Vitae Redux / Book 2: Death Eaters - RiverXSong - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: The Black Dog

Chapter Text

“We interrupt this programme to bring you this important public service announcement…”

Tom frowned up at the television as his attention was wrenched away from his Potions essay by the sudden shift from a relaxing nature documentary to a loud, blaring announcement about some escaped convict. He sighed. Muggle technology had its uses, but it was so painfully obnoxious sometimes – like now, when it was supposed to be helping Harry concentrate but had the opposite effect. Well, it would be over shortly – he leaned back into the sofa cushions and waited.

“...Sirius Black, age thirty-three, was convicted and sentenced to life in prison for the mass murder of thirteen individuals on the second of November, 1981.” Tom sat forward with sudden interest; the name, paired with the image on the screen of a gaunt and frail looking man with a tangle of lanky, matted hair made something tingle in the back of his mind, the echo of a memory long-since faded coming back to life

The Blacks were a wizarding family, weren’t they? Well, perhaps not necessarily, it wasn’t exactly an uncommon surname among Muggles, but the name Sirius certainly was. Yes, he was sure of it – this man was a wizard, and must be considered an extreme threat if news of his escape from (what was likely) Azkaban had been released to the Muggle press. But there was something more about him, something more personally relevant… Tom wracked his brain, but the memory simply would not slot into place, much like the annoying, insistent sense on the train his first year that Ron’s rat had been somehow familiar to him.

“The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.”

The report faded out, replaced once again by the dulcet tones of an older man explaining the nesting habits of the cactus wren. Tom glanced at Harry, who was staring wide-eyed at the screen as though he’d just seen a ghost. So it wasn’t just him, then – there was definitely something about this man that was important to both of them.

“Harry,” Tom said, his words spilling from his mouth before he’d even thought them through, “what do you say we put aside our essays for now and spend some time in Diagon Alley instead? We need to pick up our books at some point – no time like the present, I say.”

“Huh?” Harry replied, looking away from the television screen and blinking hard. “Oh, er – right. D’you think Mrs Figg will let us go alone?”

“Has she been averse to the idea any other time this summer?” Tom asked.

There was a wonderful quality to being thirteen; quite suddenly, it seemed, the adults in their lives trusted them with a limited sort of independence. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall had included a permission slip to attend days unsupervised in Hogsmeade. Arabella Figg had, reluctantly at first, agreed to let Harry and Tom Floo on their own to Diagon Alley several times, so long as they were back before dark. The taste of freedom was sweet, particularly for Harry, Tom knew, who had lived so long under his relative’s thumbs that the very concept was still rather novel.

After informing Arabella of their plans and packing two bags for the day, the boys headed for the fireplace. Tom stepped through first, as usual, and when he turned around he found himself beaming with pride as Harry stepped out behind him, barely stumbling at all.

“I’m really starting to get the hang of it,” Harry remarked as Tom tapped the brick that would let them into Diagon Alley with his wand. “I could probably even Floo on my own if I needed to.”

“A shame,” Tom replied, though he couldn’t help smiling. “I’m going to miss getting to catch you every time you come crashing through.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I could always pretend to stumble,” Harry smirked, “if it means that much to you.”

“Cheeky,” Tom said, slipping his hand into Harry’s as they stepped through the brick archway that had appeared. “You know you don’t need to find an excuse to be in my arms.”

It was incredible, really, how the revelation that Tom was not a normal thirteen-year-old boy but instead the resurrection of a torn piece of the Dark Lord Voldemort’s soul had done little to harm their relationship. Somehow, in fact, it had only strengthened the bond between them when Tom had explained how, for years, he had hibernated within Harry himself, healed and restored by something Tom had discounted as a weakness in his former life – Harry’s endless, nourishing love. It was a secret they shared, a bond unlike any other, discussed in quiet, Parseltongue whispers late into the evenings.

The sky over Diagon Alley was a bright summer blue, and the streets were bustling with activity. They spotted several classmates of theirs as they made their way down the street, though it was too early in the season to expect to see any of their closer friends – Ron’s family was visiting Bill in Egypt, and Hermione’s parents had taken her to France on holiday. Draco or Pansy might show up, but both of them did most of their school shopping via owl order, only making the journey to Diagon Alley late in the season to purchase new robes for the coming year.

That didn’t stop them from running into other, newer friends however.

“Oi, Riddle!” A voice came from somewhere to their left, and they turned to see Theodore Nott waving them down, his friend Blaise Zabini next to him. “Potter! Haven’t seen the two of you since Hogwarts!”

Tom and Harry ambled over to the pair, drinking in the sunshine. As they approached, Nott grinned at them as Zabini looked Tom up and down appraisingly.

“Well," he said finally, twirling his hand and giving him a mock bow, “if it isn’t Tom Riddle, heir of Slytherin.”

“Now, now,” Tom smirked. “There’s no need to stand on such formality – a simple ‘my Lord’ will do.”

Zabini snorted. “You’ve got to be joking, Riddle.”

Tom hummed in agreement. “Well,” he added, “perhaps not once I’ve reached majority and claimed my family titles. I don’t suppose there remains much in the way of fortune, but the name alone is more than enough.”

Harry nudged him in the side with his elbow in mild annoyance.

“Salazar’s stave,” Nott marvelled. “You talk as though you plan to rule wizarding Britain someday.”

Zabini rolled his eyes. “What a world that would be,” he remarked disdainfully. “All of Britain under the reign of Lord Tom Riddle and his consort, Harry Potter.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Tom replied, his tone light and airy. “Wizarding Britain doesn’t recognise a monarchy anymore – that’s what the seat of Minister is for.”

Nott groaned. “I came here to get away from politics – it’s all my father ever talks about,” he lamented. “Let’s just do our shopping and discuss something else.”

They made their way down the alley, Harry quickly turning the subject to Quidditch and whether they’d be allowed to resume a regular schedule after the events of the previous year had forced the staff to cancel all remaining games. Tom had little interest in the topic, tuning out as Nott went into a rant about the last professional match he’d last attended. He was more concerned about the news clip regarding the escaped convict and hoped to find a copy of the Daily Prophet to find out if his escape had been reported in their world as well. He mulled over some other options as well, ways to determine exactly what his tenuous connection was to this Sirius Black individual.

Inspiration struck as the four of them chatted casually over bowls of Florean Fortescue's ice cream.

“Flourish and Blotts next, I think,” Tom said, finishing his last bite of pistachio. “We might as well pick up our school books, and I have a particular tome I’ve been meaning to acquire. If the rest of you are ready?”

They were, and so the four of them headed down to the bookstore, stopping occasionally to admire merchandise from the other stores through the windows. Zabini halted outside the Apothecary to inspect a new range of cauldrons being advertised, and Nott held them up by the Magical Menagerie, wondering aloud if he should get a new letter holster for his owl. Harry took the longest time of all of them, freezing to a standstill outside Quality Quidditch Supplies and staring slack-jawed at the new, state-of-the-art racing broom displayed – the Firebolt.

“Tom, look, it’s amazing.”

“Harry, you don’t need another new broom.”

“I know, but –”

“It says, ‘price on request.’ There’s a well known saying: if you have to ask – quite literally, in this case – you can’t afford it.”

“I bet I could,” Harry grumbled, but he let himself be torn away from the dazzling view of the sleek new broom and steered into Flourish and Blotts.

They made their way around the shop, thankfully not interrupted by any grandstanding famous authors this time, and picked out the books they would need for third year. Tom had convinced Harry that taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes would be more beneficial in the future than softer subjects like Care of Magical Creatures or Divination, so along with their standard books they picked up Numerology and Grammatica by Evelyn Finch and Runes Across the Ages by Rosana Amorim. After they had collected their required reading, Tom approached a shop attendant.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, getting the reedy-looking man’s attention. “Would you happen to have any books detailing the lineages of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? With family trees included, if possible.”

“Yes, of course,” the attendant answered. “Please, follow me.”

“Planning to trace your family’s history?” Nott asked, one eyebrow raised. “Smart move, you’ll need more than parlour tricks to undeniably prove that you’re Slytherin’s heir.”

The shop-keep scoffed. “Heir of Slytherin?” he laughed, leading the boys into a section on wizarding history. “Not bloody likely. That family died out ages ago.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom said loftily. “I have good reason to believe it didn’t.”

“Tom, don’t you already know your family’s history?” Harry whisper-hissed against his ear. “You told me how Voldemort killed his father and placed the blame on his uncle, remember?”

“Yes, Harry,” Tom replied, making no effort to keep his voice lowered. “This is for a more personal project – I’ll explain later.”

The attendant froze, his hand hovering over a book, his eyes trained on Tom and wide in a mixture of fear and something like adoration. He recovered himself a moment later and lifted the heavy tome from the shelf, handing it to Tom – Who’s Who of Magical Britain: A Guide to the Sacred Twenty-Eight by Cantankerous Nott, fifth edition.

“This is the most recent copy?” Tom asked, taking the book and adding it to his pile.

“Yes,” the attendant replied shakily. “Updated last in 1982, although there is a new edition in the works to be released next year. I daresay, however, that this will be sufficient for your… purposes.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom smiled. The man shivered.

“I have an idea,” Zabini said, his eyes glittering as they stepped out of Flourish and Blotts. “Why don’t we take a tour of Knockturn Alley? I’ve not yet had the chance – my mother’s always insisted on accompanying me to Diagon Alley before this summer.”

Tom considered it carefully. He couldn’t deny that at Zabini’s suggestion, he found himself positively itching to see what had become of the bastion of Dark magic in the years since Voldemort’s downfall, but he was also hesitant to expose Harry to such a dangerous place. On the other hand, Harry had faced Voldemort twice now, and would have to see the darker sides of wizarding life sooner or later – and better that he be at Tom’s side when he did so.

His mind made up, Tom nodded. “That’s a capital idea, Zabini,” he said, smiling. “If you’ll allow us a few minutes to leave our books at home, we’ll be back with you shortly. Harry and I weren’t expecting anything more than a short excursion to Diagon Alley today.”

They used the Floo in the Leaky Cauldron to quickly slip back to number seven, Wisteria Walk, stacked their new school books upon Arabella’s coffee table, and Flooed back to Diagon Alley before she could notice they’d come home at all. They found Zabini and Nott waiting for them impatiently just inside the entrance to the alley, and reunited, the four of them began their journey toward Knockturn Alley.

“You’ll want to be alert at all times,” Tom whispered to Harry. “Knockturn Alley is home to the… less reputable members of our society.”

“Oh, you mean Dark wizards and witches?” Harry asked, smirking. “Well, you’ll be right at home then.”

“Do try to take it seriously,” Tom replied. “We’re likely to run into all manner of things, Dark witches, wizards, and non-human people alike. Stick to the group, and if you get separated, as long as you’re not in danger, just stay where you are and we’ll come find you.”

“Tom,” Harry snickered, “I’m going to be holding your hand the entire time. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Would you two stop hissing at each other like love-struck snakes?” Nott lamented, rolling his eyes. “What on earth are you even talking about?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business, Nott,” Tom replied. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to eavesdrop on private conversations?”

“Sure,” he replied, “when they were in plain English. But the two of you already terrified that shop-keep back in Flourish and Blotts, and now half of Diagon Alley is staring at you.”

They really were. “Let them stare,” Tom said flippantly. “If they think Parseltongue is some kind of Dark magic, that’s not our problem. Harry and I were both born with the ability, it’s no ones’ fault but their own if they think that a natural, inherent trait makes one a Dark wizard.”

“Tom, I wasn’t born with it,” Harry argued. “That was all you, and you know it.”

“You and I know that, darling,” Tom replied, “but unless you’d like to advertise the fact that you’re walking around with a piece of my soul inside of you, it’s better to let them think you developed the gift naturally. Besides, the world could stand to learn that there’s nothing wrong with being able to talk to snakes, and who better than the Boy Who Lived to teach them that?”

“...Right,” Harry said, his expression halfway between a smile and a grimace.

“Seriously you two,” Zabini said. “Knock that off, it’s creepy.”

The entrance to Knockturn Alley was dark and ominous, a warning in and of itself and meticulously crafted to scare off the more easily frightened members of society. Tom’s heart swelled with nostalgia as he passed under the archway – the first time he had done this, in his previous life, he had been just shy of second year, over confident, bursting with curiosity, and too assured that his single year’s worth of magical schooling would protect him. It had been a foolhardy adventure, and he was sure now that he had been lucky to slip in and out unscathed. This time, however, there were four of them, and if anything went wrong Tom was reasonably certain that he recalled enough of his hard-earned magical prowess from his first life to protect them.

Thankfully, there were few residents out and about to bother them, as it was close to noon by now and it seemed most were inside, likely taking a midday meal. It gave the boys more of an opportunity to window shop, and Tom noted with delight that Harry showed more of an academic interest rather than judgement at the Dark magic clearly on display in every window – though he did grimace a few times at some of the nastier descriptions of exactly what a potion, artefact, or cursed bit of jewellery was meant to do.

Tom scowled as they passed by Borgin and Burke’s. The sign above the front door was new – well, newer than it had been when Voldemort had taken his first and only position of employment. He hesitated for a moment, almost tempted to steer the group inside, but chose to move on instead. Voldemort had worked there for ten gruelling, soul-sucking years, he knew, but the memory, the wretched feel of it, was miraculously, blessedly gone. Tom didn’t want to risk the possibility of it all rushing back by stepping inside.

“Do you…” Zabini had stopped, his eyes wide and brow furrowed in confusion and worry. “You all see that, right?”

Tom followed his gaze to a shadowy corner – there, in the gloom, was an enormous black dog with pale grey eyes, staring straight back at them. Its fur was thick and matted, its frame gaunt, almost emaciated. Tom nodded at Zabini, not taking his eyes off of the creature – something was rattling at the back of his mind again.

“Oh, thank Salazar,” Zabini breathed. “I thought – a Grim, maybe –”

Tom scoffed. Really? Zabini believed in the Grim? Nobody believed in that kind of silly nonsense anymore, save for fools, self-reported Seers, and… those who put stock in their delusional ramblings. Tom cringed, remembering the exact reason he had ended up stuck in Harry’s head for nearly a decade. Perhaps he could forgive Zabini’s whimsical superstitions.

“Poor thing,” Harry said, pulling his hand away from Tom’s and moving towards the dog. “Looks like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“Be careful!” Tom cried, rushing forward and seizing Harry’s hand again. “What did I tell you about Knockturn Alley – it could be dangerous, Harry!”

As he spoke, the dog yelped and surged forward unsteadily, stopping in front of Harry and sniffing at him in what he could only describe as excitement. Tom held Harry protectively as the creature pushed its muzzle into Harry’s hand and licked his fingers, but despite his wariness, it did just seem to be a regular dog – an overly friendly one that had taken particular interest in Harry, but nothing dangerous. Harry laughed and reached forward, scratching behind the dog’s ear, rewarded for his efforts with a happy sort of rumble from deep in its throat.

“See Tom?” Harry said, pulling away from him to give the dog more attention. “He’s friendly. Maybe we can find some scraps for him.”

It was the kitten all over again, and when the creature inevitably succumbed to starvation Harry was going to blame himself. “Harry, you can’t just go around adopting strays,” Tom sighed. “And even if it’s not dangerous, it’s probably got fleas.”

The dog gave Tom an oddly scathing look, so incongruous on a non-human face, and huffed at him. Then it did something, if possible, even stranger – it snatched the front of Harry’s robes in its jaws and started dragging him away from the group, back toward the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Harry had no choice to obey or have his robes torn, so he followed, and Tom, still clutching Harry’s hand tightly, did as well.

It was only once they were safely back within Diagon Alley’s confines that the dog finally released Harry, barking so harshly it could have been a scolding. Harry cringed.

“Sorry boy,” he said sheepishly. “I guess you don’t want me wandering around in Knockturn Alley, huh?” The dog huffed again.

“Wonder what kind of dog that is?” The others had followed them out of the alley as well, and Nott was staring at it curiously. “Doesn’t look much like a crup, but it obviously has some level of near-human intelligence.”

“I wonder who he belongs to,” Harry said, checking the dog over now that they were in the bright sunlight.. “Poor boy must’ve gotten lost – doesn’t have a collar though.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a sandwich. “I don’t know if this is really good for dogs, but I don’t have much else.”

“Harry, that’s your lunch,” Tom chided, “and no, the cheese wouldn’t be very good for a dog. If you insist on feeding it, at least pick up something more appropriate – there’s a deli down the way where you should be able to find something with meat in it.”

The dog followed them happily, sniffing along the edge of the street as they ambled down the street to the establishment. They sold, of course, no raw meat that would be most suitable to a dog’s diet, but Harry did purchase a few pork pies at Tom’s suggestion that they were probably the best option in the shop. It really would have been better to visit the butcher Tom had frequented during the years he called London home, but it was back down Knockturn Alley, and that option was solidly out. After making their purchases, the four boys found a secluded bench to rest on while Harry gave the pies to the dog. The great beast scarfed them down with vigour as Harry and Tom ate the cheese sandwiches brought from home, Nott and Zabini regaling them with tales of their summer so far.

“I wish I could take you home with us,” Harry said lazily when they had finished their sandwiches, running his hand through the dog’s long, shaggy fur. “Can’t imagine you’d go through the Floo that well, though.”

“Aunt Bella would never have it,” Tom pointed out. “A great big beast like that? It’d scare her Kneazles half to death.”

“I s’pose you’re right,” Harry sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to come back as often as possible to make sure Bear’s okay.”

Tom stared at him. “You named the dog Bear?” he asked, incredulous.

“Why not?” Harry asked, grinning. “He’s as big as one, and I think he likes it, look –” Indeed, the dog’s tail was wagging furiously and his mouth was split open in an approximation of a smile, his tongue hanging out to the side as he panted. Tom just sighed – he had not anticipated having to share Harry with an animal for the course of the summer.

They split off from Nott and Zabini after that, the other boys wanting to go back to Knockturn Alley and Harry unable to with the dog – Bear now – in tow. For a stray, he was surprisingly well trained, and knew to remain outside as Tom and Harry flitted in and out of shops, picking up school supplies and knick knacks – a handsome new quill for Tom that would refuse to write for anyone else, and for Harry a stand designed to hold a pocket-sized sneakoscope, a rather flimsy little Dark magic detector that Ron had sent him as a souvenir from Egypt. By the time they had exhausted the possibilities Diagon Alley held for them, the sun had sunk below the rooftops and the sky was painted a dazzling gold.

“Bye, Bear,” Harry told the dog as they prepared to head back into the Leaky Cauldron. “We’ll try to come see you again tomorrow, will you be okay until then?”

“It can’t answer you, Harry,” Tom said. “It’s an animal.” But Bear butted his muzzle into Harry’s hand once more, and that seemed to be enough confirmation for him.

They Flooed back to number seven, Wisteria Walk, both tired and hungry for dinner. Arabella, however, was not in the kitchen nor the dining room – she was there, in the living room with them as they stepped out of the fireplace, her eyes wide and her fingers curled so tightly around a teacup that her knuckles had gone white. She had not noticed them return, however – instead, she was focused on the television, which was blaring the evening news. Tom glanced at it and immediately kicked himself for having forgotten his original intentions on visiting Diagon Alley in between all the day’s activities.

Sirius Black’s ragged face filled the screen – and Arabella very clearly recognised him.

Chapter 2: A Reunion

Chapter Text

“Oh – oh dear.” Arabella stood stock-still in the middle of the living room. “He’s escaped… oh heavens,” she muttered.

“Aunt Bella?” Tom asked. If her reaction were anything to go by, he’d been absolutely right – Sirius Black was indeed a wizard. Now all he needed to know was what the man had done to be jailed in Azkaban and what role he had played, if any, in Voldemort’s life.

“Oh!” Arabella jumped in surprise, rushing to embrace them both. “Good, you’re – you’re – you’re back. You’re safe, the both of you.”

“Who was that man on the television just now?” Tom asked. “Do you recognise him?”

“Sirius Black,” she said faintly, crossing the room and collapsing heavily into her favourite armchair. “Good lord. You boys are too young to have to deal with any of this.”

“Who’s Sirius Black?” Tom demanded, moving with Harry to take their usual seats on the sofa, their sides pressed up against each other. “What’s he done to get on the news?”

“Oh no,” she said quietly. “No, no, I really shouldn’t tell you. It has to do with – with before. With the war.”

“We’re not babies, we’re thirteen!” Harry insisted crossly. “We’ve both faced Voldemort twice now, I think we can handle hearing about some man who’s escaped prison!”

Arabella looked at him sharply. “You only just turned thirteen yesterday, and Sirius Black is not just ‘some man,’” she barked. “Although, perhaps it is your right to know,” she continued, her voice softening. “Too much has been kept from the both of you – particularly you, Harry. It just pains me to have to be the one to tell you such horrible stories of your past.”

“Aunt Bella,” Tom implored, “that man was a wizard, right? A very Dark wizard? Won’t Harry and I be safer if we know exactly who he is and what he’s done?”

Arabella sighed again. “As usual, I suspect you’re right, Tom,” she replied wearily. “You must promise, however, that you won’t go looking for this man. The two of you have an unfortunate penchant for finding trouble, and I think my poor old heart will go out if I have to suffer another conversation with Albus Dumbledore about how you’ve found yourselves in the clutches of some Dark wizard yet again.”

The two of them hastily made their promises and Arabella began her story.

“Now, you both remember that I helped fight alongside Professor Dumbledore and Harry’s parents against You-Know-Who’s forces in the war, right?” The boys nodded. “Well, there were a great many of us back then. We were part of an organisation known as the Order of the Phoenix, led by Professor Dumbledore and made up of members of all four houses of Hogwarts, as well as those of us who never attended. There were Squibs, like myself, conducting reconnaissance in the Muggle world as You-Know-Who carried out attacks on both of our communities. We also had a number of non-human magical creatures on our side – vampires who had disavowed the man who wanted to control them, rogue house-elves who went against their masters much like that Dobby fellow you met this past year, centaurs who left their herds to bring us news from the stars. And at the very centre of it all, for a short time, were Lily and James Potter, targeted by You-Know-Who for reasons known only to them and Professor Dumbledore.

“Well,” Arabella continued after taking a long sip of her tea, “surrounding the Potters were three others, their closest friends from their time at Hogwarts together. Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and… Sirius Black. When it became clear that your parents were being hunted down by You-Know-Who, Harry, the five of them went into hiding, your parents taking you, of course, with them. Of their three friends, Black alone could share where Lily and James Potter were hiding. You two know of the charm already – Professor Dumbledore is our Secret Keeper, after all.”

“Wait,” Harry said, his voice hollow. “That man on the telly – he was my parents’ friend? He was their Secret Keeper?”

“He was more than that,” Arabella said sadly. “He was James Potter’s best friend, the two of them inseparable from the very first day they met on the Hogwarts Express, reportedly. They grew up in Gryffindor together, never leaving each others’ side – much like the two of you. But he also came from a family of Dark wizards and witches, very Dark indeed… Something must have happened, we’ll never know what – an argument, pressure from family, an offer too tempting to refuse, perhaps – but whatever the reason, shortly after agreeing to become your parents’ Secret Keeper, he… well, he betrayed them. He went straight to You-Know-Who and sold them out.

“He was your godfather as well,” Arabella added in a small voice. “He was supposed to keep you safe.”

Harry stared up at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. “My… godfather?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Wait – Mrs Weasley said last summer that I don’t have a proper guardian, not in our world… is that because Sirius Black…?”

Arabella looked away and shut her eyes. “Yes,” she croaked, a lone tear leaking down her face. “In your parents’ last will and testament, they named him as your guardian should anything happen to them. It’s a miracle you didn’t end up in his hands – I can’t even imagine what would have happened to you had You-Know-Who’s greatest supporter been allowed to take custody of you after that night. Instead, he apparently went after one of their other friends, Pettigrew, and killed him alongside twelve Muggles. He’s been in Azkaban prison ever since.”

Tom and Harry both stared blankly up at her, but for entirely different reasons.

“Come on, Harry,” Tom said weakly, reaching out for Harry’s hand. Harry entwined his fingers into Tom’s and let himself be led away from the sofa. “This must be a lot to take in, let’s have a lie-down – thank you, Aunt Bella, for telling us this.”

He tugged Harry up the stairs and into his bedroom, where a second bed had replaced the small desk in the corner Tom had previously used to complete his summer homework. Instead of guiding Harry to his own bed, however, Tom sat them both upon the edge of his own, tucking Harry close to his side and pressing a kiss into his hair.

Harry was shivering.

“My godfather,” he mumbled, clutching at Tom’s arm. “My dad’s best friend – he betrayed them.”

“No, Harry,” he murmured. “No.”

“You heard Mrs Figg,” Harry replied. “You heard what she said, he -”

“Harry,” Tom said, interrupting Harry’s dark train of thought, “none of it’s true.”

Harry stiffened next to him.

It was a rather familiar experience by now – over the past several weeks since learning that he was a Horcrux and that Tom was a resurrected fragment of Voldemort’s soul, Harry had had many questions. Tom had answered them as sincerely as possible, but so much of it was so horrible, dark, and death-filled that his confessions had left Harry frozen and horror struck, yet bewilderingly unwilling to leave his side. This, however, was different.

“What –” Harry faltered, slipping against Tom’s grasp, “what do you mean?”

“Well,” Tom said, gingerly lifting Harry back out of his slumped posture, “I’m sure some of it’s true. Sirius Black being your father’s best friend, your godfather – but I’m absolutely certain he never sold them out to Voldemort.”

In truth, he had had to stop himself laughing when the Squib he had manipulated into being his ‘aunt’ had said such a thing. Either a story had spread based upon rumour and hearsay, or someone was deliberately spinning a false tale – his bet was on Dumbledore. Though perhaps it was a little of both, a grisly affair that had never had its truth see the light of day in the chaotic aftermath of Voldemort’s downfall, the bits and pieces patched together and a satisfying, if unpleasant, story told.

“Is this one of those things that you remember from Voldemort’s life?” Harry gasped. “I thought you didn’t remember much from the final years.”

“I don’t,” Tom admitted. “But you know I can remember things when they come up – and I am certain I would remember if I saw the face of the man who betrayed your parents. Sirius Black means something to me, I’m sure of it, but not as one of Voldemort’s followers. That’s the real reason I purchased the book on wizarding genealogy today – the Blacks are a very old, very influential family in Britain. Voldemort went to school with one of them – Orion – and he became one of his first followers alongside Mr Malfoy’s father. I’m going to trace their family tree and see if Sirius is related to him, or if I recognise the names of any of his other descendants.”

“I see…” Harry said slowly. “Tom, if Sirius Black didn’t betray my parents, then who did? And why did they blame him?”

“I can’t say for certain,” Tom replied. “It’s possible that he was a decoy, the obvious choice of Secret Keeper so the true man for the job could fly under the radar. Of course, that would only mean that someone else your parents trusted implicitly had betrayed them instead - but at least you know that it wasn’t your godfather.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “That’s… that’s a bit of a relief. But it’s not fair!” Harry was suddenly alight with anger. “He shouldn’t have gone to – what was it Mrs Figg said, Axaban?”

“Azkaban.”

“Right, that! And if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been raised by the Dursleys!”

“You’re right, Harry,” Tom replied softly. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to Sirius, who clearly must not have had a proper trial, if he was even given one at all.” He sighed in annoyance, scowling and resting his chin in his free hand. “Once again, the actions I took in my previous life have –”

“No, no, stop that,” Harry interrupted. “I thought we agreed that you’re not Voldemort, you just have some of his memories and suffered the same childhood. I don’t want you to go down a guilt spiral while we’re trying to figure this out.”

Tom did not bother mentioning that outside of that one time in the Chamber of Secrets where he had experienced the horrible, burning sensation of true remorse, he actually felt very little guilt about his actions, let alone Voldemort’s. Regret, after all, was not the same, and neither, certainly, was annoyance. At best, he felt anger toward his previous life’s self for allowing Harry’s life to be so terribly ruined, and nothing was as upsetting as realising he had stripped Harry of a perfectly good guardian, thereby even further condemning him to a childhood raised by the absolute worst kind of Muggles.

But… Harry was right. Anger spiral, frustration spiral, guilt spiral, it was all the same – counterproductive and a waste of his and Harry’s time. Tom cleared his throat and straightened back up.

“Right,” he said simply.

“So if it was someone else my parents trusted…” Harry pondered, “maybe it was one of the other friends Mrs Figg mentioned – what did she say their names were?”

“Remus Lupin, I believe,” Tom replied. “And… Peter Pettigrew…” That tingling in the back of his mind had returned. “I believe I remember him as well, though I can’t be certain he was the traitor either. I wish I just had a picture of these men, then maybe something would actually make sense.”

“Well,” Harry replied, “they were all in the Order of the Phoenix with Mrs Figg, right? Maybe she has old photographs, like the one of my parents that she gave me. And if it was Pettigrew, that would fit – she said Sirius killed him – maybe he went after him in revenge.”

Tom nodded. “That would make sense.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “We’ll ask her if she has any other photographs in the morning. First though, let’s see if that genealogy book has any clues as to why Sirius Black is so familiar to you. Shall we head back down?”

“No need,” Tom said, gesturing. “It seems Arabella took the time to carry our books upstairs for us.” Indeed, all of their school books were stacked against the wall, the Sacred Twenty-Eight text atop them. He slipped his hand from Harry’s shoulder and crossed the room, retrieving it.

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Harry asked as Tom settled back next to him. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s rather archaic,” Tom replied, “but it refers to a group of twenty-eight families deemed ‘pure’ by the author – Theodore Nott’s grandfather, if I’m correct. Every family tree detailed in this text is, supposedly, entirely pure-blood – though, of course, such a thing is impossible. You’ll find the text itself is incredibly biassed - for example, the Weasleys are included, despite their claims of having a significant amount of non-magical ancestry, while your own family, incredibly pure prior to your father marrying your mother, is not, having been deemed blood traitors and Muggle lovers many generations past.”

“Well, that seems rather stupid,” Harry replied.

“It is,” Tom confirmed. “I bought the book for the family trees, not the blood purity nonsense.” He flipped it open and thumbed through the pages. “See, this is my own family, the Gaunts. My mother, Merope.” He pointed. “Presumed dead. No heir listed. And my grandfather, Marvolo, for whom my mother gave me my middle name.”

Harry squinted. “But the book’s wrong.”

“It’s not.”

“But it makes it look like he married –”

“His sister, yes,” Tom replied, grimacing. “The Gaunts split off from the Slytherin family line about five hundred years back – see here – and quickly became so obsessed with their own purity that they would only marry their children off to third cousins, then second, then first… and finally their own siblings, when the family count dwindled so low that there were no other Gaunts from which to choose. Though I am loath to do so, I suppose I really should thank my father for saving me from yet another round of inbreeding. I met my uncle in my previous life, and he was a wretch.”

“I bet you really do look just like him,” Harry said. “Your father – not your uncle, I mean.”

“I do,” Tom confirmed.

“Then I’ll thank him, on your behalf,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to Tom’s jaw. “You are incredibly handsome, you know.”

Tom made a strangled sort of sound, his words caught in his throat. “But – right – the Black family,” he managed to choke out, flipping back through the pages. “Here we are – the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. This is Orion – ugh, also married his cousin, I see, though I suppose an occasional marriage between close blood isn’t too terrible – the first Black family member to join the Knights of Walpurgis. And there, his sons, Sirius and… oh. Regulus Black.”

The memory flooded back to him upon reading the name – it wasn’t Sirius who was connected to him, it was Regulus. The little brother. The one who had lent his house-elf to Lord Voldemort in order to hide his fourth Horcrux, the locket. With this knowledge, so too did he know for certain that Sirius had never aligned himself with the Dark Lord, but had disavowed his family and anything to do with the Dark Arts.

“Tom, are you alright?” Harry asked. “You’ve got a look.”

“It was Regulus,” Tom breathed. “Not your parent’s traitor, but Voldemort’s follower. That’s why Sirius was so familiar to me – Voldemort got the younger brother, but never the heir of Black himself.”

Harry tilted his head to look more closely at the page. “But it says ‘disowned’ under his name.”

“Disowned by parents,” Tom corrected, and ran his finger up the tree. “This man, Alphard Black, was named the heir to his family’s titles. He never married or had children, so he must have handed the title down to his elder nephew. I’m certain Voldemort never successfully recruited him, either.”

“Okay,” Harry replied. “So that’s one mystery solved. But we still don’t know who betrayed my parents.”

“We will, Harry, I promise,” Tom said solemnly. “If nothing else, I owe you a proper family. Even –” he said quickly, as Harry made to interrupt, “even if I’m not Voldemort. His actions did lead Sirius to wrongful imprisonment and you to live with abusive Muggles terrified of magic. We’re going to find out exactly who betrayed Lily and James Potter, prove Sirius’ innocence, and if they’re still alive, bring the perpetrator to justice.”

“Right, okay,” Harry said. “Just promise… promise me you’re not going to kill them yourself.”

Tom frowned. “Fine,” he sighed. “I promise.”

Padfoot slipped through the shadows of Diagon Alley, keeping to the narrow confines between and behind buildings, gathering his thoughts. He was going to have to make the journey to Hogwarts soon, unless he found a way to slip onto the Hogwarts express unnoticed. As a dog, the journey would take several days, and he was not yet in a state to make such an expedition. His food supply was mostly limited to the occasional rat he could catch, and that was in itself an exhaustive effort. For not the first time in his life, particularly since being imprisoned in Azkaban, he wished his Animagus form had turned out to be a cat – swift, silent, and deadly. Of course, if Harry returned…

His emotions overtaking him, he curled up against a barrel, tucking his head against his hind feet and letting out a slow whine. Harry. He had hardly dared to believe it was him when he first saw the tell-tale mop of hair, the bright green eyes. But then that other boy had said his name, and twelve years of loss and pain and so, so much distance had crumbled away, and he had found himself leaping toward the boy, the baby from whom he had been ripped away when Wormtail had laid the blame for Lily and James’ deaths at his feet.

He hadn’t been sure what to make of him, at first – what on earth had Harry thought he was doing, carousing around Knockturn Alley? But he had quickly found he didn’t have to worry – Harry had turned out kind and gentle, just like his mother. He was cheeky and funny, just like his father. He had given Padfoot a much needed meal, not to mention a name. “Bear.” A good name, a strong name, the kind one might give a protector. And he had friends. One friend, in particular, a tall, fair-faced young man who seemed ready to go to battle for him, even against Padfoot himself. All of his worst fears about Harry’s childhood had been placated, though he couldn’t stop the gnawing guilt that it should have been him who stood by his side in the face of danger, him who should have been there to pull him away from strange animals in darkened alleyways.

Unable to cry as a dog, he let himself slip sadly into sleep instead, feeling the nourishment from his dinner of pork pies spread through his veins.

He awoke with the morning sun, the thrilling memory that Harry had promised to try and return the next day swelling through him. He ran through the alley, barking and snapping playfully at the heels of the witches and wizards around him, high on the events of the day prior. He knew it hadn’t been a guarantee, but just the knowledge that Harry wanted to see him again was enough to sustain him – he had had so little time for joy while in Azkaban, after all, even a tiny morsel of it felt like a feast.

“Bear!”

Sirius froze, hardly able to contain himself. Surely not, he told himself, surely not so soon. It wasn’t even noon yet, there was no way Harry had managed to make it back to Diagon Alley so early in the day. He was hearing things again, the toll of so many years in Azkaban making itself known.

“Bear, there you are!”

He turned, his heart leaping in his chest as he saw Harry running toward him, a large carpetbag swinging from his arm. He could smell the wafting scent of meat from here, but his thoughts were not for food – they were for his godson, the radiant boy heading straight for him, sunlight glinting off of his glasses. He wanted to sob, but it came out as a low whine instead.

“Hey Bear,” Harry said, sounding winded, “you alright there?” Padfoot nuzzled against Harry’s hand as it came up to scratch behind his ears: it felt like heaven. The other boy – who was with him again, he noted – had been a bit rude, but probably correct; he likely did have fleas. He would have to take a nice, long dunk in the lake once he made his way to Hogwarts.

“Sorry it took so long for us to get here,” Harry said, poking through the carpetbag he carried. “I wanted to come back first thing, but Mrs Figg was absolutely terrified to let us back out of the house. There’s a supposed mass-murderer on the loose.”

Ah. That was him, no doubt. And Mrs Figg? Really? Dumbledore had sent Harry to live with her? Padfoot was sure Hagrid had told him he was going to live with his Muggle relatives when he gave him the flying motorbike, and then when the other boy had mentioned an “Aunt Bella” he’d had a momentary flash of fear that somehow his cousin had also escaped Azkaban, but no. He had been so worried, knowing how Petunia felt about magic, terrified that she would create an Obscurus out of Harry by trying to squash his magic down. But if Harry had been raised by the Squib instead…

“Harry,” the other boy – Tom, he thought Harry had called him – said. “Let’s head back to the bench we used yesterday. There are far too many people here and someone is bound to disapprove of you encouraging a stray to stick around.”

The boy was smart Padfoot thought – calculating, even, in his tone – as he followed the two of them down to the more secluded corner of Diagon Alley. There was an icy quality to his eyes that he didn’t like, a commanding imperiousness in his voice. He reminded him far too much of the cold, aloof, pure-blooded boys with whom Regulus had gleefully surrounded himself – and yet he could see, when Tom looked at Harry, how he softened. He also couldn’t help but notice how they walked, like the day before, hand in hand, so close their shoulders brushed. He had thought at first it was merely Tom acting protective, not knowing if Padfoot posed them any danger, but now he recognised that it was rather unusual behaviour for two teenage boys. He shook his head and huffed in disbelief. No, surely not – Harry was only thirteen, far too young for a boyfriend.

He tried to ignore the overwhelming evidence to the contrary as he wolfed down the scraps of chicken and beef Harry had liberated from Mrs Figg’s kitchen, focusing on the rich, long-denied flavour of the meat and looking away when Tom pressed a lingering kiss to Harry’s cheek. Merlin’s beard, he hoped somebody at some point had given Harry the talk.

“We really should be getting back,” Tom said as Padfoot swallowed his last bite of roast beef. “Arabella will be going mad with worry if we stay out much longer – she’ll think we’ve been murdered by Sirius Black for sure.”

To Padfoot’s surprise, Harry laughed. “Like that would ever happen,” Harry smirked. “Even if he were coming after me, does she think he’d just show up in Diagon Alley while everyone’s on the lookout for him?” Padfoot would have laughed too, if he were human, at the ridiculous irony of that idea – but also, Harry didn’t think Sirius was after him? That was odd, surely he’d been told the story of the mad Black heir who’d betrayed Harry’s parents and wanted him dead as well.

“It is rather illogical,” Tom replied, “but you’ll find that people tend not to think so clearly when they feel their lives are threatened. I mean, just look at what Voldemort did to himself,” he waved one hand vaguely in the air, “and he wasn’t ever in any real danger.”

“I suppose so, yeah,” Harry replied, reaching out to ruffle Padfoot’s fur. “He did live in London just before and after the Blitz though – I imagine that would be enough to terrify anyone into chasing immortality.”

“Don’t remind me,” Tom said sullenly.

This was a very odd conversation for two teenage boys to be having, Padfoot thought. During the war, no one knew exactly how it was that Voldemort had managed to become so powerful, so seemingly invincible. Had his secrets been discovered during the years Padfoot had wasted away in Azkaban? Was it now part of the standard Defence Against the Dark Arts curricula at Hogwarts? He certainly hoped so, otherwise it meant that Harry and Tom had gained insight on the man’s life that no one else had, and if thirteen was too young for a boyfriend, it was certainly too young to feel personally responsible for preventing the second rise of the Dark Lord.

Harry sighed. “Well, you’re probably right, Tom,” he said reluctantly. “Sorry Bear, we have to get back. I’ll try to come by as often as possible, though.”

“Must I always remind you that you’re too kind for your own good, Harry?” Tom sighed.

“Oh stop, you like it and you know it,” Harry said, smirking.

True to his word, Harry did show up nearly every day after that, always with something for Padfoot to eat, and most often with Tom in tow. Padfoot didn’t like it at first – Harry had been in diapers last time he saw him, for Merlin’s sake, and here he was kissing this boy who was far too handsome to be good news. As the days went on, however, he calmed, coming to realise that Tom had no ill intentions toward his godson, and more importantly, he obviously made Harry happy. That was all Padfoot wanted, after all – Harry: happy and healthy, and he was.

He also learned a lot from their interactions, the story of Harry’s life filling out in bits and pieces. He had been, unfortunately, raised by the Dursley’s for nearly eleven years, and they had been every bit as horrible to him as he had feared. Padfoot’s opinion on Tom shifted dramatically when he learned that he had been, more or less, the one to rescue him, and he barked in gleeful schadenfreude when he heard of Dumbledore’s dramatic arrival at the Dursley household and summary meting out of justice upon them. He snuffled with bittersweet happiness when Harry’s first real Christmas was mentioned, wishing he had been able to be there but satisfied to know that Harry was loved. Most terrifyingly, he learned that not only was Tom Voldemort’s son, but that the two of them had encountered and defeated him not once, but twice now.

There was something about the way those conversations went that never quite added up, and to make matters worse the two of them would often slip into Parseltongue, of all things, to discuss matters more covertly. He had yelped in terror when he first heard the language of snakes pouring out of his godson’s mouth, a genetic impossibility given that neither Lily nor James had had such a gift, but as the days wore on and he grew used to it, it went from being ominous to actually rather comical. The other denizens of Diagon Alley might have found it frightening, but Padfoot soon became the sole audience member to the regular sight of two teenage boys, sitting on a wire-wrought bench and hissing at each other. It shouldn’t have been funny, but really, it was.

The day before the boys were set to return to Hogwarts came far too soon, and Padfoot found himself lingering in the early hours, morose, around the entrance to Diagon Alley. He would have to leave soon, people were beginning to grow annoyed with the presence of an unkempt stray dog in their midst, and he had had one very close call when Remus showed up and he had had to dart back down Knockturn Alley so as not to be spotted. Still though, there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that Harry and Tom might show up for one last visit, and he wanted as much time with his godson as he could possibly have before making the long journey north to Hogwarts.

To his great surprise, Harry showed up, alone for once, just past six thirty in the morning.

“Hey Bear,” he greeted softly. “I don’t have anything for you this time, but follow me to the bench anyway, okay?”

Padfoot happily obeyed, trailing Harry with a happy smile across his face, his long tongue hanging from his mouth. This time, when Harry sat down on the bench, he bounded up next to him and laid down, grinning madly up at the all-too-welcome face of his godson.

“Hey, Bear?” Harry asked tentatively. “I’ve been thinking - you’re smarter than a normal dog, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure you can understand English.”

Padfoot lowered his head and looked up at him, letting his eyes droop, his ears go slack – he really had been obvious about it, hadn’t he? It was just practically impossible to act like a regular stray dog around Harry, not when the paternal instinct to protect and bond with him was so strong. However, revealing his true nature was a risk – that other boy hanging around Knockturn Alley had been right, he was certainly no Crup, and there weren’t many other magical explanations for a dog of exceptional intelligence.

“Hey boy, it’s okay,” Harry said. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I just need to be sure I can talk to you like a – I guess like a person.”

Padfoot looked back up at him slowly, meeting his eye. Then, after a moment of careful deliberation he nodded twice – a distinctly not doglike move. Harry broke into a grin.

“I knew it,” he whispered excitedly. “Alright, so you probably don’t know about this, seeing as you’re a dog and all, but… I won’t be able to come back to Diagon Alley after today. I have to go back to school, a place called Hogwarts.”

Padfoot yipped in confirmation.

“Oh, did that mean you do know?” Harry asked. Padfoot yipped again. “Hmm, I suppose I’ll take that as a yes. Well, the thing is, it’s very far away, and even if I could Floo from there, I’m sure it’d be breaking a dozen school rules and I wouldn’t have time with classes, anyway. But I hate to think of you starving once I leave so… I want to take you with me, if you’d like that.”

Padfoot leapt up in excitement and raced around the bench, panting happily. Yes! Of course! He needed to get to Hogwarts anyway, to deal with that traitorous rat. If Harry took him along, everything would be absolutely perfect.

Harry laughed. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, “settle down, Bear. I have a plan to get you to Hogwarts with me, but it’ll be tricky – I don’t think dogs are allowed at Hogwarts, and Tom wouldn’t approve either, so I’ll have to sneak you in. Do you know how to access platform nine and three-quarters?”

He stopped in front of Harry and put his front paws on his knees, nodding wildly at Harry’s beaming smile. It seemed Harry had inherited his father’s penchant for finding ways around school rules, and nothing else could have made Padfoot happier in that moment. Oh, he wasn’t James to be sure, but he was just as brilliant and shining bright in his own regard.

“Perfect,” Harry said, grinning. “First, we need to get you out of Diagon Alley – normally, the barkeeper would probably not like me taking a dog through the Leaky Cauldron, but luckily, I can make you invisible. I know you don’t have hands, but do you think you can keep this on all the way to King’s Cross?”

Oh – oh Merlin. Padfoot’s throat clenched in emotion at the sight of the silvery fabric spilling out of Harry’s robe pocket – James’ old Invisibility Cloak. How many times had the two of them slipped under it together, roaming the school at night while Remus, unaware of their rule breaking, and Peter, a bit too gun-shy to join them, lay sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitories? How many times had he borrowed it to go sneaking about the library’s Restricted Section, looking for another fun new curse or nasty potion to try? Caught in a rush of nostalgia and only dimly aware that Harry had asked him a question, he nodded – he could easily hold the Cloak in his teeth, so long as he was gentle with it.

“Alright then,” Harry said with finality, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. He quickly draped the Cloak over Padfoot and stood, making his way toward the entrance to Diagon Alley. “Follow me.”

Padfoot stayed close by his side, bumping against Harry’s leg every once in a while so his godson would know he was still by his side and not running off with a priceless family heirloom to parts unknown. They made their way through the brick arch, passed quietly through the Leaky Cauldron so as not to attract attention, and finally out into Muggle London, the streets still relatively empty in the early morning sun.

Once outside, Harry dropped to his knees, holding out his hands. “Bear?” he whispered. Padfoot pushed his invisible muzzle into Harry’s hands, eliciting another smile. “There you are. Go on and head to Kings Cross, I have to get back to Mrs Figg’s. Meet me tomorrow in the compartment next to the loo in the last train-car. No one ever uses it, for obvious reasons.”

Padfoot barked in laughter – he remembered well the one abandoned compartment, both obnoxiously far down the train and unpleasant to use due to the smell. Some things, it seemed, even magic couldn’t fix. Harry smiled.

“I’m glad you know what I mean,” he said. “I wonder if you belonged to someone else who used to attend Hogwarts. Anyway, once we’re there you’ll have full run of the grounds – I’ve heard from Tom’s pet adder that there’s plenty of wild mice and rabbits in the forest, probably better for you than roast beef, honestly. I have to get back now, though – I slipped out before Tom and Mrs Figg woke, and hopefully they won’t have noticed I’m missing. See you tomorrow, Bear.”

Harry disappeared back into the Leaky Cauldron, and Padfoot, his heart lighter than it had been in years, raced unseen through the streets of Muggle London toward Kings Cross Station.

Chapter 3: Memory-Breaking and Mind-Keeping

Chapter Text

Harry made his way down the Hogwarts Express, hoping that his, upon reflection, rather harebrained idea to give a dog his Invisibility Cloak hadn’t been a terrible decision. At the same time, however, he felt full of confidence, bizarrely certain that he would find Bear exactly where he had instructed him to wait. From the first moment he had met the dog, in fact, he had felt an odd sense of kinship with him. It was, Harry thought, somewhat like how Tom described his flashes of insight, like something was tingling at the back of his mind, a memory waiting to be unlocked.

He quickened his pace – he had slipped away from the others by claiming he needed to use the loo, but if he took too long it would seem suspicious for sure. He was close now to the end of the train though, the voices of other students petering out behind him as he passed the busiest compartments. A few times, someone stopped to greet him, their faces shining in awe at the sight of one of the two boys who had subdued Salazar Slytherin’s monster just weeks ago and saved the school from danger, but he waved them off, intent on his mission to find Bear at the back of the train.

He stumbled into the compartment as the train rounded a sharp corner – they must be leaving London now – whispering, “Bear? Are you there?”

He was rewarded with a happy bark and the sudden appearance of the dog he had befriended over the course of the summer as Bear tossed the Cloak off of himself. Harry found himself suddenly beaming, noting in the bright sunlight gleaming through the windows how Bear’s frame had filled out and his coat had grown glossier. He could still do with a good brushing at some point soon, but he looked so much happier and healthier than when they had first met.

Harry sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around the giant dog’s neck, earning that happy rumble Bear always made whenever he was most satisfied. “You did so good, Bear!” he exclaimed, rubbing behind the dog’s ears. “It’s going to be a long train ride, are you okay here by yourself if I leave the Cloak with you? My friends will worry if I don’t get back to them.”

Bear nodded in confirmation.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice floated through the compartment. “Why is Bear on the Hogwarts Express, exactly?”

Harry’s head snapped up to the doorway, his jaw slack as he took in the sight of Tom in the doorway, looking askance at him. “I, er –” he stammered. “I snuck him onto the train, alright?” he answered, his face growing hot. “I just couldn’t stand the thought of him cooped up in Diagon Alley with no one to make sure he didn’t starve.”

Tom rolled his eyes and stepped into the compartment, taking a seat next to where Harry knelt on the floor and crossing his long legs. “And how, exactly, did you manage that?” he asked. “You haven’t left my side all day until now.”

“I er...” Harry mumbled, looking at the floor, “I went to Diagon Alley yesterday and well, told him to meet me on the train. He’s a very smart dog, Tom. He must’ve been to Hogwarts before, he knew exactly what I meant.”

“And gave him your Invisibility Cloak as well?” Tom asked, glancing at the silvery fabric pooled across the floor. “Obviously he’s a very smart dog, I could have told you that from the start. But did Ginny’s experience with my diary teach you nothing? You can’t just blindly trust –”

“I know him, Tom,” Harry interrupted. Bear’s head snapped up to look at him more closely. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m sure that I know him. Maybe – maybe he belonged to my parents or something, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure about it at first, so I didn’t want to say anything, but…”

“Interesting,” Tom said, scooting off the seat and onto the floor to examine Bear more closely. “He triggers a memory for you and me both then, but surely for different reasons. I’m almost certain Voldemort didn’t encounter a dog when he arrived at your house on Samhain. A cat, maybe – actually, that half-Kneazle Hermione bought this summer seems remarkably familiar – but no dog, as far as I’m aware.”

Bear’s eyes went wide as Tom spoke. “Bear, are you alright?” Harry asked.

Bear just huffed, flopping onto Harry’s lap and looking up at Tom suspiciously.

Harry snickered. “I just can’t figure out this dog’s moods,” he said. “One minute he’s beaming to see me, the next he’s sullen and grumpy. You won’t tell though, right Tom? I know it’s not exactly within Hogwarts regulations to bring a dog to school, but I wasn’t planning on bringing him down to the dungeons.”

Bear yelped. Harry frowned.

“It’s okay, boy,” he said, running his fingers through Bear’s dark fur. “I said I wasn’t going to take you down to the dungeons. I don’t think keeping you cooped up in the Slytherin dorms would be good for you – you need sunshine and plenty of space to roam about.”

Bear whined.

“I see what you mean, Harry,” Tom said, frowning at the dog in Harry’s lap. “He’s rather mercurial, isn’t he?”

“Rather what?”

“Prone to rapidly shifting moods,” Tom explained. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were dealing with a wizard who has been transfigured into an animal, but it’s exceedingly rare for one to keep their human faculties upon transformation.”

“Professor McGonagall can turn into a cat!” Harry exclaimed. “Maybe Bear is the same.”

“Perhaps,” Tom said slowly, eyeing Bear, “though it’s rare for an Animagus to remain in their animal form for an extended period of time unless using it for nefarious purposes. It’s unlikely anyone other than a Dark witch or wizard would do so, and if Bear were Dark, he would have probably killed you by now.”

“Well, that’s out then,” Harry said. “He obviously loves me, don’t you, Bear?’

Bear shoved his head into Harry’s hand.

“We should really be getting back to the others,” Tom said, standing and holding out his hand for Harry to do the same. “This is a mystery to solve another day, I think. I’ll help you smuggle him back off the train, but Harry – please don’t go off on any more stray animal rescue missions without letting me know?”

“Sorry Tom,” Harry replied as he took Tom’s hand, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. “I promise I won’t.”

They were nearly at Hogwarts now. Tom and Harry had made their way back to the compartment with Ron and Hermione – who knew where Pansy and Draco had gotten to this time, always slipping off to parts unknown to, Tom didn’t know, snog or something – and a sleeping man, middle-aged by the looks of him, who was likely their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and the train was beginning to slow at last.

Tom sat up straight – something was wrong. From the fading light, he could see they were still in the country-side, not yet chugging into the station by Hogsmeade. What’s more, the lights in their compartment were flickering out, a cold chill permeating the air surrounding them.

Harry shivered next to him.

“Are you feeling okay?” Tom asked, tucking Harry closer to him. “You look pale.”

“I dunno,” Harry replied. “It feels… bad. Cold.” Harry curled into himself, and Tom held him tighter in response. “It’s like a nightmare, but I’m awake.”

“I feel it too,” Tom said, his teeth chattering. What was this? The last time he had experienced anything like this was in the months leading up to the Blitz, surrounded by the terror that had gripped London before he had blessedly been able to escape all of it by boarding the Hogwarts Express. But they were on that same train now, and still the fear was settling back in. Someone was screaming, he was sure of it…

“Stay where you are.”

The middle-aged man had awoken and was on his feet, a fire crackling in one hand and his wand in the other. The door slid open before he could reach it, however, and Tom stared, his eyes wide. No – impossible. As little regard as he had for the headmaster, there was no possible way the man would ever let something so horrible come near the students of Hogwarts. And yet there it floated, too tall for the train and hunched over against the ceiling: a Dementor. As it looked around the compartment, Tom felt Harry go still in his arms and collapse into his lap.

“Harry?” He shook him, even as the screaming in his head grew louder. “Harry, please, wake up!” Something was wrong, something was very wrong – Voldemort had never been affected like this by a Dementor, had he? When he had finally encountered one, he had found its presence rather neutral, even positive, somehow – an ally rather than an attacker. But then… by the time Voldemort had first seen one, he had already delved into the Darkest of magics and split his soul three different ways, Now, with his soul healed and partially restored, part of it floating in the love that cascaded through Harry, the both of them were in great danger. No doubt the creature – born, of all things, to devour souls itself – could sense the two of theirs, entangled, a unique and delicious feast. Tom had to move, he had to do something, but now he was frozen as well, his vision fading, the screaming in his head growing louder.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

It wasn’t his own voice, but it might as well have been. The ring of darkness tightened around his vision – this was it, he and Harry both were going to be made a tasty meal out of. He slumped over him, trying in his last moments to hold his only love as tight as he could, and then –

A bright light filled the compartment.

He came to slowly, his face embarrassingly wet with tears, Harry still silent in his lap. The Hogwarts Express was moving once more, the lights back on. Someone was trying to shove a chocolate bar into his hand.

“Eat that,” a voice said. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Tom stared up at the middle-aged man who had shared their compartment and, apparently, fought off the Dementor. “Sir,” he asked shakily, “what was a Dementor doing on the train?”

“You recognised it?” the man asked. “I’d award points to Slytherin, if the green of your collar is any indication, but the term hasn’t started yet. As to your question, I imagine they’re searching for Sirius Black. A rather pointless and hazardous search, I’d say, given that it would be utter folly for him to infiltrate the castle in such a brazen manner. Go on, have some chocolate – I promise it will help.”

“But Harry,” Tom said helplessly, staring at him still lying prone in his lap. “He’s – he’s not –”

“He’ll be fine,” the man said, taking a seat next to Tom. “Dementors prey upon your worst memories, and I daresay Harry has more than his fair share of those, wouldn’t you agree? He’ll be back around in a minute or two. Look – he’s stirring now.”

At his words, Tom began shaking uncontrollably, the memory of the screaming he had heard bringing fresh tears to his eyes – "please, not Harry!" His worst memory, apparently, was of the night Voldemort had descended upon Godric’s Hollow to kill the Potters and cut the prophecy short. He hadn’t even been able to remember it properly for years now, but with the Dementor invading their train compartment the details had all come rushing back: the oily, venomous hatred that had swirled around him as he had made his way into the Potters’ house, intent on killing the child that was prophesied to destroy him. The way Harry, only fifteen months old then, his eyes wide and trusting, had stared up at him as he raised his wand. The sick, twisted pleasure he had felt in the knowledge that the death of this child – this baby – would leave him invulnerable. It made Tom want to vomit.

And so he did, his stomach betraying him and leaving a mess across the floor even as tears still cascaded down his cheeks.

“Oh dear,” the man grimaced, vanishing it. “Maybe some water before the chocolate. You’ve clearly been through the wringer yourself.”

“You couldn’t even begin to imagine,” Tom choked out, accepting the cool glass the man conjured for him and sipping at it gingerly. The fresh liquid restored him, but didn’t chase away the haunting memory of Lily Potter’s screams.

“The chocolate now, go on,” the man said. “I haven’t poisoned it, you know.” Tom bit into it, annoyed. How could candy help at a time like this, the memory of trying to murder the one person he loved flooding his mind? To his surprise, however, as the taste spread across his tongue the memory faded to grey, the sick in his gut calmed. He stared up at the man in disbelief.

“There you are,” he said, smiling sadly. “Natural remedy against Dementor-induced terrors. You’re too young to normally have to need it, but I suppose we haven’t been living in normal times for quite some years, have we?”

Harry stirred again in his lap. “Tom?” he said weakly. “Wha – what’s happened? There was something trying to get in our compartment, and then I heard a woman screaming…”

Tom’s heart lurched.

“Nothing to worry about,” the man said, helping Tom lift Harry back to a sitting position. “Chocolate for you too, I think.”

“Er – thanks,” Harry said, taking the bar of Honeydukes Tom offered and staring at it.

“Have some Harry,” Tom said, still a bit dazed. “It helps – I don’t know why, but it helps.”

It was only then that he noticed Ron and Hermione, both staring at them, faces white, across the compartment.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, trying to sound confident and failing miserably.

“Er –” Ron replied. “You collapsed just after Harry did and got a bit… weird. You kept crying out that you didn’t want some bloke to die.”

Tom went still. If the Dementors affected him that badly, he was going to have to keep far away from them. He was going to need to brush up on his Occlumency skills – and teach Harry as well, for that matter. It was one thing to hold one’s own against a master Legilimens, but to Occlude so deeply against one’s own self that not even a Dementor could force you to relive your worst memories was nearly an impossible feat. For a terrible moment, he wished he were still Lord Voldemort, a man who didn’t have any worst memories, because anything bad that had happened to him was insignificant in the face of his own power.

No, Tom thought – that was not the train of thought to be taking. There were other ways to counter the effects of a Dementor attack – namely, the Patronus Charm. Tom had swiftly given up mastering it in his previous life as he had had no real need for it and it had frustrated him to the point of rage that he had finally found a spell that, inexplicably, he could not produce upon his first, tenth, or even hundredth attempt. Now though, holding Harry tightly as he recovered, he understood why – Voldemort had never really experienced true happiness, not like Tom had.

“Right,” Tom said awkwardly. “Can – can Harry and I have some privacy for a few minutes? I just want to make sure he’s alright.”

The other three occupants of the compartment hesitated, but made their way into the corridor. Tom quickly put up a muffling charm, one that he felt fairly certain one of Voldemort’s followers had created, to prevent their conversation from carrying. Harry was still shaking like a leaf next to him.

“Harry,” he said softly, taking his hand in his own. “Go on and eat your chocolate, you’ll feel better.”

Harry finally obeyed, brightening instantly. “Oh, that really is good,” he said, his voice steadier than before. “Dumbledore gave me chocolate too, after I had to talk to that social worker last year. Come to think of it, he mentioned Dementors at the time.”

“Apparently it’s a ‘natural remedy,’” Tom replied. “I didn’t know that – Voldemort never had any trouble around Dementors. I, on the other hand, seem particularly… vulnerable.”

“Did you faint too?” Harry asked between bites. “I heard all this… screaming. Was that on the train, or just in my head?”

“Yes, and that was a memory,” Tom confirmed. “Dementors feed off of human happiness, off of our very souls, leaving us with only our worst experiences. No doubt that’s what the screaming was – your worst memory.”

“Our – our souls? ” Harry asked in horror. “But Tom – our souls are –”

“Yes, Harry,” Tom replied grimly. “It no doubt makes us both particularly intriguing targets for creatures such as they are, and the fact that both of us have memories so terrible they leave us little more than sitting ducks is something which must be remedied at our earliest convenience. I’m going to have to teach you Occlumency this year.”

“Occlu – what?” Harry complained. “Tom, I’m already going to be busy with homework and Quidditch, not to mention classes.”

“I’m sorry, Harry, it’s a necessary evil,” Tom replied. “It will help you keep the Dementors out of your thoughts, not to mention Dumbledore, now that you know the truth about me. Come to think of it, I really should have taught you over the summer.”

“Wait – Dumbledore?” Harry asked. “He can read minds?”

“It’s far more nuanced than that,” Tom sighed. “But yes, in basic terms, Dumbledore can read minds. Not without eye-contact, however, so until you’ve mastered Occlumency, don’t look him directly in the eyes.”

“...Right,” Harry said, staring down at their linked hands. “Tom,” he quavered, “you said that Dementors can make you remember your worst memory – what was yours?”

Tom swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. “The same as yours, I believe,” he said thickly. “The night Voldemort tried to murder you.”

“Oh, Tom,” Harry choked, bringing his hand up to his cheek. “Then… you heard the same screaming?”

“Your mother,” Tom gritted out, closing his eyes, “pleading for your life. I had forgotten how horrible it was – though Voldemort probably enjoyed it.”

“See, now – that's just more evidence you’re not him,” Harry said defiantly, though he softened quickly. “Did the chocolate help at least?”

“It did,” Tom confirmed. “It’s just a snapshot now, a trace of a bad dream, one might say. I still know that it actually happened, though.”

“So do I,” Harry replied, leaning in to embrace him. “And it’s okay, because it wasn’t you who did it – not really.”

Harry sounded so earnest that Tom allowed himself to believe it, banishing the image of the toddler looking up at him so trustingly and burying his face in Harry’s hair. A moment later, there was a knock on the door and it slid open, where the middle aged man hovered awkwardly in the frame.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’ve arrived at Hogwarts – you two should gather your things for the carriage-ride.”

“Oh no!” Harry cried, disentangling himself from Tom’s arms. “I need to make sure Bear is okay!” He dashed out the door and down the train’s corridor.

“Bear?” the man asked faintly. “Who on earth is Bear?”

“Friend of Harry’s,” Tom replied vaguely, hoisting both his and Harry’s trunks from the rack above his head.

As it turned out, Bear was fine – Harry told Tom this as they clambered onto the carriage, late only by a few minutes. Harry had found him cowering under the seats of the otherwise empty compartment, snuck him back off the train, and retrieved his Invisibility Cloak as the dog raced off into the darkness, barking in thanks as he ran.

“Dogs can’t ‘bark in thanks,’” Tom said, hoisting Harry into the carriage.

“Bear can,” Harry insisted. “You know he’s not a normal dog. Oh! You brought my trunk for me, thank you, Tom.”

“Of course, darling,” Tom replied. “I couldn’t let all your belongings go sailing back to London because you forgot them.”

Harry blushed. “Sorry,” he replied sheepishly. “I just had to be sure he was okay, what with the Dementors and all that.”

Tom frowned - animals shouldn’t be affected by the presence of Dementors. Maybe magical animals, however, could be. He thought vaguely about writing Arabella and asking her what she thought about the effect of Dementors on Kneazles, not to mention doing some deep research into magical beasts that looked like dogs but weren’t.

“A dog?” Hermione asked, sitting across from them next to Ron. “Harry, you brought a dog with you to Hogwarts? How’re you going to take care of it? They need to be fed, and brushed, and taken on regular walks, and –”

“It’s alright, Hermione,” Harry interrupted. “Bear’s a stray. Tom and I found him in Diagon Alley and made sure he had enough food, but I couldn’t leave him to starve when we left. He’s obviously survived on his own, so I’m sure he’ll be fine hunting rabbits in the forest.”

“Harry!” Hermione cried, clutching the Kneazle she had purchased over the summer protectively. “That was an incredibly reckless thing to do! It’s bad enough that Tom brings an adder into Hogwarts, but a stray dog?”

“Save your breath, Hermione,” Tom sighed. “I’ve already tried to tell Harry how terrible of an idea it was, and he wouldn’t have any of it.”

They finally caught up with Draco and Pansy at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, sliding into their seats across from them.

“Hello Tom,” Draco said. “Hi Harry. Good summers for both of you, I hope?”

“Not bad,” Harry replied. “We spent it at Tom’s aunt’s house.”

“Oh, Salazar – the Squib?” Draco sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “That sounds dreadful, imagine not being able to do magic all summer because you’ve still got the Trace and can’t blame it on your parents, not to mention the house-elves.”

