Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A single, hollow thud shattered the roar of battle.

Time seemed to still.

He's dead.

Dumbledore is dead.

Harry's eyes widened, his wand slipping from his bloodied fingers, falling unnoticed to his side. It dangled in his grip like an afterthought, as though magic itself had been drained from him.

He stared.

The body of Albus Dumbledore lay motionless against the fractured stones of Hogwarts’ battlements, white beard matted with ash and blood, spectacles skewed just beside his face. A man who had once been the last bastion of light—snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

And across the field of cracked stone and scorched ground stood Tom Riddle.

No longer hidden behind a false name. No longer veiled in myth or shadow.

Voldemort.

His crimson eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light, victory painted across his features in cruel elegance. The dark curls atop his head—once pristine—were windswept and wild, but somehow he still looked untouched, untouchable. His robes fluttered with a kind of graceful menace, his expression a frozen sculpture of triumph.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

He knew him.

He knew him.

From the moment Harry had first stepped into the Great Hall as a terrified first-year, he’d felt it—that suffocating pressure from the Slytherin table. Riddle, already a third-year, had looked at him then with eyes that bore into his soul. Eyes that saw too much.

Those eyes had been a storm then: unreadable, calculating, ancient despite his youth. Even Hermione—sharp, intuitive Hermione—had once said, "He’s a mystery wrapped in Occlumency so thick it gives me a headache just looking at him."

Harry had frowned at the memory.

He tore his gaze from Dumbledore’s corpse, eyes darting to the surviving students and staff that lingered in stunned silence. Fear etched every face. Whispers died on trembling lips. No one moved.

The battle had cost them dearly. The grounds were stained with blood and debris; shattered gargoyles littered the grass, broken wands still sparked uselessly in the hands of their fallen wielders. Smoke rose like ghosts in the darkening sky.

Harry looked down at himself.

His green-trimmed robes—his sixth-year robes—were torn, scorched, and bloodied. Fabric flapped where it had been blown apart by spellfire. His left side burned. With trembling fingers, he touched the source of pain.

The gash was jagged and deep. Blood soaked the entire left half of his shirt, sticky and hot. Beneath the shredded fabric, angry muscle gleamed beneath torn skin. The wound was from earlier, when a Death Eater—now dead—had flung a Bombarda Maxima at close range.

Harry had lived.

Barely.

But now, looking at Dumbledore’s lifeless body, he wondered what living meant anymore.

He inhaled sharply.

Across the battlefield, Riddle moved. Purposeful. Elegant. Each step like a note in a dark symphony.

Their eyes met.

Red to green.

The crimson gaze dropped to Harry’s injury, lingered, then returned to lock with his. A flicker of something unreadable passed through Voldemort’s expression. Not pity. Not disgust. Something colder. Possessive.

Harry shuddered.

Then Tom Riddle straightened his back, brushing wind-tossed curls aside with deliberate grace. That smile—chilling and triumphant—spread across his face. It was a smile that made the blood in Harry’s veins freeze.

"Dumbledore," Riddle's voice rang out, smooth and venomous, "is DEAD!"

His words echoed across the stone, rising like smoke, and then the Death Eaters erupted. Laughter—unhinged, euphoric, victorious—filled the air, as if the death of hope itself was cause for celebration.

Harry stood rooted.

He’d only ever heard Riddle laugh once before.

It was rare. The man didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. At least not truly.

But there had been a time.

A time when Riddle had smiled at him.

---

"Marvolo! Where are you?" he hissed in a loud whisper.

A Ravenclaw girl glared at him over a towering stack of books, her finger to her lips.

"Over here, dear, and call me Tom," came the smooth, baritone reply from deep within the shelves.

There he was. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Regal, composed, and cold as winter stone.

Harry hadn’t expected to befriend Tom. A third year, a Slytherin with a reputation that made even sixth years keep their distance. But fate—or something darker—had other plans. Since their strange meeting weeks ago, a quiet thread had woven between them, stitched from shared secrets and strange understanding.

Riddle sat at one of the back tables, a solitary figure bathed in candlelight and shadows. He was already watching Harry, an amused curl playing on his lips.

"I need help with Potions homework," Harry huffed, collapsing into the chair across from him. "Snape burned my essay and called it unacceptable. Said I used it to embarrass myself."

What he got in return wasn’t sympathy.

It was laughter.

A low, velvet laugh. Polished and cold. The sound made Harry's spine straighten involuntarily.

"My, my," Tom said, resting his chin on one hand while the other lay elegantly on the desk. "A tragedy in the dungeons. Let me guess. Boil Cure Potion?"

Harry didn’t answer. He was too distracted by the way the candlelight danced across Tom’s cheekbones, the way the boy’s midnight curls fell in perfect disorder across his forehead. Tom's hair was always immaculate—or would be, if not for that one stubborn curl. It fascinated Harry more than he liked to admit.

"Harry," Tom called again, voice sharper now. "Are you listening, or have the fumes from Snape's cauldron dulled your senses?"

Harry snapped back to attention, flustered.

"Can you please help me with the essay?" he groaned, burying his face in his arms.

Tom smirked, eyes glinting. He tapped the table.

"Come here, sit by me."

---

Angry footsteps stormed across the ruined stones beside him, echoing loud against the suffocating silence that had taken the battlefield.

"That doesn’t mean we’ll stop fighting you, Riddle! You’ll never take all of us down!" Ron Weasley roared, voice hoarse with desperation and defiance.

There was a moment of stunned quiet, and then a soft, scathing whisper broke through it. "Stupid git."

Harry turned his head slightly, recognizing the sharp voice even before his eyes found her. Hermione, clad in her Ravenclaw-blue robes now stained with dirt and ash, glared at Ron from across the fray, her mouth pressed into a tight line.

Harry gave a dry, almost bitter smile. Of course Ron would say something like that. Of course Hermione would be the one to call him out.

To most people's continued confusion, Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived, their last hope, the child of two prominent Gryffindors—had been Sorted into Slytherin. The memory of the gasps and stares from the Gryffindor table still burned in his mind. No one expected the scarred boy to join the house of cunning and ambition. But he had. And he stayed.

He turned his gaze back to Tom Riddle.

Riddle, who had stopped laughing.

The battlefield fell eerily quiet, as if the silence itself feared to breathe.

Crimson eyes locked with his.

"Very well," Tom said softly, voice like silk drawn over the edge of a blade.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The scream of the Killing Curse tore through the air, its sickly green light hurtling toward them.

Harry didn’t think—he acted. He shoved Hermione hard to the side, twisting his own body just out of the spell's path.

Another thud.

Another body on the ground.

Hermione gasped, scrambling up to Harry. "Are you okay?!"

His head throbbed, ringing with pain. He groaned, sitting up slowly, the world tilting.

"Stop shaking me, 'Mione," he muttered, clutching his forehead.

She ignored him, horror dawning in her eyes. "Harry, your head—it’s bleeding."

He reached up instinctively and winced as his fingers came away wet with blood. It slid down the side of his face, warm and persistent.

He pulled himself together, his gaze snapping back to the place where the curse had struck. And there—

Ron.

His body lay limp. Unmoving.

Not far from where Dumbledore’s corpse had cooled.

Harry stared, cold creeping up his spine. He wanted to feel something—grief, horror, anything. But it was as if his brain refused to process the loss.

Not Ron. Not another one.

And yet, deep down, a grim part of him wasn’t surprised. Riddle always hated those who challenged him.

Especially ones who shouted.

Hermione was trembling beside him. And Harry realized, so was he.

All around them, students stood frozen in place. Even the Gryffindors, known for their bravado, looked pale and shaken.

Bravery, Harry thought bitterly, was a fragile thing when the world was ending.

His eyes lifted again—and met crimson.

Riddle smiled. Not kindly. Not even triumphantly. It was a cruel, smug thing, and it gleamed like broken glass.

"Well," he said cheerfully, too cheerfully. "The battle must go on, mustn’t it? Morsmordre!"

With a flick of his wand, a jet of pale green light burst into the sky. The Dark Mark unfurled like smoke above them, a skull leering down with a serpent slithering from its mouth, twisting, hissing.

Harry swallowed hard. His grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles burned.

A warm hand slipped into his own. Hermione.

They weren’t done yet. They all knew it.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Another curse. Another scream. More chaos.

Hermione yanked him backward as bodies surged forward, caught in spells, curses, and panicked screams. He stumbled, blinking through the blur of his vision. His head pounded. He couldn’t focus.

"Harry! Hermione! Are you alright?!"

Ginny's voice cut through the noise like a charm. She ran toward them, her Hufflepuff-yellow robes streaked with red, hair windblown and wild.

Luna appeared beside her, oddly calm despite the carnage. "Oh my, Harry, you’re bleeding far more than a being ought to."

Neville was next, clutching his wand awkwardly. "And, uh, you have a speck. Right there." He pointed at Harry's temple.

Harry let out a breath. "I’ll be alright."

He wasn’t sure. His knees felt like water. His vision swam. He could feel Hermione watching him from the corner of her eye, and he knew she saw it too.

But there was no time to stop. The Death Eaters were coming.

Luna lifted her wand.

"Well, it would be nice to catch up properly," she said brightly. "But it looks like we have some rather unpleasant company."

Harry turned.

Death Eaters, masked and grim, advanced through the wreckage. Their wands glowed like burning coals.

Harry’s hand clenched around his wand, jaw tightening.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not while he was still standing.

---

Harry's eyes lit up in wander as he saw Sirius disappear behind a wall at the platform. He shook his head, and with a determined look he pushed his trolley through the same wall his godfather went through.

He felt a bliss of magic as he passed through the portal which left him smiling. He watched in amazement as he saw parents and guardians with their children walking around excitedly around the train.

He saw Hogwarts students with their friends, putting trunks away, some hugging their parents, and other wishing good byes.

"Over here kiddo!"

He turned his head a grinned when he saw Sirius waiting for him to bring his trunk over. He helped his godfather load his trunks in the train and opens the crate for his beautiful snowy owl.

"I'll see you at Hogwarts, yeah girl?" He whispered to Hedwig and he scratched her chin. She hooted in agreement and flew off his finger to join the other owls that were flying to the school.

He smiled at his owl wondering how he got so lucky. Hedwig was one of the best things that happens his sad life. She brought so much joy to Harry In the past month he had her.

"Harry."

Harry now looked at his godfather who had his hands on his shoulders, crouched Infront of him.

Harry stared into his Godfathers grey eyes. Sirius took care of Harry ever since his parents were murdered. Sirius always payed attention to Harry. He was there for the boys first steps, his first words, his first accidental magic explosion that nearly caused the Black Manor to burn down.

"You're my big boy now." He wiped a fake tear, Harry rolled eyes.

"Sirius." He whined causing the man to chuckle.

"I'm not kidding you're getting big kiddo, write to me will ya?" He ruffled the boys already messy hair.

"Will do." Harry threw himself on Sirius hugging the man across him. He'll miss Sirius so much, the man mattered so much to him.

"Bye Sirius!" Harry waved at his Godfather who waved back, tearing up.

As Harry walked to the train entrance he felt nervous, he didn't know anyone and it doesn't help knowing that there are older students walking around who looked very Intimidating.

---

As Harry moved through the bustling crowd on the platform, one figure stood apart from the rest.

An older boy, surrounded by a lively group—mostly girls—who hung on his every word. His dark brown curls were swept back neatly, revealing sharp, intense blue eyes that seemed far too knowing for someone his age. There was an unmistakable maturity about him, a quiet confidence that set him apart from even the oldest students nearby.

He wore black robes edged with deep green, the unmistakable colors of Slytherin. The way the girls clustered around him made it clear he was someone used to attention—and comfortable with it.

Harry’s gaze lingered a moment longer, curiosity tugging at him, before the sharp blast of the final whistle shattered the moment.

Heart quickening, he hurried aboard the train, weaving through the narrow aisles until he spotted an empty compartment. Slipping inside, he found Sirius waiting there, eyes bright with a familiar warmth. Their eyes met, and Harry lifted a small wave just as the train began to pull away from the platform.

The journey was beginning.

And Harry was ready for whatever Hogwarts had in store.

---

“Densaugeo!” Harry shouted, voice sharp and urgent, as a Death Eater cornered Luna near the shattered courtyard. Luna gasped, clutching her cheek as her teeth suddenly elongated, pain flashing across her usually serene face. But with a brave smile, she shook it off and turned back to fight, her wand slashing through the air with fierce determination.

Harry staggered, his back pressing heavily against the cold stone of Hogwarts Castle. Dizzy waves washed over him, his vision blurring and swimming like ink spreading through water. Each step felt heavier, the world tilting dangerously as if the very castle spun beneath his feet.

He couldn’t afford to fall—not now.

He needed to get inside.

Needed to find the Ravenclaw Diadem.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Harry threw off his invisibility cloak and sprinted through the castle’s grand entrance. The corridors were eerily quiet, shadows pooling in the corners. Only a handful of Death Eaters and straggling students moved through the halls; most were still outside, locked in the chaos of battle.

He pushed himself upward, climbing the long flight of stairs with shaky determination, his breath ragged in his chest. At the end of the corridor, he searched frantically for Helena Ravenclaw’s daughter—Helena, the only one who knew the secret location of the diadem.

“Descendo!” Harry’s voice cracked in pain as his legs betrayed him. He collapsed, the cloak slipping from his shoulders, and he winced, eyes fluttering open to the horror of seeing his trousers soaked with his own blood.

His head snapped up just as cold, crimson eyes met his own.

“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” The voice was silk laced with venom—smooth, velvety, yet laden with cruel intent. It was a voice that had haunted Harry’s every waking moment at Hogwarts.

“Tom,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Don’t call me that, foolish child,” the man snarled, stepping closer with a predatory grace.

Frustration burned in Harry’s chest. “How could you lie to me?” His voice cracked.

The older man’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “I had to, my dear. I couldn’t reveal all my plans to you—not yet.”

Harry tried to pull himself up against the wall, but dizziness stole his balance and warmth bloomed hot across his skin.

Tom arched a perfect eyebrow, eyes gleaming coldly. “Harry?”

Swallowing against the pain, Harry forced the words out. “I’m trying to find the Ravenclaw Diadem. Helena knows where it is. I just have to find her.”

Tom’s expression darkened, tension tightening his every feature as he stalked toward Harry.

“Why?” The word hissed like a serpent.

“I… I know how important it is to you, and I wanted to bring it to you. With it being yours—”

His legs buckled. Eyes squeezed shut, Harry braced for the fall.

Instead, a large, warm hand curled tightly around his waist, pulling him close. His head found rest against Tom’s chest, the steady beat of the older man’s heart grounding him.

“You do so much for me, Harry,” Tom whispered, lips ghosting over Harry’s temple. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine, warm and unwelcome, and he sank deeper against the dark fabric of the man’s robes.

“My body hurts, Tom,” Harry whimpered, ignoring the disgust flickering across Tom’s face when he used his given name. The pain in his leg and chest was searing—blood loss gnawed at his strength.

He was exhausted.

So tired.

He wanted it all to end—the fighting, the lies, the unbearable weight of it all.

His eyelids fluttered closed, but just before darkness claimed him, he tilted his face upward.

“Harry, open your eyes,” Tom’s voice was firm, insistent.

“I’m so tired…” Harry murmured, pressing his head back against Tom’s chest.

Tom’s hand slid away elegantly, only to reveal skin stained crimson, blood oozing slowly from a hidden wound.

“It’s alright, I will…”

And then—a deafening explosion ripped through the castle, separating them violently, tearing Harry from the fragile hold of safety and plunging him back into chaos.

Spells:

Densaugeo:  It is a hex designed to elongate its target's teeth into deformed spikes that grow at an incredibly fast pace.

Descendo: causes the targeted object to rip or tear.

Avada Kedavra: come on you should know this🙄

Chapter Text

Harry hit the stone floor face-first, the air punching out of his lungs.

Today was not his day.

The cold bit into his skin as he groaned, arms trembling beneath him as he tried to push himself upright. Pain splintered through his skull like a curse. His vision swam. A headache pounded at the base of his skull, deep and hot, making it nearly impossible to see clearly.

Where was Tom?

He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus—just in time to catch a blur of movement rushing toward him. Wild, curly hair bouncing, wand drawn.

Hermione.

"Confringo!" she shouted over her shoulder before dropping to her knees beside him. "Harry!" Her voice broke into something like a scream, though she tried to keep it hushed.

He tried to stand. His arms buckled.

Hermione didn’t wait. She wrapped his arm around her shoulders, hoisting him up as best she could. He clung to her, chest heaving with every breath. Each step sent a fresh bolt of agony shooting through his legs.

"You reckless, stubborn idiot," she hissed, dragging him toward a stretch of blank wall.

“Mione’… where—where are we going?”

"The Room of Requirement," she snapped. “The diadem’s in there. We can hide, regroup. But I don’t understand—why are they attacking us now? Didn’t the Dark Lord say you were to be kept alive?!”

He winced, blinking against the black specks clouding his vision. “Mione’, can we… please hurry?”

“Expulso!” she barked, casting over her shoulder. “I'm trying, Harry, but it's bloody difficult when I’ve got Death Eaters on my heels and you bleeding all over me!”

She ducked sharply, dragging him behind a stone column just as a jet of green light slammed into the floor where they’d been. “Duck!”

“Stupid Death Eater—Bombarda!”

Hermione was panting. “We’re near the Main Hall—just a little—”

But Harry couldn’t hear her anymore.

His ears were ringing. His heartbeat grew loud—thunderous in his chest.

Lub.

Dub.

Lub.

Blood rushed like a storm through his ears, drowning out everything else.

Dub.

“Impedimenta!”

Lub.

“Harry, move!”

Dub.

“Imperio!”

Lub.

“Protego—!”

Dub.

“We’re almost—!”

Lub.

“I think—I see it!”

Dub.

“Accio—!”

Lub.

“It’s not—!”

Dub.

“My Lord!—”

Lub.

“I’ve spoken with Helena Ravenclaw, and she agreed to—”

Dub.

“Reducio!”

His name, again, softly—"Harry."

Cool fingers touched his fevered cheek. He shuddered at the contact, eyes fluttering open just barely.

Tom.

That grin—smooth, pleased, and far too calm given the chaos around them.

Harry’s gaze dropped to his body.

His breath caught.

Three ribs—protruding. Blood-soaked fabric. His leg was worse—his tibia was split clean, bone splintered and exposed like cracked porcelain. His kneecap—his patella—barely clung together.

Bile surged up his throat.

“Tom,” he whispered, weak.

The man didn’t respond. Only watched with that same unreadable look—something between obsession and amusement.

But that name wouldn’t move him.

“…Marvolo,” Harry breathed, quieter now.

That earned a response.

The Dark Lord’s expression shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. He moved to kneel, carefully lifting Harry’s broken body into his arms. Harry sagged into him instinctively, head pressed against the cool fabric of Tom’s robes, face tucked beneath his chin.

The embrace was careful. Almost tender.

"Granger,” Tom said silkily, his voice smooth as glass. “Proceed with the next stage. Bellatrix is waiting on the third floor.”

Hermione hesitated for only a second. “Yes, my Lord.” She turned to Harry, pain flickering across her face. “Please… take care of him.”

And then she was gone.

“Harry, darling…” The words came in a soft purr, his name drawn out like a promise.

Tom tilted Harry’s chin up, fingertips cool and commanding.

“Look at me.”

“Riddle…” Harry mumbled, eyelids drooping.

The last thing he saw was the intensity in those eyes—obsidian dark and unblinking.

And then—

Blackness took him whole.

---

As the Hogwarts Express rumbled away from the station, Harry sat alone in his compartment, forehead resting against the cool glass of the window. He’d been watching the platform disappear, then clouds, then countryside, fiddling with his fingers in the silence.

The door slid open suddenly.

“Excuse me—sorry to bother you—but have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville’s lost his, poor thing’s been hopping all over the train.”

Harry turned toward the voice. A girl stood in the doorway, her bushy brown hair a bit frizzy from the train’s humidity. She already wore her robes, though they didn’t bear a House lining yet—probably a fellow first year.

“Oh—uh, no. Sorry, haven’t seen one,” Harry said quickly, trying to untangle his hands from where they’d been nervously fidgeting in his lap.

She sighed, but not unkindly. “Alright. Worth asking. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “The Harry Potter?”

He winced a little. “Yeah, that’s me. At least, that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

She looked like she had a dozen questions lined up, but before she could ask any of them, the compartment door slid open again and a boy burst in, breathless and triumphant.

“I found him!” the boy grinned, holding up a squirming toad. “Thanks, Hermione!”

“Glad you did, Neville,” Hermione said, stepping aside for him to come in.

Harry smiled. “Well... if you’re done chasing toads, maybe you two could sit? I could use the company.”

Neville beamed. “Sure! I’m Neville Longbottom. And this is Trevor.” He extended a slightly damp hand, which Harry shook.

“Nice to meet you, Neville. I’m Harry Potter.”

Neville froze. “Wait—Harry Potter?!” he squeaked, nearly dropping Trevor.

Harry grinned. “In the flesh.”

Neville’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Wow—Gran’s never going to believe this. I made friends before we even got to Hogwarts!”

Hermione laughed under her breath. “Well, this is certainly shaping up to be an interesting year.”

Harry chuckled too, feeling, for the first time in a long while, just a little less alone.

---

As the train came to a halt with a screech of metal and steam, Harry stepped off onto the platform, a mix of nerves and awe bubbling in his chest. He followed the other first years toward the booming voice calling from ahead.

“Firs’ years over ‘ere!” bellowed a tall, broad figure with wild black hair and a massive beard—Hagrid, they’d called him.

Harry barely had time to glance at the older students climbing into carriages that seemed to move without horses before Hagrid clapped his hands and ushered them forward again.

“Only three per boat!” Hagrid announced as he directed the wide-eyed first years to the dock.

Harry clambered into a boat with Hermione and Neville. The small wooden vessel rocked gently on the dark water beneath them, the sky above speckled with stars. In the distance, the turrets of Hogwarts loomed like a painting come to life.

“I—I think I might be sick,” Neville whimpered, curling in on himself with a pale face.

“You’ll be fine, Neville,” Hermione said briskly, adjusting her robe. “Just don’t think about it.”

The boat began gliding forward, the water eerily still. Hermione and Harry pedaled using the foot cranks hidden beneath the seats, their legs working in sync, while Neville sat frozen, his eyes glued to the bottom of the boat.

“Honestly, I’m just glad we won’t have to do this every year,” Hermione muttered.

When they reached the shore, Neville all but leapt out of the boat, his legs wobbling. Harry and Hermione followed, careful not to slip on the slick rocks.

“Firs’ years stay right here while I fetch Professor McGonagall!” Hagrid called, striding off into the castle.

The group of first years clustered together, hushed whispers spreading like wildfire. That was, until raised voices pierced the crowd.

“You’re a prat, Malfoy!”

Harry’s ears perked up, and he pushed through the crowd until he reached the source of the commotion. A red-haired boy stood nose-to-nose with a blonde third-year in elegant robes.

“Excuse me?” the older boy sneered. “Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask yours. Red hair… hand-me-down robe… You must be a Weasley.”

The younger boy’s ears turned red with fury. Harry edged closer, Hermione hissing behind him, “Harry, don’t get involved!”

But before she could stop him, the blonde’s eyes landed on Harry.

“Harry Potter…?” the boy asked, voice laced with interest.

The surrounding students fell silent. Even the redhead stopped mid-sneer.

Harry blinked. “Uh… yes?”

“Draco Malfoy. Third year,” the blonde said smoothly, extending a gloved hand. “You’ll find that some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He glanced meaningfully at the red-haired boy.

Just as Harry raised his hand to shake, the redhead slapped Draco's hand away.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“How dare you touch me, Weasley!” Draco snapped, stepping back in shock.

“Don’t even try,” the redhead growled, fists clenched. “Don’t think for one second that Harry Potter wants to be friends with you or your filthy snake friends. He doesn’t need your slimy Death Eater family dragging him down.”

Silence fell like a weight.

Draco's eyes widened, mouth slightly open. The entire crowd watched, spellbound.

The redhead turned to Harry, determined. “I’m Ronald Weasley. You can call me Ron. And trust me—you don’t want to get caught up with them.”

Harry glanced at Hermione and Neville. Both stared at Ron in disbelief.

He turned back to Ron and said coolly, “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.”

The tension was cut by a voice as crisp as ice.

“First years.”

Professor McGonagall had arrived, sweeping into the group in a sea of emerald robes.

She gave Draco a firm look. “Thank you for assisting Hagrid, Mr. Malfoy, but your presence is no longer required. You may return to your house table.”

Without a word, Draco turned on his heel and strode away, chin held high.

“Now, follow me,” McGonagall said to the first years.

She led them through the towering castle, echoing halls filled with ancient portraits, floating candles, and shifting staircases. The group gasped in awe more than once.

“That ceiling isn’t real,” Hermione whispered eagerly to Harry as they stepped into the Great Hall. “It’s enchanted to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”

Harry looked up, jaw slack. Four massive tables stretched across the room, filled with students. Above them, the sky shimmered, endless and star-lit.

Professor McGonagall turned to face the first years.

“The four Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin,” she said. “Each house has a proud history and has produced exceptional witches and wizards. Your triumphs will earn your house points; your missteps will lose them. The house with the most points at year’s end wins the House Cup.”

She gave them a sweeping look. “The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly. I suggest you make yourselves presentable.”

Harry shifted nervously, smoothing his robes. A voice at his side made him jump.

“That was really brave of you back there,” Hermione said softly.

Harry blinked. “Really?”

She smiled. “Of course. Standing up for yourself like that—it was... admirable.”

Before he could respond, Dumbledore stood at the front of the hall. His silver beard shone in the candlelight, and his twinkling blue eyes swept over the crowd.

“I have but a few start-of-term notices,” he began. “First years, note that the Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits. And the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to those who do not wish to die a most painful death.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Thank you.”

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a scroll in hand. “When I call your name, step forward to be sorted.”

“Hermione Granger.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Relax,” she muttered to herself, then strode forward.

She sat on the stool, and the Sorting Hat was lowered onto her head.

A long pause.

Then—“RAVENCLAW!”

Hermione beamed as she joined the cheering table clad in blue and bronze.

“Neville Longbottom.”

Neville stumbled to the front. The hat had barely touched his head when it shouted: “HUFFLEPUFF!”

He tripped slightly on the way to the table in yellow and black, but they welcomed him with applause.

“Ronald Weasley.”

Ron strutted up confidently. The Sorting Hat landed on his head.

“Ah! Another Weasley. Easy enough—GRYFFINDOR!”

Cheers erupted from the red-and-gold table. Ron slid into a seat beside his brothers.

“Susan Bones… HUFFLEPUFF!”

And then—

“Harry Potter.”

A hush fell over the room.

Harry stepped forward slowly. Whispers echoed as he passed. He caught Hermione’s wide-eyed gaze and, oddly, the curious expression of a boy at the Slytherin table.

The boy sat like a portrait—poised, elegant. His robes were flawless. His hair was dark and neat, his face angular and pale. He was watching Harry as if he were something fragile yet dangerous.

The Sorting Hat touched his head.

“Ah… difficult. Courage, yes… talent, plenty. You thirst to prove yourself—oh yes. There’s ambition too. You’d do well… very well in Slytherin.”

Harry’s mind whispered: We both know where I belong.

The hat chuckled. “Agreed, then. Let it be—SLYTHERIN!”

Gasps followed by scattered applause filled the air. Harry caught Hermione clapping hard from Ravenclaw.

He gave her a small smile and walked to the green-trimmed table, his chest tight with nerves.

“We got Potter! We got Potter!” his new housemates cheered, clapping him on the back as he sat—right beside Draco Malfoy.

“Hello again, Potter,” Malfoy said, grinning. “Welcome to the best house in Hogwarts.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

“Please,” the boy purred, “call me Draco.”

Another voice cut in—smooth, deep, almost hypnotic.

“Welcome, Potter. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle. But call me Marvolo.”

Harry turned. It was the boy from before. He looked even more striking up close, his dark eyes full of unreadable thoughts.

“Thank you, Marvolo. I’m honored to be in Slytherin.”

Marvolo inclined his head gracefully, a slight smirk on his lips.

Draco leaned in. “Harry, this is Marvolo. He’s… well, he’s the best of us.”

“Good to see you again, Draco,” Tom said, eyes flicking to the blond. “It’s been rather dull without you.”

“Thank you, Marvolo,” Draco replied, flushing slightly.

Harry frowned. There was something strange here—something he didn’t quite understand.

“Potter,” Marvolo said, tilting his head. “Is something wrong?”

Harry met his eyes.

“No. Everything’s fine... Marvolo.”

But he wasn't so sure.

---

“The password is ‘pureblood superiority,’” the prefect announced crisply.

A low rumble echoed as the stone door of the Slytherin common room slid open, revealing a shadowy corridor that descended beneath the castle. The group of first years followed closely behind her, the air around them cooler than the rest of Hogwarts—damp, ancient, as though the very stones whispered secrets from a thousand years past.

Harry stepped inside, his green eyes wide with awe.

The common room was unlike anything he had imagined. It was lit by greenish lamps suspended from chains, casting soft, eerie light that danced across the stone walls and arched ceiling. The vast windows lining one side of the room looked directly into the depths of the Black Lake. Shadows of giant tentacles flickered past, and the occasional flick of a merperson's tail darted through the murky water. Everything was accented in dark greens, charcoals, and silver—cold and elegant.

There was a regal sort of beauty to it all, like stepping into an underwater cathedral built for serpents.

“Welcome,” the prefect said, turning to address them. “I am Gemma Farley, your fifth-year prefect. There are a few rules you’ll need to remember. Curfew is at ten sharp—no exceptions. You are not to leave the common room until after eight in the morning. That includes for any reason. Your dormitories are separated by year and gender—ladies to the right, gentlemen to the left. Each bed has your house robe and tie laid out. If anything is missing, let me know directly.”

She walked toward the corner where a set of brass cages sat quietly. With a flick of her wand and a whispered “Alohomora,” the locks slid open.

“Please claim your familiars or pets and proceed to your rooms. Good night.”

She gave a short bow, then turned on her heel and walked away, speaking softly with a few older students who had wandered down the stairs.

Harry’s eyes scanned the room until he spotted a flash of white wings. Hedwig soared gracefully from one of the cages, her wingspan catching the green light as she glided down and landed on Harry’s shoulder with a quiet flutter. She hooted softly, nuzzling her beak against the curve of his jaw, as though reassuring herself he was truly there.

He smiled, lifting a finger to stroke the soft feathers beneath her chin.

“Wow, Harry,” a voice said beside him. “Your owl is magnificent.”

He turned to find Draco Malfoy watching Hedwig with an impressed gleam in his pale silver eyes. The boy’s hair was a sleek curtain of blond, his expression a mix of curiosity and reserved admiration.

“She is,” Harry replied, pride swelling in his chest. Hedwig hooted again, pleased by the attention.

“Very… interesting,” came another voice, lower, smoother.

Both boys turned.

Tom Riddle stood nearby, arms clasped behind his back in an effortless posture of authority. His dark eyes weren’t fixed on Hedwig, but on Harry—intently, like he was reading something behind his expression.

“Is she your familiar?” Marvolo asked.

Harry blinked. “My… what?”

“Familiar,” Draco cut in smoothly. “A magical creature bonded with a witch or wizard—used for communication, protection, sometimes even for certain rituals. They’re very rare. Most animals don’t qualify.”

Marvolo gave a small nod of approval. “Very good, Malfoy.” But his attention didn’t waver from Harry. “She seems unusually attuned to you. And reactive to others. That’s not common.”

Harry shifted his weight. “I guess she is my familiar. She found me, really. Not the other way around.”

Hedwig fluffed her feathers sharply, her golden eyes narrowed at Marvolo. She let out a low, warning hoot.

Marvolo raised an eyebrow, amused. “She doesn’t seem to like me.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry said quickly, awkward. “She’s tired. The train ride was long, and I think she’s just… sensitive.”

“Mm. Intelligent creatures often are,” Marvolo said, his voice like silk over a blade. He stepped closer—just a little. “You should rest too, Harry. A long day ahead tomorrow.”

Harry swallowed, nodding. His heart beat just a little faster under the weight of Riddle’s gaze.

“Yeah. Goodnight, Marvolo. Draco.” He gave a small smile, already moving toward the boys’ dormitory.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Draco called warmly.

“Of course, Potter,” Marvolo said, voice quiet, velvet-smooth, and unreadable.

As Harry climbed the stairs, Hedwig gave another sharp hoot, louder this time, and fluffed her feathers indignantly.

“Yeah, I don’t like him too, girl,” Harry murmured as he reached the door to his dormitory. “There’s something off about him…”

Hedwig cooed in agreement, her feathers bristling protectively as she perched on the back of a chair by his bed.

Spells:

Confringo- causes the target to explode, also known as the blasting charm.

Expulso- Makes an object violently explode.

Reducio- Shrinking charm.

Bombarda- Causes a violent explosion.

Imperio- you should also know this🤨

Alohomora-  A charm that unlocked objects such as doors or windows. It was also able to open doors locked by the Locking Spell (Colloportus), and as such, acted as its counter-charm.

Chapter Text

“Potter, get up.”

The voice cut through the sleepy haze of Harry’s dreams—cool, composed, and unmistakably aristocratic.

Harry blinked blearily, his vision slowly adjusting to the dim green-tinged morning light filtering through the underwater windows. The silhouette at the foot of his bed gradually sharpened into a tall, slender figure with pale blond hair and an expression caught between boredom and faint amusement.

“What time is it?” Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Draco Malfoy raised one perfectly shaped brow. “Time for you to stop sleeping through what could very well be the only moment of silence we’ll have today,” he drawled. With a flick of his wand, Harry’s bed curtains parted with a rustle, folding themselves neatly to the sides like obedient servants. Morning had officially arrived.

The older boy turned on his heel, but paused at the threshold of the dormitory door, glancing over his shoulder with that same aristocratic air of mild disdain and dry humor.

“You may want to be up soon, Harry,” he said smoothly. “Being roused by a Prefect is not the kind of attention you want this early in the year, trust me.”

Harry grunted and rolled onto his side, half-considering going back to sleep—but the echo of Abraxas’s footsteps was already receding into the hall, and curiosity began to stir inside him.

“What’s even done on the second day?” he called out groggily.

From the corridor, Draco's voice drifted back, still calm and clipped:
“Most students spend it wisely. They map out the school’s layout, hunt for secret passages, figure out how to get to class without getting cursed—or worse, late.” A pause. “Others spend it mingling. Aligning themselves. The castle may be old, but the politics are always fresh.”

And with that cryptic remark, Draco was gone.

Harry sat in silence for a moment, the air in the dorm thick with the quiet pressure of expectation. Slytherin didn’t sleep late.

With a groan, he swung his legs out from under the heavy green-and-silver duvet, feet meeting the cold stone floor with a shiver. He padded across the dormitory toward a familiar perch near the arched window.

“Morning, Hedwig,” he whispered, offering his arm.

The snowy owl ruffled her feathers, then swooped down gracefully to land on his forearm. She hooted once, rubbing her head against his cheek in an affectionate nuzzle.

Harry smiled faintly and stroked her soft feathers.
“Let’s get you up to the Owlery, huh? You’ve earned a good flight.”

She clicked her beak approvingly.

He dressed quickly, fastening the silver-trimmed robes that still felt too crisp, too new against his skin. Grabbing a crust of toast from the dormitory tray left for early risers, Harry stepped out of the dorms into the chilled air of the Slytherin common room, Hedwig still perched loyally on his arm.

Outside the thick dungeon walls, the castle was slowly waking. Lamps brightened in long stone corridors, and portraits stirred sleepily in their frames. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of water dripping echoed against the silence.

Today, Hogwarts was his to explore.

But as he walked up toward the Owlery, he couldn’t shake the lingering weight of Abraxas’s words—or the feeling that his every step was already being watched.

---

Harry had no idea how he’d ended up in the vast, echoing expanse of the Hogwarts library. One moment, he was feeding Hedwig and nibbling on toast in the Great Hall, and the next, he was wandering aimlessly through one of the castle’s countless hallways, following no path in particular—only curiosity.

The day had started simply enough.

After breakfast, he set off to find the Owlery to give Hedwig some space and exercise. But, true to form, Harry got lost within minutes. What should’ve been a short walk turned into a forty-minute ordeal. Hogwarts, with its ever-shifting staircases and trick corridors, seemed determined to confuse him at every turn. By the time he finally reached the Owlery, his nerves were frayed and his legs ached.

Then he went looking for Neville.

He found him easily enough—within ten minutes, surprisingly. Neville was outside Greenhouse Three, beaming as he chatted with an elderly witch who introduced herself as Professor Sprout. Apparently, the boy had found his calling. But before Harry could join the conversation, a looming shadow interrupted him.

A tall man with shoulder-length, greasy black hair and robes that billowed ominously down the hallway approached.

“Potter,” the man spat, as if the name left a foul taste on his tongue. “Already wandering around where you shouldn’t be?”

Harry blinked. “I—I’m just—”

“Detention isn’t off the table just because you’re new.”

The professor sneered before sweeping past him like smoke, leaving Harry baffled and more than a little shaken. Only later would he learn that was Professor Snape.

After that delightful encounter, Harry gave up on seeking anyone out. Instead, he wandered, eyes drinking in every portrait and corridor. He passed staircases that moved without warning, a ghost who whizzed straight through him cackling madly, and a room that smelled like burnt cinnamon and locked itself the second he tried to enter.

He even stumbled upon the entrances to both the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. He didn’t stick around long. Something about the warmth of those places felt too far from the cold, calculating quiet of the Slytherin dungeons where he now belonged.

And that was when he found the library.

He stepped through its towering archway and felt as though he’d crossed into another world entirely. Shelves stretched so high they disappeared into the rafters. Chandeliers hovered gently overhead, casting golden halos of light onto the polished floor. Rows upon rows of books whispered secrets into the air—spines etched with symbols in languages Harry didn’t even recognize.

He wandered deeper and deeper, drawn in by the smell of ink, parchment, and age. Then he stopped.

At the far end of a table sat a solitary figure, surrounded by an intimidating pile of books. The boy’s head was bent low, raven-black curls falling over his brow. Even from a distance, Harry recognized the posture, the elegance, the cold presence.

“Riddle?”

The figure’s head snapped up instantly, blue eyes locking onto his with the force of a curse.

“I believe I told you,” the boy said smoothly, voice quiet but sharp as a blade, “that I insist on being called Marvolo.”

Harry froze. “Sorry. I just—didn’t expect to see you here.”

Marvolo’s eyes narrowed slightly, gaze unreadable. “And why is that, Potter?”

“I… I just thought you’d be with your friends. You always seem surrounded.”

“They are not my friends,” Marvolo said, voice like silk over steel. “They are allies. Tools. And tools are only useful until they break.”

Harry blinked, unsure of what to say. A chill crept down his spine.

Quickly, he changed the subject. “So, uh—what classes are you taking this year?”

Without missing a beat, Marvolo replied, “Transfiguration. Charms. Potions. History of Magic. Defence Against the Dark Arts. Astronomy. Herbology. Arithmancy. Study of Ancient Runes. Alchemy. Apparition. Divination.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“But—that’s impossible. Some of those are seventh-year classes—and Apparition isn’t allowed until sixth year! How did you get into those?”

Marvolo slowly stood, placing a leather-bound tome back onto the table with care. His expression was calm. Too calm.

“Sit,” he said.

There was no force in the word, no shouted command—yet it slithered over Harry like a cold breeze. Reluctantly, he sat. His skin crawled. Something about the way Marvolo extended his s made the hair on his neck stand up.

“Tell me, Harry,” Marvolo said, circling around the table to sit opposite him, “what do you know of Hogwarts' curriculum?”

Harry fidgeted under the boy’s unwavering gaze. “Well… I know that there are required classes for each year, and then you get to choose some electives when you’re older.”

Marvolo said nothing, simply stared.

The silence stretched until Harry blurted, “I was raised by my godfather. And his husband.”

Marvolo’s expression didn’t change.

“My parents… they were Aurors. James and Lily Potter. They were captured and executed by the last of Grindelwald’s followers.”

His breath caught.

Why had he just said that?

His heart began to race. His fingers dug into the wood grain of the table. Something wasn’t right. How had Marvolo pulled that from him so effortlessly? Harry's skin prickled with unease. His instincts screamed.

Danger.

This boy was dangerous.

He stood abruptly. “I—I should go. I think I have to meet with Professor—uhm—”

“Sit down, Potter.” Marvolo’s voice dropped to a hiss. He reached across the table, seizing Harry’s wrist in a grip that was far stronger than it should’ve been.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

A shadow fell across them.

“Marvolo, my boy, is everything alright?”

Professor Dumbledore stepped into view, smiling benignly. Marvolo’s grip loosened. He turned to the professor with a mask of calm.

“Of course, Professor. We were just discussing class schedules. Right, Harry?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yes. He… he was explaining electives.”

The professor’s smile deepened. “Helping a first year—how noble of you, Marvolo.”

Harry felt his stomach twist. Something in Dumbledore’s tone didn’t sit right.

Marvolo’s gaze remained cool. “Professor, where is Headmaster Dippet?”

“Handling business at the Ministry,” Dumbledore said. “He’ll return next week. In the meantime, the school is in my care.”

Harry saw it—the flicker of rage that passed through Marvolo’s eyes before his lips curved into a sickly smile.

“Wonderful news, Professor. I’m sure you’ll be most effective.”

The tension between the two crackled like a live wire.

Dumbledore turned back to Harry. “Why don’t you go find your friends, my boy?”

Harry hesitated. “Actually, sir, I… don’t think they’re free.”

The professor gave a melancholy nod. “Then I’m glad you’ve found company in your house. Slytherins must stick together.”

Then, softer, as he met Harry’s eyes: “Be careful who you trust.”

The words echoed.

The moment Dumbledore left, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“That insufferable swine,” Marvolo hissed. His hands clenched into fists. Harry gulped.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Marvolo stood.

“Come, Harry. I’ve wasted enough time.”

Harry scrambled after him, heart pounding, legs struggling to keep up.

“Marvolo, wait!”

But when he turned the corner, the boy had vanished.

Harry stood alone in the hallway, heart thudding.

He muttered under his breath. “Prick.”

And just like that, he found himself wandering again—alone in a castle that felt darker than it had before.

----

Harry had lost track of time as he followed Marvolo through the twisting corridors of Hogwarts. His legs ached, his breath came unevenly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop tailing the older boy. Something about Marvolo’s presence was magnetic—and unsettling at once. Finally, Harry’s legs gave out, and he pulled himself to a halt around a dimly lit corner, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Turning, he took a tentative step forward—and then crashed squarely into something solid. A warm, broad chest. The weight pressed against him, and Harry looked up, startled, only to meet a face twisted with disdain. The boy who had stopped him wore a cruel smirk, sharp eyes gleaming with malice.

“Watch where you’re going, mudblood,” the voice sneered, dripping with contempt.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth fell open in shock and anger, but no words came immediately. He narrowed his eyes, voice hardening as he finally spoke. “How can you just assume my blood status when you don’t even know who I am?”

The boy’s lips twisted into an ugly grin, eyes glinting with bitter superiority. “You’re a Potter, of course. Everyone knows. Your pathetic father was once part of the Scarsed 28—you know, the pureblood elite. But he threw it all away when he became a blood traitor by marrying your mudblood mother. So yes, there’s filth in your veins. You’ll never be more than that.”

Harry’s fists clenched tightly at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “You can’t go a minute without saying that word. That’s pathetic.”

The insult seemed to strike a nerve, because the boy’s sneer deepened, his voice dropping low and venomous. “You little—”

Before the threat could take shape, a calm, cold voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Rosier, what a pleasure.”

Harry turned to see Marvolo stepping smoothly between them. His expression was unreadable—calm, composed, but there was a sharp edge lurking just beneath the surface. Rosier—Harry recognized the name from hushed whispers, a known pureblood extremist—gave a short nod but scowled.

“Marvolo,” Rosier said, voice tinged with surprise, “I wasn’t expecting to see you until later, my… friend.”

Harry furrowed his brow, recalling Marvolo’s earlier remark that he disliked friends.

“Fate has a funny way of changing plans,” Marvolo replied smoothly, his dark eyes already fixed on Harry. Without warning, his hand shot out and seized Harry’s wrist with a grip firm enough to leave bruises. Harry winced, sharp pain radiating up his arm.

Rosier’s eyes flicked from Marvolo to Harry, disdain clear in his voice. “I never expected this half-blood to be in your company.”

Harry shot Rosier a fierce glare, but Rosier ignored it, eyes still locked on Marvolo.

“Watch your tone, Rosier,” Marvolo warned, voice hardening like forged steel.

The other man’s eyes widened for a brief second, but he quickly masked it with a sarcastic smile. “Of course. Apologies, Potter. I must leave—Professor Snape awaits me. Until later, Marvolo.”

Rosier turned sharply, his robes swirling behind him as he strode away, leaving Harry alone with Marvolo’s intense gaze.

No sooner had Rosier disappeared than Marvolo’s grip on Harry’s wrist tightened agonizingly. Harry’s breath hitched; he bit back a sharp gasp.

“Don’t run your mouth like that,” Marvolo hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. “Words have consequences, Potter.”

Harry met that glare without flinching, voice low and defiant. “If he hadn’t been so rude, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Keep quiet, you pillock,” Marvolo snapped, jaw clenched tightly, his whole body rigid with barely contained fury.

They stared at each other, the air thick with silent challenge, until finally Marvolo released Harry’s wrist in a slow, deliberate movement that felt almost possessive. The older boy took a step back, but his eyes never left Harry’s.

Then, without another word, Marvolo turned on his heel and strode away toward the depths of the castle.

Harry watched him go, heart pounding in his chest, mind racing. The weight of the encounter pressed down on him like a shadow—Marvolo was dangerous, cold, and powerful, and Harry felt the icy edge of fear mingle with a strange, magnetic pull. He clenched his fists, eyes narrowing as the distant echoes of Rosier’s insults and Marvolo’s warnings rang in his ears.

His breath hitched again as he whispered under his breath, “Prick.”

Shaking off the tension, Harry turned and made his way back into the twisting corridors of Hogwarts, the castle suddenly feeling far larger—and far more threatening—than before.

---

Harry sat in the common room, bored. Marvolo has left him to go so his studying as he usually does leaving Harry alone with the other purebloods who glared at him. 

He doesn't know how he will make it through his school years.

Chapter Text

Harry stared down at the parchment in his hands, the Hogwarts schedule feeling heavier than any physical weight. His eyes darted back and forth over the dense list of classes, the rigid times and endless subjects sprawling across the page like some cruel curse. The very thought of this grueling timetable made his chest tighten with dread.

Mondays were a relentless gauntlet: Herbology first thing, where the damp earth and prickly vines awaited him. Then Defense Against the Dark Arts, a class he already found intimidating given the subject matter—and the reputation of its rotating professors. After that, Transfiguration, lunch, then Charms, Astronomy, History of Magic… and then, after hours when the castle was swallowed in shadows and silence, Astronomy again at midnight. The thought of dragging himself through a night class left a sour taste in his mouth.

Tuesdays offered no relief: Charms, Herbology, Defense, lunch, History, Potions, and two more hours of Astronomy, stretching late into the night. It was impossible to imagine keeping his eyes open—or his mind sharp.

Wednesday wasn’t any easier: Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, lunch, Defense, Potions, and a rare free period—though it felt hollow—followed again by midnight Astronomy. Thursday brought Charms, Transfiguration, lunch, Defense, History, flying lessons, and more midnight Astronomy.

Fridays were peppered with two hours of Potions, then Astronomy, lunch, History, two free periods—his only oasis—and, as if to mock him, yet another Astronomy lesson at midnight.

Harry groaned inwardly, pressing the paper to his forehead as if the schedule’s sheer magnitude could imprint itself through his skin and prepare him for the grueling days ahead. How was he supposed to be anything but exhausted? How could anyone be expected to function when dragged out of bed in the dark of night for class?

A voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.

“Harry.”

He looked up to find a tall figure standing just a few feet away, framed by the flickering torchlight of the corridor. Marvolo. The very name sent a ripple of cold unease through Harry’s veins.

Marvolo’s posture was unnervingly perfect, his long frame towering and rigid like a statue carved from ice. His pale face was almost ghostly under the dim light, and his piercing blue eyes glinted like shards of frozen glass, sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone. A slow, cruel smile crept across his lips—predatory and calculating.

Beside Harry stood Hermione, her brow furrowed with concern, clutching her books tightly to her chest. She looked at Marvolo warily, wand subtly raised, ready for defense.

“Lower your wands,” Marvolo said smoothly, voice cold and commanding, like an edict rather than a suggestion. “It is... discourteous to threaten your guests.”

Hermione’s grip faltered, but she obeyed, slowly lowering her wand. Harry’s arm trembled as he followed suit, feeling a cold weight settle over his chest as Marvolo’s gaze locked onto him, unblinking and merciless.

“Much better,” Marvolo murmured, taking a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until the air between them felt thick and suffocating, as if the very atmosphere had been poisoned by his presence.

“Now,” he said with chilling amusement, voice low and sharp, “would one of you be so kind as to explain why I found two first years skulking in an abandoned classroom instead of enjoying the feast with the rest of your peers?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged anxious glances, frozen under the weight of Marvolo’s scrutiny.

“We… we were discussing study plans for finals,” Hermione finally stammered, eyes flickering nervously between Marvolo’s unreadable expression.

Marvolo’s smile deepened, the corners of his mouth pulling back in a way that revealed just a hint of something darker, almost cruel.

“How... quaint.”

He reached out and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The touch was ice-cold, firm but not painful—more like a silent claim, a tether that bound Harry to him in a way that felt both possessive and ominous.

“Harry,” he whispered, the name sliding from his tongue like a venomous spell, “it is imperative you forge bonds within your own house. Allies. Family. It would be unwise to be isolated, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry swallowed hard, feeling that icy grip around his spine as if Marvolo’s words were chains tightening with every syllable.

“Thank you for your time, Hermione,” Marvolo said smoothly, releasing Harry and turning sharply, the door clicking closed behind him, leaving Hermione standing alone, trembling in the empty corridor.

Harry’s wrist was seized again, the grip almost painfully tight, and he was pulled along without a word.

“Come,” Marvolo ordered, voice low, absolute.

They walked swiftly through the twisting corridors, the usual bustle of students and laughter fading into a dull murmur, swallowed by the overwhelming presence that Marvolo radiated. His gaze never wavered from Harry, burning with a cold fire that brooked no resistance.

“You have my attention,” Harry muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.

“Good,” Marvolo said with a dark gleam. “Because this is only the beginning.”

They entered the grand Slytherin common room, its greenish light casting eerie shadows across the walls. The murmur of conversation hushed as Harry was led to a long table where several students already sat—faces familiar and foreign all at once.

Marvolo forced Harry into a chair with a firm push before settling beside him. His smile was no longer friendly but instead a thin, sharp thing that held a razor’s edge.

“Now, introductions.”

A tall, pale boy with hawkish features spoke first, voice smooth but distant.

“Tiberius Nott, heir of the Nott family.”

Next, two girls with cold expressions nodded briefly.

“I am Amaryllis Parkinson, and this is my dear friend, Astoria Greengrass,” Amaryllis said with a sigh, eyes flickering disdainfully to Harry.

The table was a who's who of pureblood lineage—the Lestranges, Rosiers, Zabinies, Bulstrodes—all watching Harry like an intruder in their pristine world. The unspoken message was clear: he was an unwelcome anomaly.

Marvolo’s hand snaked out again, pale fingers wrapping possessively around Harry’s wrist.

“It is rude to toy with your food,” he said low, voice laced with quiet menace. “Eat. You are far too thin already.”

Harry shuddered under the intensity of that gaze but dared not defy him. He forced his fork to stab at the food before him, the eyes around the table burning into his back.

He felt trapped, suffocated by the icy dominance of Marvolo’s presence, like a puppet bound by invisible strings, each tug tightening the noose.

Finally, unable to bear it, Harry stood abruptly.

“I’ll have to excuse myself,” he said, voice strained but steady. “Good evening.”

He strode away from the table, the weight of countless eyes boring into his retreating back. The heavy footsteps of Marvolo followed close behind until they faded into silence.

That night, in the solitude of his dormitory, Harry lay awake, staring at the ceiling as shadows danced mockingly above. The cold grip of Marvolo’s dominance lingered in his mind, the chilling promise behind those piercing blue eyes haunting every corner of his thoughts.

He hated the way Marvolo ruled over him—unyielding, merciless, terrifying. But even deeper than that was the dreadful truth whispering in his heart: this was only the beginning. The tightening chains of control were still drawing closer, and there was no escaping the shadow that Marvolo cast.

---

Charms class was a welcome reprieve from the relentless pressure of the rest of the day. As Harry slipped into his seat, the warm glow of the candles and the cozy confines of the classroom brought a calmness he hadn’t felt since morning. The walls were lined with dusty shelves, cluttered with curious objects: dusty spellbooks, enchanted quills scribbling on their own, and a few small floating orbs of light that bobbed gently overhead.

Professor Flitwick, the tiny, sprightly man with a voice that could cut through the busiest room, began the lesson with a smile that made Harry feel instantly at ease.

“Today, we’ll be mastering a very useful charm: Wingardium Leviosa,” the professor announced, his bright eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

Harry’s heart quickened. Wingardium Leviosa — the levitation charm — was one of the first spells most young witches and wizards learned, but for Harry, it held a special familiarity. He’d watched Sirius deftly wave his wand around, lifting chairs, levitating trunks, even floating objects across the room with casual ease. At the Potter family home, the spell had become an unspoken language between them, a simple tool to make life a little easier.

When Professor Flitwick raised his wand and with a graceful flick caused a delicate feather to rise and hover gently in midair, Harry’s eyes locked onto the plume, following its light movements. His hand itched to try it himself.

When it was his turn, Harry felt a surge of confidence, the years of watching Sirius pay off as he carefully mimicked the swish and flick of the wand, enunciating the incantation clearly, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

To his quiet delight, the feather immediately lifted from the table, bobbing gently upward before floating down like a leaf on a breeze.

Professor Flitwick’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Amazing job, Mr. Potter! That was very impressive — to get it right on your very first try! Ten points to Slytherin!”

Harry’s lips curved into a proud smile. The praise was unexpected but welcomed, and he sat back a little straighter, basking in the warm glow of approval. Around him, he noticed a few classmates whispering, casting him curious glances. Some looked impressed, others perhaps a little jealous.

As the lesson progressed, Harry’s attention drifted to the other first years, many struggling with the delicate balance of wand movement and precise pronunciation. Some spells fizzled out, others ended with feathers crashing to the ground or fluttering wildly like confused birds.

His eyes, however, kept drifting toward the fiery-haired boy from Gryffindor — Ron Weasley. Ron’s face was flushed bright red, both from frustration and exertion, and he was muttering curses under his breath as he attempted, for the third time, to coax his feather to rise.

“What are you doing, Ron?” Hermione’s voice was sharp and urgent from across the room, but Ron barely heard her.

Suddenly, Ron’s voice snapped louder, “Come on, you lot! Get it right! We’ve got to keep Gryffindor ahead!”

His tone was harsh, bordering on angry, and a few of his housemates flinched, shrinking back under his fiery outburst.

Professor Flitwick’s eyebrows knitted together in disapproval. “Fifteen points from Gryffindor! I do not permit yelling in my classroom,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

Ron shot a glare toward the back of the room where Harry was seated. Their eyes met for a moment — Ron’s blazing with irritation and something like challenge, Harry’s shimmering with amusement and a hint of mischief.

Harry smirked back, barely able to suppress a chuckle. It was undeniably satisfying to see the Gryffindors riled up, especially Ron, who seemed to take every slight personally.

But Harry kept his smile subtle. The game between houses was always a tense one, but moments like these reminded him there was an unspoken rivalry simmering beneath the surface — a rivalry he was only beginning to understand.

As the lesson drew on, Harry remained focused, practicing the spell with deliberate care, feeling the subtle shift in magic as he moved the wand just so, whispering the words until they became second nature.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to be the best in this class — to make magic flow effortlessly at his command, to be the one who others looked to for guidance.

Professor Flitwick’s voice brought him back from the daydream.

“Excellent work today, everyone. Remember, mastery comes with practice, but Mr. Potter here sets an excellent example.”

Harry’s chest swelled with a mix of pride and something else — the quiet thrill of recognition, the kind that made him feel a little less like the odd one out and a little more like he belonged.

Outside the classroom window, the sky was already deepening into twilight, and the castle around him buzzed faintly with anticipation and mystery.

As Harry gathered his things to leave, he caught one last glance from Ron — less hostile now, tinged with grudging respect.

Harry returned the look with a nod, knowing that this was just the beginning of many battles, both magical and personal, yet to come.

---

“Professor Flitwick was absolutely radiant during charms class today,” Hermione said dreamily, falling into step beside Harry and Neville as they strolled down the corridor. Her eyes shone with excitement as she recalled the lesson. “He kept going on about how delicately I managed to lift the feather. And don’t even get me started on how I managed it on the very first try — just like you did, Harry.”

Harry smiled, a modest flush warming his cheeks. “Honestly, the only reason I got it right the first time was because I’ve seen my Godfather use that spell a dozen times. Mostly when he was being lazy, just moving things around without getting up.” He chuckled softly, the memory easing some of the tension that clung to his shoulders.

Hermione giggled at the comment, her usual earnestness giving way to light-hearted amusement. Neville, trailing slightly behind, rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a faint blush blooming across his pale cheeks.

“It took me a few tries,” Neville admitted quietly, voice a little cracked. “And when I finally got the feather to lift, it only went about an inch before it flopped back down.” He lowered his gaze, looking embarrassed as his friends exchanged encouraging looks.

“It’s alright, Neville,” Hermione said quickly, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s one of your first times really trying magic, after all. You’ll get better — I know you will.” She smiled, her eyes shining with conviction.

Harry nodded, giving Neville a supportive grin. “She’s right. We’ve only just started, if you don’t count accidental magic, and everyone learns at their own pace. Some get it right away, others struggle a bit — but that’s completely fine. Practice makes perfect, after all.” He winked at his friend.

Neville’s smile brightened considerably. “Thanks, you two. That means a lot.” His usual awkwardness softened in their company.

Just then, a familiar voice broke through the light chatter around them.

“Harry.”

Harry turned and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy. The blond boy’s silver eyes gleamed with their usual cool intensity, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Draco! Where have you been? I didn’t see you all day yesterday,” Harry asked, stepping closer.

“I was pulled out of Hogwarts. My father needed me to attend some event — the usual boring grown-up business. But it’s done now,” Draco said smoothly, flashing a charming grin.

“Oh, well, these are my friends from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” Harry said, gesturing toward Hermione and Neville. “Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom.”

Draco's gaze flickered between the two before settling on Neville, lingering a moment longer on the boy clad in his yellow and black robes. Neville shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“I’m familiar with Longbottom,” Abraxas said with a knowing smirk. “We’re distantly related. My great-grandfather’s first cousin, Callidora Black, married Harfang Longbottom ages ago. All purebloods are connected in some way, aren’t we, Neville?” His silver eyes scanned Neville’s face, sharp and appraising.

Neville’s cheeks flamed a deep red. His gaze dropped to the stone floor, then slowly flicked back up, meeting Draco's penetrating stare. The blond’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring the younger boy’s resolve.

“Y-Yes, we are,” Neville stammered, voice shaky but determined. “That’s why we’re still the purest of all.”

Draco nodded approvingly, a slow, satisfied purr in his voice. “Not such a lost cause after all, Longbottom. I’m proud.”

Neville’s face deepened in color, but Harry rolled his eyes, stepping forward.

“Alright, lean back a bit, will you? Merlin’s sake, you’re going to give him a heart attack,” Harry said, gently nudging Draco away from Neville to give the younger boy some breathing room.

“Of course,” Draco said, flashing a grin and flicking his gaze to Neville, who was still struggling for air. His attention then shifted to Hermione, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Granger? I’ve never heard that surname in wizarding circles,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her face hardening with pride and defiance. “I’m a Muggleborn, Malfoy,” she said crisply.

Harry felt the tension spike in the air like an electric charge. The usually smug Abraxas’s features twisted into a scowl as he shot Hermione a venomous glare.

“Harry,” he spat, “I didn’t know you were friends with a mudblood.”

Harry’s hand shot out before he could stop himself, delivering a hard smack to the back of Draco's head. The blond hissed in pain, spinning around with a glare.

“You don’t go around calling people that word!” Harry hissed, eyes blazing with anger.

The silver eyes met Harry’s emerald ones, both burning with surprise and challenge.

“Shit,” Neville whispered, voice low.

“Wait — you’re a Parseltongue?” Draco gasped, voice cracking with disbelief.

Hermione stayed silent, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

Harry grabbed both his friends’ arms and yanked them toward a quiet corner of the corridor. He cast a Silencio charm to silence their voices and followed with a Muffliato spell, muffling their conversation from wandering ears.

“I didn’t know it would be such a big deal!” Harry snapped, waving his hands in frustration. The three stared at him, a mixture of shock and disbelief etched on their faces.

“How could it not be a big deal?!” Draco burst. “The only people who can speak Parseltongue are descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself!”

“But Harry’s not related to Salazar,” Hermione argued quickly, brows furrowed. “It’s practically impossible — he’s a Potter, and Potters aren’t connected to Slytherin. Maybe it’s through families surrounding Slytherin? The Peverells, perhaps?” She trailed off, not noticing the two pureblood boys tense as soon as she mentioned the name.

Harry’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“She said Peverells, right?” Neville’s voice was barely above a whisper, eyes snapping to Draco, who stared fixedly at Harry.

“She did,” Draco confirmed, his voice low.

A heavy silence fell between them.

“Why does that matter?” Harry finally asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but nerves twisted in his stomach. Hermione only watched him quietly.

“Riddle is a Parseltongue,” Draco whispered, and the words hung in the air like a curse.

The four froze, the weight of that knowledge settling like a stone in Harry’s chest.

“Does… does that mean I’m related to him?” Harry asked, voice small.

“Boys,” Hermione interrupted, her gaze fixed past Neville and Draco's shoulders, full of determination and mischief.

“I think it’s time we visited the restricted section of the library,” she said with a sly grin.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Naughty, naughty, Granger.”

“I’m not a Gryffindor,” she shot back.

“Fair point,” Draco conceded with a smirk. “Let’s go.”

---

The 3 first years and third year stepped cautiously into the library, the heavy oak doors closing softly behind them. The vast room was nearly deserted, the quiet hum of hushed footsteps and the faint rustling of pages barely disturbing the air. It was nearly curfew, and most students had already retreated to their dormitories. But for this small group, the night was just beginning.

Hermione, ever cautious, was the first to raise her wand. With a precise flick, she cast a Silencio charm to mute their movements and voices, followed by a Muffliato to cloak their conversation in an invisible bubble, ensuring no wandering ears would overhear them. The spellwork shimmered briefly in the dim candlelight as it settled over their group.

“Boys, wrong way!” Hermione suddenly hissed, turning sharply down an aisle of towering shelves packed with ancient tomes. She marched forward without waiting for a response, the soft sound of groans trailing behind her.

After a few tense minutes weaving through the labyrinth of bookshelves, they found an empty table near the restricted section, its surface worn from years of use but perfectly suited for spreading out their research. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows over the worn leather bindings of the books stacked before them.

Hermione carefully opened one of the thicker volumes, the delicate crackle of aged parchment filling the silence as she flipped through the pages. Harry, Neville, and Abraxas settled in around the table, their eyes scanning the texts and each other with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Breaking the silence, Harry looked at Draco directly. “Malfoy, do you know anything about Riddle? Anything at all?”

The blond boy’s silver eyes flicked sharply between the three of them. He glanced first at Harry, whose gaze was steady and filled with a fierce determination. Then he shifted to Hermione, who regarded him warily but with an intensity that suggested she wouldn’t be easily deterred. Finally, his gaze settled on Neville, who looked at him with wide eyes, filled not only with curiosity but something deeper—an almost reverent admiration.

Draco let out a quiet sigh. “Double-cast the spells again. Make sure nothing can catch wind of this.”

Hermione and Harry nodded, and once again their wands flickered, reinforcing the silence and secrecy surrounding them.

The four sat back, breaths held, waiting for whatever information Abraxas was about to share.

“My father and grandfather… they're friends with Riddle,” Draco finally said, voice low.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Isn’t your father in his forties? Out of Hogwarts for years?”

“Yes, but Riddle spent a summer at the Manor before his first year. Father found him in Diagon Alley—just shopping like any other boy—and invited him to stay. Riddle accepted. They… became friends, somehow.” Draco shrugged, his smirk faltering slightly under their intense scrutiny.

The three exchanged looks of surprise. Hermione leaned forward, her voice sharp. “What did Riddle tell your father?”

Draco hesitated, then met Harry’s expectant gaze. “His mother was a squib from the Gaunt family, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. She used Amortentia—the love potion—on a Muggle, Tom Riddle Sr. He got her pregnant, but when the potion wore off, he left. She gave birth at Wool’s Orphanage… then died. Riddle grew up there until Dumbledore found him. Told him he was a wizard. Told him he could speak to snakes.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with understanding. “It makes sense now! The Peverells—weren’t they direct descendants of Slytherin too? The three brothers from the Deathly Hallows?”

Neville nodded slowly, leaning in, his voice filled with wonder. “The three Deathly Hallows?”

The other boys shook their heads, confused.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “The Deathly Hallows?” she echoed, then turned to Draco.

He didn’t hesitate. His wand flicked toward the shelves, pulling a thick, dust-covered tome free and placing it on the table. Opening the book, he began to read aloud:

“There were once three brothers traveling at twilight along a lonely road. They reached a river too dangerous to cross, but, skilled in magic, they conjured a bridge. As they crossed, Death appeared, angry at being cheated of three victims. But Death feigned congratulations and offered each brother a gift for their cleverness.

“The eldest asked for the most powerful wand, the Elder Wand, that could never be defeated. Death fashioned it from an elder tree branch and gave it to him.

“The second brother wished to recall the dead. Death gave him a stone with the power to bring back the dead.

