Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have.”

― H.P. Lovecraft, From Beyond / The Haunter of the Dark

“Hey, Remus.”

Harry kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the horizon. He was there to get something off his chest, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d be too overwhelmed and leave before he got it all out. Remus deserved better than that. A spring breeze stirred the air, carrying the smell of petrichor and pine. It was a beautiful day in late April, and Harry should have been at school, but he had left for the afternoon. This was too important.

“I wanted you to know that I’ve been practicing,” Harry began, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve got better control over my magic now. Even got something to help with that.” He hesitated, letting out a sigh. “And Sirius… he’s being civil.”

That was stretching the truth, and Harry knew it. Sirius was trying— trying to try , really. But even that felt like more than Harry deserved.

“Mum’s having a hard time,” he continued, “but she keeps herself busy with the Order. She’s always got something to do, and now that I’ve got things under control, it’s easier to pretend everything’s… normal.”

Harry clenched his fists, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He hadn’t realized how deep the anger and regret ran until they threatened to pull him under, tightening around his chest, and letting it escalate any further was dangerous. He took a few deep breaths, forcing the magic coiling around his ankles to settle. Slowly, he took off his glasses, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, and focused again on the distant horizon.

“Ron’s still Ron,” Harry said, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “And Hermione’s the same as ever. We’re graduating in about a month, and she won’t stop talking about our futures. And the Order’s still fighting, of course. We’re not going to let Voldemort win. He can’t. Not as long as we keep going, right?”

The wind stirred again, rustling the branches overhead, filling the silence with birdsong. Harry’s words felt hollow, insincere even to himself, and the weight of it all began to sink in.

“It’s just… I like it,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I like the dark arts. It’s interesting, and I’m good at it. Maybe I can learn how to master it, so I never hurt anyone the way I hurt you. Maybe I can… fix things from the inside.”

He immediately wished he could take the words back. Even here, with no one around to hear him, saying it felt like a betrayal.

“Guess that’s it, then.” Harry swiped at his eyes again. “Bye, Remus. I’m… sorry.”

He turned away from Remus’ headstone and walked down the hill to the cemetery gate, and, as if knowing this was a terrible moment to lose control, some of his magic unfurled beneath its tight binding, seeping into the soles of his shoes and leaving blackened footprints in the bright spring grass.

“Harry!”

Hermione was already in the common room, waiting for Harry to return. One of the privileges of those who were particularly adept at the dark arts was the freedom to leave Hogwarts grounds whenever it suited them. He assumed this was to make the important students feel special, to get them used to this kind of treatment so they’d agree to join the Death Eaters. For that reason, Harry never took advantage of the privilege, but he had to get out to visit Remus. The thought had chewed at the back of his mind all day until he eventually gave in.

He gave Hermione a tired smile as he looked over her shoulder, scanning for signs of anger or sorrow. Aside from a few curious looks to see who had arrived, no one seemed to pay him much attention. It made sense, in a way. Remus had only taught for a year before he left, and few would mark the anniversary of his death. Especially since showing anger toward the murderer was literal treason.

“You were gone for a while,” Hermione said, her voice careful, searching.

Harry’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Had a lot on my mind.”

“No one… approached you, did they?” she asked, her question hanging in the air like a soft, unspoken plea.

Harry shook his head. He regretted showing that first letter to Hermione and Ron more than he could say. It had set her off, ignited her worry into a blazing, paranoid fire that showed no signs of cooling. The situation was unbearably unfair, and he was trying his best to cope. He hadn’t asked for any of this. Voldemort had placed a “blessing” on Harry’s world, a kind of magic which came from the mysterious alternate dimension where the Dark Lord had been born, and this blessing manifested inside of a handful of infants each year. They called people like Harry Seeds, marked by their natural affinity for the dark arts, and by extension, destined for a place among the Death Eaters. All they had to do was open the Dark Lord’s letter.

It was meant to be an honor. An invitation to join the ranks of the elite shaped and trained in the Dark Lord’s service. But Harry’s mother was deeply embedded in the resistance, the rebel force that sought to tear Voldemort’s regime apart and stop it from claiming the entire world. Harry suspected that Voldemort knew about that, and that he was all too glad to know that a Seed had burrowed into the son of one of his greatest enemies.

Hermione would lose her mind if she knew Harry hadn’t just received one letter but several, and as far as Harry could tell, every one of them bore the Dark Lord’s handwriting. Not that he had opened a single one, but he recognized it as the same handwriting he had seen in the Daily Prophet, in textbooks. It was the mark of the otherworldly tyrant seizing control of their planet.

And yet, despite the terror it evoked, the attention was… flattering. Harry hated himself for it, but there was something undeniably tempting about being pursued by the most powerful man in the world. There was a reason the Dark Lord wanted him—Harry was very good at the dark arts. He could hardly admit it, not even to himself, but sometimes the very thought of learning to truly wield it kept him awake at night, his fingers twitching with the magic that flowed from him as effortlessly as breath, as if the very air around him bent to his will.

The decision loomed over him, a choice that should have been simple but wasn’t. Joining the Death Eaters came with undeniable benefits: access to the deepest knowledge of the dark arts, power beyond anything Hogwarts could teach. The price was that he would betray his mother, his friends, everything and everyone that had ever mattered to him. And though the war in Britain was said to be won, the Dark Lord’s ambitions stretched far beyond their shores. Harry had no desire to be part of that machine, no interest in fighting a war for a cause he could never believe in. All he wanted was to understand how to control the dark magic clinging to him since birth.

“There wasn’t anyone out there, actually,” he said, his voice a low murmur as he stepped past Hermione. “Kind of surprised no one else came to see Remus.”

He hoped to avoid drawing attention from anyone else in the common room, but his luck didn’t hold out long.

“There you are!” Lavender Brown’s voice rang out. Out of all the people he might have expected to corner him, Lavender was possibly dead last. They had barely exchanged a handful of words all year.

“Hi?” Harry asked, already regretting every choice that led to this moment.

“Tell me everything you know about the new exchange students!” she demanded. Her perfume was overpowering, a cloying mix of sweet florals and something powdery that made his sinuses tighten.

“The what?”

“The exchange students! The ones from Durmstrang! Come on, Harry, everyone knows you’re in all those Dark Arts classes. They’re taking their exams here, right? Why?”

Harry blinked, utterly lost. “I… I haven’t really been paying attention.”

It was the truth, of course. He kept his head down in Professor Lestrange’s class, sat at the very front of the room, and spoke to no one. The other Seeds in the Dark Arts program—those who shared his particular talent—were not the sort Harry felt comfortable around. He was always too aware that one wrong word might reveal too much about himself and his family, which could easily lead to a duel or worse. He had no desire to test the patience of Professor Lestrange or, worse still, end up in Azkaban for treason. So, Harry stayed quiet, did his work, and slipped out as soon as class ended.

Lavender let out a shrill laugh, as if Harry had said something amusing. “Don’t be silly! You couldn’t have missed them. There’s Viktor Krum—the Seeker, you know! He’s here, and—”

“Lavender, please,” Harry interrupted. “Look, they’re probably just here for the exams. I didn’t hear anything about it in class.”

Her face fell into a pout, and she let go of his arms. “Well, where were you, then? I didn’t see you at Ancient Runes. I thought maybe you’d gone off-campus with them. They do that, you know. Go out all the time.”

Harry shook his head. “See? You already know more than I do.”

Before Lavender could press him further, Ron appeared at her side, clearly eager to join the conversation. His eyes lingered on her a little too long with a kind of dazed fondness Harry found baffling. “What’s going on here?” Ron asked, edging a little too close.

Sensing his opportunity to escape, Harry gave Ron a quick pat on the shoulder, mumbling something vague, and slipped away toward the staircase. His bedroom was calling, and this time, luck let him go without protest.

A lot had changed since Remus’ death last year, and while Harry didn’t like any of it, he had accepted his private room in Gryffindor Tower. The decision bothered him, even months later, like it would be one small concession at a time until he eventually traded off his entire morality for the conveniences offered by the Death Eaters. There’d been a sound reason for the room change, though.

At first, he hadn’t understood why Professor Lestrange insisted he needed his own bedroom, but he caught on fast. The outburst of magic that had killed Remus was not a one-time thing, and while Harry was already painfully aware of that due to incidents in his childhood, he didn’t realize just how untethered his magic would become. Evidently, it had something to do with stress, hormones, and puberty, and it would only get worse before eventually stabilizing, unless something was done to help moderate his magic.

Shortly after the disaster with Remus, a man named Mr Riddle appeared at the Potter’s doorstep, sent on behalf of the Dark Lord himself. The encounter had the feel of something inevitable, and despite Lily Potter’s hesitance, Harry was taken to a shop hidden deep in the shadows of Knockturn Alley. There, beneath the dim light and the watchful eyes of unsettling strangers, a jeweler pierced his ear, slipping in a small hoop with a captive ruby bead that shimmered faintly in the murk. The purpose of the ruby was to keep his magic in check, to prevent the wild, raw power that lurked just beneath his skin from spilling out uncontrolled.

But the piercing did not completely solve his problems. His magic still surged unpredictably, slipping past the barrier of the hoop at times, like water finding narrow crevices in a dam. It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing—there were always moments when the magic inside him stirred, pushing against the constraints of his control, reminding him that his power, no matter how contained, was never truly tamed.

Worst of all were the dreams.

Almost every night, Harry found himself at Voldemort's side, acting as a powerful figure within the Dark Lord’s army. Sometimes he would lead battalions into battle, his enemies crushed under waves of inexplicable magic. Other times, he was fighting alongside Voldemort himself, their powers combined in a terrifying symphony of destruction. These dreams were intoxicating in their intensity, filling him with a fierce, undeniable thrill.

Harry’s magic reacted to the dreams. It lashed out in the waking world, crashing around his bedroom, burning everything in its path. He’d wake to find blackened walls and a scorched bed frame. The house elves always came in the morning, easily fixing everything to make it look as if nothing had happened, but Harry couldn’t shake the fear of who he might hurt if he ever slept somewhere without the magic-repelling lead lining his walls.

It was a dangerous situation, and Harry was afraid to let anyone know, except for Mr Riddle, Professor Lestrange, and a handful of other members of the Hogwarts staff. Harry hadn’t found the words to tell his mother, and he didn’t want to. The earring, as far as she knew, had fixed everything, and he wanted to let her keep thinking that way. She had enough on her mind with the Order of the Phoenix, and if she learned the truth about how volatile and destructive his magic had become, it would destroy her.

Even though it was still early, Harry changed into his pajamas and crawled under the blankets, rolling onto his side to stare at the stack of envelopes on the bedside table. They’d been there for weeks. On a whim, he reached for one, his fingers brushing the heavy parchment. As always, a crackle of magic sparked at his touch, sending a shiver up his spine. His name was scrawled across the front in deep, blood-red ink, the letters sharp and menacing. The wax seal on the back bore the unmistakable symbol of the skull and serpent—Voldemort’s mark.

Holding the letter felt like holding a key to an entirely different world, one that whispered promises of power and knowledge. Harry’s pulse quickened as he traced the edge of the seal, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was inside. He knew what was being offered. And yet, every time, he stopped himself just before breaking the seal.

What was the worst that could happen? That question danced at the edge of his mind every night. The temptation to open it, to see what lay beyond, was always there. But he couldn’t. Not tonight, not on the anniversary of Remus’ death. The kind of magic these letters offered had already taken too much from him. If he gave in now, if he opened that letter and let himself be swept into that world, he would lose everything: his friends, the fragile relationship with his mother, the last fragments of his own identity.

Harry tossed the envelope back onto the nightstand and pulled the blanket over his head, hoping sleep would take him before his thoughts could twist any further.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Harry frowned, looking up from his cereal to meet intense, silver eyes. “Good morning, Draco.”

It seemed the reigning king of Slytherin had deemed the Gryffindor table worthy of his presence once again, if only to try and fail to steal Harry away. Draco had a habit of doing this, dropping by unannounced and inviting Harry to outings that Harry would never be caught attending.

“I won’t bother to ask if you’ve already heard, because I already know the answer, but there will be a gathering this evening in the chamber beneath the Dark Arts classroom. The password is Runespore. You can bring a plus one, if you’d like.” He hesitated, flicking his gaze over the Gryffindors. “Not that I imagine you’d have anyone worth bringing.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good.” Draco took a step back from the table. “See that you do.”

The moment he was out of earshot, Lavender squealed and threw herself on Harry. “Ohh, can we go? Can we?”

Harry had no idea how she thought they were a ‘we’ in any capacity, but she gripped him tight, pressing her breasts against his arm. Maybe she was used to that helping her get her way, but all it did was make him uncomfortable. He shifted, trying to put some space between them as she carried on about Durmstrang men. Ron looked absolutely livid further down the table.

“But I’ve always wanted to go to one of their parties, Harry! And it’s my birthday!” She dragged out the last word into an irritating whine.

“Is it really?” Harry asked.

She nodded, blinking pitifully up at him. “Please? It’d be such a great way to spend my last birthday at Hogwarts.”

Oh, Merlin. Harry sighed, and finally managed to wrench his arm out of her grasp. “Fine. We’ll go, if it means that much to you.”

Harry hesitated on the stairs, feeling the low thrum of bass vibrating the soles of his shoes. The pulse of the music seemed to fill the air, reverberating through the very stones of the castle, which wasn’t necessarily what he’d expected from a school-sanctioned party, but he’d seen enough to know the Dark Arts students received preferential treatment. Maybe the house elves had even supplied some alcohol.

“This is so exciting!” Lavender whispered as she bounced lightly on her toes.

She was wearing a striking outfit reminiscent of some of Professor Lestrange’s more daring dresses, all black tulle and leather, with her hair pinned up in curly layers. It made her look as though she belonged there. Meanwhile, Harry was wearing a sweater with the Gryffindor crest and some comfortable trousers.

Lavender tugged impatiently at his sleeve. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

He nodded, though the knot of unease in his stomach tightened. Still, he took her offered arm, mostly for the sake of having something solid to hold onto.

The thing about the dark arts, the thing no one really talked about, was the way the magic felt. It was visceral, alive. It had weight, a texture that lingered in the air. For some, it brought a crawling nausea that unsettled the senses and brought about creeping fear, steadily escalating to an unbearable level. For others, it was like stepping into a warm bath, loosening the knots in their muscles and filling them with a strange vitality. Harry, of course, was one of the latter. He could feel the dark magic swirling thick in the chamber, heavy as incense smoke, wrapping around him and coaxing the tension from his body, his shoulders dropping in spite of himself.

The party was a haze of low lights, flickering with strobing bursts of color, revealing glimpses of bodies pressed together, dancing, laughing, a mess of chaos and revelry. “You actually came.” A firm hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder. Draco’s pale face was illuminated briefly by a flash of light, a smirk tugging at his lips. Despite the noise, his voice rang out clear, cutting through the music.

Harry turned to him, raising his voice above the din. “Just a favor for a friend,” he shouted back.

Draco winced. “No need to shout. The room’s charmed. If you’re touching someone, they can hear you just fine.”

Harry turned to pass that along to Lavender, only to catch sight of her already disappearing into the crowd.

“Well,” Harry muttered, “said friend has been successfully delivered. I think I’ll call it a night.”

“I wouldn’t be so hasty,” Draco said, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial tone. “There’s no telling what sort of monsters are lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatch up an innocent Gryffindor like your friend. You lot should really stick together.”

Harry groaned and looked over the crowd. Lavender was long gone, lost in the mass of bodies. He supposed he should stick around for a little while, if only to ensure she made it back in one piece.

“And I know just the place for you to wait.” Draco didn’t give him a chance to protest, grabbing Harry by the arm. “Come along.”

Harry allowed himself to be led, half resigned, half curious.

Draco led Harry over to a circular sofa where Pansy and Blaise were already lounging with drinks in hand. The four of them always sat at the very front in Dark Arts, though Harry rarely talked to any of them. He was well aware that they were all Seeds and they all received invitations to join the Death Eaters. The main difference between them was their families—Harry very much doubted any of them were sympathetic to the Order of the Phoenix.

Still, Harry found himself relaxing. The sofa was charmed with a sound barrier and muted the pounding music to a distant hum, allowing for easy conversation. There were snacks and drinks, and as if by unspoken agreement, no one brought up the Death Eaters, or the fact that Harry rarely participated in the hallway conversations before and after Lestrange’s class. They exchanged Slytherin gossip, talked about their plans for the summer, and for a moment, Harry felt like just another student.

That changed when Harry offered up a bit of information and Draco jumped on it. When the subject turned to the looming end of the school year and their last few weeks at Hogwarts, Harry mentioned he’d received an invitation to join the Death Eaters. In hindsight, he’d blame it on the cocktails they kept handing him.

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple of those letters,” he said. “Haven’t opened them yet, though.”

“Why not?” Draco asked, his voice incredulous.

Harry shrugged, trying to downplay the weight of it. “Dunno. Don’t think I’ll be interested, no matter what it says.”

Blaise let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, leaning forward as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Alright, now you’re just being stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “I get it, I really do. It’s hard to accept that this regime isn’t going anywhere, even if it started before we were born. I’m sure our mothers don’t help with that.”

“Blaise!” Pansy gasped, her eyes wide with scandal.

But Blaise was unfazed. He turned to Harry, his expression serious. “It’s true,” he said bluntly. “But you need to think about it, really think. You read the Prophet, right? Watch the Wizarding Wireless?”

Harry frowned. “Sure.”

“Well, then you know what’s happening. The old families, the ones who didn’t side with the Dark Lord at first, they’re still coming to terms with it, but it’s done. He won before we were even born and now the world’s changed. And yes, your family’s probably more opposed to it than mine, but you’re not blind to the situation, right? The career prospects?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Blaise continued before he could form a response. “The fact is, the Death Eaters get everything. All of it.” Blaise waved his hand, as if demonstrating the scale of their influence. “You sign on after Hogwarts, treat it like any other post-secondary program, maybe even pursue more advanced studies if that’s your thing, and the rest of your life is set. No debts. No struggling to find work. The stipend alone is impressive, Potter. You’d see for yourself if you just opened one of your letters.”

Harry’s stomach turned, but he managed a bitter smile. “Yeah, and then I’m conscripted into military service, sent off to murder people in some pointless war.”

There were a few distasteful hisses at that, a warning that he needed to be careful to keep his voice down. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he trusted that none of them would turn him in for speaking frankly. If anything, Blaise just seemed relieved to have him as a buffer that allowed him to speak freely about their circumstances within the Dark Lord’s empire.

“As good as you are, there’s no way you’d be on the frontlines. People like us would be staying safe and sound in Britain, working behind the scenes and joining in on group spellwork.” Draco said, looking down into his drink. “That’s the only reason why my family encourages the idea.”

“Here I would have thought you’d been signed up from birth,” Harry said.

“I don’t need to work,” Draco said, shrugging. “The stipend is the least of my concerns. But there are other opportunities presented by joining the program.”

“Secret dark magic,” Harry said, nodding. The air seemed to still when he so much as thought about some of the magic Professor Lestrange hinted at on occasion, the clues she would dangle in front of them, daring them to ask.

“Secret dark magic,” Blaise echoed, his voice steady, but his eyes gleamed. Harry recognized that look, a hunger that couldn’t be masked by casual conversation. Whatever Blaise said about career prospects and the future, Harry could tell it was the lure of forbidden power that really called to him.

Pansy shifted beside them, her tone bright with ambition. “Well, I plan on becoming Minister for Magic someday, and I’m certain this is the best way to get there.”

Harry chuckled, leaning back in his seat, the tension easing just a bit. “Wow. I could never. I can’t even begin to imagine what that job involves.”

He was trying to lighten the mood, change the course of the conversation before it veered too far into dangerous waters. But as he glanced around the group, he noticed Blaise watching him with a careful, unreadable expression. Harry met his gaze for a moment, then shifted his attention to Pansy, who was still talking about her future in politics. The evening continued, the conversation flowing in and out of safer, less fraught subjects.

Lavender eventually found him. Black makeup was streaked down her cheeks, her hair loose around her shoulders. A flush of anger rode high on her cheeks. “Harry! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she said, breathless and irritated. “Can you walk me back to the tower?”

Harry rose, swaying slightly as he regained his footing. He’d lost track of how many drinks had been handed to him over the course of the evening. “Of course. Time to head out, I suppose. See you all later.”

He gave a quick nod to Draco, Pansy, and Blaise, who had been joined by a few other students Harry barely knew. They smiled and waved, varying degrees of sincerity in their gestures. Lavender was already darting toward the exit, so Harry hurried after her, the warmth of the alcohol making the room spin a little as he caught up with her outside the stairs.

Lavender paused, turning to him, but her eyes suddenly flicked to something over his shoulder. Her frown deepened.

“I’ll wait for you upstairs,” she muttered, her tone clipped, before disappearing up the stairs.

Harry turned around, and saw Blaise leaning casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, but there was something in his eyes that was sharper, more calculating. The music behind them had dulled to a low, rhythmic pulse, and the dim lights in the small room cast long shadows, making the space feel like something between worlds.

“Are you following me?” Harry asked.

“Sorry,” Blaise said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room. “I just wanted to make sure you give it some thought.”

Harry studied him for a moment, unsure whether to feel cornered or simply curious. “I have thought about it,” he replied, keeping his voice low, his eyes locking with Blaise’s. “Doesn’t mean I’ve come to the same conclusion as you.”

Blaise waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve seen you in class, Harry. You get it, you really do, and from what I’ve gathered, the Death Eater program teaches some fascinating magic. Group-based projects. We were brilliant when we teamed up, weren’t we?”

Harry nodded slowly, remembering the class only a few weeks ago where they tried their first collaborative spell. It had been like tapping into a livewire when they joined together, holding hands and reciting the incantation. Of course, Harry had wanted to do it again—everyone had—and Professor Lestrange had not obliged. It was a tantalizing secret she showed them before taking it away, a promise of what they could do if they broke off the seal on their offer letters.

Maybe it was the privacy in that odd little room, or maybe it was the alcohol, but Harry nodded. “We were, and… I’m curious to see what more there is to learn. What’s your game here? Why do you care if I go along with this or not?”

“Because…” Blaise looked away, frowning. “Because I want you on my team. I want to know that at least one other person is doing it for the magic, not for the prestige. And I get the impression you hold the same hope as me, that we might do some good by making changes from the inside, rather than being mindless followers.”

That wasn’t what Harry had expected. Blaise had described the one idea that had Harry seriously considering joining the Death Eaters. Gaining a powerful position within their ranks would be the most realistic way to actually do something worthwhile.

“You’re not doing it for the prestige?” Harry asked, curious in spite of himself.

“Well, maybe a little.” Blaise shrugged, but there was a glimmer in his eye that spoke of ambition carefully masked under layers of casual indifference.

Harry sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets, more to keep them from fidgeting than anything else. “I’ll think about it,” he said, the words slipping out almost unbidden, like an admission to himself as much as to Blaise. He could feel the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders, heavier than before, now that he’d voiced it aloud.

“Excellent,” Blaise said, his smile returning, this time more genuine. “See you in class, then.”

Harry did not open any of the letters that night. The sun was threatening the horizon by the time he made it to his lead-enclosed bedroom. Exhausted, he cleaned himself up with a spell and threw his clothes on the floor before collapsing into bed.

He didn’t open it in the morning, either. He woke a few hours later to a bed covered in scorch marks and a hangover cure on his bedside table, which he gulped down before finding his glasses. His first block of the day was a free period, so he took his time getting dressed before shuffling down to the common room, where he saw that anyone worth talking to had already left for breakfast.

The comforting din of the Great Hall welcomed him, and he dropped down on the bench between Hermione and a very anxious Neville.

“What’s going on?” Harry said in greeting, helping himself to a buttered roll.

“Well, well, look who finally showed up,” Ron said from further down the table. Harry hadn’t noticed him, but it looked like he was quite mad. “You two were out late.”

Harry looked at him, wanting to laugh out loud when he realized Ron was probably upset that Harry had gone out with Lavender. “Us two? She’s not even at this table.”

Harry pointed her out at the far end of the Slytherin table, where she sat surrounded by a handful of Durmstrang students as the owls swooped into the Great Hall with the morning post. Harry went back to his breakfast, ignoring Ron’s muttering to Ginny across the table. When the envelope landed with a soft thud on his empty plate, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

There it was, in elegant, red swoops and lines: Harry James Potter

He hesitated before reaching out to touch it, and as his fingers brushed the envelope, a surge of potent magic crackled through him. His eyelids fluttered at the sensation, an involuntary response to the overwhelming force. With a soft huff, he tucked the letter into his robe, pretending it hadn’t just sent a shiver down his spine.

Hermione was tense beside him, her shoulders rigid with concern. She wasn’t stupid, she could figure out exactly what that intimidating-looking owl had dropped off. It seemed Neville knew, too.

“You tell your mum about those?” Neville asked softly, and Harry could tell it took some nerve for him to say it.

No, of course he hadn’t told his mum. That was the last thing she needed to worry about. “Yeah.”

“You ever open them? Or, ah, write back?”

“Yeah, Neville, I’m actually enrolled in their pen pal program. Been looking forward to an answer for days.” Harry snorted, setting the envelope down. “No, I don’t need to read it, I already know what it’s about.”

“And yet they keep sending them,” Hermione said softly, her voice laced with unease as she sipped her tea.

Harry sighed. “What do you want me to do? Write back and ask the Dark Lord to stop? Maybe mention he’s wasting good parchment?”

“It’s just—” Hermione paused, frowning. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were curious.”

“Why is everyone so focused on this?” Harry laughed, shaking his head. First Blaise had been so pushy, and now Hermione?

“We’re close to graduation, and you have no idea what you want to do,” Hermione persisted, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. “Think about the opportunities you’d have. The influence. You’d be mad to pass it up.”

“Hermione, please.” His eyes flicked around the hall, a silent reminder that they were not alone. The last thing he needed was anyone overhearing this conversation. “I’d never betray you like that.”

She nodded, looking down at her tea. “It wouldn’t be a betrayal. It’s survival.”

“And maybe you could, you know, help from the inside,” Neville added. “Gather information?”

There were at least three Death Eaters in this room alone, sitting at the faculty table. Hermione and Neville knew better than to talk about this here. He realized Hermione was trembling moments before she pulled out her wand and cast a negation spell on the envelope, which had made its way back to Harry’s hands without him noticing.

“A compulsion charm,” Hermione muttered. “They’re trying to get us to talk you into it, now.”

Harry groaned and crumpled up the letter, shoving it in his pocket. “Well, there we have it. I’m definitely not interested.”

Chapter Text

Harry opened the envelope as soon as he got back to his bedroom that afternoon. He had a few hours before dinner and had only intended to drop off some books, but his gaze caught the stack of letters by his bed. Enough was enough. He couldn’t avoid this any longer.

Gathering up the whole stack, he tossed them onto his bed with a frustrated huff. He could ignore them forever, let them become nothing more than a nagging mystery in the back of his mind—or he could open one, get it over with, and finally wash his hands of the whole affair.

The timing was terrible, though. He’d found himself in good spirits after his Dark Arts class, following a group spellwork with Blaise, Draco, and Pansy. Much to everyone’s enthusiasm, Professor Lestrange had guided them through the exercise, and it had been nothing short of exhilarating. They’d been instructed to channel their collective magic to make a lasting improvement in themselves, and after some bickering and compromise, they’d chosen a spell to enhance their self-confidence.

The energy between them had been palpable, a wave of raw power surging through their joined hands as they crafted the perfect incantation. It had worked—Harry could feel it. Confidence wasn’t something you could measure easily, but after that class, he couldn’t deny that he felt better. Stronger.

And now, staring at the nine pristine white envelopes, each inscribed with his name in that infamous handwriting, the weight of the decision pressed down on him harder than ever. The moment he reached out with the clear intent to open one, the entire stack floated into the air, as if eager to meet him halfway. Harry grabbed the nearest envelope before he could change his mind and slid his finger under the wax seal.

The paper inside unfurled itself immediately, revealing a short, cryptic message:

Dear Mr. Potter,

Congratulations on your decision to embrace your True nature. As you are aware, you have been blessed with the aptitude to wield Dark Magic, and thus you are welcome within the elite ranks of the Death Eaters. Know that your Soul is precious to your Lord, and that your position within the cosmic order is henceforth assured.

A meeting will be held to answer all Inquiries held by Initiate Death Eaters on Walpurgisnacht of this year, beginning at sunset. You may use the wax seal on this letter as a Portkey at that time.

Go forth and Become.

The letter was signed with the familiar serpent-and-skull emblem, and beneath it, two slashing red lines forming the letter V.

Harry stared at it, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So, we’re just capitalizing whatever words we feel like now?”

There was something absurd about the letter. It read like a strange cult invitation, and the tone was so melodramatic, assuming he had already made some grand decision before he’d even read a word.

And where was this impressive stipend Blaise had mentioned? Not a single word about that.

Despite everything—the ridiculousness of it, the way it presumed too much—there was a nagging part of Harry that couldn’t shake the weight of the invitation. The letter might have been overly serious, but the implications were no joke. A door had been opened. The question now was whether Harry would step through it or slam it shut.

But for the moment, he was mostly relieved it wasn’t anything worse. Just a bit ridiculous, really. "Go forth and Become," he repeated, shaking his head. What a load of rubbish.

He realized the letter had shifted to reveal a chart with tiny text crammed into several rows and columns, which broke down the financial bonuses earned by the different ranks within the Death Eaters. A little star marked Harry’s designated starting point, and he blinked a few times, not believing the number.

Now, Harry was not overly concerned about money. The Potter family had a sizable vault, and he wasn’t the sort to make lavish purchases, but this… Well, it explained a whole lot about why the Death Eaters were able to lead the glamorous lifestyles constantly broadcasted by the Wizarding Wireless Network. Harry couldn’t begin to fathom what he’d do with such an income.

As Harry stared at the letter, it shifted before his eyes again, revealing a list of class options available to new Death Eaters. His jaw dropped as he skimmed the titles, some of which he didn’t even recognize. But the ones he did sent a shiver up his spine: Soul Magic. Necromancy. The kind of magic he’d only ever heard whispers about.

And then there were the others, strange and mysterious— Probability Training, Eldritch Invocation, Quintessence Cultivation. What did those even mean? His head spun as he tried to comprehend it all. And to top it off, there was mention of a Quidditch league, as if Death Eaters needed extracurriculars.

Walpurgisnacht. The night before May first. Harry’s mind raced as he mentally calculated the date. That wasn’t far off at all. In fact, it was now. A creeping dread settled in as he realized he had roughly an hour before the wax seal activated, transforming into a Portkey that would whisk him off to who-knew-where.

"Dress code?" he asked aloud, clutching the letter like it might shift again and tell him how to prepare. "Should I dress up? Cover my face?"

He had no idea what kind of ritual this was. He knew Death Eaters wore masks, but surely they wouldn’t expect him to have one ready. They’d probably give those out later, right? But the letter remained stubbornly unhelpful, offering no further guidance.

Sighing, Harry tucked it back into his pocket, his mind racing. He had no idea what he was walking into, but he knew he wasn’t prepared. He ran downstairs, his feet moving faster than his thoughts, headed to the Slytherin dungeon.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco sighed, spotting Harry lingering by a porthole window looking into the depths of the lake. “I was worried you’d be too stubborn and miss it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me I was out of time?” Harry followed as Draco swept past him, angled toward a door in the back of the common room.

“I couldn’t. Those letters are covered with so many enchantments, I think my teeth would fall out if I tried. Why do you think we were so pushy about it yesterday?”

“Hermione was even telling me to join,” Harry said, laughing but feeling bad about it all the same. “At least until she wiped the compulsion charm off it.”

“It was wise of you to come here. Everyone else is preparing to leave.”

The door led to a hall connected to several other rooms, and Draco brought him down to the end. Pansy and Blaise were inside what could only be Draco’s bedroom, and when Harry walked in, they took one look at him and grimaced.

“You can’t wear your school robes,” Pansy said, leaving no room for argument. “Please tell me you brought something else.”

He had not, but thankfully, Draco had plenty of clothes to borrow. In all the hurry to prepare, Harry didn’t get a chance to second-guess his decision. Once he was re-robed, the hems lengthened and the upper back broadened to better fit his larger frame, they were ready. Pansy, Draco, and Blaise were all dressed very smartly, like this was a job interview rather than a sales pitch to get them to join the Dark Lord’s personal military. Harry could only hope he looked remotely presentable next to them.

As much as he wanted to remain the skeptic, and as much as he knew the Dark Lord had committed terrible atrocities and had torn Britain apart and was campaigning to do the same to the rest of the world, there was something inevitable about all of this.

They took hold of their Portkeys at the same time, and were promptly siphoned out of Hogwarts and deposited in an all-black chamber.

One time, when Harry was very young, his mother had taken him on a group outing with a few of her friends and their children. They had visited a cave system, where a friendly but misguided tour guide thought to impress a dozen or so five-year-olds by shutting off all the lights when they were miles beneath the earth’s surface. The experience was categorically disastrous. Harry had begun wailing immediately as they were plunged into a darkness so severe, so inherently unnatural, that he couldn’t see his hands in front of his eyes. The pitch-black-nothing filling the chamber worked him into a frenzy, and his magic lashed out, illuminating the space with purplish, glowing whips that struck at the other children, the parents, and the very regretful tour guide. Thankfully, his magic settled as soon as the tour guide switched the light back on, and only his mother knew who was responsible for the attack.

This wasn’t anything like that. At first, it was as senselessly black as the cave had been, but only until Harry’s eyes adjusted. There was no panic, no fear, and his magic reacted the way a cat might respond to a sunbeam, stretching out long and relaxing. All the tension leading up to the evening was released, and he staggered a bit, bumping into Draco. Harry could tell it was him by the smell of his expensive cologne, and the way subtle, star-like lights dotting the ceiling reflected off his blonde hair.

If Harry had one complaint, it was that it was far too warm. The borrowed robes clung to him, heavy and stifling, like a second skin that wouldn’t breathe. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, but he was too preoccupied to care for long. The discomfort quickly faded into the background as a door across the chamber creaked open. White light spilled into the room, cutting through the dimness, and a tall, imposing figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Harry’s pulse quickened. The air shifted, thickening with an oppressive magic that seemed to press against his skin, making the chamber feel smaller, tighter. The figure stepped forward, their presence impossibly large, as if the very air bowed in their wake. Harry’s breath caught, vertigo sweeping over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under.

For a moment, the hoop in his ear—the enchanted piercing meant to keep his magic in check—grew searingly hot, a flash of heat that made him wince, before cooling again just as quickly. He reached up instinctively, but the heat was gone, leaving only a strange sensation humming under his skin.

The figure approached with deliberate steps, and Harry could feel the power radiating from them. It was a force, raw and ancient, and it curled through the room like smoke, winding tighter with every heartbeat.

"Welcome, initiates," came a voice—soft, high, and somehow more chilling for its quietness. The lights in the chamber slowly brightened, shifting through hues of pink and orange like a sunrise, casting a strange glow over the figure who had entered. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Lord Voldemort stepped fully into view.

Photographs had done him no justice. The creature standing before them was not human, at least not in any recognizable sense. His serpentine eyes gleamed with an intelligence that felt ancient, alien. His complexion, faintly scaled, caught the light in a way that made his pale skin shimmer like glass. Tall—too tall—he loomed over the room with a presence that seemed to fill every corner. His sharp cheekbones looked as though they might slice through his thin, waxen skin, and his fingers, impossibly long, curled around his wand with an unsettling grace. It was all wrong—the ease, the lightness in his movements, the casual elegance of someone who had no need to prove their power.

And yet, Harry found himself thinking that Voldemort was… pretty. There was something about the Dark Lord that reminded him of a creature from some dark fairy tale, ethereal and strangely captivating, like a prince gone terribly wrong. The thought was absurd, utterly ridiculous, and Harry had to stifle a laugh before it could escape his throat. It was almost too much. The whole day had tipped so far into the surreal that, naturally, Harry’s mind had gone and decided the Dark Lord was pretty. Because why wouldn’t it?

Around him, the others were folding themselves into elaborate bows. Harry, caught off-guard, followed suit a moment too late, his body responding more out of instinct than thought. When he rose, Voldemort’s gaze was already fixed on him. The intensity of it hit Harry like a physical force—those red eyes boring into him, sharp as a blade.

Something stirred low in Harry’s belly, unfamiliar and unnerving. The heat of embarrassment rushed to his cheeks, unwelcome and sudden, and he had to fight to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but Voldemort had noticed. The Dark Lord’s expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of something passing through his eyes—curiosity, amusement, or perhaps something more dangerous. Whatever it was, it left Harry feeling exposed, as though Voldemort had seen something in him that he hadn’t even known was there. Harry swallowed hard, the room suddenly too warm again, and tried to will away the flush rising to his face.

“Thank you, my Lord. I’m honored to have been invited to your home,” Pansy said, breaking the silence with an air of practiced politeness.

Others quickly followed suit, offering their own murmurs of thanks, and Harry, still shaken by the strange moment, vaguely registered that there were more people in the chamber than just his small group of friends. He hadn’t paid much attention to the others, and now wasn’t the time to closely inspect unfamiliar faces.

Voldemort gave a slight nod and turned without another word, walking toward a door at the back of the chamber. “Follow,” he commanded, and the group trailed after him, nerves rippling through the crowd like an invisible current.

Harry’s legs felt sluggish, like they were stuck in place for just a moment longer than they should’ve been, as though the strange magic in the room had seeped into his muscles. He hurried to catch up with the others, passing through the door into a surprisingly cozy sitting area.

It was not what Harry had expected at all. The room was intimate, almost homey, with a thick rug spread across the wooden floor, and the walls adorned with paintings of serpents, ancient castles, and abstract swirls of color. The scent of something warm and faintly spicy lingered in the air. A dozen armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a low table, where an assortment of snacks had been laid out. It was a stark contrast to the cold, ominous atmosphere of the previous room.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Voldemort said, his voice as soft and eerie as before. “I will meet with each of you individually. The process will take several hours. Once your meeting has concluded, you may return here to wait with your peers or use the original Portkey to take your leave.”

With that, Voldemort disappeared through another door, leaving the group in an awkward silence. Harry found himself sitting between Blaise and Pansy, exchanging wary glances with the others. A few of the initiates began picking at the food spread out on the table, but Harry felt far too on edge to think about eating. His stomach churned with nervous energy.

“How do you think he’ll call us?” asked a young woman with a thick French accent, her voice brimming with an excitement Harry couldn’t understand. “Oh, how thrilling to be called by the Dark Lord!”

Just then, one of the chairs began to glow. A man about Harry’s age with a heavy brow and a frown was sitting there. Sighing, he stood up and set down his plate. “I suppose we’re going alphabetically, then, as my surname is Aaronson.”

He looked nervously at the door for a moment before approaching it. Harry tried to peer past the gap as Aaronson stepped through, but he couldn’t make out anything in the shadows.

“Lovely. I suppose I’d better make myself comfortable,” Blaise drawled. He pursed his lips at Harry and the Slytherins. “At least one of you had better come back to keep me company after your meeting.”

“Of course,” Pansy replied. “I’m in no hurry to leave.”

Harry thought he should probably agree to stick around too, but something gnawed at him. He had a feeling that his own meeting with Voldemort would be far more intense than anyone else’s. There was something unspoken, something deeper at play that he couldn’t quite put into words. So, he remained silent, the uneasy tension settling heavily on his chest.

Time dragged on, and Harry eventually gave in and helped himself to a sandwich and a bottle of butterbeer, if only to give him something to do with his hands. There had been eleven people there to start, but no one returned after their meeting, and their absences were unsettling as the night dragged on. Pansy stayed true to her word, at least, and she came back some twenty minutes after she had left. Harry was desperately curious to ask her what they had talked about, especially since she was giddy with excitement, but his chair lit up the moment she sat back down.

Pansy caught his eye and gave him a reassuring smile. "You’ll be fine," she said, her voice calm, almost teasing. "He’s not that bad. A little scary, sure, but surprisingly easy to talk to once you get used to it."

Harry swallowed, feeling anything but reassured. Yeah, for her, maybe. She hadn’t grown up steeped in stories of rebellion, raised by a mother deeply entrenched in the fight against the very man Pansy sat casually discussing. While he hadn’t been allowed to join the resistance, Harry had grown up surrounded by people who fought Voldemort's regime—people who told tales of the fallen heroes like Shacklebolt, Moody, and his own father. Not that Voldemort had been responsible for James’ death.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to think about these things while walking into the room where the Dark Lord was waiting for him. Harry refocused his thoughts on why he had decided to come here.

“Secret dark magic,” he whispered to himself, crossing the room. “Just think of all the secret dark magic.”

A sharp zap of static electricity greeted Harry’s fingers as they touched the doorknob, startling him into a quick breath. The door swung open, revealing a room that was surprisingly cozy—comfortable chairs, warm wood fixtures, and nearly every wall lined with bookshelves. The flickering light of a fireplace cast soft shadows across the space, lending it an almost homely air. But what caught Harry’s attention, and froze his breath in his throat, was the figure in the high-backed armchair.