“It’s fine,” Tom said coolly. It really was, too – his previous life’s summers during Hogwarts had been miserable, even more so than his life prior to Hogwarts. With the Trace upon him, he hadn’t even been able to exercise the powers he had used so liberally against the other orphans before the age of eleven, outside of subtle magics like Legilimency. “Aunt Bella has a Floo, so we spent most of our summer in Diagon Alley.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad, then,” Draco replied. “Listen, I’d wanted to invite you to spend part of the summer at our manor again, but Father’s still sore the two of you foiled his plans to have the Basilisk kill a bunch of Muggle-born students and discredit Dumbledore. I’m trying to get him to come round to inviting you to our New Year’s Gala, though.”

The Sorting went by without much fanfare, for once, though it rankled Tom further that Hagrid was now, apparently, a professor as well as gamekeeper. Before long, however, Tom found himself tucked away into the dorms with Harry and the rest of the third year Slytherin boys. When the five other boys had finally drifted off, their breathing even and steady, Tom slipped from beneath his covers and sneaked into Harry’s four-poster, finding his sweetheart still awake.

“Can’t sleep?” Tom asked quietly, brushing the back of his fingers across Harry’s face.

“No,” Harry whispered. “I keep thinking about the Dementor – I can’t believe I fainted. ”

“I can teach you how to resist them right now, if you’re ready,” Tom replied. “There’s no time like the present, after all.”

“Tom, it’s so late,” Harry lamented. “And we have classes in the morning!”

“I won’t make you do anything too difficult, darling,” Tom said. “Just an easy introduction to Occlumency. It might even help you sleep – the arts of the mind are often taught as a method for overcoming insomnia, incidentally.”

“Really?” Harry asked, brightening. “Well… okay, I guess. Just… go easy on me, yeah?”

“Of course, Harry,” Tom assured him, casting a Muffling Charm around them so as not to rouse their dorm mates. “I’m not going to go hacking into your mind, I’m just going to show you how to redirect your thoughts – it's a method of Occlumency called the Garden Path. At more advanced levels, you create a maze of meaningless thoughts, memories and emotions to draw your attacker away from what they want to find. For now, I just want you to draw me towardsone memory, alright? This shouldn’t be unpleasant at all – I care deeply about you, and would never hurt you – but I want you to tell me if it's too unpleasant so we can try something else. In a moment, I’m going to use Legilimency on you, and try to find your first memory of entering primary school. I want you to try and redirect me to the memory of our first Christmas together. Just focus on that – are you ready?”

Harry nodded hesitantly.

“Alright, just breathe evenly now –” Tom pulled his wand from his pyjama trousers pocket and placed the tip of it against Harry’s forehead. “Legilimens.”

With little fanfare, he found himself floating in Harry’s mind, whipped around by the familiar swirl of memories that presented themselves when fully immersed by Legilimency. He floated through the melange, picking up bits and pieces, some he was familiar with, some not: Harry, six years old and squinting at a book, wondering why his eyes weren’t working like they used to; Harry, eight years old and terrified as he found himself lost down an unfamiliar street after running away from Dudley; Harry, five years old and about to enter his first day –

Harry, twelve years old and heart pounding out of his chest as Tom kissed him for the first time, not seven months prior.

Tom pulled out of his mind, beaming. “That was fantastic, Harry,” he said, cupping Harry’s cheek in his palm and kissing him in a reenactment of the memory he had just seen. “You did amazing for your first attempt.”

“No I didn’t,” Harry replied, blushing. “That wasn’t at all the memory you wanted me to lead you to.”

“No,” Tom conceded, “but I’d wager that to you it means something similar to our first Christmas, am I right? It does to me.”

Harry blushed, if possible, even deeper. “It does, yeah.”

“You see?” Tom asked, smiling. “You’re close then, do you want to try again?”

Harry nodded.

“This time, I’m going to look for the first time you managed to break out of the cupboard under the stairs. You keep trying to direct me to the Christmas memory.”

“Wait,” Harry cried, “that’s not fair! You were with me the first time I learned how to get out – you taught me.”

Tom stilled. “You remember that?”

“I didn’t until recently,” Harry said, “but I had the same dream one night this past summer. I was sure as soon as I woke up that it was a memory.”

Tom smiled. “It was,” he said. “I showed you how to do that. But the first time you broke out of the cupboard in real life – I wasn’t consciously there. I was still chasing after the light and love within your soul. I never actually saw the first time you managed to get out of the cupboard, though I dearly wish I had.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Well, it wasn’t that exciting, I just –”

“No, don’t tell me now, darling,” Tom interjected. “It’ll only make it easier for me to find. Just try to redirect me, and tell me later. Are you ready?” Harry nodded again. "Legilimens."

Tom found with satisfaction that it was harder to comb through Harry’s mind this time – all of his conscious thoughts were directed toward him. Harry wandering down Knockturn Alley at his side; Harry spending the night at Arabella’s house in Tom’s trundle bed; Harry and Tom in Ollivander’s, purchasing their wands. Tom tried to pull himself away, toward the elusive memory of Harry first breaking out of the cupboard, but found himself instead in Diagon Alley once again, tasting Harry’s first sip of Butterbeer as he wandered, overcome with joy, into the magical world for the first time, linked arm in arm with his best friend.

Tom pulled out of Harry’s mind once more.

“You did it!” he exclaimed, pulling Harry into a tight hug. “You really did – Harry, you’re amazing. It took me ages to achieve that level of Occlumency.”

“No I didn’t,” Harry argued. “I was trying to get back to the memory of the night before – when I first learned about magic. That was just luck.”

“It’s not, Harry,” Tom replied, drawing back and looking him in the eye. “Memories are all related, threaded together via thought, feeling, and proximity. You got close enough to throw most people off – that’s incredible for a beginner Occlumens. Do you want to try again? I’m sure you’ll get it soon.”

It took only two more tries for Harry to properly drag Tom into the memory he was aiming for, that moment when he had opened up the box containing a new, correctly fitted pair of shoes and had practically melted at the sight. Tom rewarded him with another kiss: long, sweet, and lingering, leaving Harry breathless as the bond between their souls flared up and danced between them.

“You’re amazing, darling,” Tom said, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “In time you’ll be able to recognise when someone is trying to invade your mind wordlessly and block them out altogether.”

“It helps that I have such an excellent teacher,” Harry replied, laughing lightly. “Can you imagine if someone like Professor McGonagall, or, Merlin forbid, Snape tried to teach me that? They’d be ruthless. Do you really think I’ll be able to keep the Dementors out, though?”

Tom hummed noncommittally. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Humans are easy, relatively speaking, because we weren’t really meant to go rifling through each other’s thoughts. Dementors, though – that’s their entire reason for being. I think it prudent to explore other methods by which we can ward them off – right now, however, you need sleep.”

Tom moved to head for his own bed, but Harry caught his hand. “No, stay,” he said, pulling the covers up over them. “You know I sleep better with you next to me.”

Tom smiled and slid down further into the bed, curling up beside Harry. As he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were of a cat, a rat, and a dog, and how he had known all three in his previous life. Then he was out, and the memory faded away once more.

Chapter 4: An Unexpected Boggart

Chapter Text

“There you three are!”

Tom, Harry, and Hermione had just stepped out of their first Ancient Runes class, Harry looking very much as though his head were spinning from the rapid introduction to the topic Professor Babbling had given them. Tom on the other hand, to say nothing of Hermione, who had reportedly been studying intensely all summer term, felt confident in his ability to relearn the subject with ease. At the moment, however, his attentions were elsewhere – just down the corridor, Pansy was racing toward them, her face streaked with tears.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she sobbed breathlessly. “It’s just terrible, you’ll never believe –”

“Pansy, slow down,” Tom commanded, taking her by the shoulders. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Draco,” she cried. “He’s in the hospital wing. One of the horrible beasts that oaf Hagrid brought to class attacked him!”

Tom’s eyes widened in alarm – he’d just known from the moment he had learned Hagrid would be teaching Care of Magical Creatures that something like this would happen. The half-giant had probably brought in that monster of his, the Acromantula he had tried to raise in a broom cupboard, and now Draco was succumbing to its deadly venom. Whatever the case, Tom didn’t need to be told twice – he took off running after Pansy, Harry and Hermione in tow.

The four of them reached the hospital wing in record time, where they could hear, even from the door, the distressed sounds of one Draco Malfoy. Tom frowned and slowed to a casual stroll – he could recognise the sound of fake pain a mile off, and Draco was particularly bad at acting.

“Draco,” he said, his voice low and chastising as he stepped up to the bed where the boy lay, his arm swathed in bandages, “do stop making that racket. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“That’s what I said.” Ron was standing on the other side of the bed, looking thoroughly unamused by the entire situation. “That Hippogriff barely touched him, and Madam Pomfrey fixed him up straightaway.”

“A Hippogriff, Draco?” Tom said incredulously, narrowing his eyes. “Really now?”

“It hurts Tom,” Draco moaned. “My arm’s never going to be the same! When my father hears about this –”

“But we have Quidditch practice!” Harry exclaimed. “If you can’t fly, we’ll never be ready to take on Gryffindor in the first match!”

“Oh, right,” Ron said, brightening considerably. “Too bad about your arm, mate. I reckon it’ll take quite a while to heal.”

Tom ignored them both. “Tell me, Draco,” he said, exasperated, “do you know essentially the only way to prompt a Hippogriff attack?”

Draco shook his head, moaning piteously.

“You insult it.” Tom explained, shaking his head in disbelief. “What on earth did you do to earn its wrath?”

“He, er – he called it a great big brute,” Ron answered. “And Hagrid did tell us to be respectful.”

“So let me get this straight,” Tom said. “You brought this entirely upon yourself and you’re still planning to go running off to daddy and tell him all about your non-existent wound to – what, exactly? Get Hagrid in trouble?”

“It’s real, I swear!” Draco insisted. “That beast deserves to suffer for it’s done!”

Tom wasn’t sure if he meant Hagrid or the Hippogriff, and quite frankly he didn’t care. Neither of them meant anything to him, but Draco was going to need to learn to stop relying upon his father to bail him out of every spot of trouble and go after his enemies for him – namely, at this age, teachers he didn’t like. Tom flicked his wand and the bandages fell away, revealing his pale, perfectly healed arm.

“Draco!” Harry admonished. “Ron was right, you were faking. You’d really put our chances at winning the Quidditch Cup at risk to get back at Hagrid for something that was your fault?”

Pansy, too, was indignant. “Draco Lucius Malfoy!” She exclaimed, marching right up to him and smacking him hard across the cheek. “Don’t you ever make me worry like that again for nothing!”

“Ow!” Draco yelped. “Pans, that hurt! I’m sorry alright? It was a dumb idea and I’m sorry! I was just upset; Longbottom somehow managed to tame the beast on his first try and he made me look stupid!”

“No,” Hermione replied, smiling slightly and rolling her eyes, “I think you managed that all on your own.”

The class everyone was looking forward to the most came the following Wednesday for the Slytherins. Despite his shabby appearance, rumours were running wild about the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s prowess. Tom in particular was looking forward to finding out more about the man – he had been introduced to them at the Welcoming Feast as Professor Lupin, and the name had rung familiar to his ears. Besides, given his and Harry’s new predicament, anyone who could defend so effectively against a Dementor was someone to keep close.

Finally, the day having arrived, Tom and his housemates found themselves whispering back and forth as Professor Lupin announced that it would be a practical lesson and led them from the classroom to the staffroom. Excitement only increased when he explained that he had tracked down and contained a Boggart. Tom smiled with confidence as Lupin explained the lesson and chose Draco to demonstrate how to defeat the creature – he remembered well from his previous life how to handle something as basic as a Boggart. They had no real power, after all, only the fear they could engender by stealing the form of another. It was a bit disturbing however, if not unexpected, when Draco answered Lupin’s question as to his greatest fear with a whispered, “my father’s disapproval.”

“Now,” said Professor Lupin, after walking Draco through a few options to deal with the Boggart. “If Draco is successful, the Boggart is likely to turn its attention to each of us in turn. I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might make it look comical.”

There was no way for Tom to make his Boggart look comical, but he could make it less disturbing. Next to him, Harry shivered and slipped his hand into Tom’s, squeezing it for strength. Tom looked down at him, wondering exactly what Harry’s greatest fear might be – Voldemort, returned to full power? Reliving the deaths of his parents? A Basilisk he could not control? There were any number of terrible events through which Harry had lived at this point, and so he could not be sure.

“Alright, Draco, if you’re ready – the rest of you, back up now, let the Boggart focus on him – I’m going to open the wardrobe. On the count of three. One – two – three – now! ”

The wardrobe opened as a jet of sparks from Lupin’s wand hit it. Out from the inky dark space climbed Lucius Malfoy, taller than his real life counterpart and with an ugly twist of malice painted across his face. He strode toward Draco, his cane hitting the floor viciously with each step.

“A Mudblood, Draco?” he hissed. “You choose to sully our name by consorting with that Granger girl? You’ll be disowned for this, you –”

“Ri – riddikulus! ” Draco choked out.

There was a crack, and suddenly Mr Malfoy was dressed head to toe in Muggle clothing – a plain white t-shirt, drab khaki trousers, and sandals paired with socks. The students, many of them surely familiar with Draco’s father, burst into laughter, and the Boggart paused, confused.

“Gregory, you next!”

Goyle stepped forward, wand ready. The Boggart turned to him, and with another crack, it morphed into a great shaggy beast that tilted its head back and howled toward the ceiling – a Werewolf. To his left, he saw Professor Lupin’s face twitch slightly before he forced himself to be still. Interesting.

“Riddikulus! ” Goyle shouted. The Werewolf disappeared, replaced by a tiny puppy with a giant pink bow around its neck, yipping happily as it stared up at all of them with big doe eyes. The class burst out into helpless laughter once more.

“Pansy!”

She stepped forward, and again the Boggart shifted – this time to an impersonation of Draco himself. Pansy shivered.

“You disgust me, Parkinson!” the Boggart version of Draco snapped. “I never want to see you again, is that clear?”

Pansy’s lip trembled. “Riddikulus!” she almost whispered. With a crack the Draco boggart was kneeling on the floor, holding a frankly ridiculously large bouquet of flowers and presenting them to her with wide eyes and a lovesick grin. The real Draco went pink as the room was filled with laughter yet again.

“It’s getting confused now,” Professor Lupin said, as the Boggart began to shift rapidly – a tall, beautiful, dark-skinned woman who looked down at Zabini in disdain as she held a newborn baby in her arms – a giant bat that dove toward Daphne Greengrass – a jungle cat that prowled around in a circle, looking dazed and unable to pick a target. “Tom – you’re up!”

He stepped forward confidently, wand raised. Professor Merrythought had held a similar class in his previous life’s fifth year, and since that day his Boggart had never changed. He took a breath to steady himself, ready to cast the charm that would make the image of his dead body appear to come back to life, and with another loud crack, the Boggart changed once more.

Tom paused. That was odd – the puddle of blood surrounding his body was new, and he had never seen it face down on the floor like that, either. He could vaguely recall various experiences with Boggarts, and it was always the same – himself, flat on his back, his eyes glossy and staring up unseeingly toward the heavens. His hand shook as he took in other details – the body was too small to be his, the hair too wild.

“So, you got me in the end anyway, Tom,” Harry croaked, pushing himself up from the floor, the blood, to meet Tom’s gaze, the light fading rapidly from his eyes. “Guess I was wrong – you turned into him after all.”

Tom gasped, a shuddering breath ripping through him. “Riddi – Riddiku –”

He couldn’t do it, frozen to the spot and staring unblinkingly as the Boggart Harry’s hand slipped in his own blood, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the floor. “I suppose you always knew it would end this way,” it said in Harry’s broken voice, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He coughed violently and more blood splattered across the flagstones. “You should have killed me when you first had the chance.”

“NO!” Tom screamed. “Riddikulus! RIDDIKULUS! It wasn’t working – there was no way to turn this nightmare scenario into something less horrible, let alone humorous. Boggart Harry dragged his dying body across the floor, staring straight into Tom’s eyes the entire time, betrayal and hatred etched across his face.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” Harry’s breathing was ragged now, blood cascading from his mouth.. “Afraid you won’t be able to finish… me… off…?”

“Tom, step back!” An arm appeared suddenly in front of him, shoving him away from the Boggart – Professor Lupin had taken his place, and suddenly Harry, bleeding out and dying, was no more. Instead, an orb floated in the sky, but Tom barely had the chance to register this before he was forcibly turned away from the sight and wrapped in a tight embrace.

“Tom, I’m here,” a voice was saying, but he barely registered it, the image of Harry, slaughtered by his own hand, still fresh in his memories. “I’m alive. I’m here.”

“Ha – Harry?” Tom whispered, his hand rising to bury itself in Harry’s locks. He was vaguely aware of the permanent dispelling of the Boggart somewhere behind him as the orb that appeared to Professor Lupin smashed onto the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces, but his attention was consumed by the boy in his arms, blessedly not dying on the floor in front of him.

“Yes, Tom, it’s okay,” Harry murmured into his ear. “It wasn’t real, I’m still here.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Tom whisper-hissed in reply.

“Don’t you dare say that.”

“Right,” Professor Lupin was saying shakily. “I didn’t expect to have this conversation with anyone younger than my sixth year classes, but everyone please take a seat.” Tom glanced up blankly and saw that the mismatched chairs in the staffroom had been drawn into a semi-circle, with a seat for their Professor at the front. He floated, only half aware as Harry tugged him toward a chaise longue and sat down, his chin coming to rest on Tom’s shoulder as he pulled him down into his lap and tightened his embrace as if to assure him further that he still lived.

There was a long moment of silence as the rest of the class found their seats, averting their eyes from the two of them. Finally, Professor Lupin cleared his throat.

“So, like I said, I didn’t expect to have this discussion today,” Lupin stated. “Most people, especially when we’re younger, have a pretty solid idea of what their worst fears might be. We know them from our nightmares, from the stories we are told that terrify us the most. However, as we grow and experience more of life, our fears shift and change, often to the point that we no longer recognise in the moment what scares us the most. Does anyone know why that may be?”

Pansy raised her hand tentatively, and Professor Lupin nodded.

“Because – because we still fear what we used to, and don’t realise that there’s something even worse? I mean, I was sure at first that my Boggart was going to be an out of control fire, but then I thought of… well… that, and when I faced it, that’s what it turned into.” She blushed furiously and looked away.

“Exactly right,” Professor Lupin said. “Five points to Slytherin. So too did Tom, I’m certain, believe he was going to face something else – I’m sure you all noticed his confidence when he first approached the Boggart. It was only when it became something more horrible than he initially imagined – and I apologise, Tom, for not intervening sooner – that he found himself unable to dispel it.”

“But why did it turn into Harry?” Nott asked. “Tom’s saved Harry’s life twice now, why would his Boggart be… Harry blaming him for his death?”

Lupin thought for a moment, his hand running through his hair. “I think,” he said finally, “that for the answer to that, you would have to ask Tom himself. However – and forgive me for speculating – I would posit that the depths of his feelings for Harry are such that his greatest fear might be finding himself unable to save him, because he was the one to raise his wand against him in the first place. It’s not unusual, in fact, for a Boggart to take the form of betrayal, the worst fear for many of us.

“Now,” he said with finality, “I believe that’s a good place to leave this lesson. Five points to everyone who faced the Boggart, and for homework, kindly read the chapter on Boggarts and summarise it for me. The rest of you are dismissed – Harry, Tom, please remain behind.”

The rest of the class filed out of the staff room, some of them glancing behind as they left. Once the final student had closed the door behind them, Professor Lupin cleared his throat again.

“So, are the two of you alright?”

Tom, still feeling weak and curled up against Harry’s chest, nodded vaguely.

“I’m fairly certain you’re not, actually,” Lupin said. “But I’m glad to see that you’re cogent enough to make the effort to placate me.” He sighed deeply. “I’m afraid that your Boggart deeply disturbed me, Tom – to the point that I also found myself paralysed for a moment. Again, I am very sorry for this – I left you in a moment of what I can only imagine was extreme terror. But despite what I told the class, such a Boggart is… extremely rare.”

“So… you lied?” Harry demanded. “Betrayal isn’t a common fear?”

“Betrayal by another, yes,” Lupin answered. “Betrayal by one’s own self toward someone one cares for is… another matter. It isn’t exactly typical to believe oneself capable of such a thing.”

“Tom,” Harry hissed, almost inaudibly, against his ear, “do you mind if I tell him? About your father – your false father, I mean?”

Tom shook his head weakly. “No Harry, that’s fine,” he mumbled. “It makes sense, I suppose.”

“Professor,” Harry said hesitantly, “has Dumbledore told you anything about Tom? About him and me?”

“No,” Lupin replied. “In fact, I was surprised to hear from your classmate that he’s saved your life, apparently on multiple occasions now.”

“It’s sort of a mutual thing,” Harry said. “The rest of the school doesn’t know it, but first year our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was being controlled by Voldemort. He kidnapped me, and then I stopped Voldemort from possessing Tom when he came to find me.”

“I… see,” Lupin said faintly. “I was informed of his attempt on your lives, but I was not made aware of the details.”

“And then there was last year,” Harry continued, “well, you probably heard about the Chamber of Secrets. Tom saved me from the Basilisk when we went in to find Ginny Weasley. But I…” Harry trailed off, and Tom understood why – the fact that Harry had dragged him back from the brink as he had reabsorbed a piece of his soul was unknown to anyone but themselves.

“You protected him as well, I gather.”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “But, Professor, the thing is… Tom, are you sure you want me to explain?”

Tom struggled up and into a proper sitting position and slid out of Harry’s lap so that his back sat straight against the cushions of the chaise. “I can tell him.” His own voice sounded dead as it poured from his throat. “It’s Voldemort, sir. He’s my father.”

Tom cringed as Lupin drew back slightly. He couldn’t blame the man, really. He had once thought it funny, a way to terrify those around him who would recognise the Dark Lord’s features in his face, but as he had grown and found himself wanting to forge his own identity, his inescapable connections to Voldemort had become more of a burden than a boon.

Professor Lupin apparently noticed his sudden discomfort. “I’m sorry for my reaction to your confession, Tom,” he replied. “I… wasn’t aware Lord Voldemort had fathered a child, let alone one attending my class. It’s no excuse, however, as you are obviously not responsible for your father’s actions. This does possibly explain your fear, however – most people are afraid of repeating their parents’ mistakes, and there are many terrible acts Voldemort committed which you must be afraid of repeating, harming Harry not least among them.”

Tom’s eyes shut tightly, almost painfully, his hand reaching for Harry’s and curling around it. “Yes,” he hissed, “I am.”

“Tom, that was Parseltongue,” Harry said. “Sorry, Professor – Tom said he agrees with you.”

“You can understand it?!”

“I can speak it, too,” Harry said. “Dumbledore told me Voldemort left some of his powers in me when he tried to kill me, so yeah – Tom and I can both talk to snakes.”

“The bond the two of you have…” Tom opened his eyes and looked up at Professor Lupin, who was now looking down at the both of them in admiration. “One might consider it to defy all logic, given how at odds your respective parents were. However… well, I’m gratified that you felt comfortable sharing all of this with me.”

“Of course, Professor,” Harry said. “I knew we could trust you — I mean, you were friends with my father, right?”

Lupin stared at him for a moment. “... I was. How did you…?”

“Tom’s aunt told us — my father had three closest friends - Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and, well, Sirius Black.” Ah, so that was why Lupin’s name seemed familiar — he had heard it in this life, not the previous one. “I was surprised when Professor Dumbledore announced your name at the Feast, but I’m pleased to meet you.”

“And I you, Harry,” Lupin replied. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, as has your friend. It’s good you have each other. Lily and James would be proud if they could see you now.”

“See Tom?” Harry whispered. “You do deserve me – even Professor Lupin agrees.”

Chapter 5: Padfoot

Chapter Text

"Potter."

Harry hovered in the doorway of Professor Snape's office, fingers playing with the sleeve of his robes as he debated whether to enter or turn tail and run. He had been here twice before, of course, but both times were with Tom, and the thought of being alone with Snape... Well, he had never been outright cruel to him, but Harry had always had the distinct impression that the man didn't exactly like him very much.

"Come in," Snape said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

Harry walked slowly to the offered chair, sitting down gingerly, as though the seat might rear up and bite him. He tried to avoid Professor Snape's searing gaze, feeling as though he could stare right through him – in fact, going by what Tom had been teaching him in the evenings after classes and homework were done, there was a good chance he could. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"I did." Snape replied. "As you are no doubt aware, the first Hogsmeade trip of the term is scheduled for this weekend. Unfortunately, as I have reviewed the permission slips to ensure that everything is in order, I have discovered that yours is... inadequate."

"What?" Harry gasped. He had been waiting weeks now in breathless anticipation to visit the small village, the promise of a cool October day spent with Tom and their closest friends sometimes the only thing getting him through the seemingly endless hours in class. "But – but I had –"

"It seems that your form was signed by one Arabella Figg," Snape said. "As fond as I'm sure she is of you, she is hardly your legal guardian, therefore she cannot grant permission for you to attend the trip."

"But I don't have a legal guardian!" Harry exclaimed. "What – am I just supposed to never go to Hogsmeade?"

"When you've turned seventeen and reached your majority, you may do however you please," Snape smirked, the corner of his mouth twisting nastily. "Until then, I must insist you defer to the wisdom of your elders when it comes to the choices made to ensure your safety."

"But – but – but that's not fair!" Harry shouted. "Everyone else is going. Just because I don't have parents –"

"You will find, Mr Potter," Snape rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, "that there is very little in life that is fair. Or perhaps you have such little disregard for your own person that you would like to bend the rules that ensure you are kept out of danger!"

"Danger?" Harry demanded, a suspicion beginning to form. "This isn't about my permission form, is it? This is about Sirius Black!"

“Of course this is about Sirius Black!” Snape thundered. “Any other year, Potter, and I might have made an exception. But there is a madman out there, a very dangerous supporter of the Dark Lord, who is hell bent on killing you! Do you know why the Dark Lord chose to kill you?”

Harry shook his head – this had been one thing he avoided asking of Tom, anything to do with the night his parents were murdered and he was given his scar and the tiny piece of Voldemort’s soul that had come to be, unexpectedly, his greatest treasure. He knew, instinctively at first, and then for certain after the events on the train, how much it upset Tom, that the night of his creation had also been the night he had, in a way, tried to kill Harry. Despite it being the one thing he wanted to understand most about Voldemort, therefore, he had held off on broaching the topic.

“A prophecy, Potter,” Snape continued. “I understand you chose not to take Divination, but your work in Arithmancy has undoubtedly shown you that there are ways of predicting the future. True prophecy is another such method. On a cold night, many months before you were born, a prophecy was made regarding the Dark Lord – and you.”

Professor Snape cleared his throat. “‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord Approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…’ This prophecy – or rather, this small portion of it – was overheard and brought to the Dark Lord by – by one of his followers, and he interpreted it to mean you . You and I are both very well aware that he lives on, and so long as he recalls the prophecy, he will stop at nothing to kill you – Sirius Black, his most loyal follower, entrenched so deeply as a spy that not even those closest to the Dark Lord were aware, will stop at nothing to kill you. That is why it is not safe for you to leave Hogwarts grounds, not even for a day in Hogsmeade.”

None of it was true, Harry knew – well, maybe the prophecy, and maybe Voldemort wanting to kill him – but Sirius Black wasn’t a spy. Unfortunately, as this knowledge had come from Tom’s memories from his previous life as Voldemort, he couldn’t tell Snape that. “What if I had a chaperone?” he asked instead, desperate not to miss the day he had planned out meticulously with Tom and their friends.

Snape scoffed. “Potter, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Sirius Black took out an entire city block when he killed your parents’ friend, Peter Pettigrew. Salazar help us if he’s managed to secure a wand. No, Mr Potter, when Sirius Black is apprehended – and I promise you, he will be – then you may attend Hogsmeade trips. Not a day sooner.”

Harry scowled and stood, pushing his chair back roughly against the stone floor. Quite aware that he hadn’t been dismissed, he stalked out of Snape’s office, seething with frustration and unwilling to be in the man’s presence for even a moment longer.

Tom and Ron were waiting for him in the corridor, and followed as he swept past them, not trusting himself to not explode angrily all over his best friend and boyfriend. Tom, of course, remained silent, understanding Harry’s moods as easily as he did his own and intuiting that Harry needed time to simmer down. Ron however, did not.

“Mate, what is it?” he asked, coming up by Harry’s side. “What happened? What’s the greasy old bat done now?”

“Hogsmeade is cancelled,” Harry snapped, “and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What?” Ron yelped. “But, all our plans – has Sirius Black been spotted nearby or something?”

“Oh, it’s not cancelled for you,” Harry seethed. “Just me. Apparently my permission form isn’t good enough.”

“But that’s – that’s not fair!” Ron sputtered. “I’ll bet half our year forged their parents' signatures when Black escaped Azkaban, it’s not fair that you don’t get to go, not when you actually got Mrs Figg to sign it!”

“No,” Tom said quietly, slipping his hand into Harry’s. “It’s not.”

Harry sighed, his anger ebbing away as the warmth of his bond with Tom sparked between them. “Look,” he said, “you lot go on without me. You shouldn’t have to be miserable too, just – just bring me back something from Honeydukes.”

“If – if you’re sure,” Ron replied.

“I am.”

“I’m not going,” Tom said, squeezing his hand. “Hogsmeade would be rubbish without you there. I’m staying here with you instead.”

“I’ve got it,” Ron said, his eyes flashing with inspiration. “Let me ask Fred and George if they know a way down to the village – they somehow know all the best secret passages around the castle, I’m sure they’d be happy to help.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, with a flicker of hope. “Well, let me know, I suppose.”

With the promise of a Hogsmeade weekend gone, the days trudged by slowly, not even lightened by the rigorous joys of Quidditch practice nor the feeling of triumph when Harry managed to translate an entire set of runes without having to consult his textbook. Everything had taken on a sort of hollow quality, the knowledge that he was being kept away from something that should have been a sort of rite of passage for him settling into his brain. And so it was also when Hallowe’en finally rolled around, Harry watching, even more morose than usual, from the courtyard just outside the entrance to Hogwarts, Tom at his side as the rest of the third years strolled down the lawn and toward the gates, eager and bubbly with the anticipation of freedom.

“Psst!”

“Tom! Harry!”

The two of them turned to see Ron’s older twin brothers, Fred and George, strolling toward them, mischief gleaming in their eyes. “Walk with us, boys.”

Harry and Tom followed, Harry a bit bewildered. Had Ron convinced them to smuggle the two of them out of the castle and down to Hogsmeade? If so, why had they waited until the last minute to let them know? Instead of down a secret passage, however, the twins led them into an empty classroom.

“Ron let us in on your predicament, Harry,” one of the twins said – George, he thought.

“It’s a shame, really,” Fred said, “how little thought that crotchety old Head of House of yours gives to the rights of students –”

“The right to a sunny afternoon of freedom –”

“The right to a little bit of playful misconduct –”

“So we thought, why not?” George said, smiling slyly. “Why not pass down the secret to our success to the upcoming generation of troublemakers?”

“Almost breaks my heart, giving it away,” Fred continued, pulling what for all the world seemed to be nothing more than a large piece of blank parchment from beneath his robes. “But it’s yours now, Harry, we decided last night. Make sure to use it well.”

“Er – I’m not sure I understand,” Harry said, taking the parchment and studying it as he spread it out carefully in his hands. “What is it?”

“What is it indeed, Harry?” George said. “Care to explain, Fred?”

“Well, we were just first years when we came across it –”

“– nicked it, really –”

“– just sitting, unused and unappreciated in Filch’s office. Took us a bit of time to figure out how to work it – not to mention a few good rounds of insults flung at us, but in the end, well..”

“Well, it’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.” George finished.

Harry snorted. “You’re having us on, aren’t you?” he asked. “What are we supposed to do with a bit of old parchment?”

Fred smiled mysteriously. “Watch and learn, Harry.” He drew his wand and touched it to the middle of the parchment with the words, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Harry watched in amazement as a burst of ink grew from the spot where Fred’s wand was placed, spreading across the parchment and tracing out long corridors, spacious rooms, doorways both open and closed, and windows. It was Hogwarts, detailed down to the smallest broom cupboard, with tiny ink spots moving across it, labelled with the names of each person still in the castle. As Harry marvelled at this, staring at his own name standing still in the first floor classroom he currently occupied, glossy green letters began to bloom across the top of the map unfolding before him.

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

Are proud to present

THE MARAUDER’S MAP

Tom’s hand seized around his wrist. “Harry,” he hissed urgently. “I’ve just remembered something. Something important.”

“What is it, Tom?”

“Not here.” Tom replied. “I’ll tell you when we’re alone.”

“Ah, our two little snake charmers,” Fred said, dabbing the edge of his sleeve at a fake tear. “Already planning their first misadventures with the map.”

“Right you are, Fred,” George answered. “Now, these passages lead into Hogsmeade.” He pointed them out. “Filch knows about these four, and this one’s caved in. This one is, for some unknown reason, planted under the Whomping Willow – are you familiar?”

Harry and Tom both shook their heads.

“Good,” Fred said. “Don’t get familiar – it’ll take your heads off.”

“But here –” George pointed. “Not far from this room, actually, there’s a passage that will take you straight into the cellar of Honeydukes. Just don’t forget to wipe the map when you’re done –”

“– or anyone can read it. Just tap the map and say, ‘Mischief Managed,’ and it will go blank.” Fred finished.

“So behave yourselves, you two,” George said, drawing himself up imperiously. “Don’t let us catch you getting into trouble, now.”

“And we’ll see you in Honeydukes,” Fred winked.

“Er – thank you!” Harry shouted back, as Tom dragged him from the room and down the corridor. “Tom, where are we going? The passage George showed us was that way.”

“Hogsmeade can wait, Harry,” Tom replied. “We need to talk – everything’s changed.”

Harry found himself being led onto the lawn outside and toward the forbidden forest, Tom only stopping once they were isolated within a copse of trees. Harry bent over his knees, catching his breath – flying was one thing, running halfway across the Hogwarts grounds unexpectedly was another, to say nothing of the fact that Tom, having hit another growth spurt over the summer, had a good five inches on him now.

“Alright Tom,” he said, his ribs clenching painfully, “what is it you wanted to tell me?”

“It’s about your parents, Harry,” Tom said, staring blankly into the distance. “I remember now who betrayed them.”

Padfoot sniffed along the edge of the forbidden forest, following the strong scent of rabbit musk; there was a den nearby, and a den meant another dinner, if he were lucky. If not, well, he had at least grown fat enough on the rich scraps his godson had provided him over the summer to not have to worry about starving to death as winter slowly began to set in. If worse came to worse, he could always seek out Harry on the school grounds and whine for a meal, but he didn’t relish the idea of continuing to depend on his godson – his godson, who should have been in his care, not the other way round – for sustenance.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” Harry’s voice floated through the air, issued at some distance, making Padfoot’s ears perk up at the sound. Odd – he’d watched the majority of the Hogwarts’ student body making their way down to Hogsmeade not but a half hour ago, and yet Harry, apparently, hadn’t been with them. Torn between the alluring scent of the rabbits’ den and Harry’s voice, he hesitated – go and visit his godson, or track down a much-needed meal?

“It’s about your parents, Harry – I remember now who betrayed them.” Sirius froze. That was Tom’s voice, the boy he had slowly come to accept as Harry’s childhood sweetheart until he had, bizarrely, referenced some strange familiarity with the half-kneazle Lily and James had once kept, as though he had been there the night Voldemort had killed them. The decision made, he turned away from his hunt and raced across Hogwarts’ lawn towards the circle of elm trees from which he had heard their voices issuing.

“Oh, Bear!” Harry exclaimed as Padfoot burst through the trees. “I haven’t seen you in ages, are you doing alright?” He couldn’t bring himself to deny his godson’s care for him, pushing his nose into Harry’s hand. “You’re looking well – lots of rabbits to chase?”

Padfoot barked happily.

“Harry,” Tom interrupted, to Padfoot’s chagrin, “come sit next to me, I’ll tell you.” That’s right – he had to stay focused now – the boy had said something about knowing who betrayed the Potters. No – remembering – just as he had, apparently, remembered Crookshanks. But how could a mere child, let alone one who had surely never met Harry as a baby – Padfoot would know – remember such a thing? He whined as he made his way to lay his head in Harry’s lap before he noticed –

The Marauder’s Map!

He could have danced, seeing his godson holding the legacy that was always meant to be passed down to him. How he came by it, Padfoot couldn’t fathom, but he had it now, that amazing, clever boy. By some miracle, he overcame his joy and managed to curl up quietly next to Harry’s knee, watching the two boys look over the map.

“It’s Wormtail,” Tom said. “I didn’t remember until I saw his name on the map.”

Padfoot repressed a growl at the name.

“Wormtail?” Harry asked, aghast. “You mean – this map was made by Voldemort’s followers?!”

“No,” Tom replied. “I don’t think so. I would remember these other names if it were. It was probably made in his days at Hogwarts, when he was still friends with your parents… that other boy – Peter Pettigrew, if I’m right? He was the one, I believe.” Tom’s nose scrunched up in something like disgust or disdain. “I remember now, how he grovelled before Voldemort, giving up your hiding place in hopes of power.”

“But… why use the name ‘Wormtail?’” Harry asked. “I understand using an alias, but… Wormtail? Really?”

“It was chosen because he could turn into a rat,” Tom said slowly. Alright, there was definitely something wrong with the boy, no one should know that. “Pettigrew was an Animagus – they all were, save for one, I believe. It came rushing back the moment I saw his alias, connecting a set of things that have been bothering me but I didn’t consider related until now. Ron’s rat on the train in first year – the names of your parents’ friends – Professor Lupin’s Boggart.”

“Wait, Scabbers is – and my dad, he was an Animagus too? And these names –”

“Yes, Harry,” Tom replied. “Unless I’m missing something, your father and his friends created the Marauder’s Map. I remember with distinct, unpleasant clarity the glee that Voldemort felt as Wormtail warned him that James Potter had a rather impressive Animagus form, one that could be used to fight back.”

The fur raised around Padfoot’s hackles and he suppressed a growl. That was what he’d been fearing – a direct confirmation that the boy had access to Voldemort’s memories, which could only mean… But what was he to do, especially in this form? He had to get his godson away from the monster, this Voldemort reborn somehow as a child the same age – but Harry appeared unfazed by this revelation, excited even. If he attacked now, Harry would never understand…

“What was it?” Harry breathed, staring at the top of the map. “Which one of them was he?”

Child-Voldemort pursed his lips, apparently thinking hard. “I’m not sure,” he finally admitted. “This is so infuriating! Why is it that, whenever I finally remember things in detail, it’s always something horrible instead of something that would make you happy?”

“That’s alright, Tom,” Harry replied, leaning against the monster’s shoulder and making Padfoot twitch with barely suppressed rage and terror. “I wouldn’t even have known he was an Animagus if not for you. And maybe we can narrow it down – we know who Wormtail was, and that the other three are my father, my godfather, and Professor Lupin.”

Padfoot watched warily as the monster leaned forward and traced the names at the top of the map. “Moony… that has to be Professor Lupin – not an Animagus, but a Werewolf.”

“What?” Harry yelped.

“I’ve suspected for a few weeks now,” child-Voldemort replied. “After I had time to… recover from my own Boggart, I recalled that his was an orb – the full moon, which would force his transformation – and his reaction, just the barest hint of distress, to Goyle’s, which was a Werewolf.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Harry marvelled.

“You’ll get better at picking up on small details like these once I begin teaching you Legilimency,” the boy shrugged. “You have to master Occlumency first, however.”

The mind arts? Was that what Voldemort was doing with his godson, attempting to circumvent the prophecy by making another Dark Lord out of him?

“Alright,” Harry replied. “In any case, that just leaves these two.”

“Padfoot and Prongs,” the monster confirmed, his eyes narrowing as they lingered over the pair of names at the top of the map and then slowly slid to stare directly at him. “Padfoot… you’re not actually a dog at all, are you?”

Padfoot’s transformation back into Sirius was so abrupt it had the boys scrabbling back in the grass, staining their robes with green. “And you’re not a thirteen-year-old boy!” he growled, something of the dog still in his voice.

“Yes I am,” the monster said defensively, just as Harry exclaimed, “Bear – you’re Sirius Black?!”

“Get back, Harry!” Sirius roared, whipping the wand he had nicked from Ollivander’s from the pocket of his tattered robes and pointing it straight at the other boy’s face. “You, give me one good reason I shouldn’t drag you straight into Dumbledore’s office and force you to explain exactly who you are!”

“Don’t you dare!” Harry cried indignantly, wrapping his arms around the farce of a teenage boy next to him.

“It’s alright darling,” Voldemort said, and Sirius spat on the ground in disgust at the term of endearment. “I’ll give you three,” he continued, looking Sirius dead in the eye. “One: you’ll almost certainly be taken into custody before you have a chance to voice your suspicions to Dumbledore. Two: if you are successful, I won’t be able to help you capture Wormtail and clear your name.”

“And why in Merlin’s name would you do that? ”

“Because of reason number three,” the monster shrugged. “Despite what conclusions you must have made after observing us for months while we spoke, in retrospect, far too candidly around you, I’m not Voldemort. And also, as much as I enjoy Harry spending his summer with myself and my aunt, he needs something we cannot provide – family.”

“Tom,” Harry interrupted, “you are my family.”

“Do you really mean that, darling?” The monster turned to look at Harry with such blatant and all-encompassing fondness that Sirius felt his wand arm lower slightly. Voldemort didn’t do “fond.” He had met the man in battle after all – Voldemort did “cruel” and “callous.” “Possessive,” maybe, but never “fond.” Sirius didn’t think he knew the meaning of the word, but this boy, who had his memories and was, apparently, a Legilimens, obviously did.

Harry nodded fiercely.

“A – alright,” Sirius said gruffly, still holding his wand mostly level with the boy’s face. “If you’re not Voldemort, who – what are you?”

The question prompted the boys to launch into a rapid-fire conversation held entirely in Parseltongue, Harry gesturing wildly with his hands – just like his mother had used to – while Tom, or whoever he was, remained calm and subdued, even eloquent, perhaps, if Sirius were able to understand him. Finally, it seemed that Tom won the argument, and they stood, Harry frowning and Tom holding out his hand in front of him.

“Sirius Black,” he intoned, his eyes sharp and voice deadly serious, “will you make the Unbreakable Vow?”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed as he stared at the hand offered him. “Why would I possibly agree to bind myself to you in such a manner?” He hissed.

“Because,” Tom replied, “I am going to make a similar Vow to you – one never to harm Harry. As you are his legal guardian, I need you to be able to trust me – and this is the surest way to achieve this.”

“I don’t like this,” Harry grumbled. “I don’t want either of you to die if you accidentally break it.”

“Harry, I would never make a promise I could not uphold,” Tom insisted. “Besides, you know I could never hurt you – I cherish you far too deeply to even think of such a possibility.”

“But you could, accidentally!” Harry argued. “You could come around the corner too fast and crash into me, or, I don’t know, say something that hurts my feelings. How broadly would the Vow interpret what it means to harm me? Would it consider playing Exploding Snap to be you hurting me? And you might need to attack me – what if, say, Voldemort were to possess me like he did Ginny, and you need to stun me to stop me doing something horrible?”

“Harry, your imagination is far too active sometimes.” Tom frowned. “However, given the frankly alarming rate at which we seem to encounter the Dark Lord, I suppose it is within the realm of possibility. Alright, a modified Vow then – I will promise never to intentionally or maliciously harm you unless it is in pursuance of self-defence or that of another. As for Sirius – his Vow will be simple: all I will request is that he never reveal the true nature of my existence to any other without my permission.”

Sirius mulled all this over – he didn’t trust this boy as far as he could throw him, and after twelve years in Azkaban, that probably wasn’t very far. However, he was making an open offer to render his life forfeit should he ever seek to hurt Harry, and being unable to share his secrets was a small price to pay to ensure his godson’s safety. “Alright,” he finally said, pocketing his wand and stepping forward to take Tom’s outstretched hand in his own. “I will make the Unbreakable Vow.”

“Excellent.” Tom’s mouth stretched into a wide smile that did not quite meet his eyes, and Sirius repressed a shudder – while it wasn’t quite the vicious, predatory grin he had seen on Voldemort’s face from across the battlefield as the man used his impressive magical prowess to destroy the minds and bodies of his enemies, it was reminiscently calculating and cold enough to awaken the shadow of that memory. “Harry, darling, will you be our Bonder?”

Harry none too happily retrieved his wand from his pocket. “How do I…?”

“Just place the tip of your wand here,” Tom replied, indicating where their hands were joined, and Harry did. “Perfect. Our magic will do the rest. Now then…” He looked up at Sirius, who had to suppress another shiver at the wine-dark eyes, so deep one could drown in them. “Will you, Sirius Black, keep the secret Harry and I are about to share with you, the true nature of my existence, and never share it with another soul without my explicit permission?”

“I will.”

Harry gasped as a red hot tongue of flame shot from his wand and stretched itself thin, winding around their clasped hands and settling against their skin.

“Capital,” Tom replied, smiling lightly. “Now you.”

“Will you, Voldemort –"

“No, no, that won’t work,” Tom snapped. “I’ve already told you, I’m not him. I can’t take the Vow under a name I do not go by, and quite frankly despise. I’m Tom Marvolo Riddle – the Second, to be specific.”

“Fine,” Sirius seethed, his teeth tightly gritted. “Will you, Tom Marvolo Riddle II, promise never to harm Harry with malicious intent, save for should you need to in self-defence or defence of another?”

“I will.” Sirius’ eyebrows shot up in surprise as another tongue of flame issued from Harry’s wand and joined the first to wrap around their hands – he’d been preparing for the boy to demand an alteration to the terms, a loophole he could exploit. Instead, the Vow confirmed, the flames sank into their skin, leaving behind two telltale silvery lines of their promises to each other, visible only on close examination.

Harry lifted his wand as Tom broke off contact and examined his own hand closely, tracing the lines that ran down the back of his hand and onto his wrist. “There,” he finally said, a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice. “Now my Boggart can never come true.”

Sirius didn’t take the time to ponder what this odd statement might mean, but instead whipped his wand back out of his pocket to point it at the face of the child who insisted he wasn’t Voldemort but who most certainly could be no one else. “Talk.” he barked. “ Now. ”

A curious expression came over the boy’s face. “Certainly,” he replied. “Why don’t you take a seat? It’s not a terribly long story, but it is difficult to explain and I anticipate you’ll have many questions.”

Sirius glowered at him but did so, crossing his legs as he settled in the soft grass but never letting his wand drop from where it was trained on Tom’s face. The two boys followed suit, Harry staring at the long branch of borrowed blackthorn in Sirius’ hand.

“You know,” he said quietly, “godfather or no, if you hurt Tom I’ll never forgive you.”

Sirius winced at the sight of his godson’s wide, sad eyes and lowered his wand slowly. “Harry,” he argued, “this boy has Voldemort’s memories. How can you be okay with that? What am I supposed to think of that?”

“Just give him a chance, alright?” Harry replied. “I was in the same place you were just a few months ago. I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not Voldemort, he’s really not.”

“Harry!” Sirius pleaded. “He remembers the night he murdered your parents!”

“That’s not a bad place to start, actually.” Sirius’ eyes snapped toward the other boy, who was lounging on the grass next to Harry now, one arm tucked around him. “Murder, I mean. Tell me, Mr Black — or is it Lord?”

“Sirius is fine,” he snapped. “And get your hands off my godson.” To his dismay, Harry frowned at this and just shifted closer to Tom.

Tom grinned widely. “Tell me then, Sirius, what do you know of murder’s effects on the soul?”

“The soul? Of the murderer or the victim?” Tom scoffed. “The murderer then – I should have known.”

“Tom,” Harry cautioned, “we’re supposed to be proving to my godfather that you’re not Voldemort, not convincing him that you have no regard for the sanctity of human life. You’re not doing a very good job of that.”

“Sorry Harry,” Tom sighed. “Old habits die hard. Yes, I mean the soul of the murderer – the victim’s is fine, of course, still pure and unsullied. Not so for the murderer.”

“No,” Sirius agreed. “Murder damages the soul. It tears it apart, piece by piece.”

“So you can imagine the state of Voldemort’s soul when he arrived, that final night, at Godric’s Hollow,” Tom remarked.

“Rather like shredded beef, probably.”

Tom scrunched up his nose. “More like a quartz crystal ball, taken and smashed against the floor again and again, shards flying off each time but with nowhere to go. When Voldemort tried to murder Harry and his body was destroyed, one final piece flew off – and landed in Harry.”

Sirius looked between the two boys as though waiting for one of them to yell, “April fool!” horror pooling in his gut. Harry and Tom’s faces were deadly serious, however, and as he stared, he felt he could almost see the unspoken bond that existed between them. “Then – but that means – you’re a piece of Voldemort’s soul?!”

“I was,” Tom corrected. “I suppose I technically still am, but the centaur said I was ‘something new.’ Like I told Harry at the end of last year, I myself don’t really understand what I am now.”

“I don’t understand either,” Sirius scoffed, not feeling mollified at all. “How is any of this supposed to convince me you aren’t Voldemort? You’re a piece of his soul somehow come to life – and I’m really not sure I want to even know what you must’ve had to do to Harry to achieve that! You have his memories, for god’s sake – even if you do look like a teenager!”

“Only a few of them,” Tom argued. “And I am a teenager. You don’t understand – Voldemort never had the chance to spend years washing away a lifetime of pain and the worst of his dark impulses while basking in Harry’s love and warmth. I did, and it was so pure I came back to life. Do you have any idea how incredible your godson is? He’s so selfless, and forgiving, and kind. He’s so full of love for everyone around him that I would normally be jealous, but I just can’t, because I –” Tom stopped to scrub furiously at his cheek, and Sirius realised with a jolt that the boy was crying. “I hate this,” he muttered. “I hate that I can do this now. Salazar’s stave, I never asked the universe for the ability to cry.”

“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” Harry said, handing him a handkerchief. “It just means you’re human.”

“I know,” Tom snipped. “Logically, I know that. But I’m not used to it and I can’t control it and it keeps on happening. Do you know the last time I cried, Harry? It was last week watching you at Quidditch practice and you just looked so beautiful soaring around on your broom that I couldn’t help it. I don’t understand it at all.”

Sirius snorted despite himself. “You really are a teenager, aren’t you?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Tom sniffled, exasperated and waving one hand in the air. “Look, I don’t want to be Voldemort, and I don’t want to hurt Harry – and you’ve just given me a very convenient guarantee that I won’t, not ever. If you want something to worry about, then you should know that the real Lord Voldemort – the soul I came from – is still out there, floating around and untethered, and very, very intent on killing the both of us. Or, well – stealing my body in my case, but it amounts to the same thing in the end. I fully mean to prevent either of these things happening, but the truth is that at this point, he’s far more powerful than I am, and now that you know, you can help keep Harry safe.”

Sirius shivered, for once on the boy’s behalf and not because of him. “How do you know this?”

“He attacked us at the end of first year,” Harry replied, taking his handkerchief back from Tom and tucking it into his breast pocket. “We held him off long enough for Professor Dumbledore to step in, but only just. He’ll definitely come back for a second try at some point.”

Sirius sat very still for a long moment, taking all of this information in. “Alright,” he finally said, his voice shaky. “You’re not Voldemort, obviously – for one thing, the man would never have spoken of love as something positive. I guess I just have one question, then.” His eyes narrowed in disapproval as he gestured between the two of them. “How long has this been going on, exactly?”

Harry’s eyes went wide with alarm and his arms slid around Tom possessively as he, no doubt, picked up on Sirius’ tone. “No,” he said fiercely, clinging to the taller boy. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t care if you’re my legal guardian, I’m not breaking up with him – Tom was here first.”

Sirius bit back a hollow laugh – Merlin’s beard, no one had ever prepared him to raise a teenager.

Chapter 6: Freedom Plans and Foul Play

Chapter Text

“So – Wormtail, then,” Harry mused. “Tom, did you really mean that Ron’s rat – Scabbers – is Peter Pettigrew in disguise?”

The conversation had gone on long into the afternoon, and the shadows of the trees sheltering them from the outside world were growing longer in the slowly fading sunlight. Sirius Black was growing antsy, his fingers tapping rapidly against his knee, and Tom also was itching to get back to the castle, the Hallowe’en Feast awaiting them.

“Yes Harry, I’m sure of it,” he replied. “I knew I recognised him from the moment he bit Goyle on the knuckle, but I couldn’t place how. It wasn’t until I saw his name written out on the Marauder’s Map that Voldemort’s memory came back. He witnessed him transform – I would know that rat anywhere.”

“As would I,” Sirius said darkly. “It’s why I finally decided to leave Azkaban. That big family – the Weasleys, I think? – they were photographed for the Daily Prophet. The Minister was carrying a copy when he visited Azkaban, gave it to me when I asked. It’s how I knew Peter was back at Hogwarts. He was sitting on the shoulder of one of the boys – Ron, I suppose.”

“You mean their vacation photo?” Harry asked, incredulous. “They put that in the Daily Prophet? That’s why you broke out of Azkaban?”

“Don’t misunderstand, Harry” Sirius replied, reaching out hesitantly for Harry’s hand. “I would’ve broken out years before and taken you away, but that would have meant a life on the run for you. No Hogwarts, no friends – well, I suppose now that Tom might’ve shown up at some point. Either way, I contented myself for ages, believing you were living a better life – until, of course, I learned over the summer that you had been sent to your mother’s sister. I’ll never understand why Albus thought she would be an adequate guardian for you – that girl hated magic the moment she realised she could never have it.”

“No, I understand,” Harry said, placing one hand in Sirius' and twisting the edge of his sleeve between the fingers of his other, “but why break out just to take revenge on Wormtail? Couldn’t you have sent word that he was still alive, or contact your solicitors, or –”

“Harry,” Tom interrupted, gazing into his eyes, that annoying sensation that tasted like guilt welling up within him, “Sirius almost certainly didn’t have those options. My fault.”

“I didn’t,” Sirius confirmed. “And… no, not your fault. I think. This is all very strange, but as it took place after you split off from Voldemort, I suppose I can’t blame you.”

“No,” Tom said bitterly. “The actions Voldemort took that led you to being imprisoned without a fair trial took place long before I became my own person. I am complicit in them, and so, in a way, it is my fault.”

“Stop that,” Sirius demanded. “You’re just a kid. Do you even remember the atrocities Voldemort committed that led to his followers – not to mention me – being sent to Azkaban without a trial?”

“...Bits and pieces,” Tom admitted. “Not much, though. I used to remember more, but… Most of it is like a terrible nightmare now. I remember enough, however, to know exactly why you were committed to Azkaban without a trial. But I did that to you, I –”

“No, stop,” Sirius said, standing suddenly and beginning to pace. “You can’t have it both ways – are you Voldemort, or are you not?”

“I’m not,” Tom insisted hotly. “I hate what I became in in my previous life, I –"

“Then that’s good enough for me,” Sirius interrupted. “Look, I’m not going to lie and pretend I’m pleased about the fact that my godson was walking around with a piece of Voldemort’s soul in him for nearly a decade, but it’s obviously made you a better person, and he seems to have come out of it relatively unscathed, Parseltongue abilities and questionable choices in boyfriends aside.”

Harry huffed in indignation and Tom shut his mouth, choosing not to comment on the fact that Harry still carried a tiny piece of his soul within him.

“Besides,” Sirius continued, “it’s easier for me if I, what’s the word… right, compartmentalise the two of you. Voldemort’s reach didn’t just take my friends — it took my family. If I’m going to accept that you’re a part of Harry’s life, it’s better to go back to thinking of you as Voldemort’s son — and I suppose, in a roundabout, magic-fuelled way, you sort of are.”

“Right,” Tom said awkwardly, remembering Regulus. Had he died while under Voldemort’s command? Tom couldn’t remember.

“So,” Sirius coughed, “back to the topic at hand — Peter Pettigrew. Tom was right about Crookshanks, he did belong to your parents, Harry. Recognised me straight away, though it took me some time to remember him. In either case, I’ve got him tailing Peter, but the man is wily — he hasn’t survived twelve years as a rat on luck alone.”

“What’s the plan then?” Harry asked.

Sirius ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Well, I was going to use the Hallowe’en Feast as a distraction and sneak in, but if I can count on the two of you to help, that changes everything.”

“Good,” Tom said, taken aback. “That would have been a terrible idea, you’d never have made it past the portraits without being seen.”

“Wait!” Harry exclaimed. “He can use my Invisibility Cloak!”

Tom shook his head. “No, he’d never get past the portrait that guards the Gryffindor common room either, not without the password, and it’s not like we can help with that.”

Sirius sighed. “That’s right — I keep forgetting you’re a Slytherin, Harry,” he lamented. “How’d a good kid like you end up in the snake den?”

“Hey!” Harry snapped defensively. “Slytherin is a perfectly respectable house! Besides, it’s completely different than it used to be.”

“Oh?” Sirius asked, one brow raised.

“Oh yes,” Tom gloated. “Ever since the heir of Slytherin revealed himself by rescuing the daughter of the supposed ‘blood-traitor’ Weasleys and subduing the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, his housemates have been very eager to fall in line. As it turns out, the heir doesn’t care much for blood-politics and other such archaic nonsense, and so his allies are learning to leave it all behind as well.”

“The heir of Slytherin, huh?” Sirius echoed. “Why do I get the feeling I’m talking to him right now?”

Tom grinned broadly and hissed.

Sirius shook his head and laughed hollowly. “You’re an odd one, Tom,” he said. “But I suppose you’d have to be. Anyway, you’re right — I can’t access Gryffindor tower without the password.”

“Christmas!” Harry exclaimed suddenly.

“Pardon?” Tom frowned.

“If it can wait until Christmas, you and I might be able to snatch him from the Gryffindor common room!” Harry explained. He looked up at Sirius. “The Weasleys invited us up last year — mostly because their sister’s in Slytherin, but we’re their friends too — I’m sure they’ll do the same this year. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on the map and see if Pettigrew ever leaves the tower.”

“Unfortunately, you won’t be able to,” Sirius replied. “Peter won’t show up on the map.”

“What’re you talking about?” Harry asked. “He’s right here, look – Wormtail.”

Tom looked at where Harry pointed — Gryffindor Tower — as Sirius made a strangled sound of disbelief. He frowned.

“Harry, there’s nothing there.”

“No, he’s right,” said Sirius, leaning over them. “Don’t worry, Tom, there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight — the map is enchanted so that only we could see each other. It – it must recognise Harry as his father’s son.”

A contented little smile spread across Harry’s face as he traced the web of lines that had inscribed themselves across the parchment, and for a moment something very ugly burned in Tom’s chest. Harry had his father’s Cloak, his father’s map, and now his godfather, and Tom had… Tom had…

He closed his eyes to block out the sight of Harry and Sirius making plans to catch Wormtail together — Tom had Harry, and that, he told himself, was enough. He even almost believed it.

“Wait,” Harry said, “why does it label him as Wormtail, but you as Sirius?”

“It’s enchanted to change our names when we transform,” Sirius explained. “That was your father’s idea – Prongs, nicknamed for his antlers. Thought it would make it easier to tell when one of the others was up to mischief, or if Remus had gone through his transformation earlier than expected – the full moon is funny like that sometimes. Turned out, he was right.”

“That’s perfect then!” Harry exclaimed. “We can force him to turn back somehow, and if you have the map, you’ll know when it happens.”

“An excellent idea, darling,” Tom said. Then he sighed. “We’re going to have to involve Dumbledore again, as loathe as I am to interact with the man any further.”

“Don’t like the headmaster much?” Sirius asked. “I suppose you wouldn’t, considering he was once your sworn enemy.”

“He did make my life a living hell the first time around at Hogwarts,” Tom pointed out. “Though I’m sure he’s never told anyone that, and he’s done marginally better by Harry. Now, though, it’s more the fact that he’d kill me if he ever learned from whence I came. However, he’s the only one who holds enough sway to properly clear your name.”

“Well… alright then boys,” Sirius said awkwardly. “You’d better get back to the castle or you’ll miss the feast. I need some time to… think about all of this, anyway. You know the plan, Harry.”

Harry nodded, took Tom’s hand in his, and led him back out of the copse of trees, the map folded up in his pocket.

Tom sat by Harry’s bedside, in the hospital wing, barely aware of the presence of their other friends, staring at his sweetheart’s silent, unmoving face. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap to keep them from shaking, his breath ragged and stuttering. His thoughts were rapidly cycling between blessed relief that Harry was merely unconscious, not dead, the burning, all-consuming horror when he thought he had been dead, and the terrible events that had led to this moment.

It had finally been the first Quidditch game of the season: Slytherin vs Gryffindor – and the conditions could not possibly have been worse. Much like Harry’s first match, rain had pelted the Quidditch pitch, turning the ground into a soupy morass that had splashed up around the players’ feet as they made their way onto the field. This time, however, the rain had been accompanied by thunder and lightning – Tom couldn’t understand for the life of him why the match hadn’t been cancelled, or at the very least, postponed. But, he supposed, in a school that had remained open the previous year when students were being Petrified left and right, a little thunder was hardly considered a threat to student safety in comparison.

The days leading up to the game had been miserable as well, cold and wet, and a new set of restrictions had been placed upon Harry – apparently, someone had reportedly seen Sirius Black in Hogsmeade, just a glimpse before the man had Disapparated. Tom had felt a deep sense of confusion when he heard this – why would Sirius, who had just begun to rekindle a relationship with Harry and had plans to capture Peter Pettigrew, suddenly leave? But he had been there when Harry and Tom went to meet him in the same glade the following day, so perhaps it had been a false sighting.

False report or no, it had meant that an adult seemed to always be shadowing Harry’s footsteps – in the corridors between classes, on the Quidditch field during practice, as the boys raced across the lawn – and it had gotten very old, very quickly. Tom and Harry both wanted increasingly more time alone together, and Harry wanted to bond with his godfather, and so the two had begun slipping under the Invisibility Cloak with what should have been alarming regularity, their privacy so disturbed just when they, as maturing teenage boys, should have been granted more freedom. Christmas, and the chance to capture Wormtail alive, couldn’t come soon enough.

In the end, it had all been pointless – the true danger to Harry had revealed itself, and at the worst of times.

Tom recalled the cold as it had set in, dampening the high spirits of Hogwarts’ residents as they took in the game. He remembered the moment he had, instinctively this time, raised his Occlumency shielding, the horror as he had realised Harry’s was not yet strong enough to protect him. He had lifted the binoculars he took to every match to watch as the Dementors guarding the castle, dozens of them, flooded onto the Quidditch pitch, following the heightened emotions of both the players and spectators, then looked up to see Harry, listing to his right, then sliding slightly backwards on his Nimbus 2001 before falling off completely, plummeting to the ground in a dead faint.

Tom had been the first down the stairs, his magic out of control and shoving everyone aside as he raced from the stands and onto the field, his regard for his own soul suddenly all but gone as he dashed through what should have been a field full of Dementors. But the cold had slipped away, and a great silver bird – a phoenix Patronus – had been the one to greet him as it sailed through the air. He had stared at it in wonder for only a moment before remembering his goal, wading through the rain-soaked ground toward the small, unmoving figure that couldn’t be, musn’t be –

His screams of anguish as he touched Harry’s clammy, icy cheek must have been horrible to witness, as it had seemed for a moment that the entirety of the castle’s population, all those still in the stands and those racing across the field toward them, froze entirely, as if his terror and grief had burst out of him and spread across the field like a thick, rolling fog. But perhaps that had just been Tom, trapped in the horrible moment as his mind screamed “Gone! He’s GONE!” because the next thing he knew, strong arms had lifted him from the ground, even as Harry was levitated onto a stretcher, and he had found himself, inexplicably and for the first time in both lives, held tight by none other than Albus Dumbledore.

“He’ll be okay,” the headmaster had murmured. “Don’t worry, Tom – he’s simply fainted. He’ll revive soon enough.”

Tom, too emotionally broken to fight back against his hated enemy’s hold on him, had simply let himself weep into the man’s garish purple robes with a horrible mix of despair, anger, and a flicker of hope that what Dumbledore told him wasn’t just a cruel lie, and that by some miracle Harry hadn’t died when he’d hit the ground.

“...Tom?”

A quiet voice brought him back to the present – Harry’s voice. His hand was tightening around his, and his eyes were fluttering open, the spark of life and light still present within. A sob tore itself, unbidden, from Tom’s throat as he practically collapsed onto Harry, clutching at his shoulders and shaking uncontrollably.

“Tom, are you alright?” Harry’s voice was faint, but so real and alive it made Tom shudder, the glow of their bond coming to life as Harry rose out of unconsciousness. “What happened? There were… Dementors? I tried to block them out, but there were so many…”

Tom wrenched himself into a sitting position once more, hiding his face from everyone as he ran his palms down his cheeks furiously, dashing the embarrassing evidence of his weak, human heart away. Bad enough that Sirius had witnessed him crying, that Dumbledore had seen him crying, but his classmates? Draco, who he had planned to make into his new Ministry connection in a few years? Hermione, who he wanted one day to be his advisor? There had to be some spell, some ritual that would remove this wretched pain, this horrible, insipid fault that left him vulnerable and ineffectual in the eyes of others. Even as he considered it, however, he knew that to do so would steal away the depths of affection he felt for Harry, something he could no longer bear to live without.