“The youngest, wisest and humblest brother, wary of Death’s trickery, asked for something to escape Death’s grasp. Death reluctantly handed over his Cloak of Invisibility.”

Hermione gasped suddenly. “Wait, Harry—don’t you have the Cloak of Invisibility?”

Harry’s face flushed. “Yeah, it was my father’s.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Could’ve saved us a lot of sneaking around, huh?”

Harry grinned. “Not all of us would fit under it.”

“Anyway,” Draco continued, “the brothers parted ways. The oldest boasted of his wand and was killed in his sleep when it was stolen. The second, maddened by longing for a lost love brought back from death by the stone, killed himself. The youngest lived a long life, then greeted Death as an old friend and went with him willingly.”

He closed the book and glanced at Hermione, whose mind was clearly racing.

“So the Gaunts were descendants of the Peverells?” she asked softly.

“Exactly.”

Neville’s voice was awestruck. “So Riddle was a descendant too…”

“From Slytherin to the Peverells, then to the Gaunts. Riddle is a Gaunt,” Draco confirmed.

Harry interrupted, excitement flaring in his voice. “And the Potters are descendants of the Peverells too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter, you better know your own family line.”

“Of course I do!” Harry said defensively.

“Then get on with it.”

“The Potters descend from the Peverells through Lolanthe Peverell, who married my ancestor Hardwin Potter. So, yeah, we’re related.”

Neville looked stunned. “So you and Riddle are related?”

“Distantly. Very distantly,” Draco said with a smirk.

Harry shrugged. “I can’t tell if that’s good or bad news.”

Hermione whacked him on the head. “Harry!”

Draco's tone darkened suddenly. “I forgot one thing. Riddle is the Heir of Slytherin.”

The three gasped in unison.

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Neville shuddered. “I’d say that’s bad news.”

Draco gave a warning glance. “Be careful with him, Potter. He’s dangerous. The Prince of Slytherin, ruling with an iron fist. He knows magic some seventh years don’t.”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened, the air suddenly growing cold between them. “Malfoy… what is he, really?”

“It’s not my place to say. You’ll find out soon enough. He made me swear not to tell.”

Their whispered conversation was shattered by a sudden, cold voice behind them.

“What are you lot doing out this late? Ten minutes to curfew.”

They froze. Harry’s eyes met with a piercing, familiar blue gaze that seemed to look straight through him. The figure’s eyes flicked disdainfully to the scattered books before slowly circling the table.

“Malfoy, sharing stories with mudbloods now?” The voice was low, dangerous, threaded with ice. Hermione’s eyes widened; Neville shrank back in his seat.

“I was with Potter,” Draco said nervously, “and he dragged me along with this lot, Marvolo.”

Marvolo hummed softly, the sound like a serpent’s hiss.

“Off. I trust the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw can find their way without an escort? It will cost fewer house points and detentions.”

“What?” Hermione frowned.

Marvolo’s smile was cruel. “Forty points each from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Detentions for Longbottom and Granger with Snape this Saturday.”

Harry glanced at Hermione, whose eyes blazed with fury, while Neville shrank further into his seat.

A cold hand settled on Harry’s shoulder. He froze, the weight of the touch like ice. Warm breath whispered in his ear.

“What a shame,” Marvolo murmured, voice low and dangerous. “I would have preferred to deduct points from Gryffindor.”

He turned, leaving them trembling in the oppressive silence.

Hermione took Neville’s arm gently. “Come on. We’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.” They slipped out, their footsteps muffled by towering bookshelves.

Alone now, Harry barely had time to react before Marvolo’s voice cut through the stillness again.

“Malfoy.”

The single word cut through the library’s stillness like a blade.

Draco flinched and turned, pale as parchment. “Y–Yes… Marvolo?”

“How dare you?”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Crucio.”

The silence shattered under Draco's screams—raw, ragged, echoing off the high shelves.

Harry’s chest constricted. “Stop! That’s enough! Please!”

Marvolo turned his head slowly, gaze snaring Harry’s like a predator deciding whether to pounce. The curse broke, and Draco crumpled forward, trembling.

“Get to the common room,” Marvolo said, voice flat. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Draco staggered out, leaving only the sound of his retreating footsteps—and the low thud of Harry’s heartbeat in his ears.

The air thickened.

Marvolo advanced with unhurried steps, wand dangling at his side like a promise. Harry’s grip twitched toward his own wand, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet.

“So…” Marvolo’s voice was smooth, silk hiding steel, "You Harry.. are a parsalmouth?”

A smirk ghosted over his lips, eyes gleaming with a feverish cocktail of amusement, possession, and something dangerously close to delight.

Harry’s throat tightened.

Foolish. Reckless. Speaking so openly here—his territory.

The realization struck him hard.

He should have listened to Draco.

Spells:

Muffliato - Creates a buzzing sound in the target's ears to prevent eavesdropping.

Silencio - Silences the target.

Chapter Text

Harry swallowed hard, the lump lodged stubbornly in his throat refusing to dissolve. His mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy and useless. Words caught and tangled, lost somewhere between panic and fascination. He found himself unable to speak, frozen under the weight of Marvolo’s gaze.

Marvolo’s eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that felt almost alive, like coals burning behind frosted glass—cold, yet fiercely aflame. The pale blue of those eyes seemed to glow from within, an unnatural light that pulsed beneath his skin. Harry’s breath hitched sharply when, for the briefest instant, those shimmering eyes flashed a terrifying crimson red before snapping back to that haunting blue—eyes he’d first seen not long ago, eyes that now felt like a trap.

“I’ve never met anyone like myself before,” Marvolo hissed, his voice a serpentine whisper threading through the heavy silence.

He began to circle Harry, slow and deliberate, the faint scrape of his shoes on the stone floor echoing in the quiet library. Each step felt like a dark promise, a predator sizing up its prey. Harry’s spine prickled with cold dread, and he shuddered visibly as the chill seeped into his bones.

For what felt like minutes, Marvolo said nothing, his circling relentless. Harry’s eyes darted across his figure—the lean height, the precise control in every measured movement. Marvolo’s gaze flickered intermittently, from Harry’s face to the looming shelves filled with dusty tomes, then back again, as if weighing something far beyond the present moment.

There was a strange intensity in his expression—something more than mere curiosity. It was like Marvolo was piecing together a puzzle only he could see, an obsession unfurling behind those icy eyes.

Then Marvolo stopped at Harry’s right shoulder, bending so his head hovered just above it. His breath was cool on Harry’s skin.

“How long have you known… that you could speak to snakes?” he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

Harry’s body trembled again. The memory came rushing back—the first time his tongue twisted around that dark, secret language. He was a child then, alone and unsure, left with the bitter sting of loneliness.

“My godparents were busy,” Harry began slowly, eyes fixed on the floor as if the words were reluctant to leave his lips. “Sirius was caught up in an Auror case, and Remus was away at some interview for a school—Condorer, I think? I didn’t catch where it was.”

Marvolo’s gaze burned into the side of Harry’s head, hot and unblinking.

“My aunt and uncle… they don’t exactly know what to make of me, not since I showed signs of magic. They don’t like it. They hate magic.” Harry swallowed hard, watching Marvolo’s posture stiffen at that.

“But that day, they took me in anyway. It was my cousin’s birthday, and even though they barely tolerated me, they didn’t send me away.”

“They’re Muggles,” Marvolo sneered, voice thick with disgust. “And they dared neglect a wizard?”

Harry snapped, cheeks flushing, “Can you stop talking and let me finish my story?”

Marvolo’s narrowed eyes pierced him, and Harry felt naked under that gaze.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, taking a shaky breath, “they took my cousin to the zoo and had to bring me along because I couldn’t stay home alone. When we got to the reptile house, my cousin ran ahead to the snake exhibit. He got upset because the snake wasn’t there and stormed off.”

Harry swallowed again. “I apologized to the snake for his behavior... and then it spoke to me.”

Marvolo raised an eyebrow, amused. Harry cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Then my cousin pushed me to the ground and pressed his body against the glass. I got mad at him, and suddenly—the glass disappeared. He fell inside the enclosure, and then the glass slammed back into place, locking him in. The snake was out. My uncle blamed me for my cousin getting sick. He beat me.”

The last part was barely a whisper, lost to the shadows.

Marvolo’s eyes flashed with cold fury. “They beat you… for something you couldn’t control? They punished your magic?”

Harry nodded, head bowed, shrinking under the venom in Marvolo’s voice.

“We should punish those fools, not the magic,” Marvolo hissed, stepping suddenly in front of Harry, blocking him with a dark shadow.

Harry looked up, meeting those piercing eyes—wild with fury and something else: a possessive intensity that twisted cold in his gut.

Marvolo inhaled slowly, the storm passing behind his gaze as his expression softened just enough to unsettle Harry even more.

“Is that why you live with your godparents?” Marvolo asked quietly, voice almost tender.

Harry’s brow furrowed. Marvolo sighed softly, the sound like a silk curtain sliding closed.

“Because the Muggles hurt you, and then your godparents took custody?”

Harry felt the air thicken, magic thrumming beneath his skin. Marvolo’s power was heavy—dark but paradoxically comforting, like a velvet shroud wrapping tightly around him. It was a dangerous comfort, but one Harry couldn’t deny.

He shook his head slowly, unsure if he was denying the question or the feeling.

Marvolo’s eyes remained soft, but there was a flicker of something darker lurking beneath. He waited, expectant.

“When did this happen?”

“About… 2 years ago. A few months before my ninth birthday.” Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Marvolo’s eyes widened for a fleeting moment before the softness returned. He stepped behind Harry, close enough that Harry could feel the steady thump of his heart against his back.

Warm breath fanned across Harry’s neck, sending a shiver crawling down his spine.

“I will watch over you,” Marvolo whispered, voice low and intimate. “I will not allow anyone to hurt you again.”

Harry swallowed, trembling.

“Can we… return to the common room? I’m tired,” he managed to say.

Marvolo straightened with a slow, deliberate grace and turned to face him fully, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his lips.

“Of course. Come.”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm as Marvolo strode ahead, his movements confident and purposeful, long legs eating the distance between the library and the exit in swift, strutting steps.

Panic surged, and Harry ran as fast as his legs would carry him, heart pounding wildly as he followed the chilling figure into the shadows of the castle’s corridors.

---

Harry frowned, the weight of Snape’s sneer pressing down on him like a curse. The classroom, thick with the smell of wormwood and ash, felt colder somehow, as if the dungeon itself recoiled at the sound of Snape’s voice.

"Now this," Snape said, holding Harry’s essay between two fingers like it was a contaminated rag, “is what not to write for an essay.” His voice slithered through the room, silken with malice. "We do not wish to repeat Potter’s mistakes, do we... Brown?"

Lavender Brown flinched. Her quill snapped in her hand. Eyes wide and lip trembling, she glanced desperately between Snape and Harry as if trying to determine which would be the lesser evil to offend.

“N-No sir,” she stammered. “Mistakes aren’t permitted in this classroom.”

“Indeed, Miss Brown,” Snape murmured, and his lip curled as he flicked his wand. “Incendio.”

There was a collective gasp as flame erupted instantly along the edge of Harry’s parchment. His essay curled, blackened, and crumbled into ash in mere seconds. The cinders fluttered like dead moths to the cold stone floor, and the acrid smoke stung Harry’s nostrils.

Harry stared at the remains of his work — hours of effort, gone in a burst of flame because Snape had decided, once again, to humiliate him. Fury sparked behind his eyes. His jaw clenched. He could feel heat rising up his neck, not from shame, but from rage so sharp it almost buzzed in his ears. For a terrifying moment, he imagined Snape going up in flames, just like the parchment — robes crackling, that sneer melting away in terror. He blinked, hard, trying to push the thought down.

Snape met his eyes — cold, unreadable, dark. But Harry thought he saw something there: the faintest hint of satisfaction, as though Snape knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

“I want that essay rewritten and turned in by next class — Friday,” Snape drawled. “And since your first attempt was so abysmally juvenile, I will now require ten inches, not five.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment, waiting for Harry to snap. When Harry remained rigid and silent, his tone grew sharper.

“I do not accept insipid drivel passed off as academic work. This was unacceptable, and frankly, Potter, I would be astounded if you ever managed to grasp even the basics of potion theory.”

A slow hush spread over the classroom. No one moved. Hermione, sitting next to Harry, had gone rigid, her hand frozen over her notes. Ron looked about ready to throw a bezoar at Snape’s head.

Harry said nothing. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something, anything. But instead, he just stared straight ahead at the burn mark left behind on the table, the ghost of his essay’s ashes smudged across the surface like a wound.

Snape turned away, satisfied, and continued his slow prowl down the aisle, cloak billowing behind him like smoke.

“You may all continue. And if anyone else would like to hand in something as worthless as Mr. Potter’s work, do so now — I’ll gladly provide you the same warm reception.”

A few nervous students picked up their quills again. Lavender’s hands shook as she tried to correct a line on her parchment. Seamus looked like he wanted to punch something.

Harry didn’t pick up his quill. He didn’t look at Hermione when she leaned in to whisper something. He didn’t even look at Ron when he muttered, “What a greasy git.”

Harry just stared straight ahead at the scorch mark, his anger simmering under his skin, hot and slow.

He hated that man. He hated him more than anyone.

---

Harry stormed out of the Potions classroom the moment the bell rang. His robes billowed behind him in sharp, angry folds, fists clenched tight at his sides. October 1st. Exactly one month since he’d begun his first year at Hogwarts. A place that had quickly become his second home, his sanctuary from the suffocating life he'd once known with the Dursleys.

He loved Hogwarts. The magic, the halls that whispered secrets, the endless mysteries tucked behind enchanted staircases. He had favorite classes, favorite corners in the castle. Defense Against the Dark Arts topped his list—even if Professor Quirrell stuttered like every sentence was a battle, the man clearly knew his content. And then there were the friends he'd made, not just within Slytherin. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil of Gryffindor, Padma Patil in Ravenclaw, Susan Bones from Hufflepuff. He'd discovered the castle bred more than magic—it birthed camaraderie, laughter, late-night conversations by firelight.

But there was one part of Hogwarts Harry loathed with every fiber of his being.

Potions.

No—Snape.

The man had singled him out from day one, treating him like he was some venomous pest that had wandered into the dungeons. Every essay, every answer was picked apart, belittled, mocked. Today, Snape had incinerated his homework in front of the entire class, calling it a "worthless attempt" and using it as a teaching moment for what not to do.

So, Harry went to the one person he knew who might help. Who always helped.

He shoved open the library doors with less subtlety than usual, only half-remembering to keep quiet.

"Marvolo! Where are you?" he hissed in a loud whisper.

A Ravenclaw girl glared at him over a towering stack of books, her finger to her lips.

"Over here, call me Tom," came the smooth, baritone reply from deep within the shelves.

There he was. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Regal, composed, and cold as winter stone.

Harry hadn’t expected to befriend Tom. A third year, a Slytherin with a reputation that made even sixth years keep their distance. But fate—or something darker—had other plans. Since their strange meeting weeks ago, a quiet thread had woven between them, stitched from shared secrets and strange understanding.

Riddle sat at one of the back tables, a solitary figure bathed in candlelight and shadows. He was already watching Harry, an amused curl playing on his lips.

"I need help with Potions homework," Harry huffed, collapsing into the chair across from him. "Snape burned my essay and called it unacceptable. Said I used it to embarrass myself."

What he got in return wasn’t sympathy.

It was laughter.

A low, velvet laugh. Polished and cold. The sound made Harry's spine straighten involuntarily.

"My, my," Tom said, resting his chin on one hand while the other lay elegantly on the desk. "A tragedy in the dungeons. Let me guess. Boil Cure Potion?"

Harry didn’t answer. He was too distracted by the way the candlelight danced across Tom’s cheekbones, the way the boy’s midnight curls fell in perfect disorder across his forehead. Tom's hair was always immaculate—or would be, if not for that one stubborn curl. It fascinated Harry more than he liked to admit.

"Harry," Tom called again, voice sharper now. "Are you listening, or have the fumes from Snape's cauldron dulled your senses?"

Harry snapped back to attention, flustered.

"Can you please help me with the essay?" he groaned, burying his face in his arms.

Tom smirked, eyes glinting. He tapped the table.

"Come here, sit by me."

Harry dragged his chair around and dropped down beside him, close but careful. Tom Riddle was... strange. Kind, in his own way, but veiled. Chilling. Like standing too close to a beautiful statue that might come alive and strike you down at any moment.

Tom leaned over, voice lowered to a whisper.

"I need a first-year Potions text. Stay here. Don’t wander. Don’t waste my time. Understood?"

Harry nodded.

"A verbal answer, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Riddle."

Tom hummed and rose to his feet. He strode off into the stacks, disappearing like smoke.

As Harry waited, he found his mind drifting. He remembered that day in the courtyard, when Tom discovered he was a Parselmouth. The way Tom's eyes had sharpened with recognition. Since then, the older boy had taken a peculiar interest in him—protective, possessive even. Tom would show him spells weeks beyond the curriculum, watching with delight when Harry executed them perfectly.

And then, there was that attack.

A group of older Gryffindors had caught Harry alone and hexed him senseless. Bleeding, dazed, barely able to walk, Harry had stumbled back to the dorms. Tom found him. The expression on Tom’s face that night haunted him more than the spells had. The calm, eerie rage. The too-gentle hands healing his wounds. The whisper: Tell me who.

Harry had. And those Gryffindors hadn’t been seen for days afterward.

Tom returned, slamming a thick Potions text onto the table.

Harry jumped.

Tom's face was unreadable now.

"Open the book. Write the essay. I’ll edit it. If it’s trash, you’ll redo it from scratch."

Harry blinked. "That's a bit harsh."

Tom didn’t respond. He was already seated, his own book open, fingers trailing down the page with perfect poise. Harry hesitated, then asked quietly:

"Are you mad at me?"

Tom looked up, gaze blank for a moment. Then his lips curled slightly, and the chill in the air seemed to deepen.

"Do your essay, Harry."

Tom stood abruptly, shrinking his books with a flick of his wand.

"Bring it to the common room when you’re done. Don’t waste my time again."

He was gone before Harry could reply.

Left alone, Harry stared at the book. The Boil Cure potion glared back at him, every ingredient a mystery. He buried his hands in his hair, eyes stinging, heart pounding with confusion.

Tom Riddle was brilliant.

And terrifying.

And Harry wasn’t sure if he was safe with him—or in danger because of him.

---

After completing his essay, Harry made his way to the Slytherin common room, clutching the parchment as if it held his dignity. He found Tom seated in his usual armchair near the hearth, surrounded by a quiet circle of older Slytherins and hangers-on, their eyes drifting toward Harry with poorly concealed amusement.

"Here," Harry said, handing over the parchment. His voice was low but steady.

Tom took the essay without a word, his expression unreadable. His long fingers unfolded the parchment with delicate precision, eyes scanning the text with unnerving calm. A tense silence settled around them. Harry watched closely, trying to gauge a reaction, any hint of approval—or disappointment.

But there was none.

Without warning, Tom drew his wand. The gesture was elegant, effortless.

"Incendio."

The parchment caught fire instantly, curling inwards, embers drifting like dying fireflies before disintegrating to ash.

Harry stared. His jaw slackened. A few of Tom's dorm mates snickered behind their hands, but the amusement died the moment Tom turned his gaze toward them. Silence reclaimed the common room.

He looked back at Harry, cool and impassive. "Again."

Then, just as quickly, he turned away. Harry was dismissed.

No further explanation. No feedback. No suggestions. Just a single word, carved in ice.

Fuming but too stubborn to show it, Harry turned on his heel and left.

—

He spent hours in the library. Ink smudged his fingers, and the candlelight had begun to irritate his eyes. He rewrote the essay once. Brought it back.

To burned it.

Twice.

Burned it.

Three times.

"Again."

Harry's hands were trembling by the fourth draft. His quill had snapped. The fifth version was written in slightly crooked lines with blotched ink from his stained fingertips.

And still—

"Again."

No anger. No sarcasm. Just relentless command.

Harry snapped.

He didn’t rewrite it for a sixth time. Not alone, anyway. Instead, he sought refuge in the Ravenclaw common room.

He found Hermione tucked between two bookcases, cross-legged on a velvet cushion with a stack of Arithmancy texts beside her. The blue fire in the sconces reflected in her hair.

"Hermione," he whined, dropping beside her. "Please check my essay."

She looked up, unimpressed. "Weren't you working with Riddle earlier? One of my housemates said she saw you two talking."

"Yeah, at first," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "But then he got mad. Just... furious, for no reason. Stormed off and left me to redo the whole thing on my own. I missed the evening feast trying to get it right. I wrote it five times. The other four? He burned them." His eyes flared indignantly. "He didn’t even say what was wrong. Just said 'again.'"

Hermione's mouth fell open. "He did what?!"

A few Ravenclaws nearby flinched. Harry winced too.

"Exactly! So I was hoping..." He gave her a sheepish glance. "Maybe you could check it? Just in case there's something I'm missing. And also, maybe, er, could I stay here tonight?"

Her expression softened immediately.

"Of course you can. You know the Ravenclaws love you."

That wasn’t an exaggeration. Half the Ravenclaw girls adored him. The other half regarded him with wary interest, more curious than hostile. The boys were a mixed bag, but most respected him for holding his own in Slytherin.

"Hand me the essay," she said, stretching out her hand. "Let’s see what disaster Tom overlooked."

Harry handed it over gratefully and slumped beside her as she began reading, muttering corrections under her breath. For the first time that evening, he felt like he could breathe.

He didn’t return to the Slytherin common room that night.

---

"Well, Mr. Potter, I must say that you have outdone yourself," Snape muttered, his sharp eyes flickering between Harry's essay and the boy himself. Harry barely managed to keep his triumphant smile from stretching too wide.

"Thank you, Professor. I spent my entire evening—and night—rewriting it until it was perfect," Harry replied, lifting his chin with quiet pride.

Snape’s brow furrowed just slightly, as if unsure whether to be impressed or suspicious. He muttered something under his breath, a rare show of something close to begrudging approval.

Victory.

Tom stood alone in the common room. He was still, statuesque almost, his hands folded behind his back as he stared at the fireplace. The room was silent—too silent. As if the very air itself was holding its breath.

The moment Harry entered, Tom's head snapped in his direction. His eyes—dark and bottomless—locked onto him like a predator sighting its prey.

"Where have you been?" Tom asked in a low hiss, his voice devoid of warmth. He moved toward Harry with slow, deliberate steps, like a storm rolling over calm skies.

Harry froze, his breath catching. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee, to get out. But his feet were rooted to the spot, heart pounding.

"W-well," Harry stammered, stepping back instinctively, "I spent the night in my friend's common room."

Tom’s eyes narrowed. His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile—it was something far more dangerous.

He continued toward Harry. Every step pushed Harry back until his shoulders bumped against the cold stone wall. Tom didn’t stop. He only leaned in closer, looming.

"You know," he murmured, his breath brushing Harry's cheek, "I could give you detention for not returning to the common room after curfew."

Harry’s lips parted to respond, but no sound came out.

Tom tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle he already knew the answer to. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Or... I could report you. To Professor Snape. Or even Headmaster Dippet. You know how fond he is of me. He listens to me. He trusts me."

His fingers brushed against the hem of Harry's robe—barely touching, but enough to send a shiver down Harry’s spine.

"He’d do what pleases me."

Harry wanted to disappear. His eyes darted, searching for some kind of escape. And then, against all reason, he whispered the one name he knew Tom hated most.

"What about Dumbledore? Doesn't he despise you? Headmaster Dippet would take his opinion over yours any day."

The moment the name left Harry’s lips, everything changed.

Tom stilled. His smile vanished, replaced with an unreadable blankness. But Harry felt it before he saw it—the shift in the air. The pressure. Magic.

A heavy, suffocating darkness settled into the room like smog. It was cloying, oppressive. Harry’s chest grew tight as the weight of Tom’s fury pressed down on him. He coughed, gasping as the invisible force shoved him against the wall and pinned him there.

Gone was the charming prefect with his perfect smile. In his place stood something colder. Older. More dangerous.

The air throbbed with Tom’s magic—no longer silent and protective like the times he’d helped Harry with potions or corrected his wandwork. This magic wanted to hurt. It wanted to punish.

Harry slid down the wall, chest heaving as he crumpled to the ground. His robes clutched in shaking hands, he blinked away tears that refused to fall.

And then Tom knelt beside him.

He reached out and touched Harry’s cheek. Gently. Almost tenderly. But it was wrong. Mocking. A performance for an audience of one.

"You’ve got fire in you, don’t you?" he whispered. "I’m surprised they didn’t put you in Gryffindor."

He leaned closer, so close Harry could feel his breath at his ear.

"A wolf in sheep’s clothing," he said, his voice no longer playful, but darkly reverent.

Then, pulling back just enough to meet Harry’s terrified gaze, he smiled—cold, crooked, and knowing.

"Don’t worry, Harry," he whispered. "We’re all wolves in sheep’s clothing."

And with that, he stood, leaving Harry trembling and alone beneath the gaze of the serpent-emblazoned hearth.

---

That night, Harry dreamed.

He stood in unfamiliar surroundings—a sprawling, cold estate that could only be described as a manor. The vast corridors echoed under his feet as he walked, and walked, and walked.

Eventually, he came to a pair of massive white French doors. Without hesitation, he opened them.

Inside was a cavernous hall bathed only in pale moonlight. Shadows pooled along the corners, and in the center, dozens—no, hundreds—of figures cloaked in heavy robes knelt in formation. Their hoods covered their faces entirely, but their bowed postures betrayed reverence, or fear. The air thrummed with restrained energy.

Harry's breath caught. Who were they bowing to?

He moved forward slowly, threading between the bowed bodies. Whispers danced around him, low and shivering with anticipation. He absorbed the details—the ancient stone walls, the smell of candle wax and damp, the heavy velvet curtains draped like sentinels around the space.

Then, in the center of it all, on an elevated dais, he saw it: a throne.

It was carved of black stone, cruel and majestic. Upon it sat a man.

The man stood with calculated grace, each movement deliberate as he descended the steps before him. The followers remained bowed.

"My followers," the man's voice came, smooth and with the faintest hiss, echoing too-familiarly in Harry's bones.

Harry narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.

"I commend you all for what you have done for me," the man continued. Cheers began to ripple through the crowd, excited whispers turning to stifled exclamations.

Still walking, Harry slipped between the kneeling figures until he reached the edge of the dais.

The man raised a hand and gestured with a curl of his fingers.

Across the room, a large covering dropped to the floor, revealing what lay beneath.

People.

Harry's breath hitched.

Men, women, even children—shackled, terrified, trembling.

Muggles.

They were muggles.

He glanced back at the bowing figures. Excitement lit them from within, some quaking in eagerness.

The man on the dais spoke again. "Celebrate, my faithful. Take your pleasures. Feed your desires."

Then he pulled back his hood.

Harry froze.

It was Tom.

Not as he knew him—older now, sharper, more angular. Early twenties, maybe. But unmistakably Tom.

His features gleamed in the moonlight, and his lips curled in a smile Harry didn’t recognize. It wasn’t charming or amused.

It was predatory.

He watched, stunned and sick, as Tom laughed—a full, pleased laugh—while his followers descended upon the screaming muggles with spells and curses Harry didn't want to recognize.

Then, movement from the corner.

A door opened.

A small figure stepped through, robed in deep navy. Harry squinted. He couldn’t make out the face—something in the dream blurred it, kept it hidden.

The figure marched straight to Tom and struck him across the chest with the back of a hand.

Tom, startled for only a moment, frowned—and then wrapped his arms around the figure, bending down to kiss them firmly on the mouth.

Harry’s stomach turned.

Tom pulled back, a smirk on his lips. Then, in a heartbeat, his expression hardened.

He turned, raised his wand, and snarled, "AVADA KEDAVRA."

Green light surged.

Harry screamed and bolted upright in bed, sweat-slick and panting, lungs heaving like bellows as the image burned behind his eyes.

What was that?

Why had Tom called them his followers?

Why had he smiled as they tortured muggles?

Why had he looked so happy doing it?

Everyone is a moon and has a dark side, which he never shows to anybody.

Spells:

Stupefy - The Stunning spell freezes objects and renders living targets unconscious.

Levi corpus - Levitates the target by their ankle.

Diffindo - Used to precisely cut an object.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with a restless energy, a mix of anticipation and exhaustion that came with the waning days before the holidays. Flickering candles hung overhead, casting pools of soft golden light onto the long tables laden with half-eaten meals and scattered parchment. Most students had already finished their last lessons, their minds drifting away from spellwork and potions to the warmth of home and the rare comfort of family. Yet amidst the chatter and laughter, Harry Potter sat quietly at the Ravenclaw table, the green trim on his robes a stark reminder of the house that had claimed him—much to the astonishment of many.

The air was thick with whispers. Some curious, some judgmental. Harry had long since grown accustomed to the sideways glances and the surprised murmurs that followed him wherever he went. To most, the boy with the lightning-shaped scar—the legendary Boy Who Lived—belonged to Gryffindor. His parents had been proud Gryffindors. Yet Harry had been Sorted into Slytherin, a house synonymous with cunning, ambition, and, often, dark whispers.

The memory of those first days at Hogwarts, when the Gryffindor table had collectively gasped and the Slytherin table had exchanged calculating glances, remained vivid. The weight of those expectations, both welcoming and suspicious, had settled over Harry like an invisible cloak. But here he was, sitting with his Ravenclaw friends, caught in the gentle hum of the holiday season, trying to push away the unease that clung stubbornly to his thoughts.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft but insistent, drawing him back from the depths of his contemplation.

He looked up, meeting her familiar, searching eyes.

“Yeah?” he answered, his voice a little quieter than usual.

“Are you spending Christmas with your godparents?” Hermione asked, a flicker of curiosity—or was it concern?—in her tone.

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly, the question stirring a knot of conflict inside him. He swallowed before replying, “We celebrate Yule, not Christmas.” His voice softened as he added, “But yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her gaze drifting back to the bustling hall. The faint clinking of cutlery and bursts of laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts in Harry’s mind.

Before Harry could respond, Draco Malfoy leaned over from the adjacent table, his pale face marked by a rare flicker of uncertainty. “My father’s debating whether we’ll spend Yule at the family’s cottage in France or here at Malfoy Manor,” Draco confessed, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Mother wants to save France for the summer, but Father is insistent.” His frown deepened, and Harry reached out, patting Draco’s shoulder with surprising gentleness.

“What about you, Neville?” Harry turned to the soft-spoken Hufflepuff sitting nearby.

Neville smiled shyly, cheeks pink with warmth. “Gran and I were planning to visit my aunt and uncle during Yule. I think it’ll be good to get away for a while.”

The conversation shifted then, moving from holiday plans to school matters, a familiar ritual among friends.

“I still can’t believe Harry got the highest marks in dueling,” Hermione muttered, a proud sparkle in her eye as she looked at Harry. He felt heat rise in his cheeks and smirked.

“It’s those private lessons with Riddle, isn’t it?” Hermione teased, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Harry’s face flushed even deeper. “Not as many as before,” he mumbled.

The truth was complicated.

After a tense and unsettling argument months ago, Tom Riddle—the enigmatic, brilliant prefect with a reputation for both charm and menace—had unexpectedly approached Harry the very next day. He’d offered to tutor Harry in Defense Against the Dark Arts, promising lessons strictly in legal defensive spells. No curses, no cruel magic. Just the art of protecting oneself.

Harry had hesitated. He didn’t trust Tom, not fully. But Tom’s face had been so desolate, so earnest, that Harry had found himself agreeing. It was a chance to learn from the brightest student in the school, to stand a better chance against the dangers lurking in the shadows.

Tom was a mystery wrapped in charm and menace. He kept to a small circle in Slytherin, rarely revealing anything personal. When he wasn’t buried in ancient, leather-bound books, he was perfectly composed, his every movement deliberate and smooth. He was elegant, as though magic itself bent effortlessly around him.

The girls swooned. Harry had heard whispers of a fan club in Ravenclaw dedicated solely to Tom’s effortless grace and intellect. It was strange—and a little unsettling.

But Harry saw the darkness beneath the surface.

Tom’s interests were not those of a typical student. His free time was consumed by the Dark Arts. Harry had glimpsed the titles of the forbidden books in Tom’s dormitory—their spines cracked and worn, whispering secrets of ancient and dangerous magic. One book, The Secrets of the Darkest Art, had a faint but unmistakable aura of dark power. Harry hadn’t dared touch it, only felt its presence press against his skin like a chill.

He had also witnessed Tom’s temper. When angered, Tom would unleash curses without a word. The red light of a Crucio would streak through the air, a reminder that beneath his calm veneer was a deadly force. Harry was the only first-year who truly understood what those curses meant. His godfather had taught him well.

Tom was a danger—not just to others, but to himself.

Harry often wondered how someone so brilliant and poised could be so deeply consumed by darkness.

He had tried to warn himself not to get too close. But the pull was magnetic. Tom was charismatic and intelligent, and despite the dangers, Harry found himself drawn into his orbit.

When Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by Neville’s announcement that he had to return to the dorm to pack, he felt the faint sting of loneliness. Hermione whispered in his ear, “Riddle at twelve o’clock,” before disappearing into the crowd.

Harry sighed, his mind replaying the dream he had months ago—the one where Tom was not the boy he knew, but a darker figure cloaked in shadows and menace.

How could this charming, enigmatic Tom be the same as the one in his nightmares?

Before he could dwell on it further, a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Harry.”

He looked up to see Tom approaching, his deep blue eyes locking onto Harry’s. The perfect posture, the slight smirk—the boy seemed unbothered by the bustle around them.

“Hey, Tom,” Harry greeted with a small smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”

Tom sat down beside him smoothly, robes immaculate despite the day’s activities. “Busy. But today, I have some free time.”

Harry noticed Tom was alone, no usual entourage trailing behind.

“Why aren’t you with your friends?” Harry asked, curiosity pricking at him.

Tom’s expression shifted, eyes darkening with a shadow of disdain. “I’d rather not waste time with them when I could spend it with someone who understands me.”

Harry’s heart fluttered uneasily at those words. Understands me. But did he? Tom never shared anything truly personal. Their conversations were guarded, a constant dance around the truth.

Harry certainly didn’t share Tom’s fascination with the Dark Arts. He frowned, and Tom caught it immediately.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“What are your plans for Yule?” Tom’s gaze bore into him, sharp and unrelenting.

Harry swallowed nervously. Tom’s stare was like a weight pressing down on him, heavy and cold. “I’ll be with my godfathers.”

Tom’s eyes darkened, the light in them fading. “I’ll be at Malfoy Manor. The Malfoys hold a Yule Ball every year. I’ve been invited—as well as your godfathers.”

Harry blinked, confused. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden... Can you even invite them? Do you have permission?”

Tom’s hand brushed gently against Harry’s cheek, warm and steady. “You are never a burden to me.” His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath the warmth that unsettled Harry. “Yes, I’m one of the hosts. Lucius trusts me enough to let me do as I please in his house.”

Harry’s lips twitched in a hesitant smile, but Tom pulled his hand away, leaving a cold space on Harry’s skin.

“I’ll have to ask,” Harry whispered, looking away.

Tom’s patience snapped. “I’m growing tired of this attitude. It’s disrespectful—to me, and to your friends.”

Harry’s throat tightened, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Tom’s hand came up, gently brushing away a tear. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

He tipped Harry’s chin up, locking their eyes.

“Keep this.” Tom pressed a small gold ring into Harry’s palm.

“It’s a way to contact me.”

Harry stared at the ring in disbelief.

“Go to the common room. I’ll join you soon, I promise.”

Tom stood, a serene smile curving his lips as he strode out of the Great Hall with an effortless grace.

Harry was left alone at the Ravenclaw table, nervously twisting the ring on his finger, the glow faint but insistent against his skin. The noise of the hall swirled around him, but his thoughts were distant, tangled in shadows and secrets.

---

Harry sat stiffly in the cramped train compartment, the faded green velvet bench barely cushioning his restless nerves. The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels against the tracks filled the silence between his thoughts, punctuated only by the occasional murmur from his friends. Neville had excused himself to the restroom moments ago, and Hermione’s voice had risen again, this time engaged in another of their frequent, low-voiced debates about schoolwork or some trivial disagreement Harry found himself unable to latch onto.

He tried to focus on their words, but it was like trying to catch smoke in his fingers—every thought was fleeting, his mind occupied with heavier, darker things.

Tom Riddle had broken his promise.

The memory of Tom’s smile—so smooth, so carefully crafted—haunted him. The invitation to the Malfoy Manor Yule Ball had felt like a tentative thread of hope, a chance to step out of the shadow that Tom so often cast over his days. But that hope had been shattered the moment Tom failed to show up in the common room as promised. Not just once, but without explanation, without apology.

Harry’s chest tightened with humiliation. He had trusted that promise—not out of blind faith, but because promises were sacred to him. They were the rare, solid things in a world full of shifting shadows and half-truths. His godfather had promised to rescue him from the bleak and lonely years at the Dursleys—and he had kept that promise. Ever since, Harry had clung to the belief that promises were more than words; they were bonds.

And yet here he was, alone in this compartment, nursing the sting of a broken one.

He hadn’t even gone to the ball. Harry had told Draco Malfoy, who was privy to the invitation, that he wouldn’t be attending. He claimed he’d be busy with his godfathers, and Draco had accepted the excuse with a disappointed but understanding nod. The blond was perceptive—he sensed Harry’s real feelings—and so Harry’s half-truth spared the confrontation he wasn’t ready to face.

Because, truth be told, Harry hadn’t wanted to go—not really. Part of him had wanted to be petty, to deny Tom the satisfaction of seeing him there, mingling under the chandeliers in the grand Malfoy Manor. Part of him wanted to withdraw into his own bitterness, to nurse the bruised pride of a boy who had been left waiting.

Hermione’s voice grew sharper, laced with frustration as she argued about something Harry couldn’t quite follow, but he barely heard her. His thoughts churned and burned with the betrayal.

He promised.

He lied.

He left me.

That cold, empty ache inside him was a cruel contrast to the warmth that should have filled him during the holidays. Instead of feeling safe or celebrated, Harry felt exposed—like a ghost drifting on the edge of the world he wanted to belong to.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the physical pain to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t sure when his expression had hardened into something like steel, but the eyes staring out the window at the blur of trees and hills were distant, guarded.

No one in the compartment noticed. Neville returned, cheeks flushed, asking where he had been, but Harry only managed a distracted nod. Hermione paused mid-argument, glancing at him with concern flickering behind her own worries, but she didn’t press. She knew when to give him space, even if it frustrated her.

For Harry, this petty silence was a shield. A way to say, without words, that he was angry. More than angry—he was hurt. And he wouldn’t apologize for that.

Because, after all, promises were everything.

And Tom’s had meant nothing.

---

“We’re here!” Neville’s voice burst through the quiet compartment, filled with an uncontrollable excitement that made him practically vibrate in his seat. His whole body shook as if the news itself had electrified him.

Hermione flinched at the sudden volume, eyes wide with surprise, but she quickly composed herself, shooting Neville a brief, exasperated look that held more affection than annoyance.

Harry smiled faintly at the scene—the innocent joy that Neville radiated was almost contagious, if only for a moment. The train had been rattling steadily for hours now, and the thought of arriving back at Hogwarts—the towering castle perched on the cliffs, the familiar scents of enchanted forests, and the bustling life of the school—stirred a strange mix of relief and melancholy inside him.

“Well,” Harry began, his voice low and measured as he shifted his weight against the worn seat, “I guess I’ll see you guys... in two weeks?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes bright and soft as she smiled warmly at him. There was a gentle comfort in her gaze, a steady reassurance that no matter how tangled the world around them might become, there were still safe places and people to count on.

“Two weeks,” she echoed, her tone sincere and kind.

Harry’s chest felt a little lighter hearing that, like a small island of peace amid the chaos. He returned the smile, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him.

Neville, too, was already on his feet, brimming with enthusiasm. “Two weeks! Gran’s waiting for me,” he said, a grin stretching from ear to ear. His green eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I can’t keep her waiting.”

Without another word, he grabbed his bag, gave a quick wave, and was out of the compartment, the door sliding shut behind him before Harry or Hermione could say goodbye.

Hermione’s eyes lingered on the closing door for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face, then she turned back to Harry.

“Two weeks,” Harry repeated quietly to himself, feeling the words settle deep within him like a soft promise.

He rose, brushing imaginary dust from his robes as he made his way toward the compartment door. The corridor outside was filled with the low murmur of students gathering their things, voices buzzing with excitement and nervous energy about the holidays ahead. Some were already saying their final farewells, others were peeking out the windows to catch their first glimpse of the grounds below.

Harry took a slow, deep breath. The fresh scent of pine and earth seemed to seep through the glass, carrying with it memories of past years—both good and bad.

His footsteps echoed lightly as he stepped onto the platform where the Hogwarts Express had come to a gentle halt. The castle loomed in the distance, dark and magnificent against the setting sun, its towers and spires promising adventure and mystery for the months to come.

Harry's heart tightened. Two weeks felt like an eternity. Yet it was enough time—time to breathe, to gather strength, and maybe, just maybe, to come to terms with everything that had happened.

He glanced back toward the train, catching sight of Hermione’s familiar figure waving goodbye before disappearing into the crowd.

“See you in two weeks,” he whispered to the wind, feeling the bittersweet weight of parting settle around him.

And with that, Harry stepped forward, ready to face whatever awaited him back at the castle—and beyond.

---

“Harry!”

The shout cut through the murmurs and clatter of the crowded platform like a beacon. Harry’s head snapped toward the voice without hesitation, and instantly, a pure, unfiltered smile broke across his face.

“Sirius!”

Before the words had even fully escaped his lips, Harry was running—legs pumping, heart soaring—as he closed the distance between them. With a sudden leap, he threw himself into his godfather’s arms, wrapping his legs tightly around Sirius’s waist as if he never wanted to let go.

Sirius caught him effortlessly, arms encircling the boy in a fierce, protective embrace. The warmth of the familiar presence washed over Harry like a balm to a raw wound. He could feel the heat of Sirius’s breath, the steady beat of his heart beneath his cheek, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to exhale completely.

Tears brimmed in Sirius’s eyes, glistening with a mixture of relief and joy. He gently lowered Harry back to the platform, keeping a firm but tender hold on his shoulders. His hand moved up to ruffle Harry’s wild, untamed hair, fingers threading through the dark locks with a fondness that made Harry’s chest ache.

“I missed you, kiddo,” Sirius murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Harry’s eyes searched Sirius’s face, memorizing every line, every flicker of feeling. It was the first time in a long while he had felt truly seen—safe.

Sirius sighed contentedly, kneeling down to meet Harry’s gaze eye-to-eye. “I’m so glad you’re okay. The news… well, it’s been everywhere. What’s been happening at Hogwarts…” He shook his head, his tone heavy with concern.

“They tried to put Aurors on the case. Remus wanted me to go there, to make sure you were safe, but no one’s allowed to enter from outside. Not unless it’s the Minister himself.” Sirius’s lips curled into a bitter sneer as he added, “Fudge insists there’s nothing to worry about—says the Aurors have better things to do than get involved in school rivalries.” His voice was thick with disbelief and frustration.

Harry frowned but said nothing. He had learned not to expect much from the Ministry these days.

“Anyway!” Sirius jumped to his feet suddenly, shaking off the heavy mood. “Let’s get your trunk. Remus made your favorite for dinner tonight.” He wiggled his eyebrows with a mischievous grin, a playful light returning to his eyes.

Harry looked around quickly, glancing toward the compartments and aisles. But one familiar face was nowhere to be seen—Tom Riddle’s curly head was absent from the crowd.

He swallowed down the uneasy feeling curling in his stomach. Whatever was coming next, Harry knew this journey was far from over.

---

"Harry!" Harry's eyes widened as they pulled in him to a tight hug, my Remus, who then proved to push him towards the kitchen where he made dinner.

"It's a delight to have you back home! I missed you, and I was worried about you. Wait, are you okay?? Did you get hurt at Hogwarts? I know the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor isn't pretty." Remus patted his hands over Harry's body as a voice sighed behind them.

"Moony, I think you should leave the boy alone. We should just let him eat dinner and have time to himself, to get used to being home, then we can have all the family time we could ever want. Sirius rubbed Remus's shoulders, who's then sighed in relief before pressing a kiss to Sirius' cheek.

"You're right, surprisingly." He muttered, turning to Harry with a smile, "we'll leave you to get comfortable, you know where to find us." Remus smiled warmly at Harry, who grinned back.

"Thanks Sirius, Remus." He levitated his dinner to his room as he began getting settled it.

---

As the days slipped by, the week seemed to vanish in a blur for Harry. Each morning blended into the next, marked by the steady rhythm of life with his godparents. He found himself immersed in a strange, comforting routine that was worlds away from the chaos of Hogwarts—a cocoon of sorts where the weight of the outside world felt a little lighter.

Most days were a mix of laughter and bickering, playful disputes over the simplest things that quickly dissolved into shared smiles. Whether it was heated arguments over the rules of a Muggle game Remus had picked up from a tiny shop in London, or the quiet moments spent cooking in the cozy kitchen, the days were filled with a warmth Harry hadn’t realized he’d missed so deeply. Remus had a natural flair for baking, and Sirius was endlessly patient, guiding Harry through each step of their culinary experiments with a grin that never quite left his face.

But amidst the laughter and the ordinary joys, Harry’s thoughts often drifted back to Hogwarts—and the people he’d left behind. He’d spoken with his godparents just days ago about inviting Hermione over for Yule Eve. Both Sirius and Remus had been delighted by the idea, eager to meet the brilliant girl who’d become such an important part of Harry’s first year. Hermione, for her part, hadn’t hesitated to accept the invitation, her excitement palpable even through their letters.

Yet, there were those he hadn’t reached out to. Draco was off-limits for now, tangled up with his family’s preparations for the Malfoy manor’s Yule Ball—a grand affair held every year on Yule Eve itself. Harry and Draco hadn’t spoken much lately, the silence between them stretching longer with each passing day. Neville, too, was away at his aunt and uncle’s house in Ireland, enjoying a reprieve from the tension that seemed to grip Hogwarts these days.

Harry’s lips curled in a small, wistful smile as he thought of the coming night.

Yule Eve.

He loved Yule. The very mention of it brought warmth to his chest—the flicker of candlelight, the crisp winter air, the ancient magic of a holiday steeped in tradition and old, whispered stories. It was a time of peace, of gathering with those you cared for most. But this year, it carried a heavier weight.

He still held to the resolution he’d made a week ago: he would not attend the Yule Ball. The very thought churned a storm of emotions within him. There was a deep, gnawing certainty that he did not belong there—no matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise. To the purebloods, and many of the other students, he was a traitor. The Boy Who Lived, yes—but also the boy who’d chosen Slytherin, the boy who was different. Dangerous. Unwelcome.

And more than that, he couldn’t risk bringing harm to his family—his godparents, the only people who’d ever truly taken him in. He refused to put them in danger just to satisfy some desperate need to belong.

Still, beneath that, simmering quietly but stubbornly, was a growing streak of petty rebellion.

Tom.

The boy had broken his promise—the one fragile thread of connection Harry had clung to in these dark times. And Tom’s recent coldness, the distance that stretched wider with each passing day, only fanned the embers of Harry’s frustration.

He clenched his fists, pushing those thoughts aside. They were a distraction he couldn’t afford.

His friends were here. Hermione was coming tonight. And in this small circle, maybe, just maybe, he could find a moment of peace.

---

“Hermione!”

The sound of her name broke through the quiet carriage as Harry’s heart leapt. He turned sharply, a wide smile breaking across his face as he caught sight of her familiar figure stepping through the train compartment doorway.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice was bright with relief and excitement, and before either could think twice, the boy was rushing forward, enveloping her in a tight embrace. Their laughter mingled, warm and light, a rare bright moment in the tense world Harry had been living in lately.

But the moment was broken by a cautious voice drifting closer.

“Who’s at the door, Harry?” Remus Lupin’s calm, measured tone was laced with curiosity as he approached down the aisle.

“It’s Hermione!” Harry called back cheerfully, stepping aside to welcome the visitor. As the light from the corridor spilled into the compartment, Hermione’s parents appeared behind her, faces warm but tinged with the politeness of first meetings.

Harry straightened quickly, extending a hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, it’s truly wonderful to meet you,” he said carefully, aware of the weight the moment held.

Mrs. Granger smiled warmly, stepping forward. “It’s wonderful to meet you too, Harry. Hermione has spoken so often about you in her letters. It’s quite amusing,” she added with a gentle chuckle before lightly pinching Harry’s cheek in an affectionate gesture that made the boy flinch slightly.

“Mom!” Hermione’s cheeks flushed a rosy red as she swatted her mother’s hand away, cheeks warming further. Her father chuckled quietly in the background, watching the exchange with an amused gleam.

Mr. Granger stepped forward next. “We’re glad Hermione has such a good friend. And it’s comforting to know she’s in good company.”

Remus, who had now come fully into the compartment, nodded. “I’m Remus Lupin—Harry’s guardian. My husband is away at work tonight, but I assure you, Hermione has nothing to worry about. Harry is well looked after.”

As the adults continued their polite conversation, Harry gently tugged Hermione by the sleeve and led her away, laughter bubbling between them as they escaped into the safety of his private compartment.

They settled down, sitting cross-legged across from each other in the confined space, the hum of the train a distant backdrop. For a moment, silence hung between them, comfortable but filled with unspoken thoughts.

“So,” Harry finally broke the quiet, “did you do anything fun this week?”

Hermione shrugged, a wistful sigh escaping her lips. “Not much… mostly reading. I kind of miss Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded in agreement, a pang tightening his chest. Hogwarts did feel like home—chaotic, dangerous, but home nonetheless.

“Definitely don’t miss potions,” Hermione added with a smirk. “Snape’s a—well, you know.”

Before Harry could reply, Hermione playfully smacked him on the head with one of the well-worn comics he’d brought along.

“Harry James Potter!”

“Sorry!” Harry laughed, trying to dodge her playful swat as he backed toward the corner of the compartment.

Just then, Hermione’s eyes caught a glint—something shimmering faintly on Harry’s finger. Her brow furrowed, curiosity sharpening her expression.

Harry paused, his retreat halted by her gaze.

“Hey, Harry,” she asked, voice low and curious, “where did you get that ring? It’s beautiful, but it definitely doesn’t look like something from your family.”

She was right. The ring was unfamiliar to him too. It wasn’t the heirloom his parents had passed down. It was… different.

“I got it from Tom,” Harry admitted, watching her reaction carefully.

“Him? Riddle?” Hermione’s voice dropped to a cautious whisper. Harry nodded slowly.

“He gave it to me, said it was a way to contact him,” Harry explained.

Hermione reached out, gently taking his hand and lifting it to examine the ring more closely. Her eyes widened as her fingertips brushed the cold gold surface, which shimmered faintly—not with ordinary light, but with something darker, an almost imperceptible aura that seemed to pulse beneath the surface.

Hermione gasped softly, drawing back her hand.

“There’s something… strange about this ring. It feels… heavy, like it’s soaked in magic that’s not quite right. Dark magic, Harry.”

Harry’s face paled.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione hesitated, her eyes darting to meet his. “I don’t know exactly, but it’s dangerous. Whatever spell or curse is on that ring, it’s not something you want to keep close.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice broke through the quiet, sharp with concern, “did Riddle tell you what this ring really is?”

“No,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “He just said it was a way to reach him. That’s all.”

Hermione’s gaze lingered on the ring, then returned to Harry’s face, her expression serious.

“Harry, you need to be careful around him. Riddle isn’t like other students. He’s… obsessed. With the dark arts. With power. And this ring—it’s part of that obsession.”

Harry swallowed hard, memories flooding back. “When we met for our dueling lessons—Fridays in his dorm—he left me waiting alone sometimes. And while I waited, I saw the books he kept. Not the usual school textbooks. Dark, old books, full of dangerous knowledge. There was one I accidentally glimpsed the title of: ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art.’”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror.

“Do you think he uses magic to hide the titles?” she asked.

“Exactly. I think he charms the covers so no one knows what they really are,” Harry said.

For a long moment, Hermione said nothing. Harry’s chest tightened with anxiety under her intense scrutiny.

“Hermione?”

“Harry,” she said softly, reaching across the small space to squeeze his hand, “please promise me you’ll be careful. When we’re not there, when it’s just you and him—watch yourself. Don’t trust him.”

Harry’s eyes widened at her plea, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He thought back to the warnings he’d received before—from Draco, oddly enough—and now he understood them all too well.

He looked into Hermione’s honey-colored eyes and nodded, swallowing the knot of fear tightening in his throat.

Hermione gave a small, relieved smile and lowered her gaze, noticing the way Harry’s focus kept drifting back to the ring, his fingers unconsciously tracing its cool surface.

The darkness it held was subtle but undeniable—a silent reminder of the dangerous path he was treading, entangled with Tom Riddle’s secrets.

---

Harry sat cross-legged on his narrow bed, the soft light of the evening casting long shadows across the small dormitory room. His fingers carefully combed through Hedwig’s pristine white feathers, gently disentangling the tiny pinecone branches that had somehow caught in her plumage during their last flight outside the castle grounds. The owl preened contentedly, blinking her large amber eyes at him with quiet trust.

As Harry worked, he suddenly became aware of a subtle warmth spreading across his skin. His gaze flickered down to his left hand, where the gold ring rested on his slender finger. It was faint at first—like the gentle heat of sunlight on a cool morning—but almost instantly the warmth deepened, becoming more insistent.

Curious, Harry paused, letting his fingers brush lightly against the ring. The warmth grew steadily, spreading like wildfire beneath his skin until it scorched like a sudden flame licking at his flesh. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind. His breath hitched, a sharp yelp escaping his lips as the ring flared unbearably hot.

Frantically, he gripped the band and twisted, desperate to pull it free. His skin reddened instantly, the burning sting sharpening with every moment the ring remained. His heart thundered in his chest as he struggled, sweat gathering on his brow.

With a final, trembling yank, the ring slipped off his finger and clattered onto the wooden floor with a soft thud. Harry fell back on the bed, letting out a shaky breath, relief washing over him in heavy waves.

His fingers instinctively reached to rub the irritated skin, which now glowed faintly pink, the heat lingering as an uncomfortable reminder. His eyes drifted downward to the ring lying just beyond the edge of his bed.

What he saw made his breath catch.

The ring pulsed with a golden light that seemed to shimmer and ripple, as if it held a living flame trapped beneath its polished surface. The glow ebbed and flowed rhythmically, casting flickering patterns of light and shadow onto the floorboards.

Harry’s heart hammered in confusion and unease. This was no ordinary ring. Something ancient, something alive with magic—and dark magic—throbbed inside it. It whispered to him through the heat and light, tugging at something deep within his mind.

For a long moment, Harry simply stared, torn between fascination and fear.

The ring was more than a gift. It was a warning.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes remained fixed on the ring, its golden glow pulsing softly in the dim light of the dormitory. The cold gleam mocked him, a cruel reminder of the searing pain it had inflicted moments before—burning his skin, leaving a stubborn sting that still throbbed faintly in his finger.

His lips pressed into a hard line as he narrowed his gaze, silently glaring at the cursed band. With a flick of his wand, the ring rose slowly from the floor, suspended in midair by a gentle shimmer of magic. He moved it deliberately across the room, careful not to let the radiant heat touch anything flammable.

Finally, Harry set the ring down on the glass tabletop near the far wall—solid and unyielding, a safe barrier between the burning artifact and the fragile wooden floor beneath it.

He pulled the wand from beneath his pillow, feeling its reassuring weight in his hand, and turned toward the window. Outside, the glossy moon hung high in the ink-black sky, its silver light spilling softly over the snow-covered grounds. The world was hushed beneath its glow, peaceful, untouched by the turmoil swirling inside Harry’s mind.

Tonight was Yule Eve.

The Malfoy Manor would be alive with opulence and whispered schemes, chandeliers dripping with crystal light, and robed figures gliding through gilded halls. The Yule Ball—the glittering event that Harry had vowed not to attend.

Just yesterday, he and Hermione had talked quietly in the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of melting butter and chocolate filling the air as they baked batch after batch of cookies with Sirius. They’d laughed as a stray flower found its way into each of their hair, a silly reminder of a simpler joy amidst the tension around them. Plates heaped with warm chocolate chip cookies sat waiting on the counter, tokens of fleeting happiness.

But this morning, Hermione had left. Her parents had come early to collect her for breakfast, leaving Harry alone with the silence that now felt heavy and unyielding.

He glanced back at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven thirty-two.

He hadn’t shown up at the Yule Ball. Not tonight. Not even a word to his godparents about his decision. He knew Sirius would have argued endlessly if he’d mentioned it—his protective tone warning about the gathering of dark wizards, the thick air of pureblood supremacy suffocating the grand manor.

The ring pulsed again on the glass, and those words echoed relentlessly in Harry’s mind, each repetition a slow, insistent drum: “You could say it is a way to contact me.”

Could Tom really use that ring to reach him? To summon him when the shadows grew too heavy? How? Harry shivered at the thought.

He knew Tom was desperate—on edge—frantic beneath his smooth, controlled exterior.

But Harry had made his choice. He hadn’t told Tom he wouldn’t come. He wanted to watch that hope flicker briefly before shattering. The faint smirk tugged at his lips. He was certain he had ruined Tom’s night.

He lifted the heavy covers of his narrow bed, slipping beneath the worn quilt that smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment. He drew the covers up to his chin, curling onto his side as the weight of exhaustion pressed down on his limbs.

His glasses found their place on the nightstand, catching a stray gleam of moonlight.

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered closed.

The world around him slipped away.

And Harry fell into the fragile silence of sleep, suspended between the hopes of tomorrow and the fears of the darkness that awaited.

---

That night, Harry dreamed.

Not of Tom — not the cold, calculating boy who delighted in cruelty — but of something far darker, far more personal.

A nightmare that clawed its way from the deepest corners of his mind.

"Boy!" the voice snarled like a beast in the shadows, sharp and unforgiving. The sound echoed through a cramped, suffocating kitchen.

Four-year-old Harry froze, terror paralyzing his limbs. The smell of burnt bacon hung thick in the air, mingling with fear.

"You better not burn that bacon, or I’ll have your head for it!" the voice thundered again.

Harry’s small hands trembled as he worked faster, desperate not to fail, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.

Then—horror.

The pan slipped from his grasp, crashing onto the floor with a deafening clatter.

Everything fell silent, save for the steady pounding of his own frightened heartbeat.

His wide eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out. But none came.

Suddenly, his world tilted.

Pain exploded across the back of his head as he was thrown violently to the ground.

The world blurred, the edges of his vision smeared with hot tears.

He cried out, helpless, his sobs wracking his tiny frame.

The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt — sharp, relentless, an unbearable tempest tearing through his fragile body.

"Shut up, freak!" The voice spat venomously. "Such a freaky mistake. I ought to pound that magic right out of you."

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Each blow landed with a sickening thud, shattering more than just flesh.

Break.

Break.

Break.

His sobs mixed with the harsh sounds of his body fracturing beneath merciless hands.

Blood — thick, dark, and warm — pooled beneath him, soaking into the cold marble floor.

He tried to plead, to beg for mercy, but his voice was weak, barely a whisper against the storm of violence.

"Vernon! Oh my God... Oh my God! There's... there's so much blood, Vernon!" a voice cried out in the distance, panicked and trembling.

But Harry’s world had shrunk to the unbearable agony coursing through his head — the grinding, shattering pain as bones in his face splintered and crumbled like glass.

His tiny body, fragile and broken, trembled beneath the weight of the cruelty.

The blood loss was rapid, a river escaping from a shattered dam.

His strength was draining away, the dark edges of consciousness creeping closer.

Then, with a sudden shove, the heavy hand released him like a plague carrier, tossing him aside as if he were nothing.

Harry gasped for air, sobbing into the cold floor, clutching at the agony in his body.

But the reprieve was brief.

The hand grabbed him once more, yanking him to his feet.

His body jerked violently as he was dragged through the house, a puppet in a cruel show.

Finally, he was thrown onto a hard floor, covered only by a thin, grimy mattress.

A rusty lock clicked shut behind him.

"No food or water for a week and a half, freak!" the voice spat with bitter venom. "No restroom breaks for a week, too, because of the mess you made in the kitchen, you filthy brat."

The footsteps faded, leaving him alone in the suffocating darkness, pain pulsing through every inch of his broken body.

Only the pounding of his heart and his ragged sobs filled the silence.

The nightmare clung to Harry’s mind like a shadow as he jerked awake, soaked in cold sweat, heart pounding like a drum.

The past never truly let him go.

---

The little eight-year-old's eyes widened as he watched from the hall entrance as a meaty woman engulfed her uncle in a tight hug before hugging his older cousin, then walked in with a vicious dog. The younger boy gulped.

"Oh Vernon, it has been a long while, hasn't it?" The women let out a loud, ghastly laugh as she pushed between the two that stood by the door to greet her.

"Oh yes, it has, my dear Marge, we've been waiting ages for you. We've prepared a nice dinner just for you. Petunia has it all set." He nodded at his wife. She smiled in agreement. Marge made a sound of appreciation. She then stopped and looked around.

"Where's the boy?"

His uncle stumbled before clearing his voice. "FREAK GET IN HERE, MARGE HAS ARRIVED."

Harry's eyes widened once again. He stumbled to get into view. He then met the eyes of a woman who looked like his uncle, but the opposite gender.

"Ah dear Harry, it has been a while since I've seen you." The women smiled sickly, and Harry paled.

"I demand an answer, boy." She sneered.

"It-it's good to see you at-again aunt Marge."

"Much better. Now take him away." Vernon made his way towards the boy who froze in his place, but then the women stopped him.

"Actually, Harry," she smiled at the boy, voice now sickly sweet. "Why don't you take Ripper to your now.. little play pen? He needs a friend." She snapped her hand to Vernon, who took the leash, dumbfounded. His eyes slightly widened as he got the idea, then his lips twisted into a sickly smile.

"Oh, you're correct, dear Marge. Harry sits in his play pen alone. We don't allow that freak near anywhere our little Dudders. We don't want him to spread his freakiness to our little boy. I bet Ripper will... get rid of the freakiness in him." He met his sister's sick smile. Harry had deadly paled. He trembled in horror. He looked at his aunt Petunia, who did not meet his gaze, but had a sneer plastered on her face. Dudley laughed at the boy as his uncle stormed towards him and picked him up by his collar. He was dragged to his cabinet that has been his room for the past 7 years, and threw the boy in, then pushed the dog in before locking the two in together.

Harry couldn't see anything, but he heard the growl that very close to him. 

Then pain ran up his spine.

Harry wailed as the dog bit down harshly on his fingers, drawing blood. The blood flew at a steady pace, like a waterfall down his fingertips, to the dirty mattress under them. He felt the tendons that were once been there snap as the dogs' teeth bit through them.

"Please stop!" He begged the dog, sobbing as the dog pounced on him.

It bit his nose next. Harry screamed.

The dogs jagged teeth pierced through the cartilage of his nose, which his eyes widened as he felt the dog's teeth touching the Septum, but thankfully did not pierce through that. Instead, the dog removed his teeth to only bite down cruelly in the center of his arm. Harry let out another throbbing bawl. Tears ran down his face, struggling to shallow down a still beating heart. His eyes, bloodshot and red. His throat was closing up. It was torment. The agony of pain he felt in his arm as the knifelike teeth sunk deeply into the interosseous membrane. Fire burned inside of Harry. It blew up in him with a terrifying blankness. It was nauseating. It felt like as one burned his arm and added salt to the wound. He threw his head backwards, which collided hard with the wall, sending him into more agony. He bit his lip to prevent anymore pained noises from escaping him, not wanting to be punished further. 

Then Ripper did something unexpected.

He ripped the muscle of his arms.

Pain laces through him, it courses through his body like a sharp knife to his gut. He screamed.

The dog now moved down to his thigh, ripping through his pants and biting his quadriceps. Another agonizing scream pierced his lips. This dog was going to shred him to pieces. He tried to pry the dog off, only to stop in terror, eyes widened in terror as he look at the damage done to his arms and hands.

He could see the bones on his arm, the missing muscle between the Radius and Ulna, and the tendons that held his mucosa and bones together, nowhere to be found in his hands. He cradled his wounded arms. 

He bawled, bawled, bawled as the dog continues to maul him alive.

The pain robbed him of rational thought

He prayed. He prayed, and prayed, and prayed for a miracle to save him from the life he was living from. He prayed for the pain to stop and never to return. He prayed for the punishments to stop and disappear. He prayed for someone to love him. He prayed for someone to to care for him. He prayed for a better life. Anything was better than this. He prayed for his mom and dad. He begged and begged for them. Sore, croaky cries came from the eight-year-old who was begging for his mom and dad, who could never reach out to him. He cried for his mom; he cried, wanting to hug her and cry all his troubles away to her. He cried for his father; he cried wanting a hug from the man, too. He cried, begging for his parents' comfort. He wanted to see his mom's fire red hair and the green eyes he inherited from her from the pictures he's seen. He wanted to see his dad, who he took his looks after, wanting to see the messy, inky black hair he inherited. He wanted his parents so much. More than ever right now. He cried even harder knowing that he'll never be able to hold them like his cousin, Dudley, holds and hugs his mom and dad. He knows he'll never get to experience any of that with his parents. That's because they're dead. He'll never see them. He'll never hold them. He'll never kiss them. He'll never laugh with them. He'll never hug them. He'll never bake with them. He'll never feel the love from them. He'll never see their beautiful faces. Their beautiful smiles. He'll never experience parent love. He'll never experience love.

He's tried. He's tried to be a good nephew, a good cousin. He's tried to be a good person. But trying wasn't good enough. His family'll never love him. He's tired. He's so tired of trying. Trying never gets him anywhere. It only gets him hurt. He suffered so many punishments for being a freak. He just wanted to be normal. He just wanted to love.

Harry cried and cried, knowing faith wouldn't allow him to have any of those things. He just cried as he felt the bloody mess he was being turned into. The smell of iron filled the small space of the cabinet, and he was pretty sure it spilled over his bed and blankets and onto the floor. He sobbed even more, knowing that he'll be punished for the mess he created later.