Voldemort sat there, watching him with a large white snake at his side. It wound itself around the base of the chair, its pale scales gleaming in the firelight, its head resting in Voldemort’s lap. The scene was bizarrely intimate, the serpent’s languid presence making Voldemort seem more like an otherworldly creature than ever before.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice soft, measured. “I must confess, I had not anticipated your attendance this evening. Not after so many of my letters went unread.” His fingers stroked the top of the snake’s head with a casual grace, his red eyes locking onto Harry’s as he sat down.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself into the chair opposite Voldemort. He could feel the weight of the Dark Lord’s gaze, like cold fingers wrapping around his mind, but he met it without flinching. That was, until Voldemort asked his question.

“Indulge an old man in his curiosity,” Voldemort continued, watching him intently. “What convinced you to attend this meeting?”

Without thinking—because if he had thought, he wouldn’t have said it—Harry blurted, “Well, it wasn’t due to the compulsion spells.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, his eyes went wide in horror. His lips snapped shut in an effort to keep from swearing.

For a terrifying heartbeat, there was silence. Then, to his utter shock, Voldemort let out a low chuckle, the sound more a rumble in his chest than actual laughter.

“Of course not,” Voldemort said, stroking his snake with an unnerving calm. “Those spells were never meant for you, Harry. They were directed at your peers, to give you a much needed push. But you…” His red eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “Ultimately, you had to make this decision for yourself.”

The way Voldemort said it felt both like an observation and a subtle compliment, as though he acknowledged Harry’s resistance without dismissing it. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The snake shifted slightly, the firelight playing off its ghostly scales, and Harry tried to refocus his thoughts.

He was here for a reason. Secret dark magic, knowledge, answers. But being in this room with Voldemort—so calm, so disarmingly conversational—made Harry feel like he was walking a razor-thin line, and one wrong step could send him plunging into the depths.

“I came,” Harry said cautiously, forcing himself to speak evenly, “because I wanted to know what this is all about. What you’re really offering.” He gestured vaguely to the room, to the letters that had haunted him for weeks. “I… need to know more about dark magic. The classes at Hogwarts barely scratch the surface, but what I’ve learned so far is so useful and satisfying and easy . It feels so…”

Harry’s words hung in the air, heavy and raw, as Voldemort’s cold smile deepened, a faint glimmer of satisfaction lighting his serpentine eyes. The Dark Lord’s presence seemed to thicken around them, pressing down on the room.

“Natural,” Voldemort said, and it was exactly the word Harry had been searching for. The dark magic that had come so easily to him, that flowed through his veins like it belonged there, had always felt like something meant for him. It wasn’t just power—it was purpose.

“I must say, I am pleased to see the child of two... undesirables among my ranks.” Voldemort’s voice was cool, controlled, but the word undesirables cut through Harry like a knife.

Harry tensed instantly, his instincts flaring. “With all due respect,” he began, keeping his voice steady, “my father was as pure as pure can be, and while my mother may be Muggleborn, she—”

Voldemort raised a pale finger, silencing him with an almost casual elegance. “What I mean to say,” he continued smoothly, “is that they were both members of the Order of the Phoenix. Surely, your mother has left such reckless affiliations behind? Who, after all, would continue such a dangerous endeavor while raising a child alone?”

Harry felt his heart stutter in his chest. This was a trap—he knew it. Voldemort knew the Order was still active, still fighting, and there was no way he didn’t have eyes on every major player, including Harry’s mother. He swallowed hard, weighing his response.

“She doesn’t involve me in her social life,” he said carefully.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed, a faint curl to his lips. “I can’t imagine she would, considering your past actions. After all, you have already murdered two prominent members of the Order, haven’t you?”

The words hit Harry like a blow, cold and merciless. His heart leapt into his throat, panic swelling before he could control it. “Not on purpose,” he said quickly, almost defensively. But the truth of it twisted inside him, an old wound that never fully healed.

Voldemort leaned forward, disturbing the snake in his lap as it slid to the floor. He fixed Harry with a gaze that felt like it was peeling back layers of his soul. “And that,” Voldemort said softly, “makes it all the more fascinating, does it not? You killed your father with dark magic, and then, years later, you did the same to your mother’s dear friend. Tell me, do you think your mother would ever entrust you with more information? How could she, when you are bound to forces she will never understand?”

The stark reminder of what he had done, of the tragedy that had haunted his family, made Harry feel like the ground beneath him was slipping away. He tried to steady himself, leaning forward in his chair, his breath coming too fast. His father—killed by his own son, by magic too wild and uncontrollable to be stopped. And later, the accident with Remus, when he was old enough to do better.

“It’s not like that,” Harry said, his voice strained. “She’s trying to protect me.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort replied, his voice almost soothing in its quiet menace. “And yet, here you are, meeting with the very man she sought to protect you from.”

And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Harry could feel the truth of it now, sharp and unavoidable. His mother’s fear and her desperate attempts to keep him from this path were meaningless. Harry was no longer the vulnerable little boy she had shielded. He was here, in the heart of the Dark Lord’s world, trying to understand the magic that had sought to define him.

“I’m my own person,” Harry said, finding strength in the words as he spoke them. “I’m ready to understand my magic better, to try and do something good with it. She can come to terms with that or not.”

Voldemort’s smile widened, cold and predatory. He studied Harry closely, his gaze tracing over him as if weighing the truth in his words, calculating his next move. It felt like being under a microscope, every part of him scrutinized.

“I believe,” Voldemort said softly, “you and I will find common ground, Harry. Far more than you realize.” His eyes gleamed with something dark, something that made Harry’s skin prickle with unease. “I would gladly count you among my number, provided you agree to several terms. Are you prepared to hear them?”

So it was time to hear the catch. “I'm listening.”

“For one, you will sign a contract that will grant myself temporary control over a specific portion of your soul following your death.” His lips curled into a wry, wicked shape when Harry breathed in sharply through his nose. “Now, I do not expect you to be educated on the nature of souls. This is something you will learn in detail soon enough. For now, I will explain the basics, as I do not allow my Death Eaters to go into this agreement uninformed.”

Harry nodded slowly, having no idea where Voldemort was going with this.

“A soul,” he began, his voice a quiet echo in the shadows, “is a multi-dimensional element, a reflection of the True Self, shared across each potential timeline of an individual’s existence.” He glanced at Harry, who was already struggling to keep pace. “It’s woven from distinct, independent fragments that together form one identity. Among these pieces lies a rather interesting bit of semi-sentience, often called a Shade. Think of it as a mirror of your personality at its most intense—an aspect that can be trained, honed, and ultimately unleashed to act as an extension of yourself in the physical world. Entirely unnecessary in the afterlife, but exceedingly useful while you’re still among the living.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, “One small requirement I have of my Death Eaters is that they lend me the service of their Shade for a modest three hundred years following their death.”

Harry didn’t know the first thing about that kind of magic, but this deal sounded like some vague muggle thing he’d heard in the Gryffindor common room. Something about selling your soul to the devil. “And after those three hundred years?”

Voldemort seemed amused by the question. “It will be released from my services, and you will be free to retrieve it, if you so wish.”

The leaping flames in the hearth lent Voldemort’s white scales a pinkish outline, aided by his red eyes. Harry stared at him for a moment, thinking hard about his response. “I wouldn't know the first thing about how to do that.”

“Of course not, but you'll learn. Some of my Death Eaters make soul magic their primary area of study. The subject holds promising implications for the afterlife, if you choose to experience one.”

“I can choose if I want an afterlife? Didn't realize that was up to me.”

“Of course it is, but we are getting ahead of ourselves. The fact of the matter is that you are one of the more promising manifestations of the magic I sowed when I reached this world. It is imperative for your continued growth that you are aware of this.”

A thrill ran through Harry’s chest at the mention of the Seeds, a subject which all but blatantly explained that Voldemort had, in some way, played a part in creating Harry’s very being. Seeds took root and changed the thing buried inside of them. The older generations hadn’t been born Seeds, they’d been infected, and it had transformed their magic. It was factual proof that Voldemort’s magic made his afflicted different. Better. Those who were born with it tended to be even more powerful, and their population increased with each new generation.

Harry hated that thrill. He hated how it roared up into his throat when Voldemort looked at him.

“You are a powerful wizard, and as a Death Eater, you are expected to control the trajectory of your own destiny. Although, there is also the option of immortality, thus circumventing the requirement to lend your Shade, as that only applies to those who die.”

Harry knew he looked like an idiot as he blinked at Voldemort. “Immortality?”

Long-knuckled fingers clasped together on Voldemort’s lap, and he leaned forward, looking very closely at Harry. There were faint blue veins under his paperwhite skin, and Harry noticed a highlighting ridge of scales covering his temples, sweeping down to frame his cheekbones. “Mm, yes. I do expect you to be particularly good at that subject.”

If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think Voldemort was teasing him, playing with him, speaking as if they were in on a joke that Harry had forgotten. He was staring, and Harry had never felt so scrutinized in his life.

He felt something pull in his mind, and he shifted, eyes locked on Voldemort’s, all of the air leaking from his lungs. Voldemort looked so strange, so unearthly, like something from a fable. Beautiful, but frightening. Too beautiful. Unapproachable.

He realized Voldemort was speaking. “Oh, Harry,” he all but purred, his voice deep for all its softness, “you have so much to learn.”

The way he so freely used Harry's first name should have been unsettling, but it wasn't. Harry straightened his back. “Like what?”

It was surprising, really, how comfortable he felt sitting and talking with the most powerful man in the world, the Tyrant-King Voldemort, as the Order called him. Even more surprising was the glimpse of sharp teeth when he smiled. “As I’m sure you are aware, there is the final exam.”

Everyone knew about that, seeing as how it was a televised event every year. All of the Death Eaters went on a worldwide journey after finishing the second year of their mysterious training program, and they had to complete challenges and win duels, then give interviews about how much fun they were having. A lot of them died, but that wasn’t glamorized quite as much as all of the world travel and expensive dinners.

“I never understood why you let so many Death Eaters die after putting two years of training into them.”

“I stand to gain a great deal either way. If you are too incompetent to survive, I would have no use for you on the mortal plane, but your Shade would be valuable all the same.”

Oh, right. That. “Can I ask what you do with the Shades?”

Voldemort chuckled, and it was such a cruel and eerie sound that Harry shivered. “No.”

Harry realized he was chewing on his lip. He stopped, but immediately started up again as he thought it all over. “I take it we’re meant to spend our first two years preparing for this competition, and anything we need to know in order to survive will come up in our lessons, one way or another.”

“Provided you don’t select the wrong classes.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and while Harry knew that squirming feeling in his head was Voldemort reading his thoughts, there was another, more peculiar sensation in his chest, like the disorientation that might come with the flu. If Voldemort had identified the oddity while digging in Harry's head, he wasn't forthcoming with what he had gathered.

“So those are the only two terms?” Harry asked. “Three centuries of indentured service after death and a two year deadline for when it might happen?”

Voldemort spread out his open hands in a generous gesture. “Essentially, yes. You are also required to attend all meetings and respond promptly to all summons. Any further participation is entirely at your discretion. Your stipend will go into effect the moment you take the Dark Mark, and you will be provided with a schedule detailing all voluntary classes, events, and other miscellaneous opportunities. This will arrive shortly following your Hogwarts graduation ceremony. Do with it as you will.”

Was he really going to do this? “And I won't be immediately conscripted into your army?”

“No. You will be no common footsoldier.” He said it quite severely, as if it wouldn’t happen even if Harry wanted to be a soldier. “If that were the case, I'd hardly tolerate so many questions.”

That stopped Harry short. “In that case, can I ask another one?”

“By all means.”

Harry knew he was getting too comfortable, too familiar, and he assumed Voldemort had enchantments in place to foster that atmosphere, and he knew he was approaching dangerous territory. But this was a rare opportunity to talk to someone who might have answers and might be willing to share them.

“Do you know what’s going on with my magic?” He said it quickly, and immediately wished he phrased it more eloquently, but all he could do was push forward. “You referenced my dad, and Remus, so you must know all about what happened. And I know you’re the reason Professor Lestrange helped me so much, and the earring was your idea.” He touched it, and Voldemort’s eyes tracked the motion. “I know you have lots of Seeds, but are any of them… like me?”

Voldemort leaned forward, and his forked tongue poked out to wet his lips. “As I have said, you are unusually powerful, even for one of my Chosen. Sometimes, the influence of my magic takes hold of a soul and transcends it into something beyond common nature. You have proven to be the ideal soil for my Seed to flourish. It is imperative that I claim you as one of my own, Harry Potter.” He stared at Harry, his expression almost… hungry. “Rest assured, given diligence and training, you will have perfect control over your power.”

He watched Harry, waiting for a response while worming through his brain. Harry straightened in his seat. “What if I say no?”

“Then you would likely join the Order, and you would be cast out when your magic slips out of your control and kills a teammate. Or you’d be killed by one of my own. They’re very good at killing members of the Order, as you’ve seen for yourself.” Voldemort said it dismissively, like it meant nothing to him, like it should mean nothing to Harry. “I am certain that you know the death of Remus Lupin could have been avoided. You were repressed and taught to clamp down on your potential until it reached a breaking point. The tragedy that struck down Mr. Lupin would not have occurred if you’d been provided with a healthy outlet. I tried to offer assistance to you and your mother immediately following the passing of James Potter, of course, and your mother declined.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Did you really?”

“Yes, and then your mother moved you to an Unplottable location, as though she imagined I was in the business of kidnapping infants.” Voldemort leaned back, steepling his long fingers. “I knew you would come to me eventually.”

Guilt punched Harry’s chest and he looked away, covering his mouth with his hand as he thought about his childhood, his mother’s warnings that Voldemort was a boogeyman and would come after him, would find him in the dark if he misbehaved. And now he sat inside the monster’s jaws.

“She was so certain you were going to come after me.”

Voldemort smiled again, and this time, it was an intimate thing that made something twist in Harry’s gut. “Your life will become so much more as a Death Eater. The average wizard lives, experiences some magic, and eventually dies after several decades of mediocrity. You have the potential for so much more.”

Voldemort’s expression was grave and oddly handsome. Harry was past the point of worrying over how attractive he found the Dark Lord. How attractive he found all of this.

“Thus poses the question, Harry Potter, the reason why you are here tonight. Will you accept my Mark?”

Harry looked away, too nervous to speak. His eyes skimmed over the titles held on a nearby bookshelf, and while most were not in English, the ones that were reminded him of why he'd come, and why he'd already made his decision.

“Yes.”

Voldemort’s smile did not reach his eyes. Those narrowed, turning cruel and triumphant as he picked up his wand. “Excellent. Kneel before me and push back your left sleeve.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn't expected it to happen immediately, but he supposed it was better to get it over with. He got out of the chair and lowered to his knees, close enough for Voldemort to reach him.

It was so silent in the room, save for the crackling fire. Harry noticed Voldemort had bare feet peeking under his heavy robe, and wondered where the snake had gone. Would he hear it if it came up behind him?

Voldemort’s wand had several knobs along the length that made it look less like a bit of wood and more like a piece of functional art. It pressed against the skin on Harry's exposed arm, sharp enough to almost hurt.

Harry could feel the magic well around them, thick and heavy, rolling through the air like smoke before collecting at the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Bracing for it would only make it worse, Harry was sure, but he held his breath all the same.

It hurt at first. He felt the skin on his forearm burning, and he squeezed his eyes closed. This was it. He was giving in to the inevitable, and the combination of so many emotions rocked through him, but that was quickly taken away by an overwhelming response to Voldemort’s magic.

A black serpent of Legilimency pushed through his mind the moment the Dark Mark appeared on his arm. It wrapped around his mind, recognizing the Seed and breathing life into it, triggering rapid growth. Harry saw a bright flash through closed eyes right before lightning ripped his brow open. His back hit the floor as he felt something push into his head, filling his lungs, his bloodstream, and he clutched his face in his hands, rolling with shock. His entire body was tingling like it had fallen asleep, and that was so overwhelming that it hurt, but then it was gone and replaced with a steady, warm glow.

There was blood smeared across his palms when he opened his eyes a moment later, but that was less urgent than how he was slumped on the floor and leaning against Voldemort’s legs, his fingers tangled around bunches of heavy robes. Voldemort stared down at him, his pale expression entirely devoid of emotion.

“I—I'm sorry,” Harry stammered. His body was electrified, twitching slightly and much too warm, and he shuddered at the realization that he had an erection. He fell away from Voldemort, landing hard on his hands before scrambling into a proper kneel, searching Voldemort’s penetrating eyes and wondering if this was a normal response to receiving the Mark. Something moved, nudging him from behind, and he nearly fell over when he realized it was the massive snake.

“You are to address me properly, as all Death Eaters do.” Voldemort said, his voice very soft, like a hissed and eerie whisper.

“I'm sorry, my Lord.” Harry didn't much like saying it, but using the proper title shot a tremor of ecstasy through him, starting at his Dark Mark and radiating outward. He gasped at the sensation and clapped his hand over the Mark, and that sent a shockwave of tingles through him that took his breath away.

Harry could have sworn the snake muttered something, but that was ridiculous. It slithered away, and he could feel its powerful muscles moving beneath pale, reflective scales, strong enough to curl around him and crush out his life if it chose, which would probably be a mercy at this point.

“Come here,” Voldemort murmured as soon as the snake left, so softly that Harry would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking right at him.

When Harry moved forward on his knees, Voldemort leaned in close enough to tilt up Harry’s chin with his finger. “You’re trembling. Tell me, is my Mark truly that excruciating to bear?”

“N-no.” Harry’s heart was in his throat. “I think I’m reacting to your magic. It f-feels good.”

“Interesting.” His hand released Harry’s chin and moved down to trace Harry’s mark. “Do you feel any pain at all? Most report a considerable level of burning for the first few hours.”

“Maybe it—” Harry’s breath hitched when Voldemort’s index finger pressed against the center of the Mark. “Ah-h… hasn’t set in yet?”

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully and stroked the top of the serpent, and it felt so good that Harry’s head rolled back as he let out a long, embarrassing whine.

“I’m impressed by your enthusiasm,” Voldemort murmured, though he was frowning. He pressed harder, watching Harry’s reaction, and Harry cried out. Liquid pleasure rolled up and down his spine, and he jerked his hips up, utterly helpless as Voldemort continued stroking his arm. “Touch yourself.”

Harry’s free hand flew into the opening in his robe and he pulled his cock from his trousers. It was frightening how badly he wanted it, and a distant voice in the back of his mind was screaming, telling him this was stupid, that he’d regret it for the rest of his life, but the rest of him didn’t care.

“Yes,” Voldemort whispered as Harry palmed himself and squeezed his eyes shut. “You like this, don’t you? Can you feel my magic combining with yours?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s head rolled forward, sweat dampening his brow. “I can feel it. I—”

“Let go,” Voldemort murmured, leaning down to speak directly into Harry’s ear. His thumbnail pushed into the Dark Mark, digging a fiery crescent. “I’ll make you come, and you only need to lose yourself to the connection.”

Harry didn’t understand, but he gripped his cock and moaned deep in his chest, losing all composure, forgetting where he was and who he was with. His body moved instinctively, rhythmically, following the beat of the magic as it flowed through him.

It was as if a cord connected them, and it was growing thicker by the second. Harry leaned into it as Voldemort whispered soft things, urging Harry on, until Harry’s vision whited out, and pleasure filled every part of him, his cock twitching in his fist as he spilled over. He fell against Voldemort’s legs for the second time that evening, closing his eyes for a moment until he could catch his breath.

His robe was hitched around his back, his fly undone and his trousers yanked down to his upper thighs. He felt debauched, and desired, and entirely pleased with himself. The air smelled like sweat and sex, and he had a persistent need to find out if Voldemort was hard under his robe. He had no idea what to say, but Voldemort was just looking at him, and his serpentine features were impossible to read.

“I hope you don’t do that with all your new Death Eaters,” Harry said, and then he laughed because he was nervous and thrilled, looking for some sign that Voldemort expected reciprocation.

Voldemort frowned, and with a wave of his wand, all of Harry’s sweat and come and blood washed away. “You may go now. Expect correspondence by owl shortly.”

Oh. Right. They were in a meeting and people were waiting in the other room. Harry stood, and Voldemort did something so unexpected that it took Harry a moment to respond. He raised his hand, palm down, offering it to Harry. When Harry did the only thing that made even the slightest bit of sense, taking the Dark Lord’s hand in his own in order to kiss the back of it, he was rewarded with a tremendous rush of pleasure, radiating out from the Dark Mark and vibrating down to the tips of his toes.

“Thank you for meeting with me, my Lord,” Harry murmured, his breath shuddering as another rush of pleasure met his words. He’d always thought the way Death Eaters heaped praise and high titles when they talked about Voldemort was gross, but now he understood why they did it. “I look forward to impressing you.”

Voldemort lifted his chin, regarding Harry with cold superiority. “See that you do.”

And that was that. Harry took his leave, returning to the room where the others waited.

Chapter Text

It was like a spell ended the moment Harry shut the door to Voldemort’s study. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath before turning around.

“Oh, come now, it wasn’t that bad,” Pansy said.

Harry almost laughed. His ears were ringing, his heart was pounding in his throat, and he needed to get out of there immediately. That meeting had been…

He didn’t really know how it had been, because he needed to go away and process what had actually happened, and what it all meant. If he started thinking about it too soon, he risked the chance of dropping dead of mortification right then and there. Unfortunately, he’d left his Portkey on his chair in their tidy little circle, and he couldn’t just run away.

Blaise looked at Harry with some concern. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I—” Harry’s throat closed up, keeping him from speaking. Bloody likely there was some curse keeping him from sharing any details of his meeting with anyone who didn’t have a Dark Mark yet. “I’m okay. About to head back, but I left my Portkey in here.”

He felt Pansy’s eyes on him, and she looked like she wanted to say something, but she pressed her lips together and he knew she’d track him down first thing in the morning. He retrieved his letter from the floor by his chair and nodded to Pansy and Blaise. “See you later.”

“Join us at breakfast, won’t you?” Pansy said, and it didn’t sound at all like a request so much as a demand.

Harry nodded, all too eager to get out of there. “See you then.”

Pressing his thumb to the wax seal, then felt a prickling sensation in his Dark Mark before the Portkey activated. It made him wonder for a split second how well the Portkey would have worked if he hadn’t taken the mark, but then he was twisting through space, distracted by the question when he landed hard on his arse in Draco’s bedroom, right where they had departed.

Draco had his sleeve pushed back, standing in front of his full-length mirror to stare at his Dark Mark. His eyes were red and puffy, as if he’d been crying, but the moment he noticed Harry’s arrival, his back straightened and he grabbed his wand, waving it at his face and muttering. In an instant, his skin was back to its usual flawless state.

“Potter.”

Harry never would have thought someone like Draco would be so upset about becoming a Death Eater. “After tonight, I seriously think you can call me Harry, mate.”

Draco blinked a few times, as if something about Harry’s face surprised him. He seemed focused on Harry’s forehead. “He didn’t… are you alright?”

“Why?” Harry touched his forehead, and it gave a dull throb, so he went to look at himself in Draco’s mirror. There was a pale white scar stretched down one side of his face in the shape of a lightning strike—jagged lines cutting through his eyebrow, skipping his eye before tapering off into his cheek. “What the fuck?”

“He didn’t say anything to you about it?” Draco asked, his eyes wide. When Harry shook his head, he frowned. “Well, did he give you a Dark Mark?”

“Of course.” Harry turned away from the mirror and pulled up his sleeve. “But I don’t know what the scar is... I remember it—hurting?

His skin radiated heat like a sunburn, and the black ink made a stark contrast against his skin. Draco laughed. “You really did it. Consider me shocked.”

“Might have been a bit awkward to come all the way out there just to turn him down in the end.” Harry tensed when a sharp bite of pain flared through the mark, as if chiding him for being so flippant about their Lord. “How long do you think I could get away with wearing long sleeves around my mum?”

Draco laughed again, and it sounded genuine that time instead of just incredulous. “I wouldn’t bother. Everyone will know soon enough. I’d be more concerned about your forehead, honestly. Although, strange things do tend to happen with Seeds, don’t they?”

Harry shrugged and went around the privacy screen Draco had beside his wardrobe to swap out the borrowed clothes for his own shirt, trousers, and Gryffindor robe. He cast another cleaning spell on Draco’s clothes for good measure, and then returned to the mirror to help charm away the scar on his forehead. It was unusually stubborn, but he managed to make the edges of it blur into his skin, and his hair covered the part over his eyebrow where the skin was especially scarred. Someone would have to look at him from a very close distance to see it.

Once satisfied, he said goodbye to Draco. “I need to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, since Pansy has demanded my presence at breakfast.”

“Alright.” Draco fidgeted, which seemed very unlike him. “Ah, Harry, I want you to know that I’m glad you’re with us.”

“Oh.” Harry paused, caught off guard by the admission. “Thanks. Me too, I think.”

He left then, eager to go someplace private so he could figure out if that squirming in his gut was the beginning of a scream or not.

Previous to that evening, Voldemort was the last person Harry would have thought of sexually, but he wasn’t upset. He really wasn’t. Embarrassed, sure, and more than a bit terrified, but thinking back on it gave him a thrill. Had he wanted to jerk off in front of Voldemort? It wasn’t the sort of thing a person could plan ahead for. Voldemort telling him to touch himself was the hottest thing that had ever happened to Harry, and the command played through his mind over and over as he walked back to Gryffindor Tower. There was no doubt that he had liked it. He wanted to do it again.

And then there was his new scar, which was going to be a lot more difficult to hide than the Dark Mark. He knew there were such things as magical scars and other body markings, and he also knew weird magic tended to happen to Seeds, particularly as they approached adulthood. Professor Lestrange talked about that all the time, but she never said anything about scars and she purposefully withheld information on what could happen when they got their marks.

The Fat Lady greeted him at the entrance to the common room, swinging open to reveal the place he’d considered his home for the past seven years. It was late, but several people were still up, including Ron and Neville playing chess by the stairs.

“Hey,” Harry said, angling toward the stairs in hope of heading straight to bed.

“You missed Astronomy,” Ron said, staring at the chessboard. He glanced up at Harry and frowned. “You alright?”

Was there something written on Harry’s face that was giving him away? “Just tired.”

Ron grunted. “Potions in the morning.”

“Oh, right. I should get off to bed too, then.” Neville sighed and moved a chess piece, and Ron immediately checked him. Chuckling, Neville moved his queen to a position where Ron claimed it in the next turn.

Feeling a bit rude, Harry turned and walked up the stairs, headed straight for his room at the very top of the tower. There was the sound of the seventh-year boys’ dormitory door opening and then closing, but then Harry heard steps following him up. He turned at his own door and saw Ron behind him.

“What’s up?” Harry asked.

Ron met his eyes before darting them down to the floor. “Can we talk in your room for a minute?”

“Um…” Harry paused. He made a point to avoid letting anyone else in there, in case they noticed the oppressive effect of the lead in the walls, which made anyone’s magic about ten times heavier than ordinary. It helped to crush Harry’s magic down into its body when it would overwhelm the room otherwise, and he had enough surplus magic where it wasn’t uncomfortable to live with, but most people would feel sore and irritable after a few minutes.

If there was an excuse that would get Harry out of this conversation, he was too tired to think of it. Maybe honesty was his best bet. “Sure, mate, but I’m really tired.”

“Won’t be a minute.”

Harry let him inside and immediately went to throw off his robe, then realized his Mark might be visible under his white shirtsleeve. He couldn’t be sure enough to risk it, so he kept the robe on and stood awkwardly by his wardrobe.

“So, what’s going on with you and Lavender?” Ron asked.

Oh. Harry sighed and took off his glasses before rubbing his eyes. “Nothing, mate, I barely even know her.”

“It’s just you went to that shady party with her, and then you both stayed out all night tonight. If you’re a couple, that’s alright, I’d just like to know.” Judging by his tone, it didn’t sound like it’d actually be alright.

“Maybe she made some new friends at the party. She’s probably with them.”

Ron frowned. “Then where were you all night?”

Harry’s brain blanked out for a second as he searched for a good lie. “Got sidetracked researching.”

“Researching?” Ron snorted and turned to look around Harry’s room. He let out a long whistle. “They’ve got you set up nicely here. This is better than Hermione’s room, and she’s Head Girl.” His eyes landed on the envelopes next to Harry’s bed. A storm of emotions passed over his face, landing on worry. “You really were researching, weren’t you? Reading up on the dark arts?”

“Better that than going out with Lavender, I reckon,” Harry muttered.

Ron scowled, and much to Harry’s frustration, he sat down on the foot of Harry’s bed. “I just don’t know how to handle girls, mate. Makes me wish I could find a hobby like you, care about that instead.”

“You think I’m not chatting up girls because I’m too busy with my dark arts hobby?” Harry immediately thought of Voldemort looking down on him, the feeling of a long nail cutting into the Dark Mark. He sat on his bed. “Actually, that’s a good point. That might just be it.”

“So there’s really nothing between you and Lavender?”

“No, mate. I’m not interested in her like that.” Ron let out a relieved sigh and flopped onto his back at that.. “I’m not interested in anyone, actually. Not really something I think about.”

Not until today.

“Oh.” Ron went quiet for a moment, and Harry hoped he hadn’t fallen asleep. “I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.”

Harry tried imagining a relationship with someone like Voldemort before realizing that was actually insane. “Eh. I kind of doubt it, but I’m not too worried.”

“Really?”

“Really.” They fell into silence, and Harry’s eyes started to close of their own accord. “Hey, I’m about to pass out, do you think we could talk more tomorrow?”

“Right. Of course.” Ron pushed himself up onto his feet with a grunt, wobbling slightly. If he stayed much longer, the effect of the lead walls would probably give him a splitting headache. “G’night.”

The moment the door closed, Harry got up and stripped off his robe to check just how obvious the Dark Mark was through his shirtsleeve, and confirmed that his paranoia was well placed. He could definitely see a black shape through the fabric, though it was hard to tell precisely what it was. Still, there were only so many possibilities, given the placement and size. That was kind of concerning, but he supposed he could keep his robe on whenever he left his room until the school year was over. Draco had pointed out how stupid that was, but Harry just wanted to enjoy the end of his time at Hogwarts before everything got complicated. And then he’d never have to worry about it ever again, because he’d be an established Death Eater, and there’d be no keeping his friends from hating him.

That was a scary thought, but they’d forgive him one day when they learned he’d only done it with the best intentions.

Harry changed into pajamas and got into bed, rolling onto his back to stare at his mark. His magic diffused around him as it always did when he finally made it to his room, where it was safe to let it loose. While the magic looked black, it was especially shiny, reflecting the light radiating off a bottled Lumos on his bedside table. Fascinatingly, the snake shifted whenever he prodded it with his fingers. It made him wonder how cognizant Voldemort was of all the marks and if he could spy on his Death Eaters through them. It made sense that he would; these people were his investments.

Exhaustion tugged Harry into sleep, but he tried to stay awake a while longer, looking at his mark and wondering how one might feel out the shape and size of one's soul, or how to use this so-called shade Voldemort had mentioned. But there wasn’t much use in thinking about it now since Harry had no idea what to even look for.

He woke up the following day surprisingly refreshed, though his bedroom looked as if an explosion had gone off. Ignoring the scorch marks covering the walls, floor, and ceiling, he did his best to conceal his new scar with spells and his hair, dressed, and hurried downstairs. Neville and Ron were waiting for him in the common room, and they all walked to breakfast together. They chatted about nothing of importance as Harry stopped at the Gryffindor table to say hello to Hermione. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then carried the maroon and gold mug to the Slytherin table.

Draco had his sleeves rolled up, putting his Dark Mark on full display for the whole world to see. Harry stopped dead in his tracks, took a long sip of coffee, and returned to sit with the Gryffindors.

“Harry!” Pansy called out. “Come back, love! We have so much to discuss!”

It seemed likely the entire Hogwarts population had heard that. Harry caught Ron’s eye, who gave him an incredulous look. “Love?” he mouthed, and Harry shook his head.

“It’s not like that,” Harry tried to communicate from the other side of the Ravenclaw table. “She’s just really friendly.”

He was sure Ron didn’t catch any of that because he shook his head and waved Harry over as if he wasn’t already walking toward him. The Gryffindors were all staring at him when he finally sat down, squeezing into a gap between Ginny and Sean. “I said it’s not like that. She’s just joking around.”

“I thought you were going to join us for breakfast,” Blaise said, suddenly right behind Harry, who startled and turned around to look at the frowning Slytherin.

“Sure, up until I saw Draco’s little display over there.”

“What’s the prat doing this time?” Ginny asked, twisting around to look at the other table.

“Draco has had the honor of receiving our Lord’s Dark Mark. If only we could all be so lucky,” Blaise replied, his tone too dry to give away anything. Harry watched him very carefully.

“Took long enough,” Ron said with a sneer. “You’d think someone like him was born with one.”

Blaise ignored him, his attention fully locked on Harry. “When’s your free period?”

“Right now. I’ll be at the library.”

Blaise glanced up as the morning post arrived, several dozen owls flying overhead. “Excellent. I’ll see you there.”

It wasn’t easy to shake Hermione when he mentioned he was going to the library, but he managed to get a table to himself. The fact that he wanted to sit in the back corner of the library, close to the Dark Arts books, helped get rid of her, if reluctantly. This meeting place was perfect because it was the first place Blaise would look, and Harry genuinely needed to use some of the books for an assignment.

The back corner of the library had a large stained glass window depicting Voldemort’s victory over the dread Overlords Dumbledore and Grindelwald. There was a lot of art showing Voldemort’s various accomplishments scattered throughout the castle, but this was Harry’s favorite. Voldemort towered over the two decrepit evil wizards, a dark silhouette backlit with green glass, dozens of black comets flying away from him to represent the Seeds, which burst into existence the very moment he sundered the laws of reality to reach this dimension.

Voldemort the plane-traveler, the star-skipper, the immortal being from beyond the blackest reaches of space. He saw that their world needed saving, and so he came and took it. The Order of the Phoenix had a different version of the story, but everyone agreed and understood that Voldemort was from a completely different dimension and that he was here to stay.

This legendary Dark Lord owned a little bit of Harry’s soul, now. He had also stared pretty intensely at Harry’s cock last night.

“Feels different looking at it after last night,” Draco said quietly, standing with Blaise and Pansy across the table from Harry. He nodded at the stained glass, clearly noting how Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

“I can’t believe you snubbed me in front of the whole school,” Pansy sniffed.

Harry looked away from the stained glass and rubbed his tingling forearm. “I can’t believe Draco was flaunting his mark in front of the whole school.”

“Of course I was, because unlike you, I’m not ashamed of my allegiance to the Dark Lord.” Draco sat down across from Harry, his sleeves still rolled up like he hadn’t been sniffling over it last night.

“I’m not ashamed. I just want to make this last month with the Gryffindors bearable.”

“I’m certain you could request a transfer to Slytherin from Professor Lestrange,” Blaise said, sitting next to Draco. “I’ve heard you need a lead-lined room as well, and I’m open to sharing mine, if necessary.”

Blaise’s magic was dangerous while he slept, too? Harry always wondered how many other Seeds needed special accommodations, but he never talked to any of them about that. Which was stupid, really, because why wouldn’t he want to talk about his experiences with the only people who could understand what he was dealing with? What had he been so afraid of?

“I really don’t want to finish out my year like that. They’re my friends…” He trailed off, braced for one of them to scoff at him, but they didn’t. “They’re going to be hurt by this.”

“Harry, sweetness,” Pansy started, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. “How do I put this delicately? You’re supposed to celebrate this. Our Lord is the leader of our country, remember? Opposing him implies criminal behavior. Do you really intend to lurk about in the shadows with your felon-in-training friends, pretending to be one of them for another month? To lie to them? They’ll forgive you if you tell them now, but they already know what you are. They should have faced the facts years ago and known this was your destiny. But if they find out you’ve kept this hidden from them, why, I imagine they’d carry that hurt to their graves.”

“What makes you think they’d forgive me if I tell them now?”

“Lord,” Pansy muttered, glancing up at the stained glass before placing her hands on Harry’s shoulders and turning him around so he fully faced her. “Harry. Sweetheart. You are so adorable and talented and so very, very honored, so I fail to understand why it is so difficult for you to wrap your handsome little head around this. The Dark Lord is our supreme leader, and we are his Death Eaters. His chosen. You are his chosen. The option to say no was simply nonexistent.”

“Not true. I almost turned it down.”

She laughed derisively. “It would have happened eventually.”

“I think I deserve a day to think about it, alright?” Harry conceded, before pulling his book in front of him and flipping it open. “Now, if you don’t mind, I needed to study up on those blood curses Lestrange was going on about.”

“I don’t think so.” She picked up the book and tucked it under her arm. “How was your meeting? You were with him for a very long time.”

Mercy. Of course he’d been in there for ages. It made him wonder how long he’d been slumped against Voldemort’s legs while the Dark Mark embedded itself into his skin, and that thought made him flush, remembering what had immediately followed. His mark started prickling, and he pushed back his sleeve to look at it. “Do any of yours feel kind of weird, on and off?”

“Whenever I think of our Lord,” Blaise replied, and the other two nodded. “We’re still solidifying our bond with him, I think.”

“That’s right,” Draco confirmed. “There’s soul magic at play, and it can take a few weeks to settle in. The more we think of him, the better the connection will become. And from what I understand, if we feel any regret for this decision, it’ll start to hurt.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “Funny, you’d think he would have mentioned that.”

“He did?” Pansy said, confused. “He mentioned it to me, at least. But it’s unavoidable, isn’t it? I’m pretty much obsessed at this point.” Draco and Blaise nodded.

“Huh.” Harry drew his arm closer to get a better look. The snake wiggled in response to his breath.

“Well, isn’t this a charming little meeting!” Hermione exclaimed. Harry whirled around in his seat and saw her standing right behind him. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide with shock.

“Shit,” Harry said, because he was an idiot. “Hermione, I—”

“Save it!” She glared at him, shaking her head. “I should have known. I can’t believe I’m so surprised by this!”

She hurried away, muttering to herself. Harry stood up to follow her, but Blaise touched his arm. “Careful, Harry. She’s fast approaching treasonous behavior, and you really don’t want to be implicated in that.”

Harry jerked his arm away. “She’s my friend. I can’t just—”

“That’s exactly why you need to let her go. Give her some space to cool off,” Pansy said, her tone gentle. “She’s a smart girl, she’ll figure out quickly enough that this was the best possible decision you could have made for yourself.”

Harry sat down, shaking his head. “She might, but I doubt any of the others will and she’s off to tell them about it right now.”

“Lord, I had no idea the entirety of Gryffindor house was compromised.” Draco said, sneering.

Blaise looked genuinely worried. “I think it’s best you avoid the Gryffindors. Who knows how they might retaliate.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scoffed. “They’re my friends. It’ll be fine.”

It was not, in fact, fine. Harry sat through class with several Gryffindors without issue, but it was too early in the day for news to have spread. He noticed some whispering on the way to the Great Hall that evening, so he opted to skip dinner and went back to the tower, where he passed the Fat Lady and was promptly hit with a stunner.

He opened his eyes in a dimly-lit room, and it took him a moment to realize it was the seventh-year boys’ washroom, all the way at the top of the tower. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were there, with Neville lingering against the back wall. The night sky was pitch black through the narrow window, so the rest of the Gryffindors were probably in bed.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked. He tried to get up and saw that his legs were bound together. “Oh, come on, can we talk about this?”

“Yeah, we can talk right now,” Ron said. He was as pale as a sheet, clutching his wand and Harry’s in his fist.

“Why did you do it, Harry? I thought we were your friends,” Hermione asked, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. “I thought we were in this together.”

He looked down and saw that his sleeve was rolled up, the Dark Mark on full display. The snake danced along his skin, as if responding to his attention, but the Gryffindors were the ones who hissed.

“I had to do it,” he rasped, the guilt in his chest crushing him and making him ill. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

This was so stupid, so infuriatingly unfair of both him and them. He should have talked to them, probably, or at least that’s what they would insist, but they knew just as well as him that the Seeds belonged to Voldemort.

“I killed my d-dad,” Harry went on, his voice breaking. “I killed my dad and Remus, you know, and that’s because I don’t know what I’m doing. I need help and the Death Eaters are the only ones who know how to help Seeds—”

“I told you it was a compulsion spell,” Ron said. “Don’t worry, mate. The Order will keep you hidden from them. They’ve got all sorts of wards—”

Tears were streaming down Ginny’s cheeks. “No, Ron. I don’t think it’s a compulsion. He has a point.”

Neville nodded along with her, and Hermione had her hand pressed against her throat like she wanted to strangle herself.

“This was the only way I’ll ever figure out why my magic is like… like this,” Harry pleaded with Ron, relieved that the other three seemed to understand, at least a little.

Something broke in Ron’s face. “But you can’t! You’re gonna run off and we’re never going to see you again!”

Harry wanted to assure him that it wasn’t true, that they’d still spend time together, but he knew as well as Ron that Death Eaters rarely socialized with civilians. They didn’t have the time, and there wasn’t much for them to talk about. Harry had accepted that he’d need to leave his world behind to do this, but being faced by his favorite parts of that world was so painful it made his chest hurt. Ron was better than a brother. They’d grown up together. Maybe one day, he’d understand that this was all in the Order’s best interests, but Harry knew better than to push the subject right now. Ron needed time to process these things, and he would be the sort of prat to tie Harry up and force a confrontation immediately.

“It was always going to go this way, mate,” Harry said.