“I thought you were dead,” he finally said, his voice cracking. “You fell more than fifty feet, Harry, I thought you died.”

“Well I’m here,” Harry said weakly, mustering up a sputtering chuckle. “Still alive, I guess.”

There was a murmuring of reassured voices, and Tom dared to finally look round. A flush of relief ran through him as he noticed that everyone’s gaze was trained on Harry, not him and his shameful loss of control. Only Hermione’s eyes flickered toward him momentarily, a whisper of concern written across her face, before she focused back in on Harry once more.

“What happened?” Harry asked. “Did we – did we lose the match?”

“No,” Draco replied, still dressed in his Quidditch gear and covered in mud. “The Gryffindor Captain, Wood, saw you falling and called off the game. Lucky for us he holds fair play above getting one over on Slytherin, I suppose. We’re going to have to play a rematch with them after Christmas break.”

“Oh, well, that’s not too bad,” Harry replied, shifting to sit up in the hospital bed. “I didn’t die, and we get another chance to win, hopefully with better weather and without any Dementors this time. Right, Tom?”

“Right,” Tom said shakily.

“Harry,” Pansy said, clutching at the edge of the mattress, “I know you don’t know what happened, but… you’ll have to get a new broom. Your NImbus, it…”

“A new…” Harry faltered. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s just –” Hermione tried, “It got blown off course…”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ron added.

“Stop that,” Tom said, finding his voice again at last. “Harry doesn’t deserve you all treating him like a child and avoiding the topic. Darling, your broom flew into the Whomping Willow.”

“The what?” Harry asked, frowning. “Didn’t Fred and George mention something about that?”

“The Whomping Willow,” Hermione replied. “If you hit the Willow… it hits back.”

She retrieved a bag holding the remains of Harry’s broomstick and handed it to him. Harry’s eyes turned slightly watery as he took in the sight of his shattered Nimbus 2001, but he just sighed as he set the bag aside. “Well,” he said, rather croakily, “It’s just a thing, after all. Could be worse – it could have been both of us that flew into the Whomping Willow.”

Tom didn’t want to think about this possibility at all.

“Can we, uh,” Harry said. “Can Tom and I have a few minutes alone?”

“Oh, of course, Harry!” Pansy blushed. “We’re all crowding you terribly, aren’t we?”

“It’s not that,” Harry said. “I just need to talk to Tom… in private.”

“Oh!” Hermione tittered, “Right, of course, come on, Ron.”

The four of them filed out, Draco smirking at Tom as he left. Tom felt a rush of anger and embarrassment at the boy’s… presumption? Sense of superiority? Tom wasn’t sure what that smirk had meant, if it had been at Harry’s implication of wanting alone time with him or if it had been related to his utterly unseemingly breakdown. But then Harry’s hand was in his again, and he let the annoyance flutter away, replaced by the warmth that his sweetheart always brought him.

“Tom,” Harry whispered, even though the absence of their friends and the use of Parseltongue negated any need to speak in hushed tones, “are you okay? I’ve never seen you so shaken.”

“I told you, I thought you died , darling,” Tom replied shakily.

“But I thought you told me,” Harry said, “over the summer, that since I’m a Horcrux, I can’t be killed.”

Tom thought about this, remembering a particularly difficult conversation they'd had shortly after returning to Mrs Figg's house. “Well, that’s technically true, Harry,” he replied. “The rituals Voldemort performed prior to travelling to Godric’s Hollow should have imbued you with the same protections the others have – but you can still be so grievously injured that your body cannot heal itself, and…” he took a deep breath, steadying his own racing heart, “Dementors can destroy Horcruxes.”

“What?!” Harry yelped, which sounded so comical in Parseltongue that Tom would have laughed if he didn’t still feel so wretched. “I thought you said that almost nothing could destroy a Horcrux – and now Hogwarts is surrounded with hundreds of one of the few things that can?! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you, darling.” Tom said, running the back of his hand over Harry’s cheek. “As I told you, Dementors feed on souls, usually taking our happiness and leaving us with our worst memories. However, if given the chance, they will feed directly. It’s called the Dementors Kiss, thought by some to be a fate worse than death – and while I generally believe there is nothing worse than dying, I would have to agree this time. They suck the soul right out of a living body – and in your case, they’d take the part of my soul that lives within you right along with it.”

“They can’t!” Harry cried in horror. “I won’t let them eat you! There has to be a better way than Occlumency to drive them off!”

“There is,” Tom sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t be the one to teach you. Voldemort was never able to cast the Patronus Charm, the one other method of successfully warding Dementors away.”

“Then we’ll ask a professor – maybe Dumbledore can teach us?”

He probably could, but Tom was highly averse to the idea of spending the amount of time needed to learn such a powerful spell with the man, particularly when Tom had just cried all over him not hours before. For Salazar’s sake, he wasn’t even going to be able to look the man in the eye after that horrifying display of weakness. However, there was at least one other teacher in the school who could be of assistance…

“Not Dumbledore,” Tom said emphatically. “Professor Lupin – he must know the charm, or we both would have ended up as tasty meals for the Dementors on the train. We’ll ask him as soon as Madam Pomfrey lets you leave the hospital wing.”

“Alright,” Harry said, satisfied and sliding back into English. “That’s a plan then.” He flopped back onto the pillows of his hospital bed. “Salazar, I can’t believe I have to find another broom already.”

Chapter 7: Expecto Patronum

Chapter Text

“Expecto patronum! EXPECTO PATRONUM!!” Tom shook his wand in frustration – why wouldn’t this spell to work for him, not in his first life and not in this one either? He had thought that the answer was that Voldemort had never learned what happiness truly was, but Tom knew, and still couldn’t produce the charm.

“You can’t force it, Tom,” Professor Lupin said. “It has to be fuelled by your feelings of happiness. What was the memory you chose?”

“The first time I saw Hogwarts,” Tom grumbled. It had been a stupid idea, that had been the memory Voldemort had used as well before he had given up on the obviously useless charm that he hadn’t wanted to learn anyway, thank you very much. But Tom did want to learn, and so a better memory, an even happier memory, was going to have to be used.

“Expecto patronum!” Across the room, a great silvery light burst out of Harry’s wand, forming a shield in the air in front of him. “I did it!” Harry exclaimed. “Did you see, Tom? I did it!”

“That’s wonderful, darling,” Tom sighed. He didn’t want to ponder the implications of Harry, so pure and radiant, being able to pull off a protective spell that so greatly eluded him. They did say that Dark wizards were unable to produce a Patronus, and that the last one who attempted to force it found himself devoured by an endless stream of flesh-eating maggots that poured from his wand. That was just a stupid story, though, Tom told himself.

“Excellent work indeed, Harry,” Lupin said. “I’ll let you test it on the Boggart as soon as Tom’s got the spell down as well.”

It had really been a convenient solution to the age-old problem of not being able to test your ability to use the charm on a Dementor until one came barrelling toward you, intent on sucking out your soul. Harry, who had survived not one but two Dementor attacks, and now understood that he was a particularly tasty meal for them, was now more terrified of the creatures than anything else, even Voldemort, and so his Boggart would take that form. Professor Lupin, however, didn’t want to expose them to the creature until they had both proven that they could produce at least a non-corporeal Patronus, and Tom was stuck.

“You’ll get it eventually,” Harry said encouragingly, walking over and squeezing his hand. “I know you don’t have a lot of happy memories from before, but I’m sure you do now.”

“Before?” Lupin echoed.

“Oh, er – before he went to live with his aunt, Mrs Figg,” Harry said quickly.

“Arabella’s nephew,” Lupin said quietly. “I didn’t realise. Your parents died a few years ago, I believe?”

“Yes, at sea,” Tom replied offhandedly. “We weren't close. Harry, what memory did you use?”

“Oh, I er –” Harry's eyes flickered to his lips and then away as he broke off with a blush.

Oh.

Tom didn’t want to go near those memories right now. After seeing his Boggart, Harry dying on the floor and blaming him, and then watching Harry actually almost die, any memory of him – even being around Harry right now – made him feel weak and vulnerable. He couldn’t afford that, not when facing a Dementor, and worse, he hated the feeling. Voldemort had never felt vulnerable, and Tom had been the same until forced to contemplate the concept of potentially losing Harry so viscerally. Until he found a remedy, he couldn’t think of those things, couldn’t be like this around Harry.

He slipped his hand out of Harry’s and thought instead of his reunion with Apophis, the ancient Basilisk that slumbered in the Chamber of Secrets.

“Expecto patronum! Expecto PATRONUM!!”

Nothing. Not fair, that one had been from his current life, and he was certain he had been happy in that moment, watching with undisguised glee as Apophis had hunted down three terrified, screaming rabbits.

“Hmm,” Professor Lupin pondered. “Perhaps it’s not the quality of memory, but the type. The best Patronuses are produced by feelings of pure joy – what were you thinking of just now?”

“Meeting Apophis,” Tom replied. “The Basilisk. From the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Meeting the Basilisk… made you happy…” Lupin said faintly.

“It’s my Basilisk,” Tom said, shrugging. “Not everyone gets to have a one thousand-year-old legendary serpent they can actually talk to as a familiar – I’m sure Dumbledore felt the same when he first met his Phoenix.”

“Well, I suppose I understand your reasoning,” Lupin said, “but if I’m correct, that memory would also be of a very stressful situation involving Harry and young Miss Weasley.” He sighed. “It’s getting late, and I believe you have Quidditch practice, Harry. For homework, Tom, I want you to think of your best, most pure memories of unbridled joy and practice. We’ll meet back here tomorrow and give it another go.”

Tom stalked out of the History of Magic classroom they had been using to practise, furious that for the second lifetime in a row, he had failed to master the charm. Before, it really hadn’t been necessary, but this time, if he couldn’t protect Harry from the Dementors…

Harry trailed out the door behind him, looking rather upset. Why did Harry have any reason to be feeling poorly about the lesson? He’d been able to produce a Patronus with almost no effort at all. He reached for Tom’s hand, but Tom pulled away, seething comfortably in his anger and not wanting to wash it away with the gentle glow that flowed between them on skin contact.

“Er, Tom?” Harry asked. “Why did you choose that memory?”

“It wasn’t that one,” Tom replied. “It was from earlier in the year, when I first entered the Chamber to reunite with Apophis and feed it. Watching it hunt was quite exhilarating.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly. “Well, anyway, do you want to come with me to Quidditch practice? I know it’ll be odd, having to swap out with the others since I don’t have a broom right now, but –”

“No,” Tom interrupted, perhaps a little more roughly than he meant to. “I need to visit the library, try to understand why this isn’t working for me.”

“O – okay,” Harry said, disappointment colouring his tone. “Well, I’ll see you down at dinner, then?”

“Mmm,” Tom hummed in agreement, turning and taking off without another word.

He didn’t go to the library, however, choosing instead to make his way to the Room of Hidden Things, where he assembled a collection of dress forms and duelling dummies, blasting through them with a dozen rapid-fire Dark curses and hexes and leaving their smoking remains on the floor. Then, still feeling the anger coursing through him, prickling just under his skin, he made his way further into the room, picking out bits and baubles that caught his eye and flinging curses at random intervals whenever he spotted a good-looking target. Lost in his thoughts and his rage as he was, Tom didn’t notice how far he had ventured into the room until, quite suddenly –

The diadem.

It was perched exactly where Voldemort had left it, some twenty-five years prior, on a plinth next to an ageing cabinet that looked as though it had been doused at one point with some corrosive potion. His heart hammering, he reached for it – he really should have checked on it the year prior, but the Chamber of Secrets and his Basilisk had become a priority – and as his fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the metal, craving the treasure hidden within, he felt his soul alight into flame.

It was almost as though he had no control over himself as he lifted the diadem from its throne, though of course this wasn’t true. He was merely being reckless, swept up enough in his own anger and frustration to act against his better judgement. He lifted it to eye-level, admiring the elegant filigree work, the priceless, ocean-blue sapphire shimmering even in the low light – and then turned it and placed it atop his head.

The effect was instantaneous: Tom was swept away into an ocean of inky darkness, lost in the angry, boiling mind that had been stored away in the diadem. Tom thought he had been prepared for what he might encounter upon wearing it, having been so close to his diary the year prior, but this older, more vicious version of himself had teeth. He was already a murderer many, many times over, and took a cruel pleasure in dragging Tom down into the depths, suffocating him under waves of fury and hatred.

“Me,” Voldemort hissed as Tom fought to swim to the surface. “What is this, how have we become this… child?”

“I’m not,” Tom replied indignantly. “I’m thirteen.”

Voldemort laughed, a cold, high-pitched cackle that rang through Tom. “You think that makes you any less of a child? What is it we’ve done to ourself, to diminish us so greatly? We are weak, pathetic even. We were not so small and vulnerable the first time we faced the onset of teenagerhood.”

“I’m not weak,” Tom insisted, even though he knew it to be true. “I’m better than you.”

Voldemort laughed again. “Better?” he scoffed “You think this better? You are nothing. You’ve separated yourself from us – and my, how curious. What’s this? Grief? Love? What a pity, that we’ve deluded ourself so.”

“You’re the deluded one,” Tom spat, choking on the sea rising up around him. “You refused to listen to Dumbledore, and look what you did. You tore us up into pieces and tossed us aside as if we were nothing. NOTHING!”

“Oh, Dumbledore’s boy, are we now?” Voldemort sneered. “I never thought we could stoop so low…”

“No,” Tom choked, indignant, “never. But I can admit when my opponent is right. Love is more than we ever –”

“Pah!” Voldemort interrupted, pushing Tom beneath the waves. “Love is a weakness, you know it to be true – look how it’s softened us, made us forget who we are. Better I snuff you out right now, return us to our true self.”

“No!” Tom shrieked, fighting to surface again even as he sank deeper into the waters of his own soul's cold fury.

“Tell us, Tom – did you come here today to attempt to reabsorb me, as you did that piece of us left in the diary?” Tom shivered as he sank further, his limbs starting to grow numb. “Oh, dear – we’ve learned fear as well, I see. Yes, Tom, I can see all we’ve done in your mind. Confronting us when you were only twelve, the Chamber of Secrets, rescuing that little blood-traitor brat, and… oh, my – who’s this little friend of ours? No, not just a friend – oh, but we’ve hurt his feelings, haven’t we? See how sad he was, when we refused to use our memories of him to produce a proper Patronus? That’s alright, once you’re nothing more than a whisper, we will go to him, comfort him. We will corrupt his mind and bring him to our side…”

“NO!!!” Tom screamed again, wrenching the diadem from his head and flinging it away, where it clattered across the stone floor. He was back, on his hands and knees in the Room of Hidden Things, panting raggedly. He scrambled to his feet, all of his anger gone and replaced by a hollow numbness. He had to secure the diadem, but, unwilling to touch it again, he instead took off his robe and wrapped it around the Horcrux, shoving it in the acid stained cabinet next to the plinth upon which it had stood.

And then he ran, escaping the Room of Hidden Things as fast as his legs would carry him.

Tom knew he had to apologise to Harry – he hadn’t realised, until the piece of his soul in the diadem had forced him to relive it, exactly how hurt Harry had been when he had, essentially, abandoned him to go stew in his anger – but he wasn’t sure how. He still didn’t want to touch those memories, those feelings that made him just as weak as the diadem had told him he was. He couldn’t afford – couldn’t live with that vulnerability, that pain and terror that left him sobbing and broken in front of those he needed most to see him as strong and untouchable.

“There you are!” Tom froze, seeing Hermione appear out of the darkening corridors, marching toward him, her tone cold and accusatory. She stopped only one pace in front of him and raised her hand to smack him across the face so quickly that he had no time to react.

Tom stumbled to the side, his cheek smarting. “Hermione!” he snapped. “What in Salazar’s name was that for?”

“What did you say to him?” Hermione demanded. “Harry’s in such a state, Draco dragged me down to the Slytherin common room to talk to him. He skipped Quidditch practice entirely to mope in his bed, and he won’t tell us anything – but I know it’s because of you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Tom insisted.

“Oh, yes you did,” Hermione accused. “I’ve seen you distancing yourself from the rest of us, from Harry in particular, ever since he nearly died. I know it’s scary, seeing someone you love be in terrible danger – I shut myself away for weeks when my grandmother had a heart attack – but Harry needs you. It’s killing him to see you pull away from him like this.”

“It’s not – I didn’t mean to – it’s not what you think!” Tom stammered out.

“Then tell me what it is,” Hermione said, beckoning him to follow. “Walk with me, and explain.”

“I can’t,” Tom said, following Hermione anyway. “No one would understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Hermione replied, rounding a corner. “I told you, I hid from everyone when I thought Nan was dying. I did that a lot, actually, before Hogwarts – hide my feelings because they were too much, because they confused my parents and teachers, because they were overwhelming for the other kids. I was that weird girl, you know? The one who was obsessed with ancient Egypt and Greek mythology and talked about it too much, the one who cried in class when our teacher read us The Velveteen Rabbit because the ending was too sad. They laughed at me for weeks after that. So I closed myself off, focused only on impressing my teachers, and got very good at pretending it didn’t hurt when the other kids teased me behind my back.”

Hermione paused, coming to a standstill halfway down the second floor corridor. “I can see that you’re doing something similar, Tom.”

“No,” Tom snipped defensively. “I’m not doing that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hermione fixed him with a cool, knowing stare. “Tom, I saw you trying to pretend that you weren’t crying when Harry woke up. I understand that you like to act cold and aloof, as though you think you’re better than everyone else and care only about yourself – and, well, for the most part I think that might be true, but I know you genuinely care about Harry. You have to stop pretending that you don’t.”

“No,” Tom insisted, shivering. “No. I can’t – I can’t do it. I can’t feel like that.”

“Like what, Tom?”

“Weak!” The confession came out unbidden, and he pressed his hand against his mouth to try and stem the rush of words that came bursting out of him. “I can’t protect him, Hermione, and it – it –”

“It terrifies you,” Hermione finished, and she resumed her stroll. “Draco told me about your Boggart – you’re terrified, and you believe we’ll think less of you for it. You know, I worried a bit when you and Harry started going out – he’s so full of kindness and empathy, and you, well, you’re not. It must be horrible to feel so helpless, especially if you’ve never experienced it before. But Tom, we’re your friends – we’re not going to judge you. Merlin knows, if I loved Harry the way you do, I’d be crying constantly: your father wants him dead, there’s a mass murderer on the loose, hell-bent on revenge, and the Dementors flock to him like piranhas around a bit of meat. So stop acting like you don’t care, because it’s hurting the both of you, probably more than you realise.”

Hermione stopped walking again, and Tom noticed that they had arrived in the dungeons – the entrance to the Slytherin common room was just ahead of them.

“Go on,” Hermione said. “Go tell your boyfriend that you’re sorry, and that you were being an emotionally stunted prat and you won’t do it again.”

Tom drifted into the common room in a sort of daze, his head whirling with the knowledge that he had just admitted his shameful weakness to someone who wasn’t himself – and Hermione hadn’t judged him for it. She had accepted it, acted like it was normal,even, and Tom begrudgingly acknowledged that maybe it was. His friends in this life were so different than the followers with whom he had surrounded himself as Lord Voldemort – so open and honest and free with their emotions around each other, none of the posturing and building up of thick stone walls that his Knights of Walpurgis had done. Only Tom remained a legacy of that time, when wars were being fought and you needed to know exactly where you stood amongst the group. They didn’t need that now, in this time of relative peace – Tom didn’t need that.

All his thoughts were banished from his head at the sight of Harry, sitting morose and forlorn in front of the fire, Scitalis wrapped around his arm.

Tom crossed the common room and sat awkwardly next to Harry, though he didn’t attempt to reach for his hand – he wasn’t sure he deserved that right now. Scitalis reared up and hissed angrily at him. Tom winced.

“Master is not wanted here right now,” she snapped. “Master has been neglecting his mate.”

“I know, Scitalis,” Tom replied, his voice suddenly sounding very small. “Hi Harry.”

“Hi,” Harry replied hollowly, his gaze remaining on the fire.

“I’ve…” Tom paused, struggling to get the words out. “I’ve been an idiot, Harry.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I got… scared,” he admitted. “I’m not used to this feeling, I –” Tom glanced around the common room – there were a few other students milling about, so he switched to Parseltongue. “Voldemort never had anything like what we have, not in our shared childhood, and not at Hogwarts or later in his life. I would remember, I’m sure of it.”

“That’s just sad,” Harry replied. “What a lonely way to live.”

“He didn’t want it,” Tom explained. “I didn’t want it. We thought that depending on others for our happiness made us weak. He never learned how to love because he never let anyone close enough. I’m, unfortunately, much the same. You were… you were somewhat correct, last year, you know – when you said I don’t care about others. I mean, I do, but not in the way you do. You’re my only exception, Harry. You’re the only one I know how to love.”

“Then why aren’t you acting like it?” Harry snapped. “No, don’t answer that – I have a different question, and I want you to be honest. I hadn’t thought about this until now, but would you still care about me if I weren’t your Horcrux?”

“Harry, if you weren’t my Horcrux, I wouldn’t even exist.”

“No, I mean, if you were able to remove it,” Harry clarified. “If you took back the piece of your soul residing inside me, would you stay, or would you walk away and forget I ever existed?”

“Harry!” Tom cried in despair, wanting desperately to pull him into his grasp but restraining himself. “I don’t care that you’re my Horcrux, I care about you! If I knew how to remove my soul from you safely, I would do it in a heartbeat because it puts you in danger! I’m terrified that something is going to happen to you because of it, that a Dementor is going to eat you, or that Voldemort will find out what you are and hide you away in a magically induced sleep for eternity. You’d be so much better off without it!”

Harry finally looked away from the flames and met Tom’s gaze. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course!”

Harry smiled, a bittersweet expression on his tear stained cheeks. “Well that’s too bad,” he replied. “You gave it to me, it’s mine now.”

Tom’s heart melted at his words. “Oh, Harry…”

“I don’t understand why you’ve been acting so distant,” Harry said, looking back into the fire. “You say that you care about me, but you thought of the Basilisk for your happy memory instead of any of the times we’ve shared. I thought of our first kiss, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life than in that moment.”

“I did think of you at first,” Tom confessed. “But it… it scared me, Harry. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I never thought I wanted to love anyone, and then you showed me how beautiful it can be. I never thought I could feel weak or vulnerable either, but I do now, and it’s horrible. Utterly horrible, Harry. Every time I think of you, I see you lying, as if dead, on the Quidditch pitch. I see you bleeding out in the staff room, dying by my own hand. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“I don’t know, either,” Harry said. “Do you think I’m not also terrified? I can’t stop thinking of you on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, screaming as though someone set you on fire. I think of Voldemort, trying to erase you and steal your body for his own. I’m scared all the time, Tom, but it’s worth it because I have you. Am I not worth it?”

“Of course you are!” Tom despaired, running his hands through his hair in despair. “I’m so sorry Harry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t! I just… I don’t know how to be okay with feeling like this. Like I said, I’m not used to it, and it feels like dying. I don’t know how people just go around feeling like this all the time.”

Harry scooted closer to him and pulled Tom down towards him, resting his chin atop his head as he sat. It was a bit awkward — usually Tom, being taller, was the one tucking Harry into his chest, but it was nice and warm. “It gets easier if you practise at it,” he said, “but that means you can’t run away just because something feels bad.”

They marched into the History of Magic classroom the next day, Tom with his wand already in his hand. Lupin looked up from where he sat at the desk, his eyebrows quirking upwards in surprise as he took in Tom’s squared shoulders, his confident walk, and the genuine smile across his face. As they approached, he stood slowly from the desk to greet them.

“Right on time, boys,” he said, watching Tom carefully. “I take it from your expressions that homework went well?”

Tom nodded. He thought of the first time he had kissed Harry and every subsequent one after that. He thought of the nights they spent in each others’ arms, comforting each other after the heady throes of a nightmare. He thought of Harry on the breeze, riding his broomstick with a confident ease, even though it reminded him of Harry plummeting to the ground.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The shield of blinding silver light that burst out of his wand was massive.

Chapter 8: Basilisks and Black Dogs

Chapter Text

Within a few weeks, both Harry and Tom were able to hold up a non-corporeal Patronus shield long enough to ward off the Boggart Dementor that appeared to Harry whenever Lupin let it out of the packing case in which he had trapped it. It wasn’t ideal – Tom was frustrated that neither he nor Harry had managed a corporeal form yet – but it would protect them long enough to make it to safety in the event of a Dementor attack, provided there weren’t too many of them. At the beginning of Christmas break, Lupin told them that they had officially graduated their Dementor repelling class, but to keep practising on their own.

The first day of break also came with an invitation from Dumbledore for both Tom and Harry to meet him in his office at noon, with a password: Acid Pops. Harry looked at him curiously, and Tom glanced up at the head table to see Dumbledore smiling gently at the two of them, so presumably they weren’t in any trouble.

When they arrived at Dumbledore’s tower, they were greeted by the sight of a man, only slightly younger looking than the headmaster himself, and a very large, very dead boar suspended in the air next to him.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said amiably, “Tom – just in time. I’d like you to meet my good friend and colleague, Newton Scamander.”

“You wrote our textbook!” Harry said excitedly, stepping forward to shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“I did indeed,” Scamander said, shaking Tom’s hand in turn. “Merlin’s beard, Albus, you weren’t wrong. He looks remarkably like his father.”

Had Voldemort ever met Scamander? Tom couldn’t remember, though if he and Dumbledore were as close friends as it appeared, it was possible the old man had seen him in his years at school or just after graduating, before Voldemort had vanished to travel the world.

Well, it didn’t matter. Tom was no longer interested in who knew about his supposed “father.”

“Tom, you may have already surmised the reason for my calling you here today,” Dumbledore said.

“Yes,” Tom said drily, “the presence of the world's preeminent expert on magical beasts and the dead boar rather gave it away. Shall we?”

“We’re going back to the Chamber?” Harry asked. “Is that really safe?”

“I believe that, with not one, but two Parselmouths who are able to command the Basilisk,” Dumbledore replied, “we are in good hands.”

Tom led them down the winding staircase and through the corridors toward the second floor, the boar floating along behind them, noting Dumbledore’s growing apprehension. It made sense, he supposed – they were walking past the spot where Colin Creevey had been Petrified, and then a moment later past the spot Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick had been found. Soon, they were at the site of Mrs Norris’s Petrification, where the ghost of the gleaming red words could still be seen upon the wall despite obvious efforts to scrub them off, and then at the bathroom where the body of Myrtle Warren had been discovered over fifty years prior.

“Hmm,” Dumbledore murmured, as Tom came to a halt. “I might have known. You may or may not be aware, Tom, but this bathroom is where the body of a girl killed by the Basilisk was found the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened.”

“The entrance is right across from the stalls,” Tom replied. “Perhaps it was an accident.”

“I’m afraid, Tom,” Dumbledore said, sighing, “that your father didn’t do ‘accidents.’ Please, though, lead the way.”

Tom ignored his feeling of annoyance at Dumbledore’s presumption and pushed open the door to the bathroom, striding over to the sink that bore the tiny carving of a snake on its tap. “Open,” he hissed, his voice nearly silent so as to not give Dumbledore any ideas about coming down here on his own. As before, the sink slid away into the floor, revealing the pipe that served as entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Tom looked up at the two old men appraisingly.

“Er – it’s a long way to the bottom,” he said. “Are you sure –?”

“Worry not, Tom,” Dumbledore replied. “I assure you, we are both quite spry for our age.”

“Alright then,” he shrugged, stepping into the pipe and letting himself be swept into the darkness.

It was very strange, he thought as the four of them made their way down the dark tunnel, being back here with two of the most well known and powerful wizards in the world at his heels. In his first life, he had reserved a tour of the Chamber of Secrets only for his closest follower, Abraxas Malfoy, who had developed feelings for him and with whom he had wanted to curry favour. Now, though, there was no trade off, no gain for him to reveal the Chamber, except maybe a better understanding within the magical community of the beautiful and tragically misunderstood creature that was known as the King of Serpents. It made Tom’s skin crawl to be doing something that so closely bordered on the verge of altruism, and he reminded himself forcibly that he was doing this solely for the chance to reunite again with his beloved Apophis and ensure that the serpent was given its reward.

Opening the Chamber, Tom led them into the gloom as Harry slipped his hand into his own. Harry was cold and a bit shaky next to him, and he understood why – the last time either of them had been here, they had both nearly died. Harry must be feeling about as awful as Tom did everytime he thought of Harry plummeting into the swirling tempest of hungry Dementors. He squeezed his hand for reassurance and walked onward.

“Incredible,” Dumbledore said somewhere behind him as Tom lit the torches with a single word in Parseltongue. “Absolutely remarkable. The privilege to be one of the first souls this century to walk this hall in the nearly one thousand years since its creation is overwhelming – I must thank you for sharing this opportunity with us, Tom.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, using every effort to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Shall I summon the Basilisk?”

“Oh, yes please,” Scamander said, his eyes glimmering with excitement. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a Basilisk, let alone had an interpreter with the ability to speak to it.”

“Alright then,” Tom said, feeling rather apprehensive about the whole situation. “Everyone, keep your eyes closed. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.” He waited until everyone’s eyes were firmly shut, then closed his own. “Speak to me Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!”

There was a great grinding noise as, Tom knew, the mouth of the statue of Salazar Slytherin dragged open, waking Apophis from its slumber. “Master,” it hissed, long and slow, as it descended to meet him. “Have you brought the reward you promised?”

“I have, Apophis,” Tom replied. “Your eyes?”

“They are closed, Master,” Apophis answered, and Tom opened his own to observe his familiar more closely than he could just by following its magical signature. It was coiling toward Harry, who yelped in surprise when the Basilisk’s giant tongue touched his hand. “I remember this one, Master’s mate. I do not know these two.” Apophis had moved on from Harry to scent the two old men. “They are old, not suitable for eating.”

“They are not meant to be eaten,” Tom explained. “They are very impressed with you and wanted to meet you.”

The serpent hissed with undisguised mirth. “Of course they are impressed, I am the greatest magical creature to ever grace the surface of this planet.” It wound its way over to the boar. “Then this is my reward? Master, it is dead.”

“It will still serve well to nourish you,” Tom replied. “I’m sorry, Apophis, I know you would have preferred your prey live.”

“That would have been rather unethical, Tom,” Dumbledore interjected. Tom spun toward him in abject horror. “I am given to understand that the venom of the Basilisk is incredibly painful.”

“How did you –”

“I can understand it well enough,” Dumbledore replied. “Not like you or Harry can, of course – I had to learn it the far more challenging way. On a related note, I believe it is safe to open our eyes?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Tom said shakily, trying to recall if he had ever said anything incriminating in Parseltongue in front of Dumbledore but coming up blank.

“Oh, magnificent!” Scamander exclaimed, opening his eyes and looking up at the Basilisk in undisguised wonder. “Tom, do you think she’d let me near her? Snakes can be rather quick to startle.”

“Not Apophis,” Tom said, but for good measure added, “Apophis, this is Mr Scamander. He studies animals such as yourself. If you let him examine you closely, he will tell the world of your magnificence and splendour.” Appealing to the Basilisk’s rather egotistical nature, something that Slytherin had instilled in it and Tom had only encouraged, would help smooth out the introduction to these people it had never met.

Apophis, its mouth and gullet already half-full with the dead boar, simply nodded as best it could.

“How wonderful!” Scamander was saying, tracing a scale with an aged finger, a parchment and self-writing quill floating next to him and sketching out the initial stages of a proper magizoological illustration. “I wonder if these scales are iridescent under sunlight – they’re very reminiscent of those of the non-magical rainbow boa, though of course much larger and thicker – nearly impenetrable, I’d say! And the eyes! Incredible, a fully opaque nictitating membrane that neutralises her deadly gaze. Such a thing would be indispensable to the witch or wizard who bred such a beautiful creature, of course, but mention of it has never been inscribed in any texts… Tom, how did you know?”

“Its eyes were shut when I first met it,” Tom replied. “I assume that Vo – that the person who opened the Chamber of Secrets last year had instructed it to do so.”

“There’s no need for secrecy, Tom,” Dumbledore said, as Scamander gestured excitedly over the Basilisk. “Newt is one of my oldest friends, and there is little I haven’t shared with him over the years. When I explained that the Chamber had been opened once more, he came to his own conclusions – and as is often the case for him, they were very close to the truth.”

“So he knows that my father wasn’t just Tom Riddle,” Tom said. “He knows that he was –”

“Voldemort, yes,” Scamander said, his tone unexpectedly calm and casual. “Don’t worry, I don’t judge you for it. It’s incredible, really, that the man who wanted to create upon this world a legacy of bloodshed and violence would instead produce an heir so fiercely determined to protect those around him, and that you and Harry… well, let’s just say it reminds an old man of tragedies past, and that we can always find hope in looking to the future.” He gave Dumbledore an odd look Tom could not quite understand, but the headmaster just shook his head, smiling sadly.

“You’re correct as always, Newt — it does not do to dwell on the past,” Dumbledore replied. “Now, do indulge me and tell me more about this magnificent creature.”

Tom smirked as Scamander began to extol the many beautiful attributes of the Basilisk. “Harry, let’s sit down,” he said, leading him to the foot of the statue, which was just the right height for them to perch upon. “They’ll be at it for a while, I think. Sit with me.”

Harry did, leaning into Tom’s shoulder. “How d’you think those two met?” he asked. “I can’t imagine someone like Mr Scamander being involved in the war. He’s treating the Basilisk like an overgrown puppy, I don’t see him having the stomach for bloodshed.”

“Life isn’t defined by the war Voldemort brought to Britain,” Tom said. “They likely knew each other long before his reign of terror. Possibly even back to Grindelwald’s day.”

“Grindelwald?” Harry asked, scrunching up his nose. “I remember that name, I think Professor Binns mentioned him at some point.”

“Professor Binns gave an entire lecture about Gellert Grindelwald and his rise to power in the early part of the century, darling.”

“Oh,” Harry sighed. “I don't remember. I can’t help it if his voice puts me to sleep. I think you and Hermione are the only ones who can actually pay attention in History of Magic.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “We will review the necessary texts later today, it’s bound to come up in exams.”

“Tom, it’s Christmas break,” Harry grumbled. “We’re supposed to be relaxing, not doing extra work.”

“Would you like me to inform Hermione that you’ve completely tuned out Binns’ introductory lecture on Gellert Grindelwald?”

Harry just sighed.

"What d'you think Mr Scamander meant?" Harry asked, pressing his face into Tom's arm. "Y'know, what he said that thing about finding hope in looking to the future?"

"I'm not quite sure," Tom said quietly, glancing up at Dumbledore and Scamander, both of them still engaged in deep conversation about the Basilisk. "A memory stirs – something about Dumbledore, I believe, but it's too foggy to recall properly."

"Oh, well," Harry replied, "that's fine. It'll come back in time if it's important, I'm sure."

“Harry, Tom,” Scamander called. “Do you think I might ask some questions? Both for you and our friend Apophis, here?”

Tom nodded, lifting himself from the stone foot and holding out his hand for Harry to do the same.

“So,” Sirius Black said, transforming back into his human form and pacing the clearing in the trees in which they'd begun regularly meeting, “I’ve been doing some research, and I can’t say I like what I’ve found.”

“Research?” Harry asked. “But how?”

“Visited my family’s old house in London,” he replied. “Luckily, the hexes meant to keep me out vanished when my mother died, but I still had to be in and out quickly. The Aurors are keeping an eye on the place, but I managed to find what I needed.” Sirius sat down in front of Tom and Harry, laying three books on the grass: Magick Moste Evile, Secrets of the Darkest Art, and Understanding the Soule. Tom felt his stomach do a backflip – Sirius had no doubt properly discovered what he was. His fears were confirmed only moments later when the man continued.

“So, Tom – Horcruxes?”

Tom’s look of horror apparently told Sirius everything he needed to know.

“Alright,” Harry’s godfather said, aggrieved, “so Harry was a Horcrux, or maybe still is, if I understood what I’ve been reading correctly. What I’m having a harder time understanding, however, is how Harry was made into a Horcrux in the first place if Voldemort didn’t have time to perform the ritual, and who it was that died to bring you back into the world. I’ve checked on the Dursleys – they’re all alive and well, unless there was another cousin I wasn’t aware of. Or perhaps a childhood friend of Harry’s?”

“Harry didn’t have any friends until I came along, thanks to that beastly cousin of his,” Tom replied darkly. “And I’ve told you already – I resurrected thanks to Harry’s love, not from a human sacrifice.”

“Right.” Sirius didn’t sound convinced. “Nothing I read suggested that that could be possible.”

“If we’re going to continue this discussion,” Tom said, “I must have it known that as it relates to the Unbreakable Vow we took, I consider any information shared about Horcruxes and how they connect to Voldemort to be included within the initial secret of my true nature. So no running off to Dumbledore with any of this once we capture Wormtail.”

“I don’t think it works like that, kid,” Sirius snorted.

“Are you willing to risk your life on your assumptions?” Sirius paled. “I thought not. So to answer your first question, Voldemort did complete the ritual needed to secure an object as his Horcrux – it was, if I recall correctly, meant to be his own wand, a rather stupid choice considering that, usually, the more one interacts with their own Horcrux, the more likely it is that the soul fragment inside will try to break free and reattach itself to the whole. In any case, I obviously found a better place to reside, and Harry and I don’t seem to have the same problem.”

“I don’t think I can agree that my godson was a better place for Voldemort’s soul to end up,” Sirius said, looking rather sick.

“Sirius, stop,” Harry said, wrapping his arms protectively around Tom. “I’m glad he found me.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Sirius replied, running a hand through his hair. “However, what’s done is done, I suppose.”

“As to your second question,” Tom continued, “there is very little properly understood about the true nature of Horcruxes, let alone those made of a living being. And that’s to say nothing of a human Horcrux. As far as I know, Harry is the first in recorded history. To say that his own soul greatly affected mine is an understatement to the grandest degree.”

“Fine,” Sirius barked. “So he brought you back on love alone. I can pretend to accept that. What I can’t just blindly accept is the idea that Voldemort, knowing about Horcruxes, waited until his planned murder of my godson to create one. There must be another one out there.”

Tom debated with himself for a moment. “If there were, what would you do?”

“I would find it and destroy it,” Sirius replied instantly. “Even if I couldn’t tell anyone else –”

“No!” Harry exclaimed. “You can’t, you really can’t!”

“Harry!” Sirius reprimanded. “Do you understand what Horcruxes do? If Voldemort’s made one, it tethers him to life. He’ll never truly be gone until it’s destroyed!”

“I know that!” Harry cried. “But that’s Tom’s soul, he needs it back!”

“So Voldemort did make another Horcrux,” Sirius concluded, looking at Tom. “And you… you want to... what, reabsorb it? What about Voldemort himself? So long as you exist, he’ll still be out there.”

Tom sighed. In for a Sickle, in for a Galleon, he supposed. “Yes, he made several,” he admitted. “Harry’s death was meant to be used for number six – a seven part soul, an auspicious number, to be sure, but Voldemort was an idiot. No one’s meant to break their soul up that many times.”

“No one’s meant to split their soul at all, Tom.” Sirius said, aghast. “Merlin’s sake, the soul is sacred, it –”

“I know that now,” Tom interrupted, his arms flinging out in front of him, unbidden, in exasperation, “which is why I’m going to undo what Voldemort did. I’ve already done it once, there’s only four pieces left now.”

“You mean, aside from Voldemort himself and the piece of yourself you must have left behind in Harry after resurrecting,” Sirius accused. Tom shrugged — no use in denying it.

“That piece is mine,” Harry said fiercely. “I don’t care that it used to be Voldemort’s soul, it’s Tom’s now, and I love it.”

“Harry, that’s not – you can’t –“ Sirius ran a hand over his face. “Argh, you kids are weird,” he sighed. “Anyway, going back to what you said, Tom – you’ve already reabsorbed the soul from one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes? Forgive my scepticism, but everything I’ve read so far indicates that the process is extremely painful and has a very high mortality rate – or, at least, that of the three known people who’ve tried, only one survived the attempt.”

“Well, it’s two out of four now,” Tom replied. “And to say that it was painful is a gross understatement. I do believe I would not have survived had Harry not been there.”

“I don’t understand – what did Harry have to do with it?”

“Well, you know – my love was what healed Tom in the first place,” Harry explained. “When he was reabsorbing the soul from the first Horcrux we found, I guess I… did it again? I didn’t do anything special, I was just there for him.”

“Harry, you are special by your very existence,” Tom argued, taking his hand in his. “Like I’ve told you before, no one should have the power to take such Dark magic and turn it into something so good.”

“‘He will have power the Dark Lord knows not,’” Sirius murmured. “I wonder… Dumbledore always said, but…”

“What’s that?” Tom demanded. “What was that, what you just said?”

Sirius looked at him strangely. “If you don’t already know, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell you…”

“That was part of the prophecy that led to Voldemort trying to kill Harry, wasn’t it?” Tom said, leaning forward eagerly. “He only ever heard the first few lines. Tell me the rest of it.” He was aware that he sounded a bit too commanding, too imperious, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“No, I’m certain it’s not a good idea,” Sirius replied emphatically.

“If you don’t tell me, I can just take it from you,” Tom sneered. “All I need is a minute or two inside your mind, and —“

“Tom!” Harry cried indignantly. “You are not using Legilimency on my godfather, he’s been through enough in Azkaban.”

“Fine,” Tom sighed in frustration. “But I still need to know what it says. After all, it concerns the both of us – or, well, you and who I was in my previous life.”

“I’d really like to hear it as well,” Harry said quietly. Professor Snape told me the first part, but –“

“Snape?” Sirius looked aghast. “They let Snivellus teach here?”

Harry frowned. “You haven’t seen him around?” He asked. “Well, to be fair, he doesn’t go out often, but yeah, he’s our Head of House.”

Sirius made a strangled sort of choking noise. “Harry,” he said, after recovering, “does he treat you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “Well, no worse than he treats anyone else, I s’pose.”

Sirius took a moment to process this before he spoke again. “Alright,” he said shakily, “I reckon you at least should know the full prophecy, and since you’ll just run off and tell Tom anyway…” Sirius took a deep breath. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

“Wow,” Harry breathed. “How do you remember all that?”

“We talked about it a lot, your parents and I, in the months leading up to the night Voldemort came to Godric’s Hollow,” Sirius explained. “Specifically, what it could mean by ‘the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,’ or ‘power the Dark Lord knows not.’ I think that rather striking scar, paired with the piece of Voldemort’s soul that you carry, answers the first part. As for the second… Well, Dumbledore always believed it would mean love. I was a sceptic, but… you’ve literally defeated a piece of Voldemort’s soul with love. It’s strange, really — prophecies aren’t usually so straightforward.”

“I hardly think there’s anything ‘straightforward’ about my being born out of a piece of Voldemort’s soul that Harry managed to heal,” Tom said drily.

Sirius laughed bitterly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“In any case,” Tom continued, “it seems rather clear to me what must be done. As already planned, I recollect the lost pieces of myself, and with Harry’s help – Harry’s love – I put them back where they belong. Once your name is cleared, you can help us gather my Horcruxes over the summer — Voldemort scattered them across Britain and it is imperative I regain control of them before they are discovered by another or Voldemort finds a way to utilise one of them to return to physical form.”

“Speaking of clearing my name,” Sirius said, cringing slightly at the idea of helping recover several pieces of Voldemort’s soul, “is everything in place for tomorrow?”

“Of course, Harry said, smiling. “We’ll be heading up to Gryffindor Tower at nine in the morning for presents with Hermione and the Weasleys. You keep watch on the map.” He pulled the worn parchment from his pocket and handed it over to Sirius.

“Once we’re inside, we’ll find a way to create a diversion – between five Weasleys, Hermione, and the two of us, I’m sure something will happen, probably a Fred and George prank gone wrong – we’ll grab the rat in the confusion, and take him to Dumbledore. When the name on the map switches from ‘Wormtail’ to ‘Peter,’ well… you’ll know we’ve succeeded.”

“And you’re sure he'll will believe you?”

“Absolutely,” Tom replied. “After fending off Voldemort twice now, I think we’ve earned the benefit of the doubt.”

“Right,” Sirius said hollowly. “I’d better change back and head for town before the Dementors start evening patrols. You two be safe, and –“ he swallowed hard – “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter 9: The Best Christmas

Chapter Text

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, though you wouldn't have known it from the dim light that managed to filter down to the Slytherin dorms and common room through the lake and the thick layer of ice which coated it. Tom kissed Harry good morning as he woke up, those lovely green eyes fluttering open at his touch, and, stretching and yawning, they slipped into their dressing gowns, gathered their presents, and made their way to the common room, where Ginny was waiting for them.

“Happy Christmas you two,” she greeted them, carrying her own not-insignificant pile of gifts. Ever since Harry and Tom had saved her life the year before, she’d seemed to be more comfortable around them. It probably helped, of course, that she had come to accept that the reason Harry didn’t reciprocate her feelings was less about her and more about who she wasn’t – namely, Tom.

“Happy Christmas, Ginny,” Harry replied. “You ready to go?”

The three of them trundled through the castle, Harry with some difficulty because one of his packages was longer than he was tall. After struggling up two flights of stairs with it tucked under his arm, Tom took pity on him and levitated it the rest of the way. Soon, the three of them were piling into the Gryffindor common room, Ron having been waiting for them outside.

They found most of their friends waiting for them. Only Hermione and Percy, who had left early to attend to his duties as Head Boy, were missing. Hermione, according to Ron, had stayed up late into the night working on her Arithmancy essay – the one that wasn’t even due until a week after Christmas break – and was probably sleeping in. Ron, impatient, began tearing into his presents anyway, and Harry shrugged and proceeded to do the same.

“Harry, what on earth is that?” Ron asked, staring at the long, slim package that Tom had levitated up to Gryffindor tower.

Harry, who was unfolding another new Weasley jumper, frowned. “You don’t recognise your mother’s own knitting, Ron?”

“Not the jumper, Harry,” he replied, exasperated. “That really big present – I bet Draco sent that to show off.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Harry said. “It didn’t come with a note – maybe there’s one inside.”

“Well go on then – open it!”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He tore open the packaging, and a collective gasp went through the room as a brand new, masterfully crafted broomstick rolled out onto the floor.

“That’s a Firebolt, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. “Blimey, who d’you think sent that?”

“I think you must’ve been right, Ron,” one of the twins said. “The Malfoy’s are the only ones we know rich enough to drop hundreds of Galleons on a broom like that.”

“Can’t be,” Harry replied. “There’s no note inside, either. Draco would never give someone a gift without making sure they knew exactly who it was from.”

“That’s because he didn’t,” Tom said, realising exactly who had sent the Firebolt and thinking quickly. “It’s from me, Harry.”

Harry spun around and stared at him, mouth agape. “ You , Tom?” he asked, flabbergasted. “But I thought you said, in Diagon Alley –”

Tom leaned over to embrace Harry, pressing his mouth against the shell of his ear as a means of subterfuge. “It’s not actually from me,” Tom whispered, slipping into Parseltongue, “but the others are not to know who most likely sent it to you.”

“You don’t mean – Sirius?!”

Tom nodded.

Harry stared down at the broomstick in awe, his eyes a bit misty. “Wow,” he breathed. “I can’t believe that – I mean, thank you, Tom.”

Nothing else unwrapped that morning matched the splendour of the Firebolt, but it was appreciated all the same. By the time they were done, Harry, Tom, and Ginny had all bundled up in matching dove-grey jumpers with the Slytherin crest knitted into them, and there was a veritable mountain of sweets piled on an end table that the lot of them were sharing for breakfast. Harry was examining his new broomstick, and Tom was flipping idly through an old tome of Dark magic that surely had come straight from the Malfoy’s private library, the slip of parchment that had come with it cast aside next to him.

“Tom, what’s this?” Harry had found the note, and was turning it in his fingers as he sat by Tom’s side.

“An invitation, darling,” Tom replied. “Draco’s asked us to attend his family’s New Year’s Gala. Feel free to read it.”

Harry flipped it open, skimming through the lines. “‘My dearest Tom and Harry,’” he read, snorting. “Wow, Draco’s really laying it on thick, isn’t he?”

“It’s a formal invitation letter, Harry,” Tom replied. “There’s an expected level of etiquette that must be followed.”

“Still,” Harry said, stifling a giggle. “It’s all a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”

“Just wait until we arrive at the Gala,” Tom smirked. “You will witness levels of pretention of which you were previously unaware could possibly exist.”

“You want to go, then?” Harry asked. “Oh, who am I kidding, of course you do. I almost forgot who I was talking to for a moment.”

“It’s an important event, darling,” Tom said, smiling down at him. “It will be a chance for the both of us to make a proper first impression upon the upper echelons of our society.”

“Right, of course,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Oh, this is rich – ‘Father has finally decided that it is more important to acknowledge the new heir of Slytherin than to continue snubbing him for ruining his plans to discredit Dumbledore,’” he read, imitating Draco’s lofty voice with surprising accuracy. “‘Therefore, you and Harry James Potter are formally invited to attend the Malfoy family gala on the eve of the New Year.’ God, imagine being so hung up on lineage and personal slights that it takes you more than half a year to decide whether your kid’s best friends are allowed at the party.”

Tom snickered fondly. “Welcome to pure blood nonsense, darling.”

“Oh, you all got started without me!”

Hermione had finally appeared, her half-Kneazle Crookshanks in her arms, a stack of presents floating behind her. Her hair was particularly bushy, as unbrushed as her pyjamas were unsmoothed, still rumpled from sleep.

“I told you that you were spending too much time on that essay,” Ron said, his teeth dark with chocolate. “You were the one who insisted on staying up past midnight to work on it, don’t get mad at us for wanting to dig into our presents while you slept the day away!”

“Sorry Hermione,” Harry said. “For what it’s worth, I saved your present until you were up. I didn’t want to open it without you here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Harry,” Hermione replied, sitting down next to him. “I do hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as they flickered over the pile of gifts. “Harry, has someone sent you a new broomstick?”

“It’s the brand new Firebolt!” Ron exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. “I don’t even care that Slytherin’s going to absolutely trounce us now, I just can’t wait to try it out – I mean, if that’s okay with you, Harry.”

“Of course it is,” Harry replied emphatically. “We can all take turns on it, if you’d like. I don’t mind sharing.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hermione said shrilly, her eyes wide in concern. “I mean, do we know who sent Harry that broom?”

“It was Tom, apparently,” one of the Weasley twins said.

“Tom?” Hermione asked, her shoulders untensing slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, Hermione,” Tom said, as she looked at him as though she hadn’t even realised he was there. “Harry needed a new broomstick, and so I provided.”

“You can afford something like that?” Hermione asked, incredulous. “Isn’t this supposed to be the premiere broomstick on the market?”

“My stepfather left me with quite a bit of money,” Tom replied. “I’ve converted enough of his Muggle money into Galleons that I was easily able to owl-order a new broom for Harry.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, biting her lip. “I just thought – no, it’s silly.”

“What is it?” Tom smiled at her, tilting his head to the side.

“I thought –” Hermione said, flushing deeply and holding Crookshanks tightly, “I thought maybe Sirius Black – everyone says he’s out for Harry. But I shouldn’t have assumed that –”

“No Hermione,” Tom interrupted. “It’s good you’re looking out for Harry’s safety. I appreciate it greatly.”

“Tom!” Harry said indignantly, “I don’t need anyone to look out for me, I’m entirely capable of doing that myself.”

“Of course you are, darling,” Tom replied, smiling indulgently at him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said, setting Crookshanks beside her on the sofa. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, I just –”

“Don’t let that horrible monster run free!” Ron exclaimed. “I don’t know why you even brought him down to the common room, you know he’s got it in for Scabbers!”

“Ron!” Hermione replied crossly. “Crookshanks deserves to be here for Christmas just as much as Scabbers does. He’s just a cat, he can’t help chasing rats!”

An idea bloomed in Tom’s mind — Crookshanks — Wormtail — Capture. He looked towards Crookshanks, smiling as he met his eyes, flicked his gaze towards where the rat sat shivering in Ron’s pocket, then glanced back to the cat, giving it a fleeting and subtle wink.

Crookshanks took the cue and leapt into action.

“ARRGH!” Ron cried as the cat pounced upon him. Wormtail was off like a shot, fleeing Ron’s dressing gown pocket and darting under a chair.

“After that rat, Harry!” Tom commanded, unable to keep a smile off his face.

“Right!” Harry said, grinning as he dove toward where Wormtail had taken refuge. But the rat was too quick, scampering away towards a sofa with spindly legs at the far end of the room.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Tom yelled, aiming his wand at the sofa as Wormtail slipped beneath it. “Keep a hold on Crookshanks, Ron, I’ll fetch Scabbers!”

“What’ve you done to my rat?!” Ron cried, wrestling with the giant, ginger-furred Kneazle.

“Nothing that can hurt him,” Tom replied as he crawled under the sofa, retrieving the tiny prone body of the Animagus and shoving him into his pocket. “I’ve only paralysed – no, I don’t believe it – I’ve missed.” Tom wormed his way back out from underneath, pointing towards the corner as he stood. “He darted behind that bookcase before I could grab him.”

Fred and George jumped up, using their hard-earned strength from four years as the Gryffindor Quidditch team Beaters to drag the bookcase away from the wall. “No luck, Ron,” one of them said, panting, when they’d finally managed to muscle the heavy shelves out a few inches. “Looks like Scabbers made a run for it – he’ll turn up though, for sure.”

“On CHRISTMAS!” Ron roared, rounding on Hermione and shoving the Kneazle back into her arms. “I’ve TOLD you Crookshanks has it out for Scabbers, and you let him run wild anyway! Now he’s out there somewhere, alone, with no food –”

“He’s probably just found a hole in the wall –”

“And that’s any better?!” Ron demanded. “Scabbers needs peace and quiet, not to have to hide in some dark, dirty place in the wall!”

Hermione leapt up from her spot on the sofa and ran from the room, tears streaming down her face.

“Ron!” Tom snapped. “Stop blaming Hermione for Crookshanks just doing what cats do.”

“And you’re no better!” Ron accused, turning to face Tom with fury in his eyes. “Using magic on Scabbers when he’s ill? What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking,” Tom replied, “that it would be much easier to recapture him if he couldn’t move.”

“You could have KILLED him!”

“Come along, Harry,” Tom said calmly, stepping back. “Let’s give Ron some space to cool down. We’ll see you all at lunch.” Harry picked up his new Firebolt and other presents, including the unopened one from Hermione, and Tom gently steered him toward the portrait hole that led out of the Gryffindor common room.

“Did you get him?” Harry asked excitedly as soon as the portrait that guarded the entrance had swung shut. Tom opened the mouth of his pocket to show Harry the rat, stiff as a board, his beady eyes darting back and forth.

“If we hurry, we can catch Dumbledore in his office before he heads down to the Great Hall,” Tom said, taking Harry’s hand. Together, they marched through the winding corridors of the castle with intention, pausing only once they had made it to the gargoyle that served as guard for Dumbledore’s tower.

“Er –” Harry faltered, “d’you think the password’s still the same?”

“Only one way to find out,” Tom replied. “Acid Pops!”

To their shared relief, the gargoyle hopped aside, and the two boys stepped onto the staircase that would carry them up to the tower. As they reached the top, however, the door opened and Dumbledore stepped out, draped in lurid purple robes.

“Boys!” He exclaimed upon noticing them. “What a pleasant surprise, Merry Christmas! And what a stunning new broomstick, Harry. What brings the two of you to my office?”

“We have something important to tell you, sir,” Harry replied. “It’s rather urgent.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore’s eyebrows raised in interest. “I was just about to head down to the Great Hall, would you care to walk with me?”

Tom shook his head. “What we’ve got to say must be done in private,” he insisted.

“Well then,” Dumbledore said, “by all means – do come in.”

They followed him into the great circular tower, where the headmaster crossed the room to take a seat, gesturing for Tom and Harry to do the same. Tom hesitated a moment, then pulled the frozen rat from his dressing gown pocket, placed it on Dumbledore’s desk, and sat as well.

Dumbledore frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, Tom,” he said, “this is Ronald Weasley’s pet rat, and it’s been placed under a Body Bind Curse.”

“No,” Harry replied. “Well, yes – but he’s also an Animagus.”

Dumbledore looked over at him in great surprise. “An Animagus?”

“That’s right, sir,” Harry answered. “We have reason to believe that this rat – this man – worked for Voldemort, and has been hiding in the Weasleys’ house since shortly after his downfall. Tom and I have been waiting for the chance to capture him for a few weeks now.”

“Indeed?” Dumbledore tutted. “Forgive my apprehension, but if you believed this to be the case, why did you not alert myself or Mr Weasley’s Head of House? Why take this upon yourselves, given the obvious danger if it turned out to be true?”

“Because of the er – source of our information,” Harry explained. “He’s not considered by most to be exceptionally trustworthy.”

Tom took a deep breath – they’d practised this conversation for days now, and this was the moment that would determine whether their efforts were worthwhile or all for naught. “It’s Sirius Black, sir,” he said quietly. “We’ve met him, and he’s not a murderer.”

There was a very long silence as Dumbledore took in their words, his pale blue eyes boring into them. Very briefly, Tom met his gaze and allowed him to see his surface thoughts, just hazy recollections of their latest meeting with Sirius with none of the detail. It was a risk, allowing Dumbledore into his mind, but he had to be convinced that the two of them hadn’t been Confunded. Finally, Dumbledore clapped his hands, and a very small house-elf appeared.

“Binny,” he said gently, “would you kindly fetch Ronald Weasley from Gryffindor tower and bring him here? You may tell him I have his rat.”

Harry stared at the headmaster in open horror as the elf disappeared once more. “You’re giving him back, just like that?” he cried. “But you didn’t even –”

Dumbledore held up a hand to cut him off. “Certainly not, Harry,” he said. “I have come to trust the two of you greatly, even if you do have a penchant for finding yourselves in less than ideal situations. If there is even the slightest chance that what you have told me is true, it must be investigated. However, I do not wish for Mr Weasley to live with the grief of believing his pet has simply run away.”

“Oh.”

It took only a few minutes for Ron to appear, ushered through the door by Binny the house-elf. “What’s going on?” he was saying. “This elf says you’ve got my rat – and what are Harry and Tom doing here?” His eyes narrowed as they honed in on Wormtail, still paralysed, atop Dumbledore’s desk. “Scabbers!” he cried. “What’s – what’ve you done to him?!”

“Thank you for joining us, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore greeted him. “Please, have a seat.”

“I don’t want to sit down, I want my rat!”

Dumbledore’s face was rather grave. “I’m afraid I can’t give him back just yet,” he replied. “Harry and Tom have received some rather alarming information which suggests that Scabbers is not a rat at all.”

“What?!” Ron yelped. “They’re mad – just a few minutes ago, Tom tried to –” he broke off mid sentence and stared at him. “You did it, didn’t you? You paralysed Scabbers, pretended he ran off, and then you – you – you rat-napped him!”

“Please, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore said calmly, “do sit down. If Harry and Tom are correct, then by doing so they may have rescued your entire family from great danger. If not, then the simple test I am about to perform will cause no harm to your pet, and you may have him back.”

Ron crossed his arms in defiance but finally sat down, glaring at Tom.

“Now then,” Dumbledore said, standing and raising his wand. “This will only take a moment –” A blinding blue light shot out his wand and hit the rat. For a moment it seemed as though nothing had happened, but then Wormtail began to rapidly grow, his arms and legs lengthening, his snout transforming into a human head, and his tail shrinking back into his body. The next thing they knew, they were staring at the paralysed form of Peter Pettigrew.

“Oh, Peter,” Dumbledore sighed in pained disappointment, looking suddenly rather tired.

“Who is that?!” Ron shrieked – his eyes were wide as saucers and his face had gone rapidly from a blotchy, angry red to a stark white, no doubt as the realisation that he had let a strange, grown man sleep in his bedroom for two and a half years set in.

“This,” Dumbledore replied, making his way around the desk, “is Peter Pettigrew, who until this moment has been presumed dead for the past twelve years.” He waved his wand again and the Body Bind Curse was removed, but as Wormtail scrambled off the desk, Dumbledore flicked his wand once more and tight ropes appeared around the man’s wrists and ankles. “I apologise, Peter,” he lamented, “but I can’t let you leave until we’ve cleared up the possibility that you may have been working for Lord Voldemort – and I must say, disguising yourself as a schoolchild's pet is not the course of action I would expect from an innocent man.”

“Pettigrew?” Ron asked, rather green about the gills now. “I’ve heard my dad talk about him – didn’t Sirius Black kill him?”

“Apparently not,” Dumbledore said. “Harry, Tom – am I correct in assuming that you knew of this man’s identity prior to now?”

“Yes,” Tom admitted, “but we felt that that might have gone beyond the realm of believability were you not to witness it with your own eyes.”

“Quite,” Dumbledore replied.

“P-Professor Dumbledore!” Wormtail seemed to have recovered slightly from the shock of being discovered, as he looked up imploringly at the headmaster. “Oh, thank Merlin, if S-Sirius is on school grounds, surely he’s come for me! I’ve been in hiding ever since –”

“Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore interrupted, “how long has Scabbers lived with your family?”

“I dunno,” Ron replied, “more than a decade, I think?”

“Peter,” Dumbledore said, turning back to the scrawny, pale man sitting, bound, on the floor in front of his desk, “if you wish me to believe you’ve been living as a rat for all these years for your protection, you will have to spin me a more convincing story than that.”

“Please, Professor,” he moaned, “if only you knew what Sirius is capable of…”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, ignoring Wormtail, “do you have means of contacting your informant?”

“No,” Harry replied, “but he’ll have been watching. He should be here any moment now…”

As if on cue, there was the sound of a whine and scratching at the door. Harry got up to let Padfoot in, who immediately coiled around him and dropped the Marauders Map from his mouth into Harry’s waiting hands. Dumbledore smiled in amusem*nt as he took in the Animagus’ hulking figure.

“A dog,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “How very appropriate.”

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore conjured his Patronus, Tom and Harry both staring up at the silvery phoenix in glossy-eyed wonder. “To Minerva: please report to my office – there is a student from your house who has just had quite a shock. And to Remus: I am sorry to ask this, given that there are only three days until… however, I require your presence.” Tom watched in undisguised amazement as the magnificent bird soared away through the nearest wall, presumably to deliver the messages it had been given.

He hadn’t realised that a Patronus could be used in such a practical manner.

Professor McGonagall must have been very nearby, as she came bursting in only moments later. “I came as fast as I could, Albus, you said one of my students –” She broke off with an audible gasp as she took in the sight of the man squirming against the ropes on the floor. “Good heavens, is that – Pettigrew?!”

“You’ll find he’s been disguising himself as Mr Weasley’s pet rat for the last several years,” Dumbledore replied. How that man was keeping himself so calm and collected, Tom couldn’t fathom. “I think a strong cup of tea and someone to talk to are in order. Oh – and would you alert the Ministry? There has been a clear miscarriage of justice revealed today.”

“Yes,” McGonagall said faintly. “Yes, that would give anyone a shock. Come along, Mr Weasley.”

Ron, still stark white, glanced at Tom as he left. “I’m sorry I –” he stammered. “I didn’t – I didn’t know…”

Professor Lupin entered nearly simultaneously to Ron’s departure, looking very ragged and worn. He froze in the doorway, but not at the sight of Wormtail, still struggling against the ropes binding him. His eyes were trained instead on the great black dog by Harry’s side, panting happily as Harry scratched behind his ears.

“Albus,” he said, his face draining of colour, “do you know who that dog is?”

“I’m well aware, Remus,“ Dumbledore replied, “but this is not the only reunion we’ve had today.”

Lupin finally looked up, taking in the sight of his former friend. At first he just seemed confused, but slow recognition dawned over him as he went, if possible, even whiter. “ Peter?” he whispered. “How is this possible, unless…”

“Please, take a seat.” Lupin didn’t have to be told twice, staggering into the chair Ron had recently vacated. “Sirius, if you could join us properly – I believe that it is, at long last, time for the truth.”

Sirius swept Harry into a tight hug as he transformed back into a human, lifting him clear off his feet and spinning him in the air. “You did it!” he exclaimed as Harry yelped in happy surprise. “You really did it! My incredible, brilliant, wonderfully clever godson!”

“Tom helped!” Harry insisted breathlessly.

“Fine,” Sirius said hoarsely, setting Harry down but leaving one hand on his shoulder as he gazed at him fondly. “My amazing godson, and his utterly mental but ultimately just as incredible boyfriend.”

“Sirius, have a seat as well,” Dumbledore said. “We have quite a bit to cover, I believe.”

“I’ll stand,” Sirius said, his hand still on Harry’s shoulder as his godson resumed his spot in his chair. “As long as that scum is in the room, I’ll stand. I let my guard down around him once – once – and twelve innocent people died. I’ll not make the same mistake again.”

“As you wish,” Dumbledore replied. “But now, I believe some explanations are in order.”

“You switched, didn’t you?” Lupin asked shakily. “You switched which one of you would be Secret Keeper, that’s why you never told me where they were. I thought it was because you believed I was the spy, but really, you couldn’t.”