After what felt like years, the dog got off him and curled up in the cabinet's corner, falling into a deep sleep. 

Harry's small trembling hand reached up, hoping the light had a little more battery left, and turned it on.

He was going to hurl. He gagged as he explored his body. Some places missing muscle, others having broken bones that could be seen. Harry brought his knees up to his chest and sobbed in pain because of the quadriceps and triceps muscles being damaged or missing. He rested his head on his knees and just cried. He cried, and cried, and cried, wondering why he was cursed. He was tired of the constant pain.

He wanted this to be over.

Harry jumped up, screaming. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. They plastered his hands to his face as he viciously wiped away the tears.

The darkness was once only the light turned on, along with a door slamming against the wall and hurried footsteps coming towards him.

"Harry? Harry? Are you alright?" Arms wrapped around him, bringing him to sturdy chest as he cried his eyes out.

"Harry? Prongslet?" A hand on his shoulder. He cried in relief. He was free. He was out of that hellhole. He was safe. They cared him for. When he prayed for that miracle, he thought it would never come. But it did. It came 2 years later. He hugged the other tighter.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you." He babbled in a daze in Remus' nightshirt. The couple shared a look of confusion and concern.

On the glass table away from the trio, the ring rested on. The ring that once geared gold, now gleamed an angry orange as if could sense Harry's fear and pain.

---

The nightmares of his past continued on for the rest of his break. He talked to Sirius and Remus about them every time he has them. He cried, explaining the torment he had to face at his relative's house. He cried to his godparents, thanking them for saving him. They hushed the boy, saying he does not need to thank them, but Harry believes otherwise.

Now, Harry sat in the train compartment with his friends who bickered, and talked about what they did over the holidays. Harry talked a bit before falling asleep during the rest of the ride. The ring on his ring gleamed gold for a second before returning to its normal state.

---

He didn’t attend the welcoming feast. He lacked the strength, the social energy, the will to be anywhere but alone. Instead, Harry sat on his bed in silence, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his limbs like chains.

Fatigue wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. His eyes burned with tiredness, his limbs heavy and slow. Every breath felt like a battle against the pull of sleep that threatened to consume him whole.

Since Yule Eve, nightmares had stolen his nights. But these were no ordinary nightmares — no fleeting shadows of fear that vanished with morning light. No. These were vivid, relentless reenactments of horrors he had truly lived. His mind replayed the darkest moments spent under the roof of those relatives, where abuse had been his only companion.

Nightmares made of blood, pain, and broken hope.

He lived them all over again — the punishments, the cruelty inflicted simply because he was different. Because he was magic.

His relatives had sought to drain that magic out of him, treating the gift inside like a poison that needed to be purged. They wanted the crimson liquid — thicker than water — to spill onto the floor, to leave behind a “normal” child. A muggle. Their hatred burned hotter than any spell.

But they could not succeed.

For every drop they tried to extract, another challenge waited close behind — Death itself.

No, they could not kill him outright. Not without consequence. Not without dark witches and wizards intervening.

So they chose a more insidious route.

They weakened him.

They treated him worse than slave or beast. Harry cooked and cleaned, planted and paid the price for his existence with bruises and broken bones. Every punishment was a twisted expression of their hatred — a message that freaks deserved to bleed, to suffer, to beg.

They fed on his cries.

“Harry.”

The voice hissed like a serpent, laced with malice.

He sighed, heart sinking. He knew he was in trouble.

A chill filled the common room, the temperature plunging from warmth to bone-deep freezing. Harry shivered violently, anxiety twisting his stomach into knots.

There was only one person whose magic could twist the air so cruelly — dark, suffocating, overwhelming. The aura that wrapped around him like a weighted blanket — never comforting, only hot and suffocating.

Harry grasped the bedposts desperately as the invisible pressure settled over his chest, making it harder to breathe. His teeth ground together painfully, the sound echoing like a warning.

Then the other barked a furious command and raised their wand.

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Tom, hold on!” he shrieked as the wand lifted, aiming cold and sharp at his throat.

“How dare you not show up at the Malfoy Ball?” Tom’s voice was ice and fire, low and menacing. “You left me humiliated in front of my allies.”

Tom stepped closer, the tip of his wand pressing hard against Harry’s neck.

Harry took faltering steps backward, voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t make it.”

The wand pushed deeper into his skin.

“I would have told you, but I didn’t know how!”

Tom’s eyes darkened, flickering with resentment and fury. His grip on the wand did not waver. The pressure grew, and suddenly Harry felt a crushing force — as if invisible hands squeezed his throat, cutting off air.

He gasped, clawing at his own neck, coughing and choking.

His vision blurred.

Tom’s magic swirled around them — a dangerous, living storm — thick and heavy as a whirlpool. The invisible grip tightened, relentless and furious.

Yet Tom’s smile was cruel, malicious.

Harry panicked, struggling to retreat, but the boy’s cold eyes held him prisoner.

Books floated, swirling in a violent dance around the room. Curtains ripped free from their rails, fluttering wildly like trapped birds.

Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, bracing for a barrage of flying objects — but the storm suddenly froze in place.

A silence fell — heavy and tense.

Harry cracked open one eye, then the other, and gasped.

The books and curtains hovered, motionless, suspended by Tom’s will alone.

Tom leaned close, breath warm and faint against Harry’s ear, letting out a soft, amused chuckle.

Shivers crawled down Harry’s spine.

The warmth of Tom’s breath, the tangy scent of his skin — it was so close, so intimate — yet twisted with something darker.

Harry’s heart hammered wildly.

He froze, caught between fear and fascination.

Tom’s whisper broke the silence, low and deadly.

“Liar.”

Before Harry could react, a firm hand grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him roughly into eye contact with the boy’s icy gaze.

—

“Hey, Harry,” she asked, voice low and curious, “where did you get that ring? It’s beautiful, but it definitely doesn’t look like something from your family.”

She was right. The ring was unfamiliar to him too. It wasn’t the heirloom his parents had passed down. It was… different.

“I got it from Tom,” Harry admitted, watching her reaction carefully.

—

"Riddle invited me to the Malfoy Yule ball."

"What!"

"I'm not going!"

"Why not?"

"I don't feel like balls are for me, and I want to piss him off for breaking his promise."

—

"I'm worried about what he's in involved in and what could happen to my family if I went."

—

Hermione’s gaze lingered on the ring, then returned to Harry’s face, her expression serious.

“Harry, you need to be careful around him. Riddle isn’t like other students. He’s… obsessed. With the dark arts. With power. And this ring—it’s part of that obsession.”

Harry swallowed hard, memories flooding back. “When we met for our dueling lessons—Fridays in his dorm—he left me waiting alone sometimes. And while I waited, I saw the books he kept. Not the usual school textbooks. Dark, old books, full of dangerous knowledge. There was one I accidentally glimpsed the title of: ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art.’”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror.

—

“Harry,” she said softly, reaching across the small space to squeeze his hand, “please promise me you’ll be careful. When we’re not there, when it’s just you and him—watch yourself. Don’t trust him.”

—

Agonizing pain exploded throughout Harry’s head, relentless and raw, even when he dared to look away from Tom’s unyielding gaze.

He crumpled to the floor, collapsing onto his side, curling inward like a wounded animal. Whimpers escaped his trembling lips as he clutched his pounding skull. Tears welled and spilled, darkening the green and silver carpet beneath him—stains of silent suffering. He hadn’t felt pain this sharp since his aunt had beaten him bloody with a frying pan for failing to scrub away grease.

"You knew," Tom’s voice hissed, low and cold.

Harry’s breath caught as expensive shoes appeared before his face—shoes belonging to no one but Tom Riddle.

"You knew, and you told."

Tom’s voice sharpened, frantic, accusing.

"You knew about the kind of magic I use, and you told someone else. A mudblood."

Harry’s voice cracked but held firm. “Don’t call her that.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, icy and cruel.

"Why? Am I offending you, Harry?"

Harry blinked, opening his mouth to protest, but Tom cut him off.

"Did I offend you by calling your friend a mudblood?" Tom circled him like a predator stalking prey. "She is one. Dirty blood coursing through weak veins." The words spat out venomous, and Harry flinched.

"You told a mudblood that I study dark magic, without thinking of the consequences?" Tom stopped before him again, eyes burning. "You told another student—one who attends this school, a school of 'light,' a school against the dark arts. They even have a defense class for it. And I, who taught you one of the best ways to duel, was betrayed by you."

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

"You told them how I use dark magic like it was nothing. You didn’t consider that she might tell the headmaster. Did you think of that?"

Harry said nothing.

Tom’s gaze bored into him.

"You’ve heard about the curses spreading through Hogwarts, haven’t you?" Harry nodded hesitantly.

"If she tells Dumbledore, they’ll come down hard on Slytherin. They’ll punish us for hiding our magic. I already suspect the headmaster suspects me—this would confirm everything. It would ruin us all. Especially me. Do you want that, Harry?"

Harry shook his head, fear tightening his chest.

"Then you must be punished."

The coldness in Tom’s voice brooked no argument.

"I cannot always be merciful. Even to you."

Harry’s eyes widened, dread tightening like a noose.

"Crucio."

A scream tore from Harry’s throat, sharp and piercing, reverberating off the walls of the room.

Pain surged through his body like liquid fire, burning skin and bone alike. It was as if a thousand boiling knives dragged mercilessly across every inch of him, ripping flesh anew in places already scarred. The agony was endless, rising with his cries and screams until it abruptly ceased.

Harry’s body convulsed from the curse’s aftermath, but his sobs persisted, raw and ragged. He curled into himself, trembling, pleading silently for the torment to end.

A hard hand descended on his hair, rough and indifferent, running through his black locks before yanking away.

He was lifted off the ground, not with warmth, but cold authority.

His face was shoved against Tom’s chest — not an embrace, but possession. Tom’s fingers tangled in Harry’s hair again, his touch not soothing, but possessive, demanding.

Only Harry’s broken sobs filled the vast silence of the Slytherin common room.

Chapter Text

TWS!!!!!!!!

contains: (mentions of) child neglect, scars, PTSD, panic attacks, eating order/ prevention, trauma, emotional abuse,

Harry watched Professor Quirrell with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as the nervous man struggled to maintain control of the lesson. The usual stammer in Quirrell’s voice seemed amplified by excitement, or perhaps nerves, as he announced today’s plan.

“We’re going to duel in pairs today,” Quirrell said, his voice wavering slightly but gaining strength as he continued. “I haven’t allowed dueling since... well, since the incident between two first years.” He swallowed hard and glanced around the room, cheeks flushed. “A Gryffindor and a Slytherin tried to combine Bombarda and Incendio in their duel, and it backfired spectacularly. There was a huge explosion of fire, and several students were injured. The two duelers… well, they ended up with severe third-degree burns, shattered bones, and pinched nerves. They were immediately sent to St. Mungo’s. It was a grim lesson for all of us.”

Harry’s mind flickered to those two students — kids who had no real idea what they were doing, caught in the chaos of magic wielded without control or understanding. Dueling was dangerous. Mistakes could leave scars, or worse.

Quirrell cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Now, pairs! Rosier and Potter, you’re up. Please begin your duel — and remember, friendly spells only!”

Harry nodded and rose from his seat, his thoughts briefly flashing to Tom Riddle and the far more serious dueling that Harry had learned about outside this classroom. This wasn’t just practice — sometimes, dueling could be a fight for survival.

Approaching Rosier, Harry noted the older boy’s scowl. Rosier’s arms were crossed, his pale face set in a permanent sneer that seemed to say, I’m better than you and I don’t care if you know it.

“Finally, Potter,” Rosier grumbled. “We don’t have all day. I still have other things to do.”

“Just bow, Rosier,” Harry replied with a grin.

The brunette let out an exasperated breath but reluctantly lowered his head in a stiff bow. Harry matched it with a bow of his own.

They assumed defensive stances, feet planted, wands at the ready.

Rosier struck first.

“Impedimenta!” he shouted sharply, sending a thick, shimmering net of magic rushing toward Harry.

Harry barely had time to react, flicking his wand with precision to block the spell. The net shattered harmlessly against his shield.

Without wasting a second, Harry conjured a handful of brilliant red flares, letting them dance and swirl around Rosier’s head like a living crown of firelight. The flares didn’t burn; they simply moved with hypnotic grace, weaving in and out, their flickering light catching Rosier’s eyes.

The older boy blinked, momentarily distracted and off balance.

Harry seized the opportunity.

“Stupefy!” he called, sending a stunning spell that hit Rosier squarely in the chest.

Rosier froze mid-step, his mouth opening slightly in surprise.

Before Rosier could recover, Harry raised his wand again.

“Expelliarmus!”

Rosier’s wand flew from his grasp and landed in Harry’s outstretched hand.

Harry smirked triumphantly, holding the wand aloft. “Looks like I win.”

Rosier’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shot Harry a glare full of grudging respect mixed with irritation.

Professor Quirrell clapped his hands together, a genuine smile breaking across his face for the first time that lesson.

“Excellent work, Harry! You chose your spells well. Friendly spells that don’t harm your classmate but still secure victory. That’s the true art of dueling.”

He turned to the rest of the class, voice gaining confidence.

“Now, students, listen closely. You don’t always need to rely on powerful curses or destructive magic to win a duel. Often, the best spell is the one that unsettles your opponent, disrupts their focus, or outmaneuvers them strategically. Confidence, quick thinking, and creativity — those are just as important as power.”

Harry’s mind drifted as the professor spoke, the words true but only part of the story.

This was a controlled lesson, a safe space to practice skills with classmates who meant no real harm.

But dueling in the real world was a far darker affair.

Harry’s memories flashed to the nights spent training with Tom Riddle, where lessons in magic came with an unspoken warning — knowledge was power, but power was a weapon that could cut deep.

He thought about the whispered spells, the subtle manipulations, the need to read every twitch, every glance, every shift in an opponent’s stance.

Distracting an enemy wasn’t just about winning a classroom game. It was about survival.

Harry could almost feel the pressure of real combat again — the adrenaline, the sharp need to anticipate every move, every hex, every curse.

You could never let your guard down.

Every duel could be your last.

Protecting yourself, protecting others — that was the lesson Harry carried with him far beyond the classroom walls.

The rest of Quirrell’s lesson faded into background noise.

Harry sat back down and let his mind wander, replaying every spell, every strategy.

He watched as the other students practiced their duels, some clumsy, some more skilled, but all learning.

Rosier sat silently, still scowling but quieter now.

Harry caught a brief glance from him — a flash of respect, or perhaps rivalry.

The lesson ended, but Harry remained seated a moment longer, lost in thought.

Dueling was more than a class. It was a chess game of light and shadow.

And Harry had no intention of ever being caught off guard again.

---

“That was implausible, and leaden! You only know those spells because Riddle has been giving you dueling lessons,” Hermione snapped, her voice a blend of sharp disbelief and admiration. Her arms crossed tightly as she eyed Harry with a curious intensity, her dark brows knitting in fascination.

Harry allowed a slow, wry smile to twitch at the corner of his mouth, the weight behind it far heavier than it seemed. “Well, yeah. Partially true. Some of those spells, he taught me. The others, we learned in class—Expelliarmus, Stupefy—those are standard, right? Sirius told me I’m a natural at dueling.” His voice carried a hint of pride, but beneath it simmered something else — the weariness of lessons learned in shadow, far beyond any classroom.

Abraxas Malfoy, strolling beside them with his usual smug expression, smirked faintly but said nothing. They were on their way to lunch, the castle buzzing with students streaming toward the Great Hall. The scents of roast beef and pumpkin juice drifted faintly through the stone corridors, but Harry’s appetite was absent, swallowed by the tightening knot of his chest.

“How’s Sirius?” Abraxas asked, lowering his voice slightly as they passed a tapestry of a dragon. “Mother’s been asking about him. She said he hasn’t owled her for over two weeks.”

Harry’s gaze darkened, the shadow of worry flitting across his green eyes. “Remus owled me a few days ago. Sirius’s been on an Auror mission in Ireland, almost three weeks now.”

Abraxas nodded once, lips pressed in a thin line.

Harry excused himself and made his way toward the Slytherin table. The hall was nearly full, voices rising and falling like a tide. He slid into his usual seat near the window, the chill from the glass biting at his skin through his robes. He placed a small plate before him, spooning a few bites of black pudding, but the food barely touched his tongue.

His eyes swept over the faces around him—Rosier, Nott, and the rest clustered in animated conversation—but Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen. A cold pang settled deep inside Harry’s chest.

Tom had grown distant in recent weeks. Their dueling lessons stopped abruptly in early December, following that terrifying night when Tom had trapped him in their dorm room and unleashed the Cruciatus curse. The memory flared, raw and relentless.

He shoved the food aside and rose, footsteps echoing softly as he crossed the room toward the Ravenclaw table where Hermione and Neville were deep in conversation.

“Hey, guys,” Harry greeted, trying for casual.

Neville gave a shy wave. “Hey, Harry.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “I heard about your duel with Malfoy in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It’s the talk of the school. I’m proud of you.”

Harry’s smile was small, almost brittle. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

Neville leaned in and whispered to Hermione, who hesitated before blurting, “Ronald Weasley asked me to be friends.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “You’re joking?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Hermione retorted with a sharp glare.

Before tensions could rise, Neville interrupted nervously. “Guys—we have a visitor.”

Harry turned slowly, and the air shifted.

Tom Riddle entered the hall.

The room seemed to darken, voices faltering as eyes turned toward him. He moved with a predatory grace, his robes whispering against the floor, hair curling perfectly, framing his pale, sharp features like a mask of ice.

His eyes, cold and piercing, locked onto Harry’s. The chill in those blue depths reached straight for his heart.

Behind Tom, Rosier and Nott followed, but Harry’s gaze never wavered.

“Can we help you, Riddle?” Harry asked, voice steady but wary.

Tom’s gaze flicked briefly to his companions, exchanging quick worried glances, before returning to Harry. “The older prefects instructed us to return housemates to their tables.”

Harry saw the lie as clearly as daylight.

The three houses mingled at meals, a rare sign of unity, but the Gryffindors resisted.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice dropped low, cold as a blade. “Return to the Slytherin table now.”

Harry’s lip curled. “Who are you to tell me what to do? You’re no prefect, no head, no professor or headmaster. You have no power over me. Leave me alone.”

Shock flickered in Tom’s icy eyes. No one disobeyed Tom Riddle in Slytherin.

Suddenly, Tom’s hand snapped out and gripped Harry’s collar with a strength that squeezed the air from his lungs. Harry’s eyes widened in alarm.

Tom leaned in, breath cold as death fanning over Harry’s ear.

“Harry,” he whispered, voice a dangerous hiss, “follow me.”

Before Harry could resist, he was yanked roughly to his feet. Tom’s hand slid from his collar to the small of his back, shoving him out of the Great Hall.

“I’ll be back soon, Nott, Rosier,” Tom called over his shoulder. The two boys nodded and melted away toward the Slytherin table.

Outside, the corridor stretched long and dark.

Tom shoved Harry again, making him stumble. Harry caught himself with the reflexes honed by years on the Quidditch pitch.

Then, without warning, Tom pressed his chest hard against Harry’s back, pinning him to the cold stone wall. A shiver rippled through Harry, but not just from the chill.

“Tom, get off. I don’t want anyone to see,” Harry whispered, struggling not to sound afraid.

“You’re such a brat,” Tom hissed into his ear, voice low and venomous.

“I’m not a brat,” Harry spat back louder than he intended. “I just don’t like being bossed around. Wonder who does.” He jabbed an elbow into Tom’s gut and felt a sharp pinch in return.

“Brat,” Tom muttered again, dark amusement in his eyes.

“I’m not!” Harry snapped, pinching back.

Their childish bickering shattered when Tom spun Harry around to face him. Their faces were inches apart, the corridor shadows cutting harsh lines over their pale skin.

Tom’s eyes gleamed with a cruel mixture of amusement and menace.

“I wanted to let you know I didn’t mean to use the Cruciatus curse on you,” Tom said quietly, voice laced with something like regret. “I was upset.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “No apology?”

“I don’t do apologies, Harry.”

“Well, I want one.”

Tom’s magic stirred around them, dark and restless, like a living beast in a cage.

“What?” Harry said, stepping closer, “You don’t repeat yourself.”

“Harry,” Tom hissed, tightening his grip on Harry’s arm until bruises bloomed—a warning.

“I don’t care, Tom! I suffered for weeks after that curse because I couldn’t just say ‘Hey, I got hit with Cruciatus. Need healing potions.’” Harry’s frustration poured out like wildfire. Tom’s glare sharpened, hand constricting.

“I want an apology.”

Tom said nothing.

“Unbelievable,” Harry scoffed, pushing him away. But Tom caught his shoulder again.

“No one. I have never apologized in my life. If you think you deserve one because you’re a Parselmouth, you’re wrong. I have nothing to apologize for.”

Harry’s fury ignited.

“I’m eleven years old. I got hit with a dark curse I couldn’t defend against! Half the spells you taught me I can’t perform! You can’t control me like the rest of Slytherin or charm others like Hufflepuff. I’m not fooled by your looks or charm, Riddle. I know who you are. I don’t know everything, but I know you’re planning something big. Don’t think you can fool me.”

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

“Do you really know my tricks, Harry?” He stepped forward again, and Harry instinctively took a step back. Tom closed the gap until they stood chest to chest, the clash of their icy blue and deep green eyes sharp as knives.

“But you’re right. I am planning something. And I want you on my side. It will earn you respect. A mighty place in our world.”

Harry’s face twisted in disgust.

“By your side? Respect? What do you mean?”

“You can refuse now. You’re too young to understand. But I will ask again, when you’re older. And even if you refuse, I will secure your place in society. Equal to mine. As all of Salazar Slytherin’s line will.”

Tom’s grin turned sickly as he straightened, towering over Harry.

“I will have you by my side,” he whispered. “May I see you next school year, Harry Potter?”

Then, without another word, Tom Marvolo Riddle vanished into the shadows of the corridor, leaving a chill that settled deep in Harry’s bones.

Harry’s chest heaved. The cold air pressed in on him, heavy with silence and secrets. His fingers tingled where Tom had bruised his skin, but it was the chill in his soul that burned hottest. The boy who was supposed to be his mentor, his friend—if only a dark, twisted one—had just made a promise and a threat.

As Harry stood alone in the corridor, a thousand questions spun in his mind. What exactly was Tom planning? Why had he singled him out? Could he ever refuse? Or was the boy already too far tangled in shadows?

The castle seemed darker now, colder, the walls whispering secrets that only Harry and Tom could hear.

And somewhere deep inside, something fragile began to break.

--Harry remained pressed against the cold stone wall long after Tom disappeared into the shadows. The echoes of the corridor seemed to mock him with their emptiness, but inside his head, a storm raged—a tempest of fear, confusion, and something far darker: fascination.

He shook his bruised arm gently, wincing at the sharp sting. The physical pain was easy to pinpoint, but the ache in his chest was something more complex, something deeper.

Why does he want me? the question gnawed.

He had never wanted to admit it aloud, even to himself, but Tom Riddle was like a force of nature—unrelenting, dangerous, and intoxicating. The older boy’s words echoed: “I want you by my side.” It sounded like an offer, but it felt like a command.

---

It wasn’t always like this.

When Tom had first approached him, months ago, Harry had been wary but intrigued. The boy with the perfect curls and unnerving gaze had offered to teach him—teach him something no one else dared: dark magic. The very thing the school whispered about in fearful tones.

Their first lesson had taken place in an empty classroom, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle. Tom stood by the window, backlit, his figure casting a long shadow.

“You want power,” Tom said simply, voice soft but firm. “Not just the spells taught in class. Not just Expelliarmus and Stupefy. Real power.”

Harry remembered nodding, the thrill of something forbidden tugging at his heart.

Tom had demonstrated a simple hex—Serpensortia. A snake slithered from his wand, twisting and coiling.

“Control,” Tom whispered. “Control over life, over fear, over death.”

Harry had watched, mesmerized, wanting to understand that control.

But as the lesson progressed, a line was crossed. Tom’s teaching wasn’t just about spells. It was about obedience, submission, and power wielded like a blade.

“Feel the magic within you,” Tom had said, stepping close enough that Harry could smell the faint scent of peppermint on his breath. “You are stronger than you know. Don’t waste it by playing nice.”

Harry had felt something cold curl in his stomach. It was thrilling—and terrifying.

---

Now, months later, Harry felt caught between two worlds.

There was the life his godparents tried to build for him—safe, warm, full of love. The laughter of Sirius, the calm strength of Remus, the protective care of Lily and James who had never truly left him. But the nightmares clawed back, dragging him under to dark places he wanted to forget.

Then there was Tom—the boy who knew every secret scar, every fractured bone, every whispered cry that haunted Harry’s nights.

Tom’s magic was suffocating at times, like a thick fog pressing down on Harry’s chest, making it hard to breathe. And yet, it was the only constant.

Harry’s mind flitted to the night when Tom had used the Cruciatus curse on him. The pain had been unbearable—fire stabbing through nerves, twisting flesh, tearing into bones. But more than the physical torment, it was the cold absence of mercy that had frozen Harry’s heart.

No apology. No remorse. Just power.

And yet, even after that, Harry had gone back.

---

It was after the feast, the castle quiet but alive with shadows. Tom had waited in the library’s restricted section, his eyes glowing faintly as he beckoned Harry over.

“Tonight, I’ll teach you something more,” Tom had said, voice low, magnetic. “The power to protect yourself—and to dominate.”

The lesson had been brutal.

Tom demonstrated a Cruciatus curse, forcing Harry to endure its searing agony. Then he made Harry repeat the incantation, his voice trembling but determined.

“Good,” Tom had said, approvingly. “Pain is a lesson. You will learn to use it. To wield it.”

Harry had left that night shaken, broken in ways no one could see. But also strangely exhilarated. He had tasted power—and power tasted like fire.

---

Harry’s fingers tightened into fists at his sides. He hated the way Tom made him feel—both vulnerable and invincible.

He hated how every time he pushed back, Tom only tightened his grip, like a snake coiling tighter around its prey.

And yet, a small, stubborn part of Harry wanted to believe Tom’s promise—that by his side, he could be more than broken bones and whispered nightmares. That he could be respected. Powerful.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the dangerous thoughts. He was eleven. Too young for this. Too young to be ensnared by darkness.

But the shadows stretched long around him, and the cold didn’t ease.

---

“Harry?”

The voice was soft but steady, pulling Harry out of the thick fog of his spiraling thoughts. He looked up to see Remus standing hesitantly in the doorway, his face creased with concern. The pale morning light filtered in behind him, casting the tall man’s silhouette in a halo of warmth — a stark contrast to the cold ache that had settled in Harry’s chest.

“Are you okay?” Remus asked gently, stepping closer to the bed. “You didn’t eat any of your black pudding, and Sirius left out your potions as well.”

Harry’s eyes snapped down, cheeks burning with a shame he could barely bear. He muttered, “I’m not starving.”

Remus’s gaze was patient but firm. “Harry, I know that’s not the whole truth.”

Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. Finally, he admitted, “I haven’t had much of an appetite since the nightmares started in December.”

Remus’s breath caught slightly, and Harry winced at the visible gasp. He slumped back against the bed’s headboard, mortified that his pain was so obvious, his face flushed a deep crimson — redder than even Gryffindor’s colors.

“Harry,” Remus said softly, sitting down beside him, “Why didn’t you tell me or Sirius? Why didn’t you go to the hospital wing?”

Harry said nothing at first. The truth was lodged painfully in his throat.

“I couldn’t,” he whispered at last.

“Why not?”

Harry closed his eyes, remembering. The cold corridor. The pressure of a wand at his throat. The merciless blue eyes that had held him captive.

“I was hit with the Cruciatus curse.”

Remus’s face twisted in shock and fury. “What?!” he shouted, though his voice was barely above a whisper.

Harry flinched at the outburst, his heart pounding. “Harry, who did this? What happened?”

Harry bit his lip, fighting the urge to protect the only friend he had — the only person who had ever shown him power, attention, and twisted affection.

“I... I don’t remember everything. It happened in my dorm room when no one else was there in Slytherin. I didn’t see the attacker’s face.”

The lie left his lips before he could stop it. A bitter taste in his mouth, knowing he had deceived the man who had taken him in — the man who had saved him from the nightmare that was his childhood.

Remus frowned, eyes narrowing with suspicion. He reached out, running his pale hand through Harry’s inky black hair in a gesture meant to comfort.

“Are you sure? Not even a name? Not even a face?”

Harry shook his head, unable to meet Remus’s gaze.

“Oh, my poor Harry.” Remus pulled him into a warm embrace. Harry melted into the warmth, feeling momentarily safe from the storm inside him.

“You know I’ll have to report this,” Remus said quietly.

Panic surged through Harry’s veins like ice water. He pushed gently at Remus’s chest. “No, please don’t!”

“Why not?”

“They won’t believe me,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking. “It’s happened to others — other students — and no one believed them either. They won’t believe me, even if I’m the Boy Who Lived.”

The silence stretched between them like a thick curtain. Remus said nothing, but Harry could almost feel the weight of his disappointment, his worry.

They hadn’t treated him like this back with the Dursleys. Back then, he was nothing but a burden — a slave forced into servitude, a constant irritation, a freak who deserved every punishment. There was no affection, no mercy.

But here? Here with Remus and Sirius, who had claimed him as their own, who had given him a home and a family? Here, he was lying to the very people who loved him unconditionally.

His heart cracked.

---

I’m a terrible person.

---

He remembered the day they first took custody of him. The way Sirius had grinned as he introduced Harry to sweets — something Harry had never tasted before. Ice cream. Vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry — the original three flavors.

He remembered the disbelief in his godparents’ eyes as they learned about the years of neglect, the injuries, the abuse.

The scars — knife wounds, belt marks, burns, and fractures that had never healed properly. His bones were fragile, his organs shrunk from malnutrition and neglect.

The healer had been horrified.

They’d given him potions to rebuild what was broken, soft foods to help him grow. A new life had begun — but the shadows from his past clung tight.

---

Harry’s mind flicked back to the present. His fingers clenched the blanket.

He hadn’t told Remus or Sirius about Tom.

Not about the Cruciatus curse.

Not about the whispered promises in dark corridors.

Not about the way Tom had pushed him to choose — join him, or face ruin.

What does he want with me?

Why me?

He remembered the icy gleam in Tom’s eyes — a predator’s gaze, piercing and cold.

You will have the respect you deserve.

But at what cost?

---

“I lied,” Harry whispered, voice barely audible.

Remus pulled back, searching Harry’s face. “About what?”

Harry swallowed, guilt and fear twisting in his gut. “About Tom. About who hurt me.”

Remus’s face tightened, but his tone remained gentle. “Harry, you don’t have to protect him.”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “I do. He threatened me. I’m scared of him. He said if I told anyone, he’d hurt my friends.”

Remus’s expression softened, but there was a new edge — a fierce determination. “Harry, you’re not alone. Whatever he’s doing, you don’t have to face it on your own.”

Harry’s eyes filled with tears. The ache inside was unbearable — the crushing loneliness, the fear, and the confusing mixture of resentment and longing for Tom’s twisted attention.

“I just want to be loved,” he said, voice breaking. “Not for what I am, but for who I am.”

Remus wrapped him in another hug, steady and sure. “You are loved, Harry. By me, by Sirius, by your friends.”

Harry buried his face against Remus’s chest, the warmth wrapping around him like a shield.

But even as he clung to that fragile hope, a cold whisper echoed in the back of his mind.

Tom will be waiting.

And he will not give up.

Spells:

Impedimenta - A temporary jinx that slows the movement of the target.

Periculum - Conjures flares/red sparks.

Stupefy - The Stunning spell freezes objects and renders living targets unconscious.

Expelliarmus - Forces an opponent to drop whatever's in their possession.

Chapter Text

hey guys another quick reminder! I’m really trying to keep most chapters at 4000 words, but it is kind of difficult too since starting from here a few chapters will be fillers until we get to Harry’s sixth year, since I’m not trying to have such huge time skips. Enjoy!

---

Harry once again waved to Sirius and Remus as the train pulled away from the 9 3/4 station, the clatter of wheels on tracks a steady rhythm beneath the chatter and bustle. He turned away from the window and toward his friends — well, most of them. Draco had been assigned to sit with Crabbe and Goyle in another compartment. He had mentioned in a letter that his father insisted he spend more time with “other purebloods,” a requirement Harry neither understood nor cared to question.

Hermione sat quietly, engrossed in a thick book, her brows furrowed in concentration. Neville was talking to a girl named Luna — a Ravenclaw, a year younger than them. Harry liked Luna; she was polite, quietly peculiar, but undeniably kind. Though they had only spoken once, her presence was comforting, a soft constant amid the shifting noise.

The platform had been crowded when his godparents had taken him there that morning. Wizards and witches hurried about with their children trailing behind, owls fluttering overhead, and luggage piled haphazardly wherever space allowed. Sirius had helped Harry load his trunk, squeezing him in a fierce hug before pulling back to embrace Remus. Remus had reminded him again to attend the hospital wing for potions and to eat his meals fully, even to increase his portions. Harry had promised, though the nightmares and lack of appetite gnawed at him relentlessly. He had waved goodbye to them both and boarded the train, but his thoughts were heavy with one person — Tom.

He had searched the crowd at the platform before boarding, hoping for the faintest glimpse of those piercing ice-blue eyes, but there was nothing. Tom wasn’t there.

Harry stepped into one of the train compartments, moving down the aisle as he passed other groups. He had owled Hermione and Neville earlier to confirm they would sit together as usual, and they had agreed.

“Harry?”

The voice was soft, tentative. Harry looked up to see Luna, her head slightly tilted as she watched him with those large, curious eyes.

“Are you alright, Harry?” she asked gently.

No, no he wasn’t.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to seem nonchalant. “Yeah, I just didn’t get enough sleep.”

“Oh, alright, mate. You had us worried for a second,” Neville said, flashing a cheeky grin from across the compartment.

Luna continued to watch him silently, her expression unreadable. Harry wondered what thoughts swirled behind those steady eyes.

“How about you get some sleep, Harry? We’ll wake you when we reach Hogwarts,” Hermione offered without looking up from her book.

Harry leaned his head against the cold windowpane and closed his eyes. The soft murmur of conversation around him faded slowly, until it was nothing but a distant echo in the growing dark inside his mind.

---

He could still feel the chill of Tom’s presence in the corridors of Hogwarts — the grip of those cold fingers on his arm, the sharpness of his voice whispering threats in his ear. Tom’s words replayed over and over, a dark refrain in Harry’s thoughts.

“You will have the respect you deserve. You will be by my side.”

The promise and the warning intertwined like poison and honey.

Harry shivered despite the warmth of the compartment. He wanted to believe in the safety of his friends’ company, but the shadow Tom cast was long and unyielding.

Outside the window, the landscape blurred past, but inside, Harry was trapped in the silent storm of his own mind — restless, haunted, and unbearably alone.

---

Harry glanced around, taking in the familiar surroundings. He was standing just outside a few train compartments he had passed earlier — now filled with students bustling about, laughing, chatting, and settling in for the journey. The corridor smelled faintly of wood polish and lingering sweets from the trolley that had just passed.

But something felt... off.

He hesitated, confused by the strange stillness pressing around him. The chatter dimmed to a murmur in his ears as if the world had muted itself, or perhaps he had slipped somewhere between sleep and waking.

He took a slow step down the narrow corridor, glancing left and right, each compartment door slightly ajar or firmly shut. The faces inside some flickered with recognition — fellow students from Hogwarts — yet none seemed to meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure if he was really awake or trapped in a dream.

His thoughts drifted to a low voice to his left — sharp, commanding. “Crabbe, Goyle, behave! He’s coming!”

Harry’s head snapped toward the source. In the next compartment sat Draco flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, their usual smug expressions replaced by visible tension. The two lackeys paled, exchanging uneasy glances at the mention of someone approaching.

Harry’s eyes darted around the corridor. No one was outside their compartments except a lady pushing a trolley loaded with sweets, her smile faint but rehearsed. The emptiness pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. He swallowed hard.

Suddenly, three figures appeared as if summoned from the shadows. They stepped silently, their movements deliberate, like predators closing in. Harry’s pulse quickened. His heart slammed against his ribs as recognition struck.

Tom.

The same boy who haunted Harry’s waking thoughts, whose presence twisted the air cold even in the warmth of the train carriage.

Tom had grown noticeably taller over the summer. The soft roundness of his cheeks had sharpened into a defined jawline and high cheekbones that cast deep shadows. His thick, chocolate brown curls framed his face, longer now, tumbling in careless waves that somehow made him look both regal and dangerous.

Without a word, Tom raised a hand and pushed open the compartment door with a soft click, his pale fingers curling over the edge. Behind him, Rosier and Nott followed silently, their faces masked in curious anticipation.

Harry hesitated but followed, stepping inside as the door slammed shut behind him with a sharp finality.

“Malfoy.” Tom’s voice was a low, velvety purr as he settled into the seat opposite Draco. The older boy visibly trembled beneath that single word.

“My... my lord... it’s been a while,” Draco stammered, bowing his head with an exaggerated show of respect. “How are you doing, my lord?”

Crabbe and Goyle quickly mimicked the bow, their eyes cast downward, and Harry’s own widened in shocked silence as Tom merely smirked at their obeisance.

Suddenly, a sharp, forbidding pain shot through Harry’s skull.

His hands flew up instinctively, clutching his temples as a storm of fractured memories tore through his mind — flashes of dark corridors, whispered threats, cold metal pressed against flesh, the bitter sting of curses, and a presence darker and more suffocating than anything he’d ever known.

His breaths hitched as the shadows deepened around him, his vision flickering between the dim compartment and the ghosts of his past torment.

Tom’s gaze was fixed on him, unreadable and icy. “You look troubled, Harry.”

Harry swallowed, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to protest, to say he was fine, but the ache pulsed beneath his skin, unyielding.

“You are still fragile,” Tom said softly, his voice void of warmth, “and yet you cling to your delusions of strength.”

The words cut deeper than any curse. Harry’s fingers trembled around his knees.

“You know I could make this easier,” Tom continued, leaning forward so the scent of cold mint and something faintly metallic brushed over Harry’s face. “All you have to do is stop pretending. Stop fighting.”

Harry lifted his chin, meeting the boy’s relentless stare.

“Pretending?” he whispered. “I’m not pretending.”

Tom’s smile was thin, sharp. “Then why do you refuse to accept your place? Your destiny?”

Harry’s heart pounded so loudly he thought Tom must hear it.

“I don’t belong to you,” Harry said, voice shaking but fierce. “I’m not yours to claim.”

Tom’s expression darkened, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his face. “You misunderstand. You belong to what I will build. Together, we will reshape this world.”

The three other boys watched silently, their loyalty to Tom unquestioned, their presence a cold reminder of the power he wielded.

Harry clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

“You’re wrong,” he said through gritted teeth. “I decide who I am.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, the ice-blue depths glittering dangerously.

“Very well,” he whispered. “Then you will learn.”

A sudden rush of cold magic surged through the compartment. The air thickened and shimmered, tendrils of shadow twisting like smoke around Harry’s limbs, binding him to his seat.

The room seemed to darken further, the edges of his vision blurring into darkness.

Harry’s breath hitched as the weight of Tom’s presence crushed him.

For a moment, it felt like the world had ended, leaving only the two of them trapped in the cold silence between life and oblivion.

As the train rumbled steadily toward Hogwarts, Harry fought to steady his shaking hands and trembling heart.

The nightmare was never far behind, a reminder that Tom’s reach extended beyond the corridors of the castle — into his mind, his body, his very soul.

He was caught in a web woven with cold intent and unyielding power, and no matter how fiercely he fought, the chill of Tom’s presence lingered, a shadow that refused to fade.

---

He realized then, with a sudden, chilling clarity, that the figure occupying that throne was no ordinary man. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place, one by one, each detail fitting with a cold precision that sent a shiver down his spine. The cloaked figures—silent, obedient—bowed deeply and without hesitation to the man seated above them, their faces hidden but their reverence unmistakable. And those piercing little green eyes—watching, calculating—were fixed intently on the figure.

The man in the throne slowly rose to his full height, every movement deliberate, measured, as if each step were a statement of his absolute control. He descended the stairs in front of the bowed followers with an eerie grace, the faint rustle of his dark robes whispering through the stillness. The air thickened with the weight of his presence, the atmosphere tightening like a noose.

When he finally stood face to face with the figure bowing before him, his gaze was ice-cold, unwavering, and it held a terrible power that seemed to suck the light from the room.

“My followers,” the voice hissed, low and familiar—each word dripping with menace and dark promise. Harry’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing as the name, the tone, the presence all echoed in the dark corners of his memory.

This was no mere leader. This was something far older, far darker, and far more dangerous.

—

"Celebrate, my faithful. Have your fun, your desires." The man hissed, his voice a serpentine whisper that slithered through the heavy air as he slowly peeled back the cloak that concealed him.

Harry's breath caught. His little green eyes widened, flickering with disbelief and something darker—betrayal lurking beneath the surface.

It was Tom.

—

He watched as Tom leaned forward, a faint, unsettling smile flickering on his face before hardening into something cold and stone-like. Suddenly, Tom spun sharply on his heel, his voice slicing through the air like a knife as he shouted, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

—

Suddenly, the crushing pain ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Harry lowered his trembling hands from his temples, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and his jaw slackened in frozen disbelief. There, standing across from him—his piercing gaze locked directly onto Harry’s very being—was Tom.

The boy’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing to slits that burned with a cold, merciless intensity. It felt as though those icy-blue orbs could see straight through Harry, stripping away every hidden thought and fear. Harry’s heart hammered wildly in his chest.

“My lord, is something wrong?” Nott’s voice trembled as he stepped back, visibly shrinking away from the dark aura radiating from Tom.

“Did I say to speak, Nott?” Tom’s voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a whip.

The other fell silent immediately, swallowing hard.

Tom’s gaze returned to where Harry stood frozen in terror, eyes wide, every instinct screaming at him to flee. The teenager raised his wand deliberately, pointing it with unsettling calmness right at Harry’s trembling form.

“Rosier, do you see anyone there?” Tom asked softly, his voice chillingly controlled.

“No, my lord. I believe no one is there,” Rosier replied, scanning the spot cautiously before nodding.

Tom’s lips curled in a faint smirk. “Homenum Revelio.”

Harry’s eyes snapped shut as instinct screamed at him to protect himself. He lifted his hands over his face, though the gesture was barely a shield. The spell’s glow shimmered briefly, but no revelation came.

“Hm, that is strange,” Tom murmured after a moment, his voice cold as ice. Harry peeked through his fingers just in time to see Tom twirling his wand with deliberate ease, eyes never leaving the empty space where Harry had been.

“Renneverate,” Tom said softly.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut tighter, every muscle tense with dread.

When his eyes finally reopened, he gasped sharply, bolting upright in his seat—only to be met by the concerned faces of Hermione, Neville, and Luna. Relief flooded through him as the familiar sight grounded him back to reality.

He let out a shaky breath, sinking back against the seat and closing his eyes, still haunted by the lingering echoes of that chilling vision.

Was it a dream? Was it reality? Why had they called Tom “my lord”? Could Tom truly see him? And what were those spells he had cast toward him in that frozen moment?

Harry’s mind raced with questions—answers that felt forever out of reach.

“Mate?” Neville’s tentative voice pulled Harry from the whirlpool of his thoughts.

Harry opened his eyes and turned to face Neville, who looked genuinely worried.

“Yeah?”

“You alright? You kept whipping your head back and forth, muttering ‘don’t hurt me, please’ over and over. But we couldn’t catch the name you were saying.” Neville murmured softly.

Harry forced a small, fragile smile and looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m okay. Just a nightmare.”

But inside, the chill of Tom’s gaze still lingered, cold and unyielding, an invisible weight Harry wasn’t sure he could ever shake.

---

Harry’s gaze remained locked on Tom for several long seconds after their eyes met, a strange mix of fascination and wariness swirling in his chest. The boy sitting across the table exuded an unsettling calm, a poised menace that made the air between them crackle like static. It was impossible to look away, even though Harry felt like he should. Tom’s presence was like ice—beautiful, sharp, and utterly merciless.

Around him, the Great Hall of Hogwarts stretched wide and glittered with autumn light filtering through the enchanted windows. The long tables groaned under the weight of the welcoming feast. Towering mounds of roasted meats, bowls brimming with vibrant vegetables, and platters piled with crusty bread lined the tables from end to end. Pumpkin juice shimmered in golden goblets, sending faint wisps of steam into the crisp air. The scents of rosemary, garlic, and roasting apples mingled in a heady, intoxicating aroma.

But despite the abundance around him, Harry felt hollow and out of place. His appetite was hesitant. The first few bites of the steak on his plate felt strange in his mouth—too rich, too much after months of unease and restless nights haunted by dark dreams and whispered threats.

He carefully set down his fork, glancing again at the other students around the table. The older Slytherins were deep in conversation, their voices low and conspiratorial, laughter bubbling here and there like sharp-edged notes that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Harry noticed Nott and Rosier talking quietly with a group of seventh years, their faces animated but guarded, eyes flicking occasionally toward Tom as if seeking approval.

Harry’s gaze then drifted to Draco, sitting across from him, and a pang of concern twisted inside his chest. The blond boy’s hands trembled slightly as he raised a piece of sausage to his lips, his usually composed silver eyes shadowed with something darker—anxiety, perhaps, or fear. Sweat beaded on his forehead and clung to his hairline, dampening the pale strands until the golden color darkened near the roots.

Harry wanted to say something, to ask if Draco was alright, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, their eyes met for a brief moment, and Harry saw the silent message there: a plea not to pry, a struggle to hold himself together despite the invisible weight he carried. Then Draco quickly looked away, the faint tremor in his breathing betraying the effort it took to remain composed.

That vulnerability struck Harry deeply. He knew all too well what it was like to live with unseen burdens—expectations, secrets, and threats that gnawed away at one’s peace. And yet, here was Draco, trying to maintain an appearance of strength even as his hands shook.

Harry’s own hands clenched tightly around his fork, knuckles white. He felt the familiar ache of loneliness settle like a stone in his stomach, though he was surrounded by friends and housemates. He longed for connection, for something real beneath the polished masks everyone wore.

His eyes returned to Tom, whose figure was the very picture of control and distance. The boy remained engrossed in a thick, leather-bound book—its spine cracked and pages dog-eared as if it had been read and reread many times over. Tom’s posture was impeccable, every line of his body taut with practiced discipline. There was no slouching, no careless movement—only the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted.

Harry noted how much Tom had changed over the summer. The soft roundness of his cheeks had given way to sharp angles—a defined jawline that hinted at an austere strength beneath the cold exterior. His high cheekbones caught the flickering candlelight, casting long, elegant shadows that made him look almost statuesque, like a figure carved from marble.

The curls in Tom’s dark chocolate hair had grown longer, cascading over his forehead and ears in loose waves that suggested a careless elegance. They framed his pale face with an unsettling softness that contrasted with the sharpness of his features, like a beautiful but dangerous mask.

Harry thought back to a memory—his eight-year-old self watching in secret as Dudley’s older brother got a perm. The thought of perms made Harry smile faintly to himself, remembering how ridiculous and unhappy Dudley had been when his own botched perm had left him with wild, frizzy hair that his mother insisted on fixing with a buzz cut.

Tom’s hair was nothing like that—perfectly imperfect, as if every curl had been placed by design. It was a reminder that Tom was different from everyone else at Hogwarts. Not just in power, but in presence—an enigma wrapped in silk and steel.

Suddenly, Tom’s icy blue eyes flicked up, locking onto Harry’s once more. It felt like the air shifted—thicker, colder, as if the world around them dimmed just for that moment. Harry felt a jolt, like an electric shock rippling through his skin. The intensity of that gaze was almost unbearable, as if Tom was peering directly into his soul, seeing things Harry had hidden even from himself.

Harry swallowed hard and forced his eyes downward, unwilling to show the turmoil that churned inside him. He wondered what Tom thought of him—was he an enemy, a pawn, or something more complicated? The chill in Tom’s stare hinted at secrets and intentions Harry couldn’t begin to unravel.

Despite the weight of those eyes, Harry caught himself staring back, defiant though his heart hammered with uncertainty. It was a silent battle, one of wills and unspoken words, played out beneath the bright banners and flickering torches of the Great Hall.

He thought about the healers’ recent warnings—the scars that would never fully fade, the unpredictable magic that surged beneath his skin, the fragile threads holding him together. He’d lost weight, grown thinner in ways that worried those who cared for him. The doctors had said he might never grow as tall or strong as other boys, but Harry refused to accept that fate.

His messy black hair needed cutting, but for now, it fell wild around his face, framing his bright green eyes that still sparkled like emerald flames, fierce and unyielding. That fire inside him refused to be snuffed out, no matter how often darkness threatened to consume him.

As the chatter of the feast filled the hall—the clinking of silverware, the murmur of voices, the soft laughter—Harry took a deep breath and settled back into his chair. The weight of the upcoming year pressed on him, heavy and relentless. But he was ready, or at least as ready as he could be.

There was no turning back now.

He would face the shadows that loomed ahead—Tom’s cold, distant presence among them—with everything he had.

Because this was his story, his fight, his life.

And no matter what, he would not be broken.

---

Harry sat rigidly on the edge of his narrow dormitory bed, the parchment bearing his new class schedule growing warm beneath his trembling fingers. The inked letters blurred, twisting into a haze as his mind spiraled, locked in a cyclone of restless thoughts. Each hour — Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts — should have anchored him, given him some sense of normalcy, but instead they felt like chains tightening around his ribs.

He glanced up at the plain stone walls of the room, familiar but now suffocating, the dim light casting long shadows that danced menacingly. Outside, faint laughter and distant footsteps echoed through the corridors, yet inside, the silence pressed so heavily it felt like it could suffocate him.

His fingers nervously toyed with the edges of the parchment, but his eyes were elsewhere, already lost in memories and worries.

Quidditch. The word burned in his mind like a stubborn ember refusing to die out. Seeker. The position was his — no, it was his. It wasn’t just a title; it was a small shard of pride, a rare piece of control in a world increasingly ruled by uncertainty and cold threats.

He remembered the flying lesson last year—the panic that churned in his stomach as a classmate’s broom spun wildly out of control, the sharp snap of broken bones, Madam Hooch’s stern commands echoing in his ears. And then the reckless chase after Ronald Weasley’s wand, the desperate grasp, the rush of wind, and the taste of triumph as he caught it just before it shattered against the castle walls. That moment was his, his alone, and no one — not even Tom — could take that from him.

The door creaked open. A chill swept into the room, more biting than the autumn air beyond the window.

“I would not waste my time on such trivial nonsense,” came the familiar, cold voice.

Harry’s body stiffened; his wand was out before he could think.

The room seemed to freeze as those piercing blue eyes met his, colder than ice, sharper than a knife’s edge.

“Tom, what the hell!”

Harry’s voice was low, cautious but edged with defiance.

Tom’s lips curved into a thin, disdainful smile. “Such language, Harry. I suggest you learn better manners.”

Harry’s jaw clenched hard. “I don’t need your approval.”

Tom stepped forward, his presence filling the cramped room like a storm rolling in, inexorable and chilling. His pale hand slid over Harry’s arm — not warm, but firm, a silent claim.

“You’re thinner,” Tom remarked softly, almost with curiosity.

Harry’s temper flared. “Thanks for noticing.”

Tom’s fingers curled, tightening slightly on Harry’s sleeve. “Have you been eating?”

Harry yanked his arm away, eyes flashing. “Why do you care?”

Tom’s voice dropped to a low murmur, dangerously close. “Because I will not let you waste away beneath my watch.”

Harry swallowed hard, heat flooding his face. Tom’s stare was like winter creeping into his bones.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Harry spat, voice trembling but fierce.

Tom leaned closer, his breath cool against Harry’s cheek. “You’d be wise to listen.”

The room felt smaller. The air thicker.

Tom’s tone shifted, smooth and probing. “How is your living situation?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, wary. “Fine.”

“You flinch,” Tom said softly, observing with unnerving precision. “You expect pain.”

Harry’s heart hammered fiercely. “Maybe I’m just cautious.”

“No,” Tom said quietly. “You raise your hands to protect yourself. That is trauma, Harry.”

Harry looked away, jaw tight. “Maybe I don’t like being touched.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t push.

“You live with your godfathers?” Tom asked.

Harry nodded.

“And before that?”

His throat tightened painfully. “With my aunt… for a time.”

Tom’s eyes darkened with something deeper — possessiveness, fury, a brooding care twisted with cold control. His hand lifted, brushing Harry’s cheek. The touch was cold, almost clinical, but beneath it lay something quietly fierce.

“Did they hurt you?” Tom asked quietly.

Harry’s breath caught. He fought the tears that threatened, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Yes.”

Tom’s lips thinned with bitter anger. “If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, they will answer to me.”

Harry’s fingers clenched the fabric of Tom’s expensive robes, the Malfoys’ gift — a fragile anchor in a storm of conflicting emotions.

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

Harry’s green eyes locked on Tom’s icy blue ones, shimmering with vulnerability he refused to fully show.

“I’m not a child,” Harry said, voice raw but steady. “I don’t need protecting.”

Tom’s expression darkened. “You are weaker than you think. But I will make you stronger. Whether you want it or not.”

Harry pulled back, enough to hold Tom’s gaze without flinching.

“You think you can control me? That I’ll break?”

Tom’s smile was sharp, unforgiving. “I don’t think. I know.”

Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs, every nerve alive with fire and fear and stubborn defiance.

“Try me,” Harry whispered, voice low but fierce, eyes blazing. “I’m not yours.”

Tom’s eyes glittered with cold promise. “Then you will learn, Harry. One way or another.”

He stepped back, the icy grip retreating like a dark shadow folding into itself.

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of unshed tears burning behind his lids, blurring the sharp edges of his resolve—but not breaking them.

He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. He would fight. He had to.

Because no matter how cold Tom was, how distant and merciless, Harry would never let him see the cracks.

---

Harry did something he knew he shouldn’t have.

He crept down the dimly lit hallway, heart pounding, every footstep muffled against the thick castle carpet. The Slytherin common room lay behind him, but his thoughts were tangled and restless. Curiosity clawed at him like a beast with sharp claws — he had to know what was going on in Tom’s dormitory. What was Tom so frantic about? Why had the tension seemed almost unbearable when he’d caught a glimpse of that floo call flickering with an unfamiliar face?

Slipping quietly to the door of Tom’s dorm, Harry’s fingers found the cold brass handle and eased it open just enough to peer inside.

The scene before him was chaos incarnate.

Books and parchments flew through the air like leaves caught in a storm. Trunks—heavy, ornate things that could crush a man—were hurled across the room with reckless abandon. Harry watched, a flicker of reluctant amusement stirring within him as Tom’s friends scrambled for cover behind their beds. At least some of them had common sense. A flying ten-pound trunk could take you out cold.

A sharp voice pierced through the frenzy: “Riddle, calm down, please! My lord!” Another voice barked out, “Nott, trunk three o’clock!” followed by a heavy thud and an exhausted sigh.

Harry bit back a grin. Maybe none of them had common sense.

He pressed his eye closer to the small crack in the door.

“It’s supposed to be here… so where is it?” Tom hissed, frustration lacing every syllable.

Harry’s breath caught. He strained to listen.

Then, an unfamiliar voice — older, deeper, carrying a cautious respect — answered: “Well, I’m sure Salazar has left it at the school. There couldn’t be a doubt he hasn’t, my lord.”

Harry’s eyes widened. The voice was new. He’d heard plenty of voices in these halls, but this one was different — seasoned, clipped, and somehow more commanding than even Tom’s usual circle. A face shimmered through the dancing flames of the floo call, illuminated by the ghostly green firelight. The man was older than anyone Harry had seen in the dorm before, with sharp features and eyes that burned with a cold fire.

Harry’s mind raced. The floo call — he recognized it from conversations with Remus and Sirius. They used it to speak across distances, especially during Sirius’s missions. But who was this stranger? And why was he talking to Tom?

The room’s energy shifted palpably.

“Salazar has left it here, but no clues to aid in finding it, Malfoy,” Tom spat, venom dripping from his words. The older man flinched at the title, but said nothing, only watching intently.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Malfoy? Draco's last name — but that wasn’t Abraxas. The man resembled him in some ways: the sharp blond hair, the piercing eyes, but his face was different — harsher, more worn, as if carved by years of harsh truths. Harry struggled to place him, but the answer evaded him, leaving a prickling sense of confusion.

As Tom abruptly rose to his feet, pacing with sharp, precise movements, the room fell into an oppressive silence. The only sound was the crackling of the floo fire. Every muscle seemed frozen in anticipation, as if anyone daring to breathe would risk triggering a storm.

Twenty long minutes passed. Harry’s back ached against the cold stone, knees stiff beneath him, but he remained rooted to the spot, drawn by the intensity rippling from within the room.

Finally, Tom stopped, his sharp gaze piercing through the shadows. The others snapped to attention, faces blank but eyes wary — all but Tom, who was a storm barely contained.

His nostrils flared as he pulled his wand from beneath his cloak, gliding smoothly to the desk.

“Aparecium,” he commanded, voice low and steady.

Nothing.

Silence pressed down like a physical weight.

Tom’s lips curled back, revealing teeth clenched tight in frustration. His eyes darkened with a dangerous glint as he spun, movements fluid, serpentine.

“Diffindo!” he hissed sharply — a command in Parseltongue.

The curse struck Blaise, who immediately clutched his throat, blood seeping between trembling fingers and splattering across his robes. Harry’s throat constricted in horror as he watched the boy’s struggle for breath. Around him, the dorm mates stared in mute terror.

Harry winced, recalling from books that Parseltongue curses caused pain exponentially worse than normal magic — a cruel edge reserved for those who spoke the language of serpents.

“Heal him,” Tom ordered without hesitation, voice flat but carrying iron authority.

Blaise gasped, clutching at his chest, and the wound slowly closed beneath the skilled healing magic, leaving only a pale scar as a reminder.

Tom turned sharply, irritation flashing across his face as he stalked toward the door.

Harry’s heart thundered. He leapt back from the doorway, eyes darting wildly for a hiding spot.

Behind a cluster of chairs near the common room’s hearth, he crouched low, breath shallow as he listened to Tom’s heavy footsteps fade away.

A tense silence lingered, broken only by the creak of the door opening and closing behind him.

Harry’s mind raced. What were they searching for? What had Tom called Malfoy about? The air felt thick with secrets — dark, dangerous, and tantalizingly close.

He pressed his back harder against the chair, determination sharpening like a blade inside him.

I have to find out.

A new plan blossomed in his mind — risky, reckless, but impossible to resist.

He would sneak into Tom’s dorm again. He would uncover what Tom was hiding. And maybe, just maybe, understand a little more about the boy who terrified and fascinated him in equal measure.

---

Spells:

Homenum Revelio - Reveals the presence of another person.

Renneverate - Awakens or revives the target.

Aparecium - Reveals secret, written messages.

Diffindo - Used to precisely cut an object.

Chapter Text

The Chamber of Secrets.

Harry rolled the words quietly on his tongue, tasting their weight. The Chamber of Secrets. A name shrouded in whispered fear, dark history, and myth. Yet, to Harry, it held a strange allure—like a locked puzzle piece hiding something vital, something he was determined to understand.

What the hell?

He couldn’t shake the thought that Tom was tangled up in this somehow. It sounded absurd, almost laughable. But knowing Tom, nothing was ever just simple or harmless.

The second-year boy sat cross-legged on his dorm bed, surrounded by a fortress of books pulled from the library and the restricted section. The collection was a patchwork—some tomes devoted entirely to the Chamber, others offering only passing references. There were fewer than he expected. Either the school owned only a handful of volumes on the subject, or someone had deliberately culled the collection.

Only one person came to mind.

Tom.

Harry remembered the many times he’d seen Tom conjure a Fidelius Charm over the covers of his more secretive books, effectively locking them away from prying eyes. He’d studied the charm extensively, fascinated by its complexity. It was a difficult spell, especially for a first year. He had tried and failed for weeks before finally managing it—secretly casting the charm on his own books to hide what he read, wary of Slytherin prefects, teachers, and especially Tom himself.

That charm was his shield.

And now, despite months of searching, Harry found himself no closer to unraveling the mystery of the Chamber.

He could still hear fragments of that chilling conversation he’d overheard months ago, echoing in his mind.

“Well, I’m sure Salazar has left it at the school. There could not be that he hasn’t, my lord.”

Useful advice, indeed.

Harry had met Draco’s father recently and was struck by the resemblance between the man and the figure he’d glimpsed in the floo call with Tom. How had he missed that before? The same sharp blond hair, the piercing silver eyes—but it had taken him far too long to connect the dots. A pang of frustration pinched at him.

Then there was the lingering thought that unsettled him most: Tom hadn’t approached him since that strange, uncomfortable moment of… what? Comfort? Concern? It was nearly four months ago now. The second year was slipping away faster than his first, filled with long study nights and, increasingly, Quidditch.

Quidditch. The sport that some teachers still viewed with suspicion, but Harry had proved himself a natural, their youngest Seeker in decades. Three games played. Three wins. Yet even as the crowd roared his name, the mystery of the Chamber gnawed at him, a shadow lurking beyond the cheers.

That afternoon, Harry sat alone in the Great Hall, his small fortress of books spread before him like a shield. He flipped page after page, chasing clues.

“Harry.”

He looked up at Hermione’s soft voice. Her brown eyes flicked from the scattered pages to his weary face.

“Yeah?”

Her gaze fell on the pile of books, eyebrows raised. She picked up one, the yellow cover boldly proclaiming Transfiguration: A Fool’s Guide.

“What’s this?” she asked, half-amused.

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s exactly what it says on the cover.”

Hermione crossed her arms, skeptical. “So…”

Harry watched her arch an eyebrow, waiting.

“How’s Neville?”

The question came out before he could stop himself. Hermione blinked, cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

“Excuse me?” she spluttered, clearly caught off guard.

“I’ve seen you two spending a lot of time together lately. Luna even told me she’s sure you and Neville have… a thing.”

“We’re twelve!” Hermione snapped, flustered.

“So?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, then clenched. A smirk tugged at her lips. “What about you and Riddle?”

Harry’s eyebrow twitched. “What about me and Tom?”

“Aren’t you guys… you know, an item?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“A what?” Harry was dumbfounded.

Hermione huffed and tossed herself down beside him, arms crossed, muttering something inaudible under her breath. Harry shrugged and began organizing his books on the bedside table.

“Come on,” she said suddenly.

“Where?”

“We’re going to find the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry blinked. “Excuse me?”

---

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice was a sharp whisper, low and urgent, yet laced with unmistakable worry. Her eyes, usually so bright and calm, were now shadowed with concern. Harry, however, rolled his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that night.

“What?” he hissed back, trying to keep his patience thinly stretched. Hermione sneered at him like he was a particularly stubborn toad.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?” Harry shot back, already bristling.

“For one,” Hermione began, lowering her voice even more, “it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. We have classes tomorrow! Do you—”

“Ugh, you sound exactly like Neville on his worst days,” Harry muttered, rubbing at his eyes in irritation.

“Quiet!” Hermione snapped, eyes flickering nervously down the empty corridor they stood in. “These halls echo when they’re empty. Anyone can hear us.”

“So?”

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, exasperated. “Prefects are patrolling. They’re on high alert right now.”

Harry scoffed. “So what if they are? I don’t care about house points or detention.”

Hermione’s face tightened at that. “You don’t care about house points? You can’t be serious.”

Harry shrugged, exasperated. “I think house points are mostly useless. But Slytherin cares about their reputation—winning the cup seven years in a row. They’re obsessed with it. Me? I just want to figure this out.”

Hermione frowned. “But why do you care so much about being caught and sent back to your own dorm? I don’t get it.”

Harry blinked, the silence echoing his own confusion. His voice, low and a little dazed, echoed off the cold stone walls. “Why do you care so much about me getting sent back to the Slytherin dorm?”

Hermione glanced around before quietly drawing her wand. She flicked it in a tight, practiced motion.

“Muffliato,” she whispered.

A faint hum filled the air, and Harry watched with growing fascination as the invisible spell muffled their footsteps and voices.

“You could’ve cast that hours ago,” Harry grinned, but Hermione’s eyes twitched with impatience.

“Harry,” she hissed sharply, “you can be so dense.” Her breath caught, and she let out a small sigh, rubbing her hands down her face as if trying to erase her growing worry.

“I’m worried about you,” she admitted finally, voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’m worried about you getting caught—and about him.”

Harry tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “What’s wrong with Tom?”

Hermione shivered involuntarily. “He’s... dangerous. When he’s upset, from what I’ve heard, he’s... well, worse than anyone realizes.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry said quickly, his voice firmer than he expected. Hermione whipped her head toward him, eyes narrowing dangerously, stepping closer with a predator’s grace. Harry instinctively took a step back with each step she took forward.

“You don’t know Riddle like the rest of us do.”

“I know him!” Harry protested, but Hermione’s look stopped him cold.

“No, Harry,” she said quietly, but with unyielding firmness, “you don’t.”

“But—”

“No buts! Just listen.” Her hands snapped onto his shoulders, steadying him as her gaze locked with his wide, green eyes. “You don’t know Riddle the way we do. The only reason he treats you differently is because you’re a Parselmouth. Before Riddle came to Hogwarts, the last known Parselmouth was Salazar himself.” Her voice softened for a moment, almost reverent. Then she sighed heavily and pressed on. “I advise you to stay away from Riddle. We don’t know what he’s planning.”

Hermione bit her lip and glanced away, then back, the weight of her words sinking in. “I overheard him talking to Draco the other day. He’s been contacting his father more and more recently, asking him to owl some books—books about the Chamber of Secrets. Abraxas’ father would never deny him anything.”

Harry absorbed the news slowly, his mind racing.

Hermione continued, “Tom went back to the manor recently because of his head injury. Dippet dismissed him since the infirmary was full. When he walked into the library, he noticed many books were missing. He was about to report it, but then overheard Abraxas speaking to Riddle on a floo call. They were discussing the Chamber.”

Harry felt a chill creep up his spine.

“Tom hasn’t spoken to me since September,” he added quietly. Hermione’s hands dropped from his shoulders.

