charm up, wrist flicked, deflected. Another curse whistled from behind him. He ducked instinctively, landing on his feet, wand snapping to the next threat.

Two of Grindlewald's men dropped from the rooftop above, brooms under their feet, faces hidden. Harry flung a jet of dazzling white light at one—he crumpled in a neat heap before he could Apparate. The second tried to vanish. Harry’s wand moved like a live thing in his hand. A twist, a flick, a burst of magic—it was over before the other realized.

The alley was silent for a heartbeat.

Harry’s chest rose and fell fast. Dust settled around him. The acrid smell of burnt stone lingered. A shadow flickered in the corner. Another one of his'? No—just a girl, maybe eleven, wide-eyed, wand trembling. He lowered his wand slightly, but not enough to be careless.

“Go,” he said quietly. “Get out of here before you get caught up in this.”

She ran. Harry’s gaze followed, unflinching.

Then movement. Behind him, faster, closer, a strike aimed at his back. Reflex again. He twisted, ducked, countered without thinking. A jet of red light shot out. A yell. Silence.

Harry didn’t pause. He never did. Wands collided, curses ricocheted off walls. Fire and ice and shadow tangled around him like smoke in his lungs. He could feel the magic of the city fighting him back, groaning under the weight of so much death.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt it—the faint, familiar burn under his sleeve, like a pulse of warning. T.M.R. R.A.B. He ignored it. There was no time.

By the time he stepped out into the open square, the last of the attackers lay subdued, unconscious, or fleeing. Harry’s wand hand throbbed. His lungs burned. His uclothesiform was scorched in streaks, sleeves blackened, hair matted with ash.

The attackers looked worse, but the embroidered Deathly Hallows pulsed faintly with magic for a second longer, but it duffed out soon enough

Harry straightened. Adjusted his collar. Checked the alley for survivors.

Perfect. No casualties—not that it mattered; the city was already a graveyard in pieces.

Harry glanced at the skyline. Smoke rose like black fingers clawing at the clouds. He didn’t feel triumph. Didn’t feel relief. Only the weight of what needed to be done next.

A voice behind him made him turn. Not one of the attackers. One of his own. Sirius, leaping down from a damaged balcony, wand already raised. “Bloody hell, Harry, you’re insane.”

Harry shrugged. “Someone’s got to do it.”

Sirius shook his head, exasperated, but smiled anyway. “And you’re too bloody good at it.”

The hallway Tom leads him into is quiet, tucked behind the grand staircase, lit only by enchanted sconces that flicker like candle flame. The noise of the ballroom fades behind them—music softening, laughter muffled, footsteps swallowed by thick carpet. The moment the door clicks shut, the air changes.

Harry feels it first.

Magic, old and coiled.

Tom does not turn immediately. He stands with his back to Harry, gloved hands clasped behind him, shoulders straight, posture the kind that has been taught, corrected, and ironed into perfection. Controlled. Aggravating.

Almost.. regal.

Regulus remains by the doorway, leaning against it. Quiet as a shadow. His eyes flick between them, one perfect eyebrow arched into a judgemental stare.

Harry resists the urge to tug at his sleeve again. The burn beneath the glamour is stronger now—hot, insistent, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. He hides his hand behind his back.

Finally, Tom turns and Harry swallows tightly—though, he hides it well enough.

Tom studies him for a long, quiet moment, eyes dark and thoughtful in the flickering light.

“You’ve been avoiding the Ministry’s medical summons,” Tom says at last. “Twice. I don’t appreciate being ignored.”

Ah. That.

Harry exhales slowly through his nose. “You wanted to speak to me about paperwork?”

Tom’s eyes narrow—not angrily, just sharply. “I wanted to speak to you about why a war hero with no surviving family and no documented magical illness keeps declining thorough evaluations of his core stability.”

Regulus’s eyebrow lifts even higher, gaze flat but eyes sparkling with this faint curiosity.

Harry forces his shoulders to stay loose. “With respect, Minister, I don’t need a full diagnostic every time someone in your office panics over my magical signature fluctuating. I’m not going to explode.”

Tom steps closer. Too close again. “You’re destabilizing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond—some mix of sarcasm and irritation—but his wrist burns suddenly, sharply, scorching under the glamour.

He flinches, then freezez.

Tom sees that, too. Regulus, on the other hand, let's his gaze flicker to his own arm.

Before either of them can speak—

The wall explodes.