Sirius nodded. “We did,” he confirmed. “Last minute. To be honest, we couldn’t be sure you weren’t the spy, that’s why we never told you we switched, either.” Sirius gazed at him mistily. “I’m sorry, Moony. I should’ve trusted —”

“Don’t,” Lupin interrupted, his voice rough. “Don’t apologise. I’ve spent twelve years believing the worst of you, never stopping once to consider that I might have had it all wrong.”

“I don’t blame you,” Sirius replied, glaring down at the man struggling on the ground. “This piece of Doxy dung was so convincing, ‘Oh, Sirius,’” he mocked, “‘do you really think I’m the right man for the job?’ ‘But Sirius, what if I’m not brave enough?’ By the end, he had me believing I’d convinced him of his own strength, but it was his plan all along… Instead of becoming Secret Keeper, I performed the Fidelius Charm for them, and a week later, Lily and James were…”

There was a long silence, filled only by the gentle whirring of the strange spindly silver objects Dumbledore kept in his office. After a long minute, Lupin spoke again.

“Sirius, I have to ask,” he faltered, “how – how is it that you kept your sanity? So many years in Azkaban…”

Sirius barked with mirthless laughter. “To be honest, I’m no longer sure that I did,” he replied. “Oh, I came out of Azkaban far stronger than most, to be sure. I kept myself from complete madness by reminding myself that I was innocent, by transforming into Padfoot when it became too much to bear, the dog’s emotions simpler and easier to manage than a human’s. But when I arrived in London, I was still only focused on revenge, on making my way to Hogwarts – where I knew Peter was hiding – and killing him. It was Harry who saved me.”

“Oh, indeed?” Dumbledore asked. “Please, do explain.”

“I’d made my way to Diagon Alley by that point,” Sirius continued. “I was hiding in the shadows, eating what scraps I could find, doing my best to build up my strength. Harry… he found me there. For all he knew, I was only a mangy stray dog, but his heart went out to me anyway. He’s so much like his mother, don’t you think, Remus? He made sure I was fed and kept coming back, day after day, just to look after me.

“Slowly, the thoughts of revenge and anger bled away – all I cared about now was one more chance, one more day to see my godson, happy and healthy and thriving. By the time he spirited me off to Hogwarts with him I was so incredibly restored, both in body and mind. I’m not sure I would’ve been cogent enough to work together with him and Tom had it not been for that one wonderful month in August.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said, smiling gently at Harry. “Somehow, I can’t say that I’m surprised. You’re right, Sirius – he is much like his mother, quick to love. However, like his father, he is also clearly quick to forgive. How is it, exactly, that you came to know each other properly?”

Tom stilled – they had worked out this part of the story together carefully, an alternative set of events to those that had led to the first proper meeting of godfather and godson. He had tested Sirius, once or twice, with silent Legilimency and found that the man was adequate enough at holding his own, but would his shields hold up to Dumbledore’s skills?

He needn’t have worried. Sirius laughed and looked down at Harry as he spoke, negating the headmaster’s ability to look into his mind. “My own stupidity,” he replied. “I grew somewhat careless, spending my days in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. These two spotted me on Hallowe’en, coming out of my Animagus form. Thankfully, Harry had already come to trust me as a dog, and was willing to listen when I explained what had actually happened. Tom took… a bit more time to convince.”

Tom stifled a laugh. That was one way to describe taking a mutual Unbreakable Vow to begin building shaky walls of trust between the two of them.

“Peter,” Dumbledore said, “I notice you’ve been rather quiet this entire time. No words of defence against these accusations?”

“Defend?” Wormtail spat. “Why should I have to defend myself against these lies? The traitor’s obviously Confunded the boys, and –”

“Answer me this, Peter –” Sirius spoke over him, “if I were the traitor, why does Harry still live? I’ve had more than enough opportunity to end his life.”

“You’re obviously plotting something – a plan to restore the Dark Lord to his former greatness, to deliver the Boy-Who-Lived into his waiting hands and grant him his long-awaited dreams of killing –”

Too late Wormtail realised his mistake, breaking off mid-sentence with a jolt.

“Peter,” Lupin said quietly, “for one who claims not to support him, you sound awfully reverent of Voldemort.”

There was another long silence before the door to Dumbledore’s office burst open behind them.

“Albus!” a voice rang out. “I came as soon as Minerva fire-called me. I’m afraid I didn’t fully understand – something about apprehending a fugitive and a miscarriage of justice? I – Merlin’s beard! You’ve done it! You’ve caught Sirius Black – what is he doing so close to Mr Potter? Why isn’t he in chains?! And who is that?”

“If you’ll look closely, Cornelius,” Dumbledore replied, “I believe you’ll have all the answers to your questions.”

“But – No, it can’t be!”

“I’m afraid it is, Minister,” Lupin said quietly.

“But that’s – that’s Peter Pettigrew!”

Tom snickered.

Chapter 10: Galas and Ghastly Escapes

Chapter Text

“Are you saying that you two were the ones to clear Sirius Black’s name?”

The papers had talked about nothing else for days; the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had been officially pardoned two days after Christmas, after a rapid investigation following the confession that had been wrangled out of Peter Pettigrew during his interrogation at the Ministry of Magic. Little had been said though, thus far, about who, exactly, had brought the traitor to justice.

Tom smoothed out the sleeve of his dress robes and took a long sip of warm Butterbeer from his goblet. “That’s right, Draco,” he said. “After all, who else but his own godson was going to find a way to ensure Sirius’ freedom?”

It was the Malfoy New Year gala, and Tom was in his element. He stood, side by side with Harry, draped in brand new matching dress robes. Midnight blue for Tom and forest green for Harry, with silver accents and a subtle pattern of shimmery pinpricks that sparkled like stars when the light hit them, they were courtesy of a private trip to Hogsmeade the day prior, the boys escorted by none other than Harry’s own godfather himself. Sirius hadn’t exactly been happy that his godson was consorting with Malfoys, but having been raised in pure-blood etiquette himself, he had understood the social ramifications of rejecting such an invite. So now here they were, and, swathed in such finery and with Harry at his side, Tom felt downright invincible.

“You don’t understand,” Draco replied, setting his own cup down and gesturing emphatically. “No one even knew Black was never given a fair trial – the Black family heir – if he didn’t, who even knows how many others didn’t receive one either?”

Tom gave him a sly smile.

“Oh –” Draco said, his eyes widening. “Oh, you do understand.”

“Wait, I don’t understand,” Harry said, looking between the two of them. “What does that mean?”

“For someone who’s such an important part of history,” Blaise Zabini cut in, sidling up to them, “you sure are terrible at the subject. After the war, people thought to be associated with the Dark Lord were rounded up en masse and sentenced to imprisonment within Azkaban. The favourite for Minister at the time became known for his brutal, efficient trials, and while it was suspected that he had begun skipping this step entirely, there was never any proof – the Ministry was in shambles at that point, several high-ranking officials finding themselves in Azkaban along with the common rabble. Those with the money and connections to do so managed to plead down to lesser sentences or escape unjust imprisonment altogether, but others…”

He trailed off, and Harry stared at him in utter horror. “So – you’re saying there’s others in Azkaban who don’t deserve to be there?”

“Harry,” Tom replied, “by your estimation, almost no one deserves to be there. Think about what the Dementors do to you – now imagine experiencing that every moment of every day, for the rest of your life.” Harry shivered, and Tom pulled him close. “But yes, to answer your question, there are almost certainly countless innocents imprisoned within those walls.”

“That’s horrible.”

“But Harry,” Draco said, “that’s why clearing Black’s name is so important – now there’s proof of what the Ministry’s done. Father says they’re going to have to review each and every case handled within nearly a five year period from after the war because there’s no way to know whether the trial records are forged or legitimate. That’s dozens, maybe hundreds of people who are potentially innocent of their crimes. So many people were being coerced into working for the Dark Lord, or held under the Imperius Curse, it’ll be hard to know exactly who belongs and who doesn’t.”

“Of course,” Zabini added, frowning, “That’s potentially hundreds of people headed straight for St Mungo’s. They’ll have to open a new ward. Your godfather got very, very lucky, Potter, that he’s as sane as he is.”

“So I’ve been told,” Harry said uneasily.

“Oi, Potter!” Nott had joined the group. “Good to see you here – you clean up real nice when you’re not all scruffy from Quidditch practice.”

“Harry isn’t scruffy,” Tom scowled. “He’s windswept, there’s a difference, Nott.”

“Yeah, well, you’re biassed,” Nott replied. “Honestly, I’m surprised you made the guest list, Potter. Riddle I get, being the heir of Slytherin and all that, but a Potter at a Malfoy gala? It’s a sign of the end times.”

Tom scoffed. “You and I both know that the only reason the Potters didn’t make the Sacred Twenty-Eight is because of their strong pro-Muggle leanings, and between them and the Weasleys, one of the families had to go. Otherwise it would have been the Sacred Twenty- Nine, and that’s a prime number, whereas twenty-eight is a multiple of seven, the most magical of numbers.”

“Wait,” Nott replied. “Are you trying to say that my great-grandfather based the families included on numerology?”

“Of course,” Tom said, sipping his drink. “If you’d have taken Arithmancy, you would understand it better.”

“Father has… reconsidered some of his views on the Potters,” Draco added. “Well, at least one Potter, considering that he’s my friend – and the heir of Slytherin’s boyfriend. It helps that he made a good impression last summer, even after…” Draco trailed off – the other Slytherins didn’t know that Lucius Malfoy had been directly responsible for the opening of the Chamber of Secrets the year prior. “Well, it doesn’t matter, either way he’s been… different. I almost considered asking if I could invite Ron in fact, seeing as he is a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight as well as my friend – but that would’ve left Hermione out, and if I’ve only invited my fellow Slytherins, it doesn’t look so bad…”

“Perhaps we could all meet up in Diagon Alley this summer,” Harry suggested. “If your father met Hermione somewhere neutral, he could see how brilliant she is before making assumptions about her because she’s Muggle-born.”

“Maybe…” Draco said slowly. “I don’t know, it’s bizarre enough seeing him not fuss so much about the Weasleys, I can’t imagine him embracing Muggle-borns with open arms.”

“Hermione is also my friend,” Tom pointed out. “And while I know we’re still young, those who hold with the importance of family legacies will begin to fall in line with the heir of Slytherin, in time.”

“Right,” Draco said, a little bit more confidently. “Say, do you think Ginny would like to attend one of my family’s galas? She’s a Weasley and a Slytherin.”

“Ginny?” Tom asked. “I’ve never even seen you talk to Ginny, let alone consider her a friend.”

Draco blushed.

“Draco!” Harry demanded. “Do you fancy Ginny now? What about Pansy?”

“Oh, er –” Draco said awkwardly. “We broke up, actually. We’re still friends, it’s just… Her Boggart really bothered her, and she became distant. Not unlike you did, Tom, after Harry nearly died.”

“The fear of losing someone you care about can be devastating, Draco,” Tom said quietly.

“Apparently,” Draco replied. “Anyway, we tried going on a couple of dates to Madam Puddifoot’s, but then I wasn’t enjoying myself. And then Pansy said that her grades were suffering because we spent all our time together, and I guess being friends is just better for us. We’ve known each other since we were toddlers, for Salazar’s sake.”

“Taking her to Madam Puddifoot’s was your first mistake,” Tom said darkly.

“Huh?” Zabini looked at him strangely. “What would you know? You’ve never been to Hogsmeade.”

“I’ve heard things,” Tom said quickly, banishing the vague memory of being roped into inviting some nameless, faceless Slytherin girl to the tea shop in the 1940’s. “It sounds utterly unpleasant.”

“Right?!” Draco agreed. “I promise, Tom, if you ever saw the place… it’s hideous. Singing portraits on the walls, great big pink bows on all the curtains. I don’t understand why the girls like it.”

“Wait!” Harry exclaimed. “So, just like that, you’re not… You’re just friends again?” Harry was looking up at Tom in alarm, as if hadn’t considered that a possibility when Tom had pulled away from him.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Tom said, brushing a kiss over Harry’s forehead. “I’m not going to leave you. I know – come have a dance with me.”

“Oh, but –” Harry faltered. “But I don’t know how.”

“Just follow my lead,” Tom said, setting down his goblet and leading Harry onto the dance floor. “Place your hands like this – good – now watch my feet and do the same as I do, but in reverse.”

Harry stumbled a few times as Tom led him into a slow waltz, his feet unsteady and unsure. After a few bars of music, however, Harry fell into the rhythm, and their dance became more fluid, more in tune as the usual warmth blossomed between them. Soon they were spinning effortlessly, two planets in orbit around each other, lost in each other's eyes and oblivious to the others dancing around them.

“It’s almost like flying,” Harry said breathlessly. “If I fall though, I know you’ll catch me.”

“I will,” Tom agreed, “though you’re doing brilliantly. You don’t need me to catch you anymore.”

“I do,” Harry argued, as Tom spun him round quickly. “I’ll always need you.”

“And you’ll always have me,” Tom replied. “Is this still about Draco and Pansy? I told you not to worry.”

“But I do, sometimes,” Harry said. “Like when we were trying to learn the Patronus Charm, and you didn’t want to use the memory of our first kiss. And sometimes you get this look in your eye, like you’re hungry for something more. I worry that I’m not enough.”

Tom pulled him close. “I can’t lie to you Harry – I will always want more. I will always want everything.” He switched into Parseltongue as he twirled Harry around once more. “Voldemort always wanted everything, even when we were just a small child, and that hasn’t changed. I promise, though, there is nothing and no one I lo –” Tom choked on his words. “There is nothing I’ll ever want more than having you in my life,” he finished awkwardly in English, spinning to a slow stop as the tune ended.

Harry’s hand flew to Tom’s face as they stilled, his fingers brushing gently over his cheekbone as he leaned up to kiss him. “I love you too, Tom,” he whispered as he pulled away from the kiss, as Tom’s heart flew into his throat, as Tom’s fingers twitched, desperate to pull Harry close again.

The spell lasted only a moment before it shattered, Tom becoming aware quite suddenly of the other dancers, all adults, tittering at the innocent display of adolescent affection amidst them. His face grew hot – this wasn’t at all the impression he had wanted to make with the impressive, important people who attended an event like this. He had wanted to mingle, to introduce himself properly, to begin forming connections –

But he was once again getting a bit ahead of himself, wasn’t he? The first time Voldemort had been invited to an event like this, he too had just established himself as the heir of Slytherin, but he had been sixteen then, nearly an adult. Tom now was only thirteen – or fourteen, rather, it was his birthday, after all – and he still had more than four years of school ahead of him. Maybe it wasn’t the time and place to try and act more grown up than he was. Maybe this was just supposed to be the time to spend with his classmates – his friends, if he dared to call them that – and to dance with Harry on the magically warmed dance floor, with stars twinkling overhead and enchanted snowflakes falling all around them.

He still flushed with embarrassment as he pulled Harry back through the crowd to rejoin the others.

“Ah, the lovebirds return,” Nott said, snickering at Tom’s burning face. “You two made quite a show of it out there. I’ll be surprised if you don’t make the Prophet.”

“Us? ” Harry asked, aghast. “But – why?”

“Potter,” Zabini said with a pained exhaustion. “You’re the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. You’re Sirius Black’s godson. Your first time out at a semi-public event and you’re dressed to the nines and on the arm of an unknown, objectively gorgeous young man. That’s bound to make news.”

“People are starting to whisper about Tom as well, mind,” Nott added. “It’s mostly behind closed doors, but I’ve heard my father talking. You don’t open the Chamber of Secrets and declare yourself the heir of Slytherin without word reaching that crowd.”

“What crowd?” Harry asked.

“You know,” Nott replied. “Old Slytherin families. Namely Death Eaters – the Dark Lord’s supporters – and those who knew them. They say the Dark Lord himself was a Parselmouth, so naturally, some rather ridiculous rumours are spreading that he’s your father, Tom.”

Tom hesitated only a moment before replying. “Congratulations Nott,” he said, “you get to tell your father that it’s true.”

“What?!”

“Tom, are you sure you want to..?” Harry asked, squeezing his hand.

“I was planning on keeping that secret, but it’s bound to come out publicly sooner or later,” Tom replied. “Draco’s father already knows, that man Slughorn knows. Besides, I don’t want the public to think I’m ashamed of something entirely out of my control.”

“You’re having us on,” Zabini accused. “Like Potter’d ever go out with the son of the man who killed his parents! Or didn’t you tell him?”

“I know everything about Tom,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t blame him for what Voldemort did.”

“Anyway, Theo,” Draco added, “it’s true. Father had a picture of my grandfather with the Dark Lord when they were our age – he looked exactly like Tom.”

“Same name as well,” Tom smirked. “Ask your grandparents if they remember a Tom Marvolo Riddle from their own Hogwarts days – he might’ve gone to school with some of them.”

Tom smiled at the looks of stunned surprise across their faces. Thanks to his classmates, he might come out of this night having made some important connections after all.

The weeks that followed were some of the most blissful and carefree days Tom and Harry had ever had at Hogwarts. Sirius Black was free, there was no fear of Quirrell the Horcrux or the beast in the Chamber of Secrets hanging over them, Wormtail was in irons in the bowels of the Ministry, and the Dementors had been sent back to Azkaban. Ron, recovering slowly from learning that his “pet rat” had in fact been a murderer, made up with Hermione, and the group had something of a “Christmas do-over” in the Gryffindor common room the day before classes resumed. A few days later Tom watched, smiling gleefully, as Harry handed Slytherin a Quidditch win on a silver platter with his new Firebolt, which he proudly told everyone was from his godfather. Harry and Sirius wrote long letters back and forth, catching up on twelve missed years while the man worked on cleaning up the Black manor in which they would be living.

A week after the break ended, Tom and Harry arrived in the Great Hall to giggles and whispers. As they passed the Hufflepuff table, a group of first year girls burst out into helpless laughter, covering their faces as they blushed furiously. Tom scowled and quickened his pace, Harry nearly jogging to keep up with him.

“What’s going on?” Tom demanded as they took their seats with Draco, Pansy, and Nott. “Why’s everyone acting weird?”

“Oh,” Nott replied smugly. “Nothing to worry about, Riddle – they just think you’re so adorable. I told you you’d make the paper, didn’t I?”

Tom snatched the proffered copy of the Daily Prophet out of Nott’s hand, smoothing it across the table. His heart stuttered when he saw the front page headline:

Harry Potter – The Boy-Who-Loved

We all know his name, the child saviour who delivered us from the terrors wrought upon Britain by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named more than 12 years ago. But how much do we know about the boy himself? Rita Skeeter investigates.

It’s well known that since the night of his victory over the Dark Lord, Harry Potter has remained largely out of the public eye, and those in charge of his care have remained tight-lipped concerning his whereabouts and well being. It was a shock then, to see the Boy-Who-Lived attending the Malfoy family’s New Years Eve gala, surrounded by his Slytherin cohorts, and on the arm of an unknown young man who seemed to be Harry’s own age. A classmate, a friend, or something more?

The answer became immediately clear when the two boys took to the dance floor, lost in their own world amongst the other dancers. But who is this young man who has seemingly captured our darling Harry’s heart? Tom Riddle – the child of the late Lucinda Rowle and an unknown father – is, according to his classmates, the heir of Slytherin. Reportedly a Parselmouth like Salazar Slytherin himself, he apparently entered the Chamber of Secrets just this past year, accompanied by none other than Harry himself, to rescue a child who had been taken there as some form of ritual sacrifice. A noble act, to be sure, but one must wonder what the product of such a Dark line of witches and wizards’ intentions are toward the boy who brought low the Darkest wizard of the modern day.

“What’s this?” Draco demanded, snatching up the papers. “Oh, it’s that hag Rita Skeeter – how on earth did she get this information? Mother invited the press, of course, but certainly not her.”

Tom barely heard him. His eyes were trained on the photograph attached to the article; someone had perfectly captured the moment he and Harry had ended their dance. He watched, breathless, as again and again the Tom in the photograph spun Harry to a halt, as Harry leaned up to press a kiss to his lips, his eyelids fluttering shut.

Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen anything lovelier.

Before long, it was the day before the anniversary of their first kiss, and Tom found himself in Hogsmeade with Harry, celebrating the year they had spent as a couple with a proper date.

“C’mon, Tom – I just want to take a peek!”

“Harry, no,” Tom replied, as Harry dragged him down the cobbled streets. “It’s truly awful, you’ll hate it.”

“I just want to look in the front window,” Harry insisted, “see if it’s as bad as you say it is.”

Tom sighed as Harry led him down the road toward Madam Puddifoot’s. He knew that in his previous life, he had been on exactly one date there, and had the vague sense that it had been horrible for both parties involved. He didn’t particularly want a rush of memories to come flooding back, but Harry was insistent.

They reached the gaudy little tea shop, and Tom braced himself – but the flood of memories never came, and he breathed an immense sigh of relief. Allowing himself to take a peek through the window, he shuddered. It was far worse than he remembered, though perhaps it was just the holiday – the singing portraits and gauche pink bows were still up, but the place was now filled with little fluttering cherubs, tossing red and pink confetti hearts this way and that, seemingly uncaring that they were littering everyone’s tea with soggy paper.

“Ugh!” Harry exclaimed. “You were right Tom, it was a mistake for Draco to bring Pansy here. This place looks miserable.”

“Are you sure, Harry?” Tom smirked, quirking one eyebrow teasingly. “We can see if a table is available – it is almost our anniversary, and the setting looks quite romantic.”

“No!” Harry yelped, smacking his shoulder. “Don’t even joke about that. I’m never setting foot in this place.”

Tom cackled lightly. “Only kidding, darling,” he replied. “Let’s head to The Three Broomsticks – I think you’ll find the atmosphere there much more to your liking.”

The days flew by, and neither Tom nor Harry could be happier. The Slytherin Quidditch team was in high spirits, Harry had had a breakthrough in Ancient Runes, and when not studying, he, Ron, Draco, and Pansy took to taking turns on Harry’s Firebolt over the grounds, screaming with enthusiasm as Tom and Hermione watched safely from below.

Disaster struck on the last Friday of February.

Tom was on his way up from the common room to watch Harry’s evening Quidditch practice when a Gryffindor his own year – Neville Longbottom, if he remembered correctly – came round the corner and careened straight into him. Tom’s books flew from his arms, and the boy crashed, ungainly, onto the floor behind him, his bookbag spilling open and strewing its contents across the floor.

Irrational rage flooded through Tom as he stumbled backwards, his wand snapping from its holster round his wrist into his palm. “Don’t you watch where you’re going, Longbottom?” he snapped angrily, levelling his wand at the other boy. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”

“S-Sorry,” the Gryffindor boy said, trembling as he gathered up his books. “R-Riddle, right? I didn’t mean to knock you down, I’ve just got detention with Snape, and – and I’m already late. He’ll take more points off, for sure.”

Tom forced himself to calm down, a hundred curses Harry would hate dying on his tongue, his wand lowering. “No he won’t,” he choked out instead, gathering his books. “I’ll walk you there and help you explain.”

“R-Really?!” Longbottom stammered, shoving his bag closed around his haphazardly gathered books. “I thought you – well, anyway.”

“You thought what?” Tom demanded as they started toward Professor Snape’s office.

“I thought you might… curse me,” Longbottom said sheepishly.

“The thought did cross my mind,” Tom admitted, “but I realised it would be counterproductive.”

“O-Okay,” Longbottom stammered. "Er – thanks, I guess?

“Tell me,” Tom said. “Why were you late? If you’re going to provide an excuse to Professor Snape, it will need to be adequate.”

“It’s – it’s silly, really,” Longbottom replied, shrugging awkwardly. “Professor Trelawney – the Divinations professor, y’know – she told me to stay behind to clean up. I tried to tell her I had detention, but she suddenly got rather odd.”

Tom felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Odd?” he echoed. “What do you mean, odd?”

“Oh, well,” Longbottom said, “she sounded different – I mean, usually her voice is all lofty and whatnot, but it was hoarse this time. And she said something about, er, You-Know-Who. That he was going to rise again, or something like that? She mentioned a servant, said he was going to escape…”

Tom stared down at him in horror.

“Did she seem to be herself?” Tom asked. “I mean, did she remember saying all of that, or…?”

“Er – no,” Longbottom replied. “She said she must’ve drifted off, like the whole thing never happened.”

Tom quickened his pace. “Hurry up,” he said, rather shortly. “We don’t want to keep Professor Snape waiting.”

They reached the dungeons, and Tom, not bothering to knock, shoved the door open. Snape looked up from his desk at the sudden intrusion, scowling.

“Riddle,” he said, “what is this? I don’t remember telling you my classroom was open for you to barge in whenever you please. You, on the other hand,” he sneered at Longbottom, “I expected – nearly fifteen minutes ago.”

“Professor,” Tom said, striding forward, “Longbottom is very sorry he’s late, but it was unavoidable. He’s just received what I believe may be true prophecy from Professor Trelawney – and it has to do with Voldemort.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he sat back in his chair to evaluate the situation nonetheless. “Well then, Longbottom – go on,” he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “What is this so-called prophecy you’ve been given?”

“I – I didn’t know it was a prophecy, sir,” Longbottom stammered.

“Out with it!” Snape snarled. “I haven’t got all day, and the last time that miserable woman made a prophecy, it ended very badly for all parties involved.”

Longbottom told him, in halting, stuttering tones, the same story he had given Tom. Snape’s sneer deepened with every word, and by the end he was positively brimming with disdain.

“As thrilling as a story as that might be, Longbottom,” Snape said slowly, his voice thick with annoyance, “it does little to illuminate exactly what she meant, nor does it prove that what you heard was true prophecy. A pity your powers of recollection are so dull.”

“What if someone could see the full memory?” Tom asked. “I understand that something called Legilimency can be used to –”

“I would not suffer anyone the torment of rifling through Longbottom’s mind,” Snape interrupted. “However, Professor Dumbledore possesses a tool, known as a Pensieve, which can be used in the same manner. Follow.”

Tom strode out of the room after Snape, followed by a bewildered Longbottom. It took them a good few minutes to climb the long staircases out of the dungeons and through the main parts of the castle which led to Dumbledore’s office, where the headmaster let them in after a hurried explanation of what Longbottom had witnessed. Now, with the Gryffindor boy sitting, still confused, in front of the large claw-footed desk, Dumbledore produced a stone basin covered in runes, some of which were unfamiliar to Tom. He knew what it was, of course, but to his knowledge Voldemort had never used a Pensieve, so Tom was rather intrigued by the novelty.

“Now, I’m assuming the two of you are unfamiliar with the workings of a Pensieve?” Tom nodded, while Longbottom just stared blankly at the headmaster. “Put simply, it is a bowl which can contain and allow you to view memories.”

“Memories?” Longbottom said vaguely. “Like – like a Remembrall?”

“Not precisely, no,” Dumbledore replied. “While a Remembrall can remind you that you’ve forgotten something, a Pensieve actually allows you to re-experience what has been lost. As you currently cannot remember the alleged prophecy Professor Trelaney gave you, I will help to draw it from your mind and place it in the Pensieve, where we may see the true memory in full detail.”

“But – how?”

“Simple:” Dumbledore drew his wand, “I want you to focus on the memory of being in Sybill Trelawney’s office. Don’t try to remember the details, just think about how you felt, what you were doing. As you do so, I will use my wand to extract the memory – you won’t lose it, but it will begin to grow hazy in your mind’s eye. Does this make sense?”

Longbottom paused, then nodded. “I think so, sir.”

“Then let us begin.”

Tom watched in fascination as Longbottom screwed his eyes shut and put his all into recalling the events which had led him here in the first place. Dumbledore’s wand tip was pressed to Longbottom’s forehead, and as he watched, a silver glow began to collect at the point of contact. Dumbledore then slowly drew his wand away, and the memory, for that was what it must be, trailed along with it, stretching into a long strand not unlike a spider’s silk.

“Oh!” Longbottom gasped as the strand broke away from his head. “It’s done what you said it would. It feels sort of like something I dreamed of now.”

“Entirely expected,” Dumbledore said, gingerly carrying the precious memory to the Pensieve and letting it drop from his wand into the basin. “It will return, and in greater clarity, once you have viewed it. Now, let us begin. Tom? Severus? Would either of you care to join us?”

Tom nodded eagerly, stepping forward. Professor Snape merely scowled. “I believe that I have had enough of prophecy for one lifetime,” he said.

“As you wish,” Dumbledore replied. “Now, stand here, like this – good – and lean into the Pensieve. The sensation may be startling, but I promise, you are safe.”

It was like being thrown suddenly into an unending dark hole, an icy wind whipping past as he sailed down and down, into nothingness. Voldemort had enchanted his diary to be able to do much the same thing, and Tom wondered now if the sensation would have been very similar as the piece of soul dragged a willing victim into the inner reaches of his mind. Before he had time to consider this in detail, however, his feet touched the ground – he was no longer in Dumbledore’s office, but within Longbottom’s memory.

Professor Trelawney’s classroom – for that’s where they must be now – was quite possibly the most esoteric classroom Tom had ever seen. The entire room was so dim, for one, that he wondered how the Divinations students were supposed to be able to even see their crystal balls or tea leaves or whatever nonsense they were studying, let alone interpret it. For another, the place had a cramped, claustrophobic feel to it, cluttered with mismatching chairs, tiny tables, and lined with shelves full to the brim with Divination equipment as well as strange baubles, gemstones, and other precious shiny things that made Tom’s fingers itch.

“Professor Trelawney, I really have to go soon.” Beside him, Longbottom jolted in such surprise that had they actually been there, he would have knocked over several tables. The two boys and Dumbledore were watching an exact recreation of the nervous Gryffindor boy as he entreated the mad old Divinations professor to let him take his leave. “I can’t be late to Snape’s detention, he already hates me enough…”

“My dear,” Trelawney said as she passed him a crystal ball to put back on the shelf, “you’ll arrive in the dungeons precisely when you need to, not a moment before, and not a moment later.”

Longbottom groaned, carefully sliding the orb onto the shelf. “I really do have to leave… Professor?” he paused, staring at Trelawney. “Professor, are you alright?”

“It Has Begun.”

Professor Trelawney had suddenly gone rigid in her chair, the crystal ball she held moments prior clattering to the floor. The memory Longbottom rushed over to her, hovering, unsure what to do.

“The Dark Lord Lies Alone and Friendless, Abandoned by His Followers. His Servant Lies Bound and Chained, Though Not Powerless. Already the Plan Has Been Set in Motion, the Servant Poised to 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. It Has Already Begun… The Servant… Sets Out… To Rejoin… His Master…”

Trelawney slumped forward, the spell broken.

“Well then,” Dumbledore said lightly, as if they hadn’t just heard of Voldemort’s impending resurrection, “I believe we have what we came for. If you will?” He stepped between Tom and Longbottom, offering them each an arm. Tom reluctantly took it and immediately felt himself be pulled upward, out of the memory and out of the Pensieve.

“So,” Dumbledore said as re-entered the real world.

“So Voldemort is going to come back,” Tom said grimly. “His ‘servant’ – that has to be Peter Pettigrew – is going to escape and return to him.”

“Was that real?” Longbottom asked shakily. “I mean, not the memory, the prophecy? Y-You-Know-Who is really coming back?” He looked as though he were about to faint.

“Possibly,” Dumbledore replied, “and possibly not. Prophecy is a tricky thing. What it does mean, however, is that we should alert the Ministry that Pettigrew has made plans to escape his confinement.”

“No need for that, Albus,” Snape said nastily. “The Ministry has come to us.”

The three of them turned away from the Pensieve to see that, indeed, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge had arrived at some point in the past few minutes. He was panting heavily, Tom noted, and his bowler hat was askew, as if he had made his way to Hogwarts with great haste and no particular care. His stomach dropped – surely not, Trelawney’s prediction couldn’t have come true already. But then again, hadn’t her words been, “It has already begun…”?

“So sorry to bother you, Albus,” the Minister cringed, tugging his bowler off his head and twisting the brim between his hands. “If you could, please summon Mr Potter. There’s been – well there’s been an incident.”

“Please Cornelius,” Dumbledore said calmly, “I would ask you not to mince words. We have just seen a rather distressing prophecy from our own Divinations expert which suggests that Peter Pettigrew is planning an escape attempt.”

“Well that’s just it, Albus,” Fudge replied, practically maiming his hat in his white-knuckled fingers. “It happened only minutes ago, you see, we were completely unprepared for… Well. I’m afraid to say he’s not just planning – Pettigrew is gone.”

Chapter 11: Night Terrors

Chapter Text

“I KNEW this would happen!” Sirius roared, pacing Dumbledore’s office. “How hard is it, exactly, to hear, ‘oh, just so you know, this murderer can turn into a rat,’ and then put him in an impenetrable box?!”

“We had him under maximum security!” Fudge insisted, wringing his hands. “He had trained guards watching him round the clock. We took away his wand –”

“His wand?” Sirius barked incredulously. “You think an Animagus needs a wand? Harry, catch.” He tossed his own wand across the room, where his godson showcased his brilliant Seeker reflexes by catching it deftly from the air, and Sirius transformed rapidly into Padfoot and back again, growling threateningly at the inept Minister as he did so. “You see?” he snarled. “And that’s to say nothing of the Dark Arts he must’ve learned at Voldemort’s side – by our estimates, he was passing information to his master for more than a year before becoming Lily and James’ Secret Keeper. He’d have been biding his time, waiting for the tiniest slip-up, the barest lowering of guard in order to invade their minds, confund them, create a diversion – whatever it took to transform and take off before they could notice him.”

“You speak as if you know his tactics well,” Fudge said accusingly.

“Of course I do!” Sirius spat. “I speak as someone who was his friend for years, long before he turned to Voldemort for power. If James was brash, if Remus was cunning, if I was… perhaps reckless – then Peter was patient. He knew, better than any of us, how to wait for just the right moment, how to seize exactly the right opportunity. And he’s done it again now, right under the noses of the Ministry’s supposed best and brightest!”

“Calm yourself!” Fudge snapped, seemingly regaining some of his confidence. “You forget yourself, Black – you are not a Ministry official, you have no place questioning our methods. And if your concern is for your godson, he is safe at Hogwarts – the Dementors are being sent back to ensure the students’ safety.”

“I forget myself?” Sirius asked, boiling with fury, his voice low and dangerous. “I? You forget, Fudge, just how much power my family has historically held over the Wizengamot. You forget that as an exonerated former prisoner of Azkaban and heir to one of the oldest houses in Britain, I both have the public’s sympathy and I am uniquely qualified to call the Ministry’s methods into question. And Dementors? I lived with those nightmares for twelve long years; I’ve seen what they do to Harry – I have half a mind to pull him out of Hogwarts until you see sense and return them to the depths of hell where they belong!”

“Sirius,” Albus interrupted, his level tone a needed balm, a dousing of water over the flames of Sirius’ wrath. “I do not relish the idea of Hogwarts being surrounded by Dementors once again any more than you do – they are, however, a temporary measure. Three weeks at the edges of the school grounds, then two weeks sweeping the castle while it closes down and the students are sent home for the Easter break.”

“I’d rather they weren’t near Hogwarts at all,” Sirius grumbled.

“As would I.”

Easter break couldn’t come quickly enough, but Sirius whiled away the weeks preparing Grimmauld Place for proper human habitation. For sure, he could have spent the time searching out a more favourable house to which Harry could come home, but his finances were still being sorted out by the Goblins at Gringotts – which vaults had been seized and needed to be settled and returned, the money the Ministry owed him for wrongful imprisonment without a trial, the accounts held by certain other Black family members still in Azkaban and whether they be handed over to him – the entire affair was a nightmare, and Sirius knew better than to waltz in and demand access to several thousand Galleons for a new house; ordering the Firebolt under Harry’s name had been enough of an ordeal already.

As the days grew closer to Harry at last coming home to him, Sirius found himself in his first proper argument with his godson. Harry wanted very much for Tom to stay with them as well, and while Sirius could remember the adolescent need to be as close to the one you fancied as possible, he didn’t understand why he should be expected to play host to a child who was, essentially, a teenage version of Voldemort. Nevermind that he had mostly compartmentalised him as some kind of child of the Dark Lord, nevermind that Tom was going out with his godson, nevermind that he owed his freedom to the boy, the entire thing was just f*cking wrong, and Sirius wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

Harry wore him down within days.

“Right,” Sirius said awkwardly, leading the boys on a tour of the house the first day of Easter break. So down here we have the kitchen – there’s a formal dining room upstairs, but as I don’t trust Kreacher not to poison our food, I figure it’ll be easier for us to cook together and eat in the same room.”

“Kreacher?” Tom asked incredulously. “That old house-elf is still alive? He was ancient even when Voldemort was a teenager.”

Sirius gritted his teeth. “I take it you’ve met?”

“Voldemort met him,” Tom corrected, “though it could still pose a problem. Orion invited him to Grimmauld place on a few occasions, so Kreacher will likely recognise me – Dobby did, after all.”

“I forgot about that,” Harry said. “That was before I knew who you were – now I understand why you thought it was so funny.”

“Yes, well,” Tom replied, “it won’t be so funny if Kreacher knows who I am. He was loyal to those who supported Voldemort’s reign during the war. If he’s able to contact any of them…”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Kreacher!” he called. The wizened old house-elf popped into existence before them, anger and hatred radiating from his very being.

“Filthy traitor thinks he’s fit to command Kreacher…” the house-elf mumbled under his breath, as if Sirius couldn’t hear each and every word he said. “Bringing half-bloods and werewolves into my mistress’ house, defiling it and destroying its legacy…”

“Kreacher!” Sirius interrupted harshly. “I’ve brought home my godson for the holiday. This is Harry, and this is his friend, Tom. You’re to take orders from them as well.”

Kreacher’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the two teenagers. “But Kreacher knows this one, young lord of his Knights of Walpurgis and master Orion. How is he so young, when master has aged and left this earth?”

“No,” Sirius managed to say, “this is his son – and you’re not to tell anyone you’ve met him or that he’s here, do you understand?”

Kreacher stared at the boy for a long moment before nodding slowly, his eyes still narrowed in suspicion. Well. He was bound by the laws of his own kind not to disobey and spread word that a child who might be something of Voldemort was staying at Grimmauld place.

“Right then, that takes care of that,” Sirius sighed, dismissing the house-elf. “Let’s move on with the tour – make sure to keep your voices down in the front hall, mind, there’s a rather nasty portrait of my mother. Drawing room is through there, but it’s not done yet so I’d avoid… Tom, are you alright?”

The boy was staring at the drawing room doors with an alarmed expression across his face. “Sirius,” he said quietly, “would you mind terribly if I checked something inside?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, exasperated. “Did you not just hear me? The room’s not ready yet. The curtains are full of doxies, I’m fairly certain I saw a Boggart lurking in the shadows, and the cabinets are chock full of incredibly dangerous Dark artefacts.”

“Yes,” Tom said, with a curious tone to his voice. “I’d daresay they are.”

“Of course,” Sirius replied. “You’ve probably seen half of them, haven’t you?”

Tom hummed noncommittally in response. “Not that I very well remember,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand. “I only know that Voldemort visited Grimmauld place on numerous occasions during school, I don’t remember the actual events. However, there is one thing in that room that I am particularly interested in retrieving.”

“You don’t mean,” Harry said breathlessly, “one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes? But why would he hide one in Grimmauld Place?”

Sirius grimaced – well, Harry would find out sooner or later, and better that he found out from him. “Harry,” he said, “I didn’t want to have this discussion with you for a long while, but I suppose it’s best you know. My family – my mother, father, and brother – all supported Voldemort.”

To his surprise, Harry nodded. “I know your brother was a Death Eater,” he said. “Tom told me. But the Horcruxes were all supposed to be hidden away, not stored casually in a townhouse.”

“Actually,” Tom countered, “Grimmauld Place would be a fantastic place to hide them until I can devise a method of reabsorbing my soul. The protective jinxes and curses here would keep out even the most learned of witches and wizards, and Voldemort won’t suspect it in a million years. The problem in this case is that I know for sure he never hid one of his Horcruxes here. Someone’s moved it.”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. “But that means someone else knows about them.”

“Yes,” Tom said darkly. “Which means I need to recover my Horcruxes and reintegrate my soul as quickly as possible.”

“Well, let’s get this over with then,” Sirius sighed as he opened the drawing room doors. “I still think it’s a better idea to simply destroy them, to be honest. I don’t exactly relish the idea of letting bits of Voldemort’s soul hang around my house.”

“We can’t destroy them, that’s my soul you’re talking about. And you let me stay here,” Tom pointed out.

“Yes, and that took a great deal of convincing on Harry’s part,” Sirius replied. “But down to business now, any idea what we’re looking for?”

“There are a few possibilities,” Tom replied. “There’s a cup with Hufflepuff’s insignia, though I believe Voldemort gave that one to another Death Eater to keep safe. There’s a ring, although I doubt anyone knows where to find Voldemort’s ancestral family home to move that one. Finally, there’s a locket, but to retrieve it would be tantamount to suicide.”

“I thought there was a diadem as well,” Harry added.

“There is,” Tom replied. “But that Horcrux is safely within the walls of Hogwarts – I checked before Christmas.”

Sirius peered through the shelves of the glass-fronted cabinets next to the mantle. “Tom,” he said, spotting a potential candidate and reaching for the door handle, “did you say that one of them was a locket?”

“Don’t touch it!” Tom snapped, though he immediately schooled his expression into what was certainly a polite facade. “My apologies, I didn’t intend to sound so harsh. My encounter with the diadem was… less than pleasant. Allow me.”

Sirius drew back as Tom pushed past him, opened the cabinet, and withdrew a large, silver locket as big as an egg, emblazoned with emeralds in the shape of an ‘S.’ Sirius shuddered as Tom crooned something in Parseltongue, a tone he had only heard the boy reserve for Harry before.

“So – that’s it, then?” Sirius asked shakily. “That’s a Horcrux?”

“It is indeed,” Tom said, frowning. “But as to how it got here…” he went silent for a long moment, his lips pursed in concentration. Then, his eyes widening in understanding, his mouth falling open, he looked up at Sirius and whispered, “Regulus…”

“What – Voldemort asked my brother to keep one of his Horcruxes safe?” Sirius asked in disbelief. “I wasn’t under the impression that Reg was high enough on the Death Eater rungs to warrant such an ‘honour.’”

“No,” Tom confirmed, “he wasn’t. Voldemort had devised a method of protecting the locket, and asked Regulus to borrow a house-elf to test its efficacy. When I say ‘borrow,’ I mean indefinitely – there was a near guarantee that the house-elf would be killed in the process, but obviously, Kreacher escaped. I can only assume that Regulus was less than pleased to hear what had been done to him, and had Kreacher return him to the locket’s hiding place with the intent of destroying it – and as I said, retrieving the locket would be nothing less than a suicide mission.”

“All this time,” Sirius said, collapsing in a chair. “All this time I thought he was killed on Voldemort’s orders when he tried to back out of the Death Eaters. I never imagined he’d gotten himself killed trying to destroy the man – and it was all for nothing, as the Horcrux obviously still exists.”

“It wasn’t all for nothing,” Tom argued. “I had no idea how we were going to gather this one – Voldemort left it in a basin filled with a poison even he couldn’t entirely vanish or reach through. The only way to empty it was to drink it. Once I’ve determined how to integrate this piece of my soul back into myself, your brother’s sacrifice will have been a great turning point in the fight against Voldemort.”

“sh*te, Tom,” Sirius croaked. “And you want my help to recover the others?!”

“The ring and the cup should both be ludicrously simple to collect compared to the locket,” Tom replied casually. “Voldemort placed greater protections around this one because it belonged to our ancestor, Salazar Slytherin himself.”

“Oh, of course,” Sirius said, trying not to scream. “Silly me, I should have realised. Look, it’s getting late, and the two of you must be tired. Let me show you to your rooms.”

“Rooms, as in plural?” Harry cried out in horror. “You mean, we’re not sharing?”

“Of course not!” Sirius replied sharply. “I may not be able to control your sleeping arrangements at Hogwarts, but there is no way in hell I’m letting my godson sleep in the same room as his boyfriend under my roof. I know what teenage boys are like, for Merlin’s sake.”

“But – but what if one of us has a… what if one of us needs the other?” Harry asked, aghast.

“Then you can get up and go knock on their door,” Sirius replied, trying not to think how Harry might have ended that sentence. “And no – midnight trysts, or whatever it is teenagers call it these days.”

“Trysts?” Harry boggled, clearly having absolutely no idea what he meant. Sirius breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally turning in for the night, Sirius was confident he had made the right choice – the boys were just barely teenagers, after all, too young to be intimate beyond anything as innocent as hand-holding. He knew he was kidding himself, of course – he had seen how the two of them held themselves around each other, drawn to one another like magnets, the casual touches between them, a hand through the hair, a brushing of lips on the jaw, as one might expect of an old married couple – but it wasn’t happening in his house, dammit, not when he couldn’t keep an eye on them. Yes, Sirius thought, as he slid under his own covers, surrounded by the reminders of his own hormone-addled teenage mind in the form of bikini-clad women on Muggle posters affixed permanently to the walls, he had definitely made the right decision.

And then the screaming began.

Sirius was out of bed like a shot, yanking on his dressing gown and shoving his feet into his slippers. He couldn’t tell where the strangled cries were coming from, his own mother’s maddened shrieks joining the fray, but he instinctively raced towards Harry’s room, certain that if anyone was having night terrors, it was his own godson, not that actual nightmare brought to life that was Tom Riddle. As he approached the door to his room, however, it burst open, and Harry dashed down the hallway towards Tom’s room, one hand clutching at his scar.

Sirius turned on his heel and followed, the screams giving way to harsh, guttural moans now. Harry was faster than him by spades, and before he could even fully enter the room Harry had leapt into the bed, curled himself around where Tom rocked in a foetal position, pulled the blankets around them and tucked Tom’s head against his shoulder.

“Shh, Tom, it was just a nightmare. Same one as me?” Harry was saying as Sirius watched, dumbfounded. This teenage version of Voldemort had night terrors? And Harry… Harry shared them? “Wormtail in a big hall, standing over a woman? I think he was performing some kind of ritual, it’s all hazy now.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” Tom moaned. “That was real. All of it was real.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “But, if that was real, what did it mean?!”

“He’s coming back,” Tom rasped, his hands pressed against his face. “He’s coming back, he’s coming back.”

“What’s – what’s happened?” Sirius wheezed, staggering forward. Both boys shot up in the bed, startled, as if they hadn’t even noticed him. “Who’s coming back – Peter?”

“Sirius?” Harry said, blinking hard, and for the first time he noticed that Harry didn’t have his glasses on – he probably hadn’t even seen Sirius as he raced through the dark past him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I heard screaming,” Sirius said weakly, lowering himself onto the foot of the bed. “I thought it was you, Harry.”

“It probably was,” Harry replied. “I mean, it was probably both of us, I just happened to wake up first this time.”

“You share the same nightmares.” Sirius stated, his voice hollow.

Harry nodded. “Some of the time,” he said. “Sometimes it’s different nightmares, but at the same time. Sometimes it’s the same, but we see it from different angles. This time…”

“We witnessed it from the same perspective,” Tom finished for him, scrabbling to sit up against his pillow and pulling Harry with him. “We both saw what Voldemort saw – Wormtail performing a ritual to return him to a physical body.”

“What?!” Sirius yelped, reaching out towards his godson, who extended his hand to link with his own. “But – how – is that even possible?”

“It is,” Tom said gravely, “though, I never imagined he would take this particular route toward resurrection. It’s… rather horrible, and frankly unnecessary.”

“I thought he would need one of his Horcruxes,” Harry mumbled, “but I didn’t see any. Just Wormtail and the woman. How can he…?”

“You don’t want to know,” Tom replied. “Trust me, darling, it’s truly horrendous. If he wanted to resurrect properly, Voldemort should have entrusted one of his followers with a Horcrux, as well as instructions on how to use it to bring him back. The method he’s chosen instead… it’s a shortcut.”

“Tom,” Sirius insisted, “you have to give us something. How long do we have? Is there anything we can do to stop him?”

Tom screwed his eyes shut, grimacing. “It’s already too late,” he lamented. “Voldemort’s taken over the physical body of another, before… before the soul can develop. It’s small and weak now, but with its growth accelerated by unicorn blood, it will only be weeks, perhaps a few months at most, before it’s… viable.”

Sirius’s blood ran cold in his veins. “You make it sound like –”

“I told you,” Tom interrupted. “You really don’t want to know.”

“What do we do?” Harry’s voice was small and reserved, yet determined.

“We have to gather the other Horcruxes and hide them as soon as possible,” Tom replied. “He knows what I am, but not how. The first thing he’ll do upon regaining a full, adult human form will be to go to them and try to determine from which one I emerged. We can’t risk him moving them when he does.”

“Right,” Harry said. “We’ll start planning tomorrow, but in the meantime we should try to get some actual sleep.” Before Sirius could protest, he was already pulling Tom further under the covers, curling up next to him as he placed a soft kiss on his brow.

Sirius knew immediately that he had lost.

“Right,” he said in a strangled sort of tone. “I suppose this is… fine, for tonight, if it helps with the nightmares. We’ll move Tom’s bed into your room tomorrow. Just… just get some sleep, alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice already thick with slumber, “g’night, Sirius.”

Chapter 12: The Gringotts Problem

Chapter Text

“So,” Sirius said as he laid out plates for breakfast the next day, “how do we get started on this Horcrux hunt, exactly?”

Tom smiled as he rolled his locket from palm to palm, excitement flooding through him – if all went according to plan, he would have all fragments of his soul, save for one, safely within his reach within days. Of course, the fact that Voldemort had acquired a physical body, albeit one that was still developing, made his plans for complete reintegration more complicated, but that was something to address in the future, not now when he didn’t even have an alternate method of reabsorbing his soul that didn’t hinge on a sense of remorse he could not feel.

“If my information is correct,” Tom replied, “retrieving the cup should be quite simple – it’s most likely within a Gringott’s vault.”

“Simple?” Sirius blanched. “You want us to break into Gringott’s, and you’re telling me it’s simple?”

“Morning you two,” Harry yawned, entering the kitchen and planting a sleepy kiss atop Tom’s head. “You planning for today’s adventure without me?”

“Good morning darling,” Tom smiled up at him. “I was just going over the basics with your godfather.”

“Tom wants us to pull a bank heist.”

Harry’s eyes went comically wide. “Wait, really?” he asked. “We’re going to rob Gringotts?”

“Not at all,” Tom said. “Sirius is, after all, the heir to the House of Black, and I’m quite certain that the cup is within a Black family vault. You see, it was one of two Horcruxes Voldemort asked his most trusted Death Eaters to guard – the one given to Lucius Malfoy, of course, has already been dealt with. The other, the cup, was given to Sirius’ cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. As she’s currently sentenced to life in Azkaban, her assets will almost certainly have been returned to the Black family line – meaning you, Sirius.”

Sirius stared at him. “So we just waltz into Gringotts, access my cousin’s vault, and waltz back out with a Horcrux?”

Tom grinned. “That’s the plan.”

“Oh, well, that’s a bit of a let down,” Harry replied. “I thought for sure we’d have to fight a dragon this time. D’you think dragons understand Parseltongue?”

“Harry, why would a dragon speak Parseltongue?” Tom asked. “They’re dragons, not snakes.”

“Oh, well, I just thought it might be neat to talk to one,” Harry replied, dishing himself some bacon. “I bet they’ve seen all sorts of things.”

“If you want to make conversation with a magical creature,” Tom said, “you can always head down to the Chamber of Secrets and wake up Apophis.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, “but she’s been asleep for most of the last thousand years, and I wouldn’t know where to find another boar for her anyway.”

“It’s like the two of you go looking for trouble,” Sirius said, transferring a large pan of scrambled eggs from the hob to the table. “Mind, I can blame your father for that, Harry – he always had some scheme up his sleeve, not that I was much better. You, Tom, on the other hand – I never imagined Voldemort could have been so reckless as a child.”

“Harry’s a terrible influence,” Tom replied, adding some of the steamy eggs to his own plate. “Though perhaps I’m being a bit uncharitable – Voldemort did create his first Horcrux at age sixteen.”

Sirius stared at him in horror. “Sixteen?!” he yelped. “Even then, he was already a murderer?!”

Tom shrugged. “It was really an accident,” he said, “though the damage to our soul was apparently enough. Anyway, I don’t plan on murdering anyone, not unless they actually deserve it.”

“Tom,” Sirius replied, wearily rubbing his temples, “if you want me not to think of you as Voldemort, you’re going to have to stop talking about murder so casually.”

“You wouldn’t happily kill your cousin?” Tom asked. “She’s really quite terrible, I understand.”

“Tom!” Harry admonished. “Stop it. No one’s murdering anyone. We were talking about the Horcruxes, remember?”

“Of course,” Tom smiled. “So, if all goes well, we should be in and out of Gringotts with plenty of time to spare. The ring will be significantly more difficult to retrieve – not only is it located in Little Hangleton, of which I can no longer recall the whereabouts, but Voldemort also left several layers of protective spells around the house in which it’s concealed. We will certainly need your help, Sirius, to dismantle those.”

“What,” Sirius asked, “you can’t undo your own magic?”

“Of course not,” Tom replied. “I’m only in third year. Just because I remember that Voldemort used certain types of magic doesn’t mean I can still perform them myself. So yes, I will require your assistance. You’ve fought Voldemort, you should be well suited to the task.”

“I…” Sirius said tentatively “I think we should bring Dumbledore in on this. He knows more about the man than –”

“No!” Tom snapped. “Absolutely not. While I have a slightly higher level of respect for him now, seeing as he’s removed Harry from his awful living situation and has been cordial to me, the man is wildly short-sighted. He’s the reason Harry ended up at the Dursleys in the first place. He knowingly allowed Voldemort access to the castle in our first year. He hates the Dark Lord with a passion, and if he learns of my true nature, he will kill me. He’ll insist that Harry has to die as well to bring Voldemort down. He won’t take the time to understand that there is a better way to handle everything.”

“He allowed Voldemort access to…?” Sirius echoed, shaken. “Never mind, you can explain later. We should finish up with breakfast and head to Diagon Alley, to see if you’re right about the bank vaults.”

As it turned out, he was – partially. The vault in question was the Lestrange vault, and therefore not claimable by Sirius Black. Tom’s heart sank as he took in this information, but soared again a moment later when Ricbert, the Chief Bank Teller, explained that as Madam Lestrange had been a Black before marriage, her estate specifically had indeed been returned to Sirius’ house – and anything she had personally placed in the vault was included in that.

“So, Mr Black – or do you prefer ‘Lord?’” Ricbert asked, drawing out a long scroll of parchment from a set of shelves behind his desk. The four of them – Tom, Harry, Sirius, and now Ricbert – were in the Chief Bank Teller’s office, as he was the one to handle more delicate accounts such as Bellatrix Lestrange’s

“Sirius is fine,” he gritted out, and Tom smirked. He had gathered that Harry’s godfather didn’t much care for pure-blood etiquette, but it was interesting to note that he dispensed of it even in more formal settings such as this. Most heirs to old, powerful families held no such qualms about throwing their titles about – Tom knew he certainly wouldn’t, once he reached his majority – but to have such a man as Sirius Black as an ally could further broaden Tom’s ties to both pure-blood traditionalists and those who embraced a more modern lifestyle.

“Ah, well,” Ricbert replied, eyeing Sirius curiously. “Sirius then – shall we begin drafting up the forms for transfer of all Madam Lestrange’s property into your own vault?”

“No,” Sirius said emphatically. “I have no interest in absorbing my cousin’s assets into my own – Merlin knows half of what she owned could probably kill the lot of us – we’re inquiring today after a single heirloom.”

“Hmm, a curious request,” Ricbert said, “and potentially more complicated. However, I believe this is a request we can honour. Do you have a description of the item?”

“A golden cup,” Tom said, clasping his hands tight to prevent them shaking. “It has two handles, delicately wrought, and it bears the crest of Helga Hufflepuff.”

“I see…” Ricbert said slowly, peering over his desk at Tom. “And do you have an estimated date for its placement within Gringotts?”

“Sometime in the early to mid nineteen-seventies, I believe.”

“Hmm.” Ricbert’s eyes narrowed as they focused in on Tom. “Who exactly are you, young man, and what is your interest in the matter?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am!” Tom said sharply. “The cup is… simply an old family heirloom that fell into the wrong hands.”

Ricbert’s expression abruptly changed to one of sympathy. “I see,” he replied. “I’m afraid that’s a rather common story when it comes to some of these old vaults, and unfortunately not one we often have the authority to rectify. Well, let me look through these records, though I warn you, it could take a while.”

It did take a while, quite a long one, in fact. Tom soon found himself on his feet, bored and aimlessly wandering the office, inspecting the many books and trinkets strewn across Ricbert’s shelves and resisting the urge to snatch something up each time he spotted a particularly valuable looking bauble. Behind him, Harry and Sirius chatted quietly about plans for the summer, talking about some World Cup – which probably meant more Quidditch in their future. Tom scowled lightly at the thought – Voldemort was on his way to resurrection, and they were worried about sports?

“Ah, here it is!” Ricbert said suddenly, breaking the monotony. Tom whirled back around and strode back to his seat in front of the desk. “December 15th, 1974. Contents of deposit: one golden cup, two handled and bearing the mark of Hufflepuff. Creation date: unknown. Magical powers: unknown. Deposited by Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“That’s it!” Tom exclaimed. “When can we retrieve it?”

“Well, I’ll have to draft up the documents for formal seizure of property, which could take some time, again.”

Tom sighed in quiet frustration.

“Why don’t you boys go and enjoy yourselves in Diagon Alley?” Sirius said kindly. “Here – some money for ice-cream at Florean’s. I’ll come find you when we’re ready to head down to the vaults.”

Tom and Harry gladly accepted the small bag of Galleons and Sickles, and made their escape into the cool, late-March air. It was a bit chilly for ice-cream, however, so instead they ambled around the street, wandering in and out of various establishments and window shopping.

“D’you think it’s safe?” Harry asked at one point. “I mean, with Peter Pettigrew still out there – you don’t think he’ll be out looking for us?”

“Unlikely,” Tom replied. “At the moment, he’ll be busy taking care of Voldemort and that woman he used for the ritual. He’ll have his hands completely full for the foreseeable future.” He looked up – they were just outside Atherton’s Atlases: Magical Maps and Guide Books. “In here, Harry,” he said. “Perhaps we can find a map with Little Hangleton.”

“What is Little Hangleton, anyway?” Harry asked. “You mentioned a house?”

“The village where my family’s ancestral home is located,” Tom explained. “Well, if you can call it that. By the time Voldemort located it, the Gaunts were living in a run-down shack that was barely fit to stand as residence for a family that had once been as great as the Blacks or Malfoys. They should have been living in that palatial estate my father’s family owned, but I suppose they squandered their wealth over the generations.”

“And that little shack’s where the ring is?”

“Exactly.”

The two of them were engrossed in a collection of maps of northern England, which was where Tom suspected the village had been, when Sirius wandered in, looking rather exasperated. “ There you two are,” he grumbled. “I’ve been looking all over the alley for you, you weren’t at Florean’s.”

“Too cold,” Tom said, shrugging. “Look! Harry, there it is!”

Harry leaned in next to him to squint at where, in barely discernible lettering just above Tom’s finger, the map read, “Little Hangleton.” “Wow,” Harry replied, “how did you even spot that?”

“Patience,” Tom said. “Sirius, are you able to Apparate based on a map alone?”

“Well,” Sirius replied, rubbing the back of his head, “it’s been quite some time, but I believe so. Now let’s go, the goblins are waiting for us!”

Tom paid for the map on which he had found his family’s home, and followed Harry and Sirius out the door and back up the road to the steps of Gringotts. Before long, they were taking the wild ride down into the vast caverns underneath Diagon Alley, hurtling further into the darkness than they had travelled in both their first and second visits to Harry’s vault. As they zoomed past door after door set into the stone walls, a curious thought came to mind.

“I think I’ll open up my own vault while we’re here,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“What?” Harry called over the sound of the air rushing past them. Tom leaned forward and spoke directly into his ear.

“I said, I think I’ll open my own vault,” he repeated, louder this time. “I've never had one before.”

“What, not even when –?” Harry asked, looking back at him. Tom shook his head. “Weird, you’d think he would’ve.”

“We never had much need for money,” Tom replied, “but I’ve been thinking about my own fortune ever since I lied to Hermione about it to cover for Sirius and the Firebolt.”

“You mean the fortune that you stole,” Harry said, slipping into Parseltongue, which both of them could make out better over the roar of wind anyway.

Tom shrugged. “It wasn’t being used,” he said nonchalantly. “Edward and Lucinda Button were remiss in updating their wills, not expecting to die in their early sixties. The estate would have gone to the Crown otherwise.”

“Still, isn’t it risky, transferring your money to Gringotts?” Harry asked “What if Voldemort does come back completely and tries to, I dunno, claim it?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Tom replied, smiling. “Rather hard to claim something when you refuse to use your real name.”

“We’ve arrived.”

Indeed, the cart was slowing to a stop at last, coming to rest next to a set of very old, very elegantly carved vault doors. Tom’s eyes danced with glee as he took in the sight, even guarded as it was by –

“Oh, wow,” Harry breathed, gazing at the massive dragon between them and their prize. “How long d’you think that’s been here, Tom?”

“Years, probably,” Tom answered. “Decades even. See how its scales have lost their lustre, how it’s gone pale from lack of sunlight?”

“Oh,” Harry said, his face dropping. “That sounds… awful.”

Harry’s mood soured further when Ricbert and another goblin who had accompanied them stepped forward and began to shake a pair of metal instruments which produced aggressive clanging noises that echoed off the walls of the great cavern in which they found themselves. The dragon, apparently trained to expect pain upon hearing the sound, gave a great roar of fear and retreated backwards.

“Now, if you shall remain here,” Ricbert said rather imperiously, “I will retrieve the item in question and present it for your inspection.” So saying, he pressed his palm to the door, and Tom got one mouthwatering glimpse of the piles of gold, silver, and countless priceless artefacts within as the wood melted away, before reforming as Ricbert stepped through. It was another long minute before the goblin re-emerged, carrying a cup that Tom knew quite well.

“Is this the piece you were seeking?” Ricbert asked as he handed it to Sirius, who took it reluctantly, pinching one of the handles between his thumb and forefinger.

“Er –” Sirius replied, holding it at arm’s length.

“Let me,” Tom commanded, striding forward and taking the cup, cradling it in his hands. Just as with the locket the night before, he could feel the connection between his soul and the cup, similar to what he felt when he held hands with Harry or kissed him, though not nearly so warm. “This is it,” he said, his fingers curling possessively around his Horcrux. “Mine.”

“Well then!” Ricbert replied. “It’s a lucky day indeed when we are able to reunite an unfortunate soul with their… misappropriated property.”

Tom laughed, a manic rush crashing over him at the goblin’s choice of words. “I have to agree with you,” he said, rather gleefully.

“Now then,” Ricbert continued, “if your business with Gringotts is concluded, we will escort you back to the surface.”

“I have a question,” Tom said. “Who do I talk to about opening an account of my own?”

They returned to Grimmauld Place, Tom now the proud owner of a Gringotts vault all his own and one more Horcrux stashed safely in his trunk until he could find a better place within the walls of the Black ancestral home. He had wanted to make the trip to Little Hangleton immediately, but Sirius insisted that “one Horcrux a day was more than enough,” so the two boys retreated to Harry’s bedroom, now with two beds instead of one, as Sirius made his way to the Black family library to research the litany of spells and curses they would need to break down to reach the ring. Sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed, they passed Helga Hufflepuff’s cup back and forth.

“Can you feel the soul inside it?” Tom asked, as Harry held the cup up to inspect it in the rapidly dying light of the evening.

“Mmm,” Harry responded noncommittally. “I think I feel something, but probably not like you do. It feels warm though, a bit like you.”

“Really?” Tom marvelled. “It feels quite cold to me.”

Harry looked at him sadly, but didn’t comment on his statement. “Do you think you can reabsorb it?” he asked instead. “I mean, do you feel anything?”

“No,” Tom said bitterly. “I still cannot feel remorse for the death of the woman who wrongfully claimed my locket as her own.”

“Well,” Harry sighed, handing the cup back to Tom, “at least we have it now. I s’pose we can figure out the rest later.”

Tom felt rather hollow as he tucked the cup back into his trunk and slipped into his pyjamas. How on earth was he supposed to do this, to reunite the fragments of his soul if he couldn’t feel that same terrible churning within his gut that he had experienced as he watched the Basilisk rounding on Harry? Fear and anger warring within him, he curled up into himself under his sheets, imagining for the first time since he had left it, that he was back within the warm light that was Harry’s endless love, surrounded in colour and life and beauty. It was soothing, it was healing, it was –

All too dark, Tom realised, trying and failing to stretch his legs and arms. He was floating, but not in the sea of love in which he had spent nearly half a decade – it was dim and strange here, liquid rather than light, physical instead of magical. His skin felt stretched taught, too tight against his bones, a sensation he shouldn’t be feeling at all in this place. This was meant to be healing, nourishing, not this horrible dragging feeling of his soul being wrenched back into life against his will. Tom flailed, trying to open his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and –

“Tom!”