“Wait, what?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure why. He either dismisses me with a wave of his hand or just gathers his things and walks away.”

Hermione studied him for a long moment, puzzled. “That’s... strange.”

Before either of them could say more, voices echoed down the corridor.

“I heard something down here. You reckon we check it out?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm, while Hermione simply looked curious. Without thinking, Harry grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows of a nearby alcove.

“Prefects!” he hissed sharply.

He pressed her roughly against the stone wall; she returned his glare but said nothing. They held their breath as the footsteps and voices faded away.

Once the corridor was silent again, Hermione whispered, “Now what?”

“We head to the library,” Harry replied.

Hermione frowned. “Isn’t it locked?”

“Isn’t Alohomora meant to fix that?” Harry whispered, grinning as they crept forward.

Suddenly Hermione stopped short, whispering harshly, “Wait. Harry, stop.”

“Why?”

“Looks like someone beat us here.”

They both watched, tense and silent, as a cloaked figure appeared, striding down the corridor. The heavy robes billowed behind them with a sinister grace that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Snape. The figure’s hood was pulled low, concealing their face in shadow.

Harry squinted, heart pounding.

The figure flicked a wrist, and the library doors clicked open. Then, without a backward glance, they slipped inside and vanished from sight.

Hermione’s eyes never left the spot where the figure had stood. She turned to Harry, her expression unreadable.

They exchanged a glance and, wordlessly, agreed on what to do next.

Together, they dashed to the library doors. Harry drew his wand and muttered, “Alohomora.” The locks clicked open smoothly, and they slipped inside.

But the library was colder than usual, shadows dancing beneath the high shelves.

They crept forward until they reached the heart of the room. There, no sign of the stranger remained.

Hermione whispered, baffled, “I don’t understand. They just... disappeared.”

Harry frowned, eyes scanning the dark corners. “Maybe they wanted to distract us from the real target.”

“The what?” Hermione asked.

“To fool us, keep us busy chasing ghosts.”

“But did they know we followed them?” Hermione’s voice dropped.

Harry was silent a moment, thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe. They must’ve sensed someone was nearby.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with the Slytherins,” Hermione teased lightly, raising an eyebrow.

Harry smirked. “And you haven’t been spending every moment with Ron.”

“Harry!”

“Shut up.”

A moment of silence settled between them.

Harry sighed, turning to meet her warm, honey-brown gaze. She looked irked, but soft.

“I think we should head back,” he said hesitantly. “We’ve probably seen more than we should tonight. We can look again tomorrow.”

Hermione’s lips curved faintly. “Yeah. We did nearly get caught.”

“Come on, then.”

The two left the quiet library, unaware of the shadows watching them from the darkened stacks.

---

“Now, where were you?” The voice snapped sharply, cutting through the murmur of the common room like a whip. Harry sighed, irritation bubbling beneath his skin as he muttered something under his breath.

“I was out, Blaise,” he replied with a huff, shooting a tired glance at the dark-skinned boy who stood before him, arms crossed and sneering.

Blaise raised a single eyebrow, his posture exuding that familiar mix of challenge and superiority. “What if you got caught? You know how we are about house points here.” His voice lowered slightly, the warning clear but laced with that subtle condescension only a Slytherin could master.

He tossed himself off the worn sofa that occupied the center of the common room and stepped closer, closing the space between them with deliberate ease.

“Out doing what?” Blaise pressed, folding his arms tighter across his chest.

“Nothing,” Harry shot back sharply, unwilling to elaborate.

“Then why go out if you weren’t doing anything?” Blaise’s gaze sharpened, skeptical.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t find what I was looking for, happy now?”

A heavy silence fell between them, thick enough to choke on. Harry’s eyes flicked around the common room, noting clusters of students deep in conversation or bent over their books. It felt oddly peaceful here, like the pulse of the house beating steadily beneath the surface.

“Where are Nott, Rosier, and Tom?” Harry asked, curiosity threading his voice.

Blaise’s entire body stiffened at the mention of the last name. His dark eyes flickered with something unreadable—a brief flash of hesitation—before he masked it with an amused smirk.

“They went out,” Blaise said finally, his tone casual but guarded.

Harry nodded, absorbing the information. He glanced down at the scattered parchments and textbooks littering the worn wooden tables.

“Well,” Blaise said, turning on his heel with a lazy flick of his foot, “I’ve got a potions essay to finish—something you abruptly abandoned.” He shot Harry a sharp look. “I recommend you finish yours too before you get in the habit of running off. Abraxas might rub off on you, and not in a good way.”

With a quick nod of farewell, Blaise sauntered over to a small study group huddled in the corner, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow.

Harry remained standing, alone in the middle of the common room, the buzz of his housemates’ conversations drifting around him like an oddly comforting symphony. He scanned the room again, his gaze landing on Blaise and a group of first years diligently scribbling notes for the potions essay due tomorrow.

There were so many first years this year. They seemed to be getting along well enough — a good sign. They would need each other to survive the trials ahead.

Quietly, Harry began to edge backward, distancing himself from the chatter and warmth of the group.

His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way toward the fourth-year dormitories, his mind set on finding one particular room.

This dorm’s sparse layout hinted at something unusual.

Eventually, he found it—the older boys’ dormitory. Surprisingly, it was modest in size, housing only four beds. Usually, dormitories were packed with students to accommodate the large year groups. Over forty students per year meant overcrowded rooms, especially in the lower years. Many fifth years shared dorms due to their smaller numbers.

The room was impeccably neat—clean to a fault. Each bed was perfectly made, indistinguishable from the next, their blankets pulled taut, pillows fluffed just so.

Harry’s eyes moved to the nightstands beside each bed, where personal items were carefully arranged.

On one, Rosier’s lucky gloves sat precisely folded, resting beside a delicate photograph of a young woman Harry recognized as Katie, Rosier’s betrothed. Harry had never seen Rosier show much affection for the girl—most pureblood marriages, he’d heard, were more about alliances and breeding than love. But some couples, like Abraxas’ parents, had been lucky enough to find genuine affection along the way.

Next to the adjacent bed lay an ornate pocket watch, its gold casing gleaming softly in the dim light. Harry guessed it belonged to Blaise—he had a habit of collecting expensive Muggle artifacts and showing them off with a smug grin. Blaise always insisted that these Muggle trinkets didn’t “count” because they were both abominably expensive and utterly foreign.

He moved on to Nott’s bed. Strange, Harry thought, that a second year shared a dorm with fourth years, but the overcrowding this year had made such arrangements necessary.

Lastly, he came to the final bed.

It was unremarkable—just a simple bed, neatly made, with nothing visible to suggest the owner’s identity. But Harry knew exactly whose it was.

Kneeling down, he slid his hand underneath the bed and froze.

Jackpot.

Stacked neatly beneath lay over twenty books, concealed beneath a powerful charm. Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached in, pulling out three volumes at random—two brown-bound tomes and one deep blue.

He flicked out his wand, tapping each cover carefully. The Fidelius Charm faded away, revealing their titles in elegant script:

The Chamber of Secrets: Its History and Mysteries
The Secrets of Hogwarts, Vol. II: Salazar Slytherin’s Hidden Chambers
The Four Founders of Hogwarts: Unveiling the Chamber of Secrets

Harry’s brow furrowed deeply.

Tom was still obsessed with this.

His mind raced.

Why? What was he searching for that he hadn’t found yet?

And more importantly... what was Harry about to stumble into?

—

"It has to be here, but yet it is not." He heard Tom hiss in what sounded like frustration. He listened intently.

"Well, I'm sure Salazar has left it at the school. There could not be that he hasn't, my lord."

—

Harry settled deeper into the worn armchair, the deep blue tome heavy in his hands. The musty scent of old parchment and leather filled his nostrils as he turned the delicate pages carefully, his eyes scanning the dense, faded script.

Reliable historical sources tell us this much. But the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets has obscured the honest facts.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he read the opening line. It was already clear this book approached the subject with a cautious, almost scholarly tone—yet beneath the cautious words lay a truth wrapped in shadow and fear.

The story goes that Salazar Slytherin, one of the four founders of Hogwarts, constructed a hidden chamber deep within the castle—an unknown secret even to the other founders. This chamber, sealed by Salazar himself, was meant to remain closed until the day his true heir arrived at Hogwarts.

Harry’s pulse quickened, his eyes darting over the next words.

The heir alone would possess the power to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, release the horror confined within, and wield it to purge the school of all who are deemed unworthy to study magic.

Purge the school? The words echoed in Harry’s mind, dissonant and chilling.

Horror? He repeated softly under his breath, disbelief knitting his brows. What kind of horror?

He turned the page eagerly, desperate to know more.

The text continued, explaining that Salazar Slytherin held rigid beliefs about who should be allowed to learn magic at Hogwarts. He believed, fiercely and unyieldingly, that only those of pure magical blood—purebloods—were worthy of the gift of magic. Students born to Muggle families, or even those of mixed magical heritage, were considered by him to be untrustworthy, unworthy, even dangerous. The book detailed how Slytherin had argued vehemently against admitting such students, seeking to keep Hogwarts an exclusive sanctuary for purebloods alone.

Harry’s heart sank as he read the darkest part.

Within the Chamber, Salazar hid a terrible creature—a Basilisk, a monstrous serpent capable of killing with a single glance. This beast was commanded to seek out and slay Muggle-born students, bringing a swift and painless death to those whom Salazar considered unfit.

His hand paused on the page. The Basilisk—so many whispered rumors and half-truths had surrounded that name, but here it was in ink, cold and undeniable.

The book went on to describe the growing rift between Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor, the founder who vehemently opposed Slytherin’s ideology. Their dispute escalated until it nearly tore the school apart. The text hinted that their conflict might have erupted into violent dueling or a civil war between their respective houses.

Eventually, Salazar left Hogwarts in bitter defiance, leaving behind the Chamber and its terrible guardian. The book concluded with the somber note that Salazar died in old age, far removed from the school he once helped create.

Harry set the book down, his mind churning. Salazar was a pureblood, he thought. That’s proven by blood samples recorded in the oldest texts.

As for the other founders—Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Godric Gryffindor—their blood status was uncertain, but Harry reasoned it was likely they were purebloods or at least half-bloods. After all, if Salazar believed so strongly in pureblood supremacy, it made sense that he would try to convince the others who shared his bloodline, or at least their status.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Salazar’s obsession with blood purity shaped the school’s dark secret. The others, especially Gryffindor, clearly opposed such prejudice, which had torn the school’s founding apart.

Harry picked up the next book, its cover worn but sturdy. This volume focused on the Chamber itself—what it was, how it was described in various accounts—but frustratingly, it gave no clues about its exact location within Hogwarts.

With a sigh, Harry shifted to the last book resting beside him. The title was more general, chronicling Hogwarts’ history and how the school had changed over the centuries.

As he turned the pages, he read about the evolution of the castle—how it adapted from its medieval origins to the modern age. Punishments had changed from brutal physical ones to magical discipline. The castle had acquired conveniences over time: water pressure systems, limited electricity, advanced protective enchantments, and—something Harry hadn’t thought much about before—restrooms.

He paused, eyes lingering over a passage explaining that Hogwarts had no restrooms when it was first built. The founders had considered them unnecessary, even ridiculous. The book detailed how, over time, toilets and sinks had been added throughout the castle as it modernized, to the dismay of some traditionalists.

Harry’s mind lingered on that for a moment.

The book explained that Salazar himself had been vehemently opposed to the addition of sinks and pressure pipes, arguing they were pointless and contrary to the old ways. Sinks... pressure pipes... Harry mused absently.

His gaze snapped up, and his eyes darted toward the stone wall of the library, the wheels in his mind turning.

The Chamber can’t be on the ground floor—it would be too obvious.

He remembered overhearing whispers about the second floor girls’ restroom.

If the Chamber was concealed behind a sink there, it would explain a lot.

Harry smiled faintly, a thrill of discovery warming his chest.

The sink could hide a secret entrance, perhaps disguised with an engraving of a snake.

He pictured the second floor girls’ restroom—the cold stone, the faint echo of dripping water—and imagined a hidden trapdoor, blending seamlessly with the plumbing.

His fingers curled around the book, his pulse quickening.

Bingo.

Spells:

Fidelius Charm - A complex charm that conceals a secret into the soul of a chosen "Secret Keeper;" if a location is the subject of concealment, it becomes undetectable to others. Also includes secrets.

Muffliato - Creates a buzzing sound in the target's ears to prevent eavesdropping.

Chapter Text

The two friends stood just outside the worn stone archway of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. The corridor was quiet, dimly lit by flickering torches casting long shadows that danced on the ancient walls. Harry’s heart thudded unevenly in his chest, the weight of what they were about to do pressing heavily on him.

His eyes drifted to the comforting sight of Hermione’s curly chestnut hair, soft and wild in its natural way—a quiet anchor in this swirling storm of unknowns. The familiar warmth of her hand slipped gently into his, fingers curling protectively around his own. Harry glanced down, surprised by the calm reassurance that simple contact brought, the steady pulse beneath his palm a soothing rhythm.

He looked up again, meeting the steady gaze of her warm, honeysuckle-colored eyes. The way her eyes softened when she looked at him made the uncertainty in his chest dull slightly, replaced by a fragile hope. Hermione was always the one who steadied him, even when things felt impossible.

Harry had many friends, yes—Hannah from Hufflepuff, who always had a ready smile; Luna, Padma, and Cho from Ravenclaw, each unique and strange in their own comforting ways; Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati from Gryffindor. But it was Hermione and Neville who had become his closest companions. Yet lately, Hermione and Neville seemed inseparable, always shadowing each other through the corridors, sharing secrets and study sessions, leaving Harry feeling a little adrift at times.

Hermione, on the other hand, was a constant. They had only one class together, but their friendship went far beyond that—endless hours spent studying in the library, floo-calling each other late into the night, sharing whispered conversations in hidden corners of the castle. Harry had never had a best friend before, but Hermione fit that role effortlessly: clever, kind, fiercely loyal, and with a courage that quietly burned beneath her gentle demeanor.

He smiled to himself, remembering the countless times he’d watched Hermione take on Draco with her sharp wit and sharper tongue during their group study sessions. She had a way of keeping even the arrogant pureblood grounded—whether it was a pointed lecture or the occasional well-aimed strike with whatever object was at hand. Once, she’d even smacked him with a pound cake. Harry still shuddered at the memory.

Hermione’s smile now was bright and steady, different from anyone else’s—radiant, almost golden.

Golden auras weren’t common. Harry had learned that over time. They were often linked to people who carried natural leadership, those with spiritual insight and magnetic influence. A golden aura spoke of power tempered with wisdom, an ability to inspire and uplift others. Watching Hermione, Harry knew she carried such a light.

Draco's, by contrast, bore a green aura—a sign of growth, renewal, and transformation. Once spoiled and arrogant, the boy was slowly changing. Exposure to friendships outside his pureblood bubble had cracked the facade, showing him a world where strength came from compassion and change. Green was the color of healing and fresh beginnings.

Neville’s aura, Harry was sure, was a soft, calming blue—reflective of his gentle, sensitive nature, his quiet bravery hidden beneath a shy exterior.

The soft voice of Hermione brought Harry back from his reverie. “Harry? Are you ready to enter?”

He blinked, shaking his head to clear the swirl of thoughts, then nodded firmly.

Together, they stepped through the threshold of the girls’ restroom. The faint scent of lavender and cleaning potions mingled with the cold, damp air. Water dripped rhythmically from the old, cracked sinks, the soft sound echoing in the stillness.

Harry released Hermione’s hand and crouched by one of the sinks, eyes narrowing as he examined the worn porcelain.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Hermione’s voice was gentle, curiosity piqued by his intent study.

“Something small. A snake,” Harry muttered, barely above a whisper.

Hermione nodded and moved to the opposite side of the row of sinks, mirroring his cautious inspection.

“We’re looking for a snake, right?” she asked, her voice low.

“Yeah,” Harry said, frustration creeping in. “But… it’s not here. The books said it would be by a sink. It has to be.”

He ran his hands through his unruly black hair, fingers tangling the mess further, before a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

“I found it.”

Harry snapped his head toward Hermione, who was crouched by the far sink, her eyes fixed on a tiny carving etched into the underside of the basin—a delicate snake coiling in serpentine elegance, almost hidden in the shadows.

“See that?” she whispered, pointing. “That’s the snake carving you were talking about.”

Harry’s lips curled into a smile, a spark of triumph lighting his tired eyes. “Merlin, you’re a genius, Mione.”

Hermione shrugged, a smug glint in her eyes. “Really just common sense and paying attention.”

Harry rolled his eyes but felt warmth bloom in his chest.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like Draco.”

Her mouth fell open in protest.

“I am not!” she hissed, lightly smacking Harry on the head.

“Okay, okay, I hear you!” Harry laughed, raising his hands in surrender as she huffed, clearly pleased.

His gaze returned to the snake carving, tracing its curves with reverence and a growing sense of purpose.

“So?” Hermione asked softly, folding her arms.

“So what?” Harry repeated, eyes fixed on the intricate detail.

“How do you… open it?” Her voice was hushed, filled with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making his voice rough. “I have to open it.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed deeply. “Harry… what exactly is this?”

He hesitated, then looked into her steady eyes, feeling the weight of trust they held.

“It’s the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets,” he said quietly.

Her eyes narrowed, searching his face for any sign of jest or doubt. There was none.

“And… what exactly is that?” she pressed, stepping closer, her gaze piercing.

Harry sighed, feeling the walls he’d built start to crumble. He reached into his robes and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, extending it toward her.

Hermione’s eyes flicked between the paper and Harry’s earnest face, her fingers delicately smoothing the ragged edges as she prepared to read.

The soft rustle of parchment was the only sound in the still room.

Her breath caught as her eyes absorbed the words.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒮𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈; 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑒𝓍𝒶𝒸𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓉? 𝒜 𝓂𝓎𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇?

———

Reliable historical sources tell us this much, but the honest facts have long been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The tale goes that Salazar Slytherin—the most secretive and determined of the four Hogwarts founders—constructed a hidden chamber deep within the castle’s ancient walls. This chamber, the story claims, was unknown even to the other founders, kept secret from Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and Helga Hufflepuff.

According to legend, Slytherin sealed the chamber so that none could open it until his own true heir arrived at Hogwarts. Only the heir would possess the knowledge—and the power—to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleashing the terrible horror concealed within. This horror was meant to purge the school of all those deemed unworthy of studying magic.

The Chamber of Secrets, then, was not merely a secret room. It was a weapon—one designed to enforce a cruel and rigid ideology. Salazar Slytherin believed firmly that only those of pure magical blood—purebloods—deserved the privilege of magical education. He harbored a deep suspicion, bordering on hatred, for Muggle-born witches and wizards, whom he considered untrustworthy and unworthy of their place at Hogwarts.

The Basilisk, a monstrous serpent of ancient power, was said to have been placed within the Chamber as the instrument of this purge—a silent, deadly guardian that would strike down any Muggle-born who dared to set foot in the school’s halls.

Slytherin’s views had led to bitter conflict with the other founders, particularly Gryffindor. The legend hints at a violent quarrel, perhaps even a duel, between the two. Some whisper that this clash led to a kind of civil war within the school’s early days, shaking its very foundations. Eventually, Slytherin departed from Hogwarts, leaving the Chamber and its deadly secret behind, and lived out his days far from the school he once helped build.

The idea that such a place could exist—and that a hidden horror could lurk beneath the castle—was enough to send shivers down the spines of many students over the centuries. Despite numerous searches by successive headmasters, the Chamber remained undiscovered, dismissed by many as a myth.

But Harry felt the weight of these truths—and lies—pressing against him now. He knew the Chamber was real. He had to find it.

—————

The paper trembled in Hermione's hands. Her eyes darted over the text again, unwilling to believe what she’d read the first time. A monster. Lurking beneath the foundations of Hogwarts. An ancient terror sealed in a hidden chamber.

But that wasn’t what disturbed her most.

“Harry…” Her voice broke the silence, quiet but heavy.

“Yes?” he rasped. His voice was low, raw. Exhausted.

Her brows furrowed, jaw tight. “Why are we doing this? Why are we really looking for this? A monster, Harry?” Her voice rose, uncharacteristically sharp. “Are you even hearing yourself? A monster!”

Harry moved fast, slapping a hand over her mouth and pressing a finger to his lips with the other. His eyes were wide and urgent.

“Shh! There are prefects in the halls!” he hissed.

She blinked, startled, and nodded. He pulled his hand away, breath shaky as he ran a hand through his hair. There was a tightness in his throat when he spoke next, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want to find it,” he admitted. “This wasn’t my choice.”

Hermione stared, confused. But he pushed forward, swallowing hard.

“A few weeks ago, I came back late to the common room. The dorm for the fourth years was open, and I… I heard Tom. He was talking about the Chamber of Secrets. About exploring it. He didn’t know I was listening.”

He paused. Her face had paled, her eyes narrowed in cautious curiosity.

“He was looking for it, Hermione. Searching. Planning. There was something about the way he spoke—it wasn’t just academic. It was... obsessive. And I knew—I knew—whatever was inside that chamber, he would use it for something dark. Something wrong.”

Harry clenched his jaw, his fists curling at his sides.

“I had to find it before he did.”

Hermione stared at him, absorbing each word. But when he took a breath and looked her in the eyes, what he said next made her blood run cold.

“Hermione… Tom is the Heir. Of Slytherin.”

“What?” she gasped, the word barely making it past her lips. “He—what?”

Harry nodded. “His bloodline traces back to the second Peverell brother. And mine… mine goes to the third.”

Her heart stuttered.

“But you’re an heir too?” she whispered.

“Yes. Technically. But it’s not that simple.”

Her mind whirled. “Wait, that monster—whatever’s in that chamber—it’s bound to obey the Heir of Slytherin, right? So can’t you call it? Or at least stop it?”

He sank to the stone floor, folding his legs underneath him, frustration knotting his shoulders.

“That’s the thing,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t think it would listen to me.”

She stared at him in disbelief, then looked down at the torn page from the book she’d found. She flipped it, turned it in her hands, eyes scanning the text like a code she could crack.

And then—her brow furrowed.

“I think I know why,” she murmured, her expression slowly shifting.

Harry lifted his head, hopeful. “Why?”

“The first Peverell brother died without producing any heirs. That line died with him.”

He nodded slowly. “Right…”

“And because of that, Lady Magic restructured the inheritance—passing the priority to the second brother. Riddle’s ancestor.”

Harry stared blankly, not quite following.

Hermione leaned closer, her voice sharp with intensity. “Harry, listen. If the first brother’s line is gone, then the second brother’s descendants automatically take precedence. That means Tom comes first. Always. The creature in the chamber—it’s bound to obey him, not you.”

Harry’s mouth parted slightly.

“He has the first claim,” she continued. “It’s not about who’s stronger or who means well. The creature follows blood and rank. And Tom’s bloodline—being from the second brother—is ranked above yours.”

Harry’s face fell, as if someone had knocked the wind out of him.

“So… if he gives it an order—to attack someone. To kill…” He trailed off.

“It will obey,” Hermione said softly. “It has to.”

Silence pooled between them, thick and suffocating.

Harry looked down, blinking furiously. His eyes burned, but the tears wouldn’t fall. They sat just behind his lashes, a sharp sting in his throat.

He looked up, meeting her gaze.

“This isn’t good, ’Mione.”

She didn’t argue.

“If he finds the chamber—if he unleashes that thing—there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

Hermione, for once, had no solution. She simply reached out, holding the paper out to him.

Harry stared at it for a long moment before taking it from her fingers.

And then, in a voice barely more than a breath, he murmured:

“We have to find it first.”

—————

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒮𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓏𝒶𝓇 𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓊𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝓊𝓃𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒞𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒞𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒷𝓎 𝒮𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓏𝒶𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝒶 𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒮𝓁𝓎𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃.

—————

"It can only be controlled by the true Heir of Slytherin," Hermione whispered, her voice tight.

Harry opened his mouth, words forming, but they died on his tongue. He nodded instead, swallowing hard.

"Say it, Harry. In Parseltongue."

He nodded again. The two stepped back from the sink, bracing themselves.

“Open,” Harry hissed.

The response was immediate — and terrifying. The sink shuddered, then split. The basin lifted with a metallic groan as the walls slid open like gaping jaws, revealing a cavernous black pit beneath. A rush of cold air snaked around their ankles.

They both stared into the void.

"Couldn’t Slytherin have added a staircase?" Harry muttered, trying to steady his nerves.

"Harry!" Hermione hissed, slapping him lightly on the back of the head.

He grimaced, rubbing the spot. Then, without another word, he stepped forward.

"I’ll go first. I’ll call if it’s safe." He cast a final glance at Hermione. She gave him a sharp nod, casting Muffliato and Silencio with a flick of her wand.

Harry sat at the edge, heart hammering, and let himself drop into the darkness.

The landing was rough. He hit something sharp and metal, wincing as he rolled off it and stood. Bones. He knew it before even seeing them. The smell, the brittle crunch under his boots.

"It’s safe!" he called up—then spun, wand drawn. “Lumos.”

Light burst from his wand—and what it revealed froze his breath.

The chamber was littered with bones. Human bones. Dozens. No, hundreds. Like a battlefield untouched by time.

A scream above jolted him back just as Hermione came crashing down beside him with a yelp.

"Sorry!" she whisper-shouted.

Harry groaned, cradling his head. "Mione', next time, aim better."

She pulled him up, her face pale.

"Are those—"

"Yeah." Harry didn't look at the skeletons again. "But we need to move. Now."

He took her wrist and led her down a narrow corridor until it opened into a towering chamber. Before them stood a colossal stone door, coiled with an enormous sculpted serpent. It stared down at them, eternal and unmoving.

"That’s a big door."

Hermione shot him a look.

"Tension, remember? I’m trying."

She sighed, her fingers lightly brushing his shoulder.

"So… how do we open it?"

Harry stared at the door. "You’d think I’d know, right?"

"You’d think," she deadpanned. "Try ‘open’ again. Maybe we get lucky twice."

“Open,” he hissed again.

The snake statues shifted. The stone clicked. The door rumbled as it cracked apart.

Hermione nudged him. "After you."

What they found inside left them breathless.

The chamber stretched into darkness, carved with towering statues of snakes, each taller than any creature they had ever seen. Between them lay a long stone path leading to an altar. And at the end of it…

"Salazar Slytherin," Hermione breathed.

His image was carved into the rock, a monument of arrogance and beauty. His hair flowed in wild waves across the chamber wall. His mouth, carved just slightly open, seemed almost alive.

Harry stepped beside her, awestruck.

"This is where the creature lives," she murmured.

"See that groove on his lips?" Hermione leaned in. "That’s not just decoration. It’s a mouth. A sealed one."

"You think…?"

"Say something else in Parseltongue. Not ‘open’. Something… grand. He wouldn’t make it easy."

Harry hesitated.

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four,” he hissed.

The floor shook. The wall cracked. A deep groan echoed around them as the stone mouth opened, slow and ominous.

"Close your eyes, now!" Hermione hissed, yanking his sleeve. "Don’t look at it directly!"

"Look at what—"

"Just do it!"

Hissing filled the air, rising like steam. Something slithered—massive, wet, ancient.

"Who disturbs my slumber?" The voice echoed around them, slithering over their skin like ice.

“That would be me,” Harry hissed back.

"A Speaker… It has been centuries. Are you the Heir?"

“No. I speak the tongue, but I’m not the Heir. I descend from the third Peverell brother.”

A pause. A sinister silence.

"You are not the one. You are not mine."

“But I came because the other heir—Tom Riddle—has found this place. He will twist it. He plans to use you to kill. He despises Muggleborns. He will not bring glory to your name—only terror.”

A low, rattling hiss echoed.

"And that is exactly what I was created for."

Harry froze.

"What?"

"Salazar's vision lives in him. I was born of that hatred, made for cleansing this school. I was meant to be his weapon, not yours."

Hermione gasped softly, her hand tightening around her wand.

"You… you want to serve him?" Harry asked, stunned.

The creature moved. Stone scraped. The Basilisk emerged—massive, glistening, emerald-scaled.

" You are no heir. You are a disgrace. A coward. A blood traitor."

"Harry," Hermione whispered, eyes wide. "This isn't right."

“I won’t let him find you,” Harry snapped. “I won’t let him unleash you. He’ll destroy everything. He already has.”

"Then I shall destroy you!" she roared.

Her tail swung. The two ducked, barely avoiding the crushing weight.

"GET OUT!"she shrieked. "Wasted gift! TRAITOR!"

Harry turned, grabbed Hermione’s hand, and ran. He didn't stop until they were through the entrance again, slamming it shut with a final hiss.

Then he collapsed.

He sank to his knees, the horror catching up to him, his hands trembling. Hermione rushed to his side, arms around him, grounding him.

"Harry—"

"She won’t help," he whispered hoarsely. "She won’t ever help. She wants blood. She wants to kill. And she thinks Tom’s the answer."

His voice cracked. But he didn’t cry. Not quite. His eyes shone with the weight of unshed tears.

"She called me a traitor. Said I was weak. Said I was a waste."

Hermione tightened her hold, rocking him gently.

"You're none of those things," she whispered fiercely. "You're better than all of them. You're not like them. You’re exactly who this school needs."

They sat in silence, the weight of ancient cruelty pressing in from the stone walls.

And Harry clung to her—not as the Boy Who Lived, but as a boy on the edge, who nearly fell.

Spells:

Muffliato - Creates a buzzing sound in the target's ears to prevent eavesdropping.

Silencio - Silences the target.

Chapter Text

"

"Harry, do you need to go down to the hospital wing?" Hermione asked gently, her voice laced with concern as she glanced over the rim of her cauldron. Her hands moved swiftly and surely, stirring the potion with practiced ease. The deep amethyst mixture hissed softly with each slow rotation of her spoon.

They were midway through double Potions, the dungeon thick with the tang of brimstone and acrid herbs. Today's assignment was a fire protection draught—a complex potion that required two students per cauldron. Professor Snape, with his usual sneer, had paired the class up in his own twisted logic, muttering something curt and sarcastic about “house unity.” Predictably, Harry and Hermione were lumped together again—though neither complained aloud. Across the room, Slytherins and Ravenclaws laughed under their breath, clearly thrilled to be away from what they deemed "lesser partners."

Hermione, of course, was in her element. She measured with a precision that could rival a laboratory scale and chopped with the efficiency of a surgeon. Harry, on the other hand… well, he was better than Seamus Finnigan. That had to count for something. Seamus's potions had a special gift for detonating in his face at least once a week—usually in vivid color and loud sound. Frankly, it was a miracle the boy still had eyebrows.

Harry, meanwhile, had been relegated to ingredient preparation: slicing dried belladonna root, grinding embershell bark, and measuring precisely three drops of salamander oil. He was doing his best to concentrate, but his stomach felt like it was hosting an inferno.

He groaned softly, clutching his abdomen for a second before catching Hermione’s eye.

"No. I'm fine," he muttered, setting down his silver knife and resting his head in his hand. The nausea had been gnawing at him since lunch—something oily and bitter had turned in his gut the moment he’d left the Great Hall. It was a pain he’d tried to ignore. That was always the safest option with Snape breathing down their necks.

But now, that pain was blooming—spreading in hot tendrils through his lower abdomen like molten iron, stabbing upward toward his chest. His breathing grew shallow.

"I just need to stand up," he said, voice strained. Hermione looked unconvinced, her brows furrowing as she continued to stir.

It had been months since the Chamber of Secrets—since the echoing drip of water on stone, the flickering torchlight, the serpentine statue and the creature that lay within. But ever since that night, things hadn’t quite settled. Harry had begun to feel strange—aches in his limbs that moved day to day, sometimes his wrists, other times his spine or shoulders. Sometimes it was a sharp pain, other times a hollow pulse that left him winded. Madam O'Deluga could never quite find the cause.

Today, the pain felt... different. Worse.

"Professor, may I be excused to the restroom?" Harry asked, his voice louder than usual, if only to cut through the haze that clouded his thoughts. Snape turned lazily, his eyes flickering to Harry like he was sizing up a stain on his desk.

"Very well," Snape drawled. "You and Granger appear to have completed the assignment with minimal disaster."

Harry nodded and turned toward the door.

"Be careful," Hermione said softly behind him, but her voice sounded far away.

As he stepped into the hallway, the cool air hit him like a slap. His steps grew uneven. Halfway down the corridor, the pain surged. He doubled over, slamming one palm against the cold stone wall for balance. His other arm curled around his stomach as if he could hold himself together.

A cry escaped him before he could bite it back. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t quiet. It was raw.

The searing heat in his abdomen exploded outward—white-hot, like a knife dipped in fire. His vision swam as he slid down the wall, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Sweat streamed down his forehead. His robes clung to him, damp and heavy.

Why was this happening again?
Why always him?

He wasn’t at Privet Drive anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be dealing with pain like this. He wasn’t supposed to cry. He was supposed to be safe now.

A footstep.

"Bloody hell, why are you on the floor, Potter?"

Harry looked up through blurred vision, meeting the icy blue eyes of Ronald Weasley. His face was twisted in a mixture of mockery and confusion.

"Weasley," Harry rasped, his throat raw. His hair was plastered to his forehead, clumped and soaked with sweat.

"What’s wrong with you now?" Ron sneered, folding his arms.

"I don’t know," Harry breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper. He could feel something warm and wet soaking into his robes at the waist.

Then Ron’s tone shifted, alarm bleeding in. “Merlin—Potter, you’re bleeding!”

Before Harry could respond, Ron had him by the collar, half-hauling and half-dragging him toward the hospital wing. His legs barely worked. His feet scraped clumsily against the floor.

They didn’t get far.

“Weasley.” A low voice rang down the hall like silk wrapping around steel. Ron froze in place.

They turned to see Amaryllis Parkinson, her eyes narrowing instantly. Her gaze fell to Harry’s soaked robes, the crimson stain spreading.

“What did you do, blood traitor?” she hissed.

“I found him like this!” Ron snapped. “I was taking him to the hospital wing, but of course you’d assume it was my fault.”

“Give him to me!” Amaryllis barked, already moving. She all but ripped Harry from Ron’s grip, bracing his weight against her shoulder. Harry groaned.

"Nott!" she called sharply.

A second later, hurried footsteps approached. Theodore Nott’s eyes went wide at the sight. “Amaryllis—what the hell happened to him?”

“He’s bleeding, you idiot—help me lift him!” she snapped.

Nott nodded quickly, moving to Harry’s other side and lifting his arm over his shoulders. “We’ll get you there, Potter. Just hang on.”

Harry barely registered the words. Everything was pulsing and fading, a world of sound with no meaning.

The trio burst into the hospital wing. Madam O'Deluga looked up from her discussion with Dumbledore, startled at the intrusion. Her wand slipped from her fingers the moment she saw Harry.

“What happened?” she barked, rushing forward.

“Weasley found him,” Amaryllis explained quickly, eyes darting nervously to Harry. “We just got him here.”

Dumbledore's gaze swept over Harry with alarming stillness. “Why were you not in class?”

“Free period, sir,” Nott said quickly, still bracing Harry’s sagging weight.

“For your help, five points to Slytherin each. Now—go.”

“Yes, sir,” Amaryllis murmured. She glanced back at Harry once before sweeping out, her expression unreadable. Nott followed close behind, the door clicking shut behind them.

Silence returned.

Madam O'Deluga was already casting spells, diagnostic charms glowing over Harry’s body in pale blue ribbons.

Dumbledore stepped closer, his expression grave. “Will he be alright, Laverne?”

Her lips tightened. “His internal development is... reversing again. His abdominal structure is reconfiguring as if regressing. The bleeding—I've no source for it. There’s no tear. No trauma. Nothing physical.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, fingers steepled under his chin.

“Curious,” he murmured. “Very curious indeed.”

His eyes lingered on the boy’s face, pale and slack against the white pillow.

He feared for the boy—not just his health, but something more. He hadn’t seen Tom and Harry speak this year. Not directly. But Dumbledore had seen the look in Riddle’s eyes when he glanced at Harry. A predator recognizing something in his reflection.

That connection hadn’t vanished.

It had deepened.

And if he was right... then Harry was far from safe.

Not from Tom.

Not from himself.

And not from what was coming.

---

His eyelids fluttered open against the sterile glare of overhead lights—white, sharp, and painfully bright. For a moment, everything was a blur, an overwhelming fog of whiteness and pressure that clung to his skin like sweat. He winced, shutting his eyes again before squinting them open slowly, cautiously. Shapes began to take form. Pale curtains. The sharp scent of antiseptic. The muffled clink of glass vials.

The hospital wing.

His limbs felt like lead. His chest rose and fell with effort, and every breath pulled tight across his ribs. The soreness was sharpest in his lower abdomen, a deep, persistent ache like something had been torn open and sewn hastily shut again.

He heard a shuffle of footsteps, soft and even. Then came the voice—warm, but clinical.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to focus. “Madam O’Deluga,” he rasped, voice dry and scratchy.

She gave a small nod, a tight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her face was pinched, like she’d been holding tension behind her eyes for hours.

“You may be wondering why you’re here,” she began gently.

Harry gave a slight, cautious nod. His muscles tensed with the movement.

“You were found unconscious in the corridors,” she explained. “You had lost quite a bit of blood. Fortunately, you were discovered just in time—by one of your Gryffindor classmates and two fellow Slytherins. They brought you straight here.”

Harry blinked, absorbing the words like water through cracked glass.

“We can’t say for certain what caused the bleeding,” she continued. “But during examination, we noticed something… peculiar. Your abdominal cavity appears to have—expanded. It matches the size of a typical twelve-year-old’s, but—there are signs of recent trauma. We’re monitoring it closely.”

Harry's fingers curled around the sheets. “Expanded?” he echoed, bewildered.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “As though something had been distorting the organs within. But there’s no clear reason why. No spell residue. No rupture. Just… altered anatomy.”

He felt the breath leave him, slow and uneasy. Whatever had happened wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t over.

“What time is it, Madam?” he asked quietly.

“Quarter to nine in the evening.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered, brows furrowed.

“You’ve been unconscious most of the day,” she added. “You’ve had a few visitors asking after you. Would you like to see them?”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yes… I would.”

Madam O’Deluga gave a brisk nod and slipped behind the white curtain. There were hushed voices from beyond, then footsteps.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang out before she even appeared, and then she burst through the curtain like a storm cloud with arms.

He grunted as she threw her arms around him. “Oi—careful, Hermione—still sore.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled into his shoulder, pulling back. Her eyes were wide with concern, her curls slightly frizzy, as if she’d been running her hands through them all day. “We’ve been so worried about you. We weren’t allowed to visit until now.”

“Yeah,” Neville chimed in from behind her, hovering awkwardly. “Hermione’s been pacing like mad. Honestly, I think she wore a trench into the floor.”

Hermione shot him a death-glare. “I was concerned.”

Harry offered a weak grin. “Well… it’s nice to know I was missed.”

He looked past them, scanning the room. Three familiar faces—but one he expected was notably absent.

“Where’s Draco?” he asked, voice tightening faintly.

“He got detention,” Hermione answered with a sigh.

“With Snape,” added Neville. “They went into the Forbidden Forest looking for potion ingredients. Apparently someone’s been stealing supplies from the dungeons.”

“Again,” Hermione muttered.

Luna, who had drifted quietly behind them like a ghost, spoke at last. “I hope they don’t run into any gargles. They like the dark. Not fond of humans. And they hate being disturbed when it’s nearly full moon.” She blinked slowly, her silvery gaze fixed on the enchanted lamp above Harry’s bed. “They bite, too. But they do love freshwater.”

Neville gave her a side glance and subtly inched away. Hermione raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Luna smiled dreamily. “Anyway, I hope they’re careful. Especially Professor Snape. He doesn’t seem like he’d do well with nargles.”

“We should go,” Neville said quickly, stepping back. “We told Professor Sprout we’d help her reorganize Greenhouse Two before curfew.”

“Yes, we did,” Luna said, as though the memory had just come to her. “Goodbye, Harry.” She gave him a little wave, then turned and floated out behind Neville.

Silence settled as the curtain fell behind them. Hermione stepped closer, eyes still searching Harry’s face.

“Harry…” she said softly, pulling something from the bag slung over her shoulder. “I think I know what this is about.”

He frowned as she handed him a folded parchment. “What?”

She didn’t speak, just watched him as he swung his legs slowly over the edge of the bed. The blanket slipped from his lap, revealing his hospital gown and the bandages wrapped tight around his abdomen. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the parchment.

The words written there were in her tidy, no-nonsense handwriting. Lines of notes. Symbols. A title: Soul Distortion and Magical Parasites: The Unseen Effects of Dark Objects on the Living Host.

Harry stared at it, and for a long moment, the silence stretched between them.

“What the hell is this?” he finally asked, voice quiet but sharp.

Hermione took a breath. “I think this has something to do with the ring.”

He looked up slowly.

Her voice softened. “The ring. The one you used to wear. You said it burned, that you saw things. You haven’t been the same since.”

“I took it off,” Harry muttered. “I felt better.”

“But not completely,” she said gently. “And now this…”

Harry exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping back to the page. His jaw tightened. “So what, you think it left something behind?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

“I think it might have done more than that.”

He glanced at her, eyes hard. “You think I’ve been cursed.”

“I think,” she replied carefully, “there’s something still inside you. And it’s not entirely… yours.”

————

Looking a Basilisk directly in the eye caused instant death, but an indirect glance would merely render the victim petrified. It was also the mortal enemy of spiders. Spiders refused to speak of the Basilisk, as they could intuitively sense its presence and would flee whenever they detected it.

————

Harry stared down at the crumpled piece of parchment in his hand, his green eyes clouded with confusion. The words seemed to swim before him, dense with meaning yet frustratingly opaque. He blinked and then looked back up at Hermione, who stood before him with a radiant smile, the kind that usually meant she had uncovered something important — or at least interesting.

“What exactly does this have to do with me being sick?” Harry asked, arching a curious eyebrow. His voice was low, tired, edged with a trace of irritation at the mystery hanging over him.

Hermione snorted, a sharp, amused sound that broke the tension. “You really don’t see it?” she asked, clearly amused by his cluelessness.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “See what? What are you getting at?”

She took a step closer, lowering her voice as if about to reveal a great secret. “Do you remember what Madam O’Deluga said to you before she disappeared behind her chamber curtain?”

Harry’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Yeah, I do. Why?”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened. “Is that important?” she teased lightly.

Harry rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Would it be important if I were the one asking?” he retorted.

Hermione smirked and nodded, motioning for him to continue.

Harry cleared his throat and read aloud the harsh, accusing words:
“‘Pathetic! You’re a disgrace to the Slytherin line. I will make sure Salazar’s heir finds this chamber, and I shall tell him about the Slytherin blood traitor. Now get OUT!’ And then she said… ‘A wasted gift! Wasted to a pathetic traitor!’”

His voice faltered as he finished, and he looked up at Hermione, who was now watching him with a mixture of sympathy and something darker—concern, perhaps, or sorrow.

“That… actually makes a lot of sense,” Hermione murmured quietly.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Makes sense how? What are you trying to say?”

“She might’ve cursed you,” Hermione whispered, the word heavy and chilling in the dim light of the medical wing.

Harry’s breath caught. The word hung between them like a dark cloud.

“Cursed me? Why would she do that?” His voice cracked slightly, the three words barely audible.

“Revenge,” Hermione said, eyes glinting with an unspoken pain. “Punishment. It fits. Her anger. Her words. The way you collapsed… It’s all connected.”

Before Harry could respond, a deep, smooth baritone interrupted their exchange. Both of their heads snapped toward the curtained entrance, where a tall figure stood, casting a shadow that seemed to darken the room further.

“There will be punishment for staying out late,” the voice said evenly, “and I imagine you won’t want to find out what that entails.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the speaker — Tom Riddle, the fourth-year Slytherin with the unnerving charm and cold gaze.

Hermione’s tone sharpened instantly. “Won’t you be punished too, Riddle? You’re not a Prefect or Head of House either.”

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile, as if savoring the moment. “I have permission from Headmaster Dippet, Granger. Unfortunately, all the Prefects and Heads were... occupied.” He took a deliberate step closer, the air around him thickening with quiet menace. “I, of course, was chosen to escort a housemate back to the Slytherin dormitories—with permission, I might add.”

Hermione’s hands clenched the bedsheets beneath her, white knuckles visible. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing a deep, steadying breath.

“Of course, my deepest and most sincere apologies, Riddle. I should not have assumed,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Tom’s nostrils flared, his eyes darkening. His grip on the curtain tightened, and a chilling aura seemed to swirl around him. The second-year and fourth-year locked eyes, their silent challenge thick and electric.

“Miss Granger?” came a soft voice from just beyond the curtain.

Hermione turned to see Madam O’Deluga stepping forward, her purple hair gleaming under the flickering magical lights. She positioned herself slightly ahead of Tom, as if shielding the younger girl.

“Yes, Madam O’Deluga?” Hermione replied cautiously.

“I believe it is time for you to return to the Ravenclaw common room,” the healer said gently but firmly. “It is currently 9:24, and curfew will soon be enforced. I notice you are neither a Prefect nor a Head of House.”

“But he isn’t either!” Hermione argued, glaring pointedly at Tom.

The older boy sneered in response.

“I am—”

“Riddle, enough.” Madam O’Deluga cut him off sharply.

Turning her attention back to Hermione, she said, “Miss Granger, Mr. Riddle has explicit permission from the Headmaster to be here. He is escorting Mr. Potter back to Slytherin and will not be penalized. However, you must leave the medical wing immediately or risk detention.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked between the healer and the smug boy, frustration tightening her jaw. Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Alright, goodnight, Harry. Please rest and get well soon,” she said softly.

“Good night, Miss Granger,” Madam O’Deluga added, extending her hand.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, confused, then took the healer’s hand as the two women left the curtained-off space.

Tom didn’t waste a moment. He strode swiftly toward Harry, setting a pace that made the younger boy stumble to keep up. Harry’s gaze followed the tall, lithe figure until Tom stood directly in front of him.

Harry’s eyes locked with Tom’s icy, penetrating gaze. He looked different — changed in subtle but unmistakable ways since the start of the year. His curly hair was longer now, soft and almost silky in texture. His frame was broader, muscles taut beneath his dark green robes, which seemed to absorb the dim light like shadows melting into night.

At 6'2", Tom towered over Harry, who was barely 5'8", still struggling to grow into himself. Hermione, a petite 5'4", was even beginning to catch up to Harry’s height.

The boy in front of him wasn’t in the usual Hogwarts uniform. His robes were deep, dark green — reminiscent of a forest at midnight, whispering secrets. His jaw was sharper, his face stripped of its youthful softness. The hunger in Tom’s eyes flickered dangerously — a flash of red gleaming momentarily before fading.

“What happened to you?” Tom’s voice was low, sharp, concerned but laced with something unreadable. “I heard you bled out in the hallway. Parkinson and Nott had to take you to the medical wing.”

Harry parted his lips to answer but was stopped by a sharp, stabbing pain in his head — an uncomfortable probing sensation that made him close his eyes and look away. His fingers rubbed tiredly at his legs, trying to will the ache away.

Warm hands suddenly rested on his thighs, grounding him. But the pain wouldn’t relent.

“Harry?” Tom’s voice was softer now as the warmth shifted to his forearm. Harry gripped Tom’s arms tightly, ignoring the creases forming in the older boy’s robes.

The probing sensation slowly ebbed, and Harry sighed in relief, releasing Tom’s arms.

Looking up, he found Tom’s head tilted in curiosity, his eyes scanning Harry’s face.

“She doesn’t know,” Harry murmured.

Tom hummed quietly, pulling Harry gently but firmly from the bed.

“Come, we should get going. It’s already 9:48.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tom led him out of the medical wing, offering a quick farewell to the healer.

As they walked through the dimly lit corridors toward the common room, Tom never released Harry’s hand. The warmth of the older boy’s touch was oddly comforting amidst the cold stone walls.

Tom’s grip was firm, almost possessive, as if afraid Harry might slip away. When Harry tugged gently, testing the strength of the hold, Tom’s grasp tightened instantly, quickening their pace.

Harry squeezed Tom’s hand reassuringly, and he caught a fleeting look of relief on Tom’s face — though the grip remained tight as ever.

At last, they reached the heavy door to the Slytherin common room, guarded by a portrait of a woman Harry had never heard named but had often seen.

She sat there with a sigh, swirling a dark red liquid in a wine glass, the deep blackcurrant stain pooling onto the floor beneath her. Her honey-gold hair caught the torchlight, shining brightly as it fell in a thick braid over her shoulder to her waist.

Her blue eyes, bright and sharp, lifted from the glass, and when they landed on Harry, they widened with surprise.

She rose hurriedly, her gown rustling as she moved closer. Her gaze swept over Harry’s pale, tired face, and relief softened her features.

“Oh, my dear Harry,” she said warmly. “I was so worried. The news spread quickly — like wildfire throughout the common room. Many were quite concerned, myself included. I’m just so glad you’re alright.”

Harry managed a small smile. “Thank you, Miss. I’m glad too.”

Tom shifted impatiently nearby, his arms crossed as he huffed in irritation. The older boy moved Harry’s left arm gently but firmly, and the woman’s eyes flicked between their joined limbs and back to Tom’s face, narrowing in judgment.

Her lips curled into a faint sneer as she took in the tall boy fully.

“Riddle?” she said softly, mockery dripping from her voice. “I didn’t expect you to be the one escorting our darling snake. I thought it would be a Prefect, or perhaps a Head of House. It doesn’t mean students should be out this late, Mr. Riddle. It is already 10:04.”

Tom bared his teeth in response, stepping forward and pulling Harry close by the shoulders.

“Careful with him, Riddle! He just came out of the medical wing. Are you daft?” The woman placed her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.

Harry winced as Tom’s hand dug into his shoulder.

“Keep quiet, you filthy mudblood,” Tom hissed venomously.

The woman gasped, stepping back, eyes wide with shock.

Harry flinched sharply at the hateful word.

He reached up, tugging on Tom’s sleeve, drawing his attention away from the portrait.

“Don’t say that word, Tom. It’s not nice.” He looked apologetically at the woman. “I’m sorry about his behavior.”

The woman’s expression softened as she returned her smile to Harry.

Tom squeezed Harry’s hand lightly and glanced away, the cold mask briefly slipping.

“The Prefects and Heads were busy, so I went to Headmaster Dippet’s office and got permission,” Tom said flatly, his voice devoid of warmth. “I’d advise you filthy mudbloods to keep your mouths shut and stay out of affairs that don’t concern you.”

“Tom!” Harry's voice rang out sharply.

Instead of dismissing him, Tom glared with icy disdain.

The woman looked down at Harry with a gentle smile.

“It’s alright, Harry. It’s a daily habit at this point. These Slytherins always find ways to insult me about my blood status, and Tom is no different,” she said, nodding toward the tall boy. “But you, Harry, you are not like the others. That makes me very curious.”

She stepped closer to Harry as Tom inched closer too, until Harry’s back was pressed against Tom’s firm chest. Tom’s grip tightened protectively as the woman inspected him with piercing aqua eyes.

Tom looked as if he feared she might step out of the portrait and attack.

“I appreciate and stand for you, Harry. I will always be on your side,” she said quietly, stepping back.

Tom took a step forward.

“Open,” he commanded.

“Have you been hit with a memory spell?” the woman asked coolly. “The password remains necessary, Mr. Riddle.”

“Capital Draconis,” he hissed.

The portrait swung open, revealing the familiar green glow of the Slytherin common room.

Tom released Harry’s hand as they stepped inside. A few students greeted Harry warmly, though many of the second years scattered quickly out of sight.

“Harry, come,” Tom said quietly, leading him deeper inside.

The common room fell silent as they made their way toward the second year dormitories.

Harry’s mind churned with unanswered questions. What awaited him behind those doors?

Chapter Text

Harry closed the heavy door behind him with a soft click, the muffled sounds of the common room fading away. His heart still thudded unevenly in his chest, the lingering aches from earlier pain settling deep within his bones. He looked up at Tom, who stood rigid, almost statuesque, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable but heavy with expectation.

“What did you do?” Tom’s voice was low but edged with an unmistakable sharpness—an accusation wrapped in calm.

Harry swallowed hard, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He blinked up at the taller boy, whose dark eyes bore into him with unnerving intensity.

“I did nothing,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his stomach. The confusion in his words was genuine enough to sound convincing, though inside he felt anything but certain.

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, and a slow, almost predatory smile crept onto his face. “Nothing?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he took a step closer, the distance between them shrinking until Harry could feel the faint warmth radiating off him.

Tom leaned down, lowering his voice to match Harry’s height, his sharp gaze never faltering. The faint scent of his cologne — something dark and rich — filled the air.

Harry’s breath hitched as a familiar sensation crept beneath his skin — that probing, invasive feeling that had plagued him earlier, like invisible fingers rifling through his thoughts and memories. His stomach twisted, cold and uneasy.

He immediately shut his eyes tight, turning his face away as if to hide from the invisible intrusion. His heart pounded harder, pounding in his ears, threatening to betray him.

The silence stretched between them, taut and electric, broken only by Harry’s shallow breathing and the faint rustle of Tom’s robes.

Tom’s voice softened just enough to be dangerous. “You can’t hide from me, Harry.”

Harry clenched his fists at his sides, trying to ground himself against the flood of unwanted sensations. The room felt smaller, suffocating, as Tom’s presence pressed in from all sides.

After a moment, Tom straightened, stepping back with a quiet exhale. “You’re weaker than you think,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully, eyes still locked on Harry’s downcast face.

Harry swallowed, trying to summon courage. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”

Tom’s lips twitched, almost like a smirk, before he turned sharply and strode toward the common room’s entrance.

Harry’s fingers itched, his mind racing with questions he dared not voice aloud.

What had really happened in those corridors? And how much did Tom really know?

—

It has to be here, but yet it is not." He heard Tom hiss in what sounded like frustration. He listened intently.

"Well, I'm sure Salazar has left it at the school. There could not be that he hasn't, my lord."

—

“Stop that.”

Harry’s voice was low but sharp, cutting through the quiet tension like a knife.

“Stop what?” Tom’s reply was calm, almost teasing, as if the game was just beginning.

“Stop acting like a fool!” Harry hissed, taking a cautious step backward, eyes narrowed and wary. “I know it’s you. Who else could it be?”

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. “It’s not nice to lie.”

Harry crossed his arms defiantly. “I can if I want to. You don’t get to decide what I do.”

Tom’s expression darkened with mock disappointment. “You know it’s not nice to eavesdrop, Harry.” His voice was dripping with mockery.

Harry’s own smirk surfaced, biting back. “And you know it’s not nice to insult people, Tom.” He tilted his head, eyes flashing. The two stood locked in silent challenge.

A flicker of annoyance passed over Tom’s features. “So... you know about the Chamber of Secrets?”

The words hit Harry like a sudden chill. His heart stuttered, pulse quickening. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet those icy, piercing eyes—eyes that seemed to bore straight into his soul. His gaze flicked nervously to his own trembling hands, clenched tight on the folds of his Hogwarts robes.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice dropped to a low, almost hypnotic purr as he stepped closer, invading Harry’s shrinking space, “do you know where the Chamber is?”

Harry swallowed down a lump that threatened to choke him and took an involuntary step back. His eyes darted everywhere but at Tom, as if looking anywhere else might betray his fear. It felt as if Tom could read every secret thought, every hidden panic.

Suddenly, hands gripped his wrists, cold and unyielding. An alarm bell rang in Harry’s mind. He jerked, trying to pull free, but the grip only tightened.

“Harry,” Tom breathed out, voice edged with irritation. But Harry ignored him, tugging and struggling.

“Enough!” Tom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. Then, with sudden force, he pulled Harry close, chest to chest, trapping him against himself.

Harry stiffened, muscles taut with surprise and uncertainty. Tom’s body was warm and solid against his, firm from countless duels and battles. Harry remembered the stories—how even the professors whispered about Tom’s unmatched skill, how his dueling left rooms frozen in awe and fear. Harry had watched from the sidelines, seen that power in action—and now it was pressed so intimately close.

A soft hand, feather-light as a whisper, brushed against Harry’s cheek. It was almost tender, delicate—as if he were a fragile treasure to be cherished and carefully handled. Tom’s thumb traced slow circles on his skin, coaxing, soothing, but with an undercurrent of possession.

Tom hummed softly, pulling Harry still closer until their bodies almost melded. Then he lowered his head, burying it in the hollow of Harry’s neck, breathing in the warmth there. A confusing swirl of dizziness and longing hit Harry hard; he couldn’t explain the sudden flutter of emotions, the strange pull that Tom’s presence exerted over him.

Harry winced as the pressure between them increased—chest pressed to chest, every muscle alert.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice was a breathy whisper, so close it sent shivers racing down Harry’s spine. Warm breath tickled his skin. Harry’s hands flew instinctively to Tom’s robes, clutching the dark fabric in a desperate, tangled grip.

“Yes, Tom,” Harry gasped, knees threatening to give way. The very air around them crackled with magic, hungry and alive, as if the room itself wanted to consume Harry’s power. A strange hunger pulsed in the silence.

Tom’s breath slid from Harry’s neck to hover just by his ear, a teasing, unsettling breeze. “Are you...” His mouth brushed the shell of Harry’s ear, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “lying to me?”

Harry’s whole body trembled under the question. He swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “No.”

Tom hummed again, tilting his head lower into the curve of Harry’s neck, eyes darkening with unreadable intent.

“You are,” he said softly, the single word heavy with accusation and something darker.

Harry tensed, heart pounding against his ribs. And then, in the midst of the thick, charged silence, Tom smiled—a slow, knowing curl of the lips.

“I believe bad boys get punished, don’t they?”

Harry’s mind emptied, the world narrowing to the feeling of Tom’s touch. The smooth fabric of Tom’s robes beneath his hands felt cold and unreal, as if he were slipping between reality and some dream. The echo of the word “punishment” repeated in his head, a tempting promise and a threat wrapped in one.

Suddenly, heat flared along his neck, a blaze ignited by the sharp, possessive clamp of teeth sinking into his skin. Tom’s breath came hot and hungry beneath Harry’s ear, fingers tangling in his hair with a grip that demanded stillness. Each bite was firm, claiming—leaving behind the faint sting of ownership that sent shivers racing down Harry’s spine and made his breath catch in his throat.

A strangled moan tore free, mingling with a startled gasp, and Tom’s low, satisfied hum rumbled against his skin.

One last hard bite, lingering just long enough to make Harry squirm, before Tom pulled back—green meeting icy blue in a charged, dangerous silence.

Harry noticed how Tom’s pupils had blown wide, how his breath was shallow but steady, unlike his own ragged gasps. The older boy’s smile was soft now, almost tender, as he twirled a stray curl from Harry’s forehead between his fingers.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Tom murmured, voice low and full of promise, “I would never hurt you.” His hands gripped Harry’s waist firmly, possessively.

“Now, sleep,” he commanded gently. 

Harry closed his eyes, the world spinning into darkness as exhaustion finally claimed him.

---

Harry’s gaze drifted downward, settling on the thick, leather-bound History of Magic textbook lying open before him. Hermione’s voice wove through the dim classroom, reciting the details of one of the countless goblin wars—the dates, the key figures, the lasting consequences—but Harry’s ears barely registered the words. His mind was somewhere else entirely, lost in a fog of unease and exhaustion.

The past few days had been… difficult. A quiet heaviness clung to him, subtle but persistent. His appetite, once voracious and steady, had begun to wane again. Meals that used to feel comforting now seemed like burdens. The familiar taste of food had dulled into something distant, uninspiring. Concern had brought him back to the medical wing just yesterday, where the healer had prescribed a potion—a blend of nutrition supplements to bolster his strength.

The bleeding… that terrifying, sudden flood of crimson in the castle corridors—had finally been explained. A basilisk curse, Hermione had said, and though the word still sent a shiver down his spine, she had reassured him it wasn’t meant to be fatal. More a punishment than a poison, a lingering wound to remind him of what had happened, not a death sentence.

“It’s not permanent,” Hermione had said quietly, eyes serious but gentle, “and it should fade soon, if you take care of yourself.”

Harry nodded absently back then, but now, in the half-light of the classroom, the weight of it all pressed in again. A punishment. The word echoed in his mind. Not just physical, but something darker—something that clawed at his peace and sense of safety.

He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms against his thighs. The cool touch of the parchment beneath his fingers, the soft scratching of Hermione’s quill, the distant murmurs of classmates—all felt muted, as if he were submerged under a heavy veil.

He wanted to believe it would pass, that soon he would feel whole again. But for now, the shadow of the curse, and the mysteries that surrounded it, clung tightly—like a whisper on the edge of his mind, reminding him that the fight was far from over.

—

She might've cursed you."

Harry froze.

"Cursed me? Why?" The three words came out breathless.

"Most likely revenge, a punishment." She said, she's gleaming in dolour.

—

"Hermione?"

"Yes?" The bushy-haired girl looked up from her potions paper to her friend. The other was anxiously plucking at the feathers on his quill as he gathered the courage to ask his friend.

"Did you have more to say about the... curse?" Harry whispered out the last part. They were currently alone in Hermione's dorm room since they both had a free period. Very lucky indeed.

The girl scores from him froze as she once again looked down at her potions paper, nipping at her lower lip harshly. He watched as his friends experimented with her quill before sighing.

"I read into it.” She paused, then added, “She cursed you for suffering small cuts. "If you don’t treat them properly—as in your case—they could cause serious complications." She looked back at her, her eyes scanning his face. Harry felt himself shiver at her tone, blunt. Blunt she had been.

"She most likely will not take the curse off of you unless she's ordered by... you know." That left the end, knowing exactly who she was talking about. Harry sat in silence while a Hermione went back to writing her essay.

He should have thought twice before setting off to do something like that.

There wasn’t much stirring at Hogwarts as the school year drew to its close—finals loomed, and the end of May settled over the castle like a slow dusk. The usual buzz of students planning summer trips and last-minute revisions hung in the air, but beneath that quiet, subtle shifts were rippling through the school.

Tom Riddle had been seen around more often lately. It was odd enough to surprise Harry himself—Tom, who all year had seemed to vanish between classes and strict study hours, now appeared in the corridors, sometimes near the Great Hall, sometimes near the library. But the most unexpected part? Tom had even begun talking to Harry. Not just passing remarks or cold nods, but actual conversation.

That alone made Harry uneasy.

At first, the other Slytherins’ sudden interest in him felt strange and unfamiliar. It began small: Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass had invited him to a study session in one of the abandoned corridors, but Harry politely declined, remembering his promise to study with Hermione and Luna.

Then, just a few days later, three of the more intimidating Slytherins—Theodore Nott, Blaise Rosier, and Reinhard Lestrange—cornered him in the hallways. They followed him everywhere, peppering him with crude jokes and half-smirks that made Harry’s skin crawl. They wouldn’t let him leave, and no matter how much he tried to avoid them, they stuck like shadows.

It was all unnerving, a behavior Harry was far from used to.

Trying to escape the intensity of Slytherin company, Harry shifted his steps toward the Hufflepuff common rooms, where he had recently made a new friend—Ginny Weasley, younger sister to Ron. They first met in Herbology when she accidentally knocked one of Harry’s plants off the table during a sudden tumble. Apologies flew, names were exchanged, and Harry was surprised by Ginny’s warm smile and spirited kindness.

Ginny was nothing like her fiery older brother—at least not in the way Harry knew Ron. She had a quiet strength and a fiery spark beneath her gentle exterior. Loyal and honest, she carried herself with a bright energy that was contagious, and soon Harry found himself wanting to introduce her to his small group of friends.

He brought her first to Neville Longbottom and Hermione. Dragging Ginny down the corridor to the library, Harry found the two studying side by side, but just as Hermione and Neville started to squabble over some minor point, Harry quickly intervened. Neville nearly passed out from embarrassment muttering under his breath, while Hermione smiled widely, happy to welcome another friend. “The more the merrier,” she’d said.

Next came Luna Lovegood. The moment Ginny and Luna met, there was an instant connection—as if their oddities complemented each other perfectly. Harry smiled, happy to leave them together and escape the tension for a while.

Now, here he was, sitting on the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower, the quiet evening punctuated by the lively bickering of Hermione and Ginny.

“The nerve your brother has is unbelievable!” Hermione hissed, her frustration clear. “He tried to copy off my notes in Transfiguration after ignoring me the entire class.”

Ginny snorted indignantly. “He always does that. But that doesn’t make him unbelievable.”

Harry winced internally, wondering if introducing the two fiery personalities to one another had been a mistake.

He picked up his History book and opened it to the prologue, letting the rising voices of Hermione and Ginny fade into a distant hum. But his thoughts were not on the goblin wars Hermione had been explaining.

Something else nagged at him—the Chamber of Secrets.

How had the basilisk cursed him? He tried to reason it out—he’d told that ancient creature that someone would use her for dreadful deeds. But nowhere in any book had he read that a basilisk could curse someone. Their venom was deadly, yes, but cursing? That was something else entirely.

The textbooks described the venom’s effects in chilling detail—minutes before the heart failed, the victim’s mind clouded, limbs weakened, breath stolen. Some had described their last moments as drowning in a nightmare, body failing, senses slipping away, hallucinations, babbling, a harrowing death.

But a curse? That was different, and no one explained it well.

A sudden scream shattered his train of thought. Harry looked up sharply at Hermione and Ginny, where the sound had erupted.

“Ginny!” Hermione growled, eyes flashing. But Harry stifled a laugh when he saw the source—bats fluttering wildly around the Astronomy Tower, and Ginny giggling uncontrollably.

She had hexed Hermione with her favorite spell—the Bat-Bogey Hex.

Before Hermione could scream again, a cool, composed voice interrupted.

“Pardon me, could you two lower your volume? Some of us are trying to study.”

Both girls turned toward the speaker—Tom Riddle. Ginny immediately stopped laughing, blushing so fiercely her cheeks nearly matched her fiery hair.

“O-Oh! Sorry, Riddle, we won’t do it again,” she squeaked, eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and admiration.

Tom’s eyebrows lifted in mild disappointment. Arms folded behind his back, he stood tall and perfectly poised in his immaculate Slytherin robes and polished dress shoes. His once-gelled curls were now loose and tousled, giving him a more natural look. His blue eyes flicked from Hermione to Ginny and lingered for a moment, before landing on Harry.