He tried to put on a weak smile but he didn’t see if Ron returned it because Hermione stamped her foot on the floor. “No! Don’t you see he’s trying to manipulate us?” She looked at the others, her hair whipping her face as she turned. “The Order could have helped him! Plenty of Seeds don’t join the Death Eaters, they go on and live ordinary lives, but you couldn’t help yourself, Harry, could you?”

Ginny shook her head and pulled out her wand. “Shut up, Hermione. You know that only works out for the ones who don’t manifest that much dark magic, and we all know Harry has loads of it, and that he couldn’t have chosen that for himself. You’re jealous that he’s stronger than you and you know it. Come on, guys, let’s just leave him alone.”

Neville disarmed Ginny before she could help Harry, and then they fell into bickering around him, and all of the sudden, Harry realized that he’d lost hold of his magic. It was the first time it’d been this loose outside of his lead-lined bedroom since he’d gotten his ear piercing, and his first impulse was to panic. Too much power demanded to be let out, and it was so much bigger than him. His forearm burned and the enchanted hoop in his ear felt white-hot. He curled over himself, trying to physically press his magic back inside before it overflowed.

Something was wrong. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Blackened magic spooled out of him, and no matter how he tried to call it back, it wouldn’t go away.

Ron yelped, falling when a tentacle made of black shiny magic lashed his ankles. More flooded out of Harry, working its way out of his eyes, his mouth, his pores, hitting the floor and walls in sticky black ropes, wrapping around his friends and burning through their clothes. It melted through the floor, caustic, smelling like artificial sweetener as it burned saccharine holes into reality, consuming everything it touched. Screaming all the while, his friends ran for the door, Hermione pulling Ron out by his arm as the floor turned into black tar, but none of them made it out before the floor collapsed. Harry panicked, desperately focusing on his magic and pulling it all back, even as it lashed him against the wall to keep him safe as the floor crumbled.

Everything was collapsing.

A ringing filled his ears, drowning out all other sound, and his vision went black as he struggled to pull it all back inside, to contain the wild magic surging through him. His earring was fire against his skin, unable to stop him. The tower was crumbling around him, stones splitting and boulders crashing to the earth, the air thick with dust and screams. There were no books on this in the Hogwarts library. He’d searched since that day with Remus, had even asked Professor Lestrange. She had only smiled, saying that good things come to those who wait.

He should have tried harder. He should have known better.

“Don’t you see?” he gasped, squeezing his eyes closed, as though shutting it all out would make it vanish. “This is why I needed to do it. I don’t know what I’m doing! I need their help!”

But his words echoed into emptiness. No one was there to listen.

After a while, he forced himself to open his eyes, to look around. He was alone. Far below, through the gaping hole in the floor, the screaming continued, faint and terrible.

Harry was not ready to face large groups. He walked into the Slytherin common room with all of his possessions packed in his trunk, which was tucked under one arm, his bookbag carrying all of the rest. There were only a few weeks left in his last year at Hogwarts, and he would be spending them with the Slytherins.

Gryffindor Tower was uninhabitable for the foreseeable future, due to the massive hole starting in the seventh-year boys’ washroom and penetrating several stories down—that plus the fact that almost every single one of the Gryffindors had been killed in the accident, so there wasn’t much use for the structure at that time, anyway. There were less than a dozen survivors, who were spread between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for the final weeks of school. Harry had the privilege of joining the other new Death Eaters in Slytherin.

Several dozen people had died, most of their bodies crushed under heavy stone and covered in burns. Harry couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t stand himself and didn’t think he deserved anything less than Azkaban, but instead, he was moving into Blaise’s luxurious suite.

Professor Lestrange had told him it was a beautiful reaction to their Lord’s magic, which had sensed he was in danger and acted as a form of self defense that couldn’t have been helped. It was a confirmation of all he was and all he would become. Harry tried looking at it that way and it made him vomit.

Thoroughly sedated with Calming Draughts, he took the long walk down to the Slytherin common room, avoiding eye contact with the professors as they worked to restore the tower. Thankfully, the dungeon was empty, save for Blaise, Pansy, and Draco. They had probably told the rest to clear out.

“Ah, there he is, the man of the hour,” Blaise declared. “Welcome home, Harry.”

“Took you long enough to get here,” Draco added.

The Calming Draughts were doing their job. Harry was too sedated for the wave of nausea washing over him to make it up his throat. He waited there, zombie-like, until Blaise led the way to the safety of his lead-lined bedroom.

The dampening effect on their magic was a blessed relief that almost knocked Harry out immediately. His head was killing him and his thoughts slid together like oil over water. Everything slung around his arms fell to the floor with a clatter as he landed face-down on a bed done up in the scarlet bedding from his old room.

Blaise was saying something by the door, but Harry didn’t catch it. After a while, he felt the air shift as the door closed.

He already knew he wouldn’t be falling asleep any time soon, but pretending was better than nothing.

Chapter Text

Harry stared out the window at the crowd below, a teeming mass of faces that looked too small and harmless to be so utterly terrifying. Yet there he stood, feet glued to the floor, no closer to joining them than he was to taking off and running in the opposite direction.

That morning, the house elves hadn’t sent him his usual extra-strength Calming Draught with breakfast. They hadn’t even left him a normal Calming Draught. They'd slipped one into his tray each day for weeks and today, of all days, was when he needed it most. His emotions weren’t something he could just will away; they were too sharp, too dangerous, needing to be buried deep down where they wouldn’t ruin him. Without that potion, stepping out of Blaise's room to face the world felt like stepping off a cliff.

Because today wasn’t just any day—it was graduation day for all of the surviving seventh years. The day he’d have to venture out into the sunlight, face the crowd, and endure the judgment of people he didn’t care about, people he had to leave behind without a backward glance. Worst of all, his mother would be there.

He’d written to her a few days after it happened, even though every word felt like he was tearing something loose from his chest. He had to be the one to tell her, to put it in his own terms before the Daily Prophet twisted it into some hero’s tale of a brave young wizard taking down a menace within the school. Because that wasn’t what happened. It wasn’t some noble act—it was a stupid accident caused by an idiotic monster. Not that his mother would believe the Prophet's version for a second.

It had been a few weeks since Harry had left Blaise’s bedroom for more than an hour at a time. He was practically a piece of the furniture by now, which had to grate on Blaise's nerves, but he had let it slide without complaint. Harry went to his NEWT exams, thoroughly sedated with a melange of potions. It wasn’t like he needed high exam marks to secure a career. Death Eaters and mass murderers tended to skip that part.

Professor Lestrange didn’t help, either. She seemed convinced she knew exactly what he was going through, and had sent him a series of notes that read like a bizarre pep talk. Apparently, her own magic had been lethal when she was his age, and although she hadn’t been burdened with any inconvenient guilt, she did claim a body count of fellow students. Her advice was to drop the guilt and embrace his future, which she assured him was dazzling.

Dazzling. The word left a bad taste in his mouth. If being a Death Eater meant treating every reckless injury and senseless death like it was something worth celebrating, then Harry didn’t see his “dazzling” career path lasting very long.

At least Blaise’s presence was grounding. Blaise hadn’t murdered anyone himself, but his magic thrashed around in the room while he slept, leaving scorch marks on walls and furniture every other morning. Both of them were unharmed, every time. When Harry pointed this out, Blaise just raised an eyebrow and said, "Did you really think they'd let us share a room if it could actually hurt us?" Like the Ministry had some secret rule against letting young Death Eaters roast each other in their sleep.

“You can’t just stand here all day,” Pansy said, joining Harry at the window with Blaise at her side. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

They were on the landing of a staircase near the door that would bring them outside, where a grand pavilion had been set up for the ceremony. A five-tiered stage formed the backdrop, dominated by a black throne from which Voldemort would watch the ceremony. The very thought that he would witness the graduation made Harry’s breath quicken and his Dark Mark pulse with excitement. It was the first positive emotion he’d felt in weeks. Voldemort had said he would send correspondence by owl, but Harry had not received anything, whether it was from the Dark Lord personally or any generic Death Eater correspondence.

“I know. It’s not like I can skip the ceremony.” Harry looked down to fidget with his robe. The Gryffindor-plaid tie around his neck stood out awkwardly against the black and silver stole draped over his shoulders, the stark colors marking him unmistakably as a new Death Eater. He should’ve known there was no way he’d keep it a secret from the rest of the school—it was written all over him.

“Come on,” Blaise said with a sigh, and he clapped Harry’s shoulder. “There’s no getting out of it. Let’s go—one foot, then the next.” Harry let Blaise usher him away from the window and down the stairs.

It was a beautiful day—the kind of crisp, sunlit blue sky that only late June could deliver. Hundreds of flags flapped cheerfully in the breeze, announcing Voldemort's presence and the arrival of his latest batch of Hogwarts-trained witches and wizards. The Dark Lord wasn’t there yet, but many of his retinue already lined the stage, occupying the two tiers below the throne. They stood motionless and imposing, their black robes and silver masks clashing starkly with the cheerful summer weather.

Harry trailed behind Pansy and Blaise to the tier just below the standing Death Eaters, where Draco was already settled in one of the four chairs set up for them. The lowest tier remained empty, reserved for the civilian professors and students who would take their seats after the crowd below had gathered. Keeping his eyes down to avoid meeting any familiar gazes, Harry slipped into the chair next to Draco.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is Potter actually getting some sun?” Draco asked.

His tone was light and teasing, and while Harry had gathered this was how Draco often talked to his friends, he was so on edge that he couldn’t help his flare of irritation. He grunted a response and fiddled with the hem on his sleeve.

A couple of people shouted Harry’s name, as if trying to draw a reaction from him, and he responded by fixing his glare on his lap. The last thing he needed was to get worked up enough for his magic to snap and lash out, wiping out the entire crowd in one uncontrollable burst.

He could almost see it happening—his emotions spiraling until a churning black pit opened beneath the rows of neatly arranged chairs, swallowing up classmates and their families, dropping them into some searing, molten abyss. At least it would let him avoid facing his mother or Sirius again. The thought twisted something inside him, and he shook his head, leaning back in his chair and squeezing his eyes shut. The pink-orange sunlight filtered through his eyelids, warming them as if trying to coax him into calm.

A sharp crack of Apparition made Harry jump, and a pleasant warmth spread from his Dark Mark. The air seemed to sweeten, as if the ambient magic of the castle grounds stirred in eager anticipation, welcoming the Dark Lord’s arrival.

“Alright, Harry, up on your feet,” Pansy whispered as a rush of chatter swept the crowd.

Harry got up with her and the others, and turned to bow. Only then did he open his eyes, which immediately met Voldemort’s own. In that instant, Voldemort’s magic swept over everything, wrapping around Harry like a thick, protective shroud and unfurling through the crowd in curling tendrils, as if carried on incense smoke. It stripped away everything—fear, guilt, the weight of loss—leaving Harry with nothing but the raw awareness of his own magic, thrumming in perfect harmony with the power saturating the air. The sensation was dizzying, intoxicating, absolute blessed relief. Far too soon, he adjusted, and the world snapped back into place. As he rose from the bow, Harry's gaze swept over the crowd, noting how they recoiled or stiffened, their expressions a blend of awe and barely contained terror in the Dark Lord's presence.

The stage was arranged so that Harry sat with his back to Voldemort. The angle of it made him feel exposed, as though every eye in the crowd was boring into him, even as Voldemort’s voice filled the air with a grandiose speech about honor, valor, and magic. But Harry’s attention kept drifting to his mother. She sat in the center of the assembly with Sirius at her side. The Weasleys were not there, thankfully, but many prominent members of the Order of the Phoenix sat around her. Every single one of them stared at him.

And then the graduation ceremony began. The new Death Eaters were called first, which made Draco the first of the seventh years to approach the highest tier of the stage. Harry, Pansy, and Blaise turned in their seats to watch Draco kneel before the Dark Lord, who murmured something to him before handing him a rolled-up scroll. Draco said something in reply before returning to his seat, and then Pansy went up for her turn. It was quick and simple. Harry could only hope it went the same for him.

He side-eyed the scroll in Draco’s hands, wondering if theirs would be any different from the rest of their classmates. It seemed likely, but the tightly-wound paper revealed nothing. His attention shifted back to Voldemort, who was speaking to Pansy at length. The Dark Lord's expression was surprisingly engaged, almost attentive, as he listened to her reply. With a nod, he dismissed her, and she returned to her seat with a scroll in hand and a cat-like grin playing on her lips.

"Your turn," she whispered, nudging his leg with her foot as she sat down.

Harry summoned all his willpower just to stand, forcing himself to focus on Voldemort and not let his gaze stray to where his mother sat among the crowd. But the moment he left his seat and climbed the few steps toward the Dark Lord, everything else seemed to fall away, the complexity of the moment peeling back to something almost disarmingly simple. He sank to one knee before Voldemort, bowing his head as if this act was the only thing grounding him in the here and now.

“Greetings, Harry Potter.”

It was all so… ceremonial. Harry wasn’t used to formality, since there wasn’t much of it in Hogwarts. He aimed for politeness. “Greetings, my Lord.”

How could such a public exchange feel so intimate? The moment his eyes locked with Voldemort’s, it was as though the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, surrounded by the swirl of their magic.

Voldemort broke the brief silence. “There was an incident following our last meeting.”

Harry let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “There was.”

He caught a sudden shift in Voldemort’s expression, a glimmer that hinted he was about to share something private, something meant for Harry alone. It made Harry’s stomach twist with a strange, utterly inappropriate desire. “I understand that this accident has upset you,” Voldemort continued, his voice a low murmur, “but I’m eager to show you the benefits of the situation. Particularly for myself.”

That wasn’t what Harry had expected to hear at all. “Really?” he blurted, the Dark Mark on his arm burning in admonition, as if scolding his casual tone. He quickly corrected himself. “How so, my Lord?”

“Consider it from my point of view,” Voldemort said, his tone measured and almost conversational. “You’re aware of who the parents of so many of your victims are, and how they have been persistent thorns in my side. In fact, you'll speak with several of them when you return to your mother’s home, won’t you?”

In that moment, Harry realized that the Dark Lord hardly cared at all for those not affected by his Seed—something the Order of the Phoenix had been telling the world for decades. But this was hardly the time to think about that. The implication was clear enough: when he went home, the Weasleys would be waiting, and the Longbottoms, and all of the rest of the Order.

Anxiety twisted in Harry’s chest. “Yes, most likely. I’m probably going this afternoon and—” He faltered, struck by sudden panic. “I really don’t want to kill them all, too. I—I don’t know how to control it.”

The thought made him sick, not just for what it meant, but also because they were discussing this in front of an audience, with all of Hogwarts and Wizarding Wireless video cameras watching. His Dark Mark pulsed a soothing reassurance.

“Then I propose an alternative,” Voldemort offered, his voice pitched low, private. “Delay your return to the Potter household by attending a meeting instead. I’m summoning several Death Eaters this afternoon, and you’re welcome to join them. They are experienced witches and wizards who can help you.”

This didn’t seem real. Voldemort’s phrasing was so formal, yet friendly, his voice quiet enough that even the closest Death Eaters couldn’t overhear. It felt like a genuine offer to help Harry out of a bad situation.

“I’ll have to talk to her eventually,” Harry said, though the words came out more hesitant than he intended.

“Yes,” Voldemort agreed, his gaze unwavering. “But it will be on your terms, not hers, and not until you’ve ensured there will be no repeat incidents.” He reached down, cupping Harry’s cheek in his hand, and the touch drew a sigh from Harry’s lips, the tension in his jaw unraveling beneath it. “Look at them, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, gesturing toward the crowd. “You know they intend to interrogate you tonight.”

Harry turned his head, keeping his cheek nestled against Voldemort’s palm. It was the only comfort he’d felt in longer than he could remember, and it was so easy to stay there, to let himself sink into that touch and never move away. But then he caught sight of his mother’s fiery orange hair, blazing like a torch among the crowd, and the shock of it hit him like a slap. He inhaled sharply, jerking back from Voldemort’s hand. Mortification burned in his cheeks as he glanced up, fully aware of how that must have looked.

And there was that unjustified smile again. “Never mind them,” Voldemort said, his voice smooth and edged with a quiet, almost confiding tone. “None of it matters anymore.” He produced a bound scroll from his pocket. “You will quickly come to understand that this is our world, and we simply allow the rest of them to reside here. As of today, none of them have any control over the course of your life. Do keep that in mind.”

Strange as it was, his words made Harry feel a little better, somehow. He nodded and took the scroll. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Expect my summons at three o’clock.”

Harry wanted to say more, to express something beyond the rigid politeness of his thanks, but everyone was watching him, and he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he stood, bowed deeply, and made his way back to his seat, where Pansy, Blaise, and Draco were doing an admirable job of pretending not to gawk at him.

Blaise rose from his chair and the ceremony continued. Harry stared down at his hands, focusing on his tightly-wound scroll, refusing to look up when the rest of the seventh years left the crowd to stand single file on the lowest tier on the stage, mirroring the Sorting ceremony as they went one at a time to accept their scrolls from Headmistress McGonagall. She stood at that lowest level with them, putting a considerable distance between her authority and that of the Dark Lord, and even the marked seventh years.

It was really, truly awful. Harry had loved his time at Hogwarts, and he’d been so excited to join that line and take his scroll from McGonagall under the eye of the creepy Dark Lord and his evil minions, just as all of his older friends had done, and then go have a big, final party in Gryffindor Tower. None of that would happen now. Everything changed when that tendril of magic had ripped Remus’ throat open, and even more when Harry fucked up and killed nearly fifty students, but he never thought it would come to this.

Now, he was sitting among the evil minions, and not just as one of them—he was the worst of them all. Unintentionally, yes, but who would ever believe that? It wasn’t like he’d left any witnesses.

“It’s time to stop brooding, handsome,” Pansy murmured in his ear.

Harry looked up, surprised. The ceremony was over, and the students were filing down the few steps leading to the lawn. Draco was already there, chatting with his parents. Standing, Harry turned around and saw Voldemort’s throne was empty.

“Harry, would you like to meet my mother? She’s right there by the stairs,” Blaise asked, gesturing for him to go ahead since the aisle was a bit narrow.

“Oh, sure.” Harry looked for a woman who might resemble Blaise, but his gaze caught on someone else—his own mother, standing apart from the rest, watching him from a distance. “But I have to talk to mine first.”

He made his way down the wide steps leading to the lawn, nodding to Draco in passing before yanking the Death Eater stole off his shoulders and stuffing it into his pocket. He pushed through the crowd, headed for his mother.

“Darling!” Professor Lestrange’s voice rang out, and she materialized in front of him as if summoned from thin air. “Just where do you think you’re going? We have a luncheon to attend!”

Harry almost tripped over his feet. “Luncheon? But that’s… not until three, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widened with surprise and she coughed like she was choking on her own spit. Then she broke into a wide smile and laughed, the sound sharp and wild—nothing like the controlled tone he was used to hearing in her classroom. “No, my sweetest heart, the meeting is after the luncheon. Goodness, someone has quite the busy schedule this afternoon, don’t they?”

Harry had no idea what to make of the sudden pet names and silently prayed there wouldn’t be more where that came from. Professor Lestrange had always been stern and professional with him in the past, though it was clear he’d become her favorite lately. She curled an arm around his waist, steering him away from his intended path and back toward the Malfoys.

Leaning in close, her voice dropped to a vicious whisper. “Do you have any idea how utterly stupid it is for you to march right into the Order’s hands? You’d kill them all, love, and I’d be far too busy to console you after you slaughter your dear old mummy.” She straightened, her tone shifting to a cheerful lilt as she waved at Draco. “Ah! Drakey-boy, darling, would you be so kind as to take Harry back to your dormitory to freshen up? The poor thing looks a bit flushed, don’t you agree?”

Draco whirled around, his nostrils flared in indignation. “I thought I told you not to call me that!”

Professor Lestrange tutted. “You only said no pet names while you were my student. Congratulations, ittle-bitty Drakey-poo, you’re all grown up now.”

The look of exasperation on both Draco and Mr. Malfoy’s faces was nearly identical, while Mrs. Malfoy appeared to be stifling a laugh. Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to Harry. “Brilliant. Come along, then. I think we’ve outgrown these robes.”

“I’ll come as well,” Blaise chimed in, placing a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek before joining them. Together, they began their final walk across the Hogwarts grounds, the weight of the ceremony still hanging in the air behind them.

Somehow, that brief conversation with Voldemort had left Harry feeling lighter, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from his chest. For the first time in weeks, he could appreciate these final moments within the walls of Hogwarts. It wasn’t just relief at having survived the ceremony without accidentally killing everyone in attendance; it was also the reassurance that he could put off worrying about his mother, at least for now. Voldemort had told him to wait, to speak with her on his terms, and Professor Lestrange’s interference had likely saved him from landing in trouble with the Dark Lord for disobeying a direct order. Still, it gnawed at him, not rushing to her side when he had the chance—it made him feel like a liar.

He followed Draco and Blaise back to the castle, grateful for their company and the normalcy of sharing idle conversation. The three of them pointed out things they’d miss, savoring these last moments in a place that had once felt like home.

“Did you ever find the entrance to the kitchen?” Harry asked as they passed a staircase leading down to that part of the castle.

“In our second year,” Draco replied, “though I rarely had a reason to go there.” He glanced over at Harry. “Did you ever come across the dueling hall on the fourth floor?”

“No,” Harry groaned, genuinely disappointed. “But that sounds excellent.”

“It was,” Blaise said with a smirk. “Not sure I would’ve passed Defense without it.”

They decided to take the long way back, partly to say their goodbyes to some of their favorite corners of the castle and partly to ensure they didn’t arrive at the luncheon too early. Harry had missed hearing about the luncheon plans—staying holed up in Blaise’s bedroom had kept him out of the loop—but apparently, the Malfoys, Mrs. Zabini, the Parkinsons, Professor Lestrange, and a handful of instructors who taught classes for newly minted Death Eaters would be in attendance.

“Put everything you want to take with you in your trunk or on top of it, and the house elves will send it home,” Blaise instructed when they got back to his bedroom, as if Harry didn’t already know. “Once we’re changed, we’ll use the Floo to go to the luncheon.”

There was an unfamiliar outfit on Harry’s bed. He ignored it as he gathered up the last of his belongings and crammed them into his trunk, and then he noticed a letter tucked into the fabric. Curious, he picked it up.

The header bore an ornate crest, with bold letters announcing that it was "From the Desk of Bellatrix Lestrange."

Hello, my darling one. I’m so excited to tell you that I will be acting as your sponsor within the Death Eater program. Please do me the honor of wearing my family’s colors this afternoon.

With boundless love,

Mummy Bella

Every i was dotted with a tiny heart. Harry blinked at the signature, his mouth hanging open as he read it again, half expecting the words to rearrange themselves into something less bizarre.

“What?” he whispered under his breath, incredulous.

“What is it?” Blaise asked. He ambled over to take a look at the note. “Oh. That’s… interesting.”

“Mummy Bella? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Blaise shrugged. “I don’t know how you missed this, but Professor Lestrange is a tad eccentric.” Blaise said it like it was a joke, but his expression didn’t match his tone. “I’m sure she’ll talk to you about it at the restaurant.”

Suddenly, this was feeling just as daunting as going home to deal with the Order. Harry nodded weakly. “Well, I suppose I should wear the outfit. Last thing I want to do is offend her.”

“A wise choice.”

It occurred to Harry as he took off his Gryffindor robe that this was the last time he would ever wear it. Countless final moments seemed to be slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, and he could only watch them go. It was almost ironic, really, that Professor Lestrange had asked him to wear her family’s colors when the robe she’d provided was entirely black. But then again, what else would he expect from such a historically dark family?

Harry didn’t usually care much about clothes, but he had to admit the robe fit well, and it was flattering enough to earn an approving nod from Blaise. At least that was one less thing to stress over.

“I’m ready when you are,” he said to Blaise, who was still fussing with his hair in the mirror.

“Go ahead, I’m sure Draco is already waiting by the Floo.”

Harry looked around the bedroom one last time before heading across the hall. The room was smaller than those assigned to the Death Eater students, holding just a writing desk, a sofa, and a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. He sat down on the sofa and tried to wait patiently for the others.

Draco arrived a few minutes later. “Oh good, you’re ready. Pansy already left with her mother, the wretch. Where’s Blaise?”

“He’s finishing his hair.”

“Of course he is. Well, we might as well go ahead.” Draco took a handful of powder from the pot on the mantle. “Elysium!”

With a flash of green flames, he vanished. Harry took his own pinch of powder, casting one last look around the room. He whispered a final goodbye to the castle, breathing in deep to brace himself. “Elysium!”

Then he stepped forward, and the world spun away in a swirl of emerald fire.

Harry knew he was in way over his head, but it didn’t truly hit him until he stepped out of the Floo. The location chosen for their luncheon was so beautiful that he was hesitant to walk on the carpet with the same shoes he’d worn to trudge across the Hogwarts grounds, even though there were surely cleaning spells in place. Save for the view from the huge windows overlooking the sea, everything was white or gold or sparkling glass, and everyone was dressed in elaborate outfits. Harry had no idea what to do other than trail after Draco and try to not trip over anything.

Maybe he should treat this like he was a spy infiltrating enemy territory. It was a scenario he’d daydreamed about when he first started seriously considering joining the Death Eaters, but now, the reality felt far too close. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a reassuring thought when it was common knowledge that so many of these people could read minds.

Their party was waiting for them in a private room, and everyone looked rather conspicuous in their black robes, like a murder of pretentious ravens seated around a long table. Harry entered with Draco, but when Draco took a seat between his parents, Harry had no idea where to sit.

Professor Lestrange sprang up, her eyes lighting up with delight. “There you are, darling! Come sit here with me.”

The moment he sank into the chair beside her, she began fussing over him, picking invisible lint from his robe and running her fingers through his hair. “You look absolutely dashing in your new robe,” she cooed, her voice dripping with praise.

Harry tried to manage a polite smile, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he’d stepped into a trap. “Thank you? It was really nice of you to buy it for me, Professor.” Nice and a little confusing, but he had enough self-preservation to not say that part.

"There’s no need for stuffy titles anymore," she said, her voice taking on a playful lilt. "You may call me Bella, or perhaps… perhaps even Mum."

"Uh…" Harry was caught completely off guard, his mind scrambling for a response.

"It’s alright, love," she soothed, as if anticipating his discomfort. "Of course you’re not comfortable with that yet." She pulled him in for a tight hug, practically shoving his face into her cleavage as one hand held the back of his head, cradling him against her. She swayed side to side. "Take all the time you need."

There had always been a running joke in the Gryffindor common room about Lestrange being the most attractive—and simultaneously the most terrifying—professor at Hogwarts. Harry found himself briefly wondering what Ron would say if he knew Harry was getting a faceful of the school’s most infamous pair of breasts. The thought instantly filled him with a rush of nausea, which wasn’t helpful at all, but strangely enough, the embrace seemed to ease some of the tension he'd been carrying.

Lucius Malfoy of all people came to Harry’s rescue. “Bellatrix would like to sponsor you throughout your training. It is quite the honor, and you would be wise to follow her advice in all matters.”

Once Bellatrix stopped hugging him, he managed to ask, “Sorry, what’s a sponsor?”

“The purpose of this meeting is to answer any questions you might have,” Lucius answered dryly. “However, we are still waiting for some attendees to arrive.”

“It means I’m your new mummy. Wouldn’t you like that, since your first one was so sour with you all the time?” Bellatrix cooed.

Harry had no idea how to respond to that, but he let Bellatrix take his hand and intertwine their fingers. Something about the contact was really calming. It was strange to sit there and hold hands with his Dark Arts professor, but no one seemed particularly interested in the display.

Blaise arrived last, escorting his mother with the same polished charm that always seemed to come effortlessly to him. He bowed to everyone at the table before pulling out his mother’s chair and only then took the seat beside her. Bellatrix leaned in, snickering as she whispered in Harry's ear, “Better take notes from your charming little friend.”

And so the luncheon proceeded. Harry learned that sponsorship was an entirely voluntary program in which a more experienced Death Eater might choose a favorite recruit and take them on as a pet project. They would provide the new Death Eater with books, clothing, food, anything they liked, and in return, their pledge would be expected to check in with them to report their progress. Harry didn’t see anything wrong with that, apart from Bellatrix’s odd behavior, and so he agreed to the sponsorship. The way he saw it, he was already in deep, so he might as well take advantage of anything offered to him.

He was handed a thick booklet that outlined all the classes and seminars coming up over the next year, and Bellatrix eagerly helped him map out an ideal schedule. The options were overwhelming, and he barely recognized most of the course titles she circled for him, but he trusted her judgment for now.

By the end of the meeting, Harry had not only gained an enthusiastic sponsor but also received invitations to stay with either the Lestranges or the Malfoys until he found a place of his own. The group insisted he attend Draco’s upcoming graduation party, which was shaping up to be a large event for all the Death Eaters. He even made plans to go shopping with Blaise and Pansy.

It was like they wanted him to swap out one set of friends and family for another, and seeing as how there was something of a void in place, it would be so easy to let it happen. Despite all of that, he knew he needed to speak with his mother. He couldn’t hide from her forever.

The Order found him first, anyway.

He was walking out of the restaurant with Bellatrix, who had insisted on treating him to ice cream before their next meeting, when an owl swooped down from nowhere and smacked him square in the face with a boot. Before he could make sense of it, there was a sudden tug at his navel, and he was wrenched off the street by the pull of a Portkey.

Harry landed in a tangled heap, his head spinning.

“That’s him, right?” someone whispered nearby.

“Of course it is,” came his mother’s voice, cool and unmistakable.

Harry struggled, trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees, but before he could gather his bearings, a tripping jinx struck him hard, and he sprawled back onto the floor, dazed and breathless.

"Let’s just stay where we are for now," Sirius said, looming over Harry with an unsteady stance. He crouched down, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Harry's. It might have been meant as an intimidation tactic, but all Harry could think was that Sirius’ breath reeked of alcohol. He didn’t look well at all—bloodshot eyes, hair tangled and matted. It was worrying to see.

“‘Lo, Sirius.” Harry glanced around and took in the faces surrounding him: his mother, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, numerous others. “Hey, everyone. Sorry if I’m late for my graduation party.” He had no idea why he was cracking a joke; he hadn’t so much as smiled since the accident. Yet here he was, being flippant at the worst possible moment.

“Shut up, Harry,” Bill Weasley snapped, his expression a mix of anger and something like concern.

“I think it’s an Imperius,” Tonks muttered. “Can’t believe it’d be anything else.”

“It’s not,” Sirius replied. He stood up, teetering a bit. “Can tell by his eyes.”

“I wish it was,” Harry said, his voice dry. “Not that I’m important enough for anyone to bother putting me under the Imperius.”

Tonks started, “But your mum is the—”

“How about we don’t discuss key tactical points right now?” his mother interjected sharply, her voice tight with restraint. She stepped closer to Sirius before sitting down on the floor beside Harry.

“Harry,” she said, her tone softer now. “Where did you go after the graduation ceremony? I thought I saw you walking toward me, and then you were just... gone.” Her attention trailed up from his eyes to the jagged scar on his brow. “What happened to you?”

Harry ignored the way she stared at his scar—he had no answers for that. “I was at a luncheon,” Harry answered. He suspected his Dark Mark would burn him if he said anything too confidential. “To get my schedule for the—” He stopped, not wanting to say what it really was, too ashamed to refer to the rest. “For my new classes.”

“Death Eater classes?” Sirius filled in the rest, shaking his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Harry let out a distressed, helpless laugh. “I am! I’m completely ashamed! I didn’t know what else to do. But the last time I was cornered like this, I fucked up and killed everyone, so maybe we should save this talk for later.”

His mother’s face twisted with such raw heartbreak that it made his stomach churn. "You could have come to me sooner," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“I tried!” Harry cried, his frustration spilling over. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you never answer my owls, never say anything back. Not ever since Remus—”

”Don’t.” Sirius stood up, his voice hardening. “Don’t even start. You can’t pin this on her.”

"Easy, Sirius. We really don’t want anyone losing their heads here," his mother said, casting a wary glance at both of them. Her tone was calm, but Harry could see the tension in her eyes, as if she knew how dangerous it would be to let emotions spiral out of control. His magic was already churning inside him, like it was too big for his skin, threatening to break free.

“I just need to fix whatever’s going on with my magic, and I figured the people who would know best are the ones with the same kind,” Harry tried to explain. He was frantic and confused, like a helpless child surrounded by a pack of furious adults. Likely because that was exactly what was happening.

“You know they won’t fix it for you,” Sirius went on. “They’ll only make it worse.”

Harry nodded, staring down at his lap. Little sparks crackled from his fingertips like errant black lightning, and he clenched his hands into fists, trying to keep it contained.

"Look," he began, his voice trembling, "I know you’re all upset, and I’m so—" He broke off, leaning forward and pressing his face against his clenched fists. The earring in his ear, the one that was supposed to prevent all of this, burned so hot it felt like ice against his skin. "I’m so sorry. But they need to teach me how to control it. If I get upset, all my magic just comes bursting out, and that’s what happened to R-Ron and Ginny and Hermione, and I’m so sorry. I—I can’t keep it in—"

The stunner was a blessing, knocking him out cold before his magic could unfurl.

Harry awoke with a gasp, his surroundings coming into focus in fits and starts. He was in a room he didn’t recognize, though the thick layer of dust and faded wallpaper suggested it was somewhere in Sirius' ancient house. At least someone had thought to transfigure a proper chair for him to sit in. The dim light from the hallway seeped through a small window in the door.

The tingling in his Dark Mark started the moment he woke. It shivered and twitched under his skin, like the prickling sensation of a limb that had fallen asleep, but growing steadily worse.

Harry sprang to his feet and peered through the window. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Silence.

“Seriously?” He shook his head in disbelief. They’d gone through all the trouble of abducting him with a dodgy Portkey, only to leave him alone without even a guard at the door? His wand was still in his pocket, too. It should have been a relief, a sign that they trusted him not to try escaping, but that only made him feel worse—because he wasn’t going to stay. The call from his Dark Mark was growing stronger, the tingling shifting to a burn that was quickly becoming unbearable. He didn’t think he had a choice, even if he’d wanted one.

Wishing desperately that things could be different, Harry gripped his Mark and surrendered to the pull, letting it whisk him away.

Chapter Text

For a split second, Harry had doubted the Dark Mark’s power, wondering if the wards around Sirius’ house would hold him back. But then the Mark yanked him free, tearing past the protections with ease, and he was hurled into a place so far removed from anything familiar that it could only be described as another dimension.

He was surrounded by strange angles—that was an understatement, but it was the only way to even begin to describe the chaos unfolding around him. He struggled to conceptualize it, to make sense of what his senses were screaming at him.

First, there was the sound. It wasn’t something coming through his ears so much as a warping pressure in his brain, a million birds flapping their wings over a decade’s worth of thunder played all at once. It was like fifty million prisms crammed into the world’s largest solarium, scattering rainbows made of colors that the human eye shouldn’t perceive, but through sheer exposure, started to figure it out anyway. Except, take all of that light and make it a purplish-black instead, and also drop an impossibly large polyhedron with many irregular flat surfaces in the middle of it all, and command the laws of physics to designate every flat plane as “down”, no matter which direction they faced. This was still absolutely nothing like what Harry was experiencing, but it was as close as he could get. It was madness, absolutely brain-breaking, and he was pretty sure he could hear his own name repeated over and over in the cacophony.

It blew every coherent thought out of his mind, leaving him wide open and vulnerable, panic clawing at his chest. He muttered to himself, desperately trying to anchor his sanity to something, anything—like muggle soldiers in a foxhole picturing the faces of their families to keep the darkness at bay.

“Harry!” a blessedly familiar voice cried. Warmth enveloped him, and he pressed his face against soft skin. “Oh, my sweetest love, I was so worried! Who took you? Did you make them pay?”

“Hurts,” he groaned.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course.” Quick fingers unclipped his earring and tugged it free, then pressed it into his hands. “Let go of your magic, precious. It’ll help.”

He didn’t have much choice in the matter. The moment his earring parted from his skin, everything unspooled. It was like releasing pressure to prevent an explosion, and Bellatrix held him tight, keeping him from flying away with it all. Blinking hard, he realized he had his face buried in her cleavage for the second time that day.

They were standing on a platform in a wide open void, and everything was black and chrome and shiny, with marbled purples and blues shimmering through the air, almost like they were underwater. Other people were already there, standing in a wide circle and waiting in their black robes and silver masks.

“There, now,” Bellatrix crooned, combing her fingers through his hair. “Are you feeling any better?”

He nodded slowly, looking around while bracing for the world to flip inside-out again. “What is this place?”

“Our Lord’s inner sanctum,” she purred, “a place where only the most talented may enter. Now, do you know who abducted you? Did you make them bleed?”

“No.” She pouted at that, and he went on, “It was my mum. And the Weasleys. A few others. They just wanted to talk to me, but then my magic started to slip.”

“And that’s when you killed them?” she asked, her tone far too casual.

He shook his head. “They stunned me before I lost control. I woke up alone right before my Mark went off.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’ll do better next time. Maybe I can come along and show you how it’s done.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. She was talking about his mother. Did she have any idea how horrible that was? He didn’t know what to do, what to say, or how to respond. The words caught in his throat, a tangled knot of horror and disbelief, and all he could do was stare at her, struggling to keep his expression neutral.

Thankfully, the Dark Lord arrived, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end. He appeared without warning, suddenly standing in the center of their loose circle. In his hand was a silver mask, his own face uncovered.

“Greetings, my elect,” he said, his voice resonating through the air.

“Greetings, Dark Lord,” they all echoed, except for Harry, who was too busy gawking at Voldemort to make his mouth form words.

If Voldemort was unnerving in the real world, here in this place he was utterly alien. His face was disturbingly smooth, the features almost sculpted, though his eyes were still the same crimson slits, serpentine and cold. His limbs seemed elongated, stretching to unnatural proportions that lent him an unsettling height, towering over the rest of them. And though his robes swirled as if billowing in a breeze, there was no sign he was actually touching the platform. He seemed to hover, suspended in a way that defied logic, like a spider lurking just out of reach.

“A newly-initiated soul has joined us in our sanctum,” Voldemort intoned, his gaze locking onto Harry. “Approach, Harry Potter.”

With legs trembling like a newborn fawn, Harry crossed the distance between the edge of the circle to where Voldemort dominated the center. Space warped oddly around them, and only a few strides brought them together. Harry blinked hard, fighting vertigo when he suddenly stood eye-to-eye with Voldemort, who should have been so much taller than him.

Voldemort’s skin was paper-thin and reflected the eerie light, and when his narrow lips parted to speak, they revealed a glimpse of a forked tongue and sharp teeth. “Take this mask as a token of your destined place among the Death Eaters. While you have much to learn, know that you are among my most honored.”

Harry wanted to ask why he was being honored in such a way when he hadn’t earned it or even requested to be there, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew he was being rewarded for his heinous crimes. Instead of speaking his mind, he took the mask Voldemort offered, slipping his glasses into his pocket before pressing the mask to his face. It sealed against his skin with a faint, magical pressure, and when he looked at Voldemort through the wide eye holes, his vision snapped into perfect clarity.

Voldemort’s gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking. “Return to the circle. We will speak again.”

Still bewildered, Harry gave a quick bow before retreating to Bellatrix’s side. She was grinning so widely it looked like her cheeks might split, her eyes glittering with barely-contained excitement. Then she turned her attention back to the Dark Lord, who had lifted his arms toward the swirling black sky above them.

The air thickened with magic, spiraling around Voldemort as if he were the eye of a gathering storm. Power crackled through the space, linking the surrounding Death Eaters in a ring of energy that pulsed with life. Harry could feel it vibrating in his bones, the unmistakable beginnings of a group spellwork. But this was far beyond anything he had ever encountered at Hogwarts—this was magic on a scale he could barely comprehend, the air itself thick with anticipation, as though the dimension was bracing itself for what was to come.

Voldemort began to speak, his words strange and unfamiliar, nothing like the smooth sibilance of his usual speech. The others repeated after him, their voices weaving together in a chant that seemed to reach deep into the very fabric of reality. Magic swelled in response, a whirling maelstrom of air, light, and sound that swept through the circle, pulling Harry into its grip. It twisted around him, its power surging into his veins, until the unfamiliar phrases seemed to rise naturally from his chest and pass through his lips, carried by a force beyond his own will.

The space buzzed with electric intensity, filling him with a heady rush of energy. It felt as if the very space between his atoms was expanding, packing more and more magic deep into the core of his being. It burned through him, carving rivers of power into his bones and turning his blood venomous. The whites of his eyes glowed with an eerie, unnatural light, and for a moment, he was something more than human—untethered by any mortal laws.

Then, like ashes settling after a great blaze, he felt himself drift down, cold and weightless, and realized he was back in a familiar room.

"Did you enjoy yourself, love?" Bellatrix’s voice cut through the haze as she crouched beside him, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Do you feel powerful? We did it for you, a gift, to bring even more magic into that precious little body of yours."

The way she looked at him, like she wanted to devour him, and the hand that was sliding up his thigh—growing increasingly inappropriate by the second—made Harry's skin crawl. More magic? He was already struggling to contain the magic he had. Deeply uncomfortable, he shifted away from her touch and glanced around the room, desperate for any distraction from the intimacy of the moment.