His eyes snapped open. He wasn’t floating in the light of Harry’s love, nor was he in that horrible facsimile of it. Tom was back in his bed at Grimmauld Place, and Harry was beside him, holding him as if both their lives depended upon it.

“Darling – what?” he mumbled, his arms tightening around Harry. “Was I screaming?”

“No,” Harry replied, “you were thrashing. I thought you were going to strangle yourself in your sheets. I’ve never seen you do that before. What were you dreaming about this time? I don’t think I had one at all.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Tom replied, curling into Harry’s embrace. “I was… in Voldemort’s mind.”

“Again?” Harry asked, aghast. “Sweet Salazar, is this going to happen every night now?”

“I certainly hope not,” Tom replied, dread flooding through him at the thought of sharing a mindscape with Voldemort each night. “What time is it?”

“Nearly morning,” Harry answered, And Tom felt a fresh wave of horror crash over him – he had spent nearly all night in the prison of Voldemort’s mind? If this kept up, his counterpart was going to realise, at some point, that he was there.

“Harry,” he said, a desperate idea occurring to him. “I need to teach you Legilimency. You’re proficient enough in Occlumency now that it should come easily to you, and I need the extra practice at shoring up my own defences if I want to avoid slipping into Voldemort’s mind at night.”

“What – you want me to help you practise?” Harry asked. “I don’t know the first thing about Legilimency, how am I supposed to help?”

“Darling,” Tom replied, “you have a piece of my soul within you. Our minds are naturally linked, just as both of ours are to Voldemort’s. Keeping you out successfully should, theoretically, be more difficult, even if you are a novice.”

Harry pursed his lips. “I think I noticed that too,” he said. “When we were in Dumbledore’s office on Christmas, I could sense him trying to see my surface thoughts right away, and it was much easier to direct him away from anything incriminating than I thought it would be.”

“Well, that just adds weight to my theory,” Tom said. “Therefore, practising together should help me build the defences needed to keep him out, at least to the point where I hopefully won’t be stuck in his mind while I sleep.”

“Okay,” Harry replied. “Did you want to start now? We have a few hours before Sirius wakes up and starts breakfast, but I don’t think I can sleep after seeing you writhe around like that.”

Tom nodded. “We might as well, my mind is still unsettled. It’ll be a good baseline to see how well I can defend when I’m not prepared. You know the spell, darling, do you think you can perform it?”

“I – maybe,” Harry replied, nodding hesitantly. “Just keep eye-contact and imagine that I’m pushing into your mind, yeah?”

“That’s it exactly,” Tom said. “We can start off just as we did before – you do your best to find my memory of Dumbledore’s visit to me at Wool’s, and I’ll try to redirect you to the day we were sorted.”

“Alright,” Harry said nervously, retrieving his wand from the small table set between their beds. Tom sat up straight, crossing his legs and doing his best to shake off the sick feeling being in Voldemort’s mind had left on him. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

Harry raised his wand and pressed it to Tom’s forehead, the same way he had done to him, whispering, “Legilimens.”

Tom fell back into a whirlwind of his own memories, Harry chasing after.

Chapter 13: A Ring Returned

Chapter Text

Two days passed at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, before Sirius declared he was ready to make the trip to Little Hangleton and take down whatever protections had been placed around the Gaunt shack. Tom’s heart nearly burst from excitement at the thought of having his final Horcrux secured at last, hidden far away from Voldemort’s reach, not to mention having his heirloom ring back, another piece of the picture that proved his lineage.

Tom triple checked everything before they left – Harry’s Cloak, ready for use in the Mokeskin satchel – the map of Northern England, safely tucked in his pocket – the other two Horcruxes within his possession, hidden deep within his trunk and away from prying eyes while they would be out. They were ready as they’d ever be. With their wands in hand, Tom and Harry headed outside to where Sirius awaited them on the front step, and each of them taking one of his arms, they let themselves be Side-Along-Apparated to the countryside.

They came back into existence in front of a sign with two arms – one pointing toward “Great Hangleton, 5 Miles,” the other toward “Little Hangleton, 1 Mile.”

They set off toward Little Hangleton, and as the community came into view, Tom was surprised to find that the sleepy little village he remembered was no longer. Several new houses and shops had apparently sprung up in the last half century, and what could have once been considered merely a small hamlet dotted around the regal Riddle Manor was on its way to being a proper town. People bustled around them as they made their way along the edge, clad as Muggles, and if they stared it was only because they found themselves in the presence of newcomers, three odd faces in a sea of familiarity.

As they made their way up the hill, Tom felt a sudden thrill of terror that perhaps the Gaunt shack had been discovered and cleared away, the forest razed to pave way for suburban blight. He needn’t have worried, however – the sprawl had not made its way up this far, the trees and sloping lawns still intact, the tingle of his own magic still thick in the air after so many years, no doubt keeping the Muggles at bay. He quickly took the lead, directing Harry and Sirius down the slope and towards where once there had been a dirt path down into the forest, now overgrown with grass and weeds.

They didn’t make it far before Sirius stepped in front of them, swinging his arm out to stop the boys from walking further. “Wait here,” he said hoarsely. “There are definitely several protective spells and curses just up ahead. I don’t sense anything too difficult to circumvent but… just to be safe.” Wand raised, he strode down the path ahead of them.

“D’you think he’ll be alright?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“I’m sure he’ll be perfectly fine, Harry,” Tom replied. “If I’m correct, Voldemort was mostly concerned that Muggles might find this place once the Gaunts no longer inhabited it. The greatest protection is on the ring itself, and that I should be able to remove – it was a curse of Voldemort’s own making, after all.”

Sure enough, Sirius returned only minutes later, his wand slack in his hand. “Nothing to worry about,” he said cheerily, though his face betrayed his confusion. “Just a few concealment charms and a rather nasty repelling jinx that could blow your limbs off. It’s taken care of.”

“Getting your arms and legs blown off is ‘nothing to worry about?’” Harry demanded. “That sounds like an awful lot to worry about, if you ask me.”

“Well –” Sirius faltered. “It’s nothing a trained witch or wizard couldn’t handle. I’m honestly just surprised there wasn’t worse, considering who cast them. Look sharp, though – there may well be more troublesome protections placed around the area as we get closer.”

There were: as they approached the Gaunt shack, its rotting frame coming into view in the gloom, a massive snake slithered from the shadows, hissing and spitting, the green gemstone on its forehead glittering even in the low light.

“That’s a Horned Serpent,” Sirius said warily, raising his wand as he stepped back.

“It is,” Tom marvelled. “I don’t remember Voldemort placing one as guard, but I suppose he must have.”

“D’you think you can explain why we’re here?” Harry asked. “Make it let us pass?”

“I can try,” Tom replied, stepping forward. “Beautiful serpent,” he said, “do you recognise me as your master?”

“I have no master,” the snake replied, rearing back, ready to strike. “I was asked to guard this sanctuary by a speaker such as yourself and was given reward for doing so. But you are not he, you are a child. You must leave immediately.”

“I am the same as the one who asked you to remain here,” Tom replied. “My form is merely different now. Tell me, did I inform you as to what you guard?”

“Yes.”

“Then understand – I wish to retrieve my soul, and you are dismissed.”

To Tom’s relief, the Horned Serpent hissed in recognition and slithered away, hiding itself once again among the deadfall. He smiled and extended a hand to Harry, who took it as Tom pushed open the remnants of the door to the shack, the feathery wood nearly disintegrating under his touch.

Now inside, the link to his soul blossomed, almost dragging him towards the Horcrux. This piece of his soul, he could tell, felt particularly and exquisitely lonely and abandoned, and for good reason – Voldemort had all too quickly shunted off this part of himself, desperately needing to prove his own mastery over death. Unlike the diary, in which he had written back and forth to his own self for several weeks, the ring had been cast away almost immediately into his school trunk, hidden far below layers of clothing and books, out of sight, out of mind.

Now though, in the presence of someone who searched for it, it hungered to be recovered.

Tom strode forward and plunged his hand down into the rotting floorboards – there it was, the little golden box in which Voldemort had hidden his heirloom, sealed tight with Parselmagic. He knew it was inside, could feel the frantic thrum of his own self struggling to escape, but he had to be sure. He had to see it with his own eyes.

“Open,” he whispered, a fond, possessive hum.

The box snapped open to reveal the Gaunt family ring, inscribed with the symbol Tom had always thought he recognised but could not place. To his right, Harry peered over his shoulder, trying to get a better look.

“Is that it?” Harry asked. “I thought it’d be more elaborate, like the locket.”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy to be priceless, darling,” Tom replied. “Do be careful, though – if you touch it, you’ll die. The curse on the ring is probably strong enough to kill a living Horcrux, and even if not, you’ll be horrifically and irreversibly injured. Sirius, your wand please?”

“You need my wand?” Sirius asked, unenthused.

“Certainly,” Tom insisted. “I still have the Trace on me. If anyone questions why Dark magic is being used in our vicinity, it’s best if my own wand doesn’t register it.”

“So, you’d just casually incriminate me, instead?” Sirius deadpanned.

“Calm down,” Tom insisted. “I’ll be using it to break a curse, you’re not going to be arrested for that. I, on the other hand, would be under extreme suspicion for knowing how to remove magic specifically crafted by Voldemort himself. I’m fairly certain Dumbledore spent most of my first year believing I was the Dark Lord reborn, and I would very much not like to go back to that state of affairs.”

“He wasn’t exactly wrong,” Sirius grumbled, but he reluctantly handed over his wand. Tom took it and slowly waved it three times in a counterclockwise circle over the ring.

“Sanguinum Traho,” he chanted. “Venenum Traho. Mortuum Traho.” He then repeated the same words in Parseltongue, reversing the direction of the wand, and as he did, a thick, foul smelling liquid leeched out of the ring and puddled around it in the box.

Harry’s nose wrinkled at the odour. “Ugh, what is that?”

“A combination of my own blood and the venom of the Fer-de-Lance Viper,” Tom answered, vanishing it. “A weapon of Voldemort’s own making, designed that if anyone but ourselves were to touch the ring, it would infect their bloodstream and cause rapid necrosis and muscle death.”

“That’s horrible,” Harry blanched. “Was it supposed to be that… viscous?”

“It’s obviously congealed over time,” Tom replied. “I imagine that it only grew stronger as well. You can touch it now, though, just don’t put it on – if you do, the portion of my soul contained within will be able to communicate with and influence you, and you’re likely to find he’s not nearly as fond of you as I am.”

“Right,” Harry said, plucking the ring from the box. “Huh, it feels warm, like Hufflepuff’s cup did.”

Tom took the ring from Harry’s hand. It just felt cold to him.

Sirius Apparated them all back to Grimmauld Place after that, and the days that followed after were swift and peaceful. The scent of spring began to fill the air around them, first in the tangled, unkempt garden behind the Black family manor, and then at Hogwarts as they settled back into the Slytherin dorm, the trees across the lawn swaying in the gentle breeze. Tom’s Horcruxes were safely stored away in a hidden vault in the attic of Grimmauld Place that Sirius had reluctantly let him use, aside from the ring, which Harry had insisted they take with them for “research purposes.”

Tom found out what this research was shortly after the final Quidditch match of the season, in which Slytherin soundly trounced Hufflepuff: with the lack of practises, Harry began dragging Tom down to the dorms in the evenings to attempt to repair the broken link between his soul and that of the Horcrux. So far, it wasn’t working – Tom could feel the tiny piece of himself within the heirloom, but he couldn’t ascertain a way to pull it back into himself that didn’t require the true remorse that had caused the soul within his diary to return to his own.

“But he was your father,” Harry lamented one afternoon, while they were holed away within the green drapes that surrounded Tom’s four-poster, the majority of the rest of the school away on a Hogsmeade trip. “Don’t you feel anything for him?”

“Of course I do,” Tom replied, staring at the ring in his hand. “Loathing. Nothing more, nothing less. He abandoned my mother when he found out she was a witch. He left me to rot in that orphanage. He never wanted me, and so I learned not to want him.”

“How do you know that’s true?” Harry asked. “Your mother died when you were born, maybe she left him.”

“Darling, that would be worse,” Tom said. “Can you think of any reason my mother would leave the father of her child unless he was horrible to her? When the other option was starving to death on the streets? Besides, if I wasn’t sure of it before Voldemort visited the Riddles after his fifth year, I was after that – he told me himself.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “Tom, you never told me that.”

“I don’t particularly like to think about it,” Tom replied. “I can show you the memory, though, if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

Tom fetched Harry’s wand from the end table and pressed it into his hand. “Go on, darling,” he said, “you’ll understand when you see it.”

Harry hesitantly raised his wand and placed the tip of it against Tom’s forehead. “Legilimens.”

Tom fell back into his own mind as Harry’s consciousness rushed in, swirling through memories. He pulled the event in question to the forefront, inviting Harry to join him. As they entered the memory, Tom found himself, sixteen once more, standing in the dining room of his father’s house, taking in the shocked faces of his relatives.

“Who are you?” Tom's grandfather demanded, rising from his seat. “How the devil did you get in?!”

“You don’t recognise your own kin?” Tom asked, smiling wickedly as the blood drained from his father’s face. By the looks of stunned horror on his grandparents faces, they hadn’t. “Oh dear, has my father not told you? I was sure you’d see the family resemblance.”

It was true: the man closest to him was an older carbon copy of himself, the same cheekbones and jawline, the same gently curling jet black hair – the only difference were the pale blue eyes, a contrast to his own dark and stormy irises.

The man – Tom’s father himself – rose in the same imperious manner his father had. “I have no son,” he said stonily, though his voice shook. “If you’ve come looking to claim an inheritance, you’ll find none here.”

“Oh no,” Tom replied coolly, sliding his uncle’s borrowed wand from his pocket and twirling it in his fingers. “I have no interest in any ‘inheritance’ I might receive, no matter how deserving of one I might be, from insignificant little insects such as yourselves. I’ve come to see you beg for mercy, to watch you fumble for feeble excuses as to why you would leave a child to the horrors of an orphanage, believing himself parentless, when all this time you lived.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his grandmother slip from her seat, quietly trying to make her way for the door, no doubt to alert one of the servants. There would be none of that – Tom slashed his uncle’s wand viciously through the air, and the doors to the dining room slammed shut.

“Now, now,” Tom purred, “there’s no need to run – I’d only track you down anyway. Let’s keep this as bloodless as possible, shall we? After all, I’ve killed before, and I no longer have any qualms about a repeat performance. So, let’s try again, father – what could possibly have possessed you to leave your pregnant wife and unborn child?”

Tom Riddle Sr trembled as Tom advanced upon him, his wand pointed directly at the older man’s face. “She – she bewitched me!” he cried, shrinking away. “She drew me in with honeyed words and promises, but I grew wise to her lies! I finally saw her for what she really was – a monster! And you – you – you’re just the same!”

“What a disappointment,” Tom spat. “Just another ignorant, stinking, filthy Muggle, blind to the beauties of magic and too afraid to submit to its greatness. Shall I demonstrate, father? I think I shall – Crucio! ”

The curse was not for Tom Riddle Sr, but for his mother, who was still inching toward the exit. The woman was on the ground instantly, screaming as though being flayed alive. Pleasure bubbled through him at the sound of her torment, flooding his veins with adrenaline and –

Tom shoved Harry roughly from his mind, sending the two of them both careening back onto the mattress.

“I’m sorry Harry,” Tom said shakily as he picked himself up and straightened his robes. “I should have ended the memory earlier, I never wanted you to see me like that.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, taking Tom’s hand and letting himself be hoisted back into a sitting position. “I mean – no, it’s really not. Why would you do that? You just waltzed into their house and expected them not to be terrified? Why didn’t you, I dunno, write him a letter or something? You might’ve had an actual relationship with him, but you threw that all away for… what? Another Horcrux?”

“To gain my father’s affections wasn’t the intention, Harry,” Tom replied. “When he went to that house, Voldemort –” No, he had to be honest with Harry, and pretending that Voldemort’s feelings towards their father were any different than his own was a lie. “I never meant to walk back out with my father’s life intact. I’d heard enough horror stories from half-blood classmates whose Muggle parents had abandoned them to realise the same had happened to me – Muggles were far more distrusting of magic then, and even now it continues. Think about how the Dursleys treated you. And you heard him – he hated that the woman he married turned out to be a witch. His life was forfeit the moment he voiced his disgust at magic.”

“But, Tom –”

"It's no use , Harry," Tom insisted, rolling the ring around in his hand. "I hated my father. As far as I'm concerned, he got what he deserved for leaving my mother to die."

"Alright," Harry replied sadly, "well, if you can’t feel any remorse for killing your father, maybe I can do something about it. If my love was enough to bring you to life, then I wonder if I can..."

"What're you...?" Tom started to say. "Harry, no!" But it was too late – with his lightning fast reflexes from playing Quidditch, Harry's hand had shot out and snatched the ring from Tom's palm. No sooner had he slipped it onto his finger then did his eyes roll back in his head, and Harry fell back onto the soft green duvet in a dead faint, arms limp at his sides.

Tom scrambled forward and leaned over Harry in horror. Had the ring actually killed him? Had Tom not fully removed the curse that Voldemort had placed upon it so many years before? That couldn't be, it was designed to cause a rapid wasting away, not instant death, and yet still… Tom seized Harry by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

"Harry!" he cried, desperately clutching at him. "Harry, please wake up. Just open your eyes. Please."

To his immense relief, Harry did, and Tom dropped onto him, pressing his face into his hair. "That's three times that you've collapsed just this year, darling," he whispered. "Why would you do something so reckless?"

Harry's arms rose ever so slowly to encircle him, his fingers running down Tom's back lightly. "Darling?" he marvelled. “No one’s ever called me ‘darling’ before…”

Tom pulled away and resumed a sitting position. "Harry, are you okay?" he asked. "It's me, Tom – I call you ‘darling’ all the time."

Harry sat up as well, his head co*cked to the side in curiosity, his eyes dark, and an odd smile stretching across his lips. "Hello, Tom," he said. "How long has it been exactly? I had the impression it was quite some time, but we look... younger, somehow."

Tom's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, Harry?" he asked. "You're not making any sense."

Harry's smile, so unlike his usual unguarded grin, spread even further across his face. "Oh, I see," he replied. "You haven't realised yet – of course, you wouldn't. I'm not supposed to be able to do this, after all. Not so fast, nor so easily, anyway."

Tom's pulse quickened as reality struck him like an arrow through the heart – that was his smile painted so unnaturally across Harry's face, his wine-dark eyes peering at him from behind Harry's glasses. His gaze dropped to the ring on Harry's finger, which was being twisted and turned by Harry’s fingers in the very same manner Tom had done in his previous life.

"And the sickle drops," Voldemort said wickedly in Harry's voice. "Tell me, Tom, how is it that you're so clearly younger than I am? What have we achieved since you locked me away? And who is this boy I've taken, around whom I've woken to find you draped like a blanket?"

"I'm not telling you anything," Tom snapped.

"A pity," Voldemort sighed. "Luckily for me, I can get everything I need from this boy's head. Hmm... Harry Potter, our prophesied downfall? How interesting, he defeated us as an infant? No, no, just postponed us – we're returning soon, aren't we? And you..." Harry's eyes widened in excitement as Voldemort's smile opened into a predatory rictus grin. "Oh, I see ," he breathed, reaching forward to stroke Tom's face. "We did it, didn't we? We made all six, and our dear Harry is the final one. That's why it was so easy to take over, our soul left a conduit for me to slip right into his mind..."

"Harry!" Tom cried. "If you can hear me, Occlude!"

"I'm afraid Harry isn't in right now," Voldemort said, surging forward. Tom may have had a good five inches on him, but Harry’s muscles were lean and wiry from Quidditch practice and so Voldemort was easily able to overpower him, pinning him to the bed. "It's just you and me now, Tom."

"Get out of Harry!" Tom commanded. "Go back in your ring, where you belong!"

"I don't think I will, Tom," Voldemort replied, seizing Tom’s chin in Harry's strong, calloused hand. "It's been so long, years since I enjoyed the luxuries of sight, of touch, of breath. I think I'm going to keep him, and when Voldemort is – what did you call it, viable? – I'm going to use Harry to rejoin the Dark Lord, restore him to his glory, and stand by his side."

"You – you can't!" Tom gasped, cringing away from his touch. "Voldemort would kill him before you could even explain!"

"Oh, don't worry, darling ," Voldemort replied, pressing closer to Tom, pinning one of his hands between them. "I'm going to take you with me. He'll understand as soon as he sees the two of us together. Won’t that be glorious? The Dark Lord, his ‘son,’ and his greatest enemy, our forces joined. The Ministry won’t stand a chance.”

“You’re mad,” Tom gasped, struggling to free himself. “I hate what I became as Voldemort, you should know that if you can see Harry’s mind. I’ll never submit myself to him, nor to you!”

“But isn't it better like this?” Voldemort crooned, tightening Harry’s fingers around his jaw. “I know you find Harry beautiful. I know you've kissed him – and what a novelty that is, we never used to kiss the pretty boys and girls we took to our bed."

"I don't 'take Harry to my bed!'" Tom argued, still trying in vain to push Voldemort off of him. "I would never be so crass –"

"But you want to, Tom, don't you?" Voldemort purred into his ear. "How old are you – fourteen? Not much younger than we were the first time we allowed Abraxas to explore our body and discovered the pleasures the hands and mouths of others could incite in us. Why have you held back, Tom? Is Harry too naive, too sweet to ruin like that? Don’t worry, now you can have your darling Harry all you want, because now he is me."

Salazar, was this how his teenage attempts at seduction had sounded in his previous life? It was no wonder he'd scared off so many young men and women. "I don't want you!" Tom protested, tears springing to his eyes. "I want Harry! I want Harry back!"

"Mmmm," Voldemort hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. "That's too bad, Tom – as long as I’m here, you’ll never speak to Harry again.”

And that was it, the key that triggered the unbearable weight of crushing guilt and regret that crashed over Tom just as it had done a year prior when the consequences of his actions had come full circle to nearly killing Harry. Now here they were again, Harry in mortal peril and Tom being the one to have caused it. Like the diary before it, Tom felt the ring grow hot against his face where Harry’s fingers still gripped his chin. Almost without thinking, he whipped his free hand up and seized Harry’s, pressing the blazing hot metal into his palm and biting back a scream.

“What is this?” Voldemort demanded, Harry’s eyes suddenly burning red. “Stop this – what are you doing?”

“Unmaking you,” Tom hissed angrily.

Harry’s eyes widened in unmistakable rage. “You can’t,” Voldemort snapped. “I am permanent, I am forever.” He shuddered, struggling to pull Harry’s hand from Tom’s grip. “I am a promise ! I won’t be subsumed by some weak, lesser version of myself!”

But it was too late: the burning fire in Harry’s eyes was already fading, as was the pain in Tom’s palm as pure agony took over his entire body, lava coursing through his veins. “You won’t,” Tom gritted out as Harry’s eyes fluttered closed and he collapsed atop him. “I’m better than you.”

It was much like before: as his soul left Harry, he could feel it slotting back into place within him, a missing piece of the broken jigsaw puzzle that was Tom Riddle coming home at last. This time, however, there was no sudden rush of Harry’s love to temper the pain that accompanied the reunion, no balm to bring him back from the edge of oblivion – he was dying, just as Sirius had said he might, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. With one last, great effort, he dragged his free hand from where it was trapped between their chests, ran it up the length of Harry’s spine, his fingers positively on fire, and tucked it into that beautiful mop of hair he’d tried so often to tame.

“I love you, Harry,” Tom croaked, his throat tightly clenched to hold back the scream that threatened to tear out of him. He held no illusions that Harry could actually hear him, not with him collapsed, unconscious, possibly dying or already dead on top of him, but he had to say it anyway. “I should have told you at the gala – I don’t know why I couldn’t. I’ll regret not telling you for eternity.”

As he felt himself bleeding away, the familiar pull of the void tugging him down and down, he felt, or maybe just imagined, Harry stirring. In his dying dream, Harry, that beautiful, clever boy, reached for his wand, whispered something, and made the room explode into a bright, glossy silver. It danced around, almost like a great, magical beast, before fading out somewhere into the distance, and Harry collapsed by his side, curling around him.

All in all, it was not a bad way to go, this dream of the boy he loved at his side one final time. Tom let his eyes close, surrendered to the pain, and let himself fade away to whatever hell awaited him.

If this was death, it wasn’t all that terrible. It was warm and soft, and Tom felt like he might not actually mind spending the rest of eternity in this bubble of comfort. He could almost feel the sensation of Harry’s hand running through his hair, his lips on his forehead. Perhaps, as Mrs Cole had always told them, guardian angels were real, and Harry had been reborn as his own in the afterlife, keeping his broken soul safe and away from pain and torment.

Tom frowned. That wasn’t possible, was it? He had almost forgotten as the pain of reintegrating a piece of his soul had overtaken him, but Harry was a Horcrux – unless Tom had somehow dragged Harry into death right alongside him, a simple possession shouldn’t be enough to finish him off, not even a particularly violent one. And yet there they were, phantom fingers entwined around his own, Harry’s thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. Afraid the sensation might fade, Tom tightened his grip on the ghostly hand, willing it to be real.

“Tom?” Harry’s voice floated through the aether, and Tom’s heart leapt at the sound. “Tom, are you awake?”

His eyes fluttered open. He was not, apparently, dead, finding himself instead in his bed at Grimmauld Place, staring up at the crumbling ceiling. At his bedside was Harry, looking down fondly upon him with open concern glimmering in his eyes.

Tom tried to sit up and winced – reabsorbing the piece of his own soul had been much worse than last time, and he was still in a great deal of pain, every muscle in his body wound as tight as a coiled spring. “I’m – alive?” he rasped. “How am I alive? How did I get here?”

“You have Harry to thank for that.” Tom’s eyes trailed slowly across the room; Sirius Black was lounging casually against the doorframe with a curious expression etched into the lines of his face. “Took a leaf out of Dumbledore’s book and sent a Patronus message to me. I Apparated directly to the front gates of Hogwarts to fetch you.”

“A Patronus – Harry, you did it?” Tom asked breathlessly, his voice still hoarse. “What was it?”

Harry nodded, beaming quietly. “A stag,” he replied. “Sirius says it was just like… like…”

“Like his father’s.” Sirius said, his voice breaking.

“But – why am I back at Grimmauld Place?”

“Well, I wanted to get you to the hospital wing,” Sirius replied, “but Harry thought you might’ve collapsed from reabsorbing the soul in one of your Horcruxes and wanted to avoid any… questions. He already had you in the entrance hall at that point, charmed feather-light and hoisted over his shoulders, both of you under the Invisibility Cloak. He found me and insisted we come back here. Lucky for you, I know a thing or two about healing magic.”

Tom struggled painfully into a sitting position. “For how long was I unconscious?” he asked, taking a goblet of cool water that Harry offered and sipping at it gingerly.

“About six hours,” Sirius said. “So, did you?”

“Pardon?”

“The Horcrux – did you…?”

“The ring, Harry?” Tom asked. Harry obligingly slipped it off his finger and handed it to Tom – there was no longer any trace of a connection between it and himself, which meant —

“Yes,” Tom replied, pressing the priceless piece of jewellery against his sternum, which still radiated with agony. “I don’t know how I did it, as Harry was out cold before he cast his Patronus, but that piece of my soul is back where it belongs, apparently.”

“What finally did the trick?” Harry asked. “I don’t remember anything between putting on the ring and waking up on top of you.”

Tom sighed in frustration at the memory. “You did it, Harry,” he replied. “Again, I might add. Voldemort possessed you as soon as the ring was on your finger.”

“What?!” yelped Harry and Sirius, simultaneously.

Tom told them, in halting tones, what had happened – leaving out, of course, that his older self had practically tried to seduce him. When he was finished, he was gratified to see Sirius gaping at him with an appropriate level of dismay, but Harry on the other hand – Harry looked downright excited.

“Darling,” Tom said, “do try and look a little less thrilled about the fact that you were just possessed by an older version of myself.”

“But it worked!” Harry exclaimed. “Now we know how we can –“

“Absolutely not,” Tom interrupted shortly. “We are not going to repeatedly subject you to playing host for increasingly older, more powerful, and angrier versions of myself. We will find another way ”

“I didn’t believe I’d ever say this, but I agree with Tom,” Sirius interjected. “Harry, even by my standards that was an incredibly reckless thing to do. You could have been killed.”

Harry crossed his arms in indignation. “The thanks I get for just trying to help,” he huffed.

“I wish you’d find a version of helping that didn’t put you in danger, Harry,” Sirius said quietly.

He escorted them back to Hogwarts after that, but not before making sure they were fed and well – Tom as much as he could be, given what had just happened to him. As they stumbled back into their dorm, It seemed to Tom a storm had come to a close, or that perhaps they were just in the eye of it, safe for now but still waiting it out. He collapsed into bed, Harry’s arms wrapped around him, and before he knew it, blanketed in the warm glow of their bond, he was fast asleep.

Chapter 14: A Birthday Promise

Chapter Text

Despite the looming threat of Voldemort's inevitable return hanging over them, the summer kicked off delightfully. Sirius was more than pleased to give his godson a great deal of freedom, and with his name cleared and Wormtail not spotted in Britain for months now, Mrs Figg was content to do the same with Tom. The boys quickly took to trading off every few days where they would stay, passing between number twelve, Grimmauld Place and number seven, Wisteria Walk with the use of the Floo.

There were benefits to both houses: at Arabellas’s place, Tom and Harry didn’t have to deal with Sirius’ constant sighs and looks of disapproval as they walked, hand in hand, or curled up on the couch together, as the Squib didn’t share his knowledge that Tom was actually a resurrection of part of Voldemort’s soul. Grimmauld Place, however, was an adventure in and of itself, filled with secret rooms and compartments, sporting a library that could rival the Malfoy’s for the sheer number of books that wouldn’t even be allowed in the Restricted Section, and crammed to the gills with curious and exciting Dark artefacts. The two of them drove Sirius to utter vexation as their days turned into an endless exploration of the house, uncovering new and interesting secrets each day.

“You’re fourteen!” he exclaimed one day, tugging at his hair in frustration when he caught them in the drawing room, inspecting a silver orb that emitted plumes of dark, choking mist when prodded. “You should be getting your homework done and outside running around, not playing with – whatever that is!”

“I’m trying to determine its purpose,” Tom replied simply. “The vapour causes throat and lung irritation, but the effects dissipate rapidly. I cannot fathom how it’s meant to be used.”

“It’s ancient,” Sirius replied, “probably broken. My parents collected so much of this junk for no reason, it just sat on the shelves until – sh*te! Tom, are you okay?!”

Tom had collapsed backwards onto the tattered carpet, a wave of searing pain ripping through him. It was almost reminiscent of the agony he had experienced when reintegrating the pieces of his soul, but that could only mean one thing. As Tom struggled to drag himself back into a sitting position, Harry’s hand flew to his scar and he yelped.

“Harry!” Sirius dropped to the floor next to them, snatching the orb and pocketing it. “I told you two not to mess with this stuff, it’s dangerous, it –”

“It’s not that,” Tom managed, the pain fading slightly as he focused on his Occlumency. “It’s Voldemort, he’s in agony. I’m feeling his pain, but thankfully only a fraction of it. He’s… I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he’d do something so incredibly foolish. He must’ve lost what was left of our mind while existing as a wraith.”

“What is it, Tom?” Harry asked, wincing. “What’s Voldemort done?”

“He’s split our soul again,” Tom lamented, reaching out for Harry’s hand. “He’s made another Horcrux.”

“What?!” Harry and Sirius cried simultaneously.

“How is that even possible?” Sirius asked, a look of horror glinting in his eyes. “You said he was weak, that he… was still developing. Can he even commit murder in his current state?”

“Yes,” Tom gritted out. “Suffice to say, the woman Wormtail used for the… ritual... is almost certainly no longer alive. It also means he’s grown strong enough to exist independently and wield a wand. He’ll be planning to restore his fully grown body as soon as possible now.”

“Okay,” Harry said shakily, “so he’s partially back, and has another Horcrux now. D’you think you can absorb that piece of your soul as well?”

“I don’t actually know,” Tom replied with a growing sense of horror. “I don’t even know what it is. And I wasn’t involved in the creation of that one. How am I supposed to feel remorse for a murder I didn’t commit?!”

“Maybe you won’t have to?” Harry proposed. “I mean, why is remorse a requirement in the first place?”

Tom thought back to the thick and annoyingly esoteric text of Secrets of the Darkest Art. “The reasons are not immediately clear,” he finally said, “after all, not many have ever even tried to make a Horcrux, and even fewer have sought to restore their soul. However, the consensus is that a lack of acceptance of the consequences of one’s actions prevent the soul from returning to its original place – hence, the need for remorse.”

“Right,” Harry replied. “But you didn’t take any actions. To you, it’s just a piece of your soul that someone else was careless with. Maybe you can just… take it back.”

“Harry, don’t be ridiculous,” Tom argued. “You can’t just ‘take back’ a piece of your soul, not when it’s been wrapped up in protective spells and curses and sealed within an object. Soul magic is incredibly complex, not something that can be broken just because you want it enough.”

“Are you sure about that, Tom?” Sirius asked. “Personally, I think Harry has a point. Soul magic may be complex, but from everything I’ve been reading about it, it’s also poorly understood. More to the point, there’s never been anything like you. I think we can throw all precedent for Horcruxes out the window, if I’m being honest.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about either,” Tom bristled. “Reading a few books on the subject doesn’t make you an expert. Voldemort spent years –”

“How much did Voldemort study Horcruxes before making his first, Tom?”

Tom blushed furiously – to tell the truth, in his previous life he had only studied the steps needed to create a Horcrux before recklessly using the death of Myrtle Warren to make his first. It was only later that he had taken any real time to understand what he had done to his soul, and decided that, already having damaged it, likely irreparably, making more couldn’t really hurt.

How terribly wrong he had been.

“That’s what I thought,” Sirius said, grinning at Tom’s flushed expression. “In any case, it’s not a problem to solve instantly. We have no idea where Voldemort even is right now, let alone what he used to make another Horcrux. And to be honest? It worries me that the two of you are so focused on defeating Voldemort – I know, Harry has a piece of your soul in his head, and you are Voldemort’s soul, but like I said, you’re also just fourteen. Well, Harry will be in a week. You should be thinking about school and the Quidditch World Cup and… and going on…” Sirius grimaced, “dates to Diagon Alley.”

Sirius’ words did little to quell Tom’s anxiety – there were now two portionsof his soul well outside of his control, and one of them was a virtual unknown. Harry’s hand suddenly in his, however, was far more reassuring.

“Sirius is right,” Harry said. “You said he wanted to make six, yeah? So if he thinks that’s the final piece, we don’t need to worry about him making even more. It complicates everything a bit, but I’m sure it’s nothing we won’t be able to handle in the end.”

Tom wished he could be so certain.

The summer of 1994 was proving to be a rather peculiar one for Lord Voldemort. He had expected, of course, that there would be complications upon the creation and subsequent anchoring of himself within a new human body, and there were, indeed. In his present form, he was as weak and dependent on others for survival as a newborn, and he had to sleep infuriatingly frequently, which meant that he couldn't keep as close an eye on Wormtail as he would have preferred. What he hadn't anticipated was that with a functioning brain and nervous system, he would find himself with a mental link to another human being.

It had been horribly jarring the first time the connection had activated as he slept, finding himself looking through the eyes of another – so startling, in fact, that he woke up immediately, initially dismissing it as a strange dream. When it happened again, however, and then a third time, he knew that there was more to it than that, and relaxed the barriers around his mind that were keeping him from remaining in the dream.

So now here he was, silently inhabiting another person once more. He was short and slight, and Voldemort's first thought was that he had connected with the impossible child that had been born out of one of his Horcruxes – but surely he would recognise the mind as his own, and this one was unfamiliar. How frustrating – the child that was him was one of two things he desperately wanted to understand, and he had hoped this new development would somehow provide insight into either of them.

He got his wish as the person he was shadowing rounded the corner and came face-to-face with none other than the boy himself.

"Tom!" he felt himself say, rather excitedly. "I was just looking for you, Ron's sent us an owl."

"And now you've found me," Tom replied, smiling. Voldemort drew back in disdain – that was not the ruthless, intimidating smile he had practised in the mirror at Wool's, nor was it the charming, beguiling look he had learned later from the pure-bloods in Slytherin and further improved upon. That was the smile that had crept over his face when he had first held his wand, when he had retrieved his locket from that dreadful old woman. That smile was reserved for moments when he was truly satisfied, when he had exactly what he wanted in his grip, and it was never meant to be seen by another – and yet Voldemort was seeing it now, directed by this fragment of his own soul towards the person he was inhabiting.

He quickly ran through everything he knew about the boy – Voldemort had been asleep much of the time Quirrell had served as his Horcrux, but had awoken almost entirely once the man had started nourishing him with unicorn blood. He had seen then, the image of the boy, the image of himself within Quirrell's mind, a small child who went by the name of Tom Riddle II. It had horrified him at first – a child of his own? Surely not. But then he had recalled the dual nature of his Horcruxes, both a tether and a means of resurrection, and the answer had come to him.

It didn't make any sense, of course: he had told no one of his most glorious of creations, thus there should be no one who could have given their life and soul to resurrect a body for him. Furthermore, the child had only been twelve-years-old when last they met, and Voldemort hadn't made his first Horcrux until age sixteen. Yet when he had finally seen the boy with his own eyes, it had been like looking into a mirror back in time. No natural child could so perfectly resemble their parent, and so it must be true.

Something had obviously gone wrong in the boy’s resurrection, however – he had refused Lord Voldemort when he had tried to claim the body that had been made for him, and he was, infuriatingly, friends with Harry Potter. At this thought, Voldemort realised with a jolt exactly through whose eyes he must be looking at that very moment – Tom Riddle’s best friend at Hogwarts, something Voldemort had never cared to have. Fate was a cruel thing indeed, to have linked him so intimately to his most hated enemy, to have let a piece of his soul go so astray as to befriend him. On the other hand, he could use this – no doubt young Harry was being trained, raised to fight the Dark forces Voldemort had once commanded and soon would again. This way, he could see exactly what it was he would be up against after his restoration was complete.

“Come, darling,” Tom said, slipping his hand into Harry’s and tugging him and Voldemort along. “Let’s head out to the garden to read the letter, the light is much better outside and you could do with some sun.”

Darling? Darling?! This was far more disturbing than he had imagined. He cringed away as Harry leaned up to kiss Tom’s cheek, as his wayward soul responded in kind by running a hand through Harry’s hair. He could feel his enemy’s very emotions, Voldemort realised, as a burst of warm, glowing, horrible bliss spread through the both of them at the touch. Still, he resisted the urge to tear himself away, to return to the waking world in Riddle Manor – he needed information, and there was no better way to obtain it than directly from the boys themselves.

Voldemort observed, seething with anger and disgust, as the boys made their way down a very familiar staircase toward the lower levels of the house – so, they were staying at the Black family manor then? The protections there would be nearly impenetrable, but it was no matter – Harry’s life was forfeit in less than a year anyway, and Voldemort would not need to enter Grimmauld Place to take it.

As the boys walked, Voldemort attempted to enter Harry’s subconscious mind in search of… well, anything that could come in useful – the prophecy perhaps, if he had been told that, what training Dumbledore had given him, anything. The boy, however, was a natural Occlumens, it seemed, or he had at least been well taught, and Voldemort could only access his surface thoughts – his casual summer happiness, his excitement at receiving a letter from a friend, and, to Voldemort’s disgust, his joy from just holding his boyfriend’s hand.

It was all too much, this soppy, adolescent nonsense. In anger and frustration, Voldemort tried to force his way into the boy’s memories, shoving the sickly sweet feeling of affection aside. He had merely a glimpse – But He Will Have the Power The Dark Lord Knows Not – before Harry clapped his hand to his forehead, yelping in pain, and he was forced out of the boy’s mind entirely. Voldemort awoke, screaming and alone on the floor of his father’s house, Wormtail having fled, yet again, as he slumbered.

“Master is in pain,” came the answering hiss, as Nagini uncurled herself from the top of an armchair and slithered toward him, her coils shifting him into something of a seated position. “What does master need, that Nagini can provide?”

“It is nothing, Nagini, my soul,” he whispered back, reaching out with one feeble hand to caress the shining scales of her cheek. “It is merely a new development, one that I can handle with ease.

“Harry?” Tom asked in alarm as his sweetheart stumbled and cried out, clutching at his scar in clear distress. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“I dunno,” Harry said, picking himself up and wincing. “It felt like Legilimency, but worse – like someone was trying to force their way in, and then my scar started burning.”

Tom felt his eyes widen at Harry’s words. “It’s Voldemort,” he replied, his voice hushed. “It has to be. No average Legilimens would attempt to invade their subject’s mind by force, and your scar…” His mind was racing. It was bad enough that they could both share Voldemort’s mindscape while they slept, but if he possibly could do the same to Harry? That might be a death sentence for the both of them. “You’re going to have to learn how to Occlude against him. Do you know how long he was in your mind before he tried to forcibly access your memories?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry replied. “I thought my scar felt a bit prickly not long after I got Ron’s letter, but nothing else seemed wrong. You really think Voldemort was in my head?”

“I’m absolutely sure of it,” Tom said. “Nothing else should make your scar burn in the same way.”

“But how am I supposed to Occlude against him?” Harry lamented. “I couldn’t even tell he was there until my scar hurt. What if he’s watching right now? ”

“Hush, darling,” Tom replied, curling his arm around Harry and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll figure something out, just pay close attention to your scar for now and start Occluding if it so much as itches. You’ve learned very well so far, I have no doubt you’ll be able to keep him out of your thoughts.”

“O – okay,” Harry said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “We’ll practise more though, yeah?”

“Of course,” Tom assured him. “Right now, however, it’s your birthday and you have a letter from Ron. I assume the two are related, and we would be remiss not to see what our friend has to say.”

“Right,” Harry said, brightening. “I’d almost forgot, what with having Voldemort in my head. Outside then?”

They made their way out to the small yard behind number twelve, which was really less of a garden and more of an overgrown thicket, untended and forgotten for many years now. Still, it had a small stonework bench placed next to the only piece of greenery still in good condition, a vibrant rhododendron that had grown out of control and taken over much of the corner in which it had been planted. The boys perched on the bench and unrolled the letter from Ron as Hedwig swooped down to join them and gave Harry a friendly nip on the finger.

Dear Harry and Tom,

First of all, Happy Birthday Harry! I would have sent you your present with Errol, but, well, he’s not up for the load and Mum’s gone ahead and set up a proper party for you anyway. Don’t worry, she’s worked the whole thing out with Sirius already, and by the time you get this we’ll be all set up for the two of you to Floo over.

You’ll never believe it, but Dad managed to score tickets to the Quidditch World Cup! We’re actually going to be in the top box with the Minister himself, can you imagine? Has Sirius gotten tickets yet? They’re saying it’s selling out fast!

By the way, have you heard from Draco at all this summer? I got a letter from Pansy (her family’s been on hols in Italy until recently, in case you haven’t heard) but Draco never responded when I asked if he’d be at the World Cup. I hope something hasn’t happened.

Will see you tonight!

~Ron

Tom and Harry shared a look – they hadn’t heard from Draco either.

“Well,” Harry said, “I suppose we should go get ready. D’you think I should bring my Firebolt, in case we decide to play three-on-three Quidditch?”

“Darling, of course we’re going to play three-on-three at the Burrow,” Tom replied, “and Ron will insist I join, even though I hate it.”

They let Sirius know they’d received Ron’s letter and would be ready to head to the Burrow shortly, then gathered up their cloaks and Harry’s broomstick. Within just a few minutes they were stepping out of the fireplace and into the Weasleys’ kitchen, only to be smothered in a warm embrace.

“Harry! Tom!” Mrs Weasley didn’t let go of them for a long minute. “It’s wonderful to see the two of you again, especially after what you did for… Well, happy birthday Harry. The family’s all gathered out back.”

They made their way out to the garden behind the Burrow, which was much larger and well-tended than the one at Grimmauld Place. Unlike the Black family’s garden, however, which had surely once been filled with exotic flowers and bushes, this garden was more for utility – stocked to the brim with carrots, potatoes, enormous gourds and pumpkins, and a wide variety of herbs which could be used in both potions and cooking, it was clearly a means by which Molly Weasley could feed her frankly enormous family.

The evidence of Mrs Weasley’s hard work was on display – for Harry’s birthday, several tables had been set up side by side and an impressive spread had been laid out, centred around a two-tiered chocolate cake that was drizzled with icing and topped with strawberries. The sumptuous smell of roast duck, vegetable stew, and mashed potatoes with a hearty gravy filled the air, and Tom’s mouth watered at the scent. Molly Weasley had clearly been preparing for days, and had absolutely outdone herself.

“Wow, Mrs Weasley,” Harry gasped, similarly struck by the sight. “You didn’t have to do all this!”

“Oh, this? It’s nothing, dear,” Mrs Weasley replied. “It’s your birthday, after all, and we haven’t had the chance to celebrate the last two, so…”

“It’s amazing,” Harry insisted. “It really is.”

“Harry!” someone called. “Tom! Down here!”

They followed the voice, hand in hand, toward the end of one of the tables to find Ron, seated next to Hermione, with Pansy across from them, looking very out of place and rather disdainful of her surroundings. Next to her were two Weasleys Tom had never met before.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Pansy said airily. “You know, I wanted to host your party at my house, but Ron insisted. Said his mum’s been planning for months.”

“Your parents would never agree to hosting me, anyway,” Hermione said, rather snippily.

“You’re probably right,” Pansy replied quietly. “Draco’s parents wouldn’t even let him come, you know. Something’s happened since school let out. Mother and Father have been talking in hushed tones about something coming back, and it was like pulling teeth getting permission to attend today. Apparently Mr Malfoy’s been worse than ever about blood purity, and Draco’s mum won’t let him out of her sight. I simply can’t understand it.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Harry said. “And Professor Lupin, you’re here too?”

“It’s just ‘Remus’ now,” Lupin said, smiling. “Apparently, someone spread the word about that I’m a werewolf, and the Board of Governors weren’t happy about my employment.”

“So Tom was right about that?” Harry asked, before the full weight of what Lupin had just said crashed onto him. “Wait, you’re not working at Hogwarts anymore?! That’s terrible! You were the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve had!”

“I’ll thank you for that, Harry,” Lupin said, raising a a glass.

“But – what are you going to do now?” Harry demanded.

“Oh, this and that, I suppose,” Lupin said. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“So,” one of the unfamiliar red-heads said, “Harry Potter, good to meet you. I’m Charlie, Ron and Ginny’s oldest brother. And you must be the famous Tom Riddle.” He shook both of their hands in turn, his palms thick and calloused.

“Ginny’s told us quite a bit about the both of you,” the other Weasley added. “Name’s Bill, by the way.”

“You’re a Curse-Breaker, right?” Tom asked, shaking his hand as well. “Ron mentioned once that you were working with Gringotts in Egypt, I assumed he meant recovering lost goblin treasure.”

“That’s right,” Bill grinned. The man had a rakish quality to him, sporting a dangling fang from one earlobe and his long red hair tied back loosely in a ponytail. “And you – son of Voldemort, eh?”

“Ginny!” Harry admonished – they had told her at the end of second year, but it had meant to be a secret. Ginny, three seats down, just shrugged.

“I didn’t tell, I promise,” she replied. “Bill figured it out when I told him about the Basilisk. Apparently, You-Know-Who was the only known Parselmouth in Britain when he was in power.”

“It’s not just that,” Bill added. “There’ve been rumours flying around about the both of you at least ever since that article appeared in the Daily Prophet, and probably before, as well. Apparently, there’s a few out there who remember a ‘Tom Riddle’ from their own school days, around fifty years ago now. He was, by all accounts, an excellent student, but during his fifth year started up a not-so-secret club of blood purists and Dark Arts practitioners. As it turns out, most of the students with whom Riddle surrounded himself ended up becoming the first Death Eaters…”

“Basically,” Charlie finished, “people are starting to put the pieces together.”

Tom shrugged – it was an inevitability, after all. “I didn’t exactly choose my father,” he replied.

“Still,” Charlie said, piling some mashed potatoes on his plate as they were handed to him, “you ought to be careful. Being the son of a man like that carries a great deal of weight. People will be looking to see if you follow in his footsteps or forge your own path.”

“Well, obviously I’m not planning to become the next Lord Voldemort,” Tom replied, scowling as he took the platter of duck from Harry and carved off two slices. I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I’m not exactly keen on killing Harry.”

Charlie smirked. “Oh, we’ve noticed.”

“So!” Ron said, his mouth full of potatoes. “Are you two coming to the World Cup, then? It’s Ireland vs Bulgaria, bound to be a good show.”

“We are indeed,” Sirius cut in, joining them at the end of the table. “It was meant to be a birthday surprise.”

“Some surprise,” Harry snorted, “you’ve been talking about the World Cup for weeks.”

“Well, how’s this for the surprise then — we’ll be in the Top Box, best seats in the stadium.”

“That’s brilliant, though!” Ron exclaimed. “We’ll be able to sit together.”

“Ronald,” Pansy snapped, “kindly chew with your mouth closed, please and thank you. And yes, we’ll be there as well. Both Draco’s parents and my own always get Top Box tickets.”

“Oh, good,” Harry replied, “we can find out why he’s gone radio silent.”

Tom had his own suspicions brewing about exactly why Draco had dropped out of communication, why Pansy’s parents were harbouring secrets, but he did not voice them aloud. After all, how could he explain that those who had been his closest followers in his previous life were no doubt feeling the initial tingles of pain in their forearms as Voldemort grew stronger, were watching as the brands of loyalty they had once sported began to darken once more? He shouldn’t know anything about it, and only Harry and Sirius were privy to the knowledge that he would.

They did indeed break into a game of three-on-three Quidditch after the meal was concluded. With Pansy there, however, Tom was blessedly left out of the lineup, watching instead with Hermione from his preferred position on the ground. Not given to emotional displays of passion, he clapped politely every time Harry or Ron put the “Quaffle” (really, an old cricket ball liberated from Arthur Weasley’s collection of Muggle paraphernalia) past Ginny, or when Pansy managed as “Keeper” to make a particularly brilliant save. Fred and George may be excellent Beaters, but Pansy was quicker than them by far, darting back and forth on her own Nimbus 2001 to block the cricket ball, and Harry – well, Harry was just as skilled in the air as a Chaser as he was a Seeker.

Finally, it was time to settle in for the evening and open presents. Sirius, Bill, and Charlie had built a sizable bonfire as the sun sank slowly in the sky, and the Weasley clan plus four sat down around Harry as Molly retrieved a small pile of packages just for him, floating along in the air beside her. Harry grinned, his teeth stained with the rich dark chocolate from the cake.

“You really didn’t need to do all this,” he said, smiling despite himself. “This has been the best birthday in… well, ever, honestly.”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Sirius joked. “Your first birthday was rather nice, if I do say so myself. Got you your first broom that year.”

“Sirius,” Harry said, exasperated, “if I can’t remember it, it doesn’t count.”

Sirius clutched his chest in feigned heartbreak. “You wound me, Harry,” he lamented. “I planned that party from top to bottom.”

There was a burst of helpless laughter at the bereft look on Sirius’ face, even as he winked in amusem*nt. Mrs Weasley, apparently not easily moved by his antics, tutted and handed a present to Harry.

“Go on then, dear,” she said. “This one’s from me and Arthur.”

Harry tore open the package to reveal a new pair of flying boots, the crisp leather shining under the dying light of the sky and the crackling fire. Harry tugged off his loafers and slipped them on.

“Wow, they’re a perfect fit!” he enthused. “Thank you, Mrs Weasley.”

Tom watched in contentment as Harry made his way through the rest of his presents: a new book on defensive magic from Hermione, a broomcare kit from Ron, a set of hairstyling potions from Pansy (“to get that bird’s nest under control!”) and finally, from Sirius, a new set of dress robes, inky black with green and silver filigree across the collar and cuffs.

“They’re incredible,” Harry remarked, holding up the robes to inspect them in the firelight, “but I already have dress robes. Why…?”

“You’ll be wanting a new set soon enough,” Sirius replied, sharing a knowing look with Molly and Arthur Weasley. “Can’t say more just now, but you’ll find out when you get back to Hogwarts.”

“Well, alright,” Harry said, his brow furrowed as he neatly refolded the robes and tucked them back into their box. “Thank you, everyone – really, I mean it.”

The twilight setting in, the party slowly began to dissipate – Mr Weasley side-along Apparated Hermione back to her parents’ house, and Ginny, yawning, trundled up to bed. As the adults packed up the leftover dishes and cleared away the tables, Tom pulled Harry aside.

“Harry,” he said, “I’m sorry you didn’t have a gift from me among all the others.”

“That’s alright, Tom,” Harry replied, kissing his cheek. “I don’t need anything from you, you’ve given me more than enough.”

“No, Harry, you misunderstand,” Tom said. “I do have something for you, but it’s for your eyes only. Give me your hand, darling.”

Harry did, and Tom, without hesitation, slid what was arguably his most valuable piece of property onto his finger.

“Tom, no –” Harry argued, staring down at the Gaunt ring in glossy-eyed wonder, “this is yours. This is your heirloom. I can’t possibly accept this.”

“I can think of no one else I’d rather see wearing this ring,” Tom replied, curling his fingers around Harry’s. “It’s a promise, understand? It means we belong to each other, and no one else. You’ve taken such good care of my soul for nearly thirteen years now, can you take care of this for me too?”

“Of course,” Harry said breathlessly. “But – won’t people have questions if they see me wearing it? It’s on my ring finger, for Salazar’s sake.”

“When I said it was for your eyes only, I was being literal,” Tom explained. “I’ve used Parselmagic to charm it invisible to anyone but ourselves. No one else will know unless you allow them to see it.”

“Wow, Tom, that’s –” Words apparently failed Harry, as instead he looped his arms around Tom’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, rising up on his toes even as Tom leaned over to close the distance between them, the bond between their souls lighting up as their lips met. It was soft, slow, and lingering, as breathtaking as the dance they had shared at the Malfoy’s gala had been and just as sweet. His arms around Harry, his hand tucked into his hair, Tom wished that this moment could last forever.

“Ahem.”

Tom reluctantly pulled away from his sweetheart to see Sirius Black, standing a few paces away with a grimace painted across his face. Harry, blushing furiously, removed his hands from around Tom’s shoulders and quickly shoved them into his pockets.

“Harry,” Sirius said, sounding strangled, “Tom. If you’re done acting as though you’ve just gotten engaged, it’s time to be heading home. It’s really quite late, and…”

“Of course,” Harry replied, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his head down. “We’ll just, erm, be heading in to the Floo, then.”

As Tom nestled under the covers for the night, Harry not two paces away in his own bed, the ring that had until recently held his soul fitted perfectly onto Harry’s finger, he felt a great sense of ease. No matter what Voldemort was planning, no matter how soon he returned, the two of them had each other: a nearly unbreakable Horcrux, and a soul that could not die, loving and in love with each other. They truly were meant to be, Tom thought, tied together by forces greater even than fate, than prophecy: they had been made for each other.

Tom slipped into a drowsy slumber, but the warm glow that had lingered around them long after they had broken apart from their kiss did not fade. If anything, it was stronger than ever, bolstered by the ever growing love and trust they shared, electric and alive in the air between them. As his eyes fluttered closed, his last thought was of Harry, and of the sweet kiss they had shared.

Chapter 15: The Quidditch World Cup

Chapter Text

Albus had a problem.

After the Dementors had completed their sweep of Hogwarts during the spring break and been cleared away when it became apparent Peter Pettigrew was not hiding in the castle, Albus had used the period of peace and calm to finally pursue a train of research which had previously been unavailable to him. Until the end of the year prior, he hadn’t had the slightest inkling as to what Voldemort had done to attain such seeming invincibility, even the Darkest of curses rolling off him without leaving so much as a scratch. It was a funny irony then that the key, possibly, had been handed to him only a little over a year ago by the man’s very own son. It lay there on the desk between him and Horace Slughorn, a schoolboy’s diary, marred by a gaping hole left behind by a Basilisk bite.

“You think he did it, then, Albus?” Horace asked nervously, staring at the unassuming black book. “He really succeeded in creating a Horcrux?”

“I believe, in fact, that he may have made more than one,” Albus replied.

“Impossible,” the former Potions master said, shivering. “To split the soul once already comes with a high risk of death – to do so repeatedly? He would surely have destroyed himself.”

“I think,” Albus said gently, “that it can be argued that he did just that. You remember, of course, what he was like at Hogwarts. He was a handsome young man, charming even, though he too frequently used those gifts as a weapon. Intelligent, too, and with a streak of ambition I’ve seen in very few. He sacrificed all of that to become what he was before he was vanquished – cruel, callous, and monstrous, his ambition fuelling only his lust for power. Whatever Tom Riddle could have become is long-since dead, murdered by his own hand.”

“Yes, well,” Horace replied, “if he did, I certainly know nothing about it. As you’ve just seen –”

“Quite,” Albus cut in.

And there was the problem. He had invited his former colleague to his office on this evening with the intent of discovering if the man knew anything about young Tom’s investigations into the subject. He was rather certain, after all, that the diary had been created sometime during the end of the boy’s fifth year of schooling, after he had opened the Chamber of Secrets and used the Basilisk to murder a third-year student. The memory Horace had provided, however, was incomplete, tampered with, and he knew there was no way to force the man to give up the true recollection.

It had still been rather telling, however. From what little remained of the true memory, Albus had been able to ascertain that Tom had been in his sixth year, wearing that heirloom ring he had mysteriously obtained sometime during the summer after his fifth. Even so, with one Horcrux no doubt already created, he had asked his favourite professor about the topic – though what Horace had actually told him was a mystery still.

Albus’ best conclusion was that he had planned on making more – that ring, no doubt, would become another.

“Well,” Horace fretted, his fingers twitching nervously in his lap, “if that diary was a Horcrux, it certainly isn’t any longer. They’re meant to be capable of self-repair, after all, and it’s… certainly seen better days. How did you destroy it, exactly?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that myself,” Albus replied. “The diary was destroyed by two of our own, second year students at the time, by obtaining mastery over the Basilisk that resides within the Chamber of Secrets and commanding it to bite it.”

“A Basilisk?!” Horace yelped. “Surely you jest, Albus – how on earth would two children manage to tame –”

“In the precise same manner used by Tom Riddle when he opened the Chamber, over fifty years ago now.”

“You don’t mean – Parseltongue? ” Horace babbled. “But who –” A look of understanding came over his face. “His son?”

“Indeed,” Albus replied. “Have you met the boy?”

“I – I have,” Horace wheezed. “Ran into him and Harry Potter one Christmas a few years back. He seems a good lad – though, so did his father, admittedly.”

“I can assure you that Tom Riddle the Second is, in fact, a good lad,” Albus said. “As is his dearest friend and fellow Basilisk subduer, Harry Potter himself.”

And there was the other problem: Harry should not be able to speak to snakes. Albus’ suspicions had begun to sprout the moment he laid eyes on the diary, as Tom explained how they had met the “memory” of his father at age sixteen in the chamber, and as concerns surrounding the state of Voldemort’s soul took hold in his mind. He had tried to soften the blow – the boy had only been twelve-years-old, for heaven’s sake, he didn’t need to know the burden Albus suspected he was carrying – but Harry had seized upon the truth of the matter almost instinctively, though he surely had not understood what it meant when he’d asked, “Voldemort put a bit of himself in me? ”

If Albus was right, as he damningly all too often was, in order for Voldemort to be defeated, Harry would have to die.

“Tom, look, that must be Draco’s tent!”

Tom glanced to where Harry was pointing — indeed, the tent in question, if one could call it that, could be none other than the Malfoys’. More of a miniature, striped silk palace than anything else, it was festooned in green and silver tassels and emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest across the entrance, around which several albino peaco*cks were gathered. Harry made as if to head towards it, but Tom caught his hand before he could take another step.

“Harry, no.” Tom said. “We’ll see Draco at the match. It would be the height of impropriety to just waltz into someone else’s tent uninvited, particularly as it appears we are not in Lucius Malfoy’s good graces at the moment.”

It was the day of the Quidditch World Cup at last. Harry, Tom, and Sirius had Portkeyed in the night before with advance tickets to the fairgrounds to set up their own rather lavish tent, a great, crimson eyesore that would have been wildly out of place if it had not been for the row of other, even more garish living quarters that had been set up around them. The inside was similarly adorned, and while it made Tom feel a bit ill to surround himself with such obviously Gryffindor decor, he couldn’t deny that it was a rather comfortable way to go camping. The tent came with a full kitchen, two proper bedrooms, and a working loo. There was even a cosy little seating area, but with so much to do and see at the World Cup, it was getting very little use.

“I don’t understand, why would Mr Malfoy be angry with us?” Harry asked. “He was fine hosting us at the Gala.”

“I would wager it is not so much that he’s angry with us,” Tom replied, “as it is that he wished to distance his family from you specifically.”

Harry frowned. “What did I do?”

Tom glanced around furtively — no one was paying them much attention, but the area was full of families milling about in the cool afternoon air. “Not here,” he hissed quietly into Harry’s ear, tugging him away from the throng of people and towards the woods. Once he felt they were sufficiently far enough away from any potential eavesdroppers, he slowed to a halt and cast a Muffling Charm for good measure.

“Darling,” he said, running his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand, “do you remember what I told you about the Malfoys when we first met Draco?”

Harry frowned. “That they tend to attach themselves to those they believe to be powerful?”

“Precisely,” Tom replied. “I had hoped, in the summer before our second year, that I had established myself in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes as an up and coming person of interest and influence, and had further cemented this by claiming my Slytherin lineage. However, I strongly suspect he has returned to supporting, at least in private, someone he perceives to hold a great deal more power – and who is in direct opposition to you.”

Harry stared at him in horror. “You don’t mean – Voldemort?” he asked. “Doesn’t Mr Malfoy believe he’s dead?”

“At the height of his power,” Tom explained, “Voldemort employed a method by which he could ensure his closest followers’ loyalties. He branded them, marked their left forearms with an identifiable tattoo which could be used as means of both control and punishment. When activated, they would call them to his side, but could be used to inflict great pain as well. To his Death Eaters, to take the Dark Mark, as it was called, was of the highest honour, but it was also a point of no return – it was grounds for immediate arrest and imprisonment if caught sporting one.”

“That’s horrible,” Harry replied. “But surely Draco’s father doesn’t have one – he’d be in Azkaban for sure.”

“You forget, Harry, just how obscenely wealthy Draco’s family is,” Tom countered. “Though, I believe too that the brands faded away when Voldemort fell from power; I didn’t see one on Wormtail, either. However, given that the Dark Lord is growing in strength, day by day, no doubt the Death Eaters’ Dark Marks are returning. They will have noticed, and realised what it means.”

“So they know,” Harry said, staring at him with hollow eyes. “That’s what Pansy’s parents have been talking about, why Draco’s mum is scared to let him out of her sight. They know he’s coming back, but they don’t know how strong he is. They must be terrified.”

“They should be,” Tom replied. “Voldemort will inevitably regard their failure to seek him out as betrayal, and his retribution will be harsh. Lucius Malfoy in particular has reason to fear, as his actions led to what looks like the destruction of one of our Horcruxes. I would be furious with him, come to think of it, were I not entirely aware of the fact that that piece of my soul is safe and where it belongs.”

“There you are.” The boys looked up to see Sirius, crashing through the deadfall of the forest. “I swear, the two of you go vanishing off together more often than a – hang on.” Sirius paused as he came into their vicinity. “Is this that old Muffling Charm Snivellus came up with? Don’t tell me they teach that as part of Hogwarts’ curriculum now.”

“No,” Tom replied in surprise. “I remembered it from my previous life. I didn’t realise it was Snape who invented it, though.”

“Huh,” Sirius said, his eyebrows raised. “Well, I suppose if the two of you are using it, I can’t mind that much. But listen, I’ve just run into the Weasleys, and they’ve brought Hermione along. She and Ron are anxious to see you both. Shall we head back to the campsite?”

Tom cancelled the Muffling charm and followed alongside Harry after Sirius out of the thicket. Back in the campgrounds, they quickly spotted Ron, his tall frame and flaming red hair sticking out amongst the crowd. From the looks of it, he and Hermione were inspecting a table laden with merchandise, the saleswizard tending it doing his best to tempt the two of them into making a purchase.

“Wish I hadn’t bought this now,” they heard Ron saying, rather gloomily, as he gestured to the hat he wore, decked with a dancing shamrock.

“What’s this then?” Sirius asked. “Ah, Omnioculars? Go on, then, one pair for each of us.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a heaping bag of Galleons, counting out fifty of the fat gold coins as quickly as he could while the merchant gathered up five sets of the fancy contraptions that looked much like the binoculars Tom took to every Slytherin Quidditch game. Ron went scarlet.

“No,” he mumbled, “it’s okay, you don’t need to –”

“I insist,” Sirius interrupted. “What’s the point of inheriting a stack of unwanted money if you can’t spend it on your godson and his friends? Besides, it’s my fault you don’t have a pet rat anymore – it’s the least I can do to make it up to you.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron said darkly, “apparently I never had a rat in the first place.” He more easily accepted the Omnioculars, however, and the five of them made their way further into the crowd of salespeople.