Green met blue, soft curiosity clashed with cold calculation, and a faint, mocking smile curled on Tom’s lips.

“Hello, Harry. How are you this fine evening?”

Harry blinked, surprised by the direct question. Since the night they’d brought him back from the medical wing, they hadn’t shared more than brief words.

“Hey, Tom. I’m good, thanks. How about you?”

“Quite splendid,” Tom purred, stepping closer. Ginny’s blush deepened as Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered, “He’s not even cute.”

Tom’s gaze flicked pointedly at Hermione before narrowing in on Harry. Then, without warning, he walked directly up to Harry.

“Would you like to keep me company on my way down to the library? I realized we’ve barely talked all year. I want to know how you’re doing.”

Harry glanced back at his friends. Ginny nodded enthusiastically, while Hermione’s look was unreadable but knowing.

“Sure, it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Tom’s lips curved into a sly hum. “I guess we’ll find out. Keep up.” Then he turned sharply and strode down the Astronomy Tower stairs.

Harry hurried to gather his things as Ginny peppered him with questions. “You’re friends with Riddle? What’s he like? What’s his favorite treat?”

He waved her off, promising to answer later, then said goodbye and hurried after Tom.

“Hey, wait!”

Tom didn’t slow, but Harry caught up, earning a few curious glances from passing students.

“Bastard,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Tom glanced back with a smirk. “My parents were married when they conceived me. Aren’t you too young to know that word—and to use it?”

Harry huffed. “I can say what I want.”

“I can see that.”

The library was oddly empty when they entered. Tom stopped abruptly in the doorway, causing Harry to bump into his back.

“What’s your problem?” Harry hissed.

Tom turned, expression unreadable.

“Do you have a place to stay this summer?”

Harry’s anger faded into curiosity. “I do. Why?”

Tom’s gaze darkened. “Your godparents haven’t kicked you out?”

Harry frowned. “Why would they?”

Tom’s eyes dropped to Harry’s hands, which now lacked the black ring Tom had given him last year.

“Harry,” Tom whispered, “What happened to the ring I gave you?”

Harry looked down at his bare fingers. “I left it at the dorms. It burned me.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise—yet another moment Harry felt caught off guard.

“It glowed gold,” Harry added.

Later, sitting on his bed cleaning Hedwig’s feathers tangled with pine needles, Harry felt the ring—forgotten on his bedside table—grow warm. Then hotter. Suddenly it burned his skin.

He yelped, struggling to remove it. Relief flooded him when it finally slipped free, but as it hit the floor, the ring glowed bright gold.

Tom’s look darkened, lips tightening into a thin line. Harry knew that expression well—the 'thinking face.'

His eyes gleamed brighter than ever as he smiled.

“Please wear it when you get home.”

“Why?”

“It’s how I contact you.”

Harry blinked, confused.

Tom stepped closer, raising a hand to Harry’s neck, maintaining unblinking eye contact.

“I want you to come to Malfoy Manor this summer.”

Harry’s eyes widened, jaw dropping.

Tom chuckled, catching his mouth with a hand. “Careful—wouldn’t want a parasite flying in.”

Harry clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes.

“Why?”

Tom arched a brow.

“Don’t you want to? I hear you haven’t seen young Malfoy much this year.”

Harry frowned; it was true. Abraxas had mentioned being pulled out often by his father.

“But why is that a reason for me to go to Malfoy Manor?”

Tom’s voice dropped low and commanding.

“I want you to come.”

“What if I don’t?”

Tom’s grip on Harry’s neck tightened, and a dangerous smile spread across his face.

“I would love for you to attend, Harry.”

“I don’t want to!”

“I don’t care.”

The hold constricted.

Spells:

Bat-Bogey Hex - Turns the target's boogers into bats

Chapter Text

Harry sat quietly across from Remus and Sirius in the cozy living room of the old, sprawling house that had been his refuge since the day his godparents had taken him in. The late afternoon sunlight filtered softly through the tall windows, casting long, golden beams that danced across the wooden floorboards. The faint scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the subtle hint of lavender from the nearby vase of wildflowers.

It had been two weeks since Harry returned home for the summer break. Two weeks filled with laughter, warmth, and moments he had longed for during the school year.

That afternoon at the station still played vividly in his mind: the moment he had stepped off the train, the familiar faces of Sirius and Remus waiting for him, their smiles brighter than the sun. They had walked home together, the three of them—laughing and teasing one another with the easy affection only family could share. Harry grinned up at his godparents, feeling the weight of belonging settle softly in his chest.

Sirius had been particularly animated that day. Harry remembered how Sirius threw his head back in laughter when Remus playfully punched his shoulder. Sirius’s face had flushed a warm shade of pink, and he had reached out to pull Remus closer, draping an arm around his shoulders in a gesture that spoke of unshakable devotion. Before they even reached home, they had stopped at a small ice cream shop, where each of them chose their favorite flavor. Harry still chuckled to himself thinking of the moment Sirius’s ice cream had slipped from his hand, splattering on the cobblestones below. The sound of Sirius’s mock outrage and Remus’s gentle teasing had been a perfect prelude to the warmth that awaited them inside.

Now, as they sat around the low coffee table, the easy comfort was suddenly interrupted. Sirius’s floo call crackled to life with an urgent hiss, pulling him from the moment.

“Shit,” Sirius muttered, his porcelain skin tightening with tension. Harry watched as Sirius’s grey eyes narrowed sharply, the playful spark in them dimming to a flicker of frustration. His jaw clenched, and his hands came up to rub at his temples as he listened to the voice on the other end. The faint sound of muffled voices from the floo broke the silence between them.

“Padfoot? What’s wrong?” Remus called from the kitchen doorway, concern written plainly on his face as he stepped into the room.

Sirius let out a low growl, frustration evident in the sharpness of his tone. “They’re calling me in for work,” he snapped, throwing his hands up as if trying to physically shake the responsibility off. “It’s not fair! Harry just got home tonight, and we planned to have family time. We planned this.”

Harry’s heart sank. He opened his mouth to protest, “Sirius, really, it’s fine—”

But Sirius cut him off sharply, shaking his head. “It’s not about you, Harry. It’s never about you. It’s like they don’t want me to spend time with you.” His voice softened as he turned, grabbing Harry’s shoulder gently, and leaned down to meet the boy’s green eyes with a gaze so raw and honest it left Harry breathless. “I’m sorry we can’t have family time tonight. I hate losing this time with you. I care about you—more than you know.”

Harry’s lips curled into a small smile, his hand rising to squeeze Sirius’s as he pulled him into a tight hug. The warmth between them was a balm to the frustration, a promise that no matter the obstacles, they would always be there.

“It’s okay, Sirius. Really. I understand,” Harry said softly, voice steady despite the ache he felt. “I know how much being an Auror demands. You don’t need to apologize for doing your job. We have two and a half months ahead—over sixty days to be together. One day won’t change that. Honestly, I’ll tell Remus the same—I want you to do what’s important to you.”

Sirius exhaled shakily, the tension draining from his frame just enough to allow a fragile smile. His embrace tightened once more, and for a heartbeat, Harry saw a flicker of the man who had once been reckless and carefree, softened now by love and responsibility.

He glanced toward Remus, who stood silently nearby, sorrow and empathy etched deep in his eyes. Sirius’s gaze flickered to him, and then closed his own eyes briefly, as if holding back an ache only he understood. A shaky breath escaped before he finally loosened his hold on Harry.

“Thank you, Harry. Truly,” Sirius said quietly, voice thick with emotion. Without another word, he strode to the floo and disappeared with a flash of emerald flames.

A stillness fell over the house, the kind that follows the abrupt departure of someone beloved.

Remus crossed the room and placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Go on up to your room, Harry. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

Harry nodded, his smile genuine despite the lump in his throat. He pushed himself up from the chair and hurried toward the staircase. Before he reached the landing, he paused, hands resting lightly on the banister.

He had something to do.

Something important.

---

As soon as Harry stepped inside his room, the urgency to find the golden ring seized him. His fingers trembled slightly, heart beating faster than usual. The ring—his link to Tom, a symbol of power and possession—should have been here, somewhere close. But now, it was nowhere to be found.

He tore open the drawers one by one, tossing aside scarves, socks, and folded clothes. His gaze swept into every corner—cabinet shelves, nightstand drawers, even beneath his bed where stray bits of parchment and a lone shoe lay forgotten. Nothing.

A frustrated sigh escaped him. The room felt too quiet, too empty without the weight of the ring resting against his skin. He sank onto the edge of his bed, the familiar sting of uncertainty gnawing at his chest. As he sat there, the memory of his last heated conversation with Tom played over and over in his mind, like a relentless echo.

“Why do you want me to wear the ring? And why do I need to go to Malfoy Manor this summer?” Harry’s voice had cracked from repetition and irritation. It felt as though he’d asked the same questions a thousand times that week alone. Ever since their first tense exchange in the library, the two had clashed constantly.

Tom had been relentless, his determination radiating in every flicker of his stormy blue eyes. Harry could still see the way Tom’s fists clenched tightly in frustration, his knuckles paling, his body trembling with a quiet, barely contained rage. And yet, despite the storm, Harry refused to back down.

He knew Tom wanted answers — answers that Tom, for all his arrogance and power, could not simply dictate.

“I want to know!” Harry had demanded once again, standing his ground despite the growing tension.

Tom had spun around with a speed that caught Harry off guard, stalking toward him with a predator’s precision. His icy blue eyes pierced the green depths of Harry’s, narrowing in sharp focus. His teeth flashed in a brief snarl of annoyance.

Then suddenly, Tom’s hand shot out and gripped Harry’s wrist in a vice-like hold, yanking him forward until the smaller boy stumbled and landed squarely against Tom’s chest. The sharp squeak that escaped Harry betrayed his surprise. Tom smirked inwardly at the reaction — but there was no time to indulge.

“What do you want, Harry?” Tom’s voice was low and dangerous, the edge razor-sharp.

Harry’s eyes flared with stubborn fire. “You know what I want!”

That was the final straw. Tom’s grip tightened and his other hand darted forward, tangling mercilessly in Harry’s midnight hair. The sudden pain made Harry wince, eyes watering.

Tom’s gaze flickered with something darker — delight. He pulled harder, fingers twisting cruelly through the thick strands, eliciting a sharp cry. Harry clawed at Tom’s hand, desperate to free himself, scratching and biting at the pale skin until it reddened, but the grip remained ironclad.

Sadist, Harry thought bitterly, even as tears pricked his eyes.

“Stop! Stop, I won’t yell at you! Just please, let go of my hair before I go bald!” Harry gasped, barely holding onto his pride as the grip finally slackened.

Tom released him with a small, victorious grin. His fingers brushed lightly over Harry’s scalp, soothing the sting he had inflicted moments before.

“I want you at the Malfoy Manor so you can meet my allies,” Tom said smoothly, the possessiveness in his voice unmistakable. “Lord Malfoy himself has been eager to meet you for some time. I think it’s about time you met Abraxas’ father, hm?”

Harry stayed silent, unsure how to respond to the sudden invitation.

Tom’s eyes darkened as his tone softened, voice dropping to a near whisper. “And, truthfully… I want to spend the summer with you. I’ve been so busy this year that I left you to the company of others.”

His hand slid from Harry’s hair down to wrap possessively around his waist, pulling him close. He stroked through the midnight curls again, gentle now.

Harry mumbled quietly, “I wasn’t completely lonely this year.” He thought of Hermione, Neville, Draco, Luna, Ginny — friends who’d kept him grounded.

Tom tensed as if the admission pained him. The hold on Harry’s waist tightened. “I know. But we barely spoke. I want to make up for that this summer, here at Malfoy Manor.”

A pause settled between them like a held breath.

“When you get home, I want you to find that ring I gave you last year. Put it on. Don’t take it off, do you hear me?” Tom hissed, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “That ring deserves respect. You should be thankful I gave it to you.”

Harry said nothing.

Tom’s fingers pinched his side suddenly, earning a sharp glare.

“Fine! I will. Now stop pinching me!”

A small, triumphant grin spread across Tom’s face. He pressed his forehead lightly against Harry’s squirming one and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Lovely. I’m glad we agree on the arrangements.”

Harry tried to protest. “I didn’t agree to—Tom!”

But the pinch returned and Tom laughed deeply, eyes sparkling with cruel amusement.

Oh, how precious Harry was.

Back in his room, Harry shook the memory from his head and glanced down at his bare fingers, aching to feel the ring’s cold weight against his skin. The absence of the ring made the room feel colder, emptier. And despite every instinct telling him to resist, he knew the summer to come would change everything.

---

Harry paused just inside the doorframe of his bedroom, eyes flickering across the shadowed corners and muted gray walls that enclosed the small sanctuary. The dim lamplight cast long, twisting shadows over the scattered belongings that punctuated the room—books, clothes, a forgotten Quidditch scarf tossed over a chair. He took a slow breath, steadying himself, before stepping fully inside.

He scanned the usual places first—the closet, the neatly made bed with its heavy blankets—but shook his head with a hint of frustration. The ring wasn’t there. He was certain; he never kept it near the closet, and the bedframe’s enchanted barriers would prevent anything from slipping underneath.

He moved toward the trunk at the foot of the bed, the last unsearched stronghold. Kneeling before the heavy case, Harry’s fingers traced the golden nameplate engraved with his initials, H.J.P. The metal was cool beneath his touch, grounding him as he lifted the lid.

The trunk groaned slightly as it opened, revealing layers of his muggle clothes—shirts, trousers, sweaters folded in haphazard stacks. He recalled the scorn he’d received from the Slytherins for these “unworthy” garments. How they’d sneered, their sharp voices like snakes hissing in the dark corridors. He remembered the way Tom had simply watched, leaning coolly against the grand fireplace in the common room, swirling his wand absentmindedly as the others jeered. That small smile Tom gave when their insults bounced uselessly off Harry… a smile that spoke of control, power, and amusement.

Harry shook his head, banishing the memory. And then—there it was. Nestled between a worn sweater and a folded shirt, the faint gleam of gold caught his eye. He reached in carefully, fingers grazing against something sharp. A sudden sting pierced his palm—a splinter from a forgotten scrap of wood lining the trunk’s interior.

With a slight hiss, Harry extracted the ring, turning it over in his hands. The golden band gleamed faintly, almost as if it pulsed with a hidden life of its own. As he slipped it onto his middle finger, it fit snugly, the only finger that would accommodate its weight.

A subtle warmth radiated from the ring, spreading up his finger in a gentle, vibrating hum. The faint golden glow shimmered softly, as if the ring was pleased to be back with its rightful owner. Harry’s breath caught in a mixture of awe and unease.

Then, a voice—velvet-dark, chillingly close—cut through the quiet room.

“You seem to enjoy your old gift.”

Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs. He spun sharply, but his eyes didn’t meet the intruder’s. Instead, instinctively, he raised an arm in defense.

A sharp smack echoed.

Staring up, Harry’s breath caught. Tom stood mere inches away, the flush of surprise still lingering on his pale cheek where Harry’s hand had struck. His blue eyes, unsettling in their intensity, locked onto Harry’s with a slow, predatory appraisal.

Tom’s lips parted slightly, curls tousled in deliberate disarray, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at their corners. Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, charged.

“Why are you here?” Harry hissed, tension rippling in his voice.

Tom’s response was a slow, cold snarl.

“I told you I would visit. There is no need for such a welcome.” His gaze slid over Harry’s flushed face, his tone dipped in amused menace.

Harry’s hands rose, rubbing the sting on his cheek, frustration simmering. “You don’t have to sneak up on me like that!”

Before he could react further, Tom’s long fingers closed around both of Harry’s wrists, pinning them against his sides. The sudden restraint made Harry’s chest tighten, panic fluttering in his throat. He opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came.

Instead, Tom’s voice slid low and close, breath warm against Harry’s ear.

“I see you found the ring.”

Harry’s gaze flicked down to the glowing band, then back to the hungry glint in Tom’s eyes. The grip around his wrists tightened imperceptibly, sending a shiver through him.

Tom’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those pale orbs held something colder, darker—an icy promise of control, possession, and a hunger that went beyond words.

Pulling Harry’s arm closer, Tom tilted his head with a slow, dangerous grace. Harry stumbled forward into the older boy’s chest, breath hitching as the proximity sent heat blooming through his veins.

“Tom, seriously, what is your problem?” Harry growled, struggling to steady himself, fighting the magnetic pull of Tom’s grasp.

The chill in Tom’s eyes deepened, his voice a silky murmur that sent a delicious thrill lacing with dread through Harry’s spine.

“I hope you’re ready.”

Ignoring Harry’s protest, Tom’s hand slid slowly from Harry’s wrists down his side, tracing a path that was more deliberate than casual—an intimate claim, a chilling caress that left Harry’s skin tingling and hairs standing on end.

Harry’s breath hitched as the air between them thickened, charged with a tension neither wanted to acknowledge outright. The power in Tom’s presence was suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tom!” Harry said through clenched teeth, trying to sound firm despite the shiver threatening to betray him. “Especially not while my godparents are home. I’m allowed to spend time with them, which is rare enough—since they’re almost always working or I’m at Hogwarts. And I don’t think they’d like some random boy whisking me away without explanation.”

Tom raised a flawless brow, a wicked smile curling his lips as his hand lingered just a moment too long against Harry’s side. The sound he made—a soft, amused hum—sent a chill right through Harry’s bones.

“I suppose I’ll have to introduce myself properly then.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, and those cold blue eyes roamed Harry’s face with unsettling fascination—like a predator studying his prey, measuring every reaction.

Before Harry could respond, Tom pulled back just as suddenly as he’d appeared, his form fading with a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet room.

Harry stood frozen, heart pounding wildly in the sudden stillness, the weight of the ring heavy on his finger.

Minutes ticked by, dragging the silence out unbearably.

No footsteps.

No return.

Just the lingering ghost of Tom’s presence—and the simmering fire of something neither entirely understood.

Then, far away, a call broke through the quiet.

“Harry!”

The sound yanked him from his daze, and he bolted from the room, chasing after the familiar voice that meant safety and questions both.

Harry’s heart still hammered as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The familiar voices of Remus and Sirius floated through the house, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold tendrils of dread Tom had left behind. But as he entered the living room, the atmosphere shifted sharply.

There, framed by the doorway, stood Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He was impossibly tall, almost statuesque, his dark green robes falling in perfect lines along his long, slender frame. His posture was effortless—poised, controlled—as if the entire room bent subtly to his will. But it was his face that arrested Harry’s attention.

Those unnervingly bright blue eyes—icy, calculating, and impossibly intense—seemed to flicker with an unreadable fire. They swept across the room, lingering on Sirius and Remus with an unsettling calm, but it was when they landed on Harry that the temperature dropped perceptibly. His gaze was not quite warm, but there was a flicker there—an eerie fascination mixed with something colder, something possessive.

Tom’s smile stretched across his pale features, a practiced, disarming curl of lips that never quite reached those eyes.

“I believe you know me,” Tom said softly, voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel. He held a delicate bouquet of flowers—yellow roses, pink roses, and bright zinnias tied with lavender ribbon—the kind of gift that seemed too sweet, too carefully chosen, too deliberate.

Remus’ eyes narrowed slightly, his grip tightening around the half-finished biscuits on the counter behind him. Sirius, standing rigid beside him, exhaled sharply, his grey eyes flickering between Tom and Harry like a wary wolf assessing a stranger at the edge of the den.

“Hello, Lord Black, Mr. Black,” Tom intoned with a hint of mock formality, inclining his head ever so slightly. “My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I’m a friend of Harry’s. It’s truly a pleasure to finally meet you both. Harry has spoken quite a bit about you.”

Sirius exchanged a look with Remus—one thick with suspicion—and Remus took a careful step forward.

“A friend... of Harry’s?” Sirius echoed, voice laced with caution.

Tom’s lips quirked upwards, but the smile remained enigmatic, unreadable.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “We have been close since his first year. We share many... interests.”

Harry shifted uneasily, caught between his godparents’ vigilant stares and the unnerving calm of the boy who claimed friendship. There was something about Tom’s presence—an almost predatory grace—that set Harry’s nerves alight.

“And you say you’re a prefect now?” Remus’ voice was steady but guarded.

Tom nodded, eyes gleaming with something like pride—or was it challenge? “Indeed. Fifth year, prefect, and soon a candidate for Head Boy. I take my responsibilities seriously.”

The tension in the room tightened like a wire. Harry could feel it radiating off his godparents as clearly as his own quickened pulse.

“I’m curious,” Remus said slowly, “how did you and Harry become close?”

Tom’s smile deepened, though his eyes narrowed with a flicker of something darker.

“We share similar pursuits,” he said cryptically. “And I believe it’s important Harry spends some time at my family’s manor. It would be good for him to meet my friends—and Lord Malfoy himself has been eager to make your acquaintance.”

The mention of the Malfoy manor hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken implications.

Before the question could fully settle, Remus cut in sharply, “And you expect Harry to stay there? Tonight?”

Harry swallowed, his gaze flickering between Tom and his godparents. His throat tightened.

Tom stepped forward, hand reaching out to lightly intertwine with Harry’s, a slow, deliberate contact that sent an involuntary shiver down Harry’s spine.

“My greatest gratitude, Sirius, Remus. You have my word—Harry will be well cared for.”

The touch lingered—soft, possessive, a silent claim that spoke louder than words.

Sirius’ jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as he glanced down at the linked hands.

“Harry, what do you say?” Remus asked, voice gentle but firm.

Harry’s own green eyes met Tom’s piercing blue, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the charged silence thick enough to suffocate.

Finally, Harry nodded, voice quiet but resolute.

“Yes. I will go.”

Sirius sighed, rubbing his temples before stepping back.

“Don’t keep your guest waiting, then.”

Tom’s lips curled into a triumphant smile as he released Harry’s hand, turning sharply toward the stairs.

“Come, then. Let us not waste the evening.”

As Tom’s footsteps faded up the stairs, Harry glanced back once more at his godparents—Remus’ worried gaze and Sirius’ guarded expression mirrored his own conflicted feelings.

The door clicked softly behind them, leaving a chilling stillness in its wake.

Chapter Text

Harry quickly paced around his room, annoyed with how his evening went down. When the boy entered his room, he paced around in burrows movements, waving a wand every so often towards a certain part of his room. Over his closets, wardrobes, trunks, everything. There was a reason to why he was doing this, and it was not a reason he was looking forward to.

Tom, being the sneaky Slytherin he is, convinced his godparents to allow Harry to spend the night at his 'estate' that was none existent.

"I recommend you hurry. We do not have that much time to spare."

The posh voice says behind him. Harry paused in his frantic movements. The grip on his wand tightened involuntarily as he took a moment to compose himself so that he would not attack the other behind him. He does not want to deal with his godparents lecturing his behavior for when a guest is over, no matter who they are.

The grip on his wand lessened while his shoulders sagged and his posture relaxed. He opened eyes to look around his room one more time, making sure that he forgot nothing. It wouldn't do him if he did so. He sighed quietly and turned around to face the other. He looked at Tom. He seemed delighted. His blue eyes shimmered with a sarcastic smile that lit up on his face. He definitely knows what he is doing, and that irks Harry. He rose an unimpressed brow before crossing his arms, but still held eye contact with those deadly blue eyes.

"And what are you so proud of?" He squinted, pushing the question forward. The look on Tom's face did not vanish. Instead, it rose. The teen took a few steps closer to Harry, nearly allowing the two to touch fronts together.

Harry was having a difficult time to not tear his eyes away from the ones Infront of him. A faint smirked outlined his facial features as if he won a huge victory, but those piercing eyes did not change. They only seemed to glow even more. They seemed curious but her distant. He gulped harshly, hoping Tom didn't notice. He felt slight tremors running down his spine as the warm breath spilled over his face from the other. He felt that warmth progress as heat looked up on the side of his forearm. He hesitantly allows his green eyes to flicker down towards the beat source. It did not surprise him when he found Tom's hand wrapped around his arm in a firm grip, as if he were worried that Harry would run at any time if he did not have a grip on him. He felt eyes burning on the front of his head, but he kept his gaze on where the two had connected. His gaze was focused on Tom's arm. He never realized how pale the boy exactly was. It was as if he was looking at a ghost. His own skin tone was a tanned olive color while Tom seemed like a vampire, which honestly wouldn't surprise him if he were being honest. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the veins that were very viable from the other's arm. He bit lower lip, mentally shaking his head to stop checking out the guy's arms. God, that's so creepy and looked up at Tom. The teen's gaze did not leave his face as he felt the warm shift up from his forearm, to his shoulder, then to behind his neck. He felt his breath hitch and felt himself freeze when the boy pulled him closer until their noses were touching. He could definitely feel Tom's breath from here as it fanned out all over his face. He let his eyes flutter shut at that, which warmed him with a chuckle from the other. He then, sadly, opened his eyes to look at the other.

“Well, you’re being quite touchy, aren’t you?” Harry murmured, voice laced with mock sweetness.

Tom’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a scoff before he rolled his eyes, his hand still firm on Harry’s neck.

“And if I am?” Tom leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, words steady and challenging. “Does it bother you, darling?”

The low tone curled through Harry like a spark. His breath caught for a moment before he schooled his expression into something sharper. That smug, unshakable face was far too close.

He could have stepped back. Should have, maybe. But instead, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, a thought blooming in his mind. If Tom wanted to test boundaries… Harry was more than willing to push back.

He tilted his head closer, deliberately slow. Tom’s eyebrow rose a fraction, a flicker of curiosity in those cold eyes.

The grip on Harry’s neck firmed, Tom’s other hand coming up to rest against the side of his face—not rough, but with a weight that said he wasn’t about to let Harry go. They stared each other down, neither blinking, neither breaking first.

Harry lifted his hand, brushing the edge of his knuckle along Tom’s jaw in a lazy arc before letting it fall away. His smile deepened. Rising onto his toes, he closed the gap between them by a breath, enough for his words to land softly.

“Maybe I don’t mind.”

Tom’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the air tightened. His hand slid from Harry’s neck to his shoulder, keeping him in place as he leaned just close enough for their foreheads to almost touch.

Harry stood his ground, refusing to move.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint, measured rhythm of their breathing—matched, steady, locked in a silent stalemate neither was ready to break.

Game on.

"Boys?" Sirius’s muffled voice called from outside the bedroom.

Harry's eyes widened as he was shoved backwards, roughly. He looked at Tom in shock. The other just stared back, eyes boring into his.

"Come in." Harry shouted, his eyes never once leaving Tom.

The door to his room slowly opened, revealing a confused Sirius on the other side of the doorframe. The older man’s gaze fixed on the two boys before him. The two of them stood a good distance from one another, gazes not leaving the other.

He definitely knocked on the door at the wrong time.

"How are you getting along with packing, Harry? Do you need anything?" 

In the background, Harry had tuned out Sirius. I only fixed both his ears and eyes on the teen in front of him. Only tom. He looked away from the others' icy gaze, and back to his godfather, who was slowly stepping outside the room.

"No, I got everything, but thanks Sirius."

The older man nodded before walking out of the room, pulling the door shut. No sooner had the door shut than Harry was pressed against the wall. With wide eyes, he gawked at Tom, who had a hungry look in his eyes. The blue of his eyes shimmered slightly behind the dark irises that had extended in the space of where the blue of his eyes should be. One thing about Tom that had always impressed Harry was the boy's face. Harry tilted his head as he looked up at Tom. The nearly leaving a nearly sharp jawline seemed like it could cut through objects, leaving Harry in a state of awe at the slight of the others facial features. High cheek bones leaked through his face, making the other look a year or two older. The teen had always been a perfectionist when it came to his hair. The green-eyed boy could never take his gaze off the slight curls in it. They seemed more and more defined every year. It also seemed that the boy wanted to grow out of his hair. Harry awed over Tom in adoration. The boy looked... perfect. He was the definition of a Greek god, and the boy was so very young and intelligent. He looked up and looked directly at Harry, meeting the boy's gaze. His blue eyes flickered all over Harry, His hair was even messier, he was due for a haircut soon anyway, but his green, his green beautiful eyes still glowed and shimmered like one of the three unforgivable. That one thing Tom had absolutely adored about him. The boy once told him that his eyes remind him of him of comfort. Something about the greened eyes boys gaze brought Tom comfort. Those eyes always seemed to absorb him and stay focused, as if they have no other purpose than them to be a decoration for Tom and Tom only. Tom decided the boy deserved a little award. He drew his hands up had which had caught Harry's attention with his hands. He watched as the other's hands has slowly moved down from his arms, and to his chest. The warmth from the other's palms seeped through Harry's thin t-shirt, making his chest go numb. His eyes fluttered shut as the boy's hands slowly now moved down to his hips and waist. The grip was light, like a feather. He could barely feel the grip there. It wasn't possessive or tight. It was gentle and soft. It was comforting. Harry looked back up at the boy and see that the blue of his eyes shined through once again. His big, deep-blue eyes bore right down to the very deepest sanctuary of his soul as his warm, full red lips pressed against his temple and caused a shiver to spread over his skin. He pulled back, eyes suddenly soft and gentle, like the touch he has on him. Harry brought his arms around the teen, pulling the boy down closer, which he hesitated for. The grip around his midsection was still very light while the two breaths mingled with one another's.

It was hard to get Tom off guard, especially since he was too proud to let his guard down, but Harry loved when we the boy did. It made him seem slightly more human when he did. He wanted that for Tom. To show him that emotions do matter.

Harry bit his bottom lip, immediately noticing the way Tom's eyes fell down to his lips. He hesitantly pulled the teen down to the crook of his neck. He felt his eyes roll back at the warm breath that scattered over his damp neck. He could smell the salt on him, and something darker, the hearth fire and ink, the sweat of the day. The anticipation of the night. To his disappointment, he felt Tom pulled away, eyes closed once again, which had caused butterflies in Harry's stomach. His icy eyes were smoldering, just inches away, and his breath was cool against my open lips. I could taste his scent on my tongue. Harry felt his mouth open and close involuntarily as Tom moved closer until their noses were touching. He explored the other, thinking whether this was a good idea. He's not even a teenager himself and Tom is turning sixteen later on in a year. He guessed Tom saw his hesitance, pulling himself closer to Harry, where the warmth was driving him crazy at this point. He couldn't remember the witty response he had been about to make. He couldn't remember what to say. He didn't give Harry a chance to recover. He gasped as he felt the warm muscle of Tom's mouth move against his ear. His grip on the teen tightened, blunt nails digging into the broad shoulders that have him trapped between the larger body that currently has him pressed into a giant the wall.

"Don't rush yourself, dear. I will wait for you." And with that, Tom pulled away and stepped back away from Harry, leaving the boy baffled and dumbfounded.

"All packed, are you not?" The other tilted his head, his eyes gleaming in amusement as he looked back at Harry. Harry let his eyebrows furrow at the other question. He sneered.

"You little shit."

"Pardon me." The teen said smoothly. He watched in annoyance as Tom's blue eyes rolled at his comment, clearly unamused by the other.

“You’ve packed up, right? We should get going. It’d be disrespectful to arrive late and disturb the… owners.”

He smiled at Harry, his eyes shined bright.

But his eyes did not meet his smile.

Harry shivered. He then narrowed his eyes, looking at Tom. The slightly dim room seemed to get darker.

"We aren't going to the Malfoy's manor, are we?"

Tom rose an eyebrow at that. "What makes you think that?" He took a step closer to Harry, but Harry did not move back. He bit his tongue on the inside of his mouth as Tom moved closer. He felt his heart pumping when the teenager was directly in front of him again. He looked back up in the curious blue eyes.

"I have a feeling." He coughed out, the air suddenly heavy.

Tom hummed, his eyes looking at Harry's stuff before backing at him.

He didn't expect the other's arm to fly out and wrap around his forearm, bringing him closer. Suddenly his shoulder was now against Tom's chest, warm breath had once again fanned around his neck area. 

God, what was happening to him? What was Tom doing to him?

"What if that feeling is not the feeling you think it's for?" The voice said softly. The question stumbled over him, leaving him slightly 

 Other talk like he was from the mid-eighteen hundreds is something Harry will never find out nor know. But the sheen like grip he was held in did not go unnoticed by him. He didn't mind it. Yet.

"What do you mean by that?" He mumbled. The warmth fled from his forearm, leaving him in slight disappointment. I heard a huff next to him, which he quickly snapped his head up to Tom, who had a slight sneer plastered on his face. He sighed, knowing what was coming next.

"Do not mumble, speak clearly. You have teeth, do you not?" 

He felt the cool breeze pass by him as Tom walked away. He inhaled deeply as the other passed by, leaving him slightly disappointed. The inky fire smell and sweat sudden gone. It was overtaken by the smell of musk, parchment, and… copper? He shivered. He wonders how that is. He didn't feel the other use a cleaning spell, and you are certain cannot change the descent that sticks with you in minutes. He turned around and saw Tom patiently waiting for him by the closed door. His eyes were fixed on the pictures that were hung up on the wall of him, Sirius, and Remus. He hasn't had the chance to put up the ones with his friends just yet, as he was using moving pictures, since they held on more of them muggle pictures. It felt whenever he looked at one, it would hold more memories, and that's why he liked the pictures. Then he frowned. He watched the pale face across the room, brightly colored eyes watching the moving pictures with thin lips. I tightly gripped hands behind the other back. Tom had come from an orphanage, as Draco had stated. He only knew that his mother was a gaunt that had passed away in childbirth, and that his father had left her on the streets after dosing him in love potions, which once again Draco had told him. He was related to Slytherin like he was, but Tom was a descendant of the second brother. He was from the third. He bit his lip, eyes focused on Tom's face as the other than bore at the other pictures in enmity. Harry quickly waved his wand and shrunk his trunk, placing it in his pocket. He pat away the none existent dust that sat on top of his navy t-shirt. He clenched his fists before relaxing them, then he walked towards Tom. 

He was then directly beside the boy, who seemed to not notice him. He brought his hand up, setting it down on one of Tom's clenched fists. He felt the teen tense under touch, but it successfully worked as the other's fists unclenches as relaxed. Tom turned his head to face Harry, his lips were still set in a thin line. He felt those lightly colored eyes look at him everywhere. He squeezed the other's wrist, thinking if he should do what he was going to do. He bit his lip, wondering if this was a good idea.

He felt two tepid fingers on his lip, rolling his lip out from under his teeth, which caused it to glisten in the dimly lit room. The fingers remained on his lips, but his eyes did not remain on the fingers as they sudden flickered up towards the source where they came from. He now stood facing towards Harry, his hand was still on the other's arm when he did so. The blue eyes rested on the connection between his lips and the others very own fingers. He gasped slightly as the fingers played with his lips, rolling them between his fingers, gently pulling at them and pinching them, but nothing he did was harsh. He felt his face heat at what the other was doing.

Tom is so unfazed by it, which leaves Harry dazed. He was left in that daze, not noticing the arm that lightly, yet so sneakily, made its way from up his leg, long fingers spread on his hips and waist.

Tom leaned down to Harry's height, his own lips slightly opened as he watched the younger in front of him. 

Warmth suddenly splayed through him, from his sides, on his face, and on his lips. He held in a gasp as he felt the long, warm hand to move around in his midsection.

"It is not good to be biting your lips, Harry."

He swore he felt his heart stop. The husky voice in front of him suddenly made an unexpected butterfly fly and pool up in his stomach. An unexpected heat also tightened in his gut at the time of the other. He couldn't take his lips off the others. It was practically impossible. 

He watched as the plumb lips smiled until they suddenly increased in size. That is when Harry realized that the other's lips mouthed openly among his jaw.

He was in complete bliss. The blue-eyed man was amazing at this.

Harry tumbled as Tom shoved him roughly against the wall, and the next thing he knew was that something pulled harshly him towards the elder boy. His eyes widened, and his hands flew to Tom's shoulders. His blunt nails digging in the others shoulders while Harry's hands dig sharply into his cheek and jaw, Harry moaned painfully at this. He felt the warm hands move around his lower body. The warmth moving from the sides of his face towards his stomach. The warmth from the other rested as lips dragged across his face.

He shook slightly at the unexpected sigh that had left his mouth when the warm lips suck against his jaws. His hands flew up to the other's collar, tugging him closer until the warmth of the two bodies clashed against one another. That action had made the other groan. A deep, vocal groan escaped the elder's mouth. Harry gasped at that. His fists lock in at the collar with a death grip while his legs turn to jelly.

Oh, my God.

Harry whined as Tom nibbled on his skin, his long hands making their way up and down his body, driving Harry crazy.

"Tom." He whispered out, his eyes fluttering. He felt the warm mouth pull away, and then move to his ear.

"Come, Harry." The whisper came out so smoothly. He didn't realize that he was moving until the bright light hit them from the outside of Harry's room while he was being dragged by Tom. He silently cursed himself as he was still being pulled by Tom towards the stairs.

"Lord Black, Mr Black?" Tom called out as they reached the end of the stairs. Harry watched in amusement as Sirius nearly jumped up from his chair to look between the two. His eyes narrowed as he looked towards the Tom.

That bastard had a smug smile resting on his stupidity handsome face.

"I'm guessing you boy are done?" Remus continued slowly as he stood behind Sirius. His eyes flickered between the two of them, curious.

"We did." Harry chirped, ignoring the look how godparents had on their face. Remus nodded tensely, turning to face Tom instead with a rather... smile.

"Mr. Riddle-"

"Please Mr. Black, Tom will do just fine." He waved his hand, earning an eyebrow raise from Remus."

"Right. " He bit his lip, silence led on.

"Bring him home by 8 eight in the evening." Sirius said stiffly. His eyes still have not left Tom.

"Of course." He bowed his head before looking at Harry. Harry took this as a sign of dismissal, and then he dragged the boy out of the room. Pulling him roughly, chasing the other to lose balance, stumbling. Tom hissed behind him, but he couldn't hide the grin that lit up on his face when he heard a snicker behind them.

Harry then co to use to harshly pull tom up the stairs as he hummed heading towards his room. When the two made it to the door, someone roughly pushed inside Harry, surprised that the door didn't hit in the face. Then he felt the warmth of Tom's body around him.

"You fool." The other hissed at him. The grip on his arm was steel and harsh, as if he were punishing Harry for his stunt. The younger rolled his eyes at the older. Tom was very dramatic anyway, it was nothing new.

"You're so dramatic." He muttered, trying to shake off the steel grip so he could get to his trunk; he still needs to shrink it down so that it would fit in his pocket. He became annoyed when he realized he couldn't force the other's hand off of his forearm. He huffed, snapping his back to Tom, who did not look one bit amused.

"Are you going to let go? I need to get my trunk if you wanna leave." He swatted his hand against the leaner boy, who sighed before letting go of his arm. Harry turned around, ignoring the burn that ran though his body when the other had let go of his arm, and instead faced the trunk in front of him, making sure he had garnered all his supplies. He has packed some unnecessary stuff that Sirius and Remus would have wanted him to have, and so he packed them to it worry his godparents. He cast a quick shrinking charm on the trunk before turning to look at Tom, who seemed very impatient.

"Are we ready, yes?" The elder boy held out his arm, which Harry slowly and hesitantly held onto.

"What are you doing?" He asked, dumbfounded, as they continued to just stand in the middle of the room.

A small smile lit up on Tom's face.

"Harry, what do you know are apparition?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at that.

"That it's illegal before 17," He hissed at the fifteen-year-old.

"No one needs to know, little one. Now hold on. Oh and, you might be a little sick when we land."

 Score Harry could open his mouth, he saw the colors combine.

He held onto Tom with a death grip while the other had a sinister smile on his face.

He did not like this at all.

They weren't even on the ground until they suddenly were. Harry felt sick. He immediately let go of Tom who's hands went behind his back, watching the sick boy in front him who was gasping.

"Harry, welcome to the Riddle Manor."

Chapter Text

Harry stood rooted to the spot, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, utterly frozen in shock. His jaw hung slack as his wide eyes locked onto the imposing silhouette of the manor before him. It was as if the sight had knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him suspended in a surreal moment of disbelief.

They were perched atop a gentle hill that curved downward toward a sleepy village nestled far below. Around them, there were no other grand estates or mansions—just the quiet sprawl of modest rooftops and winding cobblestone streets. Yet here, dominating the hill, stood the Riddle Manor, tall and stark against the night sky. It wasn’t broad or sprawling like some of the grand pureblood manors Harry had read about or glimpsed in pictures; rather, it was narrow, almost gaunt, reaching upward like a shadowy sentinel.

The outer walls were covered in thick mats of moss, draping over the weathered, dark-gray cobblestones like tattered robes caught on a forgotten corpse. In some places, the stones beneath were stained a sickly green, as if the very walls were weeping ancient rot. A few roof tiles were missing, their absence creating jagged gaps that exposed the blackened rafters beneath. Not enough to threaten collapse, but just enough to suggest neglect and age. Only a careful observer would notice the subtle flaws, the slow decay hidden beneath the manor’s stoic facade.

Surrounding the house, the garden was a study in contrast. The bushes and hedges were clipped to cold perfection, as if maintained by invisible hands. Yet, dominating the grounds were blood-blue roses, their petals deep and velvety, soaked in a color that seemed unnatural in the moonlight. They spread like a dark carpet across the soil, choking out any sign of weeds or other blossoms. No other colors dared to interrupt the relentless expanse of blue. The atmosphere around the house was suffused with a strange solemnity, as if the flowers themselves whispered secrets of sorrow and menace.

Tall trees bowed and swayed in the night breeze, their skeletal branches dancing shadows on the manor’s surface. The wind itself felt colder here, as though the house sucked warmth from the very air. A sudden chill passed through Harry and Tom, crawling down their spines and tightening in their chests like icy fingers.

The manor was… unusual. It lacked the polished grandeur of the pureblood estates Harry knew. Instead, it bore a more severe, almost edgy character—like an echo of forgotten promises and hidden dangers. It looked abandoned, lifeless, yet it wasn’t quite empty. The air around it seemed to hum with a quiet, oppressive chill that set Harry’s nerves on edge.

Despite himself, Harry’s gaze kept returning to the dark green stains on the cobbled walls, an inexplicable unease settling into his bones. The house felt wrong—quiet, but not peaceful; cold, but not inert. It was as if the manor itself was watching, waiting.

He shivered involuntarily.

“The Riddle Manor…?” he breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, disbelief thick in his tone.

Tom hummed softly in reply, a low, enigmatic sound. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the manor’s heavy wooden door, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. Harry hesitated, watching him move inside without a trace of hesitation, as though the darkness itself welcomed Tom.

But Harry stopped short at the threshold, unwilling to follow immediately. His eyes swept the shadowed interior, but darkness wrapped around everything like a suffocating blanket. The walls were stained here as well, blotched with the same greenish discoloration. Above, the moon hung like a pale lantern, its faint light filtering through the grimy windows and illuminating only fragmented patches of the manor’s gloomy interior.

Tom had vanished inside, swallowed by the blackness. Harry’s heart quickened as he debated whether to follow. Why had Tom brought them here? What purpose did this strange, desolate house serve? His mind raced with questions and unease.

He tried to push away the creeping hesitation that slithered along his spine, forcing himself to breathe deeply and focus. He strained to imagine how Tom could have stepped inside so confidently without casting a light spell, or producing any magic to pierce the darkness.

Then the thought struck him like a cold dagger: Tom had not grown up in a family home. He had been raised in an orphanage—no grand estates, no ancestral halls. Yet here was this manor, looming before them as if it belonged to someone.

Harry bit his lip, a sudden realization dawning.

“…Riddle Manor,” he murmured again, more to himself than to anyone else.

No, it couldn’t be Tom’s home. He was still a junior in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. The idea was absurd.

Then, like a sudden crack of lightning, the truth hit him.

This was his father’s house.

Tom Riddle Senior’s house.

Panic surged through Harry as he rushed forward, pushing open the heavy door and stepping into the oppressive gloom. Why had Tom brought them here? Especially when his father’s presence still lingered, the manor still inhabited?

The darkness inside was thick and suffocating, growing heavier with every step. The stale air clung to his skin, the weight pressing down as if the house itself breathed a slow, malevolent breath. The interior matched the outside: shadowed, decayed, and deeply unsettling.

Harry reached instinctively for his wand, but panic twisted inside him when he realized it was missing—gone from his pocket as if vanished by magic. Frustrated, he shrugged off his jacket and scanned desperately for any light.

“Tom!” he called out, voice cracking as it echoed and faded into silence.

No answer came. Only the heavy stillness of the house responded, cold and indifferent.

“Tom!” he tried again, desperation threading through his voice. Still, no reply.

Fear gnawed at him. Why were they here? Why had Tom brought him to this place that felt so wrong, so… haunted? His resolve began to crumble.

As he moved forward, a soft whisper of sound made him freeze.

“Harry.”

He spun around, heart thudding wildly—but saw nothing. The shadows stretched empty, swallowing the corners of the room.

“T-Tom?” he stammered, taking cautious steps backward toward the faint moonlight spilling through the door.

He reached the threshold, feeling warmth begin to seep back into his chilled skin.

Then, suddenly, a firm hand closed tightly around his wrist, yanking him away from the door and plunging him back into the black void of the manor.

“Tom, is that you?” Harry planted his feet, struggling against the pull as his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

A sigh, deep and amused, breathed into his ear.

“Yes, Harry. Who else would it be?” came the smooth voice.

“Why is it so dark? Couldn’t you at least cast Lumos?” Harry asked, voice tight with frustration and unease.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uhm… Tom… do you have my wand?”

There was a soft whisper of magic.

“Lumos.”

Suddenly, light flared before Harry’s eyes, making him blink and shield his face. The glow revealed Tom standing before him, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. In his hand gleamed Harry’s wand, now alight with his own spell.

“Hey!” Harry snapped, snatching his wand back with a glare.

Tom only rolled his eyes and turned, striding away down a long, dim corridor.

“Wait, where are you going?” Harry called after him.

No answer came. Resigned, Harry followed, his footsteps muffled on the faded carpet.

The manor’s interior was dull and lifeless. The once-proud flowers by the windows had wilted into withered ghosts of color, their petals crumbling and curling in decay. Paint peeled from the walls in curling shards, the faded portraits seeming to watch in silent judgment. The floor was sticky beneath Harry’s feet—each step leaving a faint residue that clung unpleasantly to his shoes.

Kneeling, he inspected the mess and gagged at the rancid smell. The stench was thick and sour, crawling up his nostrils and forcing him to cover his mouth.

The Lumos only deepened the gloom, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe in the corners of his vision.

A cold dread settled over Harry’s skin like a physical weight. Every muscle tensed, hairs rising sharply on his arms as a primal warning ignited inside him. His eyes darted nervously in every direction, desperate for any sign of movement.

The house felt alive in a way he couldn’t explain—watching, waiting. Something was here with him. Something old, something… dead.

His throat tightened painfully. Suddenly, he longed for the warmth and safety of his godparents’ home, a hot cup of chocolate in hand—anything but this oppressive place.

A sudden flicker caught his eye down the corridor—a faint, trembling light. Relief surged through him, and he moved quickly toward it.

The dim room he entered was dominated by a massive, dark-stained dining table. Heavy chairs lined either side, their carved backs coated in dust and neglect. A vase rested at the table’s center, holding the withered remains of dark roses, their petals shriveled and coated in a glossy, black liquid that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

Harry’s skin prickled at the sight, the inky substance sending chills up his spine. He swallowed hard, eyes darting nervously around the sparse room. Paintings of various sizes hung on the walls, their colors faded and faces distorted in shadow. Two grim statues—wolves, perhaps—stood sentinel in opposite corners, their snarling expressions frozen in stone.

The foul stench returned, stronger now, pressing into Harry’s senses with suffocating weight.

Before he could react, rough hands seized his shoulders, yanking him backward.

His arms flailed instinctively, but the grip tightened, holding him fast.

“Calm, Harry,” whispered the familiar voice, warm and steady. The tension drained from his limbs as he felt himself pressed against the broad chest of the speaker.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Harry muttered, still shaken. “It’s bad enough what this place has inside already.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his ear, oddly comforting as the hands rubbed soothing circles on his shoulders. Harry rested his head against the warmth.

“I suppose you’re right,” the voice murmured softly.

Harry pulled away and faced the figure. Tom’s lips twitched in a faint smile. His blue eyes scanned the room as carefully as Harry had. He nodded slightly, then fixed his gaze back on Harry.

“I was merely looking for something,” Tom said smoothly, as if the outcome were already decided.

Harry raised an eyebrow, skepticism coloring his voice. “Did you find it? Because honestly, I don’t want to spend another second in this manor if I can help it. Something about this place is… off.”

“What is ‘off’ about it? Tell me,” Tom prompted.

Harry hesitated, swallowing hard. “It feels like there are eyes on me, even when no one else is here. I swear I saw something moving down the hall—too fast to be human. And there was some kind of… liquid on the floor. It’s on the table, too!” He pointed shakily toward the vase.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “Are you feeling unwell? There’s nothing inside the house—my family left for a two-week trip. And there’s certainly no liquid anywhere, dear.”

Harry frowned, irritation flaring. “There is!” He jabbed a finger at the table.

But when he looked again, the dark liquid was gone, though the wilted roses remained. His mouth fell open in disbelief.

“Wait… how—? I swear it was there!” He stammered, eyes wide.

Tom’s hands pressed gently to Harry’s forehead.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” he asked calmly.

Harry flushed and swatted the hands away, stepping back.

“I feel fine!” he snapped, though his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “I swear I saw something…”

Tom sighed and moved toward the door on the far side of the room, eyes fixed on Harry.

“Come. I still need to find what I’m looking for, then we’ll leave this place. I suggest you hurry if you don’t want to spend another second here.”

Without waiting, Tom strode away at a brisk pace. Harry, weary and frustrated, hurried after him.

They had been searching for hours—or so it felt—while outside the night deepened, the wind dying to a whisper.

Now, Harry watched Tom sift through a cluttered pile of yellowed papers on a dark-stained table. The elder’s movements were intense and focused, the only light a steady glow from Tom’s wand, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Harry leaned against the wall, eyes tired but alert. The manor was pitch black except for the narrow beam of light, and yet it didn’t feel entirely abandoned. There was a strange, lingering presence here—something that made the air thick and heavy, like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

His thoughts drifted back to the strange dark liquid—the inky, unnatural substance that stained the floor and table. He bit his lip, confused and unsettled. It couldn’t have been a potion spill, not fresh enough, and yet not old enough to have faded away entirely. It was a mystery he couldn’t ignore.

For now, it was just him and Tom inside the manor—two figures wrapped in shadows, surrounded by silence and secrets.

f the manor’s owners had only been away for a short while, then how could that dark, inky liquid have appeared inside the house? Harry’s mind churned with doubt as he glanced around the shadowed room, searching for signs of a break-in, forced entry, anything. But the heavy oak doors and barred windows showed no hint of disturbance—no cracks or splinters, no displaced dust or footprints other than their own.

His brow furrowed deeper, the unease twisting in his gut.

What if… there was someone or something here before they arrived?

Or worse—

What if something was still here with them?

His thoughts were shattered by a sudden sharp voice cutting through the silence.

“Harry. Harry!”

Startled, he blinked and turned toward the sound, meeting Tom’s piercing gaze from across the room. The older boy stood rigid, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line, his head tilted slightly as he assessed Harry’s distracted expression.

“Unfortunately,” Tom said, voice cool but edged with frustration, “I have not found what I was looking for. It is not in this room.”

Harry pushed off the wall behind him, stepping closer, his anxiety bubbling into impatience.

“What exactly are you looking for?!” he demanded, arms flailing with exasperation. “You’ve gone through what feels like a thousand documents already tonight. What could possibly be so important?”

Tom’s eyes blazed with a sudden intensity, burning through Harry as though trying to pierce every doubt and hesitation.

But Harry no longer cared about the elder’s silent warning or simmering anger. His thoughts raced only toward escape—toward leaving this cursed manor behind. All he wanted was to be home, safe with his godparents, away from these suffocating walls and endless fruitless searching.

“I want to leave,” he said firmly, meeting Tom’s gaze without flinching.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, darkening.

“And why is that?” he asked smoothly, stepping forward, the faintest smirk twitching at his lips.

“I don’t like the vibes this place gives off,” Harry answered honestly, voice steady despite the prickling unease crawling beneath his skin.

Tom raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“You dislike… the vibes the manor gives?” he repeated, mockingly incredulous. “Is that all?”

“Yes!” Harry snapped, irritation flaring.

“Well then,” Tom said calmly, taking a step back and folding his arms, “we are not leaving. We have the entire night to look for what I need.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“What do you mean ‘we have all night’? Aren’t we supposed to be heading to Draco’s manor this evening?”

Tom’s smile deepened, eyes glittering with a secret delight. He clearly reveled in the flicker of confusion crossing Harry’s face, those green eyes sparking with curiosity—a sight he never tired of.

“I may have just said that,” Tom replied smoothly, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“Tom—” Harry began, dread pooling in his stomach.

“I used it as an excuse to slow your godparents down, to keep you here with me while I search for these documents,” Tom explained, his voice silky but sharp. “I discovered the connection between your godparent Sirius and Narcissa—cousins. Naturally, Sirius would allow his nephew to accompany an older boy to visit his cousin’s manor for the night. And it worked perfectly, didn’t it?”

Harry stared at him, disbelief warping his features.

“Are you kidding me?!” he exploded. “You tricked them? You tricked me?! I don’t want to spend another second in this place! I’ve seen too many things in here—things that magic can’t even explain.”

Tom raised an eyebrow again, a slow, amused smile curling his lips as he turned away.

With a quick flick of his wand, he whispered, “Lumos.”

The soft glow illuminated his figure as he strode calmly toward the door.

Harry’s jaw dropped in shock, disbelief flooding his senses.

He did not—

That little—

Without hesitation, Harry drew his own wand and followed in the opposite direction, the weight of the manor pressing down heavier with each step.

---

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes drifted across the modest cluster of Slytherins gathered in tight conversation, their voices muted behind a Muffliato charm that swallowed sound like a hungry shadow. He couldn’t catch their words—only the faintest murmurs—yet the tension in the room was palpable.

His own fatigue pressed down on him like a lead cloak. A creeping illness had swept through the school recently, leaving him and many others weak and confined to the infirmary. Though not as vicious as dragon pox, it left him drained, his stomach twisting in painful knots, his bones heavy with exhaustion. The mountain of homework weighing on him felt relentless. Hermione had promised to help, but she was busy studying with Luna and Ginny. So here he was, halfway through an essay assigned by Dumbledore himself, grateful only that the headmaster had lessened the workload by a fraction.

Distracted, his gaze wandered from his half-finished essay to the group across the common room. Tom Riddle stood at the center, flanked by Reinhard Lestrange and Theodore Nott, their conversation serious, eyes sharp. Tom—now sixteen—wore his dark robes like armor, the prefect badge gleaming coldly on his chest. Every year he grew more unapproachable, more… formidable. Harry found himself both fascinated and wary of the other boy’s silent power.

Tom’s rare smile was a carefully controlled weapon—charming, yes, but utterly devoid of warmth. Around him clustered a circle of admirers, always trying to hold his attention but inevitably falling short. Harry had often thought of them as Tom’s fans—drawn to him but never truly close.

Tonight, three Slytherin girls lingered near him, their bodies leaning casually against his as they spoke in hushed tones. One in particular whispered something to Tom, her lips curved into a slow, seductive smile. Harry recognized her instantly—Liana Fontaine, sixth year and head girl of Slytherin. Known for her beauty and sharp cunning, her golden hair fell like liquid silk, framing her striking face. As she pressed closer to Tom, her hand slid over his thigh, fingers trailing possessively.

Harry swallowed hard. Tom didn’t pull away.

He forced his gaze away, heart sinking into a pit of discomfort. His eyes flicked back to the trio. Lestrange’s gaze darted nervously between Tom and Liana, rigid and tense, while Rosier sat stiffly beside them, knuckles white on his robes.

Suddenly, the muffling charm lifted, and the common room fell into an uneasy silence. Every conversation faded; every eye turned toward the trio.

Liana’s face paled as the students’ gazes pinned her in place. She glanced toward her friends, who had backed away, their expressions pale and tight with fear.

Tom’s voice cut through the quiet, low and cold as winter’s edge: “What has given you the right to touch me?”

The words echoed, sharp and unforgiving.

Liana’s breath caught. “I—I—”

Tom’s glare sharpened, icy and unyielding. “I do not repeat myself.”

He rose smoothly to his full height, the room shrinking around him. Liana scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance.

“I thought… I thought you’d like it,” she stammered, voice trembling.

Tom’s pale fingers curled tightly around her wrist, pulling her roughly against his chest. A sharp, startled sound escaped her lips as he pressed an arm around her waist, his gaze cold fire.

“You?” His voice was a deadly whisper. “You believed that touching me—without permission—was acceptable? That you had the right to assume my consent?”

The room grew thick with a suffocating silence. Harry’s breath hitched.

Liana’s eyes filled with tears, trembling under his unblinking stare. Slowly, the tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks in messy, dark streaks. Her body shook as she collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

Then came the silence before the chaos—the trembling students recoiling to the edges of the room as if afraid to approach. The scent of cold dread hung heavy in the air.

Harry’s heart pounded as he stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the brutal weight of the moment.

Suddenly, he stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension. “Stop this. Now.”

Tom’s head snapped toward him, eyes locking with Harry’s in a flash of piercing blue. For a heartbeat, the room still held its breath.

The girl’s sobs stuttered and died, her body shuddering as she curled against the floor.

Harry felt an icy shiver crawl down his spine as he looked back to Tom, whose expression was unreadable—chillingly calm, untouched by emotion.

“You,” Tom said softly, stepping closer, the firelight throwing sharp shadows across his sharp jawline, “will not interfere when I mete out justice.”

Before Harry could respond, Tom’s pale hand slid up Harry’s neck, fingers cool and deliberate as they brushed his skin. The warmth of Tom’s breath ghosted across Harry’s cheek. Harry’s heart thrummed violently, caught between fear and a strange, unsettling comfort.

Tom’s gaze locked on his, blue eyes like frozen stars. “Do not stand in my way.”

Then, with a sudden shove, Harry stumbled backward, crashing down hard onto the cold floor. Pain shot through his spine, sharp and insistent.

Tom’s voice dropped to a cold, harsh hiss. “You impede discipline.”

Harry struggled to rise, wincing. “You were tearing through her mind! That’s not discipline—it’s destruction.”

Tom leaned in, eyes burning with something darker. “Why do you care what I do to her? Was she not the one who trapped you in that abandoned classroom with a Fidelius charm?”

Harry’s glare was fierce, but Tom’s attention had already shifted, his eyes sliding away to fix on a distant wall.

“No,” Tom said quietly, voice hard as ice. “That’s not the only reason.”

With that, he turned and strode toward the dormitories, leaving Harry alone in the flickering firelight, his mind swirling with dread and confusion.

Harry sank back to the floor, hands covering his face. What had his life become?

---

He only heard the soft, precise clicks of dress shoes against the polished wooden floor of the Slytherin common room. The chamber was mostly empty; a few whispers floated between younger and older students quietly discussing their homework. Across the room, clusters of third years huddled on worn sofas, their muted conversations blending with the crackling fire.

Harry’s hand twitched, inching toward his wand, instinctual and reflexive.

More footsteps approached, the clicks growing louder until the intruders stepped fully into the room. He knew who they were before they spoke.

“Riddle—”

“Have you found his last location?”

“I… I’m afraid not, but we—”

He tuned out the voices as he moved past them, slipping into the third-year dormitories. The beds were empty, save for the soft, steady breathing of sleeping students who hadn’t stirred from slumber. He paused before a row of neatly made beds, his gaze fixed on a particular spot.

Three days. It had been three days since he’d last seen Harry. Three days since the boy had disappeared without a trace.

That was unlike Harry. The boy was far too social, too tied into their little world to vanish without word. On the first day, Tom had dismissed it, assuming Harry had simply risen early for breakfast or classes. But the empty seat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall that morning gnawed at him. Harry wasn’t at Ravenclaw’s table either. He hadn’t been anywhere.

The suspicion had grown with every passing hour, every empty classroom, every fruitless search. Tom’s carefully maintained patience was slipping thin.

Now, standing in the dim light of the dormitory, he whispered Lumos. The soft glow revealed the silent shapes of sleeping students—faces unfamiliar and unworthy of his notice. Except for one.

He moved methodically past the beds, searching. Minutes passed, but no sign of Harry. Then, in the second chamber, he spotted an empty bed, its sheets pristine, without a wrinkle—too perfect. His eyes caught the pillow, where slight creases betrayed recent use. His jaw tightened.

The bed wasn’t empty. Someone had been here.

He stepped closer and noticed the trunk at the foot. A glance at the name scrawled across it made his breath catch.

Harry.

The cold realization settled in. The bed was occupied; Harry was simply not here.

Curfew lifted at seven. It was barely past five.

Tom’s gaze hardened as he strode from the dormitory to the common room for morning tea, but his mind raced ahead. Then news came—whispers that a fellow Slytherin had trapped Harry in an abandoned classroom with no food or water for three days.

The thought curled inside Tom like a dark flame, burning away any tolerance he might have felt.

Three days of absence—and now this. He would not allow his careful progress with the boy to unravel because of a petty betrayal.

He arrived at the abandoned classroom just as Theodore Nott muttered a spell over a trembling figure on the floor.

Tom’s eyes scanned Harry—pale, fragile, barely holding himself upright. The sharp green eyes he’d grown fond of looked dull, almost lifeless, rimmed with bruises and shadows. Purple bruises marred the skin beneath them. The black-and-green robes were stained with an unidentifiable liquid, the tie loosened and askew.

Harry trembled uncontrollably.

Kneeling carefully to avoid disturbing his own immaculate attire, Tom reached out, gently grasping Harry’s chin to force him to meet his gaze.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice was low, but every syllable carried weight. “Who has done this?”

The boy said nothing.

Tom’s hand tightened slightly, enough to command attention without pain. “I’m not asking again.”

Harry bit his lower lip, swallowing hard. Tom’s eyes involuntarily flicked down—once, twice—taking in the stains and the disorder of the boy’s appearance. His lips, swollen and glistening from biting, teased thoughts best left unspoken. This was the cusp of adolescence—youth and danger mingled. There would be time enough later for other things.

Finally, Harry whispered, barely audible, “Liana.”

Tom’s hand dropped, his eyes narrowing into slits.

At least now he knew.

Chapter Text

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Harry’s gaze drifted down to the stack of parchment resting on his lap, the neatly penned essay on Cheering Charms half-finished but completely lost to him. Professor Flitwick’s recent decree to ramp up the workload felt like a cruel joke. He could barely concentrate—the chatter of his housemates bubbled around him like an undercurrent of distraction.

Next to him, Tom sat like a statue. The boy’s dark robes draped his frame perfectly, his posture eerily still except for the faint tremble in his pale hands gripping a worn book. Harry’s eyes locked on Tom’s fingers, the skin almost translucent, veins standing out like thin blue rivers beneath. The veins pulsed with each tightening grip—a slow, inexorable tension.

"Riddle..." The high, whining voice of Rosier cut through the murmur, making Harry flinch. He looked up, meeting the wide, brown eyes of the other teen. Rosier’s lips parted as he leaned closer to Tom, words tumbling out in a hurried, breathless rush. Harry frowned, unease blooming in his chest—he had never seen Rosier so animated, so desperate for the attention of the otherwise cold and composed prefect.

Then, suddenly, Tom’s book slipped from his lap, hitting the floor with a sharp tear that shattered the quiet of the common room. His breath came out in harsh, rapid gasps. Fists clenched and unclenched by his sides, jaw locked tight like iron. Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet Tom’s—those usually calm, steady blue eyes were wild, unfocused, darkening with something fierce and raw.

“Keep your bloody mouth shut!” Tom hissed, his voice cutting through Rosier’s words like a knife. Rosier froze, his mouth snapping shut instantly.

Without warning, Tom began pacing, hands threading through his dark hair in frantic, agitated pulls. Harry bit the end of his quill, heart hammering in his chest as the minutes stretched on. Rosier remained seated on the far sofa, legs crossed, eyes fixed warily on Tom’s tense figure.

Then, like a knife slicing through the stillness, Tom’s wand appeared—pressing hard into Rosier’s pale neck.

Rosier’s carefully curled hair was now disheveled, tangled from the repeated runs of Tom’s fingers through it. The crazed light in Tom’s eyes sent a chill twisting deep in Harry’s gut. He sat frozen, muscles taut, every nerve screaming as Tom loomed over Rosier, who clung desperately to the sofa’s edge, knuckles white and trembling.

“My… Riddle? Are you—are you feeling alright?” Rosier’s voice cracked, fragile under the pressure.

“Get out.” Tom’s voice was sharp, venomous. The wand pressed deeper into Rosier’s neck.

“W-what?” The panic in Rosier’s tone was unmistakable.

“Leave!” Tom hissed again, the warning heavy and final.

Rosier scrambled up, nearly tripping as he bolted out of the common room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Harry remained seated, his chest tight and breath shallow. Tom stood motionless, shoulders heaving with quick breaths, the wildness slowly ebbing but never fully leaving his gaze.

He had never seen Tom so unmoored—so utterly uncontained.

And now, suddenly alone, Harry’s confusion swirled amidst the mountain of unfinished homework. The oppressive silence of the common room closed in around him like a shroud.

---

He sat next to Hermione, who was quietly reading a book. They were in the Astronomy Tower. Outside, the sky was an ink-black canvas scattered with distant stars that flickered faintly, their pale light the only illumination besides the dim glow of the tower lanterns. The sight was serene, but Harry felt anything but.

"Harry?"

The soft whisper pulled him from his silent gaze. He turned his head to see Hermione sitting across from him, the book now closed and resting on her lap.

Her brown curls, now long enough to brush her hips, were pulled over one shoulder in a loose ponytail. Her sharp eyes softened as they studied him. He sighed and slid down against the cold stone wall to face her.

"Are you alright? We haven’t really spoken in a while."

She was right. They had drifted apart—different houses, different schedules, different worlds. Hermione lived in the Muggle world outside of school. He lived trapped between the magical and the shadows of his life. It was no surprise they’d grown distant. He snorted softly at the thought.