It was the same room where Harry had received his Dark Mark. Around him, several Death Eaters lounged in various states of relaxation, still wearing their masks. Voldemort sat in the same armchair as before, the one from which he had watched Harry embarrass himself in his borrowed robes. A pang of humiliation shot through Harry as their eyes met, memories of that debauched moment rushing back. Now, Voldemort was back to his previous state—serpentine and unsettling, his body once more fitted to mostly human proportions. His lips curled into a predatory smile as he beckoned Harry closer.

"What did you think of our little gathering?" Voldemort asked, his voice slipping back into its familiar sibilance.

"I’ve never seen anything like it," Harry replied, then froze as a few gasps sounded behind him. He quickly added, "My Lord," remembering himself.

Voldemort didn’t spare a glance for the others. "We were in my inner sanctum," he said, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather. "It is a magical space I have created for certain advanced workings."

The room had fallen into a heavy silence, so Harry tried to think of something, anything, to say. "I’d like to learn how to make something like that someday." He hadn’t expected much of a reaction, but then he heard Bellatrix whimper. "What’s wrong?" he asked, confused.

"I believe our cohort is taken aback by your ability to speak Parseltongue," Voldemort said, his tone almost amused.

Harry shook his head. "I don’t know Parseltongue."

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His voice sounded different when he spoke again. “Bella, your clarification is required. Can you understand anything Harry or I have said?”

“No, my Lord. I believe you are both speaking Parseltongue,” she replied, her tone deeply reverent.

"There we have it," Voldemort murmured, his voice whisper-soft, carrying a strange resonance that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. He could almost perceive a difference now, a subtle slithering quality in the words.

"How?" Harry asked, baffled.

Voldemort’s voice changed again, clearly switching back to English. "Where do you plan to go when I dismiss this meeting?"

"I’m not sure." Harry hesitated, trying to determine if he was speaking English now, too. Not knowing made his nerves prickle. "I’ve been invited to stay with Bellatrix or the Malfoys."

"Bella," Voldemort said, "you must excuse your ward for a time. It is best for Harry to relax with his peers. Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?"

Harry was taken aback to be asked his opinion on the matter. "Well, it’d be interesting to see if Draco’s place is nearly as impressive as he’s been saying."

A scoff came from a tall man lounging at the back of the room. His hair gave away his identity immediately. There was little point in him wearing a mask at all without a hood. "I would be honored to have you, Mr. Potter," Lucius Malfoy said, his tone laced with a mixture of dry humor and condescension.

A long, dramatic sigh from Bellatrix drew the room's attention back to her. “Do you promise to visit me soon?” she asked, her voice dripping with theatrical disappointment.

“Of course,” Harry replied. She seemed genuinely downcast, so he added, “You still owe me some ice cream.”

That brought a smile back to her face. “And you’ll have it!”

“You are all dismissed,” Voldemort interjected, thoroughly uninterested. “Bartemius, stay behind, and you as well, Alecto.”

The rest of them got up quickly and shuffled into the adjacent room where Harry had recently waited with the other initiates to receive their marks.

Lucius approached him immediately. “Very well, Potter. Take my arm and I will bring you through the wards.”

Harry gripped Lucius’ wrist, but not before Bellatrix rushed over to plant a kiss directly on Harry’s masked lips. “Goodbye, darling,” she purred. “I’ll see you soon.”

Lucius let out a pained sigh, and then they apparated away.

The moment they arrived at what was unmistakably Malfoy Manor, Lucius muttered under his breath, “I cannot stand that woman.” He took off his mask, and Harry did the same. “Not that it’s much of a secret, but I would appreciate it if you did not tell my wife I said that.”

“Of course not, sir,” Harry replied automatically.

Lucius made a faintly amused noise. “I do hope you’re prepared for what that woman will do to you the moment she has you alone.”

Harry followed close behind as Lucius swept out of the room, keeping pace as they moved down a corridor lined with dark mahogany panels and countless portraits of stern-faced old men. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Lucius didn’t miss a beat. “Are you a virgin, Mr. Potter?”

“Uh—” Harry was not answering that question. “Well, she’s married, isn’t she? And she keeps saying she’s my new mum.”

“Yes, well,” Lucius continued with a hint of distaste, “both discrepancies seem to be quite fashionable in the Black family. The Lestrange name does little to temper that influence, unlike my own.” He said the last part as if it were an idle afterthought, not truly meant for Harry. “Make no mistake, Bellatrix will certainly attempt sexual intercourse with you. I advise you either brace yourself for the inevitable or attach yourself to someone else. Preferably someone you’re not too fond of, as Bellatrix has a tendency to drive off rivals—or kill them.”

Insanely, Harry’s thoughts flitted to Voldemort. “I wouldn’t even know where to start with that.”

“You should discuss the matter with Narcissa. She takes great joy in playing matchmaker.”

“Alright.” Harry was definitely not going to do that, but the matter seemed to be settled, and he was glad to change the subject. “So, this is Malfoy Manor?”

Lucius’ quick pace faltered, and he looked at Harry like that was the single most idiotic question he had ever heard in his life. “Yes. It is.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion from having such a stressful day, but Harry’s mind reeled in an attempt to find something to follow that up with. “Is it true you have a whole flock of peacocks around here somewhere?”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Mm, yes, I suppose we do.” He snapped his fingers. “Dobby.”

A house elf materialized in front of them with a crack. “Bring Mr. Potter to my son,” Lucius instructed, his voice weary. “I’m certain Draco would be happy to field any further questions about the estate.” He met Harry's gaze, his expression betraying a deep fatigue. “Do not hesitate to call a house elf if you require anything.”

Harry supposed it had been too long of a day to put up with stupid questions. He nodded, thanked Lucius, and followed the house-elf through the manor.

The next few days passed quickly. Draco was an accommodating host and Harry was provided a bedroom with lead-lined walls, though he rarely spent much time there. Somehow, getting out of Hogwarts made everything so much easier. While he still had a Calming Draught with his breakfasts, Harry was able to spend time with his new friends. It helped that everyone knew better than to talk about the accident.

Blaise and Pansy had made themselves at home as well, and the four of them mostly lounged about in luxury, grazing on snacks and sipping expensive champagne as they helped Narcissa prepare for Draco’s party. It was going to be a grand ball, and while Harry was aware of what that meant, the details of what such an event entailed didn’t fully sink in until he walked into the Malfoy’s largest ballroom and took in the crowded dance floor.

“Come along, Harry. We have far too many people to talk to, can’t spend the whole night dawdling on the balcony,” Blaise said, taking Harry firmly by the arm and angling him toward the curved staircase, which would bring them into the thick of it all.

Harry’s heart hammered so fiercely he thought it might burst right out of his chest. The sheer number of people gathered in the room was a shock. He forced himself to take steady breaths, to remind himself that these people were Death Eaters and knew how to handle his magic, and that there were trained professionals here who could stop him if he lost control. The words became a quiet mantra, grounding him, even as his pulse raced faster with every passing second.

Harry skirted the edge of the dance floor and followed Blaise, who had decided that the two of them, being from families with no previous standing in the Dark Lord’s forces, needed to make a big impression that evening. It was their chance to truly reinvent themselves, or so Blaise kept saying. They would start by making sure that everyone knew Draco wasn’t the only brand new Death Eater in attendance. Pansy was fending for herself, having claimed bold plans for her impending political career.

When they reached the dessert table, they found Draco being held hostage by a greasy old man in the middle of what looked like an especially tedious conversation. Draco’s eyes were glazed over, his expression distant as he scanned the crowd. The moment he spotted Blaise and Harry approaching, his face brightened with relief.

“There you two are. Harry, Blaise, I’m pleased to introduce you to Mr. Slughorn. Did you know he was the Potions instructor at Hogwarts for several decades?”

That wasn’t something Harry found particularly interesting, but he tried to pay attention. Their position gave him a clear view of most of the guests, and he couldn’t help but marvel at how many of them he recognized from snippets of Order meetings he’d overheard over the years. Several were classified as some of the most dangerous individuals in the country—if not the world—according to the files his mother had kept hidden away.

Just then, a familiar face joined their group—someone Harry had been wanting to speak with. "Mr. Riddle," he said the moment the handsome man appeared, "I have a bone to pick with you."

The festive atmosphere did wonders for Harry’s nerves, now that he was in the thick of it, breathing in the ambient dark magic wafting off such powerful celebrants, making the otherwise intimidating figure of Tom Riddle feel more approachable. And considering that Harry had attended a meeting with the Inner Circle and hadn’t seen Riddle there, he wondered if that meant he might even outrank him, at least tentatively. Whatever the case, he felt justified in addressing Riddle directly.

Riddle’s robes were so dark they seemed to swallow the light around him, and his hair was styled in perfect waves. He regarded Harry with a look of intrigued amusement. "Mr. Potter," he drawled, "what seems to be the problem?"

“I thought you said that earring was supposed to keep my magic under control, but it hasn’t helped at all. If anything, I think it’s getting worse.”

Riddle's eyes widened ever so slightly, and his lips curled into an amused smirk. The expression only fueled Harry's irritation. "Perhaps we should discuss this in private," Riddle suggested, his tone annoyingly calm.

"Mm, yes, I did hear about your little incident," Yaxley interjected, his voice dripping with condescension. "Quite an impressive display, Mr. Potter. I understand Gryffindor Tower remains entirely uninhabitable. It seems you've filled a sizable portion of the castle with caustic magic that has resisted all attempts at repair."

“Yes, he left quite the legacy,” Blaise said, as if it were a compliment. “What few Gryffindors remain had to finish their year with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.”

Harry bit back a retort—something along the lines of "Yeah, and you had the honor of hosting a psycho killer in your bedroom." His mood soured quickly, and he stared off into the distance, his jaw tightening. The useless earring flared hot against his ear, like a warning to keep his temper in check before he accidentally ripped open some black pit in the middle of the dance floor.

“As I said, we will discuss this privately,” Riddle reiterated, his smile fading into a more serious expression. Harry nodded in agreement.

The conversation turned toward the Dark Lord’s ongoing war campaign, as was inevitable. It helped Harry calm down more than he would have expected, since it was something he actually wanted to listen to. His knowledge of current events was limited since the media’s heavy bias toward the so-called Dark Cause made it completely unreliable. His mother never shared much about what was happening within the Order of the Phoenix, but over the past few years, the group had grown increasingly weary and despondent. All signs pointed to Voldemort being well on his way to total dominion.

Evidently, there were problems in the Mediterranean, and some ancient sea monster had claimed the entirety of Crete. This was a problem because the Dark Lord wanted something hidden in an old ruin on the island. Riddle described the tactical difficulties he faced while leading Death Eater operations in the region, and Harry listened intently, captivated by his account of a recent battle against dozens of minotaurs. The magic Riddle spoke of was the kind Harry only dreamed of wielding, and that wasn’t just a figure of speech. It was the reason he had to sleep in a lead-lined room—almost every night, he dreamed of these kinds of fights, his magic lashing out as though trying to join in.

As Riddle talked, a sizable group formed around them, which was an interesting feeling for Harry. He’d had friends growing up, but this was the first time he felt part of something significant, and important people were actually looking at him when he spoke. That might have had something to do with Riddle standing next to him, constantly addressing him as if they were having a private conversation in front of the crowd.

“I spent the majority of my summer at Lake Kournas, where I met a fascinating community of undines. Nature spirits have such impressive magic, don’t you think?” Riddle asked. His voice was posh and confident, every word meticulously chosen and delivered with natural ease.

“I’m not sure, I don’t think I’ve met one before.” Harry had a hard time looking away from him. Was that a reddish gleam in his eyes? It was hard to tell for certain, but they caught the light in a peculiar way. Maybe it was a side effect of practicing advanced dark magic.

“We met air spirits in Charms,” Draco said. “Back in our fifth year. Or did the Gryffindors not have to suffer through advanced levitation spells?”

“Knowing Gryffindor, they probably went outside to play Quidditch instead,” a newcomer scoffed.

Harry ignored that. “Oh, you’re right, Draco.” He smiled at Riddle. “I agree, it’s impressive magic, and easy to use. All we needed to do was ask politely, and they gave us a huge boost for a spell that would have otherwise been exhausting.”

“Perhaps you could accompany me the next time I visit the lake. I’m taking a brief leave of absence from the military, and I’ve considered spending some time at my villa. You would enjoy the undines who often swim up to my dock.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond, so he faked a bit of confidence. “I’ll have to take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.” Riddle turned his attention to the top of the staircase, where late arrivals were still streaming through a few at a time. “Ah, there he is. The Dark Lord does enjoy a dramatic entrance.”

Harry was about to ask what Riddle meant when his Dark Mark quivered, the sensation like a plucked violin string vibrating through his skin. The entryway stirred as people hastily moved aside, and nearly everyone around them folded into elaborate bows.

“Aren’t we supposed to bow?” Harry whispered, noticing that Riddle hadn’t moved.

“It’s polite, but not mandatory in this context,” Riddle murmured, his tone low and conspiratorial. “This isn’t a formal Death Eater meeting. Though it’s always amusing to see who drops the quickest, as if groveling might win them favor.”

Sure enough, several people had already thrown themselves onto the floor by the time Voldemort entered the ballroom. Riddle let out a quiet laugh, and Harry had to fight back a grin of his own. Still, his breath caught at the sight of the Dark Lord, and he dipped into a respectful bow.

“What do you make of him?” Riddle asked when Harry straightened.

“I think he’s brilliant,” Harry replied, a little embarrassed at how enthusiastic he sounded. “I suppose you already know joining the Death Eaters was a difficult choice for me, but every time I see him, I feel like I made the right decision.”

“He does have that effect on people,” Riddle murmured, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “And how has your mother taken the news?”

“Uh, not very well, I don’t think. Not that I’ve seen her.” That wasn’t something he really wanted to go into, even if Riddle had met his mum once, had actually stood inside their entryway for several minutes and faced her interrogation the day he took Harry to get the ear piercing. “Yet another thing to talk about in private, I suppose.”

“If you’d like. These Malfoy affairs usually end with people breaking off into little groups, in order to play their private political games. I’m certain a room can be made available to us.”

“I, uh, actually have one. I’m staying here, so I’ve got a bedroom.” Harry paused, suddenly realizing what he’d just suggested—inviting an older man back to his room sounded wildly inappropriate. “Not that I—”

“I know what you meant,” Riddle interjected, his voice as smooth as silk, his composure effortlessly unshakable. “Let’s see where the night takes us. Regrettably, duty calls, but I’ll find you again soon enough.”

And with that, he was gone, slipping away from the group as though he’d simply melted into the crowd. Harry quickly lost sight of him in the sea of people, leaving him feeling both relieved and strangely unsettled.

The night continued, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how bored Voldemort looked, lounging in his excessively ornate throne. It sat perfectly centered on the stage amidst elaborate floral arrangements and gleaming ice sculptures—details Harry himself had made sure were just right. The Dark Lord was alone up there, apart from the oversized snake coiled lazily at the base of the throne, and he only seemed to stir when Bellatrix or a few others paused at the stage's edge to speak with him briefly.

Pansy had made a valiant attempt to convince Harry to join her for a few simple steps on the dance floor, but he declined, content to let her and Blaise have their fun while he watched them twirl around, his gaze following the rhythmic sweep of their movements. A house elf had delivered a rather interesting cocktail to him, and he sipped it slowly, savoring the sweet, unfamiliar flavor. Draco had disappeared somewhere, and the small group that had formed around Riddle earlier had dispersed as soon as he left. Harry found himself alone, but it didn’t bother him—he was content to observe, to take in the sights and get a feel for the community around him.

Because that’s what it was, really. These people were all connected, all united in their support of the Dark Lord and their affiliation with a special and terrifying kind of magic. Even those who didn’t practice it themselves were there because they cared about someone who did, and that meant they would be able to not only help Harry, but allow him to live a life where he didn’t have to feel like a monster. He didn’t have to live alone and hide in his lead-lined bedroom, as much as he might deserve it.

He had made the right decision, and despite everything, he felt a bittersweet gladness settle in his chest. Smiling, he glanced up at the Dark Lord on his throne, and to his surprise, their eyes met immediately. A shiver of recognition coursed through him, and with his magic humming in his veins, Harry raised his glass in a silent toast before tipping it back and finishing his drink.

“There you are.”

Harry turned around to find Mr. Riddle standing in the doorway leading back inside. The warmth of the room and the cocktails had made him sleepy, so he’d stepped out onto the balcony just moments ago to shake off the drowsiness. Stars burned overhead, and the golden light spilling through the windows cast a soft halo around Riddle.

“I wondered if you ran off to your bedroom without me,” Riddle said, closing the door behind him and abruptly cutting off the noise from the party.

Something about being alone with Riddle made Harry’s pulse quicken, a feeling like he was standing at the edge of something dangerous without quite grasping what it was. Yet, at the same time, Riddle’s presence felt invigorating, as though Harry was being drawn to him, urged to prove himself.

Harry took a step closer. “Of course not. I need to talk to you about the earring.”

“May I see it?” Riddle asked, already reaching out. He stood close enough to grasp the metal hoop between his fingers, his touch warm against Harry’s earlobe. Thick lashes framed his peculiar eyes, and there was a faint scent of fresh magic and incense clinging to him, as if he had just completed a powerful spell that still lingered in his robes.

“How very curious,” Riddle murmured, his tone almost thoughtful.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“No,” Riddle replied, a glint of intrigue in his eyes. “And that’s precisely the curious part. It’s functioning just as intended. It seems… it simply cannot contain the sheer volume of magic you carry within you.”

Standing this close, staring into Riddle’s eyes, felt much too intimate—intense in a way that Harry hadn’t anticipated. He found himself searching Riddle’s expression for any indication of what he was thinking, of what might be lurking beneath the surface.

Riddle licked his lips, a slow and deliberate motion, before speaking again. “You’re quite beautiful, you know.”

A pang shot through Harry’s gut, a sudden jolt of attraction that caught him off guard. His thoughts flickered absurdly to Voldemort and then away again. Whatever had happened after receiving his mark had been a fluke—maybe even a power play—and it certainly hadn’t felt like this. This was different; this was Riddle, a fellow Death Eater, not the terrifying Dark Lord.

And Riddle was looking at him as if he wanted to devour him. Emboldened by the alcohol coursing through his veins and unable to bear the growing tension a moment longer, Harry tugged Riddle even closer, his grip firm and unhesitating, and kissed him.

This wasn’t Harry’s first kiss, though it might as well have been for how intense it felt. While he’d been the one to make the first move, Riddle had immediately seized control, kissing him back with a hunger that matched Harry’s eagerness, then overwhelmed it. Riddle's grip tightened on the back of Harry's neck, holding him close, refusing to let him retreat. They panted into each other’s mouths as Harry tried to pull away to catch his breath, the heat of the moment making his thoughts blur together.

“What’s happening?” Harry asked, his voice embarrassingly ragged.

Riddle’s gaze burned into him, his fingers tangled in Harry's hair, keeping him in place. “What does it feel like?” he replied, his tone low and smooth, as if the answer was obvious.

There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, but beneath that, something darker, something that made Harry’s skin prickle with both fear and desire. Riddle hadn’t let him go—hadn’t loosened his hold one bit—and it felt like the air around them had thickened, as though the world beyond the balcony had faded away, leaving only this electric moment between them.

Riddle's eyes roamed over Harry's face, excited and restless, pupils blown wide with something Harry couldn’t quite name. The heat flooding through Harry’s body was disorienting, radiating outward from his Dark Mark with a fervor that made his skin tingle. For a giddy, breathless moment, he wondered if he was being summoned, but when he touched the Mark, the sensation only intensified, like the magic inside him was rewarding him for kissing Riddle. Harry was too caught up in the rush to question it.

“It seems that our magic is remarkably compatible,” Riddle murmured, as though that explained anything. His voice was calm, almost clinical, but his eyes gleamed with an undeniable spark. “We’ll need to experiment further to know for certain.”

“Experiment?” Harry croaked before Riddle kissed him again.

Some cruel voice in the back of Harry’s mind whispered that Riddle was only doing this because Harry was drunk, or worse, that he’d gone off with some high ranking Death Eaters and they’d all had a laugh about how easy it would be to manipulate Harry. But even as that doubt tried to claw its way in, it didn’t seem to matter. After all, Harry had already done something far more humiliating with the Dark Lord himself, and nothing bad had come from that—at least, not yet.

He leaned in again, letting himself get lost in Riddle’s lips, drawn irresistibly to the way it made him feel—powerful and reckless, as if the world beyond this balcony didn’t exist and the only thing that mattered was the magic humming between them.

“Now… what was that about a bedroom?” Riddle asked.

All logic flew out of Harry’s mind at the command, and he allowed Riddle to lead him off the balcony and through the ballroom. They hurried past the golden light and swirling dancers, a conspicuous sight, no doubt—but Harry didn’t think about that. As they moved, his gaze flickered to the Dark Lord’s throne, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw Voldemort’s eyes on him.

Did he know? Did he care? A million hypotheticals flew through Harry’s mind, but they were forgotten when Riddle dragged him into a quiet hallway.

Urgency gave way to curiosity; Harry marveled at the way warmth rippled through his Mark and into his body, radiating toward the point where Riddle’s hand squeezed around his wrist. He wanted to know what it’d feel like to touch other parts of Riddle’s body, just how powerfully their magic could react. There was a sense of relief in knowing that no matter how excited he became, he wouldn’t hurt Riddle if his magic lashed out. In this, there was a kind of freedom he hadn’t experienced before.

Why did his bedroom have to be on the other side of the manor?

It seemed Riddle lost his patience as well because he stopped once they turned a few corners and shoved Harry against the wall. Their chests plastered together, magic and heat thrumming into each other as their lips parted, and it was unlike anything Harry had ever done before, opening his mouth so Riddle could push in with his tongue.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” Harry groaned when Riddle’s lips moved to the side of his throat.

“Seems unlikely,” Riddle agreed, and he shifted, pressing against Harry even more, and Harry felt the undeniable firm line of Tom’s erection. It was enough to make him feel like he’d lost his mind, knowing that he was here with this fascinating man, who was hard because of him, and that it’d become Harry’s utmost concern to take care of that as soon as possible.

“Fuck, Riddle,” Harry breathed, and kissed the solid angle of his jaw, and Riddle laughed.

“You can call me Tom.”

The name was accompanied by a hand pushing between Harry’s legs, applying delicious pressure, and Harry moaned, a painfully vulnerable noise that would have been embarrassing if it didn’t feel so amazing.

“Fuck, Tom,” Harry gasped, rocking down against Tom’s hand, trying to stay upright, to appreciate the friction and the huffed little sounds coming from Tom’s lips.

Tom nipped at his earlobe, and whispered, “I’m certain there’s an empty room nearby.” Harry could feel a smile form around the words, pressing against the shell of his ear. Tom’s hand squeezed around him. “Unless you’d prefer to make use of this hallway.”

“You’re insane,” Harry groaned. He pulled on Tom’s hair to guide their lips together again, and it wasn’t a kiss so much as a tangle of tongues and mouths and saliva.

“I’ve been called worse things,” Tom said when they parted. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, an expression Harry wanted to scrape off with his teeth. “Though, not usually by anyone quite so charming.”

He kept pulling away to talk when Harry wanted more. “Lord, do you ever shut up?”

Tom’s eyes blazed with amusement. “Sometimes.” He latched his lips to the gooseflesh skin on Harry’s throat and sucked hard. “When there are better things to do.”

“Like what?” Harry laughed, breathless.

“I have a few ideas,” Tom said before reaching down to palm over Harry’s cock again.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry panted. He could hardly believe this was real, and he rocked against Tom, desperate and mindless. His head burrowed into the space between Tom’s neck and shoulder, and when Tom squeezed him, Harry bit down.

Tom groaned as if he liked it, and he slipped his hand inside Harry’s robe. As if there was something funny about Harry’s desperation, Tom let out an amused little noise. “My word, Harry, how long have you thought of doing this with me?”

Harry made a strangled noise. “I haven’t—”

“What have you done, exactly?” Harry looked at him, not understanding the question, likely because he was so turned on that he could barely think. Tom rolled his eyes. “Are you a virgin? It’s perfectly fine if you are, but I need to know how far you’d like to go.”

“I—technically, yes.” It wasn’t even worth thinking about the person he’d clumsily tried a few things with, long ago and in a different life. Those experiments hadn’t gone far at all, and it was painful to think about.

“Has anyone ever sucked you off before, Harry?” The unexpected question knocked the dread right out of him. He groaned, his disbelief growing as Tom sank gracefully to his knees.

“Would you like it if I did that for you?” Tom murmured, his hands already reaching out as though the answer hardly mattered.

“If you don’t, I think I might die,” Harry admitted, his voice coming out in a surprised half-laugh.

Tom pushed back the fabric of Harry’s robes, which was a bit of a feat as there were several layers, but he managed it with ease. He paused when cool air hit Harry’s exposed skin, and Harry worried for a moment that something was wrong, at least until Tom let out a pleased noise.

“Well.” Tom leaned closer and ran his tongue over the tip of Harry’s cock. “Even better than I expected.”

“What did you expect—” Harry’s retort was cut off as Tom’s lips wrapped around him.

Harry had spent a lot of time contemplating what exactly a blowjob would feel like, and it turned out he hadn’t even been close. The sudden heat took him by such surprise that he found himself clutching at Tom’s hair for support, certain he’d collapse from the sheer molten pleasure if he didn’t. The inside of Tom’s mouth was impossibly warm, his tongue applying a firm yet gentle pressure that made Harry’s pulse race.

He smoothed his hands over Tom’s hair, twirling his fingers around those precise waves, and he could feel the way the muscles in Tom’s jaw and throat worked, could see how the smooth column of his neck rippled from the effort. He was so beautiful that Harry could scarcely believe this was happening. Groaning, he pressed his hand against the back of Tom’s head, wanting to be deeper, closer.

Tom responded with force. Suction pulled a muffled sound from the back of his throat, a wet and primitive noise, and his hand came up to squeeze around the base of Harry’s cock, working in tandem with his mouth. Seeing the way his cheeks flushed from exertion as he swallowed pulled Harry right to the brink of his climax much too soon.

“Fuck—I’m—” Harry stuttered, bucking mindlessly against Tom, who moved with him, not slowing or stopping or giving Harry a moment to catch his breath. Harry flung back his head and spilled into Tom’s mouth, moaning and twitching, hands clutching Tom’s hair to keep him in place.

When it was over, Tom’s eyes were unfocused, his grip relaxing on Harry’s hips as his breath ran ragged through his nose. Spit and come mottled his lips, and when his tongue shot out to clean it away, Harry thought he might die. Apart from his unsteady breath, Tom seemed entirely composed when he stood up, leaned back against the wall, and pulled Harry closer. Their bodies slotted together like they were made for each other, one of Harry’s legs pressing between Tom’s, where Tom’s erection stamped a long line of heat against Harry’s thigh.

“Touch me,” Tom commanded, so warm and close as he tilted his head up to speak into Harry’s ear.

Harry could hardly say no. Lax and pliant from his orgasm, he rubbed his palm over Tom’s cock, and delighted in the resulting breathy shudder. He tried to make out the size of it through the thick fabric of Tom’s robe before realizing he’d much rather take it out. Tom leaned back, letting Harry unfasten the front of his robe and his trousers, and while it was hard to see in the shadows created by their black clothes and the dim corridor, Harry could feel how hard Tom was, his cock swollen with blood and twitching against Harry’s hand.

He stroked Tom the way he liked it himself: firm, full movements with a little flick of his wrist. It was awkward at that angle, since his whole body crushed against Tom’s, but it was worth it when he drew a little hiss from Tom every time his thumb grazed the tip, dragging precome with the motion. Harry realized he was smelling Tom’s hair, taking in the scent of electric magic and faint hints of cologne.

“Faster,” Tom said, his tone petulant, “Unless you want this to take all night. Or maybe you’re waiting for us to get caught.” For someone covered in his own precome, he sure talked a lot. Harry buried his face into the crook of Tom’s neck and twisted his wrist faster while Tom kept talking. “Perhaps there’s someone you have in mind? Someone you hope will see you like this?”

“Of course not,” Harry said even while Voldemort’s face rang through his mind like a bell. That was far too distracting, and it seemed Tom had no intention of shutting up, so Harry followed base instinct and bit him.

He hadn’t expected Tom to shout. The noise was so loud, right in Harry’s ear, and he would have stumbled back if Tom hadn’t wrapped his arms tightly around him, holding him firmly in place. Beautiful words curled around him as Tom melted. “That’s it, that’s perfect, you’re so good, I—”

Tom’s crooning was cut off by another shout as Harry bit him again, right on the tender junction where the throat met the underside of his ear, and he sucked on the skin hard enough to leave a bruise, battering it with his tongue as Tom crushed him inside his arms. It took a moment for Harry to realize that Tom was coming, his hips trembling and breath hitching as his fingers dug into Harry’s back. In that instant, Tom’s magic swept over them both, blanketing Harry as he came undone. His cock was pinned between their stomachs, wrapped in Harry’s hand, and hot ropes shot against them both.

Breathing heavily, Tom looked up at Harry with red, beautiful eyes. “I think I’ll keep you.”

Harry shivered at that, too entranced to pull away, and Tom dragged his mouth closer to lick Harry’s tongue, then moved with abrupt speed to pin Harry against the wall with a hand curved along his jaw, threatening to slip down to his throat and squeeze. He leaned back and fixed Harry with a dangerous but playful look.

“Would you like to try an interesting bit of magic?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, as if already anticipating Harry’s curiosity. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made Harry want to play along.

Harry was covered with come and he was more concerned with cleaning himself up than anything else, but what else had he joined the Death Eaters for if not to learn more magic?

“Alright,” he said, curiosity overtaking his hesitation.

Tom’s eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his features as he spoke. “The incantation is Sundeo. You do not need your wand, but you will place some of my semen on your tongue. Quickly, now, before it cools.”

There was something in the way Tom said it, a kind of quiet intensity that sent a shiver through Harry’s spine. He could sense that this wasn’t ordinary magic—it had a weight to it, an air of the forbidden. “Okay.” Feeling a bit cheeky, Harry made a show of licking Tom’s come off of his hand before trying the spell. “Sundeo.”

Tom repeated the incantation, and something heavy and sweet melted inside Harry’s mouth, tasting like black licorice, and thick shadows poured out of their lips. Darting forward, Tom clasped Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him. He grazed his thumb over the new scar on Harry’s forehead, which made shocking pleasure lurch through Harry’s gut, and the sticky-sweetness intensified, almost as if their mouths were joined by thick molasses that oozed down Harry’s throat, forcing him to swallow. His Dark Mark hummed in response, the vibration rattling deep into his bones.

After a brief but intense moment, Tom released him and took a wide step back, putting distance between them. Harry wished desperately that he could read minds, because Tom’s expression was inscrutable, betraying nothing of what he might be thinking. “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Tom said with jarring formality, his voice calm and composed. “I’m certain we will see each other again soon.

“Wait, what was that spell?” Harry demanded, still reeling.

“We’ll discuss it soon enough, but for now, I really must be going.” With that, Tom slipped away, seeming to melt into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.

What?

Harry was left standing in the dimly lit corridor, a heavy sense of unease settling over him. He had the distinct feeling that he’d just done something incredibly stupid.

The taste of the spell lingered in his mouth, its weight curling in his stomach. Harry had no idea what he had just gotten himself into, but the promise that they’d see each other again soon was oddly reassuring, even if it left him with more questions than answers. He hurried to his bedroom alone, feeling the remnants of the magic humming faintly under his skin.

As he settled into the quiet of the room, his mind raced with thoughts of Tom Riddle. Maybe Draco or Blaise would be able to tell him more about the enigmatic man in the morning. There was a chance they might even recognize the spell Tom had used, or at least give some hint as to what kind of magic it was. For now, all Harry could do was let the unsettling thrill of the encounter sink in and hope that his curiosity hadn’t led him into something he’d regret.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since Harry's encounter with Tom, and the memory clung to him like a shadow, persistent and inescapable. As he trailed behind Draco and Mrs. Malfoy on one of their shopping excursions, or when Pansy and Blaise made their daily visits to lounge and gossip, his mind wandered incessantly back to that evening. Time moved agonizingly slow, the days blurring together in a wasteful procession as he waited for his classes to begin.

He found himself burning through an unreasonable amount of energy simply wondering when he might see Tom again. He could have settled it with a quick owl, a straightforward invitation for dinner, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Tom wasn’t someone you casually summoned. Trying to pin down time with him felt presumptuous, like he’d be pulling Tom away from something far more important.

And perhaps it was easier to put off because, truthfully, the intensity of their immediate connection scared Harry. His life had already changed so drastically, making this a terrible time to start anything new. He wasn’t stupid; inflicting his baggage on Tom could ruin something good before it even had a chance to happen.

Ideally, he would get settled into the apartment he’d be sharing with Blaise—who made an ideal roommate since they required the same sleeping accommodations—and then he’d navigate his new classes and the unfamiliar terrain of his life as a Death Eater. He’d have his bearings in a few weeks, at which point he’d consider writing to Tom.

If he had taken a moment to read the fine print of his course catalog, he might have recognized the hopelessness of this plan.

His first class was called Advanced Magical Bonds, and it was scheduled to meet only a handful of times, on seemingly random dates. While some of the classes Bellatrix had chosen for him met regularly, most were like this, requiring careful use of a calendar for the next two years.

Most of the buildings used by the Death Eaters occupied several blocks in the center of London. It wasn’t nearly as concealed from Muggle eyes as Diagon Alley—the Death Eaters preferred not to shrink themselves down into hidden streets, opting instead to cast repelling wards and deadly curses, which kept away most of the rabble. The class was held in a tall, narrow building—a spindly structure of timeworn black bricks, squeezed between a Muggle bank and a luxurious clothing store. Beside the door, a lantern hung from a hook and flickered with a purple flame, casting shadows that swallowed the sunlight. Harry couldn’t help but feel a thrill as he approached, the flame sputtering and flaring with an almost sentient energy.

He slipped inside, the door clicking shut with a soft thud that seemed to stretch out in the quiet dark. None of his friends were in this class, so he was left to navigate the narrow, shadowed hallway alone. There was only one door at the end, and when he peeked through, he found it filled with unfamiliar faces. The room was surprisingly cozy—armchairs and sofas arranged in a loose semi-circle, dim lights casting a warm, golden glow that made everything feel a little too close, a little too intimate.

A flicker of anxiety washed over him as he assessed the others. They were all older than him—likely well past their two year trial. One woman shot him a sneer, her disdain cutting through the air like a knife. Harry swallowed hard, his heart racing. At least he didn’t have to worry about his magic killing anyone if he was provoked, since anyone with a Dark Mark was bound to have at least some resistance to it, but he could still collapse the building on top of them. He was good at that.

Like a breath of fresh air slicing through the thick tension, a door opened across the room. Harry’s anxiety vanished in an instant as he spotted a familiar face. He waved for Tom to join him, but Tom merely shot him an amused smirk before striding to the front, ready to command the room.

“Welcome to Advanced Magical Bonds,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “As you may know, this course is offered only every few years, and I’ve handpicked each of you from a sea of candidates. I suggest you seize this opportunity with both hands.” With a charming smile, he directed his attention to the girl who had sneered at Harry, and Harry felt a sharp tension in his jaw.

Jealousy was an unfamiliar sensation for Harry. Sure, there had been fleeting crushes during his time at Hogwarts—and one of those briefly turned into something, but he never felt possessive of anyone. Yet at that moment, he found himself wanting to use his magic to drag that girl into a pit in the ground.

He was also mortified. Of course Tom was a professor. It made perfect sense that someone intricately tied to the Dark Lord's machinations wouldn’t be a common student. Harry hoped Tom interpreted his wave as a simple greeting rather than a beckoning invitation. Still, this was thrilling. A sense of anticipation bubbled within him; he had no idea what lay ahead in this class, but he felt certain he was in capable hands.

Tom continued, his voice smooth as silk and edged with mischief. “Magical bonds allow two or more individuals to weave their magic together for various purposes. Naturally, there are myriad forms of these bonds, but I trust you all have a clear idea of the kind we’ll be exploring in the coming months.” His gaze locked onto Harry, who was shaking his head in confusion, and Tom’s expression shifted, a glimmer of cruel amusement dancing in his eyes. “Your first assignment is to find a partner. You will need to pair up in twos. I shouldn’t have to remind you to choose wisely.” A brief silence enveloped the room as he surveyed the students, impatience radiating from him. “Well, don’t just sit there. Get on with it.”

Harry cast a quick glance around, counting heads and realizing, with a sinking feeling, that there was an odd number of them—not counting Tom—which meant someone would inevitably be left out. And as the reality sank in, it became painfully clear that it might very well be him. He didn’t know anyone here, and the others seemed to be much more experienced and had formed their partnerships long before this class.

Then, a hand descended onto the armrest of Harry's chair—adorned with a ring that cradled an enchanted stone, set in an otherwise unremarkable band. The stone drank in the light from the nearby lamp, rendering it impossibly black. Harry looked up to find Tom leering down at him, an unsettling satisfaction glinting in his eyes.

“Hello, Mr Potter. Care to be my partner?”

Harry blinked, taken aback. “I didn’t realize you were an option.”

“Well, given the uneven number of students, it seems your choices are limited. It’s either me or… nothing.”

“Is there really no option for solo work?” Harry asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Tom's gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing like a predator assessing its prey. “Would you prefer that?”

The room had fallen silent, and Harry felt the weight of every gaze upon them. Drawing courage from the moment, he shook his head. “Of course not, sir. I’ll be your partner.”

Tom’s smile widened, and Harry felt his pulse quicken. “Excellent.”

He turned his back on Harry, striding toward the front of the room. "Does everyone have their partner?" His voice echoed in the stone room, and he paused just long enough to watch the ripple of nodding heads. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, a large chest by the door shuddered, creaked, and burst open. Books, thick and worn, rose out like a flock of birds and drifted through the room, settling before each pair of students. As if by some unseen hand, they flipped open to a page near the front.

Harry’s eyes were drawn to the illustration first—two nude witches entwined around each other and passing a shimmering black substance from mouth to mouth. Their bodies were locked in a fervent, almost desperate embrace, while behind them the world seemed to burn. The flames danced, vivid and hungry. Startled, Harry tore his gaze away from the image and scanned the words beside it, his heartbeat quickening.

It appeared to be a chapter on the sexual application of magical bonds. Harry’s jaw dropped. Why on earth had Bellatrix signed him up for this class? Lucius' warning came back to him, and for a moment, the absurd possibility flickered—did she expect him to form one of those bonds with her? No, that couldn’t be it. It was ludicrous. Lucius had only wanted to rattle him, plant seeds of doubt after the honor of being brought into the inner circle.

Yet, Lucius' advice hung heavier now: his recommendation that Harry find someone to keep Bellatrix from… what? Raping him? Harry’s eyes slid toward Tom, considering, wondering if Tom could stand his ground against someone so deeply entrenched in Voldemort’s inner circle.

Tom’s voice cut through his thoughts. “This isn’t a lecture series,” he said, his tone as smooth as the dark silk of his robes. “It’s a study group—an exploration, if you will, of the techniques within these pages. It is imperative that you pursue your own research. If questions arise, I’m available during the times listed on the course pamphlet, or via owl.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Of course, your best resources are one another.”

With that, Tom drifted to a velvet sofa, sinking into its plush embrace like a king retreating to his throne. He twirled his wand idly between his fingers as the room fell into a hush, the soft rustle of turning pages filling the space.

It didn’t take Harry too long to catch on to the situation. The first chapter explained the history of using physical attraction in magic and the discovery of complex bonds, before summarizing all of the things a bond could do when created with the mutual sharing of sexual fluids, with page numbers for where to look for more information on different purposes.

Harry’s eyes skimmed the pages, flipping ahead with a growing sense of dread. It wasn’t the least bit surprising when he came across the incantation—Sundeo—and the second his eyes traced over the word, he could taste Tom’s come in his mouth, smell his sweat and shampoo. Harry’s pulse quickened, a tight knot of panic coiling in his stomach, but his fingers still lingered on the edge of the page, unwilling to turn away.

An uncomfortable realization settled in. As horrifying as all of this was—Tom’s outrageously inappropriate manipulation, the dark magic woven through the class—there was no denying it. This was fascinating. More than that, it was useful. He took note of different physical acts and how they intensified the bond, with methods ranging from sweating or spitting on each other, to licking semen out of each other’s orifices, or even bleeding into each other's wounds. The illustrations were shockingly pornographic.

When Harry looked up again, Tom’s gaze was already fixed on him, sharp and deliberate. A flicker of pink wet Tom’s lips before he smirked, mirroring the small wave Harry had given him at the start of class. With a resigned breath, Harry rose and crossed the room, sinking onto the sofa beside Tom.

He wondered what the punishment might be for punching a teacher.

Just as Harry opened his mouth to speak, a girl’s voice cut through the moment, sugary and hesitant. "Sir?" she began, simpering. "I wondered... how long should it take for us to complete the bond?"

Tom barely concealed his boredom, his eyes half-lidded as if the question hardly warranted his attention. “Ideally, before you leave today. You may use any of the empty rooms in this tower for the full duration of the course, should you choose. The entrance will remain unlocked for you.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. Make use of the rooms? Surely, that didn’t mean what he thought it meant, but Tom’s expression betrayed nothing as he continued.

“Of course, Harry,” he added, his voice slipping into something softer, more dangerous, “you are free to leave, as we have already completed our bond.”