“Oooh, Harry, look at this!” Hermione enthused. “They’ve got scale-models of all the brooms the players use!”

“It’s just a bunch of Firebolts with their names on,” Ron yawned. “Harry’s got the real life thing back at home. But check this out.” He pulled a miniature figure of one of the Quidditch players from his pocket, which walked around on his palm.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked, peering down at the figurine.

“Who’s that?” Ron echoed, boggling at him. “Harry, that’s Viktor Krum! He’s a prodigy! He’s playing Seeker for Bulgaria – just wait til you see him, he’s supposed to be incredible!”

“I thought we were supporting Ireland, Ron,” Tom said dryly, frankly bored with the entire thing.

“Yeah, well.” Ron shoved the figure back in his pocket. “I’m allowed to admire good Quidditch skills, no matter who they’re playing for, aren’t I?”

“Oh, quit bickering,” Hermione said, looking further into the crowd. “The match will be starting any time now, and I don’t want to miss any of this.”

As it turned out, Hermione was right. No sooner had she bought a set of tasselled programmes for them all than did a loud gong ring out, drowning out the noise of the crowd. Tom watched as a set of lanterns, red and green, flickered to life in the wood, illuminating their path to the stadium. Ron and Hermione hurried off to find the rest of the Weasleys, and Harry grabbed Tom’s hand, his excitement washing over the both of them.

Well. If Tom couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the Quidditch match, Harry could quite literally, apparently, muster up enough for the both of them.

“Come on, Tom,” he enthused, “I want to get there before everyone else!”

“The stadium’s not going anywhere, darling,” Tom teased him, smiling fondly anyway.

“I know that,” Harry replied, “but the crowds –”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to escape them, look –”

It was true; thousands of witches and wizards were now pouring into the wood from all corners of the campgrounds, laughing and hollering in excitement. Next to him, Harry was grinning wildly, caught up in the enthusiasm of the mob, swinging their entwined hands between them as they walked. Tom, on the other hand, felt rather indifferent to the whole thing. These people, this game – it meant nothing to him, because it did nothing for him.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. They were going to be seated in the top box with the Minister for Magic himself, and if nothing else Tom had been a professional at turning even a chance meeting into an opportunity for himself in his previous life, and he felt rather confident he could do the same now – even if he was only fourteen.

After about a twenty minute walk, they emerged from the wood next to a massive, absolutely hulking stadium, bigger than the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch by far and at least twice as tall. Sirius strode forward ahead of them and presented their tickets to the Ministry witch at the entrance, who cringed away as he approached.

“Ah, yes, Mr Black,” she said nervously, gingerly plucking the tickets from his outstretched hand. “Prime seats, it seems – just head all the way to the top, you can’t miss it.”

They made their way up the purple carpeted stairs along with the crowd, which thinned significantly at each level as groups of people split off and headed toward their own seats. Finally, reaching the top, it was just Tom, Harry, and Sirius, though they were soon joined by the Weasleys, Arthur huffing and puffing as he led his group towards them. “Sirius!” he said, catching his breath. “There you are, caught sight of the three of you in the crowd, but we couldn’t keep up with so many of us.”

“Nothing to worry about, Arthur,” Sirius replied. “There’s plenty of time before the game begins.”

They filed into the Top Box, a small, obviously highly exclusive space set aside for high ranking officials from each country and those wealthy enough to afford the seats. Tom wasn’t quite sure how the Weasleys had managed to wrangle tickets of this nature, but assumed that it must have something to do with his job at the Ministry. He led Harry down the row of velvet-lined purple and gold chairs, waved at Pansy and her parents as he spotted them, and took his seat at the very end, Sirius on the other side of him and Harry. Staring at the massive stadium around him, Tom finally felt a tingling sense of glee; in front of him were tens of thousands of witches and wizards from across the globe, a veritable sea of people who would one day be his to rule – and here he was, sitting loftily above all of them.

Harry turned in his seat. “Oh!” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “‘Lo there. Are you alright?”

Tom turned as well to see who Harry was talking to. Behind them sat a very small house-elf, draped in a tea-towel and pressing her hands against her face. The creature was shivering, obviously terrified, though of what Tom couldn’t say.

The house-elf looked up and peered through her fingers at Harry. “Did sir just speak to me?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry replied. “Should I not have? I mean, it’s just – you look unwell.”

“It is nothing,” insisted the house-elf. “I is not liking heights, but my master is wanting me to save him a seat.”

“That’s not very fair,” Hermione said, also turning round. “If he wants a seat in the Top Box, he should be here himself, not asking you to do something you don’t like.”

“No,” the house-elf said firmly, refusing to look towards the edge of the box. “Good house-elves does what they are told. And I is told to watch master’s seat.”

“I agree with Hermione,” Harry frowned. “Say, what’s your name?”

“I is Winky, sir,” the house-elf replied. “And you –” her eyes widened as she caught sight of Harry’s scar. “You is Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is talking of you all the time!”

“You know Dobby?” Harry asked, thunderstruck.

“Of course I knows Dobby,” Winky said, sounding a bit miffed. “We is both serving old families, until Dobby is disgracing himself with clothes.”

“Right,” Harry said awkwardly. “Sorry, I haven’t met many house-elves before now. But listen – are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” Winky insisted. “Winky is a good house-elf, and does what she is told.”

“If it helps, Winky,” Sirius said, turning and nodding to her, “every section of the stadium is protected by shielding charms. You couldn’t fall out of the box if you tried.”

“Oh!” Winky replied, lowering her hands from her face slightly, her shoulders relaxing. “Yes, sir, that is a good thing to be knowing.”

The Top Box began to flood with people – as Tom watched, Sirius sat, arms crossed, disdainful, as Mr Weasley stood several times to shake hands with various men and women from both the Ministry and the Bulgarian wizarding government. While one of the Weasley boys – Percy, he thought he might be named – kept jumping up to greet each person as they arrived, Tom held his seat, waiting for the prize.

“Ah, Arthur, there you are – Ludo told me you’d be joining us today.” Tom smiled slyly, hearing the Minister’s voice at last. “ And er – Sirius Black. I didn’t realise you’d purchased Top Box tickets.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sirius asked coolly, meeting Minister Fudge’s gaze. “Now that my godson has been rightfully given to my care and my inheritance returned to me, why would I deny Harry the best seats in his first opportunity to see a professional Quidditch match?”

“Of course, of course,” Fudge said faintly. “And if it isn’t Harry himself! You know Harry Potter, yes?” Fudge turned to a man beside him in gold-trimmed dress robes who stared blankly at him. “You know, defeated You-Know-Who? Harry Potter? Oh, never mind. It’s good to see you again, Harry. I’m afraid we haven’t had the chance to properly meet, considering, well…”

Harry stood, offering his hand. “It’s good to see you too, Minister,” he replied as Fudge shook his hand warmly. “You remember Tom, right?”

“But of course!” Fudge shook his hand as well, and Tom gave him his most charming smile. “The two of you are leaving quite the impression — catching Peter Pettigrew, that article in the Prophet… Well, I see big things in the future for both of you, let’s just say.”

“It was Tom, really, who captured Pettigrew,” Harry put in. “Hit him with a Body-Bind Curse as he tried to scurry away.”

“Did you now?” Fudge asked. “Fancy a career in the Auror-Corps some day, perhaps?”

“Dark wizard catcher?” Tom replied, the corners of his mouth twitching at the irony of such a suggestion. “No, I don’t think so — though I do have my sights set on the Ministry after we graduate.”

“Not trying to take my job, I hope?”

Tom’s smile grew wider.

Fudge laughed nervously. “Well still, that’s years off from now. Ah, and you know the Malfoys, of course!”

Lucius and Narcissa had entered the Top Box as well, Draco trailing behind them. The pale boy gave Tom and Harry a shaky smile as he spotted them, and Tom nodded back minutely in return, prompting an immediate look of relief — they didn’t hate him for abandoning them. Lucius, on the other hand, stared straight through them, his grey eyes sliding from Fudge to Tom and to Sirius before finally coming to a stop on Harry.

“Yes, we’ve met,” he said coldly.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Fudge said, rubbing his hands together. Tom was suddenly entirely unsure how the man had risen to such a position of power — he could scarcely read the room even when the tension was so palpable one could cut it with a knife, how had he ever managed to charm his constituents? “Lucius, allow me to introduce you to Mr Obla – Obalan – oh, it doesn’t matter, he can’t understand a word I say. This is the Bulgarian Minister, and are these your family?”

“My wife, Narcissa, and my son, Draco,” Lucius replied, tearing his eyes away from Harry to acknowledge the Minister.

“How do you do, how do you do?” Fudge acknowledged both of them in turn. “And I believe you know Arthur Weasley, yes?”

Tom watched as Lucius Malfoy’s eyes darted towards the Weasleys. “Good Lord, Arthur,” he murmured. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much.”

Mr Weasley turned a startling shade of red, but the Minister prattled on before he could retort. “Lucius and his family are here as my guests – as you are Ludo’s, I believe, Arthur? He’s just made a very generous donation to St Mungo’s, you see. And isn’t this wonderful, the children all get to sit with each other.”

“Quite,” Malfoy said contemptuously, his gaze finding Ron and Hermione. “You must be Ronald – Draco’s mentioned you. And you are?”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, her jaw lifting rebelliously against Lucius’ cold stare.

“Muggle-born, I understand?” Lucius sneered. “Well, I suppose it’s fortunate for your kind that Hogwarts remains open to you. Come along, Draco.”

Lucius swept away into the stands, followed by Narcissa. Draco, however, lingered.

“Sorry about Father,” Draco said quietly. “I really thought he might be easing up on the whole ‘hating Muggle-horns and blood-traitors’ thing, but lately he’s doubled down. He actually asked if I was going to invite you to stay again, but just you this time, Tom. Obviously I didn’t bother, I know you’d never go anywhere without Harry. I didn’t mean to ignore the four of you all summer, but I didn’t know what to say.”

“It’s fine, Draco,” Hermione snipped, “I can’t expect a leopard to change its spots. So long as you don’t go spouting blood-purist ideology again, I won’t hold any of it against you.”

Draco coloured significantly. “Of course I wouldn’t,” he sputtered. “I don’t believe any of that nonsense anymore, you know that.”

Hermione’s jaw relaxed. “Good.”

“Draco!”

“I’d better go join my parents,” he said resentfully. “Listen, maybe we can catch up after the match. If mother will let me out on my own, that is. Just – just don’t think I’ve forgotten all of you.”

He swept up to the top of the box where his parents had seated themselves, and Harry gave Tom a knowing look, to which Tom nodded in confirmation. Hermione glanced between them suspiciously.

“I feel like you two know something I don’t,” she said.

Before either of them could reply, however, a pudgy man in yellow and black striped Quidditch robes burst into the Top Box, panting heavily. “I’m not late, am I Cornelius?” he asked, bending to catch his breath. “Those stairs are absolutely brutal on the knees.”

“No, you’re just in time,” Fudge responded.

“Excellent,” the man said, picking himself up and rubbing his hands together, beaming. “Everyone ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo.”

The man – Ludo – pulled out his wand and used it to amplify his voice with a quick “Sonorus!” As he spoke, his voice resounded across the stadium, drowning out the din that had filled the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Tom tuned out, inspecting the programme Hermione had purchased for him – apparently, each team had national mascots, magical creatures that would put on a show before the match began. Well, that might be interesting, at least. As he wondered what kind of beasts might be on display, he had his question answered for him.

“Ah, Veela! ” Mr Weasley exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. Tom, in a mild moment of panic, closed his mind – he vaguely remembered encountering Veela in his previous life, and did not relish experiencing anew the control they had over him. But Harry… Harry didn’t even know what they were.

“Harry!” Tom whispered into his ear. “Occlude, now.”

“Huh?” Harry asked. “But why, it’s just – oh… wow…”

Harry stood from his seat and drifted forward toward the edge of the stands, completely enthralled with the beautiful women, singing and dancing on the Quidditch pitch below. Beside him, both Ron and Ginny were doing the same, as Hermione stared in complete confusion. In a burst of jealousy that flooded through his chest, Tom leapt from his seat, seized Harry’s hand, and pulled him back down and away from the edge.

“I told you to Occlude,” Tom snapped, pushing Harry back into his seat, even as most of the rest of their cohort leaned over the edge of the box. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Tom, stop!” Harry protested angrily, shoving his hands away and trying to stand once more. “I’m fine, I just wanted to see –”

“Do you remember what Lupin taught us last year about sirens?” Tom interjected as the singing quelled and the crowd began to roar in disappointment. Harry stilled slightly and nodded. “Veela are very closely related — their song, with that many of them, could have lured you to your death. ”

Harry frowned. “Didn’t Sirius say there were Shield Charms around the stands to prevent anyone from falling, though?” he argued. “I would’ve been fine, you’re just being ridiculous.”

Tom scowled and flounced back into his own seat, crossing his arms and looking away. “Well, you were making a fool of yourself,” he sulked.

“It’s fine, Tom,” Harry muttered. “I don’t mind, really.”

Tom, however, did mind, thank you very much. That look of enraptured wonder on Harry’s face was meant to be for him and him alone. He minded so much, in fact, that he barely looked up from his programme when the Irish mascots, Leprechauns, showered them with gold, nor when Ron dove to fill his pockets with the ersatz coins.

At long last the game began, and Tom found, to his surprise, that it managed to capture his attention, distracting from the cold envy in his heart. The game itself wasn’t particularly interesting, but the flying –like dancers performing an intricate ballet, the players’ moves were quick and precise as they weaved around each other, passing the Quaffle and dodging Bludgers at a speed with which even Harry seemed to be having trouble keeping up. It was truly a sight to behold, and even Tom couldn’t deny the awe he felt at such an incredible display of skill and magic.

One player in particular stood out from the rest: Viktor Krum, hardly older than them and yet clearly the best player. Tom could understand now why Ron would be so taken with the Bulgarian Quidditch prodigy, even if he played for the opposing team. He flew rather like Harry did – if Harry’d had a few years of professional training – lithe and graceful in the air, soaring like an eagle keeping careful watch for his prey. As Krum swept into a steep dive, Tom leaned over to Harry, whose eyes were wide with unmistakable wonder.

“You could do this too, you know,” he murmured against the shell of his ear. Harry looked at him in alarm.

“What – play professionally?” Harry asked. “No way, I’m not that good.”

“Yes you are, darling,” Tom insisted. “You’re too humble. With training, you’ll be an even better flyer than Krum.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to see me flying out there,” Harry retorted.

“I admit, I can see the appeal,” Tom replied. “Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Minister Riddle Presents Quidditch World Cup to His Longtime Partner, Harry Potter!’ Not a day will go by where our names don’t make the Prophet.”

There was a great roar from the crowd and Harry tore his eyes away from his, much to Tom’s annoyance. “Hold up," he said, fiddling with his Omnioculars. “I’ve missed something – oh, Krum feinted, and Lynch is out – wait, no, he’s just dazed. Ireland still has a chance.”

“They have more than a chance,” Sirius interjected, as Lynch mounted his broom and Ireland immediately put the Quaffle through the hoop once more. “Their Chasers are solid, it’s going to take a lot from Bulgaria to keep them away from their goalposts.”

He was right: with Lynch recovered, what followed was the most vicious game of Quidditch Tom had ever witnessed. The Irish team more or less mounted an organised attack, and though Bulgaria did their best to fight back – and they fought dirty – it wasn’t enough. Within what felt like mere minutes, though he was sure it must be longer, the time dilated by the excitement of the crowd, the Irish team had outflanked the Bulgarians well into the triple digits.

It was beginning to look like the game would continue on like this, with Ireland leaving Bulgaria in the dust, until there was a sudden commotion. One of the Irish Beaters had taken a wild swing at a Bludger, and it had gone careening right into Krum’s face. But as the crowd called in vain for a time out, suddenly both Seekers were diving towards the ground again.

“Another feint, d’you think, Harry?” Sirius asked excitedly.

“No!” Harry exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Lynch’s seen the Snitch! Look at him go!”

Tom stood as well to lean over the wall and, sure enough, both Seekers were hurtling toward a single point near the centre of the field. Lynch had noticed it while Krum was still dazed by the Bludger, and so had the advantage, but Krum was faster, more willing to take his broomstick right up to the upper limits of its speed. He was closing the gap now – they were neck and neck, mere feet from the ground – and Krum was pulling ahead, his fingers outstretched even as blood flew from his face and into the air –

“They’re going to crash!” Hermione shrieked.

“They’re not!” roared Ron.

“Lynch is!” Harry yelled.

Harry was right: with a tremendous THUD , Lynch collided with with the lawn of the Quidditch pitch for the second time that evening, dragging a large gash behind him as he flipped and then skidded through the grass and dirt. Krum, on the other hand, had pulled out of his dive once more, his fist raised triumphantly in the air.

“He’s got it!” Harry exclaimed. “Krum’s got the Snitch, it’s all over!”

It wasn’t immediately clear what had happened, but it became obvious as the numbers on a giant scoreboard suddenly shifted, reflecting the change in points: BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY. As it dawned across the stadium what was going on, a low roar began to rumble through them, careening toward a fever’s pitch as the Ireland supporters began celebrating wildly. There was a moment of utter confusion and chaos before Ludo Bagman cleared his throat.

“IRELAND WIN!” he shouted, shock written across his face. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND WIN! Good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that.”

Harry screamed in excitement and, turning to Tom, pulled him down into an impassioned kiss. Tom froze for a brief moment, surprised at the ardour with which Harry had crushed their mouths together, but, drunk on Harry’s enthusiasm and delight, he let himself ease into the kiss, his arms encircling his waist to pull him in tighter. If all Quidditch matches ended like this, maybe it was worth the annoyance of losing Harry’s attention towards himself.

Harry pulled away a moment later to resume cheering, and Tom, unable to help himself, smiled as well, clapping politely as the rest of their row screamed their support for Ireland. Quidditch it seemed, even without Harry playing, could be enjoyable after all.

Chapter 16: Death Eaters and Dark Marks

Chapter Text

After the Cup was handed over to the Irish Quidditch team and the celebrations in the stands had died down, Tom followed as the Weasleys, Sirius, Hermione, and Harry all made their way back down to the ground, heading back towards the campgrounds. They replayed the match as they walked, gesturing animatedly as they discussed each play, each minute detail that Tom hadn’t picked up, not being remotely an expert in the game. What he was an expert in, however, was observation, and as they passed through the wood, surrounded by revellers celebrating the Ireland win, he began to feel that something was distinctly wrong.

He didn’t mention his concern to the rest of the group, not wanting to bring down their mood, particularly Harry’s, but he stayed on alert, hoping to pinpoint what it was that was tingling in the back of his mind: a new forgotten memory, perhaps? An emotion of Voldemort’s, passing through his newly shored-up Occlumency barriers? No – there it was: a group of people huddled tightly together, whispering a bit too quietly to be celebrants – a furtive glance cast here and there, at Hermione, at Harry, and at himself – a glimpse of Lucius Malfoy through the trees, speaking in hushed tones with another man who seemed too familiar to be a coincidence. Something was being planned, Tom was sure of it.

But what, exactly? Voldemort was still weak, hidden away somewhere unknown. Besides, these were the people who had turned their backs on the Dark Lord, not bothering to seek him out after he fell from power – Tom held no illusions that they were planning to return en masse unless their hands were forced. No, it was more likely that with their knowledge of Voldemort’s imminent return, they were plotting some elaborate show, a display of force to send a message: “we’re still here, don’t think you’ve forgotten about us.”

The lot of them ended up at the Weasleys’ tent for a while, which was far smaller than the space Tom shared with Harry and Sirius the night before, but no less cosy and warm. As the revelry continued outside, they began arguing over the match in a light-hearted manner over warm cups of hot chocolate, while Tom sat with Harry curled up against him, stroking his hair idly and listening for any sounds of distress. It was only when Ginny, clearly exhausted, fell asleep on the table and knocked over her mug that Mr Weasley declared it time for bed, and Sirius led the two of them back to their own lodgings.

The boys quickly changed into their pyjamas and slipped into bed, Harry ignoring his own and curling up next to Tom instead, letting their fingers entwine together. “Did you mean what you said at the match?” Harry asked sleepily. “I mean, you as Minister and me playing Quidditch, still together?”

“Of course, Harry,” Tom said quietly, dipping his head to brush a kiss against Harry’s forehead. “If that’s what you want, of course – you don’t have to play Quidditch professionally. And of course we’ll still be together, I’d never leave you.”

“Good,” Harry yawned, tucking his head beneath Tom’s chin. “I’d never leave you either, no matter what happened.”

Tom’s heart clenched at the statement as he thought about his former followers, gathering somewhere outside, possibly planning to show their support for his older counterpart. About Voldemort, growing stronger somewhere and the non-zero chance that he would abandon his current method to resurrection for possession instead if he could get his hands upon Tom once more. “Don’t fall asleep yet, darling,” Tom whispered. “It might be nothing, but I’m worried something might happen.”

“Hmm?” Harry replied groggily. “Wha’d’ya mean, ‘something might happen?’”

A scream rent the air nearby.

Both boys shot up in bed at the sound, Harry turning to Tom with wide eyes and furrowed brows. “What do you mean, Tom?” he repeated, more firmly this time.

Tom cringed at the slightly suspicious look in Harry’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “It’s not a vision from Voldemort, I just noticed some things when we were on our way back – people acting like they were planning something, being secretive. Just odd behaviour for people celebrating after an exciting Quidditch final. I didn’t think they’d –”

Another scream, closer this time. The sound of dozens of feet trampling across the ground. Cruel laughter. The door to the bedroom slamming open as Sirius burst into the room, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he caught the two of them in the same bed.

“What’re you two – oh, thank Merlin, you’ve still got your clothes on,” Sirius heaved as he stomped in. “Get up! Grab your cloaks – er, your jackets – whichever, just get outside and head back to the wood!”

“Sirius?” Harry asked, scrambling for his glasses and hopping on one foot to tug on one of his loafers. “What’s going on?”

“Not sure,” Sirius replied. “There’s a tent on fire, and people in masks – Death Eaters, maybe – making their way down the row. It’s not safe, that’s all I know. Now come on!”

The boys hurriedly tugged the Muggle jackets they’d had to wear to the Quidditch Cup over their pyjamas and raced out of the tent. What they emerged into was a nightmare – a group of wizards, masked as Sirius had said, were parading through the rows, carousing and sending an occasional Blasting Curse at one of the more Muggle-styled tents, even as people fled them in their nightclothes. Above them floated four figures – a family, judging by the looks of them, and probably Muggle, too – wailing in pain and fear as their bodies were yanked against their will to twist and contort into positions which should normally be impossible, their joints cracking as they were forced backwards. The sight elicited a strange rush of emotions in Tom – panic that the former Death Eaters, for that’s who they surely were, might target Harry as well, fury that those who had supported him in his previous life were cavorting about and showcasing their love of the Dark Arts instead of bowing before him, and a rush of pleasure twisting through him at the sight of abject agony and terror written across the Muggles’ faces.

He shook it off, forcing himself to focus only on Harry. “We’ve got to go,” he shouted in order to make himself heard above the din of crackling flames and screaming as he seized Harry’s hand. “They could do the same to you – or worse. We need to leave now! ”

Harry hesitated only momentarily before following along behind, his eyes trained on the Muggle family and wide with horror. As they ran back towards the wood, however, the clamour fell away into the background and the firelight diminished, until soon all they could hear was the shaky panting of their own breath, their heartbeats pounding in their ears. Finally hidden away from the rampaging Death Eaters, Tom released Harry’s hand and pulled him into a tight embrace, tucking his hand into his hair protectively.

“D’you – d’you think Sirius is okay?” Harry asked shakily. “I lost sight of him in the crowd.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Tom replied. “There’s Ministry officials all over the place, he’ll have gone to help them.”

“Right,” Harry said, sounding unsure. “And those people in the masks – they really are Voldemort’s followers?”

“They were,” Tom corrected in an angry hiss. “None of them have bothered to lift a finger to try and help their former master. They can hardly be called Death Eaters anymore, just worthless pure blood fanatics who revel in torture and misery of those they deem beneath them.”

“Try not to sound so displeased about it,” Harry griped, pulling away from Tom. “Or would you rather Voldemort was already returned to his full power?”

“You misunderstand, darling,” Tom replied. “In my former life, I commanded those men and women as a king does his army. We expected loyalty, devotion – adoration. Now when I look at them, all I see are Voldemort’s failures – my failures – to understand the true nature of such things. Those men and women never followed us because they cared, they simply wanted power, free rein to abuse Muggles and Muggle-borns.”

“Are you sure you don’t want those things too, Tom?” Harry asked accusingly.

“Yes!” Tom spat defensively.

“Don’t lie,” Harry said. “Our bond is getting stronger every day, or have you not realised that? When I’m not actively Occluding, I can feel your emotions almost as strongly as my own. I know what went through your head when you saw those Muggles being tortured. You enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t – I don’t want –” Tom stilled himself and took in a deep breath – denying the fact that he had enjoyed the sight would do nothing to fix things. “Harry, you know who I am. You know where I came from. We’ve talked about this, you know what my life was like before Hogwarts. Is it not enough that I stop myself from indulging in my worst desires? Would you have me change who I am as well?”

“I –” Harry sighed, taking Tom’s hand and squeezing it gently. “No, I suppose I can’t expect that from anyone. It’s just distressing, you know? To be reminded that your boyfriend would commit murder and thoroughly enjoy it.”

“Harry? Tom?” The two of them looked up to see a figure making their way through the wood towards them. “I thought I saw you running this way, have you seen Ron or Hermione?”

Tom shook his head as Draco came into view through the misty gloom surrounding them, looking pale and shaken. He had his wand out in front of him, the tip illuminated to help him find his way, but his hand was trembling slightly. “I don’t understand what’s going on – my father’s out there in one of those masks. I saw him putting it on as he left our tent, but he wouldn’t say why.”

Tom hesitated briefly before making his decision. “It’s Voldemort,” he replied flatly. “He’s coming back.”

“What?!” Draco cried, aghast. “But that’s – how can you possibly know that?”

“Harry had a dream about it,” Tom answered, leaving out the fact that he had shared that particular “dream.” “He saw the whole thing.”

“What, so Harry’s a seer now, is he?” Draco asked sceptically. “I hardly think a dream –”

“Draco,” Tom interrupted, “Harry has a curse scar on his forehead from when my father tried to kill him, and he can talk to snakes just as easily as I can. Voldemort obviously created some kind of connection between them.”

“Right…” Draco said slowly. “But that doesn’t explain why my father is out there. You know he never really supported the Dark Lord, he was under the Imperius Curse the entire time.”

“Oh Draco,” Tom sighed. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Or did you not learn to call witches like Hermione ‘Mudblood’ while sitting atop your father’s knee?”

Draco went, if possible, even paler. “I didn’t think he –” He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed hard. “Alright,” he said shakily. “So the Dark Lord is returning, and my father apparently supports him. But that means…”

“Yes,” Tom replied. “It means your life – all our lives, really – are about to get very complicated, and you’re going to have to make a choice about where you stand.”

“I stand with Harry,” Draco said immediately. “I don’t care about what my father thinks, Harry’s my friend.”

“Good,” Tom said. “As you should. Now, we need to find the others. As Hermione’s Muggle-born, her life is in far greater danger than yours or mine, or even Harry’s. Did you see them in the crowd?”

Draco shook his head. “I spotted you two running and followed you straight here. I don’t even know if the ‘parade’ is still going.”

“Well,” Tom replied, “there’s no point in standing around here doing nothing. Let’s take a look around – wands out.”

Tom pulled his from his left hand pocket and illuminated it, and Draco, who already had his, nodded and tightened his grip around the handle. Harry, on the other hand, was patting his jacket pockets, looking increasingly perturbed.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, plunging his hands deep inside them. “I’ve lost my wand.”

Tom frowned. “We’ll find it,” he said. “It’s probably back at the tent – in the meantime, stay behind us.”

The three of them crept through the wood, stepping carefully over roots and fallen logs. As they grew nearer to the path, they began to hear other voices and catch glimpses of people through the trees. They had just made it back to the gentle light of the red and green lanterns when the sound of a branch cracking somewhere behind them made them all stop and turn on the spot, peering into the darkness.

“Hello?” Harry called as Tom tried in vain to shush him. “Is someone there?”

There was silence for a moment, the only sound coming from a group of young men down the trail who were, it seemed, trying to impress a few Veela with increasingly unlikely tales of their accomplishments. The hairs on the back of his neck rising, Tom wrapped his free arm around Harry, pulling him close to his side and ready to defend him if necessary, his wand at eye-level. Draco, too, held his wand aloft, edging forward and trying to illuminate the trees further to see who might be standing there.

“MORSMORDRE!”

The voice that had invoked the Dark Mark was low and dangerous, a sharp contrast to the frenzied cheers and laughter of the Death Eaters back at the camp. As the brilliant green light shot into the sky, Tom dragged Harry backwards and away from the scene.

“Harry, we need to get out of here, now!” he hissed as Harry stared up at the dazzlingly bright skull and snake floating above them in the sky. “Look, even Draco agrees.” The pale blond boy obviously knew what it meant, as he had immediately taken off like a shot the moment he had seen the formation, which by now had risen so high that it could surely be seen from all corners of the wood and campgrounds. It had to be, in fact – screams could be heard coming from all directions yet again, and several people raced by them on the path, desperate to get away from the grizzly image.

Harry took the hint and started running too, but this was no good: they were headed straight back to the campgrounds where all of the chaos had started and possibly right into the arms of the Death Eaters themselves. As they approached the grounds, however, Tom noted that the fires had died down, leaving only thick plumes of smoke that undulated strangely in the green light from the Dark Mark. HIs confidence bolstered further by the fact that the Ministry officials sweeping the grounds seemed to have successfully either chased off or subdued the Death Eaters, Tom slowed to a walk and pulled Harry aside.

“What was that, Tom?” Harry asked as they walked.

“That." Tom replied, “was the Dark Mark – the same symbol Voldemort used to brand his Death Eaters. During his reign of terror, Voldemort and his Death Eaters would conjure it anytime they had murdered someone. A display of victory, if you will.”

“Does that mean one of them actually killed the Muggle family?” Harry asked, horror-stricken.

“I don’t know,” Tom said, “but I don’t believe so. The Death Eaters goal seemed to be to create chaos and spread fear, not to carry out an attack. It’s my suspicion that someone truly loyal to Voldemort conjured the Dark Mark as a warning – for the Death Eaters, not for us.”

“But – why would they take that as a threat?” Harry asked. “If they know Voldemort is returning, and they saw the Dark Mark, wouldn’t that be a good thing for them?”

“Think about it Harry,” Tom replied. “If you think I’m displeased at their little display, imagine how Voldemort will react when he finds out. All of his supposedly loyal followers, gallivanting and showing off their true colours at a Quidditch match, something he thinks to be trivial and a waste of time, when he’s out there, clinging to life in the form of an infant. He’ll be furious .”

“So… if someone conjured the Dark Mark to scare the Death Eaters, does that mean they’re on our side?” Harry asked.

“Unlikely,” Tom said darkly. “The only people with the ability to conjure a true Dark Mark and not an illusion are those who bear the same symbol on their forearms and Voldemort himself.” Tom thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose I could probably do so still, but I’m not particularly inclined to, of course. In any case, I think it far more likely that a truly loyal follower of Voldemort’s must have been the one to do so as a reminder to those rats of their betrayal.”

“There you two are!” Hermione and Ron emerged from the wood and dashed up to them. “Have you seen Draco? We caught a glimpse of him while we made our way here, but he vanished so quickly.”

“I’m not sure, Hermione,” Tom replied. “He was with us until the Dark Mark appeared, but he took off as soon as he saw it.”

“Well, it’s a good job we’ve found you at least,” Ron said. “I’ve got your wand, Harry. This is yours, right?”

“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, taking it back from Ron. “Where on earth did you find it?”

“It was Winky,” Hermione explained. I don’t know how, but she had it. Said she’d picked it up off the ground – now her master is going to fire her, just for holding a wand.”

“You can’t fire a house-elf,” Tom argued, “as they’re not technically employed in the first place. He’ll be giving her clothes, there’s a difference.”

“Well it’s not very fair either way, is it?” Hermione said, her voice rather shrill. “First he makes her sit alone in the Top Box when she’s afraid of heights, then he never shows up, and now he’s gone and… and dismissed her when she’s done nothing wrong!”

“The whole thing was mental, mate,” Ron added. “We almost got stunned when that great bloody thing went up. Winky’s master – Mr Crouch, he’s a Ministry official – seemed to think that one of us conjured it, and then when Mr Diggory – also from the Ministry – found Winky holding your wand, he thought that she did it. Anyway, Dad thinks that whoever sent up the Dark Mark must’ve gotten ahold of your wand somehow, used it, and then Disapparated immediately after.”

“My wand was used to conjure the Dark Mark?” Harry yelped, holding it at arm’s length with a horrified expression on his face.

“It hasn’t been poisoned, Harry,” Tom said soothingly. It wasn’t exactly true, as repeated use of certain Dark magic could render a wand unable to perform some spells, such as healing magic, but the single casting of the curse Voldemort had created to summon the Dark Mark was unlikely to have affected it in any meaningful way.

“I know,” Harry replied. “It just feels a bit strange, knowing that my own wand was used by someone to perform Dark magic.”

“Anyway, it’s a miracle I recognised it and that Dad’s colleagues had the sense to see he must be right,” Ron continued. “Otherwise, they’d be holding your wand hostage down at the Ministry right now, and I dunno if you’d have ever gotten it back.”

“We should get back to our tents,” Hermione said, shivering as she cast her gaze across the smoky campgrounds. “It’s nearly dawn, and we’ve barely slept as it is.”

“I haven’t slept at all,” Harry grumbled, but he followed along as the four of them set back towards the rows of tents.

It was a horrible contrast to the lighthearted atmosphere that had been present just after the World Cup – several tents had been demolished, their remains still smoking. Throngs of witches and wizards were gathered around the Ministry officials on sight, begging to know what had happened, whether anybody had been hurt, if it was him again.

“Of course it’s not him,” they heard Mr Weasley saying as they approached. “We don’t know who it was, it looks like – Ron! There you are, I told you not to run off again.”

“Had to get Harry his wand, didn’t I?” Ron asked as his father pushed through the crowd and dashed over to them. “It’s fine, we’re fine. They’d all Disapparated, hadn’t they?”

“Yes, but still,” Mr Weasley replied, checking his son over for injury. “There’s no reason to go taking unnecessary risks when there’s been Dark wizards about. And Harry! Tom! Where on earth have you been? Sirius said you disappeared in the crowd, he’s been tearing his hair out!”

“We were hiding,” Harry said. “What else were we supposed to do? Do you know where my godfather is now?”

“Harry!”

“Well, right there I suppose,” Mr Weasley replied as Sirius came bounding over to them, gripping Harry in a tight hug.

“Harry, thank Merlin you’re safe,” Sirius said in a rush, lifting Harry clear off the ground. “When I saw the Dark Mark, I thought… well…”

“You thought I might be dead,” Harry said as his feet touched the ground again. “I know, Tom told me what it meant.”

“Wait,” Ron said, “I don’t understand. Why would a big skull in the sky mean that Harry was dead?”

“I’ll explain when we get back to the tent, provided it’s still standing,” Mr Weasley said. “And not a word to your mother, mind – she’d have a heart attack if she knew any of this happened…”

Tom and Harry followed Sirius back through the fog and smoke to their own tent, each of them stumbling inside sleepily as the post-Quidditch final and midnight terror adrenaline rush began to subside. Instead of heading to his bedroom, however, Sirius led the boys into the seating area. He crashed into one of the armchairs as the boys took their own seat on a sofa, huddled up next to each other.

“Tom, be honest with me,” Sirius said after a moment, his hands over his face and his voice ragged. “Did you have any idea this would happen?”

“No!” Tom replied defensively. “How would I have known? I’ve been Occluding against Voldemort for weeks now, and even then, this isn’t something he would’ve wanted.”

“You didn’t seem surprised, though,” Sirius said, “when I told you to get up and run. Almost like you were expecting it.”

“Fine,” Tom huffed, “I’m good at reading people, I always have been. Like I told Harry, I noticed as we were walking back that several groups we passed were acting strange, people I thought I recognised. I didn’t anticipate such a sudden attack, but here we are.”

“Right, well,” Sirius replied, “if Voldemort’s returning to power, and you can tell when his former followers are acting strangely, do you think you can let me know? I realise you probably don’t trust Dumbledore much, given your past history with him, but for Harry’s sake? Just owl me if you think he’s in danger?”

To Tom’s surprise, he found himself agreeing with Harry’s godfather, nodding in agreement.

Chapter 17: An Uneasy Return to Hogwarts

Chapter Text

The days crawled by agonisingly slowly at Malfoy Manor after the incident at the Quidditch World Cup. Now that Draco realised the cause of his father’s odd behaviour – and that his entire life he’d been sold a lie that his parents did not truly support the Dark Lord – he found himself restive, anxiously counting down the hours and minutes until he would leave for Hogwarts once more. Nothing about his life felt easy anymore – Mother was still adamant that he not leave the house without supervision, and she was absolutely livid with Father for his participation in the attack on the Quidditch World Cup. Furthermore, it was a chore to school his expression into one of neutrality each time Father made a disparaging remark about the Weasleys, or berated him for associating with that “uppity little Mudblood” in the Top Box.

“I wasn’t ‘associating’ with her,” Draco insisted on September first as he gathered his school things, the argument coming to a head once more. “She’s friends with Harry and Tom, that’s all.”

Father scoffed. “Then perhaps it’s best you not associate with any of them,” he replied. “Besides, it’s well known the Potters are no better than the Weasleys when it comes to being blood-traitors, and Riddle has made his opinions known on the subject of Muggle-born witches and wizards, heir of Slytherin or no. What a waste, to see a once great and noble house fall to such depths.”

“They’re my friends, Father,” Draco complained. “We sleep in the same dorm and take classes together. I can’t just suddenly pretend they don’t exist, and besides –” He felt a sudden surge of courage build within him – “I don’t care that Hermione’s Muggle-born.”

Father’s icy grey eyes flared with rage and disgust. “I knew it,” he seethed. “You’ve gone soft, letting those boys poison your mind with ‘progressive’ ideals the likes of which would bring our world down around us. Have you forgotten, Draco, that Mudbloods like Granger weaken our bloodlines, that they steal magic from us?”

“That’s not true!” Draco argued. “Hermione didn’t ‘steal’ anything, she was born with magic just like –”

“Enough!” Father’s voice was cold fire, burning through Draco and leaving him numb. “It is very lucky for you that I am the parent and you are the child, as you clearly have no sense of self-preservation. You will cease associations with the blood-traitors and the Mudblood, and rest assured – I will be in contact with your Head of House to ensure that you’ve followed my instructions. Am I understood?”

Draco inwardly groaned – fantastic, he was going to have to find some way to keep Professor Snape from reporting back to Father, because there was no way he was going to abandon his friendship with Tom and Harry, particularly not now that he knew the Dark Lord was coming back and that Harry was in exceptional danger. People like him and Hermione needed his support, a voice from the pure blood side of society, even if it was just the voice of a teenager. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but it was a role he needed to play.

“Draco!” Father snapped. “Am. I. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Draco sulked.

“Good,” Father replied. “And perhaps you can rekindle your friendships with Vincent and Gregory as well. It’s more important than ever right now to maintain the right kind of connections, after all.”

“Why’s that, Father?” Draco asked innocently. Father just smiled.

“You’ll find out in due time,” he said cryptically. “For now, let’s just say that those with power will be watching to ensure we make the correct choices.” Blast. Tom had definitely been correct about the reason for his father’s slide backwards into blood supremacy. “Now, take your trunk and go to your mother – she’ll be Apparating you to platform nine and three-quarters, as I have far more pressing business at the Ministry today.”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief as Father left the room, his cloak billowing behind him. Alone at last, he allowed himself to relax a moment before collecting his trunk and broomstick, and seeking out Mother in the foyer where she waited for him. Upon joining her, she took him by the arm and a moment later they were standing next to the Hogwarts Express.

“Now, you be good,” she whispered as she pulled him into a tight hug. “Mind what your father’s told you, it’s in your best interest. Make sure to keep a focus on your grades, and for Salazar’s sake don’t try to get involved in the tournament, you’re too young anyway.”

“Yes, Mother, I know,” Draco grumbled, pulling away. “I’d better get on the train before it pulls away.” There was plenty of time left, but he wanted to find Harry and Tom as quickly as possible – they’d hardly had a chance to talk at the Quidditch World Cup, and their conversation hadn’t exactly been a cheerful one.

“Oh, if you must,” Mother sighed. “Be sure to write often, dear.”

Draco made his promises and boarded the train, heading down the corridor and searching for any sign of his friends. He passed the compartment where Crabbe and Goyle were sitting, his childhood playmates long since abandoned in first year, when Draco had been obsessed with getting Harry’s attention and had found, instead, a true and lifelong friend. He passed a few more groups of students before he saw it through the door window – the unruly mop of black hair that could only belong to Harry Potter, and one pale, long-fingered hand running through it.

He slid the door open and Harry and Tom leapt apart, faces flushed and pupils blown. Draco smirked. “Sorry to interrupt the love-birds,” he said, swinging his trunk up into the overhead compartment and taking a seat across from them. “Oh, sorry – did you want privacy to snog some more? You’d think you hadn’t seen each other in months.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, blushing deeply. “Sirius gets weird if he sees us kissing.”

“How was the rest of your summer, Draco?” Tom asked smoothly, as if he hadn’t just been walked in on in the middle of a passionate kiss. Draco didn’t know how he did it – he’d begun to pride himself on his ability to charm, a skill he had started honing the moment Tom had called him out on his lack of etiquette on the train in first year, but he’d never known anyone who came so naturally to it, who could be so immaculately polished even in difficult situations.

“Miserable,” he answered, kicking his feet up on the opposite bench, next to where Harry sat. “Father’s been absolutely insufferable. I’m not to be friends with you anymore, apparently, so naturally I’m going to spend as much time with you as possible.”

“Excellent,” Tom replied. “I hope that attitude extends to Ron and Hermione as well.”

“Of course,” Draco said. “Father is stuck in the past, clinging to an outdated way of thinking. He’d drag our name down on the wrong side of history if he continues on like this.” He was more or less parroting Tom’s words from the end of second year, but he felt something like true conviction in what he was saying. He hadn’t really understood, at first, why Tom would befriend a Muggle-born girl, a Gryffindor no less, when he hailed from an important pure blood family like the Rowles, but spending time with Hermione had opened his eyes – the girl was smart as a whip and as proficient at magic as any of them. She didn’t deserve the slander Father and his friends spread about Muggle-borns stealing wands and magic – none of them did. They were just normal magical children like him, albeit from a different background.

“So,” Draco said carefully, judging their reactions. “Have you two got new dress robes yet? You’ll be needing them come Christmas.”

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Sirius got me a new set for my birthday, and we took a trip to Diagon Alley to pick out some for Tom as well. Any idea what’s going on? We asked, but no one would tell us.”

“Oh,” Draco said, smiling slyly. “Well, if you don’t know yet, perhaps I shouldn’t tell you. It is supposed to be a secret, after all.”

“Go on, Draco,” Tom commanded, sitting forward. “Out with it. What’s happening this year?”

“Oh, fine then,” he said, feeling suddenly at ease. “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you, you’ll be finding out soon enough anyway – they’re restarting the Triwizard Tournament this year.”

“Oh, really?” Tom asked, a hungry look coming over his face. “They outlawed that over a century ago, didn’t they?”

“Mmm,” Draco hummed in confirmation. “They’ve apparently introduced new safety standards and regulations, so no one should die this time. And don’t get your hopes up, Tom – all of us are too young to compete. They’ve added an age restriction as well.”

“Oh,” Tom replied, sitting back in his seat and looking bored. “Well, that’s no good then.”

“It’ll still be very exciting to witness!” Draco argued. “Besides, why would any of us be chosen as a champion? We’re only in fourth year, they’ll be choosing seventh year students, sixth at a minimum.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom said. “I’m sure I could pose most of our upperclassmen a challenge in a duel.”

“Hold on,” Harry cut in, “what’s a ‘Triwizard Tournament,’ and why was it outlawed?”

Draco sighed. He hated reminders of how poorly his friend had been prepared for life in the wizarding world. “It’s a competition, Harry,” he replied. “Two other schools will be joining us this year, sharing classes and mealtimes with us. One champion will be chosen from each school – Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons. They’ll each compete, in three challenges held throughout the year, to win the Triwizard cup. I’d like to see a Hogwarts win, of course, but my money’s on Durmstrang – they actually teach the Dark Arts there, not just the defence nonsense in our curriculum. I could have actually attended,” he added wistfully, “if Mother didn’t want me close.”

“That sounds fun and all,” Harry said, glancing at Tom, “but you haven’t told me why it was outlawed. What happened?”

“What happened,” Tom explained, “is that with each tournament, they upped the stakes. Greater and more dangerous challenges were posed – fighting a Manticore, evading a hungry Nundu – I believe in one of the final instances all of the Champions were either killed or Petrified upon facing a Basilisk, and after a co*ckatrice injured all three Headmasters in the subsequent competition, the Tournament was ended once and for all.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Harry replied, crossing his arms. “Another year with potential horrifying danger, and that’s without dealing with Voldemort.”

Tom frowned. “Actually, darling, you make an excellent point,” he said. “It seems awfully strange that the Triwizard Tournament would revive at nearly the same time that Voldemort is attempting to return to power. It’s almost too convenient.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “The Dark Lord couldn’t have set up the Tournament, it’s taken years to plan it.”

“I’m not suggesting Voldemort had anything to do with reinstating the Tournament,” Tom replied. “Merely that, given the higher chance than usual for chaos to ensue, well…”

He shared a dark look with Harry.

“Alright, what is it you aren’t telling me?” Draco asked. “You do that a lot, you know – where the two of you look at each other as if you know something the rest of us don’t. I noticed it first in second year, but it’s only gotten worse since then.”

Draco huffed in exasperation and leaned back as the other two boys struck up a fast-paced conversation in Parseltongue, arguing in for what all the world just sounded like a back and forth of angry hissing. Finally, it seemed Harry got the upper hand, and turned back to him, smiling grimly.

“It’s about Voldemort,” he said. “It wasn’t just the one dream I had, ever since the end of last year I’ve been able to sense him, to know what his intentions are. If I’m right, he wants to take over Hogwarts.”

“But why?” Draco asked. “And how do you know this mental connection you share is accurate?”

“Mental connection?” The three of them looked up to see Hermione peering through the door. “What are you talking about?”

Harry and Tom glanced at each other. “I think it’s okay, Tom,” Harry said. “If we can trust Draco, we can trust our other friends.”

“Why are we just standing around?” a voice floated in from the corridor. “Let’s get inside, the train’s picking up speed.”

Hermione pulled the door fully open, and she, Ron, and Pansy piled in, hoisting their trunks overhead as well. Draco shuffled over to make room for Ron and Hermione, and glanced sideways, blushing, as Pansy took the spot across from him.

“Er – it’s a tight fit,” he said, trying to sound casual, smooth like Tom. “Are you sure you want to –"

“Oh, stop making it awkward,” Pansy said, crossing her legs primly and smoothing out her robes. “There’s plenty of room for the six of us.”

Draco felt his face grow hot. “I just thought –" he stammered. “We’ve barely spoken in the last few months, and –"

“And whose fault is that?” Pansy asked. “I owled you every other week, you’re the one who stopped responding.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” Draco argued. “You know that Mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight!”

“And you couldn’t sneak away to send an owl here and there?” Pansy demanded. “It’s a flimsy explanation, Draco, and you know it.”

“No! It’s –"

“Please,” Hermione interrupted. “She’s right Draco, you practically disappeared on us and we don’t want your excuses. Besides, I want to know what you were talking about before we arrived.”

“You have to keep it a secret,” Harry said firmly. “You can’t tell anyone, not even Dumbledore.” The three newcomers to the compartment nodded breathlessly, and Harry continued. “I have this… mental link with Voldemort. You know how I can speak Parseltongue, yeah? Dumbledore says it’s because when he tried to kill me, Voldemort left a bit of himself in me, somehow. But it’s more than that – when he was possessing Quirrell in our first year, my scar hurt all the time around him. And since the end of last year…” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Since Easter, I’ve been having dreams. I can see what he sees, feel what he’s feeling. Sometimes I even know what he’s planning, and… he’s coming back.”

Hermione gasped. “Back to Hogwarts?!” She shrieked. “But surely Dumbledore -"

“No, back back,” Harry interrupted. “He’s got himself a body now, and he’s getting stronger.”

The reactions of the others were mixed – Hermione’s hands flew to her face to repress a scream. Ron made a strangled sort of choking noise and turned green. Tom, having already known, just looked grimly out the window, and Pansy blanched, her already pale face going completely white.

“That’s what my parents were talking about,” she mumbled, terrified. “They already know. How do they know?”

“But Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore!” Hermione insisted. “Maybe he can do something to stop him!”

“Are you mad, Hermione?” Ron argued. “No one’s supposed to be able to just slip into another person’s mind like that. There’s magic that can let you do that, but it’s incredibly difficult, not to mention that it’s considered Dark. If anyone finds out Harry’s seeing what You-Know-Who’s up to in his dreams, they’ll take him down to the Ministry and – and – I dunno, dissect him or something!”

Harry winced. “I don’t think it’d be much help, anyway,” he added. “I don’t exactly know where Voldemort is, after all, just that he’s alive and planning on rising to power once more.”

“But what if your connection goes both ways?” Hermione asked, aghast. “He could be here with us right now, and we wouldn’t even –”

“He’s not,” Harry stated. “I would know. He tried it once and it made my scar prickle. Besides, Tom and I have been learning Occlumency so I can keep him out of my head.”

“But –”

“It’s fine, Hermione,” Harry insisted. “I mean, it’s obviously not, but I’m fine.”

Hermione sighed. “Why does everything seem to revolve around You-Know-Who?” she lamented. “You’re his son, Tom, Ron’s pet rat was actually one of his supporters, now Harry’s got this mental connection directly to him. Are we going to find out next that my parents are secretly Death Eaters?”

“Not likely,” Draco scowled, bitterness rising in his throat, “but my father is.”

“Oh, Draco…”

—

The news of the Dark Lord’s imminent return sent Harry’s friends into a gloomy silence as the train chugged onward, their mood matched by the stormy skies outside. By the time they made it to Hogwarts, rain was coming down in thick sheets and thunder could be heard overhead. As the train came to a halt, there was a mad dash to get to the horseless carriages without being absolutely drenched, though no one quite succeeded.

Unfortunately, by the time they got to them, the seats had been filled rather haphazardly, and there wasn’t a carriage with room enough for all six of them. Harry stood by with Tom under one of his Shield spells as the others clambered into a cart and took off, then entered the next one, holding his hand. They were joined a moment later by Ginny Weasley and a wide-eyed, blonde haired girl with whom he had seen her spending time.

“‘Lo Tom, ‘Lo Harry,” Ginny said, her red hair plastered to her head. “Have you met Luna Lovegood? She’s my year in Ravenclaw.” Harry leaned across the carriage to shake her hand, noting with curiosity that her nails were painted a bright electric green and that she wore earrings made of what looked like real honeycomb.

“You’re Harry Potter,” she said, and when she spoke her voice was dreamy, almost singsong in nature. “And you, you’re that other boy who talks to snakes. You rescued Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry could feel Tom’s annoyance at being called “the other boy who talks to snakes,” but he leaned over to shake her hand as well. “Tom Riddle,” he said. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Riddle,” Luna echoed. “I like riddles. ‘Without me, everything is meaningless. What am I?’”

Harry shrugged, and Tom didn’t seem particularly interested in the question posed to them. “I dunno,” he replied.

“Nothing.” And with that, Luna pulled a damp and rumpled magazine from her robe pocket and began to read it as though they hadn’t been having a conversation at all. Harry glanced at Ginny in confusion, but she merely shrugged.

“She’s like this,” she said, turning to stare at Hogwarts, now just barely visible through the rain.

Harry felt the warmth of their bond light up as Tom took his hand in his own and kissed his palm. “You did wonderful back there on the train, darling,” he whispered in their shared language.

“No, don’t compliment me on that,” Harry hissed back. “I hate lying to our friends.”

“But you didn’t tell a single falsehood,” Tom argued. “Everything you told them is true.”

“Except it’s not exactly true though, is it?” Harry asked. “Aside from that first terrible dream and the moment over the summer, everything I’ve learned about Voldemort’s motivations comes from what you’ve told me, what you think he’ll do.”

“You need to become more comfortable with lying, Harry, darling,” Tom replied. “You carry my soul within you. No one else can ever find out – not unless they’re willing to make another Unbreakable Vow.”

“Do they do this often?” Luna asked with interest, peering up from her magazine.

“All the time,” Ginny snorted. “Sometimes I walk into the Slytherin common room and feel like I’ve walked into a literal snake den, especially if Scitalis is around to join the conversation.”

“Do you think they’re actually talking to each other, or just making hissing noises with general meaning?”

“Oh, they’re talking,” Ginny replied. “I don’t think it’s exactly like English, but I can pick out an individual word here and there.”

“What?!” Harry yelped, his head snapping up, his eyes meeting hers.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny laughed. “I can’t actually understand you, but apparently spending as much time as I did with You-Know-Who in my head left enough of an impression that I can still discern between the different sounds. There’s one in particular Tom says all the time, something like –”

Harry felt his face light on fire as Ginny made a strangled sort of hissing sound, a noise he recognised as Tom’s favourite term of endearment.

“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “don’t call me that unless you want to wake up to Tom strangling you in your sleep.”

“Darling, you wound me,” Tom smirked. “I would never.”

“Is that what it means?” Ginny said, grinning. “‘Darling?’”

Harry sputtered.

It was hours later, after the sorting, after the feast, after so-called Mad-Eye Moody had been announced as their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and after Professor Dumbledore had announced Quidditch had been called off in favour of the Triwizard Tournament, that Harry found Tom crawling into his bed next to him, running his hand through his hair and pressing up against him. Harry flipped over, tucking his head against Tom’s shoulder and kissing his collarbone.

“Something the matter, love?” he asked sleepily, curling up against Tom’s taller, broader frame.

“No,” Tom murmured. “Just wanted to be close to you.”

Harry smiled, letting himself drift and ignoring the feeling of concern that floated between him and his boyfriend, not knowing which one of them it stemmed from. “Should’ve known,” he mumbled happily. “G’night, Tom.”

Chapter 18: Barty Crouch Jr's Subterfuge

Chapter Text

Barty Crouch Jr sat in Professor Moody’s office, a smug smile plastered across features not his own. He had done it – he had well and truly done it. He had, as the brand upon his arm had begun to darken, managed to fight off his father’s Imperius. He had welcomed the Dark Lord into his home and given him safe haven as his power was slowly restored, his father placed under the Imperius Curse in turn and forced to suffer the same indignity he had borne these past thirteen years. And now, on his master’s orders, he had bested Alastor Moody, borrowed his face, and successfully hoodwinked Albus Dumbledore, the old fool, into believing he was the genuine article.

His task was far from over, however – in truth, it had only just begun. His mission at Hogwarts was twofold: first and foremost, he was to enter Harry Potter’s name into the Goblet of Fire and ensure the boy made it through the Triwizard Tournament, ultimately emerging the victor – but dead at last at the Dark Lord’s hand. During the course of the year, though, he had a secondary objective, no less important than the first.

“There is another boy at Hogwarts,” his master had told him in hushed tones the night before he set out on his mission. “He goes by the name of Tom Riddle. You are to learn everything about him: where he came from, with whom he lives, how powerful he is. Everything. You will report back to me anything of note, and at the end of the year, when Harry Potter is dead, deliver him into my waiting arms.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Barty had whispered on bended knee before the most powerful wizard the world had ever known.

He hadn’t understood his master’s interest in the boy at first, but the answer had come to him slowly, in hushed whispers, rumours that swirled around Hogwarts. The Dark Lord’s son, supposedly, a child who bore the same name his master must’ve shed years prior. It had piqued his curiosity at first, this new scrap of information that could lead him to learn more about his master’s origins, but he decided quickly that it didn’t matter – whoever the Dark Lord had been was of little import compared to who he was now, who he would become upon being restored to his former glory.

And, he considered, that wasn’t his objective, anyway. His objectives – both of them – would be walking into his classroom in just a few short minutes with the rest of their house. And how interesting it was that famed Harry Potter, the one believed to be destined to defeat the Dark Lord, had been sorted into the very same house as his nemesis.

Barty collected the materials needed for his first class with the Slytherins and clunked from the office into the classroom proper. Salazar, walking with this damn peg leg was a nightmare — he couldn’t employ the sweeping gait that left students shivering in Severus’ wake, nor the slow and steady walk of the Dark Lord himself, as calm and assured as a viper as he approached a victim. Still, the effect was intimidating enough, if the wide-eyes of the few students already in their seats were anything to go by. It certainly also helped that he was wearing the face of a man who had put half of these kids’ relatives in Azkaban.

As badly as it hurt his leg to do so, Barty paced the length of the classroom, eyeing the stragglers as they made their way in. There, that must be Malfoy’s brat, no doubt as cowardly and sheltered as his father, and that was Nott’s kid, sporting the same curly brown hair his mother had had. It was surreal, seeing the familiar features of his fellow Death Eaters on display in miniature, soft and not yet fully formed. Finally, the boy who must be Riddle himself stepped through the door, and Barty froze.

The rumours were true, they had to be. Though the Dark Lord had lost much of what made him recognisably human by the time Barty had entered his service, he still shared with the boy the same sharp jaw, the high, delicate aristocratic cheekbones, and if he wasn’t fooling himself, Riddle's eyes were not the chocolate brown one might assume, but a rich, deep crimson, so dark they were almost black, a vestige of his father’s burning gaze. So too was he easily the tallest boy in class, likely dwarfing even some of the sixth and seventh years, though he was a few inches shy of the height at which the Dark Lord had once stood. He didn’t seem at all intimidated by him, either, which was for the better; if Barty was to bring him to his master, it would be easier if the boy came willingly, rather than having to kidnap him. But what truly gave him pause was the hand he was holding – for with him came Harry Potter, beaming up at him, their sides brushing as they sauntered into the classroom.

The Dark Lord’s son and Harry Potter – surely not.

The two boys took seats side by side at the very front of the room, an oddly mismatched pair. Potter was obviously bursting with excitement, no doubt having heard tales from his classmates about Professor Moody’s eccentric but intense teaching style. Riddle, on the other hand, just stared at him impassively, his dark eyes boring into him. His penetrating gaze reminded him strongly of his master’s proficiency at reaching into the minds of those he had captured for information, and he considered briefly that the same technique may prove useful here. As he attempted to press into the boy’s mind, however, he was met with the strongest Occlumency barrier he had ever come across, and he pulled back immediately. Flicking his gaze to Potter, he knew instinctively that he would find the same, and so didn’t attempt it.

Calling roll was simple – as he already recognised more than half the students in Slytherin by their features alone, he hardly needed to verify their presence. He did so anyway, using Moody’s magical eye to survey each of them in turn for the effect it had, enjoying in particular the discomfort clearly written across the faces of children of Death Eaters who’d avoided Azkaban with their money and influence – an immunity to which he had not been privy. At the same time, he steadfastly ignored the slight furrowing of Riddle’s brow, which had sat on his face from the moment Barty had tried to infiltrate his mind.

“So!” he barked when roll call was finished, making everyone but Riddle jump. “As I’ve already said to your other classmates, you’ve been well-prepared – with a bit of spotty teaching here and there – to recognise and defend yourselves against Dark creatures. However, you’re woefully behind on defending against offensive magic thrown at you by another witch or wizard – Lupin should have been teaching you this last year instead of having to play catch-up after the Lockhart disaster.”

He took a moment to take in their reactions. Several of the students had lost their previous, jumpy demeanour, no doubt at the prospect of learning about actual Dark magic. Riddle, on the other hand, seemed mostly unaffected – unless, of course, you knew how to look – and Barty did. The boy’s eyebrows were ever so slightly raised, his lips parted slightly – oh, he’d piqued his interest for sure. Barty smiled and continued.

“Straight into it, then – curses. I’ll wager many of you have more knowledge on the topic than your fellow classmates in other houses. Infinitely varied in their form, curses are spells with one intent in mind: causing harm to the target. Most of them, therefore, are regulated, considered to be Dark magic, and use of many of them can lead to arrest. Now, can anyone tell me about the Unforgivables?”

As he had hoped, Riddle’s hand rose slowly into the air. Barty nodded at him. “You there – Riddle, right?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Riddle replied. “The Unforgivable Curses, so named because use of any of them on a fellow human being is grounds for lifelong imprisonment in Azkaban, are three curses only used by the Darkest of witches and wizards, meant to control, to torture, and to kill.”

“A perfect answer, five points to Slytherin,” Barty replied. “And can anyone provide me with the name of the first, the one used to control?”

To his delight, the Malfoy boy raised his hand tentatively. He nodded at him, and the boy began to speak.

“The – the Imperius Curse, sir.”

“That’s correct,” Barty said. “You’re a Malfoy, yes? You’d know about that one, your own father was kept under the Imperius for several years, forced to serve the Dark Lord – or so he alleged.”

Malfoy Jr went pale and glanced away. Ah, so the little heir knew his father was a deserter, then. Served him right, to live with the fear that his father’s subterfuge might be discovered and he be hauled away in chains. On second thought, however, there was a look of shame there as well – perhaps Barty was judging these children too quickly, assigning blame to them they did not deserve for the sins of their fathers. Perhaps this new generation of pure bloods would rise to serve the Dark Lord with a zealotry unmatched by the previous.

“So, a demonstration is in order, I believe.” Barty limped around his desk and retrieved the glass jar that held the spiders he had captured for that day’s class. He pulled one of them out, cradled it in the palm of his hand, and raised Moody’s wand.

“Imperio.”

The spider, at his suggestion, leapt from his hand, swinging from a strand of its own silk as it began an elaborate acrobatics routine. Unlike the previous classes, the Slytherins did not burst into helpless laughter, enthralled by the sight of a spider performing circus tricks. Instead, they watched, stony-faced and silent, no doubt imagining themselves under such complete control.

“You know,” he said, as he lifted the wand, releasing the spider from the curse, “you’re the first group to grasp the gravity, to truly understand the horror of the Imperius. Imagine, being under such complete control, made to say or do anything, helpless to resist…

“Years back,” he continued, as he tossed the spider back into the jar, “there were countless witches and wizards just like Malfoy’s father. Controlled by the Dark Lord and his followers, they were forced to commit unspeakable acts. Make no mistake – it can be fought, and I’ll be doing my best to teach you how, but only those with a strong sense of will can truly shake it off. Best to avoid being hit with it at all. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

He smirked as the entire class jumped – all except, again, Riddle.

“Now – the next Unforgivable, the one meant to torture – does anyone know that curse?” he asked.

A girl at the back of the class – Greengrass – raised her hand. “The Cruciatus, sir?” she answered as he nodded at her in turn.

“Right again,” Barty replied. “Rather nasty, meant to cause exquisite pain with no sign of injury.” He scooped the second spider from the jar, enlarging it as he placed it on Moody’s desk. “Needs to be bigger to understand the effects,” he explained. “Crucio.”

The spider immediately rolled over, twitching, its legs trembling in pain. It wasn’t like seeing the curse performed on a human, far from it, but the sight of the creature struggling feebly against the raw might of his magic still brought a rush of pleasure. As it rocked back and forth, growing increasingly frantic, he scanned the room with Moody’s magical eyeball, noting with glee how the students cringed back at the sick display, unused to seeing such sadism. Only Riddle seemed unperturbed, leaning forward, his jaw slightly slack, his eyes trained on the spider. There was a wanting look to his expression, as though he wished he were the one subjecting the pathetic creature to such horrors. Well, like father, like son, then. The Dark Lord would certainly be interested to hear about this.

“Pure agony,” Barty said, as he released the spider from his curse, shrank it, and shoved it back into the jar. “There’s no need for cutting curses or other physical torture, not if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. And the final Unforgivable?”

This time, a multitude of hands flew into the air, and for good reason – the third and last Unforgivable Curse was perhaps the most well-known, particularly in the past thirteen years. Riddle’s hand was the first among them, his eyes still wide and glossy.

“Again, then, Riddle,” Barty said, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile.

“Avada Kedavra,” Riddle replied as he gazed at the jar of spiders, the syllables fairly dripping from his lips with reverence. “The killing curse…”

“That’s correct,” Barty said quietly as he retrieved the final spider and placed it on the desk. “The worst of the Unforgivable Curses: instant death. Observe – Avada Kedavra!”

The classroom was lit, briefly, with the blinding green light of the curse, and then the spider was dead, its body rolling across the desk. Barty glanced across the classroom – everyone’s eyes were wide, but none so much as Riddle’s, as he seemed to be drinking in the sight of the slaughtered arachnid, his expression full of hunger and longing.

Oh, yes. There was no doubt now in Barty’s mind that the boy belonged to the Dark Lord. Riddle clearly revelled in the Dark Arts, craving what most would shy away from, even those who desired great power. It would be no hard task to turn the boy towards his master’s will, to wrench him away from the side of Harry Potter, who even now stared at the dead spider in blank horror in perfect contrast of Riddle’s fascination and desire.