She raised an eyebrow. The look—her thinking face—was familiar. She was trying to understand him, to break through whatever shell he’d wrapped himself in. He was numb to it by now.

“What?”

“We haven’t spoken much.”

“That’s… true.”

Her voice softened. “Hey...” Concern laced the single word. He looked away.

He had no answers. The outburst weeks ago had closed him off from everyone. He just wanted the year to end. To disappear. Mentally and physically drained.

A sudden weight pressed on his shoulder—cold, deliberate. He shivered.

"Harry... you’re burning up. Do you need the medical wing?"

Her voice was low but urgent, bordering on frantic. It only made his head throb worse. He twisted out of her grip and leaned back against the stone. Closed his eyes.

He just wanted to be left alone.

"Harry? Harry?? Are you with me? Harry!"

The shaking annoyed him. He groaned.

“Granger. It’s past midnight. What are you doing out of your common room?”

“It’s not the time—”

Who was here? Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

Silence stretched between them.

“What’s wrong with him?” a voice whispered.

“He’s burning up, but won’t go to the medical wing.”

“Unimpressive.”

The word echoed cold and harsh.

“Come, Harry. This is no game. You know how bad it gets when you’re sick.” Hermione’s frustration simmered beneath her calm tone. He cracked a weak grin.

Until sharp pain flared across his cheek.

“Harry.” The hiss was icy, the grip on his shoulder tightening unpleasantly.

“Do not hurt him.” The hand released him abruptly.

Warmth crept from strong arms beneath him, seeping into his bones. He sank into the embrace despite himself. How could he not?

“Wait! What are you doing?”

“Hello?? Stop!” The voice grew harsher.

But the warmth did not fade.

“I would advise you put him down. He may tolerate it now, but later he won’t. You know it.” The voice was low, commanding.

“Granger, your complaints mean nothing. I will take him to the hospital wing. You have no right to obstruct me, especially not when it’s a fellow student under my watch.” The voice paused.

“And remember, I can report you for being out past curfew and neglecting your classmate.” Silence fell again.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

The quiet stretched on—long, heavy, suffocating.

“She was loud,” Harry whispered, careful not to disturb the pounding in his head.

“She talks too much,” the voice murmured, cold and without warmth.

“Who… are you?”

His eyes squinted, blurred from fever and fatigue.

His trembling hand reached up, brushing against the face above him.

The face looked forward, impassive, not meeting his gaze.

Determined, Harry tried again, fingertips pressing against cold skin.

A warning sliced through the air:
“I recommend you not do that—if you want to keep all ten fingers.”

The words barely registered. The warmth spread to his hands, large, rough, and unyielding.

Harry’s fingers lightly intertwined with the other’s.

A pause.

A squeeze, firm and unrelenting.

Then blackness.

---

The first thing he awoke to was the harsh brightness of the medical wing—an intrusive glare far removed from the dim, shadowed corridors of Hogwarts. He winced, blinking against the sudden flood of light.

"Careful, young man! We’ve restored your vision to how it should be. All you needed was a new prescription for glasses," the witch said, her tone light but businesslike.

Really? That was all?

"What about the rest?" Harry asked, voice rough and cautious.

The mediwitch raised a skeptical brow. "The rest of what, Mr. Potter?"

Before Harry could reply, a familiar voice cut in—cool, measured, unmistakably authoritative.

"I believe what he means to ask," Tom Riddle said smoothly, eyes fixed unflinchingly on the mediwitch, "is why he felt so unwell last night."

Harry snapped his head toward the source. Tom sat nearby, impeccably composed. His dark brown hair was curled perfectly, his Slytherin robes pristine with the prefect badge gleaming above his heart. His pale blue eyes were cold, unwavering—not on Harry, but locked on the mediwitch.

The woman met Tom’s steady gaze, narrowing her own eyes slightly. Her glance flickered briefly to Harry—whose midnight-black hair was tousled, his emerald eyes dulled by fatigue—and then back to Tom. The contrast between the two boys was stark: Tom, broad-shouldered and commanding, Harry, smaller and lankier. Their eye colors mirrored their differences—Harry’s deep green vibrant and unsettling, Tom’s icy blue sharp and unreadable.

A brief pause passed.

"Do not fret, Mr. Riddle," the mediwitch finally said, her voice regaining its composure. "His condition was due to extreme fatigue, but he should be alright now. Mr. Potter, you are free to leave whenever you wish."

Harry gave a quiet nod and muttered a thank you, casting a glance at Tom, who simply inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, Miss," Tom said crisply.

With a polite smile, the mediwitch excused herself, moving on to attend a young girl suffering second-degree burns from a recent potion mishap.

As the room fell silent again, the chill of Tom’s presence lingered—unspoken but unmistakable.

---

“You know it’s rude not to verbally respond to someone who has helped you,” Tom said, his voice low but edged with sharp impatience.

Harry barely lifted his eyes from the worn floor tiles. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice rough with fatigue and frustration.

Tom arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, his expression dripping with bored disdain. “You should thank me for taking you to the hospital wing last night. Since Miss Granger did not.”

Harry scoffed. “You’re very annoying, you know that, right?”

Tom’s lips twitched into something close to a smirk—cold and calculating. “Fine. Thank you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, as if the walls themselves were listening. Harry felt the weight of Tom’s gaze—cool, unwavering, like a blade resting just beneath the surface.

After a long moment, Tom stood abruptly. “Come, Harry. We must get going now. It’s half-past three. Classes are in a few hours.” Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and strode toward the door, his robes trailing behind him like a shadow.

Harry remained seated, the exhaustion from the night dragging at his limbs. Slowly, he pushed himself off the bed, muscles aching, and followed.

The corridor beyond the medical wing was dim and silent, the flicker of torches casting long, uneasy shadows against the cold stone walls. Harry exhaled sharply, the chill biting through his thin robes, but his mind was elsewhere—wishing the year would just end, that he could escape this endless cycle.

Suddenly, Tom’s voice cut through the quiet like a whip. “You know some of us have important things to do. Stop wasting time.”

Harry sighed deeply, irritation flaring. “Then go on without me.”

Tom’s reply was dry, almost mocking. “Seems you don’t need my help to talk your way out of this.”

“The mediwitch can back me up,” Harry said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing Harry’s elbow with a grip firm as iron. Without warning, he dragged Harry down the corridor.

“Let go of me, Tom!” Harry hissed, panic rising in his chest.

But Tom didn’t relent. Instead, he slammed Harry hard against the cold stone wall. The chill of the ancient bricks seeped through Harry’s robes, pressing into his back as Tom’s shoulders pinned him, trapping him against the unforgiving surface.

Harry’s breath hitched.

Then Tom’s mouth brushed against the shell of his ear—warm, slow, deliberate. The heat from his lips coursed down Harry’s neck, igniting a fire beneath his skin that was as unsettling as it was electric.

“Haven’t you realized it’s me who saves you every time you find yourself in trouble you can’t escape?” Tom whispered, voice low, each word sharp and cutting. “Me who always tends to your medical issues? Me who helps you with your schoolwork? Don’t you see? I do everything for you... and this is how you repay me?”

Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs. He swallowed, his throat dry and tight. He wanted to pull away, to deny it, but Tom’s words were cruelly accurate.

Tom was the constant in this fractured chaos—always there to drag Harry out of the shadows, to shield him when no one else would. But Tom was also a ghost—vanishing without warning, leaving Harry tangled in confusion and longing, only to return with icy control and distant eyes.

The mixture of resentment and need churned painfully inside him.

“I’m not your possession,” Harry finally whispered, voice strained.

Tom’s eyes darkened, the blue turning cold as steel. “You’re exactly what I choose to keep.”

Before Harry could respond, Tom yanked him sharply once more, pulling him down the corridor with merciless efficiency. The cold stone walls blurred past as Harry stumbled in his wake.

“It’s already four,” Tom said without looking back. “We get up in less than two and a half hours. You’d better be ready.”

The drag of exhaustion and helplessness settled over Harry like a heavy cloak, and all he could think was how utterly trapped he was—caught in this relentless game with a boy who was as unforgiving as winter.

---

“Harry, get up.”

The voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of sleep like a blade. Harry groaned, burying his head deeper beneath the thin pillow, desperate to escape the noise swirling around him.

But then—cold fingers pried the blanket from his grasp. His eyes snapped open, heavy-lidded and bloodshot, to glare blearily at the source of the disturbance. Standing over him was Abraxas Malfoy, the usual smirk absent from his pale face. Instead, there was a faint crease of impatience.

“Not going to class today,” Harry mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion, turning away from the blond and into the safer silence of his own world.

“That’s not an excuse,” Draco said firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

Harry groaned inwardly, irritated by the persistence. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to meet Abraxas’s eyes, dark and steady.

“I was in the medical wing last night,” Harry said, voice low and hoarse. “Didn’t get back until about an hour and a half ago. Got little to no sleep. The mediwitch said I could skip today to recover... to not push myself.”

Draco's sharp blue eyes flicked toward the door, then back to Harry’s pale face. After a long breath, he sighed in defeat.

With a quick motion, he tossed the emerald-green bedcovers back over Harry, who immediately curled beneath the warmth, desperate to reclaim what little comfort he could.

“I’ll see you after classes,” Draco said over his shoulder, voice a little softer now. “It’s fifteen minutes into breakfast and I need to hurry. Goodbye, Harry!”

The door clicked shut. Peace returned, but it was fragile. Harry clutched the covers close, savoring the warmth, and let out a long breath for the first time all night. His body ached for rest.

But the fragile silence shattered abruptly.

A lingering, unwelcome touch ghosted along his thigh. Tingling, insistent, unnatural.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He yanked the covers away with a sudden jerk, his feet following swiftly. His wand was in his hand before he even fully registered what was happening, pointed sharply at the intruder’s throat.

He rolled his eyes.

It was Tom Riddle.

Tom stood in the doorway, pale face calm, his usual smirk teasing the edges of his mouth, clearly amused by Harry’s startled reaction. He said nothing, simply watching the scene unfold.

Harry’s heart hammered, part alarm, part something else he couldn’t name. Slowly, he gathered the blankets back around himself, retreating under their weight and turning his back to the boy standing in the doorway.

“Are you really skipping charms?” Tom’s voice was cool, melodic but icy as he leaned in slightly, pulling the edge of the duvet away from Harry’s face. His pale blue eyes locked with Harry’s emerald ones.

“I’m too tired to move, Tom,” Harry said, voice rough. “Feels like my bones are on fire.”

Tom’s lips curved upward in a slow, deliberate smile. “Your bones? Then how did you react the way you did just now?”

Harry swallowed, cheeks flushing despite himself. “Adrenaline,” he muttered, voice defensive. “Now, can you go away? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Tom laughed—a soft, unsettling sound that rose from deep in his throat. The boy stepped back, straightening his dark robes as he prepared to leave.

“I’ll make sure your professors and the Heads know you’re feeling... unwell today. Rest up, Harry. I look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight.”

With that, Tom Riddle turned and strode out of the dormitory, his footsteps echoing softly down the corridor.

Harry lay back down, tangled in his blankets, cheeks still burning and heart unsettled in a way that sleep would not soothe.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with a familiar, comforting cacophony — the hum of eager chatter mingled with the clink of cutlery and the rustling of enchanted decorations that shimmered softly above the long tables. Warm golden candlelight flickered from the enchanted ceiling, reflecting faintly in the sea of faces gathered beneath the vast dome. The scents of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and spiced pumpkin juice filled the air, wrapping the students and staff alike in an invisible cloak of cozy normalcy.

Harry sat quietly across from Hermione, who was engrossed in a book. Her brown hair, usually wild and untamed, had been carefully arranged into a cascade of soft, elegant curls that framed her face and tumbled down her shoulders with a deliberate grace. Her warm honey-brown eyes lifted from the pages and met his green ones with an approving glance. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a subtle smile — a sign Harry recognized well; she was mulling over something, probably a hunch or a piece of obscure magical history she’d uncovered in her readings. Her finely arched eyebrows furrowed slightly before she bit her lower lip, a habit she had when deep in thought, then sipped carefully from her goblet of pumpkin juice. Her pupils dilated, sharp and reactive to the flickering torchlight and the shifting shadows around them. Harry grinned to himself, recognizing the familiar look of Hermione’s concentration.

It was a chilly October evening, the kind where the cold seeped into the bones and Hogwarts seemed even more like a fortress of warmth and sanctuary. Most students were already seated, enjoying the hearty feast laid out before them by the tireless house-elves. The plates before Harry and Hermione groaned with the bounty of roast beef, spiced potatoes, buttered vegetables, and a scattering of sweet treats waiting to be devoured later. It was safe to say that Harry enjoyed the feast, perhaps more than most—well, except for one other person.

He let his gaze wander to the Gryffindor table across the hall. There sat Ron Weasley, his plate piled absurdly high with meat, peas, mashed potatoes, bread, and sweets. At that moment, he was biting fiercely into a thick drumstick glazed with a rich, orange-hued curry sauce. Harry’s eye twitched involuntarily at the sight of the boy’s mouth, smeared messily with the bright sauce. Ron’s blue eyes, pale and almost ghostly against his fair skin, suddenly flicked open as he caught sight of friends across the hall. With a wide, innocent grin, he waved enthusiastically.

Harry’s attention shifted as he noticed the orange curry splatter from Ron’s drumstick streaking onto the arm of the girl seated beside him. The girl gasped in surprise, shooting a sharp look toward Ron, who only shrugged sheepishly, muttering a quick, embarrassed “Sorry.” His cheeks flushed a deep red, earning him a few more disapproving glares from his housemates. Ron awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of their stares.

A few tables behind Ron sat a girl with the same fiery hair, though hers was more neatly kept, cascading in soft waves down her back. She fixed a sharp glare at her brother, shaking her head with quiet exasperation, muttering under her breath. Harry found himself wondering how such a contrast existed between the two siblings—one wild and unruly, the other confident and collected.

“That Ronald Weasley is just unbearable,” Hermione murmured quietly, her tone tinged with both amusement and disdain. “How he’s not changed one bit since the first year is beyond me.”

Harry’s eyes flicked from the Weasley siblings back to Hermione, only to meet a teasing but disapproving glare directed at him.

“That unbearable Ronald Weasley still fancies you,” she added dryly, “which hasn’t changed since the first year either. Beyond me.”

Harry couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at his lips.

Nearby, Neville Longbottom sat beside Hermione, earning a playful glare and an exaggerated eye-roll from her as she returned her attention to her book. The Hufflepuff boy beamed unabashedly at the exchange between the two, seemingly unaffected by the mild reprimand. Harry admired Neville’s gentle nature — his soft, rounded face always seemed to brighten with warmth, and his bright blue eyes held an innocent kindness that made him endlessly endearing. There was little doubt why Neville was sorted into Hufflepuff; his loyalty and earnestness made him a comforting presence. Harry was quietly grateful for his steady friendship.

Neville rambled on about what he’d learned in Herbology earlier that day — Harry suspected Hermione wasn’t fully paying attention, as her eyes were already buried deep within the pages of her thick tome. His gaze drifted from the lively pair to the Slytherin table, where more intense, quieter conversations were taking place.

Draco Malfoy sat beside his betrothed, Astoria Greengrass. Harry remembered their first meeting during a second-year Potions assignment. Astoria, a Greengrass by birth, was known for her cruelty and biting wit, yet surprisingly, she tolerated Abraxas’s presence. This tolerance had encouraged other pureblood girls to accept him as well, much to Harry’s quiet astonishment. The two were engaged in a hushed conversation, Draco's pale blond features softening into a genuine smile as Astoria's laughter — a delicate, captivating melody — rang out softly, mesmerizing those within earshot.

Harry’s eyes then drifted to Karkaroff and Lestrange, who maintained a similarly quiet and reserved demeanor compared to their louder, more boisterous housemates. Further along, Yaxley, Nott, Travers, and Selwyn clustered in a group that was beginning to spiral out of control as Yaxley pressed a steak knife teasingly against Nott’s face. The poor boy looked genuinely terrified, and Harry quickly turned his gaze away from the brewing chaos.

His attention snapped back to the middle of the Slytherin table where Riddle, Rosier, and Mulciber sat in a deep, serious discussion. The shining silver prefect badges gleamed against their robes, symbols of authority that set Riddle and Mulciber apart as the chosen leaders of their house. The choice of Mulciber over Malfoy had shocked many, including Mulciber himself. Harry recalled Draco's fleeting look of disappointment before he quickly masked it, comforted by Astoria's reassuring presence — Harry suspected the blond was genuinely smitten, a rare and unexpected vulnerability in arranged matches.

The sight of Riddle caught Harry’s eye most of all. The cold, predatory glint in those pale blue eyes sent a shiver down his spine. Without realizing it, Harry’s fingers absently fiddled with the gold band resting on his middle finger — a subtle, almost subconscious gesture. He felt a prickling sensation along his neck as Riddle’s gaze locked onto the movement, possessive and calculating. It was as if the older boy’s eyes devoured the sight greedily, lingering too long, as if staking a silent claim.

Riddle’s gaze finally lifted, meeting Harry’s with a slow, sly smirk curling his pale lips — a chilling smile that revealed pearly white teeth, sharp and precise. Harry returned the smile, teeth showing, playful and teasing. The tension hung palpably between them, as if they were two pieces of a dangerous puzzle fitting together with a deliberate snap.

“Are you done eyeing each other like pieces of meat?” Neville’s voice broke through the charged silence, tinged with mock irritation. “Some of us are trying to eat here!”

Harry jolted back to the present, blinking as he refocused on the warm, earnest face of his Hufflepuff friend resting beside him. Hermione giggled softly, and her thick book slipped from her fingers, thudding loudly onto the table. Several nearby Ravenclaws glanced up in surprise, but Harry paid them no mind.

“They’ve been doing this since the beginning of the school year, Neville,” Hermione teased, her voice light but knowing, “and I dare say it gets more intense with every passing day.”

Harry shot daggers at her, trying to suppress his rising embarrassment. Neville groaned dramatically, clearly unimpressed by Hermione’s pointed observation. Her head rested on her hands as she grinned cheekily, eyes sparkling with delight at having caught him out once again.

“It doesn’t! What — what even gave you that idea?” Harry sputtered, his breath hitching as Hermione raised an eyebrow, tilting her head with an expression that screamed skepticism.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Harry,” she said with mock seriousness, “you two eye-fuck each other at least three times a day.”

The surrounding Hufflepuffs gasped in amused shock, and Harry’s face flamed a deep crimson.

Could these Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs be any more nosy?

“I — we do not — stop looking at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione, who only rolled her eyes in response.

“And I fancy Ronald Weasley,” she retorted sarcastically, shaking her head. “I’m surrounded by morons.”

“Hey!” the boys chorused in unison, but Hermione only grinned triumphantly.

Finally, Harry let his guard down and smiled back, turning his attention once more to the golden band on his finger. He toyed with it absentmindedly, completely unaware that the heavy, calculating gaze from across the hall had never left him.

---

“Hermione, have you finished the Potions essay yet?” Neville’s voice broke through the quiet of the common room, edged with frustration. His hand, trembling slightly from fatigue and impatience, tapped repeatedly against the side of his head with his quill. “I still have three more inches to write and honestly, I think I might lose it. This is the third time I’ve rewritten the entire thing from scratch!” His eyes remained fixed on the parchment before him, the ink barely dry, and yet already smudged in careless blotches. Unnoticed, a few drops had dripped down onto his robes, staining the rich fabric a deep, inky blue.

Hermione, sitting close beside him, didn’t miss a beat. With a flick of her slender wand, she swept a gentle cleansing charm over the damp ink, which shimmered briefly before vanishing into thin air. Her wand was tucked away with practiced ease, and she offered Neville a patient smile.

“Of course I have,” she replied, a trace of smugness curling her lips. “I even had Professor Snape read over mine early, well before the deadline. I’m rather proud of it.”

Neville blinked, clearly a little envious, but before he could reply, Hermione turned her sharp, inquisitive gaze toward Harry, who had been sitting quietly beside them, mostly observing rather than speaking all evening.

“Harry,” she asked, tilting her head with a subtle curiosity, “do you need any help with your essay? You’ve barely said a word tonight.”

Harry’s lips parted as if to respond, but his words were cut off abruptly by a voice that sliced through their little circle.

“Excuse us.”

All three heads turned simultaneously toward the source of the interruption. Standing just a few feet away, hand in hand, were Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy — an imposing pair who seemed to carry an air of suffocating control.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly; the aura surrounding the couple was impossible to ignore. Draco stood tall and commanding in his Slytherin robes, the silver threads gleaming faintly in the low light. His gray eyes flickered with lively intelligence as he looked down at the trio, a polite but distant smile playing on his lips. His long blond hair was neatly pulled back slightly off to the side.

Hermione’s gaze shifted smoothly to his companion. Astoria Greengrass carried herself with effortless grace, the kind that spoke of old magic and careful breeding. Her dark brown hair, deep and glossy as polished mahogany, fell in soft, controlled waves to her waist, catching the light with subtle hints of warmth. A few artfully loose strands framed her porcelain face, drawing attention to her high, defined cheekbones touched with a faint, natural flush. She was tall and willowy, her posture impeccable, each movement deliberate and precise. Her lips, naturally full, were tinted a muted rose that complemented her coloring perfectly. When Hermione’s eyes met Astoria’s striking pale blue gaze, she felt a ripple of unease; there was something assessing, almost cold, in the way those eyes lingered. It was the look of someone who missed nothing—and forgot even less.

The Malfoys were known not just for their wealth and their distinctive ice-blonde hair, but for those piercing silver-gray eyes that marked them distinctly among the myriad shades of blue, brown, black, and green found in the wizarding world. The color was undeniably beautiful — Draco himself bore testament to it — but the obsession with maintaining pure blue eyes was a genetic fixation that Hermione found troubling. She shivered quietly at the thought of the inbreeding it implied.

“How may we assist you, Draco?” Hermione asked politely, her eyes flicking between the boy and the woman beside him.

Astoria inclined her head with a brief nod, a gesture of both acknowledgment and carefully measured respect. Her gaze then shifted back to Draco, who cleared his throat softly before speaking.

“I’m sure the lot of you wouldn’t mind if we stole Potter away for the evening,” he said smoothly, eyes briefly flickering to Harry, “especially with curfew nearly upon us. I would recommend you all head back to your common rooms as well.”

Hermione sighed, pulling her wand from her sleeve with an effortless motion.

“Tempus.”

The enchanted clock floating nearby flickered, its hands pointing firmly to 9:43 p.m.

“I believe you’re right,” Harry murmured, reluctantly pushing his chair back.

“Of course he would be, having doubts, Granger?” Astoria said with a slight sneer.

Hermione cast a sidelong glance at the girl, lips tightening. Harry felt an involuntary twitch in his eye at the subtle tension. Hermione drew a deep breath, rising smoothly to her feet. She swept her wand again over the scattered books and papers before her, shrinking them neatly and tossing them into her bag with practiced precision.

“I must say, I’m impressed, Granger,” Astoria added, a tight smile crossing her lips. “Quick thinking.”

Hermione’s smile was thin but kind as she turned her attention to the boys.

“Well, Harry, we’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll walk Neville back to his common room,” she said with a glance at the two Slytherins who lingered nearby, “stay safe.”

Harry caught the fleeting cheeky smile Hermione tried to hide as she said goodbye. The sharp huff that escaped Astoria's lips did not go unnoticed.

“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you, Mione,” Harry said lightly to Hermione. “You two, Neville.” He waved at his friends as they began to leave the Grand Hall, until only he and the Slytherin pair remained.

Rising from his seat, Harry pushed himself off the bench. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

He shook his head in mild disbelief as the couple strode ahead, their steps synchronized and purposeful. He muttered quietly under his breath.

“Harry, how was your summer?” Draco's deep voice cut through the silence, breaking Harry from his thoughts.

The three of them had begun their descent into the dungeons, where the rest of the Slytherin house awaited. Despite the typical chill and dampness associated with castle dungeons, the area was meticulously maintained — the house-elves ensured that no filth or disorder ever marred the space. One lesson Harry had learned early on with Slytherins was that beneath their thirst for power and dominance lay an obsession with cleanliness and order.

He was not complaining.

“Same old, same old,” Harry replied with a small grin. “We attended a few Quidditch matches, even though Remus hated them. He tolerated it.” The memory of a particularly clumsy bully nearly crashing into Remus during a match made Harry chuckle softly. Poor Sirius had been roasted mercilessly for a week afterward.

Draco glanced sideways at Astoria, his lips curling in mild amusement. “What about you, Tori?”

Astoria's arm slipped comfortably through Draco's, her other hand hanging loosely by her side. She turned her head slowly toward Harry, and he met her icy gaze once again. A small, knowing smirk played on her lips as her long brown hair bounced slightly with their measured pace. It was only then Harry noticed the dark green ribbon tied in her hair .

“Our summer holidays were truly delightful,” she said smoothly, twirling a strand of hair around one finger. “Draco's parents sent us to France, to their countryside cottage. We indulged in the finest chocolates the region has to offer. Only the best chocolates will do for our wedding,” she added with a sly emphasis.

Draco chuckled, eyes gleaming. “We went cake tasting too.”

Harry smiled faintly at their playful banter.

“France is well-known for its exquisite pastries,” Astoria added, “but Germany’s chocolate cake is something else entirely. I’ve never had a dessert quite like it.” Her grin was teasing.

“Miss Greengrass here is quite the chocolate fanatic,” Draco teased, earning a playful punch from the girl.

“Says the one who prefers muggle cheesecake,” she shot back, smirking.

“It’s not completely horrendous...” Draco countered, but his voice was soft with amusement.

Harry’s attention drifted away as their quiet bickering continued all the way to the common room.

“Mudblood downfall,” Draco muttered boredly as the heavy common room door swung open. The two Slytherins trailed inside, followed by Harry.

The room was alive with the noise of another party in full swing — music, laughter, and the clatter of goblets on tables. It was no surprise; celebrations happened nearly every other night. Harry wondered what there was to celebrate. The only news was the distant shadow of Grindelwald’s growing war, a dark storm he doubted the Slytherins supported.

Many dark families, Harry knew, stayed loyal to the old pureblood traditions but refused to follow Grindelwald. Some of the Scared Twenty-Eight were involved, but their loyalty was questionable at best. He wondered, briefly and grimly, what fate awaited the disloyal.

Shaking his head, he turned to the couple beside him, who suddenly brightened as Rosier approached.

“Draco! Tori! We were wondering where you two disappeared to,” Rosier said with a wink. Harry bit back a laugh as Draco's face flushed bright red and Astoria retaliated with a sharp hex, which Rosier rubbed off his thigh with a wince.

“Next time, choose your words carefully, Rosier,” Astoria snapped, lowering her wand.

Rosier’s eyes then settled on Harry, and the man smiled again.

“Harry! Here, take this. Enjoy yourself.” He pressed a goblet of dark, mysterious liquid into Harry’s hand. The sharp sting of alcohol hit Harry’s nose, but he smiled politely.

“Will do,” Harry said, returning the wink. Rosier moved away toward the crowd.

“Come on, you two! Nott’s up against that fifth year again!” Rosier called, and the couple hurried off to witness the duel’s next round.

Harry was left alone near the entrance. Quiet settled around him like a cloak as he made his way to the dormitory, setting the goblet down on a nearby table with a soft clink. He pulled the drapes around his bed closed, sealing himself in shadow and solitude, then sank back against his headboard.

His fingers unconsciously traced the gold band on his middle finger. He realized with a start that he and Hermione had grown too busy lately to continue their research into the Chamber of Secrets. They’d stopped investigating the motives behind the atom and the other Slytherins’ interest in the ancient mystery.

He’d completely forgotten all about it.

Now, why was it all suddenly flooding back?

His thoughts were shattered by the creak of the dormitory door opening. Instantly, he tensed, fingers tightening around his wand, ready in case of danger. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and coming closer.

Then they stopped.

His breath caught in his throat. The silence stretched unbearably long — mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity — until the drapes around his bed were pulled aside abruptly.

His eyes squeezed shut instinctively before opening in stunned surprise.

“Tom?”

Chapter Text

Harry’s voice was barely a whisper, a question more than a statement, the name a fragile bubble of surprise. The air in the dorm, thick with the distant murmur of the party, suddenly felt thin, brittle. Tom Riddle stood there, framed by the drawn-back drapes, a silhouette against the dim light filtering from the common room. His dark eyes, usually so sharp, were soft, almost… curious. A slight tilt of his head, a gesture Harry had come to recognize as a precursor to some grand, manipulative reveal.

“Harry,” Tom’s voice was a low hum, a rich baritone that seemed to caress the syllables. It was a sound that made the hairs on Harry’s arms prickle, not from fear, but from an odd, unsettling awareness. “Fancy seeing you tucked away from the festivities.”

Harry’s grip on his wand loosened infinitesimally. He hadn't lowered it, not quite. The instinct to protect himself was a deep-seated hum beneath his skin, a constant thrum. “I could say the same for you, Tom. Don’t tell me the future Lord Voldemort is too good for a bit of revelry.” He tried for a jibe, a return to their usual, prickly banter, but the words felt clumsy, ill-fitting the strange intimacy of the moment.

A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of Tom’s lips. He stepped further into the space, the drapes swishing softly behind him as they fell back into place, plunging Harry’s bed into deeper shadow. Only the faint glow from the hallway, a sliver of gold beneath the door, offered any real light. Tom’s eyes, however, seemed to glow with an inner luminescence, reflecting the distant party lights like captured stars.

“The future Lord Voldemort, as you so charmingly put it, finds himself with more pressing matters than watching Nott lose another Galleon to a fifth-year with questionable dueling ethics.” He paused, his gaze dropping to Harry’s hand, still clutching the wand. A knowing glint entered his eyes. “Though I appreciate the precaution. One can never be too careful in these halls, can they?”

Harry’s cheeks warmed. He lowered the wand, letting it rest on the duvet beside him. “Considering you just snuck into my dorm, I’d say my caution is entirely justified.”

“Slipped in,” Tom corrected smoothly, his voice a silken thread. “And I hardly ‘snuck.’ The door was ajar. An open invitation, one might say.” He took another step, then another, until he stood beside the bed, a formidable presence. The scent of old parchment and something distinctly… Tom—a mix of ozone and crisp winter air—drifted towards Harry. It was an intoxicating, unsettling aroma.

Harry’s heart gave a peculiar lurch. He could feel the warmth radiating off Tom, the subtle shift in the air pressure as he invaded Harry’s personal space. “Right. An open invitation for you to… what, exactly? Steal my socks? Lecture me on the finer points of Dark Arts etiquette?”

Tom’s smirk widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Perhaps. Or perhaps, I merely wished to ensure you weren’t plotting to overthrow the entire Slytherin house in your sleep. You do have a tendency for dramatic flair, Potter.” He leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, his posture relaxed, yet radiating an undeniable power.

The playful accusation, the easy familiarity, caught Harry off guard. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m hardly plotting anything. I was just… thinking.” He gestured vaguely at the ring on his finger, the one he’d been fiddling with just moments before. It felt heavier now, a cold weight against his skin.

Tom’s gaze followed Harry’s hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on the ring. "Still wearing that, are we? I’d have thought by now you’d have lost it or such”

“Well I haven't,” Harry retorted, a defensive edge to his voice. “It’s… complicated. Hermione and I were trying to figure something out about it, actually. And the Chamber of Secrets.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, a sudden, inexplicable urge to share, to confide, to test Tom.

A sharp, almost imperceptible intake of breath from Tom. His casual pose stiffened, just for a fraction of a second. The air around them seemed to crackle, charged with a sudden, unspoken tension. The distant noise faded, replaced by the pounding of Harry’s own heart.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Tom repeated, his voice lower now, a dangerous rumble that vibrated through the quiet dorm. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a chilling intensity that made Harry’s skin prickle. “And what, pray tell, were you and Miss Granger hoping to ‘figure out’ about it?”

Harry felt a sudden chill, a wave of regret for having spoken so freely. He’d forgotten, for a moment, who Tom truly was, what he was capable of. He’d let his guard down, lured by the deceptive calm. “Just… historical interest. You know. Old legends, secret passages. Nothing nefarious.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice wavered slightly.

Tom pushed off the bedpost, taking another step closer, until he was practically looming over Harry. The shadows deepened around them, making Tom’s features appear sharper, more predatory. Harry could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle scent of his magic.

“Nothing nefarious,” Tom murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “And yet, you wear a ring that hums with ancient magic, and you concern yourself with the most infamous secret in Hogwarts history. A secret, I might add, that only a select few truly understand.” His eyes, dark as midnight, bored into Harry’s, searching, probing, dissecting. “Tell me, Harry. What exactly do you know about the Chamber? And more importantly, what do you know about its true purpose?”

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He could feel the pressure of Tom’s gaze, a physical weight. This wasn’t a casual chat anymore. This was an interrogation, cold and precise. He risked a glance at the ring, then back at Tom. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant, muffled thump-thump-thump of the party music.

“I… I don’t know anything,” Harry finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. He hated the lie, hated the weakness it implied, but he couldn’t bring himself to reveal more, not to Tom, not now. Not when the stakes suddenly felt so incredibly high.

Tom chuckled, a soft, chilling sound that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. It wasn’t a sound of amusement, but of cynical disbelief. “Oh, Harry. Always so modest. You stumble upon ancient artifacts, you delve into forbidden lore, and yet you claim ignorance. A charming trait, I suppose, but utterly unconvincing. Especially to someone who knows your particular brand of… curiosity.”

He reached out a hand, slow and deliberate, towards Harry’s. Harry tensed, his muscles coiling, ready to recoil. But Tom didn’t touch him. His fingers hovered inches above the ring, radiating a faint warmth that Harry could feel even through the fabric of his pajamas.

“This ring,” Tom continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “A piece that resonates with the very heart of Slytherin’s legacy, my legacy.” His eyes, still locked on Harry’s, seemed to gleam with a dark triumph. “Tell me, Harry. Does it… sing to you? Does it whisper secrets in the dead of night?”

Harry’s breath hitched. He remembered the faint hum, the almost imperceptible thrum against his skin, especially when he’d been near the entrance to the Chamber. He remembered the strange dreams, the fragmented images. He remembered the feeling of something ancient stirring within him, a power he didn’t understand.

“What are you talking about?” Harry tried to sound dismissive, but his voice cracked slightly.

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. “I’m talking about blood, Harry. About legacy. About power. The Chamber of Secrets isn’t just a hideout for a mythical beast. It’s a vault. A repository of knowledge, of magic, of a power so profound it could reshape the very fabric of our world.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a mesmerizing siren song. “And I believe, Harry, that you, with your mysterious origins and your inexplicable connection to the darkest corners of our history, are closer to unlocking it than you realize.”

Harry’s mind reeled. tom and the other Slytherins, their strange interest in the Chamber, the whispers he’d overheard. It all clicked into place with a terrifying clarity. They weren’t just curious. They were after something. And Tom… Tom knew exactly what.

“What do you want with the Chamber?” Harry demanded, his voice stronger now, a desperate edge to it. “What do you want from there?”

Tom straightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, as if Harry’s question had broken a delicate spell. “That, Harry, is a question for another time. For now, let’s focus on your… unique acquisition.” He gestured to the ring again, his eyes gleaming with an almost feverish intensity. “You see, there are others who are… interested in what the Chamber holds. Others who would stop at nothing to claim its power. And you, my dear Harry, are holding a very tempting bait.”

“The ‘scared 28’?” Harry blurted out, remembering the conversation from earlier, the dark families who didn’t fully support Grindelwald but were still involved.

Tom’s eyebrows rose, a hint of genuine surprise touching his features. “You’ve been listening. Good. Yes. Some of them. And others. Grindelwald believes he holds all the keys to ultimate power. He’s a fool. There are older, deeper magics at play. Magics that he, with his crude attempts at conquest, can barely comprehend.” A sneer twisted Tom’s lips at the mention of Grindelwald. “He’s a bully, not a visionary. He wants to dominate. I want to transcend.”

The distinction, stark and chilling, hung in the air. Grindelwald sought control, Tom sought something far more ambitious, far more terrifying.

“And you think the Chamber holds the key to… transcendence?” Harry asked, a morbid fascination warring with his growing dread.

“It holds a key,” Tom corrected, his eyes gleaming. “One of many. But a potent one. And you, Harry, have a peculiar knack for stumbling upon them.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over Harry’s face, lingering on his eyes. “Tell me, does the ring ever… call to you? Does it urge you to seek out certain places? Certain… presences?”

Harry thought of the strange pull he’d felt, the inexplicable desire to explore certain hidden corners of the castle, the almost magnetic draw towards the bathroom with the basilisk. He thought of the unsettling dreams, the whispers that sometimes seemed to echo in his mind.

“Sometimes,” Harry admitted, the word a reluctant confession. “It’s… a feeling. Like a tug.”

A triumphant glint sparked in Tom’s eyes. “Precisely. It’s awakening. And soon, it will demand more. It will demand to be reunited with its other halves. And when it does, Harry, you will have a choice. To ignore its call, and risk its wrath. Or to embrace it, and unlock a power beyond your wildest imagination.” He leaned in again, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “A power that could make Grindelwald’s petty war seem like a child’s squabble.”

The thought was terrifying, seductive. Harry felt a strange tremor run through him, a mix of fear and an almost forbidden excitement. He looked at the ring, then back at Tom. “What does it mean, ‘other halves’?”

Tom straightened, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face. “All in good time, Harry. For now, let’s just say that the Chamber holds more than just a beast. It holds… answers. And I intend to find them. With or without your cooperation.” His gaze sharpened, a clear warning. “Though I much prefer the former. You have a certain… talent for attracting the unusual, after all.”

A sudden, raucous peal of laughter erupted from the common room, momentarily cutting through the tension. It was Rosier’s distinct, braying laugh, followed by Abraxas’s deeper, more restrained chuckle. The sound was a jarring reminder of the party, of the world outside this confined, charged space.

Tom’s eyes flickered towards the door, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “It seems our revelers are in fine form tonight.” He turned back to Harry, the intensity in his gaze undiminished. “Listen to me, Harry. The world is changing. Grindelwald is merely a symptom of a deeper current. Power is shifting. And those who are unprepared will be swept away.”

“And you’re going to be the one holding the broom?” Harry retorted, a spark of his usual defiance returning.

Tom’s smile was chilling. “Something like that. But first, we need to understand the pieces on the board. And that ring, Harry, is a very significant piece indeed. A reason why I gifted it to you” He reached out again, this time his fingers brushing against Harry’s, a fleeting, electric contact that sent a jolt up Harry’s arm. Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He was captivated, unnerved.

“Be careful, Harry,” Tom murmured, his voice softer now, almost… concerned. It was a tone Harry had rarely heard from him, and it was perhaps the most unsettling thing of all. “There are forces at play you cannot comprehend. Forces that will seek to claim what you possess. And not all of them will be as… civil as I.”

Before Harry could respond, before he could even process the implication of Tom’s strange warning, the door to the dorm burst open with a loud crack, startling them both.

“Harry, darling! There you are!”

It was Astoria Greengrass, her face flushed, her eyes bright with a mixture of mischief and something Harry couldn’t quite decipher. She swayed slightly, a half-empty goblet clutched in her hand. Rosier was right behind her, grinning broadly, and Draco Malfoy, looking slightly more composed but still clearly affected by the festivities, followed them in.

They stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes widening as they took in the scene: Tom Riddle, standing intimately close to Harry’s bed, his hand still hovering near Harry’s, the air between them thick with unspoken words.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, Rosier’s grin faltered. “Tom? What in Merlin’s name are you doing in Harry’s bedchambers?” He sounded less amused, more genuinely bewildered.

Astoria, however, seemed to find the situation hilarious. A high-pitched, slightly slurred giggle bubbled up from her throat. “Oh, Tom, you naughty boy! Always sneaking where you shouldn’t be!” She took another swig from her goblet, then pointed a wobbly finger at Harry. “And you, Harry! Keeping secrets from your friends, are we?”

Draco, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. “Tori, perhaps we should… give them some space.” He shot a pointed look at Tom, a look that spoke volumes of unspoken history and rivalry.

Tom, however, remained utterly unruffled. He straightened, his hand dropping casually to his side, his expression returning to its usual aloof mask. He merely raised an elegant eyebrow at the intruders. “Rosier. Greengrass. Malfoy. To what do we owe this… unannounced visit?” His voice was smooth as silk, but there was an underlying current of steel that made Astoria's giggles falter.

Astoria, despite her inebriation, seemed to catch the subtle shift in atmosphere. Her eyes, though still bright, took on a more cautious glint. “Oh, we were just… checking on Harry! He vanished from the party, and we were worried he might be… well, being boring.” She winked at Harry, then at Tom. “But it seems he’s found a way to entertain himself, hmm?”

Harry felt a furious blush creep up his neck. “I wasn’t being boring,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“Of course not, darling,” Astoria purred, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She took another step into the room, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from Tom. “But seriously, Tom. What’s going on? Are you two… having a secret study session? Because I could definitely use some help with my Potions essay.” She batted her eyelashes at Tom, a clear attempt at flirtation.

Tom’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though a flicker of disdain crossed his eyes. “My presence here is of no concern to you, Greengrass. And I assure you, my academic assistance is reserved for those with a genuine aptitude for the subject, not merely a desire to… socialize.”

Astoria huffed, clearly offended. “Well! If that’s how you’re going to be, then I suppose we’ll just have to leave you two to your… private affairs.” She shot Harry another knowing look, then nudged Rosier. “Come on, boys. Let’s go find someone who appreciates our company.”

Rosier, still looking vaguely confused, shrugged. “Alright, Tori. But Nott’s probably won his Galleons back by now.” He glanced at Harry, then at Tom, a silent question in his eyes. He seemed to want to ask more, but Astoria was already tugging him towards the door.

Draco, however, lingered for a moment. His gaze met Tom’s, a silent communication passing between them. A warning? A challenge? Harry couldn’t tell. Then, Draco's eyes flickered to Harry, a brief, assessing glance, before he turned and followed Astoria and Rosier out of the dorm.

The door clicked shut, leaving Harry and Tom alone once more, the sudden silence even more profound after the brief, boisterous interruption. Harry let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Tom’s lips curled into a faint, amused smile. “Your friends are… spirited.”

“They’re drunk,” Harry corrected, still feeling the heat in his cheeks. “And they have absolutely no sense of boundaries.”

“A common affliction, I find, among those who lack… purpose.” Tom’s gaze returned to Harry, the intensity immediately back, as if the interruption had never happened. “Now, where were we?”

Harry swallowed. “You were… warning me.”

“Indeed.” Tom took a step closer again, his voice dropping to that dangerous, mesmerizing whisper. “You see, Harry, the world is a dangerous place. And your particular… talents, your unique heritage… they make you a target. Grindelwald is a threat, yes. But there are older, darker threats lurking in the shadows. Threats that would use you, manipulate you, or simply destroy you, to get what they want.”

He paused, his eyes piercing Harry’s, searching for a reaction. “I offer you a choice, Harry. An alliance. Work with me. We can uncover the secrets of the Chamber together. We can understand the true nature of the magic that runs in your veins. And together, we can reshape this world, not with brute force, but with knowledge, with power, with a vision that transcends petty squabbles.”

Harry stared at him, his mind racing. An alliance with Tom Riddle. The future Lord Voldemort. It was insane. It was unthinkable. And yet… the pull was undeniable. The promise of answers, of power, of understanding the strange, unsettling forces that had always seemed to swirl around him.

“Why me?” Harry asked, his voice raw. “Why not just… take the ring? Why not just find the Chamber yourself?”

Tom’s smile was enigmatic. “Because, Harry, some doors can only be opened by those with the right key. And you, my dear Harry, possess a very unique one. A key that even I, with all my knowledge, cannot replicate. Besides,” his eyes glinted with a dark amusement, “where would be the fun in that? The chase, the intrigue, the shared discovery… it’s all part of the game, isn’t it?”

He extended a hand, palm up, towards Harry. It was an invitation, a challenge, a silent pact. His hand was long, elegant, the fingers tipped with perfectly manicured nails. It radiated a subtle warmth, an almost tangible energy.

“So, Harry Potter,” Tom’s voice was a soft, seductive murmur, a whisper of temptation in the quiet dorm. “Do we dance?”

Harry looked at the outstretched hand, then at Tom’s face, his eyes, so dark and fathomless, holding a universe of secrets and ambition. He thought of Grindelwald, of the war, of the chaos that was slowly engulfing the wizarding world. He thought of the ring on his finger, humming with a power he didn’t understand, a power that seemed to be inextricably linked to Tom.

He thought of Hermione, of Dumbledore, of everything he had been taught about right and wrong. And then he thought of the gnawing curiosity, the insatiable desire for answers that had always driven him, the feeling that there was something fundamentally missing from his understanding of himself, of his place in this world.

He felt a strange, almost magnetic pull towards Tom, a dark twin to his own ambition, his own yearning for understanding. It was a dangerous game, he knew. A game with stakes higher than he could possibly imagine. But the thought of refusing, of walking away from this opportunity, felt almost… cowardly.

Harry took a deep breath, the scent of Tom, of ozone and ancient magic, filling his lungs. He looked at Tom’s hand, then met his gaze.

“What exactly does this ‘alliance’ entail, Tom?” Harry asked, his voice steady, a challenging glint in his own eyes. He wasn’t saying yes, not yet. But he wasn’t saying no either. He was negotiating.

Tom’s smile widened, a slow, triumphant curve of his lips. “Ah, Harry. Always so pragmatic. I like that. It entails… a shared pursuit of knowledge. A mutual understanding of the forces at play. And, perhaps, a certain… discretion. After all, some secrets are best kept between us, wouldn’t you agree?” He held Harry’s gaze, a silent promise, a silent threat.

Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was a pivotal moment. A choice that would echo through his life, and perhaps, through the very fabric of the wizarding world.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against Tom’s, then grasping them firmly. The contact was electric, a jolt of raw power that surged through Harry’s arm, making the ring on his finger hum with a sudden, vibrant energy. It was a strange, unsettling sensation, a feeling of both repulsion and profound connection.

“Alright, Tom,” Harry said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Let’s dance.”

A genuine, unbridled laugh, deep and rich, erupted from Tom’s throat. It was a sound Harry had rarely heard, a sound that held a dangerous charm, a hint of pure, unadulterated glee. It was the sound of a predator who had just cornered his prey, but also the sound of a kindred spirit who had found a worthy companion.

“Excellent, Harry,” Tom murmured, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening, almost possessive. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” His eyes, dark and gleaming, held a promise of power, of secrets, of a game that had just begun. “Now, let’s begin. Tell me everything you know about that ring. And then, we’ll discuss how to truly awaken it.”

The party sounds from the common room seemed to fade into a distant hum, irrelevant, forgotten. All that mattered was the quiet intensity of the dorm, the unspoken pact between Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, and the chilling promise of the secrets that lay buried deep within Hogwarts, waiting to be unearthed. The game had truly begun. And Harry, for better or worse, was now irrevocably a part of it.

Chapter Text

The chill of the dungeons clung to Harry, seeping into his bones even as the lingering heat of Tom’s proximity still hummed on his skin. He watched Tom, a silhouette against the flickering candlelight, as the other boy meticulously combed a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. The air thrummed with unspoken things, a dangerous current pulling them closer.

“So, Harry,” Tom’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the quiet. “Ready to descend into the abyss?”

Harry snorted, a nervous tremor in his chest.

A faint, knowing smile touched Tom’s lips, a flash of white in the dim light.

“Oh, I expect much more than that, Harry. Much, much more.”

He moved then, a predatory grace to his stride, and Harry’s breath hitched. Tom reached into the inner pocket of his robes, the fabric rustling softly. He withdrew a small, ornate wooden box, its surface polished to a dark sheen. Intricate carvings, coiling serpents and arcane symbols, adorned its lid. Harry’s gaze was drawn to it, an inexplicable pull in his gut.

“A token,” Tom murmured, his eyes fixed on Harry’s, dark and unreadable. “A gesture of… good faith.”

He opened the box with a soft click. Nestled within, on a bed of faded velvet, lay another heavy gold ring, but with a black stone in the center. It was ancient, its metal tarnished with age, but the single, large stone set in its center pulsed with a faint, internal light, a deep, vibrant black that seemed to absorb and reflect the meager candlelight. Harry felt a strange jolt, a faint echo in his own magical core, as if something within him recognized it.

“This…” Harry began, his voice rough. “What is it?”

“A family heirloom,” Tom explained, his voice smooth as silk. “Passed down through generations. A symbol of lineage, power… and a certain bond.” He picked it up, the emerald gleaming, and Harry noticed the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in Tom’s hand. “It’s been waiting for you, I think.”

Harry stared at the ring, then at Tom.

“Waiting for me? What are you talking about?”

“Destiny, Harry,” Tom breathed, stepping closer, the scent of parchment and something indefinably dark and alluring filling Harry’s senses. “The tapestry of fate, weaving itself around us. This ring… it’s a key. A key to understanding, to unlocking potentials you can’t even begin to imagine.” He extended his hand, holding the ring out. “Take it.”

Harry hesitated, a primal instinct screaming at him to recoil, but another, more dangerous part of him, a part drawn to power and mystery, urged him forward. He reached out, his fingers brushing Tom’s as he took the ring. It was surprisingly heavy, cool against his skin, and as he closed his fingers around it, a faint warmth spread through his palm, then up his arm, a gentle hum resonating deep within him.

“What does it do?” Harry asked, examining the ring, the emerald’s green depths seeming to swirl with hidden secrets.

“It binds us,” Tom said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his gaze intense. “A silent promise. A shared secret. And a source of… inspiration.” He watched Harry’s face, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “Try it on.”

Harry, mesmerized, slid the ring onto his right ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if crafted for him. The stone seemed to glow brighter for a moment, and Harry felt a strange sense of completeness, a subtle shift in his magical aura. It was unsettling, yet undeniably powerful.

“It’s… warm,” Harry murmured, flexing his fingers.

“A reflection of your own inherent power,” Tom purred, his eyes gleaming. “And a constant reminder of our… partnership.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Harry’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “Don’t lose it, Harry. It means more than you know.”

Harry looked up, meeting Tom’s gaze. There was a dangerous glint in those dark eyes, a possessiveness that made Harry’s stomach clench.

“Are you threatening me, Tom?”

Tom chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through the quiet dungeon hallway.

“Is it a threat, Harry, or a promise? I merely suggest that what has been given, can also be taken away. And I assure you, you wouldn’t want to be without it once you’ve known its touch.” He straightened, a casual shrug of his shoulders, but his eyes never left Harry’s. “Now, are you ready to reveal your little secret passage? Or shall we spend the rest of the night admiring your new accessory?”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“Follow me. And try not to get lost.”

He turned, the ring cool and weighty on his finger, and led the way, his mind racing. The ring felt… alive. It was unsettling, but also undeniably compelling. He could feel its presence, a subtle thrumming that seemed to amplify his own magic.

They navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the dungeons, the silence broken only by their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Harry led Tom past familiar classrooms and hidden alcoves, his senses heightened. He could feel Tom’s presence behind him, a constant, magnetic pull, like a shadow that was too close, too real. The tension was a palpable thing, thick and heavy in the air, a silent conversation humming between them.

“You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?” Tom’s voice, low and conversational, broke the quiet. “Poking around where you don’t belong.”

“I could say the same for you,” Harry shot back, not looking at him. “You seem to know an awful lot about things you shouldn’t.”

“Knowledge is power, Harry,” Tom replied smoothly. “And I make it my business to acquire both. Unlike some, I don’t shy away from the darker corners of history.”

They reached the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, its entrance looking even more desolate and neglected than usual in the dead of night. The air was colder here, carrying the faint scent of mildew and stagnant water.

“Here we are,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely. “The Chamber of Secrets. Or rather, its antechamber.”

Tom stepped past him, his eyes sweeping over the grimy sinks and cracked tiles, a faint curl of disdain on his lips.

“My, my. Such a charming entrance to a place of such profound power. One might almost think Salazar Slytherin had a penchant for the theatrical, or simply a terrible sense of interior design.” He paused before the sink with the small, etched serpent. “And this is where your little friend, Hermione, discovered its secret, yes?”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“She’s not my ‘little friend’. And yes, she did. She’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant, perhaps,” Tom conceded, his finger tracing the serpent’s scales. “But limited. She seeks knowledge for its own sake, for the satisfaction of understanding. You, Harry, seek it for something more. For power. For answers to questions you barely understand.” He turned, his gaze piercing. “Tell me, Harry. What do you truly hope to find down there?”

Harry met his gaze, refusing to flinch.

“Answers. To why it’s calling to me. To what it means for me. And to what you’re really after.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Tom’s face.

“Fair enough. Parseltongue, if you please.”

Harry took a deep breath, the familiar hiss forming on his tongue.

“Open, Chamber of Secrets.”

The sink began to move, groaning and grinding, the pipes twisting and retracting with a sound like ancient bones cracking. The entire basin sank out of sight, revealing a dark, gaping hole, a winding chute leading down into impenetrable blackness. A cold, damp draft wafted up, carrying the faint scent of earth and something ancient, almost metallic.

“Excellent,” Tom murmured, stepping to the edge of the opening, peering down into the darkness. “One might almost imagine a dragon’s maw, ready to swallow us whole.” He looked back at Harry, his eyes gleaming. “After you, Harry. You are, after all, leading the way.”

Harry hesitated. The darkness was absolute, the drop dizzying. He could feel the ring on his finger, a faint thrumming against his skin, urging him forward.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Riddle,” Harry baited, a challenge in his voice.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous spark igniting within them.

“Scared? Harry, I embrace the dark. It’s where true power resides. But unlike you, I prefer to know what I’m falling into. You, however, seem to enjoy the plunge.” He stepped closer, his hand brushing Harry’s arm, a jolt of electricity passing between them. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to… fall together?”

Harry scoffed, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m perfectly capable of falling on my own.”

He swung his legs over the edge, sliding into the dark chute. The descent was fast and exhilarating, a dizzying rush of wind and darkness. He landed with a soft thud on a damp, earthy floor, the air thick with the smell of damp stone and ancient magic. He looked up just as Tom slid down after him, landing with a light, almost silent grace.

“Well, that was… efficient,” Tom remarked, dusting off his robes. “Though perhaps not the most dignified entrance for the heir of Slytherin.”

They stood in a long, dark tunnel, dimly lit by a faint, phosphorescent glow emanating from the walls. The air was heavy, still, and Harry could feel the ancient magic pressing in on them.

“So, this is it,” Harry whispered, his voice echoing eerily. “The Chamber of Secrets.”

“Indeed,” Tom said, his voice imbued with a strange reverence. “And so much more. This isn’t merely a chamber, Harry. It’s a crucible. A forge of power. And a sanctuary for those who truly understand Slytherin’s vision.” He began to walk, his footsteps soft on the damp floor. “Tell me, Harry. What do you know of Salazar Slytherin?”

Harry walked beside him, his hand instinctively going to the ring on his finger.

“He was one of the Hogwarts founders. He believed in pure-blood supremacy. He left behind a monster to purge the school of Muggle-borns.”

Tom stopped, turning to face Harry, a faint smile on his lips.

“A rather simplistic view, don’t you think? And one carefully curated by Dumbledore and his ilk. Slytherin was a visionary. He understood the true nature of magic, its raw, untamed power. He saw weakness in sentimentality, in the dilution of magical bloodlines. He sought to preserve the purity, the potency, the potential of magic. The ‘monster’ was merely a tool. A gatekeeper. A deterrent.”

“A deterrent to what?” Harry challenged, a knot forming in his stomach.

“To the encroaching mediocrity,” Tom said, his voice growing in intensity. “To the slow, insidious decline of true magical power. Dumbledore and his followers preach tolerance, acceptance, equality. But what they truly preach is stagnation. Weakness. They fear power, Harry. They fear those who wield it without apology. And they fear what we are about to discover.”

They continued walking, the passage growing wider, the air growing colder. Harry could feel the weight of centuries of magic around them, a heavy, oppressive presence.

“You talk as if you knew him,” Harry observed, eyeing Tom suspiciously.

Tom chuckled, a low, resonant sound.

“In a way, I do. His blood runs in my veins, after all. His legacy is my birthright. And his vision… it resonates with my own.” He paused, turning to face Harry fully. “Tell me, Harry. You’ve seen the way magic is treated in this age. 

Constrained. Regulated. Reduced to parlour tricks and bureaucratic nonsense. Do you truly believe this is what our ancestors intended? Do you believe this is the pinnacle of our power?”

Harry thought of the Ministry, of the endless rules and regulations, of the fear of dark magic.

“No,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “It feels… small.”

“Precisely!” Tom’s eyes gleamed, a predatory light in their depths. “It is small. It is weak. But it doesn’t have to be. Not for us. Not for those who are willing to reach for more.” He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing Harry’s arm, sending a jolt through him. “You feel it too, don’t you? The hunger for something greater. The pull of true power.”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. He did feel it. The ring on his finger pulsed, a subtle echo of the power Tom was describing.

“What exactly are you proposing?” Harry asked, his voice strained.

“An awakening,” Tom purred, his voice a silken caress. “A restoration. A return to the true glory of magic. The Chamber of Secrets is merely the first step. The foundation of something far grander. It is a place of learning, yes, but also a place of transformation. A place where the weak are purged, and the strong are forged anew.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Harry’s ear. “And you, Harry, are destined to be forged.”

Harry shivered, a mixture of fear and a strange, dark excitement coiling in his gut.

“Who are the Knights of Walpurgis?” Harry asked, changing the subject, needing a moment to regain his composure. “You mentioned them before.”

Tom straightened, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Ah, yes. My inner circle. My chosen few. They are not merely students, Harry. They are disciples. Those who share my vision, my ambition. They are the future of our world. Abraxas, Rosier, Viola Carrow… they are merely the beginning. We are a brotherhood, bound by a common purpose: to reclaim what was lost, to restore our rightful place at the pinnacle of power.”

“And what is that purpose, exactly?” Harry pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Tom began to walk again, his voice echoing in the vast, silent corridor.

“To cleanse. To purify. To reshape. The magical world is rife with impurities, Harry. Mudbloods polluting our sacred bloodlines, half-bloods diluting our power, Muggles encroaching upon our very existence. The Ministry is a farce, run by fools and cowards. Dumbledore is a benevolent dictator, stifling true potential under the guise of ‘the greater good’.” He scoffed. “His ‘greater good’ is merely a greater stagnation.”

“So, you want to kill all Muggle-borns?” Harry asked, a chill running down his spine. The idea was horrific, yet Tom spoke of it with such calm conviction.

Tom paused, turning to Harry, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Not all, Harry. Not necessarily. Some can be… re-educated. Realigned. Others… well, some weeds must be pulled for the garden to flourish. But our ambition stretches far beyond merely ‘killing Mudbloods’. That is merely a necessary unpleasantness. Our true goal is to establish a new order. A world where magic reigns supreme, where the pure and powerful dictate the future, where our legacy is honored and expanded upon.”

He gestured around the ancient chamber, now opening into a vast cavern, supported by towering pillars carved with intertwined serpents. At the far end, a colossal statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed, its mouth agape, a dark, gaping maw.

“This Chamber,” Tom continued, his voice resonating with power, “is not just a lair for the Basilisk. It is a repository of ancient knowledge, of forgotten rituals, of magics that Dumbledore and his kind have suppressed for centuries. Magics that can grant immortality. Magics that can reshape reality itself. Magics that can elevate us beyond mere mortals.”

Harry stared at the statue, then at Tom. The sheer scope of his ambition was breathtaking, terrifying.

“Immortality?” Harry whispered, a sudden, cold fear gripping him. “What are you talking about?”

Tom’s smile widened, a chilling, triumphant expression.

“The ultimate pursuit, wouldn’t you agree? To transcend the limitations of flesh and time. To become eternal. Salazar Slytherin sought it. And I, his heir, will achieve it. With your help.”

Harry’s mind reeled. Immortality. Dark magic. The ring on his finger suddenly felt heavier, its warmth more insidious.

“What does the ring have to do with this?” Harry asked, his voice strained. He looked at the emerald, its green depths seeming to swirl with unspoken secrets.

Tom’s eyes flickered to the ring, a possessive gleam in their depths.

“It’s a conduit, Harry. A connection. It amplifies. It protects. It binds. And it will be instrumental in our shared journey. It is a piece of me, and now, a piece of you.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. A piece of me. He remembered the chilling legend of the Horcruxes, of dark magic used to split the soul. He dismissed it instantly. No, Tom wouldn’t be so foolish. But the thought lingered, a tiny, insidious seed of doubt.

“What about the monster?” Harry asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the unsettling implications of the ring. “The Basilisk. Is it still here?” 

‘Unless she disappeared the last time I checked” 

Tom’s eyes lit up with a dangerous amusement.

“Oh, she’s here, Harry. Always watching. Always waiting. A loyal guardian. And a powerful weapon, when wielded by the rightful hand. Perhaps, if you prove yourself worthy, I’ll allow you the pleasure of her company.” As If I didn’t already meet her. He stepped closer to the gaping mouth of Slytherin’s statue, a hand resting on the ancient stone. “She understands true power. She recognizes her master.”

Harry felt a sudden surge of defiance.

“And you think that’s you?”

Tom turned, his eyes piercing.

“It is me, Harry. And soon, it will be us. Imagine the power, Harry. Imagine what we could achieve, together. No one would stand in our way. Dumbledore, the Ministry, the entire Muggle world… they would all bend to our will. We could reshape magic, redefine its limits, become Gods among men.”

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, his presence overwhelming. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a raw, primal energy.

Tom’s gaze dropped to Harry’s lips, lingering there for a beat too long.

“You’re tempted, aren’t you, Harry?” Tom’s voice was a low purr, a seductive whisper that curled around Harry’s heart. “You feel the pull. The yearning for something more than your paltry existence. The desire to break free from the chains of expectation, of being ‘the boy who lived’ merely by chance. I can offer you true destiny. True power. True immortality.”

Harry’s breath hitched. He was tempted. Horrified, but undeniably tempted. The ring on his finger pulsed, a warm, insistent thrumming.

“What makes you think I’d ever join you?” Harry challenged, his voice rough, betraying the turmoil within him. “You want to murder people. You want to control everyone. That’s not power, that’s tyranny.”

Tom chuckled, a dark, rich sound.

“Semantics, Harry. One man’s tyranny is another man’s order. And as for murder… sometimes, a surgeon must cut away the diseased limb to save the body. This world is diseased. It needs a firm hand. And a sharp blade.” He stepped closer still, his body almost touching Harry’s. “But I wouldn’t ask you to merely ‘join’ me, Harry. I would ask you to rule beside me. As my equal. As my… partner.”

His eyes dropped again, to Harry’s lips, then lower, to his throat, a possessive gaze that made Harry’s skin prickle.

“Imagine it, Harry. The world at our feet. No more Dumbledore’s pronouncements. No more Ministry regulations. Just us. Our power, boundless. Our desires, fulfilled. Every whim, every dark fantasy, made reality.” Tom’s voice was a hypnotic murmur. “And the pleasure, Harry. The exquisite pleasure of true, unbridled power. It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

Harry swallowed hard, his gaze locked with Tom’s. He could feel the heat radiating from Tom’s body, the subtle scent of his skin, and a dangerous, forbidden desire stirred within him. The ring seemed to hum in response, a silent complicity.

“What makes you think I’m interested in any of that?” Harry managed, though his voice lacked conviction.

Tom’s smile was knowing, seductive.

“Because I see the darkness in you, Harry. The same darkness that resides within me. The ambition. The ruthlessness. The capacity for greatness. You’ve merely been… constrained. Suppressed. But I can help you unleash it. I can help you become everything you were truly meant to be.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of Harry’s jaw, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “You are not like them, Harry. You are not a sheep. You are a wolf, just waiting to shed your disguise.”

Harry’s breath hitched. Tom’s touch was electric, unsettling, yet undeniably alluring. His words, though twisted, resonated with a hidden part of Harry, a part he rarely acknowledged.

“And what if I refuse?” Harry challenged, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes fixed on Tom’s, searching for any hint of weakness, any crack in the facade.

Tom’s smile faded, replaced by a chillingly cold expression. His fingers tightened on Harry’s jaw, a subtle pressure that was more threat than caress.

“Refusal, Harry, is not an option. Not for you. You are too important. Too valuable. And far too deeply intertwined with my destiny. I have seen it. We are connected, Harry. More than you know. More than you can possibly imagine.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “And what is mine, I keep. By any means necessary.”

Harry felt a surge of fear, a primal instinct to pull away, to fight. But the magnetic pull of Tom’s presence, the subtle thrumming of the ring, held him captive.

“You can’t force me,” Harry whispered, his jaw clenched under Tom’s grip.

Tom chuckled, a short, sharp sound devoid of humour.

“Oh, Harry. I don’t need to force you. I merely need to show you the truth. To show you what you truly desire. And then, you will come to me willingly. You will beg me for it. For the power. For the immortality. For me.” His gaze dropped to Harry’s lips again, lingering, before his eyes locked with Harry’s, dark and intense. “And when that time comes, Harry, I will be waiting. With open arms. And a very sharp blade for those who stand in our way.”

Harry didn’t breathe. He didn’t dare. The world around them blurred, narrowed to the space between their mouths, to the heat building like a tremor beneath his skin.

Tom leaned in, close enough that Harry could feel the faintest brush of his breath. His hand slid to the nape of Harry’s neck, steady and warm.

The kiss was not harsh or demanding. It was slow—measured—like a secret being spoken in a language only they knew. His lips moved over Harry’s with a kind of tender inevitability, firm enough to steal Harry’s breath, soft enough to make him crave more.

A gentle pull, a sigh caught in Harry’s throat, and Tom paused just long enough to rest their foreheads together, his thumb stroking across Harry’s jaw.

“You feel it too,” Tom murmured, low and sure. “Don’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

He released Harry’s jaw, the sudden absence of his touch leaving Harry feeling strangely cold. Tom stepped back, a faint, triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

“Now, Harry,” Tom’s voice returned to its usual smooth, authoritative tone. “Let us explore the depths of this magnificent Chamber. There is so much more to uncover. So much more for you to learn. And so much more for us to become.” He gestured towards the colossal statue of Slytherin, its gaping maw a dark promise. “Lead the way. To our future.”