Was Tom trying to embarrass him? There was little point in that. Harry didn’t know any of these people, and frankly, he didn’t really care what they thought. "I think I’ll stay a while. Maybe wait and see if you’ll give me a tour of your tower."

Tom’s lips curved into a sly, knowing smile. “That can be arranged.”

A few of the students got up in pairs, slipping through the door Tom had pointed them toward, presumably heading to the spare rooms. This was beyond anything Harry had expected. He knew that Death Eaters lived lives drastically different from ordinary people—something the Daily Prophet constantly reminded the public—but he hadn't thought that sleeping with classmates and even teachers would be part of the curriculum.

“Just in case you’re wondering, I’m thinking about punching you in the face,” Harry muttered under his breath after the simpering girl finally left.

Tom didn’t miss a beat. “I’d truly love to see you try,” he replied with a calm, almost amused tone. Rising from his seat, he exuded a truly punchable air of effortless confidence as he addressed the last pair of students lingering in the room. “Do either of you need any further assistance?”

Both students blushed scarlet and shook their heads in unison.

“Come along, Harry. It’s time for your tour,” Tom said, all smooth and unhurried.

Having no real choice, Harry grabbed his bag, hastily shoved the book inside, and followed Tom out the door. Tom led him down a short hallway, stopping at another door that opened to reveal a spiral staircase. He gestured for Harry to go first.

Harry shot him a glare, but Tom’s expression remained eerily blank, giving nothing away. Resigned, Harry started up the stairs, only to feel Tom’s presence close behind, crowding him, as if herding him upward like a dog nipping at the heels of an errant sheep.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Tom murmured once they reached the top. The stairs ended abruptly at a narrow landing with a single door, and they paused there, standing close in the confined space. “I doubt most of your classmates will complete their bonds. They might bluster and say they’re committed to pursuing power, but when it comes down to it, they’ll back out. They'll make excuses. Aren’t you glad you’re not one of them?”

Harry snorted, a rush of irritation flowing through him. “I don’t know, Tom. At least they aren’t getting tricked into something that impacts the rest of their life.”

Tom’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, as if he found Harry’s defiance amusing. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

He smelled really good, and the feel of their magic sticking together in such close proximity was undeniable. It was like a magnetic pull, and when Harry tried to lean away, he could feel a subtle resistance, as if the air itself didn’t want them to part. He flattened his back against the door, looking down at Tom, who was already shorter than him, aided by the height of a single step up. “Did you know I was taking this class before we met at the ball?”

“Of course I did,” Tom replied with a faint smirk. “Bellatrix told me to expect you.”

Harry's chest tightened. “Didn’t she sign me up so I’d… bond with her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tom laughed, covering his mouth with his hand like the question had surprised him, which Harry didn’t think was altogether fair since Bellatrix had been acting like she wanted to eat Harry the moment he walked off that graduation stage. “She is quite happily bonded with her husband, as much as she might behave otherwise. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Tom unlocked the door and shoved Harry forward before he could answer, sending him stumbling out onto the flat rooftop. For a split second, panic clawed at him as he nearly lost his footing, half-convinced he’d go over the edge, though the railing was still a good few strides away. The sheer height and the fierce wind that whipped around them made it feel as if they were standing on the edge of the world. London sprawled out in every direction, a mix of ancient stone and glittering lights that painted the late afternoon in shades of gold and shadow. Despite his anger, Harry couldn’t help but draw in a deep breath, struck by the wild beauty of the view.

Tom stepped in close behind him, an arm snaking around Harry's waist. “Sundeo is a fascinating spell,” he murmured, his deft fingers tracing the buttons on Harry’s robe. “It binds two casters, forging a connection that lasts a lifetime. While it doesn’t demand proximity or much maintenance, it cannot be recast as long as the original partner lives.” His voice was low, each word curling warm against Harry’s ear, seductive even while sounding like a walking textbook. “Bellatrix knows better than to even consider something like that with you.”

Harry trembled, and it wasn’t solely from rage. His emotions were a tangled mess, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he felt—only that he didn’t like this. “Then… why did you cast it?” He felt bitter, confused. Uncertain why all of these strange and powerful people kept jerking him around like a pawn on a chessboard.

“I want to see what it’s like,” Tom replied without hesitation, his tone completely unabashed. “I’ve never been in a committed relationship, and you’re a suitable match. I’m confident that this will be a worthwhile partnership.” There was something disturbingly casual in the way Tom spoke about binding their lives together, and yet there was also a kind of certainty in his voice, as if this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

That was so unexpected that it startled a laugh out of Harry, which quickly turned into a bemused sort of fury. He found that he was flattered, and confused—Tom had never dated anyone before? But that relief flashed into boiling rage. “This lifelong partnership might not last that long if you think you can control me this easily.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the weight of those words pressing down on him. Voldemort might have claimed his loyalty in this life and a weird kind of service in the next, but Tom had taken this life. The one Harry knew, the one he had taken charge of when he decided to accept the Dark Mark, to do something good with this opportunity. He had knowingly left behind everyone else to forge his path, and Tom had taken away a huge portion of that freedom. No matter what happened, they were bound together, and Harry had been so stupid to help make it happen.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward Tom. There was a magnetic energy between them, and Tom’s calm confidence unnerved Harry, making him question his own feelings. Tom was older than him, and far more experienced, and he had the sort of power Harry needed if he was actually going to do something decent for the world, someday. That was actually rather thrilling, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder why Tom had chosen him.

“You can't just—just decide something like this for me!” he snapped, trying to wrench away from Tom’s grip. “You’ve bound me to you for life, and you think it’s just some experiment to try out? What gives you the right?”

He smothered a flicker of doubt by raising his volume, shouting, but he wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted to sever their connection—if he even could. It made him angry. He wanted to fling Tom off the rooftop—it would serve him right—but he also wanted to see where this was going.

It was such a uniquely terrible situation. Harry stared at Tom, noticing the way the wind ruffled his hair and snapped his robes, highlighted by the picturesque city around them, how Tom watched him with an intensity that made it feel like they were the only two people in the world. The whole thing was absurd—he’d been yanked out of his life and thrust into this strange world, only to find himself cornered on a rooftop, being told he was now bound to a madman for the rest of his days. It was so surreal that some reckless part of him almost wanted to lean into it, if only to see how much it could escalate.

He wondered if he could out-weird Tom.

Breaking the silence, he asked, “Why do you think I’m a suitable match? We don’t even know each other.”

Tom took a step closer, his expression adopting a wistful, almost romantic quality. “We’ve felt each other’s magic. The way we react to each other’s touch means something; I know it must, even if I don’t yet know what—”

“Save it,” Harry interrupted. “I can tell you’re playing dumb.”

It was obvious, almost painfully so. Harry might not know Tom very well, but he’d grown up around enough overly dramatic, powerful people to recognize manipulation when he saw it. Sirius, in particular, had a way of using charm and flirtation as weapons, and Tom was already reminding him far too much of that. It was something Harry didn’t want to analyze too deeply, but at least it gave him a pretty good idea of how to handle this insufferable man.

Harry stepped closer, watching the quick, eager light in Tom’s eyes as he did so, like he delighted in being caught in a lie. “Why does our magic react so strongly to each other?”

Tom tilted his chin up, a smug smile curling on his lips. “That is what I hope to discover by pursuing this relationship.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, then snorted. “So this is all just one big experiment for you? Seriously?” He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips, despite everything. “Well, I guess it’s only fair to try some experiments of my own.”

He wasn’t going to let Tom think he had the upper hand, not if he could help it. If there was no undoing the fact that they were bound together for the rest of their lives, then Harry was determined to meet Tom’s intensity with his own—maybe even push back harder and see how Tom reacted when he wasn’t the one in control.

Harry’s heart pounded hard in his chest, the adrenaline coursing through him as he acted on a reckless impulse, moving before he could second-guess himself. Without overthinking it, he closed the distance between them and grabbed the front of Tom’s robes, yanking him close enough to kiss him, clicking their teeth together and not caring at all, turning his head to capture Tom’s lower lip between his teeth and biting down hard. He let go as soon as Tom moaned, pushing him back as carelessly as Tom had shoved him onto the roof earlier.

Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression brightened with obvious delight, a look that was oddly charming and a little terrifying at the same time. It made Harry's pulse quicken, and he pulled off his robe, leaving him in a thin shirt and trousers. Maybe he could fuck some answers out of Tom. “Why do you think our magic gets along so well?”

“I would need permission from the Dark Lord to disclose any theories I have on the matter,” Tom replied, his tone smug, as though he was savoring every word. “I suppose you should know that I asked his permission before undertaking this experiment, and he has given his blessing. He wants to see what we can do together.”

That made something squirm in Harry’s gut—a feeling he didn’t know how to interpret. Had Tom and Voldemort slept together? Why was his mind going there? That was more than he could process at that moment without losing the thread of their conversation. “Great, alright. In that case, I don’t see why he wouldn’t want me to know what’s going on.”

“Very well, I will ask,” Tom said smoothly, his eyes still gleaming with that unnerving enthusiasm. “And in the meantime, we have so much to learn about this bond.” He slipped a hand under Harry’s shirt, and they both gasped at the sudden skin contact. It was like releasing a held breath moments before they might have passed out, a mouthful of cold water in the middle of a desert. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Each syllable went straight to Harry’s cock. Skin-on-skin contact was doing stupid things to his brain, turning all thoughts and protests into mush. He wondered why it had felt like this before they had even established the bond, but the thought wriggled away like a fish slipping into dark water. Tom shoved his hand into Harry’s trousers, and Harry moaned, already hard enough for Tom to mutter some pleased comment about how thick his cock was before lowering to his knees.

Worse things had happened to Harry than being magically bound to someone for the rest of his life who was so eager to suck him off. When he thought about everything he’d already lost—his friends, his family, the familiar comforts of his old life—being stuck with Tom didn’t seem like the worst fate imaginable. It helped that Tom was unspeakably hot. He was obviously trying—and succeeding—to seduce Harry, had picked him for some reason and refused to even tell him why, but it also seemed like Tom genuinely enjoyed giving head, and Harry found that he liked that in a person.

Tom ran his tongue along Harry’s cock until the whole thing was wet before sinking his mouth around it like he’d been thinking about it all day. This was a definite point in favor of tolerating Tom’s nefarious plans, at least for a while. He made the most incredible noises when Harry grabbed hold of him by the back of his head to take out his pent up aggression. Each thrust in forced out a strangled gasp, and Harry wondered how much it’d take to make him cry.

“I’d like to ask you something,” Tom gasped when Harry was seconds away from coming, shoving him backward. A string of drool and precome connected Tom’s flushed lips to Harry’s straining cock as he looked up with his odd, red eyes.

“Wh—Are you kidding me?”

Tom licked a stripe up Harry’s cock before taking it back into his mouth, slurping around the head with a deeply inappropriate noise, keeping their eyes connected. He pulled back again. “I want to know how it felt when you killed them.”

And then he swallowed around Harry again as if he hadn’t asked a shockingly nasty question, quick as an adder, staring up as he waited for a response.

Too many emotions roared through Harry, but he was helpless there, completely at the mercy of Tom’s tongue and unable to look away. “What, do you get off on that kind of thing?”

Tom chuckled, and the vibrations made Harry groan. Opening his jaw just enough to speak, he let out a garbled, “yes.”

Upset as he was, the question and Tom’s shamelessness stirred something inside of Harry—something forbidden. It was just a notion, a fleeting thought, but it was so horrible and dangerous that Harry had locked it away in some hidden prison in his mind, where he wouldn’t have to confront it.

But now that he was alone with Tom, the words clawed their way to the surface, refusing to stay buried. He said what he was thinking, partly because he needed to let it out, and partly because he wanted to see how the truth would affect Tom—what kind of reaction it might provoke.

“It felt… scary,” Harry said, his voice scraping his throat. “Strong.” Tom’s tongue massaged the whole length of cock, making Harry groan, digging his fingers into Tom’s hair to hold him in place, and Tom responded by stamping his teeth down with just enough pressure to hurt. “Like—ahh—like I wasn’t even human anymore, but s-something else. Something—oh, fuck—like a monster. It felt good. I liked it.”

Tom made a deep sound and swallowed around him, and Harry shattered—thinking about Tom, about those black pits at the center of two burning red irises, how that darkness matched the very core of his own magic. Was this pull something all Seeds felt, this chilling sense of inevitability drawing him ever closer to something he couldn’t name? In that moment, he wanted to let it catch him.

When he came back to his senses, he saw Tom was panting, kneeling on the ground with his robes open in the front, stroking himself as he looked up at Harry. He must have pulled back so Harry came all over his face instead of spilling down his throat—Harry had been too gone to notice—white streaks were painted across his face, sticking his eyelashes together, making his lips shine. “Another question,” Tom said, his voice strained, bucking up into his own hand. “Do you enjoy prostate stimulation?”

“Uh.” Harry sat down, then dropped heavily onto his back. “I haven’t tried it.” His head was spinning, and he blinked up at the sky, which was a surprisingly innocent blue.

“I see.” Tom let his robe fall off of his shoulders, leaving him entirely naked. He crouched down, planting his knees on either side of Harry’s hips. His body was pale and slender, and Harry drank in every mole and scar. “Well, it is quite possibly my favorite thing. Would you like me to show you how it’s done?”

Harry let out an exhausted laugh. “I’m… kind of spent, Tom.”

“That’s no matter at all, as far as our bond is concerned.” Tom continued to stroke himself with one hand as he took Harry’s softened cock in the other. When Tom closed his eyes, Harry could feel something zap between them, like static electricity, and a moment later, he had swollen back to full arousal.

“See?” Tom's voice was soft, yet edged with a deadly bite. His hand was slick with precome as he opened his eyes, fixing Harry with an appraising stare that cut straight through him. “The bond isn’t all bad.”

“Never said it was,” Harry replied, his tone flat but his pulse quickening. It was like Tom had brought him right up to Tom’s level, seconds from bursting, desperate for something tight and hot to fuck. Tom’s body radiated body heat and Harry wanted to bite him.

Tom’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he dropped his hand, dragging it down his own face and wiping away most of Harry’s come in the process. With a lazy, almost careless touch, he smeared the slick substance over Harry’s cock. It wasn’t ideal; the come had already begun to cool, but a slippery film trickled down Tom’s palm as he moved, his fingers trailing in deliberate, steady strokes.

“Wandless transfiguration?” Harry asked, equal parts impressed and turned on. The question was met with a sudden chill as his clothes vanished. “Oh come on, that shirt was new.”

“I’ll get you another one.” Tom was distracted, now rubbing his slippery hand between his legs, and it took Harry a moment to realize he was fingering himself, using two fingers to stretch himself open. “Just a moment. It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” he murmured, “and I’d rather not end up injuring myself in the process.”

“What should I do?” Harry had no idea what to expect, but his cock twitched with anticipation.

Tom looked up at him, eyes sharp and dangerous. “Stay still and pay attention,” he said, voice low and edged with something that made Harry’s pulse quicken. “I think you can do that much, can’t you, Harry?”

The way Tom said his name—like a taunt, like a challenge—made Harry let out a huff of irritated laughter, one that quickly turned into a strangled cry as Tom grabbed him, guiding Harry’s cock into place with quick, eager precision. Hot, wet pressure squeezed against him, hesitating at what felt like a firm barrier before a ring of muscles gave way to so much heat, making Harry moan. Tom lowered down, then retreated, muscles catching against the head of Harry’s cock again. He stared up at Tom, helpless to the sight and sensations. The sun cast Tom’s face in shadows, and he watched Harry with so much intensity, his weight leveraged by the motion of his pale, slender legs.

Tom lowered again, slowly, going deeper with each pass. “That’s it,” he said, his voice soft and breathy as he clenched his muscles in a way that made Harry see stars. “Remember this angle, Harry. It’ll definitely be on your final exam.” He chuckled and pushed down further, his hips shifting so that every inch of Harry’s cock worked in some way to better grind against what had to be Tom’s prostate. “I’ll let you in on a secret. As long as you know how to find this exact spot—” Tom ground down for emphasis, rolling his hips, one hand grabbing Harry’s chest to pinch a nipple, “I’ll be very, very nice to you.”

A long whine escaped Harry’s lungs at the sharp pain of having his nipple squeezed. He didn’t think he would like pain—not like that—but it made him kick his legs and arch his back, thrusting his hips up to fuck into Tom, who rode the motion. Tom’s abs tightened, his firm legs bearing down as he breathed loudly through his mouth, and Harry slapped Tom’s hand off his chest. His nipple burned, and he’d never been so hard in his life, so he lunged forward to sink his teeth into Tom’s shoulder, and Tom cried out as if that was enough to make him come. Using all of his strength, Harry grabbed Tom by the waist and flipped him around, slamming him onto his back.

Tom stared up at him, wide eyes momentarily betraying his shock, before he laughed low in his throat and locked his legs behind Harry’s back. “You’re a quick student, aren’t you?” Somehow, Harry had managed to stay inside of Tom through the motion. He punched a gasp out of Tom with one hard thrust, and then another. “That’s it,” Tom said, inhaling sharply before Harry pushed into him again. “There!”

Tom’s neglected cock was nearly purple, it was so hard, so Harry grabbed it and Tom didn’t stop him, he only let out a long cry, twisting and writhing like a trapped animal as Harry thrust into him again and again. The tendons on Tom’s neck stood out as he threw back his head, and Harry bit him there, hard enough to turn the cry into a shout, and then they were both coming together. When Harry closed his eyes, he could feel his magic humming, like a purring creature inside his skin. His senses were enveloped by a sensation like being bathed in slick, black darkness, warm and glistening, pulsing with gratitude and affection.

Remembering something he had read, Harry let go of Tom, breaking through the slackened legs wrapped around him, and he pushed his tongue into Tom’s arse. He held on tight when Tom bucked against him, digging his nails into firm thighs, and licked into Tom’s hole to retrieve a mouthful of come. He let go of Tom’s legs and slid back up to take Tom’s chin in hand and spit into his open mouth. The pile of sticky white fluid turned into crackling, magical black on contact, and Tom’s eyes blazed with approval. He grabbed Harry by the back of the head and crashed their mouths together, shoving his tongue into Harry’s throat, smearing the substance between them.

“Oh, I do appreciate a quick study,” he gasped when Harry finally pulled away. It sounded like he wanted to say more, but he was too short of breath, and rolled onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

They were both covered with each other’s sweat and spit and come, and from what Harry had gathered from the first chapter in his textbook, that would only add to the effects. Their bond would grow every time they produced any kind of body fluid, tripling whenever it was passed between them. It was one thing to read on a page that every pump of blood coursing through their hearts would fortify their power, and another to feel it in action, to drip sweat and smear come over each other, and feel how it made their magic sing.

“I’m almost not mad at you anymore for tricking me into this,” Harry said, laying back to join Tom on the floor. He was loose, boneless, little jolts of pleasure still racing through him as his pulse settled. “Almost.”

Tom made an amused noise, and a moment later, a thick blanket materialized beneath them, softening the unforgiving cement ground. Harry heard the quiet clink of ice, followed by a slight weight settling near his head. When he sat up, he found that Tom had conjured an entire meal for them, laid out like something from a fairytale—berry pies, delicate teacups, little sandwiches, and candies fit for a storybook picnic.

Without a word about Harry’s earlier declaration, Tom sat up and poured two glasses of lemonade from a large, frosty pitcher, his movements unhurried and precise. He handed one to Harry, a faint, almost teasing smile on his lips as if this little setup were the most natural thing in the world. “Thirsty?”

Tom had looked really good with Harry’s come running out of his arse, but he looked even more beautiful once they were cleaned up. Harry had a hard time looking away from him, feeling some impulse to take in every detail. Tom’s waves had sprung back into place with a sweep of his hand, and his motions were precise and graceful. Despite his long limbs and squeezable arse, Harry thought he liked Tom’s eyelashes the best, all thick and dark, lining his peculiar eyes.

Eventually, once their stomachs were full, they turned to the matter of Harry’s unstable magic.

“It’s a matter of self-control, really, and a great deal of practice,” Tom said, reclining back on his hands with the casual ease of someone giving advice on something far simpler. “Deep down, and I know it’s difficult to face, but you must understand that there’s an animalistic part of your mind that wanted to cause harm. Ah—” He raised a finger to forestall Harry’s objection. “I’m not talking about a flaw in your character or any failing in your moral code. I’m referring to the survival instincts carried through millions of years of evolution. The instinct that would drive you to fight off a predator in the wild hasn’t disappeared. It’s still there, looking out at this modern world through those beautiful green eyes. It is called your Shade, and it is particularly unruly for those carrying Seeds, as our Lord’s magic nourishes them, making them capable of so much more than the average person. However, it can be tamed.”

Harry sat upright at that; the Shade was also the part of the soul Voldemort took from his dead followers. Tom’s mocking leer didn’t go unnoticed, and Harry scoffed, turning his gaze away. “And how am I supposed to get better control over my Shade?”

Tom looked at him for a moment. “What have you already told yourself you need to do?”

Harry shrugged. “Stamp out my emotions and avoid other people. Make sure there’s never a chance for it to happen again.”

“A logical conclusion,” Tom agreed, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. “That would have been your best option if you had remained an ordinary civilian. That, or amputating your magic.”

Harry looked away. “My mum brought that up once. Right after Remus.”

The memory was a bitter one that Harry didn’t like to think about. Tom’s eyes flickered with a brief, unreadable emotion before he spoke again. “How ghastly. Of course a mother would suggest such a thing. She’d prefer you be safe and docile, in a position where she could care for you and pretend that you’re happy.” He leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out long in front of him, smiling wickedly. “And now your Dark Mark would make such an operation entirely impossible.”

Harry could see that Tom was waiting for him to say something, expecting some declaration. He gave it. “No going back now. I’m glad I decided to join the Death Eaters.”

“Even if you were immediately tricked into an unbreakable sexual bond with an authority figure?” Tom asked, his smile never faltering.

Harry sputtered a laugh. “Well, I don’t know how long you’ll stay the authority figure. It seems the Dark Lord has taken a liking to me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be your boss someday.”

Tom raised a hand, inspecting his fingernails with an air of idle amusement. “Bold words for someone who has yet to face their second-year trial. Lucky for you, I have little choice but to assist when that time comes.”

Harry felt a prickle of unease at the reminder, the trial lurking on the edge of his mind. “Guess we’ll worry about one thing at a time,” he said, pushing the thought aside. “Right now, I was hoping you’d have suggestions for how I can get better at controlling my Shade.”

“The earring helps, of course,” Tom replied smoothly. “It keeps the Shade’s awareness dampened, so it’s less likely to react without direct command. But beyond that? You must surround yourself with those capable of withstanding your magic. Avoid the rabble.”

“The rabble?”

“Anyone who isn’t a Death Eater.” Tom’s expression turned faintly critical. “Walking among those vulnerable to your magic is careless, Harry. Selfish, even. You need to remain within our world for the foreseeable future, insulated from anyone who isn’t equipped to handle your power.”

The notion didn’t sit well with Harry. “My mum’s going to think I was murdered.”

“Hardly.” Tom let out a light laugh, eyes drifting to the city around them. “I imagine you’ll be on the Wizarding Wireless often enough to put her mind at ease. I suppose I can tell you that our Lord has a… plan for you. Soon, you’ll find yourself something of a public figure.”

“Great.” Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. His mum, his friends—they’d think he’d gone off the deep end, that he’d finally flipped sides and betrayed them completely just to be paraded around as some Death Eater icon.

“Cheer up, Harry, I suspect you’re going to enjoy yourself.” Tom summoned Harry’s bag, which had been abandoned by the door leading back down into the building. “It’s likely that Bellatrix has registered you for classes specifically meant to train your Shade,” he continued. “Do you have your schedule with you?”

Harry nodded and undid the buckle holding his bag shut. He panicked for a moment when he couldn’t find it, but he eventually tracked down the bundle of papers. They’d been smashed against the bottom of his bag, trapped under some books and the lunch he’d tossed in there that morning. He handed the schedule to Tom, who wrinkled his nose at the creased and folded pages, peeling them apart with delicate distaste. He hummed thoughtfully to himself as he scanned the information, his expression shifting subtly as he read.

Harry waited, the silence stretching on until it started to fray his nerves. “Any thoughts?” he prompted, unable to help himself.

“She chose well. These will help, and I’m pleased to see that you will have a well-rounded education.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tom replied, his tone slipping into a kind of condescending amusement, “that you’ll be introduced to a variety of magical disciplines, some of which are rather unconventional. It seems Bellatrix wants you to be dangerous.” He glanced at Harry, his gaze calculating. “I approve. After all, if you’re going to survive the second-year trial, ‘well-rounded’ is simply another way of saying ‘prepared for anything.’”

Harry didn’t know how he felt about being “dangerous”. He forced the frown off of his face.

Tom handed back the bundle of papers. “Which reminds me,” he went on, “from what I’ve been told, you recently participated in a group working with the Dark Lord’s inner circle, no?”

Harry nodded, surprised that Tom knew about it. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“That ritual imbues the participants, particularly their Shades, with additional magical power,” Tom explained. “You will be considerably more dangerous than before, making it even more essential that you remain within Death Eater property for the time being.”

Harry had feared as much. “I wonder why they involved me in that one, considering I don’t know the first thing about my Shade yet.”

Tom hummed, a noncommittal sound that gave nothing away. “Perhaps you should ask our Lord.”

“Yeah, I guess I should.” Harry hesitated, then blurted out a question. “Have you ever done it? That ritual?” He only asked because Tom seemed to know a great deal about it.

There was a flicker in Tom’s expression, a glint in his eyes that suggested he was holding onto a secret and was far too pleased to keep it from Harry. His lips curled into a wicked little half-smile. “I have.”

“So…” Harry trailed off, feeling like he was missing something obvious. The way Tom looked at him made it feel like he was the butt of some elaborate inside joke. “Participating doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a member of the inner circle?”

Tom tilted back his head and laughed, a sound that was both delighted and condescending. “Your confidence is attractive, Harry, but don’t get too ahead of yourself.” He stood up, and with a casual flick of his wand, their picnic spread bundled itself into a basket that appeared out of nowhere.

“Now,” he continued, “I really must be going.”

Harry scrambled to his feet as the blanket zipped away, leaving him slightly off-balance and more than a bit annoyed at having the rug quite literally pulled out from under him. “When will I see you again?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though the words came out more insistent than he intended.

Tom’s smile deepened. “When would you like to see me again?”

“Well, are we calling this a relationship?” Harry blurted, watching as Tom’s eyebrow arched slowly. He hurried on, “Because you said before you wanted to see what it was like. Being in a relationship, I mean. So I think we should get dinner later tonight—or drinks, since we just ate. Are you free?”

Tom didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

He turned away, strolling leisurely toward the edge of the tower, gazing out over the sprawling city around them. Harry followed his line of sight to a tall, black skyscraper—the center of it all: Voldemort’s headquarters, the dark heart of the Death Eater operation. There was something magnetic about it, drawing Harry’s gaze forward, his eyes unable to pull away. A pillar of shadow ran along its length, staining the sky like a streak of spilled ink, and above its peak, he could just make out the faint, curling tendrils of a Morsmordre drifting into the night.

Tom turned back, his eyes gleaming with a flash of unsettling red. And then, as if responding to that look, Harry’s Dark Mark flared, a burning heat searing through his arm, fierce and impossible to ignore.

“And neither are you,” Tom said, his voice smooth and cold as the wind whipping around them.

The pulsing heat in his veins left no room for argument. Whatever was happening out there, it was calling him too.

Chapter Text

The Dark Lord’s headquarters had been completed a few years before Harry’s birth, rising as a monumental, towering structure of glass and steel spiraling toward the clouds. It stood as the tallest building in London, though invisible to Muggle eyes, a true testament to Voldemort’s power and reach. Students of magical architecture traveled from every corner of the world to study the intricate wards and masterful runework that graced its walls. The structure itself was a feat of construction—formed by enchanted blocks that combined steel and concrete with rare materials like diamond, gold, and shining mythril.

Protective magic was woven around it, designed to withstand a siege. Though Voldemort came from a mysterious alternate version of their planet, he had embraced the great British pastime of conquering other lands, and he was extending his influence piece by piece across the globe. As the Wizarding Wireless often noted, the Dark Lord’s residence occupied the top levels, with the rest of the tower reserved for military operations.

The skyscraper was the nerve center of Death Eater activities, spacious enough to house hundreds of operatives. Each year, the Daily Prophet dedicated a special edition to cataloging the tower’s ever-growing collection of art and rare artifacts, giving the public a taste of the vast wealth within its walls. Civilians were permitted to visit a handful of floors, escorted by Death Eater guides, but these tours only covered less than a dozen of the one hundred and eleven floors.

The rest of the building was strictly forbidden to all but the Dark Lord’s Seeds. The powerful magic woven into the building would repel, even kill, any intruder who didn’t carry Voldemort’s protection. More than that, however, was the prestige of being allowed beyond those concealed halls, a privilege reserved for those who carried a sliver of the Dark Lord’s own magic within them. This section of London had effectively become Death Eater territory, with buildings owned and managed by the Dark Lord’s followers handling government departments, media hubs, and most of the city’s magical businesses.

The corridor was packed when Harry arrived, a manic energy buzzing through the air. Everyone wore a Death Eater mask—including Harry—and that was a small comfort. Crowds still made him nervous, but at least here, surrounded by masked figures, he knew that everyone was protected from his magic if it happened to slip. In theory, anyway. Harry wasn’t so sure; he’d seen what his Shade could do when it pushed past his control. He couldn’t wait to master it, to feel safe in his own skin for once in his life.

But he told himself not to worry, forcing calm even as his pulse quickened, his shoulders tight. He repeated the thought like a mantra as he joined the slow-moving crowd making their way down the stained glass corridor. He distracted himself by recalling an article about this very hallway—how this was the furthest point reporters were permitted, how the wards guarding the inner sanctum stopped any unauthorized soul from entering. Now, surrounded by the glittering light streaming through those ominous windows, he could feel the invisible threshold ahead, thrumming with power.

Sunshine filtered through the colorful panes, casting fractured light across the floor and walls. The glass depicted scenes from some of Voldemort’s greatest battles, each window a shrine to his victories. The crowd favorite was Dumbledore’s decapitation, captured in lurid detail with animated blood splattering across the shimmering glass, but Harry was especially transfixed by a different image: a woman—Bellatrix, he thought—pulling a spirit into Voldemort’s corpse-like body. The sight was both eerie and mesmerizing, and he found himself wondering what it meant. He resolved to ask Bellatrix about it someday, though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

He felt the wards tremble as he neared the door at the end of the corridor, like a living thing recognizing him and urging him onward, deeper into the tower where only those who had truly mastered the Dark Arts were permitted to tread. The sun-warmed colors from the stained glass bled away, giving way to darkness as he stepped into the next room. Hundreds of people were already gathered inside, their forms obscured by the dim light, and still more poured in behind him. The heavy doors swung shut with a resounding thud, sealing them all in. The air buzzed with a low murmur of voices, soft whispers and scattered laughter, as though everyone were waiting for some grand spectacle to begin.

That had to be a good sign, right? Harry hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving, but the atmosphere was giddy, almost festive, like they were on the brink of some great celebration. He let out a long breath, relaxing into the ambient magic, which filled the room as thick and seductive as opium smoke.

The crowd surged forward, and Harry followed, glimpsing only the vague shapes of individuals moving toward the rows of seats that lined the multiple tiers of what appeared to be an arena, a grand stage in the center. He slipped into the front row where there were still plenty of empty chairs and leaned against the railing, scanning his surroundings. He had a clear view of the stage, where dim green will-o’-wisps hovered above, casting an eerie glow over the gathering. As his eyes adjusted, he began to grasp the sheer size of the assembly—hundreds upon hundreds of people, packed into every level, a vast audience that seemed to grow more and more restless with every passing second.

Harry already knew the Dark Lord was powerful, of course, but seeing how so many had assembled in mere minutes was staggering. This was a military, an unstoppable force coiled to strike. Oddly enough, that realization didn’t bring him the comfort he’d expected. It was a bit terrifying, really—like standing before a great, roaring fire and realizing that the heat licking at his skin was because he was already starting to burn.

And yet, the magic accumulating in the room was intoxicating. It filled the air like a heady, shimmering haze, radiating off the crowd, and Harry could feel it thrumming through him, stirring something primal and electric in his veins. Shouts of laughter rang out, and for a moment, the faceless assembly felt almost like a family reunion—if your family happened to consist of hundreds of people who wielded dark magic like it was an extension of themselves.

Then, all at once, the darkness vanished. It was as if a great, heavy curtain had been pulled back, and the entire arena was suddenly drenched in harsh light. Harry’s breath caught as he saw a shadow flit across the ceiling—larger-than-life, grotesquely distorted with spiraling horns that looked almost demonic. The silhouette seemed to writhe and shift, racing toward the center before plunging down into one of the masked figures standing beside Voldemort.

Everything lurched to a halt the moment Harry laid eyes on the Dark Lord. A powerful compulsion surged through him, a sudden, inexplicable need to be closer. His knees tensed, his hands tightened on the railing, and for a heartbeat, he almost lurched to his feet, ready to vault over the rail and join the dozen or so figures standing at Voldemort’s side. But there was a drop about his height down to the stage floor, and then a good ten feet or so to scuttle across in front of the entire audience. The possibility of making such a spectacle of himself—only to be turned away or ignored—kept him rooted in place.

It was probably just a side effect of his still-healing Dark Mark, but the need to be closer to Voldemort gnawed at the back of his mind, persistent and insistent, throughout the entire meeting. It felt like he was defying some unspoken law by keeping this distance between them, as if the space itself was wrong.

Harry forced himself to look away, to take in his surroundings instead. Now that the darkness had lifted, he could see that they were inside a cavernous room draped in an emerald-colored fabric, reminiscent of a circus tent, with impossibly deep shadows pooling at the highest points. The stage at the center was polished wood, its silver ornaments glinting in the dim light, while the stadium seats were filled with an ocean of black robes and faceless silver masks. It was macabre to the point of absurdity, and every flat surface was adorned with decorative skulls and serpents. The sheer number of people was staggering—there had to be over a thousand of them, all present for whatever was about to unfold.

“Welcome, my elect,” Voldemort said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He was the only one in the massive room whose face was bare. The magic in his voice carried it straight to Harry’s ears, as if Voldemort were standing right next to him, speaking directly into his mind, while towering television monitors displayed everything on the stage in crystal clarity.

“Hail, Dark Lord,” a thousand voices echoed. The sound reverberated through the room, filling the space with a weight that felt almost tangible, as if the words themselves had been infused with power.

The air was alive, like some restless presence was lurking in the shadows, vibrating with an addictive, electrifying energy that made Harry’s pulse quicken. It reminded him of his dreams, with all their violent, dizzying glee, making the dark corners of the room twitch with life.

Voldemort’s voice continued on, steady and intimate, weaving a narrative of triumphs. He spoke at length about the war effort, how insurgents were being crushed in one country and how quickly another had fallen. There were many technical terms that Harry couldn’t quite follow, but he listened anyway, drawn in by the cadence of Voldemort’s voice as he detailed their victories and lauded the accomplishments of various operations. Several people were called up to the stage to receive special recognition, and one of them was given an ornate silver mask. He remained on the stage afterward, joining the ranks near Voldemort’s side. From where Harry sat, the mask didn’t look particularly different from his own, but the significance of the gesture was unmistakable.

A burst of insecurity made Harry twitch, nearly propelling him to his feet. Was there some unspoken expectation for those with decorative masks to stand beside Voldemort? Had he missed a crucial memo? The compulsion to join them gnawed at him, stronger than ever, but by now, it was far too late in the meeting to clamber over the railing in front of thousands of his fellow Death Eaters.

He was pretty sure that everyone up there were members of the Inner Circle, and the thing was that Tom had mocked Harry for thinking he’d earned a spot among the Inner Circle already, so maybe Harry wasn’t screwing everything up by remaining in the crowd. Still, the urge to fling himself up there was maddening, but he stayed in his seat, reasoning that if Voldemort wanted him up there, he would call him.

The meeting continued on for a while, and just when Harry started to wonder if this was going to take all day, something exciting happened.

It seemed that someone had disappointed Voldemort.

A trembling man was called up to the stage, his shoulders hunched as he shuffled forward. The crowd erupted in shouts and jeers, the atmosphere shifting from bored anticipation to savage delight. The man’s mask dangled from his hand, no longer held in place by magic. Dropping to his knees, he blubbered and wailed, holding the mask out to Voldemort as though it were a desperate offering. But Voldemort paid him no attention, his gaze fixed instead on another figure who stepped forward with a kind of effortless swagger.

It was the person whose horned shadow had danced across the ceiling earlier. Harry recognized the mask from the Inner Circle meeting—sharp, cruel eyes and an exaggerated smile that was almost grotesque in its cheerfulness. Whoever they were, they carried themselves with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, as if they had been waiting for this moment. The crowd’s jeering died down to an expectant hush as the figure pointed their wand at the kneeling man and, with a simple flick, sliced his throat open.

The stadium roared as blood sprayed in a vivid arc, splattering across the smiling Death Eater’s robes, who remained motionless, watching as the man's body slumped forward, lifeless. From the top of the dead man’s head, a shadowy form began to rise, stretching and twisting like taffy as it arched through the air. It drifted toward Voldemort, who held up a hand and gathered the writhing mass of dark energy into a bundle of shining black light.

Voldemort’s voice carried ominously through the silence. “May this serve as a reminder,” he said, his tone cool and intimate, “the vast majority of you are far more useful to me in this form.”

Harry watched breathlessly as Voldemort then molded the oddly luminous shadow into the shape of a bird and threw it overhead. It flapped on clumsy wings before flying away, melting into the darkness above. That had to be the victim’s Shade, the thing Harry agreed to forfeit upon his death in exchange for his Dark Mark.

For once, Voldemort didn’t have a monologue. What had that nameless man done to warrant a public execution? Did this happen often? It certainly wasn’t anything Harry had seen covered in the Daily Prophet.

The smiling Death Eater vanished the corpse with a quick spell, and it was unsettling how the meeting then carried on in such a calm and civilized manner. Several people approached the stage in a steady queue, each waiting their turn to speak with Voldemort, delivering reports or offering some kind of update. Whatever they said, it wasn’t anything Harry could follow from his seat. Their voices were low, their conversations too guarded to reveal much, but it was clear that every word was treated with the utmost seriousness, as if the fate of entire nations could be swayed by what was said there.

Meanwhile, a few others—those with more ornate masks—broke off into paired duels on the opposite side of the stage, as though providing a show for the crowd. Their spells crackled and hissed in the air, bursts of colored light illuminating the polished wood floor. The duels were fast and aggressive, more a demonstration of raw power than any form of refined technique, but the audience seemed to relish it, cheering each near-hit and blasting curse with a kind of hungry enthusiasm.

The smiling Death Eater, still splattered with blood from the earlier execution, stood off to the side, watching the proceedings with a keen interest. They seemed to be hovering close to Voldemort, as if serving as a kind of bodyguard—a role that seemed both preposterous and unnecessary given who they were guarding. Voldemort hardly needed anyone’s protection, but the figure’s proximity to him suggested a certain status, a level of favor Harry found intriguing.

What did it take to earn that position? To stand there, just a step or two from the Dark Lord himself, while others delivered their reports and dueled for the crowd's amusement? There was a kind of exclusivity to it, like the unspoken promise of power was more than just an abstract reward—it was something you could stand beside, bask in. Harry wondered if the smiling Death Eater had been handpicked or if there was some trial, some test that determined who was worthy of such a place. It was the kind of question that made Harry’s skin prickle with a mix of curiosity and a gnawing sense of ambition.

He couldn’t help but wonder if, one day, he might find himself standing there too.

It didn’t seem like there was much reason for everyone else to stick around for all this tedious business, but Harry supposed it was all about control. Maybe Voldemort wanted his Death Eaters to remember that they were part of something vast and formidable, a force much larger than any single individual. It was a way of ensuring they didn’t forget their place, didn’t start thinking of themselves as untouchable—because there was always the chance they’d slip up and find themselves punished in front of thousands.

Possibly worse than the casual cruelty was how Harry’s Dark Mark flared with pain the moment he let himself question why he’d ever gotten involved in all this. Even the faintest trace of doubt or remorse was met with a burning sensation that numbed his fingers and made him want to push back his sleeve to check if he was bleeding. It was as though the Mark itself could sense his thoughts, an ironclad reminder that there was no turning back now. The sensation wasn’t just painful—it was punitive, a warning for even considering the possibility of regret.

When the meeting finally ended and the crowd began to filter back into the stained glass corridor, Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He waited for a gap in the flow of people so he could slip out. Voldemort had vanished somehow, slipping off the stage without even the crack of apparition to mark his departure, and for some unfathomable reason, that bothered Harry more than he wanted to admit.

It wasn’t as if he’d expected special treatment—why would he? But a part of him had hoped for at least a nod or a brief moment of eye contact—some acknowledgment that he was there, that he was more than just another masked face in the crowd. The absence of it left him feeling strangely slighted.

But what was he expecting, really? He shoved the thought away, telling himself that if he wanted to be noticed, he’d have to earn it.