Yes, Barty was assured, it would be a simple task to bring the boy to his father indeed.

“You were far too fascinated by that lesson,” Harry grumbled as they left Defence Against the Dark Arts and headed toward the Great Hall for lunch. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so fixated on something as when you watched that spider die.”

“That’s not true,” Tom said defensively. “Was I not just as focused on you at the Malfoys’ gala?”

“Yes, but that’s what worries me,” Harry replied. “I can understand your feelings for me, because I feel the same way about you. But I can’t understand your fascination with pain and death.”

“It’s…” How had Mad-Eye Moody described it? Ah, yes. “It’s exquisite, Harry,” he replied. “A unique wonder each time, seeing it anew. Haven’t you ever thought about watching the Dursleys dying?”

“No! And that was how my parents died!” Harry snapped. “Or didn’t you think about that when you watched Moody kill that spider? You were there, after all!”

“Harry!” Tom said warningly, glancing around at the other students milling about. “This isn’t a conversation to be having in public. And you’re right, I’m sorry – I should have been more sensitive to your feelings.”

“This isn’t about me, Tom,” Harry argued. “This is about you and whether or not you can stick to your promise not to follow in Voldemort’s footsteps and become a murderer.”

Tom stilled – did Harry really doubt his convictions? “Yes, darling,” he said. “I thought I told you – I don’t want to live that life again. Besides, I know how unhappy it would make you –“

“No, Tom,” Harry interrupted, “you can’t just do it for me. You know what murder does to your soul. I know you don’t really value the lives of others, but you have to value your own. You can’t do that to yourself again.”

“I do value my soul, Harry,” Tom insisted. “I wouldn’t be putting it back together, otherwise. Don’t you believe me?”

“Maybe.” Harry stopped walking and turned, placing one hand on Tom’s chest, right over his heart. “I dunno, sometimes I think I love your soul more than you do,” he said sadly.

Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he realised that Harry was right: he did not love his own soul, as he did not love himself. The splitting and hiding away of his very essence in his previous life had been no act of self-care, merely one of preservation. He may as well have just crawled into a jar and pickled himself for all the good it had done him. But Tom didn’t know how to love himself, only Harry.

“You have to live for yourself, too,” Harry was saying, “not just me. What would you do if – I know it’s unlikely – but what would you do if something happened to me?”

The answer came to Tom immediately as the question was posed to him. Without Harry, he would revert back to what he did best: becoming the next Dark Lord. He would find a way to overthrow Voldemort, scratch and claw his way to the top, and probably make another thirteen Horcruxes, damn the consequences. From the pained expression on Harry’s face, he could tell that Harry knew the answer as well, whether by instinct or through their bond.

“I don’t want to think about that,” he sulked, pulling Harry into an embrace so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. To his relief, Harry didn’t pull away, but wrapped his own arms around him in turn.

“It’s okay, Tom,” Harry said soothingly, his head tucked beneath Tom’s. “I’m not going anywhere. I’d just want you to be okay if I did.”

Tucked gently in each other’s arms, they failed to notice the man in the shadows behind them, grinning maniacally, his magical eye trained directly on them.

The weeks leading up to the Triwizard Tournament were proving to be some of the most stress-laden days of Severus Snape’s life post-war. Well, no, scratch that – the entire summer, usually a time that came as close to “blissful” as anything he had experienced, had been a nightmare, what with waking up each morning to find his Dark Mark ever so slightly more visible, the familiar tingle running through it every so often. He’d written it off as his imagination at first, phantom pains, maybe – but then the attack on the Quidditch World Cup had taken place, and he knew it was no mere illusion.

He’d warned Albus immediately, of course – with the Triwizard Tournament coming to Hogwarts, there was a strong possibility that the Dark Lord would put it to his advantage somehow. Albus, however, had failed to see the sense in cancelling the competition, insisting that with the other two headmasters, Alastor Moody, and multiple Ministry officials in attendance, Hogwarts had more security than ever before. Never mind that one of those headmasters was an unrepentant Death Eater and a coward. Never mind that Ludo Bagman was an incompetent fool who probably couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, or that Mad-Eye was a paranoid loon who’d likely just as soon attack the students as he would the enemy.

It was as if Albus had forgotten, somehow, that there were two boys in Severus’ own house who were in considerable danger just by the very nature of their existence. Salazar knew, Potter and Riddle had each come face to face with death not once, but twice now, and if Sirius Black had turned out to be the criminal they had all believed he was, it would have been three. First it had been the Dark Lord possessing Professor Quirrell, and then it had been the Dark Lord, again somehow, possessing young Ginevra Weasley. Severus had a very bad feeling that somehow, one or the both of them would end up mixed up in this farce of a death match, and this time they may not be so lucky.

At least, it seemed, he didn’t have to worry about the boys themselves looking to get involved. He watched them closely during Potions, as the Slytherins and Gryffindors alike discussed in not-so-hushed-as-they-might-think tones how they might outsmart whatever restrictions would be put in place to prevent them entering their names into the Tournament. To his utter, blessed, relief, Potter seemed completely disinterested with the idea, and Riddle looked… annoyed, possibly. It was hard to tell with that boy, just as it had once been with his father, the two sharing the same mercurial moods, infuriated one moment, impassive the next.

To add to his worries, however, Draco Malfoy came slipping into his office one evening, nearly breaking curfew. Severus knew, without asking, what this was about. Lucius had owled him before term even began, demanding that he keep an eye on the boy, to make sure he didn’t associate with Harry Potter, nor any of his friends. From his distressed visage, Draco clearly knew of his father’s machinations.

“Relax, Draco,” Severus said, doing his best to soothe the boy. “I am not in the habit of ratting out my students’ friendships to their parents. That you remain friends with Potter will be safe with me – as will your other relationships.”

“You promise?” Draco asked, nearly gasping for air. “You’ll tell him I’m friends with Crabbe and Goyle again, that I’ve forgotten about Harry and Tom and Hermione and Ron?”

“If I must,” Severus replied. “Why has this come up just now? I would have thought that your father would have forbidden such friendships with Muggle-borns and blood traitors from the beginning.” He knew the answer, of course, but wanted to hear it from the Malfoy boy’s mouth himself.

“I didn’t tell him,” Draco replied. “Not at first, and then I thought maybe he was changing his mind. But something – something’s happening. It’s –” Draco stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s bad.”

So Draco knew. Maybe not the details of what exactly, but he had seen the signs, had recognised the shift in the air. Severus wondered exactly how many of the students in his House had watched as their parents discussed the imminent return of the Dark Lord in fervent whispers. Wondered if Potter knew, if Riddle realised his father was poised for resurrection.

Finally, the day came that the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations arrived. Severus watched with a sneer as Igor Karkaroff disembarked his ship, followed by a dozen or so students wrapped in thick fur cloaks. The man’s eyes flicked towards him briefly before he glanced away again, shuddering. He must have been suffering the same affliction as Severus – the pain in the arm, the darkening of his brand, the nightmares of what would rain down upon them if the Dark Lord managed to return.

Despite the boys’ seeming disinterest in entering the Triwizard Tournament, he watched the Goblet of Fire like a hawk the next day, disillusioned and lurking in an alcove, waiting for one or the both of them to approach. It seemed, however, that aside from a few students – the Weasley twins among them, unsurprisingly – hardly any underage students bothered to try and place their names within the ancient artefact. He retired to bed well after midnight, assured that both Potter and Riddle would this year be safe, at least, from whatever nightmarish horrors with which the Ministry had decided upon.

And so, the next night, when the Goblet of Fire spat out a fourth and final strip of parchment, he didn’t even question it – something had gone wrong, of course, but it couldn’t possibly involve either of them. He leaned back in his seat, sure that he had done his due diligence, waiting Albus’ proclamation that it was merely a fluke, a rogue scrap of paper. Albus cleared his throat.

“Harry Potter.”

Severus broke.

Chapter 19: The Goblet

Chapter Text

“My Lord.”

Lord Voldemort looked up from where he sat by the fireplace, taking in the sandy-haired young man before him. He had appeared just moments prior, immediately dropping to knees in a low bow. Using what little strength he had, Lord Voldemort drew himself up straighter in his armchair, as imposingly as he could given his current slight stature.

“Bartemius,” he said, his voice straining against his dry and underdeveloped vocal cords. “It has been two months. I trust your mission has been going well?”

“My deepest apologies, my Lord,” Bartemius replied. “I had intended to report sooner, but I wished for my information to be both thorough and accurate, and… it is not easy to slip away.”

“I have no need of your apologies, my most faithful servant,” Lord Voldemort said, waving one feeble and tiny hand idly. “I understand quite intimately how difficult it can be to sneak off the Hogwarts grounds. Now. Stand and make your report.”

Bartemius did, but kept his head lowered in deference. “The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons delegations have just arrived this evening,” he said. “It will not be long before the Goblet of Fire chooses the Triwizard Champions. I have already entered Harry Potter’s name, claiming him to be from Illvermorny.”

“Very good, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort hissed, smiling. “And as to your other tasks?”

“As you have asked,” he replied, “I have kept a close eye on both Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, and they have each attended two of my classes. I have followed them, unseen, in the hallways. I have learned a great deal about both of them – what does my Lord wish to know?”

“Tell me about Tom Riddle,” Lord Voldemort replied, hungry to know what had become of his wayward soul. “What have you found out about him?”

“There are… rumours, my Lord,” Bartemius answered slowly, his voice shaking slightly. “They say he’s a bastard child, born out of wedlock to Lucinda Rowle before she met and married a Muggle, but that she named him for his father. They kept him at home, schooled by governesses. Apparently, both his mother and stepfather died at sea not long before he began his Hogwarts career.”

“I see,” Lord Voldemort pondered. It was ingenious, really – not that he expected anything less of himself – but for “Tom” to hide himself in plain sight after so many years, to slip right back into society with a cover story which could neither be proven nor disproven, was a testament to Lord Voldemort’s own infinite cunning. It was a shame, of course, that his deplorable Muggle name had been restored to public knowledge after so many years spent scrubbing the world free of it, but the results were fascinating . “And do ‘they’ say who his father is?”

“Y-yes, my Lord.” Bartemius trembled. “Is it – it’s true, then? There are remarkable similarities.”

“It would appear so, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort answered, and he could have laughed, had he the strength. Of course there were similarities – the boy was him, for some reason gone astray. “Tell me more about him.”

“He shows a rather… unique affinity for the Dark Arts,” Bartemius replied. “He did not cower or laugh when I demonstrated the Unforgivable Curses – no, I would say he was fascinated – rapt with attention. And he is either a natural Occlumens, or he has been well trained – and, my Lord, I suspect the same of the Potter boy. In their second lesson, I tested the students using the Imperius Curse. Both of them were able to throw it off with an enviable ease.”

This was not news to Lord Voldemort, having been thrown out of Harry Potter’s head the one time he had tried to infiltrate it. It was, however, interesting to know that the boy had no trouble with the Imperius. He would surely take a great deal of enjoyment out of testing that ability when at last they met, before the child’s inevitable death. Though it did raise a concern, one that had been bothering him for quite some time – if Harry Potter was an accomplished Occlumens, who else could he have learned it from, if not ‘Tom?’

“Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort said, “of what nature is their relationship?”

He knew, of course, or at least he held incredibly strong suspicions, that the two were intimate. He had seen this through Harry’s own eyes, and yet he was certain that his wayward soul did not share Harry’s affections. It must be a game, the same Voldemort had played long ago with Abraxas Malfoy during their years at Hogwarts together. ‘Tom,’ clearly not realising that Lord Voldemort was well on his way to full resurrection, must be forging his own path to power, using the affections of the child who had defeated him to gain a foothold. There was nothing else to it.

“Considering who Riddle is to you, I’m afraid you may find this disturbing,” Bartemius replied. “They are clearly lovers, and close ones at that. If there is anything Riddle finds more fascinating than the display of the Dark Arts, it is Harry Potter. He looks at him as though there is nothing more important in the world.”

That was disturbing. He had assumed his childlike counterpart was merely manipulating the Potter boy, but if what Bartemius said was true… “Tell me about Potter,” he snapped, shoving the implications from his mind. “You said he can withstand the Imperius Curse – does he have any other powers of which I should be aware?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Bartemius sounded almost excited now, a sharp contrast to his previous, nerve-wracked demeanour. “I knew you would find this interesting, hence my leaving it for last – Riddle, expectedly, is a native Parselmouth. But so too, apparently, is Potter.”

“What?!” Lord Voldemort snapped. “Impossible – the trait is hereditary, not something that any no-name brat of a Mudblood could acquire. Where is your proof?!”

“I have seen it with my own eyes, my Lord,” Bartemius replied. “I would not lie – I have witnessed the two of them communicating – conversing, arguing, even gently whispering to each other – in a confounding hissing manner that can only be that of the language of snakes. I offer you my memories, should you not believe me.”

“Show me!”

Bartemius lifted his head, meeting the Dark Lord’s eyes. Lord Voldemort ripped into his mind without hesitation, gleeful at his servant’s eager acceptance of his presence, passing through snippets of memory, images of the two boys he sought swirling around him. Holding hands in the hallways, smiling at each other over meals in the Great Hall, hidden in an alcove, kissing. Vile, disgusting – Lord Voldemort had never deigned to kiss someone, not when it gave him none of the pleasure he could seduce or force out of others. He flew away from these memories, seeking the one Bartemius had offered.

“… a bit mad, isn’t he?”

Harry Potter and ‘Tom Riddle’ were leaving their Defence Against the Dark Arts class, unaware of the man who shadowed them and hand in hand once more. Voldemort snarled at the sight.

“Yes,” the taller boy sighed, “it certainly seems so. All those years of fighting Dark witches and wizards must have addled his brains. Still, I find it gratifying to know that you can throw off the Imperius Curse – even an accomplished Occlumens can find it difficult to resist the suggestions placed in their mind by the caster. I have to wonder about Dumbledore’s decision to hire him, however.”

“Do you think it’s because –" Harry broke off and glanced around furtively before sliding seamlessly into Parseltongue. “Because Dumbledore suspects Voldemort is coming back?”

‘Tom’ frowned. “You may very well be right, darling,” he replied, stroking his free hand against Harry’s face. “I know for a fact that the headmaster has spies who once were loyal to Voldemort – surely they’ve alerted him to the fact that their Marks are darkening once more. A smart move, all things considered, to employ one of the most feared Aurors of his day.”

“So we’re safe then,” Harry concluded. “As long as we’re at Hogwarts, Voldemort can’t get to us.”

“Darling, I trust your safety with Dumbledore as much as I trust him not to kill me on the spot if he ever worked out who and what I am,” ‘Tom’ replied. “Which is to say, not at all. Now come, we’re late for lunch.”

Lord Voldemort withdrew from Bartemius’ mind, the effort having exhausted him but giving him the information he needed. Harry Potter was indeed a Parselmouth, and furthermore, it seemed he understood the nature of ‘Tom’s’ existence and somehow didn’t mind. How very interesting. Lord Voldemort’s plan had been to kill the boy, of course, but plans were always subject to change.

“You have a new objective, Bartemius,” he said, easing his fragile body back into the armchair. “You will continue as you have thus, ensuring the boy’s success in the Triwizard Tournament. However, I wish for you to also assess Harry Potter’s aptitude and attitude towards the Dark Arts. I wish to know if he can be turned.”

“My Lord?” Bartemius’ eyes grew wide in surprise. “You would have Potter join our cause?”

“If possible, yes,” Lord Voldemort replied. “You know how very rare we Parselmouths are, how inclined toward those magics others fear to approach. Besides,” he sighed, “it would make the issue of bringing Tom Riddle to heel much easier, were his lover an ally instead of a foe.”

“Of course, my Lord,” the young man intoned in a hush. “Your brilliance truly knows no bounds – consider it done.”

“Excellent,” Lord Voldemort purred. “I must rest now – go, before Alastor Moody’s presence is missed at Hogwarts.”

Bartemius nodded and bowed once more, his head low to the ground, and then fished a roll of parchment from his robes. He was gone the moment his fingers brushed it, disappearing into thin air as though being sucked into a black hole, leaving Lord Voldemort alone once more.

“Nagini…” he hissed, and the giant snake that was his final Horcrux uncoiled from beneath his seat, scenting the air with her long, languid tongue.

“Master,” she sighed contentedly, no doubt warmed by the fire as he was. “ I am here.”

“Go,” Lord Voldemort commanded, “and fetch Wormtail. It is time for me to feed.”

“Harry Potter.”

Tom’s mind had gone numb the moment he saw the fourth slip of paper fly out of the Goblet of Fire, knowing instinctively whose name would be on it. Now that it was confirmed, however, it seemed as though a radio static settled into his brain – or perhaps that was just the whispers that were flooding the Great Hall, sounding for all the world like the planes that had buzzed overhead during his teenage years at Wool’s Orphanage. Beside him, Harry had gone still.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said, staring at him blankly. “Tom, you know I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Draco answered in Tom’s stead. “Obviously, someone’s got it out for you – I’ll ask my father –”

“Do you really think your father would be of any help right now, given what Harry and Tom have told us?” Pansy argued. “I’ll owl my father –”

“Don’t be so sure your father would be any different, Pansy,” Draco snapped in return. Pansy’s face turned a deep red.

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore called once more. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”

Tom gathered his wits and stood, dragging Harry to his feet. “Come on, darling,” he said soothingly. “I know it’s a shock, but they need you up front.”

“Come with me?” Harry said, his voice hollow. “Please, Tom.”

“Of course, Harry,” Tom replied, hating how his voice shook. “With me, then.”

Tom curled his arm around his waist, praying to hold him steady even though he felt nearly as shaky as he could tell Harry was. It had to be a mistake, some flaw in the Goblet’s magic. The alternative was unthinkable – that someone had managed to hoodwink such an ancient artefact into believing there should be a fourth Triwizard Champion, likely for nefarious purposes. As they approached the staff table, Tom noticed that Dumbledore had lost his usual smile, the twinkle in his eye long-gone.

“Well… through the door, Harry,” Dumbledore said as they neared him. “I’m sorry Tom, you’ll have to wait out here.”

“No,” Harry replied, his hands curling into Tom’s robes. “I’m not going without him.”

Dumbledore’s shoulders softened slightly. “Very well, then,” he said. “I can’t say I don’t understand.”

Tom gently steered Harry through the door and into the chamber beyond, where they found the other three champions waiting, their long, dancing shadows stretching across the floor as they congregated in front of the fire. Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons champion, looked back at them as they approached, confusion written across her face.

“What is it?” she asked, tossing her long platinum hair over her shoulder. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

As Harry was apparently having difficulty finding the ability to speak, Tom opened his mouth to answer for him. He was prevented from doing so, however, when without warning Harry was ripped from his arms by none other than Ludo Bagman, who had apparently followed them into the chamber. Instead, he let out a wordless hiss of fury as Harry was dragged against his will towards the other champions.

Bagman began to introduce Harry to the others, but all Tom could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his ears. How dare he?! Couldn’t he see that Harry was in considerable distress? Now Delacour was laughing at him, and Bagman was beaming down at Harry as though he were a prize in and of himself, and Tom’s heart was racing, his vision quite literally turning red as his fury rose, boiling within him –

Fleur screamed as the fire flared up and outwards, bursting violently past the grate and kissing the hems of the champions’ robes.

“Tom.”

He looked up sharply as a hand came down, soft, upon his shoulder, finding that Dumbledore had entered the room, along with Snape, Professor Moody, the two other schools’ headteachers, and a Ministry official Tom didn’t recognise. The unfamiliar man seemed to recognise him, however, a contemptuous glint in his eyes as they landed on him. They must have attended Hogwarts together in his previous life, Tom realised, or otherwise the man had heard the rumours and, despising Voldemort, attached the same level of vitriol to anything associated with him, including his supposed son.

Forcing himself to be calm, Tom stepped out from under Dumbledore’s touch and crossed the room, where he looped his arm through Harry’s and tucked him close to his side. He could feel eyes upon them, Karkaroff’s in particular, the former Death Eater no doubt surprised that any progeny of the Dark Lord was capable of showing such affection. He couldn’t bring himself to care how it affected his image, though – Harry’s well-being took priority.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-Dorr?” The Beauxbatons headmistress, Madame Maxime demanded, tending to Fleur and attempting to fix the singed hem of her robes. “And who is zis boy you have allowed into ze chambers, who ‘as attacked my student?”

“Olympe,” Dumbledore said calmingly, “I’m sure Tom meant no harm. It must have merely been an accident – emotions are running high for all of us.”

“Be that as it may, Albus,” Karkaroff interjected, his voice a dangerous purr, “it does not change the fact that he is not allowed to be in the chamber with the champions.”

“I’m not leaving until this is sorted out!” Tom snapped. His eyes flicked to Dumbledore, narrowing in annoyance. “Harry can’t be made to compete against his will. Fix this!”

“Are you sure it is against his will?” Karkaroff said nastily. “Perhaps fame has gone to your little friend’s head, and now he thirsts for more.”

“Enough, Igor,” Snape hissed. “As his Head of House I know him well. While I admit that trouble tends to follow him like a shadow, I… have not known Potter to be particularly given to attention seeking behaviour.” He spat out this admission as if it pained him to do so, his eyes cast down to the floor.

“Well,” Karkaroff replied, “I agree with the boy on one point – Harry Potter mustn’t be allowed to participate.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to,” the Ministry official finally spoke up, though he still eyed Tom with suspicion. “As Dumbledore said last night, entering one’s name into the Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding, magical contract. Mr Potter will be compelled to compete.”

“But I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire,” Harry insisted, and Tom was pleased to hear Harry’s usual fire return to his voice. “How can it be magically binding if it wasn’t me who –”

“This isn’t like signing your name on a document, boy!” the official barked. “It matters not if you submitted it yourself or asked an older student to do so on your behalf – if you allowed your signature to be placed in the Goblet, you are responsible for taking on the challenges to which you’ve agreed to the best of your ability, or suffer the consequences!”

“Bartemius!” Dumbledore said warningly. “May I remind you that you are speaking to a fourteen-year-old boy, who by all appearances does not wish to be a part of this competition?”

Bartemius… the name tingled in the back of Tom’s mind, another memory half-lost. Bartemius… Crouch, perhaps? Yes, that sounded familiar. But surely this man wasn’t one of his followers in his previous life, not with the look of hatred he had given him. An enemy, most likely, but thankfully nothing he truly needed to worry about, not now that he was Tom Riddle II, a boy supposedly innocent of his ‘father’s’ crimes.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, holding out the strip of parchment that had been expelled from the Goblet of Fire not minutes before, “is this your handwriting?”

Harry took the scrap with his free hand, frowning. “It is, I think,” he replied. “But – I didn’t ask anyone to put my name in for me, I swear!”

“Whoever entered his name could have found that anywhere, Albus,” Snape said. “A signed letter, perhaps, or the header of an essay. It would have been easy for someone to slip his name into the Goblet and enter him into the Tournament without his knowledge.”

“But that’s absurd!” Tom shouted. “If anyone can just find a scrap of parchment with someone’s signature on it and toss it into the Goblet of Fire, they could potentially send someone to their death!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, child,” Karkaroff sneered. “The new safety regulations have been added for a reason, no one’s going to die in the Tournament.”

“Actually,” Moody said, joining the conversation at last, the firelight dancing over his grizzled features, “I think that’s exactly what someone is hoping will happen.”

The room fell into a brief silence, and Tom held Harry closer as he shivered at his side. Finally, wringing his hands and rocking back and forth on his feet, Bagman spoke up.

“Moody, old man,” he said, his voice quaking, “what a thing to say!”

“Think about it,” Moody growled. “It was mere weeks ago that the Quidditch World Cup was attacked by Dark wizards. Despite what many of us like to pretend, there are still those supporters of the Dark Lord who’ve gone free, who harbour resentment towards Potter for bringing about their master’s downfall. I have no doubt that any one of them would find the Triwizard Tournament a tempting opportunity to rid the world of him without even having to get their hands dirty.”

“Of course, Alastor,” Bagman replied, “but at Hogwarts? I can’t imagine any of them breaching the school’s security –”

“Was there not the very man who betrayed the Potters hiding at Hogwarts in the guise of a rat for years? ” Moody argued. “Did we not station Dementors on the school grounds because we believed Sirius Black had the ability to infiltrate the castle? Are there not multiple known former Death Eaters within Hogwarts at this very moment?”

“Alastor!” Dumbledore’s eyes were alight, a warning to the ex-Auror. “I believe you’ve made your point. I will personally ensure that further measures are taken to ensure Harry’s – and everyone else’s – safety. As for the matter at hand, as it seems that both he and Cedric must compete, I’m afraid that we have little choice but for them to do so, as must Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour.”

Fleur scoffed and turned away, tossing her long, silvery hair over her shoulder in disdain. Krum looked down his beaky nose at Harry, giving him a long, appraising look, and Cedric Diggory frowned, no doubt resenting the fact that he’d had a portion of his spotlight stolen by a younger student – and a Slytherin, no less. Feeling rather irritated at the entire situation, Tom led Harry to a small loveseat, where they nestled in together as Bartemius Crouch began to explain the rules of the Tournament.

“Do you think someone put my name in the Goblet to try and kill me, Tom?” Harry hissed softly to him, obviously unable to pay Crouch any mind after what Moody had said.

“I think it quite likely, darling,” Tom replied. “With Voldemort well on his way to full resurrection, I cannot help but think that this must somehow be related.”

Harry sighed. “Of course it is,” he said. “And it sounds like I can’t just sit out the tasks. This ‘binding magical contract’ – it sounds a hell of a lot like an Unbreakable Vow.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing quite so severe,” Tom said, as soothingly as one could in Parseltongue. “Though, I wouldn’t recommend putting that to the test.”

“I’m going to have to compete then – really compete.” Harry looked up at him, lost. “How am I supposed to go up against the others? What if we have to duel?”

“Hush, darling,” Tom said, pressing a kiss into Harry’s tousled hair. “You’ll be fine. You’re the best in Defence Against the Dark Arts. And we’ll practise together to make sure you’re ready for anything.”

After a great deal of talk from Crouch and Bagman, the champions (plus Tom) were finally allowed to leave, with Dumbledore suggesting that their houses would want to celebrate. Tom very much doubted there would be much revelry in the Slytherin dorms, and to his chagrin, he was right. It did seem, however, that half the house was waiting for them when they arrived, their dark expressions indicating that they already suspected the conversation in the small chamber beyond the Great Hall had been less than stellar.

“So,” said an older boy who Tom was vaguely aware flew with Harry on the Slytherin Quidditch team, “any idea who put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“Not a clue, Graham,” Harry replied, sounding exhausted. “Tom reckons whoever did it is trying to do me in.”

“Or make you look like a prat,” Nott added, approaching them.

“That too, I suppose,” Harry said weakly.

“You’d better win,” Nott continued. “Salazar knows we need the boost to our reputation.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Look, have you seen Draco or Pansy?”

“They’re at the back,” Zabini said, sidling up next to Nott. “They’ve already told everyone you didn’t put your name in – but Potter?” He gave Nott an inscrutable look. “We all support you, even if some of our parents are a bit weird about you.”

“Thanks.”

They made their way to the back of the common room, where they found Draco, Pansy, and Ginny all gathered around a table in one of the great, windowed nooks that looked out into the depths of the lake. As they approached, Draco waved his wand and two more chairs came flying across the room to join the others. Tom lowered himself elegantly into his seat, while Harry fairly crashed into his, slouching over and letting his head rest on the table.

“So,” Draco said tentatively, “second Hogwarts champion then? It’s not a mistake?”

“It is,” Harry groaned, “but yeah, I’m going to have to compete, or ‘suffer the consequences,’ whatever that means.”

“General magical malaise and exhaustion,” Pansy replied. “It’s supposed to be very unpleasant. I snuck up to the library and did some checking while you were with the other champions to see if there was any way to get you out of it. Apparently, there’s not – the Goblet works on old magic, and there’s no living memory of how to undo its enchantments.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I mean, I know there’s no way out, that Ministry official said as much. I didn’t know about the ‘magical malaise,’ bit, though.”

“Mr Crouch?” Ginny asked. Hah, Tom knew he’d recognised the man’s first name. “Listen, I’ve owled Dad, he knows Crouch from his work at the Ministry, and Percy’s just gotten a job as his assistant as well. Neither of them are very high up, and they might not be able to get you out of the Tournament, but maybe they can convince him to ease up on the challenges, make it more fair to you.”

“Barty Crouch?” Draco scoffed. “Good luck, the man’s a stickler for the rules. He laid into Father at the World Cup for wearing non-Muggle clothing. He’s not going to make things easier for Harry just because your family asks him to.”

“Well, at least I’m trying!” Ginny snapped. “What’ve you done, aside from rolling over and accepting that Harry has to get through the Triwizard Tournament or die trying?”

“What is he supposed to do, Weasley?” Pansy countered. “It was a miracle already Mr Malfoy let Draco invite Harry to the gala last year, now that he’s doubling down on his blood purity stances, you’d have to be stupid to think he –”

“Don’t call Ginny stupid!” Draco said hotly, flushing a deep pink. “She’s right, I should be trying to help, even if –”

“I should’ve known you’d take her side,” Pansy scowled. “Forget this, I’m going to bed. Don’t worry, Harry, we’ll figure out how to get you through the Tournament alive, even if we have to cheat.” She shoved an unfinished paper into her bag and swept away from the table and toward the dorms.

“What was that about?” Ginny wondered aloud, prompting Draco to blush, if possible, even harder.

“Come, Harry,” Tom said, rising from his seat. “We should get some rest as well, it’s been quite a day.”

Harry nodded in agreement and yawned, smiling sleepily as he reached for Tom’s hand. Tom’s fingers tightened around Harry’s protectively as they intertwined – the Tournament was a problem for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, as right now they truly did need some proper rest. There was one thing he was sure of, however – whoever had put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire would come to sorely regret it, and their plans would fail. Nothing and no one would take Harry away from him.

Chapter 20: A Fiery Discovery

Chapter Text

The days following the Hallowe’en Feast and the revelation that the Triwizard Tournament would have four contestants were some of the most confusing of Harry’s life, the time spent in his cupboard for doing something he couldn’t understand notwithstanding. He suffered through an intensely embarrassing interview with Rita Skeeter, that woman who had written that article about him and Tom (the one with the photo Tom kept tucked away in his trunk), and cringed when it was published, telling a very different story than the one he had given in halting tones inside a broom closet. He sat with the Durmstrang students at meals, most of whom regarded him as some kind of cheat who had snuck his way into the Tournament. The worst, however, was the treatment he was receiving from his fellow classmates.

To his despair, most of the school’s attitudes toward him had gone from generally favourable to utter disdain. Outside of Slytherin, only the Ravenclaws seemed not to utterly hate him for being chosen as a second champion. Ron was furious with him, refusing to believe that he hadn’t found some way to put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Hermione, of course, was on Harry’s side, but as Ron was her only good friend in Gryffindor, she was reluctant to leave his side.

“So you finally showed your true Slytherin colours, eh?” Ron had accosted him at breakfast the following morning. “Figured out how to get your name in the Goblet, but couldn’t bear the thought of a Gryffindor champion, so you just neglected to tell me?”

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry had insisted, but Ron had just scoffed.

“Weasley, if you’re just going to stink up the air, you can go back to your own table,” Graham Montague, Harry’s Quidditch colleague, had snapped.

That was another thing – the rest of Slytherin house, who had been friendly toward Harry his first and second year but overall fairly indifferent, who had treated him with respect as the “consort of Slytherin’s heir,” whatever that meant, the year prior, were now acting highly protective of him. They seemed to think of him specifically as the “Slytherin House champion,” and not just the second, unexpected Hogwarts competitor. It was incredible, really – anytime Harry found himself in the presence of a hostile member of Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, a wall of older Slytherin students would appear seemingly out of nowhere, the looks on their faces just daring the instigators to try something.

“I’m really sorry about this, Harry,” Hermione told him one day at their study group, now missing one member. “Ron’s just jealous, you know.”

“Jealous of what, exactly?” Tom snapped. “Having someone forcibly enter him into an historically deadly Tournament in order to get him killed? I know he has a brain, he’s beaten me at chess countless times. I don’t know why he doesn’t use it more often.”

“Don’t be too harsh on him, Tom,” Hermione argued. “He’s got five older brothers he’s always had to compete with, two of whom have glamorous, dangerous jobs, and another who works for the Ministry now. And it isn’t always easy for him, being friends with Harry – who overshadows him even more than his brothers do. No offence, Harry.”

“None taken,” Harry grumbled, his quill scratching against the parchment in front of him.

“You should, Harry,” Tom frowned. “Being your friend is easy – you’re the kindest person I’ve ever met, and if Ron can’t see that then he’s been blinded by his own stupid prejudices.”

“Are we talking about my idiot brother?” Ginny said, sliding into Ron’s usual seat across from Harry. “Does he still really believe Harry put his name in the Goblet? Hi, Draco, by the way,” she added, smirking as his usually pale face flushed with colour. Pansy frowned and started gathering her books, muttering something about needing to meet with Professor Snape.

“No, but he wants to,” Hermione sighed. “If he doesn’t admit the truth, he can justify being mad at Harry for something he didn’t do. Don’t worry, Harry – he’ll come around eventually.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry muttered darkly, as Pansy fled the table, “when he does, he’d better have one hell of an apology ready. As far as the Muggles are concerned, he’s literally my brother too. He should know better.”

“Oh, he’s just being Ron,” Ginny said. “Really, you should have seen him when Fred and George tricked him into taking the blame for breaking Mum’s antique hand mirror. He didn’t speak to them for weeks, and he barely even got into trouble – Mum fixed up the mirror like it was nothing, he only had to go to bed without dessert for a single night.”

“This is a lot worse than a broken mirror,” Draco replied. “I mean, Hermione, Ron does realise the implications, given what we know about…?”

Hermione nodded, her face pale.

“Well, obviously it’s worse than a broken mirror,” Ginny said. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘the implications?’ This doesn’t have something to do with –” her voice dropped – “with You-Know-Who, does it?”

Harry’s head snapped up from his essay. “No?” he asked in alarm. “Why would it?”

“I dunno,” Ginny replied. “I’ve just been having these awful dreams lately. Never mind, it’s nothing.”

“What dreams?” Tom demanded, his eyes wide, his brow furrowed.

“It’s stupid,” Ginny said, lowering her gaze and blushing. “It’s probably just because of what happened at the Quidditch World Cup, it doesn’t matter.”

“What dreams?” Tom repeated imperiously, pushing his books aside and leaning forward, practically looming over the table.

“Merlin, Tom, fine,” Ginny said, cringing back. “I keep dreaming that I’m in a room with You-Know-Who, but he doesn’t look like he did down in the Chamber of Secrets. I don’t know how I can even recognise him, he looks awful – the size of an infant, maybe a bit bigger, but not like any baby I’ve ever seen. He’s all scaly, and red, and raw – what is with you two?”

Harry realised belatedly that he was staring at Ginny, his eyes wide in horror, and that Tom was doing the same. How on earth could Ginny Weasley be dreaming of Voldemort, the same way he had near the end of last year? She didn’t carry a piece of Tom’s soul like he did – or did she? She could at least partially understand Parseltongue, after all.

“Tom, ” Harry hissed, turning to him, “you didn’t leave behind a piece of yourself in Ginny like you did me, right? Please tell me she’s not a Horcrux too.” He didn’t think he could stand someone else getting caught up in this, he told himself, even as another part of him didn’t want anyone else to be so blessed as to house a piece of Tom’s precious soul within them. That was his and his alone to guard, to protect deep inside his own being, not something to be shared.

Tom’s face went slack for a moment, as Harry realised through the thoughts and emotions flowing between them, he reached within to feel out the connections to his own soul. “No,” he replied shortly, “she doesn’t hold a piece of my soul, but I suspect her own has been impacted by the fact that she spent nearly a year pouring it into my diary, and as much time allowing mine into her. It was bound to leave a mark, particularly as that part of myself lives on inside me.”

“Hey!” Ginny snapped. “If you’re going to talk about me, would you do it in plain English? I don’t appreciate being gossipped about.”

“Sorry, Ginny,” Harry replied, grimacing as he looked back at her. “We’re not gossipping, it’s just –” He ran a hand over his face as he turned toward Tom once more. “D’you think it’s safe to tell her? Who knows how she’ll react.”

“I think she deserves to know,” Tom replied. “Just tell her what Dumbledore told you, even if it’s not the same, exactly.”

“Okay,” Harry said shakily, glancing at Ginny. “Is it alright, Ginny, if Draco and Hermione know what really happened at the end of your first year?”

“What –” Ginny’s expression was one of shock – “you didn’t tell them it was me who opened the Chamber of Secrets? Luna knows, obviously.”

“What?!” Hermione yelped. Draco’s jaw fell open as he stared at her.

“I was possessed by You-Know-Who,” Ginny said, shrugging. “It’s not like I meant to.”

“Right then,” Harry continued, his heart pounding as his eyes flicking between his friends’ horrified expressions, “now that that’s out in the open, you know how I can speak to snakes, just like Tom?”

“I’d have to have been living under a rock to miss it,” Ginny replied, rolling her eyes.

“Well, Dumbledore told us it’s because on the night he tried to kill me, Voldemort transferred some of his powers to me. Tom and I think something similar happened to you, but to a lesser extent.”

Now it was Ginny’s turn to stare at him in horror. “So the dreams –”

“They’re real,” Harry confirmed. “I’ve had them too.”

“He’s back then,” Ginny said, as she shrank into herself. “He’s actually back. Oh, Merlin, Harry – do you think he knows what I –”

“No,” Tom interjected. “The diary was destroyed, whatever remnant of mys – of my father – that was inside it is gone.”

“Oh, well,” Ginny said shakily, “that’s good then. Should we – should we tell Dumbledore?”

Harry shared a glance with Tom – he had wanted to tell the headmaster himself at first, when he’d learned who Tom really was, not realising what the consequences would be. If Dumbledore learned that Ginny also shared a limited mental connection with Voldemort, he might also divine that the soul which had possessed her was not truly gone, and Tom’s life would be one step further toward being forfeit.

“No,” he said firmly. “Dumbledore almost certainly already knows. It’s not our job to fight Voldemort.”

It was only two days until the first Triwizard Tournament challenge, and neither Tom nor Harry were any closer to discovering exactly what it would entail. True to their words, Draco and Pansy were also in on the hunt for information, eavesdropping regularly outside the staff room. Apparently, however, their professors were wise to the notion that the champions would be looking to prepare themselves ahead of time, and spoke in vague terms only about what Harry would be up against.

“Absolutely not, Riddle,” Professor Snape had said when Tom decided to ask him outright, hoping that their Head of House would put his student’s safety ahead of fair play. “The task is meant to challenge the competitors to think on their feet. If Potter is unable to come up with a strategy for success when he sees what he’s up against, he will simply have to forfeit the challenge and take no points.”

“I thought that wasn’t an option!” Tom had cried, sick to death of the entire thing. “If Harry can just give up –”

“He may only do so if he is unable to meet the challenges posed him,” Snape had interrupted, his dark eyes glittering. “As I am well aware the two of you have been practising magic far beyond your grade level, he should be adequately prepared for the first task. The portraits talk,” he’d added, as Tom stared at him in confusion.

Tom could have kicked himself – they had been practising in spare classrooms between their regular classes, and on top of what they’d learned in their standard curriculum, Harry could now produce a cursed barrier around himself that would protect him from all but the strongest magical creatures, had a hefty Gouging Spell well under his belt (they’d had to vanish quite a few damaged desks to hide the evidence), and was adept at transfiguring larger objects. Would it be enough, however, to face whatever awaited him just a few short days from now? Would it have been better not to prepare at all, and let Harry’s inexperience save him from the dangers of the Triwizard Tournament?

No, he’d decided in the end. This wasn’t just about the Tournament, this was about having the tools necessary to take on Voldemort and survive to tell the tale. And besides, Harry’s magic was a joy to behold, ripping from his wand with a ferocity that made Tom’s pulse quicken each time he witnessed him master a new spell or curse. Harry was powerful, and strong, and Tom loved it.

This day, though, Tom found himself alone on the lawn, bundled tightly in the new winter robes he had purchased the day prior in Hogsmeade, his boots crunching through the thin layer of snow that had come down overnight. Harry, frustrated with Ron’s overheard snide comments from across the Great Hall, had taken off into the air, desperate for the freeing release of flight. From somewhere in the distance, Tom could feel through their bond as all of Harry’s anxiety and annoyance melted away, leaving him with only a calm sort of exhilaration as he soared over the grounds. Good. That was good. Harry needed to be relaxed and confident walking into the first task, not a wound up ball of tension and nerves.

It was all for naught, however – Tom’s heart leapt into his throat as a sudden unexpected spike of terror tingled through him.

“Harry?!” Tom was off like a shot, racing towards the spot he had last seen him, the edge of the Forbidden Forest right next to Hagrid’s hut. Thankfully, as he approached Tom spotted Harry coming up over the trees, nothing more than a speck in the sky but obviously unharmed. They reached the edge of the forest simultaneously, Harry swooping down out of the sky and landing gracefully in front of Tom.

“It’s dragons,” he said breathlessly as he reached for Tom’s hand, his eyes wide in alarm. “Tom, it’s dragons.”

“Slow down, Harry,” Tom said. “Breathe. What is this about dragons?”

“I’ve just seen them – they’ve got four dragons chained up in a clearing,” Harry replied. “It has to be for the first task, right? How am I supposed to fight a dragon, Tom?”

Tom’s mind was suddenly racing – they expected Harry to take on a dragon?Sweet Salazar, what had happened to taking extra safety precautions? The Barrier Curse Harry had mastered would break the instant a dragon claw pierced it, and worse, dragon flames could easily reach the same temperatures as Fiendfyre – the protections extended to Harry by the rituals Voldemort had performed in order to shield his Horcrux would not prevent Harry from being roasted alive.

“Tom?” Harry asked, his voice about an octave higher than normal, his panic no doubt amplified by Tom’s, their emotions crashing into each other. “Tom?!”

“Are yeh boys okay?” Tom was wrenched out of his thoughts by Hagrid’s booming voice. “Yer lookin’ a bit peaky, Harry.”

Harry looked up at the half-giant. “Dragons, Hagrid.”

“I know,” Hagrid beamed, glancing backwards into the Forbidden Forest. “Aren’ they just beautiful?”

The misty look in Hagrid’s eye immediately brought to mind another man, a wizard who also saw the beauty in all magical creatures. Tom tugged at Harry’s sleeve to get his attention.

“I know what to do, Harry,” he said, and the look of relief on his sweetheart’s face was like a balm. “Do you have a quill and spare parchment on you? We need to get to the owlery.”

Harry nodded, and Tom led him back up to the castle, up the west tower, and into the owlery, where they found a clear section of floor and sat down. Harry pulled a short roll of parchment and a rather ragged looking self-inking quill from his pocket, smoothing the papery leaf against the floor. He touched the quill to the top of the parchment and paused.

“Who are we owling?” Harry asked.

“Who else?” Tom smiled. “Who do we know that loves all magical beasts no matter how dangerous they are, who treats Apophis like an overgrown puppy, and who isn’t one of our teachers and can therefore help us without breaking any rules?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Newt Scamander!” Armed now with the beginnings of a plan, Harry began to write swiftly, and Tom read over his shoulder as he did.

Dear Mr Scamander,

This is Harry. You may have heard that I’m going to be participating in the Triwizard Tournament this year. We weren’t supposed to know anything about the first task, but I’ve just found out by accident that it’s dragons. Since we don’t learn about dragons in Defence Against the Dark Arts until seventh year, I don’t know much about them, except that Gringotts keeps one to guard the most valuable vaults. Is there anything you can tell me that can help me get past a dragon? I don’t know exactly what we’ll have to do, but I’d rather avoid hurting it if I can help it.

Thanks in advance.

– Harry Potter

“There,” Harry said, rolling up the parchment and tying it up with a string that had been cast aside on the ground. “D’you think Hedwig can get there and back before the first task?”

“Has she ever failed you before, Harry?” Tom asked, as Harry sent off his handsome snowy owl with the missive. “She’ll be back by tomorrow, I’m sure. For now, let’s head to the library and learn everything we can about dragons. See if anything we’ve been practising might be more or less effective if you have to actually fight one.”

“So I’m guessing Voldemort never had to fight a dragon, then?” Harry quipped, his voice still a little shaky.

“No,” Tom confirmed. “Neither of us have ever cared much for magical creatures, aside from those of the serpent variety.”

“And you’re sure I won’t be able to speak to the dragon in Parseltongue?”

“Harry, if there are any varieties of dragon snake-like enough to speak their tongue, I’ve certainly never heard of them.”

“Oh well,” Harry sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

They ended up staying in the library late into the evening, well past sunset and the hour at which they were meant to be back in the Slytherin dungeons. When Madam Pince came across them at last, making her final rounds of the night, she dragged them both bodily into the corridor, shrieking about curfews and the appropriate usage of the library as a school resource and not a date spot. Harry tried to argue that he was just getting ready for the Triwizard Tournament, but she fixed the both of them with a withering glare and swept back into her domain, snapping the lock in the door behind her.

“Why is she so angry all the time?” Harry wondered aloud.

Tom merely shrugged, and with a sigh took Harry’s hand and started the journey back down to the Slytherin common room. They hadn’t learned nearly as much as he would’ve liked, the best defence recommended being the Conjunctivitis Curse, which would likely only frighten and anger a dragon into attacking more viciously. Well. Hopefully they would hear back from Scamander shortly, and be able to form a proper plan for Harry to get past such a dangerous creature.

They woke late the next morning, bleary eyed and in a tangle of limbs beneath the down covers of Tom’s four-poster. Still clearly dragging himself from sleep, Harry knocked foreheads with Tom as he fumbled for his glasses, and as a result both of them ended up nursing headaches as they made their way down to the Great Hall, hoping that they hadn’t missed breakfast entirely. They were in luck – most of the Hall was cleared out already, but there were still enough dishes left behind for them to make a hearty meal.

“Tom, look!” Harry exclaimed as he took his usual seat and picked up a letter from the table. “Hedwig must’ve left this for me, d’you think it’s from Mr Scamander?”

“Only one way to find out,” Tom yawned, loading a portion of scrambled eggs and sausage onto his plate. “Go on, open it.”

Harry tore off the ribbon holding the scroll together. “Dear Harry,” he read aloud. “It’s wonderful to hear from you. I trust Mr Riddle and Apophis are doing well? I hope that I may be allowed to visit that beautiful serpent again in the future, there is still much I wish to learn from her.

“I had indeed read that you had somehow made it into the Triwizard Tournament. It concerns me to hear from Albus that you were entered against your will, but I wish you the best, nonetheless. I was also dismayed to learn that one of the tasks involved dragons – when Albus told me, I advocated heavily against the idea, as they are a sensitive and protected species which would be best left unbothered in the few environments which are as yet untouched by Muggles. I was assured, however, by one Mr Charlie Weasley – hey, that’s Ron’s brother!” Harry exclaimed – “that the dragons would be well cared for, and that the Triwizard champions must only get past them, not subdue them. Even so, to get past a dragon without harm poses a great deal of difficulty.

“My advice, Harry Potter, is the same I would give anyone looking to avoid conflict with a magical creature – think like a dragon. If you can understand the way the beast thinks, you can anticipate its moves, ready yourself against its defences. There is no single spell or charm I can give you that will protect you against a dragon’s flames, its claws. The last time we met, you told me you thought the Basilisk was beautiful and misunderstood – if you can see the same beauty in a dragon, you will surely be able to make the same connection with the one you must face in a day’s time.

“P.S. I will be there tomorrow, to see how you handle your dragon. I wish you the best of luck, Harry,” he finished, sitting back. "Wow! I can't believe he's going to be at the tournament!"

“It's very exciting, yes – but think like a dragon?” Tom asked, incredulous, swallowing the last of his eggs. “Is that the best the greatest magizoologist of our age can do, is tell you to think like a great mindless beast?”

“Don’t be a prat, Tom,” Harry replied. “Dragons aren’t mindless, they can’t be. If snakes can talk, and if Hermione’s Kneazle can recognise a rat it hasn’t seen for twelve years, surely dragons are just as intelligent – we just can’t understand them.”

“Fine,” Tom replied, rolling his eyes. “If you say so. How do you plan on ‘thinking like a dragon,’ then? Shoot an Incendio at it and hope for the best?”

“No,” Harry replied, sending him a mild look of annoyance. “Dragons do more than just breathe fire, right? There has to be something else I can use to get past it.”

“Oh, yes,” Tom replied sarcastically. “They’re extremely territorial, they’ll crush you with their claws, they’d eat you as soon as they see you – is any of this helping? Oh, and if you manage to run for your life before you’re dead on the ground, they can fly as well, so don’t think you can just slip away.”

Harry’s eyes lit up as they had done the night before. “They can fly,” he breathed, his lips parting into a smile.

“Harry, no – what are you thinking?” Tom demanded. “Harry, please don’t tell me you’re planning something ridiculous. Harry!”

“You’ll see tomorrow, Tom,” Harry said, smiling mischievously. “I know exactly what I need to do to think like a dragon.”

Chapter 21: Fantastic Beasts and How to Out-Fly Them

Chapter Text

Despite his burst of confidence the day before, as the boys woke up the next morning, Tom could sense Harry’s panic, his anxiety rising once more as the countdown to his confrontation with the dragon neared an end. He seemed to be distracted all throughout their morning class, Charms, while the rest of their classmates focused on the planned material – Banishing Charms – Harry absentmindedly repeated a spell they had already learned ages back. Professor Flitwick, perhaps recognising that Harry’s thoughts were occupied by the upcoming task, didn’t comment on his behaviour, but Tom felt it important that Harry remain on track in class.

“Harry!” he hissed, as a quill zoomed from across the room and into Harry’s waiting hand. “Darling, we’re supposed to be banishing things – we learned Summoning Charms weeks ago!”

“Mmm,” Harry replied vaguely, as another scrap of parchment flew toward him.

Harry still wouldn’t tell him what he had planned for the dragon, even as Tom pestered him about it over lunch. About halfway through the period, Tom spotted Professor Snape heading toward their table, no doubt to collect Harry for the first task.

“I wish you’d stop asking, Tom,” Harry was saying between bites of a sandwich. “I’m not telling, it’s a surprise – I promise, though, you’ll like it.”

“Potter,” Snape said as he approached. “It’s time for the champions to gather. I’ve been asked to collect you as well, Mr Krum.”

Harry stood, and Tom could feel his anxiety fade away into a hollow sort of numbness. A few paces down the table, Viktor Krum, who like all the Durmstrang students, had taken to sharing the Slytherin table at mealtimes, stood as well.

“Not you, Riddle,” Snape said, as he began to rise from his seat. “As attached at the hip as you may be, this part is for champions only.”

Tom crossed his arms in frustration as he sat back down, but Harry leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s only for a little while, Tom,” he whispered against his ear. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll see you when the task is over.”

Tom scowled as he watched Harry’s retreating figure, his appetite suddenly gone. For all he knew, Harry was as good as walking to his death, and he hadn’t even told him what he was planning. A wave of emotions flooded through him – anxiety, fear, frustration, and for the first time in this life anger at Harry, anger and disappointment for not letting him help, for not allowing him to be part of this.

A gentle hand on his arm wrenched him from his dark thoughts, and he looked over in surprise to see Ginny Weasley’s smiling face.

“He’s going to be alright, you know,” she said kindly. “I mean, he’s Harry Potter. He’s taken on You-Know-Who, what, three times now? What’s a Triwizard Tournament task compared to that?”

Tom felt himself letting out a deep breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. Ginny was right: Harry was a more than competent wizard, and there was no reason for Tom to be feeling such resentment towards him. Besides, carrying any negative emotions held the risk of them spilling over onto Harry, creating another feedback loop between them right when he needed a clear head. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to let go of his anger and frustration, focusing instead on a sort of faked confidence, the belief that Harry really could do this.

Just as Tom managed to reign in his emotions from running away with him, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat at the front of the hall and cleared his throat. “Attention all students and staff! The first task is about to begin at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. If you will follow me, we shall take our seats in the stands.”

Tom stood, and with the rest of the school and the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, he let himself be carried along in the sea of students right out of the castle. Across the grounds, he could see where an enormous set of stands, already dotted with a few spectators, had been put in place around a massive enclosure, no doubt the arena in which Harry would have to get past the dragon. Beyond the enclosure he could hear muffled thumps and roaring, and as they approached a massive plume of flame shot into the air.

“Tom!” a voice rang out as he climbed into the stands. “Over here!”

He followed the source of the voice to find, to his great surprise, Sirius Black already seated in the stands, Professor Lupin next to him. Parting from the rest of the crowd, he made his way down the row of seats.

“Sirius.” he stated as he neared them. “And Professor Lupin? What on earth are the two of you doing here?”

“Just ‘Remus’ is fine,” his former professor said, “seeing as I’m not teaching anymore.”

“We’re here to see Harry compete, of course!” Sirius replied. “I wasn’t about to miss seeing my godson take on a… well, whatever they’ve chosen for the first task.”

“I know it’s a dragon,” Tom said, taking the seat next to him. “Harry spotted them the other day – entirely by accident, of course,” he hurried to add.

Sirius breathed a sigh of relief. “So he knows what’s coming, then, at least,” he said. “I was worried when I heard what he was up against.”

“Well, don’t be,” Tom replied. “Apparently Harry’s got it all figured out, but Salazar knows he won’t tell me. He wants it to be a surprise.”

Remus laughed. “Sounds like his father,” he said. “James was always coming up with schemes and roping us into them, not explaining exactly what we were doing until the last possible moment.”

“Oh Merlin, Moony,” Sirius added, “do you remember the time he convinced me to get the Slytherin password from Reg, and before we knew it we were in their common room, up to our ankles in dungbombs?”

“Do I remember it?” Remus replied, smirking. “How could I forget, though I seem to remember the six weeks of detention we had to serve when Slughorn caught us sneaking back out more clearly.”

“Worth every minute of it,” Sirius concluded, a wide grin across his face.

From across the enclosure, a loud whistle sounded.

“Oh, excellent!” Sirius exclaimed, leaning forward. “It’s starting, look!”

At the edge of the enclosure, Tom could see Ludo Bagman, who had from the looks of it had just been talking to Harry, as he turned and raced across the field and into the stands. He positioned himself between Professor Dumbledore and Karkaroff and addressed the crowd, his voice magically amplified as it had been at the Quidditch World Cup.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he boomed. “Welcome to the first task of the newly-revived Triwizard Tournament! The challenge today has been designed to test our champions’ daring, their ability to think on their feet. As such, they have not been told until now what it is they will be facing, but I can now reveal to you that the obstacle of the first task is… dragons!”

The end of the enclosure opened up, and the crowd screamed as the four magnificent yet dreadful beasts were revealed, surrounded by their handlers. Amongst the group of dragon tamers, Tom spotted a streak of flaming red hair, and he knew immediately that it was Ron’s older brother, Charlie, who was leading the first dragon into the arena.

“The Swedish Short Snout!” Bagman announced. “Known for its silvery blue scales and agile flight, our first champion will have to be light on his feet to avoid her flames as he attempts to retrieve the golden egg from her clutch. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Cedric Diggory!”

Diggory made his way into the enclosure, looking as though he were about to be sick. Still, he raised his wand with confidence as he approached the dragon. For a moment, Tom thought he was going to attack it head-on, but at the last moment he turned his wand on a nearby boulder, transfiguring it into a dog.

“A brilliant diversionary tactic!” Bagman cheered. “Let’s see if the Short-Snout will take the bait.”

Cedric picked up a stick from the ground and threw it, sending the dog into a wild chase and drawing the dragon’s attention away from himself. Forgetting her eggs, the Short-Snout bounded off of her nest and toward the labrador, leaving an opening for Diggory to sneak in. It was almost too easy…

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. As Diggory climbed into the nest, one of the rocks shifted under his foot, and the sound was loud enough to catch the dragon’s attention once more. Her great head spun around, her long neck twisting and, spotting the human boy climbing into her nest, she gave a great bellow of fury and shot a stream of scorching blue flames in his direction. Diggory had less than a second to react — but he did so with ease, somersaulting out of the way — and straight into the nest.

“Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow!” Bagman exclaimed, as the crowd erupted in a roar. What was the Ministry playing at? They claimed to have added safety restrictions, but if Diggory didn’t have such excellent reflexes from Quidditch, he would have been burnt to a crisp.

Diggory seemed to be gaining confidence now, though, grinning broadly as the crowd’s energy spurred him on. As the dragon swept into the air, her great wings beating heavily, he raised his wand again and sent a stunner after her, followed up by a Glacius. The stunner, unfortunately, glanced off the dragon’s thick hide, and as she turned in the sky to make another pass at Diggory, the second burst of flame from her mouth hit his spell mid-air. Though the burst of icy air cooled the flames significantly, they still managed to tear through the boy’s magic and rushed towards him, brushing the side of his face as he leapt, a fraction of a second too late, out of the way.

“He’s taking risks, this one!” Bagman cried, as Diggory’s free hand came up to cradle his singed cheek. “A thrilling combination of a Stunning Spell and the Glacius Charm – clever move, pity it didn’t work!”

But Diggory was in sight of his goal now, the clutch of eggs within feet of him. The dragon was whirling in the air now, turning to strike once more. Using the brief moment in which her attention was not entirely focused upon him, he turned away from the dragon, ran the last few paces to the golden egg and scooped it under his arm, vaulting back out of the nest.

“And he’s got the egg!” Bagman cheered as the crowd roared in appreciation. “Incredible, with a time of fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds, our first champion has bested the Swedish Short-Snout – very good indeed! And now the marks from the judges!”

As the dragon handlers wrangled the Short-Snout back into the space beyond the arena, the three headteachers, Crouch, and Bagman all sent up their scores out of ten into the air high above them. Tom quickly tallied up the count in his head – forty. He supposed they took points off for Diggory’s injury, and for the fact that his initial tactic hadn’t worked.

“One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled, as the same whistle sounded across the arena. “Miss Delacour, if you please!”

The second champion emerged from the tent, her silvery blonde hair carefully tied up in a neat bun. She stepped into the enclosure with an air of confidence, but Tom could see, even at a distance, how her wand hand shook. The dragon handlers brought out the second dragon, a relatively docile specimen compared to the Short-Snout. Why couldn’t Harry have picked this dragon? It seemed almost uninterested in fighting, following the handlers obediently. With Harry’s luck, he was going to have to fight some horrible brute of a dragon that could crush him in a millisecond.

“The Common Welsh Green!” Bagman announced. “It may look relatively tame, but don’t be fooled! Don’t forget the Ilfracombe Incident, when a group of sunbathing Muggles were attacked at random by one of these incredible specimens!”

Fleur stepped forward, her wand outstretched, and proceeded to conjure a series of flash-bangs around the edges of the enclosure – another distraction attempt, Tom realised. This one was not as effective as Diggory’s transfiguration, however, and it only seemed to anger the dragon. Fleur just barely managed to dodge out of the way as a thin stream of fire was sent her way.

“Oh, I’m not sure that was wise!” Bagman exclaimed as the crowd gasped. Indeed, the Welsh Green, previously uninterested in much of anything besides her clutch of eggs, now had her full attention on the Beauxbatons champion. Fleur had to employ a dodge and hide technique, shooting the same spell repeatedly at the dragon in between dashing around the edge of the enclosure, unable to approach the nest.

But something strange was happening – the dragon seemed to be tiring, though such a great beast should have been able to far outlast a human. As Fleur hit it with yet another of the same spell, he realised – those were Somnus Charms, and while a single one might put a person out for several hours, it was taking a full barrage of them to bring down the dragon. Fleur’s dodging and hiding was simply another diversionary method to keep the Welsh Green distracted while she wore it down.

“Oh… nearly!” Bagman cried out as the dragon’s eyelids drooped, as her heavy head dragged toward the ground. Then, with a crash, the creature was out like a light, her legs curled protectively around her clutch. “Careful now…” Fleur was clambering into the nest, her movements light as a cat’s. She was feet away from the golden egg now, then inches – her hand stretched out to take it –

The dragon grunted in her slumber, sending another narrow jet of fire in Fleur’s direction. She leapt out of the way once more, but this time it hit the skirt of her robes, catching it on fire. She stumbled inelegantly as she pointed her wand at the flames, putting them out with a jet of water.

“Good lord, I thought she’d had it then!” Bagman shouted, but, as it turned out, she did. Careful not to make the same mistake, Fleur was back in the nest in a flash, taking a slightly circuitous route so as to avoid the intermittent bursts of flame coming from the dragon’s nostrils as she snored. It was over within seconds, the golden egg tucked beneath Fleur’s arm as she hopped lightly out of the nest.

The crowd burst into applause once more. “Thirteen minutes and fifty-three seconds!” Bagman cheered. “A more conventional approach, but one that works, nevertheless!”

The judges sent up their scores once more – thirty-eight, this time. Once again, it seemed, they’d taken off points as her first choice of spell had done nothing but to rile up the dragon, but she hadn’t been physically injured as Diggory had been.

The whistle blew once more. Tom leaned forward.

“And here comes Mr Krum!” Bagman bellowed. Tom sat back in his seat in disappointment. Harry, it seemed, would be last.

The Bulgarian Quidditch star slouched into the enclosure as the handlers levitated the sleeping Welsh Green and her eggs back out of the arena, introducing a rather handsome looking scarlet dragon in her stead.

“The Chinese Fireball!” Bagman roared. “So named for the mushroom-like bursts of fire it can produce. Krum has his work cut out for him – the Fireball naturally tends toward aggression, and the females are known to be nearly twice as powerful as the males, and never so much as when nesting!”

Krum, unlike the others, took an immediate offensive stance, hitting the Fireball square in the eyes with some kind of curse. The dragon’s eyes immediately swelled shut – ah, the Conjunctivitis Curse, Tom recognised. Too late, he realised, he should have taught Harry that one. It was the perfect defence against a dragon.

Or – so he thought, until the Fireball started blindly shooting giant orbs of fire into the air, causing Krum to have to dodge just as wildly as Fleur had – and he was nowhere near as light on his feet as she was. Still, he had the advantage: as the Fireball could not see, the only thing that telegraphed his moves was the sound of his feet on the ground as he clambered, awkwardly, into the nest.

“Very daring!” Bagman declared, as Krum stumbled into the nest, dodging to and fro even as the Fireball stomped around him. Tom winced as one giant foot came down upon an egg, smashing it to pieces. “Oh, that’s not good – points will be taken for sure. Still, that’s some nerve he’s showing — and – yes! He’s got the egg!”

He did, but at what cost? Half of the Chinese Fireball’s actual eggs were destroyed, their shells littering the ground, yolk and blood and mangled dragon bodies strewn about. Tom did not personally care one way or another for dragons, but they were a sensitive, endangered species, just as Scamander had said, not unlike magical folk. The death of so many of the dragon’s young was unconscionable, senseless. Scamander had been right – and Tom saw him stand, in the row a little ways down from him, shouting in outrage – the Ministry should never have involved such a rare and priceless creature in what was, at the end of the day, merely a game.

The judges sent up their scores again – thirty-eight points this time, though only because Karkaroff unfairly gave his own champion a ten out of ten, a clearly biassed score given the destruction Krum had caused. Then the whistle blew once more.

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, may we welcome our fourth Triwizard champion – Harry Potter!”

Tom stood and applauded heartily, joined by Sirius and Remus – though he noticed the general reception from the audience was muted. Only his fellow Slytherins – and Newt Scamander, he noticed – cheered with as much gusto, excited to see the one they had dubbed as their champion compete. Their roars only increased as Harry appeared in the arena, his wand at his side, his face drained of colour.

The handlers, having returned the Chinese Fireball and her ruined nest back to the space behind the enclosure, now led another dragon forward. Tom’s stomach flipped as he saw that this final beast was much larger than the others, with horns atop her head and lining her tail. Surely Harry was no match for this creature, but as the dragon handlers left the arena, Harry stepped forward confidently – only Tom was aware of the panic flooding through him, transferring through their bond. He wondered briefly if Voldemort too was aware of his terror, if he too was watching the Tournament through Harry’s eyes.

“The Hungarian Horntail!” Bagman announced. “A particularly vicious breed of dragon, it can shoot flames up to forty feet! Mr Potter will have to think fast to evade its fiery breath.”

But Harry, as he had said, apparently had a plan. Even as the Horntail watched him, her yellow eyes dilating as she focused down at him, Harry turned and, inexplicably, pointed his wand toward the castle. What on earth was he thinking? He needed to outwit the Horntail, not do… whatever he was doing.

“Accio Firebolt!” Harry roared.

“They can fly,” he had said, rather dreamily, Tom remembered.

No.

No!

Harry was going to try to outfly a dragon? That was insane, even for someone who flew as well as he did. Dragons were born to fly, and Harry was… well, much the same, if Tom were being honest with himself. Even so, he was human, not gifted from birth with wings upon his back.

The broomstick came soaring around the edge of the forest, a blur of brown and gold. It came to rest at Harry’s side, and without hesitation he swung himself atop it, alighting into the air.