Stone shatters inward in a violent blast of green light. The sconces flicker wildly. Dust erupts into the hallway. Harry reacts before thought can form—body moving on its own, instincts snapping like a whip.

He shoves Tom back with one arm, grabs Regulus by the wrist, yanks him behind a fallen slab of marble—

Wand out, stance grounded, spell already forming at his fingertips.

Chapter Text

I kept saying I was fine. 

That the training schedule wasn’t too much. That the tremor in my hand was just fatigue. That the clench of my jaw is determination instead of pain. 

They didn’t believe me. 

Fair. I didn’t believe myself either. 

Last night, I tried practicing again—alone, in the basement of Grimmauld Place, where no one would hear me swear or ask questions I didn’t want to answer. I lifted my wand, focused, breathed— 

And my hand cramped so violently I launched the bloody thing at where Walburga's portait was hanging. 
 
She started screaming about me being a mudblood and that I was unworthy of the Peverell name. 
 
I had a very pleasent talk with her, I had quite a lot of frustration pent up. 

Very heroic. 

Harry was eleven when Aunt Petunia decided the sitting room needed reorganizing. 

It wasn’t prompted by anything specific—no guests expected, no holidays looming. Just one of her moods. The kind that meant Harry would be busy all day and still be accused of doing nothing. 

She handed him a list without looking at him. 

“Shelves first. Then the carpet. And don’t touch the television.” 

Harry nodded like he expected the task. 

The shelves were heavy, stacked with framed photos of Dudley at various stages of triumph—smiling with missing teeth, holding trophies, wearing school jumpers too clean to ever belong to him. Harry lifted each frame carefully, setting them aside with more care than they’d ever been handled when they’d included him. 

Which they never had. 

By midday, his arms ached. Dust coated his hands and throat. The vacuum screamed every time he turned it on, and Vernon shouted from the kitchen for him to “keep it down” despite the fact that it was the only thing making noise. 

Harry swallowed his hunger and kept going. 

When he finished, Petunia inspected the room with pursed lips. 

“You missed under the cabinet,” she said finally. 

Harry looked. He hadn’t. 

“I’ll redo it,” he said anyway. 

She narrowed her eyes, nodded once, satisfied, and left. 

Harry dropped to his knees again, scrubbing at carpet fibers that were already clean. His wrists were red. His fingers cramped around the cloth. He focused on the rhythm—wipe, press, breathe—because stopping meant thinking. 

Thinking meant wondering why this was normal. 

By the time the sun dipped low, the room was spotless. 

No one thanked him, of course. That was expected. 

He stole a slice of bread from the kitchen that night, chewing quietly, listening to the television laugh track echo from the sitting room he’d just finished cleaning. 

The spell came out of nowhere. 

Harry didn’t see the caster—just felt the magic twist, wrong and sharp, like a blade aimed for his spine. 

He moved. 

Shield up. Turn. Counter. 

The curse shattered against his Protego, sparks raining down across the cobblestones. He didn’t pause to locate the source. His body already knew where it was. 

Three o’clock. Rooftop. Cloaked. 

Harry flicked his wand. 

“Stupefy.” 

The figure pitched forward, rolling off the edge and vanishing with a distant thud. 

Another spell screamed past him, close enough to scorch his sleeve. Harry ducked, rolled, came up firing. 

Red. Blue. gold. 

The street erupted into chaos—shouts, collapsing stone, magic tearing through old brick like it was paper. Harry advanced through it with grim precision, spells snapping from his wand in perfect rhythm. 

He didn’t shout. Didn’t show off. 

He ended fights. 

One of Grindlewald's rushed him, wild-eyed and desperate. Harry sidestepped, hooked a foot behind the man’s ankle, and slammed him down hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. A binding spell followed immediately. 

Harry barely noticed. 

His wrist burned, hot and insistent, but he ignored it. There was always time to feel later. 

By the time the Aurors arrived, it was over. 

Harry stood in the middle of the wreckage, breathing evenly, wand loose in his grip. His robes were torn. Blood streaked one cheek—not his. 

Someone called his name. 

He turned, already composed, already distant. 

“Area secure,” he said calmly. “No civilian casualties.” 

They stared at him like he was something between a miracle and a warning. 

Harry didn’t wait for their reactions. 

He never did. 

Wand out. 
Breath steady. 
Feet planted. 

Harry doesn’t think. Thinking comes later, when people are safe and the adrenaline has nowhere left to go. Right now, there’s only motion. 

“Protego Maxima.” 