He wondered where Tom might be. Just picturing his face made Harry feel a bit better. Standing on his tiptoes, he tried his best to spot him, but he didn’t even know what Tom’s mask looked like. Giving that up as a lost cause, Harry shuffled along with the slow-moving crowd toward the exit.

As he passed through the threshold, he was hit by a sudden, disorienting wave of magic. It flung him downward, like the world had dropped out from under his feet, leaving him weightless and reeling. His stomach lurched as he staggered, grasping at thin air, and then, just as suddenly, he fell forward into an unfamiliar room.

This was more than Harry thought he should have to bear in one day. Too many unexpected things had happened in too short a time, too much magic, violence, and strangeness, all crashing over him without a moment to catch his breath. He felt a mad kind of humor bubbling up—the absurdity of it all was starting to wear down his ability to react with anything like normal fear or concern.

Laughing, he took in his surroundings. The room was lined with dozens of framed mirrors, each reflecting the light in different, unsettling ways. Some of the glass seemed warped, the images within twisting like living things. It gave the space an eerie, dreamlike quality.

Harry noticed he wasn’t alone—several other masked Death Eaters had arrived behind him, spilling into the room with varying degrees of grace. At the far end, the Death Eater with the smiling mask was waiting. They held a scythe in one hand as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Good,” Harry said to the smiling mask, feeling a little unhinged. “I was wondering if I’d find out who you are.”

Before he could get an answer, someone bumped into his back. “What the blazes—”

That was Draco’s voice. Harry turned to see him wearing a plain silver mask, just like the others who had stumbled in. They were all in various stages of trying to regain their balance, a few leaning heavily against nearby desks as they steadied themselves.

Desks. Right, so this was a classroom. Harry’s mind latched onto the mundane detail, grounding him just a little. He glanced back at the smiling mask, curiosity tinged with exhaustion. That meeting had taken hours.

“Welcome to Soul Cultivation,” the figure said, their voice unexpectedly pleasant and boyish. It was almost jarringly normal, considering the grotesque grin of the mask. “I hope none of you thought you’d get to skip this class just because of the meeting.”

Harry’s stomach did a little flip. Of course, it wasn’t enough to endure one of the most chaotic days he’d had in a long time—no, apparently now they were diving straight into a lesson on soul magic. He glanced at Draco, who had straightened up and was giving the room a wary look, pale eyes darting back and forth behind his plain mask.

Harry had completely forgotten he had another class that day, thanks to the disruption with Tom and the meeting. It was convenient, he figured, that they’d been brought there directly, since there were probably consequences for skipping his first day of class.

“Sit down,” the stranger said, banging the bottom of his scythe against the floor with a sharp crack, as if to jolt them into obedience.

The students moved quickly, scrambling for whatever chair they could claim first. Harry reached for one only to find Blaise slipping into it at the last second. He hesitated for a moment, caught off guard, then relented and took one of the seats at the very front, where he felt uncomfortably exposed.

The stranger paced impatiently as the class settled in, his eyes flicking over the room like a hawk observing his prey. Once everyone was in their seats, he set aside the scythe, removed his mask, and gestured for the students to do the same.

Harry shouldn’t have been surprised that the man behind the mask was Barty Crouch. The name was legendary—one of Voldemort’s earliest apprentices, instrumental in the downfall of the old Ministry. But what was surprising was how young Crouch looked. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have guessed the man was in his early thirties. There was an unsettling vitality about him, something that didn’t feel quite natural.

“So, what did we all think of my demonstration at the meeting?” Crouch asked brightly, his tone as casual as if he were inquiring about the weather rather than discussing an execution. His gaze swept the room with a kind of cheerful expectation, and Pansy’s hand shot up.

“It was fascinating, sir,” she said, her voice composed. “From what I understand, you harvested their shade?”

“No,” Crouch corrected, his smile as sharp as the one carved into his mask. “Our Lord harvested the shade. I merely separated it from its body.” He rested the scythe against his shoulder, then took a few steps forward, scanning the room. His eyes lingered on each of them in turn, as if sizing them up. “Who among you has taken a life before?”

Harry felt a cold weight settle in his chest, and for a moment, his hand stayed stubbornly at his side. But then he noticed Crouch’s gaze fixed directly on him, as if daring him to stay silent. Reluctantly, Harry lifted his fingers in a half-hearted gesture, hoping that would suffice. He didn’t dare glance around to see who else was raising their hands.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on the question; Crouch called all those who had raised their hands up to the front of the room, lining them up like condemned prisoners. He told each of them to describe why they had taken a life and what it had felt like. Harry found himself standing beside two strangers he’d seen before getting his Mark, as well as Pansy. The others spoke first—short, factual explanations that felt more like reports than confessions.

Then it was Pansy’s turn. She spoke with a kind of calm detachment that bordered on amusement. “He asked my father for my hand in marriage after I had already turned him down,” she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. “So I stopped his heart. It was fine. Satisfying, I suppose.”

Harry had a thousand questions for her, but it was his turn, and every eye in the room was fixed on him, practically vibrating with anticipation. They all knew what he had done. “I lose control of my magic when I get upset,” he said, his voice tight. “It’s… awful. That’s it.”

The moment he finished, Crouch slammed the scythe against the floor like a gavel. “Liar,” he spat.

“What?” Harry folded his arms defensively. “I’m not lying.”

Crouch’s eyes narrowed with an intensity that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “You killed your father when you were an infant, yes?”

The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. He stared at Crouch, horrified, the air ripped from his lungs, shocked that this utter stranger would share such a horrible secret in front of his peers.

“Perhaps I should have explained the rules first,” Crouch said, his voice low and steady. “There are no secrets in this room. We are here to better understand our souls, to make them stronger. That means we need to face the harshest truths, and I find that’s easiest to do in a group setting, as does our Lord. Withholding information within this classroom is tantamount to defying our Lord’s direct order.”

Harry’s temper flared, hot and vicious. “What, so we can pat each other on the backs for being remorseless murderers?”

“Ah, you catch on quick,” Crouch replied, smiling. “Remorse is one of the first things that needs to go, right after self-delusion. So, let’s try this again, Mr. Potter. How did it feel to end the lives of sixty-three Gryffindor students?”

Rage boiled up in Harry’s chest, making his hands clench into fists. He gritted his teeth, glaring at Crouch in utter defiance, words choking in his throat. The pressure in the room seemed to swell with his anger, and one by one, the mirrors lining the walls cracked, fine spiderweb fractures spreading across the glass.

The other students gasped, staring at Harry with blatant fear, and Harry’s fury hung in the air, tangible and volatile, while Crouch just watched, a satisfied glint in his eye, as though Harry’s reaction had been exactly what he was hoping for.

Crouch wasn’t about to let it go. “And there was another traitor last year, wasn’t there? What was his name again?”

Before Harry could even process the question, a surge of magic erupted from him, spilling out in thick black tendrils that lashed across the room, quick and wild as lightning. The energy cracked and hissed in the air, and a few people yelped, but no one was hurt. It had burst out on its own, like a creature escaping its cage, raw and uncontrolled.

Crouch laughed, the sound bright and sharp. “Good show, Mr Potter! Good show. Sit down, everyone.”

It took Harry a moment to force his body back under control, his muscles tense as he made his way to his seat. His mind buzzed with leftover adrenaline, and he kept his eyes locked on his clenched fists, hoping the class would move on and let him disappear into the background. He could feel everyone watching him.

“Now, class,” Crouch said, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence. “Show of hands. While we are all quite safe from this particular kind of magic, who feels uncomfortable sharing a classroom with a known murderer who is clearly unable to control his temper?” Harry didn’t look, but he heard the rustle of movement as hands went up around the room.

“Very well. Now,” Crouch continued, “who would feel much more secure if they knew Mr. Potter had mastered this talent of his?” There was another rustle of motion, even more distinct this time. “Oh, everyone? Mm, interesting.”

Crouch’s gaze returned to Harry, his expression gleaming with a kind of cruel amusement. “What do you make of that, Mr. Potter?”

“I think I should hurry up and start learning, if only to put everyone at ease,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Several people snickered, and Crouch’s maddeningly sympathetic smile grew wider. “I agree. Let’s begin. This class is the key to freedom—the freedom to move about the public world without fear of murdering the weak and uninitiated. Master the individual parts of your soul, and you’ll master your magic.”

“Sounds great, sir,” Harry forced out, barely masking the sarcasm, just wanting the conversation to move on.

He got his wish. Crouch nodded, then set aside the scythe, exchanging it for his wand. With a flick, he levitated a pile of thick books from a trunk in the corner, sending them flying across the room. One landed on Harry’s desk with a thud that rattled the wood.

“This book will be your guide through the dangerous and winding path that is Soul Magic,” Crouch declared. “Due to the complex nature of this field, we will meet twice a week to read together and discuss the contents before breaking into small groups for practical exercises.”

And so the lesson began in earnest. They learned that souls were the very essence of a living being, the animating force that gave the body its spark. Anything with life and consciousness had one, from the simplest creatures to the most complex minds. But Death Eaters, Crouch explained with a glint of pride in his eye, possessed the most special and intricate kind of soul, a quality that allowed them to tap into dark forces and wield powers that ordinary wizards could only dream of. With hard work and dedication, they could cultivate themselves into something truly extraordinary.

The first step was to understand the soul's anatomy—its layers and facets, its potential and vulnerabilities. The book laid out the basics, but Crouch's occasional interjections hinted at things far beyond the text, glimpses of arcane techniques and practices that he implied they might someday master.

As Harry flipped through the pages, his gaze skimmed over diagrams depicting the soul as a complex, branching structure, each part labeled with ominous terms like "shadow self," "core essence," and "spiritual binds." It was both fascinating and unnerving, like peering under the hood of something he’d always taken for granted.

Crouch had them split into groups to discuss their birth-given names—a foundational aspect of identity that came with all sorts of magical implications. Harry found himself paired with Pansy and Draco, while Blaise joined the ones from Durmstrang and other schools. It didn’t take long for the discussion to veer off-topic, and Crouch didn’t seem to care.

Pansy and Draco went straight for the jugular.

“How did you get your mask, Harry?” Pansy asked, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Harry hesitated, caught off guard by the question. He supposed he hadn’t shown them the mask before, at least not up close. “The Dark Lord gave it to me,” he said cautiously.

Draco leaned forward, steepling his fingers, his expression a little too keen. “You didn’t think it was worth mentioning that you’d been promoted to his elite guard?”

“I’m not some elite Death Eater,” Harry retorted. “I was specifically told I wasn’t. I just got to attend one of their meetings.”

“That’s the Inner Circle,” Draco said, as if Harry were particularly dense, “and that’s an entirely different matter. That mask means you’re one of our Lord’s elite guards.”

“Really?” Harry picked up the mask, turning it over in his hands. “How can you tell?”

“The number of thorns on the temple,” Draco explained, his tone exasperated. “The fact that you have any at all means he expects you to handle yourself in a fight, and you have… three, is that right?”

Harry hadn’t given the design much thought. He studied the engraving, and sure enough, he saw three thorns on each temple. He put the mask down and closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat. The whole subject was exhausting, and his outburst at the beginning of the class left him embarrassed and ready to get out of there.

“Harry!” a voice called from across the room. He looked up to see Blaise watching him, a smug expression plastered across his face.

Grateful for the excuse to escape the conversation, Harry stood and crossed the room to join Blaise’s group. “Yeah?”

“Just proving a theory,” Blaise said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “A name really is the leash that pulls around the soul.” He said it like he was delivering some kind of profound statement to the rest of his group, then cast a glance over at Crouch, who was engrossed in his book and paid no mind to the class.

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He hadn’t expected Blaise, of all people, to be the type to suck up to professors, even if the professor in question was a notorious Death Eater. The whole thing reeked of theatrics, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be impressed or just amused by the spectacle.

“Speaking of, I’m Michael Aaronson,” one of the students said, extending a hand. Harry shook it. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk before.”

“And I’m Desmond Winters,” the other chimed in. He raised an eyebrow at Harry, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So, what’s this about you being an elite guard already? Seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said, then quickly shifted topics. “Is this everyone, then? Did no one else from that night end up joining?”

“They all received Marks, but I don’t think they’re taking classes like this,” Michael said thoughtfully. “Seems they’re better suited for the foot soldier role.”

“Back to your group, Mr. Potter,” came Crouch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, though he didn’t even look up from his book. “Five minutes until the surprise quiz.”

Harry rejoined Draco and Pansy just in time to catch Draco muttering, “Not much of a surprise, now, is it?” They shared a quick grin, the looming quiz already forgotten as they returned to gossip, talking in low voices about the other students, the speculation about who else had special masks, and exactly how hard Crouch would drive them this term.

“This is my first class so far,” Pansy said, adjusting her posture as though she were sizing up her classmates. “I was about to start Healing before the meeting, but it’s rescheduled for tomorrow. What about you two?”

Draco waved a hand dismissively. “Didn’t sign up for any morning classes. Figured I’d give myself a few hours to rise at a reasonable hour.”

“I had Advanced Magical Bonds,” Harry admitted, immediately regretting it as Pansy and Draco’s eyes went wide.

“What?” he asked, feeling defensive.

“I had no idea…” Draco trailed off, frowning as if processing this new information. “Who is your partner?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters! Merlin, Harry, you’re really skipping past the basics, aren’t you?” Draco’s voice held a mix of disbelief and barely hidden envy.

Harry noticed Pansy’s gaze flicker to his hand, as though expecting an engagement ring to appear out of thin air. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he pulled his hand back and lowered his voice. “Look, I was… sort of tricked into it. The professor wanted to see for himself what that kind of bond is like, and I guess I struck him as an easy target. I think there’s more to it, but he won’t tell me anything else.”

Pansy’s expression turned sharp, almost horrified. “Who is this professor?”

Harry hesitated. “Uh… Tom Riddle.”

Draco and Pansy gawked at him in stunned silence. Then, to Harry’s confusion, Draco burst out laughing, covering his face with one hand. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Harry muttered. “I really, really do. But, uh… what do you two know about him, anyway? All I’ve gathered is he’s important, somehow.”

Before either of them could respond, Crouch slammed the base of his scythe on the floor, making everyone jump. “Back to your seats,” he commanded, voice ringing through the room. “Class is dismissed as soon as everyone turns in their quiz.”

Determined to revisit the conversation with Draco and Pansy as soon as possible, Harry reluctantly turned his focus to the paper waiting on his desk. He hadn’t known what to expect from this “surprise quiz,” but it definitely wasn’t this. It wasn’t a quiz so much as an invasive questionnaire—fifty-two questions spread across three pages, all fixated on deeply personal topics. They asked everything from his favorite musician and ideal vacation spot to whether he’d ever been hospitalized for anything “especially urgent.”

The questions seemed random but prying, as if they were probing for the weak points in his character or his past. He couldn’t help but wonder if everyone else had the same questions.

He glanced around, half-expecting to see someone watching him, but the others were absorbed in their own papers. Sighing, Harry resigned himself to his fate and began filling out the questions, telling himself he’d get it over with quickly so he could finally leave.

“So, you’re really in a lifelong magical bond with Tom Riddle?” Pansy asked, her voice layered with disbelief as she, Harry, Draco, and Blaise wandered through the lounge outside Crouch’s classroom. The classroom, it turned out, was nestled within the upper floors of the main Death Eater headquarters, only a few stories from where the meeting had been held.

Enormous windows looked out over London, which was bathed in nightlife, the city buzzing with light and a subtle hum of magic. The sun had set, and inside, dim lights glowed against a sweeping wall, illuminating cozy nooks furnished with chairs, tables, and enough space to settle in with a book and a drink. Further over, an open walkway led to a railing that overlooked a dizzying, multi-story drop, where they could see levels stacked above and below, bustling with activity. It was like a miniature city tucked within the tower’s heart, complete with cafés, bars, and small shops lining the halls. Evidently, classes filled these dozen or so floors, each one teaching magic rarely found outside of the tower.

“It’s not like he told me what I was getting into,” Harry replied, more defensively than he’d intended. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he wondered if voicing his thoughts might help him make sense of the situation.

“Surely it involved casting some sort of spell,” Blaise interjected thoughtfully. “Something… unfamiliar?”

The word Sundeo echoed in Harry’s mind, curling around him in memory, warm and dark, like Tom was pressed close behind him. “Well, yes.”

“And so you just did it, knowing what it would do?” Blaise asked, incredulous.

“Not exactly?”

Draco let out an exasperated scoff. “What does that mean?”

“I… didn’t exactly know what it would do. Not really.”

Draco threw his hands up, his patience worn thin. “Let me repeat myself, then. What in Merlin’s name does that mean?”

“You were told to cast a spell on yourself without asking what it would do,” Blaise said, sounding genuinely awestruck. “Harry, you might just be the most spectacularly idiotic person I have ever met.”

Harry bristled. “It’s not like I was raised around a bunch of manipulative dark wizards like you lot! If it’s not Bellatrix telling me I should kill more people, it’s you three laughing at me for not knowing everything. So go on—what would you have done in my place?”

“To be fair, I’d probably have done the same,” Pansy said, shrugging. “Maybe I’d have asked a few more questions first, but… this is Riddle we’re talking about. I don’t think saying no was really an option.”

Finally, they were getting to something useful. “So… he’s that important, then?” Harry asked. “I mean, he mentioned his military career, but I’ve never seen his name in the news or anything?”

Pansy let out a laugh. “You really don’t know? He’s… hm, how to put this?”

“I imagine it’s not widely known outside the Death Eaters,” Draco chimed in, his tone turned almost reverent. “He’s the Dark Lord’s messenger. His right hand. He handles all the matters our Lord would normally oversee himself, and is his most trusted confidant.”

That… was absurd. Why wouldn’t Tom have mentioned that? How would he possibly have any time for this new bond if he was so busy assisting the Dark Lord? Harry was halfway to brushing off Draco’s words as dramatics when he felt it—a strange, magnetic pulse in the air. He turned, eyes tracking across the lounge, and froze.

There, gliding through the sparse crowd, was the Dark Lord himself. He was giving an interview as he walked, a woman trailing after him asking rapid questions while a floating quill scratched notes onto a parchment. It was surreal, almost jarring, to see him like this—casual, yet commanding, his presence seeming to warp the air around him.

Draco stumbled over himself in his haste to bow, Pansy and Blaise both just barely managing to keep their composure as they dropped into their own low bows. Remembering the way Tom had mocked people for bowing when it wasn’t necessary, Harry inclined his head respectfully, and he couldn’t help noticing that Voldemort paid them no mind as he passed, disappearing into the shadowy entryway of Crouch’s classroom.

“Funny,” Harry muttered once Voldemort was out of earshot. “For someone with an errand boy, he sure seemed like he had something urgent to do. Wouldn’t you think he’d just send Tom?”

Blaise groaned, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re disrespectful.”

And there he was. Tom moved through the lounge with a calm, deliberate stride, following the Dark Lord’s path but pausing when he reached their small group. His gaze settled on Harry, intense and intimate.

“How fortunate—I was just thinking I’d like some dinner. Care to join me?” Tom asked, ignoring the others as though they weren’t even there.

“I thought you said you were busy.” Harry’s eyes flicked toward Crouch’s classroom, where Voldemort had just disappeared, though the door now lay silent and dark.

“My meeting concluded earlier than I had anticipated,” Tom replied, smooth as anything. “I checked your schedule and guessed you’d be lurking around this floor.”

Harry was tired. He’d been looking forward to eating a quick meal before going to bed, but a warm thrill spread through him at that, glad that Tom had remembered his suggestion, and found that he liked the way Tom’s hand rested possessively on his arm. Smiling, Harry let himself be drawn closer, feeling Tom’s magic wrap around him just before they apparated away.

Chapter Text

The dueling hall was alive, the atmosphere thrumming like some monstrous, sentient thing, every stone and shadow leaning forward, hungry to see blood, to feel magic crash through the air. High above, spotlights shone like burning stars, their bright lights penetrating through the murky haze caused by so much black magic, cutting across the faces of the spectators crowded on the grandstands, their eyes bright with anticipation. 

Harry ignored the audience. His attention was fixed on the whispers—soft, violent sounds that curled around him like smoke, words spoken by a voice without a face. His Shade lurked within his magic, a presence swimming inside shadows and tugging at the edges of his mind. It was restless, hungry, and all too aware that they were ready to fight.

Cloak pooling like liquid night around his shoulders, Harry kept his gaze locked, unreadable, focusing on the opponents standing before him. The three combatants shifted, glancing at each other with barely concealed unease, fingers clenched tight around their wands. While Harry had only been a Death Eater for a year, he had already gained a reputation. Hence the three-on-one duel.

The air was thick, soaked through with the scent of blood, scorched wood, and the bitter, metallic bite of dark magic simmering just beneath the surface. This wasn’t the first duel of the evening, which suited Harry just fine; every match before his left the hall charged, steeped in leftover spells that only seemed to fuel his Shade. He could feel the magic gathering in the dueling hall all evening, crawling up his spine—making him need to bear his teeth and fight . The hall itself seemed to be holding its breath, expectant and eager for whatever would happen when the tension finally broke.

The stakes were low in theory—a friendly tournament, an event for novice Death Eaters to prove themselves, to earn a bit of honor by putting on a show for the Wizarding Wireless Network, which was broadcasting live, but this duel was anything but casual for Harry. He was representing Bellatrix, after all. Her reputation was his responsibility to uphold, and he didn’t want to learn the consequences of embarrassing her for all the world to see.

Enchanted screens lined the walls, each one flashing close-up shots of the dueling stage from different angles. Excitement rippled through the room, whoops and shouts ringing out as a graphic filled the screens—displaying his face beside his three opponents, names and ranks listed beneath. 

Harry doubted that anyone in the crowd knew the truth, save for Bellatrix and a few others, but he had barely trained for this match. While he was an average dueler, he had access to a very specific kind of eldritch magic that made him all but unbeatable. While dark magic typically couldn’t hurt anyone carrying one of Voldemort’s Seeds, Harry had found a way to work around that with the help of his Shade. With enough concentration, he could get his Shade to take his magic and change it into anything he liked.

The referee lifted her wand and sent green sparks blazing into the air, and the match burst into chaos. Harry slipped to the side, barely dodging a bolt of red aimed at his chest, but he didn’t have to do much more. His Shade had already surged up, answering his unspoken command. It had been restless all day, whispering to him in jagged, violent fragments, eager to be unleashed. A dark pool formed at his feet, and from it, a dozen black tendrils unfurled, twisting and writhing as they launched themselves at his three opponents with uncanny precision.

A Stunning Spell from the left almost hit his shoulder, but one of his magic tentacles lashed out, catching it and converting the momentum into a sharp curse that sent the caster sprawling out of bounds. Two left, and one was already being wrestled to the ground with shiny black tendrils. Harry watched with his hands clasped behind his back, and within seconds, the opponent was dragged into a bituminous pit, vanishing with a scream, deposited somewhere outside.

Then it was time for something a bit different. With a flick of his wand and a low “Serpensortia,” Harry conjured a massive serpent that unfurled onto the floor between him and his final opponent. Its scales gleamed under the enchanted lights, its body coiled and hulking, dwarfing them both. The hall collectively drew in a sharp breath as Harry spoke in Parseltongue, his voice captured by hovering microphones, urging the snake forward. His opponent’s wand clattered to the ground as her eyes widened in horror. She tried to run away, but the snake was faster than her, its jaws stretching as her head vanished, inch by inch, until only her muffled screams echoed through the hall.  The cameras captured the way the outline of her body was a visible, moving lump while the snake swallowed her down.

Above, the enchanted screens looped graphics of writhing serpents as the crowd leaned in, transfixed. Fans watching on the Wizarding Wireless shouted themselves hoarse across the world, marveling over the shocking reveal of the first Parselmouth to appear since the Dark Lord himself. This demonstration had been carefully planned by Voldemort and Bellatrix, and Harry wasn’t sure of what to expect from the public’s reaction.

He was declared the winner the moment he sent the snake off of the dueling platform—earning some terrified screams from the crowded front rows—due to all three opponents going out of bounds. He dropped the spell and the snake vanished, depositing the girl onto the floor, sticky with digestive enzymes. The hall erupted in cheers while he stood in the center and raised his wand high overhead, robes crackling with a dark, eldritch magic as the black tendrils seeped back into the pool around his feet. 

He huffed out a breath, pleased by how easy that had gone. He’d been nervous about this match. Bellatrix had designed Harry’s public persona down to the last excruciating detail, and defeating three opponents without breaking a sweat was an essential step in the process.

A key aspect of his persona was playing as the cool, collected prodigy who knew he was going to win—the epitome of what a Seed could blossom into being. It didn’t matter how excited he was to have won; there was no triumph on his face, only the calm of someone who had done what was expected. The crowd’s cheers followed him as he left, Bellatrix’s fierce smile among them, but his thoughts were on the very lovely distraction waiting for him backstage.

Harry didn’t know why he could talk to snakes. All he knew was that it was a reaction to receiving the Dark Mark, yet another deeply unhelpful clue contributing to the mystery of why his Mark had such a strong effect on him. He had a theory that it related to how his magic felt like it was going to boil over whenever the Dark Lord was close. 

Even more confusing was that, thanks to the soul bond, he had passed Parseltongue along to Tom as well. Harry hadn’t been nearby when Tom first discovered the new ability for himself, but apparently it had been a tremendous shock. The Dark Lord had been pleased by this—or so Harry had been told, since they hadn’t spoken since the ritual following Harry’s graduation ceremony.

In the chambers beneath the stadium seats, the air was thick with the duel’s lingering magic, diffusing itself through all of the nooks and crannies. Harry caught sight of Tom leaning casually against a stone pillar, his sharp eyes softening in a way he reserved just for Harry.

“You’ve improved,” Tom remarked, his voice cool and unreadable. “But you were expending an unsustainable amount of energy. If any of them had even the slightest ability to defend against you, I’d wager you’d last five minutes, at best.”

Harry rolled his eyes, unwilling to let the criticism stick. “I seriously doubt any of them could have defended themselves.”

Tom’s lips curled into a smirk. “As I said, you’ve improved,” he conceded, “but your Shade requires focus—absolute, unwavering attention. Its grasp on our world is tenuous. Lose that connection for even a moment, and it will slip back into a useless shadow.”

“I know that,” Harry sighed. They only talked about it constantly. He changed the subject to something far more interesting. “Did our Lord confirm the appointment?”

“Yes. We’ll be dining at headquarters, in his private hall.”

A thrill shot through Harry at the thought. He’d finally been invited to dinner with the Dark Lord and the rest of the Inner Circle, something Tom attended several times a week, and this time Harry was expected to be in attendance to discuss his progress as a fledgling Death Eater. The details were maddeningly sparse, and Tom was obviously delighting in keeping it a secret. 

“Alright,” Harry said, looping his arms around Tom’s waist. “It’s a date.”

Tom scoffed, rolling his eyes, but Harry caught a flicker of amusement beneath the reaction. “Our Lord will be pleased with your performance.”

“Well, that makes one person.” Harry laughed before leaning in to suck Tom’s lower lip between his teeth.

They were lucky to have the room to themselves, but distant voices echoed down the hall, growing louder with every second. Harry tensed, glancing at Tom, who registered his nerves instantly. Without a word, Tom seized him by his dueling robes and shoved him back against a pillar. Harry’s back met cool stone just as Tom’s lips met his—cooler still, yet soft and intimate in a way that made his breath catch. That was how they were found when a group of ravenous fans and paparazzi rounded the corner.

“That’s Tom Riddle!” someone cried. In an instant, camera flashes filled the space, accompanied by a dozen shouted questions. Tom turned to them all with an even smile, exuding calm even in the chaos.

Harry wasted no time, pulling Tom away and using his wand to unlock a door meant strictly for combatants and arena staff. At the back of the room was a Floo network connection that would take them to the higher levels, from which they could make their way to their dinner appointment undisturbed.

“I’m starting to think you like the attention,” Harry said once they were on the other side of a locked door. “Is this part of Bellatrix’s plot to make me famous? Making sure I’m seen snogging the great Tom Riddle?”

“Which would result in her becoming even more famous for sponsoring my partner? I care very little for her power plays. I simply want the world to know that you’re not quite the eligible bachelor the Prophet will paint you as.”

Harry nearly asked something utterly foolish, something like, “What are we?” But he bit back the words, because he didn’t know what to make of whatever this was between them. They acted like they were exclusive, and there was a sense of mutual ownership written into the very fabric of their soul bond—which Harry hated, but also… didn’t really mind. He was constantly caught off guard by how much he liked Tom. But they’d never talked about it.

It was better to let things unfold at their own pace, to let the connection breathe on its own. Besides, Harry had enough on his plate to deal with, and Tom was just as busy, just as guarded. His walls were high, his emotions carefully locked away, and he preferred his own bed most nights. Which suited Harry just fine, really; he barely slept, anyway. The dark was too noisy now that he was training his Shade.

They took the Floo to a fireplace just outside of Voldemort’s private floors in the Death Eater headquarters, where they were shown to the dining room, and despite himself, Harry felt a jolt of nerves. It had been a year since he’d last spoken to Voldemort. A year since he received his Dark Mark and embarrassed himself at the Dark Lord’s feet. He tried to pry information out of Tom about their Lord, seeing as how Tom was so close to him, but Tom was extremely withholding when it came to the details of his position within their ranks. 

The dining room screamed luxury, yet it was surprisingly intimate, tucked away in the skyscraper's highest reaches. Dark green drapes and moody artwork covered the walls, and twisted chandeliers held eerie silver flames that cast flickering shadows over the space. A wide marble table gleamed under the low light, set with crystal glasses and dark wine. Voldemort’s magic thrummed in the air, strong and unmistakable, mingling with the quiet murmurs drifting through the room as the Inner Circle Death Eaters took their seats, unmasked and casual.

Voldemort was already seated, looking just as eerie and formidable as ever. Their eyes met, and Harry bowed respectfully before taking his seat, which Tom guided him to and pulled out the chair before leaving to take his own place. When it came to formal meetings, Tom always sat at the Dark Lord’s right hand, if he was in attendance. He sat down and leaned in to speak with their Lord in a low voice. Harry couldn’t make out the words, but he caught the weight of Tom’s tone, serious and intense.

“Impressive show out there, Mr. Potter,” Crouch commented, sitting at Harry’s side with a faint, reserved smile. “Your Shade was ambitious, I’ll grant you that.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, a bit surprised by the praise but pleased for the chance to discuss his match. “The thing is, I still can’t seem to make it stay solid. It starts breaking apart if I push it too far. Probably couldn’t have made it another five minutes, the rate I was going.”

“You’re improving,” Crouch said thoughtfully. “And quickly, at that. I’m sure you know you’ve outpaced the rest in your class.”

There were several ways to use a Shade. It was a subject of particular fascination among Death Eaters, as each person’s Shade could be tailored to support their own unique talent within the dark arts. In Harry’s unfortunate case, he’d shown an unsettling aptitude for eldritch magic since childhood. 

Eldritch magic was a force composed of the endless void between the stars, woven from the boundary between what is and what must never be. It happened to be one of the Dark Lord’s favorite branches of magic—ravenous and strange, a force that destroyed natural magic and devoured carbon. It was singularly responsible for the deaths of James Potter, Remus Lupin, and several dozen Gryffindors.

But “singularly responsible” wasn’t quite accurate. Eldritch magic, for all its terrible power, could be subdued by a Shade. Harry was finally learning how to wrap his shadow around outbursts of magic, using the sentience within it like a net, which in result fed that sentience, empowering that bit of his soul, which might have otherwise remained sleeping for his entire life. As it turned out, his Shade responded to eldritch magic like a plant bending toward sunlight, absorbing its sustenance, making it even better at reining in his corrosive magic. Harry wasn’t fully convinced that this was a good thing, but Tom, Bellatrix, and Professor Crouch sure seemed to think so, and why else did Harry join the Death Eaters if not to learn from those with more experience?

This was why Harry spent the past year learning how to use his Shade to shape eldritch magic into forms of his choosing. It became an exercise in patience, in holding something so vast and otherworldly steady within himself. As a result, he’d mostly stopped sleeping. His dreams were… real. Too vivid. He avoided them for the most part and noticed that his shadow had changed, darkening subtly, its shape growing faintly distorted, with glimmers of flickering eyes and edges that seemed to undulate with an unsettling, otherworldly life.

“Has your Shade spoken to you yet?” Crouch asked.

A quick, startled laugh slipped from Harry’s lips at the question. Was it supposed to talk to him? That was reassuring.

“Yeah, sometimes I hear it whispering,” he admitted, and it felt too casual for something that had been terrifying him for months. Why hadn’t Crouch explained in class that it was supposed to talk? 

He asked him that, to which Crouch smiled, shrugging one shoulder. “Most don’t. I had a feeling yours would. What does it say?”

“Mostly asking for food, or… thanking me when it gets it.”

“Food?” Crouch asked, his tone indicating he knew precisely what Harry meant.

“My magic. Or, uh… pain. It likes to win fights.” His Shade was bloodthirsty, and when it spoke to him, he could feel that hunger crawl under his skin, making him bloodthirsty, too.

Just then, Bellatrix sat down at Harry’s other side, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace. “Darling!” she cried, the countless shiny black sequins on her dress crunching against his robe, “You’ve done so well! You were so calm and collected out there… why, if I had a pinch less self control, I’d ravish you here for all of our friends to see.”

“Nice to see you too, Bella,” Harry cut in before she could work herself into a fit, watching delight bloom in her eyes. He didn’t particularly like Bellatrix, mostly thanks to the nonstop manipulation and heavy petting, which he had never, ever reciprocated, paired with her pushy insistence to control every aspect of his daily schedule. He appreciated what she was doing for him, though, and it was easy enough to get along with her.

She leaned in, murmuring low in his ear, “You do realize, don’t you, that our Lord watched your performance very closely? All the others think they’re under his gaze, but that’s nothing compared to the way he watches you.” 

Bellatrix had recently plucked the memory of Harry’s Marking ceremony from his mind—her face turning beet red as she examined the encounter before excusing herself for a few minutes, then returning to admonish Harry for his pitiful Occlumency skills—and she was under the impression that Harry needed to seduce Voldemort. It was not going well, partly because Harry hadn’t been in close proximity with Voldemort in a year, partly because he was already in a weird relationship with Tom, but most of all because this was the fucking Dark Lord.

Her words were soft and unsettling, her breath warm against his neck. “Power fascinates him, especially when it’s so… very… unique,” she continued, words brushing against Harry’s ear like a dangerous secret. “And you, my dear Harry, are as unique as they come. He will see himself in you, I think. You should go to him.”

Voldemort sat at the head of the table with Tom at his right, while Harry found himself at the opposite corner, putting him at the perfect angle to study the Dark Lord’s face. He was otherworldly, almost untouchable, an ethereal figure with a presence that filled the room in a way that felt both inevitable and absolute. In contrast, Harry felt like a mere child—his magic unpredictable, volatile, barely under control. Yes, Voldemort’s magic had combined with Harry’s so effectively that it had given Harry Parseltongue, and that made him rare and useful and special, but definitely not that special. The idea of going after the self-styled Emperor of Earth seemed… wildly presumptuous.

Bellatrix’s whispering was interrupted by the start of the dinner service, and Harry looked up, feeling the sudden weight of Voldemort’s gaze on him from across the table. Even as conversations flowed freely around them, with Death Eaters discussing recent victories and laying out plans for future conquests, Harry couldn’t shake the sense that Voldemort’s attention was fixed solely on him. The others seemed oblivious, engrossed in the intricacies of life within the Inner Circle, but that persistent stare made Harry feel as if he and the Dark Lord were the only two in the room. Voldemort’s magic was tangible, thickening the air, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how it seemed to weave around Tom as well.

In fact, Harry was fairly certain that Tom and Voldemort were talking about him. They were both looking his way, Tom leaning in to murmur in Voldemort’s ear before taking a long sip of wine, eyes resting heavily on Harry. Voldemort replied too quietly for Harry to hear, and silence rippled down the table, everyone hesitating to stare at their Lord.

“What he lacks in experience he makes up for with stamina,” Tom’s voice was so soft, so teasing, but the table had fallen quiet enough for Harry to follow their conversation.

“And what of your bond?” Voldemort asked. He broke contact with Harry’s eyes to regard Tom.

“Growing stronger by the day. We have been maintaining it most diligently, my Lord.”

“Could we have this conversation in private?” Harry insisted, shocked and blushing, and he jumped in his seat when Bellatrix let out a stifled moan. The rest of the Death Eaters looked uneasy, glancing at one another with wide eyes.

Oh, right. Parseltongue. Harry couldn’t help but change languages when Tom used it, like it flipped a switch in his brain that he had to manually correct if he wanted to talk to anyone else. The Inner Circle already knew Harry could speak it, since they’d seen it for themselves following the ritual on his graduation day, but he figured they weren’t used to hearing it at the dinner table.

He tracked the motion of a slender forked tongue darting out to wet thin lips, the Dark Lord watching him like a predator. “As you wish.” He took a sip of his drink, set it down, and addressed the table for the first time. “This evening, the world was made aware that the Seed planted within Harry Potter bore a rare fruit. I’m speaking, of course, of his ability to speak Parseltongue. It is evidence of his superior magic, and as such, I am entertaining a most intriguing request.”

Tom watched Harry like a hawk, speaking up, “I would like to propose that he is a suitable candidate for immortality.”

Voldemort nodded, his expression unreadable.

“Immortality?” Harry squeaked, his voice caught in his throat.

There were a lot of implications to living forever. One of the biggest ones was watching Harry from the Dark Lord’s right hand. They were bound together until one of them died.

“You’ll have to study for the ritual,” Tom said. “It’s far more advanced than anything you’ve learned just yet. I think this is something worth discussing once you’ve completed your second year trial.”

“I can help you prepare,” Crouch said. “Consider that duel your final exam in basic soul magic. We can begin private tutoring when the semester begins, to supplement your Shade training and to prepare for immortality.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Shades were relevant to immortality—he would have assumed not, but he didn’t ask because he was too busy reeling at this sudden assumption that he wanted to live forever. Did he? Was there a way to undo it if he changed his mind?

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice commanding all attention, “You are formally invited to attend dinner at my table whenever your schedule permits.”

Bellatrix’s nails dug into Harry’s thigh and squeezed. “Thank you, my Lord,” Harry managed to say. He had no idea what to make of this. “That would be a great honor,” he concluded weakly, not knowing what else to say.

Crouch leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Treat this as an invitation to come no more than twice a week. Otherwise, you might just wear out your welcome.”

Harry nodded, glancing over at Tom, who looked back at him with a glint of satisfaction, as though watching a piece of some larger game fall neatly into place.

It was better not to worry about the immortality offer, at least for a while. Just because Voldemort had dangled the offer in front of Harry like a shiny, blood-soaked carrot didn’t mean he was ready to dive headfirst into eternal life. It wasn’t a commitment he had to make right this second; it just meant that at some vague point in the near future, he’d be allowed to learn how it all worked.

Too many other things had changed—for instance, Harry didn’t understand why he’d been invited to dine with the Dark Lord "whenever he wanted." What had changed to make him a welcome presence at that table? Sure, he had a few unique talents and, yes, he was soul bound to someone important, but he was still basically a rookie in the Death Eater program and hopelessly out of his depth when it came to anything remotely political. 

Most of the evening was spent awkwardly perched between Bellatrix, who radiated murderous delight, and Crouch, who was about as charming as a migraine, while Harry tried his best to blend into the background and listen. The rest of the table was packed with the kind of people his mum had spent his entire life warning him about. Important people. Dangerous people.

It was the first time in a while he’d thought about his mum. The realization came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome—he hadn’t spoken to her since she’d sent a flying Portkey to rip him off the street, which was an uncomfortable thing to recall while sitting at a table full of Death Eaters, especially since some of them could definitely read his mind. He’d need to brush up on his Occlumency before facing her again. What if someone slipped and mentioned something important? The Order always talked freely around him, even after they started treating him less like a kid and more like a problem.

After dinner—which ended in the most hilariously abrupt way possible, with Voldemort finishing his meal, standing, and announcing that everyone was now dismissed—Harry found himself insisting on going to Tom’s. The departure was like something out of a bad comedy: Death Eaters scrambling to down their wine or shovel in one last bite of food, murmuring quick farewells as they filed out one by one.

As Harry and Tom met at the far end of the ridiculously long table, ready to leave together, Harry shot him a bemused look.

“Does it always wrap up like that?” Harry asked as soon as they apparated to Tom’s apartment.

Tom’s home wasn’t at all what Harry had imagined. For someone with access to what could only be described as all the money in the world , he lived surprisingly… modestly. Sure, it was a penthouse in the heart of the Death Eater district, perched high above London like a spider waiting in its web, but it wasn’t overly large. The decor was tasteful—elegant, even—with rich wood and silk accents that whispered wealth, but the lack of art on the walls and the almost clinical minimalism gave it a strange, incomplete feel. It didn’t seem like Tom lived here so much as existed in it, like the place was just another carefully curated prop in the ongoing theatre of his life.

“Generally, yes. Wouldn’t you prefer everyone to leave the moment you’ve grown tired of company? Such is the leisure of the Dark Lord, to dismiss his followers at will,” Tom said. His tone was light, even amused, but his expression was sharp and deadly serious.

“Did you two really have to put that performance on? With the Parseltongue?”

“Yes. We did.”

Harry frowned, mulling over his words. “That’s only going to isolate me from the rest of the Inner Circle, isn’t it? Why are you going for that angle?”