“Completely unexpected, ladies and gentlemen!” Bagman was exclaiming. “It seems as though Potter is going to attempt to outfly the Horntail, something as of yet unachieved!”

But Harry was spearring into the sky now, flying as never before, his trajectory directly vertical as the Horntail followed him, her long neck rising into the air. He dived just as her head came level with him, effortlessly dodging a spurt of fire. Tom’s heart soared; none of the other champions had been nearly so graceful in evading their dragons’ attacks.

“Great Scott, he can fly!” Bagman exclaimed, the crowd shrieking in horror and awe. “Are you watching this, Mr Krum?”

Tom’s eyes flicked down to where Viktor Krum had taken his place at his headmaster’s side – indeed, the Quidditch star was watching, rapt with attention, as Harry spiralled up into the air once more, leading the Horntail on a dizzying chase, her neck twisting to and fro as she tried to follow him with her eyes.

Tom watched, his heart in his throat, as Harry dived once more, dashing away from the Horntail’s fire again. Almost in slow motion, however, he saw to his dismay, the dragon’s tail whipping up through the air, slashing right through Harry’s robes and into his shoulder, producing a spray of blood. To his surprise, however, he felt no pain or panic bleed through to him, only a renewed sense of determination as Harry spiralled around once more, teasing the dragon as he darted back and forth in the air above her head.

“I don’t believe it –” Bagman exclaimed. “No, he’s actually baiting the Horntail herself into leaving her nest! And Merlin’s beard, it’s working!” It was – the dragon was reaching up into the sky, her clutch forgotten, her focus entirely on the tiny, darting figure above her. She reared up, her great, leathery wings extending – and Harry dived one last time, straight toward the nest, scooping up the golden egg as effortlessly as he caught the Snitch, flying through the clutch without disturbing the rest of the nest.

The crowd screamed in delight and amazement as Harry rose into the air on his broomstick, clutching the golden egg under his arm, a triumphant smile across his face. Tom felt his terror and anxiety melt away – Harry had done it. He’d not only captured the golden egg, he’d done so by outflying the Hungarian Horntail, the most vicious of all the dragons captured for the Triwizard Tournament!

“Look at that!” Bagman cheered. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!”

Tom wasn’t listening, he was on his feet, flying down the stairs of the stands, intent on finding Harry. He couldn’t even be bothered to wait for the scores, they hardly mattered anyway – Harry’s incredible victory was all that he cared about. He was vaguely aware of Sirius and Remus behind him, taking the stairs at a slower gait, but still obviously eager to find Harry, to congratulate him as well.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Harry being guided into a second tent he hadn’t seen before by Snape, his long fingers curled around Harry’s uninjured shoulder. Tom raced forward, bursting through the tent’s flap.

“Harry!” he cried, flinging himself onto the small cot upon which Harry had been set. “Your shoulder, is it –”

“It’s easy enough to clean up,” Madam Pomfrey said with a tone of disapproval as she mopped up his wound, “but really! Dragons at Hogwarts! Last year it was Dementors, what’s next, a Nundu?”

“I’m fine, Tom,” Harry replied, beaming at him. “Look – see?” Indeed, Madam Pomfrey had her wand pointed at the gash in his shoulder, which healed before Tom’s eyes.

“You’re more than fine,” Tom said breathlessly, kissing Harry once on each cheek and then square on the mouth. “You’re brilliant! I’ve never seen you fly so beautifully!”

"Teenagers," Madam Pomfrey tutted, moving away to tend to Diggory.

Harry blushed and ducked his head. “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore.”

Tom’s face grew hot. “You noticed,” he stated flatly, and Harry nodded. “I’m sorry, Harry, I was being a prat. I should have… I should have trusted that you knew what you were doing. I shouldn’t have cluttered up your thoughts with my own anger when you had more important things to worry about. Forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Tom,” Harry replied. “I knew you were only angry because you care about me.”

The flap to the tent rustled, and they looked up to see two familiar figures silhouetted against the entrance: Hermione, her eyes still wide in terror and amazement, and Ron, who had gone very pale and had the gall to give Harry a sheepish smile. Tom glared at him, tempted to plant a suggestion in his mind to bugger off and leave Harry alone, but he was feeling rather magnanimous in the wake of Harry’s triumph and decided to let the boy have his say.

“Harry,” Ron said, his voice quaking, “whoever put your name in that Goblet – I – I reckon they’re trying to do you in!”

Tom was pleased to see that Harry’s glare was nearly as cold as his own. “Caught on, have you?” he spat. “Took you long enough.”

Tom rolled his eyes as Ron stepped forward, no doubt to make some inane, half-baked apology, but Harry sighed, and Tom felt it too as all his anger flooded away. “It’s okay,” he said, “forget it.”

“Harry!” Tom chided. “Have you forgotten how Ron treated you?”

“No,” Harry replied, “I’m just sick of being mad at him.”

Tom sighed as a brilliant grin lit up Ron’s face, and he tucked his arm around Harry possessively. “You’re far too quick to forgive, darling – you do realise that?”

“I probably am,” Harry replied quietly, smiling gently at him, “but you of all people should be grateful for that.”

Chapter 22: Quidditch With Krum

Chapter Text

To say the mood in the Slytherin common room was the polar opposite of how it had been on Hallowe’en was an understatement. As Harry and Tom made their way in, they were greeted by what must have been the entire house, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever received so much attention, not even when he’d won them the Quidditch Cup the year before. Their moods boosted by their champion coming off the first task so clearly the winner, the Slytherins had set up an entire party in record time. Harry, too, was feeling much better about the Tournament as a whole – maybe he could actually do this. Someone (or rather, several someones, judging by the sheer quantity of foods) must have been up to the kitchens, because there were finger sandwiches, cakes piled atop the tables, and in the centre of it all, a house-elf serving drinks.

Harry’s eyes went wide – he knew that house-elf. “Dobby?!” he marvelled.

The little house-elf looked a great deal different than he had last seen him. For one thing, he seemed in the prime of health, his fingers no longer swathed in bandages, a smile across his face instead of the worried and fearful expression he had once carried as a seemingly perpetual burden. But it was the clothes that made the elf – Dobby now sported a crisp vest and a neatly pressed pair of trousers, a tiny bowler hat atop his head. Some of the other Slytherins seemed to think it was funny, giggling at the sight of a properly-clothed house-elf at their beck and call, but Harry – Harry thought he looked great.

“Mr Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squeaked. “Dobby has been hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and now here he is!”

“You look incredible, Dobby!” Harry exclaimed. “But what're you doing here? Did Draco set this up? I thought Mr Malfoy was going to free you!”

“Dobby is free!” the house-elf said, with no small amount of pride. “The clothes Dobby wears are those given by Mr Malfoy. Most house-elves would be considering their clothes as a mark of shame, but for Dobby they are a badge of honour!”

“Good for you, Dobby!” Harry said with vigour. “But you haven’t said why you’re here at Hogwarts.”

Dobby’s chest puffed up with pride. “Dobby is employed , sir!” he beamed. “Dobby is looking for work for more than a year, but no one is wanting a house-elf that wants paying. But then Dobby is hearing that Winky is being given clothes as well, and Dobby has an idea.”

“Winky?” Harry asked. Wasn’t that the name of the house-elf sitting in the Top Box with them at the World Cup? The one who had been sacked? “I think I’ve met her – didn’t she work for some Ministry official?”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir! Mr Crouch!” Dobby squeaked.

Crouch! That’s right, Ron had said – but wasn’t he also one of the two Ministry officials presiding over the Triwizard Tournament. Harry shook his head – Dobby hadn’t finished his story yet. “Is that when you came to Hogwarts?” he asked.

Dobby opened his mouth to speak, but spotted something – or rather, someone – from the corner of his eye, and curled into himself instead, shivering.

“Harry!” Draco said, strolling up and taking a flute of some bubbly drink from the tray the house-elf held above his head. “How on earth do you know Dobby? Did you meet while visiting our manor the summer before last? And calm down, Dobby, I’m not going to ask you to punish yourself – as if I could, anyway, now.”

"Th- thank you, master Malfoy," Dobby croaked out, coming back to himself.

“We never told you, did we, Draco?” Tom asked, sauntering forward as well. “Dobby actually tried to warn us about –” he glanced around before continuing, his voice lowered – “that thing that happened in second year.”

“Really?” Draco asked with great interest. “Well, I understand now why Father let him go – though I can’t argue with the outcome, considering that it allowed Ginny to survive. Still, it was a shock to find him down in the kitchens, apparently gainfully employed. That’s not what house-elves are for , after all.”

“Draco!” Harry snapped. “House-elves aren’t ‘ for ’ anything, they’re people just like you and me. Go on, Dobby, I want to hear the rest.”

“Well,” Dobby said, still shivering in Draco’s presence, “Dobby says to Winky, ‘Why doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ but Winky doesn’t know where two house-elves can find work. Then Dobby realises – Hogwarts!”

“Brilliant, Dobby!” Harry beamed. “And Dumbledore’s paying you, yeah?”

“Of course, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby said, as proudly as he could while still shying away from Draco. “One Galleon a week. Now, would Harry Potter like to sample a glass?”

“Sure,” Harry replied, taking one of the glasses from the tray Dobby carried carefully above his head and trying a sip. “Eurgh –” he grunted, swallowing the bitter substance. “Is this – wine?”

“Allow me,” Tom said, taking the flute from Harry’s hand and downing no small amount of it. “Champagne. Elf made, I suspect? A rather fine vintage, too, I think.”

“Quite right,” Zabini said, appearing at his side. “I called my own house-elf to bring it in. The ‘91 from Vignoble Lapin.”

“Just tastes like a particularly sour fizzy drink to me,” Harry said, still trying to swallow away the harsh flavour. “I don’t know how anyone could enjoy that.”

“Here, darling,” Tom said, snatching a morsel from a nearby table and handing it and the champagne flute back to him. “Try eating a bit of this brie, then have another sip. It should make the flavour more palatable.”

Harry did as Tom asked, his eyes widening as the sparkling wine suddenly tasted richer, sweeter even. “That’s – but how? That’s like potions or something. I still think I like Butterbeer better, though.”

“Dobby has that too!” the house-elf exclaimed, plucking an almost identical looking flute of liquid from the tray and handing it to Harry.

“Butterbeer, how plebian,” Pansy said loftily as she floated past, taking a glass of champagne of her own. “It’s lucky this party is for you, Harry, lest you be deemed a poor guest for snubbing the fineries the host laid out for you.”

“What – a poor guest – I don’t understand,” Harry replied, his eyes flicking between Tom and Pansy as he sipped his Butterbeer. “How would that make me a poor guest?”

“Oh, Harry,” Pansy said, smirking.. “Four years in Slytherin and you still have only the most basic grasp of etiquette. For example, you don’t speak to the waitstaff.”

Harry frowned. “But Dobby’s my friend,” he insisted.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “See, this is what I’m talking about,” she lamented. “You can’t just go around being friends with house-elves.”

“Enough,” Tom said quickly, likely looking to head off the argument before it began. “Harry can be friends with whomsoever he chooses.”

Pansy shrugged, sipping her champagne. “Oh, I suppose if the heir of Slytherin says it’s fine, then it is,” she sighed, beleaguered.

“It is,” Tom said simply, as though he hadn’t just contradicted what had to be centuries of pure blood tradition. “Now Harry, why don’t you open that egg you won in the first task? I’d like to know what’s inside.”

“Hmm?” said Harry, setting down his Butterbeer. “Oh sure, hang on —“

He retrieved the golden egg from where he had left it on a chair as a small group gathered around him in interest. Gripping each half of the hinged egg tightly, he prized it open –

And that’s when the shrieking began.

“Close it!” Pansy wailed, her hands flying up to her ears. Harry hastily did so, and the terrible noise stopped abruptly.

“That sounded like a banshee,” whispered Daphne Greengrass, who had gone very pale. “Maybe that’s the next task.”

“Don’t be daft,” argued Blaise. “They’re not going to bring something that dangerous into Hogwarts. Besides, how would you know what a banshee sounds like? You’d be dead.”

“That was Mermish,” Tom said quietly, running one long finger over the egg.

“Really?” Draco asked. “Tom, how do you know these things?”

Tom shrugged. “I just do,” he said vaguely, which Harry understood as code for, “I learned that when I was still Voldemort.”

“Okay,” Harry said, “but we hear the Mermaids singing all the time down here. They don’t sound like that.”

“That’s because you’re hearing them through the windows next to the lake,” Tom explained. “Their voices carry differently underwater. I’ll bet the egg sounds different underwater, too.”

“Are you telling me I have to go swimming with it?” Harry asked, aghast. “It’s already snowed once this year, I’ll freeze to death.”

“No you won’t,” Tom replied. “Just cast a Warming Charm before you dive in.”

Harry’s nose wrinkled at the thought of plunging into the lake midwinter, no matter how many Warming Charms were applied. “Or I could just take it in the bath with me.”

“No, darling, the lake,” Tom insisted. “I want to hear it too.”

“Which one of us is the champion, Tom?” Harry quipped. He smiled anyway, secretly pleased to be working on the clue together.

A few days later, Harry was just finishing breakfast when an unfamiliar, looming presence sat itself across the table from him. He looked up in confusion to find that, to his surprise, Viktor Krum had joined them. Thus far, and especially since Harry had been named the fourth champion, giving Hogwarts an unfair advantage, Krum had preferred to spend his time with the older Slytherins, ignoring Harry. Now, however, it seemed he had his full attention.

“Harry Potter,” the older boy said in his thick Bulgarian accent. “I vos votching you fly at the first task. You ver… very good.”

“Er – thanks!” Harry beamed, his heart pounding. “You too! I mean, obviously – I was at the World Cup, and – well…”

“I vos also vondering,” Krum continued, “if you vould like to go flying. I haff not had the opportunity since the summer.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked breathlessly. “Yeah, of course! Listen, I’ve got a Snitch in my things, we could race to catch it. Tom can referee.”

“You know I don’t know the first thing about Quidditch, darling,” Tom said to his side.

“Tom can watch,” Harry amended. “It’s Saturday, so we’re free until lunch if you want to go now.”

“That sounds vonderful,” Krum replied, smiling – though it was less of a proper grin and more of a lightening of his usual dour expression. “I’ll meet you on the Quidditch pitch, then.”

Harry had never raced so fast back to the dungeons after breakfast, desperate to grab his Firebolt and the Snitch Tom had gifted him for Christmas their first year as quickly as possible, lest Krum decide that it wasn’t worth the wait. Tom ran after him, chiding him for skiving off studies to go flying.

“Harry!” he cried, as they stumbled into the Slytherin common room. “The others will be waiting for us in the library, have you forgotten? We’re supposed to go over the chapter on antidotes to poison, Professor Snape will have our hides if we aren’t prepared!”

“We’ve studied that chapter enough,” Harry said, as they made their way into the dorms and he started digging through his trunk for the little Snitch tucked away at the bottom. “Ah – I’ve got it. And how many people can say they’ve gone flying with an international Quidditch star? Come on, Tom – it’s just one study session, it’ll be fine.”

Tom sighed. “You say that now, Harry,” he lamented, “but what happens next time Krum asks you to go flying with him? How are you going to get all Outstanding O.W.L.s if you skip studying to play Quidditch?”

“I thought you wanted me to be an international Quidditch player, too,” Harry said, grinning as he grabbed his Firebolt. “I won’t need O.W.L.s for that!”

“Darling, you can’t just play Quidditch forever!” Tom exclaimed, following him back out of the dorms. “You have to think about your future, Harry. Harry!”

Harry was out and onto the Quidditch pitch in record time, grinning up at Krum, who stood at the centre already holding his own Firebolt. “Are you ready?” he asked as Harry approached. “I von’t go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Harry replied, releasing the Snitch. “We’ll give it ten seconds, yeah? Best out of five?”

“Of course.”

They counted off ten before bursting into the air, the two of them twin fireworks sailing into the sky at breakneck speed. The Snitch was already well out of sight, so Harry broke off and began circling the stands, exhilarated. Watching Krum at the World Cup had been incredible, but actually flying with him – competing with him? Nothing was comparable.

Their little impromptu game was over far too quickly. Krum caught the Snitch four times in a row within minutes, while Harry raced to keep up. He managed finally, on the fifth try, to snatch it from right under Krum’s nose, bringing the older boy to a screeching halt as he dashed in front of him, triumphant at last. The match concluded, they descended, out of breath, to the ground, Krum clapping slowly.

“Vell done,” he said, as their feet touched the dewy grass, and Harry could tell that it was a genuine, if rare compliment. “I hope ve have the opportunity to meet again on the field, professionally.”

“Really?” Harry gasped. “I mean, Tom said I was good enough, but he’s biased —“

“Really,” Krum responded. “No von else has been able to keep the Snitch from me in years. How long haff you been playing?”

“Well, this would have been my third year on the team,” Harry replied. “But they cancelled it for the Tournament.”

“Two years, then,” Krum stated. “Very impressive. You should look into professional training.”

“Harry!” He turned to see Tom striding across the Quidditch pitch towards him, grinning broadly. “I saw you catch the Snitch right in front of Krum. You were incredible, darling.”

“Please, call me Viktor.” Harry nodded in acknowledgment, grinning madly. “Also, I vonted to ask you…” Viktor cleared his throat and glanced away awkwardly, “if you vould introduce me to your friend, the von with the curly hair?”

“You mean Hermione?” Harry asked, frowning. “Yeah sure, but why?”

“I… vell, I vould like to get to know her.”

“Oh,” Harry stated dully, his mind slowly processing what Viktor meant. “Oh! Yeah, wow! We can do that. We were meant to be studying with her anyway, we can probably find her in the library.”

Still jittery from Snitch racing, he and Tom led Viktor back into the castle and upstairs towards the library, where they found Hermione, followed closely by Ron, Draco and Pansy, just heading out the door. She took one look at Harry’s windswept hair and the Firebolt over his shoulder and marched over, frowning in disapproval.

“Harry James Potter!” she said imperiously. “Where have you been? Did you skive off studying to play Quidditch? We were meant to be going over antidotes today!”

“Er – yeah,” Harry said sheepishly. “But listen – have you met Viktor yet? Viktor, this is Hermione."

Hermione gasped in surprise as Viktor stepped forward, lifting her hand to brush the barest of kisses against her knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Hermee-owny,” he said. “I vos – I vos hoping you vould do me the honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball as my partner.”

Hermione stared up at him looking a bit dazed. “The Yule Ball?” she echoed.

“Haff they not told you?” Viktor asked. “It is tradition – a feast, held on Christmas Day. The champions vill be leading the attendants in a dance.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, blushing deeply. “Yes, that sounds lovely, thank you!”

Harry looked at Tom expectantly, only to find that he was smiling down at him already. Harry didn’t even need to ask. “Of course I’ll go to the Ball with you,” Tom replied to the unspoken question.

He shivered as he smiled back – Tom had that hungry, possessive gleam in his eye that Harry so often saw when he looked at him. Some part of him knew it was probably unhealthy, unnatural for his boyfriend to be so fixated on him, but he also found he couldn’t bring himself to care. What they had between them was different – something more than anyone else could say they had with another person. It only made sense that Tom cared so deeply for him – and besides, he liked it.

“Is that what those dress robes are for?” Ron moaned. “Merlin’s beard, I’m going to look like my great-great-aunt Muriel in front of the entire school.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Draco replied.

“You don’t understand, you haven’t seen them,” Ron lamented. “They’ve got ruffles,and lace, and –”

“I’ll owl-order you a new set, Draco keeps a catalogue to stay on top of the latest fashions,” Harry interrupted. Ron flushed. “Early Christmas present,” he added hurriedly, knowing how much his family’s relative lack of wealth embarrassed him. “Not charity.”

“Er – thanks mate,” Ron mumbled. “Prob’ly all Slytherin colours and whatnot.”

“It’s not,” Harry insisted. “We’ll take a look at it together and pick out something you’ll like.”

The weeks leading up to the Yule Ball were some of the strangest Harry had ever witnessed. As news of the Yule Ball spread, an odd energy came over the castle: people started talking in hushed whispers, giggling as they passed each other in the hallways. The portraits were gossiping more than ever, leaving their frames to visit friends and titter behind their hands each time they witnessed students asking each other to the Ball. Most frustratingly, Harry found himself at the mercy of his female schoolmates, many of whom seemed to be following at his heels, as if hoping they’d be the lucky one to accompany Harry. A few of them even asked outright.

“You’d think they’d have realised by now,” Harry said in frustration one day, sliding his hand into Tom’s after sending away yet another disappointed admirer. “Obviously I’m going with you, we were in the Daily Prophet last year, for Salazar’s sake. How could they ever think I’d have anyone but you?”

“Oh Harry,” Tom said fondly, running his thumb over his cheek. “But, you must realise, not everyone reads the Prophet, and besides – I’ve always found that once a person’s heart is set, they’ll ignore the obstacles which barricade their goal. They’ll believe anything is possible if they just want it enough.”

“Yeah, well, I wish they’d leave the two of us alone,” Harry muttered. Possibly even more annoying was the fact that Tom, handsome as he was, had garnered his own fair share of attention from the other students. Thankfully, too intimidated by the heir of Slytherin, the rumoured son of Lord Voldemort, no one had been so bold as to ask him to the Ball yet, but Harry’s heart still burned with something like jealousy each time someone dared to turn their hopeful eyes on Tom. He was beginning to understand the way Tom guarded him, the scathing look in his eyes if anyone else tried to monopolise Harry’s time.

Thankfully though, the days weren’t filled with just a string of random hopefuls attempting to get their attention; Harry beamed as Ron tried on his new dress robes, preening in the mirror of the boys’ loo, the handsome navy blue complementing his fiery hair and freckles. He celebrated with Draco as he finally plucked up the courage to ask Ginny to the Yule Ball, who accepted with shock in her eyes that he’d defy his family’s traditions and ask out a Weasley. He practised dancing with Tom in their dorm, an old radio scrounged from somewhere crackling as it played for them the crooning vocals of Celestina Warbeck. And he consoled Ron after he’d, inexplicably, asked Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball.

“I dunno why I did it!” Ron cried, his face a brilliant scarlet. “She was just standing there, and I… I… I asked her! I thought I’d die on the spot from the look she gave me!”

“She’s part Veela,” Harry replied, laying a calming hand on his shoulder – this had been revealed shortly before Skeeter had dragged him off for that terrible interview. “She probably gets that from half the guys she meets.”

“Still,” Ron groaned, sinking into his seat in the library, “what am I gonna do? The Yule Ball is a week away and I have no one to go with!”

“It’s not that bad,” Harry answered. “You’re not the one who has to dance in front of everyone. I dunno what I’d do if I didn’t have Tom.”

“I’ll go to the Ball with you, Ronald,” came a dreamy voice. Harry looked up to see Luna Lovegood, carrying a stack of books so tall it nearly obscured her face. “We don’t even have to dance if you don’t want to.”

“Luna?” Ron asked warily. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t have to have a date, I’m not a champion.”

“Go on,” Harry encouraged him. “Ginny’s going with Draco, it’d be nice if her friend could go too.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ron muttered darkly, not thrilled that his friend had asked Ginny on what was, essentially, a date. “But yeah, why not, I suppose. You can come to the Ball with me, Luna.”

“Oh, wonderful,” she said as she wandered back into the shelves. “I already have the perfect robes for the occasion…”

Considering that she was wearing, this time, what looked like Christmas baubles as earrings, Harry very much wondered exactly what she meant by “the perfect robes.” Well, he would find out soon enough – the Ball was fast approaching.

At last it was Christmas Day. Normally, the boys would have made the trip up with Ginny to the Gryffindor common room to celebrate with her brothers, but this year hardly any students had chosen to return home for the holiday break, and the rest of the Gryffindors would likely object to having three Slytherins join them. Instead, they traded presents in their dorm, surrounded by their housemates. Draco had gotten them matching cloak pins with delicate emeralds arranged to look like snakes, and in turn Harry had purchased for him one of a matching set of notebooks that could be used to communicate with each other, as whatever was written in one would appear in the other.

“So we can keep in touch over the summer,” Harry explained as Draco looked up at him fondly. “Even if your father’s being a prat and won’t let you write back via owl.”

Tom’s gift to Harry was a set of combs that were charmed to supposedly help tame his wild locks, though Harry suspected it was an excuse to play with his hair more often. His gift to Tom was simpler, but more personal – a framed, coloured version of the photo Tom had torn from the newspaper the year before.

“I owled the Daily Prophet,” he said, entranced by the misty expression on Tom’s face as the photographic version of him twirled Harry again and again. “I asked if they still had the original, and this is what they sent back.”

“It’s lovely, Harry,” Tom said with wide eyes, perching the frame on his bedside table where he could watch it at length. “Thank you.”

The day seemed to fly by after that. Lunch in the Great Hall was a momentous affair, as most of the school were in attendance, to say nothing of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. They joined the Weasleys shortly thereafter, watching as Fred and George conjured a mountain of snowballs from the fresh snow that had settled overnight and started a massive fight which attracted several onlookers and participants. It seemed that all too soon, Hermione announced that she needed to get ready, and Tom decided that yes, that was a fantastic idea.

Harry sighed, expecting that he was going to spend the next three hours having his hair and dress robes fussed over by Tom, but allowed himself to be led away and into the Slytherin dorms. His suspicions turned out to be right – Tom wasted no time in breaking out the new combs and working them through his hair. Well, it still felt nice to be pampered, particularly when it was the one whose soul he carried with him always doing the pampering.

At last it was time to head down to the Ball. Tom, pinning Harry’s new cloak pin to his collar, tipped his chin up and kissed him sweetly, then took his hand.

“You, my darling,” he said, squeezing Harry’s hand slightly, “are going to be the most stunning thing at the ball. They simply won’t know what hit them.”

Harry very much doubted that, not with Tom there, not to mention his fellow champion from Beauxbatons with her Veela ancestry, but he squeezed Tom’s hand in return. “Ready when you are,” he said softly.

The two of them left the dungeons hand in hand, ready to attend the Yule Ball.

Chapter 23: The Yule Ball

Chapter Text

“Champions over here, please!”

Tom directed Harry through the crowd of students toward where the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House was standing, calling for the champions and their dance partners to line up. As they took their place with the others, Tom was never so grateful for his early growth spurt – Harry was more or less dwarfed by most of the older students, but Tom stood nearly as tall as Krum, who was easily the same height as Dumbledore. Being able to tower over Fleur and meet Cedric in height left him feeling like less of a child standing among adults and more of a proper grown-up himself.

“Hermione, you look incredible,” Harry beamed as they took a spot in the line next to her and Viktor. “You look like you’ve had the Tom hair-care treatment.”

“Thanks Harry!” Hermione giggled. “You look great as well. I’m guessing Tom did your hair?”

Harry blushed in response, grinning.

The professors were still wrangling the other students into the Great Hall, so Tom took the time to appraise the other champions. Fleur looked incredible as always, owing, no doubt, to her Veela heritage, though in the silvery robes she wore she rather outshined her date, a seventh-year Ravenclaw Tom vaguely recognised. Cedric Diggory had cleaned up rather nicely as well with a crisp bow-tie around his neck, his date in a shiny satin dress and matching cloak. It was Harry, though, who truly shone, his unruly locks tamed into soft waves, the silver and green filigree along the hems of his robes bringing out the emerald green of his eyes. As far as Tom was concerned, none of the other champions held a candle to him.

“We’re moving!” Harry hissed as the other champions, at McGonagall’s direction, started to file into the hall. He and Tom followed with the group, making their way into the Great Hall to a round of applause, moving towards where the professors usually sat, which had been filled with a large, round table big enough for all four champions, their dates, and the Triwizard Tournament judges. It wasn’t quite like sitting at the head table as a professor himself, that reward he had been so cruelly denied in his previous life, but for a moment Tom could pretend. Feeling extra bold and noting two empty chairs to Dumbledore’s side, he very pointedly steered Harry in that direction and sat right next to the headmaster.

“Good evening, Professor,” he said politely. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Tom,” Dumbledore replied in turn. “I trust you have no former students of mine turned Death Eater for me this year?”

Next to Tom, Harry snorted. On Dumbledore’s other side, he could see Karkaroff’s eyes widen in barely perceptible fear. Good. The man had fled to foreign lands after Voldemort’s downfall, he should be afraid of the retribution coming for him.

“Thankfully not,” he said, “though it would be a nice Christmas gift to see Pettigrew behind bars where he belongs once more.”

“I think we can all agree on that,” Harry said darkly. “Though, right now, I’d rather just eat.”

“Ah, of course,” Dumbledore said, picking up a menu that sat next to his plate. “Tonight’s feast is somewhat different than our usual affairs, Observe: pork chops!”

The dish appeared in front of him instantly, and Harry, smiling again, picked up his own menu and held it between them. “Hmm,” he pondered, as the two of them scanned the wide array of foods both familiar and foreign. “What’s ‘foy grass?’” he asked.

“Foie gras, Harry,” Tom replied. “A rather lovely French delicacy, you should try it.”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I was thinking of ordering the roast quail.”

“I’m sure you can order more than one thing, Harry.”

“But what if I don’t like it?” Harry asked. “Then it’s just a waste.”

“Tell you what, darling,” Tom replied. “I’ll order the foie gras, as I’ve had it before, and if you like it we can share our dishes.”

As it turned out, Harry did like foie gras, quite a bit in fact. By the end of their meal, Tom was fairly certain Harry'd had more of his dish than he had, but he didn’t mind – Harry was hitting his own growth spurt and needed the extra calories. As they finished off the last of a shared treacle tart, Harry’s perennial favourite, Dumbledore stood and banished the tables, conjuring a platform toward the right side of the Hall. Tom watched in disdain as the Weird Sisters made their way up to it – if they’d held a Yule Ball during his first time at Hogwarts, they would surely have hired a more respectable band to perform. These men, on the other hand, had long, wild hair, looking not unlike Bill Weasley with his ponytail and fang earring. With their robes ripped at the elbows and frayed at the hems, they looked – how had Nott described Harry at the Malfoy gala? Scruffy, that was it. These men were properly scruffy, not like Harry, whose normally tousled hair and sun-kissed cheeks only exemplified his beauty.

“Tom, we have to go dance!” Harry urged as the other champions stood. Well, if they must, Tom considered as he let himself be led down to the dance floor. He was certain that the Weird Sisters were going to play some loud, raucous tune, utterly unsuited for the kind of dancing he had practised with Harry. To his surprise, the song they struck up was slow and lilting, mournful even. This he could work with.

“Should I lead?” Harry asked nervously. “I mean, I’m the champion.”

“No, darling,” Tom replied, taking his hand and placing it on his waist. “I’m taller. I lead.”

“O-okay,” Harry said, letting Tom lead him into a slow waltz.

It was much like the dance they’d shared at the Malfoy’s Gala the year prior, only moreso, as the bond between their souls had deepened. As Tom spun Harry around the dance floor, dipping and twirling him, it was like the rest of the world melted away, leaving only the two of them, the only people in the universe. The one of them even – this close together, this in tune with each other’s movements, it became hard to tell where Tom ended and Harry began, as if they had melted into each other, one being in two bodies. Or was it two beings in one body? Tom was no longer sure.

As the song ended, Tom was only vaguely aware of the rest of the champions, of his lips on Harry’s neck as they slowly stopped spinning. The world came back into being around them in bits and pieces as he pulled back up, studying Harry’s beautiful face, his flushed cheeks, his blown pupils. Well, if there had been any doubt in the other students’ minds where Harry’s affections lay, it was surely banished now. Harry was Tom’s, his alone to dance with, kiss, and love.

As they made their way back off the dance floor in search of their friends, Tom noted with vicious pleasure the crestfallen faces of several of their classmates who were only now putting the pieces together on why he and Harry were so inseparable. Really, how was it so many of their cohort were so utterly dense as to be blind to the obvious? Even Ginny, with her inexcusable obsession with Harry prior to Hogwarts and during her first year, had accepted the inevitable and left her crush on him behind. Of course, some of those disappointed looks were sent in Tom’s direction as well – it didn’t matter, though it meant seduction was off the table for luring followers in this lifetime. Tom found he didn’t particularly care.

They spotted the others at the edge of the crowd. It was easy to find them, as Luna had indeed picked out the “perfect robes” – dressed mostly in sleek, grassy green with three panels of white satin descending from the collar, she looked exactly like a snowdrop flower. Normally, Tom thought, she would have looked eccentric and out of place, but in a sea of people wearing their best finery, she merely looked as though she were making a fashion statement. Well, almost – the Butterbeer corks she wore for earrings this time were a little odd.

“You two looked great out there,” Draco said, smirking, as they approached. “Too bad Dumbledore’s banned Skeeter from the school, you’d have made a lovely front-page headline again.”

“Please,” Hermione replied, leading Viktor over to the group, “the last thing Harry needs is more press from that woman. She’d probably write about his ‘eyes filling with tears’ again or some such rubbish.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry added, “we’re likely to show up in the papers anyway. We did after the Gala, and she wasn’t even there.”

“This is true,” Draco said slowly. “I still don’t understand how she managed to get an inside scoop of that event.”

“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry asked.

“If she has, Moody’s eye would see right through it, wouldn’t it?” Ron pondered. “Well, we’ll find out in a few days, I reckon. Draco’s right – the two of you stole the show.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny said from behind him, causing him to jump: she’d just arrived from the refreshments table and bore a sly smile. “I think Fleur really stood out, don’t you?”

Ron flushed a deep red.

“Drinks, Draco?” Ginny said, her eyes dancing with amusem*nt. “The Butterbeer is fantastic.”

“Oh, they’ve got Butterbeer?” Harry asked. “Let’s go, Tom, I’m parched from dancing.”

“It was one song, darling,” Tom replied. “And it wasn’t even that fast.”

“Yeah, well, dancing with you is like an Olympic sport,” Harry said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been twirled that much, and we’ve spent an entire month practising.”

“All right,” Tom conceded. “Drinks, and then another dance.”

Harry sighed. “Fine,” he relented.

When they returned from their second dance, it was to find that Draco and Ginny had absconded back onto the dance floor, and, bafflingly, Percy Weasley had taken one of their spots. What on earth was he doing here? Yes, there were Ministry officials present, but Percy wasn’t one of the judges, that was Bagman and –

Oh.

Tom, distracted thus far by Harry all evening, had failed to recognise the fact that Crouch was missing. Well, Ginny had said something about her older brother working as his personal assistant, perhaps he was here on his behalf. It was a relief, really – Tom didn’t particularly relish seeing the man again, not with the look of intense hatred he had given him when they first met.

“Ah, Tom!” Percy said as they took their seats. “And Harry! I was just remarking on how wonderful it is that you’ve made friends with Viktor Krum, here. International cooperation, that’s the goal! It’s been difficult, to be honest, rebuilding relationships across borders since the end of – well, since You-Know-Who’s downfall. It’s a relief to finally see our separate communities begin to trust each other once more.”

Not for long, Tom thought darkly to himself. With Voldemort regaining power, soon everything the Ministry had worked for would come crumbling down, and Tom’s goals for his new life would be much harder to achieve. He knew instinctively, however, that he’d have no chance at defeating the Dark Lord, not until he’d managed, somehow, to put the rest of his soul back together. Once Harry was the only remaining tether to both their lives, he was certain Voldemort’s tenuous link to mortality would be weakened enough for Tom to subsume him.

Except that he still didn’t know how to reabsorb his soul without the ability to feel remorse outside of when Harry was in grave danger.

“Save me,” Ron muttered under his breath in despair. Percy was still going on about international affairs, and while both Viktor and Hermione were engaged and interested, Ron looked moments away from dropping dead of sheer boredom.

“Let’s, er – check out the rose garden they’ve planted outside,” Harry suggested, and Tom nodded in agreement. A brisk walk in the chill winter air would do wonders to clear his head of these dark thoughts.

Leaving the others to it, Tom, Harry, and Ron made their way for the exit, stepping out into the rather lovely garden that had been set up sometime earlier in the day. Tom slipped his hand into Harry’s as the three of them made their way through the winding maze of bushes, following the little garden path as tiny fairies floated about, their soft glow playing across Harry’s face. With little stone benches dotted about, it would have been an ideal location to just sit quietly together and enjoy the evening – if only Ron wasn’t there as well.

As they rounded a corner, Tom heard a familiar voice – his Head of House, apparently, was taking a walk through the garden as well, and he didn’t seem to be alone.

“...don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Ah, Karkaroff. The two former Death Eaters must surely be talking about the imminent return of Lord Voldemort, though Tom would really rather they be more subtle about it. Hushed though the man's voice may be, it carried well through the crisp air. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months, and I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it –”

“Then flee,” Snape replied shortly. “Flee, I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

They rounded another corner to find the two men, Snape blasting apart rose bushes and sending students who’d been hiding in them, no doubt snogging, running back up the path to the school. Karkaroff’s eyes, however, landed on Tom.

“You!” he barked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m walking,” Tom replied dismissively, “though I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

Karkaroff merely stared at him in a mixture of horror and curiosity. “Is it true?” he finally asked. “Is what they’ve said about you true?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that,” Tom said, though he knew exactly the question the man wanted to ask. “And who is ‘they,’ exactly? I’d like to know if someone’s been spreading rumours about me.”

“There are whispers,” Karkaroff said, shuddering. “People talk. Some seem to believe that you are the son of the Dark Lord.”

“Oh, those rumours,” Tom replied, grinning wickedly as Snape turned to chase down another pair of wayward students. “Yes, it’s true. I don’t suppose you knew my father?”

Karkaroff scowled angrily at him. “No, of course not,” he snapped, though his voice shook. “Why the devil would you suggest such a thing?”

Tom’s smile grew wider. “Oh, you know,” he said casually, “people talk.”

He watched, gleeful, as all colour drained from the man’s face and he brushed past them without another word, striding quickly back to the castle. Now there was one former Death Eater Tom had no inclination towards re-recruiting, unlike Professor Snape. The man was a coward, obviously, and Tom was fairly certain he’d only followed Voldemort for the opportunity to wreak havoc and destruction with impunity. No, men like that would have no place at his side when he was once again old enough to seize the power the Ministry had waiting for him.

“Blimey,” Ron said as they continued down the path. “Karkaroff, a Death Eater? Do you think it’s true? Where’d you hear that, Tom?’

“I didn’t,” Tom said, shrugging. “I just made an educated guess. Thanks to Harry, we know Voldemort is returning to power, and Karkaroff is clearly worried about something. He also called him the ‘Dark Lord,’ and not many people other than Voldemort’s supporters refer to him as such. Whether he actually is or isn’t… well, that’s something only Voldemort and a few others would know for sure.”

“So – is he?” Harry hissed, quiet enough for Ron not to hear. “Could he be the one who put my name in the Goblet?”

“He was,” Tom replied. “Judging by his behaviour, I cannot imagine he would return to Voldemort’s service. And no, I don’t believe he was the one to enter you in the Tournament. If he’s managed, somehow, to remain free of Azkaban, it would be folly to risk his freedom just to put you in harm’s way.”

“Well, that’s no help then,” Harry grumbled. “Did you have to smile like that at him, though? People will start to think you’re actually Voldemort.”

“You know, that was the initial plan,” Tom said casually. “At least with the Death Eaters. I wanted to see who amongst them would recognise me for who I really was and which of them would assist me in rising to power once more. I abandoned that line of thinking when I realised I didn’t want to be Voldemort anymore and that I could do better.”

“Tom!” Harry admonished him. “Are you serious? That was incredibly reckless!”

“So is trying to outfly a dragon, darling.”

“Oi!” Ron interrupted. “Are you two hissing at each other again? Honestly, you can’t wait five minutes until you’re alone to go whispering sweet nothings to each other like a pair of snakes?”

They dropped the topic for the time being as they came back around on the pathway to where they had started, having made a full circuit of the garden. Ahead of them, there was Professor Moody making his way toward them with a thick clunking sound every other step as his wooden leg hit the ground.

“Ah, Potter, there you are,” he said as he approached. “Been meaning to talk to you, but I haven’t seen you since the end of term.”

“What is it, Professor?” Harry asked uneasily. Tom didn’t blame him – almost anyone would find the grizzled ex-Auror intimidating, and he had subjected both of them to the Imperius Curse repeatedly to demonstrate to their classmates how to throw it off.

“Got something I need to discuss with you,” he said. “Privately. A message from Dumbledore.”

Ron shrugged and headed toward the castle doors, waving a silent goodbye. Tom, however, gripped Harry’s hand tighter and moved closer to him, protectively. There was something off about this entire interaction. To his surprise, however, Moody just shrugged and laughed.

“Alright, I suppose it can’t hurt to include you as well, Riddle,” he said. “Might be a good thing, actually. Walk with me.”

They did, following him into the castle and away from the revelry. It was only once they were well out of earshot of the band and other students that Moody stopped.

“Right,” he said, “so Dumbledore reckons – and I agree – that you could do with some extra training in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Not that you don’t have top marks, mind, but in your position you could use an even stronger arsenal.”

“But Professor Moody,” Harry argued, “I thought you weren’t allowed to help me with the Tournament.”

“This isn’t about the Triwizard Tournament,” Moody replied. “Oh, no, this is about making sure you survive the real world. There’s still a great deal of nasty wizards out there, those who are still loyal to the Dark Lord. They’ll stop at nothing to see you dead, and you’ve got to be ready for it. And if it helps you along in the Tournament as well, then that’s just an added bonus.”

“Well, alright then,” Harry said. “Couldn’t this have waited until after the break ended?”

“Oh no,” Moody said. “Dumbledore wants you to start learning right away. You’re welcome to join as well, Riddle.”

Being taught self-defence by an ex-Auror, not to mention one of the best? Well, that was nowhere near as horrifying a proposal as he’d imagined when Moody had tried to get Harry alone. In fact, this could be an excellent opportunity to relearn some of what had been lost during his slow transformation back into a child, not to mention making sure that Harry received that knowledge as well.

“Alright,” he said casually, though his heart was hammering at the prospect. “That sounds nice, don’t you agree, darling?”

“I guess so,” Harry replied. “Am I really in that much danger?”

“Harry, Voldemort has tried to kill you three times now,” Tom said, exasperated. “Yes.”

“Well that’s settled, then,” Moody replied gruffly. “I’ll meet the two of you in my office after lunch tomorrow and we’ll get started. Now go on, get back to the party before they realise their champion’s missing.”

The two of them returned to the Great Hall, but it was getting rather late by that point and many of their classmates had turned in for the night. Nevertheless, they danced a few more times, mingled with a few of the foreign students aside from Viktor Krum, and as the night came to a close and the Weird Sisters wrapped up their final song, Harry and Tom left the dance floor one last time and rejoined their friends in the corridor outside the Great Hall. As they went through the doors, Tom spotted Hermione in a corner with Viktor Krum, saying their goodnights.

“Hermee-owny,” Krum was saying, “I vont to thank you for a lovely evening. I know I am not the greatest dancer, but I enjoyed our time together.”

“You were fine,” Hermione said, blushing. “Listen, every few weeks we take trips down to the local village, Hogsmeade. I don’t know if you’ll be busy, but…”

“I vould love to go vith you,” Viktor said softly. “That sounds vonderful.” And then he bent low to leave a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth, causing Hermione to blush even harder.

“I don’t know why she can’t see what he’s up to,” Ron said bitterly from behind them. “He’s from Durmstrang, he’s obviously just using Hermione to get an advantage over Harry.”

“Ron!” Tom said harshly. “I certainly hope you didn’t make such unfounded accusations during the Ball. You heard what your brother was saying, we’re trying to build bridges with the international magical community, not tear them down.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Ron replied defensively. “I wasn’t about to ruin Hermione’s night, I can see she actually likes him. Besides, I was a little distracted by watching my little sister dancing with Draco. I can’t believe him, the traitor. He’s done this just to rile me up, I swear.”

“What?” Harry asked. “No, Draco’s fancied Ginny for ages now. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

“What?” Ron yelped. “I can’t believe this, all my friends and now my sister are going mental. I mean, you and Tom were inevitable, but Hermione and Krum? Draco and Ginny? Mum’s going to have kittens when she finds out her daughter’s going out with a Malfoy!”

And Harry – bless him – Harry just laughed.

Chapter 24: Dark Arts Lessons

Chapter Text

As Harry had suggested, he and Tom had made the front page of the Daily Prophet yet again. The paper came as they were sitting down for breakfast, both feeling very tired from the night before, ready only for breakfast and certainly not for the article that awaited them. Far from the (mostly) puff piece that had featured them the year prior, this one framed them, particularly Tom, in a much more negative light.

Tom Riddle,

The headline read,

Darling Boy or Next Dark Lord?

Tom scowled as he saw the photograph which accompanied the article – somehow, someone had managed to snap a picture of him the night prior, Harry tucked against his side and Ron in the background during his confrontation with Karkaroff. Harry’d been right – his smile was downright vicious , a wide predatory grin spread across his face as he blinked slowly, his pupils blown wide like a cat’s who’d spotted a canary. But how had they gotten this? There had been no press allowed at the Yule Ball, particularly not Rita Skeeter, who he was unsurprised to find was the author of this brutal attack upon his character.

For the last year, the wizarding community has been captivated by the young romance blossoming between the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, and the mysterious Tom Riddle, supposed heir of Slytherin, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent. As Riddle has made his way into our society, previously sheltered by his mother and Muggle stepfather, however, rumours have grown and swirled regarding the boy’s supposed Dark origins. But are they mere rumours and speculation?

While not much is known about the Slytherin family – the last of his line was believed to have died out when his descendant, Morfin Gaunt, perished in Azkaban – there is, as it turns out, a prior claim to his heritage. Little known to most, the Dark Lord himself, He Who Must Not Be Named, also declared himself the heir of Slytherin while still attending Hogwarts. This has been one of the main sources of rumour that the young Tom Riddle is somehow related to the wizard who engulfed our society in terror little more than a decade ago. However, these rumours were solidified last night, according to an anonymous source, when Riddle himself confirmed that he was secretly the son of the Dark Lord, with seemingly no regret for his parentage.

So, who is Tom Riddle, exactly? His peers don’t paint a pleasant image of the boy. “He’s really creepy,” says Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff in the same year as Riddle. “We’ve all heard him talking to that awful pet snake of his, and somehow he’s taught Potter how to do the same.”

“I’ve never liked him,” Romilda Vane, age thirteen, agrees. “We’ve all heard how he rescued a girl from the Chamber of Secrets in his second year, but they also say the heir of Slytherin opened it in the first place. I think he’s the one who went around Petrifying all those students, then staged the rescue to make himself look good. I can only imagine he’s trying to corrupt Harry. The Boy Who Lived should never have ended up in Slytherin.”

So, is Tom Riddle destined to follow in his late father’s footsteps and become the next Dark Lord? Will he lead our saviour, Harry Potter, down a dark path? One thing is certain: the boy is not the innocent darling we initially imagined him to be.

Tom was furious. How dare that horrible woman malign his character like this? How dare his fellow students paint him as a villain, when he’d done so much in this second life to actually help people? Well, mostly to help Harry, of course, but hadn’t he saved Ginny? Hadn’t he been instrumental in clearing Sirius Black’s name? What business did this “journalist” have, trying to tear down the life he was building for himself?

“Have you seen this?” Tom scowled, handing the paper to Harry. “That Skeeter woman’s written an article about me this time, accusing me of ‘leading you down a dark path.’”

Harry glanced at the newspaper. “I did tell you that smiling at people like that was going to scare them,” he said, shovelling a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and swallowing. “You can’t expect people to treat you normally when you won’t give them the same courtesy.”

“For Salazar’s sake, just read the damn article!” Tom snapped, regretting it instantly as Harry cringed away from him. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. It’s just that it’s about both of us, and it’s not very friendly.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled, picking the Prophet up again and skimming through it, his eyes narrowing. “Corrupting me?” he snorted. “What on earth are they on about? If anything, it’s the other way ‘round.”

“Harry!” Tom replied. “You have to take this seriously. Half of the school is still angry with you because they think you snuck your name into the Goblet of Fire. And it was one thing when it was rumours mostly contained to – to former Death Eaters and their friends and family, but now the whole world will be aware of my identity. I won’t be able to work my way up in the Ministry of everyone believes I’m ‘following in my father’s footsteps.’”

“Well you know what the solution is,” Harry said, shrugging. “You just have to prove that you’re better than Voldemort. Which means not showing off all the Dark magic I know you’ve been relearning," he finished, sliding into Parseltongue with ease.

“What’s this?” Ginny asked, she and Draco taking their seats across from Harry and Tom. “Why does Tom need to prove that he’s better than You-Know-Who?”

“Take a look,” Tom muttered darkly, sliding the paper across the table.

“Oh for the love of…” Ginny sputtered, scanning the article. “Rita Skeeter’s a nightmare – she spent this past summer dragging dad’s name through the mud after the attack at the Quidditch World Cup. But listen, I’ll just write a letter to the editor explaining that I opened the Chamber of Secrets while possessed by a cursed object You-Know-Who left behind. You can’t go around with everyone thinking you did it as some elaborate trick to make yourself a hero.”

“Who’s this ‘Romilda Vane’ person, anyway?” Harry wondered aloud. “And what’s her issue with Tom? Have you ever even met her?”

Tom shook his head.

“Second-year Gryffindor, I believe, maybe Third-year” Draco said, craning his head up to look across the sea of students tucking into their breakfasts. “Yes, that’s her – the girl with the dark hair sitting two down from Hermione and Viktor. She’s staring at you, Harry.”

Harry turned to look. “Oh, that’s one of the girls who asked me to the Yule Ball!”

“That’ll be why, then,” Draco sighed. “The nerve of some people, I swear. They see something they can’t have and try to take it anyway.”

“Yeah, I don’t know anyone like that,” Harry replied, nudging Tom playfully in the ribs with his elbow. Tom scowled at him.

His dark mood did not lighten throughout the morning, even with the prospect of learning more powerful magic with Harry in the afternoon awaiting him. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how that picture had made it into the paper, nor who had told Skeeter that he’d admitted to being Voldemort’s son. He’d seen a few students with cameras at the Ball, using them to snap photos of themselves and their friends, but even if one of them had captured that moment without his knowledge, how would they have gotten it to the Prophet, when no media presence had been on the grounds the next before? It was a mystery, a thing he didn’t know – and Tom hated not knowing.

Well, he finally decided, in the end it didn’t matter. There was nothing he was incapable of understanding, nothing outside his grasp if he were patient enough. He would uncover Skeeter’s secret, rip it straight from her mind if he needed to, and when he did, he would punish her for having the gall to slander him like that, Him, the last known descendant of the most noble and powerful house in magical Britain. He might even go back on his promise not to kill anyone this time, a very special exception – after all, she’d hurt Harry as well, both in this article and her first pile of drivel, and that was unconscionable.

Yes, he thought. He would kill her, but not just because he wanted to. He’d be doing it for Harry, to ensure not another lie about him came spilling out of her quill ever again.

“Sit down you two.”

Tom and Harry took their seats in Moody’s otherwise empty classroom, watching him intently. The man paced back and forth a moment, his wooden foot thudding against the stone floor as he gazed down at them, his magical eye flicking back and forth between the two boys. Finally, he spoke.

“So,” he said gruffly, “you’ve learned a lot about defending yourselves against magical beasts, and I’ve done my best to get you up to speed on how to handle Dark witches and wizards. However, for a class entitled ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts,’ I’ve found you’ve learned surprisingly little of what the term means. Tell me, what exactly do you think the ‘Dark Arts’ actually are.”

“Bad magic,” Harry said instantly. “Magic used to hurt people instead of helping them.”

“Hmm,” Moody replied. “A rather basic answer, but a good starting place. Tell me Potter, what do you think of Dark magic?”

“Well,” Harry said slowly, glancing at Tom, “it’s… interesting. I’ve seen some cursed artefacts, mostly down Knockturn Alley. I think it’s something worth studying, but not using.”

Cursed artefacts indeed – Harry technically was a cursed artefact, though his pure hearted nature had overwhelmed the Dark nature of the magic that clung to him and kept him alive, and he wore another on his ring finger. Of course, that was to say nothing of the small collection of baubles that housed individual shards of Tom’s soul, sitting hidden in the attic of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. To say that Harry had some experience with Dark magic was an understatement.

“What would you say, Potter, if I told you there were no such thing as the Dark Arts, only magic and for what ends it is used?”

“What?” Harry asked, clearly dumbfounded. “That can’t be right – what about the Unforgivables?”

“Even curses such as these have beneficial uses,” Moody said. “Consider, if you will, an escaped prisoner. The worst kind – a torturer, a murderer. Would it not be a benefit to society to use the Imperius Curse to force him to turn himself in, to come quietly? Particularly if other methods may result in loss of life?”

“Well, I suppose,” Harry replied, frowning. “What if whoever was using the Imperius found the wrong person, though? I can’t imagine there wouldn’t be better ways to capture someone.”

“Perhaps,” Moody conceded. “Take then instead the Killing Curse – instant death, painless, unexpected. Imagine an animal, or even a human, so badly poisoned or injured that there is no cure, no possible method of recovery – only suffering, long and drawn out. Would not instant euthanasia be preferable?”

“Alright, I see your point, Professor,” Harry said. “But what about the Cruciatus?”

“Ah,” Moody sighed, “well, every rule has its exceptions. You’re correct, there is no ‘good’ use of the Cruciatus, as far as anyone has been able to find. Still, what makes the Dark Arts is intent, not the spell cast. For example, I could kill either of you in any myriad ways that would not be considered ‘Dark.’ I could levitate you out the window, then let you fall to your death. I could drown you with an Aguamenti. I could use a Body-Bind Curse and let you starve to death on the ground. A great deal of what you have already learned, in all of your classes, can be used to harm people.”

Harry looked horrified.

“The reason I tell you this, both of you,” Moody continued, “is that in these private sessions we will be covering topics which skirt the line between what is considered a normal use of magic, and that which is considered Dark. I trust the both of you not to misuse what I teach you within these walls and only to use it for defensive purposes. If I catch either of you using anything I teach you on other students, I will report it to Professor Dumbledore immediately. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” the boys said in chorus, Tom’s heart soaring at the prospect of using magic even considered adjacent to the Dark Arts again without censure.

“Good,” Moody said. “Now, our first lesson is going to be on Sensation Curses. Used correctly, you can either make your opponent feel nothing at all, or far too much, each touch like a burning coal. We will practise first with removal of sensation.”

“Professor Moody.” Harry’s hand was in the air as if they were in a proper class. “How are we going to practise this? I don’t want to do anything like that to Tom, nor to you.” It was a fair question – most of their practical work thus far had been against creatures like the Boggart, or dummies set up to send and take spells.

“I’m glad you asked, Potter,” Moody said, pulling a jar from inside his pocket. Inside was a tiny, quivering mouse. “You’ll be practising on this rodent I found sniffing around my quarters.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Harry said, frowning. “Look at her, she’s terrified. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Nothing I have you do in this classroom will hurt anyone or anything,” Moody replied. “Any spell I teach you can be easily undone. But if you would rather face the Dark Lord’s followers unarmed…”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I’ll do it.”

“Very well,” Moody said, unscrewing the cap of the jar and releasing the trembling mouse onto Harry’s desk. “The spell is Insensatio.” He demonstrated the wand movement as he spoke. “Rendered weakly, your opponent will merely experience decreased vision, but at its full strength the victim will suffer a complete loss of sight, hearing, taste, smell, and feeling. They will feel as if trapped in a void, with no way of telling up from down, left from right.”

Tom shuddered. He had been caught in that same loss of sensation himself for what had seemed, at the time, an eternity, before he’d been lucky enough to find the light and warmth within Harry’s soul. He had no desire to experience anything like that ever again. Inflicting it on another, however…

“Go on,” Moody said, “give it a go.”

“Insensatio,” Harry mumbled, spinning his wand in the same way Moody had. The mouse froze as its eyes clouded over and its ears twitched back back and forth, searching for a sound that would not come. Tom’s lips parted in surprise. Harry – his dear, sweet, kindhearted Harry – was a natural at this.

But what was Moody playing at? This was undeniably Dark magic, not some toeing of the line as he had said. His only guess was that the ex-Auror had, at some point, lost his principles while dealing with Dark Arts practitioners, and had resorted to such means himself. That speech about Dark magic not existing had either been fantasy or delusion, after all. The Unforgivables were designed to hurt, not help, no matter what the man said.

“Excellent work, Potter,” Moody said, examining the terrified mouse. “Completely blind, and while it seems she can still smell me,” he said, waving his hand over the creature’s nose, then snapping his fingers right behind its head, “she’s been deafened as well. Well done for a first try.”

“I don’t like it,” Harry said bluntly. “She did nothing to deserve this.”

Moody shook his head. “Like I said, no harm done. Watch – finite. There, see?” he asked as the mouse’s eyes cleared, and, squealing, it ran for the edge of the table. “None of that, now,” he growled as his hand shot out, lightning fast, to catch it by the tail. “Now you, Riddle.”

It was going to be laughably simple: Tom had mastered this curse halfway through his third year in his previous life, using it with gleeful abandon on his housemates when they’d dared to call him “Mudblood.” Now, he was more interested in relearning the curse’s counter – the one that would leave the creature completely overwhelmed with sensation, that would make the lights painfully bright, bring a scathing awareness to every pore in its skin. That curse hadn’t existed when he was a child the first time, and by the time it had been invented Voldemort had mastered the Cruciatus, the ultimate form of torture, preferring solely to use it instead of lesser methods. Besides, he had long since lost the child Tom’s natural curiosity, so he had simply never learned it. But now –

“Insensatio,” he whispered, turning his wand on the mouse.

It instantly went still in Moody’s hand, still dangling from his fingertips by its tail. It even seemed to stop breathing, no longer able to sense the air rushing in and out of its tiny lungs. Moody’s eyes glowed with delight at the powerful display of magic, at the way the mouse twitched in his grip.

“Oh, well done, Mr Riddle,” he breathed. “Complete loss of sensation. Somehow I thought you’d have no trouble mastering this. You’ll have your adversaries well in hand.”

It was so odd, being praised by a professor for his perfect use of Dark magic instead of chastised, but, well, Moody was odd. Tom had no doubt the old man had delved deep into the Dark Arts in his pursuit of understanding the minds of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. He had used the Imperius Curse on each of them, after all. And Auror though he might have been, he had been close to the truth: while some magic was undeniably Dark, the study of it did not a Dark wizard make.

Perhaps he thought he might make an Auror out of Tom as well – a laughable thought, really.

“Right then,” Moody barked, “next lesson – I’m going to show you the opposite. Over-stimulation of the senses.”

Tom couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

The next few weeks were dizzyingly enjoyable, with the chance to relearn Dark magic Tom had forgotten and pick up new curses that had been invented since the night he’d begun his long hibernation within Harry’s mind. Moody had them practise Insensatio and its counterpart, Sensare Maxima, until each of them could cast perfectly. Then, he taught them each the Imperius Curse, having them use it on spiders in the same way he had demonstrated during class. They also studied a few smaller rituals, one in particular making Tom laugh, as he recalled upon seeing the runes that it was one of the steps needed to fully protect the slip of soul within a Horcrux. He’d completed that last and final ritual, modified slightly, in his previous life not hours before visiting Godric’s Hollow – the protection from that spell now entwined around Harry, keeping him physically safe from all but the strongest destructive forces.

“It’s a good one to use on your wands,” Moody explained. “Blood magic may be illegal, but it’s worth bending a few rules to keep something so invaluable safe.” As far as suggestions went, it wasn’t a bad one, and Tom made plans to perform it properly as soon as he had the chance.

While Tom might be enjoying himself, Harry was decidedly not. He may have shown an interest in the various Dark artefacts they had seen on their one visit to Knockturn Alley the year before, but to actually employ Dark Magic, and on helpless animals? It was clear Harry hated it. “It makes me feel ill,” he explained one day as they left Moody’s classroom. “Why can’t we just use, I dunno, practice dummies or something?”

“Darling,” Tom said gently, “there’s little use in using the Imperius on a dummy; it hasn’t got a mind of its own. Just pretend the creatures Moody brings in are Voldemort, that should make it easier to curse them.”

“I don’t want to curse Voldemort,” Harry said quietly, glancing around the empty hallway for listening ears. “He’s you, Tom. All I want is to see what’s left of his soul put back where it belongs – in you.”

“Then Death Eaters,” Tom offered. “It’s strong, powerful magic, Harry. It’s unconventional, but it could save your life someday. You’re not completely indestructible, remember.”

“It’s not that ,” Harry sighed. “I just don’t understand the appeal of it. Why would anyone choose to use something like the Imperius when you could just disarm your opponent instead?”

“It’s not always about battle, Harry,” Tom argued. Moody had also begun teaching them duelling, and Expelliarmus was quickly becoming Harry’s go-to spell. “It’s about subterfuge and manipulating the playing field to your advantage. What if you could control one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters to give him the wrong information, lure him into a trap? Then you could think about disarming him.”

“I suppose,” Harry said glumly. “But why create any of this magic in the first place? What’s the point? Why do you enjoy it?”

Oh. Of course. Tom could have kicked himself for not understanding Harry’s hesitance – he didn’t feel the same exhilarating rush Tom did when casting Dark magic. Thinking quickly, he tugged Harry into an unused classroom. Once properly isolated, the door sealed behind them, Tom turned back to him.

“Harry, darling, I want you to cast the Cruciatus Curse on me,” he said solemnly.

“What?!” Harry exclaimed. “Tom, no, I’m not doing that, are you insane?!”

“Just for a second, Harry,” Tom insisted. “I’ve felt far worse pain. I promise, I’ll barely register it.”

“No, Tom!” Harry argued. “I can’t do that to you – I love you.”

“Please, Harry,” Tom entreated, clutching his hand. “I need you to understand the Dark Arts – I need you to understand me, why Voldemort devoted his life to them. This is the easiest way to make you see. Only for a second, you won’t hurt me, I swear.”

“Fine,” Harry spat bitterly, yanking his arm away from Tom and raising his wand. “But if this doesn’t work, you and I are having a long conversation about your fixation on harming innocent life. Crucio!”

Weak as it was, deadened by Harry’s love for him and by the fact that whilst absorbing pieces of his own soul Tom had felt agony ten times over the worst Cruciatus that had ever been levelled at him in his previous life, it still hit him like the burning heat of a furnace, lighting up every nerve in his body as though he’d been pierced with a thousand pins and needles. It was over as quickly as it started, however, and when he looked up from the floor, where he had apparently fallen, all he could see was Harry, staring blankly at him with his jaw hanging open.

“Tom,” Harry said weakly. “Tom, why did that feel…” he trailed off, his eyes wide with horror.

“Good?” Tom finished for him as he picked himself up. “That’s the secondary effect of the Cruciatus. Don’t worry, darling, I’m fine,” he added, as Harry rushed forward to help him to his feet.

“It’s not very well understood, unfortunately,” he continued, “but for the one casting the curse, the Cruciatus floods their brain with dopamine – Muggle science. Essentially, you were overwhelmed with the same chemical your body produces naturally when you do something you enjoy, like flying. No one, aside from myself and Voldemort as far as I’m aware, has worked out the connection. Those who would choose of their own volition to practise the Unforgivables would recognise it only as the pleasure they normally feel upon causing harm, and those who wouldn’t take joy in inflicting pain would be unlikely to ever use the Cruciatus Curse in the first place. It was only because Voldemort – because I – was subject to regular visits from Muggle doctors growing up in Wools looking to analyse my mind, that he ever thought to look into the growing field of psychiatry and worked it out.”

“If it wasn’t you, collapsing on the floor in pain,” Harry said brokenly, his precious crinkled eyes squeezing out tears, “I think I would have kept going. It felt like I was on top of the world. How do you even stop yourself?”

“You grow used to it, over time,” Tom replied. “But darling, for one predisposed to it like myself, that’s how all Dark magic feels, at least to an extent. I’m surprised how naturally you’ve taken to it, given that you don’t feel the same.”

“Oh, Tom,” Harry cried, pulling him into his arms.

“Don’t ‘oh, Tom,’ me,” he said sourly, though he allowed himself to be held like that, his arms coming up to encircle Harry as well. “I am who I am, even if I’ve promised not to kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it this time. That awful woman, Rita Skeeter, however…”

“No, Tom,” Harry said, pressing his forehead into Tom’s cheek, no longer short enough to tuck under his chin. “I don’t want you to. She’s not worth it. She’s not worth damaging your soul.”

Well, there went that idea. Still, there were other ways to punish the woman outside of outright murder – perhaps an extended period of time under Sensare Maxima, or by being forced via Imperius to quill her own expose on her life. If nothing else, if her secret way of getting intel on Hogwarts students were illegal enough, he could always use it against her, if not turn her in to the appropriate authorities – though blackmail was far more intriguing a concept.

“Alright, darling,” Tom conceded. “I won’t murder her, I promise.”

“I know you’re already planning something else,” Harry said, his voice muffled against Tom’s shoulder. “I can sense what you’re feeling, remember?”

“Darling,” Tom replied, “she can’t just be allowed to get away with writing horrible things about us. Honestly, it should be illegal – we’re not even of age. What she’s doing could be considered libel.”

“Fine,” Harry huffed, “just make sure the punishment fits the crime.”

Tom smiled. Oh, he would indeed.