The shield snaps into place just as another curse slams into the hallway, red and screaming. The marble slab in front of them fractures further, cracks spiderwebbing under the impact. Dust rains down like ash. 

Behind him, Tom recovers fast—too fast for someone who isn’t used to violence this close. Regulus is already half-standing, wand in hand, eyes sharp and calculating, but Harry’s palm presses him back down without even looking. 

“Stay,” Harry says, calm as if he’s asking him to pass the salt. 

Regulus stills. Obeys. 

Good. 

Three attackers. No—four. Two in the corridor ahead, one Apparating in behind them, one trying to flank through the ballroom entrance. Sloppy. Loud. Desperate. 

Grindelwald’s leftovers, then. Or someone who thinks killing the Minister in public makes them important. 

Harry steps out from behind the rubble before anyone can protest. 

A curse whistles past his cheek. He doesn’t flinch. Twists, flicks his wrist— 

“Expelliarmus.” 

One wand clatters across the floor. Harry doesn’t watch the man fall; his attention is already elsewhere. 

Another curse—green this time. 

Ah. That kind of statement. 

Harry snaps his wand up, redirects it into the ceiling. Stone explodes downward. Screams echo from the ballroom beyond. 

“Containment,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Always with the mess.” 

His body moves like it’s rehearsed this a thousand times. Because it has. 

Stun. 
Shield. 
Disarm. 
Bind. 

One attacker tries to Apparate—Harry’s wand slashes sideways. 

Anti-Disapparation Jinx.

His own creation.

The air snaps. The man crashes hard into the wall, unconscious before he hits the floor. 

The last one hesitates. 

That’s the mistake. 

Harry closes the distance in three long strides, grabs the front of the man’s robes, and slams him face-first into the marble. The wand skids away. Harry presses his boot to the man’s shoulder, wand trained on the back of his head. 

“Don’t,” he says mildly. “You’re done.” 

Silence rushes in, thick and ringing. 

Harry exhales once, slow and controlled, then turns back toward the alcove. 

Tom is standing now, robes dusty but immaculate as ever. Regulus at his side, wand still raised, eyes flicking over Harry like he’s cataloguing damage. 

Harry becomes acutely aware of the burning in his wrist again. Hot. Loud. Demanding. 

He ignores it. 

“Are you injured?” Harry asks, already checking them visually. 

Tom studies him for a long moment before answering. “No.” 

Regulus shakes his head. “Nothing serious.” 

“Good.” Harry flicks his wand, binding the attackers properly now. “Aurors will be here in—” he checks instinctively “—about thirty seconds.” 

As if summoned, footsteps thunder in the distance. 

Tom steps closer again, gaze sharp—not angry. Not shaken. 

Interested. 

“You moved before the wards registered the breach,” Tom says quietly. “Before my security detail reacted.” 

Harry shrugs, casual. “Old habit.” 

“That wasn’t habit,” Tom counters. “That was precognition or instinct sharpened past reason.” 

Harry finally looks at him fully. Meets his eyes. 

“Minister,” he says evenly, “with respect—this is my job. Panic later. Calm your horses.” 

Regulus huffs once and turns slightly. Amused. 

Tom doesn’t smile. But something in his expression shifts, subtle and dangerous. 

“I didn’t summon you tonight to discuss medical paperwork,” Tom says. “That was the excuse.” 

Harry had figured as much. 

“There’s a faction moving,” Tom continues. “Not loyal to Grindelwald. Not loyal to anyone. They believe power should be… redistributed.” 

Harry snorts softly. “That’s one word for it.” 

“They’ve mentioned you,” Regulus adds coolly. 

Of course they have. 

Harry rolls his wrist, the glamour still holding, the burn simmering beneath. “Everyone does.” 

Tom’s gaze flicks—just for a fraction of a second—to Harry’s sleeve. 

“I want you,” Tom says, “as an independent operative.” 

Ah. 

Not an Auror. 
Something worse. 
 
A weapon on a leash. 
 
Riddle's leash, to be specific. 

Harry tilts his head. “You want plausible deniability. 

“He wants control.” Regulus answers before Tom can say anything.

Tom's perfect eyebrow arches all so slightly as he glances at his soulmate, telling Harry that while Regulus isn't wrong, but Tom wasn't expecting for Regulus to answer it so blindly.

Merlin, purebloods.

Harry is quite grateful for Regulus' bluntness, he doesn't like the way Tom dances around answering any question.