Tom’s eyes brightened at the question, and in an instant, he was close—dangerously close—crowding Harry back against the wall with the kind of grace that made Harry’s pulse quicken. “I have a question,” Tom said, his voice soft, almost intimate. “Why didn’t you ever tell me what happened at your Marking ceremony?”

“What—” Harry’s head thudded against the wall as he tried to lean away. “What do you mea—”

“Careful, now.” Tom’s gaze pinned him in place, sharp as a blade. “No need to act stupid. He told me everything. But now," he leaned in, each word deliberate, "I want to hear it from you.”

“Answer my question first?” Harry insisted.

Tom chuckled, a low sound that curled in the air between them, more of a warning than true amusement. He reached out, his hand smoothing over Harry’s cheek. “We mean to isolate you,” he said, his voice laced with quiet conviction, “because you’re better than them. Surely you’ve realized that by now. Your magic is far too powerful for someone with your level of experience. And, as I’m certain you’re aware,” Tom’s voice dropped lower, a thread of dangerous silk, “the eldritch branch of the dark arts just so happens to be our Lord’s favorite.”

Harry did know that. Crouch had made sure of it, hammering the point home at every available opportunity the moment he realized Harry’s particular specialty.

“And of course,” Tom continued, “there’s your Parseltongue. Untapped potential that only awoke when you received your Mark… which brings me back to my question. What happened at your Marking ceremony?”

Tom lifted his wand and used it to gently brush Harry’s hair back, exposing his scar. It was stark and jagged—a mark that slashed down his forehead, spiked below his eye, and trailed almost to his cheek. Tom’s gaze fixed on it, sharp and unrelenting, an intensity that made Harry feel like the air had been sucked from the room.

“Well,” Harry said at last, keeping his voice deliberately casual, “I got this weird scar, for one. Never did get a straight answer on what happened there.”

“And what do you think happened?”

Harry shrugged, forcing a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. “People have weird reactions to their Seed all the time, especially after they get marked.”

“Yes,” Tom replied smoothly. “It’s generally bleed-through from our Lord’s original dimension. Traits borrowed from your transdimensional doppelganger.”

That stopped Harry short. “Did he tell you that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. If anyone would have access to those kinds of secrets, it would be Voldemort’s right-hand man.

Tom smiled then, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that said he already knew every answer Harry might give. “What happened at the ceremony, Harry?”

“I—” Harry began, then faltered. He tried to read Tom’s expression, to find some hint of his mood in the razor-sharp gaze fixed on him, but as always, Tom gave nothing away. Harry sighed and abandoned the effort. “I had a really… positive reaction to the Dark Mark.”

With a deliberate motion, he shrugged off his robe. The fabric slid to the floor in a soft heap, revealing the bare skin of his arms as he rolled up his sleeves. Tom shifted slightly, just enough to give him space, though the air between them remained charged, heavy with unspoken expectation. Harry glanced down at the Mark etched into his skin, the dark lines shimmering faintly as the snake moved, responding to his attention.

“It never hurt,” Harry said, quieter now, almost to himself. “Not really. And when I got it… I kind of passed out. I don’t know for how long. Fell forward, against his legs, since I was kneeling. And he let me. Didn’t push me away or anything.” His fingers brushed absently over the edge of the Mark, as though trying to draw something from it, something just out of reach.

“And then he touched it. The Mark, I mean—and then he told me to touch myself.”

He could still hear Voldemort’s command, feel how his nail dug into Harry’s flesh.

“That must have been frightening,” Tom said, though his tone carried no hint of genuine concern. “Touch yourself? That’s rather vague, Harry. Our Lord instructed you to touch yourself where, exactly?”

“I jerked off at his feet,” Harry blurted. He stared at Tom, eyes wide, cheeks burning. “I couldn’t help myself. My… magic felt so good, and I could tell he was… uh, into it. He sure didn’t tell me to stop.” He swallowed, thinking, mortification creeping over him. “And I hate that, yeah? We’re always laughing at the Death Eaters who throw themselves at him, but the first chance I got, I was kneeling for him and… coming all over myself. I think I might have got some on his robe.”

For the briefest moment, Tom’s expression flickered into something utterly amused, pure hilarity lighting his features before vanishing just as quickly. It was so fleeting that Harry almost doubted he’d seen it at all.

“Did you?” Tom asked, his voice laced with restrained laughter. “He must have been livid.”

Despite Tom’s obvious mockery, the memory was doing something to Harry. His heart fluttered in his throat like a panicked bird, and he was painfully hard. “Not that I could tell. Just…” 

Harry trailed off, and Tom responded by pushing even closer against him, letting Harry feel his erection. 

Oh. So it was like that, was it?

Harry decided to take a risk. “I really wanted to finish him off too, you know? He told me to go before I could offer, but I think he liked it. You know him better than anyone, don’t you? Do you think he liked it?”

"I’ll need more information," Tom said, his tone clipped and precise, though his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Perhaps we should replicate the scenario.”

It took Harry a beat to catch up. “Oh—alright. We’ll need an armchair.”

They moved to Tom’s office, a room that always made Harry a bit uncomfortable. The fireplace flared to life as they entered, but its sudden warmth was a poor distraction from the unnerving atmosphere. At first glance, it looked like the office of any respectable, powerful man: polished wood, a sleek desk, bookshelves perfectly arranged. But a closer look told a different story. The books stood pristine, their spines uncracked, as if they’d never been opened. The chair behind the desk and the sofa by the window were untouched, straight out of the shop, cushions unpressed by use. The desk itself was barren—not a paper, not a pen, not even a stray quill. The space felt staged, like it had been built for appearances rather than function.

With a flick of his wand, Tom conjured an armchair—an exact replica of the one Voldemort had used—and lowered himself into it with a fluid, regal ease, as though the chair itself existed purely to serve him. Harry knelt before him, his nerves a jumble of tension and giddy anticipation.

“So, I came to like this,” Harry began, leaning forward to press his forehead against Tom’s knee. “I apologized without thinking, and he told me to address him properly. So I called him ‘my Lord.’” A sharp pulse of pleasure shot through his Dark Mark, so intense it stole his breath. He gasped, clutching his arm. “And then it started to feel really good.”

“What felt good?” Tom asked, his tone clinical yet laced with intrigue. “Be specific.”

“My Mark. And, um, his snake was there. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I understood what it was saying, but I was too out of it to focus. Then the snake left, and that’s when he touched me.” Harry tilted his chin upward, meeting Tom’s gaze. “He lifted my chin and asked if it hurt.”

Tom leaned forward in the armchair, his movements deliberate, and pressed his finger to the underside of Harry’s chin. The pressure was firm, enough to tilt Harry’s head back, baring his throat.

“Has it ever hurt?” Tom asked, his voice a whisper of steel.

“Not really. A flash of pain if I say something disrespectful, but I don’t mind that.” Harry’s lips curved into a slow smile as he gazed up at Tom, all too aware that Tom already knew that and found the entire situation fascinating. “It makes me hard, though.”

“Does it?” Tom peered down at Harry, his gaze sharp with superiority, as though surveying his kingdom from on high. There was something imperial in the way he carried himself, his posture, his silence. It made Harry feel like he was really in the presence of their Lord. And then, as if plucking the memory straight from Harry’s mind, Tom spoke in Parseltongue, “I’m impressed by your enthusiasm.”

The sound of it sent a shudder down Harry’s spine, his eyelids fluttering before he could stop them. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Whatever power lingered in those words seemed to strike a chord in Tom. His breath hitched, audible even as he tried to keep his composure. He leaned in closer, close enough that Harry could feel the shift in the air between them, charged and heavy. For one electrifying moment, Harry thought Tom might kiss him. But instead, Tom drew back, his expression tightening as his eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing once more.

“Touch yourself.”

Just like last time, Harry’s hand flew to his trousers, fumbling with his zipper. He squeezed his cock, but kept his grip gentle, all too aware that he was only a few strokes away from ending this game much too quickly.

“The hours immediately following the reception of the Dark Mark are quite unique,” Tom began, his voice smooth and measured. “It’s a time when our Lord’s magic fuses with the body, spreading and reshaping it in countless ways. That’s what you were reacting to, Harry. Your body was welcoming his, incorporating his essence, allowing itself to be changed and exalting in the process. Hence his obsession. You were designed to be changed by him.”

The words hit Harry like a blow, forcing the air from his lungs. He froze, staring at Tom, horrified. “That’s not true.”

Tom tilted his head, the faintest trace of surprise flickering in his eyes. “No? I would have thought you’d relish the thought, dedicated as you are.”

Harry shook his head. “He didn’t make me. Sure, his Seed influenced my magic, but I am who I am because of my own actions.” The idea Tom was suggesting was monstrous—something out of a waking nightmare. Admiring Voldemort, respecting his power, even enjoying his role as a Death Eater was one thing. But the idea of losing himself, of surrendering his own identity? It made his stomach turn.

Tom studied him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he gave a faint nod. “I think that’s for the best, actually. I don’t think I could bear being soulbound to someone so eager to hand over his sense of self.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, leaning back slightly. “Tell me how you really felt, then.”

Harry liked this fun new game where they switched to Parseltongue when they talked dirty to each other. “Powerful. Satisfied. Like I’d found where I belong.” He stared at Tom for a moment, stroking himself again. “This is the part where you say nasty things in my ear until I come.”

“I have something else in mind, actually.” Tom stood from the armchair, making Harry shift back out of his way. “Undress your Lord.”

Harry jumped to his feet, fumbling over the silver serpent clasp that secured Tom’s outer robe. He unfastened it with a quiet click, the polished metal cool against his skin, and shoved the heavy fabric off Tom’s shoulders. The outer layer slid to the floor in a dark, silken heap, leaving Harry to deal with the lower robe. He tugged it over Tom’s head, the fabric resisting for only a moment before yielding.

Tom, ever the traditionalist, had dressed in his usual fashion—long robes, severe and closed in the front, their modesty lending an air of quiet menace. He was bare underneath them, revealing nothing but pale, smooth skin. Once Harry took off his own clothes, Tom pulled him onto his lap, turning him around so Harry’s back pressed against Tom’s chest.

“I think, sometimes, about what it would be like to rule the world,” Tom murmured, his voice low and close, brushing against Harry’s ear like a secret. It sent a shiver racing down Harry’s spine. “One thing that has always confounded me about our Lord is his perpetual chastity.”

Harry couldn’t help himself; he barked out a laugh, the absurdity of the comment catching him off guard. “You think he should head down to the local pub and start chatting up singles?”

Smooth hands slid beneath Harry’s thighs, pressing lightly between his weight and Tom’s lap, squeezing, spreading Harry open. It didn’t take Harry long to figure out what was happening. He shifted forward just enough for Tom to murmur a spell, and the faint, herbal scent of lubricant filled the air. Then, with deliberate precision, Tom pressed the tip of his cock into Harry’s arse.

Harry instinctively wanted to lean back, to push down and feel Tom filling him, but Tom’s hands shifted to his hips, holding him firmly in place. It wasn’t rough—just enough pressure to keep Harry still, to make him endure the gentleness of the motion. Once Harry relaxed fully, Tom’s grip didn’t falter, as if reminding him that this wasn’t about control but about staying exactly where Tom wanted him.

“Stay,” Tom said, his tone sharp, instructive. “Focus on the connection.”

“Fuck, Riddle.”

Tom hissed a laugh and pressed his lips to Harry’s temple. “So greedy. What if all your Lord wants is to keep his cock warm while we continue our discussion? Who are you to deny him this pleasure?”

It felt like a challenge, picking up the conversation thread from moments earlier, the subject of consent and Harry’s continuous and utter lack of it. He didn’t ask to be so aroused by the Dark Lord’s magic. He certainly hadn’t asked to get infected at birth, to carry an artificially planted ability brought from another dimension. Carrying the Seed was like being infected by a permanent virus, one that twisted and churned his genetics, whether he liked it or not. It made him angry. It also made him troublingly, agonizingly hard. He squeezed his cock, and Tom slapped his hand away, then caught it in his own.

“Pay attention.” He twisted Harry’s arm out, long and straight, so they could look down at his Dark Mark as Tom pushed in another few inches.

The snake had unfurled from the skull, its body coiling sinuously around his arm to form a perfect ouroboros. Its tail was clenched in its mouth, the scales rippling in harsh, inky waves against his skin. The tattoo was alive, imbued with a strange, unsettling sentience—a side effect of visiting Voldemort’s pocket dimension, or so Tom had once said. Humans weren’t meant for those places, and would, like most anything to do with Voldemort, change through exposure.

Harry kept his eyes locked on the repetitive motion of the snake’s breathing form as Tom slowly pushed inside. They didn’t do this very often—Tom usually insisted on being in Harry’s role, and he was greedy about it, demanding harsh motion and perfectly angled thrusts—but Harry didn’t mind it too much. He liked feeling stretched open—so full, so motionless —agonizingly so, unfairly and cruelly so—like he’d die if he didn’t fuck down hard that instant—but the hands on his hips were holding him still, and besides, he wanted to see what would happen if he played along.

Tom’s breath warmed the side of Harry’s throat. “Now, let’s try this again. What happened when you received your Mark, Harry?”

Harry moaned at the thought, the memory of waking up slumped against Voldemort’s legs roaring through his mind, making his hips twitch in Tom’s grip. “I wanted to fuck him so bad.”

“Oh?” Tom laughed in his ear, soft, before pulling Harry’s forearm closer. Tom dragged his tongue over the Dark Mark, and Harry cried out, kicking his feet, squeezing his thighs together to better grind against Tom’s cock, which was filling him, keeping his stretched open. “Would you see him on your lap, as you are on mine, whimpering? Begging for friction?”

“I—don’t know—I wanted to touch him. I, fuck, Tom, please.” He cried out when Tom dragged his thumb over Harry’s cockhead, lips descending to suck at the Dark Mark.

“Calm down,” Tom drawled. “Get yourself under control. Just look at the mess you’re making.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he could only stare, frozen by the chaos his magic had unleashed. A seething mass of black, root-like tendrils had spilled out of him, clinging to their bodies, the armchair, the rug beneath them, writhing and pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Luckily, his Shade had taken control before it caused any damage, trapping the corrosive magic inside Harry’s shadow like a protective shroud—otherwise, his magic might have destroyed the room. The air was thick with heat and the acrid tang of something unnatural, like burnt plastic and artificial cherry.

“Relax. No—don’t tense, I can feel when you tense,” Tom raked his nails down Harry’s chest, knocking him back to reality. “Just breathe. Pull it back in.”

Harry had been here before. Too many times, really. Back in the days before he had some proper training, he relied on instinct and resorted to physically grabbing at the thick, ropey strands of his magic, as though he could crush it back into his body through sheer force of will. It worked better than anyone might expect, though it was hardly elegant.

Intentional breathing, he’d learned, was a much more graceful approach, allowing him to call the magic back with focus and calm. It was more effective, too, when he could manage it. But grace required concentration, and that was easier said than done with Tom’s cock splitting his arse open.

At least Tom was getting off on this. He was breathing heavily, fingers digging bruises into Harry’s hips, and Harry wanted to fight against his grip and grind down against him. Tom was a fan of prolonged orgasms, usually insisting on edging them both until Harry finally gave in and begged, but his willpower was weak when Harry took charge and really tried to make them both come.

Harry’s Shade had him in a chokehold. Not literally—his Shade would never turn on him—but it clung to him all the same, tendrils unfurling from his body in a pulsing, living mass. They moved with an unsettling awareness, twisting and coiling as though waiting for direction. His Shade was pretty good at changing shape when he thought about what he wanted clearly enough. 

He probably could get it to actually choke him. If he wanted.

The very moment the thought crossed his mind, a dozen thin tendrils crawled up his body, so hot they felt cold, tangling through his hair, some crossing over his mouth, most wrapping around his throat and squeezing, like it’d been waiting for him to ask.

‘Mine.’

A voice—his own?—whispered in his mind, sharp and possessive, and tightened enough to cut off Harry’s breath. He gasped, hands coming up to grip the tendrils—thorny vines squeezing his throat, pricking his palms. They must have been doing something to Tom as well, because he gasped and fucked up into Harry, making them both shout, his arms wrapping around Harry’s waist as the black vines tightened, making it impossible to breathe while Tom thrust—once, twice, three times—their legs slapping together with the impact, until Tom was groaning against him, using him, spilling into him.

Harry’s Shade had wrapped itself around his cock, and it was doing something to him that made his toes curl. More sticky black magic had wrapped over his face, blinding him, and his orgasm was shot with thrilling confusion, like he was fucking his own Shade as much as he was fucking Tom.

The magic blindfolding him pulled away first, followed by the tentacles splayed around them. Harry opened his eyes and watched the shadows around his cock retreat, streaked with white, absorbing his spend—taking it into his magic? He could only guess, but the corrosive magic seemed to eat it up.

He glanced over his shoulder at Tom, whose eyes were closed, his brow mottled with sweat. Harry had a million questions about what had just happened, but he decided to let the silence linger as he caught his breath.

Chapter Text

Harry rarely spent the night at Tom’s place, and when he did, they didn’t sleep much. Not because they talked or fucked late into the night—though time spent at Tom’s place guaranteed a couple of hours ‘tending to their bond’, as Tom put it. As it turned out, being invested in unusual branches of magic resulted in irregular sleep patterns.

Tom didn’t sleep. At least, Harry had never seen him do it. Nights spent together played out like an odd ritual—Tom perched in bed with a book, flipping the pages too loudly, or stalking off to tend to a potion simmering in the other room. Sometimes he’d disappear entirely, lost in one of his endless projects, only to return at dawn with a mug of coffee and a pile of newspapers, devouring the morning’s news with the same quiet intensity he brought to everything else.

Harry, for his part, had his Shade. Every night, like clockwork, it waited for him to ask before wrapping itself around him as a second skin, snuffing out his senses and pulling him into a deep trance. It was a training exercise, a skill required by all Soul Magic students and a prerequisite for many other classes—a nightly practice designed to strengthen the connection between student and Shade, giving the sentient shadow its fill of magic while protecting the caster and the room from sudden outbursts.

At first, the trances were brain-meltingly boring, but he was taking a sick pleasure in getting really good at doing something he hated, and the better he got at it, the more he could do during the trance. Over time, the trances became a canvas—a place where he could re-watch old dreams to examine his battles alongside the Dark Lord, and even study unfamiliar spells he’d seen himself cast.

And yet, Harry had skipped his practice last night. The fatigue of the day had wrapped around him like a net, dragging him down into real sleep. He’d rolled onto his side, tucked himself against Tom—who was reading an excessively heavy book, propped up against a mountain of pillows—and drifted off into an ordinary, quietly devastating dream. The kind that featured his estranged mother.

Lily Potter had been standing on the edge of a cliff, her back to him, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset that bathed the barren wasteland in eerie light. The ground around her was parched and cracked, littered with brittle shrubs and shadowed by the skeletal shapes of twisting, leafless trees. Harry turned, his breath catching in his throat as he spotted the remains of his childhood home in the distance, sagging and scorched under the punishing sun.

“Mum?” he called, his voice raw.

She turned, stepping away from the precipice, her eyes an unsettling, violent green against the warm haze of the horizon. Her hair, a cascade of red flames, whipped around her face. “Please,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the stillness. “Let me go.”

Harry reached for her, but she turned again, sprinting toward the cliff’s edge. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner as she hurled herself into the void.

“No!” he cried, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, carrying him toward the edge. But just as he reached it, something massive and black wrapped around his waist, pulling him back.

A voice followed—deep, ancient, and wrong. It wasn’t a single voice but a cacophony of sound: the grinding of unoiled gears, the crash of a building falling in a hurricane, the collective wail of countless souls echoing into one impossible note. 

‘Harry.’

His eyes snapped open.

Several things were immediately wrong. First, he couldn’t move at all. His arms, legs, even his head were stuck, though his eyes darted back and forth, desperate to make sense of the scene. His Shade had him pinned to the bed, pressing down with heavy, overwhelming warmth. It was never this oppressive and always retreated the moment he snapped out of a trance.

Second, a column of anti-light twisted up from Tom’s side of the bed, spiraling toward the ceiling in an endless churn of shadow and shape. The figure flickered like something barely tethered to reality, Tom-shaped and prone, simmering with jagged teeth and faintly glowing eyes that pulsed red, casting an eerie, blood-tinged glow over the room. The shadows writhed and stretched, the sound of their movement a faint, dry whisper in the otherwise suffocating silence.

This was definitely new.

Harry turned his attention to the Shade smothering him. Why was it doing this? Was it trying to shield the room from him, to contain an outburst of destructive magic before it escaped? Or maybe it was protecting him from whatever was happening to Tom. Whatever the reason, it felt unnervingly alive—warm and fuzzy, like an impossibly large house cat sprawled over him, its weight pulsing and… purring?

“Tom?” Harry whispered, and there was no answer. He tried addressing the Shade instead, his voice muffled by the smothering presence. “Please get off me.”

The weight stirred, shifted, and then, to his dismay, settled right over his face. “Stop!” he yelped, shoving his hands against the Shade with all his strength. It gave way reluctantly, sliding off him with a thud as it hit the floor.

Harry scrambled to the edge of the bed, catching his breath, and the Shade blinked up at him, its eyes wide and unnervingly round. It wasn’t just a shadow—it had shape, substance. Its vaguely humanoid form mirrored his own in a way that was deeply unsettling. And then it crouched, its movement smooth and eerily fluid, before leaping back onto the bed and pinning him by the shoulders with surprising force. The bedsprings squeaked under the impact.

“Harry,” it said, inches from his face.

It was the voice from his dream—low and grinding and wrong . Noise vibrated in his skull, like a feedback loop from a speaker pushed too far. He tried to shove the Shade off, his hands pressing against its inky shoulders, but it melted under his touch, collapsing into a black fluid that poured down his arms. It soaked him, freezing and invasive, leaving him gasping in shock as it seeped across his skin.

The room was wrong , too dark, shadows layered over shadows. Harry knew Shades fed on darkness as much as they fed on blood, emotions, or meals left out in shadows, so he reached for the lamp on the bedside table, snapping it on. Light flooded the room, and his Shade screeched, a high-pitched yelp like a wounded animal. It skittered to the foot of the bed, connected to Harry’s toes by a thin thread, curling into itself, hunched over and trembling in the sudden brightness.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered reflexively, before freezing as he noticed something concerning in his peripheral vision. He turned, expecting to see Tom blinking groggily beside him, annoyed at being woken by the commotion. But the bed was empty. The weight Harry had felt just a moment ago, not to mention the nightmarish shadows, was gone.

“What the fuck?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He cast Tempus . Three o’clock in the morning. Too late—or too early—for whatever this was. And yet, Tom had been there . Harry was sure of it. He’d felt him in the unnatural dark. He knew Tom had been there. But now, there was nothing—no sign of him on the bed or under it. Harry’s Shade peered at him from under there, crouched low beneath the frame, its form shifting unnervingly. Antlers, jagged and splintered like cracked bone, began creeping out from under the bed, casting twisted shadows across the room.

Harry leapt over the spiked growths and checked the bathroom, heart pounding. Empty. The stillness in the apartment was suffocating.

"This is getting creepy ," he muttered to himself, the words doing little to ease the tension in his chest. His eyes ached with exhaustion, but unease gnawed at him, keeping him sharp and alert. Reluctantly, he returned to the bed, sliding under the blankets. His Shade had crawled back up onto the mattress, a black lump shivering against the dim light from the lamp.

“Okay, fine, you can come here as long as you don’t crush me,” Harry said, his voice strained. The Shade stretched itself out into something about the size of a pillow. Long, lean limbs rearranged themselves until it looked like a cat-like blob with the head of a wolf—or maybe a fox. It was hard to tell, given the sharp teeth and glowing eyes.

The lamp went off with a click, and the room plunged into shadow once more.

Tom was there. Sitting up.

His eyes gleamed crimson in the dark, his frown cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Fuck!” Harry choked, his heart jumping into his throat. His Shade bristled beside him, like it was ready for a fight. “What the fuck—”

“Oh, do calm down. It’s a simple meditation,” Tom replied, his tone maddeningly calm, as though materializing out of the darkness was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. “Melting into shadow. Essential for basic invisibility cantrips, naturally. Not that you’ve ever taken an interest in Illusion magic—”

“Whatever,” Harry interrupted, flinging himself back against the mattress and laughing at the general absurdity of his life. “I’m sure I’ll get to that eventually.”

“Of course, darling,” Tom tucked himself back against his pillows and retrieved his book from the bedside table.

Harry’s Shade slithered between them, stretching long and thin before draping over him like a blanket, melting into his shadow and sinking into his pores. He felt the pull of it, wrapping around his tired mind and dragging him into the weighty calm of a trance. He let it take him, the black behind his eyes deepening until he was floating in the vast void between the stars.

Tom was still there when Harry sat up again.

Harry’s Shade had slipped away with the daylight, retreating into a patch of innocuous shadow in the corner, a thin thread connecting their feet. Tom, meanwhile, was propped against the headboard, as elegant as ever, sipping coffee while scanning the pages of the Daily Prophet.

“Oh, nice,” Harry said groggily, pushing himself upright. “Where’s my coffee?”

Tom peered at him over the rim of his mug, his gaze as cutting as ever. “In the kitchen.”

“You didn’t get me any?”

“You didn’t ask for any,” Tom replied with maddening logic.

“I was asleep! Or, well, basically.”

Tom took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. “Exactly.”

Harry shuffled out of bed, stripping off his pajamas along the way to the bathroom. He hoped Tom was checking out his arse, but it was difficult to know for sure. Tom had an unnerving ability to laser-focus when the Daily Prophet was involved. Adding an extra sway to his step, just in case, Harry waited for some acknowledgment, but the silence from behind him was deafening. Fine. Be that way.

His Shade was waiting for him in the bathroom mirror, making him yelp and jump a foot in the air.

It was him. Only not.

The reflection in the glass wore his shape like a costume. Its surface was pitch-black, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. An eerie green glow stared back where eyes should have been, and a jagged line of wolf-like teeth gleamed in a predatory grin.

“He doesn’t appreciate you like I do,” his Shade rasped, its voice a horrible grinding, like glass shards dragged across rusted metal. Not terribly loud, but so deep it felt like it was rattling his teeth.

Harry winced, pressing his palms over his ears as though that could help. “Could you maybe, I don’t know, make your voice less… horrifying ?”

His Shade tilted its head in a mockery of thought before vanishing without so much as a parting word, leaving behind Harry’s regular reflection. And the shadow on the floor, of course, which curled up innocently at his feet as though it hadn’t just tried to rip open his eardrums.

Harry brushed his teeth, washed his face, and returned to Tom’s bedroom, intent on getting dressed but changing his mind immediately when Tom didn’t look up from his newspaper.

"Didn’t occur to you to check on me after I screamed like a baby?" Harry flung himself onto the mattress, still stark naked, his toes curling against the cold air as he silently wished for a pair of socks.

Tom, of course, kept scanning the paper with his eyes. “I like to think you can handle a solo trip to the bathroom.”

Harry yanked the newspaper from Tom’s hands, who let it go with all the reluctance of someone sacrificing their firstborn, fixing Harry with a flat, unamused stare.

"I have a question," Harry said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Has your Shade ever played tricks on you?"

Tom’s eyes flickered, a flash of something unreadable darting across his face. Amusement, maybe? Though it was hard to tell since he also looked distinctly irritated about the interruption. “No. It has always been perfectly behaved.”

“Then why’s mine suffocating me in my sleep and popping up in mirrors like it’s auditioning for a horror movie?” Harry demanded, tossing the newspaper on the floor.

Tom’s gaze dipped, lingering over Harry’s bare chest before meeting his eyes again, his tone as calm and measured as always. “Because that is what you would do, if you were an animated shadow trying to get attention from your body. Shades are reflections of ourselves, and they tend to emulate the more dominant aspects of our personalities.”

Harry stared at him, incredulous and naked. “I don’t think I’d be that obnoxious? And come to think of it, why didn’t Crouch ever mention in class that these things would start, you know, talking ?”

Tom frowned, an air of mild condescension slipping into his voice. “It’s hardly something the average Death Eater would experience. The very concept would frighten half of them. Do you really need someone to pat your head and remind you how special you are?”

Harry grinned, leaning back with his hands behind him. “Only if you’re the one doing it.”

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, but there was a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps. Harry glanced at the ceiling light, suspicious of the way their shadows pooled around them. “But, doesn’t it ever feel weird, knowing there’s this… thing stuck to you, watching, listening all the time?”

Tom regarded him like he’d just said something profoundly naïve. “I find it as strange as knowing my breath is in the room, as both are a part of me.”

Harry frowned. “Yeah, but your breath doesn’t act independently from your thoughts…”

“Doesn’t it? Are you manually controlling each inhale and exhale at every moment?”

“That’s different. My breath doesn’t talk to me.”

Tom tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you mean to tell me that every word you say is carefully measured and considered before rolling off your tongue?”

Harry narrowed his eyes and moved, fast, reaching for Tom’s wrists and pinning them against the bed frame above his head, keeping his grip firm but not unkind. Supporting his weight on his hands and knees, Harry hovered over Tom, only a small gap and a blanket separating them. “Now you’re just being a prat,” he said, his voice low, almost daring. “You know exactly what I mean. It’s like… the family pet watching you have sex.”

Tom arched a brow, utterly unbothered by the situation, as though he were humoring a child making a point he already understood. “That’s an exceptionally limiting way to think about it.” He curled his fingers around Harry’s wrists, holding tight. “Shades are an expression of our most physical, sexual selves. Surely Crouch taught you that much.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, shaking off the thought of that grinning lunatic. He shifted his legs, awkwardly kicking the blanket down to uncover Tom, who still had a firm grip on his wrists. Tom looked almost comically at ease, lounging in his pajamas—a black tank top clinging to his chest and a pair of soft briefs riding high enough to show his pale thighs, faintly dusted with hair. His hair was immaculate, of course, a single perfect curl falling across his forehead like an insult.

Harry could tell Tom was about to say something snide, the gleam in his eye unmistakable. Before the words could leave his mouth, Harry leaned in and silenced him with a kiss, firm and deliberate, his annoyance melting into something else entirely.

If there was one thing Harry loved, it was kissing Tom. They didn’t do it often enough—Tom was more likely to use his mouth on Harry’s cock than his face, because of some vague thing about personal space. It seemed that Tom liked kissing as long as it was quick and violent, and only if it was leading to something more.

Clearly, they were ramping up to more, so Tom let the kiss deepen, opening his mouth for Harry’s tongue. Harry could feel Tom’s erection against his thigh, and that was enough to chase all the thoughts out of his mind. 

“Take off your clothes,” he said, and he felt the fabric vanish beneath him, gone with wandless magic. He settled his weight on top of Tom, who tightened his grip, pushing his nails into Harry’s wrists. Harry kissed him again, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, and Tom wrapped his legs around Harry, pulling him closer.

“We have class this afternoon,” Tom said once their lips parted. “Would you like a preview of the lesson?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain you’ll like it. What are you in the mood for? You seem rather… tactile this morning.” Tom glanced up at Harry’s hands pinning his own to the headboard. 

“Um, whatever you’d like?”

“I think you’d like to fuck me, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh,” Harry practically whimpered, the very thought melting his brain. “Yeah.”

“Go on, then. Get me ready.”

Harry knew Tom long enough to understand what that meant. He let go of Tom’s hands and sat back, casting all the necessary lubricant spells while ignoring his Shade watching them from across the room, crouched on top of the dresser like some weird, shadow cat. Shaking his head, he turned his attention to what was important—nestling between Tom’s legs. 

Getting Tom ready meant bringing him close to orgasm at least twice before Harry’s cock was allowed anywhere near him. Harry loved this little game, loved using his fingers to massage Tom’s prostate while sucking him off, breathing him in, listening to his noises. The longer this stage went on for, the bigger the payoff at the end, both for their magic and for the sake of having a mindblowing orgasm.

He wrapped his lips around Tom’s cock, sucking gently as he pressed his index finger against Tom’s hole. He pushed inside easily and worked his finger to the second knuckle before gently withdrawing and adding his middle finger. Slowly, he stretched Tom open while also taking him deeper into his mouth. Tom worked his hips along to the motion until Harry brushed against his prostate, which made Tom shudder and melt around him. 

Harry loved this part. He loved being the reason why Tom could let go, no matter how temporarily. How Tom could stop thinking and just feel.

And so Harry set to his work with enthusiasm. He kept pressing his fingers against the spot, sucking Tom’s cock at a firm, steady pace, only to back off when he tasted a sharp bite of precome. He pulled back just enough to stop Tom’s orgasm, Tom’s hips lifting off the bed as he chased after contact. Silently counting to ten, Harry watched, marveling at how perfectly gorgeous his partner was, and then he wrapped his lips around Tom’s cock again. 

The second one always came faster than the first, making it a delicate dance, because the last thing Harry wanted was for Tom to finish too quickly. He slurped and sucked and drooled, pulling back just in time to lick up a thin stream of precome. 

“So here’s how this is gonna go,” Harry said, ringing his fingers around Tom’s cock, holding it gently, feeling it twitch. “I’m going to get you close again, with my cock this time, and then you’ll tell me all about this lesson you’ve planned just for me. Because I know you’ve arranged this for our benefit. The rest of the students be damned, eh?”

This was Harry’s favorite part—Tom too turned on to think, his desperation enough to encourage Harry to take charge. He pushed off the mattress to stand on the floor so he could rearrange Tom, flipping him onto his stomach, making sure his cock was pressed against the blanket.

“It’s hardly just for you,” Tom drawled, belatedly, as Harry rearranged his legs, propping up his arse. He turned his cheek to stare up at Harry from over his shoulder. “Can you get on with it? I don’t have all day.”

Harry responded by palming Tom’s face, pushing him down into the pillows with one hand and using the other to guide his cock in place. Tom was already so open and the angle was perfect, so Harry pushed inside with barely any resistance, forcing a huff of air out of Tom’s lungs.

“That’s better,” Tom moaned into the pillow, and Harry kept his hand pressed against Tom’s face, muffling his voice, fingers tangling into his hair, destroying that perfect curl. Harry used his other hand to pin Tom’s arm behind his back, gripping his wrist and using it as leverage as he rocked his hips, easing into it before speeding up, making the bed squeak.

He knew just how to press Tom up to the edge and hold him there. Grinding against Tom’s prostate, he focused on every little twitch and moan, going slow enough to tease him, to draw out one needy noise after the next. 

“So, what are we talking about in class, Professor?” Harry asked, pulling Tom’s head back by his hair. “Are you planning on embarrassing me in front of everyone again?”

Tom laughed, sharp and cruel, the kind of sound that got under Harry’s skin. Without hesitation, Harry grabbed that fistful of Tom’s hair and yanked, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain that made his stomach twist with satisfaction. Tom’s eyes flared with something dangerous as he rasped, “It’s hardly my decision whether you choose to experience embarrassment, Mr. Potter.” He gasped when Harry squeezed his hand around his cock. “Stop—I’m—”

Harry dropped his hand. “Go on, Professor, I’m listening.”

“Oh— fuck,” Tom practically shouted into the pillow. “I’m being called. Let me up.”

It took Harry a second to realize what he meant by that. “Oh?” He let go of the back of Tom’s head. “Oh!” 

He scrambled to his feet and watched as Tom eased gingerly on his heels before wrapping his hand around his Dark Mark. His eyes rolled back, leaving nothing but white, and for a moment, he looked like a statue caught mid-pose. Harry froze, his curiosity sparking despite the unease crawling up his spine.

Was Voldemort speaking to Tom? Right now? Did he know what they were doing?

Could he see them? 

Harry stroked himself thoughtlessly, imagining the implications of the Dark Lord being able to spy on the Death Eaters no matter where they were. He was painfully hard, and not entirely loving the fact that thinking about this only made it worse.

Tom sat upright, his eyes flicking back to burgundy. “I need to go. All of the generals are being summoned to France.”

“What?” Harry let go of himself, shocked. Nothing like this had ever happened before. “Is everything alright? Did he talk to you?”

Tom didn’t answer. He got up from the bed—still fully erect, Harry noted with a thrill. He threw on something from his wardrobe, combed his fingers through his hair until everything sprang back into place, looking like nothing had gone amiss, the bastard. “Yes, he spoke with me. The meeting will be brief, so class will not be canceled.”

And then he was gone, apparating away without any further explanation, leaving Harry confused and overwhelmingly turned on. Tom had a habit of just taking off with minimal explanation—in fact, this was the most information he’d ever shared before fucking off. Harry could only hope being left edged and unsatisfied would give him something to think about while he sat through some boring meeting.

His Shade was still perched on the edge of the dresser, its too-wide eyes locked on him with unnerving intensity. Its grin, filled with far too many teeth, softened into something that might have been concern if it wasn’t so utterly wrong.

“Help you?” it asked, unfolding a long, spindly arm, its claw-like fingers pointing straight at his erection. Its voice was quieter now, less like splintered glass grinding together and more like a whisper from a damp, creepy cave.  The sharp line of its grin curved downward into a frown that somehow made it even more unsettling. “Harry sad?”

Harry’s heart jolted against his ribs, a mortified heat rushing to his face. “Uh, no, I’m fine, thank you!” he stammered, shuffling back a step and instantly regretting it when the Shade tilted its head, watching him with a predatory patience. He cast Tempus with a hurried flick of his wand, the glowing numbers confirming what he already suspected—barely enough time to eat something before he needed to be at his first Necromancy class.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and bolted, determined not to look back, not to acknowledge the quiet whisper of movement as the Shade followed him out.

Necromancy was, unsurprisingly, held in the basement of an old mausoleum tucked into the heart of London. The place was steeped in history, Harry supposed, though he wasn’t exactly one for architecture. He descended the marble stairs in a hurry, the last few bites of a sandwich in one hand, his bag slung over the other shoulder. Rounding the corner, he smacked into someone—a tall, hulking figure cloaked in a dramatic black robe with a hood so deep it swallowed his face.

The man turned with an air of theatrical menace, and Harry had to bite back an eye roll. He looked like someone who spent far too much time practicing his scowl in front of a mirror.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, stepping around him to enter the classroom—only to pause, struck by the sea of identical black robes filling the space. Everyone looked like a Muggle depiction of the Grim Reaper, an assortment of shadowy figures huddled around stone tables.

“Wait,” the hulking man said, catching Harry’s shoulder before he could step inside. “You must shroud yourself. The death energy is too potent.”

“Shroud myself?” Harry echoed, baffled.

“You’re Potter, aren’t you? Surely your mentor has explained this to you?”

Oh, right. Bellatrix had mentioned something about protective measures when they last met for lunch, but Harry had tuned her out somewhere between the overly familiar glances and the part where she started squeezing his bicep.

“I might have missed that bit,” Harry admitted. “Do I need to buy one of those robes?”

The man sighed, the sound heavy with judgment. “Ask your Shade. I saw your duel—it should be capable of such things.”

Harry stared, his brain fumbling to keep up. “Ask it? Right. Okay.” He focused on the shadow pooling at his feet. ‘Protect me from the death energy in there?’ he thought, half expecting it to ignore him.

Instead, his Shade leapt to action with unsettling enthusiasm. Black tendrils sprang up and wrapped around him, forming a thick, heavy robe like the ones everyone else wore. The satin-like lining squeezed around him, radiating a gentle warmth that felt disturbingly like affectionate nuzzling.

“Thanks for the tip,” Harry said, glancing back at the stranger, who merely grunted and gestured for him to proceed.

The classroom was freezing—far colder than he’d expected for a space packed with so many bodies. It was empty save for the rows of seats and a large stone archway at the very front of the room, which was covered with a rippling curtain. His breath curled in the air, and he was grateful for his Shade, which adjusted itself, stretching his sleeves out long enough to warm his hands. He slid into a seat at a stone table, peering at the hooded figure beside him.

“You didn’t come home last night,” the person said, their voice low and familiar. “Glad you made it to class.”

“Hey Blaise,” Harry muttered, recognizing the sharp glint of his friend’s eyes. “I stayed over at Tom’s.” Blaise made a noise somewhere between amusement and disapproval. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Your Shade,” Blaise said simply, as if it were obvious. “It’s got glowing eyes all over your back. And… antlers.” His gaze shifted up. “Kind of hard to miss. It’s… been keeping me up at night, lately.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “Does it? Uh, what else does it do?”

Blaise shrugged, his tone maddeningly casual. “Oh, nothing much. Just creeps across the whole room until it's covering everything. A little bigger every night. Nothing too scary, though it doesn’t seem to like it if I get up to get some water.” Mortified, Harry opened his mouth to apologize, but Blaise waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s inspiring, really. Reminds me of what I’m working toward.”

His tone was kind of… off-putting. Too casual. Harry wasn’t thrilled to only find out it was like this after a full year of sharing a flat. Being so accustomed to not having money of his own, Harry hadn’t thought twice about sharing a small apartment with Blaise, especially since it was what he had planned to do with—with old friends, if he hadn’t joined the Death Eaters. But Bellatrix never let him pay for anything, so a year’s salary was sitting in his account, untouched, just waiting for him to get a place of his own.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” he asked, and Blaise only chuckled and shrugged, like he didn’t owe Harry an explanation.

The problem was that this was uncomfortable. While his Shade did its thing for Crouch’s class, Harry was practically dead to the world. Aside from the pre-planned break in the middle of the night, it took a lot to knock him out of his trance, and he really didn’t like finding out that he was so unknowingly disruptive.