Harry, still reeling from the intensity of their exchange, found himself walking forward, drawn by an irresistible force. The ring on his finger pulsed, a constant, silent reminder of the dangerous game he was now playing. He was trapped, bound by curiosity, by fear, and by a dark, undeniable attraction to the boy who promised him the world, and threatened to destroy it all. The Chamber of Secrets, once a place of fear, now felt like a prelude to something far grander, and far more terrifying. And Harry, against his better judgment, felt a strange, thrilling anticipation for what came next. The air hummed with magic, ancient and potent, a melody of power and seduction that promised both glory and damnation. And Harry, with Tom Riddle at his side, was ready to dance to its tune.

Chapter Text

The air deep in the Chamber was colder than Harry remembered—thick, almost viscous, as if each breath had to be pulled through layers of centuries-old dust and magic. Their footsteps echoed, swallowed quickly by the vastness of the stone halls. The looming statue of Salazar Slytherin stood sentinel behind them, its open mouth gaping into shadow.

Tom moved with unhurried purpose, his wand casting a pale light that painted his features in sharp relief. He didn’t look around in awe—he owned the space with his gaze, as though it were merely another room in his private domain.

“You’ve been here before,” Tom said suddenly, his tone casual, but Harry caught the undercurrent—accusation wrapped in observation. “And yet… you barely scratched the surface.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes darted to the cracks in the stone where shadows pooled thicker, darker. Something moved there—a faint, almost imperceptible ripple of motion. He knew better than to dismiss it.

Tom’s gaze flicked to the same shadow, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “She’s here,” he murmured. “Watching. Judging. She remembers you.”

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. “I’m sure she does.”

A low, echoing hiss curled out from the darkness—words, not sound, if you knew how to hear them. Traitor. The syllables slithered against Harry’s skin. Wasted gift.

Tom’s light barely reached the edges of the corridor, the shadows seeming to swallow it greedily. Every few steps, Harry’s boot crunched on something brittle—fragments of bone, pale and clean. Not all of them looked animal.

“You never told me she hated you,” Tom said conversationally, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Harry kept his eyes forward. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Oh, but it does.” Tom’s tone was threaded with amusement. “Creatures of her age… they don’t forget slights. Or weakness.”

Harry stopped walking. “I wasn’t weak.”

Tom’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable. “No. But you weren’t hers. That, to her, is worse.”

The hiss came again—closer this time. It rolled over Harry’s skin, a tactile thing, curling into his ears and under his collar. The sound was low, almost too low to make out, but his mind translated it instinctively: “ Little speaker. Pretender. I should have crushed you then.”

His pulse quickened, though he forced his voice steady as he answered in Parseltongue. “And yet here I stand.”

The corridor widened suddenly into a cavernous stretch of the Chamber Harry had never seen before. Massive roots dangled from the ceiling, slick with moisture, and the floor sloped down toward a shallow pool where faint ripples disturbed the surface.

Tom stepped past Harry and lifted his wand high, his voice slipping effortlessly into Parseltongue. “Come to me, guardian of the House of the Serpent. Show yourself to your master.”

For a moment, silence. Then, a sound like the shifting of mountains. The ripples spread, breaking against the edge of the pool as a shadow rose from the water—a shape impossibly large, scales catching the light in muted flashes of emerald and black.

Harry’s chest tightened. He could hear the weight of her movement in the wet slap of coils against stone, in the deep vibrations shivering through the floor. He knew better than to look toward her head, but the presence was overwhelming.

The Basilisk’s voice was a rasp of silk over steel. “Master? I know your blood. You are the Heir.”

Tom smiled faintly. “You know your place, then.”

Her tongue flicked audibly, tasting the air. “I know my duty. But the other one…” Her head shifted in Harry’s direction. Even without seeing her eyes, Harry could feel the weight of her attention like a blade to his throat. “…the traitor walks with you.”

“He is under my protection,” Tom said smoothly.

The hiss that followed was long, slow, and dripping with contempt. “He spat on Salazar’s gift. Warned the prey. Spared the unworthy. His tongue is poison.”

Harry’s hand curled into a fist. “Your master wanted you hidden, not unleashed to slaughter children.”

The cavern seemed to chill further at that. The Basilisk’s coils shifted, the sound grinding against the stone. “And yet you presume to speak of Salazar’s will? You, who bear no mark of his blood?”

Harry stepped forward before he could think better of it. “Blood doesn’t make a master. Choice does. Loyalty does. And you’re loyal to the wrong person.”

The hiss turned sharp, slicing the air. She moved suddenly, faster than her size should allow, her head sweeping low until the space between her and Harry was a single breath. Her inner eyelids were drawn, milky membranes shielding the lethal gaze, but her fangs gleamed wet in the dim light.

Tom didn’t intervene immediately. He stood a pace away, watching, measuring.

Finally, his voice cut through the tension, still calm but edged with command. “Enough. You will not harm him while he is mine.”

The Basilisk’s tongue flickered again, brushing the air in front of Harry’s cheek. “Yours?” she echoed, as though tasting the word. “For now.”

She withdrew slowly, coils unspooling with a noise like the earth sighing.

Tom’s gaze lingered on her, and Harry realized—he wasn’t simply cowing her. He was courting her loyalty, feeding her pride with the promise of purpose.

“There will come a time,” Tom said softly in Parseltongue, “when you will have your vengeance. And more prey than you can swallow.”

The Basilisk’s reply was a low, almost pleased rumble. “I will hold you to that, heir of Slytherin.”

Without another word, she sank back into the dark water, the ripples slowly fading until the surface was still again.

The silence that followed felt heavier than her presence. Harry realized his knuckles ached from gripping his wand so tightly.

Tom finally looked at him. “She doesn’t like you,” he observed, tone dry.

Harry gave him a flat look. “And you think that’s surprising?”

Tom’s smirk was faint but knowing. “Not at all. It makes things… interesting.”

---

They left the Basilisk’s cavern behind, the hush of the water giving way to the steady drip of unseen leaks in the rock. The air pressed close around them, stale and heavy, each step sinking them further into the Chamber’s hidden depths

Harry could still feel her. The Basilisk’s presence lingered like the echo of a nightmare — vast, coiled, patient. Somewhere behind them, she lay in the dark, eyes shuttered, waiting for the moment Tom called her again.

Tom walked ahead without pause, the pale glow of his wand spilling over the walls in pale arcs. The further they went, the more the carved serpents along the stone seemed to move in that flickering light, their bodies shifting subtly as if watching them pass.

The ring on Harry’s finger had been warm since they entered the Chamber, but here, in this narrow tunnel, the warmth grew into a steady thrum. It was like holding onto the handle of a broom in flight — that subtle vibration of power waiting to be directed. His skin prickled where metal met flesh, as though the band had rooted into him.

The tunnel opened abruptly into a high, vaulted chamber lined floor to ceiling with shelves and alcoves. Some were stacked with scrolls bound in cracked leather; others held carved stone tablets, their runes filled with gold that caught the wandlight. Glass jars sat on low pedestals, each containing something suspended in cloudy liquid — preserved eyes, coiled snake skeletons, talons.

“This isn’t in any Hogwarts blueprint,” Harry said quietly.

“It wouldn’t be,” Tom replied, voice reverent but sure. “This is the heart of the Chamber — the Archive of Scales. Salazar’s knowledge, hoarded and passed from heir to heir. Magic Dumbledore would burn rather than allow to be read.”

Harry’s gaze slid over a set of wands laid out on black velvet. The parchment tags at their hilts were curling with age, but the script was still sharp. Names. Dates. The weight of what they meant settled in his stomach.

“Trophies?” he asked.

Tom’s smirk was small but telling. “Proof of failure. They entered without permission. They stayed here forever.”

Harry turned away, drawn to a shelf where heavy books leaned against one another like conspirators. His fingertips skimmed the spine of one bound in scaled leather, and the ring pulsed sharply in answer. It wasn’t sudden — it had been humming since they arrived — but this was different. Stronger. Intentional.

He froze. The runes on the cover shifted before his eyes, curling into shapes he didn’t recognize yet somehow understood. Bindings of Flesh and Spirit.

The pulse spread from his hand up his arm, seeping into his chest. For a moment, the chamber seemed sharper — the green veins in the walls glowing brighter, the dust motes moving slower, as if waiting for him to act.

Tom had stopped watching the shelves. He was watching him .

“You feel it,” Tom said, not as a question but a quiet confirmation. “The ring answers when you touch what belongs to you.”

Harry frowned. “It doesn’t belong to me.”

Tom stepped closer, his voice dipping into something softer, more dangerous. “Not yet. But the Chamber knows its next master. The ring knows. You can pretend you don’t hear it calling — for now.”

Ignoring him, Harry moved deeper into the archive. A cold light flickered at the far end, illuminating a glass case set into the wall. Inside lay a dagger — silver and sharp, its blade etched with twin serpents whose eyes were set with tiny emeralds. The hilt was wrapped in black leather worn smooth by centuries of hands.

The ring’s warmth surged into heat, almost painfully, as though the metal recognized the weapon. Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t need to touch the glass to know what it would feel like — the weight, the balance. He could picture it sliding into his palm as if it had always been there.

“That was Salazar’s,” Tom murmured, appearing at his side. “Blood-oath blade. It was used to bind loyalty and cut it away. Every true heir has held it.”

Harry swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth. “And if I did?”

Tom’s eyes glinted in the dim green light. “You’d never let it go.”

The ring throbbed again, not like a heartbeat now but like a drum — a steady, insistent beat that seemed to align with the cadence of Tom’s voice.

From somewhere deep in the tunnels, a hiss echoed — long, low, and laced with curiosity rather than anger.

“She moves,” Tom said. “She’s wondering what we’re doing in her master’s library.”

Harry tore his gaze from the dagger and stepped back. “Then maybe we should keep moving.”

Tom didn’t argue. But as they left the archive, Harry glanced down at the ring — and for an instant, he could have sworn the emerald caught the green wall-light and swirled , as if something deep inside was shifting.

---

The corridor beyond the archive narrowed again, the shelves giving way to bare stone walls that gleamed faintly with damp. The green-veined mineral still glowed in places, casting just enough light to see the way forward.

Harry kept a measured distance behind Tom, watching the easy, confident way he moved — the slight sway of his robes, the tilt of his head as though every sound belonged to him. The ring still pulsed faintly on Harry’s hand, a muted echo of the heat it had felt near the dagger.

“You were staring,” Tom said suddenly, without turning.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. “At the dagger.”

Tom glanced back over his shoulder, a shadow of a smirk on his lips. “Of course.”

They walked on in silence for a few more steps, the air thick between them, until the passageway opened into another chamber — smaller than the archive but taller, the ceiling disappearing into shadow.

The moment they stepped inside, the green veins in the walls flared brighter, their light rippling like water. The temperature dropped, and Harry felt the shift in the air — the stillness before something moves.

Tom’s eyes swept the chamber, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Salazar’s trial wards,” he murmured.

“Trial?” Harry asked, already wary.

Tom didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer to Harry, his voice lowering as if they were the only two people in the world. “Stay close to me.”

“I can handle myself.”

Tom’s gaze dipped briefly to Harry’s mouth before returning to his eyes. “I don’t doubt it. But this isn’t about handling yourself — it’s about surviving together.”

Before Harry could respond, the stone floor rippled. Sections of it rose and twisted, shaping themselves into massive, serpentine constructs. They were made entirely of black stone, their eyes glowing with the same green light that bled from the walls.

The nearest one lunged, striking with impossible speed. Harry dove aside, his shoulder brushing Tom’s arm. A jolt shot through him at the contact — not from the impact, but from the way Tom’s hand caught his wrist mid-fall, steadying him with a grip that lingered half a heartbeat too long.

“Watch your left,” Tom said, almost lazily, even as his wand flicked and sent a jet of crimson light shattering the stone serpent’s head.

Harry rolled to his feet, firing a blasting curse at another that had coiled to strike. The spell hit harder than he expected — the crack of stone was deafening, shards flying like shrapnel. The ring burned hot on his finger, his magic sharper, quicker, as if the thought and execution were one seamless motion.

Tom noticed. Harry could feel his eyes on him even as they moved, their spells overlapping in a rhythm that felt almost choreographed.

“You’re faster,” Tom observed between strikes, his tone edged with something that wasn’t quite surprise. “Stronger.”

Harry gritted his teeth, deflecting a strike. “Not because of you.”

Tom stepped in behind him, so close that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. “No,” he murmured, his voice curling low, “but because of us .”

A serpent lunged from Harry’s blind side. Tom’s arm shot past him, their robes brushing, and a slicing curse severed the creature’s head inches from Harry’s shoulder. The rush of air between them was hot, and for one dizzying moment, Harry couldn’t tell if the heat was from magic or the nearness of Tom’s body.

The last construct collapsed into rubble, the echo of the fight fading into the chamber’s still air.

Harry stepped away, forcing space between them, though the ring’s pulse was still elevated. “You could’ve warned me about the trial before we walked into it.”

Tom smirked faintly. “I did. I told you to stay close.” His eyes lingered on Harry, not hiding the slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze. “You just never listen until you have to.”

Harry looked away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But the silence that followed felt heavier, charged, and far too aware.

Tom finally broke it. “Come. There’s one last place I want you to see.”

---

The trial chamber’s wreckage crunched under their boots as they moved on, the green glow fading behind them. The narrow corridor ahead curved downward, the air growing colder, wetter.

Somewhere far below, water was moving — not the still, stagnant kind from the Basilisk’s pool, but a slow, deliberate shifting.

Harry felt the change before he heard it.

A faint vibration in the soles of his boots. A prickle on the back of his neck.
The ring pulsed once, hard enough that his fingers twitched.

“She’s coming,” Harry said.

Tom didn’t slow. “Good. It saves me the trouble of calling her.”

They emerged into a wide, low-vaulted tunnel. The walls here were slick with condensation, glistening in the dim light. Massive gouges raked the stone — deep enough that Harry’s hand could vanish into them.

“She’s hunted here,” Harry murmured.

Tom glanced back at him with a hint of a smirk. “She owns it.”

The Basilisk’s head emerged first, massive and ridged, her inner eyelids drawn so her pale gaze didn’t kill outright. The air stank of old blood and something reptilian and sharp.

“You still breathe,” she hissed, each syllable a vibration in the floor. “I should fix that.”

Harry raised his wand, but Tom stepped forward, the shift in his tone immediate — deeper, smoother, commanding. “Enough. You will not touch him.”

Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air. “You defend him. Why?”

Tom’s smirk was faint but sure. “Because he is mine.”

The words landed before Harry could process them, and then she struck. Her head came forward with a speed that defied her size, the rush of air almost knocking Harry back. He twisted aside — but not fast enough. The edge of her snout clipped his ribs with bone-cracking force, throwing him sideways into the wall.

Pain exploded along his side. His breath left in a rush, and his wand nearly slipped from his fingers. The world narrowed to the pulse in his ribs and the cold dampness of the stone at his back.

Before he could push himself up, Tom was there, dropping to one knee beside him. His hand pressed hard against Harry’s side, pinning him in place. “Hold still,” he said — not a request, but a command. His eyes flicked down, assessing quickly. “Nothing broken. You’ll bruise.”

Harry tried to shove him off. “I can stand.”

Tom didn’t move. “You can barely breathe.”

The Basilisk hissed again, coils dragging over stone. “Weak.”

Tom’s head turned toward her, his tone darkening. “Strong enough to survive you.” He straightened, pulling Harry with him in one swift motion. His arm slid around Harry’s waist, steadying him — firm enough that Harry couldn’t quite tell if it was to help him walk or to keep him from pulling away.

The Basilisk reared back, her head brushing the ceiling, her coils blocking the tunnel behind them.

“You fit well together,” she hissed, voice dripping with contempt. “Perhaps you are both worthy of death.”

“Left,” Tom murmured, and they moved together, sidestepping another lunge. Harry’s wand came up automatically, the blasting curse ripping a chunk from the wall near her jaw. Dust and shards of rock filled the air, buying them a second’s space.

Tom’s own spell flared green, a chain of light snapping around her neck. She thrashed, the impact of her coils shuddering through the tunnel, but the chain held — barely. Tom’s grip on Harry tightened as she struck again, the force vibrating through both of them.

“Go!” Tom barked.

Harry didn’t argue. They ran, Tom’s arm still locked around him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cold air and the ache in Harry’s ribs. Behind them, the Basilisk’s voice followed — low, promising. “Next time, Speaker… I’ll taste your blood.”

They didn’t stop until the tunnel bent sharply, the sound of her pursuit fading. Tom released him only enough to keep him steady against the wall. His eyes lingered, sweeping over Harry like he was cataloguing every bruise.

Harry braced himself against the wall, catching his breath. The ring was still hot, the pulse in his hand strong enough to make it hard to tell where his heartbeat ended and its rhythm began.

Tom was watching him — not with the cool detachment he usually wore, but with an intensity that made Harry’s stomach tighten. “That,” Tom said softly,  “is why you stay close.”

Harry met his gaze, ignoring the pull in his chest. “You’re enjoying this.”

Tom’s smirk was slow, deliberate. “Of course.”

Harry looked away. “We barely escaped.”

Tom stepped closer, the space between them narrowing until Harry could feel the damp fabric of his robes brush his arm. “And you liked it.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Tom’s smirk deepened. “Come. We’re close to the heart now.”

---

The tunnel narrowed until it felt less like a corridor and more like the inside of a serpent’s throat — smooth, curved stone pressing in on either side, the air thick and cool. The faint green glow from the walls followed them down, growing brighter with each step until Harry realized it wasn’t the mineral veins anymore.

The light was coming from ahead.

They emerged into a vast, circular chamber. The ceiling arched impossibly high, disappearing into shadow, supported by massive stone pillars carved into spirals of intertwining serpents. In the center of the floor was a shallow, circular pool filled with perfectly still, black water. Its surface reflected the green light like polished glass, undisturbed even by their steps.

On the far side, an altar of dark stone rose from the floor. The carvings on its surface were precise and deliberate — coiled snakes, open jaws, and runes that seemed to shift if Harry stared too long.

He knew, instinctively, that this place was older than Hogwarts. Older, perhaps, than the castle’s very foundations.

“This,” Tom said, his voice echoing softly, “is where Salazar bound his oaths. Where he anointed his heirs. Where the line was kept pure — and power was made permanent.”

Harry stepped forward, drawn despite himself. The air was warmer here, tinged with something that felt alive — a pulse, faint but undeniable, thrumming in time with the ring on his finger. Each beat seemed to sink deeper into his chest, into his magic.

Tom watched him with an expression that was too knowing. “You feel it.”

Harry didn’t answer, but the way his gaze lingered on the pool gave him away.

Tom stepped closer, his voice dipping into something quieter, silkier. “This is the heart of the Chamber. It listens. It remembers. It can give… or take. All it requires is a choice.”

Harry turned to him. “What kind of choice?”

Tom didn’t look away. “Loyalty. Alliance. An oath between equals — sealed in blood, bound by magic older than the Ministry, older than Dumbledore’s pathetic morality.”

Harry’s chest felt tight, though not from fear. The ring’s pulse was faster now, urging something forward.

Tom stepped into his space, closing the distance until Harry could feel the heat radiating from him. “You’ve been here before,” Tom murmured, “but you’ve never touched its power. You’ve never let it touch you.”

Harry’s mouth was dry. “Maybe for a reason.”

“Or maybe,” Tom said, his eyes dark and intent, “because you were waiting for the right person to take you there.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Tom’s hand lifted, slow enough that Harry could have stepped back, but he didn’t. His fingers curled around Harry’s wrist, turning his hand palm-up. The emerald of the ring caught the green light, flaring brighter for a moment, as if in answer.

“You wear my mark already,” Tom said softly. “But here… we could make it permanent.”

The air felt warmer, thicker. Harry was aware of every point of contact — Tom’s fingers on his wrist, the faint brush of his robes against Harry’s, the heat between them. The ring’s hum was now a low, steady vibration, as if it were alive.

Tom guided his hand toward the pool, the black water so still it might have been obsidian. “One touch,” he said. “See what it shows you.”

Harry hesitated — but the ring pulsed sharply, like a heartbeat skipping in anticipation. His fingers broke the surface.

The water wasn’t cold. It was warm — warmer than the air, and when it closed over his skin, the world shifted.

He was standing in the same chamber, but the air was filled with torchlight and the hiss of voices speaking Parseltongue. A tall figure in green robes stood at the altar, a dagger in hand, blood dripping from its tip into the pool. The water flared bright green, runes igniting on the floor around them. Another figure knelt — not in submission, but in acceptance — and the robed man pressed the blade to their palm.

The vision dissolved, but the warmth lingered in Harry’s hand. Tom hadn’t moved. His grip on Harry’s wrist was steady, his thumb pressing lightly against the vein there.

“What did you see?” Tom asked.

Harry met his gaze, his voice low. “Power. And a choice.”

Tom’s smirk was faint, but the glint in his eyes was anything but casual.

“Exactly.”

He didn’t let go.

---

They lingered in the Ritual Chamber longer than they should have, the black water lying still again as if nothing had disturbed it.

Harry’s hand still tingled where it had broken the surface, and the warmth of the ring hadn’t faded — if anything, it had settled deeper, into bone and blood.

Tom finally released his wrist and stepped back. “It will call you again,” he said, voice certain. “And next time, you won’t resist.”

Harry didn’t answer. The vision still pulsed behind his eyes, the echo of that green-lit ritual threading through his thoughts.

They turned toward the tunnel, their footsteps muffled by the close air. Harry had gone no more than a dozen paces when the ground under his feet shifted — not subtly, but in a sharp, jarring lurch. The stone beneath them rippled, buckling like the skin of some great beast.

“Move!” Tom barked, grabbing Harry’s arm.

The floor split. Chunks of stone fell into sudden blackness, the sound of rushing water rising from below. From the widening gaps, streams of pale green light erupted — not the mineral veins, but something rawer, magical. The air thickened, charged with an almost electrical tang.

“Trap?” Harry shouted over the noise.

“Wards,” Tom said, his voice tight. “Salazar’s — to keep thieves from leaving with what isn’t theirs.”

A hiss echoed up from the chasm, deep and resonant. Not the Basilisk. Something older, less alive but no less dangerous. From the green-lit gaps, shapes began to rise — translucent, serpentine, their forms made of pure light and magic. They moved like water, but their eyes burned gold.

The first struck, its body whipping through the air like a living whip. Harry deflected it with a shield charm, but the impact sent him skidding backward — straight toward the broken floor. His heel caught the edge, and for a dizzying instant, there was nothing beneath him.

An arm clamped around his waist, yanking him hard against solid chest and pulling him back to the ledge. Harry’s breath caught — partly from the near fall, partly from the sudden heat of Tom’s body anchoring him.

“Careful,” Tom said, low in his ear. “I’d hate to lose you before I’ve finished with you.”

Harry twisted out of his grip, but only enough to turn and face the oncoming constructs. They moved in tandem without speaking — curses and hexes cutting through the serpents of light. Each time Harry cast, the ring’s heat surged, his magic sharper and heavier than usual. Tom noticed; Harry could feel his gaze even in the chaos.

One construct slipped past them, rearing back to strike. Harry pivoted — too slow. The golden jaws came down —

—and Tom was suddenly in front of him, wand slashing upward in a streak of green. The serpent dissolved in a shower of light, but the edge of its magic caught Tom across the cheek, leaving a faint, glowing mark that sizzled against his skin.

Harry didn’t think. He caught Tom’s arm, pulling him back before another strike could land. Their eyes locked, the charged air between them momentarily heavier than the battle.

“Don’t get in my way,” Tom said, but his voice was softer than the words deserved.

Harry almost smiled. “Could say the same to you.”

The last serpent exploded under their combined spellwork, fragments of light fading into the air like dying embers. The ground stilled, the cracks sealing over as if nothing had happened.

The silence afterward was jarring, broken only by the drip of water and their uneven breaths.

Tom stepped closer, brushing dust from Harry’s shoulder with the back of his fingers — the touch slow, deliberate. “You’re learning,” he murmured. “Quickly.”

Harry met his gaze. “Don’t expect me to thank you.”

Tom’s smirk was small, but the satisfaction in his eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t need thanks, Harry. I only need results.”

He turned toward the exit without another word, leaving Harry standing in the echoing chamber, the ring still pulsing warm against his skin — and the knowledge that whatever had just happened between them, in battle and otherwise, wasn’t finished.

Chapter Text

The air shifted as they left the Ritual Chamber.

It wasn’t just colder now — it had weight.

Heavy, damp, clinging to Harry’s skin like a film. Each breath felt drawn through something thick and unseen, as if the Chamber itself was testing who dared go deeper. The green-veined stone that had glowed faintly in the earlier tunnels thinned out here, replaced by walls of slick, almost black rock that caught no light.

Tom moved ahead without hesitation, boots silent despite the layer of water that began pooling over the floor. The pale glow of his wand reflected off the ripples, casting broken arcs of light against the walls. The water swirled around his ankles first… then his calves…

Harry glanced down, frowning as the chill seeped through his trousers. The water was murky, dark enough that he couldn’t see the floor, and every step stirred sluggish eddies. Something in it seemed to resist their movement, a faint drag against his boots.

“Keep your wand high,” Tom said over his shoulder, voice calm, matter-of-fact. “If you drop it here, you won’t find it again.”

Harry adjusted his grip on his wand, keeping the beam steady. “How deep does it get?”

Tom’s gaze slid back to him, faintly amused. “Deep enough.”

The water climbed to Harry’s knees, the cold gnawing through muscle until it felt lodged in bone. The ring on his finger gave a muted, warning pulse — one, then another — not panicked, but deliberate, like the tap of a fingernail against glass.

The corridor narrowed without warning, the walls closing in until their shoulders almost brushed the slick stone. The dark surface caught faint glints from Tom’s light, as though the rock itself was wet with some slow, constant seepage.

Tom slowed — just enough that Harry nearly walked into his back. He stopped in the center of the channel, his head tilting slightly as if listening.

“What now?” Harry asked.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice had dropped lower, quieter — and in Parseltongue. The words were a slow, sinuous spill of sound, coiling through the air with an almost tangible weight.

Harry understood every syllable — not just in meaning, but in the subtle pressure behind them. Wards. Passage. Mine. Safe.

The effect was disorienting. Parseltongue had always been sharp in Harry’s mouth, clipped, utilitarian. In Tom’s, it was fluid, warm in places, and edged in others, each hiss a deliberate brush against the mind.

“You could just tell me what they are,” Harry said, refusing to look at him.

“I could,” Tom agreed without turning. His voice was still low, still curling in that same cadence. “But then I wouldn’t have to speak like this.”

Harry gripped his wand tighter, focusing on the thin ripple of water ahead instead of the sound.

They moved on, and the channel abruptly deepened. The water surged to Harry’s thighs, the temperature dropping so sharply he sucked in a breath. The pull beneath his boots grew stronger, as though the Chamber was trying to draw him down.

A hand closed around his forearm — firm, steady, warm despite the cold.

“Step carefully,” Tom said, the light from his wand painting sharp planes across his cheek. “The floor drops away here.”

Harry’s first instinct was to twist free. “I can manage.”

Tom’s fingers didn’t loosen immediately. His gaze flicked briefly down at the water swirling between them, then back to Harry’s face. “Of course you can,” he said at last, and released him — but the echo of his grip lingered, a contrast to the numbing water.

They waded forward. The black water shifted temperature without warning — now and then a warm current brushed against Harry’s legs, like the brush of a hand under the surface. Each time it happened, the ring on his finger gave a small, answering thrum. Not urgent. Just… aware.

The second time his boot slipped against the unseen floor, Tom’s hand caught his elbow — not hard, just enough to steady him. But instead of letting go immediately, he guided Harry forward with a subtle pressure, their arms brushing at each step.

Harry told himself it was nothing — only practical. The water was deeper here, the drag less if he matched Tom’s pace exactly. But the measured pulse of the ring suggested otherwise.

The channel curved sharply, and ahead a pale shimmer appeared on the water’s surface. Not the steady beam of Tom’s wand, but something else — something that came from the darkness ahead.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “There’s something—”

“Yes,” Tom said before he could finish, almost absently. “The Vault.”

The shimmer grew, breaking over them in fragments — first a glint like glass, then the dim outline of stone steps rising out of the water. Steam curled faintly off the surface here, carrying a metallic tang.

Harry followed Tom up the steps, boots heavy, water dragging at his legs until he could finally feel solid stone underfoot again. The ring’s hum quieted, but the warmth in it didn’t fade — it sank deeper, into skin and blood.

The Vault’s entrance loomed above them — a narrow archway carved into the black stone. Serpents wound along its surface in such perfect detail that each scale seemed to ripple as though breathing. Their eyes glimmered faintly green in the half-light.

Harry’s gaze lingered a moment too long.

“Don’t stare back,” Tom said quietly.

Harry’s attention snapped to him. “Why?”

Tom’s smirk was slight, deliberate. “They’ll stare into you.”

---

The serpents above the archway seemed to shift as they stepped closer, their carved bodies tightening in a slow, predatory coil. For a moment, Harry thought it was a trick of the flickering wandlight — until one of them blinked.

It was not the quick, human blink of an eyelid, but the slow drop of a nictitating membrane, pale and cold as frost over glass. The eyes did not leave him.

Tom didn’t slow. “Keep moving.”

Harry followed, stepping under the arch. The air beyond was cooler still, almost dry compared to the damp weight of the channel, and his boots clicked softly against stone so smooth it felt polished.

Then the walls caught the light — and the world multiplied.

Mirrors.

Not perfect, gleaming silvered glass like those in the castle corridors, but dark, green-tinted panels that warped the light, bending it into strange shapes. Some reflected him and Tom exactly; others showed their silhouettes only, the features lost to shadow. A few didn’t show them at all.

Harry slowed, his gaze darting from one surface to the next. In one, his reflection stood still even as he moved. In another, he was gone entirely, replaced by the vague outline of something tall and robed, its face hidden.

“What is this?” Harry asked.

“The Chamber remembers,” Tom said simply. He didn’t glance at the mirrors — didn’t need to. “Every heir has walked through here. Every intruder. The mirrors decide what you see.”

“And if you don’t like what they show you?”

Tom’s mouth curved faintly. “Then you look away.”

Harry stopped in front of a mirror that threw his reflection back at him too sharply — eyes brighter, skin paler, the green of the veins in the walls spilling into his irises until they almost glowed. The ring on his finger gleamed in the reflection, its emerald lit from within.

Behind him — in the mirror, not in the real chamber — Tom stood closer than he actually was, his hand on Harry’s shoulder, his mouth angled near his ear as if speaking something only the reflection could hear.

Harry’s breath caught. He turned his head quickly — but Tom was still several paces away, watching him with that steady, unreadable look.

“Something you like?” Tom asked.

Harry looked back at the mirror. The image had shifted — now showing him alone, the space where Tom had been empty. “Something I don’t understand,” he said.

“Good,” Tom replied, and came closer, his reflection stretching long and lean across several panels at once. “The things you understand too quickly… you value less.”

Harry moved on, forcing his attention away from the shifting glass. But the mirrors seemed to draw him in regardless — each one giving a slightly different truth.

In some, Tom walked ahead; in others, behind. One showed them side by side, their hands brushing in a way that made Harry’s pulse spike.

The corridor narrowed again, mirrors leaning inward so sharply he had to turn his shoulders to pass. Here, the reflections were so close he could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the subtle shift of Tom’s expression as he followed.

When they reached the center of the hall, the floor changed. The polished stone gave way to something like black marble, inlaid with a spiral of gold that pulled the eye inward toward a single, larger mirror at the far end.

This one was different. Its surface was dark as still water, and Harry couldn’t see himself in it at all. Only Tom.

Not Tom as he was now — but older, sharper, dressed in robes finer than anything he’d worn here. He stood with one hand resting on the hilt of Salazar’s dagger, the other extended toward something out of frame.

Harry took a step closer — and the mirror rippled.

Now it was both of them. Not as they were standing, but closer, angled toward each other, the distance between them reduced to almost nothing. Harry’s hand was lifted, palm resting against Tom’s chest over his heart, and Tom’s fingers curled lightly around his wrist. The image felt… deliberate.

He realized too late that he’d leaned toward it, drawn by the detail — the faint parting of Tom’s lips as if he’d been speaking in that moment.

“Careful,” Tom murmured beside him, his voice close enough that Harry felt it at his temple. “Some mirrors here don’t just show. They invite.”

Harry turned his head, and found Tom closer than he’d thought — only inches away, the green light from the walls catching faintly in his eyes.

“And what happens if you accept the invitation?” Harry asked, his voice low.

Tom’s gaze dropped briefly to Harry’s mouth before lifting again. “Then the Chamber stops asking.”

The air between them felt warmer here, despite the cool, dry stillness of the hall. Harry stepped back first, breaking the line between them, though he could still feel the pull of the mirror at his back.

“Come,” Tom said at last, his voice smoothing back into something more neutral. “We’re almost through.”

They walked the last stretch in silence, the mirrors leaning closer until the corridor abruptly opened into shadow again. The final panel caught Harry’s attention as they passed — not because of what it showed, but because it showed nothing at all.

No reflection. No light. Just black.

He didn’t mention it.

---

The mirrors gave way to bare stone again, the sudden loss of their warped reflections making the corridor feel heavier, like they’d stepped into something older, more deliberate. The light from Tom’s wand bounced off damp patches in the walls, throwing small, sharp flashes across their path.

Harry trailed a step behind, not because he meant to, but because his eyes kept drifting upward to the carved serpents that ran along the curve of the ceiling. Their bodies twisted through the stone in endless coils, mouths open in silent hiss. The detail was so fine that the light almost made them look wet, as though they might slide loose from the rock at any moment.

The passage widened abruptly into a circular antechamber. Harry stopped on the threshold.

It was not like the archive, not like the trial hall — this was cleaner, emptier, and yet somehow felt more alive. Narrow channels were cut into the floor in an intricate spiral pattern, each one no wider than a wand. They ran from the chamber’s walls toward its center, intersecting at precise angles that reminded Harry uncomfortably of spell diagrams Hermione used to sketch out for him during study sessions.

But these weren’t empty.

Thin streams of liquid silver flowed through the channels, moving far too smoothly to be water. Even from the edge, Harry could smell it — not a sharp metallic tang like blood, but something subtler, laced with the scent of rain on stone and the faint sting of ozone before lightning.

The hair at the nape of his neck lifted.

“What is this?” he asked.

Tom, already stepping forward, didn’t look back. “The Lock.”

Harry frowned. “Doesn’t look like any lock I’ve seen.”

“That’s because it isn’t meant to keep doors closed,” Tom replied, his voice carrying easily across the chamber. “It keeps the unbound from leaving with what they haven’t earned.”

Harry’s eyes followed the spiral channels inward. At the center of the chamber stood a single, waist-high column of black stone, perfectly cylindrical, its surface polished to a mirror-like smoothness. A shallow depression was carved into its top — not deep enough to hold more than a few drops of liquid.

From the outer channels, the silver streams converged into four main lines that fed into the depression, pooling there before spilling out again, completing the endless loop.

Harry stepped inside, careful to keep his boots from touching the flowing silver. “And what exactly counts as ‘earned’?”

Tom’s mouth curved faintly. “The Vault decides.”

Harry caught the slight shift in his tone — not entirely mocking, but not entirely reverent either. As if Tom respected the Vault not because it was sacred, but because it had the power to recognize him.

When Harry’s boot sole touched the smooth stone floor, the ring on his finger flared hot enough to make him hiss under his breath. The heat wasn’t sharp, but deep, as if it had sunk into the metal itself and was bleeding outward into his skin.

Tom noticed. Of course he noticed. “It knows you’re here,” he said, moving to the far side of the column so they stood opposite one another. The silver light rippled faintly over his face, catching in the curve of his mouth.

“I didn’t take anything,” Harry said.

Tom’s gaze dipped — not to the ring, but to Harry’s eyes. “Not yet.”

The silver streams seemed to respond to the sound of his voice, their flow quickening. The liquid curved toward the column as if drawn by some invisible tide.

Harry glanced down at the depression in the top of the stone. “So… what? We drop something in there? Blood? A spell?”

“Blood works,” Tom said with a shrug. “So does magic. Intent. The Vault doesn’t care what form it takes, only that it’s shared.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Shared?”

Tom let the silence stretch just long enough to make the air feel heavier. “Between us.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the silver’s movement caught his attention. The streams were shifting, curling into tighter spirals as they fed into the center, and a faint hum was building underfoot — so low it was almost felt more than heard.

“The Vault is listening,” Tom said softly. “If we leave now, it will close again. And it won’t open for decades.”

Harry hesitated. “That sounds like you’ve been here before.”

Tom’s smirk sharpened. “I have.” He didn’t elaborate.

Harry’s stomach tightened — not from fear, but from the way the ring’s heat was matching the rhythm of his pulse. It was as if the Chamber itself was pressing on him, leaning in.

Tom extended his hand across the column, palm up. The movement was slow enough that Harry could read it as a choice, not a demand — though the quiet weight of expectation in Tom’s eyes said otherwise.

Harry looked at his hand for a long moment before placing his own over it. Tom’s fingers closed instantly, warm and sure, the grip more certain than it needed to be. A spark shot up Harry’s arm, sharp enough to make him draw in a quick breath.

The silver in the channels brightened, the glow spilling up over the lip of the stone depression. Threads of it rose, weightless, and coiled around their joined hands like living wire.

Harry stiffened instinctively, but Tom’s thumb brushed the inside of his wrist — a slow, deliberate pressure that anchored him in place. “Don’t pull away,” he said, voice pitched low.

Harry didn’t.

The silver threads tightened, their glow flaring as they traced the bones of his hand, curling over his knuckles before winding up his arm. Each place they touched warmed, not burning, but leaving a sensation that was hard to shake — as if something invisible had marked him.

The light crept over Tom’s hand too, the same patterns mirrored on his skin, until the two of them were bound together in a spiral of living silver.

The hum in the floor grew louder. Harry could feel it in his ribs, his chest, in the shallow space between them across the column.

When the last thread sank into their skin, the channels went still. The glow dimmed to a faint sheen, and the only sound left was their breathing.

Tom’s grip didn’t loosen immediately. His gaze stayed on Harry’s, steady, unblinking. “Now,” he said, his voice quieter but edged, “the Vault knows you.”

Harry drew his hand back slowly. The heat lingered in his skin, and for a moment it was difficult to tell whether it came from the silver’s magic or from Tom’s touch.

---

The Vault did not open like a door.

It breathed.

Harry felt it before he saw it — a slow exhale that stirred the hair on his arms, followed by a low rumble beneath the soles of his boots. The polished black column at the center of the lock sank soundlessly into the floor, revealing not stone but a round aperture rimmed with spirals of carved serpents. The silver streams bled into the carvings, their light tracing the coils in deliberate patterns until they met at the center.

Then the floor split.

The stone inside the aperture unwound in a perfect spiral, each section sliding back with the fluid grace of a puzzle box. A downward tunnel revealed itself — narrow, curved, and lit from below by a deep, slow pulse of green light.

“After you,” Tom said smoothly, gesturing toward it.

Harry raised a brow. “You first.”

For a moment, Tom’s smile was all teeth, but he didn’t argue. He descended without hesitation, boots ringing softly on the stone steps that curved out of sight.

Harry followed, his wand in his free hand, though the steps were lit enough by that strange green glow that he didn’t need it. The walls were close — close enough that his shoulder brushed the stone if he leaned even slightly. Carvings ran in unbroken spirals down the length of the tunnel, snakes interlacing with runes so old Harry wasn’t sure they were even legible anymore.

He caught up to Tom at the base of the spiral, where the tunnel narrowed further before opening into a space that made Harry pause.

The air here was warmer, thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic, like old coins left in water. The floor sloped down into a chamber no larger than the Gryffindor common room, its walls ribbed with arching supports carved to look like intertwined serpents. Between each arch, alcoves had been hollowed out of the stone — some filled with shelves, others with tall glass vessels sealed in wax.

But the real weight of the room came from the ceiling.

It was low — uncomfortably so — and in the center hung a single massive chain, its links wrought in the shape of coiled snakes, each link the size of Harry’s forearm. The chain descended into a square of polished stone in the floor, and when Harry stepped closer, he realized it wasn’t resting on the stone at all. It was sunk into it, vanishing into a pool of black water that reflected nothing.

Tom’s voice was quieter now, but no less certain. “The Vault’s heart.”

Harry kept his gaze on the pool. “What’s in it?”

“That depends who opens it.”

Before Harry could press him, the green glow from the walls flickered. A ripple shivered across the black water.

Tom’s eyes sharpened. “Stay close.”

The warning was just in time — the air in the chamber thickened suddenly, and the shadows in the alcoves shifted. Figures slid from the darkness — not solid, not quite spectral. Their forms shimmered like smoke in sunlight, twisting into shapes that suggested serpents without ever fully becoming them.

One hissed. The sound was low, dragging over Harry’s skin like cold fingers.

“They’re guardians,” Tom said, his wand sliding into his hand. “They test those who enter. Fail, and they bind you here until the Vault reclaims you.”

Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. “And what counts as failing?”

“Not surviving,” Tom said simply.

The nearest guardian lunged.

Harry stepped back, only to find his shoulders hit the cold curve of an alcove wall. The creature struck at the space where he’d been — its head dissolving into smoke before reforming again, closer. Harry’s blasting curse tore through it, scattering the smoky coils, but the fragments slithered back together unnervingly fast.

“Light, Harry,” Tom called over the hiss. “Not force.”

Harry switched without thinking — his next spell bursting in a white flare that tore the guardian apart more completely. The ring on his hand burned hot, magic rushing sharper and cleaner than it should have.

Another hiss — closer. He pivoted and found himself nearly chest-to-chest with Tom, the other boy’s wand arm raised just over Harry’s shoulder. A green lash of magic snapped past his ear, the heat of it almost searing his cheek.

“You’re in my space,” Harry said tightly, not moving.

Tom’s mouth curved, even as his eyes tracked another guardian. “You’re the one who’s in mine.”

They moved as one without speaking — ducking under each other’s arms, sidestepping in sync. Every brush of fabric, every moment their hands or shoulders caught lingered in Harry’s awareness far longer than it should have.

When the last guardian dissolved into nothing, the silence was abrupt. The green glow steadied, the pool of black water returning to stillness.

Tom didn’t step back. His wand lowered, but he stayed close enough that Harry could see the faint, deliberate sweep of his gaze down and back up again. “Better,” he said, as if grading him.

Harry exhaled through his nose. “You have a strange definition of ‘better.’”

Tom’s smile was small but deep in its satisfaction. “Effective.”

Harry finally moved past him, toward the chain. “And now?”

“Now,” Tom said, following, “we see what the Vault thinks of you.”

---

Up close, the chain was even stranger.

The serpent-shaped links weren’t decorative — each head had its mouth open in a frozen hiss, fangs bared, tongues flicking toward the next link as though trying to strike it. The metal was so dark it seemed to drink the light, but when Harry reached out, his fingers brushed something warm — almost alive — beneath the surface.

“It’s not iron,” he murmured.

“No,” Tom said. “It’s forged from Basilisk scale and bone, bound with Salazar’s blood. It doesn’t move for anyone but an Heir… or someone an Heir chooses.”

Harry let his hand fall back to his side. “Let me guess. That means you.”

Tom’s eyes glinted. “That means us.”

Before Harry could answer, Tom stepped past him, wrapping one hand around the lowest link of the chain. The moment his skin touched it, the carved heads shifted — only slightly, but enough to make the metal whisper against itself.

“Help me,” Tom said without looking at him.

Harry hesitated a fraction of a second too long, and Tom’s free hand shot out, catching Harry’s wrist and pulling him forward until they stood shoulder to shoulder. The movement was smooth, deliberate — not quite force, not quite invitation.

“Both hands,” Tom instructed.

Harry set his palms against the chain, feeling the warmth bleed instantly into his skin. The ring on his finger pulsed sharply, and the serpent heads tilted toward him as if scenting his magic.

The chain was heavy. Even with both of them pulling, it resisted like something half-asleep, reluctant to wake. Harry braced his boots against the polished stone and leaned back, the muscles in his arms straining. Tom moved with him in perfect counterbalance, their shoulders pressing together hard enough that Harry could feel the rise and fall of Tom’s breath through the fabric of their robes.

“Don’t fight it,” Tom said, low and close to his ear. “Let it take you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “That sounds like terrible advice.”

“It’s the only advice that works,” Tom murmured.

The chain shifted under their hands, links grinding against one another with a sound like stone on stone. A shiver ran through it, and suddenly the weight doubled, forcing Harry closer to Tom as they both adjusted their grip. Their fingers brushed, then slid against each other on the same link.

Neither of them moved away.

Heat from the chain bled into their skin, mixing with the warmth radiating from Tom’s body beside him. The space between them was gone — pressed out by necessity, by the Vault’s refusal to yield without both of them committed to it.

“Again,” Tom said, his voice pitched low but steady.

They pulled together. The chain rose an inch, then another, the links twisting as though alive. The carved serpent heads opened wider, their eyes — tiny chips of emerald — flaring to life with an inner glow that mirrored the green veins in the walls.

Harry felt the hum start in his palms, racing up his arms to his chest. The ring on his finger was almost too hot now, its pulse matching the chain’s rhythm.

“That’s it,” Tom said, and Harry couldn’t tell if he meant the chain or him.

One last pull, and the chain locked upright with a deep, resonant clang. The black water beneath it shuddered, rippling outward in perfect concentric circles. The emerald light flared once, twice, then split down the center.

The pool parted like a curtain, revealing a narrow stone bridge leading into utter darkness.

Harry let go of the chain slowly. The heat in his palms faded reluctantly, leaving behind a faint tingling that felt too much like the memory of Tom’s grip.

Tom stepped onto the bridge without hesitation. “Stay close,” he said again, glancing back over his shoulder. “The Vault has a long reach. If you fall in, it won’t let you go.”

Harry followed, the air growing cooler with each step. The water — if it was water — lay on either side of the bridge, still and black, reflecting nothing. His boots made almost no sound on the stone, the silence amplifying the echo of his own breathing… and Tom’s, just ahead.

The bridge ended in a low archway carved with more of those ancient runes, their lines too fluid to be entirely human. Tom ducked through, and Harry followed into a space so narrow the stone brushed his shoulders.

He had to turn slightly to move without scraping the walls. So did Tom — which meant for the next several yards, they were angled toward each other, close enough that Harry could feel the heat of Tom’s body and catch the faintest scent of something sharp and clean beneath the dust and stone.

“Comfortable?” Tom asked without turning his head.

Harry’s mouth twisted. “No.”

“Good,” Tom said softly, as though that were the answer he wanted.

The narrow passage curved, and then it opened suddenly into a small, perfectly circular room. The ceiling here was low, the air warmer again, and in the center stood a pedestal of dark stone. On it rested a shallow bowl filled with liquid silver, its surface so still it looked solid.

“This,” Tom said, stepping inside, “is the Vault’s memory.”

Harry hung back a moment, scanning the room. “Looks like another trap.”

“It is,” Tom said. “But not for us.”

He circled the pedestal, his fingers trailing lightly over its edge. The silver didn’t react until his hand hovered over it — then it swirled lazily, shapes rising and dissolving before Harry could make them out.

“Touch it,” Tom said, without looking at him.

Harry stayed where he was. “And if I don’t?”

Tom finally looked up, his gaze steady. “Then it will forget you. And you’ll never get back here.”

The ring pulsed sharply, almost impatient.

Harry stepped forward. Tom didn’t move aside — he simply shifted just enough to let Harry in, so they stood hip to hip at the pedestal. The bowl was barely wide enough for both of them to reach comfortably, and Tom didn’t bother pretending to give him space.

The heat of him was a steady, unavoidable presence at Harry’s side as he reached out and let his fingertips break the surface of the silver.

---

The silver wasn’t cold.

It welcomed his touch like warm breath over skin, wrapping around his fingers in a way that felt almost liquid muscle — yielding but deliberate. The surface broke without a ripple, swallowing his hand to the wrist before he could even think about pulling back.

The moment the silver closed over his skin, the room dissolved.

He stood in the same chamber — but it was not abandoned. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, their light guttering green instead of gold. The air was full of voices speaking Parseltongue, low and sinuous, threading together like strands of rope.

At the pedestal stood a man Harry recognized instantly from the faint, ghostly outlines of a hundred portraits: Salazar Slytherin.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair drawn back with a serpent-shaped clasp. His robes were the deep, wet green of moss in shadow, trimmed with black, and the silver at his belt was shaped like fangs. In his right hand, he held the dagger Harry had seen in the Archive — the one the ring had nearly burned for.

Before him knelt two figures. Not in subjugation, but in mirrored stillness — heads lifted, eyes locked on Salazar’s with a steadiness that made Harry’s chest tighten.

One of them was a woman with hair like black silk and eyes the same deep green as the torches. The other was a man younger than she was, his hair dark, his mouth set in a determined line. There was no fear in either of them.

Salazar spoke, and though Harry could only catch fragments, he understood enough. Loyalty. Bond. Choice.

The woman extended her hand first. Salazar drew the dagger lightly across her palm — not deep enough to wound, but enough for a bead of blood to form. He pressed her bleeding palm to the man’s, their fingers locking together.

The silver on the pedestal flared bright, flooding the chamber with green light. Runes ignited under their feet — the same shifting shapes that lined the archways in the Chamber proper.

When the light faded, they were still joined, but now the silver threads of a binding wound around their clasped hands, pulsing faintly in time with their heartbeats.

The vision blurred.

Harry’s breath caught — because the next moment, it wasn’t the woman and the man kneeling before Salazar.

It was him. And Tom.

The green fire lit them from within, carving out the lines of Tom’s face in a way that made it impossible to look away. Tom’s hand gripped his — warm, unyielding — the binding threads coiling tighter as Salazar’s voice wove through the chamber.

The heat of the silver was in his veins now, the ring on his finger a perfect echo of it. He felt Tom’s magic through their joined palms, sliding over his skin like something alive, something that could drown him if he let it.

Then the vision snapped.

The silver was gone. The torches were gone. He was back in the low, circular room, his fingers still submerged in the bowl. Tom stood beside him exactly as before — but his gaze was fixed on Harry with sharp, unreadable focus.

Harry pulled his hand free. Silver clung to his skin for an instant before sliding away, leaving it clean and dry.

“What did you see?” Tom asked.

Harry hesitated. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, too dangerous to give away whole. “A binding ritual.”

Tom’s lips curved slowly, but not in surprise. “And?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And you were there.”

Tom didn’t deny it. He didn’t even blink. “Then the Vault remembers correctly.”

The words landed with the weight of inevitability

---

The Vault did not like letting them go.

Harry knew it before either of them stepped back toward the narrow stone passage. The air had shifted — thicker now, the faint mineral tang sharpened with something acrid, like ozone after lightning. The silver in the bowl no longer lay still. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, as if it resented the withdrawal.

Tom noticed it too. “Move quickly,” he said, already stepping into the narrow throat of the tunnel.

Harry followed, his shoulders brushing stone on both sides. The close walls forced them into a half-turned stride, angled toward each other again. Their arms kept knocking together with every step, each jolt small but impossible to ignore.

The green light in the walls flickered.

A low rumble began beneath their feet, faint at first, then deepening into a shudder that traveled up through Harry’s boots into his bones.

“Tell me that’s not—”

“—the wards rearming,” Tom finished. “They know we’ve taken something.”

“We didn’t take anything,” Harry shot back.

Tom’s mouth curved in the half-light. “The Vault disagrees.”

The walls flexed. Not much — but enough for fine cracks to run down the mineral seams, spilling light bright enough to paint Tom’s face in quick, strobing flashes. The air vibrated.

Something was coming.

The first strike hit behind them, a sharp crack like stone shattering. Harry twisted, catching a glimpse of the black water outside the bridge churning violently, rising in spouts that reached the ceiling. Shapes twisted in those spouts — long, serpentine, each threaded with molten green light.

“Run,” Tom said.

They broke into a sprint, the narrow passage forcing their strides to sync whether they wanted them to or not. Harry’s arm brushed Tom’s with every step; their shoulders knocked hard when the walls curved tighter.

Halfway through, the floor dropped a handspan under Harry’s foot. He staggered — and Tom’s arm clamped instantly around his waist, hauling him forward without breaking stride. The heat of his grip burned through Harry’s robes, steadier than the stone under their boots.

The bridge reappeared ahead, stretching across the parted black pool. Only now the water wasn’t still — it boiled, roiling in time with the green-lit shapes that rose and fell within it.

The moment they set foot on the bridge, the first serpent of water and light surged upward. It didn’t strike head-on — it coiled up around the bridge like a living barrier, its coils tightening until the stone groaned beneath them.

Harry raised his wand. “Reduct—”

Tom’s hand shot out, forcing his wand down just as the serpent struck again, this time aiming low. The movement yanked Harry forward into Tom’s chest, their balance pitching together in a controlled fall. Tom’s voice was at his ear.

“Don’t blast the bridge.”

The serpent’s tail whipped across the narrow space, forcing them both to duck. The movement pressed Harry further into him — chest to chest now, Tom’s breath warm against his cheek even in the cold air.

“You have another plan?” Harry asked tightly.

“Yes.” Tom’s wand flicked in a tight arc. The green light in the serpent’s body flickered, dimmed — and with a low, wet hiss, it dissolved back into the water.

Another took its place almost instantly. This one came from the front, head rearing back, jaws opening wide enough to engulf the entire width of the bridge.

Tom shifted them sideways, his hand still locked at Harry’s waist to keep him from stepping into the boiling black below. “Your turn.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. His blasting curse hit the serpent’s jaw just as it snapped forward, the spell forcing the construct to dissolve in a spray of hot mist that burned against his cheek. Tom’s grip didn’t loosen until the last shred of its body slipped back into the pool.

They kept moving, step after careful step, their movements in perfect sync because any deviation would have sent one or both of them over the side. Every time a serpent rose, one of them took the shot — Harry fast, precise; Tom controlled, devastating.

By the time they reached the far archway, Harry’s robes clung to him with sweat and spray. Tom’s hair was damp, his cheek still marked faintly by the glowing line from the earlier fight.

They didn’t speak until they were through the arch and the sound of the churning pool faded.

Only then did Tom let go, his hand sliding away from Harry’s waist with deliberate slowness, as though testing whether Harry would move first.

Harry didn’t. Not right away.

Tom’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re getting better at keeping up.”

Harry’s pulse was still high, but he managed a steady tone. “Or you’re slowing down.”

Tom’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Try telling yourself that, if it helps.”

---

The silence in the tunnel didn’t last long.

They hadn’t even reached the carved serpents marking the approach to the main Chamber when the air thickened again — heavy, humid, charged with that reptilian musk that made the back of Harry’s throat tighten.

Tom didn’t slow. “She’s here.”

The sound came next — the slow drag of something massive over stone. A vibration in the soles of Harry’s boots. Then the shadow spilled into the arch ahead, impossibly large, and the Basilisk’s head emerged into the faint green glow.

Her inner lids were still drawn, but the ridged muscles around her jaws flexed as she hissed low in her throat. “You return from the heart.”

Tom stepped forward first, wand loose at his side, his voice slipping into Parseltongue with the ease of breath. “We do.”

Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them. “And yet… you live. Both of you.”

Her head lowered until she was level with them, the faint scrape of scales on stone filling the space. The movement pushed the air in a hot, slow wave over Harry’s face — carrying with it the scent of old blood and something metallic, like the tang of magic left too long in the dark.

“You should not,” she went on. “The heart does not give freely. It binds. It takes.” Her focus slid from Tom to Harry with deliberate slowness. “And you… little Speaker… reek of it.”

Harry kept his voice level. “Maybe it saw something worth keeping.”

A low hiss uncoiled from her, neither pleased nor dismissive — curious. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it marked you for what you are.” She circled to the side, the coils of her body sliding across the stone with a weight that made the air tremble. “Not his. Not mine. And yet… claimed by both.”

The phrasing landed with the sharpness of a blade.

Tom’s tone stayed smooth. “He walks under my protection.”

The Basilisk’s tongue flickered again, but this time her head angled so her fangs caught the green light — wet, gleaming. “Protection can be broken. Oaths can be turned.”

Her bulk shifted, cutting off the tunnel behind them entirely. The stone seemed smaller with her in it, every coil a wall, every breath she took a reminder of just how quickly she could crush the air from the space.

“You know his heart beats faster near you,” she said to Tom, though her gaze never left Harry. “You know the ring sings when he stands close.”

The pulse of heat from the ring on Harry’s finger was immediate, traitorous. He didn’t move, didn’t break her gaze. “You think pointing that out changes anything?”

“It changes everything,” she hissed. “Because it is not loyalty that ties you — it is hunger. Hunger can serve… but it can also devour.”

Her head swung between them like the pendulum of a clock, her voice winding low. “When it does, which one of you will strike first?”

The words seemed to sink into the stone itself, echoing in the silence that followed.

Tom broke it with a slow step forward, the space between his voice and hers as sharp as a drawn blade. “Neither. Because hunger, properly fed, only grows stronger.”

The Basilisk stilled. For a long moment, there was nothing but the faint drip of water somewhere beyond the arch. Then, with a sound like rock grinding against rock, she drew back — not far, but enough to clear the way forward.

Her tongue flickered once more, tasting the air between them. “Go, then. But know this, Speaker — I will watch. And I will know the moment the hunger turns on you.”

Her coils slid away into the dark, the sound fading until only the empty tunnel remained.

Harry exhaled slowly.

Tom glanced at him, the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “She likes you.”

Harry’s answering look was flat. “That’s what you took from that?”

The smirk deepened, slow and deliberate. “It’s exactly what I took from that.”

---

The climb back through the last of the carved tunnels felt longer than the descent.

The green glow faded with every step, replaced by the colder, flatter light of the upper Chamber — the light Harry remembered from before.

The massive statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed ahead, its mouth still open to the shadows. The air here was less heavy, but the scent of damp stone and something reptilian still lingered.

Tom didn’t go straight for the exit. He stopped at the base of the statue, turning to face Harry fully.

“You felt it,” he said. Not a question.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I felt a lot of things down there.”

“The heart,” Tom pressed, stepping closer. “The way it answered you. The way it wanted you.”

Harry met his gaze. “And?”

Tom’s eyes darkened in the low light. “And you wanted it back.”

The ring’s pulse surged at the words, heat spreading through Harry’s hand like it was betraying him. He didn’t move.

“You think you know what I want?”

“I don’t think,” Tom said, his voice dipping low, deliberate. “I know.”

He took another step, and the space between them all but vanished. The stone floor was cold underfoot, but the heat radiating off Tom was immediate, deliberate, pressing.

“You can fight it, if it makes you feel better,” Tom murmured. “But we both know what happens the next time you touch that water.”

Harry forced himself to hold his ground. “Maybe next time, you won’t be there to see it.”

Tom’s smirk was slow, dangerous. “Oh, Harry… I will always be there to see it.”

The words landed like a promise and a threat all at once.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer before stepping past, heading for the tunnel that led back to the castle.

Harry stayed where he was for a heartbeat, the weight of the Chamber still pressing against his skin, before following — the pulse of the ring still matching his own, as if it knew the conversation wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

The castle had been too quiet since the Chamber. 

Not the kind of quiet that soothed — this was the waiting kind, thick and watchful, as if the stones themselves were listening. Every sound Harry made seemed to echo too far: the scrape of a chair, the soft drag of a sleeve against parchment, the exhale he didn’t mean to hear.

He sat at the small desk in his quarters, the only light coming from the low fire across the room. The ring was warm again tonight — not hot like it had been in the Vault, but enough that the pulse of heat threaded steadily through his hand and up his forearm.

The Basilisk’s voice kept coming back to him.

It is not loyalty that ties you — it is hunger.

She hadn’t been wrong. The problem was, Harry didn’t know whose hunger she’d meant.

The scratch of quill against parchment faltered when the ring’s warmth spiked — sudden, sharp, like the feeling of someone stepping into the room before you’d seen them.

He looked toward the door.

A soft knock. Two beats, then one. Deliberate.

Harry didn’t answer.

The latch clicked anyway.

Tom stepped inside without hurry, closing the door behind him as if it were his own. The firelight caught in his hair, in the faint mark still high on his cheek from the Vault’s serpents, turning it into something half-shadow, half-glow.

“You’re awake,” he said, though it sounded more like I knew you would be.

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Not much of a secret.”

Tom’s eyes flicked to the desk, the half-written page, the way Harry’s hand still rested on the parchment. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Harry didn’t bother answering. The ring was throbbing now — slow, deliberate beats that seemed to match the pace of Tom’s steps as he crossed the room.

He didn’t stop at the desk. He kept coming until the edge of the desk was between them, his fingers resting lightly against the wood. His gaze lingered, not on Harry’s face, but on his hand — the one wearing the ring.

“It’s still warm,” Tom said. Not a question.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “It hasn’t exactly gone cold since the Chamber.”

Tom’s mouth curved faintly. “No. It wouldn’t.”

He leaned forward, one palm braced on the desk, the other trailing idly along the edge of the parchment. The heat of him was close enough to feel, even without contact.

“Tell me,” Tom murmured, eyes still on Harry’s hand, “when it beats like that… what do you think about?”

Harry didn’t move. “Why do you care?”

Tom’s gaze finally lifted to his, the look too direct, too intent. “Because it’s mine as much as it is yours.”

The ring pulsed hard enough to make Harry’s fingers twitch. He set the quill down before Tom could see it shake. “You think you own everything you touch?”

“No.” Tom’s voice dipped, almost soft. “Only what touches me back.”

The air between them felt warmer now, the kind of heat that made the fire seem secondary.

Tom’s eyes dropped briefly to Harry’s mouth before returning to his eyes. “And you’ve been thinking about it. About us.”

Harry felt his pulse kick hard — whether from the ring or himself, he couldn’t tell. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Tom leaned in just enough that Harry could feel the faint brush of his sleeve against his forearm. “Because every time I’m close, you don’t pull away until you have to.”

The truth of it sat heavy in the space between them.

Harry didn’t answer, and Tom didn’t push — not in words. He let the silence stretch until the only sound was the quiet thrum of the fire and the pulse of the ring, the two rhythms tangled together until Harry couldn’t tell them apart.

Then, just as suddenly, Tom straightened, stepping back with the same deliberate control he’d walked in with. “We’re not finished, Harry. Not with the Chamber. Not with this.”

He reached for the door. Paused. Looked over his shoulder with that half-smirk that always meant trouble. “Sleep, if you can. You’ll need it.”

The latch clicked shut behind him, and Harry sat there a long time before realizing the fire had burned low. The ring stayed warm long after the door had closed.

---

Harry told himself he wouldn’t think about it.

He’d gone to bed late, slept badly, and spent the next day in classes pretending his head wasn’t full of green-lit water and the way Tom had looked at him like he already knew the ending. By evening, the memory of last night’s conversation should have been faded.

It wasn’t.

The ring hadn’t cooled. If anything, the steady warmth had settled deeper — less a pulse now and more a constant undercurrent, like it was woven into the blood in his veins.

He told himself he was heading for the Restricted Section because he needed something. Something concrete. A book, a distraction, a reason not to think about the pool, the oath, the way Tom’s fingers had closed around his wrist like they’d belonged there.

The library was nearly empty at this hour. Madam Pince was at her desk, hunched over some restoration work, her eyes darting up every few minutes to scan the room like a hawk. The faint scratching of her quill was the only sound.

Harry slipped between the shelves, his steps slow, his ears tuned to the way the wood of the floor creaked in certain places. The smell here was familiar: dust, paper, the faint tang of candle smoke.

He’d just reached the second row of the Restricted Section when the ring’s warmth surged again — not a gradual build, but sharp, sudden, like a breath caught in his throat.

“You’re early.”

The voice came from between two high shelves, smooth and certain, with the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be raised above a whisper.

Harry turned, already knowing who it would be.

Tom stepped into view, a closed book in one hand, the other loose at his side. The torchlight caught in his hair and the faint mark high on his cheek from the Vault’s serpents, turning it into something half-shadow, half-glow.

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

“You weren’t.” Tom’s mouth curved faintly, the expression lazy in a way that somehow still carried intent. “But I knew you’d come.”

The aisle between them was narrow — two people could pass, but only just. Harry felt the constraint immediately: the high shelves pressing in on either side, the warm, airless quality of the space. The smell of parchment and ink was stronger here, mingling with something warmer that he tried not to place.

Tom didn’t move aside. He placed the book carefully on a nearby shelf, his fingers resting there a beat too long before he straightened.

“I’ve been thinking about last night,” Tom said.

Harry’s throat tightened before he could stop it. “Then you’ve been wasting your time.”

“On the contrary.” Tom took a slow step forward, his footfall nearly silent. “I’ve been wondering how far you’ll let this go before you admit you want it.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the spine of the book he’d taken. “And if I say I don’t?”

Tom’s smirk didn’t falter. “Then I’ll know you’re lying.”

Another step. The shelves didn’t move, but they might as well have closed in. Harry could smell him now — something dark, faintly spiced, like smoke that had sunk into fabric.

Tom braced one hand lightly against the shelf beside Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t touch, but the placement was deliberate, a wall made of posture and presence. The space between them narrowed to the point where Harry could hear the subtle shift of fabric when Tom adjusted his stance.

The ring pulsed once, twice — hard enough that Harry’s grip on the book loosened.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Tom said quietly, the words carrying a weight that didn’t need volume. “But you are afraid of what you’ll do if you stop pretending you are.”

Harry’s breath came slower, heavier. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

“I like being right.” Tom’s gaze dipped to Harry’s mouth — brief, deliberate, enough to feel like contact without the touch. When his eyes lifted again, they were darker. “And I am.”

The silence between them stretched, thick enough to touch. Somewhere, two aisles over, a book was set down with a muffled thud. Neither of them moved.

Harry shifted his weight back against the shelf, a subtle adjustment that didn’t create space so much as accept the lack of it. “Then maybe you should test that.”

The words were meant to sound like a challenge, but they felt like something else the second they were out.

Tom’s expression changed — not softened, exactly, but deepened. A flicker of something sharper, more intent.