Before Harry could press for answers, the door creaked open, and their professor swept into the room with an air of authority that didn’t need announcing. Dressed in a robe identical to everyone else’s, he moved to the front of the room without so much as a glance at the students. Standing in front of the large archway, his introduction was brief—barely a name—and then he was off, muttering about the perils of the dead realms. Harry didn’t need the introduction to know who he was. Rosier. One of Voldemort’s Inner Circle.

When he called for a volunteer, Blaise stood, much to Harry’s surprise.

“Ah!” Rosier exclaimed, tilting his head as if appraising Blaise’s silhouette beneath the hood. Somehow, he recognized him, even in the room’s dim, wavering light. “Zabini. A perfect candidate. Your bloodline is steeped in the necromantic arts, is it not?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Go on, then. Step through the arch.”

Blaise froze. “Sir? Is that… safe?”

Rosier smiled thinly. “You’ve done the reading, haven’t you?”

“Enough to know this is a terrible idea,” Blaise said, his robe twitching against his back. “My Shade isn’t stable enough to tether me. I could get lost.”

Harry sat stiffly, all too aware of how little he’d prepared for this class. Bellatrix had assured him that Necromancy would be manageable, and since she’d been his professor at Hogwarts for seven years, he thought he could trust her judgment on these things, but Blaise’s hesitation was unnerving. What did he mean by tether? Were they supposed to walk through that arch and use their Shade to come back?

It was common knowledge that there were other dimensions, other timelines or versions of reality, all sorts of paradoxical madness—the Dark Lord had brought this wisdom with him when he changed their world, after all—but Harry had never seen a portal to another realm before. Was this class going to teach them how to walk the dead realms?

His Shade tightened around him, vibrating with energy.

Would you be able to tether me? he asked silently.

His Shade purred. It actually purred. Harry wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or unnerved by that, so he filed it away under “problems for later” and turned his attention back to Blaise, who was still rooted in place near the arch.

Rosier made an impatient noise, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “If you’re unwilling, Mr. Zabini, we can always select someone else.”

“I want to,” Blaise said back, his tone slow and measured, though his shoulders were tense. “I’m just not terribly eager to throw my life away, either.”

The professor’s smile didn’t falter, though it seemed to sharpen at the edges. “That’s part of the lesson, Mr. Zabini. If your Shade loses you, we send someone in to bring you back.”

A student let out a low whistle. “Some first day material, eh?”

Professor Rosier smiled, his teeth white and large beneath his hood. “Ah, another volunteer.” 

With a wave of his wand, he pulled the student from their seat and flung them toward the arch. Their robe separated, shooting out in thick sections to catch against the arch’s sides, but it wasn’t enough, and they fell through with an elastic snap.

"I need another volunteer," Rosier declared, his voice sharp and cutting through the thick, oppressive chill of the classroom. "Someone competent, please." Silence answered him, thick as the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. He huffed impatiently. "Quickly now. We’re losing him."

Harry’s Shade pulled him up to his feet, turning the robe shape into something kind of like a hand, and propelled him forward. 

“Woah what—” Harry cut himself off when he landed in front of Professor Rosier, stumbling a bit, cartwheeling his arms.

"Ah, Mr. Potter! Always eager to steal a bit of spotlight, eh?" Rosier’s laugh was sharp, edged with derision. "I’m not sure if our Lord would approve of sending his prized pet into the dead realms on his first day of class."

Prized pet? Harry scowled at him. “Someone’s got to get him,” he said firmly, a sense of urgency blooming in his chest. Too much time had passed already; he could feel it, the ticking of some unseen clock counting down.

Rosier cocked his head, pulling back his hood slightly as if trying to study Harry more closely. “Well… your Shade does seem capable enough. In and out, quick as a rabbit!” He turned to the class. “What’s his name, the one we’re fetching? It’ll help.”

“Dubhán Smith!” someone called out, and Rosier gave Harry a brisk nod, as though that answered every question.

"Just call his name if you find yourself in trouble. It’ll bring you closer to him," Rosier said, his tone almost dismissive, as if the dead realms were a mere inconvenience.

Harry nodded, watching as his Shade reached out a tendril toward the arch, coiling around the rippling edge like it was anchoring them both. The arch shimmered, an open window into another world, curtains of gauzy mist fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. Whispering voices curled around him, luring him closer. He should have felt fear, he supposed, but what rose inside him instead was a strange kind of exhilaration. This felt right , like he was stepping into a place where he belonged.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he muttered.

Rosier’s smile was a nasty thing. “I get the pleasure of being executed at the next Death Eater meeting for losing you. But no pressure, of course.” His words dripped sarcasm. "Nothing to fear, nothing to fear!"

Harry didn’t wait for more snide remarks. He turned to the arch and leapt through.

It was like falling into a well full of ink—thick and cold, clinging to his skin like oil. Harry’s Shade coiled tighter around him, its presence heavy and possessive, gripping him as he plummeted through the dark. Shapes flickered at the edges of his vision, shifting and impossible, whispering things he couldn’t quite catch but that still made his stomach twist. The voices scraped against his ears, sharp and low, and he couldn’t tell if they were calling for him or warning him to turn back.

Then the faces began to emerge, pale and wretched against the blackness. He recognized them immediately, though he wished he didn’t. The Gryffindors. Their hollow eyes and stretched mouths howled accusations, and each and every word was true. 

Traitor. Murderer. Heartless, remorseless monster. Killer. Killer. Killer.

Their hands, pale and clawed, shot out of the shadows, raking down his arms and shoulders. Each touch was like ice against his skin, and the scratches they left behind burned with a cold that went straight to his bones.

They were the dead. His dead. The ones he had killed—some accidentally, some by the careless ripple of his magic, but all because of him. Their voices rose in a discordant wail, and their words were knives, cutting into the cracks in his defenses. His chest tightened, guilt and panic twining around his ribs like a vice.

“Get them off me!” he gasped, his thoughts barely formed.

His Shade responded instantly, its tendrils sharpening into cruel, jagged blades. It lashed out, slashing through the reaching hands and hollowed faces with an almost gleeful brutality. The spirits shattered like broken glass, their cries splintering before fading into the dark.

The way cleared, and Harry’s eyes locked on the figure ahead. Dubhán Smith. Naked, trembling, his expression carved with raw curiosity and terror. He was staggering over the barren ground, which stretched out in every direction, a landscape painted in lifeless gray. Black rivers snaked through the terrain, their surfaces gleaming with a faint, unnatural sheen, like the water itself was alive and watching.

Harry descended, his Shade guiding him like a marionette on invisible strings. He extended a hand to Dubhán. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

Dubhán whirled around, his eyes wide with alarm, but he didn’t hesitate to grasp Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry’s Shade wrapped around them both, its dark tendrils pulling tighter as it dragged them upward, away from the ghosts and the endless dark.

Then they were falling, and the world snapped back into place.

Harry hit the floor of the classroom with a jarring thud, Dubhán landing beside him in a heap. The air was freezing, their breath visible in the dim light. Harry pushed himself to his knees, his legs shaking like a newborn fawn, his Shade wrapping itself protectively around his shoulders as Dubhán’s did the same.

“Well done,” Professor Rosier’s voice broke the stunned silence, a sharp crack against the quiet. “Quick work, Mr. Potter. Though it seems those spirits weren’t exactly pleased to see you. The recent dead do tend to linger.”

Harry didn’t answer. His heart was still racing, his head spinning as he stared at the archway, where vague impressions of faces rippled just beyond the surface, like they were waiting for their chance to follow him through.

"You need to name your Shade," Rosier said, his tone low and urgent. "It’s grown too strong. You must establish its identity before it decides to take the matter into its own hands. Crouch is a fool for not warning you sooner."

Harry blinked, his mind reeling. He’d just walked into the land of the dead, retrieved someone, and returned intact, so naming his Shade felt like one task too many for the moment. "One thing at a time," he muttered, dragging himself back to his seat.

It was almost impossible to pay attention to class after that. Blaise seemed unusually cool with him, which Harry figured was a problem for future Harry. For now, they were discussing the necessity of visiting the dead realms at least once before moving forward with their lessons—a requirement Harry had already checked off. The rest of the students would have to sign up for their turn over the next few days, each one expected to pass through the arch and return with their life intact. 

Only then would they move on to the next steps: basic Inferius creation, followed by learning how to craft openings to the deadlands themselves—temporary gates that snapped shut the moment the necromancer’s concentration wavered.

Harry scribbled a few notes, though his exhaustion made the effort seem futile. He wasn’t going to retain any of this, not after the day he’d had. Something about plunging into an unfamiliar realm crawling with vengeful spirits really drained a guy.

When class finally ended, Harry trudged back to his flat, relieved that Blaise didn’t follow him home. The small space was quiet and dim, the perfect place to decompress, but Harry found himself pacing the room instead, the events of the day replaying in his mind. Rosier’s advice gnawed at him, as did the memory of his Shade throwing him to the front of the classroom like a child’s hand playing with a toy.

“Why did you want to go in there so badly?” he asked aloud, his voice sharp in the stillness. He braced himself for a response, his Shade's presence prickling at the edges of his awareness.

“FOOD.”

Of course. Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d already suspected that his Shade devoured death magic as readily as it consumed eldritch, but hearing it out loud didn’t make him feel any better.

“But that could have been really dangerous,” he said, more out of some obligation to worry about his well-being than anything. He hadn’t felt the least bit unsafe there—not even when his former housemates were clawing at his face. 

A pang shot through his gut at that, a flickering reminder of the figures he’d seen down there, scowling and tortured and so familiar. Seventy-one Gryffindors had been the final body count. He wasn’t supposed to know that, but Pansy snuck him articles from the papers Bellatrix forbade him from reading, papers from countries less sympathetic to the Dark Lord’s reign, that weren’t obligated to paint Harry’s actions in a flattering light. He had dropped a tower on top of seventy-one people, and those that didn’t die from falling stone were scorched to death by his untamed eldritch magic.

And now he didn’t have to worry about that happening ever again, because he had successfully trained his Shade. It deserved a name, really, and it’d be ridiculous to not appreciate this useful tool that came pre-packaged with the human experience, if one only took the time to develop it. 

“Could you at least talk to me before dragging me around like that? Give me a heads up?”

Sometimes Harry thought something was wrong with him. His mind flicked back to that number. Seventy-one. It had made him a little queasy when he read the printed number, and it made him a little queasy now, but the sensation flickered out like a snuffed candle flame when he thought about anything else.

Why couldn’t he hold onto the feeling?

Harry looked up from his hands and froze. His Shade was looming over his lap, impossibly large, its spine arching toward the ceiling before curving back down to peer into his face. Long antlers reared back, scraping the ceiling, as its features melted and reformed into an unsettling mimicry of his own, painted in shades of black that shimmered with shifting, iridescent colors, like an oil slick caught in dim light.

“Name me?” it asked. The voice didn’t come from its mouth—didn’t seem to come from anywhere—but the words vibrated the air, dragging across Harry’s senses like a chain scraping over gravel. Not painful, but grating enough to make his teeth ache. The Shade was solid, its presence like a dense star, filling the room with an unnatural gravity that tugged Harry closer.

His eyes roamed over its form, tracing the swirling, eldritch magic churning inside its translucent body. The patterns bubbled and twisted, faint shapes of unknowable horrors flickering just beneath a black veil that seemed to shroud its inner chaos.

“Veil?” Harry said aloud, testing the word. It felt right—fitting. His lips curved into a faint smile despite the tension in his chest. “You’re like a veil, aren’t you? Holding all that magic inside you. Yeah, I think I’ll call you Veil.”

The name seemed to be a hit. Veil jumped up, shifting into an exact replica of Harry in one swift motion before landing on the bed, shadow-like, feet planted on either side of Harry’s legs. It grinned down at him, eyes like two green floodlights, mouth a bit too sharp and upturned.

Silence stretched too long between them—Harry waiting for Veil to say something, Veil waiting for… well, Harry had no idea. Finally, Harry broke the tension, his voice edging on exasperation. “Kinda creeps me out when you look too much like me, mate.”

Veil frowned, and the expression was so exaggerated it bordered on grotesque, a sharp curve of lips revealing teeth like shards of bone—a shocking thing to see on a shadow replica of his own face. It began to shift, its form liquefying, melting down into something vaguely humanoid with a jaw more wolf than human, stunted antlers crowning its head like an eerie afterthought. A fever dream made flesh. “Better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

Harry crossed the room to sit down at his desk. The spacious bedroom he shared with Blaise was split right down the middle, one bed, one dresser, one desk to each side, divided into compartments almost like Gryffindor Tower had been—his gut twisted with nausea at the memory. He stumbled, catching himself against the desk’s edge with his elbow, hissing at the sharp jolt of pain.

Before he could hit the floor entirely, Veil surged forward, its gelatinous form gliding under him and pushing him upright. It deposited him into the chair at his desk. “Aw, thank you.” Harry rubbed his bruised elbow, offering Veil a small, genuine smile.

The Shade didn’t reply, its canine eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. Harry sighed, leaning back in the chair. “Maybe I could try… I don’t know, talking to you about things. Thinking stuff out loud. If you’re interested, anyway.” He hesitated, then dove in. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep thinking about how I’m not talking to my mum anymore… and about, uh, what happened at the end of seventh year. And I don’t feel anything. I should, right? I should feel something.”

Veil stared, its predatory eyes gleaming with something unreadable before its head shifted, grotesquely, into a massive frog-like shape. Its tongue darted out, sticking briefly to Harry’s cheek with an audible smack before snapping back into its mouth. “FOOD,” it declared, the word as heavy as a tombstone. “FOR ME.”

“Food?” Harry gawked at it, his voice rising in alarm. “Are you eating my feelings? Is that why I can’t feel anything about them?”

“HEHEHEH. HEH.”

Its laugh reverberated through the room like the bassline to a song, shaking the floorboards and crawling under Harry’s skin. He threw himself out of the chair, his chest tight with fury and disorientation. “You can’t do that! I did NOT ask you to take that from me.”

But that feeling was relief, wasn’t it? To know that the crushing stormcloud of guilt and grief he’d been braced for had already passed him by, and here he was, standing in the clear.

Self loathing and anger rose in his throat like bile, washed down with a deluge of sadness.

Veil tilted its grotesque head, smug and canine again. “SAD HARRY BAD,” it said, its tone matter-of-fact. “HARRY HAS JOB.”

Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “Please stop shouting.”

“Harry has job,” it repeated, softer now. “Harry make world good.”

Oh.

But that made sense, didn’t it? Veil wasn’t some alien parasite; it was him. A section of his own soul, shaped by his will to survive, his refusal to break. It knew everything he knew, everything he wanted, and it wasn’t wrong. Harry had work to do—opportunities waiting for him, dark magic to master, and a world to improve with everything he’d learned. His Shade had only done what it was meant to do: protect him. Even from himself.

Harry sat back down, exhaling slowly. “Alright, Veil,” he muttered, still pissed, still reeling from clear and unavoidable self loathing. “The only thing we can do now is move forward. What do you think about me writing a letter to my mum?”

Chapter Text

He started with a simple greeting.

Dear Mum,

Scratch that—mum? It didn’t feel right. Too informal, wasn’t it? He crumpled the parchment and grabbed another.

Hello—

No. Too stiff. Too cold. That sounded like the beginning of a letter you’d write to someone you hadn’t spoken to in ages, which, of course, she was. But also, it sounded vaguely like the sort of thing a serial killer might start with before going on about their sins, and Harry didn’t need to remind her of… everything.

Hi, Mother—

No. Too distant, like he wasn’t sure who she was anymore.

Mother,

Absolutely not. Way too formal. He balled that one up and tossed it on the growing pile of failed attempts. Another sheet. Deep breath.

Mum,

Yes. Just mum. That was better. Start there. Start small. Harry let the word settle on the page for a moment before continuing.

I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’m sorry about a lot of things. A lot has changed for me over the past year, and I could probably get permission to come visit you, if you wanted to talk. I’d like that a lot. I miss you.

He paused, staring down at the words. They looked small and weak against the empty expanse of the page, not nearly enough to hold the weight of everything he’d wanted to say. He missed her dreadfully. She’d always been his anchor, his constant, the one person who loved him despite everything he’d done. He hoped that was still the case.

The letter was so short, but he didn’t know what else to say. This was about as much as he could manage, wasn’t it? Anything else felt too big, too raw, better left for when he saw her in person.

I hope to see you soon. If you want to send me a letter back, Hedwig knows where to find me.

Love, Harry

He set the quill down and leaned back, staring at the letter as if it might start talking back to him. It wasn’t enough, but he doubted anything would be. Still, it was done. Now all that remained was to send it and wait. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Hedwig returned without a response.

The owlery wasn’t far from Harry’s apartment, and he stepped out into the afternoon, the air crisp and cool as the sun poured gold over London. The street hummed with life, a kind of pulsing energy that seemed to flow around every corner, over every cobblestone, as if the city itself was breathing. Harry walked with purpose, though his mind felt scattered.

Muggles drifted through the edges of the magical district, their faces blank, their eyes unfocused, as though they were passing through a dream they wouldn’t quite remember. They hurried along, unaware of the invisible borders they brushed against, and the moment they crossed back into their world, they quickened their pace, as if some primal instinct warned them to flee.

The Death Eaters were impossible to ignore. They moved in packs, their arms bare to show the Dark Mark etched into their skin, their presence a challenge to anyone who dared to look their way. They idled in the doorways of shops, filled the sunlit terraces of outdoor cafes, their laughter and sharp voices echoing through the streets. They claimed the space like it was their right, because it was, and their movements were deliberate, confident. Predatory.

Harry avoided eye contact as he passed, though he couldn’t help but notice the way their attention followed him. He told himself he didn’t care, but a knot in his chest tightened all the same. In under a year, he’d reached the point where any of them would jump out of his way if he approached. He could probably rip that croissant out of Yaxley Jr’s hand and take a big bite, and Yaxley would thank him for giving it back.

He kind of loved it, and he knew that was terrible. It wasn’t the fame, the attention, the unspoken power of it all—even though, rationally, he knew none of it was actually for anything he’d done. He simply liked being good at something, and to be recognized for it, and more importantly, he was thrilled by how quickly his plan was coming together. Originally, his approach had been simple: infiltrate the Death Eaters, secure a position of influence, and use it to subtly nudge things in the Order’s favor. Sensible, straightforward, good old-fashioned espionage. Steps one and two were complete.

It was the sheer weight of it all that was getting to him, making him grateful for Veil’s hungry services. The Dark Lord had decided Harry was his favorite and was giving him terrifyingly special treatment, and the news wouldn’t stop blathering about his relationship with Tom—as if that was anyone’s business. Oh, and Parseltongue. Couldn’t forget the Parseltongue. And the duel. Naturally, the duel. Not a single one of these things had been his idea.

He wasn’t about to let fame—ill-gotten or otherwise—distract him from his goal. He’d expected things to get complicated, hadn’t he? Not that he could have anticipated half of it, but so far, everything was working out. At least Veil was firmly on his side and a trustworthy confidant, even if it did treat feelings like a well-stocked buffet.

And despite the supposed options—Tom, Bellatrix, Blaise or Draco or Pansy—Harry didn’t really have anyone to talk to. Sure, Tom was there, but not for that. Tom was aware that Harry missed his mother, sure, and agreed that it was high time to send a letter. But there was no universe in which Harry would confess his greater plan to help the Order. He wouldn’t even think about it near Tom, because Tom was a mind-reading bastard, and Harry wasn’t about to take unnecessary chances. His classmates were hardly an option for late-night chats, either, and Harry hadn’t spoken to anyone who wasn’t a Death Eater in over a year, save for the occasional exchange with a shop clerk.

Which was why Veil’s company, unsettling as it could be, was a relief. Not that Harry had much choice—Veil was part of him, after all. It wasn’t going anywhere, and it had a job to do. Still, midday strolls through the city felt lonely, especially when Veil was little more than a shadow sliding between cracks in the pavement, keeping to the edges of Harry’s steps as if the sun was an enemy to be avoided.

They reached the owlery, and Harry tilted his head up at the structure. It was a tall, narrow tower tucked unceremoniously among posh storefronts, all red brick and old iron, looking like someone had dropped it there by mistake. Veil rippled eagerly toward the shadow it cast, curling itself into the gloom as Harry paused at the threshold. 

The magitech rune at the owlery door hummed softly as it let him through, granting access to the spiraling staircase that led to the top floor. This was where the best owls were kept for Death Eaters—sleek and sharp-eyed, all bred for speed and discretion. Hedwig, of course, was there, perched on a high-up rafter and looking as regal as ever. The moment she caught sight of Harry, she swooped down in a flurry of white feathers, landing neatly on his outstretched arm.

“Hey, girl,” he said softly, rubbing her cheek with his fingers. Her feathers were warm, soft, and she leaned into his touch with a familiar coo. “Can you bring this to Mum? I bet she’ll be happy to see you.”

Hedwig nibbled at his fingers before taking the envelope in her claws. She was gone a moment later, a streak of white against the mid-day sky, and Harry watched her fly away.

Right until his Dark Mark started burning.

He jumped, instinctively reaching for his arm—worrying if he’d done something wrong by contacting his mum and he’d have to deal with some pain in return. Had he somehow broken a rule? Was Voldemort punishing him for writing to his mum? Surely not, but the second his hand clasped his skin, he was jerked off his feet and suctioned through a too-tight tube. 

Harry landed with an undignified thud at a little bistro table, knees smacking into the bottom and setting the silverware rattling. The table was set with a polished silver teapot and many assorted desserts on decorative tiered trays. A spray of white roses filled a vase, making Harry need to tilt his head to see that, across from him, Voldemort sat in a high-backed chair; a spider in the center of a carefully spun web, surrounded by whimsical luxury like the main character in some demented fairy tale. 

The weight of his magic was almost overwhelming. Harry felt a tangible tension in the air, a tugging against his skin that was almost magnetic, made worse when he met Voldemort’s gaze, which was locked on Harry. Voldemort was silent, motionless, his fingers steepled in front of inhuman facial features and subtly glowing eyes. It set off warning bells in the back of Harry’s mind—instinct telling him that someone so tall, so thin, with such long limbs and blood-red eyes had to be a threat. It made Harry’s breath catch in his throat, and he licked his lips, nervous, wishing Tom was there. 

The main floor of the restaurant was crowded, but Harry and Voldemort’s table was up several steps, overlooking the rest of the patrons from a secluded platform, tucked high in the back corner. Harry noticed that the restaurant seemed to be moving like a peculiar clockwork. The waitstaff, the gesture of the diners, the clinking of silverware, all of the motions were jerked and unnatural, synchronized with the dozens of clocks hung on the walls like metronomes.

Their surroundings made Voldemort all the more unsettling. He loomed even in his stillness, the very air bending around him in deference. Yet his expression was oddly tranquil, as if the weight of his reputation was entirely inconsequential. His long, pale fingers moved with meticulous grace as he prepared a cup of tea for Harry. He measured out two generous spoonfuls of sugar—precisely how Harry liked it—before stirring the drink, each clink measured and deliberate.

Harry glanced over the edge of the platform, unsettled by the diners below. Their movements weren’t natural; they were too precise, too angular, like clockwork toys moving on metal joints. The tick-tick-ticking echoed in his ears, mechanical and relentless between his racing thoughts. 

He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, trying to steady his voice as he said, “Good afternoon, my Lord.”

It was a question as much as a greeting. Was this meeting some punishment for daring to send a letter to his mother? Was he about to be turned into one of those clockwork figures—dressed in lace and finery, trapped in perpetual teatime? The three masked Death Eaters standing apart from the diners certainly looked like they could try to force him into something, their wands at the ready, their silence as oppressive as the heavy ticking.

“Good afternoon, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s attempt at composure wavered as a menu appeared before him on a puff of smoke and twinkling stars. Veil snatched it with shadowy, childlike fingers, and dragged it under the table. Voldemort’s lips twitched—amusement, maybe, but Harry couldn’t be sure. The teacup in his hands steamed gently, though Harry suspected it was hot enough to scald. The Dark Lord sipped it anyway, as if immune to such petty concerns.

The gentle clinking of porcelain against saucer was too much. Harry’s words came out in a rush. “Are those real people?” He jerked his head toward the diners below. Their expressions were blank, but their eyes seemed frightened. It was enough to send chills down his spine.

Voldemort set the cup down with a precision that felt practiced, almost theatrical. “My enemies,” he said simply. “Or those who fancied themselves as such.”

“Could you not?” The words tumbled out before Harry could stop himself. He winced, bracing for punishment, and a pulse of magic rippled from his Dark Mark, electric and overwhelming, lighting up his nerves like a warning shot. It wasn’t painful at all, and he didn’t know what to make of that. He blinked at the Dark Lord, swallowing rapidly. “Sorry, my Lord. It’s just—unsettling.”

Voldemort regarded him for a moment, as though weighing something vast and unknowable. Then, with the barest flick of a finger, the ticking stopped and the scene surged back into realtime.

The prisoners gasped, some springing to their feet to fumble through their pockets—finding no wands, as the Death Eaters had likely ensured. It quickly devolved into pandemonium. One prisoner hurled a teapot at the platform with a sharp cry, but it bounced against an invisible barrier as a masked Death Eater dropped the assailant with a Killing Curse.

“Congratulations are in order. Your performance at the dueling tournament was commendable,” Voldemort said, practically giving Harry whiplash, as if the chaos below was of no consequence. His crimson eyes pinned Harry in place, sharp and unwavering.

“The tournament?” Harry asked weakly, barely glancing away from the chaos. “My Lord… please, can you stop them?”

Another flick of Voldemort’s finger, and everything below froze. The scene was a still life: teacups suspended mid-spill, faces frozen in anger or terror. Voldemort’s attention never strayed from Harry.

“A complete pause in time, as you requested,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with the weight of something Harry couldn’t interpret.

Harry huffed out a surprised laugh, all too aware that Veil was eating up his fear. He could feel it dissolving like a shiver down his spine.  “I never thought I’d see the Lord of Time in action,” he blurted, immediately feeling stupid for referencing one of the Dark Lord’s more obscure titles.

And yet, the embarrassment popped away just like the rest of his strong emotions, fizzing and crackling as Veil slurped them down. Harry could feel his Shade’s satisfaction in how it settled under the table, languid and purring against his legs, while his mind raced with the implications of what he’d just witnessed, what Voldemort had just done—severing the laws of reality like a knife through butter.

“You think loudly,” Voldemort murmured, startling Harry. His tone was almost amused, though it carried the faintest edge of condescension. “But do not mistake me for some… ascended being. I am simply more proficient in magic than most.” He smiled then, a sharp and unsettling thing, teeth serrated in a way that no human’s should be. A pull of arousal tugged Harry’s gut, and he felt something pulse against his mind, the unmistakable sensation of someone rifling through his thoughts. Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his voice a murmur. “I would rather you think of me as a mentor.”

Harry’s mouth felt dry, his heart hammering against his ribs. Surely not like Bellatrix. “Formally?”

Voldemort laughed—a sudden, disarming sound that didn’t suit the eerie elegance of his features. He glanced at the frozen scene below, then shook his head. “You are beyond formalities.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t even know what it meant, really. He wasn’t really part of the Inner Circle—not officially, anyway—and the idea of being above anything seemed… absurd.

“Are you ready to order?” Voldemort asked suddenly, as though this were a regular meal with a friend.

Harry was completely out of his element. Veil crawled onto his lap with the menu, pointing eagerly at it with one tiny, clawed hand. “Waffles,” Harry said, his voice faint. “With fruit. And coffee.”

Voldemort twitched his fingers, and time resumed. Harry watched the motionless diners jerk back into their creepy rhythm, the Death Eaters vanishing corpses with ruthless efficiency. A server approached their table, and Harry’s nausea hit a new high as he recognized Bill Weasley behind the clockwork subservient mask.

“Bill?” Harry whispered, horrified. But Bill didn’t respond—just tilted his head to the rhythm of the ticking clocks. “The waffles, please,” Harry said weakly. “And coffee.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, and Harry tore his eyes off Bill while Voldemort ordered, looking below for any other familiar faces. He spotted two other Order members—one, Martha Brown, had been missing for three years, the other someone Harry only recognized in passing. The windows provided no hint of their location, in the off chance Harry could pass along this information to his mother.

“May I ask why you’ve summoned me here?” Harry asked as Bill walked away, his motions as jerky as a wind-up toy.

Voldemort's lips folded into a frown, which was oddly charming—Harry wanted to shake his head until that unwelcome thought went away, but he couldn’t help but think that the Dark Lord was oddly—adorable. No. Not thinking it. Not while staring into the eyes of a mind reader.

 “The congratulatory brunch, of course,” Voldemort said, still frowning. “Your prize for winning the tournament.”

There was no prize for winning the tournament, and Harry knew that, but he also knew better than to contradict the Dark Lord. “Forgive me, my Lord. I must have missed the fine print.”

Before, Harry had noticed a distinct pleasure response to addressing Voldemort with his many titles. This time, he felt nothing at all. Veil had moved out from beneath the table to plaster against the borders of Voldemort's rather innocuous looking shadow, which appeared so entirely mundane that Harry couldn’t help but feel suspicious. Surely the Dark Lord had a sentient Shade.

“My word, Mr. Potter. You truly neglected to take note of an appointment with your Lord? I must say, I’m—”

“I think you’re messing with me,” Harry interrupted, trying not to flinch at his own boldness, “and I’m not sure why.”

No retaliation for speaking so casually. Hierarchy was important among the Death Eaters and he would get a sting through his Dark Mark for talking like that to a professor, let alone Voldemort, but none was forthcoming. He winced anyway, prepared for it.

“Very astute,” Voldemort replied, as though he’d expected Harry’s flippancy. “I hoped to see if you would speak against me, and you did. This is quite informative.” He paused, and Harry felt something flicker through his mind—likely the Dark Lord examining his thoughts again. “How are you finding the Death Eaters?”

This was definitely the strangest conversation Harry had ever had, excluding perhaps the one from the first time they’d met, or maybe when Harry talked to Tom on the roof during his first class. Which reminded Harry of something—if he wasn’t careful, he was going to miss an Advanced Magical Bonds class.

“It’s brilliant,” he said, truthfully. His mind briefly went to Bellatrix, but he waved the thought aside—he could handle her. “It’s everything I hoped for. I really mean that.”

“And more, I imagine.” Voldemort’s gaze was steady, unrelenting, still rifling through Harry’s mind.

Harry’s attention wandered to Voldemort’s mouth, catching on the forked tongue he’d caught glimpses of before. It flickered briefly when he spoke, thinner than Harry thought it should be, and apparently immune to the scalding heat of the tea. Harry reached for his own cup but found his hands had turned clammy. He placed it back on the table untouched, his fingers curling into his lap.

“There is a reason why I have called you here today.” Voldemort stopped there, as if that was the complete thought. A frustrating call to inquiry without a resolution, making Harry feel itchy and guilty, like a child awaiting a lecture.

Harry tensed. “I… I apologize, my Lord. I should have asked for permission before sending a letter to my mother.”

For the first time in the conversation, Voldemort faltered. His head tilted slightly, his expression shifting into something unreadable. “Your mother,” he echoed, as though testing the words. “Ah, yes. She is alive, isn’t she?”

Harry’s heart had already been in his throat, but now he thought he was about to cough it up on the table. “As far as I’m aware, yes?”

Voldemort stared at him over the rim of his teacup, and it made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickle. “Your Occlumency is atrocious. I was already aware that Lily Potter is the head of the Order of the Phoenix. Naturally. It’s hardly relevant. Never fear, she is quite safe, as long as that is what you wish.”

“Yes. That’s what I wish.” Harry bit the inside of his cheek, not sure of what to say. “You told me before that I should wait to contact her until I can do it on my terms. I think I’m ready, so I sent her a letter.” Fuck, why was he talking about his mum while sharing tea with the Dark Lord? “I take it that’s not why you summoned me, then?”

Why else would he bring Harry to some creepy clockwork prison-restaurant in the middle of the day? Didn’t he have better things to do?

“Indeed.” Voldemort set down his cup with a deliberate clink. “I called you here to discuss your progress—and perhaps, if the opportunity arose, my recent offer. Have you given it any thought?”

Harry paused. “Oh. Not really, my Lord. I have a lot on my plate as it is, what with the second year tournament coming up.”

Voldemort frowned. “One might prefer to attain immortality before such a potentially dangerous task.”

“Right…” Harry looked around them, wondering if Bill was okay. “I haven’t decided if I want to live forever, though.”

Voldemort closed his eyes, and a sharp pain shot through Harry’s Dark Mark, making him gasp. “You will. The matter is not up for discussion.”

Alarms rang in the back of Harry’s mind, telling him to shut up before he got himself in serious trouble, but he spoke anyway. “But you just asked if I’ve thought about it?”

“Given even the briefest consideration, the most logical conclusion is easily reached,” Voldemort replied, his tone scathing.

“That’s not true at all!” Harry’s arms smacked against the table as he flailed them around him, totally exasperated. “There are plenty of reasons to want to see what comes after this life.”

Voldemort watched Harry for an unnervingly long stretch of silence, his crimson gaze unwavering until their food arrived, served by an unfamiliar woman. They ate in quiet tension, and Harry hated every second of it—hated how the waffle was the best he’d ever had, how the berries burst with perfect sweetness, how the coffee was rich and smooth and exactly how he liked it. He hated the oppressive air of the restaurant, hated the sinister ambiance of ticking clocks and masked Death Eaters, and most of all, hated the sinking awareness that one wrong word could lead to unimaginable consequences.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how Voldemort seemed surprised to learn that Harry’s mother was alive. That, more than anything, made Harry sick with nerves—a convenient situation for Veil, who was eating well that day.

And so he hatched a plan: finish his meal as fast as humanly possible and get out, but that brought its own problems. A misjudged jab with his fork sent a blueberry flying off the plate, and before Harry could react, Veil leapt into action. With its unsettlingly dexterous fingers, his Shade plucked the berry mid-air and pressed it insistently against Harry’s lips. Startled, Harry opened his mouth, and Veil took that as permission, smashing the fruit home.

Voldemort tilted his head, watching the interaction with rapt interest. “He’s quite hands-on,” Voldemort murmured, breaking the silence.

“He?” Harry’s brow furrowed at Veil, who was now standing next to the table, its dark, shifting form still faintly humanoid. The thought that Voldemort of all people would use such humanizing language for a Shade was bizarre. “Yeah,” Harry said, still reeling. “Veil’s… pretty active.”

“You’ve named him.” Voldemort’s tone was measured, almost indifferent, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper as he took a deliberate bite of his food. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on Veil, who had abruptly stretched into the shape of a large deer, its antlers twisting upward like gnarled, twisted branches.

“At Professor Rosier’s suggestion, sir,” Harry replied, his tone as neutral as he could manage.

That seemed to pique Voldemort’s interest. His head tilted just slightly, and the hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Ah, yes. And how are you finding your Necromancy lessons?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I’ve only had one class so far, but I’ve already gone into the deadlands. It was fascinating—I never thought traveling to another plane would be so simple.”

“The method is quite accessible, given a door. However, creating your own portals is quite another matter.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I recently acquired a fascinating text on Necromancy. Would you care to take a look? I’m curious to see how the information in the early chapters might influence the progress of a novice.”

“Oh. Ah, that sounds brilliant, my Lord. Thank you.” Harry fumbled with the words, startled by the offer.

Without another word, Voldemort rose from his seat with a fluid grace and extended his arm. Harry hesitated only a moment before dropping his fork and grasping Voldemort’s offered hand, bracing himself as the world twisted around him.

They landed in a room Harry knew far too well—Voldemort’s study. The plush sofas and armchairs seemed almost inviting, their worn leather indicating long hours spent in quiet contemplation, but Harry knew it had to be some careful deception. For all its cultivated charm, the room was burned into Harry’s memory as the stage of the single most mortifying moment of his life. The air seemed heavier here, steeped in shadows that clung to every surface. Harry swallowed hard and released Voldemort’s hand, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

“Use my fireplace to contact Tom,” Voldemort said, his voice calm and unbothered, as though the command was entirely ordinary.

“Tom, sir?” Harry asked, confusion slipping into his voice before he could stop it.

Voldemort retrieved a book from a podium set in front of a curtained window. It looked heavy and ancient, and the cover was peculiarly black and shiny, reflecting the fire crackling in the hearth. “Your class is beginning soon, and I am certain he would appreciate being informed that you will not be in attendance. Unless, of course…” Voldemort let the sentence hang, his crimson eyes glinting with faint amusement, “you would prefer to leave now, without viewing the book. I could, perhaps, arrange another meeting, though I suspect such an opportunity would not arise for quite some time.”

Harry hesitated, weighing his options. As much as he was looking forward to another Advanced Magical Bonds class, he doubted Tom would punish him too severely for prioritizing a summons from Voldemort. Appeasing the Dark Lord was, after all, their primary job. He could always make up the lesson later.

“I’ll call him, my Lord.”

Voldemort gestured toward the fireplace, its hearth unusually tall, as though it was designed for full conversations while standing. The flames roared to life with a single pinch of Floo powder, turning emerald green. Harry hesitated for half a breath before leaning in, the unnatural heat brushing his cheeks as he thrust his head through.

He blinked against the swirl of ash and firelight, finding himself looking at Tom’s legs in what appeared to be an unfamiliar room. The furnishings suggested it belonged somewhere in the Advanced Magical Bonds building. Tom noticed him immediately and dropped to one knee to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Harry? What is it?”

“Hey, Tom. Or…” Harry faltered, a nervous laugh bubbling up before he could stop it. “Should I say Professor?” He grinned, a fizz of anxiety making him feel stupid. Veil coiled tighter around his shoulders, gnawing away at the edges of his nerves.

“I was hoping we could make up today’s class,” Harry continued, trying his best to keep his tone casual. “Something’s come up.”

Tom’s sharp gaze raked over Harry, his eyes moving quickly, piecing together a puzzle that only he seemed to see. “Are you with our Lord?”

Harry hesitated, caught off guard. “I—how did you guess? Did he tell you?”

“You’re standing,” Tom replied, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “The only fireplaces connected to this one that are tall enough for you to stand are located within Lucius’ London property or in our Lord’s study.”

Harry’s grin spread before he could stop it. He loved seeing Tom’s brilliant mind at work. “You can tell all that from just my floating head?”

“I can see the angle of your neck, dear,” Tom said smoothly, as though this were the simplest deduction in the world. “Do whatever our Lord instructs. We will review the missed lesson this evening, of course.”

Before Harry could reply, Voldemort pressed against his side like an icy weight. Harry jumped, startled, as the Dark Lord leaned into the flames, his face appearing alongside Harry’s in the emerald glow.

“I expect our conversation to last late into the night,” Voldemort declared. “There will be no cause to expect your student until tomorrow morning.”

“Will you be planeswalking?” Tom’s question came, sharp and too evenly measured, his face betraying nothing.

“Yes,” Voldemort replied, the single syllable thrumming with quiet power.

“Without me.” The exasperation in Tom’s voice was subtle but unmistakable, a rare crack in his composure.

For a beat, Voldemort was silent, as if weighing his words—a moment of hesitation so unexpected that it made Harry twitch. “Do keep in mind who you are speaking to, my Tom,” Voldemort said at last, his tone soft but laced with something sharp and ancient. The endearment landed like a physical weight in the air, and Harry saw Tom’s eyes widen slightly before his attention shifted to Harry.

“Be safe. Pay attention,” Tom said, his voice steady but his expression unusually grave through the flickering flames. “I will meet you for lunch tomorrow. My classroom at noon.”

The simplicity of his phrasing shouldn’t have struck Harry so powerfully, but it did. In that moment, he couldn’t ignore just how alike Tom and Voldemort truly were. The way they spoke, the precise economy of their expressions, even the subtle weight behind their words—it was like seeing reflections caught in broken glass. He wondered how much of that came from years spent together and how much was simply… innate.

Planeswalking. Harry’s mind snagged on the word. Did that mean what he thought it did?

“Perfect, I’ll see you then—” Harry started, but the words faltered as Tom leaned forward. The motion was deliberate, his hand bracing against the mantle wall, the other reaching to cup Harry’s cheek through the flames. The contact was strange, unreal—like a warm breeze cutting through cold air, a ripple that buzzed faintly in his ears.

“Be cautious while exploring the planes. Follow your instincts,” Tom murmured, his tone dropping into something intimate, threaded with a quiet intensity that made Harry’s stomach twist. “Remember to whom you’ve sworn your allegiance. If he suggests you do anything—anything at all—and you find yourself… wanting to, I recommend following the impulse.”

The words staggered Harry, leaving him gaping like an idiot. He opened his mouth to respond, but no coherent thought came out. Instead, his gaze flicked to Voldemort, who stood beside him with an expression of profound disinterest, as though the entire exchange was beneath his notice.

“My Lord,” Tom said, turning to stand before him.

And then Voldemort did something so unexpected that Harry thought he must be dreaming. He leaned deeper into the flame to press his lips to Tom’s brow, then both cheeks, before lingering on his lips. “Rest assured, my Tom, that no harm will befall myself or our young charge. Have some faith in your Lord.”

The way Tom stared back made something twist and flip in Harry’s stomach, but Voldemort dropped the connection and pulled them out of the flames before Harry could dwell on the thought.