He leaned in, slow enough that Harry could have stepped aside. The shelves at his back made that impossible without brushing directly into him. The warmth in the aisle turned heavy, the torchlight flickering over the angles of Tom’s face.

Not touching. Not yet. But the heat of him was close enough to feel.

“Not yet,” Tom murmured, and the faintest curl of breath brushed Harry’s cheek. “You’ll thank me when you’re ready to stop lying.”

Then he pushed off the shelf, the space between them widening in a way that felt sudden, jarring.

Harry’s fingers curled into fists to keep them from trembling. “You always leave before you lose.”

Tom’s smirk was low, certain. “That’s because I never do.”

He turned and walked out of the aisle, his steps measured, leaving the faint trace of his scent and the sharper memory of his nearness behind. The ring’s heat stayed, steady and undeniable, long after he’d gone

---

The door wasn’t on any map.

Harry knew because he’d checked — not that Tom would have needed confirmation. Still, when Tom led him down a side corridor behind a tapestry he’d never bothered to notice before, Harry had the sense this place wasn’t merely hidden. It was kept.

The corridor narrowed until it ended in a wall of smooth black stone, seamless and unmarked. Tom didn’t speak — he simply pressed his palm to the surface. A ripple passed through the stone, faint and almost soundless, before the wall split into a narrow, arched doorway.

Beyond it, the air shifted.

The room was no larger than a classroom, but the high shelves and crowded furniture made it feel smaller — like stepping into a place that had been sealed for decades and yet somehow still breathed. Dust floated in the air, catching in the dim candlelight from wall sconces that burned with green-tinged flames.

A long desk sat against the far wall, its surface littered with parchment rolls, sealed jars, and the glint of metal tools whose uses Harry didn’t want to guess at. Shelves sagged under the weight of books, some so ancient the spines had gone soft. Between them stood glass cases holding preserved creatures, stones etched with runes, and artifacts that pulsed faintly in the candlelight.

Harry’s eyes caught on one such artifact — a silver chain coiled neatly in a shallow bowl, its links engraved with serpent shapes so small they seemed to writhe if he looked too long. The ring on his finger pulsed once, sharper than before.

“This isn’t a classroom,” Harry said.

Tom’s mouth curved faintly as he shut the door. “It’s not meant to be.”

He crossed the room with unhurried steps, his fingertips trailing lightly along the edge of the desk. “We’re here because the usual spaces are… inadequate. Too public. Too many eyes.” He stopped at the far end, turning toward Harry with the kind of attention that felt like a hand closing around the back of his neck. “I need to see how you really move when you aren’t holding back.”

Harry leaned against the edge of a shelf, arms folded. “And you couldn’t do that in the dueling hall?”

“I could,” Tom said, his tone making it clear he found the idea beneath him. “But there’s a difference between performance and truth.” His eyes flicked down and back up again, deliberately slow. “Here, you can’t hide behind an audience.”

The air between them was thick enough that Harry was acutely aware of every sound — the faint crackle of candle flames, the whisper of cloth when Tom shifted his weight.

Tom drew his wand and nodded toward the center of the room, where a strip of floor lay clear between two rows of high shelves. “There’s enough space here for what I have in mind. Stand there.”

Harry didn’t move. “And if I don’t?”

Tom’s smirk was slight but certain. “You will.”

Harry told himself he stepped forward because it was easier than arguing — not because there was something about the way Tom’s voice coiled in the air, leaving no space for refusal.

The floor here was smooth stone, worn in the center from use long before their time. Tom circled him once, slow and assessing, the way one might walk around a creature to see how it would react.

“You rely on instinct,” Tom said finally, stopping at Harry’s back. “It keeps you alive, but it makes you… messy. We’re going to fix that.”

Before Harry could turn, Tom stepped closer — so close Harry felt the heat at his back, the faint brush of fabric against his arm. Tom’s hand came to rest just below his elbow, adjusting the angle of Harry’s wand arm.

“Too high,” Tom murmured, his breath brushing the curve of Harry’s ear. “It leaves you open.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I’m not—”

“Don’t talk,” Tom interrupted softly, his fingers tightening for a fraction of a second before easing. “Listen. Feel.”

The instruction wasn’t about the wand. Harry knew it, and Tom knew he knew it.

Tom stepped back — not far, just enough to draw his wand and cast without brushing against him. A streak of light shot toward Harry, quick and precise. Harry blocked it without thought, the shield flaring gold between them.

“Good,” Tom said, and the word was approval and something else. “Again.”

The next spell came faster. Harry dodged rather than blocked, his shoulder grazing the edge of a shelf. Tom followed it with another, and another, until the narrow strip of floor felt smaller, the space around them shrinking with each exchange.

Harry’s breathing quickened, but not from effort alone. Tom’s movements were deliberate — each step in was close enough to disrupt Harry’s balance, each feint forcing him to pivot toward or away from him.

A blast of magic glanced off Harry’s shield, rattling the jars on a nearby shelf. One toppled, and Harry caught it on reflex — only for Tom to step in behind him, his hand braced against Harry’s hip to steady him.

“You react well under pressure,” Tom said, his voice low enough that the words seemed to vibrate against Harry’s back. “But you let yourself get distracted.”

Harry set the jar back on the shelf, ignoring the way Tom didn’t immediately move his hand. “Maybe it’s because someone keeps talking in my ear.”

“Then focus harder.” Tom’s thumb brushed — barely — against the line of Harry’s hip before he stepped away.

The duel resumed. Harry’s magic felt sharper here, each cast snapping into place almost before he’d thought it. But Tom didn’t give him time to appreciate it. The spells kept coming, faster, the angles less predictable.

One slipped past his shield entirely — not an attack, but a disarming charm that yanked his wand from his hand. It skidded across the floor toward the far wall.

Before Harry could move, Tom was there, closing the space between them in two quick strides. His wand pressed lightly under Harry’s chin, tilting it up.

“You’re quick,” Tom said, his gaze intent. “But I’m quicker.”

Harry met his eyes, refusing to step back. “You’re also arrogant.”

“And yet,” Tom murmured, “you haven’t moved.”

For a long moment, neither did. The only sound was the faint hum of whatever wards sealed the room from the rest of the castle.

Then Tom lowered his wand — not away, but down, the tip grazing lightly along Harry’s sternum before he stepped back and retrieved Harry’s wand with a flick of his wrist.

“Again,” he said, tossing it to him.

Harry caught it one-handed, the ring on his finger pulsing once in sharp approval.

This time when they moved, the rhythm was different — less duel, more dance. Their footwork kept them circling, closing, retreating only to close again. Tom’s eyes never left him, reading every shift of weight, every twitch of his wand hand.

When a final, blinding spell clashed between them and dissolved into harmless sparks, they were close enough that Harry could feel the heat of Tom’s breath again.

“You’re improving,” Tom said softly. “But we’re not finished.”

Harry swallowed, his grip on his wand tightening. “Then keep going.”

Tom’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I intend to.”

---

Tom didn’t step back.

Instead, he let the space between them breathe for half a second before moving, swift and deliberate. His wand flicked toward the shelves, and one of the preserved serpent skeletons in a glass case shuddered, its spine rattling like dry leaves. The glass dissolved into nothing, and the skeletal coils lifted, animated by green light.

It struck for Harry’s left side without warning. He turned to block — but there was no room to pivot without colliding into Tom’s chest.

“Move with it,” Tom said, his voice at Harry’s ear again. “Don’t fight the space — use it.”

Harry spun, the movement tight, Tom’s hand brushing his shoulder as if to guide it. The skeleton’s fangs snapped shut where Harry’s neck had been, missing by inches.

The thing coiled again, pressing them toward one of the narrower gaps between shelves. Tom didn’t slow. His presence behind Harry was constant, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

“You’re hesitating,” Tom murmured.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, cutting him off. “And here, hesitation kills.”

The skeleton lunged again. Harry ducked, felt the air shift as its tail swept across — only for Tom’s arm to hook briefly around his waist, pulling him flush against his side to avoid the strike.

The contact was warm, solid, and lingered just a second too long before Tom released him with a low, satisfied hum.

Harry’s pulse spiked. “You could’ve just shoved me.”

“I could have,” Tom said, casting a sharp spell that shattered part of the skeleton’s tail into bone dust. “But that wouldn’t have taught you how to keep your footing.”

The skeleton was relentless, its movement unpredictable now. Harry found himself pressed back into the end of a shelf, Tom stepping in on his right to deflect another strike. Their shoulders brushed, then their hips, until the heat radiating between them made the narrow space feel even smaller.

“Don’t watch me,” Tom said without looking at him. “Watch the enemy.”

Harry tore his gaze from the line of Tom’s jaw, forcing it back to the serpent’s glowing eye sockets. He deflected another bite, his wand arm brushing Tom’s as they moved in tandem.

The fight pushed them across the strip of open floor and back again, the skeleton finally collapsing into a heap under a combined spell that cracked its spine in three places. The green light in its skull guttered out, leaving the room in dim candle-glow again.

For a moment, Harry just breathed — sharp, uneven — and realized Tom was doing the same, though his eyes hadn’t left Harry’s face.

“Better,” Tom said at last, stepping close enough that their wands nearly touched between them. “But you’re still letting me control the rhythm.”

Harry’s mouth was dry. “Maybe that’s because you’re trying to.”

Tom’s smirk was deliberate. “Obviously.”

He moved past Harry, and Harry turned — only to feel the edge of the desk press against the backs of his thighs. Tom had angled them there without him noticing, his own body blocking the way forward.

“Again,” Tom said, and his wand traced a subtle pattern in the air.

On the shelf to their left, a silver chain — the one Harry had noticed earlier — lifted from its bowl. It slithered toward them, links clinking softly, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of something alive.

Harry’s instincts told him to sidestep. Tom didn’t move.

“Defend yourself,” Tom murmured. “But don’t break it.”

The chain darted. Harry brought his wand up, but Tom’s hand caught his wrist mid-motion, guiding it in a tight arc that redirected the attack rather than blocking it outright. The chain recoiled, then came again, faster.

Tom didn’t release him. His grip was firm, steady, the angle of his body pressing Harry subtly back against the desk. “Feel its movement,” Tom said, his voice low. “Anticipate, don’t react.”

Harry’s arm moved — half his own intent, half Tom’s direction — and the spell they cast together turned the chain’s strike aside again.

The magic vibrated up Harry’s arm, but so did the warmth of Tom’s palm against his skin. The closeness was too much and not enough all at once.

The chain stilled at last, dropping harmlessly to the floor. Tom didn’t immediately let go.

“You’re learning,” he said quietly.

Harry swallowed hard. “Or you just like having an excuse to hold my hand.”

Tom’s eyes glinted in the low light. “Who says I need an excuse?”

The words landed heavy, and for a beat, neither of them moved. The air was warmer now, the scent of old parchment and candle wax mixing with something sharper — adrenaline, maybe, or something closer.

Then Tom stepped back, just enough to break the contact, but not enough to feel like he was actually giving Harry space.

“We’re not done,” he said, his tone almost casual. “But that’s enough for tonight.”

Harry’s pulse was still uneven. “And tomorrow?”

Tom’s smirk deepened. “Tomorrow, I take the lead.”

---

The Archive door groaned shut behind them, sealing with a low, final note of stone on stone. The candlelight of the hidden room faded into the faint green vein-light of the tunnel, painting the air in a cold, underwater hue.

They didn’t speak at first. Harry’s breathing had steadied, but not enough to erase the pulse in his throat. Tom moved just ahead, the measured swing of his cloak brushing Harry’s arm every few steps — deliberate or not, Harry couldn’t tell.

The silence stretched until it was taut.

“You’re still watching me,” Tom said without looking back.

Harry huffed, more to break the tension than in real denial. “You’re in front of me.”

“Mm.” Tom’s voice was mild, but it carried an undercurrent Harry recognized — the one he used right before turning a conversation into a trap. “I could walk behind you, if you’d prefer.”

Harry kept his gaze on the tunnel. “I’m fine where you are.”

Tom slowed until they were side by side. “Are you?”

The narrowing walls forced them closer — shoulder to shoulder, then arm to arm. The heat of Tom’s presence bled through the sleeve of Harry’s jumper.

“Your magic was stronger in there,” Tom said. “Sharper. Faster.” His eyes flicked down briefly, catching on Harry’s hand where the ring still burned faintly warm. “Do you know why?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Because you wouldn’t give me room to breathe.”

Tom smiled — a small, knowing thing. “And yet, you didn’t want me to.”

Harry opened his mouth to deny it, but Tom shifted, stepping in front of him so abruptly that Harry had to halt to avoid colliding into him. The tunnel was too narrow to go around; the only option was to stop or press closer.

Tom didn’t move aside.

Instead, he reached up and — without asking — brushed something from Harry’s shoulder. The touch was feather-light at first, fingers skimming cloth… then lingering longer than the excuse required.

“Dust,” Tom said. His tone was neutral, but his eyes weren’t. “Or maybe ash. I didn’t notice it before.”

Harry stood still, acutely aware of how the space seemed smaller, the walls tighter. “You could’ve just said so.”

“I could have,” Tom agreed. His hand dropped, grazing Harry’s arm as he stepped past — but his voice stayed low, near Harry’s ear. “But I prefer to show.”

They resumed walking, but the air was heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

The path dipped slightly, the floor slick with moisture. Harry’s boot slipped — not much, but enough that Tom’s hand shot out, fingers catching the waistband of Harry’s trousers to steady him. The grip was firm, almost proprietary.

Harry twisted away, heat rising to his face. “You could’ve just grabbed my arm.”

Tom’s mouth curved. “That wouldn’t have been as effective.”

Harry glared. “Or as invasive.”

Tom’s gaze flicked over him — slow, deliberate, unapologetic. “You’ll find the two aren’t always separate.”

They turned a corner into an even narrower stretch. Here, the ceiling dipped low, and the green veins in the stone pulsed faintly, as though aware of their presence. Tom fell half a step behind, his voice coming low enough to curl at the base of Harry’s neck.

“You felt it,” Tom said. “In the Archive. In the ring. In yourself.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Tom leaned in just enough that his breath stirred Harry’s hair. “I could make you feel it again — without the fight.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “You’re assuming I’d want you to.”

Tom’s smile was audible. “I’m not assuming.”

For a moment, neither moved. The green light reflected in Tom’s eyes, making them seem deeper, darker. Harry broke the gaze first, stepping ahead into the widening tunnel.

But the pulse in the ring had synced to something faster now — and it wasn’t just his heartbeat.

---

The tunnel curved sharply, and the texture underfoot shifted — smoother stone, faintly slick as if worn by something far larger than human footsteps. Harry slowed instinctively, his eyes flicking down.

The green veins in the floor here weren’t static. They pulsed.

Tom noticed too, because he stopped without warning, raising a hand to keep Harry from passing him. “Careful.”

Harry frowned. “Why?”

“This stretch is reactive,” Tom said. His voice was quieter now, as though the tunnel itself might be listening. “It responds to magic. Sometimes… to intent.”

Harry lifted a brow. “Meaning?”

Tom’s gaze slid to him, deliberate and unhurried. “Meaning you don’t want to be caught lying to it.”

Before Harry could parse that, Tom stepped closer — close enough that their boots brushed. “Hold still,” he murmured.

“I can walk just fine—”

“Hold. Still.” This time the command carried weight, an edge of something that made Harry’s pulse jump before he could stop it.

Tom’s hand came up, palm hovering just over Harry’s chest — not touching, but close enough that Harry could feel the heat radiating through the space between. The green veins under their feet brightened, a faint hum rolling through the floor.

“You feel that?” Tom asked.

Harry kept his expression neutral. “It’s magic. Of course I feel it.”

Tom’s mouth curved slightly. “It’s more than that. It’s reading you.”

Harry snorted. “Reading me?”

“Mmh.” Tom’s hand moved closer, his fingertips brushing the fabric of Harry’s jumper now, grazing over the line of his sternum. “It knows when you’re afraid. When you’re angry.” His gaze dipped briefly to Harry’s mouth before rising again. “When you’re… distracted.”

Harry’s throat went dry. “Then stop distracting me.”

“Why would I do that?” Tom’s voice was almost lazy, but there was a dangerous intent beneath it.

The green light underfoot flared brighter still, rippling outward in thin streams. Harry wasn’t sure if it was reacting to the magic between them or the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Tom finally stepped back — but only by half a pace, enough to break the touch but not the tension. “Stay aware here,” he said, turning back toward the tunnel ahead. “The Chamber remembers what it reads.”

Harry fell into step behind him, refusing to look down at the floor again. But the pulse from the ring was matching the rhythm of those green veins now — and it was getting harder to tell which one was his own.

---

The hum in the floor deepened — low enough that Harry felt it more in his ribs than in his ears.

He was about to take a step forward when the light under his boot surged, veins of green twisting together into a single, brighter thread that coiled up from the stone like smoke. It stopped just above his ankle, pulsing faintly.

Harry froze. “That’s—”

“Don’t move,” Tom cut in, the warning immediate and sharp.

Harry glanced down. The coil of green light wasn’t burning, but it felt alive — aware in a way that made the hair on his arms rise. “It’s not letting me go.”

“No,” Tom said, already closing the distance between them. “Because you triggered it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said.

Tom’s smirk was faint, but it carried an edge. “Exactly. You’re in its space, and you haven’t decided what you want.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Tom stepped into the circle of light without hesitation. The coil at Harry’s ankle shifted, stretching toward him as if drawn. “It’s an intent ward. It binds hesitation.”

Harry stared at him. “So how do I make it let go?”

Tom’s gaze locked on his. “You stop hesitating.”

Before Harry could ask what that was supposed to mean, Tom’s hand caught his jaw, tilting it just enough to force eye contact. The movement wasn’t rough, but it left no room for retreat — his thumb resting against the sharp line beneath Harry’s ear, his fingers curled just enough to anchor him there.

“You have to choose,” Tom said quietly, the green light flaring higher around them. “Forward or back.”

Harry’s breath came faster, though he told himself it was the magic’s pressure, not Tom’s proximity. “And if I choose forward?”

Tom’s mouth curved, but there was nothing amused in his eyes now. “Then you keep walking. With me.”

The coil of light tightened briefly at Harry’s ankle, as if urging him. Tom didn’t move his hand, his gaze holding Harry’s like a weight.

It took more effort than he wanted to admit to say, “Fine. Forward.”

The green light snapped once — sharp, like a whip — then dissolved into the floor.

Tom released him slowly, his fingers trailing along his jaw before falling away. “See?” he murmured. “The Chamber knows when you’ve made up your mind.”

Harry didn’t reply. He stepped past Tom, willing his stride to stay steady even though his pulse was still matching the rhythm of the veins in the stone.

Behind him, Tom’s footsteps fell into place — unhurried, sure, as if he’d known all along which way Harry would choose.

---

The tunnel narrowed again, forcing Harry to angle his shoulders to pass between the smooth stone walls. The green veins here were thinner, but their light was sharper, almost glassy in its brightness.

Tom didn’t slow. If anything, he seemed to enjoy the way the passage constrained them — his robes brushing Harry’s arm whenever their steps fell into sync.

“Where does this lead?” Harry asked, partly to break the silence, partly to anchor himself in something other than the persistent hum of magic.

“You’ll see,” Tom said, his tone carrying that same faintly mocking promise he’d used before every reveal in the Chamber.

The tunnel dipped downward, the floor sloping until Harry felt the subtle drag of gravity urging him forward. The air shifted — warmer, heavier — and with it came a sound. Not dripping water, but something softer. Whispering.

It wasn’t in English. Not Parseltongue either. Just a low, almost human murmur threading through the walls.

Harry’s hand tightened on his wand. “What is that?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He glanced sideways, studying Harry’s expression before saying, “You’ll feel it before you understand it.”

The tunnel opened abruptly into a long, low chamber — not tall enough to stand upright in the center, but stretching far into the green-lit gloom. The ceiling was a woven mass of roots and carved stone, the two indistinguishable where magic had fused them together.

And hanging from the ceiling, scattered in irregular intervals, were strands of something translucent. At first Harry thought they were spider silk, but the closer he looked, the more they shimmered with a faint, liquid glow.

“Veil threads,” Tom said, stepping forward. “They react to touch. And to magic.”

Harry eyed the strands. They hung at just the right height to brush a person’s face, neck, or shoulders if they walked through upright. “And let me guess — they’re not here for decoration.”

Tom’s mouth curved faintly. “They test… compatibility.”

Harry turned toward him. “Compatibility?”

“You’ll see.”

Before Harry could argue, Tom moved into the threads, the nearest one sliding along his temple like a ghost of a touch. The strand pulsed faintly where it made contact, then dimmed again.

“It remembers me,” Tom said. “Now you.”

Harry stepped forward warily. The first thread brushed the back of his neck — and a jolt shot down his spine, sharp but not painful. His magic flared in answer, the ring heating suddenly against his skin.

The thread pulsed brighter where it touched him, and the nearest ones responded, their glow rippling outward in thin waves.

Tom’s eyes caught the light. “Interesting.”

Harry stepped sideways to avoid the next strand, but the movement brought him straight into Tom’s space — their chests almost brushing.

“You’re avoiding it,” Tom said, low enough that the words were meant only for Harry.

“I don’t like being tested,” Harry replied.

Tom’s smirk deepened. “Then stop acting like you’ll fail.”

He moved deliberately closer, closing the scant space between them so that Harry had to back up into another set of threads. The strands slid over his jaw, his shoulder, the back of his hand. Each touch brought another pulse of light — and another spike of heat from the ring.

Tom’s gaze didn’t leave his face. “It likes you.”

Harry’s voice was steadier than he expected. “That makes one of you.”

Tom’s laugh was soft but genuine — and entirely without retreat. “You think I don’t like you, Harry?”

Harry didn’t answer.

The next strand brushed both of them at once, curling over Tom’s sleeve and the edge of Harry’s shoulder. The pulse that followed wasn’t just light — it was a low hum that passed straight through the floor, vibrating in the air between them.

Tom’s hand came up, catching the thread gently and guiding it along Harry’s collarbone. The glow followed the movement like liquid fire.

“See?” Tom murmured. “Compatible.”

Harry forced himself not to step back — not to give Tom that satisfaction.

The threads thickened toward the center of the room, hanging lower, until there was no clear path except through them. Tom didn’t hesitate. He pushed forward, the strands sliding over his shoulders and hair like water. Harry followed, each step an exercise in not reacting to the electric warmth where the threads touched bare skin at his collar.

By the time they reached the far end, Harry’s pulse was hammering and the ring felt almost molten.

Tom glanced at him, eyes glinting in the shifting green light. “Next time,” he said, “you won’t try to dodge.”

Harry didn’t reply, but he didn’t look away either — not until Tom turned toward the next archway, the whispering fading behind them as the threads receded into shadow.

---

The archway opened onto a circular antechamber, smaller than the others, its walls curving upward into a smooth dome. The floor was seamless black stone, polished so perfectly that their reflections stared back at them, distorted by the green light spilling from above.

But it was the air that stopped Harry.

It pressed close — not thick like the deeper tunnels, but charged, almost buzzing against his skin. The ring responded instantly, the heat pulsing harder than before.

Tom stepped into the room without hesitation. “Stay close.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “You always say that.”

“This time,” Tom said, glancing over his shoulder, “I mean physically.”

Before Harry could question it, the wall behind him shimmered — and closed. Not with stone, but with a pale, translucent barrier that hummed faintly in the air.

“Great,” Harry muttered. “Locked in again.”

“Not locked,” Tom corrected, moving toward the far wall. “Measured.”

“Measured for what?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He stopped at the center of the room, looking up at the dome’s peak. The green veins above flared, and lines of faint gold began to trace themselves in a spiral on the floor, starting at the edges and winding inward toward their boots.

The hum in the air grew louder, until Harry could feel it vibrating in his chest. “What is this?”

“A proximity seal,” Tom said finally. “Two bodies enter. The magic reads them. If it decides they’re a threat to each other, the floor drops.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “So we’re supposed to pretend to like each other?”

Tom’s mouth curved in a way that was more dangerous than amused. “Not pretend.”

The golden spiral brightened. A second ring of light formed around them — narrow enough that Harry had to step closer just to keep from standing on it.

“That’s not close enough,” Tom said.

Harry hesitated.

The spiral pulsed once — and the floor at the edge of the room cracked open, showing a glimpse of dark, empty space below.

Harry swore under his breath and stepped forward until he was within arm’s reach. “Happy?”

Tom’s gaze dipped — not subtly — to the small space left between them. “It’s a start.”

The next pulse was stronger. The gold light surged upward in a faint wave that passed over their legs, hips, chests — and dimmed again.

“Closer,” Tom murmured.

“You’re enjoying this,” Harry said, but he stepped in anyway.

They were chest to chest now, the heat between them far more distracting than the glow on the floor. Tom didn’t touch him — not yet — but the weight of his presence was its own kind of contact.

The hum deepened. Another wave passed over them, brighter this time, and Harry felt it in his bones — not painful, but invasive, like the magic was searching for something inside him.

“It’s reading alignment,” Tom said quietly. “Your intent toward me. Mine toward you.”

Harry’s voice was low. “And if it doesn’t like the answer?”

Tom’s smirk was sharp. “We fall. Together.”

The spiral brightened again, faster now. The seal wanted more. Tom’s hand came up, settling lightly against Harry’s side — not enough to push, but enough to hold him there.

Harry’s pulse jumped. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes,” Tom said simply.

The magic reacted instantly, the gold flaring upward around them in a full circle, humming so loudly now it was almost sound. The ring on Harry’s finger burned hot in response, matching the rhythm.

“Almost through,” Tom murmured, leaning just slightly closer — enough that Harry caught the faintest trace of his breath, warm against his cheek. “Don’t flinch.”

“I’m not—”

The final pulse hit. The light engulfed them from floor to dome, and for a dizzying second Harry saw nothing but gold and green, felt nothing but heat — from the magic, from the ring, from Tom’s hand still firm at his side.

Then it was gone.

The spiral vanished, the hum dissipated, and the far wall melted away to reveal the next tunnel.

Tom didn’t step back immediately. His gaze held Harry’s for a moment longer than necessary before he finally released him.

“See?” he said softly. “Sometimes staying close is the only way forward.”

Harry brushed past him into the tunnel, ignoring the way his skin still felt electric where Tom’s hand had been.

---

The tunnel beyond the proximity seal was narrower, the walls curving inward until the green veins brushed their shoulders. The air felt different here — not damp and heavy like the lower chambers, but charged, almost metallic on the tongue.

Harry glanced sideways. “Where does this go?”

Tom didn’t look at him. “Somewhere I’ve never shown anyone.”

That earned a sharp look from Harry, but Tom didn’t elaborate. His pace didn’t slow, his robe hem brushing the stone as they descended in a slow spiral.

The light changed as they walked — greener at first, then shifting toward a faint, molten gold. Harry realized the veins themselves were fading, replaced by thin, inlaid lines of metal running through the walls like veins in marble. The glow came from them, not from any mineral.

When the tunnel opened, it was into a chamber unlike any other they’d seen.

It wasn’t massive. It was almost… intimate. Round, with walls polished smooth as glass, the metal inlay curving in patterns too intricate to follow. The floor was set with a mosaic of interlocking serpents, their eyes tiny emeralds that caught and fractured the golden light.

But the thing that drew Harry’s gaze was the pedestal at the center of the room.

It was low, carved from the same black stone as the altar in the Ritual Chamber, and on it rested a single object — a chain of twisted gold, its pendant a teardrop of dark glass shot through with a faint inner glow.

Harry took a step toward it without thinking. The air shifted at his movement — not dangerous, not hostile, but aware.

Tom’s voice was soft. “It’s called the Viper’s Eye.”

Harry stopped, glancing at him.

“A relic,” Tom went on, “given by Salazar himself to his favored speaker. It strengthens the bond between serpent and mage… and between mage and mage, when both can speak.”

Harry turned back toward it. The pendant seemed to watch him.

The moment he stepped onto the mosaic, something in the room stirred. Lines of gold along the walls brightened, rippling inward toward the pedestal. The pendant flared once — and the faintest whisper, too soft to be words, curled through Harry’s thoughts.

When he looked back at Tom, something in his expression had shifted. The usual composure was there, but under it… a sharpness. His gaze wasn’t on the relic now. It was on Harry.

“It’s responding to you,” Tom said, the words almost flat.

Harry frowned. “And that’s a problem?”

Tom stepped closer, his movement slow, deliberate. “It’s mine. Everything in this Chamber is mine. Yet it calls to you.”

Harry almost laughed. “Maybe it just likes me better.”

The temperature in Tom’s gaze dropped a degree, though his smirk didn’t falter. “Careful, Harry. I’d hate to remind it who brought you here.”

Before Harry could answer, the glow from the walls intensified, and a thin thread of light lifted the chain from the pedestal, holding it at chest height in front of him.

He hesitated.

“Go on,” Tom said — though the smooth tone didn’t quite hide the edge beneath. “It won’t hurt you.”

Harry reached for it. The instant his fingers brushed the chain, the magic surged — the metal warmed, the pendant’s glow deepened, and the light along the walls spiraled inward like a closing iris.

And then, without warning, the chain slid upward, coiling around his hand before settling against his throat.

The clasp sealed itself.

Harry froze. The pendant was heavy, resting just below his collarbone, its inner glow pulsing faintly in time with his heartbeat.

Tom was in front of him almost before he’d processed it, his gaze dropping to the chain — and staying there. His hand came up, fingers brushing the metal just under Harry’s jaw.

“Do you feel it?” Tom asked, voice low.

Harry’s throat was dry. “Yes.”

Tom’s fingers lingered on the chain a fraction too long before trailing to the pendant. “It’s bound to you now. That bond can’t be broken without consent.”

“Meaning?”

Tom’s gaze lifted, meeting Harry’s squarely. “Meaning it won’t answer to anyone else. Not even me.”

The words hung there, heavier than they should have been.

Tom didn’t move away. His hand stayed on the pendant, his thumb brushing the edge of the dark glass as if testing its warmth. “You’ve been in my Chamber, wearing my mark, with my protection,” he said quietly. “Now you’re wearing something that belongs only to you. That… doesn’t sit well with me.”

Harry almost smiled, despite the tension coiled tight in the air. “Jealous?”

Tom’s smirk deepened, but the heat in his gaze was darker now — not amusement, not entirely. “Possessive.”

The pendant pulsed once under Tom’s touch, and Harry felt it — a subtle shift in the air, a thread of magic binding the moment tighter.

Tom stepped even closer, close enough that Harry could feel the whisper of his breath against his cheek. “I’ll allow it,” he murmured, “but don’t forget who led you here.”

Only then did he step back, though his gaze lingered on the chain as they turned toward the tunnel.

---

They left the relic chamber, the glow of its walls fading behind them. The gold chain was warm against Harry’s skin, the pendant’s faint pulse impossible to ignore. Every so often, he caught Tom’s gaze flicking toward it — not often enough to be obvious, but enough that Harry knew the chain was still on his mind.

The tunnel narrowed sharply, forcing them closer together again. The air here was cooler, with a damp tang that told Harry they were nearing one of the lower water channels.

They rounded a bend — and stopped.

A figure stood at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow. At first, Harry thought it was stone. Then it moved, unfolding into something taller than either of them, its body slick and pale, eyes like molten gold.

It hissed — not with the weight of the Basilisk’s voice, but with a sharper, higher pitch. A guardian.

Tom’s hand lifted his wand, but before he could speak, the thing’s gaze fixed on Harry.

The Viper’s Eye burned hot against his chest.

It was almost instinct — the words in Parseltongue spilling from his mouth before he’d even formed them in his mind: Stand down. He is with me.

The guardian froze. The gold in its eyes dimmed, its body lowering until its head dipped toward him in acknowledgment.

Tom didn’t move, but the shift in the air between them was immediate — darker, heavier. Harry glanced over to find his expression unreadable, but his grip on his wand was tight.

The guardian slithered back into the shadows, leaving the tunnel clear.

Harry broke the silence first. “I think it recognized the Eye.”

“Yes,” Tom said, his voice even but laced with something sharp. “It recognized you before it recognized me.”

Harry arched a brow. “Still jealous?”

Tom’s gaze held his for a beat longer than necessary. “Still possessive.”

They walked on, the tension unbroken. Harry could feel it in the way Tom’s shoulder brushed his as they moved, in the way his gaze lingered when he thought Harry wasn’t looking.

When the tunnel finally opened into the familiar entry hall of the Chamber, Harry almost exhaled in relief — but Tom stepped in front of him, blocking the exit.

“Keep it,” Tom said, nodding toward the chain. “For now. But remember…” His eyes caught the faint gold glow from the pendant. “…anything in my Chamber, even if it answers to you, still belongs to me.”

Harry didn’t answer. The heat of the Viper’s Eye against his chest told him otherwise.

Tom smirked, stepping aside. “We’ll see how long it takes for you to prove me wrong.”

---

As they climbed the final steps toward the castle’s hidden corridors, the sound of the Chamber faded into silence. But the warmth of the Viper’s Eye didn’t fade — if anything, it seemed to hum louder in the absence of its birthplace, as if testing its reach.

Harry didn’t have to look to know Tom was still watching him, the weight of that gaze settling between his shoulder blades. The chain felt heavier under it, the pulse syncing stubbornly with his own.

Somewhere deep below, far beyond the stone and silence, the Chamber still breathed. And Harry knew — so did Tom — that the relic’s choice tonight had changed something neither of them could undo.

Chapter Text

The door to the secret corridor sealed itself behind them with a low grind of stone. The torches on the wall flared to life unbidden — flame responding to presence, not spellwork.

Harry exhaled. He didn’t remember holding his breath.

They didn’t speak. Tom hadn’t said a word since the moment Harry had picked up the chain.

Instead, he walked just behind him, the quiet scrape of his shoes on stone too precise to be casual. Intentional. As always.

The corridor narrowed near the Slytherin dorm entrance — one of the older, more concealed ones near the lower dungeons, only accessible to those who knew how to call it open with Parseltongue.

Harry whispered the word, and the door shifted. 

They stepped through into the low-lit corridor lined with arched serpent motifs. The usual sounds of student laughter and shifting portraits were absent. It was late. Past curfew. The air was cooler here, thick with old magic and the scent of stone and something faintly metallic — blood-iron and ink and dark wards laid centuries ago.

Tom finally spoke.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, low, nearly behind Harry’s ear.

Harry turned. “The ring?”

Tom’s eyes flicked down to the chain, then back up. “It’s more than that now.”

Harry’s fingers twitched near the pendant. He hadn’t let go of it since the Chamber. It wasn’t glowing, not visibly, but it throbbed faintly with each beat of his heart — or perhaps its own.

Tom stepped forward, slow but deliberate, until there were only inches between them.

“You opened the path,” Tom said, voice quiet but edged. “And the Eye chose you. It doesn’t choose lightly.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t trust his voice — not when Tom was this close, not when his presence pressed against something already tight in Harry’s chest.

Tom tilted his head. “You felt it.”

Harry nodded once. It wasn’t really a question.

Tom’s fingers lifted — not to touch, but to hover just beside Harry’s collarbone, over the place where the chain disappeared under his uniform. The heat between their bodies coiled there, electric, unspoken.

“It responded to your magic,” Tom murmured, eyes on Harry’s mouth now. “But also your will. It wouldn’t have bound itself unless it sensed something… unfinished.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not whole,” Tom said simply. “Not yet. It chose you because it saw what you could become.”

“And what is that?”

Tom’s mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Something the castle hasn’t seen in a very long time.”

The ring pulsed sharply at those words — not pain, but pressure, like a heartbeat echoing from bone.

Harry backed up a step, but Tom followed — easily, as if they were still dancing in that maze of serpentine stone far beneath their feet.

“You’re afraid,” Tom said. “You should be.”

“You’re not?” Harry asked.

Tom’s expression didn’t shift. “No. I’m curious.”

His gaze dropped again to the Viper’s Eye, and his voice dipped, darker now: “It bound itself through intent. Desire. You wanted something in that Chamber — badly enough for it to respond. I want to know what it was.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t sure.

Not really.

Was it power? Safety? A sense of control over the growing wrongness inside him? Or was it something less defensible — the weight of Tom’s voice behind him, the shared breath in the ritual, the feeling of being seen completely, and not turned away?

The silence stretched between them, thick and watchful.

Finally, Tom exhaled through his nose — not quite disappointed, but assessing. Calculating.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Eventually. The Eye won’t let you forget.”

And then, softer, like a challenge laced in silk: “And neither will I.”

Harry swallowed, pulse racing.

He turned away — not from fear, but necessity. He could feel the tension coiling tighter with each breath. Every word Tom spoke echoed like a pull beneath his skin, a magnetic hum that made his wand hand twitch, his throat dry.

“You’re not coming into the dorms?” he asked, voice stiff.

Tom smiled then — a slow, knowing curve of his mouth.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight. I think you should sleep with it.”

Harry looked back over his shoulder.

“The Eye,” Tom added, far too late.

But the smirk didn’t vanish.

With a soft brush of robes, he stepped past Harry and into the shadows of the corridor, vanishing like smoke around a corner.

Harry stood still for a long moment.

Only when he was sure Tom was gone did he press a palm over the chain beneath his shirt.

It was still warm.

Still alive.

Still his.

That night, Harry didn’t sleep so much as fall.

Sleep had weight — this had gravity. Like being pulled down through a tunnel of breathless silence. No dreams led him here, no whispers or half-thoughts. Just the familiar burn of the Viper’s Eye warming against his chest, like a second heartbeat calling him inward.

And then: cold stone, and candlelight.

The world that met him was not his bed in the Slytherin dorms. It wasn’t the Chamber, either. But it felt adjacent to both — the air ancient and full of echoes, the walls carved with runes that slithered when he tried to read them.

He stood in the center of a great, circular room, the ceiling domed with glass that didn’t reflect starlight, but smoke. Moving smoke. Shifting shapes.

A whisper rustled against his thoughts — not words, exactly, but pressure. Urging him forward.

And there, at the far end of the chamber, was a mirror.

No frame, no support. Just glass, upright, and waiting.

Harry took a step, boots silent against the blackened stone. The closer he got, the warmer the ring became — until the skin beneath it tingled and burned, just shy of pain.

He stopped a foot from the surface.

The mirror showed him — but not exactly.

Not how he was.

This Harry was a touch taller. Older, sharper in the eyes. The green was more vivid, but colder — like forest fire behind ice. His robes were richer — Slytherin green with silver threading, his sleeves embossed with runes Harry didn’t recognize.

And on his chest, the Viper’s Eye gleamed, but its chain had changed. It looked fused to the skin, as if it had become part of him.

The mirror-Harry tilted his head, studying him. Not cruelly. But with something that made Harry’s gut tighten.

Knowledge.

Then the reflection moved — stepped forward, though the glass did not ripple.

And behind the reflection… another figure emerged.

Tall. Fluid in motion. Tom.

Older, again. Not the pale boy from the corridors above, but something more exacting. His presence in the mirror was not softer, but more refined. His robes darker, his eyes more knowing.

He stepped close behind the other Harry and lifted a hand to his shoulder. The contact was intimate. Possessive. His fingers curled, slow, around the mirrored Harry’s throat — not in threat, but claim.

The mirror-Harry closed his eyes. Let him.

Harry’s heart kicked like a trapped bird.

The ring throbbed again, but not in fear. In recognition.

The scene melted.

Now there was fire — gold and green and something blinding — and the ring burned like a brand as the chamber cracked apart, runes shrieking in a language he couldn’t speak.

He fell again.

He woke gasping.

The dorms were dark. The curtains drawn around his bed. The air stale with sleep and charmed silence. But the ring against his chest was boiling, pulsing so hard he could feel it in his ribs.

Harry sat up, wrenched the chain out from under his shirt.

It was glowing faintly, as if it had tasted something it liked.

He couldn’t breathe properly. The mirror burned behind his eyes. Tom’s fingers — his own expression in the glass —

It wasn’t just a vision.

It was a future. Or a warning.

Or both.

---

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. A few second-years played wizard chess in the corner, and a group of older girls whispered over tea near the hearth.

Harry descended the dorm steps slowly, hands jammed in his robe pockets, the chain still tucked out of sight — but every step he took made it clear something was off.

The whispers quieted when he passed. Heads turned, then looked away just as quickly.

He ignored it. Or tried to.

Only when he reached the far table — the one near the corner with the best view of the lake through the enchanted glass — did he realize someone else had been watching him the entire time.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against the bookshelf, book in hand, but not reading.

“Morning,” Harry said, trying for casual.

Blaise’s brow lifted a fraction. “You look like you’ve been hexed. Or kissed by a ghost.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You’re glowing.”

Harry froze. “What do you mean, glowing?”

Blaise tilted his head, stepping closer. “Not literally. It’s your magic. It feels… denser. Thicker. Like you’ve stepped through something.” He paused, gaze narrowing. “Did you?”

Harry’s fingers twitched at his side.

Draco lowered his voice. “I don’t mean physically. I mean magically. Your aura’s bleeding through your wards. And that usually only happens when someone makes a pact.”

Harry’s heart hammered.

Blaise didn’t push. He was too Slytherin for that. Just gave Harry a look that said I know what I saw, and returned to his book.

But others noticed too.

As he passed by, a first-year flinched — not from him, exactly, but the space around him.

Even the castle’s torches seemed to flicker differently in his presence.

By the time he left the common room to make his way toward the library, the realization was unavoidable:

Something had changed. Visibly. And not just to him.

The Eye wasn’t just warm now — it felt like it was feeding, in slow draws of energy he couldn’t track.

And worse: Tom hadn’t appeared all morning.

Which meant either he was watching from a distance.

Or waiting for Harry to come to him.

The sun filtered dimly through enchanted stormclouds the next morning, painting the castle corridors in a sullen grey. Outside, rain streaked like glass tears down the windows, but Harry barely noticed. His fingers twitched restlessly at his sides, and the Eye beneath his robes buzzed with something too sharp to be called warmth.

He was still too aware of the way the other students had glanced at him at breakfast — not with fear, but curiosity. Like they could feel something shifting, something old and dangerous uncoiling just beneath his skin.

Like the air before a storm.

And now, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, it felt as though something was waiting.

Professor Merrythought — tall, robed in sleek, shifting fabric like oil on water — circled the classroom slowly, her boots echoing against the flagstones. Today’s lesson was supposed to be focused on magical reflexes under pressure, something that usually involved mild hexes and a controlled dueling ring. But the moment she called Harry forward, something clenched in his ribs.

“Mr. Potter,” she said smoothly, her dark eyes pinning him with unsettling precision. “You’ll demonstrate the response charm to a targeted incantation.”

Harry nodded, stepping into the ring.

The Eye pulsed once, tight and cold.

Merrythought turned to the class. “This charm is used to redirect high-impact hexes. Wand up — defensive stance.”

Harry obeyed.

But even as he lifted his wand, the hum beneath his skin spiked, sharp and urgent. He felt his magic lean forward — not in cooperation, but in anticipation. Like something coiled. Like the ring was waking up.

“On three,” Merrythought said. “One—”

The hex came on two.

Harry’s wand jerked instinctively to meet it — but the spell didn’t just deflect. It exploded in the space between them.

A blast of green-white light knocked Merrythought back a full three feet.

The classroom erupted into chaos — parchment flying, desks shuddering, students yelling.

But all Harry could hear was the ring — humming wildly against his sternum like a living thing, drinking in the aftermath.

Merrythought stood slowly, one brow raised. Her robes were scorched at the sleeve.

“You didn’t cast a shield,” she said, low and calm, brushing ash from her collar. “You cast a surge. Or something cast it through you.”

Harry’s breath came in short bursts. The edges of his vision were still bleeding light.

“I didn’t mean—” he started.

“I believe you,” she said coolly. “But magic doesn’t care about intention when it’s riding someone like a current.”

The class stared. A few students had taken quiet steps back from where he stood in the center.

Merrythought’s gaze sharpened. “Class dismissed.”

Harry barely heard her. The warmth in his chest had shifted. Now it felt like a pull, not just a pulse.

And he knew exactly who could feel it too.

The library after hours had always been a sanctuary of sorts — vast, dark, and whisper-quiet — but tonight, it felt watched.

Harry slipped through the back stacks in near silence, the heavy scent of ancient parchment and lavender binding oils threading the air. His wand was tucked into his sleeve. He didn’t need it for light. The Eye was still faintly glowing beneath his shirt.

He found Tom waiting by the window alcove in the Restricted Section, shadowed by shelves of forbidden texts. He didn’t look up right away, but Harry knew he’d sensed him the moment he entered.

Tom’s voice, when it came, was soft and razor-sharp.

“So. You felt it.”

Harry stepped closer, every movement tight and wary. “Everyone felt it.”

Tom finally turned. The glow from the sconces lit his cheekbones like sculpture, but his eyes — too knowing, too calm — held something more dangerous than flame.

“They saw the aftermath,” Tom said. “Not the moment it bent to you.”

Harry’s fists clenched. “That wasn’t me. It used me. The ring—”

“The Eye,” Tom corrected, stepping into his space with casual gravity. “Is a relic of choice. It does not bond to weakness. You accepted it. It accepted you.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Then why does it feel like it’s not mine anymore?”

Tom’s gaze dipped briefly to where the chain disappeared beneath Harry’s collar. “Because it isn’t.”

That landed like a hex.

Tom moved closer, gaze locked to his. “Magic that old doesn’t belong to anyone. It remembers itself. And when it bonds — truly bonds — it takes. Slowly. Quietly. At first.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “And then?”

“Then,” Tom murmured, “it drains. Power is never given without a price. You’re feeding it, Harry. Every spell, every breath, every pulse of magic—until it knows you inside out.”

Harry stared at him, something tightening low in his gut. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” Tom corrected, and now there was something behind his words — not guilt, never guilt — but a sharp kind of fascination. “But I didn’t know it would take to you so… completely.”

Harry didn’t look away. “And if it takes too much?”

Tom’s lips curved. Not cruelly. But with something darker. “Then you’ll either master it—or you’ll break.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Heavy. Humming.

Harry’s breath shook as he stepped back. But Tom didn’t follow.

“I don’t want to become whatever that thing in the mirror was,” Harry said, voice low.

Tom studied him for a long, unreadable moment.

“You’re already becoming,” he said.

Then he turned and vanished into the stacks, leaving Harry in the dim light with the ring hot against his chest and the echo of a promise he didn’t remember making.

---

The castle slept in uneasy silence.

Even the portraits in the abandoned north wing—where Harry had crept after curfew—seemed too wary to speak. Shadows bled into the arched stonework, curving like ribs above him, each step echoing with the soft hush of his breath and the whisper of the chain beneath his robes.

He didn’t need light. The Viper’s Eye pulsed faintly at his chest, giving off a dull green shimmer that was less illumination and more... suggestion. The walls seemed to shape themselves for him, doors he’d never seen clicking open at a glance. Magic wasn’t cast so much as breathed now. Responded to.

Harry knelt in the centre of an unused classroom, door sealed, wards layered thick as iron. His palms pressed flat to the stone floor. He closed his eyes.

The ring sang.

Not in sound—but sensation. A tightening hum, somewhere between the chest and the gut, drawing his focus inward. His magic—once stuttering and adolescent—had become something sharper in the days since the Chamber. It came when he called now, not always with control, but with force.

The first spell was easy.

He summoned a flickering serpent of flame with a single breath, its tongue hissing as it slithered through the dust. A whisper of Parseltongue shaped its direction, and it obeyed without hesitation.

He smiled faintly.

He tried again—this time wordless.

A dark ripple curled from his fingertips, sparking against the wall. The room tilted strangely as it hit, a sound like cracking ice filling the space. His breath caught.

Too strong.

He tried again, slower this time, drawing on the ring with cautious intention. It answered—but not gently. Like a beast roused, it surged into him, flooding his limbs with power before sinking its teeth in.

His vision went white at the edges.

He stumbled, catching himself on trembling arms, chest heaving. Sweat gathered at his brow, cold despite the heat of the spell that had just scorched the floor. His hands felt scorched from the inside. His lungs ached.

The hum didn’t stop.

It echoed beneath his skin now—persistent, hungrier than before. The magic didn’t want to be set down. And it didn’t want to leave him whole.

He pressed his back to the wall and forced himself to breathe slowly, clutching his hands to his knees.

He was cold. But the ring was hot.

And somewhere, buried deep in his chest, a part of him whispered: It was worth it.

Tom was watching.

He didn’t announce himself, not at first. He’d stood in the doorway for at least ten minutes, arms folded, a single brow arched. The shadows had drawn over his robes like a second skin, but the intensity in his gaze was impossible to mistake.

"You’re pushing it too fast," he said softly, once Harry had half-recovered enough to look up.

Harry blinked. The room swam behind Tom’s silhouette, but that voice—controlled, cold, precise—cut through the static.

"You’re spying," Harry rasped.

"You’re reckless," Tom countered.

Silence stretched between them like wire.

Tom moved closer—slow, deliberate steps, as though approaching something volatile. And he was. His gaze flicked down to the chain around Harry’s neck, then back to his face.

"You feel it draining you, don’t you?" he asked, quieter now.

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The paleness in his skin, the trembling in his limbs, the glassy sheen over his irises—all told the story for him. The Viper’s Eye had taken root, but like any parasite, it demanded more than it gave. More than any fourteen-year-old should offer.

Tom crouched in front of him, too close.

His eyes searched Harry’s face like he was reading something written only in shadows.

"You’re not ready for what it wants. And if you break before it yields… then it’ll go dormant again. Until the next host.”

Harry flinched.

"So that’s all I am, then?" he whispered. "A host?"

Tom’s expression shifted—just barely. But it was enough. The faintest crease at his brow. A flicker of something hot behind his eyes.

"No," he said. "Not to me."

He reached out—slowly—and pressed two fingers to Harry’s collarbone, just above the ring. The heat radiating from it seemed to catch in his touch, his breath hitching for the first time.

"You’re not a vessel, Harry. You’re the key."

Harry swallowed.

"And if the key burns itself out?"

Tom’s fingers curled slightly, half in warning, half in... something else. Possession, maybe. Protection. The line between them had always blurred.

"Then I take it," Tom said simply.

The words hung heavy in the air.

"You’d take the ring?"

Tom’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No. I’d take what’s inside it. Transfer it. And carry it properly.”

"For me?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

There was a long pause.

Then: "Yes," Tom said, voice like silk over glass. "For you. Because I won't watch it kill you."

And underneath it: Because I won’t let it have you if I can’t.

That night, long after Tom left and Harry returned to Slytherin with limbs aching and magic humming like a fever beneath his skin, he stared at the ring on his finger and felt the truth settle into place.

It was changing him.

But not just him.

It was changing them.

And whatever they were becoming, it would not be undone

---

The dueling chamber beneath the Great Hall hadn’t been used in decades. But tonight, it breathed again — not with dust, but with anticipation.

Slytherin’s elite ringed the stone floor like coiled serpents, eyes glittering, cloaks drawn close against the damp. A private gathering. Unofficial, unsanctioned. Dangerous. Which made it all the more desirable.

Harry stood at the center, wand in hand, breath steady. Or trying to be.

Across from him stood Caelan Rosier — wiry, fast, wicked with his hexes. He smirked as he raised his wand. A Slytherin upperclassman, old money, cruel eyes. He'd volunteered first when the suggestion of a “friendly challenge” turned competitive. And everyone had expected Harry to decline.

Tom hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t needed to.

Harry had stepped forward on his own.

The ring burned faintly against his skin.

“A simple match,” someone announced — a sixth-year with a commanding voice and silver pin glinting at his collar. “No Unforgivables. No interference. First to drop their wand or be stunned.”

Easy enough. But the Eye pulsed harder in Harry’s palm like it wanted more.

Wands raised.

The duel began.

Caelan was quick — a flash of movement and a Bludgeoning Hex arced toward Harry’s ribs.

Harry dodged, not with practiced grace, but with a snap of instinct that felt deeper than reflex. Like something inside him moved first. He retaliated — a hex of his own, sharp and precise.

Caelan countered.

The rhythm built: red sparks, then gold, then green-tinged silver. The crowd’s murmurs faded beneath the roar in Harry’s blood. His body was moving faster than his thoughts could follow — fluid, relentless, almost detached.

And then—

A blast of violet light hit Harry square in the shoulder.

Pain bloomed. Not normal pain — something that caught, as if the spell had snagged not just flesh but magic. His knees nearly buckled.

But then the ring flared.

It swallowed the pain. Not healed — consumed.

And something else surfaced.

The next spell wasn’t one Harry knew.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t think it.

It happened.

A streak of black-green energy screamed from his wand and struck Caelan mid-cast. The boy flew backwards — flew — slammed into the opposite wall with a sickening crack.

Silence.

No one moved.

Caelan slumped to the floor, gasping for air, arm at an unnatural angle, his wand charred and sparking.

Harry stood frozen, wand still raised, breath torn from his lungs.

His vision blurred at the edges.

Then the pain hit — real pain this time, searing down his side like fire in his veins. He staggered. The room tilted. The ring burned against his skin, branding him from the inside.

Someone cried out.

Harry collapsed to one knee, trembling, sweat slicking his brow. His wand clattered to the stone.

His magic—once molten—was surging and then splintering. Like glass under pressure.

“Harry—” a voice snapped, sharp and low.

Tom.

He appeared beside him with no sound of steps. No rustle of cloak. Only pressure — a hand on Harry’s chest, another grabbing his wrist, pulling back the sleeve to find the skin beneath glowing faintly along the vein that fed into the ring.

“Clear the room,” Tom hissed to the others. “Now.”

No one questioned him.

Within moments the crowd was gone, some whispering, others stunned into silence.

Harry’s head lolled back, vision full of stars and flickering stone. His limbs twitched with residual magic — or maybe it was exhaustion. Or withdrawal.

Tom knelt beside him.

“Say something,” he ordered.

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came — only a sound, guttural, half-sob, half-growl. The pain was radiating now, not in any one place, but everywhere, like his body had become too small to hold what the ring was pouring through him.

“You’ve been drawing from it without pacing,” Tom murmured, almost to himself. “Burning fuel like you have no limit.”

“I didn’t—mean—” Harry managed, voice hoarse. “It just answered me—”

“Of course it did.” Tom’s eyes were black in the torchlight. “It answers what it wants. And right now, it wants more than you can give.”

He paused.

“And it’s taking it.”

Harry shuddered.

Tom exhaled tightly, a rare sound of frustration — or worry. Maybe both.

“You’re burning through your own core,” he said, softer now. “It’s eating you alive. If you keep feeding it this way, you’ll collapse. Or rupture.”

The room dimmed again.

Harry felt himself slipping, the edges of thought fraying.

But something in Tom's voice cut through the haze.

“This power isn’t meant for you alone,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to carry it without guidance.”

“Then take it,” Harry rasped. “If you want it so badly—just—take it—”

Tom stilled.

The air crackled with unsaid things.

“I will,” he said, after a moment. “Eventually. When I must.”

His hands, usually so cold, moved to cradle Harry’s jaw — too firm to be tender, too precise to be careless. “But not tonight. You’re not dying here.”

Harry’s lashes fluttered. “You’d miss me?”

Tom leaned in — not close enough to kiss, but closer than a lie. “I’d lose control.”

That landed heavier than any spell.

---

That night, Harry woke in a private room off the Slytherin dorms, a faint shimmer of warding charms humming around him. The ring no longer burned — but it didn’t rest either. It pulsed gently, like a predator watching from the dark.

And from across the room, Tom sat — not reading, not speaking, only watching.

Guarding.

Possessing.

Waiting.

Tom began keeping track of Harry’s sleep without ever writing it down.

He knew when Harry nodded off too early in the Slytherin common room, one hand curled loosely around a book and the other around nothing at all. He knew when Harry skipped breakfast, eyes shadowed, lips bitten raw from chewing them during the night. He knew when Harry drifted during lessons — not bored, but distant, like something inside him was unraveling thread by thread and he was too proud to ask for help.

No one else saw it.

Not clearly.

The others just murmured that Harry looked tired lately. That he was distracted. That he wasn’t as sharp in class, though his magic still hit like a curse carved from stone.

But Tom saw the truth.

Because Tom had felt it.

That night in the dueling chamber hadn’t left his thoughts — not the way Harry had collapsed, not the wild and ugly flare of power that had lashed out of him, not the look in his eyes when he said Then take it.

That had lingered longest of all.

The moment Harry had offered it — whether out of desperation or defiance — had sunk teeth into something primal in Tom.

Not because he wanted the power.

But because Harry didn’t understand the danger of giving it away.

Or worse — the danger of dying with it still inside him.

Tom didn’t let himself think too long about that possibility. He simply made himself useful. Subtle changes, hidden steps: a ward here, a spell slipped into the seams of Harry’s bedframe, a quietly charmed pendant tucked into the lining of his robe to steady magical flow.

Nothing Harry noticed.

Nothing Harry would suspect.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because Harry was still breaking.

Slowly. Quietly. Elegantly, like a candle that had been burning too hot and too fast. One day, Tom returned from the Restricted Section to find Harry slumped in the library, asleep over a text he hadn’t even opened, fingers still twitching faintly with the aftershock of spellwork he hadn’t finished.

And his skin was cold.

Tom crouched beside him, jaw tight.

He reached out — not to shake him, not to wake him.

To touch.

His fingers brushed Harry’s temple. Magic thrummed beneath — weak, barely responsive. The ring no longer shone when it pulsed. It only shuddered, like it ached.

“Foolish,” Tom muttered, not unkindly.

Harry stirred. A soft, broken noise.

Tom caught his wrist when he moved, feeling the thread of life in the pulse. Shallow. Flickering.

Like something siphoning him dry from within.

Tom swallowed.

Then leaned closer, so that his lips were almost at Harry’s ear.

“I won’t let it eat you,” he whispered. “I won’t let it end with you gone.”

The vow wasn't gentle.

It was a command.

---

In the following days, Harry didn’t realize how closely Tom was watching. Not just observing, but tracking. He could sense the shifting in Harry’s aura now — the moments when it spiked too high, then crashed. The pain that flickered in his movements when he thought no one noticed.

And beneath it all — that stubborn, Gryffindor-born refusal to stop using the power.

He was addicted to it. Maybe not consciously. But it had become a part of how he moved, how he breathed, how he fought.

Tom hated it.

Not because Harry was using it.

But because it wasn’t sustainable.

And if something happened to Harry—

Tom’s hand clenched around the edge of his desk.

He wouldn't let it happen.

That night, he carved a new sigil into the floor of the hidden study below the school — deep, ancient lines designed not to steal the magic, but to rehome it. The spell was brutal, precise, painful — but it was the only way.

He couldn’t kill the Eye. But he could convince it to choose again.

And he would make it choose him.

When the time came — and it would — Tom would take the burden.

Not out of mercy.

But because he couldn’t stand to watch Harry disappear.

Not him.

Not his.

---

The next night, he found Harry in the Astronomy Tower.

Alone, because of course he was. Wrapped in a robe too thin, eyes glassy with fever, magic rippling unsteadily around him like static before a storm.

Tom said nothing at first.

He simply walked forward, took off his own cloak, and draped it over Harry’s shoulders.

“You’re shaking,” Tom said softly, low and unimpressed.

Harry didn’t answer.

His eyes were locked on the stars, breath shallow.

Tom studied him. “You’ve used it again.”

A pause.

“Didn’t mean to,” Harry whispered. “It just… reacts.”

“Everything you’re feeling right now is because of that reaction.”

“I know.”

“And you still refuse to let me intervene?”

Harry looked at him finally — and that look was softer than Tom expected. Resigned. Quietly desperate.

“I don’t think I can stop,” Harry said.

It wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t proud.

It was truth.

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Then I will stop it for you.”

Harry blinked.

Tom stepped closer.

And this time, his voice was not sharp.

It was velvet and warning all at once.

“I’m not doing this for power,” he said. “I’ll take it because I have to. Because it’s killing you. Because watching you waste away from a magic too big for your blood makes me—”

He cut off.

Harry stared.

Tom swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“It makes me feel like I could burn down the world to fix you.”

The words hung between them.

Alive. Dangerous. Honest.

Harry exhaled shakily. “You’d really do it?”

Tom nodded once.

“When it’s time,” he said. “I’ll take it from you. And you’ll live.”

Harry’s lip quirked, but there was no humor in it. Only something bleak.

“And then what?”

Tom tilted his head.

“I rise.”

And his eyes gleamed — not with cruelty. But with certainty.

Because once that power became his — once it left Harry and filled the vessel it was always meant for — nothing could stop him.

Except, perhaps, the boy who had once worn it.

---

The symptoms no longer waited for nightfall.

They came in waves now — sudden, jarring, without warning — slipping into the corners of Harry’s day like cracks in a foundation no one else could see. At first, it had only been fatigue. A dragging kind of exhaustion that no sleep could cure.

Then, the cold started.

It wasn’t weather-based. The castle was still summer-warm, thick with candlelight and enchantments. But Harry would sit with his hands balled in his sleeves, shivering through entire classes, even as sweat prickled down his spine from the magical overexertion humming just beneath his skin.

He told no one.

Not even Hermione.

Especially not Tom.

He couldn’t.

Because the truth — which pressed heavier each day — was that the power was beautiful. Addictive. It had opened something in him, a current of instinct and strength he didn’t want to let go of. He needed it. Needed how it let him carve through spells with nothing more than a flick. Needed how it made fear less sharp, less suffocating.

But it came at a price.

And lately, that price was steepening.

He caught the first nosebleed during breakfast. One moment he was buttering toast, the next there were fat drops splashing onto his plate. His fingers tingled, eyes burning — not with pain, but with heat. Magic, surging too fast through a vessel too thin.

He wiped his face quickly and vanished the blood with a spell.

No one noticed.

Except for Tom.

Who hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry for three full minutes.

Suspicion began with the professors.

Small things: Dumbledore’s gaze lingering too long during Transfiguration. Snape’s brow twitching when Harry answered a question too quickly, wandwork too precise. Even Slughorn had gone oddly quiet when he passed Harry in the corridor after Potions.

“Something’s changed,” they whispered, never loud enough to be overheard. “He’s too… in control.”

But Tom noticed something else.

He noticed that Harry’s magic flared in bursts now — wild, erratic. That his shields, once fluid, now formed jagged-edged walls without warning. That in Dueling Club, Harry’s movements had grown reckless — overpowered, overreaching, as if he was casting with something bigger than his own will.

Then there was the pain.

Tom caught him in a corridor near the library, bent over against the wall, gripping his ribs like something inside was tearing. The moment Harry saw him, he straightened too quickly — color drained from his face, sweat shining at his hairline.

“It’s nothing,” Harry muttered. “Just a stitch.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

But he let him go.

For now.

Because he knew — with brutal certainty — that the truth would come soon.

It came two nights later.

A duel.

An ambush, really — upper-year Slytherins challenging Harry in the underground practice chamber, furious at his rising attention, his silence, the way Tom seemed to keep him too close.

Harry accepted without question.

And it was beautiful — at first.

He moved like a storm. Spell after spell, vicious and clean, magic snapping in the air like a blade’s edge. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark. The others faltered — not because he was cruel, but because he was untouchable.

Until he wasn’t.

It happened in the middle of a stunning counterspell — Harry overreached, power surging too fast, and then—

Crack.

He dropped.

Not hit. Not struck.

Just… collapsed.

The magic burned out of him all at once, leaving behind a hollow shell that twitched once before falling still.

Tom had been watching from the shadows.

In the same breath that Harry hit the floor, he was there — kneeling beside him, wand out, fingers pressed to the side of his throat.

Too fast.

Too weak.

The pulse was fluttering.

His magic — the relic-bound storm that had once burned through every inch of him — was barely present. Not gone. But flickering.

Like a flame trying to burn with no air left.

“Harry,” Tom whispered, not sharply.

Then louder: “Harry—”

Lashes fluttered. His face was bloodless, but his lips parted in a breath that sounded like glass cracking.

Tom lifted him with one arm, cradling his shoulders.

Someone called for help.

Tom didn’t hear them.

He only heard the whisper Harry gave as he came to, just loud enough to reach his ear:

“…still worth it.”

That was when Tom’s heart went cold.

Because Harry meant it.

Even now — on the edge of collapse, body failing him, magic pulling him apart cell by cell — he still didn’t want to let it go.

Tom carried him out of the chamber like something claimed.

Like something his.

---

In the days that followed, Tom didn’t leave his side.

Not entirely.

He drifted closer during meals. Shadowed him in the library. Intervened quietly in any duel challenges, spinning lies about tutor schedules or restricted practice hours. He even confronted Slughorn, slipping a subtle ward into Harry’s dorm bed when he knew the others would be gone.

But none of it slowed the decline.

Harry’s hands shook now when he tried complex spells. His appetite was nearly gone. He slept like someone under a potion — too deep, too long — and woke with a dull, unfocused gaze.

Tom hated it.

Loathed it.

And yet —

There was something magnetic in Harry’s refusal to stop. Something infuriating and desperate and intoxicating. Because it wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t pride.

It was fear.

The fear of what he would be without it.

Tom knew that fear well.

Because he’d built an empire on it.

And still, watching Harry sink deeper into the fire, knowing he would never ask for help —

It made something break in Tom.

He stood over Harry’s bed one night, watching his chest rise too shallow, the ring on his finger dark and quiet like a dying coal. Magic shimmered faintly beneath his skin, but it was unsteady. Starved.

Tom reached out.

Not to wake him.

But to touch his chest — just over his heart — and feel what still burned there.

“I’ll take it soon,” he whispered.

He didn’t mean it as a threat.

It was a promise.

Because he could not — would not — let him die.

And if Harry wouldn’t give it willingly… well.

Tom had never been one to wait for permission.

---

The first thing Harry noticed was the silence.

Not the kind that filled the library at midnight, or the hush of snow-fall mornings — but something subtler. The kind that followed him. That watched.

It curled in the corners of his hearing like cotton packed into his skull, muting footsteps, dulling voices. Even his own. Some days, it felt like he was moving through fog, like there was glass between him and the rest of the castle.

Other days, the silence would shatter.

Sharp bursts of sound would spike through him — parchment rustling too loud, footsteps like thunder, water dripping like drumbeats. His nerves twitched beneath his skin. Light became too bright. Ink smelled too strong.

He didn't tell anyone.

How could he?

How did you explain that the world was too much and not enough all at once?